My poems idealize your tongue on my tongue
your breath in mine,
these verses will romanticize how we skipped from street to street
our arms swinging between your left hip and my right
like I did not think about how my parents
never doubled their strength to pull me up above ground as
we walked through parking lots. I
needed to fly and no adult could let me but you.
The sudden hurt, I have not yet dramatized that morning
you returned my voicemail unsuspecting
unknowing my intention to whisper I hate you I hate you I hate you.
Every bone in my body had broken because we could not
levitate any longer: you were not even strong
enough to keep yourself grounded. I make you sound beautiful
I make you sound ugly, but neither is real, just as
how there are no words for the New Year ball dropping.

Iguana of diamonds,
Sand sea and sun,
Little children in sight,
Attractions of light,
Natives of love,
Decorative cities, what night.

Island’s of the Bahamas beauty as can be,
What more fun than playing with dolphins in the sea.
Creative costumes, dancers so bright,
The music dramatized, Feel the rush it’s a site.
Nothing more beautiful than the island themselves,
Well except the people willing to give help.
Pineapples, peas and rice, pink sand, flamingoes, and some conch salad,
Not forgetting the “KALIK,” cause’ “IT’S A BAHAMIAN TING”.
Blue, Black and Aquamarine, was just described to you,
All in the Islands Love.
Come and enjoy the exciting experience too!
My Bahama Land!

©

ESSAYS ON
LEADERSHIP FRONTIERS OF AFRICAN LITERATURE
By
Alexander   k   Opicho




Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Contents                                                                                                                Page
TABAN MAKITIYONG RENEKET LO LIYONG AND PREFECTURE OF AFRICAN LITERATURE 4
THE CURRENT EAST AFRICA IS NOT A LITERARY DESERT 27
AFRICAN WRITERS HAVE CULTURAL RIGHTS TO FORMULATE AND CREATE ENGLISH WORDS 31
LIKE PUSHKIN, AFRICAN WRITERS MUST CREATE THEIR OWN PROFFESSION OF LITERATURE 35
THERE IS POWER IN THE NAME ‘ALEXANDER’ 40
KENYAN COURTS AND PARLIAMENT ARE BETRAYERS OF HUMANE GOVERNANCE 47
AFRO-CHRISTIAN RESPONSE TO RADICAL LITERATURE IS GOOD AND SWAGGERISH 50
YUNUS’S SOCIAL BANKING IS A GOOD BENCHCMARK FOR THIRD WORLD ENTREPRENEURS 54
HEROISM IS NOT GREATNESS BUT HUMILITY IN SERVICE TO HUMANITY 57
KENYAN STUDENTS; YOUR MOBILE INTERNET CULTURE IS ANTI- ACADEMICS 61
WHAT IS THE MAGIC IN THE WORD ‘DRINKARD’ OF AMOS TUTUOLA 63
SOCIETIES IN AFRICA HAVE TO MENTOR BUT NOT CONDEMN THE LIKES OF JULIUS MALEMA 66
AMERICA WILL NOT WIN THE WAR ON GLOBAL TERRORISM 69
AFRICA CAN OVERCOME A MENACE OF **** IN EVERY 30 MINUTES 71
COMPARATIVE ROLES OF AFRICAN-BRAZILIAN LITERATURE IN THE POLITICS OF RACIAL AND GENDER DEMOCRACY 76
NEO-COLONIALISM IS NOT THE MAIN VICE TO THE GAMBIAN POLITICS 85
RELATIVE MEDIA OBJECTIVITY IS ACHIEVEABLE IN AFRICA AGAINST POWER CULTURE AND TYRANNIES OF TASTE 89
READING CULTURE IS GOOD FOR BOTH THE POOR AND THE RICH 96
VIOLENT DEATH IS THE BANE OF AFRICAN WRITERS AND ARTISTS 100
AFRICAN WRITTERS AND ARTISTS MUST ASPIRE BEYOND A NOBEL PRIZE 104
WHAT ARE CULTURAL RIGHTS OF AFRICAN ENGLISH SPEAKERS? 109
WHY IMPRISONMENT OF WRITERS CONTRIBUTED MOST TO AFRICAN LITERATURE 113
DORIS LESSING: A FEMINIST, POET, NOVELIST, WHITE-AFRICANIST AND NOBELITE UN-TIMELY PASSES ON 121
Amilcar Cabral: Beacon of revolutionary literature and social democracy 127
How the State of Israel is brutally dealing with African refugees 131
Historical glimpses of language dilemma in Afro-Arabic literature 146
THIS YEAR 2013; IS THE YEAR OF GREAT DEATHS 153
AFRICAN LITERATURE WITHOUT POETRY IS LIKE LOVE WITHOUT VAGINAL *** 156



















PROLOGOMENA
BARRACK OBAMA READS MOBY ****
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
American president is reading Moby ****
Ja-kogello is reading Moby ****
Ja-siaya is reading Moby ****
Ja-merica is reading Moby ****
Jadello is reading Moby ****
Ja-buonji is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his father
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his mother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death to his brother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took the grannies
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman  
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Baba Michelle is reading Moby ****
Baba Sasha is reading Moby ****
Baba Malia is reading Moby ****
Baba nya-dhin is reading Moby ****
Sarah’s sire is reading Moby ****
Ja-sharia is reading Moby ****
The ****** is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes audacity of hope
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes dreams of fathers
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes yes we can
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes American dream
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you readings?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because American president is like whale hunting
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Obama is a money making animal
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Osama is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Gaddaffi is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because coming to Kenya is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Guantanamo prison is a bay of whales
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Snowden is a Russian whale
Because launching drones is whale riding
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading, Moby ****?














CHAPTER ONE
TABAN MAKITIYONG RENEKET LO LIYONG AND PREFECTURE OF AFRICAN LITERATURE

I am writing this article from Kenya on this day of 23 September 2013 when the Al shabab, an Arabo-Islamic arm of the global terrorist group the Al gaeda have lynched siege on the shopping mall in Nairobi known as the West Gate where an average of forty people have been killed and a hundreds are held hostage. The media is full of horrendous and terrifying images. They have made me to hate this day. I hate terrorism, I hate American foreign policy on Arabs, I hate philosophy behind formation of the state of Israel and I equally hate religious fundamentalism. Also on this date, all the media and public talks in Kenya are full of intellectual and literary tearing of one Kenyan by another plus a retort in the equal measure as a result of the ripples in the African literature pool whose epicenter is the Professor Taban Lo Liyong .He is an epicenter because he had initially decried literary mediocrity among the African scholars and University professors, Wherein under the same juncture he also quipped that Kenya’s doyen of literature Ngugi wa Thiong’o never deserved a Nobel prize. Liyong’s stand has provoked intellectual reasons and offalities to fly like fireworks in the East African literary atmosphere among which the most glittering is Chris Wanjala’s contrasting position that; who made Liyong the prefect and ombudsman of African literature? This calls for answers. Both good answers and controversial responses. Digging deeper into the flesh of literature as often displayed by Lo Liyong.
Liyong is not a fresher in the realm of literary witticism. He is a seasoned hand .Especially when contributions of Liyong to east African literary journal during his student days in the fifties of the last century during which he declared east Africa a literary desert. In addition to his fantastic titles; Another ****** Dead and The Un-even Rips of Frantz Fanon, Professor Taban Lo Liyong also humorously called Amos Tutuola the son of Zinjathropus, what a farcical literary joke? I also want to appreciate this Liyong’s artfulness of language in this capacity and identify him in a literary sense as Taban Matiyong Lo   Liyong the son of Eshu. He is an ideological and literature descended of the great West African Eshu. Eshu the god of trouble which was dramatized by Obutunde Ijimere in the imprisonment of Obadala and also recounted by Achebe in the classical essays; Morning Yet of Creation Day. I call him Eshu because of his intellectual and literary ability to trigger the East and West Africans into active altercation of literary, cultural and political exchanges every other time he visits these regions. Whether in Lagos, Accra or Nairobi.
Now, in relation to Ngugi and intellectual quality of Kenyan University literature professors was Liyong right or wrong?  Does Liyong’s stand-point on Ngugi’s incompetence for Nobel recognition and mediocrity in literary scholarship among Kenyan Universities hold water. Are Liyong’s accusations of East Africa in these perspectives factually watertight and devoid of a fallacy of self-aggrandizement to African literary prefecture as Professor Chris Wanjala laments. Active literary involvement by anyone would obviously uncover that ;It is not Liyong Alone who has this intellectual bent towards East Africa, any literary common sense can easily ask a question that; Does Ngugi’s literary work really deserve or merit for Nobel recognition or not ? The answers are both yes and no. There are very many of those in Kenya who will readily cow from the debate to say yes. Like especially the community of alumni of the University of Nairobi who were Ngugi’s students in the department of English in which Ngugi was a Faculty during the mid of the last century. Also the general Kenyan masses who have been conditioned by warped political culture which always and obviously confine the Kenyan poor into a cocoonery of chauvinistic thought that Ngugi should or must win because he is one of us or Obama must win because he is one of us or Kemboi must win because he is the son of the Kenyan soil. These must also be the emotional tid-bits upon which the Kenyan Media has been based to be catapulted into Publicity feat that Ngugi will win the Nobel Prize without reporting to the same Kenyan populace the actual truths about other likely winners in the quarters from the overseas. I am in that Kenyan school thought comprising of those who genuinely argue that Ngugi’s literary work does not befit, nor merit, nor deserve recognition of Nobel Prize for literature. This position is eked on global status of the Nobel Prize in relation to Ngugi’s Kikuyu literary and writing philosophy. It is a universal truth that any and all prizes are awarded on the basis of Particular efforts displayed with peculiarity. Nobel Prize for literature is similarly awarded in recognition of unique literary effort displayed by the winner. It is not an exception when it comes to the question of formidability in a particular effort. However, the most basic literary virtue to be displayed as an overture of the writer is conversion of theory into practice. This was called by Karl Marx, Hegel, Antonio Gramsci and Paulo Freire, especially in Freire’s  pedagogy of the oppressed as praxis.History of literature and politics in their respective homogenous and comparative capacities has it that ;There has been eminent level of praxis by previous Nobelites.Right away from Rabitranathe Tagore to Wole Soyinka, From Dorriss Lessing to Wangari Mathai.Similar to JM Coatze ,Gao Tziaping,Alexander Vasleyvitch Solzhenystisn and Baraka Obama.This ideological stand of praxis is the one that made Alfred Nobel himself to to stick to his gun of intellectual  values and deny Leo Tolstoy the prize in 1907 because there was no clear connection between rudimentary Tolstoy in the nihilism and Feasible Tolstoy in the possible manner  of the times .In a similar stretch Ngugi wa Thiongo’s literary works and his ideological choices are full of ideological theory but devoid of ideological praxis. Evidence for justification in relation to this position is found back in the 70’s and 80’s of the last century, When Ngugi was an active communist theoretician of Kenya. His stature as a Kenyan communist ideologue could only get a parallel in the likes of Leon Trotsky and Gramsci. This ideological stature was displayed in Ngugi’s adoration of the North Korean communism under the auspice of the Korean leader Kim Yun Sung. This is so bare when you read Ngugi’s writers in politics, a communist pamphlet he published with the African red family. By that time this pamphlet was treated equally as Mao tse Tung’s collected works by the Kenya government which means that they were both illegal publications and if in any case you were found with them you would obviously serve nine months in prison. And of course when the late Brigadier Augustine Odongo was found with them he was jailed for nine months at Kodhiak maximum prison in Kisumu ,Kenya .O.K, the story of Odongo is preserved for another day. But remember that, this was Ngugi only at his rudimentary stage. But when Ngugi got an opportunity to get an ideological asylum, he did not go to Russia, nor East Germany, Nor Tanzania, nor China but instead he went to the USA , a country whose ideological civilization is in sharp contradiction with communism; a religion which Ngugi proffessess.In relation to this choices of Ngugi one can easily share with me these reflections; is one intellectually  honest if he argues that he is a socialist revolutionary when his or her employer is an American institution like the university of California in Irvine ?
Ngugi was not the only endangered communist ideologue of the time. There were also several others. Both in Kenya and without Kenya. They were the likes of; Raila Odinga, George Moset Anyona, ***** Mutunga and very many others from Kenya. But in Africa some to be mentioned were Walter Rodney, Yoweri Museven,Isa Shivji,Jacob Tzuma ,Robert Mugabe and others. The difference between Ngugi and all of these socialist contemporaries of him is that; Ngugi went to America and began accumulating private property just like any other capitalist. But these others remained in Africa both in freedom and detention to ensure that powers of political darkness which had bedeviled Africa during the last century must go. And indeed the powers somehow went. Raila has  been in Kenya most of the times,Anyona died in Kenya while in the struggle for second liberation of Kenyan people from the devilish fangs of Moi’s dark reign of terror and tyrany.Walter Rodney worked in Tanzania at Dare salaam University where he wrote his land mark book; How Europe underdeveloped Africa. Later on he went back to his country of birth in Africa, Guyana where he was assassinated while in the revolutionary struggle for political good of the Guyanese people. Yoweri Museven practically implemented socialism by fighting politics of sham and nonsense out of Uganda of which as per today Uganda is somehow admirable. Isa Shivji has ever remained in Dare salaam University, inspite of poverty. He is now the chair of Mwalimu Julius Nyerere school of Pan African studies. Jacob Tsuma and Robert Mugabe they are current presidents of South Africa and Zimbabwe respectively. The gist of this reference to African socialist revolutionaries as contemporaries to Ngugi wa Thiong’o is that a socialist revolutionary must and should not run away from the oppressor in to a zone of comfort. But instead must remain and relentlessly fight, just like in the words of Fidel Castro; fight and die in the battle field as long as it is a struggle against the enemy of the revolution. This view by Castro is pertinent as it’s a Revolutionary praxis which actually is redolent of practice of an ideology that has to be held for ever above ideological cosmentics.Ngugi scores badly on this. So if the Nobel academy looks at Ngugi in terms of defending human rights then it must be reminded that Ngugi have no marks on the same because he only ran away from the practical struggle. Anyway, Politics and ideology has its own fate. But let us now come back to literature. Ngugi and his books. As at  this time of writing this essay  Ngugi has published the following works; Weep not Child, The River Between, A Grain of Wheat, Black Hermit, Petals of Blood, Devils on the Cross,Matigari,Homecoming,Decolonizing the Mind, Writers in Politics, Ngugi Detained, Pen Points and Gun Points, Wizard of the Crow,Globalectics,Remeembering Africa, Dreams in Times of War and I Will Marry When I Want as well as the Trial of Dedan Kimathi which he wrote along with Micere Githae Mugo.Out of this list the only works with literary depth that call for intellectualized attention are ;A Grain of wheat, Wizard of the crow and Globalectics. The Grain of wheat is simply a post colonial reflection of Kenyan politics. Its themes, plot, lessons and entire synechedoche is also found in Wole Soyinka’s Season of Anomie as well as Achebe’s Anthills of the savannah. My argument dove-tails with those of Liyong’s stand that rewarding Ngugi’s Grain of wheat and forgetting Achebe’s Anthills of the Savannah and A man of the people would be a literary ceremony devoid of literary justice. Wizard of the Crow is indeed a magnum opus. I am ready to call it Ngugi’s oeuv

Love, it's isn't like the movies.
And nothing like a Disney's cartoon.
Yes, you might find your Prince Charming.
And your Cinderella too.

Just realize, love isn't like the movies.
Or like one of those old religious drama.
Where the King visualized his Queen?

Or anything shown like the royals dramatized dreams.

Once reality kicks in and you adjust.
Then you come to the realization.
Love only works when you put your hard work effort into it.

You'll have disagreements.
You'll have arguments too.
Just remember, love isn't like the movies.
And it shouldn't be.
When it comes to you.

I am never not surprised,
when someone else has the courage to look me in my eyes,
to tell me bald-faced lies,
that say I am too dramatized
as a white girl trying to equalize
and see the world before me rise
to say we're not satisfied
to say with honesty we despise
a government who seems to tyrannize
its citizens into fearing they be deprived
of food, water, and electricity. So they have to believe in the guise.
That we are a nation paralyzed.
By lies.  
I am just a twenty two year old, Caucasian female
addicted to the idea I can help you see we will prevail.
Our nation teeters on the brink.
Help me save our souls,
Before they take us out like MLK, Lennon, JFK
All with a blink.

I am a dramatized china doll,
but I never rouge my knees.
The MC introduces me as Scarlett.
Lulu embraces me as we saunter
off the platform.  Whistles follow my footsteps
digging into my brain, fermenting,
to strong wine.

Gentlemen enter the club to leer
at cabaret girls dancing in lace.
Some are drawn to the boys of the club,
the ones in the dark corners with kohl-rimmed
eyes and eager kisses.
From their seats in the dimness, the audience
fails to notice rips in my blouse, cigarette
butts smudged out in the wings.  No one
sees the ***** face powder spread out
among the lighted mirrors, overused,
my own makeup dried out.
Their giggles and applause keep
the club alive, filled with dead
grins from dinner to dawn.
Drum roll—my turn.  
We rid them of their troubles.

We blink quickly,
so that we miss nothing,
we compact an entire lifetime within an allotted time of two hours and a small two minute window for creditentials that acknowledge 1,326 people,
not including "special thanks,"
we indulge on the dramatized events that may or may not have happened, We thrive on sports that televise a group of ten to twenty-two grown men that run fast jump quickly, and
dance weirdly,
but that is the pursuit of thrills

Don't worry.

I'm here to tell you what you need to hear.
And it's not what you thought you would hear,
And it might not be what you deserve to hear.

Don't worry, it's me.
You don't know me well, but
You should know that I am kind.
I am gentle, and I think about you in that fashion.
My thoughts are not barbed wire,
Nor clear sky.

When I think of you, I think this:

You are foolish.
But so was I,
For years
For the same reasons as you.

And nothing can judge you
But the years,
And the years are nothing if not judgment's mirror.

Lonely years.
I would write poems of hate.
I tattooed my life onto the skin of so many notebooks.
Letters only exist on paper--
How badly I wished my depressing poems would be emblazoned proudly on my soul for all to read.
How cold I felt when I realized nobody wanted to get close enough to see them.

The only tattoos my mind bore
Were freezing outlines of emotions
None of which could burn hot enough to melt the ice they were etched into.

Then something magical:
Neurons. Synapses.
I realized that my mind is not a metaphor.
My mind is not a tangled mess of hyperboles and adjectives.

My mind is not poetry, and life is not scripted.
Nobody's brain is made of prose,
Much as some would like to believe.
Depression is not more noble because it is written well.
And if you have written it, believe me when I say that the way it flows when it is read aloud makes no difference either.

Do you understand?
Here it is, simply:
Step back if you find yourself a step too far into the world of the over dramatized.
Burn your depressed poetry.
It serves no purpose but to remind you of the state you are in.
It dwells in your long-gone years without thought of any future unless that future is your past relived until your future's end.

Poetry is not a coping method.
Poetry is an excuse to linger,
And "coping" is a very poetic way to euphemise that fact.
I have found this out the wrong way.
Poetry is as addictive as alcohol, as drugs, as depression.
They all go together well.
And they don't like to let go once they've started to hold hands.

What I'm saying isn't "stop writing."
What I'm saying is that if poetry is an excuse to linger, you have a choice.
What i'm saying is I hope you choose to linger on joy before you dwell in sorrow.
Because the longer you stay somewhere,
The more it feels like home.


Try to grasp the idea of just stopping,
Letting every idea go
And leaving.
And not coming back for a long time.
And doing it right now.

Realize:
1. The longer you stay sealed inside your mind, the longer you'll have to live with only words as company.
2. Words make terrible company when they're written in sadness.
3. The stars don't give a **** about words anyway.

Be like the stars.

Be with your friends. Make yourself laugh. It'll be hard at first. Then it will be easier. Then other people will be able to make you laugh too.



And one last thing to you specifically,
To you, the person reading this,
The person wondering silently,
The person I've been writing to this whole time--

Realize:
I don't know you.
But I love you.

This is not a joke or a ploy.

I love you.

Somewhere out there, there is somebody that loves you, and it is me and I am not afraid of it.
Find me,
And I will love you openly.
Because if you have the strength to find someone you don't know, you have the strength to find yourself too.
And then you won't need a stranger's love anyway.

The acoustic guitar plays softly, in the background of a critiqued ball room as he made his entrance. The attention of the audience fell upon him; As he walked readily towards the dance floor, The melody of the flute and the rhythm of the bass guitar, Dramatized his beauty. The spectators in fear, but his passion so real, As I stared into his eyes, that made beauty felt unreal everything else that surrounded me disappeared. He focused his eyes on the dance floor they began to whisper; Who will he choose? Who has to leave now? He flashed his eyes upon the viewers that were once in shock, now in terror, but their ****** expression in awe. The apothegm states that he continually seeks for the one that would heal his disease but bound to the power of the earth’s forces, his determined, stunning eyes will never be able to reveal, the secret one that can heal. The bass drums play wildly as he shows the crowd his fury. The once stunned viewers now begin to panic, but I draw myself closer. Before I could reach him someone else got in the way. “I would like to die” was the words I know her to repeatedly say. He gently pushed himself away in anger. He looked around the ball room, and observed the reaction of the audience to his response. They’re now in astonishment. He then stopped and his focal point was clear. The piano and the cello played softly to become one with his voice. He said to me “let us dance.” I’m frightened, the majority of the onlookers left in a daze. My vision weakened before our dance began. He smiled, and as he looked upon my face all the instruments faded away. He said to me is this your last dance? Will you leave us tonight? I’m the kiss of death will you close your eyes forever or will you leave me in delight?”

I was fifteen when my father was knighted and we moved to an estate near the castle
I began working in the court as his squire. The months speed as I learn. I sharpen swords and shine boots; I listened to the servants stories of court gossip and political intrigue. My favorite though was the court magician who talked about lightning and planets. I knew each constellation in the night sky. I was sixteen and my father was killed. The older ones were afraid of me then. All the boys in the castle met in front of the blacksmiths forge after chores were finished. We fought each other sometimes one on one, other times in piles of bodies and limbs. Black eyes, split lips and broken knuckles were common. In fact a visiting duke once noticed out loud about all the servant boys having black eyes. They were badges of honor of course, worn with pride.
Sometimes we would sneak into the cellar and drink ale. I was a boy without a care in the world until I turned seventeen years of age. One night I escaped the castle with my bow to hunt. A storm came off of the sea, I had not noticed it rolling but it struck with fury. I was lost and soaking wet and the cold was setting in. Lightning flashed and I could no longer see the moon.
Something attacked me. I remember nothing of it except waking later leaned against the castle wall. No marks on my body. I became violent and detached. I shattered the jaw of a boy one afternoon. All the court laundry girls were watching us from the windows, and he cursed my father. I was blind with rage, and it was beautiful. I never felt so alive in my life. I could smell the sweat of the boy as I slammed a right hook into his jawline. I could smell the blood and it's sensual dripping warmth on my knuckles. It took every bit of strength not to lick it from my hand. I dreamed of it that night in my room. It's aroma melded with the memories already as clear as a painting in my mind. Each detail elongated and dramatized with a feral edge.
The dreams were haunting at first, but I soon relished them. I dream of the moon first always reflecting in the lake brimmed by ancient pines. Then I was chasing a deer or a rabbit through the brambles and down old paths that only beasts know. Then, the taste of warm blood in my mouth, the pulsing of lifeblood beneath my teeth.

In my dream I watch the phases of the moon cycling through the dark. Until, on the full moon. I was lying in my bed, hoping for the pleasure of the dreams again. I was warm all at once and colors began to brighten. Then it seemed as if daylight were pouring in through the window although surely it was the moon. I gazed at her. Until within me the locks began to break, and it seemed as if chains were falling from my being. Until blackness, so infinite and complete filled with the most terrible and beautiful visions I had ever experienced.
I could taste everything in the universe and I watched the wind blow through the pines from a tall rock rustling the needles into a symphony of movement and sound. Such beauty I have never known. Then a golden flash between the trees.
An old buck moved through the boughs. I tested his scent on the wind he smelled of earth and roots. Then I am chasing him.
Into a clearing he staggers as I toy with him. He breaths deeply, his sides heaving. I can see his hot breath as a cloud in the cold air. Then his cry, and the spray arterial. The taste of life.

I awaken leaned naked against a pine. Claw marks adorn the trunks of the great trees around me. Deep claw marks as if a bear...
I was terrified
I was alone

I work in the stables. I lock myself away and I feel guilt  for the pleasure of my dreams. As if they were tangible sins.
Then the kings daughter visited me and asked about the foal that was born earlier that morning. She was curt and spoke down to me. My chest was hot. I was nervous that I would insult her and be executed. We watched the newborn stand next to its mother. I thought she was watching me from the corner of her eye, but her next words proved me wrong."How dare you look at me, slave."
She returned the next day, and the next each day she seemed more angry than the last. She and her handmaid wanted horses readied for a ride. The king arrived and I dropped to my knees in fear. "You boy will protect these girls as they ride."
The hole in my chest fills with melted iron, as the young princess thanks her father with a kiss on the cheek. He leaves and my anger is complete. She will have me killed; ****** girls will probably ride directly down a hill and break a neck. Then who shall be blamed

They controlled the horses in a strangely feminine manner. Their sweet purring to the horses made them flick their ears. Their light touch turning the great beasts with ease. Such beauty I had never seen. Their delicate figures like full bloomed flowers and the hanging tassels of silk blow in the wind. Her scent...unmistakable.
She watches me.

The night before the full moon I was slipping into the beauty of the dreams. Sleep pulled me downward, and suddenly a small rap on the door.
I fully expected guards upon the other side. They somehow had found out I was the beast and Would cut my head from my shoulders.
My heart races as the door opens. A shadow slips inside as I crack the door. It pushes past me. The scent...
She stands in the moonlight of the window with dark eyes piercing. Thank the gods it was not a full moon.
I light a small lamp with shaking hands and she slides towards me, removing her dark cloak showing her nightdress. The curves of her body...not left up to the imagination against the silk.
My head swims, and the beast inside me growls deeply. She pushes herself against me, but my mind races to the headsman's axe, to the kings eyes.
I push her away and hand her her cloak. Telling her it was much too late for such foolishness.
I am a slave after all...

I could not sleep
but the dreams slipped in anyway
Like leaves in the wind they twist and float
Pulling me into their strange likeness
I am enthralled by the the scent of a nightdress
And the warmth of a body pressed against me
In moonlight I am bathed
My hands with blood soaked

She does not visit me at the stalls, and I do not see her face peaking at us from the tower window as we wrestle in the courtyard.
Inside me a strange ache at her absence. I drink ale that night and stumble to my room. The door I forget to lock, and the windows swung wide.
So cloudy
I could not stop
The feeling so pure
I could not banish it

She was found by her handmaiden in pieces around the bedroom. Her white night dress shredded and stained scarlet.
Twenty dead soldiers, each with their throats torn out or their heads smash in. As if some bear they whispered...
I was found naked out in the wheat fields covered in blood. They followed the trail straight to me.

*He stands before the king making his statement
Explaining how he was attacked by some beast
Only two months 'ore. He explains how he could not control.
The king shakes with rage. A black cover is brought to hide his face.
He goes quietly to the block and death. His body burned to ash

Don't.
Don't tell me not to do drugs,
If you plan on becoming one.
You say,
"It will use up all of your time,
take all of your money,
leave you hanging when you need it most,
abandoning the destoyed masterpiece that you once were."

You told me,
"Stay strong."
"Be above the influence."
"You'll get addicted, stay away."
But what you didn't tell me was how addicting you were.
How did you expect me to "stay strong" against our 4 am phone calls,
when you'd tell me you loved me and all the things I was to become.
How was I supposed to "be above the influence" when you made a move,
running your cold, large hands up and down my shirt.
and finally
How did you have the nervous to say "you'll get addicted, stay away," when in the end I was addicted,
addicted to something you finally gave me,
something called love.

But according to you love is
overrated and highly dramatized,
but by the time I knew that you were my drug,
you had already wasted 2 years of my time,
spent all of my money,
hung me out to dry,
and abandoned me, leaving me a destroyed and unwanted
masterpiece.
abandoned masterpiece // a.s.

I'm a human of the contemporary times
A millennial, part of Generation Y
A digital native in shrink wrap
An open minded, wide eyed, big mouthed wind tunnel

A genetic, mathematical, anatomic error
I'm souped up and decked out
I'm high maintenance with low standards
My humor is low brow, my expectations are nonexistent
I see the negatives as positive
I see the positives as negative
I think in subjective and objectives
I'm on the web
But off the grid

My pockets full
But my wallets empty

I'm over educated
But underemployed
I'm overworked
But under paid

I'm a bisexual, bipolar by product of society
I'm a hardworking, dedicated procrastinator
I'm an inarticulate fat head who isn't afraid to speak his mind
I'm a cold hearted hothead
I can hear, some times I don't listen
I'm clean and polished to get my hands *****
I work my fingers to the bone
Then cross them in hope of better tomorrow
And knock on wood until my knuckles bleed

You can check my Facebook profile
Read my Tweets
Scroll through my Instagram
Send me a Snapchat
And you can kiss my ***
I'm non-toxic
I'm irreplaceable
I'm a rarity
I'm an oddity
I'm offbeat
Off centered
Off color
Off kilter
Out of tune
Out of my mind
Hypersensitive
Indifferent
Rude
Crude
And universally unacceptable

I'm wasting time
And taking up space
But I'm living it up
I won't die down
I'm two steps ahead
I'm left behind
Coasting on thin ice
Walking the edge
Pushing the limit
And taking a nap
I'm greedy
I'm *****
I'm lazy
I'm angry
I'm cocky
I'm envious
And I'm
Not sorry

I like laying low
I love being high
I don't want to be a stick in the mud so I get ******
I'm a street smart *******
I'm book smart dumb ****
I'm an eloquent gutter mouth
I speak in
****** vernacular
Passionate profanity
Cynical sarcasm
And choleric curses
I have criminal ties
And it suites me
I'm a ball hogging, showboating team player
I'm a devoted alcoholic
I'm a thrifty shopaholic
I'm in school
But out to lunch

I've got friends
I've got enemies
I've got my family
And I've got problems
I hear voices in my head
I see things that aren't there
I over look
Over analyze
And over think
I under cook
Under appreciate
And underestimate

I use my WiFi to listen to LoFi
I watch low quality television in Hi Def
I'm a bombastic contentious objector
Taken aback but forwardly thinking
In your face
Out of stock
Unisex
I get down
And get it up
I'm a low key middle man
Undeniable
Unlikable
But lovable
A grounded skyrocket
Detachable
Seasonal
Unflappable
An everlasting
Know nothing
Know it all
I'm a egg-headed basket case
I'm a real heel
A loafer
I got the boot
Because he couldn't afford to live in a shoe
Or the box it came in
I'm broke
I'm busted
Discussed
Disgusted
But I loved
I care
I help
I laugh
I try
I cry

I'm on the short bus for the long haul
I have no money but I always got my two cents
I'm good with secrets
I'm bad with numbers
And good with money
I'm bad with people
But yet they love me
I'm unbiased
Tolerant
And impatient
I'm abstract
I'm avant garde
I like violent ***
With volatile love
I like pornographic snapshots
******* ******* motion pictures
Live action lust
But nothing beats my meat like the real thing

I shop at second rate super markets
First rate second hand stores
I'm on cruise control in the fast lane
I'm double parked
I've been traumatized
Dramatized
Hospitalized
Ostracized
Demoralized
Desens­itized
Exorcised
And I've had my toes stepped on

I was a premeditated mistake
A failed abhorrent abortion
Vaccinated
Alienated
Regulated
And always medicated
I have a an attention span an inch wide
But, I'm real
I'm honest
I'm kind
I go hard
But  take it easy
I'm always slick
But never ******

Wheeling and dealing
Clipping and stealing
Lending and giving
Living and breathing

I think this one's a keeper
You've all dug me a little deeper
Hope you enjoyed my veracity
Because this poem is completely me

riding out the highs of life
with manic ferocity

until

the minutiae of life
drag you down into the depths of despair

a pure loyalty like no other
hidden by a dramatized emotional facade

always there to bring you up,
simultaneously bringing themselves down
it's a slippery *****--
emotional support

Oh, to be Mercutio--
is to be the eye of a hurricane,
winding about a center
--that may not be
as stable as it seems

I have switched to mechanics
The pen and the paper are morning my bemuse
The organic matter is dying just
Artificial forced relationships
With penetrative remarks

The tiny prism in the back of my mind
Where I can not stake out the feelings
It is forcing me to convulse on this awful thing
Those white walls are suppose to fool you
Repudiating that they are of silence


Do not placate me young sir
I know that’s were things come to a halt
You enlist them into your nihilistic theories
They can not see cyclical processes
The influxes of hysteria
that inevitably ward out the insurgency

No you claim them among the broken
Make them scared of large boxes with no windows
But does it even matter
The black matter had cast them to the seductress anyhow


The very seductress, whose embodiment of good and evil fools even me
Can she not see the rampant fires?
The cages that are cracking
As the mice turn on each other

Or is it calculated
Politically over dramatized to fool even the most sincere
You remind me of my mother
and the United States government

The will call my a conspirator
But ill know you never landed on the moon
And even if you did
You didn’t caress its very surface  

You didn’t risk your life
to just inhale the fumes of a memorial
It was nothing more then capitalist foot hold in outer space to you
No matter how much you sing about it

And what for me?
I could fix you in one splash of a recall  
But that wouldn’t change the fact that the gears are all out of whack
And the turnstiles
can’t see color anymore

I am growing blinder everyday
But I can never find my oracle under all this *******  
He has possessed me that
Flying gingerbread monkey

Before this I liked solidarity
Juggling my own fortunes
My own soggy breath fill up the window signs  

Now I am a menacing
Ravished house beast
Revering for him to make me categories and pie charts
This isn’t the competition that he enlisted for

But maybe will make it just five weeks and completely meaningless topics we will become the foremost informant
Populously used factoids over martinis
God know me and the monkey are socially *******

As this thing of forsaken design
has morphed into a manifestation of everything wrong with my punitive inception
We must talk about the alcohol.
Dwindling alone a poor and empty bottle
no worries it will have friends

Should I be concerned about my physical stability?
Not really I rather like bisecting my liver
and pouring to the brim
No its that I don’t enjoy it ,,,,,alcoholics are suppose to be a jolly breed
Why else would AA be so giggly?

I have tried to reform and it won’t be in vain
I won’t give up the dream
and succumb to a lobotomy
Just cause I Cant hold my liqueur

This is worse then the torah
A bigger degradation then the bible
If only I had cried for the proletariat
Then I would be famous

But even though the trances are fun
And the posterior eradicating
OH dark and shifty friend I have missed You!

And I do mourn in some postulated manner
for the orphans
But they would have made it out of their capsules
if you just gave them time

The sunny day of January invited the sun's radiation that burns skin as fire could burn through paper.
Perhaps that was why everything we planned was a heat-up and dramatic hope.
Perhaps like the partly burned coal, our hope too burns itself to the emptiest cinders of all.
The hopeful plan we once had was dramatized to create illusions of the fantasy we'd like to live in, but a reality that we could not create because the reality is, we are nothing but the matter of expired fire.

We are the ashes of what we left behind.

We may have stopped giving off flames, but we still have some combustible matter in us; and soon, what follows is, for the better - an explosion, or for the worst - an implosion.

I have a vision
Of a future
Bright, joyous,
And the contrast of sorrow
Children skipping, giggling
Darkness and light
Musical notes drifting through
Dramatized passion, hilarity
Nature surrounding
Encapsulated in cobweb of love and support

Unfortuna-mentally
I am at once terrified of settling
- being tied down
Losing independence, individuality
Missing dreams
- at once terrified
And at once yearning
With all of me
For a family
For a dream of forever
To settle and begin such a masterpiece
To commit to
And be certain of
The depth there in
Something more important than me or mine
To dedicate self
Surrender
Sacrifice for
And again such a venture requires a partner
Who shares the dream
Enriches the dream
Supports the dream.

Contradictions, aren't we all?

Or am I just yearning for the erasure of self
Through divine love?

Aah~ maternal instincts!
Life of mine,
Live out the step you're in
Young one
Before you yearn and plan for the next!
So fresh and yet to begin
- Society's great work machine awaits
And the experience of other lands!

Life of mine,
Live the experience of now
Fully
Grow all the more for it
Feel each pain and joy
Clarify mind
Build strength of self
Claim a sense of identity
See where it takes you...

You can say that again, later, it is -time
lace up the daily bag and pass it
for all private interpretation
removal, from the rumen, to the next
- gaseous we, Huxley called us, 1957

No, this ain't show business, this
is living, made in a made up mind,
being finished doing, just
living.

Making up reasons to dispute liars.

Maybe not a good living, but it's free.
Or paid for, any way.
Bought with a price
my grands won't be forced to pay.
- divided attention makes
- ads obliviate into the mercantile
- classification, in attention econ 101
It's free - this living
in the way well fed children do,
in America, outside the cities;

Joy pursued and grabbed in happy
fistfuls that fill laughing memory bubbles
to store for when these become
the olden days.

No, this ain't show business,
its sacred duty,
work of a thing,
made from a boy who looks
into flies eyes, gazing up
from the bottom of the cup,
a little glazed, perhaps,

owing the fly an easy escape, look away

Tricae,
tricae
"perplexities, hindrances, toys, tricks,"

The collections of thoughts,
the access to held thoughts, knotted
messages
to you
private moments,
time alone, as a mortal human being,
humus built, auto-repairing thing being

being, eh?
One-like, only, or
on-like, only going on and on and on,

becoming fruitful
becoming useful
becoming less and less useful, but
becoming more and more curious
becoming full enough to become superfluous.

Lay preachers can create cushions
for lazy wishers wishing to be comforted,
but the weighing of the worth of comfort,

lay preachers seldom do, to my knowledge.

Terminus gnosis, all I know, my bubble of knowns;
this is it…
a thousand stacks of sensible lines, atop precepts,

strewn beside the trail.
Heavy
heuristic heretical how-to do as I dones,
published by faith in the thousands, litter
the little hills the psalmist asked,
why they writhed and twisted,
as in a dance of anger wishing,

clear channel, me and the truth, today,
just/instance, this/ now.

Free am I, by the faith in me, but you
already
knew that,

don't you?
Don't you know, there is a musing mind,
we wear to bed, some nights,
we lay on memory foam, some nights.

Thinking sorted thoughts, untying lying links,
links to educated guesses fed you as new reasons

to be ever vigilant, ever ready to defend the faith,
the laughing faith of a child, leaping
into the sky

- my grandson, I just learned,
- asked for more math.

No class common man, that is what I am,
on the cusp of next, looking back,
at the mess I left, like a cyclone,
randomly distributing seeds of kindness, specs
by which an idle word can activate troves
of ancient autoresponders, each guessing
what if, what if not,
what if, what if not,
what if, what
if
not now, when. Pop.
Bubbles of been, leave go, go on, think it

through, and passed through, into
the now
where we formed, letters, letting words wait,
sit still, ready
for the reader, ready
to steady the quivering fearful thing,
lost in thought,
stuck in stacks of holy orders, hearer only,
only ordainded doers do the trick,
intricate, folding to make not a paper swan,

too, easy. Make a protein. With no model,
just the idea in the word applied to science,
proper pose, super knowing, proto-life-ish thing,
that is digestible using an infantile nourishing node.

What tricks do you know?, the magi aske Moshe.
Snake from a staff.

From the crozier of goatherd, sure,
we can all do that. What else?
---
Allusions to ever knowing, knowing as old
as knowledge given girls at their flowering,
as old a mystery as any orphaned mother may tell
her great grand daughters,
nobody told me any thing,

but I took it as normal,

As the patient potency prefecting
effectual
fervent
prayer, dramatized, made big as all
art
any
bubbled artifice holding essences,

essential bits of the daily grind to gloss
the leading intellect's reason for being
so shiny,
Klimt golden, as that one kiss I recall,

yes, a facsimile, a memory evocation,

a kiss, golden in that moment, infected
with a feeling
dramatized to be offered to all who see,
intricacies,
khipu twists and loops and bundles and beads,

accounting for dues,
instructing kaballah, pass it on

Excuse me, are you in the right realm,
we feel pluralized,
but you don't fit,
we are uniform,
uninformed,

excathedra, listen up, all eight billion now living, are destined
for certain death,
it is a matter of time, dying once,
can happen anytime,

and if there is a second death, so far,
I never saw any body do it twice,
once truth makes what I am free,
we stay free,
amen,
reception accepted kaballah, et al,
take that greasy grace, feel it,
as the oil ran down Aaron's beard,

and there were no poor denied
starship rations,
until the comet hit and all
but a single mind
blew, into this
a complete fiction,
or another compleat guide to fishing

Imagine the magic of the sailor's accounting book,
envision the magic of levers, and pulleys and cogged
wheels feeling the weight

ping
2023 Gravity driven or gravity powered, is it
one
or the other, when it come be to inspire
first fears
to frame wisdom pools,
at depths we learn
to believe,
prove each participant,
worthy of keeping,
the secret.
Salt of the earth, deep down dehr dat
Caribbean Sea,
shore line fracture,
follow the riverwise road,
any thing you think you must bear,
don't blame,
sometimes it pays, to bend.
Grasshopper Locust practice, for the mind
of an ant.

Wisdom harnessed the fear of God,
put it down,
in other words,
when there was nothing
but E, mass and time being assent
esse, sentient, in sentient and ex
insentience, sapient over lay,
- honeycomb tripe pattern, say
- why not ruminate enclosed
- in a beauteous inner digestive
- recluse-exclusive-sub-science con
ified, tied ligously, fi,
to witty means, and ways we prove
gravity is our friend, driven power for all life,
strong as earth itself, but, we are

in the burning phase,
let me bring you down,
cause being accused, does that
to a stranger
being
entertained, or entertaining, on an aitia
let me
reason,

have you come for more, or do we have
too much
of too many things
to make too much
sense
of any particular reader/writer ifery algorithm,
if then,
else is this, current, slow, nodding, flux,
capacitance
loading axially,
if each mind thinks right once,
today, we have enough,
let's save the world.
- that easy, eh?
global restoration, Christ, yes,
that is the plan.
As the planet was.
Prior to Peleg's days.
Intended to have a single
dry land mass,
Wisdom pushed
for plates meeting
and using ice
at the top
of the world, as seen polaris up,
spinning
in a slow wobble
through four
seasonal positional hot-cool-cold-warm
gyre drivers, saline liquid epicycles, sisters
of the four winds
as a flywheel effect
in the telling times… a little imbalence leaning helps
with the wobble,
in the event,
slim to none,
the odds, but,
Don't Look Up. It could
reoccur, and shall, if
Nietzsche's epicycle

has wheels. Graham Hancock, on clocks…cosmic

Mindspacetime, the elite flight,
secretshitistic, it is, most certain, it is
fantasmic imagining
E not equal any thing, mere words
-jello-timingoooisht
between me and thee,
no point, not one, between the we
we become,
in the final analysis, if you wish,

might
you wish,
long, lazy river readers, re-mind
their lost selves, how innocense felt.

The worth of an unsold story, given
as a gift, as a poor artist might
attempt
a portrait
of their daughter's children

- "that little thing"
Done. As best he could, he believed,
at the time,
as it is
with
everything being as is when we arrive,
we adapt
or become the insane opposition,
to anything,
just
be the counter weight on the pendulum,

keep things swingin'

feel time slide
into the real deal,
at the crossroads
in the wayback seat,
sayin' honey, you ain't here
after what I'm here after,
y'gonna be there, after I'm gone, as  asong
that was
once a joke ended you gonnabe here
after I'm gone, but

seemsayin' eye
squint, see,
way back
when,
we were otherwise involved, affirming
sacred oathes, we swore as children learn
IT being life, whatever,
it don't mean
nothin'
is not a joke, it's ahint, to readers, ready
writing is key to reading,
vertical eyed
qwerty keying is learned,
phone wide,
natural, feels familiar
style adaptation
as cuneiform once was,
years of hearing the same words,
said and resaid, story after story stacked
in
time, measured by stargazers, called, by god,
eyes like eagles, these minds expand, and see
the order of the cosmos,
and the chaos of the collective sub-science

locked by a generational curse on oathes
under the God those kids had in mind,
September, 1954, first day of school,
all across the Wyatt Earp of Nations,
each child not religiously exempted,
stood, right
hand on heart and repeated, as a national
student body, K through 12, a pledge,
local time 9 a.m. nationwide,
not unlike
a true Tenant's pledge of fealty,
as recorded in
The Compleat English Copyholder:
Common and Statute LAW of
England, relating to Manors
and Lords of Manors Et c.
- buzz nod what instance… seven seconds
Sorry, Under God, was added to the pledge
that year, that affectionizes those exposed,
we meander under god, think it not strange.
It’s a legendary trait, we'll all be remembered a bit.
- default modemod is always beguiling temptation
- for temptation sake, win a game, get the rush.
of chasing hares
to where the conies hide,
feeble folk, but they live among big rocks,
reason enough,
use what you know is right,
hide from things that eat you,
that evolves
in nations
with no elders, constant defence mode
peace makers seem
feeble folk,
who knew,
and fell away, impossible to renew,

whoah, zeke play me that riddle,
'bout scrublands being humbly blissed
so long- wayback, anchoring the authority
17
that's me, I
fiddled around
and blew the clearwater revival
to kingdom come, Muddy Waters, aight
and there was hippies, ever whar, swanee,
so I do, I swan no no no no mo
lie like the devil for the sake of church heritage,
holy warrior sworn, heart torn, tears shed, tongues
spoken.
You know, when gravity is taken
in, your weight, sunk
into the reasoning
swung wide
in progress, no aim, past the cloud,
for crying out loud, this is louder than ever,
listen, no
silence
all that
noise, is natural
to persons genitivally, ok, cross
shadowed animus anima imitation,
in your cultural genes, cowgirl
seeing the world a yingyang thang,
with gravity and the E-magnetic shields
allowing systems to com-uni-cate locally,

scarey
indeed

too much,
the scope
of any thing one might think
or ask,
as in what was that rule
of LAW once?
I read
Compleat Fisherman's Guide U recall led
to , yes, The Compleat English Copyholder:
Common and Statute LAW of
England, relating to Manors
and Lords of Manors Et c.
is on Google books, masterfully typeset

Feel free to learn all you will, 'tis all in the Common.

as, by now is much that may have been, otherwise,
in needier times,
less riches, more sorrow,
less sorrows, more riches, peace.

Made that my after all battlefield task,
no mas win or lose.

My side, on the scalar models is gravity empowered,
heavyweight, ancient concept,
gradient slopes
with long lazy loops
on the downhill side,
listening
to kids make all the noise they wish,
two chalk walls away,
in the bubble we all breathe.

To this day, whatever it took, it worked.
Life gets as good as you can make up a mind

to accept, as
this is it,
this is my bit. My close up. To the exact point
where I breathed that bubblierised wedom-opinion

opinion opinion opinion okeh, settle years ago, okay
we all say okeh here, holy ground,
entire collection of recollection on that victory alone.

Okeh, is still the proto voice model, ok.

Happy and content -> Nudged out of wack.
On the right path -> Diverted off-track.
Whole and complete -> convinced of lack.

Laughing imbicility -> Fatalistic and sad.
Understandingly forgiving -> impossibly mad.
Totally good -> enjoyable bad.

Zest for life -> inviting suicide.
No remorse -> regretfully tried.
Never always -> honestly lied.

Timid fear -> Daring and bold.
Genuine character -> hypocritically cold.
Religiously devout -> soul's been sold.

Musically inclined -> can't keep a beat.
Social butterfly -> never want to meet.
Sour face -> smiling so sweet.

Always the same -> subject to change.
Seeking normality -> incredibly strange.
Demandingly certain -> just to re-arrange

… Remind you of anyone?...

I said goodbye

she helplessly cried
full of me
for the first time

Teardrops of
the other
by the other
Not to impress
or annoy

the canvas
of the truth of I
remained untouched

but
this uttermost cry was
maybe a cheek warming
Silent expression just

in the conscious presence
of both

embraced by both

Goodbye to this roof that welcomed
our dreams…
Goodbye to this roof that
accommodated our flows
cries
highs
ties
pies
spies
allies skies
I s
Eyes
Aiaiai s ….

All of her dramatized stories
that agonize
are
to be capsized
to emphasize -
harmonize -
energize
so that
I s
are re centralized
re authorized
along the curly hum
For the game!
like the newborn tree
growing inside of me now
of
Me ?

me again?!?

but

I need not much of these anymore

and such are all things
that gave breath to us :
the in/sentient
courageously left behind
for a cry that bore generations
and such is her’s now

A means
that helped me grow
towards this no thing thing

and You

You ?

But you…
…?

An immortalized posture of a shoulder shrug!

Nothing more
and nothing less

You - as love apart
but still with me

by each one of my shoulder shrugs
like the nameless sage of shoulder shrugs

In the western ‘who cares’ style….
We are so good at that!
So …

so ?

Be proud just!
to be commemorated as such

I will Never
pick a wildflower again
to place in my beloved vase
I did it only twice
Shamefully
Watching the truth die
Instantaneously
and no we do not like duality
But there will NOT be a third time
for such sad action
You have my word on that

I walk now alone
content with a song
of a bird welcoming
my accord

Carrying your light
in my heart
Plainness is my courage
I know you now

Your love rains
beads of truth
shaping words
of peace
that I read
incessantly
as us

knowing my duty
I go
go now

Taking nothing
Needing nothing
Leaving all
Things and
Insightful of
no things

I am you
With you
Listening
Just
to these
final
immaculate
droplets
of hers
before she willingly dies

I Romanticize
And visualize
The Real eyes  
Full of Despise
So Dramatized yet
Can't Realize the  
Real Lies so quick
Disguised by
Their Improvised
Alibis that will arise
When ice flame dies
baptized by
Unholy flies now
Desensitized by  
So blessed by those
Bedeviled Snake eyes
That traumatize,  
Yet tantalize my soul
And likewise,
These ****** skies
Sorrowed demise,
Was brought upon by  
White lies.
Now tainting lives,  
Once colorized,
so grey.
Your eyes.

Beloved Reprise

Numbing your mind
Is a temporary resolve
For a nagging conscience

When you know
It's not your composition
But a sad love song

In a minor-key
Dramatized music
That floods the soul

Until the walls break
And dry tears turn
Into a flash flood

Exasperating the ache
Exposing the wound
Ripping it open

Numbness resolved
Love evolved
But in the end....

Meaningless, if not returned

Thieving and burglary - deliberate
indulgent, ignorance, waste of opportunities - deliberate
drinking, loose morals, bad company, drugging - deliberate
lazy, stupidity, state dependency in viable health - deliberate
babies for welfare payments, employment avoiding - deliberate
hate, envy, jealousy, lies, slander, crimes, drunkenness - inadequacies
Racism, ignorance, small mindedness, pettiness, belligerence - Low scale inherent characteristics

Betrayal - engineered
Loss of employment and brilliant career ruination - engineered
alone and social isolation - engineered
lack of intimate relationship - engineered
Rudeness, screams, fractured relationship - engineered
economic stagnation - engineered
Physical limitations - engineered

In the woke civilisation of the great Island
Psychopaths Social and structural Engineers march in Red
In raving anodyne tones the entitled ivories do the twist
Please ignore all the listed deliberate glaring omissions above
No! you see in deluded grandeur
Its time for the blame game, its time for the blame game
Its all the fault of the immigrant
who studied and worked to make a better life
especially that black successful one
with everything just going well for him
we didn't boat him on on the Windrush
He's not cleaning our roads or in the factory
He's not fetching and wiping **** in the Hospital
He's not even into crime and supplying our drugs
No! No! No!
He is a leech and  a parasite
He is responsible for our miserable uninspiring life
Comrades, join us, the Revolution is now

They say I suffer, I have pain
How can I, I wonder
when its  all your engineered and dramatized work
of which I am not in the least responsible!
And you know it!
Narcissists, Psychopaths, Depressives, Mentally challenged loonies
We give you your Revolution, please enjoy the spoils!!!

Having googled and failed to find the right metaphor
to express this all too familiar phase in life,
the alarmingly low levels of self-esteem
conveniently stepped up to suggest,
a fresh pineapple at the local supermarket
during the harshest of Finnish winter.
Its exotic and festive look draws attention,
everyone wants a bite but no one knows how the **** to peel it.
So they observe with great curiosity from just far enough,
to avoid touching the prickly leaves or skin.
The go to center piece of any, maybe just hipster, parties,
misplaced on top of an excruciating variety of pizzas,
spiking Sangria since the beginning of time,
and most appreciated upside down on cakes.
It draws attention and triggers discussions,
but no one knows what to do or how to feel about it,
except to watch with keen interest from a dramatized distance,
and take the canned stuff home instead.

How can I sleep when every time I close my eyes they are not alone?
There's an impression on the back of my eyelids and when I shut them My eyes are joined by yours
I see every memory associated with them
The tiny wrinkles that surround them when you smiled
Every tear that beaded up and traveled down your cheek
The lazy dilation when you were too tired to get out of bed
The frustrations you were too afraid to express
Your pupils told a story
And sometimes if I try hard enough I can see my reflection in them
Or maybe that's the remnants of me in the back of your mind
I often wonder what I'm doing there in your thoughts
What is my place there?
Is it a constant reinactment of our past?
Over dramatized reruns of one of our episodes?
Maybe it's fantasy's for the future?
Expectations I could probably never live up to
A perfectly placed hand, kiss, or choice of words that I was too blind to catch
Another que I missed
Or all of the above?
Do you see your reflection in mine?
Can you see yourself dancing playfully
In the dimly lit halls of my imagination?
Adding color to the walls
While simultaneously tearing pieces of paint away
I promise I don't mind
Ill get to sleep eventually
With the same fear and excitement
That I have nearly every night
The fear and excitement
That I'll see you in my dreams again
I wonder if you feel the same
I wonder how long things will be this way
My eyes will open eventually
And when they do
They will be alone again

I want to explore your womanhood.
I want to take your mental essence to higher plateaus.
I want to kiss you in the most sensual place.
My desire for you is driving me crazy. No need to worry love the time has come.
I am yours for now and beyond.
Here I am standing before you.
I am yours to adore. Give me some ***. Make me wet.
I am yours to fulfill. Let’s enjoy ourselves. Let us make love in the moonlight.
My body yearns for yours. Your body yearns for mine.
We are both dramatized to captivate each other minds.
Give me some ***.
Come to me with your fine ***.
Make love to me between these satin sheets.
Please me. Shh, say no more.
Just a mind ***
I am yours.

I think the thing with bad habits is you never really outgrow them. You can put markers on the wall to see how much you've grown but each time you look you'll only be disappointed to see you're still short of what you need. And art. Oh, can art make you lose your mind. You go into a space most people are afraid to be in for not many like facing their fears, much less their sins. But this craft of mine makes me go back to them again and again no matter how many times I've said they've been replaced by Love so real it's insane. So, I guess, not much has changed since the last time I've been in this bed. This chamber of sins and regret clinging to me like clothes on a hot summer's day. I try thinking of an escape but the only way through is facing them again and giving myself grace to make mistakes and I don't think I can do that. Not if I can't fully erase my past. I won't waste my time risking my life. You see, I'm so sick of the grime I'm living in! But there you stand as a beacon of hope and Light at the end of the tunnel. Amity doesn't seem so far away when your voice reminds me of who I am: Beloved daughter of the king. O save me, save me, save me! It seems like all I'm ever good at is shooting at my own body. "Rode hard and put away wet" is what they said and that is exactly what I feel. Poetry has probably dramatized this but who cares? As long as you get something out, right? For your craft! you'd do anything to save it! I run around the whole court and come back without the ball. And if words are really my only reprieve then fine, so be it! I won't try to change these crooked lines I was born in. Crooked bones and misplaced fire missiles firing at me, pointing a finger at me, THAT'S ME!! The one who's nodding her head at everything you've just said; "that's reality," she said. I can't change who I am so I guess I'll just have to make the most of it.

I edit my own memory
My history a constant mosaic of events that may or may not have happened
Over dramatized or overlooked
Cut for time
Added for effect
Sometimes I forget who I am
Was that conversation real?
I replay moments thatve been tampered by my own biased feelings
Occasionally though
There are things I can recall perfectly
At 6 years old I layed in the back of my parents car and watched tree branches
float through the sky as if being pulled by on a sheet
From time to time my memory focuses
And I'll gesture as if fixing the lens
And then the clarity of your face on that perfect night cuts through
Your speaker reflected blue and green and reds on the walls while we listened to Elliot and spoke about life like cinema
I remember thinking that this could not be real
That someone added another reel to my reality to make it more interesting
And I remember you slipping into sleep and as my eyes grew heavy I couldn't help the small stream of tears that built up and collapsed in the corners of them
That moment was pure happiness for me
I hope it was for you too
We may never have a moment like that again
Who knows
But I'm so glad I could share something that beautiful with you
I wouldn't want it with anyone else

I.
I contemplate nom de plume (a).
The nomenclator (b) pax (c) kiss of peace (d) .
Coddle (e) the dowry (f) , the dowsables (g) pas de deux (h) .
Fill the kyack (i) with tidytips (j) from California , that land lease (k) .
No irrational number (l) , reality two (m) .

Definitions:
(a) non de plume - pen name.

(b) nomenclator - a book containing a ciollection of lists of words or names .

(c) pax - from Latin pax vobis (peace to you) or pax vobiscum (peace with you). A pax is a liturgical object used in the Middle Ages and Renaissance for the Kiss of Peace in the Catholic mass . It began to replace the actual Kiss of Peace in the 13th century .

(d) Kiss of Peace - An ancient traditional Christian greeting.

(e) coddle - treat in an indulgent or overprotective way .

(f) dowry - property or money brought by a bride to her husband on their marriage .

(g) dowsables - obsolete word for sweetheart or lady love .

(h) pas de deux - a dance for two people , typically a man and woman . A duet in ballet.

(i) Kyack - a packsack to be swung on either side of a packsaddle . Two connecting sacks .

(j) tidytips - an annual wildflower native to western North America .

(k) land lease - leasing the land upon which a tenant may own the home but not the land .

(l) irrational number - is a real number that cannot be expressed as a ratio of two integers . A number with an infinite number of digits .

(m) reality two - Jen Oliver Meiert - two realities . One is the physical reality . And the other is psychical reality .


II.
Fatten on krass (a) and farina (b) , fanfaronade (c) , mordancy (d) , honey and beurre noir (e) on toast .
Nothing to ambsace (f) !
The guidon (g) carried by a guidon betraying the one ,
"one's fancy" only to be crushed by a juggernaut (h) . . . promace (i) .


(a) Krass - German for gross or coarse .

(b) Farina - name in the U.S. for milled wheat .

(c) fanfaronade - arrogant or boastful talk .

(d) mordancy - a biting or caustic criticism .

(e) beurre noir - French for black butter .

(f) ambsace - the lowest throw of the dice .
Something worthless or unlucky .

(g) guidon - a pennant typically attached a pole that narrows to a point or fork at the end . A standard for light calvary .

(h) juggernaut - huge and overpowering force .

(i) promace - animal tranquilizer .


III.
Could I quintuplicate (a) the subdebutante (b) becoming tag end (c) ?
Would I cozen (d) the bulblet (e) from the branch Circe (f) ?
The Elaine (g) of long ago evanescent (h) my Hesperus (i) friend .
To Hesperides (j) especially , the Jinni (k), lowball comedy (l) .


(a) quintuplicate - fivefold . To multiply by five .

(b) subdebutante - a girl in her mid teens about to become a debutante .

(c) tag end - the last remaining part of something .

(d) cozen - to trick or deceive . Obtain by deception .

(e) bulblet - small bulb produced on a larger bulb .

(f) Circe - Goddess , nymph , enchantress or sorceress of magic . Daughter of Helios and either Oceania or Hecate . Able to change people into animals with potions or incantations .

(g) Elaine - the women of Arthurian legend who died of unrequited love for Lancelot . From Greek , a girls name meaning "sun's rays or shining light" .

(h) evanescent - soon passing out of sight , memory , or existence . Quickly fading or disappearing .

(i) Hesperus - the planet Venus . Evening star .

(j) Hesperides - legendary garden found at the western extremity of the world that produces golden apples . The nymphs that with the aid of a dragon guard the garden that grows the golden apples .


(k) - Jinni - also Genni . In Arabian and Muslim mythology the intelligent spirit with less ranking than an Angel that can appear in human or animal form for the purpose of possessing humans .

(l) lowball comedy - a deceptively crude comedy with underlying meanings .


IV.
My Maginot Line (a) , my Magen David (b) . . . before you board mae west (c) .
The squirting sea cucumber .
The Sammum Bonum (d) goes .
It's Watch Night (e) like a watch pocket (f) .
Zombism (g) we have digressed (h)
The incunable (i) mickle (j) , the  micawberish (k) pentagram (l)
exposed .


(a) Maginot Line - weaponized concrete fortifications built by France in the 1930's to keep Germany out .

(b) Magan David - originating from Medieval
Arabic literature . A hexagram (overlapping equivalent triangles) that was used as a talisman on protective amulets and was known as the Seal of Solomon . In the 18th century it was adopted by Jewish interest as the Star of David .

(c) Mae West - Personal flotation device (PFD) , life preserver . First inflatable life preserver created by Peter Markas in 1928 .

(d) sammum bonum - Latin . From Rome's greatest orator meaning 'The highest good' . Virtue .

(e) Watchnight - a service also called Watchnight Mass is a late night Christian church service . Held on late New Year's Eve . Also called Freedom's Eve service , a celebration and remembrance of the Emancipation Proclamation (enacted January 1 , 1863) which freed the slaves in the Confederate States during the American Civil War .

(e) watch pocket - extra fifth pocket on the right side of blue jeans made for a size 16 pocket watch .

(f) Zombism - the Kongo and Kimbundu system of religious rites . Characterized by worship of a snake diety during Voodoo rites .

(g) digressed - leave the main subject temporaryly in speech or writing .

(h) incunable - a book , pamphlet , or broadside ( a critical response) printed in Europe before the year 1501 .

(i) mickle - a very large amount .

(j) Micawberish - resembling the character of Wilkins Micawber in the Charles Dickens novel
David Copperfield . Especially optimistic to the point of being irrisponsible .

(k) Pentagram - five pointed star used in ancient Greece  and Bablyonia . Which is used today as a symbol of faith by many Wicans and said to have magical powers and associations .


V.
While the rabalo (a) swims the tropical seas
succes de scandale (b) .
While the Exmoor (c) ponies exert , ****** (d) in-and-out (e) .
And the Langur (f) from Laos
lies lethargic , drinking meadowsweet (g) ale .
The Nereids (h) tease and pase (i) in polyrthym (j) .


(a) Rabalo - common snook or sergeant fish .

(b) succès de scandale - a success due to notoriety or things of a scandalous nature . Public controversy .

(c) Exmoor - an area of hilly open moorland in west Somerset and north Devon in South Wales England named after the river Exe . Ancient royal hunting grounds .

(d) ****** -  Queen of Asgard and wife of Odin . Stepmother of Thor and adoptive mother of Loki .

(e) in-and-out - copulation

(f) Langur - long tailed aboreal monkey with a characteristicly loud call .

(g) meadowsweet - or mead wort is a perennial herb that grows  in damp meadows in Europe used to make medicine .

(h) Nereids - In Greek mythology the Nereids are sea nymphs , daughters of Nercus and Doris and known to be friendly and helpful to sailors .

(i) pase - a maneuver with a cape used in bullfighting meant to get the attention of the bull .

(j) polyrthym - a rthym which makes use of two or more different rthyms simultaneously .



VI .
The enchantress in a jaded jodhpur (a) .
So kitsch (b) with the live stream (c) mouth .
A menu (d) with folded mantis hands , a Nazarene (e) .
An à outrance (f) , an abstraction (g) .
***** envy (h) , reach-me-down (i) , rest house (j) south .
The simoon's (k) coming , simon pure (l) in simony (m) .


(a) Jodhpur - also called riding breeches . Tight fitting trousers that reach the ankles ending in a snug cuff worn primarily for horse riding .

(b) kitsch - German meaning ****** art . Excessively garish or sentimemental art usually considered in bad taste or lowbrow .

(c) live stream - to stream digital data . Data that is delivered continuously and is usually intended for immediate processing or playback .

(d) manu - (Sanskrit) is a term found in Hinduism . In early texts it refers to the first men , (progenitor of humanity) .

(e) Nazarene - native of Nazareth . A member of a group of German painters
working mainly in Rome who from 1809 sought to revive the art of Medieval Germany and early Renaissance Italy .

(f) à outrance - exorbitance .To the limit .

(g) abstraction - freedom from representational art . Dealing with ideas rather than events .

(h) - ***** envy - the supposed coveting  of the male ***** by a young female according to Sigmund Freud .

(i) reach-me-down - second hand clothing

(j) rest house - shelter for travelers especially when there are no hotels available .

(k) simoon - a hot dry dust-laden wind blowing in the desert , especially in Arabia .

(l) simon pure - untainted purity or integrity . Absolute pure , genuine or authentic . Also used negatively as pretentiously or hypocritically pure .

(m) simony - the buying or selling of ecclesiastical privileges . Such as something spiritual . Taken from Simon Magus
(Act 8:18) who endeavored to buy from the Apostles the power of conferring the gifts of the Holy Spirit .



VII .
Come Nisus (a), Lord of misuse.
With your Ibizan (b) hounds
and ewer (c) .
Your ebulient (d) ectomorphic (e)
mentality .
Board a carrack (f) to Chad breastbeating (g).
Put your thoughts on skewer (h) .
While seeking an essoin (i) , flannel-mouthed (j) idyllic (k) .


(a) Nisus - Greek mythology , King of Megara , son of Pandion of Athens . When King Minos of Crete beseiged Megara , Nisus's daughter Scylla fell in love with Minos . She betrayed her city by cutting off her father's purple lock . The purple lock of hair held magical powers if preserved . Nisus was killed and became a sea eagle . Scylla later drowned , said by the hands of Minos and was changed into a sea bird pursued by the sea eagle .

(b) Ibizan hound - named for an island off the coast of Spain . Ancient breed of hounds once kept by the Pharoahs around 3400 B.C.

(c) ewer - a large jug or pitcher with a wide mouth used for carrying water for someone to wash in .

(d) ebulient - cheerful and full of energy . Archaic - of liquid or matter boiling or agitated as if boiling . From Latin ebullire - to bubble out which is the stem of the word Bullire which is the ancestor of the word boil .

(e) ectomorphic - body having a build with little fat or muscle and long limbs .

(f) - Chad - a landlocked country in north central Africa . One of the poorest and most corrupt nations in the world .

(g) breastbeating - a loud emotional expression of remorse , grief , anger , or self recrimination .

(h) Skewer - stick or metal pin used to hold meat .

(i) essoin - old English . An excuse for nonappearance in court .

(j) flannel-mouthed - smooth and persuasive in speech in order to deceive or manipulate .

(k) idyllic - extremely happy , peaceful , or picturesque .



VIII .
Through the eyes of yashmak (a) ,
below the eyes of  yarmulke (b) .
Whey-faced (c) tunneled half-caste (d)  in a white haik (e) .
Genuflection (f) to Baal (g) , Jehovah (h) .
A docudrama (i) , carbunckled (j) .
As the cross hair sweeps
across professed
liturgist (k) .


(a) yashmak - veil concealing all of the face except the eyes . Worn by some Muslim women in public .

(b) yarmulke - a skull cap worn by orthodox Jewish men or during prayer by other Jewish men .

(c) whey-faced - pale , especially as a result of ill health , shock , or fear .

(d) half-caste - a person whose parents are of different races in particular a European father and an Indian mother .

(e) Haik - a large outer garment or wrap typically white and worn by people from North Africa's Maghreb region .


(f) genuflection - lowering of one's body briefly by bending one knee to the ground . Typically in worship or as as sign of respect .

(g) Baal - was a title honorific meaning "owner" , "Lord" in the Northwest Semitic languages spoken in the Levant during antiquity . From its use among people it became to be applied to Gods of fertility , weather , rain , wind , lightning , seasons , war , and patron of sailors .

(h) Jehovah - a form of the Hebrew name  of God . Means  "I am that I am" or "I am the one who is".

(i) docudrama - a dramatized TV movie based on real life events .

(j) carbunckled - to make painful , sore , or irritated .

(k) liturgist - one who practices liturgy . A form to which public religious worship is conducted . In ancient Greece a public office or duty performed voluntaryly by a rich Athenian .

As I stay here,
I speculate
In the frontier of thought,
I contemplate
What I brought to the world,
I concentrate
On what I unfurled and now display,
I consummate
What I portray and feel,
I dominate
What I reveal,
I denominate
What is real,
But still,
I nominate
What is surreal,
I oscillate
I change what is ideal for me,
I isolate myself
In the highest degrees,
I desolate
With the finest move of the pen,
What I create.

I state again
With each day I improve,
My lexicon
I dilate,
I’m commenting on
What I approve,
I’m obsessing on
What I want to disprove,
I’m expressing
What I need removed,
I’m blessing
The words I reuse,
I’m addressing
What I deduce.

Words are:
Complicated,
Herds
Of verses,
Cursed,
Voiceless,
Surds and sonants,
Dramatized,
Emoted,
Intoxicated,
Reiterated,
Literal and figurative,
Alliterated,
Raided and stripped naked,
Related,
Equipped,
Gripped,
Awakened,
Jaded,
Created,
And to create.

D: ays seem to drag on, relentlessly.
E: ventually you feel like you should give up.
P: ersistent feelings of sadness, worthlessness, useless…
R: eality seems to be slowly fading away from your grasp.
E:motions are beginning to get harder and harder to hide from those you love.
S: o, you decide to tell someone about it.
S: adly, they don’t believe that what you’re going through is worth the heartache you feel.
I: t’s okay though, because you expected this reaction to happen.
O: bviously what you’re feeling is stupid and unimportant.
N: ow what?

D: epression sinks in and begins to…
O: verwhelm every sense you have.
E: verything is dramatized and there’s nothing you can do to stop the…
S: ting of words from those around you telling you to just “feel happier, let out the sadness”

N: eeds don’t seem important anymore, you just ignore them.
O: pening yourself up to other people is no longer an option.
T: hey only make you feel worse.

D: eciding to get the help you deserve was the hardest part.
E: very day is a new day with endless possibilities.
F: ocus only on the positive things that happen to you.
I: n hindsight this will allow you to slowly be able to differentiate between the things you have control over and those you leave to God.
N: ever again will I let people dismiss my feelings.
E: ach feeling you have is part of who you are becoming and allow us to be human.

W: hy hold back anything anymore?
H: ow you feel is so important and you need everyone to understand… to become more…
O: pen-minded to the things that they couldn’t possibly comprehend.

Y: ou are worth it.
O: ur lives matter.
U: nderestimated potential shall no longer be a problem.

A: nyone can change their perspective on life, they just need the right support group.
R: ealizing you’re worth it, is the most important thing you can open your heart to.
E: veryone matters.