EVERYTHING SHOULD BE UNDER THE SUN...
NO New Nuclear Weapons... NO New Nuclear Targets... NO New Pretexts For Nuclear War... NO Nuclear Testing...
NO Star Wars... NO Weapons In Space...
NO All Types Of Weapons, War & War Culture...
We have only one WORLD yet! If we destroy it, where else will we go?
Polynomial

Photo: Ugur Akinci

 

by Ugur AKINCI

-- for Gullu


After you've left I took up geometry. I started to sleep on your side of the bed, pulling your pillow over my head, as though claiming your space can suffuse the parched hours with moisture of understanding. As though a flag makes a country, a bull makes Spain, but we still salute somehow.

There is a change in the plans. I said "plans" not "plants"but the black elephant ear in the living room started to whisper a polynomial today. The dwarf blue spruce on the other side of the shed is still resisting.

I never looked at your shoes up close. Water into clouds. When does private property become a memento? I hold the vibration of your soapy feet in my hands, gently, resisting the urge to inhale them. I marvel at how a symmetric body wears out its surroundings asymmetrically. I thought we were equals.

Variegated ginger, Japanese sedge, hardy begonia. Your plants are left behind but sorry I can't talk to them. If we're a part of nature why do they skip on their income tax? Soil, river and clouds should be enough to solve it but the silence in the kitchen, alone in the garden facing an infinite cello, affirms the mystery of this inequality. God is Texas hold em no limits.

Now that you're gone I'm busy putting our names on chairs and buildings. Your volume is empty.Your weight was an exchange taken for granted. I bring your bottle of Jean Paul Gaultier to my nose to resolve the Big Bang. But these get-well-quick schemes never last. Disorganized crime is hilarious and explains why exposed surfaces delight ambulance chasers. Movie stars watch our questions in amazement. The lint of daily wrestling sticks to our sweaters, hearts and faces.

Separation is easy for ribbon grass and oil. I'm in my pockets riding my hands. Are there any operas penned after gas station owners? Or comedies about software developers? Every situation dials up a different leaf, punctures a classified vein. Pressing into service a silence that absorbs answers.

They dispatched us from math central to cool Africa. But as soon as you've left we split into three. The camera, shadow, and memory.



Humbling Realization

This mail will always be delivered
Either to me
"Or Current Resident."


_ . _

E-mail: ugurakinci@aol.com
http://tork.blogspot.com

©Ugur Akinci

   
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