Our last connection with the mythic.
My mother remembers the day as a girl
she jumped across a little spruce
that now overtops the sandstone house
where still she lives; her face delights
at the thought of her years translated
into wood so tall, into so mighty
a peer of the birds and the wind.

Too, the old farmer still stout of step
treads through the orchard he has outlasted
but for some hollow-trunked much-lopped
apples and Bartlett pears. The dogwood
planted to mark my birth flowers each April,
a soundless explosion. We tell its story
time after time: the drizzling day,
the fragile sapling that had to be staked.

At the back of our acre here, my wife and I,
freshly moved in, freshly together,
transplanted two hemlocks that guarded our door
gloomily, green gnomes a meter high.
One died, gray as sagebrush next spring.
The other lives on and some day will dominate
this view no longer mine, its great
lazy feathery hemlock limbs down-drooping,
its tent-shaped caverns resinous and deep.
Then may I return, an old man, a trespasser,
and remember and marvel to see
our small deed, that hurried day,
so amplified, like a story through layers of air
told over and over, spreading.

The DisArt Festival aims to bring people together through different modes of art to further the discussion about disability and community. One such way the Festival is doing so is through fashion.

On Friday, the DisArt Festival hosted two events to talk about accessible fashion, a workshop in the morning and a runway fashion show that evening. The Festival showcasedOpen Style Lab from MIT, Fashion Has Heart, Kendall College of Art and Design fashion students and Spectrum Health Innovations designs for people of all ages with disabilities.

Friday morning at 9 a.m. students, designers and festival goers came together in the Ferris building at Kendall College to discuss their involvement in the Festival.

“(Through the DisArt Festival) we wanted to do something that flipped perceptions on its head,” says Chris Smit, director of the DisArt Festival.

Open Style Lab began as an extracurricular student group at MIT where students wanted to create functional, stylish clothing that people with or without disabilities could wear. The group pairs a person with disabilities up with an engineer, an occupational therapist and a designer to work together to create the most comfortable, functional and good looking garment possible.

Fashion Has Heart is a Grand Rapids-based nonprofit that makes clothing and boots designed by veterans to tell their stories. All proceeds of sales go toward veteran support.

Kendall College was approached by Spectrum Health Innovations about creating clothing for kids that receive occupational therapy at Spectrum. Many clothing companies that make garments for kids with disabilities are not sure how to do so or sell their product at a prohibitively high price. Students in a fashion for action and function class were each teamed up with one child and made a one-of-a-kind, fashionable garment that the child would be proud to wear while also being helped by it.

At 7 p.m. Friday night, there was a fashion show in the same room at Kendall College to show off all the designs from the different companies. All of the models featured in the show were local to the Grand Rapids area. Led by Robert Andy Coombs, fashion coordinator for the festival, the event was a packed house, with nearly 300 guests filling the runway space lit with green and pink festival colors while a DJ played club music.

Open Style Lab created three jackets that were easy for people with disabilities to put on and take off but were not only for Disabled users. The Lab really wanted to focus on making multi-way gear as to include more people and to bring more attention to bringing accessible clothing into the mainstream.

Fashion Has Heart featured five of their styles, each with a t-shirt and a pair of boots that tell the story of the veteran who worked with the company to create the design.

The Kendall College students created five styles over the course of the semester and were able to showcase their pieces on the kids that they were created for. The kids benefitted most from compression clothing, so the students were challenged to create clothes that they kids would want to wear but would also help compress and engage their muscles.

“Fashion is communication,” says Liz Bartlett, the Kendall College professor that teaches the fashion class. “It’s a way for people to express their identity. DisArt celebrates identity differences but also our similarities.”Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com

Strong woman,
Head held high;
Chin up,
Beautiful smile.

Strong woman,
The epitome of beauty;
You carry the pain,
as if it were your very own child.

All I can see is love etched across your face
Though I see your beauty,  
I know you hurt.
Strong woman, beautiful smile
You pretend as if you don’t hurt
But I know you better than anyone
& that is because me and you are one.

Those names you called me,
That shame I felt.
It's a cycle of fear,
And humiliation.
You put me down,
Then try to bring me up.
You're jealous, overzealous, and sinful, 
You're just a beast in human form.
I try to run but just fall down,
For the path is rocky at best.
You chase me down, 
And pull me back in.
Say you love me,
Think it will fix everything.
Make it all okay,
Just forget all the problems.
My life isn't my own,
I'm on your leash.
My decisions are yours,
My actions monitored.
You say I can't be friends with him,
That's not okay.
I can't go to the movies, 
You're not there.
Lies, deceit, and broken promises,
Chaining you down in a pit of helplessness.
I can't leave you,
I'm scared to.
You threaten, hurt, and cry,
It's not your fault, right?
Right?
I'm not sure anymore.  
You say you'll **** yourself,
If I leave you'll end it all.
You put that weight on me, 
It's dragging me down.
I'm tethered to a pole, you're beating me down. 
Sending me spinning around, 
Just to send me the other way.
This needs to end, 
The pain needs to stop.
I'm leaving,
I'm done. 
Goodbye, 
So long.

Mitchell S. Bartlett

Can you taste them?
Those slow melting morsels of sugar,
just lingering on the corners of your mouth...

You let them drip from your spoon,
let them roll off your tongue
and dress your intentions.
As they try and undress me...

Everything's inviting,
the presentation, the flavor, the texture...
Like Bartlett pears:
"Granules of sugary sand, made to melt and fill every taste bud."

The warmth of your phrasing,
reassuring with their momentary high
and their lingering desire for more...

Heavy with mood,
rich with aphrodisiacs'
and smooth like that cocky-*** grin...

These words are like ants,
attracted to the smell of decadence...
Sweet rotting decadence...

Watch them decay,
as the truth beneath...
Reveals the lack of sustenance.

Live on these words?
On these hollow, sugar-coated statements,
and be satisfied?
*******.

I need more than that.

You left me nauseous,
and filled with this stain...

Keep rolling those lines,
make them smooth and inviting,
make them enticing,
make them all yours....

Never again,
will I indulge you.

I need a tall drink of water,
the wind wiping through my hair,
and this pavement,

To guide my sullied feet,
as I "beat on against the current..."
of my self-indulgent past.

I'll be your Oathkeeper, your Sweet Memories, your Star Seeker. I'll unlock the Sleeping Lion within you with Oblivion and show you the Way To The Dawn, then pull you back with this Bond Of Flame. Don't become Heartless, or a Nobody. If you fight for me I'll fight for you. Ill Master this Valor using the Wisdom of the Final hour. Come unlock the World That Never Was with me. Come be my Kingdom Key

Mitchell S. Bartlett

You say its anger turned inwards
I’d agree
But the words are caught in my throat
Like the sobbing yells for help
My jaw is locked down like a cage
For introspective hell

Anger turned inwards
Yeah that sounds about right
Hatred or loathing might
Be more true
So I’ve got anger turned inwards
But I still have so much left
For you

I guess it’s in your job description
Measure my mentality
Pump me up with prescriptions
I’m like Charlie ******* Bartlett
I’m your favorite emotional harlot
Give me five minutes
I’ll make you feel connected
I’ll show you my false trust
And I’ll make you regret it

It feels mechanic
Programmed medicating
When I’m still half asleep
Not conscious enough
To pay attention
To my not so subconscious questions
Asking
Who are you
To tell me
That I need to be fixed

I hold so much resentment
For the time that you spend
Surrounding me
With all the facets of help
That I don’t need
Anger turned inwards
Staining every breath
Heavy panting
Straining with this weight on my chest
Anger turned out
Guilt and blame
Overwhelming shame
Because you taught me to never give up
But there’s nothing I want more
Then to slip up
Trip up
Get so high I’ll never come down
Get so high
To get six feet underground

But then again
I got “better”
I disappeared for three months
And I can’t even remember
Why it was so hard
To stand back up
On my own

Compromise
I’ll comfort your mind
But first
I’ve got to confront my lies
See,
I wanted this
Don’t you ever think otherwise
Of course its for attention
But does that make me not ill?
All I wanted was affection
But here I am
Popping pills

Conflicted
With the concept of sickness
I’ve been so desperate for
Identity
Just to feel ******* special
So insecure and lonely
that to get it I felt
I had to purge out my mortality
Make my self unwell
I lived a lie
Until it was true
I wanted this sickness
Until it was all I knew

Maggie won't stop watching Charlie Bartlett,
she claims she was Kat Dennings in another life.
I try to dissect her lack of compassion
with a cheap bottle of red merlot wine.



She says:

'I ride a ******* fixed gear.
I'd rather drive a car.
And although you'd never know
I self-inflicted this here scar.
Why do you like Stephen King?
Do you know what I'm thinking?
...
Anxiety really mellows a woman out.'

Her mind is like a whirlwind.
I don't know where to begin.
Should I ask about her fears
about her tears
or why she's so thin?
She's watching Netflix again
and I can't pretend
to understand the kind of man
that she wished I am.



She breaks the silence:

'I lie to strangers too much.
I'm afraid to be touched
or mistaken for someone
who's too much of a lush.
I feel I'm far too shy
and I don't know why.
...
Introspection really seems to calm me down.'

So we sit on the couch
just watching tv.
I think a calm and understanding
is all that she needs.
And when someone talks,
no matter how it seems,
sometimes a listener
is the best thing that you can be.

Such a gentle thing,
Wrapped up in a sheltered fortress.
I want to bust my way through your walls, 
But I'd rather you'd let the gate fall down.
So I could walk on through,
And love you like we used to.
These walls covered in tapestries of memories,
Thoughts and opaque opportunities.
I want to create you a window, a stained glass world.
It would never fade, 
Or fall apart.
This castle is yours, 
You built it from the ground up.
Stone walls and a vision of what you wanted,
You built something strong.
With passages leading in, but a moat to keep others out.
You put piranhas in your pit, to devour all those you didn't care for. 
I managed to get past once, 
Twice,
Now I'm asking for one more chance.
Let down your drawbridge, 
Let's make a new addition.
We'll make a dungeon for the sins, 
And a treasure room for the memories.
We'll have a prince,
And a princess.
There'll be a dragon in the keep, and a phoenix in the study.
We'll have a modern medieval life, 
With all the jesters, peddlers and jousting. 
You can be a queen, 
And I'll be your king.
I'll build us thrones in the foyer, 
And a grand hall in your heart.
No room shall be locked,
No secrets kept hidden.
Now I'm waiting outside, 
Singing you a lullaby.
I'm throwing stones,
And wearing a mask to the ball.
I'll be your modern time Romeo, just for you, my Juliet.

Mitchell S. Bartlett

A faint noise in a current of forgotten happenings
Some unknown feeling I fight for to keep myself together
Time out to determine the source of this pulsing sensation
Alone to a day met in an alley
Vocalizing a pain I've known for a while but refused to show
Falling apart to the rhythm of solitude
My world just isn't the same
A spark forgotten long ago that held us together
I'm bleeding from the outside in and wiping the dirt into the wound
Good times left undone as we spend lives apart
Hosting feelings of gratitude and self-worth
I'm not gracious but hostile and volatile
A bomb waiting to blow apart
My timer set to minutes
I speak my mind but its gone in seconds
I've torn my sleeves off send my heart with them
I left my pleadings at home lest they come out as despair
My words come as murmurs in the wind
Taken away as they reach you
Faint sounds of a time left unspoken
Etchings of moments that have yet to pass
Crystal ***** show what is to be but mine is an opaque abyss
Just sit back and wait for whatever happens next
I can't change the past but maybe the future
Just sit back and wait

Mitchell S. Bartlett

I've lived my whole life in a book
Just wanting to get away from this world
Wanting what I read
What I imagined
What I dreamt life could be

I've lived my whole life in a book
Picking every word apart
Dissecting every sentence 
Looking for a key
Something to let me in
Into a place better than what I was supposed to call home
 
I've lived my whole life in a book
Reading every line
Memorizing every paragraph
Every page
So when I left what I was comfortable with, I still had some of it with me

I've lived my whole life in a book
One of my creation
One to keep reality away
To keep the shadows of life from closing in
Looks like I only have a few chapters left

I tried to live my life in a book
It worked pretty well
At least until it ended 
With the story drawing to a close
The plot coming to an end
The final page must be turned
In order to start another epic

My book is finished
But not to worry
For I have so many more
However this time
I think I shall create my own
For this is my story
And I'm not about to let you
Write one for me

Mitchell S. Bartlett

For all the things that aren't 
And all the things that are
This is
That wasn't
And those 
Might not even be

As if one could be two and three could be none
Existence is nothing save appearance

My reality is broken 
I came into being 
Knowing things for certain 
Until I was proven otherwise
After that
My reality was a pile of thought nots and never were's
My reality never really was

A being of endless possibility
In a world of fall flat imagination
I dream to live
I dream of being
I dream the days into years
And those years will never stack up
We'll be in groundhog day forever
Your reality
I'm living it

In my world
Paper cuts bleed worse than a stabbed back
Broken bones ache worse than a shattered conscience 
My reality 
Is now

I'm in a world mirrored twice to the opposite of what you used to know
I'm in a world so twisted and ******* up that the only way to stop it is with a cork
This reality
Is real

So for all the things that are
And all the things that aren't
This is
That wasn't 
And those
Might not even be
This is
My reality

Mitchell S. Bartlett

While Mr. Bartlett was heard to declare,
"I will be famous.  I've found a new pear!"
He was nothing compared to Mr. Newton,
Who found the first fig tree with some fruit on!
When next in a biscuit, he rolled it*,
Enhancing its flavour.  Gourmets extolled it!
Next came a gardener who saw the rain
Run off apples he grew.  Leaving no stain!
Seeing their clean red skin, remarked "Oh Gosh!"
The right name for this brand is "MacIntosh!"
Next came a woman who reached her zenith
When they named a green apple, "Granny Smith!".
With even complexion, and no rumpling,
‘Twas an apple perfect for making a dumpling!
Then a little girl not to be outdone,
Said to her Father in a bit of fun,
I’d like to name that sweet English plum.
I’ll call it Victoria, after my dear old Mum!
Next a sweet, red cherry, they named Bing,
After a soft crooner who loved to sing,
Who cares if it's true? At least it’s romantic.
Besides, let’s not be too pedantic!
Was this how most fruit names were given?
First, folks found they were resolutely driven
To put their name to a specific fruit.
Then came others who quickly followed suit!
Whether we like the results, most agree,
It's how some things are named.  Will always be!
But should you develop a fruit like a pear,
Your name must be worthy for it to bear.
Can you imagine the grief begotten
If your name should  be Ava Rotten?!

Rhymer . February 2nd, 2018.

This empty page mocks me
        Taunts me
To put something down --

A flash of brilliance or a conspiracy
A moment in my life that wrestled me
A quick turn of phrase that collars wit
A clever bon mot that jockeys to fit

A little irreverence, words wearing stubble
An entendre that isn't inclined to be double
A plucking or two from Bartlett's garden
A letter that I'll not feel right to send

A first edition or a final memoir
A record for posterity of what I saw
A joint venture or a solo flight
A pristine line with gentle bite

A sonnet brandished in the name of love
A psalm to All Glory that comes from above
A piece of history that needs to be told
A stanza that mustn't ever be sold --

Dangling on the burn end of breath,
a word -
gaunt, untenable, reliable
as the long tone of wind in tall grasses.

Dangling on the burn end of breath,
a syllable -
unto nothing, unspeakable
as the split airs among the spruce
wind
breaks.

Dangling on the burn end of breath,
the better half of Bartlett pear,
lightning struck,
bows and groans along the cedar
fence,
into the bass clef of everything
that clings.

Orange pulse light and embers
conspire to darken a moonless night
blacker than eyes, blacker
than the slurs of late tires
commuting,
communing
with cricket brushes,
the snare beat of toads.

Dangling on the burn end of breath,
music -
unconducted, underscored, decomposed
by the rattling rains of silence and smoke.

there's absolutely no need to write
these days -
perhaps if i were much much
younger and idealistic -
what love... what oh what woe...
could have could be (etc.) -

today i found myself in love
with england for: however many
a time...
the rolling hills cliche -
but i was alone: yet i was legion...
i was no anglo-saxon
with an army...

i strolled the countryside and
for this moment of certainty:
i was truly allowed to
hold firmness of aloofness -

beside the rabbit i crouched
beside two meters away...
a wild thing i was almost eager
to pick it up:
was the rabbit blind?

it's beyond questionably unfathomable...
well... there was that fox
that decided to come to soup kitchen
in my back garden
for nearing two months:
at a time when i desired
a dog... because: cats don't really
eat leftovers... fussy eaters...
no gluttonous slobs among,
         them...

my new earned pleasure:
to walk is better than to talk...
yet even i found myself talking
to the wind:

verbatim:
imagine! bewildering that such places
still exist!
even if for an hour...
later i found out that this was
historical ground i was treading...
related to henry VIII and edward
the confessor -
teasing passing through
a village havering-atte-bower...

i didn't see a human face for hours
and hours... i did see birds-of-prey,
i saw i noted...
i didn't bring a pen and paper...
i was so entangled...
i was so freely there...
i was so... freely there...
unlike where i am now:
"here" attached to an extension
of thinking...

come to think of it... i was so pristinely alone
that if i were asked anything
outside the realm
of casual formality: if i were to be implored
to bid good day or a hello...
i'd straighten out a *******
banana and call it: the staff of moses
if i had to deal with this bogus societal-
never on a street am i ever
asked for a hello...

why do people find it necessary
to bid these ****** hello impromptus
when facing the base for all dreams...
i never liked talking during
***... i never like disturbing
the language of the fields and the teasing
moors and the chimes of branches
with anything that isn't jokingly
spontaneous:

like today: imagine... such places do
exist... where one can truly spend a worth
of an hour or so alone...
with the birds of prey flying
above... with horses grazing...
with a rabbit: i presumed blind...

it's most decidedly unnecessary for me
to write this: but i can't allow
a good glug of kosher malt to waste...
if i'm drinking i'll have to find myself
writing...
such that i need to restress a fondness
for this equipment:
a pair of feet...
no need to run... if i can catch up
with noon and make it home
come sunset...

i will most certainly not prescribe myself
to live under the cooking instructions
of a chicken sold by a supermarket...
1h40... 1 hour and forty minutes?
to cook a large chicken?
like all women are the best cooks
and the chicken ******* need
to be dry as a brittle (trans-grammarism)...

i wasn't listening...
shove enough thyme / garlic infused butter
under the skin and give it a maximum
of 55 minutes...
mismatching my rooster albert bartlett
tatties... i was hoping for a synchronised
swan lake esque event concerning
the oven enterprise...
bad luck moi...

     a thermometer is so key... to eating
a pleasure roast of chicken...
i'll understand pasta undercooked...
teasing al dente: but over-cook it...
and serve up mush of melting glue:
kept together by a "miracle"...
same with chicken...
oh god... over-cooking or undercooking
meat is... i will dare to say...
never mind... 165°F for chicken meat...
i can't eat chewing gum made from
chaw-chaw-chaw barbarous chew...
welcome back to civilisation:
lost wanderer...
              
i honestly don't think i needed to write
this: that i didn't...
but i did... i hope i can be excused
with "keeping my **** together"...
i'm not a fan of drinking in front of
the mirror...
or putting my hand in a hot bucket
of water...
why does drinking supposedly
encourage commerady...
why is drinking supposed to be this:
social event...
drinking alone is bad...
walking alone is doubly bad...
well **** yeah! let's have us
a *******-wanking of a marathon!
a drinking **** to boot!

drinking alone is all that is "leftover"...
if it weren't for the add chance
of utilising a plumber...
once in a blue moon scenario:
since the previous generations
invested so much in the plumbing...
it's not a question would i be better of...
i'd be: off of now...
in this currency conundrum of...
impersonal justifications...
a hybrid anonymous butcher...
or some... variation and "other"...

give me the sky! the wind! the fields!
and the time necessary to not encounter
some ******* baseline pedestrian
who... upon venturing upon holy ground...
public footpath nonetheless...
seeing all this nature has to...
pass me by with an invitation for
a hello hallow how'do'you'do...
         weird:
if i walked down the street and
all that pleasing concrete was in the way...
would i get the same "invitation"...
then why, bother, my, silence...
when i'm standing on grass... looking
at trees?!

unfamiliar territory i am sure...
i don't need assurances of teasing poker...
get on your ******* bus and leave us
to its...
it's hardly an "english" thing...
is just happens to be a human bollocking
working up to a crescendo that's only
now apparent: who dou 'illed with
'reats again'st the theat're?

         the rabbit! the rabbit! the rabbit!
was the rabbit blind?
i didn't sneak up on it...
hello words: congest my mind allow
the voyeurs in...
i won't be here long...
                 that space between
the ears and the eyes... i suppose the eyes...
like candy-outgrowths...
bulging i pretended to blink
they were still intact...
a camouflage... this close to a wild
"thing" you'd find me expressing
details of moth wings...

that there's a an M25... that there's an A406...
and there's the great...
walk-along to ******* alone
work-around for feet primo...
i think it's called a circular...
like a hand of an hour
i imagine walking around greater london
7 times...
it really is a bogus project...
but it's a mad enough
beginning to allow myself to dream...

like in those old movies...
oceans, eleven?
the 'ctor roost and... the professional
boxers... treated as mere cameos on
screen...
so... here's my cameo...
i have yet to find such a footed
riddle as i have...
no ******* from noak hill will tread
these parts...
i'm sure of it as i am sure:
it's not that i'm a lover of nature...
there's no david attenborough
voyeurism involved to produce
a semblance naturalist...

words architecture,
words architecture...
word... ugh... architecture...
      words grammar architecture...
it's not that it's ugly...
it's just so well-arrived-at...
it's pristine... unshakeable...
words, grammar... architecture...

i want to walk...
to hell with running a marathon
while mr. c.c.t.v. is jerking off
a commitment of transmission...

acorns and oak-fill... lost for words...
chestnuts! chestnuts!
all that is evolved monkey
and devolves back into a bear...
sounds mad enough to 'ave some...
i just like to imagine...
digressing with winter nonexistent...
this parody of insomnia:
whether via work
or via...

one alcoholic vs. one hundred
workaholics...
vs. one thousand bureaucrats...
vs. 4th industrial revolution
staples in the millions...
cost effective "work"... and "effective":
a work not as: the best
that can be done...
but as a public service loitering...
ahem... sorry... "provision"...
have people forgot that
there exist a version
of humanity that somehow
has to be appeased...
that people can perhaps relapse
into their trained-monkey phase
and treat a supermarket
cashier as he or she were
a heart-surgeon...
or are we all so *******
desperate as to: settle our grievances
on mediocre pyramidal schematics .
tiers invoked... blah blah...
whoopsie: it snows.

grandiosity herr engels: i gather....
but for all that toughening of limbs
and of making concrete assurances:
to borrow bones to somehow delve
into carving marble...

how to turn a gorilla into a weakling
man pursuit...
brain hijacked by a mushroom...
and retell squirm with
a man-beefed-up-bear-in-tow...

it's not merely... impossible...
this of the fewest least...
it's this rugged tease of
     an avalanche...
a stampede...
when in fact... it was merely
a wriggling of a centipede.

demiurge ave!
   demiurge ave!
  as one probably does...
walking past a curation of budding ***...
she's teasing 15...
and she gives off quiverings in
the air...
she's so teen...
so prone to angry...
  all that she is... is a scent of bubblegum...
she's too young to become
complicated with ***...
and *** has become one of those:
metaphors... drawing water from
a stone...

i'm too tired of wanting what isn't readily
available...
in the availability of a harem...
i'm too tired to want
what i must, most necessarily
never have...
then again... again: i will heave
not having above what i could
perhaps want to heave: rather than have...
all those pornoflicks from
******: should i be irritated by
******* tailor-me-pretty...
a kit-kat of fingers usually does
the "job"...

         yes... my heave: my harth...
my liquid lunge...
my  best and therefore by least...
forest of a crown.