Next Stop: Orient on The Murder Express
How an Empire mourned –
August 2014, together,
Lauren Bacall and Robin Williams
evacuated Hollywood, took red eye
to Tombstone, pivoted east for Singapore.
The Murder Express climbed Carpathians,
5,000 year old Jews headed for Rhineland,
Lauren combed blond hair, Robin beat breast
with Johnny Walker Red for what happened
inside Gaza Strip bottle.
a funny Persian (in coach) drank martinis.
Sloshed, every time The Murder Express
whistle blew, he hollered, “Good Morning Vietnam!”
the locomotive entered Hindu Kush tunnel.
Afraid of darkness, and in need of assurance
that all Taliban poets are dead,
Lauren snuggled-up to Robin who slept
straight through the Persian's 300 crazy cries.
Out of tunnel,
soft hail fell upon Lhasa monks, Robin stirred –
it was the first sign of Iraq Spring.
Into Murder Express compartment,
newly hired attendant, widow Jiang Qing,
brought forth breakfast to passengers: Espresso,
kosher India cow butts, Mongol eggs,
and Thai rice porridge known as Joke.
Awake, Robin feigned no appetite for Joke;
he tightened belt until spirit belly hurt,
exclaimed, “Don't you have any Fukushima tuna?”
And Lauren Bacall laughed forever and ever...,
while back home in USrael, 1.
police kicked-ass in compromised Missouri,
a nuclear sub christened U.S.S. Doubtfire,
and Chuck Hagel told Marines,
“World is exploding all over the place!”
Suddenly, Murder Express whistle, the conductor
announcement, “Next stop, Asia-Pacific Theater.”
Oscar afterlife moved 100 mph on Ted Turner silver rail.
Lauren, young again, 1947 Dark Passage behind her,
she determined to become Tokyo Rose, Ho's Mata Hari;
throngs of Asian beggars jostle for her autograph.
Uneasy, Robin mimicked Bogey in Casablanca, said,
“Man, when Secretary Hagel say's it's urgent, it's urgent,”
and The Murder Express pivoted to South China Sea –
Adrift on wild gray water,
a failed Vietnamese T.P.P. merchant waved at audience,
hollered, “Good Morning D.C.!”
No Fathers and No Sons in the Compromised Land
[/dc]K[/dc]ing David had bad relationship with
deceased father, Judge Samuel Ruby.
He filched lots of money from family coffer,
always ashamed the old judge dressed like
Harpo Marx; on occasion,
Judge Samuel cheated on third wife, Abigail.
Yesterday, karma come to be,
King David and oldest son Midas argued.
Strung-out, Midas called father an “asshole,”
mocked the King's meager accomplishments –
“You're just a lowly Weekend Warrior
and lifer garbage truck driver, Dad,” testified Midas.
To getaway from himself, past and present,
King David took his only grandson
of heroin addicted parents, Ethan,
for afternoon swim at McDade County Park.
Two and one half years old, in broken Hebrew,
Ethan amusingly called David “Uncle Did Did.”
The child had no idea why people shiver
when getting out of warm pool water
for a few minutes.
No one around to get beach towel for Ethan,
wrap-around shoulders like a Dauphin robe,
King David volunteered the Lifeguard for such role.
Uncle Did Did stayed in water up to nipples.
Wary of accidents, distorted people, gang symbols,
he kept close eye on Ethan.
Soon a three year old boy, Rodrigo,
began to play with two toy cars at poolside.
Somehow, “miraculously,” Did Did marveled,
the cars managed to float upon water,
they flew in air, and the white '57 Chevy had
a wrapped gift, including red bow, on back seat...
a Christmas tree staged upon front buckle seat.
Rodrigo could hardly speak Queen's English,
and David intuited the child knew not Dominican Jesus.
Despite blazing sun, temptation heat,
Rodrigo considered pool water too “frio,”
foreboding, he steadfastly refused to enter pool.
Uncle Did Did smiled impishly, held nose,
submerged, returned to surface, shook curly gray mop.
Reached hands to Rodrigo, assured “agua es caliente,”
but Rodrigo refused the King's offer to hold him,
would not dip little toes in water.
Turning away from David's attention,
dark eyed Rodrigo proudly showed Ethan
the white car's beckoning backseat gift.
Very curiously, the toy car had no driver
until arrival in Ethan's shivering grasp,
soon traveled miles across poolside concrete –
There are fathers and sons everywhere
behind American wheels, presumably going afar,
Worlds End State Park, Atlantic City, Sochi.
Soon, Rodrigo's Aunt Genesis appeared pool side.
Genesis sat beside Ethan and Rodrigo at play.
Tall, brown, shapely, painted toe nails,
she wore a tiny pink PAZ bikini.
But for pock-marked face, armpit hair, stub nose,
Aunt Genesis could be Miss Latin Subway Universe.
Tentative to her morals and David's lack thereof,
in an instant, Genesis could become David's “squeeze,”
her keeper, he would pay DISH cable T.V. bills.
Genesis explained how Rodrigo's parents stayed
home in Dominican Republic, worked resort hotels;
they thought Rodrigo had better chance
for la buena vida in West Scranton, PA.
Limited vocabularies, but able to relate to one another,
Ethan and Rodrigo playfully competed for joys
of pushing around the toy car, the one loaded with
a gift and Christmas tree.
A billowy cloud moved past Sun,
Aunt Genesis smiled, adjusted dark sun glasses,
nervously, she lifted bare feet up and down.
Uncle Did Did accepted situation favorable as is.
Genesis wished she had two toy cars equipped
with “extras” for the boys,
and David wanted to take her away
in convertible Barracuda, uncover healthy boobs,
let the wind drive them away into Mopar passion,
“forbidden fruit” pursuit at 65 mph,
yield to random INSTINCT.
Recommended for You
Ethan and Rodrigo correctly sensed
they're no longer center of King David's universe.
The boys began to toss toy cars into pool bottom,
and Uncle Did Did must go under, retrieve.
Every time he descended, eyes hurt from chlorine,
and David noted gradual loss of Genesis's favor.
He ordered boys to “stop tossing cars into pool,
deep water 'gonna ruin motors, and current will
suck cars away forever!”
That's how much the King wanted Aunt Genesis
for himself..., he frowned when she took Rodrigo away,
prepared return to friend's Washburn Street apartment.
There was no way the angry King could keep Ethan
as his own, he stared at Genesis's side-to-side
rump wiggle as she departed McDade Park pool.
A little too grim, self-effacing, frustrated will,
David bit lip, recalled he was a real bastard
at times in Judge Samuel's eyes,
and an “asshole” failure according to son Midas,
the heroin addicted father of Ethan.
Later, King David returned to Mount Zion Estates,
passed through development's upscale security gate.
In good temper, he placed Ethan into son Midas's
loving tracked-marked arms.
“He was a very good boy today, friendly to Philistines,
attentive to Lifeguard,” he said smiling.
There was too much world in David's Ark of Covenant.
Next day, King David rose for work, played lyre,
made sure Stolichnaya bottle hidden from wife Bathsheba.
he performed Waste Management truck “pre-trip,”
looked for oil leak signs, worn tire treads.
David released air brake, drove house-to-house
in search of Aunt Genesis and household garbage cans.
Disappointingly, a trash bag leaked upon sidewalk,
smelly water and a dirty toy NASCAR fell upon ground.
The tiny car had no wrapped gift in backseat –
An old lady, dressed in nightgown and babushka,
stood nearby, watched David's sacred life devolve.
King David held nose, re-tied broken bag,
tossed household garbage into truck compactor.
Wiped brow, David removed slingshot from pant pocket,
placed the discarded NASCAR toy
in firm rubber-band grip, took careful aim,
launched far as possible into a Money Changer's backyard,
landed nearby abandoned swing set and slide.
A good King at heart, 2nd Amendment zealot,
David thought he'd put hooded Trayvon Goliath on edge,
and hoped a tot-without-toys might find the NASCAR,
get sense a father of nations is around... somewhere.
Union Street, Taylor, has two lanes,
one uphill west, one downhill east.
10-year-old Ethan Auliso rode bicycle east,
front tire low on air, struck nasty pothole,
and Ethan fell upon asphalt.
Five years ago, Ethan's Mommy warned,
“be careful, little people do not live forever,”
and Ethan stared at scraped elbows,
bloody knees and he thought Mommy's
probably right... “life had to come to this.”
Walking downhill east,
Bob Lintwood appeared above Ethan.
Concerned, First Aid Certified,
a town gentleman,
Bob helped Ethan stand,
warned him, “don't place pressure on knees!”
Ethan braced self upon Bob's shoulders,
and they limped to Bob' nearby garage
located north, away from traffic and homes.
Inside garage, Bob instructed Ethan
to sit upon an old mahogany bar stool.
Bob placed finger upon bloody knee,
lowered jeans to knees, grimaced,
told Ethan, “Please suck me off!”
Flushed, Ethan's whole body
quivered with fear.
Bob's dick, only inches from face,
Ethan spat at aroused flesh,
ran across dirt garage floor, hid,
noticed double barrel hotgun upon wall,
and Bob followed his bloody trail.
“Come out, come out,
I didn't mean nothing by that, kid!”
Low to dirt ground,
Ethan thought, “What did he mean?”
Union Street moved mean, up and down,
24/7, east-west, all the time.
Do roads go on forever, or do they die too?
Ethan grew up, arrested at fourteen,
charged with animal abuse –
he hung Bob's alley-cat from telephone wire.
In-and-out of County Juvenile Detention,
at twenty, Ethan enlisted, felt confident...
he wanted to protect innocents from terror.
On patrol, a shaky old man on bicycle
pedaled rapidly, he tried to get away.
Ethan raised rifle, aimed as taught in Basic,
accidentally shot two terrified infants
who lay inside a Kandahar mud hut.
Horrified, he touched lifeless little bodies
who only moments ago,
wanted to suck-off mother's milk.
Ethan quivered, thought,
“beautiful life does come to suck ends.”
Charles Orloski lives in Taylor, Pennsylvania. He can be reached at email@example.com