if i focus on numbers the passion it fades. focus on lines and the colors turn gray. how do i balance? i want back my vision! the surge of creative that grants me my wisdom. if i focus on dates, on filling a schedule: i don't smell the flowers or notice their yellow. i don't cry so easy, my shell becomes tougher. i react much quicker, i act like my mother. i think green. i think thin. i clench my fists YOU CAN'T COME IN. i don't want to feel. why do i choose artificial//real?

Whether in Montreal, where she was born and raised, or in Delhi, where her award-winning brasserie sits, the stylish chef’s love for gastronomy has always run deep. She came to India to chase her passion about eight years ago, after leaving behind an engineering career and having trained at the esteemed ITHQ (Institut de tourisme et d’hôtellerie du Québec). In 2014, she introduced unusual combinations like oysters with charred onion petals, tamarind puree, and rose vinegar when she became the first Indian chef to be invited to host a solo dinner at the James Beard House in New York City. Also presented there was her very own coffee-table book called Eating Stories, packed with charming visuals, tales and recipes.

In pursuit of narratives

“I am studying Ayurveda so, at the moment, I’m inspired by the knowledge and intuition which comes with that, but otherwise I completely live for stories. Those of the people around me — of spices, design forms, music, traditions, history and anything else I feel connected to.”

Culinary muse

“I truly believe that nature is perfect, so I feel privileged to use the ingredients that it provides, while adding my own hues, aromas and combinations…it feels like I get to play endlessly every day.”

After-work indulgence

“My favourite places to eat at are Cafe Lota and Carnatic Cafe in Delhi, and Betony and Brindle Room in NYC.”

Dream dish

“This salad I created called ‘secret garden’. It’s so beautiful to look at and has such a unique spectrum of flavours…all while using only the freshest, most natural produce to create something completely magical.”

Reception blooper

“Most people make the mistake of over-complicating the menu; having too much diversity and quantity. Wastefulness isn’t a good way to start a life together.”

A third-generation entrepreneur from a highly distinguished culinary family, she runs a thriving studio in Khar where state-of-the-art cooking stations and dining tables allow her to conduct a variety of workshops and sessions. Her grandfather is remembered as the man who migrated from Africa to London to found the brand that brought curry to the people of the UK — Patak’s. She took over as brand ambassador, having trained at Leiths School of Food and Wine and taught at one of Jamie Oliver’s schools in London. What’s more, Pathak is also the author of Secrets From My Indian Family Kitchen, a cookbook comprising 120 Indian recipes, published last year in the UK.

Most successful experiment

“When I was writing recipes for my cookbook, I had to test some more than once to ensure they were perfect and foolproof. One of my favourites was my slow-cooked tamarind-glazed pork. I must have trialled this recipe at least six times before publishing it, and after many tweaks I have got it to be truly sensational. It’s perfectly balanced with sweet and sour both.”

Future fantasy

“As strange as it sounds, I’d love to cater my own wedding. You want all your favourite recipes and you want to share this with your guests. I could hire a caterer to create my ideal menu, but I’d much prefer to finalise and finish all the dishes myself so that I’m supremely happy with the flavours I’m serving to my loved ones.”

Fresh elegance

“I’m in love with microgreens for entertaining and events…although not a new trend, they still carry the delicate wow factor and are wonderfully subtle when used well. I’m not into using foams and gels and much prefer to use ingredients that are fuss-free.”

This advertising professional first tested her one-of-a-kind amalgams at The Lil Flea, a popular local market in BKC, Mumbai. Her Indian fusion hot dogs, named Amar (vegetarian), Akbar (chicken) and Anthony (pork), sold out quickly and were a hit. Today, these ‘desi dogs’ are the signature at the affable home-chef-turned-businesswoman’s cafe-***-diner in Bandra, alongside juicy burgers, a fantastic indigenous crème brûlée, and an exciting range of drinks and Sikkim-sourced teas.

Loving the journey

“The best part of the job is the people I meet; the joy I get to see on their faces as they take the first bite. The fact that this is across all ages and social or cultural backgrounds makes it even better. Also, I can indulge a whim — whether it is about the menu or what I can do for a guest — without having to ask anyone. On the flip side, I have no one to blame but myself if the decision goes wrong. And, of course, I can’t apply for leave!”

Go-to comfort meal

“A well-made Bengali khichri or a good light meat curry with super-soft chapattis.”

What’s ‘happening’

“This is a very exciting time in food and entertaining — the traditional and ultra-modern are moving forward together. Farm-to-fork is very big; food is also more cross-cultural, and there is a huge effort to make your guest feel special. Plus, ‘Instagram friendly’ has become key…if it’s not on Instagram, it never happened! But essentially, a party works when everyone is comfortable and happy.”

A word to brides

“Let others plan your menu. You relax and look gorgeous!”

This Le Cordon Bleu graduate really knows her way around aromas that warm the heart. On returning to Mumbai from London, she began to experiment with making small-batch ice creams for family and friends. Now she churns out those ‘cheeky’ creations from a tiny kitchen in Bandra, where customers must ring a bell to get a taste of dark chocolate with Italian truffle oil, salted caramel, milk chocolate and bacon and her signature (a must-try) — blue cheese and honey.

The extra mile

“I’ll never forget the time I created three massive croquembouche towers (choux buns filled with assorted flavours of pastry cream, held together with caramel) for a wedding, and had to deliver them to Thane!”

Menu vision

“For a wedding, I would want to serve something light and fresh to start with, like seared scallops with fresh oysters and uni (sea urchin). For mains, I would serve something hearty and warm — roast duck and foie gras in a red wine jus. Dessert would be individual mini croquembouche!”

Having been raised by big-time foodie parents, the strongest motivation for their decision to take to this path came from their mother, who had two much-loved restaurants of her own while the sisters were growing up — Vandana in Mahim and Bandra Fest on Carter Road. Following the success of the first MeSoHappi in Khar, Mumbai, the duo known for wholesome cooking opened another outlet of the quirky gastro-bar adjoining The Captain’s Table — one of the city’s favourite seafood haunts — in Bandra Kurla Complex.

Chef’s own

AA: “We were the pioneers of the South African bunny chow in Mumbai and, even now, it remains one of my all-time favourites.”

On wedding catering

PA: “The most memorable for me will always be Aarathi’s high-tea bridal shower. I planned a floral-themed sundowner at our home in Cumballa Hill; curtains of jasmine, rose-and-wisteria lanterns and marigold scallops engulfed the space. We served exotic teas, alcoholic popsicles of sangria and mojito, and dishes like seafood pani puri shots and Greek spanakopita with beetroot dip, while each table had bite-sized desserts like mango and butter cream tarts and rose panna cotta.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2016 | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

they keep asking me if I'm 'okay'
and i can't say no because look at this,
a flawless facade drawn
with such vivid accuracy that the
picture is a photograph and I can
see myself in that mirror with my
perfect smile and life all ready
to be burned down to the skeleton in
my own fight for the freedom of man

and how can i deny the fact that I am
utterly miserable with this fleeting grin
and crying laughter that makes people wonder
if someone is dying in the next room over
when the disease is a cold and they have cancer
you know they can hear your sadness and they
are currently flying through their own darkness
to find the strength to strangle you until you cry no more
but it only makes you grow colder

the only proof for 'okay' is the words
that blare out like a speaker on repeat
because this face can't let them hear my cracking porcelain ;
not the little dying girls down the hall.

I imagine myself
A few gentle decades older.
Finally grasping the cusp
Of success.
Living in my own apartment
In New York City, nonetheless.
Wearing an Armani coat
(Whatever those look like.)
Walking idly yet prestigiously
Through winter in the city.
Taking care not to laugh too loud,
Talk to myself, smile too much.
A small, attractive female
Has to be serious to get ahead.
Customers will buy from a happy girl
Only if she is early 20's, at most.
That is Marketing 101.
I am a small fish in a large sea;
The principles of Darwinism
Still apply to me.
I've learned long ago to succeed,
I must stifle the welcoming smile.
So along the familiar concrete
I stride,
Carefully manicured hands
In pockets.
The Filipinos know better
Than to rush on the hands
Of a businesswoman caressing
A successful career.
She tips well and lives well.
I walk along with cool calm
And feminine grace.
I have regained the safety
To be feminine once again.
The criminals know better
Than to infiltrate
The Business district
And cause trouble
To working professionals
In Armani coats.
I imagine myself a few decades older.
Kissing snowflakes unenthusiastically.
Yes, I marvel in poetry, in Nature,
But I have matured
Much like the snowflakes themselves.
At the end of a cycle,
No matter how beautiful.
My actions flow gracefully and delicately.
I melt into New York City
Like a cell in a body.
Pumping fuel into the *****
To sustain the mass.
A tumor.
I smile subtly as I slosh along.
I recall, once upon a time,
On my lower-class youth.
***** jokes, crude dancing,
And cluttered apartments.
I approach the high-rise building
I call home and greet the doorman
With the obligatory disregard
For his innermost being.
Poetry truly is in the strangest of places.
Even in an enigma like me.
I enter the marble floors,
Wiping my feet,
My rent as sky-high as
The building itself.
Elevator. Comforting motion sickness.
This is success.
The pit of my stomach sinks.
I tell myself it's the motion sickness.
I return to my apartment,
With its symmetrical details.
My thoughts return to you.
You've never stepped foot in my home,
But you've always been here with me.
I get dinner started.
I set out the extra glass, like always.
Rituals like these serve
As my Sunday mass.
I drink your glass with my evening medication.
Dare I say like always?

I see Beauty in a *******,
Whose feelings you cannot convolute.
I see a Businesswoman in a *******,
A **** with brains, destitute
she made a business plan.
At least she did business studies and
accounting at school, sells her body to earn,
A living.
I see a princess in a *******,
because no man can resist her.
You know when she starts curling her hair
Even Pastors *******,
then we bring the Saints Holiness into debate.
Have you ever seen a ******* aspirate
"I want you" ?
****! Her voice alone gives ****** healing,
Arouses ****** feelings,
Pumps vessels, frightened by the spark in her
eyes, hormone adrenalin give your heart rate a
fast accelerating beatings.
I see charisma in a *******.
Married men,leave their wives in bed and
creep to the streets corner just to cuddle with
prostitutes, it was I who said, there's beauty in
a *******.
I see Beauty in a *******.
I've seen Loyalty in a *******,
Yes I did. How? What do I mean?
Because she ***** all men in the same manner
and charge them all the identical amount.
That is Loyalty man.
I said, I see Beauty in a ******* and
I wasn't lying.
There is Beauty in a *******,
The Beauty that makes Preachers at church
retire,
The Beauty that make married men divorce,
The Beauty that makes Jay Z forget Beyonce,
The Beauty that makes Julius Malema forgets
his political position
The Beauty that makes Jesus Christ want to
come back, to save his descendants from sin.
The Beauty of a *******,
Men have seen it.

A pale homemade dress hung to dry in the blazing sun;

It's original color not quite clear but presumably purple.

That stain that never faded, a spot of innocence...

I closed my eyes and remembered the night she wore it,

Childlike with that smile of hers.

He threw promises of love and eternal bliss;

She believed his words and followed him to the train-yard.

An invisible moon hovered over them as they entered

An old rusted cart, abandoned for years and years.

He didn't bother taking her dress off,

She couldn't wait to feel loved.

Right there beneath a dark sky, a man stole a girl's innocence.

But how can love find it's way through the Cairo Slums?

Where human lay on top of another, like cracked bricks;

They bleed.


A grayish sleeveless undershirt hung to dry in the blazing sun,

It's original color not quite clear but presumably white.

That rip that was never mended, a tear of hope...

I closed my eyes and remembered that morning he wore it,

As he maneuvered through downtown traffic

Trying to make easy money, as ordered by his jobless father.

A child of seven or eight running around with beads of

Sweat rolling down his tiny face.

Mr. Policeman grabbed him by his shirt, slapped him around,

Beat him to the ground for approaching Mrs. Businesswoman in

Her air-conditioned car.

But how can this child find hope for the future in the Cairo Slums?

Where human lay on top of another, like cracked bricks;

They bleed.

Let me take you down to the Cairo Slums,

Where people are animals in their nests

Of carton-paper, waiting for the big bad wolf,

To huff and to puff and to blow their lives away.

But soon you'll realize that evil's not born but raised,

That hate is brewed, and money is everything.

Let us disregard this urban jungle under a glass jar,

Let us use them for advertising or marketing our products,

Products they could never afford.

O' what irony, what strife.

The girl and the child never had a chance,

but they deserve one.

They bleed.

They bleed.

So without further a adieu,

Welcome to the Cairo Slums.

Dar Al-Hekma University hosted its second fashion show on Sunday that featured the work of its second batch of fashion design undergraduates.

The event, titled “Luminosity” was held under the auspices of Princess Reem **** Muhammad Al-Faisal. President of the university Dr. Suhair Hassan Al-Qurashi said: “Providing such events to our students before graduation exposes them to industry leaders of their prospective industries and gives them a head start in their careers.

“Dar Al-Hekma University’s students stand out because of the combination of their high caliber and the opportunities the university provides for them.”

Along with industry leaders, families of participating students attended. The event started with an opening speech by the department chair for the fashion design program Dina Kattan, who then introduced the sophomore and junior students’ work.

Afterward, models wearing three-piece collection garments designed by senior students scheduled to graduate this year took the stage and were graded by four judges.

Kattan said: “I am so proud of the work my students presented today; they worked really hard and they deserve a big hand. “Everyone was impressed with the level of creativity and attention to detail they demonstrated.”

The judges were Batool Jamjoom, businesswoman in the fashion industry and manager and owner of Jamjoom Fashion House; Amra Alabdalilsharif, director of the innovation and visual merchandising department at Rubaiyyat; Dalal Al-Hasan, a fashion designer; and Aram Kabbani, Dar Al-Hekma alumna and fashion stylist.

The grades students received during the fashion show will form part of their final grade. One of the students whose designs were featured at the show, Zahar Algain, said her collection was inspired by Mexican artist Frida Kahlo.

“Studying fashion has altered my perspective. I view fashion, in the same way that I view life; it’s a matter of balance and proportions.

“My interest in avant-garde fashion has led me to believe in using creativity to solve difficult situations. Algain’s collection was meant to blur the line between art and fashion.

“It is inspired by Frida Kahlo but with a fictional twist. “The story behind my collection is a daydream, a magical love story, an artwork; it is splattered with Frida’s colorful soul and spirit.”

Following this women only event, Dar Al-Hekma is organizing a one-day fashion design exhibition on Tuesday, which is open to all. The event starts from 7 p.m.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

I'm going to tell you a story.
It's my favorite, full of magic and pretty things and color.
Once upon a time, there was a girl. She was a very sad girl, and she never seemed to fit in very well with other kids.
or other people.
or other anything, really.
Her friends never loved her very much, and her parents didn't either.
They didn't much like that she liked other girls,
Or that she gave them nothing to brag about.
Her parents wanted a businesswoman, who would meet a nice man and settle down.
This girl was far from businesswoman material.
So she grew distant.
And drifted further, and further, and further into the dark.
Her candle blew out, and she was alone.
And she was tired.
So, very tired.
And so she wrote down a goodbye on a slip of paper,
And she walked towards the edge of town.
The edge of town, towards the cliffs that overlooked the sea.
She wanted to sleep.
As she was walking, she saw a girl.
This girl was the prettiest she had ever seen.
The pretty girl looked as sad as she did, and so she crumpled up the goodbye she had written and vowed to never let the pretty girl know the emptiness that she had.
So she brought the pretty girl back to life, spoon feeding her soft words and flowers.
Flowers, like calla lilies, for magnificent beauty.
Or Lilac, for the first emotions of love.
But she almost lost the pretty girl.
and then she realized how much she loved her.
and she held the pretty girl in her arms and made her swear to let her help her, and she accepted and then
our girl saw color again.
the pretty girl had brought the feeling and the love and the color and the hope and the light back into our girl's life,
and the pretty girl smiled.
and our girl decided that her work was done.
One last kiss goodbye,
And she would fall out of the world with the stars in her eyes and snowflakes on her lips,
and so she fell asleep after all.

For a long period of time, we have been told to conform to the different standards set for us by the society. We grew up in a system where having milk colored skin and lean, slender bodies is the only acceptable image of beauty. Several advertisements and individuals will try to tell you what you need to buy or do to improve yourself, and I’m writing this letter to say that you are superb; a creation of purpose.

In a world where violence, fear and hate continue to exist, it is essential for us to unify and persist in eradicating the barriers that have been placed before us. Regardless of our differences - our backgrounds, religions, ethnicity, political views, jobs, academic standing, and flaws or perfections – we all want the same thing in life: respect, love and success. We all want to be seen and esteemed for who we are but we must also know that a women’s success doesn’t equalize with another’s failure. It is important that we work forward in life hand in hand, rather than to step on others just to rise above everyone else. Know that there is a time, place and an opportunity for all of us to accomplish our dreams. Know that you are able to think for yourself – despite of what the world keeps telling you. I believe that women like you and me are capable of creating history every day. I believe in the power of inseparability, that we could push the boundaries and open other people’s minds to a better discourse if we collectively act to make it happen.

As we celebrate International Women’s Month, I encourage you to find the good in the women around you. Let yourself be inspired by their experiences setbacks and victories. By doing this, we not only strengthen our respect for one another, but we open doors for others and ourselves.

This is letter is for all the women who’s looking for their place in this world. Whoever you may be – a student, a businesswoman, a coach, a lawyer, a janitor, a musician, a scientist, a military, a teacher, a traveler, a doctor, an athlete, a poet, or a transwoman – know that you are smart, beautiful, inspirational and strong.

Thank you for being yourself.

Sincerely,
Pat

i.
caren forgot about her morning.  caren forgot it was wednesday.  caren had an event and she was not there.

caren is a shadow.  caren is an absence of space.  caren is a gap that people shy away from, women in black dresses sidestepping past her memory.

caren is a woman with a streetcar.  caren is a woman with an office job.  caren is a woman with a social network.  caren goes to functions.  caren is no longer a function, but a product of her own actions.

caren forgot herself.

ii.
shattered windshields. broken glass like triangle teeth. more monsters lurk in mirrors than in the recesses of the closet.  behemoths wait by water coolers, demons sit in sweaty three-by-fours.  the devil wears a motorcycle helmet and caren hasn't learned from her mistakes.

iii.
run a red light.  it's december and she's egging on the new year.  frosted features and blinkers hide hot flashes.  she's impatient for her age, a businesswoman at her best.  

a shift in gear. a change in mood.  road rage, road rash.  a few words from a dark knight on a whinnying bike.

iv.
lane changes and unintentional nudges. motorcycle launches the devil like a dove to heaven. caren stays earthbound, blood spilled to nourish the ground.  fertilizer runs through her veins, and vampire trees in city parks drink it up. bystanders drink it up.

v.
caren is a casualty.  caren is the victim of her own habits.

caren is a corpse in a coffin. caren is an elephant in the viewing room.  

caren is to blame in eyes and minds. caren is condemned in whispers, but caren is lamented out loud, so caren is proud.

caren got **** done.

Dear Queen Jezebel,
Your name has fallen through the thickets of white male history
But I think you are painted unfairly.
For you were a strong female character
In a time when they were frowned upon.
No man would tell you what to do
You held power in your strong wrists
In your condescending smile
In your waterfall hips.
You were brutal
But you you showed the world that you would not be messed with
You were not merely valuable for your ***
For your ability to pop out children.
You were revolutionary
You installed fear in the men who did everything they could
To cut you to pieces.
Maybe we are not too different
As my ex-boyfriend repeatedly told me to shut my feminist mouth
And have *** with him.
History repeatedly ****** you
Paints you as a *** symbol
Rather than a strategic businesswoman and monarch.
You knew what you were doing
And I follow your lead
They will never love us
We, Jezebel, are for them to make pets out of
We are here to show them
How the mighty
Have fallen.

I'm not sure I believe in God.
At a time I did.
Former Catholic school girl in a crisis of faith. How much more cliche could I get?
I want to believe. Life and death would be much cleaner if I did.
But where is my God now? How is it that He can be so far away?
He asks for so much faith and trust... but I don't see a single sign of Him. I didn't find Him when I cried out for help. I didn't see Him in my Aunt's dying face. And I haven't seen Him since.

Where is He now? Floating high up on a cloud, in heaven, in glory, in a happier place than we can imagine.
Well I'm here on the ground, in a specific kind of hell that I have found. And I've asked Him for guidance, to show me His way. But all I get is an empty dial-tone, the rattle of a hollow subway. All on my own I go. With no answer. No help. No ethereal "sign". Where is He when I need Him?

Gone. Like every other man I've known.
Click click click I hear the echo of a vacant businesswoman with no soul. And I think.... maybe that's the way to go. Ice cold. Freeze everyone out.
Accept that life goes until it stops. My heart's beating until it's not. And that's the end of my road.

Maybe there are no angels, no gates of gold, no warm and sunny afterlife paradise.
But there's no way to know for sure. I toe the line, stay on the fence, until God decides to answer, call me, or send me a text.
Waiting for a breakthrough. Begging to be found.
Hey God, can you hear me now?

I am not overwhelmed; I am not underwhelmed.
I just lack motivation.
I am not lazy, nor apathetic,
I simply lack motivation.
I want to run a mile but I have the willpower of a corpse,
Wanting to just fall apart and decay so I can fertilize the flowers
So maybe then I’ll be useful.
Wanna go for a run?
Take a pill.
Wanna be normal?
Take a pill.
Wanna forget your depression for a while?
Take a pill.
Take a pill.
Take a pill.

I want to go to parties,
Make friends,
Write words that flow seamlessly across the page
With clear intent of my feelings at 3 am,
When I am supposed to be at my most creative.
Instead, I stay at home on Netflix and the only thing flowing
Is one episode to the next.
Wanna go out without anxiety?
Take a pill.
Wanna not act all spazzy in front of everyone you speak to?
Take a pill.
Wanna forget your anxiety for a while?
Take a pill.
Take a pill.
Take a ******* pill.

But you want to be a productive member of society?
You can’t just take a pill.
Pills help you get up and make you go on with your life.
They don’t give you motivation.
Nothing can give you motivation.
Hope usually does, but I’m all out of that.

I know if I wasn’t, I could do or be whatever I wanted.
I could be a successful businesswoman,
I could be known for other things,
Like my ability to stand on a stage and perform.
I could even be a writer and properly end this poem.
But I simply lack the motivation.

.i've written so much, i don't even remember when i begin posting repetitions, i sometimes spot myself "plagiarißing" myself, sure, a commonality feature to writing, the labyrinth effect, a "déjà vu"... ****, i've said this before, which is the key feature of: enjoying the silence... but, like "yesterday", i write on the basis of a graveyard shift, as w. h. auden would have said: little ****** is at it again (i.e. writing during the night)... no, no little ****** here, i just like the idea of writing while people around me are sleeping, i can become this Loki-esque drunkard snark dream-crawler... which brings me to the following observation... a liter of whiskey, that typically takes a few good hours to get through... and, in the end, the sun is up, it's 7am... so like "yesterday" i.e. today... i unfolded the sunday times, and put it on my head, to hide from the sun, kept drinking, and cursing the sun, now and again pointing the ******* at it... cursing: do i look like a ******* camel jockey to you, eh?! i'm not a camel jockey... i once suffered a heat-stroke, watering plants in a volunteering stint in a garden for the blind... no, literally... a garden customißed for blind people... with herbs, heavily scented flowers, notably pine trees... and my favorite... stachys byzantina... lamb's ears... so that blind people could feel it... but yeah... why am i not surprised that muslims glorify the moon? while the christians borrow from the north european pagan celebration of the sun? i became a quasi-muslim only "yesterday", i said a big ******* to the sun, summer is coming, and if it's going to be the sort of summer akin to last year, with me waking up on the floor, on a colder surface to a bed, moaning and groaning from the heat... oh yeah... climate change is not real, like all form of causality just went out of the window... there's no cause (burning ****) and there's no effect... always, all the time, like jean-paul sartre said, his major premise in being & nothingness was the pillar of negation, which spawned the pillar of bad faith. *******.


what's the difference between
a thief, and a magician?
probably
a c.c.t.v. camera footage...
and a... theater stage...
nothing more...
but of course...
      the latter is an example
of... authenticity...
proper... taxation...
a paradox of championed
individualism by western
academics...
   come to think of it...
both are quick...
then... i must have been
the most slothful thief
in the history of ali baba:
the way that i stole
that queens of the stone
age songs for the deaf
album, from a w. h. smith...
____

summer is coming,
that abhorrent season,
the season of mass ******
and a spike in the sales
of ice-cream...

the season where i begin
to pity the cosmipolitan youth,
basking in the cancer riddled
sideways march of the sun...
with the heat doubled
due to all the concrete and marble...

the season of scythes
and tombstones
for the old and the asthmatic prone...
the season where i frown upon
the sun,
even at 9 thirty am,
and drink,
    and am rudely woken by
the heat...
  
  that time of year
where i think about looking
for old europe
in the vicinity of the faroe islands
or, iceland,
or greenland, even,

because i'm not some *******
camel-jockey type of
******* teen
importing cars, and self,
to london,
to race in a 30mph speed limit
just off of knightsbridge...

diesel heads of arabia...
    i'm siding with penguin kowalski...
i'm no camel jockey or
a ******* either...
      copper skinned mash-up
of Babel...
with a hard-on inferiority
complex in tune with
burj khalifa...

      yes... because who is... khalifa?
no, who's Khadija?
   the woman,
who... most likely...
wrote all the first sutras of
the quran...
after all... we are talking
about a prophet akin to
   charlamagne... someone who was:
illiterate...
sure sure...
        islam is the religion
of peace: when Khadija was writing
the script...
    but when she died...
and some ****** of a caliph took over...
then: as much peace
as... whatever equates to the funny
antonym comparison...

what was that book:
in praise of older women?
    stephen vizinczey:
ah... that story of muhammad no one focuses
on... i could focus on Aisha...
n'ah... i'm more interested in
Khadija... the older woman,
the first female arab entrepreneur,
businesswoman...

the woman who was both literate
and had mathematic acumen...
who took pity on the orphaned muhammad...
i want to speak to her...
she's my holy grail of conversation,
i can pretend to venerate the "******" mary...
but what i really want,
i want a word with Khadija...
KA DI YAH...

what's that islamic maxim?
fear the man who only possesses
one book...
   eh... you can also fear the man
who wants the afterlife to be composed
of a dialogue between himself
and only one other person,
beside his ancestors, beside a reunion,
paradise or valhalla...

are we done, "here"?
          i still have about 20cl of whiskey
left, and i rather much squirm
an evil eye at the sun,
regurgitating the fantasy
of finding 19th century european
climate in greenland,
if you don't mind.

She simply rolls her eyes and shakes her head
If, on one those rare occasions she is socializing
With social as opposed to business acquaintances
(Daylight hours with single women,
Naturally of a certain laissez-faire outlook as to certain businesses)
Someone brings up the notion of the ****** with the heart of gold;
You do not, speaking in a voice
Residing in the interval
Between a purr and a growl,
Get into the game for the purpose of ministry.
Indeed, she will note
Half-jokingly, half-ruefully,
That the major difference between her job a
And those working the third shift
At the Kendall refinery was the differing nuances
In future health-related consequences.

She is, for a businesswoman,
Possessed of a significant number of quirks,
Having no interest whatsovever
In the abnormal or unduly physically challenging,
Despite the higher potential renumeration
(Honey, you’ll never have enough money for that,
She will demur if the horse-trading turns to such specialty items)
Nor will she engage in congress or commerce
With the upper- management types
From the city’s few prosperous terms
(For reasons she will not nor likely cannot explain)
And she is notably fond,
Possibly to the point of lunacy,
Of lacing her small talk
With scripture and bon mots;  
Indeed, one wall of the men’s room at the Zippo factory
Is devoted solely to various quotes and scraps of verse
She has uttered to her patrons
Who punch the clock at the plant,
And more than one of the boys has said
She’s a pretty **** good piece, even at her age,
But sometimes you wish to Christ
She’d just lay there and be quiet.

It was not impossible that she could have taken another direction,
0r, at least, worked her chosen field on a slightly different plane;
She had been, in her prime, quite stunning
And in possession of both a quick wit and certain presence
That would have nicely augmented the arm
Of those who lived in the rarified strata
(Or at least as high-falutin
As one can be in a small oil-boom town)
Who possessed a combination of money, prestige,
And the inside knowledge that rules and sacred vows
Applied only to sheep and losers.
She chose (a clear and conscious choice, no doubt as to that)
To cast her lot with a humbler set;
The foreman, the mechanic, the assembler on the line
The stooped and gentle florist
Whose sole payment to her was a lifetime of free arrangements
From his small store on Bon Air Avenue
(I tried to lock him into
The floral tribute at my funeral, she once said,
But he seemed to think that would be inappropriate.)

No one, even those in her very small circle of friends,
Seemed to know why she had spurned
The easier road of the demi-acceptable courtesan;
She had given no indication that she saw herself
As some slightly tarnished saint,
One of those so-called angels with ***** faces
(Indeed, she had often made a point of saying
There was no good to be done in her particular line of work),
And she was not forthcoming about her curriculum vitae,
Although it was common knowledge
She was raised a strict Catholic,
And it was said she had a brother
Who was in the care of the state,
Though it was an open question  
As to whether that was in the medium security pen at Foster Brook
Or the bughouse in Kane.  
In any case, as she was want to say
A ***** is the last person you ask
To find the answers to the mysteries of the universe,
After which she would launch
Into a story about how Father Mulligan,
The blustery, movie-Irish priest of her youth,
Was known to be the absolute biggest cheater
To ever set a pair of spikes
Onto the greens at the Bradford Country Club,
Or how the gangster Legs Diamond,
Who would just as soon shoot you as to look at you,
Was known to be the most generous tipper
Ever to patronize the once-grand hotel in Albany
Where her maiden aunt had been,
Once upon a time, a cocktail waitress.

fine fine, have it, have your niqab,
but for god's sake:
   can it at least be white during the summer
months in europe?

and i have about half a bottle
of whiskey left from two nights ago:
question is...
                  do i have ginger ale?

i have to celebrate, my ******* concept
of stick 4 x 5 = 20
  sheets of white paper onto my window,
strapping a fan with a bag
of ice cubes...

                           to ease this:
                                   godforsaken heat!
running into the garden in
nothing but my underwear
      and finding the most grassy,
  soft and moist pouch of earth at
6:30 in the morning worked out for
about a day...

           **** me muhammad! ali!
           and ibn ezra or whatever ahmed
was doing last tuesday!
            she can wear the face veil!
    i agree! i like she can have more fantasies
in public than a woman wearing
a mini and a bra on a beach...
                      i agree!
             but please! please!
     the physics! the physics!

                              schwarz is an absorber of light
(subsequently heat) -
   weiß as a reflector of light
                            (subsequently heat)...

SHE CAN WEAR HER INVERTED
VOYEURISM FETISH...
                           SHE CAN HAVE HER SIMULATION
OF INCOGNITO SO CHAMPIONED
WITH INTERNET USAGE IN
THE COMMENT SECTIONS...
    SHE CAN HAVE IT!
        
    BUT SHE AT LEAST HAVE A WHITE
VERSION OF HER ATTIRE IN THE SUMMER
MONTHS?!
                     HIJAB NIQAB... WHATEVER:
JUST ALL IN WHITE...
                   I'M SWEATING LIKE A WILD
PIG AND I'M THINKING:
      YOU ARE GOING OUT IN THAT...
SERIOUSLY? IN THAT?
   I DON'T MIND THAT: BUT IN THAT?

you won, you can have your
shop with a diamond analogy that made
no sense about selling diamonds
  but keeping the biggest emerald known
to man hidden...
        like... some...
    heard it from a pakistani at school -

you have a shop selling diamonds...
but you hide your most precious diamond
like some ******* fritzl...

                i get it, khadira had a voyeurism
fetish, she liked watching muhammad
******* before she rushed in
and rode the arabian steed to the logical
conclusion that any businesswoman might...

but can we do away with this *******
that white is taboo in islam?
    notably within the confines of women's attire?
it's T'AH AH ******* BOO!

1
After Adam died Eve
designed a house of wooden ribs.
2
She created it to never burn down.
3
It was full of happy walls and
bright colors that never faded.
(The next owner painted them gray.)
4
The rainbow colors would daub off
on every guest’s fingerprint,
an intended souvenir.
5
Nautilus shells placed near all windows
breathed the gentlest light everywhere
6
A stone pyramid staircase
snaked up to the second floor.
7
Doves could be heard cooing
peacefully from above.
8
There was a room with a writing desk that
everyone thought was a guest bedroom
but was really her office.
9
Abel’s name was carved
into all the door mantles.
10
On Sundays, after church, she invited
the children to slide through all the
crannies they could find
11
Outside, oaks and weeping willows
formed the boundary line.
12
When she died
they grew closer
to the house,
their limbs outstretched
as if in mourning.
13
When the government cataloged the house,
forgetting that she was a businesswoman,
they noted it officially as Adam’s property.
14
The next homeowner remodeled it poorly and
it burned down two days after they moved in.

you were there for me once upon a time,
    in sleepless nights and ungodly hours,
                and forgotten wishes made on shooting stars.

you were there for me once upon a time,
                in empty rinks at midnight,
    and fractured memories of a better time.

your sparkling eyes wink back at me whenever i fall,
a starburst of flashing streetlights and glittering stars,
filled with infinite opportunities and unfulfilled dreams,
with stores to explore and people to meet,
and it always felt as if you were healing my broken heart with your blinding colors.

your voice is an orchestra,
made of a toddler’s excited squeals and a young man’s silent tears,
made of a mother’s soft lullabies and a businesswoman’s clicking heels,
made of honking cars and laughing schoolchildren.
it cannot be silenced,
no matter how hard they may try to force your mouth shut.

you are the long walks at night,
the glances out the window of a glass rink,
the prayers from my balcony.  

in the end, i want to thank you,
for growing up with me and teaching me everything i know,
and for being a part of me i’ll never forget.

Where do I stand in this vast world of ours?
Where is my place and where do I belong?
Who am I and who do I aspire to become?
In five years where do I see myself?
Do I wish to blend into obscurity or rise above the rest?
Do I aim to be a force to be reckoned with, or merely a fleeting shadow?
A businesswoman commanding respect, or an enigmatic figure of desire?
A woman carving her path in a world dominated by men.
Who, I ask, do I truly wish to become?