Though the first carried more miles, the second day of the hike was totally and unapologetically uphill. 
When you ascend, hiking becomes the zen of endurance.



First, you are stripped of all the pleasures of hiking. Your excitement is boiled into lactic acid. Your love for the trail is baked, hardened and dehydrated into thoughts of laying down in the sun until the heat shrivels you into an unconscious raisin.



Try as you may to put on your “isn’t hiking just a slice of heaven?” face, strangers passing you on the downhill stride can only see your “PLEASE GOD, HELP ME OR ******* **** ME” face.

As much as hiking really is a small slice of heaven, there is no denying the living-death of taking 10 straight miles to the knees under the chaffing hell of a 50 pound sack in the relentless sun. 


But when you’re back in an office, sitting on your cushy little ergonomic chair, you long for the sweat and the torture that forces your mind to the ankle deathtraps of mountain terrain. To the deep valley behind and below you, and the crystal basin at the foot of the granite Giants.



The worst thing you can do is ignore the pain—that makes it relentless. Instead you focus on the pain until you become it. The only thing left is the moment between each step, when you remember why you are here and what it is worth. Every time your foot touches dirt, it leaves twice the footprint. One on the mountain and another in your memory where you will safeguard the misery of your ascent and hold on for dear life. One day, when your knees are too weak and your body can no longer table your pack, all the pleasures and joys of the trail that you once thought dissipated in the steam of uphill toil will come rushing back with the magnified strength of every year between you and the present you once knew and respected enough to actually live.

And if you didn’t, if you let it only be pain to get through and not to focus or dwell on, then that is what it is and will always be. A dull memory of pain, dark and somber and incomplete.

There was a child went forth everyday;
And the first object she look’d upon, that object she became;
And that object became part of her for the day, or a certain part of
The day, or for many stretching cycles of years.

The dew laden grass became part of this child
And the fresh daisies and lightly scented lilacs and
the song of the morning sparrow,
And the crisp air, the mud puddles and the tall, tall tress that rained water droplets, when the wind passed,
And the magic world within the reeds, waiting for a curious someone to discover all the twists and turns and available hiding spaces.
And the yellow skunk cabbage and weeping willows, with their gracious locks—all became part of her

The golden grassy haze became part of her,
And the anthills poking up from the red Earth,
And the shaded creek, loosely singing.
And the freshly picked strawberries, dirtying any white shirt.
And the content busker sharing his music and stuttering his words, in a most peculiar manner,
And the passing grandmother walking hand in hand with her granddaughter
And the Jamaican man kissing his pipe and the funny odor that followed
And the old Italians bantering about soccer outside small cafes and coffee shops, that dotted the street like lanterns on a string
And all the changes of city and country, wherever she went

Her own parents,
He that had father’d her, and she that had conceiv’d her in her womb, and birth’d her,
They gave this child more of themselves than that;
They gave her afterward every day—they became part of her.

Her mother’s care-free ringlets, falling past her breast, her open hands and thin arms hidden behind an over sized shirt, the strength in her voice,
And the youthful, naive nature woven into her giggles.
The father, klutzy and drunk, the sudden change from a hearty laugh to an unsettling yell, the large hands and the lost feeling that showed through the anger. The confusing elixir of love and hate.
The landing in the stairwell, the black dial phone, the old tarnished green oven, the stapled on carpet, the Rug rats pillow cases and the laughter so good it hurt.
Never ending love—the difference in words and the actual inner emotion felt--wondering if dreams are reality--and if perhaps the real world and all its conundrums is a carefully devised skit.  
Who decides a mirage is an illusion, is it the same inhabitants who crowd the streets?
Do the rushing people, passed from one generation to the next, think the same thoughts, do they laugh at themselves or the passed on jokes that follow their age group, and are the sparks of people just mirages themselves?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets—if they are not flashes and specks, what are they?
The bakery windows, row in row, the fake cake in the window, the names of the streets and the differing decals hanging from car's indoor mirrors.
People being within the cars zooming by on the highway, the jingle of the Popsicle truck and the sticky hands following. The feeling of trying to wipe away the stickiness on tall grass, walking across the peeling yellow paint of the highway divider, left to the side of some lonesome road---the wooden train set and the carefully maneuvered tracks,

the orange morning sun, the rising steam from plants and houses, the comforting sleepiness cast over the whole town, settling upon rooftops and curling into closed arms, The mid-day beaming street, seen from the city bus window,
The fresh ocean and the old ferry boat, the smell of oatmeal and scrambled eggs and over buttered white toast. The balance between the clouds and sky, sharing the space, the dry feeling gathering around the eyes, the white waves forming from the ferry boats side, the gentle rocking from side to side,
The cold feeling the window casts as the face, leaning against it, gently surrenders sleep to the lulling gesture—knowing the world is round by glimpsing upon the horizons edge, the thought of explorers who sailed the same sea only years and years ago.
The innocence beaming down from the heavens and leaving speckles of white on the ocean’s surface, the cluster of yellow beaked seagulls greeting the arriving boats, the distinct fragrance of the earth and sea joining together, the salty barnacles and shore mud, the leaning  grass with  crusty sand clinging to its base.
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will go forth every day.

Insanity Is the comfort of a pillow, used for suffocation.
Insanity Is the warmth of a gun, used for a death shot.
Insanity Is the enabler,
The barrier breaker,
The undertaker.

Insanity Is a safety zone.
Insanity Is a shield.
Insanity Is a guard for all to take part in it,
All who brush with it,
All who dwell in it.

Insanity Is the abstract thoughts, the rotund ways.
Insanity Is the thought that you can do anything.
Insanity Is the fact that people can question, can insult, can pry,
And they never seem to affect you,
And they never will.

Insanity Is a soft room, padded with cushy walls.
Insanity Is a group of people, who try to figure out what's wrong.
Insanity Is not quite knowing what's going on,
Having that privilege,
Having that power.

Insanity Is engulfing, a single being in itself.
Insanity Is the process of losing yourself.
Insanity Is the way you go when you just seem to snap,
Lucky enough to see nothing,
Lucky that everything goes black.

It's a cold heart that neglects what horror and darkness a person must go through to even think about suicide as an alternative to living, to a mind that has gone numb from the terror of drawing in another breath, to eyes that have gone blind to things that were once beautiful, to a person who has been gripped so tight by depression that the silence of being crushed under the weight of the earth is the last sound they want to hear.
Living can be hard, for anyone, no one is free from suffering, illness, death, we all have our battles, both private, public, family, etc... and at the end of the day in that moment between sleep and dream, all of of us are alone.  Alone with our demons and thoughts and prayers and despair, some more aware and some more blissfully not so.  The world is a scary ******* place right now, there is a **** load of bad things happening every moment of every ******* day.  It's not the devil running around **** *** naked spraying his jizzum of evil down upon our heads but it's the evil of mans own invention and indifference to each other.  We should be moving forward as a species and a community and a world... together.  And yet, somehow, with all our fancy tech and intellect and possibilities... we're not.  I'm not going to lie... daily headlines and newscast make me somewhat envious of those who found themselves able to pay the price for the luxury of suicide.  I mean, ******* come on... how can you not think every now and then... **** THIS PLACE!... it's truely a **** hole at times, people can be ******* horrible and are ******* horrible far too often.  Human misery spreads like cancer and the masses eat it up like it's a candy necklace wrapped around some ancient deities **** causing poisonous sugar to rush through their blood to fuel an ideology of hate so old no one could tell you when or how it started.  And the saddest part, sitting on the couch being ignored like a nerdy kid back in the 80's, is love...  and no one wants to sit by it and get cooties.  No, we're all to cool for that.  It's all about pretending to have good intentions and insta-gratification and self-degradation and hey hey hey look at me me me first and gimme gimme gimme...
This isn't everyone, and the world isn't absolutely beyond hope... but you would have a hard time arguing that the shadows aren't overpowering what little beauty there is left.
And that's hard knowledge to live with...
Then add on top of that, private and personal struggles no one else is aware of, or worse shrugs off or dismisses as nothing serious.  The signs aren't always easy to read... speaking from personal experience, it is far to easy to carry a lot of weight and fear and self loathing while wearing a plastic smile in public.   Some things seem too personal or embarrassing or what the **** ever to share sometimes and its just easier to say "I'm ok" than try to explain how terrible and dark and alone our hearts feel and our thoughts get.  It's real easy for the whole world to feel empty when that moment we experience between sleep and dream follows us through ever waking moment.   And it's easy to be mad and ****** and heartbroken when we read the word "suicide" in yet another headline... but what's harder is to imagine what that person must have been going through in that last moment between life and death.  It's harder to be human and feel compassion and empathy towards the departed, it's hard to walk up to the nerdy kid called love sitting on the couch and say, "****, I'm sorry I neglected you and ignored you"... but it's going to be harder and harder to read that headline over and over again.  So, for anyone, anyone at all, the couch love is sitting on is pretty ******* big and its nice and warm and cushy, so if your world feels empty, come sit down, we can talk, we can cry, we can just shut the **** up and be empty and alone together... what ever you need, I'll be here.

I thought I knew what love was like.
I thought I could ride it like a bike.
Go fast or slow as I saw fit
with a cushy seat on which to sit.
Hop off when I got tired or sore
and ride again if I got bored.

But there is no rhyme or reason
Love is unexpected
and so were you

Something tells me that you’re going to be magic someday.
That same something also told me that our intelligence is dying, fading deeply into an artificial existence,
swirly, milky, warm and familiar.
Oh! This cry reminds me of time spent inside of my mother’s womb, it’s the ******* essence of life, division creates one,
things come undone, wheels are spun and respun.
Oh, existence is exciting. De…
Spite what I say, I as a human have this exciting urge to believe in everything and nothing all at the same time, and yet feel completely content with the uncertainty immediately following. Why?
Why slide down the backbones of your friends instead of creating your own out of silly putty and *******? Because that’s all that’s REALLY going on here, right? Just a whole lot of utter and complete *******. We’re all just in search of something substantially and outrageously righteous to believe in.
Something profound, yet enticing. Never arrogant or stringy, stretchy, worn.
We live in mad days, a mad daze of terror, rage. Disgusting filth, mesmerizing measurements, fat men and their walrus struggle, THERE’S TOO MANY BABIES!
Everything’s real frothy, fluffy, CUSHY.
And this comfortable comfort aides me late past the second noon, where bubblegum and clownfish skies look so beautiful when you’re looking through smoky spectacles.
Let’s clasp hands and stroll down that crooked stretch of land far from electronic arms and bionic senior citizens, super as they may be.
don’t let anyone catch that regret in your voice, dear. This is just another rat-race, fast paced and now we’re stopped at some electronic gate while we travel down the Information Super Highway. ****’s wack, man.
What’s with all the can’ts and stops and yields? I say I can’t read fuzzy bear, so stop harassing my mood and demeter, you don’t see me checking out your gun.
STOP. WAIT! HALT!!
I’m going to threaten your life now, or at least I would if I could threaten any shredded living remains of a tale probably sadder than my own. Get going, you’re going to late for your Living in Denial workshop meeting that you attend every Sunday morning.
Don’t go throwing my sheep into the fire now, you never know what you might spark. And you don’t see me checking out your gun.
Just don’t hate me because I don’t follow your logic, it’s my world too man. See, you spark my petite taste for “sincere apologies” and throw another polished rock in my face. “Sorry” is no ******* excuse for greed.
You’re going to be pure, radiating magic someday. I can see it in your eyes, they’re asymmetrically wise. Now expand your voice like a strong Whitney ballad, hauntingly emotional and loud. LOUD.
So loud that your cousin Stanley can hear you all the way from his random mid-life crisis backpack excursion in the Swiss Alps.
Take my hand, friend, and in the park by the trees with the birds and the bees we’ll slowly fade into the grass, every atom meshing and combining, it’s science. Do you hear it? The pulsating of the massive brain, the all-knowing library?
Knowledge is flowing. We’ll get massively drunk and pass out in a cozy embryo sack full of words and goo (but don’t worry, we’ll be wearing raincoats).
Warm and surreal, we’re happy and we’ll wake up still drunk off of knowledge.

And then. We feel that stinging magic, and it’s bittersweet, glamorous and harsh. And just as euphoric as we were, we fall.
As with every high, there is a low
And you are a giant ticking grandfather clock counting each moment carefully and precisely, making sure to take note of the glow and grandness of it all. Everything.
Is ignorance bliss? Do you wish to be left in the dark?
Because, to be honest, I’m scared of the dark, and sometimes I need a little light.

Doing cushiony cushy jobs. Sharing best practices. Dreaming of finding a decent travel agency. Having dreams of mushroom clouds rising above dumpsters. Showing the V sign with both legs upwards. Leaving office feet first. Staying in office feet first. Letting things slide to hell, while remaining unseen through the thin veneer of incompetence.

Four walls crush
barely recognizing the reflection that stares
longing for the fat a cushy existence has brought
to burn with the binding responsibilities
another morning brings
Freedom
is hunting with the wolves
no place to call home
open air, open eyes
open life
with only your bones and wit as companions
new faces, new place
no cage around what should be free
will
guilt would linger at first
then a home would be made in the ***** blanket
that is loneliness
fleeting moments with strangers a staple in this life
I will create
like many do when it all becomes too much
and you become reckless abandon

We were just laying there
her in front of me
my arms wrapped around, holding her tight.
It was one of those modern cushy porch swings
as comfortable as a couch.
Kissing behind her ear
that one special spot
it got her worked up real fast
she grabbed my hand and slipped it down
beyond the elastic waistband of her pajama pants.
It was so cold outside
felt like she was steamin' on the inside.
She reached around and unzipped my pants
taking it out and rubbing it against her ***
the moon giant sized, yellow, and rare
above us
as I slipped it in from behind
still laying down, her in front of me.
It was such a relief
after months of no lovin'
on account of her Christian pre-marital *** guilt.
With each ******
the swing moved more and more
just swingin'
rockin & rollin with the *** beat
we had goin.
That's when we both heard the front door of her house
slam shut.
It was her mother.
From the backyard we could see the entire house
through the numerous windows.
Her mom was a real miserable *****
from China.
She hated my guts
hated everyone
especially herself, it seemed.
She was headed straight to the backdoor
we were frozen stiff
too terrified to move
my **** just sitting inside of her
our pants around our ankles
hidden beneath the blanket draped over us.
Her mom set down her bag and was coming right for us
we were caught.
And my pecker was about to get cut off
with a Chinese sword.
Then
not two feet from the backdoor
she was about to bust us
when my girlfriend's little sister
grabbed her mother's hand
and pulled her
led her back to the other side of the house.
We scrambled to pull our pants up
pulled the blanket back over ourselves
and sat upright.
I pulled her close to me
and gave her a soft kiss,
whispering
"*******. That was close, huh?"
"Yeah too ******* close. Oh my God. She would've killed you Danny..."
And she kissed me again
both of us cracking up and laughing in mid-kiss.
I put my arm around her and breathed a sigh of relief.
Her mother's voice boomed into the backyard
as the door swung open, hitting the wall
"HEY! GET YOUR ARM OFF OF HER!"
Whatever you say lady.
Whatever you say.

Although your friendly demeanor
Helps mask your vexatious vibe,
What's hidden under your trench coat
I can effortlessly describe.

Your ignorance is beautiful
Complimenting your facetiousness,
Which gets people to laugh,
Following you like a princess.

The amiable attitude masks
An ugly judgmental jowl
Which tends to spark
A camouflaged scowl

Your playful features are
No more than soft and cushy wool.
The transparent grin you flaunt about
Is just a bunch of bull.

Now grapple my ideas
Don't throw them out if sight.
Just listen when I say
"You're stupid and I'm right"

There are people in this world, and I don't mean to preach
I am exercising my rights, and my freedom of speech
Opinions will be expressed, but there's not much I can teach
Except these people drain the land, all ******* like a leach

If your a copper lover, and you like the boys in blue
Politics may float your boat, perhaps you don't have a clue
Royalists could take offence, you know what you should do
a WARNING from this moment on, I wouldn't read if I we're you

Just forget about crap brexit, it's the British who will pay
Who cares about a ******* deal, or if we go or stay
We never had no interest, with that ***** Theresa May
Her cabinet is full of ****, but they've always been that way

We don't need any governors, trying to take our land
Or politicians trying to rule, with their unruly hand
A state for every president, all thinking they are grand
And local law enforcement, I can not ******* stand

All people in authority, treat the rest of us like flops
The civil servants are not civil, nor are the ******* cops
Their issued with a uniform, and believe they are the tops
Illegal **** and seized drugs, are shared in bent cop shops

You could get a thrashing, locked behind that steel cell door
Or mowed down in a pursuit, or beaten to the floor
They get away with ******, and a hell of a lot more
In case you did not realise, Police have immunity from the law

Never mind Ladies and lords, in a world of pure desire
The deception of constabulary's, and the monarchy's a liar
They all adopt god statuses, it could be even higher
Escort them to the Wicker Man, sacrifice them in the fire

The Governments they ruin lives, their footsteps where dirt soils
Our leaders are unscrupulous, every country's left in spoils
Prime minister's winding up the world, in continuous loops and coils
The queen should go and **** herself, along with all the royals

A horses **** springs to mind, as well as ugly trolls
When I see that Prince Philip, and Camilla Parker Bowles
Charlie boy well what a ****, dragging Diana through the coals
Their the spongers of the state, all living of our tolls

Just take a look at palaces, and look at where we dwell
We're treated like we're second rate, and we all ****** smell
They stick their noses in the air, and you can always tell
That we're seen as the common folk, and we can go to hell

When seen in the public eye, you know they are looking down
They're no better then anyone else, underneath their royal gown
Why are they put on pedestals, and made jewels of the crown
And live in places that could house, half an ******* town

Who cares about false visits, who cares where they have been
Their only trying to look good, their not really all that keen
Flood victims and tsunamis, well they just want to be seen
We don't want the tossers sympathy, and ******* to the queen

Isn't she just too **** old, she should be abdicating
The rest of them can *******, their all so aggravating
Higher aches no one needs, because they are segregating
We're categorised into a class, and there is no negotiating

Disband the current monarchs, because they are out of season
The Tudors should've been the place, to put a royal freeze on
Why are they the privileged ones, there isn't a good reason
They are all above the law, and maybe that's high treason

All successors to the throne, they never had a spine
I'd rather be a *******, now the crown has lost it's shine
When there's marriage on the table, their not likely to decline
Has Meghan Markle ever been, The Bride of Frankenstein ?

I knew you were an actress, take a look at yourself now
You are like Kate Middleton, your just another royal sow
Is William a pig ******, he's reared three swine's but how?
Perhaps Harry's had a bit of  Kate, and bred that stupid cow

Because a prince just came along, and it was you they plucked
Was it the thought of royalty, when in you were then ******
Does aristocracy have its folds, are they all neatly tucked
The only job you have now, is lay down and get ******

Can I make one suggestion, now please don't take offence
You don't have to reproduce, with these two smarmy gents
Do you feel obligated, to mix in with their scents?
Or because you're now a royal, you have free tax and rents

Never mind the cushy jobs, when your in the special forces
Send William to the front line, after his training and courses
Why should our country pay, for all their false endorses
Is Margaret part of their clan, or one of the sad horses

The Duke of Edinburgh's award, why didn't he just pass
Sarah Ferguson was a commoner, and from a different class
Did Andrew like her freckles, did they extend down to her ***
She wasn't all that bothered, once behind the palace glass

Celebrities tolerate her majesty, they must have some endurance
Those poor ******* on that show, the Royal Variety Performance
Britain's Got Talent has it's winners, I hope they have insurance  
They're there for the prize money, not for the royals assurance

A variety of royalty, but there not all that enticing
So many bent police officers, who take small cuts from slicing
We don't want dodgy minister's, collecting and over pricing
It's a constabulary of governments with too much royal icing

Looking back on it now,
after the wars & the peace & the wars,
I wish I'd never met you.
Imagine what your life would have been like:
you would have finished graduate school
and gotten a cushy job at a large bank
and worn those **** office suits of secretaries
that show just enough cleavage to make
the boss wish he had more ******,
and your sales for the quarter would have
skyrocketed like a smooth stone
fired from a slingshot and you would be
as happy and content as you were
in the age of innocence,

And you would pass the field
where I lay sometimes on your way to work, staring
at the seas on the moon-wondering
why they look like closed eyes-
But alas,
-things didn't work as planned.
We met and fought and made peace
and now we spend our nights together
in that lonely field,
staring at the face of the moon,
eternally wondering why He
doesn't smile back.

My biggest fear is that everyone will eventually discover how positively unremarkable the soul beneath this husk of a person always was,
To shy away from the cringing passersby as they gawp mercilessly at the offending blemish of my existence.
I'm trying to learn how to like myself, but it's a pathological, preexisting condition to be able to identify all of the things wrong with me simultaneously as an individual and as (un)contributing member to society.
I don't mean to be so cruel, for I know in my heart that self-love is paramount to intelligent, peaceful, pleasant enlightenment,
It's merely that I sense some ubiquitously negative energy whenever I make the attempt to muster up some sort of internal kindness.
No, it gets wasted on all the strangers and non-strangers in my socially habituating dwelling.
I'll share with them the stars from the sky and the very constellations from their hearts and make them feel positively dynamic and optimistic and they'll walk away from me with a cushy spot for hope in their pockets.
And I'll retreat to the shelter on my back, drained as if the flow of my mind were poured out in a colander, leaving the pulpy, distastefully rude thoughts that remained to wreak havoc on my crippled self-esteem.
I'm so sorry that my kindliness is some lewd pantomime of genuine altruism.
I'm sorry if I destroyed the ethereal, impossible image of who you fashioned me into.
I was always afraid that this would happen.

Looking at hundreds of women
I come across you
No pleasure shown in your face
No moaning from your lips
No enthusiasm in your motion
You are not here to pay for college
Or to cover the bills
You have no choice
No choice at all
And here we are
In our cushy chairs
Spending our spare time
Getting off on you
I regret any pleasure I had
That came at your cost
Please forgive me
If you can find the will
In what's left of your heart
A sickness lives within us
If we carry this on

Angel number one, the single mother.
A minority is she where I live
But where I love, she is abundant.

She loves her children with such a great force
But cannot always be around.
She works three jobs for dirt cheap
Just to support her babies.
Whether she wanted them or not,
Daddy walked out and won't pay child support.

Now she must play both mom and dad.
She has every reason to give up,
But she does not and will not.
And yet so many parents are walking away,
Because their kids are "too much to handle."
And they live affluently.

Angel number two, the pregnant teen.
I know, you are rolling your eyes right now
And of course, sometimes it is her fault
But many times it is not.
Either way, she is still a child.

Daddy hit her, or he left
Or Mama's boyfriend touched her
And all she wants is to feel love
From someone with strong hands.
Now at those same hands,
She begs for mercy.

The first time he punched her,
She smiled timidly.
"It's alright" she says.
But even she cannot believe it,
Or come out of the ghost-like state that has come over her.
They've dug a grave for her self-esteem.

Now she is with child
And he is with the state.
She is relieved, and yet unsettled.
She will not abandon her love for him.

She has no real options.

With these two women, and so many more like them
How can we sit back and complain?
Our cushy lives in our three story homes,
Seem like their heaven.
I have even heard a child of nine, when he came to our community, say
"It's like Disney World!"

We must be their voices.
We must be their light.
If we do not,
Who else will do it for them?

They will never ask for it.
They will not complain.
So we must bring a light to make heaven
Out of this city of forgotten angels.

a small
millennium house
much younger than it looks

a worn brick frame
skirted by a quaint, welcoming
red mulch garden

lace and fine gilt bone china
tucked away in
innumerable glass-fronted
cherry cabinets
bathed in the peachy florida light
streaming in through
clustered windows
framed by luscious,
flowing cloth drapery

pears soap,
soft, satin water,
and ceramic figurines
of angels and saints,
hares and doves

biblical verse, hung on the walls
and photos of relatives
i’ve never met

cushy, paisley-patterned sofas,
always something on the stove

flower arrangements on the mantle
aside a baldwin upright

no, this is not home.
but regardless, i know that here,
i will
always be welcome

My sister howled with the dogs at the end of the street
her teeth looking more canine than theirs with her jaw-hinged open and her gums shining
as she became every house in our neighborhood
fingers woven into a chain link fence around her ankle
as if to create a barrier between the throbbing and the cool stroke of the air.
I couldn’t decide if her ankle looked broken-hearted or dumb,
slumped over like it was on a bus, snoring and dreaming of the stop it had just missed.
The sky slowed down to melt into navy and rosy tie-dye at the same rate as her ankle, although her face got there first
and I swore I heard the sidewalk crack lightening into her bone as soon as she landed,
I brought it up every time someone knocked on the door or dropped a dish until she wasn’t there to bring it up anymore,
but her hands always kept steady when she said she never heard a thing.

In the car ride to the hospital my skull trembled at the high frequency of my sisters screaming.
I crossed my fingers that she would stop, but not too tightly
remembering that ripe carrot snapping into two sound
acutely aware that I had never felt my own bones living in my body until now
how every pothole made them tingle and catch fire
and I sat ghost-still until we got home.    

I am a spread of limp appendages on a cold metal table when I get my first piercing.
I imagined that I looked a lot like my sister when her ankle fell apart
or each time she made sure to draw out her goodbyes as our mother fell apart.
The piercer clamped down on my belly button with an instrument that looked like something you would use to snap stubborn lobster legs
my belly button dangerously residing only a few skin creases away from my rib cage
skin seeming too thin to protect bone when in the process of perspiring,
like paper that has soaked for days.
I hoped that rock won against paper in an alternate universe.
Breathe in he said, like my sister couldn’t that day,
breathe out and it was over and I was closer to understanding what it felt like to have a bone double over
but I knew this wasn’t it
it wasn’t even close.

When my sister died
I tried pulling back my pinky until it collapsed in exhaustion from fighting back,
but I couldn’t finish it off, couldn’t put it out of its misery.
I wanted to know if death or a bone breaking hurt more.
Sometimes my body flushes with the thick shade of shame at the thought
that a shattered pinky could hurt more than the empty spaces,
that I would trade my sister’s dead body for the safety of my own,
that if I hide from broken bones in the soft confines of cushy couches and toddler heights,
then what does broken feel like when it defines more than limbs.

Monotonous

Monotonous
The word to describe the imminent danger that we seem to fall into, 
Once we become rhythmically sound, with whats going on, and is around
Just Us
And the world that we’ve been given
We shed, 
Still our dream seem to hide before they ever leave
And will never return
Unless we say 
Please

Falling into the trap that we lay for ourselves
Wrapped up
Just children believe they are aloud to
Become robotic
Sitting on the table chair
Reading hieroglyphs
Under circumstances I declare
That the world is full of simple gifts
Its not the way the we should,
Its not the kind that looks good, on just anybody
Especially me and my family
As we run on the treadmill trying to step further into the sea
But the emptiness, isn’t as clean as I hoped it would be
I still feel things
You know what I mean

Like the way we walk down the side walk
Talking to the trees tripping over rocks
While selling some ****, in your ***** bathroom socks
We can only bring so much attention
To the walls that hold all of our attention
Just long enough to sing the melody
We’ve already heard too much
We understand, but never plan to do anything about it
We allow it
We fall into it
We talk about
But we’re still stuck
Lost in the grip that never loosens
Which will hide the fact that we’re all held in nooses
Being told what to choose
And who loses

But thats not what I would like to see
While I sit on the fence post waiting for the final killing spree
We are not free
Yet
And I still see double when I think about the vet
If I was a dog and had an allergic reaction to some chocolate
It seemed worth it
The pay check I receive seems worth it
When returning to the cushy 1 bed room apartment that I sleep in 
On occasion
I seldom listen 
To just the radio stations
Just to have a little peace 
From the monotony that never seises

This is for the birds who take their time leaving cages
Who use all the strength in their brains to take them places
Who use all the strength in their beaks to cry out on their stages
And declare peace on the birds on the rescue mission to save them

This is for the birds who work alone
Who type alone on their computers
Give their life to social media users
But are still strangers to the ones who live at home

This is for the birds who shed a tear
When that anniversary comes around each year
Whether it be the last bottle you downed or the last blood stained floor you cleared
The last blood stained soul, in the mirror you feared
Even when all the birds around you ceased to cheer

This is for the birds whose nest was burned down to the ground
By the father who let a political party take him down
But still sits and waits quietly til the coast is clear
But still sits and waits in the fire while the rescue birds are here

And maybe does it burn
But maybe that’s how birds learn
By waiting for the coast to be clear
By being taught when to burn
And it pains me to say but
It’s pain that saves us when the soft and cushy world fails to give us what we’ve earned
The exposition of the truth
The key to the freedom birds so often chase after

But this is for the birds who take their time leaving cages
Who use all the weakness in their hearts to imagine places
Who would rather stay in than be alive on a stage
It’s really clear

That maybe what you wanted was a little bit of control
Because the nest burned down and you thought
“What would happen if I go?”
But the time to find out is right now
Right here

these are the questions
i ponder on a friday afternoon
after a few mango beers

do slugs get to volunteer to be snails or vice versa?

do you think, tadpoles grieve for their tails?

are the black and white
goldfish, aware of the colour
of their skin?

do polar bears, in captivity,
miss the ice fishing?

do lions get jealous, of how
cushy housecats get it?

why does nobody ever ask,
does my head look to big in this book?

yep..... i know ....deep

first comes the walk
walks are required now
prescribed to ward off
effects of life

getting from here to there
taken for granted
vertical movement
now a task

next was found
the Underground
home of brews
home of seats

some soft, cushy
others wooden
yet warm, inviting
come, taste our brew

chairs, sofas
filled with chatting people
mostly women
looking into faces

illuminated screens
across coffee, latte or tea
communicating
smiles, grimaces

what is shared
humor, news
fears, fraughts, fragments
dimensions of now, the past






people rise to
pick up special steaming
drinks fresh from
the Underground

he never orders latte
standard drinks
brew of the day
fill his cup

someday
an inkling may stir
his brain, he will order
a white chocolate mocha

The congenial and amusing essence of the grass fills my mind with freshness and newness             
I  lay on the cozy, cushy meadow as I look at the empyrean sky.
The stars shine just as bright as a happy smile that's seen very rarely in this hoggish and egoistic world.
I close my eyes and picture the rapturous sky.
My mind flushes the Stygian sky with colours. A little red from the right and a little blue from the left.
As soon as the colours collide the sky turns lilac.
I see myself struggling to get up to fly in that dazzling lilac sky as my legs are tied to the chains which are buried deep inside the earth where the Satan lives.
I cry as I feel the Satan pulling me down.
Just then I realized that holding on  to the unchangeable past serves no purpose and will never let me reveal the mysteries of tomorrow.

Some days i sit at this cushy chair, ******* my ***, bored, eyes glued to the glare of questionable information and quiet chuckles. Don’t know where to go from here-Refresh. Click. Click. ****. Back. Perhaps smoke more, or read less, give some madness to this rhyme. Or, is that how the saying goes? Sorry, got lost staring at my cat on a rug. It’s a neat rug. The black circles on a brown and grey background. It’s almost enchanting. I, like my feline friends, am fixated by this sublime texture. Oh yea, about the boredom…

breath the air of spring time in
a robust chest swelling
hard knobs fingers glands
pressing into the sky
spreading and seeking
full of air a chest waits
to formalize titillation
the cushy  mounds
arouse bringing heat of spring time live
the season of expanding
citation of love modern nation
we hold this moment  
with palms of  hands
earth life giving
these  feelings to demand
we know such love of life
nurture and hold creation
for I am this creature of spring heat
of earth  blooming I see the living light
the snake eyes of mona lisa
the jerking of  hands
star in heart star of mind
whiling west ward seeking
crawling out of my skin
a peace debater a  living shadow
of intellect arises this truth
the rapture of the living
movements of spring
the growth of our destiny
whiling west teaching
                        gjmars 5/10/15

For me,
love was
my favourite
pale yellow chiffon dress
or may be
my light brown hemp neck less

Brightness of diamonds
placed closely on my fingers
Or darkness of black lines
around my eyes

Love,
may be smiling, giggling or crying over long phonecalls
Or spending hours and hours
and someone’s savings
in a overcrowded mall

Tell me.
how could I realize love can be
more than my imagination,
and your life

It could be choosing
sleepless nights in dark forests
filled with pointed stones
when chances to throw your body
over a cushy bed
in a warm room
is still on

How could I know
how it feels
to take a bullet
directly on your chest
only to
protect the soil on which you were born?

And we, whom you left
in our five star rooms
to sleep peacefully
watch movies with bowls of popcorns
will never understand
what you did for us
even though
we are not related with relations


Today
When I saw you
sleeping peacefully
in the arms of tricolour
and 21-gun salute
could not touch your ear
Today when
thousands of bodies like me
with tear filled heart
raised their hand

I realized
my heart can never love the way
your heart does
and
your soul can never be touched
with my prayers

because

I have never been there

Mist swallows my body whole
Stretchers emerge
Marshlands have captured me
Slime covered my limbs were
Mission Possible no longer
Rain slams down on me
Like bullets in your back
Trees appear to spin
Rough turning to cushy beneath me
Ripples of grass from my tumble
Now through the woods I stumble
No longer awake
Laid to rest
Never witnessing the newest dawn
Living was a luxury...

♡         You are only fifteen years old. You still have years, and years to be happy. To fall in love. To try new things and make new friends, and finally read that book or learn the words to that song. You have all the time in the world. But a lot of people forget that that time is still finite. And one day it will run out. "I've got time."
           "I'll do that next time."
           "Not right now."
           I'm writing to you to tell you not to wait. You are not stuck. You are not obligated to do anything that doesn't make you happy. More than anything, it is important to understand that the single thing what is most important in your life, is you. Recently, I've had a revelation as to what the purpose of my life is: to fall in love with the world.
           Tonight, the sun will set and tomorrow it will rise again, and that's not something to sigh about. It's not something routine. "What's the point? Everything stays the same anyway."
           The world, your life, your needs and you are constantly changing, and if you don't look up every once in a while from your cushy, comfortable life - if you don't appreciate the growth of the world outside of your own bubble - then you're going to wake up one morning very, very confused.
           Don't take the sun for granted. Don't take your sun for granted. Don't take yourself for granted. You owe it to the world to love yourself.
           Please, do not be afraid of change.
           Please, do not choose what is the most comfortable if it is not what makes you happiest.
    
        
         Please, love yourself. You are all you have left when the sun doesn't rise.