America

χιονισμένη παραλία μπροστά στο σπίτι μου, © 2005 Αποθήκη Σκέψης / Thoughts Warehouse

Το τελευταίο, επί αυτού του πλανήτη, σύνορο,
Είναι ένα καλά κρατημένο μυστικό.
Και, η γνώση του δεν βρίσκεται σε έναν νου ή μια ψυχή,
Παρά στο σύνολο εκείνων που κρατάν μέσα τους τα κομμάτια του.
Το μυστικό αυτό δεν βρίσκεται στον Blake, τον Shakespeare,
Τον Byron, Shelley, ή τον Ντίκενς.
Από 'κείνους ακούμε τους λόγους για τους οποίους,
Το τελευταίο σύνορο πάντα ζητάμε.

Παρακάτω τέσσερα ποιήματα, τρία γνωστά και ένα άγνωστο:
Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, Allen Ginsberg,
και ο φίλος μου από την Μασαχουσέτη, Philip Hasouris.



The last frontier on this planet,
Is a well-kept secret.
It's comprehension exists whole not in one mind or soul,
But across all who hold each of it's pieces.
This secret lies not in Blake, in Shakespeare,
Byron, Shelley or in Dickens.
'Tis they who speak of reasons for,
The quest for the last frontier.

Below are four poems, three well-known and one not:
Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, Allen Ginsberg,
and my friend form Massachusetts, Philip Hasouris.




Emily Dickinson,
Amherst, Massachusetts
1830-1886

Robert Frost,
San Francisco, California
1874-1963

Allen Ginsberg,
Newark, New Jersey
1926-1997

Philip Hasouris,
New York, New York / lives in Massachusetts
1956

Hope is the Thing with Feathers
Emily Dickinson

"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,   
And sorry I could not travel both   
And be one traveler, long I stood   
And looked down one as far as I could   
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,   
And having perhaps the better claim,   
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;   
Though as for that the passing there   
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay   
In leaves no step had trodden black.   
Oh, I kept the first for another day!   
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,   
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh   
Somewhere ages and ages hence:   
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—   
I took the one less traveled by,   
And that has made all the difference.

Howl
Allen Ginsberg

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
cohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
tionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless
ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
until the noise of wheels and children brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
floated out and sat through the stale beer after
noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook-
lyn Bridge,
lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind-
ings and migraines of China under junk-with-
drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the
railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
through snow toward lonesome farms in grand-
father night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-
athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in-
stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-
ionary indian angels who were visionary indian
angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla-
homa on the impulse of winter midnight street
light smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the
brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire
place Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incom-
prehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
Square weeping and undressing while the sirens
of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also
wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
and trembling before the machinery of other
skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
in policecars for committing no crime but their
own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were
dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu-
scripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly
motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean
love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
gardens and the grass of public parks and
cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can-
dle and fell off the bed, and continued along
the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and
come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun
rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad
stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy
to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet-
ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station
solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
picked themselves up out of basements hung
over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-
ment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
East River to open to a room full of steamheat
and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their
pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
incantations which in the yellow morning were
stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
& tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable
kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess-
fully, gave up and were forced to open antique
stores where they thought they were growing
old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
& the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the
drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap-
pened and walked away unknown and forgotten
into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas-
saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
phonograph records of nostalgic European
1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans
in their ears and the blast of colossal steam
whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
Denver and finally went away to find out the
Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
for each other's salvation and light and breasts,
until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
impossible criminals with golden heads and the
charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys
or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or
Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the
daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp
notism & were left with their insanity & their
hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism
and subsequently presented themselves on the
granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads
and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in-
stantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin
Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho-
therapy occupational therapy pingpong &
amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic
pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of
blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad
man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the
East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid
halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock-
ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night-
mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the
moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book
flung out of the tenement window, and the last
door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone
slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur-
nished room emptied down to the last piece of
mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted
on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that
imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of
hallucination--
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and
now you're really in the total animal soup of
time--
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed
with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use
of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat-
ing plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space
through images juxtaposed, and trapped the
archangel of the soul between 2 visual images
and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun
and dash of consciousness together jumping
with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna
Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human
prose and stand before you speechless and intel-
ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con-
fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm
of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,
yet putting down here what might be left to say
in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in
the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the
suffering of America's naked mind for love into
an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone
cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered
out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand
years.

II

What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open
their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi-
nation?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob
tainable dollars! Children screaming under the
stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men
weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the
loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy
judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the
crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of
sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment!
Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun-
ned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose
blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers
are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a canni-
bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking
tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!
Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long
streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac-
tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose
smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch
whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch
whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch
whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen!
Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream
Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in
Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom
I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch
who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch!
Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic
industries! spectral nations! invincible mad
houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave-
ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to
Heaven which exists and is everywhere about
us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole
boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions!
gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De-
spairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on
the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the
wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell!
They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the
street!

III

Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland
where you must feel very strange
I'm with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I'm with you in Rockland
where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
I'm with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humor
I'm with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful
typewriter
I'm with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and
is reported on the radio
I'm with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit
the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the
spinsters of Utica
I'm with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the
harpies of the Bronx
I'm with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you're
losing the game of the actual pingpong of the
abyss
I'm with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul
is innocent and immortal it should never die
ungodly in an armed madhouse
I'm with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your
soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
cross in the void
I'm with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and
plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the
fascist national Golgotha
I'm with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island
and resurrect your living human Jesus from the
superhuman tomb
I'm with you in Rockland
where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com-
rades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I'm with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under
our bedsheets the United States that coughs all
night and won't let us sleep
I'm with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma
by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the
roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the
hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col-
lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry
spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is
here O victory forget your underwear we're
free
I'm with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
journey on the highway across America in tears
to the door of my cottage in the Western night

fire escape, © 2004 Αποθήκη Σκέψης / Thoughts Warehouse

View from the fire escape
Philip Hasouris

Feet dangle off the fire escape
your ass imbedded through
black steel slates.
Every few minutes 
you adjust.

Cold crisp air rushes through your lungs
fighting for space with the smoke from
your fifth cigarette.
Number six is halfway out the pack.
Listen for conversations drifting upwards
just as quickly new ones take their place.

They’re having leftovers across the street,
how any different ways can you make chicken.
The mysteries of life.

Shades half drawn one floor up,
naked legs scurry back and forth,
catch a glimpse of a crack in the window.
Imagination runs wild.

Just left the lights are out.
Three Stooges on the tube.
They make me laugh.

Blue lights mix with the dark.
I know where they’re going.
It just amazes me
how someone puts up with that shit.
You won’t see her for a couple of days.
You adjust.

Faceless man
roams  on-coming traffic.
Bottle of diluted blue.
Rags in his hand.       
 Rags on his body.
A slight limp for added effect.
“Clean your windshield
Windshield clean.,”
minute and a half
from red to green.
Car sits on corner,
windows fogged,
like we don’t know what they’re doing.
Every once in a while,
drapes open an inch.
I hope I never have a girl.

Johnny Staxx
fly’s through the air,
damn that man can dance.
Three people watch,
then walk away.
Johnny’s hat collects small change.

Blue lights fade,
you won’t see him
for a couple of days.
What an asshole,
told me once his father did the same
keeps them in line.
I don’t know,
who he’s trying to convince.
Him or me.

Corner stores closing,
should have got another pack of butts.
Here comes old man Henry,
been alone for a couple of years,
doesn’t have much time left.
You can see the sadness,
even from up here.

They’re finished one floor up,
across the way.
She gives me a smile,
the cold air makes your checks red.

Rosario seeks the comfort of chalk.
Draws on sidewalks.
Black and white memories
brought to life in colors pastel.
Dreams the restless sleep
of wanderers.
For the moment her voice
rests here.

Clouds swivel milky white
reflection of thought.
Whispers brush, still air.

David walks
a man possessed.
One more appointment to fill his quota.
One more handshake to seal his fate.
David jogs,
out of breath.
Working stiff,
slips through  cracks.
Wife-- Two kids--
Five bucks.     small change.
Moon tells time.
It’s never over till the last deal’s done.
Signed-Sealed and Delivered.,
Three different pills to stay alive
Red. White. and Blue.
Living the American dream.

James always James
never
 Jim-Jimmy-Jimbo.
Glasses slide past nose.
Words reflect off  eyes.
Bear like grin growls.
Softness of voice soothes the half night.
I read his words on back of napkins.
Evening song vespers.

Beneath the cracked glass sky
voices penetrate the sound of silent screams
Park bench holds solitary figure,
wrapped in yesterdays news.
Chaos surrounds.
Detached she is the reincarnation of Bette Davis.
“I am translucent.”
.Michael waits,
 His name tucked away behind locked doors,
sings lullaby’s,
offers up prayers.
Cools the emptiness of heart.
Hushed breath against cracked glass.
Lays down, mothers arms.
Just out of reach.
Debbie listens for steps
turns her head
no matter how quiet.
Each flinch reminds her
no matter the pain.
Paper thin words.
Salt tear red,
trying to close open wounds.
Feels her heart slip, out of hands
“I hear myself argue”
“I hear my self deny”
“I hear myself
self destruct.”
 Shelter myself in colors.
Weeping hues.
Cast in shadows of black and white.

Herbert and Rose
Slip side door.
She clings to his smell
Till it wears off.
He looks back
catching last glimpse,
last kiss,
placing it to his lips
till it wears off..

Adelene dances to imaginary stars.
on the corner of delirium and lucid.
Everyone’s little secret,
the kind you put to your lips and go
shhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Adelene sings the blues
Bye - Bye-
Baby Blues.
 Reflects,  sadness in eyes
tears cannot wash away years,
and then she screamed,
ranting in syllables not understood.
Starring out into the ultimate zoo
who is the prisoner in her mind ?

Kid downstairs
doesn’t want to go to bed.
“Five more minutes -                  
 Five more minutes.”         Shut up.
Father Jack,
tries to save souls,
winding streets
dead end faces.
Looks to the heavens
raises his arms.
Screams.
“There’s just too many.”
No one hears
Father Jack.

Wayne and Lucy
stumble out from
Cauley’s Bar.
Kickin and scratchin.
stale smoke,
vomit dribbles,       corner mouth.
Cuts and bruises
map out blood ties.
A ritual started before they were born.
Second crowd of AA
 meanders out from
St. Mary’s.
Stale smoke,
luke warm coffee,
coins clenched.
The thought of one more day.
Exhausted time.
A ritual started before they were born.

The moon looks lonely watching us.
Maybe we’ll trade stories someday.
You adjust.

Jane summons
the determination
of balancing life.
Rising above the fire escape
beyond closed factories.
Leviathans that swallowed
whole families.
 Moments lost
between lost identities.
She holds memories.
Clutching Shasta daises.
Watching her
I realize.
She has the better view.

Chris and Sam find missing pieces.
Pass the night by way of shaded lanterns,
high tower castles
monotone voices.
Seek the gentleness of calm
fingers brush,
uncover lovers.
In that moment
another piece placed,
 maybe,   fifty or so years.
This puzzle will be complete

Dead center
our eyes meet.
 Causal nod.
Richard wails on the horn.
Tears and rage combine.
Perched behind solitary walls,
fluid noise seeps through porous stone,
fills the empty night.

Next door
 phone rings.
Irene answers in
Southern belle
or little girl lost.
Disguises for bill,
as thought’s collect.
“She’s not here”.
“Can I take a message”.
The tears are real
when her voice quivers.
God help me.
I wonder.
does he disguise his voice ?

Slammin’ of the die,
cracks the night
in back street alleys
where hope
rests in strangers hands,
then change,
when luck becomes cold,
and all you have left
is the change in your pocket.
Jingle-Jingle-
Shoot.

Down the block,
a line forms
for the midnight show,
some foreign film
with hidden messages.
I guess if you don’t understand it.
must be great.
There goes Jimmy Reaves
to his second job.
Graveyard shift.
If he keeps this up,
that’s were he’ll be.
Molly walks up and down
never crosses the street.
Keeps asking me
if I want to party.
I think she forgot
we use to play house
when we were kids.
Probably wants to forget
her childhood altogether.

Emily lives
on the
other side of the world
We send smoke signals
to each other.
Entrust glimpses of ourselves.
Secrets for safe keeping.


The light’s flick on in the kitchen
to the right up two floors.
some diet.
Half an apple pie,
bottle of Pepsi.

Dull brightness seeps out from the left.
Three stooges on the tube.
They make me laugh.

slide, © 2005 Αποθήκη Σκέψης / Thoughts Warehouse