When you were a young child,
you wore your naive head in the clouds.
The vastness of space was your limit,
there were no social norms to worry about.

Growing up they told you,
you should pretend that you don't care,
so when your hopes would get devastated,
disappointment could give you a spare.

And now you find yourself wondering:
when did I stop following my ambition?
The thing you regret most when you die,
is your passion's creeping omission.

Besides, how can you ever win a game,
that out of fear you did not participate in?
Without your dreams you're a soulless ghost,
like a concaved snake's skin.

If only you're bold enough to walk your own path,
alienated and without an established map.
You will soon realize that your passion's just waiting,
for your courage to close the gap.

The setting of traps
has always seemed
like a tacit endorsement
of the mice.

Acknowledgement.
Validation.
Admission of failings as a homeowner –
(cracked baseboards or an unsealed gap in the door.)

We are usually responsible
for our own infestations, after all.

The relationship with the mice is codified
“you are vermin,
I am not.
I will ****.
You will die.”

Thus the mice are transfigured,
Christ-like.
Frozen in fear,
frozen in time,
laid bare
on a sticky, chemical
altar of sacrifice.

Saviors
giving their lives
so that we may preserve
those unwanted crumbs
in the vacant space
between the couch and loveseat
where the vacuum won’t reach.

Not all things are perfect,
I am aware of that,
But there are days where I cannot seem to get by
Without soft-breathing in exhaustion
An “Oh ****…”
Or giving a “******”
A talking volume
When few or none are around
To scold me with their ears.
What, haven’t you heard “***” outside
Of TV sitcoms before?
Or "****" aside from around a college campus?
I still get reactions when these words are overheard
From my lips,
Though it’s my life,
And these words have a recurring frequency.
These words are not only a stress-reliever
For someone like me,
But simultaneously a linguistic culture,
A communicative temptation,
Yet also having a dominating expression,
Commanding no only attention
But seriousness.
Fine, do what you want,
Hurl my soul to eternal shame and torture,
But a “curse-ed” day is like a chimney,
Letting out the smoke
Of energy that powers my motivation and forwardness.

I desire to play the piano
   fingertips like cigarettes
I desire to pick at the guitar
   fingertips like cigarettes

I want to whistle mellifluous melodies to my comrades
   lips like cigarettes    
I wish to massage your head
   broken fingernails filed cigarettes

I search for my voice to shout but my lungs
   are (((filled)))

I want to write a SuRreal poem
   But, my
fingertips are as cigarettes

If you ask me how I am I just might tell you. If I feel like it.
I might tell you that there are weeds growing willful up
around the old shed, that the creepers are out of control,
that there are multi-coloured ladybirds ******* at old wounds
in the hollow of my heart, that acres of wild white daisies
are mad with Spring in the fields but that soon they shall wilt
because that's how it goes. If you ask I may tell you how
I drew blood from a prickly rose I couldn't stop myself from
touching and that it still hurts years later,
that some short-sighted clever creatures devoured too much
honey from the beehive in my back yard and died there fat and over-fed.
If you ask me how I feel I might say 'fine' but don't believe a word.
Fine!!
If you ask me how I am, and you really want to know, then search
my eyes for the spark that links souls and breathes new life
into old secret hiding places we didn't know existed, down there
in the gully where maggots love to linger and make silage, where
tombs are built to keep dead things buried and comatose.
if you ask me and I'm not saying you will, then be prepared to
drop down to where lifeless things may want to come back to life.
If you ask me who I am, I may say that I'm a cosmic river of luminous
liquid that spares no gellyfish from their own refection, where
dolphins stare speechless into the lost Polynesian deep blue of rusting
wreckage. If you ask me how I am, be sure you really want to know cause if
I'm in the mood, it may be a long trip and you may need a toothbrush.
So if you ask me and you probably won't now, but if you do we shall
sip wine of a kind for drunken lovers lush with the alchemy of bitter
grapes aged and morphed into the sweet drippings of reckless
angels ready to yank off another lid.

Part I

One of my God's
non-eternal enemies
whom i refer to as "little b"
(i try not to lend it the dignity
of having its name spoken by my lips
when i write
i will not grace
its improper noun with the
upper casing of its first letter)

Translated into English it becomes
"the lord of the flies"
this bi-dimensional vermin
expands its influence by keeping
its existence as hidden as possible
from its unsuspecting hosts

The uni-dimensional plague that
"little b" took its name from
the common fly
is fond of the open wounds in
the hides of animals
it lays its eggs in the wound
which soon hatch and begin to feed
on the surrounding rotted flesh
"little b" and its gang
act in a similar way
but they are not satisfied
with rotted flesh . . . .
they thrive on the growth of fear
the expansion of hatred and distrust.
they grow fat in the putrid pus
of pride and discrimination

beelzebub

Part II

When a lie
any manner of falsehood
is accepted as Truth
and allowed to reside
unopposed in the mind
its presence begins to radiate
emanations of itself
throughout the whole system

The lie soils everything it touches
and being "sin"
left in place long enough
it produces the "fruit" of death

The entrance of sin into a human life
provides a beacon for "little b"
it rushes in to lay its eggs
in the midst of the pain
created by the emotional or psychological wound

Once hatched, "little b" maggots
frolic through the host searching out new areas
of anguish, bitterness, fear and pain to feed on

As the parasites continue feeding
they multiply
driving the host to
deeper depths of depression
anger confusion and sorrow
which in turn
create even larger areas for
the invaders to occupy

If this activity is left unchecked
Eventually all that is left of the host
is a dried and useless husk
ready to be dumped
into a hole in the ground
and seemingly
forgotten about

for awhile

Curtis Delk Rose 2/13-2/22/98

Part III

The Fruit Of bitterness
(another aspect of “little-b”)

'bitterness' does not arrive all at once
like a rogue-refugee relative
with its cluttered baggage and sickly children
barging around, breaking rare ornaments
and willfully refusing to learn the new tongue

It arrives slowly
almost too slowly to notice
seeping into the brain's house
a thin vapor trickling down into unprotected crevices
coating chair legs, vinyl floors and other hard surfaces

Sometimes you notice
what appears to be a stain of some kind
and you occasionally make a half-hearted attempt to wipe it off
But what the heck
you so seldom have company here
and the body's house needs so much attention.

The preacher in the new stone church yells from the pulpit
"And if you're gonna drive that rattle-trap truck to church
at least you could park it in the back
where every Tom, **** and Harry that drives by can't see it."

Every time that searing dart
passes through your mind
the soul cries out
"Oh! Why did he say that?!"

So softly you think it is you speaking to yourself
the ugly gray shadow of 'bitterness' whispers
"Because you are too stupid to afford a new car
You'll always be too stupid to get ahead
Look at who you married, stupid!
A loser who can't even get a job where he works indoors in the winter time
No wonder god killed your baby!
You're too stupid to be a mother!"

This goes on for years
'bitterness' grows more and more at home
it leaves the lights on all over the house
every night, all night
and plays the hateful reruns so loud you can't sleep
You wonder why your digestion is getting worse and worse
"Arthur Itis"* moves in and sets up his angry shop
Unaccountable pains squeeze from one place to another
and finally
your fingers are as stiff and useless
as all the money you sank into that big stone pit

When the old preacher finally died and
left the big stone church as an inheritance
to his skirt-chasing, cigar-smoking son
'bitterness' thought it was time for
it to try the recliner for the first time
it picked up the remote and
began playing one painful rerun after another

My daddy should never have done that to me!"
(But he is years dead now and who would ever believe you?)

"But it still hurts!"      

("And remember the time at the beach when
Henry wondered out loud if maybe it was your fault that Chucky died?")

"How could he do that?"

And . . .    And . . .    And . . .

Years pass
the old heart and lungs are approaching the point
where they can't handle the pressure anymore

'little b' leans back
in the brain's broken, worn-out recliner
puts its hands behind its head and
daydreams
about trying your granddaughter on for size


Curtis Delk Rose

81101 & 112515 & 12818

Many Thanks to Brad Watson for the time he mentioned that the
archaic word "beelzebub" translates into the “lord of the flies”

**arthritis

I try to defend her love
For me against a predator
All she repay was labeling me
With words that pierce into me
As did sun onto a water

Written by
Martin Ijir

His last piece of work I touch everyday
and feel not the water but sadness
flowing from the faucet.

From the sound of the sink
I hear him say
didn't I do a good job?
not once broke down
but think of her
she's broken down
the faucet has withstood
she hasn't
there I did a bad job
letting water flow down
the broken valves of her heart.