In between   (a poem)
.
my mind struggles against its own illusion
nightmare tumbles out into still morning
light is heavy,
a fog of echoes...
and I am caught
.
day dreams the sunlight
dreams light the day
and I am caught in between
mourning echoes...
like a stillborn ghost
who can't take a breath in the present

….
  
I live on a tropical island and just want to go surfing with my husband, but the nausea in the early morning as I try to eat  breakfast and drive with him to the beach is so uncomfortable.  Day after day it makes even surfing a chore, and I consider not going anymore.  Background anxiety and unreasonable irritation interferes with our marriage, frustrates him enough to want me out.  

For me, a trip to the grocery store or meeting a group of people awakens the same dreadful fear as rockclimbing a cliff. Perspective has been lost in the extremes.  I try to gain some control over this hindering nuisance, seeking situations that bring the same surges of adrenaline so I can learn to master it.  If I can just push past the avoidance that would keep me inside doing nothing, if I can just ignore the feeling I want to throw up, if I can just get out there, I am rewarded with life’s potential beauty eventually.  Many days I do enjoy the thrill of mountain biking or connection with nature when surfing, but there are too many days of internal struggle that reduce what should be enjoyable to a relentless chore of wrestling inner demons.

The VA offers a few sessions of marriage counseling, and the doctor begins to explain PTSD.  ***, I’ve learned to cope with an unreliable brain, but now there’s this?  From what I understand (and that’s just me, an amateur philosopher) Sometimes the brain is so traumatized, that the memory is literally sealed off, encapsulated, protecting it from changing.  If later something happens that is similar, the brain triggers avoidance responses as a take-no-chances survival mechanism.  Literally the brain is protecting one’s self from one’s self.  This all-or-nothing strategy works fending off potential dinosaur attacks, but in our complex society, these automatic avoidance behaviors complicate functioning and well being.  Life becomes an attitude of constant reaction instead of motivated intention.

The website for the National center for PTSD says.  “After a trauma or life-threatening event, it is common to have reactions such as upsetting memories of the event, increased jumpiness, or trouble sleeping. If these reactions do not go away or if they get worse, you may have Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.”  

“Common reactions to trauma are:
• Fear or anxiety: In moments of danger, our bodies prepare to fight our enemy, flee the situation, or freeze in the hope that the danger will move past us. But those feelings of alertness may stay even after the danger has passed. You may:feel tense or afraid, be agitated and jumpy, feel on alert.  
• Sadness or depression: Sadness after a trauma may come from a sense of loss---of a loved one, of trust in the world, faith, or a previous way of life. You may:have crying spells, lose interest in things you used to enjoy, want to be alone all the time, feel tired, empty, and numb.  
• Guilt and shame: You may feel guilty that you did not do more to prevent the trauma. You may feel ashamed because during the trauma you acted in ways that you would not otherwise have done. You may:feel responsible for what happened, feel guilty because others were injured or killed and you survived.  
• Anger and irritability: Anger may result from feeling you have been unfairly treated. Anger can make you feel irritated and cause you to be easily set off. You may:lash out at your partner or spouse, have less patience with your children, overreact to small misunderstandings.  
• Behavior changes: You may act in unhealthy ways. You may:drink, use drugs, or smoke too much, drive aggressively, neglect your health, avoid certain people or situations.”   It lists four main symptoms: reliving the event, avoiding situations that remind of the event, feeling numb, and feeling keyed up (also called hyperarousal)”

Four words strung together: Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.  They’ve become a tired cliché, exhausted from the endless threat of random cruelty camouflaged in banality, weary of the weight shouldering back the wall that separates death and gore from the living.  Living was a reflex beyond willpower and devoid of choice. Control was self-deception.  The mind was so preoccupied with A: survival, B: sanity, in that order.  Rest was a cruel illusion.  The tank was drained, no room for emotions ditched.  Empathy took too much effort, fear was greedy.  Hopefully they can be remembered and found on the other side, if there is one.  Sleep deprived cells were left hyper-alert from the imminent, shot up and addicted to adrenaline.  Living was Fate and Chance, and meant leaving that time and place sealed in forgetfulness.  

Now PTSD is a worn out acronym, a cold shadow of what it feels like.  I try to think of something more personal that can describe the way it randomly visits me, now resigned to its familiar unwelcome influence.  It steals through my brain, flying ahead of me with its own agenda of protecting sabotage.  Its like the Guardian Trickster of Native American legend.  Its an archetype but real enough to make mistakes: Chulyen, the black raven.

A decade after the ER, contentment is found in a garden of slow tranquility as a butterfly interrupts a sunbeam.  My heart fills with bittersweet as I’ve finally found something I love and want to keep.  Just then Chulyen’s grasping black claws clamp my heart with painful arrhythmia and it fills to burst, tripping in panic trying to recover its pace.  The sudden pain drops me to my knees, in the dirt between fragrant lavender and cherry tomatoes.  Pain stops breath and time and makes me remember the ER, when my heart rebelled its ordained purpose for a week.  I had tried to throw my bitter life back in God’s face but He didn’t take it.  Now that I have peace and a life that I treasure, He’s taking it now.  The price for my mistake is due.  It was all just borrowed time and I’m still so young, my children just babies.  God with a flick of cruelty reminds me not to put faith in the tangible, especially when its treasured.  The sharp claws finally relent and I can breathe, looking up with a gasp and the Raven takes flight overhead leaving a shadow.  Bright noon warmth, unusually heavy and foreboding, seems to say ‘there will come a time when you will not welcome the sun.’   Doctors run an EKG and diagnose ‘stress’.

The bird perches on my shoulder two more decades later, always seeing death just over there.  So I sit on the porch just a little longer and check my list again, delaying the unavoidable racing heart and rush of tension when I fix the motorcycle helmet strap under my chin.  I know all those stupid drivers have my life in their cell-phone distracted hands and hope my husband knows how much I love him, and my daughters too.  

Chulyen wakes me at 3:00 am when autumn’s wind aggravates the trees.  His rustle of black feathers outside unsettles summer’s calm night.  He brings an end-of-the-world portent that hints this peace is just temporary, borrowed.  Tribulation will return.

Ravens are attracted to bright shiny things.  Chulyen steals off with treasures like intention, and contentment.  I don’t realize they are missing until occasionally I find myself truly living in the moment.  I guess that is another reason why I crave adventure, for those instants and epiphanies that snap me out of that long term modis operandi of reacting, instead of being.  The daily list of ‘I must, or I should’ can for a brief while become ‘I want’  and I am free.

My companion the black bird perches relaxed in the desert on the gatepost of a memory.  A bullet-scarred paint-faded sign dangles by one corner from rusty barbed wire:
    No Trespassing    
    That Means You
I have a haunted idea what's behind the fence.  Chulyen implies the memory with a simple mistaken sound:
a Harley in the distance is for a second the agitating echo of a helicopter...
or those were the very same words they said when...
or I hear a few jangling clinks of forks in our warm kitchen...
hinting a cold cafeteria at 5:00 am smelling of fake eggs and industrial maple flavored corn syrup,
and everything else that happened that day...
My cells recollect, brace with the addictive rush of adrenaline.  But the raven denies access to the memory, distracting with discomfort.  I trip and I fall hard into the gritty dirt of irritation at the person who unknowingly reminded me.  Anxiety floods in along with fatigue of the helplessness of it all, back then and still now.  I can't go further.  Chulyen’s tricking deception says Leave This Memory, you never wanted to come back.
But I already knew from just recognizing the bird patiently sitting there a sentinal,
recalling every other time he tricked me with nausea and depression.
I tried to tell myself again that behind that gate,
the past has dried up from neglect.
Disintegrated into dust,
Blown away,
doesn't
exist.
…


After everything else, how to work through this?  The VA gave me a manual, a crudely printed set of worksheets with a government-looking blue cover page:  Cognitive Processing Therapy.
“In normal recovery from PTSD symptioms, intrusion, thoughts, and emotions decrease over time and no longer trigger each other.  However, in those who don’t recover, the vivid images, negative thoughts, and strong emotions lead to escape and avoidance.  Avoidance prevents the processing of the trauma that is needed for recovery and works only temporarily.  The ultimate goal is acceptance.  
There may be “stuck points”, conflicting beliefs or strong negative beliefs that create additional unpleasant emotions and unhealthy behavior.  For example, a prior belief may have been “ I am able to protect myself in dangerous situations.”  But after being harmed during military service, a conflicting belief surfaces, “I was harmed during service, and I am to blame.”  If one is ‘stuck’ here, it may take some time until one is able to get feelings out about the trauma, because one is processing a number of rationales.  “I deserved it because…” , or “I misinterpreted what happened, I acted inappropriately, I must be crazy…”  The goal is to change the prior belief to one that does not hinder acceptance.  For example, “I may not be able to protect myself in all situations.”

(chapter continues with recovery methods)

I remember they once told me that
music is the best time capsule

It's where people keep their secrets and feelings;
of their insecurities, their mistakes, their sadness, their first cut,
and even the wounds and bruises that invisible to the eye

It's where people let their wildest dreams alive;
of the one they can never reach, the one that will never come back, the one that got away without proper farewell

It's where people store their most sacred memories;
of their first kisses, their first love, their first dance, their first bucket of roses, their first heartbreak

So they were right after all,

Music is dangerous, yet addicting; it can either tear you apart or put the pieces back altogether, it depends on what kind of ghosts living inside the interlude

Thus, be careful who you listen the music with
some melody is louder than the others

**

Today I played the music box you gave me on my seventeenth birthday
How odd it is to realize that music sometimes can be a time machine, how every strings and clinks bring me back to you—towards you

This is a song to celebrate banks,
Because they are full of money and you go into them and all
you hear is clinks and clanks,
Or maybe a sound like the wind in the trees on the hills,
Which is the rustling of the thousand dollar bills.
Most bankers dwell in marble halls,
Which they get to dwell in because they encourage deposits
and discourage withdrawals,
And particularly because they all observe one rule which woe
betides the banker who fails to heed it,
Which is you must never lend any money to anybody unless
they don't need it.
I know you, you cautious conservative banks!
If people are worried about their rent it is your duty to deny
them the loan of one nickel, yes, even one copper engraving
of the martyred son of the late Nancy Hanks;
Yes, if they request fifty dollars to pay for a baby you must
look at them like Tarzan looking at an uppity ape in the
jungle,
And tell them what do they think a bank is, anyhow, they had
better go get the money from their wife's aunt or ungle.
But suppose people come in and they have a million and they
want another million to pile on top of it,
Why, you brim with the milk of human kindness and you
urge them to accept every drop of it,
And you lend them the million so then they have two million
and this gives them the idea that they would be better off
with four,
So they already have two million as security so you have no
hesitation in lending them two more,
And all the vice-presidents nod their heads in rhythm,
And the only question asked is do the borrowers want the
money sent or do they want to take it withm.
Because I think they deserve our appreciation and thanks,
the ******* who go around saying that health and happi-
ness are everything and money isn't essential,
Because as soon as they have to borrow some unimportant
money to maintain their health and happiness they starve
to death so they can't go around any more sneering at good
old money, which is nothing short of providential.

4am On the drunken floor of my Wingmans apartment I place my red solo tankard down to instigate a quest.
"ROADKILL!"
That's what we call my wingman.
"Roadkill! Lets go on an adventure to king richards faire tomorrow!"
"Sure! When do we leave?"
"Don't worry, I'll wake you up."

See. When your best friend says they need you,
you don't just call them.
You drive.
Tonight,
on the anniversary of Roadkills worst tragedies,
we are getting drunk.
In the morning,
We're going to prove that life is worth living.

7:30am our alarms go off.
"Uhhhg."
"Curse you phone."
Hands slap towards the noise,
Spilling last nights wounded soldiers.

"Roadkill your shirts inside out."
"Thanks man."
Actually, while you have it off.

Black doesn't go with brown.
Pick a whole different shirt."
"It's fine."
"*******. There's a blue shirt right here."

Belting sailor shantees
Roadkill and I adventure three hours in
My four wheeled ground Zepplin.

"A curse to you lads,
a curse on your head,
Drinking pint after pint
until I am dead
I just keep drinking
and I don't know why,
But tonight is the night
that I drink 'til I die!"

Upon arriving at the faire we spot an ocean of goregeous maidens.
The ticket booth doth not take credit cards, however.
So we needed to speak to the gatekeeper.
"Excuse me, where's the atm?" I Ask.
"it's right over there, Handsome.
I'll need your id's first, though.
Don't worry, I don't bite
... hard."

Roadkills eyes grow the size of stormwind.
"I need to bring you everywhere man.
You make everyone love us."

we return with cash in hand
The gatekeeper pulls our ID's from her corset
looks them over before handing them back.
"How are you boys younger than me?"
"It's the beard. "
I wink.
"Keep a secret?"

Swords on hips
songs in chest.
Mead was flowing
Boots were clomping

Roadkill paused to look around
Standing like a pleased statue.

I bounced excitedlly around like a child.
ROADKILL
LOOK AT ALL OF THESE GOREGEOUS OUTFITS ON THESE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN!
"Hey!"
handsome men, too.
"Thank you"
It's like we teleported to Flurb heaven!
Look!
a garb shop!
Oh my god
A boot store!
They have a whole store
for leather larpy boots!
There is a tail shop!
I could buy and wear a fuzzy furry tail!
This is amazing!
There is a giant duck
Being pushed back and forth by two huge jacked dudes.

"I need to hug everyone!"
I am in love with everything!"
"Can i please hug you?"

"I swear to god, Nick if you touch me."

We try the knife throwing challenge.
The crossbow challenge.
The dart throwing challenge.
We **** at all of it but we have a blast.

We walk into a leather shop.
A small redheaded girl dances around us. She puts fur around our necks
Her hands trace our chests as she ties them up
You boys look like the type to rock these.
She drags us by the belts to a mirror.
Look at how handsome you both are.

"Roadkill" I whisper.
He is already lost in her eyes.
I place a hand below his chin and close his mouth.
They talk about where they're from.
Their families.
What they do for fun.
"Oh you do larp? We do dagohir it's like full contact grappley shield kicking larp"

A group of customers walk in and she leaves to tend to them.
A brunette helps take off roadkills stole.
"How much are these anyway?"
Roadkill asks the brunette.
"$600" she answers.
"I feel ashamed for even trying it on"
Says roadkill slipping off the precious treasure.
"Goodbye ladies! have fun today!"
I say, pulling roadkill by the arm.
"Oh... okay then... bye."

"They seemed sad we left.
What was that about?" Asked roadkill.
"Well do you want the blunt educated version or the ignorant positive version?"

"Ignorant of coarse."
Then they're dissapointed because they were interested in us.
"Out of curiousity, what's the blunt educated version?"
"They're upset We didn't fall for their act and buy their expensive wares."
"Whelp... there goes my self confidence. Ignorance really is bliss"
"Yes it is roadkill. Yes it is."

We Travel back home.
Again, singing sailor shantees.

"A curse to you lads,
a curse on your head,
Drinking pint after pint
until I am dead
I just keep drinking
and I don't know why,
But tonight is the night
that I drink 'til I die!"

Park the four wheeled ground zeppelin in front of the Apartment.
Clonk our boots up the stairs
Grab angry orchards out of the fridge
Slunk into the beaten brown couch
raise my bottle into the air
"To living one more day exactly the way we want too, Roadkill."
Roadkill raises his bottle.
clinks it against mine.
"To living."

I looked up at her, “Do you know why people drink too much? Why they push themselves over the limit?” It was a sincere question that I wanted to know the answer to.
She set her drink down, looked around the bar, and pursed her lips. Her eyes stared right through me, perhaps searching for words. She looked at me again, with her mouth barely open.
“Not everyone drinks to get drunk, or have a one night stand. People drink to forget. People drink to cope. People drink to be ghosts of their past. Every shotglass that someones drank, its a cry for help. If you listen closely, you can hear what they say through their ***** and salt.” Three clinks from glass hitting the table shortly followed.
“Did you hear it? They said ‘I lost my job’, ‘my boyfriend cheated’, and the most common one that I hear, ‘I’m unhappy’.”
Her eyebrows shot up, a greater understanding shining through her eyes. “I think thats why so many shy people are so good at art. They’re not good at expressing themselves in words, so they do it through lines and colors.”
She stopped speaking for a moment.
“It’s like…your favorite alcoholic drink says a lot about you.”
And with that, she finished her margarita, stood up, and left.

I wonder what that said about her.

Drunk on nostalgia and it's running through my veins tonight
It burns like alcohol, I convince myself it'll be alright
Shot after shot of colorful past memories
The glass clinks as I place it on the table
My hands reach out for something stable
Drunk on nostalgia and its running through my veins tonight
It burns like alcohol, I convince myself it'll be alright
Tipsy and rather wispy, I grasp forward toward you
Nothing is clear, oh dear the world is spinning
This is my inner demons winning
Drunk on nostalgia and its running through my veins tonight
It burns like alcohol, I convince myself it'll be alright
It burns like alcholol
It burns like alcohol

Moist and monochrome, clouds are gathering
On a Sunday afternoon.
Look up idly from my browsing, at the building 'cross the pool
Winds picks up, the monsoon breezes
Lick at the curtains twelve floors up
On the terrace, woman standing
Arms outstretched, grasp the rail

Legs stressed back, footloose in sandal
Lightly muscled, slightly formed
Kimono slips from lighted shoulder, designer ****** strawberry brown
Fabric glides across the hip-line
Revealing all to me below
Wearing nothing on the landing
Hint of shadow, ***** mound.

From the sliding doors behind her
Steps a man not quite unseen
Waist encircled in one movement, undergarment stripped away
Rigid stillness then the thrusting
Tension mounting at the breath
Woman gasps the O shape forming
Through her silent, varnished lips

Mahler moaning on the ITunes
Waves are forming, silent sound
Thrusting, busting, flexing, *******, arching back crescendo reached
Sun comes out, just at that moment
Roads diverging in the wood
Disconnecting, and uncoupling
Might and maybe should and aught

Trembling  fingers, taught in temper
Blink the eye and pop the top
Shaking hands that hold the taper, to the unformed smoking spliff
**** the wreaths in, breathe the thought out
Bottle clinks across the teeth
Unbelieving, unconcealing
Unrelieving, unreleased

Angel sits on her bed talking to her boyfriend, they’ve dated for two months and he says that’s enough.

“Ang think about me, think about us, do it for us”.

Angela is hesitant but her gaze remains fixed at the ceiling lamp, a moth in a trance

Keeps bumping into it making audible clinks

Angela opens her mouth slightly, hesitantly

“Where are you, Baby, I’ll come to you right now.”

“You’re gonna do it?”

“I’m ready, yes. I trust you and Love You with my heart Baby.”

“That’s what I wanna hear, I’ll leave the door unlocked. You are the Best.”

The call ends and the screen on her phone goes dim

It was a breezy evening, Angela decided to dress appropriately

One arm through the sleeve, then the other, then one leg through the pant, then the other

Shoes, socks, watch

Appropriate

Lock the door, hop on the bike, which she learned to ride

At nine years old, the crux of her life, a little later than most

She learned to go fast at ten, to catch up

A left at 11th, and straight down three blocks to Baby’s place

Illuminating the whole street at 12:00

The door was unlocked like he said and she entered like she said

“I’m here, are you ready?” “Yes, please go ahead.”

Angela had never done this before but she loved her Baby so much

So, she started with her hands by making a slight incision at the webbing between her thumb and pointer

All it took was a slight tug to peel off an inch of her skin, and then more, and then more and then more

Until her whole left hand was exposed to the elements, to Baby’s great delight

“More”

She nodded with a slight smile on her face, and began to scrape off the rest of her arm

Muscles and tendons revealed themselves, twitching slightly as if surprised by their own existence

“Get it all off! Stop teasing! I love you, I want more!”

Baby laughed and Angela made sure to laugh louder as she tore away to reveal her deltoid and her pectorals across her chest

Next her stomach went, then her crotch, her skin making hollow thuds on the floor whenever they fell

She wasn’t very neat but after all, this was her first time.

The frenzy of the moment left Ang breathless, so this is True Love she thought, blood and mirth

Baby held her all night long and traced his fingers across each strand of tissue, not afraid

Angela could feel every individual filament in her left arm tense and flex and squelch to supply her livelihood, their livelihood

And she smiled for herself, the greatest sacrifice she could give, and all for Baby

tearing herself apart made her feel complete!

The ball goes down the lane
it clinks on pins
and down they go,
the shoes fit just right
and everyone you know is in sight,
being taught how to spell the letter R
of your name by your great aunt Vi,
seeing your funny aunt Marlene,
being with your grandma Ross,
and going to Sammy's Restaurant
for grilled cheese,
and the pharmacy for pink Trident gum,
all this under one roof.
I run to the lane
the ball goes down the lane
I run to the counter in time
shut off the lane
and CRASH!
no pins fall
the sound of the ball ricochets
from one end to the other;
my mischievous ways fulfilled,
and God I loved the Fanta pop
which my dad, the manager I was
proud of, readily supplied,
the place is now gone
but it's life still goes on
the pins crash even louder,
the disinfectant shoe spray still as smelly,
the oil of the lane still slippery,
and the grilled cheese still as good;
and carried on to the current day...
Georgina would have been proud!


http://www.robross.ca

a lone something in the sky
flies near, just by mischance
dazed by the smog,
bowing
and diving
downward
into the parting, cracking,
quaking
bellowing of tar
from the firy, sputtering lungs of these alps
eons worth of cries released in mere mouth-ajar gasps
of the earth diverging and converging
into the debt of always running clean,
running me
always downward,
as in the deep
deep
tessellations of rock
I become.

too still for my own good,
I guess –
another voice on the ash-flow tuffs of
breath to fill the mosaic
of sinewy
stripe-patterned goodbye and bygone
plating into the deep,
deep,
deeper caverns of the unseen sea
slipping off the mantle, an accident with intention,
as an echo caving downward into  

nothing,

nothing,

more

nothing

polluting the depths from the palisades,
scripture rupturing lowshore into
surrounding tissues like
igneous stone
dreams of clinks ringing,
of noise
a voice
on the ash-flow tuffs
in the always running-clean water
the purity of which I intercept,
the clear-ness of it;
a sinners window.

through what's left,
I see the clam
another mouth for and of the sea
unseen,
the pearl
as unsoiled as ever

Moist and monochrome, clouds are gathering
On a Sunday afternoon.
Look up idly from my browsing, at the building 'cross the pool
Winds picks up, the monsoon breezes
Lick at the curtains twelve floors up
On the terrace, woman standing
Arms outstretched, grasp the rail

Legs stressed back, footloose in sandal
Lightly muscled, slightly formed
Kimono slips from lighted shoulder, designer ****** strawberry brown
Fabric glides across the hip-line
Revealing all to me below
Wearing nothing on the landing
Hint of shadow, ***** mound.

From the sliding doors behind her
Steps a man not quite unseen
Waist encircled in one movement, undergarment stripped away
Rigid stillness then the thrusting
Tension mounting at the breath
Woman gasps the O shape forming
Through her silent, varnished lips

Mahler moaning on the ITunes
Waves are forming, silent sound
Thrusting, busting, flexing, *******, arching back crescendo reached
Sun comes out, just at that moment
Roads diverging in the wood
Disconnecting, and uncoupling
Might and maybe, aught and should

Trembling  fingers, taught in temper
Blink the eye and pop the top
Shaking hands that hold the taper, to the unformed smoking spliff
**** the wreaths in, breathe the thought out
Bottle clinks across the teeth
Unbelieving, unconcealing
Unrelieving, unreleased

It's September; cold in the copses,
Feverish in the kitchen.
The sink clinks and exorcises
The china like an Italian sonata.
My lips merge into ether
At the sky, a periwinkle parallax
With the pork lard carbon monoxide
Clouds, at drive with suicide.  
My Buddha hisses at the window,
Ripping the tentacles off weedy carrots.

The knives are clever & precise
Hiding in their handled shoals
Like luminescent Jackanapes
Out for the thrill of the ****;
The **** of the stake of steak,
A 'Cow'ardly act.
I wrap the red & dead
Into a Beef Wellington.
It is not pretty at all;
But neither am I.

I'll drink tea to keep my peace,
Swallow my spirituality like a pain killer.
The teabag sags its straggled string,
Scolding me.
The pillbox is dead on the edge
Of the ornamented kitchen sill
A lot like me; sullen and teasing.
I wanted to roast my head like a potato
If the pudding *** over boiled,
A cauldron of sugar and cream
Fattening me ugly and crazy.


The weather is miserable; I mustn't lie,
It's enough to make any young woman want to die.
Stirring my thoughts with the dishes,
Trashing potato peels like my wishes.
And the stacks and stacks of ****-me pills
Surround like troops in their barricade cupboards.
I have no allies,
Everyone is asleep;
I curl up like a fat snail and weep
Blackening the words of the miracle-working Priest.

December tenth stares from a wall,
At a girl with night-colored hair and
Eyes the shade of a twilight
That blurs purple into the darkness.

The girl looks out
At the blurred edges of this night’s snowflakes,
Falling softly past the windowpane
And down to empty streets below.

It has been more than a month since her birthday,
Her escape from fourteen
That twirled around the clock
A hundred or more times before
Finally stopping.

Maybe not a hundred times,
It was only one month
Repeating again and again
With thirty days of sunshine and one of rain,
Only one of rain.
Madoka always dies on rainy days.

A teacup clatters,
Not quite the clinks of shattering glass,
But startling all the same.
The awakened girl looks into
Kind eyes and golden curls left free to spill over a friend’s shoulder.
Still intentional in all movements,
The golden girl continues setting up the rest of that midnight’s meal.

Tiramisu melts upon tongues as
Two friends sit in silence,
And two survivors let their thoughts soften with the disappearing cake.

The quiet reigns,
Until the twilight girl leaves
With the waking of dawn’s light.
A soft “thank you” drifts with the snow behind her
While unnumbered days rise up ahead,
Forever blocking her sight of what’s to come.

Metal softly clinks on ceramic.
Fingers joggle embossed grip,
elevate blades toward moistened hide.

Darkness covers the corner
opposite antique coaster bed
disheveled by fitful sleepers.  

Her hair, twirled into tangles
flows on the pillow, nasal noises
mask the music of his movements.

Any light might arouse her,
awakening her to revive
last night's squabble.

Their endless feud
over contentions long forgotten  
encircles their days.

Blades glide over chin and cheeks.  
Shaving quietly in darkness
avoids anger in the morning.

's favorite meal is not children as you may expect
it is old people, the elderly near death
they taste better to him
he fantasizes their whole lives with every bite

whose heart like bottles or ransom clinks against
itself eating the useless parts of its own stomach
rotors of bone hum about revenge
the earth clones pale enigmatic cyanide

my spawn sweat bourbon and bleed sweet milk
I'm the Tower
Look Look
let us hold eachother here until the dark blossoms

into an invisible canine snarl
crushed by feathers at a
tomb-encrusted countryside
wax swans bleed from

their eyes and bulls inside run
in circles around ancient ice prisons

Look a clock
century weary mariners
gape in disbelief
at a yawning dawn
of cadmium
on the tongue of
a bristling free roaming
continent of
gothic salt

He rises from his grave underneath the looming arm of the willow tree.
His armor, once waxed to a blinding lustre, now rough with rust and dents, clinks and breaks the silence of the narrow land between the sea.
The ground is soft and disturbed, from where man came he has also returned, only to have risen again.
The one he loves is found elsewhere; he seeks while his heart, as withered as his chain-mail, aches.
In love we die to ourselves, like sleep before waking.
There sings a dream within a haze amidst the lucid glow of images, recalling a time where what was once real has long since passed.
Since that passing, decay has taken hold of his life, like wisteria to a pocket of  lattice.
The ground was cold, as chilling as his broken heart, and what reason there is for his timely waking is known only to the God who watches above.
The sun is warm and colors the sky in burning orange, just before it sets behind a cloud.
In his mind he sees his love, her shape, her touch, her smile, and opens his eyes to the willow’s trunk.
There in the bark, he sees his love, her shape, her touch, her smile, and with his worm eaten hand, unsheathes his sword, brittle yet as sharp as in the day of its forging.
He says a prayer in an ancient tongue,  and whips the air with his sword and stabs the heart of the willow.
Like an earthquake’s rumble the tree splits in two.
In the opening holds a skeleton wrapped in yellow lace.
He has found his love, yet weeps for she is not the same.
She is not the same.
She will never be who she once was.
She has returned to the earth, where all men go to die.

He goes to the basement, without a word he flys
To grab a sufficent sourse of numbness
To write freely and speak not so clearly
But to engage of times of the unknown and times of Modern times
The weather tide, the things of our demise
And the music rides, and the glass clinks
Goodbye to on time
hello to sweet dreams highs

Rummy is a card game
*** isn't for the hard weak
It's not win to fame when you're
Slugging back ***

It's not fun, it gags and try's to overthrow your reflexes
To misconcept your reasons
Why *** is for pirates and not for mere kitchen writers

When moon like an empty plate
mocks the hunger
the famished bones hunt for a morsel.

Clinks of cutlery fires the belly
aroma of meals calls like a melody

there's a table full of happy faces
chewing and chuckling and chattering
picking eating dropping and littering
their plates are full aha never less
food after food over food always
a fire in oven a bed of clean sheet
never they're they're never short of heat
eyes that are heavy droop easy soon
behind tightly shut windows to the moon.

Snuffed out will ***** out all traces of light
they break into wails rending the night
nothing now moves over the dead town
except the bones with moon as the crown.

I start with a backhoe, displacing
brain-sized clumps of earth.
A few fickle particles escape
between the imposing metal teeth.

The mechanized bucket clinks
against a rigid texture.
I grab a shovel, bending my spine
to the task at hand.

Pretty soon the shovel only scoops up
unsatisfying fistfuls of dust.
It is cast aside for the broom,
revealing the smooth shape underneath.

A dingy film is spread around
by the coarse fibers of the broom.
I grab my toothbrush, furiously scrubbing
the chrome-plated formation.

Now all passersby
can bite my shiny metal
victory.

The body of a woman's neutral fineness embraces the chords of my steel guitar; laughing about all the points that I've been chasing after. Or just running away- no more for today. Christ, you slipped but lied too many times before, and while you plunge your wrists into your knives, I thought we had a second chance. But that was before, you throw sticks and stones and store your anger in the three fingers of the drink that clinks against our first date when I bought you a 25¢ ring. It was a children's vending machine, that brought me three years of happy things.

I don't want to be fake with you anymore. So go and find your Milky Way. I'm staying dumb, Britni I'm in trouble. All the stakes are different when you are chasing yesterday's killing.

And even the sound of the gunshots don't overcome the voice of the human tongue, in violence and war and all that's abhorred, even the smallest vesper or prayer a whisper of three little words can always be heard, even the faintest whisper can always be heard, as long as the voice that says it is honest and pure.

I was too tight to drive with your hands over my eyes, even in Inverness valley and South Santa Cruz, the wheelbarrow of berries I brought home for supper, ingested in each little bite we cut in half, was the best of the worst time that we ever had. And always we were. In love. In parking lots, playgrounds, at concerts, on airplanes, in bedrooms, custodian closets, laundry mats, and carrying our nap sacks, while we attempted to sleep and hide all night in the Shedd Aquarium. I just should have known better, it'd wouldn't be easy, with you I'm always wrestling sharks with a mirror, your pink sugar perfume from the chains on my wrists ******* across the room. While you didn't trust me I was always at home. Trust isn't love  unless it's enough, unless it's enough to quit drugs. It's symptoms are the same as that of great madnesses.

Inhale all of those felt bones. Observe. Skeletons will dance in the dark for you..

Hang them up. Tilt your head. Curl your hair. Bite your lip. Wonder at them, feel them

as a thing
too.

Wonder at
how they
diminish us
with such
gentle clinks
of their being.

When my heart beats
aggravated and aggressively
through my chest and clinks
my muscles, my blood flushes
my flesh and fools my mind
into thinking it is more than man.
When the words will not walk the plank
it isn't due to being dope or blank
perhaps it is my agitated state,
Flushed with flustered feelings
flooding forward and festering in the fetal position
inside my cells, banging the brains out of each membrane.
The last of my nerves being burned by a blessing
in disguise, as they often come,
When I bite my tongue.

They say we have two halves of a whole brain.
Two sections that govern our actions
Like tyrants that ride horses with reigns made
Of nerves and weald weapons that shoot out sparks
Of neurons across our synapses
The lands of our minds that dips and rises like the Andes mountains
Amoung cerebellum fields
Where nervous horses hoofs trample
Nervous systems flowers and bend their stem
Into an L shaped pendulum that swings
Unevenly over corpus callosum oceans
That separate left and right.
Art and reason.
Two separate sets of war torn warriors fighting,
One with methodically measured maps
Marked with red flags between concurred lands of logic
And one with holistic metal armor that clinks and clanks
Around soldiers making music for them to march to
They fight over proper ways of reason
And creative formulations
Of treasons that ought not be crossed
Their trenches the rivens in our brains
That wet rot their feet with slimy blood and
Membrane juices
The left speaking in tongues
That right cannot hear when not
Set on staff lines
Or painted onto animal skin canvas
That once covered similar brain battles
Between right and left
Only to be cut and sectioned off
In improper fractions that yearn to be whole.
If only the sides would sign treaties of peace
With pens that pinch fibers together and bind
Halves into wholes.

I trace places you used to touch
Looking for echoes of your fingertips

I light candles where you used to stand
Trying to recreate the warmth you exuded

I wrap your sweaters around my body
Mimicking the sensation of your arms around me

I listen to the clinks of wine glasses
Pretending we're back on our first date

I stare at your lips in your pictures
Wishing I had kissed you longer

I thought losing you would get easier
But I miss you more every minute

The ice it clinks
the straw it stirs
you're making drinks
that won't drown her

She's up all night
you put her to bed
but she puts up a fight
falls asleep with the drink in her hand

Sneak out for a smoke
she's fast asleep anyway
when I came back, she awoke
baby why'd you go away?

But shh you're there now
she's already passed out again
with her little body curled around
yours, she's asleep with a grin.


*s.mndi

Finnegan, begin again
is it time to wake?
The belfry bats are singing
from the yew trees, "heigh **
heigh ** heigh hooooo . . . "
as lips lip fleshless lips of air
Bloom clinks a glass with
M'Intosh, "Three quarks
for Muster Mark!" and
Stephen drinks tea from
lotus flowers poured by
Nausicaa while sirens call
between the clashing rocks

"Come home Telemachus, come
home Penelope, come home
Mary, come
home . . . "

No more a whisper
Such were the demands
Demands levied upon fields of dreams
Fantasies sowed into the field season o'er season
Crops rising bone dry and thirsty for verity
Babes who would never know milk
Carrion who would never know decay
Work that would never know pay
Such were these dreams!
Slave to the whims of whimsy
Tossed o'er a deranged sea, churned
Nay
Spurned by the ****** that cackle in the depths,
Twirling their hands as would a maestro
and the dreams dance by these strings
Reigns upon the centaur
Thought himself more man than beast
but his master proves him wrong
throttles his dreams like so many tragic ****** and still...
And still!
He dreams.
But the dreams begin to seep a saucy essence
The stuff of childbirths and ****** victories upon the battlefield
Both an emerging of brilliance and an escape of nightmare
Both a wailing cry and a roaring scream
And the scaffolding clinks and clanks around the wispy form of the dream
And it clinks and clunks its way up, providing the mold for new dawn.
The prophet, who is both midwife and sycophant, utters a chorus of impassioned voices singing to the ends of the universe,
while the dream bulges and creaks against the form of the mold.
The scaffolding breaks in an uproar of so many eggshell fragments, blasting forth like shrapnel
And the veil of ignorance is pierced by this awakening.
And a hush falls upon the world in a tremor of silence
And the ache is felt in the effort of producing a single thought
For all is absent in the wake of this dream made flesh...
"She is here,"
The paragons of ages announce,
"And she will command your pleasures until your pains are destitute... and you shall live no more, for what is life without pain."

We want to be remembered.

Is that not why we fold
pieces of gum into
the neat underbellies of tables,
is that not why we stomp up silent stairs,
slam arrogant doors, push back nonchalant chairs?

And is that not why we bury half finished cigarettes,
cherry stained from lips, and ashed
from the careless shakes of wrists?

Or throw empty bottles
as far as reluctant arms allow,
so that satisfying clinks can reassure us
of those other things,
as broken as our lives or sometimes
hearts.

We're afraid to be forgotten.

with fingers for lips
he slipped underneath
deboning human skin
strung up my ribs on the ceiling
under which we dangled
femurs and phalanges
on super strings
chiming 3-part harmonics
on black galactic wind
him, me, Everything
tender clinks silencing
floored motionless flesh
I was not bones, nor skin
but oms inciting orbital dance
spinning with him invisibly
with heartlids pinned back
pounding the key of eternity

How does it feel like to float in a complete void, alone with an uncertainty of surviving and going back to where you used to live? I was talking about the Sputnik II, the famous satellite launched with the dog Laika aboard. The very scene also portrays the life here on land. Each day, I'm caving in my own realities, an impressive way of escaping. It has buried me in that idea of you existing on it. It is a badge to be given, a sigh each time you twist the **** on the door.

And there I am, a banquet of a montage of a violent delight, a beauty of the sea cascading the shore, it's in my veins, a rushing current of this mere event. I watched people applaud, how the glass clinks, and you, an array of sun, so immaculate, I can't look away.

I cannot bear losing it.

and we'll be a specks withering, it is a bittersweet love:

I would endlessly live on it.

Alone is a peculiar thing.
Sometimes on mornings like this, when I am sitting
At a lonely table,
Coffee in one hand to banish the cold,
Book in the other to banish the solitude,
I set them both down for a moment and
Ponder, stirring.
My spoon makes loud little clink-clinks,
And frothy pictures in the sweet steaming drink,
And I wonder:
How many separate mornings will I spend this way,
Having spoken to no one but woken at dawn?
Not a soul has heard my voice today, and it
Is nearly noon.
How many mornings of my life will be
Just like this?
A cup of coffee, a book,
And nobody looking about for me?
And am I lonely about it
Or just
Unsettled?

there is a wishing well
behind your eyes

and i'm throwing all my coins
all my keys
anything that
clinks
at the bottom of your irises

i'm running out of pennies;
wishing is a game of fools
but

let my heart past your eyelashes
fingers crossed for
the telltale clink
and the ripples you hide when
you blink dreams away

is it not heavy enough?
i will weigh it with a little
more rain;
more rusty coins and
maybe then you'll hear
my heartbeat
clinking
against metallic tears

i know your pupils
are not black holes
like the one i have tucked
away from sight behind my ribcage
but still

i fear that all my coins
and all my keys
are not loud enough
to whisper what i cannot
in this vacuum between us


*please just let me go

My mother splashed tea onto her hand as she throttled her body down into a crouch. She was silenced by the convulsion of her lungs. Her lips pressed tight to keep from spewing the recent gulp. I assumed it was tepid for she was not wincing in a pain of a burn. Her eyes were squinted shut and the heat of her laughter rose to her cheeks. She drove one hand to the floor, and with the soft thud of fingers and clinks of rings pressed themselves against the red-toned, chair leg scratched wood.  A sweet, wind of airs swept into her as she pulled her laughing into her throat, up from the bottom of her lungs. Groups of her black, wiry hair broke free from the bun, flowing like liquid coffee, out onto her nose. Placing the tea clumsily on the counter just above her head, her other hand slid down the handle, and clung to the surface's ledge. Sitting now, she slowly places her palms over her eyes. She swallowed loudly and then spurt out a cough-y breath of giggles. Her tremendous fit raged tears in her eyes as her cheer engulfed her completely.

you can't always wring love out of wanting to save someone*

you're left yearning to be pocket change
rubbing subtly on her thighs forever.
in vexatious clinks you sing
of your forgotten value

I walked into the woods with you
To find a quiet reading spot.
You shivered, and complained about the cold,
But still trudged on through the snow.

We came upon a shelter.
Shiny, snow covered metal roof
And sturdy oaken timbers,
Undisturbed.

Someone had hung wind chimes from the rafters
And they played a merry tune
Of random notes, untimed clinks,
And spontaneous swings.

I watched your face light up
As we pushed aside trees
To enter this new haven
Undisturbed.

You'd seen the books
That someone had left behind
Michener, Kerouac, and London
Made their homes here.

We found our reading spot, my love.
Where we will forever
Replenish our minds
Undisturbed.

she goes bump in the night -
dawn crawls closer and she shifts restlessly.
thud. thud. thud.

she is your heart, embracing rebirth.

she is claustrophobic, tired
of this cramped pit.
she aches for your sunlight. aches for your ocean.

she is the loose change that clinks in
your pocket she is the hair tie wrapped around
your wrist she is the goddess you pray to in
winter.

she stumbles through hibernation,
her silhouette presses the
filmy chrysalis, a sticky
kiss.

may she unfurl her wings, blow the shackles to
dust. open your ribcage, she reveals herself


Resplendent.

A martyr the matrix:
***** roses inside the hoot owls owls hoot of an hour glass    

Anything changes

Nothing does

That is, more nurses and cries, yes undefinable cries, in the room next door.

Such that I have mail, I have a lot of mail, shaped like figures of 8 and want it off me,

What’s dressed in black clinks and clacks?

You don’t care anymore and I do not care.

Wear whatever you want, I was trying to be creative.  

If you love: willingly believe that it’s affirmative, a YES, yes after you mention that it is affirmative such that like a yes.

The sun send something you in a bird that flies across interested and past my neck but does, in fact, land, yo land.

Shadows will follow and your fence is alone or is basically alone and it is the best part and nothing changes and it’s not poetic it just doesn’t really matter like that not. Are you hot? Sorry, are you hawt?

The settled scratch:

     Air atom particles are now reconditioned second it second it second it make it something good yes gewd.

Okay: I still like Allen Ginsberg and like the taste of ginseng like in a soup. I am talking to someone I will never meet that makes me happy.

Finishing: at 4:03 pm on Monday afternoon I notice it is Spring. Sure, yes, sure the birds are chirping.

- Shutters begin --

?