You can literally manufacture it in a chemistry lab;
There are formulae and measurements of hormones that add up
To this supposedly tangible entity

A nicely brewed test tube
Of elaborately named chemicals

The very thing that makes you tremble in your skin,
That has caused wars and set ships assail
Confined to a liquid in a glass container

Since our political system has been laid bare, after RumputiN was installed
in the Blackhouse, it's beautiful complex of lack of complexity, in a word,
conspiracy of conspiracies, has moved me and "...we(e),..." to have as a few
of my favorite things be far more reaching questions, out of necessity. Like,
without acknowledging, and demanding others do the same, that it's been
purposely engineered to be a criminal injustice system instead, how can one
even have a real conversation that would lead to potential for real change
of it taking place in reality, if you don't know who you were, where you've
been, how on God's green Earth can you expect to know who..., where you are
and what's going on, necessary to start thinking about changing anything,
even yourself, as well as directing who you will be and where you will
be going, etc.?  Swine slaughtering lower-middle-class to poor men en masse,
mostly of color, instead of just doing the usual liquidation of their ases
and assets, are just serial murderers masquerading as cops, and what goes
around comes around, no?  If you're not taking bullets you're making them.  
Also, people are fed up with felonious RumputiN and his rootin' tootin'
organized crime family spree from the Blackhouse, which should be prosecuted
using the RICO Statute instead of just being elaborately covered up by Mueller
for he's not using it and he's handing out immunities like soldiers candy to
Iraqi kids, duh.  I would add some salient pointless points, beyond the 'empty
boat' of Zen, and 'useless tree' of the Tao, we can understand the burden
placed on our shoulders by our ancestry not exercising their responsibilities
as they should have, and thereby it's Siamese twin sisters, their freedoms,
Withered like unused muscles as well, as a panultimate challenge, saving
humanity, literally. Also, understanding Jung's "80 % of all actions, thoughts,
feelings we have, that we acknowledge, or don't, perceive or don't, are
compensatory towards our pasts", necessitates an integral understanding of
Satre's existentialism' meaning of angst, as experience integral to life, not
opposed to it, but, rather, central to it, and a nexus of it.  This is more
than an embracing of gestalt's, Perls', moment, now. Moving away from sophist
perspective, we also experience the meaning of life is struggle, which comes
through all our meaningful work, succinctly. Further, what is life beyond that
foci is also, the where, when, who, how, and sometimes why too (but never Y2K)
of life; beyond our masks and ego fulfilling stories, schtick, lines, etc..
Do we struggle, not just as lifelong students, with the impossible, not just
the improbable.  Yet, it's actually more layered than that in a much larger
dimensional paradigm than 4 dimensions.  Yes, the effects of our causes in any
action usually have effects that undo our causes as we act them out, intend,
present them, etc..  Yet, those more superficial, linear, first conclusion
layers are not less effective, per se, as the complexity of Karma, Dharma are
beyond our normal comprehension. What is the root of thought, feeling, the root
of feeling, being, the root of being, the extent to which we struggle with what
it is, no?  For, as the following twig of poetree gleans: Soul//
As my breath
is the one, prana,/
And the life's pulse, pala,/
Reaching angelic source, sura,/

So is this mind, manas, a
/  Flowering unfoldment,
/ Unendingly touching
/ The eye
that would it see,/  
Unbeckoning unto thee./
As well, this Bodhi, a temple,/

Of the four and fifth, nur,/  
So entered by atma, a ray of thy sun,/  
Thus being
winged, and
/  As such with wind,/
Flying only in dharma's dance,/
Is returning
to, Brahma, you./  For, there yet, by thy grace, go I./  
We are not who we think
we are, we are, rather, the extent to which we struggle to evolve to be some-
things, spirit, soul, Bodhi, etc., on the path of study that could and should
be one, you, me, forever asked and never answered.  Yet, even if we lived as
prayer, our light only adding to the well of light, our every step in grace,
leaving no footprints that followed none, echoing in all ways, always,
sometimes, like pulling teeth, "...we(e),...", must stalk our words from our
insides 'til we wrangle them, like cats, to the tip of our tongues, no?  For,
"Words weren't meant for cowards..." and we must "be brave...", Happy Rhodes.
We can't allow ourselves the luxury of taking our supposedly 'golden silence'
all the way to the bank, as your average bear does.  These are the end times,
we successfully struggle, to abolish global defacto-slavery by the non-renew-
able energies' corporate structure's machine and it's convolution, against
the global oligarchy's premeditated mass-****** of 7.5 billion people, or
humanity's extinct.  Gandhi, "(supposed) science is the root of all opression"
and, "...we(e),..." must be the change we want in the world".  Is not life
relation, are we not responsible for one another, are not all threads in
the fabric of life needed, as is the evoliutionary ones' mendings, for we
can't allow it to be torn asunder?  If not here, then where, if not now, when,
not you, who? Viva la evolucion.  Indivisible, illimitable you, GOTV.

Odysseus struggles needs to prove to himself world he is talented painter determined to achieve recognition goes from art dealer to art dealer seeking support one dealer says Schwartzpilgrim stop changing settle on 1 style you can be known for what you’re doing now is good stick with it call me in 6 months with 300 drawings just like these another dealer says Odys you must learn great art is a **** beneath bed sheets another dealer says Modigliani knew how to paint flesh paint like Modigliani you need to learn more about painting Schwartzpilgrim you’re too young inexperienced another dealer says thank you for your interest in our gallery we’re not taking on any new painters at this time Odysseus knows there are people so much more talented better looking than him he feels inadequate intimidated

thinks to himself sister Penny is right female wish list is curse Bayli haunts she alone always be my ideal until i met Reiko Lee now Reiko Lee Furshe holds me captive i long for her voice eyes shoulders wiry delicateness crazy outrageous humor fiery ****** appetite i need to tear apart wish list leave myself open need to learn to seek inner beauty let anatomy fall where it will need to cultivate new standards it’s difficult to see with different eyes i am so biased how do i do this?

Odysseus muses with Reiko’s ghost 6 months since separation lights candles burns incense opens bottle of red wine pours glass for her and himself sips watches her glass while he makes toasts speaks elaborately of her beauty charm cites reasons why each of them does not need the other why couldn’t you have been the one? what is it about me you didn’t like? what did i do wrong? pours another glass begins talking louder ending in rage why aren’t you here? why? what went so terribly wrong? i love you where are you? how come you’re not here with me tonight? looks at her glass sees she has not even taken sip feels slightly drunk fearful he has sunk too deep  gets up staggers to bed sniffs blanket for traces of her tonight is their anniversary his only excuse

telephone rings sometime in late july hi it’s me Reiko how’ve you been Odys? he questions Reiko Lee? uh yes Odys it’s meee your stray puppy Reiko’s voice sounds playful tender Odys are you there? what’s up? let me come over **** and ******* please he speaks into receiver Reiko Lee is dead hangs up wonders if he has done right thing paces room writes a woman like that you tell yourself you do not need  ignore her deny her let her pass because if you admit how much you want her you become fugitive in chains running from dogs men with guns a woman like that is all you need a woman like that is motive seed chance of a lifetime a woman like that takes chances at twice your speed a woman like that keeps you guessing hoping waiting a woman like that leaves you destitute you cannot have her because she possesses you a woman like that is a wanted woman

decides to move finds new place blocks away apartment on lill street changes telephone number in his heart he knows nothing more thrilling beautiful than joyous girl yet he attracts women who seek abuse because they see themselves in him because he lets them try to mend his abused mind because he misuses them so well reaching finding joyous girl looms impossible breakup feeds venting bitter fires

the most dangerous woman eludes meall other women are too attainable chinese green tea gestapo limousine it doesn’t matter that you don’t understand that is the line darling dangling darjeeling your lips bleeding your ***** on fire imagine i am running sprinting in relay race just up ahead i’m about to pass baton this is life expectancy of poet indonesian cigarettes made of clove leaves i held your wrists pinned your fragile body to floor strummed you like guitar while other men looked on i knew one of them would take you next

miranda comes out on verandah with lemonade on hot summer day hair blows free in breeze leans back against beam softly hums inside time bomb ticks somewhere fly caught in room knocking itself against window ricocheting off corners  buzzing crisscross ceiling floor miranda sips just enough so lips are wet eyelids flutter like butterfly wings ******* swell in heat of midday sun she calls to us with hand stirs more sugar in lemonade late afternoon when fly is caught entangled in spider’s web buzzing is muffled ice has melted lemonade watery we are dozing in hammocks rocking chairs miranda is changing dress perfuming thighs crafting character in mirror screen door slams she looks up recognizing it is only wind sun is sinking orange ball spider crawls fixing aim grabs thread swings in for **** we are passed out in grass at dusk lights around verandah beam on miranda appears wearing low-neck dress with one strap down breath heavy with anise invites us inside giggling shyly as we follow timeless newsreel vision men hard at work war room spins as fly ***** desperately spider opens legs miranda lies arched on bed eyes weaving

he gets drunk loudly sings she must be some kind of witch flying in the wind she must be some kind of ***** to dig this grave i’m in he rhymes it was just another **** stunt forgive me for speaking so blunt she was just being a lady no need to get crazy it was just another **** stunt he scribbles she gets ****** hair styled eyebrows plucked nails done walks out new woman miss fox Mrs. G. Fox madame de faux meeting the girls for lunch wearing her pearls writing her name in swirls talking up a storm pack of women is worse than pack of hungry wolves wolves stop at carrion women carve combs out of bones

Cal is driving Odysseus sits in passenger seat heading to pit & pendulum for cocktails it is raining down hard Odysseus looks out beyond sweeping windshield wipers sees red cowboy boots the ones they found together at flea market there she is Reiko Lee Furshe arisen from wasteland Odysseus tells Cal to stop car turns to see her she is running across street his hand reaches for car door handle what’s happening? Cal demands are you there? i can’t stop cars behind me! this is crazy Odys what’s going on? i’m not stopping! Odysseus stares through rear window frozen watching her disappear behind red brick wall in pouring rain

ghost girl it’s difficult to write in comatose passage apart i am in theater of mirrors with empty seat beside me black hole inside me itinerary of fears i’m seeing dancer but haunted by you look in your eyes smell on your fingers clonking up stairs of your wooden clog shoes feelings we dared plans we knew might never come true la laahh la lay la lay dee la lady of shady lagoon weeping willow pisces moon like India ink you’ve left indelible stain i fumble in dark of empress’s tomb like necrophiliac i grip onto memory stroke ashes of you lantern licorice amethyst bone you are gliding in your canoe cutting through mist swirling whirlpools that untangle themselves behind you dancing nearer to flame la shady lady does pirouettes in rain

To start --
being an adolescent with autumn eyes,
seeking a prophecy for long-standing bravery
to further the spinning spokes for minutes, five more,

I burned the drapes to reveal a humanity only I could see.

The expectations were elaborately existing, unsatisfying. Sons
and fathers, years refrained from matters
that reverse reverse reverse curses and maturity
without purpose.

Those idle accepted neglect, and the existence of an
unsalted bridge was quickly detained. Alone, the foolish described
to search for the future in geometric formation and coffee ring
stains fading the desk.

But the sense proposed in my decided equality drank dignity
straight from the bottle. The road that lead me between two cliffs,
Propriety and Statistics, with the rocks already pelting down,
could not diminish my enthusiasm for necessary absurdities.

There's no flesh in declared mediocrities.

I became a luminary for pleasures of eminence, hope with resolve,
opportunities in destiny. Blind gambles obliged the fear of exacting
sensibility. Passionate follies created no-regret-consequences,
satisfied stability. Only the **** are granted victories in eternal gaiety.

Mortality is irrelevant if you let mystery be your urgency.

A friend sends her perfumed carriage
And high-bred horses to fetch me.
I decline the invitation of
My old poetry and wine companion.

I remember the happy days in the lost capital.
We took our ease in the woman's quarters.
The Feast of Lanterns was elaborately celebrated -
Folded pendants, emerald hairpins, brocaded girdles,
New sashes - we competed
To see who was most smartly dressed.
Now I am withering away,
Wind-blown hair, frost temples.
I prefer to stay beyond the curtains,
And listen to talk and laughter
I can no longer share.

You subtly strum soft passionate symphonies of pathos
and are wordless in casual relapse
to canals of bliss
and carnal bane-
Schisms of cannibalism eat at my soft humanity
with cries of animalism-
that are ****, animated in oil.

I consume you on dull nights
because you are there no matter what
And I hate the way you purse your lips
a stenosis of encapsulated disapproval
even pursed in pleasure
Your closed eyes give away more than
any assuming part of fleshy eyelids
slits of white shine as unfaithful mirrors
reflecting my own narcissism.

Afterward in comfortable silence-
two quotation marks still hang naked
trapped in the smell of sweat,
wrapped elaborately around
            "I love you"
standing like an alabaster sentinel
but acting more as a crossing guard,
dictating my need

Of the world's most handsome poetry
Of the champagne of the tongue
The rapt lovers of cursive stroke
And the sweetest, most decadent paper caress

I like the cheap beer remarks and the box wine conjunctions
The whorish, scribbled word on the back of café napkins
The bitter inky graze and the rancid graphite touch

Some days
I have drowned in a sea of elaborately dressed words
With less intent than proud showmanship

And most days
I’d rather float on a Dead Sea of salty wit

Agony of the fantasy, so lazily, with no probability
the ecstasy so randomly seen with eyes of atrophy
my heart beats so rapidly for the sake of catastrophe
so i gallantly step on the travesty of the compatibility

i casually see my casualty through eyes of calamity
searching so actively for a canopy of rationality
my mind thinks abnormality is better than conformity
actuality meets versatility or circumstantial amity

thinking elaborately not organically, of reality
a tapestry so naturally put together differently
visually vivid quality is a visible consistency
no commonality,  critically crushed by normality

I feel his eyes on me
Whenever I cross the room.
It is mostly when there are others
Present and we must share ourselves,
Expended over people

And places. The spaces
Before we fall into our wine stained
Non-marital bed. The grape blood reminds me
Of my own. On my own, fledgling ******* and acne,
Elaborately false *******

Where I would never have my fill.

A child-man I forgot.
Or remember only as a token,
Cardboard textured orange peel
In a breast pocket never worn. I forget
Most everyone

Now that he is
In my life. He obliterates
All else like light pollution.
Not of fluorescent neon or slogans
But an exploding star

That dims all else
In my peripheries. I am
Diminished also in his love,
Both wholesomely and then in a sense
Where I lose my ‘I’.

It is in his shadow
Where I live. Small comet
Hidden in the black of velvet,
Licked by the spit of his flames
That scald me

And bathe me
In equal measure.

I am more than this
I know. Or guess. His tailor hands
Though, are efficient and caring. They
Do not create me, but he threads himself
Into my sides

And drops a stitch
Only to adulate the rhythm
When he enters me. When he enters me
I become burgeoned and full and blood fills
The rusted roadways

That shine blue
Through my pasty prism.
He finishes. A gloom fills me. Not
A gloom, more of a nothing and he is
An obliterated star once more

And I his aftermath.
He has killed me with a kindness,
A ghost only when witnessed, kissed.
I have long since forgotten whether I have
Been taken prisoner

Or gave myself up.

Cracked vinyl bus seats
Windows that have heard the stories of every passanger smeared with truth
The spit of the elderly woman who fell asleep while reminiscing about the son whom she's visiting that she hasn't seen in 35 years
The stubbled cheeks of the older gentleman who is counting the pennies in his pocket on his way to the store to get food for his daughter
The knitted scarf of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling her coat closer to her in an attempt to warm herself because it was the only article of clothing she could afford that year
The ponytail of the teenaged girl who is tracing the scars on her wrist from the last time she tried to end her life
They congregate for a common purpose, but
The doors to their hearts open like the hinged door, letting anyone haphazardly stumble in for a moment,
And
Their souls are brighter than the lights of the megabus as they are honest with themselves for even just a minute
And their walls are temporarily demolished because who would ever have to lie about who they are on a greyhound bus?

Smooth polished church pews
Floors that have been tread upon by every saint stained with lies
The flats of the elderly woman who is nodding off while pretending to pray for the son whom she hasn't spoken to in 35 years
The loafers of the older gentleman who is calculating the amount of money he can sneak from the spagetti dinner fund without getting caught
The high heels of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling up her skirt on one side in an attempt to catch the attention of the younger men further down the pew, while her husband holds her hand on the other
The tennis shoes of the teenaged girl who is tracing the bruises under her blouse from the last time she started a fight with her boyfriend
They congregate for a common purpose, but
Their masks are painted on more elaborately than the Sistine Chapel
And
Their lies are built up more intricately than the stained-glass windows that surround them
As they read their words to live by from a book collecting dust in drawers throughout America because who could be anything but holy in a church?

Keep in mind that I'm attempting to keep this simple
Today I realized that I'm quite bitter
I also realized that I'm a terrible quitter
But I also decided that when I'm feeling down
I'll make a compilation to get me off the ground
Of things I love, because I know there are many
I apologize if you don't feel like reading plenty
I shouldn't postpone this any longer
I need to make myself realize that I'm stronger

So, things I love.
I love hot long showers
I love photographing flowers
I love a hot steaming cup of tea
I love walking only 6 blocks to go to the library
I love the feeling of a cold pillow on my face
I love plugging in head phones & disappearing without a trace
I love it when a person plays with my hair
I love Chicago, did you know I'm moving there?
I love paper cranes
I love filling up picture frames
I love the smell of old books
I love walking around town, alone, finding hidden nooks
I love deja vu, which I'm actually having this instant
I love writing poetry, hearing your guys' opinions, even if they are ever so distant
I love the long drag of a skinny cigarette
I love standing by the back door after a sunset
I love marbles, elephants, old dusty cameras, & boba fett
I love finding lovely people that I've never met
I love going to sleep at a decent time, which feels like never at all
I love putting up quotes that make my heart flutter on my wall
I love reading books that make me feel changed after I'm done
I love cooking for everyone
I love doing things by myself, no matter how hard
I love the fact that I'll never own a credit card
I love that it makes me happy when I get compliments
I love, also, that if I'm insulted, I couldn't give a ****
I love the emphasis on curse words that comes with them
I love tasting words in your mouth again and again
I love websites that feel like the are created for me
I love whenever I can remember my dreams
I love meeting a handsome strangers glance
I love that even though I meet it, that I will never have a chance
I love taking breaks
I love when people don't know I know they are fakes
I love experiences
I love watching as someone dances

I love all of these things, and so many more
I'm sorry if you didn't want to read all the things I adore
This piece isn't meant to be elaborately written or read
It's only purpose is to flow & to solve some problems in my head
Maybe I sort of want to make the reader feel better too
Realize that the things that you love are full of value
Maybe I suggest you write some of the things you love
Before you push away everything good with a violent shove
I really hope that I helped you as much as a I helped me
Read these & appreciate the simple things, I hope you'll see

I think I'll do more of these in the future.

The back bar is
elaborately decorated:
Etched glass, mirrors, and lights.
A set of shelves full of glasses,
bottles behind that counter.

An elegant bar focused
On wine rather
Than on beer or liquor,
Or so said your rose colored
Cheek bones.

I haven't been
Since the music
Stopped playing.

He drew elaborately but never nicely.
He drew flowers, cigarettes, and tears.

He drank elaborately but he never cried.
He drank beer but never flavored strawberry.

He collected his empty cigarette packets in his drawer,
like I collected the broken hearts and beaten skeletons of lost lovers in my closet.

In his black car, I looked down at the city lights at night,
while he looked in my eyes.

I let him touch my body and I let him touch my mind,
parts of me no one has ever touched or seen.
He let me delve in the tunnels where he hid his feelings, nightmares and dreams.

I never counted the days.
He took me to a zone of another time.

His upper lip was as scarred as his mind.
His eyebrows were softly arched trails for my thumbs.
His eyes were as dark as he wanted his soul to seem.
The darkness appeared on his skin only in the shape of a black tattoo of a rose that I’ve touched but never kissed.
Perhaps others have seen sparks of the little but strong light deep inside his heart,
but only I felt it with my hands and let it drown me.
Only I felt his warm tears rolling down my own cheeks.

The first time he said he loved me was the last time we talked.
He was in tears and in pieces.
And then he left me peace-less.

He was the only boy I haven’t told about love
even though he was the only person my heart had learned to love.

In the cavernous expanse gilded out of silicon robes of Greece flattened into the diminutive spaces between crags and rock, the swimmers of the natatorium embrace to plunge in transparency where they erred in covert chivalry
Knighted partially by association but yet unofficially born of sentiments rebarbative to the well-heeled, I linger like tar heels lamenting that the supernova eventually bequeaths the death of the ultimate chapel hill a shining city on a valley masquerading as a hill
From past and repast, the nurture of former presidents calumniates if also embraces the possibility of unfettered liberty and prosperous futurity, they simper in silent lugubrious reflection at lives shortened by liberty prolonged, of hearts opened but death devolved
Latitude and the caress of brazen attitudes corners the ***** in a tightened alcove of a restrictive forest of livid and limpid dastardly deeds, the arm of hunched idiots grazing with dumbfound idiocy at their own protective duty to shepherd the forest only for the singular trees as though disease itself is only a tease in a flirtation too exposed to believe
I joust with giants in a town that brooks lions and lyon estates with too many GrayZe superintending too many fain and valiant graves littering the stream besides the Pennsylvania forest in a past sunken in intrigue slipping in and out of an ethereal time invented by a harvest moon too attuned to be a lunatic any time soon
Whither is the outcome of a Shakespearean demise of prattle becoming the pasture of specious but solid skies, gleaming that a science fiction theater isn’t hailing a fuhrer or jingoistic furor any time soon hopefully I do too croon.
Militant tapestries of unhinged madmen craven in their disregard for every bent temptation, we witness the downfall of scrounged indecency and lonely hearted thieves contemned as they condemn perdition upon an unsuspecting victim
The victim is the hope of galvanized promise, a regal flutter of liberty tracing the skies elaborately for the flight plan most likely volitant and most destined to succeed
Corporate heads shake hands with desperate beds that Damocles himself wishes blood himself was yet shed or never shed but cutthroat collapse is avoidable with the recrudescence of provident relapse and rejoinder, asunder the ships may seem but now aimed so directly like a laser pointer
Titanic is a father to founding fathers only in the regress of avoidant times, sheepish of the whispered grime of inutterable blithe sublime time, limpid in partial acknowledgment of a wretched fate as avoidable as possible with the proper introduction and the right heeded date of a love better than choice wine and the wineskins of an indian province live as well just as much in a Skinnerian time.
Read the palimpsest, pittance proferred for every skeptical and undeclared bet that skewers the coffers of a criminal ring of Barnum Brothers in bed with burned asylum, a sanitarium wider and menacing like the most minatory lion
But the jaws of these aliens in time, whether specious or not thrill only those susceptible to the flattery of swank and the travesty to which we thank our deliverance and suspected exoneration
Flanking the outstripped malls that sprawl in the orbit of cities engorged like a skyscraping promise littered by Walled Ease and regaled bleats that belay down the cliffs of rigid insurrection only partially courageous to noble and partial inflections.

The courage of a wistful day slipping into the fathomless depths of dudgeon and pain the dungeons clamoring of insanity willfully reign, we clip the newspapers to the walls and scrawl our loves into the fallen scrawl.

Crimson red beneath the spangled spars, the author of debauchery immemorial that swills and wassails its own heartrending blues. And this movie squandered in limelight but buttressed by blithe regards for morally debased frights. Sting me the police and see the wasps nest infest your hollow diatribe to the extent you are hobbled in the depths, ennobled aboveground but nevertheless widely pitied.
The mathematics of love and loss, cravings for distrusted sacraments on a blue bus swiveling though the recesses of aleatory or controlled time. But then I lament that fully loved and fully lived is a fluff of sacerdotal emulation rather than the true authorship of heaven blanketing the earth.
Polished polity renegades and the rumpus of crumbled heaped ashes in a cremated time, where sand itself is eternal and sentience is somehow the door to nothing but despair, in their blinkered hubris that scales the lizards back in order to be lifted by olfactory graft.
In that light I see a bright whisked wind carrying the secrecy of portentous spared revelations and the spate of intermittent lightheardedness blows away my skepticism, but sides have been chosen and the bluster of the past emulating the culmination of an amenable future scares the birds from their chavish
Chiliads chill like excellency dissembled as the husk of an eternal monument of punctuated emphatic glory lingering above the ground with intransigent resistance to gravity and an slaver of better sincerity in the attempt to become beyond guileless tourists.
Dressed rankled blue swayed news, always operative in militant conformity to an eradicated sentience but simulatenously a wider sing song enlightenment. I struggle for words in this debased state of pitiable futures plastered all over every billboard that ever matters rather than the closure of closed doors trampled by intermittent dreams and seamless cows becoming the heifers of unified peace.
Smaller that the ants the infest the hills but more glorified than the quiet pristine ponds that outskirt the skirts that need less descent and more ascendancy.

Blitzkreig of cosmic wars swelters the torrid desiccation of a languor existing in human platitude but defiled of human gratitude. We swiftly wait for the erosion of sanity to become the author of a novella of craven deeds and bolted brimstone, serenading a rush towards sensation and an abandonment of rivers libation
Beneath which rivers flow, scrounged glowers endemic to a ruddy blush of sun-stricken grace, I clasp every remedy and every catholicon becomes more ecumenical and more rabid with stricken gaze of disordered streets in festivity but inured of nothing but lazy passions rather than sought rations
Dickens and hard hammers scribble the parched concrete with Chinese depths masqueraded as a suburban muse for canned applause and raucous crews relishing everything crude.
In the refinement the poet slings his garment over his shoulders and buys coffee for his ***** queen, and how to outfox such gallantry and how to temper so much enthusiasm. Only by the skullduggery of dead hands anointed with Greenwich bands.

i could tell you all the things that i wish you'd noticed
but my only regret was the way you packed yourself from me and refused to listen
i could tell you where to set your once vibrant eyes on,
but you'd only ever kept them shut, closing those windows to undiscovered beauty

you were only ever interested in perfection,
lamenting of the world's unfair ways and incomprehensible occurrences
wanting to be flawless yourself but
unfortunately we were never one of the lucky ones destiny picked to favor
i could tell you how perfection is overrated,
like butterflies with wings pinned under tempered glass
amaranthine and frozen in the time trapped within a transparent case,
beautiful, breathtaking, brilliantー
yet they don't really get to live at all; they are too fragile to brave the world

i wish i could have made you see all the insignificant wonders
everything that touched my heart and would hopefully touch yours,
i wish i could have shown you what you could have lived for
or rather, through my selfishness, i wish i could have made you stay with me
because i could see you standing there with the light slipping
off your tainted skin, like a cascading waterfall
as the tentacles of night shrank back in utter defeat

you started a flamboyant affair with your demon because it'd never leave you;
but you never fell too deep in love because you knew it'd never love you back

still the urge to be faultless and never wrong sifted through your desires
i was wrong to let you pursue an endless dream
and i wish i could tell you how i felt as if i was shattering into pieces
every time you held me so tightly and desperately,
yet it is as if your arms were the only remnants binding my entire essence together

everything faded away as you clawed on to any remaining presence
to any scrap of worthless memory to remind you of yourself
i wish you could have seen yourself through my eyes:
the way your words spilled in fervor, mindless of induced tears and welling disbelief,
how your voice lashed out in a wild arc, madly throwing up shields around you
and i couldn't get closer

though lastly, i wish you could see me now, looping threads with boulders attached
at the ends around my ankles and tossing them off buildings
so when i fall down to reach you, it'll be an elaborately planned accident

- - -

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 24, 2017)

Elaborately drawn under the calligraphy towers,
above the tendrilling border lines and flowers,

there’s an idea of meditations and devotions
lost at the border of scribblings and notions.

Monks are making statements in monasteries:
a cabal of ladies holding baskets full of Henrys,

disembodied Henrys, Henrys growing on trees,
the harvesting of Henrys, this name a ******* trustee,

the work-safe word I came up with, befittingly generic,
suitably affable and applicable to the alabaster ******.

Search Google images for Medieval manuscript marginalia.
You’ll find a plethora of genitalia.

Nightmares are a hell of a thing to happen to a person. They only exist in the perfect storm of conditions, elaborately timed coincidences that spiral into a world they know can’t possible exist. And yet, at the time, in the eye of this perfect storm, the fear of things that are not real is completely rational. It must be dark, pitch back even; there must be noise like floorboards creaking or perhaps something more obviously ominous, a skipping record player for instance. There must be a thing, an unknown thing with terrible intentions, malevolent and insidious, unknown to compassion or love. These are the things that breed goose bumps that render irrational people into rational cowards, what a thing to happen to a person.

Actions more than words, my mother said
wait for the arms to enfold you as mine do,
for a sonnet won’t hold you in the bitter cold.
I waited, and in the cold that came
words passed me over as I sat sheltered
warm with my mothers arms around me.
I peeked from her embrace to wonder
sadly how actions matter more than words when
the words come few and far between.

Leaves emerge in spring when the winter leaves
and me too, leaving the arms that held me.
I live on my own, and when your words came with
actions to match them, I wondered why only one
should be so important and not both
because two is nice and better than one, like us.

when my mother asked me if I loved you,
I gave an answer elaborately crafted,
neither yes nor no, and full of platitudes,
a tale of loyalty and bond and trust earned over time.
I finished, and as I caught my wasted breath
she crossed her arms and repeated with gravity:
Actions more than words.
I understood.

You needn’t so elaborately state
You don’t want to complicate.

we ate dinner together once
if you could call it that
we hardly ate anything
I was sick to my stomach
and you were bored
tap. tap. tap.
and I'm sure there
were plenty of places
and plenty of people
you would have
rather been doing
but no
you were there with me
eating some **** dinner
that we got for cheap
in the back corner
of some **** diner
terrible lighting
to say the least
but the company was nice
I remember you had these
skinny fingers
always elaborately painted nails
and you would run them through
my hair at night
and talk to me about
how crazy we all are
and were and
always would be
but that was long before
this last supper
now all those nails
did was tap
tap. tap. tap.
on the glossed
red plastic table
as you grew more
bored and more apathetic

I was pulling at air
took all I had not
to lose my cool
--already lost
my appetite--
the complex
emotions of the
fairer ***
continued and continue
to be a source of
frustration
your eyes found mine
tap. tap. tap.
and they seemed unfamiliar
the deep brown I had once
discovered seemed hardened
cold
but we both already knew
what the eyes couldn't hide
and eventually
I paid the bill
and you were gone
gone. gone. gone.
my imagination ripe
with your destination
some lucky *******
I couldn't muster
the energy to
get up
from that booth
the kind old
waitress came over
eventually
smiling cautiously
but without words as she
refilled my water in silence
we both knew
it was going to be
a long night

The crowd parts in front of me
And I wonder, What’s going on?

I hear a child calling out,
“Mommy, look! They’re clowns,
with very, very, very, very long legs!”

The child points a finger
and I look in the pointed direction.
Two people in brightly coloured costumes
make their way through the crowd.

Their long legs created by stilts
and their arms also extended,
both covered in extra-long cloth.

The crowd is enchanted
by their bright appearance,
their long sleeves moving elaborately.

You crouch by me now,

A fake smile plastered on your face.

You probably don't care.

When you've handed me that cash you'll go back to your mansion without giving me another thought.

My parents hated me- kicked me out,

Did your parents care for you?

Cherish you?

Of course they did.


That becomes obvious now as I notice your lilac, satin dress,

Your makeup-coated face,

Your designer fur coat,

Your elaborately curled hair piled up into some fancy style.  


You pass me a few coins with your smooth hands bedecked with jewel-encrusted rings,

But I've seen your wallet- stuffed to the brim with these precious pennies.

More than enough, why not give me a few more?

It wouldn't make a difference.

At home your servants are almost  certainly laying out silver cutlery ready for a massive feast,

While I lie here in the cold.

Starving.  


They all look at me like that,

A stare filled with repulse and disgust,

Not pity, not empathy, disgust.

And you're no different.


You have everything,

But still your sickly smile appears more like a grimace,

And your eyes don't fill with light or sorrow,

Only regret and resentment.    


Why are you even touching me?

Why filthy your pristine hands for my benefit?

You might catch a flu from my overpowering stench,

Or breathe in some of the smoky air around me.  


Well I'll tell you something,

I permanently have a cold,

I always cough and shiver,

And it's because of people like you,

Who are selfish and greedy,

And couldn't care less,

That I'm lying here now.

Freezing.


In your mansion, are your servants laying the soft duvet on your bed?

Sweeping the floors of your highly-furnished lounge?

Filling up your massive bath with warm water and foamy bubbles?

Or maybe they're putting the finishing touches to a magnificent cake.  


Well I don't even have a house to clean.

I live on a piece of newspaper,

In a tunnel to cover my head,

With my money-hat- my only possession.  


You walk away now,

Undoubtedly going to spend the rest of your cash on designer items,

You wipe your hands on the warm coat,

And your false-smile disappears instantly,

You strut away in your leather-heels,

And then you are gone.  


Until the next person.  


Stop and think about it for a moment,

Life is unfair.

In tedious fashion, as uniformly descried,
stumble these thoughts with bumbling pride.
And though they would, in sequence, march fluidly,
each solo intent breaks tangentially.

A web will insert with some links between chains
And focus diverts into scattering trains.
Manifest indeed, your yield must unwind
in cacophony, useless to the mind.

Don't think these excuses and don't think me excused,
nor elaborately spoken, nor plainly confused.
I push full comprehension in a manner unwise
because thoughts about thoughts are a thoughtful demise

His thoughts smell like caffeine.
Defied the day/night drummer, he did.
Watched the world nearly die
     then awaken unaware.
Ready, though, for the autopsy,
searching for the COD
he read in the wrinkles
of street lamps and satellites,
"Death due to the search for life."

Instead he wrote, inadvertently,
the biography of the day,
playful and concise,
wise despite his best efforts.
I'll not write it all down here,
so as not to plagiarize.
Suffice it did no more that night
to keep the world from sleep.
Supine he waited, wished with
baited breath. Each fulcrum
of solar ascent went
slowly, wholly over his head.
Each night laid him down
something elaborately unseen.
Each of us heard his rhymes
                and in turn
         wrote him off.

Daylight simply hides the shadows -
passive state of things.
Life simply hides the death
which time inevitably brings.
Mourning dove finds company
and to the other sings.
I pick for you these roses,
but we're waiting for the rings.
                               - unsung

This breathe and these lungs
Have been used to preach subjects I fully can't understand
Like existence, cats, and why yesterday feels like today
So I told a story about you
It reminded me of your nails
And the memories they held
Each time I try to write about you
my arthritis flares up
My lungs cringe
And my mind turns static
They say there are 5 steps of grieving
What about the 6th step?
The times where your body stops working
They never mentioned the part
Where you find her spirit in everything
The clouds began to shine your radiance
The wind smells like you
Tomorrow feels almost like home
We will never get the day you left back
I have been spending each moment
Elaborately searching for you everywhere
And I have found
You never left
My heart still speaks of your beauty
My laughter a sliver
These eyes glistening
To show the elation
You exhaled into my life
So don't let this be a poem about you
I am still unsure what that would look like
But for now, I wanted to say
I love you

I will elaborately devise a plan to fulfill the broken parts of tomorrow.

I am but one man, with a dream of fixing broken things.

Broken things like hearts and people.

Although, I am broken.

And I can't seem to fix it.