The UN Sounds Blue

There are jackels out there in the fields,

guarding a hundred ghosts;

dead Roman soldiers

disintegrating near Saladdin's castle.

-a bat skirts through the early morning air

swallowing and swallowing-

The UN makes another patrol

down the thorny roads of South Lebanon

the sun will climb over the horizon

one more time

to make a small history

as if Christ walked here

sweeping for land mines

in the frost cracked hills.

The jackal out back is innocent if we let her be

leave her to her pups.

Their cry sounds like a herd of goats,

or a hundred frogs;

or dying birds;

a plague of locusts.

We could catch one and give it a name

create a race of stray dogs

sought after by collectors of uncommon things.

-but a god damned hunter shoots her anyway-

As bats witness to Rome and Geneva,

the weary eyes of the UN

hide in jeeps and tanks;

big white tanks

their blue flag courses in the wind

flappity flap flap flap,

it sounds blue, like blue flappity flap

in the cold southern wind

full of jackal. 

Written by a Retired RN who became a landlord

On Valentine's Day we readied to sleep

when I heard the first call at 2200

I looked at you,  you already asleep

but listening as you do and said,

"Who would call at this hour unless there was a fire?"

In a fire prone town this is how you think.

I tucked myself in and began the trip to morning.

The second call at 2220 went to voicemail

which politely dictates messages for me, does yours?

It was Ken, he said "Meg, I think your building is on fire,

I think you better head up there."

Long story short, we were up on the hill

just minutes after my second pant leg slid up,

and I always worked best on graveyards.

The man next to us had escaped the blaze.

It was glorious in its own way, out of control

as the BFD performed what is termed: surround and drown.

Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease.

He told us in low whispers that he and his wife 

had lost everything in a California burn a few years back,

lightning does strike twice, just not in the same location.

Nothing is left now. Just a bunch of walls like brothers

broken in a war, scorched and scarred and somehow, sacred.

The whole town grieved. We raged and bargained, 

denial of a fire is impossible, denial of our

animosity towards it however isn't, so we toiled

in a state of bitterness until slowly

but surely, we accepted. We graduated from

the Kübler-Ross academy of hard knocks.

We accepted all the feelings we'd hurt and been hurt by.

We accepted the inconveniences, we learned how to get on.

Until my tenant got cancer. Not another one.

It's a God-damned avalanche. Colons and lungs,

brains and skin, breasts and babies, one after another.

I went in to see him, to check on the overdue rent

that I already knew wouldn't be coming

but I wanted to put eyes on the scene

to gather evidence, we all need evidence

and his wife had been crying, he started crying.

There's just no way, we're tapped out

he said, out of pocket expenses already

have a choke hold, "we'll get it to you as soon as we can."

I said to them, "Isn't it weird how the fire missed us like that?

Only to start over here six months later?"

She looked at him, he looked at her,

as if to say, 'how did she know we were just saying that?'

His wife the real life retired homicide detective

who solved a cold case that made it to 

National TV and who told me

when I asked her "what's it like...murder stuff?"

She said "it's the cruel things people do to other people"

...that's what got her out of the profession.

Same here I thought, same here.

Dear Whoever You Are, Once again, I fell to sleep, eventually. The amount of pain I felt was beyond my tolerance for accepting it as 'just pain' and rather, I believed it to be mental illness. Things will never end will they? But you knew this, know this. I wonder who is the teacher? Is it you or the devil? In the morning I wake to realization, that kind of nausea that everyone knows. It will be there for some hours. It is that pattern that I've learned to live with, not an old friend but a regular visitor. A mailman or garbage collector. It is almost a hobby but like stamps, filled with a certain amount of dread, a certain amount of fascination. The sadness that started in the heart and went into the tummy, ends up in the hands. Circles back into the heart and runs the circuit until it has divested of the pertinent electrons responsible for the distribution of grief. Grief? The losses endured. The losses of things no longer even there to remember let alone to grieve. Ancestors. They are there but no longer have names. Whoever you are, my question is this: have you felt your skin on inside out yet?

As if an open book revealed an open heart. I don't like to read books anymore.

Sobbing I dreamt of Gaza last night. I'd been there before, many times. We were visiting a relative in Borj al Borajne, the sign for Gaza in the world of sleep. It was a symptomatic rendition of a proto-typical slum in the Arab world, places you never see unless you have chosen that path. There were orphans there in a room where a dozen or so Arabs were sitting and one orphan in particular who was being bullied by everyone. The orphan had very tiny eyes that never opened. I went to the orphan and picked her up. Her tiny eyes opened as I cradled her well. There was so much love and longing between us. I then had to leave with the group that had accompanied me to the slum. I somehow got separated although as I passed the correct path, the one that went down a hill..I instead went up the hill all alone. I took a wheelbarrow from a worker at the fork in the road in order to carry something. At the top of the hill it became clear I was in the nice part of Gaza, the universal slum. The buildings changed..I noticed terrace gardens where someone had capped their potted plants with old plastic bottles to create terrariums. I was getting more and more nervous, the buldings were getting more opulent and modern. I was in trouble, getting further and further away from my group. I entered a salon and asked to use a lady's cell phone and she agreed but said she had to do some things first. I knew if I called Mel he'd come and get me and the number I can never remember while awake became quite clear. The woman however was deliberately avoiding me to prevent me from leaving her salon, that world of beauty in which she performed an endless number of tasks to put me off. I finally decided to ask one of the customers and went from face to face, person to person and crying. No, because in my dreams I do not cry. I sob tremendously hard. It was one of these dreams that are so common with me now as if to populate every single dream I have anymore. They all end up in desperation until I fully acknowledge that I have the power to end the nonsense. I choose to wake up. I sense an enormous sense of relief knowing that incontinence missed my house once more time.

We were more patches than pants even our cats had holes in them from the BB guns and abcesses which regenerated themselves using tongues as sharp as the underside of wild berry leaves, all of life was an abrasive yet it kept us from going soft on the outskirts. Back then with our brother's jeans rolled up to our knees we stood and waited for the socks to be darned, we stood and waited for the time to pass, we stood and we waited and we stood and our shadows left traces

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Delusion Talking to my children this morning, the children that have seen three invasions, three escapes, three traumas.....well none of that can compare to this in Gaza. No but when it comes to tasting that bitter boneless cake we know exactly about the texture and flavor. Even Israel knows it well and have it as a creed: Never Again. The one thing I hear often on the few newscasts that I pay attention to, so accustomed I've become to this ongoing problem that appears to descend from the battles of brutal Assyrian kings...I notice when they ask, "who is going to rule Gaza after this is over?" I don't bother answering because afterall, it's a script and a TV screen. I have spent way too much time shouting at those actors who go home to their lakeside properties in windy cities with mass transit, arriving home to martinis and fettucine. Who are they to ask questions when it is the case that they work in front of butcher shops for the butcher selling knives? Why are they even asking? Do they expect a response or are they scheduled to give one? It is no secret, I have the answer. Are they trying to pry it out of me? They know I know the answer, they stare at me all day feigning ignorance. Memory. Memory is going to rule Gaza. It always has.

Ode To Rocks

In pockets and gardens, under
our beds for miners carry
a fair share in long gray
pails with jugs of soup
near shanks and flesh
with crusts plus those
stored in the chests.
The spare parts of the world
cast about pose a craving
as deep as the ocean is long
as the rivers are wide. A record
of perennial harvests hauled
up from stopes through gob-shite
on ladders of iron out the Judeah

the William Jennings Bryan, Red Jacket,

Cole and Cambell

the Eagle Eye Nagasaki to the north

Beloved fountains of slag
pour into banks of remains
where genuflection pays
paper for gold and time with loss.
Poor men fair well in shifts,
forever on the way in or out
with dirt clinging, dirt in love
with the heroic skin, part
ancient shroud part, let me in.

 Time stood still 

The devil had Frankie on a string

Prancing and grinning in the light

of the flames.

Epiphany of Ending

-“No one can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and mammon [money, possessions, fame, status, or whatever is valued more than the Lord]." - some guy called Matthew

No longer time for real brain 

each touch and switch the antenae twitch

peculiar sound fed into the hand-held

of a dear Pavlov fact-checked inkblot.

I could not put my finger on the special

tinnitus, between gunshot and door slam

used for both hunting and for gathering

yet I heard it, there it was and determined

in true lie-detector fashion,

         the hulking cabal

of our five literal senses produced

yet a sixth, the one I had hoped for

and knew existed:  Eureka!

En la frontera and re-membering

the fundamental block-chain

of the ages Stone to Iron to Data,

how many arthropods it takes

to get to the center of the helix

in state-of-the-art Osterizers

-this last purification hurt

but I've said that before.

Audience of One

I am asked sometimes, "do you still write poetry?" Sure, when there's a poem to be written. Most of the time, there's something to "be done" and if it's the laundry, then I do the laundry. If it's yard work, I pull some weeds. I am fortunate to have a husband that understands the artist in me and he encourages me to do whatever I see fit. We had a conversation not too long ago....we've been married now for 43 years give or take and he's never been under the illusion that I'd be some kind of straight up wife type (but if you hum a few bars I'll fake it). I said to him that sometimes I wish I was like real artists and poets and had dedicated more energy to publishing (photos, poems, etcetera) and I realized (total epiphany, the kind that you always said but didn't really believe but then you say, wow That! yes!) ...that being a mom, a wife, a cook and "chief bottle washer" was just as important and allowed just as much creativity to flow as anything else. Of course, like all art it can also be done poorly and without craft or enthusiasm.

I read this morning somewhere or someplace (on the interWEBS haha) that someone local said a poem doesn't exist until it is published or read out loud which could be said about anything that one wants to share....like a lovely cauliflower stew or a collection of lovely, well-tended pieces of pottery (made by someone else...and I finally purchased and constructed a console table to show off my collection, took me four effing hours to put that thing together). You do want someone to taste and feel the pleasure of the meal, to enjoy the cleanly swept front porch, pee in the shining porcelain receptacle of the Gods. I do not believe that another person is very much interested in how that toilet ended up so miraculous or how the poem was constructed line by line in order to insure that the reader stumbles over the words

"I am

-pretty too"

in order that they should be led, misled and then led back into the thought process with special trickery. And sure, I can give you a recipe for cauliflower stew but I cannot teach you to how to cook anymore than I can know if you like cauliflower. In other words: my standards and preferences as any kind of producer of any kind of work are what matters. It's all that should matter to anyone who is serious about any thing.

I take great issue with the type of self-absorbed mummery involved with a statement like, "oh until it is published it doesn't exist". I sense that the person who said it was trying to say "something important" because, well. People expect poets to have some sort of special power to issue decrees and such.

I decree: when I eat my cauliflower stew, I'm much more interested in how that stew makes ME feel inside, how important that hint of seven spice really is to ME ME ME. I'll sit there the next day with a bowl of leftovers and just languish in the glory of my creation..... albeit if someone else likes it, that's good too. Same for poetry. Any artist who truly understands their own production knows this and by knowing it, has conquered the biggest critic of all: themself. Mean Joe Green a former mentor that I used to interact with quite extensively taught me this, the idea of a poet's "audience of one". He also coined the phrase, "Look, a war all about her." (after the incursion in 2006). It was perhaps the best gift I ever received from him and sadly, continue to receive it now as Gaza is being leveled. The sad gift that keeps on giving.

This little ditty was written in 2006, on 16th Terrace/Center and won a little prize and honorable mention in a group that no longer exists called the Interboard Poetry Contest. Back when message boards and in particular, poetry critique circles performed surgical interventions on poems for other poets and probably destroyed some seriously pristine and honest work. It is one of the last times I ever bothered to submit a poem (save for.a stint of sending things off for $5-10 entry fees and receiving in return, rejection after rejection and saying to myself, if I want to give away five bucks, I'll send it to a Monrovian scammer instead...at least someone might eat 2 oz of macaroni instead of 1). That summer I read the poem "To Beirut" at Central School. I dressed in BHS school colors and had pom-poms (I dreamt of being a cheerleader way back in high school)...the poem features the Fight Song Onward Bisbee Onward Bisbee yadayadayada which, I actually sang to the audience.

Yeah, I still write a poem here and there but more importantly, I am happiest when I make something magic out of nothing. Like a kid with a magic wand, no one else has to believe in magic or for that matter, like cauliflower for me to know that as a human being, the Creator thought pretty highly of us humans, perhaps thought more of us than we even think of ourselves. We were created with free will and the ability to use our intellect in ways that dumbfound the rest of us and even, ourselves. We are given hearts and eyes and ears and taste buds if we only knew how astounding that when the Creator created us, the Creator said:

..even better than the angels.

Sure wish some folks would wake up to that human responsibility right now.

The Song of Bob

-MSwaid

(for Fred Tarr and the Radio Room)

The love affair with stangers began

with morning glories between us, Bob

went to work at the prison at 6:30

as the birds performed their last songs.

He quieted Sarge, Berry and Coco with biscuits

before he left with his radio

on, yet they started barking before

he reached the first stop sign.

I want to be his wife forever they thought,

I thought and we kept barking,

as we chased his car for all time in our minds.

Bob talks to his ex 1500 minutes a month,

he doesn't seem to mind the cost of his past tense.

Why didn't you just stay married? I am

pretty too behind this fence made of chain-mail.

Twenty-one years is all he says

from the screened-in back porch where he keeps

his old partners, ex-police dogs, his detritus.

It is as if 21 years is the official

Americana. There must be one

hundred morning glories from me

to Bob, outflanking the trees

choking them slowly. Bob wants me

to be his wife forever, waiting in my war

torn house next door so he can get home

from prison to say goodnight and wake up

again to say good morning all over.

I am the last sweetheart in town.

We Had No Shadows

-Happy people in a happy world.  Wallace Stevens, Auroras of Autumn

In the beginning we put the sun

up 

in the corner and the grass

a green line across 

the bottom of the page

and a house. The house had

a window, a door

neither could be opened.

There would be a flower

or two or three or four

until we tired of the trying

after the yellow one broke.

Everything was there,

everything that mattered:

beauty, rest, warmth, food, safety

perhaps a God that showed

the 19 fingers outstretched 

and at times

there would be a bird

an M hanging 

a whole big flock of Ms

and at times the rain

shot-fell like sticks

through the air

impaling the hard won star

which wasn't a star

which wasn't the sun

however convinced we were.

 The age at which suddenly becomes suddenly

the light changes and they, the siblings, 

the parents turn to ash and ghost, 

their mementos carry pieces 

forward to balance helix

 on fingertip

scenes 

and clips

meant 

to exist 

only

for 

a 

while 

in

last

little 

drips.

The Creator

When the matter of free

will is abolished,

when all are dead,

evolving into stone

and then, iron,

Will we then understand

even the most finite

change in the wind

was perceived?

Will we then know our own superiority

as living things in a world of stimuli

daylight, moonlight, oven light?

We will understand at last,

the minutiae

of making bread, the notion of the yeast

reproduced and extinguished.

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 The Lease

The pentinents seemed to rush toward the aisle.  Father Pepe was at the head of the church waiting to delicately lay the wafers on their tongues, tongues too mean to be forgiven.  The insurance agent must have been in the line and when I met him downstairs in the rectory, he anxiously told me his lease with us was still in force for three more years.  He left the rectory without bothering to greet any of the other parishioners as he likely knew little about them, the insured who probably paid premium after premium. Hopeful to never have to claim on anything. Insurance is a nasty business and agents either go fishing alot or wear dull dark suits and pop up at church rectories univited.  His rather demure looking wife who looked to be over 70 must have sat quietly in the car waiting for him to run in and lie about the lease to the woman who sublet the space from him.  She came to me a few minutes later saying that I told him that she had to pay him now...a full year after having purchased the building. 

I wondered how many minutes from the church to the lie?  I hope to meet him again. Very much so now. Just hope it isn't his funeral because I'll have nothing to say.

 The Silent Night

Was there once upon a time

when angels were created

before man, before djinn

and then tested? Was there

once upon a time

when they thought

they had it licked

all their batting averages

1.000 to the 10th power?

Allah created Gibreel

before the rest of us,

all the angels, all the djinn

to serve as witness:

time and time again

sworn to secrecy

honest to a fault

willing to take a newborn's

soul from his love lorn mother

if told to do so.

Gibreel did it,

never gave an inch

nor flinched nor balked.

It was necessary

because later on

when Gibreel had to talk

to a virgin and convince her,

Gibreel had to come with some

sort of proof that he wasn't 

just some Adonis or other

bon vivant. To prove

that the very long line

of heredity was about to change

and change for good.

Gibreel has been through the all of it

the thick of it, the ups and downs 

of it. Gibreel wept at long absences

between round trips

saying to the prophets

each and every one of them:

"I missed you so much friend."

But, once upon a time

there was nothing but angels

and stars and night and angels

would not know a lie

because lies did not exist.

26.3.06

Bound to Happen

I thought I was just pretending
all along, saying well, that's
bound to happen and it does and I say
well, that's bound to happen.
We all know that when we leave
the room, the room disappears.
We've known it since we were born
and sometimes we talk about it
with strangers knowing full well
that once they leave
all secrets follow
into the ether or the dark,
same thing and who can tell
time as it passes
when you are asleep,
the clocks looking you over?
It is a strange statistic
and one I am fond of until
it comes to the war zones. concentration camps.

 The Ris(i)k of Grief

Forgive me for seven minutes

of your time, repentance for the hours

leading up to the manifestation

composed as it were of signs

each one in a sequence as if

a spiral began where it ended

instead of toward the center

from which it formed, or 

did it begin before 

it was named and it was numbered.

The Higgs Boson 

This is no ordinary fatique,

looking through the posts 

about Fenton glass, microwave cookware

and sheets through a storm

of boxes and happy birthdays.

 At the same time they were 

carrying your father

from the house to the cemetery

 you scalded yourself with a cup of boiling coffee.

 I'd been warning you of such a mess

for a long time but you insist

on refusing condolences,

 treasuring your sweet secret another day.

As you open the cash drawer/

over and over tomorrow and the next

day and the next, please

think of the pain on your knee.

 Think of the time laspe world

in which we live, in which

fathers and sons try their best

to run the experiment backwards.

 I think a new widow reminds me

of a bride, I think your father

scolded you at a distance 

last night as you screamed out.

 Life is this super collider

and as they lifted his coffin

a bit too quickly, the atoms

and molecules rearranged your DNA.

Sayuri's Joke 

 In fact there are ten 

thunderwords in the honey 

stomach of the bee, fifty million 

partisan donors a day regurgitate 

each to each a brilliant-bronze 

breast milk to cure the cud. 

The baby tells me they make it from scratch.

Sayuri's Joke In fact there are ten thunderwords in the honey stomach of the bee, fifty million partisan donors a day regurgitate each to each a brilliant bronze breast milk to cure the cud. The baby tells me they make it from scratch.

I must accept the permanence of confusion,
the intractable weapons of chaos
or rather, it is the case that death
is the goal, the long lasting aloneness
that I crave, the only respite from years
of service to the systems,
the good mornings, the how do you dos
all of that professional courtesy
and whitewash burying the past
in vacant memories.

I want to tell you dear that I am in a permanent state of confusion now.  It is accompanied by frequent episodes of nausea.  The criticisms are so perpetual that they have become not only a way of life but an expectation of same.  I have nothing to be ungrateful for and this compounds a kind of sadness in which the futility of happiness is coupled with the never ending thoughts of losing each and every thing.  One at a time.  Like teeth. 

The numbness.  Oh the numbness is there.  Somatic or otherwise, it is similar to being a two legged dog or even more crippled than that. 

You never really admitted to anything.  In fact you have formulated a brilliant scheme to force me into the trap of agreement and complicity.  I know how you do it.  That's the worst part maybe, I know exactly how you do it.  Inescapable if you ask me and lord knows, I have tried.  Tried to kick sand in your eyes and then felt the sorrow of cruelty.  Perhaps you know what that is by now but when we played the game with a child, I knew for certain you had no desire that compels the rest of us to lighten up.  He sat there blinking.  Just blinking and wanting to run away.  I know that feeling. How I know that feeling.

I love you still for whatever it is worth.  If I wasn't aware of certain facts, I'd not bother to stick around to make sure that you understood that but as it stands I do.  We have a name for this in my line of work and it's called 'seriousness of threat.

So is this the slow way?  I hope not and it is that small glimmer of hope that I must hang on to.  We all do.   All of us that struggle to wake up each day and march a little further.  I just feel I am marching in a thick and bottomless pit full of decades worth of mudslides. 

*adapted from a conversation with Darla Whitehead..years ago.  She was coupled with an ornery example for sure.  I only met him once and that was perfectly enough.

Psalm 2023

I imagine there is

no laughing left

in Turkiye, maybe

a little smile on

the outskirsts of

Byzantium, remember

the Bosphorus got the blues

as it split Asia from Europe

yet I imagine there is

no laughing left

in Turkiye, maybe

in Beirut tonight

the assassin holds

his cell and calls

his handler once more

and dupes a grin

yet I imagine there is

no laughing left

in Turkiye, maybe

the elephants in Ceylon

believe the end is near

and stare blankly

towards Java and Haiti,

Chile, Hawaii, Alaska

The. Great. Rift. Valley.

yet I imagine there is

no laughing left

in Turkiye, maybe

the souls of New Madrid

are restless and recall

months on end when

the earth smiled

ear to ear

again and again and again.

Yet I imagine there is

no laughing left

in Turkiye, thy rod

and thy staff and thou

shall not want.

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5Bisbee Bodega, Raghida Khouri and 3 others

The Mourning

Up there they talk about you

late into the night, ghost

talk but it is good

to be known

by one's brothers' names

even if death has wrapped

its arms around again

the all-of-it and small-of-it

the petrified rock-of-it

the once was a tree-of-it

the hemorrhage of birth

now in a box, the weight

of a small child held.

I'm so sorry, so sorry

to the ash-bones

as if they can hear

a finely working heart

when it says remember

all that stuff

that we thought mattered?

It doesn't.

Periscope

The day cannot see

what the night reveals:

if only, if only, if only

said the dreamer

to the dream.

I used to live

there in the woods

with them,

there on the lake,

on the beach,

I used to own

at least a part of it.

Now I know

which part

it was,

the part

that was not.

The Crazymaker 

 Afterall the fatique despues 

the visions blended from 

a myriad of testaments 

and still after that 

but in the before 

where a silent witness 

that is me and not me 

because you said so, 

I look entirely different 

frowning and sluggish 

more barren than Zahkariah's woman 

perched near a stove 

and her dirty floors, 

no one knows this pain 

quite like I do. Not a soul 

but the before me knows 

anything at all has happened 

between the many days 

that measure the building 

of the pyramid 

where entombed is my heart 

still beating 

down there in the dark 

but just barely.

People ask for prayers all the time and I am not sure what it is they are asking for, prayers or prayers. Kneeling or standing, to ward off evil or speed it up and pass it by. One is in surgery the other is a child with an agressive form of November on Otis road out by the cranes. Cranes never die or if they do their bodies are strung so far and wide we don't see them. As it is in life when we don't look too close to notice or hear the leaves rustling one by one but instead, in a group yet they all go in one direction. Prayers up! they say and I wonder where is the up they mention, the proximal or distal? Do they still want to stop it and why don't they know what it is that they want? Otis stayed alone for four days without water or food looking toward the door, waiting for Claire to come back in. We all wait for that and fear the exception while existing in an exception, the one leaf that occasionally breaks free, walks out that door and does not return. Pray for the door to open or close? The light is on at the neighbor's house where she is getting ready to go but much slower than anticipated. He is up there hiding his daughter and wife because he bludgeoned too many of us on the way up his lonely hill. He never asks for prayers, some never do. It is too late to pray they think, easier to install a grab bar and night light. The Parable of the Tardigrade All the moments fit together like a jigsaw puzzle and there is no use wondering if the detective understands this or not as long as he knows where the edges are, the straight ones. The ones that line up and constrain the rest of it when in reality the big picture is fractal and this the prophets knew as well as Borges. The kind detective practices feng shui and asks for dates and times, when was the last time you saw the victim, talked to the victim...as if people keep notes up on their fridge that say, you saved my leg thank you very much like I do. All these puzzles are set upon table after table extending as far as the eye can see but the detective is on his own surface as well as am I. Once the wind blows it tears down the tin roofs out in the valley, rips then to shreds and scatters them upon the desert floor and we all start over to reassemble, to gather our things into some kind of order. But nay! I swear by the sunset redness,and this too: And when the heaven is rent asunder, and then becomes red like red hide, I dropped the ball. It was too hot to hold much longer than a did. A bolt of lightning can only be held for so long. Nothing more than a stray laser in the cosmos on a journey with the rest of them, walking like ants in self similar lines into self similar tunnels. The ants and Otis know the killers and accept the killing but for some reason, we humans don't get it. Yet. We will one day but for now we toil over the puzzles, ask questions and form conclusions. The KP index was high that day and there will be a time in the future when we'll know when to warn again. As did the aboriginals. For now though, we are just getting this machine up and running with low level contraptions that used to bring water to the surface for cows. Not much progress but when you realize the thing is already running, it isn't about starting or stopping it, not at all. It lingers in the mean, the mode and the meridian at midnight.

One needs to start somewhere. It has to have a beginning. Like Adam and then Eve, a clear concise beginning. Things however, have many beginnings, they do not comply to the standards of a prototype as old as mankind itself. I think, "Otis was alone for four days in an efficiency apartment." That's a good place and I say to the couple across from me in Ray's living room, "I buried him up there on High Lonesome." They said their old dog was on the shelf in their living room, most likely in their manufactured home on some property and in the middle of nowhere. It begins there too. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I caught a snippet from them of their blind son, like getting a whole cold from a little breath from a stranger on a train. On the way home, driving past High Lonesome, I have a feeling that...no...not a feeling. It's more than a feeling because those are subjective. It's a fact and now I know it, it is considered knowledge. The fact is (and when people say that, it is considered knowledge and aspires to become common knowledge)..the fact is, people want you to know what is going on. They start to allude to a bit of this and a bit of that. They hope you will catch on and offer them a bit of your energy to something they have obviously worked quite hard on. Hard work to understand it, to accept it, to share it, whatever. It is an offering, it is an act of special charity going both ways. They don't always flag it like you would in a study guide but the way they interject it almost too casually in even smaller talk, they absolutely want you to know: our son is blind. There's a reason for that. It all boils down to ashes to ashes, dust to dust. It's on their mind. Constantly. As Otis is, on my mind. That's his real name but the other names now, will all be false. They don't matter in the simulation. They just don't. He's the pin on the board, he is the road out west near High Lonesome. He's the bones in my garage that I found outside that one's final place of rest. All very good coordinates on the map. I counted the miles from the shallow grave on the odometer, six. I still remember, it was six miles not counting the short distance to the highway. I'm sure all murderers (for lack of a better word here) do the same thing when concealing their crimes. They mark and measure, they often return and they take mementos. Let's restart it there. Mementos. I saw mementos in Paris. We'd been held up there overnight because of a delayed flight between Paris and DC. I was still drinking then or rather, I restarted to drink after a week of being dry. I'd cut my wrists in Paris and they glowed in the dark at the Smithsonian under the black lights there and several days after the stone-cold adventure at the Muséum National d'histoire naturelle where we took a picture of a skeleton belonging to Siamese Twins who were joined at the heart, where we all are joined but are seldom as acutely aware of it as I was then. We take mementos, we mark our stories and sometimes we say, "This is it, everything goes on from there." But it doesn't really except in rare cases like Adam and Eve and that is because a story, an important story must start somewhere. We as a species, a whole group of related things that share proteins comprised of code made out of 21 amino acids are so specific as to type as to have our own "species", our species has such a regard for death that even our murderers need to retain a memento of the death and it occurred to me while in a state of shock over Otis' solitude for those four days, that perhaps the death sequence creates a heightened state of awareness in the continuously breathing souls that remain behind, that the killers get a high off of the event. It's unfortunate that they don't know the real path to the sensation of grief, the one you wait for, knowing one day it will be yours and they'd be better off waiting their turn. Grief is miraculous. Truly miraculous. And it isn't always because there is a death. It could be the anticipated loss of a leg the day before the surgeon starts his saw. The remaining leg even. No legs left to walk on. A Cat Stevens song goes that way, thanks for making me blind so better to ignore you with my dear, says the Big Bad Wolf that consumes the little girls, talk about dark. Let me start somewhere else if it makes it easier. The detectives ask certain questions. You should be ready for that. These are like people who drop casual information about blind sons but before the son went blind. They are like soothsayers and know the son will go blind. But they want to know how. I asked her, the relatives of Otis, "How did he lose his sight?". The professional in me doesn't say, "How did he go blind?" Because he didn't go blind, he didn't go anywhere. He lost something but maybe gained something else. The detective will always ask, "When was the last time you saw such and such or so and so?" It is unnerving. Such a simple thing but it is truly unnerving. You wrack your mind to come up with a reasonable answer because you saw her handwriting the day before yesterday. You saw it right there where you pinned up the card. Or you talked to her last April or May and avoided talking to her because it would have been too long of a conversation. In this case, you knew if she was dead, there'd be no point in calling but if she wasn't, it would be a long ordeal and late in the night, you had to choose otherwise. I did and I said so. Honesty is always important but never more so in a death investigation which is where we are now on the map. Next to High Lonesome where his bones were retreived many years ago and above the fridge door where the last bit of Clair's DNA might lurk, I'm not good at names but Clair is a nice one and her real name was nice. An old name, one that I like alot because I've known some with that name. Not that their name made them nice but their name gave off a nice aroma like certain flowers do, a powerful one that cannot be mistaken for anything but that kind of flower. This is a Clair, this is a Henry. That one over there is a Mister Ham. Mister Hams are great because they live next door to everyone. Clair lived next door and underneath two other apartments, beside a tennis court and next to a place where my own child lived for a short bit of time. She lived close to where she was found. I studied her pretty well. I study them all pretty well. You have to. They want you to. It makes it easier than having to drop all those hints and answer long questions when they are feeling poor. I learned how to skip over and return to things like a detective. That's how I know how they think. Detection is human nature but most of us ignore it because when we detect, we must do more work to investigate and that is time consuming. Below most of our payscales.

Bona Adnuntiatio By the time you realize it is too early it is too late, the weather is getting cold already, the predictions are neither clear nor correct. The prophet did not mention the procedure to follow for ants yet, with flies it is permissible to scoop and continue to consume. This medium was never mentioned, the recipe for one thing is edited and secrets are lost in the stroke of things called keys so become myths and then, legends. An old poet is found wandering in the parking lot and found the next day buried in snow five years before when passers-by who enforce the laws saw beacons of his light, it is true yet if none of this makes sense it doesn't have to, the 'is it' and 'what is it' question pervails. To exist at once in matrixes is an acceptable plural form, but you can use matrices if you want to show off your knowledge of Latin noun endings it says so right there in revelations. In that moment she stopped a rapist from raping at least for a while but the memory belongs to them, a sad little couple in time is a fact that stuns her to this day, the day a man over there felt ill and died before the shock was delivered inside the maze all the hearts broke, they broke at once like thunder and then lightning, yes like thunder and then, lightning and I know each of them as We awaken, without knowing their names, the day opens with a gasp, a swoon, an Oh-No.

Bona Adnuntiatio By the time you realize it is too early it is too late, the weather is getting cold already, the predictions are neither clear nor corect. The prophet did not mention the procedure to follow for ants yet, with flies it is permissible to scoop and continue to consume. This medium was never mentioned, the recipe for one thing is edited and secrets are lost in the stroke of things called keys so become myths and then, legends. An old poet is found wandering in the parking lot and found the next day buried in snow five years before when passers-by who enforce the laws saw beacons of his light, it is true yet if none of this makes sense it doesn't have to, the 'is it' and 'what is it' question pervails. To exist at once in matrixes is an acceptable plural form, but you can use matrices if you want to show off your knowledge of Latin noun endings it says so right there in revelations. In that moment she stopped a rapist from raping at least for a while but the memory belongs to them, a sad little couple in time is a fact that stuns her to this day, the day a man over there felt ill and died before the shock was delivered inside the maze all the hearts broke, they broke at once like thunder and then lightning, yes like thunder and then, lightning and I know each of them as they awaken, without knowing their names, the day opens with a gasp, a swoon, an Oh No.

You hope to blame it on the barking dog, not the one you saw in the afterboon gnawing a bone or sleeping even though it was in the same location from where the miserable 3 am sound comes. No, not that dog. There are exactly as many Alis as there are dogs and times of the day in this particular village. Not a town which is another class of things with specific characteristics like running water, stop signs and its own school bus. Yes, Jesus did walk here and it ought to come to mind at least once or twice a day but it doesn't, not to anyoneAs lost as everyone is in their current troubles be it an overturned car on the way or lack of an egg, each particular hardship a little worse or a little better, each one marking a path to a greater apathy. This Ali always sits in the last chair near the edge of the balcony and never looks directly at anyone or anything else. His cigarette is always nearly finished,smoked clear down to the tiups of his finger. Not a single one ever needs be stubbed. He leans outward as if made that way in his mother's womb, anxious to travel but not the sort one does for petty enjoyment. His own mother prays for his departure and you hope to blame this sleeplessness on the barking dog whose image doubles and triples through a cone-shaped prism the kind a child struggles to reach and buried in a box of other useless but interesting things yet forgets as soon as they get it, forgetting the struggle almost at once in the mystery of weath