2am talking to you...
The hum of a neon sign, Emitting light so tranquil
Purple Luminescence on your face. The sparkle in your eye, it brings life to all...
The smile in your words     In comparison everything so small.    

In conversation vocalising the deep within

What can I say, 2am there is no filter Here.

The euphoria so intense
all Existence has so much Distance,
the world fades away...

Quizzed with the words you speak
Everything begins to dull
Everything so quiet and clear

The realisation of how much I hold you dear
I'd hate to think what I'd do  
Without you here

this time, when i went
to meet Death at his place,
he showed signs of weakness.
he was watching a cricket match
relaxing in his arm chair, legs stretched.
yawns kept rolling
in slow progression
towards the boundary.

'are you well?’ i ventured.
'nothing wrong,’ said he.

stammering, i quizzed him:
which one do you fear most?
allopathy, ayurveda, or
homeopathy?

dear wilson,
have you observed sachin
facing the ***** of shane warne?
brian lara, wasim akram?
chris gail, brett lee?

i was thrown into confusion.

death admitted, unwillingly,
that like vivian richards
confronted narendra hirwani,
he was laid low by the
secret herb
of an old tribal man!

aaha! the panacea
became then
a spin ball!
(aaha…Nothing official about it!)

i forgot to ask
how our people
smuggled away by him
were faring now.

he forgot to comment
“you will see for yourself
when you face it.”

My roommates are all up and about. It’s finals week and everyone is hustling about. Lisa came in from an early exam, it was snowing lightly, she looked right at home.

“How’d it go?” I quizzed.
“E-Z,” she replied, shedding her long navy coat and mango cashmere beanie. After dumping it all on her bed she joined us in the common room. “Blue State (coffee) is closing,” She announced.

Leong gasped, “What?”
“Three of the four Blue State locations are closing,” Lisa confirmed, “not Orange Street.”
“Why?” Leong moaned.
“What are you why? Lisa queried.
“They’re so popular!” Leong exclaimed, “There’s always SO many people in there.”
“That’s real,” I chimed in, “those places are packed and noisy.”
“They got bought out,” Lisa attested.
“By whom?” Leong wondered.
“By another coffee company.. maybe,” Lisa guessed soothingly.
“Oh, I hope so.” Leong stated, sounding depressed.
“You know what? Lisa added, “rumors were thick that Book Trader would close too.”
“No!” Leong bemoaned.
“I’m happy to announce that they’re not.” Lisa assured, “That’s something to celebrate.”
“I love studying at Book Trader.” I professed.
“And their bagels..” Leong mentioned dreamily.
“Oh, yeah,” Lisa agreed, “so good, so cheap.”
“Change is ineluctable,” Anna sighed.  
“WHAT?” Leong replied, looking confused.
“Inevitable,” Lisa told her, “change is inevitable.”
“Then just say that.” Leong grumbled at Anna, who shrugged.
“I need to go support my favorite coffee shop soon,” I declared.
“Which is?” Leong inquired.
“Coffee with a K,” Lisa and I blurted out, both at once. “It has an intimate, date spot vibe,” I explained, “and the chairs that are perfect for putting an arm around someone.”
“The Benjamin and Acorn (two on campus coffee shops) are going to be so crowded.” Sunny stated, joining the conversation as she started putting on her shoes to go out.
“True THAT.” I agreed.
“Common Grounds Cafe,” Sophie revealed, coming from her room, drying her hair with a towel, “bought out Blue State,” she confirmed. “it was in the Yale News.”
“OK,” I pronounced, satisfied. “Perfect.” Lisa declared. “Thank God.” Leong agreed.
“Coffee’s important.” Sunny proclaimed, picking up her coffee cup and book bag. “See ya!” she waved to the room absently, with her coffee cup, as she opened the door and stepped out.

stars crinkle under our feet
bouncing off the blades of moonlit grass
carried downstream in the canal behind
my house
I walk down memory lane with my brother Lou
Lou lost it in his teens diagnosed schizoid
but able to function under guidance and meds
together we lug a cumbersome old wooden box
to the trash
gently I quizzed him
“do you remember us when we were little
on our sled all the snow and fun we had?”
Lou stares blankly into the night,
“I was never small, I was made 6 ft. 3 in.”
“but I have a photo of us”
again Lou denies that such a time ever existed,
insisting that he sprang full-grown
from the mind of some unknown madness
Christmas lights blink coloring his face
red then green
“That's alright Lou, I remember....”
whispering goodnight
I tuck Lou under the blankets
of my heart
and watch him trudge away
a small boy in a gray snowsuit


“Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you”

(Simon & Garfunkle, 1968)

I’ve only been at my fellowship gig a week, but It’s official, I’m a candy-striper. Sort of, I wear a blue vest, not the old, red-striped dress, but it’s the same job. I shadow my surgeon (Rebecca) most of the time, like when she does her rounds but otherwise, I study or try to be helpful by delivering specimens to the lab, messengering things from Rebecca to other doctors or assisting the nursing staff with very minor, mundane things.

My training, so far, has consisted more of what-nots than anything else. “You are not a doctor, you don’t comment, don’t advise, don’t touch anything, don’t perform CPR and if a medical emergency occurs, get out of the way - put your back against the wall.” I made up the “back against the wall” part but that’s the soul of it. I’m just an observant pair of eyes and ears or a Yale lampshade.

When Rebecca (my surgeon) does rounds, she usually has five or six interns in tow (medical school graduates who are first-year residents). The interns review patient charts and get quizzed about symptoms, their meanings and possible treatments. It’s very interesting to watch the process up close - these people are wicked-smart (that’s a Boston saying).

Growing up, my parents were both doctors. I found myself standing, listlessly, a million times, waiting in hospital corridors or by nurses' stations for one or both of them to break free so we could leave. I was exposed to 17 years of medical jargon, as they discussed treatments with other doctors or passed on their final instructions for the night. I’d roll my eyes impatiently, but I guess I absorbed more than I realized. I can pretty much follow the consults as they do the rounds.

I met two new people last week, who I think I’ll see a lot of - Jammie and Quinn. They’re both rising-juniors and fellows, from other schools, working with other surgeons. Jammie’s a handsome, gay, black man from Georgetown University (my brother Brice’s Alma mater). He’s loud, fun and smart, very smart.

Quinn, on the other hand, seems like a short, officious little ****. When we were introduced, he cast his eyes over me slowly and deliberately like a frat-boy or an experienced stock ******* and from the way he talks, you’d think he owned the place. He’s from some second rate, local college, called Harvard.

Funny story, Jammie and I had just met and we were looking-up some fellowship information, on his laptop, I was looking over his shoulder and as he flipped around - his computer files and folders were SO organized - there wasn’t a stray file anywhere - not one. As we were huddled closely together I said, conversationally, because where I come from it means nothing and I guess I have no filters, “Are you gay?” He cringed, shocked, and laughingly said “SHHH!” He wasn’t “out” at work. I swore his secret safe and we became fast friends.

Jammie, besides being a molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major (pre-med track), is an observational comedian and as he’s thinking out loud - at a hundred miles an hour - I wish I could record him, so I could play him back later, slowly and deliciously to take it all in. We had lunch together in the cafeteria Friday and when our time was up, I discovered I hadn’t eaten anything. I’d been too busy listening to him open-mouthed or laughing.

I also realized I’m spoiled and not used to working indoors all day. We come in at 8 and we're released at 4:30. It’s almost a shock to see the sky isn’t fluorescent-lit and the breeze isn’t tainted with antiseptic smells. That was fellowship week 1.

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Gianni's hadn't opened yet
But, the bar was going strong
If you listened, in the distance
You heard the working of a song

The regulars were present
The Captain, Soldier and the kid
The bartender was cleaning
'Cause that was what she did

The sun, well, it was shining
It was a great day all around
And in the alley sat The Blues man
Sitting still upon the ground

Nothing, any different
Than most any other day
The street folk passing greetings
While the Blues man chose to play

The bell above the bar door rang
As a stranger came on in
The dust hung in a sunbeam
Falling  from the old bell of tin

In back of old Gianni's
The Blues man played a Dylan tune
He slid right into Guthrie
It was a perfect afternoon

The stranger grabbed the bar's end stool
He ordered up and looked around
Then he said, "excuse me barkeep"
"Just exactly, what's that sound?"

She said it was The Blues man
He's a legend on the street
The man said, "sounds intriguing"
"He is someone I should meet"

The Captain ordered up a shot
The juke box started playing
In the corner sat an old man
Not quite sure if he was staying

The barkeep quizzed the stranger
Said "You're off the normal route"
"Most stranger get directions"
Then he pulled a card out of his suit

He said his name was  Edwards
He wasn't lost, he had a plan
He'd heard about the music
Now he came to meet the man

"It says here you do A & R"
"You can sit here and can listen"
"But, The Blues man isn't gonna talk"
"You have nothing that he's missing"

The music in the bar was rock
Out in back, a bluesy lick
You could listen to the tunes inside
Or go out back, you had your pick

"Can I at least go out and see him?"
"You can but won't get far"
Then she put his card with others
She had collected in a jar

"You see those cards all in there?"
"Thirty three more just like you"
"Have come around here snffing"
"Like he's some creature in a zoo"

"See that girl there in the corner?"
The man nodded that he did
"Talk to her, she'll tell you"
"She runs the book store, she's his kid"

The Blues man played some Chapin
Let loose on Thunder Road
Took a small sip from his hip flask
It was hidden, rarely showed

The man asked for an ashtray
Was told "you cannot smoke in here"
"But, the old man in the corner..."
She said sssshhhh, and poured a beer

"The folks round here have stories"
"Some good, and some are bad"
"He's the only one that I let smoke"
"The old man's story is quite sad"

"Stick around a while, see"
"Just what makes the street click"
"There's a hundred different stories"
"Look around and take your pick"

"But, what about The Blues man?"
"I can give him things he hasn't got"
"You will learn sir, that possessions"
"Make him something he is not"

"He plays music in the alley"
"He does't know if you are there"
"He plays what his soul is feeling"
"He'll play to you, or to the air"

"Your best bet, is to sit here"
"Leave him be, don't light the fuse"
"You may set him on a tangent"
"And he just may lose his muse"

"He's a part of everybody here"
"He's a savior, and a sage"
"He's The Blues man to the street folk"
"But, he's from a different age"

"Have a beer, talk to his daughter"
"Play some darts, the beer's on me"
"My advice, I hope you'll take it"
"Is to let The Blues man be"

"Go back to where you came from"
"Tell the folks who sent you here"
"That The Blues man declined nicely"
"And then you two shared a beer"

He smiled, looked to the corner
Ordered one more, "I concur"
"while you're pouring out my lager"
"pour one more drink for her"

He went off to the corner
Introduced himself and sat
Never mentioned his profession
And that they say is that

The Blues man played some Johnson
The A & R man stayed a while
He looked back toward the barkeep
She looked back, and shared a smile

After the incident
we gathered in the reception area
Stalling
Making small talk
Vaguely excited and vaguely bored

We were leaning into
Little gala tables
Covered in white linen
Raised for conversation or
Fashionable idleness

Why look who’s here!
You were slipping by
Like a noblewoman
Floating in her day-dress
so the human machinations didn't show

Why it’s been thirty years if not a day!
It’s not like you were exactly moved
My friend, your friend
barely roused you
Are you plastic?
A formally once-was?
You looked at me as if your eyes were
Marbles
Made of glass and somewhat pretty,
Just for decoration
It was hard to say in such darkness
Your darkness in particular
It may have been the suit.

I know that they’ve fêted you here before.
A king returns!
Is it the magma chamber
for your imminence?
Or a mere
Alcove?

The face doesn’t really move
Much anymore
Forever frozen in a slight smugness
Your mouth that strikes me as
somewhat meta
if that’s at all possible
And it seems to be
A bit rude
A noirish marvel
A dark star

Funny you never once looked at me really
Never said Hello
Nor Good Evening
And the things that
I could have said
Do you remember how you tried to drill a hole into a poured concrete floor
with a cheap tool
while we laughed about dentistry
as opposed to *** practices
How I tried to find a cherry picker
through the yellow pages
on a Saturday afternoon
How you quizzed me about my practice and how I played dumb
How your dealer ate my dinner when I was looking to the right

But I remained silent
bemused more than disgusted
It has been a long time and
Why would that
forgotten phospherence
be me?

I wanted to say
Did you know
that that penthouse after-party
at the
Marmont
was one of the saddest nights of my life?
I leaned over the balcony and stared at the Marlborough Man
puffing rings onto Sunset Blvd.
Desperate.
How has it come to this I asked
shocked myself
This has all gone so wrong.
I looked down upon the street
watching the rings echo
and cars swerving off to nowhere

No amount of drink can fix this night
and they killed the joint without me
being boys.
One is now dead by hanging.
I’d have preferred the other.

But here you are.
Silent
with absent eyes
after all these years
I never opened my mouth
I couldn’t seem to configure the lips precisely
I don’t know why
Perhaps they refused to comply
despite my feathery efforts.
No need.

An acquaintance of the deceased,
Hernandez was quizzed by police.
If charged, he'll post bail
for a tight end in jail
cannot even shower in peace!

Has anyone seen Leslie Brown?
She went missing earlier today.
A stranger in
A strange town,
Who probably just lost her way.

I’ve quizzed, enquired and questioned,
Almost everyone I know.
To be greeted by
A shaking of heads,
Puzzled expressions that say, ‘sorry, but no’.

Has anyone seen Leslie Brown?
I was meeting her at three.
She’s an Internet friend
Paying a visit,
I just can’t think where she might be.

In despair I checked with the police.
“Leslie Brown! Why yes: come when you can.”
When I arrived my
Cyber-space sweetheart,
Is not a lady, but a cross-dressed, ******* man!

© Paul Chafer 2014

It is again, plunk into pit of being
See it as is, truer than what is believing
Misconceiving notion was, still quizzed
Taken back to cage humility

Sterile, these tears, flush waves emotion
Devotion to you dear, causing commotion
Hardly do I go there, yet comes the missing
Insisting on revisiting the elicit

Still pouring over, drains illusion
Intrusion cruel, truth bearing contusion
Purge hid secrets kept by psyche's rule
Plant seeds in dry field's thought

Caught waiting for monsoon to wash over
Soak essence enduring, be nature, know her
Rain overcomes me, shell relinquished
Distinguished, I sprout again

And then, I remember once more
I am extinct

I knew I should be alone
after the torment meant for me
had gone on and on and on and on
'til loud 2:46 a.m. was freed.
I searched for something to fill the void
that toyed with whatever mind I had left.
I opened cans, broke bottles, and soiled
what good I had left when you left.
So I met this one who unfurled and quizzed me to death.
And I loved her laughter, and she said, "Suddenly,
"I miss you when I'm not near you. My breath
"feels incomplete when I linger . . . without you."
And I thought, Finally, happiness is no afterthought;
but still I was empty as a camel thirsting
in the Sahara, groveling, with no life bought,
even in the oasis that was burning through this rot.
And then this amazing girl came right in front of me,
came on my face, and came on my crotch;
but I was emptier than a lonely pier out at sea.
I knew then this new sin she and I shared was botched
from the start when I said, "Hello,
"may I enchant you sometime?"
And over time I grew hollow, more hollow,
most hollow, when she tells me "You're all mine."
You haunt me still in my sleep and in the quiet;
your image seared right into my skin.
And I no longer have the will to calm this riot,
your voice embedded deep within.
It's 12:24 a.m., and my being yearns to feel hers,
but my heart belongs to someone else.
I see her for her in the dourest hours,
but yours is my birthright, and I haven't felt myself
being—trying to feel—all right.

When i was born i was born as one
As soon as i came out my mothers womb my journey begun;
Learning that i was born into a world of sin
Thinking to myself growing was easy when i was within;
Now I'm in a world of hurt, pain, destruction by death
Wondering if death at birth would have been best;
Dropping to my knees and to god i cry
Talking to god on a personal note and just asking why;
There is no way you can make it by yourself
With all that's going on in the world your going to need something else;
So i told god " i need a angel"
One that could cover me from all angles
So that i could be protected from hurt, harm, and danger
sometimes your angel can be a stranger;
Life is a test quizzed by the best
One man who is stronger and power fuller than the rest;
I had to learn to just pray
It's only god that can get us through each and every day ;
So when my life turns up side down to tangle
i just look to the sky and say" Lord i need an angel"

How many breakups does it take to ***** in a lightbulb?
You light me up like the humming glow of a microwave oven
How many makeups does it take to finally make up?
I've lost count but I love abundance
How many chances does it take for a man to act right?
I've lost count again but I've never been good at math
I've never been good at many things but I've always been good at love
Or so I think and hope and wish upon the stars above
I wanna be good to you
First we had to be bad
It's the kind of love that drives you mad
The kind of love that is awfully sad
Until you barely feel anything at all
Until you sleep and dream about that slow-motion fall
Until you feel everything at once
Until you realize you're both ******* s
How much more?
What's the cost?
I'm poor in judgement
But rich in emotion
Still searching for that treasure in the ocean
Is it hopeless? Is it worth it?
Will it make me sea sick?
I've always been a hopeless romantic
Will I get what I want like I always do?
No, no, never
Not when it comes to you
It's the endless chase that makes my heart race
And might put me into cardiac arrest
Up until now I've been quizzed
But you're the real test

One day, my wife
Gave me a kiss
So I asked her why
Now why is this

She said that she
Felt bad for me
So I quizzed her, what
What can it be

She said it’s just
Because you see
I’m real cute
And you’re, ugly

Oh, I’m only joking, she sighed            
Don’t get yourself all riled                        
And as she turned and walked away
She winked, and then she smiled              
BOEMS BY JA 48

Fathoming that l found her
The words said left me in awe
Beautiful sculpt, built for me
I found her and shes waiting for me

She stopped by our cottage
on the way down the road
to the school bus
Yehudit and her sister

my sister and her sister
walked ahead talking
she walked beside me
at a slower pace

my mother
quizzed me last night
Yehudit said

what about?
I asked

you and why
we're together so much
and what was going on?

what did you say?

said we were just friends
and that we were in the form
at school and were
necessarily together  
but she wasn't convinced
she said there were other reasons

I looked at her beside me
her brown hair tied
by a simple blue bow
her eyes focusing on me

someone ratted on us?
but who?

my sister most probably

why though?

she's mother little pet
we walked on
to the bus stop
in silence

I watched her sister in front
shorter maybe
more beautiful
but mouthy and spirited

we stood waiting
for the school bus
Yehudit staring at her sister

I stood next to her
our hands nearly touching

other kids
were at the bus stop too
so she said nothing
for a while

then the bus came
and we got on
and I sat next to Goldfinch

Yehudit sat next
to her sister at the front

Goldfinch talked about football
and who played what game
and who won

I watched Yehudit
talking to her sister
her sister blushed
and looked back at me
then she looked away again

Yehudit stared out
the window
at the coming down of rain.

In one of her last few semi-lucid moments
my mother quizzed me.
She gazed at me myopically
and seemed to be asking
herself as much as me.
“Did I really love you?”

It was the first firm indication
of a previously suspected
demonstration of approaching
senile dementia.
There were others,
more mundane,
less cerebral,
mainly related
to her toilet habits.
Clues that were easier to ignore
than to acknowledge.

What did she mean by it?
“Of course you did”
was an instinctive but meaningless response.
She peered at me uncomprehendingly,
as though my reply
bore no relevance to her question.
A question that has haunted me
for over forty years.

But how could I doubt her love?
Had it not been for her concern,
I would have perished ‘neath the surgeon’s knife
on my return from evacuation
in Fakenham.
She never would have dared challenge
a doctor’s diagnosis
on her own behalf.
She was of the generation
and the class
that treated medical practitioners
as gods.
But for an offspring she was quite prepared
to fight both tooth and nail
in some basic, ritualistic simulation
of a jungle tiger’s protective shield
at a perceived  threat to its young.

And later,
when she rushed my sister and myself
into totally unorganised evacuation
to Llanelli in order to escape
the sudden perils of flying bombs and rockets.
How could I ever doubt the love
that she exhibited in my presence
in her debate with the headmaster
of the local Grammar School?
Her insistence that he accept me
despite my lack of Welsh
that would ordinarily be a
basic entry requirement.
Her refusal to accept
the rules and regulations
was a mother I had never seen
nor could I have imagined her
to be capable of
such persistent challenging.

Thus, my mother, tottering on the brink
of what was to be a life-annihilating
dementia, asking me, in a rare, lucid
moment, if she had ever loved me
would seem to be a non-sequitur.
Was it a sudden recognition of
a coldness that she might exhibit
to the world, but which did not reflect
the love that she really felt but
failed to exhibit?
For that matter
was the “me” really me or was it
some other family member with whom
in her later stages of dementia
she confused me.

But it has induced a question
that now I have to pose myself.
The recollection of those many
wonderful experiences
that demonstrate
the lengths to which she was
prepared to go
to defend those values
which she honoured
though rarely overtly.
render the question
meaningless.

Unless, unless it be reframed
into an accusation of my own
failure to recognise
to appreciate
to reveal
the extent of my own feelings.

Perhaps it was I
who should have posed the question:
“Did I really love you?”

It was the season when a young man’s fancy
Turns to hunkering down as the land around him locks,
When the envoys of the abyss
Stalk elderly relatives and spindly late-born calves.
He’d happened upon her
At Aubuchon’s Hardware over in Gouverneur,
Picking up bits and bobs to tie up those projects
(The endless caulking, the pitched battles with plaster and lath)
Which had trickled over the spillway of spring and summer
When she more or less materialized,
Like the sudden bloom of some ill-timed crocus
Popping up through fallen leaves.
She’d quizzed him on the merits of levels, cup hooks, and spackles
(The story being she’d leased a gerrymandered third-floor studio
Over the Rent-A-Center on Clinton Street)
They’d chatted in the middle of an aisle for a half-hour or so
When she tittered You know, I could really use a beer about now,
Which became several, then burgers, then his house and bed
Where she settled in for the duration
(She’d had her suitcases in her trunk, and he came to surmise
That an apartment hadn’t been in her plans at all.)
He’d learned about her what little she chose to share:
A nut allergy, a borderline prodigal capacity for whiskey,
Certain boudoir practices and positions,
But her whos, whats and wherefores an admixture
Of carefully chosen quarter-truths and outright fictions;
He’d noticed, inadvertently,
That she had a half-dozen driver’s licenses in her purse,
And she’d been furiously tight-lipped
About where’d she been and come from,
Save one drunken mention of how she’d lived down near Ithaca
Just long enough to stand on the very precipice
Of one of the town’s plethora of gorges
Before deciding not to go headlong over the edge,
‘S no real point, she demurred,
In anything that puts a period on sumpin’.

There was no question of some Snow White happily-ever-after;
She melted away as abruptly as she’d arrived,
Leaving on an implausibly warm late-February day,
A deceit of sunshine and southerly breezes
Which belied the month-plus of hard slog ahead.
He’d cherished no illusions
Of going after her, of tracking her down:
There was small chance she’d given him her real name,
Assuming she knew it at this point,
And she’d changed her cell number in a matter of hours.
He’d done his best to simply chalk it up as a lesson learned
Or a hell of a hell of a story to share with the boys at Nina’s Hotel,
But she had become (or, rather, the notion of
What she might have become,
As all faithless acts require acquiescence to the existence of faith)
A giant hogweed in his very sinews, invasive and implacable,
All but impervious to destruction and subsequent reclamation,
And the throes of her remained as confabulations
In his mind and heart and groin
All through what turned out to be
The longest of long North Country winters,
With flurry and sleet enjoying dominion over new blooms
Until well into the middle of May.

Fostered and nurtured like a heiress
Time to part with it a natural process
Destiny of Chacobi written by the man upstairs
Handed over to a new set of parents with similar desires

Grilled and quizzed
Anything goes amiss
Satisfied and confident
That shes found a parent

Tests for eligibility
Tests the hearts purity
Treat them with quality
Equality akin  to fellow humanity

Missed by the rest
Wish her the best
Gods own creation
Will keep it under his protection

Never heard of a couple
Whose lives revolved with multiple
Cats as pets a common fare
Cats as kids   an  unique affair

It's hard to stay employed in that position.
Sometimes you quit.
Sometimes you get fired.
Business isn't always booming.
This one guy I met, reintroduced me into that job.
It was like I was connected again. What it felt to be light again.
Every now and then I think about him.
It was magical; like stepping onto wet grass.
Feels different.
Get knots in your stomach and chilled with goosebumps.
It makes you bite your lip.
He tested me,
quizzed me,
studied me,
questioned me,
when he'd hear my voice over the phone, he was inquiring.
To find someone who connected with you but couldn't keep the job, hurts.

Thus yours truly resigns himself
June first two thousand and twenty three
to imagine being gifted with untold riches
courtesy  female named Jean E.

This ***** (caricatured familiarly
epitomized, demonized, characterized...
countless Chaplinesque productions,
Dickensian tales,
oil paintings from artistic
hands of great masters,
and other anonymous
exquisite craftsman, et cetera)
remembers practically nothing
of nine month stay in utero
birth, childhood nor early adulthood
my amorphous gauzy,
hazy fractal memories
solely comprise fractured,
fragmented and splintered collection
of miserable memories
character wry zing living
hellacious hand to mouth
hard scrapple existence.

Past wispy vestiges of wretchedness
present woebegone existence, which seems
a worse fate than death
overpowering urge to survive
summoning up one
barely audible l'chaim utterance
against depredations rustling
grim reaper found nothing
but defeat daily dismal
grinding away of last shreds
repurposed driven life fending off real
and imagined threats sought salvation
vividly encased within
preserved imagination,
an existence awash
with trappings of southern comfort
provided by Jim Beam.

Yours truly dug deep
with bony introspective strength
in tandem with fantasy notions knocking
around in figurative
heady noggin like cranial carapace
to muster every ounce
of strength escaping
chronic confrontation
endless streak of bleakness
cursed with brutish, nasty
nefarious fate as a measly

looking human varmint,
this grimy, grungy, rangy,
et cetera looking besotted being
clung with all might
within mine five foot ten inch
and one hundred
and fifty plus pound body
to transcend twerking terrestrial travesty
tweeting and tweaking
fickle finger of fate against favor.

I tapped atavistic survival skills
summoning willpower
to stay alive drinking butter bear
heavy cross of dirt poor poverty
borne no matter
a hard-core skeptic at heart,
this cynic plaintively
called divine intervention
to help this human piece
of flotsam and jetsam

to cope living like a doleful
junkyard dog essentially
abandoned, ignored, cancelled
and shunned vagrant
frequently raged against
Deus ex machina manacled movement
found figurative amidst
literal unlovely bones
slim pickens with demons
that tormented psyche

while traipsing along litter strewn
condemned boulevard of broken dreams,
torn and well-worn shoe
kicked discarded items
weather beaten hands reflexively bent
to retrieve accouterments
comprising colorful jagged shard,
previously housed cheap fermented liquor
nothing but crud filled
remnant of dog gone
boozehounds’ favorite drink.

Although never drawn
to drown sorrows
by turning to the bottle,
cigarettes nor drugs
(a respect for thyself existed),
an automatic reflex caught
eye-catching attention
comprising anonymous drunkard’s signature
lost memento and wireless device entity
constituted a dullish metallic object,
which turned out to be a heavily damaged
slender MOTORAZR (long obsolete) phone.

Out of foolish embarrassment
qua natural instinct,
i raddled then rubbed
remnant once containing
amber liquid of the gods’
irrational explanation in mockery
against cosmic consciousness, my mouth
jabber walk key talky like
into mobile phone these chapped,
course and cracked fingers
slid across unbroken surface
of antiquated bottle in tandem
with parched lips uttering
cockamamie pretend plea, a crackle, snap
and pop delivered a lifelike being whose
corporeal essence resembled a goddess.

The mp3 player issued magically
syncopated beats indicative per favorite
saved playlist tunes former owner
of electronic contraption
without a shadow of doubt,
this vision and auditory music definitely
brought sobered Punch
to this Judy schuss schlepper.

I clapped these nearly deaf ears, thence
rubbed mine-gnarled hands
across myopic eyes.

These twin ****** motions
executed just to dismiss
stray chance of experiencing hallucination
a maiden suddenly appeared
in plain view,
which disbelief found me
pretending to conduct
make believe conversation
via encrusted cell phone
while speaking a matter of fact tone of voice.

She (in a hypnotic, lilting,
melodic and sing song tone)
responded with casual chit chat
genie hill (Alladin like)
everyday, general friendly conversation
eventually ensued fraught
with apprehension and self
consciousness) before purpose
of her presence
became clear, an intuitive
understanding took place
akin to acute telepathic Sikh sixth sense.

Immediate difficulty arose
to think of one wish
to abet grievous humiliation
and immersion in miserable
penury, which might be abrogated
once and for all
with immediacy by simple syllabic voicing
for a pile of crisply minted money, yet
rather than blurt out immediate offering
for untold material commodities
and resplendent riches,
i surprised myself and
communicated a desire
for female friendship.

A gamesome, genteel, gentle gal who would
surrender herself for cries
and whispers seemed
more important than any pile of wealth aware
cha self-actualization about
my utter decrepitude
appeared as immediate
deterrent toward attaining
a bona fide sincere relationship, an ordinary
and reasonable ambition appeared as lofty goal.

Self absorbed in rambling
longing of body, mind
and heart, I quickly became oblivious
to imaged or real corporeal presence
who spurred outpouring
tears of joy per this
ostracized and unwanted vermin eyes
while loosening the tongue in an effort
to picture the escape
from pernicious malady
crushing breathing room
of abominable existence.

Lips shut tight also
prevented the woebegone loss
what appeared as some
divine trickster who conjured
such a muse out of thin air
upon winding down
this unrehearsed recitation,
a painstaking effort
got made to open the eyelids very slowly.

Lo and behold, when manifestation
in actual dolled up guise
of a gorgeous gal stood still as a statue,
and remained rapt
with attention provenance
and provenance found pleasure
in my prattle, and promise
got uttered by lovely lass
to remain a permanent
die-hard companion
no matter many considered
this paperback writer wannabe
nothing but wretched
pestilence of the earth.

This groveling gremlin
of a human felt like a beast alongside
one beautiful babe, who came across
as genuinely modest and passionate
to promulgate profound sharing of body,
mind and spirit triage, where homelessness
and pennilessness mattered not a whit
to this literally spellbinding goddess,
who seemed to materialize out the heavens
in the likeness sans Betsy Ross.

The question how
and where did this muse
render herself to appear
out of thin air puzzled,
and quizzed curiosity
assessed and gleaned no matter
not one word uttered,
thus necessity for conversation
seemed superfluous for we both
seemed able to converse
by autosuggestion of this,
that or the other query.

I (by the way) seemed
to be more intrigued
in this angelic spirit
come to life viz comedy of errors
that punctuated anonymous
life with angst king lear
riddled tragedy suddenly took
a most pleasant unexpectedly
found that all’s well
that ends well with this leery king
from southeastern Pennsylvania
possesses great expectations
by dickens no matter the field
of whet dreams populated
with slim (shady) T. Boone Pickens.