Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla

Masks

Fingers,

clawing at my face,

slipping beneath the facade,

tugging, tearing, flailing,

stripping off the veneer,

exposing the fragmented decay,

cloaked,

under this mask I wear today.

Hands,

groping for another layer,

embroidered on my thin skin,

peeling, rotting, searing,

shaving away the truths,

entwined in a jagged kiss,

revealing,

the vacuum of an emotional abyss.

Fleeing,

from myself yet again,

bound for nothingness,

desolate, cold, empty,

lost on barren pathways,

bruising my heart as I tread,

shuddering,

at the horrors that lie ahead.

Copyright © 2012 by Afzal Moolla

A New Disasterpiece: About Writer’s Block

The problem I have had as a writer is that I am blind to the elemental nature of story. I cannot scribble further than my nose. My characters are plegic deaf-mutes who dialogue gibberish and adventure into a plot of unsold film.

In my day dreams, I compose epic tales. I create archetypal characters who start simple but achieve greatness. Who, with a sword, ray gun, and spell book, save the multiverse from the entropy of nature. However, I have failed to complete a novel, which is probably why I write poetry.

The words I compose spin round and around a single feeling. I tend to describe it with a wind screaming through a grove of alder trees along the licking shores of a shallow creek.

But ever since I started back at employment, the earth of my mind has emptied itself like the pages filling a blank journal. My book is un-writing itself into a white expanse of hushed chaos.

---William James, 10/24/2012

Penhead Theater Presents: The Emperor Bonaparte

GoPro Armizare Ryan versus Kurt

Copyright © 2012 by Kurt Studenroth

I am a knight:

       the ones that people say

       go searching for adventures.

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla

The Ballad of an Exiled Soul

Escape, flee, run and hide,

shed all of your identity,

especially on the inside,

sleep less, eat just a little,

cast away all your desire,

in a heart torn and brittle,

work hard, keep your head low,

dismiss the dreams of yesterday,

drag on a cigarette, deep and slow,

save your coins, darn your socks,

forget all about her, how she smiled,

wash the ache away neat, not on the rocks,

catch a chill, fall sick, writhe and twist around,

give up, comatose in a nameless room, eye open,

waiting for release, in a hole in the cold ground.

Copyright © 2012 by Afzal Moolla

Roberto de Range interview on Hollow Earth Radio

Tyson Talks with Roberto de Range on Hollow Earth Radio

Penhead Theater Presents: The Emperor Bonaparte

The Helmet of Mambrino

Copyright © 2012 by Kurt Studenroth

I am a knight:

       the ones that people say

       go searching for adventures.

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla

Vula Amehlo (open your eyes)

Vula amehlo

sisters and brothers

though eyes aren’t needed to behold

the flowing tears of those of us, left out in the cold

vula amehlo

sisters and brothers

the time to turn your back is long gone

no time now to pander and no time now to fawn

vula amehlo

sisters and brothers

we the people are hungry, angry, and our skin is torn

though we say it loudly, unbowed we are, and not forlorn

vula amehlo

sisters and brothers

we may be invisible and tucked away far from you

but we are here, still, waiting for the promise of freedom to come true

vula amehlo

sisters and brothers

you see us sometimes, though you avert your gaze

come on now, compatriots, awaken from your complacent daze

vula amehlo

sisters and brothers

we are the open wound that festers on your ostentatious display

band-aids won’t do anymore, we are here, and we are here to stay

vula amehlo

sisters and brothers

as you roll down your windows and toss us some coins, look in our eyes

we are your slumbering consciences, we are the famished proof of your lies

vula amehlo

sisters and brothers

forget us not as you tuck your pretty children in, and turn off the lights

we too are the children whose mothers, fathers fought for all our peoples’ rights

vula amehlo

sisters and brothers

don’t think that we are bitter and livid for no reason or cause

we have been waiting and waiting, for days and a decade, without any pause

vula amehlo

sisters and brothers

vula amehlo

mothers and fathers

vula amehlo

brown and white and all shades of this rainbow so bright

we repeat what we said, we are not going to melt away into the night

vula amehlo

one and all

our patience is being tested from day to day, year to year

we have listened to your promises and we now demand that you hear

vula amehlo

open your eyes

and see us, and hear us clearly, and hear us today

band-aids won’t do anymore, we are here, and we are here to stay

vula amehlo

open your eyes

"Vula Amehlo" - Zulu for 'open your eyes'

Copyright © 2012 by Afzal Moolla

Carla's Birds: Washed Away

Washed Away

We buried Mom. Dead. Finally. Pancreatic cancer is a fast, vicious way to go. It is fast, cancer-wise, but not fast enough. For the last two months Mama could barely hear me. She always had that faraway glazed look as she tried to deal with the pain, every moment, every day.

I went home and washed my car. Papa used to joke about it.

"How is it that scrubbing cars can make a child of mine look so ecstatic? He used to say to Mom and all his friends. It was the best washed car in town, then it would be. If I stop, I'm back at the same old monster movie. I get in free.

I remembered the weekend it started. Mom had found Papa's journal. The first he knew about it was when it hit him on the head and she howled, "How could you?"

She clipped him on the ear to make sure he was listening and then sent our scrabble board scrittering across the floor. She pointed to the door and I ran, but not to far.

"How could you write with...venom of one who died in such pain?" she cried. The only person I knew who had died was my Uncle Joe. Dead before I was born, the story I heard was that he had fallen on a piece of rebar at a construction site. It pierced his stomach and he died a couple of weeks later after infection set in. They say my grandparents really never got over it.

"Why shouldn't I?" roared Papa, right back.

"Why shouldn't I write bad things about that bastard. I've been a good father to yours, haven't I?"

She slapped him. I heard it. I was still trying to understand - did Mom have another kid I didn't know about? My world was starting to rock.

"I loved him, you have no right. I thought you were a good man," she added bitterly.

What a weekend it was, with the confusion and pain between Mama & Papa virtually tangible. If it had had a physical substance their antipathy would have filled our house with mud.

Things cooled down but they were never the same after that and ever since...our family had the cleanest cars in town.

---By Carla Blaschka, 5/26/12

    Written at Richard Hugo House alongside PurpleMark Wirth.

    Read at Works in Progress, Richard Hugo House's, Open Mic 6/4/12.

Carla’s Birds:                                                                         

"How could he write with venom of one who died in such paid?" Luigi Ballerini. The Cadence of a Neighboring Tribe. Jeremy Parzen, translator. (Sun & Moon Press, 1997), Page 50.

"I'm back at the monster movie. I got in free." Joan Byers Grayston. Poem Insomnia Sonata. The Creek with No Name. (Frayn Printing Co, 1979). Page 50.

"How is it that scrubbing cars can make a son of mine look so ecstatic?" Papa Hanif Kureishi. London Kills Me. (Penquin Books, 1992). Page 50.

"What a weekend it was, with the confusion and pain between Mom and Dad virtually tangible; if it had a physical substance, their antipathy would have filled our house with mud.” Hanif Kureishi. Play My Beautiful Laundrette in The Buddha of Suburbia. (Penquin Books, 1990). page 50.