Hip Service
By Julian Malek

The zeal of cobblestone tolerance arrayed in fashionable hues masquerading as crimson secrecy, elevates the tide of man but some boats leak in their foundations. Therefore a cork to every exuberance and a triumphant torch for every sorrow lives onward in collective time. Larks that abound because prescience and PUGET sound, that brown has become the new orange which in turn prowls as a concealed swarthy black. To antagonize the willful and frenetic pace, a prodrome of lasting but memorialized disgrace. Should I move to a state by first or last name, or is the final appellation worthy of much more lasting fame. I scurry down the aisles, bemused by shimmering tiles and the beguiled audiences who see much in my limitation but doubt little about my debited elation. Ringmaster Barnum, how much horticulture is needed for assured superstardom, how many cloisters must we evacuate from the incendiary plumes of a metaphorical Harlem..  But know that no virtual reality can supplant the reality that does truly exist, or at least our time is too infernal and purblind to resist. Carrey the tops of mountains in the humor of wellsprings and fountains, we engage a menagerie of egos lilting of an etiolated pragmatic concern. Evicted from paradise, littered with say-cheese demise ensnaring three blind mice eaten alive by snake-eyed vice. To feel good without incorporated tyranny, we must see blue and red as alternatives to the same destiny. A world that reckons with the futilitarianism of pacified malcontent and astroturf monikers that lead the impressionable into a slaughter shed. Established or not, any enchantment under the sea must include fishes once a pastiche of me, but to them I avoid their courtesy flush and never even faintly blush as my egalitarian statements are lavish thrush.

Five TO Won baby one in 99, everyone here aboard the titanic stays alive, you got your boat baby and I got mine, gonna make it with babies numbered in surreal primes. Halt the slots game the nines, a stitch in time is going to turn out to be Mine. Flanger goals, girded piles, liminal like an aborted Harry Styles, we climb mountains we issue tithes, and the turmoil is etched into 45-notched bludgeons and two-tucked knives. Excuse you, where have you been all day, have you been sauntering in a gentle rain or a genteel pain, have you wallowed beyond the mires of doubt and ranked above David Blaine. I hope you tell me of your magic tricks, rather than your other flicks endeared I stand to fight an ineradicable itch. But if not, you placid pond dented by so many rocks and so many ripples give your heart over to me, before I clinch the special Olympics *******, we ran, we span the homespun garments of your left and right hand, but death is a specter that ghoulishly carouses along the carousel terminal disease we call life. I beseech your deepest affection and want to console you for your deepest struggle, to be there every time wed with time rather than a throttled scuttle. Moons make you guarded but maroons leave me desiccated, don’t ever let that wilted flower die, always water it with a rich but gentle ties and widened deck for all to at once marvel and pry.  Monsters of Mars Attacks once flanked my bed, as though the **** brain scared every gooseflesh and restrained every frisson of mystery. I lampoon myself for those cold Dark Knights and the protection ended by the plight of the poor mattering nothing to the deliberately internecine rich. I struck gold in a valley somewhere, an oxymoron of paradox that now you have the privilege to dock, to stay aboard to be a vessel of peace less widely deplored. Even if we don’t sprout wings, we garner the exactitude of measured things and our glass elevator though easily shattered by the glower of enslavement is actually our vista to heaven or listening to brethren tingles for rich mans trinkets and other things. For humanity deserves a legend and a princess, a regimented desuetude and a flanged lust but in our mistakes wildly flouted in momentary moments we become purified by the temptations of an alabaster palace.

***** the left-field wisdom of a pragmatic paragon ellipsis in prison, slip between the cracks and let my suburban muse become your urban ruse. To enchant a caged world beyond a reality delicately and deliberately unfurled. Squirming toads on highways enchanted but dead, are graves for the blue becoming purple in every dignified red. Gainsay assaults me with platitude, a repeated hitter quit on the first bunted ball into foul-line territory. Those gripes are swiped right in all circumstance no matter the plight. The pronged hearing of a trident sensitive to ambient collection, and suddenly we are all in the mad house even though the house of profaned pain is much worse. Glimpses of gambits that gambol for nickels in transit as occult grenades and known dice waddle through without artifice or device, and the laughter and slaughter that trains collegiate minds, differs no more than the tropes of a glamorous violence articled in sordid rhymes. This surfing movie means so much more than Surf Wax America pristine in limited but sacrilege nirvana. Teen spirits smell muskier than 90s pop dreams, the grasp and grunge of gouged eyes becomes a mummified staid, a scarecrow to those who disobey. Childhood flashes with blinding light, and new sight illuminates darkening blight, A blight eradicated only by two magazines and including one that houses the bullets that ***** themselves between death and comatose dreams both within astral sight. Littoral harbor on a seaside town, a shanty with a brackish gown that glides the gourmand to the cosmopolitan eatery on the outskirts of lost & found. But forever lost in embonpoint and forever gained in chavish that exonerates the gaunt, the etiolated prince in heart becomes irrefutable marrow in minded souls.

If I am a spy you are an ESPY, and if I cry than you are a baby,but since neither are the case my wiseacres will cultivate lava lamp dreams for a new generation and suddenly Boston bets on Harvard, but who knows of this piped blather squirming for relevance rather than voguish but temporary chatter. My regatta knows how to swim, my life now knows how to cringe and yet still win and in stilted plays of bungled sincerity the God of peace reminds us of our transcendent personalities. That we in sincerity top the barnacles of invention a novelty but a rarity. But the guillotine quill of emboldened unscripted parvenus ruthless in their eager dues, outdate and outlive the sued swayed blues that indemnify Clinton and make the atomic dog an amazing Winston hill a church often in sheltered disuse. Imps and urchins sting the sentiment, cloy the alimony of repentant betterment, but neither touches the gilded skies of pleonasm striving for raspy disguise as to dissuade further diatribe investigation. Lurking in those scared days of youth, the gore of unalloyed horror scourged me with a limp, that compassion itself could ever become a gimp. Now years later athletics better and scoring goals making the mildew sweat and the years wetter, not a global warming that can be alarmed by global mourning. Take peace at heart if distanced spears of separation make Idiocracy as a pastiche look exceedingly smart. And spar only with the true antagonists bridging malevolence with expedience. Killjoys sure, will joy even more sure, but still boys fluttered heart stopping dead at a stop-watched alarm the worst tragedy of our sordid sort. Give an African Child a real home rather than a spatial roam, a palatial desiccation of momentary Jonas Brothers snapping back at captives with sexualized foam.

Narrative blinds shuttered in an Island among mountains hardly ever wiser to sanitize the sanitarium among the wasps of stung power. Police crumple their uniforms as they prowl down the avenues, looking for misfits and widened platitudes. Somehow that the vigilance of those corrupted by their very career choice, look even worse when megalomania of private is the limelight of public, to their defense few turrets I can muster but castles in the sky will be the apartheid judge. Those that cling to virtue to eradicate Porsche-driven faked or real deaths at the most breakneck speed, that Fast & Furious operation if disclosed completely would turn the Shire of the ring into the hatred curtailed by a song in Sing-Sing. Immunity must not Yoda implore, that livery Liverpool marooned on islands can also to deplore the R.E.D. and still whet the sharpened stead and the fly-by-night Manchester United alights like militant peer pressure for wranglers in tights. But beating the Beatles at a game of Walruses and egg-shelled eyeful towers likely impedes rinkside hockey from anything over bellicose ballyhoo…it exists as a transient fixated glower. But who knows about soccer speculation when love is the transcendent temptation, when nest-egg hens rather than neglecting rig Bens of clockwork and clocked words designed arise better for their token ken. Do I must repeat the subtext of submarines, yellowed as though ugly unused as though unseen, as though the quixotic earthquakes of tintinnabulations Avatar dreams. Wafted souls console the disheartened thoughts of a dashed dream that Berlin hates more than a Furor’s unbridled and useless scream.
Demotic clips slinging from the bedridden silence of a token moon and its token friends, swimming in a shore of ambiguity whether history mellows or whether its furor melts away momentary doubts. I want to avoid the sting rays exorcised by due providence and become the amalgamated talents gentry and of course the upstart swagger of Jack Dawson. But with the psy-op going on, the people manipulated on all sides of a gray picket fence will the relationship bloom without muttered dissent or pretended smiles. Will we take upon the shuffled shuttle and dig with shovels deep-rooted Christmas trees and toast our lives to Dos Equis. We may never go out of style, but the treacle of illuminated imagery when divorced from sentiment bristle shows a swagger that prioritizes rather than amalgamates all love. I love being brash and brazen and honest because when she finally ditches the grandstand of delayed frenemies fandoms of other tinsel decorations without any substance beyond meretricious thrill. You want a roller coaster on some days, but most often you want the nutcracker to elope to secret hiding places. Swim with adventure not just in love, not just in affection with the starlight now matter how luminous, sixpence all the richer is no centuries any poorer and we could be that gilded couple of star and screen and if we ever have to scream, let our screams unite us in passion, rather than a milquetoast deference to pedestaled beauty. but of course the end times don’t laugh at your crumpled wizened relapse. Not out of convenience wed by a discriminating genetic harvest moon but a deeper engagement that flatters when stylish and bristles when romantic but never defiled, never riled of specious pretense. Promise me that you will always remember me in my flaws and my faults, in my scause factory destructions and the penults of PEN-ULTIMATE wisdom that comes before the grace of God in the annihilation of passion for eroded omission. If your goal is to be remembered, check that out…but the most admirable goal is as the propinquities of souls dusted in the wind returning to a spring equinox of passion and if you find in yourselves reservations do not depart from sacred land, and never jilt me because of a boisterous and menacing friend. You are everything to me right now, and I Hope this persists despite the vicissitudes of star-favored afflictions mixed with utter benediction without the pontification of stilted Benedictines  or rather the hyped ludic effrontery of termagants being made of younger and younger women. Leave it at this ,32 leaves the royal secret in royal hands and the Knights Templar and us we altogether hold hands, if only a prelude for a masquerade ball. But the stilted embarrassment of crestfallen time, let that be relegated and emphatically lets embrace what is like to not ever need a real white horse to get back into your favor, because we never go out of style we can brandish the best elements and reject the sentiments of the too newfangled and the too stodgy. We in our crenellated pleonasm can eager ride the lightning to another tomorrow and another yesterday and if even not that, we virtually make an indelible impression of embroidered love not too distant in ivory towers and not to vulgary( catering to popular sentiments) to become a trash glam movement. We soar, others deplore but let their purblind doubts render them blind to our burgeoning love.

Forget the brisk trees dangled in the wind on winding paths through haunted forest or remember them because of ghoulish fortress but with our apotropaic lamp we can avert most evil and call the rest fun and gains and shun but fames never profaned, never inalterable a destiny to magical to be some whimpered catcall. Or we could linger beneath lambent street lights disguised as though wilted garb, attrition of circumstance waiting patiently for the matinee and the vintner to escort us beyond the garb of pretense in a city so abundant with it that it deserves castigation. But I digress, a beachside cliff overlooking tepid waters tumultuous in their power but august in their noises, the cadence of love will sing a half-moon bay on full-moon nights and we will frisk each other like grasping at straws of permanent tracks trammeled of the elite and a sidetracked basque bet. Trim those antlers and instead grow metaphorical wings, to us we all sing but few can match your elegance and everyone would be crazy not to see your ennobled age and together thrilling songs to emulate thriller in sales we will collaboratively sing.
Haughty sneers from lifeless lycanthropy straggling furtively along the pastiched sidewalks of grime, livid because they can’t share the lingering limelight, with as many guarded perks of privacy clambering like a hive of snarky sharks. Lets ditch the big town dreams in terms of posh and stature if only for a caressed moment beneath the unadulterated stars and if you find spars **** to the extent they are amiable than I say guess what my name is Lars! Or wait a second, paused in the big city spotlight our stenciled hearts will guide whatever progeny is yours or mine or ours together we will sing the most comforting lullaby, and caves no longer must we abide. Yearn and earn every inch, as I gripe with my delicate saddened pinch but I think the innuendo speaks . Ripen with our trips to Napa, long afternoon sunsets swim in our hearts as we taste the vanguard’s toast on elegant wine.I console with entreaty to disavow the omen of that San Franciscan church October 2008, the doom implied by Einstein, the raillery of a world grinding down the endless decadence of a railed future inalterable in destiny or partialy amenable to widespread coquetry.

Forget those rumbles in your past that made you feel partial to insecurity and learning the ropes you transcended all and live in all eternity. Thimble and brook, tolerant of all those tokes I took your rebellious side flattens the yeast of Exodus raspy in its begrudged clapping. But the Pharaoh of the modern world sheltered me under his prickly thorns, shielded me from the sickly things that life adorns. We have the numbers on our side, the weight of destiny on our shoulders, dedicate yourself to yourself and I will preen the most vibrant wisdom and love will leap like Apollo across all borders not for camel-****** hoarders. We are culminated destiny in the wings of the best daydream

A late hour indeed, darkness over land, but
A bright light shines from a moon above
As a shadow sweeps across the surface.
For a moment, it stands emblazoned, precarious
Adumbrated phoenix in the sky,
But it does not flare out.

Sweeping lower, the form resolves,
Alights narrowly on a fine branch.
For a moment, it struggles for balance
But soon it finds a niche, stands true;
Visage of wisdom in the night
But not without flaw

Not the swiftest, lacking in grace
Lost territories in cunctation.
Still, secure in its plumage,
Into the night, ready to fly:
Hunter poised in the trees
It soars aloft

Nearby, another branch inhabited
Not a vision this one, a voice.
A lighter weight, a softer presence
Harmonious to the calm
Tones of beauty to the air
It rings forth

Awhile, this one too struggled
It tried the songs of the mockingbird
Some rang esthetic, others strange,
But now its own song found:
Anthem sung for the heart
Chorus all may hear

Birds of the night. Dark to dawn
Their habits thus have been.
Now with the new morning,
A change in the season;
Mind and Song together to the sky
Light out for the lit horizon …

~D.B. Guy (May 2008)

... it's very hard to absolutely tell
      so much beauty lies therein,
   when,
... a drifting butterfly
alights upon one's
      opened hand
           again,
... if not for all the
beautiful colors,
   arising in the mind within

... life really cannot get weighed
although we always do at first
   when,
... a soul entering through an
      opened womb
alights upon a tiny life unborn
however even
            then,
... it's very hard to absolutely tell
      so much beauty lies therein

... sometimes sweet love itself
is all a loss
and then we pine, cry and groan
wishing a time again,
   when,
... love adrift in the air returns to    
alight upon a shattered heart
      opened to hardly believing
          again,
... if not for all the
beautiful colors,
   arising in the mind within

... for the loss of a living loved which eventually
comes to almost all and one
we are oh so glad
   then,
... for any drifting love of friend or kin
to alight upon one's own
      opened yet broke
heart and soul to live, still
          again,
... it's very hard to absolutely tell
      so much beauty lies therein

... of course before the end of life
upon these rough stumbly shores
If arrival not much too late
all have hope for
   when,
... salvation alights upon an
      opened poor soul
with at first only a wee bit of true
belief of him,  until eternity's
         then,
... if not for all the
beautiful colors,
   arising in the mind within

... eventually breath like all love except
God's love leaves everyone
In the known earthly end
   when,
... a searching death
alights upon as cause of one's  
      opened grave
         even then,
... it's very hard to absolutely tell
      how much beauty lies therein

... Remember too,
a butterfly, a life, a love, a soul
if caught
and grasped too
tight around, this
        then,
... shatters fragile wings,
taking away all and any hope of
soaring flight, of a
a life, a love or a soul,
as a rising butterfly
      opened to the winds,
        when,
... it's very hard to absolutely tell
      so much beauty lies therein
... without all the
beautiful colors,
   arising in the mind within

©  2017 Jim Davis

so quick, so quick--
and it's over in appreciation's bloom
i run and kiss her- glad to be alive with you
adrenaline spread across
the slice of time i am
this life affirmed in downward rush
of vision    swallowing the whole
un    worded     awe
'i cannot be a poet now'

from reading on the drive there:
absurd psychology, it marvels at me
similizing downward flight    to that of two rakshasas thrown
from Angada's leap on Lanka
    palace tower kicked, another symbol falling
likened to Ravana's ego doomed,
ordering to **** that messenger
who revealing imminence alights the fate
of endings we all share,
how could i guess
i blindly follow orders--
the ten-headed ego writhes resistance
at the incapacity in me, the failure  
    to speak    meaningfully,
or trounce the message-bearer
routing through the speech
of others only    intoning at ten thousand feet:
om  earth   sky    cosmos
    contemplating that original love
perfect fullness     within and out
    let us realize our unity
om  peace   peace  peace
at the silence    in the noise
eudaimonic under breath as engine climbs
in moments    (i don't know how i got here)
i chant remembrance into time--
the solar warmth    a touch of ease
amid anticipation's quandary--
he has a helmet    unlike me  
    "Don't let those two mess with you,"
the camera-headed lady says to me before she jumps
her finger wagging    some distant familiarity
of jests to lighten fears    or twirl them in the air--
so cold the wind     and thin to singe the lungs--
his body hanging out the door     waiting for
her flight into his falling grasp    the plane rocks into the slamming door
the door...    is closed again for me to kneel beside
and think of next and after what has come before
    inching    'i love you' at the back of the plane
where crouched the one who whisked me here
in mystery to allow unveiling here today
from reading epic only--gazing down--"no signs" to give away
the open spaces felt and bright  treeless    vast
and getting out of car with closed eyes--
"surprise!" and there sits a plane or twenty over there
and "SKYDIVING" written on the door
which i am happy to dismiss as we walk the other way,
she wouldn't have the guts to surprise me with this--
but yes we turn around and here we are
with sky-crazies in pictures    peace and love on palms
strapped tandem     falling    living     back   still far from earth
we sign the papers under those smiles
faintly listen to the video  squawking 'court of law'
and 'choice of your own free will'
paid and signed away  we harness in and search for fear
windex for the goggles  (but how clearly will i see?)
my ***** are safe from straps or so i think
i'm conscious of the need to quip
and John and Paul--our parachutes--
become a double headed meet-your-maker Pope
for me to flatly joke about.
"Pain is good," says the pilot as
we learn the way to fall
and pile seven in a tiny cockpit,
we're off the ground before i know it
i 'woot' to sign my joy.   as much as to assent
conversations of little more than two lines
keep us feeling human as we swallow
popping in our ears,
--she'll have to keep her gum--
smoke stacks, mines, gray grids of residential scapes
seem to **** the green from curve of earth.
faintly i recall ecology, pulled into the sun
stumbling to cage the meaning of it all
a sentence forms into a trailing nonsense.
my breathing tests the press of straps on waist and chest
deafened, chanting. cease to chant.
the meaning overcome with wonderment beyond my mind.
am i missing something?
thank the pilot as a "Sir,"
"Door!!" "How long?!" "When!?!" --i hear the buckles faintly clicking,
the distance imperceptible a rush
of air i am infused with global letting be
the ball of tight electric fear
a nostril flare of otherworldly falsity--
i am here.
and tilting, instructions gibberish, shouting go! go!!
a kneeling fetal hop into the gust of void
so full the eyelash burns horizonal










.

The blue song bird
mellifluous singer admired
for her songs that melt
even hearts of rock,
riding the crust
of the adoring wind,
swoop,
            down,
                    down,
                              down
wit­hout a thought
suddenly alights,
heroically tries to sit,
on a high tension power line;
yet another of her
impromptu acts like before,
she labors to convince everyone
in a shrill chirping sound
that dangerously she lives
taking life in her own hands.

East wind, her companion tells
she is mistaken; he tries to push
her away from the lethal wire
on which death awaits with its dark hum

"young and wayward bird
you tell me you learn so quickly
from your mistakes, alright
from now and the moment next
lies an unknown chasm
in a jiffy if you decide to fathom it
no time is left for unlearning what it teaches
and reverse your journey
to the winter land  of darkness
from where no migratory bird has ever come back"
The bird so deaf to wind's words,
still hovers above the wire
the wind in warning hums a sad tune aloud.

The cottage is old and the garden trees have overgrown,
The long missed smells of mother’s food…
Oh, what joy to eventually come home!

Shrill morning breaks to the call of crows
As the sun rises from behind prison walls.
A reminder yet again, Light alights in sleeping hours,
Daylight brings hell, the unvoiced tortured wails
Which cry out for the Light.
But it plays tantalizing games at night
And leaves the mornings in the hand of the jailor.
No friend, no foe, no merchant nor sailor
Will ever come to see…
We’re alone in our six square feet cells
Us, and the haunting drum roll of the surrounding sea.

I walk along a path
I do not know
But falter left nor right,
And, welcoming the light
Of birches, still and white
As sleeping snow,

A raven, coat that shimmers
Soft as coal,
Beside me flutters square
And, drawn like to a snare,
Alights upon the air
As on a knoll.

A ripened chestnut, trapped
Within his maw
And hard as ancient ice,
Is tightened by the vise
And shatters at the slicing
Of his jaw

To crumble into dust,
Which quick cascades
And settles, as it slows,
To carefully compose
The shape of raven toes
Where he parades.

The raven flies ahead
And, with a stamp,
His talons take a grip
Atop a wooden tip
Of birches, dead and stripped
To form a ramp.

I stumble after, fixed
Through field of black
As in a telescope,
And, clawing at the *****,
I climb it with a hope
To touch his back

And ****** a hand ahead
Just as he slumps,
Both limp but stiff, to lie
Upon his side and die.
I meet his cloudy eye
Upon the stump,

Then lift my head to find
A willow sprig,
A tendril hanging free
For me to grip. Indeed,
I climb the strip of tree,
The little twig,

And swivel in the air,
As if by choice.
I hear a humming, low,
Resounding from below—
The raven’s eyes, aglow
With Odin’s voice.

Like lightbulbs flicker, dim
with yellow light,
They sharpen with the tones
That bellow from his bones—
This god and poet moans
His heavy spite:

He damns me to the lifetime
of a bird.
My sin, I do not know
But bear the bitter woe
And close my eyes to focus
On this word:

Saṃsāra. So I feel my
Senses spill
Upon the ground
And flood out all around
And swallow every sound
Till all is still.

Behold!
that drawing in
                 of breath
                         a minty
              entanglement
   of starlit senses
How they curl
       like the opposite
               of smoke
over the very
insides
     of my
           earthen throat
                         crackle of
       autumnal breezes          
whooshing through
like a beacon
And in that
split-second
right before
deep freeze
my molecules
   rise and fall
       in the rhythm
            of snowflakes
each one a
unique entity
   dusting the
            solid soil
                with loamy richness
                    and simultaneous
              feather impressions    
           of relief
Now
like silk draped
alabaster
I am cooled
Like sweet
        river water
  I flow
       rocked by
the slow
churn of
growing freedom
             that alights my pores
arises in tender
stillness
     through the
          looming forests
           of my skin
              penetrates the
                  unseen journey of
                     my night
                 as demulcent
          and persistent
as the balmy petals  
of a
   raging,
fiery
    bloom

It is morningtime in the hour that the day’s light shows its hem in the East. It is that time when dream and memory are replaced by invention and desire. Desire to invent, to feel the words form on the page: messages from the heart, an imagined landscape, a different time freshly peopled.
 
The mind’s eye, as though a flying sprite, enters the privacy of home, alights on a child’s pillow, marvels at the untroubled face, the easy limbs still resting in half-sleep before rising. In an adjoining room his parents, aware of night’s echo, stretch and touch, delighting in the comfort of those known places where love and desire visit, made precious through stroke and caress. Her dear head fast into the pillow, his right arm resting lightly across her body, his left folded into her back. He inhales her as though a most delicate incense slowly burning on the mantle shelf, on the altar of this gathered home; beside his glasses, her simple jewellery, the once jasmined vase, cards ascribed with the love of friends and family, endearments, a child’s gay picture, a photograph of a cottage in silhouette against sea and distant mountains, and five stones from different shores, each a talisman, a gateway to a memoried story.
 
Still this still time, this fragile cushioning of quiet before the necessity of movement, the need of thought to plan the must of the day, the have to in this hour or that, the when and then, the care to this and there. Another day beckons in a sharp noise from the street, a car starts, a door slams, away in the vallied distance the hoot of a train.
 
It is warm for a late December day, but against the possibility of damp and cold he takes the necessary gloves and scarf, though wears a lighter coat. He will walk purposefully, though unbreakfasted, through the grey streets, past houses where the lit opaque windows of bathrooms shine, onto the heath land and then into the woods of oak and birch and alder. The trees therein are pilloried hands stretching their gaunt fingers to the whitening sky, still in the still air, almost silent but for the change of the air’s resonance, that particular quality in a wooded space where sounds’ reflections have a confused trajectory: a bird rising at your footfall, its wingbeats echoing a cascade of almost touched finger strokes on a wooden drum.
 
Here in this dank wood the mind is restless; it moves ungraciously between what the senses tell of the now and the interventions of imagination and memory. Her fatigue at the dinner table, the dull green of unberried holly, the description of a woodshed its contents delightfully named, and that short paragraph about the similarity between books and trees (he makes a mental note to learn this: to keep this warm thought close in times of stress). This is why we read he thinks: to gather to ourselves a temporary safety, the consolation of another’s voice, an antidote to loneliness. She is waking he thinks. He can ‘see’ inwardly her movement as she shakes off sleep, raises her eyebrows before opening her eyes, sitting on the bed now (eyes still closed), she stretches her right hand for the juice he brought silently to her bedside, that little action of love borne up two flights of stairs, every footfall carefully tiptoed, to place very slowly, silently next the clock, her bedtime book, a pile of his letters, a scribbled address on a notebook’s torn out page. She will never be so tenderly beautiful as in that moment he so rarely sees but knows and thus imagines. This image reverberates over his moving body and he stops to calm himself, to enjoy for a few seconds this almost-presence of her in an imagined touch of skin to skin, his fingers stroking her naked back as she gathers herself to move.

If I could love, I would take the best of marble and dove,
And craft her eyes like inlaid tombs in stone skyward flight.
Just so, the Egyptian khamsin wind, by way of Rhodes,
Alights with evenness on the trullo stone of Alberobello.
Just so, the weighing of the heart lies between marble and dove.

A flaw in the crystal spire
Of our deeply entwined hearts,
Much like the flaws of corundum,
Alights a ruby's fire.

Aloft upon some distant shore
The seabird sets her wings to soar
The salt sea tang of crested breeze
Or howling gale of winters freeze,
Through oceans, mountainous or not
Or sea Sargasso flat and hot,
In dancing wavelets sparkling clear
Where hunted mackerel school in fear,
Where natives in their dugout boats
Caste out their nets and balsa floats,

That tiny bird will soar adrift
Negotiating each wind shift.
One wonders how a thing so small
Can fly against the wind at all;
But sweep she does and plunge and veer
In gracious symmetry to steer
Across the oceans vastness too,
To land right there, right next to you.
In squawking lightness, dancing swings
Sea bird alights ….and folds her wings.


Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
8th. December 2007

I had a forest tryst
with Amanita,
after it rained,
I went to see her.

Dank and slain,
suited to decompose:
her bed; and as I sank--
in ballet bare-toe
the white angel arose.

She was flawlessly pale,
and 'round her neck,
still, a wedding veil.

She slipped the straps 'round her neck,
befalling her gown at my request,
she slowly turned in place,
for her suitor to inspect,
never did comely beauty,
on Jerusalem bedeck,

On her head sat,
a white knit -cap,
to it her veil was attached,
I could not gaze on her form,
till I got past this piece she worn.

I asked my love,
to doff her bridal wear.
" My love, my groom
wears my chastity belt round my hair."

Then I could not resist,
I brought the veil up,
and gave her a kiss,
a gentle curse,
she spoke to my lips,
in great thirst I sipped,

Alas, then I saw the ring,
she pulled back,
and deep in my eyes she looked in.
through her gown
in the mire I started to sink,

I felt her gown moving through me,
with the poison of her Gothic beauty.
On her spectral white,
not even the fly alights,
I commit suicide twenty times over,
by taking a bite.

She smiled to my fear,
in her eyes, heaps of bones,
and whispered in my ear,
to whom she was betrothed.
"death"

A kite—that's something I would like.
When ground is damp and lambs are born,
The kite floats up to lofty height.
When sky is fleeced and trees are crisp,
The kite is pulled up forks of light.
When brittle leaves are shed and blown,
The kite is thrown into their flight.
When dewy grass is glazed in rime,
The kite on frosty field alights.
When frost creeps over, all is white.

Fat midnight bats feast, gnawing gnats, and flit away serene
      while on the trails in distant dales the lonesome wolverine
            sate appetites as dawn alights and daytime's crystalline.

A migrant feeds on rotting seeds with fingers far from clean
      and thereby’s blessed with barren breast (the easier to wean) -
            her baby ***** an arid flux and fades away unseen.

She is spontaneous poetry, no need to be written,
a dam burst of emotions subtle,on what I float along,
a whirlwind at an unpredictable time of the season
looking for an intimate space to churn and churn and churn.

By now, I know this without her even hinting,
all her dark clouds will rain in torrents nonstop
in to my landscape, sultry, broad and tranquil
I am an open sky, a stage ready for changing realities
a cloudless calm now in meditative expansiveness,
ready to change from dark, cloudy turgidity
to it's contrast, white feathery fluff that's dreamy.

This time round, when she visited,she did lie naked
on my bed supine, looking at me wistfully for a while
in my mind's sky beams of morning sun criss- crossed
all the nine openings of my body tightly shut, I sat meditating.

But I felt her chaotic presence in the energy field spreading,
she hurriedly removed her clothes one by one,smiling
in the buff she alights on my lap,a butterfly on a flower was her,
by and by a sweet heaviness enveloped my *****, in union with hers

I hear the primordial boom of the big bang, refining as an "Om"
travelling sans any medium it goes outwards to expanding universe.
to the 1"Chidakasha" where everything begins and go beyond.

Her storm energy, Tantric, seeks alleviation of existential pain,
I hear my glowing inner eye whispering in  light to the far galaxies,
In one form she is so much, past present and future converged,
She is 2"Mahatripurasundari", great enchantress of the three worlds.
Shakthi, the feminine energy that moves earth, heaven and hell,
Kali, the dark energy, seeking sublimation through catharsis.

On me she moves like a tortoise deliberately,my nervous system reads,
She would defeat the hare and win the laurel, in yogic, trance I discern.

Story Book Land
The awful truth in this world at one point evil put upThis post open season on women and children nowCasey’s trail has provided a predators hand book onHow to avoid jail and punishmentStory Book Land
I would like to speak to the other side of the story in a hovel somewhere in southern Appalachia a young
Mother has left this falling down shack because of fever and delirium she left behind a toddler in this
Cold helpless situation but tonight when she drifts into trembling frigid sleep she feels herself being lifted
By powerful arms the body is huge but immediately she feels a great wave of warmth peace and love
Then she hears the laughter of children many of them as this divine personage sets her feet down she
Alights on this golden concourse then she sees what all the excitement is about this great figure glowing
In white linen is leading the children he walks or glides to her side just as she starts to take his hand she
Sees the nail print she knows who he is her mother sang of him and told her wonderful stories of how
One day they would go to be with him he held her hand firmly with a tenderness that was almost
Overwhelming they had gone a distance he released her hand and said now children go and play among
The wonders created for you and after awhile I will call you follow my vioce it will lead you to a hillside there spread out on the
Rich grasses my little lambs and I will tell you extraordinary wonderful stories so the children turned to
Look what was before them flowers so lush they bathed you in their fragrance their beauty filled you
With awe this was the only the beginning of splendor that knew no end they dashed through the flowers
It was hard to tell who laughed the hardest the flowers or the children then they came to the trees one
Of the older children asked Mr. Pine is it true that on ridges you can make the most beautiful tunes yes
Little one but here it is a little different what songs do you like wheels on the bus this little light of mine
She picked something all together different but he just rolled with it he did it with the finesse of a circus
Clown they all laughed he did many others to their delight then he said children you might like my
Neighbor Mr. Oak he has some delights you might delight in so they rushed to see what they would find
He seemed gruff and stern at first but then when he bowed down sweetly they noticed something funny
About the Spanish moss it was not that at all but a rainbow of flavors all cotton candy every one grabed all
They could get then just a short distance down the rode a sign said critter holler was it by Roberta’s
House ? well off they dashed they loved it immediately because all the animals were just babies young like
Them the mothers and fathers grazed up on the higher lush pastures I will go where he leads I will
Pasture where he feeds me, some of the children were old enough to remember that song a little child
From Florida was just timidly staring and from behind a fawn put his wet cold nose in her hand as it
hung down she squealed with delight a darker child born on the African savanna was drawn like a
magnet to a baby Zebra he played with its mane it playfully shook its head back and forth his smile even
made heaven brighter if that’s possible In life the boy was Maasai a great people his problem he dreamed of being a Maassai warrior
At to tender of an age the lion only knows one law that is **** to live the boys claw marks and bite marks
Vanished from his body as he left the fallen state of earth and traveled to the sacred holiness that is the
Total reality of heaven but as he looked on the baby Zebra he was all Maassai the wonders of his
Birthplace filled him to bursting the little Zebra was his touchstone all of heaven and a piece of earth
Coursed through his veins he will be forever defined on a grander scale so will Caylee for a brief time saw
Grass and palms now glory will endow her with privilege a crown immortal indestructible she wears it
Well it honors Gorge and Cindy her mother will be cleansed by terrible and secret fires best left to the
Purifier who never lets evil go unanswered.
someone saw a handsome man standing at a distance there
wasn’t a mouse with him but could it be Mr. Disney it was a great possibility all things are possible here
earths tears are gone forever and all you will ever know is the greatest peace and love the other side of
the story.

Sway seconds ecstatic bliss
The taste of lime and salt
Skin glows, criss crossed shadows
and a panic of lights.

Shifting music
Rhythm intoxication and
Shifting energy

Boldness alights
like a flock of crows gliding in at dusk,
landing on the shoulders
cast in neon-disco light

They fan feathered-dollar bills
With prospects of revelry and dancing
odes to debauchery and youth
and feigning adoration
from the swaying, neon hips.

Subtle chants and hungry eyes
We deserve this
We deserve this
We deserve--

Disappearing in her act,
She arises, in the fame of a dove
Unburdened and free
in the whitest of lights.

She thinks briefly of flying away.

Hope alights like a new dawn
Springing forth on young legs like a fawn.
We are yet in darkness and despair
So, unseeing, we are not yet aware
Of the light that lies just beyond.
Before too long a new day has dawned.
Hope flies on the wings of tomorrow
Where we begin to let go of our pain and sorrow.
A single ray of light in the darkest night can pierce,
And a single small flame can burn all the more fierce.
Like a river will eventually find its way to the sea,
We follow our hope to the source that makes our hearts free.
Brighter days are soon to come;
Spreading hope to everyone.

I used to be wild
Drunk on my own newly discovered sensuality--and on Drink
Lemon Drops, and Pink *****-Droppers, and *** on the Beach,
and any fruity (sickeningly) mixed (sweet) drink anyone would hand me--but "no coconut!"
Laughing at my friends who were settling down
"You're all getting married, I'm just getting more awesome!"
Feeling so supremely alive
Flaunting my youth and vibrance like an obscure merit badge earned in Girl Scouts
(who would never condone by behavior, by the by)
Thin paper-plastic wristbands with Sharpie dates scrawled on them, and a tagline my only reminder of the night's events
"St. Patty's day"
"Brothers' last night"
"Makeout contest"... yeesh
Whole evenings, and weeks are now a blur, fuzzy from the alcohol? or just the passage of time?
Passing a particular apartment "I think I've been there before, once" and I struggle to remember how that night unfolded
A smile alights my face as some of it comes back, but not all of it; "Did that also happen that night, or was that another time...?"

And then a shift, in power, in gaze
Higher status, higher responsibilities
Higher shoes, (less *****)
The nipping and yapping one another, wearing down a trench around me
A Mother hen mantle settles on my shoulders (at least it's feathered)
And a jaded lens clouds my vision, sadly
My words about others, though never heard, would burn
Arrogant, downright Cruel, for a while
sigh
1am, that's enough for tonight
I'm tired
My bones hurt
I open tomorrow
The feathers are soft, yes, and choking
I look around, "What am I doing here?"
Ten percent of the people here make it worth my while
the rest...
Glitter cuts and scrapes my eyeballs, and I will wear the last vestiges to work tomorrow, no matter how hard I try
To rid myself of the testament to my night life

I want to do more
To Dance more, not police more
To allow more to explore more, and not to judge more
Everyone is worthwhile, and has something to offer
No longer compelled to define myself by the things that I do, or shove my newly-acquired identity in someone's face as means of introduction
To root out the real things that make me feel alive
And truth be told
I want to garden
laughs
I've never wanted to garden before
Wine and cheese with close friends, an adventure-date with my beloved
I'm alive because I'm living
Not because I've been going shot-for-shot for two hours with my best friend
But it's time for the next move
Whether you call it getting old, or settling down, or just "settling"
I call it settling in
To a cozy life I love, filled with only the people and things I love
Anything less, that's "settling"

Well I guess at this stage of my life
It's unlikely Fame will ever find me
Guess I must have missed my Boat,
    sailed off without me
Must have missed my Train too, left
    me standing in the station
(Did I ever really want to go anyway ?)
Probably missed the Bus as well, by
    the look it.

I guess you might say things are
    looking kinda bleak
But y'know, I've been thinking...
    maybe...what if...I wonder ?
Supposing I was to spice things up a
    bit
Add a little controversy to the mix
Like a mischievous Madonna or a
    Prince (R.I.P).

I read somewhere once that some
    artists before they can create
They gotta set a scene first, gotta
    create an atmosphere, a certain
         ambience
So they do weird things, they light
    candles, burn incense
Put on strange music, wear strange
    outfits of clothes.... a favorite hat
         whatever !
Helps put them in an altered state of
    mind.

But y'know Me! No! I don't need to do
    any of that
Me! I just like to keep things simple
    yeah
Me! I just like to, well, I just like to do
    it in the ****
No!!! Not when I'm in the mood
In the ****!! IN THE ****!!!

Yea, I like to get it out when there's no
    one about
There's nothing I like more when I get
    through my front door
Than flinging my clothes off
    everywhere
My knickers they land on a picture,
    my pants their down the hall
My shirt's up on a lampshade, my
    vest's up on the wall
Gotta bare my body before I can bare
    my soul
I like the freedom it affords;
And like a Scotsman and his kilt
I like to wave it around a bit
Till I'm ready to take my seat, my
    Muse for to meet

Descending like some beautiful
    winged Pegasus from the sky
I wait till she alights, then I surprise
    her
I jump on board and ride her
Rising way above the Earth, the two of
    us
Wild and free, with nothing at all
    restraining me
Together we traverse, yea! together we roam, the wondrous skies of the
         Imagination
Like some incredible!...amazing!...
    Lady Godiva!!!

Wait a minute! what's that I hear
    outside my door
A Big Ship's ****** a hollering, a
    Train's whistle a wailing
A Bus's horn too, beep beeping... all
    furiously sounding
And jostling with one another to get to
    my door
Man! Their coming so fast I think their
    gonna crash into one another
All wanting to take me away with
    them, take me away from here
And promising me all kinds of crazy
   wonderful things....

Just goes to show.... But remember
It ain't lewd and it ain't rude
To be a Dude who likes to write in the
    ****
In fact... in fact, it's quite cool
(actually it's very cool Brrrrrrr....hey!
    someone shut that door!).

A pair of crows streaks the skyline. I watch their graceful flight above bare treetops, concrete, and steel constructions, on a backdrop of exhaust fumes.

One crow alights after the other; their claws grip the bars of the signal tower a few feet away from where I wait for the next bus home. I wonder if they built their nest on that giant, manmade constellation of angles . . . From there they would have an exceptional view of the surrounding area, and few predators would dare to go up there.

"I found a dead crow, tangled in a wrought iron gate, once." His voice taps inside the nerve hollows of my mind, and I am unsure if the loud, clicking noises coming from the crows, and the perfectly synchronised squeaking of the bus' brakes, amplify or dampen his tone.

The bus driver greets with his usual, "Hello, Sweetie." I want him to be the bus driver, instead. He would never be late, he said. He wouldn't make me wait for what sometimes seems like an eternity. I mumble an almost-civil reply, biting back tears as I stumble forward against the pull of the engine to flop down on the nearest seat. I avoid eye contact with the other commuters; my gaze fixed to their reflections on the windowpane -- doppelgängers obscuring my vision -- a zeitgeist of movements . . . "Don't look at the window, look through it, silly . . . and don't miss me, I am just far away . . ." I always miss him more when he says that.

The coral trees are in full bloom, adding robust warmth to the faint copper glow of the winter sunset. Are their flowers the same vermilion colour as the 'fire tree' in his garden? Above the coral trees, I spot a pair of magnificent wings: a sacred ibis . . .

Fly south with me, Sacred Ibis. You are a goddess. White wings, neatly trimmed with a pearly black hem . . . when will you come down again, so I can show him what Isis really looks like? I won't be able to capture your image in flight, although he would love to see you like this -- spread-eagle . . .

The Ibis remains within view until we reach the nature reserve at the foot of the mountain. Here, the road forks into choices; I have but one -- keep left. The driver has a heavy foot and the next stop is mine. I get up from my seat and stumble down the narrow aisle towards the nearest exit, my hand tightening around a canary-yellow handlebar as I brace myself for the ****.

The hydraulic hiss of the opened doors spit at my heels. I leap from the bus, onto the pavement; my feet meet the concrete -- a long, silver-grey slab, slapped onto dry, red clay -- with a thud, dust settles on my coat in a whirlwind of the bus' departure.

Pigeons. Too many to count. They line the flat roofs of smog-stained, one- and two-storey buildings. Could they be soldiers? "No, my Love. Doves and pigeons are peacekeepers . . . and there is war in the Gaza Strip . . ." Yes, but what about the buildings? I walk on, thinking about the mourning dove he nursed; the one that followed his smoke rings . . .

We found an abandoned laughing dove squab last summer -- he, or she, made it. Sam was hand-reared, survived, and flew away on one of those bright summer's afternoons . . .

At the corner, I wait for the dust to settle further and the traffic light to turn green -- there are always those who don't need saving.

Turn right.

The Chinese maples are bare. Their deep-red autumn leaves have returned to the earth for redemption.

An Egyptian goose honks, calling his mate from the top of the church tower on the other side of the road. Perhaps, after so many chance encounters, he recognises me while he spreads his wings, flapping them slowly, without rising from his position, in what I imagine is a display of empathy.

I notice that I'm standing on the same patch of lawn where I found the barn owl's feather, months ago. Owl feathers ought to be kept in the dark, away from the day birds'. . . In the distance; I see the grove of pagoda trees that lead the way home -- beacons, providers and protectors. I follow. 

An assortment of feathers, haphazardly stuck into the wooden frame of the French doors, welcomes us home; fragments of unlocking and entering are placed on the dining table where we do everything.

Textbooks, dictionaries, software manuals, bird guides, the salt- and peppershakers -- guano has lost its value; it's all pink, organic Himalayan crystal salt, now. My children's empty cereal bowls were left on the table in the morning rush; they remind me of the years we have to catch up to -- I dissolve gunpowder pillulets under my tongue: Homeopathic medicine for this virus.

Balance -- like the flamingo, or the blue crane in the bird-guide-photos. On one leg, I reach for the light switch . . .

He glows in the weak ambiance -- electric bulbs cast a sepia vignette that invokes the scent of burning rose petals -- something akin to the gestalt of Rama, or a Buddha in blue . . .

Supper is a bland affair; I think of the Krishna temple I haven't visited in over a decade. How do they do it? Serve such exquisite meals on donations (feed the masses and the masses will feed you) . . .

Dishwater drips from my hands and runs down the inside of my arms as I absent-mindedly reach for the crow's feather, hidden in between the wrought iron candleholders on top of the grocery cupboard -- a gift or a donation?
 
I have donated my life to causes and movements, as a bird gifts its feathers to the earth, and to feather collectors, but will it be enough to sustain our future?

 

Aug/Sept 2014

She was fire, I was water
And we made sweet condensation
The day, the month we met.
She turned me into steam,
Pure steam, in April, no less.
I quenched her raging thirst (I won’t forget)
We drank each other’s smoke
And sparked up *** and cokes
I took her fizz for fire
She took my ironic dampness for jokes.

At first,
All was elemental
And if she burned the bread I called it toast
And if water weighed her down we just got soaked
I did not try to put her out
She did not try to make me burn.

We’re not so different, said the fire,
One day to the water
I could see this month ignite,
Make a bonfire of our lives
We could sit there like a house on fire
Extinguished and set alight at the same time
I flowed around the idea and warmed to it
So I moved in and every day
I put the fire out that she had made
And every night she blazed
The oases that my love had made.
Until one evening Fire said,
While water brushed his teeth,
“Turn off the tap”.
And water, being fairly fluid in his actions
Did in fact for five years turn off that tap
In front of her at least, but behind her back…
I let it run,
                  let it go
                                 let it flow
                                                  flow
                                                      
                                                       flow
                
                                                        flow

                                                             !!!!

And it was not until the 1000th time
That something clicked
And the millioneth drip overflowed the empty sink
And I responded to her claim:
“We’re not so same.” I said.
She, understandably, had not consumed the context
As we’d just been talking about a friend in massive debt
Because of negative equity.
But now the tap was on,
“I’ll brush the teeth in this relationship
Or I’ll be ******!” Water flowed.
The tap was gushing now, the mirror fogged -
The drains were leaking back up out the bog
“For one thing, fire’s not a thing –
Me? I’m hydrogen and oxygen too
But you? You’re no thing, no thing at all.”
“What?” She said.
I couldn’t understand
How she didn’t understand.
I flowed right on down… right on down to land –
I was seeking earth, not fire, earth!
I’d been seeking earth all my life
And not realized until tonight – that night – tonight.
“And for a second thing – Fire’s so loud!
Crackling! Always with the constant crackle
Always eating, heating or causing hassle
Everything’s a hazard or an all-consuming passion
If we just kept calm, it could all be fine
But your fiery fingers always dialing 999.

“Right.” She said. “I see where you’re going here –
You’re saying I’m like fire – FIRE?!”
I said, Jeez we’re 3 pages in already,
I was hoping that much was clear.”
“FIRE?” She bellowed.
“Fire?” She scorched.
“******, he wrote.” I said.
“What are you talking about?” She asked.
“Just a poem I’m writing – it was a funny line, trust me.”
“Says Mr. Water?” She says, looking over my shoulder,
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“You might,” I say. “Anyway, Mr Water, what do you mean?”
“I don’t know, you wrote it, perhaps you can tell me.”
“You meant, by what I wrote, that water’s not known for jokes,
It’s too clear and see through to cause a face poke”
“And that’s the best water-related joke that you know?”
“No. But you just remember who is writing the poem.” I say,
Expecting a laugh.
No laugh.

Then she apologized and very humbly gave me the floor.
After (storming off upstairs and slamming the door and) pointing out
That all water does is sit around
And weigh things down
Making clothes darker and heavier
Surrounding everything with its slowly moulding love
And rather than consuming it up
Firing it up
Sparking it up
Burning and blazing ‘n
Combusting it up!
Water sits.
On what it loves
Which is down
And weighs it down with love
Envelopping it from sides and above
Surrounding it from five sides
And leaving only one way out for its victim –
Down.

I thought around it while she fried herself in perspiration
And I could see how she was not wrong
And I could see how she was not right
For I could see that I clearly was water
And I could see all sides – “I can see.” I said,
And should have left it there, “everyside of what you say –
I can see everything but your true… bottom.

Now when fire alights on bottom,
No thought can put it out
So we rejoin the action
An unspecified –but quite long- time later.
And when the steam settles,
Not much has changed.
The conversation resumes, Ground-hog style,
Ground-hog style, a year later, in a different flat.
“At least I have some substance!”
And again comes the tide I cannot hold back –
“At least I am a thing, I can be happy, I can be,
I’m not just a process, just an action, with an appetite for trees.
I’m not afraid of silence either.”
“Afraid of it? You saturate it!
You smother everything in silence
That’s why you like the snow –
I like the kind of weather that makes
Strangers take off all their clothes.
I like the crackle of the campfire
I like the chatter of friendly teeth in need of heat
I am ambitious, I need the next thing to consume
And yes I like being high and aiming higher –
With you it’s always down down down.
Sitting down,
Calming down,
Going down…
And when she said those magic words
I took the heat that I had heard
And channeled it like she could never do
Being a process and not a thing like me.
Channels are made of things directing process
I took her heat and channeled it
And all because
Those magic words
Going down.
No one likes a love that is damp she said
And so I made her fire wet
And all the while, during, after
We lay and drank in pools of laughter
We were liquid fire flowing
Every night the bed an ocean
The weather inside, hmm… snowing
Warm snowballs of love
Snowflakes of love
Snowflakes of fire
“Higher” She scorched, “ take me higher!”
“No you go down –“ I heard it spoken
And just like that the spell was broken.

I rippled, reflecting the ceiling for a while
In a silence even I could not contain
She processed the surroundings, the curtains, the rain
And burned them back to ash again.
An hour passed.
I was betting that she
Would internally combust
Before I drowned myself
To death in silence
Another hour passed
Slowly.
Ever so
Slowly. Not fast,
But slowly.

Then luckily,
12hrs passed in no time at all for me
In fact, I only awoke because my ears were burning me.
“Have you been asleep all this time?” they sizzled.
“Sorry,” I said, before I’d even had a chance
To remember the argument
And with that rather C-list magic word,
The matter was moderated, thirst quenched, problem passed.

Water sat there boiling.
Fire fumed there drenched.

“I’m not sure I can do this much longer.”
Said water to fire.
“I feel I am spreading myself too thinly on you.”

“You are.” Said fire.

“I don’t like being spread thin.
I see less of the world reflected
In my shrinking puddle.

“Light up my life again!” She burned.
“I can not.”
“Will not.”

“Will not is cannot.”

“Cannot is not will not.”


“Cannot is not will not does not make sense.”



“Does.”
“Does not.”
“Agree to differ?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”

“Stalemate.”

“What?”

­…

“You’re
  
         draining away from me.”

…

    
                                 smoke.”
                               in
“You’re going up


And with that, one morning, they both woke up.


Alone…

Telescope
looks through the
distance
alights
on hope,
focuses.

Eyeglass,

I pass through the scope and
***** for the video switch
there's a hitch.
this is no prerecording
so I look back on in
to
the telescope
all hope gone,
dismal back on.

Binoculars are better
an 'i' is just
one letter.

(note - This is a haibun; a Japanese writing form that combines haiku with prose.)*

Two days on the road, two thousand miles on my motorcycle. Hard miles; my *** so sore that every bump in the road brings biting pains up my back and down my legs.

I’m riding alone. No highways. No hotels. Camping in fields and eating in greasy diners. Seeing the America not available to the Interstate. The real America. I’m rough riding across the continent and this isn’t a mid-life crisis. I’m on a mission.

There’s been a ghost haunting me for five years. And yesterday, somewhere on the back roads of Nebraska, I left that ghost, the ghost of my cancer, behind. The specter of death that lingered on me, over me, and around me after excision of the tumors is finally gone.

Contrary to opinion, ghosts are heavy. With mine gone, I ride through the night – the stars and my newfound peace my sole companions. I stop only when the false dawn begins to turn into the real thing.

serpentine road
​curves into the sun;
  my throttle opens

The country diner I find myself in front of welcomes both me and the morning sun. I’m tired, sweaty in my leathers, and covered in road dust as I enter. And I’m deaf, the roar of the road is still loud in my ears.

I tell the waitress I take my coffee black – as black as my soul. My joke falls flat; what comes from my mouth is a rough growl, thanks to a dry throat. It earns me dark looks from the other diners. The ***** biker with no manners.

I have a moment of tired reflection and then I get a visitor to my table. An old lady, dressed in her Sunday best, moves with slow deliberation and takes an unexpected seat across from me. Her frail hands wrap my grimy ones in a cool and gentle grip.

Her eyes, framed by a wrinkled face that smooths as she smiles at me, capture mine before she bows her head and prays loud enough for all to hear. “Lord, please help this young man find his way. He’s lost, alone, and needs your guidance to help cleanse his heart and his soul.”

She kisses my hand and, without another word, stands again. There’s a reverent silence as we all watch her sit back down at her table and take a bite of her breakfast as if nothing exceptional had just occurred.

I look out the window as the rising sun reflects off of my bike, thinking that, here, maybe it wasn’t really that exceptional at all.   And thinking; lady – I’m not lost; I’m finally finding myself again.

red cardinal
alights upon my bike –
  notices me

In different men beat different hearts
O, love alights on many boughs.
Our fires burn whole worlds apart
Enamored well but not avowed.

O, love alights on many boughs
And branches sway in violent storm.
Enamored well but not avowed
The wind rocks branches, bark is torn.

And branches sway in violent storm
So suffered men embrace in shame.
The wind rocks branches, bark is torn
And heads of state denounce their names.

So suffered men embrace in shame
To swallow judgement, dim and slant.
And heads of state denounce their names
For fear they too hold sinful hands.

To swallow judgement, dim and slant
Abnormal partners yet still wait.
For fear they too hold sinful hands
The ruling men keep vice at bay.

Abnormal partners yet still wait
Not biting back but biding time.
The ruling men keep vice at bay
Too thick to see past party lines.

Not biting back but biding time
Our fires burn whole worlds apart.
Too thick to see, past party lines,
In different men beat different hearts.

                    -c. c. Condry

The winter has set in early; monsoon a memory now,

the trees are all dusty by the all-day din.

This morning, the taxis ply early, eager to get the office-goers in.

Tea fumes in the mist.

The lady in the bungalow alights from her car

with her child, early from school.

Vegetables still asleep on the pushcart.

An eighties number mingles with the wind.

A van loaded with kerosene cans parks at the gates:

there is a tenement at the basement.

Japanese temple trees no longer line the way home.
I left them behind.
But my mind still strolls that avenue,
and I still see
the light catching on the bare branches
and the sparse leaves of Autumn in The Grove.

The Woodhoopoes are still nesting
in the temple trees next to the gate
I don't enter anymore.
Their iridescent plumes
still shimmer green and blue
as their vermilion scimitar bills chatter
in the to-and-fro, to-and-fro
sway of their familial ritual.
What cacophony when one has won
itself a fat gecko—the chicks won't go hungry.

I left the haphazardly arranged feathers
in the wooden frame of the French doors
I no longer unlock and enter.

The two cereal bowls
left on the table
where we did everything
have been reduced
to one.
And the table simply is.  

Now I work among veteran soldiers—
Old Pigeons with crooked feet
caused by all the lines
they've crossed, all the twines
they've tangled with, but Pigeons,
they survive without their feet.

And instead of temple trees,
buildings line the way home—
concrete and steel constructions
among long ribbons of asphalt and . . .

From a distance,
up on the third storey,
it looks like a jungle out there,
but no, on the ground,
up close, it is just human.

I still keep the Owl's feather away from the day-birds',
but I no longer collect more feathers.

No, instead, I tuck symbolic quills behind my ear.

Sagittarius serpentarius

The image of the Secretarybird towers
over the rest of the symbols
on the Official Documents I peruse.
Contracts.
I walk away, tucking the quill.

In the land of the blind, there is a one-eyed rule:
close the other eye.  

I feel the rhythm of keys beneath icy fingers,
eyes tearing from the glare of the monitor,
retracted quills rising—  
unseen antennae erected on the back of my neck—
a human lie detector.

Type, type, type:
repudiation,
subrogation,
violation . . .

Hit the letters with the power of the word.

Noisy little twitter-bird to my left,
on top of her office chair,
she’s raucous like a hysterical Mynah:

"****-****-****-****...**** everything!!!"

Absconding the scene,
I stamp, stamp, stamp
AR numbers, CAS numbers, verified.

The African masks behind my workstation:
ugly metaphors for who I really am.

Sagittarius serpentarius

A Marching Eagle,
the Devil's Horse,
the Secretarybird;
sitting in a concrete cage,
my youngest would've died of starvation,
so I let her fly a long way from home,
but nonetheless home
with her Lily-Pad-Walker father.

Jesus-bird,

With legs like a crane but scalier,
a Marching Eagle doesn't walk on water.
It stands close to the grassland fire,
waiting for its prey.
Then stomping.
Then crushing bones.
Then swallowing whole.

Balance is unnecessary.
Just bend and kick,

backwards.

Saqr-et-tair: hawk-bird, hunter-bird.

He said his heart was a dreaming Red Hawk
whose eyes he wouldn't let me see,
and Bukowski's heart was a Blue Bird of pain.
I said I didn't know
what sort of bird lived in mine,
but it dreamt the same dream:
giant wings
breaking out of its ribbed cage . . .
long runway . . .
long runway. . .
then slow, deep *****
of----------of-----------of------------of----------------of
bad weather and . . .

I fear the day it tires of dreaming.

Offices. Soldiers. Pigeons.

I slip gunpowder pillulets under my tongue:
Homeopathic medicine for this virus.

There is a Barn Owl in my mirror,
steamed up. I dream
a ****** of Crows
alights on my brow,
but I am too feverish to catch them.
Too weak.
I dream a ****** of Crows
rising from the loquat tree
where my eldest was born,

across the road . . .

I watch them
from the third storey of a collection of cages,
and I know
this building
is a cold-hearted-thirty-three-eyed-soldier
with a dog tag for a tongue,
and a contract
bound to the crooked feet of the Pigeons I didn't feed.

Magpie alights on the eaves
tonguing a bitter wild berry
***** head left,
right,
decides against this spot
and relocates to a new one
out of sight.

Autumn happened today,
again.
Same as every year.
I was under the shade of the porch,
coffee in hand,
and smelt a change in the taste of the wind.
It's been at least ten degrees cooler
and I've donned the first piece of warm clothing
since April.

Magpie perches on the red wooden
fence on my right,
still gently squeezing that berry-
as if testing its ripeness.
Head ***** left,
head ***** right,
magpie flies away.

The leaves will start to turn this week.
Maybe next.
My coffee is lukewarm now,
same as the air.

Magpie sits in the yard
and carefully sets his lunch down,
prods his beak into the soil,
picks it back up,
and buries it for later.
Magpie flies away.

A rush of cold air sweeps through me.

Same as every year.

I rise and walk,
mug in hand,
back inside.

I’ve sat on a bare-damp chair.
out on the North deck
where the moss blurs the lines
between itself and algae and lichen
and me.  Me, who wouldn’t know such a line
if it were less blurred...I’m not so sharp as all that.


I set my glasses down on a stone table.
Beside the cold-soon tea.
I watch the wind coming, first through the reeds.
And then shifting the banana leaves.
And soon the birch curtain crowding out my
writing place.  My righting place.

The labyrinth is hosting some flowers.  A dragonfly alights on an altar of crystal
and stone and birch branch.  And offerings.  
The dragonflies seems to (me to) re-write spider lines
or maybe ley lines.  A frog just leaped from a tree past my feet.
I’ve lost my word lines, my throughline.
This frog is now in the leaves by the ivy under the bees.
Looking so green.  Leaf droppings dropping on its head.
It’s green head.  Like an emerald in a mountain’s side.

Now a rustle.  Just beyond.  But not that far.  Like feet away.  But beyond.
Another distance.  Another limit.  Another world.  A bank-robbery escape-mode
Squirrel is making off with what it made off with from the free-to-all and undefended
(and legal, too) pear tree in the far yard.  It leaped upon the birch trunk and then, startled to find me unstartlingly well...just here.  And unstartled.  Paused to set its claws in bark.
It teeth gripping as fifth grip the rind of an unripe pear, its size, if I might compare,
the size of its head without the ears, without the hair.  This unrepentant squirrel leaped                  from
     here
to
     there
all of which was over there but just there so basically here.  (Just not here here, more there.)  It found its place to contemplate me.  To observe.  It made no offer.  But of itself.  Which, really, is all that we can do.  It chuffed a few times but it seemed to me that this was more to do with why-not-give-this-a-try-but-I-don’t-know-why.  It’s belly flush to gray birch bark.  It’s tail extended, and caught by a breeze that the leaves were not informed of.  A deceiving breeze.
Soon - which wasn’t soon, it was minutes - the squirrel scrambled up the birch and branch-to-branched its way to overhead and then out of sight.  I may have smelled of peanuts as I’d just emptied a jar.  I may have been the deceiver.  I may be the lone believer that I might know at all.

The frog hasn’t yet moved.


Something is buzz-whistling.  In the grass?  The trees?  The soil?  The sound rises and the tone
shifts.  The pitch lifts.  I cannot say if it is insect.  I cannot say if it is amphibian.  I cannot say if it is electric and thus man and thus unwelcome.  Cicada?  Frogs?  A hummingbird just fooled me into thinking I knew something about speed.  Something about color.  Something about birds.
Something about Nature.  Something about need.  Something about life.  Something about something about my self.  A partial-second lesson.  The teacher came and went.  The teachings stayed behind in mind.  I have so much work to do.

The far birch, placed in the yard for a long-ago dog
seems to offer up a peach harvest this year.
(At least when my glasses are off.)
The landscaper says that all the birches are yellowing this summer
this year this near to the midsummer and this far from the far flung
and far colder cold slumber of December and November and October.

The blue spruce has a still-for-the-first-time-this-season small flock
of oriole.  Or sunset-breasted, warbler wren throated tipped somethings.
I count seven.  Or six.  No, eight.  Wait.  Nine.  Uh, now eight.
Oh, there’s one!  Oh, no matter.  There’s some.
Too flighty and flittery each blur-glance I’ve had all year.  And I've tried each time
to secure them (sharply) in my lens.

The ducks converse as they arrive at the pond’s far edge.  About to traverse the
turtle-hiding waters, the en-flowered pond’s surface, the distance between heard and seen.
I reach for my glasses.  The birch leaves in yellow have fallen and lied.  Belied to believed.
There are no birds in the tree.  That I can see.  That I care to see.  Autumn come early.

A hawk glides past my edge-of-can’t-quite-see.  It’s loping-like arc its own pleasure...to me.
And, I imagine, it.  The meadow is blushing in purple, ironweed.  The jewelweed, too is a star-field of twinkling orange.  A constellation by day.  A bowl by the winter-blooming something (jasmine?) is concentrically coming awake as drip drip drippings are drop drop dropping.  A yellow-spiked caterpillar treks through the detritus of the unkempt bits of the beside-the-garden which isn’t so much a garden as a place I once planted and once planned.  A spider fast-ropes down to investigate and, as it happens, to pester.  The caterpillar twists and tumbles.  Righting itself, it plods on in its stretch-curl way as the spider ascends to the invisible upper home in its way.  The frog hasn’t moved but I notice and note its **** has two bumps.  Like its bulbous eyes in its front which, as I notice and note is spear-shaped as is its hind.  I wonder at defenses.  It is still.  It still is still.  It’s stillness is still stilling.  Until...I move on.  My fastest is not footed but mindful.  Not mindful but of mind.  I am of a mind to move the mind along.  The caterpillar closes the distance.  What a distance to it it must be.  It’s face is black as an undersea shadow.  It has spikier spikes of black here and there.  Likely in some pattern but my mind has moved and so, here and there it will be.  My story.  My pattern.  My refusal to change.

The mushrooms where the spider met the yellow fellow, though.  Sesame-seeded.  Decorated.  Pimpled.  Bejeweled.  A tawny cup beside a stone behind the frog.  Soft mustard-dotted.  But now!  A new frog where the old new frog had been.  This one a leopard toad.  I think.  (I shouldn’t think.)  Browns upon browns with stripes and blots and dots.  Tans and browns.  At the end of the birch twig is now the first frog.  The green-headed bumpy-butted one.  The leopard in tiger lily patches watches the caterpillar (a different one?) clamber though the unswept unkempt.  

The frog, beside me in ceramic keeps time for the timeless.  The throat bellowing.  As though feeding a fire somewhere where Earth is turned to plow.  We all make our own ends, don’t we?

XXI. TO APOLLO (5 lines)

(ll. 1-4) Phoebus, of you even the swan sings with clear voice to
the beating of his wings, as he alights upon the bank by the
eddying river Peneus; and of you the sweet-tongued minstrel,
holding his high-pitched lyre, always sings both first and last.

(l. 5) And so hail to you, lord!  I seek your favour with my
song.