It's funny the things that catch our eye.
My boarding pass and passport are over checked
Student ID,
Admission letter four years old,
Father's death certificate,
My marriage certificate,
Endless documents,
To prove I'm not a threat.
He  waltzes through without a blink.
No boarding pass checked,
No passport in hand,
No red flags raised.
I'm sure it's illegal,
But they don't ask
Or maybe they won't.
I'm the one they check,
The one they search.
3 hours.
Are these your suitcases?
Unpack the suitcase
who packed the suitcase?
Each item scanned
Where was the suitcase after it was packed?
swab,
wait,
second swab,
wait again.
third swab,
That had better be for good luck.
(more attention than the blarney stone)
Did anyone give you any gifts to bring?
Repack,
Rush through check-in.
Second security check,
Go to line 3.
Unpack hand luggage,
Laptop, tablet, phone, chargers, data cables
Scanned individually,
Take off shoes,
Walk through metal detector,
Three swabs more for good measure,
Repack,
Rush to gate
Already boarding
Finally in my seat.
He takes 15 minutes.
It's funny how his time 8-tuples,
When we travel together.
I may be his ben zug,
I may speak their language without the dreaded Mivtah*,
but I still don't belong.
It's funny the things that catch our eye.

Q-Tips raised! Their storm approaches.
Swab those ear-gates free and clear.
Thunder frightens the rats and roaches.
Looming clouds are drawing near;
Audible anticipation
Waxes with our rising nation.

Hope-**** is the thing with feathers
flying low, right before the gale.
Strident left-wing get-togethers
Do their best to countervail.
Tribunals herald something worse . . .
Enjoy some popcorn with my verse.

Martial law—a new diversion,
Flapping wings on the Left and Right
Disturbs the coop (or coup?). Subversion
now displays its plumes outright.
Deep-state angels prove satanic
sparking upper-level panic.

Rumors can be quite arresting.
Cresting waves on the Psy-Ops sea
Break and roll, now manifesting
Dumbed-down mobs, conspiracy . . .
Some citizens awake to truth;
The rest rave on, benighted youth.

Strep throat. Out of nowhere really. I went to a meeting on Friday, interviewed at PaperSource on Saturday afternoon, and then just slightly later an awful toothache. I never suspected anything so out of the ordinary to occur. Saturday night, two to four a.m.ish, i thought it was caffeine pills, or not drinking enough water, or even, worst of the worst, an attack of hypochondria. I kept lighting up Marlboros though, tasty red branded things that make writer's mouths happy. Two days in and I'm pretty sure my ***** are a fever below my body, droopy like snoopy. Super soft droopy *****, that's a sure sign of a fever or a great BJ they taught us in 6th grade science, and I wasn't getting my favorite ice cream social.

I hadn't talked to the gf in a couple days, and missing her company I made the phone call only discover that my voice had turned into a baby turtle shouting English from the bottom of a stuffed baked potato. Garbled. Discussing. Useless. I promptly hung up, and began texting. But it was too late she heard me and called back, and I had to give it all I had to put together a few words.

An hour later I was dropped off at the ER, the benefits of Medicaid at 30 is never being able to just go to the doctor's office. Within 2 hours they told me it was strep. Four nurses, two residents, one first day resident, and a 2nd year resident, and the ER doctor for a swab and a spray, and the take home Z-pack.

Then she said she'd come over even though I was sick. That's real love. "If I get sick from you, it's still worth it." 3 days on antibiotics, no more sore throat, I feel great- I think tomorrow I'll be having an ice cream social for someone who I love dearly. Maybe we'll even skip the ice cream.

A stripper does not command the same feelings
when there is no music
when there is rain
when there is **** beneath their feet
when there is no stage
when they are
naked.

Step off stage,
peel their eyes from your skin.
Layer after layer
of pervert,
of bloodshot,
wipe the trails of loathing
they leave behind.
Take a cotton swab to your navel
to dry your mother's tears.
These are nothing you haven't seen.

Find glass where it is not broken,
Break it.
Pull on your face until you can see your cracks
echoed in kaleidoscope reflections.
Let your tongue swipe your teeth
and slurp down the dollar bill smile.
Chase it with the cat that was
swimming in your eyes.
Imagine what you would look like dead.
Make silly faces in broken mirrors.
Turn away before they fade.

Shake your head in your hands
until music flies from your ears.
Shake harder.
Spill the hypnotic equilibrium they sold you
Watch the room start to sway.
Sit down.
Stand up.
Find your legs.
*****.
Heave,
feeling there is much more poison
than will ever come out.
Cough into the air,
knowing your hands are sacred.
Wipe your memory on someone else's sleeve.

Walk to the door.
Let your profession slip from your shoulders.
Become human.
Become blending into the crowd.
Become busy with something in your hands.
Open the door, then your umbrella.
Do not breathe.
Take five steps forward and wait to exhale
until your hear the door slam behind you.
It isn't healthy to mix the sight of rain
with the smell of broken pianos.

Walk forward.
Out of your shoes.
Wince as the concrete speaks to your heel.
Bathe your toes in the nearest puddle.
Let your umbrella slide from the warmth of your hand.
Watch it fly.
Notice the people.
Move your sight from the ground
and rest it on their chins.
Realize you're wearing no clothes.
Pull the confidence down and off of your walk
and turn to the closest alley.

Step off stage.
Peel their eyes from your soul.
Become an individual.
Forget "the people."
Notice the persons
wrapped to their noses in professions and smiles,
confidence and ignorance pouring from their eyes,
heads tucked low beneath charcoal umbrellas.
Smile.
Without trying when you hear the clouds roar.

Stop when you find there are more walls than bodies
and the smell of ***** is stronger than your own.
Forget your smell.
Open your mouth.
Forget your taste.
Bend your knees and raise your head.
Close your eyes and feel it rain.
Scream.
Strip the religion from your prayers.
Scream the ineffable confession.
Forget your body.
Drink the rain.

there is no music
there is rain
there is **** beneath your feet
there is no stage
you are
naked.

Damsel in this dress
is a damsel in distress she just using clothes to cover up the post traumatic stress,

but they barely cover anything--
her lady parts at best,
she attracts hood ****** but they barely give her thanks when she gobble up their ***** in her head is regret,

her past is her future so abuse is where she heads-- wears her heart on her sleeve so she empty in her chest

wearing make up just to make up for the confidence she lacks
  
and I admit I looked back when you walked by in that sun dress
I knew your name around the block bout how you ****** the meanest ****,

the greatest *** and I imagined if I knew the words for access words to claim your assets dinner did I have to invest-- from a glance,
 
and at a simple glance back,
to advance the fact still remain man plans to slay that,

she knows it; the shades on her face tells poem how bright lies jaded minds and money bust her open so who's the poet--
but we judge off her appearance,
 
and lose our morals,
when she throw it back aren't we daring; but aren't we caring making compliments and swearing,
smearing make up on our ugly truth
conceal,
conceal,
concealer,

you a bad *****,
another body is you willing?
but to her its more than *** its the embrace its not the feeling,

her innocence is safest and awakened when she feels it reminded of the time her boyfriend lied, as he took ***.

In these predicaments she says its innocent;
he loves me,

that's after broken rib number 5 she says; he loves me,

that's after **** kit the doctor swab;
he says I'm worthy,

that's after black eye number 9;
he says he trust me,
he trust me,
he trust me,
He trust me,
He Trust me,
He Trust Me,
HE TRUST ME,

and he never means to hurt me.

Problem is my novel is too common,
I'll never share his name cause his name is not the problem,

he don't deserve my shine or fortune to be acknowledged:

Ms. *******, control your hatred, stedfast
my mind is changing-- stop judging demons,
Contrast.

Ohh My life's Companion

It is better that I take my sorrows with me
Or,
Let me narrate the story of my heart
Let me douse you with my tears
And,
Let the tears swab down to your feet

“To us, white girls are exotic,”
says my Arab American boyfriend.
At that moment, my brain ceases
to make sense of those words
in that order.
Exotic? White? Girl?
Me? Me. He means... me.
So this is what I say
to my Arab American boyfriend
who has
more culture in his pinky
than all of white America combined.
From what I can tell,
to be white in America is
boring static,
AM radio on a Sunday morning
with a broken dial
on a back road in the boonies.
It is the culture born by everything borrowed but wrongfully claimed
as its own invention.
To be white, in America, tastes like
cream of wheat
with no hope of brown sugar.
It is a tumbleweed-kind-of-rootless
and just as desert dry.
It is colorless, odorless, tasteless—
and will choke you slowly
if you don’t build up a tolerance.
But
if you’re lucky enough
to be white in America,
for about a hundred bucks
and a swab of the cheek,
the Internet can tell you
where you came from.
Even if that makes you feel cultured,
tomorrow you will wake up
and still be
white in America.
To be white in America, I thought,
was as far from exotic
as the self-loathing, middle aged guy
behind the counter
at your local DMV.
But white girls, he says, are exotic.
Perhaps it’s because pumpkin spice
oozes from my pasty pores,
or that “there ain’t no laws
when you’re drinkin’ the Claws.”
Maybe he couldn’t resist the fact
that the Starbucks barista
knows my order
better than my name,
or that my hair blowdries pin straight—
no matter the time of year.
I wonder if it’s the combo of
black leggings, messy buns,
and work out tanks—
or the fact that I think I’m saving the whole ******* sea turtle population
with my stainless steel straw.
Exotic?
Maybe it’s my compulsive nature
to buy in bulk, to pet every dog I see,
and to cry over Queer Eye episodes.
It couldn’t possibly be
the steady diet of rom coms,
my collection of Birkenstocks,
or the apple cinnamon candle
burning on my windowsill
that reminds me of “fall y’all,”
but then again, who knows?
To me, my whiteness is a privilege
that will forever be misinterpreted
as entitlement by every person
who checks that “white” box
on the form
without checking themselves too.

“To us, white girls are exotic,” he says.

White girl is just happy
he likes her in spite of it.

To be a pirate the things I,d see,
the high waves as the ship goes
up and down, down and up on
the sea. Arrr I feel sick over the
side I will mostly be.

Swab the decks so they be as
clean asthey can be, **** this
boat of wood the splinters I be
getting, I  be needing tweezers
and me mummy.

I want treasure, I want to bury
it where no one can see, I,ve done
this many times but I keep forgetting
as I have a poor memory.

I want to be a pirate, the things
I would see, but I want to put my
flag on themast a smiling skull it
would be.

I,m not a normal pirate as they
seem to say, I be to nice, and
I,m not very good at sea As I,m
always over the side giving the
fish food that comes out of my tummy.

I,m a pirate all can see, I  dont
have a sword as I always  be cutting
my tummy, I dont think I,m cut out
for this life upon the high sea.

I think ill do kids parties with my
ballon sword, no more cuts for me just
out of breath, as it keeps popping in me.

My choclate coins I must remember
are not to buried or to eat, there for
the children arrr no choclate for pirate me.

Dust gathers everywhere.
Only a swab on the windscreen is clear
on my dust-laden car.

Too tight to wear,
the ring
vibrates vigorously on the washing machine.
The cycle is ending. Intensity waxing.

A song of the solitary koel
serenades a reverie.

I open the screen from inside.
You, the windows from the outside.
Glances exchanged from either side.

It is the time of the late flower.
A drop, even a drop of hot water,
the skin craves for a touch.
In partings, a beginning.

In still winds, all the leaves silent.
Peace comes visiting, a migratory bird
and sits sagely by the bare stalks,
in a hurry to reach
far off lands beyond the seas.

You only get a moment: a moment
when the world freezes.

Oh well, ******* too,
I say to the box of cotton swabs
sitting by
the mirror
It's pointed at me with the side displaying
the 'Don't insert in ear!' sign
And I push the swab further
and give it a spin
and I think to myself
I should write about this
I should...

Yeah, and then the eyes that
read
would say, '******* too'
and 'why do you write if you have
nothing to say, ******?'

Perhaps I am no different
from a box
of cotton swabs
somebody swears at
and what I write is equally frowned upon
as is the warning on the side of
that box

Yet there's something else
we have in common,
the box and I,
we display our message anyways
because we can't say it aloud

I put down the swab and
pick up the box with
a lot more
compassion this time
and walk away from the mirror and into my
room where my girlfriend is
reading something

I place the box of cotton swabs by my notebook
Open the notebook and start writing.
I write 'Oh well, ******* too,
I say to the box of cotton swabs'

“What you do?”
my girlfriend
interrupts
me

“Writing,” I say

“Pff, why do you write if you have
nothing to say?”

And I put the pen down and pick the
box of cotton swabs up and walk over to her, look
her in the eyes
and say, “why don't you go to the bathroom and clean your ears?”

Bukowski, Cash and Dylan
Whiskey, twisted cigarettes and Thai take away.
How much can fit inside a room?
Boxes, armchairs, carpets and glasses.
I count them on my fingers, weight them, bump into them.
All based in the laws of physics, - space and volume.

The sheets on which you laid upon.
The mirrors that showed you forms and figures
-forms that meant to replace emotional loss.

The lips of glasses you used to bite.
-body movements as the expression of an inner void.
Repeated patterns of disorders - food for my poetry.
The plumes of countless cigarettes,
that offered the necessary filling for my insides.

Background noise that comes from the TV
Content: Chlamydia and young people in excitement
-reality show for cowards.
Your manhood spread all over like an octopus
expanding his 8 legs.
Open legs, so that your testosterone can take some air.

A packet of cigarettes, a mobile phone, lighter and a cotton swab.
All in line: from the largest to the smallest object.
Absolute symmetry of declining placement.

I walk naked to the shower,
Winking to your manhood
While you remain
looking at me with your legs wide open.

I pass through you like a ghost
ghosts as you are.
Just like if I never existed
-just like you never existed too.

There'd only plundering be;
If all of us were wolves,
No sheep could flee....

Oh, the pirate's life for thee.
And the pirate's life for me,
And the world were all in flames,
And the world were all in flames.

If everyone were pirates,
Why, villains all we'd be,
And every deck-born swab
Would glower at you and me

With our laces and our kerchiefs,
And our killer pirate wigs
As we stormed across the continents and seas;
As we stormed across the continents and seas.

And good men, none, would live their lives,
With the gentling help of their good wives;
And children, all, would yell and terrorize,
Chasing down the nursemaid with the kitchen knives.

If everyone were pirates,
No farmers, and no fishers on the beach,
No bakers, and no soldiers continental,
No doctors, and no teachers left to teach,
No preachers and no sermons for to preach,
But only pirates coming up the streets...
But only pirates coming up the streets.

loose gravel crunching loudly beneath me transposes
into the soft thudding of my feet against the soil.
the meadow, my old friend, greets me
with a whispering wind. we are both happy.

the sun dips just below the horizon,
watercoloring the sky in lilacs and siennas.
cicadas converse around me, as I am
but a guest at their lovely hillside home.

the cotton-swab clouds part, and the moon debuts.
she is pure, unsullied radiance. with the stars as backup,
and the sky as her stage, she pirouettes, beginning
her nightly routine. tears glide down my cheeks.

rich plums of dusk fade into the dark navies of night,
and my head sinks into pillowy grass.
my eyelids become lead, and the sandman arrives.
everything is quiet, and this peace is eternal.

The remnants of last night's nova
lay scattered in tatters on the patterns
of ballroom linoleum.
Flattened bottles and kids
full throttle on people petroleum.
They whisper, "we're full of them
deaths 'guised as holy gems,"
but no one could hear
through the decoding of the exploding star,
the eroding of that foreboding bazaar,
not even the one whispering,
loose lips left ajar.

The remnants of last night's nova;
it began with a beat.
Melody sweet was distorted just to show the
flipped switch kids who retorted just to grow numb,
with ditched brain space aborted just to know dub,
or love the microchips imported just to throw the
blasting bass bubbles of sound
into the ground,
spinning around,
until they come down,
to frown at flowers
powered by the eye of the storm.
Where it's the norm
for their forms
to be torn from their static.

The remnants of last night's nova
was an illness of stillness;
of dripping dead glow sticks
that knows this
fist in your chest clenched tight,
and the sight of last night,
and the fading lights
just show this restlessness
is not the best of this bright.
The love fights muttered
through shutters of others
echoed soft cotton swab colors
in sunrise skies,
and despised eyes,
and reprized "why?s"
to inspire white lies.

The remnants of last night's nova
are gone.

as a whole I have
{been listening to your godawful racket}
ruminated
for an entire rehearsal number
{though it felt like six}
and have a few things I would like to address
as a
{brutal bandslaughter}
kindly input
for your improvement
flutes
{come on now,
have we ever heard of a tuner}
great job, watch your pitch on the A, though
again
{scratch that, where's the shotgun}
...right.
clarinets
first parts play
{no, stupid, you are SECOND part
you got demoted last week
when you couldn't play the riff in
measure nine}
wonderful, now could we take it from letter B
just first clarinets, okay
{FIRST clarinets
FIRST FIRST FIRST
god where's my coffee}
right. let's just move right along, shall we
oboes

oboes, I--

right.

let's have that F again
{you're flat you're sharp and
both of you
just plain ****}
okay, one at a time
{oh my LORD my ears are bleeding
who the hell invented this thing}
you're a little sharp
can you fix that
...your reed is old
{you bought it last week}
...you've got spit in it
{you just took an entire twenty measures
of the last movement to
pull out your swab}
...someone broke your horn.

right.

okay French horns
let's hear the G

Ships that dock or pass in the night that sail on the oceans
of wrong and of right
where the light of the lantern never fails to secure
the hearts of the innocents and the minds of the pure.

There's the liner and the tanker but
the coaster is the most I
could ever hope to be,
too scared of the sea to travel
too far from land.

And here it gets queer because a
ship waits for me,
that will carry up to a far distant sea
where
land's but a memory that sinks into the sky.
This ship waits to sail on the
day that I die.

Being wrapped in blankets is a seemingly wonderful thing. You get all wrapped up, things are feeling grand, but one wrong movement and BAM: a swab of fabric unexpectedly covers your face. You squirm and try anything to get it off; to unwrap yourself, but, alas, you cannot--you're stuck.
Breathing becomes more and more difficult until you are completely suffocating. Suddenly, everyone walks away, aloof to what is happening; but wait--here's the catch: there are no blankets and there are people all around.

"What's wrong with you?" They ask.

They wonder why doing anything is so hard; why nothing is enjoyable--why you may be numb to everything. They can't see the blankets, or that the struggle to escape overpowers all joy; that it may be so tight that you've become numb.

They don't understand why you want to give up.

"Get over it." They say, as they walk around, free as a bird, no blankets to hold them down.

You want to take their advice; to set yourself free. You begin to slash at the blankets, only to realize you're only slashing at yourself--but it helps for a bit. Maybe you feel less pain; maybe you finally feel something. For a few moments, you can breathe and put on pretend wings.
Fake wings don't last forever, though. Soon they fall, are stolen, break, get lost--whatever it may be--and they're gone.

You slip back into the blankets.

The birds with real wings start to notice; they want to know why you're doing this to them again.
"You were doing so well!" They insist.

You do what you know, and your scars become too numerous to count.
Again and again you escape and find  a pair of wings, but it never seems to be enough.

You are never enough.

Suddenly, you've got it. If you're small enough--strong enough--the blankets can't contain you.
So food becomes your enemy.
Soon enough, your blanket becomes as empty as you are. You think you are strong as you easily slide out, finding refuge in a pair of beautiful wings.
The birds all stare.

"How thin she's gotten," they comment.
Some are concerned, others jealous.
"She's not healthy," they say.
They take your wings away, insisting you need help.

The blankets are always there, waiting. This time, they've gotten smaller and they swallow you up. As you begin to be forced to swallow as well, the blankets refuse to grow with you.
Breathing is harder than ever.

You realize there's no way to stop this cycle. The blankets will always be waiting, never relenting. The birds will never understand, always blind to the fabric encompassing your face.

There is only one way out that will last forever, never a blanket in sight.
Slash deep enough and the blankets will disappear--and so will the birds.
"I can be free," you think.

Freedom at last.

Unblemished veneer caresses each fold
Glossy sheen with silken strands manifold
Face brimming with rosy hue; underneath satin sheaths scrolled  
Coarse fibers with satiating nutrients doled

My eyes peel each savory layer, delicately kneading each fiber apart
My nostrils intoxicated by sweet, pungent aroma your core doth impart  
My fingers ****** and swab each, soft, curvaceous part
My lips drivel as the sugary juices from your mellow stalk doth depart

I golfed with Byron yesterday. And no, he didn't "kick my ***" as promised. It's always an edifying round with Byron. On the links he looks more like Dorf than Frodo. Sometimes I glimpse the top of his head when he's in the rough, or see a cloud of sand, like the Roadrunner hitting the ground after the inevitable fall. Our conversation (his conversation)  gamuts from his re-constructed porch to life on Mars. He'd like to build a porch on Mars. He is an Everyman almanac. His back swing is like a tilting windmill, and I, his Sancho, suggesting which club to use. In fairness, he makes some remarkable shots. Here are some I've heard:
"To pinch one off, inhale, then cough." This sums up Byron's intestinal fortitude. He takes heavy doses of codeine and morphine for his back.

"Don't swab your ears with asparagus spears." This is the extent of Byron's relationship with veggies. He's more a plant man.

"During ***, if she wiggles her toes, she's still wearing ***** hose." Byron gives a full belly laugh at the double entendre.

"If you pick your nose choose the best plastic surgeon." Yeah, I know. Cute. Byron himself sports a double car garage.

"Men who manscape must **** or go ape." Pure irony for Byron. Nothing sharper than the bearded axe approaches his iron.

"Ladies, when you quin manicure, design it with a touch of *****." That's Byron. Discrete, gentle and quizzical.

"If you *******, get to the point. Don't hesitate." Byron would never admit to such self-indulgence.

It was a gorgeous golf day. Byron seems to make the sun shine a little brighter. He promises, next time, he'll kick my ***.

Suggest I peruse the science of love
experiment, manipulate and spoil
Suggest I strap wires to your heart
and monitor its beat

Suggest I study your eyes
will your pupils act as a looking glass
and will I see me in your rose tinted iris'?

Suggest I swab your hands
to see who has had the privilege to hold them
who isn't me

Suggest I test your lips
for a tongue that has lingered long enough
to be considered concern to me

Suggest I peruse the science of love
would my conclusion be worthwhile?

Or, suggest I not tamper with the nature of attraction
'Tout ce qui sera sera'
love me in the fate of the heart
or indeed
do not love me at all

That rush,
my heart pumping,
fear birthing excitement.
A needle
filled with dreams of bliss
complete relief for a slice of your life.
The taboo nature,
intentionally inflicting harm on oneself
paralleled by intentionally inflicting happiness on oneself.
A spoon,
a lighter,
a cotton swab.
So unsure of myself,
my heart rate accelerates,
my hair stands at attention,
the rubber haults circulation,
I search for a stream,
my brown medicine turns crimson,
the pressure of my thumb,
I remove the dam blocking my river and.
My eyes roll.
My body goes numb.
Seretonin overload.
I float back,
and fall into my bliss.
Hours of ecstasy.
I will always be a prisoner to
that rush.

I.

To steal away three oranges for love he was
instructed by long-ago’s cackling voices, but over time
words once sharply plucked and sealed in the wide mouth
of his boyish memory have grown up vague and bushy.

So, this night he picks to stalk the storybook rows
of stubby trees that squat smack in the middle of a maze
unknown but tender hands have pulled straight to hide
riddles in their patchwork of endlessly seamed sameness.

Aided by a sickle moon’s pointed glances, he hastily
harvests the wages of three waxy fruit and plops
his juicy hopes sweetly into a leather pouch, as loosed
the feather-leafed branches snap back skyward.

II.

Home on the next morning’s edge, first love he sights.
She has a narrow white face and blush-dabbed features
below a tall swab of swirled scarlet hair that wags
a bobbed tongue’s tale as she comes bouncing into view.

Striped dawn glows, and tickled he, perhaps too eagerly,
reaches into his bag with the lust of hurried hands.
An orange, yet under-ripe and unready, he blurts out to her
as a wholly careless, green-topped, and unpeeled gift.

She takes it and rolls it through her nest of slender tips.
The thumbs inspecting its sadly misshaped bits find
the bumps and crevices around a knobby stem are proof
of a worthless fruit. Dropping it, she walks on, nose up-turned.
III.

Twelve days left to his less-than-virtuous devices,
he fusses over the second orange. His nails dig in
to *****-cut peel its thick rind. He picks off odd
pieces of pith and smooths its newly gleaming surface.

These would-be idol hours spent preening could
pay off when another amour falls as an acid-yellow
figment. She floats down to him from the distant hilltops
with a floppy mop of golden curls and a broad pink brow.

Pristine fruit on palm extended, he waits his worth,
while the citrusy flesh, exposed to a mid-day sun,
shrivels brown and collapses into a pulpy mess. When
she passes, it draws a mere wave and topples easily.

IV.

As the shadows of a jagged-tooth fencepost lengthen
a sudden and thoughtless appetite grows in him.
He grabs the third orange and gobbles it all down
but a lone slick seed that sticks in his deflated cheek.

Bewitched from the seemed break in magic’s promise,
he makes this kernel an offering to devouring soils
and lays his hard head upon the single-seeded bed
where he’ll drowse rocked by soft-chirped serenades.

Then, a quake and a tree sprout. Spreading branches
lift him up among the strangely branded fruit
that an orange-tongued fairy nibbles as she tosses
green locks and smiles at him with her hazelly gaze.

It was a night of sulking darknesses

there in the distance, clouds thunder
raining tears down the shanties

crickets scratch the silences elsewhere
as winds bring the smell of ash home

in their thousands, mayflies clash
for a swab at an orb
hung hazy into the shadows
canoodling the trees

foreboding come thoughts clouding

the morning after, the stairs are awash
in swarms of broken wings
and shattered dreams

a newspaper's thrown across
there are deaths:
heaving at the heart.

She was barely sixteen,
out late partying,
and intoxicated
when he came
and violated
her sacred
center.

At first, she resisted
but with his fists
he insisted.
So, stunned numb
she submitted,
laying still as a stone
that sunk
to the bottom
of a lake,
as she was forced
to endure
that horrible ****.

Disgusted and ashamed,
she almost took a shower,
but unfortunately knew
if she wanted to
press charges
she’d have to keep
his ******* fluids.

So, she let them
swab and start collecting
all the samples
they would need
to prosecute.

But at her
court appointed
appearance
it soon became
apparent
that only her parents
cared about justice,

cause the judge was
quite transparent.
Even though,
he made a production
of compassion for
her suffering,
he still let
that rich man's son
off with only a
slap on the wrist,

cause the lawyer told him
he’s just a boy and
he can’t do time in
the prison system,

cause it would ruin him
and it’s not his fault because of
affluenza.

What good would it do
but ruin the lives of two,
after all they had
both been through?

Several weeks
and more than three
pregnancy tests later,
she still felt
the violation
as a remnant of him
began gestating
like and alien
inside of her.

But her church wouldn’t
let her abort the fetus
so, despite the trauma
she had to adapt
to the fact
that she was trapped.

Four weeks later
she went from
at least this life
will need her,
to cold chills,
cramps, and a fever;

From ten to
twenty-two  
pounds gained
then to back down
and even lighter
then when
her pregnancy
began.

She went from
finally accepting
and preparing
to start sharing
her life
with a newborn,
to a ****** expulsion,
nausea, repulsion,
and hiding
said heartbreaking
pain in shame.

There is this green marble
Following it down
It travels
Along the depth of a sizable tongue
Even, firm
A swab of spit covers it.

It loops through corridors
Circles around the tracks of hooves
Passes by a bush of thorns
A snake hisses as we scoot
On, beyond, past
A bridge that extends off into the distance
A light flickers there
As lightning bugs glimmer on and off
Off and on
Humming into the summer.

The crack of a whistle
A crooning moan
Round eyes
Round lips.

The green marble stays a while
Immobile stable
Until the breeze of the wind
Lifts it up and out
It jumps along the length of haystacks
Climbing onto the back of ponies
Neighing, a mating call from birds
Cry into the golden hour light
Our lenses pretend to capture
Fighting into the present
We run past our own shadows
Of our ancestors
Thinking our being
Must be much like mini gods.

I shut the lips of Bibles there
Tracing blood along the lines of my lean legs
I hover in-between the tent of the sacrament
And disappear like smoke
Into the corners of the highest ceiling
While the sermon and preacher
Neck and neck carry on.

It is here
In the humid hot humiliatingly haughty sun
Where full length white gloves
Replace clout and shame
Petticoats align with virtue and grace
It is here where you train
To sit near fireplaces
Chattering for hours
Relive the mighty past
Hear words of the gospel
Prospective pets your best companion
But you might catch and eat a new animal in the
Mornin'

It is here
In the sweltering beautiful heat
Where you're from.

THE HAUNTING


The smell of fresh begonias fanned
by rooks and sparrows

from the black ‘n’ white tiled balcony
glowing in a sunset the colourof  lovebites

then the candle-glow dims
in the fanfare of light

you switch on from the hall
filling the frosted door like cancer

announcing another re-run
of a once OK drama

played out night after night
wearing me down with your claims

to what you believe is rightfully yours
Excalibur arm pointing your ways

I’m either paralysed or paralytic,
hard to choose as I’m dumbed down

by the never ending story
of your nightly return mocking

the symmetry of your eviction
which gave me a callous, relieved joy …

I’d put your bags back on the threshold
right back where you’d stood

with your Betty Blue smile
expecting me to invite you in

with a pout and a shout
about that ******* kicking you out

Good God, then as now you struck
fear into the very heart of me

Is it still enchanting?
Do you thrive on eternal return?

You linger, shadow filling in the flakes
With your useless key before knocking.

Stop. You. Again. Shape-shifter
Black strychnine swab

Running through me like a swallowed blood clot
making my emptiness fistula full

Listening to your black-bordered rap
of funeral amazement delivering your message

That you’ll return eery night
to reclaim what you say is yours

buried in these walls like a tic.

puffball cotton swab
clouds hung low
looking like I could reach out
***** them with a fingernail
and send a deluge
crashing through the valley below –
littered across the misty green valley
large black-bodied cows
exhaling steaming tendrils
one long bawl travels
the length of the meadow
her rumbling song
inspires a smallish brown thrush –
fir trees set along side
creating a border of mystery
from in-between
a slight and leaning maple sapling
and a large dominant fir grandfather
a tan doe steps out
tentatively
behind her two speckled fawns
their long ears
turning and twisting with each pasture sound
they step into the clearing slowly
and begin to pull the dew drops
off the grass blades….
morning ritual of the farmland –

I live a breath's away from the oldest river in the world.
While I don't take much of nature in it is awe inspiring,
to be sure.
I live within the crook of the oldest mountains in our history.
Not the tallest,
nor the proudest,
but for now these ranges are growing senile within their misery.

The riverrun through it and exposes rock perhaps a billion years old.
Our oral histories, passed on legends,
scary stories and mountaineer folklore accounts for
such a small passage of time.
We built a bridge once.
It was at one time the longest single-span arch in the world.
Now it's the fourth.
Top five, and that's something for which I am proud.
The oldest river, in the world.
The oldest mountains, in the world.
The highest fatal overdose rate, in the States.

There is a beauty to be had here. Somewhat backwards, but
growing up our water was clear.
It's now choked from coal slurry.
The brain drain of young adults leaving, in much hurry,
hurts us as the ones that remain become grey and blurry.
We are living in a permanent winter and we have high roads,
that wind and curve. Dangerous when icy. veins filled with
heavy loads and nodding verve.
I live a breath's away from the oldest river in the entire world.
I can't touch Roman ruins with my hands, or
sift through the Dead Sea and float on salt above sand.
I can't touch the hill where Jesus may have died,
I don't know what it feels like to hold history as pride.
But our trees even when green have a dusty coal darkened sheen.
Summer is overgrowth from the Springtime rains.
The highest fatal overdose rate in the entire United States.

Where once we built bridges to close in the gap of travel.
We unzip black bags with rigs and object with obvious cavil.
Our industry is old, the world is moving on from coal.
For better, to be sure, but in the meantime we grow cold.
Not from lack of heat, we can boil our spoons just fine.
But we need a replacement from shaft or the mountaintop mine.
Let us worry about beauty again,
let us treat addiction with correction instead of levying it as sin.
Remove the pantomiming politician speak
of addicts or the sick as being weak.

Let's find ourselves again, West Virginia. You're the only home I've known.
Childhood summertimes sat beneath canopies of caterpillar home,
the happy baby butterflies eating leaves so more sun could shone.
Walking sticks used to play with me in my yard,
and at nighttime I'd still be outside mouth agape at the stars.
Evening meant lightning bugs and I'd capture a few in the cup of my hands.
There was a whimsy to how nature responded to us,
how bees would bumble and land,
on the dandelions whose seeds I'd spread as I blew on their white
polyp heads.
Maybe it's nostalgia and my memories are tinted rosy.
The smell of wood stoves burning in winter,
the crispness of autumn breezes felt cozy.
There was a trust held in communities, or maybe I was naïve.
Some of my friends made a choice and moved.
Others among us took a more permanent leave.
My brother, too. He himself got in a lot of trouble.
Over the cotton swab boiled to a bubble.
He died when I was young so maybe everybody is right.
It's all sentimentality and a lot of lonely nights.
But does the past being ****** up make the worsening now fine?

I live a breath's away from the oldest river and mountain range.
I live with the highest fatal overdose rate in the United States.

it is 9pm, so
i stride briskly to the bathroom
and brush my teeth.
the fibres are getting worn.
rinse, and gurgle, and rinse
again.
routine. i can live on
this repeat
one, two, three
strokes along my gum, then my teeth.
top row, bottom row, left side, right side,
inner top row, inner bottom row, inner left side, inner right side.
i rummage in the cabinets once i am done
at precisely five minutes past
for the blades and the medicinal alcohol.
dip, swab, cut.
routine. i can live on
this repeat
one, two, three
strokes on my person.
right forearm, left forearm, right thigh, left thigh.
the ballerina practices her pirouette
as i do with my suicide.
it is routine.
i can live.

i

Her cotton swab bolster
Marinateth her midnight sweat's;
She titter's thus from woe
Though I seeith when her heart burst showeth.
Dejection corset.

ii

Epistle's art stacked up in her thought's
Of what she should writeth tommorrow;
Grief stricken, by none restful sleeping
Awaking for school,
Another day bottled.

iii

Her way's art of God
He's her truest guidance;
She giveth truth
Sweetful tooth
A fruit of whom I shalt liveth.

iv

Death she's tasted, as Dom Pérignon
Her word's, as the wine she speaketh;
Her back hurt's, her love's at work
She telleth star's, from whence their birthed
As tis she's a faraway light as well.

v

She's seen Gehenna, she's been trapped in cell's
She's seen misery, and heaven and hell
Though when I'm close, she heareth Bell's
She raiseth a toast, when I'm in her realm
A queen, a rose, a bud bloomed, sadly, she wanders her room.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
© あある じぇえん

I just wonder when its all going to end
when I can stop chasing the cigarette
the addictiveness of sardines mix
into my mouth mixed with mash potatoes
sweetened with charcoal and lemons
and smothered with sweet love of honey and with a swab of pickles on the side
would it stop if I put tar all over it as when I swallowed I digest in intense pain?
or maybe the tar will come out of my eyes in which a vision of black spinach will arise
When will it end?
Will it ever end?
such addictiveness
makes me crave for stomach pains
to stop such a thought from occurring

the other girls do strange things,
but they don’t mean it.
i can explain.

it's infuriating,
like the way my laptop won’t scroll.
i can’t read the comment section.

but it also kind of feels like the intro to a song
-the first flute, the first voice, the first breath of air.
the beginning of a story.

when you add that first swab of lipstick,
it has a voice like my crush:
sweetheart, you’re gonna be beautiful.

because sweetheart,
you are so much more than beautiful.

strange -i’ve never used the word sweetheart.
but it fits, because never have i ever,
never have i ever fallen.

i swear i didn’t plan this,
but i’ll dance to this music i’ve made.
it’s great music.

offbeat though, isn’t it?
because i think i’m dancing to another beat,
and wondering if you can do it too.

the other girls, they think you can’t dance,
but they don’t know anything about us.

honestly, you’re the only one of those girls,
the only one that exists.
i wish the others knew i was here for you.

She sets the pistol-like object down,
returns to the wound with a cotton swab,
and fixes a pretty little gem in place.

"$60," she says, and I wince;
not in reaction to the fresh wound,
or my lightened wallet.

But rather at the fact
that no pain can relate to
that of my ******, ruptured heart.

The job of the heart
A constant throb
Mere kernels until all is cob
The swab of eyes
Please do advise
Popeyes
That savory smell
In a crunchy shell
A munchy crisp
Misspelt in emotion
Chunky potatoes drizzled in gravy
Honey drenched on top of biscuits
Mac & cheese
Taking apart the sorrow of that cob like heart
Even if for a while
Least the stomach feels better