We are part of an ever moving, growing, expansive and sacred energy

It is around us, above us and below us at all times

We belong to everything and everyone

We are the ones who separate from this space

We are the ones who contract away from this energy

It is always here waiting

Waiting for us to re-connect and flow into

We belong to everything and everyone

(- This is originally a spoken word poem. Read aloud for maximum exposure.
-Asterisks indicate the necessity to pop your cheek with your thumb.
-Answer the two questions correctly and I will give you a hug.)

He fell asleep while traveling time
where a true name
becomes everything else.
So please give me a minute to explain myself
through the doorways
that I see champagne on a windowsill
walking across the room with blue
and fine china feet
saying again and again
drink me.
Until somehow
the words become a song
singing and swinging the bottle like a dinner bell for thirst.
A kind that we've settled to quench
with television
and somebody else's dream.
So don't pour my drink.
I'm trying to uncork it with my thumbs.

POP

It's flat
and I still have a tongue
so I will use it and I
I will dream of a time
where ******
becomes a baby.
Dr. King becomes a baby.
Until the left and the right and every dead genius in between
becomes
a baby.


Tiny feet trying not to crush the wet salad of the lawn
because it is green,
like my heart
that has learned
how to break fine china.
From experience,
let me tell you
it's a lot more tiresome than a blue dream
but he fell asleep on a boxcar crossing Germany
where mustard gas
drowns you in your own lungs
and he tries to breath between the joints in the track

the

click
...                         
click
...
    clack

as years
hurtle by.

Asking again and again,

"Who killed me?"
           &
"Who am I?",

until dinner was served without grace.
Until my head becomes stiff and bubble shaped
having been conditioned by
their
piles
&
piles
&      mounds

of
obfuscation.


So we should tell all the baby Hitlers,
that become children
that become us,
that a lie
is what you become
when abusing language to distort a reality.

And when you make a fist
you are handing worlds out at random on a silver tongue.
But I still have one
and I still have thumbs
so sorry to burst your bubble but,

POP.

Child,
I don't mean to put
barbed wire
between us.  
I know it hurts
to have something so precious as the world
taken away.
But walls hurt worse
and through them only muffled sounds are ever heard
until your world is made of mute prisoners
that have forgotten what silver
really sounds like.

Blessed be
for I also have ears
so give me second place
and I will throw the medal against your walls.
Ringing out,
the universe doesn't look like an ebony tub,
with knobs we can't ever see,
full of infinite shining marbles to everybody.
Your mind
is a library
so free will isn't a book written in just English.
And tourists,
those know nothing infants trying to travel,
belong
where
           ever they
are
                             going.

Belonging like this medal bouncing trying to sing
off your wall
and
falls

into


your world.

Where again it will ring,

we've all been runner up

and somehow
we still can become disappointments to ourselves
when another doesn't enter our library
instead of loving the stories on our shelves.


So,
let me say grace.
Let me set l o n g tables
with the gruel that's been given
served on b  r                     n.
                         o
                           k  
                                        e          
china,
spooned
with sterling silver.

Her eyes blossom like a fresh pink bud in the sweet spring

She slinks from her casket like a black cat becoming resident of the shadows

Her fangs emerge gleaming like white sand belonging to paradise

She is ready to feed

Somehow, I managed to get to my thirties
without eating a cherry --- a fresh one, anyway,
raw, untamed, unshelved, and forgodssake,
unmarischinoed.

I had them in pies, gooey, sickening, too much
syrup, and in sundaes --- again, not real, a turn-off,
saw people tie the stems in knots,
I had the impression, I think, that if people
had to do all the things they do with cherries
to make them flavorful, they must be really
**** straight out of the bag.  
I made my mind up that they were unpleasant
and I would have nothing to do with them.
Even, or especially, in chocolate-covered cherries,
which my mother loved, so I wanted to love,
I could at best eat the chocolate around that
thick viscous sugary embryonic fluid
wherein lay the embittered, unborn and unloved cherry
and not the coveted prize.

So imagine that day when, careless at a cocktail
party, or at someone's house, hungry, I nibbled
at a fresh one, deep red and whole, gingerly working
my way around the stem and coming awake
to ohmygod what have I been missing all these years?

They still seem brand new now, every time, a delicacy,
something wealthy people indulge in and so not really
belonging to my world.  They beg for the company
of wine and the most delicate cheeses, they ask to be shared
and doted on.  The keep revealing themselves,
on the plate, unadorned, and they keep reminding me
to try something else that I have never tasted,
like complete and utter honesty, or looking at myself
naked, without judgment, even at the innermost
feminine parts, upside down with a mirror until I see why
they say making love for the first time is giving away
your cherry.

Always scanning
Always searching
Every face
Every glimmer of red hair
It's a weakness, that red hair, she said
With a self-deprecating smile
Are you her?
The one we've been looking for
The one to complete us
A three-part us
So many criteria
Chemistry
Values
Maturity
But most important,
Belonging
So much longing
To have hands as full as my heart
Am I ignoring the possibles?
Am I looking too hard,
Trying too hard
To force something out of nothing?
Gaining nothing but
Another gaping hole
Wounds to lick clean,
Scars to soothe
His and mine
Learning how to trust
Again

I ache

smiles glow like mobile little campfires
warming the room
comfy, cozy. home.
you are home in this place, because they're here.

arms wrap around shoulders and hug
them tight
comforting, together.
you belong here, because they're here.

eyes closed in laughter one minute
sparkling with care the next
depth, affection.
you are loved here more than anywhere, because they're here.

you breathe the air and taste the
sweetness of familiar voices,
snuggle into the cadences and timbres
instantly recognizable as
belonging.

this is a special place,
this place where you belong.
this place where you're together.

like an old favorite blanket
you have given the memory to me
of belonging with you
to wrap around my shoulders and
hug close when I am touched
by the chilling fingers
of sadness.

I ache
because I miss it, yes
but mainly because
it is such a beautiful thing
it hurts.

love the grey in a lazy day bridge the gap in my dreams through twisted schemes
filter through the notion of belonging mark the longing get a following
we are in this til the end my faithful friend with whom I can depend
inside I have rollercoaster emotions with the ups & downs
take a walk on the beach try to catch that frisbee way out of reach
love the longing of belonging there's a yearning hearts are turning
take a shower in the hour of power nestled in a memory come to sit next to me
Each man chooses their own destiny call it magical chemistry from when you were a memory

Rise to the occasion with soaring hearts as in some decorated mast to impart
love is basking in the jewels of renewal carry on with a song in your heart
love is the mere tenderness of the given moment from a sought after vintage smile
comfort me to the conclaves of lasting love soon you will discover a heart to unfold
many are living in mere fantasy basking in the leaves or newly fallen snow
hearts would unfold some time a go the notion of surrender

Come with me to the sea of tranquility lost in a dream feel the breeze
Tea leaves with Leonard Cohen singing basking in the vast expanse between time & space
Surrender to the moment with cadence as its following and deep heart belonging
the tender moments of belonging soaring like an eagles to parts unknown
Caress the bossom of softened decorum as we choose to be healed
the day is fast approaching and the night is far too spent
to quiver in the moment let the temporal vanish capture the longing

I sit alone above to dew left to groom a brand new view in what is left to do
give me a smile your support and your fantasies let them flourish let them unfold
Hear each passing wave rise to the occasion with the real remnants of nature
To equate laughter with forgiveness give pause to think being in the moment
one touch and one will rise with triumph in their eyes

The ability to let go and let God take over feelings to recapture prepared for the great here after...
arm me with harmony filtered through a dream give pause to breathe
Achieve your dreams to light the way of forgiveness the mere wanting to let go
Be compassionate when you learn to focus on your goals in which to unfold
like Stevie Wonder singing at your funeral learn role reversal
Choose to let go & let God each & every passing day

what i said:
"you sound rough this morning."


what i meant:
"your voice is lavender and honey and tea time and supernovas colliding with gentle breezes and if i could wake up to it, just once, cocooned in a tangle of your arms and couch cushions and that blanket you keep in the back of your car, i swear by the stars in my eyes no one on this godforsaken planet would be out of earshot of my singing

i hope that tonight when i dream of you--it is no longer a matter of uncertainty, but anticipation--you speak like you've just overslept your alarm and frantically motored yourself to where i am, like is the case today.

i wish you had chosen me but if i could only listen to you speak to me, about anything--rivers or math homework or football or belonging or music or even your girlfriend--i promise i would listen with the beating urgency of a swimmer in a frozen stream, i would savor each word from your lips, like they were the spring and i was the underground daisy waiting for your kiss.

and in precisely three days i will have an essay to compose about a beautiful topic that would consume me thoroughly were it not for the memory of your groggy morning voice, so full of raspy complacency i can't breathe but instead of fulfilling my obligations i will be hashing out halfway comprehensible poetry about you and crying about how i cannot recreate the sound of your voice with any combination of hollowly clicking keys.

you are so beautiful that i could spend the remainder of my life with a five-subject notebook, scrawling 'your eyes. your smile. your hands. your voice' over and over endlessly and die feeling as though i had lived a thousand years of quiet adventure.

you are so much and too much for me and i have no idea why you see as much in me as you do but i will not question it, for fear that if i were to come too close to you, to run my fingers along the marvel of your face you would shrivel and unfurl into nonexistence, like the leaf in the fire."


and also:
"why can't your voice always sound like this?"

and finally:
"******* you're attractive"

I sit inside my podunk room,
As a million meteors make mad dashes
For different conners of The Universe
Like galactic kids stuck in a game of
Sharks and Minnows.
They snap their space caps over their heads,
Adjust their goggles, and dive into the galaxy;
With the refreshing burn of
Firery friction against their faces
As they glide through the galaxy.

Above my head these nova swimmers soar,
As I pull a folded list from a desk drawer
And lean out the window with a quilt
To stop the chill from getting to me.
I close my eyes and let the cold moon light
Reflect off my surface and pale my skin.
The moon has no purpose but to moon bathe  with, of course.
Of the meteors that circle the sky
I have a very different purpose for.

One by one I recite wishes,
One special I had saved just for this night;
Scribbled in marker with fast hands belonging to a busy brain,
Elegant cursive dawned by a deary mind,
My best script for my friendly letters.
Some I whisper, some I shout,
Some I struggle just to get out.
But one by one these wishes are told
To the night sky, the meteors swimming pool.

Suddenly the windowsill creaks and cracks
My eyes snap open, the timber of my home breaks
And my house, my yard, the trees and the leaves
All disappear, and suddenly,
I am splashing and slushing  in a puddle of
Endless Blue Water until I
get the sense about me to swim.

I swim until the water reaches my head,
My eyes, my nose, my chin,
Drains from my ears
Splatters on my shoulders.
I walk when I can, through
A tunnel of cattails, seaweed, and pond things,
Like a swamp without a sky,
That make the Endless Blue Water a canal with
A wooden door that I reach
After many steps.

Knocking twice, I stand patient
Busy with the thought of what brought me here.
A slot in the door slides open,
Old eyes framed by glasses peer back at me.
"Go away!" The old man barks,
"I can't let you in. All of
The water will get everywhere on my feet."
I stand, my eyes pleading with angst,
Eyelashes that drip water.
"No, it's ok Grandpa. Let her in,
She is tired." A voice, gentle and sweet, speaks
With a melody of a thousand guitars
Tuned to the exact preference of my own ears.

With a grumble and groan.
A click and a clack,
The slot slides shut harshly
And with a creak and force,
The floor flies open and
I am urged by the Sweet Voice to
"Hurry Great Darling! Hurry!"
And I squeezed through
The door, but so does the
Viscous water.

It flows rapidly past the door jam,
And the owner of the Sweet Voice scrambles
To convice the hinges that they
Want to turn the other way.
The dusty ground I now stand on
Quickly turns to mud, as the water flows.
We cannot stop the water from flowing.

The water makes a will of its own,
Rises with vigorous ebb,
And carries Sweet Voice's Grandfather with it
Into the dust bowl in which it surges so fiercely to.
I go with it, emerged once again as I
Grasp for a wrist, an ankle,
A collar, until I find a strap
Of a suspender, and hold fast to the door handle,
As Sweet Voice whispers hopes
That the water will stop. He grits his teeth, and
I'll never forget what he said:

"You are magnificent, Great Darling.
I would have loved you endlessly."

And with that, the water reversed,
Taking the sweet voice back into
The Tunnel of Pond Things,
And slamming the door shut.

The Grandfather and I, sat on grassy moss
That once was barren dirt, that climbed into fingernails
And settled homes between human and calcium.
The Endless Blue Waters  had cleansed the dirt from before,
But had also taken my lovely paramour.

And with this, I wailed great echoes
That shook the ground, because
The sweet voice was the wish
Whispered so delicately but so
Anxiously on my windowsill
That lonely night.

After my fit, I turned to see
Great followers of the Barren Lands,
Ghastly beasts with spots and rabbit ears,
Humans with skin clear, great dragons
That inspired no fear, that
All stood before the Grandfather and I.
They held their hands before their faces,
Checked their teeth, and found it free of the dust
And dirt that haunted their days.

A great feast was arranged,
A thousand chairs at seven hundred tables,
All lined with a feast
Of cooked carrots and sweet potatoes,
Texas toast and orange marmalade,
Corn beef and root beer;
As kites with tails and laughter with squeals
Floated through with wind and smoke
Of campfires yellow, all
To celebrate the arrival of me,
The Great Darling,
Who had cleansed the Barren Lands
And brought about the begining of
The Hallow Lands.

I sat alone at this great feast,
Weary of my loss, when I felt
A tapping on my shoulder. It was
The Sweet Voice who had returned.  
I asked, elated by his arrival, about the
Means of his return, and he replied:

"The moon has more purpose than you
Assumed, Great Darling.
The moon controls all tides, and
With its power on my side, I asked it to
Take me back to you, and kindly it did, as
the moon understands that poles and magnetism
Are not the only forces than bring great things together;
That love can do that great deed too."

We sat under the lemon tree,  
My quilt, retrieved on Sweet Voice's journey,
Spread beneath us, as we watched the moon
Circle the sky for many nights,
Until we decided to join in its company.
One by two, we stepped up stepping stones
On a hill that reached the meteors pool,
Where my paramour and I lived
In galactic happiness forever more.

An irreplaceable mirror
One of a kind
An irreplaceable memory
Stored in a photograph

The mirror, shattered
Shards lying on the floor
The photograph, tarnished
Smeared with paint

A room reeking of chemicals
Belonging to an asthmatic.
Being refused the refuge
Of sleeping on the couch.

A gouge in the wall
A long, scratched line
White smears across
A brand new, silver surface.

But we can't sue,
Or complain
Because your son
Runs our Real Estate.

I put my hands in my pockets,
                                   protecting
Whatever can be found inside

I found it!
It was a child in a small red house,  and then an apartment, and then in a lamp...

3, 2, 1,
I Am the Genie.
You wished for my health,
You wished for me to stay,
And the last wish
             You gave it to me!
But I am not your genie...
I belong to the child,
To the past, to the future... But most importantly,
To the wonderland.

Take your hands out of your pockets!

In many travels across this melting *** of a country I have found that every small town has it's own cast of characters every group has the ******* who cant handle
*****.
The party girl who gets crying and wishes she could start all over again.
And the one to busy living this life to give a **** about what you think or how your
feeling.

After a couple  of weeks it gets to anyone the sense of not belonging.
the constant movement  it eats away at you like rot gut whiskey.
Once even though in agony you so joyfully keep pouring down your throat.

And the conversations become the same are we but playing a game
saying whatever it takes to get what we want.
But what is it we truley want?

Comfort of a warm body by are side the feeling of flesh apon flesh.
It has to be more than just *** but out here I belive its to feel
what its like to benormal and for one moment pretend you wont  be
walking out that door to chase sun once agian.
Living like a pirate apon the land.

Not matter her body's warmth when you leave you never havea chance to
know the bad or the reallity of people.
thats why im forever a tourist.

i am lying on my stomach
after having spent hours propped up on my elbows
spent hours reading, sunbathing
spent hours getting drunk and tired in the sun
i am outside our new chicago home
in a courtyard belonging to only us

i am sprawled on the transparent blue plastic of my past
the cerulean beach chair that never made it to a single beach.
its plastic wound and woven around the metal
like nothing i’ve ever seen before

and i fall asleep

and i’m awakened by the raindrops on the low of my bare back

but it is not raining

and i wake up naked, inside, in your arms as you tap out a tune on me

and the blue chair that we put in the shower
when my brother was too weak to stand
because my brother was too weak to stand
is nowhere to be found
even when he went to live in the hospital
that chair
gathered rust
in a closed, dripping shower

we threw it out
it reminded us of a hard time
he was our only surviving souvenir  

i miss the chair
and i miss the person he was before it all
before he gathered all this rust

(in the dream it is late March)
there's a light rain in Montréal & the sky
is a gorgeous, early-morning variety of slate grey. imagine the lid
of an old metal garbage-can.
everything is dismal, perfect. and quiet; even the people leaving the bars are silent.
dismally, perfectly, silent.

ghosts of old cats—belonging maybe to ghosts of old ladies who lived, say, just off St. Lau, back
in the eighties—ramble downhill, in the direction of rue St. Catherine (Saint Cat! O patron of felinity!) ,
between the legs of those spilling out from the trendy & ****** clubs.
some of the ghosts wander out into the street, flash thru car tires that would've (& have) (at one time)
smashed them to pulpy carpet on the asphalt.
(who goes to pick them up then? when the tires have had their way with them over & over?
when they are just hair & porridge by a sewage grate?)

after a greasy smoked-meat-on-rye or a nightcap at somebody's place, just off the drag,
i'm in a sodden, but warm overcoat, hands curled in the bottoms of it's pockets; mis-shapen mass
of hair plastered to my scalp; walking en bas de la montagne just past the McGill Medical Centre.
—this late, the busses back downtown are never on time.
(driver's probably having a few smokes before he starts that long tour down. full up of drunk kids,
taking one another back to their dorms, etc.)
(and what does he have, to look forward to at shift's end?
        i. a cranky wife—past her prime?
        ii. a buncha dogs—yapping for attention?
        iii. some ******* kid—who's disrespectful & won't shut up or turn his stupid ******* punk-rock down?

—it's enough to make me patiently wait.  i'll wait forever, as long as that isn't me.)

...'spose I'LL have a cigarette too. waiting
in the bus shelter on Ave. Des Pins looking down over the
football fields of the McGill Athletics Dept.
still lit up. no sun yet but
now at 4 AM a dull inch or two of lightened grey out there on the horizon.. dawn will come,

though i'd rather not face the day. all the mornings are so hard after nights like this.
bound to be hungover &
spend the day hiccuping in bed texting some girl; maybe get up
in the late afternoon t'fix coffee, toast & eggs.
sit on the balcony,
make my little guitar sigh,
and try to feel normal until i [have to] puke.

"—and who was that girl i spoke to for so long at St. Sulpice last night? how many gin-tonics did she let me buy myself, nattering on?.. probably too drunk to even get her number."
"—maybe Sean or Dylan will know if she came thru with anyone we knew.."

the bus is finally here. twenty-and-three minutes late. the back of it probably smells of
stale smoke, dim sun, and sweaty, rain-soaked cloth, absorbed from jackets into the seats—the eau du jour.
it's always a bump 'n **** ride down the hill; bound to,
with the other handful of dumb & silent riders, drunkenly sway,
(or is it a natural compensation of the body, to groove along with the curves and stops?)
back & forth like carcasses of half-dozen slaughtered pigs
swinging on their hooks in back of a meat wagon..
(i'll end up getting on, but only for three blocks. i'll ******* walk the rest of the way home,
after that comparison. to hell with the rain.)

SIX MINUTES LATER:
(Avenue Des Pins still—4 blocks closer to downtown)

directly in line now with McGill campus via McTavish; this way i can
cruise down thru the silence of the main drag having a couple smokes drinking beer
(copped a 40 at a Dep before i left St. Lau—frosty under my arm enshrouded by brown paper.)
& be left to my own thoughts for fifteen minutes 'til i get to Sherbrooke
—i adore that fifteen-minute stretch down thru the jumble of
student associations, clubs, faculty offices, administration buildings, resources centres & the like;
all contained in the same red bricked, white trimmed victorian monster, multiplied threescore
on either side of the lane; all built in the early nineteen-hundreds, all acquired by the university in one of several expansion initiatives in a decade i won't bother to guess at, it doesn't matter. you don't care..

midway down the hill i stop and go sit on the verandah of one of the buildings,
the graduate studies in math offices —
cccrack that forty.
sit there with the sun JUST barely splitting the seam of the horizon feelin'
like the lyrics from a Sun Kil Moon song. nothing more or less.  
"off to a good start," says i.

I am the master of my own mind
I beset my tears, I conquer my sadness
I am devoted to this world
To this very world in which I dwell
and to which my soul is admitted
Sometimes I hear my words
Fly around and again
within t'ese violent shades
about my head: as I walk by curious moonlight,
sunbeams, in 'ose solitary moods and emblems
of t'is silent quiet of th' night.
How can I be so lonely-and bathed in distress-
in t'is lovely yet calamitous winter?
How can I be so destitute and untouchable-
unlovable-unaffectionate, indeed!-without my very own
admired thee?
My soul is dejected; condemned and cursed
by th' entirety of destiny-oh, how I am accustomed to
t'is pain, and its inflamed tongue, burning mercilessly
in t'ose succulent perambulations throughout
th' volatile streets-yes, upon and across th' bridge-
what a vile remembrance, where but t'is poem
is my only vivid 'muchness'-and consolation. If only a wren
could be deemed my messenger, let her but decoy t'is
dubious fate-and bring me to slip into her arms-
thin and steep but with a fond predilection for my desires-
with consideration for our feelings-and carry within her wings
a letter from these longings, beneath
the cradling hands of the moon-yes, t'at hectic,
vivacious moon-who is lurking behind me
like a moronic shadow. Its chaotic abode-aye,
chaotic as it once was, is now unamused-and plastered
into th' surly noon, it is despaired-utterly despaired,
and deprived of love-look at how t'at wealth of serene eyes
swim around thirst, in such unwonted lullabies, and its
famished shrine! What a dejected old
sanctuary it must be-infamous and credulous to oddity, but again
fuels my anger on, amidst th' moonbeam t'at is now gone.
But I still can't find thee, querida.

Tell me, then, how shalt I spend t'is azure night without thee?
Without thee, querida, my soul is but solemn and vain;
as though I've lost my brain-and my shell's 'bout to drain-
yes, 'tis t'at no delight, but worries-in me.
And no shield is to protect t'at,
as thou, my love, art in a dream, but far, far away.
I am only consoled by t'ese remnants, o, of my infatuation-
of t'is incarcerated, forbidden love-for thee!
My very thee, who should be curling up comfortably-
like a childish moist in my arms-
in my simpering abyss, and therefore sends it into
flickers, and doesth it die-hence, forces its dread, and stubbornness
to obey! O thee, th' fixated spirit to my wondrous imagination-
and th' anxious bits of my sublime inspiration-truthfully, indeed!
How in this quieted recluse
I long for but one piece of shine-yes, just
one piece of which-to be my guiding star,
and the torch of my robbed path.
My stolen state-and luminous gravity, as dim as the mocked
aspiration, is but never to shower again-
t'at earth with smiling rain-and th'  invigorating soil 'neath
my feet-upon which I trample in deadly haste.
But my hands are scanty-and my heart is dry; that is
but admiringly undeniable;
I am indulged by my own fear, abhorrence,
and dangerous imagination. I am but without my lover-
o, thee, o my solitary prince, doth thou heareth of my
wail? I scream and scream in t'is unforgiving agony,
but thou hath not been here, lost in th' middle of nowhere
like an unnamed being-but belonging to some other's
charms, I know! But still I crave for thee-just thy eyes,
yes-those dripping blackness whose temptation is like
a cave, an invitation to deep, deeper soliloquy down its
poisonous hole. How I am shrinking into this dream again-
a wild, wild dream of seclusion, which I look upon
in frustrated reproof; thou art the symbol of its daintiness-
and thorns of delicacy-but t'at someone else! Some other
dame whose heart dearly belongs to thee-and o, how enviable t'is
object of endurance might be. How deserving of my remorse-unwilling
as my being might be, to give it. Still , out of even the shallowest comprehension-
when the sun glows over me, I will long for but thee-over the morning dews
of the river, far from insanity, will I stand there anew,
and in freshness glint at thy stateliness
in unpardonable profusion.

On t'is very still do I sit, with t'at grumpy book in my lap-
words carved nearly are as picturesque as th' beautiful heaven.
I hope but thou could heareth me-thou whose voice is like a
hint of lavender-painted in th' ballads of my heart forever.
My song, my song! Undergone a faithful revision-
towards a masculine spring of reason,
and demands a sudden but mature completion.
How I still sing for thee!
Like a bee who chases a loveless but unbending sunflower,
sipping all its empowering delight-that is but how I shall wait for thee-
in t'is passion and strong conviction for truth-
that thou wilt embrace me, as thy own queen of ardour
beneath t'is forthcoming spring, o, my knight-
and all t'is love, and love indeed-as th' very endlessness
of thy splendor.

A breath, yours
soft, hot, chilling
the ear, mine
curved - an art on skin
the meeting of both
explodes, a confetti of feelings
a beat becomes a throb
throbbing madness
of that breath that still flows
a begging of hearts
a pleading of souls
begging the emptiness of body
an urging of minds
that breath that still flows
into begging hearts
fills the pleading souls
walls crumble
on soft ground they meet the heart
received, converted into trust
by the breath that still flows
excitement abides
eyes meet and hold
gazes into abysses of longing
a tide covers the belonging
the connection of two hearts at sea
joined by that breath that still flows
into that skin, that art
is but the wind with memory
spun, ebbed, blown, twisted by time
made into dreams fused with reality
the tail of one, the head of the other
its that breath that still flows

We are drowning ships
crashing planes
falling skies

We are tragedies that never got
written
in ink
but blood

We are disasters they forgot
to record
or observe
or announce
or save
or help

We are train wrecks that needed saving
Instead you covered your eyes
Shielded your children
Dumped the wreckage into landfills
That are eating away at our plant

Ours

This world, it is ours
Yours and mine
It is not a kingdom that is your
birthright to take
to force yourself on
your rules
your mistakes
your judgement
your hearts

We are people
Collapsible
Collapsing
At every turn
every word
every day
every breath

We are still people
still alive
still able
still fighting
breathing
belonging to a world that has never accepted us
made space for us
let us belong

But we are belonging

He filled me with longing

gave me a sense of belonging

When I finally accepted

my love he rejected

You don't deserve to suffer
You can start over
Start over start over start over
Begin again
Leave
You don't belong here/ need to stay
Where do I belong then?
Not at home, not here, not anywhere?

life is an endless stream
of blue jean clad
millions
following the
wave
of others adorned the same
iconic
way
the american idolatry
of blue jeans
of classic
of sameness
of belonging
the blue denim ocean
crashes
on the edges of
the cliff
of what they don't understand

She started to reorganize the kingdom,  to give it access to the sea,  
To modernize the economy, and any army officer had a college degree.
That superpower had one weakness: she was stronger than her king.
She reorganized the political administration by creating a diplomacy ring.

She used the high trees belonging to their forests  to build  many ships.
She opened gold mines by using slaves  being  beaten with hard whips.
Reforming the toll system, she rose the taxes to pay for the army wars,
And created the overseas colonies to have many ports on the seashores.

She dissolved the parliament not wanting to consult with them.
A lot of  protests took place in the main cities her behavior to condemn.
The archbishop retired, because she reduced the ecclesiastical rights.
The new archbishop was trustful to her, and made new religious rites..

This way, Surah held completely the religious and the political power.
To advocate her prerogatives, a new Doctor Fox she started to empower.
Surah created a new high society at the John's court to control his life.
The old nobility lost the independence, which was a major cause of strife.

Surah met John and asked him to give her a part of his kingdom.
John gave her a big province , which it became her  new sub-kingdom.
She recruited and trained a new secret army, being ready to strike him
Clearly knowing  that his chances of winning this battle are pretty slim.

John knew  he was too young to be a ruler and allied with Frederick.
To make friends the vassals for this battle with Surah, they were quick.
When her army was subdued , she really saw the fire of God as sacred.
She had to face His army, and to see how her own men were massacred.

There always had been poverty, but at that time, after seven years, there were many vagabonds on the streets. Frieda was preparing the dinner waiting for Pauline to come. Eda , their friend, helped her. Eda worked as  a servant for a rich person. Her husband was a digger. Pauline entered the house in a rush being very upset and saying,

'A **** stole my bag .'Eda said,'Hoboes have no license to beg.'
'I tried to catch him , but he ran so fast.' 'You should shake your leg'
'People like him are tied to a cart, and whipped till they are bloodied',
Said Pauline,'they're forced to return to their homes being so muddied.'



'By law, the vagabonds can be made slaves for ten years', said Frieda.
' If they ran away during this time they're made slaves for life’, said Eda.
'Some  people have to rely on poor relief', said Pauline. 'Others thrive.
After having money they're forced  to pay a tax to keep hoboes alive',

Said Eda.'The overseers can provide work for any able-bodied vagrant.
If he refuses to work he's whipped, but he waits to be caught in flagrant’,
Said Frieda. 'The pauper's child goes to the employer to be an apprentice',
Said Eda.'For many poor people, drinking gin is their only preference.'

Pauline said, ‘I would like to eat roast beef cooked with pea.'
'My dear, meat is a luxury. We have  bread, butter, potatoes and tea' ,
Said Frieda.'By the way, where's Surah now?''She's John's vassal
As a landless queen.’Pauline smiled.’ She lives in her old castle.'
(Mary , Clara and Sarah, another nun, were preparing their dinner. On the table , there were corn, carrots some cheese, a little bread, a bottle of milk and six eggs.)

Mary said,'Monastery churches were converted to parish churches.
Buildings having monastic cells were left to ruin for social searches.'
'In order to hide, we must build new monasteries in the mountain valleys',
Sarah said.' Teaching poor people, others live near towns having alleys’,

Said Clara.'They live humble lives needing silence to devote themselves
To the worship of God, to copy out  manuscripts placed on their shelves,
To baptize the people, to farm their lands, and for tending their sheep',
Said Mary.'She restricted pilgrims from coming there to pray and to sleep',

Said Clara.'Many suppressed monasteries were hardly hit to surrender.
To confiscate the lands', said Mary,'Surah also convicted any defender.'
'You're right. Those , who agreed to surrender were given pensions for life',
Said Clara,'The transfer of the  lands to the Crown was Surah's greatest strife.

Some monasteries were transformed into workhouses for poor people
Having no income. Throwing out the bell, she built a room in every  steeple',
Said Sarah.'Surah deterred poor people from asking the state for help.
In houses, they wore uniforms being angry, while hearing the dog's yelp.

Husbands , wives and children still live separately , while breaking the stone .
Many children are looking like having a syndrome of the hungry bone',
Said Mary.'What is she doing now?'Clara asked.'John pushed her out the door’,
Said Sarah,'She tastes the peace while recovering from her last war!'
(In his castle, Frederick, John and Matthew, who was Frederick’s councillor, were waiting for the dinner.
John was 19 years old , not a minor any longer. On the table, there were green beans, asparagus, grapefruits, cheese, bread, avocado and eggs.)

John said ,'my mother didn't let her have a very close relationship with us,
But help was there when I needed it most , and aunt Surah loved me, thus.’
Frederick said,'Then, why did she declare war against you? It's strange.'
'In just one year', said Matthew,'it's amazing how many things can change.'

'She taught you everything , this way, you tried to undermine her power',
Said Frederick. 'She threatened to destroy me, but I could never cower',
Said John,'her counselors built a wall between myself and my people.'
Matthew smiled', she was that sound coming from a mysterious steeple'

'Each king ceded to me a part of his land in exchange for his vassalage,
And she didn't like it', said John.'She couldn't add controls to backstage’.
Matthew said,’ You took their territories on the coast to expand the naval power.
You traced the traitors, who were her people to imprison them in the tower.’

’ She had governed your  kingdom while limiting your power and influence’,
Said Frederick, ' and while advising you  to use some diplomatic prudence.'
John said,'then, she used her corsairs to attack my merchant ships.'
Matthew said,'we must trace her, and cope with missing information slips.’

To be continued...tomorrow

On a night like this, of full-moon bliss
Of the midnight winds and collecting mists
I remained, forevermore
Chained, to the floor
A victim of joy’s…goodbye kiss

In a dungeon I lie, hidden from the sky
A shadow untamed with vile red eyes
I waited, I hungered
Without proper slumber
In my mistress’ pit, awaiting time

It was from lust and desire to fuel and empower
For whom she wishes for me to devour
I restrained, she teased
I grew hard, to please
The widowed Countess: my dark sire.

Though my story may seem bleak
But not to those, whom morally weak
A tale, a fable
However which label
Entitles this to civilized freaks

I moved from town to town, home to home
In search of a life wherever I would roam.
At last, I came
To an estate of name
Belonging to a Countess of ancestral Rome

Countess Donatella, eyed my work and demeanor
From afar I could tell, I sensed, I smelled her
Her scent, so tempting
Was she attempting…
To allure my beastly form into something beneath her?

One night she called for me, alone in her quarters
She treated me to delicacies from rich exporters
She asked my name
I said none, I refrained
“Mysterious and Strong.” She said in order.

She walked over, to the silk on the bed
Colored in gold and shimmering red
Curling her finger
To me, and eager
“Remove your clothes” the Countess said

I did as I was told. I abide her command.
She seduced like a mistress of the eternally ******
Caressing my skin
Licking my chin
And instructed me to please her demands.

My strength increased as I ripped apart her dress
“Yes, my dear, rough and brute.” She stressed
My *** throbbing
Her head bobbing
She turned into an animal I could not resist

Through the night our lust ignited
Into a furious intoxication, organs united
A symphonic ******
Winds, rain and thunder
Matching the sweltering copulation benighted

In the glow of after, past the ****** she gathered
Breathing deeply she said, “You are mine. I am master”
For too long, I thought
I was ridden of what I sought
One to counter my thirst for lust, the tiring caster.

For many nights I swooned, I pleasured her in ways
No other human could fathom or reclaim
My art was of the flesh
And her succulent *******
Feasting like the dog of Hell’s fame

But in this time I feared
For my secret was severe
To show, to hide
My inner design
Of nocturnal savagery that is devilishly revered.

It was upon a warm night of *******
That the moon left me horrified and shaking.
I ran from the master
To evade disaster
Of displaying my transformational awakening.

I trampled in the woods and screamed into the night
The beast of the void howled under the moonlight
I ventured, I hungered
Awaken from slumber
A slave to Lycanthrope, a feral disease of might

The Countess’ workers hunted; “A monster!” they deemed
But I killed many before I was to be seen
Ripping, tearing, slashing, eating,
Guts, bones, skin, feeding
My viciousness, my curse, my bane and dream.

After my episode of moral slaughter
The workers found me curled in a fetal posture
I would have been killed
But the Countess, sealed
Me away in the cryptic tomb of her father.

I was left to suffer in the underbelly of my sins.
Shadows and demons moaning like the wind
My master kept me
Protected me
In her care I would no longer win

Now I lay, waiting for the my master to show
So the door above me will open and glow
The white orb
That will mourn
The lives I have taken, eaten and in my intestines flow

The tomb dungeon unlocks, creaking loudly with rust
The master, the beautiful Countess that I must
Please and satisfy
Penetrate, rectify
The punishment that was bestowed by the just.

“So you are known by many names.” She utters
I look up at her with eyes of thirst, my lover
“You are unique.
So much to keep
For myself, my beastly treasure and no other.”

She walks to the shadowed wall and pulls down a lever
And stands in front of me, **** and forever
A pale seductress
Her eyes focus
With mine, for I wait for the power that was severed

“Now I will be pleasure by that of a beast, that of a god.”
She says as she massages my erecting rod
“Now, my dear.”
As I hear.
“Enter me and leave me in pleasurably awe.”

With the chains around my wrists, ankles; my neck and waist
She mounts me in the moonlight space
Our sweat collects
Drips and specs
Glossing her pale skin and my ever changing face.

I stare into the moon as I ******, my moans of pain matching her voice
She yells from the seismic endurance, her dooming choice
To unleash my monster
With blood thirst conquered
No, it is not, it is her, growing with every other screaming voice

Moans of pleasure soon turn to moans of distress
The wolf of the night is coming, no less
My teeth protrude
My mind feuds
With reason and passion, where blood replaces the mess

My fur is black, my claws like steel
My fury is lustful, the deeper I feel
The Countess is in fear
I ignore her tears
And devour her, ravish her, take her skin and peel

Her lovely face is first to go, once flawless now disfigured
I tear her arms from her body, her liver in my teeth lingered
Blood, tears, flowing juices
Guts, gore, nail amuses
The laughing jackals and demons in a Hell for me that’s bigger

There is no more Countess. No more Donatella, nor master
The moon reflected in a red pool of suffering disaster
Of the ******* monster in our wake
Of the true one she had forsake
In the whims of lustful pursuit with death proceeding faster

Through the lubrication of excessive blood and ****** fluids
I slipped and broke from my chains and fled from the ruins
I remained the beast
Through the forest at least
And return to the woods, away from the her influence

I left the Countess estate as I arrived
Homeless wanderer who survived
Another full moon night
And devil’s sight
Of my life forevermore, the way of the morally derived

Where my nightmares are revived …

…Beyond my human disguise.

Mine angel always telleth me
(Brandon I don't belong to this place called earth)
Thou art right amour',
Thou art an angel!!!
And Angels aren't meant for a human race
Angels art meant for one another.....
And me and thee....
Don't belongeth here.....
We cameth here to find eachother again...
And that is all that matter's....
Is that I looked for so long,
And finally again
I hadst found thee amour'....

As the moon belongs to the night,
So I belong to you.
And just as the night sky
Never fears to lose its stars
So shall you never lose me
As long as the day is day
And the night is night.

sometimes
the heart
well it fails
not for lack of trying
more an improper belonging
or not belonging
although it always knew
the pain
it was a clue
love is a fool
filled with hope
but left alone
unlike the mind
that strengthens in solitude
hidden behind the eyes
in the cavity of a cage
the heart
it waits
and rots away

Throw up,
now strip your fear from your illness
speak of dogs chasing dolls
but don't know the difference between
one's inner-self and a mirage.

Feel the sweat trickle down
yeah that putrid aroma
take you away from humanity.

Fear stricken eyes
sense of belonging
it makes you want to choke
run along and find your missing link
it's just that easy.

Turn your head and break my back
blue, yellow and green
it all makes sense now
brake your bones on a tightrope
and seek ye who snorts ecstasy.

follow the purge into an army of rebellion
Tick Tick Boom !
there goes your imagination.
taint my vocabulary
who soars within the bars of psyche.

I lost my self in the meadow
find Bambi and Pinocchio gambling on steroids
get lost in your creativity
find a haven in the flames
listen for her soul
I hear she has the best intent.

Seek purification in
the arms of a sinner
no use looking for redemption in wasteful youth
now darling fade into the night
for the dark  will comfort you of all your despair

Brandy + Whisky...

A perfect man for me was never moulded by a box,
A box that screamed multitude of labels
To satiate the chaotic minds of society,
A belonging judged by feudality, no rhyme or reason required or questioned.

A perfect man for me was never measured by material things,
He gives abundantly by just being around,
An illuminating source of comfort on the other end listening,
Empathising and leaving a trail of laughter that makes me fall even deeper.

A perfect man for me was never masked crusader (okay, maybe Batman sometimes),
He is maskless for the world to bask in his genuity,
No bounds or limitations set on his acts of kindness and love,
Selfless and generous with his time, blind to any creed or pedigree.

A perfect man for me was never one to run away from problems,
Valiantly facing the raging bulls head on,
Inner strength personified by his poise and determination,
"I will get through this unscathed and no one will stop me".

A perfect man for me was never an owner of a cold crackled heart,
Headstrong, gallantly keeps the family together in a bind of unconditional love,
Lovingly adores his sunshine, making sure she knows she is loved with the same fervour,
Day in and day out, void of complains and pettiness, as the world turns.

A perfect man for me was never perfect,
Owning up to his flaws and shortcomings and being aware of mine,
A cycle that is never vicious but one that is laced with acceptance and non-judgments,
He inspires the best version of myself as he aspires to better himself.

A perfect man for me spells Y-O-U,
And the way that you are is exactly how I love Y-O-U.

Shalini Nayar
24.11.14
(C) 2014

You realize you're receiving a form of bliss at the time you have Jupiter Destination homes Hermes Bags Outlet. Jupiter Remote island is known as a area at all the south aspect with Martin Region, The southwest. This approach boundary destination stretches regarding A single,800 massive areas together with 9 decades miles involving beachfront neglecting your Atlantic Ocean with the south section not to mention dismissing the Intracoastal Stream along at the west area.

There can be under one thousand Jupiter Of the islands properties owners to day that is why you can be aspect of the ease and water-loving oxygen on this great spot. High-end is considered the important aspect with Jupiter Region properties. With the west section belonging to the area you can see top-of-the-line manors, locations as well as homes owned by this wealthiest and the most common folks our great country Hermes Online. Hand Ocean, a second successful put is found surrounding so you'll unquestionably practical experience magnificence as well as exquisiteness where by that you're lodging for the filter destination. Referring to the actual highest-income sites when it comes to National, Jupiter Tropical isle is actually relating to the number two recognize. If you are seeking take an outstanding local community, it is the suitable area for you'll. Jupiter Tropical island offers a particular variety of governing administration which usually expressly makes sure your lifestyle top quality, safe practices together with safety not to mention aesthetic kind of each it is houses and the great. Typically the manager-council variety of governing administration oversees almost all fun-based activities in the market that include general public is effective and ammenities, general population defense, engineering direction,

ocean plus household protection in addition to advertisement together with advertisements laws. The creative concepts as well as guidelines make perfectly sure that all the people checking out and even having Jupiter Snowdonia housing could have the top that the financial commitment are able. Jupiter Is Sarasota offers the view, the actual prestige plus the life-style. You may enjoy lovely seaside or perhaps riverfront suffers from, settle back from of several expansive shorelines and receive to meet up with several of the prosperous socialites who're moreover keeping the vicinity. Trying out Jupiter Island properties maintains you close towards stretch of land and then the water pursuits like golf game Hermes Bags, yachting, going, technical scuba etc. Aided by the choice of golf equipment not to mention local community types which often particularly compliment the recreation of choice, you will certainly discover the area you've. Jupiter The southeast housing affords you privacy together with peacefulness no matter what you may be going to receive a multimillion-dollar residence, some sort of beachfront residence, a superb home to boost kids or simply a small place for your self only. You've got the persons rather welcoming along with extremely versatile and acquire to savor staying close towards naturel. Jupiter Remote island will likewise allows you to feel the people classic within its indigne California. This is exactly truly a person heaven you must not forget. You could also comfortably head off to regional Miami and additionally The southwest.

The town associated with Hobe Audio and then Give Beach front is perfect nearby such as Fingers Ocean airport terminal. When you are planning to stay one of several finest towns, cities aided by the top net worth per capita, a variety of Jupiter Destination agencies are often more versus relieved you can sell organic assist to enable you to get the venue most appropriate to your finances and additionally standard of living. Encounter classification right away in Jupiter Of the islands.
Relate Articles:
http://www.parents-choice.org/

fem in isms,
i imagine Sapphic eyes:
bad *** advert coruscates elite
fairness sensing slavish blind
in gestate calm affirm
in genders More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--
O harsh judgement foiled,
as a foil, as unknown truth
foil-doubles in the brow,
abject symmetry to systemize
a fertile lack of sterile barrenness,
i am a mediatrix rend,
nirwaan, hijra wonderment aside
from transemotion's ground swells
demeaning to be understood.
i celebrate and face the same
to be what paperwork tests being
normal being, freely chosen
atom each belonging moves
an asterisk of paths
of mutate art of nature social darwin maze.
i imagine Sapphic eyes,
ginko soft they pile up all cobble
memories themselves concretely
cloistered  fame
spray of salty waves,
macho screams symbol
for dismissal ease
for tearing at an inner unsaid war
with lists offense of proper taste
to what posterity intends
an undulation womblike seeming nourish safety sounds.
i imagine Sapphic eyes
past
debauched
meanderings
where hyster-clarity rejoins its titular
and reliable escapisms curl the lips
of maleness found
here and there  smile  sneer love
i imagine Sapphic eyes
linguistic pirouettes
congest that wisdom nonetheless
the moment passed  on to a
feigning truth in pretty rhyme
ornamenting time with fine  meter  fine
vernacular chimes peter in
to juggle perspectival paradox,
redichotomize the twilight idols,
resolve the conflict like a dawn
Aurora,
i imagine Sapphic eyes
running plastic with Alaskan wolves,
toga floats to snow
to let us see the purest fairness form
a ****** circle,
Hypatia ascends from tenebrous grave,
Impregnable of Eye is pregnant now
with Wollstonecraft revered
in liberation's fount
families held exemplar gaze of
Taylor, ******, Cady,
Anthony resanctified
to vote entitlement's
empathic origins, waxen mold
of nascent categories,
narrow hands spread wide to panoply anew
the manifest evolve in true unknowns

POLZEATH CORNWALL
Gathered here amongst the hills of our hearts
The stones of us, our joy, hopes, history, dreams
Tumble out as words
Bold pebbles against the sandy shore.

Doubtful shadows creep around me
I feel their breath at my back
Their salt ****** my eyelids,
Pulsing, this circle of light,  words, and laughter brings me back ,
This sweet belonging bears me away.

The streams and fields of us sing this landscape
The echo resounds around these walls
As our souls meet on the far silver shore.