I was hungry enough to eat the **** end of a skunk.  I felt like gobbling the whole mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room.  Make that a quarter. I guess my tummy has had enough grumbling, like a seething network of volcanoes ready to devour Hawaii.  I am sure as exhausted as a zombie after a “battle of life and death” handling a plethora of carpentry tools which I have managed to rummage from our dismal basement.  I’m quite serious with the phrase “battle of life and death”.  I get to have this Obsessive Compulsive Syndrome which gulps a huge amount of my rhythm compelling me to put things in place especially in my chamber.  At times, a weltered pen could instigate an emotional havoc.  Or perhaps an inappropriate collaboration of curtain hues and mattresses would be ample to spin the color wheel concept out of my brain.  But now, my walls have done it.  Well, it was just a microscopic sight of a divine crevice, but how in the world could that escape my eyes?  Without a second thought, I approved an avid proposal from my subconscious – a full concrete room renovation.  And that’s how it brings me here, smothering the last square inch of the genius blueprint with this porridge of lime and clay, the hell with chemistry!  I have found out that my room has achieved the piquancy of a sizzling summer noon, thanks to the mist of dust and the precipitating drops of sweat that come tingling down my overheating body.  Ah! At least my system tells me that I’m not a promising patient of ****** dysfunction.  When the last patch has been perfectly planed in place, I drew my last ounce of pure strength and plunged into my most formidable bed, congratulating myself for a job well done. Alas! A thirty-minute nap and I’m ready for a superb coffee and doughnut delight.

I woke up from a cat’s screech. I peeped through the window. The nap breaker was a Cheshire, one with a dimmer fur, the stripes of gray suppressing the darker color.  Its tail enjoyed dancing around its rear, connoting either fear or excitement. It sure has a distinctive mischievous grin.  The feline was on the verge of climbing up the roof by jumping from a gutter about five feet away.  It seemed to have slipped but has managed to bring its **** next to the roof tiles. It stared at me with intent, giving me the macabre look from its glaring eyes.  It’s as if I’m being watched, stalked and examined in a way I couldn’t see, bringing me that feeling of guilt, of remorse.  Urgh! That’s why I hate cats.  Though I’m planning to keep one, I’ll reconsider it.  But what pains me more is to discover that my alarm was not able to do the job and so I slept three hours more than planned.  I looked down and saw the city lights flashing one by one, the beams glowing like a barrier of radiance diffusing into the gloom of the night. I guess this was the price I have to pay. I traded my snack with a peaceful hibernation, turning the coffee into a glass of iced tea and the doughnut into a great dinner with me, myself and I.

I have learned to cook since I was ten.  My mother believed that culinary prowess could be inherited from generation to generation.  And so, she put her trust on me and I haven’t failed her ever since.  This gourmet brilliance proves to be very useful at times of solitude when you got bored of ordering other’s recipes and decided to make your own buffet.  I remembered her telling me that all food would taste good if there is the chef’s heart flavored in it.  Cooking is an art, combining the loops and the whoops of seasonings and spices to the medley of meat and herbs.  Tonight, I decided that my dinner would equal breakfast, satisfying the grudge that I got from skipping my  diabetic snack attack.  A beef stew and a side of paella made my stomach die in joy, appeased at last that my gears are energized for my routinely nocturnal bookworming activity.

I normally hide under my sheets at nine but tonight, I shall break the rules. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll fix the rules next time. Just this time to spare for I have gained interest on this book entitled “100 Years of Solitude”, talking about how one could live happily even alone, just by creating the world you have ever dreamed of. Gabriel García Márquez is dumping the “no man is an island” concept which anyway sounds inspiring to me.  Finally, I jumped into bed thanking Him for letting me outrun another day living alone in a comfortable apartment, free from all sorts of vexation.  I wished for a better life at school, which gives me an imagery of dull monochromatic memories.  I am not that famous but I can be someday.

A heavy beam of sunlight pierced through my window, refracting on the ***** white floor and creeping up to the mahogany table just right at the corner.  It intercepted with the glass pyramid and created a beautiful prism that glittered all around my room.  It was a really majestic scenery, one that I luckily happen to see every morning, a good optic background, I guess. Two hours before class time – that’s where my pattern starts.  Take a bath, eat, brush teeth, groom, check the doors and power, then I’m off to go. Everybody follows a certain kind of pattern, that’s for sure. Whether you wear different types of clothes everyday or use competing brands of toothpaste, clothes are clothes and toothpastes are toothpastes.  As humanity finds more and more complexities in life, they become wired to doing the things and involving the events which they think would give happiness to them and simplify their equation of life.

As a proof, there’s Mrs. Lanny Honeycut from the house next door. She usually sprinkles her daisies every ten in the morning, wearing that friendly neighborhood smile. On their patio, you could never miss a day seeing her husband, Mr. Blake Honeycut reading the daily papers with a round of tea, jam and bread spread on his table.  On the busy intersection stands traffic enforcer, Red Mayer, waving his arms to and fro while wearing that aura of valor, never seem to get tired of doing the same thing over and over again. Thousands go out for work and go back to sleep everyday and that's the status quo we're talking about. Even inside the academic arena, you can still hold on to that thought; I mean the size of the population doing the same pattern at the same time – my schoolmates, enemies and… friends? Well, I’m not quite sure with the last one, but it’s this: they all make a fun of me.  They say I’m a dork, a nerd, a geek, a freak, and etc.  I wonder if they mean everything that they say or say everything that they mean.  Either way you put it, I’m not buying it. I am not what they say I am.  I just like being alone and that’s where I do best.

And as always, the school is crowded with busy people rushing through the corridors. Others are beating the deadlines while some are happy they could breathe for another break. But no matter how busy everybody could be, there is always a time spent for “information dissemination” or chitchats. But only this time, the topic discussed is the same.  I could hear it on the entire campus, everywhere in the perimeter. Another student in the university is missing leaving no trace of existence.  It’s been going on like this for over two months now and the university council has taken their best courses of action to unknot this mystery while campaigns have been running on TV’s and vigils were spent. Not that I don’t care but it seems that this is also happening to other places, I mean, this is not the only school where maniacs could exist and become professional serial rapists in the making. By the way, this is already the 12th case on the record. Weren’t people overreacting to the issue? Isn’t the case overrated? Did they reject the possibility that these people ran away because they got pregnant, messed up or something like that? Soon, the university area was covered with security troops roaming around like a swarm of bees, buzzing and sometimes boozing all the time.

I guess that’s what happens when you hang out too much with friends who are just jesters plotting your own jeopardy. I don’t think it would be good at all to be bothered with things like that because sometimes, it’s also useful not to have any use at all.  Like the king being admired by his kingdom amidst his sloth and compromises.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not friendly anymore. Actually, if it happens that I got company, I would magnanimously offer a treat at my place.  But the thing is, who would likely do that? I’d cross my fingers on it.

Wishes do come true even for a loner like me.  I think I have a fan. No, that would be too sublime. She’s hot and she’s hotter when you’ll know she’s so cool. Quite a paradox, but that’s just reality.  We came to know each other on our lab class. Her name’s Athena, fitting for her twisted logic and good humor. It makes me burn a lot of calories when I talk to her more than a 5-mile marathon could squirt. We were lab partners and we get along well. I just couldn’t figure out where she got the courage to befriend me. I do regard myself as unwelcoming species, but I might work on it when someone tries to knock the door. We juxtapose ideas. Yes, that’s what makes our conversations spin like a merry-go-round. But we enjoy it nevertheless, evident by the crescent smile we both generate out of the craziest topics in store. Once, she interrogated my way of settling wars with enemies. Well, I told her it was my habit of treating them to my house and giving them souvenirs to show how sorry I could be. She snickered and her eyes glowed like the Andromeda and her face shun the whole universe. Oh, I can do this all day long, if only I got hold of time and space.

Today, she asked me if it would be okay if she’ll stay at my place till nine when her dad could be home and she would be able to call her and ask to pick her up. She reasoned out that otherwise, the night would be scary because she’ll be alone in their house, no company, no security. I was puzzled how the thought of being alone could scare her. It is like freedom from any constraints, no ties, and no limits. But I couldn’t blame her. She’s too fragile, too vulnerable to handle it with herself.  With the speed of the light, I accepted the favor.  Well, that goes even without saying.

It was past six thirty when we arrived at my immaculate apartment. It’s great to be an“ OC” sometimes, I said to myself.  I thought of a winner dinner, one that would make her visit worth reminiscing. I preferred Italian.  I cooked her lasagna and drenched the dinner with sherry. We talked a lot until we run out of resorts. I guess she planned it, or I planned it, synergy perhaps.

The clock ticked nine and there’s no sight of her father’s getaway car. But there’s no sign of worry in her countenance either. I surmise it didn’t reach her inkling yet to phone her dad.  She was busy dissecting my kitchen and living room with her very playful eyes. That doesn’t trouble me though. That’s just as instinctive as any other first time guest could get. She grappled her attention on my antique collection of prehistoric movies, like the Scarlet Letter, The count of Monte Cristo and the likes. She happened to love them too. Well, that makes her more beautiful to me, other than the satin white dress she wears. Suddenly, she got the impulse of going to my room. She said there’s nothing more exciting to see than a gentleman’s bedroom. I startled from the request, but before I could say anything, she leaped straight to my chamber with the gestures of an imp. It’s weird to be in this kind of circumstance because I don’t often invite a lot of visitants to my room. I ain’t no hotel crew, bowing down and waving his hand to the chamber’s destination and leading the VIPs to their cabins. Yet this time, it’s the other way around: it’s my cabin.

But now it’s too late to stop her. She molested the **** and I giggled for some reason. Finally, the door opened a crack and a bend of light escaped from inside. She stepped in, and I followed. She was filled with awe not because my room is all made of gold nor did it resemble a royalty’s den. It was the exaggerated neatness and order that greeted her. In some unknown vortex of my deepest imagining, it made me feel like I’ve been through this instance before. The flashback is not so vivid as it appears, but something tells me this isn’t the first time. Deja vu could be working on it, I infer,although I don’t really believe in those forms of conceptualizations. Perhaps it’s the sherry’s spell infiltrating my mental prognosis. But something, I guess, isn’t really right.

I caught her opening a red box that was hidden behind my cabinet. I tried to steal it away from her but she fought back and it came tossing down the floor. Numerous items spilled from the case. A purple head band with the glittering initials ANNE, a ruby embedded bracelet, and a Nokia handy phone exposed the secrecy. This isn’t going to go along well and fine, I guess. A strong surge of desire came from my core. It tried to envelop my entirety and control me like a lifeless puppet. I felt the tip of the pyramid glass in my hand and I succumbed to lose my consciousness.

Morning came and it felt better than ever. It was a ***** Saturday. There she lies beautifully on the deck, like an immortal bud of red rose trapped in golden amber. The cellophane fits her well, and there’s no doubt she’ll be complaining anymore. I already prepared a cozy place for her deep sleep: A 5x2 feet wall engravement which I was busy molding last night. It wasn’t easy making her go to bed but still it ended up smooth and sound. I helped her get up and fitted her in place.I turned on the radio as I reached for my dear carpentry tools. The news was still nailed on it. But this time, the missing case struck for the 13th turn. Ahh, the hell with society! They never really get a way to deal with it.

I was busy patching the last mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room. Make that a quarter. I guess there’s no end to this divine crevice issue. It must be following a pattern too. But I can handle it, thanks to this vicarious personality. I wonder if I could get the chance to invite another visitor in my place. But if I do, I would certainly offer the best treatment they could ever have.

I often remember with a lot of thrill in my spine every time I reflect on the Writings of Miguna Miguna in his book peeling Back the Masks, a certain sub-plot that most of Kenyan students in Canada, America, Britain, Germany or Australia often fail to go through pre-university examinations and then they opt for faculty friendly courses like carpentry and electrical-wire man offered at some polytechnics in this countries. Then these students end up living as informal sector workers in the Diaspora, and hence putting themselves into a cash strapped condition that they don’t easily come back home. This is also the same texture of revelations I have been encountering for the past five months of my regular reading of the literary pages of The Saturday Nation, in which a most of Kenyans write alongside some foreigners, but notably Professor Austin Bukenya as the foreign writer, Bukenya himself being a Ugandan.
The revelations are that the writers who were regularly writing on these pages sometimes ago have gradually waned up, not because of anything but due to their intellectual irrelevance. Mostly caused by a defect of intellectual inferiority. They were the likes of Evans Mwangi; Mwangi was forthrightly coming up with a tribally fine-tuned niche in the name of being Ngugi wa Thiong’o scholar. He had a specialization in writing about Ngugi because Ngugi is his tribesman, they are both Kikuyu’s.He also had substantial writings on Ngugi’s children; Mukoma, Lee, Nducu and Wanjiku wa Ngugi, who are in similar stretch of their father struggling to be established as writers. But all in all, Professor Evans Mwangi has already ended up as an intellectual without consequences.
Another writer in point was one; Dr Tom Odhiambo, who also teaches literature at the University of Nairobi. He had been writing on the same pages but with a strong bent towards Luo Chauvinism and stark Conspiracy against Luhyia veteran literary Critic Professor Chris Wanjala.
The only Kenyan literary activist who has been trying to remain globally vogue in his literary writings on this platform is Dr Godwin Siundu; he often displays Global relevance through his pataphorous approach to literary appreciations and criticism.
But whatsoever the case, professor Bukenya has towered seriously above these Kenyans.Bukenya’s command of English language and literary command has no match on the Kenyan literary market. Bukenya Tackles globalectics of literature as Kenyans struggle with tribalism of their home literature.Ethinicity is the enemy of Kenyan literature and as well an established foe of any other Kenyan professional perspective.
Why Kenyans are threatened with intellectual suffocation when exposed to otherness is because of a few reasons. As cited above ethinicism remains a dominant factor. But also, lack of homogenous public language, absence of ideology in their political history, failure of politics to achieve common nationalism and corruption in the public sector are contributing forces among others.
Your consecutive  look at the literary pages of  the Saturday Nation of the previous three weekends will be an empirical testimony to this position.Bukenya’s stories have surveyed dialectics of English language, aging of African literature , translation and greatness of Uganda orature with a focus on Okot P’ Bitek. And this weekend he has beautifully lime-lighted on Julius Nyerere’s Intellectual tigritude. Nyerere’s as the killer of colonialism but while at the same time he lingered as the staunch lover of Shakespeare.
This is simply a farcical repetition of the previous tragic history, as reflected in the words of Karl Marx in his 18th Brumaire, which made the Ugandan educated Sudanese Poet, Taban Reneket Makititiyong Lo Liyong to look at Kenya’s literary poverty and then take a synechedochal stand to decry that east Africa is a literary desert. He was right, but in a sense he did not mean east Africa per se, he meant Kenya .Kenya at that time had only an English Department at the University of Nairobi. The department was poorly performing in terms of research. It was desperately tethered duplicating of the European classics as its literary overture.
But when the foreign and radical blood came to Kenya, in guest of helping Kenya to overcome the fog in the seasons end from colonial mire to literary and cultural freedom, Native Kenyans were surprisingly never friendly to them at all at all. Some of the intellectuals who had come to Kenya that time were the greats like :Ezekiel Mphalele from south Africa, Okot p’ Bitek from Uganda,Okello Oculii from Uganda,Ayi Kwei Armah from Ghana, Joie De Graft from Ghana, Walter Rodney from Guyana, Austeen Bukenya from Uganda and Taban Lo Liyong from Uganda.
All of these foreigners in Kenya have later on been absolved by time and history  as literary greats.They have proved clear intellectual and literary superlativety  over and above all Kenyans. The point of contrite is that, Kenyans of that era did not give them a chance to share their intellectual resource with the peasants and masses of Kenya. Instead Kenyan bureaucrats began their usual came of intimidation and tribal nagging whenever intellectually outshone.
Austeen Bukenya was condemned into poverty at Machakos girls high school to be an English teacher or a teacher of English without a salary. Liyong and Pitek were perpetually witch-hunted out of University of Nairobi by Ngugi and Wanjala. Rodney and Armah were frustrated until they desperately moved to Tanzania from where they wrote their respective oeuvres. Armah wrote Why are we Blessed, While Rodney wrote the world famous book How Europe Underdeveloped Africa. Mphalele was frustrated to oblivion, only for him to die mysteriously when on a literary tour in West Africa.
But sadly enough, the Kenyans who were seriously illiterate, in the  likes of : Daniel Moi, Jomo Kenyatta, Ezekiel Barengtunny  and many intellectuals so-so’s shamelessly made themselves to be  chancellors of the Universities .They were chancellors who never went beyond class seven of primary schools in their child hood. They then became bovaristic if not atavistic only to begin writing lame books like Nyayo Philosophy, Suffering without Bitterness, Facing Mount Kenya and other literary trash of the same calibre. It is this intellectual sludge that they again turned to impose as compulsory reading materials on sons and daughters of poor Kenyans.
By
Alexander K. Opicho
Eldoret, Kenya.

All I know beyond
a flicker of a flame of a
doubt is that, for whatever
inexplicable reason, you are
fascinating

and each and every day, every
moment with you brings new
light into the equation

so bring on the days and
build up a lifetime

Once upon a time
and once only
there lived an unsightly man

and though he was very kind and hard-working
no woman got
more than one step closer to him

after a while
seeing he cannot find his soulmate
the man left the village and built himself a cabin
in the woods

all day long
he chopped wood
picked fruit and herbs
occupied himself with carpentry and animal husbandry
and grafted all sorts of trees in spring

from time to time
the villagers came to see him
asking for advice on how to heal their wounds
ordering a door
or a bed
and less often
a coffin

but the man in the woods
though more and more sought-after
was
more and more miserable
as time went by

one day
unable to possess his soul anymore
wove a rope
and went to the oldest oak
to hang himself
but the oak
who had seen so much in its life
but never a man so wretched
broke the branch he was hanging on
then covered him with leaves
so that no one could find him
right next to its trunk

but
underneath the leaves
our man fell asleep at once
and woke up before God
and he said to Him
Lord
You know that ever since I was a child
I have been careful not to tread on ants
or any kind of crawlers
I have not stolen
I have not lied
I have worked all my life
for all that I earned
inspite of these
I am really miserable
that no woman wants me

and the Lord said
I know you very well
there is hardly anyone as kind as you out there
but as much as I love you
I cannot create a woman so unbeautiful
to love you
but
you can

look
from the dried oak branches
you can shape a woman's body
fill it with clay and wrap it in leaves
and I will take care of the rest

so, after he woke up
our hero
worked on his clay creature for three whole days
but fearing she would reject him
he made her even more unattractive than he was

on the third day
he called God
and asked Him to give her life
and the Lord
as promised
blew the breath of life into the woman

seeing this wonder
the man was grateful to the Lord
then woke her up gently
with a kiss on the forehead
she then opened her eyes and asked him:
who are you
and why are you
so hideous that you are scaring me

to which he cried and said
forgive me
I am your servant
The Lord made me like this
to protect you from wild beasts
but I am hard-working and wise
to care for you how I know best

but she closed her eyes
and then he understood
to only care for her
in secret

and as he loved her more and more
her ugliness began to fade
becoming more beautiful with every passing day

soon
a young villager came to ask for remedies for his mother
and not little was his surprise
when he saw the most beautiful woman
he had ever seen
and she saw him, too
and understood what love is
oh, how she whined that night

seeing all this
the man who dreamt too much
told her the following day
look
I know it is time to go our separate ways
I cared for you as well as I could
and I hope you are not dissatisfied with anything
go with that handsome young man
and should you need anything
look for me
if you can bear to look me in the eye
and so she did

years later
while keeping himself busy with a bee garden
the man in the woods felt her presence behind him
but, afraid not to scare her,
he did not turn around
and she cried out:
I eventually learned the whole story
so I came to ask for your forgiveness
and look into your eyes
and the man
who had stopped dreaming for a long time
turned around and was astonished
to see before him
the most unsightly woman in the world
but he did not mind
so, he cared for her
just like that first day
and she regained her beauty and happiness
and perhaps
the man in the woods would have never learnt
why his woman caressed him with so much joy
if one day he did not look in the water of a spring
and see
the most handsome man
there has ever been
out there

her mouth was sandpaper.

her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like
a smooth surface,
words scraped into fluidity
like a wooden sphere,
turned over behind teeth ‘til all friction
is lost.
she spoke like the walls of a birdhouse
in the room of a dead carpenter:
pretty unassembled things.

her mouth was sandpaper
and every kiss chafed,
rubbing raw my lips
and tongue
crafting with each touch
drawing blood like
juice from an apple,
like sap
from wood already cut from the tree.

her mouth was sandpaper
and she told me
i bite my lips,
rip at
the inside of my mouth,
cannibalize myself cell
by cell.
bone saws in her mouth.
the only difference between teeth of jaws
and saws
is mercy
(and she swallowed her mercy long ago).

her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like a carpenter’s hands:
rough palms,
tough pads,
a utilitarian artist
a crafter of dead flesh.
a mortician for dryads
and kodama.
the art and the artist
in lips
tongue
and teeth.

her mouth was sandpaper
and i brought mine to hers
again and again,
her bitten-rough lips
opening like doors to
purgatory.
less entrapment than addiction -
returning once more to nails and hammers,
hell’s blacksmiths below
heaven’s painters above.
coming back home
to the space between,
to bone saws
and a carpenter’s hands.

her mouth was sandpaper
and her voice was carpentry,
her teeth bone saws
her words
birdhouse walls.
her mouth was purgatory
but her hands
were hands.

her mouth was sandpaper.
i held her hand
and chafed my lips raw.

She keeps asking what he does,
though his answers are recycled:
half-finished carpentry jobs,
French bulldogs, paintball,
a seventh-grade broken nose.

The basket of fries between them
feels like an interview.
She teases about sweat-stuck bangs,
neon-laced Docs,
his faux leather squeaking when he moves.

Her smile forgives empty stories,
softens each silence.

Condensation slips down her glass,
her knee brushes his-
a spark he does not catch,
his throat working like a valve.
The door opens, closes,
a draft follows smoke and cedar,
distant wildfires.

Outside, a truck unloads shrimp.
A box bursts on the pavement-
pink shells and thawing ice
sliding into gutter water.

Curses flare into the alley.
Engines idle.
Hydraulics hiss.
The stoplight clicks red to green,
green to red,
its metronome louder than either of them.

Sanded down,
handed down
heirlooms
for boardrooms.

Directors prospecting for
antique positions,
commission based,
cyanide laced contracts,
small print that annihilates,
dilating the pupils ,restrictive
and
pencils that scribble out names in
a ledger.

Forever indebted,
a debit individual.
All residual profit
reinvested,
future proofed
heirlooms.

what's given forth may come out true
we lose at first just so we learn
the complex tricks and in our turn

teach each young one to pay their due
expend a little and discern
what's given forth may come out true

each change will mean the world made new
by other hands and thus we yearn
to see the old fires once more burn
what's given forth may come out true

Today he's so drunk,took a step forward
And two steps back
Drunk something transparent last night
Came to work today with tough luck
Told stories,when he was in puberty
While listening to a song,entitled
Bohemian Rhapsody

Though he was quick,
And full of strength and youthfulness
He is old and tired
And purely ruthless
He hates the songs, that he can sing
He talks about the strength and bronze he had those days,

I think of him as a powerful man,
Someone to look up to as a matured man
But,I can notice his grim and despair
Running through his eyes like ,a quantum flare

I sent him home with all my trust
Hoping to see him tomorrow with all my luck
Hope to work and drink with him while being tough
For he is the one who builds my house
My dungeon,and where I can keep my flock

God smelled something foul
in the garden & thinking the
man had discovered manure,
god came down & found Adam
fast asleep w/ **** all over his face;
What have u been eating? shouted
the Lord, shaking the trees;
Adam awakened startled,
seeing god's fury:      have u eaten
         of the Tree of the Knowledge
                             of Good & Evil?
No! Lord, no!   cried Adam,
It was the woman!   she made
chocolate lava cake & I ate it,
whined the trembling
creature,        face to the ground in
fear & awe;                 god walking
away shaking his head & saying,
      put some clothes on, *******;
what are clothes? called Adam;
       god sitting down on a rock to
think things over was only mildly
      surprised when Eve, bare skin
      ethereal as summer rain came
  & sat beside him;           not exactly what u
                       had in mind, is he? she asked,
                   wrinkling her freckled pug nose;
nope, not at all, said god, but it's alright;
my kid's a carpenter; I'll get him down
here to patch things up;     Eve stood
abruptly to her feet,  heatedly wagging
pert ****** *****;          A carpenter!
she hollered; well, I hope he learned
carpentry in medical school, she sniped,
marching into the brush & returning w/
a bowl of fresh fruit: hungry? she said;
|        I could eat - - oh-**-o! so,
            u're the smart one!

I do carpentry.

The workers are wondering --


how to proceed now.

Snowflakes scraped underneath fingernail tips
When the charcoal was pressed harder.
As often as the cheetah runs with the crocodiles by the nile
They do not look for each other.

As often as the bees sing
Only once could they muster poison and sting
With a clockwork, shelter and carpentry of honey.
The fruitness of a living body.

The sound that gets lost in the woods
Gets lost and carried
Flying through the whispers between the branches and twigs.
All the creatures are all but lost
Yet the striking fur
Shocks
Hunters into firing hot shells across
and the falcon fell.

A shouting cull
The silence that meant that wildly blooms have been collected.
A bouquet was calling the passing hours
Wrapped in the scraped white spirit of the wooden towers.

"Loads of guys talk to Rhi"
On a day such statements and possible insinuations don't **** me off
they actually entertain me.

What do people think of me?
What do they really see?
Used to be a source of teenage paranoia
Now I'm more intrigued

It's 6 am,
After party at Mag's house!
Everyone's sleepy
Sun's coming up
Smokers coming in and out from the balcony
Sliding doors
Dawn chorus
Sat in the darkest corner
On a wicker chair
Tryin to go unseen
Feelin I look a state
Makeup has started to fade
No longer hiding me
No one in this room
Would know though
About that insecurity
Had me Avoidin mirrors
When out since the age of 15
That's a long time to not be
able to face yourself

But now this young guys facing me
I've sparked an interest you see
Half cut Johny who I shared the car journey
Back with has been spreading the word
That I do carpentry
And he's intrigued
So he's crouched down beside me
Eyes wide open,
Probing me, testing my knowledge
Rollin off his story of going off the rails
And joining the army
But how carpentry gives him some peace
I smile, I listen, I speak
Shake his hand
As he introduces himself as Steve
Asks if he's steppin on anyone's toes
Cause he believes the Dj
That's followed us back
For the after party
Is my boyfriend
Cause we were talkin
And he was stood next to me
I laugh at how fast
Assumptions are made
In the dark
It's kinda funny
He feels awkward now
Says it's nice to meet me
Leaves
Sigh of relief

Why do loads of guys talk to Rhi?
The banter most probably

Hear Dj taking the Micky
(Turns out to be his name ironically)
As he walks back in
Tryin to set up his sound system
Steve says get some Scart leads
We're cracking up
I say something off the cuff, witty
He Spuds me
I'm a "bro" after all right

What do you do?
I dance
But you was stood behind me all night!
Ha! No, just for a bit,
I was watching what you was doin
He starts telling me about beats per minute
I ask him bout the Djing
How I'm interested in doin it
We Banter about how he'd teach me
How I'd be his prodigy
I think he means it

Says we got him in trouble with the club
For changing up his set
Cause we were goin in
We were feelin it
Asks me to guess where he's from
I say You look mixed race
But I bet your Cypriot
Says he's Half Turk, half Greek
That's why things didn't work out
between Mummy and Daddy
Chuckles softly

He's a Barber during the week
Cut Rita Oras hair the other day
Shows me the tweet
He's likable, pretty sweet
Says he's glad I'm there
Cause he doesn't know anyone here
And he'd have no one to talk to
A shy dj
Looks like Drake
Kind of a giveaway
His Nose is running
I say
what have you been sniffing
Grinning teeth
Smiles and shakes his head
How can you say that
To Someone you've just met?!
You're cheeky!
Asks if I smoke or do drugs
When I reply no
He jokingly asks to marry me
I say where's the ring?
He gets out his keys
Puts it on my finger we laugh
Who knew getting a wife
would be that easy?
Calm down sunshine!
my games more stealthy

But I reiterate
"loads of guys talk to Rhi"

What do they mean?
I'm a guys girl
Always have always will be
If this night has confirmed anything
It's that
Certain females just don't warm to me
Give them a compliment
They're ******* me
Make a joke
They're ******* me
Dance by one
Accidentally knock her phone
Out her hand she sits down immediately
Face of thunder
I Say sorry,
Skulk off awkwardly
Beat myself up about it momentarily
Then get annoyed and think **** it
Head back to where I'm meant to be
Just the dance floor and me
Where I get smiles and laughs and looks
I can't quite decipher
"White gyal skanker!"
Mutter out apologies as I stand on
Some guys toes
Tells me no worries I'm a dancer

Hell I'm a flirt too!
I speak to guys cause
it's what I know how to do
It's easy conversation
It's fun
But I know that when this nights over
it's all said and done
No need to mention
I have no true intention
Of speaking to or seeing these people again
Maybe I should
Maybe that's how I'll make connections
But for now I'm tired but it's a good tired
I feel at peace
There's something wonderfully dreamy
About the after party
People slowly waking up from the make believe of the night
As they're fighting off sleep
DJ Micky making his way out the door
Shoutin back
Make sure you message me!

I won't

For now It's time to head home
I take my leave
As I exit
Wave bye to Steve

Thinkin Why is it guys talk to me?

For the same reasons anyone would really
I listen
I guess maybe I put them at ease

Sitting in this dusty old attic
listening to the shingles flapping in the wind
I flip through a dog-eared book from my childhood.

As I skip through the pages,
I look up and notice the fine inlaid
carpentry work of an old chest.

Going over, leaving prints on the dusty floor,
I lift the lid.  With reptilian slowness
a lazy fat spider edges away.

Inside this trove of ancient treasure,
magnificent finds of days gone by.
Mementos of a honeymoon, a parachute jump.
Gramma's best biscuit recipe.  A photo of
Sam the hound with spittle running down his jowls.
A picture of a babe at his mother's ******.

A permutation of these tucked away articles
give meaning to a life well and truly lived.  
Closing the pages of these treasures I
wander away to watch my grandchildren
make memories of their own.

Dad spoke of his father today.
I listened with Friday
Beer breath and keen
Ears, as he said:

I hope to God your brother
And you won't remember
Me as a ****
Fool when I'm gone,

Then coughed that gurgle-rasp
That promises significant
Changes in a son's
Life within

Not too distant a
Future.
Those **** cigarettes.
Half a lung gone, surgery

Scar a part of that back
That I remember I thought
Would carry me
Forever.

We never spoke too emotionally.
He does it more and
More, and all I can do is
Prepare,

And to speak such truths as:
Dad. You've impressed our
Friends, charmed our women,
Driven us through snow storms

And late nights
To get us to -or home from- either.
Fed us, chopped wood through
Summers to keep us warm through

Winters.
Taught us languages and carpentry,
History and poetry,
Classical wrestling and chivalry.

You've made us laugh since
Before we knew how to.
I think of you whenever I smell
Sawdust, new guitar strings, and smoke

(Only minutes old, his cough
Was the first sound I reacted to...)
Your memory is safe.
Whenever your time comes

To leave us to the strength of our
Own arms and souls,
Trust that your rest is well earned.
He laughed a little,  

Eyes wet from coughing
And whatever.
I could die content tomorrow,  
Having told him.

Some giants don't fall.
They just lie down.
Not to wither away and die.
But to retire,

The way oak trees,
Mountains, revolutionary ideas
And gods
Retire.

Rock n’ roll music, Folger’s, and paint-smeared hands.
Dresser drawers filled to the brim with undeveloped camera film.
Blue bonnets and overgrown grass, pecans and crunching fall leaves.
Dirt roads and river-rocks, typewriters, polaroid cameras, and feather-quill pens.
Those hand-me-down blue eyes and brown ones that are “sometimes hazel.”
Crystal clusters and Lord of the Rings.
Countless mosquito bites and play-pretend games in the clubhouse.
Early-birds and night-owls.
Trudy; and Randy Hayes.
“Don’t touch everything you see,” and “If you say you’re bored, I’ll find work for you to do.”
Sweet tea and okra and southern dishes blackened and drenched in cheese or gravy.
Grandma always burned everything to make sure it was fully cooked, and to her, it was never burned, just “well-done.”
Cigarettes and carpentry and cookbooks. Wild blackberries and birthday parties at the lake.
Sleeping in all day and staying up all night and procrastination.  
Shepherd's Pie, potatoes, and four-leaf clovers.
“Nil Desperandum. Never Despairing.”  
I’m from a whole house that eats eggs for breakfast, and I’m allergic to eggs.
And trees as tall as buildings and buildings as tall as trees.
“You should never take the lord’s name in vain,” and “Jesus loves you, so you should love others.”
Day-dreams and stargazing and thunderstorms.
“All or nothing,” and “There is no try, only do.”
Old family pictures in dust-glittered frames.
We are crystals. We have facets, each one makes us who we are.
With only one window of our lives to express, we’d merely be glass.
I am a part of each of these things just as much as they are each a part of me.

The boards creak and moan
from time and poor carpentry
The nails gripped by aged wood
have become crust collected and
shrunken to form

The bare walls once displayed
the smiling faces
of past eons but now
there are only the faded remnants
of square foundations
of lives that once
hung on the wall

The stairs complain
like an old man
from unsubstantiated fears
The second floor
seems solid only responding
to the remarks of my shoes

The old bedroom
once the center of attraction
overlooks the buckled sidewalks
and **** infested yards
of a street that now has no cars
or people passing by

I stand in silence for the moment
and the moment stands silent for me
And for that moment
I lay in time's eternal graveyard
in hopes of reviving dead dreams

Before I breathed
A young man held my mother
coaxed her with unpracticed grace
from Irish Catholic garments between
rough sheets that smelled
like carpentry and dirt.
In photographs from back then
we have the same wrinkled eyebrows,
the same reddish beards,
but different creases
kissing the corners of our eyes.

There are canyons in my knuckles
carved out by cold.
Not New Mexico cracks
in too-hot soil,
but staff-lines of the song
New England skin sings—
I cannot deny I was born here.

My father wears gloves now when he works outside
Says he never used to, but
the pain maybe got too much
Too many winters laying palms flat
against elm, ash, sycamore,
feeling for a pulse
counting on his wrist,
waiting for a murmur, subtle hush
in the rhythm;
telling symptom
of a faulty valve.

I work weekends at a veterinary clinic
and the doctor there does this, too,
though sometimes, being held,
cats purr too loud to listen
and I must reach across the room
and turn the handle on the faucet;
Most cats fear water.

Well Father, I cannot drink from the soil
and I do not always land on my feet
But father, listen to my heartbeat
Put your hand on my chest
and don’t fear as my body
creaks in the wind—

Hear it?

Father
My boughs, my winter-catchers
are thin, but
it is not root-rot, moth, parasite;
I am not felled
like the beard you hacked from your chin
the day you decided to love, to suffer
the rest of your life
with that Irish Catholic girl—
This is merely my first season.
Brush the snow from my shoulders.

Please
comfort me
quietly,
like skin,
cracking:
“My son
my sapling
you’ll grow.”

Walker Staples 15 March 2013

bricks may solidify a house,
fine carpentry may add a finish,
and a serious household will love its foundation

take her heart anew
she has only a memory for a man
her house is empty without you
~~
..circa 1986..(C)2013 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Ram
~~

for all my pain that made me by you
for all my hurting in what you do
for all the days I spend beside you
for every smile i see when i look to you
for our three years that I can't forget, it too
will be a sworn 'never forget' emblem
carved upon everything capable of
architecture or carpentry mandible,
now as forever!
i once lived in a shadow, but
you illuminated me and i lost my shadow
hence, now, i live in the light as a blossom
of embodiment with a tiara of curves
and caused you to take to saying my skin was
a mehndi shade halo surrounding the sunset sun...
I'm thinking about you as if you were still mine
I know it's my fault that i let you go
but forgive me, what else I can do
I hope that if you can hear me now, and i know you do:
I would tell you that I will never give up to bring you back
But what if I can't ?!
will you come and light my darkness?
will you come and wipe off my tears?
In the middle of everything I know that I will fail, because without you I'm such a weak girl
I don't want the rest of my life to be just a memory
of you, because i want you in flesh, real,
now! I am asking you to come back.... to be mine
I can't hold on anymore without you
in the least... I adooooooooooooooooooooooore you

The snow will be melting soon,
Can't help but wonder what is in store,
The boys all work so hard in the yard,
Tossing 'round lumber and abuse,
But I got these soft hands,
I've been sleeping around trying to match up my shoe,
Born with such thin skin,
I concede to tumble with the leaves.

I saw her late last night...
She is a parasite... for these sore eyes,
I try to make it hide,
It bubbles over if I have a little bit too much rye.

Wishing is for fools,
But I guess I always did rush in for you,
Carpentry tools,
Let's build a bridge to burn on the evening news.

I am a leaf, shed, homeless,
drifting in through a hole in the carpentry --
a skeleton among skeleton relatives,
dusting the shuffle-worn surface
of our mother's planked-out chest.