Long Boulevards Poems
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I’m stealing through a twilit realm, the ancient pale of Whereis,
passing chambers of an Heiress
(though no need to feel embarrassed)
through a magic mystic mirror hanging curtainless.
A glimpse near naked alleyways (denuded by the moon) ex-
poses Ghosts in gauzy tunics
carving symbols, round and runic,
in distended dingy dungeons of uncertainness.
Down misty streets of cobblestone – ancestral avenues –
patchwork paths consume my shoes
(chasing foggy curlicues
twisting, twirling by in twos,
floating anywhere they choose),
leaving footprints that confuse
vagrant wispy retinues
of the threaded wooden sticks that stalk a Puppet wandering.
Condensed in drops of fantasy, distilled in evening dew,
shifting Shadows I pursue
(wearing faces I once knew,
slipping slowly from my view)
turn their backs to bid adieu
leaving stars to tempt me through
Awful Tower residues
mocking treasures time outgrew
in the birth of old from new
framing pageants in review
midst the visions of the painted past I can’t help pondering.
Contorted candelabra claw the skyline’s walled suspension
caught in twilight’s intervention
– still unlit (in stark dissension),
therefore seething with a tension
in the quiet apprehension
of the Watchman’s inattention
to the night-time’s bold pretension
to her power, not to mention,
to her hyperspace extension
(far beyond my comprehension
of the sundown’s bleak dimension) –
on exhausted beaten boulevards of foolish fretfulness.
Oblivion depletes me, voiding haste and hurried hassles,
me, a simple abject vassal,
trailing moonlit floating castles,
– fickle feet, but fingers facile
grasping straws and pendant tassels –
as I stumble through the rubble of forgetfulness.
I think I must be dreaming as I seem to see these things,
neath a sky alive with wings
(hear the Nightingale, she sings),
midst the whispered murmurings
soughed by Phantoms clad as Kings
pacing palaces in rings,
while their hapless footfall clings
to the sagging sinking sands of midnight’s splintered splattered ruins.
Entangled in the swirling leaves that spin in dizzy flurries,
(while the wind beside me scurries
as an ermined hermit hurries)
lurk my sleepy woes and worries
(glowing faint’ but growing blurry)
which, when plundered by the demon dusk, I’d left behind me strewn.
Continued in Part 2
T i m e stops for no one,
as searing seconds swerve
through seasonal squalls,
thawing frost that sleeps upon
the necks of onyx roses,
where pain is etched in skeletal sins~
across pruned plumes,
fleeting through amethyst air,
merged in changing frequencies
of wind and waves,
carrying ballads of a bruised bluebird.
But I have long known grief,
and I’ve tasted the bittersweet
cocktails of life and love.
I am s i l e n c e,
swirling amidst the wheels
of dusk and dawn,
like the unseen flares
of blazing boulevards,
for I am made from ashes of steel,
strong to the eyes
that see not beyond bleeding sighs.
I waltz faster than
my fears can grasp,
the obsidian t e a r s of petals,
leaving each abstract sunset
sketched in acrylics
on murky meadows,
thriving with grieving geraniums.
O beloved moon,
I see lakes of Elysium
through the chained windows
of my tortured tower.
I breathe against the
crystalline concoctions
composed from the ink
of curved constellations,
erasing kismet calligraphies,
cluttered with chaotic conclusions,
sailing toward an astrological sphere,
where colors of love
run free against
the gravity of diabolical dust,
designed on rings of rust.
So let me save the twilight sage,
before the last drop of wintry rage
is no longer tamed by the
treacherous tongue of fate,
for I am armored against
the demonic drumrolls,
luring the splitting sea-surge
to a bioluminescent shore
where Lucifer’s footsteps linger,
caressing the edges of snakeskin,
mimicking merciless mantras
of Medusa melodies,
orchestrated in seething strings,
oblivious to the t r u t h
that I am more than
a wounded warrior,
dressed in whimsical wisterias.
I’ve learned to let go
of every faltering feather,
that blinded me,
pushing my patience
into a labyrinth of tilted tulips,
tainted with twisted tones
and hues of hypocrisy.
Remember,
I am more than the splitting paranoia,
running through corridors of uncertainty,
I am flashlights in the monsoon sky~
emanating petrichor pastels
upon nocturnal nightingales,
singing without words,
dreaming amidst trickling chords.
~ and this is the truth of trembling t i m e
that halts not for the sleeping supernovas ~
It is night yet in the West
and the planes land between listlessly burning tarmac lamps
stealthy fingers scurrying through diadems of neons halogens and amber
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
The cowherds’ bare blistered feet already trample yesterday’s dust into mud
and cartwheels strain in crusted fissures where rains fell only once or twice
while dreams fester in cosy centrally-heated silken beds in luxury flats
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Tomorrow is yesteryear’s planned strikes
buses trains taxis office machines lie soundlessly asleep
and will not wake until the battle over psychic comfort comes to an end
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
For You there is no respite no pause
no tea-breaks with cheese biscuits or croissants
there’s only the last container to crane over the dock in unpaid overtime
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Your eyes will hurt in the twilight’s hazy glimmer
no time to brush your teeth nor shave in hot and cold running water
nor the right to flush a toilet nor heedlessly course through in cosy tubes to work
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
The sirens rave through boulevards in broad night-light
rushing hypertensic cardiac cases from their delight-full beds
cholestrol and diabetic cane sugar within reach of every child in supermarkets
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Let those who succeeded their former masters
sip their sweet sweatless porto before the hors-d’oeuvres
and flap their tabliers hiding their secret shame under cabalistic arms
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Wake! there’s little time left for your own bickering differences to fester
the dawn signals the tasks that lie ahead unfinished
and the carrion hunters trained in their old master’s image club together
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
(Continued in Part One - 2)
I took a trip to Paris, France and of course I wanted to see all the attractions,
walk the boulevards, see the museums and art galleries, linger at an outdoor
cafe watching people stroll while sipping on wine and munching on cheese and
bread. I wanted to float down the Seine by boat at night. But my reason, for
this trip was to go to Le Pere Lachaise Cemetery, for that is where my family
ancestors are buried. I knew it would not be easy to find them as this cemetery
is huge, spread over 110 acres, over one million people buried there since 1804.
I walk the paths
lingering at mossy tombs:
a thousand birds sing
It is an amazing cemetery with many famous people buried there like Chopin,
Oscar Wilde, Monet, Voltaire, Degras and thousands more, but also ordinary
people. From simple unadorned headstones to huge towering monuments.
One needs a guide map to navigate the roads and pathways through this maze
of stone. I finally had to go to the office for direction and help to locate my
ancestors grave sites.
death has no time
for in my heart you exist
the smell of decay:
I found out some disturbing information, the plots are leased for 50, 30, 10
years and if not renewed the remains are removed, boxed and tagged and
moved to Aux Morts Assuary in a single tomb. When the Assuary gets over-
crowed the remains are removed, incinerated and the ashes returned.
And that is where my ancestors are, nothing but ashes in eternal storage. The
Aux Morts (To the Dead) Assuary is closed to the public, I found that very
odd and it made me quite sad. Why, what are they hiding?
And those plots where the remains were removed from are re-leased to others,
well that is how the cemetery can keep up on the burials, apparently there is a
long waiting list. I am happy my family plot is in a cemetery in Canada where
the remains of those buried will never be touched.
___________________
July 25, 2017
Haibun/Le Pere Lachaise Cemetery
Copyright Protected, ID 923378
Written for the Haibun Contest
Sponsor Debbie Guzzi
First Place
I decided to drive through the city today
Instead of the freeway. And,
I still remember when we first met.
It was like receiving my little red bike under the tree
so long ago. The excitement of something so new,
so shiny. I was just so impatient to take you out
and tour your beautiful boulevards, striving to
explore every block of you—one by one.
You were a skyscraper that reached so high
that you ripped the very fabric of my sky
and spilled fortunate stars like
glitter on my existence.
The rain never came. And, I felt it never could.
I would just hold you like a crane—breathless.
All those delirious nights that lasted ‘til dawn.
And the laughter, think back how we laughed,
out loud, that it would echo through the alleys
and above to places the pavement couldn’t reach.
My mouth got wet with just a whisper
of your name on my breath. And I gorged,
oh how I gorged at the restaurants of
your soul until there was no room left and
I was ripe and plump for the picking.
All the boroughs of you,
I thought, would never stop growing.
Now, the constant sun (that used to be there)
can barely break the fog from your buildings and
beyond. When did your sky turn into a sponge of
liquid silt that I squeezed and squished
over my head—constantly? It feels like I never
have an umbrella anymore. The roads got
rougher and the cracks grew into fissures
in need of desperate repair. Some,
beyond repair. Where did it all go?
Time can be so careless and relentless.
You have been torn down and rebuilt
in my mind, many, many times
to unrecognizable sizes.
It all just got confusing and crowded, right?
We saw all the signs and signals
steering us in the wrong direction.
But, we journeyed on,
slowly—never surely.
The whole thing, everything, now,
just looks like the homeless from the
thoughtlessness and neglect of it all.
It was just red light after red light.
I saw our favorite restaurant,
still standing on our favorite corner.
And at that moment, I remembered, how much
I still love you.
The American Morning
We ride smoothly, deliberately, in this old cruising caravan,
Across the ancient American avenues and boulevards,
Of the once living, and now, the finally dead,
Of the once famous, and now, the finally forgotten;
Of tattooed memories applied in the American morning, cooking
In the back kitchen, with yellow-yoked eggs frying rapturously,
Like monstrous hoards of buzzing locusts, out to kill,
In black pans, sizzling and searing sensationally;
With mysterious, soulful realizations of disappearing time,
The heavenly odors of bacon fat, rising to the old-fashioned clouds,
We come here to turn the radio dial, in this summer of winning and losing;
But now it is all turning, turning as the shadows of life should turn,
For life is the now of when and why; and we all know now,
What ‘s waiting and lurking behind the curtained door.
“No, kind sir, you go first through the door, sir, if you please.”
But as we ride now through these blighted snapshots in time,
This creeping caravan from the American morning comes to a halt.
Through the windshield and into the American night, old eyes see
A crowd of black ballplayers, gathering in Harlem on East River Avenue,
Looking to get inside the big ball yard, with the Babe, the Yankee Clipper,
And the Iron Horse, hitting fungoes over the EL station, over there,
Dressed in over-sized pinstripes, dripping in dirt and tobacco juice,
Tipping sweat-stained caps to the roaring, crescendoing ovations,
Thundering upward and through the airy reaches of the big ball yard,
Somehow do not reach their ears; still, they run fast, as if being chased,
Run faster than all the dead baseball gods of the American morning!
But now it is all turning, turning as the shadows of life should turn,
For life is the now of when and why; and we all know now,
What’s waiting and lurking behind the curtained door.
“No, kind sir, you go first through the door, sir, if you please.”
I thought about my older brother when I wrote this
One morning I woke up
and my bed was now a king size,
No more chow lines
and my wisdom[wife] was puttin' in kitchen work
and I was blessed to gaze into my queens eyes,
She prepared a good breakfast & I swallowed my feast
Then I hit the rain closet
and came out smelling like Hugo Boss
and I'm appreciating my new attire,
Praise God no more D.O.C. suits, kites
no more roll calls or pass the wire,
So I put on my armor, ready to face the outside world
with my best battle cry,
" I'm Free "
But I remembered I was on parole
and somedays it's like being up manuer creek
solo with no paddle I,
Use my survival tactics
from studying the boulevards theatrics
and with confidence I straddle my,
War horse for the rough ride
plus I sharpen up my weapon of choice,
I know victory is the key
So I illustrate it through voice,
I don't gallop as I eagle eye the hood,
The change lets me know
I went from platinum status to wood,
I briefly reminisce on when the time was good,
The hawk's present
so I pop the collar on my 6lb coat,
Chip getters & the thick chick sweaters
stalk the block and hounds quote,
Each others psudonems, some issuin' the news,
If you part of the society
that lives by the ' Quiet Code '
you stay true to them
I hear the ghetto winds whistlin' the blues,
See city life plays a cold tune
and ' No Love ' is the bass line,
So when my mind rewinds
I realize that sometimes prison V.I's[visits]
is your only source of face time,
That's why I have much love for my peers
doing much time on tiers,
See hard time & yard time keeps your mind on clear,
And you must conquer all your fears,
In this, frigid world that's been gelid for years,
So for all my loved ones who couldn't be here,
I toast to the ' Most High '
and spill liquors and beers,
Because i'm back in the outside world
But am I really free?
As I was being born, B, you took your first breath
Bringing me benevolence in the struggle to believe
The truth that my mother’s breast would feed me
With blisses I had never imagined before breathing
Soon, your brilliant wonders were boosting my ideas
With hopes for the bright lights to warm a broken heart
Inspire my budding blooms to rise to the surface of filth
That burned with botanical dreams which the rain baths
Whispering grace into the face of breathless poetic ideas
Birds in hues of azure and butterscotch fondling bosoms
With songs both bountiful and blessed by the beauty
Bared through beginnings both brave and blemished
Butterflies murmur of ideas so breathtaking and bewildering
As they dance, boasting of all their brilliance, beckoning
For moments of purity and blossoming delights, insights
Discovered in the brush of wings, touching gently – b’s
Bees caress the blossoms with their bare wings diving down
Circling at breakneck speeds, whizzing across enemy borders
With essences of honesty so shrewd, bitterness melts away
And brand-new beeswax is breached, breaking through thoughts
Buttercups awake to sing to blue skies of the rains
Who will be welcomed to blame weaknesses on yesterday
When battlefields and boulevards were booming
Breaking hearts and homes with brave thoughts
Needless to say, B, you’ve been the breath of fresh air
That has brought bold brothers to believe in each other
Painted the brokenness with blazing bright undertones
Breathes of serenity unfolding to bring bright blessings
B, you’ve been a true and faithful friend to me who believes
In your bright, breaking brilliance rising across blue skies
And leaving the beating of a bemused, bloodthirsty believer
To bring hearts the encouragement needed to their beloved
Now, B, begone!
The Cinematic Film Treatment as a stand alone element
in the aesthetic revolution we are now not witnessing
At the Core is Decor
An intense psychological thriller about ruling class oligarchs wearing chic swastika armbands revealing the clandestine boulevards of hidden influence upon the minds of pleasure seeking urban multitudes who, out of a vague translated and transferred and transliterated and egomanaical sense of guilt over the pain we cause our mothers in childbirth, worship a vague sense of nature's horrifying beauty based upon magazine pictures and post cards and travel brochures, and who are additionally incapable of analysis in the analytic sense, which renders their dreams of apathetic comfort and endless romance novel spa fantasies ephemeral if not a little fishy in the suspicious sense, and yet recently discovered by an anonymous banjo strumming whistleblower to have been run as a psychological warfare operation with the collusion of seedy motel owners in white silk ties with no conscience, who figure all the angles in a grand game of financial Hide the Braunschweiger and cartelized total control of all transshipment of global food commodities with a geopolitical acumen that can only be accounted for by a deeper study into the pathological dimensions of human mentation, which may well conclude that all of humanity is the victim of infant trauma, often instigated wittingly with a feral stratagem of cognitive shrinkage and pre-frontal inhibition; knowing that stupidity pays in so many ways if one is mentally dissociated enough to embrace and prolong the tradition of crippling the instrument of salvation that we generally, if not ignorantly, if hopefully, if not ruefully, if necessarily, if not tragically, if laughingly, refer to as mind.
From "Theater of Utter Charm"
Available on Amazon
I was at one thirty once,
Now I am at two fifteen,
Time has moved incrementally,
Like my weight and BMI,
Crept up gradually, in small bites,
Of cheesecakes and raspberries,
And sips of mellow liqueurs.
The jelly donuts, braised salmon,
And finely seasoned burgers,
All join me as I wait,
In a waiting room with a sink,
Purple gloves, widgets, screens,
An examination table lies covered,
In a sheet with paint imprints,
Of little hands and feet.
I used to be young once and healthy,
The sunshine was my companion,
And books my evening friends,
Awe and wonder nourishing,
My constant curiosity,
And my fingers told my age.
They would coax me to eat,
Hunger was what I felt at home.
My illnesses were events,
Spent with comic book heroes,
Adventures, between sore throats,
And cool fever poultices,
Sprained ankles, bruised knees,
Tended, nursed and healed,
By caring, loving parents.
I had parents once, orphaned,
I will meet them again,
In the realm of souls,
As guides of a past journey,
Who were close to my heart.
Sharing their love and wisdom,
Like bits of mirrors, reflecting,
Fractured images and decisions,
Guides disembarking earlier,
As I meander down alleys,
Meadows, climb hills, and walk,
In the valleys and boulevards,
Seeking, learning, loving,
Hating growing old and pudgy,
Yet embracing the grace of age.
I will grow old again, older than I am,
Older than I was, Like the sun,
Journeying through the sky,
While you mark the hours and days,
The seasons and years,
I live by my rising and my resting,
Through some pain clouded days,
In the beauty of existence,
Seeking and finding love,
Hidden like Moss, Mushrooms,
And Opals in sudden, unexpected places,
And vague unknowing hearts.
Finding and collecting memories,
Until my memories find me in you.