Tag Archives: gregswim

Excerpt from Soco Chico – a novel by Greg Swimelar

When Ali had a serious decision to make, he usually went to the alcove where he spent most nights.  He had only been kicked out of the alcove two or three times in the last couple of years.  For him, it was a safe, secure, and personal place – the closest thing he knew to what a home might be.    

 When he was about to leave Taieb’s shop, Taieb stopped him and said, “Wait a minute – you can’t go out like that – people are looking for you!”

 “Yes, but I know some short cuts,” said Ali.

 With that, Ali took off like a jackrabbit, heading up one of the narrow alleys and down another, keeping his eyes open for anyone who might do him harm.  When he got to the lane that led to the Gran Teatro Cervantes – there were many people, so he hid behind a fat lady who was selling melons, until he felt it was safe – then he ran as fast as he could to a point across the way from the alcove to make sure no one was following him – then made a mad dash for the alcove. 

After he caught his breath, he checked to see if anyone had disrupted the few items he cherished.  His most valuable possession was an empty Michael Jackson CD case with Michael Jackson’s picture on the front.  He held the CD case in his hand for a long time – just admiring the photo, and then he sat down on a piece of cardboard and started to think about his big decision.  

 He realized if he helped Bahia, everyone in Tangier would hear about it and he would be a public disgrace – going against God like that.  He’d have to walk down the street feeling shameful – and he’d never have a chance to become a shoeshine boy, or a bartender, or play football for the national team.  All of this was weighing on his conscience.  He was feeling depressed, which was unusual for him.  He had been able to keep his spirits up even when he didn’t even have a centime in his pocket – and when he lost his sandals and had to go barefoot for two weeks.

 Then he told himself that it wasn’t really his fault about going against God because he never had anybody to bring him up right and teach him about religious things, and never had the chance to go to a Koranic school and learn about God’s rules.

 Then he realized that he was just making an excuse because he had heard men talk about these things in front of the mosque, or when he was begging in sidewalk cafes, or late at night asking for handouts in bars.  He often heard men talking about the finer points of Islam and what ladies were supposed to do and not do.  He figured that he knew enough of the rules that would qualify him for hell’s fire if he didn’t make the right decision.

 He was so scared he started to sweat, so he got down on his knees and touched his forehead to the ground as he had seen men do when they pray.  He started to ask God to give him the courage to go back to Hakim and help him find Bahia and the others – but the words wouldn’t come out.  He wanted to tell God that he was going to do the right thing – but deep inside he didn’t think he could do it.  He felt stuck between two walls and the sides were closing in on him.

 Finally, he made a decision to write a note to Hakim to let him know that he would help him separate Bahia from Jack.  Although he didn’t know how to write, he figured he could find a scribe that would write it for him.  He felt good about this decision because it meant he would not have to go to hell – and he was relieved.  He shivered when he thought about how close he had come to going to hell.  Finally at peace, he fell asleep in the alcove.

He had a dream.  He was with Bahia and Jack.  Bahia was hugging him and Jack was teaching him how to wrestle.  They went together to visit Si Taieb’s family and he got his hands washed, and then they ate couscous, and he took a nice bath every day, and knew how to wash his hair.  When he woke up he was disappointed that it was just a dream. He thought about the football uniform and the football shoes – but what he really wanted was a warm family that cared for him.  He knew that Hakim and Mustapha would never care for him and Hakim was probably lying about the football uniform.  His heart was with Jack and Bahia, Troy, and Taieb’s family.  He decided that if Jack and Bahia were going to hell – he would go with them, and since he was going to do such a bad thing, there was nothing more to lose — so he decided to become an outlaw and join up with Jack, Bahia, and Troy – if he could only find them. 

Conflict or Maturity

 

My ego is looking for your form,

 

While I struggle to see your essence.

 

She Ain’t Coming

 

You can wait there as long as you want

But she ain’t coming.

You can pace back and forth.

But she ain’t coming.

You can look at your watch a million times,

But she ain’t coming.

You can try to reach her by phone,

But she won’t answer.

You can send a hundred text messages,

But your phone ain’t gonna chime.

Morocco: My Peace Corps Experience

My 1st month In Morocco I was in a car accident.  We flew over a cliff and landed in a tree.  My two companions were hospitalized.  I was lucky.

 The 2nd month I was in a train accident.  We hit a dump truck that was stalled at a crossing.  Three people were killed.  Everyone on the train was lucky.  The train did not leave the rails.

The 3rd month I wrestled in a professional match at the Teatro de Cervantes in Tangier against The Hope of Tangier.   It was fixed, except when my opponent thought I hit him too hard.  Then it was real.  I won.  I was lucky.

The 4th month I received an order to report for induction into to the US Army. The notice said it was the greatest fighting force in the world and I would join 3 million others.  My induction was postponed so I could complete my two year Peace Corps commitment.  I was lucky.

The 5th month I met fellow teachers Abdu and Jaowad — whom I called Abby Hoffman and Jerry Rubin.  They got me into all kinds of trouble but luckily I was never detained by any security agencies.

The 6th month the students at Abdu’s, Jaowad’s, and my school went on strike and we had to hang out in the teacher’s lounge and drink mint tea.  It was a nice break.

The 7th month our students called off their strike because they were tired of being beaten by the police, so we had to go back to work.  It was good to see the kids again.

The 8th month the flag ship of the 6th Fleet pulled into Casablanca and I gave 170 sailors a guided tour of Casablanca.  I was authorized eight Moroccan military trucks with drivers.  The sailors were happy.

The 9th month I fell into a forbidden relationship with a Moroccan girl who convinced me to caste our fate to the wind and thumb our noses at the authorities.  We were in love.

The 10th month the Moroccan Army attacked the King’s birthday celebration even before he had a chance to blow out the candles.

The 11th month my Moroccan girlfriend and I were stopped at the border and had to sneak into a hotel, concealing our differing religious backgrounds.  We were allowed to stay as long as we agreed to quietly leave the hotel before sunrise.

The 12th month the secret police at my neighborhood cafe accused me of being a spy.  I told them that “at least we are in the same business.”  They said, “Yeah, but we are in our own country.”

The 13th month my girl friend and I crossed the strait and got married in Gibraltar.

The 14th month the Peace Corps transferred me from Casablanca to a small city where my wife had to pretend she was from the Caribbean — and refrain from speaking Arabic.

The 15th month I went to Fes to visit my in-laws and to meet my mother-in-law for the first time.

The 16th month I bought a 1952 BMW police motorcycle — and my wife and I cruised the coast.

The 17th month we went to Tangier and sipped wine on John Brugger’s roof as my wife sipped on Oranjina.  We also visited the man with the red fez who ran the Mobil Station.

The 18th month I went to Marrakesh to give the baccalaureate exam to students and to see the snake charmers at the Square of the Dead.

The 19th month we got sunburned on the beach at Mohammedia and had to scrap tar from our toes.

The 20th month we danced half the night at one of Driss Alaoui’s famous parties.

The 21st month I helped the Moroccan National Wrestling Coach teach children from a shanty town how to wrestle.

The 22nd month my wife got pregnant and we took many walks in the park and ate wild cherries.

The 23rd month my wife and I decided to call our baby Safia if a girl, and Michael if a boy.

The 24th month Jaowad took us to the airport so that my wife could get through immigration to leave the country.  He served as her “older brother.” We flew to Paris and spent four nights at the Paris Hilton overlooking the Eiffel Tower before flying to New York.

My Life — Don’t You Wish

My childhood was a kaleidoscope of paralegal experiences.

My father was a modern slave

Posing as a drum-playin’ factory workin’ chicken farmer

From a part of Pennsylvania that just recently got electricity.

He was partial to low grade blow-ups

And had a penchant for hunting two-legged dear,

As well as the conventional four-legged versions.

My mother was an eighteen year old English hair-stylist named Bernice

Who was addicted to Sealtest ice cream and veal scaloppini.

My father would chase pigs around the neighborhood,

Drink Rock N’ Rye whiskey,

And claim that he had been a champion pole-vaulter.

We’d beg him to take us to the Brown Derby

For a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone

And he would say, “Let’s not and say we did.”

We’d tell him that he wasn’t as smart as he thought

Because he wasn’t rich —

And he would just put on a Ralph Kramden smile

and say, “Don’t you wish.”

I spent summers pretending to read comic books

On the neighbor’s front porch,

Begging for spare change from used furniture buyers,

And picking strawberries.

I had a secret place under the porch

Where I learned to meditate and plan my life.

I ran away when I was seven —

Was detained by the railroad police

While loitering around the switchyard,

Then sent to bed with no dinner.

At the age of eight I smoked my first cigarette,

At eleven my first cigar,

Kissed my first lover at twelve,

And stole home at thirteen.

I was able to escape from America when I was eighteen

By impersonating a sub shop owner,

And became a world citizen

After breaking every taboo described in The Book of the Dead.

I learned to trade by losing my shirt 42 times

And by doing marketing work for GeeMeeBeeMee Enterprises.

Eventually I became a trading consultant

After racking up over 5 million Mauritian rupees in unrealized gains.

The Midnight Train

Sometimes we have to take that midnight train

Back to Georgia, Phoenix, or 187th and Webster Ave.

It didn’t work out.

What we thought was going to happen didn’t.

The freeways weren’t free.

The jokers went wild more than once.

Back to basics, again.

Look for another path.

Play it in a different way.

Get with your lover.

She’ll make it better.

You’ll be home free.

The Bag Lady

The Bag Lady

She liked her teachers

Even though they didn’t make sense.

She liked being around others

Even though they didn’t like

Being around her.

She liked to stroll around the city.

So when she arrived at nothingness,

She did what was natural:

Walked alone, walked along,

Picking up things that others might want.

Being outside — out there

Where it all was.

Where it was all happening.

This is life.

People, traffic, trash and treasure.

Why not pick up stuff

That’s still good?

It’s a way to get by

And be part of the whole.

The grocery cart is a good truck,

Office and calling card.

But no one ever calls.

The disease that began at home

And continued in school

Has progressed.

Now she’s scared.

Scared of two-legged animals

And the FBI and the CIA,

The DEA, and the National Security Agency,

As well as the Department of Human Services

And people who hurt.

It all happened so slowly.

A laughing little girl

Who had bad uncles,

And teachers who talked only to groups

Is now sick, paranoid, and hungry,

But free.

You Wanna Meet Me in La Habana?

You Wanna Meet Me in La Habana?

You wanna meet me in La Habana?

Near Hemingway’s favorite bar

The Floridita…

Which is now an air-cooled

Semi-deserted hideaway?

We’ll meet next door

At the Café de los Farnes

Where we can sit outside

And smoke cigars

All day long

And watch the pretty women

Pass by on the way to…

The laundry… or the bread line

Or just to see their novio.

At night we can go

To Café Monserrate

And view the modern day

Parque zoologico of Western deviants

Demimondaines

And your occasional

Dance aficionado.

We’ll dance with the old man

With the big cigar

And I’ll see that you get home

To your casa particular,

But not until we dance

Our asses off at the Casa de la Cultura.

OK… you agree?

You meet me in La Habana?

I’ll Cut You Off

I’ll Cut You Off

 

I’ll cut you off in Mexico City,

Casablanca, or Bangkok.

The cutter-offers make traffic

Flow smoothly,

Even though it scares the shit

Out of the tourists.

You just get your nose ahead

Of the other guy,

Make your move,

And everybody’s on their way.

 

Houston, Miami, and LA play by different rules.

Drivers there are packing heat –

Tech 9’s, Glocks, and anything that’ll stimulate

A projectile.

You cut somebody off there

You better hope it’s a grandmother

On Prozac.

Speed

Speed

I know how to hurry.

It’s slowing down that trips me up.

That’s Not Our Jimmy

“That’s not our Jimmy.

Something horrible, horrible had to happen to him.”

 

Yeah, he was sent to war.

That’s what happened to him.

War.

You need not have been in one to understand.

The pictures of innocent children

With missing limbs,

The mothers clutching a dying

Or starving baby.

The hell that is created

For a weeping 19 year old

Who thought he was tough.

The toothless grandfather

Looking over the bodies of all his grandchildren.

The homeless veteran with no legs.

The “what happened to Jimmy” husband

Who drinks himself into oblivion each day,

And is a stranger in his own home.

The perfect setup for the next round

Of vengeance; the continuing the war cycle.

No answers you say?

We’ve got answers.

We can find answers.

But they won’t make anybody rich.

They won’t contribute to imperial desires.

They may not even be politically popular

Especially in the minds of those

Who were never trained in resolving human conflict

Peacefully at the personal level.

Yes, we can find answers

To unify humanity –

To pull together and solve

The problems of poverty, war, injustice, and xenophobia.

If you don’t believe it can happen,

Then get out of the way

Of those who are willing to make peace bloom

By removing the causes of war

And establishing systems that can prevent it.

It could take 50 years.

Do you think we have that much time?

Red and Yellow Under Blue Sky — Mii Kon Jai Yen?

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Everybody’s Going to Have a Drone

Everybody’s Going to Have a Drone

Pretty soon everyone’ll have a drone.
It’ll be pigeon-sized
And able to fetch, signal, and bomb.
Wimpy liberals will try to control them
But the selfish conservatives
Will say they are protected
By the Constitution.
They’ll say everybody should have one.
Got to protect one’s abode.
It’ll take pictures of all the terrorists
Who could be masquerading as joggers,
And chase mice
And other competitive locomoteurs
Out of the neighborhood.

The Guru from Bali

The Guru from Bali

 

She needed a change.

The spirits were too heavy.

Too local.

Her mind needed some chaos —

Some quantum physics stuff.

So she got that ticket

To New York.

It was to be a three month pilgrimage

That would involve coffee shops,

Churches, discussions, sitting in Washington

Square Park, playing chess with men

Masquerading as derelicts.

She’d hit the 92nd Street Y,

Look into the eyes of a street kid,

And join the Japanese hippies

In the East Village.

Then she’d be ready to go back.

Inspired.  Fulfilled.

Ready to feel the peace

And remember how to be here and now

Before starting, again,

To help others get their bags packed.

Is Jerry Normal?

Is Jerry Normal?

Jerry is hoping that gas prices will go up.

He owns stock in Exxon.

Jerry is hoping people will get sick.

His wife is a pharmacist.

Jerry wants guys to become impotent.

He works for Pfizer.

Jerry won’t drink German beer.

He’s all American.

Jerry lives his life in fear.

He’ll never go to Cambodia

Unless he can take his platoon with him

To keep his paranoia at bay.

Jerry keeps a shotgun in his truck

Just in case a hippy gets smart with him.

Modern Shrines

Modern Shrines

 

We’re about to abandon the TV

As our most adored shrine.

It has worn itself out

And has not delivered what it promised.

Besides that, it’s not portable enough.

The new shrine is the iPhone

And if you don’t have one you better get one

Because if you don’t have one…

Well, you’re a dinosaur.

You can’t get to heaven without one.

I’m not shitting you either.

Where Was Mindfulness?

Where Was Mindfulness?

 

Why didn’t they teach it in school?

Was it the paranoid right wing lunatics

Who were afraid their kids

Would become free?

Or were they just allergic to change?

Where was my mindfulness?

How did I miss so much?

How my mother was like

Mona Lisa with massage oil.

How my father made the roosters crow.

Where did I put the keys?

How could I leave the bags behind?

The present was always devalued

Just like a domestic beer.

The Sky’s the Limit

The Sky’s the Limit

 

A rich nobleman wanted to construct

An invisible building

Where no one would find him.

He went to an island

Where it never gets cloudy

And he put the building on stilts

And painted it sky blue.

A plane flew into it

And he had to escape in his underwear.

On his way out of the building

A little kid asked him if he wanted a shoeshine.

The Culture Criminals

The Culture Criminals

 

The culture criminals

Are tough on children.

With the boys, they keep them on their toes

By Insinuating that they don’t have the courage

To be men.

Some boys get suckered into proving themselves,

And instead of growing up,

Become culture criminals as well.