(0)
Fly perfectly straight and high, and show the fly
out of the fly-bottle on your way.
Rise to victory, far above the blue sky,
and reap the reward: the opening of paradise!

The road ahead is clear and open this way,
with things small and big growing and disappearing up this way.
You will see sunrises and sunsets waxing and waning,
with mention of the moon and stars in the dark.
Be mindful as you sway, it's got to be laser-sharp.
There is no hard shoulder on this highway,
miss it by an inch and risk losing everything forever!

There is hope, there is light up high
pick up your paintbrush, just like the sun does
goodness knows how it sneaks in, right in the black
canvas of the night, painting the first light
lo, it shows up in heaven, the candle of the daylight.

As long as there is a man and a woman,
never give up, our canary bird can fly
rosy or not, the nest in every morn nets a sunrise!

(1)
A woman indeed plucks up the courage
she never had to look up to the stars
be it for the guide or the light in the night.
Fathima herself was the full Moon every night
is thanks to her Godsent innate light.

With it, she can bask in the full spread of the pi
on top of its short decimals mounting high
constantly as if countless stars in the sky.

The time and space under the sun
and that under Fathima's light
are far apart from each other
yet they coexist side by side.

As she points out,
"A circle is masculine
while pi is feminine."

Pi forms the circle with fine prints,
decimal dots continue to spring,
sprawling trillions of new digits,
the bandwagon is still increasing.
Connecting the dots is an untouched dream.

The full moon pi picture is veiled,
unseen at large, yet in short, 3.145 it can live!

(2)
Fathima flies her lock of hair
in the lurking air of the transcended pi
the primitive feminine does that,
no wonder she is God's secret feminine opus!
An immeasurable black hole lies in between
the short and transcended pi, running like a river,
dancing anew on every riverbank
in the many curls of Fathima's jet black hair.

She lent out a hair to the planet earth
and crossed over like a silhouette
without spilling out the colour
of the transcended end of the pi.
The earth takes it in the core in her heart
as if it would keepsake it forever.

Weaving the pi in Fathima embeds two hairs ties one
perfect circle at the back and one at the front of the universe.
Inside each hair the earth is finest fluid in the core
none is as deep as high as proportionate a perfect flow.
No time is as revealing no music is as sweet in this orb
no force is as mighty nor as prevailing a true giant
causing gravity and the heat at the earth's core.
Matter and spirit mix free in the play both wax lyrical
thanks to the pure resonance of 'Qun Be' the word of God!

(3)
The way to the earth's core is exposed to none other
save the Angel of Death the lucky one.

See both sides of the one lofty sky swathed in countless stars  
but the day and night render through still remains an unseen one  
Terra is shalet zeroed in Fathima is heaven on earth!  
Up in the sky-high bank turning the starry bowl upside down
Fathima took no star nor a pearl diving deep down the Arab water,
the brightest luminary came after Muhammad (PBUH),
in veil from the Night of Measures and into the flipside in the night
she's gone without lifting the veil but left her penetrating mark.

Few could find the shortcut contemplating on a blank canvas
the Moon looks down into the abyss down the sea eyes on far
for a mirror in the bottom on the as above so below matter
since Godsent Fathima touched on the all-inclusive primitive water.
The sun gets caught up in the very water dew she raised in the sky
the ancient fold of time still unfurls with the sun-kissed flowers
for the new hands yet the fingerprint on the sun remains only her!

Azrael heads to Fathima around the year 632 after death
touches down in Medina on his usual thin earth he steps.  
But this time a little mundane dust couldn't be thicker
he keeps descending deep down to the earth's centre
following from Medina but the angel locates her
inside the perfect circle a closed geometric figure.

(4)
Fathima is the female headline her secret is not all known
when she used to visit the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH)
he would stand up for her hold her hand and kiss it
and seat her on his seat, she would do the same to the prophet
when he would visit her like they did know each other
in and outside the spheres of heaven and earth!

She is the embodiment of the infinite feminine variations
the first spiritual woman created following God's word Qun.
Her is the mother tongue of the ever diversified feminine lingua
no one woman on her own can rhyme with her alone
she has no peer her rhetoric is unique like none other.
The galactic run from planet to planet up on the starry ladder
climbing high up the mountain heaven yet streams out like oval
off their rock bottom stone until that unleashes the final run
in perfect circle delving into the rhythm of the loop at the centre
made of Fathima's hair charged by 'Qun' God's uncreated word.  

Prophet David can sing on the bank of the river
and can see the fish are jumping to him out of the water.
The masculine is open form, eye on everywhere,
but not her the woman is in juxtaposition her
all-inclusive schema supplanting the details rest only on her.
She is the unseen world within the world at best imagine her!
Guess, through this inwardly open door who might disappear?
It's nature before the scientist on ultimate discovery of the matter!  

Aligning with her down the rainbow up high the land absorbs
the grooming sky looking on the running rivers within her.
Her words spread through like the smart cloud that flies far
over the lands and valleys but not even the wind none other
gets a sniff of the potion and melody it caries until that rain down
without a hurdle without a visual she moves on at the target
such a soul needs no after death lift from the angel of death.

Before Azrael Fathima loses an arc of the circle then and there
so not the earth but giant Azrael can take the pressure!
Marked by a fluid discharge since then she is cooling this fire
In Shaa Allah God willing when she ajars it, it will be elixir!  

(5)
Draw a straight line, but it won't be perfect
it keeps bending, fly straight touching the sky
the flight path won't look like a straight line
it would be like the crest of a crescent moon
like curve touched the sky, like climbing up
atop the pyramid is not going high straight on
it goes up from the widespread seked slopes.

Moves in golden ration 1.618 not the full two
and gets the designing formula flawlessly full
micro to macro all levels all the way to the true north!    

Fathima being the original feminine eyeing at her
she can tap in the knowhow of naturally feminine nature.
And discovers the immanent pattern - the world
is pre-designed and measured is never a coincidence.
The creatures' creativity, scientist's science
is to follow, discover working formulas like phi and pi.

Play along it works until an unknown hour strikes
comes with accurate knowledge dead on time
numerically correct never miss taking a life away
as if it was calculated beforehand before the birth.
A newborn is born for a limited time
already set but no one knows when it goes up  
is a deadlock clock but it isn't so shrouded
in the blueprint of the creatures' grand design
there the clock ticks safe and sounds it never dies!  

(6)
Fathima hailing from the other side of the pool
eyes on the ever live pre-design side of the creation!
Then its corporeal face was only a water drop,
the primitive one looks see-through it has dead zero
knowledge of its lively other side of the pool.
She comes closer and perfectly mirrors both sides
that shines through on her reflected face on the water.
An absolute new image that livens up the dead part
Bang - Big Bang! The corporeal world gets the spark
explodes out from the very first drop of the water!

Fathima's appearance was miraculously instrumental
God reveals nature the finite and infinite, 0 and 1,
future in the present and the death and life in play!
Nature follows suit it just saw the perfect role model
banged out but only to its corporeal set
it aspires to be with its infinite reality yet!

Fathima leaves the door open constructing a perfect circle,
hardly straight, took the mixed bag of countless variations
she zooms into the abyss irrational portion of the first matter,
the primitive water drop and aces the circle with her hair
that nothing can equate throughout the corporeal world.
Done the math discovering the zero starting point at the bottom.
The ocean of digit numbers, the DNA of all things material
banged out of it, still, the zero is numberless irrational!

(7)
All things, within oneself and in a set constantly vibrate,
strive to align with the enduring reality of itself.
The atom vibrates to reach out to its immortal portion
that doesn't die and is in the know of its lower base.
The planets are in a defined circular orbit, accurately measured
just the apex on top of their dynamic pyramid the pyramidon
is tucked away; they too have an irrational portion in the circle.

With the finest spin, they zoom in the spacious universe,
in part and like the sun outside the constellations round they go
never miss a target line yet to re-discover Fathima's perfect circle
the origin of their digital essences' breakthrough
the door to their transcended destination de jour.
Lo the matter turns the last stone pulsing across the cosmos
the mortal horizontal spread, the spirit returns home.

The earth has a line in its swansong it has a place in paradise
it's not here to stay for good neither to perish forever!

Matters form and break without losing the rope,
it's not to paint the shades of the eternal blue
but to ace an irrational portion in the circle
at the heart of the earth, as above, so below.  
The deep the high the perfect circle
up and down the centre of gravitation for all!

At even and at odd the vibration within the matter is fluid
somewhere is parched there the arch matter must make a splash.
Far away on that dark beach, the full-fledged sea of the matters
outpours its billowy potion with the Moon on the frontline
from deep within the physical world's most glowed up firefly!

(8)
The seven seas swell up smoothly into the moonlight-dip
oh, the waterless Moon at the core is still fasting.
Led by time the sweet swan punting along the waves
streams down the watery inner circle of the planets.
Until stuck in the Moon no water in the last waterfront
but paradise is on the other side of the pool!  

The sun dips away into the night
while the eve baths in the shades of pink and gold,
the dazzling hues soon turn to taupe.
Drawing down painting the picture in full colour
only to find the time is up on the halfway,
yet to print a colour copy of the night!
The other unseen half is passed down to the Moon
tiptoeing in slow motion in the depths of the night
barely keeping the head afloat in a fathomless ocean
of shades of black hails from where knows no one.  

The sun enkindles the moon half-lit keeping itself away
amid shadows as if comparing the shades now it knows
a Mehrem a veiled female is ahead not to look on or
compared to that the sun has no light or true are both.

Wrapped in the eternal night beneath its black mole
once the moon on the front approaching most close
directly down to the centre of the earth eyes on
over that inlaid string hairy black perfect circle
never did it turn back the same gaze is still on
orbiting around the earth in synchronous rotation.

(9)
The never-ending night is becoming a night indeed
it's coming to an end so soon in our time.
In Shaa Allah I will see it with my eyes before I die
in the Night of Measures in an odd night in Ramadan
Fathima from the transcendental end of irrational heart
will turn on top of the curve opening for the first time
a 9-degree angle in the circle at the centre of the earth.

Instantly the leading force, time will get the first sniff
of the other world, so peaceful heart-melting serene.
Rapturous time feeling an ounce of the enduring peace
for the first time cutting all the corners with ease
will be propelled into its yet uncharted golden mean.
Scurrying to the peaceful abode time will be on its wings
across the globe, people will be stunned seeing
how first the times pass from then on incredibly quick!

Fathima, the first spiritual woman on duty, will start
pulling her hair back off the circle at the centre
Juxtaposed in between the worlds of here and hereafter.
She will take back every inch of it, the heavenly bodies
will feel the pinch of her every little subtle pull
that too is a boon helping them perfect their circle.

(10)
Soon she opens it just 9-degree wide at first
the Moon will see a glimpse of the first drop of water.
Without it, it's living perched without the water of life
that's destined to rain down soon and the Moon
back into its original pond shall revive!
Mapping the pi's whole infinitesimals playground
finally, Fathima will turn the circle upside down
on the dot the stunned sun shall rise in the western sky!

By now under Fathima's hair's shaded closed circle
it must have sailed far over the blue sky in the other world.
Billowing with the breeze over the sea of uncharted water
and stacking to the brim with all that it could discover
humbly stood like a cloud in that corner of the sky.

The time is finally ticking fast to rain down with love
paradise's welcoming schema rendering in waterpaint drops
on the Moon over the sea of matters, that's most glowed up firefly
ah, finally can break the fast sipping in a drop of elixir!
It's their heavenly adopted, Miʿrāj performed, primitive water.
The Moon with the seven seas will leave off the corporeal shell
gliding gracefully with this stately water nymph as if it never dies
and will make a splash plopping into the pond of paradise!  

For the matter ultimately is water and its extent is sound
Fathima will fetch it the water of life and take it to the next life!
Oh, the matter shall do both die and revive with Israfil's sound
the cloud will fly out of the dead water on the ground,
like the earth with chorus songs of the rain revives.
When that a melodious nymph in the water makes waves
see paradise is here the Moon over the sea can't take off its eyes.

(11)
Hang on though they all set ready on their horizontal span  
to pull in such a fluid yet colourful descending like a rainbow swan.
First chaste Fathima will evaporate her hair's perfume away
that's yet lingering in the water warming it up to its premium
no crowd then can see where this heady, fragrant cloud will fly!
There are the momentum and delights where that will alight.

Israfil might then blow his trumpet swooning the world away
the secret will remain a secret exception is said in the Qur'an.
A strange sound will silence the chorus of the innate digits
collapsing the floating cosmos bubbling on their music.  
The corporeal circle will collapse as if there is no base no pi
the melody of the first word Qun means Be will still be loud
supercalifragilisticexpialidocious so how can we all expire?

Israfil too will play his reviving trumpet pure mellifluous
and In Shaa Allah numerically perfect Fathima will rise
amidst the resonant Qun as like she did in the beginning
when except prophet Muhammad (PBUH) there was nothing!
Now the earth once zeroed in beneath her hair will follow her
the stunned terra will discover Fathima took her hair away
only to shift the constellation up onto the upper world!

The old songs of the planets the chorus of the digits will revive
from the zero bases in the core the digital panache that dance
planet upon the planet as if they are always at the perfect hertz.

Indeed that is yet to come, the arts of the fine layers
opening from the irrational pi, the finest one is to flower
when Fathima will unloop her circled hair at the centre
piercing the very immanent irrational cut
that no creation can fathom only the loving creator Allah
will turn odd to even in between the here and hereafter
then the ocean stuck in deep salt shall turn to enduring potion!
The As-Sirat shall turn to be the bridge to paradise
the body shall revive with the enduring soul forever
and with ah Fathima couple shall enter paradise In Shaa Allah
with the rhapsody 'all praise is for Allah' Alhamdulillah!

Backstory: A Memoir

For Vicki

By AT

5

While I was downstairs, folding laundry in the basement, I heard my sister Vicki stomping upstairs to the room that used to be mine, slamming the door, and locking it shut.

I was a ****** older brother. And Vicki learned that action from me.
Then, I heard more footsteps. Louder stomping. And I knew, with certainty, it was Mom coming after her.

I'm not an omniscient narrator, so I don't know what Vicki does when the door is locked.

But I do imagine she is reading. Vicki’s been using her Kindle that Mom got her for Christmas. She adores Gillian Flynn and Suzanne Collins. She's starting to get into Philip Pullman which is swagger. I remember reading His Dark Materials when I was in elementary school.

The Golden Compass ***** you into that world, like during June when you're hitting a bowl for the first time and you're 17, late at night on Bethany beach with your childhood best friend, and the surf is curling against your toes, and the smoke is trailing away from the cherry, and you begin to realize that life isn't all about living in NOVA forever, because the world is more than NOVA, because life is bigger than this hole, that to some people believe is whole, and that's fine, that's fine because many of our parents came here from other small towns, and they wanted to do what we wanted to do, which is to pack up our stuff into the trunk of our presumably Asian branded car, and drive, drive, until they reach a destination that doesn't remind them of the good memories and the bad memories, until memory is mixed in with nostalgia, and nostalgia is mixed in with the past.

Maybe I'm dwelling on backstory, maybe you don't need to hear the backstory.

But I think you do.

Life isn't an eternity,
what I'm telling you is already known, known since there was a spider crawling up the staircase and your dad took the heel of his black dress shoe and dug his heel into that bug. And maybe I'm buggin’, but that bugged me, and now I'm trying to be healthier eating carrots like Bugs. Kale, red onions, and quinoa, as well. Because I want to be there for my sister, Vicki my sister. All we got is a wrapped up box made from God, Mohammad, and Buddha.

Soon, I heard Vicki’s door handle being cranked down and up, up and down.

Mom raised her voice from a quiet storm to a deafening concerto.  
Then, there was silence, followed by a door slamming shut.

Welcome to our life.
Later on that night, Vicki sped out of our cul-de-sac in her silver Honda Accord—a gift from Mom to keep her rooted in Nova—and even from the front porch of my house, I felt a distance from her that was deep and immovable.

I sank deeper into my lawn chair and lit a jack, but instead of inhaling like I usually did, I held it out in front of me and watched the smoke billow out from the cherry.

I always smoked jacks when she was not there, because I didn’t want her to see me knowingly do this to myself, even as I was making huge changes to my life. It’s the one vice I have left, and it’s terrible for me, but I don’t know if she understands that I know both things. Maybe instead of caring about what jacks do to my body, I should care about what she thinks about what I’m doing to myself. This should be obvious to me, but sometimes things aren’t that obvious.

4

As we grew older Vicki and I forged a dialogue, an understanding. She confided in me and I confided in her, sharing secrets, details about our lives that were personal and private, as if we were two CIA agents working together to defeat a totalitarian government—our tiger mom.

But seriously our mom was and still is swagger as ****—rocks Michael Kors and flannel Pajama pants (If I told you that last article of clothing she'd probably pinch my cheek and call me a chipmunk. Don't worry I'm fine with a moderation of self-deprecation).

The other day Mom talked to me about Vicki and explained that she was upset and irritated with Vicki because of her attitude. I thought that was interesting, because I used to have the same exact attitude when I was my sister’s age and I got away with a lot more ****, being that I'm a guy and the first-born. I understood why she would shut the front door, exit our red brick bungalow, and speed away in her Honda Accord, going towards Clarendon, or Adams Morgan, spending her time with her extensive circle of friends on the weekdays and weekends.

Because being inside our house, life could get suffocating and depressing.
Our Grandparents live with us. Grandpa had a stroke and is trying to recover. Grandma has Alzheimer’s and agitates my mom for rides to a Vietnamese Church. Besides the caretakers, Mom, Dad, Vicki, and I are the only ones taking care of my grandparents.

Mom told me that she believes that Vicki uses the house as a hotel. Mom didn't remind me of a landlord, and I believe that Vicki doesn’t see her as that either.

I didn't believe Vicki was doing anything necessarily wrong.

She had her own life.

I had my own life.

Dad had his own life.

Mom had her own life.

I understood why she wanted to go out and party and hang out with her friends. Maybe she was like me when I was 21 and perceived living at home as a prison, wanting to have autonomy and freedom from Mom because she was attempting to make me conform to her controlled system with restraints. But as Vicki and I both grow older I believe that we see Mom not as an authority figure; but, just as Mom.

Vicky and Mom clash and clash and clash with each other, more than the Archer Queens of The Hero Troops clash with the witches of the Dark Elixir Troops.

They act like they were from different clans, but they're both on the same side in reality.

The apple does not fall far from the tree. And in this case the tree wants to hang onto the apple on the tip of its rough, and yet leafy bough.
Because the tree is rooted in experience and has been around for much longer than the apple.

But the apple is looking for more water than the tree can give it. So the apple dreams about a summer rain-shower that will give it a chance to have its own experience. A similar, but different one, to the darker apple that hangs from a higher bough, an apple that has been spoiled from having too much sun and water.

3

During Winter Break, Vicki scored me tickets to a game between the Wizards and the Bucks. From court side to the nosebleeds, the audience at the Verizon Center was chanting in cacophony and in tempo. Wall was injured. But Gortat crashed the boards, Nene' drained mid-range shots, and Beal drove up the lane like Ginsberg reading Howl.

Vicki and I both tried to talk to each other as much as we could; unfortunately, Voldemort—my ex-gf—sat in between us and was gossiping about the latest scoop with the Kardashians.

Nevertheless, Vicki and I still managed to drink and have an outstanding time. But I should have given her more attention and spent less time on my smartphone. I was spending bread on Papa John's Pizza and chain-smoking jacks during half-time, and even when there were time outs. When I would come back and sink into my plastic chair, I'd feel bloated and dizzy.
And I'd look over at Vicki and either she was talking to Voldemort, or typing away on her smartphone. I didn't mind it at the time, but now I wished I had been less of a concessions barbarian/used-car salesman chain-smoker, and more of an older brother. I should have asked her about her day and her friends and her interests.

But I didn't.

Because I was so concerned about indulging in my vices like eating slices of pepperoni pizza and drinking overpriced beer. There's nothing wrong with pizza or beer. But as we all know the old saying goes, everything is about moderation.

Vicki scrunched her nose and squinted her eyes when I would lean forward and try to maneuver around Voldemort, trying to talk to her about the game and the players in it. I imagine that when she smelled the cigarette smoke leaking away from my lips, that she believed I was inconsiderate and not self-aware.

After the game, we went to a bar across the street from the Verizon Center, and bought mixed drinks. Voldemort was D.D., so Vicki and I drank until our Asian faces got redder than women and men who go up on stage for public speaking for the first time.

I remember this older Asian guy was trying to hit on her.
I took in short breaths. Inhaled. Exhaled. I cracked my shoulder blades to push my chest forward.  

And then, I patted him on the back and grinned. The Asian guy got the message. You don’t **** with the bodyguard.

Vicki had and still has a great boyfriend named Matt.

I guided Vicki back to our table and laughed about the awkward situation with her.

The Asian guy craned his head toward me and did a short wave. And then he bought us coronas. Either, you’re still hitting on my sister, or it’s a kind gesture. She and I better not get... Or am I overthinking it?

But seriously, I wished I had been the one to spend money on her first—she had bought the first round of drinks. Because at the time, my job was challenging and low-paying. Or maybe I just wasn't being frugal enough and partying way too often.

I still remember the picture that a cool rando took of us, drinking the Coronas, and how I was happy to be a part of her life again. Our eyes were so Asian. I had my lanky arm around her small shoulders, like a proud Father. She had her cheek propped up by her fist, her smile, gigantic and beaming, as though she had just won Wimbledon for the first time.
I was wearing a white and blue Oxford shirt that she had gotten me for Christmas with a D.C. Rising hat. She had on a cotton scarf that resembles a tan striped tail of a powerful cat.

My face was chubby from the pizza. Her face was just right like the one house in Goldilocks. The limes in the Coronas were sitting just below the throat of the bottles, like old memories resurfacing the brain, to make the self recall, to make the self remember how to treat his family.
Or maybe this is just a brand new Corona ad geared towards the rising second-generation Asian American demographic? I'm playing around.
But end of commercial break.

Vicki pats me on the back and we clink bottles together. Voldemort is lurking in the background, as if she's about to photobomb the next picture. Sometimes I don't know if there's going to be a next picture.
Either we live in these moments, or make memories of them with our phones. And like sheep following an untrustworthy shepherd, we went back to our phones. She made emails and texts. I went on twitter in search of the latest news story.

2

Before Vicki and I opened each other's presents, I remember I blew up at Mom and Dad, and criticized everyone in the family room including Vicki. It was over something stupid and trivial, but it was also something that made me feel insecure and small. I was the black sheep and she was the sheep-dog.

I screamed. Vicki took in a deep breath and looked away from my glare, looked away to a spot on the hardwood floor that was filled with a fine blanket of dust and lint. I chattered. She rubbed her fingers around the lens of her black camera and shook her head in a manner that suggested annoyance and disappointment. I scoffed. She set the camera down on the coffee table and pressed the flat of her hand against her cheek, and glanced out the window into the backyard that was blanketed with slush and snow.
Drops of snow were plunging from the branches of the evergreen trees and plopping onto the patches of the ground, plunging, as though they were little toddlers cannonballing off of a high-dive.

She turned back and looked at me straight in the eye, so straight I thought she was searching for the answer to my own stupidity.

I cleared my throat and said, “I need a breath of fresh air.”

Vicki bit her bottom lip, sat down, and put her arms on her knees, a deep, contemplative look appearing on her face.

I stormed into the narrow hallway, slammed the front door back against its rusty hinges, and trundled down my front driveway, the cold from the ice and the snow dampening the soles of my tarnished boots. I lit a jack at the far end of the cul-de-sac and counted to ten. I watched the cigarette smoke rise, as the ashes fell on the snow, blemishing its purity and calmness. I inhaled. I exhaled. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach that Vicki knew I was having a jack to reduce my stress, stress that I had cause all by myself. I ground the jack against the snowy concrete, feeling the cold begin to numb my fingers that were shaking from the nicotine, shaking from the winter that had wrapped itself around me and my sister.

When I came back inside of the house, I told Mom and Dad I was being an idiot and that I didn’t mean to be such an *******. I turned to Vicki and put my hand on her shoulder, squeezed it, and smiled weakly, telling her that I didn’t mean to upset her.

She nodded and said, “It’s okay bro.”

But her soft and icy tone made me feel skeptical; she didn’t believe me. I didn’t know if I believed my apology. Minutes later, I gave my present to her.

Her face brightened up with a smile. It was a gradual and cautious smile, a little too gradual and a little too cautious. She hugged me tightly, as though my earlier outburst hadn’t happened.

She opened the bank envelope and inside was a fat stack of cleanly, pressed bills that totaled a hundred. Being an arrogant, noob car salesman at the time, I thought it was going to be a pretty clever present. I could have given her a Benjamin, but I thought this would make her happier, because it showed my creative side in a different form.

I remember seeing her spread the dollar bills out, as if the bills were a Japanese Paper fan. Vicki told me not to post the picture I had taken on insta or Facebook. I smiled faintly and nodded, stuffing my smartphone back into my sweatpants pocket. I understood what she wanted, and I listened to her, respecting her wishes. But I also wasn't sure if she was embarrassed and ashamed of me. And maybe I was overthinking it. But again, maybe I wasn’t overthinking it. Social Media, whether we like it or not, is a part of life. And in that moment, I actually wanted social media to display this a single story in our lives. I wanted to show people that Vicki was the most important person—besides my parents—in my life. Because I was so concerned with how people viewed me and because I lacked confidence, lacked security, and lacked respect for myself

Vicki's present to me was a sleek and blue tie, a box set of mini colognes, and refreezable-ice-cubes. I think she called it the car salesperson kit. But I knew and still know she was trying to turn me into an honest and non-sketchy car salesman. And you know what, I was genuine, but I also couldn't retain any information about the cars features—to reiterate my Grandma has Alzheimer's, my mom writes down constant notes to remember everything, and I forget my journal almost every time I leave the house.

After Christmas I wore the tie to work a few times, but the mini colognes and ice-cubes never got used by me. They stayed in the trunk of my Toyota Avalon. I should have used the colognes and the ice-cubes, but I was too careless, too self-involved, and too ungrateful.

1

Back in the 90’s, when we were around 3 and 6 years old, Vicki and I shared the same room on the far left end of the hallway in our house. She had a small bed, and I had a bigger bed, obviously, because at 6 foot 1, I was a genetic freak for a Vietnamese guy. I read Harry Potter and Redwall like crazy growing up, and I would try to invent my own stories to entertain her. Every night she would listen to me tell my yarn, and it made me feel that my voice was significant and strong, even though many times I felt my voice was weak and soft, lacking in inflection, or intonation.

I had a speech impediment and I had to take classes at Canterbury Woods to fix my perceived problem. I wanted to fit in, blend in, and have friends.
Back then Vicki was not only my sister, but my best friend. She used to have short, black bangs; chubby cheeks, and a dot-sized nose—don't worry she didn't get ****** into the grocery tabloids and get rhinoplasty. She wore her red pajamas with a tank top over it, so she looked like a mini-red ranger, and her slippers

Purple sheets of petal,
Softly glowing in the dark
Of almost night.

Softly touching my cheek,
the enveloping cloud
surrounds me like a neon cloak.

I can see your face
reflecting in an overflowing
purple pool of mist.

And petals gently plopping,
enveloping the image
of your loveliness.

(Jacaranda madness)

I want you.

I want to know your favorite color and your middle name.
I want to know about the people you hate and how you found out you loved women.

How do you make your sandwiches?
What foods do you like and can’t pronounce?
What places do you want to see and what words do you know but can’t explain the definition?

Can we cuddle?  
And by cuddle I don’t just mean lay on you, because trust me, I can do that without cuddling. By cuddling I mean let me hold you till you forget your problems and I finally stop talking.

I want to call you baby. I want to sit in a room, with you, listening to jazz music.

I want to feel your pulse and you feel mine,
I want to hear your heartbeat dance to the rhythm of the same songs on the corny playlist on Spotify I made that remind me of you.

The Special Playlist,
(I call it)
The Makeout Playlist,
(you do).

I want to only be about to hear our synced hearts
and the slow songs
and the weight of the world leaving our shoulders
plopping onto the floor with your worries
and the jacket I took off of you when you first came in.

I want you to tease me
because I significantly failed as a former lesbian
because I’ve never watched Orange is the New Black
or The L Word
“You’re not Lesbian certified”
You’ll tell me.

I want to speak to you
In my limited German vocabulary
and watch gay movies
and let you tease me even more
when you find out I can’t sit through *** scenes
even the really gay ones,
and ****** isn’t my thing.
It’s okay though,
Your laugh is cute.

And I want to kiss you.
I want to kiss you like
we’re those ***** *** teenagers
from Romeo and Juliet,
(but with a better ending).
I want to kiss you like
there’s nobody else in the world
And there aren’t people who hate me for liking you
And your family won’t care if you love me because
****,
I want to kiss you.

Let me buy you flowers,
and want to take you on dates.

Let me take you to McDonald’s
and order off the dollar menu because
I believe in treating my girl right
(And I get an employee discount)

let me tell you why I churches make me nervous
and how I don’t believe in God and
why I don’t like birthday parties
And how I want to have my cake and eat it too
Even though I hate cake
And prefer cupcakes,
But nothing is better than cake if that’s you.

I want you to know why I played trumpet for three years then switched to baritone,
I want to know if you’ve ever done drugs and how it felt.
What are your morals and values?
What’s your utopia?

I want to send you goodnight texts and spend hours talking about nothing
And dance offbeat with you because
neither of us could have rhythm to save our lives.
I’ll let you scream fight me when I let you win in games I would destroy you at because you get that goofy smile when you think you’ve won.

Introduce me to your family and I’ll show you mine.
Let me see your baby photos and we can see foreign movies on Netflix.
Let’s go out for coffee and ask deep questions.


I don’t care, okay?
I just want you.

Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn,
Blowing clear notes of gold against the stars;
Strange entrees with a jangle of glass bars
Fantastically alive with subtle scorn;
Fish, by a plopping, gurgling rush of waters,
Clear, vibrant waters, beautifully austere;
Roast, with a thunder of drums to stun the ear,
A screaming fife, a voice from ancient slaughters!

Over the salad let the woodwinds moan;
Then the green silence of many watercresses;
Dessert, a balalaika, strummed alone;
Coffee, a slow, low singing no passion stresses;
Such are my thoughts as -- clang! crash! bang! -- I brood
And gorge the sticky mess these fools call food!

Outside, but not so far away,
Missiles are falling;
Early snow has settled
Beneath gray overcast....
Sirens in the distance
Send their low moan
Across the miles...
Echo faintly in our canyon.

Too cold for lightning,
We turn away from light
Flickering or flashing
Upon the bellied skies...
Don't want to think
About the thundering
The light implies.

Muffled sound and muted light
Confirm our living
Away from town.
Perhaps we are
Far enough....
These days, though,
Places to run are few,
And war is moving out.

At least the news has stopped....
Was sporadic
Then...
Stopped altogether
Now.
Almost a relief....

The coal oil lamp -
Her mother's mother's -
Burns a reddish glow...
Diesel's charring smudge...
Comforts us
In a growing dark.

Roast potatoes,
Rabbit stew,
Pickled beets...
No bread this time
As I uncork chokecherry wine...

And it is summer 1999....
We are standing in tall grass
Somewhere between Red Lodge
And Laurel along the road,
Ice cream pails echoing
With plopping chokecherries
Near black and hanging thick
Like miniature clusters of grapes.

We are there to beat the birds and bears,
Knowing choke-cherrying
Is the hurried work of many races,
Some wearing claws upon their heavy hands,
Others flitting in with beaks upon their faces.

And then the kitchen smells of cherries boiling down
For syrups and for jam,
The old ten gallon glass fermenting juice and sugar,
Stands waiting in the corner,
Later to be filtered off and corked away
In twice-used bottles....

Other years and other picking times
Lie bottled  in wooden racks below,
But we have chokecherry wine tonight,
While storms we never thought we'd know
Blow hard against the world.

I’ll not take your time, beyond what the need,
To relate to you a story and deed
As there’s no one else to plea this decree …
For just I survived, don’t you see.

I’m an old man, with a mind full of mist
But details of that night in my mind still exist
As vivid and clear, both sharp and exact
No, no mist there – all of it’s fact!

When I was young, and adventure routine,
With excitement and newness still unforeseen
I was eager to spread my wings to the world
And seek more adventures as those wings unfurled

Within my long travels I happened to meet
Two other men, with friendships replete
One was named Beckett, the other one Flynn
And better friends there never have been.

Beckett was tall – an athletic type
While Flynn, the scholar, more of pinstripe
Pinstripe or athlete – it mattered not
It was our essence together and that which it wrought.

Engaged were we in all daring do
High on the mountains, and under seas, too,
We crossed dry deserts, and jungles of green
And other adventures there in between.

We’d been together, t’was our sixth year,
And still our adventures made us cohere
To every madness – to every rave …
Until we decided to enter The Cave.

We discussed the encounter and planning for weeks
And assembled equipment – some new, some antiques
Until at last the day it arrived …
And our excitement?  It still there survived.

The map we used, was bought from a guide
Who told my friend, Flynn: “Don’t go inside”
When he had learned of our journey’s intent:
To enter The Cave, and begin our descent.

The guides’ words, had given us pause
We had thought: What was his reason or cause?
But … dismissed were his words of advice
We had each other … and that would suffice.

With ropes and lantern-hats and other such gear
It was into The Cave we then disappeared.
The light from our lanterns speared into the dark
We spoke very little - made no remark.

Onward, downward, in blackness we went
Placing out markers for our later ascent
The sounds of our footsteps, and scraping of walls
Reverberated ‘round us – as echoed recalls

In about six hours, or maybe ‘twas more
We encountered water upon The Cave floor
And there all around were beautiful shapes
Never were seen such gorgeous landscapes

Stalactites, stalagmites and mineral mounds
And dripping water with its’ “plopping” sounds
Pinks, violets and shades of green hues
And small salamanders made their debuts

We found a small dry spot and then we assessed
This was a place we could stop now to rest.
I turned up my lantern, and took off my hat,
When Beckett said: “Hey.  Did you just hear that?”

I moved not a muscle, and my ears went to strain.
All I could hear were the droplets, like rain.
Then from The Cave’s bowels came a loud din
I continued to listen – then heard it again.

We looked at each other, but said not a word
Confused and startled by what we’d just heard
It wasn’t a moan, it wasn’t a gasp
But more rather like a guttural rasp

One thing was certain, it wasn’t of stone
That could create sounds while standing alone
T’was our discussion, from which to derive:
The source of the sound was something … alive.

Then from The Cave’s deepened black hole
Came again sounds from a source with no soul
The sound was menacing, and one I despise,
I watched the fear grow within my friends’ eyes.

Instinctively, we three then moved as one
In that instant – our re-ascent had begun
I had been last in the line coming down
Now I’d be the first to reach the “above-ground”.

Quickly my feet in the lead, lead the way
Flynn, right behind had nothing to say
My friend Beckett, brought up the rear
And in that position had the greatest to fear

The lamp on my hat pierced through the black
And I looked for our markers to lead us back
To save our strength, nothing was said
Again - the loud sound that filled me with dread.

The sound became louder and closer it be
And I moved faster through the black before me
I could hear Flynn’s breathing, so close behind
I tried to concentrate on the markers to find

Somewhere behind me, then snarls I heard
Loud and vicious, run together and blurred
Close … so close … the beast was so near
Adrenalin rushed through me to react to my fear

T’was then I was hit with an overpowering stench
The smell caused my stomach to turn and to wrench
The odor blew past me, and I knew t’was the breath
Of the Beast of The Cave – its’ oder of death.

I was near running, but down on all fours
Sweat was streaming from all of my pores.
Then I heard those terrible screams
The ones I keep hearing in all of my dreams

It was Beckett I knew in his shocked agony
Midst the snarled snapping of jaws I can’t see
I heard bones cracking and squishing of flesh
And the fear within me gave new strength afresh

My fingers were raw from grabbing the rock
But on moving forward my mind had its’ lock
My stomach still queasy from the stench of the beast
I knew it was finishing its’ beastly feast

I knew, too, t’was only a matter of time
When the beast would return - I had to climb!
I heard Flynn say: “IT’S COMING AGAIN!”
Again was a surge of my fear deep within.

I heard once more the beast from behind
And fought the panic taking over my mind
Something heavy struck against The Cave’s walls
The kind of sounds that ghastly appalls:

A scraping of talons of heavy clawed feet
Caused my heart to double its’ beat
I had the feeling that Flynn lagged behind
I screamed my urgings loud and maligned:

“Flynn!  Flynn!  Catch up to me!”
But took not the time to look back and see
For the beasts’ crashing against The Cave’s face
Told me it neared – and was re-gaining the race

My knee hit a rock, and my balance was lost!
I fell to the ground, and then feared the cost
In losing the time in scrambling free
Again sheer panic stabbed into me.

In less than an instant, Flynn was there too,
His face in my light was of a strange hue
And as he helped me get back to my feet …
Flynn turned around – t’was The Beast there to meet.

The stench overwhelming, but the sight was much worse
There standing before us: The beastly curse
Of overlapping scales in shades of dark gray
The rest of its’ body concealed in umbrae

But its’ eyes … its’ eyes … I’ll never forget
Rheumatoid yellow, and deeply inset
Its’ reptilian lids blinked just one time
‘Fore its’ lips peeled back - revealing the slime

Glistening yellow over dagger-like teeth
Then oozed from its’ mouth to fall there beneath.
The beast reared up, then we saw its’ claws
Sharp and deadly within its’ forepaws

Towering above us, no sound the beast made
On beams of our light had his gaze stayed.
Unexpectedly Flynn then turned and faced me
… With less blinding light, the beast could again see

Why Flynn had turned I never will know
For the beast bit him in two, at his torso
And I was looking at Flynn – direct in his face
When the beasts’ bite his life did erase.

I screamed, and instantly away did I run
Away from the beast, and dead companion
Through the price of Flynn’s life, more time had been bought
To reach The Cave’s entrance – the goal that I sought

Running wildly, several times did I fall
Toppling did not my mission forestall
The beast I knew still somewhere behind
Drove me on forward with my frantic mind

I heard its’ clawed talons scraping the wall
And prayed I’d not again stumble and fall
Then, up ahead, a small opening I viewed
And I saw my chance, with hope there exude

Twelve feet … six feet … then it was three
But the beast and its’ stench was there behind me
I dove through the rock opening, scraping my head
But better that injury than ending up dead

I was elated, and about to rejoice
I then heard a scream – it was my own voice!
In my leg erupted intense blinding pain
Looking down I saw the bloodstain

My leg, through the opening, still was stuck out
There was but split-seconds, before I’d lose it no doubt
I pulled my leg back, and in but a flash
My shoe was removed by a clawed talon slash

I crawled back from the opening, then I could see
My wound was deep, from ankle to knee
Then suddenly through the opening came
A clawed talon whose aim was to maim

I quickly withdrew out of its’ reach
As claws shot through the openings’ breech
The opening too small, for continued rampage
And the beast began then to voice its’ outrage

It’s deafening roars assaulted my ears
Echoed Cave chambers and in my mind did adhere
I began attending unto my grave wound
Knowing I now was no longer marooned.

T’was another hour ‘fore I crawled out The Cave
But many days ‘fore I’d shed the shockwave
Of what had transpired, and what I had seen
And my damaged leg was lost to gangrene.

Now sleep evades me, for my horrible dreams
Show beams of light, and unearthly screams
Of Beckett and Flynn and The Cave we were in
I know tonight, I’ll re-live it again.

So, now you’ve the story, you’ve heard the deed
I swear is the truth I’ve herein decreed
And Beckett and Flynn are enslaved in their grave
And I lost my leg to the Beast of The Cave.

the ghost of
Elvis
continued
eating
and
stopping
and plopping.

they sure were
going
no where
purty
****
quick

thought the
big fat bus
with the
big fat
yellow bootay...

something needs to be done
and
lickety
quick.....

pondered the big
fat bus
with the BIG fat Yellow Bootay...

The cafe we meet at is one of those old meet new italian cafe's in North Beach: marble table tops with beige wicker chairs lined up outside the window; clean faced and freshly cut waitresses and waiters; salami or some kind of italian meat hanging by a thick white string from the ceiling, presenting itself to the streets like a ***** in Amsterdam; thick egg white ceramic coffee cups with thin saucers underneath them to catch whatever mistake may happen during conversation or solitude. Hanes was just sitting there. I ran into him. He never called me. His sunglasses are on - usual of him - and he seems startled when I sit down, as if he doesn't recognize me. I can see that it takes him a second to remember that he had called me at all, soon after making sense as to why I'm sitting there at all.
"Sup?" I ask him. There's a tiny glass filled with a frothy, light brown espresso inside. His right pointer finger is wrapped inside the small handle, resting there like a crow on a branch.
"Hey," he says, looking at me, unsure where his eyes actually are, "Thanks for coming to meet me."
"No problem," I say while trying to catch the waiter's eyes. The waiter's a tall, skinny, handsome italian guy in the typical pressed white button up, black dress pants, black apron, and jet black pointy shoes. Why his attire and build is of any interest at all makes me curious. Maybe I'm jealous? "No problem at all," I say again,"I was in the area."
"You should get the food here. It's good."
"I rarely hang out in North Beach, so I have no idea where to go. Have you been here before?"
"I've been to a couple of these places. Framed City Bookstore is right down the street."
"No ****?"
"Yeah," he nods, taking a sip of his espresso, "They're really nice in there."
"I always assumed they would be pretentious literary types. Never went in there on that assumption."
"Some of them are, but there are a few that just like books and write and hold no entitlement from that."
"That's nice. That's rare."
"Very rare," he says, taking another sip. He looks over his shoulder to try and catch the waiter too. "I want to get some food, too. Starving."
"He give you the menu's yet?" I ask, looking around and under the table.
"I told him to wait until you got here," he says, still looking for him.
We finally get the waiters attention. He apologizes and tells us they are very busy. The inside is nearly empty and we are the only two sitting outside. I'm unsure what he means. But it doesn't matter. We order the same thing, panini on sourdough bread with chicken breast, tomato, pesto, and arugula, with a few thin slices of prosciutto on the side. Hane orders a side salad and I order a pumpkin soup. It's cold outside - even with a coat - and the soup, I know, will do me good. I also get a regular drip coffee, which he brings immediately after we order. We exhale, glad to have gotten it out of the way. Then, there is that silence after one orders at a restaurant; that matter of getting down to business and discussing why we are even there in the first place. I wait for Hane to begin, but, because of his lapses in memory and general awkwardness, I start, watching him run his finger around the circular edge of his espresso glass as I do.
"Claire...," I pause, on the edge of stammering, "She left?"
Hane takes off his sunglasses at my question and sets them on the table. He looks down at his lap and blinks, rapidly a few times and says, "Yeah. She left. Back down south. LA or further I think. She said something about San Jose, but I have no idea why she would ever go there. She doesn't even like hockey. I've never heard her talk about it before."
I drink my coffee, looking over my glass into his eyes, acknowledging that I heard him, that I understand, but I say nothing. Everything all seems too sudden, too planned out, like Claire was scheming this from the beginning of everything. I was searching for someone to blame for everything, but then Hane starts again.
"If I think back on our problems, I can see why certain things that I did drove her away. There were a lot of things she did that forced me to get away, in my defense. But," he reaches for his sunglasses on the table and slips them back on, "To her defense, I had my days, ****, I had my weeks, where I'm sure I was pretty unbearable to be around."
"Why is that?" I ask him, "What were you doing that would upset her to the point of leaving for good?"
He turns his head toward me that was before gazing out on the street, "I never said she was leaving for good."
"Ok. What were you doing that would make her leave at all?"
"****, I don't know. I would go out. I would have fun. I would do things that I knew I wasn't supposed to really do, but I did them anyway."
I push my chair back a little to stretch out my legs, getting comfortable. Dark, grey clouds have gathered over head and everything is starting to look like a very depressing circus. I finish my coffee and can't wait to order another. It's an endless cup.
"I know what you mean," I agree. I feel him pulling away, defending himself of actions he's yet to specify to me, "Sometimes you just need to go out and get a little weird."
"Exactly. I was doing that. I was going out and getting a little weird, even though Claire wasn't always for it."
"That's norm..." I start, but he cuts me off.
"And you know what? Sometimes she would even want to come with me to wherever I was going, but I really didn't even want her coming along. I needed to do whatever I was going to do alone certain nights. Don't ask me why. Some nights I just needed for myself to get away from my life that I set up for myself to feel satisfied or fulfilled or..." Hane looks up into the clouds like he wants to float up into them, "Acceptable, if that's even the word."
I can see what he means and I can see why he feels the need to get out. Being in a relationship is hard. One builds up these walls, these boundaries, and then asked to follow the rules of said relationship according to one's social surroundings. Two people making an arrangement most likely based in feeling and sexuality, both of which, as Bukowski put it, Like a fog you see in the morning before you wake up, before the sun comes out. It's just there a little while and then it burns away. Nothing lasts and I'm amazed to see certain things last so long.
I give him a solicitous look as I let these thoughts ramble around in my head, but he doesn't see it. He's still looking up into the sky, looking for something to give him a reason to look other then the clouds. He could say just that and I would be fine with it, but he's looking for something. An answer, maybe. A solution. A color for a painting he's started a million times, but never finished.
"Who knows if we've ever really gotten love?" I ask profoundly, dripping in clichéd of philosophy.
"Who knows?..." he trails off.
Our food comes. The waiter puts it in front of us quickly, asks me if I want anymore coffee and I nod yes. Hane says he's alright for now, but maybe later.
"Who knows?" he laughs lightly, shaking and bowing his head. The waiter gives him a confused, awkward glance, then walks inside for my coffee. I feel bad for him for some reason. Waiters have it bad. All they get is **** all day and most of the time it's from crazies. I'll have to tip him an extra buck or two, I tell myself. Looking down at my sandwich, examining to make sure if its even what I ordered, I see Hanes already started to eat. I watch him as he peels the toasted bread away from the arugula, the tomato, the pesto, and chicken with the mozzarella clinging to it all like great white tentacles. He heavily salts and peppers the guts, plopping the bread back down and squishing it with the palm of his hand. All of this is done very quickly, very violently, and like he's done it many times before. I remember Hanes talking about how he would eat panini's everyday in college. Now I can see he wasn't lying.
I take a bite of my sandwich. It's good. Not great, but decent. Hanes has not said a word and is nearly done after my second bite. I take a sip of my coffee and then another bite. Hanes is done, looking around for the waiter, wondering where the hell he went off to this time.
"You getting another drink?" I ask.
"A drink drink," he says, "Like a ***** soda."
"I'm game. Ill get a beer."
"Ahh," he moans, "Get a drink drink."
"Like what?" I'm amused by his pushiness.
"Like a whiskey or a ***** or something."
"Why?"
"Beer is so boring. All of it tastes the same."
"You really think so?"
"Yeah, I do." He raises his hand, catching the waiters eye. He comes over and Hanes orders us two ***** sodas and two Pernoi's. Light beers. The waiter nods, takes Hanes plate, sees that I'm still eating, and leaves me to it. "There's your beer. Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
"Good." Hanes coughs, smirks, lights a cigarette. He blows the smoke downhill, away from me.
"I'll get the beers, you get the vodkas."
"Good."
"It's only 2pm. We have all day," I say.
"Good and good," he says.

Rain in Michigan is unlike any other
Yesterday, I had a conversation; Michigan was the best state out of all.
rain here falls lightly on the fresh green grass.
Soft sounds of the rain fall deliberately plopping against a clear glass window; waking up is glorious.
Michigan's lakes and rivers litter the state.
Rushing fresh cool Forrest blue water through thick Woods or beside back dirt roads.
Michigan smells clean and pure.
Drifting pungently consuming passengers to roll car windows all the way down and take a heavy breath, in.
Michigan rain lights even dreary days
As a partner or an old friend saying hello Pouring memories refreshing the earth.
Michigan was brought up in a conversation I had while going to a wedding,
Michigan was brought up when wecomed home after being absent for a year.
Michigan has brought me up
As I have watched it grow
Rainy or clear.

Carmen's legs
are pixilated cerulean.

Rubbing beasts
that itch at untouchable
bruises beneath her skin.

Her computer is on.

She rests crossed legs
on its desk.

There's something sticky about her skin.

Carmen's date is calling,
her speakers make a sound
like **** plopping in a toilet.

The webcam blinks
like Sauron's eye.

Carmen has never had
any of the cards
in her hands.

Not a whiff of a queen of hearts
or a jack
of all trades.

It seems she's been slipping for awhile now,
in her black room, colored
by the glow of some
techni-cyclops'
cavernous mouth,
crimson, heart-shaped teeth,
and scythe tongue.

She has never known the war machine
of love,
or the war machine of self-determinism.

Now she does,
her compudate buzzes on-screen.

Tiny sprouted pixels
jump into a constantly
buzzing whole.

He's got a bored face,
and Carmen knows this is the look
of the generation.



Carmen lifts her legs from the desk.

Puts her hands on her lap.

Licks her lips.

She wants to know
what lowered human beings
do when they are restless.

She is seeking something
moreso
philosophical
than
******.

"Bored, much?"

Carmen asks sardonically.

He took it literally.

He jumped at attention.

"Oh, no,
now that I've seen you."

"How do these things work?"

"Well, I guess we talk to each other,
and if you like me
then we go from there."

And to Carmen this was reticence,
this was blasphemy.

She had the cards in her hands,
finally.

Carmen's legs are pixilated  high cerulean.

Cerulean the color of
a tiger ocean,
****** cakes,
slushies,
a sun-****** sky,
a corpse. Skin against a computer screen.

Timing is everything;
Even the weather,
Comes into play.
A cold and rainy
Late-Sunday afternoon
Is no time to end
A love relationship:
To say goodbye for
A very long time; nor,
To remember someone
Crying as you walk away.
Glistening, dark-colored umbrellas
Reflect sad, gray clouds
Drifting so slowly by.
Rain drops mask the tears:
The sighs and sobs of
Gloom weighed heavily by
An incessant, pervasive rain--
Pit, pat, pattering on
Tin roofs; or, plat, plop, plopping on
Foggy windows; or
***, tat, tattering
On walls already swollen
With grief and misery.
Yes, timing is everything!
Even the weather comes
Into play when you finally
Have to say to someone
“Goodbye”, forever, and,
“I do not love you anymore.”

-

Greetings,

I am the empty chair you just recently
pushed into the carport like some unruly
child made to stand in a corner.

Not a new chair for sure,
but you made me Your chair
by the force of gravity,

transforming my cushion into
perfect contours in the image
of your ***.

Though you were always careful
if crumbs fell into me to get up
and brush them away,

and instead of just plopping down
******* me, you sat gentle and easy,
even if only doing so to soften the
shock for yourself,

there were moments as you sipped beer
you let it slip through your bottom lip,
dripping on me with bitter aftertaste.

Still, I was forgiving of that, and even
to those numerous occasions of you
venting your evening meals.

But the one event that forever sullied our
personal relationship was the morning you
woke on me soaked in most of the past
evening's              
                ~~brew

Though you tried to patch things up
with towels and scented sprays,
we were never to look upon
one another with the
same recognition
again.

I know now the days for me here number
far less than the buttons of the controller
you so frequently lost between my cushions,
giggling me in your efforts to retrieved it.

Although our separation will mean for me a
transformation into a twisted pile of springs,
stuffing, splinters and ripped cloth within the
bucket jaws of a front end loader in the snow,

I can take some comfort with me to the
resting pits of jettisoned human folly that
our severance was of no fault of my own.

yours truly,
Chair...


s jones
2007-2020


.

There was heat lightning as I walked back home that night.
it was Saturday, or rather, Sunday,
5 am, still dark
when I got his text and I wondered this: how far can two strangers go?

how quick can two fall in Love,
and just how quick does it take
for ignorance to come on?
Love is not Love anymore.

but I’ll admit to missing this,
only to you, my reader:
I do sometimes miss the sight of my once lover
walking towards our table with two cups of coffee in hand.
he hasn’t memorized my order yet, and I’m content with this.
it’s moving slowly, we’re just friends that happen
to spend a lot of time together, and share favorite movies,
and favorite songs, and could listen to a newly discovered old album
all the way through
just lying on his bed
and gazing at each other.

we could stare into the other’s eyes till we found our own reflection.
he was in me as much as I was in him.
Love is not love anymore
when I’ve left that part of me in upstate new york, in another land.

Love is being content.
but I am not content with myself
or my others that try to be significant,
like the one who sent that text,
hopeless, romantic, and misguided.
I am not in Love, reader,

not since him.

so when I got this text and he said that he could imagine us together,
holding hands, in a state beyond
nice, simple, naïve, simplistic
friendship,
I paused

stuck in my place,

for long enough that the lightning had a chance
to greet the storm.

the rain pummeled down, extraterrestrial,
and the bag of White Castle burgers I carried
disintegrated.

as the bag narrowed down in size, sliders plopping down onto the pavement
I kept running towards my home, trying to forget that our friendship was in question.

Love is not love anymore.
it scares me more than it should.
I’d rather let my seven dollars go to waste,
than give into love’s blind, bitter taste.

I’d rather my toms be pounded down into the pavement by the rain
and later spend three days drying in the back of my closet
and have the security guard stare at me, confused,
as the last of my sliders fall down onto the sidewalk outside his door.

“That’s a mess,” he says,
as if I didn’t know,
and he makes no move to help me clean it up,
so I choose not to reply to him.

13 shades of blue

With strokes of brush
****** in leathery paint
I Colour me treize
Hues of blues
Into the blue yonder
Runs my mind
Picking for my throes
Carnations blue
Cerulean paint I
Silence of my orbs
Dandelion desires
Shimmer sapphire hue
Laughter echoes
Waterfalls Periwinkle
Meconopsis curiosities
Walking avenues
Rocking plopping
Dances my heart
As morning glories
Jewelled with dew
Electric energy, glacial blush
Reflected from mine zaffre soul
Clematis colored my Aster touch
I  - a blend of Majorelle blues.

© Dr. PRERNA SINGLA, 2015.

Please note that the poetry is copyrighted by Law.

-----------------------------------------------------------­--------------------
Fairy thimbles = related to fairies
Aster flower = healing
Morning glory = borns in day dies in evening
Blue hibiscus = splendour , serenity
Clematis = mental power, courage faithfulness
Dandelion = happiness

The gentle ins and outs of sleeping breath
Spin off course, out of reach of embracing sheets
As morning breaks open on tangled limbs,
A twisted un-choreographed mess.

Weaving a crooked trail down the too-straight hall,
Ten toes take a tripping routine,
Attached to unmetered beats
Soft padding drum hits
Feebly tumbling across the shined wood.

The still sleeping glow of light
Pressing through the window glass
A spotlight for the kitchen’s stage,
A lone performer improvises unsteady forms.

But the subtle crunch of scooping grounds,
Like the shivered shake of the tambourine,
Catches the wavering rhythm up
To the steady plopping drip,
To the upward bending tone of the cascading pour
Drum-rolling up and up and up to
The ecstatically sighing high note of that first sip.

And the scent, like deep purple, wafts
Filling the room with thick unseen swirls
All at once heavy and weightless, landing on skin
Like a light breeze without force and only depth.
Pressing against the lungs from within them,
Persistently full, yet buoyant.

And as the warmth spreads behind the lungs
A small twitch of the hip courses to the flick of a toe
And from every fingertip pumps into ignition
Fluid joyful movements.
Hot energy flows through veins,
Fearlessly leading through tough turns and twists.
And morning has only just begun.

discussing with friends they,re eclectic noggins bobble suddenly
slowly quick the wagging of tongues juxtaposed to startled teeth
in rhythmic ques they pour daft prophecies in hideous giggling
we talk and amble amiably on every topic odoring and tepid shifting
slickly

it's easy and the sun frails and we joust winking verbs and nouns and and
or we entertain electric chaos screens bulging distended growls of death
or cinema or. outside it's raining, beautificly a synonym for damp patterring
of a 1,ousand tiny feet and plopping uncertainly violent puddles staggering
and the iron weight bears heavy on the hills dimpling the hips of earth
or we are static for a few and hours we make goodbyes and promises
of recurrence we,ll never keeps the night our tired bodies as we make
to the cold metal leather bucket seats and outside it's muttering rainfully beauty...

Rain is dripping

Down...

Down...

Down...

Rolling to the frosty ground.

Rain is dripping, freezing there,

Falling through the frigid air.

Rain is plopping on my nose.

Plinking, plonking, down it goes.

Freezing to my window pane.

Little moments in the rain...

I hear you pull into the drive and the free spirit
I've exercised all day abruptly folds into itself.
I greet you at the door with a pasted smile,
asking how your day was, expecting no reply yet,
feeling the sting when I get none.
Supper is served and you take yours into the
living room, plopping yourself on the couch,
balancing the plate and the remote with the finesse
of a curbside juggler.
I remain at the table, staring at you, staring at the TV,
while a childhood rhyme plays in my head,
*Nobody loves me, everybody hates me.
Guess I'll go eat worms!

with certain jesting apprehension
i entertain her moist ***** darting elocutions
she's splaying candidly 'pon ever
witless grunting foul vocular aberration
outside the roaring box of wet tinder
's a window slapping manacle
of steely girth. the sky's tongue
folds straightening air into the fat
oblong of the sea particularly
as probably i'm listening listlessly
to grand nothings plopping gently
from loose teeth grinding small
headed sally i'd could hardly say i                               care

Elvis loved his peanut butter.

Gladys, who loved him the most,
as all good mothers love their children,
would feed him grilled Hawaiian bread
sandwich after sandwich of peanut butter
with chopped caramelized bananas,
or gently mashed fork bananas,
sometimes with bacon, sometimes without.

He dreamed of peanut butter and
Gladys would feed those dreams
with Fool’s Gold loaves made each of
one pound peanut butter, jelly and bacon
lovingly folded, like Graceland,
into  two foot slices of Italian bread,
cut by Gladys into pyramids
so the crusty part would never
hurt her Little King’s mouth.

He would go to bed with peanut butter
on his breath, on the roof of his mouth,
his tongue pressed to his palate so
that the peanut butter would never dissolve.
He would greet the dawn with
peanut butter morning breath,
peanut butter on his lips and  
peanut butter cloud swirls on his cheeks,
peanut butter like ant trails on
his satin pillow cases and King size sheets.

Gladys would be in the kitchen
plopping a tablespoon of buttery
peanut butter into  a skillet  
before adding two eggs and Canadian bacon.

The peanut butter shaving cream Elvis used
would still be on his neck and Gladys
would kiss it off in vampire pecks
that still made him squirm.
She would curl his cow lick  
in place, as she kissed his forehead  
smelling the scent of the peanut butter
pomade that gelled his beautiful pompadour.
.
And when she died, and he died,
it was those peanut butter kisses
he missed the most in his world.

-

I saw her out there in the park
A kite she held up high
Running at a faster speed
It wouldn’t seem to fly

She looked a bit frustrated
And tried it one more time
Now tangled up within the string
Just like a ball of twine

Oh my god, how embarrassing
I think he's heading my way
Looking at me puzzled
Not sure just what to say

I must look rather amusing
Tangled up like a little kitty
Plopping down defeated
No breeze in this windy city

Look at her, she is so cute
Sitting there upon the ground
A light blue kite rests in her lap
And on her face a pouty frown

“Why so sad,” my heart it breaks
She looks like she will start to cry
“Come on, stand up and let me help”
“Together we can make it fly”

I took his hand and stood back up
Untangled from the twine
Now ready to give it another whirl
He positioned himself in behind

He placed his arms around me
Took my hands into his own
The wind is picking up again
From our hands the kite now blown

It soared high up into the sky
We held on to the string
So far it traveled in the air
Her smile it did bring

“You see, that wasn’t very hard,
it just takes some finesse”
But holding her is much more fun
Yes that I do confess

The first of any month

is strange like

the peeling of a

hard boiled egg

where the sharp shards

if shell get all

stuck up

in cold fingernails

and the rubbery white

sphere of molded egg

jiggles and slips

plopping hard

on the white tiled floor

but it never breaks

just keeps it's shape

staying whole and

rolling off past the kitchen

and onto the warm

living room rug

where it stays

stuck and melting

becoming one with

the ruby red color

like a round white eye

glaring up at the world

unable to blink.

I call you through Audible
the auspicious click- whirrrrrr
of voice-violin-strings

(sometimes wind tells me
you don't listen)
the empty response
of car upholstery
gnaws on
my attempts?

(But you answer through Poets)
the punctuated; nonsense
of- everything Important
slammed stuck. stretched-
like pebbles plopping
from your bluest you

We play a game of Russian Roulette, careful not to wake the dead,
we know that even in death,  there is no guarantee of sleep.
My turn.  Hand slightly shaking, I count backwards.  10, 9, 8, 7..
Will I or won’t I?  5, 4, 3, 2... I will!
I pull the trigger!   ‘click’.  
We laugh.  It is not my time to go.
Big boys, playing with boy toys.  

I want to tell you that I love you,
but boys don’t say that to boys,
I learned that lesson a long time ago.
Jenny drives over to join us
I watch, feeling jealous as you kiss her; how you look into her eyes; how you smile.  
Watching you slightly stroking her breast, I know I shouldn’t,  but wanting to watch, and unable to peel away,
I can feel myself getting hard.
Playing Russian Roulette.
I am 32, way too old to be playing this game.
I have to wait for a suitable moment to eventually head to the toilet.
My sensitivity heightened being in same space as you,
I try to stifle my groan as I ***.

Not wanting to be a third wheel, I’m heading back home.  
Music blaring I’m singing to some camp classic.
As I pull into the driveway, I can see that you’ve left me a message.
You and Jenny have had argument and she’s gone.  I go back to yours.
We talk about Jenny.  How she’s a *****, how all she does is complains, about how crap she is in everything she does, but how at least she gives good head.  We talk and drink.
We drink, we talk, solving nothing, not even our own world problems.  
We stumble up the stairs, laughing about all the stupid **** we just drank ourselves silly about.

I finally get you to your room, plopping you on the bed.  I turn to walk out, but you pull me towards you, with me falling on top you.  We are face-to-face, as I try to pull away, you pull me back.   ‘Man, I tell you, if I were gay, I’d be all over you’, and then you kiss me, on the mouth.  You. Kiss.  Me. On.  My.  Mouth.  We kiss.  We both stop, then stare at each other.  I don’t know what to say.  You smile, and repeat, ‘if I were gay, I’d be all over you’ and fall off into a drunken sleep.

We play a game of Russian Roulette, careful not to wake the dead,
because we know that even in death, there is no guarantee of sleep.
Falling asleep on the couch, I know that you told me love me;
‘but boys don’t say that to boys’, I tell myself, ‘I learned that lesson a long time ago’.

Haunched in the shower-corner
Down with the demons
A darkness so bright eyelids shut,
Clamped, seized up in a scream
Water gushes over -- maybe tears? --
A redness configuring around the
Edges, behind the eyes, No, just
The fake fluorescent lighting that
Suffocates this small shower.
Bulb-bright blearing blares out:
She lives as a conduit.
She can't -- Maybe won't? -- Hear
Me rattling about inside her.
"Poor *******" she calls me pityingly.
She's a conduit, her life lived out
Beleaguered by glimpses, images,
That she's determined to keep down.
Thrown into a Heraclitean
Fire, screaming, laughing, tumbling,
It's behind her eyes.

Aptitude, palms cover face
Slicked back hair, shower-
Drenched rosemary and mint.
An attempt. Ocean mist body wash --
She reaches up her fingers
From deep sea seaweed imaginings
Amphibious dark green soap bubbles
Please wash it all away. Rinse & Repeat.
Should I intervene? Remember:
Outside fresh rain brings the
Smell of worms to the soggy
Puddle muddied grass
But in here, in this warm fort of
Fuzz, Marlboros spread scent like
Burnt coffee permeate goose
Pricked skin
Down taste-buds Down throat
Down limbs Down fingers
Down --
It can't be scrubbed out --
You try but the red returns
In patches on your skin
Maybe friction or water heat.

But it's there, red, blotchy,
Raised, fluorescent reminders.
Pupils red, hangups, red,
Late-night, stay-up, crying, can't
Sleep, red, red.
Red.
The steady stream of water
Brings her crashing again I am
Losing to her skills of suppression
She has so many questions,
I catch them. I hang on, I ask
And she doesn't listen, a
Broken wire perhaps a frayed
Circuit board I say look at your
Body, the beauty, she can't.
Her nakedness mocks her
All she sees is blasphemy all
She sees is lies.
I drown, I'm poured out of
A bottle into a wine glass
Red, mottled, the image in her head.

She wears a straw cap &
Flowered bodice
Leaning an ironic angle against
A patio railing talking to god knows
Who in a brown hat
Picking grapes off the vine
Plopping them under her lips
The seductive "O" giggling
A thin gossamer veils the
Scene, the tablecloth laughs
At me, the cheese grimaces,
The smoke mimics, and all the
People glance knowingly over their
Shoulders.

I am swallowed in a gulp.

She is dizzy.
"It's the wine" I say, she doesn't hear.
Turns off the shower.
The chrome handle winks against
The porcelain tacky white walls
And wretches at the sandy pink
Flooring.
Off. On. Off.
Red fades away, blue veins like
Lizards perk up against her
Filmy white thighs and the
Backs of her hands.
She scoffs. Faintly thinks of betrayal.
Barely hears me.
She walks naked past the mirror
Refusing to look.
Feeling sick.
-- I've betrayed her maybe? -- I'm not
Who hurt her. I don't understand.
Curled up, bed, wringing hands.
Prepares herself for the day.
She is a conduit. She is okay.

The huge container of glue had emptied onto the ground nearby my desk. Now, I didn't get to see how it happened until it hit the floor but it looked like Chloe's arm must have knocked into it somehow. White goo bled out from the open container like syrup, traveling at the speed of a snail in the middle of a marathon.

"Oh no." Chloe yelped, plopping herself down to the floor with paper towels.

Her eyes grew to the size of saucers once she gazed up into the resting ***** face of Mrs. Hoiga, who raised her eyebrows as she walked onto the crime scene. The bun on her head always seemed so tight, showing off too much forehead. As for Chloe, she was frozen in place as she looked up at Mrs. Hoiga with a huge glob of Elmer's glue stuffed in a paper towel.

"What happened here, Chloe? Why is there glue all over the floor?"

Chloe and I made eye contact for a split second, which made Chloe ramble out, "I-It was Max. She spilled it."

The entire class gave their full undivided attention to the current situation, making me tense up immediately once I heard Chloe blame me. Everyone knows Chloe is a trouble maker, but she's never called anyone out for things she's done. Ever.

I pretended the entire class was just non-playable characters in a video game soundlessly waiting to see what developed. My body shrank down to the size of a pinto bean as Mrs. Hoiga hovered over me threateningly, crossing her toned arms.

"Is this true, Maxine? Did you spill Chloe's container of glue?"

My body seemed to shrink even smaller, if that was even humanely possible. I began to say no, but then I noticed Chloe silently crying beside the growing puddle of glue. A burst of sympathy rushed through me as I said, "I'm sorry. I'll clean it up right away."

I ignored the looks of pity my classmates were giving me as they exited out the classroom for Lunch, using the mop the janitor handed me to completely sanitize the floor from any glue residue. While the teacher hovered outside the door talking to another teacher, I pretended the mop was a pirate sword and started swiping the air with the wooden end of the mop. Then I pretended a pirate appeared in front of me, holding my parents hostage.

"Die, evil scoundrel! I'll take me pirate ***** back, if you don't mind. And my ship." I mumbled quietly to myself, stabbing the captain in the chest with the wooden sword, and watched as he sank into the ocean depths. "At least my parents won't be mad at me now since I saved them from the evil Captain Hook."

"Are you done, Max?" Mrs. Hoiga appeared behind me almost abruptly, making me flinch.

"Yeah. Um, can I eat Lunch now?"

"Tell me something then." She placed her hand on Chloe's desk, and stared over at me with a small smile. It was one of the few times I've ever felt my shoulders relax around her. "I have this feeling that you didn't spill the glue from earlier. Were you trying to take the blame for Chloe or something, Max?"

"No. I-I mean, i-it was just a terrible accident."

"Oh. I was hoping you could be a good influence in Chloe's life, since she is a big trouble maker."

Mrs. Hoiga broke eye contact with me immediately after finishing her statement, and started scribbling out a clean sentence out onto the chalkboard. My task was to write her sentence down twenty times down the page as my punishment while I dug into my prepared lunchbox: "I must not use other student's items without their permission."

Once I held up the paper towards Mrs. Hoiga, she snatched it out of my hand resuming her normal ****** attitude. "I won't tell your parents what happened, but let's not have this happen again, alright?"

"Okay."

That seemed to be the last conversation I was going to have at school. Or so I thought. On my way out through the double doors, I slammed into another student who dropped their half-zipped up binder spilling the majority of the contents inside out. Folders, graded papers, homework, pens, and a pencil pouch coated with stickers.

“I’m so sorry. I really am.” That’s when I realized it was Chloe who I bumped into, and I started gathering her stuff for her in a seemingly awkward lapse of silence that followed her statement afterwards. “I didn’t mean to throw you under the bus like that. That was wrong.”

When Chloe looked up at me, her frown seemed to deepen. “It’s okay. Thank you for apologizing.”

I noticed her notebook laying open with a crayon-based sketch of a butterfly on one of the pages when she quickly closed it. Her face reddened as she stuffed it into her polka-dotted backpack. “We’re neighbors, yet we’re already getting off on the wrong foot.”

“I consider us friends.” I said, walking out to the front of the school with Chloe lagging behind me by several feet. “Come on, I wanna show you this spot I found before your parents come to pick you up.”

“Well…I guess I have time.”

I roped my arm through Chloe’s, and our footsteps naturally synchronized as we walked over to the outdoor garden area within the school ground with the large red bench centered in the middle. Flowers and bushels blossomed here, giving this place a more intimate vibe. “Woah, this is so cool.”

“Some of the staff eat lunch here, but I sneak over here to wait for my parents to pick me up in this spot. I can never sneak into this area whenever it comes time for lunch.” I perched down on the seat while Chloe settled for the top of the bench as her chair. “Chloe, what are you doing?”

“Taking a seat. Have a seat by me. If we’re gonna do this, we might as well enjoy it while we still can.”

“Nobody has ever found out about this place…besides me.”

Chloe stared at me with this strange expression. I couldn’t pick a good word to describe the complicated emotion that ran through her face, but it was like she was trying to hide the fact that she was startled. Then she rummaged through her bag before plucking out the notebook I found earlier.

“Nobody has ever found out about the doodles that I draw. At least, until you came along.”  

There were drawings inside of what looked to be butterflies, birds, and moths. And for a six year old, she wasn't half-bad. “Why is it all doodles of winged animals?”

“I want to be able to fly. That’s what I want my super power to be.” Then Chloe smiled for the first time towards me, and it was almost like I was being drawn in captivity with this girl. There's something about her that gives me the feeling that she's going to change my life drastically.

The moment ended with my Dad's car honk nearby the garden. "I have to go."

"Hold on."

Chloe ripped out one of the crayon doodles in her notebook, folded it up, and placed it in the palm of my hand. "I want you to have this as a commemoration of our new friendship. I hope you'll take it."

"Of course, Chloe."

Feeling like I was running through clouds, I dashed towards the source of the car horn to see my Dad grinning over at me as I jumped into the passenger seat of his truck. "Hey, kiddo. How was school?"

I craned my head to see Chloe waving wildly at me as she walked over towards a beige-colored van with a handsome blonde-haired guy saying something to Chloe in the vehicle. "It looks like something happened at school today. Care to tell your old man about it?"

"I made a new friend. You know Chloe Price, the girl who lives next door?"

"Your Mom talks to Joyce and William Price more than I do. Unfortunately, I don't know a lot about Chloe besides the fact that she's a little bit rebellious. Promise me you won't turn out the same way."

"I won't. Promise."

We settled into a comfortable silence, a country song softly humming through the stereo in the car. It was a moment later when I unfolded the contents of the ripped notebook page slowly. The picture Chloe handed me was nothing other than a crayon-based sketch of a blue and purple colored butterfly.