Anyway, Anaplasmata act aptly and abstractly
Backhands ******* balky baklava
Caractal chasm chant "Catty cavalry can't"
Dactyl dada dawns Djakarta drab

Larva ask dab-tap shabby knack lad
"Ever elect effete experts elsewhere?"
A clad daddy wants a dark jab dart
Fleece fleets flee flecked flyspecks

Cleft feet eve expels three resew eres
Gentle germs gelde grebe's geyser
Cede effects leek fell pecks self lyfes
Hellbent helmsmen helped hexed herders hence

Glen's remelted eggs be Serge-Grey
It insistingly implys impish ipsissimis insipidity
He held next her belched sender heel
Jiggling jibs jinx jimmy's jill jig

Its smilingly spiny impish mississippi I-I-I Is It dinty?
Kidding kibitz kick killing kings kitsch
sigil sign jimmy jib jingling jil
Livid linitis limits limbs limp

Big **** kid kicks thinking gill's zit kink
Midriffs mimics Mis's minimizing mistypings
Slim villi distils it, mini blimp
nil ninhydrin nihilists nicks nyxis nightly

Ms Mmisty's zip disc, if firm, is miming mining
ontology on top of oophoron ostomy.
Hindi hint silly lynchings. Skinny nix I stir
phonology 'pon phytol plywood poops polyglots pompons.

Polygon hoof-moon on poor toys toot
qophs
phony thong ploy loops monolog poppy.  Woody plop! Psst!
Rooks romp rootstock rods

"Posh" - Q
Schoolroom scoffs scoop shockproof snort stools
Mock stork pro or door toss
Thyrotomy 'top torpor tot's torso

So-so rooftop honk slots. Morocco sloops off
Usufruct tu upchucks
Stormy troops root to tot trothy
Vulgus vult vults

**** such curt cut ups
Wrung wctu
Vulgus vult vults
Xu

Wrung WCTU
Yummy yurts
Xu
Zulu zymurgy

Yummy! Try us!
Lawman scandal any pay at a scab yap tat tartly
Zulu zymurgy
Almanac-scratch that-clay tract vacancy

Who decided that the top of the mountain was the goal in climbing? I mean, I guess I understand the concept of why but thinking more abstractly, who decided what the rules were?

People.

Just people.

We are people, right? Does that mean we decide the rules? Not always. Most of the time the rules and goals are set by the mindset of the masses. Whoever is loudest or has the most connections sets the trends, makes those rules, and decides the goal.

Why?

Why are people so looked down on for going against the grain of the popular mindset?

You go to high school.
Okay - that's the law.

You go to college.
I mean, I guess.

You borrow tens of thousands of dollars from the government and even private banks to go to college.
Well, I don't really want to do that.
Well, you have to or you won't get a good job.
Well, why?
Because education shows you how things are done and how to do them right.
Okay, I mean, I get that. But what if that isn't for me? What if I don't thrive from that and instead of learning and growing, you are just creating bad habits, watching your confidence tank, and thousands of dollars go in the toilet.
Well then go work a minimum wage job.
Okay.

You get a job. Or not.
Okay, I guess.

You work to save up money to buy a house but you still have to pay rent which is very expensive.
Well, I guess that's okay but won't it take me forever to save?
Yes, with the job you have from a lack of university education, yes.

You spend years saving.
Cool.

You buy a house.
Awesome! My first house! But I spent all this money that I spent years saving and now I am locked into this and if anything ever goes wrong, I'm *******.
This looks like it will happen sooner rather than later with how cheap this house was.
Well, that's all I could afford.
Well, maybe you should get a better job.
Well, I can't because I don't have a degree.

You work until you are 70.
Oh yeah, I've had to give 10% of my salary to my 401k in order to pay for my future without working. But, inflation is a thing and now all that planning puts me back at the amount I needed 40 years ago, not what things cost now.

You move out of your house and into a cheaper apartment.
Well, I guess this is all I can afford at this point.

You live out the rest of your days there and pass away.




What a life right? Sounds like a book I would read - NOT.

Give or take a few privileges and/or road blocks some people may have, this is pretty much it. Even if you pay for the college education, you still don't have much of an advantage. You pay off years and years of college debt - so unless you make 6 figures, that will take you until you're 70. This means you will likely get your house much later and also just be stuck in the same ending.

Why?

Why is this the path we are 'supposed' to take? Who decided this?

We do.

Every day that we get up, WE decide our actions that day. WE determine our own future - not the societal mindset.

Sure there is more friction going against the grain. It's hard. But is it harder than living a life that doesn't bring you fulfillment?

Think of mountain climbing. The goal is to get to the top right? Wrong. The goal is decided by each climber. If you want to go to the top, great. If you don't, also great. Each climber has a different way of getting where you want to go - some take an incline (upper class, money, prestige), some people pay a guide (university education), some people drive (start your own business), some depend on others to carry them (disabled, poor), some are the ones who carry others (volunteers, charity, servants). No specific way is wrong and no specific goal is wrong. If your goal is the top, then to the top you shall go. Your path may have different pitfalls, you might go a different speed, you might die before you make it to the top; but some people don't even go to the top. Some people take their time.

My goal isn't the top. I want to live for the views as I climb, whether clouded by blankets of green or the most crystal clear blue sky meets the horizon. I want to find beauty in the little things around me, not just rush to the top because its the option chosen by many. I want every hammock tree spot, every waterfall creek pool, every season change from a soft layer of snow to the sloshy mud underfoot, every critter discovery, every art-inspired shot. I want to settle in a place that other might just rush by but only settle for a little while - until I want a new view.

People say that the best view is the one from the top where you can see it all - but I disagree. The best view is the many you will see along the way - the little details on each tree, each rock, or on the ground. From the very top, you don't see the detail - you see the bigger picture. I'm sure the picture is great, but rather than buy the print, I would prefer to do the puzzle - that would be far more fulfilling for me.

“Some people are never far away...”

I am thinking this--
bouncing tipsy on pool floaty
at my daughter's new home
in 'burbs of Philly
Sipping wine
on a pool floaty
thinking this--
  
abstractly

Sipping wine
in odd peace
on a pool floaty
cool and soft, the water
Cicadas scour the air

...Knowing it's not true....

I had watched them from my porch
leaving –
since the day they came
They –
and the robins too, headed south now
tumbling in their groups
that garble time
that sketch horizon
with a maze of staggered lines
Watching
geese--
their backs and wings gleam
in golden V
across the sunset

They are honking as they rise, raucous
from river in their flight
My daughters do the same  
Migrating south from Scranton
waving, honking til their cars have turned the corner
out of sight

...on a pool floaty
fully clothed
I watch them
drenched in the darkening sky
tasting salty streams

Intoxicating sounds
their laughter
their voices--
How I love....

cicada droning
in the lush of background green

I will keep this moment clutched
to me
all I have of them
between these moments

I live between moments
of nothing and everything

Film developer cacophonies, and journalistic hoarding
My friends wanted to record our last year –
Accurately – not succinctly
Abstractly – and yet, directly, bluntly
Vividly – in photography, quote notebooks, Dictaphone diatribes

That’s hilarious – scribble it down.
Can you repeat your brilliance?
If you could paraphrase that – well…what would you say?
Take another one. She wasn’t smiling.

I don’t want to smile.

My friend sidles up beside me – beaming grin
Sticking her fingers into my mouth
Pulling opposite and up
And her fingers tasted like
The musty pages of books without pictures.

If the sun also rises,
Only then does time control what
He is destined to do, one who
Knew the course of the future while
Me, a confused child stood by, watching

I feel like dying.
I can’t stand people.
I need to destroy
something beautiful.

I don’t really want to explain what I mean.

Take it abstractly,
like a poem.

Take life abstractly,
like a poem.

Stray between the lines,
dig deeper
than you would if
it were a narrative piece.

I find myself in a novel.

Things are more straight forward if
I tell you exactly
what to see
to hear
to feel.

It was a cold and windy day at the beach.

I think we all need
life a bit mixed up.

The wind had cold teeth
rain still soft in my hair had
the ocean desperately handing me shells.

Cover it in poetry,
decorate with words.

Open your ****** eyes,
don’t be fooled by what
the narrator hands you.

There isn’t one author to your existence.

That girl held dearly,
Soon crawling  in the yard;
Eating grasshoppers like Einstein,
Might change our world.

That boy slurping soup
With no thought of seasoning,
Spooning ferociously.
He'd pass Edison's test of reasoning.

Your teen may dwell on video screens
With keenness as he shoots;
Fischer was the same, I hear,
When mating his pursuits.

Our youth mould with nuance
Unknown or heard;
Like Beatles when they sang their story,
Changed our world with words.

You see that child with quiet demeanour,
Shy, wise and independent;
Misunderstood and fiercely inner,
Strong-willed and confident:
How could that child hurt himself!
She might think of suicide!
What is it that we recognize
Only when they've died.

Sometimes the precocious go on display,
The kind kind, not the snide,
They reason well, abstractly think,
Still, they're lacking pride.
Although this child loves the test,
She'll play piano with the best.

Nose in the shelves or cheering,
Joining clubs or donning jerseys,
This one belongs to many groups,
Can “stand one” in the pub.
Friends get a wink or inside joke.
Their loyalty counts when they vote.

The flower vender didn't know
When selling flowers to Van Gogh,
His flowers would always grow.

The orchard worker had a flaw,
He left the apples far too long.
Now we've Newton's Law.

In the bar fight, glass was broken,
Swept out with the rubble.
Copernicus saw that glass that day
Now we have the Hubble.

We know parents rarely see
The true presence of a genius;
But we live in fortunate times
We get it when we see it.
Like sitting in a Hawking's lecture,
Having Cohen sing to us;
Some who voted for Gandhi,
Can still watch Messi play.
Old men fish with Hemingway
When they read his book,
We can watch a Hitchcock,
When brave enough to look.
We sit through Lear
And hear Shakespeare,
Or tour St. Paul's with Wren;
Stand and stare at  Dali
Until the world unbends.
Or just walk Rome.
You may even find one
Sitting at home.

Rely on natural ability.
Persistence precedes reputation;
Provide the extras and common sense,
And love will lead to eminence.

Children breathe our same air,
But  exhale differently;
Genius can be found right here,
Before posterity.

drawing nigh near emptying
the well, sometimes I feel
like lying

saying hi fear come nearer
my soul, sometimes
I do

making truth abstracting
feel, like I am dying

with chattering teeth
my whole, at times
shivers

my mind fabricating
a soul, everlasting

Wednesday morning I woke up from my first night sleeping in the camper, and  I had that  disjointed feeling that comes from unfamiliarity.  I recognized  the interior of the camper, so that was not what was  triggering that closed in feeling that enveloped me, not claustrophobic really, it was more: comforting.  It is hard to put into words that kind of feeling, but as I am supposed to be an aspiring writer ......It would seem to be my responsibility to do so,,  or at least try.
    So as I lay there cradling the warm afterglow of a satisfying night of slumber and with pleasant dreams of…I’m hungry ! I suddenly thought to myself.  No! Actually I am starving, and just one look down at Stormy , lying on the floor and staring at me and  it was more than obvious that he too was hungry..
    “Okay, boy, I know.  I hear you..”
     “All we ate last night was those Fritos wasn’t it?”Stormy just stared at me with those big brown, expectant and hungry eyes..
   “ Sorry boy !  I am new at this.”  I said as I was just  realizing that I was fully clothed, This fact reminded me that I had come into the camper cruiser nine hours earlier, intending to fix me some food, had seen the bed laid out , done while setting up camp hours earlier, so I decided to see how comfortable it could possibly be .
    I remember laying down and  saying to myself, “  this ain’t too bad.”  Looking down at Stormy -closing my eyes- and well , here I am, nine hours later,  starving and being stared at by Stormy .
    .  6:30 AM Wednesday morning- and both of us starving  .   "Man!   Talk about exhaustion.!" I said to the world at large .
    “Just hang in there for a few minutes more  and we  will both have bacon and eggs today....  Okay?”
To which stormy happily  wagged  the whole rear half  of himself in undying gratitude.
     After breakfast I had a cup of coffee in my hands, and a buzz in my head as I sat down in the lawn lounge thingy ( It had even come with the camper) and watched the other people  go about their morning..
     Was this my story--the ever evolving story  of… Come on dude!  I chastised myself,  this is not your mission, to write about camping spots,  and the ever evolving state of one parking spot that                they are occupying.   .  But as I was beginning to slowly realize  ; my story , just might be more elusive than I  had taken time to consider.
      I glanced down at storm to see if he had any insight, an opinion of some great revelation for me,  but he was in his own world; lying there beside me and watching with rapt interest the antics of a pair of foraging gray squirrels as they skipped and be bopped among the branches of a huge white oak;   wherein  Stormy, unlike myself,  saw the big picture,,  all the story he needed was playing out in the branches of that tree.  This tree was his tree ……of life..!
    “Crazy little buggers   ain’t they boy?”  I remarked to him as I rubbed his head and neck , taking away a few precious seconds of his squirrel watching while he looked around me before returning his gaze back to the  acrobatics  of the little be boppers of the tree..  I went back to watching my new neighbors,  for in a sense-that is exactly what this is . Nt much  different from  the cul-de-sac.  I grew up on. ..  With one exception-vital as it is . I mean  that I only have  the imaginary view of these people , not  the  reality  that I had with… But then, I reassess my thought,,  reorganize my pattern as I remember that morning  .
     That crazy day with all the police  and ambulances suddenly appearing in the street..  All the neighbors  having  been bunched up  in curious knots to wonder what was happening at the Angleton’s.
   Like wind swept fire  to a field of tall grass, the rumors began spreading through  the street.
   “He killed her!”  Someone remarked abstractly..
    “Who?”  They all asked in comatose reality.
    “George Angleton” they said, “he killed his wife  and then he killed himself--I think”
    “Whyyyyy?”  They   bleated .
    “Do not know-I heard they had financial problems,  maybe that was it.”  They quoted equivocally.
    “There was always something funny about them.”  The little man said   fumbling the ball
   “Who?”  They all questioned again.
    “Angleton’s…  It was strange, I wouldn’t  let my kids go up there  on Halloween.. and that time he gave all comic books!”  The little man said with an air of superiority.
   “   Why is that?”  They argued in question.
     “You asked me he was trying to lure them kids in.”  He blundered and fell
    “You are nuts!  He was a sweet old man… It had to be… financial”  they persisted..
     “Say what you want-  but I know what I know-and he was weird.”  The little man overstated.
    “You did not even live around here.  That year he gave out comic books-did you?”   Somebody pointed out aggressively.
      “Well.... no,,” the little man sputtered,, “bububut I heard about it..”   The little man  beleaguered now     “So you never even met George!”   Someone accused  ..
     “Not personally; but all  the…” The little man started.
      “Get the hell away from me little man.” the whole crowd expressed in screaming silent looks .

Morning Greeting to God

On waking I say (thinking, really)
“You’ve been here all night.
You’ll be here all the day,
Providing time, my needs,
And more abstractly, destiny.  
The trick is to be welcoming,
A trick that makes the play of pain
More comfortable,
For comfort is so comforting.

When I say pain,
I do not mean
A shoulder ache or thereabouts.
It means the pain of all around,
An ‘all around’ that’s all unbound
Which one will never have the skill to grasp,
Or power to reshape.

The day’s blank piece of paper,
Bland or stimulating,
Filled with action or quite still –
Always etude and apprenticeship.

So I ask myself (symbolically)
What can I learn?
With no idea of what’s to come,
Anticipating nothing
I accept each crumb that falls from
Shall we call it ‘heaven’s table’
(just a metaphor.)

Heaven’s table may be fable,
Morning’s greeting, fleeting phrase;
Both are ways to start the days
With positivity, an energy
To improvise with happy creativity.
What could be better?

Morning Greeting To God 9.25.2017
God Book II; Nature Of & In Reality;
Arlene Corwin

abandoned at the alter--
or just abandoned.
I have nothing to hold on to
except the tatters
of this deceased
laced satin, this crumpled
veil, covering hope and covering light.
one shoe, its matching partner had scuffs to
begin with--what a fraud.
white is supposed to be the color of new beginnings
and black is for funerals--
but I guess white is the new black,
I'm left to fend by myself, nothing
to celebrate--
the cake was too pretty to be eaten
anyway.

and don't you know it,
we're all in our wedding dresses,
looking abstractly at broken watches,
dust-filled corners,
waiting for the groom
that will never
come.

I wish I could describe to you the dense silence when the snow had melted,
and you had left.

It was almost as loud as when you were still
here, but in a way that sharpened
the cruelty behind it.

When I walk through the river of people in the city
and I reach for your hand,
and it isn’t there,
I wonder, abstractly,
if I will ever melt into the flow of people--

until my beating heart sounds no different
than those around me, and it stops squeezing
and stuttering, inconstancies
which serve only to remind me
of you.

Can you hear the sound of the indomitable wind?
It breathes in great heaves
through these sun-beaten leaves,
so boisterous it could flow through ears to the mind.
The eucalyptus’ standing in disciplined lines
seem disturbed by it,
and by the sun that’s lit,
illuminating their aging signs.
From some stark desert some miles to the south
bundles of dry wind roll
up, over, and down this grassy knoll
that unknowingly beleaguers the skin of both
infants playing with their blocks on the lawn
and an older patron
visiting from Dayton
who naturally rises some hours before dawn.
The wind can easily uproot and tear the land apart;
it can dishevel
a garden neat and level,
desolating work to which the retiree gives their heart.
The lascivious sound of the southern wind resonates
past the final palm of the mind
where Wallace Stevens’ bird went blind,
lying low in the recesses of cranial plates.
I say that that sound is no sound at all,
just a loosing slip
of the cerebral lip
attached to a thing abstractly beautiful.
But it sings its song all the same.
Perhaps it is physical.
It’s certainly divisible.
It pierces the sky like a transparent flame.

Perhaps the familiar yet unnoticed crevices in the walls must mean more to me than the very same crevices which will forevermore remain hidden in the depths of my heart.

They're all pieced together,
forming an abstractly numb
piece of art.

Incisions, Incisions,
Made by false, ignorant decisions.

Beautifully arrayed intervals of nothing but enigmatic space.

When you part, your soul hath but a trace.

Done caring.

About the permanent , lethal damage that has been done

By far more than just one.

That girl
an abstract beauty
with a dictionary of words unable to define her

She is perfectly imperfect
with a broken heart
that few will ever see

The way she spoke and moved
had boys chasing her like a setting sun
that was just too far away

She creates art with everything she does
and yet she remains unaware of the art
that is her own body, mind and soul

That abstractly beautiful girl

I cannot deal abstractly with others.
I cannot relate to the world as an Oligarchy possession.
Unconditional Love means I love everyone in existence
while not  accepting their actions. .
Conditional Love leaves me cold and disgusted.
Conditional Love means in return for loving you I can
hate you in equal or unequal proportion .
Conditional Love finds self validation in others.
Live vicariously.
Die a failure and a fraud.
A whitebread Tom Uncle

"...How terrible the stump of the woodmen,
     Their blunted shapes lumped under the sheets of snow..."
                         --Roy Doughty

From such a wrapping, the elegy proceeded,
the last blanket tucked below the bare
feelings extended, stripped of their green fingers like perception
following thought into deflection.  Abstractly, a silent museum
held power against the hill at a ***** of durable rock.  This
granite pulled thinking together in its form.

{ [ _ int f ( x ) d x d t = = del _ f ( x ) d g d E ] [ // ( y ; N , Z ) ] } .

It was allowed to like the experimental results of making lumps
under the sheets of summer, to be ironed and smelted
by the industry of the particular set, upon whatever planet
survival could be accepted, floating between work and the play
of its imagined universe, the sheets folded and placed

upon a shelf like numbers.

LETTER OF A MADMAN




Ayad Gharbawi



A scream
In my memory
I heard abstractly
While you talked to me
All I needed were humans
Real
How will it be
When I come to say my farewells to you
Towns you built are architecturally horrific
Expressiveness denied repeatedly
A madman spoke words none heard
Turned his brush strokes inside
Inner meanings to be meant
He spoke of love and deprivations unendurable
Killing his bearings
Christened himself as emptiness
How sad can you feel?
Can you understand, readers years from now?
Strangers coldened by life
Wrote manuscripts and discarded them
The oceans profound called out to the madman
Whose inner cadaver remained there
Devoured by existing fish
Oceans bottomless
Waters of no oxygen and light
Where fish survived in pain
Where did humanity touch with nature?
I never understood
Madman journeyed ‘neath the heavens black and starless
The ocean’s bed invited me here
Because that’s where I belong
I guess

Hello there,
I just wanted to let you know – that
I’m not a number.
I’m not a shade.
I'm not your motionless debate.
I’m tinted
Tainted. With ideas and a verbal philosophy
Some atrophy.
Boxed, and gifted through sacred hymns.
My freaking nature is not in the stars
Is not in your blood.
I’m not a religion.
I’m not a hope.
I’m just trying to communicate
The air to my brain.
I’m just trying to suffocate
Indoctrinate, facilitate.
This delusion of being and breathing.
I’m not a country.
I’m not a ship.
Abstractly living within an inch
Of your picturesque life - &
Intricate ambitions of death.
I’m not a law.
I’m not a consequence.
I’m dissolving to my core
Bones lighting up in fear.

You are not the you you think you are
Huddled close behind the scars
Out and in and out again
Still mist and fog filled frailty thin

We are not the ones we claim to be
All boasted brash and broken free
Caged, released and caged again
Our chains have traded rust for skin

It's not the place it was before
Hope and hallowed winter worn
Back and forth and back again
It cannot be it's never been

I'm not the me my words portray
Subtle perched in sainted shame
Lost and found and lost again
Make believe still not pretend

Allow me to untangle
The truth and the fable
Only the one fully himself,
Who fully "is" can fully help
This state that finds
Us undermined
So in the throws
We hide our eyes
So out of sorts
Our thoughts unwind
And fill our minds
With wastes of time

But lost and found
Abstractly bound
Can come to mean
What's seen unseen
In place of finding
release the chase
Tune the rule
The walking race
I'm not the me
I'm something else
I know the one
who knows himself

With eyes wide open the world spins lucidly out of control  
  
Moving faster and faster, the Earth is growing...  
  
White blonde hair whipped passed her face would seem so far away  
  
Like a forgotten lover's name it is so surreal...  
  
Ideas of flight abstractly toying with the corners of her mind  
  
Her wings are pressed flat...  
  
A final escape from a dream which you could never wake  
  
This is her ecstasy.  
  
Her final curtain...  
  
Perhaps it would seem odd that her last thoughts would be of her mother  
  
So soft and warm...  
  
They never did agree on anything...  
  
Perhaps in another life they could finally see eye to eye but there would be no such luck this time around...  
  
Her head tossed in a backwards roll  
  
The last ten or fifteen feet seemed to disintegrate away...  
  
A dream's sad ending could never be so uplifting  
  
She opened her eyes for the last time to find her dream had given way to the real  
  
She had been set free  
  
...and had finally embraced the unknown

Not a thing you couldn't guess
don't waste a moment for
preparation.
Don't you know that it is myself
I am most afraid of?
As if you couldn't tell,
you little analytical soul!
You sacred star of my heart.
Every word I ever spoke
was evidence enough.
I lied, but you kept secrets.
Can you honestly say
that there is a difference?
We don't believe them anymore;
their words are fiction.
Clever metaphors abstractly
hidden
within their diction.

At first what did grip me I could not understand
Like everything new
One does not at first know
And as fools do I did stumble
Still, moment to moment
Always constantly
My interest seeds the path of my development
While all stimuli calls me
What I truly am
Abstractly, I will be drawn to
More naturally...
For this fool to become master
I must follow my interest
To develop my path
I must embrace those adventures
With a full heart and a brave mind
But above all else, to myself, always truthfully

I miss seeing your lyrics
abstractly spread about across your screen
Reading them..
not letting you know the things I had seen
Once we went our seperate ways
Dark and blurred became my days
Writing about you
While you write about her
Listening to your songs about us
And how I didn’t listen enough
And then one day..
I had to listen to your songs about her
The one whom treats you right
And deserves you,
Unlike me

Such a simple synonym of a great yellow house

swaddled in the shadows on a flat patch in the backyard

a refuge resting of bric-a-brac and ornamental knickknacks

with a paint chipped porch that beamed once a brilliant white

a birdhouse filled with straw the previous owners left behind

a plywood room banished with no insulation and one lonely window

something of substance, with grainy walls to hold me up

a quiet place to talk to myself when the sun goes to sleep

where the imagination springs open deliciously

behind that old closed door that creaks

a cube where prayers share the stale air with the stillness of time

improvised shelving of old milk crates battered as gypsies

like migrating baggage nomadic through the years

that rainbow hammock hanging loose from the rafters

a husk to lift a weary back, a sheath to house the soul

a shaky legged easel from my love, nested into its very own corner

reflecting outward like a mirror so I might better see myself

the plastic man of gold  modestly retired above the window seal

the only trophy I ever felt I ever earned

an electric heater rattling its nonsense in the cold night air

amusing any shivering listener who cares to be warmed

A string of soft incandescent lights that dangle overhead

perfectly framing the faded native masks like vibrant yellow teeth

wilted candles scattered amongst the odds and ends

there wax bellies spattered on the floor to keep the paint drippings company

a mess of tousled brushes protruding from the dented silver can

wearing disheveled hairpieces to match their eccentric ways

the squatting antique box with its stitching and fat brass latches

enshrined as a tiny monument to the mantis and the moth

secrets scribbled on the dead parchment crammed into their tombs

journals that became maps on my journey to myself

icons harbored naive and coarse

to be plotted and stationed, rearranged and cherished

a cocoon that bursts from inside out

viscera stashed in a capsule to be kissed and romanced

the stacked canvases like a house of cards

leaning in tired on the supports of their brothers and sisters

the faces of reincarnation hanging on pushpins

those abstractions surreal in all their horrid geometry

the pirate ship, the aerosols

the old machine that holds the rotten gumballs

bolts and screws and arrowheads

a native tongue that enriches the enigma

not merely a physical escape of hoarded trinkets

fitted ad hoc with all the contrivances to tinker away the while

more abstractly a spiritual gathering of subdued memories

a space becoming itself a philosophy unraveling the details

From the sad darkness
A mighty cry
A sound so mind shattering
From a place on high

A single photon does emerge
Multiplying explosively
Energy coangulates
Abstractly orgasmicly

Thus the conception
Of a universe

You are the crowning inception
Of Man's curse

Or so it was when I first saw you...

poetry is none other than life
people appreciate in public
the poems that are abstractly nature
more than the ones that describe
how to arise from oppression
its sad  but comforting
because I also like nature
and wish
I could solely
along with my black family
just be human