Happy.
To me, this word is beautiful but fragile.
Like a very rare flower, that could wither in your hands.
I guess that’s the mistake of many people.
When they find that flower, they puck it because they think in this way
they could keep it forever, keep it alive.
Instead, they should look at it and adore it.
But we are unable to do that.
We are ruining our own happiness.
At least that’s what I have been doing all my life.
And you know, happiness is not unlimited.
At least for people like me, after a few times, a few opportunities.
There is nothing left.
There is nothing left, because you ****** up the first times.
And then your life is like a garden without flowers.
Without color and butterflies.
Only the tall, cold trees.
Gloomy.
A life in the twilight.
And you are getting jealous at the people, whose garden is full of flowers.
Everyone around me was happy, while I was miserable.
But nobody knew, and I wanted to be happy, too…
That’s one thing that made it worse.
The desire to be happy, but with the disability.
And when a desire is not satisfied, it gets stronger and stronger.
Happy. That was my desire.
And it still is.
And it will forever be.
And so I wander around in my flowerless garden.
Between the tall, cold trees, in the creeping shadows.
For the rest of my life.
Like a widow, who lost her man too early.
Covered in black.
Faceless.
Shapeless.
Fading away, as the years go by.
Will the happy people remember me?
I don’t think so.
And if they do,
only as Joyce.
That Joyce, who was denied happiness.

Each dull wheeze
— half-glass-filling lungs, tarred —
records my moments
like reel-to-reel tape
And the heart is a quivering branch
If not a paperweight
Pinning will and testament to the
desk

That plastic wine “glass”
turned out
to be
glass after all
My woman throws me punches
with the gentle touch
— all the virility —
of a little, lonely, old man
feeding bread
to ducks
Then goes to work on the meat of her hand
with the glass
Damages the nerves in her thumb
   tussle ensues
My arms are covered in blood
That two-penny copper smell

sister’s fella has anger issues
and wants a straightener
Tells me I need a job —
Is this not work?
If I had Molly’s blessing
I’d go to work on this *******
But she’s crying
And begs me not to
Begs him to calm down
I wanted to widow her
Her
And my bleeding wife

Voidward, Sindark, starknell, Seraphim
Wow! Weird words woven in each other
Neither librarian nor dictionary can help
To figure them out, you have to ask him
All against Imagist instructions
- Where is common language? –
Poem needs to alter its definitions!
Will intellect select help?
Can we get out of the vague cage?
Look! One of the words shaken
Burden of ambiguity, taken
Scorpions shout: send me an angel!
Calm down singer! I said
Look the last word, it’s indeed an angel!
Coming down from heaven with a mantel red
No one can’t help watching, even dead
This is Seraphim! Don’t hesitate to ask him!
Said player of Being wearing ****** red
But I extremely fear of him
It may be a devil in disguise
Like a child I take refuge in ***** of my mom, kim
Although it’s against what done by all other guys

Brightness, darkness, falling both
softly from the spring-time air
teasing dormant life to growth
turning green the golden hair
of grasses dried and brittle now
to the Pleiades they bow
in thanks for rain, which brings new life
to pools and ditches, dark and rife
with strange concoctions, shadowed roots,
tendrils fine exploring through
the muddy depths to find a new
embankment where they push up shoots.
Brightness falls, the rains of spring
Closing now the season's ring.

I just read the first page
of James Joyce’s ‘novel’
Finnegan’s Wake;
Joyce makes up new words
and uses so many new words
that I could not comprehend
what Joyce had written.

Should authors make effort
to use words
which their audience
can understand?

Face me to the east,
on a riverside run dry.
Tone callously
commenting as an aside.

Judge the unjudged, remind them at their peril.
Eskimos knew no god, and now priests send them to hell.

The sky is a bridge between which humanity sits.
Part the dried flake of my rest, I'll bear the split.
Then pardon myself for having ever exist.

There's a bear in my soul,
and she clamors to remain within.
First Nations knew no devil,
until we taught them about sin.

Yellow soap for a yellow me.
I don't feel like being pure
means being happy.

- I scrub scarring
with more definition
than a dictionary.

Moldy bread kissing
gravid navel oranges,
in a cherry plastic rib cage.

- Can you find me altruism
hidden in the heart  
of ecstasy and rage?

Satellite bobbing above
the air supply,
are you out of reach or am I?

She was taking pictures
of us in the aphotic zone.
Saying, it was the only way
to capture me vulnerable.

Extirpate my species
to save my life.
I am saturnine for
the only adoration I accept  
is mine.

Altogether, the night we wove
a trickled treasure, tangled:
skirted legs spilling out from
the teacup of a denim lap,
validation in the vacuum cove.

- Dusty Nikes before the dusk,
who art in heaven, my god
he thrusts.

- Why'd your mother
let you talk that way:
You smoke cliche cigarettes
in such an unfamiliar way.

- The hanger left welts, weeping
into post-relevance landline love,
body lay like the hands on the clock,
copper landmarks seeping.

What a feeling, ever so same.
Arched eyebrows, a trademarked shame:
like a fighter, like ****** oozing.
Like a functional inability,
divine in its losing.

(alternate title: in which i reference three things)

there is snow general
all over Ireland

and that's all I know
about Ireland

except that it rarely snows
all over Ireland

so that's what makes the

holiday special

clear white gleam so we
can have epiphanies
and during these epiphanies

we realize sacrifice passion love
is better than things
we can control

There was no hope
for Dubliner Dedalus:
a shift from naturalism
into the bizarre

Not enough to effuse
or diffuse: a hero
in the firmest sense