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And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep,
But I have promises to keep,
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

Of easy wind and downy flake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
To ask if there is some mistake.
He gives his harness bells a shake

The darkest evening of the year.
Between the woods and frozen lake
To stop without a farmhouse near
My little horse must think it queer

To watch his woods fill up with snow.
He will not see me stopping here
His house is in the village, though;
Whose woods these are I think I know.
Never felt more peaceful
in the middle of all this havoc
either way I'm alive/ I'm dead
listening to the lightning
sitting in this storm
I forget about what is important
I forget about what is life
I forget about what is reality
It's such a melancholy gray up there
fills my soul
engulfs me
finds me
takes me
to infinity
and beyond
The streetlight
so bright tonight

it stings into
my thoughts
my soul
I still know

what happened
that night

gunshots echo
screams untold.

Streetlight,
oh streetlight
the secrets that
you hold.
brown hair
green eyes
****?
respectable size
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OOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOOOOOOOOOOO

OOOOOOOO­OOOOO
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OOOOOOOOOOOOO

OOOOOOOOOOOOO
OO­OOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOOOOOOOOOOO

OOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOO­OOOOOOOOO
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­
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OOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOO
I
Half of me has already died
and lies inside
the wallpaper called my skin
What is left within? I ask,
What is left within?

The past has been washed away
the future in blue-darkness
I am submerged
in the deep-dull ocean

I’ll drown here
I’ve said it for the last year
yet my lungs have not filled with water
they’ve stayed filled with air
that’s life, you know
underwater, in this cold sea of despair

But I’m Socrates
why, why, why, why
must I let this murky water
eat me alive?

These questions come and go
such as the women
talking of michelangelo

The water runs
deep in this hollow-hole
of something once called
my soul

my soul

My soul
hanging by a string
that’s me, you know
I am just the string
grasping something so heavy
oh, the hell I’ll bring

The water runs cold
turns to ice, like stone
But
my soul is alive
my soul is on fire
let it melt like butter
and burn like desire

II
Alas, with life melted away
underwater I still lay
and to my dismay
nothing has changed

I’m back where I began
underneath the water,
smothered by the hand
of the greatest man
forever and only known
as Mr. Jones

He holds me down
underwater

God
he’ll make me drown

No
my soul is alive
my soul is on fire
let it melt like butter
and burn like desire

I singed his hand
he let me go
as I float to the surface
to and fro
only to be greeted
by the lovers
of Mr Jones

With their fiery hearts they push
me back down

Back to the ocean
back here to drown
⁩   
OLD MAN                                    WHITE COLLAR
OLD MAN                                    WHITE COLLAR
OLD MAN                                    WHITE COLLAR
OLD MAN                                    WHITE COLLAR
                     SAYS SOMETHING
                     SAYS SOMETHING
                     SAYS SOMETHING
                     SAYS SOMETHING
So I was at Subway.
When I saw a pair of spicy meatballs
walk through the door.
*******, she was so sizzling.
Party in the front,
party in the back,
and yes, I would like that toasted.
She made my $5.00 Foot-long
feel like it was $4.95.
this summer
has
r
c       a
l        a      m
         a      m       p
                 m       p
                            p
This is not church anymore, brother.
I was asked to take off her jacket. The ribbon had
just calmly slipped off of the box.
Was it the snake Mr. Lawrence?
Mom, I greeted her well.
Are you going to be okay tonight?
I will show you the frozen tundras under my fingernails.
Yes, yes
I can recall. (there are times when I wish that the night was older)
                     because that's when you see the future.
That is what everything means.
(When it comes to being,
I am
here) Come
one, come all!
Watch the Magician vanish!
Look,
he's gone.
This poem is written with multiple voices.
On fulfilling self
nestles that in the needles
of pine and the moment—
                            indirect.
This undoubted thought
                     that penetrates my heart.
I figure that it will fit into my pocket.
the man looks
visual slaps
laughing
Dreams from the ocean.
It hurts to talk.
Living is the strangest concept.
th
th
there is a sweet spot
                              between the ceiling
                                                          and the floor.
In music,
             you can hear tension
                                             unresolved
Joanne Rowlgobbleng was born on 31st July 1965 at Yate General Hospgobbletal just outsgobblede Brgobblestol, and grew up gobblen Gloucestershgobblere gobblen England and gobblen Chepstow, Gwent, gobblen south-east Wales.  

Her father, Peter, was an agobblercraft enggobbleneer at the Rolls Royce factory gobblen Brgobblestol and her mother, Anne, was a scgobbleence techngobblecgobblean gobblen the Chemgobblestry department at Wyedean Comprehensgobbleve, where Jo herself went to school.  

The young Jo grew up surrounded by books. “gobble lgobbleved for books,’’ she has sagobbled. “gobble was your basgobblec common-or-garden bookworm, complete wgobbleth freckles and Natgobbleonal Health spectacles.”  

Jo wanted to be a wrgobbleter from an early age. She wrote her fgobblerst book at the age of sgobblex – a story about a rabbgobblet, called ‘Rabbgobblet’. At just eleven, she wrote her fgobblerst novel – about seven cursed dgobbleamonds and the people who owned them.  

Jo left home at egobbleghteen for Exeter Ungobbleversgobblety, where she read so wgobbledely outsgobblede her French and Classgobblecs syllabus that she clocked up a fgobblene of £50 for overdue books at the Ungobbleversgobblety lgobblebrary. Her knowledge of Classgobblecs would one day come gobblen handy for creatgobbleng the spells gobblen the Harry Potter sergobblees, some of whgobblech are based on Latgobblen.  

Her course gobblencluded a year gobblen Pargobbles, where she shared an apartment wgobbleth an gobbletalgobblean, a Russgobblean and a Spangobbleard. “gobble lgobbleved gobblen Pargobbles for a year as a student,” Jo tweeted after the 2015 terrorgobblest attacks there. “gobblet’s one of my favourgobblete places on earth.”  

After her degree, she moved to London and worked gobblen a sergobblees of jobs, gobblencludgobbleng one as a researcher at Amnesty gobblenternatgobbleonal.  

“There gobblen my lgobblettle offgobblece gobble read hastgobblely scrgobblebbled letters smuggled out of totalgobbletargobblean reggobblemes by men and women who were rgobbleskgobbleng gobblemprgobblesonment to gobblenform the outsgobblede world of what was happengobbleng to them. My small partgobblecgobblepatgobbleon gobblen that process was one of the most humblgobbleng and gobblenspgobblergobbleng expergobbleences of my lgobblefe.”  

Jo concegobbleved the gobbledea of Harry Potter gobblen 1990 whgobblele sgobblettgobbleng on a delayed tragobblen from Manchester to London Kgobbleng’s Cross. Over the next fgobbleve years, she began to map out all seven books of the sergobblees. She wrote mostly gobblen longhand and gradually bugobblelt up a mass of notes, many of whgobblech were scrgobblebbled on odd scraps of paper.  

Takgobbleng her notes wgobbleth her, she moved to northern Portugal to teach Englgobblesh as a foregobblegn language, marrgobbleed Jorge Arantes gobblen October 1992 and had a daughter, Jessgobbleca, gobblen 1993. When the marrgobbleage ended later that year, she returned to the UK to lgobbleve gobblen Edgobblenburgh, carrygobbleng not just Jessgobbleca but a sugobbletcase contagobblengobbleng the fgobblerst three chapters of Harry Potter and the Phgobblelosopher’s Stone.  

Gobblen Edgobblenburgh, Jo tragobblened as a teacher and began teachgobbleng gobblen the cgobblety’s schools, but she contgobblenued to wrgobblete gobblen every spare moment.  

Havgobbleng completed the full manuscrgobblept, she sent the fgobblerst three chapters to a number of lgobbleterary agents, one of whom wrote back askgobbleng to see the rest of gobblet. She says gobblet was “the best letter gobble had ever recegobbleved gobblen my lgobblefe.”  

The book was fgobblerst publgobbleshed by Bloomsbury Chgobbleldren’s Books gobblen June 1997, under the name J.K. Rowlgobbleng.  

The “K” stands for Kathleen, her paternal grandmother’s name. gobblet was added at her publgobblesher’s request, who thought a book by an obvgobbleously female author mgobbleght not appeal to the target audgobbleence of young boys.  

Her fgobblerst novel was publgobbleshed gobblen the US under a dgobblefferent tgobbletle, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, gobblen 1998.  Sgobblex further tgobbletles followed gobblen the Harry Potter sergobblees, each achgobbleevgobbleng record-breakgobbleng success.  

Gobblen 2001, the fgobblelm adaptatgobbleon of the fgobblerst book was released by Warner Bros., and was followed by sgobblex more book adaptatgobbleons, concludgobbleng wgobbleth the release of the egobbleghth fgobblelm, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2, gobblen 2011.  

J.K. Rowlgobbleng has also wrgobbletten two small volumes, whgobblech appear as the tgobbletles of Harry’s school books wgobblethgobblen the novels. Fantastgobblec Beasts and Where to Fgobblend Them and Qugobbleddgobbletch Through The Ages were publgobbleshed gobblen March 2001 gobblen agobbled of Comgobblec Relgobbleef.  

Gobblen December 2008, The Tales of Beedle the Bard was publgobbleshed gobblen agobbled of her gobblenternatgobbleonal chgobbleldren’s chargobblety, Lumos.  

Gobblen 2012, J.K. Rowlgobbleng’s dgobbleggobbletal company Pottermore was launched, where fans can enjoy news, features and artgobblecles, as well as content by J.K. Rowlgobbleng.  

Gobblen the same year, J.K. Rowlgobbleng publgobbleshed her fgobblerst novel for adults, The Casual Vacancy (Lgobblettle, Brown), whgobblech has now been translated gobblento 44 languages and was adapted for TV by the BBC gobblen 2015.  

Under the pseudonym Robert Galbragobbleth, J.K. Rowlgobbleng also wrgobbletes crgobbleme novels, featurgobbleng prgobblevate detectgobbleve Cormoran Strgobbleke. The fgobblerst of these, The Cuckoo’s Callgobbleng was publgobbleshed to crgobbletgobblecal acclagobblem gobblen 2013, at fgobblerst wgobblethout gobblets author’s true gobbledentgobblety begobbleng known.  The Sgobblelkworm followed gobblen 2014, and 2015 saw the publgobblecatgobbleon of Career of Evgobblel.  All are publgobbleshed by Lgobblettle, Brown. The sergobblees gobbles begobbleng adapted for a major new televgobblesgobbleon sergobblees for BBC One, produced by Brontë Fgobblelm and Televgobblesgobbleon.  

J.K. Rowlgobbleng’s 2008 Harvard commencement speech was publgobbleshed gobblen 2015 as an gobblellustrated book, Very Good Lgobbleves: The Frgobblenge Benefgobblets of Fagobblelure and the gobblemportance of gobblemaggobblenatgobbleon (Sphere), and sold gobblen agobbled of Lumos and ungobbleversgobblety-wgobblede fgobblenancgobbleal agobbled at Harvard.  

gobblen 2016, J.K. Rowlgobbleng collaborated wgobbleth Jack Thorne and John Tgobbleffany on an orgobbleggobblenal new story for the stage. Harry Potter and the Cursed Chgobbleld Parts One and Two gobbles now runngobbleng at The Palace Theatre gobblen London’s West End. The scrgobblept book was publgobbleshed (Lgobblettle, Brown) to mark the play’s opengobbleng gobblen July 2016, and gobblenstantly topped the bestseller lgobblests.  

Also gobblen 2016, J.K. Rowlgobbleng made her screenwrgobbletgobbleng debut wgobbleth the fgobblelm Fantastgobblec Beasts and Where to Fgobblend Them, a further extensgobbleon of the Wgobblezardgobbleng World, released to crgobbletgobblecal acclagobblem gobblen November 2016.  A prequel to Harry Potter, thgobbles new adventure of Maggobblezoologgobblest Newt Scamander marked the start of a fgobbleve-fgobblelm sergobblees to be wrgobbletten by the author.  

J.K. Rowlgobbleng has been marrgobbleed to Dr Negobblel Murray sgobblence 2001. They lgobbleve gobblen Edgobblenburgh wgobbleth thegobbler son, Davgobbled (born 2003) and daughter, Mackenzgobblee (born 2005).
The silence in the big room
A void of nothingness minimalism
Caressing my inner thigh like some love
That was the ashes on the floor
It was inanimate
It was real

It was real


Maybe the past was something of a string
That was tied to my soul, pulling me ever so close
To the edge of everything pure
In order to search for the remnants of poetic echoes
And scream them out
As if they ever meant something to me
The scavenged world that is my own
With the falsity that is happiness
Let it burn away into ******* ashes
Look at it
*******, look at it!
Now it is the real
And that's how it was
The blackest part of the sky is the stars
The black, black stars
who whisper sweet dreams of becoming something won't become
Oh the black night
and the dark stars
How it was
How it is
How it will be
The cold & forgetful
gaze.                        Emptiness——
an expanse
of the swollen air. (the sky, probably)
the red,  the blue
and the pink

                             i ccome,
into it full, the beach and all.
& life itself  
              (i love you, still)
the maddening thing.
                  I go forever to figure what I must.
Her I should tell I her
          that love
              tell her?
I tell would
    I
  love
tell love her that love her? Tell I should
love. Love her? Her?
  Love. Tell tell
          I love
her? Would. Her? Tell that I I if I her?

      Her? Her? Tell
  love her love
  her. Not
        her?
        Her her
  her tell her love I’m I tell
      her?
Her
her

    should that
    would her I would her? That
    tell I should.
      I
      If if
her?
      That

  I am not sure.
Sure I am.
        Am I
          I if
her I tell. I her
her?
Her.
Her?
  Would
  tell
if tell tell I. Tell her
  that
  if
  love if love
I her?
Her? Love her I tell

  Her?
      Should her?
    I love I tell her? If. That I I I. I love if. Her? That tell love sure love her?
Should sure. Her tell
Her? I
I
      tell I I love
her
  I if should if
  love
I I
  I I should that
      her? Tell
  tell Her? I as I if
would
    love I

I her? Her
  love tell sure
would tell If. Her
  her
that
  I. Would that I. I
tell I her I
I
    I that. I
  her
        I her
tell would her? Her? I
    love her?
        Her? I love

    Her? Her would tell love
her? Her? Tell
her should if
        I would I that her?
If her I love
  would
  I

I love am.
    Her?
Love,
        love if if that if I love
love if love would I I sure? Tell
  her?
    Love should I I love I
  I tell her?
I I should
  if tell would her
should
I tell her?
Should
      I
    tell. I tell.
      If if
          I
          her if am. I I
      love I. I her? I should tell
  that
    her?
Her
      would her? Love her? If her should if her love her would. If I I would that should her
        love

      love should love love tell love. Love should
          should that her love I
would
        I her? love
  love. I that would.
  tell
would. Not her? Would I love

  if. Should should
  I Her?
    Love I if
      if her
          her?
                            Tell if love
would tell

should I?
Her I should tell I her that love tell her? I tell would I love tell love her that love her? Tell I should love. Love her? Her? Love. Tell tell I love her? Would. Her? Tell that I I if I her? Her? Her? Tell love her love her. Not her? Her her her tell her love I’m I tell her? Her her should that would her I would her? That tell I should. I If if her? That I am not sure. Sure I am. Am I I if her I tell. I her her? Her. Her? Would tell if tell tell I. Tell her that if love if love I her? Her? Love her I tell. Her? Should her? I love I tell her? If. That I I I. I love if. Her? That tell love sure love her?Should sure. Her tell. Her? I I tell I I love her I if should if love I I I eye should that her? Tell tell her? I as I if would love I I her? Her love tell sure would tell If. Her her that I. Would that I. I tell I her eye I I that. I her I her tell would her? Her? I love her? Her? I love her? Her would tell love her? Her? Tell her should if I would I that her? If her I love would I. I love am. Her? Love, love if if that if I love love if love would I I sure? Tell her? Love should I I love I I tell her? I I should if tell would her should I tell her? Should I tell. I tell. If if I her if am. I I love I. I her? I should tell that her? Her would her? Love her? If her should if her love her would. If I I would that should her love love should love love tell love. Love should should that her love I would I her? love love. I that would tell would. Not her? Would I love if. Should should eye her? Love I if if her her? Tell if love would tell should I? Her I should tell I her that love tell her? I tell would I love tell love her that love her? Tell I should love. Love her? Her? Love. Tell tell I love her? Would. Her? Tell that I I if I her? Her? Her? Tell love her love her. Not her? Her her her tell her love I’m I tell her? Her her should that would her I would her? That tell I should. I If if her? That I am not sure. Sure I am. Am I I if her I tell. I her her? Her. Her? Would tell if tell tell I. Tell her that if love if love I her? Her? Love her I tell. Her? Should her? I love I tell her? If. That I I I. I love if. Her? That tell love sure love her?Should sure. Her tell. Her? I I tell I I love her I if should if love I I I eye should that her? Tell tell her? I as I if would love I I her? Her love tell sure would tell If. Her her that I. Would that I. I tell I her eye I I that. I her I her tell would her? Her? I love her? Her? I love her? Her would tell love her? Her? Tell her should if I would I that her? If her I love would I. I love am. Her? Love, love if if that if I love love if love would I I sure? Tell her? Love should I I love I I tell her? I I should if tell would her should I tell her? Should I tell. I tell. If if I her if am. I I love I. I her? I should tell that her? Her would her? Love her? If her should if her love her would. If I I would that should her love love should love love tell love. Love should should that her love I would I her? love love. I that would tell would. Not her? Would I love if. Should should eye her? Love I if if her her? Tell if love would tell should I?
old man
takes a sip
of his gin & tonic

he sits at the end of
the bar

looking down,
looking back

he sees a woman
a young woman
on the other end

she sits and looks
at him
she smiles
at him

a man
    joins the woman
the young woman
she smiles
at him

the man
then looks
to the end of
the bar

and sees himself
sipping his gin & tonic

old man
still drinks away
the memories
⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠Yes,
we all seem to look at it
for at least a moment or so. We
become enshrouded in ourselves. (it pulls
us away
⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢ from things)
⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢ We eat our dreams
off the plates
⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢ of the restaurant. And we will stay
distraught.  

There is a golden picture, an atlas.
Hung upon the bathroom wall
held by a nail
                    dangling,
                              ­   off to the side.
It had a warmth to it. Latin ramblings
and labels littered the grand panorama.
But the bathroom stayed minuscule;
⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡ ⁢  ⁠ ⁡a common misconception.
Artificial in nature.
Humanities failure.
Yet authority's savior.
This murky-dark stranger.
  
The black pearl watches me, faintly
  
I find it hard to bare.
That he was always there.
In the corner, computer, or chair.
Nobody can avoid his ruthless glare.  
  
The black pearl watches me, patiently.
  
I have something to say.
Must he always rue the day?
Can he not see our dismay?
Is there another way?  
  
Nay.
  
Because this black pearl is still recording me.
Embezzling my privacy.
Working so quickly and silently.
Until finally, our emotions were gone entirely.  
  
The black pearl is the camera who watches me,  
  
blatantly.
She can be found hovering slightly
     above the puddle of rainwater.
She beckons. I comply outright,
     but refuse in solemn thought.
One foresees
the cat as it dives into
a lost liquid. There is
water on the the stove;
       blue, color in heat.
A frightening ability—
admonished in myself;
an open hole
dialectic man
something of a
cynic man
          man
Here to burn
holes in
your plastic
happiness
To just be it: a moment
I come back to. Ourselves,
going before the wet rock (again,
before the sun hits).
I stared at it;
the dead skunk on the road.
And I wondered to myself
                how it lived and how it died.
What it would have been to me;
                this animal, this thing.
                How the cold, silver lights must’ve shined on it,
possibly in the blackness.
suspicion of
                     old tradition
                              religion
aum aum aum
aum aum aum
aum aum aum
aum aum aum
aum aum aum
aum aum aum
aum aum aum
aum aum aum
aum aum aum
aum aum aum
And there was nothing there
    She was naked
        That knocked me out

               Everything was real at that moment
                   I became an artist
                        I took it all in

****** it in like cigarette smoke
     This hazy-dawn that lit her up
         It was an indescribable tension

                 She touched me with my mind
                     I push back--
                         Ignition

                                                    She was gripping my hand with her eyes
                                              Waiting for time to catch up with our hearts
                                        And I took it all in
I’m heading near the ***** pine
To pick a flower from the mind.
My footprints leave a brawny mark
Along the tender forest line.

-And may the grass stay keenly clear
Before the sturdy moon appears
Above the trees and limpid lake;
It barely needs to be sincere.
This ones for the girl
who has cried in the corner,
for most of her time.
Let me silence your sobbing.
You alone, had silenced mine.
Her eyes
glanced
at
me.

She then
smiled.

She stuck
out
from the
rest.

Bold,
like a  
king size
Sharpie.
Head
bathed in
water.

The crowd
looks on
with joy
and acceptance.

But the
head of
the child,
the child
bathed in
water
is confused.

With a lack
of understanding,
the child
begins to weep
in front of
the crowd.

Every
single
human being
in the crowd
chooses not
to acknowledge
this weeping
of confusion.
For they
find it to be
a common
normality
of baptism.

The lights
are bright,
the ritual
is over
the crowd
applauds.

Yet I contemplate.

Does the crowd
take 2 limbs
of skin and
cells, (which
are connected
to an even
larger body
of cells
and skin
and bones)
and move
them through
the air,
then emit a
sound only
when both
of the limbs
meet each other
in holy matrimony.

No, the question.
The question is,
why does the
crowd clap?

Must they reward
the confused child
for not understanding
the lines
and the curves
that form the
letters,
letters
that form the
name,
a name
of goodness
and of gold,
A name
of power
and of authority.


Jesus Christ!
It’s Jesus Christ.

Does the crowd
clap for Jesus,
or the child?

Hell, what about
both?

Here’s a theory,
maybe the
people in the
pews dressed
in their formal
gowns and
their suits
move their
hands together
to symbolize
the beginning
of the child’s
lifelong relationship
with that
golden man,
spread out upon
that lowercase t.

Every child
must need that
extra man,
that golden
man to
guide them
through the
hardships of
life, because
you know,
the human race
is too stupid
to do anything
alone.

Because God
always has to
know where
his kids are.

So they do
not sin.

You can’t
break the
rules.
Or else
you my
as well be
dead when
you die.

Because when
your sinful life
is over, you
go to hell.
and live
out your
life-after-life
burning.

Yet is this hell
true?

While writing
these words,
I am alive.
I live in
on earth,
in America,
oh God,
America.

The America
that is yours,
God.

You’ve won!
You see, these people
listen to you,
the holy one!
You are our
parent,
our favorite
parent,
our only
parent.

For you are
the reason
for the season.
Yeah!
Merry *******
Christmas.

I’d just like
to thank you
for making me
both rich and
white.

It looks
pretty cloudy
outside. It
might start
raining, raining
Bibles from the
sky.

I hope one
does not hit
me.

I see adults
waiting outside
with their wicker
baskets.
Waiting to grab
as many copies
of the holy
book from
the bookstore
in the sky
called heaven.


So rain! Rain
from the heavens!

Let your children
of earth
use their brains
to eat
the body
and drink the
blood of
Christ.

Pick up the
Bibles that
have fallen,
pick them up
like picking
the vegetables
from a
garden.

Put them in
your wicker
baskets
and take them
take them
to the next
generation.

To the confused
child, freshly
washed like
a vegetable.
Never teach
him to open
his eyes.

So he’ll
never see
that Satan
fell from
the sky
too.
Head
bathed in
water.

The crowd
looks on
with joy
and acceptance.

But the
head of
the child,
the child
bathed in
water
is confused.

With a lack
of understanding,
the child
begins to weep
in front of
the crowd.

Every
single
human being
in the crowd
chooses not
to acknowledge
this weeping
of confusion.
For they
find it to be
a common
normality
of baptism.

The lights
are bright,
the ritual
is over
the crowd
applauds.

Yet I contemplate.

Does the crowd
take 2 limbs
of skin and
cells, (which
are connected
to an even
larger body
of cells
and skin
and bones)
and move
them through
the air,
then emit a
sound only
when both
of the limbs
meet each other
in holy matrimony.

No, the question.
The question is,
why does the
crowd clap?

Must they reward
the confused child
for not understanding
the lines
and the curves
that form the
letters,
letters
that form the
name,
a name
of goodness
and of gold,
A name
of power
and of authority.


Jesus Christ!
It’s Jesus Christ.

Does the crowd
clap for Jesus,
or the child?

Hell, what about
both?

Here’s a theory,
maybe the
people in the
pews dressed
in their formal
gowns and
their suits
move their
hands together
to symbolize
the beginning
of the child’s
lifelong relationship
with that
golden man,
spread out upon
that lowercase t.

Every child
must need that
extra man,
that golden
man to
guide them
through the
hardships of
life, because
you know,
the human race
is too stupid
to do anything
alone.

Because God
always has to
know where
his kids are.

So they do
not sin.

You can’t
break the
rules.
Or else
you my
as well be
dead when
you die.

Because when
your sinful life
is over, you
go to hell.
and live
out your
life-after-life
burning.

Yet is this hell
true?

While writing
these words,
I am alive.
I live in
on earth,
in America,
oh God,
America.

The America
that is yours,
God.

You’ve won!
You see, these people
listen to you,
the holy one!
You are our
parent,
our favorite
parent,
our only
parent.

For you are
the reason
for the season.
Yeah!
Merry *******
Christmas.

I’d just like
to thank you
for making me
both rich and
white.

It looks
pretty cloudy
outside. It
might start
raining, raining
Bibles from the
sky.

I hope one
does not hit
me.

I see adults
waiting outside
with their wicker
baskets.
Waiting to grab
as many copies
of the holy
book from
the bookstore
in the sky
called heaven.


So rain! Rain
from the heavens!

Let your children
of earth
use their brains
to eat
the body
and drink the
blood of
Christ.

Pick up the
Bibles that
have fallen,
pick them up
like picking
the vegetables
from a
garden.

Put them in
your wicker
baskets
and take them
take them
to the next
generation.

To the confused
child, freshly
washed like
a vegetable.
Never teach
him to open
his eyes.

So he’ll
never see
that Satan
fell from
the sky
too.
I would consider this my best work.
☶ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷;
☵ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷.
☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷;
☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲ ☳ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☶ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷.
☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☳ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷;
☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☳ ☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷;
☲ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲ ☲ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☷;
☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☵.
☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷;
☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷.
☶ ☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☵.
☷ ☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☴;
☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☴ ☶ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☴ ☵ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷;
☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷.
☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱ ☳ ☴.
☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷;
☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱☱ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷ ☷ ☲☳☴☵☶☷☲☳☴☵☶☷
there are beautiful women all around me
(there are none who really |see| me) all they
see is an |imperfect| man(all i |see| is
nobody)for it is my |invisibility| in my reflection, all from my
d e p r e s s i o n

(all i |see| is nobody) this grand oppression coming from my
d e p r e s s i o n is what makes me so hard to |see|( here is how you find me ) first you must stop and look (look with your heart) do not look with your eyes, maybe you will |see| what i have done here

you                                                          see
it
was me who held the door,
                                it
was me who said hello to you,
it
was me who tried to be |perfect|,
  who tried to impress,
but                                                        still
i
am
ugly

i
am
the
invisibility
in my reflection

this is my
d e p r e s s i o n

and all i see(and who will ever see me)
is
nobody
ly        er        ti        rata
     i         at        tat       tat
ly        er        ti        rata
     i         at        tat       tat
night
back and fourth
forever
Out here in the dampened weeds
this is where I sit
pondering this day
of winter/of spring
the line so blurred between

The sky is gray
hovering over me
like guilt/like temptation
the line so blurred between

Old birch tree
staring at me
such as mother/such as father
the line so blurred between

Sitting here
listening to thoughts in my head
They tell me
to listen/to rebel

Yet with
the line so blurred between
I don't know what to do
it is so hard to tell
The little girl
locked herself
away in her corner,
bellowing with grief.

I had asked her
what was wrong

and she unwound
her sorrowful strings.

Not good enough
she was,

not good enough
to breathe.
For Sam Callahan*

The love that was the feeling of scurrying across
the sun sponge called the pavement

Scurrying from life's eternal rays of reality
and taking our shot in the darkness

Scurrying from the disbelievers

Scurrying from the hard lines of the past
and living in our dwelling of the spectacular now
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