Hip Service
By Julian Malek

The zeal of cobblestone tolerance arrayed in fashionable hues masquerading as crimson secrecy, elevates the tide of man but some boats leak in their foundations. Therefore a cork to every exuberance and a triumphant torch for every sorrow lives onward in collective time. Larks that abound because prescience and PUGET sound, that brown has become the new orange which in turn prowls as a concealed swarthy black. To antagonize the willful and frenetic pace, a prodrome of lasting but memorialized disgrace. Should I move to a state by first or last name, or is the final appellation worthy of much more lasting fame. I scurry down the aisles, bemused by shimmering tiles and the beguiled audiences who see much in my limitation but doubt little about my debited elation. Ringmaster Barnum, how much horticulture is needed for assured superstardom, how many cloisters must we evacuate from the incendiary plumes of a metaphorical Harlem..  But know that no virtual reality can supplant the reality that does truly exist, or at least our time is too infernal and purblind to resist. Carrey the tops of mountains in the humor of wellsprings and fountains, we engage a menagerie of egos lilting of an etiolated pragmatic concern. Evicted from paradise, littered with say-cheese demise ensnaring three blind mice eaten alive by snake-eyed vice. To feel good without incorporated tyranny, we must see blue and red as alternatives to the same destiny. A world that reckons with the futilitarianism of pacified malcontent and astroturf monikers that lead the impressionable into a slaughter shed. Established or not, any enchantment under the sea must include fishes once a pastiche of me, but to them I avoid their courtesy flush and never even faintly blush as my egalitarian statements are lavish thrush.

Five TO Won baby one in 99, everyone here aboard the titanic stays alive, you got your boat baby and I got mine, gonna make it with babies numbered in surreal primes. Halt the slots game the nines, a stitch in time is going to turn out to be Mine. Flanger goals, girded piles, liminal like an aborted Harry Styles, we climb mountains we issue tithes, and the turmoil is etched into 45-notched bludgeons and two-tucked knives. Excuse you, where have you been all day, have you been sauntering in a gentle rain or a genteel pain, have you wallowed beyond the mires of doubt and ranked above David Blaine. I hope you tell me of your magic tricks, rather than your other flicks endeared I stand to fight an ineradicable itch. But if not, you placid pond dented by so many rocks and so many ripples give your heart over to me, before I clinch the special Olympics *******, we ran, we span the homespun garments of your left and right hand, but death is a specter that ghoulishly carouses along the carousel terminal disease we call life. I beseech your deepest affection and want to console you for your deepest struggle, to be there every time wed with time rather than a throttled scuttle. Moons make you guarded but maroons leave me desiccated, don’t ever let that wilted flower die, always water it with a rich but gentle ties and widened deck for all to at once marvel and pry.  Monsters of Mars Attacks once flanked my bed, as though the **** brain scared every gooseflesh and restrained every frisson of mystery. I lampoon myself for those cold Dark Knights and the protection ended by the plight of the poor mattering nothing to the deliberately internecine rich. I struck gold in a valley somewhere, an oxymoron of paradox that now you have the privilege to dock, to stay aboard to be a vessel of peace less widely deplored. Even if we don’t sprout wings, we garner the exactitude of measured things and our glass elevator though easily shattered by the glower of enslavement is actually our vista to heaven or listening to brethren tingles for rich mans trinkets and other things. For humanity deserves a legend and a princess, a regimented desuetude and a flanged lust but in our mistakes wildly flouted in momentary moments we become purified by the temptations of an alabaster palace.

***** the left-field wisdom of a pragmatic paragon ellipsis in prison, slip between the cracks and let my suburban muse become your urban ruse. To enchant a caged world beyond a reality delicately and deliberately unfurled. Squirming toads on highways enchanted but dead, are graves for the blue becoming purple in every dignified red. Gainsay assaults me with platitude, a repeated hitter quit on the first bunted ball into foul-line territory. Those gripes are swiped right in all circumstance no matter the plight. The pronged hearing of a trident sensitive to ambient collection, and suddenly we are all in the mad house even though the house of profaned pain is much worse. Glimpses of gambits that gambol for nickels in transit as occult grenades and known dice waddle through without artifice or device, and the laughter and slaughter that trains collegiate minds, differs no more than the tropes of a glamorous violence articled in sordid rhymes. This surfing movie means so much more than Surf Wax America pristine in limited but sacrilege nirvana. Teen spirits smell muskier than 90s pop dreams, the grasp and grunge of gouged eyes becomes a mummified staid, a scarecrow to those who disobey. Childhood flashes with blinding light, and new sight illuminates darkening blight, A blight eradicated only by two magazines and including one that houses the bullets that ***** themselves between death and comatose dreams both within astral sight. Littoral harbor on a seaside town, a shanty with a brackish gown that glides the gourmand to the cosmopolitan eatery on the outskirts of lost & found. But forever lost in embonpoint and forever gained in chavish that exonerates the gaunt, the etiolated prince in heart becomes irrefutable marrow in minded souls.

If I am a spy you are an ESPY, and if I cry than you are a baby,but since neither are the case my wiseacres will cultivate lava lamp dreams for a new generation and suddenly Boston bets on Harvard, but who knows of this piped blather squirming for relevance rather than voguish but temporary chatter. My regatta knows how to swim, my life now knows how to cringe and yet still win and in stilted plays of bungled sincerity the God of peace reminds us of our transcendent personalities. That we in sincerity top the barnacles of invention a novelty but a rarity. But the guillotine quill of emboldened unscripted parvenus ruthless in their eager dues, outdate and outlive the sued swayed blues that indemnify Clinton and make the atomic dog an amazing Winston hill a church often in sheltered disuse. Imps and urchins sting the sentiment, cloy the alimony of repentant betterment, but neither touches the gilded skies of pleonasm striving for raspy disguise as to dissuade further diatribe investigation. Lurking in those scared days of youth, the gore of unalloyed horror scourged me with a limp, that compassion itself could ever become a gimp. Now years later athletics better and scoring goals making the mildew sweat and the years wetter, not a global warming that can be alarmed by global mourning. Take peace at heart if distanced spears of separation make Idiocracy as a pastiche look exceedingly smart. And spar only with the true antagonists bridging malevolence with expedience. Killjoys sure, will joy even more sure, but still boys fluttered heart stopping dead at a stop-watched alarm the worst tragedy of our sordid sort. Give an African Child a real home rather than a spatial roam, a palatial desiccation of momentary Jonas Brothers snapping back at captives with sexualized foam.

Narrative blinds shuttered in an Island among mountains hardly ever wiser to sanitize the sanitarium among the wasps of stung power. Police crumple their uniforms as they prowl down the avenues, looking for misfits and widened platitudes. Somehow that the vigilance of those corrupted by their very career choice, look even worse when megalomania of private is the limelight of public, to their defense few turrets I can muster but castles in the sky will be the apartheid judge. Those that cling to virtue to eradicate Porsche-driven faked or real deaths at the most breakneck speed, that Fast & Furious operation if disclosed completely would turn the Shire of the ring into the hatred curtailed by a song in Sing-Sing. Immunity must not Yoda implore, that livery Liverpool marooned on islands can also to deplore the R.E.D. and still whet the sharpened stead and the fly-by-night Manchester United alights like militant peer pressure for wranglers in tights. But beating the Beatles at a game of Walruses and egg-shelled eyeful towers likely impedes rinkside hockey from anything over bellicose ballyhoo…it exists as a transient fixated glower. But who knows about soccer speculation when love is the transcendent temptation, when nest-egg hens rather than neglecting rig Bens of clockwork and clocked words designed arise better for their token ken. Do I must repeat the subtext of submarines, yellowed as though ugly unused as though unseen, as though the quixotic earthquakes of tintinnabulations Avatar dreams. Wafted souls console the disheartened thoughts of a dashed dream that Berlin hates more than a Furor’s unbridled and useless scream.
Demotic clips slinging from the bedridden silence of a token moon and its token friends, swimming in a shore of ambiguity whether history mellows or whether its furor melts away momentary doubts. I want to avoid the sting rays exorcised by due providence and become the amalgamated talents gentry and of course the upstart swagger of Jack Dawson. But with the psy-op going on, the people manipulated on all sides of a gray picket fence will the relationship bloom without muttered dissent or pretended smiles. Will we take upon the shuffled shuttle and dig with shovels deep-rooted Christmas trees and toast our lives to Dos Equis. We may never go out of style, but the treacle of illuminated imagery when divorced from sentiment bristle shows a swagger that prioritizes rather than amalgamates all love. I love being brash and brazen and honest because when she finally ditches the grandstand of delayed frenemies fandoms of other tinsel decorations without any substance beyond meretricious thrill. You want a roller coaster on some days, but most often you want the nutcracker to elope to secret hiding places. Swim with adventure not just in love, not just in affection with the starlight now matter how luminous, sixpence all the richer is no centuries any poorer and we could be that gilded couple of star and screen and if we ever have to scream, let our screams unite us in passion, rather than a milquetoast deference to pedestaled beauty. but of course the end times don’t laugh at your crumpled wizened relapse. Not out of convenience wed by a discriminating genetic harvest moon but a deeper engagement that flatters when stylish and bristles when romantic but never defiled, never riled of specious pretense. Promise me that you will always remember me in my flaws and my faults, in my scause factory destructions and the penults of PEN-ULTIMATE wisdom that comes before the grace of God in the annihilation of passion for eroded omission. If your goal is to be remembered, check that out…but the most admirable goal is as the propinquities of souls dusted in the wind returning to a spring equinox of passion and if you find in yourselves reservations do not depart from sacred land, and never jilt me because of a boisterous and menacing friend. You are everything to me right now, and I Hope this persists despite the vicissitudes of star-favored afflictions mixed with utter benediction without the pontification of stilted Benedictines  or rather the hyped ludic effrontery of termagants being made of younger and younger women. Leave it at this ,32 leaves the royal secret in royal hands and the Knights Templar and us we altogether hold hands, if only a prelude for a masquerade ball. But the stilted embarrassment of crestfallen time, let that be relegated and emphatically lets embrace what is like to not ever need a real white horse to get back into your favor, because we never go out of style we can brandish the best elements and reject the sentiments of the too newfangled and the too stodgy. We in our crenellated pleonasm can eager ride the lightning to another tomorrow and another yesterday and if even not that, we virtually make an indelible impression of embroidered love not too distant in ivory towers and not to vulgary( catering to popular sentiments) to become a trash glam movement. We soar, others deplore but let their purblind doubts render them blind to our burgeoning love.

Forget the brisk trees dangled in the wind on winding paths through haunted forest or remember them because of ghoulish fortress but with our apotropaic lamp we can avert most evil and call the rest fun and gains and shun but fames never profaned, never inalterable a destiny to magical to be some whimpered catcall. Or we could linger beneath lambent street lights disguised as though wilted garb, attrition of circumstance waiting patiently for the matinee and the vintner to escort us beyond the garb of pretense in a city so abundant with it that it deserves castigation. But I digress, a beachside cliff overlooking tepid waters tumultuous in their power but august in their noises, the cadence of love will sing a half-moon bay on full-moon nights and we will frisk each other like grasping at straws of permanent tracks trammeled of the elite and a sidetracked basque bet. Trim those antlers and instead grow metaphorical wings, to us we all sing but few can match your elegance and everyone would be crazy not to see your ennobled age and together thrilling songs to emulate thriller in sales we will collaboratively sing.
Haughty sneers from lifeless lycanthropy straggling furtively along the pastiched sidewalks of grime, livid because they can’t share the lingering limelight, with as many guarded perks of privacy clambering like a hive of snarky sharks. Lets ditch the big town dreams in terms of posh and stature if only for a caressed moment beneath the unadulterated stars and if you find spars **** to the extent they are amiable than I say guess what my name is Lars! Or wait a second, paused in the big city spotlight our stenciled hearts will guide whatever progeny is yours or mine or ours together we will sing the most comforting lullaby, and caves no longer must we abide. Yearn and earn every inch, as I gripe with my delicate saddened pinch but I think the innuendo speaks . Ripen with our trips to Napa, long afternoon sunsets swim in our hearts as we taste the vanguard’s toast on elegant wine.I console with entreaty to disavow the omen of that San Franciscan church October 2008, the doom implied by Einstein, the raillery of a world grinding down the endless decadence of a railed future inalterable in destiny or partialy amenable to widespread coquetry.

Forget those rumbles in your past that made you feel partial to insecurity and learning the ropes you transcended all and live in all eternity. Thimble and brook, tolerant of all those tokes I took your rebellious side flattens the yeast of Exodus raspy in its begrudged clapping. But the Pharaoh of the modern world sheltered me under his prickly thorns, shielded me from the sickly things that life adorns. We have the numbers on our side, the weight of destiny on our shoulders, dedicate yourself to yourself and I will preen the most vibrant wisdom and love will leap like Apollo across all borders not for camel-****** hoarders. We are culminated destiny in the wings of the best daydream

The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.

And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***.

So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.

Touch
A heightening of senses

Touch
Bristling beneath it

Horripilation
Sweeping up bodies -

From the Latin, horrere pilus,
"to bristle" + "hair" -

The most delicious
Can be the most poisonous

Exploding with each
Touch

Anticipation erupts
Touch

At the very thought
Of such delicious fruit

Touch

I am not a work of art. I don’t have that much beauty in me to help me create one. I’ve always wanted something that might help me with my works. Whispering trees, mocking buildings, silent pavements, weary soil; everything that used to work simply drives me numb now. Being too absorbed into my works for these past few months, I failed to notice a change so near that pretty much sparked me.

Who needs trees with their leaves of wire under the smoking mid-day sun to inspire your art if your standard of beauty lies near to you?

My sweetheart had a beautiful long hair, it went under his shoulder and always managed to fall graciously like  confounded summer leaves. The temperate air would sometimes brush it away from his face instead of his own two hands. My hair is short, dry, and plump. Hanging like a rope up to my chin only. One of the sole reason his hair is the thing I started to cherished the most, and had started to become my favorite object to paint. I still can see the shine glimmering strand by strand; framing his smile in a grotesque manner.

My sweetheart had a long, beautiful hair. It was a pity he did not like it as much as I did, despite taking care of it in the best way possible. I can still remember the unsettling shadow whenever he looked down and was darkened by the dim complexion of his soft raven hair. Always the peculiar inspiration to my art. He was a work of art, an original beauty.

My sweetheart had a breathtaking long hair, it had been an oblivious month or two since the last time I saw him, before isolating myself with tons of faded colors. His long hair ignited me, but gradually it tortured me, tossing me unimaginable fear for I could not paint it in its natural beauty. All I could think of was:

I might ruin beauty.

What a shame, I was filled with spirit before being frustrated all over again.

My sweetheart had a heartbreaking long hair, which he promised to cut sooner or later. My sweetheart had a melancholic long hair, a beautiful thing that led us to a mouthful argument and rough doublespeak. He shouldn’t have planned to cut it, I practically begged him to not to. I am lost within my mind, how am I supposed to continue working if the only thing that I was trying to paint went away?

I had a sweetheart who had a gorgeous long hair and I was a selfish imbecile and a stray soul.

I wouldn’t bear a single thoughts of seeing him without the dark curtains wrapping his head like the parlor of an old fortune teller.

How am I supposed to work with him?

The only things I have are these empty canvases, paint in the colors of tears, and paintbrush.

Paintbrushes,

Gather your material, prepare for the bristles.
It could be made of various materials,
Animal hair,
Such as:
Horse hair, from the mane and the tail,
Or any other kind of animals with long hair,
Needle trees and grasses,
Synthetic hair,
Human hair.

Second, prepare the handle of your brush.
bamboos, sticks from one's own yard are recommended,
For a professional look, we suggest doweling.

Next, select a strong adhesive to attach the bristle to the handle. You would have to spread the adhesive glue to the tip of the handle and attach it with the bristle.

After that, wait for the glue to dry before you carry on to the next step.
Find a strong material like metal or rope to bind the handle and the bristle together.

And there you have your home-made personal brush.

Despite making it in a rush and on a drunken heart, I pretty much loved the result.

If only you did not argue to cut your hair.
If only I could think clearly, better than this,
I could still see my sweetheart’s eloquent long hair in its most proper and beautiful form, to ignite my heart even more.
Not in the form of this ******, hellbound paintbrush I made myself in the most abhorrence manner.

I should not have gnashed your head to the tip of my easel after you told me your little desire of having a shorter hair,
I should not have been that ill-tempered, overflowing your head with warm red liquid.

Ah well,
My sweetheart had a beautiful long hair and a fresh thick blood.
At least I would still have the chance to work with him though I can see him no longer.
I have his soft hair attached onto my paintbrush, giving me the wildest dream,
And his blood in the color of blooming red Chrysanthemum,
It should not have happened,
But what could be better than this?

As I brush my teeth in the bathroom, a young woman enters- tooth brush and face wash in hand.  I watch her reflection in the large mirror a front the sinks, I put an over-sized glob of tooth paste on my brush.
******* it Danielle, she sees this mistake you’ve made.

I turn the water on and attempt to wash away some of the toothpaste. We start brush at the same time, I smile to myself because these synchronized flukes, such as speaking in unison or laughing simultaneously, make me feel briefly connected to someone. Sounds a little silly, but don’t all ways of relieving loneliness?

My anxiety stirs again as I realize the volume of bristle to tooth.* Can you hear this? Is is disgusting to you? That sound of saliva and paste being ground into my teeth.
I lean forward to spit, inspecting the rusted faucet. I see my face in it’s metal stem, it convoluted my face.

I’d rather be disfigured, so that I’d no longer have to guess and worry about whether people were eying me. I would know. They could clearly see my faults if I had a missing jaw, drooping eye and liver spots mapped across my grey skin. I wouldn’t have to worry about the possibility of being seen in a favorable light.

The possibility of fooling anybody into thinking I’m not repulsive. I would know it.  I stare into the metal, I spit. Blood is all over the sink. I spit again and more blood. Again, blood. It’s pouring out of my mouth. I turn the water on high, panicked that the girl beside me will see. But she leaves, “goodnight” she says as she walks by. I try to say something but I’m choking on the blood. Where the **** is this blood coming from?

I glance up to the mirror, there is no blood in my mouth. Back to the sick- no blood. I am so confused, just moments ago Armageddon was spilling from my mouth; and now it’s vanished?
I stumble back wards into a stall.

“I saw that.”

A voice whispers from within the stall, or was it outside?   I open the door, but nobody is there.
Okay, Danny, calm down. Nobody is here, you’re imagining things.

“No, you heard.”

Confused, the voice, that voice- it’s coming from the stall door. No, doors can’t speak, I open the door but still, I am alone.

I run, bladder still full. Sundries still on the counter, I need to get out of there.
_______________________________
Paranoid Schizophrenia- A mental disorder characterized by a disintegration of the process of thinking and of emotional responsiveness. It most commonly manifests as auditory hallucinations, paranoid or bizarre delusions, or disorganized speech and thinking, and it is accompanied by significant social or occupational dysfunction.*
___________

Within two weeks of my first experience of hallucinations, I was in the Summit Valley Institution for Mental Disorders. Highly medicated, with stitches along my chin and staples in my head.
I’d lost all control, they found me at the bottom of a stairwell after falling 3 stories.

Nurses told me that when I’d been taken in, they found more that one hundred scraps of paper in my pockets, on them were different snipets of conversation I’d heard throughout the day. It was a compulsion, I was told, associated with Schizophrenia.

Who are these farmers,
And who, these fertile fields,
Verdant under native grass,
That stand un-plowed,
That shake beneath the plow,
That lie now fallow,
That bear the planted seed,
That wear the heavy grain,
That await the Harvest pain?

And who, these Harvesters,
And who, these close-shorn fields,
Desolate in short-cut stubble,
That stand, stiff in silence,
That wear the heavy tracks,
That have endured the harvest,
That yielded up their dead,
That bristle through the falling snow,
That whistle wind-song low?

And who, these merry Farmers,
And who these stubbled fields,
Glistening beneath the melting snow,
That warm beneath the glowing sun,
That host the migrants of the sky,
That tremble the biting plow,
That accept the falling seed,
That wait beneath the welcome rains,
That cycle through the seasons once again?

A bird rests its wings
On the thin disfigured fingers of
The trees branches
Reaching ever so helplessly
To pull the clouds from the sky

And the breeze beats them to the stroke –

The wrinkled eyes of the painter grin in an open field
With a canvas the bristle has yet to caress
Before rolling it up
Like a chess mat
Or a map

He taps it shut like a telescope
Departing for home where there is a woman waiting for him
To inhale her sweet aroma
To swallow the food she’s prepared
To delicately draw the hair
Falling over her face
And tuck it behind her ear
And whisper the words
And brush her skin with quiet hand-language

And he will not be beaten
To the stroke

(c) 2015

introduction

teeth must be brushed
with neem or miswak
or rubbing chalk or baking soda
or horse-tail hairs fixed to ox-bone
or with your modern toothbrush
with which if you brush too vigorously
you might swallow
especially
if you’re also thinking about ***;
and which you might regurgitate
if your boss comes to memory


and so
come, all ye
with clean teeth:
we shall speak today
of the origins of the toothbrush –
how did this begin,
this long-suffering toothbrush
put into foul mouths
or delicious mouths of maidens
and drowned in water and saliva and paste?
how indeed did it begin?
what is its genesis? its origin?



1
we must start with the stone age
when the best
those Brainless Beasts could do
was to use a fist
and so they punched each other
and broke all their teeth –
and perhaps that was just as well,
and they were clever
as they didn’t have to worry any longer
about brushing their teeth


then some-ape had a brilliant idea
(thanks to evolving intelligence)
and two would stand mouth to mouth
teeth to teeth
and would rub teeth against one another
and sure, they ended up
with lips and faces all cut asunder –
but hey, this was the Stone Age;
what do you expect them to do?
Be refined and all
with soft bristles and golden handles?
at least this way it brought humanity close


But God (He was Stone Age too,
and still is in many ways)
saw all these and He screamed from above:
Hey! Stop that, you Big Apes!
The first commandment I gave you all
was:
“Thou Shalt Not Kiss!”

And so with this First Commandment
God separated humanity forever…

Grunt!Grunt! said one Stone Age Oaf
which translated means: When can humanity kiss?

And God thought about it and said:
You got to evolve!
Wait till the advent
of a man called Voltaire
of the nation of the blue, white and red –
and that nation shall perfect the kiss.
Till then you brutes,
Thou shalt keep thy teeth clean.
Try something else, you imbeciles!

And Stone Age man,
left to their inventions, tried
smashing teeth against boulders instead




2
the dear Chinese
as you know
invented paper
and they also invented a toothbrush of horse-hair
with an ox-bone handle even in 1223
and since 1498 used the bristle toothbrush;
and from China it spread to the West
which Foreign Barbarians
after brushing their teeth
badmouthed the Chinese
and still, it is believed,
continue to do so


so, consider,
(and be grateful)
with the invention of paper
and the toothbrush
the Chinese really took care
of either end of the digestive system,
you know what I mean;
and who can beat that? -
they even give you Chinese takeaway
to eat before you brush;
and it’s worth repeating -
paper to take care of things after,
you know what I mean



conclusion**

and that ends our history
of the toothbrush;
and just remember
before you put it in your mouth,
the cockroach
(that blessed and most useful
of all God’s creatures)
has already cleaned it up
of all food bits and pieces

The day begins with a friendly voice,
a companion unobtrusive
plays that song that's so elusive
and the magic music makes the morning mood.

A rider hits the open road,
there is magic at his fingers
for the spirit ever lingers,
undemanding contact in his solitude.

Invisible airwaves crackle with life.
Bright antenna bristle with the energy.
Emotional feedback on timeless wavelength.
Bearing a gift beyond price, almost free.

A familiar song plays,
and he starts thinking to himself:

It was a long, long time ago, wasn’t it?
I can still remember how that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance
that I could make those people dance,
and maybe they'd be happy for a while.
But February made me shiver
with every paper I'd deliver,
bad news on the doorstep
I couldn't take one more step.
I can't remember if I cried
when I read about their widowed brides,
but something touched me deep inside
The day the music died.

I see the bad moon a-rising.
I see trouble on the way.
I see earthquakes and lightnin'.
I see bad times today.
There's a bad moon on the rise.

So bye-bye, Miss American Pie.
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye
singin', "This'll be the day that I die,
this'll be the day that I die."

They’re modern-day warriors
mean, mean stride.
Today's Tom Sawyers
mean, mean pride.
Though their minds are not for rent.
Don't put them down as arrogant
their reserve, a quiet defense
riding out the day's events.

And what you say about their company
is what you say about society.
Catch the mist, catch the myth
catch the mystery, catch the drift...

“Who are you?”

The tap drips,
the rider finishes his whiskey,
“I've looked under chairs,
I've looked under tables,
I've tried to find the key
To fifty million fables.

They call me The Seeker.

I've been searching low and high.
I won't get to get what I'm after
'til the day I die.”

They look at each other, then back at him,
“Who? Whaddya here for?"

He turns his glass upside down,
slams it on the bar
and says on his way out,
“I like smoke and lightnin'
heavy metal thunder
racing with the wind
and the feeling that I'm under.”
He gets his motor runnin',
heads out on the highway,
looking for adventure
in whatever comes his way.

Yeah, darlin' gonna make it happen.
Take the world in a loving embrace.
Fire all of your guns at once
And explode into space.
Like a true nature's child
we were born,
born to be wild.
We can climb so high,
“I never wanna die.”

Company, always on the run
destiny is a rising sun.
Oh,
he was born, 6 gun in his hand.
Behind a gun,
he'll make his final stand.
That's why they call him
bad company,
and he can't deny.
Bad company
'til the day he dies.

Screams break the silence,
waking from the dead of night.
Vengeance is boiling,
he's returned to **** the light.

Then when he's found who he's looking for
listen in awe and you'll hear him
bark at the moon.

Years spent in torment,
buried in a nameless grave.
Now he has risen,
miracles would have to save
those that the beast is looking for.
Listen in awe and you'll hear him
bark at the moon.

It's all the same, only the names will change.
Every day, it seems we're wastin' away.
Another place where the faces are so cold.
He'd drive all night just to get back home.

He’s a cowboy.
On a steel horse he rides.
He’s wanted dead or alive,
wanted dead or alive.

In the day he sweats it out on the streets
of a runaway American dream,
at night he rides through the mansions of glory
in suicide machines
sprung from cages on Highway 9.
Chrome wheeled, fuel-injected, and steppin' out over the line,
oh, baby this town rips the bones from your back
it's a death trap, it's a suicide rap
he gotta get out while he’s young.

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future.
He wanna fly like an eagle,
to the sea,
fly like an eagle, let his spirit carry him.
he wants to fly like an eagle
'til he’s free,
oh Lord, through the revolution.

But a storm is threatening
The Seeker’s very life today,
“If I don't get some shelter
I'm gonna fade away.
War, children!
It's just a shot away.
War, children!
It's just a shot away.
See the fire is sweepin'
our streets today,
it burns like a red coal carpet
and a mad bull lost its way.”

Out there in the fields
they fight for their meals,
they get their back into their living,
“We don't need to fight
to prove we’re right,
we don't need to be forgiven.”

The seeker feels around for his honesty,
“So, so you think you can tell
heaven from hell?
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field
from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
Did they get you to trade
your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
Did you exchange
a walk-on part in the war
for a leading role in a cage?”

“There must be some kinda way outta here.”
Said The Seeker to his radio,
“There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief.

Businessmen, they drink my wine,
plowmen dig my earth,
none will level on the line
nobody of it is worth.”

Invisible airwaves crackle with life.
Bright antenna bristle with the energy.
Emotional feedback on timeless wavelength.
Bearing a gift beyond price, almost free.

“No reason to get excited.”
The radio, it kindly spoke,
“There are many here among us
who feel that life is but a joke.
But, uh, but you and I, we've been through that
and this is not our fate,
so let us stop talkin' falsely now
the hour's getting late.”

But he knows
that we'll be fighting in the streets
with our children at our feet.
And the morals that they worship will be gone.
And the men who spurred us on
sit in judgment of all wrong,
They decide and the shotgun sings the song.

We'll tip our hats to the new constitution,
take a bow for the new revolution,
smile and grin at the change all around,
pick up our pens and poems,
Just like yesterday,
then we'll get on our knees and pray
that we don't get fooled again.

After this thought, he promises himself,
and any who’s listening,
“Well, I won't back down.
No, I won't back down.
You can stand me up at the gates of hell,
but I won't back down.”

Carry on, my wayward son,
there'll be peace when you are done.
Lay your weary head to rest,
don't you cry no more.

Once he rose above the noise and confusion
just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion.
He was soaring ever higher
but he flew too high.

Though his eyes could see, he still was a blind man.
Though his mind could think, he still was a mad man.
He hears the voices when we’re dreaming,
he can hear them say:
“Carry on, my wayward son!”

He hears! riding off he says,
“Don't stop me now,
don't stop me.
'Cause I'm fighting for my country, fighting for my love.
I'm a shooting star leaping through the sky,
Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity.
I'm a peaceful man who must fight
so I'm gonna go, go, go!
There's no stopping me.
I'm burnin' through the sky,
200 degrees,
that's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit.
I'm traveling at the speed of light!”

There's a place up ahead and we’re goin'
just as fast as our feet can fly.
Come away, come away, if you're goin'
leave the sinkin' ship behind.

Come on the risin' wind,
we're goin' up around the bend.

Bring a song and a smile for the banjo.
Better get, while the gettin's good.
Hitch a ride to the end of the highway
where the neon's turn to wood.

Come on the risin' wind,
we're goin' up around the bend.

In a place he only dreamt of,
where his soul is always free.
Silver stages, golden curtains
filled his head, plain as can be.
As a rainbow grew around the sun
all his stars of love who died
came from somewhere beyond the scene you see,
these lovely people played just for him:

“Green grass and high tides forever.
Castles of stone souls and glory.
Lost faces say we adore you
as kings and queens bow and play for you.
Those who don't believe us,
find their souls and set them free.
Those who do believe and love,
this time will be their key.
Time and time again we've thanked you
for peace of mind.
You helped us find ourselves
amongst the music and the rhyme
that enchants you here.”

Then the door was open, and the wind appeared.
The candles blew and then disappeared.
The curtains flew and then he appeared,
Saying, “don't be afraid.
All your times have come
here but now they're gone.
Seasons don't fear the reaper
nor do the wind, the sun, or the rain.”

We're leavin' together,
but still, it's farewell
and maybe we'll come back
to Earth, who can tell?
I guess there is no one to blame.
We're leaving the ground,
will things ever be the same again?
It's the final countdown,
it’s his final breath,
and with it
The Seeker finds his mark,

“We all hear the call of a lifetime ring,
felt the need to get up for it.
You cut out the middleman.
You got no time for the messenger.
Got no regard for the thing that you don't understand.
You got no fear of the underdog.
That's why you will not survive.”

the ego is a balm
for watching herds--
ezra pound is dead..

withought the ***** to make it rue
of wittier witter aphorisms never trilling forceful to undo

singular muse,
where do you come
in head or tip of head?
elusive beauty, disappear
i act in other barefoot dreams


typos bless the will to mean
of finality
of seem seam flawless be
i **** the emperor of ice cream
with concupiscent "words"
that verb the still to be a yogurt burv


single fractal frog
jumps like rhyme of toggle cog,
cutting grandma's mind

empty cup fills want
with other bristle sip+
eclipse Hypatia naked at the shrine
failure of a form
cones another phage
with peaceful loving bawl

freedom fighters flaunt
masturbatory rights of congress whim and taunt
crackle jackal fire sights
sing single missile lights

do i jest
or do i best,
lest simple techne tumble kite of waiting in the dark
of politician's lark
inventive lewd
of plaintiff plea
and rumble drum democracy

venous cud
of bovine mewing in the mud of affuenza's motherhood
strikes painful cords electric suds
that lather in the lackey's trodden figure's utter
venus aphrodite's *****'s foam

hopkins is at home
manley in the rub of constant loathsome comb
that preens a matish apparition's tomb

hello kind traveler
that takes me by the hand
rolling in the grass has never been as such
the band plays off Genghis Khan
like Gandhi spitting soup
in afternoon reprieve of ignoramOus fun

the meaning is ajar
i know i war with Stevens too to
bear the furry calousness of wartime's endless true
a bond of moneylicsious new accounted even in the dew
that sunders sounds to recreate a farflung brew
of history's adieu
which only sPeares you in the gut
(an existential reference here to trope the nom)
elusive Lear that wanders in the Foolish storm caressing cave to find
another mind
that only someone special kKnew of Kent
encapsulating time in brands that offer (a[0I]ether dust for tolling flight
growing down into the mushroom ground
spanning subtentious fraughtful nocturnes in the night
to bide that meaning's plight i wish i
wasn't altogether through
though happy to be here iwth yew

He knew that he was an Alien,  He knew that he was peculiar,  He knew that he was different,   He knew the Air-Prince would continue to encourage others to Strike-Out at Him~ whether they knew the meaning of that which he spoke !       They even made fun of his name~ they would blurt  out~  There goes "AWKARD AL" ~ Words bellowed out~as if to a 100psi ! !    They tried to throw enough "HOT" words  to Blister~His Back.       Then one day,  while at a concert, a few moments before it was to begin,~ a LOUD Murmuring ~ hovered over the audience.   and in Unison they proclaimed ~"There sits ALDIN AWK,  the man whose words Bristle with Brackishness .! and  they~.....Chanted in unison " His words Bristle with Brackishness" , they repeated the chant  over and over.     Aldin stood up,  the crowd thinking ~that He  was about to leave the concert.       To their surprise~ he walked to the stage~ was handed the microphone~ bowed his head for a Moment......     and as He began to speak~  "EVEN GREATER WERE THE BRISTLED WORDS OF BRACKISHNESS"    that came from him thru the tears "Pouring forth"  ....

“We love what we don’t know, what it’s lost already…”*
Jorge Luis Borges

I hang on to your portrait, in front of me;
among candles, copal, and all those things you worship in a mexican altar to the death.

You are my invisible jaguar,
you appear before me, between dreams, and I fell alive.

Full of wounds,
lacerated by my absence,
I put your portrait in front of the altar that my mind has conceived,
and you seem to hold the paradise's secret in your hands,which are made of ashes.
Then, according to the mexican & catholic tradition,
like a rural priest,
you start to draw a cross, made of the ashes of your magic, sacred hands.

The smell of the whole,
sacred being that exists in this spiritual plane,
lays on your profile, so beautiful embodied in your portrait,
which I prefer above any other reflex.

Finally, when I think on your lips,
is when I stop believing  in anything else,
and just keep on holding the devotion that I worship to your portrait...
Then I chase each single one of the naked,
flaccid,
vulnerable memories of you,
trying to protect me.

I think of you,
so profoundly and vividly right now,
that my skin transpires,
bleeds,
my muscles are tense,
and my mouth recites your name with all and its last name.

I wish that, under a supernatural power,
you're also thinking of me, at this precise moment,
and that some thought can touch me below my skirt,
and make the skin of my white buttocks to bristle.

White –Blanca in Spanish-; the name of one of my childhood’s friend.

And the same color of your so polish, european skin.

The rainforest of your sacred Chiapas.

I need you excruciatingly.
Like a dagger into my body.

I will like to see your portrait being devoured by the flames,
but I do not have the courage to throw it to the fire,
for its image will become strongly painted in my mind,
and the effect that you exerts towards me it will be more powerful.
Dangerous.

I had a dream a couple of hours ago,
it was me,
so earthly,
being blessed by your voice,
and the tattoo you have on your left arm, being kissed by my simple mouth.

Our skin,
together,
united,
white,
is the wall where the moon lays on,
Lays in our bodies making love,
in a black hammock,
conjuring with our pneuma to the whispering of the rainforest...

Washing down nicotine burps
with slurps
of listerine.
Pearl lipstick layers like
sediment over
those festering trenches
where blisters whistle.
Machine gun lung curls
like a basilisk
around his flaccid fist.
Failure to plant a seed.

I left my attention
inside one of those bored hours
spent with you.

I want it back.

There is a place.
It is bright in memory
and living in stride.
When you close your eyes
you are there.

You can reach out
and brush your palms
against the bristle
of a soft stalk.

Lace your fingers into the weave,
twine the bristle around
your index finger,
and rip it from its hold.

You can close your heavy eyelids
and feel the radiance of the sun;
breath in summer, salt, and serenity.

You can watch as the light shifts iridescent,
brushing against the pillowed clouds
and sifting across the ocean.

You can see,
playing among the hills,
homes and lives
all intertwined.

infront of you
you can feel a smile,
a tangible love
hung between you.

Bright as a memory
radiant as the warmth
soft as a bristle.

I wasn't always so easily discouraged.
I used to bristle with enthusiasm.
I glowed with it.
It didn't matter if the task was simple, or tedious, or daunting, or boring.
As though on rails, I slammed into each and every task with terrific force.

But I got older.
Things that used to come easily grew slippery.
What I used to do without thinking twice, I found myself over-thinking.
I threw the brake. I ground to a halt.
Finally, I became idle. A left-over husk of a kernel that's already been popped.
I drowned myself with doubts. Hypothetical situations that might never happen.
I lived in fear of what might go wrong.

So I began to watch everything go wrong, as though I was helpless.
I was no less able. I was no less compassionate.
But I had grown wary. Of what?
What was it that, out of nowhere, caused me to slow down?

I guess I looked down and realized that if I fell, I would not be getting back up.

When you're young, you have no worries, because nothing is relying on your success.
So you mess up a math problem. You'll get it eventually.
So you botch things with that cute girl who sits across from you. You're young, you'll get it.
Re-assurance, faithfully, unwaveringly. A safety line should I fall.
But I never really fell, did I? So why am I laying down like I have?

Get up.

Get up.

I worry about everything. I worry that I will fail.

I dread what comes, what I can't avoid. But time, and time, again, it comes, and I miraculously don't die when it hits, because I've been bracing for a train-wreck impact, a force that will really, truly, finally, definitely lay me flat for good.

I close my eyes, and brace. But the crash never comes. The silence that was continued to be.

I turn behind me, but there's no train there.

I'm starting to realize, with relief, (with horror), that maybe all I needed to do was step off the track.

I look down, and realize, with a first-creeping then-howling laughter that I was never on the track to begin with.

I look off where the track is. There's no train there, either. Maybe there never was.

Maybe there never will be.

I am not your **** toy
Not a plastic doll
Your fantasies
Don't get to come
True on my account
These aren't your fun bags
My *** is not to smack

My skin longs
For the touch of fingertips
But crawls at the thought
Bristle before, relax
Never knowing
What unwanted touch
Is coming next

Never knew to say no
Never knew wrong was wrong
Until it was all too late

Doctor in the barn
Damaged on the trail
Grabbed my wrist -- was I wrong?
Drank it all away
Faded into blackness
Forcing through the door

Older now
Learning once again
They only want one thing from you;
You're just a last resort
So feign for their attention
Gave as good as got
Dove right down that rabbit hole
Trying to drown it out

And still -- trapped, touched
Touche
But then again, and "No"
That famous word
So infamously hard to hear

Too ashamed to fight back
Give in
Then
Live in
FEAR

Let me say again
Because it bears repeating:
Give in, then
Live in fear
Bare --
Repeating

R-A-P-E
Say it with me now
Such an ugly word
How does it make you feel

Do you feel ashamed
Are you feeling scarred
Do you feel her fear
Or is it not so clear?
Do you feel
Powerful now
Or is it
All her fault

Such an ugly word
So,  say it with me now
R-A-P-E
Found out what it means to me.

Old goatherds swear how all night long they hear
The warning whirr and burring of the bird
Who wakes with darkness and till dawn works hard
Vampiring dry of milk each great goat udder.
Moon full, moon dark, the chary dairy farmer
Dreams that his fattest cattle dwindle, fevered
By claw-cuts of the Goatsucker, alias Devil-bird,
Its eye, flashlit, a chip of ruby fire.

So fables say the Goatsucker moves, masked from men's sight
In an ebony air, on wings of witch cloth,
Well-named, ill-famed a knavish fly-by-night,
Yet it never milked any goat, nor dealt cow death
And shadows only--cave-mouth bristle beset--
Cockchafers and the wan, green luna moth.

This one time, my mom
and I said goodbye
to Juan's mom and we
walked from her apartment
to wait for the elevator.

Mom didn't like it
when I wouldn't stand still-
sometimes she'd smack me
upside my head just to
make sure I was there
(accompanied by her
motherly calls of malcriado)-
so I'd look in any direction
for a distraction or two.

Through the window a few feet
from my left, I could see two
older ladies in curler hairdresses
bochinchando like caffeinated hens
about the awfully friendly suelta
living next door to gallina #1
(they hung their hand-me-down
nightgowns and their husband's
boxers with such professional care;
if any article escaped the grasp
of family clotheslines, it was
roadkill forever).

I turned to the right
of the elevator doors,
counted the tar-black patches
of decade-old gum on the floor,
finished the half-written
sentences sprayed in *****
rainbows on the sweaty walls
by the zig-zag flight of stairs.

A boom and a click,
and the door creaked open
with the sideways grace
of a crab.
My toddler's impatience
boiled past the brim, I
exclaimed "FINALLY"
and began to walk forward.

Not a second later, I heard a
"NO" behind me, my mother
grabbing the back of my
cartoon mouse t-shirt,
letting out an ay cono, pendejo
that echoed eight stories down,
past the empty space substituting
for an absent elevator shaft,
soaring down that rusty freefall
at ten thousand times the
speed of a human boy's body.

Letting out a long exhale,
my mother did not allow
her emotions to brim over
the barrier-she recomposed
herself, all the while silently
chanting hymns of gratitude
in dedication to fate
and her reflexes.

We decided to take the stairs.
In my youthful oblivion,
I noticed a toy store
right outside the building
from the corner of my eye-
I plan to start begging when
we're at the bottom,
if we ever get there.

My mother took her sweet time
walking down those many steps,
reveled in the scratchy bristle
of the concrete against her sandals,
cultivated a newfound admiration
for my atonal imitation of a
Washington Heights car alarm-
it was a sign I was still there.

i.

was it underneath those algae covered rocks,
whispering, green creatures that delighted in

making a naked foot recoil in a moment of panic,
all the world collapsing into dust, as slime made contact?

was it beneath those stones, where a nickel lay,
a burning sun next to Lincoln's rusted beard, unseen

to our child eyes, looking for what was brightest
amongst a forest of grime and stone?

we dove in with such a fervor, a keening
to collect what was tossed by grandfather’s hands.

it was beneath those rocks that we learned what it was
to search for lost, or never found in the first place, things.

when the lake pressed against our chests, daring us to remain
below the surface, while our lungs begged us for just one

breath of air that was lingering five feet above our bodies
taunting and calling to us in our very nervous system,

we pressed on, fingers scraping desperately for a shiny token
until the void in our lungs flung us back into the bright and sharp world of oxygen.


ii.

i had a blue box with a galloping horse
cubed by an inspired painter. in it was
a gold brooch with stones like dollar bills
all shining and red once i dug it
out of the ground, and when i washed it
there was a chip in metallic paint on plastic
gems. in the box there was an arrowhead that told stories
or committed murders, with a chiseled point. they say of good
sculpting that you can see the artists hands in the piece.
under the horse's calico eye was a lost bead
that might have been a choice pick in a kindergarten class.

iii.

the dust under your bed doesn't make a scene
unless you stir it with a probing broom, little stalks of fingers brushing,
crowded together so that what's found is stolen by some next door bristle.
the vacuum cleaner will only reach so far and leave
an unthinkable spot that can't help but be thought of because
it's the only one left.

iv.

you will miss, the first one thousand times you try
to lasso a horse or a tilting bull that seems to be
yearning to scratch an itch by backflipping. or maybe you will
catch a firefly (you probably will never get that bucking animal,
so aim smaller) just once and look into a phosphorescent
backside, glowing like one million lamps under a full moon
on the Chinatown streets. fireflies keep well (poorly)
in jars with tinfoil hats that are poked with holes to let in the air
or let in the drowning raindrops when you leave the insect,
enshrouded by glass, on a checker-clothed table in your back yard.

fireflies don't have lungs because insects don't, but
you don't know this. so you will wonder if it felt
what you did when your itching fingers scraped rocks,
so green they were almost alive, until you escaped a dimmer
and quieter world and breathed again.

-


There's a form of rodent
In Latin form "quill pig".
He isn't very fast.
He isn't very big.

But be very cautious
If you encounter one of these.
They are very nasty,
Mean, to say the least.

They bristle up and like cacti,
They have a vicious will...
You don't need to touch to be
Nailed with a quill.

They will flick their tail
To let their venom fly,
So give this beast some room
When you see him going by.

People who are insecure
Will be like them.
Watch for signs.
You don't want to be around
The subtle porcupine.

The pen will rend and skewer.
The pen will have its art.
It will send a poison quill

Straight into the heart.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/12/2015

Gwuts on gwanilliagax
Ready hot gwip

Trill on the vibrant note gabeeboh
What a thril it is to be in nice gazeebo
What a punk that doused on the free zobe
What punctillious panagax that frigged all the wets out
And when the trip to the sausage make didnt pull down alaz
Alaz, I am the wet tug.
Alaz, the sprig of wheat ***** taint.

Didn't you say you loved me?
Well, the bruts on the wagon sauce now
Didn't me have a big one, tug one, sauce one?
Well elemayo gwit gwits gwit gwits gwit gwit.....gwit

Embryo collecting on the branch of a saggy
My baggy be ripped, dripped all the can out
Me step on a puddle, the wet one, the biggy
My pets on the leg, rub, all on it sticky, how ******
He chugs out a wet belch and creams on the gricky
How quaint is his fat bristle comb, of his **** I am assured
This great honkulous tank sub that brits on my dimbo,in limbo my ship
It greats on the grates treat me to a sub snack ship ***** ***** factory get e
Tag me on your webpage, then **** me silly

The year stood at its equinox
  And bluff the North was blowing,
A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,
  Green hardy things were growing;
I met a maid with shining locks
  Where milky kine were lowing.

She wore a kerchief on her neck,
  Her bare arm showed its dimple,
Her apron spread without a speck,
  Her air was frank and simple.

She milked into a wooden pail
  And sang a country ditty,
An innocent fond lovers' tale,
  That was not wise nor witty,
Pathetically rustical,
  Too pointless for the city.

She kept in time without a beat
  As true as church-bell ringers,
Unless she tapped time with her feet,
  Or squeezed it with her fingers;
Her clear unstudied notes were sweet
  As many a practised singer's.

I stood a minute out of sight,
  Stood silent for a minute
To eye the pail, and creamy white
  The frothing milk within it;

To eye the comely milking maid
  Herself so fresh and creamy:
"Good day to you," at last I said;
  She turned her head to see me:
"Good day," she said, with lifted head;
  Her eyes looked soft and dreamy,

And all the while she milked and milked
  The grave cow heavy-laden:
I've seen grand ladies plumed and silked,
  But not a sweeter maiden;

But not a sweeter, fresher maid
  Than this in homely cotton,
Whose pleasant face and silky braid
  I have not yet forgotten.

Seven springs have passed since then, as I
  Count with a sober sorrow;
Seven springs have come and passed me by,
  And spring sets in to-morrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself
  Free just for once from London,
To set my work upon the shelf
  And leave it done or undone;

To run down by the early train,
  Whirl down with shriek and whistle,
And feel the bluff North blow again,
  And mark the sprouting thistle
Set up on waste patch of the lane
  Its green and tender bristle,

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,
  Crisp primrose leaves and others,
And watch the lambs leap at their pranks
  And **** their patient mothers.

Alas, one point in all my plan
  My serious thoughts demur to:
Seven years have passed for maid and man,
  Seven years have passed for her too;

Perhaps my rose is overblown,
  Not rosy or too rosy;
Perhaps in farm-house of her own
  Some husband keeps her cosey,
Where I should show a face unknown.
  Good by, my wayside posy.

I won't tell you he was just a little odd,                      

he was very odd, for obvious reasons.                          

The troll boy he was called, was very tall.                  

"How tall "? you ask, the tallest of them all,                      

and above his waist none would ever rise.                  

His long hair upwards would grow, like                            

gravity with him was playing a cruel joke,                      

adding many more inches to his height                      

and like a bristle brush painting the sky,                    

His hair with every dawn like the sun would                

glow, warm orange, and bright red but every                                

night the glow subside to the moon's bright white.

Little kitten
i would have your
purr
and bristle fur
inside of you
i'd be lion
strong
And you could scratch
and cut
and use me as your
post.
And i would drink you
up
up up
my tongue my throat
a
vestibule in time
catching and licking and suckin
and taking you in
sublime.
All fluid and raw flesh and blood
My hunger for you is feline *** canine
Bloodthirst, this urge
this roar
inside of me
for you.
Animal intent
I am your awakening,
the ache to your throb
you pulse through my veins
and i want to be taken
in your claws.

You are not submissive
and i am not Domme
but you'd melt in my paws.
Up high
Against a wall
i would carry you on my shoulders
your back against the wall
and drink and breathe and become your flesh
from within you i'd break and re-mould
and detail the design of your love
for me.

I would be your strength
embodied
a boy of flesh
of depth
of passion
of friendship
fashioned intrinsically
with love and
Oneness.

I can only be the only one.

It starts with a pinch and an itch,
Between your shoulder blades,
Trickling down your spine like a bead of sweat.
You groan hot and heavy,
Doubling over in pain clutching at your stomach,
And you have this urge....

Your canines enlarge,
Further sharpening.
The hairs on your arms bristle.
Standing on end when you hear the first tear of skin,
At the base of your spine.
And it splinters your mind.

A wine high pitched and wanting,
A gasp as your hair thickens.
A pelt of fur to keep you warm,
There is pain between your eyes,
Your jaw stretches inhuman and ugly.

Legs snap and your squatting on the floor,
Arms pulled close at the elbow,
Back hunched over.
Dirt digs under your fingernails turned claws,
As you grip the steady earth for purchase.
You feel your heart beating against your shifting ribs.
Strong,
Fast,
And aching.

Lungs constrict and your eyes fly open.
Blinded by the ethereal light of the full moon.
You cry out,
Human voice bellows loud, loud, loud!
The beast sings in your ear.
A roar,
A howl.
The transformation done.
We are free.

You, my old companion,
I’ve junked three trucks and still I keep you.
Buried five dogs. Raised three children
who are now raising children.
And still I wear you.

You jingle when I walk.
Nails clink in pouches.
The drill in its holster slaps my leg.
The hammer in its clip spanks my ****.
You bristle with screwdrivers, chisel,
big fat pencil, needlenose plier.
You call attention. Random kids
who have never seen a tool belt before
follow me around asking
“What are you doing?”
Then: “Can I help?”

You smell like me (and I, like you).
Leather, fourth decade.
I’ve washed your pouches with saddle soap,
sewn your seams with dental floss.
Now the web of your belt is fraying,
wrapped (silly, I know) with duct tape.

Your pockets fill over time.
Once in a while I remove every tool,
every last ***** and nail.
I hold you upside down and shake.
Sawdust, a dead spider, little strippings
of insulated wire will fall out.
And once, my missing wedding ring.
It had broken. I had taken it to a jeweler
for repair, but when I got there
I couldn’t find it. A year later,
you coughed it up.

When your webbing finally snaps,
when you drop from my waist,
maybe it’s you, old tool belt, I’ll take
to the jeweler for remounting,
for buff and polish. He’ll understand.

My roommates Leong, Sophie, (Charles) and I were coming from a Yale sporting event. The sky looked like a ***** Swiffer-mop and the wind seemed to be ignoring the posted 20mph speed limit. It was a typical spring day in New Haven, overcast, 65°, with intermittent, drizzling rain. I was thinking it was a good day to be a duck.

We were looking for something to gnaw on and a beverage - of the alcoholic variety. We picked up some Mike’s hard cider (featured in our refrigerator now), which proves college students really do plan for the future.

It was about 4pm and the streets were puddled, slick-looking and empty. The lone passing car sounded like it was riding on a sponge. I was wearing a navy blue, short sleeve Polo dress, a matching Polo bucket hat (for the rain) and a slub knit hoodie that I ‘borrowed’ from Sunny forEVER (seriously, I ordered her a replacement from Amazon) and Roxy boat shoes.

On a side street, a “party-bike” sat parked, sad and abandoned in the rain. A party-bike is a tram fitted up as a bar that slowly drives noisy drunks around. The drunks sit around a “U” shaped bar, on small, backless stools welded onto the tram. Yes, an open-air bar on wheels. I can’t help thinking that a lawyer came up with the idea, because what could go wrong?

The first time I saw a “sightseeing” party-bike was on Beale Street, in Memphis Tennessee. Memphis is the Disneyland of barbeque and the blues. Every storefront for blocks is an open air blues bar, a barbeque place or souvenir shop (or all three at once). Party-bikes make sense there, because intoxication is like oxygen in Memphis. It's a party-bikes native environment. In New Haven, they seem cheap, excessive and opportunistic.

As we were walking, in the distance, we heard the wail of a saxophone and a beat so clear, that the sound seemed to linger and shimmer in the air, like a cartoon neon ‘Jazz’ sign. We instantly turned that way and discovered it was coming from a place called “Three Sheets” which was having open-mic tryouts for the house band.  

It’s a bar that serves food and there’s a ‘beer goddess’ painted on one wall. In Georgia, we’d call it a ‘fern bar.' We found a table in the darker back, out of the way, and settled in. A waitress quickly took our orders and brought us several IPA beers.

Near a platform stage, there were 6 or 8 musicians sitting around (with their instruments) waiting to take a turn forming a trio with the house drummer and bass who were laying down a constant beat. One would step in with a guitar and play for a hot minute, then a guy with the sax, another with a trumpet and yet another with a clarinet, it went on and on. They each had a solo, at some point, and it made me wonder why I don’t listen to more jazz.

Our afternoon of music was something Sophie had wished for. Earlier that morning, as we were leaving the residence, she’d said, “I wish there was a concert or something going on tonight - something musical,” and boom, we get this. Still, I don’t subscribe to the idea of holy intervention.

I hate it when I hear people say, “God never gives us more than we can handle.” I bristle, my head snaps in the direction of the speaker, I want to see who that dumb-*** is. My parents and sister are doctors, and believe me, people are dying every day in situations that are more than they can handle. Heart attacks, staph infections, gunshot wounds, covid, cancer - Uggg, sorry, I got off track and boiled-over there.

Anyway, we had some jazzy music and incredible Vietnamese pulled-pork sandwiches with fries and a smoky ketchup that I could have just drunk.
.
.
**I put (Charles) in brackets because, as our driver and escort, he’s usually there in the background when we’re not in the residence. But his presence is circumscribed, because he’s not there socially. Is it rude not to include him in every narrative? I don’t know - it's a habit.

I'm too small
As small as a dot on the crumpled paper
I'm just one of thousands
Even invisible in this cruel world
Sheltered in a narrow and thin shells
Hiding behind the leaves which begin to change color
My first house
finally I was born
as something strange
I'm the ugly
My body covered with bristle
Feebly crawling along a twig
Gnaw the leaves around and make holes
Run away from the birds
Grappling with weaver ants
Makes me fell to the ground
Until my bristle loss and scattered
Only a worm greets
They hate me so
I could get killed, not all of them accept
until I'm stuck in another dimension
I'm the lonely hiding caterpillars
Imprisoned inside a small obsolete pouch
Trying to **** time
Struggling in the darkness to reach beauty
That's enough of this stopover
wade through the rigors of the long wait that handcuff
I was reborn
being different and they like me
Abundant happiness arrives
fly indefinitely with both my beautiful wings
penetrate malignancy to explore the horizon

Spin the stick in the hollow of my heart
light that fire of devotion watch the seagulls swoop
on a sand blown beach the dunes full
of ***** bottles and crisp packets and *****
easy-wipes  the tankers plough the reach not too far
from shore
rigs bristle with impatient intent ready ready ready
they will tear and snap Neptune’s net
the arms of the Irish Sea not so much opened in glee
as distractedly numbed by the freezing breakers.
Fire up the grill with some stolen petrol
eyebrows singed throats torn with acrid smoke
impressive fire ball tactical nuclear assault on
pork sausages cider laughter Moroccan haze
keeps the midges away even in a refrigerated spring
they like to bite in sight of Liverpool
so crackle and combust and fry and grill
lest this not be the haughtiest of places
where upon my poor heart
doth spill.

Two sapling oaks, grow side by side, in the soft silt savanna swamp
The sun awoke, and shadows hide, their roots begin to stomp
The oaks move the earth, and stretch the sky, as they yearn towards each other’s touch
With their growing girth, and branches high,
Purposefully extend, to feel each other’s clutch

They grow, slow, and methodically
Taking their time, placing each leaf in the sun.
They reach, each other hydrologically
Sharing the wealth beneath the ground as one.

As decades turn into centuries, an exhaustive passing of time
The mighty oaks are living free, in the middle of their prime
Yet, still they yearn, for one another touch
To have their bristle branches brush in the warm wind as such

Though… a century more may need to pass.
For the old oak trees to touch
Patiently waiting in the soft silt savanna grass
The long time doesn’t seem so much

I miss having you around to say the little things you would say to me, to make it ok. Sweet little lies, perhaps. Perhaps not.

I miss your eyes, with that twinkle inside, with the exclamation points after them, with those crinkles on the edges, especially when you are all vulnerable and cuddly. Funny the weird details that come back up in your memories.

I miss interrupting and correcting you, in the rudest way possible.

I miss you correcting me and then I will pout and give you the saddest eyes and make you laugh at my childishness.

I miss how you looked and pointed at me 2 inches from my face on the bed, and declared, “i LIKE you”.

I miss watching Californication with you, propped up on pillows.

I miss eating junk food and beer while we watch cool youtube videos in the evenings or the mornings.

Or cracking up to a comedy skit.

Sitting with wine at 4am wolfing down tortilla chips, turning over existential ideas in our minds.

I miss you soaping my body in the shower and I miss soaping yours and I miss you making love to me everywhere we did.

On the counter In the closet Against the door On the couch In the shower On the toilet seat down On a mountain downhill Against trees in the forest In your childhood bedroom On the beach In a tent On a log bridge over a brook In the center of a woods clearing

I wanted you to Take me

everywhere.

I miss the forced cigarettes in the cold winter air, or the muggy summer

I miss our trips through this grubby city, trudging through autumn leaves and stopping in clothing stores and markets and city squares, staring at musicians and artists with admiration and jealousy, and bakeries to get your pastry fix and buying hats,pretending we’d last til the winter.

I miss our secret getaways and gossip sessions.

I miss painting and bleeding and dancing and crying and smoking and drinking and singing karaoke and slobbering and running and stopping and stalling and slumping and getting lost.

I miss fantasizing of alternative realities and cities undiscovered. I miss your wisdom-filled advise given to me, and my childlike prudity you brought out of me.

I miss shoving you playfully and skipping down a road together. I miss the smell of Doves men’s soap on your skin and the bristle of your chest hair- the just the right amount of – against mine, smooth.

It was a spectacular Love affair, one for the records for sure. How i miss playing with you>>> How i wish we can play All the time, and keep it quiet so that Reality cant hear us, wild and reckeless, and I’ll grow up on the side of all of it, and you too, if you can, But all the while leaving me behind with you in our eternal playroom, making love in all the ways we did…

One little Two little Three little Indians….