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…
Proletariat Speaker He tried to speak; hesitated; He repeated the same words; he stopped. That was all, he said, and placed his hands on the table. His hand, steady and with a clear outline, like a big trowel. We could trust in the words he didn’t say and in his hands. The buzzing light descended outside the room.
Possessions A dove hides in the laurel branches the veiled sun regrets your use of his myth as you pile ephemeral victories, wounded songs peace colors the underbelly of the tank Light unbuttons her coat, smiles as the intravenous drips heartbeats hunted breaths inside your sickness gifting you with engraved axiom Of all you have amassed, none is yours Overhanging willow’s green whisper to the lake something is, then is not rose blooms summer in your eyes All ivory-lit verse succumbs to Light opening her fan as if to speak an unction before the last drip of syringe anoints you an inch of yawning column space writes on your skin of vanity Of all you have gathered, none is yours
Tyne held her breath, partly from anxiety, partly to avoid breathing in the stale, musty odour coupled with an even stronger smell of cigarette smoke than she had detected in the lobby. “Here it is,” Arthur said suddenly with a slight tug on her arm, “room 312.” He rapped lightly on the door and waited. When there was no response, he raised his hand and rapped louder and longer. They heard the creak of bed springs followed by a low groan. Arthur rapped again. A muffled voice from inside the room rasped, “Whatdaya want? Go away.” “Corky Conrad,” Arthur boomed, “is that you?” The answer was drowned out by several doors along the corridor opening simultaneously. Tyne swung around to see three grizzled heads peering out. A woman from the room across the hall pulled a threadbare dressing gown around her and whined, “Why don’t you shut up? It’s enough to wake the dead. Whatchadoin’ here, anyway? It’s the middle of the night, and you won’t get any response from old Corky for hours yet.” Arthur ignored her and banged on the door again. “Come on, Corky, open up. There’s someone here to see you.” From inside the room they heard a shuffling sound accompanied by angry muttering. “Can’t ya even wait till a man gets his pants on? All right, I’m comin’, I’m coming.” Tyne felt weak in the knees. She longed to lean against the wall for support, but one glance at the greasy, peeling paint changed her mind. She wanted to yell at Corky to hurry up; she could stand the suspense no longer. Finally, the door opened a crack, and Tyne saw an unshaven face with bloodshot eyes below rumpled graying hair. Corky Conrad had deteriorated even since she saw him in December. Holding tight to the door with one hand and the waist of his pants with the other, he glared at Arthur, then squinted hard at Tyne. “Wha … Tyne? What’re ya doing here?” Tyne started to answer but Arthur took her arm and propelled her through the door. “We’d like to come in if you don’t mind.”
…How can one sing Here, where our lives were eggshells under their boots with death so ever close and from a patch on the hole of your elbow with the name of the dead comrade like a fork piercing your tongue? It’s enough that we speak in a simple way as one is hungry in a simple way as one loves as we die in a simple way.
…Now I don’t know how to read further because they tied you in chains, cause they pierced you with the spear, cause one night in the forest they separated you from the woman who looked with her eyes fixated and didn’t know how to speak, cause they deprived you of light, the pelagos, the bread. How did we fall, comrade, in the trap of fear? It wasn’t in your fate, nor in mine these writings we never bought or sold such things who is he who orders and kills behind our backs? Let it be, don’t ask; three red horses on the threshing floor circle around human bones and have their eyes covered, let it be, don’t ask, wait; the blood, the blood will rise one morning like St George the horse rider to nail the dragon to the soil with his spear.
