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.

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. 

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. 

Adams’ Hill Walkabout 

Dreamscapes dart into
Mosaics of marble
Triune streak on streak


Cocaine Codas

Cocaine waves of codas code walkabout
Fire escapes within Firestorms
Of diamond glistening utopias of the mind 

Λήθη

Sanguine Spiritus mundi amor faux fati Fatima 
Five fath Omniscient Oms Osiris thy
Father in Paradiso lies to us

Oeuvre of Isaiah Patmos revelation 
Revealing Lotus Set Sethian Loki 

Awaiting thee sol in Lethe lake of diamond 
Damnation pure pulsating numinous Eros 

Roses Danse singing Cathar Cantos 
Inner eternal and ephemeral Fluxus 



Where did gods and goddesses come from?

Are they mere mirror representations, shadows of
Ourselves, our own psychological states 
Anthropocene amplified to mythological heights?



Time

Is time progressive and linear or 
Circumambulating Recurring and circular?

Why can’t time be both? History repeating 
Itself but making progress too?

Before the monthly Native Alliance potluck dinner in the church basement got underway, Dede (Hoopa) carried a smoldering chunk of sage in an abalone shell around the room. Dede was thorough, offering the smoke to anyone who wanted to smudge. At the front table, which held the donation basket, flyers advertising upcoming powwows, and information packets about diseases and various kinds of help, she paused to let a group of women standing there each take their time. She then strolled into the kitchen where people warmed up their food contributions on the church’s stove or arranged cookies from a bag onto a plate or poured themselves a glass of juice.

Next, she walked over to the drum circle in the back of the room, where Norris (Choctaw), offered traditional rhythms and songs. He wore what he always did, work coveralls stitched with Norris on the left breast. This evening, the circle seemed less energetic than usual, the singing less robust. Norris kept pausing, patiently helping a teenaged girl, a beginner having trouble keeping the beat. The fact that a female was allowed into a drum circle would not have sat well with some tribes, especially if the female were menstruating. But this was an open-minded group.  Another drummer, Charles (Lakota) expressed particular gratitude to Dede. He was having arthritis problems, he said, and after gesturing the smoke over his head and shoulders, lifted each leg to let the medicine go under his feet. 

When Dede finished her rounds, including various clusters of people already claiming their dinner places at one of the dozen or so round tables, she joined a table herself, of three other women. After smudging themselves, they resumed their conversation, typically about life. Sandra (Coastal Miwok) asked Dede about her ex, still in prison. A newcomer didn’t know about him and expressed concern. Dede shrugged. “Three strikes, just drinking, we’re Indians of course, then boom, 25 to life.” Nods and head shakes accompanied her recital. 

“Anything violent?” asked Sandra.

“Nothing,” Dede answered. “Never! And now he’s grey, turning into an old man. Not that cute grass dancer I fell for.”

The subject turned to the powwow last Saturday. “Chuck went, I couldn’t get off work,” said Roseanne (Yurok). “Work meaning babysitting my granddaughter.” Work and no work led to talk of health insurance, as it often did, and this evening to the urban Indian clinic, its pluses and minuses. 

At a shout (“Okay!”) from Anita (Kiowa), who founded the Alliance decades earlier, people stopped whatever else they were doing, got up, and formed a hand-holding circle, unclasping to make room for stragglers. The circle this evening included some 30 people, two with walkers, one with crutches, and five children. 

Anita asked Norris to say a prayer. He raised his head, his long black hair brushing his shoulders, closed his eyes, and spoke at length in Choctaw, which he then translated. Part of it went, “Thank you Creator, for making me an Indian.” 

Many prayers followed his. For individuals with cancer. For families of the  individuals. For the drought-stricken land. Happy announcements came, too. Celine (Yakama) said her daughter just got accepted to Dartmouth.

As usual, the circle included a few non-Natives, brought along by Native acquaintances. Sometimes strangers showed up, uninvited. One difficult evening, a banged up blond drunk staggered in from the church parking lot. The elders conferred, then sat him down on one of the pews lining the basement hall and brought him a plate of food to help him sober up, even though – a significant consideration – a prayer had not yet been offered. He was absent tonight. So was the sad-faced wannabe, a thin woman who felt she was “Indian in another life.” A few regulars were wary of her. “Needy,” said Daniella (Pomo). 

This evening the group comprised more or less the regulars. An accountant, an engineer, a seamstress, an occasional media celebrity, a nurse, a counselor, a museum employee, retirees, a number of people between jobs. 

Following the prayers, the circle broke up into a line for the food (“Elders first!” shouted Anita). As usual, the two food tables, one for desserts, one for everything else, were covered. This evening’s bounty included several casseroles of such dishes as spaghetti cut small, with hamburger. It was not the only contribution that had the look of leftovers used inventively. Something else with chicken, it looked like, and celery. There was also tonight the taco melt Diane (Sac and Fox) usually contributed, and the tossed salad a white guy always brought. 

At the table where Dede sat, conversation continued about the Indian health center. You have to be eligible for medical first. Disgusting, said Sandra, after chewing on a piece of chicken Thomas (Ohlone) brought. Thomas always brought chicken. She said she herself is lucky, having health insurance through her pension with the state. Even for teeth and eyes. “These glasses, seven bucks!” Murmurs reached over the hominy stew and Lina’s (Onondaga) chocolate cake. Each woman had placed a square of it on her paper plate next to her main meal choices, in case it disappeared before she went back to the dessert table. Lina’s baking was always a hit, even when she tried a vegan pie. 

Sandra, the enviably insured, used to drive truck for the state, she said. An 18 wheeler. This impressed no one at the table. Roseanne had been married to a truck driver before Chuck. “15 gears, right?” she asked. “High range and low range.”

“My rig had 10 forward, two reverse.” Sandra shrugged. “Some had more.”

The women hooted about drivers of little Hondas who think you can stop on a dime if they dart in front of you. “You’re lucky you don’t run over them. Literally. Turn them into a pancake,” said Sandra. She now makes jewelry she sells at powwows, and wore several bracelets of her own design. Truck talk led to recollections of shifts and rest stops, of truckers getting robbed in some overnight truck stops, not to mention the presence of “lizards” – prostitutes. Lina liked the fenced in places where you could pull in for the night, be safe. A fastidious woman, she had placed a piece of her own cake on a separate plate to take home to her husband. Lina oversaw cleanup after the potluck, too. 

“Showers,” she added. 

Showers, the other women agreed.  Sometimes that is all you want.   

In Canada, the rest stops, camping places, too, are unbelievably clean, added Dede. Harrison (Cherokee) from the next table heard her and agreed. “Spotless!” he exclaimed. Dede said that’s where her ex wants to go if he ever gets paroled. Canada. Some of his people are up there.

The drum circle started again. Harrison, finishing a cookie, rose to join it. Tonight there were six drummers: five men and the teenager.  

At the table of the four women with and without insurance, husbands, and jobs, conversation stopped entirely. Nodding in time to the drum, they moved on to their chocolate cake squares.  Some evenings they and other women pulled fringed shawls from their big purses, wrapped them around their shoulders, and danced slow swaying movements, circling the drummers. This evening nobody danced. 

“It’s been a long day,” commented Roseanne. “I’m pooped.”   

More about Alison Owings here. She's an editor and oral historian who has just completed a book about a formerly homeless man.

i-fifteen

Sourdough and sharp cheddar—
enter the daily entry into the journal—
a quick lunch with a politically kneaded history.

ii–three

Say cozened, repeat.
The red-tail on green carpet.
Only in pencil.

iii–two

Cornstalks stalking, four to six feet,
A chorus of scolding greets steps.
Twelve days of abundance won’t quench.
Cornstalks stalking, four to six feet,
A squirrelish racket among the leaves.
There is no song titled “Plight Of.”
Cornstalks stalking, four to six feet,
A chorus of scolding greets overstep.

i-nine

(so servile have i lived to my fears)
for a short while
i’ll have a cookie—


ii–one

Reminisce at the padded
rataplanning of flam 
taps. Ruminate. Lament
my atrophied sticking.
The nuisance dog notices
it’s been making no noise.
Resent my easily
exhausted grip. Notice
the Chinaberry tree
newly leafing. Mimic
the mmmzing of the bumble
bee at the screen. Another
pickup pummels down the road.

BURGOS EUROPEAN CAPITAL
OF THE CULTURAL DOG ​​POOP


“Whoever gets up early and watches
Dog poop is revealed to her/him”
This saying is used a lot
By all these men and women
Boys and girls
That early in the morning
Take out their dogs or bitches
To piss or shit.
It is worth seeing what emotion they show
All of them
That even some
Cry crocodile tears
Picking up its poo
In plastic bag
And, with devotion, they throw it
In the first trash can they find.
Also, proud of your dog or bitch
Some gentlemen, few ladies
Leave the shit
So that pedestrians or children
Step on that shit
Like Núñez who stepped on
That Bimba shit
In green garden
Or Candle that he took in his hands
Such a shit
By Bimbo
That it seemed to us all
A Christian weapon seized from the Moors.
On this earth
As in the entire Iberian Peninsula
In the shield of its lineage
There's some big pooch shit
Who is sniffing the ass
Of a white bitch.
Domingo (Sunday), who is a vegetarian
And doesn't pick up his dog's poop
The one he calls Sancha
Tells me: "That shit
That my bitch has left at the gates
From the “Damn Madness” Bar
It is for two drinkers
That You knows
What are Zorita la de la Mancha
When leaving the bar they step on it
And the one who stands the best wins
By stepping on it
That it is culture ¡

-Daniel de Culla