Poetry Sunday

Heart(less) in the City of Worries

I tear off the high pocket caressing the folded 3’’ x 4’’ black and white picture
(stamped January 197 ),
unbutton the red silk shirt ®,
plunge a cutter (lost and found) deep into the flesh (∼ 4.7 cm),
outline an isosceles triangle (72°, 54°, 54°) over the engulfed chest (tattoo of a baby dragon),
press a couple of ribs once fractured (teenage fight),
reach through thin forgiveness the murmuring muscle (45, 44, 43, 42, 41, …),
pull it out gently with both hands (first manicure),
drop it in a shaded plastic bag full of ice (childhood lunch bag)
and wander heart(less) in the city of worries.


I walk above buildings, bridges, trees, people
creating Boulevards
(Papa’s Boulevard, Mama’s Boulevard, Sister’s Boulevard,
Mrs. Pauline's Boulevard, La Brunette’s Boulevard,
The child in Geneva railway central station’s Boulevard).
I fly with pigeons (up to ~ 400 feet),
stay in their nests (bed and breakfast),
discuss news with neighbors’ hawks,
and text message earth the green gas level.
I learn how to swim with ducks (10 mph) and eat from muddied bodywise bread.
I join squirrels running in the traffic under cars.
One lost the fur of his tail, another lost two nails and I lost prespective.
Annoyed by the plastic bag
I pick three requests from people’s classifieds (5541 posted).
Ten years old is desperate for transplantation.
After going through my charts (blood pressure, diabetes, cholesterol, memoirs,…),
and predicting what might be the boy’s feelings (love, fear, doubts, desires…),
his mother rejected my heart.
An unsettled lover asks to lease it as long as he loves comfortably.
Over a steady long relationship he is getting exhausted loving in fatigue.
Admiring its mosaic and remarkable size,
a collector of coincidences offers to exhibit it.
Placed in a frosted velvet box,
my heart travels to the grocery store, Lucien café,
the park, Paris, Barcelona, the neighbors’ window,
the office, Zurich, a local retail, and a few motels.
Numbers and numbers have been watching my heart.


The heart is in the bag.
I am still holding the bag.
I remember an inmate once said
"Coming out of the bag,
you start your life by walking out the pet in you three times a day.
You get caught in life loans and you struggle to make your monthly minimum payment
(27% interest).
You buy a lottery ticket acknowledging the odds
(A team wins 4/3 in the NBA playoffs after loosing the first 3 games).
The dreams are so true,
You believe you are alive.
You end up caged with the beast in you holding your chain "


Hitch-hiking towards simplicity,
I loosen the screws retaining the me.
I slowly rock my body past and future until I hear the tics of fallen concerns.
I kneel down,
I salute the ants marching towards my heart.
I (de-/re-) assemble.
I roll my body over the last opportunity.
I arrange my inner layers in a lighter mood,
Do|Re|Me|Fa|So|La|Te|Do
I jump to a highway of destiny.
A stranger picks me up.

A stranger (Choose the appropriate answer)
1. Someone you may not know
2. Someone you choose not to know
3. Someone you are hesitant to know
4. A funny word
5. We are all somehow strangers

S(He) stares at me at every occasion begging for nothing.
I smile and offer the plastic bag.
The facial wrinkles straighten up erecting a population of blisters once dead.
The eyes fluoresce the bulb (25 W) over my decision.
S(He) opens the bag and slides skull, eyes and hair inside.
After moments of the moments,
(Da vinci made up his mind and forced Mona Lisa to smile,
Newton finally noticed the fallen apple, and I was able to taste what is between my tongue and the clouds),
(S)He runs out of the car,
drops my heart on the ground,
wobbles away covering his/her/your sewed chest with sad hands
assuring it is not his/her/your/their own,
being reached for again (and again, and again, ∞….).
I’ve never respected the unexpected (thinking backwards).



Under angry rain (Overcast eyes and 35 % precipitation of memories),
with no coat and a hallow chest
collecting water (2.3 oz) and hale (0.9 pound),
I cross the street of pain (twelve blocks and 2057 days).
The plastic bag dripping events, blood, and crumbs,
dogs barking on my right side,
wolves sniffing on my left side,
crows on balconies chewing voices,
adults hiding in their laundry,
and children tucked in their parents’ mistakes.
I throw gifts, bones, skin, candies, promises, bills, fish, and salt.
I move target of all desires.


The sun is still crying over my face.
Fading pedestrians are leaving behind wasted shadows,
slowly burned by a torchlight (batteries 2A).
An old handwritten sign rolled over a rusted iron bar implanted in the middle of the city
is kissed by the All.
You can hardly read the carved words-
We sell attitudes and repair broken ribs.
The ice is melting in the bag (80°F).
I follow the sign for years.
I end up at a tiny tin door separating the 11 and 12 blocks.
The darkness arrives in time to cover what is left of me.
Exhausted, I knock using my forehead and weak legs,
seven, eight or nine times.
The door opens at 54°.
My hands tremble up and down.
I am told to leave behind clothes,
shoes, the folded picture and my plastic bag.
Holding my heart
I squeeze myself in
Screaming
Do
Re
Me
Fa
So
La
Te
Do
Hands help to pull me
in/out.
The door closes (0°).
My lungs become clear.

© 2009 Khaled KE Mahmoud