Fifteen years old and thinking I was older.
'Assistant Maintenance Man' at a Public School
Summer Camp. Billy Deitz had just graduated
High School, I thought him the coolest guy
I knew. The first week was ended, the little
kids gone home, a new batch in two days time.

We did our work, cleaned and swept, sweated
in the summer sun. Took the old surplus Jeep
over to the creek and plunged ourselves in.
Deitz had some beer in an Ice chest, I drank
one, my first ever. We shot his .22 for a while
and ate PBJs in the shade. Then we heard it.

A train horn in the mountains is a haunting
call. It does not seem to belong there among
evergreen trees and massive granite boulders.
We drove the hell out of the Jeep and found
our way to the down grade tracks. And there
she was maybe 50 cars long, snaking her way
from the summit of the Sierras out of California
into Nevada. Through the Pass over a hairpin
filled course hugging the skirts of the rock face
mountains, slowly rolling her massive load
pushing her four engines, breaks a screeching
in protest. "Click Clack, Click Clack", her steel
wheels clanging upon the rails, a rhythm like
her train heart beating.

Deitz grabbed his coat and tied it round his waist,
looped a canteen over his head, "Lets go kid!"
I did what he said, and then we were running
along beside the box cars, more a trot than a run,
"Do what I do!" Deitz yelled over his shoulder.
A flat car with some machinery approached and
He grabbed on to it and pulled himself aboard,
I copied his moves and he helped pull me up
and then there we stood on the deck of that
moving, mountain ship, with her grunting and
shaking under our feet. We could feel all her
massive weight and power vibrating up through
that wooden plank deck of the flat bed car,
entering our legs and spines. . . It was thrilling!

I had not had time to think all this through,
"Now what?" I asked some what perplexed
"Reno Kid." Deitz yelled with a grin.  

We climbed atop a Box Car, our rail bound
ship crawled out of the upper pass and we
started to descend towards Donner Lake far
below.

Looking behind and ahead it was hard to
understand how they had cut those tracks
out of solid granite rock and how the rails
maintained their frail finger tip grip on the
sheer mountain side.

We ducked nearly flat going through the snow
tunnels, the clearance was tight and it seemed
that a guy could lose his head. The diesel thick
air made us cover mouth and nose with our shirts.
Two tunnels in we noticed our faces getting
smoke blackened. We laughed at the joke.
Soot faced on a boxcar in a tunnel of wood.
Two city kids playing Hobo.

We reached the lower valley, passed the place
where the Donner Party met their grisly end.

Truckee was next and the highway grew close.
We got back down onto the flat car, hunkered
down by machine cargo, more or less out of sight.

I thought of all the down on their luck men that
had ridden those rails, not on a some lark. That
whole Grapes Of Wrath, Woody Guthrie period
of no joke, for real ****. Pushed by poverty and hope.

I must admit at that moment, I felt more alive than
at any other time in my life. I felt grown up, like a man.
Until my belly began to rumble, the speed increased
and the wind began to chill. The Click Clacks of the
wheels quickened and grew irritatingly redundant.
The loud wailing of the engine horn no longer exciting.
Now only hurt my ears.

It was dark by the time we hit Reno, we jumped off
before the train yard. Walked into town with its
bright lights calling the casino gamers to unholy service
and nightly prayer. Proceeded over by hard-bitten
dealers in communal black, with cigarettes dangling
from their unsmiling lips, possessing the empty
dead eyes of the badly used up and down-trodden.
Through the ***** windows, the people there seemed
to possess no joy in their sluggish endeavors.
Both players and dealers all losers, merely Automatons
of those despairing games of chance.

Reno was still rough-hewn in those days, a hard
scrabble place full of cigarette smoke, ******,
card tables, slot machines and not much else.
It seemed to reek of lonely desperation.

Having seen our soot ***** faces in the
window reflection, we washed up in the
cold river that runs through town.

We walked around, ate hot dogs,
Downed a Doctor Pepper.
"Now what Deitz?"
"**** I don't know kid,
first time I ever did anything like this."

"What?" My world collapsed right then,
I thought he was much more than
he turned out to be. Maybe everyone is.
I even started to get a little scared.
No money, no place to stay and apparently,
like most of the denizens there, **** out ah'
luck. I'd never felt that way before, from
mountain high to valley low in two hours.
All that excitement turned to Dread.

We hitched a ride with a long haired
guy of questionable gender, who kept
staring at me in the rearview mirror.
West, to a Truck Stop on the edge of town.
Found a trucker willing to give us a lift
back up to the summit.  Jumped in his rig
happy to find, that his cab heater worked.

Badly judged our get out spot, searched
and stumbled around in the shadowy dark,
dim moonlight looking for that **** jeep,
all that friggin' night.

When the guy that ran the camp returned
and found us sleeping at half past two,
in the afternoon in our tent, to say the least,
He was not amused.

Need I say, I felt much older that next day
and a little wiser too.

I knocked the black
door knocker
on Janice's nan's door
and her nan answered

and said
o hello Benedict
Janice can't come out
she let the canary out

and we had
a hell of  a job
getting it back
in the cage again

so I'm keeping her in
I was going
to tan her backside
but I thought

keeping her in
was more
of a punishment
on a day like this

o right
I said
looking at Nan's eyes
and her greying hair

and unsmiling face
but you can come in
and see her
for a few minutes

shame that you
have to be
without her though
so she walked

back up the passage
and into the sitting room
where Janice
was sitting on a settee

looking disgruntled
it's Benedict
come to see you
he is only staying

for a few minutes
so don't think
you can go out
because you can't

Janice nodded
and looked tearful
and her nan walked off
into the kitchen

I didn't mean
to let the bird out
I just opened
the cage door

to get it to stand
on my finger
but it flew out
and it to ages

to catch it again
and Nan was so angry
that she was
on the border

of giving a smacking
but then she thought
keeping me in
was more

of a punishment
so here I am
on a lovely warm day
sorry about that

I said
where are you going?
she asked
I was going to Jail Park

on the swings and slide
I said  
I see
she said

looking at me sadly
what have you got
in the bag?
I opened the bag

it's that Robin Hood book
I bought it
in that junk shop
on the New Kent Road

she held it
and opened it up
and looked
at the words

and  pictures
maybe next time
I can be
your Maid Marian

to your Robin Hood
she said
yes
I said

looking
at the canary
in its cage
that'd be good.

Desire and
All the sweet pulsing aches
And gentle hurtings
That were you,
Are gone into the sullen dark.
Now in the night you come unsmiling
To lie with me
A dull, cold, rigid bayonet
On my hot-swollen, throbbing soul.

By Stephen E. Yocum

In 1974, from out of Kabul,
The bouncing open back of
An old flat bed truck,
Eating dust and Diesel fumes,
Two alone we journeyed.

A round the world exploration
Of adventure and discovery.
Of lands and cultures,
people never before encountered.
Naive Ecotourists, before there
Was such a thing, called by a silly name.

The land there about, dry and dusty,
Sparse vegetations, Inhospitable to all,
Featureless and drab beyond comprehension.
Harsh lands breed harsh unforgiving people,
Matching their dire extreme surroundings.
This being one of those places.

I was on an adventure,
More so than she with me,
A rocky marriage at best,
Stressed further by months of travel.
I seeking the raw, the real,
She wanting first class comforts,
Like the “Good Life as seen on TV”.
A rough open flatbed truck, eating dust,
Not even close to fitting that description.

We were going to a small distant town,
Where I might see a game as old,
As that culture, of those Afghan plains,
A game, no truly more of a passion,
A long held national obsession,
Not so much played,
As combated, a war on horseback,
Brutal, ****** and thrilling.

Under noonday sun, yet chill of weather,
An hour out, four mounted horsemen
Appeared over a low hillock horizon,
Their horses in gallop, snorting, prancing,
High stepping, bounding, on a mission,
Kicking up a cloud of yellow/red dust,
The riders making straight for us.

These were the days before the AK-47,
Before the Russian invasion of ‘97.
The tribal Afghan men back then toted old,
Long Barreled, flint lock looking weapons
Often adorned with ribbon or paint,
Looking at first glance merely ornamental,
Not quite dismissing their lethal intent.

I had seen a sheep shot by one of
These old rifles, the entry spot was
The size of an American Half Dollar,
The exit hole the size of a tennis ball exploded.

As they approached, at my direction,
She withdrew further back towards the
Cab of the truck, beside a wooden crate.
I still sat, legs dangling over the tailgate,
One hand holding onto the wood slatted
Vertical, side rail of the bed.
The other hand on the hilt of my 8 inch Buck Knife.
That given the impending situation, would have
Done me as much good as my ******* into the face,
Of a very strong hurricane wind,
Doing me and us more harm than good.
All the while, still watching the horsemen,
As they rapidly approached ever closer.

Ignoring our dust, they reined in less than
Fifteen feet from our rear bumper,
(If there had indeed been a bumper.)
Horses wild eyes rolling, saliva snorting
From their mouths and nostrils,
Lather of sweat coating sleek bodies.
Looking more akin to fierce Dragons than Equines.

Their dusty riders looked like mounted warriors,
Escaped from out of a Hollywood movie,
Full bearded, hard men, with Scars on their faces,
Their serious dust laden red eyes burning like fire.
Jaws firm set, faces otherwise devoid of expression.
Dressed in traditional head to toe garb,
A style unchanged in hundreds of years,
Large curved Knives in wide leather belts,
Two, sporting hefty British holstered revolvers.
All four with long rifles in one hand,
Horse reins in the other.

Just like that, there we all were face to face,
I could not avoid their eyes, locking mine on
The bigger man near the center,
Hiding as best I could, my concern, no my fear,
With a neutral expression, neither smile nor sneer,
That might give me away. Yet the hair on the back
Of my neck did tingle, throat too dry and constricted
To speak should it even be required.  

The bigger man into whose eyes I stared,
As if I had issued some challenged invitation,
With but a single practiced move of his,
Right arm and hand,
(Horse reins held in the other),
Quickly shouldered his menacing weapon,
And sighted down its long barrel, right at my head.

Perhaps it was only a few seconds,
Yet it seemed an eternity,
That gun’s bore looked immense,
Like the gapping open mouth,
Of some great ballistic cannon.
For a moment I ceased breathing.
It felt as if my heart stopped beating.
I could not but sit there waiting,
There was no escaping.

That throw back to a fiftieth century man,
Held the power, of Life or sudden death,
In his hand, my life on the tip of his trigger finger,
He and I both instantly understood this.

It was clear in that one moment,
That to him, this was nothing new,
Or even of the slightest importance.
A thing to which he was plainly indifferent.

Down that bore, was a place in which lurked,
A lethal bullet with my name written upon it,
I felt trapped, like screaming, but remained silent,
Eyes open, and then why I will never know,
Still looking at him I narrowed my eyes and smiled.

As perhaps a reply on the man’s harsh face,
There appeared an ever so slightest grin.
Then he hefted his weapon back down under,
His arm and silently smiled and laughed,
In my direction.

I could not help but notice that one of his
Upper front teeth was of bright gold, while the
One next to the gold, was completely missing.

He nodded just once his head, to me a message,
All said with no words actually spoken,
“Today traveler,
I could have killed you,
Taken your woman.
Out here no one would know,
No one would have cared,
Not even the truck driver.
You are in my homeland,
I control it and you,
Today I choose not to **** you,
Tomorrow I might feel different.”

Then he and his unsmiling companions,
****** their straining unyielding horses,
to their left, galloping away in an obscuring
cloud, of yellow and reddish dust billowing.

While adrenaline turned my arms and
Legs to jelly, and shortly thereafter,
My stomach to sudden fits of
Wrenching regurgitation.

When in a few years I first heard,
That the Russians had invaded
That harsh unforgiving land,
I told a friend,
“Those fool Russians,
Have grabbed a fearsome,
Tiger by the tail, and that beast
Might just devourer them,
And not the other way around.”
It came to pass, I was not far off,
In my knowledgeable easy prediction.

The lesson I learned that day?
No matter who you think you are,
Or where you might come from,
What Nations impressive seal,
That your Passport reveals,
When you travel far and wide,
Trespass in another man’s back yard,
You best beware, of all the possibilities.

Upon our return trip the next day,
We took a bus of public conveyance,
Imagining perhaps there would be,
More safety in a convergence of numbers.

Footnote:

Over the centuries many invaders
Have attempted to subdue the wild
Land of the Afghans’ and nearly all failed.
A land and a people offering absolutely,
No forgiveness, not even to themselves.

Rudyard Kipling wrote of the British Empires brief
Excursions into that land, offering some sage advice;
“When you’re wounded and left on the Afghanistan’s
Plains, and the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains and go to
Your God like a soldier.”

All present and would be conquers take note,
This remains Wise advice.  No one truly conquers there,
They just visit and bleed and then eventually go away,
Tails tucked between their knees. If indeed they still
Have one.

It’s so easy to feel so small

I’m on a bus, the last one that runs on a Wednesday night,
Sketching a tired face
Bags under the eyes, made of black ink

I’m eavesdropping on a conversation,
(Does it count as eavesdropping when
There are only two people speaking in an otherwise
Silent bus?)

My heart’s been having an existential crisis,
And my stomach and chest
Empty
Yet heavy
Someone’s hands are holding my insides
And squeezing them in a fist
It is exhausting
It is lonely

In my right ear is this beautiful song
Violin and cello and
A raw passion that reminds me
That it’s okay
To be human, and to be scared shitless

I’m still listening, partly
But not really
It’s late
I want to sleep
Busses are full of zombies-
Phone, earphone, unsmiling zombies
And despite the
Tired sketch on my lap
I’m one, too

The conversation slows
I smile
I turn and I recognize the face in front of me
I’m told that this person, vaguely familiar face, whose conversation
I’ve been eavesdropping on remembers one of my poems
About stars
And the line is on his wall
A line from a poem that I wrote
About stars
Is on someone’s wall
Even better than when Chad Oliver told me I was
Quite attractive junior year of high school,
And I remember writing that poem
And I feel a little less useless

I want to cry

My body hasn’t known what to do with itself lately
You see I exhausted myself in love
And now that it’s gone
I feel useless
My heart pulls towards mediocre sketches
First sips of coffee in the morning,
Listening to the violin
It doesn’t know what else to feel for
It’s been left in this dark room
Grasping for a table,
****, even a stepstool,

Heartbreak is exhausting
Because it’s not just the heart
And it doesn’t really break
It just has to re-learn how to feel

But I get off the bus
And the night is warm,
The moon is
Beautiful,
This white-hot luminescence
Burning through the silhouettes of trees,
So bright the sky is still blue 6 hours after sundown.

I open my palms up to her
I see the stars
I open my palms up to them
They guide me home

after julio cortázar*

my bourbon

i drink it at a bar, alone

its translucent honey-color is an axolotl's eye
looking into me

and, like a cortázar story,
little by little,
my bourbon axolotl steals my body,
its soul stealing through my eyes to evict me from this
honestly-not-that-well-kept apart
ment

and i feel my bourbon axolotl eye replacing me
as i am drawn out into its glass prison

and i stare up as my bourbon turns me
gently in my glass
as my bourbon raises me to its lips
sips me
no longer winces
or even registers any emotion on a calm-liquid-surface face
eyes wet and flat and blank as a tumbler ******* deep

and i don't know where i'm going or what i'm becoming but
this feeling of spiraling and draining and emptying
is everything that i know

and there is less and less of me as bourbon stares down
cold
unsmiling
neat
and silently consumes me
and i am disappearing
and i am gone

and bourbon stands,
calm, but not serene,
and bourbon walks to my car, each step carefully measured,
and bourbon drives my car to my apartment
and bourbon sleeps in my bed and goes to my job and collects my paycheck
and bourbon falls into habit and routine
and bourbon feels my
empty.

but having a body, a life, is better than being trapped in bottles and glasses
it's probably better, anyway

and bourbon won't go back, won't trade flesh back for silica,
will keep living unfeeling behind glass-eye walls until skin and sinew unknit

and bourbon is so alien and content that
it never wonders if there is anything more,
never despairs for its ending road,
treasures every drop

bourbon calls this body, this life
top shelf

bourbon knows that **** ain't cheap

Tired faces shuffle home,
Unsmiling countenances,
Irritated by impoverished nuances,
Stress, like a hanging, stifling dome.

frock coated mourners all men

standing on the roof tops

while a silver haired woman

speaks through a megaphone

with a Calvinistic zeal

though her voice is lost

in the howling wind

smile unsmiling smiles

terracotta soldiers stand

in rows around this

grotesque assembly

while large disembodied heads

at the beginnings of thoroughfares

impede any progress

sinister flags smirk from

countless one roomed wooden houses

the terracotta soldiers laugh

for they know they are but dust

then the high frocked coated

male mourners smile unsmiling smiles

and say to us

"the future we bequeath to you"

there is a lifeboat in the street

but no water

we sob...sob...sob....sob

for there is no future

the birds all fly away

no future just an unknown place

determined only by the mediocrity

of its frothing melancholy

what have they done

jesus what have they done

in all the photos
he was a young man -
my father

handsome and smiling
a useful smile

i tried to find one from later
when he was a bystander
on my street -

older, unsmiling, obsolete
- there were none

i wish i had known
how he felt

now that i do.

r ~ 11/25/14

Do steam trains go from Kings Cross to Scotland? Lydia asks. Her father sober smiles. Are you eloping with the Benny boy of yours? He says. Big eyes staring; blue  large marble like. Whats eloping? She asks, frowning. Running off to be married secretly, the daddy says. No, Benedict and I are only nine, so how would we be eloping? Practice run? No no, she says. Nibbles her buttered toast her mother gave. You be mindful, busy that place; crowds are there. He sips his tea. She nibbles more toast, staring at him. How are you getting there; too far to walk? Dont know; Benedictll know; he knows these things. Underground trains best, the daddy suggests. But how to get the money for fare? He asks; his eyes narrow on to her. Dont know, she says, looking at the tablecloth, patterned, birds. Has your Benny boy the money? Sober, good humoured, he smiles. Expect so, she says, doubtful. See your mother, ask her, he suggests, smiling, as if. Well, must be off, work calls, he says. Where are you today? She asks. Train driving to Bristol. Is that near Scotland? He smiles, shakes the head. No, Bristols west, Scotlands north; do you not know your geography? The daddy says. She shrugs. Sober he shakes the head. Well, Im off. See your mother about the fares. She nods; he goes taking a last sip of tea. She eats the buttered toast, cold, limp. She sits and gazes out the window. Sunny, warm looking. The birds on the grass; the bomb shelter still there. Wonders if the mother will. Money for fares. Knock at the front door. Her daddy answers. Opens up. Your Bennys here, Princess, he mocks. See you mind her, Benny boy, shes my precious, the daddy says out the door and away. Lydia goes to the door. Benny is standing there looking at her daddy walking through the Square. Her mother comes to the door wiping her hands on an apron, hair in rollers, cigarette hanging from her lip corner. Whats all this? her mother asks. Lydia looks at Benny. He gazes at the mother. Kings Cross, he says. Is he? The mother says. Train station, Benny adds unsmiling. So? We thought wed go there, Lydia says, shyly, looking at her mother. How do you think of getting there? Underground train, Daddy said. Did he? And did he offer the money? No, said to ask you. Did he? The mother pulls a face, stares at Lydia and Benny. Am I to pay his fare, too? She says, staring at Benny. No, Ive me own, he says, offering out a handful of coins. Just as well. If your daddyd not been sober youd got ****** all permission to go to the end of the road, her mother says, sharp, bee-sting words. Wait here, she says, goes off, puffing like a small, thin, locomotive. Benny stands on the red tiled step. Your dad was sober? She nods, smiles. Rubs hands together, thin, small hands. How are you? Fine, excited if we go, she says, eyeing him, taking in his quiff of hair and hazel eyes; the red and grey sleeveless jumper and white skirt, blue jeans. He looks beyond her; sees the dull brown paint on the walls; a smell of onions or cabbage. Looks past her head at the single light bulb with no light shade. Looks at her standing there nervous, shy. Brown sandals, grey socks, the often worn dress of blue flowers on white, a cardigan blue as cornflowers. They wait. Hows your mother? Ok, he replies. Your dad? Hes ok, he says. They hear her mother cursing along the passage. He says ask for this, but he never dips in his pocket I see, except for the beer and spirit, and o then it out by the handfuls. She opens her black purse. How much? Dont know. The mother eyes the boy. How much? Two bob should do. Two bob? Sure, shell give you change after, Benny says. Eye to eye. Thin line of the mothers mouth. Takes the money from her purse. Shoves in Lydias palm. Be careful. Mind the roads. Lydia looks at her mother, big eyes. Shyly nods. You, the mother points at the boy. Take care of her. Of course. Beware of strange men. I will. Stares at Benny. Hes my Ivanhoe, Lydia says. Is that so. Go then, before I change my mind. Thin lips. Large eyes, cigarette smoking. Take a coat. Lydia goes for her coat. Hows your mother? The mother asks, looks tired when I see her. Shes ok, gets tired, Benny says, looking past the mothers head for Lydia. Not surprised with you being her son. Benny smiles; she doesnt. He looks back into the Square. The baker goes by with his horse drawn bread wagon. Hemmy on the pram sheds with other kids. What you doing making the fecking coat? The mother says over her thin shoulder. Just coming, Lydia replies. Shes there coat in hand. The mother scans her. Mind you behave or youll feel my hand. Lydia nods, looks at Benny, back at the mother. Mind the trains; dont be an **** and fall on the track, the mother says, eyeing Benny, then Lydia. Shes safe with me, Benny says. Ill keep her with me at all times. Youd better. I will. Eye to eye stare. And eat something or youll faint. Ill get us something, the boy says. The mother sighs and walks back into the kitchen, a line of cigarette smoke following her. Ok? She nods. They go out the front door and Lydia closes it gently behind her, hoping the mother wont rush it open and change her mind. They run off across the Square and down the *****. Are we eloping? She asks. What? Us are we eloping? No, train watching. Why? The daddy says. Joking. Sober. Benny smiles, takes in her shy eyes. Whats eloping? He asks. Running off to marry, Daddy says. Too young. Practice run. Daddy said. Not today, Benny says, smiling, crossing a road. Looking both ways. Not now, not in our young days.

throw fireworks at little brothers,
laugh, until they start crying, then hide

make mom cry, a lot. worry her, a lot.
make everyone who loves you cry, at least twice

run your ******* up a flagpole, steal a flag
smoke cigarettes at school

through bad ***** and insincerity
get drunk, then kiss everybody

borrow people's things
make them regret lending to you

throw up in such a way it'll ruin a party
throw up in someone's bed
leave it for them later

buy cheap drugs, steal cheap clothes,
exploit the good nature of others

spit at someone's feet

start useless arguments,
especially with bigots, especially when drunk,
especially when you need to impress people

get kicked out of something holy and sacred,
in the process, shame your grandparents

flip the bird, yell impolite things and trivia
at friends, strangers, anyone

set a plastic trashcan on fire,
leave it somewhere important
forget about it

pierce your face, more than once
pierce somewhere not on your face
show people you shouldn't

say trite thoughts, dress them up with $10 words
look pedantic, unsmiling, and snooty

put everything off, procrastinate
until it ***** you up, wonder what happened

finally,
stay awake at night, remembering all this,
then pity yourself, you ******* *******

Della walks
with her father
onto the beach.
Sand, sun,

sea going out.
Sea,
she says
love it.

Her father looks at her,
takes in her smile,
her well kempt hair,
the tip of her tongue

resting there
on her lower lip.
Did your mother
pack your swim gear?

Packed it in my bag.
Where's the bag?
She looks back
towards the car

parked by the road.
You must try
to remember
these things.

I did, then I forgot.
It doesn’t help.
Angry sounds.
He sighs.

Stay here, don't move,
he says
and walks back
towards the car,

over the sand,
hands in the pockets
of his black jeans.
She watches him walk.

Angry walk,
she thinks.
She sees him
most Saturdays,  

sometimes Sundays,
since
the divorce.
He gets to the car

and takes out
her pink bag,
locks the car
and treads back

towards her,
his face dark
and unsmiling.
Like smiling faces.

There you are,
he says.
She takes the bag
and they

walk down
towards the sea.
He gets out
a large beach towel

and lays it down
on the sand.
Here we are.
Sea smells salty.

It does.
If you sniff it
it gets up your nose.
He nods,

gets out a book
and begins to read.
Makes your nose feel salty.
She looks at her father,

he stares at the page
of his book.
Can I go into the sea?
Be careful.

She stare sat him.
Shall I get on
my swimming
costume here?

Yes,
he says,
turning a page.
People will see me.

They do.
Mum holds the towel
up around me.
He sighs and gets up

and gets out
a large coloured towel.
OK then,
get your gear on.

She takes out
her swimming costume
from her bag
and drops the bag

on the sand.
She looks at him.
Mum puts the towel
around

me so people
can't see me.
He sighs
and puts the towel

around her,
stares out
at the beach.
She takes off

her cat patterned top
and drops it down.
Then she removes
her skirt and underwear

and quickly,
but awkwardly
puts on her costume.
He looks at ships

on the horizon.
Seagulls,
bathers,
families and lovers.

She pulls at the costume
to get it comfortable.
Done it.
Good.

He folds the towel,
puts it beside him
and begins to read again.
She stands looking at the waves.

Mum walks me to the waves.
Why?
In case I slip.
You're a big girl now.

What if I slip?
He lifts his eyes
from the page.
You won't.

Mum holds my hand in case.
Your mum does
a lot of things
I don't.

He reads on.
She stares at him
for a few moments,
then unhappily

walks down
towards the waves.
She has her hands out
like a tightrope walker,

to balance herself
over the sharp stones,
here and there.
She reaches the area

where the waves rush in.
She stands there looking out.
She sniffs the air. Salty.
People around her stare.

A child laughs.
Two boys whisper.
She walks into the water.
The sea is warm,

rushes over her feet.
She clutches her hands together,
looks at the boys.
Warm water.

Wet, too.
The boy grins.
She's a Mongol,
the other boy says.

Funny features,
the other says,
big lips, and tongue.
She looks back at her father

reading up on the beach.
She paddles deeper.
Leaves the boys behind.
The waves rush against her knees.

She claps her hands,
hugs herself,
feels hers small *******.
The sea is crowded

with bathers.
Noise, laughter
and shouts fill the air.
She stands still.

A boy splashes her.
She puts her hands
over her face
to keep the water

from her eyes.
He rushes back
towards the beach,
laughing.

The water rushes
to her thighs.
Best not get out too far, deary,
a woman says nearby.

I'm Della,
not Deary,
she says.
The woman nods and smiles,

well be careful, Della.
The sea can be  dangerous.
Mum says
be careful.

Yes, you must.
Mum's not here.
Who's with you?
My dad's with me.

Where is he?
Della points towards the sand
where her father
is reading his book.

Be careful, Della,
the woman says.
Be careful, mum says.
Yes, be careful,

the woman repeats.
The woman gazes at Della.
Sees her vacant expression.
Her daughter died

the year before.
Drowned.
Della  looks back
at her father

sitting reading.
Mum watches me.
So she should.
Dangerous place the sea.

Della stares
at the incoming
rush of waves,
loud shush of the sea.

Your dad should watch you, too,
the woman says.
He reads.
He should watch you.

Della hugs herself tighter.
Best not get in
much deeper, Della dear,
the woman says.

Deep.
Gets to my thighs.
Yes, higher
than you ought to go.

Frightened.
Let's go back,
the woman says.
Della clutches

her arms tighter.
I fell last time,
and got salty water
in my mouth.  

Sickly.
Was sick after.
In the car.
The woman smiles.

Let's walk back  
to your dad.
The woman holds out
a hand.

Della hesitates.
Her father
is reading his book.
She puts out her hand

and holds
the woman's hand
and they walk up
towards the beach.

The warm hand holds her.
Far from
her father's sight
and the deep sea's reach.

Mona Lisa, mona linda,
O emblem of western beauty!
A hundred greedy eyes rest on you,
Drinking you in.

Crowds and crowds gather
To feast on your unsmiling face,
Your stiff posture, your
Lifeless gaze.

Within the golden frame you are
Frozen in time
And unable to escape those relentless gawks.

Life imprisonment
With an audience of 2 million.

Adoring fans, passers-by
Cry out in praise!
“Beauty, beauty, beauty!”

Do they know what they see?
Bland Western beauty standards served up on a plate.

Fresh from Ireland and ready to eat.
Dreams of wealth and success
Wrapped up in pale white skin
And short blonde hair.

Close your eyes.

         Imagine a white room.

There are objects in the white room.

Each object represents something in your life that worries or stresses you. Each object binds you to the external world. Each object stands for something that keeps your mind active, keeps you worrying, keeps you awake.

Imagine a white room.

I really am trying. My eyes are tight, eyelashes stuck to my cheek.

(I can feel the blood trickling through the veins in my sclera, ******* itself from end to end like cherryade through a drinking straw.)

I have my toes resting on my knees like a good little lotus, my fingers resting on top of them making the ‘ok’ sign.

This is a hard trick. It takes concentration. It takes effort to clear your thoughts from a metaphorical room (Jean’s room, tidy but never clean.)

What if I fall asleep upright? Will my neck break?

You ever see spiders playing dead? They roll onto their backs and cradle their bodies inside a disjointed prison that they’ve made with their own limbs. Their legs bend back at jaunty angles, crooked at the knees.

A spider ran at me once whilst I was sat on the toilet. I was reading an encyclopedia at the time, just flicking through, and in my panic I hit the spider with the spine of it. He curled up into a crumpled ball in the middle of the pink bathroom mat. I thought he was dead, but by the morning he had moved on, not leaving a trace.

In the grand cosmic metaphor of it all, we’re all just bristly little gymnasts looking to be left alone.

The white room is flying over the sea.

Objects that represent your daily life are sitting in the white room.

There is a door in the white room.

There are windows.

Using your imagination, remove each object from your room one by one. Throw them out of the door. Pour them out of the window.

Clear your mind.

Throw it all into the sea.*

My laptop is drowning. My journals are dissolving like sugar paper. White birds come from nowhere and lift up the corners of my bookcase, shaking it out into the ocean as one would air out a bed sheet. My memories are eating sand. The people I have loved are unsmiling shop-window cutouts, rolling along the waves of a mythical sea.

How far do I have to go? It seems like this means more than just Sleep. Every night do I need to be new, need to empty myself out like a clogged up sea-shell? How far do I have to go before it’s just me that’s left?

I can never make my sea deep enough because I don’t wish to drown. I’m not Ophelia.

I’m really not.

I don’t hold flowers neither.

I just can’t sleep.

(White isn’t a colour, it’s an absence.

Put a tick against my name. Use a bright red pen.

I’m right here. For always.)

The separation wall surrounds me,
It’s everywhere, I even can’t see,
It’s unwanted and very high,
Sometimes I wish I can just fly,
Out of my big jail,
Which made my face so pale,
They separated our land,
Where I really cannot stand,
My family is in the other side,
In the land, which is already occupied,
I want to hug them,
I want to kiss my mother’s hands,
And her feet,
I want to….
I want to see my father,
My nieces and nephews.
It’s a dream, a big dream.

My first love is behind the wall,
Despite it, in love we did fall,
I delayed my wedding for five years,
We longed a lot, and shed tears,
Sometimes I escape the watchtowers,
To hear her voice, and throw some flowers,
Sometimes I try climbing the wall’s stones,
But I fall, breaking my young bones.

We have a very big farm of citrus and fruits,
I missed its trees, the branches and its roots,
My grandfather waits for me since a decade,
To help him watering the plants, which are fade.
I am on one side of the wall, and he is on another,
I have none, and he has my father, mother and brother.

My old friends are stuck as well,
With letters, they tell me their life is hell,
Unsmiling soldiers with helmets are everywhere,
Without permits, I cannot go anywhere,
neither to the old city nor to the capital,
Neither to my family, nor to my beloved.

Mohammed Arafat
31-12-2018

sour girls seem like corners drawn
deeply into briefly unsmiling faces
livid with rouge, mascara, and
                                                         eyes

cut of freezing, ice and, ivy (who like
sour girls uncurl)
                                  gently in the palm

of Summer's neat soft plush and hand
not Summer's but my hand, which
draws briefly unsmiling into livid with
my lips, rouge and mascara, faces

The young woman, plain, was unsmiling behind the control panel,
a ribald passion filled his veins, her mien has to do something,
the airfield was deluged by waves of grief, among them
was those robust women, he tried to forget but couldn't
who may defeat the purpose, if he takes a second look.

She gave her word to fly the single engine airplane
"Don't fear darling, i am an aerobatics specialist
if need arises i wouldn't hesitate to crash land,
take care of your hurt, bleeding lonely heart".
How reassuring! never would he turn back,
after this difficult take off awaited life long.
No more entries in this log book.

Her dark make up, was feline an added attraction
that gave him a libidinous surge, an ******* with ample promises,
to last till he reaches his destination final, from where
the return flight, is even unthinkable the lady pilot winks.

This Cessna to the unknown, has the aphrodisiacal scent of
wild orchid flowers he once discovered in the far stretches
of the Western Ghat mountain ranges
and ******* secretions of one particular lover
a reminder perhaps death wants to carry as it happens

Lisa and I had been watching some boys strut about, as they played soccer, in their little shorts, in the freezing cold. It’s an old animal story.

The game ended, or it was intermission and about twenty guys came streaming into the cafeteria, their cleats sounding like a hundred keyboards clacking all at once.

They were laughing, joking and pushing each other around with rowdy, coiled, unexpended kinetic energy. They were scoping-out the area too, almost subconsciously, like their bronze man ancestors surveying the grassy savannas for threat.

As they strolled in, Lisa and I exchanged looks. Eye-contact can be its own form of complicated language. “Welcome to the monkey-house” we thought, rolling our eyes.

I recognized one of the guys, from a shared chemistry class. He’s tall, slim and lanky, with chin length blonde hair tucked behind his ears and a bit of ****** stubble. Ethan, Adam? I couldn’t remember.

“One’s coming over,” Lisa said, turning a little away and sipping her coffee.
“Morning!” he said, with his winning smile. “What'd you think of that test?” He said, putting one hand in his pocket like a model and making the most disarming eye contact.
“Hard,” I said, with a shrug, Lisa was giving him an appraising look from behind her blonde curtain of hair.
“Aww, come on,” he said, with an aw-shucks grin that looked like something from a Brad Pitt movie. When was the last time I saw Peter - my hypothalamus seemed to ask me with an electric tingle.

There’s something rickety and flexible about resolutions, they melt, like ice cream in the right heat - like the warmth of a look, or the thermal rush of a provocative thought. Impure thoughts are like excited molecules, they bubble, and mine were suddenly on the edge of boiling. I hadn’t expected it, I didn’t trust it, but I liked it. I reached out for my coffee and looked down as I felt myself blush.

Our conversation had lasted long enough to draw the curious attention of a couple of the other guys who came to jostle and crowd Ethan-Adam’s game. “Woah!” one of them said, looking at Lisa. “When you walk in a building, do the sprinklers go off?” The other newbie laughed. Lisa waved the complement away, unsmiling, like an annoying and meaningless buzz.

“All right, all right,” Ethan-Adam said, with a grimacing grin, turning and corralling the other two guys away from the table with outstretched arms. “See ya,” he said, looking back over his shoulder with a “sorry about that,” nod.

“Who was THAT?” Lisa asked, almost admiringly.
“I’m not sure,” I said, trying to remember the rollcall, “Ethan.. Adam.. one of those.”

Why cannot here be peace
on this many colored world there could be
where the circles of pain and hate
burn ever moving into victims
freezing hearts from loving movement
to the stillness of the never born
the unsmiling grip of payment
where shrieking heard cry
they owe for what they did
though righteously deny the fee that comes
breathing vilely above ignorant heads
feeding of words that know no better
cursed to echo what went before
for the circle only knows this
here  past is the future
there future the past
and without breaking the endless spinning
change shan't be able
we all cry for a hero to change our ways
though to step forward is too much
though when they come
as one treat them as have been treated
and expect them to be better
hope they will be better
beg them to be better
while we tear them screaming
down to equality
in the dark and pain
from where escape only exists
in the fragmented dream of peace.

I don my pale green hoodie,
blending into the seafoam crowd
Unsmiling eyes and unlaughing lips
united in a tightly held breath

Silent metal walls
curve over our pale heads
Cold, dull and smeared
with printless finger marks

White floors and white faces
waver under the ripples
of quiet breath
Tension strangling whatever
might have been left over

last night I had a poem inside me, I lost it on the highway
in the Christmas of red and white continuous light
on either side

there were other thoughts, in other cars - their webs spun & ready

the wind beat against my window, holding the tail of it --
"there's still time"  

but I just looked back at you, driving.
hands sure, your unsmiling lips somehow
still holding,
kind.

and remembered this sizzling, poppin' n' fizzing
feeling

and could have written
pages and pages and instead
just

burned

You know I’m strong.
Even if you can’t do this, I’ll be strong.
The ocean is still an ocean,
                  the sky is still a sky
But an ocean without its horizon
a sky full of dark clouds.

My world is still here though.
There is still the dark mist that hides the sky,
and the huge grey cliffs which bury all the directions,
and the sun, the moon and the stars.

There is still the stillness in the ravens’ crow.
The heavy waves still roll
            and drown my white naked feet unto the shore.
And I know I still exist. I still walk and breathe.
Partly breathe, but it doesn’t matter.
For I still can and that’s what should be.
Even if you’re like this for the next decades,
for you I will always be strong.

If you say you’ll die if you start loving me,
then don’t.
For I won’t die if you don’t
but I will if you die.
The world is still here
and I don’t really care if it won’t turn.
But please, be still. Stay as far as you’re near.
Let those eyes be as empty as they are.
Dark, distant, a glance of nothingness, I don’t care.
We are both blinds anyway.
And I am always kind.
Even when I know
you are not behind your skin when I touch you,
             I won’t complain. I can’t feel anything either.
As long as you stay with me like this forever,
in this forever where there’s no night or day,
you know I’ll be strong.

Even if you’re just a ghost, unfeeling, soundless,
staring straight at the grey, hushed waters,
I won’t let myself know you are. I can feign.
For even if you’re like this beside me,
even when your heart had crossed this isle
and left me for another,
even when your chest is only filled with air,
just the ocean’s air,
as long as your body, your face,
your unsmiling face is here,
you are mine. Mine.

And I will stay like this with you
even during the soft perils of a morning’s light hail
or drown with you when the abyss of the ocean
consumes this little heaven of mine.
For you know, I am strong and I can always be.

Even if I know that you being here is a lie,
and that my world is half-living and I am half-alive,
as long as I can still sleep on your silent *****,
and I can still lean on your cold arms,
you will always be adorned, and worshipped.

And I will lie on your lap as I stare at the white sky,
watch and taste your dry mouth from the splashes
of the rushing waves,
then feel the thin silhouette of your face,
your hands, your feet, your chest, your hair,
your soul from all the shadows around me.
Oh dear! I can just do anything and everything for you!
Believe me, I can do all these! I really can!
For you know I am strong. I really am.
These feelings are immortal
and I have already immortalized you,
             here, in this isle,
                in my little-found heaven,
where I am always strong.

The iron monster tempts her closer
with a rusty soul
glistening bolts
and a wide-mouthed brim
of steel and secrets.

Her eyelids
fall to her lashes
anticipating the dreams that
weigh heavy on her heart
of underwater cities and
of things that were meant
to be.

The drop isn’t much too far
but she hangs onto its copper body
and for once
she is afraid.

But the clouds serve as a witness
and the friendly waves
down below
call to her.

The sun approaches quietly
once more,
just like yesterday
just like she practiced.

Except today
she isn’t interrupted
by unsmiling visitors
Mr. Ford, Mr. Lincoln
and their friends

with their minds pumping
and their engines roaring.

christ you hang tinsel on a wooden cross
(drooping) your unsmiling figure
by the christmas tree tinseled too
silver clever ringlets wreathing
hung by hands delicate
ornaments dote 'pon
the boughs swinging
swaying

in

some unfelt
breeze they jounce
those
lovely sparkle sprinkled
spheres

mingle in the arms
of pine and soft
cinnamon
smells

cru
mbl
i
ng

wafts increase
from
the hot busy
pocket
of
the kitchen

into soon sleeping hands
my body enters
to the sound
of small
laughter

Yiska sits on the sofa staring.
Music on the radio, background
noise. Naaman walks the length
of the locked ward, right hand
in his dressing gown pocket.

White bandage, blood stained,
wrapped around his left wrist.  
Avshalom’s razor did the job
unsatisfactorily, he muses,
feeling the soreness where

the wound’s wrapped. Yiska
taps the sofa seat and beckons
for Naaman to sit beside her.
He sits down, hands on knees.
She’d found him in the locked

ward washroom wrist slit,
blood drenched. She talks to
him, low voice, muttering words.
The nurse at the desk eyes them.
Slit wrong way, Yiska says, the

Romans had it down to a fine art.
Naaman senses the wrist throb.
He smells her soapiness, wants
to wrap himself into her. Some
deem it a sin to take your life,

she says. Doesn’t matter a ****
once you’ve gone, she adds, tracing
a finger along his artery. More
ways than one to go, Yiska says,
reaching the bandaged wound.

Naaman says, I know, I tried each
in turn, failed me each. She smiles.
That hanging **** was a no no, she
says. Need to go beautifully, not
boggled eyed with protruding tongue

like some rabbit hung. The nurse
takes his hand and feels the bandage
hold. She unsmiling looks at both,
their conversation dumbed. Naaman
senses the nurse’s hands trace a

line around the wound. Unimpressed,
she moves away, eyed by Yiska’s dark
stare, watches the nurse talking to
another standing there. Makes work
for them, Yiska says, no feathers in

their caps if you break through to the
other side. Naaman sniffs her soapiness,
warms to her nearness, seeks to dissolve
into her otherness. Sylvia had it off to
pat, Yiska says, head in the oven dozed

to a death. Sylvia? Naaman asks, his eyes
skimming along her thigh where night
gown showed. Plath, she says, the poet,
back in 63. Naaman drinks in her dark
valley where her night gown gapes, his

black dog mood barks in his brain. Look,
Yiska says, pointing her finger window
wards, after the freezing snow, comes rain.

You both rode your bicycles
to the small church
along the lane
and parked your bikes

against a tree
in the churchyard
out of sight from the lane
will there be anyone in there?

Milka asked
as you tried
the old wooden door
don't think so

people only come here
one Sunday in the month
you said
you opened the door

and walked in
it smelt of damp
and oldness
and no one was there

you walked up the aisle
and looked at the old pews
and stained glass windows
people still come here?

she said
guess so
you said
kind of old isn't it

you stood looking
back at her
her dark hair
brought into a ponytail

her jeans and green top
do you like the place?
you said
for what?

she said
to visit
you said
been to better places

she said moodily
thought you
were going to take me
somewhere

we could be alone
and kiss and such
she added
looking around the church

we are alone
you said
yes but hardly
the place to kiss

and do things
she said
we can kiss here
you said

then what?
she said
she walked down the aisle
looking about the place

you watched her
we could have ridden
to the pond place
and did more

she said
let's just sit
and get the feel
of the place

you said
she reluctantly walked
back to you
and you sat in

one of the pews together
I wonder how many couples
have walked down
this aisle as man and wife?

you said
a few unfortunate couples
I guess
she said

you smiled
some make a go of it
you said
don't get any ideas

she said
I'm not ready
for that stuff yet
do your brothers

still needle you
about going out
with me?
you asked

not any more
they got bored with it
in the end
besides you're

their friend
and I’m just their sister  
they said
you ought to see a quack

after going out with
she said unsmiling  
and my mother
trusts me with you

which is annoying
why annoying?
I wanted her to be worried
that I was doing things

and have her look at me
like I was a no good *****
you laughed
what for?

to see her reaction
she trusts me
you said
well she shouldn't

Milka said
not after
what we have been up to
it's not always

what you do
it's what people think you
do that makes them
judged you

you said
I don't like this place
she said
let's go elsewhere

ok
you said
and so you got out
of the pews

and walked out
of the church
and got on your bikes
and rode off

into the Saturday morning air
giving her moving hips
as she rode
a happy stare.

I choose a table in the middle
To feel like I'm part of the rush.
Regulars are identified by their silence
Receiving their drinks without need for a word.
I stumble over my order...
One small? tall? short? Fat ameri-frappe please hold the dairy...
I'm certain I did it wrong
Every hole in the wall has its own lingo
To distinguish those in the know
From those who wandered in

I'm a wanderer, without a doubt
The man behind me is impatient
He's one of the silent ones
Unsmiling in his dress shirt
I wish I were a real person like him
Who knew to say short instead of small
And didn't sit alone at tables
Writing phrases no one cares to read.

And then these convalescent, brooding,
days come tumbling one over the other
in silent succession,
talking to me in familiar gestures—
now the municipal garbage gatherer
emptying the bin of yesterday’s waste,
then the unsmiling milk vending dame
carrying light her kettle and measure,
the newspaper boy flinging the day's fare
with the same precision over the gate,
the twin-jingle of his bicycle bell
vanishing round the corner of the street...

I keep reciting the lines again and again
as though learning by heart
the jingle of an old nursery rhyme…
Ding, ****, bell,
*****’s in the well!
Ding, ****, bell…

She ran away
from her loving home
to make a statement.
Her concerned parents,
her Mommy & Daddy,
meant no real harm,
they only wanted
the music turned down low
after midnight.

Running loose outside the flock,
she became nothing
but wolves' meat,
a tasty morsel
for the horde of traffickers
making statements of their own.

And now she lies flat on her back,
has joined the growing ranks,
locked away unsmiling
in the shadows of the big mean-city.
It ain't pretty,
living in debauchery,
where piles of ***** money
are exchanged between
greedy grubby lusting-paws.

She feels the weight
of a sick world
ten to twenty times a day
& sometimes more.
It's not called love there,
it's a steady business
listening to loud music
long after the sun sets
& way past midnight,
a fallen lamb
misses home.

While the sun is setting,
I walk by the dazzling ocean,
thinking,
imagining,
talking to myself,
to the storms inside me,
to the volcanos and the quakes,
talking to my anger,
to my sorrow,
and to every feeling left in me.

It is the end of a new day,
a long one but very short,
full of drama and lies,
with no smiles from those around me.

I walk by the ocean,
while shedding tears,
trying to hide them from the passers-by.
I do not want kids to see them,
so they don’t think men cry.
I keep my dark glasses on.

I walk by the ocean,
not believing in promises,
suspecting the beautified words,
from the fake people.
I walk not believing in fake smiles,
fake laughs or even jokes.

The twighlight gleams and is gone now.
unsmiling people around me are gone too.
After diving down several times in front of me,
seagulls swirling above go to feed their babies,
happily!
They stop singing their daily songs.
Fishermen with dusty boats go homes sweating with joy.
Rich people turn on the lights of the silent yachts to start their night.
The high waves calm down.
The moon is waning crescent,
with a dimmed light.
They left me alone.
I am alone,
all alone,
but my only friend is my heart,
That they hurt.

Mohammed Arafat
26-02-2019