Stolen Time Cafe

Voyage

2011-12-17T15:09:00.000-08:00

Rains come from the south at sunset

They come down the hills

they are ropes let down

from an unseen helicopter

The ropes descend on a midnight ocean

Swells heave their colossal sighs

a light bounces in

from the other side of a wave-crest

Through breakwater is the blink of a towering ship

bearing children and the people who love them to a new world

Acocoxóchitl

2011-10-24T16:51:00.001-07:00

Who doesn't see

these things flicker through their dreams?

A campfire smoldering in the wooded night

the cook-pot boiling over fomenting the flames

This is Basque country, 1936

thirty years later in Ñancahuazú

Who doesn't see these things?

An Iraqi boy

his dark face luminous

walks past the barrel of an M16

The bleary-eyed gunman careens at his post

he's a good-old boy who's forgotten where he is

He's picturing the girl he never asked to dance

when his eyes roll back and his trigger finger slips

The gun flash bursts into riotous dahlias

red dahlias flourishing through the boy's skull

Who doesn't see?

Who doesn't see us marching

through the fields, all of us

marching through fields of red dahlias?

A Song for the Times

2011-10-09T16:10:00.000-07:00

After Bertolt Brecht

There is a girl in Lima will never close her eyes

Her eyelids were singed when her rapist changed her

Changed her to flames to light his way home

These are the days of manufactured light

Of righteous declarations to blot out the night

These are the days we make ourselves heard, and heard

No one speaks at the trial of a man

who's murdered a 4 year-old through brutal penetration

And who is not penetrated?

Who is not victim here?

Who is not utterly guilty?

When a teenager points his .45 into a baby carriage

into whose role are we cast?

We cannot be the audience

Let us no more be the audience

They say the first conquistadors to view Quri Kancha went blind

All that gold under all that sun

There is a pedophile in Cajamarca

whose flame at this moment is lighting the neighborhood

What human figure is not fully dark

when crowded near that fire?

There is a girl in Lima will never close her eyes

Visions of Qosqo

2011-07-12T18:09:00.000-07:00

The Incas

moved these mountains

all through deathless February

leveled them

plane-by-plane

for every arable inch

Step by massive

stone-packed step

this sodden earth was borne

tilled in tiers, gone

to seed la oca, camote

manzanilla, ch'iri ch'iri

These walls sustain

the centuries, stand

sentry in the clouds, clouds

comb the grasses

rippling

untold green

II.

Epochs of history

written

in the mist

there was a time

when men left

lyrics in the wind

women wove epics

in kettle steam

and kiln smoke

there was a time

when rivers told us

what they knew

Tomes of species

their seasons

scored beneath the skin

dates of the harvests

they track

in the marrow

Europeans starve

with the loss

of a single crop

harbor different hungers

on that lady's eastern shores

Stephen

2011-05-18T16:23:00.000-07:00

White light I want

Of the Library

Sharpen the shadows

So flakes fall pure,

Flittering aureoles dancing to the floor

Plume of breath this raw

Old man winter this raw night

Cassy skips over

Her smile I love

The page I can't make out

Is Kelsey's ultrasound

'They're thinking of naming her Cassy

Look at her barely there

He'll be a great father'

Suzanne has bad wine

And we're going to the TRAX

We play there footrace the train

To the next stop

Quick pass sip

Taping copies of Cassy maybe

To the windows

Suzanne smacks my butt

We jump out and hope

They catch a light

We miss a stop

If there are we drink with hobos

Other passengers hide their eyes

Or Delta Center they laugh

On the train red trickle of chin

And Cassy kissing Suzanne

I like to see her this way

They don't kiss before

The guys, not Kevin

Their lips cold flow of an old river

Take witness my eyes and those of strangers

Old Man, Trout, Occurrence

2011-02-09T10:55:00.001-08:00

Spring Lake before dawn, a canoe sets out

On a swift, even glide—bow knifing

Surface, its wake a curtain opening,

Soundless. The paddle, parting water,

Echoes a trout nipping at a nymph

And missing. Great mouth of river deep

Welcomes man and boat downstream. Currents

Weave the only order ever was

Or could be: threads ripple and still

Whisper and hush, lead past morning's first casts.

He solves, then, to witness the stream exact

Its vision—unhurried telling of the

Endless present….when the line pulls, pulls

Again—he slowly, smoothly, reels his catch.

Bob and whirl, glint on steel, homage to

Patience in every revolution.

Soon the lucid fathoms lend sight of her

Opaline body, each body, draws

And is drawn—boat and fish—to the finite

Point of their union. Rainbow brought to light

Port-side, her pregnant belly cradled

So she doesn't think to squirm. Deftly, now,

So deftly, she's unhooked….this release

So fluid its memory goes with it.

June, Lydia

2011-02-01T19:26:00.003-08:00

Solitary bough in a menacing sky.

She'd never known blues so boundless, grays so

Totally black until she saw them stalk

A Beachwood at the height of its bounty.

She feels the pressure change in her womb,

Comes to Battery Park where the clouds glow

Sinister—sheet lighting striates the hues

The interim dark holds powerfully still.

Thunderclaps toll concussive and sacred

The winds astonish everything they touch.

Lydia watches, makes herself watch

Abundant green awash in the bedlam.

Some feel shifts of air on a broken bone

She feels the weight of the world in her womb.

Work in progress

2011-01-25T11:49:00.000-08:00

Friends, visitors, followers of Stolen Time Cafe!

Come in, sit down, enjoy the 26 poems and 1 story featured in the blog archive. At the moment, I'm at work on a story, significantly longer than VIVA EL PERU. The writing process has been hindered, at times, by work, a recent move to Cusco, and the effort to enjoy life once in a while.

This struggle first inspired the name Stolen Time Cafe, as we must steal time out of our daily lives to read, write, and enjoy the art of literature. I hope you have enjoyed my work thus far--please browse through previous posts, leave comments, or send me an email on whatever topic this blog calls to mind.

Thanks and warm regards, Michael Montesano

VIVA PERÚ

2010-11-04T14:38:00.000-07:00

WHEN I WAS A BOY, Papá had a llama and he loved that llama. Her name was Mercedes. He spent his days with her, grazing the patch of grass on the side of our house. He introduced her to everyone that passed. Most of those passing were neighbors who already knew Mercedes, but he introduced her excitedly each time. It was fun for the kids walking to school to laugh, with great exaggeration, 'Hello Mercedes! How wonderful it is to meet you!'

The men passing were campesinos, it was no small kindness for them to lend a glance and a tired smile. The women, though, the women met Mercedes with venom. These were the women who loved to circle around Mamá as she mocked Papá and his fat llama. Papá drove a taxi and he said he made more money Friday and Saturday nights than he could all week. On weekdays, then, Papá stood with the llama he was so proud to buy. Mamá didn't like he spent money on a llama instead of food and clothes for his children. Papá swore she was jealous and she told him, 'Love your llama, Augusto, because you won't get near me.'

Mamá exacted ceaseless revenge on Papá, she instructed the women say to Mercedes, 'Hello fat llama, it gives me no pleasure to meet you. Will you do nothing today, Mercedes, as you did the day before?' They would then improvise insults, something new every day, and always end with, 'You are worthless, fat llama, as worthless as the idiot who bought you.'

This, without fail, ruined Papá's day. You could see in his face they broke him before they even spoke. He would listen without protest, let them walk on, then sit and stare at the grass Mercedes bit to the stalk. Sometimes those women, Mrs. Wilca, Mrs. Castaño, or even Miss Castro, went to call on Mamá for afternoon tea, or maybe they'd go to the creek to wash clothes, fetch water, and on to the fields to bring their men lunch.

If it wasn't time for tea, Papá might join Mamá in the kitchen. He would go to the table, making sure she heard him come in, and she would ignore him completely. She'd stand over the counter and cut Turon de Doña Pepa until her friends arrived. When they did, Mamá dismissed him with a shake of her bum. I never went in the kitchen when Mamá had visitors, I was afraid the three of them would shake their bums at me. I was six then and their butts were at eye level—Mrs. Wilca had a huge, indistinct mass she carried under a plain black skirt, Mrs. Castaño and Miss Castro were skinny, only Mamá's butt showed full and round under her second-hand dress.

When I was younger, I liked to run to Mamá and hug her from behind, nudge the side of my face in the arc of her thigh. During the age of Mercedes I feared that bum, those three-quarter moons struck terror deep in my belly. I wanted to be with Mamá while she prepared tea, but I couldn't bear the humiliation of her wagging that bum at me. I made a plan, then, that if I could sneak up as far as her side, where I wasn't behind her, I would be safe. My plan expected Mamá would be singing gypsy songs as the water came to boil.

I waited patiently for the right day, the right moment to creep up slowly, clumsily in the shoes that were still too big. I remember it was dry that week and the dirt crackled under my shoes, I thought I was caught where I stood but Mamá sang on, exquisitely, over the sound. I don't know how she didn't hear me but I managed to make it to her hip. I should've felt safe but I didn't, my knees trembled as I stretched to see over the counter. I felt Mamá look down but I was nervous to look back, I focused on the steam rushing out of the kettle. That's when she put her hand behind my head, cradled it like checking a melon for ripeness. When I finally looked up I felt the glow of her smile, I heard her say, in half-whisper, 'Hello, my sweet Prince. How's my freedom fighter, Simón?'

Mamá named me after Simón Bolívar, our continent's great liberator. She named my older brother, Lucho, in honor of her favorite writer, Jorge Luís Borges. Lucho is short for Luís. I think Papá was so excited to introduce Mercedes because he got to choose her name. Names were important where we lived. We are from Cusco, we lived on the hill with VIVA PERÚ marked in the grass. Our house was under the second V and the Wilcas lived across from us. They had two boys, Mayta and Yachay. Mayta was my age and Yachay was three years older like Lucho.

The Birs lived down the street by the Ú. Their daughter, Malisa, was pretty but spoiled. Our baby sister, Isabella, is a year younger and you could've mistaken them for twins. Everyone said Isabella was more beautiful, though, because of her light. The Birs were rich, I liked their house because they had a television but we usually went to the Wilcas. The Wilcas are indígena. Lucho liked their house because they taught him things like how to speak Quechua. Quechua is the language of the Incas. I thought we learned things at the Birs but now I don't know. We learned from television that everyone in Lima is rich, and we learned life is beautiful in America. Mrs. Wilca said the United States is arrogant to call itself America, she said we are all from America and Lucho says life can be beautiful in our America, too.

WE DIDN'T HAVE a lot of money then, no one did except for the Birs. Mamá said that's why we didn't have a full change of clothes and couldn't buy fruit and more vegetables. I would have liked it if we could. Mamá blamed Papá for our lack and she never said his name without the word lazy. 'Papá wasn't always that way,' Lucho told me, 'It started after Isabella was born.'

Isabella is a strange name choice because of Ferdinando and Isabella, together they led the Spanish Inquisition and sponsored the ravage of our America. We never got to ask Mamá why she chose that name. 'People started talking,' Lucho told me, as if I didn't know, 'About how white the new baby was.' Mamá is mestizo and Papá is indígena, 'Some even say she is Mr. Bir's child, Papá's been depressed ever since.'

I didn't know the part about Mr. Bir, he is pale mestizo. 'A lot of the neighbors dismiss the idea because Mrs. Bir is white and Mr. Bir wouldn't lower his status to love a mestizo. What kind of people are we to accept that idea?'

I wasn't sure if Lucho wanted an answer so I went outside with Papá. I sometimes heard Papá telling his woes to Mercedes and I thought he'd like to talk to someone who could respond with more than a spit or groan. He didn't tell me the things he told Mercedes but I know he liked having me out there. We stopped introducing Mercedes to everyone that passed, only the kids and the campesinos. When the women came by, ready to ruin his day, I'd start talking the way I heard men talk to one another. I'd say to Papá, 'Hey friend! How's the taxi business?' or 'How are the wife and kids?'

Papá didn't answer, he only looked to me and smiled. His smile didn't glow like Mamá's but it had its own sort of light. Sometimes, when neighborhood women visited Mamá, Papá would call on Mrs. Bir. I went with him even though I'd have to play with Malisa. Malisa had plastic Barbies instead of the tela dolls Mrs. Wilca made. The Barbies were strange—tall and white and way too skinny. They didn't have bums like Mamá, and definitely not Mrs. Wilca. I learned to like playing with them if we could change their clothes. This meant they would be naked and I liked that. Malisa figured out why I wanted to change them and she didn't like it, then she did. She'd run her finger along their curves and smile, I'd kiss their chests and she'd giggle. My favorite time with Papá was walking home from the Birs.

ISABELLA'S FIFTH BIRTHDAY was a big event. Papá wanted his cousin from Urubamba to play with his band. Papá never spoke of his family, or of being indígena, but he thought his cousin's sikuris would be better than the orquesta Mamá wanted. They argued, of course, and the neighborhood took sides. Papá appealed to the men, 'Imagine the tambores echoing down on the Plaza,' to which Mamá said 'The children should know salsa better than any tourist can learn in classes.'

Papá answered, with veins in his neck, 'Who has the money to pay for an orquesta?' This was the only time I saw Papá address the tea group and his point made everyone quiet. Everyone stopped arguing when Mr. Bir said he knew a guy. I couldn't guess what that meant until, the morning of the party, I watched the brass flicker on the tuba the fat man hoisted to his belly.

All the kids gathered around Mrs. Castaño as she fixed the piñata to the Elderberry. She'd made a giant bull with colors brighter than any I'd seen in this world. Mrs. Wilca made a skirt for Isabella and the colors, because the telas were new, were just a vibrant. When the orquesta started no one was dancing, Mamá wanted me to practice with her but I said I wanted to teach Isabella. I didn't quite know myself but she and I had fun. Mamá and Papá didn't go near each other. When Papá took Mrs. Bir's hand I could tell he wanted Mamá to notice. She didn't, really, she talked to Lucho all night. Mrs. Bir was a terrible dancer but Papá led her beautifully.

The party got moving once the sun went down. Mayta split the piñata and I wasn't upset it was me who opened its belly just before him. Candies scattered about the road and as we chased them down the band really started to play. There came a point when it didn't matter if it was salsa, bachata, or merengue, we danced with our backs to the band so they knew we didn't need Mr. Bir's favor and they couldn't stop until we said so.

People smiled like I'd never seen. Miss Castro seemed alright that she never had any children, Mr. Wilca gave a grin that said, 'The plough will have its rest tomorrow' and Mrs. Bir glowed under Papá's command. We all laughed at the Plaza below, we laughed at the tourists and we laughed at the rich, we laughed at the Big Men keeping our country for their own and at the foreign powers who kept them in charge. We laughed hardest at tomorrow for that night shook the stars from their bough.

I CAN'T REMEMBER if it was the next morning or the morning after that, I only know it was the first important thing after the party. Christmas was coming and the school year was almost through. In March, I would join Lucho for my first year at La Escuela de San Francisco. This meant that, instead of shouting salutations with Papá, I would follow Lucho ahead of the other students like I was embarrassed. I didn't want to be embarrassed of Papá. It was silly, the kids greeting Mercedes every day like for the first time, but it was also nice. It was nice to start the day smiling and I don't think Lucho was right that they were laughing at Papá. That morning I didn't wake to warm salutations, didn't scurry out to join the fun. That morning I woke to Papá and Mamá arguing, speaking quietly so you wouldn't know they were fighting unless you knew that tone.

Lucho was already in the doorway watching them, I went over and saw the kids walking past, confused and disappointed. Mamá was pulling Mercedes into the road and Papá looked sadder than when the women ruined his day. Mamá seemed worse with her eyes the color of rain season. She gave a knowing glance to Lucho and when she didn't look at me I felt a panic I never want to know again. I wanted to shout, 'Look, Mamá, I'm right here! Right here, Simón, your sweet Prince!' My throat was tight, though, and the words got caught. I never said what I wanted but I think she knew it as she turned away. What little I still keep of my mother is her looking back at the house, her figure consumed in fog, already a memory.

Born 27 July, Daughter of Independence

2010-09-03T15:02:00.000-07:00

for Yllari Briceño

you say it is of nothing

you stood before the capitol

for three days bearing nothing

but your Quechua name

of nothing the seared skin

of your left arm the flag

you held till it was nimbus of flame

that they never built a tourist center

over the indigenous school

is also as you say of nothing

you say this outside La Escuela Indígena

children chase each other thru

potato gardens and the Huntington's

eats into you morsel by morsel

You Take Me

2010-08-29T15:12:00.001-07:00

to a nice place

& my throat is heavy

because I know what it means

I don’t see the waiter as he sets the tableware

cutting the steak

I stop halfway, say

I dreamt my past life I was a warrior

I led my men in cold valor to our deaths

we eat quick I slip

into the embrace

of my coat, which you hold

Winter's rush through the door you open

you say It's okay, in my past life

I was a corrupt politician &

I drowned in the Pacific

Good news: more poems to be published

2010-08-28T08:18:00.000-07:00

Good news everyone! I just heard from phati'tude magazine, who will be publishing 'Junta Aesthetics' and 'Miel,' two recent poems of mine, in their September issue. I've removed the poems from my blog for ethical reasons, you can check out their site or buy a copy! http://phatitude.org/online/
Also check out 34th Parallel magazine http://www.34thparallel.net/, who published my poem 'Untitled, or A Weekend in July' in issue 7! I am proud to be a part of two magazines I respect. You can read them online or buy a copy any time. Their websites are also on my links page.
Good day to all! Michael

November

2010-08-18T15:52:00.001-07:00

Snow is a ram's coat: mute, lucid

As mind in thought free of words

Tan, granite hide reveals,

Conceals itself — is the point

Over which winds carry truths

Always felt, never voiced, kept holy therein

October Yard

2010-08-17T16:56:00.001-07:00

A crow's back is not black,

Not the one, middle of the pack, picked

Up first & looped under low oak branch

Over the shed.

I saw then, glint of an instant,

Opaque sheen so deep it is the color

The eyelid gives in a blink at the sun,

Its hue is a thought we cannot penetrate,

Its light is death's mystery.

Mountain Ash

2010-08-17T10:27:00.000-07:00

for Jack Nason

Exists and does not--
This thing, this other, this tree:
Is and never was

Smile

2010-08-17T10:25:00.000-07:00

a haiku for Yllari Briceno

Her cheeks like seashells
Brought ashore in a clear tide:
Shine the eye can't know

And in a wet cave weeps the fawn...

2010-08-03T13:29:00.000-07:00

The air a blade on whetstone,

Smoky rain down cedar;

The owl knows how stark its call

And in a wet cave weeps the fawn

Moss-beds bear on their shoulders

What hikers pass half-deaf to;

Tree frogs know how cool the brook

And in a wet cave weeps the fawn

Waves their sharp translucence,

Sober, obdurate cold;

Minnows stalk the bedrock

And in a wet cave weeps the fawn

clouds sweep their shadows...

2010-06-05T12:52:00.000-07:00

...boughs in the storm

A Friend Brings Art to Robert Rauschenberg

2010-06-03T09:03:00.001-07:00

—after Salinger

Yeah? Hey Bob, it's me Paul, it's late I know, man, sorry Sorry, really, it's urgent

This better be good, let me turn on the light—

Paul! Paul, there's blood all over you! Yeah Yeah, that's the thing, Bob The thing is this jacket This bloody jacket

Sit down, I'll make tea This bloody jacket Hey, sit down I have this student, right, I had this student Sit down, Paul, you're making me nervous Yeah Yeah, you're right, I'll sit, I should sit

Okay, now tell me how you got this blood all over you So this student in my poetry class, this Alex Kid can plain write He's real sensory aesthetics, sublime & the like

He's young yet, but it's like he knows how to receive How do you mean? This kid, man, this Alex He sees it, you know? In my office saying this world's too beautiful & all Okay,

But then, man, then he put his hand on my leg He does it but it's like he doesn't know it Like he doesn't know what would, what could, happen

He starts kissing my neck so then I stop him I start explaining misunderstandings, that whole routine Good, you did the right thing

& then I don't see him for weeks He's a ghost until last Thursday Last Thursday he pokes his head in my office, says Teach, I wanted you to know the world is especially too beautiful today Too beautiful to endure

& like that he's gone So I'm excited to see him in class but he's not there Not there & I'm distracted & Paul, what does this have to do with, I'll tell you, I'll tell what it has it has to do with after class at the library—

I go to Gina to check on Course Reserves when she looks behind me to the top floor & man, her face this terrible awe

So I turn & Bob, that sound That sound, man, no thud, no splat

It's the sound of life leaving a body all at once

My God, Paul He almost hit me, Bob! Almost hit me like he was aiming!

Paul, I don't know what to say There's nothing say, Bob This Alex is dead, man, DEAD No check for pulse, man, dead!

So what'd you? I'll tell you what I did what I did, then, man, I held him I held him, I rocked him like Kurt rocks Janey You haven't seen Janey she's big now you don't know, Bob Paul, slow down Yeah, you're right You're right, Bob, yeah

So what are you going to do? This blood, man, this jacket The thing is this jacket I can't ever wear it, I can't throw it away & I can't go to work until I find what to do You want more tea? No thanks, Bob, thank you

What I was hoping, man, I was thinking maybe you could do something with this I know you do this Combine thing, I was hoping Yeah, man, sure Sure, no problem Aw, thanks, Bob, thanks a whole lot Maybe you could do a memorial piece or, His name's Alex, man, Alex

Say, Paul, it's a long way uptown Why don’t you stay over?

Paul? Paul, you awake? Thanks, Bob, thank you Come see Janey, Bob, thank you

Soldier's Address

2010-05-14T15:56:00.001-07:00

Clint, I hope this finds you well. How's your family? How's mine?

Haven't seen combat in a week.

We're trekking the Safed Koh and headed into Pakistan. Should see fire before daybreak.

I'm not scared, except at night and I can't sleep.

There's a guy in our unit says let go of your life and fight like your dead. I think he's right. It's when you fear death that she comes.

Remember Larry at States? He told me he was nervous to get hurt and lose his scholarship. That kid could've gone pro and now he works tolls with three screws in his femur.

If I keep fighting like I'm dead I'll be home in six weeks.

I can't wait to see you, feel you next to me. I can't wait to feel you inside me.

Love eternal,

Jake

P.s. This will be my last tour

April 2010

Wind Crying at a Window, Husband's Address to his Widow

2010-05-11T17:06:00.001-07:00

worse than leaving

is watching you

not live

The Hitchiker Dialogues

2010-05-10T17:31:00.000-07:00

Canada, ii.

You're not from around here

No, the States

I knew by the way

You held your sign

It's nice out here

Boy, I know it

See that lake right there?

Yeah

It's bottomless

Oh yeah

When I was fourteen a plane

Crashed right through it

Really

My mother and brother

Were picknicking on the East shore

The plane sank

Before anyone could get to her

That's crazy

Thirty-eight years

Before a team of divers came

Almost two-hundred meters

Before they found it on a rock shelf

Still never got to the bottom

Wow

I like to think the lake

Is just a hole in the island,

We're just floating the Pacific

And Orcas swimming under

The Hitchiker Dialogues

2010-05-08T12:00:00.001-07:00

Canada, i.

You're not from these parts

No sir

I knew by the way

You held your thumb out

It's beautiful out here

I never knew

God's truth, son

See that town down there?

No, where?

By the creekbed

Those barnsheds?

That's Yala

Two years back

Snowed-in for three moons

Really

Didn't bother none,

Something you may not know

They got whole countries out here

Don't need a thing

I guess so

And so it went

But for the trucker was stranded

Henderson's took him in he let out

After eight days over that bluff

A week later Beckton's kid checked the trailer

Some two hundred cases of Bordeaux—

By Valentine's carafe moon

Bonfires on the regular, Ally singing to the coyotes

Chet's wife took a fix went sour

Wouldn't nurse little Jenny

Jack hugged his daughters too much

And every night the houses chirping with love

One drunken winter

A Town in Nigeria

2010-05-05T16:37:00.000-07:00

They came

The darkest hour

The hour that doubts

Will the sun make its miracle

They came with farm tools and torches

Thatch trembling on the first house they lit

It took longer than expected

For the first woman to flee, child in arms

No time at all

To slash her neck and stomp the child

They fled in a mass after that:

Some with flames

Like capes on their shoulders

Some robed in it

Spinning a step behind the waltz

The most sinister cavalries

Were those at the tree line

Grin the scythe to cut the escape—

When light finally came

It filled in the shapes

Let the corpses

Take their human form

A Town in Uganda

2010-05-04T11:51:00.001-07:00

Village empty, save fourteen women

Dead on their backs with bruised throats

The others, mostly male,

Discovered en route to the Congo

The dead went on, roughly

A kilometer apart until the province border

Bodies face down, a single wound

To the back of the skull

The last two, side-by-side

On their backs, likely sisters of ten years

It was the weapon survived them all

in defense of joy

2010-04-28T07:14:00.000-07:00

someone important said

we learn more

from the tough times

i think he's right tho

i don't want to

tho i know we need

the good times

Yllari, we need the good times

to teach us

nothing of life

but for that we love it

2010-04-19T14:26:00.000-07:00

First poems:

Thoughts at Youth of My Funeral

Eveglow holds

in the handful

you bring

to your face,

you say It's okay

to not want your family there;

thru sheared

spring a mother

cries her child

over oak boughs—

aloft a copse

of sleep-netted swallows

her song more lambent

than moon on creek rush,

I think it's fine to hope

those to attend you have not met.

April 2009

Elegy Requests from the Living

Modern Girl. Definitely.

firelight paws his face , passes

a shadow

to his opposite cheek

My baby loves me. I'm so hungry.

the shadow knew

a brooding

I almost missed

Hunger makes me a modern girl.

Any reason?

I think you'd have to hear it.

What about you, Eric?

Don't know I never

Really thought about it.

Come on, you've never

Thought about your funeral?

Not really. Not lately. Not

When I'm with Kim here.

My whole life like a picture of a sunny day.

something about that lie

I just love

April 2009

The Words You Did Not Know

I want you to remember the Paris café :

The moment we spent
Enchanted in a charm so arranged.

Mary, I want you to remember
That we had those moments,
And I want you to keep them
Unsullied by the words you did not know.

I remember you with great care
Pronouncing the word merci,
And I remember the boys who mocked you;
I remember Maudits Americans,
The word catin and words I wish I hadn't learned :

Those proper Parisians talking scenes
Of the four of them and you,
Scenes that in 1940 in this same café
A soldier of the Reich might tell another.

Or any soldier in any city under siege.

That moment I thought of Tocqueville,
Thought of Empire,
Smiled to you and thought
I miss the myth of the United States of America.

September 2009

2010-04-18T23:18:00.000-07:00

I have created this blog to feature my writing: poetry and (some) fiction. I have named it Stolen Time Cafe because today there is little importance or time alloted for poetry, literature, or art in general. We must therefore steal time out of our daily lives to read, write, enjoy, and share literature.

I have also thought to myself recently, why do I write? 1) Because I enjoy it; because it is a natural function 2) Because I want others to enjoy it

Questions, comments, care to publish something featured here elsewhere? Send me an email.

Have a great day