The cultural filters are all in place
And truth, some say, is past its sell-by date
Weak hymns embalmed by hippies, and lost in space
Where time is always 1968

A poison-green tattoo on a fleshy back
No incense, but the Purell’s pretty strong
A ten-year-old gobbles his comfort snack
During Communion and a three-chord song

Our bishops quack and honk in flocks and herds -
We need a starets
                                           but all we get are words:


Intensify the Dallas Charter accountability focus accountability exclusively accountability collegial collective accountability responsibility address theme encounter dialectic collegiality variety universality unity flock dealing topic difficult reasons unexplored differences crisis difficult for bishops enable abusers gravely irreparably failures governance responsibility question engage conversation point brother problematic behavior cultivate culture correctio fraterna enables offending other recognize criticism opportunity to tasks related willingness personally mistakes to each other feeling maintain fraternal relationship cases we damaging weakness anecdotal parenthesis to his speech encounters course ministry recollection forgive counseling for healing discussing matter rationally headway realized psyche of the person measure semblance justice inability forgive his  apparently perplexing consternating remarked noting changed personality of person realize humility mistakes learn mistakes better question unanswered unaddressed mistakes allowed consequences mishandling cases gathering conferences participants and journalists effective concrete measures combat scourge scandal technical theological sense term list reflection points adjunct secretary special portfolio combatting meeting chief architects roadmap for our discussion very, very concrete understatement seriously utter understatement things discussed follow-up meeting continued model of reform the so-called intensify the Dallas Charter metropolitan model metropolitan investigating disciplining wayward ecclesiastical provinces briefing responded you have to read the footnote disgrace investigations systemic coverup dismissed briefing expressed hope report position power prominence leadership structure report findings influence broader jurisdictions Accountability focus accountability exclusively accountability collegial collective accountability responsibility address theme encounter dialectic collegiality variety universality unity flock dealing topic difficult reasons unexplored differences crisis difficult for bishops enable abusers gravely irreparably failures governance responsibility question engage conversation point brother problematic behavior cultivate culture correctio fraterna enables offending other recognize criticism opportunity to tasks related willingness personally mistakes to each other feeling maintain fraternal relationship cases we damaging weakness anecdotal parenthesis to his speech encounters course ministry recollection forgive counseling for healing discussing matter rationally headway realized psyche of the person measure semblance justice inability forgive his  apparently perplexing consternating remarked noting changed personality of person realize humility mistakes learn mistakes better question unanswered unaddressed mistakes allowed consequences mishandling cases gathering conferences participants and journalists effective concrete measures combat scourge scandal technical theological sense term list reflection points adjunct secretary special portfolio combatting meeting chief architects roadmap for our discussion very, very concrete understatement seriously utter understatement things discussed follow-up meeting continued model of reform the so-called Metropolitan model metropolitan investigating disciplining wayward ecclesiastical provinces briefing responded you have to read the footnote disgrace investigations systemic coverup dismissed briefing expressed hope report position power prominence leadership structure report findings influence broader jurisdictions accountable faithful promises episodes  accountability supportive talking collegiality obligation misbehavior failures circumstances reputation representative discreet inquiries interview expression concern geographically confronted reported matter subject investigating disciplining malfeasance proposal wrongdoing explained carefully considered matter alternatives remarks paragraph  rehearsed alternatives footnote 6 of text speeches delivered sessions briefing spoke involvement laity lay involvement transparency transparent offending other recognize criticism opportunity to tasks related willingness personally mistakes to each other feeling maintain fraternal relationship cases we damaging weakness anecdotal parenthesis to his speech encounters course ministry recollection forgive counseling for healing discussing matter rationally headway realized psyche of the person measure semblance justice inability forgive his  apparently perplexing consternating remarked noting changed personality of person realize humility mistakes learn mistakes better question unanswered unaddressed mistakes allowed consequences mishandling cases gathering conferences participants and journalists effective concrete measures combat scourge scandal technical theological sense term list reflection points adjunct secretary special portfolio combatting meeting chief architects roadmap for our discussion very, very concrete understatement seriously utter understatement things discussed follow-up meeting continued model of reform the so-called Metropolitan model metropolitan investigating disciplining wayward ecclesiastical provinces briefing responded you have to read the footnote disgrace investigations systemic coverup dismissed briefing expressed hope report position power prominence leadership structure report findings influence broader jurisdictions accountable faithful promises episodes  accountability supportive talking collegiality obligation misbehavior failures circumstances reputation representative discreet inquiries interview expression concern geographically confronted reported matter subject investigating disciplining malfeasance proposal wrongdoing explained carefully considered matter alternatives remarks paragraph  rehearsed alternatives footnote 6 of text speeches delivered sessions briefing spoke involvement laity lay involvement transparency transparent intensify the Dallas Charter…

so it is, so it be.

life granted me a boon, come to me, the honey.

not the merest of coating, but a power enrichened,
capable of driving out the slow acting, daily killing,
poisonous venom.

makeover, coverup of tears of ancient marriage-madness,
black swan hate disguise, her lies, venom injection of
coffee blood staining love pretense, now just scar tracks  for a
new boulevard.

the slow pour,  the golden russian amber intertwined tones,
tongue tasted, inside me now, revealed in slow exiting, beauteous,
mellifluous tears.

you dance with the stars, I watch you watching,
clueless that my thee-flavored tears, dance and pour down
my face.

destitute, nearer my God than thee, god blessed this child's life,
love gifted from sweet bees, late in life, flew from my computer screen and sonnet-stung me with antidotes of
love n' honey...

Polka dotted dress fit tightly across
full hips with a ribbon pulled firm to shape
her frame. A mirror and a husband reflect
the white betweens of violets and yellows

and blues trapped in circle-from, spinning
frozen over washer-friendly cotton. And
blonde hair trimmed above the ear and pearl
earrings to match the whites of

cold skin and eyes. With black flats and baby-toes
underneath painted pink that would curl
when her groom came in bed. But a sadness
in her chest when she had taken off the

dress and after the dinner-party with ham
fresh and red wines and business friends
of the man (her husband). A sadness searing deep
within her, in bed, after her husband came

and her feet didn't curl  and he would roll over
and she would be awake. Insomnia
is when you wake reoccurring in the
night (the husband would say.) But she

wouldn't ever sleep, for months, she covered
the black bags under the blues
in her eyes with makeup from macy's
while the husband went to the firm in a new

cadillac and came home every week to steak
or ham fresh without noticing the lines beneath
her eyes. Every sunday she would cook
more food for the business

partners and cover more bags and black
sags with more makeup until macy's changed
their inventory so she drove
father away to find more flesh-colored coverup.

If you are Christian
And ashamed of your body
Listen to Jesus
And pay attention to what he
Said about the issue
Of tissue around your bones
And how that makes you
Evil and some kind of crone.

Find where he says
Abomination is your own skin
And where he says
Shame on the shape you’re in.
Since that came from God
And by your teaching God is right
On everything he ever did,
Why this turning off of the lights?

And, if not Christian,
Isn’t it all really the same thing;
Covering up, a masquerade,
Posing, pontificating, pretending?
Why the hiding and lying
About who and what you are?
Why treat your healthy self
As if you were some big scar?

Isn’t it really that society
Has made you think badly of you,
And when the truth is told
It was not about something you do?
It’s more about what others
Think and feel and see as shame.
So quit thinking they are right,
And by all means quit taking blame.

The onion, now that's something else
its innards don't exist
nothing but pure onionhood
fills this devout onionist
oniony on the inside
onionesque it appears
it follows its own daimonion
without our human tears

our skin is just a coverup
for the land where none dare to go
an internal inferno
the anathema of anatomy
in an onion there's only onion
from its top to it's toe
onionymous monomania
unanimous omninudity

at peace, at peace
internally at rest
inside it, there's a smaller one
of undiminished worth
the second holds a third one
the third contains a fourth
a centripetal fugue
polypony compressed

nature's rotundest tummy
its greatest success story
the onion drapes itself in it's
own aureoles of glory
we hold veins, nerves, and fat
secretions' secret sections
not for us such idiotic
onionoid perfections


Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Stanisław Barańczak & Clare Cavanagh

Why are you so tired you just had two extra days off of school**

The thing is though,
The tiredness I feel can't be relieved.
There are not enough minutes, hours, days, months, or years of sleeping that could cure the tiredness I feel.
No amount of sleep will get rid of the weariness I feel.
You see, although I do not sleep much because of the never ending nightmares.
I am more worn from having to drag myself out of bed every morning.
Paint on the smile.
Pile the coverup on my wrists.
My heart feels so heavy.
My mind is overwhelmed.
You see, no amount of sleep could cure the tiredness inside me.

I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation

raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down

she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”

gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet

she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of  “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******,
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm

I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup

her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments

parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,

”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”


and she would be wright...

Why Men Like to Load the Dishwasher

We are the artists of shape and configuration,
puzzle masters solving riddles of physics,
worshipers at the altar of labor saving devices,
this is a love poem of sorts, a Bazinga salutation,
to men and their undying love
for **** machines.

were it in my power
all cups would be handle-less,
the dishwasher time-space continuum
would be non-interrupted by black holes
where handles pointlessly protrude,
requiring endless rearrangement,
a soul destroying exercise.

bowls of any sort should have bottoms that retract.
indeed, the capacity increase, a visible fact,
is so enviro-friendly, eminently sensible,
that the loading for mechanical scrubbing
is deserved of a wing in the Smithsonian.

perhaps the budgeteers of Congress
should be tutored in this artistry,
how to make any limited resource,
better used.

the rub, as the bard would have writ,
is that this roaring tempest-tost,
our love for hard labor lost,
secret sacrificed behind a locked door,
of a Sanctum *******,
is entirely due, all glory to,
the secret society of fairies who
hide-reside inside,
freeing us to write more poetry.

in so many ways that I cannot reveal,
less the other gender members squeal,
men live to love to load the dishwasher,
for the ingenuity challenge, and of course,
the side benefit of the excusing coverup,
"I helped clean up," a relationship saver,
proof positively that the dishwasher inventor,
was surely a brilliant woman

tabitha all grown up, meeting the 120 year old ** ** the clown



tabitha was busy seeing people interested in their previous lives before this one

and ** ** the clown, who was having delusions, through his sudden memory loss

one minute it’s as bright of day, the next it’s gone, and then he would pick up a tabithat doll

and as he held it, he would remember that day, where he favoured tabitha more than the other kids

and wanted to find the family, but didn’t want to be a bother, so endora came into his dream

to walk away from the nursing home and all the care he is given, to travel to sydney australia

to pay a visit to tabitha, and it took him 7 days as he touched down in sydney to find out

wherte tabitha is, and then went into a house, which said tabitha’s den, and saw this attractive twenty something

and thought to himself, he is in the wrong place, but asked, i am looking for a tabitha stevens, the girl

that was the inspiration to the tabitha doll, and at first, tabitha was puzzled, but it came back to her

when he said he was ** ** the clown, and he is now 120 years old, and wants to know tabitha’s secrete

on staying young, and tabitha, said, being a witch can do things to you, and ** ** the clown said, your a what1

tabitha said, a witcortal, well, my dad’s advertising firm hired you, i was just favoured because of my grandma

and this made ** ** really excited, and said, can you tell me, was this doll, a cute little doll meant to talk

and tabitha said, no, it was a coverup, so daddy doesn’t lose your account, it wasn’t daddy’s fault he lost the account,

it was grandmas, but she hates the idea of a witch marrying mortals back then, you should see the other clients

that were trapped by witchcraft, no, you were under a silly spell, and ** **, left and went back to his hotel, and

endora came into his room and put a spell on him, to never have him wake, ever, he will reincarnate into something else

and then endora said to tabitha, yeah i remember that day, when we made you into a doll, but i just killed ** ** the clown, ok

he believes in reincarnation, he won’t suffer, and he will realise, that you did the wrong thing, because, now he knows tabitha

death happens, and i didn’t want ** ** being the mortal out living the witch’s and sam and darrin popped in and tabitha said

how is adam, and adams side was expecting another baby, due in 4 months, and tabitha told one of darrin’s old clients ** ** the clown

the whole truth, which made grandma **** him, to reenter his next life, full of happiness, and darrin said, how old was that kodger, and

tabitha said 120, and went to his hotel to die, grandma said, and darrin said, i might be a warlock now, but i show a bit of compassion

and endora said, do you believe in god, well god is your mother in law, me, and i did all that to you, to bring on your sense of humour,

sam knew, but hated the plan, but it was my job, ok, ** ** the clown was too old, and feeble, so i made him escape the nursing home

and find tabitha, hex the house and doll with memories of that day, put a weeny spell on tabitha to spill the beans, so he will die peacefully

and he did, and the stevens family had a meal in new york, to celebrate the life of ** ** the clown, even going to his funeral, larry was forced

to go, and there was a big party, as tabitha, was asked to get rid of the tabitha doll, and zap it out of those kids homes, after a man, said, were you

the inspiration to the tabitha, it was flattering, but freaky, so tabitha zapped all the memory of the tabitha dolls, to leave the world with ** ** the clown

and everyone left, and tabitha went back to work, to tell this 45 year old man, he is ned kelly, cause of a dark lobe, and that is the end of ** ** the clown.

“I will always remember you”

raise you hand if honesty
yet lives inside your muscle
memory of brain, of heart,
there is no one here who hasn’t
uttered them fool lying words

with difficulty we struggle to up
raise faces and places, moments
and images no longer mirrored
within the frontmost places of
our recollection, that searing then,
itself scorched, lichen+moss covered,
our greatest pains, pleasures sworn
allegiances to these razored inflection
points, now scoured by rusty hazes,
and we wonder what has become
of us, what we valued so to savor
as forever memories, their names
gray lady shrouded, and there is
no internet site to aid in self-recovery,
for our selfish selves have been altered,
time, new loves, guilt and other stuff
intersect with mind’s eyes and no mas-
more synapses paths instant linkages

I know you will vociferously argue but
it is almost physical, our shame at losing
them and ourselves, in the morass that
time digs daily deeper for what grieves
us is that losing as the end rushes to close
our story, makes us pick up pen and finger
scratch as best we can inside the lines on
our faces that are/had proofs, witnesses,
that once, we were there at the places,
whose names are no longer mapped any

where, so deep, no archivist’s submersible dare
fathom those fathom’s darkest we would need
to explore without the possibility that we
might implode if we sunk so far to rip apart sea
forests we knowingly, secret-planted to coverup
her memory, the words spoken, the oaths
and promises, we swore, for instance, simply
by saying, “I will always remember you”

p.s. and my self-shaming so great, that my
asking for forgiveness is buried so fast, it
may, not ever been real, just another fiction


Jul  6th, 8:36 AM,

i keep a drawer in
my bathroom full
of all the things that make
me appear pretty

the little pots of shimmery
eyeshadows to suggest
i’m feminine but more
importantly fully awake
and the dark crayons to
draw lines that simulate
an innocent expression
the powder to smooth out
the bad spots so you
don’t see the bad thoughts
the mascara to pull my lashes
outward and pull the focus
away from what you might
possibly see behind my eyes

fear
do not
let them see
the fear

and tucked in the drawer
of pencils and palettes
i keep a sharpener
so when my womanly
sense of protection
begins to dull i will
not find myself
at odds with the competition

in the drawer above them
i keep my elastic bands
to prevent a slow
and knotted descent
into the madness
of being choked
in my hair
my own weird
sometimes insane
always interesting or
at least provocative thoughts

i also keep a pack
of razor blades for
when the constant struggle
to maintain this illusion
of sanity gets to be
too much for me

the hair ties are stretched
beginning to fall out
won’t hold things in place
nearly well enough
and i am completely
blind and lost in this
rainstorm and the wind
blowing in my face

the blades
are calling me again
a dark and
slippery promise
of something
of what?

of peace?
lies
of art?
i can do better
of pain?
always

elusive always
getting away from
me just as soon
as i can pin it down

the purpose
is fear
but only the
expression of it

i’m afraid
always so
afraid it’s not
good like this

but if i cover
the fear with
my clothes
no one will
ever even
know

i keep a drawer
in my bathroom
and every morning
i select powders
and pencils to
present myself as alive

and every morning
i stare down a pack
of razor blades
half wishing i wasn’t

your father is a morbid man puddy. .. . but morbid can be good if you accept it...
..how can it be good?idunnoimnotmakinganysense............   ..  ..    .well.   i guess if youre in the right mood or in the right setting.(i pictured people. a woman mainly. with dark hair. and everyone had glasses of red wine and were laughing in a short hysterical way. and i realize these people arent representations of people ive seen act like this, theyre representations of me. i kno that feeling which makes that laugh. when hearing stories or seeing pictures or videos of people dying suddenly or getting tortured and the abuser maybe dismembering himself or herself after or committing an interesting suicide which we love to hear about and the sickening brutality and pain and fear and cringing you feel is instantly replaced with a swift too swift and sharp laughter. and these stories are real, otherwise its just silliness or boys being boys with their sick imaginations and saying it just for attention or to be funny or weird.. and we all might question ourselves slightly but either Time or Exposure to the Wicked World or most likely the validation of our indecencies with everybody else's  because its a whole room laughing lets us feel better about it each time but then more ashamed of our withering virtue until we forget. and something to understand from the remark "but either Time or Exposure to the Wicked World or most likely the validation of our indecencies" ad its there is no difference in this matter between the options 2 and 3 because we are the Wicked World. and all 3 are just things we waste. and if not laughing sharplyand loud and insane maybe some of us are at least being entertained while wailing in a definite cringe or exasperation or i dont kno but it is blended with the jovial air of the room. and people and family members laugh with and comfort and joke with eachother like a pride or a flock or any group of animals showing their young 'here.its ok.its an apple. you can touch it. it wont hurt you. its our food.' but we say "c'mere, the foundation of this world and all its agony will rip you apart, so here, learn how to find joy in it otherwise youll be too effected and will need to be discarded from normal happy people who kno their happiness comes first. because thats how we work as people and as a group. now here, have a drink. we pretend it helps and seek it out against our better judgment because we dont want to exist because weve become nothing in place of the wide range of terrible emotions we should experience when seeing the world for what it is.. ourselves most of all." and i guess that is what i pictured. the average happy people. family people. nice house and aunts and christmas people. and i kno im biased but nothing in this imagery matters. i was supposed to capture just the thoughts which i actually spoke to myself or my dog or whoever but now i have a brick-sized moving picture of my interpretation of happy family americans and other nations and just everybody.  but im no different. deep down anyway. deep down i am selfish and scared and come to the conclusion that the world is too complicated to be fixed and were too dumb to fix it reguardless and more so we are filled with souls which shift too often which we must only watch drift away moment to moment leaving us with many things but definitely a healthy amount of selfishness and, well, psychology i guess. we can figure our race and ourselves out as much as is possible and maybe even be right about some things, but knowing what drives us and feeling compelled are unrelated. too constant of a shift are we to be anything describable in correct terms and too unknown is the future to kno wut form our shift could bring us to. ..this is all absolute nonsense. i started rambling world. u gave me a mouth and i started rambling with it. i am definitely equal to a baby human or animal just shrieking into the world because, well just because its alive. so im a baby with no way of managing my existence other than making sounds because there are ears everywhere and peeing where i lay because its inside of me then it comes out because im unaware of my functions and we all send scattered unfinished nonsense to eachother and they send their own version of it back to the human and we manage to make ourselves sick and destroy our home and we're like an ant colony with no coordination.) and then something about laughter is sometimes a coverup for discomfort, so laughing from something morbid is not good. but then again it is still a laugh, and wut is the point system for laughing goodness and thats it the end jesus christ stop. *******. later. txt me wenever. have fun at ur party. i hope the weathers nice up north and not too cold cuz i kno u hate the cold. and im probably a boring **** saying cheezy things trying to act natural and nice and caring but i have my own agenda and am too unnaware to kno that and therefore will never be able to change for the better because i am a stupid human who thinks they have something figured out about every moment of every day but cant really do anything. cant see myself how others see me and cant feel the right way ong enough to accept it and constantly contradicting my conceptual and moral and spiritual universe and will never realize that 99.9 percent of the time my thoughts are of things like rocks and puffy things and shooting myself in the head and im hungry and **** that ***** and... im such a loser. if i dont start acting and living like a straight shooter my only outcome down the road will be lonelyness, heartbreak. regret. shame. and many other bad things where everything i love is either ded or has abandoned me because i am now a man and there is no such thing as abandoning a man but i am alone and want to die and i do. i **** myself and im ded. and there is no heaven and i have no soul and no one knows im ded and the passerbys and police officers and coroners who kno that im ded dont kno my name. so everyone i ever loved who havent loved me for years will die years down the road with families who love them and i will never cross their minds again. and i will deserve it. and i will pray for satan to devour my flesh and feel a demon inhabit my body along with my terror.

Oh friend
Don't you realise?
Perfection is a haze.
A lie. A blur. A coverup.
For an imperfect world.
It's all a trick of the mind
Or something of that kind.

I tried to be a girl today
Painted my nails red and blue so I’d stop biting them
Tried to be pretty
With unbrushed hair and acne and calloused fingers
The nailpolish chipped off and I peeled it away
My hands wrecking the paint in place, colors end up beyond the lines of my hand, its everywhere, its ugly, Its suffocating, I take it off.
I want to say its a metaphor,
Something about how I cant cover up what I am with pretty colors and shiny surfaces.
It’s got to be indicative of future and past behavior about how I mess up preconceived ideas or something about how I break the molds that others try to put me in,
It happens every time.
It smudges, curve of fingers, grooves imprinting the paint with traces that I am there
Breaking the construct of beauty
I feel I cant say its anything more than smudged paint, despite how true the metaphors would be
Nothing more honest than the disfigured coverup and what lies beneath

I tried to be human today
Felt alien in my own skin
Wounded as I fought the judgement of a species I dont feel I belong to.
According to my mother I am an enemy of God for finding a temporary yet more beautiful love with her than I’ve found with a man.
I tried to be who you wanted, it never worked then, dont expect it to work now.
The mold that was casted does not, has not ever fit me.
I’d apologize for failing your expecations but theres no apologizing for finding solace amidst the storm.

the one in the middle of the yard.
They cut it down,
and replaced it.

I recognized the coverup:
New genus,
new species.

There was nothing wrong with your tree.
I won't put you in the ground;
even that seems only a temporary placement.

I look in the mirror, pleased with my progress
slip a finger down my throat until
I get a pang of fear;
I can't wear sweaters everyday to hide my collarbone,
I can't buy new jeans every week I drop an inch,
and the coverup and blush only do so much
for my sunken cheeks and strained jawline.
What do I do
when I can't hide my secret any longer from you;

You will not find, but will know
record, not driven
of above, nor down below
faith in numbers, call to arms
revisited body, fragmented words
porous motivation, pious shell
complicit deception, nor hope
could cradle civilization

relapse, awkward position
****** force of introspection
strike balance, no metric
discovery tragic coverup

cite the source, no reason
change scenery, mockery
within confession
proffer sweet, lasting embrace
here and now
unrequited
gutted by action

form a missive, time at issue
ended dismissive
words broker, no heal
could crush plot
dance, within memory
sum of all parts, spire
mastery, where now lay
dormant, a King
in waiting, unable to move
a condition, no form.

Try and try again, never say die, always see the bright side, try another approach, don't assume! Ja well, who ever said that sure ain't livin' today.
Ja  ok, the wiles are the same, just more slick and undercover. Why does the woman always think they are the cause of changes in their spouse?
Man, I fell for that one too.
First I think I don't cut the grade, because I'm fat, or sloppy, or, any old excuse I could think of. Then I tried doing as much as I could, running myself to death and back, and still no change.
Oh, I could give a million excuses why it's dead in the bed, and everyone my fault. Ja right, since when is it always the woman's fault.
Okay, I went through a warp tunnel with my hormones. I mean, who does not? It's not like we have an early warning system, built-in, to prepare you for a system meltdown. And of course, then every little hitch gets blamed on you, and your hormone meltdown.
And still the bed stays cold.
And boet, just start questioning those little foxes, and you get the atom bomb effect. I mean, every little drop becomes a raging ocean.And of course, don't forget the ever over used, but still powerful effect  of - 
"DON'T JUST ASSUME...."
when you do question, and give your take, on this world war three situation. Yes, of course, there's no other way of getting an answer to all your questions, since
"SILENCE IS GOLDEN”
is just not a song anymore. Your melt down, caused every one to not say anything, in fear of world war three. By now, you are so frustrated, inside and out, that you'll try anything, to get back, what you refuse to accept is lost.
And still it stays cold.
And memory – man, this is definitely not a woman. You start to remember all those little things from your “ROSE” years. The days when everything was bliss.
And then you show Einstein that E=MC2, is not the only equation, that can rock this world. Albeit, even if it's only your own little world that gets affected. The equation that's starting to make sense, is that 1+1 is not 2.
And the more this memory gets refreshed, you get to all kinds of answers.
All because you assumed the answers, to questions that are still not answered. Because you are imagining things that are not there.
And still the bed is cold!
Then one day you get asked a question. Because of your superior knowledge, experience and understanding, and above all, just plain being a woman, the answer to all those questions, melt downs, accusations, assumations, equations, world wars, echoing silences and self-castrations, gets wrapped up in one word....
- “FATTYQUE” -.......
And now, your all powerful brain starts to di-sect every and all association to that one word...."Bless their poor hearts....”
You ask for a full sentence, because, on this one, not even Oxford Concise Dictionaries can describe the meaning. You close your eyes, you listen to your heart beat, you hear a rushing waterfall of words....and you see lights like diamonds, you hear your heart beating a staccato, you breathe ever so slightly.....
All of this, in the blink of an eye, you realize that this horror, this torment, this self – whatever good word you can find, for your months, no years of missery is not your doing. Oh no sherry BoB!
You realize, that your horror assumation was actually a coverup. Yes, a real, honest to goodness, James Bond, 007 style, covert action, to disguise the fact, that this world, where men claim to be superior, in all, and every aspect, of anything, can not admit to the woman, not all women, or the world for that matter, the one they professed way in the beginning, that they love and honor, that it is his fault, actually.
He is the cold in the bed!
Then, 1 + 1 becomes 2 + 2, and definitely – FATTYQUE – becomes – Fatigue – and the symptoms of male menopause dance through your minds eye, and you rejoice, you dance, you laugh, you cry, you shout for joy......
All this in the silence and understanding within you.....
Because you are a woman.....
The neck,
turns the head,
where you want it to go!

Are you tired?
-of course I'm tired-
It was only 3 laps around
-I am not tired for that
Then what are you tired about
-This, the constant reminder-
Thats who you are
-No, thats who they want me to be-
I thought it was your Idol
-It was, before it took of his mask-
Who is he now?
-He is the logo covering up the reality of the actual motto-
-It is a lie, and this uniform is a bigger lie, the coverup of the truth-
Just that, a lie and what hides our true means

You know,
I'm not like other girls.
I'm not pretty.
My face is full of flaws—
But I refuse to cover them up.
No makeup makes me look confident.
I'm sure i could be pretty —
That is—
If I tried.
Instead,
I fake confidence.
This gets me used.
Im always the girl used,
That way they can hit on my friends.
That way they don't have to worry,
Worry about them being jealous of me.
Because who would be jealous of me?
A girl who doesn't wear makeup
just to cover up her lack of confidence.

i still cry every day.
but this time,
the pain hits me at one minute before midnight.
as thursday starts to bleed
into friday
i remember our days
and i get so so scared that they’re over.

midnight comes.
it’s tomorrow now, it’s the next day,
and i just want to cry until my heart
is hollow.
i want to get punched in the chest.
i want to
cry
cry
sob for hours until i can never ever cry again.
i want there to be an echo, so as to prove
that my heart is empty.

it’s not empty.

there’s so much love in there, babe.
i still love you so much that it hurts
to breathe.
what’s the point
in life without you?

i’m scared that you’ve stopped
loving me.
that all this effort i’m trying to put in
so that we can be together,
so i can love you
without pain,
is for naught.

i love you more than poetry,
more than myself.
i would tear myself to shreds and
i would never write another word
if it meant that i could have you again,
if you could take me again.

i want to stop crying.
but i don’t want to give up on us.
sometimes this is more than i could handle.
ian, my biggest fear was life without you
and now i understand the reason.

as much as i smile
everything inside of me is fractured into little fragments
my bluest oceans are murky
my skies are cloudy
my future is dim.
this smile is a coverup
a defense mechanism.

no, everything is not okay.
no, i am not doing better.
no, i have not and will not stop loving you.
no matter what they tell me.

(Heated, Fiery trials,) by meself.. The time will come When our beloved planet will feel the suns quench, No breakfast or lunch to soothe that sweaty emotion..All time and devotion unravelling childhood memories, Where winters freeze, and you are still left by yourself...Kept, Wept, and melt out, Drawn to a pad of papery apprentice.. Such a menace when others think they know you, to show you such devious inventions..Of evil intention , they live to watch you die. To watch you cry and spill out all inners, Where your platters not entered into win any prizes..Miracles are few these days, The dark has infiltraded, the glooms turned to haze....Soo many Live in materialism and dreameries Lodge, where their cabin of themself is god , for they forgot who they are...phantom masks, fast cars..How a coverup to hide scarred innocence, where childplay rememberance Hits all at once...Who we really are...The cold empty bars are now lovers best friends...What a sad combination...We only have today to do our made out wills, For the numbings soo skilled this time of Infestations...Tretchery is Now the new..ALL HOT DAYS TO COME , none cool, For the furnaces will feel the excite..Days and nights will be mans worst enemy...The moon climbs the cosmic wave to show us all whats to be bound...Speakerphone sounds can no longer show humanity the reality of themselves..When will they see all belonging is there...Will they find it? or forever be Wanderers?

I remember the first time I cut.
Back in the winter of 7th grade. Things were hard.
I decided to cut. It started with a needle. Dragging it across my skin..
Felt so good..After a few months I started to cut to the point of blood with a needle..The winter of 8th grade...Things went to hell..I found a cutting knife ...
I cut so deep..Blood went everywhere..So good..I carved the name of my true love into my wrist... Summer after 8th...I was tired of everyone finding out I cut..My "friend" reccomended I cut with a razor..So I did..SO MUCH BLOOD, and it didn't always scar because they were clean cuts..Winter of 9th grade...I get our of the shower..I stare at my naked body in the mirror...My wrists have a few scars and a name still engraved on my wrist...I look at my thighs..
Full of scars, fresh cuts, and so much more..I pull on my pants, and put on a shirt.. I open my coverup and put it on my wirst..I look at myself in the mirror.. To anyone passing by I'd look fine..I look at myself..And I smile..

you should probably
look into someones life
before you barge in

you may not notice it
but when you say something
to a girl she take it directly to the heart
whether its necessary or not
so watch what you say

hell is real
more importantly
hell on earth
believe me
ive seen it
i live there

i live in a world where no one cares anymore

everyone breaks down my walls
and doesnt build back up the pieces
and no one looks inside my walls

if they did
they would see
a suicidal cutter

her parents hate her
everyone lets her bleed
people scar her
she scars herself

if you looked in her bed
and picked up her pillow
you could probably wring out
just about a million buckets of tears
mascara
and blood

if you listened to her pillow
you could probably hear just
about a few years worth
of long
hard
cries
if you listened long enough

you would see a girl
who gets called names
like
ugly
fat
and emo
she pretends like she doesnt care
but it hurts her...
and creates new scars

if you look into her eyes you
can see where all the scars came from
and all the long
cries
all the bad grades
and all the verbal abusings

and if you just look at her
you see a smile
and a coverup story

at the chase fast forward, on
thru the fight scene,
then thru the ***,
and the coverup, nothing happened
but
everybody knows,
the scene
off stage, earlier ages of us, remember

AI ai ai a soliloquy on a staged scrim behind
the anunciation's green screen….

+++++++++
there's this strange knack of knowing what is
most likely next, and making ready
for the worst
that could really happen AND
be my fault.

I am ready for that.
War, give me one good reason death
must be feared.

Not a question. A command, do as I say
you must,
servant of truth you believe…

truth never proves false,
light replaces darkness, there is no negotiation.

We won, learn on,
knowledge now is in the reader' hands,

together, praying, ha, asking
IF
interactive life is a book, my whole role
is in the cloud, as a trope

all I do is obey, as I was edu-ma-cated-trick
related to pass tests,

any question, ask, AI know the answer on the test.
AI wrote the test.