+



       Where dust devils 
     walk  between 
   the tree stumps 

As I pass this century 
  once again  I smell 
    Dinner  beside my 
 Great-grandchild's
Children.

      Far beside
   the roadways
between us & them
Dust devils walk
    beside
       petrified
           stumps.

Was my lunch finished
     over pure cold
       Sips of
         liquid
           Joy?

"Lovely Sky, isn't it!"

A disturbed
     thought passes
        brushing the
          grain of
            Rock
from an old
          tree.

Just like you and me,
   An old habit of
        Life.

"Did you finish 
                your lunch
                 , Dear?"

                                                   ............


by  John Edward Culp 
     Saturday morning
     January 20, 2024
      ♡

Life as a Virgule ‘n Caesura

for N. Karfakis, G. Kokkinidis, and C. Batmanghlich

after Philosopher and Poet by Giorgio de Chirico (Italy), 1916 C.E.



Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.
– S. Kierkegaard
(excerpt from Journals and Papers (1843))

He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.
– F. W. Nietzsche
(excerpt from Twilight of the Idols)


   I	The Virgule: Either/Or

Either an Adapa (Adam) to the all-knowing Ea (Elahi); Or a covenant-breaking Judas to one Christ (one the cross) / Either with a silver spoon in the mouth (devoid of dichotomies ‘n dilemmas); Or abandoned on a raft en route to a Pharoh’s spouse / Either the golden throne in a king’s/queen’s court at a palace; Or a joking jester hired to amuse the populace in the town centre / Either an epic with the protagonist being rescued from an eternal torment; Or a ghazal summersaulting in a poet’s throat / Either a blue-tale in hieroglyphs on the pyramids’ walls; Or a spirited-eye painted on the noses of the triremes / Either a newly-hatched chick reduced to fodder for ants on the forest’s floor; Or the twins suckled and raised by a she-wolf, Lupa / Either the cipher engraved on a clay ‘n stone ‘n emerald ‘n glass tablet; Or a bead of ink on the nib of a scribe’s quill pen. 

   II	The Caesura: – Hyphenated

   The sunyata took to an intermission – some portion of the debris took to the milky way ‘n sun ‘n earth ‘n moon.1

   A juvenile boy ‘n girl are all liberated, id est, devoid of hunger ‘n intimacy ‘n what ‘ve you – lo ‘n behold, a gleam from an apple dangling from a branch of a tree.

   Irtiqa is an aficionado of “slow ‘n steady wins the race” – hold thy horses, one man has devised a wheel ‘n A.I. ‘n more as the catalyst.2

   The schools of pink salmon ‘n rainbow trout follow the pulsations of the river – a hibernation-eloping brown grizzly bear steals a micro stock from the overflow.

   The horse ‘n cattle ‘n sheep are all sophists in the cherry blossom-‘n-beebalm-laden fields – the multithemed snowflakes in billions ‘n gazillions terraform the territory into a tabula rasa. 

   The folklorists have the camp ‘n bonfire all prepared for the twinkle-twinkle little night – an empiricist in a laboratory somewhere has the lenses of the microscope cleaned to debunk the age-old pompous oratory of (anthropomorphic) Devas ‘n Devis.

   One Vyasa’s convinced of conceiving a magnum opus in an ovulating thalamus – one Ganesha’s > keen on a game of hide ‘n seek.3




______________

1. Sunyata (Sanskrit): Emptiness/voidness/nothingness. In the classical Hindu(ism) teachings, ‘Sunyata’ is a school of thought that advocates a non-intrinsic nature of things/phenomena, i.e., things/phenomena are subject to the phenomenon of flux (change/transmutability).
2. Irtiqa (ارتقا) (Arabic): Evolution.
3. Vyasa and Ganesha – the epic of Mahabharata: According to a Hindu legend, Ganesha (Lord of Wisdom) only agreed to being a scribe to Vyasa on one condition: no breaks while dictating the said epic.


Stairways ‘n Catwalks

for Nikolas, George, E. Rahim, and L. Jacobs

after Homage to a poet (Omaggio a un poeta) by Giorgio Barbarelli da Castelfranco (aka Giorgione) (Italy), 1477–1510  C.E.



We have two lives, and the second begins when we realise we only have one.
– Confucius

The pen is mightier than the sword!
– An English Proverb


   I

‘Round the rear end of the red-bricked bungalow,
the (fire escape) stairway spirals like the Fibonacci sequence
– 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, … – bearin’ thirteen odd stainless-steel steps.

[
‘N < thirteen odd thousand years or so ago,
our very own Dear Mother Earth took to walkin’ the catwalk
to step away from one long age of the ice age (aka Younger Dryas)
      – like a feisty protagonist of an epic poem –
‘n fashion for us, homo sapiens, a canopy to breathe ‘n breed under.

…

‘N we fashioned all manner of Stairways ‘n Catwalks
– one or two odd Zeuses ‘n Heracleses ‘n Helens ‘n Achilleses 
‘n Medusas ‘n Perseuses ‘n Rostams ‘n Sohrabs ‘n Ramas ‘n Ravanas.
											]

    II

‘N I walk the catwalk scrollin’ up the steep anti-slip steps
– which feels like strollin’ up an elongated perron
to one Buddha’s Temple in the Tibetan Himalayas –
to arrive before a wooden cedarwood door on the 2nd floor
– which makes you want to pronounce افتح يا سمسم –*
I push the copper handle down,
‘n the reverberations from my plantigrade + digitigrade footsteps
have already set the pull tab on the zipper off rattling
of my half-opened black mamba-black cowhide leather postman bag’s
– which projects a notion of a rattle on the tail of a rattlesnake’s–
‘n unlike the venom from one mamba’s or rattlesnake’s mouth,
the verbosity from one mighty fiery dragon’s mouth
– occasionally hibernating inside the belly of my زنبیل –**
is far more intoxicating and indelible than any kinds of poisons
from one or two solenoglyphous or proteroglyphous or opisthoglyphous fangs!

   III

‘N the past twelve odd thousand years or so
of the red blood cells + white blood cells duo
has rather rendered my intellectual-metabolism
immune to [its] persevering strikes ‘n bites—
‘n I grab hold of it by its ovulating throat
– with my pulsating thumb + forefinger + middle finger;
which feels like one Horace pronouncing “Carpe Diem” –
‘n make [its] شہ رگ take to walkin’ the catwalk-of-words***
to pay an homage to one Confucius
in the spiral of 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, … – thirty-four+ odd lines!



______________

* افتح يا سمسم (Iftah Ya SimSim): Open Sesame.
** زنبیل (Zambiil): Bag.
*** شہ رگ (Sheh Rag): Jugular vein.
Le Voyage

for Nashwa Y. Butt & Umme A. Ali

after Road Trip in the Woody by David Michael Hinnebusch (U.S.A.), 2017 C.E.



     The Green Belt

     He pulls the car over; too fast and too close to the green belt (wide dividing strip) in the middle of the dual carriage-boulevard. The car/rikshaw (tuk-tuk) drivers, motor/cyclists et alia become instantly occupied in their heads (the ones that sit on their shoulders) with making-a-meal out of the sudden break on his part. Time has come to go, pack your bags, hit the open road; our hearts just won’t die, it’s the trip, keeps us alive. … So many miles; so many miles, he turns the volume all the way down on “The Trip” by Still Corners to zero. 

     The Qalam

     He hysterically starts looking for a qalam (fountain) pen) inside all the immediately visible and accessible storage compartments – the glove box, cup holders, ashtray holder, door side pockets, storage trays on the dashboard, et cetera. But, there’s no sign of a stylo ((fountain) pen) or a pencil. Swearing follows, heedfully: “GOD DAMN IT – I curse this bastard habit of relying too much on the lead and ink and paper! I CURSE IT!” The heavy shower has stopped, but his mind has left the windshield wipers waving at him. The out-of-the-blue cloudy and rainy post meridiem forces him to reminisce about the drizzles and streets and walks and drives in Leicester, UK; the evocations render le voyage (the trip) into a grey day.

     Miniature Automata

     As a last resort, he takes to the micro keyboard on his Samsung smart phone (he’s a bit old school in that regard; not a great aficionado of the modern technologies and gadgets and IT): “… . And sometimes, the muse does transmute into a rather petit jealous/possessive toddler; she WANTS it all for herself – as an infant on breast-feeding WANTS both boobs for him/herself! … And as such an instant manifests, life – of an artist/poet – comes to an utter halt; and then, the power of co/m/motion-in-inertia takes control of every facet of life; and as such a moment transpires, … .” Midway through recording the aphorism (in the default proprietary Notes application), the phone battery dies on him. The phone charger (with a detachable USB cable) and/or the portable power bank is not to be found anywhere either—neither on the car floor, nor in his tan leather mini briefcase, or in the shalwar/kameez (trouser/shirt) pockets. “The day before, before taking this vahana (ride) to the TOYOTA Service Station, I’d removed all the petit accessories – just in case, the servers couldn’t resist the temptation of nicking my property (a commonplace here – stealing),” he’s solved the l'énigme (the riddle). Swearing follows, mindfully: “GOD DAMN IT – these good for nothin’ miniature automata! I CURSE ‘EM!”

     Oyster & Pearl

     He hits a petit lever ‘round the right side of the wheel console and a petit blinking amber light (in the front and the back) instantly puts him back on the road; and he rushes – oh, he KNOWS how to RUSH – as if a rabbit desperate to get to his ovulating mate. All the while, he works hard to retain the musings in his head (the one that sits on his shoulders) – as an oyster keeps a pearl safe in its belly – until he reaches the 7/11 (a local equivalent of TESCO Express) at TOTAL Parco – he urgently borrows a cheap notepad and a cheap ballpoint pen from the server at the checkout counter, and resumes securing the dictation from la muse: “…, the matter/s-of-rumination/s transcends one’s intellectual/cognitive realm; one’s ‘free will’ even cannot come-forth as a redeemer; one’s only left with the choice of bearing witness to the tapestry of an orgy of alphabet/s and memories unfolding before one’s very sentient being!”



Biography
(Wordcount: 149)


Saad Ali (b. 1980 C.E. in Okara, Pakistan) has been brought up and educated in the United Kingdom and Pakistan. He is a poet-philosopher and literary translator. His new collection of poems is titled Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He has translated selected ekphrases by Lorette C. Luzajic into Urdu – compiled into a chapbook, Lorette C. Luzajic: Selected Ekphrases: Translated into Urdu (2023). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. His work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology. His poems (after Amin Rehman) have been showcased at an Art Exhibition, Bleeding Borders, curated at the Art Gallery of Grande Prairie in Alberta, Canada. Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Ovid, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, Freud, Jung, and Tagore. He enjoys learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities/towns on foot. To learn further about his work, please visit saadalipoetry.com, or  www.facebook.com/owlofpines.

———————————————————————————

seeking ghosts

i sometimes think

of my life as trying

to play jazz in a

world of strip clubs

and heavy metal

i’m a neon light

weaving through

broken glass and

burnt spoons

an old man on a

porch seeking ghosts

that may or may not

have ever existed

the lonesome howl

of a saxophone in

the rain

frank always had a

way of making me

stop and ponder just

how deep did i want

the pool to be

it’s a birthday

spent in a cemetery

but it’s not the

tombstone i was

hoping for

———————————————————–

another excuse to get depressed

i come from a long

line of radicals

irreverent assholes

hell bent on drinking

away the pain

let’s go fuck like

the fish in the indian

ocean

let’s go dance naked

on the north pole

let’s go march through

the streets of los angeles

chanting for a better

tomorrow that doesn’t

exist

another birthday

another excuse to get

depressed

another night spent

alone

———————————————————————

the never-ending chaos of the world

it’s every night

alone in bed trying

to sleep through the

pain of life, death,

old bones and the

never-ending chaos

of the world

there’s a part of

you that longs for

death more than

the other part is

willing to take

three steps into

the great wide

open and live

a little

there’s no room

for broken souls

any longer

they are being

replaced by robots

and dogs that need

batteries

there’s no gold

at the end of any

rainbow

not even a little

fucker dressed

in green

—————————————————————–

ever dreamed about dunking

i remember being the

only white kid on my

basketball team and

we were at a summer

camp as a team

and one of my black

teammates noticed i

was the only white

kid that wasn’t in

the free throw finals

he asked why was that

i said you guys never

allow me to get in the

paint

i have to stand out here

and shoot threes all game

let’s have a three-point

contest and see who the

fuck wins that

i then asked why there

weren’t any black guys

in the free throw finals

he didn’t answer

instead he asked me

if i ever dreamed

about dunking

i said no

have you ever dreamed

about being automatic

from thirty-four feet

he laughed and asked

have you

i chuckled and said

i don’t have to dream

that

i’m good from wherever

i am in the gym

he dared me to shoot

from where i was

forty feet from the

basket

i took two dribbles

and let it fly

i banked it in because

i could

——————————————————————–

take secrets to the grave

the spanish princess

and i trade war stories

of childhoods torn apart

way too soon

and i know each confession

is a test of my loyalty

but she knows i take secrets

to the grave if asked to

but she also knows i am

capable of burning bridges

and completely erasing a

soul from my memory

with a snap of the fingers

her eyes are smoldering

and she wishes to smother

me with her breasts

i laugh and curse all

the miles between us

one day, before the

tumors take us all

we will meet

lock lips

and come back up

for air a few days

later

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Asylum Floor, Misfit Magazine and Disturb the Universe Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Stoops to Conquer

            I live in a relatively affluent, highly literate neighborhood. I like to think I’m highly literate, but I’m certainly not affluent. I bought my apartment before Brooklyn became hip.

            One advantage to living in a relatively affluent, highly literate neighborhood, especially one full of brownstones, is that people are always leaving interesting books on their stoops. I like the randomness and serendipity it adds to my reading life. Stoop finds have introduced me to such wonderful contemporary novelists as Julie Otsuka, Ottessa Moshfegh, and the Finnish comic crime writer Antti Tuomainen. I’ve also caught up on classics like Erskine Caldwell’s Tobacco Road, Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, and Zola’s Thérèse Raquin, as well as several sixties suspense thrillers by Charlotte Armstrong, a new name to me.

            A few months ago I was walking on Montgomery Place, a block I briefly lived on before buying my current apartment. On a brownstone stoop I saw several paperbacks. There was a Cormac McCarthy novel—no thanks, not my bag; All The King’s Men, a great book I’ve already read twice; and a few Harlequin-style romances. I figured this stoop was a bust, but then I noticed a copy of my 2016 collection Autobiography Without Words.

            The title of my book is a metaphor, of course, but when I opened the copy on the stoop it was literally without words. The cover was the same, with a photo of me as an adolescent clowning around with my friends, but the pages inside were blank. Well, not all of them.

            After about 20 pages there was handwriting in cursive. It took me a while to get used to the handwriting, but when I was finally able to read the text I saw that it was a bunch of short stories. I read a few and thought they were quite good. Nothing like my writing, mind you, but excellent nonetheless. Truth be told, I thought these stories were better than my own. They were funnier when they were supposed to be funny, and more heartbreaking when they were meant to be heartbreaking. I gleaned that the writer was a man, more or less of my generation. Many of the stories were about childhood, just like mine, but if I thought I had a miserable childhood, it was nothing compared to this guy’s. He made Gorky’s childhood seem like a walk in the park.

            I was baffled. What could have happened?

            I figured there must have been a misprint; somehow blank pages were bound in the cover for my book and apparently sold to an unsuspecting reader. Since few bookstores will deign to carry my books these days, most sales are online, so the potential reader couldn’t have discovered the problem until the book arrived in the mail.

            But why didn’t this person return the book for a refund? Did he actually take the title literally?

            And what then inspired him to start writing stories on the pages? Don’t get me wrong, I think of writing as a form of collaboration with the reader, and I was glad to see this reader actively engaging in that collaboration. I just needed to make my peace with the unexpected situation.

            Who was this reader, this writer? Did he live in this brownstone? Should I ring the buzzers and try to find him?

            But even if I did find him, what would I say? It might be awkward, no?

            I decided to move on. I took the book home and read the rest in one sitting.

            I remained baffled, but I decided to put it out of my mind.

            Shortly thereafter, I started getting emails from literary magazines. It seemed that whoever had written these stories had sent them out for publication under my name. There were a few rejections, but most were acceptances, and from more high-profile journals than usually publish my work. Should I inform them that there was a misunderstanding? But why look a gift horse in the mouth? So I let them go to publication. After decades of trying, my name finally appeared in Granta, but the biggest coup was surely The New Yorker. Friends and acquaintances congratulated me on the new turn my work had taken. But my newfound modicum of fame didn’t last very long. After five or six publications, the counterfeit Peter Cherches stories dried up.

            Still, maybe I could use this turn of events to my advantage. Maybe some of those journals that had never previously given me the time of day would start publishing my real stories. So I started sending my own work to these top-tier publications.

            I got personalized rejections from all of them. Most took the same tack. They thanked me for my continued interest in their publication, but wondered why I had changed my style so drastically from the work they enjoyed so much.

            Well, at least I had my fifteen minutes of minor literary fame, I consoled myself.

            Then I bought a blank, unlined notebook, wrapped it in the cover of my subsequent book, Whistler’s Mother’s Son, and left it on that stoop on Montgomery Place.

Numbers and Astonishing Mathematical  Secret Codes in the Koran 

Compiled by: 

Dr. Muhammad Abdul Awal 

About the Author 

Dr. Muhammad Abdul Awal was educated in Germany and USA, and has 17+ years of Industrial  and R&D experience at AT&T Bell Laboratories (NJ), and 16+ years of Academic Teaching  experience during his 35+ years of professional career in a very broad and diverse national and  international environment (mostly USA, UK, Middle East and South Asia). Currently (March  2022): Dr. Awal is the Asst Professor at the Department of Electrical Engineering, City College of  NY, Department of Electrical and Telecommunication Engineering, NYC College of Technology  of the CUNY, Dept of Physics, Hunter College, CUNY and the School of Business (Technology  Management), and School of Engineering Technology (Law Enforcement Technology) SUNY Farmingdale. His major past research contributions are in the area of optical and wireless  communications, opto-electronic IC, Ultra-thin opto-electronic materials growth and device  fabrication and characterization, system engineering and concurrent engineering,  commercialization of technologies, system analysis, High Tech Manufacturing, optimization of  global supply chain network, Technology Economic modeling, Management of technology and  innovations, business and network performance modeling, and current interest in the area  of technologies/innovations, Nano Technology, Voice over LTE, academy-industry-government  liaison, and next generation wireless technology driven services and products (IoT) involving 5G  technology. 

He had studied in various colleges and universities worldwide, including earned a PhD in Applied  Physics from the City University of New York, New York, USA, and a Vor-Diplom in Physics and  Mathematics from University of Halle, Germany. 

Dr. Muhammad Abdul Awal has also earned a mini-MBA from the Bell-Labs Learning and  Performance Center, Piscataway, NJ, and is enthusiastic about writing books and researching  science.

2 

Introduction 

The nature of science is that it continuously evolves.  

This makes scientists, like myself, doubly enthusiastic about the researches we conduct, because  there is always a possibility of change. In science, the inherent rule of thriving is always the same.  New learning replaces old learning. For men of science, this gives us fallibility, and the changing  nature of science does not necessarily make the process of our earthly learning unreliable, but  makes it doubly useful. 

For any scientist, this very possibility of change makes science interesting and profitable to our  realm. For example, as a physicist, I study the solar system from this little earth, and the things we  see beyond the horizon are considered true and real, and we make hypothesis, observation and  theories based on what we see. One example of obvious science in Physics is the famous theory of  expanding universe. For thousands of years, astronomers wrestled with basic questions concerning  the universe. Until 1920, it was believed that the universe had always been in existence and that the  size of the universe was fixed and not changing. The idea of a static universe was not only popular  but believed unquestionably, presumably backed by science. However, in 1912, the American  astronomer, Vesto Slipher, made a discovery changed other astronomers’ beliefs about the universe.  Slipher noticed that the galaxies were moving away from earth at huge velocities. These  observations provided the first evidence supporting the expanding-universe theory. Before the  invention of the telescope in 1608, man could do little more than wonder about the origin of the  universe. 

In 1916, Albert Einstein formulated his General Theory of Relativity that indicated that the universe  must be either expanding or contracting. Confirmation of the expanding-universe theory finally  came in 1929 in the hands of the well-known American astronomer Edwin Hubble. By observing  redshifts in the light wavelengths emitted by galaxies, Hubble found that galaxies were not fixed in  their position; instead, they were actually moving away from us with speeds proportional to their  distance from earth. This extraordinary fact came to be known as the infamous Hubble’s Law, and it  was Hubble’s discoveries that had elated me as a boy, and gave me the lifelong aspiration to  become a physicist.  

Using the Hooker Telescope, Edwin Hubble discovered that the galaxies were indeed moving away  us. Edwin Hubble observed that the only explanation for this phenomenon was that the universe  had to be expanding. Indeed, Hubble’s discovery was and is still regarded as one of the greatest in  the history of astronomy. After he published his paper about the velocity-time relation in 1929, the  expanding-universe theory was accepted by scientists and astronomers alike. However, the expanding universe theory was mentioned only in one other ancient document prior  to Edwin Hubble. I was fairly astonished to find that well before telescopes were even invented and  thousands of years before Hubble published his Law, the Moslem prophet Muhammad used to  recite a verse of the Koran to his companions that ultimately stated that the universe is expanding. “And the heaven We created with might, and indeed We are expanding it.” (Koran 51:47) At the time of the revelation of the Koran, the word “space” was not known, and people used the  word “heaven” to refer to what lies above the Earth. In the above verse, the word “heaven” is  referring to space and the known universe. The verse points out that space, and thus the universe,  happens to be expanding, just as Hubble’s Law states. 

The second part which is doubly disconcerting about the Expanding Universe theory is that just as  we had abruptly discovered this, future generations might regress into primitive minded ness and  conclude, as they had for thousands of years, that the universe is static. This was explained with a  wealth of details by Brian Greene, who was a professor of physics and mathematics at Columbia  University. Professor Greene told the students who attended his lecture that if the world should  somehow face a great disaster, and all technology got destroyed, and all the text books were  reduced to rubble, and the universe continued to expand for another fifty billion years, then the  humans who managed to survive all the disasters would glance up at the night sky and find no blue  or red shift there, and would have to conclude that the universe is not expanding at all. Naturally,  they would be wrong because that is the nature of science. As scientists, we are allowed to make  errors, change our theories, and come up with news hypothesis each year. However, Brian Greene  added that is one of the students left behind a paper, with a note, saying that the universe is actually  expanding, and the only reason they are being unable to see any red shift from receding stars is  because the billions of stars that surrounded this galaxy have travelled too far away, much farther  than the capacity of human vision.  

Professor Greene’s words hit close to home, and I too wondered how mankind would ever know  the absolute truth of this universe. What shall be our source of undeniable facts? How will people, a  billion years later, ever find out that the universe they are living in is actually expanding steadily?  Such questions perplexed me and brought me back to the Moslem holy book. That the Koran  mentioned such a fact centuries before the invention of the first telescope, at a time when there was 

3 

primitive knowledge in science, seemed remarkable to me, so with the curiosity ingrained in me as  a scientist, I decided to delve deeper into the study of the booklet which Moslems call the Koran,  their Holy Scripture. I found that like many people of his time, Muhammad, the man upon whom  Koran was revealed, happened to be illiterate and simply could not have been aware of such facts  by himself. Could it be that he had truly received divine revelation from the Creator and Originator  of the universe? Or was there some clandestine mission roaming around the earth? The possibilities  which I considered were endless, so I decided to begin at the basic. As a math-person, I started to  look into the pages of the Koran, and attempted to apply my mathematical formulas there, hoping  to find a pattern or theory about how this specific piece of information came to be.  

This book would have been incomplete without the generous contribution of Benumed Etikue, whose lectures and researches offered many of the knowledge imparted here. A  considerable amount of the information in this work is based on the findings of the  researchers at the Research and Studies center.  

The author and publisher are in no way liable for any misuse of the material contained within  this book. 

4 

The way to God, Exalted and Glorified be He, is the way of guidance and rectitude. It can be accessed only  through senses, mind and revelation. Since the human senses and mind are limited and unable to attain full  guidance on their own, the need emerged for divine revelation and prophethood. 

However, not all people are qualified to be prophets, so there was an urgent need for revelation from God to a  number of them to be an authority that guides people to the true knowledge of God’s will and full details about  the way to Him, Exalted and Glorified be He. Since revelation is not something tangible or visible to people,  there must be some tangible evidence of the veracity of a prophet’s mission showing that such a person is a real  messenger from God and that he received real revelation or inspiration from Him. 

This evidence is the “MIRACLE” for which prophets and messengers of God were singled out from among all  humans. Miracles enable the messengers of God to bring about miraculous events or acts that other people  cannot do. The miracles of each prophet support the truthfulness of his mission in his time and place; therefore,  they are transient events that end and only their stories remain. 

This applies to all miracles except the Koran, the miracle of the last and seal of prophets, Mohamed, blessings  and peace of Allah be upon him. The Koran is the only existing and everlasting miracle that addresses the  generations over the ages and is witnessed by people in all times. Therefore, there is no prophet or messenger  of Allah after Mohamed, peace be upon him, and no miracle after the Glorious Koran. 

It is the Koran – the unique book that is inimitable in its style, eloquence, rhetoric, as well as in its rules and  verdicts, structure, order of its surahs (chapters), verses and words, and the shape and positions of its letters. It  is unique in its beliefs and tenets; educational and moral system; universal signs and unseen tokens, economic  and administrative principles, comprehensive systems and methodology; the meticulous care, attention and  preservation it receives; its impressive impact on hearts and minds; and the sweetness and elegance of its  words. Above all, it is the only scripture with which Allah, glory to Him, has challenged both humankind and  jinn, ancient and present, jointly and severally. 

The Holy Koran is the last and immortal book to humanity. It is a heavenly system that regulates and organizes  the life of individuals and communities, and at the same time it is a miracle that is associated with and  inseparable from the divine system forever. Thus, the Koran owns a unique feature that is lacking in earlier divine  scriptures that contained a system, while the miraculous aspect was something else independent from the book  and the system. 

At the time of Moses, peace be upon him, people were skillful at witchcraft. Therefore, the miracle of Moses,  the staff, was similar to what they were skillful at. At the time of Jesus, peace be upon him, people were skillful  at medicine, so his miracle was to heal blind people who were blind from birth and lepers and raise the dead by  Allah’s will. At the time of Mohamed, peace be upon him, people were skilled at high literary style, eloquence  and rhetoric. Therefore, Prophet Mohamed’s miracle was the Koran, which challenged with its rhetoric and  eloquence the whole Arab nation that received the first message, and won the honor of preaching the divine  message all over the Globe. After the dissemination of the Message, the “miracle” for other people and nations  would be something else other than the high literary style and eloquence: the Koran is not only for the Arabs;  rather, it is for all times and places. Therefore, God provided it with miraculous aspects and elements that make  it a miracle that challenges people in all times in whatever they are skillful at. 

Our age is the age of science and knowledge. It only acknowledges tangible things, recognizes reason and  knowledge and accepts only obvious physical proofs. Therefore, the Koran challenges the people of this age with  its wonderful numerical structure, this structure that is part of the challenge journey over centuries and another  one of the infinite aspects of the miracle of the Koran. It provides people in our times with an irrefragable  scientific proof that the patterning and composition of the Koran’s chapters, verses, words and letters are  ordained by God, glory be to Him, through revelation, and not from anyone else. Common sense and good  reason cannot accept the claim that any part of this marvelous numerical patterning is a human effort, because  the language of numbers is the language of tangible, physical facts, the incontestable global common language  among all humankind. It is also the language of firm irrefutable evidence that cannot be denied or ignored. 

It is a language that has its miraculous aspect, exactly as is the case with linguistic and literary miracle. For it  interacts with the intended meaning in the minutest details to give a fantastic picturesque artwork for those  who can reflect on its deep meanings and comprehend it in this digital age. Digits and numerals have their own  eloquence that probably excels that of words. They have become the language of persuasion for deniers and  doubters of the authenticity of the Glorious Koran. 

Thus, generation after generation, and day after day, the Great Koran reveals in all domains more and more of  its marvels that never end. Hence the aspects of the Koranic miracle are as multiple as the angles of viewing or  approaching it. 

The masters of eloquence and rhetoric were unable to bring forth even the like of the shortest surah of the  Koran. This challenge still exists for people in our present times, not only in the domain of language, but also in  multiple aspects, including this miraculous Koranic numerical structure by all standards of our age. How then if  you know that this Koran was revealed more than fourteen centuries ago.

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It is really a Scripture with linguistically and numerically perfected revelations, as it comes from the One Who is  All-Wise, Well-Aware. Therefore, you will not find any conflict or defect throughout the book, and its magnificent  numerical system is not at the expense of its eloquence and literary excellence, nor does its clear Arabic which  defeated and surpassed the most eloquent poets and orators detract from the amazing numerical structure of  the Koran’s letters and words. 

In this new publication, we present firm certain facts and clear inductive data about the Koranic numerical  structure. Each of these facts constitutes an unquestionable and undeniable proof of the veracity of this Koran,  because they can easily be verified. 

These facts mean that the Koran’s letters and words in its verses and surahs are not chosen haphazardly, but in  accordance with a highly accurate and perfect divine balance that takes into consideration a great number of  facts simultaneously without affecting the meaning. This feature that characterizes the marvelous structure of  Glorious Koran is one of the hardest challenges to the human mind. Therefore, all humankind – with all ways of  knowledge it possesses – cannot create even the like of one verse from the Koran. 

Believers in the Koran will be pleased with what they see in the Scripture of their Lord, Exalted and Glorified be  He, and their faith will be augmented; while disbelievers and deniers of the Koran, and those who raise doubts  about its source, will hopefully contemplate it and discover that it is a revelation from God, glory be to Him, and  then believe in it. 

The Glorious Koran is far more marvelous than the human mind can imagine, and too broad for anyone to  comprehend fully even one aspect of it. What I present in this and other books is no more than a mere glimmer  of the perfect and highly outstanding features of the Koranic structure. Each letter of the Koran conceals behind  it an integrated world of wonders and numerical systems that are controlled by the balance of revelation.  However surprised you may seem to be at the marvels of the Koranic numeric structure, which we are trying to  expound some general features and aspects of here, they are no more than tiny drops from a sea without shore,  yet they constitute irrefragable evidence of the truthfulness of this Koran and its divine source. 

My welfare is only in Allah..  

In Him I trust and unto Him I turn. 

Koran 

God supported all his prophets and messengers with tangible miracles in domains in which people excelled in  their time, so that the challenge would be stronger and more effective. Those miracles were a proof of the  truthfulness of their mission. They were valid only in their physical and historical context and were meant to be  evidence against those who witnessed them. Of all prophets sent by Allah to humankind, Mohamed, peace be  upon him, had the greatest number of miracles. While all these miracles had ended in their own time and  context, as was the case with the miracles of earlier prophets, and became part of the Prophet’s biography, the  Glorious Koran ensures as the everlasting miracle for all times and places, and for all peoples and generations.  It is one and the same book whose content never changes, yet its meanings and connotations adapt so as to  suit the people of each era. 

The marvels and miracles of the Koran are countless and endless. They are multiple, diverse and never-ending,  so every period of time has its share of new aspects of this ageless miracle. It is the Koran- the unique book that is inimitable in its style, eloquence, rhetoric, as well as in its rules and verdicts, structure, order of its surahs  (chapters), verses and words, and the shape and positions of its letters. It is unique in its beliefs and tenets;  educational and moral system; universal signs and unseen tokens, economic and administrative principles,  comprehensive systems and methodology; the meticulous care, attention and preservation it receives; its  impressive impact on hearts and minds; and the sweetness and elegance of its words. Above all, it is the only  scripture with which Allah, glory be to Him, has challenged both humankind and jinn, ancient and present, jointly  and severally. The journey of Koranic challenge with the lingual and rhetorical miracle began when the Arabic  language was at the apex of its glory. However, we live at a different era in which emerged the digital and  numerical power, making letters and numbers more eloquent than words. Thus, the Koranic numerical fabric  has come to challenge the whole humankind to bring forth the like of the Koran in the accuracy of the structure  of its surahs, verses, words and letters. 

A book cannot be a divine holy scripture or recognized to be the Word of Allah unless it is proven conclusively  that it was recorded and written down during the time of the prophet who received the revelation in his own  language. It must be reported to us through a valid continuous chain of narrators without any interruption,  change or alteration. If any of these essential conditions is missing, the book cannot be sacred, divine or deemed  to be the word of Allah, even though the whole humankind agreed unanimously on it. As for the Koran, Prophet  Mohamed, may the blessings and peace of Allah be upon him, ordered every text of revelation to be written  down immediately. The whole text of the Koran was recorded verse by verse, word by word and letter by letter,  as dictated directly from the lips of the Holy Prophet, peace be upon him. Therefore, the Glorious Koran was  scripted in the Prophet’s time and handed over and exchanged among Muslims, and also memorized and  obeyed by them. 

Since the Glorious Koran is the word of Allah, the Almighty Creator, with its divine purity and enlightening  illuminations, it must be different from human speech in structure and content; scientific, historical, educational  and psychological indications; administrative and economic controls; and future prophecies. Add to these the  Quran’s steadfastness and survival against all attempts of distortion, and its challenges for both humans and jinn  combined to create something similar to it as a whole, or ten of its surahs, or even one of its surahs. This 

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challenge is still ongoing, and yet not a person of reason proceeded to say: “I could write a surah like those of  the Koran.” On this, Allah, glory be to Him, declares: 

^َ_ك^ْ_و^َ_ل^َ_{ِ ِه ول}^ِْ_ِمثب^َ_ن^ْ_و^ُ_ت^ْ_أ^َ_ي^َ_{ِن لآر ْ}^ُ_ق^ْ_{ا ال}^َ_ذ^َ_{ِل ه}^ِْ_{ِمثا ب}^ْ_و^ُ_ت^ْ_أ^َ_ي^ْ_ن^َ_أ^َ_َل^َ_ع^ُّ_ِجن^ْ_الَ^ُ_{س و}^ْ_ن^ْ_ِ^لْ_{ِت ا}^َ_ع^َ_م^َ_ت^ْاج_ِ^ن_ِئ ^َ_للْ^ُق 

^ْ_م^ُ_هض ^ُْ_ع^َ_ب^َان 

88( الرساء  

اْ_ي ً^ْ_ِه^َ_{ٍض ظ}^ْ_ع^َ_ِبل ( 

“88. Say: Verily, though mankind and the Jinn should assemble to produce the like of this Quran, they could not  produce the like thereof though they were helpers one of another.” (The Koran 17:88) The miracle of the Glorious Koran, which was revealed to be a source of guidance for the whole mankind, cannot  be limited to its superior language, which can be appreciated and comprehended only by Arabs. Even the Arabs  of today have mostly lost the refined linguistic sense and talent that characterized their forefathers, except for  a few linguists and scholars. Since the Koranic challenge to human beings and jinns collectively is a continuous  one to the Day of Judgement, there must be miraculous aspects other than the language. This motivated a  number of the Koran scholars to research other aspects of the Koranic miracle, such as belief, worship, morals,  legislations, and so forth. 

In order to establish a strong argument and provide crucial proofs against people in our times through the  language they understand best, i.e. the language of science, Allah, glory be to Him, left for us in His Holy Book  more than a thousand verses that speak about the universe, its components and phenomena with such a high  scientific accuracy that came to be understood only with the advent of modern contemporary sciences i.e. in  the past two centuries or so. This precedence and uniqueness – by pointing at a huge bulk of universal facts  more than 10 centuries before human science discovered them – is what we call the scientific miracles of the  Holy Koran. This is an easy discourse that enables people at present to understand the excellence and  uniqueness of the great Islam over other beliefs and faiths and the value of the Glorious Koran over other  scriptures, whatever the language used in addressing people. The Koranic context of universal verses in the  Glorious Koran indicates that they are mentioned as a testimony to the infinite power of the Creator over His  creation, and to godship, lordship and absolute oneness of Allah, Exalted be He above His creation. Allah, glory  be to Him, has formulated the verses about the universe in a marvelous way that can be understood by people  at all times in a way that suits their level of knowledge and understanding of the universe, its components and  phenomena. 

No person of reason can imagine a source for this huge multitude of scientific facts in the Glorious Koran other  than Allah, the Almighty Creator. It is a book that was revealed over one thousand four hundred years ago unto  a man who could not read or write, amidst a nation whose majority were also illiterate, at a time when no one  in the world knew anything about these scientific facts that only began to unravel in the nineteenth and  twentieth centuries. We find that many verses in the Koran urge us to contemplate the verses of this noble book  ^{and reflect on the signs of His power in the universe:َ}_أكَ^ِّ_ب^َ_ِ^ر_{ِف ب}^ْ_ك^َ_ي^ْ_م^َ_ل^َ_و^َ_أ^ُّ_قحَ^ْ_ال^ُ_ه^ى_ن^َ_أ^ْ_م^ُ_ه^َ_ل^َنْ_ئ ى^َ_ب^َ_ت^َ_يّ^َ_ت ى^َ_ح^ْ_ِ ^م_ِسه^ُ_ف^ْ_ن^َأِ_ي^ن_ف^َ_{ِق وا}^َ_ف^ْالِ_ي^ن_{ا ف}^َ_ِنات^َ_آي^ْ_ِ ^ميه_ِ^ُ_ي نَ 

ٍ_ء^ْس _يلِّ _ش َ^ُ_ك^َ_َل^َ_ع^ُ_ه^ىنٌيد_ِه^َش 

_{( فص} ^ّ _{53 لت} ) 

“53. We shall show them Our portents on the horizons and within themselves until it will be manifest unto them  that it is the Truth. Does it not suffice that your Lord is Witness over all things?” (The Koran 41:53) On the Authenticity of the Koran, the Orientalist Sir William Muir wrote as follows: 

“There is probably in the world no other book which has remained twelve centuries with so pure a text.” After a study which lasted ten years, Dr. Maurice Bucaille spoke about the existence in the Koran of certain  statements concerning physiology and reproduction: “Our knowledge of these disciplines is such that it is  impossible to explain how a text produced at the time of the Koran could have contained ideas that have only  been discovered in modern times.” 

As Mahatma Ghandi affirmed, “My reading of the Quran has convinced me that the basis of Islam is not violence  but is unadulterated Peace. It regards forbearance as a superior to vengeance. The very word ‘Islam’ means  Peace, which is nonviolence.” It is guidance for human beings: 

_م^َ_و^ْ_ق^َ_أ^َ_ِ^ه_يّ^َت ِ_ي^َّ_ِلِ_{دي ل}^ْ_ه^َ_ي^َ_{آنر ْ}^ُ_ق^ْ_{ا ال}^َ_ذ^َ_ه^ى_ِنإ 

ُ ( ⁾  

“Surely this Qur’ān shows the way to that which is most upright.” 

——————————————————————————————- 

Main References: 

1.The Holy Koran. 

2.Picthall, M.M., The Meaning of the Glorious Koran. 

3.Maurice Bucaille, The Bible, the Quran and Science, 1978. 

4.Gandhi, M. K. 1949, Communal Unity, Ahemdabad: Navjeevan 

Who Is God? 

Everyone is born upright by nature. Pure nature leads to Allah, the One and Only True God. In fact, human nature  awakes to Almighty Allah’s existence very early in life, even earlier than we may think. We generally think that  only an older person ponders over Allah’s existence and Oneness. But if we observe the life of a little child, we  notice that in a certain stage of his life, he asks his parents endless questions about the things he sees around  him in the universe. Who made the heaven? Why is the sky blue? Where does the sun go at night? Why doesn’t 

7 

it appear to us at night? Where does light go when the dark comes? Why do stars glitter? Where does the earth  end? Why do some flowers have smells while others don’t? Where did I come from? Where was I before I came?  Etc. What do all these questions mean and indicate? They indicate that nature in this child has begun to awake  and recognize the Creator of the earth and heavens through His tangible and seen creation. 

If we have a look at the heaven and earth, we find that rain falls from clouds, fruit is produced from trees, trees  grow from soil and water, water originates from oxygen and hydrogen. Since man opened his eyes on this  universe, he has never seen an incident or event happen by itself without a cause or something exist without a  maker or creator. This has become a de facto unquestionable fact. No one can break a plate and then claim that  it broke by itself without a human or non-human cause. Thus every effect has a cause that makes it happen, and  there is a maker or manufacturer of every machine or instrument. Then how can a person dare to claim that our  world or universe has just occurred without a creator though everything in it is far more complicated and  accurate than a man-made machine. 

Whether people agreed or not upon the wise reasons behind the existence of the universe, that would not  change the result concluded through scientific reasoning which confirms the existence of the Great Creator, the  Almighty, the All-Knowing and the Wise God, Who believers agree to call Allah, the Almighty. The name Allah  (God) in Islam never refers to Mohamed, as many Christians may think; Allah is the personal name of God. 

What do Muslims believe about Allah (God)? 

1. He is the one God, Who has no partner. 

2. Nothing is like Him. He is the Creator, not created, nor is He a part of His creation. 3. He is All-Powerful, absolutely Just. 

4. There is no other entity in the entire universe worthy of worship besides Him. 

5. He is First, Last, and Everlasting; He was when nothing was, and will be when nothing else remains. 6. He is the All-Knowing, and All-Merciful, the Supreme, the Sovereign. 

7. It is only He Who is capable of granting life to anything. 

8. He sent His Messengers (peace be upon them) to guide all of mankind. 

9. He sent Mohamed, peace and blessing be upon him, as the last Prophet and Messenger for all  mankind. 

10. His book is the Holy Koran, the only authentic revealed book in the world that has been  kept without distortion. 

11. Allah knows what is in our hearts. 

The Glorious Koran is the best authentic source to know the reality and attributes of Allah

CAREFUL DRAGGING


I need to be careful dragging these words from their minefields and dungeons, these weighted syllables of assayed worth. They guard against the bludgeons applied by the enemies of my growth.



When I forget how to live, then that’s the when when I will start to die.

My fault lines can’t fill my rifts, my rainbow vow can’t heal my rainfull sky, until When conquers If.



I live in this continuing city of self-mirroring mirrors.

It is the there where I double and split. Other wheres wither into unintended identities.



My face picks its own disguises from among these many costumes and masks I saved to reveal the lies I wield, with my executioner’s axe, when I end hindering cries.


Forgotten thought may find a place to hide in the nooks of memory. Experience can be buried alive – amnesia as amnesty – but the ignored remains can never die.


In the act of becoming the mind is not molded by the body; it thinks it is eyes and wings. The who I am is never my what. I’m part of everything.

My brain is inferior to my soul, my chamber is not my heart.

By navigating the oceans of Whole and staying true to the art, tomorrow’s ship escapes yesterday’s shoals.


Timeless time measures changes.

No stone is a stone until you kick it, and then time rearranges stones into the anchors of a frigate to mark and limit its range.

Time’s economist tallies the cockroach, the coelacanth, the centaur, the allosaurus, the ape, and the sloth … and assigns expiry hours.

But I prolong, impersonating ghosts, while time rearranges me. I am what I was and what I was not, but I’m always becoming me. The “mine” is distinct from the “common lot.”



And I think I’m almost me.




APPLE BLUES



Look at me, bald, fat as an apple.

Here I am, bald, fat as an apple.

But don’t value goods just by their wrapper.



Old as your father, that’s what you said.

“You’re old’s my father,” is what you said.

But that’s no bother, ain’t decrepit yet.

May look like a wolf, pitted and ugly.

Big bad old wolf, grizzled and ugly.

Feed me love enough, tame as a puppy.



You think I’m a shit, I make your garden grow.

I may be a shit, but I make your garden grow.

When you need a prick, let me be your rose.

Look at me: bald, fat as an apple.

Look at me, bald just like an apple.

Don’t value the goods just by their wrapper.



(Lean me against your marrow like a giant midget jumbo shrimp. Hold my poor minute against all infinity like any other parasol you’d prop against a hurricane. A gossamer-armored middleaged scholar in swimming trunks, let my steady frailty hold the frailty of your own, let my cardboard walls withstand the world’s assault.)



If you break your compass, I am true north.

You lose direction, here I am, true north.

And when you end your wanders, I’m fire in your hearth.

If I’m silent, don’t have much to say.

I’m kind of silent, not a lot to say.

Just like my violence, words left yesterday.



Horny old bastard, last grape on the vine.

Horny old bastard, the end of the line.

Wrinkled and blasted grape a-makes the sweetest wine.





SUBURBAN SHOESTORE



So, you inhabit a steady orbit,

you’re comfortable – or, that is, until

chaos comet comes. Not on provisions

have you spent your self, but on emptied shelves.

You paid prostitutes to wear all the boots.




QUEEN OF DENIAL



So Jennifer you are.

Wrapped in just your thoughts,     (and mine too)    [not that you'd notice]    you assume the Mummy pose in bed. Are you sure your heart's hermetic, secure in its canopic jar? Or is it yet in your breast, just beyond sight, cowering still? (And don't forget your nightly negative confession – the world's bad deeds you've never done -- all of them – don't miss even one.)



And that kind woman in the Registry told you, didn't she, as kindly as she kindly could (but in the blameless guilt of your secret vacuum heart, what was it you heard? And how in your soul did it reverberate?) "Sorry. This is all we have. This is all the information anyone has. We can't find out who you are. We don't know what year you were born. We can't find out where you were born. Nobody knows who your parents are, your mother or your father, or why they didn't want you. Someone – we don't know who – found you, wrapped in a ragged, dirty blanket, lying by the side of the road. You were turned over to the authorities and you were sent to the orphanage. And that's all we know. I'm sorry. I wish we could help you. Sorry." Of course, you knew the whole story already – how could it hurt you now? "Don't touch me," you warn me as kindly as you can manage. "If you just leave me alone     [you, too!]      I can handle this by myself." But a single slow tear somehow engineers its hopeless escape down your Alcatraz cheek.



Wrapped like a glove on the dresser. Lovely warm solft leather. Carefully crafted. Turned nicely out. Waiting for the proper hand.



Together      (does that word really mean separately alone?)     in bed again. Pickets intent, rapt in their mission, inspecting invisible perimeters.

      "All lines secure, Sir."

No intruder can penetrate.    (friendly, or otherwise)     And there you lie, wrapped around your arms     (not my arms),       world-weary frightened.

So Duane you are.



MONTANA MOTEL



[and the radio cowboy sings]

Come lay your body down close next to mine,

Sure, yes I'm sure, your husband won't mind.

We're in Montana, and he's in Japan.

So lay your body down. Lay it close next to mine.

Just turn your lamp off, and close down the blinds.

If he came home to find us entwined,

Your husband's a good man, he'd understand.

So lay your body down. Lay it close next to mine.

(asleep beneath the bower of other tresses,

i do miss the slow flower of your eyes.

but i'll water i guess the garden of her yesses

till i rest in the hollow of your thighs:

is what we learn worth the loss of what we forget?)

Come lay your body down close next to mine.

Sure, yes I'm sure, your husband won't mind.

Sure, yes I'm sure, your husband won't mind.

Sure, yes I'm sure.... Sure, yes I'm sure....

(though i taste the desserts of another's mess,

i still miss the silvered service of your limbs,

i must suppress the appetite of these whims

till again i can dine at the table of your breasts.

who else turns his face from the light to stare at shadows?

who abandons the concert to attend to echoes?)

Come lie here beside me, pass down the wine,

Sure I am that your husband won't mind:

Needs in Montana can't wait for Japan.

So lay your body down,

Lay your body down, body down. Body next to mine....

...

Square One

April

After Amy was violently raped, she had moments where she lost all touch with reality. The assault happened after her shift at the tavern ended and she was walking home, just two blocks away. The men seized her almost in front of her own apartment, roughly bundling her into the van they had parked alongside the curb. She started to shout, until one of them brandished a huge folding knife and held it to Amy’s throat. She instantly ceased struggling and allowed herself to be blindfolded, bound and gagged. The men wore ski masks, just like in a movie, she thought. That was just the beginning of the nightmare.

14 Months Later

Present Day

“What can I get you?” asked Amy, wiping a spill off the bar and addressing a new arrival.

“Whatcha got, hot pants?” he cracked wise, with a wide, gap-toothed smile.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Anything in the cooler, and anything on the shelf — and that’s it,” she replied in an utterly dead voice, indicating the bottled libations arrayed on the back bar with a sweep of her arm.

The man, more subdued now, said, “Draft.” He’d heard before about this joyless bitch.

She served him, moved onto the next bar patron. Since the assault, more than a year before, Amy was forever attempting to decipher what was said to her, looking for a double meaning to or taking offense at an otherwise innocent remark. When she was raped, the men had spoken not a word to her, throughout the two-hour ordeal. So it wasn’t like she could catch an accent or detect an idiom or recognize a voice. She often wondered, were her assailants among the regular customers of Coswego’s, the tavern where she’d worked for six years? She regularly served men in their cups, both social drinkers as well as hardened alcoholics. But, she remembered, neither of the men who attacked her had been intoxicated. The only thing she could remember detecting was the acrid smell of hashish. The guys were both stoned, she thought. They had been very purposeful, almost workmanlike in what they did. It wasn’t as if they had been driven by lust. But then, her rape crisis counselor had told her that rape was not about lust, but about power. She hadn’t known that — before.

Amy had been standing behind the bar for several minutes, lost in the wretched memories of last year, when she heard the tapping of a beer glass on the bar. She looked up, saw Stan, one of her most engaging regulars. She moved down to where he stood. “Help you, handsome?” she asked. Stan was an old friend.

“Glass ‘a Bud, darlin’,” said Stan with a grin. “What, was you asleep back there?” he teased. Stan, a Black man, at six feet, two inches tall and 220 pounds, was a formidable presence. She felt safer when he was around.

“No,” she said. “Just….thinking.”

Stan’s face immediately showed contrition. He understood some of what Amy had gone through months before. She had even confided some of the less lurid details of the assault to him. At one point, before entering therapy, she’d had to talk about it to somebody, if only to a close friend. He had subsequently driven her to several of her counseling sessions. Amy didn’t drive.

“You got another session comin’ up, darlin’? Stan asked.

Amy shook her head no. “Nuh uh, that’s all over. Thanks, though.” Stan nodded, sipped his beer.

In a corner, two men sat round a table, getting soused. When they raised their voices, Amy glanced at them and noticed that they were regarding her lecherously and laughing. Were they laughing at her? she wondered. Could they have been the assailants who had used her, humiliated her, beaten her? She stared darkly at the men and suddenly they became subdued. Amy knew she was gaining a reputation for being a bitch-on-wheels; the reason for her transformation was not generally understood. And she meant to keep it that way. Looking away from the table, she took Stan’s empty schooner and refilled it, set it before him again. She caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

Amy was in her early thirties, healthy, with no really bad habits and was, she had often been told, a very attractive woman. So it was natural for her to attract the attention of potential paramours. But, ever since what she considered “the incident,” she had summarily rejected all suggestions of  romantic closeness. When she was dealing with men on the job, she would feel suddenly vulnerable, under scrutiny, even laughed at or sized up. After the rape, Amy faulted herself for her tank tops and tight jeans and eye shadow and all the rest. But the rape counselor, again, had dissuaded her from self-blame.

“An assault victim,” she told her, “does not solicit the harm she receives. There is simply a small segment of male society who are treacherous, misogynistic, and whose behavior is unconscionable. They glamourize rape with ‘she wanted it’ or ‘she asked for it.’ Amy, it was not your fault.”

“Get your number, girlfriend?” asked Hogan, a 50-ish man stumbling to the bar for his umpteenth bottle of Coors.

“I’m seeing someone, Hogan,” she told him with a smooth lie. Not that it made a difference, but Hogan was married to a long-suffering wife and had a houseful of kids.

He made a pistol with his fingers and shot at her, winked, and went back to where he was smooth-talking yet another female. Amy just shook her head.

Throughout her life, Amy had always handled relationships well, she thought, but now she felt at a loss. She continued to be hit on, as if nothing had happened.  But, something had happened. She would never be the same again. Most of the approaches, she was sure, were made in good faith, but she wasn’t yet ready for closeness, let alone physical  inttimacy. Would she ever be? She hoped so. She was so very lonely.

But, that was about to change.

“Hi, pretty lady,” came a deep, resonant voice.

Amy looked up into his eyes and smiled. “Steve!” she said happily. This was nice, she thought. The one male, aside from Stan, who didn’t constantly hit on her. He had asked her out once, almost a year ago, but when she declined the invitation, a short time after the incident, he took a broad hint and didn’t press the issue, the way so many did. Which elevated him in her estimation.

“How are you, Steve?” she asked, walking down the bar to speak to him. Reflecting on her self-imposed isolation, she wished now that he would ask her out again.

It was as if he read her mind. “Picnic,” he said. “City park. You and me,” pointing first to Amy and then to himself. “Saturday?” Saturday was her day off.  He remembered.

In an instant, Amy made up her mind. “It’s a date,” she agreed, smiling again. They talked casually for several minutes, before Amy posed a question.

“What do you like for a picnic?” She’d have to cook, she knew.

But he surprised her. “Hey, I invited you; I’ll rustle up the grub.”

Amy glanced at him narrowly. “You?” she asked. “You know how to cook?”

“Well, if I don’t, then I’d better find a new job,” he said with a grin. Then Amy remembered that Steve was a line cook at an upscale restaurant in the city.  She gave him a thumbs up.

April

As the heavy-set man shoved her roughly through the sliding door of the van, Amy felt her head smash into the overhead member framing the doorway. He said not a word, but manhandled her. The next thing Amy knew, she fell hard to the floor of the vehicle and opened her mouth to scream. But, the tall, skinny man produced, as if by magic, a long, deadly-looking folding knife, that Amy could see in the light spilling through the window from the streetlamp outside. She had never seen one like it before. She immediately grew quiet. The men both wore ski masks and all Amy could see were their eyes: ugly, harrowing, pale blue eyes.

She was seized around the shoulders and turned face down, where her hands were bound behind her back and then a cloth, smelling of oil, tied across her eyes. Next, a smelly fabric was shoved unceremoniously into her mouth. She gagged.

Present Day

“You alright?” asked Steve, reaching into the wicker basket and turning up what would prove to be delicious treats. His picnic companion had abruptly turned silent and didn’t appear to hear him.

Amy suddenly came to, snapped back from her nightmarish reverie. “Huh?” she asked thickly.

“We were talking, then suddenly you were on Venus. Is something bothering you?” She hesitated. “Do you want to talk?” Steve invited. She shook her head. “Remember, Amy,” he told her. “We’re friends. And that’s what friends do.” She reached out and touched Steve’s knee, and then, thinking better of it, snatched her hand away again. Steve noticed the uneasy gesture.

“Whatta ya’ got to eat?” she asked.

. . . . .

At home a day later, Amy received a phone call from Detective Fitzsimmons, the policeman who had led the investigation into her rape fourteen months before. He asked her to come by in pursuit of the ongoing inquiry.

“But, you told me at the time, that if a suspect wasn’t uncovered in the first forty-eight hours, you’d probably never find the rapist,” Amy pointed out.

“True,” said the cop, “but we nabbed two men in connection with another assault, and we think we just may be able to tie it to your case, as well. These perps are most often repeat offenders, you know.”

“Yes,” said Amy. “I remember your telling me that before.” At length, she agreed to come into the station that afternoon, so the lineup was arranged.

Amy stood back in the shadows with the detective and one other cop, who stood behind a microphone, watching as five men proceeded onto a brightly lighted platform. The second cop barked, “Halt. Turn right. Turn left.” And so forth. A huge transparent screen separated those on stage from the people observing from down front.

“Take your time, Amy,” coaxed the detective, “and look carefully. The men can’t see or hear you.”

“It’s none of them,” she said shortly.

“Are you sure?”

“The men who raped me were white,” she told him. “These men are all Black.”

“Is it possible you’re mistaken….”

“No! They both wore ski masks, but I could see around their eyes and their lips. They were white!”

Fitzsimmons looked disappointed. “Two of these men are rapists, Miss Winters,” he said. “We have evidence against them. They’ll get only five years for the crimes we’ve evidence of. We could wrap up your case and put them away for a long time, if only…”

“Whether they did it to me or not?” she asked incredulously.

The cop lifted his hand and let it fall. “It could easily have been you!” he pointed out.

“No,” she said adamantly

“Well then,” he muttered, “unless we can uncover additional evidence or you can remember more details, I guess we’re back to square one.”

. . . . .

It was nearly 8pm and Amy was preparing for what would be her fourth date in as many weeks with Steve. She felt like she was again a part of the human race, a social creature. And most of all, she wasn’t so terribly lonely anymore. Steve had taken things slow, too. On their second date, when she had balked at his good night kiss, she had felt compelled to clue him in to her state of mind. He accepted her explanation with equanimity; none of that “damaged goods” nonsense she’d heard from women in her group therapy sessions. How could people be so dense, so cruel? she wondered. But, Amy knew that he wouldn’t wait forever. Tonight they were catching a movie, a first-release picture called “Jaws.” When Amy — who saw few movies, since she worked most nights — said she hadn’t heard of it, Steve had rolled his eyes and teased her that it was about a dentist who’d run amok. When she accepted this at face value, he fessed up. She’d punched him in the shoulder.

During one of the movie’s most intense scenes, Amy clutched Steve’s knee for all she was worth and yelped, as did every other patron at the theater. Then, realizing what she’d done, she apologized profusely.

“Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to…”

“That’s okay, Amy, it’s what friends do…”

As the movie progressed, she sat and just thought about what Steve had said.

As they exited the theater, Steve asked her, “Do you want to get a bite?”

“You mean, like on the neck?” she asked playfully; she felt so relaxed with Steve. Then she cursed herself for crossing an invisible boundary. Might he get the wrong idea? she wondered, then told herself, maybe it’s not the wrong idea after all. As they sat before an array of burgers and fries and coleslaw, Amy looked up and into Steve’s eyes. She had made a decision.

“Do you want to kiss me, Steve?”

Without a word, he placed his fingers behind Amy’s neck, leaned forward across the table and brushed her lips with his own. After a brief taste, he leaned in further and made it count.

“Um,” she murmured, surprised at how soft his lips were. She’d thought, before connecting with Steve, that she’d never be kissed again. Being kissed was better, she thought wistfully. He tasted like French fries.

“Get a motel,” growled the ageless waitress, sidling up with a pot of coffee to refill their cups. When they blushed, the old lady grinned.

Pulling apart again, Amy and Steve laughed merrily and returned to their meal.

It was a Sunday, and Coswego’s was alight with the festivities of the weekly open-mic night. The tavern was crowded and despite the heavy attendance, or perhaps because of it, Amy was enjoying herself immensely. Time went by faster when she was busy. A hapless harmonica player was at the mic, and was doing a bad impression of  Neil Young. And the clientele was giving him grief for it.

“God, Fuentes,” shouted a voice from the crowd, “you make Bob Dylan sound like Celine Dion!” The crowd roared its agreement.

“Why don’t you play the guitar?” asked another man loudly.

Fuentes stopped playing the harp. “Because, I don’t play the guitar,” he shouted back.

“That hasn’t stopped you before,” came the  riposte. Everyone laughed.

After a few more brave souls had mounted the stage, to sing or give a poetry reading and the like, Amy was shocked to see Steve climb the two steps to the performing platform; in his hands was an acoustic guitar.

“This ought to be rich,” shrilled a man up front. Amy frowned at the heckler, but said nothing. She was curious. Did Steve possess some hidden talent, apart from kissing?

Steve tuned up his guitar for a few moments, and then began strumming. Suddenly he broke into song with a rich baritone, in a beautiful rendition of Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic. Following that, even before the tumultuous applause ended, he launched into George Harrison’s Something, and followed that with Neil Young’s Cinnamon Girl. Amy was beside herself; she’d no idea that the man who had sparked a romantic interest in her was so talented. The crowd thought so too:  they shouted and cheered and stomped and clapped vociferously. Taking up his instrument, Steve walked rather sheepishly to the bar, where he reconnoitered with Amy.

“That was,” she told him, “amazing!”

“Get that boy a pitcher of beer, darlin’,” said Stan, sitting at the end of the bar and applauding. Steve nodded his thanks and sat down to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

A hot-looking blonde sidled up to Steve, placed her hand provocatively on his shoulder, and asked, “What are you doing later, Jimmy Page?” Steve grinned.

Acting on impulse, Amy figuraively inserted herself between the two and informed the hussy, “He has plans for later, toots!” in a proprietary manner. Raising her eyebrows, the other woman stared inquisitively at Amy, who said, “He’s coming home with me.” The blonde withdrew. Amy looked at Steve. “If you want to.” He smiled his acceptance.

After the bar closed at 2am and the customers had been shooed onto the sidewalk, Steve silently watched as Amy restocked the coolers and the back bar and cleaned the glassware. After finally wiping down the bar, she came around to where he was sitting and placed her arms round his neck. His hands found a comfortable purchase at the small of her back. She leaned in for a kiss.

At Amy’s apartment, she turned the key in the lock, and then pushed the door open. They entered. Amy hadn’t entertained a man here for nearly two years. It felt like it was for the first time. She had been in love with her first beau, some fifteen years ago; she supposed she was in love again. While she knew what she wanted, she was at the same time confused. Would the waking nightmares return? Would she freeze up? Would she disappoint Steve, and herself?

As if reading her mind again, Steve said, “We’ll do this however you want, Amy. No pressure. We don’t even have to make love, we can just hold one another and sleep. That would make me very happy.”

Make love, she thought dreamily. That was light years from the last time she had,,,had sex. What a gentle, caring man. She was sure of it now: she was falling in love with Steve.

It was a seduction scene reminiscent of a noir movie. Steve waited at the door as Amy entered the bedroom and lighted a candle, then turned down the bed. Putting on a favorite recording of love songs by clarinetist Acker Bilk, only then did she summon her lover with a finger. He followed her inside. To the sounds of Stranger on the Shore, they undressed one another, one garment at a time. Then, falling into one another’s arms, they kissed. Spilling onto the bed, Steve insisted on massaging her tired muscles, aching from hours of work. She nearly fell asleep, but was wakened by soft kisses to her neck and shoulders. Turning over, she placed her arms around her lover and they made passionate, erotic love for perhaps eighty hours — or so it seemed to the both of them. Spent, they collapsed and held one another close till morning.

April

Amy was paralyzed, frozen in place, and she was being beaten over every inch of her body. Fists, boots, open hands, punched and kicked and slapped her. The pain was unbearable. Her body was being invaded, penetrated and used. And there was nothing she could do to make it stop. Amy sprang awake, thrashing drunkenly over the surface of her bed. Feeling trapped still, she kicked the bed clothes off her, sat staring at the still dark windows and wondering when the nightmares would end.

. . . . .

“What is it?” whispered Steve, gently touching her arm.

Amy teared up. “I don’t know when it’s ever going to end,” she said, sitting and holding her face in her hands. “When will it end, Steve?” she asked plaintively.

“When you feel you’re loved,” he said softly.

“I feel it now,” she told him.

. . . . .

Amy might have missed it, but for an ugly bar scene weeks later. Last call had already happened, and Amy stood back of the bar, washing the glassware in preparation for closing the tavern. It was nearly closing time and there was a ruckus at a table in the back. Though gambling was strictly forbidden, by both ordinance and bar policy, it was an inevitable occurance at the taverns. Fuentes, the man who played a poor harmonica, suddenly stood up at the table and shouted imprecations at several others, with whom he had been shooting dice.

“You a cheatin’ sonofabitch,” he shouted angrily.

Suddenly, chairs were scraped back over the tile floors and crashed into the adjacent walls.The three men stood, facing off.

“You call me a cheater, Chico?” sneered one of the two.

“I break you’ damn neck, gringo,” snarled Fuentes.

As if by magic, the other man flicked open a huge, malevolent-looking folding knife. Amy, who had watched this drama unfold, froze. She had seen that knife before. It was the most lasting impression from that night, the year before. She knew it instantly. The man who flourished the knife was one of her rapists. She was certain! Fuentes acted furtively to take the knife from the other man, but was cut across the arm and fell to the floor, bleeding.

Amy snatched up the house phone and swiftly dialed 911, then set the receiver back down. In the ensuing melee, most of the other patrons had made for the exits, but for Fuentes and the two dirty gamblers. She peered closely at them, recognized the only thing she had seen of them before: their eyes. It was them, she was positive.

“Hey, hang up that phone, bitch!” shouted the tall, skinny knife wielder.

“Stay where you are, you sonofabitch?” Amy growled, pulling a loaded pistol from her purse under the bar. After the incident, she had purchased the weapon and taken classes on how to use it. “I’m a dead shot,” she cautioned. Was it her imagination, Amy thought, or was the tavern air suddenly redolent with the stench of hashish?

“Hah!” shouted the man, who was obviously drunk. “We’ll do what we should’ve done the last time.” The two assailants slowly moved forward. Amy squeezed off a shot, which struck the man who had spoken in the groin. With a whimper he collapsed to the floor.  The other man froze in place.

The telephone began squawking and, keeping her eyes on the miscreants, Amy lifted the receiver to her ear and described the situation at the tavern. She added, “And a message for Detective Fitzsimmons: tell him this is Amy Winters, and that we’re no longer stuck on square one.”