in the reflection of the koi pond I find moi
I’m old school, too cool, a fool but never cruel,
a holy man on a mule, I shine like a jewel,
or a crescent star and moon in Istanbul -
spinning drool on a cocoon spool,
I pierce Gods with a harpoon,
and bend minds in a monsoon -
of slick thoughts cartoon,
I rule like a measuring tool,
breaking and entering just to use your pool
A shred of red silk was nailed to a white wall beneath a picture framed in simple black. The phrase ‘A Dream Within a Dream’ woven on a soft quilt behind the glass. In the corner she stood. An amalgamation of terror grafted on blasphemous flesh. An oily substance poured from the apparition, and collected as a pool at defiled feet levitating mere inches above the ground.
He held the broom like a cross ahead of him, as if to ward off the das Dämonische’an evil.
‘’I get fifty percent of your estate, plus child support. This does not include transportation to and from school, swimming lessons, and trips to visit my parents. Oh, and you only get to see them once a week.’
‘BACK YOU DEVIL! BACK!’ He shouted with the white of his knuckles.
Life is a long lesson in humility. - James M. Barrie
The first time I got punched in the face was a moment of great self-reflection. I had in my mind a deep-set belief I was invulnerable. As blood seeped like warm Kool-Aid from my nose into the mouth, I felt an inner sadness for the pain my foe’s hand must have felt hitting a head so hard.
I was fifteen years old. My father rushed me to the hospital. The anger simmered in the car. He said he’d track and run-him-over right now. I told him it was my fault. I was bullying the guy.
His muscles relaxed, but the wrinkles in his eyes spread into a wide disappointment.
‘I’ve never asked you to be great.’ He said to me, ‘but at least don’t be the worst.’
‘I know dad, I messed up. I feel as bad as I look.’ I replied with a face so swollen, I couldn’t even recognize myself in the mirror.
‘Good.’ He said, smiling.
The Taste of Water
The night was moonless. A few stars shone here and there despite the light pollution. He was hoping for a life more sweeter, but the story repeated just like his fathers before him.
‘I had a dream once!’ Said an old man, saliva falling from his dentures. ‘Peace with no judging eyes. The darkest days were of sunlight filtered through blinds. Mama’s kitchen was something special. The smell of sautéed onion and simmering okra in tomato sauce filled the house.’
‘Then what happened granddad!’ Said a chorus of children's voices sitting by the carpeted bedside.
He gasped for breath, grasping his chest.
‘I clutched the flower prints on her apron, and she'd tell me stories of wood animals sleeping in tree roots when it rained, and digging muddy holes in summer shadows.’ He wheezed. ‘She’d take me by the hand, and we’d pick dandelions for supper soup.’
‘I make the best dandelion tea!’ Said a four year old with a gap tooth smile.
‘And before I fall asleep, she’d cover my eyes with her warm hand, and sing me a lullaby.’ He said, standing up with a sudden jerk, before falling face first into the carpet.
‘Shhh! Grandpa is going to bed.’ Said the children as they left the room, and quietly closed the door behind them.
midnight cigarettes and strip club margaritas
the other might make you weep,
one goes deep,
the other from your doorstep you sweep,
in a well where a child sleeps,
fell in taking a leap,
piled high in a heap,
what is it Lassie?
is there a dead guy inside of me?
don’t give him any mind,
he thought he was one of a kind,
but many of us purpose never find,
and not all our stars align
the left side of the moon
My mother had me young. The earliest memories were of visiting women clad in sheer stockings, and knee high heel black leather boots. They would take off their burqas and purses, and forests of bare legs marched above my head. As a too self aware child at the age of six, I cuddled with every single one of them. I remember the warmth of the lap they held me in, and nestling my face between two perfumed tits.
I had erections early on. I would rub myself against the bed until it felt too good. One time my father caught me, and made me take off my pants. He grabbed my penis, and said this is what the devil wants, before smacking me on the head and ordering not to do it again.
My first act of rebellion was to jerk off in the mosque’s bathroom. He’d drag me to these sermons that took hours after school, when all I wanted was to go play with my friends. I’d excuse myself to the bathroom every fifteen minutes or so, and return with a satisfied grin. I had endless memories of breasts and thighs that I tapped into. I was Darth Sidious, but on the right side of the force.
Gretel is Hansel
I’m mental, doc-u menstrual,
a documentary filmed in stencil,
etch on my skin a tattoo of a pencil,
tensile a snow globe to a soul prehensile,
my potential is prudential,
exponential - a man on fire Denzel,
washing a ton of files governmental,
my words fly continental, airport sentimental,
paper crane wrap a vessel oriental
through grim or fair weather
two tits hit together,
tickle a nipple with a flame feather,
I sip from ether,
tether a neck with polyester leather,
in petals rising aether,
sequester and pressure,
a bottle of clean linen freshener
wipe my slate clean
windshield colored bright,
catch the shadow by the light,
by the road I used to love,
the hum and hoot of a dove,
memory moonshine gleams,
and dreams bleed into wide streams,
take me to your river
I want to bathe in that sacred water,
wash away every part from the mud,
clean as a newborn bud,
take me to your river,
I want to know
thunder sparks under rock
The rain ran down the trolley’s windows as it swept through the city. He had his new clothes on with a backpack by his side. The self-awareness was devastating. Not only did he notice every gaze and look in his direction, but was haunted by a series of memories that in retrospect had been attributed to his own contemporary consciousness.
A guy in khakis and jacket patched with logos of the local sport team, jumped on the seat beside him.
‘Can you believe the Raiders beat the Charges by three points! And on fucking Christmas eve.’ Said the man, leaning in but not making eye contact.
‘I don’t watch any sports, sorry.’ He said, pulling his bag closer.
‘Are you kidding me?’ Said the man. ’I don’t know what your life is like, but football, it connects everybody. You can be anyone, anywhere in the States, and that common thing of play stirs deep within us those old Gods. That feral infant - leaping, screaming, crying in primal youth! Every moment is full at the coliseum of fair competition. Do you know how many wars were prevented because of sports?'
He shook his head.
‘Man, you got to pick up a book, go read, or something.’ Said the man.
A dude in joggers in white and blue moved from the back to the front of the cart.
‘Hey, yo! You catch that game? Can you believe it?’ Said the man.
‘That piece of shit coach should have been hung from the goal post by his guts,’ Said the jogger spitting to the side in disgust,
‘Damn right.’ Said the man.