I equate the sound of harmonicas to my father’s love.
Their melancholy melody,
Shrill and somber,
So hauntingly beautiful,
Full of life and agony,
Reminiscent of the strain in his voice.
That sound pulls me tears,
Lulls me to sleep,
Passes on his pain the way he passed on the green of his eyes,
The nuance of his mind,
His taste in music.
The more time that goes by the more I listen to music with harmonicas,
Finally understanding how much that sound can hold.
There are no lyrics that could ever say more,
Speak any louder.
I hope the immortality of the music will replace the mortal love of my father,
The love that withered long before I even existed.
I hope all that he never said,
All the promises he couldn’t keep,
Will float on the notes sung by a harmonica.
Keep the tears and the fights and the absences,
The inspiration for all the ways in which I hope to destroy myself,
At bay,
Locked away in some crevice in my mind that can’t be reached,
Alive only in painful memory,
Nightmares that dissolve to whispers of words I’ll never hear.

it's not the case of irrationality with the usage of pronouns as a way of being assertive away from the existentialist dittoing of the pronouns; even if i utilise the pronoun to be a noun or a verb via dittoing, with the framework of an esp. exemplar "irrationality," i am still, after all, the speaker of the noun and verbs, and the keeper of them; i am not irrational to the extent that i ditto myself outside of other categorisations of words, since dittoing myself within the pronoun category opens the accusation that i use all other words with ambiguity while allowing no moral ambiguity into my actions - but there is a clear morality to the use of words as the worthwhile exchange of meaning, in newtonian sense in the least and foremost not going beyond the dropped stone or insinuation of passerby engagement into games - but clear crisp cut - silk scarf tagged twelve quid was sold on the haggle for ten quid - so that haggling wasn't an ambiguity, but the price of the scarf was! so how many sexualised insinuations have i heard with impromptu to no action?! too many! all of them declassified from furthering action because of too much innuendo and nuance of that famous disguised dialectics lost - known as the death of god. cartesian in existentialist terms, thinking presupposed as the notation via "i." thought no longer as an existential certainty... but because of the dittoing of pronouns... an... ambiguity! well it was originally an ambiguity, but why excess pausing to counter? the english are a nation of shopkeepers... yes... and the french are a bunch of nosy café patrons with rude lovers disguised as bartenders muscle aching to munch the next croissant in drag and feel sexed up gagging.

verum, ego scribere similis rumi*; scribbles and similitude -
worth an afghan worth of eyes in syria for an afghan girl
saying to her loved up something or other:
see it come back, god forbid you hear the calculative laugh
of augustus on the way back, just while europe resigns from involving
the remnant slavs like libyans or syrians or hebrews in the original format
of strength: let the hebrews deal with them
in their own vatican - we need to curb north africans
and the mid-middle-eastern olives
when taking over the northern peoples for economic harvests.
but then the madman laughed without ordinance and impunity -
he laughed augustus' rationalism into the grave of choking chock fudge brussels
with spare tonsils eating nothing but cauliflower and lard -
elsewhere in movie via ghent; or was it in bruges or
was it in brussels starring jean claude van damme?
i call it... writers went mad on excess phonetics never readied
or introduced - except with magritte wearing a diaper
rather than a full james bond when painting.
i heard it was a proper heist to keep the police numbers handy,
i had it all tanned in argumentation for hued brown in the nordic
special; oddly enough no nordic special sailed for a sinking of the vasa
with predestination - airport was nice - we argued then -
we're not a continent of north harmonicas with jokes
between mythological four lead clovers and oak real canada threesomes.
well i was a continent with croatian and scandinavian,
i'm not originally a mc donald continent - although that 'MADE IN CHINA'
helps to resolve all future wars with the silkworm beginning:
rodeo in the haven of horse's burp and fall of the cheap spain due to tourism -
old continental had corrida - new continent has rodeo -
somewhere between the ****** and maidens came oceans elves for a bet on
who could write a horse out from riding into a blunt metal clasp of stirrup eager sounds:
or a twenty aged colt sounding like an eighty year old nail wrinkled with rust hammered.
blunt metal won, horse gasped for air, the ***** was taken home with stitches,
the maiden was taken home with a groom in stitches also, although
stitches of old age prior asked for in her meringue dress to suit: wrinkles;
but hey! there's **** in between! who's the loser, the aviator or the aqua puncture of thought?
but still augustus laughed it off with nero on the waiting list of possible re-encounters;
israel received the southern cicero of the roman empire,
while the rekindled empire got the north-eastern and northern part of
the unexplored without saints travelling elsewhere,
and for that it got implosions, with the schengen approval reminded
to cloister the leftists eager to holiday in syria on unesco cruises in sand and sheep ****
of kept marble - for that cocktail party convo, and next day article in the new yorker;
shame on you for using children to ploy en masse morality of guilt
to later reproduce the hydra with so much racist cribbing
of a seahorse riddling perpetual dynamos
as to imagine the future cot rock-a-baby-jihadi saladin:
the fire is in his own house, runs with a
              flaming matchstick to his "neighbour's house"
to start the fire rather than trying to put the fire out in his own house.
honestly? sounds a bit binary in bangladeshi.

unsuccessful potatoes & you found a tree in the ocean
i spent the afternoon digging, digging
my fingernails into my own fear of commitment
the fear of my own reputation

now the cat's in heat & richard nixon (the dog)
is teasing her with his trump card
she takes it
& squeezes it
very gently
then rips it open madly & snarls
& it oozes and drips out of her mouth
we all pick up a thousand pieces of a minute

i cremated my sister this morning & new spirits
arrived at my doorstep before noon
they sang to me of instinct,
whinnying about the antique zenith
up in cheyenne

"gimmie some secrets" she said
so i carved them
into my arm
into a minotaur's chest
into a giant looking glass
into a wooden boat
& i set sail for the sundial,
"there is no truth"
my eyes are wax & the ocean
means nasty filth

but everything is useless now
frogs carry high powered harmonicas
& walk into the spells of Poe
& into the hexagrams of Hamlet

i do not want to carry a pitchfork across
some godforsaken desert
i do not want to feel my own evaporation
while the real artists brood in the meantime
i want to waste away on a slushy evening
i will live in my armpit
& hate you
& never wear deodorant

"your mind is small--it is limited--why must you understand?"

Shatter the paradigm
Thirsty soul, enrich, affirm, flame the winter fire
The playa calls out to everything you are or will ever be
Resonate as the eye of the storm
Unfurl your colors and let them fly among the other banners

Walk onto the playa, a man strapped
with a guitar, nine harmonicas, one morraca, a melodica, a journal,
and a soul full of childlike wonderment radiating love.

Share the highest self
receive others in the same saintly light
"Buddha", "Buddha"
Man the poet's post, gift a poem to whatever brave adventurer
finds their way to your dusty shore
Be a beacon of spontaneous joy among the other bright lights
Engage in the mystic pleasures of Black Rock City with a lustful curiosity reserved only for the most devout Bacchanalian Priest,
standing amid the pagan ****, waving spilled goblets
like an overflowing gaggle of drunken pirates singing a wild tune,
arms sweeping and fists swinging in clever rocking harmony,
conductors composing romantic chaos

Love being alive.
Love putting your feet in the dirt and smelling the dry air.
Hear the birds singing unknowable songs that you were born to follow, Feel the sun on your skin, let your Self burn.
Walk amongst trees and wrap your arms around rooted giants
as you hurtle through space

Connect and feel balanced within this paradoxical existence
of constant change,
lightly hold the hand of letting go
See into people's eyes,
Create new channels for awakening.
Be a romantic and cherish womanly love and lust.
Enjoy the embrace of hands, union of lips,
and the primal enlightenment afforded by duality.
Attend jazz nights at pirate mead bars and write dizzy poetry in comfy corners. Share art. Speak spanish and play guitar.

This waking life is a dream, is it not?
Dream of exploration, in the material and spiritual realm.
People are endlessly fascinating, dream of meeting them all.
Continual realization of the oneness of all life is a sustained dream,
trust your path and part within this grand symphony,
the light of the festivals may provide clues,
fearlessly be a seeker of these chances.

Be ready for genuine human interaction,
be brave enough to ask the forbidden questions,
and wild enough to attempt at the answers.
We all carry a piece of the puzzle, find community,
a place where many pieces can come together
to bask in the glory of life.
Add your own piece of light to shine in the desert.
Sit amongst philosophers and rebels in the shade,
revel in the mystery together.

I.
The people look like flowers at last - sick thoughts of dead men strike the clock winding backwards and ignite to illuminate my approach,
The people look like,
Cigarette burns,
Bullet wounds,
Casualties of Rollins' war with himself,
Of Ellis' numb utopia,
Of the Bukowski cynic suicide,
Of the thoughtless progeny of deadbeat generations desperate to push back,
Every street corner is holy, baptized in the blood of those who died believing,
A thousand fists moved to release a thousand frustrations, and a celebrity endorsement for each overdose death,
Angel mine, abate your gutter wars and mob mentalities,
The tattoo ink has dried and the clubs are closed for the night,
Where are the revolutionaries to go now?

II.
The revenge of the skinhead minority,
The born again soul of a fallen brother,
The madman defiant in publicized rage, the faces of the enemy painted with crosshairs on TV screens,
And the damaged finally able to stand on their own,
Damaged and unrepentant,
Damaged and brilliant,
Damaged with criminal record eyes,
with paranoia brain, with X's tattooed into calloused knuckles,
with track marked arms,
Damaged, the unstoppable tide of the righteous youth - caricatured in the spray painted stencils of their testaments

III.
The spoiled children of an undefinable zeitgeist with nothing to lose,
In ecstasy binges these angels hallucinated manifest destiny through non prescription lenses,
Studying traffic patterns I remember how people are afraid to merge and everybody is looking for just the right amount of trouble,
A fire dies and another is born almost immediately,
Careless ramblings in careless county - a land I'm sure was promised to someone, somewhere, sometime
But after the gold rush nobody could cash out fast enough,
I can't cash out fast enough -
Every girl has got the guilty smile of a teenage runaway living out a Janis Joplin fantasy, and all the boys line up like addicts itching to cop,
The air is so heavy nobody can hold a thought - and when I speak, It's the accent, they say, they can always tell,

IV.
Taxi rides in laser show utopia,
Sicilian saint newly minted tells me about the ******* machine and it's ravenous posturing -
be present & be seen,
Fake it till you make it,
Cop killers singing confessions for beer on the street corner,
While the socialist manifests itself in mispronounced beverages and faux-marked Russian volumes,
avant-garde hyperrealism & ritualistic sacrifice,
There was something about *** and dying on the radio I couldn't be bothered to hear,
A drunken brawl over a bad bet made, disappointing street race, police sirens distant growing moreso,
In ****** bars where ladies always drink free, I rewatch the fall of a ***** old man from the penthouse to the street all over again,
If you haven't figured it out by now,
Don't try

V.
In dreams I walk the Pacific Coast Highway dead of night, barefooted soul alive and naked in the Western night like a Jim Morrison poem, the traveler that never arrives, watching the sunrise form halos over the Sierra Nevada, like a girl I know back East who talks a great deal about plans, the best of which never even have an aftertaste of freedom
There is the same sublime anthems playing on every radio and palm trees forming crosses for any messiah who is willing to claim them,
Last train out of Anaheim as the tessellating California skies swell and give, catch and release,
I see the roofs of tenements lit up by Disneyland,
ocean reflecting the glare from Heaven,
faces of the impoverished reflecting the glare from Heaven,
everybody getting sunburned from the glare from Heaven,
I watch the lovers depart for Santa Ana,
Elderly Asian tourists for Irvine,
Hipsters for San Juan,
and the rest of the destitute ******* for Oceanside en route to San Diego,
There but by the grace of God go the drunk kids spilling out of greyhound buses, sitting till dawn contemplating skylines reflected on the bay, finding romance in every moan of living Earth,
wide eyed at possibility of removing themselves from the equation and finding the answer,
Neil Young harmonicas drift listless above Spanish villas,
Everybody talking like something bad was gonna happen but I couldn't see much thru the windows past the tourist burly shouldered slumbering beast,
I think it was somewhere between Yuma and Dallas, with Mexico stretched out like an invitation to an anarchist rally where I was haunted first,
I'm haunted by El Campo Santo, paved over restless Indian graves in the shadow of the hanging tree,
By La Calavera Catrina blessing the sinners as they pass, hollow faced and sunken on the ***** Spanish streets of their ancestral Apartheid home,
I'm haunted by Calvary, 3000 spirits hanging around unsure of what comes next,
I'm haunted by the faces of the beggars I couldn't spare a cigarette for,
In dreams the Western night releases me and I leave California a shade lighter,
And the handful of stars that manage to burn through the haze seem to promise me:
"You may be gone, but your shadow lives on without you"

Do you think I've got wisdom?

I have been thinking, and talking to God, and I realized something. I am one of God's children, I am one of God's children!
Are you one of God's children?

They are so angry, so angry all of the time, so angry at the world. At everybody else. Something that they don't realize, that I realize, is that they are angry at themselves. They are angry because they are confused, and their minds don't work like they used to. They are angry because they are afraid, because they can't take care of things like they used to.

I see that.

Sometimes I get angry because this is called assisted living, but I can't get any assistance around here. I've got nothing. I can't get no assistance.

I know this, this is Perry Como.
Merry Christmas.

-  Bob

Roule, roule ton flot indolent, morne Seine. -

Sur tes ponts qu'environne une vapeur malsaine

Bien des corps ont passé, morts, horribles, pourris,

Dont les âmes avaient pour meurtrier Paris.

Mais tu n'en traînes pas, en tes ondes glacées,

Autant que ton aspect m'inspire de pensées !


Le Tibre a sur ses bords des ruines qui font

Monter le voyageur vers un passé profond,

Et qui, de lierre noir et de lichen couvertes,

Apparaissent, tas gris, parmi les herbes vertes.

Le *** Guadalquivir rit aux blonds orangers

Et reflète, les soirs, des boléros légers,

Le Pactole a son or, le Bosphore a sa rive

Où vient faire son kief l'odalisque lascive.

Le Rhin est un burgrave, et c'est un troubadour

Que le Lignon, et c'est un ruffian que l'Adour.

Le Nil, au bruit plaintif de ses eaux endormies,

Berce de rêves doux le sommeil des momies.

Le grand Meschascébé, fier de ses joncs sacrés,

Charrie augustement ses îlots mordorés,

Et soudain, beau d'éclairs, de fracas et de fastes,

Splendidement s'écroule en Niagaras vastes.

L'Eurotas, où l'essaim des cygnes familiers

Mêle sa grâce blanche au vert mat des lauriers,

Sous son ciel clair que raie un vol de gypaète,

Rhythmique et caressant, chante ainsi qu'un poète.

Enfin, Ganga, parmi les hauts palmiers tremblants

Et les rouges padmas, marche à pas fiers et lents

En appareil royal, tandis qu'au **** la foule

Le long des temples va, hurlant, vivante houle,

Au claquement massif des cymbales de bois,

Et qu'accroupi, filant ses notes de hautbois,

Du saut de l'antilope agile attendant l'heure,

Le tigre jaune au dos rayé s'étire et pleure.

- Toi, Seine, tu n'as rien. Deux quais, et voilà tout,

Deux quais crasseux, semés de l'un à l'autre bout

D'affreux bouquins moisis et d'une foule insigne

Qui fait dans l'eau des ronds et qui pêche à la ligne.

Oui, mais quand vient le soir, raréfiant enfin

Les passants alourdis de sommeil ou de faim,

Et que le couchant met au ciel des taches rouges,

Qu'il fait bon aux rêveurs descendre de leurs bouges

Et, s'accoudant au pont de la Cité, devant

Notre-Dame, songer, cœur et cheveux au vent !

Les nuages, chassés par la brise nocturne,

Courent, cuivreux et roux, dans l'azur taciturne.

Sur la tête d'un roi du portail, le soleil,

Au moment de mourir, pose un baiser vermeil.

L'Hirondelle s'enfuit à l'approche de l'ombre.

Et l'on voit voleter la chauve-souris sombre.

Tout bruit s'apaise autour. À peine un vague son

Dit que la ville est là qui chante sa chanson,

Qui lèche ses tyrans et qui mord ses victimes ;

Et c'est l'aube des vols, des amours et des crimes.

- Puis, tout à coup, ainsi qu'un ténor effaré

Lançant dans l'air bruni son cri désespéré,

Son cri qui se lamente, et se prolonge, et crie,

Éclate en quelque coin l'orgue de Barbarie :

Il brame un de ces airs, romances ou polkas,

Qu'enfants nous tapotions sur nos harmonicas

Et qui font, lents ou vifs, réjouissants ou tristes,

Vibrer l'âme aux proscrits, aux femmes, aux artistes.

C'est écorché, c'est faux, c'est horrible, c'est dur,

Et donnerait la fièvre à Rossini, pour sûr ;

Ces rires sont traînés, ces plaintes sont hachées ;

Sur une clef de sol impossible juchées,

Les notes ont un rhume et les do sont des la,

Mais qu'importe ! l'on pleure en entendant cela !

Mais l'esprit, transporté dans le pays des rêves,

Sent à ces vieux accords couler en lui des sèves ;

La pitié monte au cœur et les larmes aux yeux,

Et l'on voudrait pouvoir goûter la paix des cieux,

Et dans une harmonie étrange et fantastique

Qui tient de la musique et tient de la plastique,

L'âme, les inondant de lumière et de chant,

Mêle les sons de l'orgue aux rayons du couchant !


- Et puis l'orgue s'éloigne, et puis c'est le silence,

Et la nuit terne arrive et Vénus se balance

Sur une molle nue au fond des cieux obscurs :

On allume les becs de gaz le long des murs.

Et l'astre et les flambeaux font des zigzags fantasques

Dans le fleuve plus noir que le velours des masques ;

Et le contemplateur sur le haut garde-fou

Par l'air et par les ans rouillé comme un vieux sou

Se penche, en proie aux vents néfastes de l'abîme.

Pensée, espoir serein, ambition sublime,

Tout, jusqu'au souvenir, tout s'envole, tout fuit,

Et l'on est seul avec Paris, l'Onde et la Nuit !


- Sinistre trinité ! De l'ombre dures portes !

Mané-Thécel-Pharès des illusions mortes !

Vous êtes toutes trois, ô Goules de malheur,

Si terribles, que l'Homme, ivre de la douleur

Que lui font en perçant sa chair vos doigts de spectre,

L'Homme, espèce d'Oreste à qui manque une Électre,

Sous la fatalité de votre regard creux

Ne peut rien et va droit au précipice affreux ;

Et vous êtes aussi toutes trois si jalouses

De tuer et d'offrir au grand Ver des épouses

Qu'on ne sait que choisir entre vos trois horreurs,

Et si l'on craindrait moins périr par les terreurs

Des Ténèbres que sous l'Eau sourde, l'Eau profonde,

Ou dans tes bras fardés, Paris, reine du monde !


- Et tu coules toujours, Seine, et, tout en rampant,

Tu traînes dans Paris ton cours de vieux serpent,

De vieux serpent boueux, emportant vers tes havres

Tes cargaisons de bois, de houille et de cadavres !

ROLL UP, ROLL UP - WELCOME TO THE BIG TOP PARK  
From the 6th diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.  
 
Holidays were almost here again, and Mum and Dad loved to take us all to our favourite caravan park called Rolling River Retreat, where all of our friends from past years would once again be there with their families.  
 
My Dad made our very own caravan by hand, painted with artistic flair and built (of course) in his unusually built and outrageously painted, backyard, out back shed. It was such a sight for all of the people that drove past us in their cars, on our way to our holiday retreat.  
 
All our friends from the caravan park retreat, also thought our colourful caravan looked such a treat, that many of them phoned mum and dad and told them about the surprise for us kids once we arrived at the retreat. They had all decided this year; they too would have something cool looking and really neat at the retreat.  
 
Are we there yet, we would ask again and again, then after a little longer us kids fell asleep. We were then awoken by the sound of BomBom BomBom BomBom, and then we knew we were crossing the last old bridge from the nearby town and into the big and top park of all time. It was a very old and bumpy bridge and we all knew its sound.  
 
As we were crossing the old Rolling River Bridge, we noticed the water level was much higher than usual, and moving ever so fast. The locals had told us when we had to refuel the car that the rain hadn't stopped coming down for weeks and weeks. They also said that today the sun was finally coming out from behind those dark clouds and hopefully now it wouldn't be so bleak.  
 
So lucky for us and all of our friends, that we picked our holiday time when the sun decided to peak. As we rolled up to the world's top caravan park, we were all welcomed by the always friendly, park manager Andy and his wife Cindy. He had been the manager there for twenty-three years, and my Dad also knew Andy from when he was a child.  
 
We then saw our friends, with a smile on their dials and so loud with great cheer, when the Lemmon's had finally arrived. There was our great Spanish friend Pablo, who we would call Poppa Pablo, and who loved his various and very tamed pets. There was old senior, Jay Walken the Lolly shop owner, and the very funny musical brothers Anastasia and Houllio from Mexico.  
 
We saw Johnny "The Greek Carpenter" and his son Stevie, also Andy's old pen-pal friend, Joel from Texas, USA. We were allowed to call him, Cowboy Tex. he was walking with a slight shuffle, while wearing a huge 10 gallon hat. Last to see us was my favourite grown up friend, Marko. He would do magical tricks for us every year and his wife Louise and their son Jacob, who was studying architecture. It's something to do with drawings or designs, I think.  
 
They all gave us hugs and high fives, and said, now come with us, for you will all be in for a real treat. We turned the corner and there they all were. The old looking caravans of previous years, had all been cleverly painted with great  character and artistic flair.  
 
Poppa Pablo, who loved animals, painted his caravan to look like a zoo. The old senior, Jay Walken (the Candyman) painted his, to look like a van full of lollies. The funny Mexican, musical brothers Anastasia and Houllio, had painted a bunch of colourful and zany looking Mexican clowns, playing all of their favourite instruments. Which included, drums, trumpets, harmonicas and guitars on the side of their van. Johnny "The Greek Carpenter" and his son Stevie, decided to paint shapes, houses, hammers, nails and ladders of course. Marko, Louise and their son Jacob, had a very futuristic designed van with rabbits, hats, juggling *****, a box and a saw and a cleaver trap-door. All had been designed with precision and at very clever angles, that's for sure.  
 
The last caravan we saw was extra long, for it was Cowboy Tex's, and he even had a van for his pony named, Bubski. Cowboy Tex had painted his in Red, White and Blue and in the middle a large star from Texas, where else.  
 
That night we went to bed early after such a long trip, for tomorrow we were all going on a drive and having a picnic lunch in the local mountains and then into town at night to see the travelling circus.  
 
In the morning, we all made our way in convoy, towards the old and bumpy Rolling River Bridge. But it had been closed overnight by the police, because of the rain and the damage it had made. Dad spoke to the local policeman, who said, the bad weather had taken its toll, on the old bumpy bridge and it had damaged a few large poles.  
 
We all went back to our holiday park and started to unpack. All of the childre were very upset, because, they had missed out on seeing the circus. Then, my Dad and his friends had a long talk, while sitting together around the campfire. They were trying to figure out, what they could do, to cheer up the children.  
 
Meanwhile, the kids decided to spend the rest of the day in the Rolling River Retreat's, games room. After chatting and playing, for quite awhile, we heard all sorts of noises,coming from outside. But my Mum told us, don't worry, just keep having fun and talking together.  
 
Later that afternoon, we heard someone yelling out,'Roll up, Roll up, Welcome to the Big Top Park'. We all rushed outside, but couldn't believe what we were seeing. The circus, had somehow, come to our park.  
 
We all started walking, towards the funny clowns who were falling down. There was even a Candy shop selling all sorts of yummies, like fairy floss, lollies and even teeth candy.  
 
We all took our seats at the front, and started listening to the funny clowns, playing a musical beat. Then a big voice shouted out loud, let's all thank the parents and friends for bringing the circus straight to you. After a while, we realised it was my Dad. He was introducing all of the performers, who would entertain us, in style.  
 
The funny clowns playing the musical instruments and falling down were the brothers, Anastasia and Houllio, and the man serving candy was none other than, the old senior Mr Jay Walken, of course.  
 
The show was starting, and the first act was, Poppa Pablo with his variety of animals. His Great Dane named, Duke, was jumping and rolling all about, his orange cat called, Tabby, was boxing with some hanging *****. His Guinea Pig called, Pauly was whizzing around through plastic pipes, and so much more. Then his little yellow baby duck named, Dina was following Pablo, wherever he went.  
 
Poppa Pablo, then grabbed Smoochy from me, and put him on a large See-Saw. He then got his Great Dane named, Duke stand on the other end. 'Whisssshhhhh, I wasn't here', Smoochy seemed to yell out, but I was ready for him. Luckily, he landed in straight in my top left-hand side pocket.  
 
Next act, was dancing from my two, much older, identical twin sisters Emma and Jemma. I found them rather boring, so I yelled out, ' next act please'.  
 
Even my Mum, Flo was giving it a go. She had held in a large bowl, my favourite fruit snacks. Then, all of a sudden, she tossed an apple into the air, then straight after that, a whole banana went up. She then grabbed an orange, that's three at a time, wow, she was juggling her fruit, real fine. It was something, I have never ever, seen done before, I hope they don't fall!  
 
The funny clown brothers, then asked the audience, for a hand. I put up Lemmy's hand and Smoochy's as well. They put Lemmy in a very small homemade car, then following behind was, Pablo's orange cat, named,Tabby, and then his Guinea Pig called, Pauly. All looking so relaxed, in a car, each of their own.  
 
At the front of the cars was, Cowboy Tex and his faithful Polish pony named, Bubski. All of the cars had been hooked up, near the back of his tail. Around and around, they did two laps, as they sat quietly.  
 
The last act of the night was, Marko the Magician and his assistant Louise. He performed some wonderful tricks, and even pulled a cute rat, out of a top hat. I then yelled out, 'wait a sec!', I think that's my best friend, and new grouse pet mouse, Smoochy.  
 
Then, my sister Emma, was introduced into this part of the show. She stood in one of the two boxes, set up on stage, and with a black cloth, Marko, then covered the front of her body. With the magical words of "getoutofheregooverthere", and in a flash of an eye, she quickly reappeared, in no time at all. But in the other wooden box, that was so far away. Wow, Marko is the best magician, I have ever seen. I wanted to know, the secret of that trick, but he didn't even give me a clue.  
 
At the end of the night, Andy the friendly park manager, got on the microphone and said, 'can we all please applaud, these wonderful acts'. Starting with, Archie Lemmon, Johnny "The Greek Carpenter" and his son Stevie for building and painting the circus arena. Also, Jacob for the stage design and forcarefully planning all that.  
 
Wow, what a great night had by all, but, I don't think Smoochy, will ever talk to me again. Mainly, because it was me, who put up his hand, for that very scary circus, high flying act.

1.
You can never go home,
not to the home you left.
When you leave, you get bigger.
Not necessarily in girth, but in consciousness.
When you come back,  everything,
even the walls of your parent's house,
seem to have shrunk.

2.
Look.....
Here comes the parade.
With its paper mache floats
and twirling batons.
Cub scouts and boy scouts,
all in a neat blue and drab green row,
followed by a high school marching band
playing "Stars and Stripes Forever".
From bygone wars, limbless surviving soldiers flinch with every cymbal crash.

3.
I watched billows of cottonwood clouds
swirl down a summer hometown avenue,
they met on the street corner for a song........
"Alley Oop", or "I Like Bread And Butter"
These ghostlike voices will live there forever,
innocent, asleep, numb, waiting.
Soon, the postman will bring your future.
Soon, you will be just a number on a lotery ball.
Soon, you will have to dissect luck or fate.

4.
I took my 87 year old Father to gather his tools
from his long time place of work.
The instruments of his livelihood.
He did not need them anymore, he had retired.
Some tools he had used since World War II,
some he made for a specific job.... never to use again.
All neatly placed in toolboxes built in the 30s and 40s,
yet not a trace of rust.
These were the tools of a tradesman,
a (Tool and Die Man).
He once told me, “Son, if I can’t fix it because I don’t have the right tool, I will make the tool”.
I thought him to be Superman.
But there I was, loading up my Father’s history,
to take home, to be sold to the highest bidder.  
I myself have made my living playing music for audiences.
I also have tools.
Guitars, amplifiers, harmonicas, microphones.
There will come a day, in the not too distant future,
when I will have to “retire” the instruments of my livelihood.
Though I will not be as stoic as my World War II Father,
I will go kicking and screaming to the pawn shop,
remembering every song that fed me,
and every chord that made people dance.

Roses and Gold chains
Living ones life stained, and there’s no time to moan-a-lisa
But try this, listen: allow this blues of love to touch your ear
Let the past be just a memory and not a future gate locker that will shut you out from happiness
Drink in the soul soothing, smooth blend of guitars and harp harmonicas intertwine with the inner drums of your heartbeat
Feel the ocean your closed ears bring to life and let that tranquil calm state coexist with the depth of the soft minor chords brought to life by the;
Gentle hands as that of  potter massaging the clay till it takes shape, and submit to the tender dominants, stroking the clay from top to the lower parts
The movement starts on a slow, and the movement increases as the two blend, and the hand is by now smooth sailing on the smooth creation
Allow the blues to be the potter of your humpy, and rough countenance that’s been disfigured
And made mushy by incessant rains that haunt this once floral mind,
Turned to a graveyard, having rusty gates, making it appear even more grisly
Invite the sound to transfigure your inner self to a cherubim that is snow white; this might seem like Childs play and what if it is?
You watched them when you were young and all you need to do now is to believe in them
Hope to be bluesed than bruised
And i know that staying in tune is not as easy as being off tune, but;

not exactly a poem, sorry.

The turnkey was the fumbling sort, the sort that could be taken advantage of, Carver never thought about it more than a passing fancy. The kind of thought that was dangerous, it wasn’t a ten-year stretch after all. Popping the old guard and making a break could work, would work.  A couple of years is nothing in this joint, they told him, once you get a few connections in the yard, get on a baseball team, two years is a breeze. You might even miss it all. Carver was hesitant to heed the trappings of these old relics, they were just counting the days to nothing. He knew that very well might’ve been their prerogative, but for him there would always be that something. A lonesome post-office box, containing the culmination of his life’s worth. They didn’t know about it, none of them knew, his brother, his slick-*** lawyer, not even those rats, those ******* rats that got him in here. At the time he resolved that he would part with that secret of his post office box for no less than his life. Whatever dissent had marked him as the fall-guy passed him by. Complacence led Carver here but it would never happen again. No more concessions next time.

Cellblock B wasn’t devoid of small charms. The periodic mewing of this crooner or that, with what seemed like a common intonation amongst them, all tapping from a collective unconscious. The window with a view of the yard, although mostly obscured by another cell block, was still something. Lately he had been privy to comparative bliss, his erstwhile roommate having to nurse off in the infirmary the sepsis resulting from a shiv wound after an ill-judged altercation in the mess hall. The daily motions had long since become routine, Carver thought that in many respects, this was not too dissimilar from his army days. Avoiding the unsavoury types was the key to surviving both.    

Conversations which abounded lacked privacy and tended toward the trivial, but listening in did occupy a sizeable chunk of Carver’s day. Someone, Carver was fairly sure it was Fuzzin two cells down was wondering why he was growing more hair in his right underarm compared to the left, and was resolute in uncovering the mystery. Sal in the cell to the left was perpetually reciting his conquests, ****** or otherwise, to anyone that would listen. “I was in Maine for a year and a half. Lobstering up there. I mean, what else is there to do. In Maine....” A collective murmur took the cellblock suddenly, stirring Carver out of his reverie. Sal dutifully motioned and whispered “cell inspection”, Carver did the same for his neighbour. The deputy warden for cellblock B was a short rotund man Williams, who as appearances go, looked like he should be better acquainted with ledgers and stock tickets than prison walls, but was a lax sort, permitting what modest allowances someone in his position had the leeway to do. I have heard harmonicas and guitars chiming after meals regularly, unheard of in any other cellblock. Thomson’s mattress was tossed down the way...of course every now and then a few examples had to be made to appease the warden, Thomson’s codeine addiction not doing him any favours by way of effective concealment. I exhaled a sigh, not so much in condolence as boredom, as even the strewn mattress and its assorted artefacts was becoming as familiar as the yellowed walls and the evening chill.

It was the 14th and Carver was due for a visitation. 9:30a.m. and already in the throes of being worked up, he was sure to be getting worked upon soon enough. Carver cracked his knuckles against the edge of the table in the visitation room, an apparent thick black line bisecting the table with ‘hands behind the line’ mirrored on each side. “Hello Maurice.” Carver winced, knowing that she was purposely diving into ways to put him ill at ease, commencing with the upperhand, by calling him Maurice the name he hates, not Maury. “How’s life treating you?” The smirk barely contained in the pinstriped pencil skirt, her hips less so.  “Yeah okay, it’s okay. Great to see you here.” And he meant it. Not that her presence normally roused anything like that sort of sentiment, their domestic life was a burned out cinder even before he was busted.  But there was a particular warmth in her notes, just an untouched civility foreign in place like this, tending to be drawn out from the inmates one gesture at a time, often for good. Carver thought to 8 months prior, camped at opposite ends of the house, their wares might as well have been labelled ‘his’ and ‘hers’. Evenings were carefully orchestrated, where arcs in their lines of vision only merged for the briefest of instances and only as a measure to avoid any dreaded physical contact. The prospect of *** was a joke, Carver well aware that she was ******* at least the grocer and his broker, but felt better for it. One less unfulfilled expectation he had to relieve. “I’d ask how you’re dealing with the weather, but I guess you’re keeping pretty warm these days.” She half-stifled an involuntary scoff, “You know I don’t need to hear this now, Sam is due for the dentist at 2.30 and I want to get him all washed and ready, I’m not here for your games.” “So who is it today? Talbot? Someone from the club?” Carver questioned without a hint of animosity. She breathed a defeated sigh, “You know I’m not going to talk to you about this here.” Carver jolted, the seat raised an inch or two on the linoleum, “I’m just asking if you’re ******* around, and you don’t give me a straight answer so what do I have to assume huh?” The guard was giving allowance more than he had any obligation to, but Carver’s voice was raised enough to disturb a few of the surrounding groups. He moved his way over, “Hey, what’s the ruckus here Carver, keep it down okay. What’s this box up here, move your hands back, c’mon, you know the rules. Diane piped up, “It’s just a taint, sir.” The guard prodded it with his baton, quizzically. “hmm oh yes? I thought those were seasonal, okay just keep it down.”

Carver motioned to the box, “Why did you need to bring that here? I don’t need you parading my taint around. You know I’m trying to get parole in three months? What have you done with it?” “It’s just a taint.” “Yeah, but what’s with all this purple and green stuff here? All these spiky bits, I don’t remember that.” “Well, two months ago you asked for the taint and I’ve got it here, so what else do you want from me.” Carver listened to her speak but looked passed, to the frosted glass, wishing that a window was all that really kept him between here and there. “Christ, I’ve had enough of this, I come all the way down here, spend fourty minutes caught in that dratted excuse of a highway, and you won’t even thank me for bringing your stinking taint along. AND, just last week you were all taint-this and taint-that, why do I bother.” She flung around just slow enough for Carver to observe her figure it in all its majesty. A drop in his stomach, as she moved off with authority. “Wait!” He flung himself towards her. “Please...I’m sorry....please....just...leave the taint.” “Here just take your **** taint, I hope you’re thinking of it when Sam and Eliza are eating that canned **** and asking what their father is doing so I can be sure that I’m explaining what a worthless **** you are and be accurate about it.” The words fell on heedless ears, Carver and his taint. The taint and Carver.

Fuzzin was moving back to the cellblock alongside Carver, “Buddy, your wife has some ***, you better hope my parole don’t come through before yours.... say...what’s in the box.”

We spent three months of our lives
Together almost everyday
In some formation
We formed our own family
Dysfunctional in all the usual ways
We're all young
And still in love with the world
But terrified of our own lives
It was a perfect mix

We spent car rides together
Squealing and singing, dancing and shouting
Watching flamingoes sleep on lake shores
And llamas grazing by the roadside
We saw condors swooping overhead
As we climbed what felt like mountains
Compared to us
Sleeping underneath more stars
Than we had imagined were in the sky

We got lost and found our ways back
We got happy, waiting on lay-bys
We got up
At 4am, awoken by the sound of
Out of tune harmonicas
And your shouting
We fell asleep
To the sound of each other's heavy breathing
Exhausted but satisfied

Now we're apart
But from our own bonds
Woven like siblings,
Like friends,
Some of us like lovers
And all we have left
Are the photos we took together
And the memories
That I hope will last my lifetime

You could carry all your pain inside the nerves
in your tongue like such lines are suitcases
with just the right proportions.

Vertical lines always did create the illusion of symmetry.

If your pain found its home in the part of your body
that longs to be used in the verbal explanation of what it holds,
maybe your tongue would learn to create more than it deconstructs.

You wore streaks of grey sky like a costume
that did very little to conceal what lay beneath.
Maybe you thought if you wore it long enough it would
act as an extra layer of skin,
another stratification to separate you from your deepest self.

When they taught us how to laugh we never questioned
if we would grow up to be happy.
It was always something we were sure of when our minds were clouded
in a shroud of naive hope.

Now years have passed and we have learned
how to whistle wishes into the harmonicas of our necks
and wish for a better melody.


- m. b. 2014

Harmonica Player                                                        

Dad was a harmonica player.
He always played those same several songs,
but he played them well.

Everyone recognized and sang along with
Camptown Racetrack, Oh Susannah
and Red River Valley.

On his visit to Germany
while I was in the Army
Dad played, Ach Du Lieber Augustin
and Beer Barrel Polka much
to everyone’s enjoyment over there.

He could also do a good imitation
of that train chugging along the tracks
down by the plywood factory
in Ridgeway Virginia,
steam whistle and all.

Dad was a harmonica player.
          
He always had a harmonica
in one of the kitchen drawers
or on our mantle above the fireplace,
sticky from a child’s fingers
and clogged with ******* crumbs.
With six children he went through
quite a few harmonicas.

Out of us kids, I was the only one
to learn to play anything,
just 3 or 4 songs, but that,
none the less, means

I am a harmonica player.
          
That one Christmas Dad gave
each of his four grandsons
a Hohner “Old Standby” harmonica
with beginner instruction and method book.

I guess none of the other grandsons
had done much with their instrument,
because when Dad asked my son, Jason
if he could play the harmonica he’d sent,
it was something like,
“Well, I guess you never learned to play yours either.”
          


Jason came out of his room a little later,
handed Dad the songbook and asked,
“Which would you like to hear?”
He picked You Are My Sunshine
and Jason played it note for note
from the music written on the page.
          
Dad was both surprised and thrilled,
but most of all amazed.
Jason not only could play his harmonica,
but also read music,
something neither he nor I could ever do.

He talked about this for many years to come.
That, of course, means

Jason is a harmonica player, too.

I like sitting on roof tops,
In flip flops or converse,
Knee pulled to my chest,
The sound of violins & harmonicas
Echoing in the distance,
I'm still a kid,
Jesus loves me,
Tank tops are awkward,
Tattoos are comfy,
Cream soda and whiskey taste good together,
I don't know a lot,
But jesus loves me

Missing that morning music with subtle beats,

but I can only hear mourning music with heavy harmonicas

sometimes i sink
to depths of despair
that leave me gasping
for air in claustrophobic spaces
       then i hear a voice calling me
       to rejoin the chorus of life
sometimes i think it's the end
and that i'm finally spiked and dried
no more clinging flesh or sightless eyeballs
just a mounful song swishing through my skeleton
       then i hear a voice urging me on
       telling me to rise up and soar
       into the blue heavens
       where anachronistic melodies play
       on rusty harmonicas trapped in gravity
then sometimes i think i'm dreaming
when life bubbles and is exuberant
in my heart that's full of melodious chants

There are days I find myself riding on comets
I climb ladders higher than your god
I don't need a stack of bibles to understand who you are
I want to peel back your bones,
find comfort in the marrow and see what’s within.
there are tears that run down hollow cheekbones
and you asked me one day,
if we could get drunk and let our stories be told
but I want o re-write the life i'm living and find happiness
in leaves because no matter what,
great mother nature lets them fall in all the colours of secrets
she holds them close.
We sit.
banging on imaginary drums
it is not  a rule of thumb,
but a heartache.
A whisper.
A home.
a place that was destroyed in the years of your own heart being broken
like bombs drapped over the sky I see you crying behind sheltered eyes
but when your bones break you give them soil, and pray for a miracle.
the seeds of enlightenment
the sounds of sorrow.
I'll play it like an instrument,
drunken on the piano.
each key with leave track marks down my spine,
and there are brothers and sisters waiting until they can let of go of time
but the man in the sky never intended for them to be late.
To laugh at the expense of obtuse angles and
the irony of golden hair left in tangles
For the day I discovered I could break my skin with ice
I found myself bathing in memories
and my legs sliced into a sketchbook.
But in those scars I planted tulips and prayed for the rain
so they would grow and kiss my chapped brain with indigo
I want to write of love like I invented it,
I want to sing like I can claim it
and it takes time
but sometimes I forget that the atoms vibrating within me were once in the galaxy.
I am made up of the earth that I find so **** beautiful.
I am the vibrations that harmonicas send
I am the sweat on bare skin after a night you never wished would end
I am the wooden planks that many have walked with their hands
tied behind their back so they won't remember.
My hands tell a story no one else could see whenever I type on my keys
I listen for a pattern that reminds me of sea shells and water skis because
with only the chorus of a mundane song on my breath
ill stand on a mountain top,
and finally remember how to breathe

Harmonicas and accordions
And voices pushing stories  of broken love and life
Through necks filled with the smoke of three lifetimes worth of cigarettes and cigars
Cheap whiskey and piano blues
I want to live in the words of Dylan
And the images of Waits
Its starting to feel its only in that world
That I will ever get to hold you in my arms
That I will hold your hands
And never let go
That I will waltz
The steps of eternity
With you step by step
Lost between the pages of Bukowski
Loving each other on the  roads of Kerouac
Thats the world I want
I need
To be this kinda happy
Profound beautiful happy
That only mad lovers on the page truely know
Where it snows slowly every day
But its always warm ... cozy
The kinda mad crazy magic
I found in your eyes
Your voice
Your word
Haunt me beneath the floors of Poe
**** me on the stage of Shakespeare
I was dead in love
Before you spoke that last syllable
Of that first line
I didn't know what I was doing
But the devil must have been there sitting next to me
I can't remember doing it
But I signed the contract
My soul sold to love you
To be pressed between the poems and flowers
Baudelaire wrote about so tragically and elegant
To be but a single letter of love as written by Neruda
You were never going to love me
The way I had fallen to love and death for you
Such beautiful pain
Shining through the darkest
Corners of life and love
You felt weak in your strongest hours
Cried and grieved with
A heart too beautful and too kind
For this cold cruel world
You were never weak though
That was the doubts
And the demons
And the monsters
Whispering their lies
Trying to break you
Trying to shadow and ****
Your light
They will never give up
You frighten them
Scare them
Don't belive them
Don't give in or up
You cried in darkness
And you remained strong
Even when it hurt to breath
Bloomed into a new day
A fresh flower
Pushing through the soil
New, fragile, scared
And you braved it
Survived it
Day after day
Death after death
Coming back
More beautiful each time
Your light
Your light is pure
And kind
And generous with the beams
And the warmth of love
That kinda love only found on the pages of mad lovers
A love only found
In your heart
Your eyes
Your voice
Your word
You don't have to love me
Not the way I love you
Not at all
I will always still love you
Always hold your hand
Be there by your side
In the warmth of your light
In the dark cold of your doubts
No matter the heartache and pain
You can break my heart
Again and again
I won't go anywhere  
I'll be there with you always
I'll whisper your truth
When the devil and demons
Scream their lies
I'll warm you with my soul
When they block out your light
With clouds and doubts
My heart will always
Belong to your hands
Your touch
Your eyes
Your voice
Your word
I never knew I needed saving
Until you saved me
Brought my heart
Back to life
I never realized that it was
Just its echo and ghost
Haunting my empty chest
I didn't know I was dead
Until you made me feel alive
Made me feel love
That kinda love only found on the pages of mad lovers
Press me between the pages of Neruda and Baudelaire
****** and haunt my heart with Poe and Shakespeare
Send me down the long roads of Kerouac and Bukowski
Give me to the words of Waits and Dylan
And keep me on a shelf by your side
Take me down whenever you need me
I'll be there always
To whisper your truths
To hold you in the dark hours
And to love you
The way only a mad lover on the page can

What will be the death of me?

Will it be the paralyzing memories of my past,

Maybe it will be the time I gave my heart away,

Or could it be from my self desolating mind?

I fight to survive this thunderous cry,
Time and space harmonize, 

My eyes are sealed together from the clouds,

Knives in the back of my mind pierce like glaring eyes…

The morning light used to illuminate my life,

I used to call this place home,
Questions about true beauty haunt me,

Is life truly this excellent, is it really so desirable?

If my body was put into a box,

And the night sky wrapped me into eternity,

Would the light of day try to creep in,

Would the light try to eradicate this thunderstorm of a life I live?

I have dreams,

I have visions of men and women,
Searching for their dying day,

Looking for the distant light..

Will their ashes blow into the wind like mine?

How will the respects be paid?

I’m still searching for the night,

They still search for a barricaded light.

Harmonicas playing softly in the dusk,

My dear friend sits alone,

He lives his life on a throne of dust,
Will he be there when I’m all alone?

This night,

It wraps around me like a shield,

Do I know what there is out there where I can go?

Will I remember your voice, or your silencing eyes?

These are the daunting questions I ask myself,

I call into the night sky,

Replies are few,

The ghost of you always knew.

There's so much within me
so many years of memories that I don't have time to think about
I'm constantly on my phone or stressing about
the problems of the day, but the truth is that
my life has been long and will be long- there are
people who have changed me for the better and the worse
there are thrilling memories and terrifying memories
there are firsts and lasts and drunkenness and heart pitter-patters
fair lights and dubstep songs and harmonicas and the taste
of numbing on my tongue, warmth and palm trees
and jolts in my heart, sisters and dances and love and weddings
there are moments that should have been kisses but weren't
there are moments that were kisses and shouldn't have been
there are people I have loved and lost, people that
have slipped away, people that told me they'd never let go
and we woke up five feet from each other
there are so many tears shed for so many different reasons
so much love for me and so much love from me
and it's all been worth it. And there's so much more to go.

Old Mother McCreery
Played on her washboard.
Time for nursery rhymes
That aren't worth a dime
But seriously
Yeah steel band music
On the corners of the streets
In Miami
In the old days,
Improvised bands with
All sorts of
Improvised instruments
And little boys
Playing on their miniature set of bongo,
Ukuleles, and harmonicas
All
Music in different ways.

Sun kissed evening in Paris;
While drinking coffee in a quaint coffeehouse
With a candle on the table casting a soft glow
Everything feels so fast and so slow at the same time
Strangers;
Walking by , talking ,kissing,laughing

A small town early morning drenched in rain
Only a few walking on the cobbled roads
Sitting on the balcony of one of the many coloured houses
While the fisherman play a mellifluous tune on their harmonicas

On a champaign drunk cold midnight walk
With the deserted roads of the town bathed in a sweet hue of the moon's glow
While singing a 50s jazz tune with a slur
Hand in hand with a lover

Summer day on a countryside valley
Warm breeze filled with the scent of summer flowers
Soft sunrays kissing the skin
While bicycling around the town's stone fountains and statues

How I long to experience these simple pleasures of life
Where for a moment;
It feels like heaven on earth