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She waves back
Two short stories

November 25, 2003
The Iranian

These two short pieces are my mother's last written words, as far as I know. She passed away this weekend at age 73 in Calpe, Spain. She used to complain that it took me forever to publish her work. I'm not sure if they are brilliant or just plain nutty. But they do remind me of her abstract paintings, which I loved so much. -- Jahanshah Javid

With a harmonica and hammer in his pants he knew hearts accepted his mask. You want love, matador entering when wanted on the Mediterranean, slipping his penis in willy-nilly.

Dolce, sweet sand and crabs, not much romance.  No hotel room.  Nets with shells, a jackass stool, olives. Green fish in the dark, no seagulls, eternal rock with real stars.

He saw her Bakhtiari reciting Khayyam on the Costa Blanca, Spanish eyes bullseye hitting the target.

Not much time.  How did he know, the Spanish hunter following the Persian moon, passing in the night, strangers.

He knew she was alone, an easy prey,  his penis on her bougainvilla, wincing toothpick, seduced by beer, two cops are shot, the quiet driver, natural born killer in the olive grove, fearless voyeur, vino from the grape vine, the lure.

He was he. She was whatever he wanted her to be.  Beaded bracelets, rose tattoo, where are you my corazon, Do Thi Hai Yen?  Exploding with whip and chair on a snowflake.

First Spanish kiss, first November in the bus.  Pourque no! (why not!) Amigo.

Ha ha ha HA HA.


She waves back.


Where is my red umbrella!

KISS - &%$·"!? - ESPANA


Before the ZEIGEIST

Before the ZEIGEIST, he wallowed in mire, a slob dribbling in the mud.

After all he was the DRIVER, globe-trotter, explorer, poet, adventurer and mountaineer with the Bakhtiari before circumstances dragged him down again and sold his reputation for a song.

Thou shalt be - nothing - thou shalt not be less, said Khayyam.

Longing, a negative emotion on the day of the parade spread like wild fire getting the upper hand turning him into a gipsy, Arab, wandering Jew, Hadji pilgrim in the desert, he was an emigrant in the land of Christians.  Abandoned mysteriously in a phone booth.

The Moores were buried in lost cemetaries, fugitives who were never found.  Only a few lion headstones with Arabic inscriptions - vanish with the rose - music of distant drums twilight at the close.

As a rider, he knew by heart, horseshit, beore becoming an adultrous bus driver prickhead behind the wheel eclipsed by kinky sex with ice creaam.

A mad, torturous tribesman - put the saddle on the right horse - faithless scoundrel.

Chef-d'oeuvre of opium, calm, cool he drove fish - the original inhabitants of Calpe - unruffled with telling effect like a bull at the gate with head.

He had lost his way into blood-letting raging colossus toothless voodoo fumanchu driving rain or shine wanting to drink pure Rioja wine.

The rite of paassage continued under the crescent moon with three stars and fireworks, a signal that his days were numbered.

He found a suicide note from a mussle stuck between two shells for centuries.  He ate it and drove on to an imaginery coral reef full of fucked up mussels, slightly out of focus.

He then cleaned the bus which still was beautiful, filthy. Threatening, sick and sweet with a yellow streak and hammered the final tent-peg into his gilded testicles then he took a leap in the dark and became a porn star snorting and screwing with a roll of the drums, a flask of wine, a book of verse and thou.


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By Kristopher Kolumbus



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