Destiny’s games are stranger than
most games invented by man
and Draupadi’s swayamvara is for sure
amongst the strangest tales ever told

A truly blazing beauty is she,
a princess like no other
a rare fiery spirit has she
This daughter of Agni

The drums announce the happy news
today she shall choose
from amongst this gathering of kings
the one who she shall espouse

a prophecy has already foretold
that she is to be Arjuna’s bride
the swayamvara is but a test to tempt
that expert archer out from where he hides

every king from every land
is here to attempt
to win her hand
but no sign of the one she wants

but the contest has been announced
and hence must be begun
a test truly fit to try
the Gods themselves

on the ceiling
a revolving platform
on the platform
a jewel studded fish

on the floor a vat of oil
lying beside a great bow and shafts
the fish is mirrored
in the oil

the the target lies
in the fish’s ruby red eye
but a challenge fit for kings
cannot be so trouble-free!

The eye, itself, must not be looked upon
its reflection in the oil is the map to strike
not an easy feat to accomplish
only the best dare try this

for the failures
there is ridicule and humiliation
for the winner
this beautiful handmaiden

every eye that sees
looks on amazed
at her -a rare jewel
with some secret fire set ablaze

her eyes hot embers
her hair wisps of flame
Krishnaa-the dark skinned
like the fiery coal that is by ashes hid

in every heart she rouses
an uncontrollable passion
stunned, they stand as statues
incapable of any action

the desire to win her
is a great motivator
and while all try
none seems worthy

every king that rises
falls unable to bear
the weight of the bow
let alone string and employ it!

then rises Karna
truly a great archer
surely he will win her
says everyone in their mind

but before he even touches
the bow he is stopped
by the beautiful Draupadi
he is humiliated

“who is this false king
who dares to assume that
the high-born Draupadi will condescend
to marry a low-born sutaputra?”

silenced and insulted
Karna resumes his seat
but a desire for retribution
is in his mind-a tiny seed

the one who rises next
is clothed as a Brahmin
but his proud gait and muscled arms
are that of a Kshatriya

respectfully he picks up the bow
strings it with love
with arms upraised and face turned below
he launches the arrow

it strikes the eye
which falls to the ground
the Brahmin has won!
he is garlanded by Draupadi

their eyes meet
in silent acceptance of
their magnetic attraction
a scorching passion

a stunned silence in the hall
and then hell breaks loose
kings rant and princes protest
how can a princess marry a priest

they rise together
up in arms
and are routed
by the Brahmin and his brothers

with the Brahmins Draupadi goes
to their hut-a humble abode
with folded hands they stand outside
as the eldest calls, “Look mother, see what we’ve got!”

a gentle voice replies from within
“whatever be it, share it
amongst yourselves,
it equally belongs to all of you”

“Mother, what have you said
what a dilemma we are in
you-we have never disobeyed
and yet to obey would be a sin!”

The mother comes out and is aghast
at what she has done
her order once given cannot be revoked
by convention

in the midst of all this
turmoil and confusion
Krishna arrives
with his beatific smile

“Dear aunt, I am your brother’s son
your troubled brow betrays
some confusion
can this child offer you some consolation?”

“God bless you my child
I’ve heard your praise
You are wise, so advise
how this quandary can be resolved

with hasty words
i have told my sons
to share this woman
and doomed her to a life of debauchery”

“Do not worry aunt
this isn’t a problem at all
this woman in her past life
has gained a boon of five husbands

the boon was given
by Mahadeva himself
and besides a mother’s order
is always supreme

let all five of your sons
wed Draupadi
in the karmic logic
it isn’t an iniquity

Dear Draupadi listen
these men are none other
than the valourous Pandava brothers
your hand was won by Arjuna

it is your destiny
to be the spouse of all of them
and do not worry
worldly laws are not here applicable”

Hearing this was
a stealthy listener-
Draupadi’s brother
now both overjoyed and dismayed

in confusion
he approaches his father
and apprises him
of the matter

both father and son are
unsure whether to rejoice
that the Pandavas are alive
or curse their loved one’s predicament

plagued by mixed emotions
they are restless
then Vyaasa comes
to their relief

the kind sage shares his wisdom
that the marriage is inevitable
part of the Grand Plan
mortal laws must not interfere

a woman having
more than one man as spouse
isn’t always an immorality
they may fearlessly proceed

and so it is
that the marriage was celebrated
Draupadi became the
accidental polyandrist!

-Vijayalakshmi Harish
23.09.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

Happy the lab'rer in his Sunday clothes!
In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-****'d hose,
Andhat upon his head, to church he goes;
As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws
A glance upon the ample cabbage rose
That, stuck in button-hole, regales his nose,
He envies not the gayest London beaux.
In church he takes his seat among the rows,
Pays to the place the reverence he owes,
Likes best the prayers whose meaning least he knows,
Lists to the sermon in a softening doze,
And rouses joyous at the welcome close.

dahil wara katapusan an duon san mga mata
mabubuhay akong minamatay
san dating kaaway ko sa lawas na ini
sa lawas na ini naghambog an talawon
pinapagubtik an kaaluhan na nagpapamuda
muda na nagpupukaw saakon gurugab-i
kendi na nagpapahibi
mesias na naghahala-hala

magiging madalas an pagsid-ip niya sa bintana
para laen ko makita an liwanag
malaog siya sa kahon ko
laen para magkawat
kundi dagdagan an pagub-at
makasakat an pagbagsak
siya na ako
masurat tula.

~Written by Melton Balicano
(a bikol dialect)


since these eyes have been weighed down on unending
i shall live while being slain by an old foe in this body
this body where the craven had once boasted
surging chagrins that blaspheme
blasphemy that rouses this corpse in the dark
treats that shed tears
a messiah that taunts.

he shall constantly peep through the window
so that I see no light
he will break in my casket
not to thieve
but to burden further
the downfall shall rise
then he becomes me
penning a poem.

~a translation of Balicano's masterpiece
Glenn Sentes

A GLEAM -- a gleam -- from Ida's height,
By the Fire-god sent, it came;
From watch to watch it leapt, that light,
As a rider rode the flame!
It shot through the startled sky,
And the torch of that blazing glory
Old Lemnos caught on high,
On its holy promontory,
And sent it on, the jocund sign,
To Athos, Mount of Jove divine.
Wildly the while, it rose from the isle,
So that the might of the journeying Light
Skimmed over the back of the gleaming brine!
Farther and faster speeds it on,
Till the watch that keeps Macistus steep
See it burst like a blazing Sun!
Doth Macistus sleep
On his tower-clad steep?
No! rapid and red doth the wild fire sweep;
It flashes afar on the wayward stream
Of the wild Euripus, the rushing beam!
It rouses the light on Messapion's height,
And they feed its breath with the withered heath.
But it may not stay!
And away -- away --
It bounds in its freshening might.

Silent and soon,
Like a broadened moon,
It passes in sheen, Asopus green,
And bursts on Cithaeron gray!
The warder wakes to the Signal-rays,
And it swoops from the hill with a broader blaze.
On, on the fiery Glory rode;
Thy lonely lake, Gorgopis, glowed!
To Megara's Mount it came;
They feed it again
And it streams amain--
A giant beard of Flame!
The headland cliffs that darkly down
O'er the Saronic waters frown,
Are passed with the Swift One's lurid stride,
And the huge rock glares on the glaring tide.
With mightier march and fiercer power
It gained Arachne's neighboring tower;
Thence on our Argive roof its rest it won,
Of Ida's fire the long-descended Son!
Bright Harbinger of glory and of joy!
So first and last with equal honor crowned,
In solemn feasts the race-torch circles round. --
And these my heralds! -- this my SIGN OF PEACE;
Lo! while we breathe, the victor lords of Greece
Stalk, in stern tumult, through the halls of Troy!

I have spent
Too many miles
In the beds
Of strangers
Pick up trucks
And
Roaring
Freight trains
To settle
For a quiet,
Small
Life.
I am a wayfarer,
Wanderer,
Vagrant.
No walls can keep me.
I am too
Massive
For civil norms,
I am
Too much
For a habitual society.
A roof would
Keep me from the stars.
How could I
Give up the rising sun?
A door would keep me
From all of the strangers
That I call my allies.
There is too much of this world
That I have caught
A glimpse of,
There is still
Deep-rooted mystery,
I can feel it beneath my feet
With every mile I roam.
The magic rouses
My being,
Stirs my soul.
Though
This may feel like a curse,
Some just weren't meant to
Fit
Into
The puzzle.
Some
Are
Free radicals,
Disturbing the peace,
Agitating the possibilities,
Proving
Freedom isn't dead,
Freedom isn't free,
Freedom is something
That must be stolen,
Freedom is to be
Taken into your own
Two hands.

There's  a world outside my little square window
that overlooks fields and woodlands and sunsets
and that world overlooks a bustling avenue with
shutters on windows and constant, humming traffic.
There's a world outside my little square window
that keeps wakes me with the same sun every morning
and the same old singing birds,
and that world rouses me with a different kind of music;
of people and chatter and busking and life.
There's a world outside my little square window,
a world I would never have been tired of exploring,
and that world is named Paris.

from Ida's height,

By the Fire-god sent, it came;

From watch to watch it leapt, that light,

As a rider rode the flame!

It shot through the startled sky,

And the torch of that blazing glory

Old Lemnos caught on high,

On its holy promontory,

And sent it on, the jocund sign,

To Athos, Mount of Jove divine.

Wildly the while, it rose from the isle,

So that the might of the journeying Light

Skimmed over the back of the gleaming brine!

Farther and faster speeds it on,

Till the watch that keeps Macistus steep

See it burst like a blazing Sun!

Doth Macistus sleep

On his tower-clad steep?

No! rapid and red doth the wild fire sweep;
It flashes afar on the wayward stream

Of the wild Euripus, the rushing beam!

It rouses the light on Messapion's height,

And they feed its breath with the withered heath.

But it may not stay!

And away -- away --

It bounds in its freshening might.

As concerning therefore the eating of those things that are offered in sacrifice unto idols, we know that an idol is nothing in the world, and that there is none other God but one. For though there be that are called gods, whether in heaven or in earth, (as there be gods many, and lords many,) But to us there is but one God, the Father, of whom are all things, and we in him; and one Lord Jesus Christ, by whom are all things, and we by him.*

                             I Corinthians 8  [KJV]



Roll a Yule log on the fire
and let the mystery-cult inspire.
What Persians, Gauls, and Romans knew
could teach us all a thing or two
about midwinter celebrations
warming frigid Northern nations.

The Phrygian cap he used to wear,
holly entwined with evergreens
still linger in our current year
recalling dim pre-Christian scenes.
Some strange vestigial rites remain:
The specter of the Lydian Bishop.
No bull—but reindeer pull his train
spreading love, inspiring worship
mixed with Nordic pageantry,
barbaric sensuality,
and glimmers of Medieval night;
His season beckons, burning bright.
In England's prim polyphony
voices call across the centuries
no remnant of tauroctony
resurrecting pagan memories.
Drunks and rebels hum the tunes -
they lift the cup, they cast the runes
participating unawares
in Eleusinian affairs
like office parties, trees in houses:
timeless ritual that rouses
peace and love, goodwill to men.
(is it so diabolic then?)
Ghosts of Roman soldiers laugh:
the sun-god wears a funny hat.
His bull was just a golden calf
that grew up sacrificially fat.

Who cares when Christ was born, or where—
the point is: God appeared on earth
to set the record straight, lay bare
unwelcome truth: the second birth.
A new religion superseded
what had been before. It needed
rituals to syncretize
(no drastic sin, in heaven's eyes).
Why rail against it? What is wrong
with festive fare and holy song?
You think you can set back the clock?
destroy the sun or banish God?
Why agitate the Shepherd's flock;
in vain you would restrain His rod...
Since Christ is all in all why bother
searching out old gods to smother?
Who denies He rules the ages
mocks your idols, stumps the sages?

And so you are without excuse
for finding reasons to be mad -
committing holy child-abuse
and making mother Mary sad.
Why fight the vibe, why square the wheel?
No point in Scrooging up the deal.
Just kiss beneath God's mistletoe
and let the blessed season flow.

She saw the face of Judas in him.
The bearded kiss festered no truth
and the metallic breath
exhaled putrid faithfulness.
The trampled petals spoor no lusting stares,
redolent no more
even as the tongue creeps by the shoulders.

The razors have summoned from the stinking room!
A slit in the neck
could rhythmically go by the thrusts unnoticed
But the chorus of the beasts
as shrill as the gongs of hell
maiming vengeance yet
not in the loss of blood will you die.
Not in my hands.

His demonic pleasures went on as the voodoo doll
resurrected in the beat of my own gongs.
Keep stirring as this spindle rouses my anathema!
his chest hairs
pint of blood
vulture’s beak
stallion’s tails
bobcat’s eye
dead evergreen
Deborah’s tears.
Stir and stir and stir!
Murmur satan’s prayer
mana mana mana boo!
ruba ruba ruba hoo!
Count the sands of the transient hourglass
expiring ‘fore tic tac sound.
Now her man froze,
bulging eyes, blackened pulse!


‘tis freedom, Deborah!

Free.

Doomed.




© Glenn Sentes
03-06-13

Thus the Mayne glideth
Where my Love abideth;
Sleep ’s no softer: it proceeds
On through lawns, on through meads,
On and on, whate’er befall,
Meandering and musical,
Though the niggard pasturage
Bears not on its shaven ledge
Aught but weeds and waving grasses
To view the river as it passes,
Save here and there a scanty patch
Of primroses too faint to catch
A weary bee…. And scarce it pushes
Its gentle way through strangling rushes
Where the glossy kingfisher
Flutters when noon-heats are near,
Glad the shelving banks to shun,
Red and steaming in the sun,
Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat
Burrows, and the speckled stoat;
Where the quick sandpipers flit
In and out the marl and grit
That seems to breed them, brown as they:
Naught disturbs its quiet way,
Save some lazy stork that springs,
Trailing it with legs and wings,
Whom the shy fox from the hill
Rouses, creep he ne’er so still.

Lush neatly manicured lawns
Fence pickets in white, ornate light posts in bronze
Luxury cars and such perfect houses
Mask the evil that rouses

Behind the Stepford smiles
Flow rivers of fear and pain
Horrors, ****, and violence
In their suburban domain

“In marriage there’s no such thing as ****!”
“I make the money, if I want *** I’ll take it!”
“I’ll end your life if you try to escape.”
“I’ll cut off your money, you’ll never make it.”
“I’ve explained to your family you’re crazy as hell.”
“You have no friends left, no one to tell.”
“It’s always your fault you make me hit you.”
“Now tell the **** doctor you just tripped on a shoe.”
“Get yourself tested I brought home the clap.”
“You’re lucky to have me, I’m the real catch.”
“Keep eyeballing me, you’ll get a fresh slap.”
“Stop crying your eyes out, it’s just a rough patch.”
“I love you so much, why can’t you see?”
“This creature is something you force me to be!”
“NOW STOP YOUR WHINING AND MAKE A NEW DRINK!”
“ELSE IT’S YOUR HEAD, NOT MY GLASS, THAT SHATTERS THE SINK!”
“YOU’VE DONE IT AGAIN, AND YOU WON’T GET AWAY.”
“YOUR NIGHTMARE IS HERE, AND HE’S GOING TO STAY.”
...
“Lock the door? I’ll kick it in!”
“Fight back? I call that a win.”
“The struggle is what turns me on!”
…
The terror carries through to next dawn.

Behind the Stepford smiles
Flow rivers of fear and pain
Horrors, ****, and violence
In their suburban domain

Sprinklers water the grasses
The sobering monsters cover their *****
They put on a grin and dress in fine suits
Greet peers with **** salutes

Off to work he goes to make cash
The kids trudge glumly off to school
The night before? Just a bad dream
She’s buying clothes, spending's her fuel.

Lush neatly manicured lawns
Fence pickets in white, ornate light posts in bronze
Luxury cars and such perfect houses
Mask the evil that rouses

The night is soft and billowy,
Beckoning me deeper into her velvet embrace.  
The dark air caresses me,
Like a smooth, silken hand stroking my face.

The breeze carries with it the scent of autumn;
decaying leaves, campfire smoke, pumpkin spice and pine needles.
A heady cocktail that rouses something in me that no other season can.

This, is my favourite time of year.

The bare trees, colourful leaves and crisp breeze soothe my mind.

The long nights of candlelight and incense soothe my soul.

Draped in moonlight and watched over by the stars,
I drink the wine of ancient Roman nights,
of sacred pagan rites,
of owls' sleepless flights,
of lustful lovers' bites,
That dark and warm midwinter wine.

And it is here

As I lie naked beneath the gentle gaze of the moon,
Vulnerable and exposed,
Innocent and joyful,
With child-like wonder at the beauty that surrounds and encompasses me,
Sipping the crimson nectar of the gods,

That I feel whole.

"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood"
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)


~~~


perhaps.

can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?

my voice poetic keener, age-softened,
grows less popular
for it
no longer reaches for
christmas ornament words and creamy cake-in-the-rain imagery

leave that to the better ones.

cherish simplest:
coming home to fresh sheets,
plumped pillows,
music,
tousled hair on pillowed histories,
river walks,
the lightest hand touch that rouses
the fireplace of contentment to glow briefly,
from logs that are more embered ash moments
than substance
capable of more flaming

the rumpled strivings of the young poets,
creativity of the masters of
voice and dancings bodies,
shopping lists of life~items that
reshape, restore my old~ness,
the revelations of the historians,
inducements to believe
in yet, more.

these exteriors are comprehendable.

don't forget the orange juice,
the first chilled swig from the plastic,
confirms I am breath-yet-capable,
one more poem-mission ready,
the mission objectives still not published.

Sun east welcomes me,
woman puttering kitchen coffee noises
it is neither spring yet or winter gone,
in-between like me,
in-between naissance and history remnant

question thy fiat,
Mr. Eliot,
cannot frame myself,
my who-I-am
six decades of myself.

can it then ere be said,
his poetry communicated
or ere contained ever a single
genuine word?

can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?

Bare skin on dampened green,
arms pendent and the heavy,
near-sighted swing
of dull metal in the pit.

As I loosely ready myself
for another miss,
you call me an anarchist -

the word rouses
me, and I try it on,
gingerly checking
for fit, style and colour.

And yet

I haven't had the time -
or the ruthless abandon -
to learn and befriend it,
to humour and then
ignore it.

No, I haven't had

the time - something I know
we both measure
in cups and baking spoons -

brash spoons sound
anxiety and precision,
or the death-knell clang
of hollowed metal on sand.

Coffee, I adore thee,
somehow you never bore me.
Bold and dark or mild and smooth,
you get me up and on the move.

In warm embrace or cool frappe,
mocha, french roast, or tall latte,
crema, sospeso or con panna,
you never fail to make my day.

It’s the best thing ever manufactured,
without it, my mind is slow and scattered,
for a quiz or formulating I’d be knackered,
every morning the Keurig is where we gather.

You pick me up and keep me keen,
in complementing any cuisine,
by delivering a dose of sweet caffeine,
you are the original magic bean.

In doses quick or lingered over,
on mornings with a hangover,
I reach for you, your warm embrace,
the morning fogginess to erase.

The flavors, the scent, which is the best?
They are of compound interest.
French press or espresso - take your pick
- they all provide that delicious kick.

Jitter juice, rocket fuel, cup of joe,
cuppa, morning brew or ristretto,
your flavors please, your scent rouses,
a coffee shop is where the crowd is.

In slang they call it Mormon-crack,
but sugared up or with a snack,
with creamy art or straight-up black
once I’ve got it, you won’t get it back.

Thinking of you sleeping by my side rouses new feelings deep within me. Leftover makeup melts off my face and I sink lower and lower into the mattress. I remind myself that I can't fall any lower than the floor, although it feels like the opposite.

Desire expressed
manifests in moments
Genesis to geneticist
alpha to omega, Eden Armageddon
and a particular flat stone
I'm flinging at that pile of H2O

It skips, predictably,  causing surface ripples
under a line of predefined arcs
each described by gravity and water molecules
neatly arranged in surface tension that
reflects this day ... blue as the clear sky
and a peaceful wavelength
we know as
harmony

I'm wondering who desired such perfection...
Enabled energy, proclaimed pebbles
Caused a lake to feel at home right here

Read Darwin some respond
you're only here because
a primal pond appeared
somehow someway backwhen
and that famous fertile germ
opted for a brave new world
with ****-sapiens
conveniently mapped to its single cell
Dadadadaaa! Dumdeedee dumb!
Dvorak wonders too

Backwards, on slow-motion rewind
lofty intellects scratch and munch in flaky wonderland
ever plotting the self-indulgent, Lemming way 'ahead'
Independence day drags drearily on
Take fifty! ... A more human-friendly God
created in our image ... lest we forget the beast
I, me, first-person-one, Oh you're lookin' good!
Lets put that that triple 6 trinity to work
Replete, till death us do part, we do things My Way
ala Frank (and certain gorillas with cigars)

Thus is the compliment returned
Man attains an ever lower High place
Pass my slice of cake please
Myopic, entropic moments
loop their mobius strips
ever further down the food chain
Highways congeal and earth chokes
desperation

Small wonder Wisdom opposes pride
Shows His face to humble folk
Invites shepherds to witness
Jupiter in Virgo's womb
Rouses them with a shofar blast  
come Kingdom come.

Grey sky morning’s twilight enters cold, rouses him,
through icy windows, behind locked doors. It’s 8 am.

She sleeps- like no-rain covers his world, turns bright greens to brown,
brings drought- beneath lead thoughts that tablecloth his mind.

He wrestles- with himself- struggling to find the words
(I must leave now, before I break) to subdue, to arrest… to right

the morning’s shadowed sunrise entering through locked doors
under the cracks of cold windows. It’s 8 am;

his thoughts assault him, turn back to her (turning under covers),
weigh him down, parch his throat until speech fails;

begins to break. Consciousness escapes as words on paper,
release him from their credence, wets his tongue, subsides.

Still, he’s afraid to let go … sometimes, at very least,-

I want to hold on: to these truths, these small wonders, these lies,
In this grey sky’s morning twilight that’s passing through cold windows behind locked doors
Into a bedroom made of card walls and full of secrets. Into my closet filled with shirts and socks and
Ties: gifts. Into drawers containing stories and poems and papers- all shining; igniting silver
Brilliance in the bright darkness- sealed closed so they can’t get out and cut; so they can’t
Burn and crumble or break. To my shelves, stocked with childhood books, photos and picture frames;
My memories captured in glass, bottled and canned… and kept safe.
Desk lamps and alarm
Clocks on night tables; cords and plugs and switches all turning on

The grey sky morning’s twilight that’s emitted from my distant eyes staring and
Trapped in a beating box- my diary, locked, kept safe from the judging gaze of strangers
And lovers: from warmth and hurt and love and pain and hate, from her:
My insecurities, lying porcelain in the grey skied morning twilight,
next to me,
Worlds away on a goose down stage floating over diamonds.
It’s anytime she dreams
Behind frost laden windows, those doors of hers I can never quite open, feelings I can never keep safe;

An ascetic desert,
Where anything floating falls and porcelain shatters on only dense carbon,  
Where paper burns silver instead of gold and card walls crumble under
this immense weight,
Where glass and lead are bent, gifts are thrown away-
And diaries… hearts… they always break.

-he’s afraid to let go,

but as he moves those thoughts from head to hand to pen to pad
there comes a weightlessness.  

He- as the sun begins its ascent, leaves the bitter solitude of the east,
falls across the skies, westward, burning gold, warming the panes

-unlocks the door and steps out, picking up the pieces, smoothing the cracks.
It’s 8 a.m. It’s starting to rain.

My wind chime rouses me as the wind gently blows
It sings again and I smile at the sound
This wind chime is my favorite thing in my house
I can’t say it’s mine because it’s not anymore
But it did belong to me once
I didn’t take very good care of it when it was mine
Other people admired it and I let them have it
But they always gave it back to me
And it always came back chipped or scratched or defaced in some way
Then one time it came back totally broken
I put my wind chime away and forgot about it for a long time
Till the day he found it and put it back together and made it even more beautiful than before
And I smile again because he did the same thing for my heart

Stay away from that victory gin that causes rebel rouses, but no elections
Go join the 99 percent and never graduate your fafsa dreams don’t intimidate me
**** your mace brand justice
and your senior citizen abuse.
join the merchant sailors like the greats. be some one who can change,
******* it what we need right now is someone who can wright this right of passage.
we need another Kerouac
we need another Ginsberg
cause all i ever did in Dallas was die
all i ever did in Dallas was die.
set me free from this pretentious tyranny of name brand sweaters, and lemon bars,
your art house cinema fulhouse applause can’t match the street grit grime of my soul.
too much vermouth with much rancid brine has made me a bitter soul of conquest.
the tomorrow is wasted youth on main street on a wave of *****, and appletini *******
sugar sweet synth pop and black liquorice hip hop spewing out of every show off trendy water hole.
the sixth street, fry street, main street, bourbon street of our fathers will swill down the drain
to make room for the next
for the next
for the next.........
after all we ever we wanted to do was last.  
where do we go from here?

In a cavernous world devoid of light,
left dark and dead by a higher might,
There is no hope no pleasure no will to fight.
Not since god drove the world into a dying blight.

Her perfection rouses all from slumber,
Tearing through like holy thunder.
in awe they stare lost and dazed,
everyone intent and desparately amazed.

Celestine with her divine wings,
Decends on high and loves and sings.
Waking all to the chance of life,
Breaking darkness like a wrenching knife.

"Look upon me world of shame,
And feel my radiance like a hearths warm flame,
A mother whose patience will not succumb,
To those who are blind deaf mute and dumb.
Care not for those who turn their attention,
Who torments ruins and pretends affection.
Give your prayers to one that will listen,
And shine on you with love that Glistens."

We hear, we feel, we want and need!
All of which you've made us heed,
We give you prayers and fear no silence,
For with you comes love and eternal angelic guidance.

,

It’s been six years since
I killed her, but I still stir in the night
to the screams of searing flesh, still see
her teeth, gnarled from gnawing
on girl’s bones, bent and broken
from devouring boy’s flesh. Even now,
I smell the blood on her breath,
taste the ash of the oven.

The moon brings memories
I wish I never made. Mother’s lies
as she abandoned us in the woods,
tear drop stains on callused hands
as father said his goodbyes. Brother
was lost, too busy during the walk
trying to make a compass of crumbs
as bread-filled birds circled above.
I never told him I knew the way home.

I wish I could forget, but night
after night I am haunted by the
sights of sugar-soaked window panes,
gingerbread shingles, and taffy apple
doorknobs. When darkness creeps
into my room, after the sun has gone
to sleep, it brings with it the scent of warm
ginger snaps, cooling near the candied fern.
If only I could forfeit these thoughts
that torment me each evening.

It isn’t images of the witch that wakes me
from my dreams, but the other one that rouses
me before dawn. Despite the jewels
we brought with us, mother never was
too pleased to see us at her door. She blamed
me for our return. When father and brother
were asleep in their beds, she took me to the yard.
The snap of the stick striking my bare back
still echoes through my mind. The next day,
I asked her to show me how to
bake ginger snaps one last time.

I never could remember how to check the oven.

Trapped, A Sweet Nothing*

Creaky floor boards reveal my hallways travels,
Squeaky door hinges give my essays away,
Climbing back into bed, rouses you,
You ***, then come back to me,
Swing your leg over mine,
Instantly asleep, I am trapped.

This crumb of a sweet nothing,
Born and freed, another hidden tattoo
Inked, so no longer trapped,
Permanently free floating on the
Internet of us, but I, still plan my body's escape,
By kissing your neck's nape


7:34 am
7/27/13

There flows between us on the terrace
an underwater light that distorts
the profile of the hills and even your face.
Every gesture of yours, cut from you,
looms on an elusive background; enters without wake,
and vanishes, in the midst of what drowns
every furrow, and closes over your passage:
you here, with me, in this air that descends
to seal
the torpor of boulders.
And I flow
into the power that weighs around me,
into the spell of no longer recognising
anything of myself beyond myself; if I only
raise my arm, I perform the action
otherwise, a crystal is shattered there,
its memory pallid forgotten, and already
the gesture no longer belongs to me;
if I speak, I hear this voice astonished,
descend to its remotest scale,
or die in the unsupportive air.

In such moments that resist to the last
dissolution of day
bewilderment endures: then a gust
rouses the valleys in frenetic
motion, draws from the leaves a ringing
sound that disperses
through fleeting smoke, and first light
outlines the dockyards.

…words
fall weightless between us. I look at you
in the soft reverberation. I do not know
if I know you; I know I was never as divided
from you as now in this late
return. A few moments have consumed
us whole: except two faces, two
strained masks, etched
in a smile.

**Eugenio Montale

Willows creak in that soil
and I can hear
a tight pack of crickets shudder;
them strange noises rustlin’ up the Mississippi air:
a thick heap of hot honey, ‘rouses the sweat
on our heads;
even though its the dead a night.

full dinner and wine
tasty healthy and filling
reflect on the day

the night was quiet
until a siren's loud blast
someone has problems

a pale white full moon
you feel it in your quiet
it rouses ideas

smooth out the bedding
hmm the pillows are perfect
now it's good night time

THAT  ADLESTROP  MOMENT

Train stops.
Stranding us in real life countryside.

Townies gobsmacked.
Silence attacks.

The world melting
in a heat haze.

Where has our real
reality gone?

Tracks lead away from us
be we are going

nowhere
fast.

As if the future
had ceased to exist.

We are like the male member
caught in the teeth

of a too hastily
done-up zip.

Yep,,,,,,,doesn't go up!
Oooops,,,,doesn't go down!

A kestrel free
of our dilemma.

Laughs at us
"Humans, eh....who'd 'ave 'em!"

Smaller birds gossip
discussing this all too human

situation.

I recite Adlestrop
in my mind

to my reflection
staring dumbly back at me.

"There is a countryside
in my face..."

I Marvell.

As if Nature
had invaded my physiognomy .

"Unwontedly...something
something something or other."

Oh bother!

"No one left and no one came."
The birds stop to listen.

"Yes, we remember Adlestrop!"
they twitter.

"Hear it one day
in what you humans

call
the Past.

Wot a laugh!

They unaware that there is only
one great big forever."

I fell silent.
Deserted by all thought.

"Give us some more
of that good old Adlestrop stuff!

The birds chirrup.

"No what less still and lonely fair
through cloudlets in the sky."

I ventured.

"Naw...naw...naw mate!"
a crow caws.

"The bit 'bout us birds
if you please!"

I cough and continue.

"Farther and farther, all the birds
of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire."

The birds all cheep and cheer.
"Hip hip hooray for Edward Thomas!"

The train remembers itself.
Rouses itself from its slumbers.

As if all this
had been but a dream.

"Yes, I remember Adlestrop"

But not all of it.

It was June.

Caught underneath

this four star sky swimming above smoke

with stiffled sighs and silenced screams

dreams dreamt by darkened eyes

ties tied to torrents. Waves

pulled taut in knots

like vacant lots and empty houses

rouses questions quickly kept in quivers

like arrows undelivered, bullets

barred behind teeth like the barrel of a gun

nowhere to run no why to live

lovers long lost in limbo

no reasons for seasons changing

not staying, no use in praying

simply saying soft snow will seep soon

the ice will melt, like how you felt

my last hand dealt, it's fine, I'm fine

believe me it's true

but the next you see my heart

dont mind the darkened blue

I’m thankful for the way you look
In bed after you rise.
You blink like you’ve just been reborn
Then reach and rub your eyes.

I’m thankful for the smile that grows
Across your glowing face.
It rouses me like morning should
With ease and heat and grace.

I’m thankful for your sleepy hands
That slip between my thighs.
“Good morning” pours from woken lips,
Your cheer a ripe surprise.

I’m thankful for your body there,
The way it takes up space,
But opens up to bring me in,
A deep sunrise embrace.

I'd love to be
Instead I swat every bug
Attracted by the illumination
Of my face by this phone

A cold blooded killer me
Reflexes like a sloth
And the wit to match

A thunder clap rouses and reminds me
That these lines aren't going to finish themselves
And half wake
I bang out a few more
Syllables
Consonantes and vowels
In order to fill
In order to feel
The place between
Rolling thunder

That's nice
Something she meant
And I laughed at the thought
No matter how trite the word
Of never living up to it

Callous
Unforgiving
I exhaust the welled ink
Grind down the tipped lead
Make mockery of sidewalk chalk

And yet you read on
Nice
To " like" this or that
And later compliment my
Change of attire

Nice

Ya, weeds.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCMLXXXI)


Now April dogs our sunny minutes, pale
Blue skies with nary cloud to mar that sense
As orange 'non splashes buildings in defense
Of rosy sunset just where dinner's bail,
The biscuits cut ere that eye cease t'avail,
And curtains drawn while steamy soup fr'intents
Give us cause to reflect, black night what'd fence
Dessert as we talk oer the future's tale.
I roll the first words 'cross my tongue as't stir
'Fore butter gives flour cause to be anew
Sheer dough, that haunting sense light rouses fer
Auld memries of lost days what winks unto
My soul, though's but March first.  Is it sae poor
To feel it in our bones likeas twould woo?

01Mar18e