Departure's Price To feel what isn’t there is all I need this far into a one-night adventure, daylight now ends. Wanting her to tell me nothing, except lies that would convince a clock to move forward to no return or a pause at the precise or rumored false step any love demands more than once... Around which we skirted, skilled as puppets who can do little more than entertain even when the applause is neither obsequious or false. And now the price of departure, a tax wanton drinking and lust begets, awaits with receipt... As we linger in a paid for bed without the energy for lies, I check messages that say nothing. While she watches, showing no emotion, a copy of me, trying to figure out long after the last kiss how to get out of this with a grace we both lack. Knowing this was a mistake and the new day only a chance to make more. K2 Driving to the airport, its nearly dawn turbulent dark skies and dim tiny stars my lone company- the radio's low. Trying to make sense why so much has gone awry or failed to transpire so far. all faith submerged , lost to the undertow. where life seizes you and then flings you down until you’re prostrate on knees or the floor someone shouting ten and you’re counted out. I'm driving to a new start and new town. It wasn't love K, you closed all the doors I kept knocking still, with all of my doubts. K, I see your face with its vague sad hope its goodbye tears, it wasn't love but close Beginnings Do not ask me of others, let’s start fresh. As if we were rare seedlings in the spring sprouting promises with our sweetest thoughts rooted deep beyond earthly wants of flesh. Beyond true love’s lost dark imaginings pale jealousies , tides of mistrust wrought. Let ardor beckon, wondrously new we’ll be its play things, puppets in a dance. outside the present to postpone regret by giving love each day its place, yet true to ourselves, mocking fate’s uneven chance diving to we know not, and come out blessed. So let’s begin, without a sin or stain after I ask you this-what is your name. Her Blank Canvases Home dining alone or with one who cares she claims she’s happier since the divorce won’t marry again even in a dream. When asked if she still paints, I’m made aware passing fancies and hobbies run their course as does a lover lost in the midstream. Where I drowned in drink after she left me to go to Paris with a man she thought loved her and did till the money ran out. While I stayed servant to the tapestries of color and wild imaginings caught in a canvas awash in reckless doubt. When I say I still paint, there’s dead silence ah there’s much that dies without violence. Truncated Affair You can kiss each of my tattoos, she said, if you buy me one. I asked about the scar on her cheek. She was silent, not wanting me near wounds, healing or unhealed. We made love, our confidence misplaced in a bed where excitement’s rush & its dichotomy to both discover and hide were the wrong guides to entwine us past the temporary. She was precious, much as she denied it when sober, which was rare. Each morning, pouring me coffee, she'd do two lines, check mgs, leaves me 2 poems someone else wrote a disquieting challenge I never clearly won or lost. When we traded kisses, I'd win every time it didn’t count. Real or imagined, her smile is always enough to earn her tattoos. Trouble came in a script for a movie she began to think was us... In real time arguments, complications, violence, plot twists to an ending. Predictable, even with all the rewrites. Her goodbye, open ended evil, made truth out of the lies in the disconnected thoughts of her I can't disconnect from now, unable to sleep i'm no longer awake without some cost. Imagining only her ink stained body again leaving mine unmarked with its sweat almost clean enough for purgatory.
By Mike Zone
Months ago before all this began during the harsh winter storm that brought down frozen tears in well maintained suburban houses and somber smiles of a fierce yet humbled resilience which crumbled into a just as fierce breaking and an anxiety of a crippling nature behind the closed doors of the homestead. Barry Klatt sat by the window of in his reading chair dressed especially dashing in tweed green slacks with a brown sweater over a cream dress shirt, hoping a car would crash into a tree, that maybe there would be a lone survivor, preferably a pretty woman with an unblemished face with no recollection of who she was before the accident.
HE WOULD NURSE HER BACK TO HEALTH.
They would fall in love or at the most dismal grow to a romantic carnal affection.
There would be mutual moist kisses and permissive penetration of any God given orifice but first he had to dress to impress and make sure to take photographs to document what a gentlemen he was never to lay hand upon her until a sweet declaration of love.
What if the survivor, were a child?
If it was a female nearing puberty he could care for her like a daughter, raise her into womanhood and a share natural matrimony as she grew to age.
What if it were a male of any age?
Let them burn.
He’d even pour gasoline onto the car and produce a match if needed.
He preferred blondes.
Gentlemen preferred blondes. Ergo, he was a gentlemen.
He selected a book from his secondhand cornflower blue bookcase. A paperback of Japanese death poems though he considered by Charlotte Bronte, he didn’t want to hammer away at a completely implausible simulation. He was the scholarly type who just happened to be a man’s man of the heart with the soul of a poet but didn’t want to venture into type of terrain where he would start questioning himself again.
FIRE IN THE SKY.
A meteor shower was forecasted on the weather channel. He wished upon multiple falling stars. There was a minor tremor and crunching thud, heard moments ago.
Barry Klatt sat in his chair, reading the same poem after half a dozen times or so waiting for his bruised and bloody celestial angel.
Freshly shaved, pink completely shaved bullet shaped head and horn-rimmed glasses with a barely self-contained smile across his lips, slightly tasting the hair from his sandy goatee. Barry’s mind wandered into a sensation of uneasy serenity dwelling in a cave with a monk finding enlightenment envisioning cherry blossoms falling to the ground but only for a moment when a sudden knock at the door broke his trance.
He casually put his book down and cleared his throat as his hand clasped the knob of the door. He had to brace himself for what would follow, whoever it may be…
And just like that a Hollywood wet dream came true, like Hitchcock’s Vertigo or a Harryhausen spectacular like Earth vs. Flying Saucers…you know one of the good ones?
SHE stood at the door, trembling with a dazed incredulous look on her face. Eyes as wide as flying saucers, seemingly dizzy with a heavy case of vertigo, she gasped and fell into his arms.
A FRENCH BLONDE WITH PROMINENT CHEEK BONES. EYES ROUND AS ALMONDS.
Klatt could barely contain his raging boner as the heaving bosom beneath the open ski jacket pressed against his belly and golden locks with red droplets, smoke and scorched metal scented flooded his nostrils and invaded his optic nerves causing a nervous organic jolt throughout his body.
Was it electrical or was it something more otherworldly like ghostly tentacles not quite intangible stroking his atoms trying to rip him apart like amputee haunted by phantom limbs?
He desperately prayed, she did not remember who she was or where she had had after the great awakening. Should he just her place on the couch outstretched, prepare a meal and wait or was it capable of manifesting itself into a dire panic-stricken situation which would require duct tape over the mouth and the emergency shackles placed near the bed with silky pajamas down in basement?
Klatt didn’t think of himself as a monster, but some monsters had good ideas and he was acting with most noble intentions, so how could he even be considered a monster when he was merely following the path of a preordained divine love?
HE WOULD LAY HER ON THE COUCH.
If she woke up screaming?
How could she? He was about to make a big heaping bowl of mashed potatoes with chives. It would rest near her steaming and if screams were to be uttered and stuff so full of buttery carbs, she’d fall asleep full content and satisfied…after initial terror and despair from the unknown.
He removed the jacket and her trendy boots, setting her on the side with her facing him. Let her find something plain, soft and calming if she were to arise from her disoriented state, it may settle her mind allowing the brain to percolate a bit before going off the rails in an alarming fashion.
Also hanging above the couch was a gold print by Georgia O’Keefe, who could lose all rational composure when taking in the stunning visual of an all-encompassing desert flower?
When things used to go awry with your grandfather Barry, I’d just close my eyes, tip my head back and picture flowers blooming… his mother would often say, staring off into a place where she seemed to believe space existed but all there was, was a wall painted cornflower blue.
Klatt couldn’t help but admire her classic hourglass shape and almost aged out classic movie star unintentionally seductively cascading hair as he looked over the island of his cramp checkerboard floored kitchen.
“Is this love?” he wondered aloud, imagining a sense of tranquility in a blank slate mind alongside the impact of Cupid’s arrow as he grabbed the whisk along with his bone white mixing bowl transfixed by a sky seemingly littered with falling stars among the reign of thousands of snowflakes.
THEN IT HAPPENED…
As soon as Klatt jubilantly slammed a sack of red skin potatoes on the counter, flaming white heat crashed into blinding white snow and mesmerized by the sound of silence and what should have been blind light, Barry soon found himself out in his backyard, snow half way to his knees, not thinking about wet socks and the warped leather of loafers, trudging almost instinctively toward steaming snow melted crater, finding a shimmery silver sparkling albino octopi , weakening tentacles flailing about searching for even the dimmest hope of survival.
Klatt immediately took the creature and cradled it carefully in his arms, not dismayed but confused as to why he was taking such an action with self-inquiry. Did love really have the ability to bestow such courage?
Sometimes sentinels are sent to die… His heart seemed to sing the statement in mind through the rhythm of life sustaining thumping.
He washed the extraterrestrial cephalopod in the sink with tepid water. It was limp. He waited a few moments.
Would chunks of intergalactic octopi of a standard nature be welcome in these spuds he would mash for his lady love?
The stable butcher knife in his trembling hand didn’t answer his question as he drove the blade into the creature’s head and swiftly split it down the middle, as a milky liquid spewed forth running down his hand being absorbed into his pores as he drove his free hand into the octopi’s head crushing some sort of pulsating organ into its palm.
On the other hand, sentinels resting between the borders between entropy and infinity have a much better grasp on how the universe works and if there just happens to be a tear in the fabric of being in time and new worlds open, isn’t it time for a bit of trans-dimensional perusal and genetic acclimation for exploration? Moaned Klatt’s veins being cleaned out by piano wire.
Something starting breaking and snapping inside Klatt as his knees shattered and organs slide up his chest, a cold thrust rushing up an out of his mouth immediately being caught in a deluge of black celestial charged ink projected from the octopus in the sink, as it lay dying, yellow eyes wide open locking onto Klatt’s own ocular orbs.
The duo’s pupils dilating, filling the eyes eclipsing blues and yellows, liquifying and emulating the alien ink being spurted about the room, each one seeing and experiencing what the other had in each his respective world…
Klatt could taste the color of music emanating from stars long burnt out, a kaleidoscopic spectrum of swirls and rays containing white heat hazes normally perceived by three dimensional receiving creatures as universal dark void but nothing as it seems as the void is a reflection of infinite potential the source of universal chaos and genesis entropy. Tentacles suctioned to the energy of time and space, tearing it asunder to explore new worlds outside their own realms causing ever more variances subverting the nature of time and reality itself…could universes branch out and eventually stretch to a breaking point where all of us and everything could exist at once never really being full living beings but a mass entity of existence growing on a tree being devoured by these beauty sleek, silver lined creatures with yellow star shining eyes who could pick a random body, form it to its needs akin to terraforming and implant its consciousness within, so it live through an eternity?
Klatt saws worlds die and be born in intergalactic fire and rain, wondering if this is how he was meant to die without feeling self-satisfied individualized romantic love…
KROMM STARTED TO BREATHE THROUGH THE VARIOUS ORFICES OF KLATT….
The octopi was essentially what would be considered a point for his people. He slung himself into Barry Klatt’s mouth, gradually shoving himself inside.
Words entered Klatt’s mind, at first booms as they faded away with what he felt was his existence.
You yourself will never know how you were meant to live and die, Barry Klatt except for what befalls your Terran mind and body in these moments. Part of your mind shall survive as will your body but you as an entity shall not. I shall retain how little you’ve lived along with certain characteristics which gradually erode along with the memories your mind has recorded. I wish you well in a place you shall never journey to for the existence of a world outside life has alluded us for tens of thousands of epochs. Probability is an objective god of a neutral source and you shall find no mercy as trillions of creatures born to die in various natures have not.
There was an explosion of ink, blood and human male organs splattered on the wall.
Something crawled toward the couch where a beautiful slightly bruised woman rustled around in her sleep. The creature that was not yet fully Kromm yet incompletely Barry Klatt gazed down at her as it stroked its newly sprouting sixth tentacle, eagerly awaiting the other two, secreting something between ink and saliva as it reached a tentacle to stroke majestically golden hair.
Would it eat her?
scare yourself back into existence angels laugh at the ache in your heart they taste the blood in your fear they help you tie the rope around your neck and find the sturdiest tree in the town it is your unwillingness to step beyond these mortal thoughts that confuses everyone why be tied to just what they want you to know expand your brain into the darkest hole you can find and scare yourself back into existence give the world all your secrets break these chains and never be afraid of falling down but never think anyone will ever help you back up --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- a frantic phone call to my mother i remember taking my mother's diaphragm into show and tell one day and said i used it in the sandbox in the backyard to sift the sand there was a frantic phone call to my mother from a horrified teacher my mother had no clue what i had done i figured i was getting an early start at being a standup comedian of course, it was the 80's and we had no clue how to actually encourage an active imagination in a child back in those days they were too busy trying to get me to understand conformity and division i was already reading at a college level and no one understood what made my mind tick none of them ever did until i got to high school and found an english teacher who knew immediately i was way beyond anything he had planned in his class so, he told me to go write a book of poems and show him what i was working on best teacher i ever had ---------------------------------------------------------------------- abandoned buildings i sometimes find myself drifting off mid-conversation these days i'll hear an old massive attack beat in my head and start thinking about doing drugs in my youth abandoned buildings the cemeteries and open fields where we would count the stars and give them better names and it's not that those days were better or more open or free they just held a sense of a better possibility than these days stuck in a digital world of faceless souls and juvenile criminals ------------------------------------------------------------------------- the dotted line engulfed in flames trembling hands and a dotted line a little scotch used to calm these nerves now it takes more than anyone should comfortably drink in public it's not every day you're signing away the right to live but you understand this is the best for everyone involved ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ the horizon looks bleak i used to mark the days on a calendar with a marker now i do it with blood the horizon looks bleak and then i see a mirror haven't shaved in years no reason to ever love me screams like a woman in danger i have prepared for my death since i was a child the life goals i was allowed to pursue have all been checked off now i just need a sunset a trusty shotgun and a little music to send me home
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, The Beatnik Cowboy, Dumpster Fire Press, Misfit Magazine and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Life In Greater Accra.
LIGA Series – 1 By Ike Boat
The LIGA Series describes real-life story of a creative artiste ‘Ike Boat’ and what have been his battles, challenges and struggles in Accra, the capital city of Ghana, West Africa. He conceived the idea to write this ‘Arti-Blog’ based on what he narrates as being a bane of joblessness, homelessness and sleeplessness in this part of Ghana, as he’s been a stranger to natives of the communities where he finds himself – Author : Dennis Mann
In this Series 1 of LIGA he writes about his decision to be in Accra and how life is treating him on daily basis and how he’s coping else facing such harsh conditions as realities, beside the issues of making a living.
LIGA – Quite such an interesting similarity of the abbreviation or acronym, thus LIGA with regard to the Spanish football premier league dubbed La Liga or the German premier League Bundes-Liga. Well this real-life story as article-blog is not in any-way or means associated or connected with the Spanish soccer i.e.(sport) association, institution or organization in Spain. But on the contrary, it’s exact reflection of acronym used as title of this real-life personal story with regard to happenings to me in Greater Accra region as I made both bold and faith oriented move here a couple of months ago. Whether it’s step in a right direction or not, this really unfolds some aspects of daily life as a bitter-pill to swallow, beside pukes or problems and challenges in this capital city of Accra, Ghana. (West Africa).
Life In Greater Accra (LIGA) the capital of Ghana has generally not been easy with me at all even as I try to be positively busy every day. Unimaginably, I have been trying harder and harder from actual to virtual mediums or mean to ensure that the talents, skills and abilities become useful to individuals and companies I establish contact with but it like throwing punches in the air. However, there have been no positive results or responses. Countless number of employment applications to media companies and individual employers but all seem Cos-90 move. I presume of the reasons being rich achievements on Curriculum Vitae (CV) or Resume, so some companies or business owners think it difficult to agree on particular payment satisfaction. More-so, another application view or presumption is such that some human resource personnel or highly positioned staff members feel uncomfortably they’ll lose their role or position when accepted into the establishment based on multi-skills or talents I possess. Obviously, there have been hectic and realistic times trying harder with heart of hope and faith to in relation to every-day perseverance in ensuring breakthrough success and progress in the Arts industry. To be precise, as far as the God-given talents, gifts and skills coupled with prospects and potentials of daily hustle and bustle are concerned in this cosmopolitan city of Ghana, West Africa. Factually, the struggles and sufferings have nothing to do with being lazy or act of laziness as a chap with positive dreams, realistic ambitions and holistic aspirations to make life bearable before departure from this earth. Of course, being in Accra has been a long time heart-yearn during my teen-aging years back in Takoradi, where I born and grew up.
On 19th March,2021 I arrived in Accra from Kasoa precisely the perching residence at Estate Top and Blue Top Estate respectively, thus in house owned by the former International footballer in the personality of Mr.Owusu Afriyie currently based in Deutschland (Germany). The first move was primarily as a result of an invitation to feature as guest on Awake TV program dubbed Pillow Talk hosted by Lady Sherry Nyarko. Graciously, I had generous fund support from a noble figure outside of Ghana as a means of sponsorship for the transportation and accommodation. Indeed, it’s aided the fare and lodging at Mavis Hotel as I did several communications with the management and leadership in charge of this hospitality firm within Asylum Down suburb of Accra. Well, on the aftermath I engaged in thought-processing creative writing in terms of Blog and Vlog 233 Concept for online publication purposes.
Of course, ups and downs of this LIGA also bring to bear realistic characters of some people being ungenerous in heart even if a person is on the verge of death due to certain harsh human conditions. A clear case study, of personally approaching a man who has stayed in Britain for years (expatriate) in times of dire need to eat and him turning me down with sheer ignorance even though everything show he’s able to provide as little as five (5) Cedis to buy food. It’s quite unconvincing and unbelievable his reason for refusing to show sense of generosity as I called on him at his residence in Asylum Down area of Accra. However, on one occasion I received a good surprise of fifty (50) banknote courtesy madam Harriet Quardey, the boss-lady, owner and prime operator of Mum’s Corner pub, where I have been MC a couple of times. Undoubtedly, it was one hunger day like a stranger who’s uninvited to her house and needed food to survive. Well, one evening whilst walking on the newly tarred road I came across two (2) Cedis wrinkled banknote on the floor and mine oh, mine oh, it’s time of singing praises of hallelujah choruses unto God as I had nothing to eat the next morning.
Lo, from one lodging place to another I have been dislodged and slept at unusual wrong areas suffering the night bites of wanton mosquitoes with uncomfortable restlessness leading to state of insomnia. For weeks, I have been sleeping at the wooden structure drinking bar of St. Sam Hotel here at Asylum Down in Accra. Factually, borrowing and owing as a promising artistic talent makes curious minds and conscious masses think differently about supposed star fellow in this infotainment age of technological advancement. Come to think of behind the scenes mock by some in secrecy!
Your guess is as good as mine, oh mine, oh mine – LIGA! There have been countless times of being at food selling joint without money to buy food and quite shamefully begging and pleading to get food and pay-back later. Oh, gosh, hmm – LIGA! The unpredictable times at kenkey and fried-fish with grind pepper selling joint, porridge with sugar and bread selling joint, fried-rice and chicken selling joint, just to mention but a few. Having said this, chef Peter Agombire and assistant Isaac Adobo have consistently contributed to aid my hunger condition as I continue to find lasting solution to such a bane of LIGA. Lest I forget, the one-on-one deep-life conversations with Madam Anna Cole coupled with her rollicking circular designed rice and stew with cooked egg offer at her family residence in Tabora, also remains unforgettable thus in relation to appreciation with grateful heart of gratitude in this LIGA Series.
Reader, better-still I really don’t take for granted or refuse to express heart of gratitude the supportive manner and care of Mr.Harrison Nii Quaye the professional Real Estate agent (Realtor), who has bought food for me and given to me on several occasion, especially in my critical low moment of being so hard-up and broke, beside hungry in angry times like hum-ani i.e.(human-animal) figure on unfamiliar habitat. At times, escorting him to places such as Achimota, Osu, Labadi, Nima , James Town and other suburbs of Accra onboard a car he drives also has exposed and taught me lots of things about different areas with different arrays of life-style in relation to culture and livelihood as far as this LIGA is concerned. It also needful to mention as appreciable recognition of Mr. Earl Mantey, the Programs Manager of Happy 98.9 FM and Mr. Francis Cann (Dr.Cann) Presenter of Happy 98.9 FM as they have also contributed generously by way of buying food for me and giving token of money at certain point to aid the LIGA hardships. I’m so grateful as well for the media related interactions with them being staff of Global Media Alliance – GMA brand.
In narrating LIGA, the sob-story of an Italian old-man who passed away at Mavis Hotel also brings about gracious nature of God’s gift of life to us in this part of Africa, Ghana to be precise. Well, one may wonder and ask why didn’t he kick the bucket at his homeland, Italy? I remember, him dying on same room and bed that I accommodated my first week in Accra and I together with other three men carrying his lifeless body to a police car to the morgue/mortuary. It also reveals how and why as humans we need to thank God on daily basis. Pathetically, this man by first name Andrea in his fifties slept and didn’t wake-up again. And, it’s unknown to none of us at the hotel for days and by the time we realized his body on verge of decay in the room, thus same bed I slept on for days. Of course, together with Mr. Harrison Nii Quaye and Mr. Emmanuel Annan it’s to and fro at the Adabraka Police Station in Accra. Indeed, making realistic report of such death-case in this CoViD-19 times and brought about further investigations. Hmmm, it’s another solemn LIGA moment!
Indeed, Life In Greater Accra (LIGA) without stating the following VIPs as worthwhile recognition of gratefulness towards their continuous Mo-Mo Support remains incomplete in this Series 1. Thus, notable acknowledgment of appreciation to Mr. Kenneth Anim, Mr. Dennis Agyeman and Mr. Agabus Asmah all have continually given to my state of uncertainties in coping with LIGA coupled with the Accommodation bane. Also, some distinguished International figures that have helped to cope financially with regard to LIGA includes: Mr. Andy Estrada #Dad & Mrs. Julie Estrada #Mom in USA, Madam Aja Pugh in USA, Minstrel Stella Addo in USA,Madam Dagmar Erb in Germany, Madam Lilian Aduka in Nigeria and Madam S.B Jabini in the Netherlands.
To Be Continued In LIGA Series 2 !
Real-Life Art-Blog Written By Ike Boat @ Asylum Down, Accra (Ghana).
Email Address: email@example.com
Whats-App Number: +233267117700
Direct-Call Number: +233552477676
A Concession of Love She followed the travel and the antique shows on PBS all through the Sunday lull, his couch’s better half. With upturned eyes let him zap over to the NFL taking her book up, asking that the volume be kept down. Though she couldn’t hold her interest wholly aloof from the barbaric game— surprising dad with a gasp, Gaw that dude’s fast! She’d look back at her novel with a glance… Then marvel at the fans and their face paint. She wanted to know just why the referee had thrown that flag. And frowned ambiguously at the vainglory of a touchdown dance. Hoisted her eyebrow at the extra point. Reference Rekindled from an OED, a word from long ago “jangala,” a dry, dry land, a desert, flourishes to the green wood jungle has come to depict in her day— lapsed as her gaze off to another book so for its cover. She reads silent at the PC on her elevated desk amid the printed volumes to check out. How better embody that little-heard fountain Wisdom than surround oneself with her spines? Delicate as usage, hard as sense to fix, one can only imagine her orderly and tidy as these shelves— going home, her hair in the wind undone. The Super-id The sea ever wagged by its tail. It’s all continuum, seals playing out into their horror of an orca’s play with little mind for manners, appearance, “plasticity,” the business of the sails of cloud stacked like the coasts’ glass mountains, these Aeolian beings, drawing from it fertile rain, shimmering nets and devastating storms. Great unselfconsciousness swims between one’s hunger and another’s from deep memory clear to the shallows of our shellfish. And our muck, threatening its copious data of marvels. And unmasking me, boy wizard on the shore of the ponderous metaphor. To My Problem “Symptoms, symptoms,” said the therapist, halfway into another session. “It’s good of you to talk about them. Shortness of breath and temper. Irritableness. Obsessive compulsive. Insomnia. Erratic spending.” I don’t know how professional it was of my Doctor Strangelove, though it certainly had a psychological effect on him at last to come unhinged and just lay it all out— “Mr. Steffen,” with a deep sigh, “underlying all this chaffing, there is some little stone somewhere in your shoe.” I've written you letters with no address for the envelope with my thinking it out, how to unravel your skein of sudden desires and a tilted past. I've come away from psychologists, from groups and meetings with certificates and tokens saying I could overstep your molehills— only again day after day to find myself lulled in the elevations of attitude, on the islands of prickly fruit grousing about the prices, the wait, bearing my teeth at others with their deplorable hair and manners. Only to have them—What's your problem?—invoke you anew and remind me everybody drinks the same water. With your sniff dreaming a rib bone from the takeout bag being kicked around by the wind, snapping at the wind's hand, biting your fingernails, drifting again into the blind spot of your oncome; with your dispersal of asking, flirt, maker of No… Huh-uh… Get lost… Should I only try again author of the shrug, again and again— to the break of sunlight out of nights and days of rain so here and there an afternoon I am filled and you vanish like water into the green flag of the grass.
Recipient of a 2021 Massachusetts Cultural Council Fellowship, Michael Steffen’s poems have appeared in publications, including, The Boston Globe, The Concord Saunterer, The Dark Horse, The Lyric and Poem.
Daily Haunting Everyday I wake up from bed with a question Whether I am fine or not This trembling and painful palpitating heart Confounded for tension and shock The dogs are barking outside What's the dream glaring to soothe the earth? Damn the model of fashion or civilization Every single day rebounds with its flinching face The sound of unexpected scream and murder The sound of unexpected howling of the children and the mothers Falling in a victim of racial attack People are growling for this unbearable torture How does this audacity act on? Why's this plan for murder? My heart is breaking down into the cries of Palestine and Syria The daily unruly hue and cry all around us We know it very well the strong always devour the weak in the jungle The blood is oozing on my head at the dead of night I scream out Everyday I wake up from bed with a question whether I am fine or not. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 28/10//2020 Resentment It opens the room for resentment On the daily happenings from the daily pages Or on the television screen Or on the social media At the beginning of the day At the time of taking our breakfast with hotchpotch At a glance it opens the room for resentment Reclining on the wall I brood over Cry and break the heart silent No way to escape Beautiful or graceful the word The mutual respect of Love In no way we come closer to each other, one another Overflowing water clogs the roads No way that we can mingle Opening the room for resentment. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 28/10//2020 My Clytemnestra Like Agamemnon I had my Clytemnestra She killed him for many reasons But why was I sent to the way never thought before? Your soft wings turned into an iron rod And tried to play the role on me O my Clytemnestra, you knew very well How much I had my love for you As you had for Aegisthus In other part of the story That Helen had for Paris At one point of our talking at night All on a sudden you choked me off and fled away with him A poor and helpless lover, floating on the bed Twisting hands on the forehead Till the morning sun peeped through window on the face And the birds with its sweet note brought me to my sense. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 28/10//2020 Facing the Destiny The plants are growing so fresh mingling the sky with the azure seas Welcoming us to this sunny the dewy sparking morning But unseen danger lurks everyday Though we have made fence all around Going on with the fight for you and me The ruthless killer spreads the hands over Breathing in the air or touching the things Just like the birds' pestilence-stricken Silent and drowsy, the body trembling in severe temperature Everyday, every moment The beds are fixed with the ventilators Survival depends on immunity Some cross the Styx, some convalesce The persons left behind are also waiting for the same journey Who's not destined to this ringing? We are all undergoing with the passport Of course not the same from where we came into To the last we are bound to ---- Let peace be upon all of us. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 31/10//2020 A Plight to Joyonto Joyonto, No, I'll not let you go Please, stay here some more My heart must stop circulating blood In this hazy and foggy world Yet, would you like to leave me alone? Firing and darkness over the head What a devastating cyclone uprooting the trees! In this desolate condition how can I take my breath? Flooded and fired as far as you look Joyonto, please hold my hand Reach me to my home I live across the river Let me be your part As shaped as the sign of love In this large sky the moon is rousing the ocean Please hold my hand Keep me tight in your arms in this isolated land Let us make the dark night colorfully enlightened Oh, what a love, dear! Joyonto, ------- please, come on. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 01/11//2020
Title: A Taste of His Poison
Adapted from a book by Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben)
Screenwriter: Robert Sacchi
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Ricardo feels short-changed whenever he’s in business with his boss,
Martinez, who does ‘’business’’ at the LaGuardia Airport, with all the five
major staffers, a part of his drug-cartel network. Having worked for his
boss for over a decade, Ricardo sees the need to pay him back in his coin.
Despite his faithfulness through the years, Martinez is fond of denigrating
Ricardo’s efforts his efforts and using the proceeds—that are due Ricardo—
to his chains of girlfriends. Ricardo’s complaints hold no water as Martinez prioritizes
his lovers over intricate business deals he has with Ricardo.
However, Ricardo seeks a way for his boss to someday, have a taste of his
poison—revenge for the wrongs he did to him. He figures out a plan. He
discusses with his doctor to create an clone of himself and contracts with a
willing-to-die for -the -money street thug, Roberto, to do his
bidding—Ricardo’s impostor—delivering fake dollars,
instead of the actual consignment as instructed by his boss. Roberto, or
better known as ‘’Ricardo’’, is aware of the whole plot.
‘’Ricardo’’ is well-paid and is fully prepared for the task ahead. Ricardo,
knowing the ropes of the cartel, explores the loophole and finds an escape
route never to be seen again. Ricardo leaves the cartel with the hugest
The success of the plan is to Ricardo’s advantage but leaves ‘’Ricardo’’ to
an uncertain fate…