Gasoline

The price of gas – just think of

What it has cost us, miles and

Miles, gallons and gallons. It

Once made sense. I recall as

A teenager buying a dollar’s

Worth for a night out – same

Station had a cigarette machine

A quarter a pack. Imagine how

It was heading out for the night

Four gallons of gas and a deck of

Cigarettes. Who could ask for

More than that, but it happened.

Prices in the driver’s seat and we

Became poor ride-alongs. Last

Time the prices went way up, we

Began talking about smaller cars

And less driving, even talked about

Public transportation, but when

Prices went down a bit, we became

A country of SUVs and pickup trucks.

Driveways filled up with our sense

What is essential – gallons and gallons

Miles and miles. We have learned to

Consume and complain without doing

Anything but consume and complain

As miles and miles go by and gallons

And gallons we buy – the price of gas

Just think of what it has cost us.




              Out Shopping

Grocery shopping, we wait our turn

picture the gunman setting up

getting ready to shoot, to live-stream

the action we make, he makes.

How long before we begin to run

scream, try to hide, our whole lives

flashing before our eyes, how long will

it be, how many of us will get away

become survivors, witnesses they will

ask about him and how he appeared

before and what did he say, shout as he

began becoming the lead story?

This is Friday grocery shopping. Here we

are trying to get a jump on the weekend

a task accomplished – and there he is trying

to get a jump on what he wanted

wanted to accomplish – the first few are

carefully picked out of Produce, the rest are

random, much like our grocery shopping

might have been.




           Cut to the Car Chase


Shoot-outs, we grew up on them,

war pictures, cowboys and rustlers,

gangster films. We’ve seen it all, so

when they happen around us, they

seem almost scripted. The guy, whose

sad face we saw on TV last evening,

tells the expected story about the masked

intruder who he chased off, then on

a car chase, three towns long, shooting

out his window, like some action star,

a budding Clint Eastwood, shooting as

they tried to get away. The passenger got

hit, didn’t make it to the hospital, and

now our shooter gets his TV moment. His

story holds together as well as any other,

a few shots to explain, charges filed, and

of course the pictures, the car with a blown

out back window, the roadside, and our

hero’s sad face, his bloodshot eyes. They

say it’s drug related, like most of these tales.

They are always seem to be scripted that way.





J.K. Durick jdurick2001@yahoo.com

Broken Legs

it's Ramadan,
& we would wear the lips
of a night,
& speak of the dark memories
standing on
the borders of our country.

we would watch the back
of our hands,
to see the pictures
of schoolgirls, whose mothers
are through waiting
for them to come home.

we would try
to echo the screams
of people,
who lost their hopes
inside a moving train.


we would remember
the burning bodies of women,
& children whose ashes
now paint our sky grey.

& we wouldn't
want to taste the blood,
that quench the thirst of hungry zombies
walking through
the borders of our country.

our legs are broken,
we don't have the strength
to stand and fight again.

we are left with only our hands,
& we would raise them
tonight.

& ask our lord
for a piece of cloth,
that would wipe our tears.

 _For Abunic 

you told me of death/the pain and the weight of its scars
when it paddled canoe with grandma 
on the hot surface of tears 

my tears still falling on the footprints of death
when it walked off my doorsteps with daddy's breath 

you undressed death in lines of poetry 
 planted on grandma's grave

never told me 
that you'll be a poetry/poetry that will count my teardrops 

ball of my pen runs through your flesh 
for words that'll give you pillow in the Lord's arms 
you left your broken pieces scattered on my sheet like puzzle 

you were the pen i knew 
 -spilled on what it feels to run out of ink
like strolling with breeze along the seashore

& told me not of this day
day that will fall like rain from my eyes 
day that will push the arms of the clock 
without counting the sounds of your breath in the air 

i fasten buttons to cover the pain in my chest
fighting to find the semicolon that once held my poems 


it was Wednesday, when the news pointed gun at my head
& stole happiness of my closet 

march 16/ the chapter of 2022
that taught me how to recite euleulogy 
& write elegy 
for a brother with bundles of unfulfilled dreams 


let the soul Rest In Peace 
as the memories forever Rest In Pain
hoping to capture you again.

of then

i enter the tunnel
and am shot back instantly 
to hanging around 
and scoring here 
for that secret time 
in my young life

and this chasm 
to anywhere 
still existing 
since my youth 
is one of the bleakest places 
i’ve been for decades

but it makes my heart race 
because i so remember 
the draw it had on me 
desperately needing 
to feed that clawing 
internal hunger

i stop still
close my eyes and open them
allow the beating of my heart 
to merge with dripping water
moan of a cruising seeker
barking dog somewhere near

i fall into the self i built
pathways tackled
courage moulded
strength to run
knowing from age
this wasn’t the place for me

i turn and step softly 
out of the murky hole
past lost memory echoes
some trapped here forever
jeering vague around me
but unable pull me back

pace away 
clean 
from what it was
and meant 
to me of then
not now 

why anything

dwelling on collaborations  
and agonising over those 
encountered throughout 
the journey as it unfolded
gives little to what eventuated 
from consequences occurring   

storing of regret misery  
offers practically zilch
towards gaining answers 
associated with trauma
unexpectedly arriving  
in the domain of hoped for  

failures cobbled tight into 
a construction of gathered
evidence recycled for answers 
when direction is halted
is only what is and no use
in obtaining why anything

terminal illness avoided to date 
by perhaps luck was a chapter
in a sneaky scripture designed 
by no more than fate and chance
so how can anyone’s analysis 
be so ignorant to spit death guilt  

self-gained knowledge held 
rising from ignoring them
sings tunes that have not danced 
to anyone ever before in time 
and so false guarantees are not 
part of the predicted contract 

growth stumbling chaotically  
into a something managed life
leading from their prescribed 
may deliver alternative roads
making invalid wasted preaching 
all of us and not just me and them

for sanity’s sake i decided to avoid 
crowd expectation and opinion
stifling me to not jump into queer me 
my only melody to self-realization  
gifted to me by me is to sing to them
fuck off with your judgemental tactics     

The Night, the Dark, and Bats, 1952

	Arthur who decides not to tell his children or grandchild about the heart condition that’s going to end him soon enough, comes over in the evening to find Henry staring up into the eaves outside his parents’ house. It’s a cool evening in mid-May, the whole world waking up with that spring smell of a million things blooming, and it would be hopeful if there were hope left for Arthur. “What’s up Henry?”

	Henry points up at the roof. “I think something just flew up into there.”
	The sun has just gone down. “This time of night,” Arthur says, “it’s probably a bat. Most of the birds would be nesting now, and wouldn’t go up there anyway.”

	“You mean, you think we have bats living in our house?” The idea lying in the boy’s voice sounds magical. This is a boy who begs to be taken to horror movies and reads comic books. Maybe he’s thinking about Dracula.
	Arthur goes into his son’s garage where he knows there is a flash light. Ever since the diagnosis last week, Arthur keeps imagining little pains in his chest. He hopes he’s imagining them anyway. Back under the eaves, Arthur shines a light up and sure enough, there’s one bat hanging there by itself. “That’s good,” he tells Arthur.
	“Why?”
	“A bat by himself is probably just resting before he does more hunting or before he goes back to his colony. I was worried your parents were going to have to deal with a big group of them.”
	“They live in colonies?”
	“They hang together in gigantic clumps touching each other. I was in an old mineshaft one time and crawled right under hundreds of them.”
	“Why were you in a mineshaft?”
	“It was a gold mine out west that had closed down years before. My friends and I were just exploring it.”
	He’s flipped the light off, but he hears the little boy’s gasp, the wonder that fills it. “Could you take me?”

	“Ah,” Arthur says, his own kind of gasp because words cannot fill the reasons this will never be possible, and his unword is followed by a kind of infinity of regret and anger that’s focused on nothing really except maybe the universe.
	“Come on grandpa. If Mom and Dad say it’s okay, can we go?”
	The truth is that he has enough energy to take the boy. His only worry is that he’ll leave the boy stranded in the middle of the woods or down a cave. He has carbide lamps and rope and all the rest of his old equipment. The only thing holding him back is death.

	“I tell you what. If your father goes with us, then I’ll take you.” He can feel the unquiet of the boy’s silence as he looks over the field to see the fireflies winking on. “What’s wrong?”
	“Dad’s always working.”
	It’s true. He has the hardware store to manage and the concerns of an adult. He works too hard during the day and drinks too much at night. Still, Arthur says, “We’ll schedule a vacation. You and I will plan it, and he’ll get some time off.”
	The boy’s breathing turns hopeful, and Arthur sends him in to start talking to his father about it. Arthur stays outside for the sake of the fireflies.

	And so, Arthur probably won’t be around in the late summer, but he’ll fill some hours with Henry planning and mapping and explaining how and where to enter the earth gracefully, without fear or danger. He hopes there is a heaven, but he doesn’t think there is. He’d love to watch the two of them on their journeys. He’d love to watch Henry learn to understand the night, the dark, and bats.

My Falsified Report Card

I have always been reluctant toward education, especially what is taught in the classroom. Though my mother was teacher, I had always had some phobia towards learning. I would prefer to stay at home rather than go to school. My parents would have to drag me! Going to school from Mondays to Fridays has always been a nightmare. The good times I enjoy were usually the weekends and holidays.

As a consequence, I was not sound academically: always at the bottom of the performance pile. During examinations, I was usually faced with uncertainties. Reading and understanding were my pertinent problems, despite having stand-by lesson teachers to take me on all subjects at home, as soon as I was done with school. In all of those, however, I was always happy when I was through with tests and examinations and looked forward to the subsequent holidays.

My parents were particularly concerned about my academic performance. Playful I was, I turn deaf ears to their words of advice. They were indeed a busy people. My father was an engineer who had to work almost half a day and retired home late at nights. My mother worked hard to support the family through teaching in various classrooms and offering extra lessons to add to her income.

From my first year at elementary school to my fourth year, my results were all in the negative. My mother expressed her frustration on me as I came home with bad academic results every term. It got so worse to the point I was being scolded through the weapon of the whip. It became the ‘new normal’ I had to face every term of academic session  I came home with the ‘usual academic result’

My teachers were concerned. My mathematics, English and social studies teachers offered extra times to painstakingly teach me on a one-on-one basis. Yet, all their efforts prove abortive. I was left on my own. In fact, my parents got fed up and consequently gave up on me! They fired all of my lesson teachers. I was left at the mercy of several house-helps: paid home helpers whose responsibility centered on taking care of the home, my three younger siblings and me.

Between the years 1990-1995, my elementary school years were seriously boring times. I got tired of receiving the usual bad results every term (four months) and seeing my parents getting upset. Through the help of a friend, Olumide Coker, I was able to do the ‘unthinkable.’ I was at my fourth year at elementary school (Yewande Memorial School, to be precise) when the ugly incident happened. Olumide came to my house with a Tipex Ink-what was used to make alterations to figures as shown in the Report Card-a document that validates the performance of pupils. Together, we changed every score and percentage in it! The scores and percentages showed  an unusual' excellency of my result'. My report card! I felt good and thought my parents would be happy seeing the bad results ‘changed’ to good! I never knew I was in for a shocker!

When I showed my parents my report card, they knew it was obviously sketchy. My mother asked, 'Are you sure this is your report card?' Afraid I was, 'Yes, it is' was my reply. Later that day, 'Your report card looks funny. I will call the attention of your head teacher the next session. Are you sure this your report card?' were my dad's words. 'That's my result' I answered, feeling guilty. 

The early part next session saw my dad brought the attention of my head teacher at my fourth year of elementary school. Then, I just got promoted to the next class-the fifth year of elementary school. It was there the truth had to be unearthed. I altered my report card! After much interrogations, I bowed to the pressure mounted on me. 

I was not only humiliated in the presence of my parents but also the entire classes and levels  of my school. I felt the ground opened up and swallow me completely! My fellow pupils in class, seniors and juniors made spectacle of me throughout that day and for several months . It took me time to get over the consequence of my action. It was a day I live to remember.

Looking back to that ordeal, I can't help but assert 'it's a thing of the past'.

GOD’S LOVING EMBRACE 

 

Lights come through the stained-glass windows to give warmth. 

Kneeling at the altar with prayers in my heart speaking to you.  

A closeness, only your loving embrace can comfort me. 

 

Moments of distress, your begotten son Jesus embraces me.  

His loving heart gives me a sense of redemption for my soul.  

Time after time when there has been a flood of sorrow came. 

 

Always, have my soul asked to be united to you through time.  

You have heard my prayers throughout my life and have answered.  

Through Jesus my savior speaks to a waiting soul for a life of eternity