lucid raindrops, falling

the last drop falls outside on my roof,
and rolls down, before hitting the ground she glides past my window
boom
splash
times many many
raindrop falling on the ceiling
top
i am on, the last drop falls on me
ceiling fan, i am spinning
cool
i am under pressure so no need to hide your cards,
press the flush button with a straight face,
say it with a raindrop,
falling
many many times down, hitting the ground before she glides past my window
while i am seeing double
two penguins!! where are they from?
dizzy i look for a gum or something fizzy
i see ... TV, (oh no), not that

OFF
ok

[photo used without permission but with CREDIT given to:: Elizabeth Leach Gallery]

lucid hallucinations

idealized planes sink ships
faster than dreams remove seat belts
i melt
when words perform
and form blends into sending trends
to the back end
of the isle
i try
to find fire in freezers
to break diamonds with tweezers
i try to seize the dairy to put under a cherry
cold, frozen
in time and chosen to rewind back to the
age of riddles
when in the middle of my story
we said sorry and put sunoco back into the soil,
it was a natural foil to forfeit expectations
that molded holes on oil fields
we all know the outcome:
seconds after the second ending
a foreign man foretold that
barcelona's oldest temple is entering
its final stage of assembly
marble palm trees and waterfalls
in the halls of antonio gaudi's home
will join emblems and attempt to replace
the present with paper mache
i say
catch
and shoot
and then drive by away
play with fireworks on your way
like you dreamt about back in the day
i say
try to outlast a battery
for a day
use caution and avoid sinking faster
in idealized dreams that seat a theater
of removed belts
i melt
when fenders get unbent
when zidane gets unsent
and france still loses on PKs.

poof (another apocalypse)

poof

there goes Wall St, blown up and dismembered by investment bank pranksters with a taste for disaster
the economy crash could not have come faster
but hey, at least it makes for compelling TV
oh Shit!!
there goes GE! there goes Lehman and AIG!
they're crashing so hard I can't see past the red
my portfolio bled its value like the banks bled the Fed
I'm in despair,
someone needs to help me forget that my retirement's gone and I'm swallowed by debt

poof

there goes my home, my job, my American dream,
my pride, my wealth, I want to scream
when will it end?
will the market recover?
five years from now will there be another ... apocalypse?

poof

it's all burn burn burning down
forget wall street and main street, the flames are blazing through the whole town
bailouts are failing, bankruptcy looming
anti-depressant sales must be booming
recession
depression
it's the end of the world
these Wall St disasters never get old.

Letter to Obama

Dear President Elect Obama,

I am writing to congratulate you on winning an election that lasted longer than John McCain's captivity in Vietnam
You captured my attention and grabbed a hold of every ounce of hope I have left.
First you climbed the primary hill and left Hillary behind,
then you maimed the maverick and his Alaskan mate,
who for the sake of this country's fate will get dismembered by wild caribou in Juno right about.... now.

It was all very impressive, Mr. Obama.

I was with you from the beginning but my hope was thinning as election day neared
Not sure if Americans would vote for a inexperienced Senator with socialist tendencies and terrorist poker buddies, I was ready to join the masses and relocate to Canada.
oh, and you're black on top of all that!
my ticket was practically booked,
no matter how good the polls looked I was ready for anything.

And then... you won.

[to be continued]

You, me, and Hitler in Spanish Harlem [short story]

story time:

as you know, lea is doing a farming apprenticeship in long island, new york. I drove over there this past weekend to visit, and it was quite nice. long island is an interesting little place, with organic farm providing some good relaxation and learning and such. I especially liked how anywhere on long island is close to water, and some of the shorelines are really undeveloped, raw, and beautiful. they probably won't be as beautiful when global warming raises the waters and nature whips out a can of whoop ass on the island, but for now it's nice.
but that's not even the story. let's call it the setting leading up to the story. it was really chill. this farm has a mobile chicken coup that transports the 500 or so chicks to a patch on the farm so they can run around and be happy and act like chickens and such. on sunday morning lea danila and I had to contain a situation when the most of the chickens acted up, apparently due to not being fed enough, and stamped past the fence. they literally rioted in front of our eyes and got out of their enclosure and started running around the field. it was an emergency, and we did our part in containing it. chickens are not the smartest animal, which is a nice way of saying they are dumb as hell. we were able to trick most of them into stampeding back into the fenced off area, with some assistance from a big bag of grain. but some of them did need to be chased down, with some serious talking to afterward. ... well not really the last part but everything else is true. alas, that is not the story either but more setting, so let's get to it.
sunday evening, about 6 pm, danila and I depart riverhead, long island.
we drive to queens, through queens, and into manhattan. at some point I bring up the idea of stopping by this restaurant I know in spanish harlem to get a bite to eat of... you guessed it: finger-licken' delicious chicken. since we were making good time and were hungry and the detour was minor, we agreed that it was a good idea. also, kate lives right by there and agreed to join us so the plan was set.
by 7pm,we meet up with kate and by 7:30 or so we find the restaurant. and here is when the story really gets a bit out of hand.
you are warned.
ok, so parking was scarce and I doubled parked near the restaurant to run over and pick up the food. walking back, I notice a steady and strong stream of water coming from under my car. bad.
I look under the hood and sure enough it's leaking. and no, it's not that calm, slow kind of car leaking. this was like niagara falls' little pinky here: small but powerful.
somewhat befuddled, I get into my car and start driving. barely a moment passes when danila points out that my temperature gauge is quickly rising. within minutes, it's all the way at the top where the "H" letter is next to a big red square and I pull over.
did I mention we're in spanish harlem?
so, what to do, what to do?
eat.
we're hungry and the car is overheating, so the best idea we could come up with at that moment was to let the car cool and eat the delicious spanish chicken.
delicious, yes, but soon enough our ravenous appetites are satisfied and the car is still broken.
we twiddle around the engine, bring a few jugs of water, and pour it into a seemingly empty engine coolant tank.
we get back into the car, drive a few blocks, and the car overheats again.
shit.
we pull over at a shell station to ponder our next move when a hispanic guy on a bicycle drops in and offers his help. beggars can't be choosers, so he starts working on the car and after adding water directly into the radiator the car's temperature stabilizes.
eureka.
at this point, I mellow out a bit and the following exchange happens:

me: hey, thanks for helping us man. we appreciate it
guy: nods head
me: what's your name?
guy: mumbles something that sounds like Cesar to me
me: what's that? cesar?
guy: hiter! hitler!
danila and I look at each other with priceless facial expressions (obviously I did not see mine but it had to be) and no more is said.

which means: we were saved in spanish harlem by hitler.

but, hitler's handiwork was a bit shoddy, as about 10 miles later my car overheats again. this time, it happens as I am getting of the highway to enter newark, since the plan was to drop danila at the train station so he could head home.
I pull over at shady gas station #1, pour some water into my radiator like hitler did, and keep driving.
no luck.
this time the car lasts a lot less and overheats less than a mile later, forcing me to pull into shady gas station #2.
at this point, I am getting a bit depressed, since it is getting late, I am tired, and my car is crapping out in front of my eyes over and over again. since we are just a few blocks from newark penn station, danila decides to try and catch the train to Trenton in case there are any more catch since it is 11:30pm or so. surprisingly, one of the guys working at the gas station offers to lend his car so I can drive danila to newark penn station instead of making him walk several shady blocks. I can't express how much this surprises me because kindness like this is really special in a town like newark. it is really encouraging to see the good side of the human spirit show its face even when surrounded by crime, violence, and distrust.
of course, everything good has an equal and opposite side, sort of like newton's first law. meaning: danila is too late to catch the train he needs to make it to home that night.
but, I am getting slightly ahead of myself.
while danila is at the train station looking at schedules and such, I am talking to hyundai off road assistance to get a tow truck to pick me up. since my car barely lasted a mile between shady gas station #1 and shady gas station #2 in newark, I decided it was safer get towed to my apartment than to risk damaging my engine by taking the car on the highway. there are three phone calls:
phone call #1: the woman on the other end tells me it would cost $71 to get to bloomfield, which I thought was reasonable for the 5-7 miles. I say yes.
phone call #2: the woman calls me back and tells me none of their partner towing companies could do it. they are either too busy or not picking up the phone, so my best bet is for the off road assistance person to find a towing company in the yellow pages.
phone call #3: the woman calls me again and tells me that after calling about 30 towing services, only one agreed to tow my car and is requesting $200. ouch.
I tell her I wil call back later knowing that I will not.
so, my options are either to spend the night sleeping in my car in newark, or to have someone pick me up and come back to get towed on monday. I lean toward the latter option and call nadya. at this point it wisas about 12:30 am and I called her before calling taras since she also lives in bloomfield, knows newark pretty well, and is a student so more likely to be awake late on a sunday night. sure enough, she is and kindly agrees to pick me up. but, to my surprise, she sends me a text message 10 minutes later that reads "I am almost on route 18"
quickly, I realize that nadya is coming from east brunswick, which is at least a 30 minute drive to newark. I call her and we talk and she tells me that she assumed I called her as a last resort, so that is why she headed out to pick me up from east brunswick. I tell her that, on the contrary, she is my first resort (for the reasons mentioned above), and demand that she turn around and head home.
at this point, I see danila walkinging back to the train station and we soon enough we are back where we started at this shady newark gulf gas station. I then decide, in part due to the advice of the guy working at the gas station, that leaving my car in newark until monday evening is not a good idea. so, I buy all the two gallon water jugs in the gas station store, and danila and I set out to bloomfield.
we pray to all the dieties we could think of, as well as to their cousins and their cousins' cousins and, sure enough:
eureka #2
we made it.

Building without a foundation

15 years ago, she took me under her wing
4 years ago, she tried to feed me every meal that I missed since leaving Riga
1 year ago, she died.
When I was younger, I was terrified of losing any of the people I loved
When it happened, I was frozen.
I didn't know the right way to respond
should I cry? should I be angry?
should I question fate? should I write a self-therapy poem?
should I buy a bottle? should I accept it?
do I have a choice?
Today, I am here and she is not,
and I miss her.
There is so much I wish I could change,
but life is bigger than me and will always be full of "what ifs,"
and I accept that.
I just wish getting older didn't involve losing people who helped define who you are,
because without them you become a building without a foundation.

Warsaw

I've got a pierogy full of Polish memories in my head more dense than the peacock population of Lazienki park
(Mmm pass the lard)
I can't get enough "bird's milk" inside my chocolate,
a perfect prize after walking past half the city to find metro tickets.
One line from Imielin to Pole Mokotowskie to Centrum but I'm still lost,
I need to find the rotunda but I'm down under the Palace of Culture,
wondering how this piece fits in with all the new shiny skyscrapers around its perimeter.
You see, Warsaw is a contradiction between now and before fueled by memories of communism and war,
it's an unfinished story where past chapters bleed knee deep in places where today plaques commemorate how many were shot and when.
Meanwhile across the river in Praga, another world is formed in the shadows of old tenements,
people work, drink, and live like they did 20, 50, 100 years ago,
always under the watchful eye of mother Mary, who's figure is it up beautifully in every courtyard.
Yeah I got a pierogy full of Polish memories with a side of fried pork chop photoshopped from 1980 and served in a milk bar,
where I sit with a homeless man to my right and a business man to my left, wondering how a place like this could still exist.
It's another contradiction in a city that is beautiful despite being defined by gray Soviet era buildings mixed with reconstructed remains of lost architectural treasures mixed with new office complexes and an old town which isn't old.
My head is spinning just thinking how this combination of contradictions can exist in one place, in the city of Warsaw.

Little Red's Story

Little Red's Story was written over the course of a one-week vacation in upstate New York. It is an experiment into what happens when you put several people with lively imaginations into one house and give them a laptop. The results are ....... interesting.

Little Red's Story // part 1

day 1.

acting on a suggestion given by monk martians, who were immune to feeling pain from fire, we chose to whisper to our electronic friend- Dell.
Hi Dell.
now that we all know each other, his idea was to type wandering thoughts and take pictures, with CTRL-S, so that upon later viewing we can discover a thing or a theme or an idea or, an ideal.
philosophy, Dell says, means knowledge spiked with the right chemically isolated compounds, gun rounds, and pounds and pounds and pounds of LSD. you can see
clearly.

pass the hardrive.

[author: dmitry m]

Little Red's Story // part 2

Little Red's Story:
There are words between the lines
little red red red come hither, he said
with smoky eyes and a needing smile
it wasn't that kind of hunger, after all
she knew about the teeth but his pleading look told her
that he would swallow her whole
so she put down everything she had ever carried
everything she had ever learned
every warning that ever traveled down her spine
every dream that horrified or comforted her in the night
she put them down by the bed
and she dove into the mouth that would hold her
into the hollow space left in him by some other
There are words between the lines
he licked his lips
and waited for death

[author: lily]

Little Red's Story // part 3

But Death didn't come. She was too busy windsurfing off the coast of Fiji. Warm waves lapped at her ankles as the westerly wind picked up. She was heading away from the shore. Away from a civilization that had turned it's most beautiful island into an oppresive zone of native tourist-slavery, rife with fast-food joints and a culture that resembled the utmost psychosis, narcissism and depression.
There are words between the lines
Death smiled. Summer was coming to an end. And what a summer it had been! Between two former presidents, an over-filled orphanage, and a sizeable earthquake off the coast of Sri Lanka, business had been good. Death could finally afford that all-in-one vacation, even after paying back the credit-card loans she had accumulated over the course of eternity.
There are words between the lines
But even Death didn't know what was coming next………………How could she? Afterall, she was not supposed to know that the little red girl would so unthoughtfully act out of character and wittingly jump right into her foe's mouth. Death's ancestral memory alerted her whenever an old fairy tale was being played out, so that she might know when to make an instantaneous appearance on the scene, even if it was merely to add a sense of darkness. No, Death did not always kill her victims, sometimes she just taught them a serious lesson, one that previous red riding girls have all received- the one we all know. On account of Little Red's odd behavior however, no notice jarred Death's skelatles as she turned her back to the beach and continued to walk.
There are words between the lines
Now, little is known about the horrific turn of events that transpire when lessons are "missed" by mankind's most famous fabled folk. Little is known, because this hardly ever happens, but when it does, oh boy. Just imagine, how many tucked in children are doomed to be corrupted by a little red sleuzy that willingly gave into a strange wolf's wide-open invitation! And on the way to Grandma's house, for shame. What if that theiving Goldilocks was accepted by the bears and invited to join their family? Hmph, the Three Little Pigs didn't build their houses out of the same material for a reason.
There are words between the lines
There is a master plan, and when it is violated backwards words go.
There are words between the lines
"I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your gingerbread house down!" cried the wolf to little red
There are words between the lines
But she ate a cookie from her basket labeled "eat me" and shrank into a dwarf and fell asleep through a tiny peep hole for a thousand years…

[author: Lea Lsf and a dash of Danila]

Little Red's Story // part 4

till one day….
There are words between the lines
the white rabbit came and kissed her lips.
There are words between the lines
she awoke and became a real girl. How happy Japeto will be!
There are words between the lines
at midnight, she will bring the pumpkins home to the ministry of truth.
There are words between the lines
the world crashed through itself, looked at its own image in the glass and fainted from dizziness
or horror

[author: unknown]

Little Red's Story // part 5

the wolf awoke suddenly,
heavy with a life from which he had been desperate
to make an exit
where was the hunter? the woodsman? the good samaritan?
why hadnt the ax yet separated him from his thoughts, his past?
he could feel red's hands pressed up against his inner belly
the batting of her eyelashes tortured him with every blink
her hair was caught in his throat, he realized as
he started to cough and gag violently

[author: lily]

Little Red's Story // part 6

he realized as
he started to cough and gag violently
he realized
he realized
….started to cough and gag violently..
and he realized that the record needed to be adjusted
There are words between the lines
[as an aside, this story is being broadcasted by DHN, or Divine Hack Network, our code name. what we do: steal a special wave of satellite TV available only to archaic dieties and provide it to the masses at a monthly rate. what we do not do: fund terrorism. so, this particular wave you are seeing right now, it was originally broadcasted to Zeus, Apollo, and King Tut's uncle. do you feel special? well, maybe you should get back to the regularly scheduled programming…]
There are words between the lines
her hair was caught in his throat, he realized as
he started to cough and gag violently,
puzzled by the metallic daggers that caused pain inside his inner intestine
it was a mess
he screamed and he wailed,
he prayed for Morpheus to come and give him a pill
a pill, a pill, a pill to ease the pain
it was insane, inane, and he had no one to blame but
himself
he knew that
and that is why at this point the wolf knew that he would never see the morning dawn again,
because…

[author: dmitry m]

Little Red's Story // part 7

He had a new e-mail on his BlackBerry. It was from his eye doctor. Polmsky, I believe his name was. An e-mail this soon could only mean bad news. Wolfey's ears twitched in agitation. Why did this son-of-a-bitch optometrist need to disturb him in mid-digestion?
There are words between the lines
"Call me. –Plomskey" The email said.
There are words between the lines


There are words between the lines
"Plomskey speaking."
"Woof woof, it's me."
"Oh I see. Now don't start howling, but I've got some bad news for you. Your results came back. It's what we feared most. We did a bunch of CSI – SeaLab shit to your blood, and it looks like your scientific-sounding-terms are disintegrating. Unless we figure out what's wrong in the next 8 hours, you may never see again!"
"Hoooooooooooooooooooooooowwwllllll"
"I knew you'd understand. I've had our courier send the bill direct to you. Please be kind and pay in full before dawn. Or else we'll have to take some fingers too. And you're gonna want those when you're blind."
'Hoooooooooooooooooooooooowwwllllllllll"
"Yeah, I know. I know. We'll do what we can. We've got our best scientists on the case. It's very dramatic. Say hello to the wife, eh."

There are words between the lines
Lightning struck. There was suspense.
There are words between the lines
No one knew what was going on, and so there it was… suspense, there it was… it was…it was there. And not a single fortunate one of them knew how to get rid of it. They tried acting normal to try an' ease the tension of suspense and to possibly prevent drama. But drama, ever so watchful, followed suspenses' leaky trail of anxious sweat beads for three days straight (in the fairy woods) and finally closed in upon the scene.
There are words between the lines
Flowers bloomed. There was drama.

[author: unknown]

Little Red's Story // part 8

drama pulled the wolf's tail like a spoiled child
The wolf choked and snarled
in the darkness caused by his disease
he felt red in his esophagus, behind his tongue and
finally, finally
propelled red through his mouth and onto the floor
with a wet thud
red sucked in air
she willed herself to stand
now now
she could run run run
the wolf could only stumble in blindness
and the power his eyes had held over her vanished
she reached for the doorknob
she looked back at him
she opened the old splintered door
she looked back at him
she stepped over the welcome matt
and looked back at the shut door
she started to run
There are words between the lines
the howl - she felt it in her bones –
clawed at her red heart
her hands were still sticky with his saliva
her hair was red with his blood
his insides were under her fingernails

[author: lily]

Little Red's Story // part 9

red ran faster than flashlights, faster than lightbulbs go bad when you drop them,
she ran past trees, shrubs, and porcupines
(the porcupines observed this sprint ever-so-watchfully)
she ran past villages, streams, mountains, and roads that wove through the countryside of West Virginia,
and while running and swimming though air, she knew that running to freedom would take not be easy.

for little red, there was only one place to go: Tuscon.
so as the porcupines would tell you, red put forrest gump to shame,
doing so gracefully and without needing to grow a beard.
in other words: red had no fear.
she skipped over tennessee, hopped over louisiana, and did a cartwheel over texas.
nearly out of breath, she looked back and saw the sun, sand, bushes of cactus,
There are words between the lines
but she did not see the wolf.
There are words between the lines
because her optometrist appointment was only days after the wolfs….
There are words between the lines
And the chase of the blind leading the blind gave Hellen Keller hope that she too can live a fairy tale.

[author: unknown]

Little Red's Story // part 10

Alas the fairy tale died as do all good things in their own time. The chase has endeed and little red went to her optometrist to get that brand new perscription. She came in ten minutes early as good patients are supposed to, she signed the little sign-in book as good patients are supposed to, she waited quietly in the waiting room, as good patients are supposed to, she picked up a shiny magazine from the spill of magazines on the magazine table and read it with great interest as good patients are supposed to. After twenty minuted of reading a dark haired woman in her thirties came from within the office and without saying her name (how rude!) lead red inside. Red sat in a chair of optometry waiting for the doctor to step in. Instead the lady in her thirties put on little red's face the rotating lenses of optometry. And red looked through the lenses of optometry. On to the wall of optometry on the poster of optometry and it looked like this:

"What do you see?" asked the lady in her thirties as she quickly rotated the glasses of optometry.
"Therefore" answered red as good patients are supposed to.
"Therefore what?" asked the optometry lady in her thirties.
"There four three dots" answered red as good patients are supposed to.

Little red looked again through the optometry glasses at the optometry poster on the optometry wall and saw

"Wha.." said red looking at optometry lady in her thirties"...t big eyes you have"
The optometry lady in her thirties looked down on her white optometry lab coat.
"What big ear you have" continued red as a good patients are supposed to.
"What what big hands you have" said red as good patients are supposed to.
"What big tail you have" said little red very quiet, in a dusky quiet optometry office.
"That is not a tail" said the lady in her thirties as she blushed

[author: zero]

Little Red's Story // part 11

but of course,
it was
a tail
that optometry lady had been trying to conceal
for years
the children that surrounded her youth called her
rat girl
as they tried to tug it
"I would like to be something with a labcoat" she answered
to those questions relatives always ask without thinking
what do you want to be when you grow up?
a lab coat was a long pure costume
a lab coat wasn't to be argued with
a lab coat was serious
she first tried to be one of the scientists
until she learned that their experiment
was her

she had worked in this doctor's office for ten years
she was loved by the children, and their parents
she suspected that the doctor was falling madly in love with her
finally.
her best friend was the receptionist and she would be her maid of honor
but this little red red girl
had somehow seen the tail, and could tell the tale
would she? would she?

[author: lily]

Little Red's Story // part 12

Their eyes exchanged a glance so swift and sudden that both of them couldn't help but blink. Caught in the nano-second of pause were fear, surprise, jealosy, irritation, and a haughty sort of respect. In a whir, they both understood the gravity of the situation. Red was going blind. Lady Optometry was actually a monkey.

"Oo – oo, aa-aa!" Said Red, in a swift attempt at cross-species communication, forgetting that the monkey had spoken English just moments before. In her mind, the words were pure clear and direct: 'I understand. I love you. Let's go get some bananas.'

But to the lady, it wasn't enough. To reiterate, she spoke words that rarely cross the English-speaking tongue:
"Yes I'm an ape you fucking bitch. And if you tell anyone, I'll slit your unsuspecting girlish throat."

Red nodded, and the lady retreated to call the actual doctor. Blinking, Red wondered if the room was actually becoming dimmer.

Donald Plomskey was well-mannered, well-dressed, and well-educated. He never frowned, never spat, and it never occurred to him to utter a curse. He loved his wife, his kids, and the occasional pegging. In short, he was a mild, mild man. Il etait moins chaud. El es menos piquante. If his temeperament was likened to a pepper, he would be tasteless green bell.

Some forty-eight years prior, he had been born into a soft silken down pillow lifestyle. The kind of pillow that seems so comfortable and soft to the touch, but compresses into nothing when your head actually falls flat, resting on the firmness of the mattress, springs poking into your temple.

Plomskey strolled into the observation room like a graceful, long-legged Dr.Seuss sketch. Today was Friday, also known as Family Fun Day, where he joined his wife and kids for delivered pizza, and the unexpected adrenaline rush of board games. And Donald never lost, even if it made his daughter cry. The evening looked promising. Looking at his extra fancy platinum watch, a gift to commemorate a life of success from his parents, Plomskey beamed. Only 3:30 and his last patient was in the room with him. Chop chop, clap the hands together, finish it up, and he'd beat the traffic home.

"Oh yes, you're the girl with the serious case. The has progressed violently. You should be completely blind in a matter of hours. Please excuse my official and foreboding tone. I've been trained to avoid asking you your feelings on your eminent loss of sight. But honestly, you should think about the benefits. You could change your nickname to 'Blindy McBlind A Lot' or 'Stuck in the Darksicle.' Life could be worse. Any questions?"

Plomskey was a good fellow. A nice one indeed. Tis matters not that he enjoys pegging. To each his own. He had to tell the woman she was going to be blind in a matter of hours, it was his job. He bore a heavy burden on the soul. Imagine, to tell people they are dying, and going blind, every day for a living…Tis tough. But Plomskey sucked it up, he did what he had to do, for it was his job. And Plomskey was a man who did his job, it was all he had.

So he took in a breath, closed his eyes, and thought of two penguins in an ice cavern – one of them slid down an ice shoot and the other one said "Ich muss loss, tschuess" and followed his brethren. The ice cave was his cavern, his center of gravity, his inner Ruheplatz, or was it innerer Ruheplatz? Ever since the second penguin started speaking Plomsky has been seeing several psychoatrists. Sometimes he felt if they were all the same, but charged differently depending on the level of vocabularly they used. Franz von Wolfenburg was his newest hope with an hourly charge of over $250 an hour. This was more than any of his other latest shrinks, but he would pay anything to shut that penguin up. The annoyingly persistent creature has been torturing his mind for over a year now and even though he has gotten used to the voice, the penguin speaking out loud always shocked Plomsky – and thus he entered reality one more time.

[author: unknown]

Little Red's Story // part 13

But
But But But…
This time the penguins followed the dear doctor to reality. And they brought their vocabulary with them. The penguins chased Plomsky across the city, village, and desert, until it was just them and their prey. And to make a long story less long, Plomsky's remains can be found at 95 latitude and 230 longitude. Go look for them, he is still wearing that golden watch.

His remains remain in Maine, where his fame transcends the radios, the heads, and the bends. And so, we send you this postcard from Maine, from New York, from Jersey, from West Virginia, and the thoughts that can flow through Plomsky's head during the last minutes of his life can also flow through you. And Little Red, … , well, she is still little, living in Tuscon, and fighting Klingons in her secret life. (Think Superman mixed with Spiderman mixed with marshmellows mixed with seven-figure bank accounts). (bling). (the smell lingers in Plomsky's fingers and even the ring one).

(bling)

Little Red re-enters and spends fifteen minutes looking for her pants. The wolf smiles with a blush, while sitting on a rock back in a valley of West Virginia, back in the land of mountains, while chewing on … you know.

[author: dmitry m]

Little Red's Story // part 14

so the bells bling,
the tolls sing,
the rings linger in memories,
and Little Red brings her damned parcel to Grandma,
and

Grandma turns to Red. Her eyes are fierce, bloodshot and on the border of insane. Red, she says. You know you are the only one that has visited me in the past 15 years.

That's because you're dying grandma. My mom never wanted to see it. She wanted to keep you in her mind as a young woman, running free, bringing her kids into the woods to make sure they never lost their sense of wonder. But you've gone too far… Your age has turned bliss into disease, freedom into anxiety. Your friends are all dead. All you have left is a legacy of miscreants, diabetics and boozers, all of whom have forgotten how to spell your name. Your nine kids have abandoned you. Forgotten that you're still here, living like a bear in the mountains, breathing the fresh air and jumping at anything that doesn't feel right. It's the worst possible outcome you've ever imagined. Life sucks, you're all alone.

Except for my memories. It doesn't matter how you see it. My life is entirely in my head, without thought of how you see it. How can I be alone when my memories speak of inseparable friends, constant companions, and loves that spanned the ages. Your youth means nothing. My age speaks volumes about a longer strata of people. People who didn't care about your concept of individuality. In my day, you didn't have an individual identity. You were a concept. An idea stronger than self. A belief in love without mention of the thing that prohibited it. You weren't a person, but a bee in the hive. And the hive needs honey. And the honey is the love that you simply can't diminish. Love. Love. Love. All you need is
love.

[author: unknown]

Little Red's Story // part 15

Love.
All you need is

A burning fire. A good book. Something to help you forget that you're dying. DAY BY DAY. Hour by hour. Minute by minute.

But what makes you forget that you are living? Pills, obviously, and Red hasn't been the same since them. Blue ones to tuck her neatly under a moonlit blanket, pink tons of smooth-sailing ships to carry her through the cheery day. The wolf, her grandmama, the doctor, his nurse are a swirl of different flavored jams in a piping hot bowl of mannayia kasha now.

Death caught the last good wave back to shore. The wind had died down. So much for a good vacation, she thought, time to go back to work. The wind sighed, and order was restored.

Suddenly she was in woods, "the woods" to be precise, appearing on Red's front porch, to carry out the business that was rightfully hers.

"You've been having too much fun," she hissed, and Red beamed a smile so whimsical, that for a second, you could believe she was still breathing.

She fell to the dirt.

The wolf smiled, choked on the happiness in his bosom, and collapsed in a heart attack brought on by hyper-tension and a bullet tearing through his heart.

The hunter smiled, stood stock still in his boots, and cackled, "Go home you fools, go home, all of you. Your need a century's worth of brown stains removed from your teeth. And you've bugged me out for too long now."

The sun was setting as he slowly meanedered back home. The rifle hang heavy on his shoulder, and he fumbled for the cell-phone that was vibrating uncontrollably in his pocket.

"Hello?" he said.

"Doctor Plomskey would like to remind you that you have an appointment this coming Tuesday, at 2 o'clock. Please arrive at least 15 mintues early. Have a great day."

"Oh, okay," he mumbled, "but my eyes feel fine!"

"You never know what'll happen tomorrow!"

Take a deep breath. Spit out the gross shit in your throat, and close your eyes. Tomorrow's just a day away. and so is yesterday.

THE END!.........? (sigh)

[author: unknown]

two screens

from one screen to the next
that's how it goes with us corporate types,
computer and t.v.
t.v. and computer
like mac and cheese, they're an unbalanced feast
and i just looove it.
i finally got a company laptop and it's fuckin sweet
now i can sit at home and download analytical porn
(Ooohhhh yeah baby, oh yeah, let's see some more remote access!)
how's that for work ethic?
i get a hard on when i log in
and then my head starts to spin when outlook loads on my screen
(18 new messages, now my day can begin)
meanwhile the t.v. is blasting,
like a starving man fasting this makes no sense
but that's how i live, from one screen to another
my eyes focus on little letters all day
they strain to the breaking point of pure red
i'm connected even in bed because the network never ends,
it's at work and at home,
there's no escape
i'm technologically double-decked like a big mac
while being surrounded and attacked by shiny information
all
day
long
it's insane, and i keep coming back for more
maybe i'm a post-modern digital whore
or maybe ...
no that's it.

naked

I am naked
literally
my skin is open and my peace of mind is gone.
I think I stopped believing in happy endings,
like when the screen turns dark and flashes "The End" in a decorative font,
it's a lie, they are lying (whoever "they" are) and you sit there with a big grin on your face without a clue
hello? anyone home? HELLOOOO??
open your eyes,
someone stole your clothes while you were day dreaming
now you are naked with me and our eyes connect
"what the hell is going on?" you ask
your hand is shaking, and there is nowhere to hide it
no pockets, your pants are gone, no jacket
we are naked
not just you and me but also the little crazy people on the controls inside our heads,
relax
you are beautiful and there is nowhere to hide
"i'm scared," you say
so am I.

water and wind on the sea of galilee

music and drums, everyone is dancing
feet moving, intoxicated
wine
beer
whisky
eyes open/mouth shut
hips... back and forth, like the boat on the Sea of Galilee
back and forth
the wind covers me, with arms stretched over the water
eyes closed, thinking
too much
need to stop and do something.

Done.

alright, next
repeat
music, drums, everyone is dancing,
moved by wine beer and whisky
and Tiberias
one day, I will tell people about this night
on the lake where Jesus may or may no have walked on water,
where a city rose from a mountain to give me a home for three days
to dance and drink and watch the water and feel the wind with arms outstretched
eyes open/mouth shut
watching as the music pounded the dance floor
and the people on it.

things to do

forget the forecast first, then second-guess the satellites flying above,
ask god where to go today and tomorrow,
send messages through intergalactic planetary vibrations beyond the senses,
tear down fences and star wars defenses above airspace laced with 747 planes,
remain sane and show a damn backbone for a change,
bank on america to spend its dividends and leave you in the dark,
sleep homeless in the park,
benchpress 500 pounds and listen to ten thousand rounds try to drown out the sound,
break down nuclear power and build a sauna,
change half lives into quarter notes,
stop time,
toast to the forest that jersey used to be,
imagine what it could achieve,
believe,
have a cigar, go far, send postcards, and make today a foundation.

[inspired by natural breakdown show on 25 march 2007, sarah street grill, pa]

ideals

my ideas are ideal like Lenin,
who left Marx behind and rewrote the revolution to fit the times
my ideas are ideal like democracy with a hint of land, peace, and bread
which was ideal until the purges disturbed the peace of committed people
it's the ideal that unleashed the guillotine in Paris
and it's the ideal that unleashed the Germans on Paris
the ideal fuels hatred like Saudi oil fuels SUVs in American cities
those silly idealists and their hybrids are worse than rhyming poets with their ideal verses of romance
you want to be a visionary? see an optometrist
or a psychologist
or a history book
ideas are ideal until you crumble under their weight.

half and half

i need to drink a half liter of whiskey, smoke a pack of cigarettes, sleep with a girl who's name i don't know, sleep with her best friend, drink the other half liter, and forget everything.

too bad
the bottle is empty.

Refugee

It had to come to an end too soon.
there were long goodbyes (if an entire day can be called a goodbye)
there were tears. Of course there were boxes
many, many boxes. They were stacked up geometrically
like giant bricks, side by side.

It came suddenly
but somehow it made sense. We wanted to change history
and ignore reality.
Finally there was a long plane ride. Actually, two.
First to some big city across the Baltic Sea in Finland,
then to Newark, New Jersey.

The breeze blew outside like the breeze almost anywhere in Latvia.
Once, I called this country home, with all the memories
that were staying back between the cracks of the stacked boxes.
My name was still Dmitry, although I had heard that
in English this name did not exist. It existed in Russian
and in Latvian, probably even in German.

We left quickly, like a pre-emptive military maneuver.
Many people stayed behind, people about whom
it is difficult to talk about because they are the
ghosts of my life. They never left this world, still alive
just half a million miles across an ocean away.
The places also stayed, monuments to a pool of memories
that contradict history.

I was never there.

My family was liquidated, and I do not know
if they all knew it or not, but they had to.
They had to know that the rosy language of democracy
could not cover the stench of intolerance and hatred.

There was a five-story mural of Lenin painted on the
wall of the main school-building, one that I saw every day
until it was painted over with gray paint during third grade.

My friends stayed behind, my first soul mate,
and a simple life of safety and ignorance.

In the summer, the days are usually warm but sometimes
the nights get chilly. Then you have to go inside,
to catch a nap or at least borrow the blankets for a while.
During the summer my cousin Alyosha and I did this often.
We wandered through empty paths on the river-shore
or we went into the woods where the sunlight pierced
through armies of evergreens, with nothing on the ground
except mushrooms and small brown ants.
The river was warm for swimming and exceptional
for hiking on paths near which cherry trees leaned from
yards and apple trees bloomed nearby.
Of course, hunger is proportional to exertion,
so raspberries and strawberries, as well as
peas and potatoes, were consumed to maintain our energy.
There were two stores, which we called the near store and
the far store.
Nearly two years ago, while visiting as a grown adult, I discovered
that the far store was only about ten minutes
walking distance away from the near store
and nearly visible.
Before, I though it was at least a half-hour
hike to get there, and the hike back twice as long
because of the bags.

On special occasions, I went to the
Baltic shore for rest and play. The sea is calm,
more like a giant lake than a sea. The sand is
soft and fine, and the beach strip is thin and
looks remote in most places except for the
entrance from the woods. A forest runs parallel
to the shore, with widely spaced evergreen trees.
It spills abruptly into sand dunes and sharp
beach plants whose name I forget.
On a busy day, the beach is packed with
little kids, the elderly, the young and old
each with a share of the Baltic sunshine.
Some kids have ice cream cones,
some adults have cold beers.
Some play soccer on the beach closer to water,
some play volleyball in the heat.
The sea seems to spread endlessly,
but I know that we live on the Baltic bay and
that the Baltic Sea of the Swedes, the Dutch,
and the Russians is quite different.
Also, I know that the Baltic Sea ends,
eventually
and becomes something else.

When they stopped flying the red flag of CCCP,
I knew something was wrong.
People were talking about it,
and there was constant news
about the Russian occupation
the first time this word was used publicly.
They wanted a revolution
They made it predictably
by crushing the aura of history
and by re-writing it
without the old heroes.
We were not a part of the old
that was too long ago
but we were the residue of history.
Not part of the new.
That was the only battle
my father has ever lost
it humiliated him and the rest of us
made us realize that big brother
was not watching or maybe he just stopped caring.
Because there was no greater power to save us.

When we left, I felt bad that my friends would
not be there when I got to see America.
By raising the standards of living for its people
and showing military power, the United States
built a world-wide reputation as being a
good place to live.
There were high buildings, big universities,
millions of people, and many computers.
Interestingly, no one ever spoke of racial diversity
as a significant trait of America's unique character.
When I came, seeing so many different colors
in the same school-building was puzzling.
In Latvia everyone was white
and the schools were separated between Russians and Latvians.

That day was humid, cloudy all across the sky,
and wet on the ground from rain. I think it was warm.
Clouds were different in New Jersey. They were further away,
more spread out, and with less peaks due to their higher altitude.
Although the size of Newark airport dwarfs
the only international airport of Riga, it did not seem that way.
Everything seemed small; everything was in its right place,
without towering buildings or confusion.
After more than 18 hours in the air, the long day was finally over.

addiction

give me a light
it's time to get this fire started
inhale
I can taste the sweetness of mass-manufactured tobacco
and smell it too
exhale
do it again and again
I keep flicking the wheel and burning the fire
I'm mesmerized by nicotine while my common sense disagrees.
Shut Up common sense I say when doubts creeps into my mind and attempts to prevent the stroke of fire from lighting yet another parliament.

addiction
I can't stop buying drinks
my bank account is drained and yet VISA is getting richer and the bartender knows my name
addiction
I can't stop saying Yes
we are only young once, why not take it to the extreme?
There is plenty of time to sleep when you're dead, they say
so stay awake, smoke blunts to wake n bake, drink milk, masturbate, spend money on sloppy memories, write poetry, then burn it and forget your rhyme schemes.
this isn't math class
no one is watching or grading you, no one is judging you.

we are all addicted to something.
coffee
tea
spending money
drugs
you name it
if there was a building full of all the things people are addicted to, we would call it Wal-Mart
with cigarettes
food
cars
music
clothing
I want to burn it all down and re-discover some deep childhood innocence
but that idea seems hollow
even as a child I was addicted to toys
girls
soccer
fire
innocence may exist if you look through a nostalgic lens and overlook the fact that you're addicted to nostalgia itself in the first place

addiction
it's always coming in first
religion
work
procrastination
we are all addicted to something

when the rhythm fizzles out

it finally hits when your favorite song doesn't hit you anymore and misses the target,
your chest still beats but the rhythm fizzles out until it's just a redundant thump
slowly
becoming
inaudible

and it finally hits you when your favorite CD collects dust on the shelf and misses the target,
as memories decay into fast moving particles of intentional amnesia,
your mind censors itself and turns cold like a grave long before your body is shoveled away

then it hits you when you sell your detuned guitar to buy drinks at the bar and it misses the target,
when your dreams disappear and turn to nightmares of fighting the 9 to 5 debt to yourself, with interest on those strawberry fields you've dreamed about forever
and your chest still beats but the rhythm fizzles out until it's just a redundant thump
slowly
becoming
inaudible

it hits you every day when you pass a school yard and see children playing games that you used to remember playing
and it misses the target
that memory is lost and replaced by varying doses of nostalgia, question marks, and anger

and then it hits you at last that you're as good as dead if you forget yourself,
because even if your chest still beats the rhythm will fizzle out until it's just a redundant thump
slowly
becoming
silent.

fermented poem

so here it is, the poem that I have been fermenting like fine wine for nearly two months now.
o.k.-- maybe fine wine is giving it too much credit,
maybe I should just write it and do the edits because the paper is hungry
I haven’t fed it since you left, and that’s what it’s about, this poem if it ever finds its beginning,
let’s pretend the lights are dimming and the mic is in my hand
what can I say?
whatever it is, I haven’t said it before because I’ve built barriers with invisible metaphors,
introspective to the point that my view came out defective, deflecting me from the light spectrum into the dark
you were my spark
and still are.

untitled

everything is spinning

it's dark and the shadows in my apartment blend into each other

I reach for the wall.

my friends on their way out

their jackets are on, and their shoes too

we are standing by the door, saying goodbye

"goodbye"

"come visit us in philly"

"i'll try"

"ok"

black out

political dream

I had a political dream but it drowned out from the screams and moans of a prostitute I picked up not long ago
my wife didn't know but that didn't matter until the Feds tapped into my cell phone chatter
before, I used to be the sheriff of Wall Street, where bankers bowed to my feet
now I’m ashamed, my legacy is stained and I’ve got no one to blame
my penis is so lonely
she gave public support but my wife won’t bone me.
meanwhile, my call girl is in
record deal, Hollywood, the silver screen
you know it’s just a matter of time
she’s making it while the media redefines me as swine
it’s bullshit
I’m Eliot Spitzer
I ran New York
I’m a full silverware set, that slut is a plastic fork
this is America, I’ll make it back
Bush won the White House and he smoked crack
life isn’t white and black
I’m not the villain
in a few years I’ll be forgiven
just wait
I’m Eliot Spitzer, make no mistake
I’m evil genius, conniving, and fake
and you all, you love it
you want to be me
you want my money, power, devout wife and family
and you definitely want my premium call girl,
don’t lie, I know that you do
well if you dream big in politics, all this can happen to you.

F*** March Madness

Collegiate basketball is like intermediate Algebra: tedious and boring
To solve it, take the square root of way too many teams and conferences, factor in mediocre players, and add a single-game elimination tournament that results in more flukes than fishing.

I’ll pass like John Stockton’s assists
I’d rather crash the boards with fury like Ron Artest’s fists
I’d rather be like Scottie so beam me up to the sky
and I'd damn sure rather fly with Larry Bird and glide like Clyde did back in ’85.

But…
In all fairness, His Airness played college and so did Isaiah and Magic
except that was decades before when pros barely made any dough,
Now money flows and overshadows text books as degrees get replaced by agent fees
but let’s see: most college players don’t even get a diploma, don’t pay attention in school and have tutors do all of their homework.
It’s madness.
It’s also madness when a bar shows Clemson instead of Lakers-Heat,
undergraduates instead of Shaq v. Kobe part III
Look, there’s drama in the LBC and if you’re watching something other than NBA on TNT you neeed to step away and think about what you’ve done
You missed how the Phoenix Suns fast-break offense is run
You missed Ray Allen pop threes like a gun.

I am not Jason Kidding you about watching paint pull-ups by Payton circa ‘96 instead of sleeping through Georgetown and Creighton circa now.
Now there’s young blood like LeBron, Wade, Melo and Ming
with Vince Carter and T-Mac running the wing
And tension can boil when Parker swings backdoor passes
for Tim Dunc-ons defenders, separating pros from pretenders.
The Knicks are a joke but they can Marbury Gonzaga
Don’t say they can’t just because Stephon has court vision like Horace Grant
While the Knicks lose the Mavs light a fuse
Dirk Nowitzki can stroke three’s like B.B. King strokes the blues
The playoffs are long and it’s first to win four
the games are attrition like Clausewitzian war
Bombs fly from all over the floor
best out of seven, who wants it more?
I say forget college, Dick Vitale, get off the T.V.
I want to hear Kenny the Jet, Ernie, and Charles Barkley
So fuck March Madness
And fuck Rutgers for never giving me a reason to think differently.

messy desk

old targum, rubber band
parking ticket printer’s jammed
with paper old and new
piece of gum too hard to chew
white-out, marker, pencil, pen
tooth-brush, pennies at least ten
note cards, post-its, medicine,
tea cup, stapler, incense stick,
speakers, laptop, old tooth pick,
Tylenol for when I’m sick
vitamins and iodine
medicine called minocycline
candy, candles, loose leaf sheets
matches and cd’s with beats
blue book from an old exam
loose-leaf where I made a plan
glasses, roach clips, cell phone statements
guitar picks -- it must be blatant
that I needs to clean this mess
and organize my desk.

soul earthquakes

fate. passion. destiny. love.
life.
all big words, like giant balloons in the sky
and they too are full of air
lots
of empty fucking flying air molecules,
they cause reactions that can be electric
instant, like wire connections with your swiss bank
chocolate
empty, soul, foot, pain
everyone has a pulse, check yours
especially after a poetry mars bar warms you up
pulse
big words can’t measure it
big headlines can sensationalize but not cement it
soul
earthquakes
try to destroy the scale, but every time it measures them anyway,
somewhere richter is smiling.
forever
i need more than eternal love to make poetry with a pulse inside itself
i need substance.

words

people learn how to talk at a young age.
it begins with mumbled sounds and calls to mom,
it begins with tears and swollen eyes, from hunger.
yeah it begins like that,
and continues until words join hands and march together, linked by periods, commas, and semi colons.
then, words connect grammatically and sentences begin to carry more weight, more meaning and substance,
and children grow up to be articulate and well-versed in the latest intellectual dialects.
 
people learn how to talk and they master it,
but communicating
            telling the god-damn honest truth,
                        just saying it
                                    in words, in sentences,
                                                like in all those fancy books on everyones old college syllabus
communicating
c o m m u n i c a t i n g
is easier spelled than done.