Eighteenth Hour I halt my straddle before yellow emotion opposite a well-preserved church echoing with blessings and phony wishes for everlasting peace and lifting the veil of opulent kisses blowing like dynamite Eros is transformed to stigma degraded by arrogance of critics stalled in error time literate fanatics the dream bled to phlegmatic negligence puffy cloud none looks at below masses graced by folly endless self-love in spite of solid advice from erudite Death who has seen the evidence yet the belligerent mind guides its faithful to the steps of immortality as all others just die pointless deaths observing an opera bufa as every breath drawn hangs like a half-open eyelid observing benevolent acts exulting bigotry promoting the sin-turned-blessing scaffold dropping noosed heretics through the hole like monotonous drips from the gutter after rain every virulent thought done up to splendorous diction and meditating olive branches ask ‘why?’ as the percuss of breaking spines spits emphatically: who cares?
When they immigrated to Canada, and settled in Toronto, they founded a tile company and then became real estate developers. Their flagship building was First Canadian Place, the tallest building in the Commonwealth. Ken talked about them and gnawed on the information he had like a dog on a marrow bone. “Forget about them and come into business with me,” Henri said. “Why try to sell paintings to people who don’t buy paintings?” Ken finally looked at the books, which revealed that the frame factory was struggling to stay alive. “You can buy half,” Henri offered. “Why would I buy half of a sinking ship?” Ken asked. But, he agreed to become a partner. Perhaps, it would be a good idea to be seen as a businessman instead of an artist. He might be viewed with more respect and given more credibility. He would buy his half with orders for frames. Henri agreed to build Ken a studio across the top of the factory. Within six months, Ken had paid off the fifteen thousand dollars he owed and moved into his new studio where he began work on two large Arctic paintings – one for First Canadian Place, measuring sixteen by sixteen feet, and one measuring slightly less, for the new international airport planned for Yellowknife. Marsha said, “You have no money and you’re going to create two giant paintings that no one wants to buy. It makes no sense!” It made sense to him, even though he had no explanation to give. He had learned to listen to his inner voice, and it was telling him to paint the canvases. Nobody’s doubts could stop him. He was going to show the world! The new studio was too small for the massive paintings and so were all the conventional canvases. He joined four lengthened panels with invisible seams by bevelling the wood, squeezing the stretchers together with clamps and creating knife-edges that melded together. Through painstaking experimentation with a torque wrench, Vise-Grips and a canvas stretcher he created a unique design that produced perfect tension on every square inch of canvas. When the tension was perfect, he hosed the canvas down to shrink it. One of his first canvases exploded, and one flew off spinning like a propeller, but he finally got it right and made a sixteen by sixteen and a twelve by fourteen foot canvas. He was still mystified by his inability to sell paintings of the Arctic. One day, while he was driving on Steeles Road near the Allen Expressway a question leapt into his mind. “If you were limited to one image – one object from all your experiences in the Arctic, and that was all you were allowed to portray, what would it be?” Inukshuk! Ken was stopped at a red light. The light turned green…
Brother Rordan looked around for Svend or Ul, whichever his name was. Determined he’d find him, he only wished to apologize for his earlier blunder and perhaps be his friend. Maybe Ul was being ‘used’ by the captain and felt ashamed of his position. The crew, apart from the captain, seemed to give him a wide berth. Perhaps already on board, the Irish thrall was nowhere to be found. When the feast wound down, the late summer sun had moved along the far horizon. Songs and games became more boisterous. The Norsemen wrestled, stripped to a narrow loincloth, their bodies glistening with lamb fat. Bjorn, strongest of them all, won every bout. Bjorn was aptly and fondly named the Blonde Bear for his massive bushy beard and hairy chest. No Norseman ever refused his challenge. Each preferred to be thrown by the mighty Bear than be seen as any less than a brave son of Odinn, god of war. Spectators circled the wrestlers, cheering on each challenger in his turn. Sometimes, Bjorn allowed a man to hold him for a while, but never long enough to claim a victory. As each challenger lay defeated, the great champion lifted him up with the love of a Nordic brother. In all his show of strength, Bjorn was almost gentle. When the wrestling was done, other games of skill took place. Some competed in feats of archery and knife throwing with targets set at greater and greater distances. Prizes of bone-handled knives and silver jewellery were awarded to winners in each category. Several men began a game with a leather ball. They used sticks to hit the ball and one another’s legs. Competition grew loud and fierce. The ball, the size of a man’s fist, flew hard and fast. At last, the casks of beer were drained. One by one, the players left the game to sit in small groups and talk about home and women and their dreams. Each man speculated on his share of the profits, when they’d sell their catch of sheep and slaves at the marketplace in Thulé. By the dying embers of the fire, the captain filled his men’s cups with sweet mead. He and his crew toasted further adventures and Valhöll, where all slain warriors would live for all time, happily feasting with Odinn. All grew serious for a while. Then Bjorn tossed the ball to Kyrri, the Quiet One. Kyrri tossed the ball to Captain Hjálmar. This was a different game, played with a twist of humour. While Bjorn and Kyrri covered their eyes, the other men began a song. “Treasure hidden in the night, so safely out of view, will not be gained without a fight. The search is up to you.” Hjálmar tiptoed off to hide the ball. Much to the amusement of the onlookers, he slipped it up the loudly snoring Finten’s tunic, then stood apart chuckling. On a signal from the singing crew, Bjorn and Kyrri began the search from man to man, accompanied by cheers and sighs of “koer, varmr, heitr, kaldr” and the Brothers joined in with their own shouts of “close, warm, hot, cold.” Finally, with whispered hints from various members, Bjorn snuck up on the apparently sleeping monk. But as Bjorn reached under the priest’s tunic in search of the hidden ball, Finten grabbed his wrist and bellowed, “Do you take me while I am sleeping? You are desperate, my poor fellow, but I have a vow, and my vow applies to women and to men. I cannot satisfy you asleep or awake. For shame.”
Hades Under the watchful eye of Hades I used my strong hand to spread the brown to the right and the bloody red to the left hills and paths that led downward to the sea where sweat and salt mixed. Then for a moment I stopped to listen to the owl’s call requiem for my dead comrades hour of wisdom incarnated lines of people I pulled from the earth’s bottom chthonian climax unorthodox couplings the expert analyser that I was and I counted the fingers and phalli of men eloquent contours of women sea caves where future generations were destined to dwell labyrinthine quotations asymmetrical widths elliptical lengths of shadows during the saddened August I searched the fiery seashores for naked bodies peacefully lying on the sand
THE TEN-YEAR-OLD boy launched himself from the high diving board in a perfect cannonball and exploded the water a foot from his giggling friend. Marcie Welch blew her whistle, summoned the pair to her lifeguard stand and banished them from the pool for two days. “Aw, Marcie,” the human cannonball wailed, “we were just havin’ fun.” “You can come back on Friday, but if you have fun that way again, you’ll be out of here for a week. Go on home.” As the hot afternoon wound out and suppertime approached, Marcie gave three long blasts on her whistle and swung down from the lifeguard stand. Children climbed out of the pool and gathered up their towels. She walked to the low end, where Poodie was shepherding a handful of his charges to the ladder at the edge. When the last of them scampered toward the dressing rooms, she bent to offer him a hand. He took it, grinning, and pulled her off balance. “Oh, Poodie, you……” Marcie rolled into the water, came up laughing, and met a spray from the push of Poodie’s palm. She seized his hand, then his head, and dunked him. He swam away, turned and surfaced behind her. She felt his arms around her waist and the power of his thighs against hers. A trembling warmth infused her. She waited a few seconds to push away in confusion and giddiness. His trickster’s grin modified into the gentleness of a smile,
Orion Your sin will always be more than enough in the silent hospitality of earth your evil thought will always harm your eyes that you carry in your two hands like broken street lamps yet you’ll follow the path of the sun guided by the hammering of water that builds houses and laboratories of gods in the sea floor you’ll follow the path of the sun accepting the advice of children who direct flocks of shadows and thunderbolts that you’ll have as a roommate the fairy dressed in the morning shyness that you’ll reign over the fruitful earldom of October hunted hunter with the insubordinate belt brother of my fear and my lust and blood brother
Cop In his new ironed, creased uniform epaulets, golden diagonal band proud like a young four-legged donkey having a loaded gun in a holster, sealed deadly provocation to the new cop’s mind, bobby, pig, words used to describe a cop as he imagines being in action when the thief is caught red-handed and the cop can draw his gun, power in the hands of morons, such his thoughts as he smiled at his idol preparing to appear at the parade, in front of the naïve people, in his hands the power to absolve or protect, the power to punish or to judge with the tool for peace or war in the busy streets of big city that relies on this young donkey to do his job, to just act like an animal. He too chose to hide his questionable manhood and insecurity behind the mood of the ambivalent and deadly weapon
on to Father Jerome and having a smirk on her face she left. Mary, who couldn’t stay longer either since her working hours had started, gave Anton another deep kiss and left; but just before she walked out of his door she turned and whispered to him, I love you which made Anton’s day. During the breakfast the children ate without any incident and soon after Anton having shared his coffee with Mary, left to go and check on Dylan. Anton by nature and internally always recognized and related to the misery of the world in such a strange way that he believed it was inescapable, therefore something one has to survive by standing up to it and fighting and that way he felt he could discover where his sense of justice was laid. This was his feeling this morning driving to the hospital and a stressful sensation overconsumed his mind. Truly, this was his feeling when he arrived at the hospital and went to Dylan’s room, though he didn’t find him there. The nurse supervising that section informed him that most unfortunately Mr. Kelly had passed. “When? What happened?” Anton questioned. “The doctor will see you soon,” the nurse replied. Soon, the doctor who was looking after Dylan appeared and took Anton on the side. An aneurism, he said, an aortic aneurism, something building inside Mr. Kelly for some time caused a sudden rupture of his aorta. Cigarettes contributed to it, so did unhealthy food habits and unhealthy lifestyle, the doctor opined. They did all they could. He bled profusely, nothing could be done; he bled to death in just five minutes. Anton was stunned. He couldn’t utter a word. Didn’t know what he could say. What one says in such situations? He left the hospital. He drove to the Residential School not even paying attention to anything as if dazed, absorbed in his thoughts. He walked to Dylan’s room, his room now, and sat behind the small desk.
Elizabeth and the other a Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep. The two laughing women that accompanied Slava looked on with interest. “Let me give you something in return.” A dignified Slava reciprocated with two artistically decorated stamps from his album, which he had brought along for this purpose. Lona, who was seated at the next table, apparently took her cue from Jennifer because she also rummaged in her purse for a gift, pulled out an American nickel, and began explaining the significance of the buffalo to a group of enraptured young men. By the time the party broke up, some two hours later, the students and visitors had warmed to each other. Jennifer had learned something about their lives: their brothers and sisters, their schools, their music and their anxiety that they would somehow discredit themselves in front of their superiors on the day’s visit—this last concern added in a whisper. She glanced around. But their commissar was still engrossed in conversation with Chopyk and both Ivan Nikolaevich and Natasha had disappeared—presumably leaving the group in good hands. What a relief, Jennifer thought. Finally, Nadezdha brayed her goodbyes to Chopyk, while Lona exchanged addresses with at least four of the panting youths. Just before he left the dining room, Slava turned to Jennifer. “Stay with us, Zhennifer, please. You can have a good life here. Stay with us.” She was stunned by the request and could only smile and shake her head. Good god, were any of the others asked to stay? As she walked the trio down to the wharf and waved them goodbye, she did not notice that Paul had also walked his new friend, Vera, to the bus and was now standing behind a copse of rowan trees on the footpath. And if she had not been so wrapped up in her own thoughts, she would have overheard Vera explain to Nadezhda that she would not take the bus back with the others, but instead walk to her father’s farm, only one kilometre down the road. “On your way, then, Vera Fyodorovna,” the political commissar called out to her. “Get there before dark.” “See you later, Nadezhda Ivanova,” she called out happily as she ran toward the rowan trees.
Ignorance If you regard your shadow and forget all things separate what are you without your twin but fading negative that gropes for its essence for meaning what if you faced your glassy idol that does not exist alone leaving zeal to the passionate image hunting itself dejected when you go wanting your regard bow to your phantom his vital shape knowing how crucial his lucidity
Manolis Aligizakis 