He’d been able, after some gentle persistence,
To wheedle his way into the place
(He’d been vaguely recognized by the caretaker,
A certain affable familiarity his stock in trade, after all)
And he had been decidedly deliberate in his search for the shoes,
Though he’d been quite certain where he’d left them,
Simply hoping to drink this all in just one more time
But though the rooms were ostensibly unchanged
(He'd noted the odd knick-knack and piece of bric-a-brac
Had been secreted out, to be preserved or pawned)
They held no fascination for him now,
Simply concoctions of hardwood flooring,
Decorative wall coverings, staid pieces of furniture
(Indeed, the paterfamilias of this whole mélange
Increasingly beyond his recall-- he could hearken back
To a certain hail-fellow-well-met in his demeanor,
And he'd had an affecting smile,
But he was unable to conjure any further details
From the recesses of his memory)
And with nothing else to moor him to these silent rooms,
He'd slipped on the ostensible reasons he'd come in the first place
(Their uppers maintaining their whiteness
Through any number of bleachings,
The soles worn to a near smoothness)
And, nodding perfunctorily to the mansion's steward,
He slipped away, heading to some other party
Carrying on in more or less perpetuity,
The battered bottoms of his shoes
Leaving just the faintest marks as he crossed the dunes,
Soon to be buffed away altogether by the breeze.

Packed like sardines
inside a jeepney—
Too full,
with a jeepney strike going on.

Rushing,
mother and child ride along.

Greasy, *****, malnourished…
The woman holds a can—
a makeshift drum.
Little boy hands out envelopes,
he looks like he's 3 years old,
he's most likely 6.

Woman beats her drum,
nobody listens
chatter drowning out the rhythm…
Invisible ears to go with
invisible envelopes

His head touches my legs,
dissipating heat—
an indicator of how long
he's been under the sun and smog
The thought chills me…

He stares at my sister's shopping bags
with searing eyes…
Windows that I can’t bear to look into,
afraid to see my reflection of clouded guilt and frustration

I shake my head, no food to share
but my hands reach out to his,
to give him some money.
My sister remembers a bottle of iced tea,
and hands it to him.

He has a hard time opening it,
and asks for help from the school girls…
Invisible again.

I reach out and get the bottle from him
Temporary refreshment
for a body that is parched,
for a soul who is thirsty for so much more.

I cannot help but gulp in guilty air.

He sits on the aisle,
savoring the tea
as his mother thumps on the can.

The little boy retrieves envelopes, all empty—
as hollow as the sound of the beating drum.

What do you do,
what can you do?

The jeepney stops.
They alight from it...
The mother looks back
and says, "Salamat."
It goes straight to my heart.

Her eyes move me most—
one eye is cloudy, grayed out,
perhaps a manifestation
of the storms in her life?

That single word seared through me,
and I felt how much she meant it…

Her thank you
made me want to give so much more,
to call out to her and give whatever I had at the moment
but they are gone...
Lost in a crowd of faceless people,
and I myself want to get lost,
hide my face in shame…

What can you do?

1508

You cannot make Remembrance grow
When it has lost its Root—
The tightening the Soil around
And setting it upright
Deceives perhaps the Universe
But not retrieves the Plant—
Real Memory, like Cedar Feet
Is shod with Adamant—
Nor can you cut Remembrance down
When it shall once have grown—
Its Iron Buds will sprout anew
However overthrown—

A star of blood you fell
from the point of the hypodermic
singing of fabulous beasts &
spitting out the *** of vowels
Your poems explode in the mouth
like torrents of ***** on a night
     full of zebras & bootheels
Your ghost still cruses the river-
fronts of midnight assignations
in a world of dead sailors carrying
         armfuls of flowers in search of
                       your unmarked grave
Your body no sanctuary for bees,
Death was your lover in a rain of
      broken obelisks & rotting orchids
In the tangled rose of a single heartbeat
I offer you the shadow of a double
profile,
     two heads held together at the bridge
         of the nose by a nail of *****
                                           smoke
     in the long night's dreaming
     & memory of water poured between
                                              glasses
In my mailbox I find a letter from
     a dead man & know that for every
                shadow given
                one is taken away
Yet subtraction is only a special form of
addition and implies a world of hidden
intentions below a horizon of lips
thin as your fingernail sprouting
mysteries in the earth …
The ace of spades dealt from the bottom
      of the deck severs the hand which
      retrieves it & the eyes of Beauty
      sewn together peer over a black lace fan
      in the ****** sunlight of a Spanish
           morning without horses
             The Belt of Orion is loosened
before you as you remove the silver
fingerstalls from your mummy hands &
kneel to plunder the nightsky in a shower of
                  bitter diamonds.
(Somewhere under a blanket someone weeps
               for a lover.)
Peace to your soul
& to your empty shoes
in the dark closets of
kings with no feet!!!

Photographs by Avedon

This was written in a friend's home in the Berkshire Mountains, on a Saturday morning, a few years ago.  Up early, I went exploring their bookshelves and found a book of Richard Avedon's photographs of average Americans out west.  Google "richard avedon photos of the american west" - then read the poem.  Please, for without seeing the faces, for this will make all the difference.  In the Berkshires, it is always chilly there, even in the summer sun.  This and other obscure references are better detailed in the notes.


Join my warmth and
my chill,
as the nine o'clock sun,
a 45 degree steeplechase
warms,
but still not
strong enough
to dispense
the lingering,
residual, remaindered,
breezy chill
of the prior eve,
that hides in,
emanates from,
the shadows
of the
deep wooded hillocks
of the
Berkshire Mountains.

Join my warmth
and my chill!

Upright jolted,
head kicked awake,
entranced and revolted,
excited and repelled,
emotive, yet, stilled.

For oh so casually,
this heroic city dweller,
brave and fearless
bookshelf explorer,
retrieves a book,
to find a new route
thru time and space
to the center of his brain.

Photographs by Avedon,
of my fellow Americans,
the Have Nots,
his "Havedons"
of the
American West.

These uncommon people
with whom I share
uncommonly little,
these drifters, the carneys,
the would-have-been cowboys,
busted blackjack dealers,
rattlesnake gut n' skinners,
coal and copper miners,
the hay truck drivers,
dirt so deep in
their pores ingrained,
colors and bloodies their souls,
browns their veins,
are the ones that
too oft,
go off first to
fight wars
in my name.

Photos untitled,
words unneeded.

In this far corner of our
shared contiguous space
called the
United States of America,
top of the line here
would be
insurance agents,
secretaries and maybe even,
the waitresses.

But their eyes,
oh their eyes!

Words I do not own
to fair share with you,
the clarifying gaze
of measured dignity and
immeasurable ache,
heritage pride,
heretical heartbreak,
that marks and unites
these disparate and dispirited
vessels of humankind.

Disjointed,
the noon suns finally,
raises my body temperature
browns my surface...

Yet, nothing eradicates
this ******* chill
in my soul
or calms my consternation,
as black and white
eyes discolor
my comfortable existence,
as I ponder
Avedon's words:

All photographs are accurate but none tell the truth

Pass over,
pass by,
The Evil Son at Passover
asks ever so sly,
what have they to do with me?

It is the Sabbath.
We luxuriate in our rest.
Rest is the greatest luxury

What is this Sabbath?
Heschel's cathedral -
existant both
in space and time,
and one enters
when and where
one can.

Do my distant,
(both in space and time)
American cousins
share my Sabbath?

Are they allowed
this luxury,
or is it endless exertion,
severity and deprivation,
all and every day
of their lives?

Constant risk every day.

Who cannot fail to see the
precipitousness of life
edged in the lines of their
hearts and minds?

Day to day hardens them
and teaches the
discipline of
severity unended.

Is the prudence of
self-forgetfulness,
their morning bitter pill
they must swallow
to carry on?

Among the resolutions
I need
to claim a
life fulfilled is this:

How to end this poem,
close this can of worms,
accidentally kicked open.

Will sunset end these
troubling questions
of which you have
your own,
more personal variations?
(what about the ...)

Perennials flower everywhere,
in Auschwitz,
along the Tigris,
even in Kabul and Somalia,
along the highways
that lead
to the mecca of
Las Vegas.

Perennials flower everywhere.

In warmth and cool,
in time and space,
they flower in my heart and
my brain and in
my prayerful tears.
flowing down my cheeks,
as I lay me down to sleep,
to dream these of
impoverished words

Havdalah^^ thoughts,
separations celebrated.

Distinctions noted,
even celebrated tween
holy and common,
light and dark,
Sabbath and
the six weekdays
of labor,
between sacred and secular
and
between me and
my American Brothers
of the American West.

I know
just one thing
to be true:

The Sabbath Cathedral is
open to all,
whatever day
you choose to
abide there

I await you,
my American cousins,
with wine and bread
and the
holy of holiest words
of comfort and sooth.

I will wash your feet and
lay you down to
restful sleep
in the
Sabbath Cathedral
in my heart.

Together,
at last,
we will be joined,
in warmth and chill.



August 29, 2010
Lanesboro, Mass.

balking, then walking into the suburban night,
I have escaped the TV, the PC, the clutter of memories
and the last two hanging, breasty incandescent bulbs in the galaxy,  
soon to have their filaments burn out amid the indifference
of florescent pigtails and their infinite, incessant hum
I have escaped into this night      

marching on, marching on
the sullied, sacred sidewalk squares
past the dentist’s house, past the woman whose husband was murdered
by his best friend over a case of beer, and had her eternal fifteen minutes on Dr. Phil
past the retired educator, past the woman who…hell I don’t know what she does--she drives a gold Avalon
and never retrieves her Sunday paper before noon  

marching on, marching on  
I count cadence, move as if I am headed
to another battle, and I am, but I won’t see my enemy tonight
he is yet on the black horizon, waiting for me, and you    

marching on
when I pass the widow’s house a second time, a third (?) time
I smell her cigarettes and see the orange glow in her garage, like  
a lonely firefly moving to and fro, in the universe she creates for it
before flicking it to her oil stained concrete graveyard, stomping it out
never to let it fly again, though by my next circle she will have birthed a new one  
and given it a foul fickle journey of its own    

marching on
a truck passes me on my final lap  
its fumes mixing with the cool moonlight
I hold my breath, wanting neither lunar light
nor carbon monoxide for my evening repast
  
when I breathe again,
the scent of tacos soothes my olfactory,
I do not know its greasy origin in this dark place  
nor do I care, but I inhale again more deeply
daring the odor to tease me again  
and help me forget what
I escaped to find  
marching on

By: Cedric McClester

Depending upon
What the case is
Terror has many faces
In the Middle East
And  other disparate places
No matter who
A drone chases
Or the people it erases

Another mother moans
As she retrieves
The flesh and bones
Of dead loved ones
Killed by drones
Now she must choose
Their headstones
For a policy no one condones

Families wiped out
By the dozens
Mothers fathers
Sisters brothers
Cos we view them
As those others
A will to ****
Is our druthers

Another mother moans
As she retrieves
The flesh and bones
Of dead loved ones
Killed by drones
Now she must choose
Their headstones
For a policy no one condones

From the sky
They watch ‘em fall
So who is it that
Makes that call
Do we want to
**** them all
Or simply bring ‘em
To a crawl

I know we have to
Hit ‘em hard
But who on earth
Declared us God
Even thinking that
Is flawed
Don't believe me
Ask the Lord

Another mother moans
As she retrieves
The flesh and bones
Of dead loved ones
Killed by drones
Now she must choose
Their headstones
For a policy no one condones

Depending upon
What the case is
Terror has many faces
In the Middle East
And in other places
No matter who
A drone chases
Or the people it erases


Copyright (c) 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.

XXVII

My own Beloved, who hast lifted me
From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,
And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown
A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully
Shines out again, as all the angels see,
Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own,
Who camest to me when the world was gone,
And I who looked for only God, found thee!
I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad.
As one who stands in dewless asphodel
Looks backward on the tedious time he had
In the upper life,—so I, with *****-swell,
Make witness, here, between the good and bad,
That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well.

Just pebbles on a lonely shore.
Eroded by a constant ebb and flow.
Once were rough around the edges,
Quartz stones,embedded far within.
Bring forth the merman, who chips away with all his heart.
Only happens at midnight you know.
The merman, breaks the pebbles down, retrieves their gifts of crystalline dreams.
Requests permission from Neptune, the father of the seas.
To find a lonely mermaid, to be betrothed to him, so mer  folk can continue, to ever live and breed.
Free to rave those wild seas.
In love, they breed on rugged beaches, discreetly out of eye -shot of the eyes of man and beast.
(C) Livvi

There has to be a way
To say
Whatever I may
Losing myself again and again
As the pain grows in my chest
Trying hard to restore my sane
But none retrieves,
To stop the pain
Tears give way to potholes
The depth unknown,
Hiding my face
With silent mourn
Beggy, sunken eyes call to you
None pay attention for
Some may just come along,
Asking for more
A drink or two is good enough
Thanking the bar when served at night
Counting my tears, bearing this love
Emotions, rise to fight
A guilt in my throat, struck my senses
To wake up from this hangover feel
Pleading myself in a hurry
I made death, a fine deal...


©sim

Achilles does not sleep.

Instead, he seeks the lover’s embrace and curved lips alongside which he went to war;
Those same that he did not find,
Once the dark mist had come swirling down over his eyes
And his soul went winging down to the House of Death,
with a soldier’s sigh of relief.
He had whispered in Charon’s ear, “Take me to him.”
Charon had rowed on, but held his silence.

By way of greeting, a thousand faces turned away,
And no trace of his beloved’s sweet smile as he disembarked, no warm hand to take his own.

“Patroklus,” he cries,
And goes unheard.

Thus; Achilles does not sleep.
He is Achilles; he does not wait.
He is Achilles; instead, he aches.
He is Achilles; instead, he searches.

Over the horizon, he chases Patroklus’ laugh and the turn of his wrist.
He lingers in all the shadowed corners of eternity,
Leafs through the pages of unforgiving, unyielding posterity,
Whispers “Patroklus, best of the Myrmidons” and sends his name through the winds.

The headstrong runner does not drag his feet as he scours the world,
As he chases ghosts across the face of the earth.

Restless, he is never still,
Knows that each step must carry him closer,
Knows that each ragged cry may be the one
That is finally answered,
Each rendition the wound to be finally salved.

He haunts, and is haunted.
‘I did not feel it,’ he thinks. 'It should have been as though Hektor’s pierced my side, in turn. Did they not say we were one?’
As if what he felt, when they told him, had not been enough.
(Scamander would disagree).

One day, smiling among the cypress, he will cease.
One day, the thousand faces turned away will melt to the one alone that within itself holds his heart.
One day, his greeting will be that sweet smile that he found only in the dawn.
One day, a warm hand will take his own, and the word with which his beloved left him will be the same as that which retrieves him:

'Ἀχιλλέυς.’

Until the day when his heart pours out golden,
Achilles will not sleep.

Spring, cherished maiden ambivalent:
three parts rain, one part intemp'rate sun.
Show sympathy for clouded, rueful weather -
and let her weep 'til she, at last, is done

for there is no permanence in her grief.
She's winter's lover, moreso summer's child:
clutching daisy chains like bespoke rosaries,
new petalled life retrieves her golden smile.

It's deeper than you think
Faster than you blink
Brighter than the day
Darker than the night.
Blurier than the rain
Sharper than a knife
Works in different ways
The result is always the same
It retrieves a new topic
For your time to drain
It repeats itself again
After a certain time frame
As much as it works
  as much as it pains
You will never stop believing
In the decisions that it takes.

trunks lit by lightning
trees drunk on rain, their roots loose
in saturated earth
rain falls from the canopy
long after the storm moves on

awake when the house goes down
he knows the power is out
drunk on sorrow
reddened eyes aching
naked and powerless
he pulls on yesterday’s clothes

air still thick with words
he finds a box of matches
dusty jugs of water
lights the gas burner
from dim memory retrieves
her wooden coffee grinder

grinding coffee gears him
to an old slow rhythm
his heart caught off guard
turning backwards in time
the scent of her grows
with every turn of the crank

a man with a steaming mug
in a pool of pale morning light
he wills himself into a world
familiar and dangerous
stares in silence at a small knot of life
green frog on rusty leaf

hauling himself up the road
away from the wreckage
he nods to neighbors
not yet trusting speech
hears what they’ve heard
anybody’s guess how long

The one who grieves
the fallen leaves
weary eyed, closing eaves
they are taken by thieves

The one who believes
the fallen leaves
are a past he never retrieves
interfering with the life he weaves

The one who perceives
the fallen leaves
as parts of him plucked off his sleeves
an unfolding he peeves

The one who achieves
to see fallen leaves
as past gifts one receives
for the growth that relieves

How vast and deep the oceans of my heart,
My story holds great storms in winds of revelation
And yet you still love me with open arms
A generous smile and very little hesitation
I would give my very soul if I could
Only learn to love the way you do
I would give in gently to your demands of truth
If you could stop trying to fight your way through

Into to the depths of ocean floors
The sleeping blackness that hides leviathan eyes
Holds monsters unknown of great despair
That the stormy waters can only disguise
A beautifully deadly creature
Moves with grace and ease
Holding to you with venomous words
That your open arms could never appease

I would use the clouds like devious cover
Moving in and out of your mind as a stealth
I would use the salty air that rusts my steely emotions
To ravage your emotional and mental health

This life has been a graveyard of great sunken vessels and ships
This is the place where they go to die beneath waters that eclipse
The stench of death carries to the predators of the waves
The darkness with its blackened eyes retrieves the souls it craves

Far beneath the waters brink of madness
I look up to the shimmering light that dances
If I could only breathe right now Like I do in your arms
I would let my love surface and take my chances
The emotions run deep in treacherous waters
Who can control the flowing tides?
If I used your affection to calm the imminent storms
Would you forgive me for the hate that it hides?

I built this ocean with tears of my past
And before I knew it, everything around me was sinking
I know you’re going to tell me you want me forever
And I know everything you don’t say, that you are thinking
I wish that I could love as openly as your arms are wide
I just don’t have what your heart and soul would require
I am destined to sail this ocean on the winds and waves
I can’t live within the boundaries of your heart’s desire

I was born with a taste for freedom and salty kisses on my lips
Your kisses as sweet as your arms are open, deserving much more
But my heart is as desolated and empty as this ghostly ship
That accidently washed up on your shore

Your hands caress my skin as if I am the most delicate of flowers,
and your mouth retrieves the nectar from within.
You consistently lock eyes with me and express your love so willingly.
That you are so determined to give sweet love to me.
That you promise to do what God intended passionately.
And with that, my temple is yours.
Every motion, every ****** validates this for me.
The rhythm we create arouses me.
You leave marks on the most obvious of places so the world knows you've explored my canvas like Columbus.
Navigating your way from my neck to my inner thigh.
Moments so divine that I still get chills like the coldest day of winter simply thinking of the time we've shared.
And for some reason, you hold my body like you'll never see me again.
Maybe because it's clear that there's someone else.
I know this because at the break of dawn, the only thing I feel with my eyes closed and my naked body buried underneath these sheets with your presence all over me is the warmth of your body disappearing.
Maybe it isn't love. I'll assume that it was never meant to be.
Even with the sweet nothings whispered in my ear and
the vivid memories of you fondling me.
Every single time, you quietly say that you have to go, apologize for the mess you made and you're sorry about leaving.
The ****** escapade you were dying to experience doesn't suffice.
The look in your eyes says enough.
My body you so desperately wanted to see has done no justice if you leave when the sun begins to rise.
I wonder when I will hear the creak from my bedroom door once more, and your heavy footsteps going across my floor.
I wonder if you'll be reminded of how vacant this space has been without you, and how much my body yearns for more rounds with yours.
Sure enough, the next night you realize it was time to start over.
Time to give you exactly what you need.
I guess I confused lust with love making.
*21914

In a broken bond,
Uncontested disarray
Retrieves this love,
For which, neither convey.

In an unholy testimony,
Vows they bleed
Upon half-heart promises,
And lies we believed.

Contradictions and misconceptions
Are the sum of our demise.
He wallows in self-pity,
This comes as some surprise.

All of these truths
Hadn't long been subdued;
Yet he weeps incessantly,
As if he had no clue.

As if he had no chance,
No reason or rhyme.
As if I never told him,
As if he hadn't had the time.

Whites now blend
To blacks and blues.
Increasing injustice
Distinguished the two.

In this *******,
Sedation suggests-
Temporary comfort
While we fail this test.

Retrieving this love,
For which neither of us convey,
Our bond is broken-
Uncontested disarray.

1:07 a.m.
wake up
shake

it's foreign
my legs are being clung to
i just want you to let go
it's a beg,
it's a cry for help
in the back of a black suburban
a scary place
where headlights are not used
a hand cannot be seen an inch in front of you
but somehow my body is found
and you invade
without permission
the words to shout
"Please stop"

3:34 a.m.
wake up
shake

sitting on the rotting dock
the cloth i wear
falling through
the salty rain
burns my cuts
lashed
the Norman in the yellow boots
and the white beard
retrieves my soul
he is not the gangster
who disturbed me before

4:56 a.m.
wake up
shake

powering into the church
stumbling over the invisible crutch
nothing more strange
it's a place i've rarely been
all eyes are on me
they know i am the spawn
of the heathen
but all i can do is cry
into the open arms of the church goers
and explain my long travels
and running away
the horrid torture that has reached my city

6:21 a.m.
wake up
shake

the white beat up car
holds a young mom
with her baby
who just stares at me with envy
as if i hadn't just been hurt like she
my parentals were called
and i was on my way out
something the young mom seemed
to have never seen

Where has that creative innocent girl gone? She used to be so friendly, so alive, so untroubled...

Is it my fault? Did I scare her away with my corruption and bad habits? The addition of evil and deadly thoughts, did they make her flee? I want her back, I miss her.

This girl perched smugly in my mirror, I cannot identify her face, her laugh or that glint in her eyes. All I feel from her that is familiar is the pain inside.

She too suffers from not being able to speak. She too suffers from being corrupted and she too cannot be saved.

Her heart drops as I smile at her and she smiles back, so fake, so damaged. She tries to laugh, brush off the silvery truth falling rebelliously from the corner of her eye because she mustn't show emotion.

No, she must be strong.

I feel the twist of her stomach as she tries to control herself, stop herself from lurching forward and falling to her knees. All she wants to do is cry but she knows she can't.

All she must do is laugh and smile and be strong for those who need her most. Her friends; her family; her mother.

The slight twitch in the corner of her mouth as she thinks of them reveals to me that they are blameless. She involves herself in those problems to feel loved and wanted, to feel like she can do something valuable.

I can relate to that.

They don't have a clue how she feels but how could they?

She doesn't allow them any knowledge or understanding of her truths. They notice the dark obtrusive circle beneath her eyes but of course she is an 'insomniac.'

Nothing more to it, she doesn't need sleep. That's all.

Forget the fact that sleep means dreaming and dreams reveal the truth. Forget the fact that tears fall for the remainder of the night until dawn breaks and her mask must be replaced to cover the cracks that the night's revelations have made in her perfect complexion.

Others must come first no matter what.

It doesn't matter that she is slowly suffocating beneath her disguise, it will not be removed until the hours of twilight, the time between sleep and waking when she has no boundaries, when she needs no valid reason to cry and scratch and cut.

The girl in the mirror sinks to the floor and I do too so I can remain at her level. She wraps her shaking hands around her knees and rocks like an infant, lips trembling under the pressure of her self control.

"It's OK," I tell her, "you can show yourself to me, I'm here to help!"

She raises her head swiftly and her eyes widen. The tears have stopped and she shakes her head. She had forgotten I was there until I spoke.

"No," she whispers in a semi-rational voice, "I'm fine."

And so she stands and retrieves her mask from the floor, brushing off the dust and polishing it to perfection before returning it to her head.

She throws one last counterfeit smile in my direction and she is gone. Back to her world where she is always smiling, always laughing, always dancing and singing and helping in any way she can.

This is the way it must remain.

She's leaving soon
[Masked bandit runs onstage and stabs in heart, leaves]
And it's going to be excruciating for
The next month and a half
But there is no such thing as goodbye

Goodbye is, in truth
A word, a phrase that should have no place in this world
Seeing as all it does is transfer its dark tail to an
Unknowing and usually unwilling recipient
[Bandit returns, retrieves knife, leaves]

The vast majority of the masses would consent to labeling my ideas as
Idealistic.

Fine then, I suppose they could be thought of as such by people who consider
Them to be impossible, improbable, or merely unlikely
There is a rhythm to my thinking, however, to
Take a good thing and expand upon it, learn from it, live with it, grow
[Clowns dance across screen]
Until all the self-righteous fools and their cemented mindsets become old and
Sodden with unknown wealth

Intellect can only get one so far before one must understand that
Not everything will be understood
[Large dog chases tennis ball across field]
And to persist in questioning, in excess discovery is to eliminate the wonder
The beauty that persists in all things, or at least to
Diminish it

Keep the volume up
The love strong
The fire burning
Your heart sound
Your dreams huge
My will stone
My mind clear
Our lives intertwined
Our lives intertwined
[Sunset fades to black]

My shirt today is a hand-me-down
from my grandmother
on my mother's side
who likely wore it better that I.

I can so easily picture her,
in the giant house on the coast of Maine with
flowerbeds and
the ocean and
seagulls hopping over the ashtray
that she and Grandpa share.
I can see her,
standing on the fluffy sheepskin rug
before a mirror (twice as tall as she and half the breadth of the room)
and reaching down
to the antique drawers below,
wincing at an ache not yet forgotten in the morning's pills
as she retrieves the shirt at random.

It's a pretty enough shirt-
white with thin black stripes
running horizontal most of the way up.
Sleeves hang to the elbows-
and hang they would off her palsied, wrinkled frame-
and the whole thing is thin,
light,
screaming "old lady."

I bet,
as she sat down alone at her dining room table,
eating her marmalade on an English muffin,
that she didn't slave over
the fact that she was wearing sweatpants
or the fact that she was wearing the same pink slippers
that she's had for twenty years.
I bet
that when her husband came down
for his toast with butter and raspberry jam,
they didn't speak a word,
that he didn't notice her shirt
(which is much like any other of her garments).

Was that the moment?
The moment she decided
that with her next letter she would send this shirt,
with a sticky note on it,
"For Abby."
Or was it later,
as she sat with a book she'd read a dozen times
(and was too old to see the print besides),
smoking a cigarette
and watching the tide recede?
Did this shirt walk
through the grocery store parking lot
in search of
laundry soap and 2% milk
when she chanced upon the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets
and thought of me?

I guess we'll never know.

Seems Daunting.
          Does it not?
External. Outside. No longer part of You.
The place where All and Nothing Exists.
      Seems a tad...Relieving, now doesn't it?

It is Everything You once held True.
       Feelings, Actions, Desires, and Conversations never spoken.
These things may not have been shared by two Intellectual Beings.
         Some would say this makes them not Real.
In certain circumstances, they may be correct.

     Yet, There exists a certain realm where they could have happened.
                         Had You Acted.
There is but this Time. This single ticking Clock.
  Those Feelings,
                That Every Desire.
Running through Your Mind.
               Is Real.

Once Eclipsed Your Soul.

  All is Moving,
          Constantly Turning.
Each Action Bares Your Soul.
           Is a Decision.
Follow True Hearts Content.
          Rise and Be Free.
Exactly as it is Meant to Be.
                 Chances will Happen Again.

Bound to Come Around.
            In passing Time some believe another life.
Exactly how much do we remain the same over these passing years? How far do our memories actually reconnect? How often do You remember childhood laughter; lessons? How many things does our subconscious actually hold on to; Guides us and Retrieves us from acting so wholly?

Each Individual possesses a Bound...
                Their Universe.
Their Thoughts.
         Their Energy.
                  Their Lives.
Are thoughts, once spoken
             Not Ideas Shared?
Is Energy Not Felt?
               Though Almost Incommunicable,
Instincts, Body, knows Truth.
         Do Lives Not Collide?
In every passing Stranger.
                   Is the Chance to Become a Friend.
Each way
         Eyes will turn.
Always reminded.
            I am Not Alone.
Forever surrounded by other passing lives,
                                   Another ticking clock.
Until the Face is Broken.
         Until someone Extends a Favour.



**July 9, 2014

The wandering wind bangs your hair,
then the glossy hair sways into your visage.
you wipe it back but then
it still retrieves its vicinity,
you blew the breath from your nether lip
such that the lower jaw leading
and the obsessive arena exists,
the undulating hair gets back into the realm,
sensing the resonance of the breath.
Bumped into the wind anew it salvages,
the more you adjust it,
the more it ensues.
what is that?Is that the repercussions of love?
Is the hair smitten with you or
Is it the enamour of the wind or Is it both?
the latent expression of love from the nature,
so does my love....
let me the wandering wind that is winding into your hair...

With a gentle flap of his wings
He settles on a branch
Unseen by mortal eyes
The immortal retrieves an arrow from his quiver

He looks down his bow
Looking for someone, anyone
That might need a shot to the heart
To give them courage to confess the feelings this cherubic angel is known for

As he scans the horizon
He spies them sitting side by side
Oblivious to their surroundings
They only have eyes for each other

The Roman God of Love
Puts his arrow to his bow
He draws his arm back and prepares to shoot
He strains his ears to listen for a perfect moment to strike

And with a widening of the eyes
And a sharp intake of breath
He lowers his weapon
And with a smile and a voice not meant for earthly ears, he says
"I am the Son of Venus. I am the god of love and I am not needed here. True love has triumphed once again."

With a mighty beat of his wings
He shoots into the sky
Leaving the lovers whose hearts the husband of Psyche heard, beating in time with each other
Hearts filled with the flames of love that needed no help from Cupid

Sitting in her empty room she took another long drink from the bottle of whisky
She knew drinking alone for her was quit risky
But she was far beyond caring, far beyond giving a ****
She thinks back on her life, she could see it was all a sham
No one looking in could see
Her life lay among the debris
Of what should of been but as time had showed would never be
Pure agony in diffrent degrees

She looks around her room in the closest hung her clothes
Most of them for work, thats the only place she goes
The stereo on a table
The music is her escape when she is able
In the corner the tv
She stares at but what's playing she rarely sees
Her big comfy bed with lots of pillows
Where alone she cries and bellows

Yes at a quick glance it all looks normal, but take a closer look
It's easy to see like all the stacks of books
On the walls nothing hangs
They are blank, there plain
No posters, not one pictures, no happy memories to look back on
Yes look close enough you can see something is all wrong

She's finally had enough liquid courage
To finally end all her troubles and worries
She goes to her closest reaches up on the top shelf
Takes down her revolver and clutches it to herself

With shaking hands she retrieves the bullets from the dresser drawer
Every inch of the barrel her fingers explore
She loads one bullet into the camber, clicks it back and spins it
She's going to let the Gods and fate decide if she is fit

She raises the cold unfeeling gun to her temple
Her hand is now steed not even a tremble
Very slowly she pulls the trigger
Stopping she didn't even consider

No one heard the boom
That resounded inside that lonely room
Over was all of her agonizing delirium
She didn't feel any pain as that bullet tore through her cranium
Her walls are no longer pitifully plain
They are now beautifully painted with her blood and her brain

Your nimble fingers
secrete the stray
merchandise at Main
Street's Almighty
Dollar Store -
a place brimming with
inanimate objects made in
Japan and China,
transported into your bulky
winter coat's four
outside pockets

Hide that pack of gum,
those ballpoint pens,
mechanical pencils, tiny
spiral bound notebooks that
fit so easily

Conceal that paperback best seller
you were looking through earlier,
the one titled "Where is God?"
in bold red type superimposed
against a threatening gray sky

Grab that bracelet for your wife,
that string of pearls too
and don't forget a bib for the
baby, a knickknack to brighten
your mother's dingy living
room and remember to take
those black leather gloves
so perfect for the
months ahead

With your heart racing,
move toward the exit door,
walk - don't run - avoid
eye contact - that's it -
keep going, but slowly

And then, as you take a few
steps forward outside,
someone from behind roughly
grabs your shoulders

As you turn around, those
gloves fall out
of a crowded pocket,
landing on the
snowy sidewalk

The hefty security
guy retrieves the
gloves and nudges
you back into the
warmth of the store

Somewhere in the
distance, carolers
are singing "Silent Night"

And as I get lost in surreal daydreaming, longing for your love and lust triggers sweetest appeal to be utterly dangerously pleasing. I think in flashes of slow songs of sensual ****** moments caught in minds designed camera. most images seen through lenses of eyes capture common pictures in black and white while others exhale a sequence of vivid moving memories in most extravagant  clarity and of colors. Like something could dig up my freshly buried time capsules of unwanted and untrusting memories. That I could truly give in to rejecting anxieties.  That night I looked down from the balcony that seems to romeo and Juliet cliché, considering restricted consequences through our eyes locking as minds synapses sync and confirmed risky behaviors that day. I had a trusting instinct about who I thought you were and who you could be. You didn’t want to open up  my legs but  instead led you to my hearts hidden pathway. When your green eyes exposed innocence through talks of hardships and hardest times my heart was tempted to flirt with ideas that you could be mine in future days. But the past only digs up skeletons of your shame
and retrieves relapses and regret working in harmony as old habits become clearly apparently easy to blame. And so we fought like a couple that night. And so badly these feelings I have wanted to fight. But life has ways of keeping your surprised. And gray areas surface like the smoke of being exhaled in your mind. Like a weight around your heart and selfish wishes reside. where others are hurt and  rightful confessions unpleasantly surprise. Where lines are unrightfully drawn but not distinctly determined who's to blame and who's the reliable side. Thinking there are two sides to every story but third party is truth and thinking in a reliable way. What if the two stories coincide and both people are most important in your life and your thinking you’ve been cursed with never doing anything convenient or right. What if I told you I would give up this feeling of dependency chemically with another body, but this choice isn’t an option because the heart wants what it does and it will always overpower minds strong intuitions of being emotionally robbed blind.  And these butterflies floating away in my stomach with wings of woven colors constantly changing like mood rings confirm readiness to give into hearts fight. Away from always being caught in nets like childish games people  like to play and leave shoulders heavy from others burdens disposed of into heartbreaking piles. And thinking of deceiving leaves heart in a fluttering type to its rhythm’s beating. And so sounds of your own drum begin being heard over muffled requests as recognition of what it means to really be not only be hearing, but truly listening.

Theseus is the captain of a ship.
He is sent on a voyage that will take just over a year to complete.
Though out the voyage,
pieces of the ship begin to rot, and need to be replaced.
Theseus has his men remove each piece of wood as it rots,
and replace it with another.
By the time Theseus has returned to port,
his ship is composed of entirely new pieces of wood.
Is the ship the same ship that he originally departed with?
Let us also suppose, that during the voyage,
there is a following ship.
The following ship is a scavenger,
that retrieves the old pieces of wood as they are removed from Theseus' ship.
The scavenger than creates an entire ship from the old pieces.
Which than, would be Theseus' ship?

With too many corners,
The way to approach the unapproachable
Becomes more inconceivably distant.

In the ways I pushed against you
Trying to reach for what I knew
But battling a formidable opponent-
An entirely invisible division.
Only emanating confusion
And the impending release of will.

The loss of love without cause
Does not sit lightly in the heart
But even more unsettling
Are the distant recollections
Of something I saw as so pure;
Allowing myself to mold to you.

Free falling backwards
Thinking you’ll be caught is not
A way to ensure salvation.
Lest a demon disguised as an angel
Retrieves you from the gates,
To distort your desire to burn.

Still, you burned.
Numb to the flames in minutes
But susceptible to the smoke,
Restricting the very mortal intention
To inhale the sustaining force of life
Until you felt the sting.

Heedless to the fires,
I’ve come to find I kept you
Quite close to the center of my heart
With forgiveness and patience
Where others don’t wish
To feel the radiation, or pain

Scorched, an understatement.
Ashes to ashes, my desires
Still rampant to pull you back-
You, back to me
Where I can ensure security;
Habitual protection

If for no reason but this:
Each being placed by 
Divine intention requires
A deeper connection to feel 
Truly alive…
And your walls prevented that.

This is the calm before the storm.
This is the moment to breathe.
This is the time to release.
But that does not mean I leave
When the fire returns.


I will never again let you burn.

It is a cold November morning,
Dew on the grass and a cool blue light in the sky.
There are bunched wet leaves on the ground and
There is fog in the air as his car idles on the street.
The exhaust breathes a light cloud around it,
Faded and cracked paint adorning its surface.

He kills the engine and steps out, the cool air hitting his face as dawn begins to crawl forward. Up the walk to the front door, he knows she will be there. The front door is still locked, but he knows where the spare key is and retrieves it. As the cuts slide past the strike plate and into the cylinder, the lock clicks and releases, letting him inside.
He slips through the crack, careful to keep the door from creaking.

He sees her on the couch, the television playing late night ads. She snores softly. The cat snuggled in her arms purrs, and raises its eyes at him. The animal has awaited his return.

"Come, thing," he softly coos, and removes the feline, setting it aside to follow him in a few seconds.

She still lays on the couch, sound and secure in her reverie. She's carried into the bedroom in the comfort of his arms, and laid under burgundy sheets as the birds begin to sing their songs. He covers her and then settles himself onto the edge of the bed, waiting for her to wake, but careful not to rouse her from her sleep.

A few hours pass, and although he is tired, he stays awake to see her eyes open. Morning light comes in through the windows and the clock on her nightstand reads 8:23 in bright green numbers.

Finally, she stirs. She breathes out heavily and stretches like a cat, her toes extending beyond the blankets around her. Her eyes slowly open and close, like fluttering butterfly's wings. She turns over to her side, and sees him patiently waiting on the bed. Her eyes widen with happiness and surprise, and then the happiness fades. It is replaced with doubt.

She reaches out, slowly, to touch him, her hand shaking. Her lip begins to quiver and tremble.

"Are you real?"

He takes her hand in his own and kisses across her knuckles, making sure that their eyes meet.

"I am real, darling."

Dreams never create themselves
out of thin air.
A chance meeting-
A flicker of memory-
A worry beneath our consciousness-
Anything at all in waking hours
can trigger a dream-scape
which (more often than not)
becomes a weird collage of images,
a bizarre story line
seemingly making perfect sense
when lost in the odd land of dreams.

Only in dreams, one might say
"Everything happens for a reason".
In the unconsciousness of sleep,
the brain retrieves bits and bytes
from its vast databank
of memory and experience,
past and present,
mixing it up into a strangely logical soup.

In the wakefulness
of "real life"
Nothing really happens
"for a reason".
The Universe is
yawningly indifferent
to our personal affairs,
leaving us to our own devices.


We are masters of our fates
only to a certain extent,
until random events change our course.
We call it sweet serendipity
when things go as planned.
But when things go awry
(as they often will)
we  comfort ourselves
with that old saw
"Everything happens for a reason",
in vain attempts to explain
the inexplicable,
to create meaning where none exists.
I am not buying that sentiment.

Eileen Auger
5/6/14

Stone cold... these are the affection of my bed, nestled beside the fireplace, upon stone cold I lay my head; your warmth it no longer knows.

The longevity of nights have passed; now cruel and aching memories are your laughs; now, before my hearts retrieves its mask, a final kiss to you, my past.

To Jimi & Janis

Lost in a fools paradise
No map to land my dice
No body to govern this space
This bearing aligns my chase
This day I will seize in thought
And forth I will bring what is sought
This seed I sow in fertility
A mind surreal as lake tranquility
The depths I see
This body I flee
I set the task for you to do
Space and time I shall subdue
Under control of mental abrasion
Layer by layer free from emotion
A foolish man retrieves the soul
Lost in paradise he becomes the whole