bits of stardust,
   that's all we really are.
oxygen,
   carbon,
hydrogen.

   at the surface of it all,
a velvety overcoat.
   bacteria inhabiting every inch of us.
600 particles of skin flake off each hour.
   you cant be all dead.

dig below the surface.
   45 miles worth of nerves.
hands,
   feet,
tongue,
   and lips.

ninety eight point six degrees Fahrenheit.
   on some level, we all inhabit the same skin.

what we do on autopilot.
   oblivious to the staggering task we leave
to two gelatinous orbs.
   spot and track what we desire.
hungry harvesters of light.

   hear and balance,
where we are in space.
   orienting brain in three dimensions.
up-down,
   left-right,
forward-backward.

   we wouldn't last
more than a few minutes
   without breathing.
ingenious multi-taskers.

   heart runs the show.
it's the boss,
   with the brain coming in at a close second.

and a highly coordinated series of f
                                                           a
                                                              l
                                                                l
                                                                  s

Mr Wall Street
Yes, YOU
You in the Perfect Suit

Here are your instructions:

Take off your polished handmade Italian shoes
Yes, take them off, right here in the street
Don't ague with me!

You submit and obey
Not knowing why
You are my slave

Peel off those long thin black dress socks
Feel the pavement under your
Smooth, clean white feet

Leave your former shoes to
Cry for their former owner
Some panhandler will grab them
and give them a very different life

Now walk into the cheap barber shop
And tell the barber to shave your head
Yes - all of your hair

That full head of thick corporate hair
Falling to the floor in a pile of silver silk
As the barber hides his laughter

Now walk barefoot and bald
in your $3000 pinstriped business suit
and your silk tie and cufflinks and starched white shirt
and cashmere overcoat

Walk barefoot though the financial district
Everyone will stare
Your colleagues and friends and competitors will laugh
As dust collects on your smooth, supple clean white soles

Destroy your privilege
Cut ties
Burn your bridges
But first cross over to the other side
Become an outsider

Barefoot bald and humiliated

You can start again

He awakens in a darkened room.

Where have I been? He thinks.
What have I done? He thinks.

He puts his feet to the floor.
Feels the texture with his soles.
Then stands up.

Rubbing his head with his tender hand
He stumbles toward the bathroom.
And looks at himself in the mirror.

A mostly unfamiliar face stars back.
Unsure of what to think
He takes a ****.
And fumbles for the TP.

He stands up.
And glances again.
Brushes his teeth.
Shaves.

Awkwardly dressing:
He belts his belt,
Ties his tie,
Laces his laces.

Out on the street,
He tastes the air.
Waiting for the bus.
Checks his watch.

9:45 am the bus arrives.
Exactly 2 minutes late.
He boards.
Finds a spot to sit.

Takes his hat off.
His overcoat.
And settles.
Paying little attention.

"Hello" she says.
He pretends not to notice,
And sits.
"Hello?" she says again, a question this time.
"Oh!" he says, surprised.  At first trying to avoid this, but realizing he cannot.
"How are you?" as if he knew who she were.
She senses his uncertainty.
"I'm great!" she says with a smile while crossing her legs towards him.
"I, uh…" he stammers, "I can tell"
"What makes you think…" she stalls. "That you can tell how I'm feeling?"
He waits, unsure of how to respond.
"You just, seemed so happy." He finally succumbs.
She smiles.

Back at her place they viciously make love.
A sub-human ****.
Afterwards, she asks him to leave.
He does.

They never meet again.

I met Netanya
at the rail station

it was January and cold
and she was dressed up
in the blue overcoat
and headscarf

and I was
in my combat style
overcoat and hat

you made it ok?
I said

yes he asked
where I was going
and I said
for a walk to get him
out of my head
she said

we got tickets
and boarded a train
and off we went
to Brighton
the carriage was crowded
but we seemed alone
or so it felt to me

will he imagine you
going to Brighton?

no he won't think anything
too busy watching TV
and drinking his beer
she said

she held my hand
and talked of her kids
and her father
who wasn't well
and looking forward
to meeting you
she added

I looked at her
as she spoke
her hair dark and curled
her eyes bright as stars

we made it to Brighton
and got off the train
and walked down
to the seafront
hand in hand

the sky dark
stars
moon
and lights from shops
and pier

and somewhere
out there
I thought
another life
another world
buzzes on

while here we walked on
along the seafront
taking in the scene
the smell of salt
and sound of sea
crashing on the shore

and her hand small
warm in mine
and the sense
of life going on around
and I feeling
(oh)so fine.

In one of those fogs of London
I boarded the East End train,
The mist was a yellow, evil smog
And then it began to rain.
I found a compartment, only two
To bother my peaceful ride,
And placed my case at my feet, in place
With my gold-blocked name outside.

The smell of the fog was drifting in
And burning my eyes and throat,
I said to the man, ‘Let fresh air in…’
He sat and buttoned his coat.
‘The air out there is as bad as in,’
He said with a scowl and stare,
‘You might be happy to sit and choke,
The window stays up, I swear.’

I leant well back, and looked at the girl
Who sat there, opposite me,
She wore her skirt right up to the hip,
I stared at her stockinged knee,
Her eyes were bright, an emerald green
But tears I saw on her cheek,
‘This fog,’ she muttered, and wiped them dry,
‘I think it was worse last week.’

‘But London’s always suffered from fog,’
I ventured, ‘Back in the day,
The Ripper used it to hide his crimes,
He used it getting away.’
‘Overblown,’ he said, the man in the coat,
‘There’s many was worse than he,
The blood ran thick in the gutters here
At times in our history.’

‘But he’s the one who never got caught,
You must at least give him that.’
The man slunk down in his corner seat,
Then sat, and played with his hat.
The girl just smiled, and said in a while,
I think you’re right, he’s the one,
I wouldn’t like, on a foggy night
To meet him, minus a gun.’

The man reached into his overcoat
And seized the girl with a sigh,
Holding a cut-throat razor to
Her throat, with a smile so sly.
‘I said I’d never do this again
But I must admit, I lied,
I noticed the name on your carry case,
You’re Jekyll, I see – I’m Hyde!’

David Lewis Paget

which were the center of the Earth.
A rill, a gentle excite that rolled from side to side
touching the verdant moors and bridging the tepid winds
through the mirthy wood.
          
                                                                                                   She

afluntered, pivoting in circles,
pronouncing an aubade for a throng

anthropolatrating agelasts.

Her palms and dactyls outstretched. A chilliad had passed, still her astereognosis never produced the fields and trunks before her. Amending the acronycal light an aeolistic caitiff arose, piercing the crowd, rising to her circumference. This clapperdudgeon and callet woman rang out in a cacophony of sharp jabbering, then another blellum arrived, then another carker, soon they were all cloffin at the pyre.

                       Her lips

                                                       instantly wet, her mouth broke its pursed chastity, and among the meek she suddenly was overcome with an incredible basorexia.

And so she began, bussing left to right, osculating
the buffoons and bavians.
Some cullion tried their way

                                                                             towards & towards

   and then disappeared in a comestion, another dratchell roused himself, sudorous and covered in culch. The concilliabule was dwaible now, those who weren't prying for her kisses were dwaling about frantically croodling, mooing, even barking. This wild frenzied lot of basiation and baisements. Beazing in the dying sun she began to crose and cough. Her blood and spit, her saliva became estiferous and unstable, she began to eroteme herself, her healthy figure was now ectomorphic. Her thoughts were unsettling, she began to fantasize her own decollation. Some sauntering madman with a sleek leather overcoat and an enormous hatchet hunching over her. It overcame her, this auto deicidal ideology in addition, the sweet kir began to wear off, and all she could feel was lackluster, emptiness, indifference. Eventually her acrasia overcame her and in her accidia and overbearing mania she took her own life. Her head slipped from her shoulders and rolled casually past her body, her knees collapsing before her feet, before her torso. And the abderian men and women cackled,

just sat and stared

her life, her love, all gone and              disappeared.

IVE GIVEN YOU EVERYTHING. Ripped out my ******* heart and handed it to you on a silver platter and what don't you understand about that? I did, for you, the most vulnerable thing someone can do. So never treat me like I'm ordinary because you control the one thing that drives my emotions. So when you're lonely and missing me, remember that's where I am at every moment of everyday. See everyone feels things differently, but why do I feel for you a love so big it's the entire country of Russia? When you feel for me, well a love that's grand but I'm not sure how grand because you've never actually disclosed the information. Why is my love so big and so consuming that it turns me into someone I hate when we're not together? My anxiety without you is like your 8th grade best friend out to be exactly like you, but yet change everything about you so she can go behind your back and steal your boyfriend, while then making sure she ruins everything you've worked so hard for. I'm never sure if I have multiple personality because I become someone new every moment anxiety consumes my being and wears my skin as an overcoat, and uses my ego as a umbrella from the storm that is my train of thought. I DO NOT FEEL NORMAL. But does anyone, ever? What I'm trying to say is that, I love you. So don't ever take that **** for granted because I will become the Kanye West and Miley Cyrus of breakups. I will be everywhere you look even when you don't want to see me. All I ever wanted was to love someone and have them love me in return and now I have that. This feeling is the best worst thing and I'm trying to manage as I go. Loving a mentally unstable person is never easy, but ****** you try your best. I have to learn to love myself the same way you love me and I am taking small steps, but I am still moving forward.

"A patient man bides his time,"
Theodore tells the man in the mirror
Tomorrow, all the levees will break
And all the fables will be told
Of distant Decembers and forgotten fathers

Livelihoods will be threatened
And remorse will fall by the wayside
He watches as icicles on the awning
Melt away into puddles on the ground
"Warmer every day," he thinks to himself

He hangs up his scarf and overcoat
The way a simple man, with complex demons, is wont to do
And as his wants devolve into needs
And as all his anchors deteriorate to rust
Her smile unnerves a once-settled man

To think of the quality of glove necessary
To hold onto the wagon in this day and age
So Theodore pulls the door to,
Leaving Chopin's "Horseman" to gallop in peace
And in pieces

He watches her from across the courtyard
"Such sweet bliss in her footsteps," he sighs
And it seems to him as if the snow dissipates
Just from the warmth in her steady gait
Just from the radiation behind her brown eyes

He slides open the dresser drawer
A haven for scattered trinkets, odds, and ends
A place of respite for the weary souvenir
There, amidst all the corroded memories
Lies a corroded pistol, unspoken and unburnished

"And a lonely man drinks his wine,"
Theodore says, as intrepidly as he is capable
For there is a time when fathers stop teaching
A time when mothers stop singing
And a place where the sins stop searching

A last breath is deeply inhaled
But never again will find its escape
With a thud that echoes to Seymour Street
Theodore crumples to the cold wooden floor,
A simple man, finally free of complex demons

Sleep visits me again, a man
in a grey overcoat, smiling, beckoning.
It's easier than you think, he tells me
just like they say, counting sheep
and stars. There are somnambulists
and the creak of bedsprings, some nights
silence, but more often the clock ticks back
and forth. I sit beside the bed
with its sagging dust ruffle and watch over
the sleep of the living. It's funny,
he says, stifling the lamplight,
especially when they talk, and when they dream.

I wonder what its like to look at a mirror, stare at your reflection and not want to reject it
Eject it into a vat of ether so it burns slow like tuna casserole
I know i shouldn't be writing about these things but its been haunting me since i was 16
Still young and somewhat pristine but no one went my way like cards on a riverboat, I've hid that feeling for a long time with an overcoat
Made of self deprecation and little derivation from that formula of running from things i cant see, but you cant avoid your own feelings
When they hammer into you like nails on a wall,
Its a winder I'm still standing up posted like a ghostbuster in city hall...

I wouldve been gone years ago, bur music saved me y'all.

~ the director

one woman in particular became trapped in a man’s body and he married her.  a child they tried not to have soon arrived and brought with it a list of demands from the others.

his peers double crossed each other in small houses.  he himself was able to get away with punching a young girl for the right to drag a sled.  his child began to accept talking toys in exchange for keeping quiet.  

he was in love with his sister, always had been.  after she was mauled by the dogs meant for his father, he made walking his home until it called itself a hotel

of running.  last year, he caught a movie one had made of his life and though he missed the dedication

he did not miss
the death row scene, the saw his brother took from the cake, the plain basket
as it moved
with his mother

from bike
to bike…  

~ transmissible

the stomach remains dumb

the way she finds this out on a school bus

the way her mother
after losing
a child  

~ ephemeron

cornfield visionaries, they sat around the ball as if it were fire.  I myself was tired of magic

so we played four short and the ball was a fact.  a hard period planted in mud

or a long quote
buzzing the ears
together.  

~ alleviant

of all places a park bench will do for the man not yet reading but planning to the children’s book with its cover of mother and child and kitchen and some kind of batter on the child’s face.  presently the man is alone much as his mother is alone in one of his fingers.  two men nearby are drinking from a water fountain and in turn are each palming the low **** for the other.  they are friends but only by length of service and the man can tell one is aggressive and the other allows it.  the book itself is disappointing.  the child is just ***** and the mother is just angry and they learn only to be themselves.  the men at the fountain become two men on a bench and the reader scoots over to hear about the voice of god as ****** children take the park.

~ amends

your house in foreclosure and you leave it and you are holding two bags of cat food.
  
sometimes a tricycle is a particular tricycle
trying to clear
with its back wheel
the low cinema
of your bare
foot.  

I am mugged in your dream and mugged in mine and mugged by a woman in both.

I hope we can meet without talking money.  this story my mother gave me
about the world’s first invisible man
is a keeper.  he was born

that way.

your mother I saw her setting the patio table for two and I looked away but could hear
no one
beating her.

we can talk about your cat.    

~ homology

the empty raccoons by their emptiness have kept the priest awake.  the church dumpsters wheel themselves into the world and he watches.  he tells his mother it is the silence of god.  she shrinks from him more and more and eventually fits through a door he cannot see.  his house fills with garbage and he becomes convinced he is wearing gloves.  we do not argue.  he raises them with his hands to take them off with his teeth.      

~ fiction

my age, father paints an abstract jesus.  mother has the kitchen to herself and sits.  mother watches my brother lift a chair and leave.  my sister lets a train pass and bites at the shoulder strap of her bra.  not my age, I draw a violinist.  draw a dog at the neck of its owner.  at my age of apple and rope, I prefer god’s early work.

~ monodist

online, I pretended to be writing a very long obituary.  in house, I dreamt not of my wife but of a grape being rolled by a palm gently toward a grape the dream could not see.  as it is in heaven, I was not all there.

~ signage

I was limping the edge of the pond so as to confirm in the world my clearance given to me as before by frogs.  my punched nose was warm and my grief melted from it and I cupped my hands together for the blood and what mixed with it and when the cup was full I halved it and my already thick shoelaces thickened.  soon into this drama one frog jumped from the pond and I startled that indeed it was no frog but a toad or some form of toad.  I followed it woozily from my father’s land onto the land of the man who’d fathered the boy whose fist had found so recently fistfight heaven.  the toad was dull save for its hop from water and save for its courage and save for a sickly orange spot on its back that was a star when the toad paused and a mangled star otherwise.  everything had been planned and my body wanted to be generous to the toad and it was hard not to run or use my hands or ruin this paradise that I knew then as vengeance but now see as existential plagiarism which is nonetheless vengeance.  I told myself I would not rub the toad over me and I had to convince myself repeatedly.  the boy was no doubt inside the house as his dog was not to be seen but his sister was sprawled on two towels as she was very tall and her sunglasses were cocked enough so that her right eye could see mine.  the toad was in her mouth immediately and then her throat bulged but went quickly back to its original.  I lost the toad forever then but its orange star surfaced on the right and then the left of her belly button.  I told her I would see her at school and I would but this was the last time I would see her in anything but an overcoat and that boy would try and come close but never again pin me down.      

~ discipline

somehow sweet in his want of no trouble, the unwashed man goes hand in hand with your father to the backyard where they wrestle as if hurt were people keeping them apart.  your father’s jaw comes loose, the man’s ear seems held by too small a magnet.  at window you a sickly child with overbite and a scarecrow’s pipe stroke the puppet-corn hair of a sister’s doll and walk it cloud to defrosted cloud.  amidst this bartering of vanished weight your mother is being made to balance on her bare stomach a glass of lemonade.  in three days the man will come back, your father a bit healed, your mother less angry about straws.

~ the rabbits

the head of a shovel enters the earth of this southern field.  there is no more give here than in the northern.  the burying boy has been long facing the wind and will be longer.  in walking toward the boy, the old man’s knees have locked.  the old man is seen by the boy and the old man waves upright in the wind’s gnaw.  the tops of the boy’s legs reach his stomach.  

~ archaism

a man carrying his dog stops to kneel.  for my distance from him, I am disallowed any inquiry that would flower.  he sets the black dog in front of him in the manner I have imagined god at the simple chore of placing those first shadows.  I am holding my son nostalgically, almost forgetting how my tooth would ache and his tooth would ache and both would be things I knew and he didn’t.

~ sincerely

the males had in them a sloth and a jolly fog of sportsmanship

and in the females a mistake was made.

against frogs, and against the dim leaping
of frogsong

I had this friend

broke his arm
while *******  
at the wheel.  

I put my arm in the grief of my arm.

I ripped out of the old tavern
Into the torn indigo overcoat
And traveled under the porticoes of a billion fantastic stars
To celebrate this marvelous November night.

In the labyrinth of bricks and stones
I hum and whistle the Irish song
Like a singer before the orchestra, my multitudes.
How exquisite—Avec un plaisir de génie—is my peripatetic existence!
Lungs full of air, and I see the Muse in me.

My treasured newsboy cap from a thrift shop spins on my hand,
And my feet bubbles off the floor like soda pops.
I pray my gratitude to the one above the altar
For my indomitable freedom. Amen.

A pocket change rolling, bikes uninhabited, and lampposts perpetual.
A rolled cigarette wantonly leaned between my sticky lips.
Autumnal dews wetted my forehead like spiriting wine.
And while, scarf blowing, boots tattered,  
I raised my odalisque eyes heavenward
The world pixelated above my moist eyes
Like a seabed of jewelry stars

The old man sat on the long park bench
Where the children used to play,
He seemed to be harmless, sitting there
Though he’d be there every day.
His pockets were always full of sweets
And he’d smile a kindly smile,
But mothers would huddle nervously,
They suspected him of guile.

‘What do you think he’s up to,’ said
One mother to her friend,
‘I’ve read some terrible things about
Young children and old men.’
‘Can’t you see that he’s harmless,
He’s so old, and frail and sick,
He’s just like a kindly grandfather
Who walks with a walking stick.’

‘He shouldn’t be handing out those sweets,
We don’t know what’s inside,
What if it’s something horrible
And one of the children died?’
‘You need to become more trusting,
He’s out here in the light of day,
I hope that he didn’t hear you,
That’s a terrible thing to say!’

He smiled and nodded, and fell asleep
Sat back on the wooden seat,
His overcoat had seen better days
And so, the shoes on his feet,
He woke when the children whooped about,
Swung high on the rusty swings,
Tempted the children with his sweets
And to some, he muttered things.

‘What did the old man say to you?’
One whispered to her son,
“He asked if I wanted knowledge, if
I did, then he’d give me some.’
‘You’re not to speak to him anymore,’
The woman cried, in fear,
It isn’t right that he fills your head,
By rights, he shouldn’t be here.’

She went to sit on the wooden seat
And she grabbed him by the sleeve,
‘What do you mean by ‘knowledge’ then,
I think you ought to leave!’
‘I mean no harm, I’m a kindly man
And I love those children dear,
I’d give my all to be young again
And I feel young when they’re near.’

She nodded, said that she felt ashamed,
And patted him on the arm,
Then got up, leaving her son to play
She’d lost all sense of alarm.
The boy was tempted again by sweets
And the old man grabbed his hand,
‘Just stare right into my eyes, my boy,
I’ll take you to fairyland.’

The old man’s eyes were hypnotic when
He stared, and soon glowed red,
And then the little boy trembled as
A lifetime flowed in his head,
The old man smiled, and his hand relaxed
As the young boy turned to go,
‘At last,’ he capered, and danced about,
And the old man sank back, slow.

The mother came to collect her son,
He was nowhere on the green,
She went to the old man on the bench,
‘Where’s John? You must have seen!’
The old man struggled to sit upright
And held out a trembling hand,
‘I’ve waited ever so long for you,
But I don’t think I can stand!’

David Lewis Paget

black lung whispered
abject terror in my ears
a circle of candles
and closed eyes
made plainly naked
by the thought of you
beneath the rising tide

i poured raw honey
down your abyssal throat
stole a different form
and fell into your arms
only sweet goodbyes
as i grabbed my overcoat

do you think you'll ever lay her to rest?
allow her to sleep?
she's stayed awake for months on end
and every time she tried to close her eyes
you shook her awake
again

telling just one more tale
one more tall story
one more lie
that we must all
simply listen to

listen to this little ditty
i'm sure you'll recall it
once i'm done
do you remember the time we...?
no.. not really..

without sleep
all she sees are hallucinations
disjointed recollections
of the tissue paper life
that blows..

in the breeze

did you know
sleep deprivation
is a form of torture?

and you have kept her up
long enough

and she's tired of being worn
like an overcoat
as your splendid outer garment
in all it's melancholy finery
passersby remark
on how well you wear her
and you have the audacity to say
'Oh this old thing'

she's wearing thin and eventually
she'll disappear
altogether

she's becoming threadbare in places
and no matter how tightly
you wrap yourself up in her
she won't keep you warm

but that's only because
you don't want her to get warm
or let her go to sleep
you just won't let her rest in peace
will you

Hello, Mr Wall Street
Mr. Wall Street,
Yes, YOU
You in the Perfect Suit

Here are your instructions:

Take off your polished handmade Italian shoes
Yes, take them off, right here in the street
Don't ague with me!

Peel off those long thin black dress socks
Feel the pavement under your
Smooth, clean white feet

Leave your former shoes to
Cry for their former owner
Some panhandler will grab them
and give them a very different life

Now walk into the cheap barber shop
And tell the barber to shave your head
Yes - all of your hair

That full head of thick corporate hair
Falling to the floor in a pile of silver silk
As the barber hides his laughter

Now walk barefoot and bald
in your $3000 pinstriped business suit
and your silk tie and cufflinks and starched white shirt
and cashmere overcoat

Walk barefoot though the financial district
Everyone will stare
Your colleagues and friends and competitors will laugh
As dust collects on your smooth, supple clean white soles

Destroy your privilege
Cut ties
Burn your bridges
But first cross over to the other side
Become an outsider

Barefoot bald and humiliated

You can start again

Sensible, I'd
think it was the way.
Your heart grew claws
that latched on to my skin
and I wore your obsession
like an overcoat that smells like
mothballs because I was ashamed
to wear it for so long.

And I wrote you
eighty page love notes filled with
all of my nonsensical prose just
so you'd never know exactly
what it is I dream.

And at night I'd pretend
you're lying next to me, a warm
presence for a stiff like me.
And for once my cheeks
would be rose and my
eyes a little lighter,
but in the morning
you're never there
and I am only
human
once again.

A slow walk up Centennial
and I still can’t find the place
it's menacing cold, and muted
and the street sweeper and winter breeze
move the Turkish blend and dust pack

A novice mixed duet plays
Brahms on broken strings
the erhu and overcoat
veiling a blue heeler and sphinx

Maggianos is settled in the center block’s
luminance and seasonal drape
it's festive warmth bringing home Bedford Falls;
the flavour and character and social circles

Annie’s playing and the keeper's singing
(his word pool and slander
raising everyone in arms!)
the crowd chants and mayhem breaks
as crawlers and contemporaries
smash their steins

Dark alleys and dripping holes
hold a grim reminder of the pierced underside
paddies flutter and forge their words
with a broad manifesto

Night gardens come alive
(slowly sapping the respite)
hunched figures and ladies in lace
shuffle inside the big orange door

"As you are bewitched
By my beauty
Allow me to be a bit naughty!

Pleasure expect not to gain
Without a little pain.

Take me to
The most expensive
Restaurants that exist.
Let me order dishes top
On the menu list.
Hurry, let us go
To another place
Having for an open -kitchen
A space.
Don't you doubt
I have interest
For a none-stop bout.

Buy me
Expensive cosmetics
And shoes
Dresses and an overcoat
And what not?
Not forgetting money
For transport.

Though when
You got me first, I was broke
I had a pride strong
Like a rock!"

Although you seem a dove,
A wolf in a sheep's skin,
You are blind to
A genuine love,
Hence,I have decided
The problem to solve!
Before you jilt me
When I have nothing
For you to siphon,
Finish with you
I ought
As love must not be
A typhoon.


So dove,
Helpless, may helps you
God who is above!

Inconspicuous, his presence noted only by the obscurity and the ever growing number of spent cigarette stubs that littered the ground.  It had been a long day and the rain, relentless in its tenacity had little intention of stopping, baleful clouds still  hung heavy, dominating the lateness of the afternoon sky, a rain laden skyline broken only by smoke filled chimney pots and the tangled snarl of corroded television aerials.

     The once busy street was fast emptying now, the lure of shop windows no longer enticed the casual browser as local traders closed their premises to the oncoming night, solitary lampposts curved hazily into the distance, casting little more than insipid pools mirrored in the gutter below, only the occasional stranger scurrying home on a bleak, rain swept afternoon, the hurried slap of wet leather soles on the pavement, the sightless umbrellas, the infrequent rumble of a half filled bus, hell-bent on its way to oblivion.

     In the near distance as the working day ended, a sudden emergence of factory workers told Beamish it was 5-o'clock, most would be hurrying home to a hot meal, while others, for a quick drink perhaps before making the same old sorry excuse... for Jack, the greasy spoon would be closing about now, denying him the comfort of a badly needed cuppa' and stale cheese sandwich.  A subtle legacy of lunchtime fish and chips still lingered in the air, Jack's stomach rumbled, there was little chance of a fish supper for Beamish tonight, it protested again... louder.

     From beneath the eaves of the building opposite several pigeons broke cover, startled by the rattle as a shopkeeper struggled to close the canvas awning above his shop window.  Narrowly missing Beamish they flew anxiously over the rooftops, memories of the blitz sprang to mind as Jack stepped smartly to one side, he stamped his feet... it dashed a little of the weather from his raincoat, just as the rain dashed a little of the pigeons' anxiety from the pavement... the day couldn't get much worse if it tried.  Shielding his face, Jack struck the Ronson one more time and cupped the freshly lit cigarette between his hands, it was the only source of heat to be had that day... and still it rained.

     'By Appointment to Certain Personages...' the letter heading rang out loudly... 'Jack Beamish ~ Private Investigator...' a throat choking mouthful by any stretch of the imagination, thought Jack and shot every vestige of credulity plummeting straight through the office window and amidst a fanfare of trumpet voluntary, nominate itself for a prodigious award in the New Year Honours list.   Having formally served in a professional capacity for a well known purveyor of pickled condiments, who  incidentally, brandished the same patronage emblazoned upon their extensive range of relish as the one Jack had more recently purloined from them... a paid commission no less, which by Jack's certain understanding had made him, albeit fleeting in nature, a professional consultant of said company... and consequently, if they could flaunt the auspicious emblem, then according to Jack's infallible logic, so could Jack.  

     The recently appropriated letterhead possessed certain distinction... in much the same way, Jack reasoned, that a blank piece of paper did not... and whereas correspondence bearing the heading 'By Appointment' may not exactly strike terror into the hearts of man... unlike a really strong pickled onion, it nevertheless made people think twice before playing him for the fool, which sadly, Jack had to concede, they still invariably did... and he would often catch them wagging an accusing finger or two in his direction with such platitudes as... "watch where you put your foot", they'd whisper, "that Jack's a right Shamus...", and when you'd misplaced your footing as many times as Jack had, then he reasoned, that by default the celebrated Shamus must have landed himself in more piles of indiscretion than he would readily care to admit, but that wouldn't be quite accurate either, in Jack's line of work it was the malefactor that actually dropped him in them more often than not.

     A cold shiver suddenly ran down his spine, another quickly followed as a spurt of icy water from a broken rain spout spattered across the back of his neck, he grimaced... Jack's expression spoke volumes as he took one final pull from his half soaked cigarette and flicked it, amid an eruption of sparks against the adjacent brick wall.  Sinking further into the shadow he tipped his fedora against the oncoming rain, then, digging both hands deep within his pockets, he huddled behind the upturned collar of his gabardine... watching.

     It was times such as these when Jack's mind would slip back, in much the same way you might slip back on a discarded banana peel, when a matter of some consequence, or in particular this case the pavement, would suddenly leap up from behind and give the back of Jack's head a resoundingly good slapping and tell him to "stop loafing around in office hours... or else", then drag him, albeit kicking and screaming back into the 20th century.  This intellectual assault and battery re-focused Jack's mind wonderfully as he whiled away the long weary hours until his next cigarette; cup of tea, or the last bus home, his capacity to endure such mind boggling tedium called for nothing less than sheer ******-mindedness and very little else... Beamish had long suspected that he possessed all the necessary qualifications.  

     Jack had come a long way since the early days, it had been a long haul but he'd finally arrived there in the end... and managed to pick up quite a few ***** looks along the way.  Whilst he was with the Police Constabulary... and it was only fair to stress the word 'with', as opposed to the word 'in'... although the more Jack considered, he had been 'with' the arresting officer, held 'in' the local Bridewell... detained at Her Majesties pleasure while assisting the boys in blue with their enquiries over a minor infringement of some local by-law that currently had quite slipped his mind at that moment.  Throughout this enforced leisure period he'd managed to read the entire abridged editions of Kilroy and other expansive works of graffiti exhibited in what passed locally as the next best thing to the Tate Gallery, whereupon it hadn't taken Jack very long to realise that it was always a good place to start if you wanted free breakfast, in fact the weeks bill of fare was tastefully displayed in vivid, polychromatic colour on the wall opposite... you just had to be au-fait with braille.
                            
     No matter how industrious Beamish laboured to rake the dirt there always appeared to be a dire shortage of gullible clients for Jack to squeeze, what would roughly translate as an honest crust out of, and although his financial retainer was highly competitive he understood that potential clients found it bewildering when grappling with the unplumbed depths of his monthly expense account, which would tend to fluctuate with the same unpredictability as the British weather, the rest of Jack's agenda revolved around a little shady moonlighting... in fact he'd happily consider anything to offset the remotest possibility of financial delinquency... short of extortion... which by the strangest twist was the very word prospective clients would cry while Jack beavered around the office with dust-pan and brush sweeping any concerns they may have had frantically under the carpet regarding all culpability of his extra-curricular monthly stipend... and they should remain assured at all times... as they dug deep and fished for their cheque books, and simply look upon it as kneading dough, which eerily enough was exactly the thick wedge of buttered granary that Jack had every intention of carving.

     Were there ever the slightest possibility that a day could be so utterly wretched, then today was that day, Jack felt a certain empathy as he merged with his surroundings... at one with nature as it were.  The rain, a timpani on the metal dustbin lids, by the side of which Beamish had taken up vigil, also taking up vigil and in search of a morsel was the stray mongrel, this was the third time now that he'd returned, the same apprehensive wag, yet still the same hopeful look of expectation in his eyes, a brief but friendly companion who paid more attention to Jack's left trouser leg than anything that could be had from nosing around the dustbins that day... some days you're the dog, scowled Beamish as he shook his trouser leg... and some days the lamppost, Jack's foot swung out playfully, keeping his new friend's incontinence at a safe distance, feigning indignance  the scruffy mongrel shook himself defiantly from nose to tail, a distinct odour of wet dog filled the air as an abundance of spent rainwater flew in all directions.   Pricking one ear he looked accusingly at Jack before turning and snuffled off, his nose resolutely to the pavement and diligently, picking out the few diluted scents still remaining, the poor little stalwart renewed its search for scraps, or making his way perhaps to some dry seclusion known only to itself.
  
     Two hours later and... SPLOSH, a puddle poured itself through the front door of the nearest Public House... SPLOSH, the puddle squelched over to the payphone... SPLOSH, then, fumbling for small change dialled and pressed button 'A'..., then button 'B'... then started all over again amid a flurry of precipitation... SPLASH.  The puddle floundered to the bar and ordered itself a drink, then ebbed back to the payphone again... the local taxi company doggedly refused to answer... finally, wallowing over to the window the puddle drifted up against a warm radiator amidst a cloud of humidity and came to rest... flotsam, cast upon the shore of contentment, the puddle sighed contentedly... the Landlady watched this anomaly... suspiciously.

     The puddle's finely tuned perception soon got to grips with the unhurried banter and muffled gossip drifting along the bar, having little else to loose, other than what could still be wrung from his clothing... Beamish, working on the principle that a little eavesdropping was his stock-in-trade engaged instinct into overdrive and casually rippled in their general direction...  They were clearly regulars by the way one of them belched in a well rehearsed, taken-a-back sort of way as Jack took stock of the situation and was now at some pains to ingratiate himself into their exclusive midst and attempt several friendly, yet relevant questions pertinent to his enquiries... all of which were skillfully deflected with more than friendly, yet totally irrelevant answers pertinent to theirs'... and would Jack care for a game of dominoes', they enquired... if so, would he be good enough to pay the refundable deposit, as by common consent it just so happened to be his turn...  Jack graciously declined this generous offer, as the obliging Landlady, just as graciously, cancelled the one shilling returnable deposit from the cash register, such was the flow of light conversation that evening... they didn't call him Lucky Jack for nothing... discouraged, Beamish turned back to the bar and reached for his glass... to which one of his recent companions, and yet again just as graciously, had taken the trouble to drink for him... the Landlady gave Jack a knowing look, Beamish returned the heartfelt sentiment and ordered one more pint.

     From the licenced premises opposite, a myriad of jostling customers plied through the door, business was picking up... the sudden influx of punters rapidly persuaded Beamish to retire from the bar and find a vacant table.  Sitting, he removed several discarded crisp packets from the centre of the table only to discover a freshly vacated ashtray below... by sleight of hand Jack's Ronson appeared... as he lit the cigarette the fragile smoke curled blue as it rose... influenced by subtle caprice, it joined others and formed a horizontal curtain dividing the room, a delicate, undulating layer held between two conflicting forces.

     The possibility of a free drink soon attracted the attention of a local bar fly, who, hovering in the near vicinity promptly landed in Jack's beer, Beamish declined this generous offer as being far too nutritious and with the corner of yesterdays beer mat, flipped the offending organism from the top of his glass, carefully inspecting his drink for debris as he did so.

     A sudden draught and clip of stiletto heels as the side door opened caused Beamish to turn as a double shadow slipped discreetly into the friendly Snug... a little adulterous intimacy on an otherwise cheerless evening.  The faceless man, concealed beneath a fedora and the upturned collar of his overcoat, the surreptitious lady friend, decked out in damp cony, cheap perfume and a surfeit of bling proclaimed a not too infrequent assignation, he'd seen it all before... the over attentive manner and the band of white, Sun-starved skin recently hidden behind a now absent wedding token, ordinarily it was the sort of assignment Jack didn't much care for... the discreet tail, the candid snapshot through half drawn curtains... and the all too familiar steak tartare... for the all too familiar black eye.

     To the untrained eye, the prospect of Jack's long anticipated supper was rapidly dwindling, when it suddenly focused with renewed vigour upon the contents of a pickled egg jar he'd observed earlier that evening, lurking on the back counter, his enthusiasm swiftly diminished however as the belching customer procured the final two specimens from the jar and proceeded to demolish them.  Who, Jack reflected, after being stood out in the rain all day, had egg all over his face now... and who, he reflected deeper, still had an empty stomach.  Disillusioned, Jack tipped back his glass and considered a further sortie with the taxicab company.

     "FIVE-BOB"!!! Jack screamed... you could have shredded the air with a cheese grater... hurtling into the kerb like a fairground attraction came flying past the chequered flag at a record breaking 99 in Jack's top 100 most not wanted list of things to do that day... and that the cabby should think himself fortunate they weren't both stretched flat on a marble slab, "exploding tyres" Jack spluttered, dribbling down his chin, were enough to give anyone a coronary... further broadsides of neurotic ambiance filled the cab as the driver, miffed at the prospect of missing snooker night out with the lads, considered charging extra for the additional space Jack's profanity was taking...

     And what part of 'Drive-Carefully', fumed Beamish, did the cabby simply not understand, that pavements were there to be bypassed, 'Nay Circumvented', preferably on the left... and not veered into, wildly on the front axle... an eerie premonition of 'jemais-vu' perched and ready to strike like a disembodied Jiminy Cricket on Jack's left shoulder, looking to stick its own two-penny worth in at the 'Standing-Room-Only' arrangements in the overcrowded cab... and at what further point, Jack shrieked, eyes leaping from his head as he lurched forward, shaking his fist through the sliding glass partition, had the cabbie failed to grasp the importance of the word 'Steering-Wheel...' someone wanted horse whipping, and as far as Beamish was concerned the sole contender was the cab driver...

     In having a somewhat sedate and unruffled disposition it had fallen to Beamish... as befalls all great leaders in times of adversity, to single handedly take the bull by the horns, so to speak and at great personal cost, alert the unwary passing motorist...  Waving his arms about like a man possessed whilst performing acrobatic evolutions in the centre of the road as the cabby changed the wheel came whizzing around the corner at a back breaking 98 on Jack's ever growing list... and why, Jack puzzled, why had they all lowered their side windows and gestured back at him in semaphore..?  Rallying to its aid, Jack's head and shoulders now joined his shaking fist through the sliding glass partition and into the cabby's face, "Who" Beamish screeched with renewed vigour ,"Who Was The Man", Jack wanted to know... *"a

I'm sitting on a shelf, wrapped in plastic, with maybe a millimeter of space between me and my partner. We all look the same, but really it's just a mask. That cheery yellow overcoat; the perfect, clean ridges, the sparkling tattoo written in green, all of it a lie. For soon my body will be devoured. My truths will be exposed. The black point that holds all  knowledge will be revealed, layer by layer, inch by inch. I don't know what kind of treatment I will recieve but there are plenty of possibilities. I may be used for knowledge, for love letters, for art beyond my wildest dreams. I may be used as a distraction from any little thing.  I may also be abused; my skin pierced, bitten, the flesh ruined. My knowledge may be broken, or worse I may be left alone in the dust. The worst possible thing, even worse than any injuries, is to be abandoned and be wasting away. For my life isn't worth living if there's nothing to do, nobody to inspire, and if my yellow overcoat of lies stays the same length forever.  If my disgustingly pink brain is not used and my knowledge stay intact, there may be a chance that I could be used, but theres always that chance that I won 't be. I stare at my companions, some are eager, others terrified, but on the outside, we all look the same. For us time is frozen, until someone makes the first ****.

I'd see that face that savaged nights
Picasso’s artful effigy scowls
on plate glass windows
high rise grimaces
mock

Is this for real, for he's sailed on
beyond deep seas to places wild
do clouds stoop down to part
stop searching vapid
drive

Or is this his iconic stride
dark overcoat pulled high
winds snatching imprints
left behind in harried
haste

Each time I attempt to conclude
this equation,
I arrive at the same intersection of doubt,
as if fate sees me coming.

1) Highway ****** Crash
2) The Evasive Goings-on in The Puppy Court
3) A Picture of Susan Howe in a Man's Grey Overcoat

These sequences of event all appeared to me in dreams. The same dream, repeated, over a succession of winter nights. The first few sober, the last an alert blur, wherein the images seemed to make the most sense.

All I can be assured of is this:
because the police officer in the dream was a police officer
Not a garda síochana or police inspector
the dream was definitely set in one of the Midwest United States
where I've never been, yet oddly interests me more than Canada,
where the same applies. It was definitely  freezing
(perhaps the blanket had been pulled off me in sleep?)
and the police officer definitely spoke English and said
"Highway" Hence: American.

The first night the dream arrived
It was that time of year when the night sky
subtly tricks you into believing that
morning is imminently about to break.

Those nights
A reminder that nature
was the first coy tease of suspended disbelief
the first pay-per-view special that took its time
getting going and then ended all too soon.

Two trucks had split in two a mid-size saloon-
That was the first of the dream's episodes-
But a voice arrived like a roll call of ice before an avalanche
-whispering that it was "a setup"-
which I presumed meant "collusion."
So I had a ******, at hand, in my dream-
speaking to the mustachioed Midwestern police detective afterwards-
as mutually understanding as if we had been in the same all-boys Catholic secondary school.
He had the suspects-so we then presided unto-

"THE PUPPY COURT"

Which was-yes, a court whose racial make-up consisted of young Dogs-
(This being a dream ; Dreams which are often the dictionary definition of Surreal and often don't mean anything)
The more I consider it, the Puppies were also most likely Puppets
Acted out by humans who had fists shoved up their *****.
Perhaps this court was a speculative court-it was, most certainly,
A "Kangaroo" court
With no justice being presided over, as such.
Heckles sounded throughout most of the exhibits,
A sternly yapping Yorkshire Terrier banged the gavel to no avail-
He was consistently rudely interrupted by a cocksure Golden Retriever-
who seemed to have as his boyos most of the bench and the jurors.
I never did find out who was responsible
for the horrific collision that spelled the end for the saloon driver,
as at this point I would usually exit the court in disgust
and for some reason found myself reading a poem in front of
an audience of one-
the acclaimed Irish-American L=A=N==G=U=A=G=E (that's how they spell it..) poet Susan Howe.

Yes, she was indeed wearing a Man's gray Overcoat
Resembling herself in the picture I held in my hand
Next to my own text
And as I looked toward her
The room's low lighting seem to reflect
the sparse "Black and White" filter of the photograph
and she was also wearing what looked like
the same Man's gray (Houndstooth maybe?
She Looked ALL filtered through "Black and White")

So the intention seemed to be that I was reading,
or perhaps presenting, maybe even pitching?
to Susan Howe. ("And how!"-might have been the before-or-after gag I might have used to anyone who new how it was going to go or how it happened-what gamey fun, these puns be...)
Susan looked on with penitence, as if prematurely unimpressed...
I look down to the poem I was expecting myself to read, and realised...
why the ******* did I choose that?

It was a poem I had written several years ago (well, if several means seven, lets say six)
Its subject was a young Canadian (possible Motorway Crash Link? Perhaps I misremembered her as midwestern?..) Muslim student whom I had shared a class on Hellenistic philosophy with back in the first or second year of my undergrad in Dublin (oh the hedonistic, sunsplashed, affordable Dublin of those days) and whom I had shared a flirtatious rapport with, innocent enough of course but always backdropped by a underscored leitmotif that instilled the threat of a problematic outcome across religious and possibly less so cultural divides

(Breath)

Nevertheless, she laughed at my jokes and self-deprecation and would squeeze my arm tightly when particularly amused , would hug me enthusiastically at the end of every class and although I never saw the full profile of her under that headscarf her ****** features Vogue beach fashion shoot stunning and after the module ended I never saw her again oh but how rare and strangely puritanical the lust...

Regardless, the poem began as such:

A Stir in Yemen/ must have been the catalyst for the smokey condensation/ in your gaze/ the mocha swirl in your pupils/ and the vex in your smile/ alluding to double meanings/innuendo that treads together like an Ernst canvas/ a blessed triptych/thrillingly

This poem was typed onto a model of Nokia phone which I have been made aware has since gone out of fashion, like it's producer.

Max Ernst-the surrealist painter, of course. A manual in style for most of us.

In response to my reading, Susan Howe merely nodded silently, seemingly all knowingly, as if she had thought the poem written for her or contained an interpretation that I had unintended (or, if asked by the real-life Susan Howe, would pretend to have intended all along.)

And there the Dream Triptych always ended.

As I said at the beginning I dreamt it twice more that same week, once intoxicated. It always followed the same sequence, and I don't read books on dreams so I have no idea what it meant, why it had three distinct parts or whether if most likely it was all a bit of nonsense. But at least it was INTERESTING.

Make the rest up for yourself.

He slowly assembles his rifle on the barren rooftop as the
     wind blows through his light blond hair.
His long overcoat ***** and wraps around his thin long
    legs.
He places his elbows upon the short wall in front of him,
     firmly kneeling on both knees.
Glancing into the rifle's sight, he focuses sharply through
     its cross hairs; he sees hundreds passing through the sight,
     men, women, children, and as he sees it, a maze
     of mass hysteria.
He thinks of his current desperate situation and with each
     passing thought, his heart pumps more hateful
     adrenaline through his expanding veins.
What am I?....He wonders.
"I am the orphan child too ugly to adopt!
I am the spit in the street you step in and curse!
I am the cockroach so many crush beneath their feet!
I wish to love and beloved, for I am ever so lonely,
     so empty.
I wish to give my whole self to someone to make them
     eternally happy!
To sacrifice all I possess, including my life, for the one
     I love,
but I am thoughtlessly branded a stalker!
I am the void in all broken hearts.
As a child, I only wished to be loved and appreciated,
but I was raised the invisible child.
There's a painful sore in my throbbing brain, the lethal
     virus of society'd disdain.
I'm insane!....I'm insane!...Give me peace, God if you exist
     Give me peace!
He glances once again through the sight's cross hairs,
catching sight of a young boy standing alone, mouth wide open
    with tears rolling down his cheeks.
He pauses.....envisioning himself, his blue eyes cloud
     with tears.
He pulls back back his loaded rifle placing it against the
     short wall,
realizing at the moment this wasn't the way to end his
     unbearable pain.
Reaching into his deep overcoat's pocket, his long fingers
     catch grasp of the cool surface of a 9 mm.
Pulling it slowly from his pocket, he raises it to his temple,
slipping his finger upon its tight trigger he whispers once
     again,
"God....if you exist,
Give me peace."

Between steps
her silence paces
ripples of a memory
keep me company.
And I swear at times
I can feel her hand clenching mine
snug deep in an overcoat pocket;
her breath sighing
into my ear
on the verge of uttering,
but words no longer live there
and
how our bodies pressed so close
our heartbeats were
undistinguishable
and everything rhymed.

some songs i will always like
others songs i have long lost use for

so there is no song for you
all these years later
a quarter of a century
is too many years for someone like you
even for someone like me

you looked like everything was catching up to you
as your face hung, stubble showing through
your make-up

did you ever try and leave this town
this small, expensive town
you never left it
well i did and sadly came back

it was raining
when you got off at the stop
in the bad neighborhood

probably the closest place to town you could afford
i wondered if you weren't doing well finacially
and smiled to myself
remembering you telling me i was so ugly
on many different occasions, a few times
as you burnt incense in your bedroom
making shapely hand guestures in the air,
playing and counting your many cassette tapes
as pictures of madonna looked down
her mole and redlipstick

still look down for you
because you were dressed
the same way you were dressed
in highschool

long black overcoat to slim yourself down
black creepers to add height
i stared out the window
into the look time decided on in your eyes
at you walking on to the only home you could afford
and it looked like something
very fair had finally happened

Kindness, love and beauty, all in the maze of your heart,
Unconditionally, l have loved you since the day we met,
Death is better than to live without your love which is unrated,
Zeal and passion in your love l have made,
Isopyrum flowers so beautiful l can see,
Endless desire of flowers like a flying bee

Rebels can even fight for the unfairness,
Unfortunately l am not a rebel but l fight for love that is endless,
Kudzie you are a piece that can make me whole,
And my heart can be yours in the times of loneliness,
Nature can choose its own path and way,
Directly my heart has chosen where to lie,
And it is only you of course there is nothing that l can say.

I have nothing else to prove only words can tell

Look at me, lonely like a drowsy dead man seen from a mile,
Overcoat me with your heart, your love let me feel,
Violets can never turn red,
Endless love that will never change is all I ever wanted.

You are the hour that can make my day,
Only you can give happiness to my heart that's all l can say,
Unconditional love, the gift that can make my way.

Of elegant languor
with a tint of sepia
melancholy

The romance of
vague longing
and nostalgic bloom
a fading chrysanthemum
perhaps

Taking the promenade
panama hat and shades
suit sewn by hand and
long corporate umbrella

Macintosh and overcoat
by turns repel the
damp and cold

Cognac by the fire
and wistful glances with
widows in the hotel bar

Strolling on with
meaningless purpose
toward Edwardian
disaster