Do not dress in those rags for me. In fact,
Take off your clothes, each article, and with it
Take out your soul, lay it bare on the table,
And I will read it with you. Let us discover
The entirety of what makes you human.
I want to know, top to bottom, just how you click.
What you say is only the table of contents.
I am willing and wanting to read each chapter,
Memorize paragraphs, mull over the words,
And decipher the metaphors. You are a novel
I will keep by my bedside after I read to sleep,
And grab at in the morning as soon as I wake,
Before I even brush my teeth. So take it off,
You have no need for decoration. You can be
Naked as the day you were born. My love
Is the only cover you’ll need, and it’ll keep you warm.
It won’t suffocate you, I swear!

Dark and ordinary mornings start,
with haptic taps from my Apple watch,
and a yawning stretch, way before dawn.

I glance out my window, to check
the weather because that’s the spec
that decides whether, we’re outside
or we’re down to the gym inside.

“Alexa, brew,” I compel my AI
thank God, she understands,
and my Keurig gurgles to life.

I brush the ‘ol tusks and wash my face,
before wiggling into spandex and taking a place
on the bench by the door where our shoes are stored.

When Lisa comes out, stout coffee in hand
she slumps on the bench, with a sleepy pout.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she confides with a yawn,
“I barely closed my eyes - then it was dawn!”

Checking my watch, I haven’t the heart
to say ‘dawn’s a half hour after we start.’
Every morning we rise and jog a five K (3.1mi)
we decided, last year, that it’s the best way
to jump-start our brains and start our day.

Poets write about love, pure and chaste,
and less about morning alarms and toothpaste
but in these moments, the ways we start our day,
can influence our lives in interesting ways

Flexing of biceps,
Feeling pressure like the skins gonna rip,
Tiger pacing in this cage,
Make it hurt this time please,
Give me a double of that delicious pain.

Let me hear that clinking of steel,
Turn my flab to taut,
Let me kneel at that altar,
And let me sacrifice that pound of flesh.

Skin crawling with fire,
Burning at 15 million degrees,
Let the frenzy of my highlander ancestors possess me,
Fill me up with that Scottish rage.

Singular focus,
Struggle is oh-so-great,
Carry me across the crest.

Ascend me to that higher plain,
To where my demons are slain,
Where the rest is granted with trembling muscles,
And the lungs burn with blood and sweat.
Let my chest be darkened with persperation,
Raining down from my brow like a deluge from the heavens,
Brought in my efforts and gains

The alarm interrupted my sleep with the urgency of lust
or sudden inheritance - only to end up being neither.

“Alexa, good morning,” I say, as I stretch. My room lights illuminate - in red mode - like a submarine lit for night routine and my Keurig springs to life.

How could someone living my dull, slow, academic life be so walking-dead tired in the morning? After all I got - trying to focus on my tiny Apple watch - 4 hours sleep. I rubbed my dry eyes and auroras traveled across my lids.

When I pull open my drapes, all I see is a waning moon suggesting light to a dark world. I step around abandoned clothes, lying where they fell like soldiers.

Aggk! I recoil when I see a three-day-old corpse in the mirror.
Ugh, gross, I fell asleep wearing my ****** detox mask.

My clock reads 5:40am. I whisper to my AI, “Alexa, what’s today’s forecast?” “Currently, It’s 21°, today will be sunny with a high of 27°” she whispers back.

In a moment of non assignment related forethought, while tooth brushing, I strip my pillowcase, tossing it on a pile of ***** clothes next to the full hamper of equally ***** clothes.

MattyBRaps begins throbbing “Little Bit” in the room next door. That means Leong’s awake - she’s obsessed with a 15 year old boy-singer on Youtube.

I wiggle into my spandex, grab my iPad and water bottle, then head down to the basement gym. I can replay my chemistry class while walking on the treadmill.

Good morning.

It’s a rainy, snowy Tuesday morning, so I headed to our fitness center (in the basement) to walk on a treadmill. On arrival there were four or five guys there. There was a time when that would have been reason enough for me to not go in - if I was alone - I’d skip it, but I feel more at home now.

Late one Sunday night I decided to treadmill. A few guys were there on the weight-cable-machines at the far end of the room (it’s huge) and I decided give it a try anyway.

As I was setting up to walk, this one string-bean of a guy did a funny, exaggerated flex in my direction, saying loudly, “I’m the man of your DREAMS!”  

To which I quipped back, “The man of MY dreams would do my chemistry fact-sheet.” (homework)

Which got a laugh from the guys who went back to their workout - ignoring me. That’s when I began to relax.

Tornado sirens’ firin’
Gives your runnin’ shoes the news
That stay’n inside is such a slide
To be fit you pay your dues

Feel the ground a-poundin’
’Neath those skies of green so mean
Inclement weather lives forever
But you will quit, like a machine

Slanted rain’s a pain
Soaks you to your skin so thin
In this world, so brave unfurled
Only bright for those who win

You get no bornin’ warnin’
Of the times to come so glum
’Tis a mission for magician
Strike with lightning, then succumb

First,
dress yourself in all black
no bright colors
that draw wandering eyes.
Wear the only baseball cap you own
position your pony tail
so the brim shields most of your face
but you still have enough peripheral vision
to look over your shoulder.
Move the ring you have worn on your right hand
since you were 16,
to the left ring finger.
You cannot tell the difference
between those who will leave
when there is a shadow of another man
and those who will see it as a challenge.

Second,
arm yourself.
Tie your small pocket knife into the waistband of your shorts,
last resort first.
Clip your keys to your bra
and tuck your mace canister
in the space between your *******
along with all the promises
of men who have loved you
and promised to protect you.


Third,
text your sister
tell her where you are going
and ask her to check on you
if you have not replied in an hour.
Keep one earbud out,
and do not get lost in the strains
of Tracy Chapman's voice, no matter how beautiful.
***** up your ears
the way you have seen a deer's twitch in twilight,
You both know what it is to be prey.

Fourth,
begin.
In your apartment complex
as you run across the green space,
there are children laughing,
and you feel safe enough.
Do not let this last.
When you reach the road
feel the power of your thighs beneath you
as you sprint across,
controlled sinew and muscle
you always wanted them to be strong enough
to kick a hole in brick.

Fifth,
slip your mace out of your bra
and into your fist
while you sprint through the wooded drive.
In your mind, practice screaming
FIRE! HELP! GET THE **** AWAY FROM ME!
until your vocal chords are in imagined shreds.

Sixth,
Pace yourself.
You know if you are too tired,
you cannot outrun someone.
Your lungs will give out before your legs do,
breathe deep, and pull your shoulders back.
You have never swung a punch
at another human
but you imagine what it would be like,
the bones of your knuckles
breaking across a zygomatic arch.

Seventh,
When you pass others
do not meet their eyes, do not smile.
Under the imagined safety of your hat brim
keep your eyes on the sidewalk and their feet,
in case they turn toward you.
Remember where the parents with children are walking
because they will be a safe haven to run to.
When there is no one in front of you,
look over your shoulder.


Eighth,
On your way back through the wooded drive
when Judges 19:25
the news reports of gang rapes on buses,
Kitty Genovese, and the voices of all the women you know
who have been harassed and *****, flash through your mind
run faster.

Ninth,
text your sister that you are safe
only when you are back in your apartment
and the door is locked,
and you are sure no one has come in
while you were out.
Kiss the salt from your skin
and thank your body
for its
strength.

you see me imagining you
imagining you
believing a lie I told,
a lie about knowing good and evil
and that I can imagine
William Blake's little
lamb was once me,
in thee
I am yet, not a jot or tittle of child
like
fool-ibility, I am a thought you caught in your
default mode me-andering mode, a modality oft

left idle. A rest for weary idle words bouncing
in browns from amber to ochre, dry
light leaking from piles
of idle thought meandering thoughts piling up behind
goddamliarcheatertheiftake take
take
take, rewind and replay, keep the takes ignor

the sequence...

Margaret Atwood knows how to build worlds of words.
I blow bubbles.
kiss em a will in a whisp
per
haps a single
one,

becomes this one we hide in, not from evil, for goodness
sakes, we be
peace making,
hidden, safe
as any ancient sapient's sacred secret
knowledge, hidden, useless.

-ah, no. right use of peace is the rest, after the heroes
and wizards and witches and priests and humble teachers,

after the recognition of old ideas, tics
the talking point and we, once more, see our selves,
selves,
we see ourselves as the passengers on the autopiloted
biosphere, terraforming itself for us, since

the first idea you knew was from beyond you,
began to bubble in your soul...

-- rest my soul in the bosum of abraham, whoa ain't woe,

but no is no. be wise or wish you was.

An old man's wisdom hides here in stasis.
Horded as weal and woe,
and debts owed to a foe
xtatic urgent
voice stages a starting boom, in the empty room,

our exspansive space
where peace is made in wisdom used for knowing,


wisdom, a place, a quest
ion
launched, aimless yet
now,
we be, and we do not comprehend gripping being life
for any preconceived gnotion
so

I asked for the living water, I was the receptor, the door
to within me,

where the kingdom of marybabydaddy lay.
wait. "within you", ever'body say Jesus said... some heavyshit,

maiden formed milksop grown to full warrior maturity,
empowered

(laid, by god, can you imagine that feeling? Wow, right?}


basic a gift so basic a power to employ at will

catch
oops.

and, gone it does
all it was
destined
designed
determined
de
deedly deed of doing being
boring
being
de
determined to add means to ends
designed to signal turn or lose
destined to end,
all it was gone to be