’Twas in the nineteen-twenties, when young people were bright and gay,
A flapper left Southampton, on a cruiser bound for Bombay.
Her fiancé was a subaltern, in India, in the cavalry,
And she had taken passage there, intending, him to marry.

She shared a cabin with a girl, ’cause money was quite tight,
And though they had met as strangers, they were getting on all right.
The flapper had met some nice people, and things were going fine,
Until they reached the equator, and had to ‘cross the line’.

People who before, had never the equator crossed,
Paraded around in fancy dress, and some into the pool were tossed.
The crew were dressed as pirates, and one as King Neptune,
And some of the passengers ‘walked the plank’, it was all done in fun.

During the proceedings, cocktails and champagne were drunk,
And the pirates, lots of passengers, into the pool did dunk.
The flapper’s chosen costume was that of a mermaid,
And with her legs placed in the tail, she hopped in the parade.

Because of her restricting costume, she hadn’t been tossed in the pool,
Now eventime was coming on, the air was turning cool.
She thought she’d look at the wake of the ship, so she hopped to the after-rail,
And stood there drinking a Planter’s Punch, whilst balancing on her tail.

Standing there, under the stars, she gazed down at the sea,
And saw something jump out of the water and wondered what it could be.
Then, leaning over further, to try to make it out,
She lost her balance and fell overboard, no time to even shout.

She crashed to the water on her front, and couldn’t clearly think.
She was winded and rather drunk, because of all the drink.
She struggled hard to keep afloat, her arms were all a-flail,
And for a time she was helped by air trapped in the tail.

Back on board the ship, her cabin-mate was drunk,
And didn’t think that she’d be able to get back to her bunk.
She went to a saloon, and stretched out on a sofa,
Then closed her eyes and went to sleep, the drunken little loafer.

In the morning she awoke and staggered to her berth,
With a frightful headache, no longer full of mirth.
She took some Alka Seltzer, in a glass of water,
Then slept again, not missing the flapper, although she should have ought to.

In the sea the flapper was floundering and thought that drowned she’d be.
The ship showed no sign of turning back, and went on its way steadily.
Her tail was slowly losing air and filling up with sea,
Her last thoughts, as she started to sink, were, “Why is this happening to me?”

Her past life flashed before her eyes, it didn’t take too long.
She’d really led a quiet life, and had done nothing wrong.
“That, I’ll rectify,” she thought, “if ever I get back.”
Then the air bubbled out of her lungs, and everything went black.

“Am I in heaven?” were her first thoughts, assuming she was dead.
When she heard a quiet voice, which unto her, it said
“I thought you were a mermaid, now I think you’re a mortal,
If I’d known, I never would have brought you through my portal.”

The flapper struggled to sit up straight, ’cause her legs were still in the tail.
She opened her eyes, tried to see in the gloom, and then she started to wail.
“Please tell me just where I am, whatever is this place?”
Then she tried hard not to scream, when in front of her eyes loomed a face.

In the dark it seemed to glow with a phosphorescent light,
And this was the reason it had given her such an awful fright.
Then, as she scrutinised it, she thought it did look kind,
So asked, “Why did you think me a mermaid? Are you out of your mind?”

The face moved back and regarded her, and then to her it said,
“Aren’t you at all curious to find you are not dead?
Luckily for you I was on the surface, looking at your ship,
When I saw you standing staring down, and then I saw you slip.”

“I swam back under the water, so I would not be seen,
And heard you splashing in the water, and wondered what it did mean.
Then, looking at you from beneath, as you your arms did flail,
I saw to my surprise, that instead of legs, you’d a tail!”

“I could not work out why a mermaid was on that boat,
Nor why you seemed to not be able to swim or even float.
Then you started sinking and your gills I couldn’t see,
And you obviously weren’t breathing, so you needed help from me.”

“Then I thought of the quickest way that your life I could save.
I towed you to the sea-bed, and brought you to my cave.
There is lots of air in here and I saw to my relief,
When I laid you on my bed, you started then to breathe.”

The flapper was quite shocked at this and couldn’t believe her ears.
She thought she was trapped with a lunatic and her mind was filled with fears.
So sitting up, she undid the belt that held her tail on tight,
Then wiggled a bit and pulled it off so her legs were now in sight.

“There are no such things as mermaids!” the flapper then did shout.
“Why are you keeping me captive? Oh won’t you let me out?”
“You really are then human,” the mermaid, startled, said,
“And I brought you here inside my home! I really feel afraid.”

“I don’t believe in mermaids,” the flapper again did wail.
“So far I’ve only seen your face, I haven’t seen a tail.”
The mermaid said, with trembling voice, “If that is what you wish.”
She then lay back upon the bed, and gave her tail a swish.

“No, no, it’s just your fancy dress, like mine for the parade,”
The flapper said, and like the mermaid, she was sore afraid.
They both sat up and looked at each other,  tears running down their faces,
And each, feeling sorry for the other, each, the other embraces.

As they hugged together, they started to calm down,
And the flapper said to the mermaid, “I think that you have shown
Great compassion in saving me and bringing me safely here.”
And though overcome by emotion, she managed to sound sincere.

The mermaid said, “You’re trembling, may I be so bold
As to ask if you’re still frightened?” The flapper said, “I’m cold.
I’m shivering to warm myself, my clothes are chilly and wet.”
The mermaid told her, “I know what, some dry clothes I will get.”

Sliding down from off the bed, into a pool she slipped,
And swam to the far side of the cave, and there a case she gripped.
Rolling over onto her back, she balanced it on her chest,
Then swam back to the flapper, who hoped it hadn’t squashed her breast.

The flapper helped to lift the heavy case onto the bed.
“I hope you haven’t hurt yourself bringing it here,” she said.
“Oh no,” replied the mermaid, “I’m stronger than I look,”
Then she opened it, and from the inside, several garments took.

The flapper then looked thoughtful and said, with a little frown,
“I hope this case hasn’t come from someone who did drown.”
“Oh no!” said the mermaid, as she that thought abhored,
“I often find stuff from ships that has fallen overboard.”

The flapper quickly then took off all her sodden clothes,
And picked up a lace hankie, and on it blew her nose.
She dried herself upon a towel, and sorting out clothes to wear,
Picked out some silken knickers and a strapless brassiere.

Then the flapper noticed that the mermaid was quite bare.
She obviously wouldn’t wear knickers, so she held out the brassiere.
“What is that?” the mermaid asked, “Do you wear it on your head?”
“Turn around, lift up your arms and I’ll show you,” the flapper said.

The mermaid swivelled round and raised her arms up high,
While the flapper knelt behind her, putting her arms round her to try
To fit her with the brassiere, and though she did her best,
She managed, inadvertently, in each hand to clasp a breast.

The flapper and the mermaid both froze there in that place.
The flapper felt a crimson flush, blush across her face.
The mermaid slowly lowered her arms, each covered a flapper’s hand,
And she murmured, “What are you doing? I just don’t understand.”

The flapper’s arms were locked in place and the mermaid she leant back.
The flapper felt her ***** flattened as the mermaid squashed her rack.
The mermaid muttered, “Don’t get dressed, I’ve a better idea instead.
Why don’t we lie down together? I’ll warm you up in bed.”

The mermaid released the flapper’s hands and slowly turned around.
Then she saw the flapper’s eyes looking down upon the ground.
The flapper spoke. “I know you meant the offer kindly, though
While I’m really flattered, in India, I’ve a beau.”

“I was on my way to meet him at Bombay, to be married.
I’d still be on my way there, if the cruise had not miscarried.
You have been so kind to me and managed to save my life,
Now will you help me on my way so I can be a wife?”

The mermaid looked unhappy, however, she concurred,
Albeit quite reluctantly, and then spoke so she’d be heard,
“I will try to help you, though yet we must delay.
There will be many sharks outside at this time of day.”

“If I take you outside now, to try to get you back,
There’s a real chance that the sharks they will attack.
Why don’t you finish drying yourself and find clothes to get dressed,
Then lie back down upon the bed and try to get some rest?”

The flapper started dressing and put on the brassiere,
And helped the mermaid put one on, who felt awkward not being bare.
When the flapper stood up, and stepped into the knickers,
The mermaid couldn’t help but stare, her eyes made up-and-down flickers.

“Please show me how you use your legs,” the mermaid did implore,
“It’s strange to see you standing up,  not lying on the floor.”
The flapper bent and stretched her knees to show how they did work.
Then turned around and squatted down and got her *** to twerk.

Then as the flapper, legs apart, upon the bed did kneel,
The mermaid, stretching out her arm, between those legs did feel.
And then very slowly, rubbed her hand forth and back,
And murmured, “It must feel very strange, because a tail you lack.”

The flapper, with a quavering voice, said, “It’s quite normal for me.
Now, though, what about you? May I your tail closely see?”
And with that, the flapper stretched out flat upon the bed,
Then on the mermaid’s tail, gently rested her head.

She put her hand upon the tail and stroked it up and down,
And feeling it crissate, gave a little frown.
It felt smooth when caressed downwards and rough the other way,
And then the mermaid arched her back and suddenly did spray.

From somewhere at the tail’s front squirted forth a spout.
That the mermaid did enjoy it, the flapper was not in doubt.
The liquid jet subsided and the mermaid gave a moan,
And a quite delightful odour suffused throughout the room.

The fluid showered the flapper, who wasn’t sure what to do.
Though when she wiped her hair, it foamed up like shampoo.
She rubbed it to a lather, and washed her body too,
And felt totally refreshed, as though she had washed in dew.

She stood, removed her underwear, because she thought she ought to
Rinse off the mermaid’s glorious shower by washing in some water.
She walked to a fissure in the cave where the water ran down in rills,
And as she rinsed her face and neck, she felt a pair of gills.

In shock she stumbled backwards and fell upon the floor,
Where her legs fused into a tail, which wasn’t there before.
She looked at it in horror and then with fear she cried,
When instantly, the mermaid lay down by her side.

The mermaid clasped her in her arms and rolling across the floor,
Pulled the flapper to the edge of the pool and pushed her in, before
Sliding in to the water herself, and pulling the flapper under,
Where, to her surprise, the flapper could breathe, it really was a wonder.

The flapper hung suspended, floating there in shock,
Then gradually realising she was all right, started to take stock.
Thinking that now, perhaps, she could swim just like a fish,
She gathered up her strength, and gave her tail a swish.

Unwittingly, she flapped her tail with all the strength she’d got,
And happening to be facing the cave door, right through it she shot.
Then coming out in daylight, she stared in disbelief
At all the spectacular marine life round about the reef.

There was coral in profusion, as far as the eye could see,
Of many shapes and colours, like a garden beautifully
Laid out on the sea-bed, with fishes swimming round,
Each of them making it their home; the sea-life did really abound.

The mermaid caught up with the flapper and took her by the hand,
Then said to her, “I’m confused, I just don’t understand
How you became a mermaid, then I saw you couldn’t breathe,
So I pushed you underwater, to try to give you ease.”

“I realised that you’d grown gills and couldn’t breathe in air,
So I thought that being in water was best, because it’s where
We mermaids live, so that is the place you had better be.”
“Thank you, you’ve saved my life again,” said the flapper gratefully.

Then, although still puzzled, they swam on, hand-in-hand,
The mermaid helping the flapper, ’til she could understand
How to use her tail well, to control where she did swim,
And to make fine adjustments, by using the tail’s fin.

Eventually the flapper grew tired, so to the cave they both swam back,
The flapper taking the lead, because she’d got the knack
Of how to control her tail, and adjust direction and speed,
Then a thought suddenly struck her, in air, her lungs she would need.

They reached the cave and while in the pool, the flapper to the mermaid said,
“How am I going to breathe back in air? I can’t get it into my head.”
The mermaid replied, “I think you should try, we mermaids can manage ok.
Just try to do what comes naturally, that will be the best way.”

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” bravely declared the flapper.
She hauled herself out, then she choked, the mermaid, on her back did slap her.
The flapper coughed, and gave a gasp, then shouted in relief,
“I think I’m going to be all right, my lungs have started to breathe.”

They both lay there in silence, thinking of what had passed.
Then the flapper turned to the mermaid, and she said, “These last
Few hours I’ve spent with you have been just like a dream.
Now I’m tired, shall we go to bed? I think you know what I mean!”

They pulled themselves into the bed, and together they did huddle.
The mermaid put her arms round the flapper and together they did cuddle.
And this time, as the two of them laid together in rest,
It was now the mermaid who cupped the flapper’s breast.

The mermaid asked, “Remember when you stroked my tail and I gushed?”
The flapper felt embarrassed and again on her face she blushed.
The mermaid said, “It was really nice, wouldn’t you like to try?”
The flapper replied, “I’m afraid it’s too late, and here’s the reason why.”

“That would be an experience I’d really like to try.
However, it is too late now, ’cause as my tail got dry,
I felt it metamorphosise, have a feel, I beg.”
The mermaid reached down with her hand, and felt the flapper’s leg.

Nevertheless, she stroked it, and rubbed it up and down,
And accidentally touched some hair, which caused her then to frown.
“I think you’ve got a problem, you’d best hear it from me.
Stuck between your legs, I think there’s a sea anemone.”

The flapper remembered the last time that the mermaid there had felt.
She’d had on silken *******, so had seemed smooth and svelte.
Now, she’d got her legs back which were absolutely bare,
And of course, instead of feeling silk, the mermaid felt her hair.

“That’s not an anemone, in fact, it is my......frizz.
I am used to it being there, that’s just the way it is.
I try to keep it neatly trimmed, so there is not a lot,
Besides, I think it’s there to protect the entrance of my grot.”

“When you say you’ve got a grot, I assume you mean a cave.
Is it as big as this one, holding all the treasures you have?”
The flapper answered the mermaid, “Oh no, it’s very small,
And held safe within it is my most precious possession of all.”

“I have carefully guarded it so that it won’t get lost.
I expect my husband to have it soon, a few weeks at the most.
And so, my dearest mermaid, until I am a bride,
Nobody will ever know just what I keep inside.”

The mermaid gently smoothed the ‘frizz’, and said, “I understand.
Now, don’t you think it’s time we got you back to land?”
I would like to help you, and I think I know a way
Of quickly getting you safely all the way to Bombay.”

“Thank you,” responded the flapper, “however, if we may,
I’d like to go to another port, one before Bombay.
Then, if at all possible, I can rejoin my cruise ship there,
And may I take some of your clothes, so I’m not on

BELIEF & TECHNIQUE FOR TELEPATHIC PROSE
Lee Sharks & Jack Feistfrom Pearl and Other Poems

1.     Compose real poems telepathically, with mind control powers, inside your glorious brain.

2.     You are your own best advocate. Insist the world acknowledge your poems as artifacts of tiny doom. Accept nothing less. Threaten to smash yourself in the face with gasoline and set your hair on fire. Leap over the seats to aggressively stand inside the world’s personal space and get up in its grill. Take this container of Tic-Tacs and smash it on your forehead. Crush each Tic-Tac individually into your eyeballs and ask the world if it likes your poem, and if it likes your poem, then eat your poem: “Do you like my poem? Then eat it.”

3.     Always seek constant approval, then punch your cat in the face.

4.     Arrive alive. Don’t text and drive.

5.     Always write poems all the time.

6.     Never professionalize writing. Professionalism is the last refuge of responsible people looking for work.

7.     Your life is your poem. Take care to write it biographically. Failing that, invent false biographies and post them on Wikipedia.

8.     Get as much education as you can, then ****** your education in the face to save it from sloppy education. Get enough education to respect your contempt for education.

9.     Give it all that you have, as deep as it goes, as desperate and total as taking a breath.

10.  Also be pedantic mundane pig-critic of precise punctuation juggling and ruthless crossed-out darling murdering of your own puny sentences. Save every draft and revert to original after enormous work, then drown yrself in the bathtub. Remember: editing is organization.

11.  Be long-sighted prodigy of skeptically believing in nothing, but also believe in destiny, but quietly, and hit yourself in the face for naivety’s sake.

12.  You are a seamstress of words—place each stitch carefully, deliberately. Develop a series of rituals and perform them, without variation, prior to placing each word. Allow the frequency and intensity of these rituals to grow until you spend hours, each day, touching and retouching your left index finger to the tip of your nose in a rhythmic, counter-clockwise motion, in sets of thirty revolutions, in order to place a single character. Spend years of your life shut away from the world, wasting away into an awkward, unhygienic shadow of your former self, and have, to show for it, a two-syllable word of Germanic origins on an otherwise clean, white page. This word will be redoubtable, the bedrock of your writing career. Go on to spend vast sums of personal wealth and total dedication, alienating the remaining handful of long-suffering friends who continue, despite all odds, to solicit the memory of your humanity, in order to learn the arts of metalworking, Medieval alchemy, and font design, recreating a metal-cast, alpha-numeric set of Times New Roman font, from scratch, going broke long before “numeric,” and with only the half-formed germs of the characters W, N, and sometimes-vowel Y.  hat are such retrictio s to  ou?  ou are a poet,  ot a mathematicia .  ou are a creature of steel.  ou  ill  rite a  e  and better  orld, a  orld  ithout the letter   , forgi g it, o e smoki g husk of a  ord at a time.

13.  Turn over a new leaf. You’re not getting much done like this, anyways, let’s face it. Break the chains of your censoring, conscious mind; tap into the spontaneous well of unconscious human brilliance that springs from the source of dreams. Thwart the stick-in-*** tyranny of your internal editor by making a commitment to write constantly, without ceasing, editing, or even thinking, no matter what, ignoring the anally retentive quips your brain will no doubt make. Make a further commitment: you will not only write, irrespective of internal censorship, but in a way that is unconscionably terrible, on purpose. Your writing will be, by turns, embarrassing, infantile, automatic, and marmaduke poppers—or shall we say, antagonistic to the indoctrination in repressive concepts such as “sentence” and “word” of your reader, who is always, and only, you. Let your writing be a spiritual discipline of Bat-a-rang pancakes and lightly alarm clock, ding—your toast is done.

14.  Always Alka-Seltzer eyelids all the time.

15.  At last, you are ready to make it new, to ****** your darlings, to first thought, best thought, to your heart’s content. Your adverb will be the enemy of your verb, the difference between your almost-right word and your right word will be the difference between your lightning bug and your lightning. You are ready to have a spontaneous overflow of powerful feeling, then censor the s**t out of it. You are ready to turn your extremes against each other: Unlearn your apple pancakes and burst through the mental barriers; then slow the flood, let the lovely trickle out & edit, edit, edit. Capture spontaneous gem of native human genius, then marshal vast armies of technical knowledge & self-discipline to ensure it glimmers and cuts.

16.  Believe in things like destiny. No really—the path will shatter you so many times your shards will have splinters, your bombshells, shrapnel. By the time you get there—which you probably won’t—even your exhaustion will be tired. Exhaustion of mind and body will have passed so far beyond the physical, and through malaise of spirit, that it will emerge on the other side, as physical exhaustion again. In the face of this, nothing but a little Big Purpose will do. Besides, a little ideology never hurt anyone. Feel free to be all Voltaire with your bad self, in public—but don’t give up.

17.  After all of this, when your will is finally broken (again), and you have given up for the final time (again), start over. The former model wasn’t working. Refashion yourself and your writing. Lather, rinse, usurp your noble half-brother, and repeat, until you get somewhere, or die in the trying.  

18.  Achieve consistency of voice; it is the signature by which you will be known. Your “you” should ring out clearly from each individual letter. In this, the writer is like the salesman. Like a new car, neither the writing’s merits, nor the reader’s needs, will be the final, deciding factor. Ultimately, the deciding factor is you.

19.  Unlike a new car, it is difficult to drive a poem, to use it to get to school or work. Unlike a car salesman, a writer does not wear enormous ties.

20.  Be so consistent that your writing consists in composing the same words, in the same order, creating the some overall voice and style, consistently, over and over, an eternal return of the same. Maintain this disciplined drudgery over the course of years. Let years become decades, and decades, an entire life: You will have “found your voice.” Variety is the spice of life, but consistency is its signature.

20.  Be so consistent that your writing consists in composing the same words, in the same order, creating the some overall voice and style, consistently, over and over, an eternal return of the same. Maintain this disciplined drudgery over the course of years. Let years become decades, and decades, an entire life: You will have “found your voice.” Variety is the spice of life, but consistency is its signature.

21.  Then again, consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds. Throw things up a little bit. One day, put on your hobgoblin hat, the next day, your small mind.

22.  On second thought, re: #16-17: Stop here. You don’t look like much of a writer. Save yourself the trouble of a deep investment that is sure to yield no returns. The prize is big, and not many take it. The Iliad showed us that the prize of writing is life eternal, and taught us to long for that promise; but the Odyssey taught us not to bother. There are many suitors, a single Odysseus. While the husband wends arduously homeward, Penelope weaves impending glory, an evaporating glamour, enchanting them, until he arrives. We are in for a bad end, if we chase another man’s wife, or a prize not rightfully ours. There are many suitors, a crowd of them. They begin as a chittering swarm of bats and end in the very same manner. You cannot have what is not yours. What is yours, no man can take. So, like Emily says,

I smile when you suggest that I delay ‘to publish’—that being foreign to my thought as Firmament to Fin. If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her—if she did not, the longest day would pass me on the chase—and the approbation of my Dog would forsake me—then—My Barefoot Rank is better—

23.  Therefore, take these Sturm und Drang commandments to the trash heap. Return to step 1, as the only useful piece of advice: Compose real poems telepathically, with mind control powers, inside your glorious brain.

(c) 2014 lee sharks & jack *****

from Pearl and Other Poems:

http://www.amazon.com/Pearl-Other-Poems-Crimson-Hexagon/dp/0692313079/ref=sr11?ie=UTF8&qid;=1429895012&sr;=8-1&keywords;=lee+sharks+pearl

Dropped into a glass
The chemical reaction is immediate
Watch me dissolve and dissolute
Drink me until you are immune
Until I have no more power left to cure you.

It's Valentines day once again.

She woke up with memories warm. As a kid, when they didn't know anything about Valentine's Day, her mother said, it was after a saint, who preached love.
She loved to be loved; so she asked her mother, can I be your Valentine ? Her Mom said, most certainly, I love you, with all my heart. After a while, her best friend came along to play with her. She asked him, " can I be your Valentine? He looked a little confused, but when she explained, he said we will be Valentines forever and ever. This thrilled her. They promised eachother to be Valentines for life.
Every year, Falgun would bring something on this special day for her. She would make something special, with her art material and gift him too. This went on through school and college. Everyone knew they were Valentines.
After graduation, Falgun, left Alka behind and proceeded to USA for further studies. They wrote and called regularly, but as often happens, Falgun kept saying he was busy and those much awaited phone calls, became scarce; though, he would always call her on this special day and her birthday.
He called her once, and said he was marrying a foreigner, to obtain citizenship but she would always be his Valentine, his first love. This was disastrous. She went into depression and became an introvert. On next Valentine's Day when he called, Alka's mother picked up the phone and gave him a piece of her mind. She said, he had ruined her daughter's life. He said,  "just once, let me speak to her." He told Alka, it was a contract marriage and he would always love her. But Alka was firm, she said, " we must part". And so they did. Yet he would always call her on her Birthday and on Valentine's.
Today, she hoped to get his call. It was almost evening, and he would be calling anytime. Her heart yearned to hear his voice. After all, he was her first and only love. she would wait for months for these two days.
This evening, she was getting impatient, watching the phone and the clock. She held a book but could hardly concentrate. Just then, the door bell rang. She went to answer it, wondering who it could be. When she opened it she saw a huge bouquet of flowers, but couldn't see the face holding it. She hoped, he had sent her these flowers. Out popped a head; and she screamed with joy. Oh no, this can't be true !!! I am imagining things... Am I hallucinating ?

No she wasn't. It was indeed Falgun. They embraced and kissed each other, danced with joy, like little children. After a while, he said, " hello my darling Valentine, are you fine ?".
He then reached his pocket, removed two rings and proposed. Without a second thought, she accepted.  It was a solitaire and and eternity band. He said, I was waiting for this day to surprise her. I have decided to now settle down here, with you, in our own country. Will you be my Bride.
In disbelief, she stood dumbfounded. As he looked deeply into her eyes, she nodded and the rings now shone on her beautiful slender fingers. All she could say was, my childhood has returned.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY, TO ALL THE LOVERS IN THIS WORLD. KEEP LOVING.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

The fizz rises, the fizz falls
     pain harkens, fever calls;
along the forehead, and down
shivering arms awaiting the round
  fizz rising and falling.
Froth settles on the top,
     but the cough, the cough remains;
the fizz, soft now yellow,
     not yet, is
bringing any relief.

I’ll have you know that I only dream in purple now
            And that the only flowers I can smell are yellow roses
            That leave my eyes wondering why the daylight went out
                                                            Why the rays went dry and cracked across the petals
                                                            Why it isn’t special anymore

I’ll have you know that I took an Alka-Seltzer tablet for my heartburn
            And that the knot in my stomach is so large now
            I don’t remember if I’m tongue-tied or not
            There is too much to speak of
So I’m quiet now
Trying to swallow the orange juice you gave me when I’d just finished brushing my teeth

I’ll have you know that my eyes crinkle when I am happy
            Especially when the sky is so bright that even your smile can’t outshine it
And I know you dislike how ugly I look when I grin like that
            So I’ve been trying so very hard lately to crinkle my potato chips instead
                        To save for the night when we’re finally outside
                        Alone with the Moon as our chaperone
                        He, there to make sure that I wouldn’t shine brighter than him
                                    The Moon is jealous in that way, I think
                        And if I wore yellow like you’d like me to
                                    He’d retreat behind the clouds and blush
                                    Because he remembers the way the sun used to dance like that
                                    And he would miss her a little, I think

But anyways,
            I’m saving the crinkled potato chips cooked in sunflower oil just for you
            In the pockets of my very simple sundress
            For that night when we’re finally outside

And I’d toss them at you in the moment I was happiest,
I’d look most beautiful then
And those are my least favorite kind

Knowing they’d bounced off your shoulder would make them taste lovelier, somehow
            So I’d eat the whole bag as a midnight snack
            Dancing by the light of your smile with my arms outstretched
            Inviting the Man in the Moon to lick the salt from my fingers…

And when he wouldn’t
            Well
                        I’d notice, then
                        I’d gaze into the sockets of his pock-marked face
Feeling quite foolish and child-like
                        Staring blankly at my own crinkled, chipped hands
And trying so very hard not to weep
                        I’d retreat and rest my cheek against your neck
Asking very quietly who cut out his tongue
                        And how long the wolf has howled for him

My shallow breathing would crack your eardrums
                        But at least I would know you were listening
At least you would finally understand
That the sunflower petals were shriveling up in your hands
                        And if you tossed them at me, they would be fuller, somehow
                                   And yellow again just for you

I’ll have you know that I can’t remember my favorite things anymore
                        And though I’ve squeezed my short-term memory so hard it’s cracked down the middle,
                        I’ll never remember why the only flowers I like are white roses
                        Or why you consistently make my dreams taste purple and frothy
                        Like a swelling tongue that puts my stomach in knots that even Alka-Seltzer won’t
dissolve

I’ll have you know that I’ve awoken so many times
To wring the neck of a withering image,
That I’m gagging on the thorns I never noticed in my sundress pockets
Mixed with those crinkled potato chips I’ve been crushing to toss at you
            In the moment that I am most happiest
            And we find ourselves outside of the dream
                                                That I never want to live

****** Mary sunset
Soft tequila sigh
Ivory teardrop tumbler
Disregarded sky

Street breeze through the window
Kettle on the stove
Chopin in the parlor
Empty pack of cloves

Resonance of redwood
Essence of the earth
Shrine to Mother Mary
Sacred ****** birth

Portraits on the table
Gazing toward the floor
Cobwebs in the dresser
Tucked behind closed doors

Violins descending
From the upper room
Dissonance impending
Lost in worry’s womb

****** Mary sunrise
Flower pillow sigh
Alka Seltzer tumbler
Halfhearted goodbye

The dream herein then is to die before they catch you.
To pass in your sleep, fading in new seas
of physical complications and credit debt;
to die before someone breaks you.
To get hit by something so large,
you'll have to call it "God".
For some, before their liver punches out,
and their bodies turn shades unintended.
Epilogue, and the bank takes back the house.
Your day job doesn't skip a beat.
Your art goes unnoticed.
Your clothes go to charity.
Your mattress goes to the curb.
Not a single cloud to sit in
and observe, how bodies rot,
but lives dissolve.
More like salt than alka-seltzer,
unless you have more enemies
than I.

Confused seems to be the new grade.
i've brought it home on my report cards
for years and yet
never allowed it to dampen until now.

It would appear to many that i have
lifted a new blank page from the books
and flailed around senselessly, finally
resorting to casually disembarking the
book on an outward passage through
the plate glass window of the 19th
floor apartment.
It doesn't scream on the way down,
primarily due to the complex fact that
it knew in some way or form that
this day would come eventually.

(Across the street, an old man sat
on a park bench, feeding popcorn
and alka-seltzer to the flocks of
pigeons he attracted.  He watched
the book's swan dive and unapologetically
smiled inside: also so disenchanted that
he too gave himself coal in his
stocking labeled "Dreams.")

i don't smile anymore for them;
makes me sad inside, i guess,
because one day we will be old,
carry our canes arthritically and
look for and reminisce about each,
but who knows if together.

I met Mike while standing on a peer
Plucking up food when people got near
He wandered up to where i sat
A portly belly made him seem fat

I gave him some leftover bread
Which I brought for the pigeons I had recently fed.
Mike seemed stunned, reaching over
He couldn't grasp it so I brought my hand lower

Peckish, he ate
From my palm, which had become a makeshift plate
Full, he sauntered down the path
To an adolescent boy toying with wrath

Mike, with his stomach full
Couldn't resist the young man's pull
Reached out for the food in the boy's hand
Not knowing the act had been planned

Mike flew off and quickly imploded
The food, within, had alka-seltzer loaded
This is what happens when life gets dull
Young boys blow up my new pet seagull

The horizon hung coated with evaporated sea salt,
a buttery rosewood sun dipped like quicksand
until it dissolved. Alka-Seltzer into foamy crests
atop the antique sea beneath

The sunset fell like a pinball until it reached a place to rest
miles below. It landed with a deep bellowing bass
felt in the spines of every being with a pulse

Until the water rose in braided mounds, navy and silver,
cracking heavy splattered warnings in the air like
chalk-dust on a clean blackboard or oily fingerprints
on crystal chandeliers, as if to say tomorrow.

When tomorrow came, Earth held its breath
as if bandaged tightly, protected in a giant net.
And although every organism capable of movement was in motion,
every set of eyes could not help but stick to the sight
of a shifting universe.

In a single blink, the whistling knot of dust and rock
split the sky wide open before cracking fiery into the Gulf.
Ripped open at the seams, the bright became black

And that was how it would stay as pupils constricted for the last time,
no one knew whether the dark was from the dense, leaking ashes
or from millions of scrambling feet on the dusty ground
running in neither direction, in every direction,
although everyone knew by now there was no more direction.

As it goes, their existence would become no more than a theory.
Their first footprints in the dewy clay moss
would become no more than a hunch,
and all anybody really says is that nobody really knows.

The stench of broken promises linger in the bottom of empty shot glasses
High heels strewn across the floor, I have become small again.
Black makeup running down my face like a runner in last place,
Temporary maturity bought for seven dollars in a Maybelline bottle.

If only the company we kept were as silent as the stars,
a mistake would dissolve like alka seltzer in the room temperature water
That I can’t stop chugging.
Alcohol depriving me of life essentials like, h2o and the will to live.

Encyclopedic mainframes
Lap-top heads
Power-boxes for multitudinous outlets, plugs, chargers
Conduits manipulating
Fiber-optic arteries
Artificial energy
ZAP
Pale lights
Computers aglow in dark cloistered bedrooms
Powered pacemakers stalling at microwaves
Electrocuted blood - cookied fantasies
Ads proclaiming everything free!
Pharmaceutical elixirs for limpness, lumpiness, loneliness
Snake-oil for suffering
Nigerian kings, Syrian refugees
*******, clever memes, whimsical gifs, shocking news, witty banter
Socio-politic-religous-diatribes
Spewing on every thread

Existential *****.
Aroma-less cuisines
Vacuumed vacations
Youtubed communions
Suicide selfies.


Crucifixdrones - pedolandia
Jdate.POF.AshleyMadison.Match. Eharmony.SpeedDate.OKcupid
CG. Missed encounters...
Serial killers,
Pixalated *******, vein-throbbed **** shots, cardboard gloryholes

Instagramed I
Inviolate I
Internet I

I    I     I

No sweaty arm pits, cottage cheese, gray nose hairs or belly fat
Computer [ScreenShot]
While behind, posters hang: The Doors, Tupac, NIN, The Smiths, Hendrix, Joy Division, Nirvana

HandshapedHeart.

2D souls
Text-dating
144 word manifestos
#revolutions
Archetype emoticons

Doodled centaurs
Caged in matrices

Transcendental notes
Need a hit
Of internet smack

A line, a pinch, a drag
A like, a comment, a kudos
A reply, a thumbs up, a share, a poke
One measly view
Baby, come on, give me a fix
Just one
Notification: ding-beep-buzzzz
I want to dissolve like alka-seltzer in tap water
Otherwise I'm a used-up toothpaste tube
Sitting in a dank medicine cabinet

If not, I am
A stick-figure created from matches
Drowning in a drum of gasoline

Not buried beneath pregnant soil
No. dumped into blue recycling bins.

[Ctrl +Alt+Delete]

The  night flew in like a Kamikaze on patrol and I
the target vehicle lost control and tried to flee, but the pilot
of this flying bomb could not fail to see the terror trail.


before the end.

Then
it's not dark anywhere and the air is light,
the drone of the engine carried away with the night
but the chattering of my nerves serves as its own master.

Two alka seltzer in a white wine spritzer
I might as well feel alive and drunk,
dead drunk is a dead loss.

Weaving slowly a carpet from the day may be the way to keep out of sight, a covering over me to keep the kamikaze from seeing me.

Either way or anyway the day will end.

What man can be and cannot see to see what man can be and are the words that come so free
from the fountain
that spouts inanity?

They send another and another and the night becomes my brother, some time good and times when bad is bad, scuff marks on the overhang and split nails when enough's enough
I'll stand and catch the blast or mix a drink and watch the pills dissolve.

both eyes on the sky which fades to cemetery black
and the night is back.

i wish i stayed inside my mother, never to come out:

i. i have never cried over spilt milk but have shed tears for the broken teacup, mug, glass, whatever receptacle was forsaken of its usefulness out of my carelessness.

ii. i'd be lying if i said i could walk on eggshells. i used to walk on tiptoe, in fact, until my mom flagged it as a mark of low self-confidence, along with the way my eyes wandered when i spoke with someone, the subtle hunching of my spine, the supposedly feminine instinctual crossing of my legs. i thought it quirkiness: heels and eyes to the skies, always eager for new, new people, new things, new stories. something uniquely mine. how many of these little badges we once wore with pride have become our downfalls, our faults?

iii. multiple times a year, my gut blisters and tears itself apart. the first image that comes to mind is the fizzy alka-seltzer tablets my grandparents used to consume daily, wreaking their minute devastation upon a tepid glass of water. the scar tissue forming over the unseen ulcers are reason enough for my body to score the natural seam once again. it’s a fire i have inherited from my father, who in turn inherited it from his mother. has my own flesh become so infatuated with pain that it has forgotten what it means to heal?

iv. i am starved of light. there is a switch within me, that when on, illuminates the night sky to oblivion, olber’s paradox impossibly fulfilled. because when the sky goes dim, when the temple curtain is torn in half, i will burn so that you may see, so that you may live. like amniotic fluid, i will envelop you, encase you, sustain you: my breaths shall be yours, my blood shall be yours, my words shall be spoken from your lips, so you will never know that starvation like i did. constellations be ******, i will always be here for you whether you like it or not. there is a switch within me, and it is at once exhilarating and terrifying that you can flip it with a single word. why do i let you have that power over me?

v. i often wonder why this body, why this time. i have loved you so long i am not sure who i am exalting anymore, whose clay feet i am choosing to be oblivious to. you are my first musing in the early morning and final contemplation at night. i always forgot than we only ever reached almost heaven. the subtle understanding that what i can give you will always be too little, too much, too late, haunts me.

vi. i could never do earbuds, the sound waves ever-close to my cochlea, rattling the fluid inside its whelk-like cavity. no, i always needed distance: over-ear aux audio jack headphones distance. and when i couldn't afford distance, i made it, making do by cupping the speaker of my phone by my ears. like a smoker setting their cigarette alight, i knew to relish this small ritual of procrastination and retribution, quietly wishing for someone to share this feeling of lungs and heart dilating and contracting with me. music is my vice and my medicine, and it hurts me that others will never know the sublimity of the way a song makes me feel.

vii. i was once told by an almost-lover that walking barefoot in hotel rooms in disgusting. as a self-proclaimed germaphobe who (rather shamefully) does this, how could i have overlooked the reality? it only occurs to me now what ****, *****, sweat, ***** has seeped into the nondescript dark carpets, trace particles clinging to my heels. but i am no stranger to disgusting things, am i? no amount of handwashing, disinfecting, abstaining, good eating, or prayer could atone for my sins, could make me feel cleanly again. you are filthy, an animal among men: for what is hedonism but survival in the crude wild? i believe in a god who will pass judgement where and when it's due. was it so wrong of me to want to make a temporary home feel permanent? to forget about the dirt and grime that has settled upon this body over the years and yearn for the innocence i've so mercilessly slaughtered?

viii. once, a woman who was jogging tripped and fell on the sloped pavement in front of our old home. many passersby came to her aid immediately, offering hands and emergency phone calls. i couldn't have been more than eight, but i saw from the office room window and knew what i had to do. i grabbed a singular tube of neosporin and a handful of band-aids, running out the side door without letting my parents know. as i came closer, i saw blood peeking behind thin tattered veils of torn skin, like the sun through woven drapery. the sight was dizzying, and empathy pain shot up my arms and legs, mirroring the crumpled woman on the ground before me. i gingerly proffered the neosporin and much-too-small bandages, hands shaking. she managed a laugh, causing the small crowd that had accumulated to laugh as well, and said she'd be okay. my parents later chastised me for approaching the stranger but commended my "heroism", also stifling laughter. i've learned now that the thought is not the only thing that matters, and while i miss that sense of resourcefulness and utility, i pity the children that are taught otherwise.

ix. the soul of a stranger i hold dear knows not its limits. the sand continues slipping through my fingers, the people run their daily races. i am estranged from being, and it prickles at the nape of my neck like embarrassment upon answering the question wrong.

x. what you see as my weakness is not my weakness. wearing my heart on my sleeve may not be my strength but it is not a ******* weakness. i will give second chances, third chances, fourth chances, hell…i will give people all the time they need to grow because i know that, one way or another, they will. real people are not book characters. there will never be a tidy box to neatly file them away like one of the peter pan collar blouses in your closet, no definitive label either of us can ever bestow upon them. i love. i get hurt. platonic, romantic, it is all the same for me. but i will return to places i’m unwanted, the forlorn puppy, mangled and bruised, i will try time and time again to work on people and help them. this is my obligation, my prerogative. for every one of your hands retracted, i will extend mine in fellowship and camaraderie, taking keepsakes of thorns or roses. i will try because people like you will not.

xi. there are so many things that i want to scream with all my soul, but i fear being written off as mediocre, crazy, or worse yet, incoherent. i fear that people will not understand my messy prose and ramblings, that i will not be seen for who i am. you are nothing. you exist on a contingency, a technicality. you think you earned your way in? you are pathetic. there is no amount of catch-up you could play that would indemnify your pitiful existence. the stars were your playground until it all came crashing down....now, there is nothing left out there for you. i'm sorry to those whose boundaries i violated, whose weary faces i smothered with what i mistook to be affection. the world did not deserve to be burdened by me.

xii: can you not be happy that i can breathe now? do you have to bleed me dry of what precious remaining energy i hoard for myself? let me be selfish, let me be vain, let me indulge the machiavellian predilections i repress. how nice, how lovely must it be to have someone to be there to give you instant attention, constant gratification, always a shoulder to lean on but never one to cherish.

xiii. it's okay, no really, it is! i understand! you don't have to acknowledge me. i know sometimes i get a little caught up in the irony, the asyndeton, the metaphors and similes and aphorisms i wear religiously, seborrheic and unnecessary. know that i am nothing without my -isms and -izations and holier-art-thou judgement. i don't think my friends understand that i feel less than human in their presence, because since childhood, i knew if nothing else, i was endowed with mediocrity as my birthright. i implore those i love to leave, stop reaching out if conversing with me ever becomes a chore. i ask in earnest because the last thing i want to be is a burden, an outstanding box to tick on a checklist...i ask but i fear their response.

xiv. ergo decedo. therefore, leave, or so the fallacy goes. i have no mind for rhetoric or satire. i had the nicest plans, but dear god does not want it that way. this is goodbye.

"Scary thoughts are entering me. I don't know
where they're coming from, nor do i know what
it is.
My stomach is bubbling like an Alka- Seltzer
Fizz.
Thoughts are racing, my mind is increasing with
so many memories of yesterday.
Will my past stop allowing me to enter tomorrow?
This i can only pray.
Strength of the mind was taught to me years ago.
Teachings from my Father, and Military gave me
a life i'm very much proud that it shows.
Then why can an invisible power try to shake
the insides of me?
Can it be a portion of being lonely that i'm
refusing to see?
I must stay active to fight back this threat.
Stay closer to Family, and Friends, that would
be my best bet."

She has the frame of a mature woman
yet still in her eyes a little girl is residing
she is so kind to all yet much misunderstood
and she is always getting in trouble in the hood

She was my girl once
and I still love that girl
I think of her after dark
my sweet butterfly heart

I would love to go back
you know, and start again
but I'm onward bound to my art
my sweet love, my butterfly heart

By Christos Andreas Kourtis alka NeonSolaris

Bad points:
Look you're stuck in a ditch
Trying to be rich, yet you pass your paycheck a needy *****
Hitch a ride for me daddy, now look you're a caddy
Dragging her ***** to get to that sweet hole in one
Yeah their not yours anymore, her names tattooed on em
You're like Shenron during these shenanigans
And she hasn't even decided what to wish on
You're an idiot, thinking you only needed space
So you could clear out that bad taste from your mouth but
Here you are wasting your time going back to her place
Here you tarnish your name and become the disgrace
Here you become one with the dirt and own a two face
Because you loved her and wanted everything to work out
Because you're the fighter who always ended up bleeding out
Because you love to suffer, glasses so thick you don't need another
So dumb down the incident and make her innocent
She only tells half-truths anyways and you always take the blame
You always let this happen you molded it until it sprouted
Then you planted the poison of "hey I'm only human, and people can change with patience."
So be patient spreading more positivity in your proximity
And be that person you wannabe, creating an environment with no identity, breathe it in...you're the placebo
No one knows anything from what you know
You've carried her this whole time you're the soil
She dug her roots into so deep she's guiding the way
Let's get to the root of the matter and admit the depression was an oppressive method to get you to stay
The hug of one individual kept anxieties at bay
No need to see a shrink or go to the doctors because you got this bae
Take all the stress and conflict with your interests, you know what just toss it away
No one knows what you've dealt with and that is one hundred
No one needs to know our issues is what she would've wanted
Hell she even told you that during most of the problematic times
You sought for professional help where she offensively confronted
Always conflicted, just chill and Netflix it
People change when they want to, like the butterfly effect
you can't force it
Not even a skewed point of view would let you see the bottomless pit you've been digging
This is the end the bitterness composed with a mixture of bubble tea and gin
Where to begin, Where to even start as an empty shell of imitation
I am the spear it, shaped like a dagger yet light as a feather
Never better held stronger bent together in any weather, I've been flung and tossed around, stuck to any place she plots me
I've taken responsibility for the ******* and kept the front smiling
Ooo, now is that the distance or the disease that hurts more when you sneeze in the spring
Cause you spring to action faster than Alka Seltzer Plus
You worry wart *** stressing out faster than the flash with Godspeed
A panicking strike of lightning written on your face heart beating pace nothing beats a good ache
Seriously you need to take care of yourself for once
This is your standing ovation, make this your motivation
Get yourself the help you need and be truly happy too,
You can't fix the puzzle that has missing pieces
Having faith is something different than believing prejudices
Pass the blessings of a Christ and backlash on others for having a born circumstance
Standing on others and professing you're correct, yet not having any answers to how that you're right
"It's not my place to judge, but please no Muslims."
Double standards in your face a clan raised all by rights (whites)
But it's okay this is the correct faith, tales of the traveling pants
I was told personally that I wasn't there for me so why am I still believing for
Regardless it's my choice and this is a sound of the voice
The tears that choke the noise, the truth that is projected by altar boys
I've been in the crypt the whole time, dug seven feet deep maybe deeper in this chapter of my lifetime
But that not the point and never will be
But still, others will poke and try to solve my jigsaw forcibly
People who claimed to be there closely only judging me holy
For only those who were there will ever know the pain I shared

Good points:
Remember all the good times
You love her you do, you want to be there for her that's true
Pushing past like you usually do, sticking to together like glue
You've worked so hard to see this dude, you really should just see this through
This isn't your first time doing the break for a while
Its always been an uphill battle with cuddles and care
The struggle is rare, you were a duet of passion between the two
There's nothing to fear for she's shared the same tears
And you're just scared a ***** afraid of something new
She said she would change, she's changing for you
You're so sad, wanna rush out of here so bad
So mad that she hit you, she was intoxicated and bit you
But you trippin, sipping that tea so angrily
And you claim it's not that she hit you, left marks on your cheeks,
She said sorry, so forgive her this is a new cycle, let's recycle
And dance like Michael, "Owh!"
You know she is the one who bought your car, gave you wheels to travel, you claim her to be needy but here you are constantly snacking
Took her large sum of gift, told her no but accepted them
And she didn't have to do that, she did it out of love, affection, true connections
You're predicting a conviction where you've yet to have transcended into some kinda fiction labeling them as facts
You need to break from that subscription cause you love her to death and that's something that will always be written on your chest
How dare you tell her you don't love her
How dare you step down to seek comfort
How dare you negate that you can't be there in her most dire needs
I am always constantly worrying, and I took the right approach
I couldn't do anything by myself, it was a boiling point that has evaporated
There was no more water in that ***, I didn't refill it
Where would I be if she never showed it
That first step of love be more heroic, you blew it they know it
Stop turning your back on her you're a poet
Paint a pretty picture and pretend everything is okay
You've done it so long what's stopping you today?

         The Hostess
Crowned in Afro-tribal headdress,
On her chest a Slavic tunic;
Appearing as a prophetess
Or a schizophrenic ******…

On her wrists ring Irish bangles—
Wrapped round her waist a bright sarong;
On her breast a pendant dangles
Like some Oriental gong.

Multi-kulti represented
As a woman, weirdly dressed.
Every ethnic group is feted
On arrival to the West.


          The Dinner
Everybody bring your dish!
The ethnic potluck has begun.
Afterwards  your guts will wish
Your culture had remained as one.

Foods collide and almost mingle
In the cultural melting ***;
Yet it’s hard to find a single
Way to describe this mixed-up lot.

Curry mingles with Kielbasa
Chinese dumplings, Jello, slaw
Deviled eggs, the odd samosa
Beans and rice, cheap sushi raw.

Soul food, Kimchi, Spanish rice,
Pad-Thai, grits, potato salad;
Gastronomic paradise?
Or a nauseating ballad . . .

Out of many, not quite one—
You bravely burp. It’s quite diverse . . .
But as your stomach comes undone
Digestion goes from sad to worse.

E pluribus to Alka-Seltze®
Groaning in your bed at three:
Let it fizz and hope it helps, sir
Lest you doubt diversity…

I’m Diversity. I am strength!
Sings the undigested food.
Perhaps we all shall know, at length
If global change was for the good.

Drinking four hours now
in a pool hall, Larkin folded
behind me as a I draw
back the cue. Distressed,
lines snap the stroke:
The rapid clouds, the moon’s cleanliness.
Not tonight: clouds crawl
on sick bellies to an Alka-Seltzer moon.

But drink gone dead, without showing how
to meet tomorrow – is molded
perfectly to this blind drunk, thawing
beneath breezy transom, getting dressed
for a ride home after going for broke,
drinking anesthesia and losing all finesse
early in the binge, kindly corralled
by patient friends deaf to last call's croon.

You sleep in the beer garden,
while I find a choir
in a blooded cup.
Clouds interlock,
unearthly pinnacles.
You find bread, alka seltzer.
We compare fifteen year plans,
smiling shyly.

At times I wish I had the ability
To transform myself into a small
Round Alka seltzer tablet and
Drop myself into the raging sea
To dissolve and disperse into
A million small bubbles fizzing
To reach the top and dissipate
Seeing the sunrise pink and orange
Thousands of times before
Never seeing anything ever again

That's it then,
but when wasn't it?

March will soon march in
with a spring in its step
and
I'm drinking alka seltzer
for a little extra pep.

and the radio's on the blink
I mentioned that to my shrink,
wish he'd shrink away from
charging me fifty a go
just so I can show him
how
weak I am.

But that's beside the compass
which never points in the direction
I'm heading
and that's something to do with
magnetics,

that's it then,
when
She says when
and here we go again.

Confess you're a mess and that
you're worth much more than last night's
clothes strewn over this morning.s floor.

I'm doing the pick-me-up
Alka Seltzer
in a China cup,
( because everything's made in China,
except for my hangover )

Never again,
he said,
above the jackhammer
yammering in his head,

I shall be sober
industrious and
be that which is
in all of us,

but never is a long time
and again comes quite often
I'm leaving my options
open.

Elongated, I've long waited, to be off the scale since I've been weighted, predestined arousal, I hitched my string to an anvil, I was mentally ill-fated, suited, sunshine beaming down when the radiant light of a message hit my phone, endorphins like a jazz blues saxophone, chemically polluted, a rubberband gun, I snap on my own, land off somewhere alone, wind me up and shoot it, recall and fall flat on my face straight from orbit in a hotel in outer space plant through the dinner table in time to join hands for grace, I burned up with cabin fever on re-entry, I've gone plum stir crazy, somebody let me out of this place!

Every word a poet uses should have meaning in the body of their poem, I just broke through the window in the fourth wall, set off the alarm, stumbling through the darkness in my home, trying to be quite so no one suspects, but my foot is wearing the skullcap of a garden gnome, while I'm rifling through the fridge drinking alka seltzer, my head kills but my mouth just gathers foam, hold on, I surveyed the view of the lake and lack of a fireplace, living room, kitchen, and outdoors landscape, for my sanity's sake, what I saw portrayed was all alarming and auspiciously fake, how many broken scramblings through paradise can one mouth on legs make?

This is not real reality, it's a placebo for those who are being phased out, meditative foresight and hindsight are afforded their luxury, they sit comfortably, eyes bloodshot fixed on TV while the rats around them scurry to assure their streaming services and first world marvels of electricity are seemingly self-maintained in a hurry, your muzzles and blue collars soaked with worry, this nauseating, intoxicating, hypnotizing paralysis is a product of a dream-selling industry, the commercialism sweeps the Lynchian faults under the rug and collects the filth in its dustpan with a flurry, it's not living, it's dying slowly, rest assuredly, I have never aspired or admired, been inspired or desired an upper middle class castle handed to me from my family, the reason being one of three, responsible legacy, it will forever weigh on me, and I will be guilty should an empire be something I ever see, no, living does not happen here, but it is my house, and I will man my station until I stand the last retiree, even then, inheritance and ignorance are a tunnel and tunnel vision, treading on my head with their dance of misery, all the best intentions are all that matters when they are borne of love from the two over one of three, if nothing else I'll board up the windows and serve you honorably, with no anger, only hope at heart for peace eternally

That's what you get when your life is given away and you have to pay, suddenly an equation occurs, you're lucky if it's long enough to buy into by more than the day, and all the compromise and anguish to say: I am done, I give up, I have to quit and take the best life for us that I can get, I'm sorry son, I've been all shut up, for years I was barricaded from you and I never let myself through it, but now we're here, and as we go on every year, I hope you and I can grow near, because we've had our struggles, but I've always loved you dear, as time goes on, now I hear, your barricade is growing, you are growing, my chance to be with my family is slowly going, I was a good man, you think I was the best, but I made mistakes, did what good I can, didn't pass every test, caused some heartaches, I will pass on knowing you were more like me than you should ever be,

an antiquated patriot who bought into peace of mind

sold in America

and handed it down

I wish I was more like you, is that bad?
I don't care, there's so much more good I could do,
if I could just tell you I love you, and I always will, both my mom and dad.