they formulate and incubate
misproportioned curves

curves around the nose, the chin, the lips,
the shoulders, the breasts, the waist
curves around
the knee caps and the ear lobes
curves around
each individual finger and toe
and they piece together bones in there
like tinker toys and erector sets
and they put organs and blood and nerves
and cells and veins and muscle tissue in there
and everyone gets an asshole
and they tighten it down
with a heart and a mind and a soul
and fill it full of feelings
and emotions and senses
like fuel in the gas tank
and they blanket
the whole thing with flesh
and top it off with hair
and send it out cold,
into the naked reality

and they call it a human,

and with enough time past...
humans grow,
they learn,
they become aware,
they create problems,
they try to understand,
they love, laugh, cry,
they want attention
and affection,
their flesh
wants to consume
the flesh of others,
they want to consume
nourishment and turn
it into excrement,
they want to achieve goals
and reach for the stars,
and they want to reproduce
and give birth to their
misbegotten children
as if there's some victory
or glory or beauty in it all

and they will wait
at their jobs
and the hospitals
and the food markets
and the jailhouses
and the madhouses
and the courthouses
and the lawyer's office
and the dreaded DMV
and the restaurants
and the movie theathers
and the concerts
and for welfare and for
unemployment
in line after line
until the reminder of their time
is spent in the graveyards
or in urns or at the
bottom of the river
and death comes so often
like waiting rooms,
stuck in purgatory
with nothing to do.

we are all seized by the three
unavoidable trends of life;
to be
born,
to wait
and to die
like everyone else
without exception

it's inevitable
how stiffened
we'll become
Born 20h
I don't want to be content with what I know
I don't want to wake up to that regular normal life
The predicatable pattern
The usual circle

I want to to challenge my reality
My ever constant changing perception
Expound on my imagination

I don't want to settle for that regular normal life
I don't want to live and not taste the waters
I don't want to be limited by "this is how it's always been"

I want to deeply and empathetically  analyze
Transform the meaning of reason
Offer a vacuum of doubt instead of acceptance
Be critical in our dawning reality

I want to listen, truly listen and observe
I want to know why you believe what you belive
I want to be the "the thought case" scenario
Born Jun 1
Where do we belong
Tell me what you've seen
a kindred spirit lingers in my mind
at a sound of a touch

How do you do this
Behave like  a hell forgotten song
while trying to concur the sky
a virtual reality horror show
that started
at the sound of a touch

Start
Packing and running for safety
that's what happens
if you trade
strength for weakness
at the sound of a touch

touch
Pictures came with a touch
but we were never attached
you were just a voyeger in my dream
who left footsteps  it seems
at the sound of a touch
  May 23 Born
Nat Lipstadt
The excerpt below is from an interview Philip Roth gave to Daniel Sandstrom, the cultural editor at Svenska Dagbladet, for publication in Swedish translation in that newspaper, and in its original English in the Book Review of the New York Times (March 1, 2014).

It was laid out in normal article (paragraph) form, but I chose to re-present here, line by line, sentence by sentence, for it struck me as I first read it, as a prose poem, and a source of inspiration for me.  But then I realized, I could not improve upon his words, just risk diminishing them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“The struggle with writing is over” is a recent quote. Could you describe that struggle, and also, tell us something about your life now when you are not writing?

Everybody has a hard job.
All real work is hard.
My work happened also to be undoable.
Morning after morning for 50 years,
I faced the next page
defenseless and unprepared.
Writing for me was a feat of self-preservation.
If I did not do it, I would die.

So I did it.
Obstinacy, not talent, saved my life.
It was also my good luck that
happiness didn’t matter to me
and I had no compassion for myself.
Though why such a task
should have fallen to me I have no idea.
Maybe writing protected me
against even worse menace.

Now?
Now I am a bird sprung from a cage
instead of (to reverse Kafka’s famous conundrum)
a bird in search of a cage.
The horror of being caged has lost its thrill.
It is now truly a great relief,
something close to a sublime experience,
to have nothing more
to worry about than death.
-------------------------------------------------------------­--­---

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/16/books/review/my-life-as-a-writer.html?_r=0
.
  May 22 Born
patty m
Birth propels us on a perilous
journey allotted a certain amount of time.
How fast those moments pass,
yet still we run like mice on a wheel,
how much of what we accomplish really matters in the scheme of things?
Would we be just as well off as vagabonds, never working,
enjoying the fruits of the land?

Restlessness of spirit is a realm of its own,
perhaps we're hitched to a star
that sets our gravitational pull into destiny's orbit?
In this moment my mind travels to dreamland
a place of wondrous possibility
unless deep sleep invades and steals it all away.

Does sleep prepare us for death, I wonder?
How small we are in the scope of endless space,
yet how important our families and schedules and jobs become.
Isn't it odd that everything we love or work for
is conspiring to steal our time away
until no one remembers our work, our wit, our love?

Do we travel on reborn on another plain,
or do we drift endlessly in a limbo-like state,
souls without a home,
a sign around our necks that reads
Existence Expired.
Born May 12
Would you rather I fill you with fallacies of love
Or speak the truth
For years we dwell on what is sweet or easy to bear
for years we dwell on what is sweet or easy to bear
let that sink in
Whatever the truth is , it most certainly has never been easy

Hypnotized to accept what is
But in reality, it isn't
And what isn't  leave us salivating
for that beautiful dalliance with life


We are hooked
Subconsciously slaving
Inventing picnics in the name of innovation
high on rugged ideas puffed into a void
Born May 9
Poetic analogy
The barbarity of this universe is frightening
Constantly on verge of damnation
We close our eyes, alluding the reality around us
Running from what ruined us

We plough earth with our truths
Jesus is lord
Allah is God
Lord Shiva is......
Don't dare disagree  I'll shave it down your throat
or chaos rains
until one is deemed superior

So we forgot what love is
And  hated each other
And focused on our sins
And inhaled decriminalization
Of our race
Of our faith
Of humanity
All the while pegging our deeds
On God


Now you are busy cruising through life
Crating facade for justification
Isn't hell too nice a place for you!

A mere mortal betting on division
For loyalty
Or sometimes hope
Is the most heinous deed
Committed on behalf of love
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