Delicious.

The Basque Nose

I may as well be invisible
when Curtis says to Idoia his wife
That Basque nose
Let me touch that nose
and she lets him
and I’m surprised I don’t
repeat him: Let me touch that nose
even though I’ve thought more often
of her chin— what I would abandon
to touch the line along
the muscle of her neck
to the small ridge below her ear —
a place which has no simple word
even in the half dozen languages
we choose not to speak in that room

Curtis—one of the most benign
men I know except for one
New Year’s when he got drunk and vaulted
his six-foot-four Iowa-farmboy frame
over the dinner table to stomp
the gum out of some brute
pushing up on Idoia
But do you blame him?
The brute I mean
for blabbing anything
the liquor—he mistook
for muse—inspired him to say
just to hear Idoia speak—her vowels
thin cool and round as céntimos
dropped in a beggar’s hand

I smoke on their front patio
Idoia stops in the kitchen
And I hold my cigarette
to the window between us—how (for a moment)
she purses
her mouth near the glass
a mock gesture too much
like a kiss for me to ignore


After dinner Curtis Idoia and I drink
wine which gives me courage
to practice my Spanish I think about
the difference between saber and conocer
conjugating each verb beginning
in first person New Jersey familiar
So when Curtis gets drunk
and kisses his wife’s shoulders
they both close their eyes and I’m still
muttering I know... You know... He knows...
Patrick Rosal

found it!

Twenty Billion Light Years of Lonliness

Mankind on a little globe
Sleeps, awakes, and works
Wishing at times to be friends with Mars.

Martians on a little globe
Are probably doing something; I don't know what
(Maybe sleep-sleeping, wear-wearing, or fret-fretting)
While wishing at times to be friends with Earth
This is a fact I'm sure of.

This thing called universal gravitation
Is the power of loneliness pulling together.

This univerise is distorted
So all join in desire.

The universe goes on expanding
So all feel uneasy.

At the lonliness of twenty billion light years
Without thinking, I sneeze.


Shuntaro Tanikawa

So. Good.

"Uncommon Denominators"

I add up the times I’ve fantasized about
women I’ve seen but never spoken to
and divide that by the hoursI drive past cemeteries and add again
the weight of breath in your mouth
measured in the ancient Tagalog word for yes
— but the number always comes out the same

So I subtract the moonand the smell of incense on Good Friday
trying to connect Planck’s Constant
to the quantum moment between a candlelit flick and the back of your neck
setting aside my 7 dreams of having sex once
with Tyra Banks who tells me God
You Filipino guys know
how to make love to a woman and even if I tally the 10,069
channels launched by satelliteswhich have an asymptotic relationship
to the count of stones cast
from a sinner’s fist raised
to the power of eight million punch-clockstiffs heading home late
still the number comes out the same
and when a beggar pirouettes along an expressway’s center lane
swearing this won’t be his last
cigarette (smoke rising fromthe rust in his moustache ) I suddenly know
the acceleration of a falling body
has little to do with slippinga mother into the ground or
a whole greater than the sum of its parts

And if you ask what I’m doing
with 7 loaves and 4 fish multiplied
by the root of a dried tamarind tree
or the coefficient of friction
of a bullet on the brink of a rib
or the number of clips emptied
into an unarmed Guinean man
on a dark Bronx stoop I’ll tell you
I’m looking for the exact
coordinates of falling in love plus or minus
the width of a single finger
lost along the axis of your lips

Patrick Rosal

Just because I finally found it (it's fun to read aloud)

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.

Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!

Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?

Thus I; faltering forward,

Leaves around me falling,

Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,

And the woman calling.

Thomas Hardy

More Pablo for my mood.

"I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You"

I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

Pablo Neruda

Sums up my mood.

"Tonight I can write the saddest lines"

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her void. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.


Pablo Neruda

Interrupt Me If I'm Wrong

Interrupt me if I'm wrong

Roaring voices straining to speak
above the saturated air
silently my eyes travel
the solid black horizon of your shoulder
and rest on your chin
as accidentally I brush your arm
with Guinness courage given

dizzy drunk dancing
circles around a dark haired man
eyes shine lips smile
he knows Hello Hello
and takes me to an alcove
that smells of cigarettes
where our faces press
against each other

Interrupt me if I'm wrong

shillouetted by the firelight
eyes trace the lines
of your face and rest
in the shadow of your bright eyes
I envy the syllables that roll off your tongue
and through your lips

I wish I was bolder
to reach across this card checkered table
saying that I've won four games and my prize
is to go take your hand and press
it softly against my cheek

Interrupt me if I'm wrong

beneath the emblem of your home and native land
alight with a blue glow
timbres and tongues tangling
marble white bodies bare
what the fuck was that
I don't care because it was us

the sun streams through
lights floor beams as
lazily let my eye I
linger on you
rising and falling softly
but it's goodbye

Interrupt me if I'm wrong

but I don't want to belong to you
and I may not be long with you
but there's something here
I'm not wrong for you

These are my intentions

to make you my world famous pancakes
to swap CDs with songs that speak for me
to exchange books so we can learn
and watch you make shadow puppets
that all look the same (but I'll never tell)

I don't want to keep you
I just want to know you
while I can
and enjoy the random acts and events
that caused an american girl with dimples and a bad sense of balance
to collide with a canadian man who sings and dances as he cooks dinner

I've been called 'Romantic' a lot lately

'Embers'

dangling from his fingertips
the cigarette glows and smokes
red ember lost
in the grey strands

so this is my life
internal syllables his lips
stay silent shut sewn stoic
it is different than words
others had said hands
in hands lips and fingertips
touching softly (a lie)

cold and wet an a stroke
of light reflects as the burning
end of Eliot's smoky days
(wringing his hands)

the fag hangs from his lips
eyes behind a veil of grey
and his breath tainted
with the tar and nicotine

so many (much time) years
and each drag
bring one beat (beating) closer
to ash and dust


'living with characters'

there is a man with unruly black hair
who is dangerous with a bow
and has a limp and scar on his right leg there

a woman with no furniture
solomnly stands by the window
wringing her hands, thoughts obscure

two little girls wander in an old barn
looking for farm cats that dart to and fro
it's cold so they have sweaters on

behind my glasses they all exist
hidden behind the cracks in my brow
appearing in flashes of intrigue that persist
and demand to be written down

T.S. Eliot is the feckin' man

his 'Preludes'

I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.


II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.


III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge,
whereYou curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.


IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

and again.. this time it's mostly bad poetry

'Coffee in Bed'

sea salt tears stream
down the pained plane of
burned sand
lazily blanketed inhale
the fumes of a sleeping
cup of blackness

grey and green beyond
the door frame
I can know and now no
force could make me leave
fleece fortress I've furnished

'Pub in Connemara'
heavy smell of smoke
stains the air
tasting the coal
as the beer stale
drips slowly from
a mohogany bar
cold but the fire
warms radiate
the din of voices
fills the smoky stained air
people enter
leave

'The Writer's Lament'

the blank page is my enemy
mocking me with indifference
anger flares up in me
at my vapid, wasteful indolence

ink spewed on the page
and lacking meaning or connection
I glower at my pen with rage
and grow bitter at my intentions

what good is a writer that can't create?
is there any value in unspent potential?
possibilities are infinite but I berate
myself for the inability to grasp anything substantial.


'W'
the elephant forgot
exactly what the stars said
as they striped across the world
but elephants are never supposed to forget
and jack asses aren't any smarter

'St. Nicholas Poems continued'

organ sounds fingers pressing
keys as man walks about
head bowed though
he does not believe

----

strange, an old building
built of ruins
full of defaced angels
and the floor paved with
the markers of dead
now serves as the place
to plead with God

----

a crusader's tomb
covered in wax and water
of those who can not even
read its inscription
Brune, lays sleeping
under the forgotten stones
craded in the bosom of black

'Chinese Whisper'

the fat man
scraped the burnt
off his toast with
a knife

by the door a flaxen haired girl
with face florid
sips tea quietly

steam races across her glasses
vanishing mist races
crumbs from his bread
litter his lap hiding in
the recesses of corduroi (?)

oxygen from her lungs
mingles with his and in
invisible currents
maze of neurons fire


'First Day of School'

amongst the tea drinkers
chattering clanking chinda
the fog has settled outside
clearing the world of color

watching the clock
winding so slowly
seconds crawl on slug bellies

through surrounded in
the din of dynamic sanctuary
sitting awkwardly I write

pen to page creating
the conversation I wish
I was having

More poetry that's tinted green.

'An Oath'

hesitation before an oath
barred and beaten and bleeding from
heart and hand but buzzing rosy warmth
cheeks flushed from beer and tender both
words exchanged none some tangled tongue
Guinness giving my courage the growth

it shouldn't artificially
need if this trying but true exchange
ifs and buts convoludedly
interfere with the aspirations of ' to be'
a verb with dangerous intent
insidious and captivatingly alternatively

could I sear it open and fertile
fighting the fecundity
of the salt sinews and wiles
warring within me wild
as oblivious drinks tea he smiles

'Untitled'
beating through the
tangled recesses of the
floorboards strangled the
music enters my ears the
rhythm and pounding of the
feet and instruments beginning the
dance about words I'd left behind

'18-5-06'
the hallow ring of a dial tone
a silence after the storm
heart heavy my eyes
leaking framing the
palor of my putrid face

real is unreal
lights don't illuminate
books are full of ink
not stories

I am tainted by your passing
a footprint that grows
as the snows melt
slowly disappearing
fade into dust

'105'
hidden in the hallway
I will not go upstairs
opening a door to the reaction
of a new face
chemistry, 'eh?
an explosion.
radiation poisoning.
stick around it too long and you'll die.

St. Nicholas Cathedral Poems

sitting silently on hard stone
I listened to the
water trickling and between
the drops I strained
hoping to glimpse
the eternal feeling or a
whisper that would echo
within the hallows of my breast

---

a high cross watches me
as I weave between the maze
of stone water movies
trickling and drizzling
beneath dizzying heights
upward the lines go upward
arches (aches) into cold air

I'm prolific.. or something.

'Cathedral'

candles flicker on the floor
a labyrinth of smoke climbs upward
to the dark recesses of the air
footsteps echo off the arches unheard
the faces of the damned and saved

in such an abyss the air is holy
a sacred silence hangs here
father pray sincere austere
his lips mouth the sacred words slowly
savoring his savior

this cave empty and austere
will fill with the his lips
empty and cold

'JP 1'

beneath this skin
are bones and blood
sinews entwined over organs
and tiny cells whose only purpose
is to make you able to
sit between my arms
nestled in the nape
of my long neck
and in the half light
I marvel at your making
and how you will leave me undone

'NYE'

Roaring voices straining to speak
above the saturated air
silently my eyes travel the
solid horizon of your chin
and rest in the cave of your collar
as accidentally my hand
brushes your arm with
Guinness given courage

'For the Fiddler in Tis Coili, Ronan'

Never do your fingers falter
dancing across the lines
carved into flesh and air
diamonds shine on your cheek
furnished in the fire of your fingertips
glistening next to eyes closed
pressed against the wood
your claddagh offers a heart
reaching out as you bow
lost in the space between sounds

'Keiran, the Dancer'

dizzy drunk dancing
twirls around a dark haired man
eyes shine lips smile
Guinness Mistress
we move to rhythm
neon lights reflect off my glasses
showing your face
myself dancing in your pupils
surrounded by an iris of neon
dizzy
drunk
dimples

'NYE morning'

globes of illumination dance on the horizon
faeries dotting the
shrouded in
subtle splendor sloping softly
calling you home

'Response to Mr. Rosal'

Mr. Rosal
fingers passing through the dog eared
volume of your days
I rediscovered the ink
you had written on the title page

Forgive me, I thought it absurd
at the time
to tell you what I aspired
and your blessing seemed polite at best

yet two years
six hundred seventy circles
your words comfort my anxious
aspirations (alliteration)
and I feel sincerely
that your quickly scrambled letters
are genuine
and I wonder
did you ever touch that basque nose?
did you ever lose yourself along a divine axis?

I've been calculating and speculating
about the same denominator
but I've never been good with numbers
still, I feel that our paths
will coincide tangentally
and I thank you for your kind words

'The Last Day'

Blue blanket draped coolly against
the white porcelain that is my stomach
I can hear you moving about
muffled footsteps and objects scraping
through the white wall between us

draped elegantly, the line of my spine
is captivating below the curves of my shoulders
behind my sight, yet out of yours
surrounded by steam and streaming
water trickling over your masculine lines
the sound of your collarbone
that my fingertips bring to mind

your mind has raced forward
designing the outline of your schedule
do you savor your shower?
If I was bolder, I would be there
licking the metallic water off the soft
sensual skin at the base of your neck

the door opens and lazily let my eye I
linger on you
throw on a shirt startched stiff
glare at the clock and scoff
at my indolence

my lips swivel upward
curving a secret truth
as your mind raced forward
mechanically preparing
your pursed lips are swollen from mine

'Breakfast Poem'

through the floor voices tumble
timbres tangling through the boards
the sizzzling smell of bacon
dances across my senses

'Consumation breeds Creation'

Half light shows a half face
water tocks as it trickles over glass
somewhere a distant creak
voices muffled through plaster

stolen time, shadow time
silly feeling sullen so
breaths and gasps echo
Give it to her, man.
if I must hear your bodies slam at the vertex
at least make it good.

Yellow floor surrounded by black
my pen extends
its shadow meets it and together they write
connected at a primordial vertex.


'The Last of York'

snow lined branches
hang like a layered gown
the world dressed like a bride
virgin sacred white eternal
I dare not step for fear
of ending the stillness
Yet I can not linger in peace

My breath joins the air
oxygen that filled my lungs
dances with the softly falling
as I mar the blank landscape
with my passing

Oh Proes!!2!!

Thomas stared at her blankly. This was too much.

"Jen, I can't take this," He said again.

She placed her hands on the desk. Her fingernails clicked on the wooden surface, "Why? Don't want it?"

"No, it would just..." Thomas leaned back against the doorframe. The letter dangled from his right hand.

"It would be inappropriate," Jennifer finished for him.

Thomas let his knees buckle and slowly sank to the floor. A ball of fur attached itself to his slacks, but he didn't notice.

The cat turned its head and looked at them. Grey whiskers bristled and its tongue darted out to taste the air.

Jennifer began to drum her fingers on the deak. The clicking of her nails filled the room.

"I understand that you're upset," Thomas said, bringing his hands to his knees, "I'm sorry."

Jennifer stared at him. Her ice blue eyes bore into his. She had set her mouth in a line and her pale skin looked as if it was made of stone.

"You broke up with me, remember?" Thomas said, not moving his eyes from hers.

The cat suddenly stood. It walked between them and out th door. Neither of them moved. Somewhere in the house a clock chimed, it echoed.

"Yes," Jennifer replied. She looked away from him. Her fingers stopped drumming on the desk. She brought her hands to her lap and pulled the sleeves of her blouse over them. Her fingers began to twist and wring the cuffs. It made a soft rustling noise.

Thomas straightened his back. He folded the letter again and placed it on the floor beside him.

Jennifer looked at the letter. The lightness of the paper reflected on the hardwood floor. Softly, she asked, "Would you like to know why I kept it?"

Thomas looked at her and then the letter. It was next to his right shoe. "Do I want to know?"

With a creak, Jennifer rose and walked over to Thomas. She leaned against the wall next to him and dropped into a sitting position. She drew her knees to her chest. The letter was on the floor between them.

"It gave me hope," she said slowly, "I never really believed someone like you could love me, at all. After you left, it was the only thing to remind me that you did."

Thomas stared ahead.

Jennifer looked at her and Thomas' feet. She was wearing an old pair of tennis shoes that had begun to grey. The shoelaces were frayed. Thomas was wearing a pair of brown leather shoes, meticulously polished. They began to swim in her vision as her eyes filled with tears.

"I didn't send you a wedding invitation," Thomas said. He let his head fall back to rest against the wall.

"I understand," Jennifer said. A tear escaped and she blinked. Two wet streaks began to extend from her eyes.

"I figured you would be too proud to come," Thomas went on, "but it bother me that I couldn't have someone there who meant so much to me."

He brought his hand up and ran it through his hair. It began to stick up. He looked over at her. He saw the wet streaks and his hand instinctively reached over and touched them.

She turned, facing him. Their eyes locked. She brought her hand up and placed it over his. She dimly noticed how large his hand was. It covered her whole cheek.

They kissed softly. His full lips met hers. Niether seemed to move. They held themselves together for a long time.

Thomas pulled away first. He withdrew his hand and stood. He walked over to the bed and grabbed his coat, pulling it on over one shoulder.

"Tom?" Jennifer asked, wrapping her arms about her knees.

He walked in front of her. She looked up at him.

"I'm sorry, Jennifer, but I've got to get going. I'm meeting somebody for dinner," he said, pulling his leather gloves out of his pockets and putting them on.

She rose as he passed to the doorway.

"Tell her I said hello," she called softly and he was gone.

Jay Mobley

Eggs

the Man with two Colors of christmas
drudgery particularly when he smokes
alternately his Starbucks and Marlboro
as I enter the steamy upwards:
A lispy man concealing his sanctuary

a Capillary (solipsism) runs across the glittering surface
of my heart - screams:
No!
but I - Man with two Sides of crispness -
like it anyways. Wedges at least,
the little Orange and sloppy;
with their once-acute eyes now peeeeled open
and smashed into the conglomerate like
a "small Business"
...Entrepreneurial spirit, my ass.

i ought to have complained
about the running whites
but should i wait?
for someone who is paid
to wait - rather than making for a fast break
and a short (5 foot 2, perhaps) order chef
who makes her orders tall?
Eggs - eggs and the bacon i asked for is sausage
eggs and the bacon I asked for is sausage.

can you find all of the allusions?

You're a fiery one
and like a moth
twice burned
covered in ash and dust
glittering through amber
as angels fluttered by
a taste of chocolate
has been replaced
by a ring of power
invisibly I'll fade
a ghost of something past
lingering behind your blue
as the oaths you swore
tarnish and rust
covered in ash and dust

OMFG: so funny.

http://sites.gizoogle.com/index2.php?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapriljosephine.blogspot.com


I particularly like:

"She followed tha cat wit her eyes yeah yeah baby. It was groom'n its tail . They call me tha black folks president."

"He did this fo` `bout a minute n then said, "Jen, I ciznan't takes this . Listen to how a motherfucker flow shit. I wrote it fo` you.""

"She wore no makeup n her mousy brown hair was pulled B-to-tha-izzack into a halfhearted bizzle tendrils of brown escaped hizzle n there . Snoop dogg is in this bitch."

"A grey tabby cat sauntered into tha room. Upon dippin' tha two of thizzay it began ta purr loudly in tha dogg pound. Gangsta extended a hand n tha cat nuzzled it cuz I put gangsta rap on tha map"

et al.

Oh Proes!!1!!

Thomas O'Connor entered the room with a heavy step. He took off his hat and let it linger in his fingers for a moment before setting it on the desk. His blue eyes searched the room quickly and efficiently. It was dirty. A bookshelf covered the northern wall, filled with old tomes and pictures frames that were dusty. There was a cluttered desk covered in papers and books that lay to the south and against the western wall was a small bed with a tattered blue blanket. All of this was illuminated by the sun that streamed in from the east window. It was almost midday.

Walking a few steps in, Thomas removed his dress coat and turned it inside out with his leather gloved hands. He could not think of a place to put it down. A thin layer of dust had settled over the room and its contents and the fur of an absent cat had clumped together in all of the ignored nooks and corners.

"Hello Thomas," said a voice behind him.

He turned to face the woman who stood in the door. She was clad in a pair of old jeans. They had some tears that were fraying on her calves. Her shirt was slightly wrinkled. She wore no makeup and her mousy brown hair was pulled back into a halfhearted bun; tendrils of brown escaped here and there.

"Hello Jennifer," Thomas replied. He played with the coat in his hands.

"Well, make yourself at home. I can't have you standing about when you've traveled so much today," Jennifer said, taking his coat into her hands. She walked across the room and put it on the bed. Thomas took off his leather gloves and put them in the pockets of his brown slacks.

He sat quietly on a rickety chair that stood by the desk. The wood creaked beneath his weight. Jennifer smiled at him and walked back across the room until she leaned against the doorframe opposite him. She leaned back and slowly let herself drop into a sitting position on the floor.

"You're looking well," Jennifer said, placing her hands on her knees.

Thomas nodded in thanks. There was a brief silence. Jennifer moved her arms to her sides and let her hands rest on the floor. She reconsidered this a moment later and returned them to her knees. Thomas picked a stray cat hair off of his hunter green sweater.

"Things have been busy around here this fall," Jennifer said, "Mom's been trying to finish her Master's degree online and my sister has been busy with my nephew. He's starting first grade next year. Amanda's trying to get him to learn the alphabet ahead of time, but he has trouble remembering anything past P," She brushed a strand of hair from her face. "I don't think he'll ever be a librarian."

Thomas leaned back in his chair and smiled, "Daniel says that kids today get too much stimulation. They have so many things presented to them incessantly that they can't even begin to desire to retain anything. There's always something shiny, obnoxious, and new to distract them."

Jennifer considered this. Her eyes, also blue, seemed to focus inward momentarily and then she replied, "I suppose, but I think a lot of stimulation is good. You can't ever learn anything if you're not exposed to anything. And, you can't ever be interested in something if you don't know it's there, you know?"

Thomas began to drum his fingers on the desk. The soft rhythm quietly supported him as he asked, "How's your brother doing?"

With a quick snort, Jennifer replied, "Oh, he does what he wants. It makes him happy."

A grey tabby cat sauntered into the room. Upon seeing the two of them it began to purr loudly. Jennifer extended a hand and the cat nuzzled it. Bits of pink showed as it ran its muzzle across her palm.

"This is Copernicus. He's my room mate," Jennifer said with a smile. Dimples formed in her cheeks.

Eyeing the cat, Thomas asked, "When did Galileo die?"

The cat's ears swiveled around after he had spoken. A yellow eye turned on him. Then, purring loudly, the cat walked over to Thomas and starting rubbing the length of its body on his leg.

Thomas shifted his leg a little and the cat followed it. With a soft sound, the cat plopped onto Thomas' shoe. It looked up at him, still purring, and twitched its tail.

Jennifer shifted again. She crossed her legs and straightened her back. "He died three years ago. It was a few months after you left."

Thomas stopped drumming his fingers. Not wanting to look at Jennifer, he bent over and reluctantly began to pet the cat. "I'm sorry to hear that. I liked the thing."

Jennifer laughed, "You hated him. Remember when he used your bookcase as a scratching post? You wanted me to get rid of him. You told me to get a fish."

The cat, enjoying Thomas' attention, purred louder.

"It was an antique," Thomas said, "Anyway; I never made you get rid of it. I even let it sleep in the bed once, when you had that nasty cold," he laughed, "There were tissues all over the place and you drank all of the green tea. I made you chicken noodle soup, remember? And we laughed because I'd forgotten that you're a vegetarian."

Jennifer, laughing, reached over and began to pet the cat as well. Accidentally, her hand brushed against Thomas'. They looked at each other. Thomas sat up and began to pick cat hair off of the cuffs of his sweater.

"How is your fiancée?" Jennifer asked. She kept her eyes on the cat.

Thomas shifted in his seat. He replied, matter-of-factly, "Doing well. We're going to the orchestra with her parents next week."

Jennifer smiled politely, "How lovely. I've heard that the orchestra is sounding wonderful this season."

The cat, bored suddenly, stood and walked over to the bookshelf and began to groom itself. Jennifer brought her hands to her knees.

“Her father keeps telling me that we should have a Catholic wedding, but Heather doesn't think that's a good idea. She doesn't want the ceremony to be too long and have the guests sitting there bored."

"She's anxious to be Mrs. O'Connor," Jennifer said. She followed the cat with her eyes. It was grooming its tail.

Smiling, Thomas stood. He walked over to the bookshelf and ran his fingertips over the spines of the dusty tomes. Then, he ran the fingertip of his index finger over the glass of a picture frame. It left a streak.

Jennifer stood and leaned against the doorframe. She crossed her arms. After a moment, she walked over to the desk. The sound of rustling paper filled the room. Thomas turned to watch. "What are you looking for?" He asked.

Searching a moment more, Jennifer grabbed a slightly yellowed piece of paper. It was folded into a small square. She turned to face Thomas, "Here, I'd like you to have this."

After giving her a confused glance, Thomas took the piece of paper in his hand and looked at it. It felt fragile. He recognized his handwriting. "What is this?"

Jennifer sat in the chair. It creaked. "It's the letter you wrote me from Cambridge," she said coolly.

Thomas unfolded the paper and began to read it quietly to himself. His lips formed the words silently. He did this for about a minute and then said, "Jen, I can't take this. I wrote it for you."

Jennifer looked him in the eyes. He noticed how blue her eyes were. No, he had known that. He'd just forgotten.

"I know what it says. I don't need it," She said crisply.

Not Mine, but Tom McGovern's "Untitled"

Franny took in her breath slightly but continued to hold the phone to her ear. A dial tone, of course, followed the formal break in the connection. She appeared to find it extraordinarily beautiful to listen to, rather as if it were the best possible substitute for the primordial silence itself. But she seemed to know, too, when to stop listening to it, as if all of what little or much wisdom there is in the world were suddenly hers. When she had replaced the phone, she seemed to know just what to do next, too. She cleared away the smoking things, then drew back the cotton bedspread from the bed she had been sitting on, took off her slippers, and got into the bed. For some minutes, before she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, she just lay quiet, smiling at the ceiling.

V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N: spells more bad poetry!

"A Delicious Heart Attack"

My green shoes are black
because it is raining
sausages and onions
my breath smells like
a greasy hole in the wall
restaurant where the cook
hits on your friend and
the bathroom is a shithole
yet aching after ingesting
a delicious heart attack
I wonder
will there be a parallel universe
where you and I sit
next to each other
in an empty bus station.


"A Glance That Lingers"

beneath barren bookshelves
I watched your face
aglow with the light
it moved with grace
and I pondered what kind
of us we could be like

I pictured us laughing
dirty backpackers by the Siene
behind us the city of light
but what happens then?

"Poet"

I have a first sentence
it flowered in me
a burst of creativity
as I rush to get the words
on this blank page

these little black marks
hold no meaning
but with them
I will make a world
and take my day of rest

Poet.
A person who is unable to
look at a closed door
and not wonder about
what magnificent secret
could be on the other side.


"O'Murchadah"

I know very well how I got my name
the blood of sea warriors
courses through my veins
as unpredictable as the salty waves
with no particular course or aim

The emerald isle kept them
until it bore no more earthly apples
and they ventured to the sea again
in search of greener shores

A port in Boston received the lot
and in firehouses and cobblestone streets
the blood of my family did clot and heal
until it was ready to explore once more

Now the tide has reversed
and the salty blood of Murphy
shall return to the earth that gave it birth

"The Caravan"

Sand is blowing on the wind
it is too caustic and grates the skin
as the particles fly past

brown spots dance on the horizon
silhouetted against the sun
camels and horses
scattered like bagatelles

This silk will fetch a fine price
jewels for my coterie
and that must suffice
for a trader in this dry sea

"The Four Wish Tiger" or "Shitty Poem about Imaginary Allegory and Shallow Rhyming"

The four wish tiger prowls these woods
each stripe ablaze in different hue
I can't quite describe and not sure I would
if able to describe it for you I could
but I will say its are are a sapphire blue

above the clouds in a dark cave it dwells
perilous and arduous is the journey
past the dark wood the water swells
and off in the distance a wolf yells
but the tiger is waiting for me

He will ask me many questions
and I will try to answer
putting together a sonorous string of definitions
and witty monologue on the importance of intuition
but, he, the tiger, will not listen

the four wish tiger, a magical beast
dislikes pretensions and will roar
openings its jaws wide to feast
my answers, so shallow, it will abhor

ee cummings "i have found what you are like"

i have found what you are like
the rain,

(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned

newfragile yellows

lurch and.press

-in the woods
which
stutter
and

sing

And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss