Alfred C. Martino: Lyricist Novelist Writer
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Ten-Minute Writing - January 28, 2020

1/28/2020

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"Enjoy," the twentysomething woman said, placing a cappucino cup in front of me. The coffee was a light, light-brown that matched her remarkably straight hair, separated the left from the right by a ruler-sharp part. She flashed a lovely smile, as successful waitresses are wont to do, then moved on to the next table. I tilted my head back slightly, catching deliciously warm beams of sun that pierced though the leafy trees surrounding this outdoor cafe, and, for a while, slipped into that dreamy state where the sunlight fills your brain, pushing aside worry and issues and problems and concern, and shutting your body down into a kind of beautiful lull. I wanted to be left alone, and though I was surrounded by couples no more than an arm's length away, murmuring their quiet conversations, and a few others sitting alone, munching on brioche with razzlebery jam or some other breakfast food, I was essentially alone. Surely no one was looking at me. Certainly no one knew me. And if I had happened to pass into any person's field of view, I would be as unremarkable and anonymous as anyone else. It was bliss. I reached for the cup of cappucino and put it to my lips. The liquid was not especially hot, not bitter. I thought it might need a half spoon of sugar, but then decided it was fine for this moment. A light breeze carried the scent of salt and tropical ocean and sunscreen. I breathed in until my lungs were full. A rather elegant woman to my left was wearing a lovely perfume. Another table just received their orders of eggs Benedict. Beyond the dozen or so small tables of the cafe, men in khaki cargo shorts and white T-shirts walked with women swooshing by in colorful sundresses like gentle waves of mauve and flamingo. lilac and emerald, talking softly and lightly, and moving in a kind of pace just a bit more purposeful than meandering, which is to say they all seemed to have places in mind to be or go to, but were in no rush to get there. My brain was kind of meandering too. Dreamily thinking about this or that. Taking in the vision of a young girl, mildly tanned cheeks, with budding breasts, and a pink flower set just above her left ear.
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Ten-Minute Writing - January 22, 2020

1/22/2020

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A sandstorm gathers on a distant plateau. Winds of vengeance pursue me, as I continue towards the fading afterglow. My body aches, my steps unsteady. A lifetime of memories—few pleasant, the rest, not so—and a six-shooter, are all that I possess.

I stand on barren ground before a lost headstone. The name is indistinct. But I knew him well. A childhood friend. We ran as ruffians, finding our way into manhood. And, in our heyday, two of the most feared outlaw gunmen on the plains.

But they struck him down. Like a dog. Lawmen, vigilantes--rough men, like us. So I struck them down. Like dogs. And their families too.

Revenge is a curious thing. It tastes like death. But in time, it turns. Not into something good, mind you, but necessary. Something like rations. You can’t live without it. Keeps you going. Day after day. For a lifetime.
​

And it keeps them going. Day after day. For a lifetime.
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Ten-Minute Writing - January 12, 2020

1/12/2020

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In dreams I stand on a hilltop, follow what's inside me.
Shadows begin the race over the fields, I am on my way.
Putting our fate into the pursuit, some call it our destiny.
Talk to the wind, no one is listening, I hear what they say.

Passing those who preach the answers, the truth remains afar.
To touch the bark of the looming tree, running fingers in sand.
Tilting our faces to the setting sun, we won't find it in the stars.
Each of us opens the door in our time, holding mother's hand.

How do you know that I'm running away, if you can't see where I'm going?
Why turn the key on the lock, it's not where love's showing?

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Ten-Minute Writing - January 9, 2020

1/9/2020

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Die With My Boots On

Forsaken my soul in a valley a lifetime ago,
Hail storms thunder shook the playa low.
Faced the devil a baker's dozen, a mano,
Buried a wife, child, and twelve-and-one foe.

Roamed a dusty trail since I don't know when,
Just my canteen, six-gun and a lifetime of sin.
Seen every place, still not sure where I've been,
Was bad at faith, found God in a bottle of gin.

We are rough men, and our rough ways.
No time for debts, no time to pay.

We are rough men, and our rough ways.
No time for debts, don't care to pay.

Think I hear my maker a callin' my name,
Time for a reckoning, embrace the blame.
Pay the butcher's bill, death's the end game,
I'll keep moving along, thanks just the same.

Once a boy, then a man, leaving as dust,
Lived a life without penitence, a lifetime unjust.
When the time comes in my fate I will trust,
I'll lay where I'm felled, there my spurs will rust.

We are rough men, no time for debts.
Living our rough ways, no time for regrets.

​We are rough men, no time for debts.
Living our rough ways, never regrets.
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    Alfred C. Martino

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