You: it is 2:10 am
Me:  Eastern Standard Mystical Time, yup...
You: why are you up, writing?
Me: the drugs wore off
You: *** the drugs?
Say it ain't so, kiddo?
Me: yup, I did engage
with some strong stuff
ce soir, the woman too,
and she is drowning in her dreams.
Easy and cheap,
scored some us some................
Asian Fusion
Thai Food, Indonesian small plates...

You: idiot!
Me: just answering your question
You: so where is this poem, shaman?
Me: You!
You: Me?
Me: yup.
You are my early morning poem,
which I have entitled Notification: You!

Notification

I am deeply unsure.

Am I notifying you,
or am I notifying myself?

Lost command of my
native language,
the emotions too strong,
Blue Java
the color of my word blood,
strong swirling,
uncontaminated by cow's milk,
but by cows jumping over the moon,
who have come to give me gifts of
Notifications.

Hey ****** ******,
The Cat and the fiddle,
The Cow jumped over the moon.
The little Dog laughed,
To see such sport,
And the Dish ran away with the Spoon

Perfectly clear to me.
I am the Spoon,
You are the Dish.

(Shaman, Shaman, hey man,
you still sound drugged,
we urgent need some clarifications!)

When I wake up,
uncertain about a slew,
a portmanteau
of important life~things,
(Example: when should I
Capitalize a word,
a life, a me, a You?)

there are strangers,
Strangers still,
yet strangers no more,
sending me uncoded messages
intended to decode me,
Notifications,
they are called,

and they
Explode me.

capsules of comments
that encapsulate me,
emasculate my speaking abilities,
reduced to rolling in the gutter,
guttural cries to emit and utter,
man, I got friends I never met,
and that's ok
we just notify each other
thinking of you
and no more words necessary

life is groovy...

You cannot polish a heart,
there is no tarnish remover for sale

once,
a thought exists,
then always, extant

once a feeling felt,
there is no erasure,
no white out,
just another wear and tear
to thy fabric added

it enters and infects,
no surgery can excise,
chemo and radiation
leave scars
and remainders

certain sadnesses are unreadable,
even if counterbalancing weights worn,
we are the sum
and the summation,
we are the holy ghost
of everything
we have ever known,
even if we did not
father it

a storage facility,
you rent permanently,
for the "stuff"
you don't want
but can't discard,
pay dearly for that inability

the poetry,
an artifice,
a cheaply hired psychologist,
a rented imaginary friend,
from whom there are no secrets kept

I am not delusional
or deluded

there is a new tiredness in me
that I did not ask for
and sorry to have met

now a parcel I must carry
like the delicious awful testing images
of one's own end.

there was a joy here for me once,
a day and way
of atonement in my
writing and reading

and though it is 400am
and here I am
writing again,
I surely expect
the music genie
to play for me
"the thrill is gone"
any second,
for it surely is....

once upon a time,
in that chair,
could easy poem
and easy write
but the thrill is gone,
the love "of it"
upped and disappeared
the weave and the woof
"of it"
not the same

cannot get that tarnish removed,
the commemorative wall plate visible crack'd
though reglued,
the cracks are
mirrored images reminders
of what I feel I have lost,
and what is sadly indeed,
just a commemorative now

full in a heavy way,
self-absorption ended, really,
my paper towel self
a soaked ragged mess,
the more it wipes,
the more it spills...

a fullness that comes
from human hate
a sidebar loud, all overhear,
in the courtroom of
humans racing
"to excel,"
they misunderstand,
as they just finger point
to their own chest blasting,
look I got into harvard,
made a million,
but I am still a major *******
in a grand tradition

this stuff has ashen pilloried me,
everywhere in my
not so red anymore blood

I am not delusional
or deluded,
or even depressed,
just weary,
tarnished,
and
writing this does, releases nothing,
changes nothing, makes, improves nothing

the stitch in my side still there,
saying poetry, nice but who cares,
what once was fair and comely,
now just ordinary fare, unlovely
a McDonalds of common words

once the poetry of hate is writ,
it cannot be deleted,
a curse upon all
that abused this child so,
your promotional coupons
are discarded
with today's newspapers
and tomorrow and even today!
no one will care
about this or the
mismeasurement markers of no glory
or of hate, or the
pseudo popularity you create
or relish into thinking of yourself,
as valuable

tell me I am wrong,
tell me of New Year's Day
start overs,
will be grateful
for your trying,
your counterbalancing attempts,
if genuine, are
truly glorious

even if the thrill is all gone,
your trying to untarnish me,
well, every little bit helps
at the very least
gets me sets me,
down more evenly,
untilltng the lean of what ails,
ever so less

but the tilt,
the tarnish,
is immeasurable like divinity


here is where,
I leave it and
the fast approaching sabbath,
depending where on  your calendar
it resides,
can be both a weekly ending
and/or a beginning,
but a sabbath rest from the garbage of words,
by humans abused,
un blessings saying I am better than you

so, a place, a time to start,
to polish over just a tad, the stains
of what cannot ever be deleted,
cleansed
even if it is pseudo-gone from the internet

The hardest part
Of saying goodbye
to someone
Is saying goodbye
To the memories
Forgetting the memories
That made you
The happiest person
In the world

My mother keeps dropping hints
About the increase in size of my waist
About the decrease in space between my legs
"Are you really going to eat that?"
"You shouldn't be snacking that much."
"If you're hungry, you should probably just drink water."
"That won't digest well if you eat it now."
"You know that's going straight to your gut."
Sometimes in the silence of our house late at night I can hear her whispering, "You're not good enough."

I love you too, mom.

They say don't give your heart away and yet I didn't listen
Now I understand why
You never get it back
She will always have a big piece
No matter how hard you try you can't get it back
No amount of love anger hate forgiveness or the attempts
It won't come back
-thehatedpoet

You can always tell,
Who the introverts,
Are in the summer,
Months, we're just so pale...