Saturday, November 18, 2017

Mandalay shoots


Keith Francese writes



no outlet

these tawny fields rattle ecclesiastic.
vervain sounds gimballing the very horizon. every road
now a road away.
every road
a road into feckfull blue.
and every moon
too many.
the land of too many moons.

going 82 in a 65 seems reasonable enough.
after all, one must stay safe.
after all, in these parts
every glance is a glance askance,
and every kid
crunk as fuck
(on the reg)
and smilingly armed.

if The Minotaur, beheaded and befuddled,
had dragged its itching red asshole
(like a berated beagle across the family rug)
up and out of The Maze,
looking for a new home,
it may have looked like this.

at 120 the dotted line turns to solid.

Image result for minotaur moving house picasso
 The Minotaur Moving His House -- Pablo Picasso

Ayoola Goodyness Olanrewaju writes


surgeon of soles

that was how you woke
and said to the womb of morning
that you have seen your destiny...a surgeon of soles...

that you have changed the robe of slothfulness
for the gown we once sewed with your wasted years
the gown we incised with the teeth of termites
and soaked in the blood of ants...

we could not believe less
when you read us incantations
from the rosary of the sluggards and the ants...

before the moon could twinkle
and sew stars for the gully of nights on fragile clouds
you bought mother
a house -
a car and a rocking chair...

so we thought
it was the time for lifting your hands
into threads and magical awls...

you awed us into the eyes of your awls
and sewed us tales we could not vomit
you told us of how you mended the soles of kings
and made heels for queens in the holes of africa
and the queen of england...

we tied our songs to your cap
and drummed your wealth into the ears of poverty
we gave you our sons
and you promised us to polish them into suns...

not until now that we met your mother
minced into your steaming cauldron of evil
her head smashed into the oral of a mortal dressed in a thousand apparels
her tongue half eaten into a corner of a broken calabash...

we saw on your menu -
the names of our sons and their recipes of death
we saw our names too crossed into gory symbols
held within the fangs of a giant cobra...

who would have known?
your surgeon of soles is a slaughter of souls...

you have made no shoes
but soups for hot money...

who would have known?
your surgeon of soles is a slaughter of souls...



 Cobbler with shoes A study in neutrals and sepia  by SketchAway, $20.00

Poulome Mitra Shaw writes

Kumbh Mela 

I often wondered about those Aghoris who draped the Ganges around themselves at Haridwar. Tied the Godavari in their matted hair. Drank from the Shirpa at Ujjain. Shared their ineligible musings with Prayag. Now, why would I think of them on certain dark nights, on certain busy mornings, on austere afternoons as abundant as time that is not inclusive of this alternate world? I am a woman who mingles freely with Gods and fads. I am a woman who can savour Apple toddy and earthly trappings. I am a woman who drapes, ties, drinks, muses and acquires trappings, amassing - like contiguous lives lived one after the other of all the women who lied their way through seasons. I have often wondered if in some life I was an Aghori when the habitual discontentment of life overwhelms me. I think of trees and birds. I think of an ascetic and the sailor of a commissioned ship. I reason better with things I hold and I covet. Rivers long to overflow into a sea that presumes at the end of the journey it meets the sky. Standing amidst the confluence of roles I play of a wife, mother, daughter - I think of them, standing amidst the Ganga, Jamuna and Sarasvati. And their lust that drives them in hordes leaving behind the intoxication of isolation to dip in the elixir for purity, for auspiciousness, for moksha through rivers and time that turn or turns into elixir. That well guarded secret known to men, of desires and detachment. Aghoris and an Aquarian woman meet. One assumed supreme bliss through dips into the silvery flow. The other has reduced herself into a pitcher, a pond, a river, a sea that can hold a million Aghoris aspiring for salvation. The woman who reasoned triumphs! I have often wondered about those.





Carloluigi Colombo plays

Sonata for Piano opus 55

Friday, November 17, 2017

Robert J. Fouser shoots

Ikseon-dong, Seoul

Heather Jephcott writes




To Be Content



Content means,
'feeling at home',
not necessarily enjoying
every aspect served,
perhaps there is pain,
but still,
it is the growth towards
a quiet heart,
at peace, at rest
with how things are
where things are.



Content means,
'feeling at home'
with the people around,
with the space, the place
and all amounts given,
no loaded weights
of unfulfilled desires
crowding, dragging
mind or heart.



Content means
'feeling at home'
with myself
and with the air around,
opening my eyes
to the goodness,
the beauty

wherever I am,
being settled in my heart
that God will
take care of me.



Content means
'feeling at home'
at peace
with the past,
full of hope
for the future.

 Image result for contentment painting
 Contentment -- Niki Gulley