Coincidences So when evening came I thought that finally the end was here, I mean to say that since so many things occurred inside me, I didn’t need to choose until the hallway was filled with undefined misery and only the old servant woman passed mistrustfully like the blind who collect all the sounds or like the importance the sick child suddenly gives to dusk so that since that moment he won’t ever forget; then the harmonica stopped playing on the above floor mother got too old poor kneeling people found the door to another life but they remained outside like simple talk that has no wings to break our hearts or if they didn’t notice the blood as I was playing with my hat; it was only a simple coincidence like music in the beyond that seeks what poetry silences on earth.
ÜBERMENSCH’S HOPE With gifts from Mars, the Übermensch’s hope lights fires in our hearts till longing becomes flesh and the oak bends down before the mushroom and you, symbol of bravery, unerring shield of freedom, are degraded by the weak and crafty merchants like the worms that eat the fallen lion’s carcass. Gone is the beast with its proud talons that frightened earth and sky, gone are the walls painted by gunpowder and blood, but if these verses could survive and live as you have lived, they’d sing for you and shatter those who ravaged you.
On Saturday morning he talked to the pair about a trinket he’d admired. Would they pick it up while he wrote some postcards? Johnny retrieving the car, Ace stuffed the last of his money into the girl’s hand. It totalled a few thousand U.S. dollars. – Buy yourself something nice, girl. Midnight lifted her dress and inserted the roll into a place it was unlikely to be discovered. – I get you a special present, she said. Something to remember me. But Ace would never receive the gift — or so he believed as he stood on the balcony and watched the rental speed away. He hurriedly filled a suitcase and flagged the airport shuttle. The following year was a prosperous one for Courier North. Commodity prices had spiked and the mines were reopening. Neal broke his vow and married a Filipina half his age. He’d met Conchita at Sally’s and decided to keep her. Ace began feeling poorly just before freeze-up. Tests confirmed the doctor’s suspicions. Neal bought him out and hired a young pilot to handle the longer flights. Ace retired to his cabin on the banks of the river, passing the time feeding the deer and listening to the wolves howl. Sometimes his old friend would fly low, skimming the treetops, an aerial how-do. Nights he couldn’t sleep, Ace would sometimes upend the box of photos and spread them out on the table. It was while rummaging through his memories that Midnight’s last words came back to him: I get you a present to remember me. What could it have been? he wondered. But then the light began to fade, and it didn’t matter anymore.
II With a virgin crystal vision and a dream underarm lighting his thoughts nascent creativity of the poet throws his diaphanous sight to the four edges of the cosmos identifying his future in the brightest petals of the rose, and in the sweetest whisper of the trickling rivulet, the young poet observing a future. He stands eloquently unfettered by the banality of modern stupidity he stands and records the unspent grace and its splendid view being incarcerated by bigots. Events of the ancient night parade in front of his retina and are repeated with new intensity as the Gates of Heaven still divide troglodytes in clans and classes in powerful wealth and pious benevolence: concepts embedded deep in souls and in the stanzas of this hymn.
Plundering didn’t touch our made of sticks hut dark blue river that encircled us didn’t make a dent in the conflagration of the city we laid our limbs onto the covers of the sun cared by the sob of our hands born in idolatry and grace If we got whipped by the spring windstorm it was because the winters opened and shut around us like Symplegades our unspoken hour bloomed among the cypresses we gazed the trees that with no tie nor watch listened to the flow of their sap stretching their fingers with selfless supplication and when the gods arrived we welcomed them because we imagined people like them not being lucky to ponder on the uncounted discretion we didn’t think of death as our Fate we who have known our forgetfulness Now our silence a roof over the nakedness of time.
Twenty-first century last century of real-life twenty years with the internet the digital era reality is crashed the number 2 digital Earth is created with 5G technology we buy a lot using logarithms we buy our house for the second time (to be sure) as the mirrored existence is bargained and the human DNA is slowly transformed. The rubber band of the border stretches over the cosmos it turns into a cable of Hertzian wavelengths it becomes Bluetooth infinite signal among the innumerable cohabitants of the Universe who we shall meet perhaps their satellites speak among them and talk about us perhaps the advanced radars speak and search for the true second Earth. Perhaps perhaps perhaps it flows it flows nothing, but nothing flows. we hide in social media we hide in the QR code we become digital supermen we fall in love and talk to millions of friends with closed mouth one hand holds the spoon and stirs the earthly soup nothing, but nothing flows.
His voice was clear and stern. She knew that his argument was probably right, but the convenience of the ready-made food was hard to replace. They decided to follow the first vet’s advice: put their pet on a daily medication and pray for the best. They started Elvis on his daily regimen, just like himself being on a daily dose of pills since his heart attack almost twenty years earlier, when one of his coronaries was occluded. However, he was lucky it was only one coronary, and he’s still around to tell the story. The beautiful animal got used to his medication to the point that every time after lunch he would say “Elvis, time for your medication” The little dog stood ready to be picked up by mom, to be taken close to the kitchen counter close to dad who was holding the tube with the daily dose of medication in his fingers and when he touched the side of his pet’s mouth and said, “your mouth” Elvis half opened his mouth to take the little squirt of medication which was followed by his treat. Days went by, months, a year, and almost a second year. They realized that their decision not to put their pet on chemo was the best one. And their Elvis gave them many days of laughter, against all odds and the doctors’ prognostications. Until two weeks before the second anniversary of the prognosis, while petting him, he noticed the dog was tender on his right hind leg over the area of his surgery years ago. He mentioned it to his wife. Concern spread in her eyes. They promised to keep an eye on him. Two days went by. The situation worsened. They called the vet, who suggested that perhaps the cancer metastasized from his bladder to his bones, as it was statistically the case in most of these dogs. They searched online, and they froze when they realized cancer metastasizes to the animal’s pelvis 90 % of the time. His pelvis was his weak point. True enough, as the days passed, Elvis worsened. He couldn’t go up and down the stairs anymore. She carried him up and down and outside to pee, and to his plate to eat, until the last day when he didn’t touch his food and stayed on his blanket all day. They exchanged glances numerous times. It was time.
Brother Keallach was a good listener when Rordan needed to vent his frustration and Rordan definitely needed to talk now. “I just cannot understand why Father Finten has such a distrust of my interest in medicine. Well, perhaps I do know why. Father Gofraidh was the same. “I travelled for two years with a physician before coming to the monastery. In my travels, I met many good doctors who had studied with the Moors. But because those healers were not Christian, their works were forbidden. ‘What is not of God is of the devil,’ Father Gofraidh preached to his novices.” Rordan whipped at branches as the Brothers walked. “The Moors have a wonderful knowledge of medicine and mathematics and astronomy. But do not tell this to the Church Fathers. Only by chance was I able to learn the little I know about herbal medicines from an ancient Italian monk who had learned his craft from a healing woman in Italy. The healing woman was later condemned as a witch and put to death. Can you believe that? Put to death for helping people. Corn Mother knows more about herbs and medicines than anyone I have ever met in all my travels. And Finten does not want me to associate with her.” Rordan grew more agitated as he walked faster until Brother Keallach had to stop to catch his breath. Rordan stopped and turned to face his companion but continued speaking even as Keallach held his chest and breathed like a bellows. “Because of this mistrust, the knowledge we have is hidden away and forbidden. Did you know, Brother, the Church in Éirinn has more learning locked up in monasteries than anywhere else in Christendom yet illness is still regarded as being caused by sin? Even babies are only allowed healing by prayer. I believe in prayer, but this is cruelty. It’s ridiculous; bloody ridiculous.” Rordan picked up a small rock and threw it forcefully into a high arc. Then he continued striding. “An infected throat or a bad cough has to be treated with blessed candles and prayers to Saint Blaise. Saint Roch is invoked to cure the plague. Saint Nicaise does a poor job of protecting against smallpox, and kings are called upon to cure skin diseases with the Royal Touch, so commoners are seldom healed of shingles or leprosy.” Rordan stopped and sat on an ancient tree limb. His companion, thankful for the pause, plopped down beside him. “Despite all the knowledge available in our monasteries, monks are still forbidden to perform any kind of surgery. Cutting into the ‘temple of the Holy Spirit’ is a sin of murder. In the words of the late Father Gofraidh, ‘Surgery of any kind imperils the souls of both surgeon and patient.’ So barbers and charlatans cut people open for profit because real physicians are forbidden by Church hierarchy.” Rordan put his hands on his head, exhausted from his outburst.
Caitlin lifted her hand and stroked the back of Michael’s head. “Please don’t cry, my love,” she said. “Please don’t cry.” Michael raised his head. “I’m sorry, Caitlin. I’m truly, deeply sorry.” Caitlin smiled. “You big baby. I’ve never seen you in such a state.” She kissed his cheek and snuggled into his arms. Michael kissed her hair, her forehead, her cheek. Then he tenderly kissed her swollen mouth. “Are you cold?” he asked. He saw the long rip in the front of her dress and felt guilty. “Yes,” Caitlin replied. “I’m so cold my blood has frozen.” Michel gallantly took off his woollen jersey and gave it to Caitlin. “Pull that on,” he said. She did. “Oh, that feels so much better. Thank you, Michael. Here, let me drape this shawl over your shoulders. It’ll help keep you warm. Or a bit warmer.” “Why did you do it?” “Do what?” “Run away up here.” “I don’t know. It seemed appropriate. I needed to think.” “Did you see him?” Caitlin looked at Michael with a puzzled expression. “Did I see who?” “Jesus. On the cross. Out there over the sea.” Caitlin lowered her head again and pressed herself more tightly against Michael’s body. She paused thoughtfully. Her face was perturbed. “No,” she said at last. “Not Jesus on the cross.” “Did you see anything?” Caitlin’s fingers twisted Michael’s woollen jersey. “Oh Michael. I fell asleep for a while. I was exhausted. I had the most awful dream.” Michael held her with both arms. “Do you want to tell me about it?” “I don’t know if I could describe it as it was.” Caitlin was quiet a while. Then in an agitated voice she said, “I saw the sea, Michael: a stormy sea, with big waves breaking and the spray flying, the way I love to watch it in its winter rage. And then it was calm, as calm as a mill-pond, and dark, almost black, and thick like tar, as it is in that picture in the church. And the sky was dark. And everything, everywhere, was as still as midnight. It’s the way the world will look when it’s ended and we’ve all gone. “Then I saw something on the water, floating towards me, even though there was no movement of waves, no wind to drive it.
“From the standpoint of the police department,” Mr. Stout, “things are well in hand.” Spear waited for the crowd to settle down. “Now we come to the matter of the train derailment and fire a while back.” For the first time, Engine Fred thought, Spear seemed unsure of himself. “It has been suggested that hobos from the jungle interfered with the train and had help from someone in the neighborhood.” Whispers coursed through the room. Albert Swan cleared his throat. Clever of Torgerson, Spanger thought, to plant that notion with Spear and let his political enemy make it public. “I’ve heard the theory,” he said. “I know you investigated personally, Chief. What did you find out?” “The railroad’s investigator told me the accident was the fault of poor track maintenance. He said there was no evidence of sabotage. We’re waiting for his formal report, but that was his finding.” “And what do you think, Chief Spanger?” The question came from Stout. “I think that the head accident investigator for the Great Northern knows his job. There is no reason to doubt him. Besides, why would a hobo who depends on trains for his transportation want to wreck one? Doesn’t make sense.” “It might,” Stout said, leaning forward, “if the hobo and his accomplice wrecked the train so they could come to the rescue and be heroes.” He shifted his heft to the back of the chair. A buzz ran through the audience. So that was it, Sam Winter thought, the crackpot scheme to draw Poodie James into the mayor’s campaign against hobos was in the open without Torgerson’s having to spring it himself. He looked over at Clarkson. Engine Fred sat staring at the front of the room. Spanger’s voice took on an edge. “That is a serious charge of criminal activity, Mr. Stout. There is no evidence to support it, none whatever.” Stout shrugged and gave Spanger a faint smile.
Manolis Aligizakis 