My Nana’s Gloves

December 31, 2011 in animals, photography, cats, humor, people, society, new | by A.j. (Edit)

I fished wearing my Nana’s gloves-
gloves that went to New York operas and plays
gloves that held flutes of fine champagne
gloves covering hands that raised money for charities
and held handrails on cruise ships and bucked a
belt across her Chanel suit on flights over to Europe -
Might have even been the same gloves
that shook hands with Eleanor Roosevelt or
Ernest Hemmingway

These were gloves over 60 years old
and I could imagine my Nana looking down from heaven
saying, “Yes, if a Jewish princess must fish,
it should be done using fine gloves with crystals
and beading and a hand poised just so. And be
patient, life will reward you. Now stand up straight”

I looked down at the tight fingers while standing reverently after
casting out my line
thinking how a pair of gloves can conjure up
life’s finer memories from hidden hands
hands that cooked the finest kreplach and kugels
cakes and cookies
hands that rolled matzah balls and noodles into
the best chicken broth ever tasted
driven over in a black Cadillac Sedan DeVille
at the first sound of a sneeze or foretold
by your concerned hand against my forehead
you were always there to comfort

These were hands that could not do enough for others
hands that shared many life lessons with me
hands that held my Papa tight with a greater love I have never seen since
I would give anything to see her smile once more
to have her hands unsheathed
so I could take them into my own and
hug her while telling her what she truly meant to me

And now as I look upon those solemn gloves guarding
against the crisp winter chill
I know they have been lined with the love she left behind
love that I have eagerly slipped my fingers into
crossing anchors of time and dimension
to become warmed and still comforted by –
I heed her words and pose my hands nicely around the reel
standing a little straighter against the rawness
of the late afternoon wind
still patiently waiting for life’s reward…

The Birds Are the Pawns

Ever since the rape of Leda
The birds have been bartered pawns
the contrivance between two alienated worlds
Biblical jettisons leveraged by good and evil
not permitted into God’s highest paradise
they became fallen angels under Lucifer’s dominion
each day he straps one of his lost, rejected souls
upon an avian engine trying to rid the underworld
of so much twisted angst

Upon releasing  “speckled birds” skyward to run the gates of heaven
sinewy wings flap in vain against the Icarus curse
battering their tiny bird brains inside the argon clouds
forcing them downward again and again
with their burdened loads thrust into the pillory of gravity
the fowl cloister on  sympathetic trees
singing out a compulsory penance

As dusk approaches
wings flutter in obedience
they are once again sequestered with the other denizens of Hades
the devil’s leash tight upon them
the lost souls once again
grieve when released from feathered frame
and drain back into the vile swamp of Hell
as night brings about the moaning of the tormented -
an infestation of Dante’s 7th Circle

But if you listen closely
once in a while a whippoorwill will escape
to sing out an exiled sojourn through the tongue of the invisible night
and when his syrinx grows silent
the renewal takes place
the exchange of lesser light for greater light
the cycle continues its loaded game
birds once again loosed upon the open firmament
traveling with a loaded indulgence

yet even with the armament of the God who designed them
they will never reach the plateau they desire

These limbo winged, abyss dwellers pour out their hearts in vain
foretelling the New Age,  The Trojan War, the Messiah’s birth
singing of destiny and  tales so beautiful
humans long to hear them again and again
by capturing bird -bards and demanding their warbled voices
from behind  little metal bars with graveled bottoms
from caged isolation, a species of the apterously insane emerge
the sweet song of lunacy is still music to the Human ear

While one can domesticate the cat and dog
leave birds to the apocryphal lives of their destiny
and enjoy them from behind a face of pity
for theirs is a perpetual struggle
feathered harbingers who try and warn us of destiny
harbingers who intercede between a dimensional gap
“… mastered by the brute blood in the air”
and we listen, we see them lift their wing to invisible strings
but for all the treasured singing, and beauty of flight
we ignore their truths
we only see them as enlightened defyers of gravity
as ambient beacons penned by poets through a Metaphysical vane
yet the birds have always known the plan
since the Mesozoic Era rewarded them with wings
they measure the days by souls undelivered
Hell is bursting at its gestational seams
it won’t be long now they testify with lyrical warrant
it won’t be long…

I dreamt I birthed a beautiful child
and tried to select the perfect name for her
discarding Raven Night  -  too dark and vacuous
choosing  instead, Sparrow Moon -

my dream daughter embraced the reflected light
and knowledge framed her,
she became a wise adult at age two,
but I lost her inside my cavernous mind
lost her to the shadows and wrinkles of beta sleep
and all day her name haunted me,
called to me as I took photo after photo of birds,
none of which was a sparrow.

Where and who was Sparrow moon?
that night I Googled the name,
there was only one person using my dream baby’s moniker,
a psychic named Janet-
pseudo named Sparrow Moon
and I emailed her ‘contact list’
telling her of  my dream, but adding  I had nothing to ask her.
It was only minutes till I received an auto  response –
she would like to have a reading starting at $19.95
or I could call the radio show for free
To which her Twitter statement became so apropos-
on the night of the dream her Twitter read,
“think before you act. There will be some brazen acts of stupidity.”
WHOA! She  was right on, indeed psychic!
Now should she email me back wanting to charge me
for reciting my dream in that email,
she will have to use her ability to read my mind for  my Visa number
after I spam future emails
and if she can do that,
my dreams really pack a punch…
(and I have learned from my “brazen act of stupidity”…)

To Bella Lynda Sue

9/11/1952 – 8/12/2003

It seemed that car ride would never end-
these meditative hours spent with teary eyes focused upon the road,
mind locked into a stunted,  ‘auto-mode’ process
reviewing – diagnosing
yet being in denial the past three days about what you had done.

Sleeping for me came as spliced, fragmented hours with
Polaroid brain scans of the past, flashing – flashing.
My dreams became altered, damp journeys
calling your name below blackwater -
parallels and absurdities
wondering why you didn’t call me that morning?

I sat among front row among the mourners,
listened to the same Music -
The Beatles repeating,
There are places I remember
all my life,
Though some have changed Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and
some remain.“
I watched the tribute video,
heard the kind, rehearsed words meant to console,
but where was the truth – you were an addict-

At your house the bathroom door was open -
mocking.
There was no ‘portoncini cei morti’ ,
plastering up this door to the netherworld.
The Charon you used was only a cold,
fixed, porcelain cradle
ferrying you thru,
what a dirt cheap deal you cut for all of us -

Knowing that urn was packed with your ashes
could not obscure the vision of your beautiful face
nor could it ignore the memory of your raw laughter and vital wit.
Your loving presence inside me still stirred by our last conversation
the night before your passing –
you were up, far up,
I remember thinking, how hard will this crash be ?

Nothing of your essence could be could ever be burned away by crematory fire,
those dusty ashes in that lovely container
could never suppress the source of who you were:
loving wife, mother, aunt-
my only sister – my confidant – my best friend
yet, I could not protect you.

Maybe the others were consoled by
adjectives awash in penned solace
meant to calm the transition into cessation,
but I screamed inside at your willingness to surrender
by using an act of dramatic contrition to show
the world you left behind.

If only I could have helped  resolve your feelings of rejection
of helplessness,
but opiates mothered your soul,  soothed all the wrongs -
All those years of ‘downers’ taking the razors edge off-
like mother like daughter, umbilical never severed completely
between the both of you -
An infected genetic cycle that kept circling, feeding and festering
with a vampire ‘s lust,
yours became a warped continuum of living life through Dieric Bout’s, Hell
simply opting each day for that bait of peace that death kept dangling.

The three of us were bred from the same Harpie -
a bosomless woman who drove out all her men,  (except for our brother)
she loved her parents and friends, but not herself,
and had no use for daughters.
She retreated to her bedroom,
to the bottled world of capitulation and chronic decay of addiction.
While I spent my life ignoring the tethers to that bond,
the slack left behind only bound you tighter -
pills also became your chemical carapace against the constant Siren’s wail in your head,
The war  you both waged for your souls
was  mapped out on many a prescription pad -
I found our Mother dead and alone when she was 47,
but could never find one tear to shed for her.

Your final battle was waged
upon the water, you as Captain decided to go down with the ship
as you tied your knots in the plastic darkness -
a final ‘fuck you’ rippled through those rainbowed waves
then the water went slack with calm, but measured chaos -
you continued the family cycle of mother relinquishing life
only to have their daughter’s  find them – what a family legacy.

If only it had been a case of a planned suicide,
you would have come home from the office, cleaned the house,
made a complete dinner,
showered and dressed to perfection,
with a splash of  Quelque Fleur before
resolutely overdosing on your chaise lounge
as a matter of a beautiful corpse.
But  your naked statement left no doubt – this was immediate,
this was anger,
pills had taken all your dignity
nothing more for vultured  life to suck out.

But you left us too soon Lynda Sue,
always kidding that you lived longer than our Mother once you hit 48-
You left us feeling guilty and
heartbroken in death’s long, tenebristic shadow.

While I feel for all those you left behind,
and while I am still angry with you,
I grieve harder for your hurt my sister,
I grieve everyday that you gave up on yourself,
I grieve that reality became the enemy within, but,
I grieve hardest mostly knowing that you became the one person
you always feared becoming most,
and oh God, how that sent you over the edge-
as you cut off that last strip of tape and bound it tight,
it was you who controlled the  final stake-
the only act of control you took for yourself in years…

by abbe

Lu Wong nursed her baby, staring into round, shining eyes, the color of water at midnight. A tiny smile caused the infant to stop suckling as she gazed into a face of warm familiarity. Lu Wong smiled back smoothing her hand over the newborn’s silken strands of fine, black hair. As the baby became sated with milk, her small lids grew heavy, with the burden of sleep.

The infant was laid upon the bed, the diaper changed along with warmer clothes for the journey. Lu Wong hummed a melancholy tune, something she remembered hearing her grandmother sing. It was a song about a swan who lost its mate and swam round and round until the fowl grew exhausted and drowned. Somehow Lu Wong felt the same, her own thoughts exhausting and drowning in her head like rocks tossed into  water.

She worked her tired fingers around the small buttons before gently positioning the baby inside the blanket. So pale the infant looked as compared with the red fabric that surrendered her shape. The baby squirmed for a moment, then returned to the blissful slumber reserved for the truly innocent.

Lu Wong peered through the window, the day was encumbered by gray, woolen clouds. Birds had long lifted their wings to the southern winds. The carp in the murky pond were driven to the bottom becoming random muted patterns with sunken autumn leaves. The heavy rains would come soon, cold and penetrating, the rain of a burgeoning, hostile season. Ice too would then form like poised crystal dagger. Everything in nature seemed to be coming apart, disconnected as with each leaf blown loose from its mother tree.

Lu Wong looked at her watch, her son would be back from school in four hours, her husband in five. She must leave now if she were to be back before her boy arrived. The young mother put on her down jacket, positioning the baby cradled close to her heart. She straddled the bicycle, wobbling at first until she found her balance. Would the baby wake? She did not, for the infant was secured, much like a confined butterfly within its cocoon. Even the random bumping into the many ruts along the frayed road did not disengage this genuine slumber.

The temperature had fallen, the cold slapped pink into her cheeks as Lu Wong rode. There were few people about the village, no one she recognized or who recognized her. She peddled hard – finding with the extra weight of the baby, she must walk the bicycle up the larger inclines. There were a few stray dogs on the outskirts of the forest who barked and charged at her, but she out-maneuvered them.

Rain began to spill from the clouds and Lu Wong rounded her shoulders shielding her daughter from this wet intrusion. The path she followed thickened with skeletal trees, cedar and plum. Wind postured the branches to reach forward like empty hands offering nothing.  The rain then whipped into sheets and the mother found a thick cluster of bushes for shelter. The baby began to cry and so did Lu Wong, both wailed in an effort to be comforted. The mother drew her daughter to her bosom to nurse. The rain would bead off a branch and drop onto the mother’s chest in small rivulets, wetting the blanket and clothes, but it did not keep the baby from drinking. Lu Wong wondered if the infant noticed how loud and fast her mother’s heart was beating, if the foreign rhythm would distract and disturb the little one. This was not so, it was only when a few droplets of water came to play upon the newborn’s forehead that it startled her, she stopped to share a joyous smile with her mother before continuing to feed.

Finally, with her tiny one asleep, Lu Wong buttoned up her damp shirt and zipped her coat high on her neck, the cold metal zipper might as well have been a knife cutting her throat. Lu Wong breathed rapidly as if all the oxygen were escaping from her lungs. She looked at the sleeping infant then looked at her watch and knew she must get home. Lu Wong reached down and kissed the tiny cheek, a cheek as delicate as the blossoms of the lotus floating in simple splendor on a summers day along the pond. She reached for a loose end of the blanket and held it tightly against the newborn’s face. Using both hands, Lu Wong pressed down firmly upon the fabric aware of her own rush for breath as she looked away. She counted out loud as a  distraction. When the muffled infant sounds stopped and the tiny waving hands surrender their flight, relinquishing their hold upon this earth, the mother sobbed wildly. Lu Wong reached for the dainty hands – still warm. She stroked the miniature,  lifeless fingers between her own. The job was done, ‘The Policy’ carried through.

Her daughter’s spirit was now free while Lu Wong’s heart was shackled: imprisoned by the iron bondage of guilt and shame, torment and time. She lifted the blanket and looked one last time into the empty face, so small and helpless, like that of a broken necked sparrow she once found. Lu Wong covered the baby once again, her tears as chilled as the rain. Her eyes blurred from the combination of weeping and water heaving itself upon her. She tenderly pushed the red bundle under the thickest part of the bushes. Lu Wong grabbed her bicycle and rode erratically – frightened to look back.  She pushed away the thoughts of feral animals and wondered if she could have done as her neighbor, Winnie who dropped her live daughter from the city bridge in the dark.
Lu Wong bumped the sides of tree trunks and lost her balance several times on slippery rocks and mud. Her face scraped against a sharp branch, cutting her cheek. Blood trickled from the gash, she accepted this as punishment, letting this fluid of life run down her face and jacket as a symbol cursed upon her.

Lu Wong suddenly felt no urgency of time as she walked the bicycle along the nearby path ahead that would take her home, back to her village, back to her first born, the only child she was permitted by law to have, back to her husband who would hold her and cry with her, long into the mornings of many tomorrow’s…

*The Policy in China is one child only. Most couples keep the son for he is the one who takes care of the parents in old age.

Fish Cubes –From Tales Beneath The Electric Blanket

Fishcubes Winter 2008

went to bed late last night knowing the frost was coming,
the news said Florida would freeze.
i woke at 7am, it was 30 degrees,
but the windchill made it feel like minus 21
looking out the back, I could see the lake was lumpy,
things were bobbing up and down,
but what?

i bundled up under 3 sweaters and 2 coats,
2 pair of socks
figuring seven was a lucky number to keep me warm,
while accenting the look with
vinyl dishwashing gloves.
even the cold burn of the metal door handle could be felt
through the yellow elastic fingers.

standing by the shore,
i could see by the light of a tepid rising sun
that the bodies of the fish had frozen into cubes
floating atop the lake.
Surely they would die!
so I gathered trash cans onto my small boat
and went about netting bream,
shiners, bass and mudfish into the cans.
when sufficiently satisfied
that all the fishcubes had been harvested,
i rowed back to shore, rushed inside the house
and built a nice fire with a fake log,
then wheeled the trash cans in,
warming the fishcubes before the phony phlames
stirring the scaly swill with metal tongs
and a pinch old bay seasonings.

one by one the fishcubes melted
with utterances of a deep, aquatic nature.
a rather large bass floated to the top of one can
and asked where he was and what date was it?
saying his memory had been impaired by the cold,
“it’s January 3^rd 2008”,  i remarked.
when a bream, so excited to be thawed,
jumped from one trash can flopping onto the hearth
with his gills fully expanded,
thanking me profusely
for rescuing his family
i lifted him gently back into the water.

a very mature mudfish leaned forward
telling me his family
had resided there since the Esocene era –
he said his fish ancestors were the
oldest living residents of the lake
to which a shiner called him a liar-
there was a sudden ‘fish-two-cuffs’,
a bass jumped up and pinned the mudfish to the wall of a can
calling the shiner a lowlife carp
- barbs were exchanged.

once the shiner dove back down,
the mudfish seemed to calm
until he spied my fishing pole in the corner of the room.
he pointed a fin toward the pole yelling,
“traitor human, traitor human, we’re all gonna die! ”
while pitching his slimy body out of the can shouting,
“i would rather sacrifice the generations of my family
than become  your trophy–”  he pointed to a deer head
on the wall “look!” he gurgled.
hundreds of fish heads peered over the edges-
mouths agape looking betrayed and fearful.

the bass was the first to raise a dorsal fin and call for anarchy—
suddenly fish and water overturned the trash cans
splashing violently all over the pink carpet,
as scaly, wet bodies crashed about
ruining my antique furniture,
hurling through the glass of the china cabinet,
while 2 gars played catch with my Lalique figures,
delighting in watching them shatter
into glass confetti.
slimy fins slapped open the books off the low shelves
as smudged, black ink stained the water.
there was complete piscine chaos-
heads and tails
heads and tails
flapping about chattering in ‘fishlish’,
one catfish croaking “o sole mio”-

what had i done? i wondered,
what had i done? i didn’t know what to do.

i ran to the garage and put on waders,
got my net,
put on nose plugs and dove
onto the saturated carpet.
fish crammed into my boots
slashing my legs with sharp scales,
i did a hand stand to get them out
and opened the back sliding door
with my feet.
fish and water
gushed out the opening
in an adfluvial advance,
those crazy fish somersaulted
all the way back to the lake.

i sloshed my way toward the garage
to get the wet/dry vac,
lighting some candles to get that fishy smell out,
when i noticed a small 3inch bream stuck
to the side of the leather couch
his shiny lungs expanding and contracting.
i slowly peeled him loose as
his bleary eyes looked up,
“water, water” he said in a very puny voice.

i rushed him to the sink and plugged it up,
the little guy was swimming about happily,
a smile on it’s little fishy face.
its’ fishy gaping lips breached the surface of
the stainless steel sink.
“do u mind if i ask u something?” the fish lips flapped.
“feel free,” i reached down and tickled his sides
as he laughed out loud emitting burpy bubbles.
it tilted it’s head, “i have always wanted to be domesticated -
would u let me live here with u?”
i didn’t know how to react,
so i asked if his family wouldn’t miss him?
he said he was orphaned when he was only a fry
and was afraid the other fish would try and eat him.
i told him it would be an honor to have him as a pet
and went into the attic to search for the old fish tank.

When I came inside carrying the tank,
the neighbors cat sat hovering
over the sink
and suddenly pierced it’s canines into the heart of
my new pet fish which was screaming,
it’s anal fin flapping  spasmatically back and forth
as the cat ran off with it.
i held the tank in my arms and
weeped 10 gallons worth of saltwater tears
into it, born from sadness and frustration,
the weight being so heavy it slipped from my hands,
and spilled to the floor.
i was afraid it might take
bringing in a herd of deer when it dried
for a salt-lick-up.

my legs were wet and cold and
plastered with glass and loose scales.
the floors were ‘ichthy’ and wet,
everything reeked of fish and mayhem.
i moved the vacuum to the kitchen
to mop up my tears.
i felt i had learned a lesson that day,
don’t ever be a humanitarian on freezing days
by saving frozen fishcubes,
they will be fine left alone.
and never make big promises
you can’t keep
to small fry…

The Top Hat Eulogy

I woke up and looked outside-
my grandfather stood in the garden
in the form form of Yoda
surrounded by a force field

I opened the doors
the roses were full
and pungent
and made me breathe in fistfuls

I knew that was my Papa
as he wore the familiar collapsible black top hat
the one with his initials inside

The day was pallidly overcast
but a great light shone upon him
and his voice kept repeating

“Shalom Aleichem – Hare Krishna”.

And when he spoke
golden nuggets would drop from his lips
as people hurried by and grabbed them

The masses left Mardi Gras beads at his feet
while he blessed them using galvanized quatrains
and the “sick among them were healed” –
one man in a wheelchair was given an
application for Dancing With The Stars
the hordes looking stunned as he jumped up
and did a Saint Vitus dance off

So I asked a passing titmouse-
“What does my grandfather say?”
And his tuft relaxed as he chirped
“he gives them great hope”

And I wanted this hope and to speak
to my Papa
who has been silently absent
for almost twenty years
so I slowly took my place in the back of the line
hoping he would recognize me
hoping to touch his hand once more
to smell Old Spice and see his smile
but the line kept growing
and people kept cutting in
and I could not progress forward

I ran
and ran
to the front of the crowd
and pushed my way through
but all that sat there was the top hat
atop golden nuggets
and everyone grabbed the nuggets
and I took the top hat and bushed it off
and hugged it as a voice
I recognized as my Papa’s
came from inside the hat–
“my darling, this is why you will never be rich,
the others go for the gold and
you stand behind and hold an old, useless hat”
the hat burst into flames
but did not burn me -
it grew wings and flew off into a blackened night

I watched the flaming hat circle the lake
then passed over the crescent moon
where it perched at the lowest moon tip
illuminating the sky

The small titmouse came by and landed on my shoulder
pointing a wing toward the door
“you must close your eyes, spit three times and run backwards for ten feet” it said
and I did
but when I opened my eyes I was back under my electric blanket
while the sun rudely woke me by casting laser beams
into my face –
I got up to feed the cats and the birds
and when I went outside
the garden was empty

the flowers looked sad
the rose petals had all fallen off
leaving bald and bent stems-
No Papa –
no golden nuggets

when I heard a titmouse singing from
the grapefruit tree
“gulliblegulliblegullible” it chirped-
I threw a rotten grapefruit at it
and the bird flew overhead
leaving a white sticky calling card
dripping off my shoulder

The answer had been revealed
go for the gold
I thought to myself over and over
wondering how to do that
and all that ‘over’ made me overload
and over tire
and over think

I reached for my Papa’s top hat in the closet
and climbed back into bed
under the electric blanket
Putting the hat upon my head

When I woke again
the hat was on the floor
screaming obscenities like a mean drunk -
it struggled to right itself
like flailing turtle upside down on its’ shell

And that was where I left it screaming
as I started my quest for the gold
beginning at the refrigerator
opening the door rather timidly asking
in a voice rather unlike my own
that came out kind of ‘Brooklyn-esqe’
did it know where the ‘gould’ was

there was a profound silence–
the milk soured
the cheese curdled
and a bottle of Guldens mustard popped off the shelf
and wrote my eulogy in dirty yellow…

Poetry night November 2009

thought it might be good to roost on college campus
for poetry night,
the night of the new moon,
listening to fresh voices for inspiration
something to assault my elder brain with key words
to give my dulled senses new food
I was hungry to write again

about thirty students and their professor assembled
I was the oldest one in that room
absorbing their ages and innocence
watching their squirming angst as
the professor told them to come up and read,
read something they wrote,
read something by someone else,
he began the evening by reading his own work
I don’t remember one word

the first young man stood right up
macho, tanned, firm arms ablaze with colored inks
and clingy shirt to compliment,
he reminded me of Michael Fitzsimmons
in “Peggy Sue Got Married” -  his words curt and forceful,
trying for hardedge reflection,
the girls whispered and smiled
this was the one Peggy Sue would crave

the white girls came up one by one
shiny haired, nervous and generic
despair, depression, break ups, near  suicides,
the pattern was set for every designer jeaned one of them
except for one who mumbled something at a Nascar pace
about trying to understand her two year old cousin,
while a petite blond peeped in a high overture to
Dickinson’s, “I heard a Fly Buzz”

Then a beaded and braided, “player” swaggered to the mike
silky smooth in his Barry White delivey
the voice overrode what he was saying
he will be a DJ or radio host
the velvety voice will net its’ lions’ share
of female prey

I do remember the bespectacled student
I do remember his serious rap, his ramrod vibe
his righteous tangent on hope and God
and Jesus being the light – the way
he spoke with clarity and passion,
I pictured a stern mother
delivering  Biblical justice with a firm hand

my eyes wandered through the herd
scoped out  ‘boys’ through ‘cougar’  eyes,
I liked the dirty blond with goatee -
found myself still  drawn to the same ‘type’
that appealed to me in high school  4 decades ago,
my mind buzzed back to days of mad crushes,
learning what the word cunnilingus meant,
French kissing and copping feels  under bleachers and
of course rejection
ah, the ‘60’s, the best times ever,
but back to poetry

the rest of the poems seemed like fine silicate
loose words slipping off pages
kids read, then were rewarded with light, polite clapping for all,
one woman in her forties held worn sheets of paper,
pieces  about cancer, death and killing
I would call it melancholy “schmaltz”  at best
go look it up, gentiles

when time finally lapsed between readers
the Professor got up and read another of his poems
which was funny to the ear
as the young crowd all laughed at the staged lines,
but I heard the undertones ,
of wanting fame and reverence for self
for wishing that swooning college females would hive
at his honeyed words and experience,
it was obvious  mid-life was imploding,
the balding pate, the soft body looked computer chained
the humor was truth doused in itching powder
tickling him without mercy
about all that had been denied

when he finished, the professor looked around-
was about to call it a night
when from the back stood a skinny, dark haired guy ,
looked about twenty,
he slinked up to the podium on tall khaki legs
standing silent for a moment-
no notes, no books, no laptop in attendance
we waited as he took in a breath
and began to recite
and recite he did,
stanza after compelling stanza
a poem not his own, but so impacting in its’ delivery
it should have been,
the subject was about going back to rehab,
it cut gashes into my psyche
my blood took to splashing hard against the arteries,
he made me shiver in his sincerity,
I saw scenery and visions raped by knowledge too sage
for one so young to know,
but he spoke with eloquence -
with the fullness of living behind thick shadows,
of speaking a churchyard elegy to a corpse still alive
this was the moment worth waiting for,
this was ‘The One’ worth hearing,
the one who was calm, yet dangerous,
the one reeking of undigested fumaroles waiting for a shunt
the audience silenced by his chainsaw reality -
the poet he memorized should sweat him

there was silence for a second or two after he finished -
words like scorching rain were still wetting
and burning the audience
and then came the clapping
hands reddened by hard smacking
for the savior of poetry night, the true artist among us,
or rather a true actor who walked past all of us
walked right out of the room before the accolades finished -
more of an exile than an exit

the veneer of the night finally peeled  -
I walked out to my truck under the dark new moon,
slipped the key into the ignition
but didn’t turn it,
I closed my eyes
waiting for the moment of impact…

Porn for piece and peace

Saleh al Jalaheen should have left the movie theater -
should not have stayed so long -
he had an easy fifty dollars in his pocket,
big money to make in Syria in 1994
all he had to do was the legwork -
a quick dropoff,
but the legwork consumed him
time and dreams all became forged
by the showing that day
inside the Salwa Cinema

Even though it was a film from Turkey,
Saleh didn’t need to know the foreign language
he had entered a theater bathed in soft-porn
featuring, ‘delights of the flesh’
the things the Holy Book told him were forbidden-
advised him to avoid

Suddenly up front and bluntly before him
in size and detail
big engaging sex-
womens unclothed bodies-
Saleh became the lion stalking it’s prey in the dark,
his pupils expanded with visions of pleasure
his ears attune to the soft moans,
his brain locked into the secret moments
his tongue salivating for the taste of ambrosia,
of shapely naked breasts and stiffened nipples,
of positions and fetishes he never imagined -
his apterous body could not abandon its’ nest

When they paid him,
he thought he followed directions
but no one warned him about the movie
poor Saleh did not heed his employer’s instruction
after placing the bomb beneath his chair
he forgot his culture
forgot The Koran
forgot all about the evils of voyeurism
but mostly, he forgot the mission

That fifty dollars was to be coveted in vane
it could not cover the loss of his legs
blown off because those appendages
were fixed like mafia cement to the floor
Saleh didn’t even think about moving to another seat
where he might have been spared

Saleh became a casualty to sex
lost both his legs without getting any of the pleasure
from either the sex act nor the terror act
he became condemned as a terrorist failure
he does not qualify for the virgins promised him in heaven
and most likely, that was the only sex he will know…
The destruction he was going to impose upon others,
imposed itself upon him

Some people just aren’t meant to be bombers for a cause,
they should forget doing favors for easy money
which itself is seduction
How is it that being mesmorized by ‘piece’
could bring about both pleasure and horror -
And yet by the sheer act
of sitting there in the Salwa theatre
surrounded by soft female images
on the big screen,
it erased all thought of Jihad
all thought of hate and
of planting bombs for money.

Imagine that… ‘piece’  for peace
the sheer idiosyncrasy of it;
piece for peace–
Well… it kept Saleh, the bomber
occupied and thinking more about glorious sex acts
than the act of committing terror didn’t it…

Apalone Ferox – Soft shelled Turtle

The myth of the Kraken

Twelve months of moon phases have passed
since I began fishing this lake of Lethe,
each day the circadian rhythm suspends
and I am granted 2 hours for fishing
in my Zen dimension.

I stand like a Moses poised over the lake,
commanding with a mighty rod -
I WILL change the dynamics today
by interrupting fish schedules,
all catches to be released
and no ill will between the species.

Even a slow fishing day
does not diminish the essence of clean mind absorption
of taking in the saturation of the lake,
birds coasting overhead,
and even the red belly of Flyglobespan
leaving Sanford and traveling due north to Scotland at 6pm
is only one more pair of beautiful wings over the horizon.

Mysterious forces swirl just beneath the sheath of water
a magnified-mottled softshell skirting the depths
like an armed floating leather shield.
“The Kracken”, I dubbed it -
Avatar with largess guarding over this territory -
turtle of intimidation,
respecting that we both have a purpose here.

I cast my bait away from it,
watching for the hooded head with
two circular orbs revealing its’ position.
Sometimes obvious masses of  bubbles surfaced,
expelled by both ends of it’s reptile alimentary canal.
Cretaceous ‘Kracken’ and its’ ilk
belonging to this planet millions of years prior to man,
still in basic uniform adapting better than most.
The dark waters mysteriously stifle the pattern
of brown and olive
all monochromatic and symbiotic as one unit -
it is the red and white bobber that’s grossly out of place here.

Suddenly two winking eyes
and massive soft plastron breaks the water
neck extending,
attached to a thick body breaching two diverse worlds
of wet and dry.

These are the largest soft shell turtles in the New World,
sea monsters scanning the lakes from their secret aquatic depths,
making the neighbor children squirm and shout
when the swift-pattern shell passes by.
Many times I was startled by it’s sudden appearance
and I did not want to hook it,
did not want its’ hissing and snapping mouth near my
fingers and toes.
This liquid warrior,
soft frigate fighting vigorously for it’s space,
and it was me who was the invader,
the unwelcomed ‘occupier’

On land there is no faster turtle
and in the lake it’s wet lightning,
I continued to see him as more than a simple species
this turtle was the embodiment of MY modern myth,
voiding the edges of reality to become
a leviathan we all feared would latch onto our lines,
chase us down and eat us whole.

Bringing in bream or shiners too slowly was always a risk,
the Kracken sometimes trailed my catch.
This reptile has a nose made for sniffing death and
is quick to nab anything moving erratic,
like wounded fish or even small ducks-
bottoms up!

This day there was an edgy wind
and wide rippling of the lake.
It was late afternoon,
the sun had been sacked by a wall of gray clouds,
the tannin water did not have the clarity of
sunlight illuminating behind it,
preventing my normal aquatic acuity
from reaching its sight into
the water’s most intimate wet spaces.

I cast out and felt the pull-
just from that tug my adrenalin spilled,
I had hooked something large!
Turtles jerk at a hook differently than fish
and suddenly my line was heading out toward the weeds,
but not sharply down as with a hooked bass.

There was a struggle coming,
from a risky looking sky above
and the waves and reptile fighting against me,
I fought with an invisible power upon the line
as it thrust against the pain of impalement
from a new, sharp hook.

I let it have more line hoping maybe it would loosen,
maybe free itself and swim away,
only to reel and find it still fighting-
fighting against the hook,
fighting against domination,
fighting to preserve its’ turtle dignity.

For a while the line stretched taut,
the rod bending in contortions I didn’t think possible
until finally it was exhausted
as I pulled it closer to shore -
tangling through massive thick hydrilla,
water cutting against it slowing its surrender.

I knew his temper would be ill
his mouth tender and injured
and susceptible to infections-
that hook could prove as lethal as a wounding bullet
to both of us,
one stick and the smallest of deadly bacteria
takes precedent over the largest of beings.

We both struggled for control,
the weeds thickened around him,
the rain began beating down,
but I could not abandon the fight-
my line was still jerking.
I jumped down from the sea wall
to the waters sandy shore
anticipating the worst
thinking how using needle nose pliers,
would be like tackling a minotaur with a safety pin.

As I reeled while standing braced on the shore,
rain saturating my every fiber from head to toe,
the massive beast came into view,
but,
it was not the behemoth I had so imagined
the carapace about 2 feet long — not 5 or greater-
as magnified by the mocking water,
it certainly lacked in Karken proportions.
It’s long neck and legs flailing-
a hook swallowed – the line inside the mouth
it bled red – it’s agony and instinct intact.

My Kracken -
myth of the lake,
myth of my mind -
swimming against the storm tide,
struggling against the pain,
bubbles trailing a route to panic-
animal brought down to scale.

I reached out to try and net him,
but he jerked and pulled
there was no restraining
a very mad, agitated turtle.

As I pulled to get it closer to shore,
it’s feet gave one last thrust of traction
breaking the weakened line then lurching down,
the bobber floating up
riding long the choppy waves.
I watched as a torpedo hurled back to the deep
past the weeds,
past the thick walled and banging water,
past the now fractured tale.

I worried my hook would cost Kracken it’s life,
would it bleed to death, infect and rot?
Sadly, I looked at my pole with dangling,
worn 12 lb. test line,
my head down and battered by rain,
I picked up the wet tackle box and left.

The rain yelled at me,
I had clearly violated the tenets of the lake -
lightning forked above my head,
bent branches whipped me hard with water
as I passed beneath them.
The storm screamed and cried and moaned
for it’s loss,
I listened to it’s anger that whole night,
and thought of nothing else except
how it would feel to be hooked and reeled in,
skin pierced and ripped as vessels burst,
I too cried along with the howling storm…