The intermittent, distant rumbling in the skies was suggestive of chronic flatulence. The sun struggled in futility to shine – like a crying child who had been forced to smile. Lightning flashed in quick successions, momentarily throwing brilliant streaks of white light across the room. The angry growl of thunder that followed was enough to send a troop of Howler monkeys scampering for safety.

The lights flickered as though unable to make up their minds to stay or not to. But apparently, the wind had zero tolerance for such petty indecisiveness. And like an enraged, stimulated, demented animal, it gusted through the windows and doors, hauling loose papers, light bulbs in every direction, shattering the bulbs to smithereens, as if to punish them for being so fickle. The lights died.

Thick black blankets eerily stretched across the skies with gusto, menacingly extinguishing whatever was left of the sun’s brilliance. More rumbles and flashes followed in royal herald of the impending storm. And in no time, slick sheets of rain torrentially came pouring down, cascading the roofs to form puddles almost as soon as they hit the ground.

​I looked in horror, fervently praying that whoever God had appointed to build the ark in our time had not diverted the funds. I was trapped in the office, and I knew exactly what this meant…flood, scarcity of buses, hiked transport fares, heavy taffic and very likely, at least one month of blackout.
It would be another three hours of steady downpour before the rain eventually stopped, as gracefully as it had been ushered in.
I picked up my bag, rolled up my trousers in earnest anticipation of the inevitable flood, and made my way home.

​To my utter bewilderment, there were no floods! The lights from the street lamps cast a soft golden glow on the slick roads, seemingly creating mirages of pools of water from afar off. But they were mere illusions. The gurgling sound coming from the underground drainage was proof of where all the water had gone. It was a strange sight. Like some alien cyborg from space had been fiddling with a time machine that had accidentally propelled us twenty years into the future.

My new world was a three-fold utopian dream. So surreal!
I could see beautiful, high-rise, state of the art edifices with mind-blowing architectural designs that blatantly seemed to defy the laws of gravity. I could see world-class hospitals that admitted ailing dignitaries from around the world and top-notch schools that offered scholarships to deserving indigenous and international students.
Sure enough, this was Nigeria! The Nigeria we all dreamed of.

And there was light…electricity! - In myriad of colours that seemed to have been dispersed from several colossal disco ***** via *“wireless fidelity” technology. I strained to hear the noise from generators, but I was disappointed. I couldn’t even hear the all too familiar cacophony of horns blaring, conductors shouting, loud discordant music, rattling vehicle engines etc. It was like everyone and everything had taken a crash course on orderliness.

I saw a vibrant transportation system that included high speed railway lines, paved road networks that looked like a child’s doodles, first-class air strips and efficient sea transportation.
I saw a working government - one that had provided the critical infrastructure for her people.

I saw a nation with a large industrialized economy, where the dividends of democracy had been delivered to the people by their government. One consciously founded on equity and honesty of purpose, and courageously sustained by unfaltering faithfulness and unwavering patriotism.      
A nation whose economic boost did not come solely from crude oil exploration and production, but also from crude oil refining, agriculture, manufacturing, infrastructure, food, services, tourism, automobiles, transportation, education etc.
A nation that thronged with international investors from all walks of life, who were not in the least afraid to invest in her.

And then, I saw her people. A people proud of their citizenship.
A people proud to be called NIGERIANS.
A people who were not given to religious, political, or tribal bigotry.
A people who individually and collectively, gallantly bore the torch of the vision of their heroes past.
A people who earnestly and persistently worked to see only goods “Made in Nigeria” sold in their markets.

Where there was once despair, I saw hope. Where there was once fear, i saw security. Where there was once disgruntlement, I saw satisfaction. Where there was once poverty, I saw wealth opportunities and where there was unemployment, I saw jobs. Death had given way to life and life to hope.

I started, as I felt something cold and wet trickle down my forehead. It was droplets of rain from a leak in the roof just above my head. I was still in my office, I never left. The rain had lulled me to sleep. Even more sadly, I realized it had all been a dream.
Slowly and regretfully, I packed my things and left for home. It was pitch black outside as I carefully waded through the polluted waters, jauntily holding my bag, more because I was afraid to lose it in the flood than in a hopeless bid to dignify the situation.

Two hours later, I crawled into bed. I did not have to turn the lights off…the electric poles had gone for a swim. A very long one.


© ONUGHA EBELE VICTORIA

The old green door creaked when it opened. The same way it always did. The same old pitiful, sad sound it had made for years.
Sad because, like the rest of Jimmy's Bar it wouldn't be broken the way it was if someone would only take the time to fix it, in this case to grease the hinges, and then maybe the joint wouldn't be such a dive.
But that was the way it was, and the old green door pretty much summed up the whole place before you had even stepped in.

It was an everyday scene, this dreary November afternoon like any other: the glasses from the night(or nights) before were still stacked up on the far end of the bar, waiting to be washed, or just used again. The regulars, as they were known really didn't care if they were drinking out of a ***** glass or having a shot or a short out of a pint glass or beer or a stout or a bitter or an ale or a cider or even a water or milk(to wash down or soak up the days drinking) out of the same old ***** glass they had been drinking out of all week long.
Anyway, when the door creaked this time, it was old Tom Ashley that made it creak.
He shuffled in like the broken down bindle-stiff he was. Yawning like a lion and rubbing his unwashed hands on his four day beard. His grey hair as bed-headed and dishevelled as ever.  He was wearing the same crinkled-up blazer he always wore, tailor made some time in his youth but now in his advancing years was ill-fitting and torn at the shoulder, but still he wore a white flower in the lapel, and it didn't much matter that he had picked it from the side of the road, it helped to mask the smell of his unwashed body and whatever filth he had been stewing in his little down town room above the second hand book store. It wasn't much, but it suited him fine: the rent was cheap, and Chuck, the owner would let him borrow books two at a time, so long as he returned them in week, and he always did. He loved to read, and rumour had it, that a long time ago when he was in his twenties he had written a novel which had sold innumerable copies and made him a very wealthy man. The twist in the tale, went that he had written said novel under a pen name and no soul knew what it was, and when questioned he would neither confirm nor deny ever writing a book at all. It was some great secret, but after time people had ceased asking questions and stopped caring all together on the subject. All that anybody knew for sure was; he did not work and always had money to drink. It was his only great mystery.  T.S Eliot and Thomas Hardy were among his favourite writers. He had a great stack of unread books he had been saving in shoe box on his window sill. He called these his 'raining season'.

But for now, the arrangement with Chuck would suit him just fine.
He dragged his drunkards feet across the floor and over to the bar. All dark wood with four green velour upholstered bar stools, that of course, had seen better days too.
He put his hands flat on the bar, leaned back on his heels and ordered
a double Talisker in his most polite manner. He was a drunk, indeed but 'manners cost nothing'' he had said in the past. Grum, the bartender(his name was Graham, but in the long years of him working in the bar and
all the drunks slurring his name it gradually became Grum)smiled false heartedly, turned his back and whilst pouring old Toms whiskey into a brandy glass looked over his shoulder and said, ''so Mr. Ashley, how's
life treatin' ya'?'' Tom was looking at the floor or the window or the at the back of his eyelids and paid no attention to the barkeep. He was always
a little despondent before his first drink of the day. When Grum placed the drink on the bar he asked the same question again, and Tom, fumbling with his glass, simply murmured a monosyllabic reply that couldn't be understood with his mouth full of that first glug of sweet,
sweet whiskey he had been aching for. Then he looked up at tom with
big his shiney/glazed eyes, ''hey grum,
now that it is a fine whiskey, Robert Lewis Stevenson
used to drink this you know?'' Grum did know, Tom had told him this nearly every day for as long as he had been coming in the place, but
he nodded towards Tom and smiled acceptingly all the same. ''The king of drinks, as I conceive it, Talisker, he said'' Grum mouthed the words along with him,  caustically and half smiled at him again. Tom drained his glass and ordered another one of the same.

A few more drinks, a few hours and a few more drinks again
passed, Tom put them all on his tab like he always did. Grum,
nor the owner of the bar minded, he always paid his tab before
he stumbled home good and drunk and he didn’t cause too
much trouble apart from the odd argument with other customers
or staff but he never used his fists and he always knew when
he was beat In which case he would become very apologetic
and more often than not veer out of the bar back stepping
like a scared dog with his tail between his tattered trousers.
Drinking can make a cowardly man brave but not a smart
man dumb and Tom was indeed a smart man. Regardless
of what others might say. He was very articulate, well read
with a good head (jauntily perched) on his (crooked) shoulders.
By now it was getting late, Tom didn't know what time it was,
or couldn't figure out what time it was by simply looking at
the clock, the bar had one of those backwards clocks, I
don't know if you have ever seen one, the numbers run
anti-clockwise, which may not seem like much of task to
decipher I know, but believe me, if you are as drunk as tom
was by this point you really can not make head nor tails of
them. He knew it was getting late though as it was dark
outside and the  lamp posts were glowing their orange glow
through the window and the crack in the door. It was around
ten o’clock now and Tom had moved on to wine, he would
order a glass of Shiraz and say ''hey Grum, you know Hafez
used to drink this stuff, used to let it sit for forty days to achieve
a greater ''clarity of wine'' he called it, forty days!'' ''Mr Ashley''
said Grum looking up from wiping down the grimy bar and
now growing quite tired of the old man’s presence and what seemed
to be constant theories and facts of the various drinks he
was devouring, ''what are you rabbiting on about now, old
man?'' ''Hafez'' said old Tom ''he was a Persian poet from the
1300's as I recall... really quite good'', ''Well, Tom that is
truly fascinating, I must be sure to look in to him next time
I'm looking for fourteenth century poetry!'' said the barkeep,
mockingly. ''Good, good, be sure that you do'' Tom said,
taking a long ****-eyed slurp of his drink and not noticing
the sarcasm from the worn out bartender. He didn't mean
to poke fun at Tom he was anxious to get home to his wife
who he missed and longed to join, all alone in their warm
marital bed in the room upstairs. But Tom did not understand
this concept, he had never been married but had left a long
line of women behind him, loved and left in the tracks of his
vagabond youth, he had once been a good looking man a
''handsome devil'' confident and charming in all his wit and
literary references to poets of old he had memorised passages from ,Thoreau,Tennyson ,Byron, Frost etc. And more times
than not passed these passages of love and beauty off as
his own for the simple purpose of getting various now wooed
and wanting women up to his room. But now after  many
years of late nights, cigarettes and empty bottles cast aside
had taken their toll on him he spent his nights alone in his
cold single bed drunk and lonely with his only company being
once in a while a sad eyed dead eyed lady of the night, but
only very rarely would he give in to this temptation and it
always left him feeling hollow and more sober than he had
cared to be in many long years.
The bell rang last orders.
He ordered another drink, a Gin this time and as he took
the first sip, pleasingly, Grum stared at him with great open
eyes and his hand resting on his chin to animate how he
was waiting for the old man to state some worthless fact
about his new drink but the old man just sat there swaying
gently looking very glazed and just when the barkeep was
just about to blurt out his astonishment that Tom had noting
to say, old Tom Ashley, old drunk Tom took a deep breath
with his mouth wide, leaned back on his stool and said...
''hey, you know who used to drink gin? F. Scott Fitzgerald''
''really?'' said the barkeep snidely ''Oh yes'' said Tom
''The funny thing is Hemingway and all those old gents
used to tease Fitzgerald about his low tolerance, a real
light weight! He paused and took a sip ''but err, yes
he did like the odd glass of gin'' he said, mumbling
into the bottom of his glass.
Now, reaching the end of the night, the bartender
yawning, rubbing his eyes and the old man with
close to sixty pounds on his tab, sprawled across the
bar, spinning the last drop of his drink on the glasses
edge and seeming quite mesmerised by it and all its
holy splendour, he stopped and sat up right like a shot,
and looking quite sober now he shouted ''Grum,
Graham, hey, come here!'' the sleepy bartender was
sitting on a chair with his feet up on the bar, half asleep,
''Hey Graham, come here'' ''eh-ugh, what? What do you
want?'' said the barkeep sounding bemused and
befuddled
in his waking state, ''just come over here will you,
please''
the barkeep rolled off his chair sluggishly and slid
his feet across the floor towards the old man ''what is
it?'' he said scratching his head with his eyes still half
closed. The old man drowned what was left of his
drink and said ''I think I've had an epiphany, well err
well, more of a theory really w-well..'' he was stuttering
. ''oh yeah? And what would that be, Mr Ashley?'' said
the bartender, folding his arms in anticipation. ''pour
me another whiskey and I'll tell you''
''one mor... you must be kidding me, get the hell
out of here you old drunk we're closed!'' the old man
put his hands together as if in prayer and said in his
most sincere voice, '' oh please, Grum, just one more
for the road, I'll tell you my theory and then I'll be on
my way, OK?'' ''FINE, fine'' said Grum ''ONE more and
then you're GONE'' he walked over to the other side
of the bar poured a whiskey and another for himself.
''OK, here’s your drink old man, and I don't wanna
hear another of your ******* facts about writers
or poets or whoever OK?'' Tom snatched the drink of
the bar, ''OK, OK, I promise!'' he said. Tom took a slow
slurp at his drink and relaxed back in his seat and
sat quite, looking calm again.
The bartender sat staring at him, expecting the old
man to say something but he didn’t, he just sat there
on his stool, sipping his whiskey, Grum leaned forward
on the bar and with his nose nearly touching the old
mans, said ''SO? Out with it, what was this ****
theory I just HAD to hear?'' ''AH'' said the old man,
waving his index finger in the air, he looked down
into his breast pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes,
calmly took two out, handed one to the barkeep,
struck a match from his ***** finger nail, lit his own
the proceeded to light the barkeeps too.
Taking a long draw and now speaking with the blue
smoke pouring out his mouth said '' let me ask you a question''
... he paused, …  ''would agree that everybody
makes mistakes?'' the barkeep looked puzzled as to
where this was going but nodded and grunted a
''uh-hum'' ''well'' said the old man would you also
agree that everybody also learns... and continues
learning from their mistakes?'' again looking puzzled
but this time more  intrigued grunted the same ''uh-hum'' noise,
though this time a little more drawn out and
higher pitched and said ''where exactly are you going
with this?'' curiously.
''well..'' let me explain fully said Tom. He took another
pull on his cigarette and a sip on his drink, ''right,
my theory is: everybody keeps making mistakes, as
you agreed, this meaning that the whole world keeps
making mistakes too, and so the world keeps learning
from is mistakes, as you also agreed, with me so far?''
the barkeep nodded ''right'' Tom continued ''the world
keeps makiing and learning from its mistakes, my
theory is that one day, the world will have made so
many mistakes and learned from them all, so many
that there are no more mistakes to make, right? And
thus, with no mistakes left to learn from the word will
be all knowing and thus... PERFECT! Am I right? The
barkeep, now looking quite in awe and staring at his
cigarette smoke in the orange street light coming t
hrough the window, raised his glass and said quite
excitedly ''and when the world is then a perfect place
Jesus will return! Right?'' ''well Graham...'' said the old
man doubtingly ''I am in no way a religious man, but I
guess if that’s your thing then yes I guess you could be
right, yes''
He then drowned the rest of his whiskey in one giant
gulp, stubbed out his cigarette in the empty glass
and said ''now, I really must get going ,it really is getting quite
late'' and begun to walk towards the door. The
bartender hurried around the bar and grabbed Tom
by the arm,
'' you cant just leave now! We need to discuss this!
Please stay, we'll have another drink, on the house!''
''Now, now,Graham'' said the old man, ''we can discuss
this another night, I really must get to bed now'' he
walked over to the door, and just as his hand touched
the handle the barkeep stopped him again and said
quite hurriedly,'' but I need answers, how will I know
everything is going to be alight? You know PERFECT,
just like you said!'' the old man opened the door
slightly, turned around coolly and said ''now, don’t
worry yourself, I’m sure everything will turn out fine
and we’ll talk about it more tomorrow, OK?'' the
barkeep nodded acceptingly and held the door open
for the
old man, ''sure sure, OK'' he said ''tomorrow it is,
Mr Ashley''
Just as Tom was walking out the door he stopped
looked at the   barkeep with large grin on his face
and said very fast, as fast as he could ''you-know-an-interesting
-fact-about-whiskey-it-was -Dylan-Thomas'
-favourite-drink-in-fact-his-last-words-were -"I've-had-18
-straight-whiskeys......I-think-that's-the-record."­!! HAHA '' he
laughed almost uncontrollably. Graham the barkeep looked
at him with a smile of new found admiration and began to
close the door on him.
Just as the door was nearly shut, the old man stopped
once
more, pulled out a roll of money, looked in to the
bartenders
eyes and put the money into his shirt pocket, then putting
his left hand on the bartenders shoulder said ''oh and
Grum, one of those great ol' women I let get away, once told ,me:
''if you are looking at the moon then,everything is alight'' and slapped
him lightly on the cheek.
. Then finally, pointing at the barkeeps shirt pocket said ''
for the bar tab'' then went spinning out the door way with
the grace of a ballroom dancer(rather than the old drunk
he had the reputation for being) and standing in the
orange glow of the street and seeing the look of sheer
wonderment on the bartenders face still standing in the
old green door way and shouted ''LOOK UP, THE MOON,
THE MOON!'' The barkeep, shaking his head and laughing,
peered his head out of the door and took a glance at the
moon and grinned widely then closed the old green door
for the night. It made the same old loud creak when he shut it.

                                       FIN

Never stop and stay a night
At the Mermaid's Foot Hotel
For they say at the back of the cleaners room
There's a gateway in to hell
The drifts of dust with a dash of rust
Hide the prints of long dead feet
What once was plush now hangs decayed
The curtains torn and beds unmade
The worst of humankind had stayed
At the Mermaid's Foot Hotel

Walk away, should you ever stray
To the Mermaid's Foot Hotel
For its told an evil lingers there
No priest or witch can quell
The walls are strewn with satanic runes
There are evil clowns en suite
The bathroom tiles, black with mold
And tap heads dull with tarnished gold
But still the blood runs hot and cold
At the Mermaid's Foot Hotel

Not a soul survives the night
At the Mermaid's Foot Hotel
No single sign is left behind
Save a musty burning smell
The spiders leer, jauntily
And the mice all carry knives
There's scraping sounds amid the gloom
An Idol from an ancient tomb
With a poltergeist in every room
At the Mermaid's Foot Hotel

**

I lost a furry friend today:
A squirrel that often came to visit.
Can't the hawks go somewhere else?
That's not too much to ask, is it?

The squirrel would often sit in our tree
And wait for me to take it a treat:
Some grapes, some nuts, some whole wheat
Whatever the little beggar would eat.

Quite content, he'd chomp away,
Always vigilant and alert.
He didn't want to be another
Animal's dinner or dessert.

Sometimes my little visitor,
Hoping that I'd give him more,
Would jauntily prance up to my house
And stand on the steps outside my door.

Today the hawks were in the trees,
On the roofs and in the sky.
One flew off a while ago,
Carrying the little guy.

Couldn't the hawks just eat rats?
I guess that breaks some natural rule.
Nature--so grand and majestic at times--
Can also appear to be so cruel.

Instead of killing squirrels, why can't
Hawks--like vultures--feast on carrion?
Or better yet: why don't they try
A diet strictly vegetarian?

-by Bob B (8-30-18)

She sees left and right whilst upside down,
laughing in hysterics at idealistic semantics.
She jauntily journeys to and from small towns,
smiling dead smiles at boys being subtly romantic.

They all want her, the mean queen without a crown,
to be captured by one or another comely fellow.
They all see the lies, under painted makeup thick as a clowns,
she tells with those brown eyes shaded in true yellow.

I see her, my child, my dear, my eyes look around
shiftily calculating the great fortunes I would pay
to knot fingers in her hair, to hear her heart pound.
There she goes now, along on her merry way.

Not that I would join in all the lads attempting her heart,
for fear of the magnificent nothings I would say.
I imagine my presence would give her quite the start,
when she sees I'm true yellow, being born to be afraid.

I frequently spend my hard-earned time wondering why I’m so ****** up
You, with your flop of hair that bounces about so jauntily as you hop down the stairs,
Look at me
And that look is so purposefully intense, like you thought to yourself,
I’ll look at her so she sees that I have been looking at her seriously and then she’ll know that I must mean something by looking at her
I would really like you to stop looking at me now.

You never used to look at me like you wanted me to look at you looking at me.
You, thin, so thin, thinner than me, leaning towards me asking if I wanted to hang out again sometime.
I grab my phone and begin to accidentally dial the pizza delivery in order to escape you, clicking it off just in time to not order an extra large calzone and shove it down your skinny throat

I’m sorry I said that. I don’t want to be cruel. Can you just not text me for a little while?
You, with your excellent, **** self-portraits, all designer-y and brooding, your brow furrowed over soft brown eyes.
You look ridiculous. You don’t look like that in everyday life,
stop telling people online that you do.
And don’t tell me I look pretty in mine- I was trying to look weird, and I put a lot of effort into it, and I don’t appreciate you constantly acting like I’m beautiful.

I really didn’t mean to mess with your head that night I shoved you against your front door and kissed you like I meant it.
You, with your excited breath, like the fates had finally graced your doormat, you tasted like pretzels.  Sweet, salty.  
I tasted like cheap beer and doubt.
We linked for a while, your hips pressed to mine like an iron to a shirt, gently, trying not to burn me.
You were getting your fill, but I was still taste testing.

I bet you can’t forget that time that you drove me home, both sober, and you manned-up and leaned in and kissed me. I still didn’t know if you turned me on, but it was nice to be kissed, to put these lips to work, so I kissed back.
You, I bet you can’t forget that I stopped mid-kiss and awkwardly found the door handle, pushing it slightly open, saying,
‘Oh my god, I’ll never get over how weird this is, you’re…. You’re you,” strangely, sounding choked, laughing a bit.
You laughed back- it was the most offended laugh I ever heard, and laughing is our business.
I leaned back in to kiss you again, mostly out of guilt and to reassure you that I was still unsure of how assured I felt about where this has ended up going.

So basically, I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry in advance for breaking your heart.
You, with your earnest emotions and serious glance, really don’t deserve this dysfunction.

And I, I with my reluctance to change, to obligation, to showing myself to you…
I will probably be alone forever.

In the incandescence of this empyrean nocturnal rhapsody

A remarkably rare yet, aureate creature appeared before me

From nightfall until daybreak she smoothly crooned an infinite array

Of enamorous symphonies to which I naturally could not abstain



A subtle spark of ardency was cast upon my sauntering pneuma

Inundating me into a catalepsy of which I zestfully fancied

Her charisma suckered me in with ease, illuminating my euphoria

Masquerading my pervasive mourning, cauterizing it to ashes



Each lyric alleviates the suffering that I have so hazardously acquired

Every note speaks to me in a language unknown to the community

The tasteful euphonies that perspire, carefully assuage my heart

I raised not a finger nor did I enunciate a single word or syllable



Her musical prowess completely squandered me with passion

Jauntily I danced to the cadence of the beat scouring my veins

Ceaselessly I could bathe in the essence of her bubbling sound waves

Never shall this finely crafted music pause, It shall remain on replay

Alluring me with your looks
Beckoning with your eyes
Changing my mind in a second
Dedicating your song
Enduring your love for me
Fascinating me in a way
Germinating in my heart
Habituating me for you
Illustrating your heart of love
Jauntily exposing for me
Keenly trying to make me a
Laburnum flower of yellow
Meandering around me with
Never ending love and lust
Oscillating me in your arms
Proposing with red roses
Quieting my heart beat
Releasing me giving oxygen
Slowly making me yours
Treating me like an angel
Ultimately surrendering
Victoriously claimed your love
Watching me falling for you
Xanthic flowers grow in me
Yaffingale bird making green
Zealously engaging me in you !

As this bird
After so long took jauntily to the sky
Once again
He held his head high in triumph
After so long being confined and contained
He soars gratefully
Majestically through the air
For perpetually he fell, contemplating
Why not?
Having been in despair
Imprisoned so long
It's all he knows

Today gravity shall not take him
Euphoria is counter-intuitive
And he falls up into the clouds
This bird did smile then,
at such a wondrous epiphany
Freedom

The torment was over
Replaced with magnificent opportunity
No longer will his song remain unheard
The melody of vindication
has permeated his body and soul
His relief a sigh
A new song fills his heart

i.

There are imaginations that are made of rust,
and they tend to rest on clothes lines and
spoil the rotting canary of mediocre dress.
Walk with me, because my pebbles cannot
settle against the dim of my breast pockets,
and so weary the sun tells me to strike upon
sweat laden cobblestone tears that chastise

who? You? Says he who comes stifled at my
feet, like an outlet man staring at fruits' chambers,
her wealthy, red string the last of his eyes!
Alas, what sure vagrant would kiss my fingers?
Is dignity the sour aroma of embarassment?
But let him come, when she turns her apple cheeks
to pray to the same head and God above.

ii.

The favorite jest of an arrow is to pierce a leg
while he jauntily catches the brow of his family.
The man will never saunter, nor amble in patterns
that reveals the flesh of a throbbing vein.
A young calf grows like the bluff of puffed cheeks,
and soon another, too--

together. His trousers will widen their stomachs;
his head the curious stew of bubbling concoction
that rise and decide not to evaporate in the air.
And someday, perhaps very soon, the fairest of
them all will chance and gaze into gallant eyes,
but brought down when he lowers the unidentified
color of glass. So be it.

His coins can jangle and fly to Shantou,
to Charleroi, circle around the perimeter
back to Sacramento. Ships move, yet the
infant steps of lead grow dim in development.

iii.

They say the wealthy family cannot last
for more than two generations.

They say a heart cannot last
its beating against another's,
if it be true.

iv.

Once, a man licked his fingers without even touching it.

He thought long and pondered why
Tricking snakes are composed of rose's vines
It's been once before he heard this rhyme
"Can a clock truly erase the time?
When time is but a fabrication set in line
Midnight strikes once if we're lucky"

..and he's heard the chime

He's saving grace, but who is it for?
An open window reveals the closed door
Sat alone with Poe, and the Plutonian shore
He never implied, yet yielded more
And wary now that once before
His heart had sung
But nevermore

He thought

'I must be in a dream.'
Doubting, feigning, proclaiming this obscenity
Yet still burns the daunting question..
*'Famed whisper, play with me.
Shame me, maim me, tame me,
let us cavort as cohorts
Ever so jauntily.
Daunt me, taunt me, haunt me,
take me gaunt and bare..
Bestow on me, throe on me,
unveil this absolutely there.
Now grant this plea, take my words with heed,
enchant this melody I doth hear.
Any jest would be cruel at best
For I truly hold this dear
Revive within what once has been
My faith in the unseen
I ask of thee, I do implore
Save me from this nevermore
Such a marvelous spectacle
N'er again vacate my receptacle
Adorn thyself as would a wreath
This world is formed of plastic
And porcelain
Yet there you sit
And breathe.'

He slept as the waking sun approached
suspended in time and spaceless animation,
a man seeking to traverse the stars,
he died gazing with eyes of fascination

with a cigarette hanging jauntily from his mouth
and arms hastily folded,
surrounded with charred magazines and empty canteens
slumped, his skin heavily blistered and scolded

his last hours were that of beauty
lost in silence and subdued by its respect,
he knew his time was up
but of this journey he'd never forget -

"It's just.. so.. beautiful, how can I not love these stars?!
To my left lies Earth, to my right glows Mars -"

his ship a silver bullet plummeting towards the pulsing sun
the tragedy of his voyage forever embedded into everyone's minds,
a shadow soiling the pride of humanity,
a catastrophe that we simply cannot leave behind

#BOOM#

#CRACK#

#FLASH!#

feeling infallible we found nothing but failure
yet through bitter determination we still try,
preparing for another man to be sent in the Lieutenant's footsteps
knowing indefinitely that he could die

"LIFT OFF IN... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1 -"

pathetic, egotistic
desires churning out ideas ridiculous, caustic

vying to conquer space, the whole Galaxy,
yet again greed and power drives the human soul -

alas, such does a few lives become expendable

when we seek that one perfect goal.

Laugh if you want;
lately my dreams
are all the same:

black and white and silent,
a montage of mute scenes
in which he quietly appears,

a funny little man beset
by brute absurdities, framed
by a toothbrush mustache,

bowler hat, and vagabond suit—
dressed for hapless caricature,
a disheveled angel in disguise.

He forever waddles away from me
down a lane of denuded trees,
jauntily twirling his bamboo cane,

his gray pocket watch stopped—
a cheap prop at the end of a chain.
Watch how the last scene transpires:

I stay in my cushioned seat
expecting house lights to rise.
Alone in the dead theater,

I wait for the live orchestra
to offer an accompaniment,
to set the silver screen on fire.

Your smile is the best poem ever,
Your 'hello' -  the deepest spring of mirth.
As you filled my heart with your warm greeting,
Now I can jauntily fly around the Earth.

I feel gratified in my sweet void
Gliding through the sky, no pain or grieving
So, I am sure that I was not wrong,
You have a potent spell, that I am healing

To shadow, to rain and to make a rainbow
I want to be a cloud moving above you
Wherever you go and whatever you do,
You will be mine as long as I love you

In the depths
Of waters deep,
Slowly sink
Where fishes creep.

In the night,
I saw the truth,
Which in the light
Was held aloof.

I watch the bubbles
Jauntily rise,
And feel no water
In my eyes.

Letting go
Of these old lies,
Has made me love
And realize,

Our hearts are all
The same in size,

I'm letting go,
With these goodbyes.

The monkey leaned down,
whispered in my ear
"Don't forget to pick up more beer."

I nodded in agreement,
I nodded in rhythm
with the demons' song.

They whistled and
they smiled and
did the backstroke,
jauntily along,
through the river of whiskey
that I had tried
to drown them with.

A thousand-toothed yawn,
the monster finds it all too easy.

I don't even put up a fight,
I sit down at night
and forget.

I forgot.

Waiting,
on hold..
sappy muzak.
Dropping raindrops on my head.

All i want to do
is make an appointment about the voices in my mind

Still holding,
my call is important,
apparently.

Now sunshine is on my shoulders making me, happy.

Stupid musak,
my names not annie,
this is not my song....

Waiting still,
but they promise someone will answer...shortly.

But for now,
a baby elephant walking jauntily along.

Wait it's ringing...
Thank god i thought i might need a twelve bore shotgun.
(if that baby elephant got an idea to run)

Yes may i help yo......
Disconected line

Waiting,
on hold...
sappy musak
Telling me to stop in the name of love....

Just as there's light, there's darkness in everyone's life.
It's stark, shadowing sunlight, and doesn't yield.
Just how is anyone meant to jauntily thrive
in an ostentatious world meant to shield
Beading, beating eyes from those that suffer
from vicious, bleeding lies?

A pawn cannot decide where it lies
in the everchanging game of fate that is its life
being puppeteered by monsters who make their pieces suffer
from their callous thrones that do not yield.
For they always use an invisible shield
to ensure that they always thrive.

In such a world, how is it we are meant to thrive?
Sinking deeper and deeper in blatant lies
of the quixotic dreams of old to shield
the simple fact that we are taught to live a life
where we stand subservient and yield
the abuses of those in power who make us suffer.

For such a long time we were taught to suffer
through storming skies. Beaten, impossible to thrive.
Time can wither our ability to yield
the pain inflicted by those who tell noxious lies.
A sunken arrow into our psyche to devastate life
worth living and love that cannot hide though any shield.

What else other than our love do they want to shield?
Without, there is no cure for those who suffer
and carry on with the hardships of life.
We live in those pockets of light and thrive
in a different world where we banish the lies
that our worth is measured in what we yield.

Despite my pride, there are the times where I yield
to those shadows in the sky. Yet you shield
the rain and I can see where that crescent lies
above our heads. Cease what we suffer,
the moonlight sonata within tries to reach out and I thrive
from your touch of endless life.

I know it seems we're predetermined to suffer
But take my hand and we'll thrive
as I try to hold onto the fragments of this life.

Ben is a baker with a twinkle in his eye
He can sure make a cake
Seth is a regular customer with a sweet tooth for his fudge
He loves the jocularity and wit of sweet Ben
With his chef’s hat he is jauntily attired
As he seems to live life as a whim
Seth has a daughter, sweet Agnes
Pretty as sugar is sweet
So he has the notion to create a magical potion
He needed them to meet
Seth sent her in on a many a foray
To retrieve pastries he so likes
Ben eventually took notice and he began to like
This darling girl in ringlets and pearls
She was such a sight
One thing led to another
It’s fifty years on with many grandsons
And their youngest, a granddaughter
She comes around with regularity
Helps with the baking and always says “please”

This place of discomfort
between sips of wine
unbearable
though not my theme
tell me is it the end
or the beginning
of the day

isn't clear

between here
and still
can't see
after years
of looking
to see

are you there
i'm trying to see
to see you
i'm learning
to see you
here

i can never
see you here

this is an arm
around a lie
hold on
little brother
we walk
some boulevard
hands in our pockets
jauntily
thinking
we remember home
and can return
again and see mom
making coffee

I listen to the planes soaring through the clouds,
I watch a dragonfly kite pierce the air,
I hum a tune of delight.

What a lovely afternoon, wouldn't you say?

I listen to the birds chirping jauntily,
I watch you stare in amazement,
I smile with glee.

What a lovely afternoon, with you here to keep me company.

harangue since landing
yours truly immersed
in a dream-like
fiercesome state of war,  
not quite a dream
can be described
as a "hypnagogic state"
while virtually in Singapore,

where Katy Perry
namesake of a lion doth roar
noise amplified courtesy dissonance
while nine inch nails synthesize
scraping across chalk board
evoking discordant soundcloud
foo fighting beastie boys
comprising a quatuor.

Socked away within
cerebral nooks and crannies
house mailer daemons
inconveniencing yours truly
i.e. an Indus das scribe
hub bull mendicant
bullying jimmying,
jump starting, joy riding
junket at breakneck speed
disregarding dangerous signposts

warning reckless (heedless) highjackers
speeding stolen heavily
sedated body (mine)
slap happily, obliviously,
jauntily (devil may
care attitude) careering
across rubble strewn
bombed out stone age terrain
gunning engine like
there's no tomorrow

zipping past crumpled
suspended abridged abutment
jarring sole abducted,
bound and gagged one ***** (me)
hurling over edge of cliff
temporarily free of gravity,
(albeit an infinitesimal eye blink)
between life and death
rapidly descending in accordance
with laws of physics,

when suddenly motion stops
as if thee Earth stood still
freezing all life forms
held as if invisibly tethered,
when ghostly debut appearance
courtesy Rod Serling
rattles of his trademark narration
"...fifth dimension beyond
that which is known to man.

...This is the dimension of imagination."
I resort to aforementioned loose analogy
to approximate mental state of limbo,
asper...this man falling to Earth
minus parachute on par
with crash test dummy
an absent firmament
to feel securely grounded
held stock still,

when moments before plunging
pitched head over heels...
only to find this mortal,
either entering or exiting
somnambulant state
only groggily awaking
out of deep sleep
falling out of bed
singing hup bout poor lovely bones.

The communication coded by the register
Drawing tables by the rested cannister
The yesterdays that walked by the memoirs
That carried you through the troubles
That God throws at you
Stuck in reverse
You could forward
The poet's word is war
The time is trying
The lyrical poetess is meant for him
In his time of the hour
Where he's in subliminal solitude
Melancholy moving through the illusion of life
The love takes him back
So free and flying
Like a changed bird in the sky
The hope is the quick remedy that brings from the heart
The poison is in the lightly colored painted canvas
The scenic beauty is simply intoxicating
The life lead up to the lights at the crossroads
The journey jauntily lit with the streetlight so serene
The end is near
Hope you make the right recovery