1.

From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
rubbernecking
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.

We remain
perfectly
perched
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful
mark.

In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
upward;
yet
thankfully
remain
distant
enough to
recuse any
possibility
of an
intimate
nexus
with the
besieged.

2.

From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
demanding
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
management
promising a
much needed
refurbishment.

The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
ambassadorial
prelates, Emirs and
state department
bureaucrats
summoned
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.

They are
eager to
sanctify
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
rationalizations,
commencing
official commissions
of inquiry,
deliberating
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
Humanity
while
remaining
urgently
engrossed
in the fascination
of interviewing
potential
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
Baathist
confederates,
if papers
are to be
served.

Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.

In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
Russia’s
gun running
intransigence
and China’s
geopolitical
chess moves.

Statesmen
boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing the impact
of stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
asymmetrical
symmetries
of civil war.

Caravans
of Arab League
envoys roll up
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
obfuscations,
navigating the
endless dunes
with hand held
sextants of
hidden agendas.

The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirées
across Syria.

They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of a
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
recollections,
pleading
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox
of reconciling
discoveries of
perverse voyeurism
with the sanctioned
explanations
of their respective
ruling elites.

The bellies
of these
scopophiliacs
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
frantic
fathers
rushing
the mangled
carcases
of mortally
wounded
children
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.

We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
children
emaciated from
the wanton
indifference
of the world?


3.

From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
burning
ambivalence
continue
before it
consumes
our common
humanity in
a final
conflagration?

My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.

How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?


4.

From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
of Baba Amr.

The ****** of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on treacherous roads,
mercilessly
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist
lordship.

I cannot avert my eyes
marking sights
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a sadists
lust.

My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
outrage
beholding
careening
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
protruding
from marauding
jeeps of laughing
soldiers.

I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
tears
reflecting
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.

My eyes have
murdered my soul.

The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.


5.

From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance,
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.

The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizingly close
to this tyrants throat.  

The covered women
of Homs scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”

Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?

Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an
avenging
angel?

Am I the
John Brown
of our time?

Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?

Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as my
comrades in arms?

Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the power
of love and marshal
truth to speak with
the force of
satyagraha?

I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”

6.

Indeed,
physician heal thyself.

I run to embrace my
illness.

I pine to understand it.

I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.

This
pernicious
plague,
subverting
the notion
of a shared
humanness
is a cunning
sedition that
undermines
the unity of
the holy spirit.  

The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.

The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.

Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.

The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.

Allah,  
My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked,
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.

Selah


7.

From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
zaghroutas
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.

Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lamentations
lifting from the
the burning
destruction
of shelled
buildings.

Our eyes spark
from the night
tracers
of sleeking
snipers
flitting along
the city’s
rooftops.

The deadly jinn
indiscriminately
inject the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
skillful
head shot.

These
ghoulish
assassins
lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their ****,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.


8.

From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs
shouting;

Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!

raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
freedom,
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a
butchers
terrible
sword.


9.

From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the depleted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
children;
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated
pools.

10.

From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed
minarets.

We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the adhan
of screams
the silent
voices that echo
the blatant injustice
of a people under siege.


11.

From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
insistence
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
upheld,
respected and
protected.


12.

From my safe
window
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum,
a sweeping
blue mist,
levitating
the coffins
from the rubble
of ravaged streets.

The swirling
chorus of
mourning
joins my
desperate
prayers;
rising in
concert
with the
black billows
of smoke
dancing
away
from the
flaming
embers
of scorched
neighborhoods.


13.

From my
safe window
I heed
the fluttering
wings
of avenging
angels
furiously
batting
as they
climb
the black
plumes,
lifting from
the scattered bricks
of the desecrated
city.

It is the
Jacob’s
Ladder
for our
time;
marking
a new
consecrated
place
where
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
pulverized
stones of
desolation.

14.

From our
safe windows
we peer into
resplendent
mirrors
beholding
the perfect image of
ourselves
eying
falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of disheveled beds.


15.

From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
our words mock urgency
our thoughts betray comprehension
our senses fail to illicit empathy
our action is the only worthy prayer


16.

From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my little palace,
the crack
of a ******
shot
precedes
the wiz of a
passing bullet
whispering
its presence
into my
waxen
ear.


17.

From my
safe window,
my palms scoop
the rich soil
of the flower boxes
perched on my sill.
I anoint the tender
green shoots of  the
Arab Spring
with an incessant flow
of bittersweet tears.

Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme
Acknowledgment

Oakland
2/28/12
jbm

This is winter, this is night, small love --
A sort of black horsehair,
A rough, dumb country stuff
Steeled with the sheen
Of what green stars can make it to our gate.
I hold you on my arm.
It is very late.
The dull bells tongue the hour.
The mirror floats us at one candle power.

This is the fluid in which we meet each other,
This haloey radiance that seems to breathe
And lets our shadows wither
Only to blow
Them huge again, violent giants on the wall.
One match scratch makes you real.

At first the candle will not bloom at all --
It snuffs its bud
To almost nothing, to a dull blue dud.

I hold my breath until you creak to life,
Balled hedgehog,
Small and cross. The yellow knife
Grows tall. You clutch your bars.
My singing makes you roar.
I rock you like a boat
Across the Indian carpet, the cold floor,
While the brass man
Kneels, back bent, as best he can

Hefting his white pillar with the light
That keeps the sky at bay,
The sack of black! It is everywhere, tight, tight!
He is yours, the little brassy Atlas --
Poor heirloom, all you have,
At his heels a pile of five brass cannonballs,
No child, no wife.
Five *****! Five bright brass *****!
To juggle with, my love, when the sky falls.

In the dour ages
Of drafty cells and draftier castles,
Of dragons breathing without the frame of fables,
Saint and king unfisted obstruction's knuckles
By no miracle or majestic means,

But by such abuses
As smack of spite and the overscrupulous
Twisting of thumbscrews: one soul tied in sinews,
One white horse drowned, and all the unconquered pinnacles
Of God's city and Babylon's

Must wait, while here Suso's
Hand hones his tack and needles,
Scouraging to sores his own red sluices
For the relish of heaven, relentless, dousing with prickles
Of horsehair and lice his ***** *****;
While there irate Cyrus
Squanders a summer and the brawn of his heroes
To rebuke the horse-swallowing River Gyndes:
He split it into three hundred and sixty trickles
A girl could wade without wetting her shins.

Still, latter-day sages,
Smiling at this behavior, subjugating their enemies
Neatly, nicely, by disbelief or bridges,
Never grip, as the grandsires did, that devil who chuckles
From grain of the marrow and the river-bed grains.

in memoriam Woodrow (Woody) Rifenburgh*      

The soft purr of a Piper Cub
drifted over Italy's southern hills.
Soul stirred by the landscape’s song,  
the young army pilot gently spoke.

“It’s mighty peaceful up here.”

Touching wheels to the tarmac,
Woody shed his flight suit
for an engineer’s desk
and placed a viola beneath his chin.

For three score years
Woody molded horsehair and wire into string song
steadying the orchestra’s midriff
with the vibrations of his spirit.

On Christmas Eve he played for the coming child,
fell stricken and flew his last flight
on instruments at Memorial.  

Early New Year’s morn one could almost hear
the faint soft purr of a Piper Cub
as it banked to the right around the moon
and merged with the waiting heavens.

Like a discordant chord striking the piano deaf,
Or a saxophone that lost its swanky *** appeal,
When you breathe down the neck of my violin,
      The horsehair refuses to bow,
When you huff out your limitations into my harmonica,
      You disrupt my harmony,
Throwing me
                                                        offbeat.

[But I refuse to be beaten].

Spare parts
Nothing more than spare parts
Nuts and bolts and hair traps
Metal pins and elastic bands
A2 screws and P7 washer nuts

Fasten finger tight
After assembled
Repeat steps 1 & 2
Fixed too firmly
Adhere some glue

A mechanical recipe
The instructions to destroy and rebuild

3D printed
Pasted together
Real feel wood and triple stitched elastic leather

Catalog quality at half the price
Made in China mattress springs
Pantone color coordinated just right

Knock off
Imitation
Advertisement
Product placement

Everything must go
20% sale
Egyptian cotton stuffed with horsehair

Thank you
Come again
Buy one
Get one
Sign up for our newsletter
Refer a friend

buy Buy BUy BUY BUY BUY BUY BUY BYE BUY
try Try Try TRY YOU NEVER GET IT QUITE RIGHT

SELL me a violin, mister, of old mysterious wood.
Sell me a fiddle that has kissed dark nights on the forehead where men kiss sisters they love.
Sell me dried wood that has ached with passion clutching the knees and arms of a storm.
Sell me horsehair and rosin that has ****** at the ******* of the morning sun for milk.
Sell me something crushed in the heartsblood of pain readier than ever for one more song.

I'm burning with every soft whisper down my spine, my pulse is vibrato.
Like the soft and energetic hum of horsehair melting into song.
Writhing in dance against the twisted embrace of chromium on the strings.
A clash of furious titans.
Making storms when they collide; the wind and the tide.
Wrestling for power 'til the waves crash one over another, gasping, growling.
Oxygen.
When my lips meet cotton crisp and sweet, and beg for freedom of another kind.
And there in quiet whimpers do we seek, together this enlightenment of lone and fallen ones.
Grazing sharp and silent little wounds, quieted by scar tissue.
Healing through our fingertips and moans, twisted as an ouroboran knot;
feeling mirrored heartbeats strike like savage drums.
When the guise of warpaint loses shape, cast aside for inner feral forms,
grinning cheshire, hidden thorny claws.
In the darkness of another night, heavy with the weight of misty breaths, there from underneath do they then come,
the master and his hound, the lord and fallen one.

I scrub down the entrails
cast now in wire
forcing fast horsehair to form
audible friction,
with wood, metal, keratin, and navel craft
comprehensible tension;
and I study such tension to
form a portfolio of frequencies
from which to draw
and cause
emotion on cue:
to tease my tactile habits
is to hone my habitual expression (they say);
I ask the doctor and take this aural tool
--a theory of not colors but a fifth wheel--
as directed,
and use it to forge links between acoustic flailings
to turn feelings into gears that line up
just as the label instructs.

And so I train my instincts to match the mold taught in
this cramped and unfamiliar womb;
and I teach my hand to tremble uniformly.

You think you're so charming with your six-string but I've got some news,
and that's that that six-string is old news.
When you gonna pick up that new electronic beat and let the drums pulse heat into your cold eyes,
littering the shoreline with every bit of negative commentary necessary to make the moment much less than romantic.
Jump into panic, oh alone you're so alone and though I sympathize I won't fall for those lies;
you're just a kid with a crayon trying to sell the Mona Lisa.
Dragging me down into new friction against a new addiction I never wanted,
dust litters my clean floor and I can hear you back  there ****-talking the shore as if your racing heart never wanted more.
Racing blurred burnt out on lines speeding past fluttering eyelids so quick, the storm inside the flashbulb can't even stop us.
The quickness inside our pounding hearts won't slow, the blood won't thicken no matter how hard you wish it.
Crushing candy into cotton in public bathroom stalls under careful fingertips, I wish so hard you never happened to me but what would I have done otherwise?
I suppose your trying to **** me evens out owing you my life and though I sympathize, I won't fall for your lies;
you're really just a kid with a crayon trying to sell me the Mona Lisa.
Brother, I've touched paint in my lifetime, I've swirled fine horsehair brushes across an open mind,
and I can tell you your rhetoric is no masterpiece.
Alone alone empty empty
addict, addict
No matter how hard I look at you I can't see you without your lover, how hard she makes you sweat, how she makes you gasp for breath,
in, out, in out.
I can see you leaning hard against those walls,
push kid, it'll never budge an inch.
If my observations count for anything, knowing you doesn't count for anything,
seeing you suffer under ghosts and grime won't make you smile,
no matter how many times I tell you no.
I'll watch you breathe superman until you can leap buildings;
but I won't be watching when you come back down.

Driving home this morning
I join the rolling green hills of the country,
we yawn ourself awake
and push the dew out of our eyes.
Passing the barns and black fences,
I dream a new life for myself here.
A horsehair life,
long and coarse.
In the spring, I'd push seeds into the moist soil
and cross my fingers.
In the fall, I could lose myself in the stalks of gold,
if I wanted to.
I could tear up my calendar,
write a new one on upside-down tobacco
and leafy greens and the sun.
I know I'd be stronger, too.
I'd grow on bales of hay, lifted high,
and on pine wood, axed in two.
But my eyes are on the lines on the road
and I follow them on.

My sister's friend broke his back
when he wrecked his car.
The night of, I met her, coming in from work late,
she was fumbling across the gravel to her car in the dark,
murmured a few words,
when I asked her where she was going.
Mum told me someone had called.
I remembered
Dad meeting me in the kitchen
murmuring a few words,
Making a few phone calls, late.

The next day
I went with her.
Walking along all to familiar hospital halls.
I remembered playing Amazing Grace
as a woman died,
her friend's eyes, glass.
And the man who told me my
Catgut and horsehair
sounded like angel's singing.
I thought it sounded hollow,
empty, cold,
like the corridors.

The ICU hummed quietly with beeps and whispers.  
His mother thanked us for coming
she embraced us, pressing her soft body against our ribs.
He lay there honest, disheveled.
The morphine loosened his tongue.
He told my sister he loved her,
over and over again.
"Your sister is great. Don't you just love her? I love her."
he told me.
She held his hand, blushing.
I remembered your voice
on the other end of the phone line,
scattered, your tongue loose and
saying anything that fell into your mouth
half-formed thoughts
mis-pronounced words,
and a thousand impotent
"Don't worry"s.

He healed.
Left hospital after a few weeks.
My sister had to tell him
she didn't love him like that.
and he hated her for it.
You left a few weeks after,
said you loved to easily.
I couldn't hate you.
But I also couldn't love you
like that.

in the middle where I start,
dark ebb, dark flow.
     The Alice in Wonderland:
a washing machine on spin -
weaving this and that 'til
it's just dips between the strings, just perforations in the canvas
     that tear and break night into

pounding pavement,
bringing ocean's hairline to itch and flake
and radio waves booming
to tear mesh 'til texture.

     a post-sodapop hiccup.

     the jump and stumble of a green button-up blouse
whose brown buttons blend slowly
     until, on either side in a landslide
of springtime pollen on the sleeves and
     slowing to a rinse draining dark with a single
highlight of white drizzle
left on shingles and on Monarchs' wings

to drip to soil with the dark dip of horsehair
into the ***** watercolor that’s left over
from the spin where Alice got lost and began.

a quartet

plays across a

horsehair.

(you can't even

see the bow coming).

despite the bloomage

of attendant instruments.

I wrote you a folk song, sister.
Think I’ll call it “Caroline,”
after your mama’s mama
and the way she’d
slow smoke a brisket
for fifteen hours,
slapping away at the jaw harp
and kicking chickens.
Man, she had heart.

Nate and I still swing down by Early’s mill
on these summer days away from work,
and hack our way through the rushes
with that Congolese machete
Daddy gave me for my tenth birthday
(the fringes remain intact).
Nate ran into trouble,
and is back in town
for a while.

I’d say it’s about time
we rosin up the horsehair
and saw away at some old gospel staples,
the same way we did
at the fiddle contests
two lifetimes ago,
when the mountain tunes lingered
in the morning mist
far beyond breakfast.

Back when the AT through hikers
crashed at our place and brought stories of the Great Trail.

Back when my daddy wore bellbottomed jeans
and could scale a rock like some sort of deity.

Back when Nate smashed Grammie’s mason jar
of flour all over the road
and got a good whoopin’.

Back when we’d dam up the creek
and dream up images for the trees.

Back when your mama’s mama
prayed to Jesus on our behalf,
and the stars still came out most nights.
Her redwood rosary still dangles
on the mirror by my Hank Williams shrine.

Yes, I wrote you a tune from the heart, sister,
where the memory wells
flow with water from a living rock.

I hope you like it.

I wish I could escape my own charred mind
Create an escape, curl up and hide
The thoughts that come taunt me, both night and day
Stay lodged in the back, and drive people away
But when I pick up my soft, horsehair bow
A melodious sound where heartache will show
Gliding across each string with a sound
Limitless, free, and completely unbound
All sorrows unleashed and tears cascade
Enveloped in the music your own hand has made
And drawing out that last soft hum
Enjoying happiness that so rarely comes

I used to picture you
with a voice oscillating like ocean water, casting words
as nets on a surface shimmering effervescent green.
And even the handful of stars outside dawdled just
a while longer to see the fish rise up and wink
out in the morning sun, scales slipping together
the way clay lips slot against coral white heart-cages
and curved, ivory xylophones patterned like shadows
and gold strips of sun. Everything quivers; we are only a
cosmic moment singing aubades, horsehair and rosin falling
like shooting stars against mahogany and warm steel, origami
folded bed, redefined by sharp angles and all the ways I am not afraid.
When we rise to sleep, pressed sable will drip down
and the air will be rimmed with the sea salt tang of dried coffee.

I never could play the violin very well,
Unlike banjo, bass or guitar,
Violins require that delicate touch
And precise bow.

It is easy to pluck a banjo
And make it talk.
It is easy to slap a bass
And make it walk.
It is easy to hit and strike a guitar
And make it weep.

And it inconceivably simple
To make a violin stretch,
Just drag the bow,
Be it horsehair or the wood
Across four unbroken sliver strings,
Like a knife.

Making sounds that birth cringe and shiver,
Sickly shaking notes that winge and quiver.

-Jamie F. Nugent

with my fairy tales exhausted. i had my wits about me.
like huffing glue on real problems.
the sticky-wickets and whatnot.... that gather through me.
like a trojan-horsehair medallion -
at the end of a rope. Or a ray
of  " No ".

A Spot of Bother that May Be Scotch -
Or Maybe Not... but the rot boggles.
the way decay and Seasons agree on everything.
how you can't stop writing letters
to imaginary patrons
and lost mice.

' awake '  is a maze
in a deeper sleep
and i wonder...

then i wonder
some more.

Judith Broom had a knick-knack drawer like everybody else. She absentmindedly tossed her keys there too, amid the random screws to lost things, and spent tubes of glue. Love letters got snagged in there, along with stale coupons and inexplicable dust. It was dust like glass and horsehair. Judith Broom rummaged with her bare hands to the very back of her knick-knack drawer, groping for a shape she remembered. She conjured a sphere that fit the palm of her hand, and the Talisman hummed like a newborn sun in her undergarments. She took nothing for granted.

And nothing could harm it.

I've noticed. What I used to know as butterflies in my gut are now crashing waves of nauseousness. When our eyes meet I rarely can ignore the jolt in my spine, and as colour rushes to my face, it drains just as fast the moment I duck my head. Faster than than water rushes from a broken dam, or blood from a slit throat.

I feel words arise on the back of my tongue, and I would speak them if it wasn't such an overwhelming sensation that I'm kneeling on the bathroom floor, hands grasping white porcelain only moments later, yet never to spill them from my stomach. When melodies scream from the horsehair on your bow the tears are almost immediate. My hands shake and the sounds and feelings roar and pulse so strongly in my mind, everything but you is television static.

I can't ever tell if this is love, or torture. It only hurts this much because I can't have you, I'm sure. I feel like I'm caught in a riptide, the swirling sand choking my lungs, and breaking my toes. But I'll let it have me. I'll let the sea push me out beyond sight, and I'll sink further beneath, straight through the cracks in the ocean floor and to the **** core of the earth.

Every intention I ever had for you was to make you happy. I doubt that that has changed even now. But when loves gets twisted with jealousy, you can't possibly fathom how sorry I am for you to know me, or have known me. I know when I speak, if you listened close enough, with your lips parted, you would be able to taste the malice and venom in my voice that clouds my spoken thoughts, and arrests my ability to tell you that I could never hurt you. Though more so than often, I wish that you understood.

That things become so bottled up and compressed that it's not possible for me to even see straight, given the jagged red lines in my skin. Why do I feel like you're trying your hardest to cut me out of your life. To erase every memory that we had ever ******* created. If you asked me what's happening, where my mind has been, I've noticed.

Iris

It was the honeyed scent
of its divine blossom
wrapping around my nose
that led me
to make my own.

Up with the handle,
down with the strands
and onto the parchment,
I start with the petals.
The paper emits an aroma
similar to tuberose.
It springs into my nose
and I dip into my favorite colors.

Perfumed lavender
blooms into sour lemon curd,
and spreads across each petal,
horsehair sweeping canvas.
I add spots of apricot,
adding a musky scent
to the overwhelming sweetness.

The stamen, a shy specimen,
is slightly hidden,
but its chestnut antlers
and ivory filaments
play peek-a-boo between the petals.
I let several petals fall
to their natural positions
and marvel at the inflorescence.

A soft, ripe pear green
ebbs down, slightly, to form the stem.
I dip into the ivory once again
to form each layer
encompassing the stalk,
much like an onion.

I end with the the pompous bulb,
colored with the sweetness of cream,
to which the roots
are forever connected.

SONG OF THE SCYTHE

My uncle
sits cross-legged

the shiny sickle
of the scythe

held in
his hands

as if he had pulled down a moon
wrestled it to the ground

tamed it.

He looks like a friendly
Death

having a tea break.

Nothing dies in these seconds.

The world holds its breath.

The scythe winces
with light

so sharp it can cut thought.

It cuts through
what I am

thinking now.

The whetstone sings
to the curve of the metal.

It cuts through Time
sharper sharper each time.

My mind bleeds.

It cuts through each successive second
so that each second is separate

from the rest.

The song the whetstone
sings to the scythe
scares me.

My Uncle
takes a horsehair

from Dolly’s tail so
softly she thinks it’s still there.

The scythe eagerly
divides it into two.

Dolly whinnies
nuzzles him affectionately.

He runs his thumb
along the blade.

Blood sings
in the open air.

He ***** it.

“Perfect! ”

He smiles.

“Perfect! ”

The world catches its breath.



*

Waiting for my turn to go on at Brighton...my poems placed carefully upon the table didn't realise how near a nite light was and up go the poems in flames. A barman had to come down and put me out with a tea towel. Just then I'm called upon to read and there is just enough of the poem left alive for me to read!

with ivy.
So, I decided to climb.
But it wouldn’t hold my weight
So, I slid back down
at a speeding rate.

He hung the moon
with rope cheese.
So, I decided to take a bite.
But soon got full
and lost my appetite.

He hung the moon
with horsehair.
So, I decided to make a braid.
But through each twist and turn
I swayed.

He hung the moon
with an olive branch.
So, I decided to give him
another chance.

SONG OF THE SCYTHE

My uncle
sits cross-legged

the shiny sickle
of the scythe

held in
his hands

as if he had pulled down a moon
wrestled it to the ground

tamed it.

He looks like a friendly
Death

having a tea break.

Nothing dies in these seconds.

The world holds its breath.

The scythe winces
with light

so sharp it can cut thought.

It cuts through
what I am

thinking now.

The whetstone sings
to the curve of the metal.

It cuts through Time
sharper sharper each time.

My mind bleeds.

It cuts through each successive second
so that each second is separate

from the rest.

The song the whetstone
sings to the scythe
scares me.

My Uncle
takes a horsehair

from Dolly’s tail so
softly she thinks it’s still there.

The scythe eagerly
divides it into two.

Dolly whinnies
nuzzles him affectionately.

He runs his thumb
along the blade.

Blood sings
in the open air.

He ***** it.

“Perfect! ”

He smiles.

“Perfect! ”

The world catches its breath.

*
Waiting for my turn to go on at Brighton Pig Hog event..my poems placed carefully upon the table didn't realise how near a nite light was and up go the poems in flames. A barman had to come down and put me out with a tea towel. Just then I'm called upon to read and there is just enough of the poem left alive for me to read!

twenty four caprices of lording fire--
a violin grabbing the horsehair of a bow.
brutal angulations, the muteness of
hollowed out release--keen to its own ear.
then multiplying fingers plucking at strings, as
if deviously imposing a riddle.
the karma sutra of incubi & succubi.
the idle thoughts of their prince, supping at
a decomposed apple--its tiny anuses sliding
out seeds.
while he looks up in ejaculatory boredom--
unable to live it way down.

photographs rarely doth me justice boot at least some idea will be available if aye seem appealing enough to kiss. boy george, i will try to maintain a thorough lee good convivial over tone so police pardon moi, who calls out justin timberlake time this hermit tick lee sealed hominid dwelling metallica regular rolling stone sans placid yet poison end herman hermits stung by the scorpion human league this abba ca dabra purported - vee lad putative culture club virtual puddle of mudd digital glop, nor conclude me crud cuz, this olda boy - by george wants 2b yo steve a door miller bud jist hole dejure sly and the family stone horses that wanna prance n let there be dragons, seals and crofts me fair lady gaga cuz u auto let my *** pistol gofundme 2 see eddie money far hay, how duh name of dis swiftly tailored tar nation did ya got a hold - don't be afraid e cat nor slink away like a def leppard, fur mebbe i wrote cha from this utter alias name from zee station here or maybe at my previous abode while sipping tea? enjoy a glass of vintage wine don't let the rush o time induce necessity to reciprocate with one or more lines for your aura, charisma, enigma variations align to evoke an alluring, captivating, enervating charm of a gal, whose electronic presence felt as like an animal farm-ville replete with picture perfect barn, and chicken coop where foxes befriend each hendricks without harm dis here buoy i.e. stanley steamer doth newt goot any piercings and no tat twos any where, boot not bothered by a gal covered froom head to foot, or...one with my name i.e. matthew scott harris 'tho no emerald, ruby sapphire, nor flash gordon in the pan could ever sway me away from living a short span that would allow, enable and offer at least a millennium where we can take a spin in my car a van actually, this bloke drives a 2020 hyundai elantra, which revving engine silenced guns and roses without inducing your stomach 2 turn and skin appear to turn green, when most would agree this mutt spouts a meaningless pro verb whose poe it tree haint superb with no intent to perturb butta sprinkle your monitor with some savory her band...also ye need not worry this schlemiel ***** trained habit upon georgian bush doth politely curb. witness this somewhat inn o 50 cent pennywise thrift, nickelback, dime a dozen face no bias, boot moi christened name, would be matched by equipoise ****, and amazing grace becoming a worthy friend within the milieu of virtual place who could disguise herself as being an alien from the human race perhaps our egress living **** seems light years away in an acme safeway, wholefoods, et cetera and secure distant virtual or real space so if intrigued to learn more send bits o digital feedback in binary code or across the heavens some skywriting message these eyes (e'en though tired like twin led zeppelins) will trace. i wish (as u2 might also desire as belonging to the human league) to feel that palpable poison us scorpion stinging pearl jam metallica making egress viz in living color deep purple reigning village people. this beatle browed (harkens to the black crows of Nazareth) that sound akin 2 rushing train of pleasure that courses thru an entire being (during black sabbath) on account of welcoming frequency to explore journey toward nirvana sans writing as the mental foreplay toward...inxs letting this red hot chile peppered beastie boy playing with one bare naked lady. even if something real and tangible a possibility, you could be disinclined to step up to a closer degree of intimacy, perhaps based on seriously involvement with a significant other since progressing thru the creed dent shul of many emotional/ spiritual trials and tribulations. no need from me to resort with insistence (vis a vis induce any hype or pressure, yet once in a lifetime golden finger red opportunity) to experience one direction of joey vivre enjoyment of me as feigned bad company. police - kanye kim e sump tin faw free swiftly tailored made oh kay tee perry up so i can go gaga over ma dear lady.lettuce both induce glee juiced send n email 2 me 3 doors down with inxs of pearl jam shutters no beginning nor plea cuz ah already rote in ma dire straits pledged yar troth can, yippee contrived virtual toy story qua ratatouille poetic brew could materialize in2a likely chance such an idea prods me 2 shrek out with excitement & dance just in case a glimmer of prospect in the park exists. this self anointed bard dislikes formality, hence i present good humor skills, which hopes to enhance this chap who offers poetic expression uncommon in france. he sets sights on sand fran sis go. take a glance 2 help dis intuitive **** sapiens sharpen mental acuity like a lance bite size bit torrent word play might cause ye 2 soil pants interpreting hodgepodge as rave & rants. even platonic rapport would buoy positive stance intent worth b friend ding, 2 sway au currant series electronic charge affect hypnotic trance 4 consideration 2 advance. I betcha never red an intro duck tory reply like this quacker. i'm an ink blot from bic pentameter typed o'er electric wires boyish looking blood muggle father up in years, (whose nonpareil courage 2 face Voldemort, which exploit does tire), and 2 luv lee young adult girls want him 2 sing miles away from the choir 2 prevent game raw bits of yar self 2 acquire frum a boyish chap dreaming excitedly 4 grandiose ******* interludes joyful kindle bound by pages o love, who lives within perkiomen valley, penna, but, yukon only text. postscript nose one: would you care2 become my bride no joe king nor do i chide please take me away alive or freeze dried or sere this buck hits hide, which lil maximus m butted pill grims pride moon thuntz later whipped mir cull o joy n pure writ tin pride. postscript nose two: i noah nuttin bout witches r warlocks boot feel spellbound with magic dat mockshard science and knocks said solid ******* principles that hocks some basis in astrology n such early learning blocks of humanity - now swept away like chicken pox virus, yet those un-named discoverers of matter allow artificial satellites capable to establish docks far removed from gravitational force when (keep this on the qt), those spacecraft lobbed into cosmos base sic lee from a potion of balled up soiled red socks void where prohibited by sign language or pop yule lye vox. unlike my personality to come across like some forceful chap ling go ring, ******* buster keaton being ****** will buoy us alight if we take to some invisible primal grunting wing from - this average male member egret, who rem members when we first met and consider thee a queen for this rolling stone, who emails (then abduct) me via the net adieu. Bye. chow now, this mwm will await pleasure like when ye text me - if willing, ready, eager and able create r hard woo n intimate ace cee dee cee zip pity doo dsh fable enjoying your cuntry villa mossy two lipped gable ****** sans the medical terminology whispered to thee when voiced per phone where airwaves crackle, snap n pop like mayhem of cars or babble heard at tower of babel via telephonic cable or rsvp tap text message to me a dope gang pull chose er this label the offspring of one great great great...grandmother named Mable who adorned herself in horsehair woven from her thoroughbreds kept in a golden arched stable housing a large equus shaped table.

SONG OF THE SCYTHE

my uncle
sits cross-legged
the shiny sickle

of the scythe
held in
his hands

as if he had pulled down a moon
wrestled it to the ground
tamed it

he looks like a friendly
Death
having a tea break

nothing dies
in these seconds
the world holds its breath

the scythe winces
with light
so sharp it can cut thought

it cuts through
what I am
thinking now

the whetstone sings
to the curve
of the metal

it cuts through Time
sharper sharper each time
my mind bleeds

it cuts through each successive
second so that each second is
separate from the rest

the song the whetstone
sings to the scythe
scares me

my Uncle
takes a horsehair
from Dolly’s tail so

softly she thinks it’s still there
the scythe eagerly
divides it into two

Dolly whinnies
nuzzles him
affectionately

he runs his thumb
along the blade
blood sings in the open air

he ***** it
“Perfect! ”
he smiles

“Perfect! ”
the world
catches its breath

*

Waiting for my turn to go on at Brighton...my poems placed carefully upon the table didn't realise how near a nite light was and up go the poems in flames. A barman had to come down and put me out with a tea towel. Just then I'm called upon to read and there is just enough of the poem left alive for me to read!