She waves back
Two short stories
November 25, 2003
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,
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.
John Wayne RIDES OFF COCKED.
Where is my red umbrella!
KISS - &%$·"!? - ESPANA
Before the ZEIGEIST
Before the ZEIGEIST, he wallowed
in mire, a slob dribbling in the mud.
After all he was the DRIVER, globe-trotter, explorer,
poet, adventurer and
mountaineer with the Bakhtiari before circumstances dragged
him down again and sold his reputation for a song.
Thou shalt be
- nothing - thou shalt not be less, said Khayyam.
Longing, a negative
emotion on the day of the parade spread like wild fire getting
the upper hand turning him into a gipsy, Arab,
wandering Jew, Hadji pilgrim in the desert, he was an emigrant
in the land of Christians. Abandoned mysteriously in a phone
The Moores were buried in lost cemetaries, fugitives who
were never found. Only a few lion headstones with Arabic
inscriptions - vanish with the rose - music of distant drums twilight
As a rider, he knew by heart, horseshit, beore becoming
an adultrous bus driver prickhead behind the wheel eclipsed by
kinky sex with
A mad, torturous tribesman - put the saddle on the
right horse - faithless scoundrel.
Chef-d'oeuvre of opium, calm, cool
he drove fish - the original inhabitants of Calpe - unruffled with
telling effect like a bull
at the gate with head.
He had lost his way into blood-letting raging
colossus toothless voodoo fumanchu driving rain or shine wanting
to drink pure Rioja
The rite of paassage continued under the crescent moon with
three stars and fireworks, a signal that his days were numbered.
found a suicide note from a mussle stuck between two shells for
centuries. He ate it and drove on to an imaginery coral
reef full of fucked up mussels, slightly out of focus.
He then cleaned
the bus which still was beautiful, filthy. Threatening, sick
and sweet with a yellow streak and hammered the final tent-peg
into his gilded testicles then he took a leap in the dark and
became a porn star snorting and screwing with a roll of the drums,
of wine, a book of verse and thou.
KHAYYAM - &%$·!?
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