CARD 1: Are whirlybirds! No. Why do you hate your Mother, Sonboy? Maybe. The Host of the Lambs. Maybe. We can tell you think you are better than us. No. Give water to the thief on the Lord’s right first. No. The Captain’s a bird. Maybe. Doing this job up Panama mountain. Maybe. I am not so I must be so I am.
CARD 2: We’re just a bank. No. We are not responsible for any of our lands. No. Oh. Maybe. I’m in it firm now. Maybe. Huh. No. Eh, Mister Small, what you need to call off your bark? No. Wheah’ he be Knockie? Maybe. Hey, my hippo. Maybe. I suffer for the sake of Percy ‘cause I’m Percy. No. So. No. Deck We’re dealt.
CARD 3: Rap-bands. Maybe. Nice touch yonder sailor-suit, bah! Maybe. Your entirely-entire line of the usual spew. No. Brainypup Breeding farm. No. Barbazee! Maybe. Thank God it’s a joke. Maybe. Some slimy cosmic law varies everything. No. From cook number one to cook number hey. No. The nonexistent center-point of my sky-high cranium.
CARD 4: His foe is his opposite. Maybe. Now you may sing out your complete version of yourself. Maybe. Please go. No. Your defense rests. No. My children are reduced to consuming orphanage mush three times daily. Maybe. Repairback now to formulate the render upon you. Maybe. The world is indeed a dense place. No. Base trash-mashers. No. Step back let me gag.
CARD 5: Now he will let it go. Maybe. So nod, chew a lip. Maybe. Whatever you do, Captain, gives me another question to say. No. Carve out a round plug with the spade to outline your largening cranial posthole. No. Lets pull that stringy meatlump back inside the out of itself a bit. Maybe. No wait Bezonas Bezono no no wait Bezoni sed ne Stop Povas stop calculating. Maybe. Rudeman Boy or Peanut-Gasman.
CARD 6: Bitching like a hosed-down horny farmbull! No. A lie is just another task to be completed. No. You as a Doctor are not to sicken patients down. Maybe. Great job Mister Renpasta. Maybe. Why is she up there all mounted in that balcony? No. I am just the bloom guy.
CARD 7: Your anchored in silly loose jelly beliefs. No. But then again, I expected that outcome to be. Maybe. Yeah. Maybe. The boss had supplied him with the skill to work entirely by eye. No. I resent this interloper spying. No. Shit job of du wirst die wohning wech seln. Maybe. Seasonal toy factory assembly line. Maybe. Look at that moon—there’s a face.
CARD 8: Lake Superior quick-drying rash-wax. No. Enter the regimented phase of your life. No. Swarming green gillfish. Maybe. Perhaps if he did not automatically recognize her, she’d prove to be someone else. Maybe. A painless death when finally dead, but—in the process of—indescribably cruel. No. Number of aortas in the world. No. Rude boys.
CARD 9: Making babies. Maybe. Adopting dogs. Maybe. Dog shelter roulette wheel. No. Which is more of a roulette wheel. No. Just because Dad hates sausage, you do not lose your natural right to decide on sausage for yourself. Maybe. Even before Sonboy was born they were three. Maybe. Deep in the weeds you may be, but the ground below is solid. No. Calling myself nobody, the best term to use.
CARD 10: Missouri predawn physical training with shooting stars. No. Do not live long enough to die. Maybe. Dad does not like sausages? Maybe. It will never really have happened. No. Globe box under tree—Replogle book came with. No. Stockade fence—party on one side dog walk on other. Maybe. Remco Rocket Cannon. Maybe. Battleships. No. Aircraft carrier. No. Gas station. Maybe. Wedding dress. Maybe. Heavy smell. No. Humid & Hot.
CARD 11: Escape from Doctor Grundig. No. Globe factory. Maybe. Mom met Dad. Maybe. Part two. No. Plywood versus solid wood. No. Globe factory. Maybe. Mom met Dad. Maybe. Part one. No. She makes him breakfast—all is solved! No. Mom and Sonboy—united—all tinychilds are one. Maybe. Maybe. No.
Bio has changed: Jim Meirose’s work has been widely published. His novels include “Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer”(Optional Books), “Understanding Franklin Thompson”(JEF), “Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection”(Mannequin Haus), “No and Maybe – Maybe and No”(Pski’s Porch), “Audio Bookies” (LJMcD Communications), “Et Tu” (C22 press), “The Private Adventures of Fresh Detective Gerdulon” and “The Box” (both fr. Alien Buddha Press). Info: www.jimmeirose.com @jwmeirose
JENNIFER IN TWO VOICES
I know why the sky sings the blues -- for you, Jenny, for you -- atmosphere breaks down and cries. Once the wind must have had your voice: Wind makes my soul rejoice to hear your echo once more. Your precious beauty to preserve, earth freezes to its nerves in ecstasies of ermine. And the waves for you outreach -- the sea begs up the beach, hands-&-knees its way in pride. And trees have honored you in gold, red carpets where you rode, jade ceilings and emerald floors -- nature's learned your lesson well how to be beautiful: your appearance is your sermon.
I know why the sky sings the blues -- for you, Jenny, for you -- atmosphere breaks down and cries. (Across the landscape many-firred, atmosphere breaks down and cries,) Once the wind must have had your voice: Wind makes my soul rejoice to hear your echo once more. (urges us make love manifold. To hear your echo once more) Your precious beauty to preserve, earth freezes to its nerves in ecstasies of ermine. (among the creeks and conifers in ecstacies of ermine.) - And the waves for you outreach -- the sea begs up the beach, hands-&-knees its way in pride. (in fields of foxes henna-furred -- I hands-n-knees my way inside) And trees have honored you in gold, red carpets where you rode, jade ceilings and emerald floors -- (where moist warmth is plentiful. On jade ceilings & emerald floors,) nature's learned your lesson well how to be beautiful: your appearance is your sermon. (raven-eyed/lynx-face Jennifer: Your appearance is your sermon.)
Across the landscape many-firred, atmosphere breaks down and cries, urges us make love manifold. To hear your echo once more among the creeks and conifers in ecstasies of ermine, in fields of foxes henna-furred -- I hands-n-knees my way inside where moist warmth is plentiful. On jade ceilings & emerald floors, raven-eyed/lynx-face Jennifer: Your appearance is your sermon.
TIMES AS GOLDEN CALVES
Plaster casts and black sutures
cohabit with surgeons’ masks. Doctors lift up their scalpel like an execution axe in service of ice sculpture. They daydream of parachutes to hurtle them through their clouds.
And the butcher is carcass,
as the treaty is the war, or the poacher is his traps. The scarecrow loves the crow, and the shooter shares the blast. Ventriloquist is dummy when a be stops becoming.
Views of peasant and castle
once framed the common outlook, as though the sheep needed wolves, as though serfs needed dukes, to justify how their gulf would link prey to predator by way of divine order.
All the pasts have their futures
and all futures have their pasts.
But the present is itself.
MUSHROOMING
If you were forest
I could purport
this noble purpose
for these frequent
meticulous surveys
that I perform
throughout your moist
and fetid shadows.
RUBICON
Each dawn comes embarrassed.
Time rearranges us, from chaos to chaos.
Our memories are ghosts of what
were once our pasts
before structures collapsed.
Infinities of if permit change to exist.
Wisdom becomes mischief.
Stoics become criers in meditation choirs for umbilical pyres.
Even the Rubicon once got lost in the swamps
and then was retro-conned.
Destiny is not fact.
Fates are carefully stacked by gambling architects
to construct poker fraud. Certainty’s a façade,
installed by clever gods. Time rearranges us.
From chaos to chaos, each dawn comes embarrassed.
QUATRAINS, EXPLICATION
You kissed me in your garden, and then you tortured me.
I learned in your orchard belief forestalled pardon.
With the heat of parenthood you loved me at once
then suddenly took affront when I ate what was good.
Your day hovered, stern and still after the roosters crowed.
I staggered to the crossroad that led up to the hill.
My sweetest tree lost its leaves, my rose just yielded thorns.
My clothes were raffled and torn by guards who were thieves,
while a thief gave me succor. By comrades unfriended,
my murder unattended but for mother and whore.
It’s the gravel in the rattle
the critics listen for,
the riddle at the middle of poetry.
That’s the ambiguity
that they adore.
You planted my temptation, knowing I would fail,
then carpentered the nails for my situation.
You were judge and betrayer, prosecutor and crowd,
you, the weaver of my shroud, the author of my prayers.
I was Jesus and Adam, pillars of your temple,
my deaths your staged examples. But I am yet a man.
A NEW YEAR'S DREAM
New year, renewed new dream,
The birthday of the magic of goodness.
Children's laughter is sonorous,
The day of the awakening of love.
He is the one who spreads anxiety,
He is the one who freezes dust.
A magic spell of hope,
New year beauty, creator.
The fairy tale also whispers sometimes,
It rained on the magic box.
The stranger who opposes him is sad,
If you want an answer, happiness is a feeling.
He takes you by the hand and leads you quietly,
It will bring back memories for a moment.
The place where the miles are ready to hit,
It is better to say the impressions.
New Year is the best wish and dream,
Spread love to all hearts.
Whoever makes the intention is kind,
In the new year, you will surely reach your heart's content.
NEW YEAR'S RINGTONES
The sound of bells with drums and bells,
Nice sweet bong sound.
Let everyone gather and go out into the street,
The flight of the reindeer drives the sleigh,
Raise your hands up now,
Let gifts pour in, see a miracle.
Falling through the window into the chimney,
Children's joy is a real miracle.
Santa came with his sleigh
Raise your hands and say a poem.
Do not steal the joy from the face,
Let the beacon of goodness shine.
The world is like a magical fairy tale,
If you make dreams, they will come true right now.
Awakens love, a house full of guests,
Embraces grief without a path.
The New Year is coming, ring the bell,
It's as if everyone is awake and happy.
Happiness will fall from the sky, snow as white as the heart,
The world is alive and growing.
Ring the bell, ring the bell,
Nice, nice bong sound.
O'tkir Mulikboyev is a primary education teacher at school 75, Koshrabot district, Samarkand region, Republic of Uzbekistan and a student of the Primary Education department of ISFT Institute, Republic of Uzbekistan.
