Either peace or happiness,
let it enfold you

when I was a young man
I felt these things were
dumb, unsophisticated.
I had bad blood, a twisted
mind, a precarious
upbringing.

I was hard as granite, I
leered at the
sun.
I trusted no man and
especially no
woman.

I was living a hell in
small rooms, I broke
things, smashed things,
walked through glass,
cursed.
I challenged everything,
was continually being
evicted, jailed, in and
out of fights, in and out
of my mind.
women were something
to ***** and rail
at, I had no male
friends,

I changed jobs and
cities, I hated holidays,
babies, history,
newspapers, museums,
grandmothers,
marriage, movies,
spiders, garbagemen,
english accents,spain,
france,italy,walnuts and
the color
orange.
algebra angred me,
opera sickened me,
charlie chaplin was a
fake
and flowers were for
pansies.

peace and happiness to me
were signs of
inferiority,
tenants of the weak
and
addled
mind.

but as I went on with
my alley fights,
my suicidal years,
my passage through
any number of
women-it gradually
began to occur to
me
that I wasn't different

from the
others, I was the same,

they were all fulsome
with hatred,
glossed over with petty
grievances,
the men I fought in
alleys had hearts of stone.
everybody was nudging,
inching, cheating for
some insignificant
advantage,
the lie was the
weapon and the
plot was
empty,
darkness was the
dictator.

cautiously, I allowed
myself to feel good
at times.
I found moments of
peace in cheap
rooms
just staring at the
knobs of some
dresser
or listening to the
rain in the
dark.
the less I needed
the better I
felt.

maybe the other life had worn me
down.
I no longer found
glamour
in topping somebody
in conversation.
or in mounting the
body of some poor
drunken female
whose life had
slipped away into
sorrow.

I could never accept
life as it was,
i could never gobble
down all its
poisons
but there were parts,
tenuous magic parts
open for the
asking.

I re formulated
I don't know when,
date, time, all
that
but the change
occurred.
something in me
relaxed, smoothed
out.
i no longer had to
prove that I was a
man,

I didn't have to prove
anything.

I began to see things:
coffee cups lined up
behind a counter in a
cafe.
or a dog walking along
a sidewalk.
or the way the mouse
on my dresser top
stopped there
with its body,
its ears,
its nose,
it was fixed,
a bit of life
caught within itself
and its eyes looked
at me
and they were
beautiful.
then- it was
gone.

I began to feel good,
I began to feel good
in the worst situations
and there were plenty
of those.
like say, the boss
behind his desk,
he is going to have
to fire me.

I've missed too many
days.
he is dressed in a
suit, necktie, glasses,
he says, 'I am going
to have to let you go'

'it's all right' I tell
him.

He must do what he
must do, he has a
wife, a house, children,
expenses, most probably
a girlfriend.

I am sorry for him
he is caught.

I walk onto the blazing
sunshine.
the whole day is
mine
temporarily,
anyhow.

(the whole world is at the
throat of the world,
everybody feels angry,
short-changed, cheated,
everybody is despondent,
disillusioned)

I welcomed shots of
peace, tattered shards of
happiness.

I embraced that stuff
like the hottest number,
like high heels, *******,
singing,the
works.

(don't get me wrong,
there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism
that overlooks all
basic problems just for
the sake of
itself-
this is a shield and a
sickness.)

The knife got near my
throat again,
I almost turned on the
gas
again
but when the good
moments arrived
again
I didn't fight them off
like an alley
adversary.
I let them take me,
I luxuriated in them,
I made them welcome
home.
I even looked into
the mirror
once having thought
myself to be
ugly,
I now liked what
I saw, almost
handsome, yes,
a bit ripped and
ragged,
scares, lumps,
odd turns,
but all in all,
not too bad,
almost handsome,
better at least than
some of those movie
star faces
like the cheeks of
a baby's
****.

and finally I discovered
real feelings of
others,
unheralded,
like lately,
like this morning,
as I was leaving,
for the track,
i saw my wife in bed,
just the
shape of
her head there
(not forgetting
centuries of the living
and the dead and
the dying,
the pyramids,
Mozart dead
but his music still
there in the
room, weeds growing,
the earth turning,
the tote board waiting for
me)
I saw the shape of my
wife's head,
she so still,
I ached for her life,
just being there
under the
covers.

I kissed her in the
forehead,
got down the stairway,
got outside,
got into my marvelous
car,
fixed the seatbelt,
backed out the
drive.
feeling warm to
the fingertips,
down to my
foot on the gas
pedal,
I entered the world
once
more,
drove down the
hill
past the houses
full and empty
of
people,
I saw the mailman,
honked,
he waved
back
at me.

Presenting spin in HD hues,
bankrolled by conglomerates,
the vapid visual dominates
The Lip-Glossed ***** Network News.

Eschewing all the old taboos:
a mouthpiece for the metro-queer.
The Antichrist will soon appear
on lip-glossed ***** network news.

Regardless of what next ensues
they cover every breaking story
(better when it’s really gory).
Attacks and tragedies amuse
They never miss their prime-time cues,
those pert disinformation crews:
the lip-glossed ***** network news.

Wherever a teapot tempest brews
they’re on the feed – it’s Live at 10;
they edit out the Truth and then
homogenize conflicting views.
Sedated viewers now can choose
what semi-informed tele-snooze
they wish to see or heed or use.

Water – water everywhere…
a thousand channels on the air
but precious little left to lose.
It’s fair and balanced – on the brink
between PC and global-think.
It’s news for nimrods: PRAVDA-lite
the babel of descending night
now veils the flat-screen universe
MSNBC gets worse
unable to reverse the curse
of lip-glossed ***** network news.

A bare and phalanxed fascist fox!
Liberals thus depict their foe;
(she’s barely right of center, though…
yet still they’re having hissy fits
while staring at her cleavage.) It’s
enough to make them blow their fuse –
forget diversity of views !
The offer no one can refuse
is lip-glossed ***** network news.

A pocket of thought, ideas.
Impulses, has beens

epi-phenom-enal-con-currencies-synchron-icity
sorting places, thens and nows vying for attention

you see
we till stories in search of true tomorrows
not true
yesterdays (till, I said, not tell)
we **** the hard rows no one else will ***
so seed lies sown are never lies told, if the lies are never taught
or if the liars are caught before convincing the
intended crop to lie and swear a common liege Lord,
or die
for lack of knowing. Non-nascence, simplest
symptom to not see.
Whose death is yours to respond responsibly
to? My child's, or yourn?
In the early days, we knew less than we know now
about how knowing and growing were all
intended
to cost time. Ticks, ono motto whatever, the sound
gears and spiral springs pushing cogs
tick, one tooth tick at atime make

this rough, un polished, un glossed, is it wrong or

as I imagine a diamond in the rough must seem to a share cropper
experienced in diamond hunting, diamond prospecting,

prospecting expecting inspection to permit
seeing a 3.52 specific gravity,
specific
specify

species or spectacles,
spectators or special-if-eye-cation
value-en-abled. Weigh your mind in balance
with mine. I claim the mind of Christ.
What are the odds?

A wandering path, injoyable enable if-i-abble,
pacing is

everything, timing is everything, time is the test.

Time is the metagame.
Take your time. One word formed sylabble at a time.
Babble on, your confusion makes you mortal, to my mind.
Tick.
A quanta of time. Does time come in bits and pieces cernible,
but undiscernible from reality?

Babble.

Of course, time will tell. We learned that in our sleep, did we not?

Aesop taught us more than Moses, no,
Aesop taught us less than Moses.

But, we could learn to walk bearing the weight of knowing what
Aesop taught,
while we could not stand under the weight
Moses was said
to have taught.

Caught you, Jewboy. Whatchewknow?
The moral of the story.

THE IDEA is to win.
Beware the concision decision.
incisive devices, witty inventions.

Flip the shell, roll the bones, cast the runes and,
as luck might have it, die before your time.

Why factors are lies more oft than how factors.
Benefactors rule malefactors or
how or why would we invest our time in seeking reasons
to believe?

Is this the polished piece, the gemstone of specific gravity
(which currently means nothing to you. Here, you find too light
or too heavy, too weighty on the scale of specific value.)

Hard. Value hard, diamond hard, on Mr. Moore's scaled model of
Knowing exploding for reason's sake, raison d'etre, eh?
Too hard?
Not Mohs,
don't get me wrong.
We been Moore's law breaker all along.
We be manifested destinatory stories of heroes gone wrong.

Outlawed
knowing exploding to be reasoned with, by kind
children destined to become
written in stone, scarred by lies

Diamonds cutting diamonds, iron whetting iron
on eternity's edge.

Babylon, was it Bel's gate or fusion from below rising?

Magma fountains with diamond claws tearing the lands asunder
Is asunder still a word?, let me, allow me to define...
"into a position apart, separate,
into separate parts,"
mid-12c., contraction of Old English on sundran 
Middle English used to know asunder for
"distinguish, tell apart."
From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/asunder>
----

mumbler's humbler PIE, bowing before the knowers who
know nothing of my work.
Set apart, art thou holy aware?

Hermit me, meet the rest of me. The true rest that remained.
We live, you and I. Trust me, next is worth the wait.

Suffer needs no pain to make its point. Waiting is.

Grokk. WHO would believe that idea could live
through telegraphese to be tweet meets for the
Cosplay clans. How never grokked a rock,  why even less.

Strange, not be long in this
place. if
place this be. Odd
set aside
torn asunder
blown away.
Awake, little birdie, tell me true,
what's a man like me to do?

Did you meet the famous Mr. Blake?
I cleaned his chimney, way back when, chimbly's whut
we called em. Smoke stacks belchin' black
makin' black moths invisible to voracious
gulls.
Now the peppered moths are free
to be white-ish, for better or worse.

----

right, now, do right or

miss the mark,
the specific mark you made, maybe,
imagining, abstract obstructions missed
by the skin on Job's teeth as you run past

right now to more. You know?

----=

Story telling was the same as lying when I was a child, to me.

Telling stories was my gift I never took. Or am I lying? or mad,
in the old way.
Chailot's rag picker was my best friend.

No noble thought ever found it's home in my head, once
I thunk it, it stunk to high heaven, for me stinkin' thinkin' it.

Po' ems sang sour to fiddles wit' one strang and drums with no
cymbals
Screamin' he owed m' soul the comp'ny sto' bang bang thud.

I died, he lied, and lived to tell this story, ****** if I know,
****** if I don't.

True as true can be. I am lost, but once was found,
lyin' rough, uncut in acres of unseen gems.
----
* Voltaire refused to teach me any thing I could not define:
late 14c., deffinen, diffinen, "to specify; to fix or establish authoritatively;" of words, phrases, etc., "state the signification of, explain what is meant by, describe in detail," from Old French defenir, definir "to finish, conclude, come to an end; bring to an end; define, determine with precision," and directly from Medieval Latin diffinire, definire, from Latin definire "to limit, determine, explain," from de "completely" (see de-) + finire "to bound, limit," from finis "boundary, end" (see finish (v.)). From c. 1400 as "determine, declare, or mark the limit of." Related: Defined; defining.

So, imagine facets unseen, I am at least a meme, a bubble rising on the tide. Think, as you will. Amen?

Her head silently dwindles on a cold plush pillow,
looking into the eyes of her perfect bliss.
An afternoon made from happiness,
a simple Sunday and a drop of Heaven.
Lying down, the August serenity making her blush,
The echo of the pleasing bashful breeze,
A slow pluck of eternity on the strings of love.
Grasping one another's hand,
Vowing to never let go.
Her beautiful eyes glossed in his desire,
A last warm and subtle kiss,
the final memory and the first chapter,
of love vanishing into the abyss.


What will you remember?

When the oceans are still.
When there are no wars.
When the sun stops shining.

When its all over. I'll still hear her voice.
Forever is a scary place,
but I wouldn't want to go there with anyone else,

but you.

When life takes a halt,
that is just the beginning.
My Heaven is simple,
I call it Sunday with you.

son spreads knee blood into ******* &/or
sidewalk chalk.
mixes reds to pinks with head cracking asphalt.
of god & country.
of soggy bread in a lunch-bag; snackpack readied.
he skates.

the concussed ****** of booming youth.

omega he:
to the wolf pack outers.
breathing love of summer, he
is the son drunk on hi-c
& burping.
watching teenaged supersoakers yodel
on a bridge.
florida.

son sneaks out late to rationalize
the city’s features
under strange light & love of nightly people.
boy sculpts body out of beast,
turned dark corners.
arrives swollen.

his father erects a roofed flattop in the backyard slab
with flood light electronics taught to worship
the shred.
mother rattles the blender
on the kitchen outskirts, ***** breathed
& nearing with hugs.

blister-itched.
glossed folds of scar tissue.
those days on summer-beyond when the neighborhood pulsates.
with satellite dishes tuneforking high-frequency vibrations
from outerspace & pigeons explode.

son’s ears bleed, &
the television goes unwatched.
he snaps plank & ankle protein, refurbishing
his legs into iron-rods
or wands of summer anthem.
cold war.

he empties sugar-sweat & toxins
into the storm-drain.
essence of wet heat, skin pinched, & friend
of ghosts.
a three legged dog lay in the shade
leisurely watching the boy skate
on endless.

Lead us, Evolution, lead us
Up the future's endless stair;
Chop us, change us, **** us, **** us.
For stagnation is despair:
Groping, guessing, yet progressing,
Lead us nobody knows where.

Wrong or justice, joy or sorrow,
In the present what are they
while there's always jam-tomorrow,
While we tread the onward way?
Never knowing where we're going,
We can never go astray.

To whatever variation
Our posterity may turn
Hairy, squashy, or crustacean,
Bulbous-eyed or square of stern,
Tusked or toothless, mild or ruthless,
Towards that unknown god we yearn.

Ask not if it's god or devil,
Brethren, lest your words imply
Static norms of good and evil
(As in Plato) throned on high;
Such scholastic, inelastic,
Abstract yardsticks we deny.

Far too long have sages vainly
Glossed great Nature's simple text;
He who runs can read it plainly,
'Goodness = what comes next.'
By evolving, Life is solving
All the questions we perplexed.

Oh then! Value means survival-
Value. If our progeny
Spreads and spawns and licks each rival,
That will prove its deity
(Far from pleasant, by our present,
Standards, though it may well be).

her eyes glistened
with the light of
a thousand stars.

they told me
she was not enough.

her scars were painted
across her canvas called skin -
each one unique to itself.

they desperately
cried out for help.

her glossed lips smiled softly,
pulling her ****** features
into a jovial facade;
allowing a melodious
voice to fill the air

it said
"i'm okay, thank you for asking."

- v.m

Heirlooms

Jun 2017

One day, parkouring through my uncles two story apartment,

I was drawn naturally to his desktop computer

upon which I found his OkCupid Dating profile.

I don't remember his username, Or anything about the site really,

But I remember the head-shot of a beautiful woman

framed above the desk

the sterile grey Rubbermaid totes behind me like caskets, 

How they made even the hardwood floors

look like they were holding in the dead.

For my Grandmothers birthday

my family gathered at Captain Newicks

her favorite seafood restaurant.

My uncle flirted with the waitress.

I don't think I've ever gone to a restaurant with my uncle where he

didn't flirt with the waitress.

Captain Newicks went out of business shortly after that dinner

followed shortly by my grandmothers life.

the relationship between my uncle and that waitress expired well

before both my Grandmother or Captain Newicks.

I remember asking my grandmother about my Uncle.

Tarots Fool would have predicted

my grandmothers eyelids

a silent prayer before her words.

He had two children by his first wife,

keeps a portrait of her above his desk.

She was a blessing on the family

Selfless amd loved by every one.

She took her own life

Spread her wings to break free from the cage He kept her locked in.

He buried his heart in her casket,

motorcycles, empty bottles

had a third child by a second wife

who buried her heart in drugs and strangers.

Amanda was 6 years old when her mother died.

my uncles wife. Her brother josh was 3

when she died my uncle wanted to put them both up for adoption

he didn't.

Their mother died on the 20th of September

a week after her 25th birthday.

their mother once bought a bunch of carnations

with a dead rose in the middle

and said "it looks like I'm dead".

she took a bottle of pills before going to a chinese restaurant

went out as a family

and collapsed at the table.

she was rushed to the hospital

she didn't make it.

their mother wasn't happy

her and my uncle were getting divorced at the time

lived in the same house that I grew up in.

when my uncle told the kids mommy wasn't coming home

my mother was 17 

and there to see all of it.

When my mother was 17 

she had to watch her baby cousins be told their mother had died.

When my grandmother passed.

grief bounced off of my uncles callouses

ricocheted to my cousins, robbed 

twice now of a selfless mother.

The tragedies in my family

have always enthralled me.

like shakespeare sonnets

I breath them into my faithless nights

tap an extra dream-catcher on my bedpost

in space of a prayer.

When The hearth-fire of our family dimmed 

a tealight in my grandmothers eyes.

grayed, Glossed.

she could no longer crochet 

one big dysfunctional quilt, 

together from our families yarn.

without her needle, 

I was determined to watch how our life spun forward.

The next time I saw my uncle,

He offered me a job.

Thick mosquito blinded us as we carried our sweat 

with Rubbermaid totes into a blue two story home 

deep in the evergreen thickets of Maine.

a tall white fan rotated slowly back and fourth 

Cooling the wet patches on our T-shirts while my Uncle 

flirted with the landlord

I still remember when my uncle tossed me the truck keys

the look of terror I gave him

How easy it was for him to trust

I guess when your heart is buried in a casket 

you stop worrying who has your keys.

It makes me remember

when my daughter asked for my keys 

I would sit her in the drivers seat

watch her pretend to drive.

I loved imagining her free

living how she wanted.

I still wouldn't give her my keys.

she would turn my car into a casket.

It makes me remember

when that little girls mother asked me to drive

My words spun portcullises

prison bars forged in anxiety

scaffolding out of latex secrets

Glued with siren smiles, pacifier kisses

denying cigarette smoke on her breath

fueling infernos in my head.

when my uncle handed me his keys without hesitation.

my religion was insulted by his tough skin.

I felt his simple kindness 

like a splash of holy water. 

saw in me, the devil 

caging a woman like property

holding her hostage 

out of fear.

And yes 

when She could drive she left me

And yes 

when she left me she took her daughter.

every morning 

cereal bowl of pills, I **** myself

keep a poster of my mothers face 

covered in bruises 

behind the tiny orange bottles 

to remind me why I do it.

wake up twice, 

first as Phoenix, dying

second as a watcher, writer and admirer.

callouses are not to protect us from the outside at all.

Callouses harden our bodies into caskets.

Hold in all our dead.

Scraping by on pennies added to dimes with 25 cent pieces in the           laundry mat- sure to make fine dining at a cost of some old sailor who’s early retirement was all but his own

Killed in the heart but @ the mercy of men and fielded in newspapers swept under the cold damp dank swell of emotion- and (I) enjoi the cafe immensely

Candles burned and tuna can saliva made for glossed over window sills

The arrogance of the men and their violence
in all possible forms
– completely everyday or extraordinary,
subtle or extreme,
considered as being normal or abnormal –
depend on this, of course,
that they are either denied or justified
from the perpetrators of the violence themselves.
But also by the women in any way
glossed over, excused or forgiven,
which from childhood to the present day, in Western countries too,
has been brainwashed thoroughly,
which means: shut up, be obedient
and offer no resistance.


© Barbara-Paraprem, 2015

i am sitting here missing you,
wishing you would put me back in your hands
and play me.

slide your bow across my strings,
make beautiful music come from me.

because when you play me,
i am not just a piece
of wood, painted
and glossed to perfection,
but i am more
humane.

i was wrenched from a bed
that was not my own to begin with.
into the sunlight, they dragged me,
hands yanking at my long hair.
i clutched my body.
jaw set, i silently vowed not to cry, to take it
like a woman should – to look them in the eye,
to stand unashamedly in front of my neighbors,
my mother, and my sisters. to stand in front of the town,
and face the inevitable.

the Pharisees threw me to the ground, gave a swift kick
to my side – gentle, compared with what would come.
the women, eyes glossed with icy detest, spat in my face.
so the ***** has been caught, they hissed.
But i refused to give them the satisfaction.
i wouldn’t close my eyes during it.
couldn’t.
Jesus, they barked, we caught her sleeping
with a man she doesn’t belong to.
you know what to do.
the little children and the rabbi and the mothers
and the sons, they felt the ground
for smooth, heavy rocks.

i bowed my head slightly, as fingers trembled over
new, prune-colored bruises
on my ribs, my stomach.
i unlocked my knees and lifted my chin,
met his eyes.
he paused for a moment, nodded his head slowly.
If you are without sin, please, cast the first stone.
i bit my lip, waited and watched,
squinting in the sunrise.
the Pharisees grumbled, the townspeople eyed me, but said
nothing, until they left, one
by one.

that Jesus, they mumbled,
He’s always finding loopholes.

Throughout our childhood, our grandmother would turn to us,
in her yellow-lit kitchen, brandishing a rubber spatula or meat
tenderizer to warn us against falling to temptation. She’d witnessed
too many good people disappear into what she called
a consumption of the soul,

              and as my cousins licked sugary batter off their spoons,
no one could have known that one day the candy-coating
would melt from their eyes to see their mother
for what she had done the last six years that now showed in her trembling hands, glossed vision, and a temperament that splashed into anger, flowed into melancholy as easily as she had found herself downing bleary bubbles at the brim of a precipiced fountain.
She was promised her very own message in a bottle, and this keep-sake

manifested in cousin Libby’s dreams, floating down a wine river
that gushed from the slashes in her mother’s wrists. Somehow I knew
these nightmares were born from warm and heady “sleep well”s
mumbled from across the darkest of rooms which held so many glass
ghouls with names and strengths so real, they even scared

my grandmother into silence as she stirred the pecan pie for Easter dinner. She offered to let me lick the spoon clean, but I simply
asked for straight sugar instead.

~~~

Quivering horizons


A palette of picturesque love
stipples weary seascapes
in amethyst ribbons,
pink carnation reflections
blush upon lip glossed beaches
caressing blue skies' gaze
and flip flop yearnings,
quivering horizons
of bougainvillea blooms
drench our hearts,
so we pause silently  
as a poetic sunset
paints a masterpiece
in twilight brushstrokes
inspired by our
*euphoric daydreams

The clerk behind the coffee counter,
she stares out the window
onto the sunny street, lost in thought.
Her half smile on that young face
is an art exhibit of a daydream
about a possible future.
An old woman at a nearby table,
she stares out the same window.
Her eyes glossed over,
they indicate she's remembering
the good moments long past.
The coffee shop daydreamers
have much in common.

-Ron Gavalik

I used to be friends with the sun
He was older than I was
Naturally he filled in that father spot that sat empty under the spot light
We used to go on adventures through the woods
We got lost in muddy Nikes and crossed clipped overalls
We'd come back to my house and share peanut butter glossed over graham crackers
Drinking milk, we were middle aged Irish men, this was our whiskey
He'd teach me how to make ants my humans as I played the part of God
Until the mountains would call him home
I asked if he could stay longer
The horizon never allowed it
Never holding a grudge
Even as he left, he painted the sky with orange grace and pink beauty

Run home

Take a bath

Get out quickly
Feel the squishy carpet beneath your toes
A carpeted bathroom was an awful idea
Dry off and zip up that onesie
Pull back those blinds
The moon is waiting
She'd help me sleep at night
Gripping onto that teddy bear that I've had since I was born
She'd talk to me about life's problems
I wasn't even ten yet, so there really wasn't that much to talk about
I'd drift off to her soft voice
I rested easy with her brushing my cheeks, a mothers hand made of reflected light

It's been years since those days
I'm 18 now
My favorite time of day is twilight
There is no Sun
There is no Moon
There is only peace
The heat of the sun leaves the day
The reflection of the moon yet to land on the surface of the creeks on my cheeks
I am crying

If you look closely, there is a time of day
Where the sun and the moon
Are but inches apart
If you squint your eyes
You will see the distaste in the rays on your skin

The moon now refuses to speak about the sun
She says the words burn her lips hot with anger
Their love was once visible, heating our atmosphere
Space and stardust have come between them, turning them cold
The sun is close to smothering
I am close to smothering

I am a comet
My parents are the Sun and the Moon
I orbit between them delivering news from point frustration to point disappointment
I am frustrated and I am disappointed
I miss when Sola and Luna could share the same sky
I miss when they could speak without arguing
I miss seeing them smile in the same room... I mean sky...
I wish my Father and Mother could speak without anger
You both created three beautiful children
Neither of you can look at the other

I'm not asking for my parents to be back together
I am no fool
I am a comet
Wishing for the Sun and the Moon
To speak with compromise

Beyond the farms
of my troubled fears,
a path weaves through
icy slivers of bone,
glossed by Winter’s breath,
who sits enthroned
aside her onyx pond,
reflecting.

“The challenge you face is twofold:
confront me and confront yourself.”

A black jaguar saunters from
her ivory throne, holding
my gaze in the vice
of its assured indifference.

“That which you seek may not be found,
but earned.”

My dagger shakes,
frozen tightly in
my sweating palm.
The lush snow absorbs
the crush of my knees
as the jaguar closes.

“Your unearthed answer, clean of instinct or knowledge,
bids closer reflection.”

At arm’s length,
the jaguar stops.

“Change does not ride the wind,
for the wind has direction.”

The jaguar’s breath
warms my quivering lips,
and I exhale
my unbidden thoughts.
My eyes, still fixed in place,
are not aware
of my rising hand.

“To understand is to forgive,
and to forgive is to love.”

Her words chill the blood
pooling in my outstretched palm,
quivering closer to my host.
The ferric scent tickles its whiskers,
and the jaguar laps up my gift.

“Love, and you'll belong.”

When I was a kid I used to play hide and seek a lot,
take it from me, the biggest tree isn't the best hiding spot.
When I was a kid I also used to smile and cry a lot,
I guess it was part of my game, disappear behind a tree,
avoid anyone who was seeking and let my brown eyes run
like the sun casting its lights over the cliff of a waterfall.

I remember the first time I had met and talked to Sarah,
she caught me playing hide and seek as I usually did.
I remember thinking it wasn't fair that she had found me
because there wasn't supposed to be anyone seeking.
She had asked me what I was doing behind the tree
before I could answer she told me to count to thirty,
so I counted. Being a kid; counting to thirty was difficult,
it was intricate enough to count to ten or even twenty
but thirty felt like an eternity to a six year old.
I told her I wasn't going to count because I couldn't
and I wouldn't satisfy the request of a complete stranger.

This was way before the stranger is danger days
where you could play in a park  with a forty-five
year old man and no one would bother wondering why
a forty-five year old man is sitting at a park.
These were the days where the dark sky doesn't signify
a time to come back inside the house but a time to explore,
explore the vast stars that sat above our heads, explore-
explore the core of the earth with a plastic sand shovel.

Sarah explained to me that I was wasting time behind the tree
that she could see in the future and that I will be happy.
I didn't believe her, I asked her how she could have known
and she told me that you reap what you have sown
and to a kid that was in itself a mystery, mainly because
I didn't know the words reap or the word sown.
Sarah was about eleven when I first met her
I've seen her a few more times since then but then
became moments gone and breezes of wind blown away.

I remember Sarah playing hide and seek with me
she said I shouldn't hide behind a tree because it's too easy-
it's too easy to find a kid hiding behind a tree,
it's too easy to see that the kid will pick a tree.
I asked her how can I do things differently,
how could I ever get my chance to win at hide and seek,
I remember the weeks followed; perfecting a strategy
of running and dodging the seeker in between trees,
interestingly enough the fact remained that I still lost.
I glossed over my different plans, wondering if I can
find a different way to win this game.
I asked her how come she could find me every time
and she'd remind me of her age, but to say that-
a tortoise is wiser than a human because of its old age
is to say that a page written a decade before
could tell of how people are feeling today.
It just wasn't the truth that remained in my brain.
I told her she was lying and that she was just trying
to hide the fact that she was cheating by not counting.

When I was a kid I used to play hide and seek a lot,
take it from me, the biggest tree isn't the best hiding spot.
When I was a kid, I would always used to cry a lot,
but as I grew up that was something I tried to stop,
and I succeeded in most instances.

I wrote several years ago, a scrap of paper with wondering thoughts--lost.

Delinquent, ovulating, *****, lovers, ***
devil, ****, lies, logic, science
dalliance, omission, legality lost, sultry
does oppression look like ***--yes:
It was forced, it ran it's course
but it still runs, runs runs
silently, but in actuality, loud
quietly, but it prowls, hunting for calamity
a sad reality-- a tragedy
with wicked twists which linger
on my wrists, hips and thighs
charred with scars and lies,
I lied: with my thighs
when i let you in, it wasn't a sin
but a lesson I learned, as a girl
and education I didn't earn
--but I sure paid for
no cause for concern
but I find it discerning, sick
and disturbing--you seek dolls
so fine, glossed pretty pink lips
that shine, lips like mine
but there is no crime,
put a price on a doll
and say she's worth a dime.

It’s 6:47am on a Monday morning on I-71 south towards Cincinnati and I’m driving in the middle lane entirely surrounded by semis and service trucks and out of nowhere, like it was some miracle act of God, it starts pouring down rain so hard that all of the traffic stops in the height of morning rush hour, everyone’s radios playing morning talk shows so loud it vibrates the ground our tires are on and everyone’s coffees move back into their hands from their cup holders, I guess we’re all just trying to wait it out right now

I guess I have no choice but to wait it out right now, he says, hoodie wrinkled, two all nighter’s deep and still no passing grade, standing outside of the campus Starbucks, as it’s pouring down rain

I guess we’ll have to wait it out, says my sister to an 8 year old me, as I wait on the curb of our neighborhood for the ice cream truck, no matter how disfigured the spongebob popsicle’s face looks by the time I get it in my hands, and no matter the fact that I never understood that his eyes were bubblegum

I guess I have to wait it out, my father says, watching my grandmother lying in her hospital bed, getting tests taken for her potentially and what would be proven deadly, lung cancer,
Her eyes glossed over and her lips still yearning for the pull of her usual afternoon pack of cigarettes

You just have to wait it out, says my grandpa, standing next to me in his garden, after having helped me plant my first tomato seeds,
The summer has felt like forever at 10 years old, I wish it stayed that way, and I wish I liked tomatoes

I guess we just have to wait it out now, the head of police says to his crew of swat members, after having everything fail towards coaxing a young high school boy out of his boarded up bedroom, the shotgun he killed his ex girlfriend with, still in his arms

Well, we’re just going to have to wait it out,
I think to myself as I sit in this traffic at what is now exactly 7am on a rainy Monday morning in the middle lane of I-71 south towards Cincinnati, entirely surrounded by semis and service trucks

The rain will stop eventually

Little orange dimples wallpaper my skin
Trying to palm my aggression by dribbling in agony
I’m free
Legs criss crossing
Arms are tossing in the air like I’m praising a buzzer
Building hopes and dreams on driveways and wooden glossed tiles
Behind me is a river of determination that I myself poured
This is where I am an artist

Fat blats fill the humid, night air
Chromed up machines ride tonight
Leather clad bodies with slick lines
Long legged, lean ladies rev their smiles
Black lined lips glossed smooth with red
Blood red fingertips scratch their pleasure
Nails run races up the backs
Smirked smiles know where they long to flit
Lip curling snarls as shivers run out
Sloe eyed partners strut by the line
Flicking their tails like bashful does
Paired up pretties ride out in squeals
Tires spin flashing through the lamp light
Paired up pretties hang tight tonight

cc1210

Beyond the shining surface
Of any worthwhile endeavor
Lay the here and now we allow
A past we struggle to drag along or sever

For there with each turning page
Accumulates and demonstrates
A need for an infinate coming of age
Or tatters shredded and scattered by fortunes
  or misfortune of the fates we seek to engage

Built upon the ancient ruins entwines
The once shining examples of progress
As layer upon layer of those literal designs
Where thoughts are seeds run through the press
       To become orphan dreams  or deemed success

In solitude and volunteeraly those who suffer
Through the constant battle of doubts ebb and flow
Laying down our lives with each ream as a buffer
To the insecurities constant nipping and ripping apart
    Every letter ,word ,page and chapter line after line in tow

Is that dream we seem to cling to where the world
That sometimes looks beyond that very same glossy surface
We gave so much of ourselves to create that to be sure in reflection
We see more than just a cover and to know beyond are the words
    We gave life to hoping it gives our time struggle and pain a purpose

Not to be glossed over!!!!

State Fair, Kentucky 2013

by Yoko Molotov and David Willams


It’s time for the State Fair,
today is the last day of summer.

love all the animals. pet all the animals.
cook all the animals. eat all the animals.

inflatable prizes on a stick, slowly deflating,
it’s the childhood's defeat-
they are lying lifeless in the backseat.

guess your
birthday,
weight or age
within 3 days,
20lbs, or 3 years.
junk on tables for looks at-
key rings, magnets and stickers.
Formal complaints.

white people.
Starving ducklings leap and fall
while snotty babies squeal at them.
Obama, I'm a friend of Mitch.
donate 3$ to the GOP.
I fed an estranged Grandpa
roasted pecans.

country people. concrete floors.
legs. legs long and legs glossed.
Thousands of people and two thousands of crocs.
pillars of ivory, blue and dimpled.
sunburn, wife beaters, and university shirts.
(THAT'S IT, I'M TELLING MEMAW, your shirts are beautiful)
beautiful lips
and toothless maws.

half-hearted, half-heated corn dogs and overpriced
beers, I can never finish an ice cream so
I usually leave the cone lying to be
sat in.
Dead bugs in a box and bug puke in my mouth.
A salad made from blue ribbon tobacco and light bulb tomatoes.
everything smells like popcorn, **** and tradition.

Joseph's Dreamcoat worn in some nobody's county.
you're my favorite gingerbread girl.
lover's quarrels are illegal, thanks.
everyone has the right to be miserable, thanks.

bovine pet request,
dumb static and docile eyes, do they ever change?
does any of it really change?
at some point all the cows petted will be digested and shat out.

congested aisles, shoving and trampling,
the mobilized morbidly obese in carts
WWJD?
a fat stone in a brainless trout stream.
the failing pan salesman hawking his wares,
no one in attendance, wearing a headset (a real go-getter)
and holding his pan like a flag.

the really poor families come to the fair
because it's cheap entertainment,
and it's cheap tradition.
and these struggling families
trudge proudly in faded Kmart attire-
an exhibition the pretentious call
"people watching".

separating oneself from the herd of undesirables,
a pasty man
with his head awkwardly on a pillow,
trying to convince an apathetic and bloated crowd
the perfection of his product,
his head a bit like road ****.
he's selling but the
crowd walks on-on-on.


Was there more guano under the bridge or beyond the gates?

Lady adjacent waiter,
ruler of the medulla,
give me a certain angle
that'll make her want to maneuver,

make her want to consider
in the absence of his figure,
that maybe not the whole gender
is full of secret agendas,

with her left over right leg,
glass in her right hand,
a tribute to her innocence
ever since she walked in,

assembled it's, white wine
Krispy Kreme eyes,
glazed look,
lips glossed like her oil thighs,

it's finally off time
her sorority cross line,
it's happy hour,
she wasn't,

his whole crime has been a cover up
since she wants him,
this whole scene has been taped off
by her girlfriends,

it's often I see it,
alcoholic rehab,
a culprit — a demon
making contracts with my open tab,

broken bad in the bathroom,
clad woman,
For all the attention
such good first impressions,

but not you,
I feel a different aura,
I feel I'll get exposed
so I call a different offense,

Semper Fi
within my eyes
this energy —
I quiet the restaurant,

Can you hear me?
Proceed to throwing signals
Tom Brady couldn't throw,
the ball's in my court so I'm finally on the move,

crushing on you while the sky undresses,
you catch a glimpse
as the clouds bare witness,
Excuse me Miss Unfortunate,

I know I'm at a disadvantage
but I had to call it
head or tails
I'm still offering,

a chance to be your man? No
a chance to be your author?
a chance to be your narrator now or later
call me,

a chance to say “there she is”
her piercing eyes, fixes her finger on my lips
be quiet, “I saw this in a movie once”
she told me as I spy and I grab onto her truths,

excuse me thats selfish, pardon me
apart of me just wants to see that movie,
a father daughter dance,
a chance to be your groupie,

a chance to see that smile
that you flashed
like a lunar star,
meteor crash

and its back to reality,
eye connection broken
and it’s back to the irony,
a word barely spoken

and I’m back to asking:
Check Please.

Violet fire crinkling the golden skinned surface
Lip gloss slumbered upon your open mouth
Pinked and pinned
Pinned and pink
Lace softened into the edges
Bridging skinny emotions
Plasticised eyelashes shape organic eyes
Breathless ripples evacuate

I was attacked by jellyfish.
Clear umbrellas
circus tents with mardi gras beads
hung down the side
like indian fringe
tentacles stretching stretching stretching stretching
and stopping.

And stinging.

Those mother smuckers
shooting venom
like Belushi shot ******
through my skin
Chinese acupuncture
sticky jelly arms sticking
plucked off suction cups
like fake tattoos rubbed off
with bare fingers
skin burned
a sixteen alarm salt fire
contained by ocean
no flame but pain
and water stings
the tickle from tentacle to skin
not even a fish
but a gillfree zooplankton
free from captivity
but caged to my skin
like a remora
those shark suckers
but I'm not a host
just prey in the way
for a swim in the gulf
or a walk on the shore
or a pet at the zoo
my chest my feet my hands
stung like ghost bees
not seen but felt
glossed with mud
this time tide sand
wet like tsunamis
mixed with vinegar
rubbed like bay leaves
under the nose
to relieve congestion
but on the wound
to relieve infection
my skin reddens
like rose bloom
from gypsum sands
and I want to sleep
sound as Beethoven
but wake again
like an immortal sea jellie
roaming every ocean
like De Soto or Marco Polo.

Marco

Polo

Marco

Polo

Fish out of water.

Red is the colour my heart beats for her.
     Rosy cheeks and glossed lips.
Orange is the taste on her lips,
     so sweet and citrusy.
Yellow is the sun shining down upon her hair,
     glistening and warm and happy.
Green is my envy of her beauty.
Blue is the colour I feel when
     she is not by my side.
     It is the rain when I am missing her.
Indigo is the deep attraction I feel towards her.
     Adoration, admiration, amazement.
Purple is her hands,
     how cold her fingers are,
     And how I wish I could warm them with mine.
She is the rainbow and the I am the ground
     for her and I will never meet.
I see her beauty from below,
     gazing upon her colour and life.
She is a beautiful reflection and I am nothing but grass.
How I wish we could touch.

I would crack it open over the sink.
I would split
               first, the stiff, waxy skin
               then the inner membrane, papery and white and fleshy
and reveal a thousand rubies, nestled in their pulp.
And as my hands glossed, sticky and scarlet,
I would press my index finger to the center of my tongue
and **** the sharp juice with such ardency
that you would become
               the pink in my spit
               and the thick in my mouth.
I would take careful notice not to lose a single jewel,
but to fully consume.
I would not mind your seeds
lodged between my molars.
Perhaps I would even keep them there as long as I could
               because you are my favorite flavor.
And perhaps after your juice has spilled and painted maps on my arms
and dripped from my elbows,
I would piece the shell back together,
tuck it in your chest behind your ribs, and close you up.
And perhaps then,
               when I had licked its walls clean
               when I had emptied its insides,
then there would be room for me.

Blue is for detachment, the lateral, the second thought
The dragonfly’s wing, that blue, the company of a shadow;
The curtain of dusk, the blue of solitude;
The blue of people, their blue hair;
The abandoned blue of loss;
Astute blue, foreseeing who wakes and who sleeps;
The blue of blue jays, one tear of a fallen angel;
The blue of what is forgotten;
Blue of juniper, blue of sky;
The blue of rivers, the blue of fingertips;
The blue of feathers, their glossed barbs;
Poppy seed blue, recently harvested;
The blue of argon, the arm, the path to refuge;
Blue is for hope, a sanctuary, the final word;
The turtle’s back, that blue, the pulse of veins;
Wind chill, the blue of absence;
The blue of trees, their blue branches;
The paralyzing blue of fear.