Flowing Narratives It’s strange that still after so many things I listened to flowing narratives that the others don’t hear my eternity fights and dies broken chord shaking like flowers, the flowing thoughts, the impassable immortality I left all the doors open to the purifying wind so that I wouldn’t grow roots as I floated over the events. And now that we two are left I and you in the unsaid what else do you see besides the completion of Eros in the innermost depth of the emotions the foolishness of immortality? The road and the colony are one evergreen daydream eternal breath destiny of men in its exhale ovules of a new breath what do you see through the open window I don’t want to leave before the day’s end to the vague depth of the cove traces of dark memories stare deep in our eyes this is the time schemata of immenseness on the horizon then let me know what you see.
Polysynthesis Polysyllabic verse of white caps tree tops obey the wind abreast of the evening’s vesper just before bedtime in the peaceful wilderness of the painter’s mind that conceives war and peace mind that ascends to the abode of the Great Spirit monocotyledon no need for plural in the world of the creative Monad crafting colors and rocky bases short islandic footsteps of the Almighty who often laughs at the little and grand as they cling to their egomanias no need for liturgy bells chiming
Maureen and Ken Hall arrived at the Cresswell farm just before 6 o’clock. Tyne saw their older model Ford car enter the yard, heralded by Sparky’s excited announcement. Dropping her paring knife onto the counter where she had been preparing dinner, she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and raced from the house to meet them. Moe, scarcely waiting for Ken to stop the car, jumped out and sprinted up the path towards the house. She reached the house before Tyne had managed to clear the back steps. For a moment they clung together, then pulled away and regarded each other with wide smiles. “You look wonderful, Moe, you’re practically blooming ….” “Hey, kiddo, how’re you doing? You look ….” Both broke into laughter. Ken, coming up behind his wife with a grin, held out his hand to Tyne. “Good to see you, Tyne.” But Tyne ignored his outstretched hand, and grabbed the big man and hugged him, too. “No formalities, friend,” she said laughing. “Do you both realize that we haven’t seen each other since our wedding? Too long.” “Much too long,” Moe agreed as Tyne ushered her up the steps to the house. Ken excused himself and headed for the barn to find Morley. “Don’t fall in anything nasty,” Moe called after him, and he half turned and waved at her. In the kitchen Tyne continued with dinner preparations as Moe leaned on the counter and talked. How good to be together again. Three years sharing a room in the nurses’ residence at the Holy Cross Hospital, and another sixteen months in a small apartment, had cemented a relationship that had been an amiable one from the start.
Not many came to the funeral. Some said it was because of the time of the year—calving and all. Others recognized that it was because not many really knew Edward Hooper. He would have turned ninety later that summer and the reality was that there just weren’t that many ninety-year-olds around this country any more. It was almost as if he was the last man standing. Maybe he was, in this part of the country anyways. A few of the nieces and nephews from the city came for the funeral—not that the old man would have recognized any of them unless they had introduced themselves, and that certainly wasn’t happening that day. And there were a few Native American riders who had worked for him on and off over the years, especially in the early years when he had more cattle and actually needed cowboys for something other than just company. It was a small group of maybe a dozen or so who congregated on that lonesome knoll to pay their respects and say goodbye to Edward Hooper. And that is why Joel Hooper was making his way on horseback through the lush pasture this beautiful morning—to pay his respects to the man he knew as his father. Their lives together had been both brief and hard. Especially hard. It was difficult for Joel to even see the man as his dad. As Joel rode along the ridges to the corner of the pasture where the family graveyard stood, he knew that he was just as much going there to pay his respects out of his concern as he was for what others would say if he didn’t. The way word traveled in the hills, sooner or later someone would hear that he hadn’t visited his father’s grave. Then what would they think of him? And who were they anyways? Eventually, Joel arrived at the family plot—a small knoll set back in the hills sheltered on the backside by the even higher hills and with an open view to the vast valley floor far below. After dismounting the orange gelding and being unable to find a place to tie the horse, Joel realized that he could simply drop the reins;
“It’s true.” Francisco explained that she had fallen ill while visiting her family in the north. She paid no attention to her illness, and by the time she returned and went to the hospital, it was too late. Ken tore out of the shack and ran to the hospital, Francisco following. If he talked to the doctor, surely he would confirm that Miloo was alive. Someone had made a terrible mistake. The doctor explained that Miloo’s appendix had burst and she had died of acute peritonitis. At that moment, Ken’s world ended. He staggered to his feet and opened the door to the corridor. Francisco was waiting for him. He took a few stumbling steps and a nurse rushed up to him. “You bastard,” she hissed. “You killed her.” Francisco grabbed Ken’s arm and began to push past her. “What do you mean?” Ken asked. “She was pregnant!” Ken’s legs wobbled. He turned, braced himself against the wall and groped his way back to the doctor’s office. “She was pregnant?” he asked. “Yes, she was,” he said. “But in the very early stages of pregnancy.” “How early?” “Perhaps a month.” “Was this the cause of her death?” “Absolutely not.” “How can I be sure of that?” “You can consult any doctor you wish and he will tell you that. Her pregnancy just happened to coincide with this.” The days and nights blended into one another. Ken wouldn’t talk and he couldn’t eat or sit still. He could not bear to be inside his own body – a body with an enormous empty, echoing cavern where a heart used to be. He walked, pacing endlessly up and down the beach, on the village streets, and on the sidewalks of Lisbon. The emptiness of his body lay on him like a massive stone. He could not swallow past the obstruction in his throat. It blocked the emptiness where there used to be a stomach, lungs, kidneys – there was nothing left inside him and since he felt nothing, he thought about ending his own life. One minute he was numb and then a wrenching sadness swept over him, threatening to drown him in its endless ocean. A minute later white-hot
anger engulfed him and flared into a murderous rage. When the stone moved from his throat long enough to let air through, he talked to Francisco but even that led to despair. He knew that nothing Francisco could say could ever bring her back.
Manolis Aligizakis 