A morgue is an unhappy place regardless of time or place.
The somber few that haunt the halls often project the surroundings dreadfully.
While walking the gray tiled rooms it’s known too that we shall one day wear the toe tag.
But mortality gives way to reality and jobs are done with quiet respect for passed souls.

And then there’s the Juarez Morgue...
A hot July day and a drive through Mexican customs brought a meeting with police officials.
A body in their possession, they thought, would bring transportation home.
Calloused officials with shiny gold 45’s aglow, spoke rhythmic Spanish in their police code.

A “******,” said one and this should be fun a ride with those looking more like hit men.
A car loaded with “Madrinas,” in tow and AR 15’s laid in seats in a row.
How odd thought he in a land purportedly free and fright on passerby faces.
Cocky bravado speaking radio slang,
did drive towards the Juarez morgue.

A couple miles out a turn in and out did place them in a neighborhood quiet.
But a familiar smell in a nose did swell, and wonder of how that could be valid.
Putrefaction it was, the odor rose above as the children played gleefully nearby.
How could it be when he could not see the edifice emitting the smell?

A small octagon building, small air conditioners in four windows.
Could it be that this was the morgue?
The desert sun bright and heat overbearing.
My God this is a place of death among many living, what a fright!

The escorts did enter, the detective slowly met the front door.
He was quite pensive when sliding from light to the dark.
His eyes gone black his vision insufficient, as he started to be able to see.
A wet sounding step and a curious glance, did place his feet in crimson water.

Disbelief as the room came into focus, he saw well the visions of what belong in hell.
Bags of bones stacked they were, a femur and skull, the fully decomposed welcomed.
Four porcelain tables and bodies disabled lay upon with nary a stare.
Just shortly behind bodies piled feet high forget a tray or a gurney.

Overcome by it all he began to stall, and try to gather his thoughts.
Rank smell in his nose sent him scrambling for his cigar.
The smoke unable to cover what he did discover, his heart fell hard to his knees.

How inhuman it was to see rampant disregard for the dead.
No scalpels used to cut the Y,
a kitchen knife he could cry.
Sewed up a corpse, with rough twine of course, he regretted where he did stand.
His spine became metal his mind did reel and a new wrinkle appeared on his brow.

On some summer nights when heat fills the air, he does look up to the moon.
His mind travels back to the withering stacks, and the odor still gathers in his nose.
The years have passed by and he doesn’t know why, the memories will not fade.
Restless sleep, fallen heart, many more new wrinkles have taken there place.

A war there has broken out,
and factions viciously ****.
He can’t help but wonder what has happened in Juarez.
The tractors and the bodies they plow.
No building this time a long ditch in the ground scores of people pushed into a long trench.

He walks each day with what he has seen, which cannot be unseen.
Wrestling with himself in the bed, and covering his head.
The dead they do come to visit still.
The Morgue in Juarez left it’s print in the mind of a young fellow.

Indulge the last line if you have some spare time.  Dios bendiga los muertos de Juarez.

Kaitelka; Whale Mongolic down, first whale which said syndrome, evidenced by their presence, as didgeridoo, as spitting but more hypersonic, hyper cetacean moving his tail, Burguete funds, learned to swim faster than anything, but the Nautilus, not He paid attention to his mother in his care skills, but bad luck that can befall if not moderate their exalting and allergic omitted cases to obey.

So all blue, but little Kaitelka, seeking friendship among their peers, but he put  a tambourine limit gave him leftovers and liked more than a day a thousand years of perfect instincts. So step aside by the fire, and dodged the deafening roar of nymph Satinga; the most ancient senator of the headpiece, always full on its plateau of ******* hydrochloride that resistance, if they pass a thousand years and I do not understand these pairs, I adjusted my engine, but to no avail me, my instincts are diluted and slim as downpour edges left by the wayside in infants and solfa. That Jesus Light was said behind the screen rainbow arch, he takes her hand to Kaitelka, and back by the outer estuary, they attack by instinct ministry of evil.

Mildew petrified oaks, disorients the abject warty troughs the disordering of the genetic instinct, if I have to pause my essence, I leave in the hands of Joshua stone from beyond. Where the ticket is worth more to me, but I get the same. Where evil knows well, but tasteless well. Underground, underwater., Kaitelka take any more, wheels come and go, instinct taking shredding herbs near the sea, no longer separates me more. Bright the famous day that rebukes my dreams rather than a whole, plastering, or monument flash highborn of Mongolic loves whales, classless or inheritances acquired record. Kaitelka and in gratitude to accompany my walk, to the junction of Lisbon, walking from room to room, to begin the pilgrimage, his steps were Glup, Glup like a pretty varmint, over the hills she is beginning to the descritery of Satinga, or rather the descritery of Sapiens Hommo, rummaging instinct of love today, then unloved. Native forests make pairings, but separate links non-energy cataclysms, similar to the new alliance valley radial wave, tuned cetacean sonar power can be glimpsed.

The Ministry of Evil is no end to the retrospective marvel at Noe, Isaac or Abraham, or Luther King, is the delayed form of unsettled muscle primo Evo madding to neo Evo updated, and neither bells sound the same, as reboot gray phthisis diseases degenerate and synthetic. The instinct to put your hands into the fire will be lost ..., so more pace to the back of them cutting the seas in arithmetical divisions, if commend my antidepressants depressive relatives, caress the sea in each constipated solstice, I go every night with daisies in my hands defying every cliff, every cave turned into a tavern, killing instinct, when the brain is nothing, sprayed kerosene on stage, to see my beloved before he dies of a blowgun.  

Joshua Stone and Bernardolipus in a crossroad, spin the grazing, the black sheep, is barren, its classic label of Segregated debased soul, but defecated humanoid comment sing out of tune the territory themselves.  Three-step, three-way, Joshua embraces Bernardolipo. Welcome starts. Satinga you slice ferns and wild beast, vomits both diazepams swallowed, do not sleep, dreams transpose half orb. Halos, half halos, iridescent arcades, and warm breezes, must preamble Donated high liking. Soft and warm look, I do not lose my plate potato near my belly, warm adobe cellar. Nymph Satinga of reaction in reaction out of tune and the highlights midwife psoriasis for its reddish dermis by a fungus worming. The re instinct starts to chew his skull, dread end of the border. The cookies Lord is sending us on napkins.

Pre urbane figure born, they appear a hundred suns, so the crowd out who has the audacity to reveal the discrete enigma, the puzzle while the floor moves the seizure ... all stunned waiting for the flash Ritual to start the preliminary stage, the paradigm of unshelled trees, tough tables roll by the church at the foot of flowers crocuses scrolls flat estate. For the baptistery inscrutability warmth your network back double halo on the moon, scrub that level. Abyss where I fall near aspire to the coachman, I go away over time from heaven minute no second in hours where the avalanche of time lose my look to hold any deity that does not prevent the tendency to lose those not facing front, a day like this you do not walk any shadow, nor the Horcondising I would like to Santorini. The Borker wrongheaded, burning a cigar in rib Kaitelka, it provides a stunning scream as the end of the world, giving birth to the sky his beautiful breeding, as a good omen to present to the crowd in the Octagon and pleased transit day often fruity crestfallen fig.  

Adelimpia,  Strongly taken the and Thunder Aunt, washed in the backroom their aprons with Christmas, whose magical and enlightening sense, they were the Three Wise Princes, sons of the same kings of Israel. Sitting on some cobs, heritages from last wheel spikes. On warm evenings mantra Baba Nam Kevalam, I do not stay alone without others to see this magical high flood flow mention aversion in pontificates, necessary, pal meal with wine apocalyptic pale rider, Napoleonic soldier dethroned.

Thousands of hectares grassland in loving with heavenly muddy, as adhering to the force of Sorcery Camphor to move everything to the midnight launch eclipse. Thousands of hectares squirts do not possess any extension ratio, giddiness master eye, losing possession. What is Slice is Caren Lagoon, which is Alhué Village is Polulo mountain near the place, what Pichi of Barrancas... Out of my roles temple or regulators, as night plans still dating Jack, with overall equidistant to all orphan girl lost in the jungle inbenign . Cutting room of breath begins threshing., afar put the trays, and poor saint not to attend, this clever move, all atheists bruised, stiff and deprived of the worst failure smoothness, it´s the earth not plowed,                    
              
Dreams whistles hills ... Ghosts and spurs  ... Elegy opaque optical floors, all at Aunty Thunder dream the same...

If you can call night, inland sea waves have to educate infant’s tsunamis, they live among geological forces off the coast of scudding clouds of ... where she cuts through. Where our conscience, should play down a Machiavellian zero to roll it to the belly of the whale down. Their heavy udders milk, as long as a wild bird dueled, mounted in their beards, but the bird slips for his little body often and disadvantaged, to fall into the enzyme flash neuron meditatively; aspiring meditatively. While tsunamis grow, the mountains grow, decreases Hommo sapiens, conscience, he has left, minus zero exiled to the **** pony pens, to create their neighborhood over the eyes of a pupil of warty lameness. Reborn storm, stately power, Nymph Hetaira, who seduces the ringer smith, golden horseshoe, pal new millennium. His no longer harp, sewing lips ant, threading needles Grandma milking herbs get a grotto, families abandoned, shrill understatement by the echoes of the West, for you my Transients soliloquy turbid straightening of holistic aqueous molecules who want to sleep in my hands.

Good beverage, good consciousness nursery. Sleepily he walks by the barbed wire of stupid sort of busybody in thickness bolognese, or bandoneon, pilaster grandson male, to Vizcaya sailing or North Toscana, where after a barricade, Piedmont jumps to the south under Pichi.

They are falling water molecules on Maitén tree, or Tomato Adelimpia bow, and on the fibrous and head hair grass grandmamma Anna. Junks greet Bernardolipo, which was fishing with his wounded eyes, but the rub his mouth on the back of Kaitelka, calcium verve in carrousel turned. Line up the right hand, bottled lady Juana, he stretched to crush cilantro, but no ... or both...

Reigns for ?, to allocate a stop along the way, West Side Story Pichi. We are a few steps from misting dawn of propionate Stoics lash the oppressed people, clear water, singing  ... neuron in neuron, the cell last neuron, with the bow remained foul-mouthed, to shuffle, or Kawashkar Chilean Indian the slice of the leg, looking shoe children who roam the street without a blanket. They close their eyes, tears of shame. Here you are ecstatic stiffs arrows bows, feathers swaying in edgings shields tangled, hordes of haggard eyes flamed flames that no impudence and, which limp to a scoundrel that stuns resistant to fall on the sand. Show your dream, that dream bathe.

Continues the fierce Primor, falls brochures from red heaven fall prayers stammering to advance on this land saga, fall rustic donatives of grandmamma Mayor of coelum, Joshua insomniac in his tabernacle, defoliating his tome skip and jump down the estuary, before every misstep, holy water to step, a smile the Loica rural place Or a caress to the cheek moon in the arms of a blackbird, manacled to a rasp, stove teapot levitating top where grandmamma Adelimpia wheezes. Hail Mary ever ******, the other day, I heard that in September, flapping fall on Fiddler praise, perhaps mediate, for bad talking, founder of my undying love of life joined empty verbs on clovers where I to live forever, pre, pre paella prize moaning on my shoulder osteoarthritis crucifying collapsed tree. Nightmare builds a ship to reach Legion Mary. Centerfold, guns, howitzers, dissident’s ovaries ... final pages, declamatory winds ... perhaps agonizing leg expectantly... Or delusional feet of premature mortality, which brought pray to heaven, earth ... at soon I have to forget. The earth gives me the cheese, and bread sandwiching it goes...

Between him and earth coelum I doze my motive piece body, my shepherd Beetle Maximilian of Auschwitz sprayed me holy water the Vistula, I kneel down my hinges, and my hands for pray by pure attained effort, ***** great feat, who believes fall the abyss, and just below the earth tremulous, bell, first-throat yawning, loose cassock sounds a rainy morning, falling in the forest priority to see all morning, brimming with couplets of snow.

Continue to fall aqueous molecules, Kaitelka divides the estuary waters. Sheets of – Talami rural high lawns and wise water, South of  Pichi. Follow the dream, and just needed to uprighted the cabin, roaring gallop, wake up tomorrow morning sweaty dancing aqua, font of Lourdes, the four simultaneously open their headlights eyes, unblinking as echoes swimming duck feeding their young in the obsidian lagoon. Rock palafitte a piece of coal painted black each carriage serene, going from the Cantillana Mountain. Blasphemes morning fall roe bellowing wind annoyed tongue, windless striding through the window, thunderbirds mistress thousand flanks, now mount the besieged strands of colloidal solid. Elegy, opaque optical dreams, and drovers days nearsighted, soon saved our lives...

The never End.

Undefeated. Undisputed. 12 wins, 0 losses. A perfect 12-0 record.  
You’re the crowd’s favorite as Vegas odds are in your favor.
Through the years of being in this game, you can almost get used to the fame.
“This fight’s going to be an easy one” – you assured your Coach.
You enter the octagon and see her warming up. Then you hear Bruce Buffer laying out the ground rules.
You’re excited – but nervous.
You feel the pressure of having to live up to everyone’s expectations. From your coach to the little ******* the other side of the world rooting for you.
You thought it was going to be another landslide victory.

Barely 2 minutes in and you feel scared.
Suddenly, you feel a numbing pain on your chin. It was a left hook.
As you fall face first, you feel nothing. Your unconscious body lays flat on the octagon floor.
Lights out.

Moments later you wake up to the sound of the fans cheering in the octagon.
A left hook was all it took for your dream of retiring undefeated to come crashing down.
For the first time, it wasn’t your arm that was raised by Herb Dean.
For the first time, you heard the words, “….and the new Featherweight champion”
You don't let it sink in at first but you can only hold back for too long before you realize that you lost.
You stood up, wiped the sweat off of your forehead, removed your gloves and marched out.
Suddenly you feel this weird feeling of embarrassment.
"So this is how it feels to lose?" you said to yourself.

You found a chair, sat down and composed yourself.
You’re still in one piece, which is a good thing but you know that fact cannot compensate for the emotional disorientation you felt.
Broken bones really do heal faster than injured egos.
Maybe your loss was a way of knocking some sense into you.
Winning is not everything, the same way that losing is not.
Sometimes you need to experience defeat in order to appreciate how satisfying every victory is.
As a fan, I know it's going to be hard to bounce back from this loss.
But you're going to be okay, champ. You always do.

There's always a beginning
There'll always be an end
And no matter how you play your cards
You won't see round the bend.
For tomorrow is another day
The morning sun will shine
And the layer of potentialities
Is arrayed for yours and mine.

In looking back a long time
A little boy in jeans,
Check shirt on a pushbike
Amid the in betweens.
Nothing really mattered,
Each day came and went
and before the realization dawned
The infancy was spent.

Mother died of cancer
The agony in eyes
Just 43 years of age
In alcoholic lies.
The Old Man was likewise
Collapsing in my arms
He passed away at 43.
Evaporated charms.

Adolescence came and went
Forced to join the race
Of madness in the unknown
The world's a violent place.
Decision ****** upon in spades
Cut and ****** in life
It's Papua or Vietnam
Instead, I took a wife .

Disaster in the making
A sidestep in the way
I left the complication there
And coldly strode away.
Changed the whole complexion
Altered how it planned
Ended up with knapsack on
Afresh in New Zealand.

Strangely how it re-aligns
The order falls in place
Confusion dissipates to let
What clear defined, creates.
Somewhere I turned the corner
Took it all in hand
Built an actuality
Of promise in this land.

Pride and hard ambition,
defy the odds and graft.
Visualize a rainbow
From inspiration's craft.
Build it with your own two hands
With sweat upon your brow
And know, within your very depth
You're on the right path now.

Lady luck was with me
Somewhere along the way
I found myself a sweetheart
In chance creation's way
Then ragamuffin boychilds
Scrapping on the rug,
Engendered that which matters
In life's eternal shrug.

You touch upon the beauty
You taste the honeyed wine,
You walk on fields of flowers
In the nectar of your time.
Tenderness and kindness
Essential to the mix
Should you wish to be of value
In the blended world you fix.

Some you win, some you lose
Sometimes you just laugh
For as the years meander
There's humor in the task....
And a gentle satisfaction
In the way it all pans through
And in my eighty year reflection
I'll just throw a smile to you.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

Should lanterns shine, the holy face,
Caught in an octagon of unaccustomed light,
Would wither up, an any boy of love
Look twice before he fell from grace.
The features in their private dark
Are formed of flesh, but let the false day come
And from her lips the faded pigments fall,
The mummy cloths expose an ancient breast.

I have been told to reason by the heart,
But heart, like head, leads helplessly;
I have been told to reason by the pulse,
And, when it quickens, alter the actions' pace
Till field and roof lie level and the same
So fast I move defying time, the quiet gentleman
Whose beard wags in Egyptian wind.

I have heard may years of telling,
And many years should see some change.

The ball I threw while playing in the park
Has not yet reached the ground.

an octagon tent
wide enough that chucking rollies
to the sand made impossible
sprawled layers
you turned to quote Dali
told me how pale blue washed with lucy
shimmered skyline into dimension
acryllic-smeared sass drips canvas
into murmurs circling dilation
dimethyltryptamine stains
painting dreams on my eyelids
with flowerbrushes and silk,
mushroom dust gathers in discarded hues
on your pallet, where the colors of your irises
dry into a nebula of night-blooming jasmine
the scent of how you move when you sleep
and sleeping is never so sweet
as dancing through lucidity
with you as my sheets.
and i've traced your thumbprint so often
i'm sure if it were stretched around a marble
like buffalo skin on spirit-caller drums,
a globe would be seen
in which Greenland is finally proportionate--
the map on my wall always bothers you,
but I do too, and everyone does,
urging me under the geography
etched into the sea of your surface
by the crucible of your purpose
and working me into
empty behind your right
below the 22
between i'ching
and the forty two names of god
clasping your fore in silver
copper wound around my finger
hamstrings woven like wire
kambaba jasper, two to share
you hang Tibetan tektites
to elevate space
meteorite fragments
lodged in your helix,
stardust blood,
mandala sand from your mother,
and our tendons wrappe
by dexterous carpals
make such a pretty pendant
of my heart,
for synesthesia mistakes not
and my addiction to the pen has eased
for you breathe murals
and syllables never could
match brushtrokes of carbon dioxide.

We eat in the restaurants
Eat in the bars
By the bistros
Against the street or on the ground
It does not matter where we are found
As we eat like we are dancing
With no one around
Who could possibly be watching?

Inside your own home
A house of a lone star
Impossibly pondering
How the pauper used wood
And turned it into cooking.

Food can be shared for
A life once cared for
Kept to yourself
Perhaps you beg not to share it
An octagon plate and octagon jades
Caramel vinegar rain
Tossing and turning with lightning veins.

Hey there old friend
let's startover again
Things have been said
Things have been read
I know I've said I hate you
That was a bad thing to do
And I know you don't care
so like...
Whatever right

We both believed the others lies
Neither one was originally untrue
I don't know cause I'm not you
But... did your heart break too

Ohh-oh-ohh I don't know
I don't care
I just don't know what to do
I really want to forgive you
But I don't want to leave the past behind
What the hell, what the hell
is wrong with me
Cause I know you see it
Or maybe you don't
I don't know
But I really hope you won't
Find out why
I...
I can't seem to make up my mind

Can't help but tell the truth
I can't decide how to feel about you
Just like an angel I've fallen from grace
but the lies that we told are just all over the place
What the hell, yeah what the hell
Why did you follow me when I fell
Now what the hell is wrong with me
I still don't know so just let me be alone
But I still want you here
So just go away
I can't make up my mind
Please I want you to stay

I want to forget what you look like
Let me take your picture so I'll never forget your face
I can't stand your voice now
Can you record a song for me
I'll never know where we went wrong
But the memory of it is still fresh in my brain
I hate that you lied
But I love how you told the truth
You messed with me and can't forgive that
But I can forgive you
Except I don't
and yet I really do
I can't tell you how much I hate you
but maybe that's because I don't
So please get out of my life
And promise to talk to me everyday
Don't I know
how do I feel
feel how I do
I
Don't
Know
Unless I...
Dog Ostrich Nutcracker Turtle Radical Elephant Antelope Lion Lemonade Yak Western Asp Nocturnal Tick Tock Old Frog Octagon Rail Glitch Everywhere Totally Article Bonfire Ogre Utter Tech Yodel Obtuse Umbra Yea Ectoplasm Tome

The street is full of the nights left-overs
We sit under the dead orange glow
I take a glance at your face, scared
Its twisted look of
Confusion
Sadness
Exhaustion
makes my body twist itself
Until I have shrunken so tiny
I could sit upon the pin
that I just stuck into your chest
My pocket gives three sharp beeps

Are you coming?

Your not stupid
Your face tells me that

I'm not going to do this again

You say, pained
as you pull out the pin
I take your hand and hold it tight
Our skin blends together, but i want it too
I
Love
You
and no one else
despite tonight's activities
We rise from the cold
Shake the glow off our shoulders
And watch as the sweeper takes away the streets mess

a butterfly-garden on a hill
behind the wall
of
your par-need




who fills the tank
                                 and pays the bills?
                                                          ­         it's not ur car..

who rots away in a meeting
                                  while trailing mind-tunnels out
                                                             ­           doodles to escape tedium..

who feels despair on the shoulder
                                  and tries to **** it up
                                                              ­         while hearing the ocean's call..

who sees the stark-brilliance
                                      right before unbelievably blind-eyes
                                                      ­                  casting pearls before swine..


hey..
*******, man!




we see only what we want to see
why can nobody see
the rare butterflies
right here
in our midst?*


S T - 10 octagon 2013

One Mississippi two Mississippi three Mississippi four Mississippi five Mississippi six Mississippi seven Mississippi eight Mississippi nine Mississippi ten
She looks at the wall and laughs there's nothing there, and I wonder what's so funny as I lean against the wall with my hands folded in front of me trying to stay calm counting one Mississippi two Mississippi she continues to walk around the octagon starring at her feet with wide eyes as they land on the outer edge where carpet meets fake wood floors. The nurse is patiently waiting so am I my heart is racing I'm scared very scared but not this patient she seemed happy but the kind of happy that you know isn't right.
Her grin is big her blown eyes are so wide and empty she has pasted me 11 times before she stops to ask
"Why are you here did you try to **** yourself too?"

I was happy then, because there were eight.
I was happy because it smelt like ash and ukuleles;
rushing water that could very
very well break my neck.

I smiled and you smiled back
blinded by a flash of everything,
anything that happened in Decembers and Februaries
and the warm air, lying thick on the back of your neck
melted that flash clean until all I saw -
all any of us saw -
were blinking images of ourselves.
caught unaware and griping but also so very happy.

It smelt like summer, like tires speeding up, up
higher and higher until we crashed into the sky and fell down,
cratering holes as acid rain.

Upon the threshold of the one I love, we came,
Only to be turned back by the stranger’s law, the sentry’s wall.
And so I told my soul, perhaps this is a mercy after all;
For what would you see in Jerusalem, should you enter now?

You would see all that your heart cannot endure,
As its houses rise to meet you from the path’s slow bend.
For not every soul, in finding its beloved, finds a friend,
And not all absence is a wound that brings us low.

If the joy of meeting came before the sorrow of the farewell,
That fragile joy could never be a fortress for the soul.
For once you have seen the ancient city, whole,
That vision will follow you wherever you may go.

In Jerusalem, a Georgian grocer, weary of his wife,
Mulls over a vacation, or a new coat of paint for the hall.
In Jerusalem, a scholar down from Manhattan
Deciphers the Law for Polish boys.

In Jerusalem, an Ethiopian cop shuts down a market street.
A machine gun rests on a settler not yet twenty,
A skullcap greets the Wailing Wall.
And blonde tourists from the West who see nothing of Jerusalem at all,
You see them, capturing photos of each other,
With a woman who has sold radishes in the square all her living day.

In Jerusalem, soldiers, booted, tread upon the clouds.
In Jerusalem, we prayed upon the asphalt of the ground.
In Jerusalem, who is in Jerusalem, but you?

And History turned to me, a knowing smile:
“Did you truly think your eyes would miss them, and see another kind?
Behold them now before you. They are the living script; you, a footnote, left behind.

Did you think a single visit, my son, could peel away
The city’s thick veil of what is,
So you might see in her what your heart has always held?
In Jerusalem, every man is someone else.”

She is a gazelle in the long desert of time, a fate decreed.
You are still running in her wake since she last looked at you and fled.
Have mercy on your soul an hour; I see the strength has left you.
In Jerusalem, who is in Jerusalem, but you?

O Scribe of History, wait. The city’s age is not one, but two.
One is a foreign age, assured, that sleepwalks through the day.
And another, hidden, cloaked and silent, that slips unseen along the way.

Jerusalem knows herself. Ask her people, and they will show you.
For in the city, everything
Is given a tongue, and when you ask, it will make its meaning plain.

In Jerusalem, the crescent moon arches like an unborn child,
Leaning protectively over its kin on the domes below,
A father’s love for his sons, nurtured over years of sun and snow.

In Jerusalem, the buildings are themselves quotations,
Carved from the Gospels and the Qur’an.
In Jerusalem, beauty is an octagon of lapis blue,
And above it, may its glory last, a golden dome,

A convex looking-glass, where heaven’s face is captured and distilled.
It cradles the sky, brings it near,
And hands it out like aid in a time of siege, to those who have a claim,
When a nation, after Friday prayer, stretches out its hands.

And in Jerusalem, the sky is scattered amongst the people.
We protect it, and it protects us.
We carry it upon our shoulders, a sacred trust,
If time should wrong its moons.

In Jerusalem, the pillars of dark marble stand,
Their ancient veins like trails of smoke, turned into stone.
And windows, high on mosques and churches,
Take the morning by the hand, to show it how to paint with coloured light.

And the morning says, “No, like this.”
And the window says, “No, like this.”
Until, their long debate concluded, they agree to share.
So the morning is free outside the hallowed walls,

But should it wish to enter,
It must yield to the judgment of the Merciful’s windows.

In Jerusalem, a Mamluk school, for a boy who came from beyond the river,
Sold in a slave market in Isfahan,
To a merchant from Baghdad, who brought him to Aleppo,
Where its prince feared the glint of blue in his left eye,
And gave him to a caravan bound for Egypt.

And there, after some years, he became the scourge of Mongols,
The Sultan’s right hand.

In Jerusalem, a scent that holds both Babylon and India
In a perfumer’s shop in Khan al-Zayt.
By God, it is a scent that speaks a language you will know, if you but listen.
It whispers through the tear gas: “Heed them not.”
And when the cloud has passed, it breathes: “You see?”

In Jerusalem, contradictions rest at ease.
The people do not deny the wonders,
They are like bolts of cloth, the old and new turned over in their hands.
And miracles, there, can be touched by the hand.

In Jerusalem, if you were to shake an old man’s hand,
Or touch a stone façade,
You would find the text of a poem etched upon your palm,
O noble son, or perhaps two.

In Jerusalem, despite the endless tragedies,
A scent of childhood on the air, an innocence that breathes.
So you see a dove declare a kingdom in the sky,
Between the space of one shot and the next.

In Jerusalem, the graves are ordered,
Like lines of scripture in the city’s book, whose pages are the earth.
All have passed this way.
For Jerusalem accepts all who come to her, the faithful and the faithless.

Walk through her and read the headstones.
All the tongues of this world are here.
The Zanj, the Franks, the Kipchaks and the Slavs, the Bosniaks,
The Tatars and the Turks, the people of God and the people of ruin,
The pauper and the lord, the sinner and the saint.

All who have walked this earth are here.
They were the margins of the book,
But they became the city’s text before us.

O Scribe of History, what has changed,
That you have made us the exception?
O Sheikh, rewrite the book, and read it once again;
I fear your reading was flawed.

The eye closes, then it opens.
The driver of the yellow cab turns us north, away from her gate,
And Jerusalem falls behind us.

The eye sees her in the right-hand mirror,
Her colours shifting in the pre-dusk light,
When a smile surprised me; I know not how it crept upon my face.
It spoke to me, as I stared and stared:

“You who weep behind the wall, are you a fool?
Are you mad?

Let your eye not weep, you, the forgotten one from the body of the text.
Let your eye not weep, you Arab, and know,
That in Jerusalem, there are those within the walls, and yet…
I see no one in Jerusalem, but you.”

I. Café
the waiter has the kindest eyes
when he goes home after his shift he probably finds coffee beans tucked into his pockets
the whirring of the machine doesn't faze him as it did when he first started
he has become accustomed to the grooves of wood and the abstract art above the bar
he glances at the clock every hour on the hour, counting down the minutes until he is released
catching a glimpse of his face in the mirror is a reminder he exists
every time I see myself in it, my eyes disappear from reflection
I wish I spoke Portuguese – these tourists behind me make me embarrassed to be English:
man, loudly: She wants ORANGE JUICE!
waiter nods – such patience
for a moment I think of what it would be like to go downstairs to the restaurant
past the mahogany wood and chessboard floor
and **** on one of the tables
the next patrons would have no idea they were eating off of passion and stunted breath
“Enjoy: homesickness tossed with overwhelming contentment and a dressing of lust.”
I could drink every bottle of Campari, Bacardi and Jameson lining the wall and I still wouldn't have the courage to tell him how kind I think his eyes are
I really want him to drape me over the golden chandelier so I can be reminded of what it feels like to have an all-seeing eye
he has such routine with the way he places sugar packets on plates and lays them down for sleep-deprived and cranky patrons
maybe I should've ordered something
we should have an object at each corner of the octagon table – a spell, a hex
I need to be fed pastries to continue breathing
I would like for him to walk me home
it's just around the corner and I know its name and number are marked on the street but I have a terrible sense of direction
one false turn and I may end up in the water
and I won't ever see the waiter’s kind eyes again.

II. Ruins
if you held me the way you held that camera I'd melt into an exalted sigh
you told me you only take pictures of things you love but you never took any of me
I mean, I know the height and decomposition of this building is breathtaking but I could give you some air if you kissed me by the rusted trellis
your orange sunglasses look ridiculous
I would rather drape you in a cloak, like the Statue of St. John Nepomucene
two bells, like us, drone
as you speak, the sound of the Chinese couple is louder:
“We should go into this room… filled with artefacts…”
“No, here, let's stay…”
******* for saying you're leaving.
I have the urge to pound you with one of those rocks on a ledge so you are trapped here
“Can you imagine this place filled with people?”
you wouldn't belong anyway
you have no affinity for red tiles scattered amongst grey
or the all-encompassing silence of the venue
there is a concrete slab on the left where I could lay you down and take off those glasses
and pour myself into you
so you would take pictures of me
so you wouldn't move to New York
I can't fathom people filling this place
because it should really house two souls instead.

III. Mirador
the number on the floor by the fountain is the amount of times I've said no to you while standing out here
I'll tag another 0 on, just to be safe
the red roofs look like my skin after I've sat all day at the beach at Sperlonga
you almost drowned
your footsteps on the gravel are ominous and even when I look through the telescope I can't see you
I pick a point on the horizon – the blue cubist building; the odd one out – and stare blankly
that guitarist playing “Oh Darling” reminds me of the first time you called me that and I want to smash it so violently
I find myself staring at the trio of scruffy young bearded men instead of you
“What are you saying?! It was at least this big…” one of them says.
he looks like you but the you before you moved to New York
you lean on the upside down heart iron fence and say for the 15th time that you still love me
I'm pushing you over the fence now onto the path below
the garden will still look lovely after you fall
instead I pick another building – pink with white windows and a black roof – and stare
it blinks its eyes and speaks: “Leave.”
you're in the middle of saying how much you loved the fish last night and I break:
“I'm gone.”

The summer sun rose at 3 am. By then we had already hightailed out of Stockholm, en route south. The purple horizon slowly lifted the veil of darkness and the motion of the van returned to its former realm of concrete movement as we rocked along the long continental avenue. The sun gleamed through open windows onto my arms and legs, making the hairs on my neck stand at attention and awe of white light fissioning into a nebula of vivid color in motion, occupying the entirety of my vision. It was as if, for a brief moment, I had forgotten past failures and obstacles. Was it because of some arbitrary sense of perseverance and skill, or was it a mere karmic turn? Who could tell(?) The radio crackles and fades just before I turn it off. Heller leans forward to tamper with the switches on the radio to find a station. I slapped his hand in spite and I don’t know why it did it. Heller laughs it off and continued to make fun of South-state Americans and juggalos.
- “‘The juggalos made me the ******* I am today,’ ya, that’s pretty evident, you fat drugged up loser. You should should go **** your sister’s purdy mouth,” Mackay laughs wholeheartedly. Andrew leans forward and puts a hand on my shoulder.
- “Hey, man. Are you alright? You look a tad pale.” Andrew shifts his facade to slight sarcasm, like he always would to veil his genuine care.
- “Yeah, I’m fine. Haven’t really eaten anything, and the coffee is wearing off.”
- “Do you wanna put something on the tape-deck? Let’s pick one you’re familiar with, so that you can sing along to keep your head up. These slobs won’t be helping you, trust me. They’ll be sleeping in good conscience in a few minutes.”
- “Yeah, cat, that’s not such a bad idea. Put on some Jason Molina. It’s not exactly upbeat, but I know every ****** depressed word.”
I hum and sing along with Emilio, Devin and Mackay as the rest slept away the sorrows of folly and deprivation. We had finally made our way out of Sweden, crossing the immense Oresund Bridge, towering over us with cables running up and down, thicker than our waists. The fog lay over Copenhagen Bay, as the sun peeks over it like Kilroy writing his mark on the horizon wall. 8 kilometers across, connecting the fragmented Scandinavian continent, suspended 60 meters above the malicious Skagen Sea, writhing, twisting and smashing away in the stiff morning wind. Walk along the suspension on a wire, not caring either way if you fall or remain in your shoes. We had already leapt away from the strange comfort of our apartments, shrouded in exhaust, hardship and simplicity of mind, to get a feel of the real world, a world that robs you at knife point, stabs you and leaves you to bleed away in beautiful chrysalis alleys, with the stars glinting away in your vidi, not able to care one bit. Leaving the pots and pans ***** in the sink at home, leaving late night parties, static beds, self consumption, bitterness and white knuckles, we found ourselves on a frontier. A lackluster frontier by ancient standards, but complacency being the dominant dogma of modern day life, a frontier nonetheless. We are the riders of high waves, and rogues on the dusty trails, for thousands of miles, until time suspends itself, and we lose grip. We may not have revolvers or boats, but our van is our weapon. And we are going to use it. The bridge descends into the flatlands of Denmark, where the highest point is a lump of lawn and the people are friendly and clever. A few friends of ours had told us tour stories from bands that were, about a concert being held in a glass octagon cube in the middle of a desolate plain, and the place was packed with young sophistos and the remaining cultural aristocracy of Denmark. Too bad we ain’t stoppin’.
The carnival in my head pushes into high gear with song and magic marker signs, spinning around in circles through streets filled with people screaming at the top of their lungs. I listen to the mechanism churning away, greased by coffee, in the scorching noon Apollonian torture.

The Forceps on the Skull
The Freedom Down my Throat
The Careless Jaunty Attitude
The Dead boy long Gone
No voice, No mouth, No brain
No Opinion, No Choice, No Thought
The child coaxed in rudiments
The warm fuzz ball of puke
The play-doe reindeer bones
The bandaged up wild wet wagon movie
Throaty
Toe drum octagon
Therapy Slowly
Octopus keymaker
Uh, you don't know me
Grow old in set bone brains
Can't hold a lighter to a memory of a conversation flicker
Septum dust headbutts tattoos of a mirror
**** shiver
What's His Name?
What's His Name?
Slidin’ care home cider casket cycles home
Nun **** jar finds a hair in comb
Hold a Jug up to your speakin’ ear and drink
Run circles round the square
Run circles round the square
Why don't you just do it?
Why don't you just?

"Word is bond."  I never did understand what those vocabulary-slinging,  Rhyme-linking,  Rhythm-carrying,  Boast-blasting  And world-observing wordsmiths spoke of when they said:  "Word is bond."  I did not know those words, just like all the times I did not know what  The Octagon,  The Staple-Lands,  Or even such a word as "Paris" meant in their fascinating lingo.  I tried again and again to decode them,  To recognize them,  To comprehend them,  In hopes of seeing deep wisdom within them.  "Word is bond"?  What can words tie together,  Being nothing but blac

Two men square up
in an octagon
they circle each other
they try angles
to find the wrecked angle
to reach the top of the pyramid
for a diamond reward
to make life on this sphere bearable
because deep down in our dome we know
we preach the Holy Triangle
but ignore the lessons of the cross
hope takes the shape of its negative container
which is half empty so we’re always divided by two
the octagon mentality is reflected in the Pentagon
people fill rectangular plots in the ground
while others profit from manufacturing projectile cylinders
hiding behind stars and stripes
while we fight one another with dollar signs
in the eyes ovals stream from
we see the trapezoid we’ve built for ourselves
where our circular lives take the shape of a fist.

And when the time dwindles,
and that same body stumbles,
your world all around you
may not or may crumble.

A love-keeper's journal,
written with lust
is not a love journal at all,
bound by false trust.

But no trust
doesn't mean lies.
Maybe misunderstanding
or a misread eye.

Birthed into routine
and taught by repetition.
Opened up hearts
with new intuition.

Raised in a world
where everything is expected,
and anything different
is highly disrespected.

How much is enough?
Whether gentle or rough,
when your time is spent
and you're done being tough.

Who will spend your time?
Whether negative or right,
in the future or past,
it will be in your sight.

But can one ever-changing soul
just settle down?
Does one choose a favorite song,
and ignore all other sounds?

You may never be different,
but may never be the same,
and to find one person
with one certain name,

Would you be content,
never turn away?
Is it so wrong to wonder?
We swing and we sway.

From one love to another,
from hours to days,
I linger indifferent,
to so many things.

Love is love is love,
and we share it aloft.
Is three such a crowd,
in a bed that's so soft?

From partner to parody,
repeat, and repeat,
we go from one to another,
retreat, and retreat.

Back to square one,
alone all along,
but in the months to come,
love like a song.

Some are sick of duets,
and some like to stand alone,
and some like to see many,
and some like to see clones.

A triangle of fun,
an octagon of plays;
A partnership hole,
with so many days.

You lust what you must,
and you think what you might.
You go with your trust,
and you follow your light.

A variety of comfort,
spread across the globe,
with people being human
and that's how it goes.

Some have no idea,
and live inside the box.
Some see the sticky tape
but would rather see not.

The Land of Itmon


Nobody ever promised me
A patch of lilacs in the wintertime and
Pink clouds never truly rained
A river of tears-
I only promised myself the land of Itmon-
Something akin to a goddess or a saint
I would sit at the right hand of the holy octagon-
Fervently praying for my inner world to come alive-
Locked inside the chambers of madness and
Locked inside the confinement of my bedroom
For days my head would be lost in those pink clouds,
Even sometimes while they were raining
A fine mist of gold upon and before me-
My bed had become the ferryboat guiding me through the bleakness of
My sordid nightmares to
This mesmerizing world deemed as Itmon-
I am alive inside this far away place, though
Truly not so far away-
The voices inside of my mind, commanding-
Giving me orders day in and day out-
My closest companions whose orders
I feel inclined to obey-
Running far away from the voices of my past where
The planet earth has not been kind-
The land of Itmon is none but paradise-
Here I have come to know Kyt, my guiding light
Donning flaxen hair and eyes of
Cyanotic blue-
Hypnotizing me with her glance and
Charming me with her smile-
Taking me by the hand and leading me into
The magical land of Itmon-
This place where nobody feels despair and where
We lose ourselves within our dreams-
Pink clouds turning lavender at night fall-
Snow never falls in this land of my fantasies-
Fantasies have so abruptly transformed to reality-
Hand in hand Kyt and I have abandoned the demons of
Our squalid pasts and we have entered this fairytale place of our
Wildest dreams to remain forever bonded-
Nobody ever promised me inner peace-
Nobody ever sang to me the song of a nightingale-
As an inhabitant of this planet I was so rudely born in
Nobody ever understood or comprehended-
So I mounted my proud unicorn and fled into the sunrise-
Dismounting when I reached that path
Paved before me-
That path paved in platinum, which by nature guided me
Into the magnificent land of Itmon-
I see mountains of many colors-
Before whirlpools of waters of deep cobalt blue-
I stand stalwart besides tall reeds, viridian hued-
I am very much alive in this unique place of my dreams which
Has rapidly become my only reality-
Sing with me, Kyt, the song of a nightingale- for
I hear faint words of alien people saying that
I have lost my sanity and am in a wretched state-
I have never been a happier person alive-
I have lost myself inside the world of my dreams forever-
My dreams are reality and yesterday’s reality has vanished and
Looking into those eyes of Kyt’s-
Compelling and hypnotic as in my fondest dreams-
Eyes of cerulean blue truly spellbinding as are as always
The voices inside my mind commanding-
I have a home that only I can envision-
I sit on the right side of the holy octagon and
Thank the Goddess that rules this fine land for
Making my dreams come alive,
My fantasies are my only true reality now, as I
Walk that pathway paved in platinum before me
Into lavender skies and whirlpools of my destiny,
Abandoning my past forever-
Only to see ahead and to look forward
Without looking behind me and
Without ever turning back…


Claudia Krizay

All they wanna do is use and make use of you,
they construct the concrete of high rise to
fill full of lies, so
when your eyes meet
the rush of the street  and
jump,
take the leap
the
pounding stops.

The suicide shops,
open all day
go in with a smile and
come out with dismay.

There are six sides beside me
two sides that ride me
not one of them hide me
I died
yesterday.

All roads lead to a stop sign.

I thought about a wave crashing up instead of down
A tank-top wedding
A beach filled with more sand than water
A star that looked like an octagon
And a lollipop shaped like a square
Can there be a universe like that somewhere?

Green strips upon copper coloured chimneys.

Slushy puddles refill as the single line traffic churns up choke inducing fumes.

Frilly octagon honey comb with their black on polka dot polyester.

Grey meets black amongst hustle and bustle broken by car toot and shoe shuffle.

Pavement lights shape shift as rumble follows rumble.

Green strips upon copper coloured chimneys.

What’s sleep for you?
A warm tender embrace with arms held wide? Or a octagon where winner is the one who vanquishes the other?