Monology
Of sacred things and tidings
coming from spirits divine
I shall speak of festivities
Sun dance to beg for
our salvation from
the clutches of the white man
who came uninvited
to civilize us, oh, brothers
of the coyote and kin of the raven
their sacrilege such
substitute for our peace
fake brotherly love aiming
through their musket’s barrel
yes, children of the Mochicans
arise to the height of your souls
bury the white civilizers
in the graves they’ve dug for us
excerpt
opened the door to the boys’ bedroom and crept across the floor to Bobby’s bed. Laying a hand on his shoulder, she whispered, “Bobby, get up.”
The boy came to, not with a start as she had feared, but slowly and calmly. Rachael couldn’t see his face well, but she could sense his smile as he yawned and stretched like a kitten.
“Bobby,” she said more urgently, “you have to get up. Hurry now.”
He stopped stretching, and peered at her in the dim light. “Why? I don’t want to get up.”
“Shh, be quiet. You have to get up ’cause we’re leaving.”
She sensed his bewilderment, and noted the beginning of a whine in his voice. “But it’s still night time; it’s still dark. Where we goin’, Rachael?”
She bent close to his ear, and whispered, “We’re going home – to find Daddy.”
Bobby needed no more coaxing. He reached out for his truck where it had been pushed aside during the night, then got out of bed and stood on wobbly legs.
Rachael groped in the darkness for his clothes, then gently but forcibly pushed him out the door into the hallway. In the kitchen she helped him dress, grabbed her doll and the bag of food, and ushered Bobby into the small utility room where she rummaged around until she found both of his high boots from amongst the pile on the floor. Finding her own boots, she pulled them on, then helped Bobby into his coat and shoved a woolen cap on his head. Next, she shrugged into her coat, stuffed the oranges into the pockets, and pulled a toque over her tousled hair.
She glanced around quickly. They were ready to go. Wait, they needed mittens. A few precious moments were spent sorting out two pairs from the mitten pile. Then she opened the door and pushed Bobby out ahead of her. The stinging cold hit Rachael in the face and she saw Bobby cringe and hunch his shoulders. She really should button his jacket up higher but she couldn’t take a chance on him making a sound until they had made it around the house and away from the bedroom windows. Lifting a finger to her lips when he looked up at …
excerpt
“And what would you have done,” she asked, “if you had gone to my room and found an empty bed?”
Michael paused. He smiled to himself and said, “No matter. I’d have slept in it anyway.”
“Even if I wasn’t there?”
“Why not?”
“You’re teasing, Michael Carrick. Wouldn’t you come to find me?”
“How would I know where to look? I would never have guessed you were up here all alone on this dark hillside.”
“I told Mother Ross. She was listening for you. She knows your tread on the stairs.”
“Weren’t you afraid?”
“Oh no. Mother Ross knows all about us now.”
“No; I mean, weren’t you afraid coming up here alone?”
“What is there to be afraid of, Michael? I was born on this farm. I grew up in these hills. I know them as I know my own body. I know every stone, every boulder, every thorn bush and clump of whin.”
Caitlin’s arm came out from under the rug, and she raked the ashes with the blackened stick. “The whin bushes are getting more flowers,” she said. “In a couple of months the whole hillside will be blazing with them. Did you smell them in the air when you came up the loaney?”
“No. There aren’t enough yet to give out a smell.”
Caitlin tapped the glowing end of the stick on the hearth-stone and watched the fluster of sparks disappear. “They don’t smell like flowers even when there’s a lot of them,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever noticed that.”
Michael sat with his chin on her shoulder, his cheek pressed against hers. “What do they smell like?”
“They smell like bodies,” Caitlin replied. “They smell like love-making.”
Michael let his hands run down along the line of Caitlin’s arms and then held her round the waist. The rug rumpled up, baring her feet and her knees. He kissed her neck and her ear.
She twisted her body below the rug and kissed him on the lips.
“What were the things you had on your mind tonight?” Michael asked nervously as Caitlin turned her face back to the fire.
Her eyes stared at the yellow flames. “Padraig. You. My father. The future.”
“And the past?”
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203
Forlorn
Forlornness on the glassy face of the northern lake where the loon flaps its wings once, twice, thrice and flies toward the source of light; the skipping stone in the opposite fashion flies back to its source: the open hand of the boy. Flapping, skipping, the movement of air, ethereal like your body, my beloved, curves and caves I’ve caressed and enjoyed
— The gutters need to be cleaned before autumn. Are you listening to me?
Open palms bestowing love, small begonias, fern roots by the lake shore, sun rays ripple on the surface, waking the owl on the tall conifer, wisdom in creative motion
—Eating two servings of ice cream will make you fat
Your death echoes onto the shadow of the aspen outlined on the green forest floor, and all movement is momentarily suspended like my dream
— Stop spending your time with the computer. Do come here next to me
A bad omen becomes reality, and the loon turns back to the water, wings flap backward, and the skipping stone keeps skipping until it dives deep in its watery purpose, like my heart in the darkness of your absence
—You know, we could look for another set of furniture for the living room
Sound of Gas
That day we were all busy: the burial, the inheritance; however in
each home where one dies a suddenly grown child stands at the top
of the stairs and looks around awkwardly as if he has to restore
something; no one of course paid attention to him and only the strange
woman smiled at him as she placed the flowers inside the mysterious
shadow where perhaps we had forever remained and I remembered
the room with the echo of gas when they hurriedly brought me in
a child bloodied by the wheels of the car, the same woman had come in
almost unnoticed and then my eyes fell on the window where the curtains
were in attention as if they also had to endure this.
And here came female gypsies
wearing celebratory, colourful
dresses off which they had hung
colourful, big, shiny beads,
female gypsies with their red
dresses came and with their
yellow scarves, oh lustful eyes
oh, bosoms, oh lips! And they
came crowned with flowers,
tambourines and belts which
they play as they dance creating
circles and singing of May
and among them one appears
the special one, an eighteen year
old who swings and bends and
dances ready to fly in the air
a maniac’s dance from the queen
of dance with the lustful body
the young enticing gypsy
the girl the great enchantress.
Female gypsies came who
sing: here comes May and
the spring, here the summer
comes when the foreigner
wanting to return to his land
puts the saddle on his horse
the golden horseshoes with
the silver nails and you oh
cursed gypsies who don’t
have a motherland, no land
awaits for you, only this month
of May awaits for you, the
emperor May is calling you;
come gypsies from the West
and gypsies from the East
the month of May the festive
calls you to the three day
festival to the festival
of gypsy life. And from
the Kakava boiling legumes,
bitter, and harsh, and sickly
food, a little water from
the spring, bring some honey
and some milk, mix them with
water, and bring some old
Riddle
We have nothing left
only the passion of Eros
and vague names incised
on our sculptured gravestones
a lone ray over the futile void
that shines on your breast
momentary lightning
that attracts my glance
and you asked
is there any meaning to all this
as we grope in darkness
to discover it or is the loneliness
of our bodies our only refuge?
excerpt
“I’ll remember that.”
“Even if you or Talal need something, you call Bevan. If he calls and wants to
meet you, find the time for him, find anything he needs. Don’t hesitate to do
what is right.”
“Yes, my uncle. I won’t forget.”
The time comes for Ibrahim and the two guards to get to their gate for
departure. Ibrahim hugs and kisses his nephew.
“You have a safe and pleasant trip, my uncle. My kisses to Mara.”
“Thank you, my dear son. See you in Iraq, soon.”
Emily Roberts has been busy making arrangements for Matthew’s funeral scheduled
for Friday. She calls relatives, friends, Bevan Longhorn, of course, who
assures her he’ll be there not only for the funeral but because he also has something
to give her. She sends e-mails to a few people. She calls Cathy and asks for
her help in preparing food for people who might like to go to the house after the
service. Cathy knows what is necessary and gives Emily a list of what things need
to be prepared or ordered from a caterer.
Talal has stayed with her three nights in a row, keeping her company, and
sharing with her the pleasure of talk, of kiss and of a hug, which she needsmore
than anything else these days. They have been in bed next to one another for
three days and nights and haven’t made love yet. They talk a lot, the
conversation going several times to the underwater photography idea of hers,
and Talal reminds her all the time how pretty the water is in the Persian Gulf
and how many different species of marine life one can see there.
Tuesday morning and they are having breakfast, fruit, coffee, two and brown
bread with strawberry jam.
Talal sips his coffee and smiles at her.
“Feeling a bit better today, sweetheart?”
“I’m good, my sweet Talal,” she smiles a brilliant smile.
“Well, a few more days and everything will be behind us.”
She smiles at him again, leans forward and kisses his lips, while wondering at
the same time if everything really will be behind them soon. Are they going to
become a memory? What happens if he decides to go away to his country? What
is she going to do? Will he ask her to go with him?
As if reading her thoughts, Talal says, “Next year, early next year better yet,
we’ll take a short trip.What about that, my sweet Emily?”
“Where do you want to go, Talal?” Emily asks, anticipating his answer.
“How about if we go to my country for a couple of weeks.
excerpt
A shadow blotted the April sun for a moment, and Sister Margaret came
busting across the schoolyard.
“Stop that, Samuel,” she yelled. “Don’t you know better than to
pick on someone twice your size?”
Alexander made a face that looked appropriately put upon. My
heart was fluttering and jumping around like a shot squirrel inside me, and
the words came out in a silly rush.
“It’s not Sammy, Sister, it’s Alex, he beat up Skinhead and kicked
Samuel’s foot and Sammy didn’t even hit him.” I took a gulp of air. “Yet,”
I finished, hopeful that we might still get to see a pint-sized version of
Primo Carnera and the Brown Bomber re-enacted on almost holy ground.
Sister Margaret surveyed the schoolyard and when she saw all those
little heads nodding in agreement, she said, “Oh, Zander. Big Bully rides
again, eh? I heard about you, boy. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Alexander was pinned to the fence. He decided to roar.
“He’s the bully. He won’t fight fair.”
Sammy laughed. Pushed the leg a little higher.
“Apologize like a nice moron, Alex.” he said. “Tell Skinhead how
sorry you are.”
Alexander kicked hard, his face all twisted and then he glowered
at Sister Margaret and made a big mistake. A litany of obscene street talk
jumped out between loose lips. We all stood there with our mouths open.
Sammy, however, took Zander’s words as a personal insult. He dropped
the giant’s boot and stepped back, his legendary left arm coiled, his fist so
tight you could see the white knuckles under his dusky skin. When Sister
Margaret put her hand on Sammy’s shoulder he looked up at her with a
kind of confused puppy love.
“It’s not your fight, Samuel,” she said.
Sammy smiled and stepped aside. Alexander didn’t know what
was about to happen, so he indulged himself in some more bad language.
Something about how nuns have to have their tits cut off because Jesus is
too faggoty to marry a real broad. Sister got that look in her eyes. And she
was smiling her Railroad Avenue leather-jacketed smile. Then she slapped
the Giant. Not hard, just like a kind of introduction. He looked insulted,
like he was going to go home and tell his Mommy. Then he lunged at
her and she clipped him a good short right. It rocked him, no lie, but he
kept coming. He took a left hook on the ear and grabbed the rope of holy
Virtue
For those who’ll follow I took two bales
of shredded paper and covered their footprints;
the divided element of matter mattered too:
a husk, a kernel, a lump of dirt dry and soft like
our guilt that was too strong when the doorbell rang,
my dead cousin got up and went to let Him in,
the elated one, our wildest dream, the deathless
dreamer, our flesh avenger, the angel with a sword
in His right hand and with our future misery in His left
when He laughed uncontrollably: the Eraser of our fear,
of our fear littleness and humanness, our most profound
dignity our Übermensch.
I like those who love their virtue which is their
wish for self-destruction and the arrow of longing.
Manolis Aligizakis 