fatal thunder was the best one had when she came to me for advice about his economic condition.
she was my first client, she said to me: My husband says I’m a fool for waiting for anything. I’ve been a mistress and a wife and a nurse, but I haven’t made a penny on my own. He makes a living as a taxi driver. I live in a modest bungalow and he has a sprawling country home. I make housework and keep the yard and the cars and two cars in good repair. We spend every weekend in our country home and whenever he is away he brings the mistress and the mistress’s boy and the mistress’s boyfriend and the three men together.
He was twenty-six and I was twenty-five when we married.
I’m not a fool, I told him, and here is how I earn my keep. First, I gather the money in envelopes when it is in my immediate possession. Then I write checks when I am told by the client to do so.
I keep the checkbook with me so I know who I have to go back and ask for more. I have a reliable mover. I have a reliable chauffeur. I have an accurate accountant.
This is how I do it.
When I get in the taxi, the driver asks me the destination and I tell him, and when I get there I get out of the taxi and tell him where to go, and when he takes me to the hotel or the house, I give him the key and when I am getting ready for bed I give him the bill for the room and then I turn out the light and go to bed myself.
In the morning I get up and say, “He’s a fool for waiting.”
I’ve been doing this a couple of years, but now I’m running out of the money I got when I first started.
I don’t get any more checks or checks with letters of explanation from my client, and the money is not growing with my business.
I’m sure if I wanted to I could get another job and earn more, but what would I do with all that time?
It might be difficult for me to do.
So silence and pain are my bed brothers. Love is my sister. Together we weep every night.
:: 09.26.2020 ::
MANY times, more than twice have I seen the ghosts of family, friends and then some whose faces that I did not know.
Quaintly, with ethereal elegance they are silky touch, feather breath, and opal eye, outside of the tick-tock of father time. It is most inappropriate to ask of them to state their business or intended pleasure
extend your politeness over scorn I say. But if I may make a brief apparatus is there a paper in the room, a hall-cabinet or a desk on which a white sheet is available? Might I do with the sheet as a summons?
The respect that one owes one’s guests becomes tested with boredom, oft times probed with practicality of thrift for there is nothing useful to be erected in the holder of the sheet.
Only when it is needful to be done is the one supposed to write in it. The space for writing is too limited.
Must the words be in black to be read? Must they belong to make any good or neither would it do to pay homage to the white sheets anymore? Might I pour out some ink, some thread to fashion myself a gnomon of sorts. Searching the paper to be free from ink might I try another opal eye, like my mother and the razors my grandfather used?
To groom his hair, and his kinks, each time they wore them down, but never ending. Might I even fawn over a ghost. Might I shed a tear for no other reason than it would be distasteful, and uncivil, to not do so. The wrong that is done to ghosts, which is, who has time for them when there is death’s work that need be done?
It is said the uncle, being thin, frail with a rasping voice, would sit silent and tired; sleep nearly all day, never greeting the other relatives, as the family has dwindled to once, two at most.
That he would be found some hours before sunset, with no water and no food beside his dead little cousin. Who was his spitting image when his lips would open he would tarry another moment?
Recline again, only to open them and wander the empty halls, awaiting. Someone who could help him with his chores, is the scene I imagine. A half asleep and suffering ghost who will never rest as long as
he continues to obey the order of his keeper, waiting until someone pays his due respect.
Now the spirit, like some phantom to the nighthawks of the wind and the greens of the apple trees.
He moves as lightly as the wind.
He dances like the light of an airplane.
He looks to live yet again.
In a white sheet, with a black script which could read nothing.
:: 09.26.2020 ::
we have had many hard things so far we’ll have harder times yet to come
it has been a hard year and we are too young to have had so many hard times
there is nothing else that this world ever gave us at least not this year
you taught us not to give things from this Earth
that will rob us of our precious time
You left this Earth without trusting
you left this Earth without giving to those who need
your light; that you held in your hands
unlike anything or anyone we may know on this Earth
there’s not anything on this Earth/ so special
so dear that was you. you could not live on this Earth
so like a human even when you are dead
you live forever in our hearts
you live forever in our souls
for who else in this world can we hold on to forever
we have you
we have your light
you are! we are the millions who followed you
who laid down their lives and you could not carry
the great weight. you carried so we did not have to
one day we will learn to carry this great burden
no human can carry this great weight
there’s only one who can
And now we can
What OF God?
When can I see you?
When will I see you?
why don’t you leave me alone?
Leave me alone?
You’ve been with me for ever, in my bad times,
in my good times, when there was no way out
and no one to understand the way you could see
in a million hands held
The King of Glory.
I guess you’re going to have to leave me now
if you’re going to come back
I guess you’re going to have to leave me alone
when you say my life will not end
So do you see?
How can I see the King of Glory?
Well, if I were to fall into Hell
and be the first to greet the King
then, I’m sure I would find you
But I don’t want to go to Hell
I have never been to Hell
It’s not like I’m afraid of Hell
I’m afraid of living without you
without the comfort of your embrace
or at least the touch of your hands
or the warmth of your smile
or the sound of your voice
or even your kiss
no, I don’t like the smell of Hell
the sky is always clear
and it looks so pretty
when it’s sunny
no, I don’t want to go to Hell
I don’t want to be the first
to greet the King
I just want to be with you
:: 2020 .24.2020 ::
TIME fell before my aching feet:
that i know little is more than
most who think they know all;
i watched time squirm before
me as a puddle of water —
i saw her dress make sounds,
silent before a breeze toward
i wept as a dew against
moist violets, as nature does;
and saw time die before me.
her greatest hand was sharp
dampness of a violet leaf
that cut my heart within approaching
exasperated winter hunger.
today i met space who cried;
having lost his best friend
called time his tongue was pale
searching for dead bodies and
:: 09.21.2020 ::
IF you asked me to use your love
tonight by sunlight or by fallen
night, i could not do so;
while my flesh is hungry for you
my Soul and Mind respects the
Light of your Heart.
and as your breasts heave
with lust, i cannot forsaken
the trust i have with my own
If by nocturnal influence,
the strongest of ferocious urge,
my gaze upon your tender twin legs,
(i mount and mouth in bites the moist
stars of your two eyes)
While my manly chest presses against
your tender female heart; for the ocean
and for the sun’s depth — all of you
is destined for the plow.
i do not shy away but respect
you. when you have come up for air
we shall talk. Until then, my amorous one,
the moon’s tender light ignites your large
:: 09.19.2020 ::
if i had two hearts;
one for your soul
the other for your beauty
if i were a farmer
i would tend to a garden
and gather today’s eggs
but as a broken-hearted
poetry i till words – so
you see, i am not here
nor there — and the worse
feeling is planting Love
and nothing Grows.
:: 09.17.2020 ::
“i will not be that way, ” i said.
as she took hostage my heart.
“I will not be that way, ” i begged.
as she kissed my soul.
but for you i shall turn the stars
around and move the oceans i declared.
i do not love your beautiful face.
i do not love your curvaceous body.
i love your feet as they brought you
here toward me. And now i enjoy
your mind and through it all things
:: 09.17.2020 ::
A PALE SOFTISH ROUND COFFIN
SKIN can make me cry as roses. Scents of a female? for i do forget
spoken clearly; i am not afraid of death but life.. to have control
means relenting focus for a perfect soul. my questions are purely
my own as though if i ask, ‘what has become of you?’ the world may
never know but i am here. my heart is a shape of a pale softish
round coffin yet to be buried within your mind.
:: 09.17.2020 ::
the carnival-like brass band
performing songbird miracles
of you, worn within my heart
all life; never quitting
sunrises as torn muscles
amorous and petting a cat
that adores thoughts
through the crack of heaven
i slid toward burning hell
all my thoughts —
and now fate kisses me and
we love each other is called