he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said,"not much
chance...give him these pills...his backbone
is crushed, but it was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he'll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he's been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there...also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off..."

I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn't eat, he
wouldn't touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn't go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn't work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I'd had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough

one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.

"you can make it," I said to him.

he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn't want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.

you know the rest: now he's better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left...

and now sometimes I'm interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,"look, look
at this!"

but they don't understand, they say something like,"you
say you've been influenced by Celine?"

"no," I hold the cat up,"by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!"

I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he's relaxed he knows...

it's then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.

he too knows it's ******* but that somehow it all helps.

'"Cause I'm your lady
And you're my man
Whenever you reach for me
I'll do all that I can"
Just found out—
Celine Dion's man
Her husband, Rene Angelil
Passed away last Thursday
The love between them
Had always been louder
Than a whisper  
And they were never far away
But not this time, I feel sad
According to her
He was her many guiding angels
Her only "boyfriend"
Although he was much older
She doted him like a mother
Figure, and he allowed her
In public, many kisses
Tender touches
Theatric renewed vows
All full of Titanic's fondness
Now I've realized
Only in love, a man owns
A woman, and a woman can
Own a man. Love, and love only
A lot of affections involved

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Love More:
Celine Outelt  http://www.cfad.org/

Mula sa higanteng alpombrang balot
Bumuhos ang walong henerasyon halos
Ng karit, palay, tagtuyot, unos
Martilyo, pako, pagpapakaputa sa utos!
Aba, hindi pangako ng sistema ang presensya ni Hesus!

Sa madilim na purgatoryo ng impiyerno at kalangitan,
Sa mahiwagang pagitan ng lunsuran at lansangan
Nagka-prusisyon ang dibinong Toledong bayan
‘Pagkat naipasalangit na
Ang Multo/Kapre/Bal-bal/Berberoka/
Aswang/Mangkukulam/Agta/Santelmo/
Batibat/Berbalang/Bungisngis/Diwata
Na sumiil sa banal na pook ng Toledo.

Pitu-pituhan ang naging palitan
Sa pagbuhat sa bangkay ni Rodiano Abduhan.
“Dito ako sa ulo.” “Pasmado ka ba? Larga na!”
Padulas-dulas ang kapit, sumisilip na ang paa
At sa bawat yapak, bumuhos ang patak
Ng dugong pesante sa sagradong Toledong lupa.

Rodiano Abduhan, mas kilala bilang Tatay Godong
Manggagamot, tagalunas ng salot, kampon ng Diyos,
Ika ng iilang nagpatingin sa mahiwagang tatang,
Pero manyak, magnanakaw, aswang, mangkukulam
Kamo ng nagmula sa abang Toledong bayan.
‘Pagkat ang pugad niya’y sa kanayunan, sa kalaliman, sa kaibuturan,
Ng mailap na lansangang ng Diyos tinalikuran.

Kaya nang ang taumbaya’y nakabatid
Na lumubha ang sakit ng pamangking si Adring,
At na natagpuang bukbukin ang bangkay ni Celine,
Kaniya-kaniyang satsat, sitsit, at hirit
Ang kumapal sa amihan ng Toledong hangin.

“Mangkukulam! Heto yung bumati sa Adring kong pamangkin!”
Kaya ng taumbaya’y binatikos at siniraan sa lihim
Sa walwal o gimik, pagkalaklak ng gin.

“Berbalang! ‘Di ka umawat hanggang naubos ang dugo!”
Kaya’t nang-imprinta ang madla ng mga galos abot sa buto
Tatak Cebu! Tatak lungsod ng Toledo!

“Aswang! Luwal ng putang nakunan!”
Kung kaya’t naisama rin ang anak ni Abduhan
Sa kawawang listahan ng mapapaslang.

Biro mo! Ang manggagawa ng himala
Natamaan ng sumbi ng masaklap na realidad!
Ay, hindi makaliligtas ang dukha
Sa kamandag ng pader ng matayog na siyudad!

Pero nang maabot ang mapanglaw na kremahan,
Ang mailap na lubid ng buhay at kamatayan
Ni Rodiano Abduhan, aswang at mangkukulam,
Ng dugong maliliwat ay tuluyan siyang naubusan.
Maputla niyang balat, sa abong langit ay umagpang.
Inaakit ng lagay na hamak na sa wakas ay tumahan.
Pero nang maunawaan niya na sa kaniyang kamatayan
Mapupuksa ang kasarinlan at kalayaan,
‘Pagkat siya ang sisidlan ng dugong maglilinang,
Kampeon ng kanayunan, hari ng himagsikan,

Nasapian ni Lazaro.
Nabuhay.
Natauhan.

Magsasaka, mangingisda, labandera, gerilya.
Artista, mayora, tindera, tsismosa.
Karpintero, ****, kutsero, kaminero.
Abugado, inhinyero, piloto, maestro.
Ninais ng lungsod ang pagsapit ng mundo
Sa mahinhing mundo ng mga diwata’t engkanto.
Oo lang nang oo, bawal mangontrabida,
Kaya kung gusto nila ng Multo/Kapre/Bal-bal/Berberoka
Ano pang magagawa kundi patabain ang mataba?

So natunaw ang pintura
Ng nagbabalat na ngang dingding
Nabawian ng Sol at Luna
Ang kalangitang sadya nang makulimlim
Ang basang semento ay nauhaw
At naging nagbabantang lamig.

Mula sa naagnas na kabaong sa hukay lumaya
Ang mga magsasaka, mangingisda, labandera, gerilya
Ang mga Batibat/Berbalang/Bungisngis/Diwata.
Mula sa abo sa loob ng saro nagka-anyo
Ang mga karpintero, ****, kutsero, kaminero
Ang mga Aswang/Mangkukulam/Agta/Santelmo.

Tsaka humayo’t bumulong kay Abduhan
Nang siya’y mailatag sa loob ng makinarya.
Tsaka niya nagunita ang anak at asawa
Nombrado na atang manananggal at tiyanak.
At ang bawat katiting na patak ng dugo
Na hinayaan niyang umagos, bumuhos, tumulo
Sa lupang Toledo, lupa ng berdugo’t demonyo.
Doon niya nabatid kung saan totoong nagmula
Ang mga Multo/Kapre/Bal-bal/Berberoka,
Aswang/Mangkukulam/Agta/Santelmo,
Batibat/Berbalang/Bungisngis/Diwata.

At doon nabuhay ang Santelmo ng Toledo;
Nang umalpas mula sa crematorium si Rodiano Abduhan,
‘Di na mas hahaba ang buhok, at nakatatak ang pangalan
Sa kaniyang mga galos at sugat, habang
Noo’y banig ang balot, ngayo’y apoy na bagong silang.
At nang nadaanan niya ang mga balintataw
Ng mayayamang poong siya mismo ang nakapukaw,
Nabatid niya kung bakit kailangan ng Toledo ng isang halimaw.

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dreaming short boy sure rain ice bond lip loves man humanity genocide wars food water families corrupted fool gun sorrow ghost buildings wonder step suffering roam bones stained knows delicate suicide catastrophe lab completely marry kitchen read secrets circle grave hunger waters inner filled suffocated ending veins crying deeper stopped insignificant slip non throat explodes gloom stare burger drown mirror endangered cup ears bear shirt voices sins saviour birds sorrows treat selling young crack necessary ego historic symbols travel volcano game scratch ******* confuse spill scream melts following *** known mama speed dress smelly highway speeding washed coat drop absolute intelligence mountains speech wheels father wants rip stains ground save pale surrounded swimming final miles motion sing confused sons sprayed wall swallowed road poets nightmare ***** brains commit possible language golden key useless bombs sake raw john changed takes animal replied stories content track locked 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cells wedding musicians greater genitals china responsibility knot jet weapon rottening slaughtered decent stolen goat absolutely tool limit possessions snakes righteous ozone happens illusion bounce shabby producing tumbled equal neurons insect biscuit notion link staircase fulfilled chewing ordered gadgets transporting craves stunned strategy damage fragments borders insurance jerusalem panda lasted cultural sluggish ****** member coins eyebrows contains buddha pointing clever virus overwhelmed acts solve classical fluid media mcdonalds widow cloths russia reported babys collapsing tom homeless nearest calculated humour ravenous boiled depend reject phones earthquakes discuss **** ****** misconception prodigal social jane nasty eats president sipping propaganda super electricity fathom spilled carrots liver bored behaviour fault similar ethics commercials sells boiling mortgage donald tons directly apes gruesome civil french passers theory construct crashes abnormal pleaded hack clan eaters delusions flaunt gonorrhea vegetarian taxes rockets leash ripping rational pirates embarrassing dolphin nationality shipping ****** thanksgiving goods deals hopefully nephew flounder kennel ****** communists erupting haircut gays ku klux chins justin draped cerebral usa ***** puke ***** fraction neutral warren fornication belive batteries stoning chopped buddhism tolerate enlightened antibiotics dependence mae apocalypse irrational vise pets comedians sympathies somalia crises terrorists breakdowns peppermint biological ***** disobedience ****** vandals hippie fakes mac bombing nosebleed mafia infamously lesbians berg stylish pr dubai burgers production cruise commander embryos presidents clones gluttons chock ******* illegitimate iphone philosophical yucatan refuges celine inclusive spam dion sanitary waddling mullahs nationalism karl ***** remix sensationalism psychopaths techno disney www punks bombay pomme rappers stucked elixirs bjork mutilations allright lagerfeld enormously elton rabies damien hirst capitalists ravers idealism salaries allready freddie zeitgeist dictatorships invoice asmile berlusconi scarified subjectivity riped ozzy snobbish bnp mcdonald we're you'll we'll beethoven's god's men's arseholes queen's feet's elizabeth's putin duck's einstein's poppop puppy's pig's buffett warhead self-satisfied post-human poo-poo 15 2000 fannie pictorial laundries ****** mahmoud caliphate woodworks biebers frites wonderfulmeaninglessness mujahedins fwarhols pseudo-subjectivity anti-document exstraordinary ahmadinejad behavelike muthafukas somethingeverybodyreally yourlanguage crucialenemies sayevil alicense yourselfwear thatyoudon'tlike someheavy reallymeancontrol andindulge swastikasneversayaword oneincludingyourself yourselfagunandplaywithknifes eraseany heartace parkistan bashra iq's entertanier 28000000 märsk mc-kinny möller onepays isharshand muthafuckasdrop representingallthat toyesor ifno hintsaboutyour tosmallviolentgroupsin societylet andbeseenamongsymbols ifasked cremaster nothingofthisworks andstrangereligiousbehaviours automaticgunandpoppop getdrunkand oddpoint friendswithodd spreadrumours notunderstand ofviewspicksome intosomeviolence yourselfintooblivionaboutyour surroundyourself behavioursand disrespectfuland dotcom

"So the pen is mightier? who'da'thunk'it."
He said to the bleeding man tied down
to a messed, stained, bed.

The bound man figured,
even though he just got
to an LA plagued
by criminals, killers, and copy-cats,
that he wasn't getting out of here whole,
finally.

Holding a pen knife,
red-faced and sweating,
was his captor.
It had been a struggle
to awake and realize
who stood before him:
Quill.

The exact killer he'd been looking for.
He had heard about him in the Halo Herald,
An LA pun, it's not very popular,
but he liked the funny section.

"Are you just going to stand there?"
The bound man says, eagerly,
"Hey bud, you're the hanged man,
I'll do the talking."

"It's about time!"

"huh?"

"I'd been waiting.
heard you'd be at that
open mic. Knew you liked
the mealy type."

"Shuddup or I'll write you off."

Quill runs his pen knife over the bound man's right cheek.

"Stings a little.
Usually, I start with a rufie
and emotional damage.
But it looks like you
want to cut to the chase.
I'm a man of a similar mind.
spirit.
problem."

"Nobody's like me dude."

The bound man locks eyes with Quill.

"What're your trophies? huh?
I read you like to drain your victims,
cook'em dry.
don't you use their blood and powdered remains as ink?
Short stories or something?"

"Oh, an avid reader?! it's your lucky day:
you get to be part of the collection!"

The lamp nearby tumbles
to the floor as Quill lunges,
ready to ****.

"Wait! Don't you want to know who I am!"

"Not really."

"I'm a ser-"
The sentence is finished by
nothing but the sound of blood
and air
gurgling
into places it was never meant to be
as Quill's blade passes through flesh.

"Pfft, what, you think you're special?"
Quill saunters over to the sink.
"I'd hate to waste ink.
but there'll be more.
there's always more.
isn't that right, Celine."
he says to no one
and stands there with a smirk
as if listening to her.

As I write this
Tears
Tickle my eyes
Just heard
And seen
All by myself
I blow a cool blow
I shake my head
In wonderment
Escaping tears
Running down my cheeks
Her song
Is still inside
I don't want
To let go of this song
I need
Oh yes
I need
To hear it again
So I shall.

Synchronicity -
It means all of the events
flying, WHIZZING!, d-r-i-f-t-ing by us
as we ourselves float through the world
are related, connected, entangled,
and emerge from some kind of
divine symphony.

The sounds of laughter, tears dripping,
hearts BREAKING, SMASHING, SHATTERING,
the scraping knees crawling through the rubble,
hands SLAPPING TOGETHER as heads turn
towards heaven in prayer-

The warm embraces, -sighs- of comfort, lips smacking,
bodies pressing together in the hopes of being
reunified for a few moments, the glances,
the poems, the letters, the rings exchanged
and matching cemetery plots-

The triumphs, WOO-HOOS, celebrations,
toasts, clinking wine glasses, bottles, mugs
bumping fists, patting hands drumming
confidence into chests-

They are all supposed to be
one godly plan.
Like high notes, tragic sonatas
and joyous fingers plucking
heavens strings into
gracious cords and
silent pauses between tracks
are all one concert that we're conducting.

But doesn't it all feel so fragile?
One broken instrument, one
distracted player, one missing page in
your play book, a hand swished too hard,
eyes-too-penetrating or overly
aggressive dismissal of your
prized pianist
and the whole orchestra
falls into chaos.

What's it mean? What was that lyric?
What key is it in? What is the right tempo?
Do I emphasize the earthy drums that provide stability?
Do I drag you along on a magical carpet ride of echoing
falsettos, throats tugged like the handle-strings
drawing across my violin eyes on an exciting journey?

Or do I sink into the minor keys of my pain-
Songs that I don't share, playing on headphones
now I want to blast them, sob them out, sing them in whispers
at first, let them grow in me like my apathy, swell into tumors of
fear, and hurt and eat me from the inside out!

I want to shout songs of suffering. Have my piano keys
spin you into my anxiety, guitars raising the key like water rising
one floor at a time in the Titanic that is my beating heart.

I want to watch the drummers sweat as they beat out the rage
of having my most precious friends, objects and opportunities
snatched away - over and over - despite the progressive movements.

I want to draw you back into my finale with my fear. It will have to be so disturbing that each note raises hairs on your neck. When I drop my baton, leaves you with my night terrors - so foreign from the concert I'm playing that I'll need

electric guitars, wild wind instruments, theramin and a chorus of sirens and banshees to scare you back into your seat. Songs inspired by fear, pain and sadness, anxiety and misery are all you'll find at this concert. Songs that make bowing an act of submission and never respect or adoration. My forums lack fan clubs. Covers of my songs don't exist.

Please - leave your hearts at the door. Chances are that fate,
the ultimate conductor, will rip me out of this black-and-white
universe that traps me like a suit made from
straightjacket fibers, anyhow. Because life, no matter how unified they tell you it is, LIFE doesn't get remastered. There is no deluxe version, b-side, or re-recording.

No one can auto-tune my words. The dangerous, raging guitar solos of insults and fury that have wrecked
all of the men who really cared at one point.
The friends who survived the mounting anxiety of watching me
skip like a CD in the broken walkmen we had as kids. Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I meant to! Mean-! Mea! Meant, Meant, Meant, Meant <silence>, SLAM "Meant to call you,"

Or maybe ([SARCASM] IF YOU'RE LUCKY!) you'll hear track 4. I'll sing, "I need your help!", "Wow, *****, just come over!", "This *****!", "I didn't mean it", "Don't get like this again!". Against the anxious, building, manic tones, my panick blares while "I'm not good enough", "Can't do that", "my disease makes that hard", "Do you like me?", "**** this!!!" blares like an infernal choir pressing you to madness.

See, human symphonies aren't coherent - music theory isn't a predictive corpus. Experience shows that you can't make it come together. Too often, we don't get any rehearsal time. The death dirges that have stolen away my family, one at a time, creeping up from a silent, whispering stocatto'd-doom drown out any of the romantic, epic harpsichord solos that I still only dream of.

The angry, head-banging, 'where's that mosh-pit for grown-up children with kneepads?' beats don't motivate me anymore. They break down the walls to the studios where I was writing expert concertos. The earthquake-like blasts of my self-loathing fear have already torn down too much sound-proofing and the record studio collapsed because noone had the credentials to get in. My only dance consists of turning off the lights and yanking up the covers. Being a one-hint wonder isn't happening. Then again, can you blame me for not stopping? I don't pass this after I hit it.

In the end, the musicians don't always show up. It's like, - We've all been to that concert. Ya know, where everyone feels the awkward energy of a 4th grade Christmas Carol musical? Where, the costumes weren't convincing. Of course neither were the conductor's falsehoods, lies, omissions, or the promise that you'd enjoy this show. Cover art, like my critic's ratings, just don't do me justice . "Smart, engaging, relatable" the new listener's proclamation that "I'm falling in love! I can't get enough!" are marketing gimicks that just don't last.

Synchronicity, like destiny, has revealed itself to me as a fantasy. Reality's crumpling threads don't always find their way into skilled weaver's hands.  These strings have all snapped. In the end, I'm left smashing drums with trombones, crying over the rusted saxophones that can't croon for other hearts anymore. Just wait, my closing number is a Celine-Dion covered effort to stay afloat in the monsoon that I've been summoning for over a decade. When everyone leaves my audience, the program is either left behind or taken only by the weirdos who resonate with this kind of tortuous tune

I end each night walking the aisles of my darkened auditorium-soul now. I like to follow the echo and chase "coulda!" "woulda!" shadows across walls. I find your ticket stubs and nostalgia pulls me away from the dimming lights. In the end though, I can't counter the reviews that my show has no point. The tragedy isn't teaching any lesson and the cacophonies I birth don't generate fans. Plus, requests for autographs have become suicide invitations for an artist who can't release a polished track.

Synchronicity:A word invented and popularized by psychologist Dr. Carl Jung in the 1950s.  We all no better now that this is not a word that exists. Yet, the potential leads us all to chase after seasont tickets.

Synchronicity, defined as the false hope that it all means something. Synchronicity, the hope that you'll get to be the big strand in something special. Synchronicity - the promise of a heavenly choir, or divine symphony; of course we've already fallen from grace too often to question our unfulfillment. Sync-ro-nic-it-eeeee, like an old worn-out cassette tape, rarely comes with the equipment and support needed to hear it. Synchronicity - The jagged, little red pill that I can't take. Synronicity: the seemingly fate-driven world that we all stop believing in when the silence sets in.

Synchronicity: a series of seemingly random events that promise you a long night of unsurpassed concert sound. At least it's not alcohol I'm left lacking

Synchronicity, the artists that't leaves us entangled in distractions. Like scratched soundtracks. Synchronicity: the band I quit that has since left me wishing for buttons:

Pause. Stop. Repeat. Shuffle. Fast-Forward? Rewind!.....
..... Skip.

...................Eject.

i love you.
i love you.
i love you.

you prepared me for this
and i can't decide whether
it's ok for me to feel as relieved
as I do when I am not crying

i've never felt so much instant pain
and relief all at once
so confusing-- my ****** lady
who walks like a trucker

piebald nightcaps
tree terrace
800+ hours
miles upon miles of cigarettes

dengue.
my heart.
my heart.
you brought me to Christ

you showed that God is love
you've left such a huge rainbow
in the earth's clay
i miss you
i want you

but I don't need you now
you know that
we know that
my heart.

you dreamt me and robbie
will one day meet
we will
and it won't be incredibly soon

--but it doesnt matter.

promise brothers
promise sister
Ngariy.
please hug Tithinfal for me

i'm glad you are with him now
im trying to go to Yap on Tuesday
for a week to see Ray and Celine
and the kids

to see Tingin
our spots the island wide
the tunnel behind peace corps
i inadequatley described to you

but that you can now see
and feel
with ****** yapese local music
blaring in the background

i'll be fine
you know I will
with heart on fire
I reach out to you tonight

all nights.

i'll find Zeyto
i'll hug him
those eyes

i'll sit in Gilin's kitchen and chainsmoke
i'll make you proud
i'll spread your word
i'll spread your message

i'll spread your love
i'll make it to Africa
and ill see you again
before we both know it

i love you.
and i'm good
ill learn to dance with a limp

rug baadagem ni odig, tinmad
gu baadagem.

forever
forever
forever

go rest

the grating voices of neighbors unsuccessfully singing Celine Dion ballads
the monotonous mechanical humming of the metal factory
the squealing of housewives watching an afternoon soap opera
the blaring siren of a firetruck racing with tragedy
the clunks and clangs of a nearby construction site
the roaring of the engine of an overloaded jeepney
the chiming of laughter from kids playing in the streets
the calls of the street vendor peddling sugary cotton candy
the whining of the dog begging to run around outside
*this is the music of life in the outskirts of the city

I’m rather fond of chocolate cake
I’d like to learn to knit
But I can’t abide Celine Dione
And Celery is ****

I find a book most comforting
And the odd banana split
But I hate celebrity look-a-likes
And Canadian singers
And celery are ****

I’m happiest by the fireside
Some music, I’ll permit
But I grit my teeth at gossipers
And dead ringers
Canadian singers
And Celery are ****

I love the air about my hair
And the grass beneath my feet
But I've never been too keen on wasps
And **** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are ****

I’m partial to a cup of tea
With a biscuit next to it
But I’ll never vote conservative
And insect stingers
**** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are ****

I like to bake a birthday cake
Or build a Lego kit
There are many things I truly love
But Right wingers
Insect stingers
**** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are STILL ****

**

i love you.
i love you.
i love you.

you prepared me for this
and i can't decide whether
it's ok for me to feel as relieved
as I do when I am not crying

i've never felt so much instant pain
and relief all at once
so confusing-- my ****** lady
who walks like a trucker

piebald nightcaps
tree terrace
800+ hours
miles upon miles of cigarettes

dengue.
my heart.
my heart.
you brought me to Christ

you showed that God is love
you've left such a huge rainbow
in the earth's clay
i miss you
i want you

but I don't need you now
you know that
we know that
my heart.

you dreamt me and robbie
will one day meet
we will
and it won't be incredibly soon

--but it doesnt matter.

promise brothers
promise sister
Ngariy.
please hug Tithinfal for me

i'm glad you are with him now
im trying to go to Yap on Tuesday
for a week to see Ray and Celine
and the kids

to see Tingin
our spots the island wide
the tunnel behind peace corps
i inadequatley described to you

but that you can now see
and feel
with ****** yapese local music
blaring in the background

i'll be fine
you know I will
with heart on fire
I reach out to you tonight

all nights.

i'll find Zeyto
i'll hug him
those eyes

i'll sit in Gilin's kitchen and chainsmoke
i'll make you proud
i'll spread your word
i'll spread your message

i'll spread your love
i'll make it to Africa
and ill see you again
before we both know it

i love you.
and i'm good
ill learn to dance with a limp

rug baadagem ni odig, tinmad
gu baadagem.

forever
forever
forever

go rest

I don't care
if I ever write
another poem
about love
                    ...or angst.

                                For the twenty seventh time today
                                            I read of a love
                                         "unlike any other".

You know the one -
                  butterflies
                  goosebumps
    ­              can't breathe
                  best friend
                  life partner kind of love.

YES, YOU KNOW THE ONE!
Most of us do.
I've had seven myself.

                                But that's the power of love.
                               (Not the Huey Lewis meets
                                Celine Dion kind of love.)
                                    The reality twisting
                                   emotionally blinding
                                        omen erasing
                                         kind of love.

Where sixty percent of lovers
who were one hundred percent sure
they were different than everyone else
found some of the others
at the "Whoops I did it again" Prom
and started over
at the new, less improved dance
trying to forget the previous ones.

                         Some of them will have the courage
                                    (or loss of memory)
                          to say how unique it is........again.

It makes one man weep, and another man sing.
And inevitably,
                 the third man will write about it.
                 Much to our unoriginal,
                 bad after-taste,
                 and at the very best "Isn't that sweet",
                chagrin.

Sentimental geysers
of sincerest and irrepressible corn,
temper your naivety
and ponder your muse of passion
before you unveil puppy love
in the face of those who have bravely ridden the Rottweiler of amore'...
                                                    and­ even been bitten by it
                                                              ­          once or twice.

Consider your thoughts on love.

Then reconsider your angst about its failings
.

               How dare you have dread
                    if you haven't yet removed twenty five calendars
                         from the wall!?

It is a whiny *** of irony that reeks of 13 year old experience, hairless underarm machismo,
blatant high school drama posing as relevance, and that left over bottle of your dad's
cologne or favorite aunt's vanilla container you knew wouldn't be missed,
while you stained the olfactory neighborhood three blocks at a time.

                                                     The genuinity of youthful angst
                                 holds the credibility of a hairpiece
                                                       ­             on a televangelist.

         This anxious cloak of writhing distress
must be earned as a veteran,
                                    where only the scars of war
get a Purple Heart.
                You can't just say you have it.

Angst is rewarded to
the single mom who lost her job
     and has four children to feed,
and to the man who has to figure out
     how to hide the diaper
     he never thought he'd have to wear,
and to the parent who holds a dying child,
and the senior citizen who can't remember
     where they live,
and the solitary soul who truly has no one.......
     no one to call
     in the darkest moments of their life.

The "poor me", single pimple, concert's sold out, boyfriend #17 *****, inconvenient day
is wanting in qualifications, and we are irritated to hear your blathering interpretation of it.
We will hear you when your words come with bandages.

I don't care
if I ever write
another poem
about love...
                     because it has been done
                  and no one has ever gotten it right...
or angst
               ...because I am unworthy of the reward.

I think I will just write about
what other people shouldn't write about.
There is no end in this.

The streets of Paris were clogged by rallies and demonstrations on the Sunday of fashion week. At the Trocadero, a pro-rally for embattled French conservative presidential candidate Francois Fillon, blocking the route between the Valentino and Akris shows; at Bastille, an anti-Fillon demonstration.

The French elections — and ever-increasing security — were providing a tense backdrop to the autumn-winter collections, much like Donald Trump, Brexit and Matteo Renzi did on the fashion circuit of New York, London and Milan this season. Politics and the changing of the guard, women’s rights and diversity may make fashion seem irrelevant until you add up the value of the industry to the world economy. In Britain it is £28 billion ($45bn) — and that is small fry next to France and Italy.

Perhaps politics and social change have influenced the French designers for there was much less street style this season and a lot more tailored, working clothes on the catwalk. They used mostly masculine fabrics but worked in such a graceful way. You need only look at Haider ­Ackermann, Chanel, Alexander McQueen, Christian Dior, Lanvin, Akris and Ellery to see this — lots of great wearable clothes.

Karl Lagerfeld wanted to fly us to other worlds (to abandon the mess here perhaps) in his Chanel space rocket. There were checks, cream, silvery white and grey tweeds, for suits and shorts and dark side of the moon print dresses that cleverly avoided the 60s’ ­futuristic cliches. Silver moon boots, space blanket stoles and rocket-shaped handbags were as space-age-y as it got. There was quiet, seductive tailoring at Haider Ackermann — tapered silhouettes in black wool and leather softened with a knit or the fluff of Mongolian lamb for a blouson or skirt. At McQueen the asymmetric lines of a black coat or pantsuit were ­inspired by the fluid lines of ­Barbara Hepworth’s sculptures, whereas David Koma reclaimed the soaring shoulderline of Mugler’s 80s silhouette for pantsuits and mini-dresses for the brand.

Christian Dior’s uniform-inspired daywear was produced in tones of navy blue with 50s-style navy belted skirts suits, long pleated skirts and some denim workwear. “I wanted my collection to express a woman’s personality, but with all the protection of a ­uniform,” explained Maria Grazia Chiuri before the show.

There was more suiting at ­Martin Grant with voluminous trousers, cummerbunds and men’s shirting. The cut was more mannish at Ellery and Celine with ­Ellery balancing her masculine oversized jacket looks with feminine bustier tops with giant puff sleeves. The mannish look at ­Celine was styled with sharp ­lapels, slim-cut trousers under crushed textured raincoats, whereas ­double-breasted jackets (a trend) and peacoats over loose-cut trousers appeared at John Galliano.

Checks jazzed up the tailoring at Akris where there were more sophisticated double-breasted jackets and swing coats, and at ­Giambattista Valli from among the flirty embroidered dresses a dogtooth coat emerged with a waspie belt and a suit with a peplum skirt.

Stella McCartney displayed her Savile Row skills in heritage checks for her equestrian-themed show. Of course, she is crazy about riding and her prints featured a famous painting by George Stubbs, Horse Frightened by a Lion. It turns out Stubbs was another Liverpudlian, like her dad Sir Paul.

Of course Hermes’s vocabulary started with the horse and there were leather-trimmed capes and coats that fitted an equestrian, or at least country theme worn with woollen beanies and big sweaters, offering a different way of tailoring, in an easier silhouette with a soft colour palette.

The highlight of the week for Natalie Kingham, buying director at MatchesFashion.com was ­Balenciaga. “Great accessories, great coats and great execution of ideas,” she says of Demna Gvasalia’s off-kilter buttoned coats, stocking boot and finale of nine spectacular Balenciaga couture gowns reinterpreted in a contemporary way. “It was wearable, modern and the must-see show of the week.” It was also, she pointed out “the must-have label off the runway with every other person on the front row decked out in the spring collection”.

Although tailoring worked its subtle charms on the catwalk, there were flashes of brightness, graceful beauty and singularity. Particularly bright were Miu Miu’s psychedelic prints, feathered and jewelled lingerie dresses and colourful fun fur coats with furry baker boy hats. Then there was the singular look evoked by Austrian-born Andreas Kronthaler in his homage to his roots, with alpine flowers, Klimt-style artist smocks and bourgeois chintz florals worked in asymmetric and padded silhouettes for Vivienne Westwood — some of it modelled by the Dame herself.

Pagan beauty, the wilds of Cornwall, ancient traditions such as the mystical “Cloutie” wishing tree led to Sarah Burton’s enchanting Alexander McQueen show, which was another of Kingham’s favourites with its unfinished embroideries inspired by old church kneelers and spiritual motifs. “I loved the artisanal threadwork and the spiritual message that was woven throughout,” she says. The artisanal and spiritual she considers an emerging trend around the shows. “It had a slight winter boho vibe but much more elevated.”

Chitose Abe shared that mood for undone beauty with her Sacai collection of hybrid combinations of tweed and nylon for an anorak, and deconstructed lace for a parka, and puffers with denim re-worked with floral lace for evening.

There was more seductiveness at Valentino and Issey Miyake. The latter’s collection shown in the magnificent interiors of Paris’s Hotel de Ville, shimmered with the colours of the aurora borealis and used extraordinary fabric technology to create rippling movement as the models walked.

Valentino was a high point. On a rainswept Sunday Pierpaolo Piccioli cheered us with high-neck Victoriana silhouettes and long swingy dresses in potentially (but not actually) clashing combinations of pink and red in jazzy patterns of mystical motifs and numerology inspired by the Memphis Group of Pop Art. The sheer loveliness of the collection was enough to drown out the world of politics only a few blocks away.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/blue-formal-dresses

sweeps across the floor
like the hem of a rag
on a doll-faced *****
as the lights are dimmed
in this picket-fenced Attica.

To him, the raindrops taste like whiskey
so who's to blame him
for being a drunkard?

He will not take such condescension,
and so he shall pass it onto you
like a hot potato;
just say the third-degree burns
came from hugging the stove.

For you, life is not a Lifetime movie
looking at your bruises in the mirror
to a Celine Dion power ballad;
the days are a beach of intenstines
set alongside waves of toxic waste,
the moon now a mood ring
sitting atop the knuckles
of your vengeful king.

This decade of brutal purging,
atonement for sins not yet committed,
has felt as consuming
as his figure those Thursday nights
when he's stalking for his property,
and you're close-mouthed
under the bed,
looking through barely a slab
of this virtual reality,
at the iron-****** giant
who would nurse your neuroses
if he'd stop bashing your face in.

Your expectations for the outcome
laced with Disney Princess satin
arrange themselves in a cross-legged noose
(the "O" stands for optimism),
for all this atonement
must be the beaten path
to the Garden of Eden.

You should just remember.
The men still pulled the lever,
licking the flames
as Joan of Arc sang her finale.

All these words, the words and the w.w.w.
Computer breakdowns and a broken heart.
Taxes, thanksgiving and the mortgage.
Heaven or hell and to be boiled alive.
The prodigal son and Karl Lagerfeld.
Being born and wearing diapers.
Getting old and wearing diapers.
Boring music, boring Bono and Björk.
Too much fat and blood cloths.
TV, the news and all of the idiots.
Children dieing of hunger and thirst.
To be absolutely human and gonorrhea.
The first, second and this world war.
Charging batteries and clean teeth's.
***** thoughts and smelly feet's.
Gravity and Einstein's theory.
*******, fornication and Celine Dion.
Commercials and more stupidity.
God and the devil up my ***.
Love or hate all up the same way.
Sensitive art and sensitive poetry - oh so.
Diamonds, fur coat and champagne.
More music and gadgets I can't live without.
Plane crashes and earthquakes.
Getting dressed and have a haircut.
McDonalds stinking burgers.
Burger Kings stinking pomme frites.
The apocalypse and Tom Cruise.
Cold lips and cold hands.
Crash course for the ravers.
All the virgins up in heaven.
America got talent.
Nothing to worry about.
Not even when I'm dead.

There is an innocence in the first beer of the night.
when the mind is still free to breathe
and the legs free to walk
and the eyes free to see
and the heart beats on its own

As the cap twisted off
and my *** got comfortable in
the chair that knows all to well
how long this hell would last
I knew that the innocence would end fast

Time seems to fly by
while you sit and
do nothing more then
observe it


And I crave that dialog
that swims from my eyes
to my mind, like this secret
symphony played only for me

But you see, everyone sees
the same things that I see or
you see

This symphony has always been
that for all of us
but some of us listlessly rummage
in the darkness that anger breeds

Like seeds tainted with the devils
come it penetrates the hardest of
shells and births the **** we see in
the shadow of societies twisted ties

I’ll never understand why it is that
I am so enamored with watching this
destruction cross my mind but I am
and in the end it will too, end me.


It’s after the second or third beer that you become
cognizant of that candle that’s burning
in the front of your face

It smells like ginger and reminds you of
your grandma’s house for some reason

But everything reminds you of your grandma
when you’re into the bottle deep and wishing
you’d spent more time listening to the words
she tried so hard to give you

You remember the times that she wrote you
letters when you lived in a house with no
cable television, no phone, no VCR, **** there
wasn’t a computer let alone the internet

So forget about Tumblr or Facebook or
emails or any other way to avoid the mutiny that
mankind has become

Walking the plank was real and
no one wanted to be told to take that walk
so everyone acted like men and women
with respectful fingernails and clean socks
that could be seen when pant leg
raised when sitting down for dinner with
your neighbor

I always wondered what she would have done
if she’d been born instead of me
with all these tools
and resources at her disposal

She was a smart cookie for
the time she grew up,
writing poetry on a ledger that
time has forgot

And here I am just waiting for the
garbage man to pick me up
because I never had time to drive over to


her house before or after happy hour
always told her I tried and that’s not
a lie

You see there is a rush hour for drunks
like me

The traffic is stand still and
bitter and you can see the pain in the way
the driver in front of you clenches the steering
wheel, hunched over and ready to drive through
as many cars as he or she has too

Just for that dollar off a drink he or she
is going to drink regardless of the time
or deal they make

And it’s about that time that my right foot
begins to shake because I remember that
I am nervous even when I am three beers into
a black out night.

I’m never safe and you aren’t either
so says the sigh as I finish number three
and order number four

And one more before I hit
the door and cross the street
to buy the party treats for the
rest of this ******* night

Eighteen beers and a pint of
Hemingway.

Eighteen beers and a pint of
Bukowski.

Eighteen beers and a pint of
Celine.

Eighteen beers and a pint of
Wallace.

So I settled my tab and I shook the old man’s
hand who had sat and told me about all the
various things that could break a man

I checked them off one by one in my
head like a baseball card checklist that
at one time was the way I killed time outside
sitting in a summers sun

But now I *** stale cigarettes
and used up ***
to pass the days
as time slowly kills me
inside

The indian with the ***** beard
has my beer and pint on the
counter waiting for me

He sleeps at ease at night
knowing that he’s slowly
killing every drunk that
walks into his seven
eleven

Looking for heaven
looking for salvation
looking for ripe virgins
to sacrifice
for the betterment of a
whiskey night

American terrorists we are
when the dark hits the
tip of our cigarettes and we’re
fine with shutting our minds off to
the plight of everyone’s fight because
we have enough liquor tonight to


ward off the demons that come out to
play when happy hour ends and your
back in the thick of rush hour
The walk from that seven
eleven to
home is lonely
possibly the loneliest
walk you’ll walk
because you are left to think
about what you’re about to
do

See society has tied us up in
it’s restraints, painted us a picture
of wholesomeness that
ends up burning down the white picket
fences and ****** the daughters
while the son’s fail out of school
and end up in a trade
shuffling feet on desert land
dying at the hands of
the real monster
the monster with a real face
and no trace of giving a **** if
the enemy is man or woman
sinner or saint
just another enemy at the gate
trying to take
what ain’t
his

At the door now
you can feel your arm pulse
your ears twitch
your soul scream
you’re about to pour the first drink
fire the first shot
pretend that tonight
one of them won’t be blanks

I’ve retained this habit of keeping the caps of
my bottles next to my drinking area
or inside my pockets

I’m not sure when I began this
habit but it’s ruined a few washers
a few dryers
and at least one ****

At the end of the night there’s a little
graveyard of caps
a drunks Arlington
where you can morn the passing
of one bottle
after another
senseless, this war
you laugh as you keep pulling the
necks of these brown *******
drinking their life’s spirit away
with little remorse for them
or yourself

And that, in the end, will be your
undoing

I couldn't take it.
Watching people shoveling
****
Into their mouths
While staring at
TV commercials.
Some just sat and
Stared
For a whole 45 minutes
Slouched in a chair
Mouth opened slightly
One hand clutching the opposite arm
Looking down at
the phone occasionally
Like there was something happening.
I couldn't do it
So I started bringing my books
To work.
I wasn't trying to be
Some intellectual
****, I definitely don't look
Or talk like one.
Then it began.
First with the short Mexican girl
"Whatchu reading?"
"Nausea"
"Oh...I wish I could read, buuut...I don't know.. , I get bored, even if its inchressing, ya know?"
"You just have to find the right author."
"Oh...I don't know...my eyes juss get all blurred after I read a long time..."
"Hmm..."
Then the old lady
"Hey! I always see you reading, you must be a bookworm like me! What are ya reading!?"
"Journey To The End Of The Night"
Oh, never heard of it, who's the author?!"
"This french guy. Celine."
"Oh? Ever read Game Of Thrones? I'm reading the series now!"
"No."
The college graduate girl:
"Are you reading Bukowski??"
"Yeah, you a fan?"
"NO!!! He makes me wanna curl up in bed and DIE!"
"Oh..."
And some dude asked about
Anne Rice
" I don't read that ****."
"What about Poe?"
"He's ok, I guess..."
Somebody asked about
Catcher in the Rye
To **** a mockingbird
And I wanted to slap her.
A manager walked in
The **** one
"Ray your always reading. It's cool.
You seem so ...cultured."
I thought about being
Drunk
Shirtless
Screaming
And throwing chairs
The night before
I laughed
"Cultured? I don't know about that..."
When you see
Somebody
Transfixed
By the power of the word
The page
The line
You
Just leave them
The hell alone.

I can always hear them in there laughing,talking,living.
There must be
3 of them living in that
Small studio apartment.
Their room always smells of
Incense, pizza,marijuana.
I've seen them in the halls
19 year old latinas.
And where should my love belong now?
It is much too dangerous
For a man of 24 to have read
Sartre,Celine,Hamsun.
Ya know,
I often fantasize
About 35 year old women.
Although I have met a lot of
35 year old women
That don't know
****.
Where should my love belong?
Probably exactly where it is now.
But I hope
Not.

Told me the company you hang around together with and even I'll try to tell you all about those feelings. Sounds very unlikely? Appeal to celine bags. You observe, we sometimes accept the emotions, doings and then attitudes of such we tend to meet up with. For example, for example you now have the pal and / or colleague that's invariably filing a complaint. She actually is talks unfavorable approximately her own figure, the job, their family relationships plus her lifetime. This girl anticipates spending time with you because the device grants the girl to be able to port to get relief. And once she has by using, she likes to lightweight, freer and capable to take your ex moment. Your sweetheart really likes talking to most people for the reason that you're very good show goers Hermes Outlet, providing him / her to get read and also valued. That work well to be but just how sometimes you may feel? You truly feel exhausted, deflated plus uninspired. Despite the fact that any intention was to turn into a close family friend, while you started to be included with your in your own colleagues negative opinions, you are produced all the way down together. At this point on the other hand, for instance you will have intentions to visit a colleague who might be jovial, zealous and embraces everyday life by way of keenness and even zeal. Simply pondering the companion offers a grin with your ****** area once you find out you'll certainly be enjoying yourselves not to mention taking part in one another's company. When your energy and time together with each other, that you are thinking about your other afternoon. You should record every single minute and watch all of the magnificence which may be you live with. Your acquaintance might not have by design got down to alter your wondering however the good process and even disposition had been transmittable. In which individual is better for your health? Research has revealed which optimistic thinkers have got a 55% decrease danger of demise from all results in together with 23% smaller probability of passing with heart inability. This is simply not to speak about the fact that the more positive man or women doesn't practical experience just about anything disagreeable. The truth is, the confident, upbeat personal perhaps have seasoned much more sad cases when compared to the poor, negative personal. The result of these kind of experiences however departs all of the impressive thinker with a higher respect, opinion together with perception of enjoyment. They are really glad for the purpose individuals look at while having because they could quite possibly have an item not as much fulfilling to be able to it all together with. Once they encounter a stressful problem, they are for tactics to elevate it opposed to letting it use them all. Where a difficulty rears its ugly head, they do business with being a way to consider the correct alternative, other than house and even magnification most of it is removed bad Cheap Hermes. The actual bad guy will work substantially specially. They be expecting damaging effects and while it happens, a couple of seconds verifies just what on many occasions they'd in actual fact projected. They are surely handy evaluating, gossiping and also criticizing because inserting some others affordable provides them with some relief using their company discomfort. This bad man or woman handles the role regarding "victim" in the software the girl with penned pertaining to themselves. She feels other artists lead to your girlfriend "lot found in life" and often works by using this as reason to settle wherever the woman with. Around everyone is often a wide variety for thoughts.

An excellent optimist won't just experience satisfaction and then the pessimist doesn't only adventure lack of enthusiasm. It is merely the fact that the optimist wants one can anticipate happiness, success as well as entertainment also, that maybe what they can acquire. That pessimist prefers to make sure you replay negativeness which usually give you unfavorable success. That's a determination. We elect how you like to believe that, truly feel along with function. While aren't turn out to be taught to assume and also start up a certain way, as we do not like the outcomes it will be our own decision to shift. That's for what reason any time were working hard in the direction of adjusting the way you presume, really feel and also start up, you should be thoughtful in regards to the families that you are spending your effort by means of. Try to look for like-minded people that help and support, stimulate and encourage an individual. Restriction your time with normal folks who exactly drain pipe Hermes Bags, ticked-off as well as frustrate everyone. Heres your existence. You are the motorist of one's car with respect to happiness, bigger motive and even peace.

Even when there could be a large number of detours, you possess the chance maneuver yourself on what ever path you prefer to set off. Should you want to feel good, guide yourself toward having a positive perspective and allow your partnerships help support the bring about. Before you choose negativity, distress prefers organization and you will find lots of people comfortable an individual inside their adverse organization. Much more simple an outing and we will not journey only. Who're one getting in your experience?
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"Cinderella", she said without a frown as she removed her Celine-Block shoes and dropped them into the garbage can .
"They hurt my feet . Anyway barefoot feels so free ."

Why not agree ?

"That was some dance ." I lamented . Then released a nebulous sigh of despair .

She grabbed my wrist ," Don't worry I was so glad to get out of there ."

"Can I call you a coach?"as I fingered the keys in my pocket for assurance .

"You can call me anything  , anytime !"

White dress
Soda cans
Blonde hair
Celine Dion
Shouting lyrics
Clumsy dancing
Always swaying
Cigarette smoke
Lifting me
California girls
We sang

Long nights
Constant fighting
Angry shouting
Never home
Rarely conscious
Police officers
Mental illness
****** needles
No music

California bound
Phone calls
Whispering relatives
Sideways glances
Bipolar Disorder
Drug ******
Gone

I still sing without you

celine wrote some thick books
'Death On The Installment Plan'
'Journey To The End Of Night'
my plan was to read them but i never did

i got as far as the titles
then got stuck

they've been packed away in boxes
for the past 5 years,
i had no need to unpack them

maybe if they had been  thinner

what can i do
what can i do
i just don't want to
i just don't want to

everyday i feel so unheld
together

life after life

Celine Dion- Because You Loved Me

You were my strength when I was weak
You were my voice when I couldn't speak
You were my eyes when I couldn't see
You saw the best there was in me
Lifted me up when I couldn't reach
You gave me faith 'coz you believed
I'm everything I am
Because you loved me


I'm grateful for each day you gave me
Maybe I don't know that much
But I know this much is true
I was blessed because I was loved by you

a conscious thought stated:
don't write another love poem
but his words are vanilla to my ears
the smoothest silk texture
spun from his consonants and vowels
running from his lips and melting over my flesh
you can see where i get distracted...

because infatuation and intimacy intertwine
spinning a tangled web
woven from the strongest thread
and your fingers are musicians magic
strumming on my heartstrings
playing chords on my heart
carrying a tune that would make Celine Dion quiver.
it made me quiver
but there aren't six degrees of separation
from lust to love
there's one degree
but a thousand steps in between

the chemists couldn't explain
why our chemistry combined
in such an intricate way
and all the experiments were inconclusive
because only we are the mad scientists behind our insanity

and while the scientists tinkered
the mathematicians drew up an equation
insert me and you
into x and y
but x and y don't define hidden variables
that even we had to search to find
the eraser's been rubbed raw
against the paper with a hole in the center
they'll never solve their invented equation
because mathematics aren't involved

just a finely designed road map
tracing your veins and mine
from fingertip to fingertip
eye to eye
an artists divine sight
i'll be the paint to your brush
your lily pads to Monet
if your words are paint
my body's a blank canvas

i'm a writer
but even i'm struggling to find the words
that may as well be hidden in catacombs
but we don't need Edgar Allen Poe
to quoth the raven "nevermore"
nevermore shall i search for this unicorn of words
mythical in that they don't exist and yet somehow you do

we'll resurrect Charles Dickens
because he's the only man who would even make an attempt
but even his hands are trembling
with the pressure mounting of a lost word and a quivering pen

thunk

as we watched him dissolve into the pen and ink that created him

this conscious thought beckoned forward in my head
do not write another love poem just yet
for who will scribe the words to fit our facets
when the skins withered, wrinkled and dry
but our hands still twine like grape vines

maybe by then they'll have written another edition of the dictionary

say that little thing that sets my veins on fire,
make my fingers tremble when our eyes meet,
wrap your hands around my darkness and set it free
don't chain yourself to my insecurities.

let my breathing be your favorite song
but don't let it be our song.
rip the air from my lungs,
but don't take my breath away.
(starts with an L, but we're no Celine Dion song)

we'll **** these butterflies and turn them into ice-cubes,
play my spine like a harp and watch me sing.
mold me like play-dough but don't make me something you like.
(i'll let you have a taste but i'm not your favorite flavor)

let's put our emotions on the shelf,
they only get in the way.

you can want me,
but you can't need me.

Vision is amazing,
As essence through our eyes,
Truth is held in vision,
A sight seen never lies,
It's impossible to explain,
Feelings felt when I see you,
Because there entity's unknown,
But my eyes know beauty,
& it's beyond it what you've shown,
My eyes are attracted to yours,
& I dont seem to know why,
What I see in you is beauty,
Endless to the sky,
I've never written a poem to a stranger,
But what do I have to lose?
I don't know why i'm scared to talk to you,
It's just im so confused,
My heart's been beaten & shattered,
Lied to & abused,
The people who hurt me,
Just did it to amuse...
Themselves,
With the tears from my eyes,
I am a girl...
Who tries,
& tries...
& tries...
To find happiness again,
A part of me is missing,
I want to change that to back then,
I'm not an angry person,
My name is Celine,
I don't know anything but **,
But I wish I knew you well,
I am nervous what you'll think of me,
Like if you thought that I was crazy,
But my eyes have seen you in reality,
& what i've seen is just amazing,
I can talk I really do,
I promise it I swear,
I'm a nice person,
Full of love & care,
I think it'd be cool to get to know you,
I just really don't know how,
But when I see you with my eyes...
All I can think is...
Wow...

Being the worlds chief of police
Is so overrated
With all that we do
And they all still hate us

We're only here
To keep up the peace
Spread our name brand
Of Democracy

If you don't love us
Then kindly leave us
If you don't trust us
Won't hurt our feelings believe us

We'll bring it to order
One way or another
Kick out the leaches
Close down the borders

Once that is done
And they're out on their bums
We'll build us a wall
From the North to South run

The only thing Canadian
That we will let in
Is Celine Dion
And their cheap medicine

And that little Chihuahua
From down below
Cause we love Taco Bell's
Mex food to go

As far as the Middle east
They can do as they please
We won't be around
To kick sand in our face

We'll pull out of there
Our American troops
Not just a few of the lucky
But one hundred proof

They can fight it all out
Amongst themselves
If they stick with the program
There'll be nobody left

They can have all our nukes
We won't need them no more
As we won't be playing
In their silly wars

We will be by ourselves
Closed off from it all
Unplug the phone
If they try to call

Live in our bubble
Stay out of trouble
No longer hang out
With that bunch of numskulls

So lock up the door
Turn out the light
Toss out the key
As we say goodbye...

it begins with a decanter of Rimbard
add 2 parts Villon
and 1 part Catullus
throw a jigger of Whitman
and a pony shot of D. Thomas
put in 3 dashes of Kerouac,
Ginsberg and Burroughs
add a splash of Cummings
for flavor and a float of Rumi,
shake well and pour into the
Nebauchadnezzar of D.H Lawrence
while intermixing Hemingway with
a kick of Yeats and Keats from the
oar stirrers of Celine and Pound,
drop in a few ice cubes of Thompson,
cold and solid and a bendy straw of
Carruth with garnish from Li Po and a
cocktail umbrella of Fante to decorate
and call this mixology a Bukowski
and raise the drink high
and pour it down fast
to honor the dying light
from the struggles of
writers before us and
to help us get through
the moil and toil that
holds us back from
what we truly want
within our guts because
I find living, drinking,
smoking, *******, reading
and writing to be difficult
as it is but breathing
should be the hardest
thing you'll have to do
under this dead moon night