LOOK ⎬ MOON ECLIPSES MOON

Dry fingertips ⎯ kiss each other, ⎯intimacy shared→ by opposite

    ⏐       ⏐ 

       alter alert                              Our origins ⎯have given us        hands

    ⏐     change     ⏐

         nerves,         ⭣ which

    ↓     fidelity     ⏐

      when close.     silently;   interchangeably     grab

caress air-fibers        ↓

    |                     nearself.

      lyrical — lovely — level

Pearls Pearls,     ↓

           🡙           balance.

         can change be united   [?]   yet at times

              time

            wants a reaction,

                    a rush felt → transferable

  among zesty fingertips 

     ⏐

        clasp thin-jointed sensitivity belonging

 ⏐ to butterflies —?— instars.  

        how  

                   touch — subtle in progress — brushes flightful wings.

 ↓

         lives in each person: puppet play.  

OUTDOORS:  A SHELTER 

      Ice

     ice       light-caverns enter ice.             untired …

                  ⭡        ice                         … nuthatch ⮍ 

Diamond clear ⭣   🠁

        a brutal atmosphere   …  pine shivers, junco quakes ⭢ wonderful

          frost glares enthusiastic   …     or not in unison.

  ⭣ I (ice)

where …→ bears …→ confirm …→ winter.

          |

      flames … → burst

⭣ ⭣

      illuminate treachery dreams.

       manipulate how snow

      is traded;

      ⭣

  We know death …🡢 wonderous !       We see the Perfect Forest.

        {in our slumber}                     but perfection

              bites     in earth-mouths must never

bites   bites    bite such food

                         bites           ↘  ↘           bit

       bites     bites                 ⮏ {the word moves} ⮍

                    bites     bit             asleep

  bites       too many       bites           ↘  

  bites   awake,

                                             for ideal bears             ⭢            hidden from moods.

FRUIT RINDS — FRUIT SEEDS — PROTECT THEM

I invite   fruit flies  fruit flies  fruit flies   she would expel. 

                             I ⎯comb obsession.→ No! 

        ⏐     ⏐

              worry,           A need    

      Lately ⎯old—she warily concerns→ routine 

          ⏐     another (my) holds ⏐

     which       ↓                                    ↓       rituals

          ⏐       mind ⎯could confuse→ her ⏐

    crumb       with

⏐   pears ⏐

     goes     garbage,

↓ ↓

   with which         wraps it

     scrap? ⎯ Shared decades flit higher→ with care. 

    ⭥

Instinctive → then trained

      ⏐     by

        I take in     —      air, our breaths tour

        ↓               ↓

        the room           the world 

    with   fruit flies         where trash

      ↓          deepens, more complex.

      more room         ↙

     taken — we a pair long close,

      tolerance     a location 

      the inches forgiveness allows — for life.

FEBRUARY 1 ≡ POWER BEYOND         2021

    As I write       this

         a blur             ↓

      converges    over     snow ⮇

          and          from the blizzard I watch

  ↓   ⮡  our window.

         flows ⮆⮆⮆ fiercely raged ⮆ over the words,

               ↘   ⮇ 

        and I       streaks

      ↘   ↓

                         believe       of white

        ↙       ↘   ↓

    suddenly         these       across

   ↙       ↘   ↓

     in my       are not gray

      eager        ↘   ↓ 

insignificance,         the best     white

      ↓       ↘ ↙

    terrible when eyes       letters! ⮆ air-engraved : : : :

can        not        adjust

within calm importance.

Snow pours 🢫 imagination → faster → faster ⮆ faster. 

I

            α    cannot see

        vast need       how the storm works ⮆ flake darts ⮆ self-bloom, twirled

astutely          ⮇           ⮏

found    ζ           decisive → brings obscure wonder – – – – – wisdom. 

Slow Day Shoe Salesman     

Sandy stood behind Dell’s checkout counter, idly rubbing a forefinger back and forth over the bills in the open register drawer. Her eye firmly set on the recently hired junior shoe salesman  serving a customer; a boyish young man, with an unhappily tight line of a mouth, and an overall tense look. In the chair next to him towered an impressive-looking woman in unnaturally neat clothing, whom Sandy took to be his mother.
As the salesman took the young man’s measurements, she spoke to her son loudly enough for Sandy to hear. There, see—I told you that you had your shoe size all wrong, I mean—look, there. Look at that. You were off by a whole size! Too small! Imagine if you’d come down here alone and told this nice salesman, There’s no need to measure. I need spiked track shoes in a size nine—that would have been wrong in some measure, but then—what if you then said you did not need to try them on at all. Said you knew they’d fit, you’d bought that brand and size before, so measuring and trying, in this case, would just be a waste of the shoe salesman’s time, so—and so forth, and so on, is what you’d have said, if alone, and unguided. 
But I pushed you, and now, well, here you go; you’d have been a whole size off. How does that hit you, son? I bet you feel silly now—then, she said to the salesman, Look at him. Just look. Doesn’t he look surprised, confused, and afraid? What do you think sir, of this whole thing?The salesman said, I really don’t know, except that Dell’s has a policy that shoe sizes are to be checked each and every time, even for regulars. Because; the feet change imperceptibly over time—even from one moment to the next. 
But, here, he said, rising and picking up the track shoe they’d taken off the rack—I know we’ve got these in your size in the back. Just one minute.The young man turned watching the salesman walk off. 
At the register, Sandy gently slid the cash drawer shut, watching the mother and son sit fixed and erect, as though the silence around and between them was a rock-hard mold, within which they must stay fixed for some scientific reason—possibly to be observed—which was a fact, because Sandy—but no, yes; wait, clatter, rush; the salesman came out from the storeroom carrying three boxes. 
Before the two even had time to turn and look, he was seated before them on the bench. The mother leaned in, about to say something, but the salesman spoke first, somewhat strongly; in a firm, yet pleasant tone and cadence, designed carefully to allow no interruption. Fine. Yes, here it is. Your size—this is a fine choice, young man. You have excellent taste. Let’s try these on, now. Here. Your foot.
As the salesman began fitting the shoes to the young man’s feet, the mother said, Oh, no, no. It’s not about taste. The team coach told us what color and style to buy. I mean, really, I can just imagine what kind of shoes he’d be trying on now, without the coach’s guidance and my supervision here in the store. 
He’d pick some outlandish style, I know—and, they would also be the wrong size—like we said before—might not even be track shoes, if I know him—and we’d end up coming right back here to return them, and, well—then his Father—his Father—The salesman deftly tied the left shoe snugly to the son’s foot, then shifted on the bench to repeat the process with the right.—yes, his Father would lay into him, yelling and shaking his fist, and not just at him, but at me also—you, he’d yell—just an inch from my face—you need to be teaching the boy better. Why did you let him go to the store alone? 
You know how he is—and though a lot of his behavior is totally his own fault, you’ve made it worse. Too easy, too easy. Yes, son, you know that’s the kind of thing you’ve caused to happen over and over. Lord, I swear.The young man hadn’t moved a muscle since the salesman brought out the shoes. 
The salesman slipped the new shoes onto his feet while he simply nodded his head signaling politely to his mother, I am listening, I am hearing, but; my, these shoes look good. Lace them, here make the knot, do the job, tighten them up tighten them up as she picked up steam with, Your father’s always nasty anymore now, because of you! Yes! I have to suffer through his crap because of you! 
But, that’s all right, she said, leaning back, her tone softened. It is my job to raise you, no matter what, for better, or for worse—having a child’s like a roulette spin. It’s a crap shoot, and once the child’s on the way, you’re all the way in. for better, or for worse.  
At the counter Sandy grew more and more impressed with this new substitute salesman, as he never flinched as the woman’s bizarrely offensive monologue twisted ‘round ‘bout him, as he secured the shoes to the young man’s feet, and then—he rose, stepped aside, tapped a foot and beckoned the boy to rise, which he did; the boy rose and stood silently, with a faraway gaze leveled at some point higher, and further, past the walls, and away. 
Do they feel good? said the salesman—they look good, and, it seemed to me, as I was fitting them to you, they fit really good too. What do you think? Sandy watched. The young man gazed wordlessly. Once more his mother leapt in with, Well? You’re going to be rude today? The nice salesman asked you a question. Why do you not answer the question? What, you’re in one of those sulky moods of yours now? Because I came with you after you said not to? 
After the nice man measured you after you said he didn’t have to? Because the coach said exactly what shoes to get, when you wanted something different? Because I told you to come out of your head, and get out and join the track team and then of course, mister contrary, as you always are, you said, No, I’ll do baseball—not track, it’s baseball it must be, and then again, your father—again your father came in and again, God, the scene—all because you would not obey me. You need to learn. 
Life is easy when you obey. Life is better for those who obey. So—the nice man just asked you what you think of the shoes. You’re going to give the nice man a bad day, too? Like you give me every day? And your father? And yourself? Which of course, you will never admit—the bad days you have that you always whine about, well—you give them to yourself. 
Answer the salesman! Answer! Answer now! Sandy’s eye remained set on the salesman, waiting, smiling, relaxed and professional, like the two he was serving were acting a show before him for his entertainment—answer, mother insisted—answer! Answer! 
Answer now—The taut air split down in a near-audible rip, and the young man abruptly, but gracefully and in full control, walked across past his mother, and marched steadily, stiffly, to the door and left the store, never looking back. The woman had watched him go, seeming completely unfazed, then remained watching the door through which her son had disappeared.
Sandy tensed—what to do? What would she do? And now—what will he do?The mother slowly turned, once more facing the rudimentary substitute salesman.They’re good, sir. We’ll take them.Fine. They look like a fine choice. Good fit, too. Please step over to the register. 
He ushered her to the register, and crisply told Sandy, Be a dear, Sandy, and step aside. I need to ring this up for the lady. You will not regret this purchase, ma’am. Those track and field specials are among the finest Dell’s has to offer—cash or credit? Uh. 
Credit.Fantastic!Transaction concluded, the woman left the store. As she cleared the door, the salesman said to Sandy, Another sale down. My, but it is a slow day, isn’t it? Hey—how about I go back and get us two coffees? It’s so darned slow—I’m asleep on my feet. Cream and sugar for you, right? Like always? Yes. Like always. Stunned. 

Paris the touch of Oomph
Dr. Emdadul Hoque Mamun


Oh Paris! 
your sparkling of light yours
Nobility draws me like a drug always
towards you, the impersonation slender aspect
And its hypnotic appeal to put me to sleepless
night, Your drunken drinks continue to mesmerize myself in the land of dreams. 
I feel the touch of your Love and I am Enjoying this sinking, And Drown willingly,
Your young ladies Plump breasts soaked
in red wine, find out Juicy taste of genitalia
To swimming in the lake of love! You are the city
of sex, you are the city of taste, I know your are
the Pilgrimage of all Art and Literature. All the
glittering beauty that bears is on you body you
Like a fantasy city my lover! Your acridity of
Oomph touch me and and drug me from the
distance of thousand of miles. The pride of Eiffel Tower, Paris Gate, Bastille Fort, Night Clubs, 
Being lost in the story at the sleepless night cafe, By the Sipping champagne Creation poetry of a Poet, 
If God give me the option,What do you want? Paris or Heaven?I will put Paris ahead. 
Here is everything in life receipts are hidden. 
Paris is your tasteI am still spending sleepless nights in hope, evergreen Paris, 
keep me in your touch to get the touch of Love and Oomph.

There’s a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella

(Spanish title: Existe un hombre que tiene la costumbre de pegarme con un paraguas

en la cabeza)

(Translated from the Spanish by Clark M.
Zlotchew)

by Fernando Sorrentino

There’s a man in the habit of hitting me on the head with an umbrella. It makes exactly five years today that he’s been hitting me on the head with his umbrella. At first I couldn’t stand it; now I’m used to it.

I don’t know his name. I know he’s average in appearance, wears a gray suit, is graying at the temples, and has a common face. I met him five years ago one sultry morning. I was sitting on a tree-shaded bench in Palermo Park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the very same man who now, as I’m writing, keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.

On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn’t even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, cool as a cucumber, he stuck with his task. After a few moments
of indecision, and seeing that he was not about to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, and let out an almost inaudible moan. 

He immediately got back on his feet, apparently with great effort, and without a word again began hitting me on the head with the umbrella. His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn’t
exactly bludgeoning me; he was merely tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. Of course, those taps were extremely bothersome. As we all know, when a fly lands on your forehead, you don’t feel any pain whatsoever; what you feel is annoyance.

Well then, that umbrella was one humongous fly that kept landing on my head time after time, and at regular intervals.

Convinced that I was dealing with a madman, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (at this juncture I should point out that not many people run as fast as I do). He took off after me, vainly trying to land a blow.

The man was huffing and puffing and gasping so, that I thought if I continued to force him to run at that speed, my tormenter would drop dead right then and there.

That’s why I slowed down to a walk. I looked at him. There was no trace of either gratitude or reproach on his face. He merely kept hitting me on the head with the umbrella.

I thought of showing up at the police station and saying, “Officer, this man is hitting me on the head with an umbrella.” It would have been an unprecedented case. The officer would have looked at me suspiciously, would have asked for my papers, and begun asking
embarrassing questions. And he might even have ended up placing me under arrest.

I thought it best to return home. I took the 67 bus. He, all the while hitting me with his umbrella, got on behind me. I took the first seat. He stood right beside me, and held on to the railing with his left hand. With his right hand he unrelentingly kept whacking me with
that umbrella. At first, the passengers exchanged timid smiles. The driver began to observe us in the rearview mirror. Little by little the bus trip turned into one great fit of laughter, an uproarious, interminable fit of laughter. I was burning with shame. My persecutor,
impervious to the laughter, continued to strike me.

I got off —we got off— at Pacífico Bridge. We walked along Santa Fe Avenue.

Everyone stupidly turned to stare at us. It occurred to me to say to them, “What are you looking at, you idiots? Haven’t you ever seen a man hit another man on the head with an umbrella?” But it also occurred to me that they probably never had seen such a spectacle.
Then five or six little boys began chasing after us, shouting like maniacs.

But I had a plan. Once I reached my house, I tried to slam the door in his face. That didn’t happen. He must have read my mind, because he firmly seized the doorknob and pushed his way in with me.

From that time on, he has continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. As far as I can tell, he has never either slept or eaten anything. His sole activity consists of hitting me. He is with me in everything I do, even in my most intimate activities. I remember that
at first, the blows kept me awake all night. Now I think it would be impossible for me to sleep without them.

Still and all, our relations have not always been good. I’ve asked him, on many occasions, and in all possible tones, to explain his behavior to me. To no avail: he has wordlessly continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. Many times I have let him have it with punches, kicks, and even —God forgive me— umbrella blows. He would
meekly accept the blows. He would accept them as though they were part of his job. And this is precisely the weirdest aspect of his personality: that unshakable faith in his work coupled with a complete lack of animosity. In short, that conviction that he was carrying
out some secret mission that responded to a higher authority.

Despite his lack of physiological needs, I know that when I hit him, he feels pain. I know he is weak. I know he is mortal. I also know that I could be rid of him with a single bullet. What I don’t know is if it would be better for that bullet to kill him or to kill me.

Neither do I know if, when the two of us are dead, he might not continue to hit me on the head with his umbrella. In any event, this reasoning is pointless; I recognize that I would never dare to kill him or kill myself.

On the other hand, I have recently come to the realization that I couldn’t live without those blows. Now, more and more frequently, a certain foreboding overcomes me. A new anxiety is eating at my soul: the anxiety stemming from the thought that this man, perhaps
when I need him most, will depart and I will no longer feel those umbrella taps that helped me sleep so soundly.

Fernando Sorrentino
http://www.fernandosorrentino.com
fersdelaakd@gmail.com

Clark M. Zlotchew
clark.zlotchew@fredonia.edu

Christmas Time!

There comes this holiday
It’s not just any other day!
The world has placed a strong value on it
People are always on the verge of doing the feat
Gifts, presents and other great substances are exhibited
The celebration galore is always depicted
All and sundry are in the mood of merriment
It’s the time for enjoyment
Compliments of its season are heard everywhere
The best of complimenting outfits kids wear
Love for one another becomes obvious
The event is indeed glamorous
Celebrating the birth of the Savior of the world is the reason some religions mark this holiday
This happens on the Dec.25th day
To some, it’s a time for sober reflections;
To determine their New Year’s Resolutions
To others, it’s the time for rest;
To prepare their minds for the best
To the business people, it’s time for sales;
To make efforts to work out yielding profit scales.
It’s simply celebration time!
It’s simply called Christmas Time!




The Christmas Proper

Jingle Bells I hear
The Horse’s Ride I care
Christmas bunnies I yearn
Boxed presents I earn
Decorations I learn
Santa Claus I fear
The Amusement park I visit
The Grotto I sit
Friends and families I have fun with
The fun I live everyday with
The Festivity I can’t afford to falter
The very reason I recognize The Christmas Proper

Blue Screen On (Obsolete Technology)


A preconception shapes the shifting in endless blue waiting until the strength of the signal weathers or the wash in the wash hardens;

or holds in horizontal herds the setting for but not longing; unless the wrist-action rests, waiting for the breathless record...

aching, straining, dissolving

--

A study in reappearing is waiting at 99 edge of two-digital sank just above normal blue screen for prism flash:

Bent shafts of split screen at times so wavery clear that flash dints the log-green soft trade beholden to expectation's blue shrinkage's wrap. Or...

Bulges inverted to other bulges... sequent flashes, stilled kinks, and small osmoses of narration. Or...

Horizontal tension edged in shimmy, jalousie all through... but not thoroughly stripped of yellow; stained in full bluish wet, yet...

Caricature shines through...

a map of distortions... no matter the air or the day of the year distorted the same each repetition. Breakthrough at certain instances forming traditions of twice. Musical epidermal flashes that comprise the stories of anyone's guess.

--

Then the sea comes in clear but dancing on the beach bends the signal...

Longer than legal, but vanished instantly, the same bird flies...

Profiles burst on the scene, but I wait no more follow. Some suggestion of pleasure breaking the expanses. The one lamp that melts through though:

not picture-perfect perfect.


Unwinding



is my euphemism for you-know... of all things I call "activity," what's probably most ruined me, probably my last (whatever) to do before, you know... going to my rest,

my rest, or The rest, or...

I'm not about to unwind this evening. It's not that I've made vows not to; it's that I've unwound twice today already – you know, euphemism, by default, makes it difficult to guess; it consumes the hours I could be winding. I could be winding, you know...

--
Euphemism is resistant to correction. Circumlocution does not free it.


Unwinding

is not moving forward, but languishing, its attention elsewhere...

Half-wound person, I could get used to it, latent responses preventing further unraveling. 

--
Residual: The shadows aren't honest, but that's universal. The shouts are meant to focus attention.

Attention!


Unwinding

provokes too much strain now in the actual addiction, a substitute having taken precedence... as more welcoming: catalogs, memories, masterlessly construed, jogged out of heart rhythm, you see, I like the, uh,

but the mother in me doesn't.

Oh, those trance moments in true trance-nature – that brought my mother running – I remember her tea-cups telescoping.

--
(Confusion... conscious of the context, and the letter "C.")


Unwinding

is the symbol that stands for me, though at this time it does not stand for me, I can't sustain an interest. I've entered a deeper erasing. Euphemism is hiding from me. Through its protective core and its protective layer, it casts its iron vote for me, my proxy, it goes and stands in for me.

--
Boomerang euphemism: It stands for me; I can't stand it.


Unwinding... "Brutal." You hear the oink in it: The mood shifts, wear it. About that time a boat arrives. The tug of transition. I'm hoping the energy holds.

It folds.

--
My errors conspiring against me. 


Back There

Something is coming home to me, but it's taking its time getting here. Looking for clues in my thoughts earlier, I'd have to say: "I'm not looking for fame, just more confidence."

And a number of other things I'm ashamed of, like my tongue loosening, as I sing, "my tongue loosening, my tongue loosening, my tongue, loosening my tongue, loosening my tongue" to every note of Santana Abraxas. Every note.

And other such thoughts while I was driving down from Tahoe tonight, such as:

"Back there? what's."

I really did think that earlier. I don't know what to think of that now.

--

The moon was hanging over Hangtown as I wound down the curves, thinking again, "My car, my life!"

And as I've said so many times: "How a life can be reincarnated in the same life so many times and still not feel the strain (or mystery) gets me!"

And nothing more.

Except "what good is Art? It can't substitute for loneliness," and "I can never be completely confident," and "Fame is no measure of success."

And "Safety is no excuse," and "What the future is is very hard to interpret."

--

But.

Let me see if I can back up over this: I was thinking of the magnitude of a person, how one's could put another one's lights out, disable him (and here was thinking of specific persons). And also I thought of how I was my car spinning... its wheels, so? spinning its wheels it is. And spinning there in the corner by the statice flowers, an unclaimed memory of what I was thinking back there, which was, uh...

Shoot, it's not coming. It was, it was, just before I turned my head to think, "I am my car spinning..." It was... (?)

It's lost!

No! I was thinking what would they, anyone, want with Nothingness? but that... that thought was in a context I can't retrieve at the moment because I am concentrated on this task of reworking th..., reworking th... Oh, well...

--

Break: Well, I spaced out. And to get spaced back in, I thought I ought to concentrate on what I am right now, which is... spaced out. Oh, yeah, identities. I've had three or more. I keep vacillating, as if the change was not secure. I just don't feel like I have much hold on it, then I do. I won't go into it, but then I do.

I guess I'm still confused, and it isn't settled – but no, what was the point, it had to do with outline, no, not the border, not the edge, no, it lingered up in the birches and was lost.

"Up in the birches and was lost?" What do I mean? I mean that like a butterfly a brilliant insight has flitted from me.

In trying to embrace the image as it wobbled out of the puzzlebox... oh, I give up, I know it's incomplete, I don't know why it's fuzzy out of reach, or why it keeps slipping behind a cloud... It is a cloud, isn't it? It's a blackout cloud rising from the peak and heading towards me at one-hundred-thousand miles per hour, brace myself! it's ready to break, ah, just like the milky-warm waters off the Bermuda coast:

(.   .)

--

Here the art ends and the complaining begins.

--

I find this sort of backtracking at the end of my thinking, and though the thought is moot, I keep on going, I keep on going, until I have something to say:

I don't have much to say at this point.

I don't have much to say at this point, either. Soon I begin to see the parallels between my now looking back over my thoughts, and, and...

the Tie-in!

maybe.

reflection

mirror of something —

the hummingbird

mistakes 

for a mate 



sundown… 

hungry after 

an evening walk

the village dweller

making fire



the homeless man

lives by the day

the sun sets on a stray dog

at my backyard

maybe it's love




the sparrow 

in and out of the nest

mother's love

a child and his father

where she calls home





time escapes hold

on the local train

with lit of cheer

on the dust 

powdered faces 





the departed soul

with the void

no return

only if he has 

no attachments



always 

the question of 'to-who' 

follow the owl

the new moon's emissary


to salvation






fifteenth night

of the seventh lunar moon

she's been...

the ghost i recognize

in this graveyard





unread 

messages…

rainy night

gently pounding the roof


heartbreak hotel






the vibrant 

deep and jazzy voice

in her belly

the old soul

sun & moon