I love her
Not in a ****** way, but
She's my friend, my friend
She helps me so much
For 7 years Ive known her
Laughed and cried with her
She hugs me and my daughter
Makes sure my house is in order
She has capabilities that I do not
I fear for her
She isn't supposed to be here
With her brown skin and Spanish tongue
She works hard
And I love her
And I'm so afraid for her
I don't understand fences
Or "papers of belonging", citizenship
I was born privileged
Free and white
In America
Because my ancestor came here 340 years ago
And begat generation after generation of my blood
I wonder if he had to have papers?
Her journey here nearly killed her
Sent by her mother, with a bottle of water and an aluminum foil wrapped sheep sandwich
Across the dessert
For just the idea of a better life
She was 16 Then
I love her
And by the GOD that loves every colour and nation,
I'll marry her before I let her be dragged into one of those big vans they put "illegals" in

not to mention the notes,
    who the hell enthrones a sadist
on what's a hyperventilating compass
......... and .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .               and .     .     .
                                        .     .     .
                                        .     .     . -
what's called conceptualisation, or
   the timessu doku* no. 8860, dubbed:
finding the first 5...
     fractions 9 / 9  and then 81...
it's an eye-sore, maybe it should be encapsulated
by .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .
    but i left it it at
.  .  .  .  .  6  7  .  .
.  7  .  8  .  9  4  3  6
.  .  6  .  3  .  8  .  .
1  .  .  .  9  .  5  6  7
6  5  9  4  7  1  2  8  3               rectangles and squares problem
3  2  7  6  5  8  1  9  4                 (imitating a drunk
7  .  3  .  6  .  9  4  .                   watching the television with only
4  6  .  9  8  .  x  .  2                  one eye open to stop the carousel;
.  9  2  .  4  .  6  7  .                              ­  i.e. dajjal watching dajjal)

   that x in there? that's important, i think i can't
solve no. 8860 (i.e. finding the first 5)
because of it...
    and it's on paper, rather than on a digital
format, and that's hard to correct / revise /
solve...
                not to mention the ***** working its
purpose...  
                but such is the joy of being able to do something
that doesn't require crosswords...
  can't do them to save my life...
             i knew a guy once that could
do samurai su doku...
            i have to be content with this tier...
getting an eye-check...
          it's the spacing and 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
   arranged into a

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9      2      3      8      7      4     3      5     1       (e.g.)

so working from that, it's just as much as
knowing for to spell... it's optically infuririating
to have to compensate on something, somewhere...
some people just see clear spacing
and can do these puzzles quickly...
   it feels hard to attack humanism with science,
the whole thing is hard to figure out,
let alone no. 8860 (finding the 1st 5)...

unless you can compensate listening to the offspring's
debut album, no hero and black magic...
  but it really is a problem of spacing...

     i used the punctuation mark of a dot to emphasise
the digital canvas / pixel accuracy dynamic...
    
               how do you start to conjure these puzzles
into completion? should i put a ruler to the computer screen?
      but that x in the "spelling" of no. 8860
         undid me... just lost the heart to complete...
took me too long to insert anything after that...
and i didn't have a second copy, there was
only one 29th of feb. 2017 coming my way...
  
the best i could do is to write a poem counter
to what the theory states... i.e. not all poems
are written for a need of abandon... most of the time
it's a crossword, or as this case proves: a su doku.

           if poems are ever abandoned, it's to stress a concern
for tomorrow,
                     i really can't imagine myself passing
off a clean paragraph that composes a book,
that a book is composed of,
               i can't really imagine a better form
of punctuation than poetry,
           poetry to me is symbiotic with punctuation,
as in: you might just get to write another
poem / colon the next day...

              or like now... i hate that all these columns
of culture are pristine... then you get to read
the biographic sketch that gave such and such a book
to arise on in no man's land...
   like the koran and aisha...

         ******, i partied when there was no party,
i was found singing on a windowsill when no one else
was singing but a sparrow in the night,
the most beautiful thing i ever managed to see
was an insomniac crow, flying while the skies of
england were overcast... a kestrel on my fence,
a robin with a full orange bust fidgeting queer...
and yes, those parkinson sparrows...
   i looked at more birds than might allow me a stipend
to reach the age of 50... and have a saturday newspaper
magazine column actually giving a ****...

   i do not that ignition wasn't the debute album,
but given the sales, it was treated as such...

             i like the fact that poetry entertains sloppy...
   *****, raw, ***...
                    i could never rewrite or revise or edit
this *******, i'd loße my nerve...
                                     i *******... squiggly lines
and random patterns to antithesis phenomenons
that keep repeating themselves...
             i can't believe that writers spend 3 years
on a book, to then give it to critical hyenas...
this carcasss is heading straight down route s. beckett's
watt and j. joyce's finnegans wake,
and ezra pound's cantos...
             this bit of me is not heading for
a bestseller status... is down route per se...
                   because that's what i care, about...
that i am imitating darwinism's natural selection...
well... let's call it a ponce's selection
  and more snobs than screaming beatlemania fans;
or what the concept of persisting royalty does
to you...
            you half **** a refined talk of a    p h via t h
into thy, thigh         or veering into     thesp
                       ian,               or the said much more quickly:
finicky ***** of phonetic arithmetic.

It would be inaccurate, indeed downright unfair,
To label her as a convenience,
Certainly no matter of being any port in a storm;
She fell into that category of handsome women,
Tending more to the Rubenesque than the runway,
And those occasions where an evening with the gang
Fragmented into a somewhat unmatched set
Were more in line with settling into a familiar harbor,
Bereft of the intoxicating hazards of shoals and sand bars, perhaps,
But comfortable with a certain steadfastness about it,
A pleasant haven from the riptides, undertows,
And various entanglements of the open water.

It was an aneurysm that took her, the type of thing
We’d associated with grandparents, aged aunts,
Corpulent colleagues of our fathers.
What’s more, it turned she was staunchly and stubbornly Lutheran,
Regular to the point of obsession in her attendance at services
(We’d no way of knowing such a thing, of course,
The notion of staying overnight at her place
To rise from last night’s sheets at mid-morning
And share a table for omelettes and awkward chit-chat
Being both curious and curiosity)
So we arrayed ourselves in stiff collars,
Accompanied by ties we’d hoped to be suitable,
As the whole affair had us a bit off balance,
And we were only able to restore our equilibrium at the end,
Just in time to attempt to bounce pebbles onto her coffin lid
In what he hoped was some witticism in Morse code.

It is as important
to recognize
what love isn't
as it is
to know
what love is

mistake not
lust
ego-driven
crush
flash flood
rush

nor need
the kind
that scours
the bones
licks the marrow
clean

not apathy
silent killer
complacent
acceptance
of less than
we deserve

violence
physical
verbal
control
love is never
these

it is
easy breathing
reflexive
vital
doubles down
no surrender

love holds
through heat and cold
sick and old
when age
erases my name
from your memory

I will come to you
fresh every day
someone new
different wig
ravish-me dress
old-lady hot

we’ll have a little fun
with the time left
at least you’ll die
thinking to yourself
*still got it
with the ladies

My greatest wish is to write soul ****,
To be a soul **** star
To take your soul and make it feel,
Like it never has by far
I want my soul ****,
To be so very *******
That everyday you're on your knees,
Begging to read more
I wish to give your soul a *****,
Or make it really wet
So that when you read my words,
You won't have any regrets
I wish to be a soul **** star,
And write the loveliest writes
So that when you go to sleep,
You dream of them every night
I want to touch your soul,
Flat out make it ***
So that all of my written soul ****,
Beats in your heart like a drum
Men, I hope you think of my soul ****,
As a large pair of breast
That are so amazingly hot,
That they won't let you rest
Ladies, for you I want my soul ****,
To be compared to that guy
The one who loves you dearly,
And never leaves you to cry
Yes, I want to write soul ****,
To be a soul **** *****
I wish to make your soul feel,
Like it never has before

Momma said I was strange growing up.
She said I ran before I could even crawl
She said I'd run, drawing on walls in the halls
She said it was a bit odd.
Then again she said she raised me alone
Single parent, emphasis on the single
So obviously I was going to be odd.

I guess that stuck with me
Because I learned love before hatred
I learned to love before I questioned trust
So deep down in my core, way in the crust
There must be something wrong with me.

I wonder on things of my past
Wondering had it lasted
Where would my life be blasted.
The shadows of the past casted
And I always long to hide back
In the shade.

I guess I'm conflicted
Between finding the shade
And finding the light
Unsure which one I've been depraved
Or whether there was one I had craved
Maybe in the light is where I belong
But what if it's a hot day
...

I guess the past
Is a flag flown at half mast,
And the shadow is illuminated
Into complete exhile.

...

Maybe the light will reveal
What I never knew about myself.
Or maybe
I'm a creature of the shadows

...