fluvius ignoram

people say there will be time

things say there will be time

hell

the microwave oven says there'll be time

whereas the timer says there won't

and then there are the very well-worded well-mannered letters

           printed meticulously on a billhead with pale blue ink

      typed by an indifferent blonde cubicle slave

who cares more about how her new nail polish looks

than any pains inscribed on a dividends bill

we live a golden age

an era where the most furious

of the motherfuckers

are the epitomes of courtesy

where they toolify you

you're their tongs

and as they mess with the fire

you don't even ask whose hands 

the hands that hold you are

you're too old to ask, too old to wonder

ever since your third birthday

so you get lost in the flames

go go, gadget heart

Jesus

there will be time

but will it be any different

than the time that you had last Wednesday

do you expect a day off from life?

         a room to grow?

               a dream to follow?

don't worry though

indeed, there'll be time

you won't feel a thing

I assure you, dearest sir, it is our primary concern to ensure

your contentment, even your torpor

you can't fear what you don't experience after all

right?

Wrong.

and death will not be experienced

but it's the lack thereof

and love you'll experience

but

will there be time?

will there be time

to create what you've murdered?

Life on the Screen

our Lady's
    broken

her Lake a summer puddle midst the night Shamal
her eyes the color of the oblivion of the nocturnal
                        a hint of glitter -- ephemeral

be it her wearied silk garment
              or her parched skin
    (of which bards of ancient times
     and antediluvian travellers sang for)
             
                     the world is a sad place now.

she once flowered
in the Attic of our minds by the waters of Tzion

                   the world was a greener place once.

she's not our Lady
who used to

blow/away/our/minds/conquer/our/dreams/embroiderer/of/fantasies

                                          all i need to know is

do you enjoy your brunette doll
                          Time?

Side Effects of Sea-Bite

We're sitting down by the dock
watching the sea trying to settle down
having our silent coffees, some of us
even exhaling smoke into
the haggard waves. The sea bites,
but can only tickle our feet feebly.
Someone sips their coffee and says something,
but it's not good enough to murder silence
so we say nothing,
but some asshole just can't keep quiet -- just as
there's that asshole that just can't keep quiet
who generally is me but this time isn't --
and they go on about how the sea
used to be more calm in the days
like their grampas on heated June noons
sleeping in a state of consciousness.
The sea takes another bite. Someone
swears, which I don't know if it's a
profanity that would hopefully soothe the sea or a
lamentation for the massacre of silence at
such a young age, when silence itself
hasn't yet soothed our minds.
                  My mind.
It is too busy of a mind to care for sea-bites
or coffee or smoke or whatever the assholes around
have to say about velvet jackets or life. I think
of your beauty, which hit its peak, yet
never seems to deteriorate. It is the most
excellent kind of beauty, surviving through
ugly times and silence and bullshit and such;
and once some blissful man said that
it will never pass into nothingness, and your
beauty might never pass into nothingness
but it is no better use than nothingness
when it does not reach out to me; I am just
reminded of it now, not touched and troubled,
and the beauty is as good as the memory,
no better. I find myself thinking
of gods and of your beauty
and of how I had it
for a moment
eternally
and here I am still going on and on and on about it
not caring for sea-bites and assholes, and as
days by the sea seem to permeate into the silence
I'll find myself like this almost all the time;
except when I see her,
who seems to have stolen
your beauty somehow,
and your beauty -- a monster reborn
in the glitter of her eyes
and the depths of her dimples.

telegram

all your life
you've been told Boy!
Oh, silly boy! You must must must
absolutely and totally must
think before you speak!
were they so afraid that you'd have
something very clever or heartfelt or beautiful to say
right off the top of your head

     all your damn life boy
     all your goddamn gift of a life
     they growled into your
     clever heartfelt beautiful face Boy!
     Oh you stupid boy! You thought
     life was a joke! Life ain't a joke boy.
     were they that frightened
     of you being easy with life
     -- and life being easy with you back --
     were they that envious
     of the fun you had

          all your friggin' life
          all your useless friggin' life
          they wanted you to time time and time
          time and time and time
          until none is spent and none is yours
          and you're a mere reflection
          of your mind which is
          a pathetic slave to the time
          until the most fun you ever had
          became the twenty bucks
          you've found in your jean pocket
          and you did time and time and time
          just like they said
          you did just as they said Boy!
          Oh, you good-for-nothing boy! You
          just spend your time! Time won't
          come back boy! It sure as hell won't.
          and all you wanted to say
          was but sir oh good sir my dear sir
          time might not come back
          but i can't pile it up
          time ain't no fish sir
          i can't pile time up
          time is all but you have
          in the blink of an eye sir
          and i want that blink to be mine
          i wanna spend and spend and spend
          until time is no more
          until i am no more

               you wanted to say
               but you couldn't could you boy
               so you did just as they said
               knowing you're right and they're wrong
               hating them secretly
               (and sometimes evidently)
               but you never hated what they said
               more than your helpless silence
               so you shut up and did just as they said
               hating yourself

                    boy
                    don't
                    sun still shines
                    lights up and up and up
                    your clever heartfelt beautiful face

A Little More on Practicality or: The Microwave Oven Ode

We all are forced to wait,
either for a bus
on a rainy Tuesday morning
or death, for that matter,
in white satin bedsheets.
I guess some of us
have the fortune of
not having to wait for death,
or meet it when the bus that
is supposed to take us on
the rainy Tuesday morning
rides over us. You could
say that as the bus rides over
all the meaning and efforts
towards squeezing a meaning
out of life is overridden.
Is the meaning idle?
Is the journey subtle?
Is death no more serious
than shoe shine? One must,
I concluded, really zero into
practicality of actions.

Should I recycle on a planet
where trees serve nothing
more than scenery? Should I
get married on a planet
where males scoring, self-indulgently,
models as sex partners are
celebrated and renowned?
Should I leave a grave behind
where my coffin is the 
most misunderstood airplane?

Should I be good?
Or, should I,
for that matter, play god?

All this g/babble on practicality
and all its preliminaries makes
me a hungry boy, and thankfully

the most practical thing in my life
melts gooeyness and tastiness into a bread
as it forces me to wait.

invitation

"Would you like to come over?"

I'd love to. However
it's always the same case
with you. I am too
restrained
held back
and all the synonymous verbs
-- you get the idea. You see,
I really would love to come
over and in and out of you,
but I just can't.
    I'm getting a haircut tomorrow,
           Thursday I'm at the grocery shop,
                      Friday I'm in love.

of all the things 

that make you go on with your life

death is no less practical

than a teacup

Resemblancitivity

I'm unlucky
    not to remember my
                         first love

but as I've grown
     I've grown quite fond
                      of my memory

and the sticky bun
i had this morning
reminded me of a love --
a burgundy kind of love:

her name would be Sheila
        for no specific reason whatsoever
             the first kiss would be at a pennycandystore

no less magical than Ferlinghetti's
and the meeting of our eyes would be
sweeter than the candy and the falling leaves

/our love eternal-our beings temporary/

later, i'd run into her
     upon Pont des Arts
          she would have boys (such beautiful boys)
                 and i'd have my daughter

but our eyes would meet
   no differently than
       the pennycandystore, breaking
           the lock of our hearts

i'd say hi
  she'd smile back

we'd catch up
eat some burgers
dream about making love
dream about childhood
dream about the preserved innocence of our mutual feelings
dream about dreaming the same stuff

we'd say our farewells, then
   such monstrous farewells
      that is actually a wish
          to never see each other again
              but also a wish engraved within that
                  which is to run into each other again

and we would too, later
 -- but not too late

in front of the Cloud Gate
  we'd take pictures this time
    see a baseball game or something

and i'd kiss her
and she'd let that happen

Sheila would be the first
                          and the last
                              and everything in between.

oh, how i love sticky buns
and how lucky i am
not to remember
my first love.

A Rather W.B. Yeatsesque Morning

It's 6:00 AM
and there's a peculiar smell
of goodbyes and farewells and please don'ts and
oh honey we'll meet agains in the air. There
is a plenty fish in the sea,
but you see, there ain't many
like that one. Like raindrops from
yesternight
broken promises vanish into ground, and
I realize -- I am (all) over her (again).

I am the sun-kissed child of the
humble autumn morning, let alone
to grow up in his own solitude, not lonely, but alone,

until growing up reveals as
the merest recognition of the social isolation
and the illusion that I was past it.

I take a deep breath
and especially the it'll be all overs in the air

love is all
ravenous
that devours the whole
of body and soul
          cope with my hour
          if you claim me
          i can take your
          night we into pour

scared i hid
your eyes my awe
far from the look's lid
love a mere bid
          can you do me
          can you make me 
          and beyond all that
          can you have me be

I am the old bishop,
knuckling under the divinity
of the cumbersome morn

and the sudden reality check turns the corner
as the old car does:
"That's certainly the case."

confession

"now
let me be honest
i don't want your love
neither your passion

you have a beautiful face
that i appreciate kissing and such
but wanting is all too different

you see
i could live without kissing you
what i can't is
stand so dull here
while i want my legs around your head"

"i could give you

all the things you ask for

and even more

but i need to want it too

and you see

while i wouldn't mind your legs around my head

i'd rather have my hands grasping your butt

yet all of it seems all too irrelevant now

 as it is funny how

 our useless arms and legs burn with licentious passion

in this restaurant"

Like Entries in a Diary

As fun as writing

is, finding something

to write about

isn't. Not that it is

hard -- nothing really can

be that hard, except

maybe for opening a

bottle of beer with bare

hands, and that's why

we have bottle openers.

"What if I write like

a bottle opener?" is what

comes to the youthful mind,

and there seems nothing

better to do as September

comes to its youthful end.

(I hate it when months

die prematurely.) I have 

been living in April since

March, and it seems like I

will until next February. So,

let's give April "The Month of

the Year" award -- is there a 

point in posthumous awards 

though? Only love remains as

beautiful in the posthumous

universe, and I can't give the

scarce love I have to April --

not again. (I can share my French

press coffee with her, which is

real good, which actually means

a lot.) It is 1:00 PM as we're

lead into the miraculous October,

which is not even the eighth month

of the year, which really bothers

me. It deserves at least that much

after all it has given to us,

and not asking back for anything,

not even a cup of coffee. Maybe

that's what brings you the eighth

though, the selfish demands August

seems to always have. Anyways, real

Fall has just started, and I

am looking for someone who can

prove me that you can say the same

thing to the same person perpetually

and not be bored of it. You should,

too -- instead of wasting your 

time with this bottle opener.

Something Extra For Sadder People

Life seems less and less interesting

with every passing night

without explorations

and I’d love to explore

you and her and him and it

               but it’s too cold to fall in love

                         and blanket days are not here

                                 yet.

           

I never thought, though

        that I’d think of love

                 on a night of sugarless tea
                      -- it's not that i like tea bitter
                             there just isn't any sugar under
                                    my reach

but who needs sugar in tea

            when falling in love all over again

                      is such sweet joy

                                as the radio plays

“Nat King Cole Sings”

        yet I cannot

             but I can fall in love

                      which is enough

                            which is better than

candied earl grey.

ORANGES

Foreword: Thank you Mr. Frank O'Hara.

------------------------------------------------------

I

It is weird to write

poetry for school. Yet,

I find myself dying

to do so, trying my best

O’Hara imitation. Maybe

I should just be myself, but

can’t I only project my image

on the reflection of another

man? I suppose that was what

god did through Jesus, and

what we do through god. I find

the idea of a personal

god very appealing, oftentimes

dream about it. As I lay in

my bed and think why on

Earth would god create humanity,

a truth strikes me. It is uncanny

how the girl’s eyes become the same

color under the dim sunlight as the boy’s

sparse hair, both of which have

a little god in them. I suppose

colors don’t strike us as beautiful until

we see a sweet coincidence,

which obviously is more than

a simple occurrence: something

that is meant to happen, something

that ripened and aromatized through

a course – much like a fruit.

I find myself lying on my bed,

thinking about my god, and my

poetry assignment. I like the fact

that I wrote it, but I am not

a real poet. I can only hope

to be.

------------------------------------------------------

II

I will not write twelve poems

yet

but a second deserved to be written

either by me

or by the wind

on the faces of small children

and leaves of fall that are

turning a little more

luminous everyday

the poem belongs

to the sun and the air

at least as much as the wind

-if not more-

and they too

shall sing it in grace

even before it is finished

everyone will hear it – the girl and the boy

and the girl will wangle the boy

and the boy will woo the girl

and the clouds will witness them

on Travessera de Gràcia

and before the sky can even hug them

they will be together

they will embrace the sky

and fall – but not apart

like two leaves bonded in the rain

and as they waltz nearer to the ground

and as she sees that she’s the one that is wangled

she’ll smile

it’ll be glorious

and the sun will light up her face

with the same color

that fall leaves

have.

------------------------------------------------------

I cannot thank you enough.

What Have You Done This Summer?

I have realized how small
the world is. Then, I've seen
how big it can get on the eyes

of a keen individual.
It is only a matter of
finding that thing -- hidden
in the heat of the summer,
that'll draw the curtains, leaving
no shadow to live under.

For me, it was Prague.

There was something so peculiar about Prague
which made it so easier to love, and
I do not know if that's watching sun come up
in the garden next to the opera building,
or the cul-de-sac that seems to continue
eternally into the warmth of the bricks,
or the workmen having cold, foamy beers in their breaks
with their sweats still hot on their foreheads,
or the beautiful girl with the beautiful eyes and
the beautiful walk who rolled the sleeves
of a sweatshirt that reads:
"I love Praha." (gosh,
I wanna stop her and scream
"Me too!"),
or the possibility of seeing a McDonald's or a
gothic catholic church, so old that it looks
grotesque and gloomy -- even under the shining sun (yet
not as grotesque as the McDonald's though),
or the record shop who sold me the Moody Blues
album for so cheap -- amongst Bee Gees and Nat King Cole,
or the Asian family who looks lost, who looks
exhausted under the sun, who still silently appreciates
the beauty of the streets,
or the musician around the corner, that is either
an old Soviet soldier, or an American expat who has
seen the most inglorious depths of war,
or the homeless man with a smiling face
that spells pain,
or the fact that I got drunk so easily
for so cheap -- even cheaper than the records,
or the kind man in a blue shirt and dress pants
and fancy shoes, his hair combed, asking me
if I would be interested in a bible study,
or the stars that still shine in the
Prague mornings, or the brother, who
eagerly offers me a smoke,
or the river and time and boats and emotions and life passing by
under the Charles Bridge.

It was either that, or
falling for something is easier
at a younger age.

Then again, I don't
really need to know why --
I'm in love and I'm fine.

journal #213

i wasn't there when it happened.
i wasn't there when people exhaled tear gas. i wasn't there when friends were beaten down with truncheons. i wasn't there when the untelevised riot that everyone knew happened.
i wasn't there when lemons were the most valuable gifts of this planet.
i wasn't there when the love was having a sleepover on the streets.
i wasn't there when change came, as change must.
i wasn't there when people cried. when people screamed. when people cheered.
i wasn't there when history was made.
i wasn't there when i should've been there.
       i've missed lots of things i should've done.
              is it ever too late though?

or will i tell my grandchildren
the stories of 2013 gezi park protests
on a sunday afternoon in 2063 in gezi park?

and tell them how friends and love fought for their fight
while i sat there
with wonderful people
getting drunk

caring about the world and shit.

midnite tea blues

the clock is about to hit one
and now that sunshine is gone
it's midnite tea blues time, she thinks,
all the has-beens and will-bes are done.

the china pot with emerald holder
heats up as the night gets bolder
the breeze barges in from the window,
she thinks, it can't get any colder!

oh, how lovely is the midnite tea blues
erases all the memory, leaving no clues
and just for one single moment
nothing really depends on the news.

whoa, how she loves midnite tea,
recollection washing up in the sea,
and bedtime milk too --
fresh almonds and daytime pea.

los angeles is los ángeles

3 writers do not a generation make
but
the hideous human angels do
and

writing for/with/to the hideous human angels
with holy arms and holy shoulders and holy armpits

certainly do make
some generation.

sometimes it is good to recall
that los angeles is, in fact,
los ángeles

and while we submerge into
the not-so-holy abyss

the 3 writers are always there
or at least should be
to remind us

life is not the unholy abyss
but it's
the holy tune of salt peanuts
and the holy cheeks of Gillespie

explaining how he likes
his salt peanuts.

There's Truth and There's Untruth

There's this something,
something hidden,
behind the showcase
of which can only be whispered
or shouted out.

Those who whispered it
weren't really given a hoot
and those who shouted it
weren't really appreciated
for their bravery.

Me?
I dove right
into the showcase
and pulled it off
onto the shining surface.