On a Bronx tale recently in the news – a poem
Joi Little used to live with her grandmother
in a building near her mother’s apartment.
Nine year old Joi got the large bed in the
only bedroom. Her grandmother slept on
the pull out couch in the living room.
In the evenings, Joi would dance around
(just like her mother), talk fast and write
up numbers on the new chalkboard and
put them together excitedly shouting ‘Granny,
“Granny, I can add them! I love doing math”
When morning came, Phyllis would escort
Joi to the bus stop, (on E 174 and Bryant Ave)
shielding her from the South Bronx of 1988.
Every night, Joi would have a familiar ritual,
she would ask her grandmother if she could
stay for just a little while at her mother’s home.
Phyllis always said no.
Joi’s mother grew up in Englewood NJ.
Englewood was safe and proper (with family
dinners every night and service three times a
week at the Refuge Temple Church of God in
Christ). That was before she met a city boy, a
former Marine and small-time drug dealer at a
Bronx disco. For some reason, the lights of the
city always seemed to beckon her from across
the Hudson… She moved in with him and secured
low income housing on West Farms, Bronx.
At 17, she gave birth to the city boy’s daughter
She named her Joi. The city boy disappeared
soon afterward. Joi’s mother would sometimes
talk fast in short staccato bursts. She would discuss
grandiose plans and embark on what seemed
unachievable projects. Yes, she could do that
when she was high on crack. Afterwards she
would become irritable, easily angered and sleep
through a night and a day. She did try though…
Every once in a while, she enrolled for courses at
Hunter College. The courses never seemed to
result in a degree. She did not have a steady job,
either. She lived on government assistance.
She, however was an expert at heating rock
crystal in just the right way and smoking its
vapors. The soothing vapors that escaped her
nostrils used to find their way into the nostrils
of her new found lover.
Robert Fleming and Joi’s mother would smoke
together. Fleming would carry a boom-box and
wear black clothes and silver jewelry of the Five
Percenters, an offshoot of the Nation of Islam.
He preached that God is black and that only
his tribe know His true nature. They met at a
local disco. “A mutual friend introduced us,” he
says. “We were both into crack, so I’d go over
to her place. There’d be a bunch of other people,
and we’d smoke together.” To facilitate, Joi was
dropped off at her grandmothers while they
would smoke crack and have unprotected sex
though hazy smoke filled Bronx afternoons.
As luck would have it, lover boy was HIV positive.
Finally Phyllis decided to take custody of Joi.
That was about the time that Joi’s mother
decided to clean up her act. Like all drug addled
promises this one also seemed to go by the wayside.
One day, Phyllis’ friends (she used to work as a
case manager for the Rockland Psychiatric Center)
were going skiing for the weekend. “They begged
me to come, and to the last minute, I didn’t want
to go,” she says. Finally she did relent, dropping
Joi off at her mothers. Just this one time, she
remembered thinking. She also remembered the
apartment strangely smoke free and clean.
“Maybe she was getting better. Maybe she had
decided to clean up her act.” Even better, Robert
Fleming seemed to have disappeared. All told, it
seemed like the perfect weekend to leave the
little child in the care of her mother.
The weekend was a lot of fun, her first in many
years and it felt good to get away. In between
the ski trips, she had an anxious urge to call on
little Joi and let her know that she will be back
soon. In between the ski trip, she also remembered
her husband – now long gone holding her hands as
she steadied herself on skis for the first time.
Of course, she could not call Joi’s mother.
Joi’s mother did not own a home phone – like many
others living in the South Bronx in the 80’s.
Phyllis returned home on Sunday afternoon,
February 28, 1998. She crossed over to Joi’s
mothers building, hiked up the four flights of
stairs, and knocked on the door. Nobody was
home. She walked back to her apartment.
For an older woman without strong legs, hiking
up the four flights of stairs was a trying task.
The next morning, at 7 a.m., she climbed the
stairs once again determined to see her little baby.
The door was slightly ajar. Joi’s 26-year-old
mother was lying on the bed, strangled to death.
Her hands and legs were tied behind her back.
Joi’s hands and legs were similarly hogtied. Joi’s
back was twisted at an impossible angle. It was
actually broken. Both their panties were pulled
down to their knees. There was a lot of blood
on the sheets and between the little ones legs.
Phyllis did not really hear herself slump to the
floor. When she came to, she ran screaming
down the stairway all the way out to the streets.
21 years later, February 28, 2009, (to the day)
the NYPD Cold Case squad announced that they
were charging Robert Fleming with the murders.
Joi lived nine years of her life on this earth and
did not blame anyone. She did not blame
- Robert Fleming for doing the deed…
(she did know him well enough to call him by his
Five Percenter nickname, Hakim)
- Joi’s mother for pursuing the life she chose…
(every day she would ask if she were allowed
to visit her mother even if it were for an hour)
- Phyllis for deciding to go to ski that weekend…
(she gave all she had, she worked weekends
and double shifts to send the child to school).
Someone
is looking at some horrible photo realistic paintings
wonders if the R’s will come to D’s funeral since they didn’t come to S’s
is crying for love.
is glad to be kidnapped by Francesca on a beautiful Saturday
is fucking bored at work
has visions of swastikas inside their heads
thinks that in the end everyone ends up alone.
hates two words: accounting software. God help us
says boys and girls should make love
found this guitar for $25 at the Goodwill in Pittsburgh
is visiting the detox center tonight
is opening all the windows and letting the breeze and the sun in
is doing naughty aerobics with Mexicans in Cabo!
is too busy to be at work today but is there anyways
is planting peas and carrots and pansies
is making sake for tonight
thinks that the downturn has not been bad
is building a bridge to nowhere with her
vehemently insisted that jokes about the holocaust are bad
lost imaginary wealth and real weight recently
likes H’s peaches and would like to shake your tree.
is at the beach w/ my blondieee!
is sad that seeqpod is dead
is at work while everyone is at the beach… blah!
says what is up with everyone breaking up…. its time for lovin
thinks someday.. somebody will….
stumbled into town, just like a sacred cow
gives a big Bangalore hug to all friends back in NYC and beyond
is tired of waitin 4 the resultz. It’s tougher than preparin 4 it!
had a good hair and boiled brain day….
says sorry to women he had wronged
thinks hope floats but sinks like a stone in winter
is so enjoying the dancing! Tuesday is audition day
wonders why go through the process when you have a short cut
thinks why make love when you can get it
really really likes not working, wants a hot dog and is a Pheonix
thinks that it’s our heart that makes us more than what we are
was shocked out of her brains last night!!!!
won’t tell a soul what she saw or how big it was
was happy that Adam Gopnik hugged her
is watching the dog chew on a bone while Rush lashes out
thinks he spends more hours of the day drunk than sober
just picked up some of the last walnuts and set them to dry
is knackered, slathered and needs a nanny-nap
says that what doesn’t kill a quail only makes it stronger.
is contemplating what chore to put off doing.
is a whore with a chore
thinks of the time when a fish swam into a wall and said “damn!”
just arrived home from the hospice after losing a very good friend
is recuperating from an Irish night out
needs and wants to give H a good bad spanking
knew a banker who killed a homeowner (albeit indirectly)
wore leotards under her pants to work
saw a Hummer hit a cyclist sending the poor bloke to the ER
did something hot and sweaty and it was not what you think
thinks they should have aspirin bars – to chew on the night after
is missing the good times, but remains chaste
says don’t get cute or clever, just go with your gut
did it in a few minutes
got the job woot woot!!!!! yayyy!
is protesting in front of the turkish embassy today
says shush girl, shut your lips; do a Helen Keller, talk with your hips
believes in equality for all, except reporters and photographers
has home cleaning work all day then performance at club españa
is thinking perhaps he’ll have the Molson’s for lunch
just noticed that his neighbor’s kitchen was torn down. Foreclosure?
is hereby waiting for a spaceship to take him away
Scenes From a Down – a poem
He was laid off last year from his job
used to install and repair windows and doors,
earning $11.50 an hour with health insurance.
The supervisor called him into a wood panelled
office to explain they were downsizing and
his services were no longer needed, he started
looking for a job.the very next day.
In December, he went to the state fairgrounds
(he had seen a back page advertisement about an
impending job fair in the Columbia Star)
knowing that he would feel secure amongst
the hundreds of other people also out of work.
He and an acquaintance applied for a few
openings and shared a beer afterward.
The most promising job was a position as a
technician at an air-conditioning company.
It paid $8.50 an hour. He never got that.
He applied for more than 50 jobs since,
welder, an auto mechanic and a painter.
“Anything,” he says. “I’ve been applying for anything.”
In February, he was finally granted an interview
at a plant that made industrial adhesives.
They liked him, they liked his experience
They smiled, shook hands. It felt too easy.
The company ran a credit check and turned
him down. All the deals that had gone awry,
all those transactions he barely understood,
all those strange assurances he accepted
and advance purchases made on credit
somehow wound itself into his credit story.
He suddenly remembered that one time when
he had walked away from a mortgage after
the large Wall Street firm told him that the
terms had changed; in a terse letter
with the relevant fine print underlined.
Of course, he was convinced the bank had
cheated him. The bank countered in court
documents that they had ‘explained and
quantified the immediate identifiable risks’.
A few months back he got an e-mail from a
college called the U.S. Career Institute.
They were based in Colorado. They offered
online training for “an exciting, professional
career” in medical billing. It was $69 a month.
His fiancé grudgingly agreed. He says that
he was happy that someone decided to
send him an email promising a future made
out and waiting for someone just like him.
He now takes his classes online, making
slow but steady progress. Staring at the
computer for long hurts his eyes but he
goes on through the day while his fiancé
works at the nearby hospital. She is a
secretary. She makes $7.70 an hour. When
she gets home, they sit together and pass
evening hours on a sagging couch, a pack
of Newport cigarettes on the coffee table,
and the television remote in hand, surveying
a world mired in distress. They flip between the
action movies and news channels, absorbing
the shifting patterns of reality and make believe.
Sometimes they microwave the packaged dinner
while on other nights, they share leftovers.
Sometimes he falls asleep, one beer too many
and no dinner. They keep each other warm
as he dreams of completing his online course and
then starting to bill for insurance companies who
were bailed out by the folks in Washington.
He dreams of making $30 an hour, like they said
in the advertisements. The wind blows steadily
against their mobile home as he hears the rains
come down; slowly at first and then with an
incessant frequency that seemed to crowd out
the disposable income calculations that was
just forming in Raymond Vaughn’s mind.
Stages – A poem
When I was in my mother’s belly, they battered her stomach down
(they had wished for a boy and my mother said it was a girl)
When I was a toddler, they tried to kill me
(my father went into a rage the time I knocked over a vase)
When I was a child, they used a crude scissor at my clitoris
(it bled a lot, but the ceremony was successful)
When I turned a teenager, I was gang raped once
(I did complain, but the policeman did not believe me)
When I finally got married, I was raped again.
(this time at least it was within the confines of marriage)
When I had my first child – a girl, I was mildly tortured
(a year later, thank god; I was blessed with a son)
When I had grandchildren, my children would curse me
(my son bellowed about medical costs – thank god I was partly deaf)
Now I am have withered and wrinkled and am ready to go away
(thank you, lord – I am so ready).
Someone
is heading home from a dreadful day
is not living the dream like his friends
needs a brain transplant. D-day: 9 days
is worried (going to be talking live on radio on Thursday!!!)
has a million better things to do
is back in the studio and is all alone
has an awesome new haircut!
knows too many wrong people
is contemplating the buds on her epiphyte with smug satisfaction
is overwhelmed by that story last night
is having crazy hot sex with a black girl
is thankful to the org
has no health insurance and just chipped my tooth
thinks death is a process of dis-assembly
is gonna eat her third mint chocolate chip ice cream
is tired of only being happy in her dreams
is waiting to leave for the bahamasssss.
just remembered why she loves the university
is sick and is not faking it this time
is at work and feels like a cyborg
is tired of pleasuring himself
refuses to get serious while she finally is
has a new shadow. The old one wasn’t doing what I was!
is stuffed from the weekend
just got a secret new shiny toy
misses that young girl from the Hamptons
secretly tried a MAO inhibitor in combination with you know what
is planning to run away… far, far away
is finally broke but ordered a complete set of Harry Potter books
is planning on drugging The One
is questioning authority
is drinking Guinness and smoking a Bolivar
is in Thailand chugging away
is with all of her best friends for the weekendddddd!!!
is getting ready to go to work
is on her way to spainn!!!
is staring at expensive cuff links wondering…
is loving spring amidst the failing grades
is going to fuck, fuck, fuck all night long
got drunk with old people who farted occasionally
would like to take lessons in sewing
is looking forward to his new job in a new place
is going to miss his hometown and all his friends
I read about Treblinka yesterday – a poem
How many were dragged?
Did all of them hold hands?
Was there innate goodness?
How long is to the other side?
Why do the children last so long?
How many of them saw the truth?
Why do herds behave the way they do?
How many heard a whip lash overhead?
How many people does it take to satisfy?
How many sank tired into the frozen earth?
How many found it a beautiful place to die?
How many indulged in complete surrender?
Would the guards have been someplace else?
How long before they stopped following orders?
If you know, let me know.
The gentile giant – a poem (This is a first draft : With apologies to Oscar Wilde)
Every afternoon, after they
came back from school,
the children would go and
play in the Giant’s garden.
It was a beautiful garden,
where the petunia overflowed
amidst lush green grass and
olive trees. The date palms
grew rapidly in spring making
the birds happy and sing
“How happy we are”…
A peculiar tune, I must say.
One day, the Giant came back, and
he had a determined look on his face.
When he arrived, he saw
children frolicking and happily playing.
“What are you doing here?” he sternly asks…
To which the children knew not what
to say, needless, they hastily disappeared.
“My land is my land.. It belonged
to my ancestors and now it belongs to
me and is mine only.
He soon decreed that anyone caught or
entering his land will face consequences.
He built a high wall all round his garden,
a wall so tall, that the children by and by
slowly forgot what secrets lay within.
Every once in a while, when he stood up,
the giant so towered
over the neighborly children
they often cowered and wondered,
why one needed a wall as tall.
The children continued living
and minding their petty
businesses, some in squalor
some in splendor, but commonly shut out
of their childhood garden.
Some of us have naughty neighbors,
others have haughty ones,
this giant too was not spared of such.
His neighbors were children
and like children denied, they
threw the occasional stick, lobbed an
errant stone and every once in a while
using a toy bow (fashioned out of olive
tree branches and goat gut) shot; stray
arrows towards the giant’s home.
Some of the arrows would clear the wall,
and land in the garden, whilst some,
would fall back on the children.
The occasional arrow falling back
resulted in the curious case of a
child blinded by his own arrow.
A self goal, kind of…
And every once in a while, an arrow would
find its mark, lightly poking the giant. Of course,
in cases such as that, his thick epidermal armor
protected him. The giant would roar and bellow,
gnash his teeth and grunt menacingly.
He sometimes would throw little rocks
back at the children. Providence is funny,
he was blessed with deadly aim and every
time he threw those stones, many children
were crushed by its deadly force.
The other day, the children were up to their
tricks, and in the heat of the moment,
they decided to send out a shower of arrows.
Only this time, the giant was asleep.
Unlucky fate. The shower of arrows
happened to chance,
on the giant deep in slumber.
The pinpricks were felt and
an angry awakening ensued.
Insult to injury, he seemed to take notice of
an arrow that lodged itself in his left toe.
He gingerly pulled it out
and let out a murderous shriek. He decided to
teach the little ones a lesson.
One they might never forget.
He went into his large castle,
to his large private room. A dank, musty room
where he stored his weapons. He took
the choicest ones out,
gloating all the time.
He selected gleaming body armors,
adorned with a glittering coat of arms
climbed into his gunship,
and armed his missiles.
He had made sure (previously),
to sharpen the titanium tipped edges
of his steel swords
and properly arm the phosphorous bombs.
He also made sure the cluster munitions
were set to the right charges.
All the while, he was singing a merry tune.
The children on the other side of the wall
(sensing what was coming) cowered
in their little rickety mud homes.
The foolish children, they filled their quivers
full of toy arrows. Hoping to fight back.
The giant casually stepped over the high
stone walls, thinking to himself how easy
it was for him to casually step over.
He stoops to examine the little children,
(who by now) are running helter skelter
between his large, pink toes.
He is surprised to find that
some were blind and weak
some as thin as a rail
and others starving.
A few were holed up in their homes
hoping to defend their little families…
He proceeds to gingerly pick up the
little ones between his index and
middle fingers. He then uses his
opposing grasp to slowly squeeze
their little lungs. And just as they
are about their last gasp,
he lets them go. He drops them on
the ground and using his large toe
proceeds to casually step on their
little skulls. The funny thing was that
he actually seemed to enjoy the urgent
red spurts of blood that seemed to
erupt from their ears. He then wipes
his toes clean on the sand (the sand
between the olive trees) and goes in
search of the next one.
After about a hundred of them were finished
this way, the giant is tired.
He decides to take a break.
He goes into his castle for some
(much needed) food and rest.
The next day it is the same story.
For thirteen days, he walks over the
little homes of his neighbors,
destroying their schools, universities
and play areas.
He took care of their day care centers,
their shelter homes,
the homes of their fathers,
sisters and mothers. He does not spare
their graveyards nor their places of worship.
The mom and pop stores, the cobblers,
the olive oil merchant, the handyman
he manages to attend to them all.
When he is done, nothing is left standing.
Just mud, smoke and dust swirl
amidst the ruins of burning phosphorous.
This time he is really tired.
He decides that he has had enough,
and bellows to his neighbors
that in his well intentioned mind,
the suffering that the children have endured
is enough and he is magnanimous enough
to declare a cease fire.
Distant applause is heard from all
quarters of the world. All the fair and noble
minds applaud the cease fire. They reason that
one can endure only so many toy arrows before
the use of deadly force is sanctioned.
The giant now retires to his private quarters and
plans his next move. As he was stepping
into his home, he looked back and saw
a strange sight. The swans in his garden,
those stately white ones, the ones he
so dearly loved – they were singing,
loud and clear notes in the limpid waters.
Detainee 063 began to cry – a poem
Detainee began to cry.
Detainee cried.
Visibly shaken. Visibly emotional.
Very disturbed. Detainee sleeps awhile.
Detainee rudely woken up.
Heavy Metal. Judas Priest.
Iced water laced with seaweeds.
Strapped to a metal chair.
Incandescent light bulb overhead.
Detainee began to cry.
Detainee cried.
Detainee bites the IV tube.
IV tube splits in two. Meshuggah.
Injected again intravenously.
Rants and raves. Delirium.
Moaning softly. Detainee mutters.
Curses at the doctor. Lunges.
Visually uncomfortable. Moaning.
Turned his head from left to right.
Detainees clothes changed. Naked.
Someone pokes and prods.
Detainee began to cry.
Detainee cried.
Detainee begins to pray.
Strapped to a plank. Uncomfortable position.
The sounds of flowing water.
Blindfold. Heavy Metal. Steppenwolf.
Detainee wears her panty as crown.
The female orderly sniggers.
Detainee plans on confessing.
Object inserted into detainee’s anus.
Routine body cavity search.
This time a little more painful.
Looks at the corporals eyes.
Remorse and loathing. Spinal Tap.
Detainee began to cry.
Detainee cried.
Plans on making confession.
Urinates on self. Smell of urea.
Falling asleep. Very uncomfortable.
Detainee angry. Struggles.
Agitated and violent.
Wet and soggy pants. Excreta.
Detainee regurgitates food.
Detainee proclaimed his innocence.
Pushed guard. Solitary 24 hours.
The silence hurts and soothes.
No bright lights for 24 hours.
No flowing water for 24 hours.
No nothing for a whole day.
Dizzy. Headache. Near tears.
Detainee began to cry.
Detainee cried.
Yelled at Allah. Yelled for Allah.
Yelled for deliverance. Screams.
The water seems to ride into the lungs.
The fine muslin taut over detainees face.
Near crying. Tears and sweat stream.
Irritated and annoyed.
Attempted to liberate himself.
Plastic hangar too flimsy.
Strapped to links on the wall.
Aeroplane stress position is what this is called.
Made several attempts to stand up.
Unsuccessful.
Detainee screamed….
Aisha in Zimbabwe – a poem
Aisha is mother to her sister, Khadija,
their mother died of AIDS last year.
Aisha has a soft, round face,
lucky for her, she is H.I.V. negative.
She struggles to get drugs for Khadija,
who at 11 years is H.I.V. positive.
Last year, Aisha took her little sister,
(Khadija appears half her actual age)
to Parirenyatwa Hospital,
the nation’s largest.
They waited in the vast courtyard,
amidst the hungry and the festering,
a hospital official finally notices them,
he calls them in and with a gravelly voice
tells them that some crucial test results
needed to qualify the little one for
medications were strangely misplaced.
They will need to come back later
and redo the tests once again.
On a later visit, Aisha is told
the machine used for the tests was broken.
A couple of weeks later, the hospital finally
closed. Of course, they were referred to
private doctors. Doctors who had demanded
payment in S.A. rand or U.S. dollars.
The girls could not do this,
they had no money.
Aisha used to escape the sadness
by going to school, two months ago
the teachers at her high school
stopped going to school.
Of her math teacher, Aisha wistfully says
“She didn’t bid us farewell, she just left”
Aisha now barters her labor for food,
Khadija is too weak to work.
Last week, Aisha was overjoyed
She was starting a four-day job,
It did not matter that she was
bent over in a field, all day,
readying it for planting corn.
In exchange, she would get two pounds
of flour, a bottle of cooking oil
and clothes. She plans to keep a shirt
and blouse for Khadija. She prays that
Khadija will fit into the standard sizes.
Aisha needs to get her job done soon,
before the rains lash down on the red earth.
The same rains that will drip into
their little room during the
unannounced late monsoon bursts.
The girls pray together every night
they sleep in a tiny, windowless room.
A small room in a small house that
belongs to their mothers father.
A grandfather whose takes his share
of the little food that Aisha brings home.
Aisha also has an uncle living with them.
He is 45 years old. He is too lazy to work
and sometimes steals her cornmeal.
Like other girls, these two have dreams,
Aisha wants to be a doctor,
Khadija, a bank teller.
Aisha wants to be a doctor to help people
like her little sister, shriveling before her.
In her sleep, Khadija dreams… of growing up,
she dreams of having children, she also
dreams of becoming a bank teller and
repaying the unpayabe debts owed to
her older sister, asleep next to her
hugging her little, emaciated frame.
Lines on a long distance relationship
He watches her grow up from another land,
smile, skip, play and breathe,
the vagaries of work and study
keeping them apart, his hopes
riding on the plans for tomorrrow.
She discovers daddy to be a ghostly face
brought to her by a distant webcam,
a pixilated, shape shifting image
on her mothers computer screen.
It was only last month
she opened the cd drive,
and placed on it her favorite bear
and told her mother to send it to daddy.
He celebrates her birthday long distance
and blows her a kiss while she huffs and
puffs; Two small red candles on a cream cake.
Wistfully reaches and plays with her dark curls
on the inky cold flatness of his laptop screen.
It has been two years since she was born
and he is finally going home now.
Fleeing a War Zone
In the streets,
the blood spurts
from myriad deaths,
some avenged, some not.
Whenever they can, uncaring
scythes fill in for rusty daggers,
slicing skin to the unfeeling bone.
Inside, the scullions butcher the young
while petty clan fights dominate the lonesome
couple still squabbling over trifling fumbles. The
unclear whispers of the coming destruction are
eerily etched in the minds of the wary as
substantial legacies crumble with ease
and the whispering back benchers
deal hazy rumors while belching
rum at the local hole amidst
decorated war whores
belittling innocent
children.
To Cochita
When they die suddenly,
the face remains.
Over time,
as one tries to move on,
every once in a while
they return anon.
Trace thoughts of
raspy laughter,
folds of linen,
graying hair,
coconut oil,
the little home
where fireflies meet
the heraldry of morn.
Untitled – Part I
The flanks were steep, as if by an axe had felled
Through the valley of green where the waters meld
The blue lotus and its nectars like flesh to bones
I came upon trees and shrubs living their loans.
Amid the expanse of green, particularly attractive,
Spied I, a circle of flowers of many colors reactive.
Young I was and least ready for what would lay
Before me, as would sages of old might say.
A gentle repast of nature in her reflection
Shimmering, dusky and swaying with flexion.
Surveying the distance from my earthen pride
There, amidst the green, a pool, I spied.
Unfettered thus, I presently alighted
Down rock steps as pale swans flighted.
I bathed and tasted the buds dripping nectar,
When, sans a ripple, a demon rose to hector
Hollering and shaking his rippling shoulders
His gaze was livid and arms thick as boulders.
He shook me asking ‘Who are you? Where are you from?’
Interrogated with menace, I answered the ugly scum:
‘Fearful giant, I was once sold for fees
From enemy to enemy I drifted over the deep seas.
I escaped on a ship and thence to these mountains,
Of fabulous colored crags and clustered fountains.
Upon spying your pool of gentle waters cresting,
After my escape, I dreamt of bathe and resting.
These explanations in him caused little cheer to flower
‘Answer my questions, and be free’, he said aglower.
I replied: ‘Go ahead, ask! your will and let me go,
Back to my ancient lands from long, long ago.
‘What is sad?’ ‘The hurt of a woman.’ – I said
‘What is dear?’ ‘Her virtues.’ To the demon I fed.
‘What is desire?’ ‘Your imagination.’ I said, bolder,
As I spied his anger now less colder.
‘What is the means to achieve the difficult?’
‘Wisdom’. I instituted with no apparent occult.
‘Tell me, what sorts of women are these?’
My answers impressed him, He begged; on his knees.
Thus I related: ‘There was a land called Trigarter.
Whose larders were wealthy and filled with barter.
In that land, lived three brothers who loved one another,
Richard, Ritchie, Rick; dusky like their mother.
Bedtime stories
Most nights, I help our elder son settle into bed.
Oftentimes, it is a story, a made up riddle or just
silly histrionics employed to get him to sleep.
Old wine in new (I guess)… On most days, it is fun
mixed with a sense of duty; on others, those rare
days, this little ritual transforms into a chore.
A chore when other pressing exigencies filter
and clog the event horizon of my mind and
fill it with myriad competing thoughts. Sometimes
it’s ideas for a new painting, other times
work schedules that need to met on morrow,
sometimes, as plain as a domestic project.
On such days, I tell him gently (but firmly),
‘be back in five minutes’, and he needs to use
the time to fall asleep. On some nights
(that I try this ruse), it works; while on
others, I tiptoe back to see our wide eyed
little one awaiting my return eagerly.
Yesterday was one such night – a ‘chore’ night.
This time, I happened to remember that I
had to turn off the garden hose. This was
triggered just as soon as the fox managed
to reach over the gibbous moon and grab the
unsuspecting dinosaur by its callused tail.
Before my son enquired on the dinosaurs plight,
I told him I need to attend to something –
(for some reason it sounded phony). As soon as
he hears this, our son slowly turns to me and opens
his mouth (for what I am expecting to be an abject
remonstrance against my imminent disappearance).
Expecting the worst, I quickly admonish him to go
to sleep (soon enough) as I have work to do and he
cannot carry on with this forever. In clear, measured
words he tells me “Be careful, Acha’. Quizzically,
I looked at him and asked him why? Why should I
be careful walking out the home to turn off the hose.
He tells me that there are mosquitoes outside in
the night and he did not want them to bite me.
“Andrew Seabrooks passed away on 6/21/08”
She walked out into the moist morning air
last week, looking for candles.
(It had rained the night before, but
she did seem to notice the petering drizzle).
She did not find them at the corner bodega,
found some old candles at the supermarket
among the mops and liquid cleaners.
As she paid, she asked for a
few pieces of tape. The cashier obliged,
noting her puffy eyes and unmade hair.
She then went to the cab stand where
Andrew Seabrooks, the man she loved,
had worked for most of his life.
The dispatcher at the cab stand helped her,
together, they laid it outside the storefront,
the candles on the ground, the taped piece
of paper at the gate. She wrote slowly,
in unsteady hand, in blue ink, her phone
number, in case, anyone had questions
about the sudden news of
the death of Andrew Seabrooks.
The piece of paper showed an image,
It was almost a silhouette, a burly man,
a khaki military uniform, a camouflage hat,
the sun strong behind him,
Andrew Seabrooks standing tall.
After lighting the candles and securing the tape
one more time, she stopped by his barber to tell
about the prayer service that afternoon.
She also informed the postman about the same.
They all came to the prayer service for Andrew Seabrooks,
who once drove a cab, sometimes installed car stereos,
but who could not find enough to pay the mortgage…
It was the thought of losing their home,
home to his wife, and their
four year old son Xavier Seabrooks,
that made him go to Kandahar.
Just before he left, (she seemed to remember)
the first foreclosure notice was delivered
by the same postman in the pew.
And for some reason, it helped cement his
shaky decision to save their home.
7,000 miles away, the week before,
Andrew Seabrooks passed away on 6/21/08.
A resident of South Ozone Park NY,
collector of action DVDs,
inveterate homebody,
a tinkerer of things mechanical,
an occasional joke player
and last, but not least,
a National Guardsman,
killed by an improvised explosive device
outside Kandahar, Afghanistan.
It is amazing what strange bedfellows
like the subprime mortage crisis
and an army trolling
for bodies (willing to die) can accomplish.
Search
After about twenty years, she went back to the city where it
started and boarded one of those city buses, a red, red
one, kind of like the one they had traveled in a
lot during the whimsical, wintry nights;
hopeful, yet fearful of when the
cocoon might give; she then
happens to chance on a
young man two seats
upfront with that
selfsame slouch,
unmistakable,
yet distant.
On a
whim, she
almost reaches
to shout out that
her torturer has now
gone and would not come
again to haunt her any more
and he could come back and stay
with her and live his life full; as if he
were just reborn to her anew; the red bus
stops abruptly and the man catches himself from
falling; turns back involuntarily and catches a very frail
old lady staring at him. Her searching gaze faltering yet again.
While on a recent flight
Flying economy class (as usual) – a poem
The father who insists on sitting by the window,
staring blankly to the bleak outside,
running into accidental reflections,
whilst his only child, their little daughter,
bawls at being transferred to the middle row.
His wife pensive,
wondering if they have one child or two.
The family of four, insulated,
man on the laptop (headphones),
woman with the i-Pod, (eyes closed)
a three year old, lost, questions unanswered,
a six month old baby, blocked; pacifier does its dirty deed.
Their grandmother sits across the aisle, closed;
advanced Alzheimer’s.
Then we have the obliging old couple (baby boomer?)
responding to a request
to give up their seats and move upfront.
Apparently the pilots discovered,
this plane was rear heavy.
I did not believe them for some reason,
but you can’t make those suspicions public, any more.
The young couple four seats away,
furtively steal their urgent kisses
amidst heavy breathing, cheap coke cups, paper napkins
and obese vacationers praying for summer.
I fervently hope they make it
long after
their initial, physical rush.
We had a seat at the very end,
one of those that you cannot recline,
it was all right, minor discomforts – no match for
the free understanding and introductions,
as we collectively head off to hopeful vacations,
cursive beginnings, slipshod divorces and some fruitless seething.
Nightly news
Last night I turned off the television; in disgust.
A boy in the country had killed his mother and the rest of his family.
The reporter tried to pontificate with the cultivated stoic calm;
self-serving emblems of professional personas.
The boys friends added to the drama,
providing lurid details of his autism.
The gravitas was added by the expert testimony,
passers-by and a medicine man.
They all seemed caught up in the momentary pepper spray,
than, by extrapolations of our permanent loss (sad, but strange).
It seemed as if this had intruded
our current, still life (we were on vacation).
After that, I felt, I did not commiserate enough,
(as if it were a duty to partake of diurnal suffering).
I turned the television back on again
(hoping to catch details of the deadly crime).
Of course, the presenter had already moved on,
in self-same stoic and steely demeanor,
to a news item that featured a lady who
had shot her family and killed herself.
A sample of swirling thoughts in the minds of little Adams and Eves – a Poem
The Father,
he showed us a few tricks
every once in a while.
He lifted our frocks
he played with our shorts
helping us with the little mittens, amidst
gentle whispers to stay warm.
Even helped tie our laces,
after it was over.
His fingers seemed to glide
and hustle. Darting, furtive.
Everywhere.
God, it was confusing.
He said he loved us
and sometimes kissed us.
He often played pretend with us,
and, once in a while,
fucked us.
Yes, it did hurt
it hurt very much.
We thought it was part of liturgy.
A ritual. Part of our Sunday afternoons.
The sermons would also say;
learn to notice that silver lining (in every day things)…
The good Father would say that too – lovingly
and often.
We managed to find our bright spots here too.
The immediate pain was only fleeting, white hot,
infinite, yet, contained in place (not time).
After that, you get used to it.
Kind of like being whipped,
after the initial tear in your skin,
the subsequent lashes
are just consolation.
A perverse kind of consolation,
that the familiar is back (the numbing, a helper).
And don’t we all huddle to the familiar?
Like the flocks towards that good Shepard.
On Clouds – Lines composed after photographing a sunrise.
Frugal lives, sans
attendant sorrows,
richness of moment
and unsure morrows.
The trundling forms
silvered at times,
interpretations sway
on the whims of climes.
A story about the 20′s I heard on the radio…
Her grandmother was strong.
At 95 pounds, one would not say so – looking.
Picking cotton everyday makes one strong,
the hands, as well as the mind.
It was said, she could pick her weight
in cotton,
by the time the sun
was above their sweaty black heads
and the workers had rushed to their frugal lunches.
In the broad, sunny afternoons
of postbellum Alabama.
She did not smile too much,
and, could not wear fingernail polish.
The daily grind – a reason for the former (maybe),
The prevailing mores – explains the latter (for sure).
We are all a product of our circumstance – aren’t we?
She washed and ironed for a certain white lady
who wore perfumes and fingernail polish.
Nothing wrong, just like most white ladies
one finds relaxing indoors,
through those long, sunny afternoons
of postbellum Alabama.
It was said that one day,
the white lady did throw out,
some of her old perfumes and nail polish.
It was her anniversary and her husband
surprised her – with new trinkets.
You know, one has a lot to look out for,
if they were endowed with the right colors.
After a day of ironing (those starched white clothes),
our grandmother chanced
on some castoff perfumes and nail polish.
She dabbed the perfume (the few drops),
She did her fingernails,
Long thin strips of polish
over frayed nails,
long and ivoried, of lineage classic.
(Of course, she did make sure
she left enough
to spoil her another day).
Church that Sunday, she was radiant.
On Monday, she goes to the general store
(finally a day off).
Finding the bare minimums, she is
ready at the check out line,
the white owner asks her,
‘What are you doing with your nails painted up?
Like a white woman’!!!
She is a little confused.
He glares, thoughts forming,
- maybe this was a chance to settle this.
He proceeds to pick up a pair of pliers
and slowly, methodically
pulled out the lady’s nails
out of its fleshy bed
one by bloody one.
Her fingertips, now with a strange,
permanent redness,
suffused over (once) long and ivoried nails,
does match the skies that sometimes visit
the broad, sunny afternoons
of postbellum Alabama.
Wall Street blues – a poem
I took a quick afternoon walk
down Wall Street.
Walked past bankers, rapists,
couple of commonplace murderers,
some stray immigrants,
lovers, fruit vendors and students.
Some had just made a killing
off someone else’s fortune.
Some had just killed
for someone else’s fortune.
Some were learning to kill
over that self same thing.
Some had just made love
furtively in that empty office space
knowing fully well,
they would not confess.
Some forced their love
on unwilling terms, from positions
of advantage and carrots of promise.
Others were making their plans
of working the American dream,
using, of course – the gospel;
Gekko’s famous lines as guide.
Others were just busy, buying lunch
and hurrying back to finish that deal
which will foreclose another home
somewhere else far away.
Some were selling fruit juice
in little plastic cups.
Four dollars for that little cup
seems to resonate
with the rest of the space; rapacious.
Yes, I passed them all
while walking
down Wall Street.
Snowstorm – a poem
Evening after work,
Radio blares ‘storm advisory for the northeast’.
I trundle along slowly,
thinking and planning that warm cup.
The ice slivers slide easily over
the oily veneer on the windshield.
Remnants of washer fluid,
sprayed unceremoniously
banish the pristine flakes.
The salt sprayer truck makes a sudden sharp turn
in my direction. Corrects itself,
and then passes on.
I swerve.
Avoid.
The washer fluid
still clears the pristine flakes…
Valentine’s evening – a poem.
Yesterday, I had left early
from work. The usual routine, the usual commute.
the ferry to Staten Island, train after and then drive home.
I read the Times,
hoping to hone
a newly found liberal jingosim.
Maybe it was the elections.
Two women sat adjacent to me,
one of them familiar,
a commute friend, as some would characterize,
good for the commute,
strangers at the car park.
She was thirtysh and full of make up.
The other, a dark haired older woman
sat eating her gram crackers.
The plastic pouch dangling
from one hand and
a tiny vial of nail protector in the other.
We got talking, I rarely do
but this was an unexpected early trip home.
I was feeling good.
My commute friend told me how she was going home
to her husband
then planning on validating Valentines at Red Lobsters.
She said ‘celebrate’ Valentine’s, but it seemed more like validation.
She had two children, one one and the other three years old.
They were planning on taking them along to dinner.
She said it would be a riot,
trying to get them to sit still
while they fight with the lobster,
bib, nutcracker, white meat and all.
She showed us pictures of her children,
beautiful, Anglo Saxon to the hilt.
The dark haired lady launched into her own story,
said she also has two children.
12 and 22.
Said she had the first when she was 13.
I said going out for Valentine’s should be easy for you,
the children will mind themselves.
She did not say anything to that.
I make for poor small talk…
She said that last Valentine’s,
her husband had pink rose petals
all over the floor
when she got home.
It made her cry.
She showed us pictures of her husband,
and a couple of grown up children.
The stereotypical middle class suburban black family.
I thought.
I did not really carry pictures in my wallet.
I made a mental note to do so,
not too sure why I did that.
Somehow I felt, all of this
was a bit too melodramatic.
I did not believe in a Valentine’s day
and was not really expecting to deliver Valentine plans
with a couple of women on the way home.
I sat on though, listening politely.
The ferry was nearing Staten Island and
with a final bit of polite banter
I asked
the lady with the dark hair,
her plans for this day.
She said that her husband died six months back,
he was a veteran of the Vietnam wars,
20 years her senior.
Leukemia it was.
It was lonely,
she said.
Especially on days like these.
She was planning on going
to the Calverton National Cemetery on Long Island
the next day.
She had taken the day off.
She said, she did get roses from Costco.
Red ones.
On reincarnation – A poem
You only live once,
contrary to the scriptures.
There is no reincarnation
no lifting up of souls,
no second comings
or the dead arising.
No paeans to souls.
All poppycock.
But,
It was not all drivel,
more, a clever way of getting people to listen,
to tune in,
to make better
from their humdrum existence. Any other way
would have risked misunderstanding
and unwanted interpretation.
Diluting the concept
and
muddying the big picture.
Instead of telling us
that piecemeal acts of selfishness
slowly accretes
to become a
cancer on the coming generation,
and the ill will generated
rebirths itself on the coming fold
like force fields that fashion our neurons
conditioning them for extended injustices
to silently transform and shortchange
our futures -
they gave us a simpler message,
more palatable.
They said something illogical,
hoping to pass it off for deeper truths.
It sometimes works.
It’s what politicians do.
They said that the souls do not really expire
along with the body.
They told us that
It just passes on
from one mortal coil to other.
Supposedly satisfied and smug
with concepts like endless cycles.
When in actuality was something else
they had understood.
It was really an endless dance of the packets.
They were of two types:
Packets of deeds well done
instilling in the progeny
the need to carry forth in better ways,
rebirthing the essence of the original souls,
and multiplying the goodness all around.
And, packets of ill deeds,
also accumulating
this time rebirthing in the progeny
with effects more pronounced,
more deadly.
Multiplied through transmission.
Unless of course, one breaks out of the cycle
and achieves redemption.
In that sense,
there is reincarnation of the souls,
a banding together of the fields
good or bad
blotting the collective consciousness.
not literal,
not figurative
not in the real sense.
A litany of simpler explanations
devoured by the common lay
ensuring our continued survival.
Achieving a state of perfect bliss may be difficult,
the entropy only increases – they say,
but one makes best of what one has
and passes to the collective
an abstract body of
feelings,
deeds,
thoughts,
actions
to be
multipled forthwith.
Dawn
This morning, we waited for the sun,
our son and I,
him, with a minor infection,
me, a balancing act.
We parsed the grays,
tried giving life to forms,
even leavened the wisps.
The clouds did not listen.
The trees at the edge
were nude from the wind,
contrasted lightning skywards.
Solidity a testament.
Our window small,
the moment brief,
our symphony short.
In the dawn’s slow march.
Winter
Sharp contrasts,
rock and snow,
christmas lights
fight the pelf.
The morose skies,
a brooding grey,
the waters shiver
in their gulfs.
as the last leaf curls away…
Muddling through…
I don’t particularly like it
when people put words in my mouth,
either, by the way, unless I say it.
I’m the master of low expectations,
I was a prisoner too, but for bad reasons.
I know what I believe.
I will continue to articulate
what I believe and what I believe, I believe.
What I believe is right.
I’m also not very analytical.
Just remember: it’s the birds
that’s supposed to suffer, not the hunter.
One has a stronger hand when,
there’s more people playing your same cards.
Oftentimes, we live in a processed world
you know, people focus on the process
and not results. Are we going to be facile
enough to change? Will we be nimble enough?
Will we be able to deal
with the circumstances on the ground?
And the answer is, yes, we will.
I understand how tender
the free enterprise system can be.
When somebody builds
a new building,
somebody has got to come
and build the building.
And when the building expanded,
it prevented additional opportunities
for people to work.
You’re free.
And freedom is beautiful.
I think we are welcomed,
but it was not a peaceful welcome.
And, you know, it’ll take time
to restore chaos and order,
order out of chaos. But we will
I promise you – I will listen
to what has been said here,
even though I wasn’t here.
And so, therefore,
we’re cautious, about
encouraging people to
return at this moment of history –
I’m looking forward
to a good night’s sleep
on the soil of a friend.
Rime
the skin crackles,
moulting onion,
blisters clotted
from raw understudies.
prickly sparks,
senescent spikes,
shards and carmine
scarred and slough.
tautness disturbed,
flecks stand grey,
twisted sheddings
and fungible clusters.
anxiety flutters
on slender winds,
dulcet rhymes
of better climes.
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 04, 2007
The fall winds were strong,
at the local park yesterday.
Remnants of a hurricane -
forlorn and firm…
It seemed to have denuded
the tree tops. Like
a spider’s steel after tempest,
frayed, bare and exposed.
The leaves under my son’s feet
were still green.
Trip
we drove to Princeton yesterday,
on back roads,
slow and winding
with Kerouac on my mind.
he had not said,
that everybody was trying
to get into the act,
but that everybody were in it.
fall classes had begun,
my son chases after the squirrel,
is dismayed that it nimbly climbs the tree
while he cannot.
the ivy is green on the moss,
the walls hold promises,
optimism is fresh
as the students chase after.
we saw washed out widows
who go off to die,
an alumni had captured them
on film at the museum.
the squirrel, my son
students, trees
the moss, widows
the road home.
Yes, Kerouac was right,
everybody was not trying
to get into the act,
everybody is in it.
Joint family
Loosely knit,
coddled, far
from home.
Fragments of other
times; A lull.
Homeward bound
yet again.
Of cavernous spaces,
colors, faces. No
crowds for now.
