Being Shot [Part 2 – Final]

By Ed Rogers

The following account is a true story. I have used the real names of individuals who were with me during the time recounted. [Part 1 appeared on Saturday.]


Seven days later, I opened my eyes. A plastic oxygen tent covered the top half of my body. Through the plastic I saw my mother with two girls from my school that she was sneaking into my room because I wasn’t allowed to have visitors. I asked what she was doing there and she let out a holler for a nurse.
    I learned that I had been in a coma for seven days, and the doctor had told her I might never wake up. Two nurses came rushing in and started poking and prodding me. Then the pain hit. My entire mid-section cried out at once. I was given a shot of morphine and soon floated off on a cloud. The following week was like a dream. I got a shot of morphine every four hours but a shot’s effects wore off after three, and the fourth hour was hell.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 50. Killer’s Back

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It had been a long ride from North Carolina and a longer winter, but it was the beginning of his hunting season and he was nervous and excited at the same time. He made his way off the bus in Dallas, a town he was looking forward to exploring. After all, it wasn’t just about the hunting – he was on vacation!
    The number of people on the ground around the buses doubled as another bus began to unload. He fought his way inside the station only to be pushed against the wall. It was then that he saw her across the way, over the heads of the other passengers. He knew her face but couldn’t place it at first.

All Over the Place: Daylight

By Michael H. Brownstein

I wake to a thunder from inside,
another clash of infection,
the bank crying about a lacking,
the phone company barking,
the fence degrading, and then
one of our dogs jumps over
and I cannot find her anywhere.
I’ve got to go to work, I have
errands and deeds and paperwork,
but this will need to be put on hold,
The dog is found, safe. One check
to the good, I fix the fence, pull
a few weeds, a beginning tree,
and reinforce the leaning.

Being Shot [Part 1 of 2]

By Ed Rogers

The following account is a true story. I have used the real names of individuals who were with me during the time recounted.


It was 1959 and I had just turned 16 years old that January. We were taking our mid-term finals in school. There was no need to be at school unless you had a test. I had finished my only test that morning and had the rest of the day off.
    As I was walking toward the street, some of my friends called out to me. It was Dudley Jobe, Arthur Cline, and Jack Kerney, who were all in Dud’s Nash Metropolitan. I ran to the car and Jack got into the back. The rule was that the shortest people rode in the back (leg space was limited back there).

Highways and Byways: Eyes, Mind, Body & Soul

By Maik Strosahl

A talented friend of ours recently changed his profile picture on Facebook to show a painting he did way back. Bob Boldt shared “Passion,” created in 1958, and the eyes captured me. I imagine the double reflections he portrays in the pupils showing a broken sun/son as he was executed for the crimes of mankind. A little late for Easter, but thought I would share (with Bob’s permission, of course) the painting and the poem it inspired.

The eyes,
still searching the heavens
for intervention,
still bleeding tears
for the woman who bore him,
the one keeping watch,
bearing his pangs
and the nails
as if they were her own.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 49. Killer in Town

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Saturday morning came and June and Blake were at the Dallas bus station at 5:15, in the waiting room sipping coffee from paper cups. Blake caught himself touching his gun more times than was necessary – he was nervous. He knew that plans on paper could look great, but in real time, shit could go wrong very fast. June also knew what was at stake, and she reached over and gripped his hand every so often.
    The station had been empty when they arrived, but as the 6 o’clock hour approached, two lines began to form at the ticket counter, and a few of the seats were taken by folks waiting for their people to get off incoming buses. A loud bang from behind them caused them both to jump. It was a man opening one of the little shops. Blake thought about going to the bathroom and checked his watch. It was 5 minutes to 6, so his bathroom break would have to wait.

All Over the Place: The Woman from Ecuador Speaks

By Michael H. Brownstein

It’s not that America isn’t a great country,

I’d just rather be home.
In my country, poverty is very real,
but here there is a greater suffering.
Home, I fill myself with poets,
storytellers, those with idealism.
Home, we give honor to the teacher.
Your country breeds a spiritual anger,
a poverty more devastating
than a lack of food, a lack of clean water.

Poetry & Portraits: Bottom

Drawing by Susan C. Price

Bottom
By Eric Meub

[Originally published on Aug. 9, 2014]

Why bother getting out of bed? It’s not
As if we’re here in season: covered pool
And lounge chairs stacked like firewood as a rule.
I say resort, you think forsaken spot.

The Crucifixions

Spread the Word

A Parable of Reversal

By Moristotle

I have revised and retitled the parable “Easter Uprising,” which appeared on April 30, to try to better express my central idea for the poem. A few days after that version appeared, I thought about adding a third stanza, but I quickly saw that some rewording in the second stanza could plant the cross on firmer ground.
    Finally, eight hours before scheduled posting, I made one more change: at the end of the first line of the second stanza, I changed “restoration” to “resurrection.” And then, at last, I saw what my muse may have been trying to tell me all along – the January 6th insurrectionists were, in effect, attempting to resurrect Donald Trump from the crucifixion he seemed to think he had suffered in losing the 2020 presidential election.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 48. Surprise

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After the video conference, Tony got with Wayne, Shelley got with Taylor, and Blake got with himself to begin pulling up their assigned maps on their computers and phones. Every one of the five jumped at the sound of a knock on the front door. It was the first time anyone had come calling.
    Blake hollered at Wayne, who was closest to the door, “See who that is, would you? Probably some drunk who thinks this is still a bar.”
    Wayne walked to the door and looked through the peephole. “Blake, it’s a woman with short auburn hair. You want me to let her in?”

Highways and Byways: When It All Came Falling Down

By Maik Strosahl

I am no philosopher, but I do enjoy a good think.
    I recently enjoyed a post by Valeria Idakieva where she shared her distain for winter along with her autumn photos and a quote from the philosopher Albert Camus: “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.” I too, as I have mentioned before, resist winter.
    The quote led me to chase after information on Albert Camus, who was associated with the philosophy of Absurdism. He believed that life does not have any meaning, or if it does, mankind is incapable of understanding what it is. Yet, in spite of having no meaning, he could not justify suicide as a solution, rather he felt it was our responsibility to rebel against whatever oppressed the human condition, and in this attempt to resist, we must strike a balance between the evil of the world and the evil that many revolts also devolve into, so as not to contribute to any additional suffering on the part of those around us.
    In my own rebellion, my creative endeavors keep me moving forward, even when it all comes falling down. In this piece, I also found a place to use a phrase I mentioned to Moristotle a couple of months ago, one that I think would be a good title for a future chapbook of poetry: “Hobnobbing with the Philosophers.” We shall see how the future unfolds.

In the midst of Winter, I found there was,
within me, an invincible summer.             —Albert Camus

The Plow

Le Roy Plow No 109 – Heirloom or eyesore?
It’s in the eye of the beholder

By Paul Clark
(aka motomynd)

To the chagrin of my wife, and the puzzlement of neighbors, visitors, and delivery people, the rusty 100-year-old plow rests on carefully chosen chunks of rock beside the stone walkway that leads to the front porch of our house. It means something to me – not quite sure what, exactly, but something. To others, it is a mystery at best, an eyesore at worst.
    One day I happen to be in our front driveway when a delivery arrives. It is the woman who pushes the button on our new, high-tech Ring doorbell and leaves a big smile with the message, “Delivery from the FedEx chick.” She looks and acts like a woman who walked off a NYC fashion catwalk, stepped into a FedEx uniform, and for some strange reason fell in love with it. She has phenomenal legs and seems to know it, since she wears shorts almost year-round.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 47. The Hunt Begins

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The party on the lake hadn’t been planned, and Blake was at first put out by the invasion. But the team needed the weekend to bring them back together, and their bonding strengthened as the evening wore on. Blake was happy to see them laughing and joking with each other. He broke out his two big camping tents and everybody crashed for the night.
    On Saturday morning, the very hungover but smiling crew, including Tony, packed up and went home. Blake spent the day drinking beer, fishing, and eating leftovers. On Monday morning, refreshed after a restful Sunday and a good night’s sleep, he parked outside the Hideaway next to Taylor’s car.

All Over the Place: The Science Fair (Part 5 of 5)

Court

By Michael H. Brownstein

Remember the fight during the science fair? I had to go to court yesterday because of it. Not really all that bad. I brought enough personal business for three to four hours. Didn’t even have to take a sick or personal day. Court – school business.
    The girl in mind went for the plea bargain – a year supervision, anger management, conflict-resolution classes, mandatory school attendance, community service.

Desperate Conditions Call for Desperate Measures

Shakespeare as Black Humorist

By James T. Carney

Since the current administration in Washington sees inequality as a great problem, I have decided to put my lawyerly ingenuity to work to suggest some ways to deal with it.
    First of all, however, one has to focus on the real problem. The real problem is not inequality but poverty. This is unfortunate because inequality is easier to solve than poverty. Inequality could be solved by dividing up everyone’s goods based on market value and having the rich follow Jesus and turn almost all of their goods over to the poor. Of course, to make sure that Kamala Harris’ equity is maintained one must take this action at least once a generation since it is the unfortunate nature of some people to work hard and try to get ahead, which by definition means leaving some people behind.