“I cannot but remember such things were,
  And were most dear to me.”
  ‘Macbeth’

  [”That were most precious to me.”
  ‘Macbeth’, act iv, sc. 3.]


When slow Disease, with all her host of Pains,
Chills the warm tide, which flows along the veins;
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
And flies with every changing gale of spring;
Not to the aching frame alone confin’d,
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind:
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe,
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow,
With Resignation wage relentless strife,
While Hope retires appall’d, and clings to life.
Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour,
Remembrance sheds around her genial power,
Calls back the vanish’d days to rapture given,
When Love was bliss, and Beauty form’d our heaven;
Or, dear to youth, pourtrays each childish scene,
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been.
As when, through clouds that pour the summer storm,
The orb of day unveils his distant form,
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain
And dimly twinkles o’er the watery plain;
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams,
The Sun of Memory, glowing through my dreams,
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze,
To scenes far distant points his paler rays,
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway,
The past confounding with the present day.

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought,
Which still recurs, unlook’d for and unsought;
My soul to Fancy’s fond suggestion yields,
And roams romantic o’er her airy fields.
Scenes of my youth, develop’d, crowd to view,
To which I long have bade a last adieu!
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes;
Friends lost to me, for aye, except in dreams;
Some, who in marble prematurely sleep,
Whose forms I now remember, but to weep;
Some, who yet urge the same scholastic course
Of early science, future fame the source;
Who, still contending in the studious race,
In quick rotation, fill the senior place!
These, with a thousand visions, now unite,
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight.

IDA! blest spot, where Science holds her reign,
How joyous, once, I join’d thy youthful train!
Bright, in idea, gleams thy lofty spire,
Again, I mingle with thy playful quire;
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game,
Unchang’d by time or distance, seem the same;
Through winding paths, along the glade I trace
The social smile of every welcome face;
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy or woe,
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe,
Our feuds dissolv’d, but not my friendship past,—
I bless the former, and forgive the last.
Hours of my youth! when, nurtur’d in my breast,
To Love a stranger, Friendship made me blest,—
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth,
When every artless ***** throbs with truth;
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign,
And check each impulse with prudential rein;
When, all we feel, our honest souls disclose,
In love to friends, in open hate to foes;
No varnish’d tales the lips of youth repeat,
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit;
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen’d years,
Matured by age, the garb of Prudence wears:
When, now, the Boy is ripen’d into Man,
His careful Sire chalks forth some wary plan;
Instructs his Son from Candour’s path to shrink,
Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think;
Still to assent, and never to deny—
A patron’s praise can well reward the lie:
And who, when Fortune’s warning voice is heard,
Would lose his opening prospects for a word?
Although, against that word, his heart rebel,
And Truth, indignant, all his ***** swell.

  Away with themes like this! not mine the task,
From flattering friends to tear the hateful mask;
Let keener bards delight in Satire’s sting,
My Fancy soars not on Detraction’s wing:
Once, and but once, she aim’d a deadly blow,
To hurl Defiance on a secret Foe;
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame,
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same,
Warn’d by some friendly hint, perchance, retir’d,
With this submission all her rage expired.
From dreaded pangs that feeble Foe to save,
She hush’d her young resentment, and forgave.
Or, if my Muse a Pedant’s portrait drew,
POMPOSUS’ virtues are but known to few:
I never fear’d the young usurper’s nod,
And he who wields must, sometimes, feel the rod.
If since on Granta’s failings, known to all
Who share the converse of a college hall,
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain,
’Tis past, and thus she will not sin again:
Soon must her early song for ever cease,
And, all may rail, when I shall rest in peace.

  Here, first remember’d be the joyous band,
Who hail’d me chief, obedient to command;
Who join’d with me, in every boyish sport,
Their first adviser, and their last resort;
Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant’s frown,
Or all the sable glories of his gown;
Who, thus, transplanted from his father’s school,
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule—
Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise,
The dear preceptor of my early days,
PROBUS, the pride of science, and the boast—
To IDA now, alas! for ever lost!
With him, for years, we search’d the classic page,
And fear’d the Master, though we lov’d the Sage:
Retir’d at last, his small yet peaceful seat
From learning’s labour is the blest retreat.
POMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair;
POMPOSUS governs,—but, my Muse, forbear:
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant’s lot,
His name and precepts be alike forgot;
No more his mention shall my verse degrade,—
To him my tribute is already paid.

  High, through those elms with hoary branches crown’d
Fair IDA’S bower adorns the landscape round;
There Science, from her favour’d seat, surveys
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise;
To her awhile resigns her youthful train,
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain;
In scatter’d groups, each favour’d haunt pursue,
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;
Flush’d with his rays, beneath the noontide Sun,
In rival bands, between the wickets run,
Drive o’er the sward the ball with active force,
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course.
But these with slower steps direct their way,
Where Brent’s cool waves in limpid currents stray,
While yonder few search out some green retreat,
And arbours shade them from the summer heat:
Others, again, a pert and lively crew,
Some rough and thoughtless stranger plac’d in view,
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes;
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray
Tradition treasures for a future day:
“’Twas here the gather’d swains for vengeance fought,
And here we earn’d the conquest dearly bought:
Here have we fled before superior might,
And here renew’d the wild tumultuous fight.”
While thus our souls with early passions swell,
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell;
Th’ allotted hour of daily sport is o’er,
And Learning beckons from her temple’s door.
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall,
But ruder records fill the dusky wall:
There, deeply carv’d, behold! each Tyro’s name
Secures its owner’s academic fame;
Here mingling view the names of Sire and Son,
The one long grav’d, the other just begun:
These shall survive alike when Son and Sire,
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire;
Perhaps, their last memorial these alone,
Denied, in death, a monumental stone,
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave
The sighing weeds, that hide their nameless grave.
And, here, my name, and many an early friend’s,
Along the wall in lengthen’d line extends.
Though, still, our deeds amuse the youthful race,
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,
Who young obeyed their lords in silent awe,
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law;
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power,
To rule, the little Tyrants of an hour;
Though sometimes, with the Tales of ancient day,
They pass the dreary Winter’s eve away;
“And, thus, our former rulers stemm’d the tide,
And, thus, they dealt the combat, side by side;
Just in this place, the mouldering walls they scaled,
Nor bolts, nor bars, against their strength avail’d;
Here PROBUS came, the rising fray to quell,
And, here, he falter’d forth his last farewell;
And, here, one night abroad they dared to roam,
While bold POMPOSUS bravely staid at home;”
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive,
When names of these, like ours, alone survive:
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.

  Dear honest race! though now we meet no more,
One last long look on what we were before—
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu—
Drew tears from eyes unus’d to weep with you.
Through splendid circles, Fashion’s gaudy world,
Where Folly’s glaring standard waves unfurl’d,
I plung’d to drown in noise my fond regret,
And all I sought or hop’d was to forget:
Vain wish! if, chance, some well-remember’d face,
Some old companion of my early race,
Advanc’d to claim his friend with honest joy,
My eyes, my heart, proclaim’d me still a boy;
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around,
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found;
The smiles of Beauty, (for, alas! I’ve known
What ’tis to bend before Love’s mighty throne;)
The smiles of Beauty, though those smiles were dear,
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near:
My thoughts bewilder’d in the fond surprise,
The woods of IDA danc’d before my eyes;
I saw the sprightly wand’rers pour along,
I saw, and join’d again the joyous throng;
Panting, again I trac’d her lofty grove,
And Friendship’s feelings triumph’d over Love.

  Yet, why should I alone with such delight
Retrace the circuit of my former flight?
Is there no cause beyond the common claim,
Endear’d to all in childhood’s very name?
Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear
To one, who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad, the love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee,
A home, a world, a paradise to me.
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a Father’s care;
Can Rank, or e’en a Guardian’s name supply
The love, which glistens in a Father’s eye?
For this, can Wealth, or Title’s sound atone,
Made, by a Parent’s early loss, my own?
What Brother springs a Brother’s love to seek?
What Sister’s gentle kiss has prest my cheek?
For me, how dull the vacant moments rise,
To no fond ***** link’d by kindred ties!
Oft, in the progress of some fleeting dream,
Fraternal smiles, collected round me seem;
While still the visions to my heart are prest,
The voice of Love will murmur in my rest:
I hear—I wake—and in the sound rejoice!
I hear again,—but, ah! no Brother’s voice.
A Hermit, ’midst of crowds, I fain must stray
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
I cannot call one single blossom mine:
What then remains? in solitude to groan,
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone?
Thus, must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear, than IDA’S social band.

  Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends,
Thy name ennobles him, who thus commends:
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise;
The praise is his, who now that tribute pays.
Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,
If Hope anticipate the words of Truth!
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name,
To build his own, upon thy deathless fame:
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest;
Oft have we drain’d the font of ancient lore,
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more;
Yet, when Confinement’s lingering hour was done,
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one:
Together we impell’d the flying ball,
Together waited in our tutor’s hall;
Together join’d in cricket’s manly toil,
Or shar’d the produce of the river’s spoil;
Or plunging from the green declining shore,
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore:
In every element, unchang’d, the same,
All, all that brothers should be, but the name.

  Nor, yet, are you forgot, my jocund Boy!
DAVUS, the harbinger of childish joy;
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun,
The laughing herald of the harmless pun;
Yet, with a breast of such materials made,
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid;
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel
In Danger’s path, though not untaught to feel.
Still, I remember, in the factious strife,
The rustic’s musket aim’d against my life:
High pois’d in air the massy weapon hung,
A cry of horror burst from every tongue:
Whilst I, in combat with another foe,
Fought on, unconscious of th’ impending blow;
Your arm, brave Boy, arrested his career—
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear;
Disarm’d, and baffled by your conquering hand,
The grovelling Savage roll’d upon the sand:
An act like this, can simple thanks repay?
Or all the labours of a grateful lay?
Oh no! whene’er my breast forgets the deed,
That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed.

  LYCUS! on me thy claims are justly great:
Thy milder virtues could my Muse relate,
To thee, alone, unrivall’d, would belong
The feeble efforts of my lengthen’d song.
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit,
A Spartan firmness, with Athenian wit:
Though yet, in embryo, these perfections shine,
LYCUS! thy father’s fame will soon be thine.
Where Learning nurtures the superior mind,
What may we hope, from genius thus refin’d;
When Time, at length, matures thy growing years,
How wilt thou tower, above thy fellow peers!
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free,
With Honour’s soul, united beam in thee.

Shall fair EURYALUS, pass by unsung?
From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung:
What, though one sad dissension bade us part,
That name is yet embalm’d within my heart,
Yet, at the mention, does that heart rebound,
And palpitate, responsive to the sound;
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will:
We once were friends,—I’ll think, we are so still.
A form unmatch’d in Nature’s partial mould,
A heart untainted, we, in thee, behold:
Yet, not the Senate’s thunder thou shall wield,
Nor seek for glory, in the tented field:
To minds of ruder texture, these be given—
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.
Haply, in polish’d courts might be thy seat,
But, that thy tongue could never forge deceit:
The courtier’s supple bow, and sneering smile,
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,
Would make that breast, with indignation, burn,
And, all the glittering snares, to tempt thee, spurn.
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;
Sacred to love, unclouded e’er by hate;
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;—
Ambition’s slave, alone, would toil for more.

  Now last, but nearest, of the social band,
See honest, open, generous CLEON stand;
With scarce one speck, to cloud the pleasing scene,
No vice degrades that purest soul serene.
On the same day, our studious race begun,
On the same day, our studious race was run;
Thus, side by side, we pass’d our first career,
Thus, side by side, we strove for many a year:
At last, concluded our scholastic life,
We neither conquer’d in the classic strife:
As Speakers, each supports an equal name,
And crowds allow to both a partial fame:
To soothe a youthful Rival’s early pride,
Though Cleon’s candour would the palm divide,
Yet Candour’s self compels me now to own,
Justice awards it to my Friend alone.

  Oh! Friends regretted, Scenes for ever dear,
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!
Drooping, she bends o’er pensive Fancy’s urn,
To trace the hours, which never can return;
Yet, with the retrospection loves to dwell,
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,
As infant laurels round my head were twin’d;
When PROBUS’ praise repaid my lyric song,
Or plac’d me higher in the studious throng;
Or when my first harangue receiv’d applause,
His sage instruction the primeval cause,
What gratitude, to him, my soul possest,
While hope of dawning honours fill’d my breast!
For all my humble fame, to him alone,
The praise is due, who made that fame my own.
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my Muse her noblest strain would give,
The song might perish, but the theme might live.
Yet, why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour’d name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful IDA blest,
It finds an ech

To my innocence, naivety, and viridity
Childish ways, high school days.
A mere three weeks, I say good bye
With a cry, a tear, a sigh.

To blue slacks, and a polo
Black shoes and white socks
To my pink skirt, and white blouse,
Pleated, soon to be folded.

To the OHS rooms of our first and second years:
The broken windows, and tantrum-kicked chairs,
The broom box behind the spider webbed chalkboard,
Messages on the wall hand printed in red and green.

The broken doorknobs, and broken floorboards,
Carved armchairs, and eaten chalks,
Missing brooms and dustpans and garbage cans and rugs
That show up in who knows where
Stolen by jani- we know who.

The witnesses and victims
To our random laughter (from some Chinese-looking girl’s corny joke).
Our random tears.
Our not so random learnings.
The pillars of our memories.

To the PF rooms of our third year:
The storage room turned gigantic garbage can and dressing room (maybe because ours keep being stolen)
The exploding socket causing sparks to fly (and us to fly away from it), and
The amazing “alambre” lock; who knows who installed (as if that could keep us away).
The earthquake resistant rooms would be missed.

To the New High School Building of our last years:
The kicked door (not our fault!), and cancerous blinds (like hairs falling after chemo),
The jigsaw floor (not sure if better than broken floorboards),
The “Halayan 2012”, and
The mind-boggling “no key needed” lockers.


The UTMT with its fair share of mango sentences,
The old guidance office now turned “tambayan”, and
The Computer lab with its fragile yellow chairs and bruised bums.

To Ibong Adarna plays, and the half cooked uncooked Teriyaki,
Generation X (and Generation NOW! and Generation Facebook),
Jai ** dances, and cheerleading,
Kalagon Kamo Namon,
And Mickey Mickey Mouse Kabit-bintana memories.

To the NikJep Tandem,
Kanlaon Boys Behind the Flowers,
D.H.A.I.N.G. (not sure if they remember this),
Fred vs Gino version
And DewBheRhieTart.

Keep the volcanoes of memories burning.

To blue paint, and blue shirts,
And Geometry teaching us
“There are a lot of solutions to a problem.
We just have to find one that suits us.”

To saying “***”,
And cooking imbutido.
And wearing (for some designing) reduced,
Reused, recycled clothing.
And dissecting.
And parrot-Filipino teachers (she gave me P30 for load though).

Keep the river of rumination flowing.

To being scared of one whole sheet of paper,
Two becoming one,
Party rocking to make up for the tears,
And knowing we should have won.

To the hand sanitizer girls,
The Cream-o-holics,
The Canterbury Crusaders,
The Valenciana eaters.

May our tree of friendship continue growing.

To our winnings!

The glow in the dark madness,
The Lakan at Mutya clutch-heart-moments,
The Sports Fest *******,
Basketball girls’ coronation!

To the fieldtrips and failed trips,
To air conditioned crammings,
And space and time bending
To comparing notes (and sometimes other things)
Copying notes, sometimes photocopying
(Not Xeroxing)
Sharing words, phrases, sentences
And giving pictures (via Bluetooth).

May you keep walking on the right direction,

To the expectations achived,
Broken, overtaken.
All the skepticism,
Constructive criticism.

All of it.

The in-your-face-we-did-it-baby-
We-are-awesome-you-can’t-bring-us-do­wn-
Coz-we-rise-back-up-attitude.

To Arielle
And Mhae

To Amica
Marie
Narzcisa
Cyan
Fred
Theo
Alvinson
Anthony
Faith
Karmil­la
Matt
Jeffson
Lourince

To Carolyn

To Makayla

To the thirty-five castaways in this room
The thirty-five castaways who struggled
The thirty-five castaways who persevered
The thirty-five castaways who fought, cried, made up, laughed, shared, gave, back-stabbed, and front-stabbed, celebrated, suffered, passed
Thirty-five
Thirty-five castaways who loved,
Thirty-five

Thirty-five castaways who made it, who did it.

To Nikki
Hazel
Alyssa
Gef
Veni
Alex
Jaykee
Bernard
Myra
Vince
Chanta­lle
Josen
Jerian
Shaira
J
Uriah
Ihra
Renz
Bless
Steffany
Angel
Fl­orey
Bernadine
Antonette
Rency
Owen
Majah
Gino
Marcelo
Ney
Keith
­Joselle
And Jessa,

We did it guys.
We really did.

You can see it already: chalks and ochers;
Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines;
Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery;
Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass;
Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape;
A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though:
A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse);
On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain
All angular--you'd think a shovel did it.
So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds
Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it
A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes;
Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes,
They carp at every gust that stirs them up.
At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow
Is rusting; and before me lies the vast
Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue;
***** and hens spread their gildings, and converse
Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics,
Now and then, toss me songs in dialect.
In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker;
The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes
Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff.
I like these waters where the wild gale scuds;
All day the country tempts me to go strolling;
The little village urchins, book in hand,
Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging),
As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off.
The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant
Soft noise of children spelling things aloud.
The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you!
Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live:
Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed
My days, and think of you, my lady fair!
I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times,
Sailing across the high seas in its pride,
Over the gables of the tranquil village,
Some winged ship which is traveling far away,
Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds.
Lately it slept in port beside the quay.
Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge:
No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives,
Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters,
Nor importunity of sinister birds.

Dear Talia,


Acid rain has never felt so warm. We ran home today from the Rail Trail, underneath an umbrella, that you called a Monet and that I called home.

Before that, I sat in a cafe, using my heartbeats as a way to count the passing seconds. I frequently got up and left to go occupy myself. Honestly, I got up to try to remedy my anxiety.

Beyond reasonable punctuality, I was forty, give or take, minutes early. I don't know why I was early; I guess I just was really excited to see you.

When I did leave the cafe, I would always be on a mission to improve our day anyway I could.

At first, I bought a notebook and two cranberry juices. I wanted to write you poetry in the cafe, before you arrived. I started writing but nothing worth showing spilled onto the paper.

I wrote you this poem:

There is nothing that calms me like you do.
There is no one that smiles like you do.
I could find escape in your eyes, and home in your hands.
If you could understand me, like how I understand you.
There is no one like you.

The next time I left, I went to buy bread. I thought it was a good idea if we could feed the ducks, together.

The lady who sold me the bread looked like her dreams were passed onto me. She looked at me with hope, and realistic expectations.

When I went back to the cafe, you still weren't there. I was expecting you in a few minutes, so I was okay. I had horrible anxiety because I thought you would never come, despite your not having to be there until three minutes and however remaining seconds. I have a horrible fear of abandonment and it ignores all rational thought.

So I sat down and I wrote you another poem, hoping that you would surprise me while I was writing it.

I wrote this poem:

I love you.
And it's okay,
you don't have to love me.
It's my love and I want you to have it.

An hour passed and you still weren't there. It was okay because I thought something more important came up. I just wanted you to be happy.

Another twenty minutes passed and I decided to leave. My head sunk down to the ground, as I jaywalked across a street of inconsistent traffic. Then, I found the sidewalk. I was walking, not really paying attention to anything, when I found you. My god, your peripheral vision is bad, but you really do see me.

I was happy to see you.

I wanted to say, "I love you," but I didn't want to lose you.

You were wearing this top that looked like it was painted in cream, and you were exhausted from walking miles to see me. You profusely apologized for being late, and I profusely apologized for not checking my messages.

****, I really do love you. At first, I was stepping down stairs, and then I fell so hard onto the asphalt that had your face confidently drawn on with assorted chalks.

Your name flickers in every light, and your voice settles in my eardrums.

We walked down to the Rail Trail, and I felt like how I imagined those would feel after being baptized. You don't realize how lucky I feel to be walking next to you, talking to you, and knowing that you are on the Earth, and that we are in the same place, the same moment.

I got to hold the umbrella.

My mouth tasted like cheddar and sour cream ruffles, and my hands had trouble circulating blood, and my heart was circulating too much, too fast.

Your eyes were fountains trapped behind emerald.

I love you. I love you. And I love you. I thought all of this between every word that we exchanged, and every glance. I think you love me, too, but it's hard to tell sometimes. You don't have to, but sometimes I imagine that you do, and it's wonderful to imagine such things.

I'm afraid that I'll have to go to a mental hospital. If you were to leave me, I'd understand. I would just want you to be happy, Talia. I hope you wouldn't, though. I guess I'll find out in June.

Despite being reasonably unstable, I feel like the sanest person in a room, sometimes. I was sitting in my living room and I thought about us feeding the ducks, and I heard everyone else talking. I don't understand the point in alcohol and alcohol related stories, when there are ducks and feeding-the-ducks-with-someone-you-love related stories. I don't understand this town, sometimes. Maybe I don't understand how messed up I am, and how everyone is normal.

The mother ducks, and the children, were not there whenever we arrived. We fed the males and it was fun. I like it when you smile. Frequently, we talked about how unfair it was to the females that they would be deprived of our bread. I think things are unfair for females, no matter the species.

We tossed slices and half-slices of bread like safety nets. If our bread can make them live longer, then it'll be worth it. Is that too dramatic of a thought to have?

After looking at the sky, you and I both knew what would happen. It was to be a downpour of everything that would **** you and I, if collected into a cement hole in the ground, approximately six to twelve feet deep. I felt safe, though. I always feel safe with you.

We hunched underneath the umbrella, and scampered across downtown. Your feet were getting wet because of your sandals, and our clothes were sticking to our bodies like how we were sticking to each other. We laughed and spoke French underneath the umbrella, in the pouring rain.

You wore one of my shirts, once we were in my room, and I looked at you and knew that it was true.

Your nose had little cuts, underneath, from our kissing. Apparently, my stubble scratched your skin. I can feel you after we kiss, too, but in a different way.  I can feel you anywhere I go.

I watched you walk up the side of the road, and I turned around to retrace my steps back home, despite just watching my home walk up the side of the road.



Yours Always,

Josh

I wander into this dark, misTearYous room
—and there he was...and wow! What a Fig!

He with the long, lustRuse hair,
sitting at a corner table, nursing a cup of hot cocoa.
Dang. He has better hair than I do!

“I’m  a  gin at  Ion’s,” were his first words spoken.
“I’m  a  gin at  Ion’s.” And then sighlens.

I was trying to look through his lens, and figure out his sighs,
when he utters, “I can see you are number—“

“Huh? I am number what? I don’t see any lines here..."

“Ah, yes you are, as I was... NumBer as in more than numb.”

Epicfunny!

He definitely got me, he with the misTearYous eyes
so I sit down and ask him what he means
(but I refused to ask how he saw through my numbity)

“What do you mean that you are a gin? And where is Ion’s?”

“Exactly just that. I’m a gin at Ion’s. A **** t’Eve.”

He tells me that Ion’s is nowhere, everywhere and knowhere,
of how anyone who takes even a sip of that gin can hold on to it—
too much, so much so, as to lose that grip on ReAhhlity...

I ask him what he does there.
Seemingly one word, two meanings—
"aMuse," says he...

He reveals he is also part-tickles, part abs-tackles
then he also exhails at wind ‘o pains,
to fog or clear up views and relayshunships...
But oh! How at one point he felt tieurd, of how he had so many callUses—
numb, tired of how it reCurse, of always being called upon, of being used

Sighlens.

Been used So many times, he didn’t know who he was anymore...
a Duke at Ion’s,
      a con’s front at Ion’s,
an ex pecked at Ion’s,
    a lucid at Ion’s,
              a rebel at Ion’s...

Oddly enough, even if he has been ‘d sign at Ion’s,
he still felt blahtantly invisible,
even if at one point he wore only a V-bra at Ion’s!

He chalks everything up to exPeerience, and has learned from it.
And that's why he's also known as a sensei at Ion’s (his personal favorite)

He says even if he can go beyond infinity, he—
He stops (ah gain!) and yes, there it sneaked in...Sighlens.

Telling me through the void, through his sighs, through his lens
To close my eyes, and figYour out myself.

And then I do...

ReAhhlieZing how much I could relate,
how I have been in DenyAll of my possiBElities.
It is all a matter of perSpeck'tEve, of looking at each tiny speck of life,
of creating something from each of it, entire universes even—
boundless

How odd that I myself felt like I'm a gin at Ion's...
Scrunchscrunch...Imaginations.
Addictive, yes, so I best be careful with where I take it.

I oh!pen my eyes and the fig meant to show me ReAhhlity had gone...

Do not talk of the honey I pickled in your light bulbs

They do not have the map to help us reach The Alps

Just talk of the hungry flower growing on my lungs

At least they have the address to the hut on my palms

That’s drawn by the little girl who feasted on the chalks

The butterflies long ago planted along in their pulse.


Quick,  


Incinerate the 1800s post-mortem portraits

In black light's faked midnight perfumes

For you are my forlorn apostrophe high on gas

That might ask questions while telling us your tales

Or reluctantly whisper ****** things about Laqus

Who is wasting us to the wistful hell flowers.

It is 1973, the U.S. Supreme court ruled in favor
of a woman's right to choose.

It is 2000 and my mother chooses me.
I am born with ten fingers and ten toes
and though I remember nothing,
she remembers it all.

It is 2001 and terrorism reeks havoc and death
on the United States
and Americans are reinvigorated
with a new kind of hatred for foreigners and immigrants.

It is 2009 and my parents divorce
and I meet a man
that makes me afraid to live in my own home.
Because he lives there as well.
And though, he never touches me
he talks to me
like I am nothing
and he is the sun
and there a hiccups of time
when I believe him.

Things I was not supposed to worry about.

It is 2014 and I read about Roe v. Wade for the first time
in my 9th grade history textbook,
I thought that my generation
would not have to worry about these things.
That some other brave women had paved the way
toward my right to choose what happened to my body.
Funny
how some of my other peers never had to come to that revelation.
Funny
how we learn in silence.

It is 2015.
I work in a bar, behind the scenes
flipping burgers and cleaning toilets
but everyone still knows my name
and some people still throw their arms around me
and hold on too tight
and touch me in sly inappropriate glimpses

It is 2015,
and I have learned to grin and bear it
and never say a word.
Because there are things a woman puts up with
for the sake of a job.

It is 2015 and in my personal finance class
a teacher projects a chart of a wage gap,
chalks up the hundreds of thousands of dollars
in differential pay
to maternal leave.
And I wonder if he ever smiled through a man
more than three times his age,
with a hand on his ***
without saying a thing.

these are things we were not supposed to worry about

It is 2018 and my mother asks me how I sleep at night
knowing I litter my facebook timeline with
pro-choice propaganda.
How I could think that I might know anything about my own body
and life and needs
because I haven't had children.
Because my thoughts, desires, obligations, and dreams,
my validity as a **** human being
and as a woman
means nothing without bearing a child.

It is 2018 and I have been using a birth control pill
for three months
I put on ten pounds
I am emotional
I hate myself
and I cry constantly
Sometimes my stomach cramps until I throw-up,
but I know that I need to get used to birth control
that one day, and probably soon
I'll need it.

It's 2018, and I've been active for months,
I never miss a pill
I do everything right
my routine is a well-oiled machine
I use other methods as back-up even though it isn't cheap
I've been using a period tracking app for months
and it is never wrong.
But soon I'm five days late for my period
and awake till 3 am believing that my life is over
I'm supposed to go to college in a month,
I'm supposed to be responsible
How could I be so stupid?
How could I be so irresponsible?
My period is seven days late, but it comes while I'm working
and I bleed through my clothes.
I'm a bartender now, so I tie a sweatshirt around my waist
until my mother brings me what I need.
I want to cry out in relief
and I wonder why I suffered in silence,
and might have been punished alone
even though my crimes were aided and abetted.

It is 2019 and 19 states are pushing new
intrusive abortion restrictions and "heartbeat bills"
and women protest in blood red robes and white bonnets
that hide their faces and their person-hoods
that are being degraded
in favor of the person-hood of a pea.

It is 2019, and though it is not the first time,
I feel scared to be a woman.

These are the things we were not supposed to worry about.

We were serene at a coffee house in the antebellum.
Vanilla latte plain dark roast art in pastel chalks
of little sense to me you drawn to impermanent faces
on the wall. Mix match tables of twos of easy people
odd numbers we fitted in conversation and caffeine.
That's all. You said in your breathless way more than I
ebb you flow a lyric of banal and small notes
where I place listening sounds looking in your eyes
without shame. Strange calculus by which memory is sad
sides of an inscrutable equation aspiration love
quiet hours loss longing I saw coming in your eyes
did not look away but went straight in.
Your car ran fine money was still the problem.
Never touch your hair. Just for me - long, wild, ebony.

you enter my dreams with such audacious curiousity;
examined the void with intellect- deprived precision,
inspected every crevice painted in colour.
you left the blue for last because you say
the amphetamine matches my eyes.

you sample every syllable ever borne from my mouth,
denude the metaphors to their unchaste nakedness,
reach inside for unfleshly meaning.
you say all my filthy secrets implode into
ugly saliva bubbles on the brim of my tongue
and that is why you bite it off.  



you make the drain spin out water. you make reverse hurricanes.



you euthanise my suffering mind with vulgarity and sliver-veined chalks.  
i like it when the moon is yellow and not white.                                      
spread me across your bones, you make me cold                      
**** in flesh. you wear me on your head as you would a stubborn fever.
you lick the lily, burn away its petals and
then you use the ashes in your next drag.


there are ghosts in your hair, they want idiosyncratic judgments.
they want anatomised angels and amputated wings.
they want ribs, signals, vessels and chlorine and aileron segments.  
and electric ***.


i am thinking of lexemes and lycoris, the vulnerability of artlessness,
prosthetic fingers and cigarettes, the umbrella under metal rain.
i only remember realities when they are expired.
the ribbon between cognition and the ventriloquist.
the psychology in undesired sentences.                      
this is the only immortality you and i may share; amongst ourselves
like teenagers filching answers before algebra, like dealers exchanging
eight-*****, pipes and profanity, like animals in chemical heat.                                                                      
this vanilla immortality that we no longer need.



i'm watching the end of the world

from underneath your clothes.

In schooldays my aim was terribly perfect
add to that an attitude unfair
a soft teacher was an easy found target
not one bald head was allowed to be spared.

The moment the poor man turned to blackboard
his baldness shined as a gaming site
the sleeping devil woke up and deep roared
dispatched were chalks on windborne flight.

Only a few did land on wrong place
but found mostly their rightful targets
and bore no qualm the thrower's face
when cheered by the fellow classmates.

As the victim turned with ire's full steam
nursing stings that came with good force
we in the gang were such an honest team
never revealed it came from what source.

It went on smooth till luck failed one day
has to end all games one once starts
a traitor midst us the secret gave away
memory of the thrashing badly hurts.

Alice chalks
secretly, in
red and white,
a caricature

of the new
nanny her
father has hired.
The stick like

figure is spread
eagled across
the side wall
of the house,

red hair, eyes
and mouth,
white long
protruding

teeth and
four fingers
on each hand.
She has heard

her parents row;
the new nanny
took her by
her small hand

to the nursery
and sat her in
a chair; stay
there, she said.

She draws a
thin white line
of chalk through
the nanny's heart.

She stares, smiles,
and wipes her
hands on her
pinafore and

put her hands
behind her back.
Her father had
punished; her

mother had
cried and rowed
and now Alice
waits outside,

by the wall,
staring at the
caricature, the
stick nanny

with an arrow
through her heart.
The sun is dull;
rain threatens;

birds sing; the
thin maid walks
with a mild limp.
Alice waits for

rain; her hands
sense the area
of punishment
pain. Mother

loves and hugs
and kisses. Her
Father glares
and shouts

and smacks
and never misses.

Says Vernarth: “Khaire to my beloved beings that surround me, including my ***** that move their tails to the rhythm of my awakening. To you my dear Brother, I stayed with my ceramic asleep and I could not sip from the last harvest of ideas and its temporary forks, which came from my parapsychologies. I am delighted among these blankets that smell like cornfields that prevented me from seeing him closer when I already had them in my hands. Now I not only see beyond what my arm measures in its omega, where my own estimating what flower I have to carry and see what it will have to carry in me!

Once upon a time, seven donkeys woke up, the first one who did it went to look for bread, milk, and honey, the second played the tambourine for his master, the third sprinkled the flowers with holy water, the fourth was vernacular in the others, the fifth was in charge of carrying stones and logs in bundles to make the elbows and the masts of the beams, the sixth reconciled the morning with the sun to have a clear day, and the seventh brought the akratismós on a tray, which brought a colt on its back and in a wineskin, bringing juice from the Procoro winepress and Akratos wine, which the colt eventually moved with its leg so that it could be served. Seeing that he gave signs of awakening and opening his bleary eyes, the seven of them laughed and brayed when they saw that he could not hold himself, but when he saw one of them who had had temporary amnesia, he faced him in the sunny morning so that he would face to the wind from the coast that began to bring them figs, like an Ariston or early lunch to strengthen him on his head, more remote of all because he thought too much. The third donkey would make two tortillas from neighboring cornfields that had just been baked, these he used as plates or trays to roll the fruits, vegetables, and barley bread. Vernarth laughs along with them and hugs them again. The containers that accompanied him had the solidity to fill with a few liters of water enough to bathe, after having fiddled with the ******, which reminded him of Orion, but of the meatus that would now be used to ink the thread of the spindle, which pretended to be divine. with hemp and cotton to rub the woods that he had destined for the main timber of the façade. Then he puts on his himation and on it the fibula that protected the serum from his right shoulder. He takes some pieces of logs and lights a bonfire to cook infusions and chalks of his personal medicine, from the collection of his private demiurge, Borker. He placed his tools behind a florilegium, where he received his astragalus by means of his jumping donkeys, and sometimes they would turn around him for hours to soften his immediate floor so that he would not be bothered by the rubbing of the grass and his pectoralis would over-sensitize. But in the end, they traced with him as seven divine golden numbers, which were added one next to the other, for each birth of his mother having to use a third of the womb to shelter them, like equid specimens in their 14 months of age. gestation. As if they were pollen sacs that were the origin of the androecium of all creation in the gynoecium sector. The morphology of this analogical floral relationship alludes to the anthos or flower that matures in the expression of the animals that surrounded Vernarth, and its filaments that derived from the spindle and its promised threads that connected with the fertile connection of the donkeys, making present the cellular magnetism of father and mother for them. Almost like a sordid weight that could not be supported in his genome, it was the serum that sweetly emerged from the nectary of his shoulder, rather close to the sternum, but his burritos produced good moments of the company for him, knowing that if he ran his hands over his satin back, he also longed to ***** the bristles of his stiff hairs, which decided his species, like bristly donkeys only pending his immunity.

Saint John and Etréstles approach and they say to him:
Etréstles comments: “It is said that I must be near you, just as I was in the forests near Piacenza, or after setting sail from Sardinia or Hylates. Then arriving on the coasts of Florence, La Spezia and finally Genoa, it is said that not far from here in Messolonghi, there are books that are written for you, they are wonderful, and everyone reads it, it is called Vernarth Alexandri Magni Macedonis officer Primum "Vernarth First Commander of Alexander the Great." It is said that there is a dispute over the guarantee of your magical verses for those who write it and for those who read it, as an experience that most pleases those who transcribe it because when you stop your verses, they mention that their infantry tale has not reached them. , which is being reborn in all necropolises, such as the Koumeterium of Messolonghi. It is said that there is an extreme reason for unity in the Divine Number of Gold that extends through the seas of Troy and Athens, in the patronage of Fidas for his agora of with the disciple of Agoracritus. It is said between June 21 and 24 the Sun or Shemesh for you, it begins to move away and flushes in its suspicious perihelion, it is said that we will dance in the sacred space, and Archimedes will dance together with us with his Elves, and it is said because I say it! We will have Mother Nature knocking her down at our melted feet, full of ****** Bern olive trees and rotten grasses that announce the freedom to be united, together with all the books in the world, under her great Hellenic library that will never stop going and running after the last leaves of the apocalypse "

Saint John intervenes: "My half reason, is my whole heart, my whole heart is my extreme half, which totalizes the segments of the magic of always surviving and resurrecting in the golden number, thus its length squeezes the shortest way to go behind of the donkeys and lose their memory, if not half sheep of my reason and my heart guiding them "

Neither the Oniros duo nor the third would impede Verrnarth to embrace them, but he was in his purging, behind a severe veil, but from the ductile ectoplasm that already separated them from their ethereal physical plane, it was only possible with donkeys to pass from one dimension to another. other. Thus the arcs of the circle of the sun surpassed the rule of being contained in the supreme analogy from above and below, only the points of ab / cb went beyond the spiritual eclectic portal, to attract them to ab / ac, hinting at the midpoint of the Equidae that brayed to thank Saint John for the Apostle who could be close to him and caress his ears, which were the highest and golden point of his omega garden.

the hand that rubs my body down
is soft: softly veined &
of a powder-white translucence; transcribed
from dover chalks to run down my
chest, backs of my thighs.

the hand that rubs my body down
curves in sweet musics 'round my soul;
the shrill but beaut'ous rasp of skin
on skin
-- of fingertips tracing strange poetry
    along my spine.

the hand that rubs my body down
holds in its palm a sacred oil;
anointing me at midnight hour. muted
bewitchments; burns the candle
down to a nub.

the hand that rubs my body down
calls for christ in attics of sunday
afternoon ...          crosses its fingers in
spiteful fits
of piousness.

the hand that rubs my body down
takes the shape of golden scarab;
sets aflame my eyes of beaming azure &
finds in me a willing servant.

the hand that rubs my body down
wakes me at dawn, partnered  
with an extension of pinpointed
warmth: the touch of her breath upon my cheek.

This trinket this tiny beads of fashionable
Necklace
Of stones not acrylic or rhinestones but from
Rocks
May not be seen in trinket shops or in some
Glass case
Rocks of the Alps looked like little trivial chalks
Now
In one of my traveling that I found the trinket
For her
The small stones tugged at my longing heart
At home her eyes alighted she ask "can I have
This father?"
And I bought her this trinket piece of tiny art
This trinket fashioned from boulders of rocks
To obsidian glistening pearls round her neck
She wore it well matched her hair her pretty
Little locks
Cost me a little fortune but with this tiny trinket
I can looked back

If I could give you a world
to do with as you please
I'd colour my raindrops purple
falling onto orange trees
I'd make my oceans fuschia
and each fish a different shade
so that you'll always see the love
with which this world was made....

I'd paint the tulips indigo
and give them yellow leaves
I'd add a touch of ruby red
to the buzzing honey bee
I'd take away all black and gray
and replace it all with white
so when you looked upon your world
you'd know that it was right...

I'd colour all the heavens
with the brightest apple green
and paint the stars in lilac
to match the blue moonbeams
and then I'd add a butterfly
exactly as it's made
to reflect upon the twinkling stars
so they can never fade....
The clouds I'd do in silver
to compliment the gold
and make your world a jewel in life
that never can be sold...

And then at last I'd sign my name
in bright bits of tangerine
You'd see all of this wonderous hue
like walking through my dream
and then I'll give you all the paints
the chalks and pastels too
For no one can ever see the shades
or the colours that are you!

Let’s dally in pain
coat ourselves in coal
as we await the apocalypse
when the diety will declare
death to the society
death to the communion
death to the society

Let’s the emotional turmoil
become the boil that bursts
all the unhappy drafted chants
when the diety will declare
death to the society
death to the communion
death to the society

All the clouds will burst
with chalks of clay
those chunks that mend
As we amend to a neutral
at the leyline of a sublime gift
where the interface of energy
draws attention to the waning moon
under the shear of unwanted hearsays
as such a time is drawing nigh
As their sacrifices drown the night
At the crossroads where ...... two wrongs never make a right

I sat, starving and
half-drunk
on the center cushion of my couch
now lying on the floor,
It was not spared from
my whiskey-induced rage.
It faired no better than the dining room chairs,
the window drapes,
or the crystal cocktail tumblers lying on
the floor,
strewn apart in shattered, jagged triangles.

I peel myself from the remains of a
living room
And stumble towards the toilet,
Each step ringing in the sorrowful consequences
of alcoholism
and a gin-soaked broken heart.

The bathroom does not welcome me,
It hides the light switch,
And I do not find it until
My fifth attempt.

My Sisyphean efforts to **** straight
Are ignored, and
God
adds a *****-soaked carpet
to the list of regrets
that rob me of my dignity.

He chalks up another
As a grown man vomits into
his toilet
And sobs like a lost child,
All while avoiding the cold gaze
of the Mirror.
It holds no surprises for me,
I do not pretend that I will look up
And like what I see.

I stumble backwards and flop
onto the section of carpet not covered
in the domestic debris of
my love-sick hurricane.

I do not wash my hands
I have lost all hope of cleansing
Myself.

I just roll around in
my grime,
and massage the empty spot
on my shoulder
where you would rest your head
during a movie,
or after late-night, spite-fueled ***.

And I clutch my chest,
Feeling my heart slowly atrophy,
Now freed from all the pain
And all the love
You gave me on nights
like this.

I.
Ngozi yangu ni nyekundu
Choka wanaochukua kama mfuo
Bila ushunda na heshima
Waichezea kama kikapu cha samaki

I.
My exotic melenated skin is dark
Pasted with chalks that crease in mist
The world that sails with no justice and politeness
A sifted clan put in a basket like the unwanted fish

II.
Wainukia hii fedha, kwani sina mkopo
Hizi ndamu nyekundu zalia pilipili
Kwa uchungu umeomwangwa duniani
Haya si maneno ya sifa wala ya hatari

II.
Don’t smell at this treasure, for I have no debt
The bloods that pour in crimson and burn in hot pepper
The pain streamed from faces, a tainted worldly existence
Let these words not be seen as a praise and neither a threat

III.
Binadamu ulimwenguni wakifu
Kama mfalme mwenye hana taji
Umoja madada, pamoja makaka
Mkono tushikane kwa usawa, mdogo mdogo

III.
Humanity is a concept weft from the universal strains in cobalt abstracts
Lost in illusion like a king who is prided by invisible crowns
Together sisters, brothers, daughters and sons
Hold hands, spread the love in a united mesh, little by little

uh my clan be ***** as the Taliban
with illegal contraband
got more heat than desert stand
one man stand on the mic
i rock im as hard as a ****
in between a ***** legs
gettin' ready to knock
ya out with flows i expose
the industry closed
once yosef pours
out the blessin got me foes guessin no stressin
**** and henney sessions
new lessons
daily sip irish creme baily
they cant play me but pay me
listen to styles p or bump biggie
or maybe 2 p a c
host aks at birthdays
im al caponin' it runnin' ****
like diarrhea
yall just need ta
sit the **** back while i count benjamins stacks
which be
in bundle king of the hip hop jungle
and im
going to **** puffie diddy
He soft as a nestle cookie
Make mysteries
no rookies
cant play with me in this deadly game
lite a match for the flame
burn the fame
infamous is how i keep it man
hol up


I see the hate excite of the critics
Gimmicks leave with they headsplitted
And backs more open than parachute
From the guns that shoot 21 salute
Dont ya know im soldier
I keep glocks hot as folgers
In ya cup i interrupt the scene
Once i puff red hair greens
Ya drivin a limousine
N ill throw grenade in ya sunroof
And watch it land inbetween
Ya legs
So ya can blow ya own head
Get it naw forget
All i see is yellow tapes chalks
And you being admitted
To the hospital in critical
Condition no intermission
All ya memory left is ya see is my face
Im like the son of man
Leavin competition running
Marathons cuz im the biggest don
They call me the Holy one
Cuz of the way my guns
Put holes in one
The rawest spit flawless
Talk **** we'll leave ya jawless
Throw ya remains in the death valley
With the rest of the restless carcass
Facing eternal darkness what???

it didn't used to be this way
leaving hours in decay
armadas sailing chalks of line
rotten days drop from the vine

princess killer hides her hole from burning
as the starlight stalks the skyline
the rain pounds the nails in yearning
we pollute our love with time

Friction into reality; I should say into fiction into life.  Small beads form on the upper lip,  Shoes strings become untied, a bottle is cracked as the ship leaves it’s slip.  Fret and cascade escape a troubled brow.  A boat builder an architect leans smirks and shifts toward the end of the pier.  The wake presses a ripple across the bay’s cloudy shiloutte.  Mooring lines tighten righting an unballasted keel.  Its crew makes up chalks and moors with figure eights and half hitches.  Take up slack and pull with the boatswains command.
Captain, Executive officer, and first mate critique fit for crew and evolution.  

Pea coats smocked, boots weather sealed with wax, glove, slacks, hat, and pants.  Stores are stacked and awaiting brow and chain gang.  Rations and stores for 4 weeks.  The harbor’s main berthing finds vacancy at the vessels underway taking.  Bow to stern aspect three hundred feet washed and clean.  She has a 9 foot draft with another 22 feet to the first rail.  

The lines in the boat shore for a nimble light sailing ship.  A clipper maybe,  I’ll wait to report further direction possibly assuming more command.  A cigarette falls from my first *******.  A jostle to my left crafts seagulls posturing a stolen meal.  Sulfur stings my nostril igniting the first of two puffs.  The captian rolls his eyes my direction gives the once over finding his intrest in the rest of the evolution.

A few pier hands set eyes on the clipper, smoking.

Mice run along the wooden edge of the pier away from some of the salted pork and grain.  Two other mice lose courage at my sight line.  XO and first mate shift and turn retrieving my concern.  The brow is being landed at the stern of the ship.  

No decals and no name yet.  At some point Ill find or ask to be apart of the ships crew.  Deck hand, cook, messenger, helmsman, assistant to first mate all compatible with ability.  The first mate chuckles and mentions a figurative by stander knowing that an employment opportunity starts with a  conversation.  

Crew’s first leiutenant for the most part looks squared away and a bit untouchable, salty.  Pants tucked into calf high boots, a beard, pea coat and a lost stare.  Hesitating a bit he grins and settles back to appropriate conversation.

My bag and jacket drop accompany to the stores.  Maybe a slow patient walk aft, there has to be a name for her.  At the stern a marching movement to my right and I can follow the rear of the boat and in peripheral the command group.

The Lion’s Winter in large old English print below a iron clad window pane bounces with the tide to the left and right in a roll.  I can see the ship, now calming into a quiet slop off of the pier and its mooring lines. The rudder is a massive distorted key shaped piece of poplar with copper piano hinges all the way to the back of the keel.  A small blue crab lengthens a breast stroke across the top of the water.  

The three follow the appropriate custom before crossing the brow and the first louie barks a few times.  Two of the ship’s crew begin inventory on stores while a bit of nervousness creeps over the contents of my only possessions.  Wetting my lips I can taste the salt on my face.

One of the crew yells,
“Louie, move him off.  He stump’n around the grub.”
He barks again,
“Turn two.  Got more an him eny’d, a Rat!”

I took that as on opportunity to introduction.  Mr. Louie straightened pursed heels and drained thought from my façade.  His eyes narrowed, he felt the calm of my urgency.  He knew I needed, obliged then walked to conversation.  “Cryme's, you look’n for someone.”

“Humm, a shipmate.”
I could see the it was not the conversation he was expecting.  He leveled, “Pretty tight around here. What do you have in the bag?”

“Mostly books.”  

“You cant cross the atlantic reading books.”

Sharply understood in sponse to kurt, “Is that an opportunity or an intrest accompany to nothing.”

“You can naught cross the Atlantic.”


Tim says leave the world.  I laugh and he says no righting, laughter.

The berries are poison berries, the boy said.

What kind of poison?

Bad kind.

How do you know?

Mom told me.

Dare me to eat one?

Yup.

It don't taste like poison.

What does poison taste like?

Worse than this.

I want some.

How poisonous is it?

Mom says it'll **** you.

Then why'd you eat one.

I want to go to heaven.

I thought they were a little poison, like make you **** funny poison.

I figure if I want to make it to heaven this is the only way.

I can't believe this. You didn't say anything—

Bible says all children go to heaven because they is innocent.

I'm going to throw up. You just put your finger on your tongue, right?

Further back. To the tonsil thingy.

It's not coming. I can't. I can't. This—I didn't feed the dogs.

Don't worry about the dogs. We're going to heaven.

Bible doesn't say that.

Preacher does.

Well.

Preacher said it's impossible for a rich man to go to heaven, pretty tough for a fat man—on account of the way being so narrow—and just plain hard for everyone else. The only one guaranteed is kids.

I haven't even kissed a girl.

You're not missing much.

I've only kissed Mom.

Yeah. She kisses okay.

What if the kids aren't innocent?

Kids are always innocent.

I feel funny.

Me too.

But what about kids that do bad stuff?

Like?

You know, fighting and cussing and stuff.

They don't know better. Free ticket to heaven.

Huh.

My tummy is making put-titter-put noises.

What if a kid slayed another kid? You know thou shalt not slay.

I didn't slay you.

I'm just asking.

I wouldn't slay.

You didn't tell me these berries would **** me. Seems the same as slaying me.

Throw up.

I tried.

Let me help you. I ain't losing my free ride.

Geez. You're hurting me.

Throw up.

I can't.

I'm going to punch you.

Don't punch me.

Throw up.

You punched me.

I'm going to do it again.

No.

Throw up.

You punched me again.

Let me try cramming my fingers down there again.

Ow.

If God chalks this up to slaying.

He will.

I'll find a way.

A way?

To heaven.

Wake up

beep beep beep

The alarm is going off

beep beep beep

The alarm is always going off

beep beep beep

Stretch your legs until they hit the armrest on the couch

beep beep beep

Why am I sleeping on the couch

beep beep beep

The girl you paid for is upstairs

beep beep beep

Tangled in your bedsheets and snoring loudly

beep beep beep

You couldn't sleep

beep beep beep

My mind is working slow

beep beep beep

Shut that ******* alarm off

beep bee------

It's a struggle to sit up straight
Even more to get off of the couch
I try once,
Twice...
On the third time I use the couch's springs to launch myself to standing position

I almost fall back down when the tequila from the night before
Reaches my head and gives me the spins
I steady myself by finishing off a warm beer bottle sitting on the table
And add it to the piles of empty

My head clears
I think it clears
I'm not sure what clear feels like much anymore
I shake my head clear of these thoughts

Stumble towards the stairs
And step on a used ******
It follows me up the stairs like a piece of snake skin clinging to my foot

Thirteen steps feels like climbing Everest
I sit down on the seventh and wonder if its worth it
It's not
Nothing ever is
But I crawl up the remaining stairs and stand ***** in the hallway

I open the door to my bedroom
Her snores echo in the mostly empty room and she's mumbling someone's name

I block it all out and leave a couple fifties on the dresser
Close the bedroom door and walk to the bathroom

I drop my boxers on the floor;
Knocking loose the ******;
Scratch my ***** and **** out the nights alcohol

I'm feeling dehydrated now

The shower is on now
I step inside and let the water wash down on me
In these short moments I feel alive and awake

I try to hold onto this feeling but it always fades

The water is getting colder
I can feel my spine tense up under it

****, I don't want to
I never do

I shut the water off and towel dry poorly
Beads of water still dripping from my naked body as I walk around the house

I open the door to my room
There's a pile of work uniforms sitting in the corner
I'm not sure if they're ***** or clean
But I don't much care either way

The girl stirs
Coming awake long enough to ask me to **** her again
I tell her I can't but if...
I let the sentence trail off as her snores start again

I stare at her as I pull my pants on and throw on a button up shirt
She's beautiful in a damaged way
Her life is etched in the lines and faults of her body and she needs to eat
I tell myself tonight I'll buy her dinner before we **** ourselves to death

My **** lingers to life for a minute at that thought
But I'm running late and have no time to see it through

I kiss her softly on her forehead
I haven't done that to someone in a long time and it feels foreign to me
I shrug the feeling off and head outside to my car

I turn the key and the engine cranks but doesn't start
I turn the key again expecting different results and not getting them

*****

I take out the flask in my glove box and take a long drink of the single malt scotch inside it
I feel my insides burning with life as it works its way into my stomach
I crank the key again and the engine sputters to life

I get out of the car, remove the wheel chalks, and jump back in as the car slowly rolls backwards out of the driveway

I throw the gears into drive and head towards work
Getting stopped by every red light along the way
I sip away at the flask at every stop
And by the time I get to work it's empty
I immediately dread the sober drive home in twelve hours

I pull in through the gate at work and idle my car into the first parking spot I can find
About half a mile from the front door

The guards are standing around talking sports
One is an ex-cop
He sees me and grabs the wand to scan me

He spots a book in my lunchbox
Says, "oh you're one of those readers; I never had the patience for that ****."
"Yeah me neither. It's toilet paper."
He chuckles, I roll my eyes
And go out into the factory to punch in

I wait until it's a minute past my start time and punch my time card in
I sneak away from the morning meeting and go to the bathroom
Smoking cigarettes for the next hour until the cleaning crew comes in and kicks me out

I work my shift by hiding away from the cameras and other people as much as possible

I punch out for lunch and go to a gas station down the street and buy a six pack
It's a three pack by the time I clock back in

I finish my day off by wandering the rafters above everyone's head
They never look up
I watch them
Study them
Stare down exposed cleavage

Joe comes up the ladder and interrupts my voyeurism
"this where you been hiding?"
"mostly"
"one of those days?"
"aren't they all."
"yeah. listen, I'm going to the bar after work. you drinking?"
"when am I not?"
"true. so I'll see you there?"
"probably."

I lied.
Joe has a certain way of weaseling out of paying his tab and I'd rather not be the ***** today

A half hour left until my shift is over
I sneak off to the bathroom again and smoke a couple cigarettes before I punch my time card and leave

I hit every red light on the way home
My three pack is gone by the time I hit the last red light

I pull into my driveway just as the girl is waking up and about to leave
She smiles at me and makes small talk
I ask her if she is hungry
Her smile widens
"yes*" she says

We go out to eat at some roadside diner down the street, stop in the bar for a few beers and comradery,
Pick up some wine and a bottle of *** on the way home

And **** and drink until sunrise

I call off work

And we **** for both our money's worth.

Bugs bitten skin deep soul
[I slept on lot of empty plastic bottles]
Salted eyeballs, a chopstick
Two, they always asked for two
[Stamped]
White chalks, bitter coughs
Childhood! Roses and a caterpillar
I had taught myself not to cry
Grown like gecko, became huge as *** of fears
Empty cocoon
Music box, grandmother, her smile and mole
[Nice pass, basketball]
Please turn off the lights and lock the window
[Too fat, though]
I wondered what more I could ask for
How perfect, monochrome
I was born, the world
[Moths are beautiful too]
Hey hey oily feathers
Butterflies cannot fly too high after all
It was never battle scars the ocean loved
[Eyeballs, remember eyeballs]
Forked
Babies and the steps
Climb your stairs, lungless
[Eyes were the most burned]
Chest, o Christmas tree and wedding cake
Claps, stories of mockery
Photographs, memories, what stays and fades
[The bridge saw you and fell in love--
I was crossing it
I was crossing it]

Leaping & striding
comes a passing chaos
of ashen men,

adorned in chalks
of blue & grey,

glorious in cloth
of red & gold,

with a tiger-skin
glimpsed rippling
upon shoulders bare,

& as royalty
perched atop elephants,
beasts lumbering & bedecked,

ancient people
their mouths to shell & trumpet,

to announce
the moment
this late
afternoon.

"She’s smooth as water” says the pencil and the marker she traced with.
“She’s careful” says the hand that colored the blurry image.
“She’s really messy” says the multicolored stained fingerprints of multiple chalks.
“She loves to paint” says the neatly stacked by size oil paint brushes.
“Soft as snow” says the handle as it glides by the gentle breeze.
“She’s gentle” says the wet oil sliding down the paper in light streaks.
“Once I dry,” says the wet product “she will scrape and scratch my impurities.”
“A fingerprint found in a ******” identifies the scraper carving the circular parts.

“She’s gone in the wind” reminisces the finished product, the pencil and the marker, and the scraper. “We’ve been replaced.”
“She got a new best friend” says the new pen.
“It’s for the best” reassures the lined paper.

“It was a phase” mocks the keyboard and the monitor together.
“I love you” confesses the binded book full of poems, essays, and short stories.
“We feel so used and abandoned” whimpers the art, the pen and paper and the keyboard with the monitor.

“I’m sorry” apologizes the hand that wrote and painted for years.  “I never meant to hurt you”

only a ghost knows it’s Home
I don’t have one
I’ve known none
Every base collapses

Setting a pathway Of rumble around me
The dust chalks up
My lungs fill up
i become my forgotten home

i must be a ghost for me to know

uh my clan be ***** as the Taliban
with illegal contraband
got more heat than desert stand
one man stand on the mic
i rock im as hard as a ****
in between a ***** legs
gettin' ready to knock
ya out with flows i expose
the industry closed
once yosef pours
out the blessin got me foes guessin no stressin
**** and henney sessions
new lessons
daily sip irish creme baily
they cant play me but pay me
listen to styles p or bump biggie
or maybe 2 p a c
host aks at birthdays
im al caponin' it runnin' ****
like diarrhea
yall just need ta
sit the **** back while i count benjamins stacks
which be
in bundle king of the hip hop jungle
and im
going to **** puffie diddy
He soft as a nestle cookie
Make mysteries
no rookies
cant play with me in this deadly game
lite a match for the flame
burn the fame
infamous is how i keep it man
hol up


I see the hate excite of the critics
Gimmicks leave with they headsplitted
And backs more open than parachute
From the guns that shoot 21 salute
Dont ya know im soldier
I keep glocks hot as folgers
In ya cup i interrupt the scene
Once i puff red hair greens
Ya drivin a limousine
N ill throw grenade in ya sunroof
And watch it land inbetween
Ya legs
So ya can blow ya own head
Get it naw forget
All i see is yellow tapes chalks
And you being admitted
To the hospital in critical
Condition no intermission
All ya memory left is ya see is my face
Im like the son of man
Leavin competition running
Marathons cuz im the biggest don
They call me the Holy one
Cuz of the way my guns
Put holes in one
The rawest spit flawless
Talk **** we'll leave ya jawless
Throw ya remains in the death valley
With the rest of the restless carcass

Someone playing a concrete violin
with a jackhammer
on a midnight sidewalk,
street lights gawk,
flickering fascination,
tuning keys locked,
rosin swipes declined

chalks marks hold hop scotch trinkets
tossed into the numbered squares,
pawned now for a glass of chardonnay
and a plate of cheese

Paneled walls ache
of yesterday’s smoke rings,
scentless air fresheners,
hanging Christmas trees
presumed innocent,
only here for the music
and rear view mirrors

lipstick traces on a folded napkin
crimson half circles
prints on either side
someone will be kissed tonight

I’ll take it with me
I love the flavor