an old familiar,
an adversary of the first degree,
when we wrestle,
me and this god
disguised as an angel disguised as man,
the door to where we tangle,
clicks shut with a perceptible oval sounding,
a trumpet announcing commencement of the festivities,
that we are
Occupado

no stray observers permitted in,
the room entrances locked,
someone's two hands upon each temple,
(cannot be mine, for)
inside we combat literally,
"mano-a-mano"
hand to hand,
word to word,
gradually, continuously,
up close and personally,
one on
One

over the course of a lifetime,
each battle named,
famously borrowed and thus recorded,
Agincourt, Waterloo, Gettysburg, Leningrad, Ðiên Biên Phú,
for the record keeping purposes of our unforgiving ******-
historian

the rules of engagement somewhat flexible,
biting, choking, eye gouging,
kicking when down, not just legal,
encouraged, no holds barred,
when we wrestle,
the dirtier the
better

take turns declaring a victor,
for that matters little, truly,
just a record keeping notation,
the battle and its aftermath,
the waves of pain inflicted,
the casualty count engorged,
is the greatest glory,
dans une manière de
parler

though sent away the children,
our earthly goods,
designating them purportedly,
non-combatants observers,
yet 'no rules' meant
they could be accidentally drawn in,
non-combatant status does not prevent them
from being freely captured or
killed

the conflict ongoing,
no one ever calls for a truce,
for both unequal adversaries know,
no quarter will ere be given,
and though the tide shifts,
each individual battle produces as always,
a winner and a
loser

noisy affairs,
long after the battle,
the slain yet scream,
perhaps I am confused,
perhaps it is the day's survivors,
announcing that sadly,
they are still
alive

it must be the latter,
for here I am writing and recording,
and though alone,
I hear an ever growing louder,
gouging sine wave scream piercing,
daring my soul to leave my wracked
body
for though mortal wounded,
I am therefore
both dead and alive,
but which more so,
none can surely
say

this conflict remains
unconcluded
the pain in my hip, now
everywhere,
my Jacob, now, Israel,
marker
so visible even if itself,
unseen

3:59am

you stopped
liking roses
when they
started to
grow out
of my
wrists

timothy lynch
the Catholic boy
won’t talk until Easter

he doesn’t speak in his classes
to his parents
or his friends
he doesn’t laugh or giggle
just keeps to himself
until lent passes by

i want to tell him it’s a waste
of three months

//
he’s ******* mary jacobson
the Baptist pastor’s daughter
every day after school
anyways

she’s glad
that he’s given up talking
she says he needs
to be Holier and cleanse

but she mostly
just likes when he’s quiet
during ***

My life is mostly the same some
Times I feel the need to
Spice it up
I took it before I left my house
The ride to
School was average. Small talk
With my Mother little does she know how tricked my body is
A small screen lit up my dark restless night. And the little green vessels meet the average sunrise
Everything is average
Zoning out as usual, average until suddenly .
My head how it spins like a Saturday night of drinking. My head how it bobs about like a Sunday morning regret.
The choir sings the preacher commands me to repent my sins
I can't take it back. And I wouldn't
Id rather stare at the walls all night depriving myself of the one thing my body wants most and fight it in the morning
Little does the preacher know that I don't give a **** about what's in my textbook. The congregation is engaged in the service little do they know that world war 3 has begun in my head
Blood fills the pews battle smells permeate
Personal poisons are subjective and on this morning,,ironically,,nyquil is my choice thank god for liquicaps the syrup is god awful

He captured their love
in essence, in an intense
moment of joy
within an oyster, in depth
for keeps;
secretly hoped
he would adorn her neck
with it when it ripens
in to a pearl, so brilliant
transmitting the rays of love.
A monument of their
devotion to love.
Days
like flocks of white herons
flew to far poles,
ravens of dark nights went
to far horizons and came back
without fail.
Sea change makes Tsunami
strikes in human lives,
she never found her way back
to their love spot
to bill and coo and dream
as before and drink moonbeams
together for nourishing love
as she promised him before.
The oyster he kept safe
in a secret corner of his sad world;
whenever he touched it
it was a moment of pleasure.
Then it became
an irresistible urge to open it
and caress the pearl,
the reminder of his love nonpareil,
though failed to spread wings.
Eager were his eyes,
for the only consolation left;
but he feels cheated once more
on seeing a drop of tear
the size of a big round pearl
tasting salt of a love gone bitter,
dark and brooding, like her heart,
inside the crumbling oyster of his soul.

None would imagine,
a benign imp,
blithe, light footed
triggers a surge
of aesthetic spasms
******* of the brain,
moves incognito
on this high podium
beside your chair
when you
read your poem
just like when you're
in a creative reverie

Every time it's a mystery
how she sets music
within every word
how then a rhythm
in progression
is unleashed
flowing in to your
poetic musings
to create an image concrete,
correlating to the wave
beating in your brain

Heart, soul and spirit
merge in to one
poetic words to mark
what your being gathered
from spring flower fields
and scorched earth alike

all the poet  gathered
at the receiving end
of the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune,
is set in tune,
all of you gathered here
for the poetry session
walking through the labyrinths
inebriated by poetic wine,
munch yourself bit by bit
in the cadence of poetic beats,
as past, present and dreams
in many small instalments
pour in from the beginning.

What the poet offers
takes, each one listener
to a world different,
one begets many
images proliferate.
They will relish all this
and be born again
within themselves
later on, leisurely with light
peeping out of their eyes,
an alchemy none can explain