there were
shadows
that fought
for the right to
exist
descended off
the stairwell
fell into
the frostlake

and it continues.

before
they struggled
in the dark
then,

everything's gone.

A man sits alone
In a booth accompanied by
his own lonesome
But although ther is no one there
He is not alone
His nose is buried
In his book
Keeping him the company
That he really wants

In the beginning, there was skin
fresh, soft, unblemished, unnamed
bound to be clad by blooming blue rose
baby bud bearing but thorns in its heart
Drifting along to kiss every inch
of that ****** beauty with grace
And there came the first scratch
Thirteen drops of blood
A drop of tear
And a full stop!
Congealed blood! Evaporated tear!
In the beginning there was no scar
but a tender rose to teach pain
pain with all its notoriety
and calamitious cloud of nothingness.
scars tiptoed towards the chest of skin
Now nourishing, naming each narrow path
No blood, no tear.
Thus, as a woman's womb gives birth
to hold up this tipsy life,
pain is a must.

I tried to protect you by not remembering when the rabbis were teachers
and preachers we're on the beaches
Wishes were had in between sheets
Catfish spoken riddles but truthfully
Beautiful ripples in *******

So I was going to invite you over for txgiving but all pathology from the dsm-5 was represented.  When I say over, I mean to KFC-
cousin Larry had to work but all the coleslaw and breadcrumbs you can swallow. How bout you did you get stuffed by the poultry-geist?

A pencil is of dreams,
the Sandman sings sweetly on graphite.
Unlearn your rules,
unleash your light.
Dance on rhythms of pentameter
and sing melodies that twinkle
on the tip of your tongue,
alliterative opera and assonance
played among the bass that is literature.
Sometimes you must ignore the pain
in your hands,
let callouses build and relish
in blood filling your blisters.
Pain here means progress.
Sweep agony away for the sake of day then sink into the ink of night.
Float on clouds of fantasy and write.

cut
an apple
into few slices
and leave it
for days.

indecisive.

not
tucking in
your bedsheet
every morning.

intentionally.

Upon learning of the recent death of Willard Thomas, I decided to interview some of his former students in hopes of discovering the truth about this controversial figure.

    1.
"God, what a man! I've never known anyone who experienced life so intensely. His mind was plagued by unanswerable questions. His body was racked by the suffering of fellow human beings. His soul was tortured by the absurdity of existence.
  
His life was a struggle with the cosmos.
  
You could see it in his face.
You could feel it in his words.
  
And what a teacher! He hypnotized the class. He made books come to life.
  
We saw him in the meadow with Emily Dickinson,
drunk with daisies and the sunrise.
We saw him lugging Cordelia about the camp,
brains burst, arms aching.
We saw him fling the iron at Moby ****!!
defiant to the last. . . .
  
He was obsessed with truth.
He was in love with justice.
He was the hero of a tragedy called Existence
and he played his part surpassing well."

     2.
"Mr. Thomas was an ***. I know you shouldn't talk that way about a dead person but you said you wanted the truth and that's the truth. Every day he came into class with that ridiculous paisley tie and those irritating starched white shirts with the collars curled up at the corners and those baggy pants down to his shoe-tops and that mess of frizzy white hair and that grimace, that stupid idiotic grimace. And he couldn't teach worth ****. His lectures were a bunch of gibberish about "truth" and "justice" and there was never any discussion. The only ideas that interested him were his own. He thought of himself as some sort of tragic hero. He was a fool, a fraud, an ***. . . ."      

[In case you’re interested, I’m definitely in the camp of former student #1.]