I.  
A rumble of a failing engine and an abandoned heart does not always make for the best mixed drink you’d typically order at the bar
The gasoline fumes rising towards my nostrils, the taste replicated on the taste buds, not exactly the main course you’d hope to appear on the main entrée menu
The shrinking world swallows my perception, and all I can see are endless forests with an unending road, not exactly the picturesque view you’d pick from the 5-star hotel you presumed to stay in comfortably

II.
Recurring whiplash carries me deep within the foliage of the woods, where the bristles from the furious trees feel like spikes brushing across my fragile skin
My thoughts are encompassed by my wildest fears, intensifying the pitter patter in my chest, nearing a detonation, but no witnesses to confirm or deny it
The limbs outstretch themselves and enfold me inside a hallowing clasp, resemblance of an agonizing chokehold
The fires begin slowly, but hurriedly strengthen into a sore, sweltering sensation that hastily seizes control over my nervous system, rendering me helpless with no one to soothe me from it, for isolation is the true affliction of it all

III.
And suddenly I am traveling through a dark neighborhood, the ones we were all warned about as adolescents, as the lamp posts house stood-up lovers and lost souls who are trying to catch a fresh thought aside from the filthy repetition we are provided with
The light bulbs flicker and the yellow paint dividing the two paths incases my thoughts, stimulating every sensory input to intake the detection of safety between the two opposite directions, because once a path is chosen, returning is forbidden
This social deprivation surely beholds my salient inner pain, as I cannot confide in anyone on this lonely road except for the shining Milky Way and smiling crescent moon, eons away from my reach

IV.
Foaming salt water crashes over me, encumbering my lungs from performing their simple task successfully, caught in a riptide sensing my discomfort with reality and self-hatred brought upon by the overriding waves that deteriorate my sanguinity
I cannot control anything in my life and the sea acknowledges this weakness, What a real favor it is! Killing me, for me, subduing the airflow right out of me but also purifying my corrupted being, freeing my aggressions, letting go of faulty hearts, and ensuring arcadia by ripping away a future I could not survive in
The sunken sailors in their sinking ships do not drown by choice, like I, but they may not be as grateful for the gift of release as I am
I realize I may have a shot at social encounters, until I gather that the glass wall that separates me from the world is unbreakable, and the water pressure is much too great to fight through, so I must die alone

V.
As my vision fades to black, I am awakened once again, stranded on this Earth, this place where life exists but living does not
And I feel like ever since the door slammed shut as I collapsed in cascading tears on the floor in your favorite white button down, I’ve been a bit lonesome and defunct, my mood has a constant sullen adjective attached to it
Adventure and spontaneity meant everything to you, and I took on the same attitude, breaking out of my comfort zone and implementing yours instead
What once was now lingers as a painful memory and acts as a narcotic because I am experiencing a difficult withdrawal of your voice, and I cannot last much longer before the insanity devours me from the inside out

VI.
As the hourglass passed all of the time, your personality withered as each interest you held dear to your heat contracted into an abhorrent piece of art, dedicated to miserableness
And as your presence no longer fills up my time, maybe I too am disappearing, or so I wish
Because losing you to yourself felt like being stranded in the middle of nowhere with an unceasing life of despondency and unanswered questions
It felt like being burned alive to ashes from a forest fire, so deep in that not a single person would notice its evanescence
And worst of all it felt like drowning, as my control slipped away from the tight grip I once had, like nobody could resuscitate me from
I play over every doting moment with you over in my head as my mind slowly fades to darkness, a blank state of depression

VII.
So tell me from the heavens once more that I do not need you, because you see what I am experiencing in your absence
Maybe I need you as a constant in my life and not a fleeting breeze in the persistently bipolar wind movements
But you bolted the moment the poisoned fog touched your fingertips and your fear took you away from me
So how can I possibly hold on, when I am clearly alone and depressed?
I know death is merciful compared to losing my one true love
Tell me you’re listening, I need someone to talk to
I cannot leave all these words left unspoken

Justice is unjust,
When it merely imposes,
The will of the state.

_______

Justice
Time: The all too near future
Place: A courtroom
Setting: Final sentencing of a prisoner convicted of the last remaining capital offense on the books of a kinder, gentler, fairer world in which equality is no longer a mere aspiration.
________

The prisoner stared impassively into the camera. The bright lights causing beads of sweat to form above his eyes and forcing him to squint, his perspiration-soaked thinning hair flattened unflatteringly against his forehead. No sound could be heard other than the faint hum of the air conditioning whose airflow was directed from the high ceiling above the high seats of the three judge panel, towards the three judges, keeping their immediate area comfortably cool. The camera trained on them remained a respectful distance away, and no harsh lights illuminated their somber countenances.

All three judges stared at the camera showing no emotion, their hands folded in front of them on the surface of their capacious bench on top of three equal stacks of paper placed before them. Everywhere on earth citizens watched the unfolding drama over the neural net that provided a fully immersive experience indistinguishable from reality, effectively placing every citizen on the planet in the courtroom as the Chief Judge began to speak in a deep, resonant, clear voice.

“The evidence against you has been examined. This tribunal finds you guilty of the charges against you by a unanimous vote. Have you anything to say before we pass sentence?”

The camera cuts back to the prisoner. The lights brighten around him and the heat rises perceptibly, adding fresh fuel to the trickle of sweat flowing down his flushed face, causing a bead of sweat to form at the end of his nose that he is unable to swat away because his wrists are restrained by metal bands at the armrests of his metal chair, outside the viewing range of the camera’s tight zoom on his face.

“I am guilty of no crime,” the prisoner protests in a low voice full of palpable weariness and resignation.

“You are guilty of the most heinous of crimes,” the Chief Judge contradicts, raising his voice and causing the prisoner to cringe.
“That is not open to debate. This is your final chance to make what amends you may to those whom you have harmed through your selfish, deviant act. It will have no effect on this Court’s sentence.”

“But I have done nothing wrong,” the man emphatically protests again, as ribbons of perspiration roll down his neck and deepen the growing ring of dark sweat absorbed by his bright orange jumpsuit, leaving a collar of dark moisture around his neck.

“Silence!” the Chief Judge hisses through tight lips. “The record will show that the prisoner is unrepentant. This Court finds that he willfully, maliciously and without justification removed his neural connector with the purpose and effect of severing his connection to the neural nets. We further find that the motivating factor for this most egregious, malevolent and repugnant crime was the attempt to abandon the Common Consciousness and establish his individuality separate and apart from the Communal Mind. We further find that the subject is in full possession of his legal faculties and capable of understanding the criminal nature of his acts, and, perhaps most tragically, that he fails to see the enormity of his crime.” The Chief Justice faltered slightly, delivering the final words of the Court’s sentence with a slight tremor in his voice. After stopping a moment to compose himself as his learned colleagues looked on impassively, he continued. “It is, therefore, the judgment of this Court that you will forever remain disconnected from the nets from this day forward.”

Upon hearing the Judge’s words the prisoner’s eyes opened wider, attempting to digest their import. Could it be? Might he finally be allowed the what he believed to be his unalienable right to be an individual for the first time in his life? The opportunity to live in a world in which he could have original thoughts, genuine emotions, privacy and the opportunity to be different from everyone else? The joy he felt nearly made him faint with relief and unbridled joy, allowing him for the first time in his life the possibility of hope as tears welled in his eyes.

He found he could not speak, could not express even the simple words “thank you” to the Court. It was as though he were emerging from a life-long nightmare, as if. . .

“The prisoner’s IP address, 999.999.999.999, shall be erased from the Nets,” the Judge continued as the prisoner’s tears now flowed freely. “His existence shall be forever stricken from the Collective Consciousness lest it germinate there and once again grow sedition in our midst.” The prisoner wept openly now while smiling broadly.
“The death sentence for this most heinous of crimes is hereby commuted so that the prisoner may be allowed the individuality he craves for the rest of his natural life, devoid of the comfort of our collective humanity or the distracting influences of life.”

The Chief Judge then paused and took a deep breath, as the prisoner shuddered with relief. He then continued in a slow, resonant voice. “It is further ordered by this Court that the prisoner shall have his eyes, eardrums, tongue and olfactory organs surgically removed that he may not taste, smell, see, hear, or speak with any other human being for the rest of his natural life. Thereafter, he is remanded to a hospital where he shall be restrained to a bed and tended to by robotic life support aids that he may be denied the comfort of feeling another human beings warm touch upon his skin. The sentence of this Court shall be carried out immediately and shall be witnessed by all the citizens of Earth as partial reparation for this most heinous of crimes against humanity.”

The prisoner’s screams lasted only a few moments as an anesthetic was administered and the cameras were re-arranged in preparation for justice to be carried out.

(C) 2011, 2019 Victor D. Lopez - All rights reserved.

I felt like I cried too much just then, with my head in your lap and my cheeks stinging with salty tears.

I want to die today, but I can't bring you with me.
I can't bring you with me in the bleak narrow curvings of my soul absent doubt.
I hate hating myself so much.
When I look in the mirror I judge from predisposed and painted self doubt.
I trim my frame with unrealistic absurdities that make matters worse by setting them self up for failure to begin with.
I do not think one should continue to prevent them self from cutting off their own airflow to preserve another being's feelings.
Though the act of suicide is selfish, and abstaining from the act to keep others from blaming themselves is in fact selfless; however perpetual self loathing is almost as demanding a lifetime of guilt that comes out of wishing you could have done something to help.

I sit on the inside looking out. And more of the time I am perched in there, I am looking around, from within.

Disolving the interior and remembering the good old walls.

What happened to those willful walls and forgiving storage areas? Nothing is ever good enough; like a mingy white room-once coated twice, but over time has been repainted in folding colors, creating a texture that was not meant to gain, nor pleases as a result.

I want all of the excuses and laziness and hastiness to melt away and the chaos that sits with darkness at the corners of everything, to fall away as toxic as they are, and I want to sit outside of myself and watch in praise and humble patience.

Imagine Complete Annihilation

Imagine it

First drain the colour from the world
Pour metaphorical bleach on the landscape
The lively green of the foliage
Is now a lethargic grey
The placid blue of the sky an angry black
Each cloud remains unpainted

Next expend the energy
***** its skin with this hypothetical needle
And induce a coma
Watch monochrome bees roll over in bed, unwilling to go to work
Vultures lying down with their dinner; corpse pillows
Sloth is the new God

Then purge the life
Draw your figurative razor across its jugular
Don’t worry, it’s humane: the victim’s already sleeping
And when yours is the only soul still tied down
Burn the pile of non-rotting flesh
(even the saprophytes are gone; death doesn’t revile anymore),
Gnash your teeth and throw yourself atop it

You’re almost done, now expunge your senses
Deaden the sound: halt the airflow through this graveyard
But remember that there is no silence
Dampen the light: pinprick each pixel till it pops
But remember that there is no dark
Cry “Begone!” to the wind and feel no more
But remember that there is no numbness
Cut out your tongue and relax
But remember that there are no memories

Finally call last orders on Time
Find each clock, smash it, don’t worry about the glass
There is no pain anymore
There is finally nothing
Imagine

Now accomplish this horrendous task
In the space & time-frame of a single breath
Learn
That what you godless fools call death
We of faith, however little, call hell

The box of fire-starters I had found in the back closet
seemed very simple in their use.
Simply turn the curved side down
and apply a flame.

We really wanted a fire.
Not only were we in need of that comforting presence,
but the spectacular show of  trees and mountains
had disappeared with the sun
and the images of windy lake ripples, although profound,
seemed already years in the past.
We had the night to look forward to,
and our enthusiasm for the stars
would be exercised by our frequent excursions
to **** down some cigarettes out in the parking lot.
So it was decided,
this fire would be our inside entertainment for the evening.

The little black bic seemed a bit inadequate,
but the situation was soon remedied
by the discovery of a larger and quite adequate butane torch.
Now we are in business.
Despite the new firepower
only a small flame caught.

After spending a winter without heat,
in a home that hemorrhaged warmth,
I had become proficient in starting fires
with wet logs and numb fingers,
leaving me with a tendency to add too much fuel.

The little flame was adorable.
it wobbled back and forth on the flat side of the fire starter,
reaching up towards yesterday’s paper
and the cardboard case of Coors from last night.
I felt like a proud parent when it’s wispy tendrils
finally got a hold of the remnants of the pasts dubious reminders.

I’d spent my youth in that one room cabin.
Weekends I would roam the mountains
and dig deep holes in the snow to hide in.
Unfortunately, due to a small oversight,
I had never properly learned quite the trick
for opening up the flue.
I assumed, quite wrongly, that the wee bit of airflow from the fireplace
insinuated proper ventilation for the impending combustion.

A fire alarm
is one of the most panic inducing sounds.
We tried desperately to knock the flue open
praying that the growing fire would have room to escape
and save us from the dismal fate
of burning down my families favorite weekend getaway.

Mere moments after admiring the fragile
and fleeting existence of my little flame that could,
I drenched a towel in the sink
and smothered it out
before any more damage could be done
(which really only consisted of wet ash).

We spent the rest of the night smoking cigarettes,
getting high in the floodlights
and twitching with the panic induced paranoia
the aborted fire left in our chests.

And later, once I had gone back to the real world,
I learned that the flue lever had to move,
not left and right,
but up and down to open and close.

Before you know it, you'll find the sound of your roommate's voice while she's talking to her bestie on the phone to be a burgeoning wedge pushing you into retreat. The demands of your work schedule, the hours of studying to be done, the expectations of friends and lovers. They all crowd around you with their false promises of offering a new path, a light of some sort. But in reality they only hover over you with the disparaging lens of a magnifying glass, while blinding you with a searchlight intent on finding remnants of the person they once knew. The sun used to come through in patches and shine down on you in spontaneous beams, but now that flicker is gone. Now you cannot even remember what natural light looks like. You cannot see any path to what you once longed for. Your options and advances dissipate like a sugar cube resting on a tongue; the sweetness of solitude soon gone. This wall they have surrounded you with, under the pretense of comfort, has turned into a treacherous mistress. What was once the pillow that absorbed the weight of your head is now the force blocking your vision and airflow, as you suffocate underneath its weight in exchange. You'll find yourself cowering in a corner with a noose around your neck, the tension so strong that any attempt to move away will only sever your life as you know it. Any movement at all will only tighten the hold. So you must stand completely still.

A steamy trail of particulate vapor issues from her lips
tracing the outline of her silhouette and rising
up,
up,
it diffuses into nothingness

Don’t listen to what your parents or teachers tell you, kids-

smoke is very ****.

she exhales again

slithers languidly through the still air
stretching for something-
rolls across my coffee table
like dunes in fast-forward
drips off the edges-

-gone.

She puffs a thick ring at me
it crosses through the void space toward me;
I reach out to touch it- to grasp it
and it dissipates;
she grins-

such teasing.

Smoke is-
and
is not-
it traces the airflow-
the negative space
like a jungle cat pretending to be
the light between the leaves

she knows this
and she can see that I know she does

Smoke
is why I am so captivated
So fascinated
so mesmerized
so transfixed
by her
and in general-

by women.

There are rules and protocol,
movements and routine
not quite episodic and semantic--
non-declared transition and rituals,
rounded manners distinct
from infinite loop
and routed inner biplane
hemmed to a sight line,
spiraling death down.
Earth or Spitfire flare dare?
Grounded embrace forever comes.
I move, postponing
and extending.
The declared break is now.
Airflow ripples,
and eyes tear.
Straining shear forces
reducing reasoned response
to instinctual joysticks.
Old, new, modified,
learned sticky
quirks of friends,
Lost love lingering,
switching *****,
adjusting yaw, pushing yoke,
subtle procedural affectations
stolen, infused in
to fly, bank, and escape.

wake up, in a mood
feeling like dog ****
after a night of restlessness
stumble out of bed,
to the bathroom
to relieve yourself,
the dog comes up
with his “good morning” stretch
and a gentle bump from his muzzle

then its over to the kitchen
for a glass of water, or OJ,
whatever is more convenient
then to the wood stove

re-start the fire from the
embers of yesterday
realising there isn’t
enough wood and then
have to go to the shed

the raccoon that has made
the shed his home
skulks near the back
trying not to be seen
by the flashlight
or the over excited dog
who knows it’s there

fill the bag with wood
picking pieces that will
keep the fire going all day
some smaller lighter fir
mixed with heavier arbutus
haul it back inside
dog ever at heels

crumple up pieces of the
free newspaper
arrange embers, fresh wood
and paper to allow quick re-lighting
leave door open a quarter inch
to allow adequate airflow

head to office in basement
check email
not that anything of use ever arrives
check news
not that anything of relevance
happened overnight
head back upstairs to
check on fire
dog ever at heels

close wood stove door
head back downstairs
put on shoes, coat, hat
grab leashes
take dogs on morning walk

return,
make breakfast
eat while making lunch
usually tempeh with steamed veg,
or tofu with rice/noodles
or something similar
pack lunch
get fresh underwear, socks
and shirt for work
head to basement bathroom
shower

think of how easy life is
when there is no one around
to complicate it
life alone would be ideal
you get things done
on time
there’s no interruptions
no one else to consider
just you and the tasks at hand

get dressed
still thinking of how
well suited you are to life alone
walk into bedroom
dog ever at heel

see her sleeping
hear the silence punctuated
only by her slow steady breathing
realise that without her
you would be lost
nothing

kiss her cheek
tell her you love her

trudge out into the world

Thoughts.

A tangled knot

A knot -
Barbwire intertwines
Restricting airflow
Airflow receding
Suffocating.

Reaction encourages,
Words tumble rapidly
Thoughts intruding
Unwelcome memories flooding
Arising are bad ideas.

Skin boils
Invisible steam rising from its surface
Underneath,
Muscles constricting
Seizing unnoticeably.

Grey -
Dark grey
Light grey
Sketchy grey
Unblended greys

Blurring all vision.

A unit of measurement is a definite magnitude of a quantity,
used as a standard for measurement of the same kind of quantity. Any other quantity of that kind
can be expressed
as a multiple of the unit of measurement.

Length,
for example,
is a physical quantity.

Any value of a physical quantity is expressed
as a comparison to a unit of that quantity.

For example, the value of a physical quantity Z is expressed as the product of a unit [Z] and a numerical factor:

Z = n x [Z] = n[Z] So if we were to let Z be “2 antique sofas” then Z = 2[Z] = 2 antique sofas.

Fifteen hundred miles or so,
converts to roughly 7920000 feet
and 48 hours of land
across approximately 29 counties spread through 5 states

However,
in order to measure more abstract concepts,
different units of measurement are often adapted,
or hybridized, to fulfill ad-hoc need.

Coping,
for example,
is an abstract quantity
represented by

American Spirits:
(farenheit, inches, exhaled smoke as measured in cubic feet.)

Tears cried as designated driver
for termination
of unplanned pregnancy:
(miles, cost of service in U.S. Dollar, speed, tear volume in milliliters)

Furniture thrown:
Forces relevant to stable flight include a balance of
Propulsive ******. Lift,
created by the reaction
to an airflow
Drag, created by
aerodynamic friction
Weight,
created by gravity
Buoyancy, for lighter
than air flight

Holes in drywall:
(Inches in diameter and depth, potential bruises to be explained if the wall is ever further away than the human form in a darkened bedroom)

Unfortunately,
some concepts are still devoid of applicable units of measurement.

Take for example, the concept of Waiting.

As it has no defined beginning,
or end, and is malleable based on
external factors such as perceived value
and level of psychosocial dependency,
there appears to be no observable limit
regarding absolute human capacity capabilities.

I have scars on my body the origin to some I have no clue.
Some memories are a blur, and I don't know exactly what I've been through.
You're more than welcome to read my mind or hand.
I no longer have a steady stand.

The crash had changed me in ways I didn't know.
Since the crash, my brain has lost so much info.
People I've known slipped through a crevice.
Memories of mine found a way out of my iris.

I used to question my surrounding.
Now I question myself for not knowing.
I'm trying to chisel away as much blur as I can.
Each piece I break off only seems to grow larger than my wingspan.

This day and on I only hope to retain,
My new campaign even if it turns me insane.
I'm ready for what comes my way, cause there is still an airflow.
Life knocks me down and I rise back up without a halo.

flakes in the kitchen, flakes in the kitchen
my fate is holy like religion, old traditions:
live life greedily, follow your ambitions
without the stacks, i got an itching

thousand racks, volume of a bible
the day is black, that is my lifestyle
don't offer me gizmos, i know the skid row
above the earth, you see an airglow

above my head, you watch my hair glow
snow male machiny, breathing airflow
phantom with a whisk, never stop-and-frisk
my birthmark, no risk, twenty yumys in the carpark

when no one sleeps, the crowd dances
i'll be hanging with the focus, grabbin' chances
fountain flavour, the mountain and the savior
brash, blue bunnies burning all my moneys

You are getting nosebleeds at all the wrong times
the tears welling up behind your eyes to track down  your
pale, pockmarked cheek
and that bulging in your throat constricting the airflow
let’s you know that fast can be too fast
you thrive with the sunlight
but like flowers standing tall against the oncoming winter
you wilt with day’s last breath
what time did you get home this morning?
hair all matted and stood up
smelling like a sorority party massacre
glitter, wine, tequila, coke, and anonymous ****
take another adderall
******* for the bored children
feel the electrical signals pulse from your brain
to snap your pupils to attention
wash the ***** out of your hair sweet heart
the boys back home never talked to you the way these city boys do
“girl, *****, chick, ****, ***** -”
“oh her? yeah she’s a sure ****
her legs are like seven eleven
they’re not always doing business, but they’re always open…”
So forget the night ever happened
each day brings new opportunities
but they all want you
they all want one thing from you
and you don’t want to say no
don’t want to make them mad,
be a tease, a *****, frigid
and you like the way they make you feel special and beautiful
until the next morning
with the nosebleeds and the dry heaving in strange toilets
and you are waiting for Prince Charming, huh?
as if he will jump out of cheesy romcoms and magazines to hold you steady
well Prince charming is dead weight slowly spinning beneath a frayed, twisted rope
in a dark closet next to the nameless stranger and the noble outlaw
so go ahead and smash those mirrors sweetheart
what’s seven years more bad luck?

I’d never felt comfortable in that house
Not once, since we’d moved on in,
A rambling, derelict, barn of a house,
Three storeys of age-old sin.
Nobody said there’d been murders there,
Or told of the gypsy’s curse,
Three hundred years of discarded junk
And I don’t know which was worse.

The air was dank, and creepy and cold
So I opened the windows wide,
Trying to get some airflow through
To clear the smell inside.
It was musty, dusty, smelt like a tomb
With a corpse, decayed and grey,
We cleaned and scrubbed it room by room
And the smell went slowly away.

We tackled the ground floor first, we thought
We could leave upstairs til last,
The stairs were blocked with a French chaise longue
From some distant time in the past,
It was jammed hard up by the bannister rails
So it wouldn’t go up or down,
I said I’d have to pull it apart
And that sparked a Hartley frown.

Hartley was the love of my life
Who tackled that house as well,
She said it was a pig in a poke
That its real name was ‘Hell!’
But we finally cleared a space to live
And she worked out a way to shift
That French chaise longue from the stairway by
Trying a twist and lift.

The second floor was a nice surprise
There was none of the junk and grime,
The bedrooms still remained as they’d been
Laid out in another time,
So Hartley dealt with the dust in there
While I went up for a look,
The room above was an attic room
And that’s where I saw the book.

It lay on a dusty table with
Its pages ragged and torn,
The paper a sort of parchment and
The ink, quite faded and brown.
The cover was ancient leather, cracked
And worn, as if by an age,
‘The Many Lyves of this House’ it had
Embossed, as a title page.

I cautiously opened the cover, read
The words on the parchment page,
The light in the room then turned to gloom
And a storm began to rage.
I raced on down to the ground to find
A man outside, who said,
‘For those inside, don’t seek to hide,
I say, bring out your dead!’

And a cart stood out in the street outside
A pile of the dead in place,
The street was cobbled, not like before,
But of bitumen, no trace.
And on my door was a huge red cross
With a white and painted scrawl,
‘God, have mercy on us,’ it read,
‘Have mercy on us all.’

And there on the floor, inside the door
Was a corpse wrapped in a sheet,
I dragged it out by the feet, no doubt,
And I left it in the street.
On climbing back to the topmost floor
I leapt and pounced on the book,
But the page had turned, and the fire burned
Before I had time to look.

London burned in the distance and
Lit up the night like day,
I didn’t know of it then, but it
Was burning the plague away,
And every page in that cursèd book
Brought a different time to bear,
‘The Many Lyves’ that this house had lived
Were all inscribed in there.

I slammed that leather cover shut
And I laid it on its face,
Then swore that I’d never open it
While the Lord would lend me grace.
And Hartley, dragged from her cleaning chores
She never could understand,
Why I put a torch to that ancient house
And burnt it to the ground.

David Lewis Paget

Maybe, I fear the feels of loneliness. Lonesome. I am never alone.
The feels of being alone are so real. It is unbelievable.

When alone there are no distractions from the ambiance; the clutter; the airflow.
It is all there--visible; tangible, here.
Right in front of you!

The feeling of time, presence, existence.
It is rather simple.
Very at the surface--unless you explore.

There are hidden pathways on the playing field,
which can only be found by you.
These things are mastered alone.

Your presence.
This moment.
This fluid frozen moment.

I caught you star gazing last night
You were staring at the ceiling with your eyes full of sprinkles as your body melted into the floor.
I watched your tears fall into to puddles of open clusters,
And the rhythm of your heart beat to the heat of the sun.
I watched your fingers turn to galaxy’s and your hair mold into the earth to become roots thirsty for knowledge from a well of an insomniacs early morning dreams
But these open clusters become disrupted over time,
by the gravitational influence of molecular clouds.
I can feel them pulling at you.
And you let them drown you into the sea.
            It is hypothesized that people like you are made of dust,
Drifters and wanderers full of acid and dope but baby,
I see much more.
Looking through spectacles composed of the ocean floor I see fish swimming through your veins and coal reefs in your ears blocking the airflow from coming in.
I see doctors and lawyers prescribing you pills to keep the love you thought was real from failing and I see great white sharks to swallow your pain with Prozac and Cipralex.
            You know the effects of smoking,
and the pollution to the forest in your lungs but you breathe in the chemicals because were programmed for rat poison to make us feel alive.
You crave sunsets.
But through prescriptions and sleeping pills I see the 95% of the ocean that has not yet been explored and I see crystals forming in the pit of your eyes and I want to tell you that not all tears are worthless and not all paintings are pointless and I see the beauty in dandelions that some people call weeds.
I see the evil in rose petals and the delicacy in the thorns
and I see the world through  eyes that refused to be hazed by politics and religion and the opinions of store clerks when you ask for a lottery ticket with a 20 dollar bill in hand because you hold on to the hope that something will happen and God will reward you for all you’ve done good with a bundle of money and stained glass windows complete with marble floors.
            You hide away your **** rugs collected from japan and feel the wooden floor, scraping each fingernail and crying dark amethyst as your falling to your knees to get closer to hell in order to pray for heaven.
            I turn so I can leave you to gazing,
Then I hear you draw a breath,
You turn to look at me with starfish covering your cheeks and your knuckles branded with scratches from pounding on great metal doors until they set you free.
I see a universe in you.
I see the roots in your hair,
and the sprinkles in your eyes.
I see the coal reefs in your ears,
and the forest in your lungs.
I see the 95% of the ocean that has yet to be explored.

Some days I look at the ceiling.
Lay on my floor and stare at everything.
The eggshell paint chips and how they linger.
The circle where I once threw pudding up in the air with Her.
I ask it why it's so constraining,
Why everything it does makes me feel like it's raining.
Why I can't take off like the birds
And just fly free instead of living with the herd.
But flight is impossible when you have a ceiling,
mental or not it's still built like a never ending grieving.
For someone you lost,
for someone you hate,
for those people that make you insane.
Living for the future works exactly like a main
Pip bursting with water
Killing the things surrounding it farther.
This ceiling is drowning me,
Metaphorically asphyxiating the
Airflow of my thoughts
Creating a lack of creativity.
I have to destroy this ceiling,
And free myself from aboriginality.
The bereavement of society,
Is it's abhorring nature toward creativity.

A room on wheels
with my storage platform bed
and my solar powered devices

A party on wheels
with a roof rack that holds 4 camping chairs, table
and a trunk with a propane grille, charcoal grille and fire pit

A room on wheels
with my built in closet that keeps all my work clothes  wrinkle free and organized  and two drawers for my fold-ups

A party on wheels with my 6 remote controlled led lights , laptop with built in WiFi to stream movies and play games

This is my work car and many nights on long trips it has been my sleeping quarters and many nights it has provided a night full of camaraderie

My co workers and I sit around a fire in comfortable chairs as we cookout on my two grilles  from food we all chipped in to provide

At first glance people think I’m crazy but once they get to participate in the environment they can’t believe the fun

I average 28 miles per gallon , I can shower at any Planet Fitness, Flying J or Pilot truck stop as well as stay the night for free in their well lit parking lots

I have screens that go over the outside of the windows like a glove covering the open windows for airflow without the bugs being able to get in

I have a solar powered fan that mounts above my head as well as one that mounts up front to create steady airflow

Underneath the storage bed houses anything and everything a road trip could desire as well as necessities for survival

The glovebox a small hidden pantry for protein packed snacks and healthy alternatives

My workout items hang on the exterior of the closet wall behind my headrest: resistant bands , hand grips and my protein powder tumbler all with designated hooks

I love my small resort on wheels. As it has provided some lifelong memories and always gets a stray smile from others that know not of it’s powers

But the most important reason I love my Cruze is it has provided a really neat father son project and one that shapes a young mans mind and lets him realize anything you think truly can become possible

Regardless of what others think or say because everyone that told us we were crazy has enjoyed a spot around the fire and a well grilled meal

They say “ you know what this is pretty cool after-all, I just didn’t think it would be possible.

The best part is within 10 minutes and 4 fasteners the front seat can be put back in  to it’s original working position

However we designed it so a passenger can still be buckled up while it remains a car camper

Now if only school would get out soon so we can begin our planned adventures for this summer

when i was a little girl,
the word “crush” filled me
with horror and excitement
in equal measure;
back then, it signified
the tightening of the bodice
of that monster who calls herself love
and slowly compressed my chest
blocking my airflow and shaping me
into the girl that would
eventually
be wanted

little ******* Williams moseys down the gum-skunk street with leash in hand, connected to a pink spiky collar fastened brutally around my throat airflow restricted small inklings of blood surfacing Cupid's switchblade sticking out of a convenient place between spine notches oh but little ******* Williams is my creation my friend my only child how can i blame it for what i command it do to me

The foot of my bed
(where the duvet, entangled in dreams,
holds me hostage between the legs)
is slick with something cool.
Something cold — stark contrast
to the sweat winking amongst leg hair —
caresses, allows airflow to de-stagnate
the locked-in night breath.

She is all eyes and hands
in all the wrong places, long fingers
separating human from other.
Her voice coos like honey
and I am bound to mattress, shivering.

If this were a hotel, there may be a Bible
in the bedside drawer, but I would rather clutch
something else. This is home,
and with no choice but to welcome the night,
I release the dust from under my fingernails,
blessed spit holy between milk thigh.

I have heard tales of angels,
women of fire whose voices, un-silenced,
make ears bleed. I am no stranger
to blood.

What is life?
Could somebody be kind enough to explain,
What is living?
Could anyone be kind enough to show me?
I really need to know, I've lost myself in the process of trying to find myself,
I am dead in the process of trying to live,
The troubles of life has somewhat restricted my airflow,
I choke at every given second, I'm a wandering spirit on the earth with no goal as to where I'm headed,
I have lost all, friends, family and all I could ever boast of
Am I better of dead?
Would I be good if only I do not open this eyes anymore?

Is anyone out here, kind enough to show me what life is?
Is anyone here to explain life to me?
I'm drowning!!!!

There are rules and protocols;
movements and routines.
Not quite episodic and semantic.
Nondeclared transition and rituals.
Rounded manners distinct
from infinate loop
and routed inner biplane
hemmed to a sight line,
spiraling death down.
Earth or Spitfire flare dare?
Grounded embrace forever comes.
I move, postponing
and extending.
The declared break is now.
Airflow ripples,
and eyes tear.
Straining shear forces
reducing reasoned response
to instinctual joysticks.
Old, new, modified,
learned, sticky
quirks of friends.
Lost love, lingering,
switching *****,
adjusting yaw, pushing yoke,
subtle procedural affectations
stolen, infused in
to fly, bank, and escape.

6 sirens snoozed to the wind and a petrified banana
burrowing down in the slow lane
billowing blue smoke
like white horses over a bombora

accelerator airflow regulator out on his own
zonked
lopping around like a white flag stuck at half mast
3 weeks after the funeral

smug green peppers and salt hung rabbits that have travelled and
have seen things and
know exactly,
what you have done

spray painted bees, howling
window cleaner 10 jobs in and still using the same water
Bill Clinton,
£4 a week

Yamata Yamata, no jacket
Spanish ceramic pots that I told you are sensitive and
**** THEMSELVES
in the dishwasher

ritual
like sunday prayers or Chinese mushroom powder in the morning
4 of your 5 a day sounds impressive but when you start the day on
MINUS 10
you spend the rest of it buying back lives

duck soup Danish

milkman’s left the bottle behind the bin where you will NEVER FIND IT

tonight — blue moon
last night — no moon
wednesday — moon doing bad things in a capsized kayak at a
full moon party on Zanzibar

coat hanger for an aerial
rocket launch to the ursa minor

£3.49
bottom shelf
all the answers you need for less than the price of a day-rider

and then tomorrow
bombay lentils
bombay lentils
bombay lentils, everywhere.

Thanks don’t buy bread
Sorry ain’t going to
get me high.  Let my
friends alone you want
Me off your sidewalk.
My heart is black as
your espresso.
I want to rise above
the Metro’s airflow. You
can eat your
ticket to a business
class.
I need a soak
The river doesn’t
need oil from
your pleasure boat.
Hell might be
Colder than
my **** on the
ground this
winter.  Wrap
Yourself in velvet
inside the walnut
coffin.  It might
smooth
the  bumps along
the asphalt  heading
to the cemetery.

I was made for retreating,
enjoying the fickle flicker
of hair follicles
slowly flowing,
falling and
folding over
as I am feeling the
fleeting airflow
of the early evening.