with respect to your hair man
play with it, been living large
so you ain't got time to cut it
put it in a ponytail that puts mine to shame

it's a little weird talking about your hair
seagulls make a birds nest on it
it's a hair song, sing songs along the cold air
picasso paint it well, redoing the blue three hundred times

police pull ya over because of it
sometimes ya skin color makes it knappy
like the way it settles on my blue jeans
when you rest your head on my lappy

When Mom died in June of 1991 Dad was rather lost,
like the rest of us. I started writing little letters in
big print so he could read them. He would not talk on
the phone so this was the only way to make contact.
I found out later that he carried them around in his
bib overall pocket and pulled them out from time to time.
Occasionally they would get washed and when Sharon
let me know I would run off another copy and mail it.
It became a means for me to remember the past and help
Dad at the same time. My kids loved to hear stories of
when I was a kid so I would recycle the stories between
the kids and Dad. Now as I read them it is a reminder of
things that have become a little fuzzy over the years,
also a reminder that I need to fill in the gaps of the stories
and leave them for my kids before it is too late. So here it is,
such as it is, if you are interested.

=======================================

    Letter­s to Dad

    Nov. 14, 1991

    Dear Dad,
    Your grandkiddies, as you call them,
    send you a big hug from Idaho. Sara is
    five and in Kindergarten this year and
    doing very well. Kristen is in the forth
    grade and made the Honor Roll list the
    first quarter of the year. We are very
    proud of both of our girls.

    Do you remember when toward late
    afternoon you and I would get in the car
    and “Drive around the block” as you
    always said? We would go up to Cliff’s
    and go east for a mile then down past
    Cleo Mae house and on back home. I
    remember you would stop at the junk
    piles and I would find neat stuff, like
    wheels from old toys, that I could make
    into my toys. I think of those times often.
    It was very enjoyable.

    I will be writing to you in the BIG PRINT
    so you can read it easier.

    It is snowing lightly here today. Supposed
    to be nasty weather for a while.

    Bye for now.

    John

    ——————————————————–

    Dec. 3, 1991

    Dear Dad,

    Just a note to say we love you. I miss very
    much talking to Mom on the phone and
    having you play Red Wing on your harmonica.

    I remember quite often when I was very
    young, 4 or 5, and we would go out to the
    field to change the water or something.
    The sand burrs would be so thick and you
    would pick me up on your back. I would
    put my feet into your back pockets and
    away we would go.

    These are the things childhood memories
    are supposed to be made of. Kristen and
    Sara love to hear the stories about when I
    was a kid and what you and I did
    together. I try with them to build the
    memories that they can tell their kids.
    Thanks Dad for a good childhood.

    Bye for now.
    Kristen and Sara send you a kiss and a
    hug.

    Your son, John

    —————————————————–

    Jan. 12, 1992

    Dear Dad,

    We went to Oregon for Christmas and
    had very good traveling weather. Do you
    remember when you and Mom went with
    us once to Oregon at Christmas and
    there were apples still hanging on the
    tree by the Williams house? We made
    apple pie from the apples that you
    picked. Turned out to be pretty good pie.
    There weren’t any apple on the tree this
    year. I thought of you picking the apples
    and bringing them into the kitchen in
    your hat if I remember right.

    We have had some pretty good times
    together. I was thinking the other day
    about a picture that I took of you about
    12 years ago. It captured you as I will
    always remember you. If I can locate it in
    all the stuff, I would like to get it blown
    up and submit it to the art section at the
    Twin Falls County Fair this year.

    I hope this finds you feeling well. I love
    you Dad. Kristen and Sara send you a
    kiss and a hug.

    Oh yes, I would like for you and Tracy to
    sit down sometime and talk about when
    you were a kid and record it on tape. I
    would like to put your remembrances
    down on paper.

    Bye for now.

    Your son, John

    ———————————————————

    Feb. 11, 1992

    Dear Dad,

    Happy Valentine’s Day!!

    Spring is on the way and soon you will be
    85. Just a spring chicken, right? I hope I
    can get around as well as you do by the
    time I am 85.

    Thanks for the letter. I will keep it for a
    very long time. It is the first letter I have
    received from my Father in 48 years.

    Talked to Ed the other day. He said he
    talked to you on the phone and that you
    were wearing your hearing aids and
    glasses. Great! Mom would be proud of
    you.

    Talked to a guy last week who is
    president of the John Deer tractor group
    here. He invited me to bring my “M”
    John Deer to the County Fair and
    participate in the tractor pull contest.
    Might just do that.

    Well the page is filling up using these big
    letters but if it makes it easier to read it is
    worth it.

    Bye for now Dad, I love you. Pennye,
    Kristen and Sara send their love too.

    Your son, John
    —————————————————-
    April 13, 1992

    Dad

    Though the years have past and you are now
    85, you are still the same as when I was a
    child. The memories of going with you to the
    field, when you were “riding the ditch”,
    surveying in a lateral, loading up the turkeys
    in the old Ford truck and taking them to the
    “Hoppers” - is just as if it were yesterday. I
    think of you playing Red Wing on the harp. I
    remember when during the looong cold
    winters we would play checkers. You would
    always beat me. I learned to play a good game.

    Not much has changed except we are both
    much older now. The values you did not speak
    but lived out in front of me has helped make
    me what I am today. I pray that I will be a
    good example before my children to help them
    on their way through life.

    On your 85th birthday, I want to wish you a
    Happy Birthday and thank you for being my
    Father.

    Love
    John

    April 13, 1992

    ————————————————–

    June 10, 1992

    Dear Dad,

    I hope this finds you well. The Stevens
    family in Twin Falls Idaho is having a
    busy summer. Kristen just finished the
    fourth grade and was on the Honor Roll
    for the entire year. Sara will now be a
    big First Grader next year.

    The other day we went out to eat and
    Kristen had chicken and noodles. She
    said, “This tastes just like Grandma
    Nellie’s noodles.” I hope they can keep
    these memories fresh and remember all
    the good times we had back in Nebraska.
    It is difficult to accept that things have
    changed and will never be the same again.
    We miss the weekly phone calls to Nebraska.

    It is clouding up and we might get rain
    this week. It is very dry around here.
    Some of the canals will be cut off in July.

    Bye for now.

    Your Son John

    Love you Dad. I think of you often.

    —————————————————-

    June 22, 1992

    Dear Dad,

    Hope you had a good “HAPPY PAPPY”
    day. This note is to wish you a late
    “HAPPY PAPPY” day.

    I was thinking the other day about the
    times you would take me roller skating
    out at the fair ground on Sunday
    afternoons. I really enjoyed those times. I
    remember how you could give a little hop
    and skate backwards. For me staying on
    my feet was a challenge.

    Sara will be 6 years old June 29. Seems
    like yesterday when she was born. Time
    has a way of passing very quickly.

    Love you lots Dad. The family sends their
    love too.

    Bye for now.
    John

    —————————————————

    Aug. 11, 1992

    Dear Dad,

    Just a note to let you know that your
    Idaho family love you. It was good to talk
    to you for a minute or two the other day.
    I miss the harmonica playing you would
    do over the phone.

    We are all well even though the place
    was covered with smoke from all the
    forest fires last week. It got a little hard
    on the lungs at times but the smoke has
    moved on now. Probably went over
    Nebraska.

    Talked to brother Ed the other day. He
    had just returned from from Nebraska.
    Ed said you looked good for 85.

    Bye for now.

    John

    —————————————————–

    Sept. 10, 1992

    Dear Dad,

    I am sending a copy of what Mom sent
    me a few years ago of what she
    remembered about growing up. I wish I
    had more. How about sitting down with
    Tracy and Sharon and telling them some
    of the things you remember about
    growing up? They can record it and I will
    put it on paper. I would really like that.

    We are ok here in Idaho. Summer had
    disappeared and it is school time again.
    Kristen is in the 5th grade and Sara is in
    the 1st grade. The family went to the
    County Fair today for the second time.
    One day is enough for me.

    I think of you often and love you Dad.
    Thinking of the good times we had
    together while I was growing up always
    makes me happy. You and Mom raised
    four pretty good kids.
    God Bless you Dad. We love you from
    Idaho.

    Bye for now.

    John

    —————————————————–

    Oct. 11, 1992

    Dear Dad,

    We are fine out in Idaho. We are having
    beautiful fall weather. It has not frozen
    enough to get our tomato plants yet.

    Kristen and Sara are doing very well in
    school. They brought home their mid
    term report cards and are getting A’s
    and a B or two.

    Remember when we would go out in the
    corn field and pick the corn by hand? I
    would drive the tractor and you and Ed
    and Wayne picked the corn and threw it
    in the trailer. You guys kept warm from
    the work and I was freezing on the
    tractor. Before that we used the horses
    named Brownie and - was it Blackie?
    The one that kept getting out up north by
    the ditch was Brownie. He figured out
    how to open the gate.

    I remember the times that you were
    hauling cane or sorghum from the field
    east of Mercers and I would ride behind
    the wagon on my sled.

    I had a very good childhood really.
    Thanks for being my Dad.

    God Bless you Dad. We love you from
    Idaho.

    Bye for now.

    John

    ——————————————————-

    Nov. 10, 1992

    Dear Dad,

    It is snowy here and cold. I have a hole in
    the back of the house I must get sealed up
    to keep the cold out. We are redoing this
    part for the kitchen.

    Kristen and Sara made the Honor Roll
    this quarter in school. Kristen’s teacher
    said he wished he had a whole room full
    of Kristens to teach.

    Sorry the phone connection was so bad
    when I called the other day. It was good
    to here you say “hello hello….” any way.
    Glad you are feeling better.

    Your account in the credit union is about
    $34,000 now.

    I was just thinking back when we were
    cultivating corn with that “crazy wheel
    cultivator”. The one that you drove the
    tractor and I rode on the cultivator and
    used the foot pedals to steer it down the
    rows. I remember sometimes it cleaned
    out some of the corn row. Cultivator
    blight, right? It was kind of hard to keep
    straight. Those were the days.

    I keep remembering little bits of things
    while growing up. Sometime I will put
    them all together for my kids to read
    about the “good ole days”.

    God Bless you Dad. We love you from
    Idaho.

    Bye for now.

    John

    ————————————————
    Dec. 17, 1992

    Dear Dad,

    The snow has fallen and the kids stayed
    home from school today. The wind is now
    blowing so it will begin drifting the road
    shut. Besides that the whole family is sick
    with a cold.

    We are putting together a Christmas gift
    to you but it won’t be ready for
    Christmas. It is something that you can
    watch over and over if you want. So
    Merry Christmas for now.

    Last night was the kids’ school Christmas
    program. Kristen started playing the
    flute this fall and played with a group for
    the first time this week. She did very well
    and I got it on video.

    Time to get this in the mail. Love you
    Dad.
    Bye for now.

    Kristen and Sara send you a kiss and a
    hug.
    Your son, John

    ——————————————————

    Jan. 11, 1993

    Dear Dad,

    We have a lot of snow on the ground
    now. I was telling the family about the
    winter of 49 where the snow covered the
    door and you had to scoop the snow into
    the house to dig a tunnel out then haul
    the snow out through the tunnel. That
    was a 15 foot drift wasn’t it? It sure
    looked big to this 6 year old. Then the
    plane flew over the house for a few days
    until we could get out and signal an OK.
    Those were the days! What I do not
    remember is how you took care of the
    cows and stuff during this time. I
    remember being sick and Wayne took the
    horse and rode into Broadwater to get
    oranges and something else. The big
    white dog we had went along and was hit
    by a car. Wayne had to use a fence post
    to finish him off. I remember feeling very
    sad about the old dog.
    We haven’t had this much snow in 8
    years.

    I trust you are feeling well. Our prayers
    are with you all.
    Bye for now. Love you Dad
    The family send a BIG Hi!!!!

    Your son, John

    —————————————————-

    Feb. 9, 1993

    Dear Dad,

    When the kids go to bed they say “Tell us
    a story about when you were a kid on the
    farm”. So I tell them things that I write
    to you and a LOT that I don’t write to
    you. The other day going to school we
    were talking about one of the first snow
    falls we had this year. I spun the van
    around in circles in the parking lot and
    they thought that was GREAT fun. Then
    I told them about the time that their
    Grandpa cut some circles in the Kelly
    School yard and hit a pole with the back
    fender. Do you remember that? I
    remember Mom bringing it up every now
    and then. Then there was the time you
    got a little close to the guard posts along
    the highway just west of Broadwater and
    ripped the spare tire and bracket off the
    old Jeep. Of course none of US ever did
    anything like that. HA.

    It is good to remember back and tell the
    kids about the things we did “in the old
    days”. They find it hard to believe there
    was no TV and I walked through rattle
    snake country to go to the neighbors to
    play. It WAS a good time for me and I
    had a GOOD Dad to help me grow up.
    Thanks again Dad. You and Mom did a
    very good job on us four kids. Sometimes
    we don’t show it often enough but I for
    one thank you and LOVE you.

    Soon you will have another birthday.
    Before you know it you will be 90. I
    should be so lucky.

    I trust you are feeling well. Our prayers
    are with you all. Bye for now. Love you
    Dad
    The family send a BIG Hi!!!!

    Your son, John

    —————————————————–

    Mar. 9, 1993

    Dear Dad,
    Time has a way of disappearing so
    rapidly. I was going to write you a note
    two weeks ago and now here we are.

    It looks like spring is just about to arrive.
    I am ready for it. I’ll bet you are ready to
    get out side and do something. Do you
    miss not farming? I think often about the
    farm and the things we used to do. The
    kids always ask for stories about being on
    the farm. I tell them about raising a
    garden, rattlesnakes, floods, the BIG
    ONE in 49, anything that comes to mind.

    The family went to Sun Valley about 70
    miles north of here Sat. with Kristen’s
    Girl Scout troop for a day of ice skating.
    Pennye used the VCR and played back
    their falls and no falls. It reminded me of
    the times you would get your old clamp-
    on skates on a cut a figure on the ice. I
    never was very good at it. You could hop
    up and turn around. I couldn’t stay of
    my back side and head. I still have a big
    dent in the back of my head from the last
    time I tried. Nearly killed me. So much
    for that.

    Next month you will have another
    birthday. 86 years! Before you know it
    you will be 90.

    I paid your insurance for another year
    I trust you are feeling well. Our prayers
    are w

All americans amply adore adult affairs, as all anarchist adapt alchemy adding astrological anatomy. Again and again advertisements allows affliction adopting and adapting behind ****** beliefs. Besides being boggled, beware big bangs become beginnings. Build beneficial bridges, contemptible courts create credit consuming countries, cops copout. Complement compassion conspire, contact & contest causes constant curiosity can cure cancer, disease & disability. Deep diving dare devils dive deep daring devils designing diabolical deeds daily. Every eclipse emits energy. Employ empathy, empower education, embrace emotion, eliminate elitism. Freedom from forever fetching, fined forgotten fundamentals fully focusing, frantic fools fizzle fast. Gas guzzling gluttons gathering garbage gardens generate generational genes. Gods gilt grows. However hustling hope hype has harmed humanity’s harvest, harboring hateful habits ignorance infects into idiots, idealist imagine, illumination increases imaging. Just join James, Jerusalem’s jackpot, jailhouse jokers, Jesus jumping Joseph just justify Kriss Kringle, knowledge, kings killing kids, ku klux **** kingdoms knowing life & logic loosely. Love loud, live & let live less lords linger, least let light lead loyal lunatics merely mortal magic. Media’s morbid makeover makes morning mindless midnight’s mayhem’s marketplace microwave midfields mixing m16 man made misery muffling many muzzled masses. Newly named narcissistic nations nationalize nc-17 nonsense needing normal numerals natural numbers not nuclear Nazis overseeing oblong objectives orbiting our original origin. Organize outlaws outlanders outcasts overall people pathetically pleased pill popping pissants. Permute perseverance provide physical philosophy preceding prime power, push. Quit quarreling, question quadrants, quests quench qualifying qualities. Realist realize realities rigged, reborn rebels raid reason rejecting rusted routines reducing royalty redoing realities redundant reflection. Reaching scared stars secretes surface scientific simplicity. State symbolism segregates sense spelling spellbound Satanism. Temples trapping truth’s timeline, television tames tons teaching troubling tall tails, turbojeted tanks takeoff targeting trailblazing teachers. Ugly unlawful union undone. Ultimate universal u-turn unites us using unearthed UFOs. Unknown variables vast vacuum, visibly violent volcanoes, vented virus vaults, vanishing voyagers, weather warnings with world wide war warming weapons waking who would watch wandering why x-axis yields yin & yang yet yankees yell yearly. Ziggurats, zodiacs, zen & zion zipped, zombie zoos zigzaging zero zones

Laying on the bed, reading your wedding invite.
I recall the day you went silent and I threw my crown.
Stepping down and lost myself.

Today I let you go, my love.
Not because I give up.
I believe you cared and you still do.

Your silence did cut through my flesh,
Your strangeness burnt my heart.
But here I stand today ready to let myself heal.

Years of gathering broken pieces of my heart.
My lost pieces of love, wailing to be found.
Stranded I searched, and I still do.

I held on to you, like a stubborn child.
Your memories engraved, your doings encircling my thoughts.
Strangely never remembering our fights, I was partial.  

My heart wanted more, my soul was thirsty.
I found pleasure in pain.
I kept you alive.

What a splendid journey, my love.
The impeccable high of your addiction.
As I drowned, I found myself.

One day I chose to revisit my past.
Regretting the time lost to stupid fights, blaming myself.
I never felt, keeping you alive.

Stupid were my acts, unreasonable was my anger.
Childish were my demands.
A sinner, at your altar I confess.

Sleepless nights, result of a restless brain.
Blaming you for the love I dreaded I deserved,
For making me feel worthwhile.

Keeping your memories alive,
Redoing my past, for an escape.
As the odds increased, so did my grief.  

For the broken promises, and the endless thoughts.
U left without a word, so did my Tears.
You coward, I pushed myself to oblivion.  

I saved our love when the world sympathised.
I held on to respect, for u and our love.
Wishing you the best, I kept u alive.

My futile attempts to blame you, was a curse.
A part of me found pleasure when they blamed you,
My stupid selfish heart.

But today I let you go my love, I allow myself to heal.
You meant so much, you still do.
But life is more than just you and me.


A part of my soul is still with you, it’s yours now.
Keep it safe my love.
I’ll nurture what is left of it.

As time flies by, I’ll heal.
For a better tomorrow, for a better me.
I’ll strive with a hollow heart and a partial soul.

Thank you love, for the heat.
For never cheating my heart.
For the never ending  euphoria.

I know u cared and you still do.
When you found me, I found myself.
For your breath of life, I’ll keep u alive.

You made me believe in good.
To Love someone more than my being.
Surprised I’m to know my strength.

Entwined souls, living in the moment.
We headed together, Insane and reckless.
Towards our predefined end.  

I’m glad it was you and no one else.
You were the one, my wildest decision.
Oh my wings, my strength.

But today love, I let you go.
I was your princess.
Now it's someone else.

It’s time to put back my crown to rule.
U won't be forgotten my love,
but like any life chapter ours has come to an end.

There'll be a crowd encircling you, I'm sure.
They'll nod at your every word, imperfectly mimicking
what people look like when they actually listen.
I'm sure the crowd will be people we know.
Old high school friends with real estate ventures
and gyms and multi-level marketing schemes.
Most of them will be doughier, their cheeks permanently
stained red from a decade of drinking.
Most of them will have photos of their kids on their phones,
and they'll tell you they're "sure you don't want to see them"
as they pull out their phones and show you photos of their kids.

I imagine I'll approach, stop just short of the circle, pretend to bid on an Alaskan cruise.

As you talk about redoing your floor in a faux tile that looks just like the real thing for like half the price, you'll see me.

I hope you'll think of that kiss five years ago, outside of a bar in Norman, when the world entire bent for us, when all traffic silenced for us, when all people vanished for us.

Maybe you'll think of the time we ****** in a twin-sized bed, beside a wall decorated with newspaper clippings, which I thought made me look worldly and learned. I admit now the look was less academic, more serial killer.

And maybe you'll think of the manchild fit I threw when I found out you had moved on after I moved away.

And maybe you'll be totally present. Good to see you, you'll say. You will ask about my family. We will discuss the cooler weather. We will talk about your business, your kids. We will side hug and say goodbye. We will take the same route to the same exit. There will be children coloring the sidewalk with chalk. We'll each borrow a piece. I'll outline you; you'll outline me.

Tick Tock goes the clock of wanting to hit the pipe again
Tick Tock goes the clock of wanting to be numb again
Tick Tock goes the clock of the flame burning against the glass
Tick Tock goes the clock of the drug melting away

Tick Tock goes the clock of inhaling danger into my lungs
Tick Tock goes the clock of exhaling the smoke
Tick Tock goes the clock of the high warming my body

Tick Tock goes the clock of desperately wanting more
Tick Tock goes the clock of crushing more danger
Tick Tock goes the clock of rolling the dollar bill
Tick Tock goes the clock of snorting away my problems

Tick Tock goes the clock of a rush of euphoria
Tick Tock goes the clock of redoing everything again
Tick Tock goes the clock of coming down again

Tick Tock goes the clock of endless sleepless nights
Tick Tock goes the clock of hearing my mother and father cry
Tick Tock goes the clock of the haunting silence in my room
Tick Tock goes the clock of my heart beating inside my chest

Tick Tock goes the clock of picking up the pen
Tick Tock goes the clock of the tear hitting the paper
Tick Tock goes the clock of wanting to be numb again

Tick Tock goes the clock of the trembling hands
Tick Tock goes the clock of folding the paper
Tick Tock goes the clock of whispering one last goodbye
Tick Tock goes the clock of me hanging in the belltower

The day a lightning struck my home in September 2010
I read in it signs of bad time grave misfortune’s ill omen
Early morn it fell the night though didn’t hint of a bad weather
Jolting us further a bereaved family my father had died that year.

Spitting fire it chipped a chunk of attic struck dead an arecanut tree
Blew the TV dead lights and fans fled it vented such awesome energy
What had we done to deserve such a deal why befell us the curse
Redoing the roof replacing dead wares it was taxing on our purse.

They say it’s too bad when god goes as mad as to strike your home with lightning
You must have sinned to incur his wrath more misfortune it probably would bring
So we brought a priest for peace and worship we had to appease the deity
In our quest to strike a deal with god’s will was forgotten the arecanut tree.

The house was mended things returned to shape we brokered a peace with god
It all looked fine the mishap forgotten no calamity struck our abode
As a relic of that time stands the arecanut tree without a leaf on its head
Mutely it bears the brunt of god’s fury so is the way it is made.

One autumn morn there was a tapping sound on that tree’s hollowed dead bark
As I peeped through the window I saw a woodpecker its beak was busy at work
So many times I had thought to cut off the tree for it could never grow its root
The bird has got a nest for little ones’ rest god’s will has borne a sweet fruit.

the caffeine is crucial
for this day-time creature,
the low-lit room an optional feature
for my attempted artistic-flair
paint brushes discarded on the floor
i took up drawing, graphite stained hands
and red eyes in the light of morning's sun
through the cracked window
of my old apartment-turned-studio
it was that morning i realized
the faces on paper would never
come to life
or serve a greater purpose than
good looks and candy-to-the-eye
it was that moment, i realized,
there was much more than re-creation
remixing and redoing
redundant copies of someone else's idea
and in that moment, when i realized,
talent is subjective and in the general eyes
of the artistic world, i was **** on the side
of the street where van gogh and picasso
strutted their dead-man's artistic *****.
and now i know that there's got to be something
more than staying up all night drawing from a
photograph a classmate gave to my sight
and earning ten dollars for every hour spent
dragging pencils across leaf-thin skeletons of
plants that could have grown to serve better.
and now i know i was made for something more
than sitting on my **** cold bedroom floor
and replicating the eyes of a sixteen-year-old
spanish self portrait photographer.
in the western world, the people want me as
an artist making prints of their faces and loved ones
but for the rest? my hands are needed to build homes
for those who have not had the privilege of holding a
pencil or seeing their faces on a mere piece of paper.

Redoing the stitches
Did not mend the wound.

Love Mary x

half-feigning a convenient drowsiness,
half-closed eyes and half words shot at
a bedroom wall illuminated by early sunshine,
and it happens to be quite bright.

happened again, redoing, recurring,
an ordinary oration, a silent sermon
the same words again, a slightly different version
every morning, inside out in eversion

the wrong things again, waking up
getting out of bed, out of my head, growing up,
getting old, aging fast, coming to terms with the fact that
one’s life is only as long as one’s past

all this future-talk’s got it feeling a lot longer
And vacancy is at least not my mistake
Filling in a bubble blindly of multiple choices
Splaying multiple regrets for something’s sake.

I will wake up and grow up
But if childhood is living in the sun’s light
then what’s staying up all night to watch its rise?

Once, I told him that I was not hysterical and he could call me
he answered what's up kid as if his voice had dropped, but it
hadn't. I replied submissively and he told me that it would not
work even though I did not truly want it to in the first place. It
was so silent on the other end I could hear his car running. Here
to stop on the hill to talk, the cul-de-sac with no cars where I once
sat between his legs and did unspeakable things on the porch of
someone's summer house. He wasn't sorry even though he said
it twice, I made sure to count. I could probably account for all his
apologies on one hand, the entirety of our two year relationship
was one. They say you lose them the way you gain them, so I
must have fought too hard both ways coming. He said goodbye
twice and meant it, where my mom found me curled up on the
swing by our old house. Drenched in sweat, it must of been 80
outside, I smelled like paint, we were redoing my room. Summer

is so hard now, Maroon 5 on a Chelan boat. The memories are messy.
What was that, three years ago, now? I am still startled by your name
in my phone, by the notes I still find in boxes. I've kissed a few since you
anyway, but I still remember the way your neck felt.

Restless eyes,
The luminaries winking,
The night, as if were
The Moon's stage of solitude
Shines vast in the nocturnal glory,
Revealing silken flattery,
The gentle light caresses.

There is a connection
Of the luminal glow
To the eyes whose mind is
Trapped in a cavernous shadow
While fathoming uselessly
Unto the revolving clockwork
Of living,
Like a trance between
An unknown familiarity.

Thoughts carve out timelines
In jigsaw's grip,
The Moon is a portal
In deafening silence,
Faceless memories guided
By forgotten constellations and
One realises the depth of life
And the race of time,
And come sweet soul searching
In the needs of the spirit while
Trembling from regret.

The solitude is an ocean
Keeping one afloat in a
Suspended profile,
Crystalline clarity like a mirror
In polyhedrons,
So much reflection in restlessness.

And we can drown
In this ocean bathed in the Moon,
Like reliving or redoing
All the past making it so
Pure only our souls know
The life lived in another version.

When the thoughts calm
Into the the minds realignment,
The light becomes forgotten
And the nocturnally calm of the spirit
Flies to live another life;
All that remains is the solitude.

Sense comes at the most senseless times and
wonder comes when the world is dull.
Neurotic, I stumble into the calm
and sunlight unfolds in the throes of depression.

My life is an ill-timed spectacle; my big top is freshly painted and moth-eaten.

Come one, come all to see my brilliant downfall
at my own hands. Can one girl have devised so masterful
an undermining? I think not, patrons young and old.

I am listless when it counts the most
and engrossed in the extraneous.
Trust me, I'm a master of these believings and disbelievings.

I can tame tigers and yet the pests undo me.
Beetle-brained, I guess you could say.
There I go again.

Undoing and redoing, rethinking, unthinking and linking all these meaningless experiences in a chain of being that takes the guise of sense but bends into a pattern without purpose and a gobbledygook message spelling out the things I've already read a thousand times but can't seem to memorize.
My brain is a storm of confession and repression and a sense of self that is in fact the lack of.
Does any of this make sense to you? This absurd gestation between bright and blue?
And all the nonsense in between that braids the random with the fated?
Now you're probably irritated at my own madness; darling, you're not the first that has cursed me.
Nor will you be the last. I've heard this lecture; I've taken this class.
It's the one that tells you everything is sense
and there's a great symbol
and when you die you'll receive recompense for all those little goods you did.
Aesop promised, didn't he?
Well grow up, because there is nothing beyond for me.
And I'll die knowing that at least I could see how ridiculous we humans can be,
searching to name the stars and the rocks beneath our feet.
It doesn't matter; perhaps you're better off naming the worms that will soon eat
both you and me.
Life is does not fit in some neat box of god and good and bad and right.
In fact, the only thing that is sure is the day and the night and ultimately
the loss of our fight for the eternal and the immortal.
No one will read this, the writings of some girl who curls inside herself when the world comes knocking.
There is nothing that will not rot
and we ought not try to fight that.
The pearly gates are the crumbling stones in your backyard;
god is yourself and I know this may be hard for you to realize
but stop clinging to these comforting lies because
I'm not a fated poet, and I'm not meant for words
we just happened to meet one day
and realize we both were a little absurd.

Some days,
I feel lonely
In the dark,
In the quiet,
Seeking
To create
A moment
Or two
Of just being
By redoing
And redoing
With Intention.
Other days,
Though -
Other days,
Everyone
I’ve ever loved
Or hurt
Or been seen by
Shows up
In the alleys
Between
Being
And doing
And I
Recognize
Us.

I do not feel like myself
I am not my own
I am no longer on the inside nor the outside
I'm just.. here
Or maybe there
My skin does not feel like how I remember

Am I a boy or girl
Does it even matter
Gender is an illusion that was pushed on us by our founding fathers
Oh how great they were

They brought us together from chaos
And we could never repay them
Do we need to?
Is that what is meant when they say to not sin?

What if God isn't just one person but an idea
An entity of a group
A feeling that exists in each of us

Today is a new day
And it's still gloomy as ever
The rain drips down my window
I blow out to see my breath crack against the glass
What is the point of redoing everyday
To grow old?
To get married?
Have a wife, kids, a family?
Grow old and wither away

I think that's the answer
We are all part of the cycle
Reincarnate into something entirely new but yet just the same
There is a point to all of this
And with these tears in my eyes
I'm yelling it to the skies

I tried to imagine leaving,
And all I could think of was coming back.
It’s not so much that the idea of departure frightens me,
I can easily imagine existing somewhere else,
I just cannot picture my home existing without me,
Call me self centered if you will.
Just answer me this,
What would become of my room?
There is so much of me in there,
Permanent fixtures that would annoy anyone.
My friends painted on the walls,
Ink staining my carpet,
The broken power outlets, used to such extent that all cords must be at a certain angle to work,
To me these things mean home,
To anyone else they would be annoyance in need of repair.
I think of all the effort it would take to expel my presence from my room,
The repainting, recarpeting, redoing, just to get me out,
Would it be worth the effort?
Then I think of the holes I’ll leave behind me.
The books I’ll have to take with me,
Because leaving even one dog-eared whether worn volume is an utter impossibility.
That alone will leave my room nearly empty.
What about the smell of a freshly baked dessert
Will my pie tins be forced into early retirement?
Or even worse,
Will my lovely dishes be sold?
Given to someone who doesn’t appreciate their scorch marks and abundant cracks.
Will my parents try to fill my rickety bookshelf with their own alien tombs?
The thought disgust me, like if someone else were to use my toothbrush.
But worse than the holes I’ll leave are the things I cannot take with me,
The view from my window,
The prodigal richness of my meadow in spring,
The sledding hill in winter.
For every season, very month, practically everyday there is some joy,
Will I ever be able to recover from the loss?
Yet the core of my being seems to call me away,
Begs me to ascend beyond this cluttered and twisted reminiscence of childhood,
This broken version of a shrinking paradise, to small, to old, to painfully familiar.
Is that what home really,
Somewhere so lived in you cannot bear to leave,
or comprehend staying?

Science class is boring. People are loud. I'm hungry. I'm tired. I'm depressed. My numbers have not been good when I rate my emotions at therapy. My mom overreacts to everything and does not listen to my side of the story like always. She acted like it was my fault that I got half credit on a late group assignment. Technical difficulties deleted everything and we turned it in a month late after redoing it. Half credit was generous.
I haven't been able to talk to Sage much recently... I miss him. He is right there and I hug and kiss him daily, but I miss him. I almost had time on Tuesday, but my mom took that away. I feel alone. I've thought recently that I'm ugly. I don't feel good about myself. I promised not to try again or hurt myself, so I found another way... I haven't eaten well recently, meaning I won't eat for a while and then I will binge on junk food... It makes my stomach hurt, but I don't care.
Anyway, I almost had time, and my mom said yes at first, but then I told her that school was good and she asked about the project. Then she said no. I was trying to explain. I may have raised my voice a little, but then she started screaming at me not to yell. I wasn't. Cell phones have microphones. And mine is broken, so it just made it worse. Everything piled up at once and I started to cry. He left before my mom got there and I just sat and cried. A police woman came just to ask if I was okay. I told her I was fine, just a lot of stress and my mom pulled up. I got in the car and she instantly badgered me about why I was talking to the police and when I told her why, she to,d me I was throwing a temper tantrum like a three year old. I told her I wasn't and then her catch phrase came out. I swear, she says it to me every day. "You're full of ****, Kaydee."
I wasn't having a good week to begin with, my numbers were bad all week. Since I only go to treatment once a week now, I keep track of my own numbers until I get back. I seriously contemplated trying again or harming again, but I didn't. I was proud, and thankful that I have at least five people to support me, my family not included. They go back and forth. Everything I do is wrong, I'm full of ****, I'm a liar, and then they love me and only care about helping me.
Do they even understand how difficult this is? We're they ever sent into treatment? Are they living my life with my teachers and my views and disorders? My parents have depression and have attempted, but they still don't get it. If they did, they wouldn't be doing this.

I just want to be let go. I was doing fine until this started. Therapy made it worse. I harmed after I went into therapy. I was pain-sober before then.

My therapy place called me again today. I don't know why they called me and not my mom, but whatever. I don't even care. Normally music helps with things like this but I'm shying away from my normal taste... I've been listening to more Death Cab For Cutie and Regina Spektor. All is well, though. Just softer than the screaming and explicit lyrics I'm used to. More meaningful and poetic, I think.

Well, I think I'll be done. Writing this helped, but I am still on the verge of tears. I need to be done.

   Sincerely, Kagami.

I write and the words are empty. I try to fill the page but the meaning is not there. It is as if I am repeating myself and redoing what has been done. The well of ideas has gone empty and the water of creativity will not flow from my soul to my pen. I can only mimic what I see and not truly put my emotions into the work. What can be done when the passion has faded and the words have become hollow?

sometimes people move away
move on
move forward, backward, side to side
some people just move in place
the heartbeat of being in love with a person is different than that of falling in love with their heart
ever notice how people say your name?
probably just based on the emotion they feel towards the syllables of your great unknown
self-medicating themselves to the touch of your skin
kissing someone with so much passion that the tips of their noses go completely numb
spin a globe and watch it land on the location of your beloved
a lightbulb of everlasting amazement
the continuation of someone with OCD
constantly unbuttoning and redoing their jacket
being a stranger in your own mind
moving sideways in time
the dimensions that you create all on your own
something complex and with strong opinion
a place that you reside but do not wish to
a setting of great intelligent wisdom and sometimes also fortune
your mind
where you can't ever move from

My sister sat with me in her car,
taking dollar bills out of my purse
because she wasn’t getting paid until next week.
Dollars going through the parking meter,
each beep reminding me of the news she couldn’t wait to tell me.
As she’s redoing her salmon lipstick
and making sure her right eyelash stays put,
she can’t help but let the words slip
I’m starting fresh. This is my new life.
She already has her mom fooled, this one’s the one.
I stare at my phone, nodding that I’m happy for her,
careful not to say
Is this your third new life this year?
She talks about his money, the daughter from a former marriage
how he called her pajamas Grandma,
picked her out some rouge lingerie for the ***** deed.
A few ***** deeds and he wants to move out and buy her a house.
I’m never quite sure what to say, all that comes out is nervous laughter.
Well, boys will be boys.
The one in Vegas comes to mind first, he also promised her forever.
What about the dealer in California? It wasn’t even his house.
I told her that I hope she’s happy this time,
each ring coming from her phone,
a fang severing more freckled skin.

When I was down, I got high
   When life got in the way, I still got by
   There was nothing going ‘round that I didn’t go through
   But what you left undone between us, isn’t something that I want to do.

Seems we spend most our lives gettin’ out of the way
Of a sun that’s meant to shine on our darkest of days
Chased by our own shadows straight into the night
Lookin’ back at what won’t work, when the future still might… (whatever)

Friends say I’ve mastered falling down to an art,
Building pretty little piles from what’s been torn apart.
But the pieces that you left are as much as you took,
And no one gets the whole story from reading half of the book.

   So when you were up, you put me down
   When I got in your way, you ran around
   I reaped hope from the furrows, where nothing ever grew
   but fixin’ what you’re doin-is more than any man would want to do.

When I think back now what I wish I’d know then,
The same people fool me again and again.
They say hindsight’s 20/20, but to tell you the truth
While I can see through your lies, I’m still blind to the proof.

Yeh, your ghost seems to leap from one girl to the next
And while they keep gettin’ better, I know what’s better ain’t best
If my senses come to find me, they’ll know where I am
I’m just one idea behind, where the thought of you ends.

   And when I get down, I still get high.
   When life gets in the way, well, I’ll get by.
   In fact, there’s nothing [that] comes to mind, that I wouldn’t do
   So stop redoing what you undid, so it’s done, and I’ll be over you….

Till then I’m chasing you down, ’
cause when I’m down, at least I’m close to you.

Listen to me for once
You listen but you don't understand

I don't want to go back to the past
There were flaws in the past

The bad was horrible
The good was sometimes flawed

Why can't you see
See the truth in my words

You read them but you don't comprehend them
It's like I'm writing in a language you can't read

And all you see are my ****** expressions
And the tone of my voice and you're all like

Yeah, I understand.
But I can't go back to that.

Like you answered
The opposite of what I'm asking

Because even the poems you reference
Signify changes from the past

Even the rebooting poem
Because it's about a clean slate

Not redoing everything we ** up.

I want to know the blidness that kept his hands sliding and moving as if two scences were bundled and expelled from the already darkening white shade, pearling infront of his paintngs, There he found the secrets of golden asps and seductive tones
that manipulated Antonys weakness for powerful women.  But now the blank verses  of god and poet live to the imposible idea of finding secrecy and sharing the myth that his scribe would have to live with.  The hardest process of sinking your open thoughts in hot salt.  The painful scars of reliving and redoing to go out into the night hoping it wasnt your last.

Woke up from my dreaming to a nightmare, she was screaming
Got back to the car the radio sang about my demons
I hate heathens, singing along for no reason
As she slams the door behind me
Revenge is open season

5 days in I look like you
Broken glass back pain
*** stains on my shoes
Redoing old never feels new
Only see myself in a car mirror view

I want her in my windshield
I want her name on my screen
Any source of affection puts worth into screams
A honk has no emotion
My notions are bleeding
Feeding on desire, I hit the gas
Before my house catches fire

Her words were knives, dipped in lies
I realize theres no easy way
I "Take a break from all my sinning"
But God made me gay

Screams turned to silence
Caution escaped violence
My bed never felt so wrong
When I left my demons in song
I long for my steering wheel
I feel I have to stop admitting
Can't help that I'm forgiving
I named my car twister
I call this twisted living

I.
switching my hands with yours in the dark wetness of night
the burn is worth it
let me tell you
cold hard marble
a solid hand to hold
until the crumble ****
you are not one to trust

II.
my grandmother told me it's good to get your heart broken/////to open it up
to bring out your truth
you need to be broken to find yourself raw
are you the grenade for my undoing and
redoing?
a tool that’s it
undo redo undo redo i know this

III.
where is my bed

IV.
last night i got dolled up
i went out
i stayed out late
i wanted to be a bad girl you know
i saw you coming out of smoke
your knuckles like marble like ones i knew
i wanted to kneel down and kiss them and beg
for you to punch me in the face
but instead i took you home
pressed your body against my body to make sure mine was still there

Conversation opened. 1 read message.

Skip to content
Using Gmail with screen readers
in:sent
Click here to enable desktop notifications for Gmail.   Learn more  Hide

Move to Inbox More
6 of 184

Majesty's Thereupon
COUCH ALLENS
Apr 10
to j_blayze2002
Majesty’s Thereupon

Region wifery taken role witnesses smart

Forthwith ‘ Sufficient’ Sureties wedlock confraternity

Basses  bound over protocols.

Sessions same facets subsequence crown intends before

Nativity respect marginalization prior stating ‘Rosencrantz’

Magistrate provisions continue committal within the holy recognizance state of restaging/ Once discharged in rewritten accounts writing the entry palace of provincial domains/ Proper echoes where ‘Orderliness’ Ordinations/ Procedural in the ‘Continuous’-Prospect Fuel Constants/ Mirror Convictions Loggerheads/ Sufficient ‘road-map’-Territories Summon Arms

Validity/ Description Variance ‘ within the athletic of allergic/ Ceasing holds-all dying gloomy/ Distress ‘insanity’-irregularity illegality/ Redoing the ‘hyper-dialecticians’-Therein/ Deemed ‘reasons’-beginning shore ‘whisper’-The prejudices/ Receptacle grounds ‘ Bishop’-The Reliving descendants/ Appoints in the behalf asylum wherein ‘Rope Such Likeness’-District Components/ Zoe Potency  ‘Third-Parties’ Labourers Velocity/ Residence minority by natives of activations/ Observant ideology acres void of felonies.

Retaining the unpredictable  ‘Co-Existence’ of Overalls/ Inhabitants

‘One-Litre’-Imagination Drills….’

PORTAL MADE INSURANCE GAZETTE  ' SPEAR EARNS...'













v


Click here to Reply or Forward
0.04 GB (0%) of 15 GB used
Manage
Terms - Privacy
Last account activity: 1 hour ago
Details

I had to write this - this piece that only makes sense to those who
Maybe knew me - loved me and even disliked my ways
I lost more love than you can imagine why do you think my eyes always look in pain
I now have a new love
One that disappears but for great reason
It's hard to stay with someone who constantly changes like the seasons
Will they smile tomorrow?
Or be cold the next day?
Will they shine so bright one moment?
Or blow everything we've ever had away?
I've apologize enough to plant a field of weeping willows
It seems my tears soak more than my dreams into my pillow
Finally, a time to heal and this time do it right
Free a heart that's been imprisoned in me my whole entire life
Part of this is for the one that I love more than she could ever know
The one that changed my whole life
And refused to let me go.
For my family whose been through the battle yet, never raise a white flag
To my friends who were never sure who'd they get, but always seemed to come back
To my father. Sure, I love you...but only because we are nothing alike
For the moment I've been waiting for
I'll say out loud - BLAND YOU DONT HAVE TO ALWAYS BE RIGHT!
Quite down and you'll hear so much more than you can imagine
Open you eyes and you can finally reach for all you desire and go grab it
Don't disappoint- all the people who ever had your back
Because time will tell truly if you've taken the time to pay em back
Show her you mean it...become the man she fell in love with - March 17th with that first kiss
Only get few shots at redoing life so promise me you won't miss
Aim for the stars but shoot for the moon
This is your time...your moment. I promise it's all gunna make sense soon.
The day that you realized you can become the change you've always seemed to teach
Don't do it for her - your family nor your friends
Do it for you...and I promise what you deserve will all finally be reached
I know I've said it enough but I thank you and apologize to those who've dealt with me.
I've finally reached that moment - the one she, they and all will be proud of
The moment I finally become me.

And I wish I could make it easy...

Easy to love me.

I thanks those who never gave up and walked away
And I'll continue to rewards those who will always stay.

With me.

the only time I thought this
possible was not yet here
but yet the feelings prevailed
i wanted none of it
but still the heart persisted
the wound though still raw
wanted so badly to heal
and couldn't find
a better doctor still

them all are the same
my head would say
and them all can change
my heart would say
caught in the battle
of logic and loving
didn't know where
to really side

guess it happened again
the course of history redoing
itself, guess walls are down
again and this time
they seem to really want to,
guess i will side with the heart
for now, and wait for
its crying sounds again,
soon i can tell
i just met my future x

Pericles exposes: "Content of enchantment I receive your gift, arts, letters where you have to visit a sacred replied that I have made here in the Empyrium, here the Republic will boast of ancient theaters by the hand of Phidias that you will have entrusted to you. Our north has been traced in this replica of the Acropolis or Parthenon, which awaits us in the long chain of Colargos. Behold, I have resumed the descendants that live behind the lion's hooks, and of your name Strategoi whom I have acclaimed to see you perceive you more than silence from those who never knew of your prowess, and your incidence of Gaugamela and Delphi, you must to know that huge Lepidoptera brought me your messages every day of unknown liturgy that I only expected after your investiture, and then to be received here together with Themistocles, that the vulnerabilities would never revert to the disadvantage of Greece because the safeguard of interest is to beat up our surrounded land, not land and sea; but of famous Hoplites who are the ones who have contained the edges of each border, but not of the Areopagus where I had to see you in your Ekklesia or assembly and classicism insult that succumbed with the interference of the Achaemenides. Nothing will I dare to be equal to when redoing or undoing what memory only has to stick to my science, but what do my hands think more than the same thing I did or shouldn't have done...? We are guarantors of our solace and mendicant stay here where you have been privileged to be brought by your Mashiach, and by me for all the declined attempts or opposite that you see in the Sun with his wealth; and all that we have been able to recover from its insignificant parts of those fleeting flashes of democracy, in the Micro Empyrean I have also duplicated the marble that does not compare to Oenidea in the Gulf of Corinth, or of resolved ideas to face in the Peloponnese. There I could see that I could never observe you if someone had recruited you because he had no advice or formats of your existence to bring you. Your storms were already propelling you over the skies of Greece, where there was never time and space that was denied to you, but who belongs to the chroniclers who did not know you until you propelled your Parapsychologies with your Corinthian helmet, and the pompous Light that expanded when they cut the flanks of the world with your Xiphos. What incompatibilities could be added to this old discernment, by tomorrow you will be back on Patmos, and I could clear you from a ministerial or skillful congressional decree to highlight the contentious bodies that want to join all of Greece, with more life than they have fallen and take advantage of its heritage. Perchance a phoro or tax, which relieves the girdling of a mandate that runs with the same vigor of your steed to take it to its bare sender.

The sacred wars have given you the approval that is sensed in the oracles of the world, more than the edicts of a sporadic Apocalypse that will be reversed in the Kassotides. And that the oracles will be invisible particles that file and distill what tends to extinguish a conservative policy and maintenance of the kingdom that survives here in the empyrean. Namely and officially, all the depths of our ocean will never be able to cover up what the owners of their appearance or betrayal will merit to cower by hitting each other's elbows. My fleet will have great limits to take beyond the imaginable with your garments and virtues, as Sóter or Strategoi that vindicates the self-revelation of crushing with politics an alliance that is managed by a will governed by the real sense of Will spread further afield than any personal interest. At the bottom of the treasury, you will find an Acropolis with its priestess canephora and basket full of delicacies, subordinated to a treasury that pours on all the roofs of Greece the profits that will spread everywhere to your new abode, far from the antagonistic factions that, although they show a toast at sunset with your glasses full of must from your servant Pericles. I am and will be a witness that I will deny or that nothing and no one can deny you, because you are part of Hellas, where it's packed rattles roar that will bring bleating and screams of Prometheus, due to such immensity of a Greece that also abounds in the Divine Heaven.
Stay away from Hetaira and Aspasia, otherwise, they could unseat you from your purged being, which can confuse hunger with the icy frenzy of your human impulses, more than the Lacedaemonian wielders who fight for your skinned serge, for new accounts to surrender to otherness with Alcibiades if you find yourself near any wasteland here in the Empyrean. Already the fertilized land of Demeter is proof of a slip of flower clusters that have become encysted in Persephone's locks, and that it is already Equinox! The winds are strongest at more than seventy centimeters from the sheaf that brushes your hands, they are more ferocious if it is that the skies that fall before your eyes when they are more dependent on land, which has an intractable dry well of fewer than seventy centimeters…!

I will donate the Parthenon to you, the harvest and the gracious gesture of it will not tire of your determination to surrender to its perfection so that it may be optimized. On the present day of 323 B.C. C. the ashes of Alexander the Great of Macedonia fall into our hands, and Vernarth his commander, together with my fleets of thousands and thousands of Syntagmas, with the allegory of Camels and cowbells, will take your sheep together to your Kafersesuh or manger that only has a promiscuous thirst for brave odors of piety, if it is from the plausible future to write everything that I have told you today of the Duoverse on a puny Ostracon, writing your obsequies of what I will have to exile to the border of the sooty Angels so they don't have to intimidate you. All the lands belong to you and plead for your guardians, who in the hour of your departure have fled farther from the entangled leaders. Today I have addressed, and I have harangued you, leaving to your possession my own pecuniary, and duty of Hegemon that I would leave no one else from the Kathartyrium, and pecuniary so that they promote you with my purging bordering on your celebrity by enlightening me in the Stars of Athens "

At the culmination of the course, when he let go of the Mashiach's hand, Vernarth dropped from a strong and fast scene of Othónes or screens, which made him fall to a vacant farmhouse called amphiprostyles; with porticoes and snowy columns that made him green at his feet and above all his will that was preparing for the Opistho that precisely protected his Energeia of rest, which was his great treasure that will carry him through all the ages, times, spaces and galaxies of the which with his gnosis could accumulate it from the God of all who goes more to the other side of the divinity, who can be contained in a mural in which the entire universe goes to embed itself of all physical and material forms, here is the philosophy of a Universal man that appeared with great similarity to the scattered spaces of Parapsychology instilled by the conspicuous Parerga and Paralipomena; of which he vindicates his versar by saying that intelligence is not capable of monopolizing more than the ego itself that cannot stand itself, for this reason that in his collection on the shelf of this space he places it next to the hybrid booklet of Messolonghi's Koumeterium, on this versed metaphysics here not degraded of the minimum parts, adorning them with the largest microparticles of what is made up in murky and intermittent beats of the unviable of the soul, and etheric body that would now sustain it. The reason for these inclusions were supplements, and quilts that will be put in the universe to rest with this work. The soul of this mission would be read by the most daring professor decipherer…, The Messiah! that lay on the slopes of the Talamí river, or paths of leaves through this river of leaves that carried all the parchments of books from the creative world, of which these will be randomly in the ascending areas that traveled on this selected *****, and later they will be read by the Messiah and Vernarth. The generalization of this celestial philosophy was summarized in booklets that were growing, whose reality surpassed the unreal, making it the most evident stratum of a posthumous theory, and discernment that promotes the paths of the Opistodomos of the Talami universe, and its leaves that bring riches of all the literary works, architectural musicals and all art that is enrolled in the science of its unmistakable reality with the same presence of all the worshipers of Liberty from where its primary sanctified origin is born, more than any treaty of a work that should go through all the static of the world being able to do what they deserve by having in their hands the same book Schopenhauer's Parerga that sustains the entire world, and Vernarth that maintains the Universe of fusion called Duoverse with the exclaimed doctrine breaking the inertia and static of what reality becomes before your Being, of what is present is of any dimension of the body and its existential relativity. Of all that it cogitates or not, it could be individualized and alternate with the freedom that the object thinks by itself. In this evanescent instant, the aerial masses of the internal warm air of the Iridescent Nimbus addressed the absorption of the sapphic limit of the Opistodomos, in such a way that the words could have verses that could be long and short as a single in the womb of everything created..., The universe has been dismantled on its own implied, however, it folds…! That from the remains of your soul wounded in occasional disasters revives because what you saw is the light of heaven. In this way, the sapphic element swirled above everything that was not holistic, which was only going to collapse on the ground of ignorance that was beginning to rebuild itself. The obvious explicitness made all the beauty in the world fleeting and ephemeral, but Vernarth recomposed it with the seeds of the Talami leaves, and the garrulousness of the tributary of flax leaves and pasted leaves of wisdom that ran through the nominal and famous matte, wide and short.

I saw a common spider climbing up a string of its web
It pulled the anchor, detached the line, destroying its old work
To create a better, more useful web for a new time

This prolific silk-spinner spends much time perfecting her lines
Forming, editing, redoing, and replacing the pieces
Line after line, web after web, often disregarded

Until it no longer satisfies her needs and she begins
Another greatly ambitious work of great care and juncture
That will highlight a beauty the world might've overlooked

She hated lewd offers
but thought, as she fled rationality
there is a deficiency 
a feeling as if
dormice gnawed on her tender heart
unthreading her very being

in the old school
fearless foul mouthed men
with big shoulders and hero's chests
new how to take a woman
so she would lose herself
caring for nothing but
spilling her
clitoral incandescence
into kingdom come

out of the question
was dissolute lust
its quivering equivocations
of undoing and redoing
in a torment of feeling,
as if blood thirsty
disavowing, yet starved for love
like a cry of the void

the feminist

I agree that
you are the epitome
            of perfect
everything you do is
            impeccable, flawless
your life is free of paint splatters–
                        unless they are symmetrical–
            wild, unbridled adventures–
                        unless they are in your schedule–
            loops of messy cursive–
                        unless they are precisely designed
                        to embody a particular style–

and nothing you do
            is ever wrong
ever disorderly
ever imperfect

but
what are you
            now that you can produce
            perfection?
            can you say
                        with the pure honesty you are so proud of
                        that you are
                                    free?
                      ­  that you are not a slave to what you make?

did you ever stop cleaning
                        wiping
                        e­rasing
                        redoing
                        re­writing
to notice that
you have eradicated with
            blind disdain and vehement prejudice
            what might be considered
                        art?

that the joy of flawlessness is not real–
            just
                        the temporary absence of fear?

that true, natural, unplanned beauty has become
            not only your enemy but a lethal weapon?

that maybe
in your relentless process of perfecting
            you have generated imperfection?

She hated lewd offers
but thought, as she fled rationality

"Taboo and Transgression reflect two contradictory urges"

there is a deficiency
a feeling as if
dormice gnawed on her tender heart
unthreading her very being

"The taboo would forbid
the transgression but the fascination compels it"

in the old school
fearless foul mouthed men
with granite shoulders and hero's chests
knew how to take a woman

"Please Master"
Please master can I touch your cheek
please master can I kneel at your feet

yet she would lose herself
caring for nothing but
the spilling
of her clitoral jeweled incandescence
into kingdom come

mystery woman
with a **** in hand
plays the piccolo
in a hot swing band

out of the question
was dissolute lust
its quivering equivocations
of undoing and redoing
in a torment of feeling,
as if blood thirsty
disavowing, yet starved for love
like a cry of the void

her throat  
a spiral armed galaxy
her heart and ****
hounded moons*

the feminist

Untitled
There are 24 hours in a day but I always have 25 things to do
I am unsure of what to begin with, what to discard and what to leave for tomorrow
The cooking, cleaning, sweeping, moping, serving, redoing, undoing, and bickering is done on a daily basis
Attending class, completing projects and assignments, note-taking, pent up frustration and procrastinating goes happens every other day
My sleeping cycles are irregular
My appetite is hit or miss
My acne is on point
A bad hair day is the norm
Blood shot eyes, short temper and newly found pessimistic behavior is all I ever wear now
Confidence levels are sinking
Anxiety levels are rising
How do I fix this?
A new haircut and coffee I.V?
Get my nails done and have on that make it till you fake it attitude?

"Confused, ingenious, or was that…?"
Ingenuine,
ingenue
- say it
nuengine image imagined, whined a high note
engineered imagineer error
red line
somewhere whistle this-away this-ah-say,
see a whole world at play,
esse, assay worth
play 'em the old songs never sung
any better
redoing all the old dances, yes, as in yes, t'day.

Fun items added in since sopho-more, English,
as led, edu-cated, mind you, hand written
note
" will you settle for mediocre?" abuse, from a teacher
who would tell an aspiring nobody,
such a possibility exists, just
Sue Ellen Stapp, star of some place in Texas,
standard townsquare post final flag
risen for us to serve under,
we were warriors,
always, farmers sort of,  some years,
enough to get by, without trying.

Mind wandering paladins, sometimes, we think.
The character dressed in black has an attitude infectious,

why, I wonder,
should I care? There, I answer, should and shall, sha'n't we
make some sense of this? Shall I or should you,
whose to do, eh, much
about nothin'. Nothin's t'do t'day. it's so.

Man must make a living some men say.
Man must find a living other men say.
Man must live, or go away

banished from touch or kind word, from now

on to now, one day being all we take away,
live this one, or pretend any day you wish is this one,
called today.

Okeh.

My job is not yours, and when I die, the winds
return on their circuits to be the legacy
of legendary souls, said to be
heirs of the wind. {due to trouble…}

Yeh,
ghost riders, in the sky,
yip…
---------------------
we, I say, in awe, a we has been, mani
infesting

many many means made up as mind that matters,
means to ends, maps and steps
right, usually
- some sequence of events -
- some informing occurs, the we or me

Morning ritual, daily doings, done your way
any we
we wake in and have no former self aware in, forming me
from what you think we see.
a we.
o so strange the state, awe arriven through a slit
in the curtain, started then,
some certain number measurings ago, counting slow

a pin hole

backwards, ah, first ether egg.
In a terracotta plant ***,
a me, recalls the sense of that being,
reassuring, in me, even drugged to painless
state,
things believable appear as I think,
and sometimes remain visible, to this eye

think I say to some part of myself, remember this,
it helps,
someday, because it always helps to remember this,
painless state safe as sound in times embrace

comingling in cognosis space, co know co know
reknown,
no crown, not of laurel nor thorns nor light,

for now is night and all confusion settles to form
tomorrow's sunrise reflection.