At preschool last morning, when first class began
Our teacher Miss Fortune, has entered the den
And promptly asked us, the pure younglings
To write on the devil that make us do things

So teacher sat down, and we tykes got engaged
And committedly filled page after page
As we took up an oath, us the urchin, the youth
To speak the whole truth, and nothing but truth

So first rose the young boy Timothy Veet
And confessed all the text that he etched on the sheet
How last week he attended the birthday of Sheila
And got high on some hemp, and two shots of tequila

As he sat, quickly stood his companion wee Tom
And he told how he broke to the principal’s home
Where he gingerly snatched, like a cat burglar
A computer, some cash, and antique silverware

But who took the whole cake, was shy Rosaline
As she stood up and gestured to Billy, her kin
And with timid resolve, and an ear-to-ear grin
Said: “He is the devil that makes me do things…”

Miss Fortune, chalk white, and clearly distressed
Was rushed on a gurney, to the ER no less
Our innocence wither, like a flower well hidden
So why keep insisting on calling us children

And in the eighth day, god has glanced
upon his fair creation.
He blessed the common of good sense
and reached imagination.

BY ME!, he said to Gabriel,
I think I've done it pretty well,
by inventing logic first
and afterwards the universe.
Well even though it's been quite tough
our world is... reasonable enough.

Now, I am worried since right there
is a little point that's out of order.
It is that little point of view.
It gave us trouble, quite a few.
Please, Gabriel, do fix the matter
and make our world work better.

God head assistant cried "Disgrace!"
"You little point! Get back in place!"
But when he got up near,
he found out something... weird...
From that point, when he looked at it
god seemed to him... a wrong a bit...

Two angels all equipped and set
were sent to straight things up.
"Are you not back in line yet?!"
"You make our boss seem all upset."
"Beware, or we shall call a cop!"

Yet...
When the angels closer drew
each held a different point of view
then roared a great loud argument
upon what point god really meant!

Oh dear, what shall we do with you?
Such little, stubborn, point of view.
A right solution was not found,
they had to let it stay around.
No one knows what for.
But since that day, we all can say
Life's all,
except a bore...

Today
I savored my own killing

I could've done so
at the twilight of my days
while I dose off
on a creaking rocking chair
my old lean limbs entangling down
my crooked joints melded to the arm rests
my heavy head resting on my collarbone
oblivious as I
mercifully approach from the back
gently stepping on the tube
leading oxygen to my dying body
watching as my breath become heavy
as my blocked throat wheeze in exhaustion
as my stressed lungs finally collapse
as I quietly yield to sleep.

I  could've done so
sometime tomorrow or yesterday
As I lay asleep on my back
snoring as usual
in an instant I'll roll over
and be on top of myself
clasping at my mouth and nose
pressing my full body weight
as I jolt awake, panicked and confused
my arm randomly flailing around
torn prayer flags swooped by a hurricane
my fingers digging into the flesh of my arms
attempting to pull me apart
until finally
my stubborn grip overcomes
and defeated I dim onto stillness
save for a twitch here or there.

I chose to do so
in my youth
as the texture of a heavy rope
grazes and bruises the skin on my neck
while I send a chilling smile at myself
from across the room
pulling a handle
that drops the floor beneath my feet
accelerating for the first time
relishing the hissing air
the absence of gravity
catching with my eyes my penetrating gaze
older than I am
full of grief, fatigue, and divination
cut by the cracking rope
torn like my snapped neck
with a hallow sound
much less revolting than I thought
watch me dangling like
a ragged pendulum
a grotesque puppet
an unripe miscarriage
feeling but a slight pinch of regret
for never knowing
this moment

For you, I'll make a nest
on top of the church spire
and fashion it
from plastic straw
and dangling colored wires
I'll cushion it with cold receipts
and pocket lint
and party flyers
and leave each morning
an early bird
to pluck stale crumbs
and rancid meat
from drifter's blackened feet
before even the buses
took to the street

You will feel at home

I will feel concrete

We ran out of pencils
which didn't bother us much
'till we discovered that
we ran out of words and letters
as well and

in the lack of words
there was nothing to ration
sheer terror and confusion
and those leaked out of storage
foaming, flooding, roaring
draining all other emotions and

thus the hunger settled in
oozing through the cracks
clinging to the walls
suckling like an orphaned boy
until, when nothing's left
consumed itself to null and

we were left with the absence
who's already small amounts
swelled, and inflated
filling our entire volume
entrapping the echos of memory
then, naturally,
diffused to the outside and

we were left
deprived of selves
only the void within preventing us
from bursting towards the void outside
we float
in no distinct direction
and on occasion bump
into each other's shell
a tap deprived of sound
unable to disturb
eternal peace

Once in a while
I move through you
spreading my arms
as though they were wings
hoping your sweet scent
will carry me far, far away

You are the one
un-remembered
that sweeps through me like a storm
a gust leaving scorch marks
on the cusp of sense and in-sense
Until you stop
on the tip of my tongue
a shape made of mists
waiting to be exhaled
and dissolve into thin air

And as you die down
I die out
My arms drop off
like spiraling autumn leaves
and the chill of sobriety grabs hold
condemning me
to life