---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “The Beach at Night” Down in the Dirt v212 (10/23) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing in the book On Stones and Bones the 2023 poetry & art collection anthology		get the 182 page poetry & artwork & photography collection anthology as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Instant Karma the Down in the Dirt September-December 2023 issues collection book		get the 422 page September-December 2023 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Pseudodysphagia

Bill Garten

A TSA girl has her way with me in Abilene, Texas. The woman in 13D swears she isn’t sick as she coughs on me. The man behind me is already snoring as we taxi away from the gate, plenty of bling on his neck, but the ornaments don’t always make the tree. When I woke this morning, my navel was not in line with my sternum and my penis. In the hotel, laying on my back on a bag of ice with cell phone in hand, I am told my middle brother was dating a very large woman before he died. She felt like a python. She surrounded him, engulfed him, and swallowed him. It was comforting, like our mother, when she used to hold us. I tell my oldest brother on the phone not to tell my mother about my other brother’s death. She barely remembered him, and vice versa. My oldest brother told her anyway. She went to bed, and three weeks later, died a day short of being ninety-two. It reminded me of my shortcomings growing up. How older brothers don’t listen to younger brothers. My brother who died spent a lot of time on the commode at the end of his life, because the tumors made him feel like he had to crap. He felt like he had to go all the time. When I heard he had two weeks left, I was actually about to get Moh’s surgery. The surgical dermatologist was about to cut a hole in my ear, removing my own cancer. Later, as I Skyped with my tutor from Guatemala, relearning Spanish, she asks, What happened? I explained the bandage. When in Spain, I didn’t care which women I kissed trying to find comfort. When I was five, I found the warmth of a dryer heater vent outside our house in winter. I warmed my hands during snow days, not wanting to ever venture inside. Always wanting to remain outside playing as a kid, afraid to go inside where Dad’s drunken fists would find me. All day flying, I am left to think about this python thing. The girl next to me on the plane fell asleep, inadvertently laying her hand on my thigh. Shocked, she apologizes when she awakes. We land and the water in the airport restaurant smells like it came from a lawn hose. My dad and mom’s ashes rest in adjacent columbarium condos. They bought one for me next door to theirs, and one for my former wife. I’m anxious for my ears to finally pop from being at 39,000 feet. No amount of alcohol can force a yawn. Nothing helps this platoon of grief, puffed up in my cheeks as a child before the nurse shoots me full of penicillin. I never looked at a nurse’s needle until I got older. I feel we all are on an airplane, anxious to get served by the stewardess. My childhood fears of choking avoid the peanuts. Flying, I am where no one can save me. On the ground, I think there is always a possibility of being rescued. Someone will be here. In the air, it’s so highly unlikely.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...