For the low low price of just being within' earshot,
the conversation analyst will run a full diagnostic on your conversation.

You know how that perfect comeback
feels, three weeks after
You didn't say it?

In training, representatives for Inbound sales listen to recordings of their own phone calls and critique them like Art majors in a studio class.

Our conversation analyst.
Looks at you like a shoe on the wall.

Unlike the psychology major,  the conversation analyst will never share his results.

He'll just judge you.
Silently.

He doesn't speak.
His fourth grade english teacher taught him that the carpenters house is never finished.
She was referring to her husband, the carpenter, not finishing the renovations on their new home, but the conversation analyst heard it as a metaphor, and adopted it as a universal truth.

Much like a painting controls the path your eye travels the canvas, or the scientific process that goes into composing music,
the way you build rapport is one of those things that people don't realize can be an art form until they wittness it professionally.

Our conversation analyst considers himself  Socio-passionate.

Which amuses him, when he deducts points from your conversation for not empathizing correctly.
Or not giving effective compliments by asking a relevant question afterwards.

The conversation analyst is not always mute. On special occasions such as first impressions he is a fine conversationalist.

You can meet the conversation analyst for the first time, as many times as you want.

If the carpenters house is never finished.
The conversation analyst
exemplar at listening,
Will never hear you.

My business is words. Words are like labels,
or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
I confess I am only broken by the sources of things;
as if words were counted like dead bees in the attic,
unbuckled from their yellow eyes and their dry wings.
I must always forget how one word is able to pick
out another, to manner another, until I have got
something I might have said...
but did not.

Your business is watching my words. But I
admit nothing. I work with my best, for instances,
when I can write my praise for a nickel machine,
that one night in Nevada: telling how the magic jackpot
came clacking three bells out, over the lucky screen.
But if you should say this is something it is not,
then I grow weak, remembering how my hands felt funny
and ridiculous and crowded with all
the believing money.

Everything faded to black. He had a hard time remembering just what the hell happened. He wasn't sure of downing some random pills from of the medicine cabinet-- his first attempt to end it all. Making sure he would not recover-- if the pills didn't do the job-- he had already devised the set up of the noose in his bedroom. Definitely, he didn't recall anyone cutting the rope, forcing him down to the floor.

Lacie joked with him. "Dude, you've got nine lives! You must really be a ****, fricking cat in disguise! That's why you'll eat those nasty tuna fish sandwiches they serve in the nuthouse! "

Chris grinned at her.  He had to agree. To refer to it as the psych ward at the hospital made it seem like more of a jail term, but calling it "the nuthouse" lightened up the severity of the situation. As grave and nearly tragic as everything  had become, it was kind of laughable to him.  He supposed he had more chances than a cat's fabled life. It all seemed so crazy that it must be funny.

Well, what could he say? He had flirted with death, but unwillingly managed to escape its grip. "Pathetic..."--he commented. "I don't not even know how to die well..."

Chris  eventually realized that he had been rushed to the hospital, but wished it wasn't true. Since then, everything was either a total blur or a bizarre state of mind . Even waking up in his room was like a remotely vague memory, almost like a long ago dream that might not really have happened.

Maybe, he was somewhat aware that his sister was screaming in shock and horror at the sight of him, shouting out downstairs to her boyfriend to help her. But the walls were turning red, a glowing scarlet- red, with an added fiery orange and yellowish-gold-- all joined together in pulsating embers. He was quickly losing consciousness. It was like some, bad acid trip. Not that Chris knew this firsthand, but it sure was like something he saw on TV or at the movies.

And now he was the star of the horror show.

Did he die?  Death was what he planned on, so waking up was not a relief, or a reality back into motion--just the opposite. It was as if being awake was the real nightmare, a delusional time when everything was not true, and was only an scary, offbeat version of the life of Chris Cartier.

The bad acid trip continued. He recalled hospital staff rushing about him, seeming like real people-- sort of. Then they morphed into fish in scrubs. From overhead, an IV was dripping into his arm. Tubes were shoved down his throat. His vital signs were displayed on a screen that made beeps and sounds, increasing the chaos and adding to the mayhem to his mind. Soon, the vital signs machine started talking to him that he was a "very bad boy" and other such scoldings.

He was thoroughly freaked out. If he was still alive, he'd rather be dead.

He wanted to run. One of the fish pushed him back down and muttered out undecipherable utterances-- like underwater gibberish . Then that fish used its slimy fins to inject him with a needle in his arm. The other fish circled around him like fish out of water--with opening and closing mouths-- as if gasping for air.

As they surrounded him as rubber monkeys shot out from the walls and bounced all over the room. On top of all this madness, the florescent lights above were flickering on and off, in sync to the wild music, like the drum beats of a distant jungle. It was one bizarre tangle of events, a freaky, crazy, out-of-control ride in which reality could not be distinguished from the animation and mass confusion. It was one overpowering ride that he would much rather forget.

When Chris got out of critical condition, he found out that he could still not go home. That would take a few weeks more. Dr. What-The-Hell's-His-Name assured him that he needed to start on the path to his psychological healing--just as grave as the physical--right here in a safe place.

It didn't seem so safe to him.

The enemy wasn't what was out there in the world, but the big, bad wolf was actually him. He had to be protected from the true culprit--himself-- and that was a mind-blowing concept. Just what did he get himself into?   

He never had been a patient in a hospital before. In all his twenty-six years, he didn't so much as even have his tonsils out. Feeling now like a prisoner,, he was still scared out of his mind-- as if it was day one all over again. When was he going to get out of here? Chris began to fear that they would never let him out. No professional had a definitive answer, as only time would tell of his improvement.

Man, why couldn't he just be dead?

His parents visited almost everyday, but it was of no reassurance to him. His mother always left in tears, and his father was lost for words. This was nothing new. When it concerned their troubled son, they felt inadequate to help him. The best his dad could say was, "Hey, Chris, we're pullin' for ya". That was of no comfort, whatsoever, like he was some fighter in a boxing ring that his old man had a bet placed on . His mom always clung to him as she said goodbye, like she needed the hug more than he did, saying to Chris through her sobs , "Miss you....love you". Her emotional state just unsettled him to the core, and he was worried for her more than for himself.    

At best, his outlook was grim. But then he met Lacie Weiss, and things started looking up.

Lacie was one of the quietest psych patients in the ward, always sticking to herself. But then he found himself sitting right next to her in group therapy, and they hit it off. He had no idea that she had a fun side. She usually looked apathetic and quietly defiant to society, a nonconformist in the form of a Goth, with edgy, dyed black hair, dark eye make-up and some ****** piercings of the eyebrow, tongue and nose. Her look was quite in contrast to his light blue eyes and sandy-brown hair. Chris never was into Gothic, viewing those who were as spooky creeps.  

It was obvious that Chris was scared and confused. Now although trying to seem tough and stoic, Lacie seemed so little, almost fragile, yet obviously trying to hide her broken self together. Petite and somewhat girlish in appearance, she was barely 5 feet tall. Chris was 5 feet 11 and a half inches, close enough to the six foot stature that he wanted to be. Only a half inch less really didn't cut it for him, though, even though his slim build gave the impression of a lankier guy. He would have loved to be as tall as the basketball players he so emulated. But such was life. He was never used to having the advantages.  

At first, Lacie never opened up, not to a single soul. Like Chris, she certainly acted like she didn't need this place, and nobody was going to help her--or be allowed to help her. As stony and impenetrable as she tried to be, group therapy it was hard to disappear in. Everyone was held accountable for opening up, and the leader was going to see to it.  No way, though, did Lacie want to crack or look weak in her turtle shell composure, in her self-preservation mode. So it was agony for her.

She first spoke to him, whispering loudly to him, onc,e in the group circle "This is all *******!"

Hanging with Chris was the one salvation that she had in this miserable experience. They both could relate more than he ever realized. They both really liked motorcycles and basketball. He had his own Harley, and it was something he loved to work on and go on long rides with it, his own brand of therapy.  In spite of how she looked, Lacie was also actually close to his age. He was twenty-six. and she was twenty-two.

They first broke the ice with casual introductions. "No, the name is not pronounced like Carter", he corrected her about his last name. "It is like Cart-EE-AY...... It's French".

"Yep", she replied. "Like mine is the same way, but as German as brats and sauerkraut,  Ja dummkopf?"

Chris gave her a weird look. She continued, "My mom's dad was from Germany, and I got my mom's name. Ya don't say it how it looks. You would say Weiss like Vice, but I couldn't give a **** how anybody says it. Nobody gets it right and original, anyhow." Her dark brown eyes flashed at him as she said, " But I think I like Chris Cutie, myself, better than Cartier.....cutie it is for me. Huh, cutie pie? "

Chris laughed hard. She was pretty coy for a die-hard Goth. She batted her eyes playfully at him and winked."You're worth being in here for, ya know", he told her, blushing, still laughing at her silly remarks.

She studied his face in response, all laughing aside. Suddenly, her mood turned solemn.  "I'll bet".

They began hanging out in the commons, walking down the halls for exercise, and swapping stories of their plights. Chris quickly found that she Lacie wasn't so steely and unapproachable as the day he first saw her.  And she discovered that he was more than a pretty boy.

"My parents weren't home when I tried", he told her one time after lunch was done. They were sitting in a corner, trying to be as private as possible. "Twenty-six years old...and I still live with them. Yeah, that's my life. I got a twin brother, and he's moved out and doing alright for himself. My sister's younger, is going to college. Wants to be a doctor".

Lacy didn't have any siblings to compare herself to. "Must be cool to have a twin", Lacie said. "I always wondered how that would be to have two of me running around! Scary, huh, dude?"

Chris shook his head. "No, it's nothing like that. Jake and I aren't identical. We are just a two-for-one deal...I mean  is that my parents got two babies in one, huge-*** pregnancy. Jake and me don't even act like twins. Half the time, I don't want to be around him."

No, it wasn't like his cousins, Adam and Alan, who were identical friends, mirror images, and best of friends. Chris never identified with that kind of brotherly relationship. He and Jake never dressed alike, or knew what the other one was thinking. And Chris felt that his brother always felt superior to him. He was the popular one. He was the ambitious one who landed a great job in computers, as a system analyst.  To add to Chris's feelings of inferiority, his little sister, Kate, had surpassed him, too. She was acing most of her classes, and boarding away at college. She was well on her way to becoming a doctor.    

"So if your mom and dad weren't around...who saved you?" Lacie asked. She stared into his eyes with such a probing stare that Chris almost clammed up. Just thinking about that day was overpowering.

"Uh...my sister and her boyfriend were hanging out in the basement. She was home from college, and I didn't know it. My parents were out-of-town. Our dog, Buster, was acting funny. He knew something was up..."

Chris stopped abruptly, but went on. "Kate, my sister, explained to me that she saw me in my room, getting up on a step ladder. She says she yelled at me to stop. I don't remember...but I guess..I guess I was going to do it anyway, and she wouldn't be able to stop me....stop me from...so I hurried up and jumped off before she could stop me."  

Lacie could almost picture it, as if she was there with him. She said, "But she did stop it. She saved you."

"Yeah", he agreed. "Buster started it all...barking, alerting my sister to come upstairs from the basement, and upstairs by my room...." All of a sudden, he felt so weird, like he was having an out-of-body experience.

"Hey, it's OK", Lacie reassured him. "It's over now. You aren't there anymore".

Chris started to cry, but tried not to. "If it weren't for Brian, Kate's boyfriend....she would not of had the strength to hold me up by herself, and cut the rope, too. I must have been like dead weight, and Brian grabbed a kitchen knife and told her to stay cool about it. Yeah, sure, like that could have been possible ! She was trying to keep the rope slack, while trying to save my sorry ****...and she was scared, shitless! "

Lacie opened up, too, relating her tragic past. She had an unbelievable tale, one hell of a ride herself.  It was amazing how detached she was when relating it, though. "Well" actually I got to fess up" "I'm not really an only child....I mean I am...but not really. I know that sounds weird---hey--but I am weird. Oddly unusual is the story of my life-- even before day one. "

Chris had no idea what she was talking about. "What are ya' trying to say?"

She added another surprising bombshell. "Also,  I have a two-year-old boy. His name is Danny. He don't see his dad--ever. The guy's a waste of space. Anyway, my mom has him. She can afford him more, and can do a better job raising him than me. Well, she does OK money-wise. Anyhow, my mom deserves him because she lost everything. And I mean EVERYTHING! Her whole fricking family practically wiped out!"

The shock that Chris had on his face-- his widened, blue eyes and open mouth were expected.   Most people had a hard time believing her.

She explained, calmly, "I mean she nearly died--way before I was born--in a car accident. And her two, little boys were with her in the backseat...and they died that day. "

Chris looked pale. "That is so awful!" he said, hoarsely, barely able to say it.

"Yeah", she continued. "Not a **** thing she could do about it, too. She was like in a million pieces. I know a part of her died right there and then, too. I just know it.  You know, dude, my mom was once really, really coasting along, just doing fine. A typical wife and mother-- a bit older than me now-- life was good. Her little boys were just cute, little toddlers--like Danny. I found out from my grandma that she was  pregnant, too, just a month or two. Nobody could have imagined it coming. She was just driving--doing nothing wrong-- when some idiot broadsided her.  I don't know if it was a guy or a lady, if they were jacked up on ***** or drugs, but they were speeding like a demon out of Hell. Her husband was at work and wasn't around."  

The boys were Benjamin and Gerard, but Lacie couldn't remember their names, for her mom could barely mention them without breaking down. It was an unbearable loss.

Chris was so horrified, amazed that Lacie related this like it was someone else's story. She was almost too cavalier about it.

"And they died ?!" he asked.

"Yeah....*****, don't it? Pure, pure agony. Downright Hell on earth. My mom had to learn to walk again. It took about year, I think."

"Oh, no! What about the baby she was supposed to have?"

"Miscarriage. Worse yet, the **** doctor told her she'd never be able to have kids again. She lost everything, man! Her husband couldn't handle it and left her. **** on top of ****, on top of more ****, on top of more. If it wasn't for her parents, and her sister's help, she would never have made it.

"But she had given birth to you, right? Or were you adopted?"

"Yeah, she gave birth to me. I was her miracle baby, and she didn't give a rat's rear end if my dad wanted me or not. He'd send her money, once in a while, but he wasn't really into either of us. Who cares though? She didn't give a **** what he thought. I was her baby. Truth is, before I came, she ended up slitting her wrists--just like me. What was the use? At first, there was nothing to live for. But now she has Danny.

"And you!" Chris quickly pointed out.

"Dude, are you kidding me? I have been NOTHING but grief for her, a real pain in her ***!"

Unlike her deceased, half-brothers, Lacie grew up before her mother's eyes, from a shy girl to a ******* rebel. Since the age of twelve, she would sneak drinks from her mom's liqueur cabinet. Eventually, she smoked *** and tried ******* and ******. Dropping out of the eleventh grade, she soon away from home, living with friends or boyfriends ever since.  Thankfully, she wasn't doing drugs when she conceived Danny. And her drinking wasn't as prevalent as it was in her teen years of partying and binge drinking. That didn't mean that her drinking problems magically disappeared, or that she was cured. Immediately, though, when she knew she was pregnant, she refused to touch a bottle, but it was just a white knuckle process that was effective momentarily--a band aid on a more serious wound. And going months without a drop of alcohol didn't deaden her urges--quite the opposite--as it only made her crave what she could not have. Often, her fears caught up with her--of especially becoming

I have bruises like amethyst
But the truth is I’m the catalyst
When I see colours of bismuth
I know you mean business
Bruises like amethyst
But you say you’re a pacifist
An analyst an activist

But you held my mind so it contorts, distorts
And aborts so it can’t resonate or fabricate
Or rationalise a world inside
That doesn't exist and insists
That I can’t be kissed and won’t be missed

I've got a black heart like tourmaline
But I'm the alkaline to your acid time
Trust me I am fine, I'm a pale blue
Crystalline Structural perfection
Don’t need your affection or your ways
Of objections did my bra strap give you an
*******?  

You could say I'm a feminist
But I'm more of a scientist
Busting body myths like biologist
You say ‘but **** are ****** organs’
Listen you morons, all ******* are a erogenous zone
Regardless of gender , boys nips literally have no purpose
Except when they get nervous for getting a little lip service

Trust me I'm fine, I'm a pale white crystalline
Structural perfection I don’t need your objection
Not a gem stone for your collar bone I don’t give a **** about
Your muscle tone, I'm a cyclone all alone I could spend a
1,000 years on my own.

only today i came across what interested Heidegger
after writing being and time, a selection
of essays, revealing that he came to be interested
in language - not knowing this, by mere study
of the introduction some things became apparent -
being quiet democratic in my reading it's a shame
i don't have the academic leisurely pace of becoming
a Heidegger specialist - it's the almost damnable
pulling-apart having to cite many influences and not
focusing on one, but since i don't have academic
leisure, the summary in the introduction
by jeffrey powell (editor) of the book heidegger
and language will just have to do: apropos this
being an antidote to those bemoaning that we only
write about reading books, carefully choreographic
our lives for mints and espressos and ammoniac
(inhalants in a boxing ring nearing a knock-out) -
hide pretty bird, hide, hide pretty pretty bird
first your song inside a cage, then the cage inside
the heart, and thus the song with the cage,
silenced inside the cage, raging mad inside the heart.
well, the antidote is that i already have some ideas,
and reading the essays contained in this book would
put me off what i was intending to write about,
so, in summary, read the major work, then read introductions
of critical books from those studying the subject,
invent an original approach from that, and elsewhere.
before i venture into the whole affair of having to
reread certain passages from the introduction as to
guide me in this Bermuda Delta i what to do a little
sidewinder interlude:
in chemistry there are two major bonds (for the purpose
of what i'm intending, let us just assume that
we're only talking about π and σ bonds) -
and while psychology dehumanises man to strict
theories without clear proofs to a universal standard,
i want to do what will come later regarding Heidegger's
take on language, for me there's no clear philosophical
vocabulary to be used - i'm not into orthodoxy and
rigidity which says

                piquant sun strokes against
                the bargains of spring's last
                hope for a kept bazaar
                to bloom to then deflower
                petals from trees fall to earth
                like glasses, the tree stands
                as a reflection of shattered glass
                the petals remain the tree intact
                worn at the Royal Ascot
                or in a woman's hair.

obviously something like this is a poem - what i mean,
however, concerning what's identifiable as philosophy is
to me the following:  
                                        blah = monotone x algebraic
                                                    for­ non-differential
                                                    purposes, just filling up
                                                    the page

            blah blah blah blah blah blah subjectivity blah blah blah blah blah blah essentially blah blah blah blah blah blah in-itself blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah thing-external v. thing-internalised blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah metaphysics blah etc.
                      
                          and so on and so forth, a fixation on using a certain vocabulary to be equivalent or justification to be "apparently" talking philosophy... yet still no gain from the words of grammatical categorisation... for me? too many propositions, the basis of what the academic environment deems to be "pure" verbiage, or none (akin Wittgenstein) - that famous quote about a lion and having tea on Tuesday... or as Buddha would say: said so to shatter thus the fear of ketamine thoughtlessness;

but that's beside the point, i want to return to
how any chemist might treat psychology as a science,
keep it up to date, given that psychology likes
to shove its nose in everyday activities for a strict
expression of equivalent rubric that mathematics already
possesses and shoves into a child's brain to make
the child become accustomed to symbol encoding;
so π and σ bonds, let's say between two carbons atoms...
but in psychology we don't have the luxury of
many alternative examples...
me and language: to write in terms of optics,
to encode images rather than sounds,
language as optometry rather than a hearing-aid...
so what "elements" do we have in psychology,
essentially what defines consciousness, its sub-plot
and its unfamiliar territory - the using the dusty
Freudian units, we know the concept of the superman
(superman was a bad bad boy) from Nietzsche
evolved into the super mm hmm, and we know
there are two other units, mm hmm and the id /
it or that? it is for me, that is for scalpel for the analyst,
the prober, unlucky for the person who took to
objectifying himself, but better than being objectified -
still, remember i'm working with language in terms
of optics rather than phonetics - enough organic chemistry
diagrams and you will see that the bonding between
mm hmm, the super mm hmm and the gemini id
(one the patient, the second the analyst) trapped inside
an electron cloud of bio-electric processes is rigid and
stable due to the opposite of π and σ,
i chose the optic route using the bonds δ and ψ -
symbolically δ is the mathematical term for sum -
summation, the total of - currently i have no clue about
the significance of ψ just yet, but ψ is a symbol of
psychology like caduceus is the symbol of medicine;
a brief expansion on the natures of the bonds,
quack-science δ bonds being all alike meaning uniform
meaning holding every aspect uniformly, meaning
that a δ bond is of the same nature between mm hmm
and super mm hmm in a petri dish within the
solvent of the conscious sub-plot, likewise other variations
δ bonds are uniform bonds, i.e. ensuring one detail
is related to the other, and so to others.
ψ bonds, not much expansion here as promising detail,
asthma the highest research of breath, and all
major theoretical squeezing through the Suez -
depending on the measure of breaths, we can depend
on the internal things - but never so much Pamplona encierro
cleaning-up to do theorising an affirmative sound
like mm hmm, or other affirmative synonyms -
if it were can *****, it would be mince rather than
a clean dissection - mince meat, should mm hmm be
not an *****, let alone a body. so many attachments
to mm hmm these days, it should be attached to zoological
studies than activities of breathing: theory as a cage,
one after the over, eventually not even cages but
the caged animal turning into matryoshka doll -
Kant doesn't venture into the dynamic of his thing-in-itself
represented by the matryoshka as ad continuum -
maybe he does, but to me here merely pinpoints it,
coins the phrase noumenon and ensures the thing
is opened, god or nothing is put in it, the thing is
closed, locked and the key to unlocking it is thrown
away and never found (i'll mention a short process of
his argument some other time, most notably his
three impossibilities concerning proving the existence
of god: ontological, physico-theological and cosmological).
yes, i know, when reading these ****** books
i have to paint the arguments, i need to simplify
them, a poet reading a philosophy has to paint
the words - the best poetic technique applicable to
understanding philosophical books is imagery,
not as a technique of for the purpose of writing my own,
but as a way to paint what was written by some boffin -
precursor to understanding the three impossibilities
of proof, i find it strange that such proof is necessary,
what would you do with it? prove it once on
paper, or in your head, show it to everyone and then
slowly everyone is able, then the so called "man in
the sky" - it seems strange that scientific positivism
of the Enlightenment supposed such a proof, the proof
is more implausible than the existence - Bertrand...
just smoke your pipe and sit in the easy-chair talking
******* with Wittgenstein... more on that later.
i promised quotes from the above mentioned book
(heidegger and language)...

           das wort kommt zur sprache,
             das seyn bring sich zum wort.

working from phenomenology, to later reject it,
thus precipitating the school of deconstruction-ism,
and with Heidegger we do get to atomic elements
from words, from compounds, thank god there are
no sub-atomic ventures with language, quiet impossible
to de-construct language beyond this point,
let's face it, if you go as far as:
'as preparatory for raising the question of being...
language is one of three constituent moments in
the analysis of the being of the da in dasein (being there)'
furthered by equal atom bombardment replacing
the un-compounded sein (verb, be) with seyn (conjunction /
noun, being) - this is modern physics to my understanding,
i'm not particularly interested what he's saying,
i'm interested in painting what he's saying -
i'll spare you the details of what philosophical systematisation
is actually involved in: restricted vocabulary -
a certain limit is allowed, rigid meanings are involved,
rigidity of drilling in of non-deviation, philosophical
systems are not dishonest in that they are consistent with
a limited vocabulary - i will spare you the torture of
seeing one ball being juggled - the shrapnel of the English
language makes it even more distracting to understand,
as with the above, another e.g.?
'every saying of beyng is held in words and meanings
which are understandable in the view of everyday
references of beings, and are exclusively thought in
that view, but which as expressions of beyng,
are misunderstood...' of course i could be cherry picking
Heidegger like a Jehovah's witness cherry picking
the bible, but i'm not interested in what he's saying,
merely painting you the picture, to scale then:

books                      -              celestial objects
chapters                 -               cycles of celestial objects
paragraphs            -               prime features of
                                                 celestial objects
                                                 (e.g. Jupiter's red eye,
                                                  Saturn's ring,
                                                  Earth's oceans
                                                  and continents)
sentences                 -              
words                       -
syllables                   -
letters                        -             atoms / elements  
                                           ah, it was going oh so well,
i think i started too big, and went into too small,
which made visualising sentences and words and syllables
hard to compare what could fit between
Australia and and atoms of RuXe - by chance ruxe is
an actual word, no as stated ruthenium and xenon,
although that too, ruxir (ruxo, ruxin, ruxido) in Galician
meaning to roar.

"Soyez muette pour moi, Idole contemplative..."

I came home and found a lion in my living room
Rushed out on the fire escape screaming Lion! Lion!
Two stenographers pulled their brunnette hair and banged the window shut
I hurried home to Patterson and stayed two days

Called up old Reichian analyst
who'd kicked me out of therapy for smoking marijuana
'It's happened' I panted 'There's a Lion in my living room'
'I'm afraid any discussion would have no value' he hung up

I went to my old boyfriend we got drunk with his girlfriend
I kissed him and announced I had a lion with a mad gleam in my eye
We wound up fighting on the floor I bit his eyebrow he kicked me out
I ended up ******* in his jeep parked in the street moaning 'Lion.'

Found Joey my novelist friend and roared at him 'Lion!'
He looked at me interested and read me his spontaneous ignu high poetries
I listened for lions all I heard was Elephant Tiglon Hippogriff Unicorn
        Ants
But figured he really understood me when we made it in Ignaz Wisdom's
        bathroom.

But next day he sent me a leaf from his Smoky Mountain retreat
'I love you little Bo-Bo with your delicate golden lions
But there being no Self and No Bars therefore the Zoo of your dear Father
        hath no lion
You said your mother was mad don't expect me to produce the Monster for
        your Bridegroom.'

Confused dazed and exalted bethought me of real lion starved in his stink
        in Harlem
Opened the door the room was filled with the bomb blast of his anger
He roaring hungrily at the plaster walls but nobody could hear outside
        thru the window
My eye caught the edge of the red neighbor apartment building standing in
        deafening stillness
We gazed at each other his implacable yellow eye in the red halo of fur
Waxed rhuemy on my own but he stopped roaring and bared a fang
        greeting.
I turned my back and cooked broccoli for supper on an iron gas stove
boilt water and took a hot bath in the old tup under the sink board.

He didn't eat me, tho I regretted him starving in my presence.
Next week he wasted away a sick rug full of bones wheaten hair falling out
enraged and reddening eye as he lay aching huge hairy head on his paws
by the egg-crate bookcase filled up with thin volumes of Plato, & Buddha.

Sat by his side every night averting my eyes from his hungry motheaten
        face
stopped eating myself he got weaker and roared at night while I had
        nightmares
Eaten by lion in bookstore on Cosmic Campus, a lion myself starved by
        Professor Kandisky, dying in a lion's flophouse circus,
I woke up mornings the lion still added dying on the floor--'Terrible
        Presence!'I cried'Eat me or die!'

It got up that afternoon--walked to the door with its paw on the south wall to
        steady its trembling body
Let out a soul-rending creak from the bottomless roof of his mouth
thundering from my floor to heaven heavier than a volcano at night in
        Mexico
Pushed the door open and said in a gravelly voice "Not this time Baby--
        but I will be back again."

Lion that eats my mind now for a decade knowing only your hunger
Not the bliss of your satisfaction O roar of the universe how am I chosen
In this life I have heard your promise I am ready to die I have served
Your starved and ancient Presence O Lord I wait in my room at your
        Mercy.

                                        Paris, March 1958

Dear Lesley,
I'm sorry to have to do this through a letter, but
last time your crying just humiliated
the other couples in your group session.
Although, this might save embarrassment,
and make me look better, now that we are
both sleeping with other people. (If you
can call conjugal visits to your ex-husband people.)
This letter may well be the last memory
you will have of me, if your social worker
lets you keep it as a memento anyway.

I am leaving, and I won't be looking back either.
I am sure you won't be surprised or terribly upset.
It is completely your fault, no doubt about it!
Mainly, it is your long history with lying problems,
even more than your alcoholism, that keeps me
from being even remotely interested in continuing
this relationship with you. (I told you I forgave
you for sleeping with your boss, but I guess I
never really did.)

You would be so much better off finding someone
that can accept the emotional baggage that
you carry around, the ones with the orange tags.
Maybe your analyst can explain that to you better
than I can. I must say, I will miss some of the exciting
times we had together. Like when you got so drunk
and flirted with my father at our family Christmas
dinner. My mom has still not gotten the red wine stain
out of the tablecloth where you puked on it.

I'm glad this is finally done and we can go our
separate ways. I think you will find someone else
with whom to have an unhealthy relationship based
on physical attraction and a passion for strip-club bars.
Hopefully, this will happen incredibly far away.

Good riddance, and Happy New Year.

PS Maybe you should just go back to being a lesbian.
PPS I have no idea where you parked your car.

swashbuckling kittens wallpaper -- cutlasses, eyepatches, royal blue bandanas --
lined the walls of the kitchen.

"you love it, don't you?" Mathilda asked. she poured me a glass of almond milk.
and I could drink almond milk with a lesbian forever. and ever. and ever.
fridge door open. it's sparse. a world weary McDonald's bag and a last chapter beer,
the only other tenants.

"it's neat," I said. don't care much for animals. don't hate them by any means,
but don't go out of my way for them. my analyst says it's Sparks, Oklahoma's fault.
see, when a boy, I had seven---no, eight kittens named Simba. the howl of the coyote
taught me about expiration dates. Had a hard time accepting total loss (e.g., eight Simbas).

"do you feel okay?" Mathilda asked. and I didn't. but I said,

"yeah, yeah. sorry about waking you up last night. just didn't think I could make it home."

"I noticed you slept perpendicular to the futon. with your sneakers on. interesting choice."

Mathilda can be funny. and the almond milk was good. and like I said, I could drink it with
her forever. the ceiling fan, though, rocked off-kilter. she had stray, sad balloons in orbit
around the fan. imagined the balloon with the red-lettered "BOO-YAH" entering the wake
of the wobbling blades. imagined the blades flying off one-by-one. imagined one striking
me in the head and freeing me of a hangover. imagined being in the back of the line outside
the gates of heaven, while St. Peter kept letting the hot, single girls cut in line.

"will you?" Mathilda repeated, I think.

"will I, what?"

"take a picture of me in front of the wallpaper."

"sure."

"sorry, I've taken like 30 selfies trying to get Grace to re-notice me.
starting to feel like a chronic masturbator."

"what do you mean?"

"well, you know, selfies are pathetic indulgences in narcissism. hell, they can be
necessary, as is the case this time, I assure you---but pathetic, nonetheless."

took the phone. Mathilda stood in front of the pirate kitten wallpaper.
she leaned forward. made a kissy face.

"do you have to do that?" I asked.

"don't bust my *****," she said, "just take the photo. I know what Grace likes."

the two broke up last week. Mathilda in her oh-yeah-wanna-run-off-with-ol-banana-***** fury
threw a ******* party with balloons (they were tethered to things at the time.
the dining chairs, cabinet doors, the wrists of guests, etc., etc.). I left early that night.
I'm straight and not very relevant. so, well, you get it.

"would you like some coffee too?" she didn't look up. with locust clicks she fingered
the screen of her phone, uploading the kissy face, pirate kitten wallpaper picture to
her Tumblr. I nodded.

at the party she bedded two skeletal, Sylvia Plath feminists. self-fulfilling prophecy.
she'd written about the then-fictitious scenario months ago on her blog.
Mathilda called me crying the following morning. between the
shame/guilt/self-pity wails, she advised, "don't ever be the third wheel in a threeway."
noted. she said the three had a silent, last breakfast before they left. and I said something
to the effect of, you didn't let them go near the oven did you?

the first droplets of coffee hissed as they struck the bottom of the ***.

"if only coffee were a woman," Mathilda said. "am I right?"

"if coffee were a woman, I'm afraid I'd still pour her into a fine porcelain cup and drink her."

"you're awful."

and I am. but she doesn't mind because I've been celibate for two years, and she's been
so successful it brings her down. off-setting penalties, the basis of our friendship. or maybe
it's the way we leave things where they fall or rise. natural resting places. Simbas. balloons.

when the brew idles I grab two cups. fill hers three-quarters full. she likes almond milk in it.
and I could drink almond milk with a lesbian forever, I swear. to the fridge. the ceiling fan
seems a bit louder. one-by-one the blades. and heaven. and St. Peter, the pervert.
gave the almond milk a shake.

"why you holding on to the McDonald's bag and the practically empty beer?
I think they're starting to smell."

she didn't answer. well, not right away, anyway. and I took that to mean they belonged
to Grace. natural resting places. so, I mix the almond milk into the coffee.

"I know I should throw it out. Grace doesn't even like McDonald's. Do you know what's
in that bag?"

"I don't."

"avocados."

"what?"

"yeah. one of her friends works there. just cut up some avocados for her."

what sacrilege. made me tired, you know? fast food avocados, selfies,
Sylvia Plath feminists, etc., etc. the ceiling fan sped up, for no reason, I think.
the balloons cast shadows over the dining table. and I could drink almond milk
with a lesbian forever. trust me. just not under those conditions. beeline for
the fridge. door open. snagged the bag of blacker-than-brown avocados
and the bottle of beer.

"stop. she could be back any day," Mathilda said.

and what I should of said was no. what I should have said was Grace,
for all intents and purposes, was dead. and what she was doing
was reusing a dead name. and reusing a dead name isn't a resurrection.
but what I said was, "okay." and I sat down under the ceiling fan.
my natural resting place. almond milk forever. and ever. and ever.

The lover in these poems
is me;
the doctor,
Love.
He appears
as husband, lover
analyst & muse,
as father, son
& maybe even God
& surely death.

All this is true.

The man you turn to
in the dark
is many men.

This is an open secret
women share
& yet agree to hide
as if
they might then
hide it from themselves.

I will not hide.

I write in the ****.
I name names.
I am I.
The doctor's name is Love.

i doubt you've managed to realize what
you have become in my perspective.

imagine yourself as a mild virus, crawling
your way through my pores disguised as
white blood cells. you circulate through a
crowd infecting people, of course, they
fail to see a disease when they see you
blossom. they see a garden where my
blood was spilled. they see train track
marks on my skin and don't ask how
they got there. you will inflame the
hearts of vulnerable people like you
promising to make them bloom, but
sweetie, do you know everything has
to die? you tied me to the train tracks,
and tell everyone it was my clumsiness
like it was my fault that left me alone
dying on the train tracks. it was your
fault you tied my hands and feet to
the bed of the tracks. if you admitted
to the crime, you would compose a
symphony of white lies confessing of
the fault lines i crossed. if i died by
your hands, it would have been like
watching the bride come at me with
the same knife she cut the cake with.

you managed to infect my being with
fervent compassion for you, yet i wish
god gave me the controls to erase that
feeling. this animal-like hunger is not
welcome inside of my bleached skin.

- kra

A Woman's Reflection on Her Reflection (Valence and Value)

one poem, written by two authors


~~~

Ever the analyst,
A mirror functions as surface to
Parse the fleeting constant
Of youth's beauty.

From genetic gift
Of symmetry and bone,
To technological tampering,
Until the equation is solved,
As experience and character
Models and maps the result.

The answer, a reflection,
Of individual valence and value

(written by S.D., a woman)

~~~

(written by N.L., a man)

unbidden and unannounced, a
"not fully formed poem,
but a simple reflection"
inbound missile arrives inbox,
armed with silent power,
the lethality of the
Holy Unexpected

the man reflects
on her mirror-on-the-wall's
fulsome reply,
parsing the words of a
woman's reflection,
while gazing on her own

every human's momentary glass notation,
but an instance of summation,
a human poem, whose editing,
unceasing

a comma here,
a period inserted,
an eye shadowed, an eyebrow tweezed,
a eye dark circle line added,
to tree-mark time's authorship

all  these
but a person's
excerpted extraction,
notarized,
then auto-erased and revised,
as out of date,  
instantaneously compromised

but,

it is upon  the conceptual,
valence and value,
more that the man reflects perpetual,
less on transitory morphing changes of
exterior mortality

while overlooking her
glassine realization from behind,
he concludes:

every reflection,
no matter how oft the snapshot,
the unfleeting constancy
of the combining of the

princes of principles,
valence and value

that he witnesses,
in the calming pool
of her eyes,
(those borrowed windows into her soul's well,)
so well reflect
her unchanging greater finery,

her character

this reflection,
metamorphosis transformed.
into a planetary permanency poem,
high placed in his the firmament
of their conjoined sky

“Sir, this mole seems to be growing and spreading”
Suhail stopped the scissor and comb, and said
“It’s a bit grown than last month and even then, I noticed it spreading”

Suhail is my hair stylist for the last about six years
I have seen him growing from a Hair Analyst to Specialist to Senior Hair Specialist
There is something more than the generous tip that connects us
May be my willingness to abide by his experiments with my hair
Or reciprocation of loyalty that bound us every month

Surprised, I asked him, “What mole are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know the black mole on the back side of your left ear” puzzled Suhail
“You go and check with Madam, may be its my feeling only”

“How would madam know about it Suhail, she doesn’t cut my hair!”
“Arre Sir, you too!” Suhail had a vicious smile on his face
“Come on tell me” I prodded him with the same viciousness
We got into wayward pastime …

“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When you lay down on her lap in those afternoons
And she combs your hair with her fingers
And when you fall into that muddle of sleepiness and excitement
Her eyes would lock it”

“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When she comes from the back as on paws of a cat
Hugs and hold you tight with her hands
And press her face on your shoulder
Her eyes would lock it”

“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When those drenched lips move away from your lips
And the craving teeth leave a hickey on that earlobe,
Her eyes would lock it”

Suhail finished the haircut and I left tipping him as usual
The drive back home searched through the labyrinths of memories
Of caressing fingers, tight hugs and hickeys
Why didn’t she mention that mole, ever?

“Honey, you never told about that Mole,
Come on, let me see and let’s go to a Dermatologist quickly
We can’t take these things lightly; the doctor may even suggest a biopsy
Biopsy is fully covered in your mediclaim, isn’t it?”

The boy said
he wanted to be a
cowboy, astronaut, or vampire hunter
and go on fearless missions
The old man said
you're only destined
to be a system analyst technician

The boy said
he wanted to change the world
end poverty, hunger and war
The old man said
the only change you'll make
is at a 7-11 store

The boy said
he wanted to travel
to see Australia, Japan and Spain
The old man said
the only thing you'll see in life
is monotonous pain

The boy said
must you be so negative
life has surprises even you don't know
The old man said
you're just basking
in youth's ignorant glow

So the boy finally said
******* then, I'll be a writer
The old man said
I hope you like drunken all-nighters

The boy yelled
you're blinded by age
and your cynical ways
The old man stated
you too will drift in time
into apathetic malaise

So they boy walked away
to decide his future
and how to spend the rest of his days
The old man went to rest in his coffin
home of self defense mechanisms

out goes
software developer
web designer
computer ****
mercahndise managers

vacancies now:
virtchandise manager
cloud transformation officers
outcome aggregator
data evangelist
sensemaking analyst
sales ninja
digital dynamo
happiness advocate
online community facilitator
web funster


*you ready?

I dont want simple;
Feed me yourself in silver spoonfuls.
I want simple,

Lie to me,
and tell me
I am not an Animal.

   I am an analyst-dissecting details.

4Am fresh snowfall
I will remain capable!
Make first new footprints,

in a circle...
  Till I reach the middle.

I will remain incapable of
Tying my shoes.

   I am a participant in social warfare.

Looking forward:
Possible encounters &
Spring Rain.
Fantasizing both in measure.  

All I am to you is what you see, and
What you hear,
smell,
  touch,
    taste.

All you are to me so far
Is what I see, and what I hear;
So i am looking very hard,
   And I am listening very closely.

I want logic,
Tasting honey when I ******.
I want harsh confusion,
Complete absence of logic in it's essence.
Kissing a part of you that potties.

Now,
I can remain content in chasing my tail; I sleep balled up on top of the ocean, my clothes and fur strewn;

   Chewing paws in strange positions.

I want contradiction, an
Assurance of the Devil & a
Total disregard for ghosts.

Constructive chaos:
   Dress like ghosts on Acid and
Wear rollerblades.

I want my resumé to read:
>works well with others,
>great fighter, &
>An outstanding Lay.

I want to leave behind dreams,
I want to rent a room in your
dream bed&breakfast;,
Sometimes sharing yours, but always paying rent on time for mine.

Sometimes
swinging an axe against a rough stump,
Craving lemonade and
Spring Rain.

Part of me wants to grow old and
Mad, and sit by rivers; I could smoke ****** from a wizard pipe for my
Sore joints.

( I am alright with the possible outcome of Alone. )

[ I would rip my hair out,
Glue it to my body, & become
A boy in wolf's clothing. ]

I want creative destruction,
Mayhem,
borderline Mind ****.
Learning to pick the banjo half-decently.

   That Deliverance tune.

And walk around ski towns
   Scaring the **** out of some tourists
And other antagonists.

Within adobe walls
The mission San Antonio no not the Alamo this one takes its name from the San Antonio river that flows
Nearby in the central California coast a shallow river that has slab bridges that lie in the water so you
Just drive across the river while the water flows under your car hopefully founded by the padre father
Sierra his grave lies outside the mission’s great wooden arched church door just feet away stands an olive
Tree Planted in the same proximate time frame 1776 this is just one of the missions that makes a
String of pearls along the El Camino or the king’s highway to my taste the best one aesthetically pleasing
Architecturally nearly perfect long arch path ways in front and it squares the inner grand court yard that
Prominently displays a water fountain its flowing water conditions the whole of your being by sight and
Sound to gently enter a contemplative state the abundance of flowers spreads your soul outward in
Tender volumes the tall round pine trees adds depth to the grounds linear flow then checked by
Horizontal walls then crowned by the extreme downward sweep of the tile roofs that gleam they over
Reach but in perfection and in the distance the mountains showcase the mission in a nestled glorious
State and so there is no mistake a great cross has been placed between two peaks look outward look
Upward you are in a place made for the purpose of holy attentive action that ends in natural gratitude
To Place far away is the reality of personal homes that fill every street on the front entry is emblazoned
These letters W. M. No it doesn’t mean welcome master it means wealth materialism rules here the
Savoir of the world keenly observes the signs as he passes house by house he knows what his word says
Increased in goods they have need of nothing but it goes on to say being rich they have become poor
Blind and naked a perfect love that would if received lead you into divine protection and perfection all
The filthy habits that bind you would be broken your family would be as purified gold a testament the
Surest answer in a world that is disingenuous at its core material possessions alone will leave you with
An outward fullness but an inner emptiness go back to the original blue print no not that disgusting one
The edges burned by fire carried out of the pit that has man and woman described as susceptible to ***
Drugs alcohol the list goes on but you’re looking for the pure architecturally sound blue print in its details
You are a beautifully designed temple a woman of virtue and wholesome character who builds her family
And Community at the weakest points her life adds holy mortar the man can be led down many false
Paths Under the title of ******* pride atrocious behavior toward women this flows to the son and also
Will Wreck a daughters life in twisted ways that only an analyst can resolve into todays scary crazy world
We need men and women of God to correct our course and prepare us for a new world not a new world
Order but the new world of heaven

it's a hard knocked life
for a bus
rolling down the highway
which way
go left go left
stop!
don't know why i'm here
anywhere
and it doesn't matter
really
but it gets you down
when your existence is brought into question
like why?
and more importantly
how
can you make it feel
not so empty?

I am scared!
Scared of this world

Robert Godwin Sr
Alyssa Elsman

How many more have to die?
By my kind,
By their kind,
Because they blame some other kind
What ever happened to just being
kind?

Daniel Parmertor, Russell King, Jr., Demetrius Hewlin

Where were you when the World Trade Center went down?
It’s something everyone alive then will always remember
Never Forget! was our brand motto for American Pride

Krystle Marie Campbell, Lü Lingzi, Martin William Richard, Sean A. Collier, Dennis Simmonds

And now, the death of another is so commonplace
That we forget what and where.
It’s no longer personal enough to register where in our lives that it struck us
Only note that another life has been struck down
Add another tally to the equation
And still it does not add up

Trayvon Martin
Tamir Rice
Samuel DuBose
Delrawn Small
Philando Castile
Terence Crutcher
Heather Heyer

We are completely desensitized
And decentralized
We keep ourselves disconnected
(because we just can’t absorb,
Take,
Process it all)
It’s not us
It’s not me
It’s somebody else
Somewhere else.
Until it is
Then we care
How much can we take, before we break

Cynthia Marie Graham Hurd, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lee Lance, Depayne Middleton Doctor, Clementa C. Pinckney, Tywanza Sanders, Daniel Simmons, Sharonda Coleman Singleton, Myra Thompson

The tragedy is the comedy
We laugh so we don’t cry
Sakia Gunn
Richie Phillips
Nireah Johnson, Brandie Coleman
Glenn Kopitske
Scotty Joe Weaver
Jason Gage
Michael Sandy
Sean William Kennedy
Duanna Johnson
Lawrence "Larry" King
Angie Zapata
Lateisha Green
****** August Provost, III
Mark Carson

I can’t say I’ve never thought of committing violence.
Hell, when my ex-wife cheated, it occurred to me
And I can’t say that I have never hit another
I’ve been a kid
My whole life is designed just to grow up
But, I’ve thought of killing myself far more often than the thought to harm anyone else have ever occurred to me
Because my problems are mine;
My fault,
And I am not seeking some scapegoat

Keenya Cook, Jerry Taylor, Million A. Woldemariam, Claudine Parker, Hong Im Ballenge, James Martin, James L. Buchanan, Premkumar Walekar, Sarah Ramos, Lori Ann Lewis-Rivera, Pascal Charlot, Dean Harold Meyers, Kenneth Bridges, Linda Franklin née Moore, Jeffrey Hopper, Conrad Johnson, 1 unnamed victim

I am not going to deny that being a white male hasn’t allowed me to sidestep a whole level of *******
One day, angry white males will be the minority
And we’ll have no one left to blame, but ourselves.
If we don’t **** everyone first
If we don’t **** ourselves first

Michael Arnold, Martin Bodrog, Arthur Daniels, Sylvia Frasier, Kathy Gaarde, John Roger Johnson, Mary Francis Knight, Frank Kohler, Vishnu Pandit, Kenneth Bernard Proctor, Gerald Read, Richard Michael Ridgell

Jonathan Blunk, Alexander J. Boik , Jesse Childress, Gordon Cowden,
Jessica Ghawi, John Larimer, Matt McQuinn, Micayla Medek, Veronica Moser Sullivan, Alex Sullivan, Alexander C. Teves, Rebecca Wingo

The earth has already decided that we are a plague upon it
Maybe climate change is the natural response to the abuse of our gifts

Nancy Lanza, Rachel D'Avino, Dawn Hochsprung, Anne Marie Murphy,
Lauren Rousseau, Mary Sherlach, Victoria Leigh Soto, Charlotte Bacon, Daniel Barden, Olivia Engel, Josephine Gay, Dylan Hockley, Madeleine Hsu, Catherine Hubbard, Chase Kowalski, Jesse Lewis, Ana Márquez Greene, James Mattioli, Grace McDonnell, Emilie Parker, Jack Pinto, Noah Pozner, Caroline Previdi, Jessica Rekos, Avielle Richman, Benjamin Wheeler, Allison Wyatt

What is this world going to teach my son?
That he’s better because of how he looks?
Or what I’ve taught him:
You make yourself better.

Jamie Bishop, Jocelyne Couture Nowak, Kevin Granata, Liviu Librescu,  P
G. V. Loganathan, Ross Alameddine, Brian Bluhm, Ryan Clark, Austin Cloyd, Daniel Perez Cueva, Matthew Gwaltney, Caitlin Hammaren, Jeremy Herbstritt, Rachael Hill, Emily Hilscher, Matthew La Porte, Jarrett Lane, Henry Lee, Partahi Lumbantoruan, Lauren McCain, Daniel O'Neil, Juan Ortiz, Minal Panchal, Erin Peterson, Michael Pohle Jr., Julia Pryde, Mary Karen Read, Reema Samaha, Waleed Shaalan, Leslie Sherman, Maxine Turner, Nicole White

I work as a data analyst
So, I ran the numbers
But, these are more than numbers
These are people: sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, friends, lovers.

Stanley Almodovar III, Amanda Alvear, Oscar A. Aracena Montero, Rodolfo Ayala Ayala, Alejandro Barrios Martinez, Martin Benitez Torres, Antonio D. Brown, Darryl R. Burt II, Jonathan A. Camuy Vega, Angel L. Candelario Padro, Simon A. Carrillo Fernandez, Juan Chevez Martinez, Luis D. Conde, Cory J. Connell, Tevin E. Crosby, Franky J. DeJesus Velazquez, Deonka D. Drayton, Mercedez M. Flores, Juan R. Guerrero, Peter O. Gonzalez Cruz, Paul T. Henry, Frank Hernandez, Miguel A. Honorato, Javier Jorge Reyes, Jason B. Josaphat, Eddie J. Justice, Anthony L. Laureano Disla, Christopher A. Leinonen, Brenda L. Marquez McCool, Jean C. Mendez Perez, Akyra Monet Murray, Kimberly Morris, Jean C. Nives Rodriguez, Luis O. Ocasio Capo, Geraldo A. Ortiz Jimenez, Eric I. Ortiz Rivera, Joel Rayon Paniagua, Enrique L. Rios Jr., Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, Christopher J. Sanfeliz, Xavier E. Serrano Rosado, Gilberto R. Silva Menendez, Edward Sotomayor Jr., Shane E. Tomlinson, Leroy Valentin Fernandez, Luis S. Vielma, Luis D. Wilson Leon, Jerald A. Wright

I did research to try to find all the victims since I became abruptly aware 16 years ago
There are too many
I could not discover a single database that contained a comprehensive record
No one can keep track of it anymore
I know I’ve missed people
I know there are 1000’s of people now missing people
Even 1 was too much

Hannah Ahlers, Heather Alvarado, Dorene Anderson, Carrie Barnette, Jack Beaton, Steve Berger, Candice Bowers, Denise Salmon Burditus, Sandra Casey, Andrea Castilla, Denise Cohen, Austin Davis, Virginia Day Jr, Christiana Duarte, Stacee Etcheber, Brian Fraser, Keri Galvan,  Dana Gardner, Angela Gomez, Rocio Guillen Rocha, Charleston Hartfield,  Chris Hazencomb, Jennifer Irvine, Nicol Kimura, Jessica Klymchuk, Carly Kreibaum, Rhonda LeRocque, Victor Link, Jordan McIldoon, Kelsey Meadows, Calla Medig, James ‘Sonny’ Melton, Pati Mestas, Austin Meyer, Adrian Murfitt, Rachael Parker, Jennifer Parks, Carrie Parsons, Lisa Patterson,  John Phippen, Melissa Ramirez, Jordyn Rivera, Quinton Robbins, Cameron Robinson, Lisa Romero Muniz, Christopher Roybal, Brett Schwanbeck, Bailey Schweitzer, Laura Shipp, Erick Silva, Susan Smith, Tara Roe Smith, Brennan Stewart, Derrick ‘Bo’ Taylor, Neysa Tonks, Michelle Vo, Kurt Von Tillow, Bill Wolfe Jr.

and NOW I’ve run out of lines and time to read off all 2,977 people who died in 9-11
Isn’t that a tragedy?

Back in the day when we could just sit back
Chill out and relax, it was nothing but just that
This one feeling (Psych!) no hidden tax, cleaned up scraps
Advance to attack softly surpass the romance is thick like sap
The impact you had on me I didn't know how to react
The thought is abstract, but intact with vows attached
Our love sapped from each other invitingly,
Finally you see just how much you mean to me
Quite the sheen we had, the luster once explained by Guster
Green light, fourteen, the events unforeseen you must've
Came to me, so afraid, now I'm amazed that I've uh-
found her this early, surely it's not today
It must be a mistake, but I can't contain these sparks
Sparse, is the words I have to say to you, "MONTHS!"
Worse, course you shut a bit of cabinet wood, it creaks
"Curse!", focus not on mom but on her you should be,
gravitational force, by fits and starts, this matter of bursts,
it comes in
I know it but not clear; smokey quarts, ******* crumbs an'
My blank *** mind is turning this into a blank verse
But first, listen to what I have to say, it works!
Not this, at worse I felt reversed, so I put us in park
My feelings for you are neutral, electrons are gone and,
it's too good to be true

You're out of excuses you've run out of time 'n' this ****'s on you
For doubt is bruisin', chewin' spun me around and...

Reminiscin' Cough! It even hurts to say
To breathe, my breath, it isn't here to stay
It's kinda like sleeping, it's just a cousin of death
I'm stickin around but not in this circle,
tripping like a round peg in a square hole,
you grind me into this grounded world of mine
Quit it with the same shape jokes fellow,
with your same lame faces, the same claims are racing below
Chasin immortality, thats a futile fantasy, reality
happily robs your dreams candidly, like you did to me
We're done here. Why can't you see
that when the smoke clears, it's crystal but not amethyst or ruby.
Truthfully I don't understand this new "me", I need an analyst
Matter of factfully, that was an accident, kinda like all this was.
I just ate too much and threw up all over this canvas
And it sounds like practice. Maybe I take you all back, just
grow up, crawl then, complain about this slanted stanza
Anxious I am to end the madness, the recent lack of composure.
but you cannot address the cheapest setback: I'm lonely.
The malice, the heartache, the "palace of flattest objects"
The helpless, the sorry, the callous fingers from these projects
What do they mean to you? Anger? Angst?
Somewhat close to a coat hanger, to hang up all of my paint?!
You're like watching grass grow, and for this **** I'm 'bout to mow

"You think you can do these things but you just can't Nemo!"

Here we go-
You know that one time when I said, "I'll always be here."?
I meant it. Now let go! I said it's over, delirious!
I'm serious, who would ever miss this?
I fear some wickedly addictive feelings are making me trapped
but it feels like it's just two ovaries
No wait, it's just you about to *****-act!
---------------------------------------------
It's a brief pause, but I feel it coming in strong!
The atmosphere is a thief, stealing my breath, so long
I've worked my *** off; it flew away now it's gone,
just like a me to a you, I meet you and ramble on:
I have spent so many days burning our bridges, keeping us afloat
Not once you take time to count me for my vote
Goodbye! Wait, hello... I'm no tough guy, I take chances, though
But you only get one, and this is it, to let you know
I'm outta here for now. And so are you; go.

Rush Transcript. May include inaccuracies.

Andrea Marsino: We're here today with "     " to talk about his recent best-seller, The Orchestra, which has swept bookshelves across the nation in recent weeks. A stunning display of literary craftsmanship, the book has generated a whirlwind of dialogue in all sorts of settings, from University coffee shops to local dive bars, and even, we're told, in the Pentagon. Tell us "     ", did you have any expectation at all of this kind of reaction?

"     ": Never in a million years would I have thought that I could stir up such a...a hornet's nest really. Sure it's a kind of inflammatory piece of fiction, but I never thought it'd result in so much backlash.

Andrea: Talk about unintended consequences right? How did the idea first come to you?

"         ": Well it didn't just pop into my head fully formed one day. I guess it first started to take shape at a bus station in Florida. I had just been kicked out of my Dad's house and was moving to another part of the state, so naturally I was a bit, I don't know, out of sorts. I was waiting for the connecting bus and was smoking a cigarette to **** the time and just sort've fell into conversation with this black kid who was also waiting for a connection. This was in I think May of 2013, so the situation really hadn't started to fall part yet, but the cracks were definitely showing. And that's what we were talking about, just the overall sense of things not going well, the feelings of helplessness that we as individuals, and seemingly the community as a whole, were feeling at the time. I told him that it'd get better one day, somehow and that change always is a painful process. Then the light came on and I started pondering how that sweeping societal change might be accomplished.

Andrea: There are a lot of themes in the book, a lot of subtext and implied conclusions. You've been criticized for what seems like hostility to faith and some say advocating violent political activism. What are your responses to some of the accusations that have been leveled against you?

"         ": Hostility to faith? Absolutely not. Faith is one of the overriding points of the whole thing. The objection is to organized and subverted religious teachings. Faith exists to aid humanity in the struggle of their lives and I feel like....if you examine history faith has time and again been co-opted into a tool of oppression. That's what I object to. As for advocating ****** revolution, that's another flat out misinterpretation. Yes, politics is a huge part of the story and plays a huge part in really tying the whole thing together. But it's not really about that, it's not about any single issue. It's about people, as a whole, taking back their right to not be dehumanized by anything or anyone, especially their government which is supposed to protect them.

Andrea: I see. So it's not so much about the mechanisms of power politics as it is about people's inherent value?

"        ": Absolutely. Our conception of what power really is I think is grossly inaccurate.

Andrea: But surely you can understand how your depiction of terrorist acts and a domestic insurgency is very disturbing to some people? You were a Soldier yes? Did this affect your style, and the arc of the plot?

"         ": Of course I can. And it's meant to be disturbing, it's meant to illustrate how positive forces of change can be corrupted into violence. And yes, I was an Intelligence Analyst in the Army. We were fighting an insurgency, so in order to learn how, we basically deconstructed insurgencies throughout history. We learned how they functioned, all the sides you could throw at it. And then I learned from two Defense Intelligence Agency Instructors how to start one too. Those experiences most definitely gave me the technical knowledge I needed to write something like this.

Andrea: There's also been a lot of talk about how graphic your imagery is. Many prominent individuals call it a lack of talent on your part, that you can't write without going in for the shock factor so to speak.

"        " : Ha! It's not a children's book. And besides, life is graphic. You can't portray something accurately without tackling the nasty stuff. Besides, things like ****** assault and drug use are essential to some of the characters. It wouldn't make any sense for someone to react as violently as they did in certain scenes without the reader knowing exactly what had occurred previously to form that character's identity.

Andrea: I can understand that. Doesn't make it any easier to think about though.

"       ": I don't know what to tell you. The truth is a painful thing sometimes, and portraying it was not exactly a fun process.

Andrea: And what about those very colorful characters? How did you get your inspiration for them?

"          ": Oh all sorts of places. Honestly, some are based on real individuals that I've known at some point or another. And others are pure imagination. Ta'ra and Clara were inspired by a Dane Jones ***** for instance ha ha.

Andrea: 'Blushing' That's, er, interesting. Characters from ******* is one I haven't heard before. Anyway, throughout the book is this sense of individuals being swept into something bigger than themselves and how they react to that. It's kind of ambiguous sometimes, swinging between very New Age concepts to mundane life on the same page. The quote at the beginning for instance. Very spiritual, very deep. But then you open with an interaction on a street corner.

"          ": Hmm, I guess I could try and explain about things like Theosis, which is one of the main themes by the way, but I don't think it would illustrate what I was trying to convey very well. I guess I was always kinda on the fence about divine intervention and that sort of thing until I read a piece by a friend of mine about an experience she had some years ago. Basically, she was in a diner when a Muslim woman came over and asked to sit and talk. They spoke about spirituality and the woman turned to her and said that anyone could be a prophet, like it wasn't something reserved for saints and such. It was very powerful and finally convinced me that humans aren't just ants on an anthill, so to speak. It spoke to a very, very intimate part of me. So, I took it and incorporated it into what I do. Which is write.

Andrea: Wow, that's an amazing explanation that I really didn't expect. I'd love to talk some more and I'm sure our listeners would love to hear more, but unfortunately that's all the time we have for the show today. "     " thank you so much for joining us today and sharing so many insights about your new book, The Orchestra.

"           ": The pleasure was all mine Andrea, thank you for having me.

Andrea**: This is Andrea Marsino with NPR and thanks for listening. Coming up in the next half hour we have Peggy Walker from Floyd Virginia talking about some of the exciting ways her community is fighting to keep their traditions alive today.

11 o'clock on a Friday evening
I walked through closed doors
Into the rustic old bar
I sat in the faded bar stool that creaked like the floorboards
on the stained seat cushion molded to fit my *** like a glove
From the regular nights

The bartender walked by twitching his mustache, cleaning an old mug
I slapped my hand on the tarnished bar
He nodded, filling a patchwork glass with the same old beer
That swished frothily in my mouth with the taste
Of old gym socks and dog ****

I stared into the mirror reflection  before me
Examining people while sipping my taint of a beer
The waitress reciting play lines devotedly between  orders
Still trying to get into her new life on Broadway
Stuffing tips in her mismanaged pockets
that wanted a college degree, but chose fancy clothes

A lawyer and a teacher in the corner of the room
No one likes drinking alone  
Sitting in a battered, splattered seat booth
Lamenting about their dreaded work
Wishing in their heart of hearts
That the paths they had chosen at 19 were switched
One found he loved kids and one loved the justice system
If only it were simple to swap uniforms and degrees

Two destitute prostitutes lingering, smoking wispy cigs outside
Waiting for work
One wanted to be a dentist
Till the ****** that protected her dreams broke
And she lost her baby regardless
And the other wanted to be a politician
Until her dreams were beaten down by
A man, a level below Neanderthal, who viewed her body
As a conversation where his fists do the talking

The bartender stalled at the TV between drinks
Observing the young sports analyst on the TV
In a crisp, tailored suit with slick black hair
Nostalgically imagining himself talking emphatically about his passion
Mouthing the comments of what the analyst should've been saying
But he served drinks filled with faded dreams

And I turned and saw myself in the glossy mirror
Holding the poor excuse for a drink to my lips
And I saw the people around me like spirits in my eyes
I worked 9-5 in an office that’s as fun as feet being nailed to the ground
The only thing I changed in my routine whether I did my
Laundry on a Friday or Saturday
And I twitched my hand to ask for a different drink
But I kept it down and sipped on my beer

red light flashing on CNBC
hawkish fed and supply chain disruptions
an acid tongue analyst argues via zoom
black gold due to reach the sky
rotation warranted and ISM doomed

transitory or not
the fiery fall colors
are waiting to burst out,
outside, the windows of 30 W 63rd St.

this is where
her heart resides,
reverberating a song
titled  ‘stone cold reality’

here,
unconditional love
speaks only the truth,
while the rest
wax eloquent euphemisms.
 
diligently probing charts of 10-year bonds,
i see her chiseled face with glasses and all,
in the web of shadows
whispering
one and one name alone!


© 2021

I stopped a girl at school one day
Just to tell her how pretty she looked
And a smile swept across her face.
She seemed surprised I’d ever say that,
As I am “flawless”.

I tossed my head back,
Laughed rigorously,
And pretended that the situation didn’t make me sad.
I told her I wax my upper lip
Because my pale white skin highlights my black hair
Perhaps a bit too much.
I told her my ******* haven’t grown since I was 12,
And I dye my hair deep red
Because I feared my black hair was too boring.
Not to mention my skin isn’t in its best condition
And blemishes pop up here and there.
I put unnecessary amounts of effort into keeping them to a minimum
Because I’m just sixteen
And they will never go away.
It’s not just my face, though,
It’s my back, arms and chest, too.
The blemishes are simply on parts of my body
That not everyone gets to see.

But those flaws are only skin-deep, I said,
I’m overly emotional.
I over-think and analyze,
Thus hurting people I don’t mean to hurt.
I’m often self-centred, too,
And forget the interests of others.
But for an analyst, I said,
I often forget to think a little harder about things.
I’m overly anxious and stressed out.
I want to change, but I never do.
I’m hardly serious about anything.

Never look into the mirror and cry.
You may not be flawless,
But neither am I.

She was love-
tasting like revenge,
not in a hurry, but
deliberately as she desired.

-a dark searing kiss
that drew blood,
from my lower lip;
getting the dormant
******* in me ready,
in a bit,

I counted it a forgotten pleasure,
playing just sadist, as circumstances permit,
it was, if you want to know
for sure a class act,
she knew how to do it.

in my writing, she said
sounding like an analyst,
i was preoccupied with dark birds,
' i see their presence,
on tree top hide outs,
ominous darkness sitting quiet
with folded wings'

blood in my lower lip
tasted salt,
the hibiscus flower on her raven hair
(reminding animal behavior
on certain periods of need)
to me is a symbol,
she and i know, of what.

I peered in to her ***** dark eyes,
thought what she said was
false.
)O(

Investors need to stop treating stocks as a ‘beauty contest’ and follow the difficult investment style of Keynes, global pension expert Keith Ambachtsheer said.

Data produced in a working paper from the Harvard Business Schoolshowed that portfolios built on firms with a good material sustainability rating outperformed those that had a poor rating, an aspect not considered enough by investors who were caught up with quarterly returns, Ambachtsheer said at a Chartered Financial Analyst seminar in Sydney on Monday.

“What I see happening out there is largely speculation – what Keynes called ‘beauty contest investing’, where everybody tries to figure out what the most popular stocks are going to be in six months, buys them and when they become really popular sells them,” Ambachtsheer said.

He added the implications of this investment style as an aggregate was a zero sum game, whereas investing should be taking savings and turning them into wealth producing capital.

“The key thing is you need to look beyond the next quarter; you look at the long-term sustainability of the business model of the corporation, as well as the people behind it in terms of how it is being managed.”

The Harvard Business School (HBS) working paper superimposed the Sustainability Accounting Standards Board materiality map (which identifies likely material sustainability issues on an industry-by-industry basis) onto 400 common US stocks identified through sustainability metrics from Kinder, Lydenberg, Domini Research & Analytics.

They examined what effect materiality would have over the long-term (starting from the 1980s) and found the top 10 per cent of firms that scored strongly on material sustainability outperformed the bottom 10 per cent, by nine per cent over a rolling twenty-year period.

“The practical question is, can you actually manage money this way in the real world? And the answer is yes, but it’s very hard, because you are doing unconventional things,” Ambachtsheer said.

Real-world Keynesianism investors – such as Warren Buffett and the Ontario Teachers’ Pension Plan – are in a minority despite outperforming over the long-term. In chapter 12 of his seminal workThe General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money, Keynes explained the reason for this was the essence of long-term investors meant their behaviour would be eccentric, unconventional and rash in the eyes of average opinion.

“Most organisations can’t function like this,” Ambachtsheer said, as they were too focused on the present.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses

Your analyst once called you a wretch
and told you to leave.

You say you get
“caught up in the moment” but really

you are morphing in disarray –
poet to death-marker, undertaker to toddler;

it’s boring and you accept that.
What you lack in understanding

you make up for in crushed leaves.
Like a tractor-trailor in the Bronze Age,

you are out of place.
But the sky is starrier than ever

so you feel okay
when the wind hits your eyes.

oto historja z kantem, co podwójne ma dno, gdyby napisał ją dante, to nie tak by to szło.*

existentialism never caught on in england,
it was under the scalpel of an autopsy,
divided in the extremes,
i style magazines, or in the saturday newspaper
edition of gloss, ensuring the world knows
about modern gladiators' (footballers') antics
with boyfriends at home and the girlfriends
on the prowl - feminism's by-product - hmm -
there's a common saying in england:
'i have an existence, i don't have a life',
well... ex- (out of) every instance, it's a life,
i know the big words sound foreboding,
but let's not make it a life of any concern,
unless you're dressed like Mr. Portillo
traversing the American continent in yellow
chequered shirts and pink trousers and green blazers...
style... gotta have style walking in Wisconsin...
the pretty english 'have a nice day' air about
you without perfumes... yes, Mr. Portillo is
the epitome of dressing like an englishman
cursing Voltaire... lollipop goo to my liking, mm...
hey, i'm just a drunk with an itchy feel for
language... me poet, me poet de facto...
ever heard of midorexia? me neither, until today...
even the rich aren't immune...
tan-lines and short shorts aren't enough to
define this odd anorexia of lost youth...
it's supposedly defined by wearing sunglasses
anywhere than on holiday -
see... this is where french existentialism led
the english - it led them to an answer: itemisation,
overt itemisation - born from every believability -
born from every centric to the the european
continent measurement loss exporting flesh from
the ivory coast to the florida measurement -
a pint for above half a litre - the statue of liberty
had many ******* under her skirt...
including king john as one of the fathers...
they really didn't think about existentialism,
no thought invoked made the shopkeepers sigh
and say: excess itemisation is required -
we need cuff-links, orange juicers via ponce,
we need smartphones, we need leathered shoes
(18 carat-hark pig), and belts...
we need all these distractions to go against
the french suggestion of a 35 hour working week...
live to work, don't work to live...
it never caught on... they decided to protest
against Sartre... because he lived with his mother...
**** me... i should have asked for a surrogate too,
and two daddies... and I.V.F., i should have,
because suddenly everyone became neurotic
with Freudian misuse of the Oedipal theory -
Mr. Portillo and Alan Shearer just left the game early,
one's a backpacker with a camera
and the other is a football analyst - left the game
of chance political slander... wise guys; bravo! bravo! encore!