Square root of 123,456,789
=111,111,111
111,111,111 - 123,456,789
=12,345,678

Square root of 12,345,678
=11,111,111
11,111,111 - 12,345,678
=1,234,567

Square root of 1,234,567
=1,111,111
1,111,111 - 1,234,567
=123,456

Square root of 123,456
=111,111
111,111 - 123,456
=12,345

Square root of 12,345
=11,111
11,111 - 12,345
=1,234

Square root of 1,234
=1,111
1,111 - 1,234
=123

Square root of 123
=111
111 - 123
=12

1 - 2 = -1

Follicle Poem
December 6, 2013

A mental relapse occurs.
I see hands plowing through my head of hair
They continue to grasp at the roots,
as if attempting to expose a truth hidden underneath.
But what secrets could bequeath a hair follicle?
Well, one might tell a tale.

Scared of the dark, a 6 year old Wynn laid awake in bed.
He prolonged the inevitable destitution of a dream state.
No longer wanting to accept a reoccurring nightmare,
he took to a dreary exercise of staying awake in the dark.
One hair follicle today may tell of how,
on that night it did not rise in a panicked state.
Wynn had finally conquered his fear of the dark.

"Something felt different today," said Follicle #567.
A new shampoo.
But more than that, strange scissors.
"Who is this new person cutting Wynn's hair now?"
remarked one hair follicle,
"I wonder what happened to the usual lady?"
She had passed away.

An emerging chest hair observed the extended family has grown recently.
"Darker relatives who look different and live in other regions of the world.
Who are they and why do they get treated differently?
Nobody has heard of the ***** region in the southern hemisphere,
or armpit land where our hair family members supposedly smell weird."
The perspective of a follicle in puberty.

"The loud sound of electricity and gears grinding scares me.
There is a storm which ravishes our lands.
First, a foamy cloud surrounds us.
Next, comes a sharp stinging sensation,
not a pleasant feeling to be set free from your roots.
A tidal wave crashes, washing away my follicle friends and family forever.
Then, the lightning strikes - dooming us all."
A ****** follicle's worst fear.

"We are a persevering bunch.
We cling to our conventions and grow, grow, grow.
But recently Wynn has done something new.
We thought he was feeding us honey,
so treacherous.
Sticky goop and stiff paper will be the end of us all.
Nobody wants to admit follicles are second-class citizens to smooth skin."
Waxing prematurely takes the lives of several million follicles annually.

"A rebel group of follicles known as the 'In-Growns' are up to no good.
They scheme with the pimples, plotting when and where to strike next.
I worry about Wynn - wish he could know we aren't all so ill-intentioned."
Follicle culture is derived from parenting, not just biology or anatomical location.

"The last of my kind, I have been contaminated with chemicals.
My color changed to blue.
I've heard the ancient legends about follicles once turned blonde.
We need to appease the summer sun god.
The others have all shriveled up or been brutally betrayed by the locals.
In hiding, we worry the scissor insurgents will discover our locations.
All I wanted was the freedom to express myself,
to be seen for who I really am - not just some color."
Follicles experience discrimination for numerous reasons.

"Drugs.
I can feeeel them in my DNA.
Something about me has changed and I like it.
Living life on the wild side these days.
I don't shower and don't care if I am greasy.
Every other follicle’s fears are irrational.
I'm gonna spread the word and grow out a bit.
Because that's what they expect of me, isn't it?
I mean, what good could come out of a drugged up follicle,
other than more waste of scalp space?"
Follicles who use drugs recreationally receive negative labels and harsh stigma.

"The wavy goodness from a gel rub,
is the highlight of the week.
We are fine, fresh, and fierce, ready to set the standard for follicle fashion.
If you are one of those lower class follicles,
who can't afford gel.
No worries - some might trickle down...
Just kidding!
Spray supports our monopoly on hair care products."
Fashionable follicles are extra sassy and have socio-economic privilege.

The relapse ends.
My head suddenly feels heavy,
swarmed with the hair follicle chronicles.
And the hands running through my head of hair become inspired.
They begin to tell their tales of times passed in Wynn's life.

Perspective means everything.

The radio doesn’t work.
It no longer distracts me
when I am driving
or obscures the thoughts
that used to hurt a lot.

I got new devices to
help me get through
dealing with what
American dummies
love to do.

Cellphone, laptop,
PlayStation four,
fun apps that
let me read
comic books,
watch TV,
and really good
movies.

In the race to resist
having to deal with
all the pain
we are all feeling,
I am killing it.

Don’t need chemicals
to fog or blackout,
don’t need to party
to ignore that nagging doubt,

I just fill every second with
modern tech ****,

so I can take my feelings
and turn the volume
down on all of them.

One more time
I thought of this
Shaking
Fully
Pulsating
Never known
My task
Searching
For the path
Which was
Like writings
On the sand
Taken away
by the Waves
True meaning
Of Life
Which was
Like a grape,
Jumping for
The fruit
Became
My dream

18* years
6,570 days
157,680 hours
9,460,800 minutes
567,648,000 seconds

is my life.

18 years I have lived,
brought up by a family
where emotions and love
was viewed as sin.
18 years I have begged
for fatherly affection
and for a mother's patience.
18 years I have lived in shadow
of the first child. of the one
that could do none but all wrong.

my life was not like most.
always pressured to be perfect
but that's been heard before.
but to stand there beside my father
already an insecure 15 year old
and have him bash my accomplishments
in front of my face. talking down
to me. to do more.
you can always do better.

7 years
you get the point
i have not known happiness.
i have lived with this heavy
presence all around me.
he became his own person.
Depression hung around my neck
like an anchor, constantly pulling
me to the ground and each time
i think this would be the final
time. the time that i could not
get up. wrapping around my
chest, squeezing the life
out of me. the breath.

4 years
i hated myself so much
overwhelmed by hate
worry and sadness
that i would go into my
room, take out my pocket knife
and carve away the pain.
let the blood flow.
scars up and down my
wrists and legs.
i would cry out in pain.
they knew.
they all knew what i was doing.
they were in the next room in fact.
but in my house, if you didn't
acknowledge a problem, it
didn't exist.
but my sickness did exist.
and i was left alone with it
for it to destroy me.
and so it did.

2 years
ago, i met this boy
who seemed quite nice at first
he was my first real boyfriend
and i trusted him.
but he had a monster behind that mask
that appeared every time i
would want to see my friends
or even spoke back to him.
he hit me. simple as that.
he hit me and choked me
and knocked me down to the ground
he told me i should **** myself
and i told him i already considered it.
i told myself that he was just playful
to stop being such a ***** about it.
i was afraid to leave him because
no one else would love me.
i would look in the mirror,
bruises around my neck
and his entire handprint
around my arm. i lied to my
mom when she asked, and she
believed me to avoid conflict.
it wasn't until in september
that we got into an argument in
the school's parking lot. it
was around 4 o'clock, we stayed
for film club so the lot was vacant.
he was angry, more so than usual.
he grabbed my arms and shook me violently.
slapped my face and threw me to the concrete
and left me there.
he drove off while i was unable to move
blinded by the pain in my head
from bashing it on the pavement
and crying out for anybody.
it seemed like forever until
my friends came out from the building
and found me.

1 year
i attempted suicide. (let's forget this make believe meter) i can't specify why i wanted to die because it was everything. ever since i can remember, i've been hoping for death to come. for it to be accidental because i didn't have the ***** to **** myself off. and it didn't happen as some great event, as some dramatic turning point. it was a realization of complete unhappiness with my life. of a definite desire for death. that i had nobody. i never knew love. never had affection. that being alive was just painful. and so, by my old means, i took the razor blade from under *the collected works of edgar allan poe and i sat on the floor. without a second thought, i jabbed it into my wrist, pulling the blade up. it wasn't long until my entire hand was coated by a crimson glove. my entire body throbbed, rocking me softly to sleep.apparently my parents found me in time. lucky me.

9 months
i have lived a somewhat different life. i decided not to rely on the love of others, but for me to love myself. and believe me, i'm still working on it. my wounds have turned to scars. nasty, ugly ones. but i'm in love with them. despite the antidepressants and the counseling, i still have bad days. i still miss the relief of cutting. i miss it more than anything. but those days no longer consume me.

you call me a mistake? i might be, but not in relation to you. others may read this, but it's you in which this matters. you wasted those days because you refused to act. i will take responsibility when needed, but this wasn't on me.

**you couldn't have possibly loved me, because you never knew me.

567

He gave away his Life—
To Us—Gigantic Sum—
A trifle—in his own esteem—
But magnified—by Fame—

Until it burst the Hearts
That fancied they could hold—
When swift it slipped its limit—
And on the Heavens—unrolled—

’Tis Ours—to wince—and weep—
And wonder—and decay
By Blossoms gradual process—
He chose—Maturity—

And quickening—as we sowed—
Just obviated Bud—
And when We turned to note the Growth—
Broke—perfect—from the Pod—

There’s a reason why
dancing under moonlight is a cliche.
The euphoria is relentless

Pink behind the rising moon
Your hipbone beneath my right hand
knees clash to Latin percussion
Together we count  
1 2 3…5 6 7

Trading vulnerabilities over pork and pasta,
I feel, for one awful moment,
The pain of my daughter’s contempt
You reassure a mother after being kicked by her child
123...567

Supine silence on yellow grass mats. Faint from heat
I feel sad when you recount
how I charged your phone first
You deserve kindness.  I am kind
1 2 3…5 6 7

Your laugh resounds above all
A solo from the audience
As proud and loud as any Jazzman’s improvisation  
encouraging us all to do better
1 2 3…5 6 7

Earthy smell of your skin spread across the sheets
Curled up with tan litheness, I watch
green block letters rise and fall.
Wishing it was more than breath propelling them up and down,
I curse my own heart for swelling
123...

It's emergence so brief and shattering,
you'd have to question it's existence.
****** from the swamp by the sky,
it is devoid of morality; it is the terror
that does not forgive what it hasn't
given permission to.

Abrupt hum of an Indian motorcycle,
streaking across the starving freeway,
leaving ribbons of red, in the long,
uncomfortably volcanic-black night.

The body on the machine is wrapped
in cheap, crimson leather, and topped
by a navy helmet, stamped by a
visor reflecting rushed stars.

Migraine-inducing headlights hit
it's prop-store-green body, as it
drips and steps towards a vintage
orange van. Through the videotape
windshield, it can see two still figures;
two figures with aviators and bandannas.

Road signs swing by; the air zipping
in and out of the helmet. The body,
effortlessly, weaves through and
past the few vehicles lost in the dark.

Decelerating, the Indian penetrates
an exit stained: 567-TX-155.

Inside the carpet lined cave,
the figures stare at the monster,
indifferent to it's existence -- well,
not entirely one reminds the other.
It's arms dance in front of it's eyes,
blinded by the freshly clicked
high-beams; unaware that they
are, slowly, stepping closer.

Approaching a skeletal forearm,
emulating a tree, the Indian gradually
becomes silent. The body walks it
behind the rooted elbow, laying it
on a web of wooded earth; pulling
up a sleeve, removing and resting
a watch on the hot, metallic carcass.

It removes it's scattering fingers,
green and twitching, from it's
shrub framed eyes. Looking
forward, two bottles of blackness
grow near. It is a miracle only
surpassed by the instability of
life, that I look upon you, one
bellows. Consider this not
personal, but a preemptive
admonishment. Simply: I
cannot allow you to live,
for I have heard what I
cannot understand. Please
know that I admire,
thus I destroy.

The leather-clad foot-claps
eat and spit the sleeping gravel.
Pace becomes quicker; frenzied,
even. Like a comet, exact in its
imprecision, the navy helmet
falls to the ground, capturing
a night-sky goodbye; casting
the moon, briefly, into her eye.
So brief you'd have to
question its existence.

It's body, pulpy and beet red,
lodges itself between their
pale, freckled fingers. They
consume, pause, then continue
to gnash on the foreign meat.

Yellow, like an ancient bone,
the moon curves and bends
with ever chomp. It can feel
it all. The insides, pulled and
wrapped around wrists; soon
yanking; soon gritty removal.
The light begins to blend
with the surrounding dark.
Last breath, ruined by the
brief choking it's flesh caused.
So brief you'd have to
question it's existence.  

Sweat rips down from her
hair, onto her eyelids. A
dead sprint is broken into,
before she throws herself
into woods, avoiding the
approaching beams of a
vehicle. Forty-three
seconds imitate the
vehicle and go by. She
lifts her eyes to the brim
of a bush; pupils sliding
side-to-side.

Van tires make the transition
from gravel to asphalt, as the
two figures are now, indifferently,
drenched in a red-bronze, becoming
crust around their lips. The driver
says, My father told me about him --
that. He said, if given life, it would
learn to take it. You cannot change
the nature of a monster. If we
remove it, we remove death.
We control the consent.

Her heels transform her sprint
into a statue's posture. The rocks
hurt her knees, as her hands soon
follow, crashing to the ground.
Scattering fingers reach towards
her, soon met by her petite grasp.
The same fingers grow still.

She reaches towards her side,
cradling the nickle handle of
The Last Killer
looking behind her, anger and
a plan, running down her face.

Hillary,

In regards to your previous email, we’ve checked your account and have decided that “alllivesmatter666” is not a sufficient password. Your password requires a letter with caps, and a special character. Furthermore, we regret to inform you that S.O.S is an urgent distress signal, and shouldn’t be used as an acronym for “Secretary of State.” Please refrain from using the words “Secret” and “Classified” in the title box of your emails, this will undoubtedly let foreign spies and officials know the significance of the subject in your messages. If you have any questions, or comments please feel free to contact us at ittsupport@gov.com

Best regards,

Benny Benghazi,
ITT Manager
(202) 567-9028