grove

Where the grass grows green,
where my rosebud lays,
so gentle a sweet
blossoms in May

on Wallace's grove
the men they fight
for freedom and dignity
for half a pint

Together we united
on a colony day
our brethren draws circles
among the fleeted concave

What do you want?
What does he whisper?
Money and gold
and a fool rush in the valley

never make the mistake over choosing gold over love
for it will occur to you, love, triumphs all
in battle and seniority
love triumphs all

Never forget what I tell you
for the past may haunt your soul
reckon steed forth
on yonder, be young

sultan's paradise

I thought I had made a mistake but it was my silly willy computer that made the error. It picked something for me that I didn't not choose then it cast flames in my hand and told me it was leaving me for my ex-girlfriend, a Nokia no doubt. I felt melancholy for a little then decided I should just type out  a story the old fashion way. With a typewriter indeed. So I set up this mechanical tidbit and typed away into the night, yawning and stretching. A king's throne. Stuck in the underground minding my p's and q's and for what reason, to reach a point when talk is cheap and I should be a doctor for godforsaken. Just because I didn't finish your way for schooling doesn't mean I can't read a situation.There are many things I want to tell you, my zest for loving life. Eating according to the catch of the day and never forgetting what it was like on the streets of Lugano. Always dancing and prancing, drinking beer and sitting down. A sultan's paradise. But now I sit and type and read and write. Haven't read much in awhile. The old noggin's slowing down. The main question is...can I become good again?

Please just yes or no.

And if you answer, yes, where should i go?

bassoon

Theatrics in a suburban home
wonder of amazement the children's gold
he swash buckles until is told off to bed
and the mommy and daddy can pro amend

this is what you get from me
a  little chuckle, a fruitful grin
don't leave now it may get good
or fall into the bassoon, a player baffoon

the prince speaks to his maiden
approaching the hillside on steed
he asks for her hand, she pleads
the prince, dead at 23

the Jekyll, the two face, the hidden Hyde
rids himself of all those deemed define
he hides in the mountains, no soul left to spare
til one day he closes his eyes and an over-man is there

"have you brought me great fortune or pittance dear sir?"
"I bring you all the best you've been ridding yourself from, the booze, the women, the late nights!"
"I came here to do away with those, my friend. Just leave a tart in front of my bed."
"Don't you see it's time for fruition."

The two face looks at him
HA!
only 300 pages left of this monstrosity.
But why stop there, the maniac cackled.

I could write a million pages if I could and each being every so mindful as the first million.
The daemon has to let me write what I can and enjoy the rest of my well-being
words, a world of words, if only we could speak
writing to yourself is like casting a spell on your self with pestle and mortar

first the night root, then the sulfurous ash finally add the wandering pumice
there's a cocktail right there, they serve it at the green smoothie bar, or should be at least

now let me slumber so I can digest my wordplay

tata
for now

Gg

faceless part one

The faceless entity flew by the other day. He was an other no doubt near the end of his prime. His 40's. Such a tender age. How could he progess in such a way that he would realize the full being of his perpusore. He hummed and hawwed to me and I told him that I don't realize what his problem was, he has a nice set of glue on teeth waiting at home for him, but he didn't decipher the message. I don't know what else to say today. We'll get to know more about him tommorow.

Flask 2

The lift landed and she opened the gate for me. I walked ahead and turned quickly with my hand outreached to grasp her hand. She lifted her right hand and the looked in my eye. She leaned forward and took my hand. The diamond on her middle finger sparkled in my eye.

“Natasha, but my friends call me Sasha,” her eye sparkled liked that diamond on her finger.

I was enamoured with her beauty for a minute and she snapped her fingers in my face.

“Who are you?” she laughed.

“Oh, sorry. My name is Mik. My friends called me Mike. I have no friends.”

“That's too bad to hear Mik. I, on the other hand, have many friends, but also many enemies. They take my good deeds and turn them into rubbish, claiming my good fortune towards them is hostile. I don't know how much more stress I can absorb from it.”

“You have such grand pronunciation. You must have gone to the gymnasium haven't you?”

“Aw, my dubious wit amazes even I. You are a smart man, Mik, maybe too smart for your own good. I like that in a man though. A sense of danger, yet meek and mild. Like a tiny mouse who yearns to be a rat.”

“I can assure you I am no rat dear. I work very hard for my knowledge. I read a paragraph everyday and I write three once a month. Some would call me a scholar, if I wasn't so pre-occupied with my work,” Mik looked at Sasha, hoping for an admiring response in her eye.

Sasha looked down at her hands. That diamond did sparkle, it was no joke. But, what did it mean? What did that tiny little stone mean to such a versatile woman, one who would judge another so vicariously about their own presentation. She saw Mik before on the elevator but never dared speak to him. She was married at the time but now that she was closing on a hefty divorce, her inhibitions (and her libido) were on the prowl.

“You get off often?” Sasha asked. “You know, ride the elevator often. I prefer taking the stairs but who knows these days with so many people being robbed in their own homes, pure habdasharry.”

“It's quite silly really when you think of it,” Mik agreed. “Even in our homes we are no longer safe from the vile intruder with his eyes only on gold and silver and diamonds and roubles. What would you prefer in life? To live in fear, or die in peace? That is the ultimate question, really, if you really think of it.”

“I don't prefer to think at all. I find that once I start to think I get lost in my own mind. In that vortex of space and time. Don't make me start, oh lord.” Sasha smiled. “I really shouldn't. Now you say we should stop for a cup of coffee. I'll take you up on that offer, young sir!”

The elevator arrived at the ground floor and I held the door for her. She walked passed and brushed her hair into my face, that smell! Oh god that aroma. The life in my body went to my crouch and my eyes fluttered. I lost circul atory ability in my brain and I could only taste salt and vingar crisps. The hairs on the back of my neck went clockwise. My hands began to shake and drool formed a pool at the corner of my lips. My toes reached upwards and my heel buried deep into the concrete.

And then it was over. She walked passed me and twirled showcasing her one piece vintage moomoo. Well I call it a moomoo but I think the proper term for the outwit we be au couture. Blah! What the hell is such a thing? I've heard of one pieces and two, but I don't know the other “accessories” if understand me mutually. Finally, we have come to our d'accord, our end of conversation at this point for now I must keep fully ascertain to the young woman before I can muster up enough gusto to have another one of these rendevous we keep adjoining ourselves with.

“Where were we?” Mik asked.

“Just pitter-patter small talk. You say you prefer La Cafe over Americano? Each has their own uniqueness to their essence. I like the patio at La Cafe, but I also like a strong man who can make a decision for themselves and choose a patio, even if it isn't the preferred choice by a date. Are you that man? Or are you just another boy?”

“I'm an atheist, ma'am.” Mik replied.

Ireland

I want to see Dave and Kim again. I miss them and their generosity for allowing for me to continue my studies of Stephen King again. The books are fantastic and yes I am reading, albeit not all of King. I'm going on Tuesday. If you get this message, I'll see you there. Again Thanks so much! I now know how to hone and develop a style and technique.

Flask

I tried to hang myself this morning. There's a cord near my bed that I figured could hold enough of my weight to at least asphyxiate myself rather than break my neck.I got up on the bed and put the cord around my neck and I stood there, realizing the bed wasn't moving and I was too far away from the edge of the bed to make me leap off it into mother's mercy. So, I gave up the idea and went to get a cup of coffee at the cafe on the ground floor of my apartment building. It was only 8am but I figured if I had gotten there early, I could reserve a couple of seats for maybe a lass could join. Remember, I did try to hang myself this morning.

The freight elevator arrived as I was locking up my apartment and I rushed quickly when I was lucky enough to have a jewellery filled hand hang onto the door for me. The building fired all tram boys a week ago, to save the measly pennies they were paying them anyways. The jeweled hand belonged to Miss Nancy (I don't know here formal name, except that it's Russian). Whata wonderful day to be saved, I told her and she smiled a gorgeous looking, entirely straight pearl of wisdom white teeth.

“Consider yourself lucky,” she gave a hoot, “the last man I did that for, I ended up marrying.”

I let out an absurd chuckle, kind of like a woodpecker bracing a virgin tree bark. I wonder if she is making a joke, or is considering me to ask her on a date, so I weigh the two options and assume she's asking for a date.

“Well, would you like to join me for a cup of coffee downstairs,” I looked her in her grey eyes, “it shall only take a minute or two.”

She looked at me with not a word in her mind and then that smile again, you know, the gorgeous looking, entirely straight pearl of wisdom white teeth smile. Well, at least she wasn't appalled by my question, and I was so eager for an answer.

“That will do fine. Nothing gets you buzzing like a nice cup of coffee with a little bamboozel of my lovely flask.”

She pointed to her breast pocket and there was a lump of flask hiding there. I wonder what she would be doing drinking so early for. Special occasion or just an everyday type of drunkenness. I assumed she would pour the contents in the coffee, mix it up and inebriate herself to forget this entire conversation or entire daily life for that manner. Should I ask her what was in the flask? I haven't drank since Tuesday, when our coworkers at the station brought in the finest whiskey in all of the land. Or so they said. Me, I can't tell the difference between shoe polish and vodka, but the men drank for it had been one year of service on the docks and I was paperwork patron, making sure everything got to where it was going via ship and sometimes rail, when the railway needed supplies for the continuation of its completion. I was an outcast, a stranger to these men, not to my superiors but the workers at the dock. We let them take what they wanted, because whatever we needed was always in abundance, and head office would always look after its own.

The elevator reached the ground floor with a hush and tussle. Something one would feel falling feet first off a bed with a cord tied around their neck. Poor bastard, my past self said to my being. I held the door open for her and she looked me in the eye and smiled. This may just be the jolly good cup of tea I need to balance my entire existence, no doubt.  

Drevan

The initial jump wasn’t exactly what started this mess. He got caught in suction at the bottom of the pool. It was a hot summer day, blistering hot, most would say and the clouds were absent from the baby blue sky.  Drevan and his family were lounging around the pool, catching rays and sweating deep invigorating gusts of both hot sun and warm wind. It was refreshing on his body.  Nobody called him an Africaan man here; he and his family were safe from the racism that he endured at school. This was the coloured pool, well, it was everyone’s pool. The real people who just wanted to enjoy themselves near the end of the summer term at St.Charle’s School of Alternative Studies. What made it worse was that St. Charles was a private school and Drevan still got picked on by bullies. And they weren’t even white, most had been on the football team and he knew most of them since early preschool. That’s what hurt him the most. These were his friends. Well, they were supposed to be, but ever since Drevan stood up for Michael Ambrose three months ago, all his friends called him a whitey lover and that he should listen to holy music instead of rap. Not that rap had any source of distinction, but holy music was deemed white and therefore uncool to the football players. Drevan Restings parents were at the pool that day too, an umbrella behind dad’s chair. Drevan’s dad, Norse, was a retired school teacher and, from what Drevan could grasp, a humanitarian academic. Norse would donate money to St.Charles semi-yearly and ensured that the sports teams were flourishing. When Drevan was a freshman, Norse coached the varsity football team and Drevan played on the B team, no favoritism here. His love of football was passed down to his boys and he would always wear a fedora during the playoff season. Just for the love of the game. Drevan had two brothers and a sister, all three attending the distinguished St.Charles School of Alternative Studies.  Daryl was a sophomore and Jacob was just about to finish his final year of public school. Ayatola was a freshman , and my god, she was beautiful. Her beautiful hair, her hazel eyes and those kissable, sweet lips that would make any man jealous not to be kissing them. She had a boyfriend, earlier on in the semester, but she dumped his ass for gymnastics. He was a loser anyways and the school would kick him out at the end of the full freshman year. He was a stoner, a voyeur and eventually, a vagabond. No one mattered about him from the Steroids infused gym instructor to the closet homosexual physics professor noticed him around anyways. But he walked that road and knew he could do better than St.Charles, he could fly himself into Berkeley if he really wanted to and no one cared, or knew, because we are talking about Philosophy here. The vagabond on his horse with a backpack on, being stuck in school would never let him travel and love his dreams to their full potential. Where did the time go? Who matters more, Drevan or the unknown vagabond who lost at love. This is a story. Not a good one but it started so now it must be finished no matter how intense it would get. He was jealous of Drevan and his family, a burning sensation would enflame his palms and his hands would get clammy. He loved Ayatola but she was done with him. He wept in his elbow. He was tired. But that wouldn’t stop him, he just pushing forward, and forward and forward.  And he got there. He found an agency and worked out what was in his mind, but he would never forget the school where he learned his potential. And he was no longer a vagabond. But rather a creator.

book

Some may drink coffee, some might drink wine
Some like the movies, some like to unwind
some like to drink whiskey, some like to smoke the herb
some don't understand you. some can't be heard

But you gotta read the book
oh baby you just gotta read the book
it may have chapters, a paragraph or two
but eventually you gonna read the book

Some aristocrats clink their drinks, some doctor likes to mate
some like spaceships, some like to swim naked
some only wake up at night, some sleep in the day
some beggar is on the floor, some junkie lifts him on his shoulders

but you gonna have to read the book
oh sometimes you just gotta read the book
the pressure in its pages, the notes on the side
hell, you gotta read the book

Some like to laugh out loud, some like to cry in shame
some like to learn lessons, some like to play the game
some even buy a coffin, some like to wear nice clothes
some make sense of things, some like to row

but you gonna have to read that book
god said you gotta read that book
open the front page, take a glance
but you gonna have to read that book

Some are happy, some of the folks
Some like to commentate, some like to make jokes
some like to play. some like to read instead
in a Hollywood movie, the script ain't half that bad

but you gonna have read that book
oh lord, you gonna have to read that book
pages front to back, letters inside
but you still gotta read that book.

clergy

There was once a man I knew who entered the clergy in the late 1800s. He was young man, 21 perhaps when he decided to take into account the testament rather than his father's horseshoe company as head blacksmith. He decided to take his fathers' favorite horse and ride to the town to speak with the village church. This man knew all too well what his intentions were yet he could never discover his true passion. Until he met Mathilda. She was the love of his life, well the remaining months that he could see and be with her until his semester was over and he'd return home. He didn't know quite how to tell her but he knew he didn't have much time, so he wrote her a note instead and placed it on her pillow so when she got home from the church, she would read what his heart was pounding in his chest to explain. His nose began to bleed in spurts and phlegm would be hiding in the back of his throat, ready to build up and spit into the spittoon near his bed. Mathilda would be at his side night and day, cooking, cleaning, loving with a heart of unimaginable fortitude. There was a gain to this advantage, where even the note on her pillow could stop her from loving him. They visited exotic locations and the man began to walk with a cane. He was oh so young, but he chose the vile hip style rather than the long run haul. All he could do now was wait. His son would pressure him to play with his life because what was left of it could be gone in a day or a month or years, but he had to make himself happy and get him out of the depression that was swallowing him into the couch. Talking to people, why be afraid, but he was not interested until he figured out a way to make himself happy. His son could see the mountain from the trees, but the man couldn't climb trees anymore. The man left the church in his final days, realizing being is within him and not entity that controls life. The man lived to be 103, the doctors said it was a miracle, but it wasn't. His son's idea saved his life.