when life is quite through with
and leaves say alas,
much is to do
for the swallow,that closes
a flight in the blue;

when love’s had his tears out,
perhaps shall pass
a million years
(while a bee dozes
on the poppies, the dears;

when all’s done and said,and
under the grass
lies her head
by oaks and roses
deliberated.)

She eats, she sleeps; my cat does nothing more;
her naps can last until the day is done;
her habits make her really quite a bore;
in storms she sleeps; she sleeps in beams of sun.
She wakes to stretch, her mouth a gaping yawn;
she stands, and turns, and lays back down asleep;
at night, she sleeps from dusk into the dawn;
she dozes well, adept at counting sheep.
Her fur, it gleams, no doubt from beauty rest;
perhaps she knows more than she seems to know;
I wake; upon my head sits a rat’s nest;
my beauty slumber never seems to show.
And though my cat is lazy all the time,
I can’t see her as anyone’s but mine.

There are times when we dont ask for the best
We just want a bit of happiness

When a dozen of flowers and a bunch of cards aint enough
But those three words is more than enough

When dining in high class retaurants isn't romantic
But eating street foods with you is so sweet

When you do every thing I ask isn't lovely
But smiling at me melts my heart

I do not ask for your whole life to be mine
All I want is a piece of me to be a part of your life

And a doze of you in mine.
That is how I'll have my happiness in small dozes. <3

The sprouting buttercup
dangles into the purpled,
doting sky. It's waxy spangles
nuzzle the moist,
crisply dewed, fluff
whilst billowing across merry air. 

The yellow buttercup
dozes in spiced, lean dapples,
setting its soul ablaze in sumptuous echoes at the sheer
drape of dawn.

The teacup buttercup
outspreads it's wings
amongst tall spiked grasses
and wild flowers.
Shifting shafts and shards
of grass and glass
and forever awaiting the larks cry
which means its time to die.

Honourable Younger Sister,

This village is a world of stone. Lanes, houses, courtyard walls, towers, pavilions, tables, benches are all hewn from ancient red rock. The stone streets are lustrous with the passage of feet and shine in the moonlight; tomorrow they will glisten in the morning rain. After six days on the path into the mountains I finally rest at this inn. Here I can buy light: to write in this loft whilst the house sleeps, though a dutiful daughter dozes against the foot of the stair-ladder to serve me should I require sustenance. Frightened by my ugliness I summoned up my sweetest voice for her and soon there was a shy smile and downcast eyes. These are long nights for the village poor, but few here as poor as those whose shelters I sought on the path. Tonight I miss the steaming breath and ceaseless rustle of the animals brought indoors for warmth and security. My travelling robes are already filthy, but my body remains clean. As soon as I depart each night’s shelter I search for a stream to strip and wash thoroughly in the ice-cold water.

Dear sister, we have both been taught that the function of letter-writing is to unburden the mind of its melancholy thoughts in the form of elegant colours; its purpose to state one’s feelings without reserve. My thoughts turn constantly on whether I have it in me to ‘summon the recluse’. Have I the stamina, the patience, the resolve to seek out these elusive souls? Such thoughts induce fear rather than melancholy, fear of failure.

Already my journey into these mountains has crossed the season of late autumn into that of early winter. I am told the russet-red leaves and pink berries of the Ash, the deceptive Rowan and speckled-leafed Lace set the mountainside alight as the sun rises into a clear sky. For me clouds hang all day in the steep valleys, and so hide the heights where the solitary ones are believed to live. They alone see with the dawn the mountain peaks aflame   It is only in the very late afternoon that the sun melts the clouds, breaks through, and enlivens the landscape, turning it gold, then amber, and a final dull red before the blue blackness of dusk descends. Beyond this village my sources tell me there is real wilderness, and paths are few. I am to be my own guide.

You and I are so adept at the play of words. Our honoured father encouraged us, and as custodian of the Imperial Archives he knew how words could be arranged to both conceal and reveal; we played with the characters as other children played with coloured stones. So with the poems we call “Chao Yin”, let us play with verb “Chao” as both to seek and to summon. Chu Hsi, a courtier of that prince of Huai-nan, was sent into the wilderness to summon an errant official back to his post. His poems speak of terrors of the mountains, their ‘murky depths sending shivers of fright’ of ‘the caves of leopards and tigers’, and of the deep forest where ‘a man climbs from fear’. The poetic form uses “Chao” as in the ancient ceremonial song “Chao ***”. This calls on a dead person’s soul to re-enter the body, so ‘a summoning of the soul’. In those times such poems argued against the recluse, the withdrawn one, and sought a return. Today there is this feeling abroad that we need to consort with the recluse, to taste his solitude. Does the solitary life speak of the ineffable Way? Or is it in the search for the solitary one that a moment of enlightenment may present itself? As the saying goes: ‘to travel one must surely uncover truth’. In my bones I feel ready to invert this old poetic form. I must summon the spirit of the recluse out of the mountain fastness, but not seek his return. I need to touch his ways, see evidence of his mountain life, for a while to walk his paths breathing the same air. In my heart I expect nothing but his absence. I foresee I may reach his shelter and find his gate ajar, though the embers of the hearth still warm. He will be on some distant peak gathering herbs. If on a precipitous path I was to turn a corner and find him before me I have no words prepared. For the moment it seems I am exploring an idea through this summoning and seeking, not a living, breathing body.

Tomorrow I shall reconnoitre. My official hairpin and staff will command any audience, but for reliable answers, I am far from confident. There is always talk, rumours, sightings. The common people respect these beings as kindly mountain spirits and guardians of the wilderness. At the fork in a path, by the crossing place of a stream, corn, persimmons and millet are left for them. Such offerings will be replaced in time by the rarest mountain herbs, wild fruits, the skin of leopard or bear.

Your last letter spoke of ‘following my path into the mountains’. You have always defied convention, so it would be no surprise to find you here on my return, although I think your Lord would not sanction it. He would find such a request unfathomable. I am still perplexed at your situation, that you, the most homely of women should be so favoured, so adorned, and yet so free. It is that confidence you hold to yourself.  

To me, you have always been the essence of woman. What knowledge I possess of your kind comes from you alone. The infrequent gropings that occasionally present themselves I have only dismissed. An hour in your company smoothes and stills both soul and body. Your movements and gestures are always quiet and true, as are your woven words that sing in my memory on the path.

I read your letter
And savoured your words,
Your sorrowful songs of separation.
I can almost imagine your face before me
And I sigh and sob out of control.
When will we meet again
To amuse ourselves with prose and verse?
How can I tell you of my misery
Except with these woven words?

Have I remembered your poem correctly? I expected no response to my own lines on our separation. On the very morning of my departure your scroll arrived. I delayed to read it, delaying further to know your words: to carry them in my memory on my journey. In our respective verse we follow the way of tradition: the lonely woman in her room; the man travelling far from home. How many thousand poems describe this antithesis?

My life has always been sheltered by the expectations of scholarship, the requirements of official rank, and more recently acclaim due to my songs and poems. This journey begins a new page, as a seeker and summoner. Follow my path deeper into the mountains, be at my side when I rest, calm my fear of the heights and the depths of dark ravines, reveal to me the words to paint the scene. Know that I share with you everything that is to come, without reservation.

Remember the words of Lun Yu: ‘The good man delights in mountains. The wise man delights in water’. In these mountains the sound of water is present everywhere.

A stony spring rinses bits of jade
Minnows now and then emerge, and disappear.
Here what need of my silk-strung gujin? –
The mountain water has its own crystal song.

Your brother Zuo Si

The man woke up.

He walked to his refrigerator hoping to find last nights left over veal, but he doesn't.
He thought maybe it's a sign veal is bad in the morning, so he made his coffee and sat down to watch the news.
Linda Sparoski was on talking about Gun rights.
"I kind've want a gun, but it probably wouldn't be the best idea."
He kept watching until he heard someone at the door.
Paranoid, he crept up to the peep hole.
Peering through he saw an elderly woman delivering what looked to be like a package.
"I wasn't expecting anything... **** it must **** to be her age"
He waited until the frail old woman made her way back to the UPS truck and drove away.
He went outside to pick up the box, only to find it very light. Much lighter than he expected.
On the outside scribbled in blue pen was "The man's name" so he knew it was for him.
He saw it was taped up pretty good, kind've how a child wraps a Christmas present.
He grabbed his kitchen knife.
"Scissors are like double knifes, except you don't need a cutting board."
He put the knife back and grabbed a pair of scissors.
"Scissors are ****** double knifes."
He put the scissors back and grabbed the knife.

When he returned to the box, he seemed to stare at the handwriting for quite some time.
He began to cut into the box.
On removal of the layers of scotch tape was a little note before the rest of the box could be open.
"Promise me?"
He was really confused now.
"I need more coffee"
Chugging his third cup, the man returns to the box.
Determined to open it.
He lifts the ***** keeping the pieces of cardboard box cube shaped, and begins to look inside.
The man sees photographs stacked on top of a few letters.
"Possibly something underneath."
As he dug through he saw a picture of himself dressed as Captain America on Halloween.
He tries remembering that Halloween but just can't quiet do it.
"I was never Cap.. "
He dug through more.
Found pictures of old beach houses he vaguely remembers, some pictures almost looked like a sonic drive through.
Stomach growl.
"Last nights quesadilla"
The man went to his fridge, with no luck of finding this cheesey goodness.
In fact his fridge was empty.
He doesn't remember it being empty.
He starts thinking about Halloween.
The man kicks the box under his coffee table, and stumbles to bed, even though it is only 6:47 pm.
Dreams of sand.
Dreams of sand.
Dreams of water.
Dreams of her.

The man woke up.

He heads to his coffee ***.
He has not made coffee yet.
He heads to his refrigerator to find last nights left over lasagna.
"When did I make that? 2 weeks-ago-ish?"
He does not find lasagna.
His coffee is done brewing.
He walks away without a cup to find the box.
The news was still on. Linda Sparracci was on talking about the man's town.
She said that the man's town was experiencing the worst drought since two thousand and sixteen.
"What year is it?"
The man tries to find a calendar but only finds twelve.
"So it could be 2025, 2026, 2028... Wait."
He deducted that it must be 2026, for this calendar had the most dates circled, and he has felt quite busy recently.
The man then fell.
When he came too he was on the couch.
It was snowing out.

Deciding it must be around December  time, he goes throughout his home looking for objects to wrap up and give to his family.
He finds a box.
The box has a note on the outside
"Promise me"
Without looking through the box, he wraps it up with what he can find.  
Thinking of where to send it, he thinks of the first address he can remember, presumably his parents house, and sends the box off.
"Captain America... "
The man decides to watch Duck Dynasty season 34 for the first time, without seeing the prior 33 seasons.
The man passes out.
Dreams of white.
Dreams of red.
Dreams of death.

The man woke up.

He walked to his refrigerator hoping to find last nights left over veal, but he doesn't.
He thought maybe it's a sign veal is bad in the morning, so he made his coffee and sat down to watch the news.
Linda Spurokik was on, talking about the new Captain America movie.
"I was Captain America once.."
The man gets up to feed his dog.
The man does not have a dog anymore.
The man sits down.
Halloween 3 comes on the television.
He remembers getting her roses, because she was mad he didn't want to go trick or treating.
They ending up going trick or treating anyway.
She didn't like the roses.
The man tries to imagine what Michael Meyers must've felt like.
Being cast so many times over because of his creepy plastic face.
"I bet it was really hard to find other work though..."
The man was unsettled with this thought and turned off the television.
With nothing to more to do, he crawls to bed, even though it is only 6:24 pm.
No dreams
Just blackness.

The man woke up.

He heard someone at the door.
Paranoid, he crept down the stairs to the window.
Peering through he saw a young man delivering what looked to be like a package.
"I wasn't expecting anything... **** it must **** to be that young in this day and age"
He waited until the man made his way back to the USPS truck and drove away.
He went outside to pick up the box, only to find it very light. Much lighter than he expected.
On the outside scribbled in blue pen was "The man's name" so he knew it was for him.
When he opens the box he finds a picture of himself dressed as Captain America and she was beside him.
"Even trying to look ugly she was beautiful."
The man begins to cry a bit.
Gently places the picture down, he digs through more.
He finds an old Valentine's Day card.
"Signed your's forever, love you so much"
The man puts the contents of the box back, and gently pushes it under the table.
He turns the television on and Linda Sadok is on talking about a fire.
"3 dead, 2 injured with 3rd degrees burns along 85% percent of their body"
The man states "****" and turns the television off.
"I'd rather be one of the three than one of the two"
The man grabs the last pack of tostitos he can find, and chows down for awhile.
The man dozes off.  

A few hours later the man awakes.
He house is quieter than normal, but he normally has all the washing machines running so he thinks "all good."
Walking to his refrigerator, he finds it filled with Mexican Taco Hot Pockets.
Not wanting to get fat, he rejects this refrigerator and demands a new one.
He does not get it.
Hot pocket.
He walks to his coffee table.
It is very long.
His box is gone.
Befuddled, he walks to his hallway to check under the door.
Upon opening the door, his house leads to another one of his houses.
It is the same house though, it's just his other one.
Walking to the refrigerator, he finds it filled with ingredients for fresh pesto and Texas toast.
Thinking maybe it would upset his stomach. He throws the fridge down his garbage disposal.
On returning to his living room, he sees a man.
This man is talking to the man about life.
Talking about how long could one go on for in the same space.  
This man tells the man, maybe you should **** yourself.
Get out.
The man has never liked suicide.
But given the preposterous conditions of his life, he thinks about it.
This man says a hand full of advil or a few too many sleeping pills could do it.
The man says no.
"I can't leave, I'm not done yet.
Then, this man asks what the man has not finished yet.
"I don't remember..."
This man tells the man, that he is not Captain America and disappears.
The man disagrees.
"Photo evidence"

The man wakes up.

He finds the contents of the box sprawled all over his chest.
He had fallen asleep on the couch.
He hears her say goodnight.
He says I love you.
There is no one there.
He crawls to bed, and it is 2:34 am.
He cannot sleep.
This man returns to him.
This man asks the man if he had finished what he wanted to finish.
The man says no.
This man asks why once more.
"She's still gone, i'm not letting go"
This man says the man already has.
The man rolls over in his bed.
This man says you've been done here for awhile.
The man pretends to be asleep,
motionless, yet awake for hours.

The sun never came up, because he didn't want it too.
The fridge was always empty, because he didn't want to eat.
The box would appear, because he wanted it too.
She was gone, because he knew she was gone.
He stayed, and kept resealing and opening that box. Day in day out.
Surviving healthy off of nothing at all.

He never left.

St. Teresa swoons to herself.
The angel’s impish face laughs
At her pain.
Bernini’s operatic sculpture bound
Behind bars.
Perfectionism, restorationism,
OCD.
Outside, a gypsy woman begs
For centimes.
Inside, scaffolding dims Teresa’s glow.
Art sacrificed to the future,
Content to die in darkness.
A monk dozes in his rosary.
Recitation of dreams.
No legend in the sacristy:
Teresa’s book remains
Unread, dull behind glass.
Ecstasy of love: her path toward God.

Living in your dreams,
Come true-
I only say,
I love you!

You fancied your palace,
Of yellow roses-
I plucked them,
For your medley dozes,
And you sank in my,
Boat of love…

Abyss, abyss,
And abyss,
Where darkness,
Nowhere exists,
My faith kindled,
Your heart-
Your breath,
Dwindled me ****…

Living in your dreams,
Come true-
I only say,
I love you!

Faces lost in blank expression

Wait in stasis for their stop,

Shuttled from one potential

To the next like letters

In a mailman’s bag.

The sounds and smells of strangers,

The uncomfortable touches,

The squeezing in spaces,

The jerking rhythm of the ride,

The pram queens who sag

Against the railing

While their kids twist and turn

And scream at the lack of fun

In the faces of blank expression,

While couples tongues quietly wag.

Youthful monsters sit at the back

Playing tunes for the irritation

Of the old school music hacks,

While grandma dozes against the glass,

Shopping drawn up like a wall

To protect her from her past.

Father and daughter

Playing a game,

Sitting next to two lovers

Who are doing the same.  

The tickling natter of friends,

The glare of phones,

The lying dog’s stare.

Life on the buses,

A slice of people

For the cost of a fare.

There was chatter reflecting off the water just like the moon. The Milky Way was swimming with us, wrapped in algae and moss. We had no swimsuits, only spontaneity and laughter. We were far away from trivialities where there was no light pollution, you could see so far outward into everything. We were not looking up, we were looking out at what we are part of. Light, so much light. When our thoughts were finally chilled like iced lemonade, we ran through bushes and flailed in the mud to the car. We drove. Once sitting on our bed, a delicious thought bubbled into reality.
              We discussed it, unanimously deciding on this nights adventure...we'd enjoy the first rays of the morning while seating comfortable at Sacajawea Peak.
              Eager legs kicked and finally slept…too soon later, a buzz of a telephone awoke us, then another. I bounced out of the covers and to the kitchen to prepare a hurried breakfast of peanut butter and fruit roll ups for us, nutrition was priority. Then the clock blinked 3 AM.
Whines squeaked from tired mouths, but excitement prevailed. We packed into our seats and struggled to keep our eyes open, but the drive was bumpy and our sore butts kept us from forgetting the purpose of our trip. We were there to make our lives radical, and you can’t sleep in moments like these. 4 AM screamed at me, we had to hurry. I plowed my way up that mountain as the sun painted the tips of the mountains red. We crossed streams, tripped on rocks, marveled at climate change and the disappearance of the snow we had skied on just a week before. As the incline increased to nearly vertical, we met up with the mountain goats. Their tiny hooves danced on the faces of cliffs and I stood on the trail not more than a meter away. They smiled at us, said good morning, and we went on our way, huffing it up the face. As the sun’s light began to engulf the sky, we watched as the snow capped ridgeline shined pink and gold. A mountain shades us but as we reach the peak, the sun splashes our face, I felt godly. The sun has risen, and so have we. This is why we are alive; this is why we are happy. The valley below us still dozes, and we sit on top a mountain wide-awake. There is no item I could ask for that could ever give me this happiness. I do not climb mountains so that the world can see me, but so I can see the world…and it is so beautiful.

gently bid the night  goodbye
it nourishes no more
the unblinking stare of the stars
no match for my candlelight
wakefulness is more coveted
as everyone else dozes
pieces of calm snatched away
from a world that eschews it
in silky silver voice i sing
lullabies to the waves
the sand gets between my toes
soft and grainy roses
the wakefulness that comes now
has white metallic motifs
shimmering away
mother of pearl
lights the road
across the ocean

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
  21.11.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

After tending sheep,
He reads the worn Hymnal and
Dozes by the fire

Day after day it’s the same view.
A tiny, boxed in, three sided wall no window.
There is nothing to this place, but a few self decorations, a picture of his little peewee football star,
His wife, and a Bob Marley poster.
It acts as a prison, only he is free to leave whenever he pleases.
But it’s the fact that he doesn’t that is startling, a prison for his mind perhaps.
These Grey walls feel as if they are closing in on him, inching closer together daily.
He doesn’t even know the time or date anymore, can’t even see his computer screen with all the work.
Stacks upon stacks of thick, confidence choking papers stacked as high as possible.
His eyes as the days endlessly go by become droopy and darkened, bloodshot.
Lost in all the quiet chaos of the cubicle, he forgot his wife’s birthday, also the day they met.
He dozes off briefly in his uncomfortably small chair, and finds himself at the dinner table.
His wife and son eat robotically, emotionless, his wife giving him a glance every so often.
The man takes a bite, an exhausting motion just to lift his arm up to his face.
Conversation attempts to be started by the wife, but he uses the automatic voice messaging system.
A blink, and dinner is over, he finds himself in the kitchen, yelling coming his way, smashing plates.
Broken Glass, and he turns it off, another flash; He finds himself lying in bed facing away from her.
She is heard sobbing, he turns it off……..
In the cube again, the autopilot working to full capacity, he works tirelessly, playing to the same beat.
Days go by, it seems, the stack of papers never gets smaller, yet the walls keep closing in.
Another fall into brief slumber and he is home, his son in front of him with a toy truck, no response.
The trance is so strong that he automatically signs the divorce papers; it had been coming of course.
Hours slide and days go by, time slips through his finger tips, unaware of the cries for his return.
The man stares expressionless at his stack of papers, the walls start spinning, the lights dimming.
He is out; comes to in his living room and something flying towards him. He reaches out, on his own.
The football that his varsity star son threw slips through his hands and smacks him in the face.
He comes to, and he is suddenly focused; only it took too long.
Too much time went by, stuck in his prosaic cube.
The next day he quit his job and spent the day with his son, trying to salvage the burnt remains.
The damage was forever done.

He sits in the corner of my class, not my first one or my last one. It's one of those boring middle-of-the-day classes everyone dozes off to.
He sits in the corner, wiggling his eyebrows at the girl in the table next to him. He's always partners with her. They're good friends. I think.
He always has on a sky blue hoodie, littered with cliche inspirational quotes he scribbled on. My favorites are "Where the shadows crawl, light is always  close by" and "Nothing is perfect. I am nobody. Therefore, I am perfect." He always takes the hoodie off afterwards and stuffs it in his locker. I know because I've seen him do it. Every day.
When I first heard his voice, frankly, I thought he was a she. He gave off a cool vibe, a dramatic obnoxious drag queen diva. And I wasn't wrong.
First time I ****** it all in and approached him, he blew into my ear, laughed, and walked off. Second time, he approached me, said he liked scaring me. I don't quite understand it.
But the way he babbles, the way his smile just gets me smiling with him, I understand that part of him. The way he looks like he's always having fun, even during his science presentation, I like it. He's always smiling. I don't know if he really does, but I like to think so.

After years of marriage,
We are now gnarled ,symbolic old trees,
It's fruits ripened and matured,
In fine tune with each other.
While I nap he watches his sports channel,
Then he  dozes and I watch my favourite programmes.
We share the same bowl of soup,
I don't mind if he slurps,
He does not mind if I spill some.
We have fun in the kitchen,
He helps me to cut the veggies and do the dishes,
If I admonish him for not doing them properly,
He gives me a toothless smile.
People would think we are fighting,
But its natural for us to speak loudly,
We are hard at hearing.
He loves cake,
He is my best cake mixer,
They come out soft and fluffy.
He drives,
I am his guide,
Stop, go slow, turn right ,so on.
Sometimes my friends and I meet to have coffee,
He goes out to meet his cronies in the park.
He enjoys to tease me or put me down,
I just shrug him off,
"Away with you old man"
I tend to nag a bit,
He does not mind.
At end of the day after a toothless kiss,
He holds my hands tightly,
Looks at me lovingly and says,
"We have made it so far love."

cat dozes on porch
startled by noisy lizard
rains death from above

There are lots of topper things I adore on earth,
like cats, the moon and drunken mirth
or talking, the sea and a well buttered bun,
nights drawing in or long days in the sun.
Another thing I really like is having a shower in the morning,
it’s the perfect antidote to my just awoke yawning,
the aqua blast helps remove the yearning for more bed
the watery goodness bringing vitality to my head,
the soapy woosh invigorates and vamooses my alarm’s mesh,
I exit the bathroom feeling fantastically fresh
and when I’m sat on the bus to work I think “ohh, someone smells splendidly,
oh wait a minute, yeah, it’s me!
Now although I adore gliding into employment with the fragrance of roses
I don’t always heed my cleanliness craving after dozes,
If I’ve had a alcohol drenched Sunday with lots of venturing out
my wanting for a pre work bathe goes up the spout,
sometimes I’ll awake on Monday after a drunken slumber
and feel like I’ve been covered in a ton of lumber,
and think “right it’s either get up now and scrub myself clean
or hit snooze and have another 15”
as even musing on that is making what little energy I have sap
I pull the quilt tighter and take the nap,
the tiny jot of rest doesn’t even touch the side
and before I know I’m at the bus stop awaiting a ride,
I get on and sit down still knackered as hell
and think, “what is that that stale vino smell?
Ohh I bet someone unfortunate was sat here before me,
one of those who has to choose tween getting drunk and having their tea,
someone who everyday has to have more than a few,
then the penny drops, “Jesus Si that odour is coming from you!”
I’m weary, languid, my body is sore,
and because I didn’t shower I’ve got Pound Shop wine coming out of my pores
yeah 4 for tenner cheap plonk is great to toast the end of the paid employment week
but after 24 hours without a cleanse  it pongs pretty bleak,
I’ve got eau de toillete of rotten grape reek.
I hum like I’ve slept in a pre Herculean task Stables Of Aegean that’s been dosed in a dregs of wine pump,
or stench like a on the streets Oliver Twist spliced with a wino Stig Of The Dump.
The bus pulls up to work and before I head in I think I’ll grab something greasy to eat,
ohh, congealed fat mixed with a day on the beers stink, your mates’ nostrils are in for a treat.
I slob to my desk like the unbathed thing I feel
And ponder, “that shower later better be the real deal.”
But, I don’t always rue not having a shower on a Monday because sometimes it means I don’t have the aroma of a stale wine scene,
sometimes uncleansed has me feeling serene!
I remember one unshowered Monday as I’d seen you on the Sunday I smelt of that perfume you always wear,
cos as you’re huggy and tactile it was on my clothes, some of it was even in what was left of my hair,
and as that scent reminded me of you what swirled around me was your awesome breeze,
suffice to say that day of employment passed with ease,
as whenever I got bored of pretending to look at that work thing on Excel
i’d get a hint of your fragrance and my thoughts would propel
with,
your easy wisdom and penchant for a chats
how you like Amaretto and how you love cats,
how you help out animals when they’re feeling brittle
with the tender coo of a Dr Doolittle.
You can take a piece of junk that was discarded at leisure,
decorate it with aplomb and turn it into a treasure,
you’re a burst of energy, a buzzing sprite,
a pleasure to be around, a total delight,
you’re interested in the world, and quantum theory,
talking to you is never dreary,
you bounce around the pub fabulously gassing with the many folk you see,
opening conversations with your splendid key,
**** you seem as popular as me!
Ahh, your joyful demeanour and fantastic soar,
how could anyone fail to hear your wonderful caw;
Emma every time I see you I like you more!
And on those your perfume days when I do get home, hit the shower and feel cleanliness envelop my face
I think, “you know for a ***** day you turned out pretty ace!”!

I have always noticed
That while this city is filled with females
The library is filled with men
Middle-aged; average, maybe less
Sitting at computers
Afternoons
Weekdays

Today I saw them, for the hundreth time
I finally realized
These men have nowhere else to go
Some of them, maybe
But nowhere they would rather be
They're looking for jobs
To feed their families, themselves
This library is their 9-5
No qualifications necessary

I sit in the Bates Room
Surrounded by green lamps and wood tables
Books line the walls, and the gray clouds do not let the sun shine in
The image of academia, the most scholarly of steeples
A man sits across the room
In a navy hat and gray sweater
Book open in front of him
Exactly halfway through

He dozes off
Time and time again
The security guard wakes him up

People walk in and out
Taking pictures and admiring the architecture

I wonder what he's thinking

Crystalline tears
that never really fall
They hide, shimmering silver, just behind her lids.

He sees his reflection,
multiplied in iridescent triangles
But she denies the sorrow, not quite hidden,  not really gone.

She breathes him in,
denies all fears and tears,
She just keeps whispering fractured reassurances.

When he’s away from her,
he sees the poem she left behind
Now he’s scared, he’s terrfied, he’s afraid for her crumbling mind.

And she lies alone
inside a home that’s much to cold
She wishes for his prescence, just a single glimpse.

He waits for her,
wonders if she’ll ever call,
A black and empty screen haunts his fitful dreams as he dozes off.

She wishes she could call
but unwilling Fates refuse to remove the wall
And she lies alone and tries so hard not to cry

Alone, he sits
with tear-and-blood-stained melodies in his ears
He floats on the rythmns and wonders if she can stay strong.

A flashing blade
keeps invading her mind,
but she shakes it away, screams at it to go away, she can’t give in.

He’s counting down
every single second that remains
Until he can finally hold her again, finally wipe away her tears.

She’s fighting so hard,
using every weapon and shield she can
To stop the demons from tarnishing her heart and soul beyond recognition.

They both lie alone,
they both wonder about the other,
as she hides her tears and he hides his fears.

Boy meets girl
Blank walls
Empty space

Boy says
“I feel comfortable around you”
Girls heart flies
Space is filled with trust and friendship

Girl likes boy
Girl is quite
She is afraid of saying anything
That could off set what is
So carefully balanced
Space is enough

Boy drinks a bit
Smokes a bit more
Dozes off in oblivion where
Nothing can hurt him
Space is safe from intruders
And those who are unwelcome

Girl pretends nothing is wrong
Nothing is being felt
For fear of cheapening
All the beautiful things
That fill the space

Boy gets on a train
Girl watches it pull away
And screams all the things
She wishes she had said after it
But it is too late for possibilities
But the space is safe

A clock
is not a thing
that shows us the passage of time;

a clock
is a primitive device that moves
at a fixed rate while time passes all around it.

Time
was drawn and quartered
by the clock. It used to be an endless horizon in all directions,

but it was violently
partitioned into a grid system
in order to make it easier for those with power

to control
those without power. Clocks are
perverse. Clocks are capitalism. Clocks

**** nature
without nature’s consent. We rightly complain
about the partitioning and deforestation of wild lands,

of the Amazon,
and yet we are not outraged
at the partitioning and deforestation of time. There is

a reason
why one feels out of sync
with the natural Earth. There is a reason why one

cannot sleep
through the night. There is
a reason why the years feel like they are

slipping away
from us. Time is not
sand in an hourglass. Nor is it an etching demarcating

the position
of a shadow cast by a cone. Nor is it
the rate at which an electrified quartz crystal oscillates.

Rather,
time moves at the speed
of experience. There is simply nothing more

to it:

A morning fog lifts.
A bird lands on a dying tree on the far side of a river.

A frog leaps from a rock and disappears with a quiet splash.
A child dozes off while reading.

The world becomes dark.
A white-hot meteor streaks across a frozen winter sky.

Without a second thought
She casts a shadow—
To reign down upon his lot,
Still waters; cold and shallow.
Struggling in her web he’s caught,
Left hanging in the gallows.
His heart—all but left to rot,
Her perception of him, fallow.

He tilled the fields of thought
With acre upon acre of roses.
Untying even the toughest knots
So loves door never closes.
He didn’t care if it were for naught,
An intrigue that never dozes,
But broke when he missed his shot,
A lonely bard in a field of roses.

She did not see him in such grace
To look past his imperfection,
Nor climbed the wall to see his place
Of fervent—lasting affection.
In a world of chatter he sat—
In eerie prolonged silence,
To love but not be loved back,
She drowned him in diffidence.

Little by little
Shadow engulfs the weary soldier
As the dark drapes hide the light
The senses onced sharp
Dulled
The focus once once intense
Weakened
The confidence once large
Minisculed

As the head nods unconsciously
in succeeding rhythmic locomotion
Dozes the student
From the horrendous boringness
As the teacher shuts
the dusty only-once usage textbook closed
Marks the end of the informative torture
Awakens the knowledge searcher
From his unexpected quick slumber

Thus came night
For the student to do the task obtained
Little did he know
Not a single knowledge was gained

the cat silences with a scritch under the chin
the basement organized in bins
the **** garden mocks my back
The dishes dry slowly in the rack

in between, my mind ticks away the space
from here to death, and cannot divine what drives the happy & unhappy people passing

the floor is swept, the bathroom sparkles,
the reports make deadline, the lawn lays cut, the kids are fed, the paycheck arrives,
the laundry sleeps folded, the wife dozes in afterglow, the mail sits in the box, the bathroom craves paint, the congregation disperses

the ticking moves me to tears

“The Revenant”(Ghost Song Inspiration)
Awake yearning Asleep
Barnacles of riveted keel ajar with wonder keepsakes to sweep
Traipsing the moonlit path between equidistant insanities
Billowing fumes of rage fulgurant in the vogue modality
Whispering 9 Billion hymns to an immemorial cemetery
Silenced by shattered quakes rumbling in the deep forest
Imagined long ago yet again…
Surfing the few fragile crestfallen waves Tighter Nooses in tsunamis on Portugal in the eleventh month hanging ten
Fragile swoons of kenspeckel verbatim echoed in hallowed halls of evening Diaspora gilded in excellence
Limit is no boundary to the timeless clock of tilted tendencies towards barbed decadence
Revelry is no artifact tethered to a patibulary pole folded in the pokerish sneakthievery of triumphant owl’s night
We laugh like soft mad children waxing the candlelit vigil of barren Beirut struck down with ultrageous fright
Cackling as misfortune trespasses are shot on sight
That The Remedy asphyxiates National Anthem hues
Slippery in the crevasse of caffeinated daydream sues
Toasting butter cretaceous with wonder a lapse of sentience is its ultimate blunder of 1015 Rooz
Because the tottering paragon overlooks his habitable tomb
Bequeathed in Nero’s fright askew for the itching view
Spawned instants of thunderous applause serenade the weaning night littered with dancing fragments of illusion
Time is no object to objective dimples on Helicopter dime
Swank is no subject because the predevoted pause owes all to cadence of currency in the heyday of sublime
Long-winded but curt
Outskirts to every vacant and inhabited skirt suburban to muses crooning with antiquity destitute with forbidden flirt
Livid with indignation over fallen hands outstretched to unheralded bands
Simpering with scalded water of tattered whisper of the nauclatic heralds of sunrise over moonlight land
Effort is no music without tragedian Shakespearean rebuke
Taylor’s stop-and-go with flashlight frisk a Pharaohs’ Zion too much of a Fluke
Greco-Roman travesty blinks with scary flicker in an alpenglow Apollon stained-glass window summit
Dirges always precede precipitate glamour aflame with spectral filibustered blight and plummet
besieged by fallen wonders
Sunken by echoes of consequence in Heavy Metal Thunder
Glimpsing the Revenant of a future tango with backwards sentinels of séance
Grief overtakes the rejuvenated sunlit hike
Hitched by Horses with No Name Painless by harnessed spike
Of a Roadhouse Blues not Red enough for the Scarlet Letter Hues of Bill the Butcher White with Tweed nullifying his diacopes of spite
Cadence peerless paling to mirrored reflection of recapitulated mated soul
Limpid nexility that ghosts flex with reflective Jazzy soul
Jailhouse rocking Malone swerves with jaunt
Easy to dance easier to flaunt
Dastardly darts four score and seven jerseys ago
The seamstress of violence alacrity to sow
Vindication belonging to orphaned asylum 44th
A King lost too soon because of masons coming fourth
Degrees of Solomon rustling through A Biff’s Palace
Jimpster hitman an Akabu of hustled alarm pegged to wild shadows dancing a delicate filigree of spawn and spark
To the plug anointed by tethered Cable Guy treason
Few vigilantes of Batman’s caliber yet to reason
In the Revenant’s wake of fallen timbers of Sunset Strip
Reapers prowl with the tide of Bruno Mars RIP
That he sprawls in survival a hat too generous to tip
Uptown Chelsea in uproar as auditoriums fill with hedged victims of sense and sensibility etched in Gore
Lone Pine Mall stranded by conflagration of bulletproof lore
Clowns dedicate independence while crowns croon ***** repentance
For a forlorn starvation of cities of jackals sailed to sentence
Dripping with a faucet of ghostly haunts
Kapstone Paper in Kansas verging on misery wants  
Yet Bleeding American with French-British hues
The world’s lovelorn starlet yet too swollen to amuse
Stark travesty in fatuous emoluments to Walter White vanity
A current streak unbeaten because of realism in Virtual Insanity
A Joker’s Gamboled revenge skittish in sketchy chalkboards of ossified prestige
Left to the milk carton missing is yet another Abandoned Pools squeeze
The Young Robot scared to Fly-by-Night in the pathway of terminal poignant disease
A punitive prison worthy of the cackles of Dinosaurs besieged by Mr. Freeze
Folksy natatoriums agape with bathhouse squalor
Every hierodule a ******* to the witwanton bottom dollar
For the buggery of a Titanic warning towering ever taller
Stilted Wilts 50 a game warbles without Chinese glowers of Silk Road Silk
An albatross of agrarian hubris is how Ping-Pong Champions were eventually built
Hollywood’s grotto a despairing bravado
Of a masonry skyscraping a surpassed entelechy of a half-known tomorrow
Escape malingering and dare to dream
Listless maneuvers of space a hipster jam of the rollicking heyday of a fortress of a team
That I brandish with pride and retrospective snide
How perjury Underoath is a much better bribe
Air Force pride against Scorched Earth fallow because of a wayward bride
The Spectrum of Casper is galloping in deceitful degrees of a piety too wide
Swayed by Swayze pretended or lazy
The whole world in centration glistens with the fashionable crazy
Electromagnetic Detroit a rumpus for Notorious donnybrooks of a Gretchen cloaked too tight for Avalanche brawls cemented in burgundy and white
Industrial locomotives bulldozing Buffaloes of a Boulder fraternity too leaky to always be right
Scattered on Dawn’s Highway Bleeding crowded by a sing-song peril by design
That deference is reference to rappers glistening in surrealism ripe and prime marveling at the Ace of Military Base’s glaring Sign
Lethal Killers on patrol roaming Earthquake plodded land
Count the number of hairs of vitriol in silicon purebred amicable handfuls of wafting sand
Drifting in Mescaline ends at the periphery of Desert Movies Goldmines for Choosing
The Native American Jabberwocky or Mulder’s Father’s dying musing neither of which is favorable to boozing
The Brown doctor disfavored by armed aristocrats is always alive and rarely unbuttoned when snoozing
Flynn torches bemuse the tattered knight
Presumptuous Arthur is only on the quorum when consentience of accord is proven right by both deed and prescient light
Hardly a sidesplitter for a curveball time
California Love is plastered with rivalries of NorCal grime
Of the greatest Banana Slug Fiction flagrant with Quinntessential clairvoyance of a deceased 60’s crime
A dead queer lollygag belonging to the advice of a Pearl Jam Jeremy’s erasure of snares of beleaguered blasphemous chyme
Nonlinear spurts fielded by stolen bases of paralyzed rebuffs rather curt
A rapper worthy of the stage rarely an actor beyond a churlish vendetta hurt
Yet I dazzle the lingerie of even the most guarded skirt
The kiln of machination is a wedding of guarded betrayals of Monster Mash extortion
Alexisonfire a harbinger to the world’s belabored victory over corrugated striptease contortion
Thursday is a miraculous noise of shattered glass
Inertia knows ventriloquial varnish of shattered bones and tempted blood dripping in crematorium ash
Yet I survive with a Jive walk and a sardonic wagtail flock
Of the best patronage of cognoscenti shockwaves of bonanza stocks stalked like a swarpollock locket invisible to Tik Tok
I’m the best hip-hop in the game beyond the treachery of retreads of psychobabble inane
I strut like magic belonging to the sanitorium of the edgy swank of modest profane
Granite defected is my cement planet infesting the game like Boardwalks on the revived Titanic
Aliens headbash the gamut of my spangled manic
Ghost Ridin’ Raiders of the Lost Arc leads to hysterical panic
Indiana laughs at Elway’s squirrel because he bolted Baltimore with a baseball pretense for a sexier girl
When the rigmarole of genius aligns infamy bails out the oyster aphrodisiac of a Heart of the Ocean pearl
Time is a self-referential quisling of a monarchy built of subtle curling
A bored sport dazzling with scintillation in recursive zeal unfurling
A Canada Dry livid stargazer dozes on Oiler comets meteoric as hydroponics
**** quaffs the lazy lollygag rarely hooked on the righteous phonics
But no distaste to the canine game
I am well beyond the distance to the lethargy of NV in shame
Bear Bryant on Rushmore flowing high
Jetsetting across Pink Floyd’s lurid Clear Blue Skies
George trampled by Chauvinist monsters
Zuckerberg and Gates are honkies betting on bonkers loud both in Boston and in Yonkers
100 Billion of counterfeit souls sold to slot machine mannequins quite droll
Someone needs to devour their corner like a Revelations sour-tasting scroll
Tagged to apothecary mountebanks of Trey’s on repeat
A hard-won small Utah town harder than Joe Montana to beat
Bypassed hack of time Luminosity the adultress of 1693 regaled as a freakish feat
Time simpers to Spirit of Grace graven kantikoys in Seattle Graveyards blemished by dancing Creep
The Idioteque squalor of bemused negligence in a flooded Avatar Jurassic Park Jeep
I recall the St. Joseph’s brawl not with Sevendust Animosity or a squawk on short-sighted grating flag hooped with haywire lines snorted on Basketball
The marstions of plenilune filigree are 32 Leaves of RINOs of crestfallen dirges of cacophony deafened by Yachted Wedding Crashers’ squall
The swagger of a Vogue Rose kissed by Shadow Dancing ******* is livid in throes
Of a throwaway stretchgrave of Jackson’s crooning on astounding Mike Bossy Bose
Engraved with Islander epiphany that smokestack chockablocks itch every more Leary in gawsy clothes
I rampage through the filibusters of Jerusalem silt sunken by immigrants in tired tattered kilt
That the only famine known to McDonald’s is the demolition of Fireman of young Wayne Enterprises yet rigged to insuperable caverns hitched to the hilt
Soul Kitchen alphabets on Dewey Decimal design swagger yet with a Lugubrious Monkey-Silent Bob’s Feared Spinosity in Sprites of commercial Lemon-Lime
Of a dauntless Decision among many subdued by Prison that the apish caper gouges 20/20 Vision a cacophony dimpled in recessive alleles of a modern prime
That is also primacy antecedent to yoked Cartel SUV’s perfected in acerbic dungeons Monster Mash corners yet death unfurled in matchbox tinder of Futurama slime
Jet Lagged infancy of Nuclear Duff hustling the Illmatic Annoyance of BiffCO ***** riddles Uncle RICO wed boschveldt of Kansas City seen 21-30 with zeal and repine
The Bizarre Inc. of a lovelorn 96’ robbed Liberace into untimely death the spinsters of Key Auditorium Dine
Hemlock sprees of Socratic whimpers of treason of Piraeus marks the infamy of Brutus lagging with conscience diseased
That the marvel of vengeance is the plaudits of swanky New York Times rustling against dead Nevada Subways and Lusitania rollicking seas
Rage itches as Brock is capsized to Hearts of Oceans littered with Sparrow Murders of Ravens Batty with Belief
Mourning the Twister carnage of A Shining City on a Hill printed by Federal Way disclosure by Armada Music without a receipt
To the dozen graves of Monster Mash London Fog the Undeveloped Story of a balcony of Wayne Packer Million Dollar degrees
Challenged to a Final Revolution of a Fantasy terrorizing the Trafficked hand a Coca Cola seizure God spared for “Canceled” Taco Bell automotive brain freeze
Spinsters with vertigo paralyze on the hopscotch kettle of popcorn for amusement racketing squashed Colombia too many lines yet to appease
And too gaping Walls of Chauvin weaning on freckles of Comfortably Numb disease that Love Story castle is the monarchy of allusion to 19-17
Coffins for 24k Carat foresight by the antiquated architects
attacked for 2001 vengeance on Forsberg’s Spleen
Notorious by scores of tourists in aperture for Native American Casinos blankets on Red Scare forests
Apple’s chocolate-box sergeant prescience on brittle Reed Chorus
Sung by the litany of Ima memorialized by punctual Grace of the sashay of Delphinium fountain pens porous.

Under the big clock at the station
From all the comings and goings
Her eyes keenly watch
For the face that would end her wait.

At the arrival terminal of the airport
From the many faces streaming out
His wait desperately needs the name
He’s carrying on a board.

At the gate the lone security
Dozes in the summer heat,
Awakened hours waiting for a threat
He encounters it in his dream.

The excruciating pain tearing her within
Blurring faces and fading sounds
In joy’s agony she waits
For her baby to cry!

She barely remembers the first time she receives flowers, a quiet girl of 6 or 7 standing amidst glaring lights in well worn ballet shoes. The faces of the audience in front of her are a blur; all she knows is the mixed rush of relief and gratitude that months of hard work have culminated into a show worthy of standing ovations and teary eyed smiles from proud parents. The flowers aren't even truly for her, she's only a carrier for them - her ballet teacher the true receiver - but she supposes that for a moment before she passes it on she can pretend the bouquet that covers her face entirely is hers, pretend that she warrants the same pride that everyone else seems to have obtained but her.

The second time is slightly different, more memorable only because she's near death (or dead, there isn't really a distinct difference at that point) on a hospital bed with the light filtering in through the blinds. The doctors can't figure out what's wrong so they inject her body with every sort of painkiller imaginable to the human body. She's pretty sure 12 pills in a day accompanied by an anesthetic drip that slows her system to oblivion has to be illegal somehow, but she can't stay awake for more than half an hour at a time to argue so she takes them in anyway. The flowers are a gift, a showcase of love and concern- although from who she really can't recall - and are a welcome addition to the dull palette of the room. They're the first thing she sees when she wakes up and the last thing she sees before she dozes off, and since she miraculously recovers after a grueling 2 weeks of pain she's sure they're magical somehow. "They must be," her mother says, astounded when she listens to her daughter speak, "I didn't see anything there."

The charm hits by the third time she receives flowers, standing face to face with a boy she's only met once but felt too much with, dim lights casting shadows on their figures. She can't hide the shock on her face as he abruptly thrusts the bouquet into her hands, pastel pinks and purples coming into view. This was never part of the agreement - although really, the entire situation was never actually a choice for either of them - and yet somehow a pleasant surprise. As they tumble into the car, she thanks him and asks his reasons for the unexpected gift although she's pretty sure she already knows. "I just wanted to get it for you." He replies, eyes sparkling with something she can't quite name but knows anyway. The rest of the night continues that way, unreal and perfect. She was right, she thinks, a smile slowly making its way across her face; maybe it'll be okay this time. Maybe it'll finally work.

-

There isn't a fourth, fifth or sixth time she receives flowers, but she can tell you the number of times she's experienced heartbreak on the tip of her tongue. She receives it in the same way the petals before have fallen through her fingers, giving her something to feel besides numbing shock. Maybe constant loss is similar to the flowers she has held before in some twisted way; aches blooming in the form of bruised hearts, wilting in the dark, temporary, fleeting.

(A.H.Z)

Fingers abandoned into motion
string coils, ring about, and form
this spider puzzle. They build mazes
of twine unwrapping hands from clay
and stitching hair sown out of skin.

Falling like a stream, strands
cling palms shut but soon brisk past
and some ribbon  left strangled to the ground
turns to the chaos of rain. In structure it is water
and in form a lake. Motion is a temperature.

The fragments of cloth ripple in waves
stealing eyes into melodic order
its music curls off furniture to clothe. Watch
it bend and break when its air collides
with your wooden mind. Walls shroud
in the stitching, your ears melt in sound.
All is rhythm and all that isn't is tone.

An incantation resolves
ears away from the rustle. A
rustle that dissolves disturbances to
a point. Muttered notes that tangle
everything heard to a dot. Moments
come in geometric order.

A grandiosity dozes beyond a collection of
outstretched palms and bowed heads in some
deep cave of being. Half-things reside there and called
upon in dreams shroud our eyes in light.
A vision that vanishes in our grasp,
melds dust into our palms, and changes stone to glass.

i'm *****
been lying in the muck
these days
too long
my skin is drying with the mud
they blend as one
in my ditch
where i've asked for it all
to leave me
alone
do not disturb
but the world doesn't
care
and why should it?
the worms don't care
and crawl around me
the clouds drift above
and the sun
shines
blinds
releases

the world doesn't stop

handsome men in sunglasses walk
the urban streets
sipping on coffee, eating
pastries
the subway ticket booth
attendant
stretches back in his chair
dozes off
the waves come in and
on shore, the foam surrounds
the thin ankles
of a young girl

the wind smells like his cologne

i get up

this dirt is but another chance
to polish myself
again
now tomorrow forever