A Summer Memory

Trees

in bloom, reckoning the sky
towards a cloudless night.
Sultry summer rain
hisses on the sidewalk—
bloom of Jacaranda	
purple against a slate grey sky.

Wine of holidaymakers	sound of laughter
navel orange splash	cooling upwind of 	(rain)
Long pull of books and films	drag towards
the night of oppressive heat and 	(rain)

Here is the season
of purple blooming
around us wrapped
like a garland wreath;
lively dances
performed for the summer dead
 

 
Tuft of Light

lizard beaked sits
riotous in motion; silver
shredded ribbons; blood and dead 
leaves;

(breathing in the stink)

calm cup of tea
dissolve atmosphere of
hate words; nastiness; just blood
and dead leaves;

(open to the sewer)

skin smooth over porous shale;
seawater laps
the deck of the ship
urine soaked and alabaster;

(soap bubbles over shale)

bring order, bring results
into present time;
blood in the pissoir; ice; smoke; just blood and dead
leaves 
 


Sound of Laughter

Sound of laughter		children playing
I haven’t the time		to stop and look
I'm losing the thread		of innocence
You see, I was unnatural		and my time
was fleeting along		with the ermines

Sound of laughter		cold light of fish
the pool of algae		ran rivers of blood
I was Unnatural, it was the time 		I was to lose
fleeting moments		of moonlight
took their anger out		on a lonely boy

Sound of laughter		one wet rock
A flock of seagulls		to shit upon it
Sound of laughter		delicate bones set in the ear
they break at a moment’s		notice
Sound of laughter		it’s all I can do
to stay in touch with		children playing
I haven’t the time		to stop and look
 

 
Dreaming

All was gone through layers of night
As I wandered through my sleep,
All was gone through rays of light

I wandered here as though I might
Wander knowing that children weep
All was gone through layers of night

Bludgeoned, I held my form aright
Through holds of sleep’s yellow keep
All was gone through rays of light

Obscenity, profanity held to height
Wafting bleats of nettled sheep
All was gone through layers of night

The pornographic lust grew bright:
A penny, a dollar, sir, just for a peep
All was gone through rays of light


Awake I felt the dirt and blight
Lost in the theme of dream’s full sweep
All was gone through layers of night
All was gone through rays of light.
 

 
The Balance

I have hurt my hand.
I do not know when, or where
Or how, 
But I suppose it must
Have been in the delicate
Balance between sanity
And the dark place we fear
To go.

It is not useless.
Just a slight twinge
When I perform a task, 
Simple things
Like arranging my affairs
Or the flowers
Of state.
It is not altogether

Unpleasant, 
Although it does pain me
And I do not know
How it happened
Or whether
There is a purpose
To this injury
That plays on my conscience.

I would ask you,
But I know
That you are not there,
Not altogether
Useless
Just a slight twinge
When performing a task.

I have invented a person
To talk to 
And hold,
I do not know
When or where
Or why
But perhaps in the balance
Between sanity

And affairs of the state.
 

 


Miles Davis

He was cool when people was still playing
hot!
Be-bop that horn zoot rollo

Like a golden tide river stretched out for miles
Pulling me by the ears
Old Devil Moon just be-bop-a-lu

Wail that siren like for fires
Hep cats playing
Hot! Cool! Anything you want!

Lid those eyes over Bitches Brew
You toot hoot full zoot get a snoot
Full of the hippest

Jazz fever bopped along funk rollo

Versions of Heat



with the drip of wax 

down a scar on my hand

to replicate a lost spark

i wonder at a candle unaware of an ending

of burning out an only tasting metal

i wonder at a candle

when will it be spring again?

summer may be long and dreary

warmth that suffocates a breath of air

but not the burn

of when your skin has tanned too much and pinches a fiery red

that shouldn’t be possible without wind

until too much blows it out

blows out the red of leaves

the gold (of winning, of shining, and of burning)

into brown

metal can taste different no matter what

but the color will always be dark

opposite of burning

Unjustified Fears

by Fernando  Sorrentino

(Spanish title: Temores injustificados)

Translated

by Naomi Lindstrom

I’m not very sociable, and often I forget about my friends. After letting two years go by, on one of those January days in1979 — they’re so hot — I went to visit a friend who suffers from somewhat unjustified fears. His name doesn’t matter; let’s call him — just call him — Enrique Viani.

On a certain Saturday in March, 1977, his life changedcourse.

It seems that, while in the living room of his house, near thedoor to the balcony, Enrique Viani saw, suddenly, an “enor­mous” — according to him — spider on his right shoe. No soonerhad he had the thought this was the biggest spider he’d seen inhis life, when, suddenly leaving its place on his shoe, the animalslipped up his pants leg between the leg and the pants.

Enrique Viani was — he said — “petrified.” Nothing so dis­agreeable had ever happened to him. At that instant he recalled two principles he had read somewhere or other, which were: 1) that, without exception, all spiders, even the smallest ones, carry poison, and can inject it; and, 2) that spiders only sting when they feel attacked or disturbed. It was plain to see, that huge spider must surely have plenty of poison in it, the fullstrength toxic type. So, Enrique Viani thought the most sensible thing to do was hold stock still, since at the least move of his, the insect would inject him with a definitive dose of deadly poison.

So he kept rigid for five or six hours, with the reasonable hope that the spider would eventually leave the spot it had taken up on his right tibia; clearly, it couldn’t stay too long in a place where it couldn’t find any food.

As he came up with this optimistic prediction, he felt that, in­ deed, the visitor was starting to move. It was such a bulky, heavy spider that Enrique Viani could feel — and count — the footfalls of the eight feet — hairy and slightly sticky — across the goose flesh of his leg. But, unfortunately, the guest was not leav­ing; instead, it nested, with its warm and throbbing cephalothorax and abdomen, in the hollow we all have behind our knees.          

•••

Up to here we have the first — and, of course, fundamental — part of this story. After that there came some not very significant variations: the basic fact was that Enrique Viani, afraid of getting stung, insisted on keeping stone still as long as need be, despite his wife and two daughters’ pleas for him to abandon the plan. And so, they came to a stalemate where no progress was possible.

Then Graciela — the wife — did me the honor of calling me in to see if I could resolve the problem. This happened around two in the afternoon: I was a bit annoyed to have to give up my one siesta of the week and I silently cursed out people who can’t manage their own affairs. Once over at Enrique Viani’s house, I found a pathetic scene: he stood immobile, though not in too stiff a pose, rather like parade rest; Graciela and the girls were crying.

I managed to keep myself calm and tried to calm the three women as well. Then I told Enrique Viani that if he agreed to my plan, I could make quick work of the invading spider. Opening his mouth just the least bit, so as not to send the slightest quiver through his leg muscle, Enrique Viani wondered:

“What plan?”

I explained. I’d take a razor blade and make a vertical slit downwards in his pants leg till I came to the spider, without even touching it. Once this was done, it would be easy for me to hit it with a rolled‑up newspaper, knock it to the floor and then kill it or catch it.

“No, no,” muttered Enrique Viani, desperate, but trying to restrain himself. “The pants leg will move and the spider will sting me. No, no, that’s a terrible idea.”

Stubborn people drive me up the wall. Without boasting, I can say my plan was perfect, and here this wretch who’d made me miss my siesta just up and rejects it, for no serious reason and, to top it off, he’s snotty about it.

“Then I don’t know what on earth we’ll do,” said Graciela. “And just tonight we have Patricia’s fifteenth birthday party …”

“Congratulations,” I said, and kissed the birthday girl.

“. . and we can’t let the guests see Enrique standing there like a statue.”

“Besides, what will Alejandro say.”

“Who’s Alejandro?”

“My boyfriend,” Patricia, predictably, answered.

“I’ve got an idea!” exclaimed Claudia, the little sister. “We can call Don Nicola and…”

I want it clear that I wasn’t exactly wild about Claudia’s plan and had nothing to do with its being adopted. In fact, I was dead set against it. But everyone else was heartily in favor of it and Enrique Viani was more enthusiastic than anyone.

So Don Nicola showed up and right away, being a man of action and not words, he set to work. Quickly he mixed mortar and, brick by brick, built up around Enrique Viani a tall, thin cylinder. The tight fit of his living quarters, far from being a drawback, allowed Enrique Viani to sleep standing up with no fear of falling and losing his upright position. Then Don Nicola carefully plastered over the construction, applied a base and painted it moss green to blend in with the carpeting and chairs.

Still, Graciela — dissatisfied with the general effect of this mini obelisk in the living room — tried putting a vase of flowers on top of it and then an ornamental lamp. Undecided, she said:

“This mess will have to do for now. Monday I’ll buy something decent‑looking.”

To keep Enrique Viani from getting too lonely, I thought of staying on for Patricia’s party, but the thought of facing the music our young people are so fond of terrified me. Anyway, Don Nicola had taken care to make a little rectangular window in front of Enrique Viani’s eyes, so he could keep entertained watching certain irregularities in the wall paint. So, seeing everything was normal, I said goodbye to the Vianis and Don Nicola and went back home.

•••

In Buenos Aires back in those years we were all overwhelmed with duties and obligations: the truth is I almost forgot all about Enrique Viani. Finally, a couple of weeks ago, I managed to get free for a moment and went to call on him.

I found he was still living in his little obelisk, only now a splendid blue‑flowering creeper had twined its runners and leaves all around it. I pulled a bit to one side some of the luxuriant greenery and through the little window I managed to spot a face so pale it was nearly transparent. Guessing the question I was about to ask, Graciela told me that, through a kind of wise adaptation to the new circumstances, nature had exempted Enrique Viani from all physical necessities.

I didn’t want to leave without making one last plea for sanity. I asked Enrique Viani to be reasonable; after twenty‑three months of being walled up, this spider of ours was surely dead, so, then, we could tear down Don Nicola’s handiwork and ….

Enrique Viani had lost the power of speech or at any rate his voice could no longer be heard; he just said no desperately with his eyes.

Tired and, maybe, a bit sad, I left.

In general, I don’t think about Enrique Viani. But lately, I recalled his situation two or three times, and I flared up with rebellion: ah, if those unjustified fears didn’t have such a hold, you’d see how I’d grab a pickaxe and knock down that ridiculous structure of Don Nicola’s; you’d see how, facing facts that spoke louder than words, Enrique Viani would end up agreeing his fears were groundless.

But, after these flareups, respect for my fellow‑man wins out, and I realize I have no right to butt into other people’s lives and deprive Enrique Viani of an advantage he so treasures.

Merry Christmas (ii)

It’s been a long time coming!
A once-in-a-year event nearing
I’ve been getting ready for yuletide
Taking every circumstance in great stride
It’s about me making plans for the following year
Working hard so that New Year’s Resolution won’t be at the rear
I have to live with the moment as I press on
Positioning me in the light of thorough reflection is the impression
It’s about savoring the festive period
Caring about my neighbors is the watch word
I have to celebrate with people en masse
To wish them a fruitful Merry Christmas!

Living in dreams

The dead do not die 
When you expect them to. They live on,
Ghosts trapped
 In the minds of those, who loved them, feared them.

The living don’t live 
When you expect them to. They exist
In the trudge of reality, 
Living in their dreams. 
Dying in their lives.

Ghosts live in the dreams of others 
Family friends and lovers.
And the living live in their own dreams
With lovers friends and family,
With strangers exotic places a hopeful future,
With the past of their mundane world.

The dead don't die,
The living don't live
Because of dreams.


Unusual places I have been

Each with their own moment
 salted into the web of my memory
A tenuous painted contrail 
A trail traveled many places
The smell of a place evoking

It is the one stool ramen stall 
next to a small westernized Chinese hotel In Wuhan
It is fool's gold sparkling on a dreary day
 in the cold rocky shallows of Donner Lake in California 
It is the dry smell of a late summer day
at the hot train station in Havre  Montana 
Each a unique serendipitous memory, each a thread 
One of many woven
to be clutched in the hands of Lachesis 
Measured and imbued by a fate
An unintended interesting life.

Moon Meets the Sun

I remember when I first saw you, your shining face smiling at me from afar

Said the moon.


You are so bright, so golden and sweet 

I can almost taste your laughter

how it fills the holes of my heart with joy

Said the moon. 


I  know I hide in the shadows 

I am shyer, only showing my face once in a while

but when I look at you, I light up

You make the darkness go away

as you smile 

and fill the space around me with warmth 

Turning my world 

into the perfect place

Said the moon.

Crab Nebula

a tenuous spoon bent into black
whirlpool joy at a trillion volts
 
orange whispers out 
just touching the void
thankful for unencumbered elements
 
what's it like to spin thirty times a second?
do you get dizzy?
what would Lao Tzu have to say about you?
 
rings form, concentric
trying to hide the numbing density 
you've thought about slowing down
taking a look around the neighborhood
but that's best left to the wear and tear guys 
or the wishes of the slide rule
 
you lost some of your shine over the last
millennium
but heat and beat
they're all yours

acorn sermon

live with the acorn sermon
that sits for a long time in the stubble fields
that seems boring 
until it razors home
 
greet the duck as a distinguished guest
quacking tales from hither and yon
he knows both North and South
and his wife can tell East and West
 
words dangle on cool air come fall
they sprinkle the ground
racing again in spring
then everybody talks summer
and sun waits for blossoms to sweeten the life
 
history of my body

Right index finger:  Carbon created in a supernova in the Sculptor 
Supercluster 8 billion years ago, travelled to Earth via 
Sculptor Void
Left knee:  bone atoms from a Blue Giant in Leo Supercluster 6.8 billion years ago
White blood cells:  material from Fornax cluster, type 1a nova over 5.5 billion years previous
Hair: spun from a molecular cloud in the Andromeda galaxy, carried to Earth via a comet 3.7 billion years ago
Eye:  a rain of organic material from the small Magellanic cloud, 4.5 billion years travel time
All other parts from unidentified parts of the Universe.  Estimated travel time:  5-10 billion years

Aldo Leopold

at a pure stone table
I write in a way cognizant of bumps, ridges and purple flowers
Coolness in the wind seeks out its own kind of day dream
the peculiar symphony of trees holds a memory of seed, the last rainfall and buttercup sky
curved pathways lead who knows where?
Overhead a small plane plies cloud, but the labyrinth branches ground eyes and birds soar sound.

Mary E. Croy lives in Madison, Wisconsin where she works as an administrative assistant. She spent nine years teaching English Language Learners in Ha Noi, Viet Nam. During her free time, Mary likes reading poetry and hanging out with her cats, Buster and Gabby. Her work has appeared in Better than Starbucks, Woven Tale Press, and Valley Voices, among others.