Sleuthing drunkenly in a car home.
My nature subdued by the foul
nature of the world.
Gay club I leave my body hanging out to dry.
I can show every but ever moment of myself
and I love every send of it.
Belly is out.

The leopard and the lion chose to become friends,
For they were all proud of claws on their paws
They each glorified one another for their mighty,
Ability to live on meat of other fauna throughout a year,
They each admired one another for running speed,
They each remained firm and loyal to one rule;
Lions don’t eat leopards neither leopards eat lions.
They felt warmth in their companionship without verve,
Until the time they initiated a certain joint venture;
To hunt an antelope as it was famed to be the sweetest,
Again, there had remained one antelope only in the world,
They dilly and not dallied anyhow about such glittering project,
They both endevoured to set forth by each dawn for a whole year,
Tediously hunting throughout a day, the lion doing a great part,
Setting ambuscades and arduously sleuthing to orient on trail,
The leopard severally fainted in the field due to exhaustion,
On one eve of christmas day, the lion captured the prey,
When the leopard was a sleep shivering in fevers of malaria,
Their prey was a middle aged female antelope with swollen hips.
The leopard was sparked to fire of life by a mysterious fillip,
He boldly requested work, now to help the lion in carrying,
The un-suspecting lion relinquished the carcass to the leopard,
Feat of shrewdness gripped the leopard, he took off
Running away with a lightening speed, the antelope on his mouth,
The lion again began to chase, shouting to the leopard,
To be a gentleman and stop running, for them to share the plunder,
The leopard never listened, he craftily climbed  to the apex,
Of the most tall and most slippery tree, he perched at the peak
With the antelope on his muscular mandibles of voracity,
The lion remained at the stem, wailing like a toddler
His family does not climb trees, not even a shrub,
The lion wailed, using all styles of wailing,
Pleading with the leopard to donate even an iota,
Not even a small piece of antelope bone dropped
To drop on the ground for the lion to taste,
Human leopards are not good hunting companions.

tense as the rolled up newspaper thrown
slapping against the step
at dawn
awakening conspiratorial
slinking around the truth
sleuthing sniffing
my way to find
out this way or that but the way
about the signs the clues
preachers words the same weight
as the street corner girls
a way to think
in our detectiving
then the ultimate
DNA almost
the penultimate
remains of the doer dids
the who what did
whats the ne'er do wells on
Mulberry street , I know them hoods
no they were not the culprits
I scent along above below
sniff and snoof
behoove behind the wildest dogs
to find it was
mine own trail I had found
among the shivering forest green
I sat considered
a shylock set this up
then saw the bacon on my foot
I had been following.
I set off again my foot clean.
I will find this bandit.
I like bacon , though.

almond fronds for  visions
spidered eyes black a wink kisses
the cheeks   a sunrise nose spry
lips of tangerine peels left after eating  the heart
calmest flowing rivers shoulders of
the places bream nip
for joy under a water slip
she is jungled
shy as the panther in the shadows
sleuthing blending in and standing out
when your eyes do meet a sudden
reality
by god she is  beauty
the forest the green lush
thickets impenetrable dark illusive
illusory a dream a destroyer saviour a wild thing
a nerve fiber a coiled up  bindle  
of masks and hard sharpnesses and soft fur
purr

times like this, the plenary moon
  tonight wearing many faces,

the white-washed truant at bay
    white-hulled still, the brim of the sky
to a full, on such a bright night leaving a trace
   of say, prongs of fire on the kiln

the skin the soft breeze molests with a chill
flung from pinecone – the blackened spires of the
very heart of flame and the mullioned wood that understands
  what the heat of placeness mints underneath
  our skin – what silence remains a translation when the smoldering
  remains are bitten repeatedly, aureoled in the moment of vital meaning.

we hear its threat, retained in clock-whirs
like a primordial word or the fluting of  light’s bendable
   rondure harnessing a truth we let in.

I fail behind the walled-up lip of laughter
because the weight of passing
is heavy on my back – like a bough dragged
  by rainwater, or sound elected to drown:
the smell of poinsettia assaults,
lifting its slaughter against Kiltepan and Ambuklao,
  past mountains lulled to sleep: the moon sleuthing
  like a well-oiled machine.  what do you hear?

  we are aware of its full absence,
like that of our undulation after a fall,
  or the wild sibilance of breath trying  to  utter something,
  going back home with a song in between teeth,
    without words.

there are many things trembling, disparate, conscious of their
     spaces. things appear colossal when near. rife as tongued word,
     an approximation – a misuse of time;

     dealing more for sight than feeling, things snap in a very short distance.
     fire burning glowers pale. lilt of a sentence in speech.

      a luminescence is nearness. its impact, relative – brands it a different
      form, recalls it, a clear warning as message.

      what is yearned for is distant. mostly what’s ignored is as obvious
      as want. you, both at the same time, undulating.

Hold the phone, hold the freakin’ phone. Lisa’s got a boyfriend!
I’ve never seen Lisa with a boyfriend. Lisa draws men like fireworks on a dark night but I’ve never seen her keep one. I mean, it’s not unbelievable but it’s on the edge.

Then, one Friday evening, he came to visit. His name’s David - “call me Dave,” he said, meeting eyes and offering micro-expression smiles as he nodded around the room. Knowing he was coming, our suite’s common room was full, as if everyone came to see Lisa do a dangerous magic trick.

Dave’s got a young, Michael Keaton vibe going (the original movie batman), with a cocky, easygoing confidence and comedic snark that suggests he has everything under control. He’s 26 years old, about 5’11’ (a little shorter than 5’9” Lisa in heels - but he doesn’t seem to notice or mind), with brown eyes and unruly brown hair.

With some cagy sleuthing (I asked) it turns out he met her at her father’s (company's) Christmas party last year! I was there - and they’ve been secretly communicating for ten months!! How did I miss that? My situational awareness is obviously porous, and unreliable - was the room spinning?

You know, I hadn’t really focused on it before, but one of Lisa’s flaws is that her feelings and opinions don’t always show up in her expressions - it’s very annoying.

I’ve always been interested - umm, obsessed - with fashion. If I weren’t going into medicine, I’d have majored in fashion (called ‘Interdisciplinary Studies’ at Yale). Anyway, Dave’s been “dropping in” for the last few weeks - every Friday afternoon - arriving from Manhattan in his (my guess ~$6,500) business attire. What does Dave’s fashion sense tell us?

His business suits (charcoal-gray or olive-green) are Brioni, his dress white shirts are Thomas Pink, his ties Hermès and his shoes are Santoni. He’s slim and well tailored. I give him 5 stars.

If his work attire is lux, his casual attire speaks volumes as well. His weekend wear is a white dress shirt, open at the collar and jeans - both crisp and starched to hell and back. The long, stiff, white shirt sleeves are never rolled up. The jeans - deep blue and new - have a razor sharp crease down the front and his shoes are burgundy, Timberline, boat shoes with no socks. That outfit screams (Texas) oil money.

“What is it you DO?” I asked him, that first night, as Lisa was off getting ready to go out.
“I’m a “M & A weasel,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. (that’s Mergers and Acquisitions, if you don’t know - with one of the Morgans - JPMorgan or Morgan Stanley - I can’t remember which).
He’s one of those reviled, monied, ‘Wall Street’ guys. Yep, he‘s in control of everything.

“Tell me about you.” he said, giving me a serious, intense look that held immediate charm. He seemed relaxed, his suit coat off, his white dress shirt glowing in the suite’s soft lighting.
“I’ve got the highest GPA in Yale’s pre-med program,” I informed him, adding, “..in my opinion.”
He chuckled (which, of course, made me like him more).

You know, life in an education bubble can get tedious. Sure, it fills our days from edge to edge and satisfies our basic needs but it can be stifling - a faraday cage filtering life into carefully measured doses. Come Friday nights, we’re ready to hit it.

One thing I like about Dave is that he wants to be one of us and he’s never tried to peel Lisa away for himself - I think that shows an ease and generosity of spirit. Did I mention that Dave’s a Yale alum? He KNOWS New Haven.

The first night we all went out, it was the whole clan - my roommates, the girls in our sister suite, Dave and Andy (a friend of Sunny). We went to an expensive harbor restaurant to get to know Dave and seafood-martini celebrate. We had an epic time. Dave fit in like family.

I’m kind of used to paying for off campus stuff because some of these girls are tight and I’ve got a bag, but when the waiter brought the check, Dave and I found ourselves both reaching for it.
“May I?” He asked, with his Keaton-like smirk. “This time,” I said, with my own shrugging smile.

Later, back at our suite, Dave’s heading back to his hotel (less than a mile away) and slowly, quietly, saying goodnight to Lisa by the front door. “You’ve got some awfully long legs,” he said, like a 1940s black & white movie gumshoe. Taking her gently by the back of the neck and waist and twisting her tall, thin frame in a dancer’s backbend dip where she hung, suspended in his arms.

“I’d like to shimmy up one of those legs like a native boy looking for coconuts.” She chuckled.
Leong and I, sitting on our red corduroy couch, exchanged eye-rolls and smiles - he’s a romantic goof, but somehow, he carries it all off - right down to the kiss.

Gather round me, cursed patrons, I present to you a plague
Fare best served with murky water and descriptions best left vague
As a danger to ye all- I proffer cowards to depart-
There is peril in the air: A guise of parables and art.
Take heed now, sleuthing citizens, for clues lay all around
What drove the maddened cabin boy to run the ship aground?
Whose seductive fabrications made an honest man forswear?
Beware the pen and paper, there are clever souls out there.

As suitors go, I’m sturdy and fun, fresh faced, considerate and neat.
I’m socially literate and wear all the best shoes on my feet.

I’m looking for love and a little adventure,
a fun-loving confidante who wont over-censure.

But my dates with you have been obscenely pristine:
dancing and golfing and luncheons on Eggs Florentine,

argued law with your Father while drinking dark coffee,
and swapped coleslaw recipes with your maid in the lobby.

You’re smart and you're keen and your sleuthing is swell.
You keep only good company, sending delinquents to jail.

You’re modestly perfect in all that you do.
But I like a girl with more Hullabaloo.

And I regret to be the one who must give you this news,
but George, Bess and I are all dumping you.

It jumps along the clouded rows, two by two in sync
Step by step it crouches down, waiting for its opportunity
It scurries and jumps having a life of its own, as the light flickers on and off
Never once stopping on its rampage.

Creeping, sleuthing, mischievous in nature
It runs amok, never faltering in its blurry stride
Leaping, bounding, curious little thing
It slowly dwindles down, pausing briefly in a haze.

"Watch out!"
It looks up warily
"Go! Move!"
It flickers briefly

Then it sparks and resumes it tyrannic charade!

Up and down, forwards and back, swishing too and fro
It looks startled and never stops; will it ever slow?
Left, right, and back again, kneeling to the ground
It seems as if it wants out, this buggy little thing.

It listens to the resonance, hearing the silence as if it speaks
Booming, louder, LOUDER
It grows and stills, bracing for impact
Nothing, shadows, lapping at its feet

Quiet, hush, do you hear it too?
The rain that picks up beat?
Feel the tempo, breath it in
Embrace the pelting mewl

Slowly, slowly, its starts to calm
Reaching upwards
Can you grasp it little thing?
The moon the shines above.

Stand up tall and take what's yours!

A rustle, a sigh, "Are you there?"
A flurry, a side-step, "Can you hear?"
A mistake, too late, "Want to know?"
A pounce, make haste, "The fool lies!"

It stopped, this thing, that moved so fast
It doesn't function, this thing, that's too bad
Why did you stop mysterious thing?
Was it the dark? Or was it fear?

Wake up, wake up!
Please wake up!

I don't want to die yet...

Everything was as it
        always was, nothing had changed –

youth sleuthing through
        the heightened wet,
        light gracing stonetop,
                  and a pillowed streak   
                                      on western sky –

and as before,
        sun corrals light –

        amoral, though not abnormal
                        but for
                        its leaning
                                on my weathered
                                        heart

To watch with intent but not desire, his life passed
     him on as he tries to explain which one he
     would take to the afterlife if there is such,
like a convergence at the tip of the horizon or a
     humid evening in Pasay as pyrotechnics scrape
     sky fashioned like acrobats. The breeze he needs
     no longer. And then begins to disquiet the quiet
    with the heavy burden of which he will then forget
    when he starts to move all of a sudden in space,
       capitulating afterlife again if there is such,

 and if everything takes a sojourn into the bleakness, must I remind you that you are all
     variations of the same absence. Remember when
you had your name carved on wood as attendance
    but not for long. You have escaped, locked in the
       arms of a life that you thought was yours but
     still isn't, leashed under the Sun. Bodies pulse
  then fluctuate but not a sign of life. Words function
     more in stillbirth. Never forget, as a dandelion
     hovers and puts a smile on your dreary face,

and a question in search for all available and naked
    answers. Principles undermine caprice. Do not
 adhere. Must I remind you that you are
       someone else apart from who you think you are.
  You have yourself straightened, tucked safely
       like intent, not desire in all its voluminous and
     vehement speeches annotating something unknown
           to the behest of ourselves. If I were a house,
  I am gratified by windows -- your mirage there
       transfixed in a secluded spot, looking out
   brimming with life as curtains oscillate as the
      Earth breathes with you. If I were a house,
   you would ransack everything with a sly mouth
        packed with powerful narrative. How you
   have done over, leaving everything undone,
        moved off-tangent, under impossibly gray skies,
    brindled in prayer. If I were a house,
    
       doors slammed, speculative fabrications sleep
  through evenings and mornings until no difference
   is met -- you meant a word as if it had a lock
       and the key, somewhere cold in the air of
             sleuthing pains making me so, less than
     this and more of a fractured house.

Why are you so concerned of these little things
They dont amount to anything
They are nothings
But you see them as your everythings
Its just things
Your thoughts become something
I want to rip off like clothing
But you stand there seething

Quick paced breathing
Acting like its sheathing
The words you are mouthing
But i know you are wreathing
You say nothing
I try to be soothing
My love once unswathing
Replaced now with loathing

My heart cut by your scything
Just say anything
Dont leave me sleuthing
Questioning your worthing
Your silence bites like you're teething
Your intentions sit froathing
You toy with me like a plaything
I am something

Whats left unearthing
When i assume it will be scathing
Leaving me sunbathing
In your seething
Of your nothings
Which became your everything
And am I anything?
Just a little thing.

with what you had in your hands was simply

an ellipsis to emptiness. Hands can only carry
                very little weight.

and to have been caught in a virulent string
   of your Decembering noontime air – was it,

just birds spry and singing or was it
a wreathe of girls surrounding the *****

back to how it was to create light out
   of primitive engines?

once it capitalizes, we are caught in this
small circle. often retained, the detritus of

such duel: once ripples are May and
  initialed the reprise of springtime,

yet here we are only tropics, and cancer,
   and the heat is too much as to bear

charge, your tired, sleuthing dog Django.
   rasp for the lift, was it before the collapse

when both a yawn and a dance trembled
into   /stillness/

Shadow as proof of memory: the indistinct light spilling on the tablework together with smears of water. The smell of hair on his skin now is engraved as lesson. At the tip of her tongue is strange wonder. Said this inner life when it starts to crumble, you are witnessed in the soar. Bedraggled through the ***** of the street, a hand, or a vestige.

Her bony prominences of hand kneaded to retain as memory – to be swallowed by the full procession after; stroke as compromise: as if mapping all out. This is not how it should happen. It would happen when a safe distance is maintained by two bodies: the other sleuthing, the other moving in finite directions. An end will be revelry.

– took whatever it was that cannot be contained by the body. Remember first when you took the dive
     into the water, as if never to return again, together with silent fish and errant current.
                                Underneath the blue, light still casts shadow in interstices. Conveying weight
     in water – your mouth as conduit, my body as land for the till and clearing. Or my longing. Or a soon to be discovered ambiguity. Skimming through your moving imperatives, telling me you cannot
               commit to quantum movements. That in that event, the world will throw you
syncopated images, that it will give rise to your hiding altitude and lob you to vertigo.

Detachment as question. They must run. They must remain fugitives – to be unseen by the rest, and only themselves know their seams, symmetries, contours even in absences. Even the sky now is engorged with cirrus. Soon, like half-truth, or wildfire brash against green, the pallor will deface the atmosphere and give it unction of rain. Must they be reminded that they should run.
                               But you are in a city, and it is impossible to not be thrown out of line by another     figure. Names will be given. Directories will be solicited. Voice necessary to halve
                    this blatant quiet. And then to remind you of your sudden place, they will build a map
or a bridge with their arms outstretched into the sky, looking at you with life brimming through
      their eyes – the smoke of your departure once again curling in its fetal nature
       against their brows. Everything you do and undo is a forecast of some liminal finality,
  as if all of this is birthed by the same oblivion – and that all forgetfulness feels that same in different
          cities that may or may not know your name. And that in changing season, there will
always be
        a hand that will be held even in its tiniest detail – all of the shadows once
                      cast by your small body drunk in its proud altitude – we both
know   whose hand I am    thinking of

I will trust you with all my crystallised ideals, escaping my throat with my broken chariot voice
sleuthing amongst our pasts, while wanting to be in each others' present, now, tomorrow, and the next day
this trust is a fragile thing
I cannot give it to anyone
nurture it, light my eyes, touch my hands, dance with my sleeping body
the sun frames your beauty into this work of art, this black haired god, and you don't notice the rays
but I always do
trust me with your heart and hands and swallow your pride, desert your logic, and put your hands on my waist
as you surrender
to this forbidden kiss

-cj

I was told i could write
About anyTHING
But noTHING came to mind
Although someTHING
About noTHING
Was really hard to find
I tried to think
Of an anagram
It took me all the NIGHT
But despite a bit of sleuTHING
I couldn't get it right
I couldn't think of anyTHING
Or think of THINGS related
My heads' run out of words to write
And ive ended up constipated
It's a sheep in wolves cloTHING THING
Baaaa!

by JemiaTHING

You had used poetry as a sleuthing tool to research my mind.

When it did not yield any result, you stopped writing poetry.

However, now my addiction to your poetry is now causing serious psychological distress.