leaving Lilliput

Please read the following as if they were true: I'm 9 years old -- I'm 15 years old. I'm 21 years old. I'm 27 years old. I'm 34 years old. I'm 40 years old. I'm 56 years old. I'm 72 years old. I'm 89 years old. I'm old.

Now let's turn to these lines that I have been hearing until now:

I'm too old for that hair cut. I'm too old to learn another language. I'm too old to make new friends. I'm too old to change careers. I'm too old to go back to school. I'm too old for a divorce. I'm too old for a trip to Egypt. I'm too old for a karaoke night. I'm too old to miss a parent. I'm too old to accept help from anyone. I'm too old to be in this position, I should be there, and further there. I'm too old to eat 15 cookies for breakfast. I'm too old to be in a close-up photo. I'm too old to pursue that thing I haven't been able to forget. I'm too old to dance around on my front lawn... What will the neighbors think? (Who cares what the neighbors think. You don't like talking to those jerks anyway.)

~~~

Dear Home: About this word "old."

Quantos anos voce tem? From Brazilian Portuguese to English: How many years do you have?

Quel age avez-vous? French to English: What age are you?

Quanti anni hai? Italian to English: How many years do you have?

~~~

Dear Everyone and All:

I would like to say that for me the only thing that gets old is milk. Why are we paying the bills for these words that keep getting passed around? Who told you that you're too old? Did someone pull you aside and lightly put it to you? I hope not. If someone did, I have to sadly say that person isn't helping.

In regard to change: Nope I can't say that it's never too late because at some point it will be. But why trim down possibilities and freedom ahead of time? That's like pausing a movie at the most important part. (Every part is the most important part.)

About the next thing. The next thing is scary. It's a challenge. And it wouldn't be the next thing if it weren't. It's going to make you cry. It may make you say curse words. .... But what else is there?

~~~
Thank goodness for old milk. 'Cause what would we do without cheese?
~~~
p.s. I:   I'm speaking to myself about this too.
~~~

On Immaculate Conception Day,

I wrote this four months ago, but I'm gonna to post it tonight since I'm rubbing two sticks together over the next thing I'm writing, and I've decided to post more often because it feels like the correct thing to do.

Today I went to San Felice Circeo, a mountain/ocean village.

On the way he told me how this was the place where two men brought two girls they had abducted there. How one was killed and the other was left for dead in a car in the woods. He also told me it had become a custom for persons to go to this place for promiscuous reasons, for strange parties, and that he invariably senses something wrong in the air when he goes there.

A pause, “And why are you bringing me there?”

“Because it’s beautiful,” he said. “The beauty of this place probably gives the others the power to do bad things.”

“Okay then.”

Yes, he speaks with that much basic intensity. The probable hypothesis for this is that he dips his peeled orange slices in salt before eating them.

On the bridge that connects San Circeo to other places, I saw the mountain that looks like a slumbering giant. He suggested for me to use my imagination to see it. I don’t think I have to turn my imagination on.  I immediately saw the nose and forehead..... When I squint I can see myself living several different lives in different cities. I have this reoccurring vision of myself standing on a farm. I know that none of these lives are real, but they could be, if I wanted them to be.

He was right. It is beautiful there. I forgot about the threesomes or foursomes, and the other scary story that I remember now. I forgot about all that when taking photos of gnomes and pastel pink walls with red flowerbeds fastened to them.

Yet, it's just another pretty place where I could see myself reside in for eight days. I could never actually live there… I saw a girl walking her dog in these black-heeled boots in the rain on a cobblestone road. I could never do that. I wouldn’t want to. I’m glad I saw it though. 

'Forget'

Forget

By Kevin Tobar Pesántez

~

In doubting moments and fleeting skies,

an aroma of mellowed malevolence arises.

That is, when the writer forgets to write

and the reader forgets to read.

When the lover loves no more

and when the heart pumps only in discontent.

When the past is no longer a Man

and when the night turns into day.

When the river runs dry

and when the desert is no longer.

That is, when the soul will have no home

and when the body decomposes.

In doubting moments and fleeting skies,

an aroma of distant memories and blackened hope arises.

That is when the writer writes no more

and the Poet dies on distant shores.

Then the walker won’t walk

and even the waiter won’t wait for those moments gone by.

Yea, these are the doubting moments of time,

this is the world forgetting each second and minute of life.

In doubting moments and fleeting skies,

the world run over loses its aroma of life.

And the liver forgets to live,

and the dier can’t even die.

~

Kevin is a traveling student, poet, philosopher, performer, and artist. He is originally from Queens and although he is living quite the idealistic lifestyle many people in New York City don’t believe him! When in the city you can catch him slamming some spoken word at the Nuyorican’s Poets Café and other venues as well or checking out all the amazing summer events. He is currently working on some experimental writing work and various experimental theater pieces to hopefully develop internationally and of course bring back home to eventually perform in good ‘ol NewYork City. He is departing for Bangalore, India in the fall to be inspired once again and to get duly angry to the social injustices that are ever abundant there. All in all Kevin is a committed artist that works towards social change and spiritual balance with the prevalent modern lifestyle of dog eat dog…but stuck in a cubicle of course.

'We need to talk'

We need to talk
By Ivan Jenson
~
do you have a moment, we need to talk?

ok shoot.

for some time now you have not noticed the branches on the trees and how they wait for green, or the dogs that run in the rain, not to mention the alternating expressions of nuns in the cafe’s, or the dark black hair of Asian students, or blonde fire hydrants, or the sensual tease of hope...

so what

well, I just thought you should know that gray afternoons in April, or leaning stop signs, or girls fiddling with their almost auburn hair, or strangers with umbrellas, might not always be there for you...

and your point is?

the point is that there is a reason why white wine is waiting, why windows have stayed slightly ajar, why unknown civilians might suddenly become your lovers...

ok then, tell me why?

it is because this mathematical equation, this multi faceted mystery might just care about you, and is therefore willing to put up with your apathy, disdain, and all around bad attitude.

Is there anything else you want to say, I have to be somewhere?

just that the mist and the mystery will be there for you when you are ready.

well, I am not ready yet.

we understand.
~
Ivan Jenson is a fast rising fresh poetic voice on the international publishing scene. He has enjoyed unprecedented success publishing his poetry in the US and the UK. His poems have appeared in 'Word Riot,' 'Mad Swirl,' 'O and S Poets,' 'Artist Magazine,' 'Blazevox,' and many others. He is a novelist, artist and poet living Grand Rapids, Michigan. Ivan Jenson

'Stuyvesantowne'

Stuyvesantowne
By H.E. Mantel-HaroHalola
~
Across the River, West 'tis that

at the cliffs & clefts of Victoria above

blackish waters slick as Legislation, of Verrazzano

& not-so-merried ferries, the promontory sits of

visage, resplendented of red deer & red bear &

white Eagles' scat from Lady Liberty!

Why, in the glare of where, opossum

& red squirrel, vied in-passioned

imposters of small virtue in deed 

sought, wrought of purloin

for some vertu & bijouterie for

Manhattan!

- (The Chief Islander - so the Mythic goes!) -

But Hey!, it's up-on the BigScreen, now

playin' @ The Bijou, & in the dutri-plexes

& plexes of plexiglasse &

MegaPlexes of Tribeca, in the Tri-boros+2...

Avaunt! Above Verrazzano visage   

tramontane, There! The filth & flair

urbicide of City-fare, miasma which got us into

insouciant Dutch!

~

H.E. Mantel-HaroHalola of Hallandale Beach, Florida; published Poet/Writer, extensively in print and internet Magazines, Journals, Anthologies; awaiting the publication of Poetry collections, "Bananas' On The Moon...A Collection Of Revisionist Haiku" & "Sophistigates: A New Book Of New Poetry," musician-vocalist-songwriter, an avid reader, athlete, and devotee of Holistic Health through Vegan lifestyle, ecology and his Writing to Help Our Earth to Heal

'Memoir Breakdown'

Memoir Breakdown
By: Ben Nardolilli

Childhood leaks out to me now,
The old walls I used to keep it back
Are unable to stand still, waves
From the unsettled past, swirling
With the input of today’s events,
Splash over and soon all is wet.

~
Ben Nardolilli is a twenty-four year old writer who lives in Arlington, Virginia, in exile from New York City. He reads the encyclopedia for a living and has been published in Perigee, Elimae, The Poetry Warrior, Cantaraville, and Underground Voices. And he has a blog at http://mirrorsponge.blogspot.com/.

'Unrest'

Unrest
By Michael Weems
~
When nowhere in particular feels like home, where do I rest?
When do I get to close my eyes and breathe peacefully – to feel that
       rise and fall and the warmth of safety overcomes my body as I
       drift away?
I sleep without movement or dreams – the bare act of sleep without
       the color to entertain until the next morning.
Yet, who am I to complain?
In this place, I have a surface beneath me each night.
A bed like all others, large, comfortable, and strong - my mate rests
       nearby.
I have solid wood floors, cold and unfamiliar underneath my feet and
       a sturdy roof overhead.
I have food and comfort; I have love and acceptance.
Why do I still wake up lost? Searching for that seemingly impossible
       home.
I wake in the middle of the night and pace the giant halls - a search
       for a secret room of my own that inevitably ends in
       disappointment.
The bed brings no rest; a gigantic mass of cloth and spring that can’t
       lull sleep.
The floors feel foreign and rough on my bare feet; my footstep’s echo
       rings unfamiliar.
The roof hovers - a permanent dome – encapsulating me in this
       moment of stasis.
Tomorrow, when I wake, things will remain the same-
Once my eyes focus, the ceiling will be the same off white color.
As I begrudgingly stand, the floors will be cold to each step.
And as I drive away, the roof will shrink in the distance –
Only to return to it’s original size when I come back later that
       evening.
Life stays the same, but we keep looking. Always looking.
~
Michael Weems ekes out time to write amongst the crazy heat/humidity, incredible and fattening food, his demanding but adorable sons, and dear wife. Michael dabbles in all genres of writing, but ultimately keeps hoping to get his work on display in order to challenge the way people think. http://www.michaeltweems.com/

And crazy heat? Michael is a Yankee gone South. After seven tumultuous years in NYC he now calls Texas home.

4 Dot 25 Dot 09

4/25/09

By Yours Truly

~
Myself, plus book, plus pen, plus bathing-suit.

I labored to get here - at this park where parents are rooting for their
         sons' baseball teams.
I quit all sports once I realized they were war like - pinning sides
         against each other.

As soon as I sat, the sun went to lunch with five aggressive clouds.
Maybe the sun was bullied into it?
I look up and scan the upper atmosphere for SOS signals.

He catches my eye and says, "I'll see you in 15."

"In 15! I need you now! I don't have anything left, aside from writing.

Is that enough?

I wish I had enough guts to end it."

"Common you wouldn't do that," says the swarm of flies that are
         flying at all directions two feet above my head.
They look like winged chocolate sprinkles.
Or at least I tell myself they do, so they're close proximity doesn't
         bother me.

"& I know."

What's worse - not having friends or not having friends that don't love
       you enough?

Yet, the reason they don't love you enough is you invariably purchase   one
       way tickets

to internal seclusion when the hard parts of life exasperate you.

"Sun, you said 15 minutes. All I'm getting is a breeze, although the
       breeze is relieving."
The sun peeks his face through, "Minutes? I could have meant hours,
       or days."
"You can't be serious," I say.

"You can't depend upon me or anyone else to make you feel better
       Jane."

"O Sun , you know me by name? That makes me feel better."

"You aren't getting the point."

"I think I'm going to lather myself in Water Babies sunscreen,
             the scent triggers pleasant memories."

It begins to rain.
~

Yes, that is the park. And that was me at the time of that title. Presently, I am very excited about the World Cup. I guess things have changed dot dot dot exclamation mark

'The Break Up'

The Break Up
By Sanna Chu
~

~
I do and I don't want to know what you've been up to

I'm near ecstatic when I see you're online

I don't talk to you but it's nice to imagine you there alone at home suffering as well

I sign into every single chat thing

Hoping to find evidence of you not being out

I read every comment anyone has ever left you since 2004

The many many many girls who wanted you inside them

The girls who had you for a time soothe me

I could never tell the world that I wanted to scream your name

And I never loved you as much as Technicolor Girl.
~

Sanna Chu recently graduated from Pace University with a BA in English & Literature. Her focus was writing. Sanna has won a number of awards at Pace in Poetry, Creative Nonfiction, and Journalism. What does she do now? She works for free at an internship, it's such injustice. Her dream job? Publishing, right?

On a more personal note, Sanna is an Australian who now resides in Nyc. Yup. I like that.

'Looking For My Life'

Looking For My Life
By: Dr. Walter Raubicheck
~
For the past quarter century, I looked for my life.
Such a long time to be without it!
Looked behind doors, up in the attic,
On the street where you live.
Gone missing…or fishing.

A con man tried to put me wise
But not in a wisdom-way:
“Spread some money around, you’ll find it!”
So I did…
But it got into the hands of all the wrong people.

So instead of a life I’ve had a role
And I played it very well:
Summer stock, all the regional theaters,
And I caused some laughs and tears.
A good gig, for twenty-five years.

But I just can’t put the old zing into it anymore.
I need a new part…or my life,
Which is still playing hard to get.
I’ve tried religion, and sex…
Next I’m going to take up Tae Kwan Do.

At least I’ll go down fighting
Looking for my life.
~

Dr. Walter Raubicheck, is a professor at Pace University. He has published numerous scholarly articles on literature and film. He is also a playwright who has had a number of his works produced in the city.

'Lessons Of Mucous-Coated Throats'

Lessons of Mucous-Coated Throats (and other things I learned along the way)

By: Alexandra Gauss
~

5:30 a.m.

Need coffee immediately.

     Dave listens to sports radio all the way to Dallas.
We all have coughs.

11:30 a.m.

Am I the only one getting hungry?
      Julie reads a sign and mispronounces
             Chicago. We erupt with laughter.
Cough.

9:42 p.m.

Finally on the ranch in Fort Stockton.
             We’re only 2 hours from Mexico?
                  I wish I was in Mexico.
Cough.

8:36 a.m.

“Wake up, city girl, You can help me skin the deer Katie shot in the head
          last night.
               Har Har Har.”
Cough.

6:45 p.m.

Electricity cuts out during dinner.
        In the dark, Katie tells us stories of all the
                          times she has seen maggots.
Cough. Cough.

3:15 p.m.

Dale shows me the baby crib in the attic that
           once belonged to George Bush.
                        We run out of Dr. Pepper.
Cough.

6:05 p.m.

Dusk is slingshotted across the horizon.
      On the way to Cafe Amigo, there is a billboard says
              “We need to talk. –God”
Cough.

6:25 p.m.

Dave and Dale compete with story telling and ignore the Latina waitress
              when she asks us how the food tastes.
                        I get salsa in my hair.
And cough.

8:15 a.m.

Pass the border into New Mexico. What would I do if I lived here? Sit
       against the fence post with my grandmother’s typewriter and a glass of  sweet tea.
   Mom says over the phone
 “Don’t forget to see the turquoise people when
                          you get to Santa Fe.”
                     God, I miss her.
Cough.
~
Alexandra is a graduating senior at Pace University. She majored in English with a focus on Writing. She also minored in Creative Writing & Fine Arts. O, and Alexandra is a Texan, who now resides in New York. I know, it's cool.
(This poem is also in the 50th edition of Aphros.) (Pace's Literary Mag.)

'A Trip To The Catskills'

Last Day At Pace

Class Of Poets

This little poetry family is breaking up. What I have to say on the subject is:

"I have a secret,
I have to tell."
"I am in love with you."
"The complications of the truth are unbearable." -Devieka

"I hear your rhythms bouncing off walls." -Catherine
"It takes a courageous person to expose human nature
when no one wants to listen." -Jenady
And now what to do?
"Shave my head, spill a drink, and be left alone"? -Mihir
What to do without these talks of,
"the poop-colored floor, -Catherine
without Jenady's odd inquires,
or Anthony's pompous remarks?
Really, who cares who Alfred is?
And what of Patrick's all-heart brooding effort,
or his "impression of a cucumber"? -Patrick
Or Yusuf's poems that invariably remind me that I have no sex life?
What of lexi's distrust of capitol letters --
Am I to forget this too?
"I am no longer impressed with declarations of brillance,
espresso wrapped in ribbons, easy smiles, & science." -Zeynep
But, fine, I'll go on as I must,
though not without this poem that you all have helped me write.
Don't expect any solid good-bye, I'll say it,
"while fumbling around paint cans, looking guilty enough for eye brows to rise." -DJ


A little background: I went through an assortment of poems that were read in class by fellow classmates, and this is the product. What to say, but this class was my favorite.

A Work In Progress

Boarding School
By: Jane Feige

Part I

She sits upon her single bed,
legs back,
right elbow
supporting a frame.
It's moving to see my mother sit as I would.
Various chips are brought out -- "My parents never cared for me."
The good ones always go fast.
We discuss how Newark airport transformed to
a '52 Brazilian bus station --
the two hours, or so she said,
I delayed, when she waited.

On that day,
she had a tram of bags unsystematically stacked,
on the other day, at that age when one's choices are bedridden and or bullied --
It was one valise then.

Part II

Watching my mother's age ten eyes omit
ground water from the inner core of her preserved theories.
"They sent me away, only me, the only one of fourteen."
Mom, is it okay if I take this from you for a while?
I promise to give it back when I've changed it.
I can take it to the courtyard and treat it as we did the grass --
There's only weeds back there now.

"All this time --
I thought this washed from my hair."
Don't worry,
I'll wash your hair for you.
~
(Above: My Mother.)

Grab a straw & Enjoy.

Undying amore -- waiting years to taste someone's mouth, then only
theirs.

When did that end? At some point in the 50s or 40s, or was it earlier?

What once required locks of hair and hand written letters: Now requires
-- You'd better bloody impress me by jumping through those fiery hoops
of you sit facing me and I the room. And you'd better juggle those
compliments correctly you clown or else there is no call back.

And once your done bouncing that ball on your knee you'll win a shiny
set of 87 unmarked keys.

Good luck with unlocking the door that leads to this Brazilian mix.

And if per chance we do meet flesh to flesh I will pointedly ask, "Pass
word per favore."

And you'll say, "I don't wanna play anymore."

I'll say, as if I were a mechanical doll, "Games, games,
games, I love 'em. I'm a famous player of these games."

Then something will crack. I'll bend over, place my hands upon my
knees, and say, "Hold on, sometimes I get winded from being so cruel.
There are times when I want to close my eyes and have
man beside me -- to barely touch, then touch -- to tell man I think
he's lovelier then two barrels of black plums."

I stand aright -- put arm out to man -- move him aside -- step back --
close door -- then stand on these two toes to peer through the peep hole
for 37 minutes.

"Shoo! Shoo! You annoying bird," said me.

"It's come to name calling, has it?"

I open the door to throw out a dog biscuit and sing "Go get it boy,
"then close the wood before our eyes say hello.

Five hours later. "I'll be back, I'm going home to change my shoes."

"Almighty, bye now."

The poetic sap attempts to reason with the unreasonable brute force.
Why not let man in? He could braid our hair.

Please, he only rated a 3.2 out of 6. I told you we aren't settling.

But the body says yes -- the heart beats quick when his scent looms near.

Please, eat some quiet. I'm boss now -- You've wasted far too much time on
emotional impulses & itches.

~~~

Choices are what we have now rather than love.

Watch 'Moulin Rouge,' and have a good cry about lost lasting intense
affections.

This hurts me as much as it pains you.

It's A Snow-Ball

Don't Thinks It

O
He
him.
Lost
locks,
aging
gently.
Balloon
piercing
unearthing
achievement.
Shhhhhhhhhhh.

Written at Revista

The Botanical Garden

I found the pure garden as I was awake.

The Staad Antwerp -- Who knows if that is it's proper name? It was printed on the benches.

The male statue rising from the ground got me thinking that my life in the states may be over.

The Dutch speaking botanist plucked a green leaf and said, "Citron," as he handed it to me.

After he left I inhaled it's aroma and thought -- there will be a day when I own a Citron plant.

Lilly pads dotted with mauve flowers coast. Fishes - White - Orange & Gray. They quizzically stare. "I'm sorry, I don't have food for you."

The accordion player has followed me here. I wonder why. At the last locale my only form of payment was starring San pause for twenty-three minutes. The number of my fleeting age.

The fishes are calling. The same Dutch speaking Botanist offered me a look see in the sealed-up green house. This face tends to behave as a key.

When I was all in, he locked the door behind us. It was hot in that cacti green house.

I walked to the far end of a round table, placing a boundary between us.

He motioned to another locked room, one that traveled further into shady greenery.

Since I had gotten this far without being handled roughly, I thought it best to go back out where witnesses sat with their books.

Did I mention he has a scar? It started at his left nostril and completed it's path at the left ear. Precise facial scars are appealing when they aren't behind locked doors.

Back outside the citron gave me ideas on where to go next. Where to live for the next six years. The trickle of the pond sealed my fate.

We, my home and I will always be under the selfsame sky - Antwerp you are my Paris.

Something Extra at Leopold

This was written at Leopold Brasserie in Antwerpen.

Crepes (A temporary title)

Money can purchase a scarf from Nice, not the bliss in my chest when I think back to my small dog.

Money did not buy the motor bike ride with Franchesco.

Maybe it's a means to things? A trail?

Do I care about wearing white everyday of the week in Rome? Absolutely not. It means I can purchase crimson lipstick and send a papered kiss home.

I cried for the loss of a black jacket, not for it's penny value -- It was my friend -- It took me to Tavern on The Green -- It kept the nip away on the plane to London -- It kept this girl company when no-one could.

Strained dollars got me the flight to Brussels, not the 1904 dated flat I am sojourning at now. That was connected kindness.

I cry, yell, and faint by laughter due to life's moments. A life that is supported by money, not fueled by it.

Day 17

I wrote this as I was hanging out of the dining room window on Day 17.

Untitled

Hanging outside of this 9th floor window of an Apt. constructed & visited by Mussolini.

I attempt to comprehend this Re Di Roma family. These Amerikanis plus Miss English who has joined us to form this living alliance.

I fell asleep on the red couch with my stand in brother a night ago. It's funny how quick connections equal ease when your away from the streets that steadily report the past.

Aleshia Dixon is singing through the tube -- "Give it to me right or don't give it to me at all." She's right.

In some cases wanting maybe more electrifying then having -- Tapping into such energies -- Such happy cripplings of the rational minds.

The seagulls fly here at night. They're white breasts are mobile stars that can shit on your bare feet. I'd know.

I'd like to teach these roommates how to play canasta. But I fear silly Italy won't go for it. I've observed this country turn on mute when change comes on. There are no 3 a.m. burritos, or not sharing pad Thai with lovers as they watch with expectant eyes.

Shall I end this trip now? Nah I think not -- Albeit, it may be time to move on

Day 16

I decided to return to the Park of Museums. One visit was not enough. Of course I brought along my orange parasol. I additionally brought a blanket and my journal. When all thoughts become glued into one it's time to write several things down to create a bit of space. I did do some catching up but it actually turned into jotting down notes of the surroundings. The surroundings:  Lovers cooing at eachother in every given direction.

It was one of those situations when you seem to be the only single/alone person in the world. Yet, instead of feeling despaired I felt comforted at being able to witness those moments. (Except for that one couple that seemed like they were about to sex eachother only 20, or so feet away from me. That may have made me a little nervous.) The Italians embrace PDA.

There was another couple that struck a cord: "Couple sitting on bench - man lying across - his head in her lap. She reads aloud to him. The pigeons seem more loved and intelligent for it." -Yeah I don't know why I wrote that last detail about the pigeons. I've always had fantasies of reading a book with another as they were, seeing that made me hope for it again. Okay stopping this now.

But, in keeping with this theme of love or not love - Here is a poem that some have spoken a word or two about.

If You Loved Me You Wouldn't Buy Me Flowers

When I view a flower in full bloom, -
I have the urge to give it the -
"Off with your head" treatment -
to place it behind my delicate ear -
And don it as a primitive accessory.
Purpose being?
It would only die bit by bit wedged in a crevice.
Whilst being mocked by my warm cabesa -
That is left un-chopped.

This may be the difference between 23 and 7.

Boys please, no flowers - no bouquets of slow death.
Give me life.
Give me potted Forget-me-nots -
a Rose of Sharon shrub -

or a palm tree,

At least there is hope in it, for it.

Lovers that commence with corner store flowers,

have a tough time surviving hurricanes of - why don't you want to meet my parents -

Or whose lap are you sitting on in this picture.

If you love her -

Buy her a cactus.

Those are hard to kill.

~~~~~~~~
Thank You.