Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.

Final year educatees required
Boardinghouse,
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury

"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"

Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.

Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.

Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.

Akimbo stood l.

Now the verdict!

Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,

"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".

Entreaties collapsed.

Himself it was who wrote
His rank, and quartered his own coat.
There is no king nor sovereign state
That can fix a hero's rate;
Each to all is venerable,
Cap-a-pie invulnerable,
Until he write, where all eyes rest,
Slave or master on his breast.

I saw men go up and down
In the country and the town,
With this prayer upon their neck,
"Judgment and a judge we seek."
Not to monarchs they repair,
Nor to learned jurist's chair,
But they hurry to their peers,
To their kinsfolk and their dears,
Louder than with speech they pray,
What am I? companion; say.
And the friend not hesitates
To assign just place and mates,
Answers not in word or letter,
Yet is understood the better;—
Is to his friend a looking-glass,
Reflects his figure that doth pass.
Every wayfarer he meets
What himself declared, repeats;
What himself confessed, records;
Sentences him in his words,
The form is his own corporal form,
And his thought the penal worm.

Yet shine for ever ****** minds,
Loved by stars and purest winds,
Which, o'er passion throned sedate,
Have not hazarded their state,
Disconcert the searching spy,
Rendering to a curious eye
The durance of a granite ledge
To those who gaze from the sea's edge.
It is there for benefit,
It is there for purging light,
There for purifying storms,
And its depths reflect all forms;
It cannot parley with the mean,
Pure by impure is not seen.
For there's no sequestered grot,
Lone mountain tam, or isle forgot,
But justice journeying in the sphere
Daily stoops to harbor there.

I get off the Belt Parkway at Rockaway Boulevard and
Jet aloft from Idyllwild.
(I know, now called J.F. ******* K!)
Aboard a TWA 747 to what was then British East Africa,
Then overland by train to Baroness Blixen’s Nairobi farm . . .
You know the one at the foot of the Ngong Hills.
I lease space in Karen’s African dreams,
Caressing her long white giraffe nape,
That exquisite Streep jugular.
I am a ghost in Meryl’s evil petting zoo:
I haunt the hand that feeds me.

Safely back in Denmark, I receive treatment
For my third bout with syphilis at Copenhagen General.
Cured at last, I return to Kenya and Karen.
In my solitude or sleep, I go with her,
One hundred miles north of the Equator,
Arriving at Julia Child’s marijuana herb garden–
Originally Kikuyu Land, of course—
But mine now by imperial design &
California voter referendum.
(Voiceover) "I had a farm in Africa
At the foot of the Ngong Hills."
My farm lies high above the sea at 6,000 feet.
By daybreak I feel oh, oh so high up,
Near to the sun on early mornings.
Evenings so limpid and restful;
Nights oh, so cold.
Mille Grazie a lei, Signore *******!
Andiamo, Sydney, amico mio.
Let it flow like the water that lives in Mombasa.
Let it flow like Kurt Luedtke’s liquid crystal script.
We zoom in. We go close in. Going close up,
On the face of Isak Dinesen’s household
Servant and general factotum. (Full camera ******)
Karen Blixen’s devoted Muslim manservant,
Farah: “God is happy, msabu. He plays with us…”
He plays with me.  And who shall I be today?
How about Tony Manero for starters?
Good choice. Nicely done!
Geezer Manero:  old and bitter now,
Still working at the hardware store,
Twice-divorced, a chain-smoker,
Severely diabetic, a drunk on dialysis 3 times a week.
Bite me, Pop:  I never thought I was John Travolta.
But, hey, I had my shot:  “I coulda been a contenda.”
Once more, by association only,
I am a great artist again, quickly made
Near great by a simple second look.
Why, oh God? I am kvetching again.
I celebrate myself and sing the
L-on-forehead loser’s lament:
Why implant the desire and then
Withhold from me the talent?
“I wrote 30 ******* operas,”
I hear Salieri’s demented cackle.
“I will speak for you, Wolfie Babaloo;
I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.”

Must I wind up in the same
Viennese loony bin with Antonio?
Note to self:  GTF out of Austria post-haste!
I’ve been called on the Emperor’s carpet again,
My head, my decapitated Prufrock noodle,
Grown slightly bald, brought in upon a platter.
Are peaches in season?
Do I dare eat one?
I am Amadeus, ******, infantile,
An irresistible iconoclast and clown.
Wolfie:   “I am called on the imperial carpet again.
The Emperor may have no clothes but he’s got a
Shitload of ******* carpets."
Hello Girls: ‘Disco Tampons!
Staying inside, staying inside!
Wolfie: "Why have I chosen a ****** farce for my libretto?
Surely there are more elevated themes . . . NO!
I am fed to the teeth with elevated themes,
People so lofty they **** marble!"
Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis.

So, I mix paint in the hardware store by day.
I dance all night, near-great again by locomotion.
Join me in at least one of my verifiable nine lives.
Go with me across the Narrows,
Back to Lenape with the wild red men of Canarsee,
To Vlacke Bos, Boswijk & Nieuw Utrecht,
To Dutch treat Breuckelen, Red Hook & Bensonhurst,
To Bay Ridge and the Sheepshead.
Come with me to Coney Island’s Steeplechase & Luna Park, &
Dreamland (aka Brownsville) East New York, County of Kings.
If I’m lying, I’m dying.
And while we’re on the subject now,
Bwana Finch Hatton (pronounced FINCH HATTON),
Why not turn your focus to the rival for Karen’s heart,
To the guy who nursed her through the syphilis,
That old taciturn ******, Guru Farah?
Righto and Cheerio, Mr. Finch Hatton,
Denys George of that surname—
Why not visualize Imam Farah?
Farah: a Twisted Sister Mary Ignatius,
Explaining it all to your likes-the-dark-meat
Friend and ivory-trading business partner,
Berkeley (pronounced BARK-LEE) Cole.
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

Oh yeah, Tony Manero, the Bee Gees & me,
A marriage made in Brooklyn.
The Gibbs providing the sound track while
I took care of the local action.
I got more *** than a toilet seat, a Don Juan rep &
THE CLAP on more than one occasion.
Probably from a toilet seat.
Even my big brother–the failed priest,
Celibate too long and desperate now–
Even my defrocked, blue-balled brother,
Frankie, cashing in his chips at the Archdiocese,
Taking soave lessons from yours truly,
Taking notes, copying my slick moves with chicks.
It was the usual story with the usual suspects &
The usual character tests. All of which I flunk.
I choose Fitzgerald's “vast, ****** meretricious beauty,”
My jumpstart to the middle class.
I spurn the neighborhood puttana,
Mary Catherine Delvecchio: the community ****
With the proverbial heart of gold &
A backpack full of self-esteem deficits.
I opt out.  I’m hungry and leaping.
I morph again, grab *** the golden girl.
Now I’m Gatsby in a white suit,
Stalking Daisy Buchanan in East Egg,
Daisy: her voice full of money;
My green light flashing on the disco dance floor.
I, a fool for love; she, my faithless uptown girl,
Golden and delicious like the apple,
Capricious like a blue Persian cat.
My “orgiastic future” eluded me then.
It eludes me still. Time to go home again to the place
****-ant Prufrocks ponder their pathetic dying embers.
Time to assume the position:
Gazing out from some trapezoidal patch of green
At the foot of Roebling’s bridge,
Contemplating an alternative reality for myself,
A new life across the East River,
In the city that never sleeps.
I crave. I lust. I am a guinzo Eva Duarte.
I too must be a part of B.A., Buenos Aires:
THE BIG APPLE.
But I am ashamed of my luggage,
Not to mention my baggage.
It’s like that last thing Holden Caulfield said to me,
Just before he crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge,
Crossed over to Manhattan without me,
Leaving me alone again, searching for our kid sister,
Phoebe, the only one on earth we can relate to:
“It’s really hard to be roommates with people
If your suitcases are much better than theirs.”
Ow! That stung; that was a stinger.
I am smithereened by a self-guided drone,
A smart bomb full of snide antigravity,
Transformational and caustic.
My meager allotment of self-esteem
Metastasizes into something base,
Something heavy and vile.
I drop to earth like lead mozzarella.

I am unworthy, unworthy in the maximum mendicant,
Roman Catholic mea culpa sense of the word.
I am now Umberto Eco’s penitenziagite.
I am Salvatore, a demented hunchback
(Played flawlessly as a demented hunchback by Ron Perlman),
Spewing linguistic gibberish in a variety of vernaculars:
“Lord, I am not worthy to live anywhere west of the Gowanus Canal.”
By East River waters I weep bitter tears,
The promise of a promised land denied.
I am a garlic-eating Chuck Yeager,
Auguring in, burnt beyond recognition,
An ethnic trope, a defiant Private Maggio
From here and for eternity,
Forever a swarthy ethnic stereotype
Trying to escape thru a small but significant
Hole in the ozone layer above South Ozone Park,
New York, zip code 11420.
That’s right, Ozone Park.
If you don’t believe me, look it up.
GO ******* GOOGLE IT!

And I just don’t know when to quit.
So why quit there?
Work with me, fratello mio, mon lecteur.
Like you, I took the LSAT so long ago.
Why am I not a distinguished American jurist
Asking the one question that seems to be on
Everyone’s eugenic lips today:
“Aren’t three generations of imbeciles enough?”
I am Charly from Flowers for Algernon,
A slow learner with a push broom, swept up in
Some dust from Leonard Cohen’s cuff.
Lenny: a grey-beard loon himself now, singing
“Hallelujah” for fish & chips in London’s O2 Arena.
“Suzanne takes you down, Babaloo!”
At last, I am Jesus Quintana—
John Turturro stealing the movie as usual--
This time in a hair net and a jumpsuit,
"Made of a comfortable 65% polyester/35%
Cotton poplin, you can even add your own
Ribbon leg trim and monogramming
For just the right look to be one of
The Big Lebowski’s favorite characters.
Mouse-over the thumbnail below to see our actual style
(Color must be purple). Style #: 98P, Price: $55.95. On sale: $50.36.www.myjumpsuit.com."
Fortunately, I am a savvy marketeer:
I understand the artistic potential, the venal
Possibilities of product placement. Go with me
To that undiscovered country.
The humanities uncorrupted till now by
Crass gimcrack television ads. That’s right:
******* commercials smack dab in the
Middle of a ******* poem. Why not?
Great literature has always been about
Selling something, even if only an idea.
Hey, **** me, Herman Melville!
We both know the publication costs of
Moby **** were underwritten by the tattoo artists &
Harpoon manufacturers of New Bedford,
Matched by a small research grant from some
Proto-Greenpeace, Poseidon adventure in some
Great white whale-watching swinging soiree.
Murray the ******* K, pendejo!
At last, I am The Jesus, a pervert & pederast,
According to Walter Sobjak—another post-traumatic
Post Toasty, like me, still out there in the jungle,
Still in love with the smell of ****** in the morning.
My bowling buddy, Walter, comfortably far to the right of
The Dude, and Attila the *** for that matter,
But who gives a **** if Lenin was The Walrus?
(“Shut the **** up, Buscemi!”)
“Once you hang a right at Hubert Humphrey,”
Said the streets of 1968 Chicago,
"It’s all ******* fascism anyway.”
That creep could roll, though, and as we know so well:
“Nobody ***** with The Jesus.”
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

INCOMING!
I just heard from an old girlfriend who is miles away,
Teaching school in Navajo Land.
The Big Rez:  a long day’s interstate katzenjammer,
A Route 66 nightmare by car, but by email,
Just down the block and round the corner.
I had previously closed an email to her with a frivolous
“Say hello to my stinky friend.”
It was a total non-sequitur, an iconic-moronic,
Ace Ventura-mutant line from Scarface,
Which may have meant–in my herbal lunch delirium—
That she should say hi to some mutual acquaintance
We mutually loathe, Or, perhaps an acknowledgement that she–
My surrogate Cameron Diaz–has a new **** buddy,
Of whom I am insanely jealous.
Or maybe it was a simple Seinfeld “about nothing.”
Who knows what goes on in that twisted *****’s head?
She spends the next two hours in a flood of funk,
A deluge of insecurity.
A veritable Katrina ****** of self-consciousness,
Interpreting my inane nonsense in terms of vaginal health.

Hey, you want to ruin a woman’s day?
Tell her, her **** smells.

Silent sorrow
Judged by a purist
Guilt declared
An unrepentant jurist
Unable to breathe
Refusing to stand
Face in the tub
Ignoring the hand
Suffering's choice
Pain or pain?
Eclipse or night?
Always the rain

Kissamos Council

They arrive in the afternoon with their faces tanned by the Cretan sun. Vernarth in his Alikanto pass to a first instance that presents them with a chronological table and a map where the archaeological sites of finds from the geometric period and the historical development of one of the oldest and most important areas in the area would be located; Polirrenia and Falasarna. Searching as usual if any evidence of knowledge of any news from Etréstles would be presented in the various necropolis of the city. They crossed Chania to reach Heraklion, arriving at Arjanes unexpectedly.

The Minoan necropolis of Furní was present to them, as an archaeological site located on the eponymous hill, on the island of Crete that contains remains of the Minoan civilization. The archaeological site is located near Arjanes, where there was a Minoan settlement on Mount Juktas, where there was an important sanctuary. It is a necropolis that was in use for a long period of time, 1200 BC. C. Excavations have uncovered a wide variety of funerary monuments, hundreds of burials, and rich grave goods. Vernarth pursuing the nose of Etréstles, knew he would control here the remains of the trousseau, monuments and precious jewels. Before leaving for the Castelli hills, to which he had to guard the relics. Etréstles is the celestial jurist abbot of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, and of all the necropolis of the world, mainly Hellenic until the death of Alexander the Great 332 a. C., and perpetually.

As usual Etréstles always transmigrates for each intraterrestrial city, beyond all expression. "He is the supreme minister of the moldy wall, of whose solid stones he still continues to reside beneath those as a simple abandoned mushroom." … These are the ominous words that Vernarth emits when they began to take flight to Kalymnos.

Raeder hung with both hands over the jasper-plated iron hoops that come from reiterating the Greek "iaspis", which means "stained stone".Which was now stained green, like the stripes on Alikanto's hooves. He had to go to the ancient lands of Raeder's parents, where his ancestors came from; Kinaros, between Leros Island and Kalymnos. Vernarth jumped with joy knowing that his supernatural little friend would take him to those lands unknown to him. He takes Alikanto and leaves, behind and turning in circles, he was escorted by Reader, clinging to the golden rings that the pelican Petrobus invested.

Kalymnos

They land in the lavish waters where the Pelican Petrobus originated. They descend on an afternoon of great hot festivity. The peasant people celebrated having had a good harvest. Also not to be happy about the novelty of being fortunate to have no misfortune to have to regret tribulations for some charm of other maidens towards the Cave of the Nymphs, and where Apollo was the patron god of Kalymnos. This sanctuary was the political and religious center from the beginning of the first millennium BC. C.until the first centuries AD. The inhabitants of Kalymnos were the first Greeks to convert to Christianity thanks to their proximity to Asia Minor since Saint Paul and Saint John made a stop on the island, in the Christian era, building numerous churches decorated with mosaics. They enter the island's port, they walk in unbridled revelry after being greeted at the port. At dusk they arrive at Jorió, to find the Venetian castle of the knights of the order of San Juan completely covered in blue olive oil (a phenomenon that had been caused by the previous visit of Etrésltes and her entourage). In the same way they make the anteroom to the northeast, finding the Grotto of the Seven Virgins or Nymphs. Whose satire succumbed to some incredulous neighborhoods, hiding some of his younger daughters after denying their consummation. This is not a minor narrative legend of how seven young girls disappeared into the cave when they fled from pirates. Noticing depending on whether it could be so, also the clues to find Etréstles who had been here recently.

Petrobus the Pelican resorts where the colonies of his ancestors. He had the gold rings on his neck. He had no contact with his native colony since the last day they helped with water in the fields due to the lack of fresh water. It is worth noting their property of converting salt water into fresh water, but even more so the quality of Petrobus, in addition to where they step on their feet they will all shine and rejuvenate. It decentralizes its wings with allotropic tints, which made it turn colors, in addition to strengthening and relieving its body in long periods of flight. He lifts his beak and flies vertically to meet Reader and Vernarth in the Early Christian Necropolis of the funeral chapels. Here they meditate and offer their submission to the wind that flows with great power under the catacombs, pulling and moving the spirits that want to relocate with their placebo presiding over their doubts. .

They leave the port, boarding a Triacontero that would take them to Kinaros before night falls and is seized by the coastal fog that does not resist rope that holds a ship whatever it was; many times these ships were maneuvered by rowing sailors. But this time it was only consigned to them, it would only move without anyone having to intervene; only the eternal and kind wind will have to take them to the island of Reader's parents.

Kinaros
Triacontero Ship

On the transparent waters sailing in the Triacóntero were the Three. Vernarth at the bow, Petrobus at the main mast of the canopy, and Raeder next to him a few meters from Vernarth, remembering his parents when they emigrated from this island. The name of the ship that was named was "Eurydice". Every certain space of advance, she approached the mask to empty the tears that this Nymph emanated from her semi-open eyes. Vernarth took a cloth of sacred linen and dried the flows that should not have been more than for some reason that he wanted to know?

When they arrived near Kinaros, a rainy cyclone increased, raising them above the surface of the island, when they were less than 5 km away. Vernarth takes his Xiphos sword and cuts the ropes. Then Raeder, noticing that they were in serious danger of being shipwrecked, tells Vernarth to get out of the ship quickly. Vernarth runs to the bow and covers the eyes of Eurydice's Mascaron and leaves the ship. With his epic metaphysical thinking, he acclaims his magical steed Alikanto, he flies over the ship and picks them up, and Reader takes hold of the hoops on Petrobus's legs, reaching solid ground.

Kinaros is a land of fishermen and farmers. Long-lived land of ancient inhabitants that do not age. There are no cemeteries or monuments here. There is only eternal spring for those who can be grateful for a place that gives them peace and melancholic love from those who do not live there. Here, from this generous land come the Raeder Fathers. They migrated to Kalimnos; being this lands the one that saw it born and immortalizes it. So remember...:
"In the Dodecanese islands subdued by the carmine dew that falls in the morning on its crystalline waters, on sandy or gravel beaches of important archaeological remains and scenes to compete in athletic leisure, Raeder ran naked after the clothes that his mother had readymade. It was covered by crystalline Byzantine monuments and medieval architecture due to the long Venetian ******* in its mannerisms. What unites it to these islands, their history and their occupations: that of the knights of the crusades to that of the Turks, the Italian occupation to the Greek annexation with their volatile useless attire to dress? Patmos is very popular with pilgrims from the moment his work was raised in one of the caves on the island of Saint John the Evangelist, a disciple of Christ, writing the Book of Revelations.
Astipalea is the westernmost island in the archipelago and has architectural features from the Dodecanese Cyclades. It is also related here in the Etréstles de Kalavrita novel matter of his victorious boast to Patmos, when he resorts after the reverie of the Laziko Dance in which they seized the little finger and circulated in commemoration of the stripping of the rebirth of spring with La Sousta of the Dodecanese. These dances were generated on the ocean floor of the Ionian Sea, generating the power of the ethereal emananation of Etrestles from Kalavrita by daring to put Eclectic confrontation on the invisible portal of Evangelist Saint John in his sacred basaltic cavern in the Patmos archipelago (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Chapter 16 / page 114. Editorial Palibrio - USA)

In the Chapel of Ministers

They were seconded by the high representatives of Kalimnos, among them the curious immortal serpentine Raeder. Son of farmers, natives of Kinaros belonging to a group clan of six small islands and six small families. Some islets used to flaunt the genealogical beams of the Antigone challenges and documented inspirations found between Leros and Kalymnos in the east and the Cycladic island of Amorgós in the west.

Raeder always got up before dawn, and a petite blue bonsai Pelican always appeared on the threshold of his window; called him Petrobus. In the mornings, he ran, beating this Olympic bird in a quick dispute. Sometimes he could not say goodbye to his friendly bird, because he ran so fast that the days used to be weeks in a row, while Petrobus snorted through the skies with his wings of Hellenic Artificial Intelligence. With his hyper exhalation he moved large rocky cliffs, even moving and disorganizing the geographical nomenclature of these twelve polygonal islands of the Dodecanese.
The least known and uncontaminated islands are Leros or Pserimos, while Rhodes and Cos, the largest and most cosmopolitan islands, are the target of migrant Blue Pelicans throughout the year. Before returning home, Raeder stretched out on the grasses sheared by the heels of the Petrobus migrants and their minions. In this dancing grass I could feel the dances with gag bread dancing on all the hips of the damsels of the Sousta dance by his arms. He ran after Petrobus with his golden mask and hung on the legs of his bird (Wings Mate), the art of flying with golden magic birds and his Ancient Antigone Mama.

When he sometimes flew by the feet of Petrobus, he thought..
"My ground ... a thousand times I will lift you with my arms, do not hesitate my arms believe it ...
Oh my revered Ionian, I will apnea to please you a thousand times to become your Ionic molecule...
Wind by Kalimnos himself ..., I will make the Oda flute that travels through the twelve pierced epitaphs of my ancestors in Dodecanese asleep of paroxysm in the chapel where I was baptized for the ninth time!
And by the fatuous lavish Fire I will put the ceremonial ribbon of the Sousta Dance in the siesta of the new migration of my transparent Pelicans…. ”.

Raeder tells Petrobus visibly excited imagining crying with his imagined friend. "The little Raeder from the Dodecanese region", he tells his magical imaginary friend; what was the most missing Petrobus of ground breadcrumb paste for next winter?
Petrobus tells him not looking at him ..., just placing his palm-legged heliophylloid leg on his other one like ...: Nothing, fear Raeder, God does not exist!. Now He and you are the same. You will be able to lift the sphere of the flat earth with your arms and convert it into a healthy land of milk and honey from our Kalimnos that runs like mud over the mountains of your Life turned into a new House dressed in a new house”.

When Raeder finishes thinking ..., Vernarth tells him that they had to set sail for Patmos. Curiously in the bay was the ship of Eurydice. They believed that this ship had capsized and sunk somewhere on the wide Aegean high seas. The three boards the ship Eurydice, Alikanto stays in Kinaros grazing in good safety from the peasants who took great affection for him. Later she would join him in Patmos for the service and pantry of the offices for Saint John the Evangelist. Alikanto will take a great contribution and role in the prophecies of Vernarth on the Isle of Patmos.

Being  a silly girl you mix love and lust
Beauty aspires love to touch and burst
This is what is her confidence and trust
When love becomes rusty in sheer rust
Ashes go to ashes and dust goes to dust
Beauty is not entity understood by jurist
Beautiful girls come on tour to be tourist
Love is matter of heart beauty for analyst

My love you believe not in love but greed
You are in deed of a deed which wants seed
Please understand purity ,chastity not to read
Love needs self negation sacrifice to breed
A friend in need they say is friend indeed
Love is remembrance of beloved bead by bead

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

Mental processes so deep, bathing
alone at the bottom of the ocean,
like a baby before his mother ruined
him; a book before it’s opened; right
yesterday, wrong today; fundamental,
primary, calm before a tragedy, simple
before complexity; knowing the first
step may be wrong in the pursuit of
intent, but living easy in the fragile
consequence of decision where
coherence need not beg permission
to venture forth into bemused oration,
the stimulation of provoking thought
and triumphant rejection of legalisms
cleverly stated to establish the guilt
of an innocent

Underneath the deluge of our impending
life our fears seek sanctuary within the
mind or is it a place to avoid leaving no
room for kindness which must take refuge;
we want the right to make a statement
without fear for do they have any concept
of our problems; but I do want to understand;
justice was always known but only as it
pertained to me; but though I thought
about transcending difficulties it was
something only about myself instead that
of others; I only wanted to live within the
justification of my happiness

If I were your lover could you learn from
me or live knowing that I disagreed with
you on something so vital to you; could
you believe that my silence does not
conspire against you but instead is my
journey towards sanity as I must work
things out without further intervention
by the interests of someone who may
or may not feel agreeable with the musty
smells of the books that line the walls
of my mind; could you allow me to
contend with the past even though
everyone else has decided to move
on with their lives?

Are you the type who would follow
the law no matter how far it may
stretch your heart; but if allowed to
make your statement would you know
why you uphold what corrupt men
decided was just; I wonder if the ground
upon which you walk is worthy of my
worship when it is not the ground upon
which I lay but instead upon your good
graces that I must beg, otherwise I might
change my mind about what is just and
what is merely expedient

To be responsible for your actions
without regard to ambition or wealth;
you may choose the direction; you may
change the direction; it is your choice
alone; or you may delude yourself of
what is right in the name of your own
greatness; that anonymity and a humble
life is somehow the same as prison; what
we have done is to make someone feel
insignificant for honoring the most
significant virtues we all stand for,
truth and justice; yet it is true that truth
need no representation from a skilled
jurist as even a child can know what
his own eyes have witnessed; but
would it be altered by the times in
which he lived or would logic destroy
his small mind and bend it so that he
may be reduced to choosing between
nightfall or a shadow

Would it occur to you in time or is it
wise to learn from another to know
what is true, but if you wait until your
own goodness or awareness of another’s
pain reveals itself to you may be too late;
it may be that you cannot cross the river
so while you wait on the evil side you
must know how to recognize the good
that must live while it too waits for the
promised land

Do you know wrong to be wrong
without exoneration when compared
to greater wrongs; would you argue
against guilt if they spoke in favor of
that in which you believe; who would
be willing to tell the truth knowing their
life will be examined thoroughly; but
you must bring it forward, to endure
the indignity of a merciless soul search;
reason exists solely to defend against
depth that would bury the truth; what
way of life would ignore these things; it
is the life of fear that makes us choose
the wrong things in the hope that
good exists somewhere underneath
the crushing weight of the light to
which one day we will surface

who comes
home every
day, dives
straight into
a tall amber
bottle, falls
into a stonewalled
well of silence,
a place where he can tread
the suffocating loneliness.
on the surface, he’s a proud
man. but just beneath his not-
so- thick skin, is a broken soul.
in his courtroom, he’s a tough
but evenheaded jurist, respected
if not particularly well liked. at
home, he doesn’t try to disguise his
bad habits, has no friends, a tattered
family. a part of me despised him,
what he’s done. what he continues
to do. another part pities him and
will always be his little girl, his
devoted, copper-haired daughter.
his unfolding flower.

It is your judgement
of your moments
upon which
you hang
or not

There exists all manner of confinement: bricks and bars, of course
The reward for having fallen out of favor with some jurist,
Black-robed and clad with a fitting solemnity,
But any number of others as well--all less tangible, less corporeal,
And, as such, all the more insidious.
The most forbidding of all confinements, though,
Are those of our own making,
Or (even more maddening, more exasperating) those of our own being,
The limits of our sight-lines at the horizon,
The boundaries of our own perception,
The tyranny of the senses.

Suffer my folly, then, to put out to sea
In the hope (though I fully understand
If you term it something else altogether) of finding
Some odd grail residing in the interval between dreams and the defined,
Though possessing can achieve nothing more
Than to taint it with the stench of the workaday.
I know that this mad exercise in carpe diem will not likely end well;
My safe returns dependent on instruments and forecasts,
Man-made and consequently fallible.
When such time comes, keen some song of the dead for me
As you wail upon the beach, if you must;
I will have likely achieved some semblance of peace.

She read every line like a jurist,
As if her fate depended on it.
But he was sure her love was the purest,
And so, he filled his writings with wit.

He couldn't see her reaction,
He only imagined her smile.
And his words which expressed compassion,
Freed her from the feelings of guile.