HUNDREDS OF WORDS... APRil 2014
Nothing worth writing about. Days at home. Then we ran. For a bus. Closed doors. Refused us. Another bus. Pulled out in front. And held it up. We ran. For the next stop. Just made it. And sat down. Ladies gossiped. Workers nodded off. I began to read. Nothing worth writing about. But then.
Renata was screaming. I was screaming. The bus was screaming. A gun was screaming. Silently. The story snatched. From my hands. My imagination. Standing over me. Cap. Dark glasses. Jacket. A criminal sketch. I was the only victim. The only gringo. Guns immobilise people. Time. Life.
Dear Gunman. Every night. I lie awake. Eyes closed. Imagining ways. I could have beaten you. Spanish baker. In Nicaragua. Said. Half of sixty. Is forty. Baker math. Slack line. Sit down. Vibrate on the inside. Apply Zen archery theory. To performance. And it happened.
It was wonderful. It was. What it was. In a creaky cradle. In a crowded house. Try to enjoy silent sex. Just the thought. Brought someone. Through the door. A travelling blues guitarist. Said. When he decided. To take life seriously. He quit his job. And began playing guitar. I began clowning. On a rope.
Time comes and goes. It only stays. For tea. When the front tyre. Dangled on its hinge. Our plans. Snapped. We waited two days. To avoid the bus. Which we eventually took. Two days later. Drunk horny woman. Free as her tongue. They say. She pays.
There is always one. Who stands in the middle. While the others sit. Around the side. And enjoy the ride. Kids bolt through the bus terminal. Mickey mouse. Furiously chasing behind. A marching band. Holding up the rear. Rice. Beans. And coffee. All together. Cost less than biscuits. End up. In strangers house. Strangely.
Mum says to daughter. Don´t go out. They will rob you. She replies. They can steal my loneliness. Inside. Unplugged fridge. She stores agro chemicals. That she´ll never use. Nor throw away. Pillow cases. Stuffed with old clothes. Cushion dreams. No rubbish truck. Burn what burns. Let rot what rots.
They chopped his head off. With a machete. We used to call him. The hustler. There was another kid. We called “Sombra” (Shadow). Didn´t see him. Jon has a kid. Otherwise. Still the same. In an outdoor church. Four women pray. They have time. And space. To believe. In miracles.
All the doñas look the same. Eyes and smiles. Don´t grow up. Doñas. Sweep dirt ﬂoor. Sort spilled beans. Shout at children. And thank God. Firewood tied. To wheelbarrow skeleton. Collect lemons. In rescued rusty rice pot. A backyard full of fruits. No money for school utensils. Two litres of ﬁzzy drink. On dinner table.
Tractors pull trucks. Loaded with oranges. Over the river. Hang off the back. Toss stolen oranges overhead. The current carries them away. Closer to nature. Further from proﬁts. Dive from bouncy branches. Float on patched tractor tire tubes. Suck fruits. Make the most. From our surroundings.
Spray cold water hose. Tickle willy with broom. Neither calmed. The horny dog. Knock coconuts down. Twist cocoas off. Locals pluck money. To buy tinned fruit. Sit peacefully in yard. A bull rushes through. Chased by a horse. And a farmer. Begin walking. And sticking out. A sweaty thumb. Church bound Christians. Take us the ďŹ rst third.
Couple going to see. Amputee relative. Bring us one third closer. A new hotel owner. Drops us off. At her competitions. Doorstep. Rusty tin roofs. Adorned with bright red satellites dishes. See the unexpected. In unexpected moments. Time stands still. So do we.
Clouds move in sky. Water in a pan. Moon shines golden. Flash in the pan. The magic grows. Where there is no going. Nor gone. Amongst the plants. Soaking in the river. Hunger. Time. Sink away. Respect nature. Where straight lineal forms. Don´t grow.
Deny old people. Their childhood delights. Is a safety hazard. In fountain of youth. Wrinkly hands and feet. Front porch. Rocking chairs. One banana. Many birds. The calf. Is born. Walking. And mooing. Head butting udders. Like broken. Vending machine. Buttons.
Twist dough. Into spirals. Put pot on ﬁre. Another ﬁre. Atop the pot. Rustic oven.
Find peace. And red frog. In dinosaur tree. Eddie works. When the rest rest. The kid. Held a box. Inside. His new rabbit. Ask for the bearded guy. And the ﬁrst person knew. Where to point. Everything happens. On the ﬁnal day. In conventions.
A stranger. Sitting beside a pay phone. Lent us his phone. To call my friend. He knew people. We found. Parked in front. Where we met the friend. I called. The constellations. Alligned. Sidney waters the grass. We share an appreciation. For garbage trucks. Sometimes he hops on. And helps. For fun. People say he´s crazy.
Rosy mango paradise. Behind barbed wire. Don Manuel. Rakes leaves. And mangos. And gave me a bucket. Full. The following day. I gave him mango smoothie. His moustache dripped. Orange. I told him about plankton. He told me. It’s called. Fos-for-os-cen-te. The scientiﬁc name.
From the shade. Somersault across the sand. To the sea. Old ex-pat couples. Dress the same. In tourist towns. Argentinian pizza chef. Got in a ﬁght. With a Panamanian taxi driver. Who was a champion boxer. Too. When the police came. He thought he had been rescued. But they formed a ring. And rang the bell.
Fly on wire. Iguana on branch. Squirrel in the middle. Airborne. All the prettiest shells. Are occupied by hermits. Crabs. Guanacaste seed. Spins down. Broken toe crow. Pecks dog biscuits. Tongue takes days. To dislodge mango ďŹ bre. From crooked teeth crevasses.
Three bodies. Walk across beach. Illuminated. The stars and moon above. Their cell phone screens. Below. Monkeys grunted. Early alarm. Threatened us with poo. And testicles.
Don Manuel. Swished tamarindo seeds. In water. And pointed me. To Mango Mountain. Some ripe. Others bruised. Many rotting. Upon ashes. Burned mangos. The prettiest beaches. Are deformed by money. Need more hermits.
Floss crooked teeth. With more mango. Fingernails. And tongue. Natural dentistry. Bike tire. Won´t inﬂate. Stick a pebble. In the nozzle. Ride away. See through curtain hangs. In bathroom doorway. The standing fan. Blows it open. An avocado. Hangs alone. High above. Still. Not falling. Still. Holding on. Still.
Washing machine whirs. Birds play symphonies. The sky thunders. And something passes. That sounds like. Rain on a tin roof. But it still isn´t raining. Kitchenware breaks. Under the weight. Of unspoken. Density. Sit on rock. On edge of cliff. Close my eyes. And be. The avocado. Out. On. A. Limb.
Welcome to the end of another Hundreds of Words... publication. I encourage you to download or print this publication and share it with everyone that you beleive will enjoy it. Thank You
| http://myfriendtito.mymadcat.com | facebook.com/myfriendtito