Drifting around at 3am

M A Shaheed & John Greiner
January 2021

Word Loss

Tamper Proof

I can’t tamp down the sounds
made when my pen hit the paper.
Most of the time I can’t hear it.

When I become aware of some
other birds it lets me know, they
can dig it.

There’re other words, that carry
another sound, that can be heard
if you don’t get distracted.

Different words bring different birds,
accompanied with some unlikely
sounds that can be mistaken as some
other noise.

These are the ones I never listening
to before. Tying letters together, make
the pictures look better, combined with
the sounds involved, lends to beautiful
characteristics.

The Theta in me, brings me closer and
further away all in the same time. Unable
to be in a vacuum with me, there is no
witness around, that can swear that
I could actually see the sounds.

I was able to hear an orchestration conducted
by the crushing of aluminum foil, Paper Mache
and dropping of the spoon on a metal dish rack.
I enjoyed the unexpected rhythm.

I couldn’t play it back. Copying the sounds that
were decreed for me can’t be heard by anyone
else. Most of what I hear right now, are vibrations
of tribulation.

Unable to move from the B flats. Beauty moves much
farther Away, as the human spirit ceases to flourish
or exist.

Prayer for Ernesto Cardenal

Nice Things

I know you want to hear happy stuff.
You must be out of your mind!
The stuff you talking about, I don’t
even know where to find.

Long walks in the woods, then you
run into some sick pig who ain’t no
damn good. Trying to visit a national
park, you better leave before dark.

Going to a picture show, before is
over you better go. Sitting on your
front porch might be safe if it’s done
before their second shift.

The TV shows a feature film, nothing
about you, it’s just them. When you
obey all the laws, somehow you still
breaking the ones made for all y’all.

When you have a gun permit, to some
police that don’t mean shit. You are just
another fish, in the supreme court mandated
barrel. When you go shopping at the mall,
you exit your car, you are the only one on the
security’s radar.

Your neighborhood is an honor farm with
cameras near and far. You, are a few minutes
from being in jail, with a million-dollar bail,
because you didn’t skin and grin for some
insecure demon with a double chin.

Nice for me, is staying away from the devil at
large. The things I reject and less contact, is
better for me. It’s rough for me to locate the
happy stuff.

Whatever you think happy stuff is for you, good
luck with that. It is like learning to enjoy a piece
of cake with maggots running around in its flavors.

The Tightening Grip

The Lake

Here I am afloat in my psychological
life boat. Drifting around at 3am, that
was when the past broke loose and rode
around with me.

It was telling me it wasn’t that far behind.
Part of it was still out front, the part that
help me see, how to steer clear of the
tricky stuff ahead.

Saying why I can sometimes cry about some
of the hours that stuck in my head. Mentioned
how my body was going finish at the starting
line.

It said, they call that now and then. Helped me
miss thoughtlessness of the ones with little bitty
brains. Remembering is part of that past. There
is no future without it.

Soon enough the secrets we had won’t know
the past, at that point what lays ahead becomes
less clear. What may stick out is the end of the
this here, must be near.

Run becomes ran, understand becomes understood,
Ain’t is now can’t. Wouldn’t sounds like a car engine
that couldn’t start. I told the past, get lost.  I’m  just
in the middle of this lake. You got in my boat by mistake!

Portrait of a Lady with Moon and Meteorite

For the Smell of It

Got caught up in some lust stuff,
while inhaling some peppermint
minutes. I forgot about knowing
better.

I shouldn’t have read your letter
after mid-night, you scented with
lavender oil. I’m on my way to
saying something I didn’t want to.

Running around in a circle, trying
to out maneuver a groove that was
chasing me. Getting to know you
better, is a more than a knowing a
notion.

Spanish music displaying itself in the
back of my head, isn’t helping me be
cool. Right before I left, I tried to disguise
my passion, by watching a maggot eat
a fly.

Nothing could over-ride what’s inside  me.
I’m happy the door wasn’t locked, I
wanted to knock it down. I saw grandma
frown, on my way to your door on second
floor.

She went back to working her puzzle and
shaking her head. I pushed back the screen,
it was a damn dream and you weren’t even
there anymore!

So, no more peppermint. I’ll try oil of
Cloves next time to see how that
goes, because I don’t want dream like that
no more.

New York Late City Final

Dreamt

While  asleep my dream tried to
stab me in the back. I know it’s
hard to imagine that.

The thing used one of my emotions
to create a lotion, a potion, using it
to stay awake all night.

It reneged on part two, that was the
part where I was to meet you. At least
your dream would meet me halfway.

Mine tried to take you away, by promising
You, things it knew it couldn’t possibly deliver.
It shared my visions with a pair of nightmares.

The dream you had last night was really
supposed to go to me, I wasn’t worried
because, it knew you were mine all the time.

When I wasn’t asleep it wouldn’t speak,
then the venetian blinds, heard from the
wind, that it wasn’t time, for it to come in.

I pained, trying to explain what it was saying.
I don’t know if I laughed or cried. At the end of
the day I didn’t care what it said, because you
are laying here next to me in our bed.

Next time, don’t give me no more of those darn
sleeping aids.

Poetry by Proet M A Shaheed. Décollages by John Greiner.

◊

M A Shaheed began writing in the seventh grade and continued after high school. First published in White Motors newspaper under the name of Clyde Shy. The column was called “The Poets Corner,” that he’d helped to establish. In 1963/64 living in Stockholm, Sweden, he wrote stories for a photographer whose pictures were sold to newspapers & magazines. M A Shaheed became a professional musician, playing bass violin and played with major Avant Garde musicians. Continued to write, but it wasn’t on the front burner. In 1966 joined poetry workshop called the Muntu Poets, headed by Russell Atkins, noted Avant Garde poet and composer along with well- known poet and playwrite Norman Jordan located in Cleveland, Ohio. At the end of that year “68”, began to work on his spiritual development. M A Shaheed stopped writing for 3 decades, but driven back to his pen by a clearer understanding of the real reality. Has since published 44 books, been in numerous anthologies. Working with a new publisher, with 3 more books on the way. The genre includes novellas, poetry, short stories, Flash Fiction. “My goal is to keep writing until I stop, until I can no longer hear.”

John Greiner is a writer and visual artist living in New York City. He was educated at the New School for Social Research. Greiner’s work has appeared in Antiphon, Sand Journal, Empty Mirror, Sensitive Skin, Unarmed, Street Value and numerous other magazines. His books of poetry include Circuit (Whiskey City Press), Turnstile Burlesque (Crisis Chronicles Press) and Bodega Roses (Good Cop/Bad Cop Press). His collaborative work with photographer Carrie Crow has appeared at the Tate Liverpool, the Queens Museum and in galleries in New York, Los Angeles, Venice, Paris, Berlin and Hamburg.