The Inexpressible The city was all lit under its evening sky; two fiery red stars were inexplicably flickering up high. Windows, the bridge, the roads, taxis, the buses. “I also had a bicycle,” he said. “I could dream,” he said. In the room, the woman looked elsewhere, didn’t say Anything; her dress was ripped on the right side; if you lifted it slightly, her leaning shoulder would show. As far as the others, they are not mentioned, he said, you hide them like broken glasses. When the garbage collector comes, you take them down alone with a guilty eagerness, early in the morning, the beautiful glasses wrapped in old newspapers and carefully not to hit the railings of the stairs, since they still echo with a deep, piercing sound, that unbroken sound tuned to the sound of the windows, the air, the walls. Then the blind musician, tired, goes back up. He puts his violin case on the chair. He opens it; two of the three glasses are in it. They are shining and whole.
Goalpost He heard the bells tolling and the vibrations of the bronze that pierced the clear Sunday morning air he wondered why the tolling will be followed by hymns, joy and songs or machine guns will echo horribly spreading destruction all over? I’m only saying this: we’ll all run to the goalposts, boys to the goalposts in vigil sleepless guards always ready glancing here and there be prepared that the goals won’t start like rain and we’ll be defeated
Che Fece … Il Gran Rifiuto To some people, the day comes when they have to say the great Yes or the great No. It is almost instantly clear who has the Yes ready inside him, and by saying it he lives up to his honour and his conviction. The one who refuses has no regret. If he were asked again, he would say the same No. And yet that same No, the right No, burdens him for the rest of his life.
Wooden Soldiers Wooden soldiers of the enemy stood motionless on our borders rifles not sanded and bayonets dull while a full moon split the land in light and shadow lots we stayed on guard we kept aiming what else can one do with bullets missiles except count fallen rose petals and missed kisses other than take a picture of the orange monarch as it defines the perimeter of dreams and the center of love?
This was bound to be about the Poodie James story. Sonny’s face was reddening. That meant they had a problem, but Sonny ran the newsroom. She would not jump in. She reached for the pile of budget sheets on her desk and got back to work, envying the editor and reporter wrestling with a story. My god, would the price of newsprint ever stabilize? She sank into the pages of figures, enjoying the whir and the rhythm as she cranked the handle of the adding machine. “Got a minute?” Winifred looked up at Sonny standing in her doorway, with Pease a step behind him. “Ned has something you ought to know about.” She pushed the budget aside. “Well, Ned,” she said after she had heard Pease’s story, “nice work, I must say. Poor George Pearson, carrying that around all these years. But we can’t go with it. Sonny is right, it’s hearsay. The hobo, Clarkson, thinks he saw Torgerson that night. You say Clarkson told you Torgerson denied it. This certainly could explain the mayor’s hatred of Poodie James, but we need the other man to confirm Pearson’s story. Even then, Torgerson may not confess. Have you gone back to Pearson to try to get the name?” “Yes. He’s terrified,” Pease said. He won’t tell me any more. I think he has visions of prison. He probably doesn’t know the statute of limitations on assault.“ “More likely he has visions of his reputation and his business going to hell,” Sonny said. “And he has a point.” “I don’t know any other way to find out who was with Torgerson and Pearson that night,” Pease said. Winifred straightened up and fixed her gaze on the middle distance. “I think I might,” she said after a few seconds. She pulled a scrap of paper from a desk drawer, reached for the telephone, propped the handset on her shoulder, started dialing and shooed the men out of her office. They watched from Sonny’s desk. After she hung up, she waved them back in. “Ned,” she said, “you’re about to meet your first madam.” She gave him a look of appraisal. “I hope she’s your first.”
SLENDER BIRCH TREES Dawn passes through the forest and stirs the slender silvery birch trees and the seven-layered sun rays play with the maples while green-gold leaves bathe by the spring. Among the branches black birds and thrushes hurl their sweet songs through the light and air while, you would think, the fir trees must forget their sadness when they see the sunlit lake. Oh, dawn, is it you I feel in my viscera as if your fresh leaves sprouted in my chest or, you, beautiful eyes, that have hidden inside you all my joy which you spend here? And if it’s you, smile at me, smile and my flute will spread your freshened joy onto the dawn, and if for it you cut wild roses so unevenly lean down before me, sweet, and gild the space around.
“Have you heard anything?” Eteo asked him “No, nothing so far,” Richard admitted. “When did you call last?” “Yesterday afternoon. I guess they must still be working on it.” “I wouldn’t assume that. I don’t like this at all. Why don’t you take a quick flight down there and check things out for yourself?” “Go to Texas?” Richard’s voice sounded alarmed. “Why not? It’s your money they’re spending.” There was an uncomfortable silence at the other end of the line before Richard said, hesitantly, “I’m actually not that fond of airplanes and flying.” “Okay, send one of your directors.” “There must be another way,” Richard replied. “Let me call the finder, the man who brought me this deal. I’ll talk to him.” “All right, but let me know what you find out. Who is it anyway? Do I know him?” “It’s Walter Cooper.” “I know Walter. I could talk to him. Yes, it might be better that way. Leave it to me. I’ll call him and get back to you,” Eteo said and put the phone down. He noticed he was breathing fast. It upset him. Then he saw the big trades of Platinum stock, big chunks all bought by Nomura. He smiled and relaxed. The market looked clean even beyond the three-dollar mark. He had hit a good one, he knew, and if Mario’s Nostra is agreed on by this group, he had better keep as much stock as he could for his accounts and give lots of it to his key people, the ones who did most of his business. Eteo had a large number of accounts, but only about fifteen percent of them traded often. Those were the clients he needed to reward when a good issue came along. Mario’s Nostra Ventures was beginning to look like it could be one of them. Eteo started making a list of where the big chunks of Nostra shares should go, starting with Yannis, Angelo, Spiro and his brother Michael, Herbert, and then Eteo’s personal accounts, Ariana’s, Logan’s, and Mitch’s. George and Peter, whom Eteo had used as directors of his shell companies a couple of times, should also be there…
III Oh, Goddess, mother of all art grace this troglodyte with a path unspoiled by envy never ploughed by jealousy, since you can only purge him of ego you who are consumed in fire yet like the invincible phoenix you spring out from the ashes new, you reemerge with golden wings with sharpened talons. Come and grant this poor troglodyte with the laughter of the perches and sea anemones; come fill his deck with the scent of the bitter orange flowers dancing in his nostrils, with basil, oregano, parsley, mint, and sorrel with falling leaves and sunlit mornings grant him the purpose of enjoying the bursting thirteen-year-old breast which dances in midair like an aura and defines unfurled wonders and dreams.
A widower, Dwayne Levine was the recipient of a disabled worker’s pension. Those who had observed him flinging heavy engine parts around his yard or stumbling home from the Kingsway Pub most nights viewed with suspicion his claim of an irreparable lower disc. Few car club members knew—as my pal O’Donnell did, living across the alley from Ed’s garage—that Mr. Levine routinely took the Dodge out after midnight. He also disappeared with it on those occasions when a member was ill and the car at rest. He was something of a philanthropist with the housewives, Mr. Levine was, often loitering in the Shop Eazy parking lot offering free deliveries. – Boys everywhere love two things, Dwayne Levine philosophized: girls and cars. His sobs had been reduced to a snivel with a second complimentary wedge of pie. – If we had what these young fellas have today, he said, the war never would have happened! Back on patrol, Mahoney aired another possibility. – I say the club’s a front for some kind of gangland activity. Maybe one of us should go undercover. Whaddya think? – Spit it all out, Mahoney! barked the senior policeman. The Huns are scaling the walls! – One of us — me, I guess — could pose as a potential buyer. I could ask to see the vehicle up close. Maybe get inside the garage without a search warrant. The sergeant feared for the future knowing the likes of Mahoney represented the next generation of law enforcement, although he agreed the need for a search warrant was the most damaging invention since the right to silence. – People in this part of town, McManus reminded his young partner, distrust strangers with crewcuts and the physique of a footballer. Besides, he added, perhaps you hadn’t noticed? The Dodge isn’t for sale! McManus allowed himself a moment to despair. – An Indian shaman said the Creator gave us two eyes, two ears and one mouth, Mahoney. He reminds you of this so that you might observe and listen twice as much as you talk.
Both Edges At both edges of the emotion. I love you as much as I hate you. My beloved, hated love! We don’t meet anymore. We walk on parallel paths going opposite directions. For a long time, we have passed the point where we met for the first time. We can only go around the globe once more, since life is round like the earth. Until then, each of us alone…
Manolis Aligizakis 