Mr. Gabidar Sees His Reflection

Drowning from a glass of water left out

On the kitchen counter for a stranger.

Wonder what happens in the afterlife?

Nothing like meeting with my destiny.

Wonder if I make it into heaven?

Are my chances good or nonexistent?

Really unsure about my past mistakes.

Did I forget to turn off the faucet?

Seeing I didn't choose my place of birth,

Perhaps I can be forgiven my sins.

If I stepped (or stomped) on anyone's toes,

Restitution of claims cannot be made

At this point in time for compensation.

Let it be known, I didn't mean you harm.

--

2015.3.8

© All Rights Reserved

Rui Carlos da Cunha

After the Race Is Run ~ 2014.10.5

If I could do it on my own, I would

without any help from anyone else

but the art of writing is no longer

a solitary act, as it involves

everyone whose interest it is to dream

to succeed without fail, a social act

but rarely an act of revolution

more likely an act of pure reaction

based on likes and dislikes, not unbiased,

without a whiff of objectivity

unless pretentions assume such a stance,

a position of mauvaise foi, bad faith,

I am what I am not and I am not

who I am, a pact with self-delusion,

a life in the closet, not just for gays,

but for anyone with their own secret,

their worst secret reveals a soul sickness,

a soul composed of mind and viscera,

the viscera that informs our conscience

which in turn informs our experience,

but if I hold a pen in my right hand 

and imagine a thought will end up down

on the page in black ink, I fool myself,

for I get lost in the words, in language,

in the games we play as writers of verse

or prose, as the letters jumble themselves

in anagrams or acrostics or both

to form anagram acrostc sonnets,

and I see eight-letter words as I read

and jot them down for later to puzzle

out a six-letter word in relation

to the first for an octet and sestet

or two quatrains that pose to the reader

a problem and a sestet to conclude

with or without a solution whose wit

resides in a rhyming couplet, how lame

my horse on the racetrack with a shotgun

blast to the head I end her suffering

but before I shoot I see a squirrel

and think look at that squirrel on the tree

how strange its life must be and I am lost

as I walked away from my broken horse

on a racetrack, lame with a shattered leg,

as I become distracted from duties

I don't care to perform, I shirk the chance

to act with care, responsible for life,

to take life, to choose death in a moment

when another's needs are greater, I must

not go off and quarrel with a squirrel,

or open my dictionary to find

a definition, etymology, 

and origins of words upon the page, 

No! I must shoot the horse and end a life

to choose death over lysergic acid

and its hallucinatory powers

for the squirrel is me lost in a maze,

which is simply a maze, not a labyrinth,

though we call it a labyrinth for we know

not the difference between the two, lazy

lions dozing in the sunshine, a zoo

where a bull-headed man stubbornly asks

why is this sword for me, I harm no one,

the shame you feel disappears when I do

apparently in death you choose to care

for me as if I were like a lame horse

on a racetrack, but you cannot efface

the memories of my absent presence,

the shame you feel rises from deep within

missing from your daily experience

you cry when a bullfrog eats a horsefly.

"Stand Me Now And Ever in Good Stead"

Monster in the closet, || monster under the bed

Isolated from touch, || inside the labyrinth

Nightmares inside my head, || nightmares, the cart upset

Old father, in Corinth, || old artificer, clutch

Tightly your leather purse, || tightly, keep hold the reins

Architect of mazes, || architect of desire

Ultimately, these strains || undermine at the source

Realize cool blue fire || reaps infernal blazes

Asterion, my son, || Ariadne hates lies

Trust in me, your father, || trust not in the white bull

Realize, he who dies || remembers not the sun

Icarus felt the pull || into sea foam lather

Understand the mythos, || understand the rhyme scheme

Minos, love is a dream, || mythical Knossos

"Let Us Glorify the Living" ~ 2014.2.4

Truly, to fear death is absurd

most of us don't know how to live

If you think that being alive

is the same as living, you're dead

already, one foot in the grave.

Truly, the problem is not death,

we glorify the dead in print 

with the cult of celebrity,

the obituaries remind

readers, one day your time will come.

We all give payment to Charon, 

the ferryman of the rivers

in Hades, in the Underworld,

for he takes the obol, a coin,

from our mouths, a symbolic fee.

The price we pay to accept death

is nothing in comparison

to the fact, we give this one life

very little heed, the body

as temple is quite laughable.

Until you see a corpse appear

more beautiful in death than life.

Sadly, none of us take the time

to breathe in life as a challenge

only mountain climbers accept.

Why do I fear life more than death,

the media brings death to us

like a cat who drops a dead mouse

at our feet, they show us a world

where death is more significant.

Everyday we accept changes

we did not create, didn't choose,

didn't protest, didn't resist,

little by little, we accept

how others envision the world.

What does it mean to truly live?

I imagine my every dream

fulfilled: to play the drums again,

to teach yoga, run marathons,

climb mountains, have a family.

Unless I sacrifice mundane,

quotidian means of living,

work itself is a form of death,

if the work is not meaningful,

truly significant to you.

One day, I will learn how to live,

I will this, my resolution,

a decision I cannot break,

for life is more precious than death,

let us glorify the living.

"Gibberish (I Learned in College)" ~ 2.2.14

In fact, I can't be sure of anything,

Nothing beyond our physical worldview

Treats non-scientific, speculative

Empirical evidence as certain,

Really, none of it makes logical sense,

Perhaps, we rely too much on science,

Rest assured, certainty as objective

Exegesis of our vision as text

Takes on new meaning in terms of spirit,

As language and reason cannot fathom 

Transcendence without equivocation,

Isolating what is illogical,

Ontologically corrupt and impure,

Neatly within brackets must needs save time.

The Queen Removes the Thorn ~ 1.21.14

Terrible is the blemish that shatters our window panes, 

Rips the stars from the sky, hurls ancient light in explosive

Ordnance, flees our homeland, sees on TV the destructive

Ubiquity of violence, and laughs for art explains

Beauty as detached in her observations, for the brains

Littered across washed cobblestones reveal the devisive

Engagement of sectarian warfare, the constructive

Solution to civil strife, disarm the men whom hate trains.

Understand the future of our island is in the hands

Left to those with wrists still attached, prosthetics can't perform

Surgery with stillness and precision, the cancer stands

To win against surgeons trained to remove this perfect storm,

Entitled to conduct herself as a lady in lands

Removed in language and culture, the queen removes the thorn.

Monsters ~ 1.17.14

The monsters weren't under my bed, they were hiding inside my head. With no way to flee, they kept watch while searching for an escape hatch. If I were a painter, I'd draw you a picture (without a flaw) of a monster waiting to flee, but as I never found the key to artistry, they're locked away behind steel bars without a say in the matter. If they could help me describe, instead of just yelp like a beaten dog, I could write their way out into bright sunlight. But my monsters are neurotic and hang out with a psychotic demon in the lobes of my brain, you'd think this would drive me insane, and it has before, long ago, they don't fit in with my ego, but times were tough and in the past, I learned to tie them to the mast (the trunk of a conifer tree) on a schooner and let them be. Let them ponder their evil thoughts in a mind that cannot be bought. 

"In this life..." ~ 1.5.13

I've made mistakes, mistakes I can't correct, / people I've hurt, mom, dad, brother, and friends, / people who will no longer talk with me, / I can't blame them, I too feel such remorse, / for living this life, not knowing the rules, / staying true to what was once in my heart, / covered over with shame, guilt and sorrow, / a fine layer of dust, dust upon dust, / year after year, until the light goes dim, / no one tells you how to clean up past wrongs, / they tell me to forgive myself, move on, / and get on with my life, but the cycles / circle like a gyre, to which I return, / I meet the same conflict over again, / I learn the same lesson since the first time, / but everything changes, nothing remains / the same, so how can I improve myself, / how can I help others if I can't help / myself, can I trust I won't lie and cheat / just to get ahead in the business world, / my karma faces me like a brick wall, / I cannot scale its height, like a mountain, / the snow-capped peaks gleam with a clear conscience, / I've carried the weight of my wrongdoing / for so long, my body slopes mis-shapen, / I try to accept my faults, past mistakes, / shortcomings, and not dwell inside my head, / full of arguments with others unseen, / angry for so many years, I can't stop, / I don't have the tools to replace the pain, / I live as honestly as I can bear, / the burden of life is too much for me, / much of the time, I just want to give up, / to quit this world, end this life and be done, / but I was there at my friend's funeral / after she successfully hung herself, / her dress and make-up, her open casket, / she would not have chosen any of that, / her mother wailing, her little girl gone, / it was her second suicide attempt, / I've witnessed the after-effects her death / had on her family and friends, so young, / so beautiful, so full of life, now gone, / I knocked on her front door that afternoon, / either she was alive, or she was dead, / (like Schrödinger's cat), her death still haunts me. //

"Quatorzain alambiqué"

"C'est un esprit des plus confus, alambiqué, ce que nos pères appelaient un diseur de phébus."

Marcel Proust

Bookselling is not so much a career / as a job without much recognition / (unless you don't mind patting your own back), / but it keeps your nose clean and life in gear // though you'll never afford to buy a house. / And if you choose to blame indecision / as the culprit behind your total lack / of direction, (in a world we create // for ourselves, alone in search of a spouse / a mate for life, a husband or a wife) / you won't get any closer to your goals // without accepting your faults as your fate, / your accountability as the knife / that severs the spines of booksellers' souls. //

12.31.13

"Uncertainty"

12.23.13

Beyond the arc of perception,

out of the corners of my eyes,

I see people without disguise,

I see beyond their deceptions.

My insights are not projections,

I see the truth beyond their lies, 

masks drop, for only I am wise,

their ignorance begs inspection.

To witness their uncertainty

when opportunity presents

an open door to fix the past.

To bear this sense of gravity,

this trace of solemnity, tense,

nervous, uneasy, empty, vast.

Sonnet (without rhyme or reason) ~ 10.27.13

His hand grasps the clasp of her gold necklace, the peach-fuzz hairs on the back of her neck run cold down her spine from the heat his fist emits with a lateral twist, she chokes then gasps for air, falling forward, she trips and breaks the clasp, her necklace disappears along with the culprit, she sees nothing through her weeping emerald island eyes.

Sitting outside along the window ledge, she ponders the meaning of the attack, other than lacerations on her neck the police find not a shred to convict anyone of the crime, no evidence, a cold case, the woman falls to her death. 

Condensation ~ 9.25.13

Mr. Gabidar blows the angel's breath out 

of the top of the soda bottle 

before taking a swig of ginger ale. 

Once he releases the condensation,       he feels secure his heretical ways

find the irony in sacred beliefs.

For Bibles spontaneously combust   when he forgets to use a yad to read, 

pages turn to ashes with a light touch 

and a small conflagration may occur especially in "the House of the Lord."   For lightning longingly waits to inflict grievous bodily harm, if not to strike 

him dead, however, he chooses to live.

The Death of a Cat by Euthanasia

12.5.12 - "The Morning After"

What's real disappears forever,
never again to touch, to feel,
to pet the tangible tabby,
once here, breathing, now gone.

Nothing can replace the feeling,
the pain, the knot in my stomach,
to watch his difficult breathing
cease, the final kick in the gut.

She woke up, went to the toilet,
came back to bed, then I woke up,
opened the window, then closed it,
poured myself a glass of water.

Went to the toilet, took a piss,
too hot, window open, too cold,
I can't sleep, sinuses blocked,
I cried too much last night, dead cat.

Her 4.48 psychosis
deep in my mind, a memory,
Sarah Kane hung herself, her mind
stops, the thoughts cease, breathing ends.

Everything is so simple in life,
except the emptiness, the void,
the absence to fill, but with what,
with drink, with drugs, with pain killers.

With a new cat comes a new set
of problems for the other three,
no matter what, the dynamic
shifts, for the survivors of death.

My stomach gurgles, not hungry,
tired, want to sleep, to remember
the real is too painful for me,
I was not born to write in verse.

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

Underlying the Event

If you believe there's a reason,
you'd be half-right, like a half-truth,
a well-told lie makes us all believers,
a happy wife is one left in the dark,
a happy husband speaks with a forked-tongue,
the serpent did not deceive Eve,
why would Satan not want to envision
the beauty of Eve in her nakedness,
why would he need to tempt her with the fruit
of the tree of knowledge, is the devil
just a pawn of the great storyteller,
the three crones at their loom, the tapestry
they weave allocate each human their lot
in this world, whether they be rich or poor,
short or tall, fat or thin, loved or unloved,
famous or infamous, born or stillborn,
we know the sun casts long shadows at dawn,
but others the darkness swallows at dusk,
you see the ocean surface but the depth
remains hidden, uncharted and unknown,
such is the meaning of the universe
for those who contemplate the mystery
who dwell upon the sheer absurdity,
there is nothing more important than death
otherwise all sufferring is endless
and all life becomes interminable,
to believe is to choose, so choose wisely
for the heartfelt truth of this world is love,
and to love with an honest heart is truth,
don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

"Lessons to Teach Parents Around the World"

"Lessons to Teach Parents Around the World" - 9.9.12

Never step intentionally on your pets' reveries unless they're your children for a dream fulfilled no longer qualifies as a dream and any obstacles to achievement heightens expectations in adults from dysfunctional families.

Always remember that support creates dependency and parents should never allow their pets to fall into that trap.

Force your children to make bad decisions and learn that mistakes are compulsory, for to never attain status or wealth is the true goal of self-reliant behavior.

Remind them that asking for help is a weakness that cannot be tolerated, asking for what you want is insufferable, and praying to the Almighty is laughable and a pipe dream.

For dreams smeared on slices of bread make for the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches which is much better than being able to afford properly-cooked food for lunch everyday at their dead-end job.

Never discuss problems as solutions are only hard-won in isolation. Remind your pets that the family is not a team but individuals who spend their days trying their hardest to make this life as unbearable as possible for each other. And that as your children they are forever indebted to you for bringing them into this world.

"Reminiscences"

First Tuesday of the month at 10 a.m.
the sirens blast just once then it's over
95 degrees, the forecasted high,
it's not the heat but the humidity
that can kill you if you're old, feeble, frail
and nowhere near an air conditioner
for July in Chicago can kill you
but if you survive, there's always August

I pass a woman on the way to work
her body maladjusted with old age
a bag in each hand, her shoulders slope left
her imbalanced hips jut out to the right
crushed, I continue on my way to work
pathetically, glancing back without hope
as if she were a hot chick before death
takes her hand for that final silent dance

Her postural assessment I could do
if I had my license, but I fucked up
sent my application to the wrong folks
wrong organization, they cashed my check
so I'd be nationally certified
for four years, they pitched my application,
sent a check for the left-over amount
with no explanation, they screwed me good

Fifteen months of massage therapy school
and fifteen thousand dollars down the drain
I started paying-off my student loans
after six months from my graduation
I could never again afford to pay
the fee to apply for my state license
as I've worked in bookstores for twenty years
earning less than thirty thousand per year

And now I get a phone call everyday
from credit card collection agencies
trying to recover the 20K
I owe the banks when I chose to pay off
my student loans, honor the government,
and not have my wages garnished on top
of losing any IRS return
in exchange for the worst credit rating

Debt helps to place a noose around her neck
the day I knock on her front door, her car,
an orange Karman Ghia around back,
I figure she left in another car
with friends, a nice day outside in Memphis
my hope to spend time with fair Jennifer
that beautiful curly redhead woman
with the Kentucky bourbon voice is dashed

That was Sunday, Monday her sister calls
to let me know that she found Jennifer
at home hanging at the end of a rope,
the memorial service on Wednesday,
with the funeral service to follow,
the open casket, her dress and make-up
all wrong leaves an impression of disgrace
for me to remember her by for good

I watched her mother cry in such despair
tears I myself could not shed openly
not in front of a crowd of her old friends
people who had known Jennifer for years
but where were they when she cried in the park
letting me know she tried to kill herself
before we met, I gave her a long hug
and my handkerchief for her tears and nose

Maybe they were there at the hospital
after her first attempt by taking pills
or had she slashed her wrists, it's been so long
memories fade after so many years
I loved her as a friend, never lovers
I think she had a boyfriend at the time
I could be mistaken, she was single
or had they broken up, I'll never know

Later I'd take Karen to that same park
with the moonlight glowing over the lake
we'd hide from the security police
the spotlight from their squad car shining bright
take cover behind dogwoods, once they left
we'd take a stroll, hug and kiss in the dark
enjoy the beauty of a park at night
in a housing tract for wealthy people

Another Lousy Day at the Bookstore

If I were faced with a situation
where a wasp enters the mailroom, upstairs,
while the electricity is shut down,
the lights are out, the window wide open
to catch a cross-wind with the open door.
I leave to get a bottle of water
at the business school with two co-workers,
the wasp has worked its way from the window
to the shelf where my dictionary lies.
When I turn the computer on again
after we'd turned them off to avoid surge
I point out the wasp to the mailroom clerk
whose first response is to decide to kill
the insect as a first strike in defense.
I bolt out of the way towards the door.
Unbelievable! as luck would have it
another co-worker quickly swoops in
with a mason jar to capture the wasp.
He releases it outside the window
whence it came, the great outdoors of Hyde Park.

"That's What She Said"

"This did not happen
although I have memories of it"

— Thylias Moss

It was all in my imagination
According to her, it never happened
Perhaps it was a dream, a fantasy
Except I was a naked twelve year old

She forced me to take off all of my clothes
And leave out the front door without a shred
We had an atrium, so I was safe
But I was scared, she was upset with me

She locked the door, wouldn't let me back in
If I weren't a distressed little preteen
I would have walked right out that second door
Out into the front yard and down the road

Until someone saw me and called the cops
But I was trapped begging for her mercy
Under the stars naked in the cool air
I couldn't think about how to be smart

I was in tears, no one else could help me
If I walked out that second door, they'd know
My dad was an alcoholic and mom
My mother, whom he called "mom," was his crutch

But even I didn't understand this
I didn't get what the other kids got
What non-alcoholic families would think
Their concern would frankly astonish me

But my mother dismisses this event
As something I made up, a fantasy
A psycho-analytical dreamscape
Where dreams landscape our real world with nightmares

What had I done wrong to provoke my mom
To throw me out of our suburban home
That night, naked, for all the world to see
Nothing the stars above wouldn't forgive

"On the Dominion of Daimonion"

Nonetheless, nonethereal domains
dominate the landscape, are no less real
than an innate understanding of space
where Cartesian coordinates reveal

an intimate faith in radical doubt
the malicious demon, the cogito
late-night cognac aficionados
the malignant genius of drunk fathers

violent when sober with alcohol
in their shrunken pickled cerebellums
pounding on their children like conga drums

mother stands guard to ensure the beatings
incorporate a severe punishment
that only loving parents can dish out

- 8.29-30.12

"My Mind Freaks Out from Time to Time"

So, we leave The Cove, a dive bar
on 55th St by the lake, and walk
a block, I offer them a ride
in my girlfriend's car, they decline

It was Eli's last day at work
she leaves for New York in 3 days
Tom's drunk, but he'll walk Eli home
after I say goodbye, I pass

two tall black guys in b-ball gear
they casually follow my friends
heading in the same direction
around the corner, no big deal

I go home and wonder down deep
this world's a mysterious place
and here in Hyde Park, Chicago
anything could go fucking wrong

I could find out that my two friends
were murdered for no good reason
only because they were both white
and looked like they had some fast cash

To reassure myself, I think
Tom will make it home to his wife
the mother of their two young boys
Ned and Bobby, both under three

I imagine Eli gets home
listens to Ke$ha on vinyl
crashes in her bed, falls asleep
doesn't get raped by two black dudes

This petite woman from Brooklyn
is slim with long dark wavy hair
and a voice like my deceased friend
raspy from cigars and whiskey

My mind freaks out from time to time
I don't want to get a phone call
from Tom's wife telling me the worst
news I could ever want to hear

Tomorrow my friends from Memphis
will be here for a conference
they'll bring their little boy Oskar
who's never been to Chicago

I took the day off to spend time
showing my friends around Chitown
not mourning the death of colleagues
and viewing a line-up downtown

in some lousy police station
me, with my long black hair pulled back
pony tail and black bandanna
clean-shaven, showing off my face

young enough to ask for ID
even though I'm over forty
as I enter the last dive bar
I will ever enjoy again

"Mr. Gabidar Loses Track of Time"

Mr. Gabidar runs late for the train,
at night in a trench coat he leaves the store,
he stands on the platform and prays for rain.

His wife watches TV, piss down the drain,
she wonders when he’ll open the front door,
Mr. Gabidar runs late for the train.

Outside, the once-full moon begins to wane,
the sky is full of clouds about to pour,
he stands on the platform and prays for rain.

Last night, he drank until it hurt his brain,
because time was something he could ignore,
Mr. Gabidar runs late for the train.

What he loves in life is simple and plain,
the complexity of love leaves him sore,
he stands on the platform and prays for rain.

His wife, deep in sleep, saws against the grain,
little does she know how loud she can snore.
Mr. Gabidar runs late for the train,
she stands on the platform slick with slant rain.

"The Poetic Experience of Corvus corax"

Apparently, without symbolism,
the two ravens discourse about the taste
of blood in light of aestheticism.
They do not mince words, never do they waste
their breath to discuss the sublime in art.
Instead, they talk about gas when they fart
and the bowel movements of dogs when they go
for a walk. Philosopher-ravens know
to speak fondly of the entrails of cows
and to worship Equus, the dark horse-god.
For at the racetrack, over the brown sod,
they have the best seats in front of the rows
of spectators who watch horses bolt past
toward the finish line, their bets all cast.

"In the Palace of Dreams"

Sleep pleases me to no end in the den
with a metronome that counts side to side
like a grandfather clock. On a futon
I dream of a man, like myself, who hides
in the darkness of moonlight and shadow.
Behind a wall, he follows the widow
of Dominic Rosario, Lord Vaz,
a poet from Goa, for whom we pause
the narrative to remember his life.
Or not, for suddenly, the detective
notices two ravens as they arrive
at the convent across the street. The wife
of the deceased poet enters inside
ostensibly to meet my future bride.

"the voice within echoes like a conch shell"

in time, the sound of the sea died away,

the sound lingers in his ears, in his mind

as memory, a staircase that spirals

like a conch shell, the voice within echoes



with the sound of the sea which he carries

in his ears, in his mind as memory,

from his childhood into adulthood, the sound

lingers in his tears, in his spine as song



deep in his heart, the past lingers as sound

the sound of white wash, of rhythm, crashes

on the shores of repetition, the sound

continues to haunt him as memory,



like ghosts that follow him during the night

as shadows, as nightmares, as memory,

as sound that swells in his ears, in his mind,

in time, the sound of the sea died away

Villanelle for Doomed Youth

Mumble Bunny has better things to do
than sit under a tree and read a book.
The boy would much rather visit the zoo.

His step-mother is a hazel-eyed shrew,
a witch who won't give him a second look.
Mumble Bunny has better things to do.

She spends her day looking for a lost shoe,
she expects he'll become a petty crook.
The boy would much rather visit the zoo.

His father simply doesn't have a clue,
a master chef who rarely wants to cook.
Mumble Bunny has better things to do.

His father's suits are of a midnight hue,
he shows his son how to throw a right hook.
The boy would much rather visit the zoo.

Mumble Bunny walks next door, the old Jew,
a rabbi, castles with the king and rook.
The boy would much rather visit the zoo.
Mumble Bunny has better things to do.