Aliens
    They have no notion of past or present,
    everything is about oceans.
    When they ask for you
    it is really a story about seeing the ocean.
    VISITOR #1:
    Listen. It is failure of bridges that builds angels.
    GROCERY BAGGER/ COLLEGE STUDENT:
    Is this the depression
    we've all been experiencing?
    VISITOR #4:
    Please have a seat and forget the edge of that coast,
    you were not intended for this distance.
    GROCERY BAGGER/ COLLEGE STUDENT:
    I believe we're all owed an explanation.
    Where is this manifest?
    I've never ridden a horse, I am being dreamed about.
    VISITOR #1:
    You would not believe
    the stories redwoods have.
    You each get one phone call.
    GROCERY BAGGER/ COLLEGE STUDENT:
    But the voicemail I've been trying to reach,
    all morning,
    is full.
    "I dream of psychiatrists telling stories
    about dreaming of women
    they've seen in unedited videos on the internet.
    Sometimes they save her from that burning nightclub."
    VISITOR #2:
    If you're going, leave your voice
    somewhere in a room I know.
    COLLEGE STUDENT:
    We would have no need for phones if you didn't invent distance.
    VISITOR #2:
    There are trees that become stained with a purple blossom.
    During summer the blossoms fall and shadow around the trunk
    like a violet negative.
    What a beautiful dimension that must be.
    They pull her skirt down to examine the body,
    palms pour from a sidewalk in L.A.,
    everything is cracked-
    "My god she's beautiful, huh?"
    I think I met them before,
    a long time ago.
    THE MEMORY OF A VISITOR APPEARING IN A DREAM:
    What happens next? Come the exit of electricity from the body;
    on a long enough time-line all weather radicalizes and the people
    will grow into trees.
    You can read about that hollowness and never be prepared for it.
    It’s like standing on the edge of an overpass,
    and being completely empty of the urge to jump.
    This is what I remember:
    instructed to reenact creation
    she throws clothes
    from an open window above the 60 freeway.
      "You have to imagine there are people,
    surrounding you and talking"

There was no earthquake
no shattering birth
raging against the pane of existence
sending butterflies cowering behind glass
and wolves baying over a bloodless loss
in a forest where one tree falls to a soulmate
breaking free from clutter with a passionate flair
like a newly clustered sun's first real pulse
of living light
flung into a dark sky to dwell on its joy
at brightening its view of the universe

when I met you

there was no pepper spray
of subdued stinging elation
burning under my skin
when you climbed over everything
and demonstrated against
all I had ever defined
choking the air with a perfume
so hot it welded every flower
within miles into a single staggering
placard blowing me into a garden paradise
from where winds were strengthened
with a strange unprotesting fascination
only guessed at by curious angels
only sensed as the singular truth
amidst the nonsense of existence
by a philosophical idealist

when I met you

there was no starving ants' nest
hunger to consume you morsel by morsel
carry the idyllic seeds aloft in triumphal succession
and acclaim the day as evermore celebrated
store the piecemeal plot as sacred land
my eternal home to build on as we will
and relishing the daily harvest
the piled to spilling their vanity fruits
of Aphrodite's labouring shaken womb
by putting your heaving bodice of attraction
on display where the highest peak
looks up at your shockingly favoured nature
and in its warm shade curls up
contrite

when I met you

on a never to be exceeded
memory pillow of accomplished desire
below the tree line where it melts
the final crystals of snow
and rolls over on to its back
hard time ink tattoos giving way
to slipped on morning lipstick
like a puppy wanting a rub of its tummy
discovering the pleasures of green grass
on its first summer
of life

when I met you

there was no play of your fingers
skimming down my back
touching every vital chord
of merciless disharmony
tormenting the hell out of me
with a soft on my eyes stream
of exotically attired tireless servants
loyal only to our exchanged look of adoration

when I met you

performing in concert with your lithe body
by suddenly trumpeting the flash of lightening
generated by a momentary show
of everything you possess not static
and worn to part plush glimpses skin on skin
from shifting notes dripping under lazy dresses
dropping their quavers on to velvet carpet
and rubbing in the salted healing potion
you drummed up on quiet sleepless nights
inside a perfection of smooth conniving visions
bolting the bedroom of mad freedoms from inside
and banishing every other maiden's swan song
from this man's dreams of orchestral piece

when I met you

I found only the more
perfect body
personality
kindness
and love
and that
my dear one
was more than I deserve

way way beyond
what I couldn't find
what will ever be
envisioned
enough

when I met you

to think maybe the other bits
will follow
but it doesn't have to be so

when I meet you
and meet you more

The constellation of the celestial shrine
The author and finisher of our faith,
Dead set against the Old Serpent
As poor as a church mouse
Playing with the ghost of a chance,
Earning like Cain, the milk of a coconut;
Crying quarter entertaining (decollate) angels unawares,
Kith and Kin a church invisible, fast and loose
Perpetuating the false dawn of sombre dreams
Amid the tranquility of evil, whispering
Of time, the harmonious echo of silence
Soul enlightening at the gates of death devouring
Light, the omniscience of truth, as the
Devil loves holy water, a conjuror
Of the wages of sin.




ELEETE J MUIR

We were always so good at pretending, weren’t we? We would always climb rooftops and pretend that we were stargazers, christening constellations with our favorite songs. Look, there was Somebody Else. There was Nobody’s Home. There was Chasing Cars.

We would pretend we were souls from the 50s, reincarnated into another life — into another happy ending. We would pretend we were art critics, as if we knew **** about Klimt; as if we could tell apart baroque from classical. We would tell each other our weirdest dreams and analyze them, as if we were Freud or something, that misogynistic pig. Oh, you dreamt about us drowning together in the Black Lake? Oh, that means we were gonna have *** tonight, in the absence of the moon. We would pretend that we’ve circled the whole world and that Italy’s got the ******* blandest pizza. We would pretend that we were rock stars, surfing on the crowd.

We would pretend that we’d read the classics. Was that Harry or Henry in The Picture of Dorian Gray? Yeah, Hamlet was pretty cool, but who was Ophelia? ******* pseudo-intellectuals, we were. Nonetheless, I loved pretending with you. We loved pretending that the whole world wasn’t crashing down — that we weren’t stuck in this ******* of a small town, and that the world spun for us. We loved pretending that everything would be okay — that we could leave someday without looking back. We loved pretending that our lives weren’t all over the place. We loved pretending that we were the brave ones, that we could **** ourselves by 40 because the world wouldn’t be kind when we’re all old and saggy.

We loved pretending that we were too cool for mental breakdowns and for any kind of feeling. Honey, we loved pretending that we were psychopaths, too voided for love and all that other crap — that we hated clichés, while doing the most romanticized clichés anyway. We loved pretending that this was where the chapter would end, and that we were together in our make-believe ending. We loved pretending that we were the ones who stayed and made it.

Now, sometimes, I would pretend that we did. Other times, it would be me pretending I was all there ever was — that you never were here to pretend with me, and that I was okay. I would pretend that the rooftop wasn’t too high, and that I didn’t need your help to climb — that the company of city lights and the empty space were enough, honey they never were. Honey, I would pretend too that I never missed you. But I did.

I always did. More than that I would ever admit.

I would look at the stars, the ones we named but I guess they all had already fallen to the earth. You said that when you died, you would live in the shooting stars so that you could crash to the earth and come back to me. But it had been more than a decade since the angels took you away and I no longer stargazed, except tonight. And maybe, just maybe, when I would catch a glimpse of a falling star, I still wouldn’t wish that you didn’t chase your meds with *****. I wouldn’t wish that we didn’t find bubbles coming out of your mouth, like they were a part of your soul. I wouldn’t wish that I didn’t see you die. I wouldn’t wish that you were okay; we both knew we wouldn’t have clicked if one of us was happy or okay.

Heaven, hell, we didn’t believe in those. But when a star would fall unto my chest, I would wish that wherever you were right now or wherever you would be in the next life, darling, you would no longer feel the need to pretend.

And with no lies, no masks, no pretenses, I loved you. Here. And in the next. And in the lives after that, until we lived in one where we would both have the courage to abandon all pretense and just sit on a different rooftop, sharing silence — sharing honest thoughts — sharing the luster of distant stars. And tomorrow, our demons wouldn’t rise with the sun. And we would be okay.

They say we’re all different
That we are like snowflakes
Every one of us a special creation
I believe I am more of a snowman
Because every time I see you
And your smile
I melt
The guys around me say
They want to see you without
All those clothes
That they miss the summer
I love you the way you are
I love the idea of laying in our
Puffy coats and making snow angels
Building a snow fort
And drinking hot chocolate
Sitting on the couch
In front of my fireplace
A fire and no other light
The flickering flames
Illuminating every feature
Of your perfection
One at a time
And you look at me
And I look at me
And I am just a puddle
I saw you and
Melted

I need to breathe the air of outdoor dreams where angels sing to me and I reciprocate the love in perfect pitches that transcend the glitches of the categories we've yet to break free from.  Add up the pixelated pieces to see this, the only sum.  Alone more often than ever before, and I embrace it, but inside the mind's of others I like to explore.  I have way too many words that go unheard for they're kept to me.  I know a soul or infinity x three that I would sell my thoughts to for free.  I've paid a vast amount of fees, literally and physically, but it's making me stronger.  I'll wear a smile to our reunion as the warmth between us extends our life spans even longer.  The bass hits and it gets intense as I hop the fence into your garden.  Pardon me if I seem so hardened, but beneath the exterior are energy waves deeper than lake superior.  I've never burned a bridge but there were many where I chose to stray.  Some bridges crumble on their own so it's sometimes more painful to stay.  If you have nowhere to go with your thoughts though, I'll listen to every word and perfect little fragment that you have to say.  Connected to everything, but sometimes everything seems so far apart.  I don't know how much time I have, but I will be long outlived by the pulse of my heart.  It may be time for a new start with all new faces, newfound vacations, with beautiful unseen places.  I'll leave a trail, pieces of me in case you ever wanna trace it.  Lace up the loose ends cuz you can count on this friend, with all of me to lend.  You know I won't pretend, because I've never been good at lying.  Defiance and reliance rest on opposite poles, but there's love within you enough to make yourself feel whole.   Taking control, going for a walk.  Give me a ring, if you ever wanna talk.  But I need to sing, and rewrite my life in chalk.  This is one of my everyday unwind times because I can't keep up with my rhymes.  I'm showing my spine, but still untouchable.  Things have been rocky, but still so wonderful.  Subtle growth, just like that of a tree.  For all eyes to see, this was a message for me

I am here to tell you a little secret. It really shouldn't be one, but perhaps that is the main problem. I hope to somehow fix it. But here it is:

You are beautiful whether you believe it or not.

Here is a dangerous lie that our society and culture endlessly romanticizes:
• Beauty is skin deep.
This is the part where I prove them wrong.

Beauty is not skin deep.

Beginning at a young age, I developed an unhealthy concept of what true beauty was. To this day, I can still recall being twelve years old and devastatingly unhappy at my physical appearance staring back at me through my own reflection in the bathroom mirror. I saw nothing but ugliness glaring at me, the glass revealing all of my visible flaws. I didn't look like the girls in the magazines that scattered my bedroom floor, faces glowing like angels on glossy paper. I wanted to. I wanted more than anything to be comfortable being myself.

There was just so much that stuck out to me, so much that needed fixing. Curves in all the right places? Forget about it, more like a stomach that hung over my jeans. My hair was so thick that it snapped every single hair tie and couldn't hold a single curl. My nose sat awkwardly on my face, always something to sigh at whenever I would catch a glimpse of myself. My eyes were too dark, too brown to be beautiful. I couldn't grasp this idea of unattainable perfection, the kind of beauty that only exists on the airbrushed models on movie posters.

And because I could not love my appearance. I could not love myself. My self-confidence plummeted at this age, causing a wave of hysteria to envelope me. Trapping me in its embrace, this flourishing hatred began to consume everything that I was, distorting the visions of the potential I carried within me.

There was nothing beautiful about it, hating every single inch of myself. I was so busy trying to fit into the mold of the most gorgeous human being, trying to wear a mask of a person who turned heads whenever they entered the room. My mind had been wrapped around this idea countless of times to the point where I could no longer find anything worth loving inside of me.

But while chasing this idea of flawlessness, it was almost as if I had forgotten about everything else. The things that composed myself during that time period, the things that were not visible to the naked eye. The magnificent things that were present in me, that made me who I was- hidden by a wall I had put up by myself simply because I felt the need to hide from the judgmental eyes of an imperfect society.

Years have passed and now I love who I am. I am no longer twelve years old, but there are still many painful insecurities that plague me, except now I am strong enough to look at them and smile.

I have so much to be thankful for. Though I do not stand 5'7 like I had wished, I feel tall when I radiate kindness to the people around me. I do not have runway legs, but they are strong enough to leap through the air and run away from everything that no longer respects me. I do not have piercing blue eyes, but mine are capable of finding art in everything around me. I may not possess an hourglass shape, but I know how to use the time I am given to impact my peers in a positive manner. I may have bad days, but that doesn't mean I have to give up every ounce of faith and hope left within me. I may be ridiculously imperfect, but I am so outrageously real- and surprisingly, that is all I ever want to be.

The skinny girls in magazines and shirtless poster guys are still beautiful, but that doesn't mean that you aren't. To my boys- You can be attractive without a six-pack or a six-foot stature. And ladies, you can be stunning without a Kim Kardashian figure. You cannot be defined by a number that reads on a scale or the way your hair looks like when you forget to brush it in the morning. You are not labeled by the color of your skin, your athletic abilities, or whether or not your thighs touch when you walk. You are beautiful because you are you. The way you speak passionately about the things that keep you breathing. The way you laugh with your friends on the bus ride home from school until your sides feel like they're going to cave in. The way your eyes light up at the desire to understand, to learn, to grow. The way your smile spreads like the flu, even the way you fall asleep at your desk when you spend four hours finishing up the homework you could have finished two weeks ago.
You are made of blemishes, scars, imperfections, and insecurities- but they are just as wonderful as your soul. They are constant reminders of how far you have come, and the journey you have yet to fulfill. This is your life, and it would be a shame to go through it without leaving a mark.
They are the flowers growing in the sidewalk cracks of your mind. Do not let them be overshadowed by the debilitating weight of the world's words.

Let them grow, Let them be free.
Let yourself be beautiful for who you are
rather than who you are not.

a poet, it is said,
must be pure and holy;
a poet, it is decreed,
must bring truth and clarity;
a poet, it is declared,
must use words good and sublime;
a poet, it is said
must choose subjects
that are sanctioned and chaste
like the moon and stars
and butterflies and innocent creatures of the fields;
and fill pages with
I-love-you-you-love-me oratory
and volumes of
today I feel this way
yesterday I had five coffees;
further, it is inscribed in
the tombs and mausoleums and
encrypted in arcane ancient texts
and revealed scriptures,
that the poet shall speak
wholly of holy matters and things
and choose for imagery
clouds, angels and music
and such radiant things



well, you can say what you like
you can believe what you fancy –
if I write, I’ll do and speak
just ****** well
as I please…
thank you very much…

if you miss me, close your eyes you'll see
me smiling at you knowing it's you I need
always be around, whether you are feeling up or down
to you I'm forever bound, queen to my world
you own the crown, enchanted I'm spellbound
whipped our love profound
with me
you'll never shed a tear or frown
glad you I found
my love circular you it surrounds
carrying you to a higher plain beyond the clouds
like EM we space bound, soaring on wings of love
Osbourne
elated we soar, if you need me
knock on my door
text, call,
dm on socials, be there in an instant
so that you don't miss me for a second
when you call nothings more important
we courted today forever together you worth it
we deserve it, we'll go the distance in the
clouds by angels its written
nothing we are lacking
fun fact is we meant to be
our love reminiscent
of energy, that powers the sun its glowingly
lighting up our lives as each other we breathe
lovingly it's the oxygen we need together
we ascend it how we feel
feels with you the perfect hand i was dealt

As the breezes caress the tall and winsome trees,
hearts everywhere feel cherished and blessed;
When spring awakens our souls' better angels,
with calm and peace--and a sense of rest.

Sunshine reveals its awesome power,
as it pours onto daffodils and tulips growing;
A rainbow of flowers sits in the garden bed,
raising their colors like bright smiles glowing.

Serenity--a revelation from which we'll dream,
of puffy white clouds dancing and twirling above;
In an azure sky dappled with pinkish hues,
it speaks gently with softness and eternal love.

With the sky darkening towards twilight,
and the crescent moon lies on her side;
A missive is painted across the milky way,
"It will not rain tomorrow"--it will shine with pride.

She doesn't stroll on water
But makes a drop taste sweet,
There are no wings upon Her back
But you'll hover off your feet.

Whenever She glides into a room
No halo on Her head,
Her presence transforms any traces of doom,
Your spirit will be fed.

With hope for all the future
What was blindfolded before,
Bursts in rays of colour
As She takes you on a tour.

All unanswered questions, hey!
"What is the meaning of life?"
She answers with a single smile,
To children, husbands, wifes.

If She had a halo
She would lock it in a chest,
Far be it from Her, She thinks,
To feel She is the best.

That modesty, those charismatic
Eyes, that shining aura,
Enough to make a dying spirit
Rise from out the corner

   But who guards the Angels?
Who keeps watch?
Protecting such an important being,
It's not a job to botch.

For though She doesn't know it
If life's cruelty makes Her stumble,
Then other souls who matter,
Could end up in downwards tumbles.

It isn't fair, the pressure,
Living Her life for everyone,
And this is how the shackled Wolf,
Has burst into the sun!

Chained and tortured, the Lone Wolf
Eventually was blind to light,
He needed a purpose, a mission in life,
Else die in dark and fright.

So now, inspired by an Angel,
He has finally seen the way,
Manacled but inspired,
He grows stronger every day.

The Wolf will never be as strong
As She who breaks chains for everyone!
But as long as She can turn to him,
All that matters to him is done.

She protects the people from,
The cruel, the nasty, the foul,
And any who try to move in Her way,
Will hear the Lone Wolf's growl.

So if you feel a glow one day,
At you the Angel may well be shining,
And running at Her heels, Her faithful servant,
Will no longer be whining.

1
stand up, children
stand up and wipe those tears;
smile and laugh
in your love
of the fields and the stars


smile and laugh
little darlings;
smile and laugh
in your love
of the birds and trees
and the streams
and the creatures
of the earth

smile and laugh
in your love of the clouds
and the sunshine and the berries
and the flowers
and the butterflies;
smile little children
with that love
that is radiant in your hearts


stand up, children
stand up and wipe those tears;
smile and laugh
in your love
of the fields and the stars



2

stand up, children
stand up and wipe those tears;
smile and laugh
in your love
of the fields and the stars


though all things may pass
and all things may change
and iron hands
and powder powers
bring chaos and bareness;
and these things may hurt
even those light hearts of yours -
still, delicate angels,
there is love
in your darling hearts


so bring them your love
of the sunshine
and your love of the trees;
bring them your love
of the land
and your love of life

bring them your love
of the skies
and your love of the bees;
bring them your love
of the streams, air and earth

for the love that you have
that is oneness
that love never passes;
that is the love
that abides always
in all change and passing


stand up, children
stand up and wipe those tears;
smile and laugh
in your love
of nature and the stars

We dine off of  hearts
goaded from the sea.

Hearts drawn to dead promise
and
cold hooks.

The gills
taste metallic
and the flesh is sweet
with mercury.

The haul is yanked overboard,
and the tuna fly
like angels of vengeance
to our dinner tables
where wine
condenses the poisoned bodies
into forkfulls
of pleasure.

The meat is sweeter
than anything we have ever tasted,
we hope that it puts us to sleep.

Not wanting to ****
or cherish
the bones of each other's bodies
has led us to gorge
on these fish,
these harbingers
of comas
that we are too awake
to realize
are the dreams of the stars
filtered through the
diamond-studded
rollers of the Pacific.

The blue and cold Pacific
it pumps out
the fuel for restaurants.

Restaurants
where we gnash our teeth silently
against oily meat.

Restaurants
where I have a drink
and you have a drink
and we have our fill
on vicarious oceans
that decay in the parties
of our bellies.

Tonight we will sleep
because we are drunk
with poisoned meat.

Robbed meat.

Catastrophic
is the grinder of your mouth.

A goaded heart
is an atomic bomb
and we have our fills on them.

Until we no longer want to ****.

The mercury
courses.

The waiter
dashes back and forth.

The cook
slices and dices.

The fishers haul in a line
ten-ton lines of bycatch.

All for a single forkful
of the most sugary
thing
two people can share
when their bodies
are useless
and wheezing for the oxygen
of a purified love.

And maybe we are all a little broken but that's okay because I know some people throw out their old broken things but others notice that they are broken and love them even more because they see the imperfections as beautiful. And there are others who look down at tiny little shattered pieces and get the glue and magnifying glass and get a table out they haven't seen in years and put all the pieces on it. And they sit down for hours and days putting it back together knowing that it will never be what everyone else sees as perfect again but it will be together and damaged but it will be loved. Because the first time it was created it was instantly whole and someone else thought it was good enough. But a lot of things are just good enough. Every single Hershey's kiss looks the same except for the ones labeled as mistakes. Those are less likely to occur. But if they turned out this way normally than we would consider our current norm abnormal. So then the normal would be abnormal and the abnormal would be normal. It's all perspective. So the guy who spent all that time fixing you thinks you're absurdly and absolutely perfect. Because he saw the broken bits that were your original as even better than the whole you started as. Some people just get a few cracks in shipping and some people want the discounted price. But you gotta find the ones who see scars as beauty marks. That's what it's all about. Perspective. We are like this because we aren't like everybody else. We have the abnormal make. We are the 3 am word fighters and the night riders. We are all the bad and the good and we speak in bittersweet tongues. Nobody can fix us because we aren't broken. We are disassembled and can build ourselves. We don't need anyone else's tool chest because we have one right below our rib cage. Our lungs are practically indestructible because they know just how sacred air can be. We are the strong because we've cried ourselves to sleep and thought that was normal. We are the ones who were told they were doing it wrong the first time they cut but were strong enough to realize that they were wrong and there is no right way to destroy yourself. We are the future. We are the pain. We are the daydreamers who know how brilliant the sky looks at 4:27 am east coast time in Atlanta. And just because we've thrown up in too many bathrooms and told too many family members we ate before we got there, that sure as hell doesn't mean we aren't craving life and have had too many heartaches for breakfast. We are the ones who rolled over in bed and realized that the boy was gone and that we would have to hug ourselves. My shoulders are strong from carrying the weight of the world. Our eyes think that floods are normal because that's all they have seen. I have lived my life walking along the train tracks trying to find a way to get home. All I have gotten is calluses on my feet and strangers dreams in my heart. We keep them there. We carry the letters of the broken hearted and deliver them to the lost. As we saved others we lost ourselves. And then we look up and see the stars and realize that there's this whole galaxy that we are. We are everyone's broken promises and expired wishes. We carry the spirits of the deceased and the never born. We hold on to the spirits of the people who changed. I've cried myself to sleep too many **** nights for one person so I know I am the embodied spirit of everyone who's never had a voice and everyone who has needed one. We are the ones who were pushed against a wall and didn't say no because we thought that was the only love we may ever get and didn't realize just how twisted it was to trust a boy who treated you like trash and to think his kisses were your anti depressants when they were your poison.  But then we wake up and push him off and say, "Boy, I don't need you. You were nothing but heartache and pain. You see these scars? Don't tell me to stop until you are there to take away the ******* blade. Do not tell me suicide is a joke because every single part of me has thought it was a blessing at one time or another. Do not ever touch me until the day you will not be repulsed by the blood or *****. Do not tell me you are not in to scars because that is all you have left on both my body and my heart."And we are the sad nights where the boy you just fell in love with leaves on a plane to go home to California. We are the tropical islands where we met the loves of our lives. I am the tears I shed on the balcony in the Bahamas the night I got so scared I may never see you again. I am the song I sang out to the tropical storm winds that night where I repeated, "love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah." I am the same girl who pushed the tears off her cheeks after letting their significance sink in and put on her makeup to go out and fake a few smiles. We are the ones who take care of the drunk girl we just met even though the boy we love just left. We are the ones who love our fathers even though they’ve broken more than a few bones in their lifetime. We are the ones who have treasure chest souls where children hide their keepsakes so that in twenty five years they can tell the story of their discovery to a 6 year old little girl with huge green eyes. We are the freckles on the lonely girls shoulder that made a beautiful boy fall in love with her; yet she wishes she could erase them. And we are the long distance phone calls between broken lovers that last 1 hour and 6 minutes and deliver lost hopes and shattered promises. We are the weddings that unite two people who thought about stepping in front of buses just 8 years before. We are the ones who cried on bathroom floors thinking it was our fault but stopped when we thought someone would hear. We are those who never want to be seen as weak because we don't want anyone to figure out that we can't always hold it all together. We are the ones who are bones and flesh and have died because their souls and bodies were robbed of nutrients. We are the ones who bled out on the carpet and weren't found for days. We are the student deaths that never made the announcement and never got a commemorative tree. There is nothing beautiful about sadness. But there is something beautiful about watching destruction save itself. There's something beautiful about terrible moments that turn gorgeous. We are the thorns that were trimmed back too soon because no one ever realized we were a rose. And we were never broken. We just needed to be too many heroes at once. So sometimes we get stretched too thin because our souls are too wide. Because there are a lot of broken promises and heart breaks and love affairs and sad minds and beautiful days and long nights that we must embody. We are the ones who would never change being all those things because we like having an ever changing soul. We are the ones who must fight to live even though we have patchwork hearts and memories that are in love with romanticizing the past. We must fight because when we die, others die with us. All the things we have carried and delivered turn to ash and lay beside us in a velvet and oak box for the rest of eternity on the day we are lowered in to the ground. But in reality we know that things will get better because the grandmothers dreams of an education located in our left knee cap on the right hand side tell us to never give up. So that's what we do. We listen to the demons in our souls and the angels that also pay rent. But we carry all our memories even when they jab us in the ribs and make us believe that we will never breathe again. But we are breathing. We are living and the daughter we are yet to have needs us to tell her about the world. Because I pray she has a soul like mine so that I may show her that the world is both bitter and sweet but that every single thing looks better after thinking you'd seen the most beautiful thing in the world. So we keep these bodies and live our lives so that we may realize that there are many more parts of us that magnifying glasses don't show and pounds can't measure.  And we hold on for everyone but must learn to hold the firmest grip for ourselves. Because I will always love that boy who left the island with the crystal clear water and I will never forget the girl who told me I didn't destroy myself in the right way. And I am okay with that. I am okay with carrying these things. I am used to the weight of noth the beautiful and the terrible. And although it makes me feel empty at times, I realize that it is only because my ever hungry soul is still craving even more life.

As a child I thought they stole
The true essence of my soul
I walked without innocence
Listening in vain for my penance
Searching I journeyed to and fro
To realize I had no great place to go
I wandered through my emotions
Which sent my life in locomotion
Not being quite able to see
The beauty that was within me
People would tell me I was a gift
My mind blocking it I would go stiff
Surley if they could see the past
The love for me would never last
Not once did I see my own light
I was way too caught up in my own fight
One wretching hurt sent me stopping
I finally seen all my own mocking
Sick and depressed my heart was crushed
I wanted dearly to become a drunken lush
I was tired of carrying this extra person
A deep look inside sent me cursing
Nobody on this earth can take away
The God soul given to me that day
Still as innocent as freshly first birthed
When I crossed this threshold to earth
I did allow my emotions to take it all on
When it was their burden for the wrongs
Being grateful not resentful towards them
I finally saw I was a beautiful shinning gem
Daily I learn this human suit I am to wear
Has no bearing on the soul I have to bare
With my angels we keep it locked and stored
I see the reflections now on my own accord
What the world thinks of me or this poem
It has no bearing on how I am going home
The voice whispers innocence within my mind
Beauty and grace is my angel soul intertwined
Channeling spirits from above where I belong
Speaking this truth I will forever stand strong
This battle of emotions never happening again
For now I see I am a true princess within

Mamacita hold me dearly under folds
of black hair where light can't shine I
feel the warmest with my nose
pulling deep breaths of floral shampoos

and hot mesoamerican corn tortilla
from the oven with pepper carnitas drifting
through cracks under locked bedroom
doorhandles, in the bed and under

an azetec starred quilt duvet between sunshine
brown arms with tiny black feminine hairs,
I think about dinnertime at seven
with my warm Mamacita and her cousins
and of all the caring people
L.A shared with me.

.


Snips & snails & midnight shadows unaware--

...the soft flesh of wildflowers tremble
in the blistering wind.

Slowly shifting their tattered reflection...
Twilight fire, painted angels
bleeding dreamlessly.

A perfect stranger
melts like a million echoes ground into dust.
Eternity glowed like a falling moonstone.

Girl's souls
really are sugar and spice...







.

Gone be yon melted summer's day
Whilst shrouded in robes of sorrow
That never quill of a bard can portray
Nor years unborn may ever know
When a fair maiden pottered my way,
Gently as drops of descending snow.

Her eyes fairer than burnished gold
Illuminated the vast shadowy night,
Ebony hair upon her seraphic body rolled
With a diadem of reddest roses bedight
That swifter than a gallant knight so bold,
I plunged to Elysium at such a sight.

For she bore beauty of a silvery moon
In lone splendor upon heavens bay,
The pulchritude of sun beams by noon
Against the sea on a fine blazing day.
Now that love casted her novelty boon,
Timidly I gravitated towards her way

And in fables faintly whispered unto her:
"Little maiden, little maiden, little maiden,
O queen fairer than chalcedonic luster;
Are flowers of yonder golden Aidenn
More fair and redolent than thou are?"
This did gladden - I strayed in a garden;

Her garden of ethereal pulchritude
Where no mortal ever walked through
And now doth hearts gambol with glee
'Neath elm leaves bedight with stars above
That the beauty queen calls it balm of Gilead
To visit her garden - a garden of love.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angels, California, USA
             12th/09/2018

awoke.  was not wanted.  not wanted in the way a war is wanted.  but being awake was at least something.  the other side of a pane of glass.  not the side a god would touch.  a finger belonging to the earth is a bit much but the unwanted was pressed by it deeper into a softness ascribed to the dark.  the unwanted would lose its three surviving teeth on the way down.  one bets they float there still in baby room.  (baby rooms across the country lift in slo mo when another god angers.)  what age appropriate thing the wanted would do to choke back some dirt crumb stars.  those teeth.  my first word was water.  your first word I drank.  my body is a photograph of the oft cut child whose parent was an atheist made of darkroom chemicals.  whose other parent was made of angels arguing.  whose final parent witnessed nothing but drew a blank with gusto.  

-              

the moral was always at the beginning.  this is how my mother kept after me.  

-

the naming ritual offers its own blood in increments.  a date on a red brick takes on water.  we scratch our heads but not without vigor.  I reach into my brain.  I use one eye to do it.  you follow suit but fail.  because we have each two eyes our creator is self reflexive and thanks god for the both of us.

-

insights occur most nobly inside boys boxing tether *****.  you are an abortion that lived.  I know to turn away from it.  I know one thought should lead to another.  you were creative but only on second thought.  you were disabled and you died.

Prince Pierre of Monaco
and several of his friends
are nursing sores
and broken jaws
They won’t party
here again

Adam Hock, a footballer,
was drinking with three friends
who looked like “Charlie’s angels”
with designer made rear ends.

The Prince, perhaps a little juiced,
and fond of  lovely things,
got over friendly with the girls.
(another sport of kings)

When Adam gave the Prince a Pop
Pierre will long recall,
His three friends assaulted Mr. Hoch
and each one took the fall.

Mr. Hoch is middle aged,
but all American.
Four French were not his equal.-
He could have handled ten.

On the 9th, I was driving in a hurry from Jerusalem to Jerico, laden with kisses for you.  A cop waved me down at the Bank junction at Aluva. Unnerved, the car hit something. All your kisses scattered on the road. My hands, legs, face and ***** blushed with gashes. My kisses for you lay around in the middle of the road. The orphan kids from Janaseva were picking them up. They packed them in their sling bags. A beggar woman who was passing by picked up one to smell it. College going kids make fun of my kisses for you. A cop tramples one of them with his boot.  A pock marked tipper truck crushes it under its wheels. A procession agitating for drinking water marches past it. My kisses for you are strewn in the middle of the road and holler for the moistness of your lips. Covered in a sheet woven with wounds, I lie on a hospital bed. Lamenting 'my kisses, my kisses’, you catch a flight and land in Nedumbassery.  You come to see me. In haste, you forget to buy me oranges.

I kept looking at you.
It was raining outside.

I looked at your lips.
Then, all the flowers in the front yard roll in laughter.

I look at your throat.
Then, a white dove takes off from a mango tree.

I look at your ears.
Then, a thrush flies off seeking its mother.

I look at your strands of hair.
Then, the plumeria leaves pick lice from each other.

I look at your eyes.
Then, the well in the court yard gives a missed call to the sea.

I look at your nose.
Then, the glare outside sketches the spring.

I look at your arm pits.
Outside, yellow woods sing a song.

I look at your *******.
Outside, bird’s eye chilies stand sharply *****.

I look at your cleavage.
A mother who bore six squats outside and coughs.

I at your navel.
Outside, a thousand bats.

I at your feet.
Then, a sweet gooseberry falls on the yard.


At knees.
At tender thighs...

Always
Always then
Outside, the drum beats of a road show grow in crescendo.

I trace pictures of our kids on your lips.

Then, in the middle of the road, the souls of kids crushed under wheels queue up with oranges to meet us.

When you and I wail without a sound, a slice from it falls on the ground. I make up a simile that tears are the slices of oranges that drop from the hands of those who have not had enough of loving. You give me one more kiss. I stash it away doubting whether you will be near when I die.  Our kisses attack us asking us whether we will abandon them again. We lie on the hospital bed covered in wounds from the kisses. A bunch of angels come with syringes and bitter pills. We run away without paying the bill. Our kisses follow us like a procession of bare bodies with running noses. Unable to bear the sorrow, you hug them right on the highway. I buy a cigarette from the petty shop nearby and, puffing on it, watch you.



Translation : Ra Sha

She had a menacing gaze,
piercing-eyes
like an alley cat,
came from
two hoods over
near the Ballymun flats.

So I understood,
it wasn't too
hard to explain
the serpent that slithered
down her **** spine
& the flaming-skulls that
rolled up each arm.

It was the two angels,
one inked on each blade
that confused me.

Wings beating at the air,
Pushing bodies from the ground,
Intrigued me as a child.
Birds
   Bats
      Angels
         Dragons
    Other winged creatures
Beckoned me to join them
Through pages and fairy tales I held dear.
I wanted to be like them;
To have wings and fly
To places only imagined.
But life is cruel,
And I got my reality check
Sooner than I was ready to let go.
I know now
That Humans will never fly
    With wings of bone
        And skin
            And feathers.
I am forever bound to the Earth,
This place.
                  And yet…
                                   I still dream.