Book One


Prelude:

As Romans before them, they built the city upward—
layer ‘pon layer as the polar caps receded
layer by layer—preserving what they could, if someday
the waters may recede back into the former polar
ice caps; restoring the long inundated coastlines.


Home:

A man sat upon a tall pub stool stroking
his ginger beard while grasping a pint loosely
in his other hand. An elderly gent stood
next to him. The older gentleman noticed
that the ginger bearded man’s pint sat almost
quite near the bottom of its tulip glass.

A woman with eyes of amber and hair
as chestnut strolled through a vineyard amongst
the ripening grapes full of juice to soon
become wine. She clutched a notebook—behind (10)
thick black covers lay ideas and sketches
to bring the world to a more natural
state—balancing the wonders and the merits
of technology apace with the allure ‘n’
sanctity borne to the natural world.

When the ginger bearded man finished the
final drops of his stout, another appeared
heretofore him—courtesy owed to the elder
gentleman. “Notice dat ye got d’ mark
o’ a man accustom amid the seas,” (20)
he inferred; gesturing the black and blue
compass rose inscribed inside a ship’s wheel,
imbedded into the back of the ginger
bearded man’s weathered right hand.
                 “I have crewed
and skippered a many fine vessel, but I
am renouncing my life at sea—one final
voyage I have left inside of me:
one single terminal Irish-Atlantic
voyage t’ward home.” (30)
“Aye d’ sea can beh cold
‘nd harsh, but she enchants me heart. Ta where
are ye headed fer d’ place ye call home,
d’ere sonny boy?”
     “’tis not simply a where,
‘tis a who. Certain events have led me
to be separate from my wife. For five
eternal years I have been traveling—
waiting to be in her embrace. The force
of the Sea, she, is a cruel one. For (40)
it seams: at every tack or gybe the farther
off I am thrown from my homeward direction
to stranger and stranger lands… I have gone
to the graveyard of hell and the pearly gates
of (the so called) heaven; I have engaged
in foolhardy deals—made bets only a
gambling addict would place. All to just be
with Zara. I am homesick—Zara is my
home—it doesn’t matter where (physically)
we are located, my home is with Zara. I (50)
was advised to draw nigh the clove of Cork
and wait; wait for a man, but I was barely
given a clue as to who this man is,
only I must return him this:” the ginger
bearded man held out a dull silver pocket watch
with a frigate cut into the front cover
and two roses sharing a single stem
swirling upon themselves cut into
the back.
   “Can it be? ‘Tis meh watch dat meh (60)
fat’er gave t’ meh right before he died…
I lost it at sea many a year ago.
It left meh heartbroken—fer it was meh only
lasting mem’ry of him… Come to t’ink I
was told by a beggar in the street—I
do not remember how long ago—dat
I would happen across a man wit’ somet’ing
dear t’ meh, and I’d accomp’ny dis man
on a journey, and dis man would have upon
‘im d’ mark of a true sailor…” (70)
    “Dear elder man,
my name is Abraham; the mark you see
represents the control that I have on my
direction—thought it appears the Sea retains
some ascendancy… Yet now, it appears,
the Sea is upholding her bargain—though
a bit late... Do you, by chance, own a vessel
that can fair to Colorado?—all across
this mist’d island no skipper ‘ll uptake
my plea; they fear the sharp wrath of the Sea (80)
or (if they have no fear) simply claim my home
‘is not on their routes…’ i’tis a line I’ve
heard too often. I would’ve purchased a vessel,
but the Sea, she, has deprived me completely
of my identity and equity.”

Zara, with her rich chestnut hair sat upon
a fountain in a piazza—her half empty
heart longing to savor the hallow presence
of Abraham, and stroke his ginger beard…
Everyday she would look out at the sea (90)
whence he left…
     All encouraged her to: “forgo
further pursuit”; “he is likely deceased
by now”—his vessel (what left) scuttled amidst
the rocks of Cape Horn, yet Zara could feel
deep-seated inside her soul he is alive;
Alive (somewhere) fighting to return home.
Never would Zara leave; never would she
abandon post; she made that promise five
years ago as Abraham, ‘n’ his crew,
set out on their final voyage; and she (100)
would be ****** ere she broke her promise—a promise
of the heart—a promise of love. Abraham
said: “You are my lighthouse; your love, it, will guide
me home—keep me from danger—as long as you
remain my lighthouse, I’ll forever be
set to return home—return home to you.”

Out from Crosshaven did the old man take
steadfast Abraham en route to his home.
Grey Irish skies turned blue as they made their
way out on the Irish Sea, southwest, toward (110)
the southern end of the Appalachian Island.
The gentle biting spray of the waves breaking
over the bow and beam moistened the ginger
bearded face of Abraham; his tattooed
hands grasped the helm—his resolute stare kept him
and the old man acutely on course.
A shame,
it struck the old man, this would be the final
voyage of Abraham… he: the best crew
that the old man had ever came across; (120)
uncertain if simply the character
of Abraham or his pers’nal desire
to return home in the wake of five long
salty-cold years—a vassal to the Sea
and her changing whim. Never had the old
man seen his ship sail as fast as he did when
Abraham accorded its deck—each sail
set without flaw: easing and trimming sheets
fractions of an inch—purely to obtain
the slightest gain in speed; the display warmed (130)
the heart of the old man.
        And thus the elder
gent mused as he lightly puffed on his pipe
while sitting on the stern pulpit regarding
at Abraham’s passion to return home
(as he calls her):—maybe dis is d’ reason
d’ Sea has fought so hard, and lied, t’ keep
Abraham from returning home… Could not
bear t’ lose such fine a sailor from her
expanses—she is known t’ be quite a jealous (140)
mistress…
      But for all Abraham’s will and passion,
the old man insisted for the fellow
to rest; otherwise lack of sleep would cause
the REM fiddler to reap his debt—replace
clarity of mind with opacity.
Reluctantly stalwart Abraham gave
in and retire below deck—yet the old
man doubted the amount of rest that he
acquired in those moments out of his sight. (150)

For the days, then weeks, in the wake of their
departure from the port-island Crosshaven,
the seas were calm as open water can:
gentle azure rolling swells oscillated
and helped impel the vessel forward. The southern
craggy cape of the Appalachian
Island pierced the horizon. Like a threshold
it stood for Abraham—a major landmark;
the closest to home he had been in five
salty long years—his limbo was beginning                               (160)
to fade, his heart slowly—for the first time since
he left port in eastern Colorado—
started to feel replete again. The Great
Plains Sea—his final sea—he would not miss
the gleam of his lighthouse stalwart on shore.




Book Two

Oracle:**

Upon a beach, Abraham found himself alone—gasping
in gulps of moist air like that of a new born baby first (10)
experiencing the breathe of life; he felt as if he
would never become dry again… the salt burning his skin
as it crusted over when the water evap’rated
into the air; Abraham took the first night to rest, the
next day he set to make shelter and wait for a rescue
crew; out he stared at the crashing waves hoping for a plane
or faint form of a ship upon the horizon…days and
nights spun into an alternating display of day then
night: light then dark—light, dark, light, dark, grey, grey, grey…

Abraham (20)
gave up marking the days—realized the searches are done—
given up after looking in the wrong places (even
he did not know where he was…) the cold waves and currents took
him to a safe shore away from his ship and crew, in a
limp unconscious float…
From the trees, and what he could find on
the small  island, Abraham occupied himself with the
task of building a catamaran to rid himself of
the grey-waiting.
Out he cast his meager vessel into (30)
the battering surf; waves broke over his bows and centre
platform—each foot forward, the waves threatened to push him back
twofold… Abraham struck-beat the water with the oars he
fashioned; rising and falling with the energy of the
waves; Abraham stole brief looks back with hopes of a van’shing
shoreline—coast refused to vanish… his drenched arms grew tired;
yet he pushed on knowing he would soon be out passed the
breaking waves; then could relax and hoist sail; yet the waves grew
taller—broke with greater power… Abraham struck-beat the
water with his oars—anger welled—leading to splashes of (40)
ivory sea-froth instead of the desired progress
forward; eventually, his arms fell limp beyond the
force of will… waves tumbled him back to shore as he did the
first night upon the island…
Dejected Abraham lay
in the surf that night—the gentle ebb of the sea added
to insult, but hid the tears formed in the corner of his eyes—
salt water to salt water… the next day Abraham took
inventory of damage: the mast snapped in multiple
places, the rudders askew—the hulls and centre structure (50)
remained intact; the oars lost (or at least Abraham cared
not to search); over the next weeks he set to improve
the design and efficiency of his vessel—the first
had been hurried and that of a man desperate to leave;
the bare minimum that would suffice—he set to create
a vessel to ensure his departure from the des’late
accrue of sand and vegetation; Abraham laboured
to strengthen his body—pushing his arms further passed the
point his mind believed they could go—consuming the hearty,
protein-rich, mollusks, and small shellfish he could find inside (60)
tide pools or shallows—if lucky, larger fish that dared the
nearby reefs.
Patiently, Abraham observed the tides and
breaking water; he wanted to determine the correct
time to set off to ensure success—when the waves would not
toss him back to the beach; the day: a calm clear day—only
within few metres of soft beach did there exist any
breaking waves, and those that broke were barely a metre high;
loading provisions upon the vessel, Abraham bid
farewell to the island (out of wont for the sustenance (70)
it gave not for nostalgia) grasping his oars, he set forth
to find open sea—where the waves do not break and set you
gingerly on foreign shore(s); Abraham paddled passed the
first few breaking waves, his heart pounding with hope—he stifled
the thoughts (celebrate when the island is but a subtle
blue curve upon the horizon); as the island began
to shrink in his vision, the sky to his back grew darker…
the waves started to swell—moguls grew to hills—Abraham
stroked up and rode down; the cursèd Island refused to shrink…
if not begin to grow wider… stroke by stroke Abraham (80)
grew frustrated—stroke by stroke frustration advanced into
anger—stroke by stroke anger augmented into fiery
beating of the water!—Abraham struck and struck at the
Sea—eyes closed—white knuckles—trashing!—unsure which direction
he paddled…sky pitch-black, wind blowing on-shore Abraham
bellowed out to the Sea in inarticulate roars of:
hatefrustrationpitydesperationheartache!
Towards
Abraham’s in-linguistic roar, the sky let out a crack
of authority! a wave swept the flailing Abraham (90)
into the ocean—cool water only heated the rage
in Abraham’s mind—his half empty heart only wanted:
to sail home, become whole  again—sit under and olive
tree and stroke the chestnut hair of Zara as she drifted
off to sleep on his chest while he would whisper sweet verses
into her ear… Abraham’s rage, beyond reason, forgot
the boat and all clarity, he tried to swim away from
the cursèd island—scrambling up waves only to tumble
back with their breaking peaks—salt, the only taste in his mouth;
churning his stomach to *****; his kidney’s praying he (100)
would  not swallow anymore… his gasps stifled any curse
Abraham’s head wished to expel onto the Sea—yet she
swore she heard one final curse escape his lips! at that the
Sea tossed Abraham (head first) into his ghost-helmed vessel—
all went dark for hostile Abraham…

Contemplating back
at his rage—knowing the barbarian it makes of him,
Abraham peered into the band inscribed into his
ring-finger and saw the knot tying him to Zara—shame
at his arrogant-uncontrolled-fury sent Abraham (110)
into a meditative exile inside of his mind
(within the exile of the island…) in his mental
exile Abraham spun into deeper despair at his
two failures—even more at the prospect of failing the
vow he professed onto Zara: return home—home from this
final voyage, grow old with her on solid ground, never
to die apart and cause the pain of losing a loved one
without the closure of truly knowing the death is real,
to die by her side white, white with the purity of age…
Abraham’s destitution turned inward—his fury, the (120)
lack of control, the demon he becomes when rage surges
through his muscles; equiping him with untamed strength without
direction or self-possession—so much potential, yet
no productive way to use it… Abraham’s half-full-heart
burned, ached with passion and anguish—all desire
focused on home, his return, but the mind’s despondency
and insistent ‘what-ifs’ kept poor Abraham prostrate in
his mental cave—all his wishing for anger and vi’lence
to force his will, it did more to retain him upon the
cursèd island than bring his heart closer to fulfillment: (130)
his long awaited home…
Out of his mental exile did
Abraham’s irises dilate and contract with blinding
illumination—self-pity is not what make things happen—
it would only serve to anger Zara—nothing other
than I can be to blame for my continued absence; I
am stronger than that!—looking at the tattoo in his hand,
he remembered the reasons for the perennial brand—
the eight-spoke ship’s helm: the eight-fold-path—I must cut off my
desire for anger to be the solution and focus (140)
on the one path to Zara—the mind can push the body
further than the body believes is possible—the star:
the compass to guide me via celestial bodies
to where my heart can see the guiding beam of my lighthouse!

This is one of Barry Hodges' most inspired memories.

  'Twas morning time in times of yore and I, bold Barry Hodges, stood outside my store, my giant vegetables on display for all to see, when lo and behold! a luxurious limousine drew up, and from the back there emerged a gorgeous form of voluptuous statuesque feminity.
  "My God!" I cried, it is that beauteous lady from *La Dolce Vita, the wondrous Anita - and I gazed with joyous on her divine body, imagining it sprawled lasciviously in my bed, legs open as wide as a major road junction on the M1 motorway.
  "Excuse me", said she in that Italo-Swedish voice guaranteed to make any man wet himself copiously, "But I am a-lookink for a shop a-called 6B, and yet all I can-a-see is a Barry Hodges' the Master Geengrocer's, complete with a giant cucumber or two, which I 'av to say remind me of somet'ing tasty."
"Dearest lady, said I, you have come to the right place: 6B is the trading name of my sister enterprise: Barry Bodgers' Boil Bursting Beauty Bureau which is located upstairs, Barry Bodgers at your service, my dearest, most delightful Fru Ekberg."
"Shhhhhhhhh! I am een deesguise, not even dear Federico knows I am-a-here." And thus, assuring her of my utmost discretion, and forming a bond by saying that I too, the famous Geordie seducer, Barry Hodges, had indulged in a slight nomenclatural change in order to separate the two sides of my business interests, and in order to do a spot of money laundering on the side.  "But," I enquired, "How is it that you have need of the rather specialised medical services we offer, you who are so radiant and bella-bella?" She lowered her eyes seductively and promised to reveal her terrible secret.

As I ushered her up the stairs to the studio, my eyes on her ****-cheeks wiggling like two delectable beach ***** in a sack, she told me the sad tale of the immense boil which kept recurring on the middle of her back and which no amount of corrective surgery could fix.
"Aha!" I exclaimed, "Only Barry Bodgers, the world's greatest boil-sucker, can effect the cure for which you long, and I shall operate on you personally, not entrusting such a task to even the best of my boil-bursting minions." I added to myself, "Also I want to give you a good old bonking while we're at at."

Once we attained the privacy of my consulting room, I instructed her to strip off utterly so I might examine her, and I can tell you, dear reader, that her **** **** was a joy to behold. I too divested myself of my clobber, knowing that boil-******* can get a bit messy at the best of times. Jesus wept!, but the mighty boil betwixt her graceful shoulders revealed when de-plastered was a true horror, with a yellow tip as big as a Grade One Belgian Turnip. I explained that I would **** it out whilst I rogered her from the rear and that, when she felt her ****** on the way, she should scream out to that effect and I would then bite the core of the boil right out in a blaze of mutual ******* glory, before applying a dose of my exclusive Boil Preventative Cream, namely a handful of our conjoined love-juices extracted from her gaping ***** by hand a few seconds earlier.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" screamed the Swedish bombshell and with a mighty **** like an industrial Dyson FX334 on full power, I slurped and  razor-bit the boil, bursting it asunder, smothering my eager face in blood and putrid pus, thereby causing me to blow my *** as ne'er before. The green core of the boil emerged from its fleshly cavity with a deafening plop as we came together like a nuclear blast d'amour.

O, but only then, as my seminal outpourings soaked my jim-jams, did I awaken to discover yet another nocturnal emission. And, not unexpectedly, dear Nurse Nellie, having heard my cry of ecstasy, rushed in to my bedroom, head-shaking and tut-tutting as usual, as she knelt down and licked my tum-tum dry.
"Yum, yum" she murmured in her dulcet Northumbrian tones, "Ah've looked after three generation o' Hodges laddies, and I kin tell ye, your *****'s the tastiest of them all, ye bonnie wee man."
"Better than Grandad Charlie's?"
"Why aye, mon, yours is well creamier."

SometImes I wonder
if you ever knew, exactly how happy I waS,
WiTh you

SometImes I wonder
couLd you ever see, the joy in my eyes
When you were with me

Sometimes I wonder
if you can recaLl, the days when Summer
Turned into FaLl

SOmetimes I wonder
if I'm still your muse, or if you'd sing for me
The way you'Ve used to

SomEtimes I wonder
what the hell happened, now to You I am
Only a has-been

Sometimes I wOnder
if you still think of me when you walk past that
StUmp in the cemetery

craSH land ing in your
hand or
somet..h...i.n..g...
somepalm or plane
your fingers figured
EVERYTHING was
in theirange

"
i NEED the  cement
to   stack   the bric
ks  more  even  [][]
"          
        -she said

like self-construction
is in her-interests:
like she SPOftenKE
of scaf fold & ropes
& renov(icaine)ation????
instead of
numbness, running, & vacations
OHHHHHHHH THE GREAT PATRON SAINT
of r u   n a    w   a    y    s
is suddenly b-come-ing brave!!

I'm not gonna lie,
I'm tired of it all.
This hurt and life,
the goodbyes to all.

But what you don't see,
is who I am.
What I try to do,
for a twisted man.

I know I've made,
a few wrong turns.
Said some wrong thungs,
and caused some hurt.

But you act like,
I'm only blaming you.
Well here's a newsflash,
I'm at fault too.

I know this,
I am not ashamed.
I can take the hurt,
and part of the blame.

But it's not all me,
for you've caused hurt too.
Don't blame it all,
on what I do.

I'm truely sorry,
for what I said.
I was hurt and confused,
it was not meant.

But the words you used,
the names you called.
Naming me fat,
saying it's my fault.

Those crucial words,
you call me all the time.
But when I finally say them back,
the fault is all mine.

I'm ready to say I'm sorry,
that what I said was wrong.
But you need to accept,
some of the fault.

You claim you tried to help,
but where the hell were you?
When I needed a shoulder,
someone to talk to.

When my neighbours keyed our truck,
spray painted the plates.
When I was down on my knees,
knocking on heaven's gates.

Crying out to the heavens,
just give me one last chance.
I'm trying to mend,
all the broken hands.

I gave to you my heart,
about a year ago.
I promised forever,
I never let you go.

But I'm ready to move on,
and I'm ready to let go.
Our friendship, though, honey,
is what means the most.

The knife I carried long,
that was stuck into my back.
It's sitting on a shelf,
holding all of what I lacked.

I'm picking myself up,
up from off of the ground.
All by myself,
what I lost is now found.

You've been there for me,
well over a year.
You've held me very close,
you've wiped away my tears.

So this, I ask you, friend,
would you maybe just consider.
Walking down with me,
so we can both be winners.

To talk down by the water,
of all was said and done.
So this battle can be burried,
for both us it's won.

Because I'll never go away,
so long as I'm alive.
We live in the same town,
same friends help us survive.

What good will it ever do,
to keep this battle at war?
It won't be right, right away,
but it has to start somewhere.

We're not only hurting each other,
but everyone around.
I've picked myself up mostly,
but I'm still half on the ground.

Somet things need to start,
to fall back into place.
I'm washing off the makeup,
creating a new face.

I ask you to be there,
I apologize how long.
It took for me to come back,
when I was so far gone.

The house of cards we built,
it may have fallen down.
But it's time for a new chapter,
let's blow away this town.

This time we start over,
and we can be just friends.
There's a lot still in our futures,
but I refuse to give in.

We fight, that's what we do,
we're honest with eachother.
But when it comes down to it,
we're best friends forever.

I tell you when you're being,
a aggorgant *******.
You tell me when I'm being,
a pain in your ***, which.

Is quite often, I know,
but one thing to remember.
We're forever in this life,
almost always together.

For ourselves and everyone else,
it would just be better.
To resolve this mess,
work on friends forever.

Forever will always have,
a special place in my heart.
May we'll just be friends,
or very far apart.

You're the guy I want there,
a bestie at my side.
Something we can work on,
and always keep in mind.

When life gets really rough,
I want to know something good.
Is coming in the distance,
working like it should.

So please let's just try,
to work things out together.
Let's work on being now,
best friends forever.

Another morning full of clouds
Another car just passing by
Another hour wasted, missed.
Customary, boring, silent, ******.

No stream of light.
No string of gold.
But there's one thing.
There is a hope.

A hope for light,
For somet long new.
For something more.
Some more from you.

I'm a little tired,
So I think I'm going to sleep.
I hope you understand that,
Sometimes it's hard to breathe,
When my thoughts race,
Trapped in my mind.
It's time to say goodnight.
Please don't forget.
That you mean everything.
I'm sorry. I'm no good,
With words but I love you.
Please don't forget that.

"I saw
somet(h)ing
in you th(a)t
g(l)owed
in h(o)liness"

SometImes I wonder
if you ever knew, exactly how happy I waS,
When I was with you

SomeTimes I wonder
if you ever saw, the joy in my eyes
When you were with me

Sometimes I wonder
if you ever thInk of the nights, when we would
Watch the stars through the tree's leaves

Sometimes I wonder
if I'm stiLl your muse, or if you'd still
play those songs for me

Sometimes I wonder
what the helL happened, and why you never
said anything

Sometimes I wonder,
why you calleD a year later, and
never said what you wanted to say

Sometimes I wonder
if you still think Of me, because

"excuse me bu—"

it is always like this

"yeah, bu—"

the sharks sing
that we are free

"wait, di—"

yet you...

"no... no, i—"

yet you won't let me be

"is somet—"

you shut my mouth
there's wires on my lips

"what are yo—"

you sing the words you want to hear
and you pass them on to me

"didn't h—"

i was not a mute

"okay, bu—"

yet you made me one

"why don't—"

all there is to say
all there is to ask

all is gone into the night

"why won't—"

i cannot question
i cannot speak

i shall not bother
your unflawless speech

"ple—"

"please—"

no

"please listen to me!"

so you cut my tounge
piece by piece
shut my mouth, darling

"..."

there are oh, so many ways to speak!

They say love is art...
so I became her canvas.
Her crayola stained lies ****** the blue out of my sky
and 'ain't no sunshine when she's gone'
so it's always night-time.

See,
my first poem about her
was suppose to be a love poem,
"The heart wants what the heart wants"


closes eyes

My chest uncontrollably recoils
as ballistic thoughts bounce back and forth
erupting mental modern warfare...
as agitation is called on duty
and ghosts are the only
visuals being visioned behind closed lids.

These ghosts seem so much safer
But these ghosts got me in a safe
And I'm seeing these ghosts' faces
As I'm running through this maze
and you'd think I'd be amazed
But this maze is the safe
And the ghosts' face ...

opens eyes
breath of relief

The ghosts' face was,
It was her.


The heart wants what the heart wants
and mine seems to be infatuated
with the one invariably leading to my cardiac arrest.








Your I miss you's leave the river dry *** you can't cry me a river with I guess it's a dry cry when you cry me a river of

Somet






drafts......

"The Heart Wants What The Heart Wants"

It's like the title of this once unfinished poem,
turns me into a fiend.
My eyes bleed,
and inevitably,
agitation triggers a pain
so (painful),
immune to morphine,
oh lord I think I feel it in my spleen.

"The Heart Wants What The Heart Wants"
and ion mean to be mean,
but the fact that this is a poem me and the person I'm in love with started,
is probably enough to drive a young man like me insane.

"The Heart Wants What The Heart Wants" and I've been meaning to start writing...
but every time I try to write,

Countless nights of...
"papi"
replay itself in my mind
and I'm rendered weak in the knees
to the nostalgia it brings.

Gucci mane describes it best when

Impersonate a cow to get milked, kiss Michael Milken to get bilked
'cause rake-fist is the host deported grill of the bay, served on 1 tray
Dum' toes can't learn 'em nuttin,' dum' *****, can't learn 'er somet'in'
***** hinges in as them wages of sin rack up with cat-house binges
Hell singes trite mortal sins what ready Texas *****-house twinges
Fires singe flighty moral wins that sea-quake D.C. bordello twinges
Jail singes trite coral stints to swell semi-flimsy poor-house twinges