abubhaji

one more old post to share… just silliness. been a while since I’ve felt silly enough to write like this. I hope the feeling returns soon. 🙂

another old post I found and thought I’d re-blog. Hamlet’s response to Horatio when he’s told him he’s seen his father’s ghost…

been awhile. looking through old posts. thought I’d re-post a couple; perhaps come up with something new…

Emily-Cover-hi-res-2-no-subtitles-or-pictures_2

I saw this today and got a kick out of it. Thought I’d share. Cheers~

Poe tato-

head, extraordinaire:

fairy-fated, frolickery

within and without all

ghoul-trickery;

the crooked hill the crooked tree the neary moon-

noose to hold the neck

of naive brevity lifts

the spidered-hairs of my arm

as mandibles pulls at my spine-fortune

for you, ear-spuds, for I the shovel-handle

choked-up to dig you, perhaps,

to bury you again,

in my shelf-made

mausoleum.

“My Lord, I think I saw him yesternight…” by Abu Bhaji (photo still from Onibaba)

Believe not, everything you see, thee Horatio.

Be it a chilling apparition that appears to know

Of melancholy calls from the living,

And given chance to answer, is all too giving;

As if by Will, it was writ to accommodate,

To intervene, and bandage fate,

Its purpose in death, is in life to mitigate,

Most unnatural acts before ‘tis too late.

To be or not to be, it must contemplate,

Not unlike you or I, bound in such a state,

Binged on Starbucks and staying up late,

Brewing and brooding over life’s mistakes,

Forgetting not, to play one must pay the stakes.

Listen to what I tell you, Horatio, my friend;

I too long, that one gone would return again,

My fond lady, from the bottom of the lake.

Go now, with…

Iago – by Abu Bhaji

I met Iago at the track

He convinced me to bet the trifecta

His words like needles to my yarn filled brain

Knitting up promises

Of fortunes

And an easier life

(Hop-a-long, Peggy-Sis, and Mad-e-line)

All my ponies came in

And boy did I win

But lost it all back on Baze in the slop in the nine

Medicine jar sits

Upon Sedona window sill

Still.

Leave your shoes, feel the earth, we share

the autumn blood moon, but blood roots no…

But we know:

Over the road, Mrs. Daly’s ponies run wild,

Salt-rock rounds grapevine trespasses,

Goldfish, in koi-pond pool-side, hide from

Large black dog on guard,

Tetherball circles pole, chain clacking

Bumper-pool balls rack and roll,

BB-guns air-pumped,

Pepop, Pepop we know we knew,

Foreign currencies pinned to the wall

Downstairs, kids play out the holiday, circles

Our memory as the blood moon circles

The earth we share.

Kokopalien circles the court

On his mongoose

with two mag rims.

One by one, under streetlamp light, we took turn at the makeshift ramp (if only Life was built upon broken stumps and plywood scraps). With our hearts

in our throats, steadfast our grip, we charged our bikes at slanted fate with surging awe and untamed naivety, peddled fast, as though our lives depended upon it;

some of us, failing to launch, unable to handle the weight, followed the bars over, falling, while some of us, with the gift of strength, of knowing

when and how to pull up, caught elated air, felt the rush of being alive before the cold wind whipped bliss into tears. A few of us, those who had the

deepest hearts, the gift of grace in their stride, and the love of us all in their pocket, those friends rose above and never came back down.

Poppa used to blow-dry our hair;

sisters and I would sit as bathed pups

upon our family-room floor.

With slow care, he’d pull through wet locks

his black barbershop comb.

Under towel wrap, thick orange shag

clenched our naked butts. When

Poppa would yank, we’d dig hard our small heels

and snarl.

Avon blower, warming our heads, held attachments

**“My Lord, I think I saw him yesternight…” by Abu Bhaji (photo still from Onibaba)**

One by one, under streetlamp light, we took turn
at the makeshift ramp (if only Life was built upon
broken stumps and plywood scraps). With our hearts

in our throats, steadfast our grip, we charged our bikes
at slanted fate with surging awe and untamed naivety,
peddled fast, as though our lives depended upon it;

some of us, failing to launch, unable to handle
the weight, followed the bars over, falling, while
some of us, with the gift of strength, of knowing

when and how to pull up, caught elated air, felt
the rush of being alive before the cold wind whipped
bliss into tears. A few of us, those who had the

deepest hearts, the gift of grace in their stride, and the
love of us all in their pocket, those friends rose above
and never came back down.