Friday, January 28, 2011

Hot Shot

By Harry B. Sanderford
 
 
A small ruby brooch dots her tailored lapel. She clutches at her breast and then holds her hand out as if feeling for rain. She staggers a step, unable to comprehend the sudden rose blooming in her palm. There is just no time for this, she worries. Begging apologies into her headset, she excuses herself, so hoping to reschedule. He lets out his breath as she crumples on the curb.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Live Dangerously

by Harry B. Sanderford
 


Holding a popsicle to the testicle I injured on my bicycle,
Nurse Brandi says it's possible I also broke my clavicle.
I boast I nearly made it, but I think she's unimpressed.
Dare-devil and imbecile's the same to her I guess.
I launched even higher than I really thought I would
and once I cleared the fence things were lookin' mighty good.
I sailed across the drainage ditch
and touched down awful pretty,
but when my back wheel got the wobbles,
I chaired the tumbleweed committee.
My thumb got pretty twisted,
I skinned my knees and tore my pants.
Nurse Brandi's got me on the mend,
but I fear I'll soon have ants.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Clara Belle

Harry B. Sanderford

All big as an order about his jungle book wants now is to go to Bob and tiger-snag a readable injury while the podiums at McCormick do a bond of snooty arrival on six pass to Baghdad. Holding jobs that would appear to audit rock's Buddy Gillette, BB Gun and Robbie are part of a parolee babbage under-smoother that crocks back to Wolfgang Bader and his call to bigger endpoint the master clock. Records like speed of backer, java snapper routes, and the crew clock about jobs, have all yielded big dogs that route directly to 42 nuclear bobby sox, not to Detroit. Logs tickled and bought cheap with mapper Ralphs and only given to concoct bowl records, further kick-rock and jack-smack the back-cracked. All big as it were about his jungle book, Tigard Snyder hands off copy locker regards for 6 pound aquatic data bonds in mature rubble. Raw data ringer-bangers are currently revamping respirators in an effort to clarify results.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Sweet Chili Philly


A 1-2 punch by ~ Absolutely*Kate and Harry B. Sanderford

At 52, Sweet Chili Philly’s punchier days were behind him. But on a Saturday night, for a twenty dollar bill or a careless remark, he’d still dot your eye. Came one Saturday night, in rained a cold October bluster and just that kind of careless remark reconnoitered Philly’s muster.  Yes, it was autumn in New York for Philly when this uptown dandy in a brown plaid wool sport coat with a Norfolk style back, three patch pockets in the front -- one showing a hand clenching more than just plaid pocket lint -- barged into Sweet Chili Philly’s streetcorner. I saw the whole thing. That particular streetcorner held no desire.
“Hey Sport, got the time?” Otis Floyd was working wallets and watches when he spotted a beaut cutting off circulation to the ham dangling from the big lug’s sleeve. Probably a ten dollar Times Square Rolex but what really caught his shifty eye was the diamond studded doorknob glinting from this manatee of a man’s mammoth middle finger.  The stranger’s size did not intimidate Otis. A small man himself, he was armed and dangerous. He took a little too much pride in his appearance and still greater pleasure in besting a bigger man. He had no idea how poorly he’d chosen his mark or his words this time.
At 32, Sweet Chili Philly was riding the world higher than most ever gain a vantage point.  Punchy successes followed round after round, match after match, in each contested bout on his way to the top. There was never any doubt that what Chili sought was what Philly got. The shining gem on his middle finger bore testimony to his ability to pulverize palookas with his sweet left hook.  He earned his sparkly prize along with the WBF heavyweight title in lucky Round 13, if you know what I mean, against a mean crowd from Queens hooting and hollering for their very own local hunk of meat, two-time world champ Rodney Rocky-Jaw Brawlter.  Rocky Jaw presumably collected his moniker through his ability to take a punch, but after Sweet Chili’s methodical disassembly and ultimate knock-out blow, there was consensus among wagerers that it was his feet and not his chin made of granite.
Hard to know you’ve peaked until you’ve begun your descent.  Sweet Chili Philly was on top of the world for approximately 72 hours before he started seeing phantoms.  After another 72 hours of neurological examinations a team of specialists disagreed on diagnosis and treatment but were unanimous in their decision that the symptoms were the result of one too many blows to the head. With that Sweet Chili Philly’s career as a professional boxer was over.
Phantoms may not accurately describe what Sweet Chili saw. What he saw wasn’t so unusual really. It was always a boy, the same boy.  Sometimes he was riding his bike, other times maybe he’d be casting a fishing line.  When he saw these phantoms they were as real and vivid as the crimson puddles he’d left on the canvas of the squared circle. What was a little unusual was he always saw them through the eyes of the boy’s faithful companion, Sport.
"Here Sport! Heeeeey Sport!" What dog day afternoons were Sweet Chili's run-run-runarounds in the sweet spot his brain refrained with this boy, a place akin to a Mayberry state of mind. The boy he saw as true, regularly let loose with a piercing yet jaunty whistle to come home to, a playful sound that conjured the first rambunctious peace to which his pugilistic life had ever let down his guard. A ferocious loyalty to protect something more than a right cross or uppercut jabbed at his own glistening flesh in the ring, was resonating into all his realities recently.
I swallowed these truths to be self-evident as easy as the Chianti sloshed into my chipped goblet at Louie De Palma's Mangiamo in the Bowery, the night Sweet Chili held my hand across a checkered tablecloth. He held his breath too, wanting me to know and believe all the sides a tough guy was offering so sweetly to let him honestly into my life. Takes a strong man to offer himself up. I sipped. I listened. I considered. The waiter served another slice of pepperoni and mushrooms with extra cheese. Sweet Chili served more slices of life, straight up. That's the night I fell and fell hard for the big tough lug. When he clumsily leaned over the tortellini con farcia di vitello for our first smack at a smooch. I knew I was down for the count. I agreed to meet him on the weekend for a tentative trip to Atlantic City. The gamble was how his Ma would take to another woman in his life. I remember - he joked, said I'd have a fighting chance.
Sweet Chili Philly read the suggestion poking from the little squirt’s plaid pocket but did not look at his watch, “It’s time you move along partner, I’m meeting someone.” He saw the boy again and this time the boy was not alone. Otis Floyd decided showing the gun might improve its impact, “Listen Sport, just gimmee the ring.” The boy led the beautiful woman by the hand, they walked the path now familiar to Sweet Chili Philly. He realized he loved the boy and more, that he loved the woman. Otis pointed the gun and cocked the trigger, “The ring Damn it!”.
His fighting days behind him, his loving days before him, one more fight, the fight of his life, for his life, flashed before his eyes as the boy’s whistle, the woman’s scream, careened in a single blazing moment of crimson rage rising again. His right leg came forward when the first two knuckles struck the side of Otis Floyd’s runty head. It appeared Sweet Chili dazed and weakened both the propensity for the little man’s clean shot as well as his desire for heavy flashy jewelry, but it didn’t stop there.
I was screaming, screaming from the streetcorner, pointing the young traffic policeman towards the scene of the crime in progress. In slow motion, I saw a fast flash of the full momentum of the man I now was sure I loved, pivot back, rotating anger and focus on his now blubbering target. His arm swung out like a fishing pole in a wide arc, the sheer speed of his turn and this turn of events drove his fist into this sap’s head. Temple, jaw, nose and ear were not in the same configurations when the cop made the scene. His piercing but jaunty whistle emitted complete admiration, “Saaaay, wasn’t that the Spinning Backfist? Ain’t you Sweet Chili Philly? Man oh man, my old man took me to Queens the night you K-O’d Rocky Jaw Brawlter. This guy here was armed and dangerous, I’m hauling him in. Uh, can I have your autograph, sir?”


When Absolutely*Kate is not proffering her prime-time pigskin prophecies her buttered fingers can be found in many pies. Not the least of which, her role as the prime minister of popcorn At The Bijou, where she'll be looking for your Flash submissions for the second annual Fab Feb FilmFest:
 http://at-the-bijou.blogspot.com/