Sadness. We all need to
Absurd mask wearing
The Hallowe’en green candle
has a long, tall flame
That is suiting to this sacred time of moon
It hides behind the porcelain goose
Who sits beside my mother’s old burgundy with little blue flowers indian cotton skirt
That usually covers this computer.
In front of the goose is a plastic cottage water cup
in line with a round glass vase
who holds some dried up and dead lilacs and unknown pretty pinks
picked last week, in a different, yet equally fulfilling time
Behind them all sits Jenny’s baby’s bunny. It’s a theme, and I couldn’t resist.
His ear tag says $10.69” (maybe to the baby it will be a girl?)
but I feel he’s precious like gold.
Perhaps my gift to the kid will end up being its favourite.
Poor Jen, everyone must be feeling so possessive over this kid.
I’m pretty glad it’s not me having the first kid for the next generation
It’s a big task to have five family’s worth (Uncle Tom’s, Norah’s, our immediate, Mary’s, Ann’s) of people wanting to share a piece of the pie.
The candle is reminding me that poems are supposed to be magical and strange
This one is real, am I deranged?
Motorcycles on sidewalks
Centuries of visitors climbing sacred stairways
Caged treasures of moving marble
A striking lack of living greenery.
Astride the mountain
Silent whispers of forgotten worshippers
Lost idols, murdered kings
Those same Gods look down from clouds,
as beautiful as yesteryear
Crying tears of corrosion that we
honour them only in
moments of reverie or vacations.
Sliding surely into a concrete coffin
Athena grinds her heel in Zeus’ ear
Hera stares hopelessly into her fogged-up mirror
Dionysus lies comotose – overdosed on crack cocaine
Hermes is gone berserk with tidings of
agnosticism and apathy
Aphrodite dances to country and western
at your local strip tease pub
And Poseidon lies choking
on oil, caught in a driftnet
Hades, happy that Persephone cares
less each year to rise above,
is mounting towards usurption
of his younger brother’s domain
Ares and Diana are playing backgammon on Delos
Eros is run out of arrows
Demeter is suicidal from watching
her Mother’s slow death of cancer
And Zeus is just fucking old.
Over dark blue seas
Under midnight blue heavens
Beyond dreams impossible to recall
Forgetting husbands, homes, churchgroups, children
The solitary white wolf woman
Buying antiques with pennies
Eating pastries with pleasure
Receiving insults, invitations, gestures, comrades
In a war of insubstantiality
She swills back another pint and cries homeless
Another march, twirl under
God-induced sunset, her silent thoughts spell freedom.
She is the only bird who, in adulthood, remembers where she came from.
And how can she forget? The egg shape is imprinted on every glorious tail feather.
her home is a manicured garden
her shade comes form palm trees, bouganvillia, fountains.
For a bed she reclines in the lap of a ceramic ponds; the night shade queen over minigolf seven-hole.
Yet alas, the poor darling is surrounded by so much ugliness. Weinerschnitzel cellulose is bared before her eyes shamelessly, wrinkled, puckered flesh bakes and boils in her sacred sunlight. And those of brown-skin bodies, dirt and clad in blue overalls; these she cares not to look upon – all are below her precise, pristine perfection.
In sweet isolation, sacrosanct ruler over all the garden – only the heads of the cats of mank may speak with her – and those only to keep her informed of changes in the weather and the clime.
And a squat man, dirt and blue, with an eye looking forever into the sky asks her “Good-day my dear, may I have a word with you?” As with so many other disrespectful advances she primps and poses, quite quickly, away from the impurity of his presence. Yet he follows and follows and soon he speaks again.
“I would only like to ask you, my queen, if you truly know what you are.” Perhaps it was that he kept a polite distance, or it was in the deep bow with which he prefaced the question, but more likely due to the trick of the upturned eye – just this once she deigned to stop and speak.
“Slimy slugs and dirty bugs, such as yourself are my fodder. The living fat of oversized maggots are testimoy to my height in the heirarchy of beings. Of all birds only I am feared by the cats of mank. My beauty suprasses that of all the flower and butterflies. I am a temple of creation – bearing as testimony the mark of the Egg. Iam the rightful Queen of the Garden of Paradise.”
“It is true, most gracious lover of thyself, what you have seen through your eyes of your station. But let me tell you what is seen by other then your charming self. To the crisping slugs you are testimony to own material wealth, as dead as the panda upon which you sleep. To the cats of mank you are a trial to be endured until that time, when weakness and age will make you a suitable feast. To the garden you are source of the odd bit of nourishment in the form of your waste. To us dirty blues you are a Satan – a detested symbol of the manifest sin before Allah – vanity. And every mark upon thy feathers is an eye through which another views you other than you see yourself.”
Under the evening’s midnight blue ceiling the poor dear, cradled in her panda lap, plucked every last one of her spying feathers, and became another ostrich.
Manky cats; manky men; manky towles, mank.
Kif; Kif pipe; loadin’ it up; 1 puff each; cleaning it out.
Tide in a box; makeshift clothesline; choses perdu
Cafe o lait; 2 lumps, 3 lumps; berber whisky; mint tea.
Kasbahs; fallen rocks; hidden holes; guardians; desert plains,
Oasis; palmeries; lush garden; almond flowers; fertility rivers
Oranges; dates; dates; couscous; Ramadan Sweeties; Halila; harira.
Olives; taste-testing; olives & bread; salad with olives
Hello; speak eenglish; how are you;
Les gazelles; Aisha; Fatima; Canadiennes!
Whitewax candles; Taggers; desert rainbow
Silver trumpets; desert fox; gellabas; head wraps
Five dirham feasts; one dirham stinkarettes;
Goods; bads; happies; sads; jumping down a mountain dune
Allafou; mch’Allah; bsmAllah; Allah
Crescent moon; Ramadan days; Ramadan nights
Mebrouk’s maggots; invisible man; one-eyed king.
Black-bedraped Berber women with babies up their sleeves
Squat toilet holes; pink party paper butt-wipes.
Crying camels; careening buses; crowded taxis
Spirals on bicycles; balcony views; Medina mazes
Crossed eyes; bent legs; blind; begging
Roman ruins; goats; goatlings; Mimi
Propane cooker; 35 spices; couscous done right
Henna; rose water; Hammam washings
24 and there’s so much more; shitty beer; mystery cake
Momentary hand holds; instant friendships;
Maroccan carpets, patterns,