Intellect without emotion, someone told me once. That's how they described me.  That I had more wit and sarcastic charm than I could ever need, and yet I  couldn't do anything meaningful with it because I lacked anything real…..like empathy, selflessness…or love.  I was the cleverest robot in the world.

The truth is I do have emotion. Bounds of it.  It pours out of me through cracks I forgot to seal when I walled myself in.  And any attempt it makes to grow a garden is flooded by preemptive rain clouds, conjured up by a self imposed reality wherein the world sees my face in the daylight for what it really is and burns down my garden anyway.

I am no robot, I just hide behind cold metal plates and careful calculations, as if I could possibly predict consequences to chances I never take, moves I never make, and broken down walls I never break. So that the outcome is that i'm the loneliest, cleverest robot in the world, who discarded his humanity for a safety net and a bottle of cheap thrills, a bottle he uses as a telescope to see the rest of world because it looks better through the glass.

I never understood “made in God’s image” until I saw her.
Anyone who’s seen her has higher expectations for what heaven looks like.

We’re both sensitive enough to know what love feels like,
and reasonable enough to know that it can be broken.

The first time you use a new toothbrush is nothing like the first time you kiss a girl,
But I still love them both.

Her laugh is a paradox; an outsider would think she either just said the cleverest thing ever or she wishes she could retract it faster than it was said.
Only I know it’s simply because it’s beautiful. It’s easily my favorite language.

I have considered wearing a wiretap so I could go back and listen to all of our conversations again. And I hope that it picked up her heartbeat. She told me, it’s beating exactly like life should sound like.

She offers to iron any wrinkled clothes. I don’t have any. But I have a wrinkled heart.
I thought it was made into origami but it’s just a wadded ball that missed the wastebasket.

The way she dances to hip-hop shows her versatility,
yet you can tell she doesn’t do this every day; but she still dances.

I’m almost too nervous to hug her - knowing it will have to end.
Whenever I let go, I feel like I made a mistake.

Her voice trails off into silence,
like an hourglass that’s trying to hold itself together.

I like that “click-clack” of her boots.
It lets me know I’m next to someone really going places.

She goes to the mini mart with me even when she doesn't want to get anything,
besides more time together.

Not long after the beginning, and a bit before the end, the Almighty said to Noah: “Is that your real name?” “Yeah”, said Noah: “you gave it to me, your ever generousness. I was hoping for something a bit more romantic, maybe even an extra syllable or two, or become all psychedelic and have a hyphen and a double barrel, but Noah is functional. I’m not complaining, a lot. After all what’s in a name? Wouldn’t a cactus be just as uninteresting if it was called something else? Why am I and my not very exciting name so humbly in your almighty and quite tedious presence?” asked Noah. “I’ve had a great idea”, said God: “and I want you with the very boring name to be the first to hear it.” “Can’t wait to hear it your Denseness, even if it is only half as brilliant as the square wheeled chariot and deep-fried ice cube you nearly invented for us last week; and as for the three-armed jacket, well what can I say? Jacob wears his every day and I won’t tell you what he does with it at night, as it involves folk music. And didn’t the Paisley patterned boulder illuminate the landscape?” said Noah “Oh good”, said God: “I do so enjoy it when the minions are attentive to my every word and trembling syllable, What’s the point of being an Almighty if you can’t Almighty it over the lower orders from time to time?” “I couldn’t agree more, your Bampotness. Even if you do appear to be a few slices short of a full loaf on occasions. So, what’s this big idea you’ve had?” said Noah. “I want you to build a boat, the biggest and bestest boat there’s ever been” said God. “Why”, said Noah, “we live in a desert, we don’t do boats; never have done, don’t get a lot of call for them in these parts, your Obliqueness. Ordinarily you’re every utterance is a symphony of sound and beauty to the sticky out bits on the abstract countenance you have so generously created for me, O Guano features. Couldn’t you do another plague of frogs and locusts? We loved those. Your subjects haven’t eaten so well since. Very tasty they were indeed, and so much more nourishing than the daily fare of cactus bark and centipede you dish up to us as we go about our increasingly diminishing mortal trespass. I hope you weren’t baffled by the paradoxical construction of that sentence. One Almighty’s punishment is another lowly minion’s business opportunity. I was running a fast food joint while it lasted. Made a change from the normal feast, where you have to catch your dinner before it catches you. Eat before your eaten that’s the Law ‘round here. It makes you feel more like a recipe than a person on occasions, your Compostness.” “Be that as it may, said God: “I’ve got some drawings which Eve helped me to make” “Eve?”  said Noah: “did you say Eve?” “Yes” said God: “Eve”, that’s what I said, she likes me more than all the rest of you put together and that’s why she’s my favourite” “This will be good” said Noah: “let’s be having it. Let’s see the cosmic blueprint of a less than useless boat that Eve devised” “I helped to devise it as well”, said God: “In fact I done all the pencil sharpening, and here it is.” Noah sniggered and said: “That’s not a boat it’s a camel!” “Brilliant, isn’t it?”, said God: “you’ve got to hand it to Eve; she’s a genius at this kind of stuff, and she says it will make me look jolly clever as well. And that will stop all you ungrateful and wretched minions from smirking and sniggering every time I have a wonderful idea.” “This is even better than the ten commandments, three dos six don’ts and a maybe” said Noah. “My Ten commandments were wonderful” said God: “even Moses said so.” “The only reason you have ten commandments”, said Noah: “is because you have ten fingers. If you had seventeen fingers we would have seventeen commandments; one for each digit. People who use their toes to count their fingers should avoid life’s mathematical complexities. And as for Moses ‘The Born Leader’ he’s a party hack. He’ll agree with anything you say as long as he gets his name on the tablet. He’s publicity mad. When he grows up he wants to chisel the definitive text on cactus attraction, for the benefit of future desert wanderers. Eve says he a bit of a Freudian fruitcake on the quiet, whatever that is. She also says, his mother told him he was adopted, and he’s never quite got over it.” “Why would Moses want to get over a cactus, seems jolly silly to me” said God: “He’s a complete basket case, according to the local grapevine. Never mind all that, let’s see the blueprint.” said Noah: “A wooden camel, only a cosmic idiot could imagine it. If it was a wooden horse it could have been sold to the Trojans, or a wooden cat to the Pharoahs, and I’m told the antipodeans go a bundle on timber budgies, but camels; nobody wants one, not even other camels. How did someone as colossally dense and as infinitely thick as your self acquire the surreallness of thought to imagine it in the first place?” said Noah. “You’re a bright little chappie for a minion”, said God: “Eve told me about the Greeks and their wooden gee-gee and I suggested a boat, then Eve pointed out that this was a desert, and consequently we need a desert boat. ‘One that floats on sand’, I said. ‘Not quite El Plonkero’ she said. Then Eve said we have to adopt and then apply some lateral thinking to the problem. She pointed out that we live in a desert and that we need a boat that sails in the desert. And then I had the mostest cleverest thought I’ve had in ages. We need a ‘desert boat’ I exclaimed. And Eve said I was a true plankton eater. She says the nicest things to me. A ‘ship of the desert,’ she says, ‘and what’s a ship of the desert?’  Quick as a flasher in the rush hour, I said ‘a camel’, and Eve replied that I was quite bright for a log, and that camel plus ship equalled wooden camel to sail away from here to some other paradise she called Hollywood, ‘Land of heavenly bodies and the drop dead gorgeous Brad Pitt.’” “And you believed her?” said Noah. “Of course I believed her”, said God: “she’s Eve and if you can’t believe in Eve what else is there to believe in?” “There’s an answer to that”, said Noah: “but you’d toast me like a heretic on the happy juice if I repeated it, your Doorknobness.”

So many doubts in my mind
got to clear I was  determined
asked the perfect he didn't say
asked the cleverest he got away
Then I rushed to the elder
Who was glad to see me there
Instead of answers
he threw me doubts
there I stood still again
Still without any gain..

Almost happy now, he looked at his estate.
An exile making watches glanced up as he passed,
And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast
A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell
Some of the trees he'd planted were progressing well.
The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great.

Far off in Paris, where his enemies
Whispered that he was wicked, in an upright chair
A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write
"Nothing is better than life." But was it? Yes, the fight
Against the false and the unfair
Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilise.

Cajoling, scolding, screaming, cleverest of them all,
He'd had the other children in a holy war
Against the infamous grown-ups, and, like a child, been sly
And humble, when there was occasion for
The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie,
But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall.

And never doubted, like D'Alembert, he would win:
Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest
Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done,
And only himself to count upon.
Dear Diderot was dull but did his best;
Rousseau, he'd always known, would blubber and give in.

So, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong,
Earthquakes and executions. Soon he would be dead,
And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses
Itching to boil their children. Only his verses
Perhaps could stop them: He must go on working: Overhead
The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.

they say he was a clever ****
the cleverest **** around
there were no *****
as clever as him ever found

his Dickie manner
smarter than all the rest
which proved beyond doubt
that he was the best

**** became a legend
for being so sharp of mind
never had the world
seen such a brilliant kind

the expert **** known
near and far
his absolute brightness
made him a star

but sceptics had another
opinion of *****
they saw that he was
a numbskull brick

you'll always get
an opposite point of view
from folks who have a defter
more insightful review

they say he was a clever ****
the cleverest **** around
there were no *****
*as clever as him ever found

For sustenance we trudge on
Just to sustain
This callus equilibrium of fragile crystals
swaying in the wind, falling constantly
Employing the cleverest techniques of fleeting upward momentum
Short-lived displays of affection bleeding the small offering received at birth
endlessly replayed to our children's eyes
Despondent indentured servants scribbling through skin and tendons
Just to feed their families the rice they can no longer grow
And sending these fairy tales to the rosy-cheeked offspring of their oppressor's store bought dreams
To keep the oppression alive .
To operate at peak efficiency.
To transfer honest muscle through wire mesh.
And fatten.
And enfeeble
Enforce the prerequisites to match the scale's testimony.
Testify! Oh, Lord. We thank you for this meal stolen from our inferiors.
Please Please Please.
We demand pleasure. IT IS REQUIRED.
For if we feel sadness, then we have failed.
And we'll lay down what we don't have space in our engorged bellies for.
It will be placed, with all due honors, to our greatest shrine.
Where we are honest with our real Mother.
Where the proud, twicely worn, footwear of our warrior-spiritless cows rests
Where erections limp as collapsed towers, respected by false jihads, sleep.
Where dream's plastic refusal composts never; nourishing nothing.
Where potential is pure impotence.
The bed we all share.

Things I Can Say About MFA Writing Programs Now That I No Longer Teach in One


"You’re going to need to spend a lot of time alone." - James Yamasaki


I recently left a teaching position in a master of fine arts creative-writing program. I had a handful of students whose work changed my life. The vast majority of my students were hardworking, thoughtful people devoted to improving their craft despite having nothing interesting to express and no interesting way to express it. My hope for them was that they would become better readers. And then there were students whose work was so awful that it literally put me to sleep. Here are some things I learned from these experiences.

Writers are born with talent.

Either you have a propensity for creative expression or you don't. Some people have more talent than others. That's not to say that someone with minimal talent can't work her *** off and maximize it and write something great, or that a writer born with great talent can't squander it. It's simply that writers are not all born equal. The MFA student who is the Real Deal is exceedingly rare, and nothing excites a faculty adviser more than discovering one. I can count my Real Deal students on one hand, with fingers to spare.

If you didn't decide to take writing seriously by the time you were a teenager, you're probably not going to make it.

There are notable exceptions to this rule, Haruki Murakami being one. But for most people, deciding to begin pursuing creative writing in one's 30s or 40s is probably too late. Being a writer means developing a lifelong intimacy with language. You have to be crazy about books as a kid to establish the neural architecture required to write one.

If you complain about not having time to write, please do us both a favor and drop out.

I went to a low-residency MFA program and, years later, taught at a low-residency MFA program. "Low-residency" basically means I met with my students two weeks out of the year and spent the rest of the semester critiquing their work by mail. My experience tells me this: Students who ask a lot of questions about time management, blow deadlines, and whine about how complicated their lives are should just give up and do something else. Their complaints are an insult to the writers who managed to produce great work under far more difficult conditions than the 21st-century MFA student. On a related note: Students who ask if they're "real writers," simply by asking that question, prove that they are not.

If you aren't a serious reader, don't expect anyone to read what you write.

Without exception, my best students were the ones who read the hardest books I could assign and asked for more. One student, having finished his assigned books early, asked me to assign him three big novels for the period between semesters. Infinite Jest, 2666, and Gravity's Rainbow, I told him, almost as a joke. He read all three and submitted an extra-credit essay, too. That guy was the Real Deal.

Conversely, I've had students ask if I could assign shorter books, or—without a trace of embarrassment—say they weren't into "the classics" as if "the classics" was some single, aesthetically consistent genre. Students who claimed to enjoy "all sorts" of books were invariably the ones with the most limited taste. One student, upon reading The Great Gatsby (for the first time! Yes, a graduate student!), told me she preferred to read books "that don't make me work so hard to understand the words." I almost quit my job on the spot.

No one cares about your problems if you're a ****** writer.

I worked with a number of students writing memoirs. One of my Real Deal students wrote a memoir that actually made me cry. He was a rare exception. For the most part, MFA students who choose to write memoirs are narcissists using the genre as therapy. They want someone to feel sorry for them, and they believe that the supposed candor of their reflective essay excuses its technical faults. Just because you were abused as a child does not make your inability to stick with the same verb tense for more than two sentences any more bearable. In fact, having to slog through 500 pages of your error-riddled student memoir makes me wish you had suffered more.

You don't need my help to get published.

When I was working on my MFA between 1997 and 1999, I understood that if I wanted any of the work I was doing to ever be published, I'd better listen to my faculty advisers. MFA programs of that era were useful from a professional development standpoint—I still think about a lecture the poet Jason Shinder gave at Bennington College that was full of tremendously helpful career advice I use to this day. But in today's Kindle/e-book/self-publishing environment, with New York publishing sliding into cultural irrelevance, I find questions about working with agents and editors increasingly old-fashioned. Anyone who claims to have useful information about the publishing industry is lying to you, because nobody knows what the hell is happening. My advice is for writers to reject the old models and take over the production of their own and each other's work as much as possible.

It's not important that people think you're smart.

After eight years of teaching at the graduate level, I grew increasingly intolerant of writing designed to make the writer look smart, clever, or edgy. I know this work when I see it; I've written a fair amount of it myself. But writing that's motivated by the desire to give the reader a pleasurable experience really is best. I told a few students over the years that their only job was to keep me entertained, and the ones who got it started to enjoy themselves, and the work got better. Those who didn't get it were stuck on the notion that their writing was a tool designed to procure my validation. The funny thing is, if you can put your ego on the back burner and focus on giving someone a wonderful reading experience, that's the cleverest writing.

It's important to woodshed.

Occasionally my students asked me about how I got published after I got my MFA, and the answer usually disappointed them. After I received my degree in 1999, I spent seven years writing work that no one has ever read—two novels and a book's worth of stories totaling about 1,500 final draft pages. These unread pages are my most important work because they're where I applied what I'd learned from my workshops and the books I read, one sentence at a time. Those seven years spent in obscurity, with no attempt to share my work with anyone, were my training, and they are what allowed me to eventually write books that got published.

We've been trained to turn to our phones to inform our followers of our somewhat witty observations. I think the instant validation of our apps is an enemy to producing the kind of writing that takes years to complete. That's why I advise anyone serious about writing books to spend at least a few years keeping it secret. If you're able to continue writing while embracing the assumption that no one will ever read your work, it will reward you in ways you never imagined. recommended

Ryan Boudinot is executive director of Seattle City of Literature.

Crude and ****** words are for the crude and ****** birds
As I ****, ****, ****, and otherwise defecate on everything that ever mattered to you or I

Clever sweat beads cascade off the forehead of someone far more important than I
And the cleverest of intentions leave the cleaverest wounds in the forethoughts of those who I care for

Nevermind you or I, or the fact that these words have yet to grace the thought-o-sphere,
let us be, let us me
Let us remember who we tried to aren't.

Insecurities be ******,
I have words.

Born of a man who smiles
Never would he have a frown
A friend to walk with for miles
A king without a crown

They said he had special needs
But his heart would never fail
He would only do good deeds
Everybody knew of Timothy Dale

Always he had something special to say
He would stay with you, yes he would
He would always brighten up your day
Always trust in Timothy Dale you could

Even those who began treating him bad
They tried to make poor Timothy cry
He would even help them if they were sad
Timothy Dale, even for his enemies he would try

Children loved to hear him tell his stories
To tell them, well, he was the best
Told of long ago heroes and their glories
Told how they braved the trickiest quest

A time came when Timothy Dale grew old
And then poor Timothy Dale cried
There were no more tales left to be told
That was the day when a whole town cried

Those who would say poor Timothy was not bright
The entire town said he was the cleverest man
Now Timothy Dale is up in Heaven's light
He is telling Angels all the stories he can

The bus roars on
With blinding speed
Sparing nothing behind
Crushing each object on its way
To where it goes?
No one knows.
Passengers sit
Going along
Towards futility
Pockets heavy
Like never again
Expressions dead
Like never before
In a trance
They were not so always
When kids,
They'd never known of the bus
Till while growing up they heard about it
And till it finally made
That perilous halt
Right at their doorstep!
Yet they wanted to keep away
But were stealthily enticed
Led!
Forced!
Pushed into!
Driven!
Inside the bus....
On the bandwagon
And once inside
The noise and shine
All shut their eyes
And blinded their eyes
Froze their brains
And now
They became one of them..
Them travellers...
All in vain to be...
If only I'd stayed behind
away from all this show
I'd have had so much more!
Who wants the comfort of these seats
Or the delicacies they serve here
Niether the coins of gold and silver
They keep stuffing in our pockets
Making them heavy
So I can't get up
And run out
And I guess
No matter how much i wish otherwise
I have to stay
So that each time I pass my house
I can throw all coins I've collected
And yet
Each time my pockets feels light
I wish to go out
But!
More coins
Bigger and shinier
Would be stuffed in
And the weight
Would anchor me down
Ah!Life!
I miss all of it!
All of what is out there
I can see
See... but do nothing
I look around in the bus
Eyes with fulfilled hollowness
Yearnings
Wants
And underlying concealed longings
So devoid of joy
Or any emotion
Blinded by ever increasing ambitions
Yet decorated
With memories
That slowly drain away
Desires....
When did they last sit with friends
On a careless bench in the park
Laughing.
Talking.
Mocking.
Enjoying.
Living!
When did they last stop
To feel the air all cool and comforting
Dance around them?
When did they last feel
The joy of the innocent raindrops
Hearing it pitter patter on their umbrellas
See it skip in the water
And then feel it dissolve in their skin.
When last did they sit with their mothers
And cried their hearts out?
Or just talk with her
Thank her
And tell her how much they love her
When did they last spare moments
To forget all world
And get lost in old photographs
Remains of the past
Of time that was the sweetest
And that which never again would be.
When last did Anton who sits all faded at the back
Paint with his beloved brushes
Coloured the canvas
Coloured his world
When did Raghav
Who now lies beside me like a lifeless carcass
Last flirt with his romantic guitar
Wearing music
That made him look so full of life
Their fingers are all decayed
Stiffened
Under the load of crude machines
When did that old man
Last hug his son
And kissed his daughter
What was the last time when
That woman danced
To her favourite songs
Not at a party
Not for concerts
But for herself
To give her that joy
And the sheer euphoric high
Oh!
We have missed out so much!
Stray walks in the parks
On cold grass
Thousands of sunrises and thousands of sunsets
Gazing at the ever changing clouds
Dancing with the winds
Talking to friends
And family
Who are real and not just some animated strangers
Who appear each night for an hour
And then ravish
We have missed out on those walks in the sends
Barefoot
Just staring at the opera of water with ripples and wares
Admiring the night sky
Watching those many birds
Fly high
Carefree
Unbound
We have missed out on those unbeatable flavours
That mothers conjure.
Those rides on the bikes,
Away from worries.
Those strolls with the beloved.
Those heartiest of laughs with siblings.
Those cleverest of pranks.
Those sweetest of quarrels,
The sheer enigma of accompanying silence,
When we sat with ourselves.
Oh! We have missed it all!
Now the world is this bus
Where each one travels
Willingly or otherwise
Passengers keep adding
Once in,
You cannot go out
And the slightest of attempts
Raises so many brows
And all stares are on you
And so you have to let go
Just continue sitting in the bus
Lying there like a prisoner of our own law
And what you get in the end is nothing
Just pass on the legacy
To travellers who come
Keep coming.
I know how much I've missed
I know how much I've lost
Oh! How I'd give anything to get out
Where i could have all that i really want
This world with its ways
Constantly suffocates me
Darkness smuggles around me
My tears are all drained out
My voice lies buried somewhere within
And emotions have long extinguished out
Driving me mad
As each second counts ahead
I see the bus marching gallantly
Destroying all dreams
That are strewn ahead
Some of them are mine
Or were....
And more of them will come
And be destroyed
And can I do just nothing
But sit here hopelessly
Be led
And driven
To empty glory
Away from all that I have?
From all that I steadily lose?
From all that I care for?
From all that I want?
Oh! Enough!
I have had a lot of this ride
Now make way for me
I am done with this confinement
And now I reclaim my life.
Ah! They stare at me again
Raising their brows
Horrid expressions
As if I am wrong!
Who cares what they think!
I am now going back
Some of them want to come with me
But are scared of others
But I have seen a lot!
Take these empty coin of yours, I say
Throwing them all away and rising up
My breath is returning and so is my voice
I'm going back to where I'll be free
And happy!
And be able to live and not just drag on!
And so the bus slows and I shout to the driver
Stop this world!I want to get off!

A man with many faces
Is a man with the cleverest lies
He knows how to hide his secrets
And keep them from prying eyes

A man with many masks
Is a man with a practiced smile
He knows how to end his foes
And act their friend all the while

A man with many ears
Is a man who won't be surprised
He knows what his enemies plan
And he acts out the perfect reprise

A man with many faces
Is a man who will live long and well
But ask yourself this, my friend
Will he live in heaven or hell?

It happens in a Nano second

when your brain bursts

like a water balloon

and flavored ideas

of Snickers and sour dill pickles

run from your brain

down your arm 
to you hand, 
that magnificent five fingered

tool gifted at birth

then picks up a pen

and scribes the cleverest

inconceivable thought

ever known 
to mankind

yes, 
you have just blown

your own mind

it happens…

my neighbors still slept
as the zombies crept through town
they awoke undead

mom threw a grenade
the zombie blew up, alas,
blood got in her mouth

gunning down zombies,
my arm was bitten. weeping,
i hacked it clean off

later i saw mom
dead-eyed, moaning, and ******
and slit my lone wrist

nora burned the stairs
zombies piled up beneath her
rotten hands grasping

nora stayed upstairs
after five days of terror
she starved to death there

dad was cleverest
he fled to the Atlantic
to escape by boat

wading through driftwood
he found a russian u-boat
full of gnarled corpses

not dead as they seemed
the kremlin zombies leapt up
and ate my dad's brains

14
Every song or sonnet
singular in its intricacy,
in time it becomes something
other, hyper-personal and resonant.
14 things may burst into millions.

13
Three times I've felt alone
this minute. I should stop tallying
hours in my schedule, messy
rubric.

12
11-years old and jumping off
mud-mounds, playing King of the
Hill. The strongest rises to the top.
The cleverest usurps.

11
One thing for certain:
we are human. We are
not human.

10
Six times in school I got
detention. It was often due
to my willingness to be a
follower, silly sheep to a
slaughter.

9
Five languages of love we are
sure of, no more so far.

8
10 tally marks looks a lot
like less. Some things, like
people, refuse to show their
face.

7
13 is supposedly an unlucky
number. At this age I uncovered
a part of myself I did not know
before. Discovery. This is luck.

6
A dozen is meant to represent 12
because it is simpler, same syllables
only one less letter, a convenience.

5
If you flip an eight on its side
you can see forever.

4
Seven times I've thought this poem
gimmicky.

3
[redacted for time constraints
and continuity]

2
The artist places her pen to
paper and borrows, not stealing
so much as salvaging, wrapping
old presents in neat new bows,
satin or silk or rough twine.
Nine variations on the same
subject.

1
Four lids harbor two eyes,
a galaxy, universe,
each hiding half a heaven
from view.

these dark days slowly fade to dark nights,
we fight now for justice, just to keep our minds right
never blindsided by the limelight cuz in hindsight
whats inside will be decided when we hit trife times

now say it five times
we fight now for justice just to keep our minds right
we fight now for justice just to keep our minds right
we fight now for justice just to keep our minds right
we fight now for justice just to keep our minds right


dark days spark ways to face stress
stuck in this placeless mindstate so we chase death
we face death every day but death is faceless
at best the right thing is just the best guess
but restless minds quickly grow weary
we think big and the truths a weapon we all carry
but most fear to lose and cling to every breath
freedom is not a given the blinds on the deck
what u fight for's what you get
I can't be tortured to give up my fortress
neither bought with fortunes
they can rob my orchard, but cant dig up the seeds,
so I shoot for the stars to make them all bleed
just to paint the picture that one day they all fall,
but somehow the worst of them land on all fours
endorsed by the four horsemen
if we play their game we all forfeit never seeing our reinforcements
the art of war we sell it door to door
there's more where this came from stored in distorted forms
seek and destroy their sin secretly kept under the rug
take their gloves off and dig their fingertips for blood
its all love tho I've been appointed to
present my resentment and my point of view
cause I can see beyond the horizon my eyes went
back and forth in time beyond the lies and advertisements
and found things u might find surprising
it entices u when someone slices you and dices
when someone tries to do you what they did to Christ
you feel the crisis you heard lies you hear the cries
give up the slightest fear and fight along the righteous
keep control keep conscious and don't roll with the punches
it might just work you never know just pull the lever,
be the cleverest than let her go

these dark days slowly fade to dark nights,
we fight now for justice, just to keep our minds right
never blindsided by the limelight cuz in hindsight
whats inside will be decided when we hit trife times

now say it five times
we fight now for justice just to keep our minds right
we fight now for justice just to keep our minds right
we fight now for justice just to keep our minds right we fight now for justice just to keep our minds right.

I like to believe
that nobody understands me
and I'm one of a kind
lost to obscurity
but hinting of mysterious
significance

And I feel sorry for
my uncle's three-legged dog
and the malignancy
of fear in rural America
and the failed successes
of the Bolsheviks

I wonder about the air
in Saõ Paolo in January
and the muskuloskelatal
infirmities that creep in
and make the aged
into churlish curmudgeons

There is no way I could
hunt truffles or find a fresh
Morel in the woods when
I didn't even realize until
my grandmother died that
we own a creek

Uttering vespers in moonlight
yields some sanguine lucidity
like contemplating the nuanced
differences between polenta
and cornmeal mush

It's like I'll never write a poem
in time or finish a marathon
or kiss a stranger deeply
through the crisp ventillation
of nevermore.

We might daydream the bombastic
colors of Cezanne but all
we'll ever be is some nondescript
platinum ischemic flash,
a slimy buffet consisting in
all-is-lost

An apocryphal journey
to the center of the city
faces our insubordination to plastic
with the harshness of a dictionary
in the face of the illiterate

But in the end, apoplectically
forgotten, I come to the
unintelligent conclusion,
mathematically speaking,
that there is nothing singular

nor more available
than the finite banality
of my empty, insufficiently
obscurantist words which
flow and choke and all can know
and see clearly through

though I insist that none
of this pretence is born
of any maleveloence, and I chide
"How very meta of me indeed"

to have thought of another witty
and most cleverest retort
the day after the insult
was first delivered

But I used my last gift card
to purchase this still life
to pierce the hollow
cerulean satisfaction
otherwise known as tears

Barring diastolic ******
I'll stick around to see
how this all turns out
and hope that one day I can stop
being so completely understood

And then I can hide in the lonely
and find refuge in the cave
as a single meaningless scrawl
buried in the last pages
at the end of the world.

Love is the essence of life
It is the antidote to strife
Love binds the people together
It makes our lives peaceful forever
Love is entirely different from lust
Selfless love is the best
Love is the greatest of all emotions
Man is the cleverest of all creations
Internet makes the world a global village
All of us have created a page
Every blog should become an adage
English makes our lives rich
It should come to common man’s reach
Writing poetry is a great art
It should touch our heart
All the world is a stage
Why should we live in a cage?
We should enjoy the beauty of nature
We relish every aspect of her feature
Our life on earth is not permanent
We should believe that it is transient
We don’t know when our life ends
One day the e-mail God sends
We should open it gracefully
We will have lived our life meaningfully
by JVL NARASIMHA RAO

She walks through the noisy street
every day of the hot summer months.
She sees colorful kites flying overhead,
over the tops of roofs, coconut trees,
over the clotheslines, garbed in undergarments,
tattered shirts and poorly-sewn trousers.
She waits for playmates to come and
ask her to play tag, to waddle in the canals,
***** and smelly. The scent sticks even after
a week of being scrubbed and hosed down.

She climbs mango trees, steals the fruits and
with a mischievous smile, throws them
to her favorite playmate, waiting under the tree.
She loves long talks with her favorite playmate.
Sometimes, they would go to the park,
loiter around and walk hand in hand, just talking.
And sometimes, they like to play tag until dusk.
She adores this special playmate and considers him
her best friend in the whole, wide world.
She always looks forward to just sitting around
with him while he shows her cool card tricks,
holds her close, makes her feel like a princess--
his special, beloved and worshiped princess
Her world slows down; her mind falls silent;
her heart calms in his presence as he
shows her the universe, the simple things
city life denied her, the comforting silence
her buzzing soul is just coming to know.

She admires her beloved playmate, who, for her,
is the wisest, the cleverest spirit on the planet,
who shows her that it's possible to remain
a child forever, to keep the heart
of a young soul for all eternity, to see
the world in verses and poems, in stories and songs.
She weaves wonderful tales with her precious playmate,
stories full of fantasy and love, brimming with glory
and success, abound with heroism and dreams.

They will always be together, she and her playmate,
she vows. through summers and storms, through months
and years, through pain and pleasure, they will be together.
The summer later vanishes; the skyscrapers have become
too tall for kites to reach, the host of cars too noisy
to hear her playmates call. The world is just too fast
to remain a child forever. But there is one special
part of summer, one call she would always hear
above the din of cars and the loud ticking of clocks.
Her favorite playmate calls from the depths of her soul,
reminding her that she could always choose to be
a child forever, a child in her mind, in her spirit, in her heart.

You are young
You are pretty
Everybody loves you
You are sweet
You are innocent
Your books, you'd need them  too
You are smart
You are beautiful
Beauty needs brain too
You are the sweetest
Could be the greatest
Be the kindest
Learn from the cleverest
Success would be with you
You are brave
You are explorer
Come out from your cocoon
and breathe your life too....

I lie to you.
I lie to you with every smile,
and I lie to you with ever note of laughter.
I lie to you with every promise that I'm fine.
Because I am most definitely not fine.
Not happy, not functioning, not sane.
My forehead needs a hole bored into it
     to relieve the pressure.
My veins need some air bubbles injected
     to give my heart a break.
My stomach needs a bombardment of chemicals
     to still the churning torrent.
My nose and mouth need to be smothered
     to block out the putrid air.
The engine of my car would be better suited
wrapped around a telephone pole.
Showers seem so incomplete
without a wired toaster to cling to.
Cleaning products don't convince me
unless they have both bleach and ammonia.

You lie to me.
You lie to me with every hug,
and you lie to me with every word of comfort.
You lie to me with every admission of love.

Aren't we ever the cleverest couple of liars.
Whatever your reasons,
and no matter mine,
neither of us is willing to let go of the lies.
So as long as you love me, and as long as I'm fine,
how about we just play house?

So, I wouldn't say I'm unintelligent,
Then again, I wouldn't say I'm the cleverest.
But one thing's for sure, I made a good choice.

Maybe, just maybe, mathematics isn't my strong point,
Nor science for that matter.
But I know I made a good decision.

Often I wonder why I write, and why it pleases me,
I realise it's because of you.
You were one of the best reasons I came up with.

You're a great friend,
A truly wonderful person.
And you inspire me to write and write better.

I feel safe in knowing that you won't give up on me,
Where so many others have.
I know you make my life more than it ever was before.
I know I am grateful for knowing you.

Every fear I possess,
every lie I can attest,
and here I stand, head held low,
until I clutch my heart in death throe.

Alone in an empty room,
I can recover here,
heal as healing dictates.
But here, in this safe,
still place,
I can smell you.
I can always smell you.

But kept from the truth,
in these waning years of my youth,
I can reach past it, through it, and into you.
From there, I hope, you can feel me, too.

In life, we are told,
there is hope.
I would trade an
eye for half a chance
to see you.
My love,
these hours keep us,
alone and apart,
My love,
I know you,
my work of art.

How you thwart,
my cleverest, my sweetheart.
my attempts at recovery.
My love, how I envy.

I forgot what it's like
To love someone so deeply
Until I met you.

It wasn't like this
'Til the very second you pronounce your name
Like a perfectly blooming flower on the spring's sky.

I realized too
In that moment of seconds
That love isn't the cleverest thing I should ever feel
In my messed up mind.

I forgot
That the last time I fell for someone
I cried myself to sleep and try so hard to be beautiful
Until he didn't like me at all.

And I hate to know
That you will probably
Do that to me too.

I know I won’t be here forever,
and I am just wasting away,
watching politician playing their games,
play acting outrage while preventing change.

There is a no place for my face
that shifts and distorts from the pain
that I am forced to witness over and over again.

I’m not the cleverest
but stating facts makes me feel like
I’m trying to scale Mt. Everest
while screaming against the bitterest winds,
like I am going to have to watch all of my friends
slip off the top and drop nonstop
until our whole civilization ends.

I’m just dressing my heartbreak up in
stark sparkling words meant to
amuse and enlighten all of you,
until the same fate catches up to me to,
and my legacy disintegrates
with the rest of the human race.

i wrote a poem for you again
but i know you'll never read it
compared you through metaphors
stanzas in lines of fours

i threw the paper in the trash
it'll barely even reach your grasp
a rhythmic, poetic failure
things i assume to be a disaster

never was i the cleverest writer
only to write when inspired
the image of you in my head
when i'd rather have you next to me instead

thoughts i have and thoughts i write
awake in the middle of the night
honey it's 12 o' clock am
and i wrote a poem for you once again

This world keeps disappointing me
and I realize now how
lucky I was to have met you,
such a fateful night ago.
Of all the ships and stars
and silly obligations,
we were two fools walking
barefoot down the streets
of a lantern-lit overripe spring night.
God, the night never ended,
and you
never answered my questions.
You were perfect that way,
always let me think
you were infinite and
I, the cleverest thing you'd ever met.
You loved me so easily and
it scared me to no end
that I knew you'd left.

JULIAN IS WRITING A POEM      

"The thud, thud of a horse's hoof
does not alarm fish."  

MIND UNDER WATER - 1883
Richard Jefferies

Fishes flee him.

They can feel his thoughts
touch them.

Here, Creux Harbour
on the Island of Sark.

Mummy fish tries not to laugh
as her little darlings dart...

It's only a poet!"
she tells her younglings

"thinking thoughts
they won't hurt you.

Julian's vibrations
pass through them.

"It's what poets do
before they turn the world  into words"

The little fish listen
with open mouths.

"As far as I can tell...it's a Julian
one of the cleverest kind one can find

a man composed of equal parts
wit and charm

an all shall be well and
all shall be well type of guy."

Julian is thinking
of nothing

but horses.
Horses.

The fish don't
even get a look in.

He sees the great Shires
being swum in the harbour.

Such a magnificence
of being

decanted from land
to sea

the great hooves
treading water

free to be themselves
enjoying their day at the sea's side.

Julian is alive
with this image

the sheer
awe of it all.

The fishes think
nothing of it.

They are used to horses
galloping among them.

It's the vibrations
of the poet's thoughts

that tickles them.

"But our Mam..?""
a small fry ventures

"...there are no horses
here....and now?"

"Ahhh that doesn't bother poets
ya see...they see

both what is there and not there
or what may be!"

She quotes the great 16th century fish
"Nothing is so but thinking make it so!"

Later, at the Candie Gardens
on another island altogether

Julian sits, sips...
a double espresso.

And again.
A double espresso..

We see the words flow
onto the page

charged with the grandeur
of the great Shires

as the little fishes look on
amused at the poet's

coffee coloured thoughts.

A real hero is not someone
who is stronger than a lion
or tougher than a mountain

He is not one who is fearless of nothing
The one who fights for the glory of himself or the throne

He is not the most handsome of all
or the cleverest, or smartest

That is not a real hero

A hero doesn't always get the beautiful maiden or the treasure
He learns from his mistakes, but never gives up trying
He has flaws, but never lets them slow him down
He isn't the strongest, or maybe the prettiest,
but it's what's inside of his heart
that wins the battle

He will be scared of what's to come
But when he fights, he fights for us

It won't matter in the end
Who is the strongest
or the toughest
the bravest
smartest
prettiest

A true hero
is a person
just like you, and I