Peeing: to ***; to urinate; to release the body of its liquid toxins; to pass or discharge *****; characteristically yellow- the strength of the color depending on the body’s hydration.
People have strange habits when peeing; urinating; releasing the body of their liquid toxins. Some people procrastinate it to the last minute and rush to the bathroom, barely yanking their pants down in time and shuddering in relief. They are those who habitually whip in and out, even when they don’t really need to. There’s the common usage of an escape from boredom in classes or meetings. Perhaps it even causes a slight blushing in the cheeks of painfully shy woman at hearing rushed tinkling so close by. And of course, they are also the people who love to leave surprises for the next person who uses the bathroom.
All in all, peeing seems to mean not much to people – a small part of life; but a very, very necessary part.  

                                 *                 *                    * .

The rain poured furiously outside the window as Emily sat, straining her brown eyes against the whiteboard flashing images of trigonometry from Mr. Well’s laptop, trying hard to concentrate. She was sitting in her usual seat in class, and also her favorite. It was a solitary table with a chair, away from the clusters of tables and the chattering children, and the only chair by the window. She liked to look out the window, even if it distracted her from Mr. Well’s loud explanations. The booming of “SOHCAHTOA” in her ears became distant as the wind’s movement caught her eye. She gazed out on sheets of rain flapping across the sky like giant teary spirits and pressed her fingertips on the glass. Cold.
Absent-mindedly, she pressed her cheek against the coolness and felt it absorb her body warmth. Her imagination kicked in and the glass became a panel of energy, ******* a little life from all those who touched it, vibrating with a strange purple light until it was so filled with energy the particles of the glass would explode and she would be the first to die from the sharp shatters that would spray across the room, causing droplets of blood to-
Ahem.
Mr. Well coughed meaningfully at her dreamy face. The class exploded into laughter and the bell rang. A skinny girl smiled at her but she was so lost in her own world, she forgot to smile back as she slung her bag on her shoulder and ran out. Maybe that’s why she didn’t have too many friends.
The dark skies were pouring furiously as only Bangkok in Monsoon weather can.
A walk home or a motorbike ride? A motorbike ride would be a little dangerous in this flooding… and with that reasoning she waved up a motorbike. The seat was soaked and so was the driver, whose brown leathered feet struggled to keep red flip-flops on as they sloshed through the flooded Sois.
Fat water bullets pelted her skin and the wind blew them ferociously into her face till her eyes stung. The motorbike swerved in and out of the cars stuck in traffic (slightly floating), the bottoms of their wheels immersed in ***** water.
The pockets of her school shorts were hastily rummaged through and she pulled out a soggy green twenty-baht note bank before running into the shelter of the lobby, dripping over the marble floor and completely drenched. The building-maid widened her eyes, and watched her horrified; knowing it meant extra work mopping and drying up the lobby floor as soon as Emily vanished into the elevator.
The plastic button with the circular metal piece glowed orange. It was strange how she was shivering with cold but her touch was still warm enough to light up the elevator buttons.
The usual itchy, impulsive, restlessness was building up inside her from the wet motorbike ride. Thunder roared and crackled through the lobby’s swinging glass doors and they vibrated slightly. Another flashing image of splintering glass splashed across her mind and in the split-second, she saw the diamond shards pierce the eye of the lobby’s guard and splinter across the floor-
She shook her head. This was what happened when she had too much pent-up energy. She had to do something- something reckless and fast and dangerous… now! A bolt of lightning went through her as a familiar wide open space came into her mind… the rooftop of her thirty-five floored building.
The elevator ride up was slow, much too slow for the fast pacing of her heart and she hit the metal doors with wet fists. Tearing out of the doors when it finally jolted to a stop, she climbed up to the top, running up the stairs two steps at a time and caught her breath. It was flooded up to her ankles and violent gusts of wind made her steady herself.
Emily’s Dad often told her stories of when he was child. “The winds in my home during Monsoon season were so strong we could lean into it with our fully body weight and we wouldn’t fall. It was almost as good as flying.”
Her lids squinted shut and the sensitive skin was immediately exposed to the pebbles of the rain and whipping wind; and in almost dream-like state, she leaned into the howling wind.
There was a comically slow fall and her bony knees hit the concrete flooring with a dull thud. She burst into tears of laughter in her own stupidity at thinking the wind could hold up against her gigantic frame and rubbed her ***** knees sorely. Reaching up to wipe her tears with muddy fingers, she laughed to herself again. There was no point in wiping away tears. They were so trivial in comparison to the current weeping of the skies.
Against the thick opaqueness of the wind, she could see how the view towered over a jungle of buildings as far as the eyes could see, with snaking concrete roads and skinny black canals. Slums scattered around nearby swanky hotels of the rich. The buildings faded into small dark shapes in the distance. Bangkok.
No matter how tall and industrial it tried to become, everyone ran for cover under this blinding rain.
Up here, completely a victim to nature’s power, she felt exposed; naked; real. The animalistic instincts inside her swelled up. Humans weren’t meant to wear these annoying pieces of material or shoved inside skinny architectural designs. With aggressive tearing motions, a pile of soggy clothes half lay, half floated on the flooded floor beside her and she stood there bare… and completely naked. Laughter spilled out from the depths of her naked chest with the two tiny hints of possible womanhood; it was louder than thunder. Screaming, laughing and gasping she stumbled around – climbing over objects and feeling the beautiful dizziness: a sweet, sweet dizzy. She stood up on a random block a meter high; spread her arms wide as her wet body shone with raindrops. The rain threatened to push her over, her soaked hair twitching heavily on her neck.
She ****** in her breath, ready to yell so that the heavens could hear but instead, the voice that came out was controlled with a shaky undertone of joy,
“I need to ***.”
And then she did.

                                                *         *            *.

His eyes are brown. Dark chocolate brown – a simple, solid color. Simple and solid like him.
Because he was so simple, people enjoyed his companionship. Though he was simple, he was not boring. Rather he was sharp-mouthed, quick on his feet, witty and observant speaking bald truths about people that either provoked them to scandalized laughter or humiliated fury.
What some people forgot to recognize was that he didn’t really love anyone. Plenty called him a close friend, but so absorbed were they in their own world; they seldom realized the fact that most of his thoughts were concealed. Kept in a little box of surprises in the back of his mind, and hidden so well nobody knew they existed.
He could spend months with a friend traveling in a different country, and return back home with no feelings of attachment. He could care for a friend while they were here and not really miss them while they were gone.
Most of the time his eyes were neutral and observing and they would sparkle amusedly when he had provoked someone with his words. This was how remained to almost everyone; everyone but one person. The one person that could turn his normally calm face even more still, the dark brows would rise slightly and a quick flash of fire would shoot through his eyes- and for a long while, they would burn slowly like two twin coals; the one person who could cloud his eyes dreamily; the one person who could make them glint wetly.  
He reached over and grabbed her hand. Emily turned smiling eyes at him.
A group of teenagers were strolling down the closed roads, armed with water guns, pasted in thick white powder, thoroughly drenched in the hot, dry weather and skipping over puddles (except for Emily who splashed into them).
Songkran in Bangkok: celebrated in the middle of April where temperatures reach forty-degrees Celsius, Thailand’s New Year and a time to pay respect to the elders in the family, but as most traditions, they became really just an excuse to enjoy oneself and in this case, one-year-olds to eighty-year-olds roamed the ***** streets splashing ice-cold water from hoses and water guns and smeared each other with chalk in buckets.
The street they were being shoved along was crowded with slick, drunk bodies. The heat of the afternoon sun shone down on their backs. The sign that introduced excited people in was sprayed by a passing pick-up truck filled with screaming locals. “WELCOME TO SOI COWBOY” printed the red letters.
Red-faced fat foreigners held in each arm a tiny ******* with their bright lace bras showing through the wet see-through shirt and their black eye shadow playing havoc with their cheeks.  Country-side Thai music blared in its jumpy, quirky manner with the over done sound effects. Those nasal voices of dark skinned women with their skins covered with make-up to an ashy white whined out of the stereos. A man with the head of a buffalo mask sauntered past. It was a mark of how wild things got at Songkran that eyes merely flickered over the shirtless buffalo briefly with a quick laugh. Transsexuals clad in diamond-studded flip-flops, wet white tank tops and mini jeans shorts the size of underwear danced to the blasting music from the open pubs down either side of the road. Their surgically-made ******* were all-too visible in the white shirts, their dark ******* poking out as they grabbed the crotches of good-looking men and boys that passed by, squealing and rubbing their bodies against white men especially. Most of these white foreigners had a look of bewildered pleased ness... for only a few realized that underneath that squeaky voice was a very deep rumble, and underneath those lacy thongs lay a very big surprise indeed.
One of the better-looking boys in the group, his green eyes and pointed chin drawing the fancy of many hookers, was pulled off by four pairs of wet skinny arms touching him and yelling in broken English, “Oh so handsome! You so handsome! I love you! What your name! You tell me your name, handsome boy!”
The handsome boy proceeded to manage some sort of scream for help while laughing until his stomach ached. It was Songkran; it was a merry time, and he knew he was good-looking. Kat, who held a secret crush on him laughed amusedly at his yelping.
Emily stumbled after him with Kat and parted through the crowd of ladies in time to see a tiny little ****** trip on her squeaking flip-flops and fall beside a sprawled figure, face down in the ***** road with a massive bag of ice on top of him.
“Hey! Are you alright?” Emily cried, half-amused and half-concerned, lifting the heavy ice bag off his shoulders.
Kat rushed forward, laughing but compromising her concern with furrowed brows and helped him up. “You okay Tom?”
He whimpered in pain and put a hand on his neck, rubbing it sorely. “That ice bag was ******* heavy.” The girls decided to make no note of his skinny arms.
They walked back to their group of friends who turned around and saw a limping green-eyed boy and roared with laughter. The noise caught the attention of predators searching for a good target and they were hosed down with water pipes.
Suddenly Emily felt a huge body lift her up and swing her around while hands plastered her with wet chalk.
“Emily!”
She felt safe hands grab her and looked up into the pair of dark chocolate eyes. They were a little annoyed as they flickered over the fat drunk man who released her heavily but it was Songkran, and he managed to laugh at her bewildered expression.
Just then they passed a horde of prostitutes and she felt him being ripped from her. “I like this one!” screeched a passing market lady who rushed in to jump on him. “I like this one! Let’s keep this one!” They dunk his head in a bucket of white goo.
She screeched with laughter and even at something that silly, felt protective of him. “Brad!”
He was too busy being attacked. “Brad!” she tried to reach in and he opened his mouth to call out to her. That was a big mistake, he realized, as he received a handful of powder in his mouth. Spitting, coughing, and trying to breathe through nostrils blocked with powder he managed to wipe his stinging eyes clean. The prostitutes released him but not before a huge ******* screamed with glee at his straight nose and thin red lips, and reached forward giving his crotch a good grab. He screeched in genuine disgust and fear, had a moments feeling of guilt in case he had offended the ******* which was immediately wept away as he, no she, no it, yelped joyfully and massaged his **** before trotting off to his, no her, no its next victim.
Where was Emily? With his height, he managed to see a brown head that stuck above the other dark-haired and light-haired heads being jostled out of the street by the moving crowd. He ran to catch up and grabbed Emily’s hand as the group of teenagers tripped out of “Soi Cowboy”.  
They stood for a moment catching their breath. Zoey, a tiny little girl with a chest that threatened to put her out of balance, pushed her brown curls out of her face. A red glow was starting to spread over her cheeks.
Kat laughed scornfully, her wide smile spreading generously over her face. “Sunburn?! You white girl!”  
They had all been out around the streets since early morning and it was late in the afternoon now. Rose’s cheeks were flushed and the tip of Kat’s nose was a little pink herself. The rest of them, with their darker skin, had tanned slightly but unnoticeably. They laughed at Zoey for a short while. It was an interesting group of friends: all of them of mixed heritages from around the world with different backgrounds that became common in the world of International schools. It was alright to tease Emily’s honey skin; it was funny to crack jokes about Stefan’s hairiness; it was hilarious when Zoey tried to tan.
Emily shot a picture of everyone laughing: their clothes wet, their faces scrunched up, eyeliner smudged (Kat and Rose had lined their eyes with water proof kohl that of course wasn’t really waterproof), their cheeks and chin caked a crumbly white.
Kat and Zoey clambered over her shoulders, peering at the little digital screen of the water proof camera. “Ew! Gross!” yelled Kat who was only used to pictures of her lips rosy from lipstick, camera at a flattering angle with a bright flash from her professional equipment that made her black-lined green eyes sparkle like emeralds.
“Delete! I look sick!”
Even Zoey, who admired Kat’s photogenic ness to a great extent, could find no words of solace except to say, “Me too! I look gross! Delete! Now!”
Emily just laughed and said, “No you don’t.” Of course it wasn’t a type of picture they’d profile on Facebook, but all the same it was beautiful with their wild-looking and uninhibited faces and un-posing body shapes, curled up in laughter.
Zoey snatched the camera from her and they fiddled with the buttons till the picture was deleted. It was regretful, annoying, but not unexpected.
Emily rubbed her sore knees and noticed how Tom was still rubbing his neck sorrowfully with Stefan laughing at him, shaking his head wearily. Brad was holding onto her arm a little tiredly, Kat and Zoey had their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulder for leaning support and Rose and Emily’s younger brother, Jason, were standing together, staring absen

Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Her leathered fingers pulling it though from one single taut line, until it forms a flowing tapestry of a quilt.
She forgets. The mail. The laundry. The casserole that burned her house down.
The threads are her memories that have been lost. Each one a moment, a place, a person.
She forgets. Their names.
These threads are the last she will weave.
Family acts as thread. The quilt that catches her as she falls farther from herself into an image as faded as the last photo of her husband.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread Pierce Weave.
She forgets. The quilt.
The daughter finds it, and sees a half spelled out name.
She forgets. Her name.
The daughter brings her mother her memories.
The daughter helps guiding her mother’s hand.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Threads become patches, patches from the cloth.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Mother and daughter weave together an inheritance.
The quilt is finished, a single name. She utters the name she has been trying to find.
She remembers. Her Grandson.

Leathered Earth

Our ground has many twigs and
Knife-like stones
That cause us to cry out

Always stepping gingerly about
We wish that we could fly
Or levitate a little
Just above the
Pointed prickly stuff
Down on the ground

We bitterly complain
Try to
Redesign and rearrange

We would like a leather carpet
Unfurled
Around our world
So our tender little feet can live
Forever
In comfort and in peace

Do we cover our infinite galaxy
Forever
With leather

Or do we wear shoes?

Sean Hunt
Windermere November 2015

Maybe. Maybe I said it. Maybe.
Maybe I said, “I love you.”
And maybe. Maybe. It was too soon.
And maybe you panicked or I panicked or we panicked.
And maybe we should have waited longer.
For a lunar eclipse to kiss and whisper it under.
Or at least at the top of a Ferris Wheel.
Even soft neon lights of a gas station before a road trip to say… Disneyland would do.
But maybe.
I didn’t wait. And I said it the first time it bubbled out of my chest like mercury and tried to force itself out of the corners of my eyes, shining like mirrors.
And  maybe we panicked.
And maybe you’ll decide to take some time.
And I’ll think it’s a good idea.
And you’ll get around to painting your bedroom walls blue.
And I’ll finally finish that replica of… Big Ben.. made from… toothpicks.. or some ****..
And you’ll get that job for that network.
And I’ll decide to be a carnie, because my feet have always felt so much better on the road.
And you’ll laugh.
Just maybe less…
Or not as hard..

And I’ll learn to roll cigarettes and run the Ferris wheel. And wind up with an eye patch from a freak dart accident in a pub in Scotland. And get sun leathered skin. And road earned muscles.

And I’ll master all the rigged midway games.

And you’ll have a better time in France than the last time and make it back to Greece to see the oracle. And learn to play the violin.

And I’ll develop a keen sense of when to pause the Ferris Wheel to leave the couple at the top just.. one.. moment.. longer..

Or at least secretly teach him how to throw the dime to win her the really big ******* Snoopy.

And I’ll wonder if you ever wake up and look for me.
And you’ll wake up sometimes and look for me.
And I for you.

And maybe I’ll get self absorbed and write the rest of this poem from my perspective.
But probably not.
And maybe one day I’ll go to the fortune teller to find out how you are. And where you are. And you won’t be far away. But I won’t want to intrude.

And then the fortune teller will tell me not to play the game where you knock the milk bottles over anymore because fortune tellers say weird **** like that sometimes..

And maybe I’ll listen..

And maybe I won’t.

Maybe one day, I’ll forget and teach the nerdy highschool kid how to beat the milk bottle game so he can get the frosted mirror with the cheesy rose and the word ‘LOVE’ in cursive for his girlfriend, because *******, sometimes you have to help the underdog  get the girl.

And maybe the gypsy will be right..

And those bottles.
At that moment.
Were some kind of cosmic key.

And as they topple over, all hell bust loose and pours violently out of the mouth of the bottles.

And demons flood into our world in waves.

(And if she kisses him at the top of the Ferris Wheel? Totally worth it.)

And in time, the world would have to notice.

What with the Leviathan coming out of the ocean and the dead rising from their graves and the four guys on horses and all the pesky locusts.

And did I mention the Zombies? And the vampires? And the Vampire Zombies?

And who would have thought that the adorable little fairies would be carnivorous and cannibals and just plain mean?

And maybe it would attract the attention of Aliens. And that U.F.O. you saw that one time in Texas. And maybe the U.F.O’s would attack and fight the Leviathan, which would be kind of bad ***.

And the zombies would fight the vampires and the vampires would fight the zombies and the Vampire Zombies would fight themselves and the Zombie Vampire survivors would find that they had a distinct taste for Soy.

And maybe us carnies would have enough experience with sledgehammers and haunted houses that we’d be rather good at fighting zombies. And I’d be particularly bad *** because of the eye patch and leathery skin and hand rolled cigarettes that I chew on more than smoke. And maybe I’d go lone wolf and ride a motorcycle. Which is also kind of bad *** and I’d do okay considering the apocalypse and all because honestly?

I’ve never been all that scared of ghosts and devils. And the UFOS are busy with the Leviathan and their really is only four of the horseman and we keep a professional distance just the same and the locusts and the fairies are at war, besides locusts don’t bother me, save for the noise.

And look..

I guess what I am really saying is this:

I think maybe I could survive.

And I think maybe I could rescue you.

And maybe we could fall in love.

Polished off the filler rods
now lifes got me dreaming
soley about the silver lining
the spooning of the woman on the moon
Keep mapping the schematic, the big move
heading straight to the oil soaked cash
Ready again to make the great dash
This time I'll save my dimes
for those unavoidable hard times
I'll pile it under my matress
a secrete stash thats all mine
Work my *** to the bone
by welding up a storm
Sitting all leathered up
on my light weaver throne
To meditate and consentrate
on 13 times the suns bright
Keep the eyes focused and fixate
count to ten when the mechanics frustrate
Troubleshoot the lines of life
fix the issue then
collect the lute.

the night of the fake dead has become eternal
(i will wear Susan Lucci's face for it)

staggering through excesses unknown
and the uncertainty of this ranking system,
you tried to eat my earlobe
but lost interest in it quickly.
your scent safe in this butterfly net,
i am surrounded by the
murderous howls of your perennial
buttercups, determined to tempt
my animal ******* instincts.

     (enuma elish la nabu shamamu)
     (shapiltu ammatum shuma la zakrat)

i have tripped in the garden of Eve's desire
and felt torrents across my cheeks
of alternating salt and sugar-sweet nectar.
i have held the red locks of wort
and danced on the blossom-littered ground
in remembrance of wandered attention.

     (When in the heights heaven had not been named)
     (and below, firm ground had not been called...)

i have wept in the shadow of Adam's twin towers
and seen the rift between the continents
ebb and fall under silence's blanket.
i have leathered my skin under this star
to defend my eyes and tongue from
the bite of the turtle goddess.

i have seen the feast of the water,
devouring the naked soil of Pangea,
and tasted its salt with my eyes.
i have undertaken the toil of the shaduf,
churning mud and planting seeds for
the return of the floral messiah.

     (Amaru baur rata)
     (Shagane Ir Imshi)

i have borne the yoke of the oxen
and reaped stalks of wheat
in the summer's first harvest
i have broken bread with companions
under starlight mixed embers
glowing log light orange dynamo

     (The Flood swept thereover)
     (His heart was filled with tears)

Will you scream for me?
Can you profess the holiness
of my mission?
My name, my motif, echoes
across the ages...

Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!

In the end we are called upon by
stronger forces, blank expressions, glassy eyes

Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!

the cold of the world's knife,
pressed against the flesh of our selves,
unconscious rhythm heartbeat pounding
twisted sense rhumba of a thousand tiny shards

Siaynoq!
Call me to a greater purpose
Siaynoq!
Spill my blood across the sand

The dust will gather on beaten forge
which crafted hardened steel.
Even hardest blade it gorged,
but all forget the Blacksmith.

Rooted deep in township’s yore
with a trade of kings and conquest.
Upon him once relied your lore,
but all forget the Blacksmith.

Leathered hands, up night and day
with visage of steel and focus.
Sparks will reign and fly and spray,
but all forget the Blacksmith.

But when your steed wears down his hooves
or your gate-posts starts to splinter,
you’ll be found needing hardened grooves;
you won’t forget the Blacksmith.

For it is he who works all day
And keep the townsfolk working.
If you need hardship kept at bay,
Don’t forget the Blacksmith.

I dream of leathered men, I dream of you, touching me, ******* me, loving me.
Hold me in your clutch, dominate me, make me yours.
Your voice like velvet, and your body like diamond.
Cut me, mark me, I am your canvas.
I am your art.
The cruelest artist with a delicate touch.
I beg of you.
I whimper in pleasure.
More please.
"Be a good boy for me" "yes sir" on my knees. Complete submission.
Take me to space.
Make me forget all that came before you.

at two years old,
your curious hands
happened upon a bottle of
flea medicine
that lay waiting on the counter.
your mother was absent as usual,
off on an errand,
or walking the dog.
unwatched,
your enterprising fingers
eased the lid from the container,
and you poured the sweet-smelling
liquid down your throat.
the world was still so new to you,
and it seemed to be made for tasting.
who could blame a child
with a thirst for more than
mushy peas and applesauce?
two days later
they released you from the hospital,
your stomach pumped dry.

when you were six,
idly exploring the woods of your mother’s
sprawling estate,
you paused a moment from imagining
faerie queens flitting about in the greenery
to take rest on a log,
your undiscerning eye not betraying
its secret: within it was a nest
of wasps,
and thinking they were faeries
you dared not move as they
rose in a cloud above your head
and overtook you,
leaving your body peppered with
painful angry sores.
you fell to the ground.
a hired man,
strong and tall as the oak trees,
saw your quick descent and
ventured after you,
made a hammock of his arms
to bear you like a fallen soldier
back to your mother’s house,
his tough sun-leathered skin
immune to the assaults of the
faerie battalion.

at eight,
playing in the small child-sized house
in your aunt’s garden,
you sought to make stained glass
from the broken shards of the playhouse window.
having no tool at hand,
what better way to
shatter the clear, flat plane
than with your fist?
before reason could take hold of you,
you drove your hand
through the glass,
and the raw edges cut deep into your veins.
blood flowed in rivers
from your wrist.
your aunt, ever watchful,
rushed from the house to
stop your body’s catharsis
with a dishcloth.
the jagged unpainted shards
lay forgotten on the ground.

you are leathered with residue
decaying the rust off your skin
with our initials crawling into
alabaster sheets that all I have really
felt while staring out at the streets
we're people fading by egotistical
lack of self confidence
even though I admit using
seducing strategies
possibly disgusted by my own
emotions
that I am placing ******
thrills on my own configuration
because it's humid and blatant
unkowling breathing ruthless sentiments
of our holy communion

I am splitting into a holy sin
drenched in blissful wartime rations
of water or passion
your cotton skin and these sheets
bold statements between white teeth
it’s all a fading mystery
you said I’m something childlike
your hands are stained cherry
and even if they were around my neck
I’d whisper your name like a vesper
simply waiting
for the day to come where it all fades
because you refuse to be a
young god
no matter how it seems to be
to me in all of my naivety

After years on this earth, I have weathered and grown.
As a child, I did things, I had joy, love, and goals.
In early summers, my life was a canvas for scar tissue:
hot pebbles burned soft skin into calloused glory,
the sun beat down and leathered my skin,
chlorine and dirt turned my young hair to gray.

When I was young, I etched tunnels in my bones,
with crayon and marker, I forged deep ivory valleys.
Some see this as cruelty, a sad deterioration,
but this atrophy is experience, the catalyst of life!

Years later, I sit here next to a painted sunrise.
With jell-o, gray matter rots on my styrofoam tray.
I wish for the summer, hot pebbles, and crayons,
for the laughter of youth and its calloused adventures.

But I've retired, so I sit idly in this plastic wheeled chair,
watching monitors beeping with ebbing heart lines,
grieving for my gray hair as it turns back to brown,
mourning, as my unused bones fill with marrow to the brim,
watching, heartbroken, old age clutching my hand,
as my wrinkled skin smooths away.

Evening cleats The Bay,

As cavalcades of passive argon, sulphur on
the ogham slicks,
to treacle ways toward the seeding
cooling of the hours,...

The sleights of crimson, fringe
the bruising cower of the West, to
brightly die behind the leathered hill.

From a wrist of tallowed amethyst,
a Tiercel purls a last ellipse, and in
his sinking helix ships, the Sommes
of curdled estuaries, to brood
the closing Mill....

I was made for war
My hands are soft, my lungs are weak
I was made for war
I have no discipline, I live to feed my flesh
I was made for war
My mind………my mind………………
It still contains the coal
Hot, burning, aware, remembering that
I was made for war
My leathered soul, dust covered, grey still burns
I feel it whisper, because
I was made for war
Lord, Oh my Lord
Harden my hands
Open my lungs
Discipline my mind and
Teach me to starve my flesh
Because
I was made for war*.

[Ephesians 6:12-13]

You are a traveler of the South lands
brown, a leathered skin coyote
desert walker of the Sonoran sands
crafty, black magic witch
a shaman, lucid dreamer
Yaqui Indian spell weaver
of visions, of paintings in the sand
mixing colors, peyote flowers
red, the melting of the aloe bowers
dark blood, the blooming agave towers
thick with snakes, the fire and hiss
that burns black of sacaton grass
the quiver and flash of flying sparks
igniting night, time traveling to the stars.

I can't seem to understand
These happenings
Scraped and leathered hands
Wipe away the stinging tears
Of this ardous transformation
Saying goodbye to everything
That no longer
Feeds me
Pulling from my old, tight skin
Growing into
The skin I was meant to be in.

THE FARMER
The lonely wood pigeon perched, echoes, sounds of joy – ‘the morning has risen’. The farmer stirs from a deep slumber as a beam of sunshine escapes through the curtain, reaching his furrowed, leathered, weather-beaten brow. He places one foot on the wooden floor, his lips part as the second foot completes the pair. Whispering, “Thank you;” he feels a deep gratitude for having awakened to this new day. He scratches his head in anxiety, with a hand that has worked the farm, wondering if the area aid from the EU will keep him afloat. He understands his maker has determined this day, yet the weather elements will dictate the farmer’s way. He glimpses through the window to see what is yet to come and sights a congregation of birds on the electricity cables above - a sure sign of rain on the way!
In the kitchen, he listens for a weather update. Warming himself near the Aga cooker while making a brew. He looks to the Sacred Heart picture and the hanging family rosary beads. To understand the farmer, one must understand the traditions of the land. The land has a holden-fist on the heart of the farmer, as many farmers well know. It has caused bitterness and disputes in generations past. The farmer must feel a love for the land and a passion for what he does best. The land holds high expectations and demands dedication from him.
From the first leaves falling in autumn, to the nurturing of crops through understanding of spraying techniques. In winter, hearing the cows crave for hay, and repairing machines during the low times. Springtime brings cattle and sheep grazing pastures new; and seagulls landing on freshly ploughed fields. Grass whirling in the wind, then corn ears blowing side by side. The warm glow of the valley in summer brings the harvesting of ripe golden corn. Haymaking sees farm picnics, readymade tea in old lemonade bottles, poured into mugs and stirred by straw, with the smell too of homemade bread and curney cake. The farmer, seeing birds migrate in a ‘V’ pattern, feels an anxiety for the year-end accounts yet to come. Feathers are scattered outside the chicken coup - the fox has been and gone!
The farmer leaves the doorway in silence and walks out to the fields to assess his crop. The early morning dew dampening the ends of his trousers as he walks. A slight smile parts his lips as he listens to insects galore. He bends down and reaches with a strong, hard-skinned, gloveless hand, grasping his crop and pulling from the root. He sees what he needs to know. In that moment he is complete; he is a Farmer! He turns and strokes his dog, which had been laging behind.
He understands his fate. One day he will leave the land behind – he will be gone, but the land will remain forever!

"Copyright Verona Pentony 2014  from 2nd collection Reflections from Time  see www.veronapentony.com

My tongue is leathered
vvith glory
an oral  j  u m  p   r o p e
            in the darkness!

Joy!!!
might you trip
&& break a femur
to make a meal of yourself?

Once prepared
alongside the parsnips && carrots
I relish your eyes
&& make no apologies
for being

Don't be sad
to be svvallowed
Some
are not as lucky

Seats sat around standing tables
void of conversation,
whilst waitresses danced around the homeless
clearing up their desperation with no fuss-
just a cloth wipe across the surface
and a smile to a lonely face;
hard wood walls closed in like
coffin-lid, coffin-hinged cases.

One man alone in the corner held hands with his coffee cup and looked up hoping for familiar faces.

And his finger snapped around the rim,
for this cup of coffee
was his only drink of the day.

And his fingers broke around its handle,
for this cup of coffee
was his wick and leathered-spine candle.

And his fingers melded to the cup,
because this cup of coffee
burnt like coughed-up cigarette ****-stubs.

We are young, they say,
like the new stars forming,
like the ocean sounds adorning
sleep to the city dweller,
with his leathered face
but handsome pay.

He's exchanging the sirens
for a more rhythmic pace,
taking off his coat
and professional face,
to press you to the wall,
forgetting the Keats and the Byrons
that came before.

We are young, I'm sure,
despite having to crawl,
despite disappearing into
the city sprawl,
and returning half a person,
only memory intact,
and a stream of shutting doors.

You're giving up too soon.
Too soon a disciple of established fact,
too soon beguiled by
your own stage-lit act;
a smile worn, rather than felt,
a dress bought for him,
but never touched,

and for all of the hands
you may have dealt,
not a single one
has kept you young.

Push and Punt
I wander where you are heading,
punching above your weight?
Sometimes resolvent
with a leathered face
where's the forgiveness?
like a two way mirror
it stretches  both ways,
culpability I hear you opine,
when you kick the germane tin can,
if you had known the source
of your ails,
you'd have less of the turbulence

To be found
Laying
Beneath the hovering sheath of smoke
To clamp your wet lashes
Together
As the dust lands on your lids
To follow the sillage to the light at the end
Of the road
To be carried down the winded path
Sheltered from the thick
Ferns
begging
To lift your chin
To wrap their jagged
Fingers
Around your neck
To hear the hollow laugh
Echo in the darkness
Of the rose amidst the thorns
As the wind brushes your cheek
he scurries past
Bearing you
In his arms
And as he sets you down
Gently
The earth beneath bare feet
you understand
when he reaches for your hand
for his, too
is leathered
all the same
leathered
and trembling from the the strain
Of years of letting go

mp

I found your letter today, and I went to the woods to read it.
Autumn robbed me of solitude in the tree-cover,
The wind eventually would chase me from the fire-pit.
That broke, then the snow fell accordingly, seasonally.
The solitude returned in the white and cold,
chased everyone else away, to drink and dance in their homes.
I bought my first overcoat before I caught my flight back,
a woolen grey to hide dirt I’d sit on to hide the tag.
In it the inner, right-breast pocket, I held you’re letter.
I remember its first reading in my room, on the coffee table,
taping the scissored quotes from the envelope to my mirror.
I have yet to do anything out of fear. That, I recall I laughed at.

You’d be the reason I move back west,
you’d be the reason I go backwoods,
go suspend myself between roadways.
Albeit, though, despite & regardless,
was my thrill for fear made me wanna talk,
***** the desk drawer for my metal box,
savage my skin on the lonely walk.
If fear is as atomical as you say,
a lie on the tongue of every cell,
then, I could, if you’ll say, meet
every mote as it falls—
put my hand out to see
my first snowflakes.
they are not like this,
they are not like this at all,
so crystalline, back west.

Was fear that hid me this summer from you—
true, I used to fear the way you’d kiss me.
On the dock of the lake drinking wine, I told
that I was terrified then, then retracted,
said I was discomforted by myself.
Back then, way back when, ha,
feelings came thence beyond me
like the King of Pointland dethroned—
“What It thinks, that It utters;
and what It utters, that It hears…”—
myself was suddenly not mine,
I moved unprovoked and unprovoking,
finding myself in my bed
then on the porch smoking,
later then, sitting in your café,
later still, giving you my poetry,
but then, the levees break
and I wake in bed alone and
you’re on the floor in a heap
or, worse, gone soundlessly.
And here I find myself full-suited
in the mess of snow storm,
your letter in hand.

Trip tip-toe step walk into snow; a depth unknown;
trying to light the dark spirit eagle cigarette.
I find a tent in the wilderness and pitch it.
I spend two hours in there, wet, watching snow
build up until the roof gently pushes me out.
I still don’t know if I can read it.
It is only a rereading, but it’s weighty, regardless.
I emerge from the woods to the hill overlooking my life,
embanked by a line of pine. I stop here, relight myself.
The ash blends with the snowflakes
and the snowflakes melt when they touch the paper.
Have you loved? God, it’s an assurance I want.
Really, though, could I doubt it? if it is
only my love that I deem insufficient
to recquit the typed affection before me.
I kneel and read further.

To my surprise a golden-furred dog ran up to me.
He licked me, he smelled your letter, he smiled
and asked me to pet him and to not despair.
Leave it to an animal, beast in the snow
to so recognize, too, significance.
“How do I feel?” The beast frowned,
nothing hurts more than being asked
what you mean.
I got up and left when the owner’s whistle
called him away from me.

Walking back I found that I was missing a glove.
I looked behind me and I saw –against, -down the hill
the left-hand black-leathered eyelash in my tracks.
It was the same hand that you dropped from the dock
into the water this Christmas which I fished out and
fought off your apologies with. How I loved you then.

Then I must re-emerge onto the surrounding fields
and am hit with the wind that I hid from so well
in tree-cover. Then I must grapple with the life
I only half-cherish. Must think in sentences
and hyphenated-words—and dashes! ****** them.
Then, then, then! What happens next! eh?
In the steam tunnels with Carter, smoking, I said,
“I am ruled by fear. Even now I’m palpitant.”
I wrote, in the movie theater, whiskey in the soda cup,
“I am addicted fear, or so I have surmised.”
Hush, hush, hush!

If I fear I cannot love, I know that much.
If I love, as I believe I do, then I am only in denial.
True, small enough to see pure perfection, molecular.
Like the snowflakes back home which, too, are crystalline.
But it’s not visible to the naked eye, thus inconceivable,
given you’ll probably forget it. So it is dead to me.
No, God's not dead he's just not that kind of guy.
Brr, the decisive breeze. Well, then.

I wish we named every rainstorm.
Hurricanes get everything, but
It's easy to have everything when
All you do is take.

I used to think that falling
Asleep was the same feeling as
Earthquakes shaking the grounds.
Don't get stuck in the chasm.

Washed up memories, shoe box
Chachkis, left untouched through the
Eye of the storm. Who knew these
Relics would follow you here.

Crying as the pouring rain stops
Is impossible.
All of the tears have been taken.

But rippling water is overrated.
Have you ever seen sand slide through
The Sahara Desert.
I've been there. I've seen it.
I watched as each minuscule grain slid
Down the valley ridges built from years
Of wind storms making piles.
Piles idiosyncratically stretched across its reddened face,
Maybe modeled by the smoldering surface of mars.

Lay down and let it wash across your leathered skin.
Sensations spreading, each nerve on every centimeter of you
Lighting up, marquee, competing with the hot desert suns.
A million dandelion spores dancing ballet.
Tip top, tip toes to a tarantella timing.
Buried under dunes, only too soon to
Uncover you once again.

You wouldn't believe how something
Solid can so namelessly float across the land.

LOVE AND LOVERS

by

TOD HOWARD HAWKS


Chapter 7


“Read me some more of your poems,” said Bian.

“OK,” said Jon and went to get the box that contained his poems in the  closet. He looked through the stack and selected several of them, then sat down next to Bian on the living room sofa.

“The first one I’d like to share with you is titled SOUTHWESTERN KANSAS.


SOUTHWESTERN KANSAS

When you fly to southwestern Kansas,
you see a different kind of Kansas.
The land is flat,
the sky is big and blue,
and the folk, the common folk, well, they get along,
the common folk get along in southwestern Kansas.

On a ranch down near Liberal,
the black night roars
and the wind is wet.
All are happy tonight, for there is rain
and tomorrow the pastures will grow greener.

In the morning when the sun first shines,
the hired hands
with leathered countenances
and gnarled fingers
awake in old ranch houses
made of adobe brick
and slip on their muddy cowboy boots
and faded blue jeans
to begin another day of hard labor.

On the open prairie made green by rain,
tan and white cattle huddle together,
munching on green grass and purple sage.
A new-born calf bawls.
Her mother, the Hereford cow,
is there to care
and the baby calf ***** her belly full
of mother’s milk.

About 60 miles to the north
and a little to the west,
The sun stands high in a blue sky
dotted with little puffs of white.
At noon in Ulysses,
folk eat at the Coffee Cafe:
Swiss steak, short ribs, or sweetbreads
on Tuesdays
with chocolate cake for dessert.

The folk, the common folk, well, they get along,
the common folk get along in Ulysses.
They got a new high school and a Rexall drug store,
a water tower and a drive-in movie theater.
They got loads of Purina Chow,
plenty of John Deere combines,
and co-op signs stuck on almost everything.
And they got a main street several blocks long
with a lot of pick-up trucks parked on either side
driven by wheat farmers
with silver-white crew cuts
and narrow string ties.

Things are spread out in southwestern Kansas.
A blanket woven of green, brown, and yellow
patches of earth,
sown together by miles of barbed-wire fences,
spreads interminably into the horizon.
Occasional, faceless, little country towns,
distinguished only by imposing grain elevators
spiraling into the sky
like concrete cathedrals,
are joined tenuously together by
endless asphalt streaks
and dusty country roads,
pencil-line thin
and ruler straight,
flanked on either side
by telephone poles and wind-blown wires
strung one
after another,
after another
in monotonous succession.

But things, things aren’t too bad in southwestern Kansas.
Alfalfa’s growing green
and irrigation’s coming in.
Rain’s been real good
and the cattle market’s really strong.
The folk, they got the 1st National on weekdays
and the 1st Methodist in between.
The kids, they got 4-H clubs and scholarships to K-State.
And Ulysses, it’s got all that the big towns got–
gas, lights, and water.
So the folk, the common folk, well, they get along.
the common folk get along in southwestern Kansas.


“The next poem is SIMONE, SIMONE," said Jon.


SIMONE, SIMONE

Simone, Simone
I’m all alone.
Simone, Simone
I’m all alone.
Simone, Simone
please come to me
and bear your breast
for me to rest
my weary head
and shattered heart
upon a part
so soft and warm.
Simone, Simone
I’m all alone.
Simone, Simone.


“The final poem, Bian, is TREE LIMBS,” said Jon.


TREE LIMBS

A long time ago,
I used to lie on my bed
and look out my window
and watch the big elm tree
as it died slowly.

And I used to watch the cars
as they traveled by,
some fast, some slow,
from right to left, and left to right,
and wonder where they were going to
and coming from.

Once from my window
I hit a bus with my BB gun.
I was scared
because I knew I wasn’t
supposed to shoot buses,
even though it was kind of fun.

And sometimes I used
to hide behind my curtains
and watch the pretty
girls walk by my house
in their swimming suits
coming back from
the pool in the park.

But mostly I just used to lie
on my bed and think,
and watch the big elm tree
as it died slowly.


“I love not only your poetry, Jon, but also how you read each one,” said Bian.

Jon gave her a kiss.

They drove to the tip of Cape Cod to watch the sunset, then drove back to the Twenty-Eight Atlantic to have dinner. Bian ordered oysters, lobster “Carbonara,” kale salad, and scallops. Jon had salmon tartare, chowder, baby green salad, and grilled octopus.

“Well, I’m excited!” Jon said. “We have a tremendous amount of planning to do, but we will have the experience of our lifetimes, and my greatest pleasure will be sharing it with you.”

“D’accord!” said Bian.

i walk out the door and it's a living anti drug ad---- grannies in pink with scars up and down their legs, youth with ******* glasses chewin' out their teeth chumpin' for my change to score, leathered out n' shot up tracked all all over ***** men swaying with grins beating their heads against walls calling for MORE MORE MORE...  just one more score... skeletal grave home... street sleeping slums of lonliness

Today, I miss,
The gunslinger in your stride,
Toting a bootfall, swagger laugh.
The plump of a whiskered cheek
Turned sunny side up
Harley Davidson pony tail,
Leathered up decorum,
Wild Child riding in on a heart of gold

Every now and then
When the cowboys seem so small
I think of you
Long shadowed against the platform of my childhood
Hear the faint whistle of John Wayne on the wind
Calling the memories up like
An Ole Spice bear hug
And the loss
Hits like a gunshot

Speak to me thee wet
and lonesome lapping waves
Outrun evaporation of your grave
along this chiseled limestone shore
where you have passed
through distant bygone doors
Across the lake,
where terra cotta porticos
stand tall and dark eyed maidens
wait for men to call
with servant hearts,
and apron strings,
expecting all the good things life might bring
Explain to me the mystery of this place
The air is still; the sun upon my face,
weathering whiskered old men
leathered and tanned
who sell fresh fish from a wooden stand,
pausing to smell the cedars high on the hill
that long for a breath of winters chill
Oh, to be liquid just like you
and stare at it forever
through the eyes of a molecule

Written by Sara Fielder © July 2012

when critique is about, the unsuspecting walk like peacocks, showing off the wooden dutch slacks of fear prior to criticism, forging a proof of god so debased that it would require the holocaust to have taken place.*

- yes, this call is immediate, what's the severity?
- immediacy in all circumstances.
- sounds terrible.
- yep, blood in my **** too.
- ooh, dialectical diarrhoea?
- skidding at one hundred miles per hour with a popsicle swerve on the slurp.
- trafalgar sq. fountains?
- lions roaring in alabaster to the breaking of bony hinges.
- triage.
- can i see him face to face.
- no, you need to speak to him first via the triage telephone system.
- so he's the now receptionist and knows the daybreak slots with chemical compounds.
- no, thingy thingy, dum dum **** a toe, crackle fun pull a twig: we're
   the receptionists, he prioritises the eventuality of a cancer advert.
- three quid down the drain?
- yes, we, the receptionists of the world will stand against the robotic onslaught!
- ****** on winter sledges.
- exactly.
- not exactly, you, receptionist, you jane, me tarzan, you book face to face, now.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment, now.
- me jane, me receptionist, me on the conveyor belt of corn crop patched harvestable.
- me i.q.
- me one hundred and fifteen.
- face to face to farce.
- farce to bloke to pole.
- pole leaning on a pole.
- englishman eating a napkin.
- blackjack and ingredients for the pride of britain: vindaloo child.
- sloshed on a cricketeer's return.
- puns and cardamon cardigans of colour without scent.
- pushy apple sours coloured acid green without the mojo juice.
- spank that gimp ***** into a piglet.
- leathered up, boots on parole.
(who the hell is talking now?)
- i need to see the doctor face to face, i need my sick note to live on:
   on brink of day in ultraviolet twilights, and drink.
- are you a banker?
- i'm a sick man, a beggar.
- we only provide sickness to the rich and famous.
- so what do i get?
- premature death.
- oh, can i have a bank account with that?
- oh sure, as long as you can accept debt.
- 5% like standard a.e.r.?
- no, 2000%
- so my debt interest will be crazy dizzy above my savings interest rate?
- yes.
- do you sell h.i.v. positive syringes?
- we're accommodating.
- thank you very much.
- thank you.
- goodbye morrow and marrow tight.
- bones ashore.
- **** all ahoy.

The walls are circling now,
Closing in around me,
And the demons push forward,
Sparring my sides.

I am surrounded.

Oh dove,
This is not your place.
Your freedom taunts me.
Why do you choose to witness such torture?

Exorcist,
You cast the leathered bats from me.
You, who watches me writhe
Utters spells and prayers,
And pulls me from my depths.

Oh dove,
I shall gasp water when you flee.

TO HELL AND BACK FOR CAPTAIN JACK
her sails are set all hands on deck she's off by early light
her hull it dances on the waves like lovers in the night
she's on her way to nowhere it's a place she's been before
no latitude or longitude no charts to show the course
her cargo is a mystery her destination is unknown  
she's sailed by men who long ago in some way lost their souls
her wooden hull will creek and bend till her sails they find a breeze  
with grit and spit she rides the sea with a crew of broken dreams

Cause- to hell and back for Captain Jack be it devil or the deep
       no man or sea shall take their ship they'll fight and die to keep
For captain jack old captain jack and the  schooner Albatross -
      they'll brave the storms of unknown worlds no matter what the cost    
Cause- to hell and back for Captain Jack be it devil or the deep
       no man or sea shall take their ship they'll fight and die to keep

they're beggars thieves and highwaymen no place to call their own
they wear barnacles for britches with skin  leathered to the bone
summer heat or winter cold still they sing their sailors songs
as they climb the ropes take down the sails through the worst of storms
they tell their tales on bar room stools of maps and chests of gold
or sing their songs and drink their *** until they pass out cold
some nights they'll pay an ugly ***** so they won't sleep alone
but better men be hard to find who call this ship their home
  
Cause- to hell and back for Captain Jack be it devil or the deep
       no man or sea shall take their ship they'll fight and die to keep
For captain jack old captain jack and the  schooner albatross -
      they'll brave the storms of unknown worlds no matter what the cost    
Cause- to hell and back for Captain Jack be it devil or the deep
       no man or sea shall take their ship they'll fight and die to keep

by vjkelly  (c)2015  (1-1400253851) FROM my song 'TO HELL AND BACK FOR CAPTAIN JACK'

I forgot the name
of my old town
and the familiar
dialogues
spoken by the
tooth-missing
oldtimers,
whose skin
was leathered
by the Sun.
Stories written
on their faces
got lost somewhere
on the alleys,
where peddlers
used to
trick kids
into buying
colorful cotton candy.
Grandma’s cat
had gobbled its
last can of sardine
long ago, yet
its languid yarn
still faintly lingers
in my memory.
I see old phantoms
wander between
gleaming skyscrapers
and highways,
where their
homes were
buried
underneath.

I made a 12 egg omelet for dinner
Not just for me, mind you,
But stuffed with milk, garlic, onion and two cheeses
Half as big as our whale sized pan and oh solo cheesy
It was such a delightfully delicious omelet
But of course, I couldn't make a beautiful thing without a dash of pain
Once, twice, thrice, four times I gripped that accursed handle
I burnt my fingers so the places where I grip my own are now slightly leathered
Sighing with exasperation, I lean across for the spatula and
ZING what do you know?
One more stripe of seared flesh on the forearm
Of course it hurt (when does fire not burn?)
But now I can't help but laugh, as the undersides of my fingers feel like a wallet
And my forearm a new splash of paint

A restless mind keeps dreams at bay

Now copper taints my golden ones

In spiders webs are gathered thoughts

That hang from threads this life has spun.



In borrowed clothes we huddle tight

But youthful minds find wonders true

Friends that mock and judge our plight

But pride does come before we fall.



Chests that heave and long for touch

That burst with pride in shining shoes

But leathered souls will wear in time

And innocents grow with doubts of you.



Cherished things from long past lives

That lose their gleam on pawn filled shelf’s

And clothes we wore when once were proud

Now hang from limbs like tattered shrouds.



Yet restless minds with flickered thoughts

Find strength to grasp and hold what’s true

Like sands that slip through nothing hands

We drift in search of hopes a new.



Then winter brings those chilling winds

That holds our breath in sleepless nights

As rain seeps in through leaking roofs

The cobwebs grow in darkened heights.



Where golden dreams are all that’s left

And children’s laughs bring hidden cries

Where strength is found in food we eat

But pride has left without goodbye………

I am the tiny wine glass
underneath a crisp white cloth
crushed under the wide, leathered
foot of groom under chuppah in a tall
synagogue in colored leaf autumn
in a wedding I'll never have
on a street I'll never see.

I am the dinner plate
being thrown from the edge
of a blue, chipped paint dumpster
on the side of a sparkling parking lot
slick after persistent winter drizzle
that spits angrily from the sky
in a stack of other kitchen
items to be smashed
against pavement.

I am wrist bones of
the minuscule, important variety
in the moment a twig is caught in spokes
and thrown from the bicycle, you make impact
with the brick wall adjacent to the alley
and hear some small cracks
and are unable to lift your
fingers or right hand,
or twist to pull
yourself up.

I am the double-paned
window of a basement apartment
in the summer when hoodlums and homeless
kick glass for fun and seek to scare
innocent movie-watchers as
fireworks pierce and light
the third of July sky.

I am a sad little girl
with sad little eyes that look
out to the future and see something
moving in the distance, a pair of two young
people holding hands, walking on an
Oregon beach in foggy mist,
that blink and realize that
mirages are cruel, and
have no remorse.

I don't remember the strength I earned
though I hear in time, it's relearned.

Afflicted he sways. 
He tells me this. 
Then his ears bleed. 

Again, she's coming. 

He too is there. 

Under the cover of tequila I slipped and moved into your shoes. 
The burning sensation and the multiple *******. 

So, alone I will move. 

This is proving difficult. 
To take this heart and find the metrics necessary. 
This liquid has no geometry. 
These coughs are nothing syptomatic. 

My throat it will bleed. 
And then I will sleep. 

Again the fluid makes its own level. 
So when the pens are counted and the ounce is shortened, feel comforted. 

This gesture. 
Pointing towards a technology. 

Become the theater. 
Be the vessel of integrity. 

Oh 
we see 
your stitches bursting

and

we hear you mumble unholy lamentations. 

I offer myself discipline. 
And to you I portray daffodils. 
Or a primrose if this act does not resonate. 

Applaud yourself. 
For asking is cause ways for approval. 

This is all wiped away. 

The storms so angry and fully misunderstanding their torment blew rebirth. 


And now the trains stop too frequently. 
The continental steel divide is voiceless. 
The more powerful elements;

Clicking of tongues. 
Wagging of yellowed fingers and floppy tails. 

Open your ballot so they may steer your children's fate. 

All I wrote of now belongs to you. 
My every step covers me in unapproachable clouds. 

Silvery leaves in the forest. 
All laying down, nestling my head. 

As depressed waters. 

Discipline here. 
On this barrier of shadow, light and shadow. 

I meant to change the tapes. 
Giving this entity a broader palette. 

The classics, they just screech when inspected. 
My gazes of the house divert down to my feet. 
Its contents remained. 
Holding still and lingering with hares be. 

But I have changed. 

I kept myself with company and forgot the stories and lessons. 

So you see, your raising is now just a sad story left to burn. 

I move my feet over, not onto the tarmac. 
Gliding into the private jet and spreading my legs for these buttery levers and cartons. 
Behold the cranes and doves toiling and rising in my heart. 

Soon to drown in the acidic memories your voice is offering. 
With the push of a button I destroy your misdirection. 

The afterwards is nothing. 


Searing pain from his shadow!
How wholely I am burned by this flare from across the river. 
A touch on my shoulder and there are not enough concubines to drown my anguish. 

Display your show of strength. 
Sit with me and listen. 
It is best for us both. 


Cotton picking. 
Leathered eyes searching for currency. 
The wait outweighs the risk. 
Be honest. 
They are lying and you knew. 
Shake my hand. 
Make it mine and learn the importance of minutes. 

Trip over me as I capture this moment with your flailing aperture. 

Your head straight and your spine back to normal strength. 

Masters. 

The old emperors in comfortable clothes full of invigorating erections. 

Be tasteful with your removing a. 
Leave the droppings and soak in as much as you can. 

Who am I, young skinwalker?

Remove this part and hear his sufferings no more. 

Some lady sheds for the rest.

Southern mortars and northern pestilence. 

You should do something today. 
And stray from the strange. 


Bring your mountain stick and walk. And this is the third of your final lines. 
This, the second. 
And this is the last of you.

oto historja z kantem, co podwójne ma dno, gdyby napisał ją dante, to nie tak by to szło.*

existentialism never caught on in england,
it was under the scalpel of an autopsy,
divided in the extremes,
i style magazines, or in the saturday newspaper
edition of gloss, ensuring the world knows
about modern gladiators' (footballers') antics
with boyfriends at home and the girlfriends
on the prowl - feminism's by-product - hmm -
there's a common saying in england:
'i have an existence, i don't have a life',
well... ex- (out of) every instance, it's a life,
i know the big words sound foreboding,
but let's not make it a life of any concern,
unless you're dressed like Mr. Portillo
traversing the American continent in yellow
chequered shirts and pink trousers and green blazers...
style... gotta have style walking in Wisconsin...
the pretty english 'have a nice day' air about
you without perfumes... yes, Mr. Portillo is
the epitome of dressing like an englishman
cursing Voltaire... lollipop goo to my liking, mm...
hey, i'm just a drunk with an itchy feel for
language... me poet, me poet de facto...
ever heard of midorexia? me neither, until today...
even the rich aren't immune...
tan-lines and short shorts aren't enough to
define this odd anorexia of lost youth...
it's supposedly defined by wearing sunglasses
anywhere than on holiday -
see... this is where french existentialism led
the english - it led them to an answer: itemisation,
overt itemisation - born from every believability -
born from every centric to the the european
continent measurement loss exporting flesh from
the ivory coast to the florida measurement -
a pint for above half a litre - the statue of liberty
had many ******* under her skirt...
including king john as one of the fathers...
they really didn't think about existentialism,
no thought invoked made the shopkeepers sigh
and say: excess itemisation is required -
we need cuff-links, orange juicers via ponce,
we need smartphones, we need leathered shoes
(18 carat-hark pig), and belts...
we need all these distractions to go against
the french suggestion of a 35 hour working week...
live to work, don't work to live...
it never caught on... they decided to protest
against Sartre... because he lived with his mother...
**** me... i should have asked for a surrogate too,
and two daddies... and I.V.F., i should have,
because suddenly everyone became neurotic
with Freudian misuse of the Oedipal theory -
Mr. Portillo and Alan Shearer just left the game early,
one's a backpacker with a camera
and the other is a football analyst - left the game
of chance political slander... wise guys; bravo! bravo! encore!