Writ and posted here,  one year ago today, and one ego later, progress made...




The time, the place, the setting:

T'is some hour for sleep, prescribed,
For me, the reality of sleep, proscribed.

The strains of Bach's
Orchestral Suite No. 3 in D Major
Haunt.
Richard II's words
Give pause, precision refinement of my cause courant.

“No matter where; of comfort no man speak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the ***** of the earth”

Two am in New York, sleep,
As advertised,
Literally, a passing acquaintance,
Doesn't make it to
The side of the bed occupied by
100% of me.
Seems he went
From chimney to chimney
This past Sunday morn.
Not having a chimney,
He flue right over me.

No matter.
Company aplenty,
Ego and moi,
We, had a long talkie.
A bit of a wrestle, a staring contest
In a mirror, we watched ourselves,
In the pitch black
where clarity is perfect,
For nothing else exists,
But ego and me,
To distract us.

“I'll read enough
When I do see the very book indeed
Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.
Give me that glass and therein will I read.
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine
And made no deeper wounds?
O flattering glass,
Like to my followers in prosperity
Thou dost beguile me!”

Called my lawyer just now,
ordered her to commence
the divorce papers, serve them ASAP,
I need to rid myself of
My oldest nemesis, my oldest friend,
Mine vanity, my ego.

Let me explain
myself to myself.
You may tag along for the ride.

Writing is more important
than any of the individual
Five senses
That feed this addiction.
Without sound, sight, touch, smell and taste,
I can live quite well,
Thankee.

But ****** boy mind needs to write
Simple survival.
No write, no life.

But ****** bad boy ego is a curse,
A contaminate of each and every
Line, stanza,word and verse.

"Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin”

At first, for an audience of three
I performed,
Me, myself and I.

But the suckiness creepeth in,
and etches my distorted face,
Salutations and gradations,
demanding confirmation
Of Shakespearen magnification.

Do you like me?
Do you love me?
****** all.

Curse ye King Ego and your vainglorious occupations,
Divorce me, from the sad isle of
Self
Self worth,
Pride, vanity insurance,
The most deadly of the seven
Deadly sins.

Ego desperate in kind responds:

"I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,
How can you say to me, I am a king?”

Slime and slippery, want is what you feel,
Taste grief, need friends,
Sly devil, you twist thy cunning tongue,
The reverse, your plain meaning!
You need nothing but subjects,
In earnest and forever praise,
Absent them, you mood and whine,
A pretender, a poseur, a drug addict cursed!

Let us purpose to dispose of thy spirit earthly,
Slow starvation too good for you,
Poison, arrows, the hilt of my blade,
The neck, thine bowel,
Let me embrace,
Prefer your steel hot or cold?

If we both must expire, then it be so, for
My honor taken, my life forsaken,
My poetry in disrepute,
Until that day when I write for me alone,
And ally my scripts, in coffin, with me interred.

*"My dear, dear Lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is spotless reputation; that away
Men are but gilded loan or painted clay...
Mine honor is my life; both grow in one;
Take honor from me, and my life is done."

The rain falls in whispers,
Meanders through the
Cracks in our lives.
The sky claps sardonically
Prophetic, pathetic fallacy
Alive and well.
As time swells and breathes
Solaris flares, coughs and heaves.
Scorched earth, ashen leaves.
The rain is gone but so's
The emerald green.

Deep in the forests the tiger was sleeping

A beautifull deer was passing near him

Her scent woke him
He rose fearcefully excited about his meal

He saw it and ran after the deer

Him chasing
She escaping

They arrived to the edge of the mountain
The deer stopped full of fear turned and looked straight into the tigers teeth
The tiger knew he had her
He approached slowly and asked her
"Why did you escape its been days i havent ate"

"Please dont eat me she said
I never did anything to deserve that"

The wise tiger replied
"Thats the way the world goes around"

He prepared himself for his prey
The dear sudenely jumped from the edge choosing to die

The tiger angry walked away and realised

That the beautifull deer died with pride

Words Of Harfouchism

I may not often have the time
To express my gratitude
for all you do for me
Day dissolves into night
leaving words unsaid
while loving hands continue
to knead each loaf of bread
So please forgive me of any wrong
robbing you of thy song
With  the help of God I'll strive to be
A better mother to Marian
and sweeter wife to thee.

**~Hilda~

Resonating like harmonics through the air from a grand piano run your words telling me you love me, you miss me, you need me, but never goodbye.

Waiting for the music to begin after a grand pause I sat in front of the colors, realizing everything was indeed black and white. I began to tell my story. The music filled the air but died immediately and fell from the sky upon deaf ears.

Bewildered faces of all who were awaiting the music scattered the room. Nervously I began again only this time was louder than before. Adding new twists and turns and free moments of my life's cadence I released more than I ever desired for anyone to hear and still nothing. As the walls pilfered the sounds all who awaited began to lose patience.

Immediately I regretted even sitting and beginning but it was too late. To arise and leave a shadow was all that was left. Eyes forward,  I departed bringing along a new emptiness which accompanied me down the stairs lying below my dead words.

No sooner than I reached the last step did ghost notes sing through the air followed by applause. Then was my biggest mistake, I turned around.

In the gondola bobbing above the waves she sits
like an apparition drenched in  golden morning light
he wishes to elope with, to an island distant
hoping to live there for eons, till they grow very, very old,
defying death that in many forms
they know for certain,
will chase from behind
like a vengeful hound

He sings a barcarole.
to mislead miseries and death,
that fallows, she weeps,
oh! the sufferings love brings to them both!
yet their hearts were too pure, always rejoiced.

The song he sings is on sacrifice for love
on lovers defying conventions
together they ran away to a far away place
but sweet love sometimes brings them
to sudden turns , cruel some times,
they lied down their lives, felled by swords,
for raising the banner of revolt, in the name of love.

From her eyes tears flow uncontrollably,
she sobs, as of it happens to them,
the song, nears it's end,
he is stunned by her overwhelming emotion,
does it portend
something bad?

His barcarole comes to an abrupt end,
what does he see ahead, a volatile crowd,
what is this commotion all about,
would someone please tell?
Are they waiting for the lovers with drawn swords?
Love has found martyrs, unfailingly once more,
Let the waters in this canal in Venice, be red again.

1

Under the shadows of Albatross wings,

below the cacophonous calamity of

seagulls' unbridled mirth  at breeding time,

for us a secret hideout waits like a dream

far below the sea's foamy weaves

where corals reefs gleam in fluorescent glory

here, you with your nimble fingers would

caress my ****** moments and bring them  alive.

There, day or night makes no difference

for any being, from a sea horse to an ancient turtle.

                         2
A blue light pervades there  like eternity's smile

will you come with me to be my bride for ever?

I'll ask jelly fish to meld a wonderful wedding dress

more silvery than moonbeams falling on the foamy waves

none could ever imagine how it 'd look on your petite figure.

(Oh! for now I and you would forget  that we are perishable)

                                      3
The most peaceful coral castle we'll take over,

make life an extended adventure, play water games with mermaids

dolphins would be our horses, on which we'd gallop to long distances

become innocent like the children of yore, and see truth of life.

On the blue whale's back we'd sunbath, shoot arrows of flying fish,

to low hanging clouds to make copious rain ,  bring the skies down.

A giant squid for a day will be our moving bed, on it we'll bill and coo,

know each other's little whims, like no other man and woman had done,

we'll swim beyond the limits of elements, air, earth, land water and space.

                                     4

Once in a while, we'll come up, to see the sad realities our ilk breeds above,

let us stalk chemical polluters like ghosts, pay them in the same coin,

till they give up, we'll chase trawler boats, that **** all creatures

big and small unconcerned of a holocaust, constantly perpetrated,

takes only what gets them profit, the rest allowed to float dead!

Let's drive away other marauders of sea life, scare the living daylight out of

whale hunters, make sure oil spill will never happen again, even once.
                                 5

when everything is done, we'll grow pleasantly tired

dream an effulgent cloud, the bliss, leave our skin and bones

the old dress tired of us, wanted to say good bye as all others

we'd  become a florescent light, the algae sing at the depths

throughout the seabed; we'll soon be one with the blue eternal.

The schoolteacher had an affair in Santa Fe.
She was a schoolteacher and a tourist.
And an affair adds dimension.
It makes a place more than memory.
The notion of it inverts.
Santa Fe now resided inside of the schoolteacher.
The city had a cracked voice and blonde hair
and a slightly sagging belly and pictures
of a New York niece on its phone and
an ambivalent relationship with combing its hair
and an irrational fear of left turns.
She expected young artists with vague academic worldviews,
chainsmokers talking loudly about point of view and Heidegger.
Instead the artists were retirees, painting nothing but landscapes
of red earth, attempting to improve on the natural world.
The schoolteacher did not like this kind of art.
It was trivial.
Wholly unnecessary.
Then the blonde artist walked up behind her
in a stucco gallery. He said, "You hate it don't you?"

"Yes."

She turned. He appeared to be in his early forties.

"Tourists never understand it."

"I'm not a tourist."

"You are. You've never been within the land."

"Don't talk to me like this."

"This is how women prefer to be talked to."

"Not this woman."

"Even you. You want to be told you're wrong.
'I look fat' No. 'Everybody hates me.' That's not true.
I'm skipping the stage where we agree. I'm going
straight to the stage where we are opposites.
Plus and minus."

"The part where we *****."

"Or connect or lose ourselves."

"I bet you live in a loft. Dozens of half-finished
canvases strewn about. Dabs of dried paint on
newspapers."

"I live in my big sister's basement. She isn't home."

"There's not enough wine in the world."

"That's where you're wrong," he said.