Ramshackled dream
Held together with glue and string
And prayers
Floating as a feather
Yet easily the heaviest of things

What tapestries you inspire
Yet not strong enough the exit my mind
Keeping you hidden
Incubating long term
Until you’re almost over cooked

Make I take a glimpse of you
Never to touch, in fear of the break
Complexly understated
A warming flame
Flickering in this empty cold world

Ramshackled dream
Pretty to most, breathtaking to me
Sitting ever fervent
Waiting to shine
Wait to breathe the air

Here I say hello to the
Fragments of fortified compounds
Which yield old holy love
Without thought or need of itself
I take hold of the wind
With grasping bow and a smile
A tune in my back pocket
And a swirl of cupcake that is sweat like gold
When alone I swerve in the night
As if I had nothing else to give that was right
Oh the thoughts of here are near cloudy white moon
Waiting for the hour to press on me like a weight
She cries and cries like a floating kite
Apart from her I make nothing worthwhile
I take each minute mechanical meat cleaver
Grocery stores aflame and all the same
Up in the high mountain the festive fountains
Splash out water that in the end will never matter
And throughout the festival the winners
Are the ones who dance without themselves
Memorials for the dead who have yet to be born
Rhythmic heart you beat as if lost torn music
Locked inside the mind you pry it open
But see it is only full of cotton
Good sir you make enough money
Will you let me have some?
I'll take your paper for a walk and
Will feed your fish every midnight
Your wife says you lie about your love life
Why would you do that to a woman
Who swears you were married underneath a holy sermon?
But I ask no questions that I cannot answer
So I am sorry but I will have to go
Here are a couple buttons and some muttons
I found at an alter per pound and a carton
Whispers on the water front lake
Where love goes to live and die
Each leaf here owes their own specific fine
And the machines cough as they bend over and wheeze
The rocky path we walked upon that fair night
Made me think of the ancients and all of their might
The squeak of the dinner chair
The man stands and then does fall
His mistress screams as she reaches for the beams
And calls the police as she pours out coffee and cream
But nobody seems to hear her pleas
And the man dies without a whimper or belief
Not that truth lies in words or the old mans sleeves
Every cave has their shadows ah mysterious ravines
When I say I don't much care to stay in one place I mean it
But that don't mean my love is all the thinner
I was born without a future and without a past
But that doesn't mean our love won't ever last
Now some say the sky was made by a hand
And others claim by no man only water pipes
And some people creep around waving their pamphlets about
Trying to sell me the stuff like it were stout
But I keep away from those money schemes
I head out the back way fast to leave
To move on to the next riddle the next stream
I ain't saying I'm better or I'm to good for you
There is just something inside of me I feel I have to do
And when the lonesome blues get atop of me
And you can bet your bottom dollar they do
I just look for a cool beer at the bar
And meet a friend at the corner around two
So say farewell to the ministry of defense
I always knew they were never going to pay my rent
I'm headed out the backdoor but what's more
I won't make a peep as I float across the floor
Reality who weeps on steps of ramshackled shack
Tears aloof in high esteem and praised by all
Twangs of misery flood the wooden stair case
As the ghosts of ancient literature are born again
And the minds of the young artists twists as it reads
The ******* the others have filtered through
And have all finished to **** and ***
Holding the quote like a ***** we all seem to do
Fragrance from the hands of the remembered ones
Heroes of the pen are recalled on
By the ones who can never strum a song
But what is it for if in the end it turns to nothing?
The experience that will soon be covered in dirt
Worms who eat away at the flesh the memories the dreams
Collecting the mulch for the next round of contestants
For the game within the game
Each staircase lined with the burnt bones of the past
A dark black mirror with no reflection
Pool of hot water burned from lack of affection
Monologue of nothing with a shoe string around its neck
An empty stage with an empty man in plaid
Grinning as he says nothing but believes it is everything
The piano man plays for a crowd of drunks
Collects his things and throws them in a flaming trunk
Headed home to a wife with a knife around her throat
And smiles are the thing we are wishing for!
And fortune and happiness and praise!
How the smile wanes as the wishes are forgotten
And the smoky ash of a volcano within
Erupts and there is no one around you who cares
Or gives a **** to save!
The night hawks pray on the weak
And mother nature a few times I have heard her speak
Darwin shuffles his deck of cards
As the igloos up North do not seem so far
I take it or leave it for anything worth doing
Is worth dying for
When your up against a world full of fakers
All you can do is arm yourself
With an essence that comes from some peoples Maker
Fear in the flabs of her fat
She talks of herself her woes and her troubles
The mask has been empty for years
When the soul once was is now only filled with tears
Hear the heart break of the century
A 25 year old billionaire!
A catastrophe of triumph!
A leap and a bound towards nowhere!
Catch the news if your mind may will it
They are burning money in Europe and the moon
We make our own future so our children don't have too!
A forgery mined in the caverns of procrastinated time.

My name is Rajabu Al Islam, an African Muslim
Born in Africa, Black Muslim not Arabic,
I am now in the solemn city of Mombasa,
Standing on the pinnacle of Tahir Sheikh Towers,
Looking at the land of Likoni and Motonkwe
Beyond the deep blue arm of Indian Ocean,
Behold the Muslim terrorists, lynch fierce terror
On the innocent human beings, in ramshackled church,
They are shooting women and young children,
The pastor at the dais, wielding the Bible,
Also succumbs to a bullet in his ***** capacity,
The church choir master has also dropped dead
And the rest of all humanity in the church
Have no where to take cover from terrorist,
As Moslem terrorist ******* bullets on them,
Poor humanity wail in the agony of death
From the injurious bullets, of AK 47,
Auma Otieno drops dead her son Osinya falling away,
Osinya is not dead, but a slug stuck in his skull,
In glorification of Al shabab the Islamic terror wing,
Baby osinya is young boy of six months,
Without selfish   piety of Middle East in chest,
When you shoot him, is it n’t it super terrorism!
To shoot a child of six months in the head
In pursuit of your religious ecstasy?

Who said that Islam is the way of Godliness?
He was a beautiful cheat full of brawnish frivolities,
Islam is total darkness, as its overt organs are ;
Al gaeda, Al shabab and Boko Haram.
I hate Islam for its ***** reasonless ignorance
I hate it with my full passion and my entirety,
Indeed I am prepared to die in stern defense
Of my antipathy for Islam; a piety so uncouth
When I recall, the Twin towers of America,
West Gate of Kenya, American embassy in Kenya,
And the stubborn Boko Haram, that condemned human life
Foolishly in the north of Nigeria to be foul divinity.

a city old in trades,
in cultivation of the arts
based on industrious commerce
   of its citizens who boast
the world's oldest commercial fair

the city in which
Martin Luther and Melanchthon
led fierce disputes
with delegations of the Pope

where J. S. Bach found stimulus
and time to master
harmony and rhythm
close to perfection,
(and that was shocked listening
to Leibniz's monadologies),

the city of which
Goethe spoke with praise,
that saw Napoleon defeated
on the nearby battlefield
(and built a monument of quite
imposing ugliness one hundred years
after the fact),

this city suffered hard
from two world wars
followed by over forty years
of dreams gone sour of a new society,
until, most recently,
this city once again
became a catalyst of major change.

Yet those who kept their meetings
at St. Niklas' church
and by their stubborn protest
helped to reunite
a country separated by walls for generations -
those you don't see,
walking the streets of Leipzig now.

What strikes the eye
(besides the crumbling blackened ruins
of former glory,
and strip-mined land
just out of town)
is Wall Street's new frontier,
the bustling peddlers of new easy wealth
as they appear on every street downtown,
offering anything from oranges
to shoes and South Pacific cruises.

Ramshackled pre-fabs built on shabby parking lots
already stake the claims of big banks,
business and insurance companies
that promise earnings, safety and security
to eager though bewildered customers.

   "Pecunia non olet" says the poster
   of the postal savings bank,
   and shows a happy pig
   rooting in money.

Old stores, in order to survive,
have started selling
new and shiny goods
to happy new consumers,

only a few resist

and hesitate to walk a mile
for the melange of
fast food, cigarettes and *****
offered at makeshift stands
that seem have come
to symbolize the great new freedom

of the new Wild East.

          * *

The green of my veins
Shivers at the touch
Of your sleek fingers
Often I wander unarmed
In the mystic blue haven
Of your clear eyes.
Vulnerable, held prisoner
Ramshackled in your custody;
When finally our lips brush together
Yours as soft as rose petals
Of a rose newly slithered
From an unrequited bud
And like a floating lost dandelion
I fall in your ravenous embrace
Our souls slip into each other's
Tearing the curtains of shame
Aloof from the miseries of reality
Flooding in madness
Deeply, truly, neurotically
Drunk in love.......

~Manu M.

not every touch is there to scar you,

some are there to hold you

and you cannot shield yourself away out of fear that every touch is going to leave you crawling in your own skin from the itching and itching and burning and burning

because then, then you miss out on the really ******* good touches

the touches that ignite a fire inside of you that you hope keeps burning and burning and ******* burning

because it doesn't itch, somehow it soothes. it burns and it soothes and you've never felt anything like it and there are no scars, just a house on fire and every time a window smashes the exhilaration and adrenaline and exhilaration and adrenaline pours out of you and into you all at the same time.

fireworks do not compare to the explosion of endorphins, ramshackled and rummaging through you.

not every touch is there to scar you,

some are there to hold you.

I sit here.
I fall prey to your charms, harms and weaknesses.
I see you in my mind with glasses, Onassis.
Your brother flying across the Atlantic
And you are Atlas holding the world up.
I feel the old pang.
I fall prey- that’s me, Persephone.
I’ve had my time in Tartarus
And you were my Spring. My Astonishing Adonis,
Sunglasses, Onassis. All second chances.
The night I met a Greek hero disguised as a man
Who turned out to be a man disguised as a Greek hero.
And I miss you, as you go off.
I’m not Persephone, I’m Penelope.
I was unsure I’d wait for you
And now I don’t want to.
But still, part of me does.
Everyone is like a Greek god in some ways.
I’ve had my fun with Apollo and Hades and Zeus-
Who I’m still holding out for. But aren’t we all?
And you, born on the same day as my Pallas.
My palace in the future, my ramshackled past.
You know a surface, you weren’t meant to stay in my world.
And I prayed and prayed to let you stay.
But as always it was up in the air.
So I sit there.
I fall prey to your harms, charms and weaknesses.
Mine is weak ankles, yours is your weak spine.
And I wonder,
Did love ever make you blind?

It was her eyes;
            The stole my curiosity,
             Then ramshackled my heart,
              And kidnapped my soul.

that ramshackled wax house situated in the lonely ‘Sticks,
where flocks of muddle-minded sheep would whimper,
this obscure grove you attempted escaping to for it only to retreat infinitely further,
birds shrill that knee-knocking prayers were not to heal your sickness,
leaden dirt kicked up in the driveway by his stuttering pick-up truck,
    his hefty-booted footsteps cracking warnings,
two folks roosting there,
    they skimp along on scanty paychecks,
    when’s the last time you spruced up?
hushed deeds done behind doors, back porches, piddling sheep ranching, 9-to-5 waitressing,
a domestic trophy, coaxing you to product with a simper or an act on her knees,
a bride of winsome nineteen
from a limited nuclear family yet disowned as an unfaithful *****  for hobnobbing with the riff raff,
traded names to be a ‘Cherry’, unbecoming displays of skin, hootin’-hollerin’, shake her fist to the Heavens and toss her mane, sneering and bad-mouthing, rebellious attitudes of subsisting on the ‘wild’ aspect of life,
did you think you could your persist youthful life negligently forever?
psychotically ‘steadfast’ to her brutish man,
RIDE OR DIE!                    hard whiskey, cigarettes, and phone calls,
he narrates her stories, she sings delusioned hymns,
their day comprising of blackberry kisses and black coffee grippings,
of bitten bottom lips and benign bruises,
    violet caressing her inner thighs, unbuckled passion to the eye,
                        pose on his knee, crooked grins
dancing for him in wiry linen lingeries, to strut her lithe yielding legs,
                          straddle her in-between those hush sheets,
                                    one hot breath,
does he flinch when she first handles him unexpectedly? does he gaze into distances far and mumbles abstractedly?
       “No one will love you like I do.”
    spoiled excess wool in wicker baskets,
                         does she stash a packed suitcase beneath the bed?
                         red lipstick,
                                        polished pistol,
                                       hotdishes,
to you, the lamb of which she stalked,
    what transfixed you? was it her beggar puppy eyes or the muscled haunches? some boyish fantasy for a mature woman who you observed sunbathing on her lawnside?
                he had that lean meat where his sighings exhibiting his ribs,
                that fond, innocent sense desiring a mother-figure,
you met her under the hollowing light of the street lamp,
what meager knowledge of each other did they know? she cannot fulfill her promise to whisk you away to coasts free,
        soaking the laid-towels in fields, a rhythmic guidance for the inexperienced,
did she think of him instead, preferred? and a warm bed?                                         preoccupied,
caught! in the act of entanglement,
did they hear the din? his baleful bark? your blanched bleat?
springing in defense, muddied soles as tangible sins,
his flash-fire eyes, pulsing veins with an envious rage,
a preaching of her ****, his fractured heart, love so sacred one can NEVER betray the boundaries,
did he clench his hands around her throat? oh!
his demands that he pronounced! **** you with the pistol he brandished zealously,
MANDATORY!
          Moon as my witness,
                            who was your Savior in that moment? where was your merited divine intervention?
but slow of action, faint of heart, grasping her hands he forced the weapon, he plyed her finger to pull the trigger,
             the lamb’s final shallow breath, the hounds smacking their ****** gums,
one cold breath,
The snow must have felt blistering,
how frightened she became, alter her standpoint,
but she could flee as she thirsted! the yank! the ******! to the ground,
                    the punishing baseball bat to ******* her legs,
dousing, saltish tears, rouge lips gasping, sporadically whimpering between bitter laughter,
his hand on her neck skimming gradually, gracefully, between her blades, warm,
gingerly cradling her, splintering voice, apologies like flurries,
            that day summer’s day when they first married in front of the grove,
         she remembers her billowing linen dress, the way they waltzed in lush grass,
                                would the world chasm off beyond?
        he would kiss her again in precisely the same manner as once before,
fall desperately in love with him, firm, truely steadfast, unpacking her suitcase,  
mosey back towards that lit house of wax, that far-flung street lamp and the dispersed sheep,
“Take me home.”        
                                “No one will love you like I do.”

Kerfuffled, Discombobulated
And confused
My grey matter upstairs
Is suffering from overuse

My ramshackled head
Is now but a shack
Like a little duck
That knows not how to quack!

by Jemia

Chapter One: The Awkward Encounter

It was September, 1972, and the fall semester had just started.  Tonight was the first day of class.  I should clarify that as evening instead of day because this was night school.  I was a student majoring in English and Philosophy at Saint Joseph’s University in Philadelphia.

Only two weeks ago, I had moved into an old Victorian apartment building across the street from the University Field House at 54th St. and Woodland Avenue. Everything in Philadelphia is referenced as the intersection of two streets or thoroughfares.  Saint Joe’s was always referred to as being at 54th Street and City Line Avenue.  My apartment was a ramshackled old building in the middle of a black neighborhood.  I was the only white resident in the old three- story apartment building, and my apartment was on the second floor facing front. Every one of my new neighbors treated me great. There was a Baptist Church just to the left of my building and every morning at 8 they held services.  I never needed an alarm to get up in the morning because the singing and ***** music coming through the windows and walls were a reliable wake-up call.

I was working days in an Arco (Atlantic Refining) gas station about 15 miles away in North Hills Pennsylvania.  This station also rented U-Haul trucks, and my job was to pump gas and take care of the truck and trailer rentals as the owner of the station, Bob, was busy with mechanic work.  This worked well for me because between gas fill ups and truck rentals I got to sit in the office and finish my schoolwork.

Since moving back to Philadelphia from State College Pa., where I had been a student, all I brought with me was my most prized possession — a 1971 750 Honda.  I had customized it with café-racer accessories from Paul Dunstall because in those days you couldn’t buy a bike that looked like it belonged on a racetrack like you can today.  You had to build it.

I worked at the station five days a week (Mon – Fri) from 9:00 a.m. until 5:00 p.m.  Then I hopped on my bike and headed back to my apartment to quick shower and change and then walk across the street to campus and hopefully make my first class by 6:00 p.m. On days when I got stuck in traffic or couldn’t leave at exactly 5, I would go straight to class wearing my Arco jumper with the smell of high-octane gasoline going with me.

Tonight, I was sitting alone on the first floor of Villiger Hall which was where my third level Shakespeare course was supposed to be held.  It was almost 6, and I was still the only one in the room — but not for long.  All of a sudden, I heard a high-pitched voice giving orders: “Yes, Dad, this IS the room.  Just push me in and drop me off.”

And that’s exactly what happened. A kindly older gentleman in his late fifties or early sixties pushed his son into the room. I say pushed because his son was in a wheelchair, and he parked him right next to me.  This made me very uncomfortable, and I actually thought about getting up and moving to the other side of the room, but my mother had raised me better than that. The boy in the wheelchair was in a full body brace with a special neck harness to keep his head upright.
If I had been uncomfortable before, I was beyond that now.  We both sat there in silence as the big industrial clock on the front wall ticked 6:02.  It was then that a proctor rushed into the room and wrote on the blackboard in chalk: “THIS CLASS HAS BEEN MOVED TO THE BARBELIN BUILDING, ROOM 207.

Chapter Two: Time To Move

As soon as the proctor had finished writing on the board, I saw this as my chance to escape.  I grabbed my bookbag and started to bolt for the door.  I only got halfway to freedom when I heard the loudest and most commanding voice come out of the *******’s body … “All Right Moose, Let’s Move!

I couldn’t help but hear myself saying (to myself) … “The ******* Really Can Talk.”  I was surprised, blown away, and his voice had frozen me in place.

“All right Moose, let’s get this show on the road.  Do you know where the Barbelin Building is up on the hill?”  I told him I did, and he said … “Put your book bag on the back of the wheelchair so you can push me up the hill before we miss too much class.” Again, his voice had a commanding effect on my actions and in robot fashion I put my bag on the back of his chair, grabbed the two push handles, spun his chair to the right and headed out the door. I was careful not to touch him directly because I didn’t know if what he had was catchy.

As I headed to the stairway to go down the 6 steps leading to outside, I heard that voice again … “No, not that way, toward the elevator” as he pointed off to the left with an arm that was not much bigger than my fingers. “The elevator key is between my legs.  Reach in and get it and then put it in the key slot and we can take the elevator down.”

                      THE KEY WAS BETWEEN HIS LEGS!

At this point, I was totally disoriented but had fallen under his spell.  I took a deep breath, reached between his legs, and found the key.  I then put it in the semi-circular keyhole and turned it to the right.  “Good, he said, it should come quickly, and we’ll be outta here.”

The problem is it didn’t come.  Seconds felt like minutes and minutes like hours as we waited for the elevator door to open. Finally, after an excruciatingly long time the elevator door opened and standing in front of us was the last thing I expected to see. It was another ******* in a wheelchair being pushed by a healthy student about my age.
As they tried to make their way out into the hall the ******* I was pushing said … “Don’t move!  Don’t let them out! And then he said … “I don’t know who you are or where you think you’re going, but this school’s only big enough for one ******* — and that’s me. For seven years I’ve been the resident ******* at St. Joe’s.  The next time I go to use this elevator and you have it *******, my big friend behind me is going to kick your measly friend’s ***.”

By now, I was in a kaleidoscope wrapped inside a time warp spinning at the speed of light. I had never been around anyone who seemingly had so little and acted so grand.

We made it up the hill that night in time to hear Professor Burke say … “Be prepared on Thursday (our next class) to talk about your favorite Shakespeare play and why.”

As I wheeled him toward his next class which also happened to be mine — we were both English majors —he reached out with a tiny hand and said: “My name’s Eddie, what’s yours.”


Chapter Three: So Different Yet So Alike

For the next fifteen months we were inseparable on Tuesday and Thursday’s nights.  We adjusted our Spring course selections to make sure we took the same classes.  Eddie was taking two courses each semester and I was taking four. It was a real struggle for him to take notes, but luckily, he had what many would call a photographic memory.

Many weekends he would visit me in my meager apartment, and we would listen to Van Morrison and the Hollies until the early hours of the morning. Eddie had two good friends named Steve and Ray who would drive him back and forth from my apartment.  My motorcycle wasn’t an option, although we fantasized about how we MIGHT be able to rig something up so he could ride on the back.  Eddie was a magnet and drew everyone into his circle.  He had defied the odds and not let the polio that he contracted at 4 dominate his life.  He slept in an iron lung because it was hard for him to breathe while lying down.

Eddie was bigger than life and bigger than ANY of the obstacles that tried to take him down.  Many times, I tried to imagine myself in his situation, but it was impossible. God had given Eddie a special power, and it allowed him to leverage the people and circumstances around him to make it through. I noticed early on that Eddie lived his life vicariously through the lives of others that he would have liked to have been.

Let’s say that my backround was at least colorful and unconventional.  I had been on my own since age 18 and had wandered the eastern half of America by motorcycle from Maine to Florida.  Eddie got to where he could tell my stories better than I could and when he did, I could tell he had actually lived them in his imagination.

Eddie and I had another connection.  We were both poets and loved to write.  He understood at a quantum level that to be a great writer you have to experience the words.  He had the remarkably wonderful ability to be able to do that through the actions of others. He also recreated the great stories of the famous authors we read.
  
Two weeks after meeting him I stopped thinking about him as a *******. Many times, it seemed like he had advantages and strengths that those who knew him could only envy.  The longer I knew him, the more I felt that way.

Chapter Four: The Invite

We had just returned to classes after a long Thanksgiving weekend when Eddie said: “My dad wants to talk to you.” My mind immediately wondered:  What’s wrong, have I done something I shouldn’t have.

At 10:05 p.m., when our last class ended and I wheeled Eddie down two flights of stairs, (this building had no elevator), his father also named Ed was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.  He had that big smile on his face that he always greeted me with as I handed the wheelchair over to him …

“Kurt, my wife and I are having a little party at our house the night before Christmas Eve, and we’d like you to come. All of Eddies friends will be there and you should be there too.  Please think about it, it would mean so much to my wife Margaret.”

I thanked Eddie’s father and told him I’d have to check the holiday schedule with my parents and then get back to him.  Being the oldest of 21 grandchildren, who were brought up in an enclave or compound of five adjoining houses, the holidays were always jammed packed with activities the week before Christmas.  Those activities though were not my main concern. I had nothing decent to wear.

My wardrobe consisted of 2 pairs of jeans and 4 t-shirts plus one pair of quilted long johns that I wore on the motorcycle when the temperature dropped below 40 degrees.  Add my brown leather WW2 surplus bomber jacket to the ensemble and that constituted my wardrobe … not very impressive for a 25-year-old man. In fact, staring into my closet that night, it brought home to me in a way it hadn’t before that my life was about to change.

I had recently decided to take a sales job with a local company that specialized in selling home furnishings to local department stores and general merchandise retailers.  This would be a major departure for me, but the salary would be four times what I was making at the gas station.  I hadn’t told anyone about this because inside I felt like I was selling out.  The company had advanced me $250.00 — a large amount in 1973 —to buy suits before I showed up for my first day of work on January 3rd.

I still didn’t have a car but that was another perk of the new job. They would be leasing me one after my period of orientation was over in early February.  But now, back to my quandary about Eddie’s party.


Chapter 5: E.J. Korvettes

Brightly lit with fluorescent lighting, the store seemed enormous as I walked from aisle to aisle.  I wasn’t shopping for suits. I was trying to find something suitable to go to a holiday party and meet people I had never met before.  As I got to the end of the aisle, I looked into the mirror that marked the end of the men’s department and took stock at what I was seeing.

My hair was shoulder length, and my beard was at least 4 inches long.  I had told my new employer that I would cut my hair and trim my beard before starting in January but hadn’t done it yet. In all honesty, I was still having second thoughts about making such a drastic lifestyle change, and I would wait until the last minute to radically change my appearance.

I stared into the racks of men’s sportswear until I found what I thought might work for me.  It was a beige, fisherman’s knit sweater in size large.  The sweater looked great, but the price did not.  It was marked $10.00, and unlike many of the garments surrounding it — it was not on sale.

I had $24.00 to my name that night, and $10.00 would mean I would be eating oatmeal and peanut butter until my next pay at the gas station.  I walked around for at least a half-hour until someone came over the loudspeaker saying that in 15 minutes the store would be closing.  I started to walk out but something dragged me back.  I put the sweater under my arm and headed for the register. I had made up my mind not to use any of the advance money from the new company until any doubts I had about taking the job were dispelled.
The next night at class I told Eddie and his dad that I’d be happy to join them on December 23rd.


Chapter 6:  December, 23rd

It was 6:45 on Sunday, December 23rd, when I arrived in front of Eddie’s brick row house in what is known in Philadelphia as the Great Northeast.  Every house on the block looked alike but the front door to Eddie’s was open with just the glass storm door closed.  I could see the house looked packed from the outside.

I didn’t stop but decided to go around the block.  I had one more problem to solve — what do I do with the motorcycle?  I knew Eddie’s dad knew I had a motorcycle, but I wasn’t sure about his mother.  Some people had bad impressions of motorcycles — and their riders — in the 1970’s, and I terribly wanted to make a good impression.

As I circled the block, I found an empty spot on the street about 5 houses away from Eddie’s house.  I parked the bike and hid my helmet inside the hedge that was separating the street from the sidewalk. I tried to flatten my hair, took off my bomber jacket and walked to the front door.  I never made it …

Before I could even get to the front door, a petite, silver haired woman dressed in red and blue rushed out on her front walk, put both of her arms around my waist, squeezed tightly, and said … “Oh Kurt, we are so glad you’re here!”

I’ve been greeted and hugged many times in my life, but nothing has ever come close to the hug I got that night from a stranger.  By the time she walked me through the front door we were strangers no more.

Eddie’s immediate and extended family were as warm and inviting as both he and his father had been.  I felt immediately welcome, and the night passed quickly as I met one family member after the next.
At 10:30 Eddie said, “Let’s go downstairs and listen to some music and we can talk.” I picked Eddie up off the sofa he was laying on and carried him down the 13 stairs into a finished basement.  You knew right away this was Eddie’s domain.  His stereo was against the stairs and pictures of the local Philadelphia sports teams were up on the walls.  

It was good to see him at home in his own element. That night we talked about the, once again, lousy year the Eagles had had (going 2-11-1) and the state of the war in Vietnam.  This was standard stuff for young men in their twenties.

At 11:20 I heard the basement door open at the top of the stairs and saw a girl with two legs covered in white stockings come down only 5 steps, sit down, and look over at us. I could tell immediately from the look on her face — she was not impressed.  She then got back up, headed into the kitchen, and closed the basement door.

“Oh, don’t mind her.  That’s just my sister Kathryn. She works the 3-11 shift at Nazareth Hospital. She just wanted to see who this guy is that she’s heard so much about.”

“I don’t think she was very impressed by the look on her face,” I said back.  “Oh, don’t let that bother you, you know how girls are — she’s just my sister.”

She may have been just his sister, but she was now inside my head, and I couldn’t get her out.


Chapter 7: Force Majeure

“My God, what is all that racket upstairs?  It’s a woman’s voice, do you think she needs help?”

“No, that’s just Kathryn screaming at her boyfriend over the phone.  They haven’t been getting along lately, and this has become a regular occurrence.”

There are watershed moments in life, and I knew this was one of them.  “I better go check,” I said. “You’re out of coke anyway.”  Without waiting for an answer, or tacit permission, I grabbed his empty glass and headed up the stairs two at a time. I opened the basement door and stepped into the kitchen just in time to hear … “Ok then, we’re OFF for New Year’s Eve.”

Kathryn’s mother looked at me and with a twinkle in her eye gave me the ‘Irish Wink.’  Having an Irish grandmother, who had always been the love of my life, I knew what that wink meant, and a voice deep inside that I had no control over started to speak … “So, you don’t have a date for New Year’s Eve? What a shame!” She immediately glared back at me with venom in her eyes. “Well, as it happens, I don’t have one either. Why don’t you go out with me unless you’re afraid of a guy like me.”

I could see her mother standing behind her shaking her head up and down as if to say … “Ask her again.” “I’m not afraid of anything — especially a guy like you.”  “Good I said, then I’ll take that as a yes.”  Kathryn stood there by the phone with a look that was a combination of anger and intrigue.

“I don’t know. Where would we go, and I’m not going on the back of any motorcycle.”  “We can go wherever you like, and I promise it’ll be in a car.  I hear Zaberers in Atlantic City has a great New Year’s Eve party.” Kathryn was still silent as her mother Marge answered for her: “That sounds like fun, I know you’ll both have a great time."

At every point in my life when I needed saving, it was always a special woman who saved me — they didn’t come any more special than Marge Hudak.
As she walked me to the front door that night, she hugged me again as she said … “Next time, just park your motorcycle in front of the house and bring your helmet inside …

                                    How Did She Know


Chapter 8: The Aftermath

That New Year’s Eve would be the best night in my entire life.  We danced and talked, laughed and gazed, and I think in both of our hearts and minds — we knew.

I went on to take that new job because now I could see a clearer pathway to the future, and it included more than just me,
Sixty days later, on March 5th, I asked Kathryn to marry me, and she said, YES.  Six months after that we were married on September 22nd, and this year, 2024, we will celebrate 50 years together with our 2 children and 4 grandchildren.

We lost Eddie, and both of his parents, several years ago, but their memory lives on inside of us growing stronger with every passing day.

There’s no telling where my life would have gone had I ‘escaped’ out of that classroom that night and gotten away from the *******. Meeting Eddie confirmed what I think I already knew deep inside — that it is our own insecurities and fear that handicap us the most.
That night, Eddie offered to me more than just his friendship, his wit, his intellect, and his great strength of character. Meeting him turned into the greatest of all of life’s gifts …

                                        His Sister Kathryn

If I could rip out my lungs here and now
to hear one last time sing like a songbird,
I would die just for that tune.

In debt, I still spend more heart than allowed
and if you're not in pain, why have I incurred
such a darkness under new moon.

But every river at last, must flow to an end
and while my heart bleeds out just like one,
there is nothing for you here.

Ramshackled veins, I feel each one of you rend
as I play pretend this will simply be done,
put to rest, not realize my fear.

You don't quite look like you as your eyes cloud
and like when you couldn't speak, I can't find words.
And all the sterile tools and the palest off-white room
could not make me immune
from the way the walls closed, like a casket. In on me too.

You have stolen my mighty dreams,
my glorious goals and ardent aims
that I had set with such delight.
Came you in at night, through
a window left carelessly open.
Put you them all in a bag, threw
then them out the same spot.

You then ate some flowers,
drank their essence, gulped
down all my hopeful cookies.
Climbed then you out
the same way the same way
climbed you in.

As if you had just not plucked the life
out of a an arid apartment.
As if the mountains you climbed were
not the result of your own deeds
As if the snow coughing sky did not curse
you for the cold you emitted.

Now here I am!
This ramshackled mess hugging me tight.
Scattered bricks of my own thoughts,
broken cement that my passion has become
Naked foundation, a mere shivering skeleton
but they say they see no destruction.
No wall needs fixing, no glass is bleeding.

I haven't cleaned remnants of the flower ***
the echo of the essence still lingers around
the halls like a silent ghost of the dead
Cookie tray buried under the dust of dishes
has long since given up hope for a new life.

Here I am now!
Two hundred years later,
still staring I am at my self-painted sky,
wishing to the electrified stars, questioning
the dimly blinking suns.
Still wondering I am!

How you managed to come inside
when there was no window to begin with.

The mosaic gold Daffodils
Hang loose, and limp
Ramshackled
Dishevelled
As they droop
Disdainfully
Towards their destiny
Yet their spark of life
Remains beautiful
Echoing their former glory
Still adorned
With their outer tunics
Like pale veils of harmony
Drawn back
Over limp green shoots
The now dying 'Daffs'
Lie, within a mosaic vase of complexities
Of Egyptian Blue's
Crimson Red's
And Verdigris Green's
Creating a tapestry
Of a primary delight

by Jemia

III. “LOOK AT THE BIRDS OF THE AIR; THEY NEITHER SOW NOR REAP NOR GATHER INTO BARNS”––UNCONCERNED ABOUT TOMORROW. “CONSIDER THE GRASS OF THE FIELD –– WHICH TODAY IS.”

LOOK NOW:

A bus.

In the seat near her, of wired silver hair, of wilting lilies- a face that is a spattering of moles, the teeth an inch from necessity: Brianna. What creature is this? What torment? The nature of yourself is a nature of no other- you are uniquely ugly and I have prayed for and forgotten you.

This is only the presentation of your thighs
with hopscotch etchings and clipped denim…  

You crawl from the ramshackled crevice of timber and shingle,
from the carpet,
  To meet me on vinyl-
and teach me a pity of the circus.

The Hag
She was bedraggled, and haggard
By her last half month
She had the appearance
Of an old behemoth

Her humble abode
Was looking more ramshackled
Than if it had been hit
By a thousand meteors

As to her outer clothing
(Lets not mention the holey knickers!)
Was hanging from her worn and weary being
Like the fancy dress of a screaming banshee

Yet, despite all this
She was still able to smile
Although, as it turned out
This was her most frightening feature!

It wasn't just her fangy teeth
Nor her snake like tongue
It had more to do with
The blood curdling scream she emitted

You, the reader, may think this
A very fanciful tale
But it has evolved from a personal encounter
Which occurred in my bathroom mirror!

by Jemia