there once was a tailor
who lived in a place unknown
his place was small
but i guess, it was home

he sewed clothes
for people far and wide
with nothing but a thin needle
and fabric by his side.

his job wasn't easy
he worked and worked all day
and the money it made?
well, it barely paid.

but he loved what he did,
with his stitches and thread,
so every night he would lay down
and dream happily in his bed

one day
he got a strange request
he had to make a special robe-
a golden dress.

he tried to explain
this was more than he could do
that this is impossible
but she didn't believe him- so now, he's blue

he tried and tried
but it couldn't be done.
she wanted hundreds of stitches
but he could only do one.

he felt so awful
judging many times over three
so he hung himself
on a branch of the olive tree

the woman was mad
at the tailor
she called him lazy
called him as useless as a sailor

so in the end
nobody won
she didn't get her dress
and the tailor killed himself
because that task simply couldn't be done.

and now,
the olives that come from the tree
remind everyone of him-
and what couldn't be.

Tailor,Tailor
weave your spell
Harken groans that
dwell beneath

Smell the fragrance
of her tomb
I left there a
bloom of dew

Light me please a
path to dead
Hollow are the
years herein

Since she left a
wail for tune
Seals do chant the
lament's rhymes

Foggy days are
now live in
Gulfs and shores the
phantom's lair

Groves are emptied
fays have gone
Nature strolls in
grief alone

Tailor,Tailor
weave your spell
Let me go to
her again

She’s a dimple and a drag, corner of Worth and Magpie, French Vogue idioms and her mother’s red flowery hoop earrings. Aloha! Aloha! Oopty-oops in contract loot thru streets and backyard parties, concrete larders, her eyes lie like presidential promises, a slipknot of licorice around her neckline to keep her rising tide from the Menarche Moon.

Anything to keep the little penny featherweight dancer from slipping. Her siblings poke fun at her funny way of speaking, her bath tub is just an excuse for chiseling at her innards, taking a drag at her lungs and punching her duck-billed platypus in the kidneys; a heavy-weight champion of the worm.

That until all the saints come writhing off the fishing lines. Until the ballerina’s edema coexists with Tokyo extremists, serial killer behemoths that keep body parts and *** toys in the freezer. Here, here! Wrath goes to the fella with the wicked demeanor. In an area of limited sight, this country, it’s people are sickened at the sights of themselves, and the wackos are coming out in large swaths, minerals and dimples strapped to their waist belts in the throes of a menopausal demagogue heaving OxyContin down El Camino Real.

My eyes to Slava my seamstress say,

"I'm begging you,
sew me a new skin
here
in your living room
to hold me together now
because I can't seem to anymore...

Dear Slava,
I know you know,
how the thoughts inside me
are crazed,
you've known my childhood days &
it's not me here.
Who's this dead thing in the living room?

I feel the bones inside me,
they're too loose.
You see me falling apart,
these eyes of mine the noose.
Catch me dear friend,
from myself!
I'm begging you,
change this stitch in time
for me?

You might think you need a tailor

But here's the only one you've got:

A poor choice of cloth

Married to a poorer thread

Spawning knock-offs

Over budget shops.

So you may as well invest,

For it matters not a jot

What you think you choose to wear,

It never really lasts.

A tear here, a cut there;

With cheap cloth,

It does not take much

To turn your life ragged.

Lost to backdrops scrolling past,
She sits knitting
in the carriage of a train.
The vague needles
They scintillate and glimpse
With the cadence of the wheels –
Upbeating ceaselessly.

Strips of tiny loops
And eyelets like dewdrops
Of condensation
Grouped on the superior rim.

Once in a while,
She gives a heave
To loosen more yarn from the skein
Of Filipino-made wool,
brushed worsted weave.
Spun and carded
from the richest fleece,
Deeper in the wicker basket by her feet.

The needles flash,
With ancient rhythms and attack
Of duellists in their chainmail coats.
With little hesitation she can tack
From plain to purl to blackberry.
Count back by rote or slip a stitch
While the fish-eyed gimlets gleam.

All gather profusely in her lap,
As windfall trove, rich-patterned
And warm with peach-fuzz nap,
All crafted from a single line of yarn.
Marvels fall continuously from wise
Spell-binding hands and all is well for now.

(9/11/13 @xirlleelang)

Here is a thimble.
Your finger is protected from ******,
when sewing a passionate garment.
Yet the blood of a tailor,
is a blessing in dark garb.
Discard metal and thread carelessly.
My skirt is wine red and parched.