You forget there's a sky above
Birds don't chirp trees are few
Gone is the hamlet that shaped your love
For a blade of grass cries the morn dew.

Mesh of wires runs over the sky
Air is thick with the reek of petrol
Scare you the trucks heavily passing by
Dazedly you search for the village of the ole.

Here was the home your soul's green abode
Where winter was cold March sprightly Spring
Your feet ran the soil not dusty metaled road
Dreams soared high on boundless wide wing.

Now all around are the townsfolk on race
Ruthless pace crushing ole hamlet's peace
But so is fated by the wheels of progress
That shows the gain more than all that you miss.

Shuffle
Skip
Repeat

He played his usual game of pretending to consider the palatable array of music which graced his iPod before settling for an Arctic Monkeys song, as always, just in time for the 7AM school bus that revved up the road with a satisfying crunch of gravel. The morning had a deliciously crisp quality to it, with swirls of fog swathing the trees in mild ambiguity while the sun danced a waltz in a rose and custard sky, the colour of cakes sold in Pastéis de Belém, the best patisserie in Lisbon.

He realised he hadn't eaten breakfast just as he boarded the bus.
Ah, well. **** it.

The sun skipped between the spaces in the leaves, playing hopscotch with his imagination as he dazedly looked out the window, lost in his music. Although the people on his bus were nice, he didn't exactly like them. The boys wore low pants and branded caps, the girls caked on makeup and tittered vapidly at everything the boys said. A few others quietly occupied the back seats like him, engrossed in their own world. He felt a stronger connection with these people, although he'd barely spoken to them before.

He lapsed back into his reverie while looking out the bus window, lazily tracing patterns in the cracks of the broken walls of the empty restaurants and hotels that passed by. The economic crisis had rendered hollows of places previously choked with people, now haunted with the after image of busy commerce and make-believe vignettes of scenes occurred in these skeleton remains. They were darkly beautiful, modern bones of the city that held a history too close to his own.

He forcefully snapped out of his running internal monologue just as the bus pulled up the driveway outside school. The distance of a block stood between him and school, a block fraught with danger, for he'd been robbed on a previous occasion (not that his school bag had much else besides lunch money and books). At least they hadn't nicked his iPod. He'd be helpless without it.

Music was his poison. He drank it in like the alcoholics of the night drank scotch. Every drum beat was a ricochet echo of his own heart, every guitar string picked was a twanging of his veins.

And music got him through the day. The last bell had already rung and school was over. The kids rushing out the hall blurred into an exquisite pointillism of neon clothes and benevolent cusses at each other. He picked up his bag and walked to the bus, lost in the sleep deprived haze of his thoughts.

On the ride home, he wondered where he'd be in a few years. He wondered if he'd find a place in the cascading chaos of a society ruled by the anarchy of physics, and the fear of inevitable oblivion. He wondered if he would be remembered, if his footsteps would have an echo.

But for now, he thought, his microcosmic life in Lisbon would do. There were dark alleyways to explore and museums to visit and pastries to eat. Somewhere, a waiter put a tablecloth on a dinner table with a flourish, where two lovers would later dine. Somewhere, a boy ran down some abandoned train tracks with his dog, laughing at the summer sun. Somewhere, a girl with auburn hair picked seashells from a glimmering beach as the waves crashed around her fragile legs.

Somewhere, in his heart, a flicker of nostalgia coursed through his blood.

The next song on his iPod came up.

Shuffle.
Skip.
Repeat.

It happened early one morning.
It happened like it always does,
times 3.

Strapped, armed, holding hands
what every loving mother
shouldn't do.

Word of it traveled
like the winter flu,
by noon everybody had heard

of maniacal faithers
who took home her children
lighting up fireworks.

The sun blazed dazedly
evaporating 3 crosses,
not quite melting the ice.

Until it reached my porch step,
it were but distant voices.
now it's here

and real. like it always is of course

but now it's closer than ever
bursting at my door.

Sliced up like a juicy tomato
his screams are muffled by
a screen screening bright information

into the heads of mouths
who offer surreal commentary
disguised as jokes.

We're terrified.
We're hypochondriacs fearing
contamination of a rampant

plague.
A plague we've never seen before.
Our ****** eyes.

So many have already
been ***** by fate.
Faith in fatherly beards

granting wishes to
obedient children
who go tarnishing other fathers' gardens.

What an absurd world
where IS is ice that
cannot melt.

What an absurd world
where children weep
at mothers' debt.

What an absurd world
where faithful supremity
reigns unchecked.

--------------------

With Both Feet on the Ground

Hello, dear-one.
What say you in this lowly place?

"When twilight traces the terrace,
Touch the torch-sky with the tip of your lip.
               A sweet heat
Will draw your willful mind,
But watch! The torch-sky takes:
               Heart-stems
               Drip
               Drip
               Petals shower
The firelight blaze, like my root vein,
Spills languid and warm across the sky.
               Beauty in elation
               But now breathe out!"

--------------------

Then Into Deep Water

Say, dear-one,
What's all this now?

"The blue of night is sweeping over the torch-sky,
And shadows steal swiftly as silent silhouettes,
               Come coldly dancing
Do not disdain—dreams form feather-light foam,
And fade heavily in a salt-wash, flooding fervently.
                Covered darkly
                Step
                Step
                ­Shiver forward
From terrace to sea my foot falls easily.
Then the eerie eels entwine in the brine.
                Feeling supine
                Let the deep creep
                Until next time."

--------------------

But the Canvas is Brighter Still

Stay awake, dear-one.
Is there not more to tell?

"The search for halcyon has wrought hush-flickers:
Stars  staring brightly stripping night's dark domain.
               Drifting dazedly: humorous
'Theirs is a humming neatly humbling hysterias.'
Whispers Nyx, 'Dwelling hinders what dreaming may fix.'
               Sleeps slips
               Blink
               Blink
               Morning stands
Beacon! Bright butterfly, beckon bravery!
Billow boastfully—this day will be mine!
               Keep in mind,
               It's always divine."

Very good, dear-one,
A fine farewell.

Distilled dreams drift dazedly.
Drumming dares defiantly!
Defeating deafened demons

I wish the bride were blushing,
but her face is pale, as she looks
at the perfect sunshine, as she looks
at her groom, whom she refused to see
till today.

Today she will be married,
I can not give her any promises,
but the sun does shine bright,
merrily, and the sky seemed to
make her deepest worries careen.

Pale, her face, like a ghost,
afeared someone would pass,
but they watch in dazedly peaceful silence,
And so the ducks keep out of the air.

Nervousness, the flower girls weren’t given bread,
they wanted to throw crumbs into the water for
the ducks to gnaw upon, but one couldn’t get pieces of flour
on her veil. And until the vows were said, completed,
soon over, soon finished,
the little girls could throw all the bird seed,
to please the ducks they called their friends.

On the bridge she will be married
the priest will bless their names at the top,
and therefore I hope the truest vision
encapsulates my predictions.

Under the bridge swelter two pools of water,
and sprays of water come up. Around the duck pond
there is a side path, where the guests wait, eagerly,
for the bride and groom’s wedding cake.

Curious ones will gather on the hill behind, or on the
gazebo. No sound will they mimic, for things are
found in quiet.

The bride, she makes her footing, on the other side of the
pond, at the entrance near the road, walking on her way
to meet him at the altar, but watching in a way,
to be certain that her aunt is breathing. Her aunt is ready
for leaving, and from her pale face, the veil hangs down
closer, as though a branch filled with water,
bursting her eyes, almost bursting, with hope clenching
tightly, to her solemn breast; the bride hopes her aunt will live
just one bit longer. The wedding had to be moved
for the aunt to see the girl marry, the tube that draped her lung
long, could not supply more air than a dying body can muster
thinning breaths.

Pray the sunny day will keep her close from dying.
God, hold that last little thread from snapping,
Pray, after the wedding ends, after she is given
wedding cake, for a breath longer, breathing ‘till
more breaths are no longer feasible,
and some more time
before she has to pass.

Where is the ring to put on his finger,
she’ll take his name you know,
be leaving behind her old life,
as her aunt decides to go.

Her aunt took care of the bride,
and kept her in her house,
home, she sacrificed everything, when
she was the only one protecting
the girl, before she was a bride.

Being once a little girl,
the aunt took her along to sit while
she worked, as she was kept
from the neighborhood.

Mopping, scrubbing, brooms, floors,
vacuuming, on her hands and knees:
no more partying for her, for she had a little
girl, and it was her most wonderful
blessing. She could not have kids,
she liked no men, and had no luck with
the things she found.

Growing up, going to school,
All mundane, filled with thrills
and chores. Nothing special happened,
until her mother came back
demanding her baby girl.

The aunt knew where the girl would be,
her mother was almost pitiful
enough to mourn for,
and her mother could not keep a house,
and never gave up, like the aunt did,
on finding a suitable partner
(That never worked out).

“Let me have my little girl,
Let me have my little girl!”
No, I have kept her longer than you
would have, I have all the paperwork,
the custody rights, the little girl,
she stays with me and no longer
will she ever be your little girl.

The little girl, 11 or 12,
Wanted her mother again,
And fought her aunt
tooth and nail
to be with her mother again.
The aunt decided to relent,
she gave into the 11-year-old’s
wishes, and the girl went to
live with her mother.

“One month, two months,
she will be back.”

She lasted three,
And came back.
She would’ve had to change
schools, and summertime
kept her mother too close,
and the ‘daddy,’ as he insisted,
much closer.

Now she was back, and she’d
finish school, inconspicuously,
walking across the aisle,
or the pond, that her groom
insisted upon, where they met eight years
before; she still in nursing school,
he a broker. Throwing bread,
bobbing her legs, she took the same
bench, he gave the same
smile, “What kind of bread do you throw,
White, rye brown?
You throw like a granny;
throw lightly, and it will hit the pond,
or hit somewhere the ducks will tear it
apart, and shred it to crumbs.
The birds are contented with
shredding gluten.”

They were in love, they met
every sunday ‘till fall,
then soon they’d meet for
coffee, and later coitus,
and intimacy, and love.

Do you take this man
to be your husband?
“I do, I do.”
Do you take this woman
to be your lawfully wedded wife?
He looked into her eyes, to find
one more regret, and stomach his
vows: “I do, I do, and you:”

The veil is cast, the bride is kissed,
the husband is happiest, or the *****’ll
make him contented with the rest of his
life, I am not worried that this wedding
will end badly, but paint yourself
the pictures of their hands holding in the
sun of a storm.

Is she alive, the aunt the wife was worried about?
Instead of rushing to the car, she sits on the bench
beside her. Was she breathing, or living,
and not dying, and seeing, what would be her only
daughter (her mother is probably over, the next city over,
lying around, nothing from nothing, nothing to show
and nothing to be but a will of the wisp. If God doesn’t
blow her away, then like he will take the aunt away,
and she flies away, as she is released with angel wings,
as she is released into her comfort,
and bodies that are rampant,
disease flung and broken, choking life away,
she died within the day. She saw her own one
away, tonight, while the once-little girl dances,
and let her be sentimental, because she is death;
The niece is now dancing with her prince,
and he holds her tightly, she mourns over that devotion
her aunt had given to her, when no one else could ever
give a ****).

tense, i lie dazedly upon her bed
she whispers and speaks soft into my ear
i hear naught but loving words from sweet lips
i hold her close as thoughts run through my head
the time is now, she takes all my fear
and stands before me, hands on bare hips

a catch in my breath, a skip in chest, thump thump
ecstasy, it be her name, her body its meaning
i'm wet clay in her grasp, asks "why do you roar?"
her answer is now, the bed doth bump bump
upon the wall, i grip it tight, stare 'pon ceiling
"oh my dear ive never felt this way before!"

blinded now to all but her, she looks at me
mesmerize, and i feel so calm, before the storm
mouth open in empty rawr, i cannot utter a single note
she pauses a moment, i plead, destroy me
til moonlight shines upon her furry form
sweet explosion! finally now, my roar within my throat.

my roar echoes from wall to wall, as do her cries
she wracks my form with passionate ******
the finale, memorable, we can't seem to stand...
we lay there, giving up after a few tries
neither move, content in each other's trust
our love knows no boundries, how grand.

She hammers out a heartbeat,
Clinging to its sound,
A constant noise to bind her,
To link her to the ground.
To keep her feet from slipping,
She follows it in time,
As though it were her duty,
Her singular design.

All she hears is beating,
Blocking other noise—
No tunes of trifling children,
No giggling girls and boys.
For noises are distractions;
They make a mess of minds.
Distraction likes the clutter—
Against her ears it grinds.

She holds fast to her heartbeat,
Latches to its hand,
But finds it too erratic,
Dribbly, like sand.
Up and down it dips and flies,
Makes her poor head spin,
Sending shivers up her spine
And tremors down her chin.

She’s lost her steady rhythm,
Lost hold of the sound,
The beat that duly held her
Anchored to the ground.
Her mind can’t find its footing—
It panics in its stead,
Lets inconstant rhythms
Muss her weary head,

Lets the twang of heartstrings
Orchestrate her cares,
And tangle with her fancies
And trip her down the stairs.
It sends her stumbling dazedly
Without a steady beat
To keep a constant tempo
And keep her on her feet.

She tends her bumps and bruises
Desperate, now, to find
Some steadiness to cling to,
To hold her glassy mind.
But nothing seems a constant
Except erratic sound.
What, then, can withhold her
From sliding off the ground?

What can keep distraction
From tearing through her head
And keep her fears from springing forth,
From crawling to her bed?
Can she fight this madness,
This urgent need to seek
Some constancy to bind her?
Or is she just that weak?

i am having the same old conversations
with the stars up in the sky;
supine, i ask them how much
of their beauty lingers within me
not much, i think.
silently, they stare back, blinking dazedly

i think i might just sleep now,
and let them blanket my dreams:
cold and dead and burning out, alas, like me
but still shining just enough
to soften the blow of nightmares

swirling through the crisp December air
snowflakes glisten in the light
streaming from windows that showcase trees
adorned will sparkling ornaments
and shimmering stars.
twinkling in the distance
from the peaceful, stoic cathedral
are the bells that sit high in the steeple.
i discern the haunting, glorious tune of
o holy night.
a song that is captivating and overwhelming
with its understated power
hidden in an almost melancholy key
that leaves me frozen in awe,
though i've heard this song before.
i startle as a child and her father stride
swiftly by me on the icy sidewalk.
she slips, but he gracefully scoops her up
and places her gently on his strong shoulders.
her contagious giggles blend with
his easy laugh - a sound as stunning
as the exhilarating chorus of the bells
this laughter now harmonizes with.
i'm lost in the melody of happiness
until the two disappear into the warmth of their home
and i'm again alone on the street.
memories brim and sparkle in my eyes,
simultaneously flooding my cheeks and my mind
and for a fleeting moment, i sense him.
his strong hand is in my small one,
squeezing, so i'm aware of his loving presence.
but a cold gust of harsh winter sweeps in
and he is gone and it is only me.
my mittens wipe away the memories
as i dazedly continue on my way
to my house
breathless from the emotion of yet another
blessed Christmas season
filled with the tragic beauty
of days spent rifling through distant,
yet starkly distinct memories
of the loving embrace of my guardian angel.

“I’m going to become a nun,” I announce to no one in particular between Sprite sips.

“You’re Catholic, I suppose you could,” Lisa says, with a mouth half full of pizza.

“Why do socially distant guys look extra attractive?” I ask dazedly.

I reach my hand out slowly - towards a sweaty, chiseled, guy entering the pizza place, who looks like he’s just coming from the gym - like someone lost in the desert reaches for a mirage of water.

“No!” Lisa says, protectively lowering my arm “you’ll just have to put him back.”

I sigh. “I want to do something interesting or shameless.” I say.

“Don’t we ALL.” Lisa agrees, knowing all we have ahead is 4 hours of reading.

I used to say labels were nonsense.
That’s easier to say when your not stuck dazedly in chest deep mud, befuddled to how you even allowed yourself to get this far in
I’ve come to terms that i pathetically need a simple word to fall back on, a carefree shrug and the word “friends” simply just isn’t cutting it for me anymore.

Time always gets in the way, at least in your case and what a big ****** time tends to be, selfish-oblivious (Maybe I’ve begun talking about you)
.
My brain hurts from the constant back and forth thoughts pinging around my skull.

My migraines have come back with a vengeance, sometimes I imagine they’re you.

They say men’s thoughts get stored away in square compartments, tucked safely away and organized, free to visit another time. while a woman’s thoughts are similar to spaghetti
.
I use that as reasoning to why you stay so calm ( i always make up excuses for you to ease my rage).

I need peace and you’ve brought havoc over me, thing is you probably have no clue.
I’m afraid, out of my comfort zone and my trust is laid out on a counter with a knife beside it
.
Your call

Merry Christmas Eve,
From the fog among the trees.
Lazy haze draped dazedly
Is our California freeze.

‌
  the sea opens

& my crimson chamber
Became alive for a while
Brick walls became clay
And stretched their hands,
Multiple hands
Towards
You
Like You did
Desperately, Dazedly
In mirror pits
Towards me,
Towards us
& Fingers moved towards each
Other
in mirror halls

But can hands,
Can fingers
Seize the water?
Well, they tried
Like summer times
Weave shades
with scents
Ivory-hued



And to think i haven't tasted
A sweet rest
For over half a year

and now i drift sleep with
Heavy sighs
In place of breaths
& peace is
more than forgotten


Being immortal is a curse without a doubt.
‌
 & the sea closes

6 0’ clock
and the string of doors on the block
creak open in unison,
The briny smell of sizzling, leathery bacon accretes,
Seeping forth from pale shutters,
Peeling past the cars, stripping beige paint off the sides of houses.
The morning drizzle, forming tiny rainbows,
You would think it was acid rain,
melting away the plastic people.

Midday, after only an hour passes
and white wine splashes
like crashing waves in the crystalline stemware,
Where orderlies dazedly rescue their children from the montessories
Where power lines crack like whips,
So generously oozing sustenance to babes.
The civiliter mortuus, roam their undead domain,
Like a swarm of cockroach wasps
speed walking in parasitic pairs
darting through Safeway aisles,
Demolishing houses of white chocolate, and roasting sweet nothings
On the new George Foreman Grill ™ .

Every house on loan to apathetic debtors
They come to yours with their holy letters
PTA, … IRA … NSA … HOA
They proselytize, prioritize
Themselves over forest bears and wolves,
But where only hedge trimmers growl
The only Tuesday sounds are the behemoth
Devouring your trash,
And where leaf blowers asthmatically howl.

a curved stony enclosure whose seawall gives
way to hulking cliffs--with chiseled ramparts
akin to bottom cuspids.
standing before foldable reflections--aside from
the accelerating interpolation of sea-clouds, prone
to negatives.
the guiding intelligence of a flood cupped by an
isle that is unmet with a return.
its interior of entryways are desolate modulators
of tides.
as the two main entrances to the isle set stone apart,
the first as ruggedly cut indicators--the second as
altar-immaculatus blocks.
its baselevel of algae--fed by browning runoffs of rain,
along cracks filled with ivy.
leading into cypress trees expecting late visitors, with
an adamance that gives an odd calm to the out-of-place.
though they unnaturally crowd & surpass their enclosure,
with a tingle of wildflowers anticipating them.
making a point of something, already at its most advanced
stage--withholding a shade solid enough not to have been
under a burning phos.
come the skewed vision of a boat, progressing in the way
of water.
the sea peering at the back of the void's head, as it's shone
upon.
the forward tilt of a boatman's oared tension--stiffly even
keel, with enough momentum to float to the isle.
the boat becomes sensationless...the figure in the white
shroud knows nothing else but what is about to transpire.      
as if Lazarus dazedly brought to his feet, remaining there
for all the world.
the only thing that the cypress trees can see, as take into
their shade the coffin.

i breathe in and uncertainty fills me
suddenly i’m questioning everything, really?
in this space i can’t even speak freely
always a gaze on me, steely

uncertainty;
the poison of the weak is the medicine of the arrogant
the ***** of the debator makes for the downfall of the eloquent
it really depends on the situation, that much is evident

with youth, undeniably, comes uncertainty
so many mistakes made inadvertently
the words thrown around carelessly
now i’m just begging for some normalcy

so many priorities, so many people to please
too many watchful stares to be appeased
in the midst of this battlefield, i don’t know how i can be at ease
surrounded by people who seem to know something i don’t, i look around dazedly

so i guess i’ll have to find my own way
through winding paths, i’ll make it out someday
but what will i find when (if) i step out of the archway?
i’m uncertain, but i know one thing:

i’ll never betray my soul on the way there

THE PLOUGH AND THE STARS

I stumble and fall

trying to keep up with Michael and Dolly
as they plough on

ahead
and I follow

in their wake
falling over furrows

that they make.

Dolly's coat glistens
with the immense effort

breathing in the intense strange strong smell of horse.

Uncle Michael
at one with the harrow

muscles taut and tight
controlling everything with his voice.

I copy him & shout:
'Woa...! ' & 'Hey up...! '

but Dolly doesn't listen
...only to him.

He ploughs into the sunset
as if he and Dolly

had turned over these fabulous colours

creating an evening
becoming night.

The moon bright
I try to count

the stars
like seeds

but fall
.. asleep.

*

UNCLE MICHAEL -ALIAS GOD!

His hands
(tobacco stained)    

twisted & gnarled

knotted like an alive
piece of wood

scrawled gestures
across my mind

as the sick calf
bucked in his arms
& his quiet strength

- calmed:

'Shhhhhh... shhhhhhh...****...****! '
he crooned

& the sound
soothed.

And the veins
(line vines)    

ran up & down
his arms
pumping crude life

like a sudden sketch
to suggest the gist of
rather than the meaning of things.

And he walked
(& I ran)    

towards Granny's garden
(like God tending Eden)    

& the gate(a little hoarse)    
sighed at his hand and

the leaves murmured
(like worshippers in a church congregation)    

& the sunlight
genuflected through the trees

and the trees wore socks & apples.

A tablecloth was laid
on a logan berry bush.

And the young tree
gave herself to him

broke tenderly in his hand
and, the knife whistled &
out of the branch came a man.

And he told me
(& I believed him
'cos he was good as God & strong)    

that the little wooden man
(the silent statue)    

had been waiting
(all the time all ready made)    

waiting to be released
from his prison of wood.

'All things...'
he whispered
'all things are
waiting for you
to call them.'

'Call them to come out...'

'Awake them...'

'Create them...! '

The rhododendrons
were blue with amazement

- at this revelation -

a dragonfly walked
upon the water.

A butterfly became
infatuated with a flower.

Me...?

I watched
as his hands
talked...

...explaining things that
could not be...said.

And he took
my hand in his

and I understood

flowed

like a little stream

into his big river

felt God
(close)    
near at hand

and...smiling.

* * * * * * *

YOU WERE LAUGHING

It was so much so
your world, that

(when it died)    

you decided to
accompany it.

Loss, hung festooned(joined hands like decorations) .
Grief, winked like a baublel(on a Christmas tree's ring finger) .

Sadness, drifted dazedly(like the ceiling balloons)    
bobbing up and down on an invisible sea.

Ship
wrecked
cast
away

I...sland.

Later, we learned(Time taught us)    
to fold the tears carefully, careful
not to crease them

like decorations
stash them

away in an attic

until the next time we would need them.

They said(they all said)    
you were dead
but the child(the child)    
would not...believe them.

In his head
(it was you)    

and you
were

laughing
(smiling)    

and the child

touched

your face.