As the shape all sun
tore up the curtain
of blood and ululation,
everything in Tunisia,
as stricken by a wand,
came to a standstill,
and slipped away
from the senses -
Even rivers stopped.

Medjerda* froze
halfway
through the descent
to his destination,
as he realized
he’d been making a fatal error:
pouring forth all his passion
into the ocean.

So he stopped,
retracted his course,
re-collected himself,
and started flowing backward,
toward
the source
in the Atlas
that had bidden him
farewell.

In his spear head
there was a design:
start a new chaos
in the valley,
in which there would be
a sweet-water lake
and sailors drunk
with sunbeams, sweat
and pleasure.
Butterflies would flutter
around the scent of mint
and bluegreen rosemary.
Sweet Moon to Sweet Lake
would come, unannounced,
In the rays of the nightlight
of the fluttering night
to watch her self
shoot
the scene
of representation.

The river, now swimming
in his own water,  
carried the sky on his shoulder,
while an ant and a grasshopper,
holding a basket together,
watched the new scene.

As the figure all sun appeared ,
reason melted;
imagination
her hazel eyes opened.

*Medjerda is the most important river in Tunisia. Length, 460 km; basin area, 22,000 sq km. It flows out of the Atlas mountains into the Gulf of Tunis.
© LazharBouazzi, June 16, 2016

As the shape-all-sun
tore up the curtain
of blood and ululation,
everything in Tunisia,
as stricken by a wand,
came to a standstill,
and slipped away
from the senses -
Even rivers stopped.

Medjerda* froze
halfway
through his descent
to his destination,
as he realized
he’d been making a fatal error:
pouring forth all his passion
into the ocean.

So he stopped,
retracted his course,
re-collected himself,
and started flowing backward,
toward
the source
in the Atlas
that had bidden him
farewell.

In his spear head
there was a design:
start a new chaos
in the valley,
in which there would be
a sweet-water lake
and sailors drunk
with sunbeams, sweat
and pleasure.
Butterflies would flutter
around the scent of mint
and bluegreen rosemary.
Through the flutter
of the midnight hour
Sweet Moon to Sweet Lake
would come, unannounced,
to watch her self shooting
the act of representation.

Now swimming
in his own water,
th river
carried the sky on his shoulder,
while an ant and a grasshopper,
holding a basket together,
watched the new scene.

As the figure-all-sun appeared ,
reason melted;
imagination
her hazel eyes opened.

© LazharBouazzi

*Medjerda is the most important river in Tunisia. Length, 460 km; basin area, 22,000 sq km. It flows out of the Atlas mountains into the Gulf of Tunis.

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks --
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

I
I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark. Bluegreen glow of dashboard gauges, the faint scent of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap. Insects slapping the windshield like rain. How many miles does it take to turn yourself around, to rise up from ashes? Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms.

II
Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor. The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence inscribed on my back also confirms this.

III
I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair, fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears, flirting behind tent ***** with the cute contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair.

IV
I derailed in a dive bar.

V
I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights, where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic signals kept perfect time.
I picked through trash bins. I paid for love with drugstore wine.

VI
I closed my eyes on a mountain road. The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank.

VII
I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew back the curtains and lost myself in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps, the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes. I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide.

VIII
The moon over my shoulder tightened into focus like a prison spotlight. One night the barking dogs undid me. Goodnight, children. Goodbye, my love. I capitulated to the candor of a naked mattress. I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell clinging to bars the color of a morning dove.

IV
I coveted the house keys of strangers.

X
I opened and closed many doors. I sang into the mouths of storm drains. I stepped out of many rooms only to find myself in the room I had just left. Despite all my leaving, I remained.

I used to float
Weightless and free
In a sea of blue green
But now I'm just drowning
Slipping father under
There's no way out
Of this blue green
Abyss

I do not turn to poetry
to rescue me from memory;
on the contrary,
I conjure the red humming bee
on the bluegreen rosemary tree,
I teased when I was a carefree
boy, in the backyard,
only to roll with the punches -
aye, with the punches - of synecdoche.

© LazharBouazzi, May 2016

A reminder of the shorter days
the orange globe sinks into haze
no longer casting warming rays
but shadows into night

the coolness of softest sand
beneath my back and in my hand
from where I lay there
breathing
taking in this awesome sight~

fighting sleep and fascinated
I face the setting sun
and every stroke of the painter's brush
lingers
before it's done.

firey red excites the soul
and set the mood in motion
orange and pink elicit sighs
like a full moon upon the ocean

streaks of purple are always fun
and bring on the bluegreen hues
a symphony for the setting sun
but gimmee the midnight blues

I want to gaze into the glory
tell me another story
oh bring on the colors
don't let me sleep too long~

I want to sing of your greatness
inspite of all my lateness
and whatever else my troubles
you see in me no wrong~

oh Lord, You are amazing
all creation should be praising,
I'll wait for you forever
or 'til the sun sets on my song.

daylight has passed quickly
that sunset was the best
in the darkness now, we hear the waves
which won't disrurb our rest

Her heart, beguilingly  florescent, spoke to mine,in signs invisible
when the night wore her darkest  cloak,making me lose my way
when I didn't know which way to turn and stood perplexed
her love spreads magic, emits colors, eloquent and sincere
pleasing not only to my eyes but heart too in tune with my beats.

Some times we were birds,wings lift us  involuntarily above winds
we would climb up through dark dark clouds, that wore thunder bolts
her love takes me by hand , navigates, her fluorescence was in full play,
love makes us favorites of winds,raging waves, sprays and water.

Under water love showed us magical colors,melting drops of bluegreen
tinged light, spoke tales of love to our entropic  hearts, that listened,
across the seas we swam propelling mind through incredible depths,
underwater castles waited for us , but in each other we were lost.

It zips forward and past,
Through and around,
Tick Tock goes the hazy clock,
Apples decay to fuzzy and shriveled husks,
Beside blooming lilies.

Just five and a half years,
Transformation in the oddest of ways,
arriving bitter and broken,
Moving along this next path as excited and improved.

Momentum gaining,
like breaking into a run downhill,
where any moment's hesitation brings devastation and disorientation,
Heartbeat hammering from a stone solid 50 to 105,
is it anticipation that drives this acceleration.

Ecstasy of movement and insanity,
like feather brushes of fae-like intent,
getting lost in fogs of spirituality and philosophy.
Brutal momentum of guitar strings being finger picked,
Psychically projecting images of brutal revenge and bitter grief

Madness? No
******....

What are you, a cop?

Missing a step now,
the stumble turns into a tumble,
as the green of the grass flash past, as does the blue-white of the sky. Blue then green, blue then green,
blue green,blue green, blue green,
bluegreen, bluegreen, bluegreen
bluegreenbluegreenbluegreenbluegreen.

The hill turned out to be a cliff,
stomach roiling as I fall,
into some fantastic and manic vision below.

Robert Frost acquainted with night
My favorite time to play

Taipei 101
Taipei still xie xie

Motorcycle taxis
Bangkok all the way

Jeremy in Hong Kong
Silently I pray

      BlueGreen Bay

i am nothing but
meat, pinkslick pockets of what
the stars have wasted
nestled rosytight
galaxies swimming in my
bluegreen dust channels
let the rest of me
rot, fraying bits slowly peel
back to show the bone

Does the kept dog howl at the moon,
or does the stray?
I am astray from you,
and my moon is bluegreen and shines like forgiveness when you smile.
The vagrant hound remembers when he was a wolf;
I remember when I wasn’t.
Like him, I eat and sleep and ****
beneath even my own notice. Like him,
I remember every night of comfort and
every kick, and am confused when I find both in the same doorway.
I wasn’t a cur until you called me one – does that count?
When the rains come, I think of your
soft golden warmth, these mongrel legs start to pull me back – don’t
let me in unless you mean to keep me – and my howl is
sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry and I
don’t know which of us I hate.