A body and soul stretched to extremes
Yin and yang
The most and least of both worlds
Opposite sides of the coin
Cleansing and pure
Tainting and pitch
Light and dark
Of the purest white
And the most tainted black
Earth and air and fire and water and aether
Sun and rain
The brightest and hottest fires of sun
Beating and firing heat from the bottomless flames of hell
Breaking into a cold sweat without cease
The flaming evil of health
Rain and sun
The darkest and iciest rain of clouds
Pouring and drenching from the endless pools of heaven
Chilling into a cleansing soak never long enough
The freezing good of pain
The contradictions, the back and forth
The intelligent confusion
The stupid direction
The leather and biker tough guy
The shy and bookish sweet girl
The false realities and true lies
Love in strangers and indifference in close friends
Hope in troubled times and loss in peaceful
Banding together the unlikelies
Separating the probabilities
Pain in love and happiness
Contentment in fear and despair
The sound of one hand clapping.

I need to know something. I don’t know if you want to tell me or not, but I really don’t care. You’re gonna tell me or you’re gonna find yourself in a world of trouble. I’m already ****** and it won’t take much to push me over the edge into dangerously angry territory.

No, **** it. Never mind. I’m ALREADY in “dangerously angry territory”. No, it wasn’t your fault. I was already close enough I could see the other side of reason before you came along.

But it would still be nice to know, if you’re willing to tell me. I mean, I’m not going to force it from you. That was the plan just a moment ago, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided that my bitterness is not your fault. I won’t make you pay for it.

Yet I do feel as if it would do me a world of good to know.

Where were you when I was falling in love?

Were you sitting in a back seat of a crowded subway train with a cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a copy of “The Catcher in the Rye” in the other, holding it in front of your face as if it’s pages were a fascinating mirror? Was there an old man sitting near who turned to look at you every so often to the point where it creeped you out? Maybe you eventually said something to him, like “Excuse me, but is there something you wanted to say to me?"

“Why would you get that idea?” he would ask, as if he were totally oblivious to his invasive nature.

“I don’t know…you just keep looking at me and I wondered if there were a reason for it.”

“Nope. Not that I can think of.”

Did you smack him real good right then? Did you draw blood? I hope you did. I hope the driver had to stop the train to come back and drag you off of him. It would have been a real drag if the police had to be summoned, but on the other hand, wow, how ****** the thought of you resisting arrest.

Or did you cower into your corner, turn a page in your book and let the lecherous ******* carry on? I don’t think so. I really don’t think so. I don’t think that’s the kind of girl you are. I think you’re a firecracker.

And I think that wherever you were when I was falling in love is not where I wanted you to be. Not where you should have been.

Because I fell in love with a robot. Who knows why I fell in love with an ottoman? I didn’t know she was one at the time. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to fall in love with a machine? No, she was flesh and bones when I met her. She seemed normal, like all the other women I’ve ever seen or known.

But then she started smoking cigarettes. She carried them around in a little soft leather pouch that could be mistaken for nothing else but a case for holding the little *******.

God I hate cigarettes. I hate the smell of them, whether they’re lit or not. I hate the dark tan color of their filters with the little white dots speckled randomly. I hate the cotton that stuffs their filters. I hate the white paper with the almost imperceptible stripes banding around their length. I hate how the brand is stamped close to the base of the filter. I hate the packages that they come in and the cellophane that wraps them. I hate how stray flecks of tobacco gather in the bottom of the boxes and the wrappers, too. I hate how they make a person’s breath stink. I hate how they make a person’s clothes reek. I hate the way they look in a shirt pocket. I hate the way they look between people’s fingers and in their mouths. I hate the way they burn down to the nub and the ash that they leave behind. I hate pitch black nicotine stains on ******* smokers’ hands. I hate the way some people put one between their ear and noggin and actually think it makes them look cool. I hate how smokers seem to have some code of sharing, how it’s always “Hey, can I *** a smoke from you?” and 99 times out of 100 the answer is “sure”. It’s never, “Okay, but you gotta pay me back.” Oh no, Smoker’s Karma is at work here. I hate the way too many people call ‘em “smokes”. “I’m off to get a pack of smokes.” Good God, I think that’s lame. “Smokes”. Ha. I hate the way smokers ***** about laws that prohibit them from smoking in public and how so many of them have absolutely no regard for non-smokers who not only can’t stand the smell of the ******* but would just as soon not chance even the most remote possibility of getting lung cancer caused by second hand smoke. I hate how smokers would tell that person, “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. The chances of that happening are one in a million.” So what? *******. ******* with your nasty cancer sticks and **** your tar-lined wheezing lungs, too. **** the death bed you will lie on when emphysema steals your last breath. **** the oxygen tanks that cost almost as much as all the cartons of cigarettes you have wasted your money on during the last who-knows-how-many years of your life. **** all your attempts to quit. **** the feeling of disappointment that overwhelms when you fail once again, as Mighty God Tobacco hugs you, strokes your wet hair, wipes the sweat from your forehead and the tears from your eyes. Sweet summer sweat. The tears of a clown.

You know what? She never smoked before. I never would have thought she would pick up that disgusting habit, but she sure as hell did. Picked it up like it was a twenty dollar bill someone lost that she found on the side of the road as she walked to the smoke shop to buy another pack of Marlboro Lights.

There’s another thing I hate about cigarettes. “Smoke Shops”. Where the value-minded smokers purchase their wares. Not “Cigarette Store”. Not “Tobacco Warehouse"…oh, no. It’s a SMOKE SHOP. You’re going to buy some smoke, brother Jim. You’re gonna spend too much money at the 7-11 and it’s all gonna go up in smoke, but by the grace of God you are gonna save a couple of bucks by purchasing them at the “Smoke Shop” instead of the convenience store. You complain until you’re blue in the face about how ridiculously high the ciggy prices are at normal retail outlets, but when you run out of ‘em and the God-blessed “Smoke Shop” is closed ‘cuz it’s Sunday you’ll drive like a madman to Love’s and blow ten bucks because there’s a “Buy Two Get One Free” special going on. What a ******* good deal that is, eh, mister?

Furthermore…CIGGYS??? I hate how people call ‘em “ciggys”. But not nearly as much as I hate the word “cigarette”. I cannot stand to speak the word. I hate the way it rolls of my tongue. I hate the way the word sounds like it means “little cigars”.

I hate the way some smokers empty out their car ashtrays in the parking lot. I hate the way all the butts look lying there in a heap, a pile of paper soaked with the spittle of a hundred different mouths. And yet the nicotine python grips some desperate smokers so tightly that they will pick them up and try to smoke the last tiny flecks of tobacco from their crushed and blackened ends. I’ve even seen people extract the remaining **** from several discarded butts, roll it all up in a Zig Zag paper and smoke it. Don’t these people even know what Zig Zag papers are for? They sure ain't for tobacco, Charter.

“Butts”. There’s another word in the smokers lexicon that just sounds silly. “Smoke ‘er down to the ****, Jack, we’ve got more!” “I don’t have an ash tray, Terry, so just put your BUTTS in that half empty soda can over there on the table”…never thinking that there might be someone else at the party who could very likely mistake that particular pop can for his own and take a mighty swig from it. Oh my God, the thought, it gags me. How nauseating it would be to feel one of those wretched things fall against your lips and…Egad…the flavor…and yet the cruel smoker will laugh at such misfortune.

****.

God help me.

She was not a robot when I met her. Oh, no, she was a beautiful, exciting, passionate loving woman with a heart of gold and a desire that was practically insatiable. Here…take a look, I have a photograph in my wallet. See what I mean? That’s right, daddy-O, she was a real dreamboat. I used to carry this picture with me wherever I went…I guess I still do, huh? But I don’t know why. I don’t know why I torture myself looking at it, remembering what was, all we had, our bright and glorious future wrecked and deserted by her newfound proclivity for smoking cigarettes. Yeah, my friend, she was a real keeper. But you know what? **** her now, y’know? Just turn her over and **** her.

But hey…perhaps I’ve been too harsh on the smoker in general (if not to her…no, not to her). Perhaps I have exaggerated a bit. After all, some of my best friends smoke. It’s their business, not mine. Never has been mine. I know that. If they knew how I felt about the whole thing, whose to say they wouldn’t tell me to ****** off and never come back? Then again, if they are so shallow as to take any of this as a personal insult, then maybe, just maybe they aren’t my friends after all. I doubt the robot would want anything more to do with me if she knew what a stalwart anti-smoker I am. But I thought she felt the same. She DID feel the same. She told me as much. Before she lost her soul. Before she started smoking cigarettes. Before she started bumming ciggys.

I got no time for changes in her life so now I ask you again…where were you when I was falling in love?

Were you sitting in a Pentecostal Holiness church on a hard pew early Sunday morning before the service began, thumbing through the hymnal, looking for one that best expressed your feelings of devotion at that point in your spiritual journey? And what would that hymn have been? “Onward Christian Soldiers”? “Peace in the Valley”? “In the Garden”? “Smoke on the Water”? “Hotel California”? Maybe some obscure Black Sabbath song tucked in at the end of the book, next to the Doxology?

Did your hair shimmer, reflected in the light that poured through the stained glass window directly behind you? Did you feel it’s heat on your neck? Did it draw out beads of perspiration there, glistening? Would you have let me lick them and taste their saltiness even in the sanctuary of the church building? Probably not. But I don’t think the idea would repulse you like it would some other bonnet headed midi-skirt wearing holy rollin’ *****.

Maybe I would have asked you outside so that you might feel a little more comfortable with what I’d had in mind.

And maybe you would have told me “no”. I couldn’t blame you for that. No, I wouldn’t. It’s only natural for a real woman to guard her integrity in situations such as this one. I could not hold that against you.

Is that where you were? I need to know. Where the hell were you when I was falling in love?

1) (insert dessert name for skin here)
2) mysterious hair goddesses
3) the back wall of a hip hop video
4) temptresses of your own design
5) the entire land ruled by drama queens
6) your lowkey fantasy
7) your direct blame
8) the subset of a subset of a stereotype
9) the loud and proud
10) the celestial bodies walking through your neighborhoods
11) the only magic act you can see again and again and still not know how it works
12) not the Madea or the Precious, but somehow still the Madea and the Precious
13) trees banding together for the sake of their own leaves AND to sustain the forest

**~~a.s.f.

His mother thought he had the face of an angel, but his teachers and his schoolmates saw the demon in him. Many knew the real Logan, contrary to the darling boy image in his school picture.  His chunky, freckled face was obnoxious, not angelic. Instead of innocence, the look of deviousness came through in those shifty, light blue peepers of his.  His incisors were on the pointy side, like mini fangs, and whenever Logan smiled one thought of a rattlesnake. Sure, he was smart, and he had stellar grades, yet he used his wits to be sneaky, often trying to outwit everybody, appearing to be a prize student in the classroom while being the Class A **** on the playground.  

A big, stout boy, he used this physical advantage to torment his less advantaged peers. When no adults were in sight, he was always trying to corner others at school, pushing his weight around to abuse those smaller than he was, applauding his own one-boy-show of intimidation with raucous laughter and claps.

Indeed, the targets of Logan’s aggression were always the weaker ones, not the ones who would ever think twice about beating the crap out of him. He went to great lengths to terrorize others—tripping them up, pushing them around, getting up in someone’s face to tell that kid how ugly or how stupid that he was—anything that caused trouble. The victims were sometimes brought to tears, and Logan was quick to call them sissies and babies. A kid named Conner, a fellow six grader, was one of Logan's favorites to pick on. Sometimes, Logan attracted a small audience of bystanders, some of them egging him on while the rest were just watching.  So Logan had his partners-in-crime through either entertainment value or passivity—a great ego booster for such a bully as him.

Few kids tried to fight back, for they were quickly overpowered, and they all knew they were no match for the likes of such a creep.  For fear of retaliation—not wanting to be branded as a snitch—most of Logan’s victims were too scared to tell anyone, the teacher or their parents. Once in a while, a protector, a fellow student, would tell the teacher on their behalf.

Logan hated snitches because it would land him in the classroom during plenty of recess times, or in the principal's office. It also brought him a day of suspension, here and there, with his mother threatening to sue the school. A small number of parents were banding together, wanting Logan out of that school, and Conner's mom was one of them.  Conner might as well have worn a target on his back saying, "Come and get me!"    

Conner knew where he stood—as a member of the group of unpopular kids. He was one of the smallest of his classmates, and with his bright red hair and crooked teeth he was a splendid target for Logan’s juvenile jollies. He avoided Logan any chance he got, staying close to the classroom during recess or walking a much longer route home from school, often delaying going home but feeling all the more alone and vulnerable. His few friends all told him the things they wanted him do to Logan, things they wouldn't dare do, themselves.

Kick him in the nuts!

Jump him from behind and gouge his eyes out!

Tie him up and shove Ex-lax down his mouth!

Wear boots with spikes so you can wrestle him to the ground and stomp all over him!

Conner, you should take up Karate and Kung Foo the **** out of him!!!

Well, Conner would have loved to have given Logan a taste of his own medicine, but never believed it could happen. One day, though, he had enough. For sure, he never even planned to do it, but it happened, nonetheless. When Logan fell back flat back on the school sidewalk, Conner couldn't even believe the big boy landed there. And it happened because of him! Logan couldn't believe it, either, sitting on his rear end with the most dazed expression on his face. Conner clocked him right in the jaw!  Conner was David, and Logan was Goliath, and it was awesome!

Conner just had a perfect shot, with perfect timing and aim. Logan was long overdue to get the result of someone’s wrath, and it was about time someone stuck it to him. Yet Conner never meant this to be a statement for all of Logan's victims. He just was tired of being afraid, of being humiliated.  For the thousandth time, Logan was waiting for him outside of class, blocking his path, and there was just no avoiding things.

Conner truly wanted to fight his own battles—dreamed of it, imagined it—but never in a million years did he think he’d ever really do it!  His mom couldn't be there to defend his every step. Nobody could.  

And there was Logan, so embarrassed as a few other kids gasped and pointed. Some were now applauding and cheering at what Conner just did, even the hypocrites who once cheered on Logan’s bullying. Now the bully was reduced to tears, for a change, as the small crowd jeered and yelled out such things as "Karma!", "Crybaby!", "Way to go, Conner!" and "Kick Logan’s ***!"

Conner actually started to feel sorry for the kid as he stumbled up off the ground and ran off. Other kids came along the scene, and soon Conner was bombarded with congratulatory measures, questions, and wonderment at his great accomplishment. Chalk one up for him! He was the unlikely defender, the kid who had the guts to give it back to the one who made his life miserable. This event would become the talk of his peers for quite some time, something of school legend.

So Logan never bothered Conner anymore. He still was an obnoxious kid, but others took Conner's lead and stood their ground more. Logan slowly learned to back down, still reeling from that one, single and swift defeat. Though he only grew an inch or two that year, Conner felt seven feet tall, and was treated with respect, free to come and go where he pleased. He still had his same nerdy friends—nothing changed in that department—but life was good.

The Moon is a great actor
He plays many roles
A skilled magician
He can make himself disappear

He can be round and fat
Like he swallowed a cosmic balloon
Or so discrete--crescent shaped as a pastry
An angel seated upon his lap, lazily lounging in the night sky

He can be faint like a ghost
Filmy and smoky, most mysterious
Among the wispy clouds
Or as a big brother to the stars

He is an inspiration
A glorious night light
To awakened dreamers
And lovers gazing the heavens

He becomes a teacher
To various artists
Painters, poets and such
Immortalized in print, canvas and stone

He is an orchestra leader  
To the howling wolves, banding in song
An icon of beauty to the human tribute
Towards him in musical rejoicing

He is a master of madness
Maybe in anarchy
One who takes much of the blame
For our odd and crazy behavior

Will it ever truly be
Overboard? In my head?
Probably not
But surely in this vessel

I see the ships sails
They are a different color
Then when I was aboard

They've set new course.
Brash pirates of the mortal liquid
Banding themselves with inebriation

Been aboard I have
And in this life
Never again

When the fog clears
And the wreckage settles
I will gather the pieces

I am on my course
And my compass
Points true north

If you blame it on the rain
Better hope your not in pain
You'll get the thunder and lightening too
High winds and floods
Comming after you
While politcians court their lobby mistresses
They drown themselves in a lot of mischief
No banding together to get it passed
"A Health Care Bill"
We the people want at last
Many folks need it desperately
Now and in the future generations will seek it
From an illness to close to deaths ear to call
Blame it on the rain to surely fall



(upwc) 2009-by: Zenobia Lee/LadyZ710

Two hawks aloft
crows anxious banding together
Carol Ott comes over to my house, likes the warm weather,
      November
a California Christmas and maybe species will change places
      to reflect that,
paints watercolor ornaments, gentle Jewish lady
how far from her past is she now? or is she quite aware just
      not talking about it now
I wonder what she thinks the solution to Israel-Palestine
      might be
ask her sitting around the pool next summer
almost always disappointed people haven't given the single
      state solution more thought
we discuss Thanksgiving, the cleaning and cooking before
      and the cleaning after, then the insane Christmas potlatch
deciduous trees have a special winter beauty, conifers among
      them.

When one of your own is taken
It is natural to take someone In return
However when you scream race hate and turn around and burn down a town
You will never be treated as people but at as a problem
Now is not the time to riot, it is the time to reunite as a people
It is time to seek justice through a noble cause
It is time to make your voices heard without using fists
It is time to stand as one
Don't perish a boys memory with misdeeds and greed and burning violence
Honor it by banding together and offer a solution by peaceful means of absolute candor
Don't riot
Reunite

I look into the void that fills the halls of power and I get all confused. I look for distinguished statesmen in fine attire, but all I see are the animals running up and down a spire. There are old lions who have seen their better days with dingy coats and teeth that have bitten off more than they can chew. I see packs of wolves banding together giving anyone who challenges them an icy Arctic stare. Then there are Zebras that are constantly trying to change their stripes, as they prance to and fro trying to avoid any one position. I look on and see packs of Jackals with microphones and cameras. Hissing and growling as they snap at each other to get a word in edge wise. Then there are the Ostriches, who stick their heads in the sand or at least under their desk until what ever problem they are facing has passed. Such is the life in the halls of power also know as a Political zoo.

Funny how it is.

A bright light, morphing through the clouds

The soft touch of droplets, melting into shingles

The only time you're really able to look.

Wandering along the roads and banding together, they are everywhere at once!

a political movement--libertines, belligerent against the rule of continuous airs

The princely stream that does not love them

Raised into fists, falling to bombard a defenseless floor, the poor baby of collateral

In it there is hope for the cloud

the ground does not mind being wetted again

Halfway around the world the deserts are still empty and warm, where the sands of oceans taste wind

On islands the land is a pinprick between a cloudy sea, it is green and bleeding and drinks in the light

All the baby birds of earth look up into the raining sky, asking for?

And given no answers with godly warmth.


I dream to show you this world of mine-- the one all too unreal and divine

You are a moment of rain, rapidly becoming Ingrained within the concrete
Lost in the forever of this place

I am greedy and wanting to leave my mark, I invent hydrocarbons to build smarter oxygen drops

they one day become us

They always become us

I am an early storm, violent and unkempt-- I seek immediate retribution,
I ravage the lands

With no further to go, I will dissipate

Precipitate

And give the light space to show.

I pray the lord my soul to keep if I were to end up under a white sheet, hoping I don't get shot, pull out the glock, killing my people off because our melanin pops. Brothers and sisters banding together seems to shake you to your very core; terrified that we could be so much more; positive role models, with our beautiful excess pigmentation. We don't fit into your back drop; your white frame, we thought we had changed the game, escaped the chains but everything remains the same. Now we remain target practice for your racist game, you are drunk with power now, believing you are in control, ignorance is bless; but our indignation is the fist that will knock you out of your ignorant bless. I'm not saying they're all bad but the violence has to stop. #blacklivesmatter

The world is a dark and complicated morass,
Wherein countless lost children pass
In and out of the shadows and greet each other with a smile or a nod.

Isolated, lonely little hearts playing
With complex emotions in a word staying
Abreast of all the troubling events for better or worse.

Light and laughter dwells but a moment
In tender unions just before fears foment
A cascade of ****** worries filling up the eternal halls.

Then a single flame at first finds another
Huddling in the dark over scraps Mother
Left for kindling a fire in the depths of destitution.

At first the two but soon three and more
Shelter the faltering fire taking hold for
Reviving communion among the distanced souls.

As more join a bonfire starts and talking
Not just of pleasantries you hear while walking,
But of sincere connection between scared children discovering they can conquer the dark.

Some children still pass in the dark hall,
Knowing not the darkness nor how small
They really are in the scope of the full extent of the world.

But every once in a while, more often as it grows,
A child stops and really sees what the others chose
In banding about a fire fueled by the scraps of a difficult time.

Cats strayin’ high on Canal Street
Gangsta Grillz feelin’ tha beat
Open air market on Sunday night
African Bootleggin’ sellin’ alright
Sweet dreamz were set on fire
Life’s on tha line, if dats wat ya desire
Coming back to life, from deep down inside
Jesus hung with me, he waz on mi side

Let’s all do tha Whoolywood Shuffle
Don’t get in tha way or you be in trouble
Humpty Dumpty is back together again
Delivery is nuts, no buts, Amen
Drop tha bass, like a hot sorta guy
While white lab boys, be makin’ ya buy
99 cents, where’s tha beef in mi vege burger wrapper
Rubber-banding out so loud, **** dat mad hatter

Mi baby mama could neva just sit
Let tha hood hear just a wee lil bit
Crack it on up, in tha main trap house
Blue magic for real, like Mickey tha Mouse
East coast flow, wid a Southern kinda drawl
Come in or move on, just don’t crawl
Queens n Bronx, echoed down on Canal Street
Dum Dum Dum it was such a bubblin’ beat

~
The swelling brooks, so clear toned,
Rolling rounds over musical stones,

That unveil the rushed veins of May,
Race in wide cool stills, freshnesses,

Of the moistened soils overturning
And the chimes in the belled leaves,

Before they shout from buds keyed,
To syncopate in sun by bopping bees

Who buzz with jazzy pillowing waft,
Of daisy downs, in mid air to reeds,

Lips newly sprouted, banding green,
Groove myriad symphonies of colour

And the roots of trees tempo tapping,
Into waters plucked, earthy sounding,

All voice, with woodland birds, in joys
Do trumpet, O what new life to come.

.
The swelling brooks, so clear toned,
Rolling rounds over musical stones,

That unveil the rushed veins of May,
Race in wide cool stills, freshnesses,

Of the moistened soils overturning
And the chimes in the belled leaves,

Before they shout from buds keyed,
To syncopate in sun by bopping bees

Who buzz with jazzy pillowing waft,
Of daisy downs, in mid air to reeds,

Lips newly sprouted, banding green,
Groove myriad symphonies of colour

And the roots of trees tempo tapping,
Into waters plucked, earthy sounding,

All voice in joys with woodland birds,
Do trumpet, O what new life to come.

I was shattered completely within,
My eyes went off control;
I split into tears still relieved the treachery,
He* then provoked, “Eh girly men don’t cry!”
Then a squabble ran onto my mind;
Why don’t men cry?

You distill within, you calm thine down:
You hop, you break, of course you frown.
Tears just roll down, to calm thy within,
Banding the aid that you got to fit.

The purity lies in the tears,
They wash off one’s filth, soothe and revive;
Gives you the fortitude and a roar
“High time to break the concealed fear”

Don’t rub off thy moisture
Let it remind;
You are a pow than the people behind
Your soul soothes, thy mind blows;
Fade the horror your life shows.

by Arcassin Burnham

In a room full of sinners , there's girls , and there's boys, and there's false leaders
Planning and preying on all of the people,
People are starting to wake up and realize what's going on because of the misguided teachings,
Freeing your mind in this cruel world don't make you any less of a person , man it only gets lethal,
Banding together is the only way in this life , Maybe we should call a meeting.

Times are hard you see,
Suicidal teens , slowly increasing,
Into the furnace,
Brutal memories,
Clashing of teeth , hands out , say please,
Down into the furnace.

I never thought that we would make it far in this condition,
I never thought I could determine what this means,
I never thought that I would see the light of day again.
I never thought that I would kiss like what they did in movies,
I never thought that love would really deceive me,
I never thought that....
Everything would fall into place, at the wrong pace.

Times are hard you see,
Suicidal teens , slowly increasing,
Into the furnace,
Brutal memories,
Clashing of teeth , hands out , say please,
Down into the furnace.

Days long ago a crew landed upon an island
A group of unknowns bunched together
Searching for a way off
Banding together for dear life
Each a keel to each others sanity
Through the insanity
Of a stranded few

Days that seem long ago upon the island
The friendship among the crew formed strong
Each a role assigned for survival
The plate upon which the friendships dines HULLS a grand burden
Of course, his trusty BOW points out the food
While a more BULBOUS BOW protects the hunter
Making sure the intended meal does not sink the crew
With such hard work, the three can grow mad
In which the 4th must ANCHOR them with his entertainment
And the captain PROPELLING the vessel of friendship and work
Makes sure all are happy and prosperous upon the island

Days not long ago I landed upon the island
Without food or water I was sheltered
The hulling man was first to help
Followed by the two bows
They seemed to show interest
They seemed to want to help me
While I had no clue two others inhabited the island
That they even mattered on the island

What I was surprised to find out was the huller was not leader
Or at least assigned such a position
For before the captain arrived, I was treated to dessert
Feeling as if he deserted me, he came to me
Apologetically, the captain offered his own
A dessert forged from a deserted man on a deserted island
It’s irony was more exquisite than the actual taste
The ‘Anchor’ of the team also arrived
Excited to entertain me, we 5 watched

A Mid-day not long ago five people sat upon a desert island
Watching a man entertain us
The captain was dying of hysteria
The other three conversed among each other
There I sat, alone
The harsh waves of the man’s dance bored me
But the captain’s intensity of passion pained me
As if my apathetic nature was wrong
But the calmed waves were far too peaceful
And if I walked among them I would splash around
Creating a mess and therefore being forced onto land
But I hated the land
The ocean was beckoning me to join
Or rather, I was forced off the sand
The ocean, in reality, could care less about me
My existence meant nothing
Apathy reigned supreme
Even if the only rule to swim, was to care

A single day so recently I sat alone upon a desert island
The friendship crew remained five with a remainder of 1
Sometimes six for feast, never more for sympathy
Worse, it wasn’t really 5 and a 1
Rather, a 2 + 3 and a 1
The hulling man and his bows were a group
While the captain and anchor seemed in love
Only interacting when feasting
Only caring when needed
The vessel of friendship was forged from circumstance
Where the five banded together to make the ship
But now the circumstances changed
And there is no need to make new friends

Today I sat distanced upon a desert island
Unable to pick a side
Of the foundation of the island
Or the entertainment
For both knew of my existence
And me of theirs
But no need to converse
No need to interact
My circumstance tells me to talk
To be the grain of sand that lays with the others
But their circumstance tells them otherwise
To remain with their grains
Why talk with another grain?
Why be seen with another grain?
If you’ve already known one

And so all six of us remain on the island
Only one tormented by apathy
For it is not my right to talk to my deserters
For they have to allow me to speak
And they have no reason to give me a voice
After all, there are millions of grains on the island
Why get to know a new one?
When you can stay with one you’ve known your whole life

Since the dawn of time,
Man has striven to understand
Why we exist and
How we were created.
We have formulated various
Answers to these burning questions
That are scorched in the minds of men.
An omniscient creator who lives up above,
Powerful beings that run everything from
Weather to fire to death to doors;
An explosion that created all that is known.
It is hard for men to comprehend something other than what
Has been taught to them;
Even those who believe in near indistinguishable concepts
Argue about the little details rather than banding together.
It is the duty of a government to allow this
Despite the unpalatable aspect of it.
We must allow individuals to have their own teachings;
Personal attachments must not come in the way of equality.
We must turn to our neighbors and voice,
"I do not agree with a word you say,
But I will defend to the death
Your right to say it."
We must embrace each other like distant relatives,
We must come together when the sun goes down,
Until dawn comes once more.

never thought the day would come and I'd be out of the teens so soon. Everything just flashing back to when I was in elementary school,
to middle, to high school and up to now, I never seen this far into my life. I'm not ashamed of it, Nor am I afraid, I did not know what to expect. Being the youngest of the fam and going straight into the jaws of fate,
I've learned a great many views and perspective on life,
not saying I dramatically changed, but overtime things will begin to shed away, and a new skin will embrace the toxicity in this air we breathe.
My say for the past 12-ish years;
I've grown soft and plump and weak as a plum,
but I know I have the strength and courage overall.
Gutsy feelings that raged inside me when I was younger,
simple mistakes turned to tragedies and solved with a lecture.
With strength and resolve I've done things alone,
With my friends, family and also my home.
Things have changed and we have made our ways,
Yet still ignorant I still wish for better days.
Time speeds up and I follow along,
Leaving behind all that was that was one
One to change the ways of our days
Days that went away in one frightful sway
Swayed to stay afraid
Afraid of life and it's little wonders
The little wonders which were blurred by the illusion that we were destined to follow the great mission,
Yet my eyes have changed the day I saw The ideal.
Though reality and creativity are two separate things
One cannot exist without the other
Combined you have a greater ideal, a bigger path.
Conflicted, time waits, as it polishes the piece that will change the world,
For it is not the person nor the physical body that will always continue the mission,
But the ideal that continues to live on, passed down from generations and still recognized as if it had happened yesterday.
But all things can not be done alone, as time continues to stall
I begin to learn;
being alone is the beginning, banding together is the next step in my life.
This not a cry for help nor is it a stand for individualism,
This is my expression.
This is my love.
This is our world.
This is my say.

Just another day~~ soon!!

I'm hurting inside for the world we inhabit
We protest, burn flags, but ignore every homeless rabbit
When will we notice that we aren't the only ones fighting back?
That Nature is retaliating against us and planning to attack
We won't even give Her a voice
She has no choice and can't scream Her warnings and pleas
Soon we will be banding against not war but disease
What will it take for our nation to understand
Why can't we work as a planet and outstretch our hand
To rejuvenate the few salvageable pieces of land
Because what's the point of calling for change when we are losing our homes to our Mother's fists of rage
It brings me to tears and it breaks my lion heart because I can't come to grips with the extinction of our natural art
Law makers are seeing what we're doing with our signs and parades
Now it's time we understand Nature's game of charades
Because as the volcanoes erupt and tectonic plates shift
Our nations grows more divided with a widening rift
It's all we have left as a place to call home
Animals are going extinct and in a few years won't be known
Soon will the human race fall from the earth
And our daily phenomenon won't transpire like birth
We need to see what our own world is doing
With each passing day Her anger is brewing
We ripped Her to shreds and broke all Her limbs
Then we polluted Her waters with our oil seeking whims
We aren't looking with our eyes
We aren't heeding Her signs
When will the world stop being blind
Pick up the trash bags and leave the old ways behind

"In this wilderness your bodies will fall - you will suffer for your sins and know what it is like to have me against you."

The guilty do NOT go unpunished!

Punishing the children to the third and fourth generation.
The promise remains - blood was spilled.

You will suffer for your unfaithfulness,
until the last of your bodies lies to rest.
Yes, you will suffer for your sins
and know what it is like to have me against you.

Banding against me you will meed your end,
Here you will die.

How long will you treat me with contempt?
I am slow to anger, abounding in LOVE - in your presumption,
I will beat you down.

Do not despise my word - follow me wholeheartedly and salvation will inherit the generous promise I made.

felt, have you ever,
a world without fingers
,grooves,
or
edges of roughness?

it does not feel of anything
expect feeling more deeply
than hands ever have been.

Coming at the backs of your
eyes with peculiar easy intense
banding of unbroken shades
of light, it does not emit
a single colour instead
it fills with brief singular
tingling of being

a texture more wordless
in words uneasy to say
a poem of trite inevitable singing.

.
The swelling brooks, so clear toned,
Rolling rounds over musical stones,

That unveil the rushed veins of May,
Race in wide cool stills, freshnesses,

Of the moistened soils overturning
And the chimes in the belled leaves,

Before they shout from buds keyed,
To syncopate in sun by bopping bees

Who buzz with jazzy pillowing waft,
Of daisy downs, in mid air to reeds,

Lips newly sprouted, banding green,
Groove myriad symphonies of colour

And the roots of trees tempo tapping,
Into waters plucked, earthy sounding,

All voice in joys with woodland birds,
Do trumpet, O what new life to come.

i've never found the season nor the universe around
that kept the childish round around
the system sounds of echoes calming circles
the carousels the only being that of us
banding together in circus wheels
the return the gaze of delightful
open eyes

Her name you may
or may not recall.
It was Chrissie,
the body in the sand dune.

You do remember the shark,
the blood on the water,
death spreading like
a virus in the town of Amity.

You do remember that
the beaches should have been closed
but Amity was a summer town
that lived on summer dollars.

You do remember the shark
doing what it was built to do—
killing Mrs. Kintner’s little boy
on that beautiful July 4th day.

You do remember Mrs. Kintner’s
cold blooded slap
on police chief Brody’s
warm blooded face.

“You knew there was a shark out there.
You knew it was dangerous
but you let people go swimming anyway.
You knew all those things

-BUT STILL MY BOY IS DEAD NOW!”

“She’s wrong,”
the mayor says.
“No, she’s not,”
Chief Brody acknowledges.

Suddenly you remember
reading a news piece
that Mrs. Kintner (Lee Fiero)
was a victim of the pandemic.

You realize there is no
police chief, scientist, grizzled old salt
banding together to do the right thing,
uniting to triumph over disease, death,

Only the orange hair President
standing deep in the drowning tide
smiling and waving and
telling everyone the water is fine.

“We are all Mrs. Kintner  now.”


Note:

The final line is a quote by Mary McNamara,
the obituary writer for the Los Angeles Times.

She is at war with many things,
Too many to relay,
But her arch nemesis is of course herself,
The inner being that hisses insults in her ear,
The raven that claws at her insides,
Making her stomach turn in anxiety,
And her head pound in fear.

Sometimes she think she is a vessel,
Not a vessel for the gods of a vessel taken by a demon,
Simply a vessel, trapping the truth inside,
A slick skin which looks so realistic, tied all around her like binding ropes, that people believe her to be real,
Even when Inner Her is screaming out in pain,
And Outer Her believes the skin to be too tight, and brings up a pin.

Inner Her is not kind nor sweet,
She is judgemental, selfish and filled to the brim with toxic self hate,
But she supposes she has trapped her honesty in a web of lies,
So it is only right to hate herself.

Doubt is a slimy liquid poured onto her skull and into her eyes,
She thinks it smells too nice to get rid of,
And perhaps that was a lie too,
And perhaps Inner Her was banding on her ribcage, just below where her heart rests,
Screaming in righteous resentment “I hate you” over and over,
Like a song's chorus she cannot help but hum to.

She goes to the beach,
The sand cool between her toes,
Wind howling in early morning protest,
She smiles when a jogger passes her and smiles,
They smile back,
Inner Her rocks back and forth in insanity,
A thought coursing like poison through her veins “Can they see me?”

Both of them have become invisible with time,
Their skin flayed thin until it doesn't exist,
Hair pulled away from many nights trying to steady herself,
Bones crumpled under the weight of her incoming mortality,
Eyes hollowed with restlessness.

For there is no sleep for the walking dead.

Inner Her laughs,
A big mad cackle that stretches over mountains and down into animal burrows,
She points a finger held out as a weapon,
Laughing with no humour,
Only burgeoning and treasured insanity.

She has done it,
Finally.
And now Inner Her rests on the flesh of her dead enemy,
...skin and bones blown with the wind,
joining the sands of time to an eternity of darkness.

Outer Her was fallen.

Where the river flows to fitful estuaries
The morningtide never comes in your absence.
Have your dreams grown as smooth as the cordgrass visible from the empty shoreline.
The water columns irreplaceable as your soul carved away by frigid glaciers
banding the silt and clay as turquoise as the day you stood still.

compare yourself to her once more
hold on to the skin banding around your waist
convince yourself this is why he left in the first place
or was it all the hate you had
for the world and yourself
was she prettier than you or just carefree
could she laugh more instead of cry
did she hate herself as much as you hate yourself
how easy was it for him to lay with her
without hearing her cry
with you its like a dark shelter
you only produce negativity
but what can you do when you look like yourself
act like yourself
and love like yourself
a weak, flawed, and miserable creature
he didn't leave just because of your looks
he left because of everything you are and everything you'll never be