Like a child enlightened by heightened curiosity,
So is a native poet by poetic luminosity.
A verse in sight and sound devoid of modern flair,
For poetic convention the poet does not care.
So, take this vague verse as one roaring rhyme,
And take it as verbiage very overdue in time.
Unjustly sunken voices the poet seeks to hear,
Battling a torrent history...above, below, and near.
This inquisitive writer infers a present too dismal,
As around an angry sea lies an origin; abysmal.
Rejecting fables history’s assassins inked true,
The writer seeks fair chroniclers, but wreckage was their due.
Sought is Illyria, a place far from here.
Land said "not to exist," but its roots still reappear;
Fabricated history most poets cannot fathom,
Quelled grandiose splendor serves political stratum.
Calling curious minds to ponder this heck of a theory,
First, consider the writer's roots with impartial query.
What the Illyrian believed in was a life well spent,
Not man-led "guidance" begging cents to repent.
Since Illyria’s rebel ship sailed onto history a fright,
Shakespeare's pen amorously inked the 'Twelfth Night.’
Around Illyria’s outskirts sly mythology prevails.
Modern Illyria’s pervasion of such mythology still fails.
So, how does one interpret Illyria’s butchered will,
As her Godless schism fibbing history faux fills?
Her feeble-minded native is essentially to blame
For their grand, deceptive role in the imperialist’s game.
Brutal eradication of Illyria’s vocal reason
Deem all native conspirators of ultimate treason.
As the State buries the dissident's piercing wits,
A treasonous dog barks, upon foreign command he *****.
This wormlike betrayal, painted by his foreign master,
Is an art to be repeated in future governing disaster.
In the European south roam these bad hounds of species,
Anatomical sketches of Europe's rear excreting feces.
A pile all imperialists eject with laxative ease,
A pile all imperialists still smear as they please.
Above Illyrian graves (those below made to inspire)
The ***** dog dances, blind to his own fate in fire.
This ****** work of art, not a site for you and eye,
Is an emblematic governance gagging an eerie cry.
As today’s political pawns (in corruption they engage),
Illyria’s distinctive scions remain fools on a stage.
Our bodies dance and sway like silly puppets at play,
Our minds confined to idiocy as the socialist's prey.
So,  a poet's jingle jangle on probing minds they should linger,
As besought are worthy scions who must leave behind a "finger."

Some fools are born, conditioned by fate,
And they, like all, still procreate.
All useful knowledge flee their minds;
Ignorance fulfill these swine.
And while they swing and cheat for joys,
The watchful eyes of their little boys
Take a glance at what they see,
And what they see is “a bigger me.”
Their little girls, in company of dolls,
On occasion foresee what befall
On them, too, as they soon explore --
An impending battle of love and war.
But then, there exists that little kid
Whose *** and gender shall remain amid
A cloud of quantum mystery;
Their wisdom calls more urgently.
And as this kid sees life unravel
Along Lacanian stages of travel,
Concerned are they with all fuss and mess,
To which most adults do not confess.
As one parent lacks all the care,
The other lives a life unfair.
In times of chaos and audacious cuss
Dear, vengeful killer, Oedipus
Consumes all facets of the mind
Of the little kid who must confine
All pain, and hatred, and all rage,
Enough to place one in a cage,
While free the bird whose wings to fly
Have been broken off, now left to die;
In part, by diabolical norms
That invade a home in all shapes and forms.
But the kid looks up at the two,
Then whispers quietly, “I’m neither of you;
Not the blinded one, on flight to reign,
Nor the indebted one, too tied to pain."
Nor does the kid ever dare to be
A product passed politically:
Ingrained in mind, in heart, and soul
A subordinate being in a bowl
That churns, and churns, and churns, and churns
While glutenous ******* more they yearn.
This ceaseless cycle leaves little choice
For the ill-fated screaming voice,
As a true language for them not made
Because demonic beings must place a shade
Over the stronger ones deprived
Appraisal for their stronger minds.
The kid, all this, can’t take to be
As what they see they wish not to see.
In this unbalanced Yin and Yang,
The kid’s perception hits a bang:
“The power lies within the one
Who mostly governs with a gun.
But, how can a human hurt their double,
When love and passion are lesser trouble?"
A fitting *** the kid cannot choose,
As in every win each *** will lose.
But slowly, as they come to be,
The kid, society directs to see
That to the right *** they must belong
As "genitalia proves feelings wrong."
This funny theory most credits Freud.
But by collective viewpoints the kid’s annoyed:
'No good is said, no good is done
For those who are all, but yet are none.'
Great gender points makes Butler, Judith,
While blind opponents seek to disprove her;
They ink 'she is wrong within her stance!'
That female unity will give rise to chance
To an inclusion of the female word,
And one that’s First...not second or third.
The opposite, still out to bend
The rules and laws, all to pretend
That the other *** does not exist
Because swollen egos must persist
In rule, in art, in build, and biz:
'Fields where opposites lack all wiz.'
The kid, in this silly world of theirs,
Looks at all these foolish heirs
Who bounce and shoot this gendered ball,
While the kid stands back and laughs at all.

Dear,

Parents. Siblings. Friends. Lovers:

Give you this.
Give you that.
You take ten
and I take that:
NOTHING!

My shoulder? Please!
And my home too?
Progress with ease
as I wish for you.

But a moment for ME,
oh but just one,
I’d like you to SEE
just what you have done;
Sorrow and pain,
my tongue will stutter,
but through my tears
my RAGE will flutter.
Though this may be the gist
of my anger in reign,
a WALL and my fist
returns...no gain.
When Austen, Kafka, Garcia-Marquez
instead hit the wall,
ALL ties are dead.

“YOU here for me,
but not I for you.”
Is all you can see...
All you can do...

Your ear I implore,
a little sympathy too;
FRUSTRATION galore,
to hell with you!

Arrow upon arrow the stricken heart endured,
Strife and doom its woeful dream ensured.
Vile phantoms of creed with deception en route
Intended to thwart, unveil their wicked fruit.
Satan had withered our spirit's joy and flame,
And gathered an earthly militia; among those to blame.
A maze he encrypted, the heir's light yet unseen,
All prospects stolen, great efforts wiped clean.
Creative their mind twilight art they presented,
The Sphere's evil hosts all reflected and resented.
Lost was all hearing, faith and sight,
Misplaced sense of wonder and good sense in flight.
"I worship nothing!" His heir once preferred,
Such was the spirit in high degrees deterred.

       "Paragons of justice, will I ever get to see
The day my misfortunes cease to be?
They shadow, entrap and starve my soul
Of love and joy and all control!
So tired I am, and tired I shall stay
If purpose here is merely to convey
No purpose at all, except for one:
To enslave the soul, casting punishment for fun.
My simple wish, then, is simply to impart
An end to this misery and to my sanctioned heart."

       His despairing heir put in motion so
An idea most frightening, its telling shall forego...
Immerse in their demise, allow for stricken grief,
Then foresee the King's love and His graciousness in fleet.
He gathered around, with love He replaced
Satan and his minions conspiring in space;
The King broke off the heir's chains with great might,
He enlightened our spirit, who had not known the light.
The heir's desperate cries reached The King's vibrations,
He released the heir and nullified all limitations.
Profound divine wisdom our heir now espies;
Seeing The King's glory and the through destroyer's lies.
Great wisdom and revelation now fill this mended heart,
But it's a tale best left for another form of art...

You should hear Her speak of the time
When love had struck Her, left Her blind;
The intuition in Her breast
Was left ignored with just one request:
“Please, love with care (with no hate);
This may prepare you for your fate.”

Then, a One-Eyed-Monster dared to peep
At this starry-eyed Girl with a soul still asleep.
The Monster's nature, as it strove with pleasure,
Pleased Its infinite fervor, which nothing could measure,
As It Schemed, and found, and mostly destroyed
Her love-struck spirit that It yearned to employ.
These reckless hits made by this Daring Dart,
Un-mended the Girl from Rosebud to Heart.

Not believing all the Monster said,
The Girl sought the truth, but found it with dread.
Upon seeing this Monster's very bright colors,
She drowned in sorrow, but refused another
Hit by this Dart, as It still carelessly slaughters
Other Hearts, like Its future Daughter’s.  

And then came a time, much later in life,
When the Girl understood love’s unending strife.
Many One-Eyed-Monsters, She now bears in mind,
Aspire to love, but still cannot find
The passion They hunt for and ache to sway,
Because they zip Themselves up when love comes Their way.
Confusion They feel, and this does not die;
But, what can They see with only one eye?

These perilous passings on love’s sojourn
The Girl does not dwell on, nor does She mourn.
Instead, She has found new ways to see
Love’s ultimate beauty, unexpectedly:
A journey enGENDERED with Ladies of taste,
Where only Her own *** can love back without hate.

A state for Her, a State in need;
A Lady in good state, indeed?

She attempts to make Herself appear
To Us All, both far and near,
A beauty One in all Our eyes
While in Her own are only lies.

Her outer Self is a fraud;
Her inner One perfect and broad;
One much needed to enlighten
The weaker Ones whom She may frighten
With Her depth, Her sense, Her honesty,
But lacks our ideas of 'true beauty'.

The foolish Man, also conditioned,
Accepts this fallacy petitioned
That "A pretty Lady, a pretty sight,
Is the only kind to make a wife."

An object in its simplest sense,
She appears, made by the dense.
But in Her eyes, while wisdom fills,
Her shock enthralls, Her passion thrills.

And through it all She may plead
A message in much desperate need:
“Forget the glitz; it’s all a waste.
Forget the glamour; it’s all a state.”

"I don't act this way to change the world. I act this way so that the world won't change me."-- Patricia Charbonneau in 'Desert Hearts'

Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
as The Act
is but an act.

Intangible at that.

She may be silent,
but She is strident
in action.

Later,
She is given a voice.

But,
The Lady thespian,
assaulted by
The Gaze,
is subjected
as the objected
by the subjected
and the objected.

Greta Garbo dominates
the Pre-Codes.

Betty Davis hesitates
but follows the new ones.

Miss Monroe,
the ideal ***,
erases Her history,
creating a new toxic one:
"Look and touch
as you please,
Mr. President."

Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
"Blame the woman for everything"
say 'Ordinary People'
and the Academy
salutes you.

Look Lady,
shoot to '**** Bill'
for a manly thrill
to be
remembered
still...

Still waiting for change...

Legally,
a Blonde has brains, too.

But who knew
that twists
and turns
and changes
can happen
to you?

All from Her:

Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
on the big screen.

You
just

can't

touch

Her.

The marvelous thing
is how I hear this bird
sing,
from morning to night
and from winter to spring.
It happily glees,
never sad, never in fright.
It glides with purpose
from darkness to light.
Aggression it welcomes
from predators (weak)
for its mind is superior
and respect it will seek.
Underestimate, only a fool
will dare.
With intellect,
vibrancy,
and vigilance
there
will be a surprise
--  most minds will be blown --
with glory it ravages,
but dignity shown.
Above all else,
I prefer to mention,
something vital
to bring to your attention;
you must look beyond
my observation
for all things beautiful,
in adoration
this bird holds dear
to heart and mind
a one true love
its meant to find.
The heavens,
the sea,
the corporeal plains
it tours the earth,
again and again
but never alone,
but with another;
one’s promised,
confidante,
Jay’s one true lover.

Many are stupefied by utopic love.
Each aside they unwisely shove
The one made for them with divine care;
But one lover is astute, the other ensnared.
But, to devise a plan to speak
Of the fervor in their hearts (not meek)
Would mean to usher all aside
One’s vulnerability, fear, and pride.
First time around, most subtly,
Interest expressed, transcendently,
And shatters a transparent door,
While these two strangers are strangers no more. 


Then:
The slightest step towards her heart is taken;
She quickly retracts, he quickly mistaken.

She thinks:
“I’ve grown tired of being jaded.
My loud wits and dreams have faded,
Far along the river waves,
Saddened by these trees and shades!
But there he stands, perfect and well.
I...here...scared like hell,
For I have never felt like this,
Not even with a woman’s kiss.”

He thinks:
“What, exactly, have I done
That she retreats, a fate undone?
There! In her eyes, the heart’s edifice,
Conjures true love’s precipice,
But screams of the real demise
Of past lovers: spears and lies.”

In truth, her wits may sometimes offend,
But with him she would most commend
His charming smile, his virility,
While he embraces her wholeheartedly.
Thus, their imaginations painted beyond
A sea of perfection, like a song,
And marked a journey of these two
Just for a moment, as most strangers do.
But the stars have placed attraction laws
For these two lovers and their flaws
To come together, but not greet,
For the devil binds them in defeat.

So, a moment’s come, a moment’s passed
For these two soulmates, amour-cast;
The love she sought, the love he spoke
Has come and gone. That’s all they wrote.

I drafted a list of films.
That’s all.

‘The Age of Innocence’ was nothing
more than a journey on a ‘House Boat’
for a few ‘Pirates Of The Caribbean’
embarking ‘East of Eden’ in search of
‘The Secret in Their Eyes.’
But all they encountered on this
‘Road to Perdition’ was ‘The Birdcage’
specially made for the ‘Lord of The Rings’
and anyone else willing to decipher
the written code inside it.
‘Nine Months’ passed and the captain found
that ‘The Notebook’ of old ‘Umberto D,'
as it turns out, was a text written
in Italian, not in broken English.
The captain was ‘Lost in Translation’
when he assumed it was written by
‘The Great Dictator’ who was behind
the wheel of the ‘Titanic’
the night it sank.
While this was ‘As Good As it Gets,’
‘The Talented Mr. Ripley’
was suddenly ‘In The Mood For Love’
when another pirate translated the letters
of Umberto. The captain remembered himself
in a ‘Wonderful Life’ as a ‘Cast Away’
entangled in the loopy, mystifying grips
of ‘An Affair to Remember.’ It reminded
him of his youthful tryst with
‘The Princess Bride’ whom he lost to his
greatest nemesis, ‘Forrest Gump.’
‘The Odd Couple’ ‘Departed’ as the captain,
out of envy, took the lives of Gump, his woman,
as well as ‘The Lives of Others.’ Now, all the
captain was left with was the haunting
memory of a true beauty’s
‘Persuasion’ of an empty man
whose love was trapped like ‘Beetlejuice’
in the ‘Brokeback Mountain’ of his
own wicked heart. The captain failed to
realize that Umberto had addressed the
letter to his lost dog, Flike.

‘Analyze This.’ ‘Analyze That.’

From my lips
come hints of
sarcasm.
Sarcasm shielding
the truth
of me.

From my eyes
comes out
the truth.
The truth
about me.

But?  To what?  Degree.

Bewildered.

Bedazzled.

Beguiled.

Enraptured.

Embittered.

Bemused.

Un-
Certain of you.

There is a chance
it was all in her mind.
At first glance
her essence would unwind
dim secrets that dance
until one goes blind:
two worlds split,
but only one confined.
One world set free
of frenzied things.
Trapped in complete
illusory strings,
was the other world
that’s dark and cold;
too loveless to swirl in
for any soul.
Here, only shivers her heart
would devise
for a woman torn apart
from her own demise;
one incapable to love
and for to care,
as her silence above
screamed, “Mommy wasn’t there.”
Diving this sea of oblivion,
our lady petitioned,
unrequited love, one unconditioned,
for all unloved and not cared for,
who now searched only for a closed door.
So, when our lady, flaming with passion,
devoted her love in unlimited fashion,
most were startled,
some terror-stricken,
by a truth their world
had only forsaken.
Two months passed,
as a year of leap it was,
the moon and stars
and a twilight dusk,
with prison bars
transported our lady
from one world - dark -
into another. Maybe?
In this new world,
she was ONE with trees.
The squirrels, too, knew
how to please,
her thoughts, perceptions,
and degrees
to which our lady
accepted with ease.
All seemed so real,
yet unrealistic.
A man she’d seen
on TV, a mystic,
with talent so broad
and success, too,
that our lady
fell hard for him;
yes. It’s true...
A million fences
disappeared
upon entrance,
for the one she found
was pure as gold,
not rugged, *****,
or too old.
He seemed to know
more about our lady
than the lady knew of herself,
indeed.
With love and precision
this man could foresee
that she is the one,
and for her is he.
But she knew nothing of this world so foreign,
for the laws of the old world were creeping in;
the chains that bound her left in storage
and due in time for her soul to binge
in emptiness and despair to shove,
while her soul-mate stayed behind to love
the eerie dismay of our lady’s eyes,
which he knew even in disguise;
they hurt, they feared, they gently skewed
but now they bid him an adieu,
for the world she’s from exists with things,
these ugly, invisible things called “strings.”

It is a truth universally
acknowledged
that people in love
are people found.

Even if one tried,
one cannot escape from,
nor ignore one’s
strongest muscle
that emulates a
desperate caterpillar’s.
This muscle is a muscle
of the heart
that is eager to break
free from
the claws of conformity,
which it is bound by
from the moment it is born;
where it’s rebellious limbs
instinctively practice
within and against the laws
of physics and nature;
laws that appear
to relentlessly sustain
the creature’s
seemingly pointless,
externally influenced,
and
perfectly molded
and orchestrated
existence.
That is, until
one day
when the caterpillar
blossoms into a
creature with wings;
a thing with a
real purpose
that springs into
action when
faced with
the highest form
of adversity,
like dealing
with the stink of
French blue cheese
that leaves behind
its cheap perfume
in a room with no
ventilation.
Death of the senses,
birth of a soul.
And there, on a sofa,
begins and ends
the story
of two lost souls
aimlessly meandering
around like
headless politicians
clinging onto something
they no longer have.
(Dysfunctional penises,
your time is up).
And all that remains
within these quietly
suffocating walls
of love and loss
is the eerie
stench of pain
mixed in a ball
of anger,
confusion,
and the
feculent funk of
French cheese.

I lost my soul
long ago.
It did not know
where
to go.
It sought the truth
and still doesn't
know
how much
longer
it has to go.

To find itself,
how does it
begin
to see
the bright side
until
the end?
With colossal wings
a darkness reigns
while
brightness dies
from
deep within,

where

a

soul

exists

but 

can
not

sing!

Time.

Its mortally-invented meaning,
feels powerfully un-theoretical
when traveling to the past.
And by “traveling,”
I mean that outer body experience
one endures during a moment of nostalgia.
And by “experience,”
I mean that outer body awareness that is sharply ignited
by something unknown in the chest area;
further manifested in the form of chilling goosebumps
that are assumed to be ignited
by the heart
as it laments itself
in an intangibly triangular form of
love, emptiness, and pain --
two theoretically theoretical theories against one.