Neighbors at close quarters
and I wonder exactly
how many of us
had the same thought
perched on balconies
and fire escapes
I can’t exactly look away
as one tired woman carries
her bags and her feet
up three floors

I watch her through a narrow
hole --all at close quarters
buildings choking buildings
and on top of every ceiling
lays another screenplay

someday, I think,
I’ll write them all
all the stories in the world
I’ll visit every floor
and knock it out
find eulogies in dust bunnies
and the toys we lost long ago
in the vacuums under our beds
there, with our dreams
under our beds
because they scared us too

it’ll work when it’s meant to work
as it’s meant to work
and you shouldn’t force it
any harder than that
or it’ll lose its taste
and you’ll push it away
to the side of your plate

some things can wait till later
just don’t drop the pen
let the ink run dry
then let it run with your wet eyes
there was something in them
maybe just a bit of grime
or maybe you drove with the window down

call it what you want
because that’s how it works
when it wants to.

Welcome world:

The pen is yet to grow cold, in fact it grows warmer
and with each movement a somber expression
becomes my face. One does grow somber
when thinking about the human race.
We tried to trace it back, but I think even Darwin
would go blank if he tried to grasp what it has become.

I thought, once, that I might be a smart one.
But I find I grow dumb year after a year
turned a deaf ear to education and left it
to the next generation, thinking they need to
catch up. And I believed my bluff.

And now, unlike them, I need a pill to get it up,
need to huff and puff badder than any wolf,
its grown tough, and I feel I’m of the weaker stuff,
not fit enough to tact and plan,
not sure whether to play this hand, I stand in limbo,
amidst shouts of choose, choose, choose!

You’ll never win if you’re afraid to loose.

come in multitudes
come in boots, pulled up, strapped
come with hairnets, bowlers, beers
come with husbands and mothers

the starlets come, the celebrities
the politicians and adversaries
bring your conflicts
bring your problems
stoners, bring your insights
bring philosophies and religions
bring visions, or lack thereof
bring weekdays and weeknights
bring the sofa
bring reality shows or documentaries
bring the series
and bring the cat

but come
with quirks and queers,
with stubbornness with anger
with broken glasses and fists
with fits of rage, with opinions
statements, facts, figures, conspiracies
bring every one of these, but come

with your broken hearts and talents
or genius, or with yesterday’s news
with the crosswords and comics
or the convicts or the cartoons  

- hell, we’ve got more than enough room

We’ve passed resilience.

It’s not a question of getting with it,
I’ve pushed it to the limit and now it almost feels repetitive,
this sedative motion of
Day to day,
Pay to paid,
Lay to laid,
I made up the rules to a game,
and find it played exactly like how I said it should be…

And now that you see this new light,
you also see it right to put boundaries
that might have been better well placed.
Has the student risen to put master in his place?
Are words truly used in my own face?
Your wasting empty breath,
since love, I wrote the test,
and it frustrates me to come out last.
…But I’ll write this for myself,
and cross my fingers and hope for the best.

You went east and I went west.
And lest there be no miscommunication
let me be put your equations at rest…
I was moved by temptation,
locked and loaded and triggered with anticipation,
I’ve been waiting to have a taste of this elation,
to experience a fraction of the exhilaration
that could possibly course through these veins,

But I guess I wait in vain if I ever thought my name was about me.

Just a reflection of what you’d like to see.
And integrity finds itself dragged through the mud,
and affection finds itself waiting for no hug,
like a virus lacking the bug to go and do the ***** work,
and worth depleted to no value.

Like a ****** with a $1 rolled up bill
but no will to take the line…
I find myself in suspension.
With just an occasional call to attention,
calling for attendance,
(Should I lift my hand up like this?
Would I get extra credit if I blew you a kiss?
Should I cover up or lift my skirt,
should I shut up or continue to flirt?)

- I can’t seem to understand what works anymore.

I can’t seem to understand where to go
when you’ve asked me to leave,
yet lock the door and swallow the key,
and get on your knees,
claiming understanding please…
I wore my heart on my sleeve,
but you just picked so much at the seams
that it seems I’m unraveling away...

Just a little more every day…

Did no one teach you that’s not ok?
That people shouldn’t be played with?

And now I find myself on the search for revenge,
with humanity posing as my victim,
affected with a venomous vision
of alteration of the soul.

If for a moment you thought you were whole,
we’d like to say: Who told you?

Can’t be whole if humanity didn’t mold you.
Didn’t scold you for what it didn’t like,
or tell you what time to be home at night,
and to say your prayers right,

Because He ‘might’ be listening.

Zen minimalist, tool
slipping words ******* in
and seizing hold, mixing in subtle verbs
spinning worlds, filling up voids
with a tantalizing wetness

Yes, minimalist
and less is more

so clean that up you ***** *****
and speak only silence
leave them lost in awkwardness
born from want and wanting more, like

‘I know you want this
and yes I got this
minus man or wing by my side
rising instead from happy feelings, inside
sounding wise enough to me
and maybe soon I'll see exactly
what they meant’

as we drop and rise
in two time beat
knees, bent, in, weak
quivering at the seams
diving into dreams and coming
out breath stopped, heart attacked,
jagged and off

then two scenes later, maybe three tops
jumping ahead, fast forwarding to
the quick bits
the grimy bits
the slimy bits
the ins and outs
proving what drive thru is all about-

- since there's no need to waste time
on the things we can do
again, and again, and again.

Then, reverse spin
back to the beginning, cowboy
back to the drawing board
back to the sheets

put your back in it and ride, harder
calves carved in, jump the fleet
lift arms up in victory

the downward dog days are over
and we saw them coming
inhibitions released
letting go of the sweet
and drizzling, no just
jizzing all over the ******* place

hot and flustered, in our face
rushing to encase thoughts that
had always filled the space
but still, found no place in design

rather finding the time
to bleed them out, in epiphanies,
calling them nirvanas
calling them divinities

but titling them Truth.

And swearing, on your life
that that's what it was to you

and I lay there, only trying
not to believe it too.

Day by day I lay it down,

“All right men, here’s the plan;
you go on in, and get 7 of them
(because 7’s a holy number)
and we wouldn’t want to offend
any defender of the other inclination.

Our nation would suffer at their loss,
and that would cost too much in terms
of net profit, would disturb a delicate
balance, we wouldn’t transgress
or progress, rather stagnate,
in a backwards state of mind."

You told me you liked my poetry.

But would you really
if you could see what I
see the ladies hooked on
Turkish series and
not enough men
to count fingers on?

Our men left long ago,

got hooked on the same show we were watching,
and it was alarming how it was cut with some
breaking news, something about how Syria was
going to lose another plane, and we felt some pain
and flipped the station, where we were met with
temptation masked as the latest ads only to add
to the list of the things we’ll never have.
So much for bad TV.

Could we please see something real?

And I fear the Kardashian’s aren’t quite enough,
you see, I’ve caught onto the bluff that **** must
be staged. But that’s ok I’ll let it pass, perhaps some
movie to catch my attention. Attention becoming
another word for distraction, and we carry
that emblem all around, hoping for anything
to evolve this frown into laughter whether
humorous, devilish, or maniacal in tone.

If not TV, reach for your phone.

Anything to get to another zone,
another place, just space out because
anywhere is better than here.
Where is the end, be near?

- I want to meet it smiling.

I just want to throw in the sack,
don’t want to get back on track,
flap jack, slap it on up
and saddle on
sick of this race,
since long ago
my lethargy has shifted
to let-it-go,
go with the flow,
don’t let things get to you that much
coz thoughts shift at such a rush,
every updated status
makes you so outdated,
Oh wait, you’re here?
We’re glad you made it,
and no time to let this all soak in,
off we go on another whim,
are you worried what you’re saying?
It’s all right, just fake it,
are you getting nervous?
Imagine the audience naked,
and if you can't smoke it, bake it,
just to take it,
anyway you can,
because people clang, clang, clang on
and everyone’s right
nobody's wrong,
Everyone’s dressed in hard-ons
running along for their next ****,
kind of makes me thank God
when the electricity cuts,
because for at least two seconds
everything stops.

And we breathe,
and look around,
and wonder,
how’d I get here in the first place?

But not first place,
we popped out and joined the rat race,
and it takes a while to figure out
how to move at our own pace.
Hard not to get caught
up in the glitz and glamour
of it all,
in the identities and
stereotypes we can perform,
they said we could be anyone
we wanted to be, and somehow
it's to my benefit that I should be me?

You see, it wasn’t always like that.

For a long time this forum didn’t exist,
(and still doesn’t for a list of your neighbors.)
Do them a favor, recognize.
Stop criti-size-ing what we
don’t know, so much easier to sit in the back
puffing on homegrown, so much easier to
point fingers and scream “I told you so!”

Yes, we know.

But even if you do the world carries on.
Stay calm,

It waits for no one.

Who knows?

Maybe someday your bones will be
what life is made of.

Senseless living in Beirut. Disconnected from routine, from drama. Disconnected from passion and compassion in a stagnant, stagnant, stagnant place. No reassurance for tomorrow, and definitely no reassurance today.

And it all sounds so disheartening, even to yourself. So you put those thoughts on a dark shelf, resting in the cavities of your mind, only to find them oozing out again.

Making arms feel heavy. In a city that’s the perfect size for strolling every step feels like a chore. Like why’d I walk out here on the streets for? There’s no room for me. Too many holes in the street, and I wore these sandals coz they feel light on my feet, but they keep ripping. Dog ****, low-class spit, and high-class ****. It’s **** I tell ya. No room, nothing.

Unless you’re on a list. Then you’ll find endless place for you, and mix with commoners on the dance floors. Rub shoulders with those struggling artists and hidden talents, photographers and such. More images, much.

But still that’s not enough…. if you happen to make it, that is… still not enough. Because that kind of comfort is tough on the soul, and it hurts that you didn’t just go home and save it. You know, save your money, save your time, save your self. Not become someone else. Not finish the night rolled up in bed and thinking over those million things you said, was that the right thing? Perfecting social awkwardness by living it again, but alone. Just let it go, the past is dead.

You think, ‘let me think.’ Let me sink into the things that stimulate my mind, that I find interesting, revealing, revolutionary. And re- re- the process. Reanalyze in a new frame of mind. This isn’t that time, it’s now. I’m all so much more grown up. I can deal with the higher material. My envelopes carry essays, and my mirrors reflect mantras. I use my blade to cut Mongolian chicken.  A unique recipe I found on Pinterest. I’ve got several blogs I read…I’m sure you don’t know them, they’re avant-garde…and I dedicate a hard process into selecting the right documentary, something that’ll illuminate me further. We apply this fervor into knowing more, only to realize how little we can move with that knowledge.

Killer of dreams, Beirut is. This murderer of hope. Like even if you got home, and plugged that DVD in to get your mind off with a laugh and a lay, the electricity finds its way to blast through and ruin a perfectly good evening for you. See it was feeding off your ****** energy and ran a little too highly, and now your wires shot. And somehow it burned through your generator heart. Could we somehow spark the cables with some electricity again? I don’t know…let’s check the trunk for monkeys.

Senseless. Not seeing, not feeling, not tasting, hearing, or smelling of sense. Honestly, just pushed beyond the limit of decent respect. Rather ******, crass, crude, no sense to reason, only nonsense, like gibberish, a terrible two tantrum, nothing to pacify, no milk of poppy or anything else. The alcohol is hit so we can’t rub teething gums. Instead plastic BB guns, manufactured with lead, which I’ve read shouldn’t be given to children under the age of two. But still, this is what we do in Beirut.

I want to root for a winning team. Something that’ll keep me on the edge of my seat so I can leap at the final score. Give me a winning team to root for. Instead divided, and individualistic, the secret to the American dream, that didn’t seem to work. Or collective, and fanatic, fundamentalist and bat-**** problematic, because of loss of self. Now, what’s the fun in that? If those are the teams, don’t put me up to bat. Let me stand in the back, and please pick me last.

Senseless and fast. Each day merges into next, and Lebanon is an eternal vacation. Cheap time chalets and happy time oil rubs. Under setting suns that morph into other ones, instagrammed and timeless on HD…not very revolutionary if we think within the context of things. But still, we never seem to, think.

Rather reignite the old patterns of thought. The ones that brought pearls and Switzerland’s, French nights and Brazilian beats. Ones that won’t have us marching on streets, but rather cater to the revolution of our hearts. It’s called the revolution of love. But I hope you don’t mind I’ve forgotten my glove in the other room… don’t worry baby…I’ll pull out if I feel that I’m cuming too soon… uh oh…(boom).

Was that a bomb? Or fireworks coz we were looking in each other’s eyes? Hide nonsense with senseless pastimes, de-synthesizing further. Falling deeper into this cataclysmic abyss, that leaves no space for sense.

Give me a tissue to wipe it. Clear it away. There’s another day starting and I want to forget that even happened. That I tapped into something and remembered to care. That would make no sense, it’s senseless back there.

Words have a silly little power. They make stuff.

A lot of stuff.

She’d been told in the fourth grade never to use the word stuff, because that’s what you filled teddy bears with. But in her opinion, words were like that too, because that’s what you filled yourself with, stuff.

And that’s what you kept around you, stuff, and words, so that you could communicate more stuff. About the stuff you have in your home, the stuff you did with your friends, the stuff you had for dinner, and the stuff you’ve got on your mind, stuff.

It was much easier then to deal with stuff when everything was just stuff. And that kind of thinking suited her fine.

It wasn’t like anyone really cared about stuff, because they're just stuff. Making stuff easy to keep around- Never amounting to any more (or any less) than stuff... so as long as you stuff, why get rid of  it?

Because if anyone ever took away any of that stuff, she would only too soon realize, that stuff was ever only stuff.

I find myself,
      without any heads up,
            awake, and thinking of her.
                   I almost believe,
                          no, in fact I do,
                               that you just got up,
                                    in the other room,
                                          getting dressed,
                                               and in a moment or two,
                                                      will come back to rest,
                                                           ­ your head on my breast.
It’s as if the Elizabethan sonnet never went out of style.
It’s as if Stein’s abstractivity makes you the window and me the tree.
It’s as if you know what I’ll write before I write it.
                        It comes as such a shock when I see you’re not
                        there. Walls bare, and glaring, patronizing,
                        defying my thoughts, and curtains drawn
                        closed, devoid of your touch.

I wake up alone, staring at my phone, hoping it’ll say you hate me.

I gotta get this **** out.

I may have taken a little too much,
and my cheeks,
with their inborn heat,
flush as some rush,
struggles to escape,
get out of the way,
releasing today
what was once caged.

Yet to say caged isn’t quite ok.

It was more of an action happily placed
taught to look, not taste, not touch,
not feel nor enfold, or kneel into this,
was too much for one person to handle
a collapse of dismantling thoughts with
no start, no stop.

Let’s just call it pause.

And we press pause…just because,
(nobody really knows)
or chose to watch this channel.

So I channel my beats
to follow one note,
with **** after ****
I’m staying afloat,
hanging on to the last hope
of something worth or other…

I almost wonder, why even bother?

Why satisfy one urge and ******* another?

Oh brother,
I know this selection be confusing,
because it’s tongue tied twisting
thus exhibiting a real moment
caught in Time.

Almost like real TV
with the selected viewership of me,
in 3D.

But to be honest I can’t see ****,
don’t have that third eye perspective,
and can only tell it subjective.

My shoes are at the door.
Even I don’t want to wear them anymore.

I’ll meet the day with a smile on my face,
I’ll remember the things I forgot yesterday,
I won’t let anything stand in my way,
because I said

tomorrow,

I’ll make sure I begin with the right start,
I won’t let things in front of me get too hard,
even if I have to drive there
no distance is too far,
it’s too important to be put off till

tomorrow,

If I swore I’d do it I’ve taken my first steps,
action is easier than a life of regret,
which I know is bound to happen if I let
things pile up

tomorrow,

I’ll handle every detail with care,
I’m sorry I forgot, really, I swear
there were just a million things to do
building up there,
but my heart is in the right place,
and I’ll prove it when I face

tomorrow,

because you see tomorrow
is the tomorrow of today,
what difference does it make
when they meet midnight anyway?
It’s already

tomorrow,

Really you’re the top thought in my mind,
I’ve been meaning to show you
just haven’t had time,
would it be fine if we got back
to this sometime

tomorrow?

I meant to get back to you but got distracted,
I had nothing to do it with it,
just the circumstances,
my attention is yours and nothing
will be retracted

tomorrow,

or tomorrow or after tomorrow,
next week, in a month,
or sometime this year,
my intentions are heartfelt
and truly sincere,
just let me prove it

tomorrow.

I might inspire you
to stay here longer,
take that moment,
take a left to ponder,
at what I might say.
My head it moves
so fast these days,
like handwriting
on the page,
Y’s make room
pave the way,
more and more
letters are to come.
Acronyms,
and then some.
I sit confused
and look here
glazed,
a million letters
across the page,
try to make some
sense of them.
But with every line
they come undone
more and more
confusion.
“It’s complicated,”
I shrug and say,
just like the tab
in front of me,
I file it under
nothing.
It never really mattered.
I’d rather think
of something
else, get
some wine, get
some coke, get
some decadence,
tell me something
worth hearing,
tell me something,
about spiritual being,
about energy,
about matter,
about beyond,
and know that
if I yawn,
it’s only because
you did too.
At least, that’s
what they said
on Google.

Tum Tum Tum!

“Ladies and Gentlemen,
            We welcome you aboard to take flight
            and soar in a melting *** of degradation.
            Where we file you by nation and
            take elation in your degrees,
            specifically those on bended knee.

Your angry plees will reach deaf ears,
            and no amount of tears
            can move
            the System.

So sit back and listen to safety procedures:
            The seat belt is fastened such,
            in order to crush
            against dignity.
            The overhead oxygen mask will drop
            if engines stop
            and we need to crash,
           the freshest air always comes last.
            
Lifeboats offer the final cruise
            until red sharks *****
            on your blood.
            And turn cell phones off
            so we don’t flood
            the System.

We’re not done, so kindly shut up and listen:
            The ability to lunch is an epitome,
            simply a costly accessory,
            just hold your gut,
            and allow us to degrade
            some more.

We implore you to understand,
            for we do not.
            In the System you’ll find
            no heart,
            simply an enigma,
            no end
            no start.

All lights will be turned off
            for the duration of the flight.
            Tough.
            The enlightened can switch
            the overhead lamp,
            if you can reach
            as far as that.

To encounter turbulence is a must.
            For those who do not trust
            in us
            must be shaken
            and rattled.
            After all,
            eliminate the fight
            by eliminating the battle.

We hope you enjoy the flight,
            and know you will soar again soon,
            from noon to noon
            we move in unison,
            frequent fliers of
            the System.”

Tum Tum Tum.

There are words
tucked away
in minds,
to incite,
move forward,
shake cores,
turn hoarders
to minimalists,
create
lists,
tasks,
set to do,
choose for me,
shift between
different places,
draw different
faces,
passing by on
streets
I’ve got a tweet
for each
one of you,
wrapped in
treats,
a delicious bonbon,
desserts of
verbs,
adjectives,
nouns,
and more
words.

Can’t help the way I feel right now.

Can’t pull out a chair for these emotions
or offer a jacket,
can’t catch it if it falls
can’t build walls to protect,
or stop bricks from shattering glass.

I’ve broken all forms of decorum.

Find myself tumbling at the thought,
find myself growing hot, and flustered,
words heavy, avalanches, boulders,
falling, smoldering, ashes,
if I were a cigarette I’d be the ****,
but I can’t seem to do anything about it.

I lack the decorum and the mindset to play this game.

Find myself anticipating the pain
and throwing the match,
lock in, and close the hatch,
over everything.

I think I like you.

Like, like you, like you.

And I find the thought troubles you,
and though I’m glad to stir the second thought
I’d rather not be the one that’s got you
caught, in a confused state,
knots in your stomach, gut pulling
down and flowing into some
intangible sea, oh wait, that was me,
feeling, peeling back layers of truth
that we, of course, didn’t want to do,
seems like reason’s going to lose,

do I have to choose sides?

How about I leave these feelings here,
inside, where they can just hide from view,
and I can just go back to that cruise,
just hold on and don’t lose control,
I’ve dropped pieces of me on the floor,
from the moment you walked through that door
I can’t seem to remember what I came here for
anyway…I hope they’ll lead a trail back.

Just pick up the pieces I let fall slack
and put them back in one place
and wipe this silly smile off my face
lace them with ‘you-shoulda-knowns”
and thoughts more akin to the older woes,
I’m balancing on the tips of my toes
and I can’t let go now.

I’m just gonna bow out and leave,
and roll heart back in off sleeve.

We shall go beyond anything you’ve ever seen,
we will gleam in the darkest of nights,
that one light that says, “It’s ok,
breathe easy now, no need to frown,
see we’ve captured what the down is,
with no intention to let it leave,
just let it be,
and muster within itself,
and trap it, lest it move
into the vortex of your brain
only to give birth to a baby
which it will call pain.”

Wouldn’t it be nice, in reality,  if it all went away?

In all directness I’ve lost my voice.
Enveloped by an irrational fear
of picking up the pen.
Thinking twice about every line.
As we shift and life materializes
before our eyes we find it harder
to say the things worth saying to ourselves.

Calm that beating heart, let it rest.

This life is tumulus.
Like a disappointed teenager
backdoor rebel, your biker
all bruised and blue
the guy who lies to you
out of habit or the girl
who’ll spread her legs
just to make sure beds
stay warm, or the grocer
who’ll stock rotten fruit
to meet the bills or people
who **** for oil, for drugs, for fun.

Disappointed, every last one of them.

So we fight back,
by puffing on our bongs
by disconnecting to our palms
by blasting the music on some large
stereo system, surround sound, or 3D vision
we spray paint on walls, or we fall prey to our whims
we bet on winning three hands straight
or decide we know our own fate,
or some of us just sit,
and wait,
for something, anything to happen
to shatter, to break apart, to give birth to some
black hole that’ll **** it all up and spit out something
back again. Anything we can reshape or begin.

But after chaos comes even more chaos.

And with loss comes anger,
mounted, building, and enraged,
like raised pitchforks chasing town monsters,
oh the horror, some of us might not bare to see it
won’t believe it, or try to bargain it away,
and not feel the earth shake from aftershock.
It’s too difficult to soak it up.
Let’s not tear down what is functioning fine
Just so we can live another lie?
I’m fine with mine, where it rests inside
a mask so well displayed,
that even I believe it some days.

Why change?

The question that lingers on the page,
Stumped by fear of jumping out of comfort zones,
Paralyzed by the thought that home
isn’t where you heart is, but rather,
the space your spirit needs to breathe.

And with that word
the realization of responsibility,
this burden it makes,
this weight that we can’t wait
to throw off to
another day, maybe
another time, maybe
could you keep your voice
down lady? Just after this last drink
baby, and I swear I’ll get back to you,

hey, I want my rite of passage too.

But the world moves too fast,
asks too much, doesn’t know when
to stop, drunk on its own axis,
either get off your *****
or be swept by the tide,
because there’s no where
you can run and hide
no matter how hard you try
you’re gonna have to listen to what you already know.

But guess what happens to people like that?

They grow.

I.  ****** Transient

Overnight takes on new meaning
when the sun never sets and will never rise.

This time i didn’t bring words, i brought lines.

And Esmeralda danced circles around my eyes.
You gypsy ***** You.
Leading me confused,
                  with knees low and back hunched,
                                    into a labyrinth of solitude.

Embarrassed of what exactly?
i’ve barred scars more deep than scars
like profound pools of black sticky tar
that almost suffocates with its gluttony
and still You wouldn’t look away.
And now i pay a price as images intertwine
                           creating zebra patterned designs
                                             on the alcoves of my mind.
         Black, White
They contrast in spite of the connection.
         and I wear this contrast like an emblem,
                  hanging from my throat,
                           heavy on my heart.
                                    yet with the delicate touch of some
                                             slippery silvery chain…
                                                      It almost rids me of the pain.


Back turned or give me the front,
i still want either way.
A petrifying carnival of desire,
making my eyes tire of this display
and my lips itching to play,
a lilac purple tongue,
and bronze arms on the way.

You feign revolution by shutting the door in my face.

A shuddering sigh and flutter of a heart,
                           as caged ribs start to part,
                                   liberated room for more,

i’ve become an emotional *****,
lips wet with anticipation,
pulsating with a passion,
that You defined as infatuation.

And that i just couldn’t define.

-or rather-

defined as a transition in time.

****** Transients* would abstractive-ly be the best,
         but the abstract, once put to the test,
floats past concrete lines,
and creates a world of its own where, even as a stranger,
                  i feel right at home.
                                    Lioness of the abstract dome.


Razor sharp You
        sliced a tingling into the souls of my feet,
        and week after week i did nothing but smile at my own loss
        of balance.

The feminine reemerging as the phallus,
and the phallus in comfort with its feminine home.

         i patiently wait for my Special Kinder Surprise,
                                    and meanwhile,
                                             satisfy myself with imagination,
                                                    ­           to which an interpretation,
         would require the use of a million scholarly texts,
                                    which still wouldn’t attest to this degree
Of Vulgarity,
         or this degree
Of Sexuality,
         or this degree
Of Spirituality.

Like the slaughter of fowl for mythological pride;
                           You hide behind an altar,
                                    and with all the holiness i posses,
I intend to pull through and impress with Determination.
                           --and the petrifying realization—
that You are Artemis and i soon to be set upon by the hound
                                                           - choking ego to the ground.


But ****, it was worth it.

worth the,
vulnerability
worth the,
audacity
worth the,
ecstasy,
-It naturally dissolved within me.

Only to be pushed down by an incessant flipping of the door,
an incessant call to reality.

is the overnight truly Over?
      —or pray mercy and tell me its begun.

The rising Sun seems determined to puncture the fun,
And the valiant battle with Apollo seems already to have been won.



II.  ****** Ensnared
  
I’m getting tired of this ****.

A tantrum fit as if we were kids of three.
Stomping on adult realized priorities.
We wear our hair like a mask,
                  we analyze our clothes,
                           personify the persona we wish to adapt,
         and commend that same personal persona
         complimenting its research studied aura.
                                                    
--I’d rather stay in this dream forever.
  (you judged me by my hair
   yet remained unaware
   to what it masked.)

Please don’t preach to me about consideration.

The obliteration of that term in action shocks me.
Truth be told?—I’m quite Angry, and I feel used,
Yes, believe it or not, Abused.
Infiltrated and Dominated.

And I am a Leo at heart.

So to part with my throne will only be met with roars of defense;
                                                        ­       to be direct, Aggressiveness.


My interlude is met with seclusion—
         isolation to the utmost degree—
and I see that the world agrees, as I’m met
with a phone with no tone
and a power-cut of electricity,
while the world contracts visibly
and the static in the air
ensnares my fiery wrath,
and storms overhead
are weighed down with
anxiety and dread
that express themselves
in raindrops, that I lovingly
call tears.


I fear this is me at my limit---
        And I exhibit nothing but ferocious gloom.

This room which contains me is not enough,
And I will huff
And I will puff
Until the walls come down.
                  And the only sound to be heard,
                           is the numbing effect of silence.

My Rifle stands ready to be shot and plunge through that stubborn heart
of yours until it is rejected or until the reflected opinion dominates. Is it
too much to ask for a change of heart?
Empathy? Understanding?
Basic societ-ical handling?
Apparently yes.
So I detest
having to put in.

The waterworks that I display
convey nothing but submission
to your inconsideration.
                  And the devil in me crosses her fingers
                  for experience by example,
                  as elephants trample over logic
                  and the symbolic is simply symbolic.
                                             That’s too much reason for my taste.
                                             And I see that it was a waste
                                             Trying to impress with determination.

****** Ensnared has denied a nation of people their feelings,
                  listening, with unappealing resolution
                  satisfying herself with this conclusion:
                  “Let them eat Cake.”


--It’s true.
You can’t have your cake and eat it too.



III. ****** Verbalize

On a park bench it took me quite by surprise,
my eyes met with scripture
recognizable though not to my hand,
the band on my finger tightened and
yet the anger seized.
         -- How could I not have surmised ****** Verbalize to enlighten me?--


“Your Majesty;
         I owe you My Apology-
                  And I couldn’t be sorrier for my selfish self
                  has decided to rest after this long period.

For She was too busy
trying to make you feel safe and home
--She was too busy trying to suppress her ****** up
whipped cream so that you can have you cake and eat it too—
But She failed.

        You believe ****** is selfish,
then I’m afraid you never knew ******.
                  --****** loved you with wide arms open and she
                  Was pleased to meet you.

She hopes it was a useful transition for You.

.THE END.
The ******”

OVER

It’s when it’s late at night I think of you
My.
Surrounded. with your presence
intense…that for that moment pillows
take your form And you’ve broken into
my home late at night Mother asleep
safe and tight And you in my sheets
Fingers treading up and down spine
Senses heighten…except for the sense
of time. Look to the phone once again
Hoping just this time, give in.
Let go ego let you live in peace
Let go ego and give it back to me.
And I promise…nothing no harm

I’ll fight off the world while I still have arms.

So everyone’s here;
we watched you approach  with trepidation,
mingled with a sensation of hope.
We took **** after **** waiting for
the streets to clear. To dispel all fear
and welcome this world with open arms,
a wonderful world, rid of harm,
and it came as such an alarm that despite it all,
after the war, there was no calm.

Dear Mark, we didn’t want you to see this.
Couldn’t believe this could happen, that we’d
be left, mouths open and standing, grasping
and gasping because we didn’t know
what else to do. Standing on
the sidelines just to watch us loose.

Mark, we walked across distant miles,
tripped over deserts, cities, and distant
smiles, channeled through channels like MBC
from across the seas we could see what
they were seeing, wanted to come close and heal it
but everything got in the way,
so day after day the smile slipped.

We learned to push beyond wit,
to get with it, or be swept by the sighs,
to cry when no one’s watching and let
nothing provoke, and again, **** after
****. No one woke. The dream was too
real. And we believed it.

Mark, I feel so much disgust, so much so
that I’d rather not end this with hope, not
allow the world to look towards a better
day, I’d rather not say it’ll be ok and just lay
me down to rest tonight. I’d rather give up the fight.
I’ve never been the competitive type.

Dear Mark,

I’d like to express my regret,
We’ve suffered a great loss.

And all
at the cost
of nothing.

(Life does come easy these days.)

Feed on the Haters.
            That’s how to work it player have them
            hate the day you were born,
torn from your mother’s limb
another winner to this Globe.
We done told you, you could do it
and those that blew it blow you down.

Lounge around and watch you steam,
steal away your self esteem…
but that’s just called Oppression
and Resistance is the key
as once proclaimed in the
Twelve step elegy.

Feed on the Haters.
            **** them out roots and all,
            stand tall for your rights,
            fight if you gotta!

            Your heart is a beating pump too.
            You had a Mother and I had a Mother too.
            There was some womb that contained us,
                        cushioned us from the fall
            that was a world within its walls
                         that called us to a brighter light,
                        a bright fluorescent white,
                        and for a couple years it’s like heaven…

                        -- then Time sinks in.

But if you, Feed on the Haters.
If you, Look twice at that waiter…
You’ll realize, Everyone’s got Haters too.

And (You heard it on Bambi)
            You gotta treat others the way
you want them to treat you.

                        -- Your Momma didn’t raise no fool.

One more
     every night just
                    one more.

my veins protrude a thin layer of skin
called the back of my hand
rivers of blood that I was shocked
to find are a very deep purple.
     What does that mean?
     Has my blood given up on me?
     Refused to bubble red and
     thunder through my Nile?
I saw the Nile during winter
and witnessed first hand how
its once thriving forget-me-not
blue has turned the murkiest
of brown.
It was very sad really.
Crocodiles replaced with stumps
of driftwood or perhaps
dead Egyptian bodies growing moss.
The Nile -the shadow of Cairo’s Gotham City-
     It was too cold to dip my feet in
     and I think even if it wasn’t I
     wouldn’t have done it really.
     It’s too scary.
Almost a waste of space I
have a feeling the Egyptians will
soon deal with that.
But right now like all rivers
I guess it must flow.
Injected with steamboats and pesticides
its waves subside to
a slowest of slow pace.
And it smells like a *****.

One more
     every night just
                    one more.

so that when I close my eyes
I see purple Niles in my dreams
leaking through half-closed eyelids
that move so swiftly I
wake up to blood stained sheets
even though razors are
locked in drawers along with
the many other horrors tucked away
neatly in a box, locked,
     who said we were all Pandora?
     If Prometheus was an idiot it
     Doesn’t mean I am. Keep something
     That good to yourself.
But wow what an idiot –there’s no point
fearing a recurring doom-
the mythological liar and thief
who took humanity a step forth and
then a million back.
we would’ve figured it out sooner or later…
or don’t people look at the bigger picture?
     What else would we have held
     under flattened aluminum?    

One more
     every night just
                    one more.

You have the right to remain silent.

                And why fight it as everything
                you’ve said and done are hung
                for all to see with no remedy to
                clean up the mess…

                You think if you say it loud, you say it best?

                It takes an acquired finesse to rescue
                damsels in distress, to slyly peel off
                that dress until your left with the
                nakedness of truth in between…

                The Indian word for the source of light is Kissimmee.

                And we all start from there,
                born shirtless and bare
                to an astounding glare with
                maybe just a couple hairs
                and fare skinned…

                And then the molding begins.

And the evolution is consistent.
                It trims at the dos and don’ts
                at the who breaks the rules
                and who won’t, until everything
                were supposed to be floats
                to the top, and what we really are
                finds itself lodged and locked
                somewhere between our heart
                and our gut.

My mind gets hurt when it tries to transcend,
                when it diplomatically tries to comprehend
                to offer interpretations, to excite revelations,
                epiphanies masked as inspirations, strutting
                with catwalk determination and suspended
                until cessation forces great ideas to result in
                elimination.

                Simply because, temptation got in the way.

                Simply because,
                You were going about your day,
                exactly like how they say,
                because you got paid and will pay,
                because, what the hey?
                You think…I might as well
                Make the most of it.

                -- but man seems only to push it to extremes,
                                And we find ourselves crying tears of desperation.

Or perhaps it’s depression?
                That sick gut pulling apprehension
                born from guilt and brewed over a
                low flame, until it is divided into them
                and me, into ‘I’m the one in agony!’
                and ‘how can nobody see?’
                but deaf ears have become as common
                as plastic trees and tears fall pointlessly
                on hardwood earth.

                But we all know how much it hurts, really.

                And how about I take you out today?
                Take your mind off and play with all
                the other boxes filed into this organized system…
                Remind you there’s a vision bigger than yours.

It may seem like they’re together but really,
                everyone’s alone.
                Simply an extension of their phones,
                and contacts, that lack contact,
                that stop at a ringtone or beep,
                that shuffle feet in the morning
                at sun kissed skies and sigh at
                the start of the day…

                -- Because either way…
                                we all have to start today.

Got to make our way through,
                and hope a pillow or two will
                catch us when we fall.
                That a pillow or two will
                form some kind of wall
                to shield us from tomorrow.

                Pillows catch so much sorrow.

                And borrow the weight of the burden
                                until we’re left tumbling into half built dreams…

                -- Yes, pillows I think, is what this world really needs.
Pillows to feed an entire nation!
                To be passed on from generation to generation,
                Spread the comfort…and hold the love,
                I believe the former takes precedence to the above,
                we can never have enough of that…

                My heart loves freely when it’s at rest.

                Not strained to take life’s multiple choice test,
                asking:

                What would you like best?

a)      To be Free.
b)      To be Me.
c)       To Comprehend a Divinity.
d)      To be me by understanding I’m free while practicing the ****** of my divinity?
                Or
e)      Not c or d.

                And remember…
                                We are who We want you to be.

                So give the world more pillows,
                                At least then we may Dream...

You drew a little picture of yourself,
when a little girl,
as a big girl.

And believed it.

You colored it in with the colors you liked,
so determined to stay between the lines.

If you like it, that’s fine.

But don’t hang it next to mine.

My journey through love, inevitably,
seems to only bring about the destruction
of the ideal-love supremacy.
            At least it makes me write.
            I fight to express and capture the musings
                        of my sado-maso torture-ress;
                        In other words, myself.

                                    It’s that recurring love-hate thing.
                        The constant theme of opposites attract,
                        so to say, how can I love you if I don’t hate myself?
                        Or love myself if I can’t hate you?
                                    --A theory that just might, in theory, be true.

                        Since you love me once I’ve placed you on a pedestal
                        High and mighty, my love I grovel at your feet
                        Your satisfaction born when for you I weep.

                        And in parallel or paradox as well,
                        it is only after I grow this hard shell,
                        Oblivious to your whims,
                        Love for myself wins over love for you.
                        And no longer the need to be smothered
                        to calculate self worth.

But that understanding becomes so difficult to achieve,
            when immersed in love, lover’s validation is all you need.
It’s simply selfish greed playing at our core,
            as much as we have we still want more.

How much more?
            I’ve gotten down on all fours,
            and I’ve pleaded and I’ve begged,
            shared the most intimate corners of my bed,
            fed your ego with the submission of mine,
            predicted your orders and complied,
            gave sight to things that, logically, just can’t be seen
            accepted the ocean to be red, even though that murky day,
                                                it was green.

And you stand by your words
            because you know that it’s true
As your love takes their ground
            And throws the same argument back at you.
                        And as streams roll down your face
                                    And you don’t know how much more you could possibly bare…
The straw that breaks the camels back,
                        Is when they say how much they care,
                        How much love and emotion they feel,
                        your body shakes and you start to kneel,
                        like a Tsunami rising to drown you in its midst,
                        and you find yourself wishing that all this love would turn to hate.
Because you can’t wait to move on.
You can’t wait for another special someone.
You just can’t wait for another special song.
You can’t wait for it to end
                        --even though you always bend,
                                    dragging it on as long as you possibly can
                                                until, really, you’re drained from all
                                                            the love you can possibly spare
                                                                        and now hate is the only thing that’s there.

            -All this to know that indeed our heart does strive
            for a purpose higher than keeping us alive.

If I hate you it doesn’t mean my love was a lie,
                        on the contrary,
                                    it means you’re still stuck inside.
                        In truth a lover should be scared not of this,
                        the only thing to fear is indifference.
                                    -The cool façade and dreary glazed eyes
                                    happens to be the punishment I most despise.

I hold my breath and count to ten
before I puncture the love-hate thing with my pen,
before I puncture wishes, hopes, and dreams,
before I puncture year after year.
                        -I count to ten before I puncture the love between lover and you-
Because once that balloon has popped
With its loud obnoxious BANG
            I’ll need to hold my breath and count to ten once again,
            this time just to where I stand.
I find that the best metaphor that this phenomenon can take
is that it’s like I’m swimming in my own emotional wake,
an emotional block, if I had to define,
like someone took my love remote and pressed stop.
Left the room.
Then came back to press rewind-pause-fast forward-pause-slow motion-pause-play-could we have some director’s commentary…(in other words advice from friends)-
                        Ok…great movie…but when does it end?
                        Or how does it end? Who takes the scene?
                        And I am every character, both protagonist and antagonist lay in me.
Both victim and bully, depending on how angle is shot
both walked all over, and one without a heart.
                        --So drum roll please as I open the card
                        Hey! Look at that! For every Oscar I have an award!
                        What do you ask was my inspiration?
                        My thanks must go to the Love-Hate Sensation. (And God)

It’s funny you know? To come to that understanding,
            that not only through love do we grow, but hate as well,
                        it’s so easy to say don’t dwell on the past
                                    but the present doesn’t seem to get here.
And I fear what might happen if it does,
            since –despite the hate its grown-
                        I still would rather stay, thank you very much, in love.

Day after day it gets easier to get by.
I try and keep that stone in the pit of my stomach settled.
                        And it better stay there.
Remain unaware to your phantom presence,
                        this intense essence that wafts through mundane pleasures,
                                                            -like dating-
                                                                        waiting for it to go away.

And during the nights when there’s nothing to distract,
            I find myself actually believing you’re there,
            that your hair falls across my naked arms,
                        and you’re grasping me tight,
                                    your breathing and mine in unison.
                                                I wake up in alarm,
                                                            because I swear you were just there.
            My guts plunging because you’ve disappeared,
       &