Smoke

Last year when other disappeared from the living room near the sea. You sat in your white plastic chair, fully appeared , recently listening.

This year is your turn to disappear from a plastic chair fully appeared. We now appear in our white chairs near sea for you to fully disappear.

The smoke shall go on in balcony for men to fully disappear by men who still appear in plastic chairs, listening to disappearing sounds .

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Letting the elephants live

Who are we, sir, to let them die or live, continue them to live ? Our email application shall be signed and sealed, for a cause. But are we the cause to cause elephant herds to freely roam  bamboo clumps of forests or in holy temple caparisons ?

Haven’t we already loved them ,a half-man, half- elephant god ,mud and plastic, rat at his foot, , the yearly elephant-god we worship with his rotund moon-laughing stomach, a beginning-less god presiding over every beginning ,being our cause, our beginning?

Surely the effect cannot cause a cause.

The crow between things

Through this window, the night touches us and makes us one with the super moon above the trees now in sleep, their leaves at rest having touched a super moon in clouds. This is the very chamber , our own space ,our Raum , a crow that robs us of  our cities for their rubble to make cement sculptures of ancients.

Our moms who had caused our existences , now take yearly forms of crows on speckled walls, for rice balls smoothly rounded to sonorous chants. This is a space between things, our emptiness a hollow of our bricks, future sculptures in rubble , space between them and now that connects all things to a super moon a powdery space still hosting our matter.

Lights and sounds

On the festival of lights ,we may fire crackers, their sounds echoing on the street walls like a gun practice on a berthed ship. That thing is clear from the way crows explode from the almond tree brooding on shore.Their almonds fall like grenades hand -ready, not ones found in a gift box for the lights and sounds festival but ones that increase your fire power to get maximum dead on the border’s other side,

The dead will feel like how rain moths swarming street lights greedy for light, fall dead to a shadow. On the second day of the festival do not call on neighbors, said to exist. Be said to wonder why others are not.

On the festival night, let the crackers explode. If you have not sun-dried them earlier their wet sounds will end up as whimpers.

Hole in the mountains

The quarry hole is so wide it’s bottom is dark as night. The quarry watchman who was born of night is chasing shadows hid in green waters of the hole collected in last year’s rain and frogs.

The dogs are not chasing shadows from the passing cars. Instead they are chasing the smallest movements in bushes.Their stomachs explode with barks like mountains when dynamite hit their stomachs and bottomless holes were formed in deep bowels.

Now stray dogs have stomachs exploding with barks in nights. Now is watchman, creature of night, his morning shadows chasing everyone’s shadows accumulated in the green aqua of the quarry hole.

Well-being

The child had a well to look in with a bucket lowered gently to touch its perturbed waters in their broken moons. Midnight was fearsome with its green snakes lurking in ghostly hibiscus trees standing.

The boy in knickers could not bend too low for fear in belly, with no Narcissus -love. Fear perked up like a piece of balcony sky and crawled in half-pants to feet below.

The bucket fell to it with deep dull thud as its rope had slithered down the pulley like a vague water snake searching frogs. The waters came up to sprinkle moons in tiny puddles on the stone saucer rim.

Old jetties

Old jetties are useful too. For the old poets to agonize about. Especially with the cameras they hold against their feet, the sea lapping up against them as if the ships still call from the blue seas. Actually old jetties are useful for the underwear ads they carry on them.

Old jetties are useful for the clincher line of the old poet,looking for the ironies of a spent life. For the fine epigrams they make , when their dead end is reached and no new words crop up in the night.