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"Rikishi are people who make decisions and live with the consequences." -- Ash Warren "After the rain, the earth hardens." -- Japanese proverb

The Other: Melanie's index finger is missing: birth defect. She looks at a mirror; what stares back is not quite right. The hairline is deep and wide, parting in the center -- revealing a mole; her black hair is frail: lacking sheen. The eyes are red water; a nose is concave -- half moon nostrils slant. She turns and runs, the image follows, outstretching an arm -- waving goodbye.

Vete a la mierda Hemingway!

"The rikishi face each other and ideally their minds are perfectly clear. There is no thought of winning, no fear of losing, and there is no plan. They know that whatever happens next is going to happen completely naturally." -- Ash Warren

"These roads don't have goals or endpoints. When you are on the road, you just 'keep on walking.'" -- Ash Warren

"If you want to learn the craft of war, ponder over this book. The teacher is the needle, the disciple is the thread. You must practice constantly." -- Miyamoto Musashi

This was the largest human being I have ever seen, before or since. I suddenly had a deep understanding of how a Hobbit feels, and at the same time wondered what kind of guts you'd need to get up on the dohyo and see him staring at you." -- Ash Warren

A grim tale that's predictable but satisfying.

"I'll be at the cafe Monday," she had said, "meet me at noon." Jerry arrived at 11:30, chose a seat outside, ordered a latte and told the waiter, "Come back at noon." Jerry looked at the other patrons: a couple laughing, an old man playing with his watch, and a young boy shoving pancakes into his mouth. The waiter returned at noon and said, "Thursday special: sloppy joe." "I'll have that," Jerry said.

Cleansed: Upon injection you will experience the following: burning in the groin, incontinence, nose bleeding, hemorrhaging in the urinary tract, bleeding gums, loss of teeth, distorted vision, auditory hallucinations, Tongue-tie/loss of tongue, inflated ego, vomiting of blood, and an overwhelming sense of love, passion, hate, and once again... love -- enjoy.

"What is then this mystery? / I cannot understand. / Fleeting vision... / In these affairs / 'Tis better to be blind." - Marcel Proust

19: Hemingway is not a minimalist; he's a contortionist. His language has more knots than Christmas lights.

One Last Interview: The Interviewer is dressed in a fresh cut tailored suit with black and white stripes. It fits perfectly; it will be a sin when smell necessitates the need to strip it from his body. He sees the Actor circling the Walmart parking lot and signals by flapping his arms. As the Actor's car approaches the Interviewer ruminates, "To get the right answers, ask the wrong questions."

Phaedra's Love: Love won't save you; it makes you a slave to sickness and a paramour to madness.

"Use your illusion," you tell her, "otherwise it's using --" She elbows your side and passes the collection plate.

Blasted: When you flinch, don't inadvertently break your neck.

The Lady with the Dog: The beast pulls southwest, on a leash made from braided rope; your father's Derby shoes are broken. He pisses on flag poles and shits on Ms. Sheber's tomatoes, taking breaks to scratch his mange and turn to growl. Die, you think: an Eldorado passes, backfires, startles -- the rope falls from your hand. The beast sprints down Tender St.; the clicks on tarmac fade and disappear.

It scars the bone above the heart.

Night Review
Green meadows blend to black at Night's march east;
Shall you cross the river when the moon's shadows feast?
To the lonely sheep, take your farewell sleep -- innocence is a dying beast.
Experience opens your eyes; the coyote's gaze has found its feast.

Them boots will hold; you take um for workin'. The barbed holds tight; also good for the boys that mess with ya. I've worn um, before the barbed. I was workin' the Grenach field then the stitchin' let go. I took the barded from the Grenach border runnin' east; don't regret it none. Them boots will hurt if you favor left: correct that. They'll serve... serve for workin'. And for the boys that come messin' with ya.

And Maybe the Horse Will learn How to Sing: I quote, "I don't know about other folks, but I'd rather shove a fondo fork in my eye than read a research proposal." Now replace "research proposal" with "the title of this story" and that's my review. But that's not entirely fair; I'll give it props for having a sense of humor. Today, laughter exceeds motion.

A sunlight puddle; index finger deep. Desert dunes -- east; a wet crabapple forest -- west. Fall webworms eat, hidden in white cotton dark and deep. The apples are sick but call the town to eat. Move south paved brown; or north on colored glass? Pivot left when shadows lead, returning you to the same sunlight puddle, only a knuckles worth deep.

Gooseberries: A man wears a heavy overcoat on a hot day; his undershirt is soaked with sweat. With his left hand he reaches into his right pocket, pulls out a handful of gooseberries and shoves them into his mouth. His face pukers and he spits them out -- his palm is stained red. He steps back as a peasant woman passes, knees, and picks up the berries. Once she is gone he licks his palm.

Spring: Innocent spring is allowed to see; winter's unknown: tragedy or free? The Blossom: The sparrow and robin pose opposite the blossom; both see soft red, but one smells a sick aroma with dread. The Lamb: is what you wanted to be, but truth be told, all you saw was me.

"Only where there is disillusionment and depression and sorrow does happiness arise; without the despair of loss, there is no hope," your shadow says. I loosen my tie, tip my hat to the left, and pull a toothpick out my breast pocket, pointing it at your shadow. "Come," I say. "You must meet Dostoevsky."

A man's working is what makes him safe with-self. Too much mind gets ya scratched up -- same said with too much woman. I'll take them last claws before the first boy. You knows why? That mind has a way of saying things that an't true, cause if they be, you as a good man an't looking right. Listen boy; working... working makes ya safe with-self.

The Ideal Village: I inspect your ankles, blood spots run along your thighs, "Piranhas," I say. "No harm," you reply. Your legs fall from my lap, bringing your knees to your chin -- you give them a strong hug, pressing a cheek into your bicep. "We should go for a swim," you say playfully. I poke the fire with a stick, pushing the burning end into the sole of my boot and say, "Not tonight... paradise can wait."

18: To paraphrase, you describe a faena as "something you'll never see but could see, and if you do see it, you'll know you've seen it because you saw it instead of not... but if you don't, you'll appreciate it, because you actually DID see it, never to be seen again." You're the father of minimalism?

The Cradle Song: In the infant's sleepy smile, a mother see's heavenly guile; I ask thee, "What demons cross when eyes awake, ready for the world to take?"

Learn a Trade: Your great paps started it... gave it to my paps, who gave it to me, now it's yours boy. You'll carry well. Be it -- you do what I say. Now take it. Go on, take it. Right. Run, don't look back... no stoppin'. When the blood you carrin' is hot, drink from the bottle. But damn you, don't stop. Not until they find you.