“The Weight of the Untold” (Pradip)
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6:55am:  Jan 2 nine twenty twenty five

(read the comments first)

enveloped by the early mix
of morning’s hangover of dark
blue gray, window glints of a
sun playing peekaboo over the
yet there (!) Manhattan skyline,
the utter  “ness” of the stilled,
unwritten, unstirred, uncolored
dim of medium shadowy light,
the quietude is an actual thing,
a warming coverlet of cozy peace

am I not forcibly compelled to
write of the weight of white spaces,
Pradip pokes my curious anxiety,
as I question my own words, that
he tosses back to me, so so oft
he ****** the cells of my fingertips
to peek, to bleed, then peck letters
from within, to comprehend my
museum artifacts of words,
the weight of their panoply
of mystery

How, how can the white weight of
our seemingly empty spaces tween
words, carry this burden on its,
bony shoulders, can’t we just let them
be, like the breaths exhaled, the
disappearing exhaust of being human,

is it necessary to carry knowing knowledge,
of what needs no body, isn’t the inexplicable
better left unimagined, there be so much tolling troubles, let them be left masked, they’ll appear as embodied black letters, of-when, their discord is accorded their moment of due…no  more need to succumb prematurely
to this onerous lighter than air pressurized crushing atmosphere of reused oxygen

did I awake just to prove my existence, to offer up this combination of vocabulary of wondering, one more explication of the unknowns that are visible to the naked eyes, big, hard, factuals better left alone…and suddenly the morning light has arrived,

dear god,it will be a sun-filled sky,
and that weight, is modestly eased,
never fully erased, but you know,
I know, most of its occupants
even those
who won’t show their faces

And perhaps they should remain
hidden in the white spaces
between the letters and the words,

u.  n.  t.  o.  l.  d.

Snow one foot deep
hungry birds on my feeder
chirping Thank You

here i am
holding on
to relics of your love
after all
i was born
to be on my knees
in worship,
searching for salvation
devoting my life
to the scent
of your skin
the trace of your fingers
the memory
of your mouth on mine
and i know now
i would face
all nine levels of hell
just to hear
my name leave your lips
as feverant as prayer
once more.

He had to come back.

On a December afternoon
when the sun was more to west,
he landed on the most favorite place of his house,
the roof.

Just as he had imagined
the still winter air was abuzz with life.

Doves were pairing for a home
Green bee-eaters swooped on insects
Two herons kept following the grazing cow
Crows were busy with twigs and wires
High up beyond where paper kites could soar
Storks slow sunned their wings wet from the jhil
The cats warmed their furs before the cold night
The stray puppy gamboled with its mother.

Each piece had perfectly fitted the other
including the silently sleeping house.

He was tempted to walk down once
has she changed any little way?

He smiled to himself
then breezed away from the roof.

"Will you be long, dear?"

Naǧí drew heavily on a freshly made blunt.
"I'll be as long as it takes," she shouted.

The bud was good. It was not as potent
as the stuff back home in the States,
but good.

Relaxing on her new throne - a filthy
toilet in a London pub, Naǧí laughed softly.

She had arrived in Blighty a few days
before. A week away from life back
home and a chance to see jolly old England.

"I say, miss, I'm busting for a wee."
Reluctantly, throwing the **** in the pan
she exited the cubicle.

Stood outside was an older lady
in a state of panic, "It's my bladder, dear.."

Naǧí stepped aside to let the desperate
woman pass into the smoke-filled chamber.

Back out into the bar, she ordered a double
whiskey and melted into a barstool.

"Alright, duck? Bertha's the name." said a
rather large, pretty chick on the next stool.

"Hi, I'm Naǧí, just over from the States for
a few days."

Bertha grinned, "A Yank eh? Have a nice day,
y'all, hahaha."

"Yes, good one Bertha. Hey, do you know
where I can score any top-grade ****?"

"I'll ask my fella, here he comes."

Working his way through the busy pub,
full of swinging hipsters and cheery older
folk appeared a handsome fellow, smiling
from ear to ear.

Bertha grabbed him, planting a kiss on his
lips,"This is my babe, he's ******* gorgeous
isn't he?"

The man embraced her, squeezing her
ample *** and licking her face. He then
introduced himself to Naǧí, "Hello there,
the name's Echo, how do you do."

Naǧí and Echo shook hands, while Bertha
threw a jealous glance.

"Babe, Naǧí, here, wants to score some
****. Is your mate Jimmy The Silk, about?"

"Yeah, I think he's at home tonight."

Naǧí pondered for a second, "I could drive us
there? I'm not drunk."

Bertha ummed and arred, then agreed, Echo
did as he was told.

Into Naǧí's hired car they did go.
Arriving at Jimmy's flat in Bethnal Green,
after a quick stop off at a Tesco superstore to
get some chocolate trifles for Bertha, they
knocked at the door.

The door slowly opened, revealing a very
drunk Jimmy The Silk, wearing a beer-stained
Liverpool FC top and a joint stuck to his
bottom lip.

"Echo! You ******* ******, how ya doing?
Bertha, ya beast! Come here and cuddle
Uncle Jimmy."

Bertha embraced Jimmy, kissing him on both
cheeks whilst giggling like a schoolgirl.

Into the flat they all went. Eventually, after
falling over many times, Jimmy weighed out a
four-gram bag of ****.

Naǧí automatically skinned up.By now Echo
and Jimmy had put some music on and were
badly dancing to the Saturday Night Fever
soundtrack.

Everyone settled on the sofa and chairs in
Jimmy's living room, ****** to high heaven.

Naǧí smiled, "You Brits know how to have a
good time, I'm having a ball. Hey, Bertha,
where are those trifles? Let's get munching!"

Bertha looked to the floor, Echo embraced her,
"Bertha, beautiful, love of my life, where are
the chocolate trifles?"

Jimmy piped up, "Yea, c'mon girl, don't be greedy,
well, at least not tonight, eh?
Hahaha, no offence, doll."

Bertha, flicked her hair back, "Erm, I..er..ate
them while you guys were dancing and Naǧí
was making a bifta."

The room fell silent.

Then all at once, they burst out laughing,

Echo hugged her tightly,
"Aww, you naughty dumpling! Jimmy,order a
Chinese takeaway, mate."

They all shared some food together and
indulged in more spliffs and more drinks.

Naǧí drove away the next morning, dropping
Bertha and Echo off at home, after thanking
Jimmy for his hospitality. She left them her
number, promising to let the three amigos
stay anytime they visit the States.

The following week, back home, Naǧí sparked
up a blunt, selected a song, and pressed play:
'Night fever, night fever, we know how to do it...'



                                              THE END

Interfering waves distort the mind,
shattered dreams freeze in their wake—
a chasm deep, sleep’s quiet grave,
where reality bends and breaks.

The ego quivers at the brink,
between the void and waking’s weight,
a struggle fierce, a war with fate—
archetypes stir, reborn to think.