dunedin. friday, three, afternoon.
set from home under a blue sky
with full& prepared pack,
a somewhat empty stomach,
and a necessity to get away from the city.
hiking boots tread asphalt down to the depot,
where, in thirty-seven minutes punctuated
by plastic seats grafted to a wall
and a mildly disjunct group of small or
big-time travellers, the naked bus
pulled in, a hematite centipede
crawling into the lot. it was a bus,
no complaints. all others' bags
stowed, twenty seven bucks outta pocket
and swung into the front-right-window seat,
bid a farewell to the beat-down
pub across the road and onto the one-way
merging into a highway and outta
town the dark bug skittered, on
schedule or something resembling it.
behind the driver, the sun came through
around the beam in the window. warm patterns
laid on skin, the countryside's broad expanse:

cylindrical bales of hay scattered about
paddocks, dark late-autumn florets of flax
on roadsides, plumes of white smoke from
bonfires in townships as small as a thumbnail,
hedgelines of eucalyptus, pine; russet streaks
through bark of single gum trees stood
off-centre in fields. sticky-wooded hillsides
punctured by fire breaks roll almost forever
and back. the rushing sound of passing cars
through the 3/4-golden ratio of the driver's
ajar window; twenty-first century mansions
verging on out-of-place. saplings emerging,
bracketed, through verdant grass patches.
museum abbatoirs. toitoi like hen's plumage
lining drainage ditches. another Elizabeth st-
(how many could be counted out by now?) tidy
front yards and milton liquorland through this
small town. an everpresent tilting sun. fields
of flowered nettle. s-bends through pancake layers
of hills. a delapidated gravel quarry at stony
creek. deer farms, sheep farms, bovine farms, alpaca
farms (favourite); another bonfire seen down a
long gulley; a power substation, all organized
tangles. a two-four 300m before the bridge into

balclutha. 4.40pm.
across the road into the i-site
two friendly ladies circle locations
to make (got a car) or try to make (on foot),
offering a ride in half an hour,
leave it to chance.
across another road, drifter's emporium
(that's the name, no joke) got a knife
to open up cans- bought no cans, brought
no cans, still nice to have one anyway.
down the road, 200ml from unichem, waste
no time, turn ninety degrees, cross a
railway, then outta town in a sec. first
photo: half highway, half clutha river. fine
shot. sit down, watch the water couple mins,
head down the road. red-black ferns radiate
under willows down the riverbank. metal
bumper-bars keep legs on, the road rolls
gentle turns, diverges from the river. stick
to the former, faster that way. no intentions
of hitching. just wanna walk. and walk. and
walk. guy yells out a car window. envy,
likely. who cares. apple tree hangs over
a dry ditch. pick a small one, gone in
a minute. probably ain't sprayed. been
eating ice-cream dinners more often'n
not the last coupla weeks- isn't much
the stomach won't or can't handle anymore,
anyway.

odours of decay from the freezing works.
seagulls sound out nearby.
typical.

down the road, the reek of death fades
out. back to grass. sit in some of the
tall stuff, under a spindly tree. put down
some ink, a handful of asst. nuts. 'bout
thirteen fingers of daylight left. no idea
if the coast is further than that. little
care. down the road the land flattens out,
decent sign. the junction was a fair bit
past reckoned, though. flipped a chunk
of bark (too lazy to get a coin out) to
figure whether the coast was worth it. bark
said no, went out anyway. gotta see the sea,
keeps you sane. past a lush native
acre or two- some lucky ******'s front lawn-
changed mentality, slung out a thumb (first
time). beginner's luck, kid straight outta
seventh form pulls over in a mustard-yellow
*******' kinda beach-van. was headin' out
to the coast, funnily enough. had been up
in raglan (surf central, nz), back down with
the 'rents now, though. out kaka point, only
one of his age, he reckoned, no schoolhouse
there, just olds. was going to surf academy,
pretty apt. little envious.

the plains spread out and out, ocean just
rose up out of a field. there's nothing
more perfect. gentle waves stroke the sands,
houses stare intently out at the mingling of
blues. one cloud hovers so far away it doesn't
even exist. down the other end of kaka point,
back on solid ground, walking into a gorge, laments
about not choosing the coastal route. but owaka
is the new destination, bout 11ks, give or take
(5ks later, sign says another 15.. some give). nothing
coulda beat that sight anyway, stepping outta
a van onto that pristine beach.

entry: gorge route to owaka. seven.
late light painted the tops of hills absolute
gold. thought maybe this way ain't so bad. beside a
converging valley, phone got enough reception
for dad to get through. said in balclutha coulda
got a room with a colleague. too far out now. lost
him in the middle of a sentence about camera film.
surprised to have even got that far. road wound
troughlike through the bottom of the gorge, became
parallel to a cute little stream. climbed down chickenwire
holding the road in place, ****** in it (had to).
clambered back up, continued walking as the occasional
campervan rolled on by. took a photo of the sun perched
on a hilltop, sent it to mel. dunno why. anxieties
over the perfect sunrise picture came frequently,
a goal become turmoil. the gorge flattened out,
and soon in countryside my fears allayed. round
a corner in picturesque nowhere, found my shot.
sat in long grass. stole it. sighed. ate a handful
of nuts. moved on. {about eight}

dark consumed the surrounding gentle-rolling hills,
nowhere near owaka, which was probably the tiny bundle
of lights nestling a little below the foot of a
mountain in the distance (not too far off, in
reality). near the turnoff to surat bay (was heading
there, plans change) a ute honks. taken as friendly.
a right turn instead of a left, farmsteads lit
up in fireplace tones, the sound cows make at
dusk. it got colder. would one jersey be sufficient?
hoepfully. stars began pinpricking the royal blues of the
night sky in its opening hues. eight-fourty-ish slugged
back about 3/4 of the syrup, along with half of a box
of fruit medley (so **** delicious), in light of dull
calf aches becoming increasingly apparent. needed
to walk a helluva lot more. ain't one for lettin'
nothing get in the way of that. lights in the distance
became the entry sign for a camp-site. no interest,
head on. past another farmhouse, stars came out in
packs. three cows upon a slight hilltop. next junction
pulled left a good eighty degrees and was on the
straight to owaka. less than two minutes later,
a dog-ute pulled to a halt and offers up a ride down
most of the stretch. didn't say no.

still stable, as two pig-hunters tell
of their drive back from picking up a couple
pig-dogs somewhere north. they were heading
out bush to shoot, thought they'd seen
another guy they'd picked up a couple weeks
ago, who'd taken 'em out somewhere they
couldn't remember. paranoia grips, but
the lads are fairly innocuous. they say it's
dangerous out here, gotta be ballsy walking
middle of the night, no gun, no dog,
all by yourself. wasn't worried, got nothing
to lose anyway (still, this sets helluva
mood). by a turnoff a k outta owaka, dropped
off. said probably all that'll be open there
is a pub, if that. bid luck and set their way.
above, the whole sky is covered with shining
glitter. down a dip and turn, **** in the
middle of the road. an ominous sign indicating
the outskirts of

owaka. approximately 9.40pm

my head loosens as i approach. the lights
form across a small valley i can't verify
exists or not between dog barks i mistake
for the yells of drunkards and lights
pirouetting from cars behind me. i slow
down i don't want to do this.

owaka is terrifying. plastic.

the street corners thud like cardboard. i
walk past a garden of teapots, a computer
screen inside the house glares through the
window pane bending breathing outward. there
is nobody here, still there is a feeling
like there's people everywhere, flocking
in shadows. a silhouette moving in a
distant cafe doorway. the sound of teeth,
of darkness fallen. thick russian tones
sound from a shelf of a motel. eyes
everywhere, mostly mine. i stop only round
a bend and down near a police station, yet
feeling no more safe, sitting in a gutter to
send mel my plans, to tell myself my plans.
i want to be nowhere again. i am soon nowhere.

out of breath, out the other end of owaka,
the sick streetlights fade into comforting
dark nestled between bunches of indistinct
treelines. the feeling of safety lasts but
twenty minutes, where another dip in the
road leads through a patch of bush, in which
gunshots ring periodically and laughter and
barking rings through. breaking down, it takes
five minutes to resolve and keep going. ain't
got nothing to lose, anyway. boots squeak like
diseased hinges all down the road. hadn't
noticed beforehand, the only thing noticed
now. an impending doom hangs thick like fog,
the thought of being strung up like an
underweight hog. walking faster and
not much quieter, the other side of the
bush couldn't have come sooner. the fear
lasts until the gunshots are distant nothing.
still alive, still out of breath, still
fairly ****** up, there's no comfort like the
sound of nothing but the occasional insect's
chirp. vestiges of still water came around
a corner and just kept coming as the golden
moon sung serenity all over. finally, a peace
came to rest over the landscape. sitting by
the road with a clear view of the moon's light
sheathed in the waters, the stars above wreath
a cirrus eye to watch over the marshland
plants leading into the placid waters of

catlins lake, west. ten fifty-one.
crossing a one-way bridge over a river winding
its way into the lake, another turning point
decision arose: continue down the highway
along the river, or head straight out and
toward the coast again. having resolved to
make it to a waterfall by dawn, and the latter
offering a possibility of this, the decision
made itself. turning back around the other side
of the lake, the road wound a couple times
up a gentle ***** out and up from the valley
at the tail of the lake, and into a slightly
more elevated valley. the country roads ran
easily and smooth, paved roughly but solid.
not a car came by for kilometers at a time.
lay on the road past a turnoff for quarter
of an hour letting serenity wash over, the
hills miniscule in comparison to home, the
sky motionless, massive thin halo about the
moon. walking on, night-birds called from
time to time (no moreporks, though. not until
dawn), figuring out how to whistle them back.
a turnoff to purakaunui bay strongly
considered and ultimately ignored; retrospectively
a great call, considering the size of the detour.
hedgerows of macrocarpa, limbs clearly cut
haphazard where once they'd hung over the
road. occasional 4wd passing, always a 4wd,
be it flash new or trusty old. you'd need
one out here. have no fun, otherwise.
monolithic pine-ish hedge bushes, squatting
giants. once, a glimmering in the sky, a
plane from queenstown (assumedly) almost
way too far to make out. the colossus of
the one human-shaped shadow cast down
from the moon to my boots. how small
a thing in this place. swamped out by
the beauty of this neverending valley.
breathless.

the road turned, not quite a hairpin,
but not entirely bluntly, a welcome
break from the straight or gentle
sway, and five minutes turned to dirt.
had to lay down again- legs screaming
by this point for rest. still, they
had nothing against pressing on. dad
taught me to just keep going. that's
the thing about walking. stop for a
little bit and you're good to go
again. pushing for the fall was probably
overkill, but no worry now. dirt road
felt so right after a good 20+ks of
asphalt, only infrequently punctuated
by roadside moss or thin grass. it
was as if beginning again (well,
kinda, if only with as much energy).
having downed only a litre of water
(leaving only half a litre more), a
litre of fruit juice and about 100
grams of assorted nuts since more
than twelve hours ago by this point,
it should have been a shock to
still be going by this point. don't
really need that much anyway, though.
gone on less for longer. hydration,
anyway, was the least of all worries,
the air being thick with water, ground
fog having been laid down hours ago.

up the dirt track, more cows. they make strange
sounds at night. didn't know anything yet,
though. that's still to come. a ute swang past
going the other way, indiscriminate hollers
from the passenger-side window. waved back
cheerily. so far from anything to be anything
but upbeat now. not even the heavy shroud of
tiredness could touch that, yet. the track wound
on forever. was stopping every half-kilometer
to stand and stretch, warding off the oncoming
aches. the onset was unwieldy, though. didn't
have long. past a B&B;, wondered whether anyone
actually ever stayed there (surely would, who'd
not revisit this place over and over once they'd
discovered it?)- certainly would've, having the
cash (apparently parts of "lion, witch and the
wardrobe" were filmed here. huh). further on, the
road turned back to seal, unfortunately, but
with small promise- surely, at least fairly
close by this point. turning a corner, a small
and infinitely beautiful indent against the bush,
a small paddock bunched up against it, stream
wound against the bases of trees, all lit by
the clear tones of a now unswathed moon, sat
aside the road. it was distilled perfection.
it was too much, just had to keep goin' or
risk shattering that image. next turn was
a set of DOC toilets, an excellent sign. must be
basically sitting on the path entry now. searched
all 'round the back for it, up the road, nothing.
not entirely despondent but bewildered, moved
forward and found a signpost. the falls were now
behind? turned around and searched even more
thoroughly, quiet hope turning to desperation
by the silent light of the moon. finally,
straight across the road from the toilets,
was the green and gold sign, cloaked in
darkness under clustering trees, professing
a ten-minute bushwalk to the

purakaunui falls. saturday. 1.32 am.**
venturing into the bush by the dull light
of a screen of a dying phone, the breeze
made small movements through the canopy. it
couldn't have been any more tranquil. edging
way through the winding cliffish track through
dense brush, the sound of a trickling stream
engorged into a lush symphony of water. crossing
a single-sided bridge across an unseeable chasm,
twinkling from the ferns behind became apparent.
turning off the dull light, the tiny neon bulbs of
glow-worms littered the dirt wall risen up about
half a metre, where the track had been cut out.
my heart soared. all heights of beauty come
together. continuing down the path, glow-worms
litter the surroundings and the rushing of
water comes to a roar. at a look-out platform
above the falls, nothing can be seen save a
slight glisten. down perilous steps (wouldn't
be too bad if you could actually see 'em) the
final viewing platform lay at level with the
bottom of the falls. they stood like a statue
in the dark, winding trails of thin white wash
through the shadows hung under trees. left
speechless from something hardly made out, turned
around and back up the stairs to where the
glowing dots seemed their most concentrated.
into the ferns above, clambered through and
around moss-painted tree trunks and came to rest
a couple hundred metres from the trail, under
a fern, under a rata. packed everything but
a blanket from nan into the bag, laid it out
on curled leaf litter and folded up into it,
feet too sore to remove 'em from boots, curling
knees up into the blanket and tucking a hand
between 'em to keep it warm. only face and
ankles exposed, watched the moon's light trickle
through canopy layers for a few hours, readjusting
tendons in legs as they came to ache. sleep (or
something resembling it) set in, somewhere
around four.

some time slightly before six, the realisation
that my legs had extended and become so cold that
they'd started cramping all the way through hit,
coupled with the sounds coming through the bush.

Sunshine,
Birdsong
And children drunk on
Lemonade
And laughter.

That Welsh picnic
Has lasted forty years
And will last forty more
In daydream

And nightmare.

The stream babbled
Over pebbles,
Fern fronds
Brushed our sun-browned shins

Till the dead sheep
Slugged us in the guts.

Bloated and bulbous,
The body dammed the stream,
Its lifeless eyes
Crawling with life.

Those pearly marbles were
A child’s looking glass into death.

The rocks we hurled at it
In reckless revulsion
Were the screams
Of violated youth,

And those empty dead sheep thuds
The dawning of our mortality.

Four Years.
Four years
of high school basketball:
has come to an abrupt halt.

You see, we'd swag into the locker room.
Pump up the tunes.
throw on the black air Jordan jump suits
and whip out the pre-game moves.

The three coaches walked in
We listened to the pre-game speech
Popped a couple altoids to "keep it fresh"
then slugged a bit of water

The warm up commenced
Lay-ups
Three on Two
Shooting

One more locker room run.
Jersy's on!
But right back on to the court
Where the fans anticipate.

Just a few more shots
Now one minute left
Time for the National Anthem.
"Gentlemen remove your hats."

Pre-game nerves suddenly sink in.
"Oh say can you see."
Thoughts about the game fill my mind.
I look at the crowd, and my loving team mates.

"And now for tonights starting line-up."
Names announced.
Team has last minute words
one. two. three. "swag" ....Tip-off!

We were so good.
So athletic.
A team with 8 returning seniors
we were such ballers

Conference Champs
District Champs
But we couldn't beat them
"The best team in the state."

We weren't sad about the loss though.
We were sad that we had to leave this team.
This team that we'd been with for four years.
We loved each other more than anything.

The final moments in the locker room were bittersweet.
Tears of sadness, tears of joy
We accomplished so much, but above all
It was about the memories we made together.

yes, it did.
Just now

right now,
the now that was a moment ago and left a mark.

Beastly meme-ish mark, a consonant glyph or a ligature,

an umph!

Right between the eyes.

right between the --- fit any jective noise ---ooof!
Umphh
ouch

eyes.

no cursem
no sworn revenge, mere wind knocked
from my sail

a seen monster blocking my sail with the shadow of his storm

Float, still as a pond on the Albatross killer's sea of green.

there never was a yellow submarine,
The one Krasner sunk in central park was fake. That was in '68.

March, maybe, ides of March keep signaling meanings
I never knew were clues.

This just happened.
I was telling a friend about the effect of seeing my first man die,
as I set the scene, March, '68…

tellin' him, it was the next day,  the next day after
we met in a chow-line at Camp Freznell Jones,

You axed, whatchewdoin here? I rolled my eyes.

You were a medic, you said if I needed
hope, you had dope…
(we had first met on the first day of first grade.)

I had shot him in the belly with a bb gun, when we were twelve.
He slugged me in the mouth for Alice Jones, when we were fifteen.
(there's a story, but it angles away from what just happened.)

We remembered a time.

March 1968, about a week after My Lai,
we were
nineteen year olds, schooled together  in good citizenship,
since we were six,
in the year 1954. when
President Eisenhauer,

personally, we heard,

had added two words,
under and God,
to the good citizen allegiance pledge
all first grade good-citizens-to-be
were learning again,

because the new pledge meant more than the old pledge had.
That had needed to be done.

Or the commies were going to get a cobalt bomb
and blow the whole world to heck.
Per Boy's Life, the scouting mag.

This was explained by the fact that there were no escapes
from prisoner of war camps in Korea,
the commies were at
war against God,

that was explained when a captured secret brainwashing plan revealed:

the lack of knowing why America was worth dying for in Korea, among
the U.N. G.I.  little brothers and younger cousins

of the greatest generation's victorious G.I.
warrior heroes, every one,
so steeped in esprit dee corp,
the ones who could would march in Parades for fifty years.

But
Those
tweener losers twixt the survivors of first
wave greatest generation warriors and  us
(Talkin' bout my generation, we didn't die before we got old),

those guys nee-cess-it-ated,

Purely from lack of knowing, never having been taught

the Uniform Code of Military Justice and that our
allegiance is and was pledged to a nation under God.

Both which were new information
maybe our moms and dads didn't know yet,
we could teach them for homework
the new pledge and ask for dimes
for the march of dimes
at the same time.

Echo
The boom of babes
just beginning citizenship training for the war
they would fight, but right,
they would know,
because the commies,
could not infiltrate our schools and teach lies…

The boom of babes
just beginning citizenship training for the war
they would fight, but right,

like all the men in town who served and survived the real war,
the world war,
not a Po-lease action,
and who,
if they were shot down (no fault of their own, ****** Red Baron)
they escaped
in movie quality dramatic ways
from prisoner of war camps in Germany,

(Not many escapes from Japanese
prisoner of war camps,
but Islands account for much of that. Sharks.)

Echo
the boom of babes
just beginning citizenship training for the war
they would fight, but right,
that boom of fresh new cannon fodder for the future,

we needed to know
we were pledging, promising to pay with our life, no lie,

I pledged, we all pledged knowing, no mistake,
God is on our side,
we are, as a nation, as a citizen of this nation,
under god.
From now on.

We all stand.

--- that was all flash back---
What just happened was Doc Musgrove stopped my tale,
my telling of the first death
I watched

He remembered
He was a medic
He cleaned the mess I watched that left this stain.
He carried the bodies.

I walked away.
Then fifty years later, I figured it wouldn't hurt to tell.
But it does.
You, generations after ours, remember war
does not make better people of good citizens who know

allegiance means allied with, not ruled by.

Liege lords are things of the past. That's why the statues always fall.

We are free because truth, when known, makes us free.
Wars make no man free.

If you can't love your enemy, that's no excuse.
Set a standard, high as you can imagine,
based on the good you know is good,

{no this is not preaching it is sharing, so you don't suffer from lack of knowing and say nobody shared what he learned after becoming the definition of a heretic.}

exercise your self, discipline your self
become a disciple of good
for goodness sake
do what you know is good
as if it were being done to you

and enemies become others who maybe
you could see things like, if

you looked from a higher plane.

Yes, I dare, I was dared. An Indian kid dared me to prove
I inherited the wind.

open wide
as filth falls with slugged flow
putrid lies fog our eyes
the stench clinging to nostrils
infiltrating minds
altering our reality

To Begin...
There are things I feel that I need to express. Channeling my emotions this way is something I haven't done in a long time. Sometimes, when you feel that no one else understands or cares enough to understand, this is a good place to start.

I am a young, complex, sophisticated woman at a critical junction in her life. I know inside that everything will be okay, no matter what happens. I know that I have to constantly and consistently strive to be better in everything that I do. I know that no one else can make my dreams come true. I am a strong, proud woman.

I wish, that I didn't have to be so strong.

I've learned that the journey matters more than the destination. My boyfriend first told me this about a semester ago, when things were better between us. He was talking about our exercising goals, but I applied it everywhere. I held fast to his words of wisdom, like golden nuggets shifted and separated from dirt that the tide washed in.

He's right, you know. The journey matters more, especially because most people never reach their attempted destination. Sometimes, we half-assedly try. Most of us are too lazy or preoccupied to become successful quite the way we want, although some of us learn to make a compromised form of success. But that is life, you never know what happens next. The moment you begin to think you have it, you lose it. The moment you realize you have nothing, you find something that is beautiful yet unexpected. That is how it started between me and my guy.

Let me begin with our story. I still remember the moment he walked into that second floor Union building, with a somewhat shy, half naive smirk on his face, clumsily trailing behind his best friend Roney. I might have been wearing a sleeveless black top with small pink flowers, but I am not sure anymore. He was wearing over-washed, light blue jeans, black and white converse sneakers, a yellow shirt depicting a marijuana plant, a brown leather wrist bracelet. He had that amused look on his face, as if he was getting paid to be there. From the moment he walked in that door, I decided not to like him.

That day, I was assigned to handle our first "desi" meeting by myself. We had decided to start this impromptu organization, and they all decided I should be President for the obvious reasons. I was everyone's friend, they respected me, and took my advice. In a way, though they were my peers, they saw me as an elder. Although I made immature decisions in my own life, they saw some sort of leader in me, and I could bring people together. I was well liked, pretty, somewhat popular at one point, talkative, and convincing. I used to have a sparkle in my eyes when I talked, and people easily fell in love with me. Somehow my relationship with my ex-boyfriend had drained me totally. I didn't believe anymore, in anything. For the first time in my life, I was unsure of anything and I felt lost.

I wasn't confident, but that day I had to put on a face and pretend I could command a group of unruly, uncooperative south-Asian desi kids. I felt like I was losing control. He walked into the room, and headed for straight for a group of girls, Pooja and Sweety. No luck. Next, he introduced himself to a group of high school Caucasian girls. Maybe a little bit more hope there. At that time, I was so infuriated that this strange newcomer could frustrate my attempts to control the already unruly group, by flirting in the middle of an info session! "Guys--Quiet!!!!!" I remember trying to get their attention.

He remembers this story somewhat similarly. "You were the diva *****, the queen bee, and all your drones fluttering around to do your ***** work," as soon as he says it his mischievous face breaks into a warm, doting smile, and he quickly kisses my forehead. "I'm kidding, Jaan. Well..." I stare up at him, thinking about getting mad, but I also begin to laugh. Amused, he gathers me into his arms and holds me for a minute.

At first, I tried to dislike him for the mere fact that he was PKI, because one had hurt me before. Then one day, that didn't matter anymore-- G was mine. Just when life had begun to lose its appeal, and I didn't know who I was anymore, he walked into my life and breathed freshness into me. We looked perfect, we were perfect together, and we brought out the best in each other.

A winter flashback, before he left for his studies. "T, I don't ever want to lose you.... You are so perfect." We are sitting in his basement, cuddling in a brown, ethnic shawl. There was snow on the ground, that had fallen on the ground previous nights ago. I had assed my last law school exam of my first semester at W, Hakes Property final, so that I could rush into his comforting arms. He always told me that I can succeed. I knew I was smart, but he told me that I had a great head on my shoulders, and I could do the impossible. And eventually I would learn to believe him.

While we slugged our shots of whiskey and whatever else he managed to dig up, and as his older brother drank alone upstairs, we hugged each other, fearing what would happen to us.

The time he first told me he was leaving replayed over and again in my mind. It was earlier that morning when we first woke up. He didn't want to tell me the first night. "Did you cheat on me?" I had asked him, knowing he didn't. "No, T, never to you I would do that. You mean too much to me." "Well, do you have cancer?" "I wish, that would be easier to deal with." "Are you leaving the country-- flying to Pakistan and living there?," I laughed as I asked that last question, because it was impossible. "Nooo," he laughed with me, looking down. We had this same conversation on the phone every night he called me. "Well?" I waited for an answer. "Jaan, I will tell you in the morning. Tonight, you are all mine, just have faith in me."

The next morning he kissed me awake and held on to me as the sun rose. "Tell me." Fifteen minutes later, I burst into tears. As water endlessly gushed from my eyes and I blew my nose into his shirt, he quietly held me tight. It was that moment, I realized how much he really meant to me, and I to him. My feelings shocked me, but it pleased and pleasantly surprised him. For a few minutes, he teared up too before regaining his manly composure. "Jaan, we can get through this. We are strong. Nothing can come between us, and definatley not this. Just think of it as study abroad." I nodded and blinked back tears as he held me tightly to his chest. We laid there for most of the day, before going downstairs to dramatically drown our cute sorrows in the empty calories of alcohol.

Sometimes I replay these moments in my head, wondering what happened between us. Doesn't he like me anymore the way he used to? What happened to my G, the one who made me feel so happy and free. I wonder why he doesn't call. I wonder why he doesn't respond to my texts, or think about me. I wonder why he doesn't want to know how my week went, and how he doesn't listen to me anymore.

I think about asking him. Then I remember my futile attempts over the past summer, and him telling me I care too much about the semantics of our relationship, and that I am being too dramatic. I know for a fact that I am not being dramatic, but I stay quiet because I don't want to chase him away. I know I am not like other women. I am strong. No other women can put up with my man, because they could never be as strong minded and confident as me. Sometimes, I wish I wasn't so strong.

...The beautiful dream I once saw, etched in silver, on a quiet beach fades away the faster I walk towards it. As I finally catch up to it and open my hand, I realize I am holding only to plain, brown sand. I wish I could just know. I wish I could ask him what he wanted, why he quietly slips away like sand slips through the cracks in one's fingers. What happened to the glittering silver dreams, that danced and teased me on the shoreline? I wonder if I had imagined it all along, but I know better. I know somehow, somewhere in the distance, in a parallel dimension, it exists-- my beautiful silver dream. I can almost reach my hand out, and just grab it-- but I can't see it.

I still care about him, more than he would ever know. I would do anything for him, and always be there for him. I want to know why he is emotionally distant, whether he still has feelings for me, or if he is trying to force feelings for me. He knows I am strong. He knows no matter how badly I hurt inside, I won't ever show it. I will hold my head up high, and smile as confidently as the day he met me. I wish he could know that he means the world to me. I wish he could tell me how he felt- even if it hurt me, I would prefer the truth. I wish he would have enough courage to talk to me.

I am afraid that if things go unsaid, one day we will never talk again. I want to grab him, shake him, and ask him, "Has everything changed for you, or should I leave?" I want him to know that I would never judge him, after all he will always be mine in a way. I want him to know that I can handle it, and whether as a good friend or an enchanting mystery that exists in a parallel dimension, I will always be in his life, if he wants me there.

I want him to know that if he doesn't want me in his life, I will quietly leave forever- like a dream once dreamt that never came true. Because I care about him -  for him I will be strong. I want to ask. But I am afraid to speak.

You were not raised in violence.
When you were eight, a boy told you that you were weak.
You never thought of yourself in that way before that moment.

You were strong.
Not as strong as your older brothers, but strong enough to throw the ball back and push them when they were mean to you.

You were fast.
Though not as fast as your brothers,
who had longer legs and better lungs,
who stretched ahead, but always looked back,
who never teased you for being lesser.

When the boy at the park told you that he bet you couldn't throw a punch,
you slugged him as hard as you could in his stomach.
He laughed.
You blinked back frustrated tears and hit him harder, faster.
Your friends pulled you away, and you all promised never to tell your mothers.

You were not raised in violence, but you want to know why there are boys who are beaten and kicked,
when the bullies don't raise a hand to you.
You want to know why the others are less than you.

You are twelve, and you fall in love with a girl.
Even though you think you are one.
You tell her in whispers that you might be a boy, and she says she'll love you either way.

You break up a month later.
You're not sure you ever loved her.

You are thirteen, and you date the girl again.
You have short hair now,
refuse to have it long because it feels Wrong.
You quit the soccer team because for the first time,
you're the slowest one on the team,
and your breath comes out in wheezing gasps.
You are afraid of what this means.
The doctors tell you it's asthma.

You are still thirteen, when you tell your parents you've been a boy this whole time and are very sorry for not telling them sooner.
Your mom says she supports you,
but she still won't let you change your name legally or start hormones you need.
You wonder if she really loves you.

Your ma is proud of you,
but you knew she would understand.
She wants your mom to understand.
They fight through you, and you want it to stop.

It has only been a month, and you meet a new girl.
Her hair is red as the fire you build to keep warm on cool summer nights.
You think she's the most beautiful person you've ever seen.
She tells you she loves you.
You love her.

You want to run away from home,
your mom is too much to deal with and you want to go away.
But you don't.
You think you hate your mother, and you tell her so.
She cries.
You regret it.
You didn't mean it.

You were not raised in violence, but in September you try to take your life.
You wonder for months why you faked and acted like you were fine, conning your way out of the hospital before they could help you.

It's November now, almost December, and you need new shoes.
Your feet are too small and your features too soft and the clerk thinks you're a girl.
You tell Sarah how much you hate this,
and she tells you that you're too sensitive and should be happy that at least she doesn't know what it's like to hate everything about yourself,
to cry yourself to sleep every night,
because your body is wrong and you want out of it.

You feel betrayed.
You break up with her that night.
You cry a lot.
She apologizes.
She begs for you to take her back.
You cry.
You refuse.
She tells you that she's the best thing that will ever happen to you.
That no one will love you like she did.
She's right, people don't love the same way.
You block her number anyways.

You were not raised in violence, but you want so badly to be in some now.
You look for fights everywhere you go,
and curse yourself for never finding the opportunities.

You hear about Mike Brown and Tamir Rice and Eric Garner,
and you want justice so badly it burns under your skin.
Your mother won't let you go to protests.
You sit at home and wonder how you never realized you grew up in violence all along.

You were raised in violence, but shielded from it.
You remember a crazed homeless man insisting that your ma was a man in drag.
You remember realizing that your mother steered you away from the homeless on the sidewalks out of disgust, rather than rational fear.
You remember that day with the boy in the park.

You were raised in violence and you are not afraid to face it,
but your mother still is.

You were raised in violence.
You shout your differences as loudly as you can.
A war cry.
A dare.
You hope someone will realize you were never better than those boys who came home from school with bruises and black eyes.
They never do.
You don't know why.

-J.M.

Crystal blue waves lapped against the shore.
The sun began to set.
Wind gently brushed through the palm trees, rustling the leaves. Tenderly shuffling the birds who rested insides its leafy embrace.
Looking down the beach I could see her standing there.
She was always there. She was always smiling.
Her eyes were closed as her hair gently blew in the wind, face lit by the dying embers of the day’s last breath.
Every moment in time was captured in her simple existence.
Every toil and pang was expressed in her sheltered eyes.
I waded through the mushy sand towards her, thinking of how it would feel to hold her close.
I pictured her turning towards me, opening her eyes, and opening her arms to embrace me.
The sand slugged between my feet.
Every step was erased by the oceans never ending grasp on the beach.
The closer I became the more I saw of her beauty.
Her brown hair seemed to hold an infinite amount of splendor, as if all of creation had taken a rest on her strands of hair.
They say that the journey is better than the destination.
Maybe they are right.
Maybe my image of her would overshadow her actual presence. Could it be that her simple existence was nothing but a shadow compared to my artistic portrait of her?
I was almost there.
The person I had waited my entire life for was a mere walks distance from where I stood.
I was not wrong, I knew that every glorious detail he had longed for was true.
As I stood there staring at my life’s desire, she turned towards me and opened her eyes.
This was it, this was the moment I had dreamt of for so long.
As our eyes met, a lump formed in my throat and tears welled up in my eyes.
She was perfect.
Inside of her eyes I could see everything.
Every single wish I had ever made was inside of those two spheres. They glistened in the orange glow of the setting sun.
Like two pools holding the one soul meant for me.

I woke this morning
With no hangover
After the 10 beers last night
I made a *** of hot black coffee
Slugged it down
Listened to the local jazz AM
While enjoying the absence of the sun
The cold grey clouds
are better company
I read a few shorts by Hem
And a couple pages of Dos
I got off the mattress
And threw a few jab and hook
Combinations toward the window
I got dressed
Walked past the picture of Fante
On my wall
Then I ****
In the community bathroom
Of my roominghouse
I thought about
What a man is
Should be
Probably not this
But definitely not
My father
And I was far from that
I tried my best to be
Far from all of that

The 21st century love,
equates a list of lust,
a games of hearts,
the legends of *****.

The 21st century love,
is a poisoned arrow,
It sets cupids on fire,
the heat of unrequited love.

The 21st century love,
puts the women in a sack,
It ***** and pounds to dust,
the lost remnants of trust.

The 21st century love,
puts the men on a pedestal,
A rotations of repentant cycles,
the ride to the very end of the pit.

The 21st century love,
is not a salvation that hits the crowds,
It has slowed and slugged us down,
to see the sand blown ****** haze.

The 21st century love,
has an impersonal high of lies,
a hay of burnt passion that fades,
an illusionary bewitched dedication.

The 21st century love,
a reaction to survive in a new world,
give the body and preserve the heart,
Keep your mind and enclose the soul.

The 21st century love,
it's a jungle of reservations,
an ace of diversity and availability,
guard your all littles ones.

My friends,
They’re lifeless stubs,
Jutting from the ground
I can’t recall how they looked
How they sounded
As the breeze
Touched their long arms
Making them rustle and creak
I stand alone
In an area of vast emptiness
My friends, murdered before me
Chopped, slugged, and pulled down
And I am Regretfully
The only one left standing

Drugged
Druggggedd
Drugg gg eedd
Intoxicated
Mind has faded
Little pills
Not for thrills
Sleepy time
I wish to find
Lost my mind
D r u g g e d
D  r  u  g  g  e  d d d
Dreams will come
Once im numb
Fast asleep
Not a peep

Locked in my head
Should be in bed
Melatonin kicking in
Dreamland will win

Always words in my brain
Starting to question how sane
or what it even means..

D R U G G E D
slugged
thoughts of mush
words just gush

Brain is melting down
Surrounded by no sound
Eyelids are losing
Bodys refusing

Sleepy time is here
Dream without fear
....

oceans churn the sky

dragging

latent

potent

tainted toxic

down as cold water

dense particles slugged on salt

stagger the mill up to **** on

radiance and radical upset

in gardens touched softly

in gardens washed away

in gardens a draw to clay to rock

until fissures filter feed the spring

I’ve been roped and doped
Also been ***** and taped.
I’ve been slugged and drugged
I was bugged, then I shrugged.

It is all just another day’s work
For a silly streetwalking ****.
It’s life without a single perk,
Pays less than a checkout clerk.

I keep changes of tight clothes,
Show off the body, anything goes.
Use a languid suggestive pose
No one questions, everyone knows.

Stand by a light pole and grin
Someone will quickly pull in
And ask if you’ll go for a spin
In half a hour, I’m back again.

If they seem to want to pass
Turn around and show some ***
I make sure I show some sass
And am sure to be smoking grass.

Sure I get picked up by the cops
But, this old story never stops.
It’s a tale as old as these shops.
It’s bad when the temperature drops.

Rain, sleet and snow, I’m around
Staking out my piece of ground
To see what trade can be found
Hunting for the everyday hound.

So drop by and see me any day.
I’m not like the sun, I won’t go away.
I’ll be here as you drive by to say:
“Hello, baby, want some fun today?

The dark cloud found me that morning. Consumed by anxiety, I threw myself onto the sofa, pulled the blanket over my head, and closed my eyes to the world.

Oddly feeling weightless and fatigued, I meandered to the bathhouse for a shower, hoping that would help. I breathed, I argued, bargained, and prayed. At least I felt clean.

It was nearly ten O’clock when I departed my home. I strung on another late work day into my week, but I wore that string of black pearls with little guilt. I set up my workstation and completed a task before being summoned to the airport. Ben was finally coming home.

With low energy, I greeted my husband and drove back to work. We hugged and kissed and he drove off. I slugged my way back to the office feeling tired, empty, and numb.

My attempt at productivity that afternoon proved futile. I had to reset, and I knew what to do.

I grabbed my binoculars, my shades, and my tunes (but I didn’t listen to them). I let the flow of traffic set the mood.

Strolling up Main Street, I felt weightless even more, like outside of myself. I arrived at the riverside. As I stood at the water’s edge, the birds flew by and I studied them. I began my checklist as I usually do, then united myself with a familiar dirt path. Immersed in the forest, I tried to breathe my demons away, but they wouldn’t move. I continued.

On my route, I heard bird calls in the brush. I saw a large, brown fledgling begging for lunch. Its parents arrived, but to my surprise their offspring doubled them in size.

It was a baby cowbird that had been laid in its foster parents’ nest. It’s not the vireos’ fault, they only did what they knew best.

At that moment it clicked. I saw my feelings manifested in an avian play. I couldn’t let the invader win the day.

Depression is like a cowbird, I told my friend. When you feed it, it thrives and grows, killing the chicks of joy nested in your head.

Lesson learned, don’t feed the cowbird.

You,
you are an artist,
a tangible artist,
artistic in style,
artistic in temperament,
you are strung upon a knife edge,
above the deep blue sea,
and your tongue,
it rolls from day to day,
sometimes painting silver,
sometimes  painting gold,
getting more profound,
as your body's getting old,
and as you're getting older,
find you're getting colder,
the world is weighing heavy,
upon your precious shoulders,
life it lost it's magic,
or at least for you it did,
as you wallow in your not wanting love scenario,
on the dark side of the moon,
that's slugged out of a bottle,
once the bottle was that of a baby,
tender, delicate, satisfying milk,
now the satisfaction bottle is brimmed with whisky,
your rose coloured spectacles became broken,
smashed to pieces on the bedroom floor,
as you sit and sob for lost love,
like the one you had before,
and why do you cry?
the whisky did it,
it made you sob as you wanted more,
whisky,
pure moonshine made you,
your mother's lovely *****.
(C) Livvi

Beware the Gyac’tus!
Oh you monster, oh beast!
Found crawling over mountainsides
on such uneven feet!

Watch the way it’s hobblin’
o’er rocks and hills alike.
**** now, foulest creature! Rid that-
hobblin’ from my sight!

Gone isn’t far enough,
he stoops within my head.
No hamlet could survive like this,
let’s burn him in his bed!

Forks n’ brands, fires too,
pierce heavy evening air.
Storm straight, we do, his wretched mount
to find him sleeping bare.

Be gone, oh Gyac'tus!
I howl atop its shape
A whimper leaks from his lips ‘fore
I carve across its nape.

Fear no more! Fear is dead!
Echoes proudly out the cave,
thus we flounder up the mountain,
thought victors, found us slaves.

But the mount is unkind,
spilling forks in twos, threes,
soon a crowd becomes a party,
a party ‘comes a leash,

‘til the fire burning
on the crest stands alone,
yet the only thought I think,
thunk of wine slugged at home.

Drunken dreams expose me
the vengeful mount beneath,
my careless kneecap crumbling
like cornbread at my feast.

Tumble down the mountain
rolling head, feet n’ all
'til sprawling on the ground beside
the spoils of my war.

Glimpsing 'cross its body
held down by shorter heft
I find myself an iron cast
fast ‘round his shorter left.

Donning the clever craft,
my fate turns a corner!
I crawl, on such uneven feet,
homeward in a fervor.

Triumphant from the hills,
hunger tempting Bacchus,
my hobblin’ culls an awful tune,
Beware the Gyac'tus!

I don't believe much about the afterlife, do you?
But it's real, I mean really.
How do I know
Well, I can tell you.

First it starts with the happy part of my life.
We got Married it was a beautiful June day.
Not a cloud in the purest blue sky.
We gave our vows
I had prepared mine.

I said
I was in college
I wasted my spare cash on a Motorcycle.
I needed wheels right?
Of course, I crashed it on a bend that I took way too fast.
She lifted up my head and looked into my eyes.
I thought I am dead she is an angel right.
But i was not dead and she was a woman
A beautiful woman but still earthbound
.
She said does it hurt are you in pain.?
I said agony, not pain
She kissed my lips
And she gave me a pack of fruit flavoured Lifesavers
Only the favourite food of my sweet tooth.
And here we are six years later with our son Ben.
Getting Married.
A thing she swore she would never do.

She said her piece
Thank you for not dying that day
For I am not sure I could have survived either
Because without you I don't exist.

The car crash was an accident that same  night
The rain that had hidden in the air we breath became a weapon of destruction
As it released the imprisoned water it held in magic within its structure.
The flooded road the  Dog walking across the country bypass
The sound of his head hitting the glass of the windshield.
The silence.


Eight years later

She had remarried
A second life
Far away from me
With my crutch of alcohol.
And distance.
She Blamed me of course.
Why did you not fasten his seatbelt?
He would have been fine.
I thought I did
But alcohol quieted the guilt

I drive myself crazy with guilt
But it doesn't help,
That's when the call came in.
I am a fancy high-end corporate lawyer now
Earning high six figures.

I had bought her out of the house
And couldn't sell it.
I was us when we were happy
When we were us.

The tenants had left it wrecked.
Where are all the good people?
I went over to the place
The inside was a mess broken glass
Windows smashed the place was a wreck.
But it had a fragrance of the happiness that once lived here.
I could taste it.
It was sweet.

Then I heard the noises upstairs in the attic
I pulled down the attic ladder and walked slowly around
Looking for the intruder.
Then I Saw him it was my dead son Ben.

He said hi Dad.
Wheres, Mom.
I could not believe my eyes and fell backwards
down the ladders and knocked myself out.
When I came around he was stood near me.
Dad where Mom
I said she's not here son.

Failing to mention her husband
and the two daughters he had from a previous marriage.
He said Bring her here Dad I miss her.

I called her
She did not answer me.
The man who killed her offspring I guessed.

So I drove over to her place and said you got to come to my house.
She came and saw Ben running through the house.
She thought it a sick trick.
And slugged me with the vicious right hook.
Calling me a sick *******.


After a week I told Ben I would get her to come
I went back to her place.
She said do you want seconds
I politely refused another punch.

She came anyway
And as she entered the door
Ben said Hi mom.
She wept in disbelief.
He said I pushed the seatbelt button.
It was me

We spent weeks with him.
I quit my job to be there
She spent way too much time with us.
But we can't let him go.
No way,
No way ever

One day I heard her scream
She said
I saw a woman here
In the chair in the corner.

I asked Ben
He said she's always here.

That's when she passed out with blood
running from her nose.
I rushed her to the hospital,


The doctor said you can see her now.
I put my arms around her and told her I always loved her.
And I gave her a lifesaver from the pack she had given me
So many years ago.

She kissed me and we were close again
No issue no sadness just close.
As we got home
Ben came to me
She is leaving with me. dad.
With the lady.
What lady I said
It's Grandma her mother
We are taking her over with us.

I cried as she left me.
I know she is the only woman in this wide world
That I will be this close too.

But it's OK
I also know in the passing years
Just a blink of an eye really.
We will all be together again.

Boys will be Boys
Boys will chase those twirl skirts
Better Pull Yours Down
Before they rip you to the concrete mattress
Boys have no self control
Being but mindless humans of ill decency
Boys will spew with slugged catcalls and woos
But your skirt wasn't modest was it?
Boys have no self control
Better you know that now
Rather than when they excuse themselves from all their actions
      -I'm Sorry We Can't Control (Own-up to) It

She stood in the middle of the room, listening to you tell your friends how proud you were of her.
How well she did last night. How...it didn't take much to break her in even though she fought you with all that you could muster.
You gladly, boastfully, spilled out every ounce of soggy, sweaty detail.
How you had worked late and your lips were cracked and your heart was cold when you strode through the door.
How construction was finally done and you knew shed be locked in with nowhere to go.
How you saw her there and didn't hesitate; you didn't even blink. You slugged directly to her and dropped to your knees.
How you braced your forearm firmly against her torso and forced one leg from the other and she gasped.
How you licked your lips and knew your work was cut out for you with her; she had never done this before and you could tell just by how empty she looked.
You leaned back resting on your heals and breathed in deep, getting comfortable in your seat. And continued on.
How you zip tied her legs open so she couldn't slam shut-keeping you from what's inside.
How you gathered all the things you believed you would need and laid them out in front of her so she could see.
How you smiled and said, "Okay, here we go." And she whimpered.
How she stared down in terror like a tower and she knew she was about to get bombed.
How first, you easily and carefully pressed against her just to see how much pressure she could take.
If she couldn't handle your hands then she wouldn't be in store for what was next.
How you flipped up her top and she let out a huge gust of air.
How you nodded and clasped your hand together.
How her legs were heavy and pulled against the ties but they held her strongly.
How you pushed it into her and filled her up.
She was small and not a lot would fit inside her so you had to choose wisely.
How you played with positions and when you found the one that suited you most-you soaked her.
How you thought she smelled so good wet and you knew it wouldn't be long now.
How she hissed as you toyed with her.
How you blew on her and your breath was cold but she still lit up like nothing you'd ever seen.
How she practically exploded in your face and it made you laugh.
You leaned into your armchair-reminiscing on the thought for a second but, quickly finished the tale.
How you poked and prodded her with a long, thick iron and even though she was burning you didn't stop til she was roaring.
How you watched her lungs fill up with smoke and tears roll down her chin but, you couldn't be happier.
How you flipped out your pocket knife and cut her ties allowing her legs to creak shut hastily but you could still see her insides.
How you stepped back and told her you already felt so much better.
How she made you all warm and cozy and that she made this house feel more like a home.
Your friends ooed and awed at the end and smiled and patted her like she had won the game.
But she felt like the loser-small and scared and broken.
And she knew she couldn't escape and that when everyone left he'd come in with a cold heart and she'd be the only thing to suffice.
She closed her eyes and held her breath as she prepared herself for tonight.
To make the biggest fire ever!
So he wouldn't be able to ever make fires in anyone else ever again.
Tonight she was guna burn that ******* to the ground.
If she was going down he was going with her.
She opened her eyes and stared at him from the middle of the room and watched him smile.
And you know what?
She smiled back.

*******,
****** painted perversions.

It's a simple symptom,
made of soy-based meat, and lumps of super sorry self hatred, held in solitary confinement with lies, and that little bit of **** that hangs off of your hands after you scrub your hands after you take a load.

After you ****.

Slugged off a solid mud-baked toad made of humilation and june bugs.

It *****.

And so do you.

Just dont' eschew how bad you've been,
because You're found out.
And you'll pay for every calorie.

Every ad-spot.
Every sin.
Every media spin that you hope
make you free.

Not even.

You're a cast off,
frozen bug.
Slug.
Salted.
Neutered.
Faulted.
Rotted.
Broken.
Blackened.
­Fractured.
****** up
thing.
You're nothing.
Natta.
Bladda.
Broken.
Stoked in a fire of lies.
Try.
Please.
Try to be a person.

Please.
Know what you lost.

because you're worse than a ****.

Worse than a ****!
It's absurd.
You should be in charge.
But instead you're a childish joke.
For real!

Commander-in-Chief!

You're the ******-at-large.

Old age should burn like a flame of light
rage, rage against the dying of the night
Dark Angel take a walk down the deep woods
of the old wise men of long ago words that
once touched souls that caress at one's heart
because their words had been long forsaken
their life had been shaken
good men had been long lost in Darkness of
their own lust of a dapper heart of swaying
of what was right in God's eye's
their frail deeds might have danced in a garden
of green but no longer
rage, rage against the dying of the light they
cry out in the night for Dark Angel they cry
holding heart's by a knife
wild men, they become  caught and slugged  
they grieved in winter cold why Dark Angel had
taken over they darken souls
made them into slaves
that hide in caves near death but death never came
Prayer had now been long forgotten
rage, rage against the dying of the light Dark Angel
takes on a new Rage squeezing out faith
weeping is all you will hear in the lost woods of the
winter cries of the lost and found
the slaves of Dark Angel.

Judy Emery © 1982
The Queen of Darken Dreams Poetic Judy Emery