Joined:	Nov 05, 2007
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Location:	Thailand
Last visit:	Monday, March 15, 2010 (07:53:35)
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Interests:	Writing, cycling, anything outdoors, music, cooking, gardening, dogs

Ramonez's Last 12 Poems [ All | Favorites ]
Reverse Polaroid Blues Taken by Madness - II Polaroid Blues Taken by Madness - I	Two Lovers on a Balcony at Dawn Edna's Day Out Small World Man in the Mirror	The Good Samaritan Midnight Gardener Second Coming - 11: The Holy Trinity and the Disappearance of Judas Second Coming - 10: The Case of 'The Sharpened Apostles'

Ramonez's recent Blog entry.	Lunch with Frank (the end of a short story) - IV ( 90 reads)	Tuesday, March 09, 2010 (10:38:00)
There was definitely a knock on the door. Frank had seen the framed motivational poster, a beautiful photograph of an erupting volcano (with words to ruin it), rattle. Like rabid squirrels his eyes darted between the door and the drinks cabinet. He looked up at the clock in order to tell the time but knew there was something wrong when the numbers melted away into the blue of one of his toddler’s latest ‘The Sky is the Limit’ paintings. Digits six and nine combined, forming old-style goggles; seven and four molded into a suit of some sort. The sky turned that smoggy city morning brown, and the little figure in the picture, holding onto the strings of a red-striped parachute, spoke in a squeaky voice. The time is now! The sky is the limit! Someone was trying to force open the door. Frank nibbled at the congealed blood on his arm while back peddling towards the drinks cabinet, keeping his eyes on the door from behind which the voices were making threatening noises. He threw his jacket on the floor and held the fucked-up, half-full can of lighter fluid over his head. The liquid soaked his 100% Thai silk shirt— a second anniversary gift from mother-in-law. There’s no time like the right time, Frank! It was hard to tell exactly how many people there were at the door, but it sounded like a small army. Frank ignored the urgency in their voices and reached for the cigar box, which he kept behind a few expensive bottles of whiskey (for important business meetings only). The silver cigar box lid popped open and he took out a book of matches lying in the place where his Zippo had been before it was stolen. Frank decided it was time for a quick celebration. His hands were a bit clammy, and the wound on his left hand and wrist was throbbing where infection had already settled in a rusted-custard nest. He had trouble breaking the bottle cap seal, so Frank broke Johnny Walker’s neck against the window sill instead. He took a few gulps, and poured the rest over himself. He’d always loved how the pedestrians and cars down below in the streets resembled ants at work— it looked even better now through blurry eyes, and there seemed to be a lot more hustle than usual. It was lunch time. They were kicking at the door now, and Frank saw that someone had splintered the hard wood on the inside by ramming a crowbar through the door. And there he stood, Frank Miller, with tears rolling down his cheeks. He wasn’t sure if he was crying or if it had been the mix of alcohol and lighter fluid that was making his eyes water; he felt no emotion— not a drop. Frank lit a match and opened the window with flaming hands. He stood on his toes and listened as his eyebrows sizzled. Frank removed Zelda’s latest painting, pulled it over his head, and tore the sky apart. The End

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Fossils of the Missing Ones – 1: Emma’s Story

Unbelievable!
I was ready to pack up
and call off the dig,
when I spotted her
(such a delicate finger)
not too far away
from where we started our search
for the Missing Ones.
We named her Emma
(‘Emm’ for Missing and
the ‘a’ for being the first).

This is her story:

Being a mother
(for the first time, I might add)
has taught me a lot.
One of these teachings
is the ability to stay awake for hours,
A boring detail, a lazy man might argue,
but to me, crucial,
especially when
the boy’s father goes hunting
in Bat Wing Mountains.

The boy is restless.

I yawn -

undo the tent flap.

The half-eaten moon
looks different tonight;
there’s a mocking quality
to its usual, bright casualness.

‘A premonition,’ I think,
‘of bad things to come?’

I sit up and look over my shoulder like a man afraid of ghosts;
I am dead certain I’d just heard footsteps,

a rustle,

snort-sneers of muzzles sniffing ’round the back
in desperate search for food,
and then I saw them;
their shadows dancing,
barbarians from the north
clad in matted pelts,
howling and barking as if afraid of their own elongated shapes.

I hold the boy tight.

Their greedy daggers cut deep.

Sleep does not arrive.

My name is Emma.
I was the first to awake to the Wild Wolf Tribe
who kidnapped my child,
and destroyed our whole village
in the dead of night.

They named me Emma.
The first of the Missing Ones.

I put up my hand for them to see me,
to say that, as a mother,

I have never slept.

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