The sleeves are short and tight around your thin arms.
School boy image; slim and delicate.
School is long gone, but you are still so very young;
what with that baby face of yours and all.

A ring- stainless steel, its hard edges giving it a mechanical look- loosely hugs your ring finger. Whenever you flip someone off, it glistens under the sun
and I hope that whoever you're cursing is able to appreciate it too;
the delicate frame of your wrist- small and weak. The nails that you try to keep trimmed but grow too fast and as a result are always a bit longer than you wish they'd be.
The way your fingers fall into position, effortless, never forced.  The way they never bend all the way in despite being perfectly capable of doing so (there is no need to, and this is a reflection of your confidence.). The classic Casio F-91W wristwatch decorating your wrist. Straight out of the 90's-- you are rebellion, teenage rebellion, ****** hair smooth and healthy, polo shirts with popped collars, black skinny jeans torn at the knees.
You sleep somewhere between stupid punk and silent elegance.
A bittersweet drink that burns the throat and wakes the senses.
Somewhere between a drunken, buzzing, neon-lit Miami and a lonely tragedy in the deserts of California.

You are so very you, unapologetically ignorant to the world surrounding you and so very self-aware.
You pick up on details that you say fill your soul- the way the buildings are touched by the sunset's dying light, the patch of fog that settles on a faraway mountain you've never set foot on.
You look at me with eyes that say you understand our exact coordinates in spacetime. That look that is synonymous with the moment a flying arrow begins tearing the flesh.
Your eyes, melancholy, seducing. You speak, the words just barely escaping your throat; but I don't hear them. The universe is silent. Your lips move.

"---- -- --- ----?"

I understand you are asking for some kind of information. I don't know the answer to your words, but I know the answer to your eyes. The answer to many questions you ask, maybe the answer to anything you are able to ask me:
My eyes threaten to shut, almost-closing unevenly, and I say, slowly, in an unlearned language, the sounds a string of milky saliva being pulled out by your tongue:


"---------."

Your name.

because when you look at me, when I see you, there is nothing in the universe. Nothing but all you are, your beauty.
Your hands, your slightly-parted lips, your silver rings, your Casio wristwatch. Your body.
My body.

Our body.

The soft-skinned, smooth, young vessel we share.

Darling boy. You are so beautiful and the world is so *****.
You will never tell them about me, of our time spent in front of the mirror.
They wouldn't understand- it isn't about the contrast between our image and the stupidity of mankind, it's about you.
You, entire.
It's about the moment you raise your hand and the world bows before your image. It's about the distorted voice in your poetry, the voice that is yours. The face that is plastered over everything you create, the face that is yours- made for yourself but offered for all to drink- gullible soup, sugary drug,
secret poison- hidden under a screeching melody.

It's about the cheering crowds that dance as you sing:
"Destruction. War. Chaos."

It's not as shallow as a vain "I am beautiful."
It is something deeper, more translucent, more intangible than any concept that lets itself be understood.
It is a mob of unstoppable energy screaming at you in blind joy when you give out your commands. It is in the voices that cheer:
"Sebastian!
Sebastian!
Sebastian!"


Sebastian.


Schoolboy image, Casio wristwatch.
Your name a page in the bible, moaned in ecstasy.
How beautiful you are, how sweet in your lies, how childish


and how very aware of it all you are.

I woke up blurry eyed to the syncopated screaming of my Casio clock.
But I didn't mind,
because in 2 hours time
I'd see those pretty green eyes
and you'd finally know how much I've changed.
And to the beeping of my Casio clock
I remember the 4 page apology about being a Casio ****,
But I didn't mind,
Because in 1 hour and 59
minutes time
I'd no longer be searching to find a way to say what's on this paper I've signed and we can be friends.
I look in the mirror and I look like ****, to be honest my looks haven't changed a bit but I've bought these ******* expensive jeans,
the same ones that haven't been cleaned since I kneeled down in your ***** and cleaned
the bits
from your lips and stroked your hair whilst I waited for an ambulance to come.
But you wouldn't remember that.
And so today would be the first day of light you've seen reflect from my skin since you gently peeled me off like a used band aid.
But I didn't mind,
because in 1 hours and 29
Minutes time
You'd remember why you ever held my hand
And
Even if it takes ten years id work to become something worthy.
So with my unclean jeans on I spray some of that same genre of deodorant,
Clean my teeth freak out about forgetting a haircut and say **** it at least I found ten dollars for the train fare.
And with my **** hair I didn't care,
Because in 40 minutes id be there,
And breathe the same air
The burning stars we once shared,
And so I check the time,
And so lose my mind
As the train arrives in about 5,
Seconds.
And I watch it race away from me as I sprint through the rain in my special suede shoes.
And as I walk in cold boots
I realise, that I don't mind
Because in 29 minutes time
I'll be lost in the warmth of your eyes
So I jump on the next train
And the officer decided to pick my brain
And I have to get of the train,
In the rain,
To buy a ticked again,
Because I don't look 16.
But I don't mind because in 19
Minutes time,
I'll be with that one perfect kind.
So I squeeze the letter in my pocket as I finally jump off at Perth station.
Pulsing with anticipation,
I run without a pinch of patience
Through the rain under a storm,
And I'm finally here.
I look around.
I sit down.
And you're nowhere to be found.

An eyelash on my cheek.
I caught it and blew it.
With the wind.
A star shoots across the sky.
I tied a knot.
A four-leaf clover.
I almost stepped on it.
11:11.
Says my Casio digital watch.
A coin lying on the sidewalk.
I flipped it down the well.

Fingers crossed.
Eyes closed.

I feel lucky.
I wish for you.

New gold Casio watch,
Loosely hangs from my wrist.
It hits the bottle harder than I do,
Against my best wish.

Swish of whisky down my throat.
I've never been one to boast,
About newly bought possesions.
But this watch,
This gold Casio watch is the exception.

bottlerocket,
ski click &
shoot.

         [empress impressed.]

petrol souls drift the skin & aetherous
of our holy mother lake midday.
by alpine,
lymph node,
spine of glimmering fish;
i never truly thought that love could destroy.

       [to display the paradise boon and boom salute.]

her knife atop the stump.

*

yon machines construct art-form of reservoir (yon being short for yonder),
knee-boarder-boy wake to wake, he wags his tail when he dreams.

        [lakeside.]

tribal the beach: a family drunk on juiceboxes.
rolling rocks. tall boys
& boulders/ bountiful canyon kids
with their beautiful gasping dogs.
****** knee **** and gallop at the foot of a mountain/mound &
sugar ants stomped, longing to empire.

mom bunches her fists into sand
of stolen crag, listening closely for her childhood in the whistle
of a casio conch.
margaritaville will do.

          [to **** or kiss beetles.]

kiss;
the bitty prince.
maintain a steady alliance with all lifeforms and flora.
life is programmed as thus;
algorithm of love.

bright honeydew soaked slabs of wood,
or plank, tabletop treatise.
wet pile of seeds.

young small birds hoard seeds for winter;
teeter into spring;
& upon summer find solace in swift slip-n-slide daylights.

Not a moment sleeps
when our motion wakes
and perpetuates a new arising

The greatest races ever run
are those without a finish
and the hares become confused
to which it becomes obvious
of why the hero was the tortoise

An anti-hero now
when a Casio watch
measures nano-seconds

The western world is exhausted
and the road stretches
past the horizon
and the East have been running long
for over 4,000 years
and they don't even need an inhaler.

So who is laughing now?
Well the answer is quite clear;
whoever found it funny.

Casio

it's the smallest voices that scream the loudest
I've never been a fan of the trending hero
or the underground superstar.
slam poets make me sick.
your attitude is a well concocted ploy
to touch indie hearts and
I hate it.
I love the ignored
the militants
the trashman painter,
the gas station attendent that
makes ****** artcore ******
in her boyfriend's garage
the sixteen y.o. with a tape recorders
and a circuitbent casio
howling blood into an old
speakercummicrophone
slash and burn
leave your best work sitting
on a park bench for me
ignore the plight and shove
your fingers down your throat.
I love the broken. the hurt.
the misanthropes the schizoids
**** victims
homeless
suicidal
single mothers
drug addicts
if that fire is in your shattered
legs reflecting the age of
a
billion dead scaffolds
soul of revolution raging
knife in paw
I will fall in love with you
and sigh at the detrious
in your wake.
let me see you naked and crying
my own wounds fester quiet
when everyone else is asleep.
have a drink,
you earned it.

I tell everyone that
you broke my heart.

But if I press my fingers hard
against my chest,
a little to the left of the bone in the center
that’s curved to fit the shape of the right side of your temple,
I can feel the steady
thump, thump, thump
of it,
still alive,
still in one piece,
still beating. I think
my heart is stronger than my body
most days,
when I can’t force myself out of bed
because my pillow still smells
like your shampoo and
my heart still beats:
thump, thump, thump.

When my knees give out
because I find your
“Essentials of Strength Training and Conditioning”
textbook right where I told you it would be,
my heart still beats:
thump, thump, thump.

When I stand in front of the fridge,
motionless,
staring at the notes you’ve written
in the margins of the takeout menus,
my heart still beats:
thump, thump, thump.

When I lay down on the floor and
stare at the Casio keyboard under the couch
where you left it,
my heart still beats:
thump, thump, thump.

When my fingers,
still melded to the shape
of your hand,
can’t grasp the doorknob
or my next drink
or the telephone to call you,
my heart still beats:
thump, thump, thump.

I tell everyone that
you broke my heart
but I think
the only thing you left whole
was my heart.

The rest of me is thrown around the room
in broken bits and pieces,
memories littered like body parts
across the hall
and the floor of a room I once called ‘ours,’
but my heart still beats:
thump, thump, thump.

My heart still beats
like eerie jungle drums in the dark,
like a clock and I have a hangover,
like a leaky faucet and a copper basin:
thump, tick, drip.

My heart still beats.

(You didn’t break all of me yet.)

Checkin on my stew,
its stewin.
Checkin my casio watch,
its tickin.
Only acouple horas to go,
my excitement will burst and billow like snoww
because nights like tonight don't happen often.
Once a week.
Its Thursday eve *******.

Do you know what time it is?

Is it springtime?  It tastes like springtime in every word I wish I could say to you, but I choke on petals and potting soil in the meantime.

Is it Sunday morning?  It tastes like Sunday morning every time I speak your ancient name that led me out of Egypt.

Is it naptime?  It feels like naptime in every toss and turn I take, even though when we lay down, we don’t usually rest.

Do you know what time it is?

You don’t wear a watch.  But if you did, it would probably be a Casio watch.  Because you’re subdued and kind of smokey and there’s nothing shiny about you

Until you laugh from the pit of your stomach and I feel like I’m home.

You don’t wear a watch.  And I’m glad because it shows off your arms more.  You don’t need to cover them up and you actually don’t need to cover anything up, ever.

Wait.  Is it naked time?  

Do you know what time it is?  

Is it dinner time?  Like the time when you smeared barbecue sauce on my face and got away with it?

Is it wintertime?  You make me feel kind of warm inside.

Is it bedtime?  Because even though your eyes are the color of ice and your spine is made of steel and your biceps feel like bricks, you are the softest and gentlest person there is.  

I’m afraid that the clock will strike twelve and you’ll see that I’m just a maid in rags who has mice for friends.  And that I am actually not a princess.  

I’m just a girl with a funny name who has completely lost track of the time.

YOU delirious about the coastal span - from
the country that went on a hot year - then become the
beach your body: spread out - fragrant and hungry!

Like the perfume ad page, which is torn off
thick copies, magazines that chock short of pictures!

The one on you lies, I, which is released by the wind,
large pickaxes, mooring the sky, then sprinkling wildly

I started this guerrilla, facing my own shadow,
your spicy sand bath, quartz that grows hearts

Late afternoon. The sun goes past: yellow past
soon it was broken and glowing, the blood of a snake
I've repeatedly looked at digital numbers,
Casio - waterproof, 200 meters - an hour of the day



If the sea yells, the sentence is the waves!

He did not carry any name, until he called the bay
Place turtle loggerhead, from far journey,
Thousands of miles pilgrimage, to the sand he had hatched,
littered, food wrappers and beverage cans

This *******, like undesirable verbal abuse!



What have I found? Or broke it? I'm a farmer
threatened insect pests, certainly can not keep, seeds per
Seeds, immature rice. The season is short-lived.

When I see the location of the taxi to the North,
I also had to go back there, fold the map, then
stepping like a man's footstep -
like the song I heard from Springteen - and
write down a poem that I am afraid of his verses.

In those apricot-tinged nirvana days,
cigar smoke filled the stuffy restaurant in which we ate.
At the table across from us sat a couple in their fourties,
Him, a toupee-wearing, finger-clicking car salesman,
and Her, the blonde in a tight dress,
glossy white mink and even glossier white stilettos.

She talked enthusiastically about the new eastern religions,
Groups that offered "clarity" and "spiritual guidance" to the dissatisfied Miami girls such as herself.

She said that she wanted a new way of life.
(Secretly, she wanted the young guru who'd promised it to her.)
Toupee protested:
"But honey, we ain't no slaves to the machine!"
The gold Casio watch on his wrist and the tacky pearls she sported said otherwise.

Less than a question,
stuck playing all the old games;
a face carved from wood.

Stuck playing midnight,
quoting Castro on hunger;
Loss of appetite crucial

to understand
the feeling of having none,
but this is just greed.

I eviscerate
and consume nothing, woeful.
Flesh does not have me.

Ticking Casio,
breathing time into nonsense.
Digital. Solid.

superficiality in my bones
in my thighs
in my smiles and hidden lies
a double ghost, I lost my flesh
somewhere in the unsuspected mess-
Wait a second, don't go yet
I'll lure you in with my black turtleneck
Black Turtlenecks and Kanken Backpacks,
Oxford shoes, Casio watches
Can't you see I'm too cool to forget
I'll carry around this 800 page novel that I haven't even finished 1/10th of
I'll risk the weight to carry on my show
If you haven't deducted quite yet
This is my artwork I'll force down your throat-
A walking masterpiece printed of the internet.

Before you, I never knew an "us."
I came and left as I pleased because I could.
Understanding it didn't hurt me to do so. At all.
Maybe the people I met felt a different connection.
Maybe the weather was brighter for them and the colors more vivid.

Then, in the middle of the sweltering summer heat, you were there.
Wearing a Casio watch that also functioned as a calculator with a half-smoked cigarette in your fingers, nails painted black.
You were so, you. Raw. Unfabricated.

And I loved it.
I loved you.

How we chain-smoked cigarettes and how you wrapped your arms around my waist while I heard the most euphoric laugh ever.

I wish I realized how similar we were. That for us, this was a first.
To wake up so early to meet someone and feel as if each step gets lighter as we near. To whisper in the dark while being unable to close the proximity between us, but feeling the tension of needing to.

You were not another piece on the chessboard.
For me you were real.
And I can't bring myself to provoke a conversation, but I’m thankful.
And wish I could’ve gotten to know “us” longer.

the parody...
  i think i remember stashing a week's
worth in my room
        and the stench they provided...
that's the parody, i think i remember...
thinking has nothing sensual about it,
now you're reaching into our faculties,
like: imagination being covert for sight,
then again memory does indeed comply
with that rule, but we call it "sight",
or a blockeg toilet of desirable "thoughts"...
    i wonder... is there anyone out there
to give me 5 sensual artefacts of rigidness
that my comply with a theory concerning
the ego?
  well... isn't this globalisation a real gathering...
what a gathering!
         there are one billion chinese armed
with shadow and here we are
  talking about how the process of individuation
comes about... like some miracle of birth,
  it just tickles my nuts whenever i hear it.
cat's in the bathroom imitating me
while i lean off a windowsill to spot a constellation
and given that: i can only see three at most,
well, four... if i count the rhombus
and the big and little dipper (out east we call
them carts... the things horses used to
drag along)...
      but all i want is the pentagram of man inverted,
like the clockdile that the ******* became
for germans...
           i want the "cognitive" lessons in what
i see, what i hear, feel...
       what are these "senses"?
they must be there for me to think about them,
but never trust that thought that has no ought
to it, no moral compass, per se...
                   that something is not needed,
i hardly talk anyway,
         i just pass as silent as a lake, or
merely and practicaly, just sit there...
                    newspapers?
yeah, for some reason books not keen on house-cleaning
chores never allow for stink...
  keep a week's worth of newspapers in your room
and they start decaying, and the stink arrives...
   which is why i don't value opinions coming from
newspapers, i call them the sights of
    pornographers of literature...
        or maybe why i don't see much in the vicinity...
in poland they actually call putin a wise man,
a leader... in the west everyone wants a cherry
on top of the cake that they're not...
        all the old people in poland cite
putin because he's able to keep poles,
how to say it? not imitating the nomad jew?
and actually sit on their ***** and count the ants?
is that how you say it... i go back to poland
for 3 weeks, read a kraszewski, watch ski jumping
cook a meal, walk in minus degrees into pine
woods and take a photograph of a power station,
and feel: there's no need to write a book...
3 weeks over there and i didn't feel a need to write
a book... alternatively:
i come back from my "hiatus" to england
and i'm in a on-the-ready-prompt gimmick;
i'm starting to see this departure from the life
i could have had as much as what defines the dog
or a door (onomatopoeias to god)
             but is really nothing more than a nagging
seagull... or why there is a need for prompt...
if graffiti didn't do it, then this, certainly will.
           writing "poetry" is never a good thing,
esp. when you don't feel like talking,
but then i feel a computer keyboard like
        chopin might feel the piano keyboard
or mozart feeling up a harpsichord...
          i can't even claim ginsberg's prodigy,
i mean: mean grit and hardship of a construction
site? the scottish widows' HQ roof? i can claim
i did that... because i literally did...
                it's almost like the construction
industry is the only thing standing before
the military-industrial complex... unless of course
you add napster and somali pirates into the equation...
    but yeah, newspapers really stink if you leave
them in a pile for a week of the respective past week,
books however don't... i haven't dusted them
because i probably read them, and i like to
imagine this fetish of the perfume they exfoliate
after a while, because you nurtured them in a way
that other people who horde books don't...
like my uncle once reminded me as to why i read:
i want enough books to make me look smart...
    yeah... and i want a casio to be above rolex...
and on a *** note: schrimps ahoy!
                     or as my scottish english teacher
in a catholic school once remarked but didn't
realise it until i spotted it (just now):
the gift of narrative is to digress -
   it's a "poem", it's not a pave of slab,
there really isn't a quality control mechanism
involve, other than the quality of writing too much
and being able to shut up for 10 years...
   respectively: to write a body of work,
which is where routine comes from
and routine breeding a type of rhetoric that's
constantly undermined...
               or i guess that's what's flying about:
because i really want to avoid what gave me prompt...
it's very trivial -
   it originates in how people quote:
   i.e.  the orthodox "[w]hen it happened"
enclosure... the prompt part when giving you
the prompt...                 as if needing an intro,
that **** is in [w]...
                                   what is an indirect citation to
the direct situation of giving a talk -
which i'm not, therefore i point it out.
    and yes, it ends with a number
because there are only two "arithmetic" results
of language, one of them is 1
  so a sentence e.g.: i went to the store to buy some milk
is representive of the sigma, 1, positive, affirming
  anything and nothing.
yet the other strand of "arithmetic" results of
language is 0... which is Kantian for negation (a denial
of, primarily the cartesian concept of doubt),
  and a sentence that results in the sigma 0
comes from a sentence e.g. i went to the store
to buy some mil and shot someone "by accident"...
well.. that's how english existentialism would actually
work, by dittoing / creating ambiguity
     that goes outside of the misnomer realm,
                  as in: including some sort of action,
hence the punctuation inclusive of "extracting"
  by; so yes, existentialism can actually include
   the conjunction word leading up to what is stated
as ~:
    easier to state what you mean or don't
than the mindless task of the perpetrated
counter-ask, esp. in a supermarket, i.e. i wanted
milk (also), instead i got a bullet to my head.
**** don't make 1 + 1 = 2 logic in terms of speaking,
and no, i don't believe that books ought to be
necessarily eloquent... we can stick to manners
at a dinner table... i see books as a cushion for
what would otherwise explode into violence...
         or is that just my take on things?
there was something though, that prompted me,
and it wasn't something i'd arrange
with dubious punctuation, as in:
to read a newspaper and listen to someone talking,
******* schizoi of me to do that in the first place,
or perhaps that's how you decide for a third
person to talk over the person actually talking
into your ear in a video, you reading a newspaper
article, and then realising you are allowed
the third party source of thought...
      then again it was upon seeing how people
cite...    what's the difference between citing
it as "[w]hen" and how you see it in certain books
e.g. 'when?'
                tiny little differences, but meteors in
how the modern version / aversion to dialectics looks like,
if it is ever staged in Marrakech supermarket...
            is dialectics thus a better word to denote
haggling? as that nursery rhyme goes:
      if meme and gene is id the posit for fixed ego?
like: that **** never changes, it goes on and on
and is the western serpent in the doors' song the end.
wait wait... credits...
          all credits to heidegger's ponderings
III... circa 1932, and the concept of volklich
which some east german would probably say
as volklisch - like in a rammstein song:
   isch bin... hark the ******* CH! or should i ask
the Gaul to come with his phlegm of R?
                   it's not that the english have a stiff upper-limp,
they have a numb tongue... taubzunge...
or an umtongue...
            and speaking ethnicity, i too can suggest
something... what kant already mentions with his
shadow | cold concept to... whatever it was he was doing...
western slavs are shadow people... a schattenvolk,
you don't really see them...
                   and if the history of israel...
becomes unrecognised by arabs in the middle east...
then so too poland in europe, unrecognised...
        well... they're there... but western vogue doesn't
really recognise its existence when you read a newspaper
and dare to cite statistics... so like: huh?
                 they can cite every, single, country,
in the supposed western "hemisphere" but they can't
cite something from the east...
                     and then someone from the schattenvolk
comes along and says something to them that
cite the statistics and they're like: bring
in the muslims!                    well, that done,
                 how about we watch the idea of a community
from the Ełk incident? two bottles of coca-cola
        and a death sentence...
                 or so and so and so and so did (a),
but shouldn't have received the result (b)...
           thankfully we had Newton to look for
the law of gravity... otherwise i really wouldn't know
what law man is actually capable of giving...
is it objective? so why am i protesting?
is it subjective? so why am i even asking?
the only thing more horrid from philosophy is
jurisprudence... but then i find philosophy bearable,
and "try" to practice it... jurisprudence?
             let's not get religiously motivated to exact what
is and what is not.

It is undeniable, when in the embrace of the great pipe *****
At the venerable old Episcopal church on Third Street,
Or wholly encircled by Tiffany-issue stained glass
At St. Joe’s in South Troy (ostensibly the “ironworker’s church”,
But gifted with its invaluable windows
Through a mixture of noblesse oblige, piety,
And a certain venal pride)
That there is a presence, a corporeality when the tune rises
From the pipes, be they iron or wholly human in origin,
Which is steadfast and implacable in the certitude of faith.

I’d heard the tune on another occasion,
Some half-dozen blocks north of the gaggle of churches,
Emanating from a squat, red-brick edifice
Which seemed a bit unsure of its own solidity,
As if the trust placed in mortar and block
Was somehow a bit presumptuous.
The voices were reedy, a tad threadbare and careworn,
And the accompaniment was unprepossessing
(A single guitar, perhaps, or an ancient and wobbly Casio
Rescued from the beyond by some kindhearted DPW worker)
And, though the voices were pitchy
And the harmonies a half-step or so amiss,
One hopes that it would constitute an acceptable offering,
Even not having fully shed the cloak of reticence
Which can be so difficult to unclasp on the road to devotion.

Why doesn't she love me. Is she not capable? Or is it me.
The answer is really scary because the truth makes you see.

Why do I want someone that doesn't want me back.
It makes no sense. Before you came I was on track.
Following my dreams without any distractions.
But the dreams changed because of our interactions.

I just wanted to be next to you. On your side.
I didn't ask for a girlfriend or the eventual bride. Just you.
40% of people go through diagnosable depression after heartbreak.
This choice I would not take, if I had known this was at stake.

You don't deserve my pain or poetry. Yet somehow you do.
Why the **** are you still in my life, distance is due.
Get away from me you ignorant Witch. You *****. You shrew.
HOWEVER, if you called right now, I would run to you.

No matter the distance.
I am weak to you with no resistance.
Although I fight these feelings, they are persistent.
I crave the day this feeling goes away and you are non existent.

I don't mean that last bit. Well, kind of. I don't know.
I edge towards being okay but am I really though.

Mad times for me. Mad times for everyone.
I live in South Kensington with a Nun.
What the actual **** is going on.
I think this all stems from the relationship with my mum.

I need to build a relationship to myself
That's before I can have a relationship with someone else.

That is a difficult process. Self love and respect are not taught.
You have to learn them yourself, and can not be bought.
I've tried.

I'm alright I guess. I'll get over it. Right?
I'm sure there is an end in sight.

Next me is a wall
or rather a semi wall
for alluding to an imaginary pathway that guides
or rather
divides people who want to study in the casual study room versus the quiet area.

There is a circular hole in this black wall next to me
and past the black paint, I can see the particle board
that makes up this wall. Then past this particle board
there is space- nothing, a power supply to the outlets built in that I am using now , a camera maybe, cables to the tv on the other side of this semi-wall.

Next to that are my 2 wall chargers that charging my computer
and my phone. And of course my phone, computer
but also, Casio watch and two band-aids- barely visible on the white table background.

Before me
is my laptop
not you,
but my laptop.

next me is my water bottle
metal
a used paper towel
moist
hand cream
closed,

three books

my headphones

next to me is an empty seat
and you are not in it.

but you are not even so specific
as these objects,

you are vague and elusive

you are always leaving
whoever I think you might be

once
maybe right here even
opposite where I sit now
we sat together
and tried to study and couldn't
I gripped your thigh tightly  
and desire for you
and an assertion of your presence
and my true love for you
flowed through me
so legibly

and now the spirit of love
has left that person
and passed through so many others
who are also
not
here
now

she wrote all there was to write
and she moved to song that her father used to listen to
beach rock
their favorite.
she missed him

she looked up from her desk
then to the side at the waste paper basket
full of failed poems..
walked over to her bed

and kept one finger on a low key
on his Casio until something struck her.

In the bloom of youth, we were all awkward and weird
and contrived in our own inexplicable and ineluctable ways.

We were all sunglassed fictions, heroes in our own heads
and less than that in the slow gnaw and chomp of reality.

We might croon, leather-jacketed, about the dawn before a disinterested audience of wights, hollow-eyed and resigned.

We might jam on a Casio keyboard atop a file cabinet
and hope, idly, someone, someday, might eventually get it.

Just a few reasons I think we really might work.
Well first because who else will fix your rogue eyebrow hairs?
Because I like your thrifty style, and I'm pretty sure you like mine. Because you scream, "AUTUMN!" like I fell off a cliff when I'm simply "lost" in target.
Because in the morning, when you turn to kiss me, I'm captivated by your sleepy eyes.  
Because you are hilarious, and most of the time know when it's best to be serious. Because I crack up at your relationships with Russians named Andre and Andrew.
Because I swear, you're perfect for me.
Because of your obsession with pugs, and my love for pugs on surfboards. Because you make wooden creatures.
Because we met in creative writing. Because you like to write creatively. Because you like to climb up a specific set of 45 stayers.
Because I'm scared of howler monkeys. Because we have a guardian angel named Calvin. Because you went to Nicaragua and that was brave, daring, and tough.
Because nobody else will do celebrate hands. Because we Skyped for 5 hours.
Because geese we think are swans are so lovable, even at 3 AM. "Tim" "I hear them."
Because you were tardy Tim to ol' chem.
Because you have an adventurous heart.
Because you get it.
Because you like early morning fiestas as much as me. Because you'll turn my head into a biscuit.
Because of how dang good you look on your long-board.
Because you fought for me and now it's my turn to fight for you. Because I know it's truly funny when you laugh so hard there's no noise and I love it. Because sometimes you laugh at me and I don't know why. Because I could stare at you forever and still not believe you're there.
Because we blamed Hisky for being naked. Because Hisky said he thought we were "it"
Because you ran cross country.
Because you love veebs more than me.
Because casio.
Because you have strong opinions about sensory loss. Because you freak out about Thursdays and groundhogs day. Because you enjoy the little things. Because you love mountain biking.
Because you'll dance with me even though I know you don't really like it.
Because if it weren't for my stupid self, we would've conquered long distance.
Because I get sick of everyone else.
Because I could sit in a coffee shop with you all day, even if I never beat you in chess.
Because there's a huge market for corn-dog holders.
Because you believe in ridiculous dreams. Because you like to be ridiculous.
Because you have soft lips and awesome hair.
Because you're different----
Because I fell in love with you, and don't wanna get back up.

I took you snorkelling as I usually do.

I looked at you to reassure myself.

You winked back in your familiar way.

Later I looked again and you were gone!

You my long-time companion had disappeared!

You left me to plunge to the ocean floor.

I have searched for you along the arcing shore.

But I know you are forever lost to me beneath the rhythmic shifting sands.

Still winking and counting time as you always have.

Farewell my trusty Casio.


Koh Phayam. Thailand.   Dec. 2011

people  i goott something to say a little secret i gott nothing missing from my life i m super content
.may b  one more wireless keyboard a Casio watch and one more poster for my door that's it