Chana had a bike
and I had a scooter
she moaned a lot

and I did not
she wore clothes
her mother said

she had to wear
I wore
what was left to wear

from the day before
she loved sweets
and ice lollies

I loved licorice sticks
and sarsaparilla
she  hated vegetables

and meat pies
I hated liver
and fish with eyes

she said
why don't you
go play elsewhere

and leave
my brother to me?
go ask your brother

I said
and then we'll see
he said not her but me

so Chana went off
in a huff
riding her bike

like a bat
from Hell
Chana

was my best friend's
sister not
(thank God) my girl.

Chana, having made love
with young Baruch, went
to get more wine. Did she
need to get another? She

thought, she was old enough
to be his mother. The LP of
Bruckner he had brought
still played on the hifi; she

preferred Mahler’s fifth.
The kitchen light had a
mellow glow. She poured
more wine into the two

glasses and returned to
the bed. He was laid there
like some young prince,
proud and youthful, head

full of ideas, morals gone
to the wind, seemed happy
to have had her and sinned.
She put down the glasses

and climbed into bed. Him
and his Marxism, she thought
as he talked of Das Kapital.
She placed her hand on his

pecker, life enough yet,
stirred, moved. She could
smell the *** in him; the stir
of a young stallion. Her long

ago husband was never like
this even in his youth; she
was well rid of him, him and
those airhostesses, those

whom he said he had quite oft
and where. She smiled at young
Buruch lying there wine in hand
talking of a revolution that would

never come, his pecker stirring,
his words becoming slurred with
the taking of wine. That first time
he had her on the sofa; oh, that

took her back some. He drained
his glass, put on the side. He was
young enough to be her son, she
mused, watching him stir and

prepare, her young stallion with
hazel eyes and dark brown hair.

I was in the laundry room
sorting through
some old guy's washing

when Chana came in
and closed the door
behind her
with her plump ****

fancy seeing you in here
she said
she had her hair
in a kind of Beehive style
her big blue eyes
were ******* me

got to get this washing on
Sidney gets through
so much in a day
I said

she walked around me
and went to the window
and stared out
at the kitchens
over the way
then turned
and faced me

you look
good enough to eat
she said
especially
your lovely thighs

yes well
I am rather *******
at the moment Chana
but maybe
another time

the washing machine
came to the end
of its cycle
and I took out
the wet washing
and dropped it
in a large white basket
then put in
Sidney's soiled clothes
and put in the soap powder
and closed the door
and pressed the button

can't spare me
a little time?
she said

she was behind me now
and as I turned
she pressed herself
against me
her full bust
was pressed
against my chest

I’ve things to do
I said

she put her hands
around my waist
and hugged me close

I know you have
she said sexily
her breath
eased out
her words
and they floated
on the air

look Chana
I need
to get down to business
George is waiting
for his bathe
and I need
to run the bath for him
I said

you need
to get down to business
with me
she said

she placed her hands
around my thighs
she kissed me
on the lips
my pecker moved
my eyes closed

I opened them
when her hands
touched my ****

not now Chana
go look after
one of the old dames
I’m sure one of them
needs to bathe

O forget them
this is now
they're yesterday

no they need you
I can wait
I said

she released me
disappointedly
and stood gazing
at me

don't forget
to come around tonight
she said
and bring
a bottle of *****

sure
I said
going out the door
I’ve nothing else
to do or lose.

Beyond the pram sheds
Chana rode her bike.

I was with Helen
watching from the balcony
of the flats.

Rides well,
doesn't she?
Helen said.

I watched
as Chana rode
around and around
the pram sheds.

Wish I had a bike,
but my parents
can't afford one,
I said.

Mine neither;
even the doll's pram I’ve got
is from a jumble sale.

Chana rode down the *****
and out of sight.

What about Battered Betty?
where did that doll come from?

My grandmother
gave it to me;
I think it was hers.

Where do you
want to go?
I asked her.

What about the park
and ride on the swings?

Sure, fine.

So we walked
down the stairs
and out through
the Square;
the morning
sunshine warming;
other kids playing
here and there;
the baker's
horse and cart
parked by the wall
of the other flats.

The park was busy;
the swings
were all occupied;
the slide and see-saw
were also engaged.

We waited,
sitting in a seat nearby,
she talking of wanting
a new doll's pram
she'd seen in a shop
and I listening,
taking in
her two plaited bunches
of brown hair;
her thick lens glasses
and us
being there.

Bring some wine around
Chana said
and I’ll put on
the music

and take off
some clothes
so I took some wine
(red she liked best)

and she put on the Mahler
and we sipped our wine
and she brought out
some small cakes

those fancy things
with small cherries on
and we ate and talked
and I listened to the Mahler

and looked at her
sitting there
with her big blue eyes
and that beehive

hair style
and her plumpish frame
and she said
how's the writing going?

not bad
still typing away
still learning my craft
she put her hand

on my thigh
and said
how about I
show you my craft?

I finished off my fancy cake
and drained my wine
(two glasses after)
and she took me

to her bedroom
with the big double bed
with purple sheets
and cover with large flowers

a picture or two
on the walls
and from the other room
the Mahler still played

and she lay on the bed
after *******
and I looked out
onto the evening sky

and stars and moon
and street lamps
showing a young couple
going by

and I was there with Chana
and she waited there ready
like some big mountain
waiting to be to climbed

and she said
aren't you coming on over?
sure
I said

and began *******
to the distant Mahler
the final movement
of the 2nd symphony

and went on over
and she said
how do you want me?
I told her how

and that was it
we made love
as the Mahler ended
the other room quiet

the far off sound
of a barking dog
from the window
the pale moon

quite bright
and we made love
( sans Mahler)
for most of the night.

Not doing a whole helluva a lot
Waiting for something that never comes
Bored. Tired. Angry.
Wishing we could talk

Brown Buddha statue
Kamakura snow
O we O we O
53 and falling

Mind on the month of May
54 and forming
Quiet green couch
Long live Lina and Doon!

Death comes for the Archbishop
Si San Salvador
Cam plays indoor soccer
Only silence. Lamplight rain.

                   Beltane?

posit iota

posit: i(ota)
  then follow up
with the following
posits:
the D of id...
    iota's cousin
is spelled:
iota delta omicron
tau...
although some languages
extend that via:
iota clashes with the macron I
of the J... idjota...

mourning makes me so ****** *****

oh hell: mourning makes me so ****** *****...
i can't help it,
as i can't help the idiocy that i succumbed to...
tomorrow? i'll have to wake up at 4:30am
and leave the house by 5:20am...
catch the second bus, then the train then two
tubes to Charing Cross for a shift that's:
sign in? 7am... shift begins at 8am... ends at 7pm...
i had to "bash the bishop" tonight
without climaxing but establishing a good blood
flow to the *****: because?
well... if i get a whiff of the scent of oak of the coffin
passing near me... i'll drive myself mad
like a horse bashing its head against a brick
by being irritated by a grain of sand being stuck
in its ear...
i've spotted these ******* in these UCLA t-shirts...
what? you didn't study at UCLA...
prior to that there was a trend in school with guys
wearing hoodies with the word: DUFFER on the front...
Catholic schools: we'd have non-uniform days
to raise money for charity... duffer? the meaning?
a stupid and inefficient person... well: d'uh! no wonder
it would sell...
ooh ooh... liver tingles: it's pinching my ribs...
how many ciders have i drank today?
can't remember: i figured: better start early
and finish early... 10pm the latest... 6 hours sleep
ought to be enough...
stone temple pilots: art school girlfriend...
one of my favorite songs... so much better than that
Brit Pop intellectual-trash of... what's it what's it?
ah... PULP Common People: same theme...
man... i'm really *****: i don't know whether it's
the idea of ******* death: it's no necrophilia, no...
she wasn't my grandmother: oh boy, believe me:
i won't be grieving my grandmother's passing:
either one of them...
my paternal grandmother didn't even see me,
i don't know what she looks like...
she abandoned my father and left him to be raised
by his grandmother and her second husband
(a foster grandfather)...
  while my maternal grandmother? you know:
i'm pretty sure the invention of the telephone works
along the lines of: someone can call you...
and... you can call someone...
               my best friend, my grandfather... ****'s sake:
he was dying for about a month... stabbing himself
in the leg with scissors... some other *******...
did i get a phone-call?! nope!
two days prior to his death: the worst part being?
my now estranged uncle was in on it:
he came round once and talked about "perspectives"...
i remember that time rather vividly:
that's when i started to explore myself: lose weight...
i walked marathons...
i had this funny feeling once when i walked into
a field and toyed around with a blind rabbit...
i swear to god... the hawks were circling...
i picked up this tiny little thing: this blind rabbit:
his eyes doubly shut with some weird looking dried-out
mucus...
and yes: thank "god" that i didn't have a camera with
me... i'll let some dwarfs into my head to dig a proper
hall of kings in my head filled with memories
and no gold! ha! that's what i'll do...
well... thanks grandma and grandma...
at least ol' Lizzie provided me with hope and a promise:
don't **** yourself, not till i'm dead, Matthew,
no problem Lizzie... i won't...
****... she's dead... well: i don't see a point of contemplating
death given what i've strived through...
drinking will **** me, i know that...
but? until it does: i'm going to have one solo party
after another solo party...
i'm already buzzing about waking up at 4:30am tomorrow
morning...
mind you: that soaring eagle of a sun that was with
with in Scotland... well... obviously she was going to
receive a dreary reception back in London:
if it didn't rain in London i'd be calling a horse a *******
zebra...
my prediction? there will be glimmers of sunshine:
there might even be a rainbow...
i like flipping coins from time to time...
don't know: something must be wrong with me:
backgammon? yes... chess? not really... i hate chess...
Edinburgh... it was rather funny watching the old streets
i used to haunt as a chemistry student...
i remember my first year: i seriously can't remember
any rain... Scotland is apparently famous for rain:
my first year? i don't remember a single day of it ever having
rained...
- so i sopped myself to a state of pretty:
hmm! well... i too can don a university of Edinburgh
t-shirt while i cycle into central London...
yes, dearest Lizzie... i'm way ahead of you...
if people could don t-shirts with the word DUFFER
i can be "sort of proud" of my education:
sure... no Lamborghini... no Di Caprio harem to boot...
crustacean ****** habits...
well... if it has to go down with the prostitutes:
it will go down with the prostitutes...
at least i have one Turkish one who prefers to
"live dangerously":vi.e. **** without a ******...
whenever i stop thinking about exploring
this one last fetish of mine: wearing a latex suit
while getting my phallus donning a ******
****** off: hmm... i'll let you know what
flesh on flesh feels like...
who hurt me? who hurt me?! do you know?
i think i know...
no wonder i channeled all my energies into prostitutes...
it's no ******* wonder...
i can pay to be tender... to be a cyclops
with these massive hands...
in my head i'm already eating away at my own hand:
i need the "comparative literature":
i need to do away with the pinky and its knuckle:
to her the hand proportions: just right...
the last girl i was with? to my surprise...
i thought she was going to ride me...
she inquired as to why i was kneeling before her
and why i had so much INTENT in my eyes...
dunno... why are you naked?! stupid question...
no no... she spent the entire half an hour
******* me off.. i must have mentioned it...
i thought: i felt like i was being circumcised...
i wouldn't go as far as: Prometheus having  his liver
eaten by two eagles... but at some point i thought
she would stop *******: hey! no milk comes from this part!
o.k.: whatever...
i like a girl that employs a sense of sadism
in giving pleasure at the same time...
very much appreciated... her mouth and lips
turned into a Mantis wedding the Venus Fly-Trap...
i know why she was so stern with me...
i "rejected" her on at least 3 occasions...
she actually asked me: why did you ignore me?!
i should have replied, something akin to:
i didn't see: hide & seek in you...
i didn't see the playground...
i see it now, is that: "fair enough" between us?!

my god: when you concentrate on so little details
and focus on ***: how many pixies and kinks suddenly
disappear! when you've been *** starved... wow!
now i sort of understand why cats sleep so much...
i'd sleep so much if each dream i had would
begin with me scratching my finger-tips on a brick
wall: then... touching a woman's body:
to compare texture... yummy! yummy yummy yummy!
it feels like doing the butcher's work
(esp.) around the bones before
dipping your fingers in a tub of butter... ooh!

nothing compares to the inner-thighs of a woman...
no! no! nein! niet! nie!
and the eternal sacrifice of the birth of Buddha
of the most sacred ****: i could: i would...
slobber over it: into it...
like a leech! like 12 leeches!

no: i'm not a political animal, i'm not a social animal:
i'm a ****** CREATURE...
creature is not animal... i'll have you note...
ha: the day begins with dealing with a toddler...
a girl...  we're playing with cat playthings...
i teach her to roll ***** after she establishes the ability to throw
them...
blah blah: centuries later...
the queen dies... oh ****... well... PROPER ******, no?

me? **** me... i'm running out of prostitutes...
i think there's this other brothel in Stratford...
i need to look for a new brothel: i'm running out of women!
well, no... there's this one more i'm: well: she's craving
to hoodwink...
she dons glasses: those wide-rim glasses that makes
you wonder: what would she look like if she took
them off?! a bit like a fat girl... that: "what if"?
i'm running out of prostitutes:
i need to find a new brothel...

who ****-hurt me? whoever did... at least i'm loved up
with the "close encounters of the other-kind"...
i'm happy... my feelings are an ocean
and my heart is a sinking pebble...
these women are not so easily hurt...
well... at least not by me...
for years: i, my parents... esp. my father wondered:
are you a, munchkin?! are you, a dwarf?!
this was my inability to find a "friend" in the spectrum
of the entirety of the English lady...

please, don't, ask me, that question...
it's not my problem!
i stopped caring...
i can't give two shots of a whiff of the ***** against
the wind to even contemplate sharing
a life with a woman these days...
what?! what?!
i'm a 30 year old self-sanctifying saboteur!
i'm a man in his prime!
am i going to give that up?! nope!

summer is finally over:
back on the menu? fish and chips! and? curry!
LAMB and DHAL DALCHA...
but as i explained to the person i was cooking for:
if you're making a dhal dalcha:
you need to blitz the dhal... esp. since it's chana dhal...
mind you: chana dhal is popular in central
Europe: "my" people make a soup out of
chana dhal... a lentil soup... known in central
Europe as simple GROCH... the soup is called
grochówka... of course she was going to disapprove:
but if you're making a dhal curry
and adding meat to it? you need to blitz
the dhal...
          
             after making it i realised i'm a big fan
of making curries that do not include adding tomatoes...
and this dhal dalcha is probably better than
a chicken Korma... also: lamb is so much tastier
in a curry than chicken: chicken sometimes dries
out... mind you: i was using leftover lamb from
the previous day when i roasted a whole leg of lamb...
and this dhal dalcha is so much better than
a Korma: it's sweet in its own way...

    ****! no Garam Masala... where was that recipe
including 18 spices? ****! can't find it... well...
the one with 10 or twelve ought to be just right...
as long as i can find that black cardamom i should be o.k.,
bingo!

what a splendid summer it was... i'm glad it is
finally coming to an end... the long days are passing...
the eternal night is nigh...
more time to write: more time to drink...

i'm back in the elements of cooking the sort of food
that's seasonal for any European:
curry in the autumn and the winter...
everything heart-warming: i'm back in the kitchen
like a devil razing (best curry recipes?
the ones without reviews from the NDTVfood
website) the cooking of sinners...
well... a chemist in a chemistry lab...
                             i watched a few cooking shows...
Australian Masterchef is probably the best...
    today Marco Pierre White was on...
scallops and calamari served with squid ink sauce...

a labourer works with his hands...
a craftsman works with his hands and head...
an artist works with his hands, his head... but also his heart...

hell Marco Pierre White can see art in the culinary
industry... i don't... whenever i walk into a kitchen
all i see is a chemistry laboratory from my days spent
synthesising esters in the organic lab...
my heart wasn't into chemistry: my brain was...
but also my phallus and the mythology of Faust...
i.e. whether it was Goethe's version or Marlowe's
when Faust asks to see Helen of Troy...
i too would have asked for that wish from Mephisto:
was she worth it? was she really that beautiful?

when i cook i don't see art... i see chemistry...
the kitchen is the closest i ever got to getting back
into a chemistry lab... i'll gladly stay here...
i have other areas of life to explore.

no other - a windowsill and an open window -
sitting on a folded leg and slouched
like a crow - i would be begging for it to rain -
no other music can capture rain -
safety net of all that sporadic improv. -
                      other other music - except jazz...
whether it be rain nibbling on the countryside
or the full-on cosmopolitan havoc of grey,
dust, grease, cement and rats and glass...
                 never mind: because i never thought
i'd say this...
                of the moderns... closely ruling out
wojciech kilar - for no particular reason other than
he's probably more known -
christopher young - since his hellraiser stint...
what's new - the revamped pet cemetary?
well... if christopher young was primo...
      soon to follow him... graham... plowman...
work on h. p. lovecraft adaptations...
                     horror as a genre...
                                the music wins me over...
however spectacular the visuals are...
                               if the music isn't bone grinding -
unsettling the nerves -
well... that's like pop music when it's raining...
i guess: oh i guess jazz can capture more feelz
when it comes: when it's raining...
when it's lazily sun-dazzling with the impression
of an "underneath" sizzling sensation -
or melting butter - or for that matter melting chocolate...
or adding splashes of cornflour made in water
to a sauce and watching it thicken...
this recipe i will remember by heart...
i will have to at someone point...
but this dhal was quite sublime...

   scrap book recipe...
          a man in a kitchen...
               and in hell... the devil's mastery...
almost like a chemistry experiment...

       half and half: masoor and mung dal... lentils...
kabuli chana (chickpeas)...
    a bay leaf...
              3 cloves...
  a tsp of cumin coriander turmeric
                     chilly powder and another of kashmiri
   chilly powder
                chopped tomatoes
  coconut milk...
            onion ginger garlic
                spinach
      gochugaru flakes coriander for garnish...
veg and chicken stock...
                          ghee...
butternut squash...
                    cayenne pepper (1 tsp)...
    i was looking for a pinch of asafoetida...
i knew it was in the kitchen...
    alas... also know as a substitute for those
vegan cults that don't include eating onions
and garlic... or perhaps just onions...
    cinnamon stick? no...
but three decent pinches of a homemade
garam masala...
  and yes...

   https://ministryofcurry.com/moms-garam-masala/
is the only spice blend...
   the russians can have their nukes...
the americans can have their nukes...
i have an arsenal of the following spices and...
i'm feeling... like i just had a manicure done...
the only garam masala:
asafetida, bay leaves, black peppercorns,
black cardamom, cardamom, cumin seeds,
(sorry, no black cumin seeds),
      cinnamon, cloves, cordiander seeds,
dried chillies, fennel seeds, fenugreek seeds,
(mace? no mace)...
         nutmeg, poppy seeds, star anise...
turmeric...
          again: no stone flower...
well... that's almost covered it...
                it's not the recipe asks for black
mustard seeds... those i do have...

                   cult recipe and it says: who needs...
meat?! even i'm convinced...
god i do love a good steak tartar...
    anything ****** and oozing wriggly bits
of life - as tender and gelatin grizzly as a...
even the names: bleu... ooh... saignant...
  haha... medium: demi-anglais... what else?

the butchers rolling in their graves
when someone orders a steak: fini-bien...
                          or some other frankenstein of the kitchen...

coleman hawkins - the high and mighty hawk...
some guys were putting up a fence
for me and my neighbour - it only took 15 years
but who's counting - they were told to
cut out all the bushes and foliage in my garden...
so that they could get a straight line
and so the fence would be put up...
unlucky for my rosemary bush...

r.i.p. my rosemary bush...
        today i started to salvage the poor thing...
the newer shoots i placed in water for
a drink and hopefully 2 weeks from today
i might think about planting them back in
the ground... for the rest of the bush?
i had to freeze the rosemary...
all afternoon my fingers were scented with rosemary...
which is fine... when you're working
with a raw piece of lamb...
but i'm no walking and breathing and aching
lamb of god about to be hanging
on the cross...
                even through the soap...
an afternoon of my hands being heavily scented
with rosemary...

vivaldi can have spring and the other three
faces of "god"...
holst can have his mars and the other circle of hell...
but thank the high-flying-****
that jazz can capture a rainy day better
than that song: i'm only happy when it rains
by garbage...
            
  guess i'm not letting go...
         an active rebellion against classical music...
one jazz record after another and i can gravitate
to...ward... the entire e.p. being played...
none of that new wave harakiri diat l.p. scene -
much appreciated... but i always need to move
beyond the half-an-hour mark...

         then again: i can't see how jazz could
compensate for snow - snow on the exit format -
jazz doesn't - then again...
no, categorically...
                           if there's only a sly insert of drum...
no horns - the piano and some guitar -
  
   otherwise you can't go wrong with
joshua redman - back east...
         a modern classic - notably with zarafah...

speed-conversations - none clinging
to a cameo of a date...
                 fickle minded - always changing
the course of events that... nonetheless remain
intact on binding themselves to a blind will -
        
music and all these interpretations are my own -
too bad to see and have to work with
a cipher - what's behind this image -
what's behind that image -
at least music stands stark and shivering naked...
less chances to abide by some propaganda...

unless of course mathematics is to be given
the crown - i hardly think: one shouldn't really
think about music -
                one can never really fathom
the constraints and the escapees from these
constraints... these constant revisionary scribbling
over and skimming the orthodox:
brick-on-brick intricacies of: immoveable objects
being: nonetheless moved...

- i too am waiting for my libido to die off -
anytime soon... like right now...
no harem therefore "jazz hands" and the algebra
of "magic fingers"...
idle man and all that *** that could have been...
until that magnetism is steered off a cliff
of: not another tomorrow -
                    at least no ***** or *** doll upon
the horizon -
            no point getting intimate or personal...
only a few days back i found a weakness in
this exoskeleton -
standing in a shower... pouring running water
onto the back of my head...
i almost knelt and said my prayers from
the exhaustion of succumbing to this multiple-******
of nuance...
       right on the spot where
a higher evolution of a more, protruding occipital
bone: as i've heard it once before: being noted...
i'm waiting for my libido to **** itself off...
in the meantime no harem...
imagine my luck when it comes to
the wisdom served up by men like king solomon...
even by then:
this most exhausted man had
to settle for a swan's dignity in monogamy
with the queen of Sheba...

                 but it's hard to translate wisdom
when you have all the basic forebodings
already at your disposal... the harem will discover
***-toys and you will be...
the limp **** in the whole affair...

                 such hard-on feats of fear when it comes
to... two cakes too many
when all you've been asking for is, merely a slice...
jazz... i can't find
a clint eastwood in alcatraz...
or steve mcqueen in sagan...
               or witold pilecki in auschwitz...      
but i can find myself in jazz...
hummingbird or some, other, champagne flute
and that bothersome fly...
nothing against flies: everything against
mosquitos... i would **** those buggers with
the same joy of donning wool having
just sheered a sheep or two...

jazz and: the wriggling fish...
jazz and all the fish out of water...
i'd call them constipated ***** and lobsters
but... jazz and the wriggling fish...
jazz and smoking a cigarette to appreciate
the deaf centre point of night's culminations...
living close by to central london...
"walking in" and not feeling like
anybody important: or a tourist...

       if i wasn't a billy joel: i would most certainly
not want to be a bob dylan -
hard to be living the obscure with a cross
made up of iconography...

the applauded and the: billy joels' piano man meets
neil young's old man...
they shake hands and subsequently depart
where the crossroads begin, and end...

believe me when: i'm the last to be believed...
usher in a dozen penguins attired
to be... fizzy kosher dosh...
in all their napkins and bowtie-neck strangle 'em
into a hush of a bamboozle...

such the life the music the mathematics
of living in shackles - wriggly ol' ****** with
those improv. would-be-turns and...

how many words will it take for it to be clear...
i have nothing but rejoice at clinging
to my obscurity... primo amigo:
alea iacta est: too bad for me...
or too bad for my shadow...
                       faking being a gemini
in the horoscopes of fate and superstition...
shadow: mime out of the confines...

      these is my second chance at retaining
the crown of obscurity? is it?! is it?!

   to have to burden oneself with love...
akin to... well... if i were about to spoon her...
but no... i wanted to catch the 8 hour kipper....
but every time i would fall
to sleep... i'd fall asleep with a tarantula bite...
numb all over to one side...
because i was oh too willing to fall asleep
when clinging to her...
like a bracket fungus to trunk and core...
one side of me complete in numb...
which had a rubric of recitations
should all else not be true...

but *****! that slap in the face...
                             come to think of it...
i'd like something to eat...
less **** with... that could pinch me...
i'm starting to think that
being ganged up by a group of hyennas
is not such a bad way to go...
perhaps being mistaken for a tuna
when a shark attack is being
noted...
            hard to imagine
sharks or bears or lions as having
sadistic undercurrents to their day-in-day-out
beats...
  even sharks nibble but never gorge
and feast on... this cranium solid first and only
hope when it comes to god
not making mistakes when gambling...
the ******* roulette or a black jacks' "choice"
of cards...

i can't exactly "think" this out to appease
a gravitating en masse...
                       pour me another shot and
debackle! all in the faith and hope
of un-thinking thinking...
trying out this suction tenticle of the void...
replacing descartes' res cogitans with
res vanus... what is due: is due...

no more wisdom from me aged 34
as me aged 73... there's only rain and jazz...
i'm buying time...
concerning whether it would be even
remotely likely to appreciate jazz
when it's snowing... unlikely...
very much hell-bent unlikely...

      - who would have thought that peering
into an aquarium would have to,
become more entertaining that zombie-clad
watching a t.v....
what ever happened to the watching
a klepsydra... or the tick-toe-tightening
of seconds into minutes into hours...
dying from the skeleton diet of time
whenever catching-up: unaware with
the clock in the confines of:
old people not really...
no, not really, listening to coleman hawkins'
much of anything...

                     because this doesn't tease
the affections of the young...
like a trainspotting revamp might....
because there's, clearly no new dracula...
and there's no new: new....
                     i wait patiently like a salamander....
no easy picking no low hanging fruit...
no fatty boy'oh to matter...
         no leeching off the three-quarters
of                               the better part of the engineering
cohort that were behind
the manhattan bridge... or Malbork Castle...
and hands on hands: do touch...
the event horizon of a dead star...
                    in that: pulling fabric...
basic genesis... talking fire "misanthrope": "god"...
bushes outgrowing fungus when
it came to 1970s ***** flicks:
notably in fwench and italian...
                   prune the perm hair...
                             keep that afro on a leash!

these days ***** is half of the cure's nostalgia
and more...
onomatopoeia and...
    refining the contorts with painting...
and keeping the act on a hush...
               the lazy hands speaking
dozen **** cracks being discovered but
none being experienced...
bone the hand...
it's called a ****** just because
of oysters... it's called a ******
because of the clams and of the irises...
and because the tongue:
god... ever time i wanted it to exfoliate...
it's forever that timid tulip!

         what came of a ****** became a hand
and the cusp... and what would never
become a San Francisco needle hinge epidemic...

was anyone praying that
one direction would become the next rolling stones...
cougar: meow...
that **** jagger was going to be
the "reincarnated" harry styles?

           knock-knock... who's there?
a premonition... i.e. touch-wood...
base: i will require the wood to be touched
by bone - notably a crunch of the knuckle in how
the fist is formed / fathomed...

        otherwise known as the lap-lapping-dance-off
with a tongue wriggling in imitation
closure of a worm...
or a fighter for a boxing champ. contender...
belt-up... knot and noose down....
the new news is no: good skit...
i **** myself to fickle my shadow
whenever i see a hoopla or a trance inducing
recoil of the swinging dancing spare
of a: rope that's not leftover for
the dangling first come first served...

daydreaming zeppelins...
the day the elevated english man will fall...
and bring down the bowler hat with him...
touch the philosopher's stone and turn
that attache of good taste into an umbrella...
the same day i stop daydreaming
about zepplins...
will see me think of the anglo-saxon
as whittle brother... the younger Swabian...
and all part of the infuriated minor
Germany that found inkling to behave
like the nomad Yids...
and move... and move... and...
never the sort of people to conceive of a ship...
without also being receptive of carrying
an anchor!

then again...
                   monkey man albino and...
forever the one to follow the white rabbit back home.

Duck/Rabbit
BY CHANA BLOCH
What do you remember? When I looked at
his streaky glasses, I wanted
to leave him. And before that? He stole those . . .

All you think about is ***
said Chana

she lay there
on her white sofa
wine glass half full
in her plump hand

not so
I said
I think about
other things as well

such as?

Philosophical subjects
the way society works
how deep is the ocean
and ***
I said

in that order?
she asked

not always
in that order

but I bet ***
is near the top end
isn't it?
she sipped her wine
and gazed at me

more the bottom end
I said

the Mahler was playing
in the background
on her Hi-Fi

do you write poems
about ***?

sometimes
I said
I sipped whiskey

she turned onto her back
and sipped more wine
what's the best ***
you've ever had? she said

the Mahler symphony ended
and silence came

the record's done
I said

what do you want now?
she said

how about the Delius
I brought you?

she sighed
and went to the Hi-Fi
and took off the Mahler
and put on the Delius LP
and then went back
to the sofa
and lay down again

is that all right?

her white
plump thighs spread

I liked how
the Delius began
soft and open
the flutes taking
the melody

sure
I said

there was a dimple
on her chin
and her blue eyes
were wide as oceans

all you think about is ***
she said

I gazed out
of the window
at the darkening night

I guess so
I said
I guess you're right.

Eating Babies
BY CHANA BLOCH

            1
. . .

Rick Steves in Uppsala
Ordinary Mary
I eat Chana Masala
I read Irish fairies


Arthur Edens reversaleth
Michael Clayton sees
I walk alone in winter woods
I pray upon my knees

               For Scott. Please.

Thomas More and Erasmus
Utopia. In Praise of Folly.
Get your adverbs here
Hey lolly lolly

Leonard Cohen saw the Future
Maybe I did too
Charlotte and Bob in Tokyo
In Kyoto one not two

I like miso soup
I like chana masala
I pray to Mother Mary
Mohammed prays to Allah

Oh those minarets!
I teach Islam in Taipei
I imagine Istanbul
Still I say xie xie

          Water Way

Got my mind on Pythagoras
Mathematical transmigration
37. 72.
Taipei 101

Haven't been to India
Do eat chana masala
Slumdog Millionaire
Light of a thousand suns

Vienna aglow in snow
Ludwig Wittgenstein
Almost like a fairy tale
I fly back to DC

Religions in other regions
Nothing is eternal
If I get my car
Nightdrive quietly

    South China Sea

Shiva on my mind
Carolina blue
Lake Linganore
Doo Wah Diddy Do

I like mango lhassis
Also chana masala
Saw the movie Gandhi
Have not been to Walla Walla

Shiva is auspicious
Both married and alone
At times I draw closer
I threw a Rolling Stone

           Charlotte!

The religious emotions are intense ones
I have them too
But like everything else they fade
Do wah diddy do

My sons at play in the surf
Knee deep, me in sunlight
Stockholm in the day
Taipei taxi twilight

Vegetarian tacos
Tasty chana masala
Hagia Sophia
Rumi. Mohammed. Allah.

Time is not a line
But we do come to an end
Sent him many things
Hope he is still my friend

               Y Wend

Not much innocent in this old world
Less in the USA

Dragon Scroll gently unfurled
Nothing left to say

Funerals and funeral homes
The silence of the Night

Pope Francis, the Gesu in Rome
Sor Juana's mystic flight

             Chana Masala
          Vegetarian's Delight

no grand purpose
a little daily life
a little chana masala
to sleep perchance to dream

                 home team

Standin' on Highway 61
Wonderin' what to do
Along comes a spider
Sees you George W.

Northbound 35
Hotel room for 2
A little chana masala
Ever ancient, Ever new

Route 66
Me and my Darlene
Gonna get my kicks
Rothko blue and green

95 south
Soon St. Augustine
Satellite Beach
Do you see what I mean?

                 3717

I keep on writing
Not really sure why
Politics portends
Exoplanet Sky

One for my brother Scott
One for brother Ry
Time tick tocks
George W. Lies

Indian food tonight
A little chana masala
Impressed by Khadija's help
Blue Mosque for Allah

Yo soy un Americano
But I'm open to the Other
54 years old
Still miss my mother

            David Markson: hover?

The religious conservatives are lost lost lost!
You can't go back
Gotta go forward against the wind

The future is space
Alien race?
Extrasolar water? Cosmic wind?

Avatar tonight
I have never been to India
But in Charlotte - India came to me.

Chana Masala
Subramania Bharati
Arthur Edens sets Shiva free

                313233

Nothing supernatural
Though I have wished. I have wished.

Tasty chana masala
My favorite Indian dish

Tonight the gentle rain
Ease my frightened mind

Slept all afternoon
I could never find

             Dreamtime

The sadness comes at night
Also when I'm reading
Nothing at all can last
Snowfall shunyata

My neighbors are quite friendly
Main Street USA
I walk the baseball diamond
Think of high school friends

European history
Asian bullet trains
Indian chana masala
Africa in sun

China might be rocking
Maybe UFOs
Maybe Reno snows
Taipei 101

         Thy will be done.

It's just my inner drama
Comes out as thousands of poems

Yes, a sensitive
Can you see me when I show 'em?..

I like volleyball
And delicious chana masala

Rumi was a master
Poetry of Allah

I'll probably be forgotten
But I remember Dr. Thomas

In the years that still remain
Help me keep my promise

                     Amen.