Did you know that if you leave your car in your driveway,
With the keys in the ignition,
And someone sits down in the front seat like they own it, and drives away,
You are the one who is liable for theft?
They can drive that sucker to the coast.
They can burn the upholstery with their cigarettes. They can bring their friends into the back seat, and fill the compartments with their refuse, and ****, and they can leave it ruined in front of your house, or crushed into the median on the highway, or left in disconnected pieces under an overpass.
It will be called, “unauthorized use of a vehicle.”
It will be called a “misdemeanor.”
But you left the car running.
Weren't you kind of asking for it to happen?

They said,
This,
(Gesturing to the skirt which fell to two inches
above my kneecap),
Is like that.

If I walk outside of my house in jeans and a t-shirt, or a long dress with thin straps,
Or with my chin tilted out,
Or with long eyelashes,
Or with full lips,
Or with my hips swaying when I walk,

It's like I left the car running.

It's like I invited them to force their bodies into the front seat.
In their minds, or with their hands, or with their lips to anyone who would listen to them.

Little girls in leotards become like unlocked car doors;
Where men can burn their cigarettes into their skin,
Or stick their fingers in
In plain view of their parents,
And told to let it happen,
Quietly.
It isn't theft,
It's “a medical examination.”

What did they expect?
It isn't a theft.
She was just as guilty of negligence.
It isn't really a felony.
It's not THAT BAD. (Stop being so dramatic.)
It's the unauthorized use of your body, for a time, or one night,
or every time you close your eyes for the rest of your life,

Sure-

But you left the car running.

Assisted suicide?
Physician Assisted Suicide is the process of a doctor providing the necessary sleeping pills/lethal dose to allow a terminally ill patient to perform the life ending act. In the United States, all but four states have made physician assisted suicide (PAS) illegal.When in a situation a terminally ill patient is in, they should have the right to commit a physician-assisted suicide.
In 1994, the state of Oregon enabled the Death With Dignity Act (DWDA). With 51% voting in favor of the act, it gives terminally ill patients access to PAS. Attorney General John Ashcroft challenged the act by saying it was not “real” and that allowing doctors to do perform that, violates the Controlled Substances Act (CSA). CSA protects the regulation of doctors from performing unauthorized distributions of drugs and drug abuse. If doctors are able to assist suicides, through Ashcroft’s claim, they would be using drugs as an abuse. In the Supreme Court, petitioner Paul D. Clement argued in the case about the violation of CSA, with 6-3, “we conclude the rule is not authorized by the CSA, and we affirm the judgment of the Court of Appeals” (Gonzales V Oregon).
Patients of irreversible illnesses often develop disorders that go underdiagnosed causing them to live a life that isn’t happy for them or their family members. According to Dr. Fine of the Office of Clinical Ethics, terminally ill patients usually get depressed when dealing with intense suffering. When the patient is depressed, they may not respond to treatment as expected. If the patient is not responding to treatment well, the doctor may up the dosage of medication or consider adding antidepressants, causing the patient to be reliant on medication for the rest of their life.
Patients who receive a terminal diagnosis usually experience high levels of anxiety.  According to Dr. Fine, anxiety can cause problems such as, agitation, insomnia, restlessness, sweating, tachycardia, hyperventilation, panic disorder, worry, or tension. Sleep deprivation plays a huge part in the anxiety the patients feel. The patient’s sleep is often interrupted many nights and several times to get their blood pressure checked, blood withdrawals, checkings of veins, etc. Because these medical requirements can not be withheld, many doctors may feel the need to heavily sedate the patient to make them feel lucid during the day time.
Studies have shown that patients of terminal illnesses fear that they’d burden their families. The patients feel, “grief and fear not only for their own future but also for their families’ future” (Johnson), researchers say. The feelings of being in the way can cause emotional, physical, social, and financial problems. In  doctors Johnson, Nolan, and Sulmasy’s research, they found that feelings of burden are most likely to affect emotional symptoms, quality of life, and patient satisfaction. Wanting to feel like they aren’t a burden to their families and society was most important to patients seen by the doctors. The research the doctors conducted found that out of a list of 28 qualities, the wish to not be a physical or emotional burden on family, 93% of respondents said that this was very or extremely important to them. The doctors made three categories of experiences that were related to “self-perceived burden” (Johnson). The first one being “concerns for other” (Johnson), then “implications for self” (Johnson), and last being “minimizing the burden” (Johnson). Feeling like a burden can cause “empathic concern engendered from the impact on others of one’s illness and care needs, resulting in guilt, distress, feelings of responsibility, and diminished sense of self” (Johnson).
To let a patient commit an assisted suicide means, they’re freed from pain. To force someone who knows that their time's coming to an end quickly when they do not wish to be in pain anymore should be a crime. In Epidemics, Book 1, it states, “practice two things in your dealings with disease: either help or do not harm the patient”, by allowing the patient to continue their life is harming them, all physically, mentally, and spiritually. Doctors take an oath, the Hippocratic Oath when practicing medicine. In the oath, there is a phrase that says “Also I will, according to my ability and judgment, prescribe a regimen for the health of the sick; but I will utterly reject harm and mischief”, if the patient has considered an assisted suicide, they’ve been in too much pain and wish for it to end. Refusing them the help causes them more physical and emotional pain; physical being the illness itself and emotional being the feeling of being a burden.
Patients with terminal illnesses have the right to commit assisted suicides because it allows them to end their life from something no drug would be able to fix. With the illness being irreversible, dragging it out will cause both suffering and financial problems. Terminally ill patients have the right to die with dignity. Dying by choice will let their loved ones know that they are ready and have accepted their fate, easing weight off their families shoulders. Having the ability to die will portray the patients as human beings who want to make one last decision before going rather than people who are laying in a hospital bed waiting to die. A patient knows that the doctor’s job is to relieve pain, with a doctor refusing their wish, only cause distrust in their relationship. Letting assisted suicide would allow their families to begin healing. By refusing the patient their right to die, forces them to live a poor quality of life no one would ever wish upon anybody. It is in everyone’s interest to let them go. Doctors have a responsibility to make the patient happy and to relieve them of any kind of pain, letting them go is relieving them of the pain they wish to no longer feel. PAS gives them the ability to go happily and contently.

they meet at hospital locked unit for torture victims undisclosed site no unauthorized access their condition experiences high risk public relations for war effort mainly patients seclude themselves in anxious solitude when not in anxious treatment they will remain under strict government surveillance until war is over at which time another administration will determine their resolve

she graduated from Stanford with Masters in 9 languages employed jointly by Hachette Livre and Random House Mondadori publishers United Nations attaché interpreter translator then Special Forces Black Ops

he graduated P.H.D. from M.I.T. in political military economic social information infrastructure systems tactical behavior strategy campaign employed by private security contractors consortium assigned to unidentified location

her captors splayed arms legs to table force fed 1 gallon ***** down throat 2 gallon enema without anesthesia sewed shut eyelids **** sphincter then starved rat inserted in ******

his captors blindfolded handcuffed victim prepare beheading live internet feed decide instead shackle him to wall douse gasoline ignite water hose scorching body 3rd degree burns then apply nail-gun through testicles ***** dowel to temporal lobe

act 1 scene 1

small unused visiting room 2 gray couches end table with lamp vase of plastic flowers

HE sits in wheelchair severe burn scars to face scalp body memory loss hoarse raspy voice stiff protracted body motion

SHE under continuous psychotherapy supervision patient suffers severe PTSD shaky submissive prescribed modified combinations of 13 medications (Prozac Adapin Vivactil Nardil Desyrel Wellbutrin BuSpar Klonopin Vistaril Neurontin Inderal Catapres Seroquel) administered twice daily

HE i brought you bacon strips in napkin from breakfast

SHE (eyelids flutter hands tremble) thank you but you keep it (pause) you know i used to be vegetarian

HE i know i look monstrous get over it there’s a real human being trapped inside this mutilated mess

SHE i i i can’t talk (pause) don’t know what to say (pause) after they sewed me up they ripped me apart shoved rodent to gnaw my insides (pause) skinned cooked made me eat it

HE you’re still alive aren’t you quit your whining show some gratitude stop being such a big baby

SHE how dare you ******* accuse me you’ve got you’re ****** **** nerve

HE i apologize please forgive me i’m not myself since the injuries i’m desperate for diversion pain management escape from excruciating pain nightmare thoughts i still endure

SHE who’s the big baby now

HE please help me overcome this consuming terror distract me with your loveliness please be my muse

SHE i’m no healer what do you mean be your muse

HE inspire me open yourself up to me arouse feelings beyond my suffering

SHE i’m useless look at me i’m a basket-case

HE spread your legs let me see

SHE what! you’re rude blunt disgusting

HE show me your cooch you got ***** hair?

SHE oh god you are so ****** creepy repulsive (pause) and I’m not a very hairy person

HE come on darling work with me stroke me relieve me

SHE i don’t even want to think or know about it go take care of it yourself

HE i’ve tried i can’t stay focused i see my disfigurement then get sidetracked i can’t get myself off

SHE all i am to you is a piece of *** you brutal *******

HE you could show a little tenderness maybe nurturing fix what’s broken give it up to me girl please i beg you let me do you or do me

SHE i was informed your ***** is shredded testicles disengaged

HE who told you that it’s a lie my ***** are maimed yet intact my **** still gets ***** granted it’s not a pretty sight keep your eyes shut

SHE (body twitches) you want power over me

HE ***** power i want some release i want you in control you in charge of my ******* please be my curing goddess

SHE (looks away) i don’t trust you

HE what’s not to trust i’m a pitiful casualty of war just like you we weren’t born like this but we’re both now doomed useless pathetic

SHE you could try being more polite civil congenial perhaps if we were friends first liked each other and you won my sympathies but you’re so forceful intrusive

HE war does that to a person

SHE please make an effort

HE you mean if i talk nice you’ll consider

SHE i will take it into consideration

HE i think you’re pretty more than just pretty beautiful

SHE i’m shattered damaged wrecked ruined

HE i see beauty in your face figure beauty in your words reactions

SHE i’m afraid to let anyone inside

HE i’ll be real gentle i promise

SHE i’m scared

HE yeah i’m scared too scared i’ll shoot blood instead of *****

SHE shut up

HE help me please find a way back to myself a way to accept love respect you

SHE hmmm uhhh since you phrase it that way i’ll think about it i’m not promising anything just considering (pause) ok? (pause) how would we go about doing this?

HE we used up our free time today they’ll be searching for you begin picturing in your mind how you would like it done imagine feeling loved protected

SHE (eyelids waver) help me learn slow how to do this dance

HE every step of the way

SHE thank you see you tomorrow

The Revolution will not be pay-per-view,
Streamed online, or listed in the TV Guide,
The Revolution will be LIVE ON AIR
Rush seating No reservations First to come are first to serve
The Revolution will not be monetarily politicized,
the Revolution will be patronized

Next, On the World Today Network: Revolution This Way Comes

The Revolution will not be a mutually exclusive for
CBC, BBC, CNN, YouTube, Facebook, SnapChat, or Instagram
The Revolution is more than digital trolling,
It will be a Counter-Electronic-Magnetic-Pulse

Do you have your passport for the Revolution?

The Revolution is unauthorized
Written for and by all the people
The Revolution is radical, hands-on, and requires assembly
Batteries are not included and there is no manufacturer’s warantee,  
The Revolution will be uncomfortable for those living in leisure
For it has been bred to cause the Elite displeasure

Revolution 99% Uploaded
Press [ENTER] key to initiate collective action
~
NM 10/17/15

I shouldn’t be drinking coffee.
I shouldn’t be reading the news.
It makes me anxious, and it’s not only the chemical interaction.
Somehow, I associate it with “adulthood”—reading the news,
Drinking coffee—I can’t tell you how many days of the last few
Years have been spent entirely in this fashion. The coffee
Growing cold and the news colder still. I don’t even taste the
black, fluid drops. I don’t hear the screams of people I read
about. I just want to hold on to something—so I raise the glass
to my lips. I can’t say

the shocking words when my mouth’s full; I can’t tell

about my experience, my privilege, when I’m drinking it.


The production of the commodity

creates a line from some equatorial region
to central America, and my mouth.
I think about the Autumn I worked in a corn-seed
sorting facility. What a short experience—
and yet,
something that weighs heavy on my imagination.
I was a temp worker.
I chose to work there out of shame and guilt for having
missed the deadline for college enrollment.
I could have done anything else; but there were people
there who wanted nothing more than a job. They needed
to be
there.
And I think of the people involved in producing coffee beans

in much the same way.
Removed
from the thing they’re making, as the raw materials are shipped
to places you pay workers more.
Why shouldn’t I swallow with difficulty when faced with the pro-
spect of a person supporting their entire family with the type
of work
I did
reflexively, as a choice?

Now I sit here, reading about North African riots,
a region, where coffee is produced—
ARABICA COFFEE— and I think about what’s sitting
in my cup, how I have
spent more money than they make in a day
to buy
one container
…
and sit here
for an afternoon
doing nothing but reading about their families’ misery.

I am a human parasite.

And like the bedbugs that have crawled meticulously
between my mattress and bedframe, hiding in a safe spot
until they can come out, undetected, and **** my potency.

I sit here, in the comfort of an apartment furnished
and paid for by my father who grows corn in a highly-
mechanized, agricultural society. I take more and more,
festering to the size of a blistering, red dot
blinking in the dark, in the form of the record light on
my voice recorder.
I expect so much more from myself, simply because of
this position of luxury.

But I don’t take time to think about my reaction to these
stories or how I am involved in them, in shaping their plots.
I’m even eating more now
as I’ve nearly lost my concern with avoiding certain super-
markets.
I smile at the greeters, make small talk with the cashiers
whom I am openly exploiting. But it’s ok, because
I worked for a month at a cornseed manufacturing
facility
and I read Marxist Ideology,
and I know about the Arab Spring
and I was against American intervention in Libya
and I disdain the air strikes from robotic planes
(unauthorized by congress)
and I disdain congress
and I support gay marriage
(I stopped eating chicken).
I don’t drive to the suburbs of my city.
I walk and ride my bicycle as much as I feel like.
I use public transportation at times.
I try to get to know women.
I practiced safe ***, once.
I write poetry.
I tell my mom I love her.
I bought my nieces birthday presents.
I’m not overly nice to people of different
ethnicities.
I voted for Obama.
I’m trying.
All these things make it seem less bad
to smile at the cashier.
But then I think about my black studies Professor
who used a walker to come to class
because she fell
and spelled the word Amendment “Admendment”
on the board when talking about Reconstruction.
I think about the war in Syria.
I think of people dying from cholera in Haiti, in 2012
A.D.
I think about fracking and oil spills and …
irrevocable damage to Indian reservations.
I think about football coaches molesting children
and people eating fried butter.
I read about people
upset
with a movie
who protest in the streets for days.

It makes me realize I shouldn’t smile at anyone.
I shouldn’t be drinking coffee.
I shouldn’t be reading the news.

An Augmented Villanelle


Long ago **** Taylor quit playing for the Stones
And we got hot stuff at the Memory Motel
Everybody hold up a lighter on your phones!

Then Harvey Mandel got fifteen minutes of fame!
And played fretboard taps into a Seventies shell
But he's back with a highly unauthorized game

It's true, some cover tune classic rock bands are lame
But these guys rock like the end of a Pipeline swell
Then Harvey Mandel gets fifteen minutes of fame!

Tonight I'm looking to see who's wearing crossbones
At Sweetwater where they pour a premium well
Everybody hold up a lighter on your phones!

It's wild, fans are parking in 'no parking' zones
And the young millennial crowd is getting still
Long ago **** Taylor quit playing for the Stones

Look who's back with a highly unauthorized game
Everybody hold up a lighter on your phones!
Once again Hot Stuff gets fifteen minutes of fame
With Rudy & Friends playing hits by the Stones!

There are metallic, life-like statues of human figures scattered through my city, often on park benches.  You must look twice the first time you spot them, and sometimes, each time, as they are so nat-ural, that they fool the retina image of man.*

The traffic light,
red to green,
yet my limbs,
froze fruit solid,
release catch stuck,
unflippable,
somehow plastic freezes,
mobility skills rusted
by December's hampering
cheeky cheeks,
a seasonal reddish copper
discoloration of the extremities,
a harmony of no sensation

A comet stuck in
pedestrian neutral,
collided/jostled by
starry eyed
Fifth Avenue
street walkers and tourists.

my presence sensed,
touched, yet avoided,
unnoticed,
like streetlight,
lamppost, mailbox,
I am, a body,
at rest,
unseen
but on display
in the art gallery of
Manhattan's Lost and Found

In the section of the paper
where the
unimportant local news is
sliced n' diced
into single paragraphs,
of human interest,
tidbits, amuse bouche,
items of
major minor interest,
The New York Times
reported the discovery of an
unauthorized lifelike
bronze n' copper sculpture.

eyes of polished nickel,
heart of stained steel,
rendition of a man
so lifelike y'all do a
triple take, smile,
take a cell photo,
phone a friend

his embodiment can be found
on the rounded corner of
Columbus Circle, @59th St.,
where you enter Central Park.

upon a bench,
man clutching Sunday newspapers,
a pair of scissors,
coupons cut,
scattered at his feet.
a homely but comely,
****** expression,
one of bewilderment.

A tiny plaque on a brass plate,
at his feet,
hints of his progenitor and human origins.

Artist: Unknown,
Materials: Organic Metals
Title: A Living Finish

Same old drudgery,
Papers fresh for grading;
Topics, seldom new,
If honestly presented,
At least encourage worth
In form, in format, in tradition.

Plagiarism creeps up,
Always shocking,
The unauthorized changing
Of voice, of tone, of diction,
Not unlike the sting of a ruthless needle,
The drip of a hollowed, poisoned fang,
The bite of frost, burning a tender cheek...
Sadly familiar, this strident pang.

All hope is lost.

Anger sets in,
Trust wilts,
Hope fades gray.

In plagiarism, the fool's truth lies;
To belie one's honor is to watch it die.

And if smoking is suicide //in bite sized bits, I'm suicidal//

Loving is heartbreak in little pieces// light as paper or heavy like boulders, so I'm broken hearted//

Alcohol is consequences, a lack of judgment and mistakes in liquid form//
so I'm thoughtless//

pill are mixes of melding ideas//
in calculated formulas//
so I'm synthetic//

and I ask, what off it?//
causes hell is hell//
and life is life//

and I'm used to using//
used to abusing// so I believe// I am above this//

I envy you because you have both parents
But you mistreat them
I envy you because you were given a chance for education
But you bunk classes just to smoke drugs
I envy you because you have a roof over your head
But you choose to throw unauthorized parties
I envy you because you have something called a “room”
And yet you’ve turned it into a *** lounge
I envy you because you are fertile but you keep on taking abortions
I envy you because you have a high ***** count
But you mistreat your children
I envy you because you always have food on your plate
But then you complain on how it tastes bad and you throw it away
I envy you because you have a grand mother
Yet you say she lacks wisdom and is boring you with her endless fairytales
I envy you because you have clothes
Yet you complain and say you want ripped jeans and ripped t-shirts
I envy you because you still have your face and it isn’t ruined
But then you are busy destroying and covering it with makeup
I envy you because you’ve got a chance to celebrate Christmas
But you complain on how it always takes place at the same venue
I envy you because you do not know life
Yet you you walk around mocking people like you own the world
I envy you because you are not me

I WISH I HAD THE PRIVILEGES THAT YOU HAVE.

A leaf, a leaf, how queer to think
That trees discard their precious leaves.
While people fear their thinning hair,
A tree’s lifeblood glides through the air.

A child awaits the coming fall,
“The leaves, mommy, they’ve lost them all.
I’m bald and bare, these trees are me.”
In silent death, she grins with glee.

A leaf, a leaf, how queer to think
These trees release frond in a blink.
A mindless shelling to the wind,
The Trees of Winter, **** and trimmed.

That child finds herself a friend;
In naked bark, she can pretend
A tree can shelter her from rain
That showers down in forms of pain.

A leaf, a leaf, how queer to think
These children’s minds form paper links
Like leaves that twirl through steady breeze.
A little girl with brown eyes sees

A future where tree branches sway
In Barren Land, an air’s melee
With wooden fingers shaking hard.
A tree so scared to break in shards.

A child’s dream is soon realized
To be her life; unauthorized.
“These trees, mommy, they shake like me.
Why must strong leaves from these Trees leave?

                Why does my hair fall from my head?
                Did God make me so sick I shed?”

Long before I noticed you, you selected me,
and there you set in motion a star-crossed destiny.

I miss so much the playful rhythm of our countless conversations,
and the spark I felt each time we’d jinx a phrase, sans hesitations.

I miss the sweetness of your voice, once ever-present in my mind,
and now the recollection of that reassuring rapture I cannot find.

* I see you; still, I see you:

I see you sitting on the outskirts of my thoughts throughout the night,
and your expression is unwavering: please give up this fight.

Solitary moments bring me so much fear,
as I know if I thought long enough, I would bring you near.

Wrapping your everything around me as my gestalt,
and rebuilding us piece by piece with not one fault.

I realize, in peril, I could wish you back into my arms,
for I secretaried all your nuances, your soul, your charms.

What joy to spiral down and acquiesce to my obsession,
and spin my life around a faux-world of a secret, strange transgression.

Our dialogue would resume with near perfection,
and would cultivate within me that lost affection.

Boxed-up artifacts and memories would produce intoxication,
but once unleashed would in time transmute to devastation.

My neurons and synapses were shaped by every expression of your love,
and it’s now impossible to undo a decade’s etchings and rise above.

* Even as the months have s-kate-d by so quickly,
I now realize that during our first innocent adventure together,
Emily was prophesying to me:

“I love you all, everything –I can’t look at everything hard enough.”

In her death, she became aware… and now so am I.

   PSA: Poetic Service Announcement - written 05/01/2017
                                              
   Please feel free to share with established and future
   authors on FB.
********************­***
.
One of the toughest decisions, an author has to make, is the selection of a reliable publisher. With more than six months of personal experience, I have painfully learned that PBP (Published By Parables, headed by John Jeffries) is NOT one of them. For decades, I’ve listened to ministers tell me that “Mediocrity is not a hallmark of Christianity; it’s halfway between success and failure.”; and yet, the shoddy workmanship of transforming my manuscript into a usable PDF (that would produce the book) failed to even reach the level of mediocrity. I extend an apology to those, to whom a premature recommendation of PBP was given by me. Don’t repeat my mistake! Please. You’ll be grateful and thankful for heeding my warning.
.
This company engages in deceptive practices and doesn’t operate with complete transparency. For example, it advertises that it will publish your book for free. While this is technically true, you will have to make an initial payment of $185; $35.00 for the copyright and the $150.00 for the ISBN-Barcode. In addition, John will subtlety lecture you, regarding why he won’t cover this expense and why you should.
.
Before I began writing poetry seriously, I acquired 30 years of IT experience and 20 years of desktop publishing experience; so I understand conceptual ideas, the need for high standards and the importance of having a solid, but flexible framework. In addition, I was taught the criticality of working with a mindset of excellence- a topic taught by most ministers. One example is Titus 2:7-9, which states: In all things shewing thyself a pattern of good works: in doctrine shewing uncorruptness, gravity, sincerity, sound speech, that cannot be condemned; that he that is of the contrary part may be ashamed, having no evil thing to say of you.
.
Computer templates, used in today’s bookmaking operations, are not meant to be static; rather they set an initial foundation from which work can begin. Given the style of my writing, PBP had agreed to modify the template being used, as to minimize the impact of my having to change my writing to accommodate the shortcomings of said template. I understood that this would possibly extend the timeframe to get my book constructed. I was okay with this and never rushed PBP in its efforts.
.
With each iteration of manuscript changes, new random and unexpected problems began to appear; so I was blamed my project’s lack of progress, since the errors arose from PBP’s ongoing modification of my manuscript’s template. It’s unimportant to realize that ALL modifications to the template were made solely by PBP. PBP never reviewed an updated PDF before sending it to me; therefore, it became my responsibility to identify issues that resulted from the technical incompetence of PBP. So what if titles lost their boldface attribute, while the text of poems were inadvertently made boldface. So what if poems were displayed to the left of the left-hand margin, pages numbers were lost, or randomly displayed in boldface, or that page headers would be missing or cut in half- it was my fault for desiring a template customized to meet my personal need. So what if the page numbers were corrupted within my index of poems, from PBP inserting new pages into the beginning of my manuscript. So what if I was concerned that the index’s format was changed from the way I desired. Stuff happens and I need not concern myself over such details. Apparently I was delusional in thinking that I was responsible for the vision of my new book.
.
And if that wasn’t enough fun, PBP would ignore some of my changes, such as inserting the occasional blank line, as well as making unauthorized modifications that included adding, replacing and deleting PBP graphics. One graphic I was fond of, PBP removed because its intended purpose is meant for “internal company use only”. Guess I’m just an unruly rebel for wanting to use it. Since he originally inserted it into my PDF, using it must have been initially okay. This incident is one of many that shows John’s lack of attention to detail.
.
In addition, I was unreasonable for wanting my legal name displayed properly (so I can differentiate myself from the other “Joe Breunigs”; no offense guys!) That correction alone took John SIX MONTHS to address; my book’s title also created angst for PBP, since it contained an ellipsis. Twice I e-mailed instructions on how to insert one because he misplaced/lost the first correspondence. And so I was unreasonable once more, since his option of using three consecutive periods was deemed unacceptable by me. An ellipsis is my favorite punctuation mark; if he couldn’t handle my previous instructions, he could have COPIED IT DIRECTLY FROM MY MANUSCRIPT.
.
John constantly complained about updating the template and the slow iterative process of making my book. At one point, John made the remark of how he had published two other titles during the timeframe my book was being worked on. As Christians, we get in trouble when we compare ourselves to others, since everyone’s journey is unique. So it’s clear that PBP’s intent was to manipulate me into feeling bad, regarding PBP’s lack of progress. Supposedly I was out of line for suggesting that he remember James 1:2-3, which teaches us: My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. In discussions with PBP, I indicated that I have 15 complete and unpublished manuscripts of poetry. In addition, I stated that we would have the most hiccups during the creation of my first PBP, since we had no experience working together. Nor did PBP understand that this process of creating a personalized template for my work would save time during the construction of future titles- both for me and other poets. Should I apologize for forward thinking?
.
Given the problems I was forced to face, doubt became evident in my selection of PBP; so I decided to ask more questions, to step up due diligence on my end; NONE of my follow-up questions were ANSWERED. I had the audacity to ask for a contract, how much I could expect to earn per copy sold, why PBP didn’t request my SSN and other questions of concern. I wanted to understand how to stop PBP from making unwanted changes or ignoring the ones I desired. One would like to think that a publisher would be appreciative of a proactive author, seeing that I have one title already. At one point, I had the false hope that my book could be completed by December 2016, but not in time for Christmas. Now we’re into May 2017.
.
Nor was I ever allowed to see the prepared book cover- FOR MY BOOK! I was informed that I couldn’t be allowed to see it because the image MAY need to be re-sized. IMO, this is a ridiculous excuse. Since I never saw the cover, I was unable to either review it (for mistakes) or critique it. Supposedly the cover was made three months earlier; since I’ve not seen it, I must assume that PBP is not lying to me. And it was crazy of me to imagine using the graphic (OF MY BOOK) as a marketing tool to create excitement and interest in my latest title or possibly generate pre-order sales. When a publisher intentional decides to play games like this, does anyone else see this issue as a “Red Flag”?
.
Caught between his impatience, unrepentant attitude and ability to be easily offended, John refused to apologize for his technical ineptitude and unwillingness to press forward; instead he chose to hide behind his spiritual authority (which I do not fall under); he essentially demanded that only I had the onus of forgiving him. After a weak and failed attempt to bully me into accepting substandard work, he later announced that he was quitting my project. In a phony letter of apology, John even implied that I needed to accept responsibility for the failure to get this book made, since I HAD CONTACTED PBP. In addition, he reiterated that PBP is a ministry; if that’s true, then why didn’t he demonstrate patience, perseverance and humility towards me or ensure quality of effort… as unto The Lord? Should PBP want to dispute my account, John should be reminded that I’ve retained a copy of various PDF iterations of my unmade book with the aforementioned issues.
.
I took no pleasure in composing this PSA, but felt that it was my duty, to share my poor experience in dealing with a difficult publisher, to my writing communities. This notification could have been prevented, if John had repented, swallowed his pride and pushed forward to get my books made. Instead he chose to become an irrelevant part of my journey as an author, which is sad, since he acknowledged that I have a gift for writing poetry. IMHO, we the writing community, must be willing to stand up to publishers, since the responsibility (of the vision for our books) lies with us. We should be able to freely ask questions and have templates modified to suit the individuality of our books. Let your voice and concerns be heard. Please share this message with the writers you personally know. We should not be forced to accept shoddy work! John can be reached on FB at https://www.facebook.com/john.jeffries.33; the PBP website can be found by searching its full name. Please feel free to share this PSA on John’s page, so he understand the ramifications of his actions.
.

spontaneous amnesia:
   well, you know,
something akin to further
a liking of something
just: hammer to the nail
apparent,
and for that matter: useful.

headphones plugged into
the laptop,
and everytime i want
to tap the repeat button
of a song...
i look sideways and at
the windowsill,
pretend to scratch my nose,
and find the hand
with no further utility...

not a rigid diagnosis
or a pre-mature dementia...
i have a bank's worth
of the brain to sift through...
they almost added the next
nodding parrot to
the unslept pillow of
the numbers of man...
via the rubrics of school...

even i can't believe that
university education
was a waste of time...
mind you: those 12 hours
a week in the chemisty
lab. were worth it...
esters...
   organic chemistry -
   and to think:
  if only, they made
perfumes in Scotland,
apart from the drinkable
amber of the 'ugh Scout...
wh'o would have known...

but this is unlike
that season 5, episode 11
**** switch from
the x-files...

                my internet rummaging:
basic,
    china shop, bull...
run in
and charge against
a cluster-**** of
      a presupposed cloud
of letters  

first attempt:

e f                                     /f
o o s o r o o l t                /o
e v r                                /r
e f e e n e s e l e              /e
v r
m                                     /y
n c o s c s s e s                    /s
u t                                          /u
t o m u b i                           /t
e l o                                    /l
t c y                           /m
t c                             /b
n s n i e c              /n
a a                          /a
c b s c c m i n c   /c
    n i s i i t             /i

the sentence?

for every subtle complaint
of conscience:
    consciousness becomes
limbo-state constrictive

rubric...

f f
o o o o o o o o o
r r r
e e e e e e e e e e
v v
y
s s s s s s s s s
u u
t t t t t t
l l l
m m m (anomaly in
the form of... the hierarchy
of chronology, i.e.:)
b b
n n n n n n
a a
       (second anomaly)
c c c c c c c c c
    i i i i i i

2nd attempt:
to showcase a "cloud":

**** it... copy &
paste, and stop pretending
bashing the mole
popping out from
a hole...
   this isn't quantum
mechanics...

                      s f
             c m c o o i s f s
           r r y e c e i s i e
                                 l o e s v
        r s v s o n e o s s
             e u n c i n t t e l l m c b
         b m n o t t o t a a  c n c e c o t o c
                                                      i n u e e i

****... i made another mistake:
how much does it take
to not make a mistake...
turning the picky-of-attempting
random...
of merely rearranging
letters in a simple sentence
to "resemble" a cloud
of... letters... atoms...

there was a time when staring
at the blank of a laptop screen,
and listening
to something by
nine inch nails was fun...
in the immediate
intermediate spent of 15 minutes...
the depth of idiocy reached
the depth of what
has become the suspect
total of man... me missing,
of course...

nothing new:
i guess i discovered the origin
of geometry...
or:

|
|
|
|
|
|_|||||||||

and

|­|||||||||
|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|
||||||||||
|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|
||||||||||
|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|
||||||||||

like some mongolian
****** pretending
to play the harmonica
by moving his
index against
a blurr of flapping lips...

me... throwing matchsticks
against an index
of a brick wall
of pixel...

namely?
i could never be a serious
existentialist,
i was sort of fwench in...
give me a cat,
i'll pet it,
i'm no good with goldfish:
i forgot that
you need to change
the water...
because water is like
air with fish...
fish turn old, stale water...
into a medium unbreathable...
no...
that death wasn't traumatic...
and the fact that i am still
naive squat buck tooth
is...
           when fate gives
you the same lesson
thrice...
     and you still haven't learned
it...
    i guess that's when
a god begins to cry...
or laughs...
or becomes angry...
or whatever the gods do
along with what
the petty people,
the petty ambitious people
minded...
to have no role beside
the role they served their ambitions
in fulfilling...
i.e.: never made it to Hollywood...
just to a position of
lawyer...
**** me... about time i started
playing the ******,
given the "ulterior" motive
narrative "went missing"...

funny thing that,
geometry...
i almost forgot how much of it
is necessary to
orientated myself
on the linear platitude...
but how funny in how i can't
rearrange
a simple sentence
into a cloud of "random"
letters...

|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|
|
|
|
|
|||||||||_|

obviously "you" kept count...
9
                           and 11/
maybe that's something related
to spacing...
and whatever became A.I.
was never indented
for what once was... handwriting?

strain on the ******* eyes,
for all i know:
this be a vanity project
and something that can't
compete with tabloid journalism
making it to print...

so... airy-fairy whims and...
yes, the burden of the echo,
and the shadow...
   came the answer:
profane:
  and he was educated
by the school of life...
   sure...
  but my time at both school
and university?
  was spent being self-taught...
beginning with
this lounge of a tongue...
you know?
  you can write ENGLISH
    like so:                       ĘGLIŠ?
somehow...
i have no heard of dyslexia
as being evident in any tongue
other than the ĘGLIŠ zunge?

**** it: postcards from
H'america and from
           Oh'stray-bullet-trails...

now i know why such
*******...
i'm completely enthralled
by the engineering
of A.I. and phonetics...
given: English speakers
would not have involved
their A.I. algorithms
to be affected by diacritical
markers...
given that... d'uh...
the english language
doesn't use them...

still... "cyberpunk"...
no... i have no ambitions
to be published
    by the poetryfoundation.org
as i am, just about
to "compete" with
something akin
to the unauthorized
autobiography of jung ****...
jockey... Jack...
                          ū.3708/?
ah ha ha! ja! gustav...
                             bad joke...
but you get the idea...
so when did soy boy
       predate bleach boy:
last time i heard or seen:
best bleach afro curls...
    and call them: churros...
but ******* a black girl
doesn't exactly make me less
of a racist than
a bigot who minds tongues...
am i?
   so... that whole Malcolm X
tirade of...
  you know the one...
    on the odd occassion...
yeah... two...
(not at the same time)...
but was that ever to be an excuse?
something from being fed
video footage and then
having to resort to:
music, before i open up
a parachute standing up
and still think i'm falling...
often or not...
             or not...

hell... this beats scribbling
graffiti on walls,
or becoming a sensible
quality proof for...
the jobs of worth already
being taken...

and i almost pray for
the work of ******* collector
vacancies to be
advertised for the unemployed...
i'd love for the unemployed
to be subject
to advertisements
akin to the jobs
            of a ******* collector...
i've looked...
     no ******* collector
vacancies available...
           oh hell...
    i forgot about wanting to
be a veterinary physician a long
time ago...
                but i guess:
no chances for me being
a ******* ******* collector...
so 'ere...
                         eat this.

Festering cycle
 no cure
no remorse

Enjoy the pain
the hateful shame
 laughing
crying out
 my bitter contemp

No compensation
No shelter
the burdens my own

The grief and disbelief
A magnificently unrealistic
Illustration of illusions
Manifesting and dwelling hallow in me like stones

A shameful weight

Holding me hogtied ****** dry & raw....

I have no words
  no tears shed,
miserable awareness,
while darkness & blissful unconsciousness...

Please consumes me 
 as this unauthorized
 swollen massive fleshy member

continues it's assault

 in & out of me. .

Always Me Ayeshah ™ ®
         K.A.C.L.N ©
     All right reserved ®
Copyright 1977 - Present

I wonder if fire can burn so hot it turns white,
And your heart begins transmutation,
An involuntary, unauthorized transition,
From something familiar, to something alien,
And you are all together mystified.

You rely too much on the kindness
Of those known to be unkind.

it's like how can I start fresh
if I can't erase
hating everything I seem to create
stray to think different
but my soul is caged
hidden under floorboards
are the ideas I make

but I feel calm and at home
in the darkness
feeling cold and lethargic
but creating art
with my fingertips
alone with the hopes and the gods
I illustrate pain
in slow and graceful strokes

tirelessly knitting an infinity scarf
cooped up in a small room
with my mouth sewn shut
I lyrically piece together scraps of
the thoughts inside my head
to write an unauthorized version
of me instead

working steady without pause
till the ink dries up
words spilling out truths
of my purest disgust

I am the artist whose painting
to begin with was fake
I am the unrooted vine that grew
despite its wilted fate

There’s a famous town that does not exist
It’s in new York state in the Catskills.
It is name Agloe.
It’s a paper town.
Put on the map in an insignificant place.
To protect the mapmakers in 1925
from copyright infringement
By unauthorized reproduction of the map.
I followed a map once all the way to
a place that did not exist.
I travelled slowly to it
Mile by mile.
I loved the thought of living there.
I even fell in love with it.
But it turned out to be a paper heart.
Filling a space where the real heart
Should be it had no feelings or love
It was paper just to look like a heart
to outsiders like me.
So after all the tiring journey
to find it.
I found out It never existed.
Just like Agloe
On the old paper map.
But Agloe never
broke anyone’s real heart.

no unauthorized
****** cinnamon, that is
all the **** we need

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I sit in a burgundy leather chair at work
Hoping that I don't get fired.
But I tried downloading an unauthorized program onto my computer
And a pop-up with the word *******
Flashed across the screen when I went to check the baseball scores.

Maybe I will forsake this whole ******* life
And run off into a hermitage
Heaping ashes on myself, prostrated before a cheap wax statue.
But on some level what I'm really doing
Is avoiding responsibility.

I'm dreading the drive home, to be honest
Because I know you will greet me with that fiery anger
That paradoxically gives me an *******
But also breaks my heart.

Maybe I can just walk in the door
***** preemptively sealed in a yellowed Mason jar,
And say,

"Just stay right where you are, Steve."
"We don't want any trouble..."

SOCIAL SECURITY “RAISE” - A PROTEST POEM*
By Carol Rae Bradford, M.Ed.   [Please Center]


It’s really time to cancel our votes—but instead,
Change that forlorn, modest Social Security-Bed,
That deprived seniors do not, must not, be fed
Many have died, expenses bled.
Edible solutions should be made that must be fairly sped
Why must this swindle be something you’d allow?
We can't pay for medicine, nor good food for now.
2020’s 1.6 % raise won't feed even a baby cow.
A six percent raise would really help right now.  J
“Security” a misnomer at best--beset by this test
We worked long and hard, not having much rest, lest
Seniors, never did need more of any such stress test
Seniors are good, deserve the very best!
Well and long before our final rest!

This unfair decision we no longer can allow
We seniors have a right to enjoy a whole life’s vow, NOW!
Some of us could not save much those earlier days
Check in with the rich, they do not live in these ways!
Medicare jumps in with that ill-liked, ill-fated raise
This reality has become an unhealthy phase
Erases, removes that stingy S.S. raise!
Cancel the indexes
That do truly vex us!
Create a new law/option that really lets us
Be happy, allow no more vexes.
Please do-gooders, if any of you are alive
Please, please, do not us deprive.
We seniors like to enjoy a life while alive!
Truly, the curse of poverty has proven its way
Writing, protesting, really doesn’t pay.
Now we pay secondly on taxed-earned income
Seconds are not fair--not known of by President Lincoln.
Never existing in earlier times
Now we are enveloped with many more fines.  

Bought-and-paid-for Politicians
Out to install more misled missions,
Rarely conforming to citizens’ visions
Glued-into-their political office chairs,
Acting more like obsequious mares,
May we find just one who cares? Or dares?
Taxes go out to unauthorized places
Places that ignore decent societies’ graces
Places we send armaments to **** other races
Eliminating equality for seniors’ later-life’s graces!
How is Social Security any kind of “security?”
Do politicians at all agree with this lack of purity?
They sure do create a genuine insecurity!
Why then should elders have to suffer insufferable punity?
They are instead given a large amount of impunity.

Climate change, Schlimate Change
Almost now, out of our range,
To take many final Earth goods away
Our grandchildren aren’t ever going to find their way
Or have their say
To see another day.
Will they be here, anyway?
Enthusiasts evilly enjoy laws to push blocking
This serious issue now has most of us talking
We really must stop this locking
up of really hopeful, skillful news.
Promoting, inculcating, what we’d see as better-quality views.

Dissension is no longer an accepted intention
We no longer are allowed to ever mention
the “other,” we so often write for their protection
This is hurting,  promoting, much unnecessary tension.
Free speech is certainly now found on the out
Even though--we move, get out and shout!
Middle class is gone, now what to do?
Go out, read, review and mostly renew!
Fight for your life, and prove to the masses
Rich and poor are the two remaining classes!
Hate to say it, forces us into being muddled middle-class *****.
Leaders, now not perfect, are easily becoming fascists.
Roosevelt’s Freedom of Speech
Nearly gone, couldn’t you screech?
Time for a good overreach
We do so beseech
Time for all to push against any future breach.

Government spreads its one way usually with bias
Could government be protecting some no-good liars?
Some media follow supinely with same-song lies
What to do, some believe, but put a stop to our cries:
We must undo their devices, and to criticize.

Why must leaders obey, vote for, SPECIAL INTERESTS’ greed?
We gotta change things, yet with great, great speed!
To verily allow enough for every senior’s need.

Social Security Poem-by Carol Rae Bradford, M.Ed.
November-2019  (c)

*Inspired by three articles in The Boston Globe:

“Social Security to get modest 1.6% increase,” Boston Globe, October 11, 2019.
“Most Mass. Single seniors struggle to pay for food, housing, study says,”
“Senior couples pained to afford basics.”, Boston Globe, November 19, 2019, and
“Social Security tilting to favor higher earners,” “Social Security disfavors less fortunate,“
Boston Globe, December 3, 2019


By Carol Rae Bradford, M.Ed.
Email: cbrad4334@aol.com

Please Center the poem. Thank you

He appears in the mirror behind me
and lifts my hair as I brush my teeth.
Kisses the back of my neck
with a lingering brush of lips.

I close my eyes tightly as I can,
try not to flinch away from this
unauthorized intimacy.
And I don’t know when we reached
this place where intimacy must be
Authorized,
stamped with approval,
but here we are and my mind is
screaming at the violation.

My arms tense, eager to
push away, resist, escape.
I rinse my mouth and hastily
slide right out under his arm
before he pilfers a goodnight kiss.

Everything is the same,
every press of skin or lips or words
but nothing feels soft and tender
as before.
We are entirely too close,
breathing the same stale air of the apartment.
I suddenly need the cold air and the
familiar smoke in my lungs
so I dart out the balcony doors.

I inhale shakily and see all the
dark windows of my neighbors.
How can they sleep with the restlessness
and the stifling air that I am sure permeates
the entire city, hell, maybe
the entire country.

I don’t know, but I do know that I
need a ******* cigarette, so I
light one and set it between my lips.

Earth is sleep in sound tonight
Yet in the eyes of stars well up oceans of sadness
The streets are filled with undenying yern to live
The smells of blood courses the air
In the young and old
Not a silent completion
Not a singal comfort in a drink nor a shot of ****** to behave lively
Only death awaits in alleys
Darkness falls in dead end roads
The earth is sound in sleep tonight
It tells stories of humen nature changing and exchanging gifts for the weak
No child lay still in thier beds
No mothers arms are full but empty with weary heartbreaks
Fathers cry in rage of self pitty and drive to another rage to prison bars
No glory here In the sound of night
No hope nor will to dream but to **** the sun
And all that is left are the stars that shed little light
Still not giving up on these children who cry in the night.

© Copyright 2013 S.T. PARISH Rebel of Eden
Unauthorized copying is prohibited.

There is a self-assurance when driving alone in a car,
A broken leather bag tossed in the passenger seat, sunset at his back,
Sweat pooling under his shirt at the valley below his chest;
Earbuds pressed as far as they’ll go in
Blocking out violent winds as he goes over a perfectly photographed bridge
Fog rolling in over waves and through the painted orange beams of streetlights

He is living in someone else’s fantasy:
dressed to the nines,
the eights,
the sevens
Counting down shirt buttons to the way his belt sits a little too loose around his hips,
Black undershirt and unauthorized jeans smelling like stale convenience-store coffee
And strange sanitized emotions that unkempt grocery stores bring to mind--
He is beaming and
Expressing the love he has for this moment in the purest way he knows how.

He doesn’t believe that it is a singularity, an expression of a single thing
A tangle of words that knot into something unnervingly detached from
What he knows how to wrap someone else in with trained fingers
Under the guise of practice
Love is something he has found is undefined

He is not sure he believes in a staying love.
It comes and goes as it pleases in the moment,
It is the word he leaves reserved for the way yellow makes him feel;
How he felt when he saw green as green as green could be through rose-tinted glasses;
The steam rising from named coffee mugs, light streaming through windows;
It is the word he felt when he fell asleep entangled in someone else’s arms and legs
Socks kicked off at the ankles,
And in the sudden realization that he wanted soup;
In seeing painted purple pauses in thought scattered across his chest and shoulders;
In moth wings and bee stings, in smiles and kissing curiosity

It is an emotion he can’t take ownership of
Rather, it is something that dunks him into a washing machine and
Cleans him of the exhaustion that sinks into the minds of men who don’t cry
Honey-colored bubbles rising from bent fingers and wide eyes
Like jellyfish that don’t know any better than to pop when they reach the surface
Of water below a perfectly photographed bridge.

To approve or
                        to punish one
for warranted
                        or unauthorized
            actions
                       Another double
meaning verb
                        contrived to confuse
or give meaning
                            so conversely I
have SANCTIONED
                                   this poem...
       right or wrong?