The Royalties

He’s looking through

The 2024 tax form

That documents 

The royalties

From his first book

It’s been a while 

Since the book 

Was released 

And he hasn’t

Thought about sales

In a long time

He made less than

Ten bucks

Last year

Obviously he’s 

An underground favorite

Poised for posthumous fame.

Taylor Dibbert is a poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, “Takoma.”

I was late to begin leaving for walking, so I checked the time of sunset to make sure I wouldn’t get caught in darkness. It said 6:08 was when the sun set. I had enough time. I turned off the tarot card reader I was listening to and got my boots and such on. A local golf course allowed dog walkers through the winter months. Some people said it was to keep coyotes away and some had the owner as doing this because his mother used to walk the dogs there and it was all to keep part of her memory going. 

The dogs were happy and safe, and socialized well if a bit zealously sometimes, with the others they encountered. I took the left side which was less populated overall, and at that time for half the walk, that half of the golf course, there was nobody. It was one of those moments prolonged where the three of us were content, moving, together, and were where and how we were supposed to be. 

I looked out far and far across the lands and could see an old and sad building, something from maybe the 1970’s and even the most positive soul would be hard-pressed to find something sanguine about. I was glad I was in the next town, even if the people were a little on the snobbish side. It got really quiet, with no wind and I just paused sometimes and admired this remarkable quietude. There was a copse of trees standing above the long and wide white snow, both the ground and trees completely untouched by anything in the world. It reminded me of something. I couldn’t recall what. Then it hit me. It was all there like some old Carlos Castaneda book cover. That led me to thinking of Castaneda. His personal narrative probably hadn’t been true, according to my research, but his writing was beautiful and interesting, and did contain much wisdom. So, it was up to the reader to determine what they thought of it all finally. His immediate group of people didn’t end well. But in another way he had inspired many and perhaps still does. 

I arrived at a little series of small streams. The dogs, a Collie and a Husky, didn’t bother much and stayed close enough. They were both good swimmers but I wouldn’t want them to go too close in the winter months. I stood on some planks and stared at the black water which to the sides looked grey and in other places clear. I liked the sound and to see it travelling. I began to feel better and better. It had been a long cold snow-laden winter but finally there were little signs that it might end one day. 

There was a distant bell I kept hearing then, and also a black squirrel I saw running across the way in the openness before disappearing into a stand of trees. An elderly lady appeared before me with her dog. The three dogs met and played somewhat. 

‘Your dogs are beautiful,’ she mentioned. I told her thanks. ‘My dog is a rescue,’ she continued, ‘and I think they know when they are becoming a rescue.’

‘Good for you,’ I told her, ‘for giving him a home and walks. I might not be out here walking if not for mine, ’cause it easy to make any one excuse not to go out. So I rescue them and they rescue me.’

‘Exactly.’

Then the lady coughed and had a hard time stopping. ‘It’s a cold I’m fighting. But I’ve had it since December.’ That was a few months, I thought to myself, and something, life experience, common sense, maybe some intuition or the manner she coughed in, told me it was pneumonia. 

‘I hope you feel better soon.’

We looked around and the dogs kept playing. ‘I better get going,’ I said. And I glanced back in a bit and consciously sent her any light and good intentions that I could in order to help her with the pneumonia and in life. She seemed like such a good soul. Soon her and her dog disappeared into the part of the path that entered a group of old trees in the other direction. 

I kept on. There was a long stretch and I realized for some reason, alone with my own thoughts, that I had never seen the golf course without snow, in the spring or summer. I thought it must look kind, relaxing, even inspiring for its vibrant verdancy and calm plainness. There was a bit of ice to navigate going up the long hill to our truck, and I went slow and cautiously. The dogs had no trouble at all, full of agility and youth, prowess, and such, that they were. 

Some friendly people passed me and I said hello. It was interesting that they were setting out then because it was beginning to get dark. At the top the canines and I, got into my vehicle. Driving home I thought of the other side of outside, of home. There would be puzzles and books, nice people and the fire. The fire was electric and had no hearth stone, but it was a modern world and that’s just how it went sometimes. I still liked it. 

Inside, I wrote this, careful not to upset the puzzle pieces. Periodically I glanced up to see the darkening sky turn from blue to darker blue and then, black. It was night. It was a day’s end. It was Sunday as a Sunday should be, peaceful and without dilemma. 6:08 EST had come and passed. And that is what I saw, did, and thought, while that winter sun was going down again. 

——

Point Of Correction

For the SS2 students of Great Immaculate Secondary School, 2013/2014 Academic Session.

Adaeze took no nonsense from anybody. Anybody at all. She was bold and outspoken. She knew what she wanted at anytime. Fear never occurred to her. She would be the first person ever in our school to challenge Scubo, the Scout man who made sure there was order in our school. He acted like some sort of security man. He organized the exams, made sure nobody cheated, took the exam papers back to the teachers. In addition to these, he instilled fear into the students. It was impossible for one to be normal in the presence of Scubo because his own flogging was more painful than that of everybody else who had the power to flog the students – the seniors, the teachers, the school director. If Scubo had ever flogged you, you had no other choice than to fear him. What I myself felt towards Scubo was just fear. I did not see Scubo as a normal human being. When I saw Scubo the only thing I saw was canes and torrents of harsh words which he used on the students – Nincompoop! You stupid boy! You rascal! Bloody fool! Are you an imbecile?

Every student was afraid of Scubo because of his flogging. And not just because of his flogging. I guess there are people who have the gift of strangling or swallowing other people’s voices when they entered a room. Scubo had this gift, but of course not everybody’s voice would be strangled by the way.

Scubo never spoke to the students like a normal human being. He shouted. He gave instructions in shouts. Everything about him was unnecessarily manic, the way he walked, the way he spoke, the way he looked at the students, but Adaeze wasn’t going to have any of that. She wasn’t going to have anyone shove no spit into her mouth in the name of school security and control.

It was a cool Monday morning in class, and we had a free period. The teacher wasn’t around, and so our class prefect was telling everyone to lessen the noise, else he would be forced to write the names of noise makers. Nobody listened to him. The noise was too much, a collection of English and Igbo words melding together in the air.

That was when Adaeze walked in quietly. Nobody knew she had walked in until Scubo’s shouting voice appeared in our classroom. There was quiet immediately. On a normal day, Adaeze wasn’t known to be a troublemaker, wasn’t loud or boisterous. She was just a normal, cool girl who liked to mind her business.

“Where is that girl? Where is that stupid girl? Where is she?” Scubo shouted. His English had a heavy Igbo accent, and we always mimicked him in his absence, never in his presence. Our class prefect often said he couldn’t understand how our school director would employ an illiterate to work as school security.

Nobody said anything upon hearing Scubo’s voice. Adaeze sat on the pew where she normally sat. Scubo scanned the whole class with his eyes until he picked Adaeze. “Were you not the one I was calling?” he asked.

There was silence. Nobody spoke for seconds.

Scubo asked her the question again. “Excuse me, Sir?” she said with a tone that clearly showed that she was ready for anything that would follow as the consequence of her action.

“Are you stupid?” Scubo asked. “Are you talking to me in that manner?”

“I don’t understand what is happening, Sir. Nobody called me. Nobody called my name.”

“So you won’t answer if you didn’t hear your name?”

“People only respond to their names.”

“Oh. You senior students have started growing wings, abi? I called you and you refused to answer me.”

“Point of correction, Sir! Nobody called me. If I had heard my name, then I would have answered.”

Those words Point of correction, Sir! hewn out of Adaeze’s mouth stood heavy in the air. The audacity of the words, the fearlessness and the poise of it made everyone uneasy. Scubo raised his cane to flog Adaeze but she held the cane with her right hand. “You have no rights to flog me Sir. You did not call me, and there was no way I could answer to a call which did not exist.”

We all watched in astonishment. Later, we would hail Adaeze and tell her that she would make a great lawyer, but presently, we all kept quiet. We all knew what had happened even though we weren’t there when Scubo called Adaeze. Scubo never called anyone by name. It would have been nice if he tried to know the names of the students and call them by names just like the teachers did, but Scubo never called anyone by name, never even bothered to do so. What he often did was to holler “Hey you!” and then all the students would turn in panic, and then he would point to the offending student and say, “Come here!” If you hesitate or say, “Is it me, Sir?” Scubo would yell, “It is you I’m talking to, you Nincompoop!”

 Surely, Adaeze was in a big trouble, we thought. But Scubo walked out of the class without uttering another word. We waited for a retaliation, maybe Scubo would come back better armed. Maybe he would come back with more canes. Maybe he would invite the school director. But days passed, weeks walked past, and nobody mentioned Adaeze’s case again. Neither would Scubo come into our class to harass anybody again till we graduated. We gave Adaeze a nickname which she answered till we came out of secondary school. The nickname was “Point Of Correction”.

Pillow feather hunts pillow feather

The bed still remembers the shapes of our bodies

Outside the window the air turns into graves for the missing pilots

I dream of fucking you as before as before your funeral

***

I want to be the rain that washes off your skin

I don’t want to be the tear that washes away your joy

The tree controls the leaves and the soil controls the dead

You control my heart and I have nothing left but my heart

My brother Brutus is shaven and white like ivory

I’m coming from to your house to save you from my brother

I’m not going to your house so I’ll save you from myself

I never had a brother in reality and I will never betray myself again

I’m walking down the street in the middle of the day and it’s dark all around

***

ring on my finger

centenary rings belonging to a tree

I freeze unable to say a word

my hope is my leaves

months of my existence pass in anticipation of the birds

but the birds scattered all over the world in search of a new home

only the little boy inside me is still hiding in the basement

of his parents’ house trying to escape from air bombs and missiles

***

birds drink the silence

of a broken sakura

branch like for the first time

***

eyelashes tied in knots

but the eyes still see how the oak says

goodbye to yellowing leaves

Peer Smits (The Netherlands), writer-prose, poetry-photographer, composer, visual artist. Likes music-punk, reggea- as an inspiration and for fun. Three books-Het hanenei, 2007, Compositions, and We do stencils-2024.Artist since 1982. Poetry published in (inter-)national magazines.

From June to May

I have never said I love you

To me you are always new

l feel that l love you the best

Really you are not my guest.

I have never given you a rose

In literature you are the best prose

You are the best rose in my garden

You are the fairy queen in my heaven. 

l have never touched your heart

But look, you are not far apart

You won’t live without me a day

The moon says- from June to May.

I have never sent you costly gift

True love never demands any lift

I love you without the traditional world

Speaking truly, my love isn’t so called.

I have never dreamt a dream

Where is absent your cream

we walk along the path of love 

ln my sky, you are my love dove.