About Kristopher Cisneros

Kristopher Lee Cisneros wrote and directed a short film which won Best of Fest at the South Texas Underground Film Festival.  He is currently working on a novel and a pilot script.

​

Paradise Cemetery

​

Halloween night, I was thirteen years old,

Trying to be brave and bold.

I entered Paradise Cemetery on a dare, To

show those bullies I was no easy scare.

 

Flashlight in hand, I plodded among the dead, When a

presence filled me with sudden dread. Turning around, my

light flashed on a face so pretty— Not rotted, gross, or gritty.

 

She wore a white dress and, in her hair, a blue bow. "Is it

Halloween?" the girl wanted to know. 

I nodded, though my legs urged me to run; 

She shouted, "I can play until the rising sun!" 

 

"Please play with me," she pleaded, For a

playmate was all she needed. 

Hide-and-seek was her favorite game, she shared; I said

nothing, just stood there, scared.

 

She turned away and started to count; I

looked around for a way out. 

I ran to the wall and was about to climb, 

When I heard her sob, "I'm almost out of time."

 

I went back to her and flashed my light; She

smiled at the beam so bright. 

I asked if she'd like to go to a Halloween dance with me. "Yes!"

she cheered, jumping up with glee. 

 

We ran past the mortuary, 

And climbed over the wall of Paradise Cemetery. 

We skipped down old Conner Street, 

But stopped halfway when she screamed in defeat— 

 

"I don’t have a costume to wear!" 

So, I stole a bed sheet from a clothesline, without a care. 

We cut holes for eyes, now she was a ghost; 

I was Davy Crockett, and we held hands under the lamppost. 

 

 

The girl was so happy, she began to spin around. 

"It feels good to be out of the ground," she said, profound. "What

do you mean by that?" I asked, concerned, But she fell silent, as

if enough had been learned. 

 

The road was dark, cold, and scary; 

She whispered softly, "My name is Carrie." I

told her mine was Harold, Harold Fitzgerald. 

 

We arrived at the party, Though

just a bit tardy. 

The kids were dancing to the song "Sh-Boom," All

dressed up in neat costumes. 

 

"I don’t know how to dance," I confessed, 

But she smiled and said, "Just give it a chance." She

placed my hands on her shoulders and led, Her head

gently resting on my chest, no more dread. 

 

We danced all night long, To

some boss songs. 

"Just one more," she whispered, a quiet swirl— It felt

like a dream, being with this girl.

 

She removed her ghost sheet, And

smiled so sweet. 

"My Special Angel" played next; As we

waltzed, she gave me a peck. 

 

The song ended, and she ran away; I chased

after, begging her to stay. I called out her

name, not once but twice, As I sprinted all

the way to Paradise. 

 

I spotted a big black crow perched upon a church steeple,

as I struggled up a grassy hill.

His shrieks echoed across the night,

Chilling me to the bone with fright. 

 

I found Carrie crying at the cemetery gate, looking up at the moon. She said

an evil man had ended her life too soon— 

 

It happened on Halloween night, on her way to a dance; She was

found by the roadside in the grass. 

 

We went back over the wall, and she showed me something dire— 

A sight I hadn’t really desired. I

flashed my light on a tombstone,

And found that it was her own. 

 

"Carrie Ortega, 1922-1935," 

It was twenty-two years ago that she stopped being alive. 

Carrie began to cry, 

So, I held her, and tears welled in my eyes. 

 

I stayed with her until my flashlight flickered and went black; The time

had come for her to go back. 

The sun rose over the treetops, peeking through the branches— Would

there be any more chances? 

 

She promised she’d return when I needed her near— 

"Just flash the light, and I’ll be here." 

My special angel, I know you're an angel, 

The night retreated, giving way to the light's tangle. 

 

As it did, I caught a glimpse of a monster trying to hide— It fled

with the shadows, writhing in pain as it sighed. 

Into a crypt, the monster crept, 

And 'til this day, that image in my mind is kept. 

 

That was sixty-five years ago; 

Now I’m seventy-eight—old. 

Waiting in a nursing home to depart this life— I have

no more fight. 

 

So, I snuck out into the parking lot on Halloween night, And

flashed a light beam so bright. 

Carrie returned as she promised, 

We were together again, under a moon called Harvest. 

 

When they found me, 

I was cold to the touch, lying beneath a tree. My

life was a jubilee, So don’t feel sorry for me. 

 

I was taken to Paradise Cemetery— To

shed tears unnecessary. 

 

Now, Carrie and I can dance and play, Every

Halloween night until the break of day.

​

​

The Hallelujah Traveling Show

Part One

The Summer of 1969

***

Make love, not war, and power to the people were the slogans. However, too many great people had been shot down, and the bombs were bursting in the air. We came in peace for all mankind. The sixties were nearly over, and I stopped believing in God.

***

“I’m a salesman, honey,” Papa told me, my name being Jupiter Orvis. “What I sell is the freedom of men’s souls.” I traveled across the fruited plains with Papa as he brought Jesus to the masses. “The devil runs loose, and I’m chasing after him,” he proclaimed, Bible in hand.

***

They were the same all over—folks in need of salvation. The war had not gone as planned; the riots and the rock-n-roll music were all a bit too much. It was time to let the sunshine in. 'Let not your hearts be troubled'; The Hallelujah Traveling Show was in town.

***

Papa wore a white suit and lots of make-up. 'It’s performance art,' he explained. He was good at his job. He preached fire and brimstone to a captivated audience. They gave him their hard-earned money, and he gave them hope. All done, off to the next town.

***

Under that old, ragged tent, the lights burned bright, and the choir sang praises to the Lord Almighty with booming voices. People were healed. They cried. They testified before the congregation. The Holy Spirit was loose, and the people felt it coursing through their bodies. It was an awe-inspiring sight to those who didn’t know no better. But I knew... it was performance art.

***

The year before, when I turned twelve, Papa got me a pet rabbit. I named him Beasley. I kept him in a little pen outside Papa’s trailer, and as I fed him, I overheard the plans for that night’s revival. Papa paid people to pretend to be healed. It was fake. He came out, patted my head, and said, 'Happy Birthday, Jupiter.'

***

'It’s only fake to the non-believer, Jupiter. The folks in those seats want to be saved. They want to believe. I give them that, so where’s the harm?' Papa declared when I confronted him. That’s when I stopped believing in God.

***

Seems everyone was on the move in 1969. The roads were full of hitchhiking hippies, lost soldiers, and station wagons. Some of the places where we set up our church were bright and sunny, others cold and wet. We were like the traveling circuses of old in more ways than one. 'The open road is your school,' Papa asserted. 'Jesus is your teacher.' Not my only teacher; there was Iris also.

***

We picked her up outside Dresden, Ohio, on a hot May night. She had some bad experiences in NYC and decided to leave for a new life on the West Coast. Iris was a flower child with hair like rivers of gold and eyes blue like a summer sky. Both of us had our scars.

***

Papa told me once that Mama was a beatnik. She wrote short stories in college and loved the novels of Thomas Wolfe and the poetry of Emily Dickinson. They fell in love at a USO dance. 'You have her eyes and her smile,' Papa said to me. A bad rainstorm and a drunk driver—that’s how Mama died. That was five years ago. I miss her very much. Papa cries and drinks until he passes out. He sold our house, and we left Corpus Christi, TX, shortly after. I grew up in this traveling church.

***

Iris and I bonded right off. I didn’t get much girl talk, so it was fun just being around her. She was twenty and had already seen so much. She had lived with a guy named Asher back in New York who was as mean as a wildcat. He would hit her, call her all sorts of awful names, and so she decided to hit the road in search of the American dream.

***

Iris taught me how to braid my hair and how to meditate. She played the guitar badly and wrote poetry. She was headed for San Francisco to meet a guy named Lawrence Ferlinghetti. She wanted to be published. We shared a joint and danced to the song 'Incense and Peppermints' under a desert sky.

***

He was a year older than me and had a girl's name, Shelby. His parents were divorced, and his father worked security for the Hallelujah Traveling Show. He tagged along with us for the summer because he wanted to see Jack Kerouac’s America; at least that’s what he told me. He looked like a young Mark Wynter, but his manners were the worst. Shelby poked his nose and spat on the floor. Iris said that’s what guys do, but I still thought it was gross. He told me that he really liked my name.

***

I had never run that fast in my whole life. I was out of breath and nearly blind by the time I found Iris setting up some chairs under the tent. 'What’s the matter?' she asked, fanning me with her hands. 'Herbie,' I hollered. 'Shelby wants me to go to town and see The Love Bug with him. What do I do?' To this, Iris only giggled. 'You should go,' she replied. I dropped to the ground and shook my head, 'I’ve never been invited to a movie by a boy before. I haven’t a thing to wear,' I lamented. 'Leave that to me,' she replied.

***

Shelby waited for me by his daddy’s red pickup truck. I approached him, dressed in Iris's curated ensemble of rebellion—a mini skirt and a knotted white button-down that flirted with the boundaries of liberation—Shelby's eyes widened, threatening to roll right out of their sockets. 'Far out,' he mumbled, nodding in approval. We talked all the way to town about men on the moon and atomic death. The movie theater, adorned with a marquee shouting THE LOVE BUG in bold red letters, beckoned us like a portal to escapism. Shelby generously played the part of the gallant suitor, paying for our tickets and popcorn, and led me into the dimly lit sanctuary of the cinema. 'Far out,' he exclaimed when he saw that we were all alone. We sat in the center of the theater. My palms were sweaty, and my pulse was racing. I felt the butterflies fluttering about in my stomach. The lights dimmed, and a silver beam struck the big screen. Music boomed all around us. 'Should we hold hands?' I asked him. 'Why?' he replied, his eyes fixed on the screen. I shrugged. The movie was okay.

***

After the movie, Shelby and I bought some ice cream sodas, the sweet concoctions serving as elixirs for the tales that lingered between us. We meandered to a nearby park and watched the fading sun paint the sky with warm hues that eventually gave way to a purple sky with countless sparkling stars. Shelby unraveled the chapters of his life—his older brother stationed in Vietnam and a mother residing in Denver. He was going to live and go to school in Denver, and on weekends would immerse himself in the rhythmic heartbeat of a horse farm. In turn, I shared the tender ache of the night Mama departed. Shelby marveled at the enigmatic figure of Papa, a charismatic soul who effortlessly drew in the crowds. In a desperate effort to shift the conversation, I asked him about his brother. He said that his brother’s name was Duncan, and last he heard, he was in some place called the Quảng Ngãi province.

Shelby walked me all the way to the trailer door. 'It was fun,' he said, looking down at the ground. I nodded. Shelby looked up at me, bit his lip, and swayed side-to-side. After a second or two of silence, he leaned towards me. I stiffened up, unsure what was happening. Then Papa opened the door and said, 'Why, Shelby, thank you for bringing my Jupiter home safely. Did you kids have fun?' Shelby smiled wide and nodded. 'Well, bye,' he said, shook my hand, and hurried away. I turned to Papa, red-faced and huffed. He threw his hands up and asked, 'What?' The evening curtain fell, leaving behind a tapestry of shared moments and the enigmatic dance of youth.

***

Ely, Nevada. A dusty tent pitched on the rugged soil became the theater for a divine spectacle. As Papa wove tales of Jesus purifying a leper with the power of faith, the air itself seemed to vibrate with anticipation. It was then that she emerged—a woman of weary resolve, each step a testament to the burdens she bore. Her eyes tightly shut, she traversed the aisle, a painful journey showcased in her every movement.

Papa descended the aisle like a shepherd tending to a wounded lamb. He reached out, hands aglow with fervor, and bellowed, 'In the name of Jesus, I command whatever evil spirit that inhibits this poor woman’s body to leave! Sister, get up and walk!' The tent pulsated with silent prayers. The woman, wrestling with invisible forces, initially faltered. Yet, on her second attempt, a miraculous metamorphosis transpired—she leaped to her feet, tears streaming from her opened eyes.

A collective gasp gave way to a cascade of awe, and the tent erupted in a symphony of astonished murmurs. Papa cradled the healed woman in his arms. The congregation swept up in a tide of divine fervor, rose in unison, hands clapping in thunderous applause. Hymns of praise resonated through the air, a chorus honoring the miracles unfolding in their midst. In the wake of this divine encounter, the once-crippled woman, now rejuvenated, ran out into the night, leaving behind a trail of whispered marvels. And that’s how it began.

 

Part Two

Seasons Turn

***

The woman wasn’t part of Papa’s act. 'Who was she then?' Papa demanded, but no one who worked for him knew. Later, she went to the press with her story. She wasn’t acting either. Her spine had been damaged when she fell off a horse a decade before, and everyone who knew her said the same. Her doctor was baffled. It was a miracle.

Our next stop was the small town of Caliente. The lines stretched out across the sunbaked land. 'Look at all of them,' Shelby said, awestruck by the mass of humanity. He took my hand and dashed me backstage to get a better look at Papa. The word was out about his healing powers, and people came from all over America to see for themselves. Some of them sold everything they had to make the trip. They were disease-ridden, mentally scarred, and broken. They waited in line for hours for him to lay hands on them. Papa was so scared.

***

Papa healed them; more came. Papa kept performing his miracles. The number of people who needed healing was never-ending, and neither was the money. The dollars fell like the leaves from the autumn trees. We left Nevada with a trail of pilgrims following behind us. Papa bought a new tent.

***

Papa was front-page news from coast to coast, and the cameras joined the pilgrims. One day, he received a letter from Mr. Dick Cavett inviting him to make an appearance on his show. He accepted, and we were flown to NYC for the taping. While Papa prepared for his studio debut, Iris became my guide through the concrete jungle. The cityscape unfolded before me, a spectacle of towering buildings, the ceaseless hum of urban life, and a symphony of car horns echoing through the canyons of steel and glass. She took me to an anti-war protest, where a man with long hair and purple sunglasses drew a peace sign on my cheek. It was my personal rebellion against the horrors of war. I saw a lot of soldiers, young men who looked old, and I cried.

***

Mr. Cavett was skeptical of Papa and made him angry with some of his questions, especially when he pressed him about the war in Vietnam. Yet, despite the contentious exchanges, Papa's narratives wove a spell of intrigue, leaving an indelible mark on the audience. When we got to the airport, it was packed with people wanting to see Papa. The police moved in to control the situation, and tensions escalated, turning the scene ugly.

***

Papa held me tight as the crowd, in a frenzy, began to lose control and rushed us. Someone took hold of my hair and yanked it, and I screamed. Iris freed me. Some people were trampled over and left pleading on the ground, victims of the chaos. The air was thick with cries for help, and by the sickening scent of violence. Puddles of blood stained the ground, a testament to the brutality unleashed in the pandemonium. I turned to Papa, who was white as a ghost. For our own safety, the police hurriedly escorted us to our plane.

***

When we returned to The Hallelujah Traveling Show, the authorities were investigating Papa's activities. They wanted to see his books, and they didn’t mean Bibles either. Despite Papa's troubles, people seeking help still came. His critics in the papers wrote awful things about him. They said awful things about him on television, too. Their words, like venom, painted him as a charlatan—Micah Orvis is a snake oil salesman, a false prophet, a Wizard of Oz orchestrating illusions. They even blamed him for the people who got seriously hurt back in NYC. Papa became a recluse and drank a lot.

***

Needles, California. Shelby and I lay on a blanket under the stars while the song "Do Wah Diddy Diddy" played from a transistor radio. He listened as I told him all about what happened in New York City. 'Harsh,' was all he said, then turned to me with a casual shift, venturing into a different realm of inquiry. "Ever been kissed before?" he asked. 

“How, I mean like the way the French do it, or --" 

He scrunched his eyebrows and got quiet for a moment. “I guess just regular," he answered, "I don’t know any other way.” I sat up and spit out the gum I was chewing. “Have you ever kissed a girl before?" I asked him. "Oh yeah, sure, plenty of times," he boasted. I got to my feet, kicked dirt in his direction, and stormed off. 'Hey, Jupiter, come back,' Shelby hollered. I kept going.

***

I ignored Shelby for the next week. Every time we passed each other; I could see written all over his face how bad he felt. One night, as I fed Beasley, I heard someone yelling out. I peeked around one of the trailers and saw Shelby beating on a junked car with a lead pipe.

“Shelby, what’s the matter?” I asked as I plodded over to him. His anguished gaze turned towards me, face contorted by rage and eyes welling with tears. Breathless and soaked in sweat, he uttered the devastating truth—his brother, Duncan, was dead. The lead pipe clattered to the ground as he crumbled, his emotions pouring out in waves.

As goosebumps cascaded down my body, I found myself at a loss for words. I sat next to him; an arm extended in silent solidarity. He looked over at me, his eyes reddened by tears, and planted a kiss upon my lips. It was unexpected but nice.

When Shelby withdrew, his red-rimmed eyes locked onto mine, and without a word, he fled into the night, leaving me to grapple with the complexity of emotions that lingered in the ocean of my adolescent confusion.

***

I was atop a ladder, engrossed in the mundane task of changing light bulbs when the quiet moment was suddenly disrupted by the soft approach of Shelby. His somber expression bore the weight of the decision he had come to share — he was leaving.

Climbing down from my perch, I found unexpected tears welling in my eyes. Silently, we stood face to face, emotions zapping the air between us like an electric charge. Shelby extended his hand, a gesture filled with unspoken sentiments. I placed mine in his, the warmth of his touch grounding me in the reality of the moment.

He leaned in, his words a whispered revelation, "That was actually my first kiss, Jupiter, and I won't ever forget it." The weight of his confession hung in the air as he turned away, walking out of the tent. I never saw him again.

***

Indian Wells, California. The air crackled as Papa's fiery sermon echoed through the desert night. However, the evening would take an unexpected turn when a woman, eyes bloodshot and trembling like an earthquake, stormed into the tent, interrupting the spiritual spectacle.

She dropped to her knees, seizing Papa's hand, and begged him to resurrect the son she lost in war. The crowd hushed, and Papa froze like an ice sculpture, his eyes locked onto the woman's desperate face. Security rushed in, but he waved them away, a realization dawning on him that this was no act.

"I can't," he confessed, shaking his head, and closing his eyes. "I'm sorry," he apologized to the grieving mother. The woman, in anger, shouted at him, "He is your God, who performed for you those great and awesome wonders you saw with your own eyes."

The crowd, once in awe, now began to protest.

***

Later, in the quiet aftermath, Papa said, "It's all performance art.” He stared at his trembling hands, a sense of disillusionment settling in. "I'm a false prophet," he admitted. I went over to him and pressed my head to his chest. “How’s Beasley, Jupiter?” he asked. I was so taken aback by the question that it took me a while to reply. “He’s good, Papa,” I answered.

He nodded and cracked a smile. “I sure do miss Mabel,” he lamented. Mabel was Mama’s name. “Me too,” I said. We just held one another and cried.

***

I found Iris sitting on some train tracks on a warm and bright afternoon. It was evident that she had been crying. She told me that the last few months had been a rollercoaster ride, but after what had happened the night before, she knew the time had come for her to jump off.

“You can’t leave,” I blurted out, my lip quivering. “You’re my best friend.”

She stood up, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and stared into the distance. “I’m sorry, but I have to. I promise I’ll write you. Jupiter, I’m really gonna miss you, my sister,” she sobbed.

I turned my back on her and shouted for her to go away. I listened to her footsteps on the gravel until there was only the wind blowing.

***

Papa drank himself into a stupor, and the last of his devoted followers scattered into the depths of Indian Wells. I stood beneath a star-studded sky; the celestial tapestry stretched out above—a silent witness to the unraveling of the events that had transpired over the past few months. A chilling wind blew, a subtle reminder that the summer's warmth was giving way to the approaching embrace of fall.

The star’s radiant glow provided a backdrop to my thoughts as I grappled with the mysteries that lingered in the shadows. A shooting star streaked across the sky, a transient blaze of light trailing behind it. I watched its descent, pondering its significance. In the solitude of the desert night, questions lingered—unresolved and haunting.

The woman whom Papa made walk, the miraculous healings that followed – what force or entity had orchestrated these events? Would Iris reappear in my life, or was her departure a permanent farewell? Why had Mama gone away? And what awaited Papa and me in the uncertain days ahead? Was it all just performance art?

My face flushed with frustration, and I clenched my hands into fists, unleashing a guttural cry into the quiet night, “Why?"

The man on the moon stared down at me. The echoes of my plea dissipated into the vast emptiness, leaving me alone with my tears.

***

I was zapped of strength and collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. Blurred vision clouded my surroundings, and the night seemed to swirl in disarray. With my face pressed to the ground, I heard a distorted scream pierce the air—faint but haunting. A sudden burst of brightness assaulted my senses, revealing two silhouettes entangled in a mystic dance against the beams of glaring light.

Jimi Hendrix's "All Along the Watchtower" blasted throughout the desert—a song Iris often played. As my vision returned, I saw that the silhouettes were not engaged in a dance but locked in a fierce struggle. The source of the radiant light became evident—the headlights of a car illuminating the desert darkness.

In the midst of the chaos, Iris dropped before me, her beautiful face etched with fear. A menacing figure seized her by the hair, a threat hanging in the air like a storm on the horizon. The man, unshaven and consumed by the stench of alcohol, spoke with a growl, 'I’ll put a bullet into the pretty little head of that girl if you don’t take me to the money.' A cigarette dangled casually from the corner of his mouth as he pointed his gun menacingly in my direction.

Iris, defiant and fearless, shouted, and struck the man. Undeterred, he jabbed the gun beneath her chin, issuing a chilling threat, 'You're one shot away from meeting Jesus in person.'

***

'Who is he?' I questioned Iris; my hands raised in surrender. Iris whispered, 'Remember I told you about an ex-boyfriend I had back in New York named Asher?' With a shove and a growl, Asher ordered us to shut up. He forced me to knock on Papa's door. Silence greeted my desperate calls, and in frustration, I began beating on the door. Growing impatient, Asher pushed me aside, sending me face down into the sand. Iris rushed to my side.

Asher kicked the door off its hinges and rushed into the trailer. He re-emerged with a black lockbox taken from Papa's desk and placed it on the desert sand. He fired a single shot at the lockbox. The deafening sound coursed through my body. Money fluttered in the cold wind as Asher, dropping to his knees, laughed maniacally, stuffing the ill-gotten gains into a sack.

'Time for me to go, ladies,' he said, getting to his feet and pointed his gun at us. Just then, Papa lunged at him from the darkness, initiating a fierce struggle for control of the weapon. The desert floor became an arena for their chaotic ballet of strength and desperation. Papa emerged victorious, wresting the gun from Asher's grasp. Iris ran to get help, and I leaped into Papa’s arms. The police took Asher away.

 

Part Three

The Life Fandango

***

The summer of '69 ended with a bang. Iris left for San Francisco. She told me she was now part of something called Women’s Lib. Mr. Ferlinghetti published a book of her poetry, and she sent me an autographed copy. Iris wrote me a lot of letters, and she always ended them with, 'A time for peace, I swear it's not too late. Love Always, Iris.'

***

We stopped for a bite to eat at a small diner outside of Roswell, New Mexico. I had the best burger I’d ever had there. As we stepped out into the vastness of the New Mexican landscape, a woman approached us, seized Papa's hand, and pressed her lips to it—an expression of profound thanks. It was the very woman whose life he had restored, the one who had miraculously walked again.

Before the weight of the moment fully settled, she vanished into the expanse around us, leaving us standing there, awestruck, surrounded by the big rigs and the tumbleweeds. We were done with the Hallelujah Traveling Show and went back home.

***

The twinkling Christmas lights lit up the cold Corpus Christi nights. Our lives had found a new rhythm—a melody composed of everyday moments and the echoes of extraordinary events. We took Mama some fresh flowers. Papa was happy in his new role as an appliance store manager, selling washers and dryers. In the warmth of his smile, there was a sense of acceptance, a belief, perhaps, that everything unfolded according to a divine plan.

I went back to a regular school and even managed to make friends. We got a house by the beach, and I go to sleep to the sounds of the ocean waves. There are nights, however, when I can’t sleep. Images flood my mind—the crippled woman, the puddles of blood, and the barrel of a gun pointed at my head. Those memories mingle with moments of pure magic—Iris, Incense and Peppermints, Shelby, and the sweet taste of a first kiss. Miracles, both chilling and enchanting, stitched into the fabric of my existence.

Smarter folks than I have pondered the meaning of life, each coming up with their own interpretations based on their personal experiences, and I guess that’s what it’s all about—our own life experiences and how they shape us. God only knows.

The End.

​

why me

 

he was my passenger

that was the first time I had met the man

his name was Alejandro Garcia he told me

he had worked for all of his life he told me

I sensed anger and regret in his tone

“my life had been spent in the grind.” he told

me

“I picked cotton under the brutal Texas sun

when I was only seven.” he told me

“My dear dumb father put me there.” he told me

“That was the first day of the end of my

life.” he told me

the light changed from a spring green to a

fiery red, we stopped moving

i faced the night ahead of me, only the

darkness beyond my windshield

on the radio Chopin played

mr. Garcia went on speaking, louder 

“My dear dumb father sentenced me to a life of

hard labor.” he told me

“I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to write

beautiful stories.” he told me

“Instead, I went from the fields into the

factories and worked some more.” he told me

“From the factories to the suburbs. I married,

had kids, house payments, car notes, and

insurance policies.” he told me

the light changed and we continued down the

road

fog rolled in off the Gulf of Mexico

we were enveloped in it

the world disappeared

i felt that we were no longer driving along 

on hard pavement, but that we soared across  

the heavens

mr. Garcia didn’t take notice of the world

beyond the windshield

he continued to lament

he cried, he laughed, he yelled, and then

went quiet

we were caught in the snares of another red

light

 “I wanted to be a writer.” he told me

“My wife never supported that dream. She

wanted security. She wanted the suburbs.”  

he told me

“The kids got older, so did I. They moved  

on, so did the world.” he told me

“After 40 years of work, I was put out.” he

told me

“At last I had the time to write. I had  

 earned it.” he told me

“And then it happened. Just as I sat down  

and typed two words my heart stopped.” he  

he told me

“I fell to the floor. All I could see was 

the ceiling fan spinning around and  

around” he told me

THEN DARKNESS

i pulled into the cemetery grounds and down

the winding path towards the funeral home

i reversed the hearse towards the garage  

door

i set the car in park and sat there

outside the wind blew bitterly

the fog was being blown away and things  

were becoming clear

“Don’t let the same thing happen to you my

boy.” he told me

“Time blows past like the winds, and before

you know it’s into the cooler for you.” he

told me

i nodded and got out of the hearse

opened the backdoor, pulled mr. Garcia out

i logged him in and then rolled him into the

cooler.

“What were the two words you wrote?”, i asked

him

“Why me?” he told me

i shut the door on him

i parked the hearse and walked back to my car,

got in and drove home

the world beyond my windshield was still dark,

but it didn’t bother me

i made it back to my apartment

i surfed Youtube videos for an hour

then i set my phone down and went to my

computer

opened up my Word document and typed two words

i waited for my heart to stop

nothing happened

i wrote some more

i wrote a poem

i dedicated to the man i had met that night

i called the poem WHY ME

​

the stripper

 

she made me feel special

she made me believe that I was the only one

she did her job well

she was a pro

 

my life was in a downward spiral

my job was taking me nowhere but to the grave

my apartment was infested with rats, and they were starving

my car died on the side of the expressway, it’s still there

 

i looked out my window, searching

i drank lots of beer

i ate sardines, the rats were envious

i left that apartment and walked down the street

 

night had fallen

i found a patch of neon light in the dark

one light was in the shape of a woman

a man in a cowboy hat asked me, “You looking for love young fellow”

“Ain’t we all,” I answered

“In here we have all the love a fellow can handle,” he said

 

he sold me, so I walked in

it was a dark place with nothing but lonely men

judging by their looks it was no wonder they were lonely

the working girls were probably sickened by us, but they put on a good act

i sat in the corner by the end of the stage

 

she came out from behind the curtain like a dream

her hair was long and flowed like a golden stream on a summer day

her eyes were like stars in a distant galaxy

she moved with such grace

it was La Bayadere or Swan Lake with a strip pole

the world around me vanished

 

she was pure magic

her eyes fell upon me

we connected like the earth and moon

our souls left our bodies and danced together all the way up to heaven

she was meant for me

 

she was the snake charmer, and I was under her spell

what did crappy jobs, bills, and shoes with hole in them mean to me now

what was politics, nuclear war, poverty, and bad breath anyhow

at that moment there was no past and no future, just her and I

 

she blew me a kiss

which pierced my heart 

she winked at me and flashed the most beautiful smile in all of creation 

then she skipped back behind the curtain

 

the fairytale was over

i didn’t want to see anymore, I got up and walked out

the traffic jams, aches and pains, and the rats waited for me

i walked the cold dark night for hours

 

i came up to a bridge and looked down

below the traffic zoomed past in an explosion of color like a Chinese New Year

i thought of ending it all

this world with its rats, was not my size anymore

 

just as I had climbed over, she popped into my mind

her magic still worked me

her beauty 

the kindness shown to a down and out loser, her gift

​

i decided to live

that beautiful stripper had saved my life

she made a nobody feel like a somebody

she made me feel special.