It’s summer. It’s a hot day, it’s almost noon right now. The road to the end of our neighborhood is quite far. Sister Dilbar is carrying 2 buckets of water from a distance. Iular is the main character of our story today. It has been about 5-6 years since the Dilbar sisters moved to our neighborhood. They live here with their spouses. But they still have no children. Almost every day, my mother prays that your skirt will be full of children, that you will have sweet children. The reason is that she is a very open-minded, free-spirited woman. She is white, has thick eyebrows, tall and beautiful figure. His spouse, Salim, is also a very kind person.
One day, I caught sight of sister Dilbar, who was barely walking from the beginning of the neighborhood. Even though it’s hot and humid in the summer. But I’m going out to play. When I recognized them from a distance, I ran to them. – Hello sister Dilbar – How are you, Nargiza? – I’m fine, where do you come from? – From the hospital. – Was it peace? – Yes, I have something important to say today – I will tell you…
When I said that, I fell into the game again. When I returned home, my mother was washing dishes in the kitchen. I went in front of them and greeted them. Mom! – Where have you been? My mother started to fight with me asking if you have been walking on the street all day and you are a girl, can you take care of my housework? – Listen to me too. I was at my friend’s house. It’s been a long time since I haven’t seen him, so the vacation is over.
Then they started talking about my mother, Dilbar, and your sister. I am also impatient, and when I was waiting for his words, he said, “I have something important to say, today, sister Dilbar, come to our place.” I bit my lip for a while, thinking that I forgot about the game. And then my mother quietly laughed and said, “Oh, wow, you’re so impatient, I’ll tell you the same thing.” When your sister Boya Dilbar was going out, I called you because you didn’t come out. Then we sat and talked a lot. By the way, your lovely sister will be a girl soon. I said yes, I was surprised that they were coming from the doctor today.
– Yes, it’s getting late, I’ll go in and sleep – Can’t you eat, girl? – No, mother, I’m full, thank you – Yes, you know, take your time and come in – Ok
After some time, sister Dilbar disappeared
I went in front of them and began to question my mother.
– Oi Oi Oi Oi Dilbar, where did you disappear?
– Yes.
Mom said they would be back soon. I silently left the room
The reason why I love sister Dilbar is that she is similar to my sister named Ayisha. It’s almost a trick to talk. My sister died in a car accident at the age of 15, when I was a 6-year-old girl. You think a 6-year-old girl understands something. I didn’t know anything even when Pyim screamed and cried. I can only remember that they took a 6-year-old girl by the hand and brought her into the room where the body was lying to say goodbye to your sister. I felt my sister lying on the ground like ice, but I couldn’t cry for some reason. At that time, the thing that got on my nerves was that the corpse is ours, the dead is ours, but all kinds of women came crying in frustration and yelling at me that it was not enough. After that, they sent me to my younger uncles. When I turned 10, I returned to my home in Tashkent. Sister Dilbar, the first woman I fell in love with when I came here, that’s why I love them so much.
A little time passed. My school has started. One day, when I was coming home from school, there were 3 or 4 beautiful cars parked near our house. Aren’t you going to make loud noises? I wondered what was going on, and later I found out that my lovely sister had come. She was named Malika when she was a girl. But they welcomed him with cash. I was surprised by this/ One question was bothering me, whether they welcomed me with such a celebration then. Now in youth.
Many months have passed since then. During that time, I went to Bukhara to prepare for studies. I had to submit to institutes in Tashkent. I returned home.
It’s early morning. There is a knock on the door. I went and opened the door. Dear sister
– Wow, Nargiz, are you back?
– hada sister
– Where are your months?
– My mother is gone
– I’ll give you the key then
– Hop, sister, hop
– Yes, Salim, your brother is taking us to the mountain
– Ok, come and have fun another time
– yes, stay well
They went to the mountain, their daughter had grown up, she was 8 months old. The road was suddenly covered by a black cloud, the rain was pouring down on it, and Malika was crying loudly. Brother Salim did not pay attention to this. After that, Dilbar’s sister also started to feel sad. “Let’s go back,” said Salim, saying that he had arrived.
And finally they arrived after walking for 5 hours. There was no sign of the dark clouds from the heavy rain.
– Tin
– It’s okay though
– Be quiet, listen to the sound of nature, there is no such air in the city.
– Yes, I know
They entered the yard with joy. The yard was not very big, 4 rooms. But there were strange pictures painted on the walls. Dilbar looked at them a little daydreaming and his eyes fell on his wife. Salim went out carrying his daughter. And Dilbar is looking at them from the window.
– Dad, come home, a dark cloud is coming
– Right now
Brother Salim was happy. In order to play with his daughter, he began to shoot her up. It rained so much. They didn’t want to go inside even though the ground was slippery. Later, the princess did not like this and began to type. Suddenly, due to Salim’s carelessness, the baby fell to the ground. The baby’s head hit the stone. Salim was afraid that he would go after his daughter, so he was also injured. His leg was broken. Dilbar could not move, he could see this situation but could not do anything. Then a person appeared. The charmer did not know who he was. The reason was that he was caught by a thick blanket. If you can’t protect the blessing given to you by sitting next to Dilbar, it’s a pity, such a blessing will not be returned, he said, protect it.
Dilbar kept crying but could not go there. It was as if the leg was not pulling. Dilbar was crying, as if he was washing his clothes with tears dripping from his eyes. Then Salim Dilbarni came to him
– Be charming. You’ve been crying about something for a long time. Your clothes are getting wet
– My daughter, my daughter, where is the Princess?
– Why are you panicking? Do as I say quickly and change your clothes. You will catch a cold when your clothes are wet
– Was it a dream?
He went straight to the room where his daughter was walking. He remembered his dream of seeing his sweetly sleeping daughter. Cold sweat broke out from his body. They returned home.
Later, after this dream, he took his daughter to the kindergarten, where he did not believe in the sky. The reason is that those words stuck in a part of his brain as if they were engraved on a stone
“If you can’t protect the blessing that God has given you, it’s a pity for you, such a blessing will not be returned” these words kept spinning in his mind. The truth is that he has no children except his daughter Malika…….
Standing on the parking lot of the little strip mall, Trevor Baker leaned on his push broom and waxed philosophical. He glanced at the clock tower across the street: 12 minutes until Jan. 1st,, 1996, the dawn of a new year and for him, he knew, it would outpace every year that had come before. The wind began to pick up and tiny spicules of ice struck his exposed face. Trevor only smiled.
. . . . .
Trevor, enrolled in undergraduate school, raked leaves as part of his college work study employment. Money was scarce and he took his job, slight as it was, quite seriously. Occasionally he hunched his shoulders or made faces, almost unconsciously, and passing students glanced curiously at him. All at once a shadow fell across Tremor and he started.
“You got I.D.?” asked a campus policeman who was perhaps a decade older than Trevor’s 20 years. Tremor made no reply. He had found it auspicious to say as little as possible to the police. “C’mon,” urged the policeman impatiently. Trevor dug through his blue jeans and pulled out a wallet and turned up a driver’s license. “Are you on drugs? Are you loaded? Do you drive?” asked the cop rapidly. “Can you talk?” he asked. “Are you retarded, er, special needs?”
“I can talk,” Trevor assured him. “And I have a doctor’s statement saying I can drive,” he added.
“I’ll be the one to decide if you can drive,” snapped the policeman proprietarily. Trevor only shrugged.
The cop looked at him narrowly and then insisted upon a field sobriety test: follow my finger, watch my eyes, walk a straight line, touch your nose with your own finger, and so on. Other students and teachers observed Trevor and the cop curiously and Trevor was humiliated, although this was not the first time this had happened to him. Finally, more or less satisfied, the cop allowed him to return to work, with a curt warning: “Watch it. I’m keeping my eye on you!”
. . . . .
Trevor, fresh out of graduate school, crossed the hot asphalt parking lot, littered with snuffed cigarette butts, soda cans that had been run over by automobiles, crumpled pieces of paper and other urban detritus. As he approached the red brick building, he beheld a glass and metal door, with the words, Department of Public Aid emblazoned upon the glass. He pushed through and was nearly overwhelmed by the stench of urine, dirty diapers, marijuana and cheap cologne; this was 1989, when Hai Karate was still a best-seller. A small forest of cheap, pastel-colored plastic chairs rose up from the floor. In one corner sat a corpulent rent-a-cop reading a comic book and straight ahead was the service counter, with a large plexiglass screen separating the clients from the DPA staff. There was a line of people that extended nearly the length of the room. Making a beeline for the guard, Trevor asked him how one went about applying for Food Stamps. Trevor coughed and then twitched several times.
Without taking his eyes off his comic book, the fat guard growled, “I hears ya, fella,” and he pointed a finger at the ever-growing queue. Trevor took his place in line. The screams of babies and infants filled the air and Trevor could have sworn at least one person lit a joint. After about two hours of shuffling forward, he reached the front desk clerk, who handed him a questionaire, a pen, and a slip of cardboard with a number on it. At length, his assigned caseworker appeared from the nether regions of the building and mutely led Trevor to an interviewing cubicle. The worker was quite handsome, some years older than Trevor’s 23 years, and he smelled nice. He wore a wrinkle-free dress shirt, chinos and a distinctive necktie. Everything about the young man screamed State Bureaucrat. He introduced Himself as Mr. Sweetin and reviewed the details of his new client’s identity as had been revealed to the front desk worker. He then proceeded to ask Trevor a battery of questions: Age? Any bastard children? Work history? And so on. When Trevor confessed that he had a job, the worker’s whole attitude changed; he seemed to think they were both wasting their time.
He told Trevor: “With no dependents, if you have any kind of decent job at all, there is virtually no chance you’ll qualify for Food Stamps.” The program was for poor people. What was Trevor trying to prove, anyway? All at once the caseworker wasn’t as good-looking as he had been only minutes before. While there were still no wrinkles in his shirt, there were sweat stains in his armpits. He didn’t smell as nice, either. And his tie was a clip-on. At length he stood, thereby dismissing Trevor. He told him good luck, and did he want to register to vote? Trevor didn’t. Before he departed, he asked if there were any employment opportunities with the DPA. The worker said there were many opportunites, for “the right person.”
“What does the position pay?” he asked. The caseworker told him. Trevor silently whistled. It was approximately three times what he earned at his first post-graduate job mopping floors.
Trevor asked Sweetin what qualified a person for a job such as his? Sweetin’s chest swelled importantly and he told Trevor that he’d need at least an associate’s degree, as Sweetin himself possessed, “to make the grade”. Trevor thanked him and slipped out of the cubile.
Crossing the lobby. he pushed back through the glass and metal door and arrived again at the torrid parking lot, with the cigarette butts and the crushed cans and a dead bird or two, his welfare adventure now complete. Shit, thought Trevor, I could do this. It was but a matter of a state employment qualifying exam, and one month later, Trevor was hired.
. . . . .
Trevor Baker and his current significant other, Sally, sat slumped at a table in the back of the tavern, taking in the entertainment; this was Sunday and Open-mike Night. On stage, a faceless guitarist played Van Morrison tunes, much to the appreciation of the heavily-imbibing crowd. Sally sat close, her bare shoulders aglow in the warm yellow lights of the tavern. Although marijuana was not yet legal in this state in 1994, a thin haze of pot smoke rose languorously toward the ceiling. Which reminded Sally: “Bake, do you wanna get high?” With Sally, this could mean anything from beer to pot, from cocaine to Quaalude, so Trevor raised an inquiring brow.
“I bought some Mexican this afternoon,” she told him, turning up a small plastic bag and shaking it evocatively. Customers sitting at adjoining tables gazed enviously at Sally.
Trevor took a sip of beer and considered. With pot, it only served to make him horny; with Sally, it put her to sleep; altogether, he thought, it was a wash. “Sure,” he agreed, coming to his feet. As Trevor and Sally threaded their way though the crowded bar, Sally following in his wake, Trevor scrunched up his neck, first to one side and then the other, then coughed loudly and shot his arm out from his body for just an instant. Most bar patrons, used to this display, paid Trevor no mind; others, unaccustomed to the behavior, stared curiously. Sally rolled her eyes a little and looked down, but said nothing.
After they had made love, Trevor went through his twitching routine anew and Sally said, “Bake. I’ve told you this before: I think you have Tourette’s Syndrome. Talk to your doctor, babe.” Sally was a registered nurse and knew whereoff she spoke.
“I did,” he said. “He said Tourette’s isn’t real and even if it is, there’s nothing you can do about it.” They’d had this conversation before.
“At the state hospital, where I used to work, they gave the patients Orap or Haldol,” she told him. “Ask him about those,” she urged. “Please, Bake, I hate to see you going through this without help.” She put her hands behind his neck and softly kissed him. He kissed her back. Sally, he thought, really got him.
“I’ll make an appointment tomorrow,” he promised, then screwed the lid off a container of cold medicine and decanted the syrupy green glop into a plastic cup.
. . . . .
The next morning, at the Public Aid Office, where Trevor worked as a caseworker, he sat at his desk, going through some pending files. Into the room walked Karen, a tall, slender coworker with whom Trevor had a newly contentious relationship. He’d overheard her say one time that “Trevor Baker is a pain in the ass. If he starts coughing and twitching again, I’m going to murder him.” Most of his coworkers were well used to his nettlesome behavior, but Karen seemed to take particular exception to it and found him a nusiance. As she made her way behind his desk, Trevor unleashed another hoarse cough. With a cry of exasperation, Karen, as she had done every day for a week, slammed a handful of cough drops onto Trevor’s desk. Sheepishly, he murmured his thanks. Without turning, she stalked on by.
Karen had found a key to retribution, however, quite by accident: inadvertently popping her ever-present chewing gum, she observed Trevor wince almost as if in pain. She repeated the action, garnered a like result. Trevor stared at her helplessly. Karen smiled tightly. This, she thought, was important information. Information she subsequently used again and again.
Trevor’s phone jangled. Seizing the receiver, he listened, thanked the caller and ventured to the lobby. There he found Vanessa, a 20-something client on which he’d done an overpayment the week before. “Good morning,” he said, leading the young woman to one of a rabbit warren of small cubicles branching off a narrow corridor. “How can I help you today?” he asked pleasantly. Trevor made a point of always being nice to his clients.
“I got a bill,” she said, proferring the statement for the overpayment he’d calculated. “I don’t understand,” she said, staring at him forlornly.
He took the statement, reviewed it and said, “It’s money you need to pay back.” He’d gotten a field evaluation by an investigator, who cited Vanessa for receving AFDC funds for which she was ineligible. He hadn’t questioned the contents of the report; he received them all the time.
“Is this about Reanne?” she asked, referencing her 8-year-old daughter, a beautiful dark-skinned girl whom Trevor had met several times. When he didn’t immediately reply, she went on. “Reanna die four weeks ago, Mr. Baker. She drown in the city pool.” Stunned, Trevor stared at her.
“I guess that’s it,” he answered at last. “You see, if she were…deceased, then you weren’t entitled to receive money for her.” Realizing the enormity of what he was telling this young mother, he hated both himself and the agency for which he worked. “I’m sorry, those are the rules,” he said lamely.
She nodded. Coming to her feet, she said “I unnerstand. Thank you, Mr. Baker,” and she was gone.
. . . . .
Trevor sat in his fancy new ergonomic computer chair, an early Christmas gift from his parents. The spare, sandy-haired man was seated comfortably in the open-space public assistance office, where, since his lateral transfer from the city, he worked as a caseworker, managing welfare cases. He had been so employed for almost a year. This chair, he thought sadly, as high-tech as it was, couldn’t prevent his hands from shaking. Sometimes, on a bad day, it was worse than others; just now, his hands quavered furiously. Clearly, this was not a good day.
Working in the new office had taken some getting used to. Gone was the malicious Karen and the others who referred to Trevor behind his back as a “head case.” But, unlike his previous fellow employees, his new co-workers steadfastly refused to call him Bake, opting to use his childhood appelation of Trevor. Into the room strode Bert, a colleague at the agency, just back from lunch, who observed his co-worker’s afflictions with the usual bemusement. He took off his winter coat, placed his Starbucks cup on his desk, which was next to Trevor’s, turned to the other man and said, “Hey, Tremor, what’s up?”
Trevor instantly became self-conscious and tried to hide his twitching fingers. Although his Tourette’s was 90% under control with the medication he took, other conditions, which had like symptoms, were getting worse. Bert’s coarse misuse of his name only added tension to an already tense situation. Trevor waited for the next remark.
Bert picked up his coffee, took a sip, smiled winsomely, but said nothing. The genius to his technique of torturing Trevor lay in levying the insults and putdowns only half the time. Always keep him wondering when the other shoe would drop, thought Bert smugly. To that end, Bert unwrapped a stick of gum and slowly placed it on his tongue, watching the other man from the corner of his eye. He chewed rapidly, soon getting the wad of gum limber. Then he began loudly popping it. He smiled with satisfaction as Trevor reacted severely to the chewing and to the sounds.
Trevor, who already suffered the early stages of Parkinson’s Disease, had only recently been diagnosed by his neurologist as also suffering from misophonia, a condition in which the patient exhibits untoward reactions to certain “trigger’ sounds, such as lip smacking, gum popping, dogs barking, clocks ticking, or people chewing with their mouths open. As a result of this condition, Trevor routinely frowned, sighed, or even stared at his nemesis. Which only encouraged Bert all the more. Also accompanying these reactions were increased heart rate, panic, anger, and a strong, almost desperate desire to escape the source of the trigger sounds. Just now, Trevor glared balefully at the other man. Bert smirked.
. . . . .
“What can I do about it, Dr. Patel?” Trevor had asked, when told of the diagnosis. “How do we treat it?”
The physician shrugged impassively. “There is no treatment,” he told him bluntly. “You can wear sound-deadening headphones or play music or,” he suggested, “ask your co-workers to stop their annoying behavior.”
Trevor had this condition, in varying degrees, since he was nine or ten years old—more than twenty years ago—though in those days there was no available diagnosis.
“Trev,” said his father, when the young man was eleven, “pretend that dog’s not there; that’s a boy!”
“Mom and Dad are going to take you to a shrink,” threatened Trevor’s brother, two years older and embarrassed by his sibling’s constant overreactions to ordinary sounds, not to mention his face-making and twitching.
The malady was still relatively unknown. Even today, Trevor’s own MD unapologetically admitted that he had never even heard of the condition.
Throughout school, Trevor had felt that he wore a cloak of misfortune that no one else seemed to understand. Bert knew none of this; he knew only that Trevor was “different” and “sensitive” and must therefore be punished.
“Want a piece of gum, Tremor?” asked Bert, cracking the Juicy Fruit between his molars. Trevor closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and mentally placed himself somewhere far away. Snap! went Bert’s gum, and Trevor was figuratively seized roughly and wrenched back to the present, nearly sobbing with frustration. He felt a bead of perspiration trickle down his back. He had to do something!
He sprang suddenly to his feet and called out, “Ms. Shaefer, could I have a minute?”
Norma Schaefer, the office manager, also returning from lunch, frowned unhappily at her newest employee, but crooked a finger. What was it this time? She thought peevishly. “A quick minute,” she said. He followed her into her private office, dropped into a chair before her desk.
Once they were both seated, Trevor explained his recent diagnosis, described his symptoms, both physical and mental, and, in spite of his abject embarrassment, appealed to her for help. He had previously had to account to her for his tremor, which was due to Parkinson’s, because some of his welfare clients, as well as his co-workers, had questioned his sobriety and his sanity. Some had even conjectured that he was undergoing withdrawal from alcohol or drugs.
“What do you expect me to do about it?” she asked impatiently. “I mean, I’ve never heard of this condition, and besides, how can I tell employees they can’t chew gum?”
“It’s just the popping,” he stressed, “and chewing with their mouths open; it’s not gum chewing itself. It’s the noise.”
Norma’s mouth formed a straight, unhappy line. “Look, Trevor, the state already stopped employees from smoking. Many of them substitute gum for cigarettes, and I think that’s a good thing.” At his disspirited look, she pounced: “Maybe casework isn’t the right job for you…” He looked up sharply. “You just don’t seem very happy here,” she added, with feigned concern. You have little to say to anyone; you’re not even signed up for the Secret Santa gift exchange this Christmas.”
Trevor cast his mind back to the office Thanksgiving party, which had been held only the week before. Sitting by himself in the break room, he had witnessed Norma herself eating noisily at the next table.
She sounds like a garbage disposal, he thought wearily, looking dismally at the otherwise elegant woman. “What are you staring at?” she demanded, dropping a Buffalo wing back onto her plate with a little click. “Don’t stare at me!” Her loud chewing hadn’t seemed to bother anyone else, he’d noticed.
Trevor blew out a tired breath. Norma spoke again, drawing him back to the present: “Your work is adequate,” she conceded, “but if you can’t get along with the other employees and you aren’t happy here, then maybe you should consider a change.” And she left it at that, stealing an overt glance at her watch. Pushing himself to his feet, Trevor exited the manager’s office, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
Thirty days later, just in time for the new year, found Trevor, Master’s degree and all, sweeping the breezeway that bisected the strip mall where he now worked alone as a maintenance worker and groundskeeper. The air was cold, the wind brisk, but he didn’t mind. The salary was scarcely adequate, but at long last he had found what he most coveted: peace and quiet. He sighed, smiled a little and wondered with genuine interest what Sally was doing. Peace, he thought luxuriously. It was so sweet.
Birds of my land...
The sun's rays wake up the birds
the wind dries the raindrops
the smells of the day, the city
wake up alone
my city is the most beautiful
I know
On the street laughter
when it starts and the song when it reminds me to love you and you are all happiness
You are the most beautiful everyone knows that
The sun's rays wake up
the birds the wind dries the raindrops
the smells of the day,
the city wake up alone
my city is the most beautiful Because I know that...
Borna Kekic is a poet in Zagreb, Croatia.
Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and the forthcoming poetry collection “Home Again.”
Incompletist
It's all a bit sketchy don't you know what with the RMS and all.
Formal education and I didn't work out but I was on my way across the country to fulfill my own peculiar
and
particular manifest destiny which at the time (at the time)? was a semi - conscious state of befuddled uncertainty laced with a lack of pragmatics that was nothing short of utter ineptitude.
(Oh essential humor I laugh to myself now at the notion of then going clear across the country to maintain my standards and my continuous quest for success in failure).
We arrived at the train station and said our goodbyes.
After you left there was a welling and a filling and at the same time a depletion of air.
I rushed outside after a constricted couple of minutes to tell you something but you were gone.
I was consistently lacking in effort
and all done and said
pretty consistent in afraid.
I do at times wish that I had more of more
than all this less though
but the wish won't make it so
At a certain point, I guess, we got
uncomfortable around each other.
I'm glad, though, that I said what I said before you went.
I will add now that I am sorry I made you nervous.
As I think back right at the now of this
now
I was at a loss
then
and still am
so I'll leave it
at that.
it can sometimes does
I am looking out the window with my classical on as I ponder the rigmaroles of existence discussing such with the most fascinating person I know.
Every time I feel I've made a valid point or observation during my ongoing convo I like to whip off my glasses to add further emphasis while highlighting a point that's been made salient and to add further punctuating resonance landing on a note redolent of conversational flair. For example as I gaze out I reflect to myself on the virtues of eschewing the virtual for the sake and embracement of tactility and doing the sharp clean whip on eschew.
When I revelate that the only thing remaining is to become a saint there is a slow whipping on become. Like that.
Happenstance can work well and good sometimes.
Oh sweet exquisiteness, as I lovingly prepare an afternoon aperitif and just now at the ready of the first gentle sip (lord how I love my ceremonies!) the radio crows out "heroes" - Ah yes, aglow and a flow, I duly proceed to an illuminated bask.
The heart of the matter resides in the entire lonesomeness of the venture, and so dream, a much needed break from the prosaic, makes fantasy a much vaunted ally.
So it goes, the garden of eden and myself with menagerie of profound friendships and equipped with a fleet of canines are baying in unison at the rising moon each eve over the waters.
I think of a bovine at dusk by the side of a country road, looming and ruminating. Life can be so wonderful! And indeed the cat never ceases to contribute the phenomenal and to provide blessed insight into all things seriously absurd, a well rounded tutorial in surrealist burlesque,
It welcomes and relieves one from the strangulating confinements of love and isolation, providing a delightfully futile longing for unencumbered innocence and a bit of air.
So it goes, the gallivanting ambition is to string two good days in a row together.
But for now, synchronicity dovetails to a tee and a thickening
of well and good in the here/now of slow nothing.
Read
Read
Trees (solidity presenting)
Fluttering leaves
The light kissed plants merry with the wind free and clean
The rain stream glimmering to
a speckled burst of sun
Gentle easy rolling chuckle of
The sighing creek
Uncluttered sea green
Ah read the ripple (and if you hanker success that day, smell the dirt)
Read
The people prevarications (attendant chicanery) digitally respirating goofed on technology / hope's dilution on endless extension
Read
The blank vista
Cloud proclamations and
Twilights gold riddled clarification
That shall permit languishing
Books and songs have been my
Life's blood
But then it is just schmo/mooks mouthing off
Read
The perfect view point
To watch the world go
Tits up
Soak up your/ time / space /
Up to
This eventual farewell / for now /
Read
Newsie
He would come to the door ever so slow
Deep into dotage and well past prime time
I waited amid discomforts shade
Eager to collect and be on...
I liked the design of my route
All customers were conveniently located next to each except
for one lone house down the street a ways which was a drag on Sunday morning because that was the day I had to stuff all the papers and stack them in a grocery cart instead of the rest of the week's thin editions which were easily fitted into my portable sack and slung over my shoulder for an easy afternoon delivery stroll around the block (Saturday mornings I trucked out my bike and then I would treat myself to breakfast)-
Sweet Bitch Memory
/man oh man...
the frowzy chippy who blurted on
about the doings and going ons of the scotland yard
(what she meant specifically I could never ascertain)
the one who insisted I give change to the tune of a dime
on her 90 cent weekly tab
(my young self indignant at this outlandish chintz)
I henceforth always made an elaborate spectacle of fishing and searching all about myself for her "dime" whenever I collected from her (but always coughing it up eventually - I was a good kid) -
it was the year 1977 (we were there)
I had heard thru the neighborhood vine about her demise and
went up to the white house to collect
He trudged to the door and we made our transaction
both of us looking down until the close of business then
He said to me looking up "my wife died" and I responded "I know"
He slowly lowers his head backing away just as slowly shutting the door
I do my own slow lower into the realization (vague) that happens (if you're lucky?) that a goodly bit of life consists of pain and fear -- so much goddam sadness ...
I stood a moment - left and was
glad to go on and get away
Lo here in the current deep up to the neck of the boo radley years
paid up in full
my bridge burner dues
losing bits piecemeal
/ it's not so vague
I have often sensed the imperative of getting away ... kinda sorta before the reality boom lowers -
There/then
and now
I didn't make it
Another Day in Armageddon
The potential is there (here)
To be Infected by
all of it
But Hey! I'm not sick (the world is)
Yes it's so
(torture and hell resides on two legs)
Realization dawns full on and tardy
Cutting clarity sharp
Works torpor
and necessities grind slapped still
(its bigger'n money!)
Mine is to
Maintain
I never could drive proper
due to an excess in shy
Beyond me (way over)
it is
the modernage train
passing
Goodbye and likewise riddance
Right!
Seize the day (your sick after all)
Books can matter deep
Computers stunt likewise
Good luck dink
My own
I will relish
The ring of brass repose
The opportunity
(Grand)
To call in sick to life
as you've prescribed it
Your relish of standing in line
Uniforms conforming
I would prefer not to don the mask
(while we're at it why'd you gobble up all the cans of tuna?)
Ashes of surrender
You is yours mine's mine
Fiduciary sanctuary
Good luck in prison
The hard work of hope reaps dirt well you know (why don't you care?) everyone trying to inhale and exhale
and I can't help rubbing my eyes they hurt when I look at you
(But It's tuneful when the brook babbles)
and so
Maintain
This lofty status
and this gift of repose
Splendiferous indifference
the exhilaration of chopping air
Beautiful futility
(Grand)
A permanent
Hiatus
Saturday’s Child
Given the modern malaise’s dictum that to exist is to be stuffed stuff it is reasonable to desire retreats’ entreaties
Aside from the more obvious artificial means there can be perhaps a more elevated or at least organic avenue to meander down . I’m hungry.
Thus I crack open some pages..
oh hell. It’s been said that he wasn't steeped in culture and yet his stuff is upper case all the way, encoded in delicate mists of shroud.
This technical mumbo minutiae numbo stagnates - give me the meat that fills.
I gasp along hoping against hope for a gut issuance. Oh my babies cmon, crap the pome that needs the exorcise and that
resonates the empty room... Forget it. Ah well, ‘The Joker’ comes on the airwaves and sometimes classic rock steps up. Cat splayed royally recumbent in the corner always giving out
sound concision melodiously relates that effort is a drain/drag but shoot some days I’m a gamer so I per sue:
Fuck it fuck life fuck death fuck school fuck parents fuck families fuck friends and enemies fuck jobs (god knows) and fuck god (the people’s not the mystery - Ahh the catholic ingrained - I hope god’s gotta sense of humor) but Hey! Fuck hope!
Fuck art fuck professional expertise (self-evident in this presentation) fuck fuck but not nature and not animals hey ya gotta have sentiment no? Fuck expectations fuck demands fuck pressures life goes on death goes on longer
Right fucker?
Fuck
Stuffs got us by the stuff and all this speed has left life in the lurch taking it (any of it) serious is seriously discouraged
Pardon my distraction
My immersion in desolation
Tit-fer-Tat - happiness for holiness
At the current there is not much else known
Diligence comes due
The strive to surrender
A Good Clean Break
realities routine's are a stone crusher
all of it
the jobs
the relationships
the striving
the failing
the achievements (I'm guessing)
and more begets more
all the do's of you hafeta do
you can get tired beyond exhaustion
tired of your self
your thoughts (if you are inclined to that sort of thing)
and relief is much needed
some quiet
a long walk
to
the middle of
nowhere
some surcease
the compassion of a dog's eyes
It’s the best
he was pouring at the happening and usually there is a fair amount of disdain for the enthusiasts
who like to sidle up to sample the snacks, libations and what have you goodies.
he was a wisp of fair blond - a hippy kid.
he asked me if I would like him to crack my can of brew
I told him that this was not necessary
I looked at some stuff and listened to some other stuff
trying to maintain a bit of elbow room
while the crowds swirled and yammered
biding some time before refill and then I went back for another and he
cracked this one for me and said "cheers"
I drank it down and went for a walk down the street
I did not want to appear to be too gluttonous so I gave it some minutes
when I resurfaced in the crowded room and foraged thru the groups back to my man
he smiled and said "I grabbed this one at the bottom so that its chilled and now it needs to be shotgunned".
I laughed and retorted with double thumbs up
Impressed that this cat accurately assessed my quench and provided a
responsive and congenial atmosphere in one that can be rather unpleasant and clannish
my man had it
and I salute him for it
the damn hippy dippy
had it
kindness
