The king passed and asked them “why you cry, you two slaves?” “For our precious son, the sun of every dawn we cry for our precious son who sold us for some coins who exchanged us for gold which you gave him oh king and he hasn’t come since then our only joy and resolve” and the king orders “bring the boy in front of me” “You’re the destruction’s son and the ruin of your parents and you’re riding a horse and you’re dressed in all fanfare tears you spread all over tears you never had,” “yes” he answers and the king writes an edict “noble son take this edict and go away become a lightning bolt and for ten days and ten nights don’t you ever dare stop
Like a Film My homeland is the flowing moment that always was and touched the farewell the passing of the flowing river and left fantastic years roles that are passed over under constellations kites of our origin innocence that travels in darkness. I was a path once a piece of infinity divided heart, a secret departure I smuggled away utopia searching for the forefather of a dream so, I could return the wild wind gleaming and flowing spring insubordinate poem deep footprint and as everything ages I shall move ahead irreversibly into the mined wave.
Snow He was the only one I had, although I couldn’t recognize him. He went away and came back. “Someday you’ll also return.” He said, “But no one will be here,” then he talked to me of his mother’s green dress, and he emphasized the word green as if he defended the whole world; other times, he kneeled and asked for the forgiveness of the centuries of grief and the women who later descended to do the laundry were forgotten in a great shine and as it started snowing, I opened the Gospel but it was snowing in it as well.
Diner Cook Eons behind the counter, the years he has spent in this diner, side of the highway where truckers stop to rest, to eat something fast, to relieve themselves and to resume their fast-trucking way towards their destination to earn their living just like the diner cook who stands behind the counter and cooks hamburgers, a matter of two minutes each side, which along with a handful of fried potatoes make up the regular meal, straight French cuisine, one might muse, food meant to be digested as the driver sits in his seat focusing on the next bend of the road, the faraway depot where he’ll get paid, he too has done as others did before him he too has lived the donkey’s life just as others did before him
…flowing in his veins. Marcus knew well he could graduate from this school tonight he could take his diploma tonight he could put the Kamloops Indian Residential School behind him and behind his sister by just learning how to kill. This was the lesson he had to learn tonight and the power of such a lesson kept him quiet in the closet just behind Sister Gladys’ desk. Suddenly footsteps were heard. A door opened and a man walked along the long hallway going towards the sleeping quarters of the girls. Marcus moved the closet door a bit open enough to discern Father Thomas going his regular direction. Marcus walked out of the closet and twelve steps further he hid behind the door leading upstairs to the rooms of the priests and nuns. Moments passed, moments that felt like eons when suddenly Marcus stopped even his heartbeats as he felt on his body the back of the door opening slowly. Two persons entered: a girl, his sister Deborah, held by the hand by Father Thomas who was right next to her. Marcus charged like a thunder and before the priest turned to look he had wielded the knife twice up and down striking the back of the priest in two places. The priest, struck by surprise, tried to turn and look who was doing the killing when he received two more strikes on his chest. With a loud cry Father Thomas stepped backwards and losing his balance he fell on his back and his head hit the wooden post of the stairs and with a noisy thud he collapsed on the floor. “Let’s go,” Marcus said to his sister and taking her by the hand the priest was holding a few seconds earlier he led her towards the main entrance door which they found locked. They ran to the basement and to the carpentry shop, Marcus climbed on a short ladder and opened one of the two windows. Deborah first then Marcus crawled out of the building and, running as fast as they could distanced themselves from the mausoleum.
We didn’t mention it to the adults because as soon as the kitchen window opened the cloud of smoke rose sideways and stayed over the hallway, high cloud, threatening, with a glass helmet with a hanging horse tail; a lone, aromatic cloud, beastly and fleshless, with no bones yet powerful. Thus, we were listening behind the doors up to midnight until a red, sparkling sleep took over us). Yes, the soldiers were singing, joking with the servant girls, sometimes they took off their boots and rubbed their thick toes with their hands, then they’d wipe the wine off their fleshy lips or they scratched between their hairy legs they’d grab the breasts of women accidentally and they sand again (we opened to them even in sleep), they sang with their faces covered in the dirty hair, maintaining the rhythm with their barefoot legs on the tiles or with their fingers on the water pitcher or the glass or the flat wood they used to mince meat on the table, in a low tone so they wouldn’t be heard by the officers inside; then their Adam’s apple went up and down like a knot of a thick rope pulled by two opponents, like the knot of a rope pulled from a deep water well, like a knot in your viscera.
Ivan Nikolaevich, the second rate agent. Still, she wanted the director to know that she had been correct in her suspicions. “Da, da, yes, of course,” nodded the functionary, pawing through his desk drawer searching for something. The man’s an idiot, she thought. This is the quality of worker who stands guard over the country! Saints preserve us, as my old grandmother used to say. Finally, the man produced another form, this one on blue paper. “In order to use the official phone line, you must fill in this form.” “Phone him now!” Natasha raised her voice in hopes that the supervisor would hear her and look out his door. “I’m not filling in one more form!” The man’s expression did not change but this time he abandoned the new form, picked up the receiver and asked her for the number. After some dialling, waiting and dialling again, he announced that he could not get through. He replaced the receiver quietly. “The supervisor will attend to your complaint tomorrow,” he told her. Natasha struggled to control her breathing. “Tomorrow WILL BE TOO LATE. She’s passing through the line now; I can see her from here.” Indeed, Lona had already slipped through the passport control while they had been on the phone. The young man’s face creased in a troubled frown. “Very well, comrade. I will take the name of the tourist and her flight number and pass it on to the customs officials myself.” Now we’re getting somewhere, Natasha thought. “I’ll go with you,” she said aloud. She took a certain perverse pleasure in being in on the moment of discovery. Of course the poor fool Chopyk would be angry with her… “I’m sorry, comrade, that will not be possible,” the guard replied. “It is not permitted to pass through that door into the airport again. You must leave by the fire exit.” He gestured at a door on the far side of the room. “It is a regulation. Thank you and good day.” Natasha drew herself up to her full five feet, four inches, cast one more withering glare at the man, and stalked toward the fire exit and out of the lives of the tour group from Canada. “Documents, please.” Jennifer watched as Lona, standing in front of her, tensed at the command. She could feel her own apprehensiveness growing as she waited, her toes behind the yellow line. This first barrier marked Passport Control was a preview to the inspection room.
First Kiss Under the scandalous moonlight her body shone like a naked statue of Aphrodite opulent whispers and awe overtook me for the first time that I glanced at the beauty of Earth so close so tragically naked that suddenly I smelled paradisiacal kisses
Bedridden, marshy colors words crawl like lizards amid papers and mouths — so much disgust for beauty that pooled in its watery shape and we constantly find an excuse not to leave anything behind. The company of naked, authentic things is so bad.
Nude Here in the untidiness of the room between the dusty books and the old people’s portraits between the yes and the no of so many shadows one band of motionless light here in this position where you undressed one night
Manolis Aligizakis 