Toward the end of the year I was pondering what Flash Fiction Fidelity (faithfulness) would look like if put into words or chalked out upon a soiled building wall deep within some forgotten alley. Like the chalk maybe rules for writing Flash are meant to dissolve with the first rain, dripping into an ever widening pool on the ground only to be swept away by gravities suction deep within an anonymous city sewer.

Immediate Emotional Turbulence (IET), words placed on paper that grab and push the reader beyond their normal everyday experiences. And like turbulence Flash has an obligation to compel the reader to surrender their carefully constructed view of reality and feel something new, something extraordinary.

If writing Flash is an excuse to shrink a longer story without challenging both the writer and reader then what is it other then some homogenized spongy slice of white bread growing stale on the counter of sameness. Do we merely need to write about a bowl of fruit or does Flash call us to describe a rotten bowl of fruit littered with maggots evolving into something new while life around withers in loneliness. If there is an obligation for all writers no matter what their skill to challenge themselves and to deliver something real to their readers then maybe writing Flash compounds that responsibility and demands experimentation.

Doling out a quarter cup of plain yogurt from a quart container only shortens the time it takes to eat the plain colorless mushiness adding nothing to awaken taste buds and make the eater lick their mouths roof in delirious delight. But if you throw in dried cranberries canoodling with fresh blueberries sharing space with a sexy pecan or two you may light the fuse within a stilted imagination, forever changing their world and your world as well.

Fidelity Immediate (faithfulness to immediacy) is one New Years resolution I am committed to, stepping out with more experimenting so that my words strike a chord the reader will feel deep within driving a savoring catalyst causing experience and leading them to read more from an ever widening mishmash of daring writers and artists.

Since 2004 there had been a steady increase in search traffic for “Porn” and a corresponding decline in search query’s for “Poetry.” What does it mean… Oh come on you know what it means, it means less people give a crap about Poetry or Flash Fiction.

Of course it could mean people are more sophisticated and know where the poetry is, so they don’t resort to such broad one word searches as “Poetry.’ It can also mean people are so flushed with heat that searching for a boring term like porn meets their carnal needs nicely.

Somehow artists and writers need to do a better job of extolling the inherent heat within Poetry, the life giving and expanding power within a Flash Fiction piece and the melting of your inhibitions brought on by an art showing on a Wednesday evening. sound the trumpet, spit-out the alternatives that life and art offer.

Porn may sometimes be art and Poetry may sometimes be porn but surely a decline in the reading of Poetry, Flash Fiction and the viewing or Art is always porn in its nastiest sense.

I exist this moment upon unforgiving sidewalks neatly stepping along rolled out concrete ribbons, my feelings confined by bounding brick limestone apartments soaring high in the blue sky. My eyes focus straight ahead desperately reigning in a wandering imagination before traveling down naked alleys, proposing marriage to empty gutters, asking to not be swallowed. Lost in a city far from anything I know, sidewalk’s rising up, slapping me with concrete loneliness sucking life from me with radiating hot damp heavy air. Motherless children gathered on stoops spit as I pass yelling edgy breast puffing obscenities, pitiful birch pretending to mellow agitated passengers crawling from underground, crowds encased in transparent shells held together with yellowing anxiety, blocks of cavern facades shrink self esteem exposing open sores, red canopies shade peers who remark to themselves over gin, how foreign I look. I walk pissing tears conjugating bits of memory pressing toward something I don’t know, sidewalk walking with nothing to do. Haunting beautiful girls and boys turn away too busy building neurotic walls, vendors close doors pretending to nap. There are no white clapboards with green shutters pointing the way home, no hula hoops nor backyard picnics inviting me to leave my troubles in the wind. I’m walking hands folded praying dark joins cool night air letting me sleep to dream of lost touches and gentle kisses, of red noses that made me smile so long ago.

I was hiding high up in a tree earlier this afternoon when this huge gust of wind sent me tumbling to the ground. I woke to finding myself in a purple building surrounded by discount books for sale, and feeling no worse for the tumble I got up and perused through the books, stacked to the ceiling in the purple building.

I walked out into the afternoon sunshine with my new purchases and wondered, if I buy books at a steep discount are they flash fiction? Realizing the thump on my head must have scrambled my brains more then I thought, I sat down to catch my breath and ponder what does it mean to writer when one of their books is sold for 70 or 80% off list price. Of course the writer does not make money off such steeply discounted books but they do get their work read and maybe the next book will sell more, though I really have no clue if that last statement holds water.

So I wanted to connect to the wrtiers by using a little link juice by adding a link to either the writers web site or to Powell’s, thus giving a little boost to their endeavours.   First I bought a promising book called Brownsville by Oscar Casares, next I picked up The James Deans by Reed Farrel Coleman and lastly I bought King Bongo from Thomas Sanchez…

8.98 for three books…. a nice find and even though I have yet to read any of them, I’m sure they will turn out to be worth the tumble from high up in the elm tree. And if you buy a discounted book give the author a link back to their web site as a way of showing your support for their work.

Stiff from riding all day, plastic leather seats sticking to my clothes on the dirty city bus. Exhausted from grinding brakes filling my ears, diesel fumes filling my nose and selfish people jostling me like cattle. Stop after stop looking for something, anything that might give me a clue as to why.

Stop after stop Vagabonds pressing their faces against the windows, I wonder if we share the same longings or are they but animals looking for something to steal, looking to feed a primal need far divorced from what I seek. The bus driver guns the engine sending a shudder into their bodies, they shuffle back with only their plaintive gaze intact.

Day passes into night with every stop becoming the same, no recognition in anyones eyes. I ask the same questions as people board, each bus driver shakes their head no, no they have not seen me before, no they can’t help me. I sit down again in the back watching each passenger get on then off, watching crowds rise then dwindle with each new bus coming and going.

Something turns into nothing as my hope melts into the plastic seats on another city bus, no longer seeking recognition or clues, now only hoping for a place to lay my head, maybe a place with the vagabonds and their eternal primal urges.

I tried to walk by without staring but the scene behind the glass was too compelling for me to look away, in just a blink of an eye he crept into my heart.

I came around the corner skittering, my wet shoes dodging the snowy wet puddles, trying to avoid the sidewalks edge for fear of the racing cars covering me with a splash, I trudged on, trudged by all the closed stores and boarded up windows, trudged alone on the quiet city street.

First I noticed the used car sign was dark and then I saw the shadow of a man sitting in front of a computer screen in a office, I tried to walk by but his huddled body in the darkened office brought me to halt.

Rain and snow coming down upon my black umbrella I starred through dirty glass at the used car dealer working in a cold office bundled in a heavy jacket, hat pulled over his ears, fingers tapping away on some invisible keyboard, he clearly was entering figures into a generic inventory program.

Go on, go on I yelled inside my head but in a growing puddle I stood still, in a growing puddle I stood transfixed by this man sitting in the dark finishing up the last details to his failed business, a business on this corner for twenty five years and now nothing but the snowy rain filled his car lot.

Go on, go on I yelled out loud but even this could not move me from the horror of sharing this final act, of being part of his dream playing itself out, again I struggled to stop starring at him administering last rites, again I stood letting the water cover my boots my tears mixing with the cold wetness from above.

A little to the left,  line up everything just perfectly, “just perfectly my ass” Sonia laughed as she spun around slapping herself on the rear. “It won’t be perfect with that gold mantel bar and you know it” she add.

“Oh aesthetics be dammed” I stammered watching the the two sisters inch the painting a little to the left and then a little to the right, “did we buy this for a spread in in Village News” I quizzically grumbled. “Of course why else pay so much money for something we know little about, we are crumb dwellers in the art world trying to look like we know something” Sonia interjected.

“Crumb dwellers” I repeated with with a gilt edge retort. “You may see yourself as some puffed peacock scavenging crumbs of approval from the brain dead in the art world but, and there it was, me wrapping myself in the tinfoil of drama while the two sisters scowled at me high up on the ladders. Sonia smiling at my need to paint the scene came over and pinched me, relieving the tension in the room. The two sisters in their mini skirts, go go boots, tool belts and carpenter hats resumed hanging the art.

Today’s piece is my impression of someone off the street going to the local radio station and ranting for 2 minutes. Wouldn’t it be great of there was a radio station called WRANT that you could listen to in your car? All rants all the time.

Stop The Snow

Truth be told I don’t really like snow, oh sure it’s pretty to look at and makes the world a brighter place but let’s get real, snow is wet cold frozen water that some deity in their infinite wisdom sends down upon parts of the world because they have a contract with novel writers and movie makers.

Now don’t get me wrong I like books and movies and except for that expensive popcorn I sometimes go to and enjoy movies and I definitely read books but give me a break and stop with the snow already.

I’m sure book writers and movie makers have more then enough stock photos, film footage and imagination stored to last for decades so I’m pleading with the powers that be, stop the insanity, stop the snow.

Someone asked me while I was picketing at the local weather stations what will we do with no sugar on snow? Well I take this question very seriously and the answer is innovation. Some smart entrepreneur can create a personal snow machine that makes buckets of snow out your favorite bottled water. The maple syrup makers could subsidize the research since so much is used for sugar on snow.

Now I have to get back to the picket lines that nice Mrs. Fields is bring cookies, So-long From the rocky snowy fields of New Hampshire…

Suns shinning bright cold winter rolling in. wind blowing bare face red not rosie, wind blowing ears tinged with snap pretending to be a postcard.

The back streets of every small city Christmas lights hung crooked pretending to be icicles   Trees standing conspicuously in windows pretending to be alive.

Real ice wrapping branches with glistening grip pretending not to be killing, wires heavy with frozen rain while volts and amps curse their length pretending not to shock.

Walking legs propelled by sun and wind pretending they have someone to meet somewhere to go. Swing arms warm with affection pretending they have someone to hug.

Fire engines rush by desperate to save the home of someone pretending it will be ok. Neighbors rush with blankets and hugs pretending they won’t forget. Christmas presents thrown from flaming windows quickly covered in frozen salvation pretending they can be saved.

Cars crawl unnamed occupants straining to burn detail into memory pretending they know the skewed feelings of those left shelter-less, just weeks before Christmas.

All alone walking by the burning scene, water in my eyes my heart breaks into millions of fragments, not pretending to care, not pretending to feel dank desolation yet impotent to change the moment.

Violently I shake inside with quiet empathy thankful I feel the black horror of this moment thankful my heart opens to embrace the suffering surrounding me the gnashing of life against the jagged rocks birthing into each moment and thankful for the lone candle flickering in the neighbors window touching me and releasing tears of joy not pretending, just for right now.

Waiting

Door closed in front of me, knob waiting to be turned

Window closed but I can see, what’s waiting for me

Path at woods edge pointing me to nature,waiting

Mountain touching sky, waiting for me to climb

Lover laying exposed, arms on-top of head, waiting

Seven Eleven clerk distracted, waiting for me to pay

Car Wash cavernous tunnel waiting, drive in the tracks

Television’s blank stare, waiting for me, to press on

Email dot on the screen, waiting for your electric charge

Roads dusty with pollen, waiting for the rain

Dishes piled high staring at chrome fixtures, waiting

Graves baked, grass burnt, flowers wilted, waiting

Roadside humanity, doorway sitters, unshaven retches, waiting

Soldiers wife pushing out children, alone, waiting

Gurney’s stained with last nights fracas, waiting

Angels weeping, devils laughing, God vacationing, waiting

One Arm Bandits swallowing deeper then a whore, waiting

Pastor’s Priest, toll collectors of our souls, waiting

Time ripped from Form, waiting

Waiting waiting waiting waiting, waiting

Attention Comrades

“Attention comrades the majority have spoken, Trotsky is redeemed.”

The crowd roared in excitement.

“Today we call upon the workers for their help to reinvigorate  the World Communist Party and to equality for people everywhere.”

Again a roar of assent filled the hall washing over a smugly smiling speaker.

“The corporate fat cats have held us in servitude, using propaganda to confuse us and greed to rape our children’s minds with promises of a better life.”

Abruptly the salesman turned off the PA system and gushed, “free crowd noises with every purchase, today only.”

“Will that be cash or charge?”

Praying For Potatoes

Standing on this corner with a tooth pick in my ear when along came this preachers kid, wearing a pork pie hat praying for potatoes

“Potatoes” I exclaimed,what will you do if you get them? Ha! She shouted and handed me a five pound bag of Brooklyn’s best spuds.

Imeadiatly I crossed the street becoming a Zen monk meditating on the question of starch.

I was Interrupted by an abbot wearing a pork pie hat who told me I was grasping at illusions, then handed me a frying pan as she showed me the door.

Outside and owl sitting on a pork pie hat gave me directions along with two cans of Sterno and a stick of butter.

I found my way to a cardboard city full of hungry people, opened the Sterno and fed the masses with just five pounds of potatoes.

Make mine French a voice commanded from the either, I looked up to see Lou Reed wearing a pork pie hat handing out bottles of ketchup.

I’m back on this corner outside a store that sells only, pork pie hats, I’ve got a suitcase in my hand waiting for the bus then off to the Midwest to plant potatoes.

I never got enlightened but I found the eyes to see what was in front of me. And there will always be a pork pie hat watching my back.

Moons Reflection

The moon reflected in the pond.

Its stillness perplexed me, was this a reflection or really the moon itself.

A fish jumped causing the water to ripple in every direction, yet the moon remained still even as my anxiety mounted.

Another day passed into evening with the moon returning to the pond.

I laid wrapped in knotty rope unable to see the sky, helpless to give contrast to reality.

I questioned my perception of coming and going.

My efforts to escape ebbed.

Worry melted away like chocolate on a sunny day.

Bit by bit consciousness became the flux of impermanence.

It usually is easier to look back if you can see the humor. Today’s 100 word story is entitled Straighten Up and Fly Right, Enjoy!

Straighten Up and Fly Right

Worst grade ever was fifth.

Mr. Bell would grab my shoulders until I fell to my knees apologizing.

Talk too much, not me.

Everyday Mr. Jones had students stand arms spread, a book in each hand. Drop your arms your ribs got whacked.

In the lunch line you could often find me, doing 100 pushups while everyone filed by snickering.

Talk too much, not me.

Mrs. Concord liked her students standing in the middle of the room while she told everyone, they were failures.

Luckily I never felt her wrath.

Outside of school Mr. Bell took me camping, go figure.

It Never Stopped

It never stopped, the yelling, the screaming, it never stopped

They put a cake in front of me , wish wish make a wish, all smiling faces

Like a siren my wish standing alone in the corner, beckoned me.

It never stopped , the yelling outside, inside my head.

I blow the eight candles on my cake, the candles on my cake

It never stopped, the screaming

Enveloped in a thick caustic air I move toward my fervent wish

The yelling never stopped

I reached the corner wrapping my arms around, my arms around, denial

It was ok, happy birthday, to me