Four by Four

Statement of purpose: to be or not to be—

surrender unconditional, not negotiable, eternal.

In criminalization of love, emotion is not diminished,

only made more painful, intense, benefiting no one.

Her crime was that she loved him—

for this she was punished at the crossover

network of scavenging birds, parasitic insects,

threatened by her longing, her talent, her vision.

His torment was in loving her, already taken,

spoken for by a frozen ancient monolith inscribed,

an obelisk of empires lost in hot, shifting sands…

desire unfulfilled, unresolved, unforeseen, unrelenting.

One fact is still to be explained: the implacable

mortal wounding of the incessantly bleeding

heart; surgery performed removed but lonely flesh…

gripping fear, rage, joy and tenderness remain.

Six by Six

“This place has always been beneath my dignity

but here I stay, I must truly belong although

I’ve never known belonging. Houses of oblivion

where I must abide—colorless without description…

the girls we know are not for loving, only touching,

Here we never feel love, only striving, desiring.

When our love was fresh each moment was a song

of primal joy, now darkness and pain accompany

the tune. The verse is over but never finished,

the midnight sound of suffering, hearts betrayed…

but I am grateful for the noise though it cannot

replace the absence of your colors in the air.

She keeps looking for something to happen, change,

to break the spell of continuous delirium. Sleep

cannot compensate for loss of purpose, meaning.

Her love undiscovered, untapped, unsuspected.

Lights another cigarette, her tattoo, the emblem

of identity, functionality, a mask of defenselessness.

The guitar rocks a lick of tribal communion

while the singer intones the chant of night,

dances for the mating ritual, preservation of life.

Let me remember you, your wonder and mystery,

virtue and ability, intelligence and versatility;

drifting silently away down the stream of destiny.

Six seconds, minutes, hours, days, forever…

each moment a brick in a wall impenetrable

left isolated here to mimic motions gone before,

the lines were written long ago, the drama played.

Her lovers many, their names inscribed, each page

a system, syndrome, pattern, a refuge of lies.

There is no beginning, never an end, this time

Goes on and on. Lottery ticket gives a chance

To feel the flash, a glimpse of romance.

If she feels alright, you can stay all night.

The game persists; hello, I love you, sex, and then

“Nevermore,” quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

Eight by Eight

Twisted dreams of anger pervert the doctrine of Truth.

A Priestess of Virtue professed the party line

adhering strictly to the cavernous vision of future

that only she could personify—He collapsed alone

in silent, transparent agony—unable to respond,

only to field foul balls of secret lies, deception

which only he could tell, only he could know…

Her love was white as snow, cold, melting in the sun.

She never had a chance—the rules changed every time

the cards were played. The numbers shifted like tossing dice.

Her wonder, bewilderment betrayed her honesty—

His deceit, connivance allowed him to prevail for now…

The battle was not even engaged, it was a rout from the start.

Her pain troubled him, her blood on his hands,

it began as a game but became all to strangely real

when her love meant more than he could comprehend.

More beer poured out, runs were scored, and the eternal.

television blighted the atmosphere of lonely derision.

They circled their wagons like vultures defending against

inconvenient necessity, demanded by words of commitment.

Never knowing the conspiracy in all its unholy machinations,

she felt the fury of its contemptuous wrath and subterfuge.

Their roles designed to destroy, playing out the drama

preordained, red stains disgraced even the stars above.

Her intentions were pure, her arms protective, her colors

soft in their diversity, a riot of variety, a frenzy of artistry.

A girl approached the jukebox bearing gifts of money to appease

the evil sentry of diversion, their craven appetites to please.

Step up to the plate and face the music, given in sacrifice for you…

Her love is consumed in the unholy fire of abandonment.

People here are alone in absentia, the darkness of night

accompanies the dance with accoutrements of romance.

Default Mode

Theresa, the neighborhood drunkard

hangs out at the bowl, transfixed,

aimlessly drifting down the alley.

With a can of Malt Liquor open at 8 am,

unconsciously continuing the dance

of her contorted ritual longing, despair.

A Mexican runs self-serve copies;

25-cent minimum charge at the corner

mini-mall, stares as the machine jams.

Sports radio loudly spews the score;

an endless stream of cyber-sewage,

litter driven on the swirling winds.

Hieroglyphic profanity, blasphemous

condemnation besmirches recollection,

a magnificat on the cusp of lost promises.

Fell free to obfuscate, muddy the dark

frozen waters, to forget the ephemeral

magic now diminished in deep night.

“I am not alone, you see; email messages,

T.V. and a load of laundry await…”

cat box allergies, unfulfilled dreaming.

Only two more days ’til Friday, then

only two more days ’til Monday. Sleep,

anesthetic amnesia of ignominy, remorse.

Classified jobs, resumes submitted,

Singles listings provide diversion,

electric atmosphere of false emotion.

Telephone chants complex rhythms:

“please dial your password and press #

you have no messages at this time.”

A sacred litany of pornographic denial,

cheaply bout at the local liquor store,

down the graveled street; there is no more.

www.xr8.com

Email outmoded. Exiled, a solo flight into exorcism—

overboard, discarded, waiting for red lights flashing…

Ceaseless interruption, waves of sleep, clouds shifting

endlessly in the void. Preamble to a stillborn child,

prologue to oblivion, prelude to an unsung melody.

A space occupied only by dreaming, images, quiet forms.

Without design or movement, a silent symphony of symbols

never heard, nor played, eternally haunting empty caverns.

“I am not naïve, I know

what you’ve been doing, I know

what you’re thinking, and

I know where you’ve been.

I’m aware when you are sleeping.

Your desire is my dream.

I’m there when you awaken,

Love never goes unseen.”

“I didn’t sleep again last night.

I couldn’t stop thinking about

your hands against mine. The feel

of your smooth skin cradling

my dry, chafed fingers. And yet,

you didn’t seem to mind their touch.

I could feel them still as the cold night

enveloped the dawn, awakening our

silent allegiances, never acknowledged

as I lie in bed alone with another.

They do not count as I wondered where

you were at 4:30 am in the morning.

I almost called to you, as early light fell,

just to hear your voice, but I couldn’t

bring myself to do it.

Instead I just thought

of you while sweating to death in my room.”

You Lose

“To love me, you must obey my rules

I am the Goddess, you the Fool.

You must play the game I choose

I always win, and you must lose.”

Her lovers roam the streets by night

Hunters stalking death and life.

Lust is our quarry, betrayal our prey.

Return to our tents to sleep by day.

“Truth and lies, darkness and light

are all the same” saith the Queen of Night.

Telephonic drama of her infidelity

outlines her transparent sexuality.

A celebration of divorce, an episode

defines her character, calls out the mode.

the consummation of her pact complete,

shows haunting the paths of her deceit.

“I only want to be with you, I am devoted

to you, you fool. Give me what I need,

then I’ll drag your picture from my files

to your grave, where scented flowers smile.”

Eight by Eight: Act II

Waiting for the end to come, like a grotesque puppet in a cage

prancing absurdly with exaggerated motions, a parody of tragedy

Punishment, vilification and degradation were his objectives…

an ugly, childish comedy of death enacted in the bar-room arena.

Once upon a time, she dared to exact her pound of flesh,

she presumed to claim title to her own youthful exuberance,

her beneficence, maliciousness, mischievousness and frivolity

exploded indecisively as the last dull beer was finally poured.

A child waits in innocence, unprotected. A wife mourns.

The young girls clamor for a chance to imbibe the draught,

their breasts improved by the surgical obscurity this cosmetic

darkness provides. Darts are thrown in self-deprecation. Her

misery caused by his dissembling desire for unfulfilled revenge,

her unforgivable crime was in loving him. Her fault was credulity,

she believed in his love for her, she trusted in his faith, his troth.

His deeds betrayed his true intent, always concealed, never revealed.

Random violence, drunken irresponsibility, psychological trauma

are at the center of our perverse diversions. Let the music play on!

We don’t really care, we don’t really listen, we’re not really there.

The instruments are all surreal, floating in air, circular currents

off the pier, waterfront tides advance breaking waves of dawn

at the end of this untimely tirade. The harangue is never ending,

lambasted hatred of broken windows, slamming doors, guns blazing.

The bartender calls us to order, it is time now to disappear.

“Now that I have destroyed our love, I’ll never feel the same

it never was your fault, you never were to blame. A complex

of destruction surrounded you, as land mines in a field,

an ambush laid with premeditated malevolence, calculated to yield

a stealth attack of punishment to bring you to your knees.

You never knew what hit you, you wanted to believe

that love was sure, and love was strong, and truly that it is,

but when you betrayed me long ago, I never could forgive.”

Hieroglyphic Transcription

No emotion, no recognition, lack of desire…

Is it possible to defend empty rooms

where murdered corpses once lay strewn

in delicately balanced abandonment?

The pages turned like wind-blown leaves,

their courses undefined, randomly scattered.

Did it ever matter? Was there someone there?

The pall bearers moved slowly to the altar,

their burden relieved of sight, of mind.

What reminiscence flickers still in the dark?

Was the light of essence reflected on the pond

or silently extinguished without a sign?

Who can utter a single word of meaning

as the Priest read slowly “God has a plan.”

Fragile vanity, indolent pride of self-esteem,

virtues of personal idolatry and finesse

are swept aside in black, swirling tides

as the deep, cold foaming waters rise; fear

and isolation fill the cavernous void of remorse.

Love is true, love is strong, surely someone cares,

but did it ever matter? Was it ever really there?

Let me now remember you, before it’s time to die,

before the night’s extinguished and our love turned to lies.

There’ll never be another who could chant the fatal verse,

who only by being dissolve the abiding evil curse.

Who with destiny intact can bestow a final peace

on unholy dreams of felons locked away against release…

When I turned to look upon her face, she was gone.

A young girl moves in solemn procession,

a bright constellation against the night sky.

Our bondage and confusion dissolve like ice

in her pristine presence, she is the Queen of Night.

She was there before you, like clouds bringing rain.

she’s with you now as lover, sister, and as mate.

In time she will attend your grave, as instrument of fate.

The God of War and Foolishness now interrupts the scene

with clamor of drums and anger, his harbingers, unseen.

One slave is like another, their journey can be traced

by the littering of carcasses, and things which might have been.

Electric images abound, they force us to submit.

His weaponry is clandestine, the wounds so deep and clean.

His devastation is complete, and never can be seen.

A feeling of finality now permeates the dawn,

yet we know that truly time goes on and on and on…

the evening ends as it began, with drinks in public places,

with promises gone unfulfilled, of vacant empty spaces.

Now our love has been destroyed, life cannot be the same

For lonely flesh, joy and tenderness remain.

There is no love, there is no life, there’s only burning flame.

Exile III

Unfulfilled desiring, more drunken reviling,

Endless nights of static inquiring; emergence

of frothing agony, depression, psycho-dramatic

episodes. Captured pictures of ideal beauty,

to know the truth, to live a lie. Amateur spectacles

of forlorn grace reflect spiritual values of ancient

religious traditions. Ritual of fire; burning embers

at last extinguished. Fountain of expression, spring

of ceaseless colliding images. The Alien source

of internal combustion. Virtuous relief in pastoral

bliss, unfolding of temperamental mysteries.

Next came the stark reminders, embodiment

of useless toil, meaningless tasks. Alliances

formed of desperate striving; futile drone-like

attempts at recognition, an impotent sexual

prowess, exhibitionism never consummated.

always scheming, planning. Blank stratagems

never built nor advanced. Mundane banalities

endlessly applied. Outflanked by circumstance,

the powerful conjuration of abject servitude.

Aging of volition, deep pools of inevitability,

resignation to exile, banishment and defeat.

The Ides of March

Election night vanity, delusions of those in power,

colonies of insects infesting media promotions,

electrical desire to control undercurrent streams.

History delays judgment until the hour elapses.

Raging flames rise and fall, unleashing torment.

Confusion rules, waves rock the shores of time.

Forgive them, they know not what they do.

A succubus alluring, her serpentine coils unwinding;

a mask of illusion, immolation. Her transfiguration

is as she deceives, yet offers smoothing more than rare

and much to be desired. Her magical face, her hair…

something deadly hiding there. Adorned with stars,

magnetic and blue, the love she brings for now is true.

Her icy hands, her frozen stare, a refuge entombed.

Aging telephone messages, sent long ago

lie in wait for the nameless wandering traveler.

Sapphire-laden hues of feline black velvet

course up and down the oriental corridor.

Trombones signal the climax of Act III

as a chorus intones the fatal verse, raining

down a riotous profusion of colored glass.

Shards of dreams haunt the mansions of recollection,

fragments rooted in the transience of air. Flashes

of pastel light bathe the dawn in sunny raiment.

Days softly passing in cloistered gentle confinement,

the nights a succession of ancient spirits dancing

to music only they can hear, if ever it was there at all;

the colors of their wings ever changing in the wind.

A game of chance almost wagered, never won;

the face cards represent a progression of mood,

characters true and false against the flooding waters.

Their places on the board were dealt at random,

the winning hand was never played. Ghostly

arcane piping of flutes enhances the bacchanale

as primitive savagery of drums garnishes the feast.

Egyptian stars regaling deep libations at the bar

where poets never speaking imbibe their diatribe.

A child awaits, his life begins with mystery laden.

With unknown desires to fulfill, his destiny he traces.

Wonder becomes amusement when cognition finds a groove,

when words bespeak of action and their meaning rings true.

Innocence engenders freedom; but knowledge, servitude.

Suddenly awakening I remembered that Love is not here,

but gone with the Ides of March. She was quietly sleeping,

her bitter trauma unresolved by indefatigable weeping.

Her treachery is a sacred trust, in her falseness, truth.

Her ignorance my wisdom, in morning light, her youth.

Her misery my exaltation, in suffering my release,

her bondage is my freedom, her faithfulness laid waste.

Someday, somewhere, a place, a time in desperation’s void

where futility spawns hopefulness though love has been destroyed,

the coils of the serpent wind with gripping, sweating toil;

madness compelling suicide promises no recompense

at childhood’s end when an echo blends colors never seen.

Indecision, vice and fear inadequately defend joys unsaid

and sorrows plaint now and gain for time which has not been.

Stations of the Cross

At first hello, thank you very much for reply…

Well, I’m Irina, 29 years old; am a writer,

I’m writing a fantastic stories. And this is not

only my hobby. I’ve enter University here

and am working in newspaper “Stars.”

My society life is full enough but I can’t

say the same about my private life. I live

alone in my own apartments in the centrum

of my beautiful city. I was not merried

and am not having children. My parents

are farmers and they are living in village

80 kilometers near here. I like to visit them

as often as I could. It is so nice to be

at the real nature, to feel fresh air, to sweem

in the lake and to walk in the cool forest.

Nature is too wonderful to be described with the words.

But to feel it with all body and spirit it is necessary

to be together with some very close person…

Two persons could feel together much much more

than one, even very romantic. Hope you will understand.

I’ll send my foto with next letter.

Are you a really serious? Now I guess we’ve

started a relations. But you know, I must say

something important. I’m a 29 years old,

that is not too young for unmarried woman.

I don’t have opportunity to try a lot’s of time.

I’m looking for a serious and only a serious

relations. I’ve decided now to get merried,

and I’d like to do that ones. I don’t have

a time for experiments. That is if you are

serious too I need a some guarantee of that.

Hope, you will understand me correct.

Well…then you are serious enough, then.

You’d like to have a something really serious

with me. But first of all we must know

each other better, we must learn each other.

I’m thinking that we feel each other already,

lets’ deside how we could do that. I’m

waiting for your concrete propositions.

We could continue…if you are ready to prove it,

your love and intentions, your concrete relations.

We should deside that a bit later, about us,

We must deside now something less important

but more current. The matter is I am not able

to pay for rent in this moment. Could you

do that for me? Please, send the money via

Western Union Money Transfer, is due today.

By chance, it would be that guarantee I was

waited for. I meen that if you are not gong

to pay for my rent that is you are not a serious

to me. In this situation, I must then be happy

that I understood it not too late. But if you are

really serious, please send me the money.

If you’ll do that we’ll have a fast way

to discuss our future relations together.

Love,

Svetlana

Radio Silence

Survival is a submarine,

hunkered down, stealthily.

defensive clandestine concealment

motionless, quiet, secretly dormant.

Beneath the waves in darkness lurking

waiting, watching, hiding, searching.

On the surface, washed with spray,

whitecaps dance and dolphins play

submerged in depths unseen, unknown,

with danger near, threaten to explode…

hiding a curse of foreboding guile

under the sea, in purposeful exile.

Unlike the Ancient Mariner,

there is no one to tell the tale,

and though the lesson to be learned

is as deafening as the stormy gale

that thunders out its lightning bolts

against wild winds and ghostly sails,

in the unsuspected deep, far below

the waters swirl, but do not show

a sign of life. But hidden there is

something deadly, full of terror as

mocking tongues lament with violence

the maintenance of Radio Silence.

Reptilian motions echo time

long ago, forgotten, unrhymed.

Where the air succumbs to naught,

where the arts of war are taught.

When loving ways have ceased to be,

survive on board the submarine.