The One

History is written in the heart
no punctuation right from the start
it has to compress and fold
the mind with limited space to hold
thousands of moments and heartbeats
heard, lights and mysteries the truth
is blurred and falsehood remains
only a moment until the fact complains.

It won't last and should not matter
the stars will collapse and shatter
before time itself writes the very
last book, no one will notice
his final look upon creation
as it powers down and turns out the light
that breathtaking empty darkened sight.

Memory shall fail as eternity expands
over the color coded unimportant lands
as death perplexes the poet
and his hands, his books open
and are compared to the commands.

Did you believe? It is yes or no
I am or I am not. Certainly
this simple question was asked

of you before by me.

The Stream

Through the forest the wind
does whistle and up the stream
where time does end
a backwards clock
and pounds the drizzle
that fills the lake
for fish and men
with all the things
of which we're made
so to walk into the glade
or swim on down
past the still
and green green trees
that leave us by
to swim and leap
beneath the mountains
oh so steep.
Can you hear
the water call
as it treads
the waterfall?
These breaths betray
the breeze and say
today you might go away.



The Time...from an ongoing discussion I have been involved in for about fifteen years on a message bored...I mean board. I've known some of these people for over a decade! And they still get into the nastiest arguments....
I appreciate both people and have known you both for a long, long
time. I wouldn't referee this match if you paid me.


People just need to relax and get along. The point is to learn
something..share ideas you know.

The Islamic calendar....doesn't stream well into modern life because
it is ever changing in the geared-to-Gregorian year. In all
actuality, you need both things and a year actually ends up being
the Metonic one which is roughly nineteen years long. But we cannot
have birthdays so far apart it seems!

It isn't a competition you know and the fact of the matter is....we
live in space and we don't even know which part of space we live in
or whether it has edges, directions, etc. Time itself is distorted
and I think it is the most amazing thing that we live in a "plane"
of existence where the sun and moon are available to us to "reckon"
our days and our lives. Without them we'd not know where we stood
and truly, we'd not be alive to know about our ignorance either!

This is what the Quran relates about it and it cannot be refuted by
anyone. Period.

[6.96] He causes the dawn to break; and He has made the night for
rest, and the sun and the moon for reckoning; this is an arrangement
of the Mighty, the Knowing.

The argument that ought to be waged however isn't about which
calendar is best or more accurate (in a universe of many
conclusions) but rather the argument is about causality. Wicked
little argument that it is and if I had a nickel for every time I've
seen it waged here at the Cafe or elsewhere...and I don't
particularly want to wage it again because it tends to be a circular
argument.

I'll just state the case of Causality in the Quran. To me it is
perhaps one of if not the most important statements in the whole
Quran:

[25.45] Have you not considered (the work of) your Lord, how He
extends the shade? And if He had pleased He would certainly have
made it stationary; then We have made the sun an indication of it -
from The Distinction

Two things.

1. We BELIEVE that the sun creates our shadow but the Quran refutes
that and states that it is only made to appear that way. Allah
actually created everything independent of everything else with
unique characteristics that are so fantastically arranged that they
APPEAR to have causes and outcomes that are intrinsically related.

But they aren't and the world is an illusion.

2. When Armstrong walked on the moon he found that distances and
surfaces could not be judged accurately by his senses. What
appeared to be close was in fact far away and what appeared to be
deep was in fact shallow.

The eyes do deceive us.



So. Which calendar is accurate?

Neither.


The Islamic calendar is dedicated to actions associated with worship
of Allah.

The solar calendar is dedicated to actions associated with the
material world.

It's all about measuring things accurately in the first place and to
be honest, I've never quite understood why it would be the case that
ancient people had to invent a calendar in the first place except
that they wanted to know about the future events so that they could
plan better. That is common to us all....ignorance about the morrow.

There is no one who knows about the future except the prophets or
who related it with any accuracy whatsoever. That isn't to say that
we always understood their prophecies but we do try.

The most important prophecy in my estimation is relating to the
prophets themselves and the people to whom they were sent. Back in
the day....prophets were sent to certain groups..usually villages
that were isolated from other places. We don't know about the other
places so much except what exists in the historical records and the
archeology. We only have these few handfuls of stories about
ancient people.

Okay..so cut to the chase.

Prophets were sent to clearly defined people...the people of Noah,
the people of Madyan, the people of Gomorrah, etc. Each group was
given a prophecy of destruction and ordered to mend their ways and
each of them (with one exception that I know of and that would be
the people of Jonah) were destroyed. One prophet for one group.
Other communities apparently were unaffected by those events.

Then you have the last prophet and messenger named Mohamed (SA). He
was sent to which group and with which prophecy?

It is something that concerns us all you know and even if people
don't believe in an End Times they usually know a person who does.

So...he was sent to the whole of mankind.

Al'ham'dulillah.

And so the question is...who will listen? I'd
say..personally...that the message is loud and clear. Not a person
on the planet hasn't heard that there is a very big religious
conundrum about.

The Catholic church is reconsidering celibacy....and rightly so.

Those are the signs that something bigger than anyone here is at
work and no one can stop the clock now. They can only try to hear
it ticking.

Ode to a Savage Nation
(For J)

Tables and more tables
and on them books,
the right books near
coffee, the right coffee.
Poses, the right poses
for people who hate
the measles vaccine
who hate injustice
by playing the right music
at the right time
for their customers
of thought, painstaking
work though it is.
This is E flat, G sharp
right near the Brie,
drink the water
of lillies mixed with
the books on the tables.

But we just hate the measles vaccine!
Bully. My precious bully.
Where are you today?
Ah. The church is coming
on strong today
we can go in and out,
we can see how much
the windows matter
but we hate this measles vaccine.
Our name is Jenny, all our names
are Jenny and our boys
play tag all alone.

There is something wrong
with everything, this poet
states we hate photos
of beards because
it is wrong to use photos
of beards when using
bombs on the muslims
but she still says: beards.
She thinks the beards are bad
and hence, prefers photos
of muslims dying without
their beards on, just as juicy.

We hate the measles vaccine
and our name is Jenny.
We at Jenny like to be Jenny,
we have all sorts of lazy cats
that wander around our stone
houses, figure out the prize.
This call was about shingles.
Should we send a letter home
to the parents and tell them
about the shingles? Should we?
Come on huh huh, should we, should we?
Send the letter home, tell me,
should we tell the parents
about the truth?
And our boys play tag
all alone but we just hate
the shingles and the measles vaccine.

Beard.
1A beard should only be as long
as the fist.
2A beard should not be left
to dangle on the chest
to resemble beards of old men.
3The beard distinguishes
boys from women.

Does she really agree
that beards are impolite?
Poets. Real good poets.
And just real good poems,
like us, not the same
thing as Jenny is used to
and calls herself herself.
Talks to herself all the time.
She must be tired, real tired
of all those books, she must
have conversations with cats,
conversations with lemons,
play hackysack when the bell rings
and the announcer says:

Play hacky sack now.

Cut the tall trees.
I keep hearing Jenny
in my head, keep telling her
it isn't about the vaccines
darling, it's not about
the bones either.
I've had about enough
of those miracle workers
in the alleys now. Had enough
of that poisonous tea.
It isn't about the beards Jenny.
It's a bit more than that.

About the Graveyard

The story of sin is written on the left hand. Sin is a great tale to tell if one has a proclivity for that sort of thing and a harrowing one if told by the victims. The greatest perpetrators tend to embellish their stories while the others simply tell it like it is. No falsification or intensification is necessary.

No telling what that makes the storyteller. A kind of accomplice perhaps or maybe it is the necessity of the social order and all of its requirements, the limitss of transparency that demand that there be writers in the world to tell the living about the dead.

She left them at about one in the afternoon in the middle of June. There was a note upon which was written "Don't worry, just left." And that is the last they saw of her. No one saw it coming except for her mother who always knew when those types of things were about to happen. An objective analysis of that would be that Mrs. Quaid had had something to do with the disappearance and she knew it. And Mrs. Quaid was careful about that when she finally reported it to the police two days later. She thought to herself, "What if she turns up dead? Will they interrogate me?"

The detective (in this case, one Madelaine Swan) would discover a great many things. Detective Swan had met the Quaid family once before when one of them had dialed the police during one of their outrageous scenes which were many but no one knew about any of the other scenes, there were no documentations or accounts except in the hearts of the Quaid family. The neighbors heard things but tended not to notice as all good neighbors do and anyway, no one seemed to be hurt after the noises died down. These things tend to happen nowadays.

There were stories alright. The Quaid family was normal in that respect or at least they thought they were happy in their own particular way. This is how they thought until they received the brutal little note from their middle child. It seemed to Mrs. Quaid that the darkness of it would never lift. One day she was a moderately happy, moderately successful working mother and the next, she was as dark as the skies on any page of a Russian novel, the type she used to read when she was just a girl.

Detective Swan wasn't really interested in the personal issues. She was kind but not the type of kind that needs to know about the sins involved. Superficial explanations were good enough for her and afterall, it isn't a crime to leave home at the age of nineteen. Mrs. Quaid envied the detective who must have been privy to some terribly useful data about the world, even though to her, the world was a small town with a population of only four thousand and ninety three.

Mrs. Quaid continued to suffer day after day under her own dark skies until finally she came to me and asked for a formal interview so that she could document the entire drama and make sure to herself that indeed it had happened the way she imagined it had. She requested that I keep it short and to the point but it has become difficult to tell the tale in straightforward terms. The convolution of it simply does not lend itself to the simplicity she hoped for.

The first thing she related to me was concerning a troubling phone call she had received moments before leaving her home on Garden Avenue to meet me for this interview. It appeared to be a normal solicitation from a man named "Dave". Dave was quite convincing until he said the word "corporation" and in that instant, Mrs. Quaid told him in no uncertain terms that she was looking for her daughter and that his phone call was unappreciated.

Mrs. Quaid was incredibly emphatic about including that detail in the interview. I asked her what it had to do with anything and she looked past me and out the window and said, "It all matters, every single detail. Please don't leave anything out."

She added that after she hung up on Dave, she went out into the back yard and heard a man calling out from one of houses on the hill, Tommy, Tommmy, Tommmmy.

"Perhaps you can make sense of it Ms. Rice." Her tone seemed almost desperate and I replied out of pity for her that I would do the best I could to help her find her daughter or at least, to understand it in some logical way.

"Logical? Logical! There is nothing logical about a daughter leaving home Ms. Rice. I assure you, nothing logical about abandoning safety."

She took off her sweater and picked up the cup of steaming coffee and sat down opposite me, a bit too close for comfort. I noticed a few scars on her wrist but before I could turn away she said, "Yes, I did that. I tried to kill myself in a Parisian hotel room many years ago. It's kind of funny you know. We were on vacation and the next day in one of the museums, we had to walk through an exhibit that was lit with black lights. The infection glowed and I showed it to the kids as if it would be an important lesson in the natural sciences."

I bent my head down a bit in order to conceal whatever look must have played across my face but it was of no use. She said it didn't hurt her feelings at all for me to react to such things. She knew by now that trying to show one's children matter of fact things like that isn't only unwise but completely out of whack.

"Why did you do it?" I felt emboldened by her candor and at that point my pencil was jotting down notes so quickly that they were difficult to read later. It didn't matter because this type of story doesn't come along everyday. People don't make up this stuff and it is quite easy to commit such things to one's memory. Perhaps as lessons or in fact, as parables.

"My husband wanted a divorce. I was completely unprepared for his announcement. Afterall, we were supposed to be on a family vacation. I took a few bottles of hard liquor out of the hotel minibar and locked myself into one of the bathrooms of the adjoining rooms. Inside there was a bottle of Nina Ricci and I smashed it and began drinking vodka and slicing. I tried very hard to succeed but I guess I'm just not the type to be successful at that sort of thing. Well, not then at least."

"What do you mean Mrs. Quaid? Did you try again?"

"Oh yes, but it was completely unpremeditated that time. I almost succeeded but was saved."

"Saved? By what exactly?"

"Well," she turned her face slightly away, "it's a very long story."

"But you said you wanted to tell me everything and that sounds like an important part Mrs. Quaid. I'm not being nosey you know. You want this don't you?"

"Well, yes. I do but I have told the story so many times to so many people that I hate to do it again. It is almost as if it didn't happen anymore. It is that far away. It's become mythological."

"To you at least. But maybe not your daughter."

"Hmm. Yes. It bothered her very much at the time and for many years after. She never even told me about it until she was almost thirteen. Apparently, I forgot to tell the children that their father had changed his mind and there would be no divorce. We went from France to New York and back and the whole time they were on pins and needles. I felt awful about that and I still do. To some extent anyway, as much as a person can regret such accidents."

She went on, "On our way back home from New York we passed through Paris once again. Our flight was delayed and they booked us into a horrible little suite outside of Paris. We made the best of it though, my husband and I. We were once again close and mindful of each other. We bought a bottle of white wine and then took a walk in a graveyard near our small hotel. We left the kids alone. She must have been horribly upset thinking that her parents were about to divorce and the three of them were left all alone in a place that was quite foreign to them."

"You seem to feel very guilty about that," I queried, not knowing really if she did. Something in her eyes however didn't match what she was saying.

"No. It isn't guilt Ms. Rice. Guilt isn't the word for it. The word for it might be prophecy."

"Prophecy?" I couldn't contain my curiosity. "Did you feel as though it was foreshadowing of some type?"

"Ah. So you know about my work Ms. Rice. I haven't written anything in years. I don't want to anymore, it is all too serious for mere poetry or story telling you know. For that matter, the word foreshadowing is a massive understatement for the real world and how it plays upon the mind of the writer, let alone the reader. It is a conspicuous crime if you ask me."

"What do you mean?" I felt a bit of guilt creeping into my voice.

"You know exactly what I mean. Please, don't feel bad about it. I've given you permission to talk about it, to write about it and to embellish it if you need to but I don't think you will. You are the first person and the last person I have ever told. I just do not want to take it with me into another graveyard you know."

Rain was beginning to fall against the window panes and Mrs. Quaid turned her head away slightly. I thought I saw a tear begin to course down her cheek but I couldn't be sure.

"Go on then."

"Well, I think she liked the matter of our divorce."

"What? You mean that? I can't imagine a child wanting something like that."

Mrs. Quaid tipped her head a bit and peered over her out of date glasses as if to say, quit bullshitting me sister. Just quit bullshitting me.

"Oh, I have proof. She was quite disappointed many a time when Ahmed and I would have a tiff. I'd threaten, he'd leave for a few hours and I'd exploit my children's sympathies in the worst ways. I didn't mean to but desperation is never easy to manage successfully. You try to play both parts but end up playing only one, no matter how hard you try Ms. Rice. No matter how hard you try you end up spinning a tenacious little web of deceit all around you and everything gets stuck in it. Just like this. There tends to be casualties. It can be quite unpredictable."

"May I say something Mrs. Quaid?"

"Certainly. I wish you would."

"Okay. You sound ambivalent to me. Very, very ambivalent."

"I guess I am. There's nothing wrong with being ambivalent if your heart is in the right place. I believe mine is. Or at least, I still want it to be."

"I get it. You mean..."

"No. Probably not. No one can know another Ms. Rice. Not at least in the way you are hoping. How can you know me if I don't even understand? Only Allah understands us Ms. Rice."

Bam. "Whoa. Are you muslim Mrs. Quaid?"

"Al'ham'dulliah. I am. We all are Ms. Rice."

I unconsciously began shaking my head. I didn't think it was noticeable but Mrs. Quaid took my hand and held it between her two. Her skin was rough and her nails were bitten right down to the quick. It was obvious she didn't care much about her looks anymore. I suddenly noticed that her sandals were quite worn out. I wondered how many miles she had walked in those shoes.

"Ten years Ms. Rice. I bought them for two dollars at a small store in my husband's village."

I tried to conceal my reaction once again but realized it was completely impossible. I felt as if I'd become her victim or a ghost as transparent as those in photographs.

"It's okay Ms. Rice. You are very young. You are also easy to read. Why do you think I chose you to write down this letter. You are an honest one."

"A letter? What do you mean, a letter? Who is it to?"

"It's to her Ms. Rice. It's to her."

The Quaid family moved out of town a week later. I don't know where they went. As far as I know, her daughter will never read this hard little tale but just as Mrs. Quaid was about to leave she said in a low voice, "We are all just waiting Ms. Rice. We all return someday. So will she. So will she and I know she'll be alright. A beggar told me so. I want people to know that, to remember it after I"m gone. It might be useful to some poor soul like me who is impatient. Or simply worn out from the length of the days and the trials."