an ancient doctor, mustard having dripped
onto his lapel, lunged forward
from the picnic table, reaching
out towards the child in a heap
by the shallow end of the pool
he lay as the doctor casually instructs
"stay clear, adrenal apoplexy".
terrifically precise in his craft
the doctor led us, as our brigadier general,
to raise the child, slowly, and carry
him, the four of us forming a rigid
parallelogram, a gurney.
time is indescribable in such an instance
as moments raced as the wings of a hummingbird
flip flap, flip-flap, flpflpflpflpflpflp
the ambulance sped around the bend
past patient observers
though was nearly capsized in a collision
with one particularly time-greedy fool
who's breaks were the only sound audible
until one child inquired from his position
behind the maple tree
"what of the slumber party?"
unaware that there would be no party that day
after all.

va

Breeze as brushes sweeps sad debris
leaves that settled aside the orchard
black pickets, black gate still shut
old Colonials' tile river is split

the buzz of bees is unsettling
two travellers recall a fallen tree
the underside of which was ugly,
black, rotted, but also, alive

ten thousand thousand legs crawled
across the span of sored timber
a sour stench of foul consumption
overwhelmed the faint whiff of flower

the two feigned Jesus on a brick
red river flanked by silvered
apple columns, seemingly an entryway
into Atlantis itself, though long abandoned

they stood on the cement port perched
over the river as two
Atlanteans wondering direction
while the water appeared still

and when they turned away they were
equally interested in the whereabouts
of a local source of the cerulean
that filled the troughs when all they saw was red.

upon opening an ornate door
of blood washed cedar with gold tassels
they cried their Atlantean cry
which bounced around an empty foyer

they found a tar flecked marble floor
two figures with arms extended
as in the account of Michelangelo
his fresco rendered in flesh

the handiwork of whom they were unsure
and for moments found themselves
pacing in and out of the temple
talking only of Michelangelo

and as they deliberated whether
to disturb anything at all
they opted to seek brighter council
unafraid of ambition or Brugelesque insignificance

counting lessons as they retired
the two assumed the debt was paid in full
and were not afeared of the noisy isle
but rather bemused by it

they did not notice a young cod
riding, capsized, on a great blue via
past a bobbing orb in murk
as gulls lazily swam by.

Elder Philosopher

My grandfather was a philosopher
the monday morning kind
he contemplated politics
semantics and semitic practices
over coffee and a piece of
bundt or something or other.
once after a glass of wine
he leaned over and shared
with me the only thing I needn't remember
and yet always do.
"space is the next great frontier kid
celestiality shall replace superficiality
and the moon will replace the beach,
the finest coffee can be found up there."
he's crazy of course
but what would one expect of such a man?
We used to sit outside for hours
counting planes:
there were a lot.
He told me once when he was a pilot
in the RAF. Single handedly
he took down the red barron, a man he
called ginger, much to the dismay
of the redfaced barron.
They had been friends once, before
England had separated from the rest of
Europe. My grandfather remembered
watching the coast seep away
a butterfly who landed for a second
and tauntingly fluttered past.
None of this happened of course
but he was my grandfather.
He was at least a hundred and fifty years old
said he'd played both sides of the
civil war, and never lost a battle.
Not as a general, but on the front lines.
He said stonewall jackson swore by him,
well until he slept with jackson's wife
then he had to flee for the hills,
only to sign up with a union force
straight out of the ozarks.
my grandfather was a crazy man.
i never knew him.
he died before i was born.

By the bays of 'e

Has since been pillaged, was nothing more than an exercise anyways.


breeze as brushes sweeps sad debris
leaves rustle by the orchard

forward, sidevias, lengthfool

a rental on the bayside
beyond the bar, a hidden treasure
sunken eyes from lack of sleep
filled to the brim, damp and salty.
tears on the head of the ore
at a lack of mined experience
mente naivety
-----------------------------
submission to sea salt crests
battering port tip-top capsized
flipped, providing a young cod
passage on a great via azzurra
past a bobbing orb in murk
as gulls lazily swim by

Io Spesso Ho Paura

swift counter of a summer day
when heat is gone and sun away
while countenance may fade and sway
reality is set
no change in wages or in debt
past trespasses had not reset
nor accrued fortunes been lost, yet
most all had lost their way
each poor man is the poorest in the whole village
and each sinner had the larger plot in hell filled
all men were pigs, women mere whores, and children lost
there are but ashes in place of fire
as the sculptor stood, toes teetered, on the kiln edge
wondering the flood that'd follow if he's killed
and in the place of flesh a fresh clay mound he tossed
creation to best escape sad mire

gioca!

i'll never encounter a life
so simple as a child's
game where when confronted
with an enemy, the rules will change
to allow my retro mind
to forget sifting
through merits and rather
focus on the task at hand
when, by chance, I come
across victory, in my hands
should I choose I would rather let the ball slip
through my hands and feign accident
or when by skill you have me
cornered and about to lose
the corner is no more, myself
with it, and am a triangulation
of our former points, at which point the game adds
a dimension
and leaves its plane in favor of my preemption
if only circumstance followed rules
of rhetoric then the order would never be necessary,
nor the pieces, merely the meaning
even the child knows
non ja vwoahlay vinchairay
even if the "educated" choose
to consider him naive
he's having too much fun.

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.