The Gift - Part 1

i hit the Kennedy heading northwest to a suburb i had only heard of in passin and hoping passin wasn't what i was gonna be doing too much of cause i was on a mission and the radio playin loud told me such. this weren't no simple thing, this was the thing and this was.

she had found it for sale online and couldn't believe, nor couldn't contain, nor couldn't help but, and i believe her exact words were,
- oh my fffucking god.
...but maybe i'm just paraphrasing.

it weren't really a thing that anyone ever sells. it's usually somethin that gets forgot back a mind back a closet gets lost gets displaced too much trouble to find not that that meant she hadn't been looking for it since before we were what we were. cause she had and surely. some look up movie stars or check on pop bands from years past, but she, but nah very much she searched and scanned and searched again for this very thing that stared her down at that very moment. there. it. was. a thing bein offered up and for mere money hardly a sacrifice and yet... a hesitation. a slow to phone call waitin for somethin i still don't really know what but there it was. and there she was. a two separated by a few dollars a few miles and a somethin much more than few. so there it sat and there she. so an too.

i found myself callin, an office ring up several days past the point of what shoulda been expiration but no. there it was. and still. an across the static still up for grabs still up for sale and a sale that put all capitalism to shame.

- is this Mehrdad?
- yes. dhis is Mehrdad. are you calling about -
- yes i am.
- i haf been waiting.
- i know.
- and here you are.
- here i am.

New York A Love Song - 1 of...

it all makes for a wanting of one day living in that city the same and such that's never needed me from the first moment i stepped foot from train that liberty's statue had passed before onto under and deep into station fantastic from a gilded age surround. that once niuew amsterdam of stretched islands of perfect harbors now brim-filled and shock full of eager wanting next stop chasing and oh did-you-hears the ups are greater than the grounds. that summer spent city of evaporating summer streets drifting upwards in nostril full summer heat filling insides out to the point of knowings and to all points and beyond. and that city blessed city seducing and still after so many years the wantings still there and different no less strong coming from dark corner insides hidden in hiding for one third a life lived out well if not long. the city of a thousand languages in chorus wavelengths of shouts and whispers of cheers and psalms.

The Beet Is The Ancient Ancestor Of The Autumn Moon, Bearded, Buried, All but Fossilized.

a time and a place for everything under the sun yes, yes of course, most definitely, most assuredly, who could even doubt? who me? never! but the moon... the moon is a trickier and less let upon, less let into, less than let on than our just as easily eclipsable ami, monsieur soleil, but madame lune... well she's another story altogether and less a story than a few stories to tell and let me tell you cause i've heard a few and damn do they get better with the tellin. and we all know the ones on werewolves and tides and les période menstruel (she's also occasionally quite french - we've all read a french poet or two have we not?) but what about her other stories those less told? perhaps less understood or less digested like too much liquor that vanishes in our sleep despite, perhaps, our best efforts? but they don't stick with you no not in the way you think to when thinkin stuck because they have on and in them tendencies for sneakin back and into the back of hidin places and hidden corners and places well hid that seem to been meant for forgettin until they sneak back out again. and let me tell you.

what i am tryin to tell. what i mean to say. what i'm gettin round to... don't forget that there's somethin more and no not always a somethin else in the out there nor somethin for discoverin nor somethin' not known because her stories are already somethin known and in the in there and already on the insides. and don't you forget. don't you ever let that somekinda fact get forgotten.

I Believe That It Is Rightful I Believe It In My Mind

and there's some kinda things you just cain't kill.

i remember sayin something clever i wanted to write down. i remember seein her familiar face. i remember bein on the ground. and then i woke up. and i woke up to more sleep. and i woke up to realizin that i had been in a wrong way a thinkin i hadna even thought before but there it was and was right where is in front a me right where you cain't shake no matter how much you commence to squallin nor shakin and hangs heavy in front til you reach out, grab a hold, and remember that very much of a time between ground and wakin up that time that was between time and was time that very same that was existed for an almost just so (and so and so and clearly) and this all becomes all to and all too clear.

and i would cry out 'is there a perhaps a someone out in all of there?' and i must go to them, reach out to them with a hand's gentle caress and ask them 'did you too cry late into the last of nights? did anyone even begin to kiss you?' and even supposin their answers come quick and clean it still ain't their answers cause their answers ain't meant for this questionin nor none other cause their's is the questions we ought not be askin. questions not new nor never was, but old as old is or ever was.

and your torn sounds will scatter in the wind.

The Way The Sunlight Hit Her Skin In What Was To Be Our Garden

how much better would life be if every night meant falling asleep with face buried where cheek meets shoulder?

There Is No Hope

turn out the lights. now! we have to keep them away and oh are they coming. they are fucking coming. don't you understand? they. are. coming. they feast on flesh our own and they care not for souls or humanity or ideas or beliefs or... quiet. did you hear that? they're coming. and you who are still not afraid. think of anything you have done with your life. anything that you think matters or makes a difference. they don't care. they will tear your flesh like the flesh of any other they will rip flesh from bone but the worst part? they know. they know everything you've ever done. every shame every fear you've ever had they know. but they don't judge. they laugh. as they rip to pieces they see into you and they know. but that isn't why they tear you to shreds. they tear you to shreds because it's what they do. but they know. they see. and they and they laugh. everything that you have hidden deep inside yourself is, in a moment, some trivial thing, nothing more than an unnecessary weight that you've carried your whole life and in that moment, lying exposed lying torn to pieces you are nothing more than a pathetic piece of flesh. your whole life you believed the secrets you carried mattered, were what would kill you, but no, they are what is killing you. killing you alive like nothing else can. your secret humiliation that you woke up to every morning is now nothing more than a joke to the those that kill you now and all regrets that you've ever had are in an instant worthless. quiet. i hear them. they are breathing down our necks and we are running in place trying to escape them. but there is no escape. they will catch us. any move we make they know. they know. they will find us and they will devour us. you cannot hide. they will find you. they will find us. their yellow eyes will stare you down in the darkness of your soul and they will consume you. they will consume more wholly and completely than any guilt or shame you could have ever possibly created in your heart. we are surrounded. they will be our end. there is no escape.

We Carry Hatchets In This Family

fiery fiery fiery them flames was burnin' burnin' bright and he felt hisself inhabited by the sprits, the smokey folk hell and even the old man of the mountain hisself had crawled outta time and hidin' places to see what he could do and boy was he doin' and doin' goddamn. he was tables turned and slates cleaned and nay were this simple hodie est tabula rasa bullshit if were a so simplement simply for doin' and done 'cause naw this were somethin' and a else do you even understand? this were't a slidin' through to a other side that not nothern's a been to but just that that othern's had been, had returned, and even done so with tells amongst a belt they's own. this was a somethin' separate, apart, disparate, and any other latin root you could think for this was and this is all to say this was not a unique experience no no, but rather a communing of the dirty saints of the black arts of sorts who knew that there was, had been, and always will be a secret side to all everythin' known or otherwise so there he was with no less'n john a leiden a sneakin' over shoulder and arms a wrapped round guidin' to the less traveled.

and he faced it down like one who knowed what he was doin' for, temptin' satan and all his fallen angels darin' 'em on callin' out and loud,
-here i am you dirty sons a bitches and here i stand and here riskin' all damnation as sure as i's known from the earliest of days to stare you down. to call you out. demandin' you show yourselves whether it unleash all wrath or no here i stand and stand do i ever.

and the devil answered him with a laugh dark as any had ever heard nor will likely hear again,
-skinny whoreson, a gale force full from that which she blows, thar look at ye skinny whoreson of babylon look at ye don't ye know nuthin' good fer nuthin' haven't ye heard across the sea son across the sea. may you survive til i pull the trigger. church on sunday and alls in the hole un-whole and not a chance in hell. but hell if i didn'a so did i, did i ever to the fullest and the full.

he thought on and unto hisself,
-that scoundrel of scoundreldom and all unholy sacrilege left with skin like rubbermeat in the gale force full holdin' us all together like the hands of jesus in a sunday school paintin' like when we was learnin' the good book amen jumpin' the wall into hornets' nest graveyard turn the corner playground ditch canal glory glory hallelujah but sneakin in to the otherns' when i got the chances excitement in the last of places goin to hell for it i'm almost nearly sure which considrin' the let down not quites cardboard brick junk store atmospheric considrin' what? i don't regret. no lightning strike down heart attack car crash explosion rapturotic release maybe wrongs alongs i get by. wake up the next day maybe wrathful vengeful safe escaped by a hair when thank fuck i gots one more to face.

and he came back across and how he did it and hard but came back harder with axe and all fire flamin' word of the lord or word of someone or somethin' with little more than no words a'tal screamin' skull splittin',
-back to hell with ye and all yours what are some.

and with that he commenced to slingin' round hatchet fallin' hard and fast upon him what had fallen deep and into his soul and his very own.

and as he stood over starin' down at a handiwork work a hands he caught the last of dyin' breaths,
-skinny face skinny whoreson. skinny whoreson of babylon. look at ye, don't ye know nuthin' good fer nuthin' haven't ye heard across the sea son, haven't ye heard across the sea.

his first was a thought back to that sea and the very same that had left him here in the first of places but starin' down into the face a satan hisself he stated for histry books and all what like 'em,
-now the satan is dead. me and my babies are safe.

he turned away with a hatchet drop walk away never to return. leavin' weeds to grow up and over all and everythin' he had done. all up and over he had ever known.