A bicycle is the most efficient transportation machine.  A little input and I’m gliding, moving a useful measurable distance but more than that. I like going fast enough so the wind in my ears is louder than my thoughts.  On a tough day I like riding until I can be grateful again; sometimes that takes a couple hours but every ride is a good ride.

My youth’s independence was a banana seat Huffy pulled from an under-appreciated pile of rust in the back of St. Vincent’s Thrift Shop.  No school bus meant riding to school, the first 45 minutes of every day in all weather. Afternoons were exploring detours; summers were expeditions to the city limits, sometimes beyond.  I needed an upgrade for high school; I found a spotless antique 3 speed Raleigh, the cultural English workhorse collecting dust in an unlikely garage for $50.

I kept it through two foster homes. The first one kept me busy with farm chores, but the second was back in town. There, I had the bike back, and as an aside, they had a phenomenally sophisticated wall sized sound system: reel-to-reel and amazing headphones. I would forget myself in records: Sgt. Peppers, Genesis, Yes, etc, and another favorite. Just a guitar and piano instrumental album with a simple melody called Bricklayer’s Beautiful Daughter. Something about that one song in particular I heard faint glimmerings of contentment that was denied to me.  I would replay it to cling to this hint of a simple happiness I didn’t understand; that if it was in the song, it was somewhere deep in me.
Without a car for 10 years, one used 10-speed or another got me to various eccentric jobs.  

Fast forward to the life-changer, after a divorce. Needing to reconnect with myself, I searched for a decent bike. I found it hanging dusty in the back of a cluttered boutique shop smelling of tire rubber, quiet with racers’ confidence. They had a Lemond thoroughbred on consignment, assembled custom 5 years earlier to race. It was slightly outdated, but a dent on the top tube put it out to pasture. It was steel though, so rideable enough for me.  My entire $300 savings and it was mine. Then I discovered the special pedals needed special shoes, so another month saving for those.  I wasn’t going to wear those silly spiderman outfits, until I started to ride more than 10 miles and my **** demanded it.  And those pockets in the back of the shirt were handy.  I met a friend who taught me how to draft: my skinny wheel a few inches behind the bike in front at 20 mph, to save precious energy in the slipstream. Truly dangerous, vulnerable, and effectively blinded; but he pointed at the ground with various hand signals to warn of upcoming road hazards. I was touched by this wordless language of trust and camaraderie. This innate concern is essential to the sport, even among competitors, so it seems to attract quality people I liked.  My new life expanded with friends.

I discovered biking exercise could stabilize the life-long effects of brain injury, lost some weight, grew stronger, and started setting goals.  First longer group rides, then a century (100 miles in one ride), then mountain biking: epic fun in nature, unadulterated happiness.  Then novice racing, then the next category up with a team, then a triathlon.  It became an admitted obsession but I won a pair of socks or bike parts every now and then.  Eventually tattooed two bike chains around my ankle, one twisted and the other broken.  I loved the lifestyle, and had truly reinvented and rediscovered myself.

A 500 mile ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles with fellow wounded veterans helped dissipate the old shame from the military.  I had joined the ride to raise money for a good cause.  I respected the program and knew personally that cycling had changed my life.  They turned out to be inspiring, helping me more than I could have helped them.  Some had only just started riding a bike for only a few weeks, some were amputees fit with special-made adapters on regular bikes, some had no legs using hand cycles.  They all joined on to the task of riding 500 miles. No one whined, and helping each other finish the day was the only goal.  While riding with them, I began to open up about my experience.  I found a few others who also had TBI, and we could laugh about similar mishaps.  The other veterans didn’t judge me about anything, like when I was injured, the nature of my disability, how much I did or didn’t accomplish. I had signed up just like them, had to recover back to a functioning life just like them.  It was the first time in my life that whole chapter in my life was accepted; I wasn't odd, and they helped close the shame on that old chapter.  (Thank you, R2R.)  The next year I took a 1500 mile self-supported bike trip through western mountain ranges with my husband and soulmate, whom I had met mt. biking.

There was one late Spring day, finally warm after a long winter, when I just wanted to ride for a few hours by myself.  No speedometer or training intervals, just enjoy the park road winding under the trees. I had downloaded some new music on the IPod, a sampler from the library.  I felt happy.  Life is Good.  Rounding a bend by the river, coasting through sunbeams sparkling the park’s peaceful road, my earphones unexpectedly played Bricklayer’s Beautiful Daughter.  I hadn’t heard that simple guitar tune in three decades.  My God, time suddenly disappeared.  I was right back in the forgotten foster home, listening for the faint silver threads of the contentment I was feeling at this very moment on the bike.  The full force of this sudden connection, the wholeness of the life and unity of myself in one epiphany, brought me to tears. I found myself pouring my heart into praying hang in there, girl, hang in there, you’ll find it and I felt my younger self hearing echoes of birds singing in new green leaves.

What caused you to write a book and have it published?
Thankfully, I’ve enjoyed a career in IT (Information technology) for over 25+ years. However, I’ve been downsized out of a job four times – the last time in 2005, I was unemployed for nine months. During that time, I looked at over 19,000+ companies to find one job. With more jobs in my field being outsourced to lower wage earners overseas, I decided I needed an exit strategy from the corporate world to launch a more stable career and income.


2. How long have you been writing?
I started officially writing poetry in January 2001; it was a natural progression from working on my website. I started my website (Bunganut Lake Online) back in 1999; as I added content over the years, I started writing short stories about fishing, followed by haikus about fishing and Nature; then I started writing senryus about traffic (see honku.org) and later about God.


3. How long did it take to finish your book?
I spent about 13 months to write the manuscript of my current book; once I initiated the book making process with my publisher (BookSurge), I had the final product in hand in 3.5 months.


4. What is the name of your book and what is it about?
The name of my book is “Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory”; the ISBN numbers are: 1-4196-5051-3 & 978-1419650512. It is a book of poetry, geared to inspire people to develop or strengthen a relationship with God.


5. Do you want to write more books and have them published?
Definitely; I have four completed and unpublished manuscripts; in addition, I have five other manuscripts started. All of these writings are poetry.


6. Who or What was your inspiration when writing your book?
Jehovah is my inspiration; He’s always been my Source, Redeemer and strength; most of my life, I’ve blessed to attended Church and receive Salvation in my youth.


7. What is your favorite author and book?
After the Bible (KJV), my favorite book is: How to Rule the World: a Handbook for the Aspiring Dictator by Andre De Guillaume. (It’s a humorous look at people and their desire for power.) Most of my reading is technical stuff from sources such as PC Magazine, so I don’t have a favorite author (in the traditional sense). There are number of poetry writers that I do enjoy [who are too numerous to mention, such as PDK (AllPoetry) and Gershon Hepner (Poem Hunter)].


8. What is the best thing about writing?
The best aspect of writing is the freedom of expression and the power to choose words, conveying ideas and concepts that bolster one’s imagination.


9. What are some of your other hobbies?
I love spending time at the lake in Maine where I own a summer property – activities include swimming, fishing, campfires and working on my website; I also enjoy board games, such as backgammon, scrabble and others, as well as computer games (ranging from pinball to Wolfenstein).


10. What caused you to use BookSurge?
I looked at a number of publishers and was disappointed at their offerings and reputations. For me, BookSurge was chosen because they are owned by Amazon.com; in addition, they provided all services required for the bookmaking process. Although I spent a fair amount of money, to me it’s worth it. For now I’m tapped into a global economy with a quality product. No one wants to spend their hard-earned money on an inferior product – so I did what was best for me.


11. What would you tell others that wanted to become an author as well? What steps would they need to take to get started?
Now that I’m published, I find myself more than willing to share my experiences. The first step is to have a notebook or clipboard to store and write down thoughts and ideas. Second, one must identify what one has passion about; one’s writing must come across as sincere and knowledgeable; third is to produce the manuscript; once the manuscript is complete, then start the bookmaking process that is most affordable. Once the book is published, the real work (and reality) of selling comes into focus.


12. How does your family feel about you being an author?
Some family members are very proud and supportive, while others are still mute on the subject.


13. Do you have a website to promote your book?
My marketing plan employs the use of multiple websites; I’ve posted my writing on a number of poetry websites, such as AllPoetry, Poetry With Meaning, Poem Hunter and others; in addition, I have created a “lens” on Squidoo.com. At some, point, I’ll advertise on my own website. In the future, I would like to develop a personal website geared towards marketing my books.


14. Can people buy an autographed copy of your book if they wish to? If so how would they go about doing that?
Yes, people can purchased autographed copies; the best approach is via my “lens” on Squidoo.com; the link is: http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/


15. Do you think in the near future that you may write and publish more books?
Yes, I am planning to publish more books of poetry.


16. Is it hard work being an author?
That depends on the goals one sets for himself; for example, if one’s desire is to earn a comfortable living from one’s writing, then yes it’s difficult. With the presence of the Internet and related technologies, it’s very easy to be published, but no guarantee to make money.


17. What are your dreams and Goals in life?
The ultimate goal is to become the Christian man as seen by God Himself; after that, I would like to assist others to publish their own books, continue work on my website and develop my own business software for the marina operator.


18. Could you tell us a little about your book and what caused you to want to write it?
My book is a personal expression of faith; The Word tells that we are “more than conquerors”; in a sense, I achieved that ideal since my humble book is “now available worldwide”.


19. Is your book non-fiction or fiction?
I would classify my poetry as non-fiction. To me, a relationship with Christ and having faith is real.


20. Could you tell use where we could get a copy of your book? What bookstores are carrying it and what online stores are carrying it?
None of the brick & mortar bookstores are carrying my title as yet. My book can be purchased via Amazon.com, Borders.com or from me directly via the Squidoo.com “lens” at: http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/


21. What kind of promotional tools do you use to advertise your book?
I am using several promotional tools; my work has been submitted to two book contests; it is part of the Beijing International Book Fair (in China); I use the Internet and have set-up consignment arrangements with several businesses. I also have printed marketing materials, such as business cards, postcards and bookmarks.

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Its annoyance
Anointed
In pessimistic clairvoyance

Its the avoidance
Of the simplistic
And stoical
Components

Its motion
Less
Ness
In oceans
Of lip service

Its ***** potions
For the passionate

Its fake ****
And face lifts

Its abortions
In portions
Of subordinates
As gifts
In gifs
Of gorgeous
Ordinance
Distorted
In tortured
Tapping
Of the dead

Its all the fame
In shoving
The pain
Of loving
In the oven
Of stubborn
Mothers
Blubbering
Under the covers
With other men

Its the omens
Of the oh mans
In roman
Misnomers
Of fortunate
Misfortunes
Torn
From time

Its the mine mine mines
Confined
To their own kind
Pre signed
In old blood

Its consignment killers

Its the drugs

Its timeless thrillers

Its the shrugs

Its the thunder
Plundering
Structures
Rattling out
From under the bed

Its all the thoughts
In our heads
Blaring
The booms
Of the tamed

Its the assumed
The restrained

Its this tomb
Of shame
In doing
The same
Old **** again

And again
Its been
Better

Then again
I grin
When
Cold

Its when i should fold
That i embolden

Its all the No's

Its blankets nose

Its the cut blow
And lack of flow

Its fists and elbows
As opposed
To safety locks

Its ******* flu shots

Its everything
That ****** me off

Its the the stupid robots
And the silly riot cops
Fencing in the famished flocks

Its the *****
And the *****
In plastic boxes
Giving rocks
Off
Without us

Its the gold pots
And stacked stocks
Locked
From us

Its the Rocks
Inside my socks
As they knock
The blocks
Of billy bobs
Bobbling
On the dash

Its the harsh
And its the rash

Its inside the last
Bastion
Of dummassez
passing
Through the
Blast radius.

Alas

Its the mass graves
And the paved pools
Of anyone who knew
Anyone who stood

Its all us fools
As cool kids
Knowing
No show biz
In soul ****

Its in knowing this
And *******
And barking
At the moon
Soon
To swoon
None

I am peaking soon
In looming threat
Of lost concepts
Slipping away
Under the sun
Electing to quit
While im ahead
Way back when
It was fun
Way back when

It mattered

Its a gun
Shooting blather
Blathering
As a bladder
Would

Misanthropic
And misunderstood

A changed topic

Knock on wood

Bye is good

Goodbye

Told you

Its implied
In rite

So

Good
night
Until
next
time

T'was a night before Christmas, Not the one that we know
When the big guy came forth,From the land full of snow,
He'd been summoned down south, to a lawyers..no less
There were some concerns that he had to address.
First was the doll that was known just as Dinah,
It was looked at because it was all made in China
The paint would flake off, so it stayed on the shelves
It was obvious that it was not made by elves.
There were problems as well with the way that it looked,
From the make-up she wore, you would think that she hooked
The lawyers all said she should look more demure
And the manufacturers need to lose the fake fur.
To show off its privates, there wasn't the need
So it came off the shelves, and it was done with real speed.
The next toy examined was a gun that shot caps
But the chinese translation said it was used to shoot cats
PETA had phoned and was all up in arms
That Santa believed in "The right to bear arms"
"Santa", they said "you can't sell guns as toys"
"They're dangerous for all the girls and the boys"
But Santa just sat and he had nothing to say
Their arguements meant things would not go his way.
So he sat and he watched as each toy was brought out
Though deep down inside, he just wanted to shout
"What happened to Christmas, it's supposed to be fun"
"Where is the harm in a little toy gun?"
"Expenses kept rising and the costs all went nuts"
"I had to lay off the elves as one of the cuts"
"I outsourced to China, Taiwan and B.C."
"How would I know this would happen to me"
"Wal-mart's successful with importing from there"
"In fact, they all do it with nary a care"
"I can hire some back as consultants as such"
"But, with the cost of production, I can't pay them too much"
"You all once were children and you broke what I gave"
"Now production from China is the new fad and rave"
"The toys were more dangerous in years all gone by"
"There were parts you could swallow and choke on and die"
"The paint was lead based like the stuff you all fear"
"You all ate it as children and yet your're still here"
"Now come and tell Santa what this is really about"
"I've got contacts upstairs, you know Santa has clout"
"Did I miss you one chistmas, getting you G.I Joe?"
"I'm really confused and I really must know"
"There's no time to dawdle because Christmas comes soon"
"I now have to leave early so I get home by noon"
"I'm down to four reindeer from my original eight"
"And with half my contingent, I'm usually late"
"Now please tell me all, what it is that I missed"
"We just needed to see you to know you exist"
"As lawyers our spirit is little to none"
"And the whole Christmas season si no longer fun"
"They've banned the word Christmas in court and in Schools"
"In fact we all feel that we all look like fools"
"We used this sad tactic to get you down here"
"So you can do something great to bring back our cheer"
"Christmas once was a time for belonging"
"When carolers sang and went out all ding donging"
"It's now just a season for retail and sales"
"Where people just eat and they look like beached whales"
So Santa sat back and he thought  what to do
How could I make Christmas Special, can I make it brand new"
He then said "I've got it, I'll bring back the elves"
"I'll make stuff on consignment and I'll fill the shelves"
"I'll go out on tour signing books to mend fences
"All the money I make will help drop my expenses
"The toys will stay dangerous, that never will change"
"But, I'll make less noisy guns and I;ll reduce their range"
"I'll advertise Christmas....yes that's what I'll do"
"I'll do it up as a sequel....Call it Christmas Part Two"
And he rose from his chair and he said with a grin
"I'm off now to China to fire ten guys named Chin"
And those lawyers all heard as he flew away East,
"Who'd have thought three small presents would create such a beast?"

A pass between
the ceiling stints,
ivy sinews,
and unhinged bricks.
The broken glass
still shifts and cracks
in narrow steps
of a time passed.

Streams of oil,
weaving between,
to a seamless,
tar and fissure,
smoke clouds pummel,
passing stranger,
surging street lights,
to the waves of.

On the edge of
the coming rain,
consignment times
as beauty lies.

I cast your horoscope across the miles,
Star gazing does take a while,
I see your astral alignment,
Hugs and kisses in your consignment,
A golden age for you of peace,
Forever in your  heart to keep,
Health, wealth, and great happiness,
Your stars are giving you a bless,
Enjoy each day as it comes,
Fill your days with your kind of fun,
So, this was my day's assignment,
To predict your star's alignment,
Now I've cast your horoscope across the miles,
This star-gazing does take a while.

there's a man across the street,
walking real casually
past the coffee shops and consignment stores,
hands stuffed in the pockets
of his black track jacket,
and he's whistling.

i watch him from the other side,
this lackadaisical nomad,
all sunshine and songbirds.
he's whistling his persona
in this transient fiction,
past his rippling reflections
in the shop windows,
all the while believing them to be
shifting images in god's great eye--
just one more happy creation.

Dear Mr. Cupid,

I hope you are well. Please forgive this letter’s intrusion. I know you are busy, preparing your bow, and planning this season’s collusions. I’ll remind you though Sir, of the issue I had with the last year’s arrow consignment. Your aim was amiss, and I’d be remiss if I failed to seek your reassignment. I’d like somebody new to deliver my true - love for which I have been waiting. For it has been so long since my wife ran along, and everyone says that I should be dating. So please, if you would send somebody good to shoot Love's arrow at me. Thank you in advance for forgoing this dance.

Sincerely,
Mr. Oso Lonely

Life must be carried on with contentment
We must develop an enough sentiment
All our ideas we must try to implement
Doing the best not for just compliment
Efforts to succeed we must augment
Waste not time in useless argument
Go for wise and shrewd agreement
And ever work for World's betterment
We must perform well our assignment
Sending kindness as our consignment
Work hard for our fine goals' attainment
By accepting arriving disappointment
We must make our rules" enactment
Acting always with real commitment
We must obey God's Government

mvvenkataraman

Driving off on the side roads precarious and dense
with firs holy beneath the florid specter of roseate afternoon,
purified with rainfall on the montane bladed rocks
holding together cliff face edges of highways.
I'm present with my black coffee humming while
folk plays on the radio and my sweater from the
consignment shop is still captured in spellbinding redolence
from the girl of my dreams. Nearby, a hidden path boasts a cliff commanding flowing pacific waters pronounced with gold
among mountains obscured in shadow.
Companions cross the valleys reciting sutras and tracing fingers through this blessed land, treasuring the trees, firesmoke ascending from beyond assembling woods thick and overgrown.
Doe and rabbit bounding from rocky terraces alert and surviving instinctively while riverside cabin homes hide a while yet from the long driveways and cozy mailboxes hand-painted or made of wind-bent tin cans.  
I'm flourishing slowly and with periodical decay in this garden growing while I grow and life is beauty and spasm devils as am I, this I know.

We're matches momentarily lit in the weary hands of stars
to guide them in the darkness.
My hair will gray from death we jest
and I will live before I rest.

If I could express
In the most eloquent way
The need I suppress
To hate you every day

The Simple Alignment
Of pen on paper
A simple consignment
Of words to vapour

My god, the darkness that broils behind this grin
The dark resentment, every present within

But I digress
I smile and whittle away
Accepting the stress
That comes with every day
No matter the anger
That singes me like a lit cigar
No matter the danger
Of that burning to my heart

I smile, grin and bear it so to say
Till one day I snap, and throw it all away
Toss it to the wind, that cold bitter grey
Till its whipping envelops me
Its pressure that of an endless sea
Until the earth connects, and I cease to be
God have mercy, set me free

I wish I'd saved my best for you
Uncomplaining queen of my heart
There was a time

You deserve something less
wide bent noisy broken
Adonis no not quite that
but supple
firm and fresh

You bought as is
No returns
Never asked around whose
***** I'd been girt

Still I wish
it was you'd done the wearing
off the sparkle out the elastic
That every crease
was a day of your life

Sweet lady
Bargain hunter
Thrift store baby
What you get
Is all I've got
not
What you deserved
I'm what you bought
Hope you like it
*smile

she's gold on one side
silver on the other

heartened and free
she runs like a car wreck
racing at breakneck speed
trudging through sand to conjoin
two-fold into one.

little passes by her that goes unnoticed.

she drinks in every opportunity
to swallow what ever happening will feed her today's lesson.

equanimity hostility frivolity passivity.

she knows the streets have taught her more
than she will ever forget.

and she can remember how it felt
to taste ***** in her mouth
when she looked in the mirror
that mocked her every breath.

she tries to back step
and unmake a bed
that she's told she made
and must lie in
for the rest of her life.

she wants to call consignment
and have it undelivered
but they won't take
bug ridden
**** stained
sprung and un-stuffed
pieces of junk that carried
peoples dreams in the dark.

there's no worth, they say.

so she's left
carting around holes and dead air.

melted glass and ***** cartridges.

spent fits and broken tin.

wondering
what kind of legacy this is
for a very pretty tousle haired girl
that trusts her with unfeigned eyes
and believes in super mom?

she cries at night
and tries in the morning
being as tangible as they expect-

but in that socketed place
that holds spun sugar contemplation
she buries herself.

one two-fold parades all day
playing puppet gurrl games.

she lives in a land of
pots of gold and rainbows
clover and blue moons
moving one step at a time
towards what's expected
because she knows nothing else.

day in and day out
running like a car wreck-

gold on one side
and silver on the other.

Imagine   hot
water           music
            traipsing  down  my  throat
when you   had  your  sharp   tongue
      shoved    down   my  throat
with   contestations    simmering   in  my   sinews,
  a  few   of    them   scandalous
some    true    like   the   sudden fleeting   of your   crepuscular brow
   to   two moons   paler   than   the love –
or   the    long    traverse   to the   treacherous
    roads    of   your   skin   mapped   out   in excess
your   lecherous   debris   sprawling  everywhere   like   words
   to   a   book   or   silence  to   an   early  morning    commute,
your     undulant  bursts   outmatch   the weight  of   my
     steady  anchors,  imagine   this   cold   wind  sinking  deep
into   the    bone    at  4 o’clock   in   the   afternoon
   drunk    in  front   of    faceless  crowds
hunting     for   purpose,  discombobulated   erudition
      in    sodden   corners   and cheap  thrills,

imagine      the     scrumptious   twinge   of
     the  Sun that  mangles   its   arms   to paint   a new
moon   for   us  both   and    think of  this   as   a  consignment  to
  oblivion    when  the twists   and  turns   of  the road
     remember  only    measures   of   steps that have no  names
       and   not   the passengers, where   one   wrong   forceful
  shot   at   fate   could   mean   the   end  of  all things down
   below  an ocean  of muck   or   just  stale blackness and  ravines
      of    voices   bellowing   to call  out departed   ones

where   you   are just   as trivial    as
    driving  in  Kennon Rd.   at night   without  maps
and   beacons,  only   far-fetched   city buoys,
    the  frigid     wind,  the collapsing   bannister   of the night
cloying   the   turns   sharper than  how  it was to   first  see you   leave
    in   the morning,      bringing   in  the  fog  for the first
        light   of  reality    to   burn.

Pay attention to the dirt!
Make the effort to Jump when the Big Fingers snap!

     I see you walking with your head in the clouds, looking up
     when you should be looking down,
     your hopeful imagination miles and miles away from your
     Here And Now.

Pay attention to the dirt!

     You!  With your eyes rolling 'round in youthful indignation
     playing in your happy little Tomorrow-Never-Land
     with those greedy little fingers on those greedy little hands
     talking your talk while walking blindly through a land filled
     with obstacles which have been moved around beneath you,
     by Big fingers, while you ignorantly slept!

Mind your step!
Pay attention to the dirt!

Do the math which you think you believe in,
while the gods you don't believe in
laugh at your stumble.
Go ahead...  Hold your head high in false pride
listening only to your own mumble
of self awareness as you go fumbling
through your pockets
jingling your worthless
change.
Best you dig deeper to secure the coins you'll need
when you come to YOUR final crossing.

Pay attention to the dirt!

"Life is short",  you often say.
But you're wrong.  Life is long,
And so very very wide.
    
     And yet you ride your time on one little narrow strip,
     always looking behind you as you stomp backwards
     in a foolish attempt to delay the arrival of your own
     inevitable.

     But even when that fateful day comes, you won't see it.
     You'll be too busy looking up.  Looking behind you.
     Tripping myopically along, blissful and unaware of
     Why.  Or Where.

Pay attention to the dirt!

Turn around, bend down.
Dig into that loam of home
with those greedy little fingers...

Linger awhile there, study the sift,
let it drift through and around your
knuckles...
And Feel the Real!
Look ahead, not behind.

     Observe the curve and swerve of the Glory Road
     stretched out before you and never-you-mind
     what fades behind!

     The Past at last has passed on and Tomorrow's Now
     awaits your feeble crawl towards the Wide.
     Into the Long.
     Beneath a sky which does not forgive,
     or even promise a firm footing.

Pay attention to the dirt!
  
     let me ask you...
     what is the price for dignity?
     the cost of respect?
     There is no lay-away plan.
     No six-month-same-as-cash agreement
     on a bargain basement consignment
     thrift shop deal-of-the-day.
    
     No red-tag blue-light special
     on a slightly used one-owner
     runs-well, cleans up OK Life.

     You can Not wheel and cajole a sneaky deal
     for a piece of pride on this ride into your
     particular continuum.
    
     There are no coupons.

     There is only Not Yet
     and Self, one day/per/day,
     as you plan and execute your
     next mistake.

     As you buckle your OWN boots and walk your OWN walk
     smiling,
     into the wind of contention.

So, Pay attention to the dirt!

Pay attention to the dirt!

And you mind your step.
You mind your step.

Elongated fingers claw at my scarf
As I walk down this narrow and lonely road
Between the bakery and the local consignment shop.
Only the brave venture the snow storm,
Only the strong return home safely,
Only the wise find a way forward.
The lost ones, the ones who wonder narrow roads,
Call back to les femmes de la neige,
The tarnished creatures lingering on the road side,
Hidden in the far corners of alley ways;
Endless piles that soar heights, yet invisible to the eye.
They whisper of loneliness, of endless woe, a soft place to rest,
A bed to sleep away the sorrow.
They breathe your name, a puff of heat in a white tundra,
Because, you see, I could walk anywhere I like,
But I walk the lonely narrow road
To remember spring has come before;
One day it will come again.

Not being one, who was born with a green thumb, or one of any other colour
I’ve never had a yearning to plant, nor care for, any type of flora or fauna
But as good fortune would have it; I was blessed, with the mind of a scholar
Or at least that was my theorization; while under the influence of marijuana

This was a period of time, during which knowledge flowed; like a gushing river
Sadly each lesson learned, was in the end, not comprehended and thus lost
But I had this situational calling to earn a living, and so, had these seeds to deliver
To some Basmotical garden; which unfortunately, in my haste, I later tossed

Of course, this occurred during a time of immense erudition; under the influence
This did cause me to manifest myself, as some exceptionally tortured soul
Not realizing how my outer apparent confidence, hid my inner impudence
I, into this garden of good and evil; did so thoughtlessly, let myself stroll

As I entered, under this arching Gothic gate, I immediately sensed a certain presence
And as I walked, was instantly drawn to one side’s fescue; bordering on my path
I was unfazed by the pedestrian variety of growth; but savoured each sweet essence
And as each new scent infused my sensory cells; my nostrils flared in their aftermath

But then on the other side, odors that stung and burned; a forewarning of some kind
So I grasped at my proboscis and squeezed it; to prevent any further *******
Making me gasp for air through my mouth, infusing my throat; though so disinclined  
Then causing me to heave and cough, from the putrid smell; during its gestation

On this side, such flowers of exception did excel; and yet that dreadful smell
On that, so casual a bloom; brought no visual enjoyment, only exquisite perfume
On one, like burning flesh, a rancid smell; it made me gag and want, not there to dwell
On the other, scents that made the nostrils spume, with the pleasance of their plume

Then all at once a revelation; to my left, there exists all nature of exotic foliage
But from its growth, leaped out all manner of fowl stench and guttural malodour
Yet to my right, the umbels lay, with a menagerie of misguided, erroneous spoilage
Though the effervescence of its bouquet; permeated, perceptibly from its disorder

I felt an enticing ubiquity, but not the nature of this presence, to my left and right
So, meandered further down the trail; until at last, I felt this attraction from each force
Both from the left and right, each enticing me to leave the trail, and enter its delight
This did at last, dupe my brain to say, choose; in which direction, to which concourse

Such a variance, made me ponder the relevance of what I had just discovered
Did I sense but apparitions; or was this truly spirits, which must exist among us  
This good or evil that lay hidden on each side, thusly camouflaged or covered
And a novice such as I, knew nothing of their nature; or was it just the cannabis

But, before I could decide, a puissance did ****** my throat and cloistered all my air
Not able to breathe, I impulsively dropped the bag of seeds, which I still carried
And as the bag burst and the seeds spewed forth, I thought, I am without a prayer
****** to my hands and knees upon the path, craving air; my demise, somehow tarried

As I watched those seeds slowly bounce; there arose a stream of sweet pure nectar
Which sped its way to my nostrils; and so relieved that tight noose around my throat
As my asphyxiation lost control; my passing, no longer became an imminent specter
My breathe returned, unencumbered by a ****; this new purity, to now my life denote

Not, to the ease by which I can my life direct, with mere stimulants; to be content
But to look ahead and discern, what it is I see; on which side the good or evil exists
And to forever, let my conscious being preside; over any future occasional discontent
So that now, my concentration would be, on the essentials; of which my life consists

But yet those seeds, so strewn about the footpath; was it for me then, to them gather
Either take their discharge as a sign; if left alone, the wastage may, by itself be fruitful
Or should I harvest each as best I could, to repackage them; and would that matter  
Inasmuch, they were so scattered, I let them lay; to not salvage them, I erred as frugal

So, I left this garden of good and evil; not perplexed by its existence, but assured
That not with the use of some opiates, would my future progress be thusly led astray
But through the realization, that stability and restraint, come from what I have endured
And good or evil, comes from attributes of my character; that I’ve earned along the way

And so, a moral you may ask.....maybe two
Then I say yes; well of course you do

From such a visceral experience, to bring about this massive conscious newel
A meaning was ascertained; firstly, from my consignment, thence, from my deliverance
Don’t scatter your seeds aimlessly, or leave them lay fallow, on a bed sheet or a towel
And trying to discern, delights of good or evil, while high on drugs; is just pure nonsense  
BOEMS BY JA 399

i hear the collective understanding

of dry sticks as they crack

the shock of alarm signals

like the migratory diaspora

of birds flying south

vibrates across tingling nerves

causing a necklace of choking

to grip at the throat

shivering I try to find a grave

I am watched from the summit of a hill

as a conflagration spreads

flames quiver

orange, yellow, purple, blue

there is an irregularity of thought

within me

my bones will soon

be pitched into debris

a petrified shiver

they still watch from

the summit of the hill

i collapse, gripped with a fear

of a permanent consignment

like that of dropping into a hollow

my face becomes plum stained

the income of breath becomes

a tenacious gasp

smoke swirls around me

blinding my red eyes

I become a misshapen

component of myself

standing like an effigy

hands raised in supplication

hysterically I try to

rid myself of this tyranny

find no distinguishable form

no solidified inquisitive intent

I rush and lash out

with a galvanised

inner adrenalin raised frenzy

a red sun appears

on the summit of the hill

ferocious in its heat

it lacks all euphony

and disintegrates with

debarring light

now speechless and cold

i fear the wind will find me

i move, burrow back

into a darkness

fire strokes across a green canvas

i am fault and disappear

without trace

You must die--whilst alive--to leave your cage. I once had a talking parrot--who lied--saying his luxury confinement was "quite ok."  On an african hunt for the diamond carrot, is where i stole him back to Bombay.
Then before returning on consignment--my pet parrot wished with me a parley.
      "Can you bring me back any messages--and tell them i am quite alright"--when i told this to a crying parrot--he quickly died on sight.
I told this to my pet when i returned--and he cried and did the same.  I sadly tossed him in the *******--but then i realized what the message contained--because he got up and flew away.

( lol, i was watching a self help speaker on tv last night, and he told a old indian parable, thought it would be catchy as a poem.)

We are stuck  in a turmoil
Her pantry
All red tape
Her can good's
on him?
It's my pleasure,
And he's as painful
Spinning wheel seizure

So tinny
tiny Tim foil
Long neck-------- giraffe
Life too short he's the
end of the kabob stick
My pleasant passenger
is lovesick
Mom's lips he rattles
His eyes of the
snake
Like Arby's smoked ribs
So pleasantly
on his tab
The Webster hub
passenger drinks
Pub

Bet Ya baking Trump
truffles hum?

((Nescafe Escape))
Carmello  latte- James
Bondman another passenger
Mr. Sandman twins
of duct tape
it says
((Where I End))

Where I begin
her money vault

The piano player
Billy Joel the strangers

My own flesh
and blood
Cousins and
Arsenic and lace
poison

Threw them
over the threshold
Elvira siesta greyhound
My pleasant
passenger

Secretly pulling teeth_
mistletoe at birth
Caught in his fire
from Bruce
Springsteen
birth

The messenger
singing
Fiddler on
the roof

Matchmaker
make me a
(Outer Rim)
space station

The orange juice
his
Pulp Fiction
The argument
Please let there be
Yankee fans
Take me out
Don't  ball me out

The game with my nephews
Buy me some cashews
and
Crack-Up Jacks
My pleasant passenger
I don't care if
he ever comes
back
Mary Mack dressed
in maternity black
The funeral came with her
right-hand
messenger

Newborn
life assignment
Bravo applaud

Not everything is
so pleasant
Contradicting
My pleasant
passenger
Couldn't
comment nothing was delicious----?

Rebirth reassignments
Come at me
consignment place
Second hand or
twice around
Another passenger
coming to town
I screamed he
had no face
bandages

Robin Hoods**
The passenger gobble up
seconds poor our goods__--
The first rich

I used to stand for something enlightening that I might feel,
now I stand in fields waiting for lightning to peel
back my skin and make me real, or at least semi-real
or semi-charmed, but not that kind of life
in the song, you better believe that we'll
laugh about the new ordeal
and blast away the golden seal
that keeps us locked behind its waxy confinement
as we're sold into white rooms by consignment-
minded chemtrails in human shells,
thrown into wells to circumvent
the audacity of our red blood cells
to deny us their consent
to believe the hell
inside our eyes
or let us vent
some anger
with acidic
goodbyes.

Her $50 hair carouseled about her head
As she turned to mouth me the answer before walking through the screen door.
Her collarbone showed, shouldering through the 5-year linen blouse
She’d bought from an upscale consignment store the same morning she bought
Her second car for less than her parents spent on shoes.

Before I’d seen the sea, I pictured space;
Stars and Galaxies and Ice and Infinite, bigger than I would be and gold,
Hot orange. And quicksilver and crimson. Too white to know, too bright to see.
I dreamt of eyes, thousands. And voices and outstretched, glittered, sweaty fingers
And swirling, sweeping spirits and sad songs about love.

“Please, I need this.” “I need you, please.”
I pictured golden, heavy hands with wine and French cheeses. And clawed, chalky bathtubs
Of marble veined grey, windows bigger than their walls and shiny cherry wood and leather.
I pictured her lips parting and eyes dewy as I drifted to the door because they needed me
And I couldn’t stay any longer, I’d already stayed too long, and they needed me.

Everyone else had tried so there were none left.
I was the last, so I was the first. The moon and its stars were blinking open their eyes as my fingertips
Left her waist and I backstepped into their world that couldn’t do without me.
I could have been a martyr, clipped my locks after God gave me all he could and all the rest.
I would have been a martyr, but my blood started to burn and the flames licked my legs.

Her gentle push tugged at the nails holding the mesh to the screen door as it creaked
Open to faded wood and gravel and patches of green grass and golden sunset-light.
I hadn’t heard but I’d known the answer as she walked outside. My hands were lighter
Than the grains I’d used to make her dinner, and I found strands of her hair on a 3-year t-shirt
I’d never wanted to throw out after I wore it in my first car, a rental I bought wholesale.

Sad songs about love babbled and murmured on the Crosley she found for us during
The Christmas my cousins slept on our couch and floor. The sink poured, dribbled,
Stopped, and the sliding bottle of oil ground across the countertop.  Through the door I could
See Tall Metal Skyscrapers and Helicopters. But before the moon and all its stars
Could take my eyes for their own, she found her voice and used it:

“Did you find a path to the stars?” She asked.
“I never did,” I said. “If I think to, maybe I’ll look again tomorrow.”

Hath they quaver
By any other sway but West
To sunset
For its fallen brother
I would have taken
Far from mistaken
The beads of sweat from rest

Risen dried
Crackle bones lost milk of mother
And other
Departed as the bending sigh
The one that bred its daughter lie
So seed can bloom with mindful bride
Shed off the blissful slumber

Would golden blaze
Be unlike the brass war-chains
In low remains
Whilst weight shift in its wake
Tell moving breath
Out come its wealth
And not the founding of its pains

Slip from sightless
Gloss a cover of unknowing
Left bowing
No wisp of remorse or remiss
But metal shifts
And opened rifts
Divide an ocean outgrowing

Shards beneath
Emblazoned even if in dark
I shall hark
Precious dull that beckons breathe
Even if restrained
Will not let waned
How earthen dreams have left their mark

If I could see
Old ones with minds of gilded time
Would it shine
And make pearls out of shapeless sea
Take their age
Befit a sage
To wrap this darkened world with light

Safe walkway
Come by the cobbles by the days
And passing they
Make moulded casts of harshest clay
So must I
Wait then to lie
Once sibling star has passed my way

Ore-laid wreath
Weigh low my courage rash and weak
So bleak
Beside the timeless task to seek
Shores for the flame
Never the same
Like sands through spyglass let receive

Should they fall
In avalanche cascade their edge
A hopeless fledge
Understand a broken wall
Births fouled resentment
Doubtless consignment
The dam repent its burden baggage

Return
By rivers come a lightened sky
A catching eye
To spread the scattered overturn
Ringlets in the armour glow
Wind suffered gently blow
Witness resending wisdom fly

And i heighten the enlightened

while writing of my confinement

still fighting amongst the frightened under lunar alignments

still working consignment for devils in retirement

holding souls in lament, to later examine it

you could only but fathom it

tragedies immaculate

someday it will be willed (have I told you lately that I love you?)

that the poetry ceases,
no more birthdays notated
calendar closed, the ***’s axed,
kitchen junk drawer, a consignment store,
no longer needed, the futility of saving
knickknacks, maximized, the no lasting
value proposition, realized, eulogized.

pictures of beautiful automobiles,
decorated with beautiful women,
will forever be last year’s models,
one calendar too far, not long enough

no more of

have I told you lately that I love you?

wrote you plenty love poems so, hereafter,
you won’t be bereft, left farklempt,
arranged one-a-day, on a timed delay,
so many more that will appear in your
inbox until you too, no longer choose open it.

no more “sirprising” I love you statements,
taped to the milk carton, it was so willed,
the daily counting, record keeping, who first,
how many, secretly added to a grocery list,
in stuff that was so beloved, exasperating,
making you just right amount of crazy, smiling....
someday it will be willed, so,


here’s the first of many more....

They dragged him to the gallows

He did not kick nor scream

They dragged him to the gallows

To watch the father hang

As with ages sang from sandy storms

Historic distortion in the scorn of woe

Fate was chosen of a frozen foe

Calculated to the sum of that which cannot be known

As he roamed the tides of time

To find a home to shine

Until dim

But it found him and blotted out the vices of victory in victimless villainy upon the vanity of his venom, beautifully belittling the betterment of his ******* benevolence in malevolent speechlessness from his grinning sieges of silence, knifing through the violence with the ballistic alignment of a consignment contract to contact the creatures of the black.

What once was lost ...

Is back

A red, hot mist; a lit match
To a puddle of gasoline.
Anger is a beast, frothing at its mouth
Hungry, hateful and lean.

It is in the husband who beats his wife,
physically, and verbally;
It is in the vitriol we spew
At each other detrimentally.

It is in the xenophobe,
Who cherishes resemblances
And apprehends differences.

It is in the people,
Who segregate into a familiar tribe
Unaware of who tortures us all
Unwilling to unsubscribe
From the delusion -
'I am right, and you are wrong'.

Ire smolders beneath the surface
Until the surface is no more
And all that is left
Is a charred, blackened sore.

It is as corrosive as a vat of acid,
It will burn you to the core;
It will destroy all that is inside you,
And nothing will be left to restore.

Infuriation is a many-headed dragon;
Devalued, unjustly accused,
Hungry, hated or powerless,
Ashamed, anxious or defenceless.
Demeaned, disgruntled, upset;
These are all emotions
That lead to ire and regret.

Yet, it is also self-preservation;
In an unjust world,
It is the burden of a whole nation.
It is the sense than informs you
When you are being cheated;
Like the sensation of burning
Upon touching an object that's heated.

Yet, unknowing and uninformed
We are always at each other's throats;
The establishment is elated,
In the embers of society, it gloats.

For, in this insane, deluded world
Happiness is a rare consignment,
A moment amidst the chaos,
Not a constant incitement.

We must look beyond our petty squabbles
And realise there is more to deal with
Than each other's issues and troubles.

Anger is as addictive as ******,
And just like it, it feeds on vulnerability.
Should we unite against our common enemy
It would mean invincibility.

We should not target each other;
Instead we should aim at those
Who have brought us here.
Those who steal, lie and control;
If they cannot, they will cajole.

It is those who have turned life
Into a rat race which nobody will win.
Divided we are controlled,
Unaware of the power within.

Yet, you ask, what if we were united?
Imagine, a whole world's anger
Aimed at the right mark;
That is what I propose,
Before it is too dark
And humanity swallows itself whole.

___________