TOCHERING THE HOLLY

Tochering the Holly
PM 1301206

The drive to New River Beach

took about half as long as it was

supposed to, Datsun 280 SX, no

cops around on a beautiful summer

day. We were three and I felt like 

a fifth wheel but George insisted that

I come.

We had a bottle of Midori,

melon liqueur for some reason and we

polished it off quite quickly on

the drive there. The beach was

spectacular that day, we had a

cooler full of beer, bread, ham

chips and mustard, a couple packs of cigarettes

in a bag and I was in

heaven. Paul Theroux was there

to keep me company as the lovers

stared into each others eyes, frolicked

along the sand and occasionally took

a dip in the cold, jelly-fish infested 

water.

Hours later as my skin had been

burned to a crisp, empty beer bottles

lay strewn around my towel and

The Old Patagonian Express had become

too difficult to read in the hot

sunshine we all came to the conclusion

we were hungry.

We dug out the bread, ham

and mustard from the very

light cooler and realized we 

had no knife to spread the

mustard with. As I couldn't fathom

eating a ham sandwich without

my Dijon, I did the next best 

thing and just used my fingers,

just as effective as a knife,

as far as spreading goes, it did

the trick and we all enjoyed a crude

but delicious lunch, washed down with

whatever was left of the beer.

Hours later, after waking up with an

even worse burn we hastened back to 

the car for the short trip to

St Andrews by the Sea.

Years later I met up with Cindy in 

a coffee shop and even though I

had long since forgotten, she remembered

vividly the picture of me sitting on a 

towel on the sand, making sandwiches

by spreading mustard on bread using

my fingers. I asked her if she had

enjoyed her trip to New Brunswick

and she had nodded quickly and

then asked me why I had never tried to

pick her up, either there or back in

Ontario, I replied that I had always

thought she was way out of my league.

MCC

PROMETHEUS

Prometheus
PM 1301205

The flint strikes, the match is

lit and the fire starts once again

moving through the small tinder

waiting an instant before engulfing

the larger pieces of wood in massive

flame.

Eyes burn red and wild as they

watch the fire grow larger and

become an entity in itself,

bigger than the world at large

and the strongest force in existence

at least around the fire pit.

Hands and feet stretch out to

gather in the warmth

and cheeks become rosy red,

removing the bite of the evening

chill and protecting all within

the circle.

Twigs and sticks are poked

around in the embers and then

looked at in amazement as they

too, catch fire and threaten to

disappear completely unless they

are quickly removed and buried

in the soil.

Later on, stories are retold

even the ones where the endings are

traditional lore and the answers are

public property,

still instill fear in the listener

and set nerves on edge until

the final climax is reached

and the last head is chopped off

by the axe-wielding murderer.

More freshly chopped wood is

piled on until we have reached

inferno status and then it is

time to drop the huge bomb,

the whole tree trunk that was

once a seat for two people,

thrown on top, destined to burn

all night we watch as it slowly

catches fire, strong at first and

and then receding into a very warm

calm that keeps the blood in your

veins at the exact temperature

and fills you with such warmth

that the very idea of getting up to

go to bed is absurd, murdering

this mood would indeed be such

a crime that only the most cruel hearted

would even consider it.

Marshmallows come out of nowhere,

mixing terribly with beer and rye

whiskey but we wash them down all

the same, caramelized sugar which will

need to be cut out of facial hair

with a small pair of scissors.

MCC

RIPARIAN MUSING

Riparian Musing
PM 1301204

The river flows past

the front of the property and I

realize every morning that it hurts

my eyes to look at it too long. This

never stops me from running down to

the beach to look at it every morning.

I become mesmerized by it's flow and

and I want to be able to even hear one

story it has to tell of its' journey from

way up in Brasil all the way down

to the River Plate estuary where it ejaculates

into the Atlantic.

Stories of drug dealers, pirates,

murder, rape, arson, drowning

and suicides.

Or the baptisms, family picnics or

the guy just sitting on the bench

watching as part of the entire

world flows by in front of his face.

One piece of driftwood could

cast a shadow over all the writings

of mankind in every language if it

only had the ability to divulge it's 

secrets and it's itinerary.

The slop dumped into it at every turn

of the river, or how many fisherman's

toes it counted as it passed thousands of

pairs of feet dangling off of countless

docks.

How many stones have been

skipped across it's surface and now lie at the bottom in the silt slowly

pushed along the bottom by the current.

Thousands of years may pass before

those stones reach the ocean

only if they are not picked up by a 

young beachcomber,

who would deposit it in their bag

and the stone could be on a flight bound

for Amsterdam the next day.

I am fascinated by the river and I

am in awe of how it can keep it's 

secrets for so long even when everything

is bared for all to see, day and night,

there are always eyes on the river

and we get more information at the

whim of the current but we are denied so

much that we could never possibly know

about.

Lone fragments of shells are scattered

along the beach, pink and white, very

hard to spot in the dirty white sand.

No vantage point, no matter how high

is enough to see into the dark heart

of the river and we must keep satisfied

by watching it from the shore and guessing

the possible motives of all that water

flowing in the same direction.

MCC

CONCRETE

Concrete
PM 1301203

I have lost sight of myself

until I realize that I have not

even moved from the scene of

my last destruction.

I move away from the action

but magnetized, I am always

drawn back until I am sitting

back on the wall, waiting to fall

off. I look for patches of

grass or soft dirt that will

hopefully pad my fall.

But I am always perched above

concrete, and I fear cracking

my head open on the cement.

I come back into my own view

when it is just too late to

stop myself from coming into contact

with the ground,

and I am helpless,

even to pick up the pieces,

there are too many and there is

not enough time to do a proper job.

Therefore I must leave myself lying

there and set up on starting all over

again which becomes more and more

difficult as the years go by.

As I move away I can't help

but look back to see if the buzzards

have begun to feed yet and I am

always shocked anew to see one

of them plucking out one of my

eyeballs and swallowing it whole.

Why couldn't I have worn sunglasses,

is always what pops into my mind

first, never why did I screw it all

up in the first place.

The heartbeats become so

strange and intermittent,

that I'm not even sure if it is my

own heart I hear beating anymore.

Only when I feel the pressure and

the pain do I realize that it is

emanating from my chest and I am

the one who is in trouble.

The traffic in the background is drowned

out by the chirping of crickets,

I smell Kung Pow,

Chinatown beckons me and I

am unable to sell any of my organs

as they are still splattered all over the

sidewalk.

The crickets chirp as I make my way

through the dark alleyways until

I reach my goal, I reach the bottom

to rest, only from there can I begin

the journey back up to the summit,

a place I have never managed to reach and I

always fear one of these times I won't

have that energy to start over.

MCC

TRINKET?

Trinket?
PM 1301202

The exhaust fumes have turned

into a huge cloud outside my

window and I fear to open the door

or to tread outside for fear I will

swallow the poison and lie dead

on the ground, under the grating of 

the steps I tried to make my escape

from. The drivers are all laughing

through their gas-masks as they long

knew the danger but refused to divulge

it to us just in case there was a 

shortage.

I have no gas-mask, I left it in

the bunker of the apartment building

I was living in, in Eilat.

I hoped I would never have any use

for it, and besides, Israeli customs

always confiscated them, along with

the sleeping bags we had stolen from the

clotheslines of the army hostels.

I attended one drill and I nearly

threw up inside my mask, I watched

as frightened children had them strapped

on their faces by angry parents,

I never believed eyes could get so wide

and so large.

As soon as you slip the mask

on your breathing becomes audible

and it increases,

you can't help it or control it,

fear washes through your veins like

a wild blast of heroin, making you

throw up at first and then you

begin to enjoy it at last.

Red washed over my eyes and I was

forced to tear the mask off, I couldn't

take it anymore, the team leader

yelled at me and told me I was dead,

I told him to fuck off and tried to

get out of the shelter but they had

barred the doors.

I calmly sat on the concrete bench and

waited for the alarm to be lifted so I

could get the hell out of there.

The children sat there and stared at

me, asking their mothers, I assumed,

why I didn't have to wear a mask.

I also assumed that they told them

because I was a coward,

that it was my first drill,

that I was a foreigner,

who knows, but I was the butt

of all the childrens' jokes for the

rest of the day, I'm sure.

We never had a gas attack in

Israel, too close to the beach

and tourist dollars I was told,

not a good idea to kill foreigners,

I was told,

UNIFIL was also there on vacation.

MCC

MOUNT TELLURIDE

Mount Telluride
PM 1301201

When the dream begins in blue I

don't fear nightmares, only when

it starts to turn red do I desperately

try and wake myself up before the

witch makes her appearance or I

begin my descent into a bottomless pit.

Surreal in blue is soothing to the

stomach and I can lose myself

in it, talking playing cards and 

food that moves around on your

plate without the help of insects or

magic.

The roast potatoes never make

friends with the salad and balsamic

dressing acts as a balm,

covering up the day's aches and

pains. I lie there wondering if

donkeys cry and if so, what kind

of sound would they make?

I am far too interested

in animal noises and depend on

children to let me know their take

on the matter, they will always

hear things we cannot.

"Ricky is being the epitome of refractory 

today," a quote that had made the 

rounds in my brain far too many times

of late and I wonder why.

I have ascended Mount Telluride

and as I gaze down on sleepy,

snow-covered Colorado towns I realize

the end is not as near as I once

suspected, that I do have some control

over the strings that are slowly encircling 

my neck and tightening their grip based

on radio reception wave figures.

Mount Telluride has disappeared

and once again I have transported

myself to Pico Aleman and I have

the whole Plain of the Retired Nazi Generals

spread out before me,

chalet roofs peaking out from beneath

the trees, a small creek running through

the centre of town, German flags interspersed

between the occasional "celeste y blanco",

and I understand the fear of fire,

the stench of death and the mighty

downswing of Thor's hammer as he wreaks

his justice for the innocent and downtrodden.

Lunging, the panther shoots out of the spring-

thistled bush and captures my skin and flesh

in it's claws and I wait for the sabre-tooth

to pierce my skull and allow my brain 

to leak out.

All I have to do is run down the mountain

but the path has been hidden.

The Viet-Cong have set their traps and

I must learn to cry in Spanish like a donkey.

MCC

WANING INTEREST

Waning Interest
PM 1301192

Another day has dawned,

maybe not that bright,

but with a hint of glimmer on

the horizon,

I feel something inside me,

long dormant but not dead as I

had once thought.

I reached out to grab it but its still not

within my grasp,

I don't panic,

the fact that it still exists

is good enough for me

and I hold onto that feeling

for dear life.

A ship I once thought had

already sailed,

on a journey I was not chosen

for could very well be turning

around and coming back to port.

I wait on the dock,

without socks or shoes,

dangling my toes in the sea

and the water is getting warmer,

I can feel it and the excitement

stimulates my legs and body into

action and I feel as though I could

walk for miles and miles.

I can't see the ship on the horizon

but there is a wispy curl of smoke

curling through the blue in

the distance and I know

that must be my ship.

I don't dare turn away for

fear I miss the spot and I

can spend endless days scouring

the horizon for what I believe to

be my ultimate salvation.

The clock has been put forward

an hour, and I am no longer

needed, if I believe I ever was

and I make out the gulls, far

out to sea, diving in search of fish

and telling of their exploits with

loud screeches of expression that

make the sea what it is

for everyone.

I must see more but I go no further

than the small restaurant at the

end of the pier.

All you can eat shrimp

and scallops plus whatever they 

happened to bring in with the nets 

this morning.

I once spent hours looking for

the oysters' treasure in a bucket on

the pier.

I shucked and I shucked

but came up with nothing except

for a full stomach which should

have, in itself,

answered all the questions of life, but I was too

stupid to catch it.

I wait and I wait, and as the

sea breeze stars to get colder in the

fall I realize waiting too long

is also not the answer I am looking

for and soon I will be covered

in salt ice.

Retrieving my shoes from my bag

I decide to stumble off the dock

and move throughout the town,

destiny can wait as warmth and

food sustain life and that stupid

ship could be in Turkey by now.

Cross on the green lights and

look both ways,

feel the sea breeze and marvel

at the engines and that rank smell

of diesel fuel that provides disgust

and well-being at the same time but

not necessarily in that order.

I am walking inland now and the

mist which I thought was rain all this

time has stopped and as I begin to

dry off the long highway ahead of me that

once seemed to contain a dead-end is once

again beckoning me to come near.

MCC

AQABA

AQABA
PM 1301191

Scattered leaves crunch beneath

my feet as I make my way

through the school parking lot. Almost

home, mere meters to go but I

slow down now, trying to capture

the essence of being outdoors

before I am lulled to sleep by the

artificial air from an oil-burning

furnace.

People of all ages scurry by me

as I try to make as much noise

as possible with the fallen leaves.

I allow myself to be taken back

to a lonely riverside, waiting to

go to work, throwing small rocks

at ducks that mockingly swim away

if one even comes remotely close to 

them.

The stones create ripples in the

water making the ducks bob over

so slightly with each wake.

I look down the path,

towards the street and my

self-imposed prison that has forced

my life into a different direction.

I find so many people to blame

but it comes back solidly

right in the middle of my forehead

that I have created my own hell.

The leaves continue to crackle

under my feet, puddles of

water already starting to freeze

at the edges, nightfall brings

the cold and now I yearn to

arrive at home,

hoping for the warmth, soft

blankets and pillows to pare

down my anxiety and create a

cocoon to sleep away the

rest of the darkness until a

new day decides to rear its' head.

Dreams of waking on an oil rigs,

swimming in caviar and

playing volleyball on the beach in

Eilat, tripping over Uzis left

lying buried under sleeping bags

by careless soldiers who need

the stinging salt air to remind

them that they are still human

beings no matter what they were told

to do.

Crabs sidle past us just as the sun

is about to go down, some carrying 

small pieces of discarded falafel

and orange peels. The sun sets,

the breeze changes direction and

all the lights suddenly go on in

Aqaba, then night falls quickly.

MCC