Mad Matadors of Jilting and Phoenix

Did I leave you
      soaked in gasoline
      primed to explode
            brimming with life
            pulsating pain
      numbed by broken bottles
sinking into shards of tomorrow noon?
Did you leave me
      a mad matador
      dodging raging bulls of insecurity
             a raving silent
              single husband
      who'd gouge out his left critical eye
just to hear your garage door open again?

I swear I still hear your voice.
I swear I grieved your loss
and even though I swore I'd never swear again-

I promise I lit my crimson cape
      over two tanks of propane
            seared by closure
            reborn of ashes

Dirty Beaches and Paradise

I didn’t even notice the couple gawking at me until they kicked a little sand on my legs,

            “Hello?” I said, trying not to sound American.

            The woman marched up to me and adjusted her glasses, “Are… are you the guy who was busking the other day?”

            I searched my memory banks for the word busking before answering, “Why… yes… yes I was…”

            She turned to the man beside her and cocked her head, “See… TOLD YOU!” she declared.

            “Yeah… we were just foolin’ around…” I explained, hoping I wasn’t about to get arrested.

            “Psh… I don’t care,” her thin lips said with an accent that sounded very British, “You all were great. I especially loved the little shuffle you did…so full of energy. How many years have you been rapping?”

            The way she pronounced the word “rapping” reminded me of maple syrup.

            My eyes shifted to the ground, “Uh… 11 months…ish…I started in Guatemala as a gag and kinda didn’t want to stop…”

            Her blue eyes widened, “Only 11 months… gosh… you’re really talented… what the heck were you doing in Guatemala?”

            “Oh, I was doing mission work… I’m a missionary.”

            The woman’s eyes got bigger, “A MISSIONARY?”

            I nodded, “Why?

            Her green eyes found the ground, “I…I dunno… I never met a missionary… let alone a rapping one. I always pictured missionaries with… orange robes… asking me if I found Jesus… yanno?”

      “Well, I left my robe at home…” I joked.

            She laughed, “It’s… It’s just… I always thought that missionaries were dressed in ties with bicycles and…”

            “Mormons?”

            She looked up and nodded sheepishly.

            “Well… some are… not all…but I get it…” I said

            “So…” she said and lit a cigarette, “What’s your mission?”

            “Mission?” I kicked the sand and watched a few crushed bottle caps roll down the beach, “Whatcha mean?”

            “Like, are you trying to convert people or whatever?”

            “I… I dunno… I mean… that’s the big idea right? But really, I think I’m just trying to love my neighbor the best I can, take care of widows and orphans, and yanno, keep my head out my rear…”

            She laughed, “It’s amazing how much our brain like that little place, huh?”

            “Right?” I replied and we roared with laughter.

            After the laughter died down, she stared at me just a little longer, “You know, I never really talked to a real missionary before.”

            “Me neither!” I joked, but she didn’t laugh.

            After a brief moment she smiled again, “Thanks.”

            “What for?”

            She got up and dusted herself off, “For being human,” she replied and got lost in the crowd.

            We ate pancakes the next week. Even though I was miles away from anything that looked like America and I had not seen an IHOP, McDonalds, or even a fat policeman in a doughnut shop, as I pour Aunt Jemima over two flat pancakes, I relived my beach conversation and relaxed.

            For the first time, in a long time, it didn’t matter I was overseas.

            I felt at home.