kiss & tell

by Ed Markowski

our
kisses

screamed
so

loud

roamed
so

reckless
and

burned

so
bright

sally
&

me

we
went

deaf
dumb

delirious

&
blind.

Saint Nick

by Ed Markowski

Every  day,  night  and  day,  for  the  past  five  days,  we’ve  had  rain,  rain,  rain,  rain
and  more  rain.  A  total  of  thirteen  inches  since  Monday  has  turned  an  entire  state
of  immaculate  snowmen  into  an  ocean  of  mud.  I  lost  my  eyes  this  morning  in  a
rising  tide  of  blacker  than  black  black  sewer  water  flowing  from  an  endless  black
hole  that’s  blacker  than  black,  and  blacker  than  the  blacker  than  black  liquid  filth
cresting  the  lip  of  the  sump  crock.  I’m  trying  to  figure  out  why  the  dog  damned
sump  pump  keeps  on  quitting  and  spitting  up  on  us.  Yesterday,  Laurie  and  I  took
thirty – five  bags  of  sewage  soaked  paper,  cloth,  and  wooden  memories  out  to  the
curb.  Thirty – five  garbage  bags  that  contained  Jesse  and  Becky’s  baby  shoes, two
programs  from  the  1934  World  Series  autographed  by  Goose  Goslin  and  Ducky
Medwick,  Laurie’s  wedding  dress,  a  first  edition  of  The  Old  Man  And  The  Sea
signed  by  Hemingway,  a  blue  paper  lei  Elvis  allegedly  wore  during  the  filming
of  Blue  Hawaii,  Barbie  and  Ken’s  entire  wardrobe,  decades  of  joy,  decades  of
tears,  and  the  tangible  history  of  a  family  that  no  one,  including  the  Red  Legend
who’s  due  to  arrive  at  midnight,  can  replace.

With  my  face  still  searching  the  sludge  for  my  eyes,  a  late  December  mosquito
plants  its  flag  in  my  left  cheek.  I  say  to  my  co – pilot,  cheerleader,  apprentice,
tricycle  king,  and  three  year  old  grandson,  “ Nick,  go  get  your  old  Oppie  a  roll
of  tape,  a  hammer,  and  a  screwdriver.  I  hear  Nick  shuffle  off  to  Oreo.  Then  I
hear  a  metallic  symphony  of  thuds,  pings,  booms,  and  bams.  I’m  mesmerized  by
the  song  of  wrenches,  screwdrivers,  levels,  and  concrete  trowels  falling  from  their
pegs.  In  perfect  harmony  with  the  bangs,  my  mind  screams,  “ You  better  be  sure
the  boy  is  ok.  For  Christ’s  sake,  what  are  you  waiting  for? “  Next,  a  scorching
duet  composed  of  Laurie’s  voice  and  Becky’s  voice  geysers  up  from  the  depths
of  the  sump  crock.  “ Maybe  the  hammer  fell  and  broke  Nick’s  foot.  Maybe  he
cut  his  hand  on  that  rusty  razor  wire.  Maybe  Nick’s  skewered  on  a  screwdriver.
Maybe  he’s  sipping  a  cup  of  cotton  candy  pink  anti – freeze.  Maybe  you  should
take  your  finger  out  of  the  dike  and  make  sure  he’s  ok  you  irresponsible  ass.”

When  their  voices  fade  I  hear  the  triumphant  footfalls  of  a  tiny  warrior  marching
back  to  Bataan.  I  hear  Patton  parading  through  Paris. I  hear  fifty – thousand  Yankee
fans  cheering  a  Mickey  Mantle  walk  off  moon  shot.  I  hear  Nick  coming  closer.  I
hear  Nick’s  laughter.  I  feel  Nick’s  excitement  soaked  words  temper  the  damp  cold
air.  “ I  found  four  hammers  Oppie,  four  Oppie,  that’s  good  Oppie,  isn’t  that  good
Oppie,  Oppie,  can  I  have  a  donut  now ? “

I  look  over  my  shoulder  into  the  dim  seventy – five  watt  light.  Both  of  Nick’s  hands
are  Good  and  Plenty  pink.  With  each  step,  Nick’s  hands  shift  from  bubble  gum  pink
to  Pink  Panther  pink,  to  pink  grapefruit  pink,  to  the  undisputed  heavy  weight  champion
of  pink,  Polyurethane  Pink  Flamingo  Pink.  I  turn  my  back  to  Nick.  My  eyes  are  still
lost  in  the  foul  puzzle  flowing  over  the  sump  crock’s  lip.  When  I  turn  to  face  him,
Nick  drops  four  hammers  on  the  floor.  His  face  and  voice  blossom  into  the  shape,
sound,  color,  and  scent  of  pure  joy.  “ Oppie,  I  found  these  too  where  you  didn’t  hide
them  so  good.”  Nick  points  to  the  sump  pump’s  plug  that’s  sagging  in  the  wall  socket.
“ Here  Oppie,  put  some  of  this  over  there.”  Nick  hands  me  two  pink  eggs  of  Silly
Putty  that  he  and  his  big  brother  Matthew  were  going  to  find  in  their  stockings. The
Silly  Putty  cements  the  plug  in  place  and  the whir  of  the  sump  pump  becomes  the
sweetest  Christmas Carol  I’ve  ever  heard.  Up  in the  kitchen  I  set  two  powdered  sugar
donuts  on  a  paper  plate  for  Saint  Nick.  Then,  as  the  rain  changes  to  snow,  I  dial
Santa’s  number  and  order  two  dozen  for  tomorrow  morning.

on tuesday the 6th

by Ed Markowski

Opened my eyes

Shut the window

 

Crested twenty – one pearls

Q tipped my wax wells

 

Watched PBS

Watched Fox

 

Drank two cups of coffee

Drank two cups of milk

 

Planted a moon dog

Pulled up a cattail

 

Ate an English Muffin

Ate a slice of Pumpernickel

 

Listened to Bob Dylan

Listened to Wayne Newton

 

Rode the wind through a White Pine

Climbed the stars between Mpingo branches

 

Deep fried a Dixie Chicken

Baked Alaska

 

Sailed a desert

Painted an ocean

 

Bought twelve American Beauties

Sold a dozen chocolate éclairs

 

Felt a field mouse roar

Touched a show dog’s whimper

 

And when I forgot to vote

I remember waking up.

Time Lines

by Ed Markowski

On  the  moonlit  edge  of  a  New  York  Minute.
We  met  in  line  at  the  express  checkout.
Her  soft  lady  fingers  were  wrapped  around  a  jar  of  Nescafe  Instant.
My  calloused  pocket  aces  juggled  two  decks  of  Flash  Cash  lottery  tickets.
She  scanned  me  I  scanned  her.
She  said  Let’s  go  I  said  Let’s  go.
Five  seconds  later  we’re  flying  down  Owens  Road  in  her  Mercury  Comet.
Ten  seconds  post  Comet  we  stood  on  her  front  porch.
Fifteen  seconds  past  her  porch  we  were  panting  on  her  bedroom  floor.
Twenty  seconds  above  her  bedroom  floor  we  were  two  stars  rising  and  falling  in  a  ceiling  mirror.
Ten  seconds  after  the  flood  two  sparks  begat  a  wildfire.
At  three – thirty  on  that  fifth  day  of  May  we  saw  each  other  for  the  last  time.
Five  years  later  to  the  day  today  I  received  an  eleven  word  note  from  Missoula  Montana.
There’s  a  boy  named  Jake  here  crying  to  meet  his  daddy
On  rainy  days  like  today  I  think  about  them  from  daylight  to  dark.
And  every  day  I  hate  myself  at  the  dawn  of  my  death.

A Declaration At The Dawn Of Old Age

by Ed Markowski

During  the  years  that  spanned  the  gap  stretching  from  Cathy’s  Clown  to  Me  and  Mrs.  Jones,

I  believed  peace  on  Earth  was  entirely  possible  and  mostly  a  small  matter  of  blind  men  growing

into  wise  men  nurtured,  groomed,  and  nourished  by  the  wise  council  of  the  alien  daughters  and

sons  they  nurtured,  groomed,  and  nourished. I  believed  the  midnight  sky,  its  moon,  and  every

star  stitched  on  its  surface,  to  be  equivalent  shades  of  celestial  enlightenment,


I  believed  soul,  the  blues,  jazz,  hillbilly  honky  tonk,  swing,  folk,  and  rock  and  roll  were  God’s

sweet  gifts  of  jubilation,  celebration,  unification,  and  God’s  way  of  restoring  the  brilliant   red,

white,  brown,  black,  yellow,  and  blue  luster  to  our  flag  planted  in  the  flesh  dust,  and  flying

olive  drab  on  the  billowing  cap  of  a  mushroom  cloud.  I  believed  the  Angel  Gabriel  returned,

traded  his  trumpet  for  a  Homer  Marine Band  mouth  harp,  and  pointed  the  way  across  a

dead  white  desert  of  iron  and  fire,


I  believed  love  minus  lunacy  was  a  girl  of  solid  gold  good  with  salvation  slick  eyes  that

beckoned  and  pulled  me  up  from  the  shafts  of  my  coal  mind,  and  brushed  the  coal  dust

off  my  eyes  with  a  first  kiss  that  would  never  end.  I  believed  hell’s  expressway  was  paved

with  Jerusalem  gold  marble  tiles  that  began  long  before  Galileo,  and  ended  at  the  base  of

a  fools  gold  chalice  set  upon  an  altar  of  bone,  set  upon  the  shadow  of  an  emaciated  murder

victim  twisted  on  a  stick  above  three  priests  and  a  football  coach  tasting  a  just  baked  batch

of  peanut  butter  altar  boys,  who  invited  me  to  the  party,


And  standing  in  that  lie  I  didn’t  believe  in,  I  knew  the  paths  to  the  city  of  gold  though

littered  with  asses,  addicts,  sex,  sorrow,  slop,  rifles,  ribbons,  queens,  quacks,  frauds,  freaks,  fools,

ghouls,  geeks,  and  us  begin  in  the  alleys  and  end  in  the  alleys  that  run  behind  every  church

from  Bramblewood,  Missouri  to  Beijing.

twenty – two below

by Ed Markowski

at

the

apex

of

an

argument

we

kissed

and

killed

the

cold

mantra

by Ed Markowski

repeated

felon

‘till

I

achieved

inner

peace.

North Dakota

by Ed Markowski

Empty
sky
above
the
missile
silos
endless
fields
of
winter
wheat.

Combination Plates

by Ed Markowski

Ten minutes beyond a mandarin orange salad,

a bowl of hot and sour soup, two crisp egg

rolls, fire cracker shrimp ding and two hot

cups of oolong tea, my girl Dixie deep fried

me until I froze solid and popped in the damp

and delicious heat of her banana split.