365 Ways With Words

Americano Coffee

                                        Fetters abound
                                        Strictly bound
                                        Within the head
                                        On tabletop dependency
                                        Gnash-gnash

                                            A fearsome deadline
                                            The call to nature daily, hourly
                                            Suffering in others
                                            The curative ensemble
                                            A deep sighing heart
                                            Abating the weapon of tears
                                            Conventional males,
                                            The prigs,
                                            Unconventional females,
                                            The prudes,
                                            Mr Bankbalancebastard
                                            Keeping harmony, for its own sake
                                            And the self—that awfulness behind the lids

                                        There is comfort in gnashing chains
                                        The prisoner's willing reincarceration
                                        Tap-tap on the waistline's revelation
                                        So, too many beers! Too bad

                                        Freedom's deceit
                                        Once again
                                        Is that the promise resounds
                                        In empty rooms
                                        And Americano coffee
                                        Grrrr...

Squally Assurances

                                        Raindrops compete for proximity

                                        Within the dewy confines of the shirt

                                        Altogether drip-trip double, the neck runs

                                        Pounded from above the lime tree-lined pathway

                                        The park’s sodden grassland gives way to quickmarsh

                                        Each milk coffee puddle churns to a bubble-popped sea

 

                                        In deeply thunderous rolls, away on the field-tops

                                        Jumping tears sound upon the river’s smoothness raised

                                        Down from heaven the tiller’s shift drops your storm

                                        This way now; be wet, and in the wetter shivers realise

                                        That Olympus hears all, but answers few, less so with favour

 

                                        They all pass, they move on, and they dry

                                        Grasses in green, thick oak velvet,

                                        As needful for it from drop-tipped fronds

                                        To the clutched grip-sure roots,

                                        These squally assurances allow the nameless and the named

                                        The power of a tomorrow, in rains today

Start Again

                                        The turnaround moment, ancient wounds gone—

                                        Coarse footprints that made abrasion above the soles—

                                        Effortlessly erased by a delicious fresh wave

 

                                        Suffer through the splutter of split notes—

                                        They hapless come from hopeless chordal coordination—

                                        See the troubled surface flattened calm

 

                                        Life crack from the mountain, spirit purged from the air—

                                        Tear up a limited focal depth, hands withheld—

                                        Now sip the cup of plenty, where there is time

 

                                        Countless intro-outrospection frontier default off—

                                        Starving daily, sky-thirsted powder, without the filterdrip-feed—

                                        Popped open, the mind of plenty peers from the cave’s entrance

 

                                        Away, start again

Three Steps

It took three steps. The door was passed and out – out into the deep blackness of it all. It didn’t matter how regularly he donned his suit and did the maintenance check, this bit was always the best, the scariest, the most rewarding. It’s why he took the job.

Even on holiday he would dream of this moment, just before the work began when he released the attach-line and free-floated in zero. The deepness and eternity of the fierce stars all around: above, below, left, right, quiet. Absolute quiet. In the second or so before he allowed the control unit to start (and he would sometimes make this moment linger for a few seconds more than was necessary) he was just another element in the void, an insignificant speck of squidgy organic-ness in the vast, still and inorganic magnitude between the stars.

And there in front was the hull covered in dozens of little maintenance units, rushing speedily from one job to another. He was there to check they finished the job, didn’t leave anything attached, and didn’t get confused by bad or conflicting direction. Millions of light years in travel and achievement beyond all imaginings, there was still room for error.

The units were a fascinating spectacle as they sparked and rolled along the surface. Most of the regular work was done under the skin, but each day something had to be checked or replaced along the hull. And that was his job. It still had a certain ‘something’ to it and one or two of the younger Russian bar girls ooh’d and aah’d when he embellished some of his more tricky situations out in zero. There were a few who, perhaps with a little snobbish disdain, dismissed his stories as being of the tall kind, and worse still others saw him as a mere high-tech janitor, but he didn’t really care. The job carried a frissance of danger that nearly always carried sufficient impact on the alcohol- and opiate-opened ears that they listened again to the third or even fourth telling. At that point a smile would always break on his face.

But what he would never relate was the visions. Sometimes, just before he started up the control unit he felt sure he could see something staring back at him from the stars. He never saw eyes or a face as such, but a spooky feeling of an intense observation. The first time he noticed this he was truly scared –scared shitless! Then he tried to ignore it, assuming it was part of the whole fear of spacewalking thing, evidence of space kookiness that some got from working in zero too long. It wasn’t long before he pulled himself together, overcoming this fear well enough to get on with the job in as near a mundane manner as possible, but somewhere behind the bravado the feeling remained – sometimes a low-level recognition, sometimes a concentration-spoiling focus near-impossible to block out. But of course, block it out he did: he had to in order to remain professional. He was a lifer, not some rooky kid spooked by weird thoughts of being watched.

The feeling was one thing, but the ‘thoughts’ were another. These occurred in an undercurrent between his proper focus on the job and the very monotonous checking of code when work was slowing up. If he allowed these thoughts to take over then he began to see flashes and lights and even sounds out beyond the hull of the vessel. Only work snapped him out if it. But even when snapping out of the daydreams and anchored back in the nuts and bolts of the real world he would be momentarily shaken: was he going crazy?

He allowed this to continue for nearly two years. He did his job, week-in and week-out, and saved his salary. He made his payments and made his calls. He allowed himself an alcohol stipend, a ‘girls and rec’ stipend, and the rest he put away. This worked when not alone, when not thinking of his daughter, when not contemplating life at the end of another contract, when not occupied with entertainment. But just before sleep he would feel it again, as real as ever, and his heart would race and his breathing quicken. It was then that what he knew, what he saw and what he felt conflicted. The tension of his experience grew – daily, nightly, hourly. He felt he could keep the lid on it all for now, but deep down realised this could not last for long. Whatever he did, one day it would uncontrollably burst out and wreck everything.

Česnekový

                                        Heroic garlic, raw rasp on the tongue,

                                        The acrid acid metal burn beneath the palate

                                        Turn the polévka into nuclear fire

                                        Topinka into life-giving health food

                                        Bulb of power, shining protector of the blood

 

                                        Woven vampire destroyer

                                        In ice-ground-breaking breath

                                        Waves of klobasa mercilessly pound

                                        On unprotected facial extremities

                                        Until the unwilling initiate is inducted:

                                        Succumbing, believing, proselytizing

 

                                        Take, eat, this is my saviour

                                        From the bland, from the inadequate

                                        For as in the prayers of the doubtless

                                        A little goes a long way,

                                        But a lot is never enough

 

                                        Česnekový – garlic

                                        Polévka – soup

                                        Topinka – fried bread/toast

                                        Klobasa – sausage

Wake Up, Dead Man

Wake up, dead man,
For whom a lightening vision
Pounds on the sleeper's razor-sharp door
Divorced from the witless addiction of abuses
From bare bones life itself
It's time to show and tell —
Commit to memories troubled up
And leave the living bound in their peace
Beyond the cold touch of tears
Bestow a powered peace
Cloudless and free
The fathomless anger resolutely snapped
Then sleep forevermore

Walk My Way

                                        
                                        walk my way

                                            lady with the big boobs

                                        and

                                        fill my nasty head

                                            with your perversions

                                        so that I am

                                            freed in your arms

 

                                        walk my way

                                            tall dark strangerman

                                        in time

                                        to

                                        save me from my

                                            sick loneliness

                                        by attachment

                                            to your beauty

 

                                        walk my way

                                            friend without ‘complications’

                                        or other attachments

                                        and

                                            solo

                                        make me

                                            your only queen

 

                                        walk my way

                                            pretty girl

                                        and

                                            give me energy

                                        in

                                            your life

 

                                        walk my way

                                            the grown-up's suit and tie

                                        and

                                        packed wallet

                                            care ever

                                        for lil' old me

                                        because I need

                                            your value

 

                                        walk my way

                                            turn me into a family

                                        of

                                        love

                                        and

                                            new affection

                                        to replace

                                        the lost

                                            with you

 

                                        walk my way

                                            walk-walk

                                        quickly

                                            my

                                            way

                                        mine

                                        me

                                            me

Summer Rains

Tin hats on, the rains begin

The beguiling soft drips spatter arms

Awashed windscreens to come,

Theirs is the premon; fortune calling card

Sound out, in street sizzle, alarm for the washing

Such will cajole more tipgrowth in the lawn

 

From Devon mist to tropic deluge

All welcome the clean but the cricketers

It is a thing to be sat through

Or stood beneath a weeping tree

Hearty drops, their bombs ascend the legs,

Full conquest marched—defeated there is no hiding

 

Complete, another Beaufort-pushed ceasefire is done

A one-sided battle forever won

And then the sweet smell of victory—ah, petrichor

Bouquet puddles occupy the vanquisher’s delights

The bouncy castle’s treachery slip

Candidates all for sun-dumped steam

 

Until again the brolly dries

These weapons must be kept at the ready

Bachian stacatto notes pursue the summer’s course

Filling windows with soft fogs, the great indoors

Steel skies drift off, time softly taken

From sea, to sea, vita homines in gratia

Ah Jin

The telephone rang twice and she hit the receive button. At once the vision of her father sprang to life on the miniscreen.

“Hello Ah Jin, how lovely to see you…” the mid-west tone of the unsmiling familiar face spoke brightly on seeing her face before him.

“Daddy!” she cried excitedly back “Wh…”

“Don’t interrupt me, Ah Jin.” He paused looking decidedly irritated, then resumed his smile. “I was about to say, ‘How lovely to see you today. How is your mother?’”

“Sorry, Daddy,” came her slightly crestfallen apology. “It’s good to… I mean, Mummy is doing well. She is out shopping for dinner.”

“Oh dear, that’s a pity. I would very much have liked to talk with her right now. I have something important to discuss with both of you. When she gets back you must tell her to call me.”

“I will do that, Daddy” she continued in her most serious obedient tone. Then she immediately changed back into the excited eight-year old she was, “When will you be coming home? Are you on your way?”

“That’s what I want to talk with you about. Well, I’ll wait for your mother to call me. However,” he continued checking his Rolex, “I have a conference call at 6 your time… so make sure she phones before then.”

He paused again, which he considered as an appropriate prompt for her to finish their brief communication. Sensing this she continued, firing off her words as a panicked Gatling gun.

“Daddy I have worked so hard at school. I have done all my homework in all my subjects and for test preparation and my scores are the best in the class, in school. My poem, you know the one you really liked, is being printed in the school magazine. And my Wing Chun teacher has moved me up because I have learnt so much. I did really well in the piano exam too and the erhu teacher…

“Thank you, Ah Jin, that is enough for now. I will speak to you both later.”

At that the screen went dark. She stood staring at it, her mouth still open from the last unfinished sentence. Then she told herself that she had at least told him what she needed to tell him and he would remember it and congratulate her later when her mother phoned. The fact that neither occurred that night was a wound to her, another wound upon the wounds as far back as she could remember. Her mother arrived back just after 6 and tried to call every 15 minutes, but he did not respond until nearly midnight. Through the walls her mother could be heard talking softly and privately and even eavesdropping through the door Ah Jin heard no mention made of her. There were lots of pauses. Then the conversation stopped abruptly and she detected a strange muffled noise like laughter. She wanted to go in and see what had been so funny, but on touching the door handle realised it was not laughter but crying she had heard. Fearful of seeing her mother in a distressed state she returned to her room and tried to sleep. The noise of her mother’s broken sobs repeated in her mind and continued well into the night: would she be able to ask what had happened in the morning?

She was spared that agony, for her mother left the apartment long before Ah Jin’s 5:30 alarm had sounded.

The Dep Comm Goes to Lunch

Kenneth Hon Kong Bo, the Chief Superintendant and Kowloon East, took his job very seriously. He also believed in a good lunch, something that he could not always afford as far as time was concerned. He relished finding a new lunch venue, particularly if it involved a unique specialty. There were many such venues across town; some were happy to reserve lunches, others the very models of egalitarian cuisine and one had to queue no matter how important or hungry! Lunch was often best taken whilst out with a patrol –mixing with the boys and girls of the force, taking in their opinions over a table groaning with Hainan Chicken and sweet and sour pork, soup and tea, or buying a quick afternoon snack of sesame cakes in Mong Kok. In his mind his presence was a morale-boost. He had to be careful not to be too familiar, and not to accept familiarity, but his reputation preceded him and he was generally welcomed.

This simple habit had continued from the before his latest promotion. Even as a sergeant he occasionally brought lunch for some of his constables on patrol, particularly during the winter. In his last position as Chief Superintendant he was disappointed to be so tied to the desk and unable to accompany the boys and girls doing their work, particularly the younger constables fresh out of college. He liked their enthusiasm. He believed in it.

Today he had to write off lunch –actually, he had to make sure it wasn’t accountable. Ordinarily he would keep the receipts. Ordinarily he would ask his secretary Mavis to tot up his expenses sheet each month and after a cursory check would put his quick approval signature at the bottom of each page. His lowest drawer in his desk had a large leather wallet for all personal receipts and costs: when he drew it back, the pleasant, sharp smell of cured leather wafted upwards. He loved that smell. Each time.

As lunchtime approached he speeded up his work, selecting out the bigger files that could be covered in depth tomorrow morning and hurrying through the letters and staff revues, the inter-departmental documentation and last week’s crime reports to be read and approved –anything that had to be completed before the day was out.

The clock minute hand ticked noisily to 11.45. He closed the file he was reading, checked his wallet for dollars and his mobile for messages and calls, pushed back his chair and checked himself in the mirror: mid-fifties resulted in putting on a little more weight on than he’d anticipated. With a sigh, he puckered his cheeks, adjusted his peaked hat and straightened his jacket.

“Mavis!” he called through the partition and closed door to the invisible secretary. “Mavis, I’m going for lunch. No calls forwarded unless urgent.”

“Understood, sir.” she called back. He hadn’t made an appointment in the diary. “Anywhere nice? Where shall I say you are?”

“I’m taking a walk.”