Oh black negus. Why do you hate me so much?
Noticed I called you by your rightful title.
Negus  
King, Ruler, Emperor
Not ***** or ******
The derogatory term originating from the crackers, or *****, the mild disparagement softened by society made to think that it's acceptable.
But anyway let's get back to it.
Why do you hate me?
Is it because of my full lips or my round hips?
My low tolerance for *******?
The way that my stretch marks are engraved in my skin?
Or how the roots of my hair aren't so thin.
Is it my naturally sun kissed skin? Even toned complexion?
It just can't be my uncanny resemblance to Isis the Egyptian Goddess!
So why not praise me for my natural features
Why go on one knee for their paid for enhancements
Should I react like Angela Basset in Waiting to Exhale?
Screaming and shouting while my face is growing pale.
But pardon my melanin
I was perplexed by this darkness that stared at me in the mirror
That stared at me looking in my lovers eyes and taunted me
Smiles behind hidden hate they constantly berate my beauty
But pardon my melanin
My superiority is in my melanin
Encased in my skeleton
Our ancestors wouldn't like this
They would not be proud of that colorism that exist
They slander us for our features yet they list after it
This systematic thinking has our men slandering us but they won't admit
You continue to beat me down yet I am your mother.
I am the fruit of this nation.
But pardon my melanin
So I'll ask again
Why do you hate me?
We are carved in the same beauty and without each other we can't exist
I still remember the first day that we kissed but a few months later you left me for hailey in an unfortunate bliss
Melanin filled girls I am here to say
You are a queen never be afraid to be seen
The brother that disrespect and degrade are absolutely absurd!
You are not ratchet bitter or mean
Youre a stunning melanin queen
So pardon my melanin?
Naw enlightened by me melanin.

The neighborhood was silent. There wasn’t a soul around this eerie town and the sun hadn’t peaked out of the clouds for days. The darkness of the land had swallowed the smiles of the population and nature had ceased to show its existence. The birds must have migrated early. The wind disrupted the branches of every tree that was in front of the houses; it left only the whisper of its presence behind.
Shadow’s alarm clock blared at the appropriate time of eight in the morning and he grunted at its ignorance. His girlfriend, Jessie, didn’t seem to care too much about his morning laziness. He didn’t even bother turning off the alarm. He simply rolled on his opposing side to ignore it. That seemed to require a larger effort than if he’d just gotten out of bed. Jessie remained motionless and wasn’t snoring like she usually did. She wore a long sky blue nightgown to bed and it brought out the true color of her blondish hair. She was lying on her stomach and her hands were tucked underneath the fluffy pillow. Shadow just peered at her through the crack of his eye as the sound of the alarm clock withered away his patience. Shadow heard his three-legged basset hound, Tripod, hobble to the nightstand and he began to lick Shadow’s left foot that was hanging out of the white silky bed sheets. The saliva dripped towards the floor and the grossness of the dog’s actions still wasn’t enough to get Shadow’s dead *** out of bed. The dog realized it had no affect on him and left the room.
Shadow had just gotten fired from his job as a technical engineer at a no-name computer store. He put computers together with both new and used parts and resold them to the customers. When he told Jessie, she was not supportive at all. They didn’t speak all last night and Shadow couldn’t imagine how this morning was going to go- another “Yes, MOTHER” conversation. He always had a problem with his temper. All hell broke loose when shadow didn’t get his way, but you’d think he had been taught not to swear at his boss when he got angry. Well, on the contrary his mind and anger had gotten the best of him. Guess Shadow saw that there was no reason for him to get out of bed. But his three-legged dog seemed to think so. He kept ignoring Tripod for some time and he **** all over the rug as a result of it.
Shadow felt a discomfort among his genitals as he stumbled to his feet to go to the bathroom. He concocted his usual bowl of cereal once he reached the kitchen across the hall and slurped up every last drop of milk. He thought distressingly about what Jessie was going to bring on him this morning. The sounds of static and distorted voices echoed through the room from the television- he walked back into his bedroom to get dressed. Shadow called out for his dog.
The job wasn’t so good anyway. Shadow was displeased with his boss from the beginning but he knew he needed to receive the checks- the pay was so good. He always had a passion for building computers and when he first explored this field, Spot would sit and watch Shadow build. Spot was his first dog, around the time when he was a teenager. He would sit there until Shadow was done and that might’ve been what caused him to like building them so much- it was the memory.
Shadow continued to call for Tripod but there was no response. The aroma of the dog **** grew more and more noticeable. The doors were closed so there was no doubt he didn’t escape again. He ran all around the house, opening doors and calling outside for him; peaking behind the furniture and the clothes within his closets for him. He spotted the pile of dog **** on the living room floor.
“What are you doing, Shadow?” Jessie asked.
“I am looking for the **** dog. He **** on the rug again.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Jessie.
“OUR dog!??” said Shadow.
The air began to blow through the rooms of the house and the papers that were neatly stacked on Shadow’s desk began to fall to the floor. Jessie sat up in bed and the wind carried her hair across her scull and it made her look even more beautiful than ever. Her hazel-green eyes remained staring a Shadow with the same goofy look of concern but she still looked beautiful.
“I don’t know if I’m alright. My face hurts…” said Shadow.
“Shadow, I DID hit you pretty hard last night. Remember?” asked Jessie. “I threw that little book-end at you and it hit you in the cheek bone. I didn’t mean it, I AM sorry.”
“It’s fine, Jess. I was being a ****. But really, where’s the dog?”
“I don’t know, he’s you’re dog. Let me get dressed and I’ll help you look for him,” said Jessie.
The window shades were pulled up so the light could shine throughout the house but there wasn’t much light to affect anything. It was still dark and moody in the sky and the storm was still passing though the area. Shadow had to turn every light on in the house to see, even though it was ten in the morning. He knew he needed to find a job, but he wanted to find this dog. He ran around the house looking for every trace of dog fur. The sounds of Jessie getting dressed were coming from the closet.
“Could you hurry up and help me, honey? I need to find this mutt,” said Shadow.
Shadow had given Jessie a special license plate for her birthday last year. It said “Jessie” on it and it was very hard to get. He had to call months in advance to purchase that plate. It was now implanted on his silver Jetta. Shadow’s job was right down the street, so he just rode a bike to work every day and let Jessie use the Jetta.
The job Shadow had used to drive him crazy. He’d work for hours on fixing or building motherboards and if it didn’t work, he’d have to start over. He’d come home in the worst moods after a hard day’s work. He didn’t want dinner; he didn’t want to hear from anybody, though Jessie liked to talk. And that’s where Shadow got very aggravated. He began to yell at her because she asked him questions and he would kick over Tripod’s food and water and storm out of the house in a rage; leaving the front door open behind him. But Shadow didn’t leave last night. He wasn’t the one who stormed out in a rage because he was too tired for that. Jessie left with the dog and claimed she was going to stay at her mother’s for the evening. They must have come back in the house late last night. The dog must be here. Shadow and Jessie kept looking for Tripod while calling out his name to come in sight. Tripod finally walked through the door form the back yard and barked a weak screeching bark.
“It’s about time, Podders! It’s about time we accomplished that dilemma” said Shadow as he looked up at Jessie and back at Tripod.
“What the ****?!” he said. The dog had blood all around his gumball nose and his droopy lips and walked away from them into the bedroom.
“I give up,” said Jessie. “You gotta clean that dog up because I am not going to go near that Blood; I already cleaned up the dog ****. What has he been through?”
“I don’t know…” answered Shadow.

In the mean time, I’m going to go shopping for some new shoes,” Jessie. “I’ll be back later this afternoon, alright?”
Shadow sat on his favorite recliner chair in the living room. She kissed his forehead, grabbed her keys and walked out the front door.
There was silence. He was alone.
Shadow immediately got up and opened the front door to grab the daily town newspaper from the steps. He noticed that the Jetta had already left the driveway and wondered why Jessie must have been in such a hurry. He looked down the gloomy dark street and saw no sign of life. He closed the front door, locked it, and sat back down on his recliner. He unfolded the newspaper and wiggled his toes to the melody of his improvisational hum.
The hum suddenly came to a halt. The toes stopped wiggling. Shadow didn’t seem to breathe. He read the front page of the news paper and couldn’t believe his eyes. There was a Jetta- or maybe it wasn’t because it didn’t look like one. Maybe that was the point. There was no hood; there was no front seat. There were two photos: one of the car and one of the whole accident. A Tractor trailer was involved and no one in the Jetta made it. Shadow started to breathe slightly again and came to his senses; tried to collect himself. He saw the license plate and couldn’t believe his eyes.
There was silence. He was alone. He was alone the whole time.

pulsating underneath my tingling human flesh
trillions of red blood cells dancing and swaying
simmering underneath my dreary basset hound eye bags
flaming fire and desire born out of my own need for sleep
shaking are my cold and violent hands
while my body pouts that it does not get its way

if my physical manifestation were free
it would spend a million dollars on things it doesn’t need
if my legs broke out of their rightful imprisonment
they would dance until they were drenched in a sticky humid sweat

chains bound my wrists to prevent my imminent collapse
from the rush of a mind blowing high i did not endorse
i will sit in silence on the edge of my seat and wait
for the rollercoaster ride from hell to end

I must look like a train-wreck to everyone at this party. Emaciated-chic melting into the couch with shaky hands and sweaty palms has never looked good on anyone. I can’t tell if the bass pounding from the stereo has seeped through my skin or if my heart has turned into a battering ram, using all of its power to break through my sternum. You think I would have learned after all these years-- benzos and ***** are never a good combination. But I still have at least fifty bucks to make at this party off of over-privileged, toxin-craving youth. Besides, it’s a bearable feeling, and I can just sleep it off on the couch here tonight.
       I survey the room, attempting to remember where the stairs to the basement were located. After forcing my drooping eyelids to stay open, I watch a parade of lax bros make their way up the stairs and into the kitchen. They are a mess of scrawny limbs floating in pinnies and their air-filled heads are capped off with snapbacks. Their smugness is laughable and mostly, if not entirely, induced by massive amounts of *******. Please. The only reason people show up to this dump is because of the free ***** and the always-entertaining fight that is guaranteed to happen by the end of the party. Even then, the crowd is mostly freshmen, and they just don’t know any better.
       A booming yooooo crashes down the staircase and stumbles towards me. I refrain from rolling my eyes.
       “Hey, you!” I have no idea who this is.
       “Whatchyew got tonight?” asks the greasy manchild with a few scraggly hairs bursting out of his chin.
       “Depends on what you’re looking for,” I respond, wishing I had worn something other than an oversized sweater and leggings. You shouldn’t hide everything in your cleavage.
       “How much you want for the zannies?”
       Hoping to never see this scumbag again, I figure it wouldn’t hurt to scare him off by jumping the price to seven bucks a bar. But before I can even grab the plastic bag out of my bra, I’m momentarily blinded by piercing red and blue LEDs out the window.
       “Aw, shiiiit,” he says as he races toward the back door.
       I struggle out of the crevice in the couch and calmly follow the manchild, pushing my way through the crowd by the door. My car is waiting patiently for me in the cul de sac, and once I get past the herd of screaming freshmen, I’ll be in the clear. Anyone will move if you start throwing elbows directly into their ribs. It’s a nice party trick to use when the cops show up.
       I’m able to make it onto the back porch, but I can’t seem to find the strength that is located in my legs. My strong limbs have been replaced by jellyfish tentacles. I grab onto the railing of the steps, but I learn quickly that it’s not going to help. I trip over my feet, the stairs, the air, everything, until I am able to lean heavily on the driver’s side of my car.
       The booming yooooo reappears.
       ******* it. I can’t deal with this kid right now.
       “I just gotta text that the cops are on their way back here. Better get out.”
       ****. I face the car and begin to fumble with my keys. While I attempt to find the one that will open this machine, I listen to the wail of sirens a few streets down. I finally retrieve it, but I realize by the time I start the car and head towards home, the cops will be here, and I can’t ruin my spotless record. The knee-high hedges lining the circle would never be able to completely cover me, and every other house on this street looks unfamiliar. I press a small, blue button and hear a pop in the back. Normally at this time, my common sense would **** in and tell me that the trunk of a car isn’t exactly a good place to hide, but I’m starting to feel the cold through the numbness. And the last thing I want to deal with is explaining to my parents how their angel has taken herself off of her meds to make some extra cash.  Better get comfortable, I guess.
       I lumber into the trunk, thankful that there are at least some blankets left over from the last time I went camping with my family. Breathing heavily, I pull the lid behind me. From here, several familiar voices grow frantic and demanding: Dump that **** now... Get rid of it... I don’t care how much you spent, I’m not getting caught with it... I roll gently onto my side, careful not to shake the car, only to rediscover the plastic bag filled with Xanax.
       I freeze when I hear cars pull up nearby. The crash of heavy metal doors boom through the hectic sounds of the people trying their hardest to get out of the way. I listen to the rough growl of a sturdy boot as it kicks aside pieces of broken glass and plastic cups.
       “You think that after the fourth time we’ve busted this house, they would get the hint,” says a stern officer. I imagine him as they type with a faded buzz cut, bulging muscles, and aviator sunglasses even though it’s well past midnight.
       “Well, kids will be kids,” says a more seasoned member of the law. He sounds like my grandfather and has probably seen more terrifying images than an underage girl in skimpy clothing puking in a nearby flowerbed. It seems as though the stern officer is herding the party-goers towards the back of the patrol car.
       “That’s no excuse,” says Stern Cop.
       “So you’re telling me that you never went to a party or had a beer before you turned 21?”
       “Well, that’s different. I was in control.”
       Hearing your rights sounds much less dramatic in real life than it does on TV. For these underage drinkers, it’s a sped-up process that is muffled by their own sobs. The metallic clink of handcuffs echoes through the air and immediately hushes everyone. Soft Cop chuckles and gently closes the door, attempting not to startle the shaken-up criminals.
       I am finally able to exhale as a car drives away, but I don’t feel as if I’ve gotten away with anything. I shift onto my back and look up at the roof of the trunk, illuminated by the blue-green light of my cell phone. Glancing down at the screen, I see the time: 1:47 a.m. I’m going to have to venture out into the world eventually.
       As I gather my strength and roll towards the trunk release, I feel my keys in my pocket along with a tiny click. Immediately, my car begins to scream. I scramble for my keys, hoping that no one is here to witness the embarrassing mess I’ve made of myself. Once I finally get the car to calm down, I hear an intoxicating mix of chuckles and mild profanities strung together. It’s Soft Cop. He knows.
       “Is everything alright in there?” asks Soft Cop as he knocks on the trunk.
       What am I supposed to say? Yeah, everything’s fine. Just chillin’ out here. No worries.
       “Uh... yes, sir. Just give me a moment.”
       I unlock the trunk and start push it upwards, but Soft Cop has managed to get to it first. He is a tall, thick man with a glorious salt-and-pepper colored mustache. His soft eyes look tired like a basset hound’s. I see his name-tag–– G. Lewis. He looks like a Gary.
       “Didjya get a little stuck?” he asks.
       “Yeah.” I smile and try not to let my nervous laugh creep through.
       Gary looks around the cul de sac and back into the trunk, reaching his chubby fingers towards me. As he helps me out, I notice that he’s a lot stronger than he looks.
       “Sorry for breaking up the party tonight. Have fun?” he asks, tilting his head towards me, eyes curious and comforting.
       “For a little. I didn’t get to stay very long.”
       He nods his head towards my car. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he chuckles, “how’d you wind up in there?”
“I guess I just got scared. I didn’t want to get in trouble for being here.”
       Gary finds this amusing and swears that by now, every other cop has left the area. He explains that he’s been left to make sure nothing starts back up. He shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks around an empty Miller Lite can.
       “Listen, I can tell you’ve been drinking.” His voice has changed. I know this tone. This is the tone of Your Mother and I both love you very much, and we’re not mad. We’re just disappointed. He looks me straight in the eyes, concern written all over his face. “Correct?”
       There’s no point lying to him, but who wants to be the one throw themselves under the bus? I’m trying to put the words together, but all I can manage is incoherent babbling.
       “Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble,” he insists. “I just don’t want you driving away in this state. You seemed to have a hard time finding the steering wheel.” A smirk emerges on his face, eventually growing in size to a radiating smile. He’s proud of that one.
       “Yeah, I guess I could take a nap in the backseat.”
       “How about I just drop you off at your house. You can pick up your car in the morning. Sound like a plan?”
       “Yes, sir.”
       We look at each other for a second. No thank you is needed. No more words are necessary. I relax my shoulders and look up at the clear sky. I feel the wind blow, and I don’t seem to mind the biting December wind.
       “Didn’t bring a coat?” asks Gary.
       “Didn’t match my outfit.”
       “You sound just like my granddaughter.” He laughs. “You even have the same blonde hair and big green eyes. It’s uncanny.”
       He then stops and looks down on the ground, eyes growing wide and serious. I know what he’s looking at. I was hoping he wouldn’t see my stash that is now laying on the street: eight white pills in a plastic sandwich bag, sweaty from making a quick escape from under my sweater.
       Gary sighs and lets his lips purse, still looking at the bag. The salt-and-pepper mustache takes over his mouth. He gathers his hands on his hips, shoulders hunching forward. He stays like this as I avoid the opportunity to make eye contact. After drawing some air into his lungs, he finally has the courage to look up with sullen and wet eyes.
       “Well,” he says as he regains his composure. He kicks the bag into a nearby storm grate. “Let’s get you home.”

A good friend with a basset-hound face is on his feet
The rest of us are weak
as newborn puppies,
from the late hour, the numbing glory in our lungs
But, mostly from laughter.

This young man is a connoisseur of altered states, an apprentice butcher, and one of the chosen few who breath music in and out effortlessly
And he's preaching
Prosthelytizing

Three minutes before,
he had been happily day dreaming
Three feet from the floor
with the ****-tube beaming
happy
simple
moving colors

The man on the set shows us how to stir-fry chicken
Our mouths water, but we're content to sit.

But with the fire coming up that glass pipe
and setting his boiler to churn along feverish
He caught an insight
or it snared him, like a spiderweb across a peaceful hiking path

On his feet
He was beginning to see connections
And had to share them with someone
Now

I'm a limp doll at this point, fully immersed in the body-high
Thoughts are glacial, movement glacial

Oh, my friend.
You're talking to the wrong audience
We can't hope to see it as you do.

But he keeps on keeping on.
And tells us a thing or two.

Cooking
He says
Is like ***.

As our laughter dies down to a dull roar, he continues

The speeds and heats and intensities can all vary
to give you countless subtle differences.
But the true constant is care
Loving attention to the finest detail.

His brows furrow, his toes test the fibers of the rug
and he glances back up, and I imagine a podium in front of him.

Or maybe it's like Jazz. He says.
We learn, or glean out, how things are supposed to happen
But in the moment, the twanging instant
Beautiful things will themselves to exist
and they defy all well-laid plans.

there was a basset hound he thought that he would be
a super sleuth detective solving a crime spree
a proper sherlock holmes in a little stalker hat
and his friend called watson who was his friend the cat
he would have a spy glass  so that he could see
if there was any fingerprints to who the rogue could be
looking at the facts to help him solve the case
things that had been moved and were out of place
this is what he thought and one day he would be
a super sleuth detective just like on tv

This *****
Artificially awake
Lydia
apples 20 years have passed
oranges i want a do over
manhole cover coins
savage glares across the 4 wheeled property lines
young moms not giving a ****, that's alright
kiss of sun hidden from
anxious from blue oak , it's ridges pluming in the dappled twist
and floundering wave, wiggling wave of oak leaves green as frogs.
ponytail suzy, *** from galaxy sci-fi
i brought up a cup while it was empty there,
but so distracted by my own trembling effort,
every hair a furry hood, every fatty fixture of my face a rebounding basset hound
tennis shoes up to my neck, dumb naked in my greenery,
already old somehow, the window closing,
the permanency of parks, like a stilletto in a limosine,
green fixture of my white blinded attempt to see tomorrow,
tourist .
thoughts of Sylvia
, my gaping awe at the feminine,
and its green garden.

-cbrander

When I go to heaven
I want to see my dogs.
all of them, such faithful companions.
How do you say goodby  to such friends
Peter my first
a beagle, stubborn, a hunter with
the basset from across the street
white tipped tail faithfully wagging
as I returned each day from School.
Then Sampson, a blond Belgium Sheppard
Huge, faithful only to me
jumped the fence too many times
of the church pre-school across the street
wanting only to be part of the play
then too protective of our new born and
at 190 pounds too large for our small apartment
Then  found in England,
Beouf Beouf McTavish
a Yorkshire terrier that for some reason was
four times the Yorkey normal size
He thought he was a lion
jumped into the Canal in  Camden town
chasing ducks. We pulled him out and it
took three baths to clean him.
He loved to attack my next door neighbor
after we returned from England
who he had taken a dislike to
as my neighbor warily walked his dachshund
up and down our small cul-de-sac.
Then there was Boober, an Irish setter,
beautiful, but wild and dumb.
who loved to just run and then
pounce on our next door neighbor’s wife
who seemed to love the affection.
Booper true to his Irish temper, never obeyed
Then our Goldens
the perfect pets frolicking with our growing children
Brandy and Blake, the first pair
Brandy the runt of the litter
gentle and loving
so loved by my wife who always loved an underdog.
Blake the larger of the pair
my favorite, large and bold,
constantly bounding about
bullying Brandy
Faster, he got there first when a car didn’t stop
and lay bleeding in my arms
tears cascading down my eyes
too late to save him.
Then Brandy followed when years later
Cancer and she just stopped
She Watched faithfully as
the vet came to the house and peacefully put her down.
we planted a small tree over her grave and mourned.
Last was Maggie, another Golden,
loved by all, beautiful, intelligent,
affectionate, going everywhere with me
to the dump, where they gave her a cookie,
to the beach where she chased ***** until
I became tired and needed to head home, knowingly
she defiantly swam just out of reach, back and forth,
as  try as I might  to get her to come out, she’d defy.
Now there all passed on to doggy heaven where
I hope I’ll find them when I too move on.
they’ll respond to my call
faithfully bounding across a heavenly lawn
returning gleefully  to their aged master.
“Come on blue, You good dog you, I’m coming too”.

She must always be the center of attention
Loud as hell too, if I even need to mention
You know when she's around
She bellows like an old basset hound
When she's here she'll let you know
As picture after picture of herself she'll show
Always bragging on herself and her's
Like under your saddle a well placed bur
The same old stories over and over
She can talk anyone sober
I can only take her in a small dose
Not in walls that are close
In an open field, in case I need to bolt
Because I just can not cope
With the stream of ****
That spews from her lips
I'll run like a wild horse
It would be hard to follow my course
When I can't put up with her any longer
That attention seeking monger

I heard whispers of a secret sound,
from Alexandria, hidden under the ground,
it was the steady beat, beat, beat;
more like a heartbeat, than a busy city street.

Now, they told me once and they told me twice,
that all occasions are played out thrice.
Three times of pleasure and of heartache too;
of a blood-thirsty conquest, the people's coup.

It was a global awakening, felt in the birth
of a bleak disregard for the marketing church,
a trinity of profit, of heat, light and gas;
of teenage lovers, beneath the underpass.

We stole through the farmland,
I pressed to your chest;
we sang to the autumn,
the coming of death.

We learned in science, of covert destitution,
prostituted knowledge to save the institution,
of rockets now missiles and force-fed thought;
where opinions are rote, and all politics bought.

The whispers returned in Sumerian sound,
tattooed on my skin, tattooed in the ground,
they came back to me, in my deep, deep sleep;
gold hair descending from the great castle keep.

I climbed from my body, led up to the sky,
as oceans gather from the tears that I cry,
in solemn disdain, for the conquest of man;
their synthetic wasteland, their three-year-plan.

We collided in memory,
as time was stripped away,
forever we were kissing;
forever we would stay.

I heard catcalls from a stone-circle mound,
clear as citrus to the basset hound,
whilst Jesus was caught dealing on the street;
exchanging numbers with the ****** he'd meet.

Now, they told me once and they told me twice,
that all occasions are played out thrice,
three lovers now nothing but a status update;
that we're nothing but slaves, licking the plate.

An introvert awakening, the three states of water,
hoping one day, to nurture a daughter.
To teach her of love without any condition;
to tend to her strength, to be her nutrition.

.ich! schreibenmann! über oder mann: nein güt! ich! schreibenmann! alles gelb... ja?! entschuldigen (mir) verstecken (hocken).

contra millenial contra baby-boomers
no....
people didn't say much,
all they ever said was:
"we" have no problem with
you drinking yourself
until you reinvent
the yo-yo...
   i so too thought:
   this... "labyrinth reconstruct"?
this is not coming from
a rotten mind,
this is coming from a rotten
head,
the shackles of Brazil...
             good to know!
know what?
the fact that i will drink myself
to death,
iwill never have to be made
compensate for,
i will have a hybrid
choir of ****** overdose
addicts being entombed
in a vinyl collection listening
section / choir...
               ich, diable, ich père....
rob the poor man
of his metaphor,
to make dues of his...
missing quiff, ***** style 1970s
style!
      my *******
miane **** dog qua basset hound
cat..
2H of sleep...
no... i want, to, butcher it;
chose chicken and curry
instead...
but for the ear crsip:
i wish i could:
        
YOU BLATANT DUMB
IDIOT...
that's how we pet
animals in Slavic countries...
children?
you don't want to know,
i already know how they're
"petted"
in post-germanic countries
of England, or France...

only in a wealthy nation...
will you sooner see
a homeless man,
than a homeless dog!

I WANT, TO, SLEEP!
and i don't like being given this
excess of attention!
no!
circa!
       round round
the ******* go!
go! *******!

   i never dated in my life,
o.k., once, speed...
  i didn't like the whole
formality of acting a
pretense of...
whatever never for a fragility of:
no. that wasn't too soon.

     my... "culture"?
it isn't even on your, ******* map...
me white, your brown,
you hiati something
royal or something?
you no go, to the modern variant
of the Hermitage... savvy?
me white too...
but me no go
where your tanned
is already a tanned / non-nigerian
no-go... savvy?
              
i hope to die by toast...
you die:
by hope for forklift
in the ******* ****
of kilimanjaro doing
the black betty sing-along
through & through...
and...
what wouldn't i give...
for a kissing scene with
rooney mara...
esp. her most...
whatever that was
in a girl with a dragon tattoo...

gein: meet bukowski...
bukowski...
meet me...
    necrophilia meet
necrophilia...
i want to be strapped
in such an Arizona
stronghold with only...
a gueswork of tongue
to be given the leash!

i eat off the table that
becomes
the hushed crumble
of... that meme...
                n.p.c....

  which... obviously related
to the mahjong solitaire
and the "whole"
NP-complete-ness...
  
  i know of NP-C...
not that i am smart,
  but in that i have enough
ingenuity to avoid...
what cannot be a furthering
of argument..
    worth sustaining...

too much of unknown
to people geometry has
riddled them
beyond the compensate
of being related to...
what argument is there
to have,
when the people you're
trying to over-shadow,
are un-relateable,
in that...
to have to claim
defeat by having
no simple symbology,
having to perpetually
retort with geometry
that cannot implode
counter-intuitively
for a "sacred" scrutiny?

die kröne überreste die kröne,
als die volk überreste nichts mehr
"ein" der mensch'n;

ja? savoy.

Nothing in this alley to crow
about—backboard and bent hoop
leans against an old refrigerator.

Over at   McMillin’s place
bags of garbage pile atop
a turquoise Chrysler.  

I’d give the family a pick
and shovel   if they bury
their old basset after it dies;

it’ll probably keel,
the first cold day
of 2017.  

My boots like this alley
even if my eyes don’t,
it hasn’t seen

a snowplow this winter
and, why should
it?

He's lying in bed paralyzed
It's made me all so fragilized
White walls, blue box, and twisted head
On the silver hospital bed
He says no words, just garbled sounds
His jowls shake like a basset hound's
He points to what he wants
On the little paper, nothing to flaunt
Images, memories, all they do is haunt
What do you think of when you lie
In bed, when your only future is to die?
While life races by, a baby is born
Without a grandfather, will the child be forlorn?

.i know: oh wow... a purple thing i know to be a plum... i like the curiosity mould.. it sometimes leaves me in an unrest... of being woken, to stage a caricature.. to be bereft... how i wake, with being grafted the "innocent" fake of mistakes...

and the last...
     **** it, this medium eats my words
like some stalin...
whatever i might write, or subsequently read..
being neurotic about spelling
mistakes...
well..
          if they're enforced via
censoring...
        nice to write, whatever "requires"
being written...
whatever... nice to know you mr. stalin...
even life as a coalminer wasn't
as difficult back when it was
                supposed to be "difficult".

   why does my maine **** cat
intrude on me, i said to him:
i have 6 candles...
  lit up... i'm trying to conjure
a demigod,
the man who brought down
the thread of Thor's thunder...
i mean:
ever concise yourself
to peer into a candle,
compared to peering into a samsung tablet,

who brought down fire from the gods?
prometheus...
but who brought down the staff
of thor, electricity,
to fellow men?
who came,
with the immediate gift
and curse of electricity,
and the modern plague
of insomnia?
              why does "my" maine ****
cat want to spend these
nights with me?

michael faraday...
that's hardly a name, worth the status
of a, prometheus...
but the source of
illumination is so different,
a candle, scented,
can embody a room with
a human presence,
feline, or canine...
    but this, this,
             seemingly phosphorescent
source of light?
            how will man ever dream,
if plagued by insomnia....
            who is the demigod
who brought down
to settle, the hammer of thor?
electricity?
          
   the cat continues to persist...
         maine **** cats are
almost akin to bloodhound dogs...
they are, very often,
overtly clinging companions...
no, wait... **** it, so be it...
maine **** cats are as clingy
as bloodhounds or basset hounds...
when they spend too much
time alone,
they moan, complain,
meow with 30+ variations,
bark and howl with
a sentenced worth
a breeding of a wolf with
a ******* chihuahua...

but that's beside the point,
i have a clingy cat...
african h'americans over-represented
in the NBA? and...
under represented in the NHL?
sort of equal in the NFL?

what was that movie?
white men can't jump...
    wesley snipes and woody harrelson...
oh sure... white men can, jump...
  only a white man could have
figured "this" out:
               **** Fosbury...
the fosbury flop...
            white boys started jumping...
sure... black boy javier sotomayor,
blah blah...
   but who was it, who said:
flop my way, and you'll jump higher?
****... why do i think that
the most ****** aspect of a woman's
body is her hands?
jerking off... i can also hold a
basketball with one hand...
          how do you think my "crown and jewels"
looks like in the same hand?
like it ought to be fiddled with and by
a high-school girl...
          to not "hurt" my ego...
    ****** up ****...
         and that's directly translated into:
only the best golfers come from
the sort equated to eunuchs
or men with testicular cancer affecting
"but" one of their *******?!
    
**** on me: i thought that cats were
not supposed to be clingy?
these maine ***** are like basset hounds!
their continual need of reassurance
via the supply of staged company?
it's bugging me,
i like it, don't get me wrong...

   but i still don't have the name
of the demigod who came down from
the place of the gods,
with hammer of thor,
who, akin to prometheus,
came down with a light
that made the skin sizzle...
who came with a source of light,
that, made, the skin numbed with pain...

i need a name,
   michael faraday is not enough...
prometheus brought down fire...
who brought down thor's hammer,
who brought down zeus' lighting rod?

   given, the modern day plague
of insomnia?
   hmm! Insomnius!
     the deity of the:
half-awake and the half-dreaming...
the miracle birth of
Thanatos copulating with Hypnos...
born of the ****...
               the demigod,
or those, who wish, above all else,
to return to the womb of Nyx...
and become unshackled from
the genesis of conception
of the abominal copulation
between Thanatos and Hypnos.

p.s. yes... maine **** is a cat breed.

In Gaza, we have what makes life worth living. Walking in its narrow streets among its unpainted small buildings means a lot to anyone knowing the meaning of loving their homeland. Greeting the neighbors and friends with Assalamu Alaykom (السلام عليكم) or Sabahul Khair (صباح الخير) or Sabahul Nour (صباح النور) every morning and every evening creates an indescribable and an unimaginable feeling within us. Our mothers telling us تصبح على خير  (goodnight) every night we are about to sleep is just tasty and unforgettable.

Despite the obstacles hitting it, financially or politically, you smell different Palestinian traditional food cooked whenever you walk by any Gaza home. Yummy, how delicious that food is! We smell fried eggs (بيض مقلي) or Hummos (حمص) during breakfast. You smell Maqlouba (مقلوبة), Mujadara (مجدرة) or Musakhan (مسخن) during lunchtime and Shakshukah (شكشوكة) or Falafel (فلافل) during dinner.
You hear kids playing, and engaged couples calling each other on the lower window of the homes hiding from their parents because they are shy. You see elders holding hands going shopping as if they married yesterday. In Gaza, you see true love. Whenever you look at any face, black, white, bronze or brown, you find a hidden innocent smile of a child, an elderly, a woman and a man. We all consider ourselves one. Looking at the buildings of the central Gaza, you can find the history of those who our great great great grandparents lived with. You find mosques and churches built beside each other in peace. You see Muslims and Christians shaking hands and sharing a cup of unsweetened Arab coffee (قهوة سادة) or Silany tea (شاي سيلاني). Sometimes they share a cigarette (سيجارة) or a Sheesha (شيشة) while sitting listening to Om Kalthoum (أم كلثوم) or to Abdul Basset( عبد الباسط عبد الصمد).
Despite the insecurity, you can see Gaza people gather in the streets at midnight during occasions, in the golden clean beach during summer, in malls, shops and cafes during winter. In Gaza, restaurants of Shawerma are full to the fullest. In Gaza, Restaurants of Falafel are everywhere. Shops of Konafeh (كنافة) never close. You can find Arabic Konafeh (كنافة عربية), Nabulseya (كنافة نابلسية), Baklava (بقلاوة) and Osh el-bolbol (عش البلبل).
Despite fear, you can see Gaza youth support Real Madrid and Barcelona at coffee shops or public places just like the rest of the world. Sometimes they support Ahly and Zamalek as well.
In Gaza, people refuse to knee. They refuse to unsmile or unsilenced. In Gaza, people say they want to be free.

Mohammed Arafat
28-01-2019

.in a land, where, ahem, "supposedly"... the one eyed man leads the blind? that oeuvre proclaimation? hard to... give the one-eyed the mastering of the people, who can see, no? as the one eye-man said, son of Odin... the two eyed are as blind as the no-eyed, in that they cross their eyes, and imagine themselves drowning... i see a serpent... without eyelids... perpetuated spine of lizard, cranium of cold, venom... the hebrew didn't exact... "justice" by ensuring the lizard to be left, wriggling, spine-esque, without attachment of limbs... no... the real torture? the torture that Moses didn't speak of? why, why oh why, did he leave the serpent without eye-lids?! i ask, because a mammal, a bonsai tiger is playing the role of a bassett hound, he's a maine ****... and he, for some, reason, enjoys my company... the fact that the "devil" lost his limbs... i'm not here for that... i'm here for the fact that serpents... spine and cranium remnants of dinosaurs... have, "apparently"... "lost" their eye-lids... imagine the agony... of falling asleep with your eyes open! sympathy for the devil? well... is there really any sympathy for a god or the gods? beside the point... ever since i was born... for all the creativity of the h'american people, their primitive christianity was perpetually sentenced to be abhorrent for me... i could never stomach it... that being said: so what their atheism. i could never stomach either side of the argument... at least with the russians you were told to settle for the kazakhs, those pseudo-Mongols... then, those, intermediate mouth-offs of the english... it's like a dog dies, but you can never get the fleas off of a dead dog! they keep on biting, trying to "revive" *******, akin to 20th century's 1960s zenith, "property allowance of dictum". let me just say... how god cursed Satan... to be left without limbs... is how he cursed... the fact... that dinosaurs, "once upon a time", ruled this orb... limbless sidewinding spines and brains? that's not the real... "pardon", for the emergence of man... do snakes have eyelids? i'm pretty ******* sure they don't. big tigers... tigers and lions... what about the domesticated bonsai tigers? last time i checked... big cats... tigers... lions... they had eyes... that resembled mammals... their pupils dilated, or contracted... cats? the bonsai? why do their pupils resemble lizards? ******* spies! leather in furrs! what's that old christian metaphor of wolves in sheep clothing? that's it, isn't it? well... here's a ******* update: lizard leather in bonsai ***** furrs! i keep having these blinking matches... with my maine *****... yes... the basset hounds of the feline kingdom... blinking matches, wavering: staring contests... the poverty of the metaphor poetics of Moses is finally revealed... you trust your cat? sure as **** your cat's eyes do not dilate or contract like a tiger's or a lion's might... there's a ******* lizard spy in that cranium of their, "cute"-ness... i'm pretty sure the eyes of a tiger, or a lion, become O from o... regarding the pupil... and not O from ()... slit. again... the biggest curse of the "devil" (dinosaurs) was... to craft a slithering pickle jar of a lizard's worth of a weaving spine and a brain cell? or, the fact, that, serpents do not have eyelids?! that they have to black out to craft a pair of eyelids? that they have to binge... and the reason why they ingest a whole body, is so that they can digest a whole body in order to fall asleep, with their eyes, open? i have just left, whatever was the worth of the poetics, associated with Moses' genesis... some **** ***** can play around with a serpent for all i care... i just need to hear a sssssssss sound in my head... find a cat sleeping in my bed... and say: those eyes are not big cat's eyes... they change from mammalian through to lizard... cats are dinosaurs' spies; and no, the curse of leaving a serpent without limbs... which explains the ******* crocodile... the komodo dragon... i'm worried that "god" took a snippet of the eyelids of the serpents... the "retrospective" lab. specimen of the remains of the dino. inquiry into the past of this, orb.

o.k., so i integrated, now what?
can the anglophone world
put away its ******* of giving
everyone a fair chance when that
supposed "fair" chance is
a neurotic take on not being "racist"?
what, a, load, of, *******:
  and pastoral ****-heaps of oops -
i should have migrated in my
teenage years and kept my
diacritical exfoliation,
       the distinction by accent if not
by colour... but i'm sure you're
well aware that the oliwki -
i just call the ******* olives -
              have a joker card of the obviousness:
i.e. like ******* are descendent
of an eskimo...
                 today is the first night
of night frost...
     metal is hit first,
the cement paparazzis are not yet
economised -
                        and i find it a waste of a day
in winter if i see sunlight...
    so i go back to bed:
the plan was always:
go to sleep in the night,
wake up when it's night.
           i'm not buying it...
              but i should have really
misguided by efforts in learning this,
god-forsaken tongue,
imperfected it, rather than perfected it,
retained the: free meal ticket of
the ******* accent and then scream
when the opportunity came: racism!
racism!
                  easier if i were olive
skinned...
                free rides like that don't come
so often...
         the english have become
neurotic beyond compensation!
      i'm not nervous about being called
a racist or a ****... call me that enough
times and then a lightbulb moment
will, happen... problem is:
i'll embrace that stereotype with as much
gentlemanly airs and "concern" that
will only be made for the opposite
party to not distinguish politeness from,
ridicule...
              no no,
these people will not be riddles -
they'll be ridiculed, a massive difference.
i sometimes regret learning the english
language to establish myself by the native
standard of talk,
  because once you've attained that:
then what?
     you already have a meritocracy that's
build upon: what's best representative
of your multiculturalism -
apparently the whites don't distinguish
other whites...
                    as it is clearly seen:
christianity taught the nebulous blood-thirty
barbarians a culture of masochism...
            it's actually painful to hear
a german speak, less painful speaking
german yourself...
       herr... wachsen einige hoden, bitte!
danke.
           it just looks like watching a boxer
in match wearing a ******* tutu.

    willkommen! zu aufpassen:
                    die zeit zu kommen sie!
*****-brute-deutsche...
    hündin-brachial-ßaß!
           ­      ich: jawohl!
                                  
   you want to punch: you better want
to punch high, on the head...
for the... ******* concussion
    (die gehirnerschütterung...
guess what... no trenches for you...
chemical nouns!
  ficken feen paddy kobolde -
    glücklich?!)

there has never come a time,
similar to this,
when a ******, a polen...
would, love, the deutzsche-zunge
as much, as he might love it now...
weird... seltsam...
                gott, mit uns!

memories of my grandfather's plea:
herr! bitte bon-bon!
         before the soviets came
and decided to sleep with the goats...
kommen auf ein metallurgiefamilieanfänge
(carbohydrate enough for you,
mrs. khan?!)
          what is it with me and the allure
toward the german tongue,
away from zee Ęnglisch?!

       i have an idea, or, two...
so many pakistanis with khan
as their surname...
it almost makes you, "wonder"...
islam blah blah this,
islam blah blah that...
       a lot of pakistanis with
mongolian surnames...
       time to find the wound...
time to find the salt..
  don't you think?
     oh: nicht bitter...
                       wirklichkeit... prüfen,
eh?
                i can't, or rather,
i don't have the energy to hate,
or remind the saxons,
their misdeeds...
              ich bin müde!
                i am, tired...
    see? no diacritical marks,
i have to make up the "loss" with
punctuation markers...
                            kennt ihre nachbar!
liebe? liebe?!
                   kennt ihre nachbar
            wie dich selbst!
liebe?! ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
sagte die eifersüchtig gott...
liebe?
                how about: know your neighbour
as yourself...
      the command, love your neighbour
as yourself... can we leave that sort of *******
to petting cats and pigeons?!
i rather know my neighbour as i
might know myself...
        love is never a part of the golden rule
of universal application...
  love is a futility of diminished
senses...
       i rather know my neighbour,
than love him,
as much as as i rather know myself,
than love myself.

so when's the next *******' worth
of riddles going to come from?
   palestine...
  look, i've already exhausted the "jewish q.",
i'm tired of jewish wisdom...
what's next: the arab pandora's box?
great!
    mind you... it's so nice to see
the yews the yids, the 'ebrews
making fwends with the arabs again...
hell: goat herder met another goat
herder...
       which leaves the argentinian
neo-nazis with the beef!
            and some of us:
with leather shoes, belts...
                 jackets... and... bacon!

god bless... this wonderful world!

In his office I twiddle my thumbs. Remembering blood red
poppies in a field in a painting at the National.
*** and risk rub together like skin on teeth.
Occasionally he throws me a glance, his skin paunched
and heavy
Eyes like a basset hound.
A mans terminal illness dictated like a
sonnet,
The final enemy is death.
His hands cupped like the goblet that holds the blessed communion,
his diction the holy bread
dissolving on the top of his tongue.
Eventually he turns to me and asks
“where is it that you have come from?”
The thin light pours in through his slatted blinds
and my shyness seems to stretch into eternity:
you are my obsession -
“I used to care for people with blood cancer”
I croak.

On an autumn day pretty as you please.
Lucy the basset hound could be found chasing falling leaves.
Wagging her tail high in the air.
Frolicking around without a care.

A dog's life must be good.
All Lucy has to worry about is chasing leaves.
And crapping in the woods.

rather yours truly doth thrive
on keeping the ethos, mythos,
and pathos of Pigpen alive
subjected to eternal
abomination, brutalization,
condemnation, damnation,
emasculation, humiliation, ostracization,
who one day envisions himself
as a decrepit solitudinarian
an aging long haired baby boomer,

(I seriously contemplate donating
about a dozen inches of straggly hair
to locks of love, hoping
a stylist makes house calls -
since anticipatory anxiety
wracks these lovely bones
at the prospect
of setting foot inside a salon)
wherefore he might finally
cease to be a subject of derision,

but please do not chide,
a sexagenarian whose bruised ego
experienced more'n lifetime
worth of rejection,
whose first three plus decades
(approximately half my existence)
of mein kampf livingsocial I gingerly elide
where persona non grata of Charlie Brown
(essentially portrayed as a loser)
on his keister he did glide

cuz unkind behavior
demonstrated by Lucy Van Pelt
without fail always pulls away the football
disclosing her character,
who harbors spitefulness inside
earning her another point
of maliciousness notated
on the figurative blackboard,
when I chalked up and kreide.

The Peanuts gallery
populated pleasure reading
during mine boyhood
as well as the Little Engine that Could,
whose disposition evinced a solitary lad
never delinquent except one attempt
to get caught shoplifting a yoyo at Ames
Department store in Lansdale,
but other than that amazingly as all good
boys do fine.

Matter of fact quite few other comic strips
ranked as my favorite back when I read
the Philadelphia Inquirer Sunday edition
approximately two thirds
of threescore and three years ago
(approximately half life
of Matthew Scott Harris)
I cannot forget other comic strip titled
Andy Capp, Beetle Bailey,
Berkeley Breathed, Blondie,

Brenda Starr Reporter,
Calvin and Hobbes
Dennis the Menace, Dilbert,
The Far Side, For Better or For Worse,
Frank and Earnest,
Fred Basset, Garfield,
Hägar the Horrible,
Mutt and Jeff, Nancy, Pogo,
Shoe, The Family Circus, Tumbleweeds,
The Lockhorns,
The Wizard of Id, and Ziggy.

So many choices availed themselves
regarding how to while away
my leisure hours during
those fleeting twenties,
thirties, and forties of mine,
but yours truly (me)
frequently, easily, and decidedly
found contentment then and now
among the rank and file
of other not ready
for prime time players
soaking up newsworthy morsels
and if not reading aforementioned material
than appeasing the insatiable bookworm
holed up within corporeal complex edifice
housing these lovely bones  
cerebrally feasting on a favorite genre
possibly fulfilling hunger
for historical fiction
or miscellaneous nonfiction.