This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.
For it no longer echoes in my ears, in my fingers,
in my tongue. These endless digits fallen instantaneously
numb like a local anesthetic or winter basement nights
alone in the dark.

This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.
It's melodic tones and overtures, the way it wraps
around words like my hands around your curves.

This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.
And how I fed on it like the word of God.

This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.

You messaged me yesterday.
Snide words about present company
and then wanted to see me. I agreed
because I no longer remembered the
sound of your voice. Those tones
and inflections that make the
ugliest insults sound like a church choir.
Spiritual. Soulful.
Your laugh rang through the car
like it has through the hollows
of my mind every night when
eyes are closed, beds are empty
and I try to remember the sound
of your voice.

Chemical chains, the synapse, the grain
And forced, discreet , just pick up your feet
Emerge, the irony, nerves are complete
The scapegoat, the time, disguised in your crime
A field, left untouched
A song and a glow, for all those who know
Cracks in the concrete
Adjust the volume, edge of your seat
Bass, treble, iron hits the metal
Go grab a ride, and pedal, pedal, pedal
Shock therapy, through the ears, it would sound
An audiophile, without fear, is now found

Anything All of the Everything

Events of Summer quickly ensue, it takes hold of you quickly, while the police drive thru. You cannot find it half-way into the night, you could hold up on a park bench or lay your blanket on the slough. Perhaps when your dreams kick, your asterisks will come, build a map of your defense and then head for the sun. Some foe outwit the wounds of life, furry blister-like faces, when they take up the star dust diamonds, the trail guides take after hurrying up paces.

The festivities of fear are living oaths inside of marbled starve rocks, they harvest shoots and ladders, and keep tabs on wild beasts and livestock. There's no match throughout the campgrounds. There's no matchbook light to find us. If you're quick enough with your 70s, then perhaps you'll follow the nightness that's arrived us.

In aide of her lift-gate, shredding pensive miens and speeding mimes, taking ward of one thousand fathomed depths, assumes courageous anti-hate isms. She can come quickly with a syzygy, her van packed with fresh woes of Sunday, then around Monday humbly hides her stuff in the small hems of her bed linens. You can't outwit the governess who preys on handicapped children's thrift finds. She makes clothes and keeps her hands to bed. She bares new graves for time's new roman epithets and moving pictures. She  unplugs her bleeding tongues under some new sone for her monarchic archetypical audiophile party.

While the umberphiles sleep, nyctophiliacs stalk grizzlies. Mosquitos quaff at human blood, while their offspring keep drinking. The idle bugs throes, misanthropic and useless, teach electric lusters' mouths to grow into fiery hoops with which to slip past all the clueless.  The arachnids might dance, the haunting verbs they might fray. The Egyptians at first glance, try to hide their heroine pyramids away.

So hush little violet dormant flowers, fake your fertility and keep your skeptic drink. Keep each one you might meet, within one hundred feet of where you sleep. Keep your arms length's supine, your supplies out of reach, practice wrapping yourself up inside boxes where the souls can sleep.

If you only once catch a fool, avoid the plague-speak certain lips might tell. Each uttered word commanded with too much ******* across the bandwidth. Mortal courses can't be taught, human voices can't keep the draught, ferocious abstract engineered humanity has escaped this truant absence and immorality. You, you catch a fool, she could preach hurts and djinns, it could dot the I's of when, and unfurl the sighs of men. Berthed earthlings that the **** ascribes, hurts the worthless and sours true purpose widths of curfews and its curses, all these biomes perfervidly reserve the fury for their furtive perversity, elements to obscure the telemetry that has coddled such a dark conflagration of immensity, it's the cluelessness of these transgressors that forces the abhorrence towards all-white-everything professors.

This subdued wordsmith
doth not rack his brains to **** fess appeal
toward one household pop starlet.

He blithely, nonchalantly, and willingly
add mitts audiological enjoyment, sans the lithe
hot feline Taylor Swift - I might be
the only baby boomer ****** mwm,
who admires this talented singer/songwriter,
yet owns NO (absolute zero)  
aspirations beyond composing poems or prose
toward divine dame.

A questionable attempt to stitch together –
analogous to knot sew swift a tailor,
this scribe sought to create a poem
(crafted countless years ago)
from her then song titles spanning
the letter “A” to the letter “H.”

Despite never setting eyes
(AND MOST Definitely NOT PAWS),
this grateful dead corpse of a skeleton
(essentially lovely bare bones),
when alive I found one gal powerhouse,
(asper the title of this informal homage)
genuinely fashioned, entirely
dutifully composed, benevolently addressed
as an attraction among
the wonders of the
world wide web, confidently enduring,
gracefully immensely known,
mainly not overly prone to quibble
regarding her less outstanding
musical and lyrical confections.

This doggone muttering pooch
bow wows against
nattering nabobs of negativism
able, eager, ready, and willing
bugaboos countering, dispelling, excoriating...
courtesy unsustained denunciations
against latent natural born talents
of aforementioned musician,
whereby pulp magazines make mincemeat
hammering, nailing, and wrenching
storied accomplishments
never yanking off the top of list
of solo women musical artists
who sold the most number one albums.

Before the advent vis a vis
crafting this literary challenge
incorporating a poetic endeavor
predicated on prolific tunes
comprising audiophile of Taylor Swift,
(and thus a prescript interim),
as iterated above,
a whim took hold to string
her partial song playlist
(quite substantial even up to
BUT NOT including the letter “I”).

This scribe dabbled, hocked, and limned
what evolved into a semi satisfactory effort,
to articulate, copacetic, enigmatic, generic,
ironic, kinetic, magnetic, opportunistic,
quixotic, scholastic, ultra democratic,
holistic yik yak paddy whack
give this bard a bon bon.

Adieu admit to elaborating, jovially,
and openly leave readers second guessing,
(what might easily be labeled,
misconstrued, and nullified as gobbledygook),
asper how mashup song titles
got figuratively slapped together
as a feebly note worthy attempt
to put down sew sew pontoon
swiftly tailored literary bridges
in an effort to connect a cumbersome,
fulsome, and irksome pseudo
straight forward itemized songs
sung by said seductive singular sylph..

Thee Mademoiselle found,
or made a place in the world for yourself
aching like a boy out in left field
pining to catch that high fly
there ain't nothing 'bout you,
(nor Brooks and Dunn) I can attest
even if hypothetically,
we spent eons at an all night diner,
where culinary staff knew thee all too well
and perhaps all you wanted
(shared with Michelle Branch)
perhaps positing the rhetorical question –
am I ready for love?

With an American boy
or a ***** best buddy
re: best friend forever with an American girl
if someone got cross, tis beneficial
(in this one republic) to apologize
regardless, whom ye choose as a confidante,
the following refrain plays in your mind
baby don't you break my heart slow
(at least according to Vonda Shepard)
memories no doubt arise,
when thee hapt to be a baby girl

thoughts unspool back to December
beautiful eyes peered
at a fractured reflection
before the love story
would begin again,
while ebbing, and flowing with my baby
recalling Bette Davis' eye
(taking visual delight
fantastic world tour live)
reminding self how better off
the choice made

tis much better than revenge
but umpteen times bother I will
asper boys and love
combustible mix – nonetheless
always reminding myself to breathe
deep, cuz being breathless
likened to a taste of death,
(I admit better than Ezra)
learning how to act points back
asper being brought up that way
lessons oft learned getting busted.

Oh...and by the way can I go with you?

Can you feel the love tonight?

Discern ache kin to sand castles crumbling?

Such granular, or solid state matter
doth forced to change
attested to by chaperone dads,
who dressed as Santa Claus invoked
that Christmas must be something more
especially, Christmases,
when you were mine
ah...closest to a cowboy
as “sigh” ever got
or tasting Gunstock rattlesnake pulverized,

yet countenance goose
(and found you under the care of Chet Atkins
at the make believe medical center)
shivered flesh against cold as you
though desiring thee to come back...he here
no doubt prone
to announce crazier requests asked
even crazier (as demonstrated
by flash mob generated
by Hannah Montana, one live wire)

if able to glean my sentiments...
cross my heart
aware as an adult feeling
the life source of daddy
or mommy, while hinting
with a stone temple piloted cold stare
double dare you to move
(or switchfoot), one to another
das feet – planted within
pitch dark blue Tennessee

dwelling with thoughts
of ma dear Digdan
or writing an imaginary letter
starting...”dear John”
ample melancholy maudlin material
to completely bind a diary of me
yes concert cavorting circumstances
avoidable, though didn't they
make chase like butterflies,
and don't they hate me for loving you?

So please don't tell me you want to,
when I don't want to anymore
argh, yet impossibly unshakable
the recurring thought don't you
act indiscriminately
as when down came the rain,
washed the spied her out
following suit (wet)
drenching yea...one drama queen
with chin amen along pearl
(jammed) harbor drive
(in conjunction with alan jackson)
presaging Jiving drops of Jupiter
(train chugging, clacking, clattering
railing gestalt of alien nation),

and all of a sudden like how odd though...
thinking about eighth grade graduate,
when lifetime seemed enchanted
now everything has changed
eyes open (“hunger games”)
maketh me – fall back on you
instant messaging you –
fall into me fearless,
though only fifteen
and how against pyrotechnics,
you find your way back home
on the fourth of July
perhaps led by a zeppelin sized firefly
ah, I ask myself who is the foolish one?

Me for you forever & always
(a platinum edition)
for girl at home
(donned in deluxe edition)
going bananas
in reference to Amazing Gracie
swaggering, and immune
to gunpowder & lead,
(whose leading lady Miranda Lambert)
whatsapp penned left her looking haunted
heartbreaker – (my words –
like the late Tom Petty)
about her, but unsure
if our thoughts aligned

anyway, here you go again (Dolly Parton)
a hero heroine
so...I clamor to yell out “hey soul sister”
and hey Stephen
along the boulevard of broken dreams,
this ribbon highway don't care
about trumpeting his lies
nor desecrating holy ground
honey baby, yes ye in the mom jeans,
I feel hopelessly devoted to you
(as didst Olivia Newton)
instinctively keen how to save a life
bobbing buoyantly amidst the fray.

Okay, let's start from the beginning and see what happens.
uh, I was born January 31st, 2000. That makes me an iGen or Gen Z.
What that has to do with who I am, I have no idea.
I've been told that my spirit animal is a Magpie.
It's unknown to me how that defines my personality
as I have never really let anyone enter into the threshold of my life,
for when I let them, they are there just to wipe their feet on my welcome mat and hurry off to someplace more important.

My list of hobbies include oversleeping, drinking more than eating, having philosophical existential conversations with the voices in my head, stargazing on the ground, and always reminding myself that I have overstayed my welcome. I love music when I cannot play an instrument, rewatching the same shows and animes because I know the endings and can skip to my favorite parts.

I love smoothies, blueberries, pomegranates, and black licorice. Like, a lot. I can't stand the existence of styrofoam, embarrassing comedy, and  country and rap music that has no meaning. I hate when media that portrays light of serious topics, the fact I will never fully believe in myself, and that bad things happen to the best of people, and I hate that I can't trust others.

I'm scared of four things: heights, medicine, myself -especially behind closed doors-, and being happy. I've learned not to be afraid of the unknown, because life without uncertainty, is also uncertain so why try to avoid it? Being afraid is wanting to travel the galaxy but never leaving your doorstep.

I'd say I’m a hopeless romantic that doesn't know how to be romantic. Moreover, I am waiting to fall in love. I am not exactly waiting to be in love as that comes with hardships, disagreements, breakups, the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, but that's just me being pessimistic, knowing that no one will want to love me in that way.  

I genuinely believe I will never find love as I fear happiness. I fear the other shoe dropping, the plot twist that comes with my series of unfortunate events, and I suppose that is why I ruin every  relationship I've been in. I sabotage every possibility by not saying enough, by lying about myself, taking actions too far and turning myself into my inner demons in order to avoid the pity and shame by being the scapegoat.

But I’m waiting for the fall, the moment I look into a girl's eyes and be completely vulnerable, knowing that she is the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. To understand the secret of happiness on a park bench with Sean Maguire.

I suppose that's why I am terrified of heights, but still wish to go skydiving. Not for reasons most people do it. But for the Fate of it, to see the world from a distance and for that moment to relinquish all my inhibitions and just... live, per chance to be. That's why its called falling I suppose, because when you fall, everything you are thinking of vanishes and it is just that moment of falling with nothing you can do. To have the die cast. No scrambling for any purchase or refuge to save you. Or that's how I imagine it.

I'd say I'm a sucker for a girl with a cute smile, curly hair, and a laugh that makes me weak-kneed. I don't know what love is exactly but would love to give it a shot, to end up loving something more than myself, which with all things being, it’s not that much to begin with. I am oblivious to any kind of flirtation that doesn't have the specific words "I'm into you" in it, and I have no clue how to ask a girl out on a date because the girls I have crushes on don't even know I exist.

I'm an audiophile, meaning I like sounds, like a nice breeze though a grove, the roar of a waterfall and even silence, but I can't handle the sound of people. I'm a self-diagnosed sociopath because I've watched death walk away without shedding a tear. I am broken beyond fragments and avoid therapists with my life. I believe I will never find love because you first have to love yourself enough.

I am nobody's "person". I'm the student at the back of the class with the only time their name is spoken of is roll call. I get surprised by notifications, compliments, and the sound of my name telegraphing through the air. For this, I have trust issues, because hearing my name on the top of another's tongue is a symbol of necessity, a god-like power of convenience. And I know that if I disappeared tomorrow, very few to none would miss me as I explore into the unknown and I know I would then have more friends there than I do now.

I have the number 1-800-273-8255 imprinted on my hippocampus and the constant urge to explore sky at terminal velocity. I'm a botched suicide attempt wrapped in scars of doubt, insecurity and self hate, crippled from speaking by a nation who raised me by the terms equal to that of "grow a pair", "get over it", and "men don't cry"

I have a fear of being healthy from medicine, from the memory of a handful of pills, the euphoria to have all pain stripped away, the memory of being the ghost in just another machine, the definition of the words "Let Go." said by 7 demons canonized as opioids, being found by the man in black I met at the cross roads of rock bottom and a 17 story ledge asking where my father's hydrocodone went. And I, wanting to, with every tear stained fault lines, with every choked cry, with every false answer to the question "Are you okay?", to tell the truth rather than blaming my brother's drug addict friends needing their high.

I have a mentality fueled by spite and because of it, a versatile perspective. I know the moment I feel happy, the other shoe will drop. Just let me show you the collar choking my neck and the leash carried by hope, hanging me in a tree in front of a lynch mob of flowers bouquets and second dates. I never wish upon others of the things I've seen for they would lack the tolerance void of compassion and happenstance, to know how to try your best always, yet never be good enough in their own eyes.  

Hi. My name is Jon, not spelled with a H.
I love listening windows down to loud music, exploring odd thrift shops, laughing until my lungs hurt, and watching sunsets.
I don't talk about myself as much as I should and I don't like my own smile. I lie without knowing the truth and have light speed thoughts, but never enough courage to voice 'em.
I like being alone, but I don't like being lonely.
I believe that there is a God out there and I know he/she/they/it is rooting for me because nobody is going to live my life for me, so I might as well live it for myself.