NEW AGAIN
AGAIN I AM LONGING.
FOR AGAINS ARE REPETITIVE.
IT SEEMS I NEED TO HURT.
I NEED TO OVERCOMPENSATE.

BUT I AM BROKEN FROM BEFORES.
SHOULD I AGAIN, AGAIN?

QUICKSILVER THOUGHTS,
RUNNING MADLY,
DEADLY IF CONSUMED.
AND I AM CONSUMED AGAIN.
THE INNOCENCE OF EYES,
MY OWN FAILURES REFLECTED BACK.

I AM MOTHER, DAUGHTER.
EX-LOVER, EX-FIANCE… EX HUMAN?

I AM TEARING AT MY SOULSKIN,
A WEREWULF AT FULL MOON.
MY INNER BEING IS SUFFOCATING.
IT’S TOO EASY TO BE HAPPY.
HARD IS GOOD.
I MUST BE GOOD.
A GOOD LITTLE PUPPY.
A BAD LITTLE PUPPY.
WILL I BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS ME?

And there it was.
your toothbrush
still in its usual spot
the perfect epitomy
of what is left of
what I feel for you

it is the last of
all that you left behind
the proofs that you were once here
an item on display
the final thing to throw away
but I don’t do it.

dusty and morphed
it shows signs of use
yet being untouched for so long
sitting there and waiting
for nothing
a lonely cobwebbed fool

it reminded me of better days
of the closeness and the comfort
it hit me just like that
a glance and a notice
I was trapped in flashbacks
all from a **** toothbrush

there is little left of what I feel for you
yet there it still sits
a subconscious essence
and once it was acknowledged
it brought be back to our befores
when you used to use that toothbrush

I don't think of our yesterdays.

Not wishing for our tomorrows.

I care about our todays as this is
the moments when our love is happening.

The fantasies of love; I fancy myself
a glove— holding onto old befores, and
wearing out the test of time

A girl I would proudly call mine
Bribe my way into making a memory my bride; two
seductions of the tied ties, sleeping together at the odds night
And to wake up with a reasonable excuse to be tired

But I've tried to be like a peck of flightless birds—
no reason to fly south like the rest. As I encouraged
her to rest under my wing, upon my smothered talk in
her *******

Two crushing walls on my face in between thighs,
and her ****** being a tall tower close to rise
But I despise the extra seconds it takes to build up
her high. And why like vampires ****, is because
they don't use much of their tongue

But by the batting of her eyes, she is close to come,
to a point of returning a tip of this favourable fun

Through the haze of dust came
The miraculous love.
Love brought vapors of sweet befores.
“Ahh the smell,” thought he, “This be the
Temptation of youth.” Girls doused in
Thick smell: summer’s scented sand.
T’was not many girls, but one. One who
He loved—He fathomed possible.
Soap and towel, given for the purge.
Dunked in baptismal waters,
But the earth was resilient.
The details are in the fabric.
The fabric is in the details.
Was it his stitching, or the towel’s?
imprinted with a thorny crown.

In the mist of it all, I'm just a yearning, passionate soul, looking to be loved.
To be understood,
To be seen for mind verses matter.
In the mist of it all, I'm lost in a body of a bodies.
Everyday thousands of people pass by me.
On their bikes, in their cars, on the bus, by feet.
I'm in my own world thinking about THOSE people thinking,
At the same time I'm competing with myself.
I find myself at a at very Freud stand point.
In the mist of it all, I've always seen right and wrong.
I used to see the in betweens,
I used to see the befores and predict the afters.
And now, in the mist of all this doubt, all this fear, all these people,
I find myself lost,
I find myself scared,
I find myself lonely.
This mist scares me of my own greatness, but at the same time it serves my incompetence.
I look at her, I look at him, I look at all of THEM,
And in the mist of it all, they look okay.
They look happy,
They are riding their bikes, taking the bus, driving their cars,
And walking towards something....
In the mist of it all,
I know assumption is an ignorant observation,
We are all a spectrum in this thing called life.
but in the mist of it all, I need a security, an explanation, a freedom to feel, to cry and to indulge in self-doubt.
But in the mist of all this mist, I need some one to hold me tight,
To reassure that my fears are only fears,
To secure my feet,
To believe in my thoughts, because they don't believe in me.
To make me feel,
God.
Where have I fallen in all this mist.
God please help me live, feel, cry for passion and not for pain.
In the mist of it all,
In the mist of it all,
I'm left with thoughts, thoughts,
And thoughts.......
In this godforsaken mist.
I yearn for love, I yearn for hope, I yearn for dream....

with a hair tuck the atoms bent
to curl in a loop around her ear
compressed into a snaking stream
of custard comets, pouring down
her neck, over collar bones, passed
the ribcage made of gold limestone
holding grains of sparrows eggs turned
to sand, from ten thousand years ago

seeping into skin, grey fake tan of
statues, mountains, ocean beds alike
the ache in the pulse at her wrist from
the steady thrum injection of the worlds
squeezed, twisted, turned and churned
into a potion, a medicinal miracle, a fine
powder substance that grows at liquid's
touch.

dripping through her palms, fingertips
to create a stain upon the sugar paper
flesh of others, like a children's picture
turned tattoo in highlighted colour and
sound, drumming into ears, road works
on the way to the brain, cause a migraine
cells screeching to infiltrate all they touch
bred, genetically modified, embitterment
of the human race, a flawless system of
this, that, none other, its aim to destruct
befores and reconstruct them differently
against the wishes of the girl who calmly
indifferently, lazily, unknowingly, seductively
tucked that lock of hair behind her ear.

from the first kiss of the day
to the last kiss at night
we smirkingly wring the grey waters of
Logic & Reason
from our Passion
(so that it smells like
newly-washed old
bed sheet
deeply rooted in  
Hole-y Memories
Faded 'I love yous'
Nostalgic 'We've done this befores'
and
Hopeful 'Let's do it agains'

The aging blind man at the florist's
Recalls his vision, his statue'd youth

Here, the sensation of scent
Is a meadow of heartache
When days were alive as a bouquet
Nostalgic now to go / see his love.

Alas when sight was fragrant...

He carries lilies out the door
Old and blind
A man holding memories
Of bright befores...

Alas when sight was fragrant.

Lines like a laxative for tongues,
The individual pieces become greater than its sum,  
Summer time therapy dialing up in increments,  
Wouldn't know the difference between the butterflies and chrysalis.
Syzygy in spirit as sympathy in the impetus,
Synergy  in serendipity makes symmetry seem ubiquitous.
Flummoxed, I fell face first flying into fellowship,  
Feeling fusion in the furrows of my fingertips,  
Figure this,  mistigris,  implement mirrors  for the synthesis,  
Taking root  in the underground,
This is censorship on stimulus.  
Kaizen from the get-go,
How did silence ever get gold?
Climate of the  biome discernible by  petrichor,
Some of my greatest allies are people I've never even met before.  
Mumpsimus with metaphors, metatron or metamorph,
A mess of Mesozoic memoirs  drowning in a reservoir,
Reserve my right to write a mire of a  message board,
Desire an empire of satire to conquest; explore,  
Buyers,  sellers,  best befores,  
Crying out to be adored,
The expiration estimation rivals rivals' primal repertoires.
Rhymes like mycelium,  climbing up the  parapets,  
Embrangled mosaics interceding abstract arabesque.

HOW GLORIOUS IS IT THAT
WE WITH OUR MERE ANCHORS FOR BODIES
CAN EXPERIENCE SHORT BATTLES OF TIME THAT LIFT US FROM WHERE WE ARE
TURN ON THE LIGHTS.
YOU KNOW, WHEN SOMEONE SAYS SOMETHING
AND THEIR EYES LIGHT UP AND
YOU JUST DEEPLY WANT TO PAINT WITH THE COLOR OF THEIR VOICE.
BECAUSE YOU COULD ALWAYS DIG THAT PAINTING OUT OF THE ATTIC
AND STARE INTO THE COLORAND REMEMBER,
EVEN FOR A SECOND,
YOU CAN CLIMB ONCE AGAIN TO THE PEAK OF THAT MOMENT AND REST UPON IT.
YOU CAN SIT AT THE TOP AND SEE FOR MILES,
THE FEELINGS, THE SMELLS, THE BEFORES AND AFTERS OF RIGHT THEN

As i sit in my very old rocking chair thinking here and there, i try to imagine the history of the one who made the chair.
Cutting here and sanding there, rocking too and fro. I try to imagine the long befores, maybe long before i was born how people sat in the very same chair rocking far away.
And as the years slipped by time just flew, just flew so far away. My mind takes me there, far far away to the one who made the chair...rock.

Comparing befores and afters
Flipping through ripped pages and chapters
Time kept moving despite my dissatisfaction
People changed despite my lack of action
In recluse my made up home
My personal prison, my imaginary dome
Decorated walls
Finished furnished halls
Where to go is where i stayed
Things too broken, way too frayed
Inviting Visitors instead of getting out
This is now what life is all about
To never leave
Never
Leave

The aging blind man at the florist's
Recalls his vision, his statue'd youth

Here, the sensation of scent
Is a meadow of heartache
When days were alive as a bouquet
Nostalgic now to go / see her…

Alas when sight was fragrant...

He carries lilies out the door
Old and blind
A man holding memories
Of bright befores...

Alas when sight was fragrant.

Baptized in water, to wash afresh life
They flipped a quarter to pay a wreck their stripes
Too many strikes in the lines; I've done ill twice
To prove a lesson I never seem to learn
And by the next turn on an unfamiliar road
As where the water drips off the bottom sink—filled in dirt
I'll over think a wish that employers pay my worth

Baptized in fire, of all those miscreants I'd like to burn
Setting flame to burning evil intent of worldly incense
As the idea of a heaven paradise, is the only call to repent
To accept the mess you made—no sense or point to be afraid
Tip the finger despite the good intent, but a ******* in prayer
Nowadays sinners aren't ashamed, to gain success out of his name
Heathen, Atheist, Christian, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist; all the same
Living the most lively of lives, but we'll all die in the end

Baptized in Earth, saying goodbye to befores, family and friends
It's the spoil of soil that buries my dreams with a fresh rose
She smells of intentions, but I cannot smell good with a ****** nose
Ironically all things are red, that of which we've read
To share with the young, or not really care—we all die in the end
Caught in this life's trap of the pleasure's unfair; a bear in a snare
To rob you bare, with tears and a ripped bandage that you tear
The ones you love aren't always there—in moment's phone call away
Ring, ring, beep, beep, sing, sing, sip, sip; sorry I'm drinking today
You're just throwing those hopes in the air, feeling down by gravity

Baptized in winds, swinging carelessly in hopeful imaginings
That you're the one to be the golden egg of your family
An idea I had once till it cracked, so I sit back relax and laugh
Mask my pains with a grin and jokingly demeanor to always pass
Speaking smooth joy out of a tongue of jazz, and jazz hands
Fingers splayed to play in quotation marks of having a good day
And the line phrase of always saying, "yeah I'm definitely okay"

All in these elements—restless, pretend excellence, dreadfulness
In the endlessness of subtle pettiness, of my helplessness
As of my gentleness elegance, in being my life as the evidence
I've been baptized fully by the full of all these elements

On this day
I slipped
Into my practice
Upon waking
Like
Easing
Into your bed
After too much
Living
Leaves us
Weak.
Necessary
And
Indulgent
Somehow
To leave be
The befores
And the laters
And come to rest
In the now.

Oh Intangible Tabernacle of imagined ****!

Oh Great Exodus!

Women walk passed my window

strange nurses, warm and wondrous

something to observe, something to carry.

Daydreams wayward outside my window

Stranded on islands of tile

A Tangent reality, a symptom, something to sift through..

Legs.

Playing the tapes all the way through

to pain, to the dismissal of problems, exiles,

weekends away.

A thousand moments flood my mind

All with different legs and faces.

With bloodstains in her jeans, ***** clothes stacking

Command, control, cuckoldry

Wanton sigh from a hundred imposing thighs

Play out to cold shower days and nights.

Play out to passive aggressive pacifism.

Breathing together, bending together,

Breaking together, with elegance.

Blossoms played out to bloodlettings.

Gone with all the ones who came and went

In befores,

Heads that laid ‘pon my chest before

Sighed hauntingly, trust like saccharine

Played out to stolen hearts dripping strychnine

Wondering now the wandering roses

Hopes laid like Eucharist in them

To only find ourselves sinking

Invested, stuck, separated.

The wondrous women

waltzed passed my window

and I do not wish them to return.

Kids Just Want Crackerjack-Sized Prizes

petite and instantly pleasurable,
prized poems of brevity that tax
at zero, the lowest applicable rate,
offering granules of delight, espresso
sized, it’s a no to sips from a muging

charming and charmed,
rueful &  ironical, easy to
swallow in one felling swoop,
a  minds’ amuse-bouche,
think of the tree bytes saved!

knee bent in deference,
obeisance heady bent,
counting crows & words,
awed by the encapsulated,
single, subtle, singular idée fixe

here I stand and as I write,
plaint every size has it place,
even it’s own-won-one-time,
short needed too, but ya
canna feed my soul
with candied nuts,
abbreviated notions,
if you desire an ocean crossing*…


<§>

I,
perpetual struggling poet, working-man,
purposely seek the illusion of allusions,
craftily crafted, crafty reverential
carefully chosen references & foreign words,
très charmant,
les metaphoric metaphors plucked from a
million metaverses newly explored,
theiving from our predecessors,
who deserve the homage of
genuine followers, inspiration
from those who borrowed liberally
from their historical predecessors,
the go-befores and go-betweens and
laugh at my impoverished copycattting
copied compliments offered “gratis”

enough.

Thu Jan 5 2023
9:07am

I reach
Hands
Around
And above
This body
Through
Befores
And afters
And thems
And these
Buzzing
In tiny
Separate
Bits,
And breathe,
And feel
Them
Join
And
Seep
Through pores,
Under nails,
Around organs,
And fill
This body
With me
(And we).

Red wine vinegar stained carpet seeping into the air.
Left behind to rot in the dry saturation,
      tasting the remains of the night befores guille words.
Carbonated cartwheels tucked into the trees,
     searching for the tranquil sun to take over the solicitude.
Absentmindedly stepping into an apathetic residual feeling,
        dipping deep into the youthless fountain of uncertainty,
           wading further, and further, and further through rocks and ******* of indecisiveness.

Sand squished between my toes,
     and I felt a warm, grounding sensation radiate throughout my body.
Feeling hot with temptation,
  stepping onward,
      Inward,
           dampening to the thigh of my floor length dress,
whirling in and out of a conscious mind.
An inquisitive voice surrounding my sanction halted the sacrificial deluge.
Waist deep in impassivity,
           I slip out of the fog filled heed,
and step onto more stable ground.

Her:
All has happened before
My dear
Perhaps
many many before befores.
Patterns always repeat.
Rewind.
Replay.

She:
But where is the Record button?
Surely it must be here.
Someplace.
Somewhere.
Must be.

Most mornings, my first waking thought is:, ”Life is the best gift anyone has ever received,
surpassed only by consciousness and freedom.”

When this happens, it’s impossible to leave
without first setting a plan to pursue
the sparks that ignite my ephemeral flame.
I want to leap with abandon, 
fill the day with never-befores, 
and share every last thing in my head.

But the long days have ways of reminding me
that I am a player
in the less existential realities of others.
That I chase fruitless romantic dreams.
That I am not truly free.
That if I don’t slow,
I will destroy every structure
that scaffolds my sturdy life.

But is it worth the fall?
I’m afraid that I might truly think it is.
When I feel that shine -
when I have that glimmer in reach -
when I’m intoxicated with the scent and the buzz -
when I begin to glow -
I really do.

But of course, I could be wrong.
And maybe my freedom is like a religion.
It feels real to me,
but all evidence points toward the contrary.

Sometimes I can see
The shadow of all we've been

Lost and confused
Separate and diffuse
You are pulling away from me
Is it, is it true?

If everything is going back in time
so can we
But I can't go back because
I am not the same chick

We are big but we come from the ground
My birth was hard but it was worth it all
Your birth was getting rid of your befores
I want to keep swimming with you - kiss each other not to choke

Are we pulling away
Each on our own way
I can't take this again
But if it comes, nothing left to say