trying to keep up with the Joneses
is so fatuous
a weakening of possibility

hey all you joneses
keep up if you can

hey all you joneses
this ones for you

Many artists create for approval, to translate the beauty they find in the world so that others can feel what they feel (which is second hand at best), or to try to better understand the world that they are in and communicate their findings with the rest of the world. I would stand here today and say that is all meaningless to me. If one cannot find their own truths, then they do not deserve the truths that they find. Everyone can see 'the beauty of the world' that surrounds them, and far too many people try to turn their senses into tangible words on a page. What difference does it make, better yet, what difference should it make to a person if others view the world in the same light that they do? It is for this purpose that I do not view the world in any light. When I create I view the world without light. Feeling my way through the darkness trying to find something that I can hold on to. I am a horrible and pitiful creature when I search for ideas, but when I can wrap my hands around these ideas with no light shed from an outside source there is no greater sense of accomplishment. I write not about the beauty of the world, not about fantastic imageries that could be on an inspirational poster, nothing of the heavens and angels, because when I write my demons take over. Every doubt that sits in the back of my mind unanswered. Every amount of corruption that I have seen in the world. Every hope that has been shot down to crash as a fallen spaceship. Every desire that I will never see fulfilled. These are the things that give me the passion and inspiration to create. Perhaps it is for the balance of the world that I write with such things in mind. As I watch so many writers fail to create what it is that they pictured in their creative vision simply because their minds are cluttered with preconceived notions of love, of good, and of this great being that will provide them with their every desire (deliverable on death, as I have been told); I know that most will surely continue to fail. The world does not have a perfect clockwork structure that they would have everyone else see. I hope that in controlling my demons I will be able to create something that is more authentic. More pure.

Art is struggle.
Creations are covered with our sacrifices.
Without the grotesque, beauty cannot truly be seen.
Without darkness, we cannot understand light.
My cup runneth over.

Seven great inspirations
I remember being young and thinking that there was no greater goal to seek than the goal of love. I had told myself countless times that my greatest goal in life was to find someone and make them the happiest person in the world. I know now that the naivety of that statement is enough to make even the most romantic shake their heads. It was from this naivety and hope that a young man fell in love. As all things that are destined to horribly fail, it failed horribly. The joy in this young man's eyes dissipated and he was left horribly confused. How could my greatest inspiration and the goals that I had set for myself fall apart so swiftly? It was around this time that I slowly started seeing the world for what it truly was. There was great sorrow in this time, but it was a time of more beauty than I had ever known. Years that I thought were wasted were resurrected as emotions and perceptions that slowly found their way from my hand to paper. I learned from a very young age that it was proper to hide emotion, and so many of these creations were destroyed after I had pushed them from my mind. It was not until I let a few close friends read some of what I had written that I realized the value that words held. I used these words to bring happiness to others and evoke emotion where there was none before. All of the ideals and emotions that I held in high regard for so long slowly withered away. It was in this time that I slowly learned that because there was so much good that came from something so devastating, that those things I once thought were so evil may have something good to be found in them. There were great inspirations to be found in those things I had once discarded as sinful and without worth. I found beauty and inspiration in what most would call corruption and imperfect. These things, which were taught to me as sins, gave me more inspiration than any rules or restriction would ever be able to. For the first time in my life I actually felt free. It was with this newfound freedom that I was finally able to express what I truly felt without fear of guilt or punishment. My outward appearance stayed approximately the same (as I was taught that appearances were always important and some habits were hard to break), but I realized that I was a completely different person. It is these differentiations from what I considered to be the norm that allowed me to grow as a person instead of as a machine that was built by those around me. It is this facade of normality that I will forever wear as a defense mechanism to keep those as closed minded as I once was from prying. It is the sins that I once fought so hard against that would help me realize the person that I truly was. This is not merely a documentation of the things that inspire me, this is a tribute to the realizations that allowed me to grow as a person. A great deal of my writing tends to come out as metaphors, but in what will follow I will do my best to write clearly and without riddles. These are the thoughts that bring my creations to life. This is the fuel that drives a man down a road comfortably, no longer worried about speed limits or street signs. Now I will explain how these seven deadly sins breathed life into an otherwise lonely and discarded man.

Pride
Are we all not more important than everyone else in our own universe? Is there some secret kept within the recesses of our mind that perverts this self preservation into something that is frowned upon? Are we not supposed to be proud of our accomplishments? Where are the lines between what is appropriate and a horrid vanity drawn? Would we not become Lucifer if the feeble minds trapped in these mortal shells were placed in a shell more beautiful and eternal than anything we have ever seen? Are we so quick to judge those guilty of our same crimes? Tell me that if you were given the chance you would not change places with a god, and I will never believe another word that pushes its way past your lips. We are wired to attempt to gain higher standing wherever we are. When I have created something that I believe holds truth I am proud, and I am proud that I am proud. If it were not for pride where would that sense of accomplishment come from? Should I allow my pride to turn to shame, and **** a driving force to create something even better next time? I think not. In the universe of our art, we are the gods. We manipulate every word, every pixel, every stroke of the brush. We have ultimate control of the characters, the situations, the emotions, the outcomes, and do not have to provide an explanation to anyone unless we decide to. When we are done with our creations we stand back and say that they are good. A faulty attempt to turn the artist into a god, but the intentions are thinly veiled. To create and to have others look upon your creation with wonder and awe, is that not the intentions of almost all artists? What purpose does this serve other than the creation of pride? I would say that there are none. My writing is the universe where I am god, and there are none other as powerful or that have as much say as I do.

Sloth
Call me cynical for not seeing the absolute beauty of the world around me. Sloth, the great sin of sadness and despair. I look at the world and am dissatisfied with what I see. I have always been fond of Poe, because he wrote about this more than anything else. Why should I be any different than this? The only love I have ever known was ripped from my hands, and I was left with nothing but a feeling of wanting. I watch people walk by with their masks of happiness and content, and when the day is done I see these same people left shaking and world weary. How much rain should fall from my eyes before they become as black as the clouds they do their best impressions of? With every attempt to better the world thwarted on each turn, it seems as if things are not going to change. The problem with writing on the subject of sorrow is that many view it as unhealthy or look down upon it. It is only after putting words to the things that bother me that I have control over them, and can manipulate them as I wish. Sorrow and pain are less of a threat when they can be controlled. Where is it that this sorrow and despair comes from? Perhaps I read too many fairy tales as a child. Perhaps I have yet to get to the end of the story of life where the moral will be revealed to me. Perhaps it is this surreal world that I could never persuade myself to live in. A world where I am to put on a mask of happiness and pretend that everything is going just the way that it should. A world full of everything that I could ever desire. It is because I cannot alter my senses that give my perception of the world that this demon resides within me. My writing is the realization that the world is not what I was led to believe it to be. My creations are the sorrow and despair of living in an imperfect world, and wishing that it was perfect.

Gluttony
Do not overindulge in anything, not even those things which bring pleasure and have no consequence. I think this is a flawed statement at best. In my writing I discuss extraordinary circumstances or situations that I have been involved in. Many of these situations happened only in my own mind, but a number of them occurred when I overindulged in certain things and saw the world in a completely different perspective. If we all lived in perfect moderation, would the world not be boring and uninspiring? I choose to do those things that bring pleasure, and if I do them too often then the result is simply more pleasure. Gluttony is the cause of many interesting nights that allowed me to step outside of my protective shell and experience things that I would have never experienced otherwise. How could I not pay homage to such a thing? How could I desire to cease doing something that only opened my eyes? Gluttons will be looked down upon and called drunkards and addicts, but I have never met a being that has not committed gluttony at one point or another. I was once told to overindulge in moderation. Where does the line between an altered state of mind that we can learn from and a sin stand? In my creations there is no line, because there is no sin. My writings are guilt-free and full of overindulgence of thought. My words are my minds altered vision grasping for truth.

Wrath
These **** words will not flow from my mind, through my hand, and onto this god forsaken medium. What is it that I need to do to express my emotions so that others can understand them? If my words are too abstract it is only because of the thoughts and emotions that they follow. If people cannot follow my metaphors and hidden meanings then it is of no concern to me. The fact that they will not try to stimulate their intellectual ***** in order to understand something more complex than they are used to drives me insane. My pulse quickens with each thought of the issue. It is impossible that I left my metaphors too veiled or did not give enough surrounding exposition. These creations make perfect sense. Then I step back and look at the gibberish that I have created and hurl it across the room as harshly as possible. The thoughts and ideas are all here, it all makes sense in my mind, so WHY WILL THE WORDS NOT COME OUT RIGHT? The inability to explain senses or perceptions in a concrete manner that the audience will understand creates more anger in me than I will ever understand. An anger that refuses to subside. With a clenched fist the pens and pencils are broken, the keyboard is shattered, and the words are broken down into the letters that sit in a pile on my floor. My creations inspire nothing more than they inspire my hatred for ignorance. My creations are an angry conglomeration of letters wishing that they could show the emotions that inspired them. My words are children beaten for insubordination.

Greed
Greed is the greatest inspiration that most will ever know. To bathe in golden bullion and never have another care in the world. Greed not for the sake of greed, but for the sake of freedom. I am inspired by greed of a different sort. The desire to gather every idea that I can find and horde it as my own. The greed of knowledge and experience. When I was younger it was interesting to be the most mature person my age, and now that I am older it is not knowledge that is sought, but wisdom. I horde this knowledge and wisdom in my own personal compressor and squeeze them until they are in the purest possible form. It is this ink that I dip my quill into hoping that my faulty hands can transfer such a perfect concoction onto the parchment without ruining it. Without poking a hole through the parchment. Without deciding after I am finished that the words do not hold the meaning that they carry, and having to destroy everything and start over. I would gladly give all the wealth that I have to be able to sate my greed for the expression of perceptions and knowledge. These are the pains that I have endured, and they are mine and mine alone to claim. There is no greater value on this Earth in my eyes. People can have their tubs of golden bullion, and I will help them with generous contributions when able, but if they ever decide they want my words there will be war. A war of greed. A war of necessity. My creations are my glorious mansion that holds the treasures of experience and knowledge. My words are the golden bullion that so many men have fought and died for, and I will horde them until some greater force can pry them from the hands that created them.

Lust
Love is an illusion that was created for your confusion. Those that speak of love are disillusioned into believing in some extrasensory emotion that they allow to consume them. Love is the most abstract emotion or idea that anyone could ever base a creation on. I tire of reading of love at first sight, love found upon a spring morning, or love that has been discarded. These things are boring, and as long as people persist in writing on these things I will always have kindling for my fires. Tell me about something that I know. Lust is the most pure form of the idea of love that is kept in circulation for no apparent purpose, besides creating sorrow for those that cannot find something so perfect as it has been described. Lust does not mislead and has no ulterior motives. The warmth of another being pressed tightly against you in a shared ecstasy. That is all. There are no complications, there is no confusion, there are no forced rituals that you have to fake your way through to get to another goal. Has the world become so confused that it forgets its instincts. They tell me that lust is a sin, but I know very well that it has created more pleasure than any restriction I will ever be given. I have heard many times to wait for love and it will come in time, but never have I heard anyone told to wait for lust. There is something unexplainable about finding oneself in a passionate situation that they had never even thought about before the moment that it happened. It is the same way with my writing. My writing is the beautiful girl whose name I do not know, as she is leading me across the house to a more secluded place.

Envy
I was taught never to keep up with the Joneses, and I will never attempt to. I had planned to accomplish such great deeds that the Joneses would be found as a wreck of green helplessness. In my great plan I had no intention of ever envying another person. It was not until I fell in love with words that my great plan fell apart. It was these words that would be my downfall. Writers, publishers, artists, and editors all held titles that I wanted for my own. Those that were far more lucky whose works were published. We use the same letters and words, but I could never convince people to see the appeal in truth. It was when I realized this fact that I became envious. I was not envious of the titles, or of the money

While our thoughtfully-placed chips may win when the coloured wheel slows,
The ball spins on, absent of profound meaning or motivation.

We save the world just for drama's sake,
As even the Joneses gasp for breath to keep up.

Through dusty glass, from the comfort of couches,
Where scholars would once have taught, we claim to learn.

Following signs in the night I never would in the day,
I find the conclusion - the only candid love is that of this moment.

Sparkling wine and sparkling smile,
new fashion and new car,
a house and new gadgets to show,
a veneer that shines and glows,
underneath lies more,
unsettled and unknowing,
we show a reflection of not what is true,
a fabrication of our discomfort,
a fear of not belonging,
for the truth lies not in mankind,
but in the nature that surrounds us.

A seventies child
Born in Wales, one of the four
Countries of The UK.

I remember brown as the colour
of the day.
Fabric embossed wallpaper
all the neighbours names, who married who,
who was carrying on, the alcoholic, the beaten wives,
Even, get this the peadophiles (or kiddy fiddlers as was known)
Dai the milk, Mair the bread, the shop of infinite items.

Rugby practice for dad, baking for mam
(Cake and babies) gossip over the garden hedge
Fish on a Friday a Sunday roast, hot sweet tea.
Bubble and squeak, post delivered before you
left for school. Mist on the mountain, dew on the grass.

Welsh valley life, sounds idyllic
but scratch the surface and a darker colour
than brown emerges. Petty squablings leading to
familial feuds, the Williamses don't get on with
the Joneses, and as for the Pritchards, less said the better.

School, local, no not for me. I was sent to a Welsh
School, taught and learnt the language denied to my
Parents by English politics. Cat amongst the pigeons there.
Did I think I was special? Ideas above her station. That's what
the neighbours say.

Well, you all had the option.
Dr Forbes FRCS
Delivered babies buried men and women
Loved by all, especially his lollipop sweets.

I wasn't a child to get *****, or rip wrapping paper
off of gifts, I liked to go under the stairs (like Harry Potter)
and read. I left the dirt for my sister born 4 years later.
Then in 1982 came my brother, tidy my mother describes it.
'74,'78,'82 poor dad to have to wait I say!

More pubs than chapels, more walking than driving
more rain than sun, more music than ever was sung.
The '80's came, and we had strikes, no electric, candles
toast made with a toasting fork over the fire.
No mines, no steel, no jobs.

Picket lines, dole queues, women in work
latchkey kids, Thatcherism, ******* times.
Falklands war, IRA bombs, Royal weddings
Tory rule

But, the fire in the dragon never went out
and Tom Jones still sings his heart out.
Cymru cysglyd gwlad y gân, deffrwch
nawr, dyma'ch tro.

raised on words of Jesus's bible
given examples to follow from street bible
people in fancy clothes and houses
we were the joneses
the Lords word flowed like spit
with hearts black and cold like real street gangster
raised with loyalty to i am my brothers keeper
together we die
together we ride
together we carry the cross
knew no other way and i believed it to be righteous, the path
joke was on me
what a fool i was
i truly believed, " i am my brothers keeper and they were mine"
believed with my life, soul, blood and, heart
i believed, i believed
walked straight into a trap
was lucky when i fell
i fell on  my knees
God carried me out of the misty,cold, dark woods
psalm 23, hallelujah

now i have been blamen daddy for this drama
lets for once put blame were blame belongs
both papa and mamma had mothers, both alive and well
he matriarch of each family
they stood and watch as i was fed to wolves
torn apart i was left to die
of course they had to wait for mamma to die
11/01/2013 God caled her home and open season was declared
God, I never knew i was the trophy

2 years later
i have succeeded in leaving behind the street life
still got mammas husband
a father who love his daughter, but a love i can't take to the bank
i finally got to know the author of the bible and know i'm not alone
i realise in silent moments, to my despair
i may not have made mamma proud
i dropped the code
and i am no longer my brothers keeper
pray for me
please

Because of someone's past,
does not make them a bad person......

One's thoughts are there,
if they have good intentions.....

So one has ****** up more than once,
in one's life, so what's new.........

You say you haven't,
I'll have to say you're a liar.....

Why are people hypocrites,
and talk about others......

Who are they to "******* Judge Anyone".....
They need to look in the mirror......

Is it the way they live or
is it because they don't care for others....

Is it because you are and I quote,
doing better than what they are......

That's called "Keeping up with the Joneses"

What makes someone good.....
What makes them bad.....

As long as they don't hurt you,
you should never feel bad.....

Always chase your dream,
regardless of what it is.....

Money
Love
House
New Car
Vacation

Get what you want out of life....
Stay real and stay true to your dream....

Miscellaneous pieces of life
I will list my families then you jump to your family and memories and enjoy again the special ways that thrilled then and still do today.

I have already told about my dad several times this was a mix of hobo voodoo and a poor man’s barbeque his big thrill was going
In the kitchen jerking out the rack from the stove taking it outside and in my opinion way to close to the house and put a few rocks
Down and build a six feet roaring fire the stove rack now a grill then a great cast iron skillet filled with sliced potatoes fry them a giant bon fire the trick was not to torch yourself in the process so before long those old light brown made to look like bricks shingles on the side of the house
Almost at the blistering point believe it or not a great meal would be the result how’s that for keeping up with the Joneses.

His mother my Grandma Denton a full blooded Cherokee when she was younger use to take the nine children and an old Walton’s
Pick up and head for the Indian nation in Oklahoma later when she was confined to a wheel chair for over forty some odd years as a
Five year old I would stand by her and from that chair she fired a burning flame of wonder lust in my heart that has never subsided she
Talked about the places we were going to go then a car wreck out at the then called Y at the Rosebud her going days were over
Granddad afraid for her safety wouldn’t take her out after that but he did bring her down to the farm above Opossum creek we were
Going across the road on top of the hill to pick black berries somehow we managed to get her and the car over there then we set her
Under a small tree for shade then down field in front we picked berries I never seen her smile so big and be so happy I guess when she
Died her son said that at that last moment looking up as she lay there a brightness lit up her face she was looking at her new home
Where she would soon be leaping and running for ever she would be there when Kevin her grandson would arrive I see Terry Jack two
Eaves Margaret Foil, Louie and many others I wrote about them in the curtain of time and the fun their all having makes you envious.

My grandpas were something else Grandpa Denton for his own enjoyment would set watch the fights and cuss the television well some
fighters at least and then to fix ever body else at every family gathering it was pull down the violin or in his case the cats dying screams
He never once hit something that sounded like music but he would just smile I would have turned up his hearing aid but he didn’t have
One he could hear all of that caterwauling but to him it was amusing a quart of oil would have been a waste how any one person could
Set music back that far was a curious wonder. My grandpa Brown liked to go to Toot an tellim order a large root beer and slap the
Dash board as he drank it all down without stopping we would have a contest he won most of the time.

Both of my Grandmother’s were Christian should I tell this why not she can take it now where she is but the night it happened it was
Different she kept this pint of Seagram Seven in the kitchen cabinet strictly for medical purposes well I found it the show was on I
Sounded like Elmer Gantry I got inspired oh Grandma here I am an impressionable fifteen year old and your sneaking a nip oh I have to
Call the preacher then with emphases oh I got to call somebody you should have seen her hopping around almost in tears the devil
Made me do it. Well that ought to give you a leaping off place.

A pocket of dreams
A locket of screams
A whole ******* feeling tattooed in inseams
A machine of emotion
Run on ******* and devotion
A potion of souls smoked up through bowls
Blasted through time and spines
Cranial cavities and eyes
Children's cries fuel the high
Seeping through femur bones and tailored suits
This suit isn't suited for those who weep,
Just those who keep up with underworld Joneses
Who revel in dark tones and
Worship the devil

Don't get me wrong
I love the Bachelor
and the Bachelorette

The getaways
The fun dates
the good looking people

But is it that's what's wrong with dating today?

Instead of worthiness
We're in it for the pic
what looks best on instagram
while inside we yearn for contentedness

But restlessness is what we're given
got to keep up with the joneses
we're afraid to let ourselves feel
for people based on status

Is it a twilight zone scene
can't be because it's around
from the beginning
ancient royals doing the same
but now we're in a modern aristocracy

So I'll turn off the Bachelorette tonight
I don't need fancy
I need supportive
and sweet
In it for the long haul
and loves me wholly
Miss me with the fake love
and give me the real

it's like Opposite Day
The day when today It-is-not, but
Now the sun is shining and the clouds depart to show that it's smiling

it's like Tomorrowland
the land of the accomplished
where everything I said I'd do is finished and on time and I have no worries of the clock on my mind

it's like the neighbor’s yard
where the Joneses stay
with their better grass and HD TVs

—but it's Sunday night here in the present where I lay on the yoga mat on the cement floor
and try to think of the day I'm the Joneses and someone looks into my backyard

The Dark Pariah and The Mouth Breather went to go get a jump start on their blackmail and their payback

All the kissup's
All the suckup's
Who think they're the best thing since sliced bread with the crust cut off
Who pick on people's foibles and leave their self-image in shambles
Not to mention all the narcissists who claim to have coined certain phrases we all use, then pucker up to the ***** of those who can keep up with the Joneses

They were going to make this world go belly up
Remove all of the potholes and speed bumps in life

The Dark Pariah wrote his plan in chicken scratch
And The Mouth Breather wrote his in calligraphy

The Mouth Breather's plan was to kick start a new denomination of hero worship
All followers must give themselves rug burn and stick up three banks in thirty minutes then put their plunder in the collection plate on Tuesday mass

The Dark Pariah's plan was to create music to their ears
That would make them hopscotch off a cliff and free fall to their deaths
This was part and parcel for his sham to exact his vengeance

But ipso facto they never followed through with their plans due to sheer laziness
And now they're both dominated by remorse and online FAQ's

Payed a visit to God's house today
Thirty feet high stained glass windows
Rows of hand carved mahogany pews
Vaulted arches reaching into the Heavens
Golden candlesticks and high alter

Who is He trying to impress?

Even the Joneses can't keep up with him.

Barry and Ashley and Leslie
Performing on Jupiter moon
Singing waltzing Matilda waltzing Matilda you’ll come a waltzing Matilda with me
And flea, flea fly, flea fly flo
Vister, coolabah coolabah coolabah vista
Oh no no no not the vista
And we are the bad and mean green machine Ashley liked league and hated Aussie rules
He said why do you like Aussie rules league is much better
And Leslie one day organised a church play which I participated in despite me being a Buddhist
I found it fun though and I used to sit at the mall and Leslie talked to me there, making me feel like I have adult friends
Ashley said I had a good imagination when he was reading my poetry
The band played waltzing Matilda as the war was on back then
We still have a war like when people disagree with us
Yes that seems so bad
Barry joined my bowling league as another helper and Leslie came to my play in 2003 to watch it with the ladies from Vinnies and Ashley was a regular customer at the kaleen swimming pool when I went there each Wednesday and I always said hello to him and I joked with him and he joked with me it is sad that they all a no longer around because they each made me happy
Waltzing Matilda waltzing Matilda you’ll come a waltzing Matilda with me
We sang and we threw that jumbuck in that tucker bag
You’ll come a waltzing Matilda with me
And Barry gave me an Apple computer to get me up with the joneses and make me really enjoy the internet, ya know
I was hopeless at the computer once but now I know how to use it
Now we are singing all these numbers like world of our own
And Georgy girl and many many more death happens but it is great to know we come back to life performing at this cosmic concert stage on Jupiter showing that death can be fun and uplifting knowing we will come back
So Barry Ashley and Leslie
Thank you for making me feel like a normal person when I went out

They say that honesty is the best policy.
Be assertive.
Say what you really think.
“I feel hurt by what you just said….”
Let The Truth be out.
I try my best on this…
Though maybe I’m ready
For another Assertiveness Course.

But sometimes the truth seems too hard to give.
“Do I look all right in this?
No you look a mess”!!!
MMM No.
“You always look great, love”…
To tell a Mum she has lost a child –
Oh my.

I know some who lie through their back teeth
And even believe their own lies.
Annoying indeed.
But then again I cannot help myself
From sugar-coating the truth
With little white lies
Or simply keeping quiet.
Economical with the truth
To keep the peace.

For sometimes people make me feel naïve
For blurting out
What others will not utter.
And the PC brigade are always
On my case.

Mum brought me up to say
What people like to hear:
To fit in and
“Be normal”.
To be approved.
Always have the right coloured door
And keep up with the Joneses.

So the rights of this
Are obscured by mists.
And all I seek
Is some happy
Middle ground.

Paul Butters

Will they say I lived all my life
On suburban roads
Not of the city or of the country
But a place in between
Will they say I never took any risks,
Never had to hack my arm off in extremis
Never eating anybody's cousin in desperate straits?

Like millions I struggled from one pay day to another,
Trying to stop the haemorrhage of money through the bars and pubs of the town...
Trying to keep up, to keep the income over the outgoings.
I don't care what the Joneses do.

I long for the wild places without fences or walls,
Where the birds wheel and the wind blows lustily,
Where the sound of the sea is never far away
Where the shores rustle their greeting to the waves
And the driftwood tumbles up and down the beach.

I long to run without worrying I am going to break a knee or hip,
Long for those days when I didn't know what I had, who I was, what I was going to be.
"Youth is wasted on the young," said my grandmother, and I protested, but I didn't understand
Until now
How little I appreciated my youth while I had it.

Will they say I had talent but I
Frittered it away on unfinished projects
Neither brilliant nor awful, but somewhere
in between?
Will they say I never took any risks,
Never embroidered all my lovers or
Revealed my innermost self?

Like millions, I was always writing my book, a novel or
a handbook or an autobiography.
The truth is, I started too many times, and finished
Never.

I long for a place of my own, a library
A place to keep everything that means anything
A place to watch my family on the wall, laughing and smiling
While I write or sew or research or simply read
A place for being and a place for remembering and everything in its place.

I long to write without worrying about the consequences,
Long to say what I think
A place to scour the corners of my memory, to see the pattern of my life.


Will they say, they hadn't realized I was still alive?
Will they say, I never kept in contact, which is true
I have tested my ability to live without them all
And I can.
What will they say about the person I have become?
What can I say?  I tolerated difference and saw none.
I loved the people I loved
Did the things that I did
And I am not sure what sort of future I made for myself, or what past.

The irony is not lost on me.
No wonder there are so many
soul-less
selfish
sadistic
evil
****** up
liars
in this world...
Look at the media we worship.
Movies about horrible bosses
abuse
******
corruption.
Songs about
killing
destroying
leaving and
being left.
Reality TV
trading spouses
prison life
keeping up with the Joneses.
Pain and suffering are worshipped
by your
neighbor
coworker
friend
husband
wife
lover.
There is no safety net.
No one is immune to the
Dis-ease.

Glad you got some fennel
from the Sunday market,
it's delightfully culinary
it look good in the alleyway.
Your  neighbour is spot on
there's a profusion of  scaffolding
in the street.
she jokes maybe subsidence ?
But  it's more,
keeping up with the Joneses;
spending as a reflex action.
People are as elevated as busy bees
Activity, activity,
idleness can turn us into tripods,
staying still, is no good.

everyone says
strong bootstraps
beget rewards
while leagues
of craftsmen
struggle

everyone follows
another trend
overboard while
Davy Joneses
hold their
breath

everyone feels
their sin
beside beggars
with hands
made of
*******

everyone thinks
job creators’
heroic strength
will someday
trickle down
decency

but

everyone knows
when something
is heavy
you lift
from the
bottom

Within the eye of darkness.
Lies, our choice of doors.
Find a key to reality.
And we have opened ours.

Further down loves road.
Our mind becomes a maze.
We meet up with the Joneses.
And alter our days.

Remembering the roses, we reach out for a touch.
Feeling their scent.
Helps. Us. Through the thorns.
To love one another. Very much.

Within the eye of light!
Up life's road.
One realizes the beauty.
In easing a heavy load.

For he treated me like delicate china,
Only to be brought out for special occasions
And you wanted me like your favorite T-shirt,
Which you swore got better with every wash.

For he appreciated me like a museum’s special exhibit,
Attending to keep up with the Joneses
And you enjoyed me like your favorite diner,
Taking it slow and taking your time.

For he discarded me when my expiration neared
But you, you never want to let me go.

usually
watching trash TV for thirty or forty
minutes refreshes my brain for the seriousness
that boggles it
the an-
xieties of money and va-
nity and my place as an im-
migrant and the fears
and confusions
of being a woman

but on this day i
tried to hollow out my heavy heart with the kar-
dashians
realizing, in seconds
how monstrous this culture has become

it is not a break from reality, it is watching it
and it is no longer funny
and it is no longer passive
because reality tv is a reflection of rea-
lity and the brainlessness with which we want
to interact with it

while I have no hate towards the new joneses
they are from the same consequence
and same principles
that now frighten our existence

Aside from baby-blue ribbon and no Meyhews
opposite Joneses
I want to invite all our exes and give
them their own table
They can have the duck a la orange
but go sparing on the Brut,
especially him at 4b, he's a drinker
but you remember
finding me panda-eyed and hot
with stitched-up pride
spilling drinks and not
apologising but you knew I was sorry anyway and
walked me home
though it was light
Perhaps she will soothe his narcissism
and her apartment needs anyone
to check dark corners for
black eyes and crooked hands.
But I'm not afraid I'll
pull them from their cobwebs
leg by nasty leg
as long as we can see the flies
and pick them off together.

I met a young man he was unique but found it a bit hard to speak. He said it was because people thought he was a freak.

With no support from his friends, they were to busy calling him a geek.

He got so tired of his life being critiqued, it was making him weak and life was looking pretty bleak.

Well your life is yours you don't have to sneak, at your life just take a peek. When they look at you they see mystique.

You are more precious than the most valuable antique.

Where as keeping up with the Joneses is what they seek, only havoc on their lives, this will wreak

Because what they really see is oblique which is why they keep finding themselves up a creek.

For you were made unique, just spend time developing your technique and don't freak when you go on a winning streak and become chic.

Be Unique, Develop Your Own Technique.

My role is chaperone
To unmolded Clay
For the unruly
Are off to play

Never before
Could I comprehend
Such utter neglect
Where do I begin

Perhaps in the middle
To make no sense
A cosmic joke
A blindfolded riddle

What was my point
The mute would ask
That ships done sailed
Ignorance has come to pass

My clay is dried out
And my ego sore
I turn off the laughter
And slam the door

All that's left to do now
Is genocide
Keeping up with the Joneses
And their Petty homicide

So roll out the carpet
And bake me a cake
I'll be driving in backwards
For pity's sake