My guess
All the things seen or unseen
I can guess nothing
If you are not mine
Though I think you so much
I know you not as much
Its my daily routine
To stay before you
Read something and go back to work
In this way I pass my days
And finish my work
Days come and days go
In terms of time
My head aches, my breast pains
But you don’t pay heed to me
In this way one day I’ll die
You’ll see I’ll die
Then what would it be
Whether I live or die
I guess I only die.
Road to Someplace
Beyond the shallow grave which once was my home
In the middle of the night which held me captive
It was a selfish life I was wanting to live.
Beyond the reality of the sinking sun
And the signs of danger and chaos
In the open skies.
I fell from the skies past the shooting stars
Into a place where life was simple
Into an unknown reality.
A clear vision of who I am and why I lived
To find this place where the grass breathes
And the trees are fifty feet tall.
A place where my stone hands are nourished
A covered heart reveals warmth
And my name spoken with love.
Continue reading
Biopsy:
Alex Nodopaka originated in Ukraine-Russia in 1940. Studied at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, Casablanca, Morocco. Full time author, artist in the USA. His interests in the visual arts and literature are widely multi-cultural. However, he considers his past irrelevant as he seeks new reincarnations in independent films if only for the duration of a wink… ok, ok maybe two!
One a Day Rides Again
Wood is as indifferent as love to human
emotions, whether feeding the fire, reaching
for the sky, or poking its nose
where it isn’t wanted by Puritan
deliberation—that altarboy instinct of the
hypocrite for sacramental wine,
Mary Jane’s buds, or the forbidden
fruit, handmaiden to the love
of old Saint Pete, clandestine
shoving match of a turd from
one anal cavity to another—
and thus One A Day steps in, drunk
as a lord to greet condemnation; Mae
West on his arm in glory to the highest
titters in her feather boa and puts
mettle to her petals, sending that dummy
some cue from her belly he’s all too
happy to receive, being pleased
to please: “A little bit lower to the
left;” of course he gets to a point where
bees write their own laws
of pollination, ignoring Pope
Pius gesturing in the background
like Moses at the backwash of the Red
Sea—inattention he can stand less
than abomination—and as inquisitors
rush in to show them the door,
Dummy looks up to find Mae alert
and sending furiously, “How are they
gonna stop people from putting
holes in the wall?”
Setting bells
ringing in the bellfry like vampire
bats from the hump of Quasimodo
in a gypsy heat—
stirring up the fear,
disappearing in the dawn
When The Mask Falls
Most days it is so easy to fake happiness. You get used to the act when that’s all you’ve known. People tend to react better towards those that are happy and just a little melancholy. I think it reassures them that I am brave for not turning into a crying mess whenever my depression and PTSD go on overdrive. Almost all of my therapists say that while I have serious problems, I am remarkably normal compared to others. And I guess that is a compliment. I work very hard to create this image of a brave, sarcastic girl who does not have the time to care about most things.
But the mask does come off. And in those times, the stark difference in my personality surprises even me. It is hardest for me to appear normal during those anniversaries of trauma. Sometimes I can pull it off, at least during the day. Today is one such day, and instead of using my usual piece of glass to carve out some notches on my skin, I am trying to write about it. Continue reading