The Literary Groong

And the other blood which does not – run, which smells of acid of women whose blood does not – run. The suture of their legs, Its sharp stiffness, in morsels mutilated invisible on the sand, on the sand to the sea, to the sea that swallows ships; on the sand of exile dissolving drinking jars with moles, and the air stays overcast, concave, shovelfuls to inhale, pushing dragging shabby dresses of women whose blood does not – run....

When the sound of the wheels of the train echoed in my ears, I heard a Rachmaninoff concerto exhibiting its influence and power. A microphone translated its implications, presenting me with a transcript. Then station to station, I fooled myself into denying the music as a feint. But no feint found me that day or later as I conjugated ambition to follow such vital notes. Difficult, yes. Difficulty plays instruments, conjugates many verbs, builds viable languages....

I Red flowers in Russell Square Dogs in Russell Square Some as big as sheep Special red bins for dog poop As red as the postboxes and the telephone booths. II Chaos of polychrome people hurrying by before the hotel English girls with short skirts and heels, Moslem girls with kerchiefs Men in suits or short sleeved shirts or knitted shirts and knee shorts.

I’ve come to hold sadness in my hands To walk a thousand miles in the hottest desert. Drink not water. My feet swollen and bruised. Bloody. I’ve come to see the face of great-grandmother. We have the same dark eyes. We have the same scraped soul. We bear the same name. There is no escaping. She’s in me. She’s in me. In my last moments of life, I want to release the sadness....

There can be but one answer, one easel, one lessened To extract one swirl, one splotch, one patch of heaven In an eye, a rectum, a floating nose, hazed, dribbling, drained There can be no answer after the dada denials of denials of genocides and reason There can be but paint and weight and shine and light from giant inlets for morning Worship, if the rains and clouds could but bother competing NY artists Stilted drivers, a new search for sense, after Hiroshima, after Hitler, Stalin, famine, avarice, the depression, public works, roller coaster ridden Bullet holes in worship temples of paint, thick, vibrant, mixing, melt....

Bark one Bark two Bark three Darting dots in silent sentences of the night Like darker mulberries On the mulberry tree of Nalbandyan 7, 2:40 am. Alas All this air can do Is stare in silence… Its eyes touch so softly That my mind obeys And lays itself down On a constant stream of dreams… Bark one Bark two Bark three You know? There are Buried deep Twisted, gnarled, soggy Roots of angels Who have chosen to become trees And make Oxygen Yet not prudence… Silence and insanity, friend Are born when we come detached And attached again And again In us, through us, towards Nowhere else but Predictability Simple and charming: And it is predictable, Father That during nights I write Instead of sleeping And slipping into hymns So that insanity would remain Subconscious And quiet Like the mulberry night tree On Nalbandyan 7, 2:50 AM....

SHE WITHOUT A DAUGHTER By Ana Arzoumanian Dash out! Using large steps, grandma, run!… No turning back, they are coming, run, they are upon you; go to the other side, pretend, now pretend, don’t scream, who would help you now? if it’s just you they have to play; ease off that thing inside, be patient, they are just bodies threatening you, guarding you, just bodies squashing and pressing. Like a slave without a master who implores you not to who has nobody to pray to be patient and try to forget; soon the last one will be resting, spent finally, the last one and you’ll have died each time too....

Paper cuts from books as thick as his lips As gapped and gashed as his teeth His curly hair, Medusa rendered quatrains, airs Uninvited village crier smile, apologetic Defiant, untrue in magnitude but Blue in spirit, ethos gardens in pungent parapente. I read the words, so aware of other words unsaid Sevag’s piercing smoke rings dance in Mashdots’ band Barouir repatriating anger, not centrally planned solace When ghosts sing in riddles, nightmares cued, reverberate....

Infinity it is And I have nothing Even inspirations that untie To flutter Between fireflies and lampposts Sidewalks and dim clouds Trees and empty bottles Drift into air So that I can Inhale And while I hold my breath I can write symphonies in motion. But Lord, I could be bounded in a nutshell And count myself king But instead I Wash the feet of existence And indulge My owning of nothing in anything at all....

Why are you here Listening to these repetitions Of rhyme, rhythm, and roar Oscillating music of Imperfect monotones Mesmerizing, hypnotizing and Capturing, no captivating you with Deception and titillating vision # Emancipating your imagination From this boring stuff, which helps you see The excellence in the reader before me, The fantastic in the performer after me. Yet you focus on the walls, the ceiling, the tablecloth As they tell you all the secrets hidden in time Observed and recorded from different angles From different ages # fanatical outbursts on the run....