4 - jabarisaga.blogspot.com

I was angry with my wife the first time she left. My former wife. My scourge. I was irate the second time, but found my anger cede into numbness, nothingness, nonexistence. A curiosity I could not explain; I realized that I was quite possibly alone in my being impervious to day to day interactions, week to week, year to year. I watched my wife's relationship with her mother deteriorate before my eyes... well, in hearsay, I watched virtually nothing of it, but did witness my wife's emotions after each phone call, and nasty e-mail, and meaningless, tacky, though altogether endearing Christmas card. I laughed under my breath, as my wife's demeanor was so easily swayed by whims and extrapolations, so quickly the plies of her resolve split and shattered. My wife wasn't stupid, isn't stupid. Wasn't stupid.
She's not "mine" any longer, though to even characterize as having ever been would be foolish considering the lengths we went to establish ourselves as two pieces of one puzzle - completely equal. I could go into the intricacies of such an arrangement and how curious it was to base the most important of all relationships on relatively modern social acceptances, but that is not a digression I have time for. For the time being, my focus is merely on a human absurdity. In what sense to it ever make for my wife, my mother, or my associate to throw away years of cultivated association over a simple matter, a short matter, an indefinite matter. For years I accepted my wife's transgressions against me as a necessary part of the world we had created. I understood that as much as I might imagine my life and her life should play themselves out differently, it was unnecessary to attempt to control all facets of the world surrounding me. If my wife chose to waste our money on powder and dog races, despite the inconveniences to me, I would understand that even if one aspect of her is short of perfection, it's merely to weigh out with those aspects of her that were perfect. Her hair, her laugh, her intelligence. My scourge. Reminiscence is weakness.
What matter of her, or any other terribly disillusioned being, caused her to leave at the slightest sign of my malevolence? Dare I say my intentions were always much more well conceived, much more though out, much more logical and yes more acceptable. I continue to keep the trophy that ultimately led to my freedom. My marriage was good, my home life as well, but only insofar as I forgot myself for the good of the group, and in doing so not only endangered myself, but the place I had been given within the greater scope of life. Without these mental entrapments I was more complete, though thus far without notice, at least not animate notice.

ebb

in inexplicable, inescapable, intimate
association; end of isolation. artificial
intelligence intimates images indescribable
or unaccepted. unsure of intimidating
instances of anger and immolation.
unsuspecting artists undone as arsonic
attributes arrest our souls.

pluh ghin bebi

suppose my symposium is noticed
by eyewitnesses or private eye dicks
or some other noble nose stuck in my
business window, will we one day
gaze longways through e-screen greetings
to back walls, and delicately arranged
furniture, pictures, memorabilia
the conscious now finding it necessary
to maintain even their private confines
in a strictly ordered manner,
if only to please the prying organ of
schnozzy e-neighbors. what sense of illustrity
will persist, more free capital flows
among aspirers? fabricated communication undone
by instantaneous spread of more suitable, pronounceable
frases e paroles. an entire intermix, a brown-black
fudge of luminosities and hues and speech
is art still art cross cultures, without standards?

Biond

concrete demands in feathered Sanskrit, gray puffs
and wisps: seemingly reversible legibility
laws of purple sun kissers, moon-touchers, sky scrapers
sent down snot-ooze waters to the unwashed
cretin subsets and subsidiaries.
cobalt complexion and rosy exposed sinews
of chameleon twigs, they morph, and break
falling, to be washed away
lime green dew boats
waving with seasons end though savagely
hacked apart by icy wind and snow
what feeling remains in the mute?
can there be a corollary for this pain?

fourque

am i persuasive
or a purveyor of charm,
how pervasive is my appeal
will clock ticks tick and with them
take youth and health and chemistry
are firsts firsts or time's repetition
does the order matter of merely the parts?
are you adhesive for a bitter end
or causation spawned from correlation,
does it matter being special
when the circumstances of specialty are unknowable?
what rhetorical nonsense will I spew
when most Blunt, and how quickly will images fade
this time.

be on say

rhetorical nonsense, awkward half taps and
friendly confines, unfettered
unfiltered, unflappable confidence
and utter disappointment?
consider at times how preferences have
waned, and reflect on candle flames
and the burns that fade over time.
regret having a foot out the door
in every conversation or situation
even when all is laid out
and more then some would want to know
is shown.
what merit is there in arguing
the merits of speech?
what feeling is there
in unfeeling inquisition
and half-hearted goodbyes?
and does the glint in your eyes
suggest understanding, or are you
like all others, thrusting your finest charm
waiting to snatch up wayward hearts and feast
your siren feast.
linguistic representation is entirely necessary
but old when treated a gimmick,
unless ready to accept it all, it should be left
alone. Non piu.

Grate Wall

Charcoal marks undone
tarred mind undone
logic is dilated pupils, strong chins,
straight hair
a deep laugh and a polite smile.
Nameless and known
an example and not a
caricature
adjectives were double once,
but now
no longer in pairs
they are more descriptive,
indicative that the temperature
has finally reached 100.
Icy tension has given way
into vapor unseen and not
to be concerned with in
this sublime reality.
My neighbor is a dark
mysterious man and our
philosophical understanding
is that distinction is more
necessary in consumption;
would my guest prefer
more salt, more batter, more spice more
food?; than in conversation
and as such we decided
it's customary to serve according
to your guests in a way that
it's deceptive to speak according to your audience.
So I make capellini on
tuesday, my neighbor serves
ribs on wednesday, and
down the road
we sample pad thai on thursday
with a man who joins us
for beer and burgers on sunday
afternoon. Food and football
tearing down walls politicians never could.

Pan-Gai

Humanity fleeting under the grasp
though in control so far as is
reached, and what has been wrought
is not mere flesh and bones
but rather was among the first beauties
I had ever cherished, the cherub
cry of feti angels and quasi-rulers
who cling to guns and bibles
for nothing else remains that is
tangible. In marching, memories
are forgot and forsaken, futures,
ultimately, forgone, in favor of
whims we cannot help but to follow.
Our hollowness is truth, and since that is
true, then it must be in concert
with the idea our mundane-nity persists.
However, if all that is, is,
then isn't there enough, without all that isn't?

Etch a Stitch

Are phantom limbs in freckled sight but prospects
when blue-green betty's eyes are slit
windows with rose-tinted goggles so the whole
mosaic is as if stained twice over
Pickled testimonies are deep fried betrayal
a half baked excuse to purge one's conscience.
But when the stakes are raised, will it all blow away
or stand firm, having sprouted roots where once
were none.

Mightai

When solitary am I one
or sum of all the parts I've known
in voice, in heat, in touch, in song
is all a composite in me?

When broken are our strings attached
or frayed and thrown against the wall
can I be trusted with your heart
if you're not conscious to assist?

When confronted with wondrous hopes
are our eyes opened or dormant
and when the images present
are they but film against eyelids?

What might I have to deal with loss
when such is more than I had gained
what strength I have to maintain ties
when pull is of continuum?

And in that last hour will I be;
cease to think, and therefore not be
or will I find in circumstance
that light has persisted through muck?

Might Eye

What might become of expression
when pain is left unspoken for
and waves persist and clouds exist
but tarnished smile is forgotten.

in bronze flecked skin and mangy fur
a voice is heard and becomes one
with reborn child's intuition
where it is as if it has been.

Blouse canopies and ties as slides
to pools of red or green jello
where crackers and browned toast are boats
for knicks and knacks to be sent off.

And in this forbidden domain
where outsiders perceive such calm
is pain and amnesia as one
where all is wrong and none is kept.

Might VI

His insistence on further gain
when all that is, is found in place
has turned the cheeks of former friends
who'd had enough of meek replies.

Their fury unrelented once
his whip, unfurled, was not so long
as to their delicate hinds strike
or command any further peace.

For words are spat without minds eye
to guide the pathways that they make
and leave an anarchy in form
where once there had been rhetoric.

And find him then, the final hour
and ask his forgiveness with haste
for even eve had known her sins
but taste would not relinquish her.

Might V

What might we see in broken fence
when combustion has been repealed
and all that gasps is found below
as fixed as stone-ed stalactites.

For chances unrelented once
with swiftness of a former known
but now unheard of convenience
the childs' eyes will be unveiled.

For country nay community
on slick black steeps and crooked steps
with emptiness' companionship
his feet will run their course at end.

And finding sick reality
that time was lost eternally
when lesser men shook fists and spoke
and left a void from what they took.

Might IV

What might tonight still be forget
and left to rot as intended
by those whose wealth must crest and fall
with sound critiques and sly rhythm.

Will tension tip the hands of few
to ebb away a life of work
and bleed their dreams on tattered page
to sign their fate in crimson ink.

As confidence has sweeped them clean
and sustenance maintained unphased
will turncoat forces don the mast
and slowly stir our seeping pores.

In pools of kindergarten feasts
and kinder greens still left at bay
would conscience still allow our lips
to utter once again our game.

Might III

What might of mine is certain to
inflict upon the forlorn child
a further devastating blow
of mind and soul and futures hope.

Swift carriage of a former day
did sway and tip at first it met
a mound erected just that hour
and spilt its contents in slick mud.

But darkened though the pages were
and unfit for further good use
the words remained, persisted, stayed
and latched themselves to writers' teets.

From where the source of hues and fire
did meet the guile of lesser men
has circumstance thus been defiled
power raged with hypocrisy.

Bay

Freckled sand - we lie beyond the high tide line,
there is beauty there unseen for miles and miles,
her eyes are bright, her skin freckled too,
we're drowning in sunlight - choking on heat.

It's hotter than hell and she's sucking the breath
from my mouth. She's squeezing the life from my chest.
And the heat; she's an electric blanket in
the middle of summer.

Devoid of energy - I want to roll away to
the kiss of the - lusciously blue sea.
Oh, the salty aftertaste, the sting that encompasses me,
but there is no escape; lavender smoke fills my lungs.

I can feel the scald of her fingertips,
edging along the outline of my lips, the steam that
rises enters my nostrils and spreads across
my face. I'm flushed and smiling through struggled breath.

I'm content slipping out of consciousness
her soft hair my pillow, her scent my last
breath. I can feel the lick on my feet
of soft seam foam - I don't think the tide's ever been this high.

Might II

What might I have in circumstance
when word has leapt away from ears
and led the minds to fill in gaps
with muddled facts and consequence.

But tepid dreams have sealed my fate,
lukewarm desires did freeze and thaw,
and heart beats, though erratic, go
with inflamed passions once released.

Might I

What might have I to gods' denials
lash out my tongue - a whip of slurs
so slushed my soul from wrath of hide
a retribution in pains form.

And still the marks implanted there
are shame and loss of manhood thus
my heart is torn far worse than flesh
and mind imprisoned, shocked by pain.

Tempered though I seem to be mad
mad, stark mad, am I in practice
whose head has eased by erstwhile pain
once cut through clean as lettuce should.

The laws of peace' archaic past
had such decreed my arm unfair
to slice from spine a misplaced mind
a heretic in voice and job.

Finished, Ended

Through black silk space on iron ships
the cold of I-ness meets his lips
a cool embrace of warmth on dark
was purple-red to those at bay.

His finger met the hot white pad
unsure of what fun to be had
of whether bugs were men or not
and just how fair it was to play.

His voice was crisp as crackled leaves
as soft blue flow of river weaves
and soothed his blind companions when
they're told of what they faced that day.

His cancered brain could take no more
he'd done what they had made him for
and in his rests he dreamed he'd be
in some bright land so far away.

Bright sun shielded by wide winged lark
feather fluff grass like sleeping hens
laid side by side cross acre lots
a field wide bed or soft white sea.

His head rested above her hips
as cool clear water stars had heaved
to quench the thirst of dame and lad
and calm their souls forever more.

the best... er... another tiger

vaunted king of crooked past
had seen in mine a face he liked
taunted that i'd grown too fat
and offered to reduce my burden

though my coffers were quite bare
haunted by the debts i owed
i could not seem to come to grips
with parting from my skin and bones

"but just an ounce, a pound or two,
gaunt an asking as there may be,
of flesh for me to be renewed"
his tone so stiff had daunted me.
And in my dreams he haunted me.

When night had turned and i did fall
the pictures of the former day
would play and in my mind ingrain
him taunting me, my face as his
him flaunting me, my face, as his
his jaunt from sick reality
so scarred my face, i dare to say
that any who should turn my way
should avoid my frugality
for all is good when Tiger! speaks
and all is food when Tiger! eats.

tiger be stern

so quickly had the leopard lept
from ragged sheath to open bard
and set his sails to westward yet
he faced behind to watch his guard
for only but one fluttered shard
could tear his tail from silhouette

his eyes a golden shade of green
as appetizing that can sound
were much to much to make me lean
over the siderails. "keep it down"
if but for one second he'd found
he'd tear my corpse, his face serene.

no killer had I more fear for
and none would I be so inclined

to turn and run for ocean floor
my legs pumping within the brine
than Tiger! Tiger! so malign
if I may jaunt just once to shore.

Hisssss

what symptom do you breathe
what curse upon your breath
from speeches that do seethe
and speak impending death

i'm not to be denied
by haughty mans denials
while hot he did deride
how naughty his mistrials

my curse and weakness tries
as not of to be spoken
how terse and meek my lies
how taught is he whilst broken

speak soft or not at all
should circumstance allow
should certain man avow
sneak often not to fall

to fall: to sleep: to die

from one lizard to another

ravens beak with sugared teeth
decaying sure, but sweet as always
scaled, frayed, serpent tongue
darts to and fro, swatting stars.
eyes the same, but capillary numbness
leaves light unchained, no sight remains,
though slightly it can see, with help of rain,
pit-pat-pit-pit-pat, what it has known,
unknown to me, and those who know,
have made it known they won't be telling.
No breath has reached it's tongue
without dripping, forked and silent.
the beast is legend, but hear what I say,
if there could be, just one to help me unravel,
it would surely have to be,
blind, mute, sweet enough to rot my brain.

the Ballad of Mostar

He speaks his way with crooked tongue,
though not quite one to frequent lies,
his own demise; hypocracy,
as you can see from serpent words:
he attacks herds, but likes to graze.

With guns he shook and swayed the meek,
Laws' plies are weak but guns are not,
his pleas and talk disguise seeds sown,
the herds he lures who heed his "truth",
and pay their lives for words he's spat.

sailor

leaflet fall of petal sails
on swirling winds
past sandy scapes and salted
waves, reverberating amongst
teeth and cliffs, if only to be spat
out again. sailors cry
though unheard, lingers:
a fog in our ears
we were unable to think.
his accent was french in origin
but lost, rooted in mouth.

sono il figlio anche?

His cancered finger weathered more
his cherub face so well adored
he is less than intended for
but evermore he will remain

though countenance may fade or change
his cloak and dagger never fade
if only for remaining days
if only til our hearts have ceased
our beats at end, the music stops.

Crescent smile, a victors delight
what more could we have saved tonight
if we had spent those hours in sleep
acting on our intuition?

broken, am I a liars corpse
forgetting to accept his course
for hypocritical critiques
of crown and cross and rule of weak?

Turn taBle

From the capillary soreness he notices his stains
unsightly blotches, dark streaks
it's not until his mind is cleared that he can rightly speak
is he slipping once again?

The orderlies are busy with the routine and mundane
forget the broken man-child
he's hindered by these outbreaks when his blood seems to run wild
what resistance had it gained?

Sputtering coughs, a rotary, turning, gninrut, turning
fountain and a cold finger
whose point has cast upon each it touched a lingering chill
Pain leaked, pain riled and pain killed.

the proverbial lost swan

Sidesweeping footsteps of a prancing swan,
precariously pigeon-toed but elegant still,
say what you will of the chance he lost,
when he wayward waddled southward cause his legs were bent.

What jokes have been wrought upon the forlorn swan,
his only hope in memory of worlds he once knew well,
teacup kettle, mushroom canopies, freckled
and horn snout trout. The taste of morning dew on night parched lips.

So lost, he pursued sliding ways along the floor
Not able to tell of treachory beyond the doors
When he lost his crafty ways and hope had left him,
Not once lost in dreams, he survived in the grim.

Space

What is your synopses
of that which the shutters
have hid from you,
are you still seeking?

Fingertips may see the wall
but the surface is free
of your leprous touch
persistant trepidation.

Arachnoid senses
your advance to his nest
anticipates the swat
before you swing

Could you cure your ills
if you encounter
concrete ending to your
continuing questions?

Existence is limited
and evidence even more so
don't teach me the evolution
of the non-exhalents.

It tastes of fire Mostar.

Kiss me sweet samael,
your words, your mince meat tongue,
you taste of clovers, spice,
and copper stained cigars.

Have you been mixing fun
with business endeavors?

Smiling through rotted shale,
you reveal your timely fun,
enough blood to entice,
your appetite unmarred.

One quick fix for true peace;
pores won't mend from this pain.

The Try all sOft Jamie

Find me in the riddles, my sweet darling,
I'm one with your fear of uncertainty,
Fill my incense reaking scent of wings,
I only yearn for your ugly heart-strings.

Gnome I name, all ready?
Most are.

Taste it in the tainted water I spew,
the stench unbearable for the weakened,
touch it, intake the terrible in you,
the sound unfolds a former teachings end.

Re-choreful, less tin
So fee.

Given your said state what did you desire?
Found in formers I touched: tired, timestained teeth?

Gnashing from youths injustices,
Simplicity found so injured.
When told democracy tainted,
You turned devilishly tepid.

Why so serious?

3 (Ghizt) - jabarisaga.blogspot.com

His hand first in the fire
to pot of water
the shriek tells him its ready
and he turns his head
black hair resting on
or more correctly in
sunken cheeks
hollowed eyes give way to a
shallow entry
his matter is swollen
but not dense
as a sponginess has overtaken
what once was brilliance.

He clicks whilst pointing
presumably lecturing the apathetic
cat that strolls by his window.
How he knew it was there
is beyond an explanation
I am willing to give.

His nostrils flare, perhaps at last
realizing the stench of his
inflamed flesh but not
without noticing a new scent
which had entered soundlessly.

I am quick with my work
and judging by my record
perhaps I am flawless as well.
His head still turns fully
in pursuit of a unknown
even though he'll never see
a fault due to occupation
and not to God's work.
Mines are peculiar
in their ability to endow one with
everything they could
financially want, and the inability
to enjoy it at the same time.
Well at least one of us can still live it up,
am I right?

2 -jabarisaga.blogspot.com

I wasn't there when she came home the last time. I realized later on just what I may have missed out on. Finding the seats of every pair of my pants had been singed off with a rusting iron was a cruel nursery rhyme in irony. Well at least the house had kept, albeit warmer, darker, more charred. See that's the problem with an ill-used appliance. Despite it's inanimacy and general lack of breath, it always tends to personify itself in the worst ways. In this case as an amature arsonist. The good news is, for every thing I cherished that perished in the fire, there was at least one picture of her face and one beatles album I'll never be listening to again that burned as well.

Perhaps she actually set me free. I know I've already spoken these words to my lame duck friends, the ones that hang off of my successes as if suckling from my supple teet, but perhaps there is validity in the oft-used phrase. It seems to be another cliche I picked up from countless hours of chick flicks or soap operas, or some other shit I dutifully watched in hopes of getting laid, but I do believe my entire world was set free by her leaving me. Or more correctly, by her torching my apartment.

I still live there, and the increase in space has been well welcomed though prostitutes now have begun to suspect I'm married, being that I'm too ashamed to bring them home, and settle for the motel, or when I'm worst off, a storage locker I rent down by the docks. I find that while many of them find the latter unorthodox, they are silent in appreciation of the familiarity or its confines.

1 -jabarisaga.blogspot.com

I'm well known for my flirtatious nature. Have been for years. No rational woman will touch me with a ten foot pole, knowing that while I sweet talk them, I keep two others close at hand, just in case. This is not to say that all is lost for me in terms of romance; that is just not so. But I have noticed a trend in which my flirting tends to lure in the most naive of women. It's wrong, I'm sure, but I see no adverse effect on my karma. If anything, things seem to go too well.

Every morning I flirt with death. Not right when I wake up. No, I rise normally, shower and shave. I make enough coffee for two, knowing that half of it will go to waste. I take my coffee black. Always black. I thought at one time, that drinking black coffee made me somewhat of a badass, a rogue. Of course, I come to find now that not only does nobody else care, but now I can't shake the stuff. If I miss my coffee for the day, well then I might as well leave for work without pants - I'm distracted, jittery - completely the opposite of what less caffeine should do to my system.

When I leave my apartment in the morning, I lock up. Though sometimes I don't, just to see if anything is missing when I come home. But once I've left the building, routine is over. I cannot possibly make the walk to work sobered. Too mundane. The same people pass everyday - the same buildings - the same towering reflection off of the glass of the coffee shop; at first I thought it was brilliant, now I wish one day the tower would disappear, so I could see the sky behind it. To pass the time, I play games with myself. Count blue ties, count tourists, predict who got laid last night. I guess I don't rightly know if I ever win or not, but since I never know the outcome, I always feel victorious.

My favorite distraction would have to be what I call blind walking. It's not so much that I would want to be blind, but more so that I want to know that if I were, I could continue. Added bonus goes to the fact that every day, I'm just a little closer to mistepping. One step closer to an end of the mundane and beginning of the extraordinary. Each morning, as I begin to cross the first crosswalk I face, and with each subsequeant one, I simulate blindness - and see how far I can go without getting clipped. Or more correctly having someone alert me to the fact that I'm veering into the street. People care so much - it's honestly curious.

These people don't know my face, they don't know my name. And if they did, I doubt they'd be inclined to introduce themselves. Yet when faced with the prospect of watching my wayward body splashed across the pavement, they interfere. Far be it to me to say their motives are selfish - I mean, they did save me - but how much of their assistance is truly to keep me from certain harm, and how much is to appease their conscience. How many people have watched someone, albeit a total stranger, die? How many could go on with the next day? With the same routine? Not to say I have - I'm not in the mood for reliving the past - but I know that I could.