Zakharinish zeitgeist
by
Mishka Zakharin
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Mishka Zakharin on Smashwords
Zakharinish Zeitgeist
Copyright © 2010 by Mishka Zakharin
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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“Few authors can entertain, make you laugh, evoke emotion, (possibly) offend you… and make you think—let alone all of the above. Mishka Zakharin is one such author. Even if you don’t consider yourself a poetry buff, you are sure to find something in his writings that will hold your interest and keep you turning the pages…”
- Dana Grizzél, examiner.com
“… reminiscent of Shakespeare… intermixed with the poetry of love (or at least lust) that takes you aback and makes you draw in breath.”
- Kaye Lynne Booth, Writing to be Read
“Zakharin averts existential absurdity by exploring, with candid wit and keen observation… Zakharin’s work is honest and subversive. Dark humor just got brighter. Mishka and his murky musings… truly talented—an unusual voice.”
- Shannon Sloan-Spice, B.A. Writing/Philosophy, UW—Waukesha
“…readers will feel inspired and learn a lot about the power of words. You will either fall deeply in love or run for the hills…”
- Cori Lark, author of Electric Ink
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Zakharinish Zeitgeist
Contents:
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I am both yin and yang—
though I suppose more yangly
than yinister—
in all of their
consummate cosmology;
I am both wave
and particle—
not to mention
a warm, fuzzy
beast of love
in the sack!…
a macrocosm of nothingness,
a microcosm of all—
epistemologically speaking,
I’m just your average, everyday,
peasant, avatar, Svengali, bastard beanhead,
spewing forth an over-cooked
and under-digested feast of
pseudo-psycho-literary-babble…
If you were to take away
the prurient essence of
my underlying corporeity,
I’d be nothing but a stray thought—
alea jacta est…
I suppose it’s really rather like
what Descartes was always saying:
“I don’t know anything about anything…
but I know this—
ready or not, here I come!”
“…a damp, drizzly November
in my soul…”
(—or a warm, wet, friendly May
in my spleen…?!)
Amidst her vivacious solicitudes,
obliquely squalid ostentatiousness entreats—
yet such evanescent imputations
of errant eruditions
are but irascibly cast off,
leaving narily discernible inculcations
of fractious infidelity…
potent desires engorging—
in their wake, an indolent seething
to all else but the object of affectation…
Ahab’s ghost, with his bludgeoning appendage,
kicks at soulful shins of consummate zeitgeist…
lost an the vexatious maelstrom
of passion’s refutation:
“at last his spout grew thick,
and with a frightful roll and vomit,
he turned upon his back a corpse.”
I don’t like haiku—
it seems so stupid to me…
(I don’t mean to judge).
In beauty beguiling—
my first married woman…
(if you don’t count that other one…)
her long, coppery-auburn hair
is what I remember most—
lingering as the maryjanewatson
of my soul!…
an ironically cherubic face—
a smile never failing
to melt me where I stood,
dribbling all away
into a gooey mishka puddle
of amorous adoration!…
her hands were soft—
her lips softer…
and when I held her in my arms
—yes, I know it’s clichéd
(in my words, if not in my actuality)—
I wanted never to let her go…
she was not as lithe
as those I generally sought then…
(my tastes have broadened since…
mayhap, in part, from her influence?…)
but she had a comfortable fleshiness—
a warm, wonderful, cushy goodness,
verily melting into me…
I loved how she complimented me endlessly—
(who doesn’t love a good ego-stroking?)
—commenting on my sense of humor,
my intelligence and coolness…
my bitchin’ righteous tan,
or the sexiness of my abundant body hair…
(and it would have been
even more flattering, I suppose,
if it hadn’t all been punctuated
with half-laughed declarations
of “I’m SO drunk!!”
butanyhoo…)
—and then she said
how much she loved parrots,
and she would stroke mine—
as lovingly as she had my ego…
and we would dance and laugh and smile,
and lose ourselves in one another for awhile…
‘til summer passed all away,
our moments met along with it…
nights out on the town, for years after,
I would have her in the back of my mind,
hoping for a reappearance—
desiring a rekindling of our flame,
even as reality made me fear
the spark would remain forever faded…
but as irretrievable as a dream upon waking,