J'étais fou de toi.  J'ai été

I will never forget
the more I wanted (you)
the less I was.

If a dark night is for dancing -
will you come waltz with me?

from the top of a hill
she never heard
which way to down
and never felt
a connection underneath

a missing note
a deviate step
a vapor mist
our kisses never met

a hollow cavern
a hole forever closed
inside and out

like tar water run-off from a hopeless ash basin
an unending drizzle of forever ending dribble that fizzled ... out

help me dear earth
if you really want to be mine
blacken the soil and ink the green

in deeper ferns we reappear
as lava flows to shore.

she didn't know..
until she knew
what a curve of learning!


1.
both college-students and real good-friends
he was a science-and-botany buff
            *and the mountain would get a taste of his cells
and she, student of philosophy and languages
            would hear the latent-message from a dozen sources


2.
they shared confidences to the other
things they never told a soul
            he also discussed his theories and science-experiments and projects and stuff
            she told him how slightly-uphill her lectures in Russian proved to be
they'd meet there every Monday.. under the campus-trees
with two hellish-strong espressos
        he remembered her chewy-doughnuts without any snow-sprinkles
        'cause she was given to these silly coughing-fits
        when eating peanuts and pulses
he teased her endless and ragged all her idiosyncrasies
they seemed closer than kin

yet he seemed to remain aloof when she tried to get closer
      he brushed off her advances
      and told her to get lost
then ran off with Lilian on Tuesday
then Zita next Tuesday
then Sumaya the following Wednesday
and Tarryn on Thursday after that
and so it went on for a whole while
the whole academic-year, in fact

yet still
      they studied together
      and swore in debates
      and met every Monday
oh, that was the one day he never dated


3.
on the first day of each month
he'd give her a beautiful clutch-pencil
its casing bled entirely in translucent-fuchsin
and told her to guard well context over content
she never understood this cryptic-crap
       but smilingly accepted each one
she thought them too pretty to use
       and kept them in a special-box
       yet her heart broke each time
he took out a new flavour-of-girl
and shared his tongue with
     Sally and Margaret and Lisbeth and Anne..
     some lasted days, others short-weeks
but they all fizzled out
like the pop that they swallowed
and she wondered if he would ever
              favour her with affection
              give to her what those lucky-gals got
              look into her eyes like that
              whisper sweet-nothings to her
why didn't he want her?

but he was brusque with her and abrupt as discordant-chords
he scolded her like uneven-bricks tumbling down
and yet, it was to her that he played
               his own alternate-ballads on his banjo
               i n t r i c a t e - b e a u t y like living-pearls on those strings
      he couldn't look at her, then
      too caught-up in sweet-delivery of song
and with his eyes closed, her imagination took high-flight
as she was able to stare at him, without fear
                           in wonder
                           in enchantment
and marvel at the mesmerising co-ordination of those busy-fingers..

others passed by, but he did not care.. so giving
she felt so unique
'cause she got what they did not
           unbreakable-bond of
            music and.. talk and.. those clutch-pencil gifts
and for his birthday, she gave him a two-tone pelargonium, potted in cream
left him wordless..


4.
it was near the end of November
(just like now:)
and he casually mentioned of going away
            a week-long hike in December
            with a girl in a group that he'd met, some Sarah or other
and something in her flared and she broke down..
                                                                ­went off the rails

he looked on aghast, in total silence.. half-perplexed, half-squinting
     which disquietened her far more than any outburst could have
he stood there before her, on that Monday
       in the beautiful mid-morning sun
she remembered, to the moment.. how the light caught his eyes
       seemed to be looking right t-h-r-o-u-g-h her
       and almost, she saw the tiniest-trace of something...
       struck by a touch of liquid-vulnerability in his being
but hooded-eyes quick again, typical-hider!

he reached into his backpack
****** her a clutch-pencil
which she almost rejected
but she calmed herself down
and he looked at her once
            turned on heel
and walked to his Beetle
rode off the campus
without looking back

and she kept on wondering what it was all about
       that silent intense-look


5.
news came of a group of hikers who succumbed
from high up
some slipped and
her acrid-tears were not the only to fall
upon learning......


6.
she ran back to her dorm
reached for his gifts.. in full-remorse
and clutching a pencil in each hand
she squeezed and accidentally pressed on the flick-top
and then...............
               (it came out)
i t . . . c a m e . . . o u t . . . ! !

never in her life would she be as stunned
as they repeated their message
     over and over
     in tandem audio-confusion
in all the tongues she had studied
she learns now
of the time he took to delve into her crap to relay his truth through his amazing-invention!


7.
at the interment, she couldn't speak
displacement dipped too deep
she took up one clutch-pencil
      and pressed on the top
      message loud and clear
custom-made brilliance direct from heaven's fingertips

the pall-bearers lifted him up
                 and
out of her life

now this roundabout-present lies in the velours-box
like he does in his



students of learning..
in book.. and in heart








S T - 25 nov 2013

Estranged in summer rains'

       landscaped  dissolution

       evincing season's discontent

      neath sun's suffocating alienation;

used to rhyme with warmth

             and effulgent delectation,

   emotional realms fizzled in a

              heated  halfhearted sizzle

            of down-pour's restless manifestations

As the minutes drift into hours
I stare at the flowers
That died the day you left.

And they say keepers win in the war of finders,
But I'm not so sure.
Cos, the reminders
Of what used to be.
Have soured.
And I try and devour
Memories,
Spaces, faces, places
That we shared.
And I choke on some, and others slide down.
--

And I wander if I even cross your mind, my love
And do you remember the time
You said that you'd always be mine
And that forever was too short a time
For you and I.

Those lies you spun, like a spiders web,
Took place, built homes
Inside my head
And I didn't try to relocate
Because all I could do was appreciate
That someone finally cared.

And those memories that we shared,
Those faces, spaces and places
They're all so vivid.
I can smell the scent of your sweet perfume, and feel the water
Splash
When we went down that log floom
And we both held on so tight,
We were determined not to let eachother go. With all our might.
So what happened, my love?

What changed inside that beautiful frame of yours
What's the reason you began to close  all of those doors
And lock me out.
Cos it's strange to be a stranger
And I don't like the danger
That comes with
Not knowing who I am, or you were.
And the uncertainty of who we were together.
Cos the forever we promised
Has been and gone, and call me crazy
But I expected to hold on to it
A little longer.
I thought we were stronger.

Your honey gold hair hung
Down over your face
As you told me about these places and spaces that we shared
Could be no more

My world crashed and burned
And fizzled out
And I found new ammunition
To tear myself apart
To pull to pieces
My damaged heart.
And once I was done
I hung the picture frame
You threw onto the floor
On a sign on the doors,
Saying keep out.

And my barriers went up
But my walls crumbled down
Tell me,
Are you around, my love?

Are you laughing and smiling
And have you moved on...

2013 ©

When you boil it down,
really get down to the flesh,
bone;
marrow;
mitochondria;
I am nothing but a fizzled
thing
pushing
third-rate
pulses
out of a fourth-rate heart;
that's why when I ***** you to me
in an impermanent cowgirl;
chest
to
chest;
a good, running thump
is answered
by a
descending blip.

We start in Greek Street.
Not any night,
But the end,
A grand finale;
Last orders,
At the Coach & Horses,
Before the corporate boyz move in to whitewash,
Where inky Boho Jeffrey Bernard drank,
And Gary Dunnington, the actor, and his mates are on the ****.

Meanwhile, a mom runs her hands,
Though my strands.
'Tell me everything,' she enthuses,'about your hair.'
But there’s nothing to say:
I barely wash it,
Never brush it,
And only finger combe it.
But she carries on in my locks,
Then off to dinner with her bloke.

We head off to Trisha's at 57,
A lively basement heaven:
In energy, in noise, in smoke.
I chat with Mark.
Got his heart broke:
It’s hard
To sever those traumatic bonds,
Thick as pillar posts,
When love ***** up,
Goodbye, the cocktail of toxicity,
That had you on a high,
The ***, the texts, the tenderness,
And, oh, the bliss.

Kass, a boxer musician, comes
And shakes our hands.
He’s in Armani,
And says,
His eyes dark little raisins,
'I prefers a poet over a bruiser.'
And, 'I don’t fight no more,
If I did - so I don't bother -
I’d **** ‘em.

In the corner,
Two girls with dreamy eyes:
So I read ‘em love poems.

Then Jessica Appleby's head pops round the door.
We hug and then swap tales:
'I’m all messed up,' I tell her.
'What not her, the one you wrote that poem for.'
'My man,' she confides changing the subject,
'All crazy passion and wild *** for two months -
Then nothing.
Just fizzled out like it was never meant to be.'

She exits.

'You alright Gary?'
'Yeah, you?'
'Fine.'
But I don’t buy him a beer,
A bottle of Peroni is £5.
'No, it’s £3,' he says, 'if you pay cash.'
I head for the bar.
Three times I explain to the barman, it’s £3 cash.
'Who told you that?' he says slamming the bottle down.
'Gary,' I say defensively.
'Well, tell Gary, if he doesn’t shut the **** up,
He’ll be paying a fiver, too.'

A young American artist, Kirsty, starts talking to me.
She’s trying to get ahead in art,
And says, that when she was a kid,
On a blazing Tuscany night filled with stars,
She walked out onto a stone balustrade balcony,
And knew in that moment,
She was no longer her mom and dad,
But herself, Kirsty.

The boxer musician shoves a tall fellow hard against the wall,
The altercation,
Is over before it starts.

Kass gives me a wolfish smile.
Mark buys me a drink.
Kirsty goes to the toilet.
The corner girls have left.
Mark slips his stool.

Everyone is cleared from the yard,
Just Gary and I linger
With a feisty young bar lady,
Serving the Bohos of Soho.

Drinking in their pathos,
Exhaling in the shadows,
Mingling in their juices.
My ****** up heart beats
With the Bohos of Soho.
Ahhh, the Bohos of Soho keep many an hour.
The Bohos of Soho,
The Bohos of Soho,
The Bohos of Soho,
Have many lives,
The Bohos of Soho are a good seed.
You and I,
In Soho,
For last orders.

"Do you like wasabi peas?"

She hands me a small sage-green orb.

"It's hot, spicy," she says, nodding encouragingly. "Have you ever had wasabi?"

It tastes like horseradish and is not at all spicy in comparison to the chile-spiced mango I've been snacking on. I nod and smile to her approvingly.

Before I know it, she's handing me a chocolate sandwich cookie and without saying a word, going back to the duty of putting away the groceries. It's delicious.

Jivy, upbeat soul music blasts from an iPhone speaker dock. The kitchen faucet is running. Cabinets, the dish washer, opening and closing like a delicate rhythm.

He was building a fire pit outside, thick white smoke billowing up into the sky. But it started to pour a soft summer rain, as it had two or three times already that day. The world beyond the kitchen is grey, wet, happy. The shabby porch is used to being drenched in rain, the mason jars filled with dead cigarettes and the disarrayed furniture.

With more than one person in the narrow stretch of kitchen, it's a crowed party. I watch on from my chair in the breakfast nook. She chops vegetables on the counter for cold gazpacho soup.

She, in a delicate red rose skirt. The men except for me in cargo shorts.

I'm drinking flat Dr. Pepper from a painted mug, instead of something hard like I might want. The sip of black beer he gave me tasted like soy sauce. It fizzled on the porch a bit.

"Oh, ****!" he said, putting his hand with the overflowing beer out the door while standing partly inside.

/

Asking the cook for permission, he sits down across from me and begins to sing a song on a guitar. A sad song, one that he's played before. Maybe the only one he knows.

I sit in my chair and watch it all go by. I take out a book from my bag to look like I want to read it. I'm really just sitting here, like a fly stuck tragically on the fly paper he hung in the kitchen two nights ago. Lying there all sprawled awkwardly, eyes open to what's around me.

He finishes the song. "Beautiful," she says, gathering papery remains of an onion and tossing them into a plastic bin. He strums another tune. His voice is untrained and not hard to listen to if not a tad syrupy and self-aware. A bit like the way he carries his wide personality.

He answers questions from across the room, interrupting the melody for a few seconds now and then. The two men are on separate wavelengths. But the singer didn't seem to mind being interrupted. They must have grown up with this dynamic, the men. It's a story they tell easily.

/

"Buongiorno!" she says, slicing a lemon.

"Hey, you have a nice accent. Arrivederci!" says the guitar-player.

"Arrivederci!" she responds, playing up the dialect with sweetness.

"Good deal." He says, striking up another tune. He puts on a different voice. Deeper, with more swing, like a caricature country-western singer. His voice fills the space.

Our mugs are gathered all together, mixed up in a menagerie of colors and shapes at the end of the kitchen counter. I brought several of mine from home and they mingle with the others unnoticeably. Multi-colored ones from Poland. Mine, purchased at various thrift stores. All of them stacked awkwardly and happy.

He asks me if I want to share a smoke on the wet porch. I say "Not right now. Maybe later, though."

Chatting cold conspiracies from across the coffee table.

Pangaea on the rocks - sweet, sober, civil silence.

When did the degradation become so severe?

Time ticks down and friendships fade to acquaintances.

Spine tingling tempo of the pitter-patter rain drop percussion.

Galloping triplets trickling down from the temples of thunder.

Hands of the clock clap in celebration of another hour killed.

Two o’ clock Coca-Cola to crown the king of carbonation *****.

Naming off artists to impress the drunken temptress.

Taunting the room filled with glimmer-eyed, lovestruck libidos.

All the kids are struggling to remember the horoscope they skimmed.

Brains drained to the point of puking in mouths, poisoning the passion.

With whiskey laced erections, this night chants a swansong.

Illegal lane changes and tiptoe key turning roustabouts.

The Hubble eye can’t detect the silent thoughts left hidden.

Dreams within dreams, lost in a cloud of exhaled acceptance.

Tonight, you fizzled, and tonight, you sleep alone.

These are the danger days. Timber!

Loss of Motivation. Check.
2. Procrastinating. Check.
3. Lowering Grades. Check.
4. Health Problems. Check.
5. Exhaustion/Lack of Energy. Check.


I can't help but stare at the F.
Like a crime scene photo of the ****** of my grades.
I missed classes. Deadlines.
Struggled with anxiety and depression.
And yet even though I am haunted by these feelings.
I can't bring myself to care.
I thought it was so many things.
but perhaps I have just fizzled out.
It just me.
My problem.
There's no foul play,
My brain just decided to commit academic suicide.
We threw the toaster into the bathwater,
and jumped right in.

Hadn’t changed numbers.
A voice bristled in my ear,
said why not then, it’s been years.
Months passed.
An amalgam of frail strained hearts,
smells on pillows we tried to lose.
Chose the boulevard in the end,
gaudy nostalgia blazing
like a forest fire in my eyes.
I waited.
Ran a finger over rails
those skaters we knew marked,
back when something called lust
fizzled between you them and me,
through the airwaves;
the lyrics can still trickle
on my tongue if you ask nicely.
Peroxide-blondes, men with muscles
the size of marrows,
a summer pick ‘n’ mix
lacking in looks, in fine taste.
Went to read a book in the sea
for a while,
slurped up half a pint in chapters
then lost the plot again.
That’s when you came
in polka dots,
a pack of colourful taffy
swinging idly from a wrist,
peanut-butter cups
like lily-pads on your palm.
As if you’d never left,
same number, name, face.
Forgot what goodbye was,
tripped over a lost hello.

Opposites attract.
An object with a negative charge will attract an object with a positive charge–
Until they touch.
This collision transfers electrons from one object to the other–
Distributing appropriately.
The objects are now equally charged–
And repel each other.

Was that our problem?
We became too close? Collided too hard?
Does this explain why our spark fizzled out?
Why this attraction became repulsion?
Did my desire for intimacy lead to our demise?
Did I miscalculate the consequences of our contact?
Was our embrace the end?

The sky, a plate
in kindly blue,
smooth
as the ceramic face
of this, my swimming pool;

the bobbing palm
glazing the back
of my starfish shape
like white liquid icing;

sweet, the water's after-taste;
gently
pungent smell lodged
in the nape of my neck

I will wash the blue
off my skin, in a tiled doll-box
cubicle
I will smell the smell fade
out of my fizzled wet-strung hair
just as sugar dissipates
into the hot
nothingness of drinks.

I will pretend to forget,
then forget
I was offered a plate
in a summery shade, bordered by
tree branches
I was in that half
amniotic vessel -
weightless

as a seed pearl in
an ocean or a lover
exhaling in the depths
of a kiss;

a posy of
air on liquid.

He has never been like other little boys
That play so happily with their toys
He is different is young Raymond Bliss
He wants to grow up to be....a mad scientist

While others play with toy soldiers and cars
Or pretend to be astronauts in the stars
Little Raymond is chasing his pet cat instead
Determined he will catch him and cut off his head

He tried getting the dog who put up a fight
Poor Raymond gave up when he got a nasty bite
So he dug up his hamster, who passed away when overfed
He tied the body to a car battery to try and raise the dead

Unfortunately the dead hamster fizzled and went pop
It made Raymond jump in fright, it made him hop
So he decided to dig up the goldfish as well
Then he decided against it, because of the smell

Now there are plans drawn up, to be unfurled
His evil scheme now hatched to take over the world
Raymond wants to set vampire robot bunnies on man kind
It is just a shame because his pocket money he can not find

His mother says "time for bed" so he sulks up to his room
This his prison from whence he plots doom and gloom
He is a very strange boy is little Raymond Bliss
Determined to be the most evil mad scientist

All, thanks for the many years of continuous support from Hello Poetry, comments (both praise and constructive criticism), and continuing to share our mutual love of poetry.

I am pleased to announce the release of my new book, Poems of Ancient Rome and Greece (of course, what else), in both paperback and Kindle formats with many of the poems on Hello Poetry revised and several new poems as well.  These copies are available on Amazon so please visit my author page for the paperback and Kindle versions:

https://www.amazon.com/stores/Christopher-Saitta/author/B0DRTSZSZH?ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

Anyway, much thanks, and here is one of the new poems.

To the Sky

Once more, comb your skiey streaks of hair,
Backbrush to sombrous chamber,
While the vanity mirror flares its celestial impulse.

The corner of the room is a privation like monastic air,
Its angularity, the ascetic to your fleshened curves,  
More fitting for a candle fasting itself bare,
Relinquishing shine to that spare resurrection in the panes.

So too your summers have flamed upon the windows,  
And autumn has fizzled in spurts of leaves,
So too the failed days are sublimely worshipping  
To a soul that is the glass between.

Love is this placelessness of sunlight,
Earth, the memento of where we touched once:
  Her haystack-gold of hair, his shy, straw whisper,  
  And the footpath that still dwindles there to sunlight's pebbles.
  So warm is the insubstantial, substance of love.

From these paths, the world wanders old,
Upon its crooked staff of trees, its absent-mind dozed into hollows:
  No more sipping at Christ's wound,
  Like a glass soul filled with wine,
  Or tasting his body's amaranth
  In bee-breads fabled to divide.

Where lovers meet, death comes to adore.
Every kiss should prove monument to the world that wastes in air,
Every love should spurn its centuries to that steeped exile of elsewhere,
And break time like shells upon the shore.


II


Shut the blinds to the duller desuetudes of sun,
Because evening itself is a falling in love,
Because moods are the seasons homespun,
And death's great measure, if it comes,
Will be padded upon hand-woven rugs.

So begins the conceit,
Spring its slippered caprice,
Subdued to the stairs, the down-turnings and creaks,
Until table-spread as the meadowed indulgence of the dining room,
Where mornings have had their honeys,
And the berries and creams were guilty pleasures past noon.  

From the china closet and its glass goblet fruit,
Pluck the pome of a teacup
And pour the brook of brews:  
  Within the china pattern of leaves,
  The forest-dark shades of tea
  Are wheeling with subtle complexion
  Of black-currant and grey and darjeeling,
  As if the world could sway so wholly under the thumb,
  As if the woods were a coercion of vapors sapient
  Over their fire-flared stratums.

In mute, cupboarded moments,
To learn the only sound of the soul,
Is rain along the glassings of bay windows,
Is April too lightfelt to hold, only to lose.

Like a nightjar, startle through the storm whorls and raindrop leaves,
Fluster from the ragged brink of Spring,
To presage the distance in shady inklings.
And so then sail to Summering,
Dry until vaporous wings leave cooled tatters like clouded light:
  To dry the sodden absence of a lover,
  Feel your frayed fingers through his sky-blue sleeves.
  Loop the tassel of hair through the collar,
  As before the looms with an armful of yarns to weave.
  Once more the windfall of hair,
  Like smothered lightnings to the static mass of air,
  In strike-soundings, a confession to the cloth,    
  For man to adorn what woman must bare.

Click the lampshade light, the yellowed Autumn of album leaves,
Thinking back is your lying down to sleep.
Fall is the seduction of the sky,
An innuendo of slight denudings,
To lure the human sun from its fleshened prime,
Into leering lusters and willowy fingers to writhe.

Make your skyward sleep,
Past the kitchen that keeps its silence of floors,
A bare reminder of what the snows are for:
Sleep is the only snowfall of the mind, heavy-worlded and pieced,  
Outlying the hushing deep of pines.    

To the sky, great remnant of Greece,
Which has of human lips their redness,
But of love, still its thought to speak,
Mouthing hollow as the wide-open world.

Don't think I'll go on, but I can
my mother is kicking me out
and I've never had a plan.
Fizzled out with your opening
crushed like a soda pop can
so insecure, pushed you away
because you know just who I am.

On such a breathless downward spiral
and I think I'll stay here a while.
baggy shirts and sunken eyes
has become my style.
I'm a muddled, mangy mess, no surprise
I think I'll just stay a child
be soft in my stride
for just a little while
until I learn to get by.

The gnomes sang and danced while the faeries all pranced
and the elfins got drunk by the fire
The pixies hummed tunes and got ****** on mushrooms
I can't remember what happened to the choir.

Sethark the lord of the dark was roused from his sleep by the din
the djinn in the lamp though he at first appeared camp
wished up the drawbridge and pulled in the ramp.

This gathering, like babies were safe in the glades
while Sethark from Hades was sharpening the blades.
But it all fizzled out when Sethark gave a shout
to a beautifully jewelled little lady
and they tarried away somewhere deep in the hay
and the result was a devilish imp of a baby.

The party goes on though the pixies have gone
because too many mushrooms had doomed them
and now they're doomed to the glens
banished from the fens
No longer to hum or strum on guitars
nor sing sweet melodies to the brightest of stars
sad tales are told by old faeries and gnomes
of pixies evicted from family homes
but they know in their bones that it should have been them in the glen
but say nothing of this thing
or bad luck they will bring on you.
The story that's told is quite true
Believe if you wish
and if you wish it
it's true.

There is no snow, a left turn is a careening roll
7, 8, 9 times, all along the road
Until the carriage turns over and makes us again feel whole
We count the moments that it stays, before it encrypts code
Juxtapose, lizards and rats, seagulls and bats
The underlying message is psychological attack
And when she opened up her mouth she let out a hack
So devastating and depressing that she turned and spat

These old bones and these old dreams are a glimpse of what's passed
And though the skies are turning gray, the blues, in mind, will last
A silver lining is a metaphor, it's never really been
A line designed to separate the sadness from the sin
My friends tell me I am a crosswalk between truth and hate
But in the end the truth is those who despise can relate
Detesting the human race is something worth the time
That's taken to reflect on my stubborn, fizzled mind

A shotgun is all we need to see the light of day
And one bullet is all it takes for them to steal it away
So grab your jewelry and your cash and clip them to your vest
Because your family wants to know the score when you lay to rest
Faultless isn't really a word, thoughtless is a theology
You say spell cat, I say spell Keynesian economy
Aristotle spent years trying to prove epistemology
Existentialism wiped him out with one written dichotomy.

Waiting for my ride to get to the drop of dreams
And when I take just enough I will be caught up in screams
The world around is shaking violently and everything gleams
And the golden from the sunshine on the buildings are my streams
I want to lie in branches made of paper and long legs
Keeping our eyes open, we're all stepping over eggs
Is it any wonder why my strife and struggles bleed?
A warm body and an acid bath are all I truly need.

i remember when I first hear her voice…
just that one simple word
“Hello”
And my mind became whole…
Filled with images of
Us walking hand in hand through the
Chaos wielding nothing to protect us
But the other’s smile…
As our voices reverb on the walls surrounding us
Returning the beauty back into the eyes
Of those entranced by the serenity
Caused just by her presence

I remember gazing into her eyes
And sharing the first kiss
While riding across the bridge
On that big cheese bus…
As my lips touched hers…
And our thoughts unified…
A rainbow of emotion
Shone into our lives…
And the passion forged then
Shall grow forevermore

I still dream
Of the vows
We spoke of making…
I to her
Her to i
Of eternal love
& pure devotion…
But the bond fell short
And the feelings fizzled out…
But I’m waiting for they day
They re-ensue

The time is now
Our bond’s re-forged…
I’ll have her back here in my heart…
As this plethora of
Prismatic…
Emotions eminates outwards
All that’s left here is
A flower blooming
within

And those pretty little firefly's
that used to illuminate
the sockets of your eyes
must have been soaked up by your crys
must have fizzled out and died,
inside of you.
Because there's no longer
that burning light
that used to ignite a room
And put the stars to shame.
And since they died out,
you haven't been the same.

And honey, i can try to ignite them again,
With all i have,
But I've done all i can do
darling the match lies in you.

Oct 25th, 2014 12:00 P.M. in La Quinta Hotel in Brooklyn Park, my second day visiting Minnesota. Today I'm suppose to see my father who lives in Plymouth Minnesota, and finally see my sister and her husband who lives in New York.  I haven't seen family for a year now, but today was the day to have mother's memorial service with the family and relatives. I got into my rental car, and drove through memorable highway 169.

It was a month ago when my father told me we would have a memorial service for mother one last time, and in that phone call before he hung up, he asked me if my sister ever told me about his girl friend.  Then my old man asked me to take my mother's rings and other jewels, and carry mother's memories. I was shocked at first, and super dumbfounded. Since it was only 3 years ago mother passed away from cancer, and in my mind all I thought was "35 years of their marriage only equated to three year of mourning for my father?"  Clearing my throat to respond, and finally getting my composure together, while putting things in perspective through my head I answered honestly no! My thoughts fizzled, while it became cold and numb.  A speechless betrayal in mind, but I knew my old man was weak alone.  I remember when I used to live in Anoka Apartment in Minnesota, I visited his home in Blaine, my old man crying alone to sleep.   Maybe he has suffered enough, and thought to myself how can I judge this man, my father who lost his wife through cancer. To feel desolate for three years must of been a lonely life, and finally he has someone to fill the void he has lost.

So here I was in Minnesota, to my old man's new apartment.   After looking at the Email he sent with the address to his home on my Ipad, all I wanted was to get this over with.  Lot of memories I wanted to forget, and this gut wrenching moment that made me feel weak.  As I walk through the hallway to my father's apartment, I see an open door with the scent of Korean food!  As I enter into the Apartment, I did not see my father, but a lady who I have never met cooking in the kitchen.   Completely surprised by this unknown person, I simply said hello!  It was unexpected that this is how I would have met this person, the lady who was my father's girl friend. I knew the moment I came in, but I didn't know how I was suppose to act or respond, this lady who may take over my mother's spot.  Million things went through my head, but I knew it wasn't her fault, and she is living life like anyone in the world.  Humans live for the moment, and without taking life for granted, who am I to judge her?

In a moment of awe of the situation, I started conversation with her by asking how she met my father to how long they knew each other, and where was my father at this time.  I felt so out of place in my old man's apartment, like something was completely amiss.  Then she tells me the unspeakable that would have never crossed my mind, and tells me both will be getting married tomorrow!  Luckily for me my sister gave me a call to tell me she was lost , and no timing was greater than then.  It gave me an escape, to take a breather!  So I told my future "step mother" I needed to excuse myself, and help my sister get back on the right road.   I think I smoked about a five cigarettes in a minute outside apartment entry way, as I gave my sister the directions.

It was good to stay outside that day, it was Minnesota's finest air and sun light breeze.  It sincerely helped me cleared my mind, and when I saw my sister in the vehicle coming into the parking lot, it was extra pleasant sight to see a familiar faces. When I approached my sister's vehicle, I final saw her daughter for the first time.   As my sister and her husband walked with me to our father's apartment, I had to ask if she knew our father was getting married very next day of the memorial service.  Sure enough my sister knew, but she then tells me not to get mad, that she only knew a week in advanced. Still numb by this whole experience, all I could ask was why couldn't my own father tell me he was getting married, and as usual siding with my father my sister defends him by telling me "he probably didn't wanted us to judge him!"  Of course I would have judged him, but I would have been less angry at my old man if he came up front. As we all gathered in the apartment, we had a meal that my father's girl friend has prepared, and it was sincerely surprising to hear my sister ask questions to our future step mother of various questions I would have asked out of curiosity.   Then it dawn on me my sister knew nothing about this lady who my father was going to marry, and it became evident my sister who was closest to my father didn't know nothing, then I understood my old man was afraid that we would judge him!  

As we finished our meal, time came for us to pay our respect to my mother who laid six feet under.  How can I explain the irony of this predicament, my father's girl friend will be joining us in our mother's final yearly memorial service, and tomorrow she will marry my father!  In my mind this is the stuff you read about in fictional Hollywood scripts, or some kinda ****** reality television show, but here it was in full glory.  

I will say one thing about this lady I knew very little about, she seemed very nice, and her cooking were amazing. After clearing all the dishes, step mother grabbed my mother's memorial picture, and told us this is what our father recommend for us to bring for the service.

the sparks got wet and fizzled out like that cheap
hair dryer you bought at the goodwill to **** yourself
in the tub with but once you dropped the lit fuse in the
water all you got was a dark room and a cold bath
that made you chuckle at how ******* dumb you sounded
when you said “exactly like my life!”