some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.

A few days ago, North Korea said that the imposition of sanctions by the United States amounted to an open "declaration of war" and went on to state that in response to military exercises to be carried out by the US and South Korean armies, that they are "fully ready to cope with them with nuclear weapons any time,” Okay. Let me just make one thing abundantly clear: these jokers have been talking this game for the last four decades, and it has all amounted to precisely nil

As regards Kim Jong-Un, I will ask that I be excused by my reader for the brief detour into contemporary African-American Vernacular English that this piece will now take. (crack knuckles, clear throat, hawk phlegm, adjust junk) Dear Kim: You ain't ****. *******, and your little ***** *** on some old *******. You ain't ****, you ain't never gon' be ****, and you never was ****. Furthermore, you ain't standin' on **** but a failed state and a fast-fading personality cult. All we hear is talk, talk, talk, talk, every year from you and your decrepit, syphilis riddled father before you; and quite frankly, it's getting old. Boring, even.

Do it, we dare you. See what happens, you glorified, overfed man-baby. You blurry greyscale xerox of Mao's bloated corpse. You, who have mistook a flimsy house of cards for an ironclad fortress. You naked emperor. You, whose very 'empire' is the deformed and emaciated plant which reluctantly sprang from a salted and desolate earth. You, whose 'hermit kingdom' constantly shrinks toward zero while the entire world watches, laughing!

We rest assured of the emptiness your threats. We can topple your house of cards at the flick of a wrist. In one fell swoop, our elite tactical urban forces will subvert and destroy your poorly trained, weakly organized, and honestly pitiful excuse for a nation. Why, if we wanted it, you'd be gone in a New York minute. And don't even try to come at us with tough talk about nukes. *****, we been had nukes, and here's the thing: ours are bigger, better, and more numerous than yours. You push that button, and we bomb your sorry little ***** back into the stone. You EMP us, our allies bomb you for us. Bearing all these considerations in mind, I once again reiterate:

WE AIN'T SCARED OF YOU. COME TEST US!

(drop mic, walk away)

The end of the affair is always death.
She's my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Finger to finger, now she's mine.
She's not too far. She's my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute's speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

She took you the way a women takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today's paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Sticky fingers,
***** toes,
Smelly *****,
Beads up their nose,
          
          PRECIOUS

Snot stained blouse,
Sick stained shoulders,
Work gets harder,
As they get older,

        WONDERFUL

Midnight screaming,
*** in your bed,
Barbie in your coffe ***,
Poor goldfish overfed,

        GOOD TIMES

Money problems,
Teenage tantrums,
Nose rings, blue hair,
Football anthems,

        PARENTHOOD ROCKS!!!!

Do you hate the way
     that our magnetized times
turn us all to metal shavings--
     push and pull--charged each
day to fill up negative space
with negative attraction?
Were you repulsed when polarities
                                          changed?

Or­ was that me?
     Flipping switches
                     switching sides
                                      siding
with pivot points showing, caught
with pants down?
"Be a man now!"
          While the female end
          of the port calls out,
          "Shipwreck! Shipwreck!
               All men down!"

Count me out at minus 4
     it leaves a balance: minus 3
At minus 10, our blood could freeze
and fall back earthward; blood red snow.
Caught on the tongue it tastes like pennies.
          Tastes just like
          the metal shavings
          we become
          in magnetized times.
               Polarized
and "Family Sized." Underpaid
Overfed. Neutralized America.

Greatest country in the ******* world.

                    Right?

Some days
It's as if I can't process emotion.
My heart is dying of starvation

Other days**
It's as if I can't stop feeling everything.
It's as if I'm full but can't stop eating.

And I have no idea what I'll do if this carries on

I made a gold digger, ******* full of vigor,
She’s on a hairpin trigger, out to **** my rigor.
Gold digger, in love with all the stuff,
Gold digger, she can’t get enough.

I’m tired of the way she treats his gifts,
He’ll give her a boat and away she drifts—
I can’t help I didn’t give her enough
Now he sees her lying to him—he’s calling her bluff.

He puts bracelets on her wrists
His charity persists,
He puts old hats on her head,
She’ll soon be overfed
His gifts can’t harbor the ship wreck
And look I’m sticking out my neck

Perhaps I can’t afford her
My broke *** just bores her.

Perhaps it’s more than that,
Perhaps it’s under the hat.
Perhaps her head is so done with me,
That the gifts he gives are guilt-free.
Perhaps I’m loosing sight,
Of the things they have so right,
Maybe they’re cleaning horse **** holding hands
Perhaps that’s what’s turning on her adrenal glands—

Gold digger, shallow to a point
Fishing for meaning, Heaven please anoint.
I think I get it, somewhere inside,
You pompous shallow ***** go run and hide.

Surf or skate, and fall and break
The waves will crush you over-take,
And when the good get’s going and I’m out of sight
You and He, will shrink into the night,
And in your heart, Gold digger
My purpose is always Bigger.

Because you love me without cash
But you treat me like your trash,
I’ll probably get in a car crash,
Running him over cause’ I’m just so brash.

This I will confess,
Your heads a ******* mess,
Unless you give up the gold,
Your heart and mine will grow even more cold.

I made a gold digger, ******* full of vigor,
She’s on a hairpin trigger, out to **** my rigor.
Gold digger, in love with all the stuff,
Gold digger, she can’t get enough.

now that territory outweighs tolerance,
we all just march in search of conquest,
for it is this that we were born to do.
no one questions this so called 'truth,'
we just read outdated books and call them proof.
for the right to destroy, we'll accept any view.
give me this and give me that
and put the rest up on a rack
on the off chance i run out of things to consume.
we're getting bloated and overfed
but that still doesn't leave any time to rest
because this isn't enough, and i need a bigger room.
so i'll just take yours and when i'm done, i'll take his,
and what i can't take, i'll drown in my **** . . .
no matter what, it will all be marked as mine.
and when the devil takes us up to show what we could have,
we'll say, 'we fooled you!  we took all we could nab.
you've got nothing to offer us, so get in the ******* line,
like everyone else we've got tagging along,
weeping and praying, singing spiritual songs,
and waiting for us to throw them a bone.'
because everyone knows territory outweighs tolerance . . .
it's easy to believe if you have no conscience,
and you're willing to spend your life in your mind, alone.
so that's what we do:  march about and consume
and destroy and defile and declare it as truth,
and ignore anything that points to something else.
because where ever we go there is never peace,
we just breed violence like a ******* disease
and pretend there is no such thing as a Self.
because like mitochondria, we're ensuring growth
and what's it to us if we leave dashed hopes
trailing behind in our wake?
get in the line, or lay down and die,
but whatever was yours now is called mine,
and i'm already looking for something else to take.

Fat women with
Fur coats
To warm their overfed
Heaps of mass
Holding overpriced
Elongated, mechanical strings
Attached to their
Mouse-like dogs
That wear clothes
That cost more
Than my entire outfit
Shirt, jeans, boots, jacket
Combined

They yap to small devices
Glued to their ears
Like instruments
Of envy and jealousy
Yelling at their husbands
Or boyfriends
Or pool boys
Who haven't done their job
Either paying for whatever they want
Or neglecting to net out
That last nat
From their jacuzzis
Where they sip white wine
And sizzle in soapy water
Before getting out
And slipping on shoes
Made by kids
In Cambodia
Who have never held
A hundred dollar bill

What is wrong
Who is right
What is it
That's been done
Here
None of it makes sense
To me

Edna's Special Recipes No. 4:

"Le pit bull à la français"

By Edna

At this festive time of year, why be boring and choose a turkey? Especially since the poor creatures have been reared intensively, overfed and fattened artificially, kept in a cage or in a filthy shed, never having seen the sunshine.

So Edna says: offer your family something rather different this Christmas, something a little unusual.  Had you ever considered an American Pit Bull Terrier?  A Pittie may not be the first thing which springs to mind for Christmas dinner and I admit there are some drawbacks: they are difficult to get hold of: neighbours' pets are a dangerous option and modern intensive Pittie-farming methods don't work as the brutes are far too savage for most farmhands; also they have relatively little meat on them, being mainly muscle and hatred. However, these negatives are offset by the joy any fun-loving chef will gain from killing the ******* and you, as hostess, will bask in the happiness of your family as they contemplate what they are about to receive.

First, it is important only to use a FRESHLY killed mutt as Pit Bulls do not freeze well (they struggle and bark for what seems ages once shoved into the freezer) and the pre-packed, pre-gutted ones you will find in your local supermarket are likely to have been battery-reared and force-fed in order to put a bit of extra flesh on. Believe me, nothing quite matches the texture of a freshly killed Pittie. And of course, you get the head as a bonus for your pet cats to play with.

A stranger's pet is my own preferred animal as a neighbour might see you skulking round their back garden with a pick axe and twig what you were up to. So, off you go in the car and seek out your dinner. Once you have found a suitable four-legged meal, follow the owner home, wait for the right moment and then get the chloroform pads in action. One for the owner and one for the dog. Pop the zonked-out mutt into the strong black canvas bag you brought with you, shove it into the back of the car and off you go!

So now you've got your hound: what's the best way to **** it?  We gourmets have argued over this for years: decapitation, drowning, hanging, electrocution or beating to death with a sledgehammer? My own favourite method is to drop the drugged brute into a large tin bathtub of warm water and then add the 240v power cable. The expression on the dog's face when the volts kick in is fabulous but you need to be careful in case it leaps out of the bath and goes for your jugular. Hanging from a high tree, accompanied by extensive tenderizing with a baseball bat is a safer but equally enjoyable option. Two further benefits are that hanging is not so messy as the drowning/electrocution route and the whole family can watch a hanging in safety instead of having to risk the dog leaping out of the tub.

Once you are sure the dog is dead (about five minutes after it's stopped kicking and moaning), take it down and cut the head off with a cleaver.  Carefully remove the ears for use as decoration. If you have no cats to give the skull to, shove it on the top of your Christmas tree to provide a family talking point.

Next, skin the dog and discard, bearing in mind that it would be unwise to leave the telltale evidence for the binmen. My flaying advice is to use a sharp knife starting at the **** and working my way up to the neck. Be sure to remove all the ****** parts, as these do NOT taste good. It's nice to roast a Pittie whole, but few people have an oven big enough (unless you scored for a puppy that is). So, carefully cut up the cadaver into two or three separate joints. The following recipe is suitable for a nice shoulder or leg.

Rub all over with freshly ground sea salt and black pepper; make a series of deep incisions in the flesh at two-inch intervals and carefully insert slivers of fresh garlic. Place in your largest Le Creuset ***, with two pints of Evian water, a half-bottle of a full-bodied red wine, half a dozen French oignons and bring to the boil. Then reduce the heat and simmer for two to three hours, depending on weight. Be sure to check every 20 minutes that the liquid hasn't boiled away! Add extra wine and olive oil as necessary. Once the meat is tender, your dog is ready!

Serve your Pit Bull with mashed potatoes and a nice salad. I find a fruity Beaujolais drinks very well with stewed Pittie à la français but my paddy friends swear by Guinness. Whatever your tipple, enjoy our meal! And think: because of your caring approach to Christmas, one more turkey will live to see New Year and the world is rid of another Pit Bull horror.

He has never been like other little boys
That play so happily with their toys
He is different is young Raymond Bliss
He wants to grow up to be....a mad scientist

While others play with toy soldiers and cars
Or pretend to be astronauts in the stars
Little Raymond is chasing his pet cat instead
Determined he will catch him and cut off his head

He tried getting the dog who put up a fight
Poor Raymond gave up when he got a nasty bite
So he dug up his hamster, who passed away when overfed
He tied the body to a car battery to try and raise the dead

Unfortunately the dead hamster fizzled and went pop
It made Raymond jump in fright, it made him hop
So he decided to dig up the goldfish as well
Then he decided against it, because of the smell

Now there are plans drawn up, to be unfurled
His evil scheme now hatched to take over the world
Raymond wants to set vampire robot bunnies on man kind
It is just a shame because his pocket money he can not find

His mother says "time for bed" so he sulks up to his room
This his prison from whence he plots doom and gloom
He is a very strange boy is little Raymond Bliss
Determined to be the most evil mad scientist

never a need to say yes or no
just say not now instead
to avoid any decision
apply infinite revision
then crawl on back to bed

the words stick to and fro
following where they’re led
when a Harvard debater
says “I’ll catch ya’ later”
they really mean go drop dead

declarations come and go
everyday is condition red
I have not a clue
if what you say is true
your rhetoric is overfed

intellect is friend or foe
trapped deep in your head
words are often mis-used
context cannot be refused
if you believe you believe what was said

She says: WHY R U STILL LAYING THERE?
First she whispered, then she spoke and then she screamed
cause it seemed like i was consciously deaf.
'You say ur tired but are you really?
You say ur done but do you mean it?
You sure don't act like it.
You were happy, you were at peace cause i've seen it'

Well, now i'm not, i answered.
I'm emotionally broken cause he broke me,
My heart so full of feelings, they might choke me.
Feeling it wraps its cold hands around my neck,
As i gasp for air, waiting for my lungs to fill,
fuel my body with energy and try to fight back.
But i lack hope, so i finally gave up.
I fell so hard spiritually,
i landed on my back and decided to stay there.
Why? because:

There's only an amount of weight i can bear.
I feel like i passed the limit, twice
then three, four and five times.
So I've had it! My goal is so far, i can't even grab it.
Instead of feeding my spirit i overfed my habit.
Pulling myself away of His light, while my world turns black.
Crawling into the darkest corner
far away from Him cause i'm to ashamed to show my face
Ignoring her calls, denying His arms, disregarding His embrace.
Forgetting His grace and neglecting my thoughts.

And then she, the inner voice in me,
finalised our dialogue.
Why are u broken while He healed you?
Why are you a slave while He freed you?
Ain't there anything that you've memorised.
Rise up before you realize it's to late.
before your inner voice, actually the voice of God, is gone.
Cause then you'll get as cold as the floor that you're laying on.

**** head
Sedilia smile
move inches
Talk for a mile
Wontcha walk for a while,
Wontcha walk for a while

I’m dead
silly I smile
bedhead
sun gimme a dial
wontcha recognize the time
I looked at you to long now I’m blind

oh but parliamentary wontcha drop a seed on me
I’m just dying to grow n you taught me to know I’m to smart to move for you
Oh and the time keeps passing me by n I slaughter seconds with questions asking why can’t I realize why this time keeps passing me by

Unfed lead
leading helmeted heads
of plague ridden pockets with their skin overfed
to the great meat grinder
will we topple the walls
or let our words get cleaned off of those bathroom stalls?

Sunset
You’re gonna go far
stars live in the dark
get stuck in the tar
I can’t see your face on a cloudy day
the clear nights tell me it’s all ok

oh but parliamentary wontcha drop a seed on me
I’m just dying to grow n you taught me to know I’m to smart to move for you
Oh and the time keeps passing me by n I slaughter seconds with questions asking why can’t I realize why this time keeps passing me by

rows of two!-three!-four!-boys-bloc-king-the-cor-rid-or
will soon be gone
and the RHYTH-mic-tick-tock-of-my-leg-BOUN-cing-on-the-floor
will be no more
it's fresh cadavers wrapped in string
it is a joyful gospel hymn
mourning the best and worst of youth
(those shiny kids who'd first walked in
with all the grace and all the poise
of hatched arachnids missing limbs)

but what of "her" – you know her name –
that overfed, reptilian thing
who shed her hair and scratched her skin,
cursing the odds at Him upstairs, demanding He re-shape her?

some say she cried herself into extinction
– sailed away on a crimson tide –
balking at the trauma of being seen
(enforced, cursed vulnerability
in being known to man).

the rest knew better;
they were voyeurs in this
fruit-carving tutorial
on 'how to grow up':

STEP 1) consider all other alternatives
2) take the scalpel and initiative
3) before adrenaline gives way to doubt,
turn the flesh-vessel inside out in a cocoon of your own creation!
while organs may rupture and it aches like you've skinned yourself alive (good for her, setting herself free!) you'll look cuter in the class photos and has you-know-who... finally... shifted the weight?
4) breathe through the blood loss and searing pain
5) notice
           you
                can
                     breathe again.
                     at this point, does it matter that it aches?

Suicide me again oh love
it hurts to be overwhelmed with your humiliating zealous lust
my genitals nimbus like a glowing golden peach
so ripe corruption is shadowing hungrily
At church I forget I am an animal
slowly poisoned by communion , candles , brochures , verses ,
beautiful music of the spheres exalts all singers absolved
Purity lends me a shackle and a guiltless time on my knees

**** this pain these senses
basic needs met and yet i fret
particulars stick in my eye
I can't see how horrible i am
when i watch csi
my dna can betray me with babies and jail time
God please bless the homeless and starving far far away
while i am starving for pleasure as my overfed ego takes the last
bite of icecream eaten to avoid feeling alone
I hate this commericial

disenchanted with a day
overfed with sweetness.
the hoax of the flesh
the illusion of the intellect
punish .
even my own face in the mirror
appears as that of a stranger
my own thoughts
seem borrowed from
some memory of what this day
should feel like.
walking through photographs,
everything too pungent to the eye,
all i crave
is to be me again.

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
  24.05.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

Slurries of hails to the standard rail of self-expectations in the projector that melts back-bone whenever faced with a path over mountain that always professes from the abstraction sinkhole. Emptying that cobbed and worthless orafice seems pretty good lain back. it's during stalkings around the star of an other soul's eyes the motor behind the sighs that cut through the man-made fog is needed in my anxious tissue. It comes now an epic old stone to my skull like an old and overfed dog needs a forest's unmountable cedar amber airholm and rushing pulp thick with the scent of meat.

Every time we, as people...as a group, think of a new category, a new classification, a new label, we further our own separation from each other. Every new name gives us a pre-conceived notion for us to pre-judge other people with.

All of us will be familiar with generational categorization. Millennial, Boomer, Gen X, Y, and Z...etc. We all say, "Millenials are spoiled and have it easy and complain too much," or "The Boomers ruined the economy because they're greedy," or "Gen Z is lazy and never knew anything that wasn't on a screen..."

These sayings, are all just easy ways out... lazy assumptions we can use to generalize one another so that we don't have to put in the effort it takes to actually care...

And yeah, caring is hard.
Truth is, we've all gotten lazy.

Every single "group" of people, has some of the most amazing, loving people you will ever meet, regardless of age, or anything. Love and hatred have no bias as to who you are, where you live, what you think, or when you were born.

Think about it.
It's so easy to see one person doing something selfish to us, and we immediately look at them, and label them according to our own biases, but we never stop to look at the many more people that don't do us wrong; Perhaps even the ones that help us out. When that happens to us, they're just...people.
When we're transgressed, those people become "they." **** them blank, **** those blank, Selfish blank.
And every time we allow these little events to affect us, we become more selfish ourselves... and the cycle goes on.

This doesn't just go for generations. It goes for political separation, gender identity, race, etc.

Every,
Single,
Name,
is an excuse for us to hate each other.
Fuel for the pyre that we ourselves, you and I are tied to.

We are all human. We are all kin. Every single one of us will bleed the same blood, and cry the same tears.
That ******* that cut you off in traffic may have been on the way to the hospital to catch the dying breath of his wife, son, daughter, father, mother, or friend just in time.

We need to stop seeing each other as they, or them.
We,
Are Us.

We,
Are the only people on this tiny little rock in space,
And if we allow ourselves to hate our kin, surely we will destroy everything we know and love.

We live in the age of being overfed with information no one asked for, and we allow this information to divide us as a people.

I don't care if you are Gen Z, Republican, Democrat, Millenial, Man, Woman, or anything in between...you are just like me. You bleed red and you have a heart and a soul that wants to be loved and to feel important and that you're doing the right thing.

There's a very simple solution to this epidemic of social divide.
Next time you feel like someone has wronged you, or done something wrong. Take a step back. Stop and think.
Benefit,
of,
the Doubt.

We need to love ourselves,
but more importantly,
We need to love each other just as much...
Because in the end,
Without each other,
we would just be alone, and lost.
We are meaningless without each other.

He was a crossword puzzle in the local paper
and a raspberry danish with coffee on Sunday mornings &
an extra pinch of salt at dinner
or two.
He was a constant battle of Grampy vs. the squirrels
that raided the the birdfeeder
He was a top drawer candy stash and show tunes playing through the house
And 10 over when hitting those speed bumps
He was the only man I knew that would take his dentures out at DiMillos
& for those of you that don't know DiMillos, it's not the type of restaurant for such things
He was a broken belt on Thanksgiving,
but that wouldn't stop him until his pants were around his ankles
One thing always told me, "I'm gonna fall asleep before my head hits the pillow!" Which always left me in a state of curiosity
I can still hear his voice saying that one line from that one movie..
'You're the guy who overfed my goldfish'
and I'll never forget the way he replied whenever Nana scolded him
'Yes, lovey'
For all of the things my grandfather was, and always will be
He'll be remembered as a neighbor, a father, a husband,
And an amazing grandfather

If I were to die today
Well, what can I say?
I'd simply be dead
To overthink, is to lose your way
It ain't just all about... street cred'... flashy clothing... and being overfed
One needs to find a balance, be it at the brim
He who adds no value to your life, is the one that you trim
Off, and lose touch with
Or not associate too much with
Do not take life too seriously
I know that  I will die too, curiously...
I feel nothing even remotely close to fear
Suprise me death
You could be far... but then again
You might just be near.

i.

The sisters are, like their brethren everywhere,
An amalgamation of gentle touch
And soothing words delivered in sepia tones
(Comrade, you will be up
And out of here before you know it)
In such a manner as to convince you
That they believe it to be true as well,
But I have made something of a living
In the interpretation of the unsaid,
And what I have seen in a certain knitting of their eyebrows,
An occasional tightness around the throat,
The set of the jaw as the doctor studies my chart,
And I suspect that this may be
The final station on my excursion,
The last listing on the timetable;
Indeed, as I click off the inventory of my own person
(The fever, the unsightly and damning rash)
I have come to the conclusion
That I may find the denouement of this particular tale
To be highly unsatisfactory reading.

ii.

I am at considerable leisure to think, reminisce,
And even, though wholly without purpose, to dream.  
On more than one occasion
I have drifted back to a certain train ride
(I was headed to the Congress of the Peoples of the East,
Not without some trepidation, I might add)
Traversing almost all of Mother Russia, from Murmansk to Baku.  
Oh, there was any number of wonders
To be viewed through the windows:
The broad, seemingly endless steppes,
The grandeur of the Urals and Caucasus
The wide, sluggish Irtysh,
But there were other sights,
Unsettling, almost portentous views as well:
Villages, burnt and abandoned,
Cows and horses so thin
Their hides appeared almost threadbare,
Peasants of all ages whose eyes gave evidence
Of seeing such pain, hunger and death
That it was a wonder they could still stand upright,
Or, indeed, have the desire to do so.  
We, conversely, rode, if not in the lap of luxury,
Comfortably indeed—no shortage of coffee and *****,
Even caviar on a more or less daily basis.
Finally, no longer able to contain discontented thoughts
(I knew my outburst would be reported back to the Comintern)
I said to the Red Army captain sharing my compartment
That it seemed incongruous, if not counter-revolutionary,
To be overfed when the backbone of the proletariat
Was starving and dying before our eyes,
That, surely, there was something we could do.  
As he walked from his seat  toward the window,
He smiled and said as he pulled them downward
Sometimes, the best thing we can do is to pull the shades.


iii.


Again, having a certain gift of observation
Proves to be a mixed blessing:
There are certain signs (the adjacent beds
Being placed a touch farther away,
A certain distance, physical and otherwise
By the doctors and nurses)
And it is clear to me that my remaining sunrises and sunsets
May be counted on fingers and toes,
And my musings have turned to my placement
After I am discharged from further ministrations,
And I find it somewhat amusing if not entirely suitable
That the epitaph upon my tombstone
(If I am afforded such a luxury;
It is far from certain that the pig-eyed Zinoviev
May not just have me thrown into some dungheap,
There to sate the desperate hunger of the cur and the swine)
Will be likely written in Cyrillic,
An idiom I found wholly perplexing and inscrutable.

The mind is a cage
Prisoners are overfed
Thoughts make for slow death

If the Lord loves me why did he leave me this way?
Was the question she used to ask
As the drugs took over more each day
She felt her life was leaving her fast
On a normal day as she sat and got high
Death was close, but she could not stop
As tears ran down her face from over drugged eye
She wished this life for a new one she could swap
Then God reached out for this child of his
With love and compassion he spoke to her
And told her this is not the way you have to live
God searched her heart and knew what she’d prefer
Knowing this had to be about the Lord
The voice in her head she answered
And told it not to speak another word
Not knowing death was the hazard
She thought to herself out loud
He knows nothing about me and God
So what you are saying is disallowed
Don’t question me or go to far and ****
Not forgetting her drugs she picked up her head
For just one moment to wipe away the tears
From the drugs that to herself she overfed
The thought of death upon her was clear
At that moment standing before her was a man
She did not see his face as she looked
She only saw the holes in his feet and his hands
“I understand”, he said, “ I know what it took.
I died for you. So you don’t have to die too.”
She fell on her face and prayed for forgiveness
And told the Lord if my life you will rule
From this day forward I will be a living witness
To this day she does not do drugs
And helps as many get clean as she can
With a lot of love and even more hugs
Believing that all the while this was God’s plan

The kid with the beard and the ***** apron,
he's just trying to make it.
His shoes have small tears on the sides,
from the way water saturates and weakens the material.
He’s got this way of gliding from table to table,
the same way a dancer owns a stage.
He slides plates of salt-ridden tacos currently in vogue
to a roomful of overfed, undersexed office drones

A woman in a skirt and flip-flops rolls her eyes at a salad.
A ******* in a blazer flicks a ****** under the table.
Still, there's a twinkle in the kid’s eyes,
like he's on the make.
If the right circumstances unfold
he’d snag a loose twenty
from a wallet or a purse.

This is the server's life,
always under the thumb,
hated and stressed,
but always laughing
at the end
of each shift.

She sits on the courthouse steps
Playing songs she herself wrote
Every word she sings she means
Her heart there in every note.
She sings of the pain she sees
In the world that passes by.
She sings to you and to me
Her music makes you cry.

(She sings)
We who have so much
Give little to the others.
We let our children starve
And do not help the mothers
And the fathers who work
To make their daily bread
While rich people won’t help
Keep a house over their heads.

She manages to choose chords
That sing of lonely suffering.
Her angelic voice softens up
The accusations she’s uttering.
She tells of squandered glory
In the wasting of our lives
While the overfed rich people
Go home to their gilded wives.

(She sings)
We who have so much
Give little to the others.
We let our children starve
And do not help the mothers
And the fathers who work
To make their daily bread
While rich people won’t help
Keep a house over their heads.

Few listen to the troubadour
Who tells us all our name.
They may drop in a penny
To soften up their shame.
But every day they pass her
And soon they do not hear
The wisdom in her lyrics.
They do not feel the fear.

(She sings)
We who have so much
Give little to the others.
We let our children starve
And do not help the mothers
And the fathers who work
To make their daily bread
While rich people won’t help
Keep a house over their heads.

Brent Kincaid
4/18/2015

I have been a pilot and a doctor, and a chieftain, I've run a café and a veg stall and a shop
Discovered forests down the road, and caught a magic toad, and stormed the castle high upon the mountains top
I've walked about on Mars, flown a rocket to the stars, and been to places that are yet unknown to men
And just to cap it all, to amaze you, and enthral, I did all that before I was even ten

There are no boundaries for young minds, no comprehension of time, they are eager to explore this fun-filled place
Kids are free and are unshackled, from the first shake of their rattle, they refuse to run with rats in our sad race
I grew up with simple toys, simple pleasures, simple joys, yet life was then so full and so untouched
Not ashamed of mummy's hand, or a bucket in the sand, we had so little yet, we really had so much

We grazed our knees and ruined our clothes, raced around on tippy-toes, and turned a mangy dog into our bestest friend
We camped out, we camped in, went too high upon the swing, yet we never thought the fun would ever end
Daddy's voice was law, mummy's whack was sore, and being grounded was so harsh and was so tough
But we knew that we were safe, and we knew we were secure, and we really knew our home was full of love

Children were children and grown ups were grown ups, and teenagers were somewhere in between
Bad things were small, like the punctured old beach ball, or the sadness of a melted ice-cream
Park-keepers were alert, and everything actually worked, and if we hurt ourselves, mum didn't want to sue
She would kiss it where it was sore, cuddle us some more, then we'd be off and start our climbing up anew

A boy's first kiss was his mum, and love was bubble-gum, and his first crush was simply lemon or lime
Girls were chased but never kissed, cause you deliberately missed, and names could only hurt you if they rhymed
Little girls dressed in mum's shoes, and didn't get the blues, and they'd only dance in front of cuddly toys
They loved dolls and Winnie-Pooh, playing bubbles with shampoo, and they had no time for silly things like boys

Batman was always kind, and it would never cross his mind, to **** a villain, or ever break the law
You'd always be polite, always kiss your mum goodnight, and you'd always leave your cabbage for the poor
To be gay was to be glad, being bad meant simply bad, and there was no such thing as being overfed
Phones were just pretend, and your dog was your best friend, to protect you from the troll under your bed

But this world is ever changing, with more stress and much more danger, and the children must adapt or they will fail
Where once our kids were shy, and pleasing to the eye, we are now forced to grab a tiger by the tail
Like the trickle of the stone, before the mountain crashes down, life is gaining speed at an alarming rate
They are pushed and are in pain, carry guilt and carry blame, and there is no one to shield them from their fate

Home alone, and alone away, taught how to text but not to play, they just exist within their messed up little world
Forced to survive and take the knocks, always governed by the clock, too soon they are men and women, not boys and girls
Good and bad are now retired, you can do what you desire, it's no longer sin, but a life choice for childrenkind
And is there's a price to pay for this new fun, and for looking at the sun, there's always credit, which is far off (in their mind)

Goblins and trolls have become vampires and ghouls, and Batman is a nasty growling man
The train set is no longer cool. Its trains and stations are for fools, Playstation is now the thing that makes the man
Advice comes from the web, or magazines instead, because these sources have all the answers we need to know
Goodbye to picnics, sandcastles, parks, finger-puppets in the dark, these simple joys our children now let go

Today the little ones know too much, and their knowledge is that such, they are aware of all that mum and dad now do
The facts of life, thanks to the web, terrorism's dread, ***, carcinomas and Avian Flu
Immersed in the occult, and books that teach how to insult, they spend more time with gadgets than they do with humankind
The things they watch would scare grown-ups, the door to innocence is shut, while their music feeds the anger of the mind

“No” is spoken, never heard, simple manners never learned, “Love thy neighbour” is replaced by “dog eat dog”
But they are children, not our pets, they need to love, and not regret, and they need to find the time to think of God
Like arrows that are aimed, we can steer them through life's game, to ensure they find the target that they need
That of happiness and hope, take their hand, don't let them *****, and we may yet behold the day when they are free

So enjoy their childhood years, feed the ducks, and not their fears, and if they've gone too far, help them to rewind
Let them skip, let them skate, let them even lick their plate, and the memories will be forever in your mind
And before you do regret, and your little ones forget, and this life comes and sweeps them from your door
Give them back their childish ways, and keep the world at bay, and let the children just be children once more

I remember when I was young
I wrote in my diary- Never to love
All in BLOCKS.
But
You were warm, And I was not
My mistake, I forgot.
You came in with a face
Of all I knew AND all I should not want.


I remember stolen breaths,
See through excuses,
The adrenaline.
I should have known better..
But
You were persistent, and so was i
Some nights, I consoled my heart
Some nights the beats would be lullabies
I dared to sleep upon.
(Some nights I consoled my heart
Some nights it was my heart's turn
To become lullabies, I'd lay my head upon)

I remember how it all changed
Small steps, uneasy, nothing to object
Till you were close enough
For so long..
I did not know where i was
When you would go..
If you should go.
But
Your reassurances that I'll never have to wonder.
Then why?
Do i go through my shelves
Wondering which book and whose story
Are you bringing colors into now?

I remember finding sunrise in your smile
Brightening to grey my blackest hours
That smirk upon your face,
those impish eyes
How could I have not fallen for?
But
I knew all along my story's end,
A light that bright burns way too soon
(I rather hoped it would not. Another mistake,
I just forget.)
I Hope, because you told me I must.

I remember when I was young,
I promised myself to never love
And how i forgot!
(You made me forget.)
But
Now I have a bag packed with essentials
Hidden under the bed, my visa renewed
And a courage overfed
You might guess, but you'd never know why.

My morning prayers become a chant
Reciting all the ways it would not last.

Not sure if you're hungry, but
here's every word you just said

I will spoon-feed you each profanity as you lay in your bed

Let them set your bloodstream ablaze and go straight to your head

You can eat my words too because I'm overfed