Header photo by Marvinlouis Dorsey / Topic suggested by Mani Suri
The night draws nigh
The night draws nigh
when the veil between worlds
reveals the other side
The night draws nigh
sunset walking closer
to the sunrise
The night draws nigh
only ravens and coyotes
converse between rattling leaves
The night draws nigh
the deep sky is darker
and stars move more brightly
The night draws nigh
my heart beats ready for magic
a flame lighting the path
The night draws nigh
as Samhain calls me
to share tales with the dead
Hallway Weaving
Terror a darkened hallway
as he tries to make his way east
toward the restrooms and two back bedrooms
collapsing over obstacle
after obstacle
then pushing himself him
scratching the walls to right himself’
beneath the dim ceiling light
a sound echoes
begins to mix with his blurry vision,
vertigo,
realizes, it’s his own breath fading,
the shadow creatures approach
all hunger and teeth.
My mother sits on the edge of her bed,
like music a conversation, soars to the clouds;
I think what does she know of gypsies’ traditions,
the meaning of Flamenco dancers’ itinerant lives?
Lola wants to read her fortune,
describe what’s on the other side
away from feather beds, inheritance rights.
Outside, moonlight thins into a silver crest.
They share premonitions, old tales,
memories stored on top of armoires’
higher shelves stacked with useless money
because it expired after the war; another loss.
Lola sings, “Ay Pena Penita, Pena,”
a ballad of heartache and banishment
conjuring a caravan of wanderers
dancing from India into the bedroom.
My mother shares her own tragedy,
brothers disappearing one by one into the dark,
the father’s death, the mother’s brow wilted
by loneliness and hunger brought by war.
Lola insists to teach her the right way
to wrap herself with a Manila shawl,
shake her hips to drop heavy burdens
like mortal sins at the confessional.
Both remember the bombings,
darkening windows, meandering lines
to grab a little rice, a friendly conversation,
the heartache of their unattainable dreams.
Singing begins softly, Lola’s voice, seashells
swept by sadness and sandy grains of insomnia.
A red sun pushes itself above the horizon to listen
to my mother’s oceanic laments of separation.
Exile stories mingled with love, pain and mystery.
Lola anoints my mother’s forehead with olive oil
as a dule of doves traces the indigo sky with comets
healing what’s left of the wounded night, for now.
* Lola Flores, a gypsy dancer and singer famous and popular for generations in Spain.
After I Kissed my Convalescent Husband at the Hospital
I kissed my husband good bye and walked into the night, a sad sliver of moonlight and my wool coat as my only companions. It was November 1st and the residents of Srinagar, -Muslims and Hindus, had no reason to celebrate, neither did I.
On the deserted boulevard a few street lights shone over the onyx-like wet pavement. After a while a rhythmic distant sound entered my consciousness. Alerted I accelerated my steps towards Dahl Gate to hire a shikara to take me to our houseboat. The sound advanced faster. To my right, on the sleek reflective pool of the sidewalk I noticed the silhouette of a person, a man no doubt. I could hear his breathing closer to my ear, not a pleasant scenario for a foreign woman walking alone at night.
As the shadow loomed over my head I turned to face him, swung the nylon bag I carried -with two glass jars inside- and using all my strength hit him again and again hollering like a wolf. To my surprise the ghost ran away.
on a cold rainy night
a man is defeated
by the food of a woman
I lean on the door jamb with my neighbor
unlike thirty years ago at my first earthquake.
I could swear my husband asked me to lie down
before he called my name, slapped me softly,
insisted I fainted watching violently uprooted trees.
That day the red and purple sky scared me
like now do those bruises Margarite wears,
the battered wives’ badge of honor.
She assured me she wasn’t one until she was
lying on a hospital bed, two arms broken.
That first earthquake didn’t unsettle me
with freeways damaged I continue working
on my computer, forgot the office, the fear.
But for weeks my hands shook on the mirror,
my chin trembled sensing footsteps, my tea soured.
She’s sour too, angry at the firmness of fate,
the blue moods stopping her from packing,
the scratchy microphone of his throaty voice
ordering her to attention: clean, cook, stay.
She sweeps floors, performs her wifely duty,
gets beaten anyway between dreams
of disappearing into space like a meteorite,
owning a garden of lavender and rosemary,
knowing her hunger for companionship is dead,
and the joy in her hips of honey will not return.
The trees shed their leaves, her skin peels
by the fireplace she gets cigarrette burns,
on her head’s bold patches, she paints birds.
She sinks daily into a dark well of sorrows,
violins never play for her in the night.
I tell her paralyzing anxiety made me faint,
being an ostrich hiding our heads under the sand
could killed us as well as earthquake’s debris.
I whisper that the way to freedom is to abandon
earthquake drama, leave the door jam and step outside.
in
back
re-
laxing
un-
der
strange
full blue
moon
been
taxin
my-
self
as if
i was
an IRS
just
an-
other
test
be-
fore
i can
see
who
i
am
Moonrise bright, moonlight
Black velvet midnight gem sky
October's still night.
Haiku #2
Moon glow and rising
Creamy circles brightly dance
Rays of the still night.
Dodger blue tarp tents
Unhoused vs homelessness
Busy mornings and still nights
Owning compartments of
plastic comfort
To keep the weather elements
from a face becoming leathery at bay
The masses of Freeway Freddies
own the underpass
a concrete mattress cold and gray
Tumbleweed bodies, arid, are the
human plants that thirst for bottled water,
huddle for warmth from sun filled rays.
A thirsty Egyptian towel,
shower soap and water
as in Calgon take me away.
Dodger blue tarp tents can only
do so much to prevent a
wind blown breeze
sharp chill, arthritic depth of
the bone unseasonal winters cold
from the still night into day
and their makeshift Home Sweet Home.
"The Stoic"
there’s a rose blanket
on my bed
a gift given to me
that last night on the street
dude bade me buena suerte
and walked away
funny thing, me
kicked off the Greyhound
for extreme vomiting
in the moving bathroom
and I never argued
just walked away
been to jail enough
16-inch blocks of beige painted stone
so thick you can peel off the stuff
bunkie wrote Silvers on the wall
Rooster wrote Lost Dog
and I felt God hold me
in the still night
in the pathos
in the foresight
we were far gone on
Effexor and Buspar
in the shakedown
final head count
lost four years of life
that's over
I haven't had a soup in years
my apartment on Front Street is
fireworks and
jumping demons
dreaming of
a place
where I’m finally okay
this desk is IKEA
putting it together was a breeze
plastic hands hold my water bottle
orgone pyramid for a pretty shape
got my grandmother’s old lamp
her mirror
still hangs on the wall behind me
and acted, very briefly
as an interdimensional portal
I did
however
wash the glass of the sun gate
and run the obligatory
apo pantos kakodaimonos
and smoke bundles of sage
put my own face to the mirror
and screamed change!
you ever do that?
hold yourself hostage
and say something like
I’ll smash your ass if you don’t GROW UP
now look at me
chalked up a new chance at the horse race
a spirit scores for the faithless tonight
if I had a soul, bet he got it
with blood and archaic lettering
egregore gibberish divine
a chance that I had
turned around and had me
and we tried our luck on each other
not classically, though—
long time ago, that was such a long time ago
now this new age
view from above business I got on
takes a bit longer to get the check
but it’s all about sustainability
and the angels pay more
as long as I'm
up at dawn to watch the sunrise
up at dawn to smile
up at dawn to say,
"Now this--yes this. This is what I'm made for."
Barren Buffet
Cinema is not here
Music in tears
Literature fears
Dance unclear
Comedy in arrears
Night still in King Lears
We are Humpty Dumpty
Sitting in a stall
Like a pockmarked hall
Neighborhood mall
Muse on the run
Notes near a gun
Camera shattered by the sun
Inspiration over and done
Imagination a ridiculous pun
We a mutilated sum
Where are our hands?
In a shell counting strands
When will we die?
In the next moment
Devouring ham
How will our souls excel?
I don't know
Maybe ringing bells
Hearts in hell
Vanilla the air
Neutral stare
Alabaster glare
Emptiness over there
Wasteland bare
Hollow Hall
We walk in chains
Put there by vanity
Tightened by sanity
Loosened by humility
Strolling in a sea of commotion
Below the pollution
Inside the revolution
Limber the sensation
Striding between cracks
In our lack
Ribs in my sacral iliac
Squares on a chessboard
Sprinting away from the kind
The very bind between
Love and hate
Early and late
Soaring through stucco skies
With no reason why
Hollow in soul and lie
Rye and pie
Still as night
We abandon the fight
Flying a kite
Into this disturbing blight
STILL
There are many stills into the night.
They are varied by sight.
Not many are common.
But some are clowned upon.
Not all.
Stills can be seen.
And not heard.
Like a nerd.
They are absurd.
To the touch.
But as such.
They are known.
Just look at a typewriter.
You'll see the upper and lower case.
Just like lace.
NIGHT
Night comes and goes.
It never lasts.
Like a glass.
You wash it once.
And it's clean as a whistle.
Like a thistle.
Night is a blast.
Like a cast of characters.
It remains stable.
Like an able person.
Night is to be preserved.
As a curve.
It never falters.
Or teeters.
It remains steadfast.
As a mask.
Forever past.
But a dash.
Like a cat.
Taking a nap.
NIGHT SOUNDS
Zephyr blew
Brushed my checks
Leaves rustling
Crickets chirping
Owl's hooting
Dogs barking
Cats meowing
Stars sending Morse Code
Glass of tea
Relaxing in outdoor air
Then all was quiet
Stillness of the night
Leaves drooping
Cats and dogs seeking shelter
Crickets hiding
Wind stops blowing
Temperature dropped
Barometer register no air pressure
Day turned into night
Storm of a century
Destruction, mayhem
Life changed forever
Welcome to climate change
BE STILL, BE STILL
Babies in ovens
Maybe they will stop
Be Still, Be Still
Torching people
Maybe they will stop
Be Still Be Still
Raping, burning
Maybe they will stop
Be still, Be Still
Taking hostages
Maybe they will stop
Be Still, Be Still
Fighting back, killing terriorists
Maybe they will stop
Be Still, Be Still
Only want peace, no cease fire
Maybe they will stop
Be Still, Be Still
Continue to attack, do not want peace
Will not stop
Be Still, Be Still
Killing hostages, using their people as shields
Will not stop
Be Still, Be Still
Death to America
Pro Palestine's protest
Free Palestine terrorist
Maybe they will stop
Be Still, Be Still
They will not stop
From sea to sea
Kill all infidels
They will not stop
No longer Be Still
Do Not Be Still
NIGHT SKY
Moon orbits the Earth
Surveys the sky
Stars, comets, meteorites
Having different phases
Full, half, quarter
Waxes and wans
Emitting light
New Moon
Discharges no light
At all
Night is pitch black
Moon at rest
Sleeping
Full moon in the morning, poets’ portents of foreboding?
Warning of lines without end stops, stumbled troches,
or notice from restless Muses of mischief on the way,
omphaloskepsis out the window an occupational hazard.
A turntable nighttime is abandoned by dawn.
I had jazz, pop, rock, folk going strong in the basement.
A nice Norwegian girl had plans to become semidetached.
She refused to do an inventory of what she was jettisoning.
I was not that impressed by her knees or her red pullover,
but there was definitely something that made her stand out.
A desert dust storm woke up the bathroom mirror.
It did not do anything for the spiritual vacancy that has muddied my palms.
The Norwegian girl would break into humming Strawberry Fields Forever
whenever I brought up how the Sixties were an inflatable bicycle tire
swerving into traffic with too much acid filling the dead zone.
Burma Shave took me on a Tombstone trip when I was still wet behind the ears.
The real Burma put Dad in a malaria funk to beat the band.
He rode boars up and down the mud trails left by the enemy.
When in doubt, I practice Penny Lane on the alto sax.
It always seems to clear my head of so much California debris.
There was a big hole near the entrance of the Valley College library
that made it difficult to keep out crazy coyotes looking for salvation.
I only mention this since I was an Adjunct there for 12 years
and I came to believe that renovations are the curse of modern life.
Between space and a hard place, I keep tabs on the seasonal fog
that is retreating into a YA blog factory threatening to grow into the next big thing.
plutonian shore
I toss in the 3am darkness
my dream fading into thoughts
trying to puzzle out plots
to unwritten stories
that I’ll likely forget
as the sun rises
on responsibility
and my muddling
finds no closure
as another day slips
out of potential
onto the cusp
of past
and future
where existence toys
with folly
like I do
when sleep has fled
and I choose
to rise before the sun
and derail
the dismay
that lurks behind
the whispered curtains
watching me
and waiting
for me to finally
become mad
and listen
to the black bird’s
call
carpe noctem
the wind that
chills me
does not touch
the moon glowed clouds
still against
the autumn stars
mere memories
against a velvet black
painting of all the nights
I said
“wait”
‘cause I could be
the man on the moon
looking down
at pirouetting
dancing worlds
wrapped up in
experience
singing to gods
unknown
until the eastern sky
glows
a poppy orange
and time
breaths a sigh
seizes the day
then lets go
Still Still Night
The advantage of the rolling nights, endlessly, tumbling night after night, are the stories that don't stick, that make little sense, that emerge nevertheless. Or so my friend told me. He told me as well about his acquaintance who lived in a marvelous house, in a coveted suburb of a glorious city. That friend of a friend lived there, alone, in that large, stately mansion, or so most people believed. But upstairs, late at night, when the desk lamp came on, one could see the silhouette of a second resident, who never ventured out and was not known. The friend of a friend was a dapper sort, the kind who made a pipe and silk lounging robe look glamorous. He'd stand in the doorway proffering pleasant hellos to passersby, without anyone truly getting to know him. Upstairs, shrouded in shadows, plump and be-frocked, his mysterious partner. What nobody knew about them was that they had moved there from a distant realm. They could have been spouses, perhaps, but indeed, they were connected more profoundly than that. They were retired characters from an over-told, well-worn fable. They were the Scorpion and the Frog, living in their story-telling limbo.
A Cosmic Dream
Looking up at the stars
On a summer night
I am mesmerized
Closing my eyes
I escape to
The unfathomable depth
Of the universe
Traveling in the cosmos
Into the unknown
I enter into a multidimensional universe
Passing ten thousand galaxies
I descend into a black hole
Where time and space are distorted
In the mysterious silence
I find peace
Between the rational and illogical
Reality and illusion
Conflict and harmony
And the beginning and the end
Turn into one
All-consuming truth
black night haiku
Night sky black whispers
come to me please. She follows.
Taste buried blue dreams.
I think Aubrey Plaza is taking my speech class. She shows up on Zoom with somebody else’s name in the left corner of her little Zoom box. But she looks and sounds exactly like herself. She’s absent enough for someone with a pretty busy acting schedule. Seeing her every lecture, or at least the lectures she is present for is bringing me back to the time that I practiced yoga for an entire 90 minutes next to Emily Blunt, and did not realize it until my ex-husband mentioned it to me on our way out of the studio. Or the time that Drew Barrymore stood in line two people ahead of me at the same yoga studio. Or, when I realized that the stinky guy to my right in a Sunday night yoga class was Colin Farrell. Once I realized it was him, suddenly his body odor was less of a stink and more of a relief. I didn’t have to feel so self-conscious about my own body odor. In class, I ask “Aubrey” if she and Jenna Ortega are secretly BFFs. Though my student doesn’t understand my reference to the actresses’ shared presentation at the 2023 SAG awards, she does give me an Aubrey-esque deadpan stare. A few other students get it and giggle. One loses it so much that he has to momentarily turn off his camera. I move on, as if I said nothing, but the Aubrey look alike stays on camera, moving so little that I wonder if she has switched to a static shot.
Right before Bed
Everything is clean. The floors are swept and mopped
She finished it all. The to-do list is now crumpled up
In the trash bag, which is neatly tied and in the
Dumpster in the parking lot. Her hair is braided.
She’s wearing her favorite silky night gown
The dog has been walked and fed.
The baby is asleep. Her face and teeth are clean.
The only thing left is to embrace him.
He’s not coming home.
Vaccines
When you are a first-time mom, you don’t realize how much time you are going to spend in the doctor’s office with your perfectly healthy infant. Watching doctors and nurses prick that perfect newborn skin can be unsettling to say the least. I never questioned the value of vaccinating, but I never realized the pain I would feel watching my daughter’s discomfort with them. Once, a nurse told me that I could leave the room when Evelyn got her vaccines so that I wouldn’t have to witness them. I was horrified at the suggestion, and of course I stayed in the room and held my little baby. She was happy and gurgling and the moment she felt the needle she had a look of betrayal that of course triggered my mommy guilt and tears. But I was going to be there. This was part of the foundation I was laying for her to know that no matter what the world does to her, Mommy will always be here. Years later, the Covid lockdown stunted our social lives, and though Evelyn still hated them, it was vaccines that were the key to unlock the door to allow us to go out again.
UNBELIEVABLE (HAIKU)
You said you loved me
I stood still when you said it
The night was shocked too
AROMATHERAPY (HAIKU)
The night smells citrus
Fruitful California
lingers in the air
MUSIC (HAIKU)
One song I sure love
Night Comes On, Leonard Cohen
Always eternal
Or Am I Or Am I Not A Knot Of Contradictions?
After Harmony by Remedios Varo
Last night I woke up in angst. I thought my cat was scratching
behind the closed door. It must have been a desperate critter
scratching frenetically the surface, caught somewhere within the
unfathomable layers wrapped around our home. Its tragic attempt
at freedom left me terrified. I imagined the wall’s plaster cracking
open, giving place to another dimension from which a trapped bird
or bat would fly, or was it another being immured for too long,
striving to liberate itself as it sensed feathered nests in the back of
the recliner’s upholstery?
When I sit still for a while on my desk, I hear the growth of
underground roots filling the interstices of tiles as though I were in
an abandoned patio invaded by weeds or the ruins of an ancestral
house. I am no longer alone, surrounded by reflections of my
lengthening shadow rising over the walls. That’s when I sense
writing as a form of incantation. See, that’s why I write, not to
tell a story but to reconcile myself with the echoes of the tunes
that keep singing within me like a haunting melody as the musical
score becomes tridimensional, takes a life of its own, or is it just a
variation on the same tune?
First published by The Night Heron Barks
From Did You Ever See The Other Side? (Press 53 2023)
Reading by Candlelight
Bent over the page, I watch the light of the candle cast fluid shadows,
the way the cypress pierces low clouds with its vertical green flame,
flaring will-o’-wisps spring from the spiral staircase of my
consciousness, ferns unfurl in slow motion, spread liquid color
at dawn as fronds fill spaces once covered with snow,
the hearth’s fiery tongues my cat and I watch flicker all night long,
the blue flame rising when I’d flambé cognac over crêpes suzettes,
the flicker of a match lighting a cigarette,
the infamous flames of a pyre or an auto da fe in a central square,
the flame of a candle I read about, lighting Camoens’ table,
his cat sitting on a pile of notes eyes gleaming at the waning wick,
the poet keeps writing in the dark under the light shed from the eyes
of his cat,
the tall flames casting a shadow-show of a couple’s encounter over
the walls of a cave,
flames rising from Beirut at night, as we watched from the mountains
during the civil war,
the flames of violence filtered by the TV screen, more virtual each day,
still color the news, images hiding the smell of blood and charred skin
First published by Poetic Diversity The Litzine of Los Angeles,
From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)
Vanishing Point
After Surreal Board Games: Street of Chance by Juanita Guccione
Under a dark moon that has decided to keep silent, I wander
along the street of chance, staring at the vanishing point,
uncertain of the odds of being, but with the certainty that it
leads to the sea. I walk like an automaton among passersby,
gliding as faceless pawns. A couple of black horses pound the
pavement, wavering between going forward or backward.
I wonder what lies for me at the end of this road lined with
lamplights and palm trees. Fan-leaved branches stretch,
unfolding an animated deck of cards turning into murals that
grow in size. Shuffled and reshuffled at each step, some cards
flip into a hall of mirrors in which I lose myself in my own
reflections, as though in an old photo album where the faces
of those now buried are fading.
we’re crossing the bridge of death to leave behind
the madness . . . black sacks stained
with blood . . . stillness . . . snipers. . .
a heart skips a beat.
I walk faster, look sideways: some things are best forgotten.
Let’s fold the night into light. I pass a couple of young men
who seem to get closer to me, then recede and peel off the
murals, disintegrate like antique parchments at the sight of an
imposing woman in Tyrian purple, a younger version of my
mother who takes me by the hand and whispers in my ear:
There isn’t a minute to lose.
First published by Gargoyle
From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)
I’m the magic moment on magic mushrooms
$10 a gram, amphetamines, heroin for less.
Homeless, happy, Walmart discarded pillow
found in a puddle with a reflection,
down and dirty in the rain—down by the bridge.
Old street-time lover, I found the old bone man we share.
I’m in my butt-stink underwear, bra torn apart,
pants worn out, and holes in all the wrong places.
In the Chicago River, free washing machines.
Flipped out on Lucifer’s nighttime journey,
Night Train Express, bum wine, smooth
as sandpaper, 17.5 % alcohol by volume $5.56—
my boozer, hobo specialty wrapped in a brown bag.
Straight down the hatch, negative memories expire.
Daytime job, panhandling, shoplifting, Family Dollar store.
Salvation Army as an option. My prayers. I’ve done both.
Chicago River sounds, stone, pebble sand,
and small dead carp float by.
My cardboard bed box is broken down,
a mattress of angel fluff,
magic mushrooms seep into my stupor—
blocking out clicking of street parking meters.
I see Jesus passing by on a pontoon boat—
down by the river, down by my bridge.
was the hip new drug in 1978.
Well, maybe not for the haute couture set,
who had their Fancy Dan "freebase",
but for us, the lumpen proles.
I remember we (me & my roommates Doug & Brian)
were at a party at Greg Ross' place,
overlooking the 405 freeway at Sepulveda and
everything was always coated in black soot.
If Charles Manson had a goofy,
possibly less-murderous little brother,
that would have been Greg.
Doug had met him in jail a couple months back,
when he got busted for drinking and being mouthy
on Venice Boardwalk.
(This is how we 'social networked' in our day.)
Greg became our go-to dealer for acid,
but the last shipment never came in,
and Greg owed us front money.
In lieu of the missing LSD, Greg offered to give equivalent value
in the new Wonder High, Angel Dust.
We figured we'd better take him up on his offer,
it was probably our only hope of reimbursement.
Taking us in the back bedroom,
he laid out lines of a vile-looking brown powder
(although not as vile as smoking it, I discovered,
unless one has an acquired taste for
dust-bunnies dipped in hot asphalt.)
I made a point of snorting the lion's share,
as most of the money-owed was mine.
After that, I remember two things.
One is sitting in the corner, deprived of the power of speech,
yet smiling like an idiot, looking around at the mix of
bikers, burnt-out hippies, teen-age runaways & drunks and
realizing if someone grabbed a ball peen hammer
and started beating me about the temples,
I'd still be wearing this shit-eating grin
as my brains oozed out over the carbon dust-covered floorboards.
"This is 'total derangement of the senses'?" I wondered.
The other is standing alone in the kitchen,
because I apparently got the munchies,
but the only foodstuff was a jar of peanut butter
which I was eating with a fork when
Brian walked in, went "Well, ok!"
and walked right out.
The rest of the night I only know second-hand:
blacking-out, foaming at the mouth, comatose,
to the point that our friend, who was nicknamed
"The Walking Scab with Boots" (not to his face, however--
he worked at a chemical plant and was usually covered
with ulcerous lesions) felt impelled to give me
mouth-to-mouth (which made me a tad disgusted when
I found out later, but, to be fair,
he probably wasn't too thrilled about the whole thing either)
before depositing my prone form in the back of his pickup
and carrying it back to our apartment
in the neighborhood east of Venice known as "Little Tijuana."
So, anyhow, there I lay on my ratty sofa bed
in the front room/kitchenette area of
our squalid, motel-style complex
(Brian had the other sofa bed; Doug being the elder,
got the bedroom--$240 a month,
which broke down to 80 bucks each),
my roomies' drug-addled brains no doubt
vaguely worried by the thought that
I might up and croak on them,
when finally in the pre-dawn hour I found voice
and moaned "Where am I?"
"Home," replied Doug.
"HHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMEEE?!" I cried out,
in such a long drawn-out syllable of relief & joy
given our sordid circumstances that Doug and Brian
burst out in laughter that was some time dissipating.
In fact, my little verbal ejaculation became something
of a private catch-phrase for a bit,
a joke both mocking and acknowledging
a deep existential longing for us & our ilk--
strangers, hundreds or thousands of miles
from our points of origin,
randomly thrown together, united
in our burning desire to wander
the streets of the City of Dreams.
I believe it took the better part of a month
for my brain to feel normal after this adventure.
Also, in case there is some perceived ambivalence,
these are what are fondly recalled as
'the good times'--
We were 19,20 & 21.
Illustration: Charles Baudelaire "Autoportrait sous l'influence de haschisch" 1842-1845.
Still night
and creatures cease
stirring in their places
of safest rest.
Like a curtain is falling,
made of silence,
keeping us separate,
split from the rest.
The Angels are not singing.
All things postponed.
Holding their breath - waiting -
as-if on-hold.
Like sitting on the hillside
over the town.
A pleasant starry night -
not warm or cold.
I consult the sleepwalker
who loves the night.
If the heavenly bodies lose their shine -
does anything remain?
He says that nature is full of beauty.
She speaks a language of hidden feeling.
The night sky still circulates with life.
It was a mystery - he couldn’t explain.
Then we looked at his sketches - shadows of the sky - ballerinas on the winds - turbulent waves in the air - and the laughter of the moon.
NIGHT WINS
Electric air: breathe it in
and still night wins
We have an entire power station behind us in the headboard
and still night wins
Roll over roll over into the searchlights
our white flag all lit up
like a bedsheet stretched across the neon midway
You can’t miss it
And still night wins
Shall we agree to meet darkness half-way
No challenges, no tigers, no dogfights, a truce
Mourning doves pair-up, wings trussed
ready to surrender, to give in
But like Eve and Adam unplugged in Eden
for crimes of intimacy
there will be no mercy
Night wins
Night Still
In the Still of Night
I used to dream
of passion overcoming
my reluctance
On my wedding night
I remained intact
for I’d never learned
what to do
Night Still
Still night
Not still tonight
Till night
Good night tonight
Still well tonight
Nights till
Tomorrow night
Wedding night
Party night
Nighty night
Night
Slides under door jambs,
pouring through windows,
painting my room black.
This evening was spent
watching old movies.
Song-and-dance actors
looping through gay,
improbable plots.
All my plates are put away,
cups hanging on hooks.
The towel is still moist.
I blow out cinnamon candles,
wafting the air with spice.
Listening now to heat
sputtering and dogs
barking at winds.
Wintry Bouquet
This December
during wide nights
hemmed by blackness,
I remember roses.
Pink yellow red violet
those satin blooms of June.
We must wait six months
before seeing blossoms,
touch their brightness
crush their scent
with fingertips.
Now there are only
ebony pools of winter’s
heavy ink of darkness.
Dipping into memory of
my lips touching petals
tantalizing sweet buds.
My body longs for softness.
I glimpse brilliant faces of
flowers right before me as I
burrow beneath frosty blankets.
Bracing against that long, cold
nocturnal of wind and shadow.
Nightscape
Fog horns sound though
air soaked in blackness.
All evening long listening
to hiss of trucks, cars.
Shadows brush across walls
as trees trace their branches.
Gathering and waving
together then swaying apart.
While I sleep, stars glide
through heaven making
their appointed rounds in
ancient sacred procession.
Dreams as smooth as rose
petals spill into my mind
growing wild patches in
this dark garden of night.
Still Night Haiku
Rest your weary soul
And listen to the still night
Between your heartbeats
Still Night’s Solace
As twilight settles
Shadows lengthening after the trying day
Workday at an end
Lay down your burdens
Rest easy
Tasks complete
And withdraw into comfort
Contentment
Finding respite from troubles
In the still night’s solace
Night, Still - (Haiku Trilogy)
Twilight descendeth
Day’s last warm, golden rays fade
Formless shadows fall
Damp mists rise o’er us
Blue turns to grey turns to black
So naught may be seen
We pray for dawn’s light
Though the darkest shall yet come
For it is night, still
Fitting Sewage Pipes in Phoenix
People doing the work are like thieves intent on stealing
other people’s valuables
When they are walking, they are walking intent on stealing,
and when they are sitting they are sitting intent on stealing
Journal entries fast as roadrunners,
Pass
as poem ships In the night
All I want is five grand for
my chapbook.
Four months
fitting sewage pipes
in Phoenix. Working graveyard to avoid
the heat.
Sleeping nine to five.
If the mentality that seeks honor
and advantage does not cease,
you will be ill at ease all your life
Four months
fitting sewage pipes
in Phoenix
Sleeping
nine to five
Journal entries
Fast as roadrunners,
Pass
as poem ships
In the night
Thanks to Ming-pen, Dogen and the concept of found poem.
still night
as so often was the case
when everything was reported
and there was nothing left to do
but catch the culprits if the police
were going to do that, note takers
closed and put away their notebooks
whether paper or electronic
and walked away to do whatever came next
but for the victim and her family
they were left with the frustration
that it was and might always be still night
maybe holy
in one version of the story,
angels filled the sky
and sang hosannas and praises
above a bunch of shepherds
cowering at the sudden jubilee
so much so that when the angels
stopped their singing and left,
the shepherds abandoned their
flocks and hightailed toward town
where they found a manger
a baby, a worn out new mother,
a terrified old man, and three men
ostensibly wise equally in wonder
later that morning they had to explain
to their employer why they didn't know
where the goddamned sheep had gone
but for a moment at the manger
it was still night, and maybe holy
pre-dawn
once a little boy and his sister
woke in the middle of the night
sure they had heard sleigh bells
jingling away, so they rubbed their eyes,
held hands, and walked to the stairs
and down them, to look at the tree
and both sat down astounded
when they went to bed, a bear had sat
near a drum beneath the tree
but what their wondering eyes saw then
was forty-leven packages, a bicycle
and two dolls, a plate with crumbs
in it, and a mug with a tablespoon
of coffee left in it, they whooped
and roused their parents, who also
came down but the parents complained
"for pity's sake, it's still night!
couldn't you have waited until dawn?"
Silent Night Unholy Night
She lay there still
in the silent night
quiet in her bones
quiet in her flesh
but her heart was drumming
loudly
and her head was screaming
louder
still
still
her bones
and flesh
were quiet.
The parts that can be seen
were quiet
quiet as the night,
the unholy night.
So no one noticed the noise.
Still Night
I thought I would paint a still life.
Perhaps a still still life
dead still
dark as night
unmoving
unconnected to life
set up for its decorative value
or the challenges it presents
to the artist or viewer.
But now in the night it’s invisible,
still waiting for the light
still waiting
to come to life
still unseen
in the darkness
where it’s still night
forever night.
New Day
The loss of light came as ever
as the year drew to a close
like the loss of light coming
as a life draws to its close.
That’s when the day ends
and the forever night begins.
But now,
strangely
a new day begins
at midnight
in the middle of the night
when darkness is at its
blackest,
its most intense
and only the night owls
are out and about
heaving their midnight sighs.
Only for them is it still night.
So I breathe in the dawn
and against all the odds
I let the new day in.
MANA*
Mana is
Bahaman Brahmans chanting mantras before a Madagascar dawn
High noon profits of a Mama & Papa pot shop in Chicago
Jogging off manifold Machiavellian manipulations on Saginaw sidewalk
The magic of a margarita with a Mohammedan Madonna in March
Mana is EAST
Mana is SOUTH
Mana is WEST
Mana is NORTH
Mana is
Spring cantatas of rocking Rachmaninoff’ and be-bopping Bach
Jimi Hendrix, Joe Cocker, Santana and Janis Joplin at Woodstock
Manioc madness manifested at a Madison, Wisconsin stomp dance
A sasquatch munching Choctaw chocolate on frozen Mackinaw swamp
Mana is MORNING
Mana is AFTERNOON
Mana is EVENING
Mana is NIGHT
Mana is
The Taj Mahal love of Shah Jahal for his wife, Mumtaz
The prophetic poetry of a pentecostal Hobbit in Managua mañana
Applauding Amada Delgado’s Tecate Tocatta at Montana cocktail lounge
The colossal saxophone of Sonny Rollins melting Stockholm frost
Mana is SPRING
Mana is SUMMER
Mana is AUTUMN
Mana is WINTER
Mana is
The cosmic immensity of a Ma Yüan monochromatic ink drawing
Dietrich Bonhoeffer detoxification of Nazi demagoguery
Mayahana contacts with Yahweh through an Allen Watts podcast
The BEYOND us which is also WITHIN us
Mana is INFANCY
Mana is YOUTH
Mana is MATURITY
Mana is OLD AGE
* Pervasive supernatural or magical power. (especially in Polynesian, Melanesian, and Māori belief)
OZYMANDIAS
COM LIT 250 CRITICAL BIBLE STUDIES SEMINAR: Loki draws a picture of a wormhole, finishes, and lays down her marker on the whiteboard tray)
Loki: Critical Bible Studies fans we are going to take a field trip to visit the one and only Ozy-MAN-DEEEEEE-USSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! (Loki enters wormhole followed by her class.)
Okie: Hey, Big O, I hear your boys kicked ass big time last war.
Ozymandias: That’s what I do, Baby! I am the greatest!
Cal: So who’s next? Looks like you really love war.
Ozymandias: I don’t necessary like war, buddy but I do love wealth and power and the more land you take the more power you get.
Edmund: And so now you’re number one.
Ozymandias: That’s right, buddy, In the game of empires there ain’t no number two.
Laura: When we came to your palace, I saw this vast statue standing tall on two legs of stone which sculptors were working on. Most impressive. Who is this a statue of?
Ozymandias: You’re looking at him, sweetheart. The latest and largest of the many statues of me that my loyal subjects have erected all over my realm. I tell you my people can’t seem to get enough of me.
Amiri: Well all your buildings and roads are indeed impressive but still humans can not live by bread alone. What do you do to people of different faiths in kingdoms you conquer? Do you make them change their religions to yours?
Ozymandias: Well, the gods on my side are obviously stronger than the ones on my colonial subjects side but hey, I’m the most tolerant emperor ever and so I don’t give a shit who they worship as long as they pay me their tribute.
Chaz: Most magnanimous of you, Ozzy. At least you didn’t tear down the temples of another faith and built your places of worship on top of them as the “Onward Christian soldiers” did in Tenochtitlan.
Blake: Your majesty is in danger of provoking divine wrath for his hubris. The scriptures of my people say, “Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall”. Moreover, my lord and savior, who just happens to be the king of kings and Lord of Lords said in his Sermon on the Mount,“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”
Ozymandias: (Laughing) An army of wimps taking over the world. You’re funny, kid.
Blake: Well, I don’t mind being a fool for Christ, for I believe that
One Day
Every valley shall be exalted,
and every mountain and hill shall be made low:
and the crooked shall be made straight,
and the rough places plain:
And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
and all flesh shall see it together.
Maggie: (chanting)
My soul doth magnify the Lord,
and my spirit hath rejoiced in GOD MY SAV-IOR.
For he hath regarded the low estate of his handmaiden:
for, behold, from henceforth all generations SHALL
CALL ME BLESSED.
For he that is mighty hath done to me great things;
and HOLY IS HIS NAME.
He hath put down the mighty from their seats,
and EXALTED THEM OF LOW DEGREE.
He hath filled the hungry with good things;
and the rich he hath sent EMPTY AWAY.
Edmund: According to your boy, Karl Marx, Mary’s moving Magnificat is nothing more than an opiate addiction.
Cal: He also said, “Religion is the sigh of the oppressed in a heartless world.
Ozymandias: Where in fuck did these religious nuts come from?
Loki: I think, your majesty, they’ve suddenly been afflicted with apocalyptic seizures.
Blake: What’s this handwriting I see written on the wall—MENE TEKEL PARSIN.
Ozymandias: What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t see no writin’ on no wall.
Joni: I had two years of Pig Latin in high school and can interpret these words you can see but don’t want to see. MENE means “numbered,” TEKEL means “weighed,” and PARSIN means “divided.” God has numbered the days of your empire and has brought it to an end. He has weighed you on his balance scales, and you fall short of what it takes to be a wise and good ruler. So God has divided your empire between the Medes and the Persians. In other words you be in deep shit, boy!
Ozymandias: Hey, skinny, you need to put some meat on your bones if you don’t want to end up being a lonely old maid.
Okie: For all you know she could end up being a happy lesbian.
Ozymandias: Anyway, you guys don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. Who ain’t gonna remember my name? Look at all the statues and monument made in my honor. I tell you my fame is gonna live forever.
SCENE 3 Loki’s class walks back to the wormhole to return home.
Loki: How long did Ozymandia’s empire last, Wiki?
Wiki Lin: (Looking at her iPhone) Not even close to being one of history’s longest and largest empires. The poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley, tells about a traveler from an antique land who said:
Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
Blake: And on the pedestal these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away
Still Wet Spell
It was a dark and rainy, not stormy, night.
The precipitation was really just heavy mist
but Mother Nature missed the message, and
She continued to add fuel to the fire non-stop
for the entire span of afterhours and spires of
downspouts and gutters and drains and strains
on the credibility of all of us who witnessed
the days and weeks of waters from the sky by
the side of the aquatic barn and the aquifer of
accumulated baggage and clichés and leftovers
from the great flood of the middle ages of life
and subsequent wafting and rafting all the way
down river to the end of the event and dockage.
Good for Me:
I happened to hear someone place his excuse
for noticeable changes in the muddle of the night
and I thought not to meddle in ranges of ways
since I am by nature a model citizen who has
made all efforts to be neighborly indeed
and to accept such merry mutations gladly
Dear Diary Four
They asked me to dredge up memories of a memorable somebody,
maybe reconstruct some things she, or he, had said at some point.
So, OK, my choice is Julian, a guy I think of when I recall street life.
At my previous place of residence there was no framed structure
on the lot, which was actually quite nice, to look at and camp on.
Still the mail carrier (notice I did not use the word mailman)
would deliver to the curbside box, which survived despite all.
And where there's a curb, there's a gutter,
and where there's a gutter there's always the possibility
of there having been days when big-time drunkards would simply
pass out there and sleep all night or until someone roused them.
That is where Julian comes in, as he was one of the rum-fueled
visionary bums who would gaze at the fancy-ass gutters beneath
the roofs of the show-off houses across the street and imagine
that the rain spilling down the spouts was in reality wine, brew,
spirits, firewater, moonshine to illuminate their dank innards.
And, according to him, lest anyone think there's no there there,
you folks need only trade your own lunar-cy
for the bright lights of a tomorrow's solar-cy.
And there you have it. I never got it either.
I have stood
empty-handed,
liberated,
one is company,
and even a
shadow' is too much.
I am with
the crickets at
night, breathing
in the dark watching
nothing, hearing
every single sound
those critters
make: a language
I don't understand,
but enjoy a great
deal. It makes me
feel I'm not alone.
I can't figure out what percentage
of my heart was left behind
in the old country. I wonder if
it was the warm and innocent
part of my heart that stayed
in the town of Zacatepec.
The jungle was the nickname
given to the town by the other
soccer teams that came to play.
They were usually eviscerated
by the heat and by the hometown team,
which was accustomed to the weather
conditions. I hardly ever wore
shoes, always in sandals, and
many times without a shirt.
It has been more than thirty years
since I made my way back.
I feel my heart a little bit harder,
uncertain of what I would find if I
returned. both of my grandparents
died. They were the ones who
raised me when I was a young boy
there, from age two to age seven.
I wonder if my heart would be full
again once I stepped into that small
town, or would my heart break, along
with any percentage of warmth or
innocence still contained in my heart.
Pensive on this quiet night.
I sit in a corner of a room.
The city no longer alive.
The air whispers faintly.
It is a strange air, like if it
wants to tell me things.
It is circling unlike a vulture.
The house wants some
conversation or a song
to fill its spaces. The night
remains quiet. I discover
a certain jealousy.
I love how quiet and still it is.
I offer the house the air
and its whispers. But
the house is bitter,
like if it wants a party.
It remains sullen and cold.
The quiet night soothes me.
It seems the house feels
more alone than me.
I knock on the wall to
acknowledge its needs
and then I blast the stereo.
The Need to Bleed for the Dead
how fragile we are… -- Sting
Last night, a man called Horse opened a wound
to release his grief. I watched it slowly gush
down his chest, a dark tributary of blood
made real by movie magic. The need to heal
by vivisection captures me, an end
solution to sorrow that cannot breathe
its last, except through the skin. Just breathe,
I want to say, but the infected wound
holds you fast like a lover that just can’t end
this forbidden tryst, whose promises gush
forth with desperate demands to heal
the breach, the fatal humors in the blood.
What else can be done? To shed torpid blood
into the thirsty earth until we can’t breathe
anymore seems foolish. Can we heal
from bonds torn asunder and cleanse a wound
that refuses to close? Do we love the gush
of agony that indicates the end
of happiness as we knew it? The end?
Or just the beginning? Grief demands blood
tribute be paid quickly in one long gush
that will not be missed. Now. Let go -- and breathe
easy. This is normal. Otherwise, the wound
would suppurate and refuse to heal
as it should. So, do you want to heal
from this malady, or do you want to end
up a fisher king with a mile-long wound
that is poisoned by that very same blood
you refuse to share until you can breathe
in your putrid lies? Give into the gush
of unhappiness. Let the anger gush
forth. It’s normal. You’ll begin to heal,
though it will take a long time. To breathe
in a wisp of hope, to know there’s an end
to the sick lure of grief and that our blood
will run clean is what we need. The wound
will turn into a scar that stops the gush
of heartache. It’s how we choose to heal,
and it’s as natural as how we breathe.
What To Read to the Dead
Your poetry- first drafts.
The more salacious passages from The Story of O, but not the last 25 pages, because they fall fall flat.
Recipes - and the mini travelogs - from The Vincent and Mary Price Cookbook, and take extra care to linger over the desserts.
A Wrinkle in Time, particularly the passage where Meg has to fight for her little brother Charles Wallace’s soul. If you read this to your older dearly departed sibling, they'll hear it - and understand.
From the Old Testament, “The Song of Songs”; it's a celebration - and filled with joy. From the New Testament; nada, and from the Gnostic Gospels, whatever the hell you want.
Journey to the East, by Hermann Hesse, who transcended his literary despair to share a simple message of hope.
Wuthering Heights, to a dead lover, one that you're glad got away, because love - especially messed up love - lasts forever.
Your diary - or their diary - and hold back nothing, because it's a one-on-one elegy, and confessional, and apology.
Fortune cookie slips from the bottom of your purse.
For suicides, the penultimate chapter from Lust For Life, and whisper the last sentence, “You cannot paint goodbye”, and for homicide victims, Goodnight Moonlight, or some other gentle tale.
A letter, written in the last moments before you arrive at their grave - tear-stained and sloppy- the truth will be in every word.
Leave it there. And never come back.
The Neverending Lesson
One day, King Midas looked
out his bedroom window,
hands crammed In his pockets,
at the old pomegranate tree,
and became consumed
with envy as he watch her shed
a thousand filigreed leaves
with no guile or regret.
After a day and night
of watching the tree
prepare for her winter sleep,
he once again
came to the conclusion
it's not how much wealth
you consume in one lifetime
that’s important, but how
that wealth is utilized,
and this epiphany
echoed in his mind
while he sat upon his throne
and through gilded tears,
gazed upon the shining statue
of his long dead daughter,
a martyr of her father’s greed
and the end of his line.
