In twenty-three years, the only smiles
That I have seen
Have been in photographs.
Even those were forced,
Clothes only worn for an occasion.
I was told,
"It hasn't always been like this,"
But I never had the gall
To ask for proof
Or why.
Then this picture,
Composed of scattered documents
And salt water, developed.
A woman stands impatiently by a door,
A product of a mother's wish
To showcase a new dress.
Her lips are curved up,
Healthy and smooth,
Not at all like the dried scales
Over which morphine was poured;
Her skin looks soft,
Not like the leather we held.
Something happened that last day:
Her maw moved into an unfamiliar shape.
It wasn't a smile,
But as her last breath slowly left,
She seemed relaxed.

And, perhaps, now, the corners of her mouth
Can, once again, grow upward.

If my
Differing opinion
Is going to be
A problem,

Don't ask it.

At three in the morning,
The mists hang, mixing
With the grass,
An unscaled rainforest,
Fog intertwined with the blades
Delicately, like the last puzzle piece
Being placed.
A flashlight shines on a snowflake--
The first of the season--
As it spirals slowly,
Slipping silently by stretched branches,
Stopping softly on the green.
The light shuts off,
A door lock clicks,
And a plume of black erupts
From a chimney.

These are the signs
Of a slow deterioration
Into what is expected to be.

A leaf spirals downward,
Over covered heads and uncovered cars,
Children sleeping in grass
Drool dripping from their gums,
A football field seeing practice
Where someone's leg
Was recently snapped in half,
Overflowing sewer grates,
Dilapidated septic tanks,
Wastewater disposal facilities
With a runoff into
A river filled with needles and rocks
And bodies,
And it hits the ground with a silent explosion,
Until the wind sends it off and sets it somewhere out of sight.
Like when a glass bottle
Shatters on a bar top and
Sends shards soaring
Into the eyes
Of onlookers,
Everybody knows what's next.
Did you hear?
Fall is here.

The boy who starves so that he may be warm
And the girl who freezes so she may not starve
Have a chance encounter
And bask in mutual despondency.
They share their warmth,
And they share their food,
And neither has enough of either.

But even at their demise,
The sun still goes up and down
On the horizon,
Painting a scene of ignorance
Or apathy,
And lying.
The heat will dissipate soon,
What with Winter coming,
But it does not matter:
Everything is already frozen.

I tried not to look at it,
But I couldn't help myself,
The blue sky burying me completely,
The sun shedding visibility
On the edible chanterelles--
Little fungi, little mold spores
Treated as food, soft and porous
Sponges, fragile like egg shells.
We hunt for the orange gleam
Showing through the duff
As if we are savages,
Lost in our search,
Forgetting our state.

I'd forgotten what a sight they were:
Unfunny clowns always having
Arguments over who gets what space--
Quality family time.
Every home is a miniature dictatorship.

Now, savages rule our thoughts
And actions; they fight
For control;  they
Pump Estrogen into our
System so that we
Will not fight back.
The dream is not a dream.
The Police are a privilege
For those who can buy it.

All this was a week after
The dust settled. There was no music.
Even the chants of Buddhists
Were silenced, the replacing hum
One of screams
And gunshots.
The sound of
Your enemies being sautéed
Is what loss truly is:
Accounts holding our Humanity
Have been depleted.
The only unclosed door
Leads to Egypt.

When I think of it now,
What I remember is
Debt. Once, I saw
A college student
Buying cheap ramen
With a grin.

And, in a dream once,
There was no sound,
No color. Everything
Was the same—taste,
Touch, smell. Red lipstick marks
On a shirt would not
Remain. And hippies,
With their tie-dye clothes
Were just working stiffs,
Looking out a window
To see
Brick and mortar.

They say,
“This is your police state.
This is your Haunted House,
Your personal Winchester House
With no exits. This is
Your nightmare,
Your stench.
These are your maggots in your eyes.
This is what you want.”
We listen.

I do not want to be
The kind of person
Who makes it okay
To want to die.

When someone asks,
“What did you do today?”
I answer, with a smile,
“Lived,” because what can be more
Fulfilling than watching
Rain drops streak down a
Cheek of a lover pushing against
The wind in a limitless
Dance, or more
Satisfying than slipping into
A fleecy coat and boots and
Splashing down a stream in the
Woods, the damp trees dripping with
Greenery on the one who is kept so
Dry? And hearing a kettle as it
Steams and screeches, ready to
Drink after being poured over tea,
Coupled with butter and honey
Drizzled on toast, as the rain gently
Clangs on my tin windowsill
Reminds me of the time that the
Phone rang, and the woman on the line
Had to say, “We hoped it wouldn't be today,
But your Grandfather recently passed away,”
When it wasn't sky water that streaked my cheek
On a rainy day.

The climb to the top of the rock is arduous.
Moss serves as a grip for hands
And ice for feet.
A low branch is like a rope for support,
Until it breaks.
Thistles and blackberries stretch out
To offer help,
But they can be uprooted, or become
The girl who flew across the country
To be with the boy who looks away
Whenever she smiles at him.

From the tip, the view is
The vantage point of a star
Gazing from space in all directions,
Where even the closest discernible landmark
Feels a few thousand miles away,
But you want it so desperately closer

That you jump.

Trust the rain that only falls enough that it sees fit.
Trust the fire that keeps fighting as long as there is fuel.
Trust the wind that whips your eyes,
Drying them and making you cry for rehydration,
For the water that roars all around you,
That splashes over your head
And lets you sink,
Freely and completely.

Dear Ms. Di Prima,
I really,
Really,
Think that Alchemy—Alchemy--Al-Chem-EEEEE
Is a
Nifty
Topic.
But,
My mother has a ring
Of gold.
Standard Gold,
No lead. None.
Or had,
Until our house was
B-R-O / K-E / N
Into
By some lowlife scumbag with
Too much ability
And
Not enough intelligence.
With Alchemy
I could make a shitload
Of Gold (wasn't that the point?),
Provided I had the
Lead,
And not that
IMPOSTER
Crap in pencils (Graphite. My childhood was a shambles.).
But it's only valuable
Because
We're willing to pay so much.
Like with Diamonds.
Or Japanese Akita.
Or Wagyū.
It's not a lie.
Just a trick.
Making you think you want things that you don't need because it helps someone else who you've never met make more money than they'd ever be able to use in a legitimate way
                                   (HOOKERS AND BLOW).
All of these things are synthetic.
With the exceptions of
Gold
And
Graphite.
So,
       Maybe,
                      Alchemy did work out alright,
Just not in the anticipated way.
We can make all sorts of things.
But they become coveted only when they exist.
Just ask Swipey McStickyfingers.
It actually wasn't gold.
You just got a bunch of painted junk,
And passports.
No rubies.
We weren't international crooks,
Renowned and beloved
By jealous zealots.
It was purely sentimental.
But you can't understand.
You can't fondly look at the earrings as the last reminder of a deceased parent.
You can't flip through the identification booklet and be flooded with memories of your first trip out of the country.
You ******. You can't even cash the savings bonds that were bought to put someone through college.
No. He got a box of documents and some cheap jewelery.
But still. Probably called for celebration. A successful heist
Because his brain is still in his head.
                                                           ­     We create people as well as objects.
                                                   ­                                       Ms. Di Prima,
In the end,
      Some people will always be
     Clasping *******.

What reason do I have
To watch the wind blow? Back
And forth sway the trees, save
The majestic pine. Gave

Me nothing but some flak
For sitting and watching
The people who attack
Each other, claim I lack

Motivation. I sing
My own tune, hum my beats
To keep aware. The ring
About my finger stings.

I see where the wind meets
With the trees, marking feats
Such as sways. Minds retreat.
Suddenly, all is neat.

I searched for days, so many days, to find
A flower nearing bloom that smelled as strong
As all the love I house for you. So wrong
Was I to try and find with my own mind
Such a sight... Lo! A man was there, behind
The signs. He sold me it, humming a song;
The seller shouted as I left the throng,
"Its bloom is nearing soon, but give it time!"

And the flower's bloom releases a scent
So foul--It is the skunk that ceased to be
Because of some unfortunate event.
And so much time for fragrances was spent,
This morbid stench only harasses me:
The Titan Arum has from Hell been sent.

wearied is my mind from these sleepless nights,
nights spent up an wondering without cause,
nights spent suffering through all of my flaws,
nights spent avoiding so many close fights,
fights only strengthening these weary nights
that go without sleep. i look up all laws
that might yet protect me from my dear thoughts
of quieting myself within my rights.
still, yet, i always pause to wonder what
you have been thinking about all this strife
and whether or not i'll see those bright eyes
in the morning when i wake, or shut
a door too hard in the night. oh, so rife
are these relentless dreams i have with lies.

You smile as we pass,
But I wonder:
Do you actually remember me?
Or are you just smiling
To be polite?
You always looked so sad,
Like the child whose pet grasshopper
Died.
I sit
And I wonder
If you still know my name,
Or if you recognize my face.
I wonder if I am in your mind
In the same way that you are in mine.

Gatsby saw a green light across the sea;
I see a red one in-between the trees,
And hear your frightened callings and pleas,
Your vocal desires to again see
The missing love you desperately need,
The love that gently hides within the reeds
Watching and waiting, so fiercely it feeds
Like the stalker hiding up in the tree.
But I am not the twisted, sick ******,
And I did not ask you for "your prices," --
In my defense, everything was hazy.
I was at home and should have remained there
And listened to my father's advices
When he warned me not to fall for crazy.

My hands forming a circle, I ensnare
The Stars, so long as I, with the Earth, do
Spin, keeping my eyes upon mine prize, new
Distractions kept from within. Such is fair
That, in my attempts of something so rare
To behold, I must suffer, to reduce
What I consume, my most glorious use,
Of the meals I so long to prepare.
But in vain it all makes itself to be,
For when the Moon recedes, the Sun is seen,
And the Stars are no more for me to see!
Only at night is my World complete.
The Stars, they mock, so vile, to demean,
And I am bound under their spell for Thee.

Gatsby saw a green light across the bay.
I see a red one in-between the trees.

The wind blows gently,
Whisking away with it all,
Except memories.

a midnight cigarette in the wind
exhale
the wind blows the smoke back
stench
thinking it could have been avoided
return
what's that smell what were you doing
nothing
the lie reflects in the mud puddle and floating
ash
the wind saw it knows it
coughs
and
suffocates

i
"It's over, isn't it?" You ask,
Unsure of what to do. Bask
In the glory of forgetting a
Fight, fulfilling what I would say,
Night coming to take me away,
For I cannot stay. Breakaway, nay,
My mind will not sway. Play
For the day I will say
And pray that I must get
Away. Away. Away. And never ask
In what way I did bask.

ii
But the words are cut short.

 iii
And someone else will die tonight,
This is simply the human plight.
We do not control, or know,
How we'll react to Death's scythe.*
Running up from behind, poked sides?
Charging headlong, blind, and teeth bright?
Or a chase, running shorts chafing?
But I have not finished wri-

iv
The fever is the cure, no?

v
I do not suffer, or
Make others suffer, yet
I am told that I am
Heartless, lack empathy,
Am mean. My rage speaks truth,
And the truth can help you.

vi
It's all in your head, right?

Three and a half beers into my night and someone is already trying to fight me. I leave, hoping to find some solace from the rain and darkness, and I hear a strange sound. A kitten--someone's pet--left for dead on the side of the road after some ******* hit it and drove off. I could do nothing for it but cradle it in my jacket until it stopped breathing. I dig a hole in the mud and lay it inside, gently, before covering it up with dirt and rocks and saying a silent, soft prayer. Then I smoke a cigarette and go back to the house where the same **** who tried to fight me is laughing about the stupid animal he hit on his way here. I can do nothing but look at him with pity until he notices me and hits me in the face. I feel the blood gushing from my nose and watch as three people try to restrain the guy and yell at him to calm down. I grab my ****, get in my car, and drive away. I roll down my window to have another smoke and realize that someone is right on my *** while I'm doing seventy, honking, flashing headlights, and screaming things at me. The car rolls up beside me, driving level, and I realize it's the same guy, but now he's trying to throw **** into my window. I slam on the brakes and turn down a side road, taking the first few turns I can. No sign of the other driver, so I relax a little--enough to get me thinking. Thinking that if we don't confront our problems and put them to rest, they will continue to haunt us in some way or another. When I sleep, I see kittens nuzzling up to me. When I wake, I'm surrounded by flashing lights and feel warm wetness trickling down my face. And I hear a familiar voice say: "No idea, officer. He was just swerving in an out of the lane. I was a good distance back. The bumper damage must have been from hitting the ditch."

Modernism:
Self-reflection.
Introversion.
"Reality" Television.
Mid-life Crises.
Subtle Meaning.
Symbolism.
Joyce, Nietzsche, Freud.
Pretentious Jerks?
Philosophers?
All-knowing and
Ready to stir
(the ***, that is)?
Self. Centered. Strife.

Views on persons,
Not our treatment.
Love and Sadness,
Not what's smashed.
Rage, anger, hate.
Oblivious
To the world
That surrounds.

We built houses to control the weather,
Manipulating light, heat, and water.
We are not controlled by nature, apart
From our primal needs: food, ***, sleep, and drink,
Maybe a quick cigarette... But never
By the weather that we have not yet met.

When I was younger, I would dig holes in
The backyard, hoping to find some treasure
Or arrive in China. I would dig, dig,
And dig until I got bored or was told
To stop, but would soon be back out, trying
Once more to arrive in China or find
Some treasure. My expeditions could be
Put on hold, but never stopped. When I took
Breaks from digging, my desire to find
Something (like a water droplet on the
End of a spigot: building, building, and
Building until it becomes so heavy
That it drops off and plummets to the ground)
Would grow, grow, and grow until I could fight
The urge no more and was back out, digging.

Separate from
Love.
God.
Food.
Money.
Cleanliness.
Water.
Sleep.
The alcoholic from drink.
The *** addict from --
Air.
Time.
Privacy.
Freedom.
These things tear down, cause
Stress.
Illness.
Fear.
Sadness.
Anger.
But the return is hopeful,
As is the possibility of a won battle,
And, sometimes, it takes a few tries.

Is it really the old who smell?
Or do we smell to them?
We changed their world.
It's not that they have grown obsolete:
They now do not have as strong of a sway.
It is the newer generation.
The old do not smell.
It is the young who smell.
Smell, to cover up the influence of the old.
For we are the ones in control, not they.
They were, but are now no longer.
So instead, they watch. They watch as their world changes.
And their smell is covered.

It can go on Apples,
Bread,
By itself.
You say it for a photograph,
One to place
On a shelf,
To be covered up by many books,
Words and thoughts
That some may know.
But it also sits within the fridge,
Taking time,
Little, to grow
Mold that could ****
One who tastes it,
Inadvertently, of course.
With all these questions
One could ask,
Are they ever on the source?
"Cows, silly,"
Comes the reply,
Simply, in a passive way.
And so it's settled,
And more is bought,
While another has a price to pay.

Have you ever broken something
Just to create destruction?
I have, and after, when I had disposed of the remains,
When my hands were bloodied
And cut, raw, trembling,
I felt remorse for what I had done.
But no amount of sorrow could bring back what I had cast
Into the very depths of uselessness.
I had touched something I should never have,
And it wore me until I was threadbare.
Thus I learned not to seek power,
And to be gentle with that which surrounds me.

Red ants climb up my leg,
Heading for that sweet, infinite
Amount of sugar
Residing on my lips and fingers.
The apple I am holding drops
And falls to the ground, landing flatly.
I am on my knees, collapsing downward,
Dirt landing at my sides.
The apple rolls away,
And the ants swarm on me.
They bore into my eyes,
Crawl into my ears,
And bite at my tongue.
When they are finished,
My skin is gone,
And my white skull is exposed
And empty.
I sleep,
Relieved to be no longer burdened by the ants.
*They are full, but ready to find another victim,
While I have exhausted my usefulness.

I hate
Those things.
Like, the
Thoughts that
Say to
Me that
I should
Follow
Set and
Well-known
Rules.
Thank you,
And just
Ignore
My whine.

As I walked, I spotted
On the ground in the cracks
Of cement, a flower.
A ****, yes, but a flower
Nonetheless. It was trampled flat
Though still alive, reaching a leaf
For sunlight, help. I went by.

Yet still it hangs on my mind.
Still I see it reaching out,
Crying, wondering what it did
To deserve this. It remains like
The lost child: unsure, panicked, dejected.

As I walked, I spotted
On the ground in the cracks
Of cement, a flower.
A ****, yes, but a flower
Nonetheless. It was trampled flat
Though still alive, reaching a leaf
For sunlight, help. I picked it
And put it in a vase.

As I walked, I spotted
On the ground in the cracks
Of cement, a flower.
A ****, yes, but a flower
Nonetheless. It was trampled flat
Though still alive, reaching a leaf
For sunlight, help. I went by.

Yet still it hangs on my mind.
Still I see it reaching out,
Crying, wondering what it did
To deserve this. It remains like
The lost child: unsure, panicked, dejected.

As I walked, I spotted,
On the ground in the cracks
Of cement, a different flower.
A ****, yes, but a flower
Nonetheless. It was stretched out
Tall, full, bloomed, looking towards
The sunlight and reveling in it.
I picked it and put it in a vase.

What have you
Around you
That scorns so?

Misery.

What have you
Around you
That pains so?

Lost wishes.

What have you
Inside you
That feels?

Not a thing.

Large, Red Snowflakes flit
To the ground. The wind
Carries them around,
Forcing them into
Strange places; Locked in
Grilles; Drowned in Rivers;
Caught in the Smoke of
Roaring Fires; Blown
Into places that
They do not belong,
Like Fields, Sewage,
And the garage. Orange
Yellow, some even Green,
And, of course, Red.
Underneath them exists
Some sort of Ground: Grass,
Asphalt, Tombstones--It
Could be anything.
Renewal will come,
All will be shown once
More, Schedules will
Resume--But, until
Then, all that is seen
Are Large, Red Snowflakes
Scattered on the Ground.

That hint of a childish smile.
The type of longing smile.
The smile that sees, that knows, that desires, that wills, that wants, but         cannot have.
It is a farce.
The smile hides.
It implies.
It is covered, like a pit to trap a wild animal, leaves concealing the certain death that rests beneath a drop.
Aware, knowing of what it is doing, hiding, preventing.
But still it slips.
It still shows.
It shows the truth, the thoughts, the feelings.
That you do not want to show, do not want to have.
But do.
So it surfaces.
Lightly.
Enough, so that the knowing, wary, familiar eye may catch it.
And embrace it.

I see you in the shadows,
See you waiting for something
That probably will not come,
Like the child wondering
Where Daddy has gone to and
Waiting for him to return.
I see you in the fields,
See you with your arms spread wide,
Calling out in a language
That I do not understand,
On your knees, begging, crying,
Hoping to repair your sins.
I see you back where I first
Witnessed your atrocities:
Your back arched, you gasping for
Breath, clothes strewn about the room,
Disheveled hair, tears streaming
Down your cheeks, makeup smearing...
I see you now, outside of
A brick building, a living
Thing inside of you, though not
For much longer. I see you
Come out, disgusted. You see
Me, and I apologize.

All of this
Work, insinuating
Writing... What ever
Happened to
Making change,
Pushing boundaries,
Seeing something new?
Concerns now
Circulate
Around love,
Complaints, Writing,
But revolution
Is gone from
Sight; Thoughts
Of change
Abound no more;
Ideas lie buried
Beneath the rubble
Of the crumbled foundation.
The house survives,
Flourishes,
But cannot
Stay standing
For much longer.