Among pelagian travelers,
Lost on their lewd conceited way
To Massachusetts, Michigan,
Miami or L.A.,

An airborne instrument I sit,
Predestined nightly to fulfill
Columbia-Giesen-Management's
Unfathomable will,

By whose election justified,
I bring my gospel of the Muse
To fundamentalists, to nuns,
to Gentiles and to Jews,

And daily, seven days a week,
Before a local sense has jelled,
From talking-site to talking-site
Am jet-or-prop-propelled.

Though warm my welcome everywhere,
I shift so frequently, so fast,
I cannot now say where I was
The evening before last,

Unless some singular event
Should intervene to save the place,
A truly asinine remark,
A soul-bewitching face,

Or blessed encounter, full of joy,
Unscheduled on the Giesen Plan,
With, here, an addict of Tolkien,
There, a Charles Williams fan.

Since Merit but a dunghill is,
I mount the rostrum unafraid:
Indeed, 'twere damnable to ask
If I am overpaid.

Spirit is willing to repeat
Without a qualm the same old talk,
But Flesh is homesick for our snug
Apartment in New York.

A sulky fifty-six, he finds
A change of mealtime utter hell,
Grown far too crotchety to like
A luxury hotel.

The Bible is a goodly book
I always can peruse with zest,
But really cannot say the same
For Hilton's Be My Guest.

Nor bear with equanimity
The radio in students' cars,
Muzak at breakfast, or--dear God!--
Girl-organists in bars.

Then, worst of all, the anxious thought,
Each time my plane begins to sink
And the No Smoking sign comes on:
What will there be to drink?

Is this ma milieu where I must
How grahamgreeneish! How infra dig!
****** from the bottle in my bag An analeptic swig?

Another morning comes: I see,
Dwindling below me on the plane,
The roofs of one more audience
I shall not see again.

God bless the lot of them, although
I don't remember which was which:
God bless the U.S.A., so large,
So friendly, and so rich.

Another enchanting "Barry Hodges Memory" poem for you all!

O glorious Art Deco edifice, tucked away behind the 'Dilly!
In your near century of hospitality, how many millions of visitors
Must have thronged your rooms, meeting, greeting, eating, sleeping
And (need I specify the obvious?) ******* away the fleeting hours?
How sad it is to think that the dear Regent Palace has fallen victim
To the money-grabbing developers' philistine wrecking *****.

Rumour came to me in the Seventies that the ground floor cocktail bar
Had gained a somewhat , shall we say, *louche reputation,
Being frequented by ladies of the night and part-time gigolos;
And that the hustle and bustle of the reception area meant that
Staff would hardly notice if guests invited a newly made friend upstairs
For some horizontal entertainment, be it on a cash or ex gratia basis.

Several evenings, perhaps after a night at the theatre, I paid a brief visit
To the dimly lit bar, with its sophisticated black pianist tinkling out a tune
In the very best Casablanca tradition, perhaps even crooning a little ditty.
One summer night I recall I dropped in, probably post-prandially
More in hope than serious expectation, ordered an over-priced G&T;
And settled down to assess the odds on some casual leg-over action.

Much to my surprise I was soon joined by a large middle-aged blonde
(to a naive young chappie, any woman over 35 is no spring chicken);
She was Icelandic and big with it in the mammary department,
But not fat I hasten to add, just sturdy, like a splendid Wagnerian Valkyrie;
Yea, I knew she was gagging for it when she confided that, only last week,
She had shared l'amour with a young stranger in the Wienerwald al fresco.

I cannot recall much of our no doubt fascinating intellectual conversation
And I certainly can't remember her name, but I do know I readily acquiesced
To her generous invitation to participate in a glug of her duty free allowance
Within the intimate privacy of her spartan little bedroom on the seventh floor.
Delightfully, to my mild pleasure, our upwards journey in the crowded lift
Enticed her to caress my eager testicles in a heart-warmingly experienced way.

Over a malt whisky and, following an extended exchange of warm saliva,
We ended up stark ******* naked in the rather narrow single bed;
Sadly, my recollections of our coupling have gone the way of all flesh
(but my well-preserved diary for that year notes I gave her the works thrice)
And I do vividly remember wondering what time the Underground started
on Sunday mornings as I was no longer enamoured of her tobacco breath.

Now, dear reader, we come to the ****** of my night of Nordic nookie:
Just as the dawn's early light was filtering through the ill-fitting curtains,
My partner in lust informed me that she desperately needed a squirt
(I fear I omitted to mention that the RPH didn't run to en suite facilities)
And that, rather than struggle down the corridor to the communal bogs,
She intended to void her bloated bladder in the waiting washbasin.

She enjoined me to be a gentleman and to refrain from watching her
As she performed her toilette and I assured her, with a covert smile,
That I would not breach her urinary modesty. Thus I slyly observed her
Waltz over to the window and, with the assistance of a handy little chair,
Hoist her ample buttocks up on the basin and let fly her steaming ****;
O, what a romantic sound it made as it splashed onto the porcelain!

As I lay there, entranced by the sight of my piddling blonde Brünnhilde,
An unexpected sound intruded over the splatter of her seething waters:
O Jesu! Suddenly, in the veritable twinkling of an eye, the basin's supports,
Unequal to the unscheduled weight of the female Goliath squatting thereon,
Gave way and what's-her-name fell to the economically carpeted floor,
Screaming in fear, spread-eagled in ****-drenched shattered chinaware.

To say I was beside myself with mirth would be an understatement but,
Gentlemanly as always, I managed to pass off my gargled giggles
As evidence of gallant concern. As soon as common decency permitted,
I made my excuses and left the disconcerted dear to tidy up a bit.
But I will confess to emitting a huge howl of uncontrolled laughter
As I raced off to the nearest toilet (I too was bursting for a huge slash).

Detective stories have been making a splash on European screens for the past decade. Some attract top-notch directors, actors and script writers. They are far superior to anything that appears over here -- whether on TV or from Hollywood. Part of the impetus has come from the remarkable Italian series Montelbano, the name of a Sicilian commissario in Ragusa (Vigata)who was first featured in the skillfully crafted novellas of Andrea Camilleri.

Italians remain in the forefront of the genre as Montelbano was followed by similar high class productions set in Bologna, Ferrara, Turino, Milano, Palermo and Roma. A few are placed in evocative historical context. The French follow close behind with a rich variety of series ranging from a revived Maigret circa 2004(Bruno Cremer) and Frank Riva (Alain Delon) to the gritty Blood On The Docks (Le Havre) and the refined dramatizations of other Simenon tales. Others have jumped in: Austria, Germany (several) and all the Scandinavians. The former, Anatomy of Evil, offers us a dark yet riveting set of mysteries featuring a taciturn middle-aged police psychiatrist. Germany'sgem, Homicide Unit -- Istanbul, has a cast of talented Turkish Germans who speak German in a vividly portrayed contemporary Istanbul. Shows from the last mentioned region tend to be dreary and the characters uni-dimensional, so will receive short shrift in these comments.

Most striking to an American viewer are the strange mores and customs of the local protagonists compared to their counterparts over here. So are the physical traits as well as the social contexts. Here are a few immediately noteworthy examples. Tattoos and ****** hardware are strangely absent -- even among the bad guys. Green or orange hair is equally out of sight. The former, I guess, are disfiguring. The latter types are too crude for the sophisticated plots. European salons also seem unable to produce that commonplace style of artificial blond hair parted by a conspicuous streak of dark brown roots so favored by news anchors, talk show howlers and other female luminaries. Jeans, of course, are universal -- and usually filled in comely fashion. It's what people do in them (or out of them) that stands out.

First, almost no workout routines -- or animated talk about them. Nautilus? Nordic Track? Yoga pants? From roughly 50 programs, I can recall only one, in fact -- a rather humorous scene in an Istanbul health club that doubles as a drug depot. There is a bit of jogging, just a bit -- none in Italy. The Italians do do some swimming (Montalbano) and are pictured hauling cases of wine up steep cellar stairs with uncanny frequency. Kale appears nowhere on the menu; and vegan or gluten are words unspoken. Speaking of food, almost all of these characters actually sit down to eat lunch, albeit the main protagonist tends to lose an appetite when on the heels of a particularly elusive villain. Oblique references to cholesterol levels occur on but two occasions. Those omnipresent little containers of yoghurt are considered unworthy of camera time.

A few other features of contemporary American life are missing from the dialogue. I cannot recall the word "consultant' being uttered once. In the face of this amazing reality, one can only wonder how ****-kid 21 year old graduates from elite European universities manage to get that first critical foothold on the ladder of financial excess. Something else is lacking in the organizational culture of police departments, high-powered real estate operations, environmental NGOs or law firms: formal evaluations. In those retro environments, it all turns on long-standing personal ties, budgetary appropriations and actual accomplishment -- not graded memo writing skills. Moreover, the abrupt firing of professionals is a surprising rarity. No wonder Europe is lagging so far behind in the league table of billionaires produced annually and on-the-job suicides

Then, there is that staple of all American conversation -- real estate prices. They crop up very rarely -- and then only when retirement is the subject. Admittedly, that is a pretty boring subject for a tense crime drama -- however compelling it is for academics, investors, lawyers and doctors over here. Still, it fits a pattern.

None of the main characters devotes time to soliciting offers from other institutions -- be they universities, elite police units in a different city, insurance companies, banks, or architectural firms. They are peculiarly rooted where they are. In the U.S., professionals are constantly on the look-out for some prospective employer who will make them an attractive offer. That offer is then taken to their current institution along with the demand that it be matched or they'll be packing their bags. Most of the time, it makes little difference if that "offer" is from College Station, Texas or La Jolla, California. That doesn't occur in the programs that I've viewed. No one is driven to abandon colleagues, friends, a comfortable home and favorite restaurants for the hope of upward mobility. What a touching, if archaic way of viewing life.

The pedigree of actors help make all this credible. For example, the classiest female leads are a "Turk" (Idil Uner) who in real life studied voice in Berlin for 17 years and a transplanted Russo-Italian (Natasha Stephanenko) whose father was a nuclear physicist at a secret facility in the Urals. Each has a parallel non-acting career in the arts. It shows.

After viewing the first dozen or so mysteries of diverse nationality, an American viewer begins to feel an unease creeping up on him. Something is amiss; something awry; something missing. Where are those little bottles of natural water that are ubiquitous in the U.S? The ones with the ****** tip. Meetings of all sorts are held without their comforting presence. Receptionists -- glamorous or unglamorous alike -- make do without them. Heat tormented Sicilians seem immune to the temptation. Cyclists don't stick them in handlebar holders. Even stray teenagers and university students are lacking their company. Uneasiness gives way to a sensation of dread. For European civilization looks to be on the brink of extinction due to mass dehydration.

That's a pity. Any society where cityscapes are not cluttered with SUVs deserves to survive as a reserve of sanity on that score at least. It also allows for car chases through the crooked, cobbled streets of old towns unobstructed by herds of Yukons and Outbacks on the prowl for a double parking space. Bonus: Montelbano's unwashed Fiat has been missing a right front hubcap for 4 years (just like my car). To meet Hollywood standards for car chases he'd have to borrow Ingrid's red Maserati.

Social ******* reveals a number of even more bizarre phenomena. In conversation, above all. Volume is several decibels below what it is on American TV shows and in our society. It is not necessary to grab the remote to drop sound levels down into the 20s in order to avoid irreparable hearing damage. Nor is one afflicted by those piercing, high-pitched voices that can cut through 3 inches of solid steel. All manner of intelligible conversations are held in restaurants, cafes and other public places. Most incomprehensible are the moments of silence. Some last for up to a minute while the mind contemplates an intellectual puzzle or complex emotions. Such extreme behavior does crop up occasionally in shows or films over here -- but invariably followed by a diagnosis of concealed autism which provides the dramatic theme for the rest of the episode.

Tragedy is more common, and takes more subtle forms in these European dramatizations. Certainly, America has long since departed from the standard formula of happy endings. Over there, tragic endings are not only varied -- they include forms of tragedy that do not end in death or violence. The Sicilian series stands out in this respect.

As to violence, there is a fair amount as only could be expected in detective series. Not everyone can be killed decorously by slow arsenic poisoning. So there is some blood and gore. But there is no visual lingering on either the acts themselves or their grisly aftermaths. People bleed -- but without geysers of blood or minutes fixed on its portentous dripping. Violence is part of life -- not to be denied, not to be magnified as an object of occult fascination. The same with ****** abuse and *******.

Finally, it surprises an American to see how little the Europeans portrayed in these stories care about us. We tend to assume that the entire world is obsessed by the United States. True, our pop culture is everywhere. Relatives from 'over there' do make an occasional appearance -- especially in Italian shows. However, unlike their leaders who give the impression that they can't take an unscheduled leak without first checking with the White House or National Security Council in Washington, these characters manage quite nicely to handle their lives in their own way on their own terms.

Anyone who lives on the Continent or spends a lot of time there off the tourist circuit knows all this. The image presented by TV dramas may have the effect of exaggerating the differences with the U.S. That is not their intention, though. Moreover, isn't the purpose of art to force us to see things that otherwise may not be obvious?Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

<Sun May 14 5:00 AM PST>

Let us be smart about this departure,
time unscheduled, yet leaving inevitable,
the sound of fabric torn, a rent performed,
a ripping, a release of the gripping, connecting
tissue of weft and weave tying parent and child

(All of us poets, all of us comprehend,
there are two points, two buttonholes
that offer escape or farewell, when we
commence on something new, when we
pen our chest’s demands to exhale, cease the hammering

Perhaps, here, just after the third stanza,
the brick enormity of our selected task, on chest,
weighs heavy, boulder difficulties ahead, now fastened
and faster and faster realized, begs us, quit this essay,
return to placid, from an arrhythmia of imploding loss)

So many fabrics, so many tears, wet and dried,
but upon commencement, the only finish line,
is another commencement, when the (mine-own) rendering
is finalized, beyond repair, when guilt gulfs overflows, flooding
plains of forever pain officiated by signed scar, “here was”

So many separations, varied and variegated,
surficial shallow surgical  or plunges, widths of trickle,
depths of deadly plunges, records of inches, dates,
names, new heights inscribed, measured on a door jamb,
lost, erased, when child’s door closes permanently

Came today to the West, to Pacific Ocean entrance,
to celebrate a good boy’s ritualized threshold crossing
over into manhood, both symbolic and and realized,
but tear-up seeing the small child-man leaning in and on
his father’s larger frame, a coinciding giving & taking

no bonds are eternal, for such is life, the weft must be
warped, sundered and separated, so many reasons,
experience speaks, scars are like bandages,protecting
but deceiving, what they cover can never be excised,
a space created, that only oxygen can touch both sides

but never, ever be reperfected, mended,…or finalized

2023
San Francisco

I look at myself
and once again
I have that feeling.

That stone in your heart,
that heartless stone
that is me.

Raw feelings go here
unscheduled
no words to describe them,
just feeling.

I could say that I'm down
In this English language of yours
But no, that's not it.

You may argue it's depression,
and yeah, my psychiatrist would agree,
but that's not it either.

Maybe it's dysphoria kicking in once more,
certaintly I feel its awful hand greeping me again,
but that's not it.

What may it be,
this ugly feeling I puke to the poem.
I don't know.

But I want it to stop

They had not seen each other in fifty years.
In between, a world war and a concentration camp.

Then my pop,
Erwin of the Homburg hat clan,
Went for the first time to the land of Israel,
From the safety of the United States.

A side trip, an unscheduled tour visit-stop,
A private memory to re-collect,
To a special hospital,
Where the survivors who did not really survive,
Live in tender care until there are no more.

A childhood friend to see, a dust to be disturbed.

In comes a man, now an American, a family man,
But with a European goatee, un-accented English,
Yet a boy, a young man from the Hamburg clan,
When last seen in the 1920's.

A voice calls out happy,
A miracle I call it.

Meine kleine Ervin!

My little Erwin!

What can I say other than
I weep as I write.

for the part-time writers, who write in deeds untill indeed

the mundane Mondays till the fully fried Fridays,
the too short beginning weekends when
you celebrate your lottery winnings,
mega millions of

chores

wheeeeeee

these some,
poet poem poetry, latter-day saints
yet to be arrived-arresting,
good lord,
writing time -
a time slot that doesn’t
appear on your unscheduled
cellphone
calendar

so this what needs remembering, us,

these days are the
storage days

the professionals screen stare, self obligatory
demanding the page output,
the disciplined work ethic,
self torture this work,
that they would pay to do

these some
access accessible accessories in actual time
when
a time clock is punching them back,
time immediacy, a mistress,
needing a wife’s daily attention

the rest of us accumulators,
hoarder-recallers; off-site monthly
storage unit renters for old reusable furniture memories

until the dissembling assembly of the pieces,
with the arrival of the year of the hour of the day
is an urgency spilling
and the consumption urge
eats you alive from inside out,
your patience is rewarded

no screen slave you,
just a spigot turned twice
and over flowing winks bring/ring
the-no-longer-stowed stored eye pics,
poems for a someday

and the waiting was worth the waiting price

some people
us, juggle jiggly *****,
tend to drop them all...
till we don’t...

I no longer have a mission,
A patient without a condition;
My objective has been cancelled;
A river whose waters have been quelled;
I'm a traveler without a map,
An MC at the mike without a rap,
An engineer without a blueprint;
A runner who cannot sprint;
But at least I'm a picketer with persistence,
Living through others my existence;
I am here listlessly awaiting,
Her arrival time obliterating;
But she just left not hours ago,
So what I'll do I don't know;
Sift through tasks unscheduled,
Tend my garden find weeds un-pulled;
Take out the trash, wash the dishes,
Play magic eight ball and make a list of wishes;
Without her I run circles round and round,
A puppy without a collar tag waiting at the pound;
Till she comes again; leash in hand,
To lead me; like a lost sailor to land...
© okpoet

You have mislaid your keys, but that’s okay
I can help you find them, as you found me
Among the wreckage of my scheduled days
Unscheduled nights and, yes, unscheduled dreams

I like the way you lose your keys, the way
You stir your coffee counter-clockwise
And fiddle with the sweetener ‘til it’s right
And take a sip, and love me with your eyes

You have mislaid your keys, but that’s okay -
Before there was you, I had mislaid my life

This incident happened more than five years ago
It was a Tuesday
And I'd gone to office as usual
Which involved a long commute
From Powai to Lower Parel
By the famous Mumbai locals
A typically exhausting commute
Made worse by the fact that it was the month of August
And therefore I had to deal with the rains as well
Something seemed to be off
As far as that particular day was concerned
Quite a few of my candidates
Were not responding to my calls
And what was worse
Was the fact that it was raining cats and dogs
In fact, my boss, who was on the way to office
Got stuck somewhere in between
And ultimately gave up the ghost
Deciding to work from home instead!!
He also instructed me and my colleague to leave office
As soon as we were done with all our critical work
Since we both had brought our lunch
We decided to leave after eating
However, our troubles for the day
Were just about to begin
It was raining heavier than ever
Just as we left office
Accompanied by an acquaintance
Trains were not running on the Western line
Thus, we were forced to walk all the way to Currey Road
Instead of Lower Parel, which was much nearer
Meanwhile, my colleague, who was residing in Girgaum
Decided to take a taxi home
While our acquaintance gave me company
Since his home was near Sion
Which falls on the Central line
And is on the way to Vikhroli
Where I was supposed to get down
However, just as we entered Currey Road station
The enormity of the situation
Struck us with the force of a bullet
There was a sea of people
And a rope was placed in the middle of the platform
In order to control the crowd
On the left side of the platform, there was a local
Which was apparently stuck there for quite some time
And on the right, the track was heavily waterlogged
All these were ominous signs
That something was seriously wrong
Well, we boarded the local
And were lucky to get seats
It was a silver lining
In the darkness that was about to follow
The train was in no hurry to depart
Whenever I heard the sound of its motors
My heart would leap with a mixture of joy and relief
Since it seemed to indicate that we would start soon
However, it didn't take me long to realise
That all my hopes had been dashed
The fact was that the motors had to be switched on and off
Every now and then
Just in order to keep the engine running
In the middle of all the chaos caused by the rains
Yes, the situation was so chaotic
That a few reporters had a field day
Meanwhile, I checked in on my colleague
And his feeble voice told its own story
He had to walk all the way
From Mumbai Central, where the taxi was forced to drop him
Till his home in Girgaum!!
Moreover, our acquaintance invited me to walk with him till Sion
So that we could have an adventure!!
However, I was in absolutely no mood for such stuff
As all I wanted, was to reach home in one piece
No matter how long it took
However, the hours slowly tricked by
And the local showed absolutely no signs of moving
Again though, there was a silver lining
In the middle of all this darkness
A Marathi NGO magnificently rose to the occasion
And started distributing packets of food to the stranded passengers
It was truly like a godsend
And helped me keep my wits about
As afternoon turned to evening
And evening to night
While the water on the right side track
Was rising higher and higher
And it soon dawned on me
That the unthinkable was about to happen
That is, I had no choice
But to spend the night at Currey Road station!!!
Yes, it was an unpleasant situation indeed
But I decided to face it anyway
Since the station was a safe place after all
And as we all know
One is always safer in a crowd
Of course, sleeping wasn't going to be an easy task
I tried various positions
Each more uncomfortable than the other
Before finally dropping off to sleep
More out of sheer exhaustion than anything else
When I eventually woke up
Things were slowly limping back to normal
Trains had started moving in the opposite direction
Eventually we departed as well
Though at a snail's pace
And had a few unscheduled stops on the way
When we reached Sion, there came the next twist in the tale
We were stuck for one and a half hours
And I began to fear
That history would repeat itself
However, God was merciful enough
To ensure that it didn't happen
In fact, after we crossed Kurla
We resumed our usual pace
And reached Vikhroli in almost no time
I was home by around 11 am
And was greeted by my family
Who were thoroughly relieved
And also full of praise
Since I had maintained my cool
In such a difficult and unforeseen situation
Ultimately, it had turned out to be an adventure worth reliving
Even if not the kind of adventure
That the acquaintance had embarked upon
And wanted me to be part of

Flying kites in a spring breeze
Practicing until you can hit the ball with ease
Whole team shows up for an unscheduled practice
No memory will ever top this
Playing in the mud after a summers rain
Running from a bully that is so vain
Chasing after boys to give ‘em a kiss
No memory will ever top this
Graduations here and graduations gone
No one will remember our graduation song
But you know what I’ll miss?
A memory to top this

He undressed you with his eyes long before he planted that greatly anticipated kiss on your mouth.
Taking you by surprise as suddenly his lips fell heavy upon yours.
The aroma of consumed alcohol sweet on his breathe as you tasted each other for the first time.
Afterwards he laughed because you were a good kisser, and seemingly all those wasted kisses were the unscheduled target practice for the moment in front of you.
You toyed with his attention, finding it refreshing after barren winters with less feeling than that of frostbite.
His eyes consumed your view, unable to quite place the color. You just started uninhibited into his vision galaxy.
"You're eyes are beautiful", erupted from his lips like a geyser, nestling deep into the crevices of your soul and finding a home among the dust and cobwebs.
His words on replay like the playlist you comprised of the songs that he showed you.
Your subconscious ushering threats of caution, beware that of beauty.
The laughter shared was infectious and for the first time you felt whole, but not because a pretty eyed boy was attracted to you.
Sharing close quarters with a similar soul.
Those eyes burned a hole into the back of your mind, written in stone until they're chosen to be forgotten.
Replaying the events of that night, to as not forget.
Dance with the devil, because he's disguised as a beautiful boy with greyish blue eyes.

peter hated the house on mckinley street
in his eight-year-old brain it was a hot mess

since his parents moved there
all he heard were complaints and yelling

his mother was always moaning about the small rooms,
the lousy closet space, the faulty plumbing, the leaky roof

and the mice

they were everywhere - in closets, in pantries, in drawers,
behind the heater, under the radiators

they were in nooks and crannies, behind the refrigerator,
in the laundry room, even in the crawl space

they were almost always in hiding, rarely seen in daytime
except when they were found dead in a trap - also a rarity

traps were set methodically, enticing hors d'oeuvres were created
laced with cheese and peanut butter but still nothing worked

his mother would religiously check the traps every morning
and every time she'd mutter "those little ******* *******!"

the sly moves of mice to avoid the guillotine snap of a mousetrap
as they nibbled around a flap of cheese amazed everyone

besides traps his parents bought sticky cheese pads where the
tiny monsters would get their heads and bodies stuck permanently

one time peter observed a black mouse lying - and dying - on
a cheese pad...he pushed a second pad over its face

"i suffocated the little ****!" he exclaimed and when he told
his parents they bought him a gift card from the lego store

but every now and then one of the lilliputian invaders would
make a live unscheduled appearance

one october when the nights began to get colder his mother saw
a gray mouse climb up a cord leading to the microwave

she almost had a heart attack right there on the spot and there
was the time his father was looking in the refrigerator and

heard a strange scratchy noise behind him - he sensed
a sudden descent; a baby mouse had scurried off a shelf and

fell into a small trash can so his father immediately picked
up the can and hurled it out the back door

ultimately the parents decided to move to a swanky apartment
house and the night before peter had his last "mouse dream"

it featured a giant white mouse's head that was the size of
a billboard so big so menacing it scared him awake

finally he fell back into a gentle state of dreamless slumber...
and when he woke up his parents were taking down pictures

he looked out his window and saw a moving van pull up and
for the first time in a long time he was happy

Art is subject to inspection (unscheduled)
Started out suspects whose inventions we let alope
Messages sent out of love that we let go
Readers unknown still we feel like we met though
Raw and unbeautiful
Scars we don't let show
Scarfs with no winds blown
Broken Hope's forgotten dreams
Her father's daughter mother's mean
Seldom on purpose unpurposely
Stolen she knows not the poet is me
Told how awful I am;
Though, it's easy to see
it's awful are we
Yeah, how awful are we?

This is an age old story
it could be a country song.
Some may find it enchanting
while others say it’s wrong.

I like home automation
and the feeling of control
the response to simple voice
commands seems to satisfy my soul.

I got into it slowly
but it soon got out of hand
when on a cold black-Friday
I bought an automated man.

His physique wasn’t all that defined
and I wouldn’t have called him handsome
but soon I was trolling the aftermarket
for jail-broken enhancements.

He can’t take his eyes off me,
his omelettes are the best,
and when he puts his arms around me
- he never needs to rest.

My mom appreciates him,
his work ethic has her impressed.
She has no idea how handy he is
as he helps me get undressed.

My friends say, “Wow, you look HAPPY!”
I feel I’m blooming like a flower.
I anxiously wait for him to fully charge
and we have unscheduled hours.

Love doesn't need a match
It only needs lust
I was caught in my own web
I knew this all along
You lied
I couldn't decide wether
To be naive again
Accept your unscheduled excuse
Fold it into truth
And leave it
Lying in the sun

Hahahahaha
"Why so serious" darling
You look a little scared
Caught in the midst of this
Web of lies you've spun
You don't weave tight enough
Because I found a hole
Yeah hunny, you're crazy
But I'm far crazier
You look ready to **** yourself
Did you not want her to know?
Well darling
I've got friends in dark places
And I'm the ringmaster of that ******* circus
You've got ***** I must admit
But perhaps it's time for an
Unscheduled castration
That ***** beer in your hand
Couldn't have done anything to lead to this
Unless since we met
Your tolerance has drastically dropped
I see your white flag waving
You ****** with the wrong pair
I see that fear in your eyes and I couldn't
Care less than I do right now
So darling
My old friend
Gone rogue
Smile for the camera, *****

sitting behind this white dodge caravan.
between the rain and the burst of the red stop light in front of me,
a reminder of an unscheduled opthalmologist appointment,
I can't see a thing.
I wonder what the driver would think if I pulled my car in front of him,
swerving over from the turn lane,
and speeding through the intersection.
would they curse at the rainwater I sent splashing on to their car?
the liquid connecting with a crash so loud they might flinch.
and when they heard my engine rev,
six cylinders,
0-60 just like that,
would they think me a drunk?
a fool?
an impatient, reckless, mess of a driver?
and would they be wrong, regardless?
but tonight it feels like I've never been more sober,
aware in away that makes my skin itch.
maybe it's the weather, I might wonder, knowing it isn't.
and when the light finally turns green,
after what might've been an eternity or just a few seconds,
and they drive past the scene of the accident,
would they think
"she deserved it".

When you get your wings
don't be proud or the angels
toss you off the cloud
                                       Kelly McManus

Derailed again through twisted train of thought,
brings me to my knees,crippled through racing mind self shame to myself I've brought.
Faster faster it races on with non logical ideas to cause pain.
My head brings dark clouds fog thunderstorms with rain.
A tsunami like a virus it's spread, infected my very wake.
So I climbed off this faster carriage to try to give myself a break.
Numbing all takes every ounce of strength,
yearning within my very soul ill goes to any length.
Paralyzed with fear of family alone, if I suceed with ending it all.
Dead inside now a numbed feeling to help me cope, I feel sick.
These cold railway tracks rusted damp and twisted lay up ahead confront me.
I no i have to board again soon as this was an unscheduled stop,
no waiting platform for me to be welcomed  by a loved one.
Alone I fight it, legs heavy, each step forward weighed down by quicksand .
I have to rise, the world is spinning,
spoken words from others jumbled.
Unable to concentrate enough to speak words to form sentances not jumbled.

Again I board the train it gains speed,
the outlook from the window a haze of green as trees and field zoom past at lightening speed.
I close my eyes ,I can hear the rattling of carriages, the wheels grinding along the track.
clackaty clack clackaty clack.
So I sit back slumped in the corner of the carriage.
I visualise my life flash before my closed eyes within my mind.

It makes sense now, I need to filter the good the bad the ugly from my subconscious.
Clear my mind wipe it blank.start again.
Trapped within the comfort of this carriage I now relax almost feel safe.I've let go.
My destination is uncertain but I will not quit.
This steel coffin upon wheels that I once perceived to be the end slows,
cla ckty c l a c k cal ckty c l a c k.
it stops I disembark.

It's then I realize I am the driver of my own train of thought. me.
Me in the driving seat alone.me.
I can control it.me
I will do it me.
My life a new platform awaits me.
I hope it is all the positives I percieve it to be.
I can do this.me.
I am now free.

Hobo on the rail
stogies and fortified wine
his only lifeline

                 Kelly McManus

When a class is boring, the air can feel close and rebreathed - not a comfortable feeling for a COVID child. When the class is finally over, it’s like you’ve escaped something.

Did you know an hour has 60 minutes because ancient Babylonians used a seximal system? (base six).

The class I was in was small, just eight of us around a table in a small room (four students were missing that day) and somehow the class had wandered into the unstable, waring, state of the world.

The professor ended his unscheduled thought, on the result of nuclear war, by saying, “After the nuclear exchanges, when cockroaches take over..”

“No,” I interrupted - it was a flashbulb moment - an impulse. I don’t usually interrupt professors, “Ants. Ants would take over - they’re mobile super-organisms, cockroaches are just meat to them.”

His smile and nod of approval felt warm and cozy, as if my emotions had a texture and temperature - but I knew it was something assigned to me briefly, like a motel room.

Nuclear survival isn’t exactly my bailiwick, I’m not sure where I picked that thought up or why I had the confidence to offer it. Confidence is a thin lever to work with when talking to a professor. I’ve seen professors crush brash students.

The bell rang, I had survived, and Leong was waiting for me in the hall. The crowd in the hall was moving on toward their classes, like water splashing in every direction. Leong barked a laugh. “What?” I asked.

“Neh,” she said, waving her hand (meaning forget it).
“What?” I asked again.
“When I was little, I would visit my grandparents' farm, in Shandong (province, China). They would call their cows in with a bell,” she said, motioning, with both hands to include the crowded hall.
“We’re the most privileged cows in the universe,” she suggested smilingly.
“I suppose we are,” I agreed, as we passed out into a wind as cold and harsh as witches' breath.

Like time
And the surety
Of the ocean tides,
The solar heat
Fades to evening’s
Chilly air,
And the approaching
Night’s early dusk
Signifies the arrival
Of autumn months,
Noted by
Changeable skies
Of sun and rain,
From blue to grey
Then blue again,
Shadows cast long
As if leading the way.

The sea lies mill pond still
Reflecting like tinted glass,
The lull before
The inevitable storm.
In this, a coastal town,
The sea will crash
And hooligans dash
Hurling skiffs
From sea to dry land,
Disturbing
Moveable sands,
Carrying it
To winter retreats.
Dredged and churned,
The rattled seabed
Throws up plankton and urchin
On which fish will be fed.

Tomorrow the storm will subside,
Another day shall pass
Bringing unscheduled
Hues and shades,
Calm ocean
To crashing waves;
As daylight fades
And the line where sea meets sky
Becomes once again vague,
Painting hazy orange to red
To lilac reflections,
Seeping forward
From the new horizon.
Giving way to the song of gulls
The dying sound of windy squalls,
But, now, twilight blankets all around
In October tones as the dark night falls.

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017

Saving Me From Myself

I pray for this, I pray for that
And wonder why I never get
Or haven’t got
The goals I set.
Suddenly in one great burst
One leap,
Gone is the thirst
And I feel cheap,
See the task before my eyes -
It’s just to bask, not analyze.

I’m getting everything I need,
The rest irrelevant indeed,
And full of greed and ignorance,
Requests of inborn arrogance,
Destructive if un-timed.

Instead I should be thanking It
For waiting until I’ve been primed
For It, and saving me
From everything
Unscheduled my self.

Saving Me From Myself 5.14.2000 Pure Nakedness; To The Child Mystic; Arlene Corwin

Do you remember the night of September?
How I ran desperately through the garden?
It's dark and wait anymore,
And I fled, sensing freedom.

I saw bonfires burning in the distance.
I heard birds singing in the trees.
To stay? Wait? Turn to river?
To listen? Stop again?

Trample those who slowly fled, flew.
Shuffle and rake in an armful.
They will arrange an unscheduled execution.
They will remain on the empty sneakers.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                   Can Internet Service Providers be Saved?

                      Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.

                                     -Leonard Cohen

Multiple Voices from an ISP:

Our order support team reported back…
you had 2 work orders. Your work order with us
has been cancelled and the email you forwarded
to me is the installation group you will need
to contact about scheduling. Sorry…We have received
this work order that was already scheduled for 5/8
morning. There are no notes from any dispatcher
speaking to you and changing the appointment
date/time. Below are the notes on the account
and no appointment changes have been made.
Called to t/s modem; modem is offline…
t/s modem is offline…Upgrade for
the Unlimited Bronze 12…set expectations…
I do not know who this sales group is. They
do state you are scheduled for 5/4 but the work
order they sent to the 3rd party installer
shows your [sic] scheduled for 5/8. We do not
have techs in your area tomorrow…I have sent
your account to the order support team…Your appointment
scheduled [sic] has been updated…Changes have been made
to your ViaSat account.

API INSERT (Note) 04/30/2021 11:01:56 AM CDT BEP scheduling work order during creation. API UPDATE (Schedule Date) 04/30/2021 11:01:56 CDT Unscheduled Unassigned API INSERT (Note) 04/30/2021 11:01:53 AM CDT

Installation notes…Our records indicate…
We need to confirm your appointment…Your appointment
schedule has been updated…as your preferred date
could not be accommodated. We sincerely apologize…
We have been trying to reach you with the number you provided…
We have received your work order and would like to confirm…
Sorry, we were unable to deliver your message
to the following address…Your Viasat Internet
payment failed…Payment has not been received…
If you do not make a full payment soon…
relaying denied…To avoid interruption
of your Viasat service…You may also call us…
agent assist fees may apply…

Thanks for being a Viasat internet customer!

Sometimes it is good
to meet unknown persons
They don't have
prejudices n unsaid reasons
Whether it is a bus terminal
o r a hotel cubical
there will always be natural feelings
New scene and depth in eyes
New dimensions to imaginary dreams
New energy to slow beating hearts
New thoughts to drudgery minds
May be it does not result in love
but certainly prepares land for love
When it passes so long lonely
go for an unscheduled meet
with someone unknown and
realise a fresh air to breathe
this will give a moment of ease.

Uu

(a Senryu string poem)

High school girls are just
thoughtless and vague - too ****
dumb to be afraid.

Trusting too quickly
- believing things that are said
- unaware of risk.

Small and powerless,
chickens cooped from feral foxes
- peaches for picking.

So accompany
me on walks, to the store and
guard me like a penny.

Look - we're women
- junior grade - and conscious
of dark potential.

Breasted Americans
face a dark rainbow of threats
- we are mortal.

But ANY of us can
encounter unscheduled evil
like nightmares from hell.

Yes, that means you rough
tough males who glide through life as
if untouchable.

As I sit in a metal tube,
the car is crammed and loud.
now and then a surprise delay.

during those periods of waiting
at the unscheduled stop
I am led to wonder if there is a purpose

perhaps this suffering is for a reason
to bring to the commuters some reward
a lesson about life an understanding of truth?

it is probably not Christian
for neither deeds nor faith
can save me now.

but once I accept the suffering
I start to see a glimmer of reason
if all life is suffering

I begin to realize the answer
is already inside me.
it is my selfish craving for a quick trip!

And so I sit in my seat.
having transcended my problem
by realizing that is the solution.

Debt laden
I turn the ashes
where you left the footmarks.

My native pain
will not go, for a distant truth.

Unscheduled
like a robot,
you **** your own, noiselessly, and then
think with your guts.

Achingly you admit
the alien for a lipless kiss,
struggling to hold back your tears.

A star breaks, in green dark,
without throwing light.
I beg the sky to give back my baby.

Forgive me,
O unforgettable, I never
understood myself.