Bouazizi’s heavy eyelids parted as the Muezzin recited the final call for the first Adhan of the day.

“As-salatu Khayrun Minan-nawm”
Prayer is better than sleep

Rising from the torment of another restless night, Bouazizi wiped the sleep from his droopy eyes as his feet touched the cold stone floor.

Throughout the frigid night, the devilish jinn did their work, eagerly jabbing away at Bouazizi with pointed sticks, tormenting his troubled conscience with the worry of his nagging indebtedness. All night the face of the man Bouazizi owed money to haunted him. Bouazizi could see the man’s greasy lips and brown teeth jawing away, inches from his face. He imagined chubby caffeine stained fingers reaching toward him to grab some dinars from Bouazizi’s money box.

Bouazizi turned all night like he was sleeping on a board of spikes. His prayers for a restful night again went unanswered. The pall of a blue fatigue would shadow Bouazizi for most of the day.

Bouazizi’s weariness was compounded by a gnawing hunger. By force of habit, he grudgingly opened the food cupboard with the foreknowledge that it was almost bare. Bouazizi’s premonition proved correct as he surveyed a meager handful of chickpeas, some eggs and a few sparse loaves. It was just enough to feed his dependant family; younger brothers and sisters, cousins and a terminally disabled uncle. That left nothing for Bouazizi but a quick jab to his empty gut. He would start this day without breakfast.

Bouazizi made a living as a street vendor. He hustles to survive. Bouazizi’s father died in a construction accident in Libya when he was three. Since the age of 10, Bouazizi had pushed a cart through the streets of Sidi Bouzid; selling fruit at the public market just a few blocks from the home that he has lived in for almost his entire life.

At 27 years of age, Bouazizi has wrestled the beast of deprivation since his birth. To date, he has bravely fought it to a standstill; but day after day the multi-headed hydra of life has snapped at him. He has squarely met the eyes of the beast with fortitude and resolve; but the sharp fangs of a hardscrabble life has sunken deep into Bouazizi’s spleen. The unjust rules of society are powerful claws that slash away at his flesh, bleeding him dry: while the spiked tendrils of poverty wrap Bouazizi’s neck, seeking to strangle him.

Bouazizi is a workingman hero; a skilled warrior in the fight for daily bread. He is accustomed to living a life of scarcity. His daily deliverance is the grace of another day of labor and the blessed wages of subsistence.

Though Allah has blessed this man with fortitude the acuteness of terminal want and the constant struggle to survive has its limits for any man; even for strong champions like Bouazizi.

This morning as Bouazizi washed he peered into a mirror, closely examining new wrinkles on his stubble strewn face. He fingered his deep black curls dashed with growing streaks of gray. He studied them through the gaze of heavy bloodshot eyes. He looked upward as if to implore Allah to salve the bruises of daily life.

Bouazizi braced himself with the splash of a cold water slap to his face. He wiped his cheeks clean with the tail of his shirt. He dipped his toothbrush into a box of baking powder and scoured an aching back molar in need of a root canal. Bouazizi should see a dentist but it is a luxury he cannot afford so he packed an aspirin on top of the infected tooth. The dissolving aspirin invaded his mouth coating his tongue with a bitter effervescence.

Bouazizi liked the taste and was grateful for the expectation of a dulled pain. He smiled into the mirror to check his chipped front tooth while pinching a cigarette **** from an ashtray. The roach had one hit left in it. He lit it with a long hard drag that consumed a good part of the filter. Bouazizi’s first smoke of the day was more filter then tobacco but it shocked his lungs into the coughing flow of another day.

Bouazizi put on his jacket, slipped into his knockoff NB sneakers and reached for a green apple on a nearby table. He took a big bite and began to chew away the pain of his toothache.

Bouazizi stepped into the street to catch the sun rising over the rooftops. He believed that seeing the sunrise was a good omen that augured well for that day’s business. A sunbeam braking over a far distant wall bathed Bouazizi in a golden light and illumined the alley where he parked his cart holding his remaining stock of week old apples. He lifted the handles and backed his cart out into the street being extra mindful of the cracks in the cobblestone road. Bouazizi sprained his ankle a week ago and it was still tender. Bouazizi had to be careful not to aggravate it with a careless step. Having successfully navigated his cart into the road, Bouazizi made a skillful U Turn and headed up the street limping toward the market.

A winter chill gripped Bouazizi prompting him to zip his jacket up to his neck. The zipper pinched his Adam’s Apple and a few droplets of blood stained his green corduroy jacket. Though it was cold, Bouazizi sensed that spring would arrive early this year triggering a replay of a recurring daydream. Bouazizi imagined himself behind the wheel of a new van on his way to the market. Fresh air and sunshine pouring through the open windows with the cargo space overflowing with fresh vegetables and fruits.

It was a lifelong ambition of Bouazizi to own a van. He dreamed of buying a six cylinder Dodge Caravan. It would be painted red and he would call it The Red Flame. The Red Flame would be fast and powerful and sport chrome spinners. The Red Flame would be filled with music from a Blaupunkt sound system with kick *** speakers. Power windows, air conditioning, leather seats, a moonroof and plenty of space in the back for his produce would complete Bouazizi’s ride.

The Red Flame would be the vehicle Bouazizi required to expand his business beyond the market square. Bouazizi would sell his produce out of the back of the van, moving from neighborhood to neighborhood. No longer would he have to wait for customers to come to his stand in the market. Bouazizi would go to his customers. Bouazizi and the Red Flame would be known in all the neighborhoods throughout the district. Bouazizi shook his head and smiled thinking about all the girls who would like to take rides in the Red Flame. Bouazizi and his Red Flame would be a sight to be noticed and a force to be reckoned with.

“EEEEEYOWWW” a Mercedes horn angrily honked; jarring Bouazizi from the reverie of his daydream. A guy whipping around the corner like a silver streak stuck his head out the window blasting with music yelling, “Hey Mnayek, watch where you push that *******.”

The music faded as the Mercedes roared away. “Barra nikk okhtek” Bouazizi yelled, raising his ******* in the direction of the vanished car. “The big guys in the fancy cars think the road belongs to them”, Bouazizi mumbled to himself.

The insult ****** Bouazizi off, but he was accustomed to them and as he limped along pushing his cart he distracted himself with the amusement of the ascending sun chasing the fleeting shadows of the night, sending them scurrying down narrow alleyways.

Bouazizi imaged himself a character from his favorite movie. He was a giant Transformer, chasing the black shadows of evil away from the city into the desert. After battling evil and conquering the bad guys, he would transform himself back into the regular Bouazizi; selling his produce to the people as he patrolled the highways of Tunisia in the Red Flame, the music blasting out the windows, the chrome spinners flashing in the sunlight. Bouazizi would remain vigilant, always ready to transform the Red Flame to fight the evil doers.

The bumps and potholes in the road jostled Bouazizi’s load of apples. A few fell out of the wooden baskets and were rolling around in the open spaces of the cart. Bouazizi didn’t want to risk bruising them. Damaged merchandise can’t be sold so he was careful to secure his goods and arrange his cart to appeal to women customers. He made sure to display his prized electronic scale in the corner of the cart for all to see.

Bouazizi had a reputation as a fair and generous dealer who always gave good value to his customers. Bouazizi was also known for his kindness. He would give apples to hungry children and families who could not pay. Bouazizi knew the pain of hunger and it brought him great satisfaction to be able to alleviate it in others.

As a man who valued fairness, Bouazizi was particularly proud of his electronic scale. Bouazizi was certain the new measuring device assured all customers that Bouazizi sold just and correct portions. The electronic scale was Bouazizi’s shining lamp. He trusted it. He hung it from the corner post of his cart like it was the beacon of a lighthouse guiding shoppers through the treachery of an unscrupulous market. It would attract all customers who valued fairness to the safe harbor of Bouazizi’s cart.

The electronic scale is Bouazizi’s assurance to his customers that the weights and measures of electronic calculation layed beyond any cloud of doubt. It is a fair, impartial and objective arbiter for any dispute.

Bouazizi believed that the fairness of his scale would distinguish his stand from other produce vendors. Though its purchase put Bouazizi into deep debt, the scale was a source of pride for Bouazizi who believed that it would help his profits to increase and help him to achieve his goal of buying the Red Flame.

As Bouazizi pushed his cart toward the market, he mulled his plan over in his mind for the millionth time. He wasn't great in math but he was able to calculate his financial situation with a degree of precision. His estimations triggered worries that his growing debt to money lenders may be difficult to payoff.

Indebtedness pressed down on Bouazizi’s chest like a mounting pile of stones. It was the source of an ever present fear coercing Bouazizi to live in a constant state of anxiety. His business needed to grow for Bouazizi to get a measure of relief and ultimately prosper from all his hard work. Bouazizi was driven by urgency.

The morning roil of the street was coming alive. Bouazizi quickened his step to secure a good location for his cart at the market. Car horns, the spewing diesel from clunking trucks, the flatulent roar of accelerating buses mixed with the laughs and shrieks of children heading to school composed the rising crescendo of the city square.

As he pushed through the market, Bouazizi inhaled the aromatic eddies of roasting coffee floating on the air. It was a pleasantry Bouazizi looked forward to each morning. The delicious wafts of coffee mingling with the crisp aroma of baking bread instigated a growl from Bouazizi’s empty stomach. He needed to get something to eat. After he got money from his first sale he would by a coffee and some fried dough.

Activity in the market was vigorous, punctuated by the usual arguments of petty territorial disputes between vendors. The disagreements were always amicably resolved, burned away in rising billows of roasting meats and vegetables, the exchange of cigarettes and the plumes of tobacco smoke rising as emanations of peace.

Bouazizi skillfully maneuvered his cart through the market commotion. He slid into his usual space between Aaban and Aameen. His good friend Aaban sold candles, incense, oils and sometimes his wife would make cakes to sell. Aameen was the markets most notorious jokester. He sold hardware and just about anything else he could get his hands on.

Aaban was already burning a few sticks of jasmine incense. It helped to attract customers. The aroma defined the immediate space with the pleasant bouquet of a spring garden. Bouazizi liked the smell and appreciated the increased traffic it brought to his apple cart.

“Hey Basboosa#, do you have any cigarettes?“, Aameen asked as he pulled out a lighter. Bouazizi shook the tip of a Kent from an almost empty pack. Aameen grabbed the cigarette with his lips.

“That's three cartons of Kents you owe me, you cheap *******.” Bouazizi answered half jokingly. Aameen mumbled a laugh through a grin tightly gripping the **** as he exhaled smoke from his nose like a fire breathing dragon. Bouazizi also took out a cigarette for himself.

“Aameem, give me a light”, Bouazizi asked.

Aameen tossed him the lighter.

“Keep it Basboosa. I got others.” Aameen smiled as he showed off a newly opened box of disposable lighters to sell on his stand.

“Made in China, Basboosa. They make everything cheap and colorful. I can make some money with these.”

Bouazizi lit his next to last cigarette. He inhaled deeply. The smoke chased away the cool air in Bouazizi’s lungs with a shot of a hot nicotine rush.

“Merci Aameen” Bouazizi answered. He put the lighter into the almost empty cigarette pack and put it into his hip pocket. The lighter would protect his last cigarette from being crushed.

The laughter and shouts of the bazaar, the harangue of radio voices shouting anxious verses of Imam’s exhorting the masses to submit and the piecing ramble of nondescript AM music flinging piercing unintelligible static surrounded Bouazizi and his cart as he waited for his first customers of the day.

Bouazizi sensed a nervous commotion rise along the line of vendors. A crowd of tourists and locals milling about parted as if to avoid a slithering asp making its way through their midst. The hoots of vendors and the cackle of the crowd made its way to Bouazizi’s knowing ear. He knew what was coming. It was nothing more then another shakedown by city officials acting as bagmen for petty municipal bureaucrats. They claim to be checking vendor licences but they’re just making the rounds collecting protection money from the vendors. Pocketing bribes and payoffs is the municipal authorities idea of good government. They are skilled at using the power of their office to extort tribute from the working poor.

Bouazizi made the mistake of making eye contact with Madame Hamdi. As the municipal authority in charge of vendors and taxis Madame Hamdi held sway over the lives of the street vendors. She relished the power she had over the men who make a meager living selling goods in the square; and this morning she was moving through the market like a bloodhound hot on the trail of an escaped convict. Two burly henchmen lead the way before her. Bouazizi knew Madame Hamdi’s hounds were coming for him.

Bouazizi knew he was ******. Having just made a payment to his money lender, Bouazizi had no extra dinars to grease the palm of Madame Hamdi. He grabbed the handle bars of his cart to make an escape; but Madame Hamdi cut him off and got right into into Bouazizi’s face.

“Ah little Basboosa where are you going? she asked with the tone of playful contempt.

“I suppose you still have no license to sell, ah Basboosa?” Madame Hamdi questioned with the air of a soulless inquisitor.

“You know Madame Hamdi, cart vendors do not need a license.” Bouazizi feebly protested, not daring to look into her eyes.

“Basboosa, you know we can overlook your violations with a small fine for your laxity” a dismissive Madame Hamdi offered.

Bouazizi’s sense of guilt would not permit him to lift his eyes. His head remained bowed. Bouazizi stood convicted of being one of the impoverished.

“I have no spare dinars to offer Madame Hamdi, My pockets are empty, full of holes. My money falls into everyone’s palm but my own. I’m sorry Madame Hamdi. I’ll take my cart home”. He lifted the handlebars in an attempt to escape. One of Madame Hamdi’s henchmen stepped in front of his cart while the other pushed Bouazizi away from it.

“Either you pay me a vendor tax for a license or I will confiscate your goods Basboosa”, Madame Hamdi warned as she lifted Bouazizi’s scale off its hook.

“This will be the first to go”, she said grinning as she examined the scale. “We’ll just keep this.”
Like a mother lion protecting a defenseless cub from the snapping jaws of a pack of ravenous hyenas, Bouazizi lunged to retrieve his prized scale from the clutches of Madame Hamdi. Reaching for it, he touched the scale with his fingertips just as Madame Hamdi delivered a vicious slap to Bouazizi’s cheek. It halted him like a thunderbolt from Zeus.

A henchman overturned Bouazizi’s cart, scatter

I once left my heart in the pocket of a saint
blinded by sunset light, drunk from midnight madness,
and falling into the monotony of broken dandelion stems and lost eyelash wishes-
I didn’t think I would need it much longer
The burden of rebirthing beats continuously
stamping out the keys
Of my empty piano chest –
As I held onto the breaths of broken warriors
Sponging the blood off their slashed

double
layered
skin

And praying
they could keep their fight for just

One
More
night

He never noticed the extra beat
added to the twitches of his time-ticking body
deaf from the ringing calls to heroism
only on the odd hours he didn’t have muffled
by the recipes of the women he’d saved
buying out bravery like it could shield his soft tongued love
leaving nothing but the clothes on his back
woven from stardusted bomb shelters
And
left over hopes
selling the silver lining of every breath he took
just to buy the next broken-bar girl a drink

He was a saint after all --

born from the innocent hopes I wish I still had,
tucked in the corners of sun-freckled smiles
and
Mothering seatbealt arms
and
Careless Carnival Food
the kind I know some of my soldiers withered against
writhing their souls from the bodies they had been straight jacketed too
prisoners of war stuck in the memory
of just how many calories a sugared funnel cake could have
did have
will have
add up to the self worth shot out of their chest
from last nights uncontrolled binge
of two apples and a cheerio promise ring

No,
he had never been in the middle of the war
never known the taste of blood
rusting in the rain of covered up skin
drenched in the salt water stings of failure
peeling away the scabs of
addictive adrenaline disadvantages
and mapping the battle plan of tomorrows attack
against an enemy so close
it was breathing the same air your lungs had not finished purifying

No,
his hands had never held the dyeing breaths of a comrade in arms
as they shook from the fears riding up their spine
praying the poison won’t take
praying the stolen bottles didn’t break
and that violent vomiting viguals
might burn just enough of the alcohol mistake
so their blood won’t have to curdle

No,
he had never heard the desperation
of sobbing secretes suddenly swindled
from between the lips of a girl who never wanted to remember
the night that never happened
one year, five months, fourteen days --
and three hours ago
her father had asked her why she never wore skirts anymore
and why she never brought boys over anymore
and why she never left her room anymore
and why her silent cheekbone cry for help never smiled anymore

No.

A saint is never found on the battlefield
never scared by the everlasting burns
of war paint psychiatric wards
and gun powder therapy sessions
sprinkled with the hope against hope moments that maybe
we’ll have a break through --

Like the ****** morning sun rebirthing the beats
of duck taped dreams
and
medicated eyes
and
catatonic lips --

I left my heart in the pocket of a saint
confessing the sins of the hopeless hospital it fueled
between our silent lipped kisses
squeezing out the stories of unnamed soldiers
between our woven fingers
and betraying my fear
in the tremble of my body against his –
I left my heart with him on the one-night-stand whim
that I would grow deaf to the sound
of TAPS played on my piano rib keys
and
blind to the specks of blown dandelion wishes

But I still hear the echoes of them
rattling against the stitching
of his bomb shelter pockets

and I wonder if he’s still searching for me
between the crumpled recites of midnight mass mixers
and
open cathedral whispers

because I still think of him sometimes
absent mindedly pick pocketing saints for smiles
but I’ve only found lint and regret
tucked in the corners of their heroic attempt
to protect the bruised hearts of the saviors
who haven’t quite yet found salvation

He sits quietly while she explains patiently
what it is that he really wants.
If only he'd listen, he'd not have the stress
of second guessing himself.

In his quiet, in the soft breeze
of her advice, he runs
through perfectly good past menu options
and again considers how their taste
had readily agreed with him.

He resolves and waits for her
to finish her salad,
and before dessert he explains
he needs to leave and walk the dog.

And once safe home,
old Pippa loves him for who he is
and he gratefully takes the lead,
while blocking one more number on his Nokia
and pocketing a mini mars bar for later.

Thick fog rolls over leaf covered rocks,
And trees still bare penetrate the mist,
Bordering lush green,
And contrasting with stone gray skies,
Instilling deep tranquility.
I follow the ***** downwards,
Leading into this bog,
The footing is loose,
Treacherous,
The mother is unforgiving,
Negligence will not be soothed.
The vibrant green fades to brown,
The thick mud forming around my footsteps,
I am leaving an impermanent mark,
Only familiar to myself.
The worms will mine it.
It will be undone by rain,
But those I bring with me will know the way we traveled,
As will theirs.
A small trail has been hollowed,
Others are here,
Others have been here,
Undoubtedly, more will follow.
I see the others’ footsteps,
Only foreign indents now,
Still recognizable,
Yet,
The shoes they wear are a mystery.
I want to know badly,
But it is impossible.
I reach the bank of a small creek,
The trail ends here and I must make my own way,
There is an island where this creek forks,
And jumping there I know I cannot return,
The second spent thinking about seconds,
In itself is the only wasted time.
I spend some time here,
Kicking pebbles,
Pocketing attractive quartz,
There are no rare jewels on the surface,
No bounteous treasure here,
That would require a contract,
The help of others,
More time spent here,
Time spent thinking about the future seconds,
The seconds of others.
Leaving this patch is difficult,
My boots land just inside the creek as I jump,
Cold water fills my socks,
My feet swell as they absorb water,
To worry about the sensation I feel now,
Would be to count the seconds as they already pass.
I follow the creek into the woods, deeper as they go,
Until there is a soft rustle of leaves ahead of me,
Still loud.
Has the deer surprised me?
Or I the deer?
Both,
This meeting is simply chaos,
Colliding of mind and figment,
The imperfect, and the form-
The perfect representation-
At a stand-still in time.
This is no perfect doe,
The coat is full brown,
Tattered and messed,
Not at all as it was in my mind,
A copy.
But the more I examine,
The more I realize that a copy is closest to the form,
What is, is perfect,
What is perfect, is narcissism,
One way or another,
Without conflict,
The seconds have no reason.
I stare for a moment,
Her eyes are pools of black,
Wide and anxious,
I blink and she is gone,
A moment,
These are the meaning of the seconds,
The moments,
But is the reminiscence of this fact,
Contradictory?
I come to a steep *****,
A huge tree overlooking a large pool,
A ledge above the frigid water,
Perfection.
I climb this hill,
Perseverance is its own reward,
Reaching the top,
My clothes messed,
My hands filthy,
Boots caked with filth,
I sit here, alone at the top,
The bog is a fiefdom,
And I sit upon this ledge.
Snap.
Snap.
Snap snap.
Crashing.
I am falling,
My ***** hands grasp for something,
Anything,
My club-like boots flail in the air,
Clothes billowing in the air,
It’s so cold.
I can feel it over me,
On my skin,
Madness,
Not here,
There are so many more seconds,
Hours left even.
No, says the mother,
Your moments have passed,
But they have not,
I reply.
I think of my mother,
Father,
Friends and relatives.
I think of the deer.
I wonder if she’d save me.
If she knew I’d fallen,
She’d drag me out by her teeth.
The cold water rush over mine,
They crack and decay with the cold.
My bones crack like glass,
Flesh tightening,
Ligaments and tendons become solid.
I can’t feel my hands,
My feet,
My head.
My heart beat smothers my ears,
As I count the seconds.

Curiosity got the better part of me as thine swiftly splaying fingers
typed Matthew Scott Harris (yours truly) into the google search bar,
lo and behold, and much to my chagrin and amusement,
others with mine namesake constituted roles in various walks of life carrying out their wonderfully wicked whiles and ways,
sans existence covered the gamut earthen realm
from administration of President Dwight David Eisenhower
the celebrity circuit, where his claim to fame and fortune
as movie Producer (born in Jacksonville, Illinois)
for silver screen cinematic debut enterprise finished regal Dimension far off beaten track pocketing a degree (from University of Illinois)
in Civil Engineering, After practicing as an engineer for several years,
a decision made to open a restaurant in Chicago
with nary a harbinger - After operating popular eatery for more than ten years,a whim directed destiny viz hit time to make movies
arced renown sent same nom de plume doppleganger
quest skyrocketing
analogous to aligning skill sets into stratospheric isobar
which exertion pitched head stone carvers to acquire vital context
where next of kin content with obituary hiz death
unexpectedly Tuesday morning, Feb. 24, 2015 of Loudonville),
tomb epitaph incorporated passion as avid outdoorsman,
who loved fishing, hunting, and canoeing. I aced as supervisor with telecommunication company, Telecom Towers Inc.
yet by some stroke of premature pronouncement,
whence during funeral the coffin lid rise a jar
scaring the s**t out the backsides per mourners,
where demise found sights drawn to undertake
a totally tubular career as graphic artist from Buffalo
(Educated at RPI), who constantly looks for work today, and to mar
row, out of necessity to pay bills, as prodigy with plugging numbers and spitting out calculations
attained plaudits as financial solvency ****, and par
for the course irresistibly tempted forging credentials -
with a self crafted faux pas star
re: expert as a fraudulent Loan OfficerNMLS # 240801 -
but Youngblood’s hired fretful dexterous dude for extra cash tip play *** tar, while police got tips from wagging tail, and unfortunately butter field bursar ruse landed rising star into clinker
sans Cook County Inmate at age 49
CB NUMBER 19043182, when arrest occurred Tuesday,
January 13, 2015 11:53 AM, and released the next day due to first
time misdemeanor plus absent recidivist incarceration possession
of 5000+ grams of Cannabis, which exposure to magical, miracle
and mystical herb set sites to become a professor
Clinician of pharmacology to help fight the so call "drug war".

On barstools, people drone on endlessly
about meditation and yoga and hot yoga
or cold jogging, and bicycling in special pants.
‘It gives you a high,’ they say.
‘You’re on top of the world,’ they scream.
The saps push their new religions
with the gusto of car salesmen.
When it’s a woman, I politely listen
between mouthfuls of whiskey and ginger ale.
When it’s a man, I shut him down
early in his ramble. I tell him to
grow a pair.

Curvaceous women with long hair
and ***** that easily get wet,
bourbon that melts the top layer of ice,
pocketing a few bucks after sinking the 8 ball,
those are the legal addictions,
I tell punks
that give a man small escapes,
the sins he commits to feel whole.
A man who knows the desperation
of fulfilling temptations always
works harder to stay one step ahead
of the game.

Those are the addictions,
I tell men in designer clothes,
that **** us
slowly
when we least expect
our demise.

Pick-pocketing angels leave me with no change
Tampered pill bottle head, rattling brain rearranged
Hold me close like a nostalgic note
Please don't toss me away like the others do

I.

The night sky cantillates a tune
only sobbing icicles can hear
A redeye flight soars
with a defunctive plot aboard
Supposedly Pluto planned it
News reports the next morning
said responders found a suicide note
along with residue from a melted
block of ice in the wreckage.

II.

Some millions of miles away
pocketing silence in his palm
Neptune’s tears freeze
on the green tips of pine trees
Frozen leaves sleep beneath
glaring Great Horned Owls
Black eyes bend in the back,
ground stiff as their spine.

III.

There is nothing scary about
a sad bedtime story
without crows or ghosts
or a cat’s empty cradle
When the pages turn
the night sky descends into
its deepest sleep before dawn
and closed eyelids fantasize
about tomorrow’s morning.

Do you remember our bulletproof afternoons?
The ones downtown wandering the pawn shops, looking for nothing.

Remember the antique Coca-Cola bottles you loved?
Remember the good deals on the old Nintendos?
Remember kisses you gave me in the back of the store?
Remember pretending the cameras couldn't see me touch you?

Remember holding my hand outside?
Remember your hand on my waist?
Remember the rain on the sidewalk?
Remember me laughing?

Remember the old books on the shelves?
Remember me stroking their spines?
Remember me writing my own stories about how they got there?
Remember watching me and loving that?

Remember the jewelery?
Remember the bracelets and necklaces?  The trinkets of broken loves?
Remember the rings?
Remember watching me sooth the lonely rings through the glass?
Remember what I said?
Remember how it broke our hearts, to see them broken beneath the glass?
Remember how the engravings broke our hearts?
Remember how you held my hand and kissed my shoulder?
Remember how you told me not to worry?

Do you remember pawning my ring?
Remember pocketing the cash?
Remember watching the pawn man place it beneath the glass?
Remember the couple holding hands, hearts breaking over my ring?

Do you remember breaking their hearts?

Having completed various jobs
indoors and out
such as running errands

and shopping etc
your mother gave you 2 shillings
and you went through the Square

to a shop on New Kent Road
where you bought
a small penknife

you’d seen in the window
and you showed Jimmy
whose knife collection

was large
including a bayonet
his father brought back

from WW2
but he was unimpressed
showing you in turn

a **** knife his father
took from a dead soldier
from some battle

he’d fought in  
you never showed
your mother

but Helen saw it
on the way to school
next morning

and peered at it
through her thick lens spectacles
does your mother know

you bought that?
she asked
no not yet

you replied
pocketing it out of sight
maybe another day

don’t you tell
your mother everything?
she asked

no not everything
you said
I have a need to know

basis I work with
what about truth?
she asked

you gazed at her
in her dark blue raincoat
buttoned to the throat

her wavy hair
in two plaits
her eyes peering at you

through those thick lens of hers
truth is like bubble gum
you said

sometimes
you have to stretch it a bit
to get a bigger bubble

she shook her head
making her plaits move
each side of her head

I don’t want the future father
of my children to be a liar
she said

maybe he won’t
you said
you are

she replied
you looked at
the record shop window

as you went by
a picture of Elvis Presley
was in the window

smiling
don’t you like the knife?
you asked

looking back at her
as you spoke
only if you tell your mother

she said
ok I’ll show her
and tell her

after school
you said
she smiled

and her big eyes
lit up
and she pushed her arm

under yours
and squeezed you near
and all because

of the small penknife
you’d bought from the shop
through the Square

but you did love
her big bright eyes
and wavy plaited hair.

Beguiling, pink petals
dance about my ears,
capturing my cares —
oh, my worries, and fears.
Pocketing my darkness,
in these petals — so assuring —
yes, pocketing my darkness,
in these petals so alluring.

Caging so tightly
to keep peril at bay,
but these petals seep open
letting melancholy stray.
And these petals of blush
soon wilt into gray;
obsolescent ashen
petals drift far away.

Malevolence now freed,
scatters lightly about
its malicious intent,
inflicting sorrow and doubt.
I’m wary to proceed
with this life of late,
brimmed with sadness and fear;
swallowed withal by hate.

But concealed in the shade —
what was once feared before —
soon beguiles my mind
into pleading for more.
Now calling out for
this sinister of slight,
to hasten its darkening
into an obsidian night.

at 8:20 am, i get into the shower
and remember the last time you were in it
almond milk, pine sap, sputtering hot and weeping
we didn’t dream that night and
after you left i lay on the kitchen floor,
repeating myself.
during the day i sell the same wine over and over:
tobacco leaf, dry leaves, black cherry
there is one here that is a kiss, a second
i can’t describe wine as a cul-de-sac
and your button up, so i say “strawberry.”
i flew to new york and
the weather felt like my blood,
sticking to your neck
we spent the weekend in the country
entangled, frightened, drinking cider
spilling it out through our sharpening teeth:
dogs barking at a few falling leaves.
when i came home i scratched off my skin- i turn cold daily.
there’s not much to eat and
you would tell me that
there isn’t enough cheese in my fridge,
and it’s the wrong kind,
and why are you looking at me like that?
i come to you each night in your little plastic bed
breathing small seeds
pocketing light.
(you don’t know. you are asleep)
how do you do it, keeping so warm?
dear, i can’t stop drawing the moon
because i keep hoping i’ll see you in it.

It takes all I have

to control

each action sluiced

and sliced

into little round cubes

burnt by internal fire

soft ash dust

sparse windy air

pocketing my desire

for you in pieces

just waiting

for the right moment

to leap into unknown waters

feet first

so frozen and

the river could be cold

to the touch

but your skin is warm

and gentle

heat rising

searing my arm

tingling my senses

scrambling my brain

to mottled bunches.



I have too much



self control



(and it's eating me alive.)

There ain't no train to heaven,
             ...no miracles, no deal,
There ain't no train to heaven,
             ...that dream it ain't real.

Man there ain't no train to heaven,
             ...there ain't no train to heaven,
             ...there ain't no train to heaven,
             ...there ain't no train to heaven,
but when I get there I'll be still.

Working all these days,
and working all these nights.
All I do is work,
Man that-life-ain't-right!
When I was little,
they said I'd be rich.
Here I am today,
digging one more ******* ditch!
Breaking back and tough,
I'm lost in a bottle...
I'm finally getting outta here, hittin' gas; gone full-throttle!

Cause there ain't no train to heaven,
             ...there ain't no train to heaven,
             ...there ain't no train to heaven,
but when I get there I'll be still.

Woo- there ain't no train to heaven,
             ...no miracles, no deal,
There ain't no train to heaven,
             ...that dream it ain't real.

Man there ain't no train to heaven,
             ...there ain't no train to heaven,
             ...there ain't no train to heaven,
             ...there ain't no train to heaven,
but when I get there I'll be still.

Money is a trap,
without it you get stuck.
All I do is work,
looking for that decent buck.
Pocketing a little here,
no, not really, just enough.
Working harder every day,
man this life is rough.
Broken down, feeling bad,
and I'm lost in a bottle...
I'm finally getting outta here, hittin' gas; gone full-throttle!

There ain't no train to heaven,
             ...no miracles, no deal,
There ain't no train to heaven,
             ...that dream it ain't real.

Man there ain't no train to heaven,
             ...there ain't no train to heaven,
             ...there ain't no train to heaven,
             ...there ain't no train to heaven,
but when I get there I'll be still.

I need more souls around.
Look-
the knife I chewed up sharp
sways and dangles a glaring charm,
(and a charming glare)
double knotted on a piece of rope and
tucked under my shirt.
It bruises my breastbone when I jump.
I’m always jumping.

I don’t cut paradise into pieces anymore.
I take it all in with one quick bite.
I’m hardly chewing;
I never learned to savor
and it hasn’t rotted me out yet.

Late last week I had an idea.
I told the room:
(thirty eyes squinting,
a dozen minds listening,)
‘Let's get together and refuse
to acquire a taste for civility.’
So what do you think?
I was only speaking to you.

I've been playing a private game
all summer and I keep scoring.
I wear long skirts and eyeliner
and keep my mouth shut.
I trapeze across centuries and well traveled
roads with my long hair
and track the pontential and power
assigned to my quiet smile
and gentle pout.

The world can be mine with a
flick of my wrist, a lick of my lips-
But I don't want it:
i'm here to expel, not to endure,
the point is to leave as light
as possible.
I won’t win until I have nothing left to carry.

Tonight I'll just seer sailors;
soldiers call to me
like I’m their sole daughter, their soul daughter,
dripping green jewels and deep, brown
curls onto tan toes and
dancing in the road-
(eyes decidedly closed,
rush hour.)

I gulp in smoke from their pipes
while spinning circles in the dirt.
My voice trails over tree branches,
my lungs smolder and ashe.
I smile sweetly-slow.

When I do meet their gaze-
(measuredly striking; a tender,
lingered look which veers me from gypsy to divinity,)
they tense.
They call out
You are my Odyssey.
You are my Wild Waves.
you are my Purple Heart.

Skipping stones over oceans and puddles,
I keep nodding and careening.
I keep coursing and coiling,
keep slurring my words,
refusing my name
and pocketing your promises.
I gave up on air-drying my skirt,
(You are not what I’m thinking of.)

I’m only a little bit of what’s left--
everything we tried to know,
everything we only read once-
everything we left in footnotes of
essays, under passenger seats
and tangled in the bed sheets
of that swollen-heart name
no longer spoken.
I'm only the woven wires
and reins braiding bold
acrylic cities across knuckles
and palms, flashlight
illuminated and glowing.
It's new skin shimmering in the
daylight, pearling over
and throbbing awake
in places only I can see.

The upright has been uprooted
From the once shore of the....                  Free!
The vile and barbarous
Now run the oil's......                                  Squeeze!
Pocketing, they make their run's
Breathing polluted air from man-made.     Greed!
I can spit into the indignant sun
While my head burns from its.....             ***!
The law abiding has been rousted
Though we say no more! Get out the doors, of the white house you are....        Hosting!
We don't need no hosts
You Mason jokes
We need no smoke
Blown from your holes,
It's so **** tiring
Getting........                                                 old!
Regain your soul's
If you have one of course,
Yes the people are irked
Yes the people are worked!
Many a dime from hard working
Being taxed up their............                            ***'s!
We're not taking anymore
You vacationing                        schmucks#
How's this for globalism
You globalist                            f#####!

Across the sunlit summer’s lawn
came a strange, laughing child;
hair tousled, face wreathed in smiles,
china blue eyes shining with true simplicity.

Together they watched her awkward gait,
and pitied her protruding jaw and lips.
They compared notes on her recent behaviour
and yesterday’s strong epileptic seizure.

Angelman sighed sadly and, pocketing his pen,
observed to the medical student:
“It’s tragic how just one abnormal chromosome
can cause such awful blight . . .”

The child came jerkily up to them
still smiling, and as ever bereft of speech.
A tear manifested itself in the doctor’s eye,
as the ‘happy puppet’ began to laugh again.  

Uncontrollably.

his hipster beard -
mandatory accessory for this
gentrified borough of Pittsburgh -
leads him back and forth
from the kitchen to the tables

he serves more tables than he should
I wait too long for my
overpriced salad
as he drops a plate of greasy wings
in front of a table of oblivious
professionals who
judge him
find him wanting
without ever looking up from their phones

a small bead of sweat accompanies him
when he drops off my check

I pay with a twenty and he brings me back
a ragged five and a one-dollar bill.

I know what he did.  ****.

god ****** hipster server trying to fleece me
playing on social pressure
betting on pocketing that faded fiver
that he did not earn from me

I force him to break that Lincoln
I tip three bucks
because I ****** well won’t let him get the best of me

my indignation is an all-American righteousness
so much so that I forget -

forget I paid four times what the salad was worth
forget he doesn’t see a penny of that profit
forget that he makes less than three bucks an hour
forget that without tips he won’t make rent

I forget all of this in my pride at catching a huckster
who just wants to keep the lights on
one more day

i only dream of the past
the moments of indiscretion
i grasp at the illusions
pocketing wisps of smoke

i pray for nothing i have
lost faith in good faith
although rationality is just
as bad just as artificial

i hope that every little
thing is gonna be alright
but every little thing is
is just one massive thing

i wish to maintain the
frenetic the hot ears and
head the constant movement
that synthesizes purpose

i want to embrace death
hold it close and quiet have
it whisper in my head as i am
gently ripped from the fabric

All I need
is a jeep
no money no nothing
restless nomadic beast

world changes
on wheel
minutes to days
I am no more me
flying away from cage

roads
leading to no end
capturing a mesmerising horizon
to the glowing sunset

Trees on sides
run with me
applauding
as I speed up the chase
pocketing the sun
to lit the night
golden by the rays

Manisha

Memoirs in Diaspora…..


The Egypt I miss;
Had bread basket filled, bottled butter
Mouth watering sliced salted spiced snacks,
Vast garlic gotten from government grocers,
Onions, olives and countable orphans,
Gracious graduates donned in fitting gowns.
No pick-pocketing pirate police……
Even though we wailed upon Pharaohs’ whips
Stomachs were stuck with solid meals.
Is Moses’ Canaan carrying a curse?
I can’t help wondering.