I like slandering your makeshift forceps.
I hammer you down with watery *** and then spill

the remainder on the couch. Yarg! A diamond’s
worth at least a small intestine, and you

are worth whatever’s left over after night
has upended itself, poured sideways out of its

shellacked crawlspace, and turned the basement sour.
There are remnants of you in the park,

some red stain by the baseball field where,
if you’ll remember, you watched little leaguers

build teamwork, and faint splotches on tree bark
from your lactations which, if you’ll remember, happened

every morning. I whisper your godforsaken name
and am slapped in the head. The children cry

when I smile. I cry when the children smile. Good
heavens. I forbid you from not entering my corridor,

even as I set up a barricade. I like my water scalding,
my passion chilled, and I like you in easy-to-

swallow doses. I like you in my eggs.
Ditto the faucet, keyboard, the occasional lily,

but do not mess with my pearls. I mumble of apodictic
meadows while I sleep. What can I say?

I do not mumble of unclogging your bathtub,
which has a certain foul repute, and has grown

heavy and ugly with your hair, which is everywhere,
just as you are everywhere, and wherever, and so

******* hidden it’s not funny anymore, we stopped
looking some millennia ago, after scouring the drainpipes,

kicking down your doors, dissecting your mattress,
speculating about your burial site, etcetera, and even so

we have not been really looking all this time, have we,
just blaring your name through the speakers,

putting wrong numbers on our calling cards, leaving
uncooked meat out on the back porch as if you were

a raccoon, oh, or a lion, which you are not, or not
quite, though, as the books say, you have honey

in your stomach, and if you could but be
ripped open we would taste and see.

///
A rough ramp,
too many edged stones on the surface
she is walking on the ramp with booted a high pencil heel
we see her speed, her fashion
we say that it's her smartest move
even her body language shows the beauty
but it's true that one of us sitting there doesn't care her at all

The flowers are on the fire,
blooming throughout the garden
too many colors, coloring the spring
so much aroma appealing around
either the bees are buzzing or not
growing itself through the nature
either we are caring those or not

Birds are flying around the sky
they are highly ambitious
sometimes they fly over the dark clouds
yet they are unclogging their feathers throughout the sky
until the clouds are breaking into the water
showing that they don't care about the height of the heaven
even you see their stunning diving or not

When it's an amazing raining
maybe you are walking toward the horizon
who is shining sharply within the rainbow?
the little boy is enjoying through the window!
its a playful beauty beyond
It doesn't care about thee
either we are looking, caring or not

Boys are barefooted,
walking on the broken glasses,
bleeding blood on the floor
making spot on the spaces
they are running within the daydreams
now they don't care about anything
****! we never wish to care them at all  

///
Musfiq us shaleheen

the co-pilot, seated on the left, would scowl
the pilot was more amenable to small talk,
on this, our free ride: Miami to San Juan

the brother-in-law gave us a choice,
Puerto Rico or Equator
the ten or so days of our sleeping
on their living-room floor
were fun, the first three days
and he, a Miami airport guy,
offered one of two free flights

having chosen San Juan,
and not caring about the blood-thirsty Bermuda Triangle,
there we were :
in a C-24 cargo plane with its load
of five race horses, well stalled, well fed,
large, leather, hay-full pouches easily
accessible in front of each stall; one in front
and four others; two behind the first
and two others behind these; far
down, in the tail section, sat a man—
his job, caring for the horses

I don't know much about cargo planes
as a matter of fact, it may have been a C-26
but C-24 twirls my eyebrows more—
and I didn't expect it to be so cold up there

soon enough, I found out
we wouldn't arrive in jet-preen time,
perhaps in seven hours, or more

my love, cushion-comfy on the floor
next to the captain, stared, as I did,
to the ever-present, mountainous stars
housed not in mere magnificence but in abstract vision
you will learn much, staring at us,
we both knew we heard
by the briefest glance at each other's eyes

hour after hour fleeted,
my lovey fast asleep, captainside:
the first boom didn't startle
but the horses knew better
soon enough, the yoke started to jump
pilot and co-pilot, 30-year veterans,
tried to reveal only Calm
but the co-pilot started talking to
San Juan—I was to discover we
were, perhaps, forty minutes from the airport
then: neigh-EEEE, the horses
crazied themselves, each kicking
his stall—for, by now,
the one boom had transformed into:
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!--constant BOOMS
and the yoke seemed to fly off
the captain's hands

at one point, as the co-pilot rose,
I could swear he briefly pulled his hair,
as he went behind the cockpit—searching, searching

he found what he was looking for:
a 20-gallon can of fuel—but it could
have been only 10 or 15
my baby was still fast asleep—the horses,
by now, had gone berserk—the caretaker, at the very
end, seemed to be having a spiritual experience,
ready to enter heaven; I may have seen an angel's
hand on the ready


speedily, the co-pilot unwound the cup
of a thermos and handed it to me
I was thinking: they will never find our bodies
and almost dared to awaken lovey;
how she kept on sleeping was a case of
supernal intervention

and lo and behold, the co-pilot placed
a finger on a tiny hole, leading to the fuel tank
and ordered: hold the thermos cup and don't shake—
I'll fill it and you pour the fuel into the hole

there we were:
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!--constant BOOMS
heee-heee-heea—horses
voicing their concern
and with the first cup-full, I didn't spill
a drop—but there were more than two
hundred—perhaps three hundred to go

every time more than 7 drops skipped
the little hole, both the co-pilot and I
deathrattled in nightmares of unclogging vascular tease

we were twenty minutes away,
by this point, and the plane
started to hum
it must have been more than 280 thermos-cup
loads, the little hole accepted—and
perhaps 3 or 4 spilled down

was, perhaps, 3:00 A.M. when we landed
my love started to awake as
the wheels hit the runway

the airport was quite empty
of passengers or, almost, anyone
I wasn't in a great hurry
to tell lovey

mostly, clearly, I remember
us passing the pilot and co-pilot, inside,
after a while, sitting on chairs facing a closed snack bar

such blank looks I've
never seen, before or after;
a crippled fuel gauge pin
almost killed the horses
~~
..Dec. 24,2012..© 2012 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Ram; reaching into
the poet's mind
~~

Thousands of doors are going
To open Today
After a Long Day
Of Sultry Dark
Slowly moving Clouds
But what it is!
As if the speed of the wind more than
A Hurricane

Extreme sound Rocking the Sky,
The Home
And the Expanding
Barren Field,  
Repeatedly being Thunder Around
As far as I can See
Across the Horizon
The Rain has come down
As Cats and Dogs
 
Dim Light in the Room
Hope, despair shaken
Windows Open
Southern waves
Randomize the Poetry Books
Flying Pages,
Never before or after in the

The Scent of the Poetry
In the Air
Sky-word Sentences
I have seen my Reflection
In the Light of the Short
The past Knocking
On the Closed Door
To open the Wide Sky

You have sat down
In the Horizon
That has reminded
The First Love Poem
Where I read
And planted my Dreams
Bringing the garden
Roses,
Marigold,
Sunflowers

Where there the moonlit
Of moonlight has
Crafted the Dreams  
Like an Imagination
As if,
Unclogging Peacock's Feather

But the sudden wind  
Increasing the Velocity
Light has been Extinguished
Yet the Flame Alive
But don't see my Reflection,
In the distant Glass,
In the Poetry,
In the Words

In an Angular way,
Through the Windows
Rain coming into the Limelight
Put away the Poetry
And the Dreams
As the Books of Poetry has Seemed
Like the Stones

But Yet I'm waiting,
For The Next morning
Where the Hope will Come Again
In the Shining Smile of Light

That frolic pronunciation of words
Moving the Tongue in Motion
The Palate has become Smooth
Excess Saliva in the mouth doesn't come
And the melody is made
Without the knowledge of the mind
That is Called the Songs of Heart,
Songs of Freedom
Outburst the Words
Of Love

Find Fascination
Grown the rhythm of life
Where Peacocks unclogging their feathers
The rain drops on the desert
Flowers bloom in hope
Dreams to fly on wings
Seeking Love
There Peacock has found his Peahen

Flowers Spread Fragrances
Music melts into melody,
In words
In Souls
Moving the River into the Sea
And where there is floated
A Fearless
Love Boat
From one end
To the another Horizon
And where we found our lost existence

@Musfiq us shaleheen

Anything doesn't Come
Today all known roads are blank
All have gone away
Have devoured into
An expanding vast spaces

Beside the Southern window
Sun doesn't laugh anymore
Even you haven't sung no more
As the lonely pied crested Cuckoo

Yet, what makes hope of the birds
When they flying away in the sky,
What prompts this metaphor
Don't understand the pen
Don't know the mind
Not hear the time

When getting out of the lost in the dark
As if there is no space
Between known and unknown
Coal is the same as diamonds
But how beautiful thee songs are!
Spreading light in the darkness

Fascinating with its Form
Wondering to touch
To Catch in the dark
Unclogging the thousands wings of imagination
Bringing a bed of roses
Have laid on the grass
Passing the time to gossip
With the hidden Stars
Under the open Sky

At the end of a thousand
Miles away
Whose face popped
Don't Speak
Don't Laugh
How pensive the faded Classic face!

@Musfiq us shaleheen

What is it hereby that I seeith?

Unardent archetypes,
Credited cards to swipe for fast food,
Archaic since long ago!!!!

Aristocratics art thou?
Gormandizing collared frenzies,
A meal plus ten for thine own family?

What about thy neighbor?
The one on thy street?
Doused in fluid, puke, and his own safekeeps,
Not enough for him thou furtive frugal?

Yea,

Tuck thine own pockets back in,
Dont let him see you have all to giveth!!!
Unlargess you!!!

As this old rock spins in circular motion,
To thine loved ones all time and devotions,
Thou giveth not to thine own family,
But to slot machines?

Thou maverick!!!
Thine phene!!!

Agile pabulum Haven's hath become brothels of aspirin taking needed,
Once a day for unclogging!!!!!

Protractingly fateful health oh mortal?

Trying to live to one hundred?
Afraid for thy soul to pass?
What's wrong? No god? No faith at last?

Provident to failure!!!

Virulent art thou,
For thine work thou hath made thine surplus,
Skipping the wife's needs?
For forty hours of volition and lust!!!!

Visionary of demonic audacity!!!

Thy own path is manifest and lamenting,
For art thou not repenting of thy fast lifted paradox??

I'm a cynic to thy trust!!!!

Me;
Before You, I was
Steeping in an invented
Self.
Comfortably
Immersed in
Oblivion.

You;
You looked at me,  
With kind eyes,
Having seen so much
Failure;
Nonetheless eager
To try.
Nonetheless willing
To be the
Extractor of my
Soul;
Unclogging the drains
Plugged with vile
Misconceptions.
Filtering the murky mere,
Instituting
Clearer waters.
Affirming that I had been
A victim of my
Body—
An excess of cells, merely
Bitter
Of their ephemeral
Purpose,
So concealing the
Intellect—
That which was
Truly sacred.

Us;
Philosophers;
Bathing in our own
Blood.
Thinking and feeling—
Basking in
Questions.
All for the sake of
Some redemption.
Claiming an awareness of
The world,
And dismissing the
Futile cycle of
Our mission.
Nonetheless,
We are eager—
Willing
To try.

If writing was easy
I’d drop it in a dime
It’s more than just words
More than emotions and thoughts inside
It’s bleeding out through your pen
Making sense of life line after line
Unclogging what’s eating you alive
Surfacing the feelings that make you forget how to sleep at night
Coping the best way we can our entire lives
An artists curse isn’t forgetting what one wants to write
But making each poem a mask
To make yourself comfortable to eat and sleep over time

Even as an old curmudgeon, aye pucker
and raspily suction, albeit toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
(think feeble attempt
impersonating plumber plunging -
unclogging backed up toilet),
flushed with satisfaction,
now snakes into following non sequitur,
whereby then upperclassman,
whose name Scott Lambert

I suddenly remembered
modest fellow one year my senior  
- donned tee shirt
“please support your local ******”
yes folks back in the day,
one long haired pencil neck geek
palled around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),

and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting
without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said rolling stones
foo fighting beastie boys
allied with Smokey and the bandits,
the latter donning outsize
particolored grey pachyderm trunks,
Tuscaloosa so far away;

especially as Mummer doth strut
on unseasonably warm New Year's Day
sporting polar bear look-alike
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
merrily squeezing Charmin
rubbing her/his tuchus
excellently exhibiting posterior
as chief motormouth sound
of combo motorboat hummer.

Mein kampf elapsed distressfully
even now scores of decades later
ah..., the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
recalling happily never
being beat into pulp daily courtesy
imagine dragons saving me hide  
'though dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully,
nevertheless all the while fully
maintaining consciousness, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully

delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated intimidating injustice
witnessed courtesy mine doppelgänger,
who wanted to strangle  
the m*r f*rs yearningly
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.

Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although
decades long since elapsed,
whereby muscle bound hoodlums
jockeyed to rain
one after another verbal Hawaiian punch,
and bandied fist viz physical blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (shamefacedly, sneakingly,
and stuntedly) didst grow

(as an aside resembled anorexic
Kris Kringle **... **... **...),
which long sleeved Santa suit
rendered invisible liver spots;      
said epidermal splotches black and indigo
wracked (in my pinion), impacted, and affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, but upholds true value
nudging anonymous reader to chuckle
thru contrived written words y'know

good humor less or mo'
yours truly aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
feebly, lamely, and quirkily
(no matter recognizing ex post facto)
impossible mission reporting punks to principal,
hence describing, envisioning, forsaking passivity
as defensive modus operandi status quo
finally freeing mine unsung
inner foreigner juke box hero.

Even as old (dish) married
(spooning) curmudgeon,
who receives social security disability
linkedin with social anxiety)
chose the fork less traveled
aye pucker with sunken cheeks,
(especially without dentures)
and raspily suction toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
attempt impersonating plumber

(think unclogging toilet)
please support your local ******
back in the day one
long haired pencil neck geeks palled
around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),
and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting

without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said beastie boys
bandits, donning particolored pachyderm
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
especially as Mummer
on each New Year's Day
with bare *** tuchus
excellently imitating courtesy said orifice
(as chief motormouth) sound
of combo motorboat hummer.

Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
happily recalling never being
beat into ****** pulp dully
imagining dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully
nonetheless all the while fully
maintaining conscious, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully

delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated injustice
witnessed impossible mission
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.

Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although
decades long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums
jockeyed to rain one after another verbal blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (stuntedly) grow
(as an aside resembled anorexic
Santa Claus **... **... **...)
still wracked, impacted, affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, but upholds valuable humor less or mo'
feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
(no matter ex post facto)
freeing mine unsung hero.

who suffered cuts by a thousand knives.

Even as old (dish) married
(spooning) curmudgeon,
who receives social security disability
linkedin with social anxiety)
chose the fork less traveled
aye pucker with sunken cheeks,
(especially without dentures)
and raspily suction toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
attempt impersonating plumber

(think suctioning and unclogging toilet)
please support your local ******
back in the day one
long haired pencil neck geeks palled
around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),
and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting

without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said beastie boys
bandits, donning particolored pachyderm
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
especially as Mummer
on each New Year's Day
with bare *** tuchus
excellently imitating courtesy said orifice
(as chief motormouth) sound
of combo motorboat hummer.

Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
happily recalling never being
beat into ****** pulp dully
imagining dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully,
nevertheless all the while fully
maintaining conscious, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully

delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated injustice
witnessed impossible mission
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.

Pugnacious thuggish hooligans...
although decades passed
(into the black hole sink
of space/time continuum)
long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums
jockeyed to rain upon the head
of yours truly,
who weathered figurative brickbats
by remaining analogous
to a deaf-mute person

one after another verbal blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (stuntedly) grow
(as an aside resembled anorexic
Santa Claus **... **... **...)
still wracked, impacted, affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, nor the Riddler, but upholds
valuable humor less or mo'

feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
(no matter ex post facto)
freeing mine unsung hero,
and perchance if I threw a judicious punch
(rearranging the face of thugs)
subsequently winning the respect
towards those beastie boys,
who would know better next time,
when they come back to town
than to tangle with the likes of me.