( i )

I lucked out
on table 4 last night
window seat
baseboard heat
with intimate passages
from Ginsberg
in his purest
and most evident form

Cover-all Carl was draped
in his usual garb
(turning pages
of yesterday's news)
animating, culturing, bantering
on the fate of the
Greek barber
(in an accent of which
I'm not so sure)

His cronies
looked on
(with a twisted conviction)
countering
with their own tales
of ingovernance and woe
did you know that Panasonic
lost 5 billion last quarter?

The evening moved
in time lapse...
with painted winds,
streaming lights
and a host of
high school girls
running cold

Maleah passed
on her late shift
(checking the pile and trough),
patronized the boys
and called it a night

( ii )

The bald man
is back at it again
bickering at the till
(something about
a cold free coffee
or 99 cents
or the coloured guy
behind him who got it hot)
a kind Filipino
is trying to get it done
(at 8 bucks per)
losing her cool
and shedding a quiet tear

Wonder what the Purewals
or Haitians or Cossacks
would have to say
about this grim public reminder,
wonder what
this sad f*ck
will do tonight...
without his
bus pass
or sling sack
or broken Turkish stems

Waves speak
to the shore
in rippled verse
scattered shell
strands of kelp

in the sand
each visitor
inscribes a story
sandpiper, wigeon, crow
raccoon, otter, coyote

I read each one
as I write my own

I couldn't help but smile
when a bird outside our kitchen
trilled, "Whew, whew, whew!"
Then it switched to "Wee-oop,
wee-oop, wee-oop!"

"Listen to that!" I cried aloud,
as Kim kept chopping her kale.
I went to the screen for a ****
while the bird continued.

The singing abruptly stopped,
and so did I.
I put away my pipe
and started a gluten-free diet.
I cancelled our subscription
to the New York Times,
and filed for divorce.

This was no surprise to Kim.
"You were always an *******,"
she said. "Same as that
******* bird."

Some just begin to rise
Others begin to fall
People's sleeping changes with dusk
Heeding the night's call

The early bird tucks in for sleep
The night owl wires up for fun
As people continue their daily cycles
With the disappearance of the sun

An ashy weeping willow,  
Lay in my wobbling garden.
Like a cosmic silver pigeon.

Up: the still, leaden flow
Sailed - a cold, prowling woe,
Charging to pounce on Carthage.

In: the wreaths of smoke letters
Gather as leaden fetters,
Then dart like Irish setters,
Released after a game.

LazharBouazzi, January 6, 2017

Pollen scented halos
float on tin music
played from under
pop-up gazebos
(providing insurance
against dark clouds
blotting the horizon).
Light dims and glares
as the sun plays peek-a-boo
with infants running
to no end.

Pram junkyards,
picnic islands;
the territories of the
green and daisy-dotted land.
***** thumped with bass notes
in wrong directions;
dads run after toe-poked
spheres into the road.
Trees watch from the edges;
a shallow forest leading
to suburbia, where the *****,
gazebos, children are stored.

Dogs. Oh, the dogs.
This is their land, of course.
They make the rules
and pull their clothed
owners like staggering drunks
into the deep of the park.

A man jogs past.
A bike rings it's bell.
A laugh wins the
battle of decibels.
A plastic bag rustles
in the exhaling wind.
The daisies vibrate
and reach to leave their
grassy bed.
But they are part of the park.
May they never leave.
May England remain this
way in memories forever.

Only the breeze disturbs my day.
It strokes my cheek,
and whisks through the leaves
like a handheld brush.

Everything else is mechanical.
Bubbles for the jacuzzi
arrive by pump. Whines of planes
and growls of trucks
corrupt the eloquent breeze.

Look...a hawk!

Wide feathered wings full-out,
body mottled,
it dips above the yard next door,
then glides behind a roof.