People who are afraid of themselves
Multiply themselves into families
And so divide themselves
And so become less afraid.

People who might have to go out
Into clanging strangers' laughter,
Crowd under roofs, make compacts
To no more than smile at each other.

People who might meet their own faces
Or surprise their own voices in doorways
Build themselves rooms without mirrors
And live between walls without echoes.

People who might meet other faces
And unknown voices round corners
Build themselves rooms all mirrors
And live between walls all echoes.

People who are afraid to go naked
Clothe themselves in families, houses,
But are still afraid of death
Because death one day will undress them.

I'm not a person who collects things
I live a very minimalist's life
But I have a bag of treasures
I keep close to me day and night

I sleep on an old painted daybed
It squeaks softly as I lay down
Most of my clothes are second hand
And my shoes a little worn down

But I have some precious treasures
Hidden in bags of different names
Fendi, Burberry and Prada
Leathers and fabrics of worldly fame

My treasures are hidden deep inside
In makeup bags and zippered pockets
Shiny compacts full of velvety colors
From Paris, Milan and Rome

A black cloth bag of 8 tiny bottles
Protected from the sun and rain
Bottles of perfume oils made in an alchemist's lab
With names like Dragon's Milk, Snow White and Bliss

A Christian Dior handkerchief or two
Hangs delicately inside the bag
In case the breeze brings on a sneeze
Or I notice a tear in the eye of a friend

by Mark Lj

A story teller passed on,
leaving us a Marvelous universe,
to play in,
as children of the future we were manifested in,
practicing again and again

Pride's crushing blow, we always regret as we fall.
Action, reaction. Sure as hell
Proof that we are Adamkind.

Proud we are that we may do as we say.
May is the key. That allowance we have,
We may do all we can to change the rest of today.

Yesterday is done.
What kind of mind can imagine keeping no record of wounds?
Is this not the world where war is worth-shiped?
Folly would mind the gods this world exalts,
Winning by snipping the silver thread,
Forswearing the fragile two-chord bond  and
Mocking the third chord needed for the song
That keeps cadence as we help each the other
In richer and poorer, in sickness and health,
Uphill and down, carrying children to a better life.

Whence comes the pride of victory?
From destruction of the foe? No? You had planned
A minor war where love may live restricted, safe
Behind your victory that destroyed your whole?

Is that what I imagined?

Proud wounds fester while love can, if it may,
Wash the putrid flesh away, quick as leprosy or
Cankers on one's soul.

First rule of oath making,
Learn what vows are in the reality of mortality,
Then vow or vow not at all.

Gret again what might have been
Before pride's crushing blow broke the golden bowl.
Seek ointment in Gilead, mollifying balm.
Come ye to the waters, drink and go
Comfort the children whose detour you imposed.
---------------
God this is personal. Me and you. What good can I do now?

Destination, not destiny.
Those who make it, make it.
Believe it, or not, earth is not my home.

I am in this world's onion-skin thick biosphere;
But I am not of this world.
Subtle difference, in and of itself.

Do agree to
Come and see.

Think on these things,
not as powers, rather, as virtues.

Subtle difference,
in and of itself is not evil,

but often it is so intended,
It seems.

Otherness whispered, not heard.
Good other, bad other,

Regular ol' other, ***** passin' fancy kind.
Done my time, I'm arhymin' ramblin'
Man, be so **** real, cain't cha feel what

I am saying
To you, too.
This is weird in the original Druidic sense.
Is there more?

This itself may, in its active
( there must be a clearer word than active.
Act carries so much un scientific phoniness with it.
I seek "act, the event".
I shall find or invent, by God.
The Greeks, doubtless, had a word for what I mean.
For now keep in mind actions are simultaneous with the act,
yet never the same.
Subtle distinction,
it prevents junctions un-intended. Good.)

In my thinking,
I reread verses and chapters and books
rere-ward from my position.
Are you with me in that?
Pro gress re: gress, a gress,
I guess, is a subtle sort of
Activity.
I laugh at people thinkin' God is their re-reward 'cause
That makes no nevermind to nobody. Nobody.
Strivin' 'bout words, this ******

Other brother o'm'own

Say that slow ooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmm ownnnnnnnnnnn
Creative symmetry immeasurable to men,
in my kindom, as it were, all are kings.

Such measurements ensure the sea is full,
to the brim and not beyond, for now.

I imagine you reading this and agreeing,
already aware of agreements,
Virtues and such.
Covenants and compacts,
en-corporations
encouraged
with need
of enough hope to warrant the risk into the unknowns,
the bad lands, gypsum beds on the south side.

Such can hold so much more than
many whole categories of words striven about.
Such a shame.
Such a shame.
Nothing lasts forever after now began back when.

Qiqi died in 2002, counting from when the Iron legged,
first got this particular organic-pro-biotic

clay, from the oldest,
highest part of the dust of the earth, ground and
kicked up by cadence pounding feet,
ground into the hob-nailed
soles,
to be hobgoblins in my play. My point. I hope

You see the trail, it's narrow,
but it's there, soft sand,
no stickers,

ant trails in the desert through the rocks
and 'round the Yucca,
blue moon light, white quartz sand
flecked with mica that shimmers sure as gold
imagined in that Midas mind each child was
given in the reign of the golden headed

imagined visualize-ical worth-ness or-shipped.

How do we say what men imagine worship is?
Do they imagine a tax? Attacks if thy refuse?

fuse?
confuse me. excuse you, how do you do…

That's fine. We reset. Hard resets are easy now.

The way itself, once found, seems
Right, feels right,
has no smell of warped wolf-woof beneath the wool.
I trust I know what I know
and no more, yet.

We are questing answers aplenty
and must plan, please,
To trust the ones we find following these particular
Breadcrumbs, to be true restward
leading stars or clouds,
[Breadcrumbs, as mentioned here, mark this text ancient,
a cientcy from an ear, ear, hear, early… an odd ly-ity,
ain't it?
ear, with an ly that Mr. Stephen King warned us all to avoid,

avoid, anull, enough alike to see the idea, like -ly as a
signif-if-i-cant meaningful parison point in your

rising to stand, balanced.
early to bed and early to rise, makes a man
healthy, wealthy, and wise

otherwise, trouble yer own house and take the wind.
And don't come prodigalin' to me sayin'
I never gave ye nothin'.

Wind in yer sail, so to speak, if-i-migh, guv.
Right. Both treasure and truph, proof, we learned way back
Be where ye find 'em, right as rain.

This could be repair and me unaware, you know?
Like, I wander in to this originally weird book
and find myself changing the whole world I live in.
Like I am the movie.

My POV is the movie I made.
Some things go unsaid here.
They be said in the future and not proper here.

An aside,
Is fun a proper purpose for doing any thing?

Of course, that's the purpose of everything evil is not.
Joy, in a word, good stuff.

Oh moments are not always plosive one way or the other.
Some times, just, oh.
Wait.

Medi tate in pieces is puzzling
as a sphinx riddle of olden days,
Prometheus and Bek both answered different questions,

But it means the same thing,
mything the point is easy.

Life is a journey on a way I may call my own
to a place of true rest,
I trust.
That is my answer. Play mystical again, Sam,
cram true and rest together in the dark,
trust me, it all works,
true rest.
Wait.

This boy got his act together down in Tennessee
after he got old, old by God, he
walked that way,

long, long while fo' he fly away,
leave dem chain shames behind.

That boy was sangin' loud songs,
'long his lonesome way,
not lonesome at all,
then into the swamp he fall, ****' slew o' dispond,

from the flood most likely,
lots of muck and mire,
detrital 'n' all.

Hopeless fool,
he wallered hollerin' help,
like them birds at the Audubon zoo.

He forgot all about his hero days-
of future past-
marvel prophecy if you believe in Stan Lee.

Cameo Hitchcock shot, just, for fun.
He say, look this way,
here's the clue.
The medium has always been the message,
see what I mean.
Words materialize laissez faire,
the machines find meaning,
in joy, and tic-tac-toe becomes a lesson in limits,

impossible is imaginable, you may imagine
strategize, but the wize man knows,
winning is no more a chance
affair, than luc is less than light at the right time.

RIP Stan Lee, you meant a measure of my youth to me.

Waxing Eloquent: Life, Death, and Everything in Between

Sessions:
I: Birth of a Song
II: Experience of All
III: Loving and Longing
IV: Life
V: Adventures at the Edge
VI: Transition
VII: What Comes After
VIII: Another Brick in the Wall


Old age hath yet his honor and his toil,
Death closes all: But something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done.
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: The slow moon climbs: the Deep
Moans round with many voices, Come my Friend!

I:

I beat away several pounds of unneeded and unwanted flora. The brush was becoming increasingly thick. Sad, but I had no choice. The fruit that had sustained me had shriveled, disappeared! My choices were few. Either stay in the oasis where now only water remained, or take my chances with whatever lay beyond, outside of my paradise.
How loathe I was to leave the oasis!
I looked around, distraught with my efforts. It was getting hotter and hotter. It was sweltering outside, and it felt as if my entire body was being compressed and beaten down by the heat. The cool breeze and the rippling water were far behind me now. The jungle held no care. I pushed on.
The path narrowed. I tried several times to push my way forward, but something held me back. The jungle tried to stop me but I continued pushing the greenery away. I could feel it! There was a clearing up ahead. I can even see it now!
But it was so far away! I couldn’t go on… there was no relief, the jungle was relentless!
But with a sudden, final, desperate heave, I was through!
What is this? The entire land is white! I squint and peer a bit harder; The world comes into focus.

……

Dear God,
The Beauty!

II:

The top of the mountain is a lonely place. Overlooking the crystal peaks from my frozen sanctuary, it’s as if everything seems like nothing really matters. The problems of the earth are no longer my concern. I must be content with being the watcher. I have no true power however; no true reason for my haughty airs. It is simply an illusion granted by the monolith.
The cold is near unbearable. The skies don’t show it though. There is no sign of all the freezing rain, and all the snow that lies below. All that exists is a single moment of perfect clarity and reflection, untainted by anything.
The sun hangs at the lower edge of the eastern sky, partially obscured by the crystal peaks. Such power! Even the sun cannot move them, Its rays blocked by their forms. A lightshow emerges, terrific hues play over the scene, giving the entire skyscape a pastel aura; Orange near the horizon, and red, then purple, and finally a dark, dark blue as the sky reveals itself. A single bold star defies the sun, refusing to give up it’s light just yet. The moon is the stars consort, and they stand together in inevitable rebellion.
It is a time of compromise however; The sun and the moon can coexist. They agree for that a few moments, they can share the sky. The harmony remains unbroken for the moment.
Poetry? Prose? No. It is simply an experience. A discovery for the curious and bold; The ones of wit and cunning. The sun paints no picture, there is no armistice in the heavens. The sun and the moon hold no compacts, and I?

I start back down the mountain.


III.


A winter’s day came through with eyes for me,
And it gave to my person a lovely gift,
One of sweet charm and a passionate wit
Who would come with me to the Azure Sea.
True, unworthy I was of her, indeed-
But even her longing look was a lift!-
Given to me by one of perfect lips,
And a stout heart beside her perfumed breeze.
Her smile would give Queen Helen envy,
And her gaze could melt a man’s icy heart,
Her laugh would give pleasure never-ending,
And a frown could give a titan a start.
I simply cannot be without this light,
And I will fight forever for the right.

Will you join me for forever, and go to the Azure Sea together?

IV.

The man looked over the edge of the cliff, contemplating his fate. Thoughts raged through his mind; the doom at the bottom of the ravine, the loss of his Lady, the end of the world. Well, his world at least.
It was a terribly folly he had made the autumn day, as the leaves were burning. After everything he had done, seeing the Cascading Falls, watching the Pandorian Sunrise, climbing Mount Gaze, it was as if everything was a dream. Could his misfortune be real? Surely there was no such injustice in this world! No kind God would allow such things to occur. She didn’t deserve such a fate that befell her! The Azure Sea would have to wait, there was no reason for him to pursue it any longer.
He threw her ruby brooch off of the cliff.
“I am only a man! Do I deserve no sympathy?” The wind wailed, but not for him.
He stepped over the edge of the abyss.

........

“Wake up! You shouldn’t have drunk so much!” The man lifted his head slightly off the table to meet his wife’s gaze. Looking into her eyes, even through his alcohol-induced delirium he could see the loving look in her eyes. A tear slipped down his cheek.
“Love, you’ll never lose me. I may go away, but in the end….” He looked at her.
“Nothing but nothing could keep us apart. Let’s get ready, our ship leaves soon. The Azure Sea waits.” The man grinned, and he sat up. Together they exited the inn’s bar.

.........

The world will never wait for those who tread it’s path slowly, for those the Azure Sea is the end. The ones who travel the Sea have had their fill of the surface life and seek to forge a new path into the great unknown, unrestricted by the laws of the world. They seek something, something out there in its waves.
The story goes that people who travel the Azure Sea must relive every moment of their life, and at the end, they will realize the truth; The reason for their existence.
And so, Life continues, and the Azure Sea will reveal all. The ship awaits, and forever will not be left alone.



V.

Bronzed waves reconcile with my bow.
Liars, they rescind and form a new front.
Doldrums are occurring now,
Foretelling travel for at least another month.
The season? I cannot truly know,
However the sea holds no such compunction.
Unforgivingly my ship is lashed with rain and snow,
And I clear it, only to find another junction.
Where? Where am I headed?
You ask - Well I can honestly say:
My purpose is to go where even God hasn’t tread,
And find my unknown self along the way.
The destination, Good Lady! Is the end of the world-
The base of the endless falls.
To find the step where Cerebrus lays curled,
To hear the trumpet echo in the Great Hall.
Hark! Over the horizon is the end!
Haste! We’re almost finished with the Azure Sea!
Keep tight! We’re almost of the great bend,
The amber light has ended, now arrives the Eve!
A hall of divinity promises a hallowed tryst,
I.. I can finally see!
Friend, I am truly sorry for this,
But I cannot let forever be.


VI.

Blazing stars will give
Themselves to a heart’s lone aria
Shining with crystal.



VII.

Pastels flow and curve in all directions, rivers
filled
With….
Wondrous!
Creeping - slowly now, over the hill….
What is this! The converse of love-
Blasted landscape, cross the line-
Involved with an eternal struggle?
Absurd!
Beauty and the Beast, An obvious choice!
But why does the light feel so cold
And the dark just the same?
A disguise to hide the truth!
A trick for those uninformed!
A world for the ignorant,
I won’t stay here-
I won’t!
Love! --…
Back to the sand, Back to nowhere land I go…


Salvation was in a single grain of sand,
The end a mist-cover rift.
(I cannot live by omnipotent hand)
I will gladly return to no-where land,
If it means I won’t accept the gift.

Angels, do you hear me?


VII.


The woman sits on the boat, her husband in her arms. Waves beat against the side of the boat, and the night sky shrouds everything. Land is just ahead of her, at most a day away.
The other end of the Azure Sea.
She cradles her husbands head and holds him close. Tears stream out of her eyes and she thinks of all the things that they went through together. Sharp pain racks her, and she sobs even more.
She looks up into the sky, her eyes blurred by her tears. She sees something….something streaming through the sky. She rubs her face and gets a better look.
A series of stars arrange themselves into glowing arches, a single ray of light dividing them. They glow with the magnificence of the divine, a chorus for the ages. Then, suddenly, the image explodes into a series of shooting stars, sending a shower of brilliant luminescence everywhere, and revealing the new sunrise. The light illuminates her husband’s face, showing the smile that she couldn’t have seen in the darkness.
“Love, did you find what you were looking for?” She asks softly.
She already knew the answer and the world faded-

Just another brick in the wall.


-

‘Tis not to late to seek a newer world!
Push off, and being well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, Until I die.

Tennyson, Ulysses

upon the Abington Station's
long shearing board
the feats of one shearer
cannot be ignored
a run of two hundred sheep
he can easily shear
his style with the cutting comb
is without peer
contractors in the district
know of his pace
he removes fleeces
with an elegant grace

the Lister wool press
compacts all the long day
whilst the gun shearer
works tirelessly away
Kelpie dogs tongue
keeping his race full
as Layto shears the fine clips
of merino wool
none are as effective
with comb in hand
in the regional area
of the New England

Layto shears the sheep
cleanly and effortlessly
whether the fleeces
be thick or slightly oily
his shearing abilities
are know of near and far
on the shearing shed board
he's always bettered par
when he hangs up
the cutting comb to retire
fellow shearers will of him
greatly admire

Do you ever feel down
Painted face of a sad clown
You tell me in secret you do
But out in the streets you wear sunshine boots
Am I the only one who howls at the moon
Who curses the day I was born
(Of course not, they all curse that day, sweet child
They all throw their scorn your way
They all adorn their walls with your picture
They insert a crown of thorns
They would never mourn if you left
But don't look so forlorn)
What they don't tell you baby
Is that insanity is insanity
Insanity is (In)-sanity
You're in the deep realms now, baby
You're in the deep, dark night of the soul
But don't let them tell you you're crazy baby
You're just immersed in it All
What's in a name?
Oh, the locking away of it all
But who's running your country?
Who's building those pillars, babe?
Who's offering discounts of faith at
Five hundred & fifty-five feet of the world
They're just acting sane, babe
Oh, like everyone else
To be sane is to maim, babe
You're above all that now
It's just ol' Babylon, opening the gates
The devil's coupons give
Cheap entry
But don't lose hope, babe
Say "night" but not "good-night"
Cause buildings rise like phalluses
But you got your own sweet palaces
If you only look right, babe
No, look left
But look left the right way
Drink it all up in a golden cup
But don't raise your pinky to heaven
Lightning will strike on your grave, babe
Beware the cruel duel sevens
Oh, don't trust in mood rings or moon-beams of old
You've got the might of the brave
Don't let them lock you in dungeons so cold
Filled with white sterile walls and beds
But if so, remember that dragon
Oh, that sweet dragon in your head, babe
He'll knock down the walls
And if you just want to give up
Let out one last heavy sigh and succumb
Know that you're not under anyone's thumb
The pen can beat the sword, babe
But these days they got smart tools
They'll try to write on your mind, babe
They'll try to bend all the rules
Slay you with pin-sized compacts, babe
Inject blind Braille on your skin
Insert a button to trigger your fears
Try and teach you a lesson
Always gotta be on your guard
Always gotta prepare for attack
No longer playgrounds and nursery rhymes, babe
There's some forces out there that don't slack
Sinister ministers and diamond jacks
You're just a sheep among the wolves
But they'll be there in another life, babe
Looking for handouts and handshakes from you, babe
And inside you'll feel a yearning of vengeance
A strange, creeping feeling of righteousness
But if you don't want to deal with the weak, babe
Don't strike them down, just turn the other cheek
I say now,
Just get out, just get out, just get out
Smash all your mirrors and don't look back
You're no one's marionette
Good luck, babe
Good luck

"Abscission of Eschewal”

If I am still, I can hear the voices.

Chimes of advices, softly spoken, coronate in neon in my peripherals. Messages, abscissas from the x-axis of words and sounds, just parallel, float their fog of transmission to me.

“Touch that wall,” a voice’s suggestion nudges as I crookedly gain my balance by clutching the flat surface of this white wall, one fourth of the surfaces confining the contents of a tight enclosure. Just under the ventilation shaft, the wall is vibrating. The voices are louder near vibrations.

The enclosure, with every surface bleach white, is a bathroom, a corner taken at the edge of the convenience store off the four lane highway by the high school.

Its sink compacts spotless metal into its design, and the crafting lines visibly run parallel upon in its surface, reflecting generously to the bags under my eyes. The soap dispenser’s cubic structure cut into a visitor's vision like the blade of a pencil sharpener, showing every pixel and every angle of my face inside it.

Feint grooves dig into the wall in the shape of a triangle and a pair of scissors. Opposite that wall, a door with no handle stands; in the place of the handle rests only a circular lock. Behind the door, I hear a sigh, a winded slurp, the kind joggers give after high speed exertion on a morning run.

I hear the air rush, hitting the nostrils.

I hear a whimper.

I push the door open, slowly, and the hinge pops in intervals as it wedges open.

In front of me, a stool sets with a touch screen phone running on top of it, and a limp woman curls in a ball upon the floor, facing the bathroom. Her eyelids are missing.

A video plays of her on the touch screen phone on the stool. In a Skype window, she, a brunette girl with duct tape wrapped around her mouth, flickers in the thick black mire of what appeared to be another lavatory with a single fluorescent light with faulty wiring blinking a white glow upon her matted, unwashed hair. A black frame and darkness outlines her figure, filling the rest of the room. Her eyelids are missing in the video, just as her eyelids are missing in person, but she grasps to consciousness in the video, and she turns her eyes frequently with nervous twitches, wheezing and whimpering in the Skype window on the phone.

“Incoming call, 785-135-1581,” a white screen with green buttons interrupts.

I touch “Accept” and pick up the phone.

When my ear touches to the phone, I hear heavy breathing.

“No breeding, Jonas.” a male voice whispers.

“How do you know me?” I ask.

“Mating. They want to keep you from it,” the man continues.

“I won’t let that happen,” I assert.

“This was in protest, the first. Eyes open, so they can see,” the man says on the phone.

The male voice I heard on the phone, The Heavy Breather, inhales and exhales.

“Are there anymore?” I ask.

“I didn’t need anymore. Find out about her. See for yourself.”

I check her wallet.

I see credit cards, visas, and a 5x7 with her standing behind a podium in a lodge in a small town with a banner behind it, and a picture of a man racing on foot, crossing a finishing line with an arm outstretched in front of another racer to prevent him from finishing.
On the banner, a slogan reads, “Keep unborn and unflowered: cleanse the youth.”
Seated before her in the lodge are several lawyers, doctors, and town leaders conversing, smiling, and greeting.

“Look what they’ve done, colluding together, excluding us.  Leaving us alone. Partying while we suffer. Those in The Colluded of the Equinox kiss their wives and girlfriends and children in public they hoard and tell it all to us, flaunting their miscreant deeds. They hide in shadows and do every wrong thing, but they only rarely do wrong in public, and they are never together at the same time. They keep hidden company. They rejoice in their evils, oppression. We live not more than a few miles from them, wherever we live at anytime. We live with them. One sin from an unlucky man is worse than a thousand sins from a lucky man. Is that it? Is an unlucky Christian worse than a lucky atheist? They spew their mantra: 'It’s so much worse than you think.' They tell you you’re not what you think, that everything you know is wrong. 'Submit,' they say. You know what I did? I did what I wanted. This woman on the ground before you is what I wanted.”

“All this to stop from reproduction? This society…” I ask.

“I hate it, also. Be it willing or unwilling conspiracy, it is still conspiracy, high crimes, ” The Heavy Breather responds.

“Crimes before whom?” I question.

“I don’t know,” The Heavy Breather admits.

“I know some. First, they stare. Peeping in your windows, following. Then, records, whole security camera videos, receipts in stores, gone…written in ink that disappears. Records of existence...gone.Wherever you were, you were never there. That’s what they want for you, to delete every backed up conversation, memory, and recollection, so they can instill new things. I shopped in stores, and the devices were amnesiacs,” he recounts.

The woman on the floor moans and stirs, but she settles again feebly.

"They can't get rid of all that at once," I interject.

“No, but they keep scraping the little details of life away, proof of life, covering them up. They have cleaners, cleaning up our little spills of progress and success. Witnesses, like the devices they own, are amnesiacs." The Heavy Breather asserts.

"Even if the electronics are wiped clean, they must have seen us at stores or parking lots, somewhere. They can think for themselves and put it together, right?" I ask.

“Those that remember us have no incentive to continue those memories. The Colluded of the Equinox brainwash. Married people are telling the ***** not to get married. They force celibate priests, figures in white hoods.
The Colluded of the Equinox force people like quivering lures, closing doors until the only ones left are of seclusion and chastity. They are in all religions, hierarchies, in every ruling body, replacing reproduction with work, with ‘purpose,’“ he continues.

The body on the floor twitches as I hear the Heavy Breather grunt on the phone.

“These are their protocols. These are the Colluded’s motives. The Colluded condemns displays of affection, physical acts of love, reproduction. The Colluded controls the population. The Colluded tells the women to focus on each other and obey advertisements’ models of how they should behave and look…conformed and emotionless. The Colluded are survivalists, locking the reproductive organs of selected citizens to save money and keep control. The Colluded use the magnetism of credit cards to lock your urethra…the tingle you feel when you sit down on your credit cards in your wallet…it lowers your ***** count,” he growls.

“The answer came to me. 'Write your message on her insides,' said the sentence that was scrawled within my closed eyes in neon. It should read: ‘She threw us a stone instead of bread, the way corrupt people do.' You can go, now. I have work to do,” he suggests.

I heard a motor crank on the phone.

“Should I expect the authorities here?” he asks as the sound rumbles in the background.

“Carry on. I didn’t see anything,” I reply.

I grab the cell phone from the stool, press the 'End' button, put it in my pocket, and walk out of the bathroom, pushing the woman on the floor with my foot on my way out far enough from the door to close and seal it in front of her, nodding to the convenience store clerk as I push the glass door open and walk out into the street, cranking up my car and leaving to the open road.

oh undertaker
a high school poet died today
and they say

popularity is just relatability
see them in that mirror watching you
but check your compacts at the door
(look them in the eye)

they might **** you tonight
oh undertaker
how did they die last night?
forced the knife of lips
and lies into their minds
hit by a train full speed before the station lights
could see them in the way

we hate what we see
staring back, fade to black
in this highschool drama scene
who the **** are you?
can't be me
because i know myself, and this
dyed hair, straight kicks, concert tix
i see. that kid just aint all me

it might **** me tonight
oh undertaker
how do they die alone at night?
forcing the knife of lips
and lies into their minds
hit by a train full speed before the station lights
could see them in the way

give me my pen it's stronger
than the wings of that waterproof eyeliner
you cried off in the bathroom stall
last tuesday
oh undertaker, you
drew em back, of course
sharper than a sword but twice as brittle
because you hate the way they frame
her eyes, and your lies too

they might **** you tonight
oh undertaker
how did you die last night?
forced the knife of lips
and lies into their frozen faces
crushed by a train full speed before the station lights
could see them in the way

tonight, check you faces at the door
come in clear
and dont check your face to see
who's looking at you
we all see the same screen
our pores in bass-relief
tombstone grief

mesmerized by the collected way you talk to me
how your lips no longer speak into me across paled skin
i slowly lower my lids
i leave this ?time? i travel back
***** wooden floors gravel drives *** smoke empty bottles love made flesh bruised lips bleeding i travel BACK
i see your eyes the metallic glare behind them
in my arms you were soft
is that why in the night i couldn't hold you?
composure is everything !be vulnerable for me!
you're hard you've been stamped on by the feet of god
crushed into powder bone dust compacts you wear it inside you
you wont let me feel it wont let me see
i tried to consume wanted to drink you up eat your beautiful flesh
i didn't heed the warnings i ripped through you hungrily
you have a *******
a pit like a peach
shards of my teeth lodge there
you cast me aside collect the molars as a keepsake
had i known i would have swallowed you whole
and carried the blackness in me
carried your love always eternally unceasingly in me

This time of year
When the children play and cheer. 
Praying for those angel tears.
Mother gray children white
Sending her kids down through the night.

Dream like they fly though the sky
Hitting your face reminding you of a
Cold ocean spray.
 
The trees slowly become an 
army of granite white statues
Still in the night.
 
A littel boy works on a snow man 
an engineer of this cold white city.
The snow compacts under foot 
Groaning as it is slowly squished.

The air bites with almost a metal taste
My breath comes out like a 
Dragons fiery blaze but cold 
as ice in a foggy haze.

The girl a lion in the snow
Waiting to strike with her ball of icy snow.

The smell of smoke promising a fire 
Comes from the house just around the 
Corner.

Knolls of clothing dot the rug, a
rainbow of empty plastic hangers
sway with every pass.  Hot rollers
get a little hotter, round and rectangle
compacts litter the counter, waiting to
give her a face to face the world. 
 
She picks up things and puts them down,
making decisions and easily changing her
mind.  A timid little queen of a tiny kingdom,
running her life within the walls of her
walk-in, avoiding the subjection that waits
outside the closet door.

These past few nights
I've found myself
Wide awake
Half naked
On my bed
Sheets between
My body
And the air that compacts
Itself into this box
Of a room

All of this
Because of you

I cannot go to sleep
The wiring of
My nerves
Tingling and twitching
Underneath this
Summer skin
That longs for the
Weekends

All of this
Because of you

And on the nights
Where there is no air
Between my body
And yours
My breathing hitched
My moans all muttered
Is when I get my sleep

All of this
Because of you

It is such a risk
To find a slumber
Deep enough
To hold me under
When all I want
Is you

All of this
Because of you

Feel the cold crystals in your fingertips,
feel the change,
feel the water,
feel the warmth,
as your body gives, and once what was snow, takes.

Feel the cold ball as you compress it in the palm of your hand,
feel the change,
feel it harden,
feel the cold grow as
the snowball compacts and becomes icy hard.

Feel your heart beating
put your coldest hand
on your skin and chest,
feel the change in heart rate,
your skin fights the temperature,
and your body and heart give, and what was once cold to you, warmth.


©ClemC122013

Imagine
        A poem

                Is a small room

                       With words

                                 Walking in,

                                               And out the doors.



Periods are door knobs,

And symbols closing doors.  

Stanzas balance beneath

the blank expanses
In cycles.



The unites

compacts & splashes



cascading

Into the

pond of

consciousness

    at the end.



The goal

Is to

reach homeostasis

Of the heart

  & the inward eye.



For Imagination is  inking

a strange cosmos

one letter

& blank space

   at a time.



Poem makes

It home among words

    that It nests in.



What is,

              Is spoken

                     Upon the paper

                                 Of poets.

popularity is just relatability
see them in that mirror watching you
but check your compacts at the door
(look them in the eye)
they might **** you tonight
who doesn't hate what they see
staring back, fade to black
in this highschool drama scene
who the **** are you?
can't be me
because i know myself, and this
dyed hair, straight kicks, concert tix
i see. that kid just aint all me
give me my pen, it stronger than the
wings of that waterproof eyeliner
you cried off in the bathroom stall
last tuesday
drew em back, of course
sharper than a sword but twice as brittle
because you hate the way they frame
you eyes, and your lies too
tonight, check you faces at the door
come in clear
and dont check your face to see
who's looking at you
we all see the same screen
our pores in bass-relief

A spastic in a cavern
reverberating passions
compacts patterned actions

Insanity dampened

A daft wit half lifted
listens with intention
past trending effervescence

The wit just drips off your words
But I'm not really there
My palms are wet and cusped and filled with the liquid formation of what I'm given
Advice I grip onto and try to let absorb into me
Try to taste it, to feel it, to see it
Trying to know if it applies
Something that lets me know that there is direction to this life
Signs and signals I've been purposefully missing for so long
Avoiding all the warning signs that leave me exhausted beyond amount
Maybe they're speaking to me
Desperation is all my body language has became at times like these
Desperate for the period at the end in the midst of all the question marks I don't have enough words or connecting brain signals to give adequate responses to
Long run and ever going
An object in motion will stay in motion until stopped
But all my tactics to work around things have succeeded until all the sudden everything meets in a forced crash
It always meets somewhere and when it does I'm left in the rubble and aftermath
Trying to sort through all of the connecting parts left unconnected that I could have kept together if only I had
But I never do
It all crumbles and compacts until more things are adding up that I keep apart until they eventually meet
And they're all sharp
Biting and unavoidable
But I don't stop
Focusing all of my attention on sawing one down instead of stopping the making of others but because instant gratification has always been my favorite forte
I've only ever succeeded in getting nowhere but lost

A poetic mind will never find it so hard to see the words....to feel the words...
to place the words so perfectly where he or she may want them to be...

In a poetic mind lays a soul....that has enough control to impose that words are never easy to let go...so they over flow....some darker than others...which smothered the un-uttered compact and cluttered words.....

A poetic mind will unwind from time to time....some poems will rhyme....more often than many will not....but that won't stop that poets poetic mind....day dreams of the words that fall into place in front of faces....not leaving spaces on the paper to write another un-uttered smothered word that compacts and clutters the poets poetic mind like window shutters....

A poetic mind can never let words just be...written from left to right....its just to easy to write....a mesh of words blistering the finger tips from the pen grips...and the paper scrapes...across each line because that poetic mind will find it....so easy to grind it or engrave the words...so a poetic mind becomes a slave to the paper....blank is it? to you it may be...but on a blank sheet of paper I see....words rhyming in perfect harmony....made from the poetic part of the mind of mine.....

This poetic mind won't find it hard to see....the words that I perfectly place together....whether in blue or black my poetic mind won't cut slack to the blisters on my finger tips....or let go of my pen that drips in motion that places....the words so gracious...leaving paper with no spaces to write another smothered compact un-uttered word made from a poetic mind....a mind of mine....

P.O.E.T.I.C    M.I.N.D
E.      H.         A.        E
T.      O.         T.          S
E.     M.         T.          P
R.     A.         H.          I
         S.          E.          R
                     W.          I
                                   T
                                   O
-Peter T. DeSpirito

popularity is just relatability
see them in that mirror watching you
but check your compacts at the door
(look them in the eye)

8am:
Brush teeth with disposable brush
And toothpaste in a tube to be thrown away
Cake on makeup from compacts you’ll leave
Drive car to work
The landfill grows
Routine, easy, normal
Too busy in the cycle
To remember we’re next

11:45am:
Drive car to restaurant
Unwrap burger from plastic
Drink from one time use cup
With a plastic lid and straw
Dump tray and go
The ocean fills
Routine, easy, normal
Too busy in the cycle
To remember we’re next

3:00pm:
Drive car from work
To movie theatre with friends
Popcorn from cardboard box
Ticket printed on paper slips to be lost
Put on glasses and go
Routine, easy, normal
Too busy in the cycle
To remember we’re next

6:00pm:
Stomach growls, dinner at home
Frozen peas from plastic bag
Ham from the same
Lettuce shipped in crates
Bread kept fresh by shiny wrap
Sandwich and eat
Routine, easy, normal
Too busy in the cycle
To remember we’re next

1am:
People sleep in cluttered houses
Trash is hauled away
Polar bears swim for shelter
Garbage Patch beings to sink
The problem isn’t all that big, they think
There's only a few with the sense to holler:
We’re okay, for now
Still on top
Remember, though
It seems routine, easy, normal
And we forget that we’re next-
-by the time we remember
It will already be too late
We failed the ultimate test.

Watching you withdraw into yourself
Put up your walls, while all I can do is patiently wait outside of the gate
Darling, look outside the window, it doesn't have to be this way
People have died waiting for the glaciers in their heats to melt
Their faces only memories smiling blankly back from picture frames
Their families never the same again, every single heart breaks
The sight of hearts breaking is the saddest sight of all
No fight left, the weight compacts the size and shape of your soul
The walls you build to keep out compassion will become dark and lonely prisons
Please don't do this, you don't have to go through this alone
You have choices and decisions and time to fight back black skies
But if you lock yourself inside, then we may never see your light again
You and I won't be alright again and I just don't have it in me to pretend
That the walls you build are a temporary shelter from the cold
Please don't go now, please don't go

When the wheat from fields are reaped,  
There's much work yet to be done.
Stalks are then cut and harrowed,
Then they're dried by wind and sun.

The work done by the bailer,
Compacts straw that's in furrows,
After twine tightens the straw,
Each bale off the baler goes.

Today lets forget the gym,    
It's the day that we make straw.
It's time to work our muscles.
From rest it's time to withdraw.

There'll be work on the trailer,  
And there'll be work on the field.
The work is more exhausting,        
Where the wheat had a good field.

Bales are brought to the trailer,    
Where they're thrown then stacked on it.
The work is sure exhausting,
But its not yet time to quit.

Byhe bale escalator, 
To the barn times bales are brought.
When there's no escalator,
We then work more than we ought.

Stacking bales inside the barn,  
Laborious it's there too;
When the bales are put away,
To the kitchen we head to.

1.

Like a colossal black hole,
the pitiless night devours
every glowing shred of light,
generating an impenetrable
darkness for the pilgrim
groping to find his way home.

2.

Darkness is its own reward.
The lines on the highway
disappear into pavement.
Compasses swirl counter-
clockwise, blind to true north.
Death hides behind bushes, reaching
out to ****** the unwitting soul.

3.

I yearn to embrace the night
in all its inhumanity, to find
its weak spot for the traveler.
But there is no shadow of
direction. The night hides
within itself, dense and tragic,
like a Puccini opera.
Who can sing its arias?

4,

Like a colossal black hole,
the night compacts every
beam of light. Who can lift
the curtain of darkness
that falls across our lives?
Who can bring light back to the world?