Ready to Give Birth to Forgetfulness The zero exists and it doesn’t eternity is in its space distant root of the sea realities and reflections all the shed blood for sanctified or sinful dreams ecstasy of the flesh in the immensity of life thought that lifts and imprisons crowding of my mind sails, sphinxes and shipwrecks and Eros in absentia soul that flutters my cosmos is always in the cosmos from the foggy gleam of who I am passing memory joins me with the ready-to-die forgetfulness timid and at the same time a hero from the beginning to the end the attempt will be her unfamiliar hand in my hand when time unexpectedly enlivens youth music score that wished to love and guide me to the wind-whipped light will guide me to whom I was in the fleeting footmarks of an eternal Odyssey.
eight You laid the morning upon a wheat ear and the bird you kept for lunch the two interactions you have been hungry for eons and contemplate your up-coming demise
Relation She stood in the yard silently; she was still wearing black clothes. The trees vanish behind other trees. She tried to remember, to cross time, like back then when she looked in the mirror of the hairdresser. The opposite wall, with its hanging overcoats, was visible the back of the other chair and further inside, smooth, made of black marble, the huge hall with the naked, and with their uncombed hair, made-up old women sauntered dragging behind them long, bedsheets made of calico.
Chickadee The pitch chirp of the chickadee recites the verse I wrote for you last night, and your smile opened my heart, hourly unction of silence when the heartless Hades caressed your cheek, and another ulcer formed in my stomach —Do you want me to wear this green dress, or should I wear the black one? My breath turns sulfuric, a potion the angels refuse to take away from my mouth, a taste I must indulge in for the rest of my life without you, my love —Come and help me with the zipper; this dress is so tight. Dove tethered onto my heart paints the room white as if a melodious song has gone flat. Your revered image still keeps me company when the night clock counts my heartbeats, and my spoiled dream rekindles my hidden yearning —Don’t pull on the zipper so hard, you’ll break it. Come now, you’ve done this many times. The gaping mouth of the abyss shuts, and your honeyed mound stands opposite the murky swamp where I struggle not to leave my worthiness attached. —Now, isn’t it easy? Let’s go to the theatre tonight, don’t worry about the dog
Every couple of days Swanson visited Aunt Peggy’s. He and Bud held court at the kitchen table. They fell silent if any of us came too close. Most evenings Burt retreated to a spot on the river and helped Mark with his knots. A fear of cougars prevented me from joining them. One night Swanson and Bud asked to talk with us. They waited until our cousin was asleep. – We’re gonna hook up the receiver on Sunday, Bud said. – What of it? Burt said. We’ve got a TV back home. – We’ll need assistants. – Paying top dollar, Bud said. Up to it? – Why tell us? Burt sparred. We’re students. On vacation. –We’ve had dozens of applications, Swanson said.He removed his cowboy hat. There was a wart above one eye looked like a ladybug. – We don’t know nothing about receivers, I said. We don’t even know what one looks like. – You boys ever heard of the Sherpas? Swanson asked. They help climbers in the Himalayas. – Think it over, boys, Bud said. It’s a great opportunity. After Swanson had left, our aunt scouring dishes, Bud leaned into Burt and said, Jails are full of punks like you. He slid a fresh toothpick into his cheek, then quickly removed it again. – One night changes their whole outlook. Get my meaning? – I was 14. I didn’t. Burt wedged one of Bud’s toothpicks between his lips. – That the reason, Uncle Bud, you walk like a girl? Pork Chop Hill seemed considerably steeper standing in a pasture at its base than it did from downtown Coppermine. Its flanks were dressed in dense old growth, the highest point smothered in cloud. A hundred people must have turned up to see us off. A photographer from the Gazette snapped photos; the school band did its best. Flatulent cows grazed lazily amongst the muddy pickups. Swanson reiterated our tasks. He and Bud, carrying sensitive…
“Because you don’t want to face the consequences of not helping.” Shukshin glowered at the public official. “What do you mean?” Pyotr became agitated. “Are you threatening me? If this is a joke it’s gone too far!” “It’s no joke.” Pavel spoke again. “I need all of the documents: permits, propiska, passport, whatever is necessary, and I need them soon. As to why you should help me then I’m afraid it’s like Shukshin says. You don’t want others to know what we can tell them about you.” Pyotr froze to his chair. It was not a joke. To his surprise, Vera chimed in. They were all in it together. “You were seen…at the boathouse. You understand me?” He remained silent so she continued. “With the police chief’s wife—what’s her name, Tanya?—and we all know that the police chief would not like your activities with his wife, would he?” Pyotr was stunned. It was all collapsing in front of him—the careful secrecy, the hidden assignations. “We…simply meet to talk. There’s nothing harmful….” He stopped. Vera was shaking her head. “We have photos,” and she pointed to a large American-style camera on the bed. “We took photos of you and Tanya together. Believe me, you were not just talking.” “What! Devil take it! Give me those photos. You have no right…” He stood up, prepared to invoke some bureaucratic rule that would force them to comply—or what? Report them to the police? They sat politely while he worked through his tantrum, sputtered another oath or two and smacked the table with his fist. Finally he sat again and slumped in the chair. “May I pour you another drink?” Vera inquired with a sweet smile as if he were a friendly visiting uncle. “I think it would be best to find the passport first, don’t you? That way we can make the other documents match whatever the name on the passport.” “Yes, I suppose so,” Pyotr agreed at last. “I know of just such a widow who would probably give up a passport for a sum of money. I hope you people have some cash to pay her.” “We’ll find the money,” said Pavel. “You find the goods.” “And some cash for me, for my trouble in locating the passport,” the official continued. But Shukshin had only to glance at him quizzically and indicate the camera once more for Pyotr to understand that any cash benefit to him would not be forthcoming.
Joel was not a spiritual person. Never had been. For almost thirty years as a maritime engineer, Joel had spent most if not all of his time in his head. His brain had earned him some degree of respect in his profession and helped him to survive disaster after disaster on the bumpy journey of life. But at this very moment, sitting astride the orange horse on the crest of a hill, admiring the grazing mares and foals, Joel felt for a moment the power of his heart. It had been a long time since he had this kind of feeling, but Joel knew that he was feeling rather than thinking. He could feel his heart coming to life. With the exception of the sounds of nature, the silence was so powerful that the only way he could think to describe it was that it was very huge. Or so it seemed to Joel who had spent most of his mornings for the last thirty-two years nursing a hangover in one urban ghetto or another as horns blasted and fumes rose from the heart of the city outside his hotel room or apartment. Compared to the city this was looking like a pretty good way to start a day. Sure, it didn’t have a Starbucks. But you know what. This was better. And with this realization Joel made amental note to himself that yes, it surely was a wonderful day to be alive. It must have been an hour since he had let himself through the swinging ranch gate that led to the pasture of abundance. Abundant with the kind of grass that only a true son of the prairie could appreciate. Sure, it had been a lot of years since his childhood days on the ranch, but he still knew the value of good pasture when he saw it. And this pasture was very good, having a thick mat of hearty wild grasses standing a foot high in some places. This was the kind of grass that cattlemen yearned for, and if they got excited about the grass, you can only imagine the kind of impact it had on the livestock. Beyond the natural abundance of the grass, this pasture was special for another reason. Unlike the farmland on the plains below, these hills had never been cultivated to grow a single crop of grain. He was riding on the real thing.
Anton felt as if he was sitting on burning charcoals since he still didn’t know what to do with Dylan’s diary. Two days had passed since the killing of Father Thomas and things in the School had almost returned to normalcy except for the ones who knew certain things others didn’t know. Anton’s wonder was mostly based on his perception of what a Christian should be and how a Christian should behave and the church people who should always discern between good and evil and should always, as was expected of them, choose good, and follow good, and do good, which stood opposite what had transpired within the walls of the mausoleum. This was Anton’s most basic wonder why these atrocities and abuses had to occur in such a place and under the authority of the most powerful Christian entity of the country. Yet he also knew that people are always people and they always behave in such an unjustifiable way and a person with common sense feels so disappointed by such behavior. Anton had his supper with his parents. His dad, discerning certain emotional stress on his son during their supper and after he sat by the window he called him to come and sit close to him. “What is it that bothers you son?” “I’m puzzled. I don’t know what to do with the diary. The old man said I’d do what is best, but what’s that best?” Anton replied. His father looked at his son’s eyes, seeing the uncertainty that was surely obvious and since he wanted to calm him down, undoubtedly that was his concern at this moment, he said, “perhaps you could let it be and trust that your heart will give you guidance soon” to which Anton smiled, his father would always say something vague and philosophical which eventually, on second thought, would make sense. For this he didn’t ask anything else but he got up saying…
Heroism Without a Hero Therefore let us say goodbye, who knows? Generations will come to find me in the same position especially at night when I’m absent when everything is vague like a woman who aged from dress to dress or a grey street sign onto which the unsuspecting children lean, of course, I’ve also been a naïve idealist with no ticket or I’ve heard the creaking of a door and its real meaning like a the rain song that takes the side of the poor and every so often I lowered the light of the lamp so that I could gain another adventure like someone they sent away many a time until he becomes fully bloomed or I fell asleep in front of the wheels of a car or that I wouldn’t sing only at night when fame was asleep; I am completely dishonest like this world that it belongs to you only when you promise it to someone.
Vegetables I pointed out to the young man of the supermarket that the vegetables were wilted and he laughed at my face before he added two tomatoes on the display tray half rotten, repulsive tomatoes red like blood of the man shot by the policeman and I wondered how to fix all the anomalies of this world before I concluded the milk smelled almost rancid and saying to the clerk to feed the vegetables to his pigs I walked out of the door
Manolis Aligizakis 