Bouazizi’s heavy eyelids parted as the Muezzin recited the final call for the first Adhan of the day.

“As-salatu Khayrun Minan-nawm”
Prayer is better than sleep

Rising from the torment of another restless night, Bouazizi wiped the sleep from his droopy eyes as his feet touched the cold stone floor.

Throughout the frigid night, the devilish jinn did their work, eagerly jabbing away at Bouazizi with pointed sticks, tormenting his troubled conscience with the worry of his nagging indebtedness. All night the face of the man Bouazizi owed money to haunted him. Bouazizi could see the man’s greasy lips and brown teeth jawing away, inches from his face. He imagined chubby caffeine stained fingers reaching toward him to grab some dinars from Bouazizi’s money box.

Bouazizi turned all night like he was sleeping on a board of spikes. His prayers for a restful night again went unanswered. The pall of a blue fatigue would shadow Bouazizi for most of the day.

Bouazizi’s weariness was compounded by a gnawing hunger. By force of habit, he grudgingly opened the food cupboard with the foreknowledge that it was almost bare. Bouazizi’s premonition proved correct as he surveyed a meager handful of chickpeas, some eggs and a few sparse loaves. It was just enough to feed his dependant family; younger brothers and sisters, cousins and a terminally disabled uncle. That left nothing for Bouazizi but a quick jab to his empty gut. He would start this day without breakfast.

Bouazizi made a living as a street vendor. He hustles to survive. Bouazizi’s father died in a construction accident in Libya when he was three. Since the age of 10, Bouazizi had pushed a cart through the streets of Sidi Bouzid; selling fruit at the public market just a few blocks from the home that he has lived in for almost his entire life.

At 27 years of age, Bouazizi has wrestled the beast of deprivation since his birth. To date, he has bravely fought it to a standstill; but day after day the multi-headed hydra of life has snapped at him. He has squarely met the eyes of the beast with fortitude and resolve; but the sharp fangs of a hardscrabble life has sunken deep into Bouazizi’s spleen. The unjust rules of society are powerful claws that slash away at his flesh, bleeding him dry: while the spiked tendrils of poverty wrap Bouazizi’s neck, seeking to strangle him.

Bouazizi is a workingman hero; a skilled warrior in the fight for daily bread. He is accustomed to living a life of scarcity. His daily deliverance is the grace of another day of labor and the blessed wages of subsistence.

Though Allah has blessed this man with fortitude the acuteness of terminal want and the constant struggle to survive has its limits for any man; even for strong champions like Bouazizi.

This morning as Bouazizi washed he peered into a mirror, closely examining new wrinkles on his stubble strewn face. He fingered his deep black curls dashed with growing streaks of gray. He studied them through the gaze of heavy bloodshot eyes. He looked upward as if to implore Allah to salve the bruises of daily life.

Bouazizi braced himself with the splash of a cold water slap to his face. He wiped his cheeks clean with the tail of his shirt. He dipped his toothbrush into a box of baking powder and scoured an aching back molar in need of a root canal. Bouazizi should see a dentist but it is a luxury he cannot afford so he packed an aspirin on top of the infected tooth. The dissolving aspirin invaded his mouth coating his tongue with a bitter effervescence.

Bouazizi liked the taste and was grateful for the expectation of a dulled pain. He smiled into the mirror to check his chipped front tooth while pinching a cigarette **** from an ashtray. The roach had one hit left in it. He lit it with a long hard drag that consumed a good part of the filter. Bouazizi’s first smoke of the day was more filter then tobacco but it shocked his lungs into the coughing flow of another day.

Bouazizi put on his jacket, slipped into his knockoff NB sneakers and reached for a green apple on a nearby table. He took a big bite and began to chew away the pain of his toothache.

Bouazizi stepped into the street to catch the sun rising over the rooftops. He believed that seeing the sunrise was a good omen that augured well for that day’s business. A sunbeam braking over a far distant wall bathed Bouazizi in a golden light and illumined the alley where he parked his cart holding his remaining stock of week old apples. He lifted the handles and backed his cart out into the street being extra mindful of the cracks in the cobblestone road. Bouazizi sprained his ankle a week ago and it was still tender. Bouazizi had to be careful not to aggravate it with a careless step. Having successfully navigated his cart into the road, Bouazizi made a skillful U Turn and headed up the street limping toward the market.

A winter chill gripped Bouazizi prompting him to zip his jacket up to his neck. The zipper pinched his Adam’s Apple and a few droplets of blood stained his green corduroy jacket. Though it was cold, Bouazizi sensed that spring would arrive early this year triggering a replay of a recurring daydream. Bouazizi imagined himself behind the wheel of a new van on his way to the market. Fresh air and sunshine pouring through the open windows with the cargo space overflowing with fresh vegetables and fruits.

It was a lifelong ambition of Bouazizi to own a van. He dreamed of buying a six cylinder Dodge Caravan. It would be painted red and he would call it The Red Flame. The Red Flame would be fast and powerful and sport chrome spinners. The Red Flame would be filled with music from a Blaupunkt sound system with kick *** speakers. Power windows, air conditioning, leather seats, a moonroof and plenty of space in the back for his produce would complete Bouazizi’s ride.

The Red Flame would be the vehicle Bouazizi required to expand his business beyond the market square. Bouazizi would sell his produce out of the back of the van, moving from neighborhood to neighborhood. No longer would he have to wait for customers to come to his stand in the market. Bouazizi would go to his customers. Bouazizi and the Red Flame would be known in all the neighborhoods throughout the district. Bouazizi shook his head and smiled thinking about all the girls who would like to take rides in the Red Flame. Bouazizi and his Red Flame would be a sight to be noticed and a force to be reckoned with.

“EEEEEYOWWW” a Mercedes horn angrily honked; jarring Bouazizi from the reverie of his daydream. A guy whipping around the corner like a silver streak stuck his head out the window blasting with music yelling, “Hey Mnayek, watch where you push that *******.”

The music faded as the Mercedes roared away. “Barra nikk okhtek” Bouazizi yelled, raising his ******* in the direction of the vanished car. “The big guys in the fancy cars think the road belongs to them”, Bouazizi mumbled to himself.

The insult ****** Bouazizi off, but he was accustomed to them and as he limped along pushing his cart he distracted himself with the amusement of the ascending sun chasing the fleeting shadows of the night, sending them scurrying down narrow alleyways.

Bouazizi imaged himself a character from his favorite movie. He was a giant Transformer, chasing the black shadows of evil away from the city into the desert. After battling evil and conquering the bad guys, he would transform himself back into the regular Bouazizi; selling his produce to the people as he patrolled the highways of Tunisia in the Red Flame, the music blasting out the windows, the chrome spinners flashing in the sunlight. Bouazizi would remain vigilant, always ready to transform the Red Flame to fight the evil doers.

The bumps and potholes in the road jostled Bouazizi’s load of apples. A few fell out of the wooden baskets and were rolling around in the open spaces of the cart. Bouazizi didn’t want to risk bruising them. Damaged merchandise can’t be sold so he was careful to secure his goods and arrange his cart to appeal to women customers. He made sure to display his prized electronic scale in the corner of the cart for all to see.

Bouazizi had a reputation as a fair and generous dealer who always gave good value to his customers. Bouazizi was also known for his kindness. He would give apples to hungry children and families who could not pay. Bouazizi knew the pain of hunger and it brought him great satisfaction to be able to alleviate it in others.

As a man who valued fairness, Bouazizi was particularly proud of his electronic scale. Bouazizi was certain the new measuring device assured all customers that Bouazizi sold just and correct portions. The electronic scale was Bouazizi’s shining lamp. He trusted it. He hung it from the corner post of his cart like it was the beacon of a lighthouse guiding shoppers through the treachery of an unscrupulous market. It would attract all customers who valued fairness to the safe harbor of Bouazizi’s cart.

The electronic scale is Bouazizi’s assurance to his customers that the weights and measures of electronic calculation layed beyond any cloud of doubt. It is a fair, impartial and objective arbiter for any dispute.

Bouazizi believed that the fairness of his scale would distinguish his stand from other produce vendors. Though its purchase put Bouazizi into deep debt, the scale was a source of pride for Bouazizi who believed that it would help his profits to increase and help him to achieve his goal of buying the Red Flame.

As Bouazizi pushed his cart toward the market, he mulled his plan over in his mind for the millionth time. He wasn't great in math but he was able to calculate his financial situation with a degree of precision. His estimations triggered worries that his growing debt to money lenders may be difficult to payoff.

Indebtedness pressed down on Bouazizi’s chest like a mounting pile of stones. It was the source of an ever present fear coercing Bouazizi to live in a constant state of anxiety. His business needed to grow for Bouazizi to get a measure of relief and ultimately prosper from all his hard work. Bouazizi was driven by urgency.

The morning roil of the street was coming alive. Bouazizi quickened his step to secure a good location for his cart at the market. Car horns, the spewing diesel from clunking trucks, the flatulent roar of accelerating buses mixed with the laughs and shrieks of children heading to school composed the rising crescendo of the city square.

As he pushed through the market, Bouazizi inhaled the aromatic eddies of roasting coffee floating on the air. It was a pleasantry Bouazizi looked forward to each morning. The delicious wafts of coffee mingling with the crisp aroma of baking bread instigated a growl from Bouazizi’s empty stomach. He needed to get something to eat. After he got money from his first sale he would by a coffee and some fried dough.

Activity in the market was vigorous, punctuated by the usual arguments of petty territorial disputes between vendors. The disagreements were always amicably resolved, burned away in rising billows of roasting meats and vegetables, the exchange of cigarettes and the plumes of tobacco smoke rising as emanations of peace.

Bouazizi skillfully maneuvered his cart through the market commotion. He slid into his usual space between Aaban and Aameen. His good friend Aaban sold candles, incense, oils and sometimes his wife would make cakes to sell. Aameen was the markets most notorious jokester. He sold hardware and just about anything else he could get his hands on.

Aaban was already burning a few sticks of jasmine incense. It helped to attract customers. The aroma defined the immediate space with the pleasant bouquet of a spring garden. Bouazizi liked the smell and appreciated the increased traffic it brought to his apple cart.

“Hey Basboosa#, do you have any cigarettes?“, Aameen asked as he pulled out a lighter. Bouazizi shook the tip of a Kent from an almost empty pack. Aameen grabbed the cigarette with his lips.

“That's three cartons of Kents you owe me, you cheap *******.” Bouazizi answered half jokingly. Aameen mumbled a laugh through a grin tightly gripping the **** as he exhaled smoke from his nose like a fire breathing dragon. Bouazizi also took out a cigarette for himself.

“Aameem, give me a light”, Bouazizi asked.

Aameen tossed him the lighter.

“Keep it Basboosa. I got others.” Aameen smiled as he showed off a newly opened box of disposable lighters to sell on his stand.

“Made in China, Basboosa. They make everything cheap and colorful. I can make some money with these.”

Bouazizi lit his next to last cigarette. He inhaled deeply. The smoke chased away the cool air in Bouazizi’s lungs with a shot of a hot nicotine rush.

“Merci Aameen” Bouazizi answered. He put the lighter into the almost empty cigarette pack and put it into his hip pocket. The lighter would protect his last cigarette from being crushed.

The laughter and shouts of the bazaar, the harangue of radio voices shouting anxious verses of Imam’s exhorting the masses to submit and the piecing ramble of nondescript AM music flinging piercing unintelligible static surrounded Bouazizi and his cart as he waited for his first customers of the day.

Bouazizi sensed a nervous commotion rise along the line of vendors. A crowd of tourists and locals milling about parted as if to avoid a slithering asp making its way through their midst. The hoots of vendors and the cackle of the crowd made its way to Bouazizi’s knowing ear. He knew what was coming. It was nothing more then another shakedown by city officials acting as bagmen for petty municipal bureaucrats. They claim to be checking vendor licences but they’re just making the rounds collecting protection money from the vendors. Pocketing bribes and payoffs is the municipal authorities idea of good government. They are skilled at using the power of their office to extort tribute from the working poor.

Bouazizi made the mistake of making eye contact with Madame Hamdi. As the municipal authority in charge of vendors and taxis Madame Hamdi held sway over the lives of the street vendors. She relished the power she had over the men who make a meager living selling goods in the square; and this morning she was moving through the market like a bloodhound hot on the trail of an escaped convict. Two burly henchmen lead the way before her. Bouazizi knew Madame Hamdi’s hounds were coming for him.

Bouazizi knew he was ******. Having just made a payment to his money lender, Bouazizi had no extra dinars to grease the palm of Madame Hamdi. He grabbed the handle bars of his cart to make an escape; but Madame Hamdi cut him off and got right into into Bouazizi’s face.

“Ah little Basboosa where are you going? she asked with the tone of playful contempt.

“I suppose you still have no license to sell, ah Basboosa?” Madame Hamdi questioned with the air of a soulless inquisitor.

“You know Madame Hamdi, cart vendors do not need a license.” Bouazizi feebly protested, not daring to look into her eyes.

“Basboosa, you know we can overlook your violations with a small fine for your laxity” a dismissive Madame Hamdi offered.

Bouazizi’s sense of guilt would not permit him to lift his eyes. His head remained bowed. Bouazizi stood convicted of being one of the impoverished.

“I have no spare dinars to offer Madame Hamdi, My pockets are empty, full of holes. My money falls into everyone’s palm but my own. I’m sorry Madame Hamdi. I’ll take my cart home”. He lifted the handlebars in an attempt to escape. One of Madame Hamdi’s henchmen stepped in front of his cart while the other pushed Bouazizi away from it.

“Either you pay me a vendor tax for a license or I will confiscate your goods Basboosa”, Madame Hamdi warned as she lifted Bouazizi’s scale off its hook.

“This will be the first to go”, she said grinning as she examined the scale. “We’ll just keep this.”
Like a mother lion protecting a defenseless cub from the snapping jaws of a pack of ravenous hyenas, Bouazizi lunged to retrieve his prized scale from the clutches of Madame Hamdi. Reaching for it, he touched the scale with his fingertips just as Madame Hamdi delivered a vicious slap to Bouazizi’s cheek. It halted him like a thunderbolt from Zeus.

A henchman overturned Bouazizi’s cart, scatter

The parasympathetic nervous system
is responsible for regulations
unconsciously transpiring
within the organs and
the glands of
the body.
Such as:
urination, salivation, digestion, defecation, and
lacrimation
(noun. ‘the flow of tears’. Latin.
from lacrimare (‘weep’) and lacrima (‘tear’).
It’s why I cry
even when I don’t want to.
You are the parasympathetic nervous system.

The (ortho-)sympathetic nervous system
is responsible for the mobilization
of the fight-or-flight response
and constantly maintaining
homeostasis within
the body.
It acts
rapidly, enacting an attempt at stability and
the necessary and critical ability
to suddenly escape
on pulsing legs or
cling to survival through
brandishing adrenaline-doused knuckles
and dilated pupils.
It’s why you live
even when you don’t want to.
I am the sympathetic nervous system.

The parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems
are two of three essential nervous systems which
compose the autonomic nervous system
(a part of the peripheral
nervous system)
that manages
involuntary
functions of the body. Such as:
swallowing, perspiration, arousal, breathing, and
heart rate
(noun. ‘the speed of the heartbeat’.
usually expressed in beats per minute. mine speeds up when I see you).
Individually these two systems oppose
but compliment
each other like our hands do—
pressed together and omitting equal force;
veins meeting
at the fingertips and throbbing at the wrists
but running amuck on our respective digits otherwise.
You are the invariable and unspoken reminder to
breath,
love,
sweat,
and live.
I am the sudden snap of reality always aiming to save you
but grudgingly willing to fight you and
ready
to
leave.

From the deepest lower half of my brainstem
and from every nerve
in my cycling body,
I’m sorry.
From all of my chromaffin cells
and from the truest parts of submandibular ganglian,

I am sorry.

it would be easy
taking you back
easing on in
to the old routine
of you hurting me with actions
me hurting you with words
both numb
rolled out
stamped into shape
day after day
until the smiles turn to smirks
and thoughts of your touch
   make me cringe in disgust
phone calls go unanswered
   then unattempted
i won't see you for days
   and smile about it

yeah, it would be easy
taking you back

much more difficult
starting something new.

Well, why not me, I reasoned
(No surprise to friends and loved ones,
As I have always considered my time
On this spinning patch of rock
As something of a monument to the value of pragmatism)
But there were still the normal sine-wave vacillation
Between tenuous optimism and odds-driven grim reality,
Fanciful discussions of Chinese herbs and Mexican clinics
And, later still, of time frames and stock transfers,
All the while various folks attired in suits and clinic coats
Debating matters pertaining to the coda of my personal symphony
(Doing so as if yours truly wasn’t even in the room)
Until, deciding my input might be somewhat pertinent, I said
If it’s all the same to you, I would like to go home.

It was, in a sense, like getting back on an old Schwinn
(Fender dented, rubbing on the front tire just the least little bit,
The chain needing oil, grudgingly giving in
To the demands of the crank)
Sitting, unused but inordinately patient, next to the barn,
The whole notion of settling back into a pace you’d forgotten,
Like dialing back a metronome from allegro to andante
Without missing a beat or flubbing a note.
What’s more, there were the sensations you’d never made time for
While under the thumb of daily deadlines and train schedules,
Greeting you like friends you hadn’t seen for twenty years
But started gabbing with as easy as slipping on old jeans:
The scent of the lilacs, overpowering but borderline mystical,
The informal yet precise ballet of the cattails and jewelweed,
The fields of cows that, even though you know it can’t be the case,
Are populated by the same Bessie and Bossie
You taunted and pelted with watermelon as a child
(I have made it a point to proffer my apologies),
The dark, pine-choked hills,
Formidable but accessible, even comforting.
Sometimes, when I am not paying attention,
I catch myself all but tearing up,
And I say to myself, ever so softly,
As not to disturb the squirrels and the wrens,
I had almost forgotten.  Christ forgive me,
I had almost forgotten.


I’d assumed (sometimes, I can be astounded
At the full extent of my own foolishness)
That she would merely take a leave of absence;
She has, after all, an alphabet full of advanced degrees,
A rainmaker’s reputation and the billable hours to match.
Columbia and Harvard Law, after all,
But she grew up down the road just a piece in Ebensburg,
So this is all part and parcel of her as well
Hard coded in the DNA for better or worse, she’ll say,
All the while shaking her head and laughing softly.
Surely you don’t want to stay here, I’ll say,
Boorishly rational in the face of everything
Which would argue to be otherwise,
You’ve read enough Forbes and Fortune;
Altoona is dead, Johnstown is dying,
And she allows that, for a time, coming back
Was the source of some misapprehension on her part,
Until it dawned on her that on those rare occasions
It had occurred to her to glance skyward in mid-town,
She had seen faceless tiles of windows
Sufficient to sheet a Great Pyramid,
An Armageddon’s worth of angels and gargoyles in the cornices,
But she had not, even once, ever seen the stars.

It had been one of those enervating days,
when officialdom and red tape paperwork
had ****** the yolk and marrow leaving only
a dullness that yawed the ghost ship of her frame.

She decided not to cook, as much as
payback for her ordeal by proper channels.
And so to the "Toilet Bar", cafe of choice
for malicious villagers, though rarely women.

The men folk hardly stared upon her entrance,
by now they knew those leopard skin boots,
that packed a wallop they grudgingly took
stock of, then returned to their cheese and wine.

This was her quarter of salt cod with cream,
prepared by owner Paula and daughter Carolina,
the only other women tolerated amongst the chairs,
that smelled of tar and testosterone.

Lacking collars three tumbled to the stony street,
drunken mechanic, one armed plumber, peg-legged sailor,
the kerfuffle amusing her, their wicked aunt.
Another Lagoan night that shimmered out to sea.

Me: “Father, I think I would like to pray my own way.”
Priest: “Ha okay (sarcasm), whatever you say, Brian.”
(Priest continues about in ignorance of commentary)
Priest (beginning Vespers): “O God, come to my assistance…”
Me: (beginning Vespers) "O ****, here we go again..."
(Grudgingly submits)

To quote Athos from "The Three Musketeers"
"You are not a woman
You are a demon escaped from Hell"
When I first met you as a colleague
I made the mistake
Of getting friendly with you
When I should have ensured
That our relationship was going to be strictly professional
Of course, you had your own ways
Of charming those whom you came in contact with
That is something for which I have to give you credit
Albeit grudgingly
And you were an expert
At playing the victim card
Nevertheless, after I changed jobs
I thought I had seen the last of you
However, you came back into my life
As unexpectedly as the recent rains in Chennai
Initially, it seemed kind of sweet
However, I should have realised sooner
That you had certain ulterior motives
Unfortunately, I got fooled by your sweet talk
And started helping you financially
Because you looked up to me as a brother
I never doubted you in the slightest
Which was probably the biggest mistake of my life
You took advantage of me
In the worst way possible
And kept draining my bank account
Your lies kept getting taller and taller
And I kept believing them
Because, you had me well and truly under your thumb
However, even the most credulous person in the world
Can develop suspicions at some stage
Thus, after years of being in a psychological coma
I finally managed to wake up to the harsh reality
And told my family everything
Of course, with the help of a dear family friend
After we finally confronted you
You signed a written agreement
Promising to return all my money
Within a certain deadline
That deadline has long since passed
And you have not paid even ten percent of your dues
What is worse
Is the fact that you are absconding
And giving absolutely nonsensical reasons
Which even an utter fool would find it difficult to believe
You ruined my life
Destroyed my happiness
And shattered my self-confidence
Is this the way you treat a person
Whom you have addressed as "brother"
Not once, not twice, but several times?
I am giving you one last chance
Not for your sake
But for the sake of humanity
You had better take it
Because, if not
Then you will soon find yourself in prison
Again, to quote Athos
"You are not a woman
You are a demon escaped from Hell"

This is a prose tale about the great superhero, SNOGGO
(as told in the first person by SNOGGO to his amanuensis, Edna)

*'You can't have "Jew",' I said.
'Why not? It's a perfectly good word. Are you anti-semitic or something?'
'Jew has a capital J,' I said.
'Not necessarily. I've used it before.'
'Not with me you haven't. There's the dictionary. Look it up.'

Jumbo grudgingly picked up the Shorter Oxford and looked up "Jew". He sniffed loudly, slammed the dictionary shut and removed the tiles from the board. His replacement word was a sodding disaster.

'That's twenty-four points you've cost me with your nit-picking, you *******,' he said through gritted yellow teeth, his flabby body shaking with rage. 'The J was on a triple letter score.'

I sneered derisively and laughed long and loud, making Jumbo froth at his ugly fat nostrils with anger.

'Watch this and weep, Jumbo,' I said, playing out all seven of my tiles onto the board to create a stunning word: UNZIPPED. 'The Z's on a double letter score and it's all on a triple word score, so that's 90, plus 50 for playing all my tiles, 140 in total and the end of the game,' I declared in triumph. Jumbo was caught with 14 in his hand (remember: he still had the J) and thus I, the great SNOGGO, became Greenwich Scrabble Champion for the 25th year running. Not only that: but 25 consecutive defeats in the final for Jumbo.

Jumbo roared in frustration as he saw his hopes of taking the coveted 24ct gold "Queen Anne" cup away from me, SNOGGO, dashed to the ground yet again. And, by centuries old tradition, 25 consecutive victories meant the priceless cup was now mine to keep for ever. Jumbo's scream of uncontrollable, incandescent rage could have been heard as far away as the Vanbrugh Hill Municipal Waste Disposal Centre.

'******* you for all ******* eternity,' he bellowed unsportingly as he waddled out of the cheering hall. In so doing he flouted the gentlemen's convention of always staying to take part in the closing ceremony. He missed seeing me, the great SNOGGO, receive the shining gold cup from the gnarled hands of the Lady Mayoress, the Hon. Mrs Snotte-Wragge, who whispered in my ear 'Fancy a quick **** later, back at the mayoral parlour, SNOGGO dear?' For the fifth year in a row I told her to go and get stuffed as I didn't go for ugly old bats with arses on them like a double-decker bus.

Later that evening, as I sat in the splendid Georgian surroundings of Snoggo Manor, cradling the gold cup and admiring the row of 25 Championship certificates on the walls of my elegant dining room, finishing off my second bottle of Bollinger Grand Cru '89 and stuffing my 18th oyster down my happy throat, I heard a knock on the door. Who could that possibly be at nearly midnight?

It was Jumbo, my fat defeated foe. He looked downcast. 'SNOGGO,' he said, 'I've come to offer my apologies for my inappropriate behaviour earlier. You deserved to win, you are the finest scrabbler in all of Greenwich. I have come to offer you the hand of friendship and to invite you to my humble home for a midnight snack to celebrate your stirring victory.'

'Jumbo,' I replied, 'that's uncommon civil of you, old man. And your timing is excellent, as I've just finished my apéritif and was on the verge of kicking Mrs SNOGGO, my new 17-year old Thai mail order wife, out of her hammock to make my supper. So what's on the menu, squire?'

'Well,' said Jumbo, 'I was thinking of pâte de foie gras - naturally made by Mrs Jumbo using our own force-fed geese, with a bottle of Château d'Yquem '78 to start with. Then perhaps a kilo of blood-red filet mignon avec pommes frites, washed down with a rather good magnum of Brouilly '99. Then there's Mrs Jumbo's famed cheeseboard with a tumbler full of vintage port, followed by a dozen crêpes suzettes, a few petits cafés, a monster Armagnac and a giant Havana each.'

I considered the proposed menu carefully before replying. 'Sounds quite good to me, Jumbo,' I declared, glancing over his shoulder at the Bentley waiting outside. I could just see the peaked chauffeur's cap of the diminutive Mrs Jumbo peering myopically over the leather-covered steering wheel.

And so, having told Mrs Snoggo to tidy up a bit whilst I was out, I went off to dinner with Jumbo. In all our 25 years of Scrabble rivalry I had never once set foot into his house, so I was eager to check out what sort of lifestyle he enjoyed. Once inside Jumbo Villa, I cast my eyes over the luxurious furnishings with an expert eye, evaluating their immense worth and rarity with incredible perspicacity and knowledge.

'Not a bad pad you've got here, Jumbo,' I conceded. 'Not in the same class as Snoggo Manor, of course, but still ****** impressive.' He was visibly flattered by my compliment.

'A glass of sherry while we wait for Mrs Jumbo to serve us?' queried Jumbo jovially. I sniffed at the huge portion of delicious amber nectar appreciatively. 'Lustau Amoroso Bodega Marquès de Mierda '42?' I guessed instinctively. Jumbo nodded. '******* spot on, SNOGGO,' he admitted in stunned amazement.

I took an enormous gulp and felt the alcohol hit me like a slam in the abdomen from Cassius Clay's butcher and more vicious brother. The room spun and I closed my eyes in resigned delight.

When I came to I found myself hanging unclothed in chains on the wall of a dank cellar. My head was pounding and I felt distinctly below par. I looked over my shoulder and beheld Jumbo standing there with a sjambok in his hand. He was stark ******* naked, naked as the day he was born, and I have never seen anything so repulsive in all my life (with the sole exception of that incredible day when, as a child, I caught my paternal grandparents bonking on the Persian rug in the Great Hall at Snoggo Manor on Christmas Eve). Jumbo’s huge pendulous ******* sagged over his bloated fat belly, which itself hung so low his genitals were mercifully hidden from my view. He was a ******* monstrosity.

The tiny Mrs Jumbo stood to the rear of the cellar, also naked, pallid and with her public hair died a shocking pink. She was a skinny freak, a vision of *** Hell. I noticed the tattoo on her belly. It showed a depiction of the crucifixion which I felt was in dubious taste, especially with Jesus sporting an enormous *******.

What I, the wonderful SNOGGO, suffered in the next few hours was truly indescribable, so I will only summarise it. After a seemingly endless whipping from Jumbo (assisted by Mrs Jumbo, but her puny lash strokes were almost pleasurable), accompanied by their combined frenzied cries of demented hatred and loathing, I was forced to suffer the supreme humiliation. Jumbo mounted a set of fine Regency library steps, positioned his Hellish lumpen body behind me and unceremoniously inserted his tiny ***** into my outraged ****. Oh the shame! Oh the shame!

‘O Jesus Christ help me!’ I yelled in rain and pain. And suddenly a voice spoke unto me. 'O great SNOGGO,' it intoned, 'thou needst not suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune so needlessly. Only have faith in me, the great loving Jesus, and I shall give thee strength to deal with thy ******* awful tribulations.'

It was a miracle! SNOGGO could and would be saved! Quickly I mumbled a couple of Ave Marias remembered from my youth as a leading mutual masturbator in the chapel choir, and I silently promised a quick twenty thousand quid to the local faggotty priest ******* fund, and my chains fell to the floor with a blast of heavenly thunder. Halle-*******-luliah!

'Right, Jumbo you fat ****,' I snapped, 'you have ******* had it.'

And with one mighty blow of my right arm I smashed him against the wall. His huge hideous body crumpled as he slid to the floor, blood oozing from his fat gob. I gave him a ****** good kicking in the face and in the heart region and shortly he went to meet his maker, with a sickening grunt and expulsion of *****.

Then I turned to the horrified naked ugly skinny tattooed Mrs Jumbo and said: 'OK, *******, where's my ******* supper?'

She shrugged and headed upstairs to prepare the meal I had been promised by Jumbo earlier, as I was seriously hungry by this stage. Little did she know I would be obliged to put her out of her misery later. Or if she were lucky, I might offer her a position as unpaid toilet cleanser chez moi.

Yes, it was yet another stunning victory for the fabulous SNOGGO, thanks to timely divine intervention for which I am very much obliged.

And don't forget my luscious 17-year old Thai mail bride would be waiting to give me a really good ******* once I got back to Snoggo Manor. Either that or I would give her a good belting and send her back to her grotty poverty-stricken village with a demand for a full refund, chop chop.

It’s past 2 in the morning and the only thing holding you two together is the group chat a classmate administrate because both are you (and others, of course) are generally in the same group for this semester but you are split in classes but you have two that are the same together. An assignment is due to be emailed that night and he just got back from god knows where and you’re a tad curious (maybe more) because during old times, he would tell you the things he do simply because you were the best company and the both of you complement each other. He said that he was going to pull off an all-nighter and you can’t help your fingers from typing down a witty response.

The nostalgia taking over you as you shot bullets of reply to him because he was doing the same. Soon enough it seemed as though you two were the only ones alive in the group along with a few other irrelevant comments to your bickering. His last message was an icon of a high five and you purposely left him hanging and close the application in your phone. With a soft chuckle, you shook your head and continued reading the poetry book you recently bought.

He knows you like the back of his hand, and it just hit past well about 4 in the morning and you’re still awake. What do you know it? A message from him- asking why you left his last message on the group chat hanging. That personal conversation went on as if you were in the past again; as if he wasn’t dating your ex-best friend, as if you weren’t hurt being left because it was that play where the two of you were the main characters with an unattached past. Your story is the type of love where you’re best friends and you know you get a bit giddy when it’s way beyond your bedtime. You’ve been involved with writing poems after you were left to be on your own and this idea was blown to you.

You send him a poem of which you wrote but you give him under a pseudonym so he wouldn’t know it’s by you. He said that it was deep and probably something he doesn’t think he can ever reach in an emotional level of expressing. It hit you. He was the perfect critic for the other poems you wrote. So you gave him a few more and it happened. He asked you if you’ve written any. Could this be the chance for you to finally prove to the only boy you’ve been stupidly pining on that you’re doing sort of well and that you just need him to subconsciously be the muse of your work?

You make a deal. 5 poems and he guess which is yours. He whines that 5 is too much as you’ve already given him others before. You really wanted him to read what else you still have so you reduced it to 3 and he grudgingly accepted (like the little whiny boy you have grown to love him to be). You gave him one about your ex-boyfriend, another about a boy you were infatuated with and lastly, one about him. And you waited. You waited for what it seemed like hours when it was just a petty 10 minutes. He narrowed it down to the one of him and the other boy. You guessed he would have let go of the one about your ex-boyfriend because he was there when he hurt you.

The paranoia seeps into your soul wondering if his could feel the one you wrote about/for him. Finally, he chose the one you wrote for the other boy because he rather sort of knows about that short amount of time where you really thought you really could like him. You hadn’t realised that you were holding your breath the whole time he was deliberating which to choose. A voice spoke in your mind telling that you should be grateful that he chose the one you wrote for the other boy as if he had chosen the one you wrote for him, what excuse behind that story are you going to make up?

And with that, the conversation of your writing opened up to a whole new request. He asked what else have you written about and you said just about your past and your broken family and such. He knows how bad the situation with your family is so he asked if you had written about the new spectacles you started wearing at the beginning of the semester because your vision gradually went from 20/20 to blurred lines during your current time in college. You perked, what to write about these glasses, you asked. He joked saying anything, but it has to include his name.

You were intrigued with the idea and agreed. He retracted saying that he was just joking as how do you put a name in a poem anyway. You just told him you’ll think about it but after saying that, you grabbed your pen and paper and began writing. He wanted it to be about your glasses and inclusive of his name, then you’ll give him just that. Your conversation lasted until dawn and believe it or not, you fell asleep first and missed your morning class at 8. When you woke up, a message from him (sounding as if he’s snickering at you) asking where you were.

Oh, the heavy weight of lying. You told him that you weren’t feeling well and that you’re going for the afternoon class at 2 instead (not with him).

After that class finished at 4 p.m., you sent him the poem you wrote for him the other night. He said that it was really good but he never questioned about him. You really wanted to prove that you could take up the challenge of writing a poem and having his name. You said, “You wanted a poem with your name, so here you go” and he was dumbfounded (as you quite expected). “But I don’t see my name anywhere”.

You told him that the beginning letter of every two lines spelt his name. His reaction was one you’re to treasure.

It was a bittersweet ending to your little fantasy story as that will be the last you’ll hear directly from him for months to come.

Beggars line the busy streets
cup and cloth outstretched
the look of desperation etched on their faces
like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph

they don't ask me for spare change
just a simple nod of acknowledgement;
even after a shower and a change of clothes
I must have their look, that broken beaten look
the look of the street.

George Square is busy today
tourists happy clicking panoramic memories
admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph
a list of names they will never know
and marvel at the antiquated architecture
to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone
in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers
while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt

I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance
to the passing of a woman named Judith
the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings
knowing I've been there for 3 hours already
because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts
because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.

The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway,
the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke
like a coal fired power station  in the sunlight
this is where they go for over-priced craft ales
with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak
a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays
dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded
the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet
that was simply spare change to begin with

I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call
pretending in mime to be semi-OK
that the compadres are running late
and "tell me about the theatre show later"
the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies
while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco
and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me
because I have the look of the street.

This astonishingly smart work
by an enterprising bunch
of greedy caterpillars on this tree,
symbolizes sweet success itself
(only to them, not for others
I'll have to grudgingly accept)

Look how they devour with a vengeance,
every bit of the gentle greatness, one felt
in presence of the exhilarating fine green crown,
of the lovely tree that stood head held high,
smiling  in scorching sun, storm and rain,
and made me stand awe struck,
for a while the first time I passed
through the path under her thick canopy.

Success has avariciously eaten up glory
a fine creation of many seasons,
without any concern for those
who die for greatness, nothing else!

All that remains to see is this:
whether fragile winged butterflies,
charm personified in vivid colors,
would come out,of this greed?
Though they being a creatures of transience
makes it a bad bad bargain.

Strange times. When I speak of caressing your mantic lungs
I don’t know what I mean, but I know
I would hurl you under proper circumstances.

Darling, one whisper falls from a tree silently
so as not to wake the ghosts from their siestas.
Your robe has holes I can’t write of. I can fathom
getting there, what that might entail, wrapping,

as I am prone to, my fingers around your furry pincers
while I wait for you to read my rights to the ceiling fan

who whirls above our renovated combustions like the glowering
eye of our Lord upon the teary-eyed wicked.
I am not looking to escape through the window, darling.

I am diving for your diamond-in-the-rough, peeling off barnacles,
making moustaches of seaweed. You threw it into that ocean-
sized trough in which you drown lizards as way of
stress-release. I don’t know what I’ll do next.

The poor man. You give me your hand,
darling, and your robe, your robe is shiny like a pubescent star,

and it shimmies like a wagon piecing itself apart, as you
piece yourself apart, starting with your smile, which was always more
like a photograph of a dune in a textbook.

You give me your hand. It is a blue egg
dusted with microorganisms. I sprinkle it with our fragrance,
what’s left of it. I wish happiness upon your sleep-life, doldrums
upon your late-night haunting. I am tired and these

machines are so convenient, bringing me on all-expenses-
paid visits to the site of your burial. Or is it your sister’s?

I quote, my heart is like a walled onion.
The poor man is tired. It is not 1904 anymore.
You are not smiling anymore, darling, but you give me your hand.

You give it in a basket with parsley and cheese
and cut-outs from The Waterlogged God.
You give it almost grudgingly but I will keep it.
You tell me you’ve been dreaming again of train stations.

I wonder what that means.
I wonder about your eyes.

There are many spiders inside the wall, and along it,
and on the chandelier’s fingers, and inside the spiders.
I quote, a dream is worth a thousand dustpans, but you,

darling, are worth so much more than dustpans.
But I grow weepy, as stated. What do those dark blue lines mean?
Your fingers, darling, smell of a dark cloud in an electrical storm.
Your palm is a circus. Your nails ticket stubs.

That one’s from the alligator show. You dislocated your
throat. I had a plan. If you stare into someone’s eyes for

more than six seconds, you’ll want to lick them.

there is a great yearning to draw closer to my God
yet theres been so much bombarding me constantly that i turn to instead of You
meaningless, everything, all these things are meaningless
not one is more worthy of my time than You
i let these thoughts sink in, penetrate me to the bone and depths of my soul
but it doesn't seem to make a difference
i am drowning in my own ocean that i have jumped into at my will
Grace, i am so undeserving
you're there, you care
but how could you give a forty-third, or maybe two hundred and-seventh chance to a lonely, desolate girl so desperately trying to repent and release from the sins of her life
for these wounds remain deep and i know the error of my ways
but i can't let go of the world thats pulling me in
down, down into the pit, the smooth rolling path to darkness
and i succumb
"Delight in Giving! do not Give grudgingly or out of necessity, but out of the joy of your heart and the love of God manifested in you, and what you give out, you will recieve back the same measure!"
the simplest words, the hardest actions to carry out.
i act in anger and callousness to the ones i love most.
i just harshly the ones i don't know at all and the ones closest to me.
do i ever go without judging anyone?
i love so deeply when i do love, and now it seems to lead to my demise
i love the ones who are wrong for me
the ones who have dragged me to this empty state


haven't i heard the words before? haven't i been taught the way out?
haven't i grown up in the house of my Father where all my life's guidelines were laid before me with lovingkindness and vision for the future?
when will i learn?

i feel like you're so far away and i'm here stuck in this wretched state of mind and spirit.

the narrow road seems to small for me to enter
or maybe its because im trying to squeeze the bags of ******* i'm carrying through it at the same time.

the act of letting go

help loose the vices, help cure my diseases
this seems too much, i fail unceasingly
there seems to be no hope for me
although i know you're on my mind all the time
i continue to hear words of wisdom from others, even though they're not directed at me
all i need are signs
all i need is to know you're going to get me through this
i'm holding you to it
you can't let go, it will be the end of me.

sin is the anchor holding me down

isn't there an easier way out than this?

this must be why you said, "few will find it."
well i'm going to press in
and i'll find that gate to the smallest path
the quiet way that the world looks over and never notices
and when i do i hope you help me through
all i want is to see your kingdom
many are called but few are chosen
i was chosen before i was born,
but as ive learned,
birthrights can be sold. for meaningless treasures.

tell me i haven't made the deal, tell me my soul is still recorded in your book
i need life after this
i need joy and unspeakable relief and love for eternity, not unfathomable pain and torment and blasphemy forever

tell me it's not too late

clean me up, show me how to live

take me out of this dreadful ocean of apathy and despair
the willingnses to let go is something i need now more than ever


my heart feels far from yours
take notice of my feeble hands
hold them, hold me close, lead the way, carry me Grace, across the ocean of doubt and despair.

i'm asking for your forgiveness
for my lack of faithfulness

i'm asking
for your
forgiveness

such a lack of faithfulness

rock bottom feels too apathetic
where do i go

only you know the thoughts in my head and can speak to me the perfect words i need to hear
work your glorious ways and show me i'm not alone
tell me there's something after this trial
what is this trial anyways?
am i complaining about something that's not there?
or should i be concerned?
to regret, or not regret?
choices have lead me to this point, but what if certain things i've done i wish i could take back?
is it wrong?

you know me inside out
now please, take these prayers from a lonely, apathetic, graceless girl,
who needs love, who wants love, who wants to show compassion and hope and joy and giving and mercy wherever needed.
the spirit must manifest in me at some point.
in due time
you circle the sky and wait for the greatest moment to set in

i hardly know the thoughts in my own head
i hope some are Yours

thank you for paying attention

when i feel no one else does.

when i feel like no one cares,
you look down on me and smile.

all i need
is a little

perserverance

I am dead.

My legs are broken
And my mind has betrayed me.

I
Cant
Move.

I hear the screaming.
Loud
Horrible
Torment.

I try to make it stop
But still

I
Cant
Move.

I rip my eyes open,
The air is acid.
Time is rushing through
My disoriented state
Wasting,
Wasting away like
I am.

My lead arm strains
And my lips groan
As I reach
Reach
To stop the torment.

Quiet.

The stomach rises and falls.
The fingers move,
The shoulders roll.

My left knee bends as it
Battles over the precipice.
The right grudgingly follows

My dead body spasms
I scream,
I expand,
I unfold,
I get out of bed.

It wasn't good enough you need to improve
you need to remove all this stuff and make it a new
you need to please me, and make me happy
what I say goes no matter how sappy

I hear these words and down goes my mood
I grudgingly go to work and there do I brood
I wish for evil things to befall the one who told me
That all the work I put in the use they couldn't see

I spent my time, and  put in all my  effort
I worked hard yet you treat it like dirt
I can't stand that, the feelings  I get
when I hand you my work and it you reject

You may not see it, feel it or ever know
but against me you have given a grievous blow
you have attacked me in a way you cannot see
you have gone after my identity

For by telling me that my work was no good
is telling me the time I spent was useless and crude
I went through the trouble of trying to impress  
and me you see as nothing but someone useless

so go on and enjoy your power
for soon it will go sour
and as you fall into despair
I will be waiting for you there

Just One Question

You will have to forgive me for this one I’m going to be selfish pointed unreasonable contrary right down
Hateful if you want to put it that way least it’s going to be short I appreciate as well as anyone else the
Accomplishments of great people in our world and history Hemmingway won a Pulitzer for Old Man and
The Sea and many others in all fields of endeavor and in your lives you achieve happiness and joy from
Many areas but my one question backed by the one who has all authority to make this statement what
Will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and then loses his eternal soul that is my question
are you doing
What is required to make it through the Pearly gates I don’t mean to be smart on this point but I’m not
Asking for your wishful thinking you know all the questions in life that we answer some willingly and
Some grudgingly but this one above all else needs to be asked and it needs to be given the gravest
Thought the bible says there is a way that seems right into man but the end is destruction maybe Christ
Said what will a man give for his soul any way the truth is there is the biggest scrabble game known to
Man and it is the very fact whatever you do don’t think on eternal verities you know the scene when
Someone is flipping out and a helpful person slaps their face let this be that but do it to yourself you will
Be getting the attention of all of our worst enemies this Godless heathen outer life that gyrates to every
Hell bound action is making a bill that the soul will have to pay forever I said it before the pain and
Suffering we will accept as deserving but to not to be loved that will be the greatest hell that we will
Suffer today we don’t realize that it his love that makes life worth living we know so much about God
Generally speaking but the intimate real God we barely know His hell is listening for the distinct and only
Voice that matters and that is you as lost sheep He waits as an earthy parent who let his child go on an
Outing that was known to be dangerous but freedom demanded no less and for a great many love won’t
Be enough as already is shown by the Christ less graves that are strewn across the landscape I know
Because my sister is one of them I begged her the last time I was home and then she died I endured
Her truthfulness at her funeral they played only worldly songs of defiance my only comfort she wasn’t a
Hypocrite she wouldn’t live for him but died having to bear the burden of sin and it punishments her self
I told the story in Night Thoughts how I stood by a young nineteen year old mother’s desk she had a
Fifteen month old little boy it was two in the morning by eleven the next morning he would be
Motherless I being human knew nothing of this unfolding tragedy but the Christ within caused me to sob
Uncontrollably for forty five minutes or so I was getting the blowback of his undying love and her voice
Was dying away as it was carried to the beyond of the lost it’s happened more than once to me don’t
Let my tears be for you when your greatest love waits in vain for you to say please rescue me

Music to my ears, the rush of water un-
mistakingly caresses my hand. I re-
member looking at my hand close to yours wishing
maybe you'd hold it and see.

Graciously, you leapt to me and be-
grudgingly I floated away.
Gracefully, you closed your heart and like
glass I shattered you, but still you stay.

Soft against you, I push and pull.
Straining to escape what I had begun
Simply because the answer was yes
So now my eyes blink hard in the sun.

I swim to you, but you're too far now
I have lost all hope of holding you
I submerge into the coolness of your gaze
I desire so much to be, not one, but two.

Licensed diver, I went too far
Longing now to swim to the very deep
Longing to dive into you, close to your heart
Living with your ghost, it's close enough to sleep

You, in my veins, pressure on my body
You, in my heart, pressure on my soul
You, in my mind, unlocking the chest
You, in my body, one with the wind you become.

The metal cart intertwined,
forcefully ****** it free.
I wipe off the microscopic organisms,
that manifest in the plastic fibers.
Push the cart across the cracking linoleum tiles.
Hearing the rusted wheels squeak,
as I veer through the narrow aisles.
Collecting an assortment of desired items,
that seem appealing despite the harsh florescent lights.
The radio ads try to entice me to purchase new things.
I grudgingly ignore them.
Crossing the goods off my list,
with a swift black x’s
the same black that is seen on the signs for sales.
2 for 3 dollars?
Is hard to resist.
Blackberries, Greek yogurt, a head of broccoli,
soon I have a heaping cart.
To my dismay the lines are long,
they slowly begin to dwindle down.
Cashiers frantically punching codes,
scanning coupons, counting change.
What is this?  Okra?
The black conveyer belt constant hum,
as it carries my purchases down.
Until they are all awaiting for me,
in paper bags.

I tried to smudge your name out of the
playbill of my life, but I couldn't. Somehow,
I'd convinced everyone around me, and even myself,
at some points, that you were nothing but a mere what-if

in my life of absolutes, and I didn't miss you.
Of course, day in and day out, words and lines for unwritten poems
would submerge my thoughts deep in murky, unfiltered tubs of
darkness, and I'd find myself haunted by your existence.

I tried to get over you, but I'm a poet, and the fact
of the matter is that poets don't get over much of anything. So
I'm sorry for this facade that I've so grudgingly constructed,
but I've never been too good at saying goodbye...

..or sorry, for that matter.

there is magic in concrete
        if you believe

when you work the surface
        flat, in circles,
the float tool buoyant
        on a gray puddle
here’s the enchantment:
with fingertips on the handle you can
        sense the wet concrete, the mojo
        like a sleeping wet bear
solid in mass yet grudgingly liquid
        sort of bouncy
        as you stroke

pebbles disappear, embedded
the tool is ******* cement
        a final thin film, a pretty coat
        over guts of gravel and sand

now hose the mixer, shovels, tools,
        hose your hands and boots
as the water disappears, so shall you
        unless you scratch a name

honor the skilled arms,
        the corded legs and vertebral backs
        the labor that shaped
this odd stone
        sculpted, engineered
        implanted with bolts
forgotten
half-buried in dirt
bearing our lives

Gravity rips raindrops from
the sky to the earth of my face,
as your fingertips violate the soft
skin of each cheek I offer.

You tell me, I make you so happy,
as salt flows viscous in the pitch
of our bedroom and I say nothing
and you say, nothing much, either.

I bring colour to a life you have never led
and I punish you for it with my silence
and my soft steps and my one single smile,
bequeathed so very grudgingly.

You try, it's true, but I am too far gone now,
too lost in her eyes as she looks at this
shadow of you that I have readily created,
this masochistic need to hurt myself.

I love you; it's times like these I know it
best, the times when I am so insubstantial
that I cannot even bring myself to speak
words I am bleeding to scream at you.

What sick love is this?
When the only time I am sure of it,
is when I feel so very very very
unsteady in your palm.

The night slinks away, with the full force
of sunlight unrefined burning
through slotted blinds.

So ends the the first time I have slept with
someone whilst tears leak from my eyes,
and I cannot say I will ever do it again.

Sister Pius can still sense the taste of coffee on her tongue from breakfast with the slice of brown bread with a thin spread of butter as she turns over the page of the book on contemplation written by some unknown Carthusian nun the words momentarily failing to reach her the message left on the page the thought of the next meal already making her mouth moisten and the smell of fresh made coffee tempting her nose bringing to mind the first time she had come to the convent as a guest and young girl full of enthusiasm for the idea of being a nun much to her parent’s disquiet especially her mother who had wanted and been looking forward to grandchildren even though Eve as she was then had never been interested in boys or that side of things but her mother had said that would come she would find Mr Right and that side of things would come naturally implying Sister Pius muses now that being a nun was unnatural against nature and only the oddities in the world would want to be shut away from the world and men and their families and the prospect of marrying and having children and there had been the rows and the tempers frayed and the words said in haste and even on the day she entered her mother had not come around to the idea even if her father had accepted the fait accompli rather grudgingly and in all the years she had been in the convent her parents had not written once not a word just the one visit her father made looking at her as they spoke as if she had grown another head or caught a dreadful disease and had said her mother couldn’t bring herself to visit the place her daughter had died in and those words hurt the way her father had just come out with them the place her daughter had died in and yet she had her secrets too the things she had never told her parents especially her mother never mentioned once that her Uncle Randolph her mother’s brother had molested her one summer while she was staying with him and Aunt Grace while her parents were off on some tour of Europe and as she places her hand on the page of the book in front of her she can still feel his hands on her still sense his breath on her that smell of beer and tobacco and the roughness of his unshaven face as she leaned over her and as the memory returns again she closes the book with a small slam and the echo of it fills the room disturbs a paper on the table in front of her and the memory still fresh the deeds done so imbedded deeply that she doesn’t think it will ever go that it will ever leave and she had not said a word about that summer to anyone not even her mother not even to make a point about what men could do even those who were supposed to be close to you and yet she never did never said one word about him and the things he had done and taking a deep sigh she gets up from the chair and walks to the window looking down on the cloister garth and the mulberry tree that is now full of fruit and can see birds in the branches and a nun walking along the cloister ready to pull the bell for the office of Prime and even now she dislikes the smell of apples the smell of them cooking or the smell of apples being stored because apples she associates with him and the place he took her and the things he did and it was apples she could smell as he touched her and interfered with her and the scent of apples in the air as he leaned over her and looking down again into the cloister the nun has gone and the early morning sun is coming over the cloister wall and the bell is being tolled for Prime and making the sign of the cross she pushes the memory of him and his deeds and that summer back into the depths of her mind closes the door on it in the room in her brain’s memory cells and looking up at the Crucified on the wall above her bed with the features of the Christ battered by time and its hands she nods her head and looks away taking in her mind the image of Him and perhaps a sense of peace and the fact that she is a bride after all a bride of Christ married to one who would not ****** or hurt or say cruel words or betray and where no smell of apples will spoil her day.

there are drops that tremble
along the edges of my glass--
i stare into them, trying
to see how they cradle blood
in their atoms.
they yield none of their secrets.
they slide
unnoticed
through my veins.
they are crystals that emerge
gracelessly, unheeded
to ponder the airless spaces
that clutter my lungs.
tonight they roam like ghosts
to the unclean surfaces of skin that
stretch grudgingly across my bones.
they tremble
to the lights.
they are silver pepper
that sting my cells alive yet
i can't feel them singing.
they inhabit me
and uninhabit me too quickly
for me to invite them home.
they find no home in me, only
poison
to **** into their loving atoms
blindly, uncaring
that they are contaminated with
my waste, my blood.
they carry these things from me
to pour back into the forge
that melts my mistakes.
they permeate any weakness
to sustain it.
to prevent me from bloating
with toxicity that unconsciously
finds its way inside
especially on colored nights.
they click their tongues at me
while i'm sleeping, they
can see my dirt-encrusted synapses
and the hitches in my skin.
they feed and chastise me
from within.

Every word uttered

whether
offered or obligated
spit or sputtered
graced or given grudgingly 

bears an impeccable pin
point
of potency

Some snuffed suddenly
others
an epidemic

EXPANDING

--Demanding.

Exclaiming!
or
proclaiming

M
­    ai
        mi
              ng 
Blaming--->

Stirring up
and
then
Taming 

Careless sentences 
strewn
over laughing lips

Reiterated recollections 
and
aspirations running hot
on alcoholic
raspberry breath

What weight
but
what worthlessness
what wastefullness

Speech is
an immediate line
to your
purest heart and soul

but

Without
consideration
we are wandering
the mazes of our
very conversation
 
My words and your words
whispered or shouted
were designed to be 
Dazzling

Not crammed in 
uncomfortable pauses

Not vomited 
with cruel intent 

but

powerful and
persuasive
Accounted for
and
appreciated

You're absolutely and utterly the most arrogant, cynical, self-absorbed, human being I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.
I think grudgingly as I stare at Facebook.

That feeling of longing I had only a moment ago was fleeting,
Replaced by distaste.

How could I have ever had an inkling of feeling for you?
All that time I spent on you was a such waste.

I bet you don't even care,
Forgotten about me like I was never even there.

It's like you don't exist outside of our college,
I wish you could have gave me that knowledge.

Because I wouldn't have had to spend all that time caring,
I wouldn't have had to miss you.
I wouldn't have had to wonder if you were okay every single day.
You could have at least answered me when I sent you those texts.
But you didn't,
And I did miss you, I did care, and I did wonder.

Now all I feel is resentment,
But I know tomorrow I'll miss you again.

This is ridiculous.

I don't always see the ghost-
he chooses a wicker chair to sit-
seems to be the problem when past comes to dine.
I don't always see them-
the empty obscure references
as they drip like baby saliva from pale lips
places we've been,
things we've done.
The past sits across.
pinky out daintily
as past will do
when drinking champagne
and talking about the
good days.
I see him like James Dean leaning against the door frame.
I feel like Grace Kelly
Flipping blonde hair flips in dip and twirling curl,
licking pink lips as if they were full of icing on cupcakes.
Yes, I do not see him.
Here I go again flirting with the past.
I do not see the emptiness of the stare
as he looks across to me
I think foolishly it is star crossed love-
and grab his hand to slip wistfully through my own
and pull him grudgingly forward.
I zoom with him room through room,
looking for a place to hold him.
And the  present sits forlornly on my front porch.
dejectedly he sits.
And the presents gift-
of soon wilted flower
lay on his lap...
And the present stares through the window
as I waltz with a ghost.
I do not see, I can not see.
I do not see the ghost.

Sahn 10/03/14

Curveballs can be hit,
But dodgeballs are impossible to dodge.
Comparing dodgeball to a summer’s day?
Shakespeare, try again.
Dodgeball, you are synonymous
To a hellfire confined to a perimeter
That destroys everything it touches,
Especially at summer camps.
I walk away from dodgeball alive,
But dead in self-esteem:
Always getting hit,
And any clever maneuver of mine always seems to be a violation
Of game rules.
Dodgeball, you only fuel my aggression.
When I am the only one in play,
And see beyond the half court line
Stronger, more agile and athletic demons
Ready to pelt their confidence against my hope,
My mind defaults to “bad-sport” ideas
And just wants to get the match over with,
Lose or win.
With a POW!
Or even the slightest brush of orb to skin,
I give in
And have to wait until opposing victory cheers melt
Before grudgingly submitting to a pointless rematch
That tortures me, vaccinates me with sulky feelings.
Crying over spilled milk is negotiable,
But I cannot undo the rash from the whiff of a dodgeball
By screaming “That’s so not fair!”
Instead, I force out good sportsmanship,
My eyes wincing, my throat and mind hardening
In the struggle to keep vengeance contained.
If only the interest in dodgeball would cease
And suffocate on the taste of its own humiliation.
Boy, would I ever love to burn some dodgeball rubber.

So Here, settled, is the bare voice,
Quivering echoes of egos
Do minds make the world hear Drum Dreams?
Here poets have milked tired *******
Of language to allay the lone,
Weighted and burdened from out There.
To rid themselves the form, the world,
The plague of storms that rock this ship,
That overflows, that bleeds too much
Of the vision that draws and defines
The days when the traffic of life
Is the onslaught of passing time.
There we trudge onward grudgingly.
Cradled upright by crashing waves,
Lonely amidst the dim gray sun.
Unnerving the courage of souls
Man is hushed, left to silences.
Reticent and bearing the masks
Hiding in Drum Dreams. Unnoticed,
We’re every soul at the crosswalk.

Here stands the prolific poet
Painting the infinite canvas.
Dreams are swirled upon dreams, deformed
By time, stultifying the brain
With dreams swirled upon dreams, drying
Into dust, caught in the wind’s palm;
Riding the breeze into the stream,
Into the curled spine of the storm.
Dreams swirled upon dreams, seeping;
Painting, and painting the loathsome
Self, trapped in the drum dream, suckling
Violently out of her dream mouth.
He imagines and paints, writhing,
Vacant howling in stormy clouds,
Cast in impotent bloodletting.
Here stands the fanatic poet,
Painting the relentless image,
Playing placated remedy
To dreary drunks trapped in the Drum Dream.

Hear, She hums, she hums the Drum Dream.
And life sways back and forth
            Dancing the way the night does
                  Under the cool glow of streetlights
                       And all that remains of the world
                       Are still minds, hypnotized hearts,
             And her sudden suckles for breath.
                                               And we slow dance to a rhythmic drum.




Here stands the Prolific Poet…

Asking the Congress to rewrite laws
That benefit and enrich themselves
Is asking the wolf not to eat the lamb.
The wolf will eat the lamb.
The lamb cannot avoid this fate
By pretending it is not worth eating.

The wealthy are well rewarded
For not caring about the poor.
To make them care the only way
Is to offer them  tributes.

The rich want you to buy
Their trinkets and toys
And leave the lawmaking to them.

As long as we let the rich
Write the laws and control
Enforcement, the law
Will be slanted in their favor.

Nothing fuels fascism like poor people,
So the rich will raise prices and
Thus keep the people poor.

Dishonest people will always
Blame someone else for their crimes.
In government, they will blame
Honest people trying to do the job
They were elected to do.

If a person fails to be outraged
At the actions of criminals,
He is either criminal himself
Or a defense attorney,
And that person may be
Both at the same time.

Among the biggest mistakes
One can ever make
Is believing campaign promises
Where no evidence exists
Of any plan to keep them.

As long as politics are run
Like a beauty contest,
Nothing like democracy
Ever has a chance to succeed.

In a democratic country,
The common people must
Expect to participate
To make it work.
That means they must work
Within the system to ensure
All nefarious people and laws
Be discovered and thrown out.

Undefended rights are only
Privileges grudgingly by government
Dispensed as alms to beggars.

In a representative government,
Everyone must be a representative.

Yesterday is a terrible day
To plan to fix things.
Today and tomorrow
Are the only time we have to do it.

If a representative
Does not walk his talk,
Stop listening to his talk
And watch his walk.

Do not expect industry or military
To protect your rights.
They are both monetary institutions
Addicted to power.

If Congresspeople earn fortunes
By serving the people,
There can be no equity
In representation.
Corruption will rule the land.

Lobbyists should be imprisoned
if they are indistinguishable
From extortionists.

Voting districts need to be
Based on the needs of the people,
Not the needs of the bank accounts
Of our leadership.

Offshore bank accounts should be
As illegal as they are immoral.

I was there
in the world of
hate
discust
abandonment
and lies.
He was there
a man of care
understanding
safety
and dreams
To be back in the world
if only for an hour
there is no question
where the sickness came from
All of those vampires
with their tentacle stare
couldn't help themselves
when they were tempted
with my beautiful air.
To be put back
into the world I escaped
was a fate worse than death
And for my man of the light
to be a villain of the night
was something even worse still.
That looming presence
of someone there that is gone
was what morphed my sweet dream
into the nightmare
And for his light to be
snuffed out
with nothing left to illuminate
save their reflection.
That was all he was
in that moment
was a mirror
reflecting the life
the world
the time
that I so grudgingly deny
but so fearfully remember.
The time
when nothing was real
and everything was wrong.
I couldn't bare to go back
so he went instead...
There he embodied
all of the pain that was
and cast it back at me
so that I would never return.