Red Candle and Dark Whiskey

I called you
with living blood and lived memories,
with feet dancing to your laughter;

are you flirting with angels
and drinking heavenly mojitos?

I’ve called on you
with bawdy jokes
and ribald songs;

perhaps it isn’t your time…

I’m calling
with red candle and dark whiskey,
with open heart and closed—

“You said whiskey?”

 

for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and Poets United

Process Note: Today marks the second anniversary of my little brother’s death. Gregory Guerrero’s flesh and bones left this world on February 28, 2013, ten days before his 27th birthday. But his spirit continues to grow in the hearts of those who love him as he was, in the memories of anyone who speaks his name and summons his smiles…

The poem above came to life after my friends, Jonquil, Sharon, Rommy, Kim and Gina replied to a message I posted on my Facebook wall. I had been working on a short story that celebrates my little brother’s life, when sadness began to creep in; I wasn’t ready for it. So I shared a portion of the first sentence of the story: “I’ve been calling on you, with living blood and lived memories…”, and asked friends to cheer me up by completing it. I said to keep in mind that the words were being spoken by a living sister to her dead brother; that he loves a good joke… and she adores the sound of his laughter.

Thank you, my ladies. May the song of our words warm my little brother’s soul… ♥

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Gregory Guerrero

You will always be loved, mi Gordis…

The Day Lady Liberty Ran Off to Join the Circus

On the winter Lady Liberty threw herself into the Hudson, her abandoned Torch exploded, setting a Staten Island ferry and three Asgardian skinny-dippers on fire.

The museum guide waited for everyone to finish reading the introductory slide, before she began addressing her audience. “There was nothing but talk of hot Norse skin and overheated bronze balls. The New York Harbor and most—”

“No,” said a small balding man, “that’s not what happened. I watched it live on Fox. I know brass balls when I see them.”

An old lady, who sat next to the man, told him, “You’re embarrassing people who don’t even know you, son.”

Pretending half the room wasn’t snickering, the museum guide moved to the next slide. It explained that the Torch had been approached by Fox, and that her reaction suggested that something they said offended her. “I don’t care for your French or for your dull guesstimating of obvious facts,” the Torch said to Fox.

The next morning, Fox reported that the Torch was related to a legendary Burning Bush, and that the Torch and her Bush cousin would be delighted to bless Fox and all their descendants. “It’s our given right,” the news reporter announced.

Moving to the next slide, the museum guide aimed a laser pointer at the screen. “This is one of the most memorable moments captured on that day of fire and terrible news,” she said. The photograph showed a weeping man in a black Armani suit, missing a shoe and a chunk of skull. He stood on a cracked sidewalk, aiming his fist at a group of college girls, who were taking selfies with the Wall Street Bull’s half-melted balls in their hands.

“That’s not what happened.” The small man stood up and faced the gathering, his fingers tapping the screen of a tablet. “Those were good girls who would never get their picture taken with balls made of anything other than their city’s best brass. And Lady Liberty didn’t drown herself. This woman’s saying that because she doesn’t love her, she doesn’t love you, and she doesn’t love me. Ah!” he said, turning the tablet towards the people. “See? Fox ran an exclusive with Lady Liberty. They said—”

So calmly that no one saw her coming, the old lady smacked the small man across the face with her purse, and said, “Shut up.”

The tablet flew over the man’s head.

People tried not to laugh, but failed in bursts.

The museum guide picked up the tablet, and took a look. It framed a shopping mall, which had been swallowed by a devilish clown wearing a crown made from slashes of emptiness. The caption over the image read: Lady Liberty isn’t dead. She ran off to join the circus. A Fox exclusive!

Devilish Looking Clown Entrance

This tale is the hybrid child of Magpie Tales 259 (the image above), and “Real Time with Bill Maher: Rudy Giuliani’s Fifty Shades of Black”. Afraid of clowns? Oops.

 

Writing with the Cyber Punches

Every now and then, a person or event hits us so hard in the virtual teeth, that we struggle on the ground, staring at our attacker, and wondering, Why? At that moment, deep in our assaulted heart, we’re certain that we’ll never get up again.

Then the heart remembers the first time her feelings were bloodied—we’ve all been there—and she thinks about how she was convinced that the pain would kill her. Right there, when she’s sure that death is eminent, her brain rolls her eyes, and says, “Hey you, nincompoop, can you hear me? Of course you can freaking hear me; neither you nor your ears die way back then. And guess what? You’ll not perish this time, either. Just put on your big girl panties. No! Not those useless silky things; the red cotton ones with the tiny black skulls and the lettering that says, ‘This knickers were made for butt-kickers.’ Good. You’re grinning. That’s the spirit. Now feed that grin some common sense and action until it bursts into cackles, then think of a tale or three, and write with the cyber punches.”

Yes, my brain is rather loquacious… and sagacious, too. I like her ways, and care to listen to her advice. So after a group of lowlifes stole my work from my about-to-become archive blog, I gave myself some quiet time to grief for the loss (and to rage in severely descriptive phrases), before I took action and continued to keep on keeping on.

This website is my first step towards moving forward. I’ve already created new short Fiction and Poetry pages; mostly, I transferred the links. I need to do something similar with the book pages, which remain at Pagan Culture. My about Me page, on the other hand, it’s quite the treat. Seriously, my Wicked Luvs; do read “i am Stories” and “i am Poetry”, if you have a minute or three. For my latest approach to a bio was a therapeutic blast to create. I suspect many of you might enjoy the living friskiness of the words.

All my new short fiction, poetry, bits of witchy living, writing, reading and publishing updates will be posted here… so do consider following by email *cough, cough, cough*. I plan to reread Pagan Culture from beginning to end, in order to create a categorized archive to keep here. I suspect the process might take me the rest of the year, perhaps longer—we’re speaking of almost 1,300 posts.

For as long as I’m conducting my Pagan Culture archival exploration, I shall publish a weekly notice (over at the other blog), informing anyone who is yet to visit/follow my new cyber-home that the Midnight Margaritas are now being brewed here.

Again, my Luvs: fly around, take a look at “i am Stories” and “i am Poetry”, follow via email, Bloglovin’… have a good time, and leave a comment or three to feed my wicked grin.

Rebirth, by Peace Simon

Rebirth, by Peace Simon