I

However the image enters
its force remains within
my eyes
rockstrewn caves where dragonfish evolve
wild for life, relentless and acquisitive
learning to survive
where there is no food
my eyes are always hungry
and remembering
however the image enters
its force remains.
A white woman stands bereft and empty
a black boy hacked into a murderous lesson
recalled in me forever
like a lurch of earth on the edge of sleep
etched into my visions
food for dragonfish that learn
to live upon whatever they must eat
fused images beneath my pain.

II

The Pearl River floods through the streets of Jackson
A Mississippi summer televised.
Trapped houses kneel like sinners in the rain
a white woman climbs from her roof to a passing boat
her fingers tarry for a moment on the chimney
tearless and no longer young, she holds
a tattered baby's blanket in her arms.
In a flickering afterimage of the nightmare rain
a microphone
****** up against her flat bewildered words
"we jest come from the bank yestiddy
borrowing money to pay the income tax
now everything's gone. I never knew
it could be so hard."
Despair weighs down her voice like Pearl River mud
caked around the edges
her pale eyes scanning the camera for help or explanation
unanswered
she shifts her search across the watered street, dry-eyed
"hard, but not this hard."
Two tow-headed children hurl themselves against her
hanging upon her coat like mirrors
until a man with ham-like hands pulls her aside
snarling "She ain't got nothing more to say!"
and that lie hangs in his mouth
like a shred of rotting meat.

III

I inherited Jackson, Mississippi.
For my majority it gave me Emmett Till
his 15 years puffed out like bruises
on plump boy-cheeks
his only Mississippi summer
whistling a 21 gun salute to Dixie
as a white girl passed him in the street
and he was baptized my son forever
in the midnight waters of the Pearl.

His broken body is the afterimage of my 21st year
when I walked through a northern summer
my eyes averted
from each corner's photographies
newspapers protest posters magazines
Police Story, Confidential, True
the avid insistence of detail
pretending insight or information
the length of **** across the dead boy's *****
his grieving mother's lamentation
the severed lips, how many burns
his gouged out eyes
sewed shut upon the screaming covers
louder than life
all over
the veiled warning, the secret relish
of a black child's mutilated body
fingered by street-corner eyes
bruise upon livid bruise
and wherever I looked that summer
I learned to be at home with children's blood
with savored violence
with pictures of black broken flesh
used, crumpled, and discarded
lying amid the sidewalk refuse
like a ***** woman's face.

A black boy from Chicago
whistled on the streets of Jackson, Mississippi
testing what he'd been taught was a manly thing to do
his teachers
ripped his eyes out his *** his tongue
and flung him to the Pearl weighted with stone
in th e name of white womanhood
they took their aroused honor
back to Jackson
and celebrated in a *******
the double ritual of white manhood
confirmed.

IV

"If earth and air and water do not judge them who are
we to refuse a crust of bread?"

Emmett Till rides the crest of the Pearl, whistling
24 years his ghost lay like the shade of a ***** woman
and a white girl has grown older in costly honor
(what did she pay to never know its price?)
now the Pearl River speaks its muddy judgment
and I can withhold my pity and my bread.

"Hard, but not this hard."
Her face is flat with resignation and despair
with ancient and familiar sorrows
a woman surveying her crumpled future
as the white girl besmirched by Emmett's whistle
never allowed her own tongue
without power or conclusion
unvoiced
she stands adrift in the ruins of her honor
and a man with an executioner's face
pulls her away.

Within my eyes
the flickering afterimages of a nightmare rain
a woman wrings her hands
beneath the weight of agonies remembered
I wade through summer ghosts
betrayed by vision
hers and my own
becoming dragonfish to survive
the horrors we are living
with tortured lungs
adapting to breathe blood.

A woman measures her life's damage
my eyes are caves, chunks of etched rock
tied to the ghost of a black boy
whistling
crying and frightened
her tow-headed children cluster
like little mirrors of despair
their father's hands upon them
and soundlessly
a woman begins to weep.

The radio alarm is a bit too strong
for his afternoon hangover taste.
He goes downstairs, sets the coffee to brewing,
rubs his hands through the hair on his face.
As he sits and he smokes, he can't quite think of the joke
she once told him about wooden eyes.

The coffee is ready, his hands are unsteady
as he pours his first cup of cure.
He tries to be happy he woke up today,
but whether being awake's good, he's not sure.
Outside it's raining, but he's gallantly straining
to keep his head and his spirits held high.

As soft as the flower bending out in its shower,
fiercer than hornets defending their hives,
the memories of sharing her secrets and sheets
run him through like sharp rusty knives.
He decides that his cup isn't quite strong enough,
takes the ***** from the shelf, gives a sigh.

He goes to the porch to put words to the torch
he still carries and knows whiskey just fuels.
Thunder puts a voice to his hammering heart.
Through ink, his knotted mind unspools,
writing of butterflies and of how his love lies
cocooned under unreachable skies.

From teardrops to streams to winter moonbeams
to a peach, firm and sweet, in the spring,
he writes of pilgrims and language and soft dew-damp grass
and how he sees her in everything.
He rambles and grieves, and he just can't believe
how much he has bottled inside.

He writes how the leaves, when they whisper in the breeze,
bring to mind her warm breath in his mouth,
how when walking through woods he loves the birdsong
when they fly back in the summer from the south
because she would sing too and he always knew
he wanted that sound in his ears when he died.

He writes even the streetlights, fluorescent and bright,
make him miss the diamond chips in her eyes,
how the fountain in the park plays watersongs in the dark
when he goes to make wishes on pennies
and while he's there he gets hoping
there will be some spare wishes
but so far there haven't been any.

He writes that the cold makes him think of the old
hotel where they spent most of a week,
lazing and gazing quite lovingly,
and how he brushed an eyelash off her cheek.
The crickets and frogs and all of the dogs
sound as mournful as he feels each night.

He writes about chocolate and fun in arcades,
he writes about stairwells and butchers' blades,
and closed-casket funerals, and Christmas parades,
then sad flightless birds and tiny brigades
of ants taking crumbs from the toast he had made,
and political goons with their soulless tirades,
old-timey duels and terrible grades,
strangers on  buses, harp music, maids,
the weird afterimages when all the light fades,
the pleasure of dinnertime serenades,
sidewalk chalk, wine, and hand grenades.

He writes of how much fun it would be to fly,
and saltwater taffy and ferryboat rides,

sitting on couches, scratched CD's,
pets gone too soon and overdraft fees,

the beach, the lake, the mountains, the fog,
David Bowie's funny, ill-smelling bog,

jewelry, perfume, sushi, and swans,
the smell of the pavement when the rain's come and gone,

and shots and opera, and Oprah and ***,
and tiny bikinis with yellow dots,

stained glass lamps, and gum and stamps,
her dancing shoes on wheelchair ramps,
that overstrange feeling of déjà vu,
filet mignon and cordon bleu,

bad haircuts at county fairs,
honey and clover, stockmarket shares,
the comfort of nestling in overstuffed chairs,
and her poking fun at the clothes that he wears,
and giraffes and hippos and polar bears,
cumbersome car consoles, monsters' lairs,
singing in public and ignoring the stares,
botching it badly while making éclairs,
misspelled tattoos, socks not in pairs,
people who take something that isn't theirs,
the future of man, and man's future cares,

why people so frequently lie
and bury themselves so deep in the mire
of monetary profits when money won't buy
a single next second because time's not for hire,
and that he sees her in everything.

Then unexpectedly, unbidden from where it was hidden
comes the punchline to the joke she had told him.
He laughs -- it's too much and his heart finally tears
as a blackness rolls in to enfold him.
The last thing he hears is birdsong in his ears --
the sound brings hope and is sweet as he dies.

And I’ve erred to try loving you
As I’ve dreamt of gazing upon your moons
For the smiles of your suns
Burn intensely through my intentions
Even in your shadows
Where my honesty becomes bitter
Within your cruel eyes
I’m blinded by a solemn light
Merely to follow afterimages, faint and frail
Leading to estranged pastures
Of masked sins basking in the meadows
Only a deceitful tranquility
As on these bladed dreams do I bleed in peace
Feeding my lustful hope
Of a fruitless love into the soil beneath me
Growing nothings short of
Forget-me-nots in a memory-less heart

© 2014

...
I was born into this shadow of beauty we call the American dream, but I was raised in foreign silhouettes. The same exact silhouettes that raised my mother. My first memories were of her forest gods and alpine stories that have taught me how to write spiderwebs into the hearts of the miserable so my words could hold them together. My deadushka's magic could turn monsters into swans with a wink because his love was so contagious. My babushka's, on the other hand, showed me how to howl like darkness so even the wolves would know silence. I was born as spilled as it comes; as ink.  I now understand what tragedies look like at first;  ("Blessings")

As my mother picks her way across a war with me in her arms, the world catcalls that I am a half-blood puppet. The daughter with Russian strings and American footsteps. I arrive in America where I am reminded I belong here, but that was the first lie that my mother ever fed to me. To this day, it still tastes like expired love.

As my father spent all his kindness on me in the earliest years of my life I was given an English tongue and it bullied my Russian one into suicide. That is the only thing my father ever planted in me that he wanted to grow. Those seeds of words I would later bear fruit as ripe poetry.  Those fruit of the novels I will someday write as fiction into flesh. However, what is written beneath our skin doesn't necessarily always fit in our mouths. My father's greatest mistake was beating me into a ghost, but giving me the power to write about his hauntings.  His abuse moves into our house shortly after he realizes I am a tragedy, not a blessing.

As I write myself into the moon one day I will become, I meet a boy who's laughter makes all the planets look dull.  We learn to not walk like apologies, but like young legends. He was my first real taste of sunlight since I was brought here, and he spoke heaven into my eyes until I saw it. We loved each other like Peter Pan and Wendy did; deeply, cluelessly, and forever. Our immortality was a toy in the eyes of those who envied us. Yet he summoned the fires we should have feared as kids, but instead we stared into them and smiled. We were happy, and we were never sorry for that.

April 3rd, 2007. He died. That was the day I was old enough to grow out of a blessing and into the clothes of a tragedy. That was the day the heaven spilled from my eyes like the great flood and went with him. My mother theorizes that is why my eyes aren't as blue as hers anymore. The sounds of bullets hitting bodies today, even ten years later, between then and long ago, has the power to create painful afterimages of him. The post traumatic stress unfastens my blood from my my body and the poetry reacts by shutting me down all at once. Death asks me to write a spiderweb into his own heart, but I refuse.

I adopted grief into my family and he got along with abuse pretty well. To survive, I've left the nostalgia of that boy to hibernate deep in my bones.

Today is April 3rd, 2017.  I stand before a headstone that exists only sometimes in my head. I kneel before it and leave the skeleton of my love like a bouquet of roses. The shadows and silhouettes align, and I hold hands with both of them.

I weep as the odes of "it's not your fault" fall onto my ears like they do every year. From friends, lovers, and family. They mean well. Who knows, maybe someday I will have what it takes to believe them.

But he never grew up, so guilt still ***** it's wings here.

---"Sermons with a colorblind priest."

the laddering of my ribs creak
like water-stained cherrywood stairs;
tread lightly, lest you
stir the dust and the ghosts
that dwell underfoot,
‘neath the cracked floorboards
of my skin.

i have but a simple request:
               rid yourself of your lungs
               and fill up the empty spaces
               with used coffee filters,
               crinkled wrapping paper, and
               forlorn hope. do
cast aside
               the shroud of indecision?, for
               that winding sheet will only
               hold you down between
               your shoulderblades, like
               framed butterflies pinned on paper
               with needles of stone and salt.

stay with me tonight.
we will be taxidermy birds
on marionette strings
with crumbled concrete
between our talons,
the afterimages
of neon diner signs
stamped into our inner eyelids
oscillating, phantasmic.

we'll sing elegies in spring
rock sugar on our tongues—
               there are staves of music
               written in the lining of your mouth
               and in the webbing of your hands
––as Sappho might say:
girls, sweetvoiced.

oh! but to think
that the starfire in your eyes
could be extinguished
by the tears you shed;
i’ll return my heart to the constellations
for you

it was last winter by the icy river
covered with crisscrossing cracks as we skated the tenuous surface wanting only to fall
into each other’s arms

it was when I found a bruise on my collarbone
and I believed it was from you loving me so much you wanted me to break
just so that you could kiss the pain away

it was the darkness of a movie theater as the backdrop for our obsession
we grew together starting with our fingers as they interlaced and never let go

it was me carving scars into my forearms so that I could reassure myself that I still existed,
even when you weren’t there

it was lying on the roof under the stars and counting constellations and being worried
that you would dislike how I named them and push me off the edge

It was later, the wanting to jump

I was only a half of a whole
I was never as interesting or pretty as I was with you, so I was always with you

If you had told me that to save you from drowning I had to go in your place
I would have jumped in the ocean  
begged the sharks to surround me
tied myself to the smooth worn rocks

I think you would have let me

it was when you would act as if you were blind
and try to learn the hills and hollows of my face with your fingertips
sometimes following the line of my neck to the triangle shadow at the base of my throat
and farther onward than I wanted you to go

I should have known it in the way I shivered when you touched me
I could never figure out if it was happiness or fear
anxiety or anticipation
you tried to cover me with a blanket but that only made it worse
I wanted to expose myself to you
needed you to see every dip and curve of my stillness
so that I could prove you were right for me

you gave me a pendant for my birthday that hung heavy round my neck
it was inscribed with the word forever in spiky script
and I knew that you were claiming me for yours
knew that the necklace was my dog tag so that if I got lost, people would know they couldn’t have me.  
I say people
I mean boys
The other boys, the ones you seemed so afraid of
you were sure that once your back was turned, I would ***** around
offering my love and kisses like party favors
I never would have.  

I offered you all of myself
yet somehow, you always wanted what I was holding back
I was holding back nothing; there was nothing else for me to give away
my arms were holding together the little bits of me that were left
but you wanted those too, and because I loved you, I gave them to you
and fell apart in the wind
crumpled to the ground like a fallen house of cards

instead of kissing in the rain
we fought in the rain
our shouts were in sync with the thunder
when lightning struck I cursed God that he hadn’t hit you
he never seemed to hear

I liked the summer the best
It was too hot to do anything but lie on the sticky grass
watching the fireflies spell out our names
in phosphorescent afterimages in the southern night
that was where you hurt me so silently
your hands around my neck like an extension of your embrace

by that time I had been trained to think that was all it was

this is the color of sunshine and innocence,
of freckle-faced children running through the dry grass
as butterflies flit and grasshoppers bound.
it is the shade of the center of the daisies
their older sister plucks from the earth.
a reserved smile tugs on her lips as
one by one the petals fall to the whispered words,

"he loves me,
he loves me not."

it is the color of lemonade and buttered croissants,
and the dance the mother makes across the kitchen,
floral skirt swaying as she sashays to and fro.
a grin flashes across her face
as she remembers the color of the dreams she chased in her youth;

the color of her name up in lights
the color of camera bulbs and the afterimages
that creep across her vision
when the paparazzi descends.

this color makes it way down the hall and into the study,
where the father sits at his desk pouring
over numbers and figures while furiously
punching them into a calculator.

it is the color of post-it notes scribbled over with important dates,
of the faded coffee stain on the front of the man's shirt,
of the potted flowers doing their absolute best
to brighten up the austere space.

when the day reaches its end
this color seems to disappear...

but it persists

in the most subtle
of places.

it wraps around the tiny nightlight in the youngest son's room,
providing a barrier between him
and whatever goes bump in the night.

it chimes in the nervous giggles that attempt to dispel
the fear that comes with a late-night scary story.

it emanates from the glow-in-the-dark stars and planets
stuck to the older sister's ceiling--
there they remain
despite her insistence that she it too old for them.

this color is most certainly not the color of darkness,
but,
rather--
the moments that break its emptiness.

Do you think that you’ll remember
washing your least crusty mug
in the cracked bathroom sink at four am,
blinking afterimages of Wiki articles
and Midwestern poetry out of your eyes?
(Always the Midwestern aesthetic–
what is it about starkness that drives people?)

You’ve spent too many mornings
watching dawn from the wrong side, pacing
up and down beneath the streetlights
as they go out one by one.
The earth keeps turning but
your thoughts scattered last night
and they never came home.

The percussion is
(you heart is)
pounding,
crash ratatatat thump,
ratatatat crash, time
slipping between your fingers
in fits and starts to the beat
fluttering in your chest;
no repeats or hesitations.
The topic is–
Magpie, bird brain,
you line your nest with tinfoil
to keep the world at bay.
You’d say “I want to believe”,
but instead you just play the song again,
hoping that maybe this time—

Did it take this long to realize
you’ve answered your own question?
You have to run
when there’s nowhere to stay.
Maybe you should take a vacation
to the desert yourself,
get some dust under your nails
so you’ll stop chewing them off.
Quit glancing at the clock, sweetheart;
you’re on a timer here.

The rapid Pulses increase as  air finally fuels the fire
It came to combust. to spark the flint to the fullest
To centralize all that could be, a widespread social desire
forgoing logic in the name of being
the shattering of illusion is, you guessed it, a figment fractured formally from the rock
obsidian reflecting afterimages.  motions of forced feigned reaction
a wordless line of thought, speechless in it's pure refracted intent.
to beam these ideas to that manifestation, not to dance around fumbling a thesaurus
admiration follows the music and turns the dial accordingly.  ******* scenesters
it humbles to and fro, perpetually ignoring the perfect fine tune
If being is becoming, then what was it?
I could say the words, whisper into lulls, look down the full extent of the great Y in the sky
Would the divine feminine find it's way down those dark channels and see before the divide?
and become the she that should be with me
Am I the He that should be with She?
These concepts sometimes seem a superstitious pogrom, only in place for the sake of continuity
THE HUBRIS!!!!
geese Louise, If only we had counters for practically meaningless revelations and a tic-tac for each one.
Man-Oh-Man, would my breath be too fresh for primetime.
The loaves rise as the yeast fornicate in the manner of Hottentots
gotta butter that bread, son
Too many fuzzies are broken by too many Lennys
too many sparks are extinguished in the name of normality
Too many mountains erode to grains of sand in the name of eventuality
but now they're stoically perfected and ready to be shaped into castles
so much of creation is for destruction, forcing impermanence so repeat customers can sully their honey
words...um... sentences.. and. thaaattt. oh yeah, cognitive thought
People should not fear conversations.  No premise nor opinion should be overlooked due to emotions
You can't fake Lockjaw,  I know you're just chewing that sugar daddy to buy some time
Look not to the answers you find, but to the questions you ask.  The real truth is there.
yeah, It's kinda the inverse of the norm and it usually feels weird when you feed your ***
But it's nowhere near as painful as the **** that comes out your mouth sometimes
I'm scared too
And this stupid Scar on my knee!! AAAAHHH!!! never ever ever take your knees for granted!!
Smile when you see a friend
Smile when you see a frown
Frown when you're upside down
But try not too rhyme too much, it's corny
I write for those I've admired, in the name of the will to create
something far beyond the corporeal, adjacent to the surreal... I mean alabama
stop yourself when you inch to a serious concluding gorge
You know, my father was a bridgemaker, *****
You can't solve all your problems with fire.  I'd like to think that Prometheus said that before lending us his lighter
hmmm. this Zippo's almost out of fluid... pif whatever, we can just monkeyfuck each other until someone figures out a better way
Laugh and don't get too taken up by the rhythm.  Don't polish your stones, no one else can see your pretty face in them anyway.
A persons ease of words on the fly can sometimes be related to their ease of telling lies.
Where's all this coming from?
I'm not sure, but I hope it finds who it's going to.

The nymph steals glances from behind the glass
Bright blue, sharpened stare
Between bushes, amidst the grass

Fingers so nimble, they slipped through the cracks
Slid down the molding,
Dyed the carpet, stained the cat

Her smirk lived within speckles of paint
The hush of the floorboards
Breath that made the fruit a sickening sweet

But only in afterimages do I see her face
A late night mirage
In the bathroom, in the closet, in the eggs

In the sticky, wiry ink in which she'd signed her name
Her ghostly whispers calling out
From behind trickles of rain

A permanent spot in the recess of the window frame
Did she lay, nuzzled close
Silently, to wonder, watch and wait

A forever presence even the wind cannot displace
Only one day had she entered
But a thousand she'll stay

I died in the womb of despair, the umbilical
cord of desperation suffocated me.

I was floating motionless in afterimages
Of what took me to this place.

My thoughts were stillborn in the aftermath
Of what I had tried what I failed to do.

As I came in to the world of clear minded reflection
I breathed where there was none.

I was neither here or their but now I breath, from
Still motion I inhale life once again.

To my best friend, for everything. I love you.*

definition seems to elude the soft smile and eyes (the teenage dream desperate to run)
stunned by lightning flashes and ghost hands waving in the dance that--
measure for measure--her limbs follow

how easy it is to love a monolith

where the sour limelight mocks the sweet
rough and uneven and sugared over with the words
echoing in my ears like the thudding thunder that our voices obscure
torn and laughing on the checkerboard we mock

the storms drag on in her eyes while she teaches me
glints of possibility trailing off in abandoned thoughts
poems rising in the night air she breaks
her glow streaming admiration onto our tongues
while the afterimages dance and touch and sing behind my eyelids

the whispers may die and stay stranded on the tile floors
the light ripping holes into the long-dead words
but

suddenly the words are loud
and they float from the unknown and mingle with the revolutions softly dancing
between us

she saved me

Wide eyes wandering,

To settle upon such an empty space,
Yet willingly, they must trace,

That vast collage,
The most toilsome jigsaw,

How loving that imagery,
Our hearts pieced together,
To accept you,
As my beloved forever,

Though,
A puzzle untimely broken,
Lost to a box,
Eternally unspoken,

The flicker of afterimages,

The best pieces of you,
Inhabiting such bare space,

This forsaken heart,
An utter disgrace.

I want to make love to my buried self.


I want to draw her up.


I want to kiss her on the lips,
put her head against my *******.


I want to say
“It’s safe to come out now,”
fingers uncrossed, inviting.


Then
If she’ll let me
I want to press her so close
that atoms merge,
flesh swells;


The afterimages will float before my eyes
And she will stitch into my surface
like a second skin-
a shift in posture,
in the angle of my jaw.

Traveling at night surrounded by
a chrysalis of light, I rush
through a soft world, indistinct
except in brightly illuminated
pools at intersections and towns.
Few distractions, no landmarks other
than road signs, mileage markers. Quiet
melodies drift through the car,
reminding me of love unrequited and
love that washed through my heart like
a flood that no banks could hold.
When I reach my destination I sleep.

Those mornings I leave early,
the chrysalis dissolves as the
sun meets the horizon then climbs,
slowly at first, changing night skies
from indigo to dark then pale blue.
Platinum light emanates from the
morning sun. The world comes
alive with forests and pastures, with
rivers and towns, with farmers and
livestock. I see them. I watch them fly
past as the car cuts the air in its headlong
journey. Among the trees and landscapes
that drift in and out of my periphery
I think I see other things. Ghosts,
her ghost, a trailing scent like
perfume mingled with sweet sweat.
Wafting, swirling and clinging as she
rises, billowing from memory and loss.
I drive the highways and streets through
dynamic landscapes that never look the
same and seldom seem to change. Like
the memories that suddenly appear and
run along the roadsides, that reach out to
embrace me as I drive. Are they
echoes, maybe afterimages of a
person who passed through years ago? Of
thoughts or dreams that flew out an open
window to settle in the old eucalyptus
trees and hedgerows growing along the
roadside, even among the frame of an old
bridge over the dusty riverbed and quiet,
abandoned buildings? She waits vague and
vaporous to reunite us for fleeting, vivid
minutes, to linger as sigh, a smile and a
chill of recognition.


11 aug 13

I see vivid, my vision flowered
All the colours, i call them ours
Afterimages and my poems
Branded on my eyeball's moments

Blue does spread like food colouring
Dropped in my vision spluttering
I close my eyes to escape the noise
But all it changes, is the background choice

I see the bright blue sky
With floaters, sparkles and vivid lies
And sometimes my hands are dissapear
Beneath shadows leftover from lights bright near

But all in all it is alright
After all i could lose my sight?
And that is without mentioning my ears
that have been ringing for years.

For the last time let me linger through those memories
That ruined my peaceful evenings, stole my slumber and infused the resuscitation of my long forgotten dreams.
I need to let the afterimages burn in my tired eyes, one at a time,
Until it causes fire within my rueful stare
And only then will it turn into dust.

And if the dust must find a home behind the comfort of my heavy eyelids,
What cruelty must it try to convey?
I will wash myself free from my beloved agony
So that my arms will eventually untie itself from this forlorn fantasy.
The gray clouds will soon pour tears down into the earth where I scrawled your name.

I will send away my disregarded affections in forms of stardust with every step I take as I walk away.

Dear Rebeka,

Is it the same for you?

Anxiously bouncing your knees
while furiously scribbling notes.
Always taking glances
out the library windows.

Looking for nothing.
Nothing in particular.
just anything... ANYTHING OTHER
than a laptop screen
or another ******* lined piece of paper.

Upon exiting the prison, you find the outdoors enticing.
The sharp breeze flushing your cheeks,
The soft glow of evening
soothing the afterimages of fluorescent lighting.  

So cold your breath is tangible,
Hands tucked safely in your pockets,
Inhaling the night's air
like your drinking a tonic.

Thinking about home, and it's all so romantic.
Trying, but failing, to be more pragmatic.

**** it.
**** it.
**** it.  

Let's drop everything...
... and hop in the Prius.

All my love,
Jill

Sublime beauty hidden within the clinging walls
of a residence that had secrets unbeknown to the
outside world. Melodies were assuage in there
pristine composition, clinging to the wall writing
a brevity of afterimages beyond the veil of sight.

Luminescent webs were weaving within like a prism
conquering the veil, magnifying with each reflective
joining. Flourishing deep within were  blossoms that were
wording literal petals of beauty. But not everything
alluring is beckoning, dangerous are thorns untouched.

All things luminance aren't always the intention of bringing
light to the world. There are different hues audacious in
there devouring of the voids. Abstract  in there gentle rain
of reflective hunger. Their behaviour that of a spoilt infant
wanting more than what is given. But light always fades.

But these flowers were the seeds of the universe droplets
of luminosity that breathed light on the worlds.  
Before suns shone in there cradles these petals shone
in the void. Some reflections still linger hungering for
thorns to pierce the void for eternity that sleep in twilight.

I was a shadow that sneaked upon the twilight
A glimmer of consumed images.

Neither seen or guessed upon a mirage on a fluttering
Of eyes lids concealing with each foreboding closure
Of what is really seen.

I weave in the afterimages of conceived vision an echo
Of what and is their but never recognised for what
Is if noticed ever really seen.

alabama sun, it's almost hot here in a sad soggy way
i knew a kid in california who lost all her teeth on a pink plastic skateboard (we were all carrying garbage bags filled with computer cables and ipods and cube-shaped monitors)
there was a girl in england somewhere, too, she was bright bright navy blue and i couldn't stop staring at her glittery skin. my grandma told me it was impolite so i decided to grow antenna eyes like those banana slugs clinging to my neighbor's window.

(i think i'll shave my head and rename myself after the moths that come out once the afterimages of the sun leave the corneas.)

she told me we could live in thailand one day, now look what you've done! i want to live again for the first time since my tiny cells began to divide!

Like a puddle of conciseness I gazed within, I saw something,
not of reality, was this a nightmare in a teacup of reflections?
But as it evaporated I saw that wondering gaze among the
blind effigies that looked into nothingness.

I wondered my view upon the multitudes of shaded white,
what I hadn't seen as my overlook of what was inner most
close to my perceiving. Then I saw it, how did I not envision
this before? Was my gaze swollen with the shallow husks of
those clambering around me. Like an afterimage fleeting.

It was as if it was jumping in shallow puddles, for just a time
not to make waves in a sea of nothingness. For even the slightest
motions collected on the shores of others perceiving.
I was in a chess match, in a board of rookies..
Where those before me once me? I collected myself.

                  "Was I a pawn or another player in a field
                                                  of knights who had fallen,


I was weaving like spider silk, afterimages of where I
had once been. I had become accustom to the intricate
notions of what could and could not be grasped upon.
The blank ones even though of momentary emotions,
when it or they perjured upon them.

Then I noticed, they became more than just chandeliers of  
static light. Emotions were collecting in the corners of what
were vacant sockets of vision. I was no longer alone in this
place of shaded memories. Knowing that they were not of
the purring kitten collections, more of the great white playing
in a kinder garden of seals.

I watched as they consumed each pool, that which was
vacant now fell dissolving into tears of memories fading
beyond there contemplation. But as each painting of
memories was dissolved they were smirking as if they
or it knew I was watching the destruction of their actions.

Knowing what I had seen, I was the knight on a field of
pawns. They were innocence in playground of land mines.
Each step was unconditionally their continuation or the
inevitable disillusion to extinction. My morals were as in
life as in death, never to let harm befall those of needing.

**To Continued in the final part 4

Tainted perception, afterimages scream out
Upon the world. Her essence bleeds bleached
From her lips filling the void of silence.

Her pain is upon strings, vengeful melodies
Scream upon the air.  Her stick of bone plays
Upon the hairs of those taken with vengeance.

Notes invade the heavens pulling them down
One note at a time, her suffering will be heard
As her soul haemorrhages upon  a cold chorus.

My well of thoughts have dissipated,
beneath the murky waters
                                    lie
                      slumber
         secrete
the afterimages of what had evaporated.
repetition now swims in the vapour
of reflection.
     Duplicated
                           Reproduced
                                                    Imitations
of a droplets that seem to be deja-vu on the
surrounds of my reflections that are evaporating.

A brief, brilliant flash,
Leaving afterimages,
In all it has touched.

Vivisection of now sunken residue
         even though woven in unsighted glares

She graces her surrounding with afterimages
         of what was, but now only sees inwards.

All is witnessed without viewing reflection.
          Perceiving the world through hands of oblivion.

Abstract illustration,
for likened is neither
                       words or form.

Were just memories,
                    silhouettes
of then and before, afterimages..

Thinking were real, but were diodes
of light fixed re-watched...
observed a thousand times..

We never realise that we weren't here,
                just a replayed moment...

Look behind you,
        to late..

             were not really here..


"Just a moment being rerun,
                   did you hear me when

I said that, yes that's me not you..
don't worry, just sleep. Shhhhh….

Everything will be fine in the morning...

Lingering afterimages of you collecting in
jars of my mind. I knew this was momentary
that it wasn't an eternity but a grain falling
beyond my reach, but I try to catch you.

Losing you even though your last breath
still warms upon me, your hair is an
ocean for my fingers to hold but like
water they wash through.

I feel the wondering of you heart,
like butterflies eclipsing they flutter
from you. If I could catch even one,
a prisoner of life,
                   hearing but a singular beat.

But you are lost to me, and that butterfly
motionless lying next to you.
I collected your memory in jars, but I
know I must let this last butterfly fly free.

I pulled my colors from their storage
Red, blue, yellow, purple, green, and orange
The case they sat was old,
With rust and squeaky hinges.
Painting fruit: Grapes, apples, and oranges
******* the colors up through syringes,
Precision causing anxious twinges.
Picturing perfect afterimages
But my art just makes me cringe.
I rhyme well but, shouldn't try to paint an orange,
Placing my supplies back in storage.

After descent of eventide
luminescence of freshly fallen snow
still illuminates the terrestrial firma bright
even upon the onset of dusk,
when dark shadows
betoken the edge of night
analogously herald outer limits
invoking intimations of the twilight zone,
which visibility amplified
with appearance of full moon
accentuating brilliant blinding white
across the bucolic expanse.

No matter familiarization
with precipitation falling to Earth
as ice crystallization,
nevertheless a child like mirth
bubbles up inside of me,
the shear beauty worth
more than words can spell.

These transitional bifocals I wear
become naturally tinted
(upon exposure to radiance)
courtesy law of reflection
which states that, on reflection
from a smooth surface,
the angle of the reflected ray
equals the angle of the incident ray
essentially darkening material
comprising lenses for glasses,
which constituent chemicals for lenses
come in four types of plastic:
polyethylene, Trivex, polycarbonate,
high-index polymers, and glass.

After looking away
from brilliantly shimmering raiment
displaying full regalia donned
courtesy the nearest solar body,
one might see dark spots or patches
within field of vision,
which ocular entities called afterimages.

Afterimages happen because
the cells in your eyes that help you see,
called photoreceptor cells,
get tired from the bright light.

There are two types of these cells: cones and rods.

Though myopic, I still marvel
and feel blessed at ability
to experience capability,
no matter nearsightedness
insync with color vision deficiency (CVD)
diminishes fullest breadth and scope
to see with perfect
(meaning 20/20) vision
ever since a wee lad
way back in second grade
nearsightedness became quite evident

and difficult to ignore
forsooth in while deep in the womb
visionary genesis made
with slight inability
unable to distinguish
one or more chromatic colors
also in the chromosomal store
and so-called “floaters”
like my own private kaleidoscope
played tag across field of view

in the process concentration wore
out ability to attune other senses
to lend even a shade
now as an older fellow,
who dons bifocals with pride
eligible by optometrist/ophthalmologist
to undergo laser surgery
to shine on (me) lens
and render spectacles superfluous
as necessary guide
once anonymous philanthropist pens

adequate check for costly procedure,
whereby ocular weakness to hide,
whence ability to see keen as a hawk
with zoom empowered by tens
meanwhile this wayward fellow
will pilgrimage to the oracle of Delphi
hoping the priestess can deliver
like some divine
miracle worker for near blind
and if prayer
(to be free of glasses answered)

will become prophet
(written on subway walls) well nigh
and wordsmith will no longer
make spectacle of himself,
additionally no longer at the mercy
per groping in the dark
for misplaced eyewear to find
able to discern celestial objects
far away in the sky
which cosmic phenomena
t’will hypnotize this inquisitive mind.

Remember to water down the rainbows
The ones I grew on our backyard
Never fail to realize each color I arranged
Were the days we watched every sunsets

Worry not, I will tuck my shirt properly
White and crisp like how you told me
Pristine as silver, I will bear my clothes
As I edge closer and closer to being free

Smile as I pander to the life I'm leaving
Afterimages of warm hugs in the winter
Crossing against the torrent of tears
I have known to be cold but serene

To lie away with a bed of thorned roses
As the youth I sought to savour
Gradually fade unto the hug of you
On my first breath upon this world

To leave this earth ever so early
Sure is much peaceful than how I hoped
Seeing the rainbows we grew on our yard
Will soon be arching to your embrace