Category: Uncategorized

It is currently one thirty on a Thursday afternoon.
The whirring sounds of trains coming and going and people moving like busy bees fills my ears.
But, I am here on a mission.
To take you out to lunch and tell you for the four hundred and fiftieth time how much I love you.

Four hundred and fifty.

I know it is not common for people to keep track how many times they say the phrase,
but it’s worth keeping track.
It’s worth keeping track because I can watch the number grow as each day passes by.
When I see your face it will be four hundred and fifty one times since I first said it.

It is only a lunch date, but I feel like every date with you is worth waiting for.
I know when you step off that train you will look beautiful as always.
You won’t be wearing anything too fancy,
just jeans and a shirt but still beautiful.
Meanwhile, I’m waiting here
admittedly overdressed for the occasion with flowers in hand.

The ring box is safe in my pocket,
ready for your arrival.
When I propose it will be the four hundred and fifty second time I say I love you.
I probably look like a fool,
waiting for you like this,
but, I would do anything for you.

It is finally two o’ clock.
The train arrives right on time.
I stand up ready to give you your flowers and say that simple phrase that means so much.
Tons of people walk past,
men, women, children.
Old and young.
Tall and short.
But,
none of them are you.

Where are you?

I check my phone for a text or a call with no luck.
Maybe you’re running late.
The system is always unpredictable.

I wait.

Two thirty arrives.
You haven’t.
Many trains have come and gone,
I have counted and it is at least ten.
I am getting worried.

I am worried.

I text you again.
This time asking if you were upset.
If I had done something wrong.

I wait.

Two forty-five arrives.
Nothing.

I wait some more.

Waiting for a sign you have arrived.
Or a sign that you are alive.

It is now three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon.

I am here.

Still waiting for you.

Where are you?

In the city that was once polish once soviet once german
The missile siren rings above us again here at breakfast
And in the street a young girl walks with flowers in her hand
And she listens to us at breakfast describing the moment in english

I ask her if the siren means missiles and if missiles means again
No, she says in a smile soft, we are here, safe, and it is quiet
But the bouquet that holds her hand wilts in silent distance
But she listens to us at lunch describing the moment in english

And how long will you be here and will you come again
because my mother would love to meet you
and she only speaks Ukrainian
but she listens to us at dinner describing the moment in English

and the sirens like silence are the same in all languages
but the silence like sirens is the same in all languages

When something from the back of my fridge reeks,
I will banish it to the compost bin.
Its existence I will forget for weeks,
But unseen magic is brewing within.
When I finally return to the scraps
And probe the contents with my shovel blade,
—Behold! What surfaces? Something squiggles!
And around my finger wraps.
A squirmy worm is here. My day is made!
Poetry in motion — er, in wiggles.

I can’t suppress my joy when worms emerge
From inside my lime rinds or coffee grinds.
Their presence means my waste is on the verge
Of becoming dirt — how it blows my mind!
Their tubelike bodies are perfect machines
For breaking down eggshells and carrot tops.
One man’s trash is another worm’s tasty treat,
And O, how this dish is divine!
So never fear if your lot starts to rot,
Somewhere is a worm it’s dying to meet!

One beautiful thing in this life is to meet free people, people who surpass life. People who don’t complain, people who don’t lament. I detest those who complain about everything and don’t have the eyes to thank God. Never talk about your dreams with people who have no faith.

Now, more than ever, I feel distanced from all the structures of thought that this society imposes on you. I realize that I wasn’t born to live a common life, or maybe a common life, yes, but not with common people. I love surrounding myself with crazies who want to change the world, with people who have different ideas about life, people who are like pearls among pigs who only seek to feed and dirty themselves more. I get bored with people who love “pretty faces and luxury cars.” The prostitute, the drunk, the writer, the painter, the bohemian—sometimes, sometimes they are more sincere with God. Like that parable of the two sons: the one who knows how to obey but doesn’t do it and the disobedient one who, without knowing it, obeys.

Don’t worry too much about the future. I’ve seen many fall along the way or arrive sick. Most of the world seeks security when no one has a guaranteed future. Isn’t it ironic? The only sure thing is God. Not your children, not your house, not your wife; you don’t know if they will be with you tomorrow. So the only thing left is to enjoy this day, your present, this small, simple, and brief moment.

At this point in my life, I no longer look back or forward. I look at my life, my world. To slow down and not live like the others.

The weight of my past, my pain…my potential…
is sitting heavy on my chest today.
And it’s making it hard to breathe.
Making it hard to find any breath at all.
I feel like I’m suffocating, again.
Throat closing, lungs burning, fingers grasping.
Emotional flashbacks.
Emotional anaphylaxis.
But I find it…sadistically comforting.
How sad.
The frantic panic – a well worn, familiar groove I always settle myself into.
I willingly throw myself into.
Settling down because there is no calming down.
Battening down the hatches
because this ship is going down.

If you need me, I’ll be on the floor.

…Could someone please come and find me on the floor?
Please?
Someone? anyone…
I know it intimately by this point…
The floor.
I’ve logged more hours panicked and prone then with other people…
My bodies impression is worn neatly into the carpet
An outline of my darkening depression,
perfectly depressed into its soft pile.
A shoddy substitute for a compassionate other however.
And terrible, terrible company.
So few things in common, so very little to talk about…
Not nothing, but you know, not a lot.
…At least I have someone to be lonely with.
Something?
Doesn’t matter…
Sure wish I did.
But I’m alone
Again!
Why do I always end up alone?
It’s confusing.
But… it feels like home.
Why has it always felt like home?
Probably because…it’s really the only place I’ve been.
Where I’ve always been.
It’s been my life.
Choking on the very air I breathe.
Reaching for the hand I know isn’t there.

Rejected by the ones that brought me here, and wouldn’t let me leave.
Trapped,
alone,
and choking.
Suffocated by the storm of emotions that weren’t even mine,
at least, didn’t start as mine.
But rocked my body nonetheless.
Curled tightly on the floor, trying to stay small,
trying to survive the staggering waves of emotion as they crash
one, after another, after another, after another…
Fighting to hold my screams inside…
they were safest there.
I was safest with them there.
The sound of my voice has never brought help.
Only hurt.
Hardly seems worth it
I stopped speaking up long ago.
And so, I lay.
On the floor.
On the carpet.
On my own.
Silently as the grave I wish I could fucking be in,
alternating between soft and shuddering sobs,
without a lifeline in sight.
No wonder I wanted out.

Some days I still do.
But it’s more fleeting now.
Usually.
There are days that still bring me back down to my knees,
Back to the floor.
Back to the curled little girl, softly sobbing, eyes screaming, heart hurting.
But now, I can usually find my own calm voice somewhere among the screams…
Steady, strong and soothing.
I know better now how to listen for it,
and while I don’t always manage to find it,
it is getting easier.
Easier to find, easier to hear, easier to believe. And easier to amplify, so I can find it
with even more ease next time, find it faster.
Find it, and cling to it.
Hold on for dear life.
Which I never thought I’d want to do,
but here we are.
Breathing.
Being.
I’ve finally found a lifeline.

It’s a work in progress, but it’s work that I’m determined to do, determined to succeed
at.
And so I will.

Who would have thought,
to finally find my breath, I first had to find my voice.

Have I thanked you yet today Camille? ￿

I pass over dark night calling you repeatedly
Keep sitting by ill daughter– you are truly their mother

Yet I am afraid– you offered on condition of giving back
Now your carriage stands at the door
Mahfuja in my mind raises the sin of breaking promise
Tell your aimless vehicle to go back

Amidst music

From the Garo hill the gipsy ladies that came yesterday
I searched for your information in their basket
Ferocious krait gave stroke
With the pain of poison drooped the son of Monosha
Mahfuja what a poison you have stored in my body
I have crossed the Gangura with Behula’s lonely raft
Heaven’s prostitute you are amorous expert in dancing
The shark of water took away bones and ribs
Waiting for you
Nobody knows of my past existence
Crossing the ocean you have held me up
Amidst your music

Learned Madhab

Seeing amorous dancing of Mahfuja the desire of creation rises
With huge luster of the moon Jagannathpur is over flooded
In your garden grazes yak
Gestures and postures indicate foolish Radhika`
Yet you have adorned me uncivilized Kanai
Endless anguish poured on milkmaids’ love
Given kadamba flowers in both hands
Taking the fire under control starts game
I only write annals learned Madhab.

Listening to “Hey Sandra” by Medium Build

I know you love those Daiquiris,
so I offer to buy you a round.
One, two whatever you need to forgive me, babe.
I’d buy a dozen if you would just turn around.

I know I’ve done you wrong.
I ran my mouth again, with no regard for the consequences.
I do it more often after some long necks, girl.
You know how I am.

I never mean to hurt you.
God knows I’m an idiot, because he made me that way.
A few too many cold ones, and I think I’m a tough guy.
You know how I am.

Aint no harm though right?
We’ve been here before, you forgave my mistakes.
It’s just this time you have that look in your eye,
that makes me worry that the ice beneath my feet is cracking.

I hear it over the juke box, playing country songs.
I hear it over the shouted conversations,
the accusations and the raised voices, babe.
Can I change your mind?

There’s ice in them Daiquiris,
enough to plug the gaps.
Damn, its cold enough for hell to freeze in those eyes,
now the love has gone and won’t come back.

I know you love those Daiquiris,
so I offer to buy you a round.
One, two whatever you need to forgive me, babe.
I’d buy a dozen if you would just turn around.

She stands with great panache, drawing the gaze
of a thousand mirrors
She probably misses caressing empyrean sunsets;
her arms, left behind in the Aegean.
I wonder how her fingers curl with the spume of the tide;
Salt caked nails mistaken for marble, and arms veined of gilded sapphire;
Her embrace, an ataraxia of emerald, turquoise, and lapis;
A métempsycose of the tide; amaranthine and azure.
Her arms, lost to us, must have been blue. So blue.

How many times have I said your name
as a preface to my thoughts,
as a thought unto itself,
as a resolution to my discourse.

You are the heart of my novel,
the spirit of my screenplay.
You are foreshadowing, mid-point,
catalyst and theme.

You are my call to adventure,
my road forward and back,
my journey and destination,
my comfort zone and challenge.

How many times have I said your name
as the end of my sentence and the beginning of the next.

The most passionate kiss
that I ever saw
–and the longest!–
happened at the wedding
when Leonard O’Neal took a wife.
The bride’s Swedish father,
stern and adamantly opposed
to the whole affair,
though provoked,
was restrained by awe
at what he saw.

The lady was man-handled
like a whore bought for the purpose,
and she was putting out
for all that she was worth.
And but for the altar
before which they dallied
and the solemnity of erotic worship,
the wedding guests all felt
like begging the groom
to get him a room!
The horny groom
prolonged the matter
until his bride and he
were happily sizzling.
I’ve not seen the like
before or since.

I was party to the like
late the night before
Leonard O’Neal
was wed. Longer.
More intense.
Leonard O’Neal
left his party
to speak to me in private.

The unexpected kiss
he kissed me with
was a desperate affair–
hot, possessive,
totally giving,
sincere and sweet.
To be shocked and overwhelmed
and overcome by a kiss,
once and only once;
to love and be loved,
to know it in a kiss,
is as good as it gets.
I remember no kiss,
no moon, no night
as full or deep
or tender as
the kiss I got
from Leonard O’Neal
on his wedding eve.