False shades I hide behind,
To embrace the other side of my mind –
The woman inside who’s always possessing my eyes
Boiling my soul’s insides until it can no longer hide
Rapping, tapping, stabbing, dabbing –
All my emotions galore, to find the other they implore;
Female only, this and nothing more.

Oh, Lords above! Truly your forgiveness I may adore –
Along with your permission I implore, to have this emotion at my door
To build up and grow, to fuel the thirst for a gender’s allure,
To flow outwards in glorious lore, in a tempest’s downpour.
Vexing, nixing, trapping, sapping –
My life force away – Until I am female forevermore.

Forgiveness I ensure, for all taunts I endure –
From my own mind’s tapping, nodding, napping at my mind’s core
Free me from my suffering! – Break me from this chore!
Terrors shall rattle my brain, draining my veins galore, in fear of my fatal self-gore
Hanging, napping, seething, bleeding –
Convertest to female – Or my life shall be no more.

Raw energy.
Despite the stiffness in his fingers,
despite the way his fingertips harden with calluses,
the industrious pianist hammers out the same tune
that he played last night,
and the night before,
and the night before that,
and unnumbered evenings before that.
Each notes falls magically into place,
none out of tune or without purpose,
perfectly in time.
Raw diligence and focus flooding his brown eyes,
gazing deeply into the sheet music.
His yellow forehead wanted dabbing,
Steeped in his sweat.
A manifestation of his time spent in his trade.
The conscientiousness in his eyes.
The raw vitality of his weathered hands.
The way he fills each note with sentiment.
Perhaps those are what keep calling me near?

We enter the church and immediately
have to push through two dozen sobbing Italian women
dabbing dry eyes; their tissues only show
black and multi-colored smears. Amid the echoing
“Oh my Goawd”s, they lean down and kiss my sister’s cheeks,
but even in my best black cap sleeves, I am the taboo
to my cousin Janet, a woman as barren as the stone lot
in between her husband’s restaurant and Deihl’s Autoshop.

We find an empty pew, and watch as the men
stride down the aisle, contestants
in a cultural Miss America pageant where the wrong answer
gets you whacked. Their heavy brows
sink in condolence as they hand over stacks of bills,
every hundred becoming a pity penny
for all the moments Janet lost in her luxury-life
made shiny by diamonds and cars and fur coats
which can’t be cashed in for a second chance at a family.

The men have paid for the food, the china, the band
in the corner meant to fill the space of sadness—
a reminder that we live a lavish life.
My sister shifts in her seat and as a man walks
by she touches his jacket, and gasps.
He’s a god.

Birds are singing as they narrate people grinning,
The sky is blue and starred at night
We are done with the wrongs and now focus on the right
Days are spent doing nothing and life occurs without a plan
No more flames when leaving that metaphorical pan
Ice caps are freezing and ozones are healing
Oh, Utopia

Defined as a place of non existence by the Greek,
Our ancestors would marvel to see us actualising our peak.
With each new generation not being as good as the last,
We strived to be better until hate is a thing of the past.
Oh, Utopia

The world has not always been the paradise it is right now
It has suffered quite a bit! Sit back, relax and let me show you how:
Dictators, dating apps, disease and  dabbing...
Depression, **** picks, dress size and *** grabbing...
Distant difficulties discriminating daily
Diligent defenders demonstrating plainly
All demanding democracies finally decide on the eternal debate.
Watching Parliamentary playgrounds leaves me feeling rather irate.
We have overcome all these and finally arrived at our destination.
A cohesive existence founded upon the pillar of cooperation.
Oh, Utopia

The journey to our present was the present of automation.
Competition for resources died with the wealth's excommunication.
Our time became our own to pursue whatever we pleased.
Now for everyone, the day is ready to be seized.
Our evolutionary struggles all extinct, our troubles all gone.
Perhaps now is the time to be happy? Time to move on.
Oh, Utopia

No more fornicating over Instagram and insecurity
No more toxic masculinity and finally some male maturity
No more measuring our success by how high a like button can count.
No more choosing our partner from the size of their banking account
No more candid masks worn by a big green beast
The vanity of man all buried and deceased
No more celebrating the ****** exposure of a love island fool
Finally we are being creative and using our brain as a tool
Oh, Utopia

However, this bliss is not what it seems and all is not well.
For Winge-ing, moaning and groaning are as ingrained as the DNA in our cell.
Having no problems is quite a bad situation
As we thrive on challenges from the dawn of creation
You see humans are hole diggers and nothing is ever enough
We are addicted to trouble and finding the diamond in the rough
Oh, Utopia

There is still so much to see and to learn
A fact that fills me with equal hope and concern
Until we learn to change ourselves and gain some sanity
The world will continue to be as it alway has been, ashamed of its own humanity.

Oh, Dystopia

I immerse a lilting fingertip into the
Milky icing of
My birthday cake
Intending to celebrate
Another year of life

But I am not struck by the
Pride of aging but instead by the
Shame of a compulsion
The flame on the candles brings

And licking the icing off my skin
I replace the icing with
The searing heat of
The candle stick

Wincing not only at the feel
Of my skin charring in the heat
But also at the sick
Guilty pleasure
I receive from the action

This isn’t what
Age
Is supposed to bring

Pride
At watching my maturity change
Pleasure
At new, refreshing experiences
Love
Of the expanding number of memories I held
That is what I thought
Age would bring


But no
Instead it carries with it
Shame
At the growing cravings for pain
Guilt
For the hidden experiences in darkness
Hate
For the inability to stop the thirst

Dipping your fingertip through the
Milky cream of cake icing
And dabbing it on a lover’s nose?

No
It is more along the lines of

Dipping your fingertip through the
Searing flame of the cake’s candles
And dabbing ointment on the shameful burns

You gain as many friends as your age represents
But these friends are
Shame
Embarrassment
Neglect
And every other negative thing
You never thought age would bring

Two showy petals pounce at me –
a magenta jaguar.

A porcelain mask,
a radiance of boasting jewels.

Preying, your menacing glare falls
bashful, dabbing a blush upon your

face of fragile petals, a myriad of kiss
prints upon velvet cheeks.

Spew butterflies from your tongue –
released, they scatter to the horizon.

Dawn frees them, fading into a rosy fog.

At 18, in college I was a slacker.
A **** that refused to attend
a class much before eleven.
My thoughts not extending
far beyond tomorrow’s game.
Still a little groggy from
Too much beer the night before,
Eyes reluctantly barely open,
I found and took my seat.

The class was in a Lecture Hall,
Theater seating for a hundred.
A class filled to near capacity,
For a Professor everyone loved.
“American History One O One”,
Taught by Doctor Weatherspoon,
A very cool Professor.

He was a very exacting man,
Always prompt and to the point,
A wonderful Lecturer and Historian.
Leaving out most of the trivial ****.

And yet on this morn,
It appeared he was late.
The clock on the wall
Informed eighteen minutes
Past Eleven and counting.
A highly unuseal event.
Lateness was not in
This Educator’s play book.

The seated students were growing
Ever more restless with chatter.
No teacher in class after twenty minutes,
Meant the students were free to leave.
One or two kids were already getting up,
to do just that, make a clean escape.

The side door to the raised stage opened,
Doctor W.  appeared, standing alone.
This enlightener of young lives, he
Who brought insight to our minds you see,
was himself quite blind, couldn't see a thing.

He was nearly always in the company of
A teacher’s aid, his hand upon her arm.
A human “Seeing Eye Dog” of his very own.
That day there was no aid present,
He was alone, standing in the doorway,
Only a solemn expression showing,
His ever present dark glasses slightly,
Askew upon his serious, ashen face.

Slowly, hesitantly he edged forward
Appearing unsure of himself,
even slightly confused.
When he thought he must be near
the center-front of the stage stopped,
slowly turned to his right,
Facing the room filled with his students,
We, who had fallen by then nearly, mute.
To silly kids that seldom took anything seriously,
All at once, nothing in that room seemed humorous.

In a flat halting, chocked up voice he announced,
“The President has been shot.
Down in Dallas.
I regret to inform you,
our President is dead.”

An audible gasp,
a collective sigh of shock was heard,
someone cried out; “Oh my God no!”
He held up his right hand, palm out and
Gently moved it right to left, a slow Parade
Wave it seemed. Beseeching us for calm.
The room went instantly silent again.

In a broken voice he continued,
“I think we should all adjourn for the day,
Yes, no class today. Perhaps no other classes at all.
Yes, you should go home now, be with your families.”
He began to softly cry, took off his dark glasses,
Took a white linen hanky from his suite pocket,
Dabbing it at his sunken, sightless eyes.
We had never seen him without his dark glasses,
Looking for the first time, upon his naked human face.

“Yes, it’s best you go on home now,
I’m so sorry; I don’t know what else to say.”

Then in a moment of stress and confusion,
He turned, did a 180,
facing about, the wrong way.
Slowly he began to walk forward,
hands outstretched before him,
towards the solid, rear brick wall,
of the stage. Headed for disaster.

A football teammate of mine,
jumped up on the stage and
Raced to catch the Professor.
Gently taking him by the arm,
ending his error in navigation.
Then my friend guided our Mentor
to the exit door.

All of us, nearly 100 remained seated,
a strange compelling hush,
weighing heavily upon us.
A stunned silence for sure,
that I shall never forget.

Our respected teacher’s emotional,
Confused response only deepening
our own feelings, of loss and dread.
Then we were left alone, together
to ponder what it all meant.

No cell phones, no instant news
Abounding, like birds on the wing,
Filling the air, here there and everywhere
to see and hear. Home was where we
Saw and heard things of import back then,
Home is where we should be.
And that is where most of us went.

Gradually over the next few minutes,
One by one, students rose and silently,
Slowly, reverently walked from the room
As if they were walking from a Church,
after some emotionally wrenching occasion.
A few and not just females were openly weeping.

There is no way to explain all this any better,
There is no real way for you to fully understand,
How it was, how it felt, unless you, yourself were there.
I dare say that anyone over the age of ten on that day,
November 22, 1963 will ever forget where they were,
What they were doing, when they first heard the news
Of the assignation of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

A year and a half later I was in the Military,
doing what I thought I should.  
In part perhaps, as JFK had inspired.
“Ask not what your country can do for you.
Ask what you can do for your country.”
My older brother joined the Peace Corps,
I joined the Marine Corps, both answering the call,
As we saw fit.

On that day in November ’63 the entire country
went into a profound and deep National mourning
that lasted for weeks.  

That has over time turned into a National Haunting,
That still to this day, half a century later, persists.

Some things, some events, truly are unforgettable

drowned the Earth suddenly.

  underneath honest light,
                                  all
   submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
        gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
             midnight, the   Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
  displaced
               where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
  in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
           as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —

            until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,

       modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
           hands scouring muddied
  obscure, atremble,
      shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
  of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
  nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
         to arrive again so we could feast
in  silver  fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
    
      looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
   now atrill in new fragile woodworks

       lurching and
         ameliorating as we all
    stutter and sing
       haunts dabbing open
  lips of small wounds that
   wish to shut quietly,   almost
every threat of gray     or pummel of
   wind startles the flyblown ornate,
  
   hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
    very few hang
               swayed by verdure
  of the gradual throne of sea
        curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
     where everything quite begins
    again to enthrall with a melodic
  leitmotif of the most tender of
       instances loose
            in mouths
                 and in endless recall
                  
                                               breathless—

Knowing how to paint is key, so they say,
When to brush and stroke, or erase it away.
But some painters out there just cannot paint,
They keep adding and adding; makes me faint!
Without knowledge or a care for the rest,
These women slather on makeup with zest!
Some demonic possession is at work;
Like some creature in the dark on the lurk,
Waiting for a victim who they can jump,
To ****** and caress and um, ****…
But enough of these victims, these lost men,
It is these creatures of “virtue,” these women!
Who capture the eye of peers with disdain,
Who then suffer in agony and pain!
Let us look at this process at it’s core;
But not to the point where it is a bore!
How the blank canvas of a womans face,
Is slowly and precisely won through race,
Of multiple brushes dabbing at paint,
Trying to turn a sinner to a saint!
The fine brush used to paint plump lips bright red,
And pale powders of primer of the dead.
To seize the image of porcelain death,
To mimic the perfection of Queen Beth.
The slight graze of the check with some faint pink,
And the strong tracing of the blackest ink!
On the lids and the lash of the blind eye,
Who fails to see that their face is a lie.
But for me that is surely not the case,
For in the mirror that is not my face!

I'm tired of waiting,
Just ******* die.
Too harsh?
Perhaps a delicate massage
Before I snap your neck,
Like wringing out a mouse
The cat dragged in,
Its poor beggar body
Broken in the cat's sin.
Perhaps a drink,
Spiked with hatred
Distilled in glass warning
Skulls and crossbones
Tucked behind the tray of biscuits
And endless chocolate ice cream cones.
Is it so hard to do?
Just stop breathing, shut it off,
Stop the heart.
Perhaps you can hold your breath,
Like the countless times I held mine
When I was forced to breathe in yours
While I swabbed your chin,
Dabbing up a dinner
That should have gone straight in.

Just die and get it over with.

I don't mean it.  Not really.

No I don't want you in a home;
They can't care for you like me.
Who will give you all the hugs
That you would give for free?
Its not that they won't care for you,
Or wipe your chin from drool,
Or even change your dress at night
After you had laid a stool.
It's just that they don't love you
And it's my curse to repay
All the love you gave to me
From birth through night and day.

Don't be mad at me,
I don't want you to go,
But I'm so tired of waiting;
No, I know that you don't know.

She has sewn with love
patches on my heart,
covered those holes made
by others in my past.

She was gentle, dabbing
it with kindness, removing
the shrapnel of betrayal
that had put so many
holes with in my heart.

She sewed it with a needle
of love, she put feelings
in the patches that soothed
the rough parts so the
patches laid soft.  

She had been gentle from
the start, to patch up the
holes from my past. She
had left a patch work patten
on my heart, for now love
could enter ,this was no
longer a heart with holes
but a patch work design
that was sewn with love.

The passing feet
That stops before him
He greets.

Come sir stand here in peace
Get them shining at five rupees
Five minutes’ please
For just five rupees
Then, sir, go on your way
Have a nice day.

While they stand
Deftly moves his hand
Dabbing white cream
On pairs of five rupee dream
An intent drive
Rusted leather must come alive.

Then he let go free
Grabs the five rupee
Gets back his eyes on the street

*He needs many more feet to greet.

It was Shlomit
who fell from the seesaw
in the park

and grazed her knee
and elbow
Baruch who

was on the other end
jumped off
and helped her up

trying to console her
patting her
on the back

as she leaned over
dabbing at
her bloodied knee

and crying said
look at the hole
in my jumper

o my God
Mum’s going to **** me
o look at my knee

Baruch took her
to the old dame
who took shelter

in the first aid place
and sorted out
minor injuries

there there
the old dame said
we’ll soon put that right

and took Shlomit in
and sat her on one
of the chairs

and got out
her first aid box
and cleaned off

the dirt and wound
with some yellow stuff
which made Shlomit

cringe and cry  
o my my
said the old dame

its hurts
but it cleans out
the baddies

Baruch watched helpless
taking in
the lopsided

hair band
on Shlomit’s head
the blood red

jumper sleeve
the grazed knee
the old dame

wiping it clean
Shlomit in tears
looking up at him

her glasses crooked
o my God
what will Daddy say?

she uttered
o he’ll understand
the old dame said

don’t think he will
Baruch thought
he isn’t that type

of guy
leather her
most probably

he mused
watching the old dame’s fingers
putting on white lint

and placing pink plasters
over the top
to keep it on

now the elbow
the dame said
pulling up

Shlomit’s jumper sleeve
the elbow was badly grazed
the hole of the jumper

stuck to the wound
take hold
of her hand

Sonny
the old dame said
this might hurt

so Baruch took hold
of Shlomit’s hand
and watched

as the old dame
cleaned up
the elbow

with the yellow liquid
and cotton wool
Shlomit’s small hand

grabbed his own
the fingers
with bitten nails

clung tight to his own
he noticed she swung
her legs back and forth

under the chair
the plastered knee
came in and out

of sight
the window brought in
and allowed to fall

upon her knees
the bright morning light.

Flame-tree abloom: dabbing red,
the distance paling green -
from the half-open window
to a dreary room;

Horizon waves bathed in gold dust -
from a vessel floating
in deep, enveloping seas;

Smudged streetlamp ayonder
a dark, rainy night;

Love, blooming silent, outlying mundane life.

It's late at night when you realize she's not the one you loved,
or anyone for that matter.
It's late at night when your mind,
a towering serpent of indecision and malnourishment,
a rushing stream of water from the broken end of a fire hydrant,
tearing through steel and ice cubes that litter a middle age class of numeral reunion,
discover the over-keyed lock where metal bends and screams.

Covered in flies and rice,
it retains its bondages, exchanging freedom for self-loathing,
*****-dying in single file,
a honey-gilded tune not thrice too soon.

I seek the corridor where my true love will wait for me,
breathing me in, yet the cane of a blindman.
A clopping corridor, sleek and cobblestone,
artificial and vast, astral.
My true embrace will be that cold one of death, knocking at my door,
pleading my friendship,
sapping from me ***** and calloused hands.

A wet kiss on the nose, a reddened tongue.

I don't know the latitude of my existence.
I can't feel the reality of my throat,
of the gushing and the breathing of winds,
blocking the eternal stream of air.
The currents broke, and from within blew a heavenly melody,
that pierced cold ears boundlessly.

Again, that same street.
Lit faintly from above and from the participants in its ritual.
They burn the wax together.
And they sink,
O paradox!
Together, with their victories of mental triumph,
they recede further into torment and inefficiency,
quantified and numerical,
arrange themselves by merit and consequence.

Again, they sink and plummet and fall,
deeper into wonder and beauty.
Until it abandons them and spills over the edges,
splattering the circumscription,
dabbing alligator skin and sunglasses.

Inspecting the damage done,
he lifts from within its belly a tattered and worn skull,
that of a Man, no less.
Rusting in the desert, alone and among his gods,
bone-dry plains and dunes of dust,
rumbling agelessly the shaken scared earth.

All I know of you
is the love I had for you
when I fell into this dream.
You were beautiful,
the way the sky turns orange and pink
at the end of an exhausting day -
slowly revealing a sky of starlight
that has taken years on end to reach my sight.
There was a sudden pull -
whether I toward you or you toward me
I'm still not sure -
but I know it was there.

You were swaddled so tight
in a blanket that bowed to your beauty.
Warm, needy eyes peeked
from behind peachy little eyelids,
laying full trust in my hands.
Before I knew it,
you were gone.

They took my baby.
Her name
is a bittersweet taste in my mouth.
Their words are
branded on my face -
"Ma'am, please sit down.
You're not being rational."

"There is no baby."
There is no baby,
but I feel her.
I feel her like a twister
pulling me in,
but I've been put in restraints.  
Regardless of the ache in my bones
begging to be with her,
they've locked me up.

I am detached from reality.  
Everything is wrong.
No one can tell me where she is.
They act as if
my eyes are turning to goo
and sliding out of their sockets -
avoiding eye contact
in fear of sympathy rising in their souls.  
They stay on my trail,
dabbing away anxiety
as it seeps from my pores -
hoping I won't see or feel it.
I smell their fear
as I pace back and forth,
brainstorming my escape.

My dear Astrid,
where could she be?
I feel her tugging at my heart,
begging for a heroine.
Adrenaline is burning through me -
screaming at my body,
demanding I run for my baby
find my baby.

And my dream ended.
I've spent every day since then
looking for my baby.
I feel her in my heart.
Maybe she's real
and maybe I'm crazy -
either way,
I will never forget
my beautiful, stolen, and forgotten
daydream baby.

The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Heard from the bathers that-
The Princess had been abducted
By the Dark Beast.
A bounty of thousand gold coins was announced
If you brought her back alive and the beast dead
And Death if you brought the beast alive and the Princess dead.

The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Hung their drums around their necks
And drummed their way
Through the Forest Dark

When  the Elder Brother drummed the sleep-inducing roll,
The storks that roosted in the trees
Dropped as if they were one big bunch.
He picked them up one by one
While the younger one,
Elated,
Shouted 'Pelicans!' and drummed the defeathering roll
Upon which the plumage came off
The Elder Brother drummed the roasting roll
And the birdflesh caught fire.

On the second day a leopard that looked-
More like a boulder in leopard's clothing
Lurched at the brothers.
The Elder Brother drummed the age-reversing roll
And the poor old leopard grew younger and younger
Until it became a watery foetus which-
The Drummer Brothers ate,
Dabbing crushed chillies, and sprinkling salt.

On the third day a bear of grisly proportions
Ambled, roaring, into their sight
The Younger Brother drummed an *****-enlarging roll that-
Stretched the bear's mammaries far too long-
They dragged on the ground like two pythons.
The Elder Brother drummed the light-the- candle roll
And the oily **** caught fire like wicks.

Having vanquished the two deadly beasts
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku met,
On the fourth day of their journey,
The Dark Beast.
The Dark Beast, as it turned out,
Was no beast as such
But an Outcast once expelled
Into the heart of darkness
Who wrapped himself
In the dark of the Dawn
And became one with All the Beasts
And rumbled.

The Princess' pygmy horse was impaled
With the stake coming out of its mouth
Grossly gory, its hindlegs missing
And the blood, coagulated, hanging like icicles.
Near it was the Princess herself,
Naked, except for the gold waist chain
And the anklets.

The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Drummed a very ordinary roll,
Steady and throbbing.
The Dark Beast who listened to it
Was transported into his past,
His memory of listening
To the old drummers of Ikku Ukku.
Excited,
He spun on his heels and stretched out his arms
He gyrated and pirouetted-
And on reaching the peak of his frenzy
Exploded, like a watermelon
The pieces flew in all directions.
The Drummer Brothers picked them up
And licked
While the Princess, shaken out of her languor,
Rose and sauntered towards them.
Holding out her honey hands
She said, "Now I belong to both of you."

The Younger Brother came up with a plan:
The elder one would have her from the waist up
While he would have her from the waist down.
The Elder Brother approved.
Vain and coquettish,
The Princess rammed her fists into either drum
And said: "I loathe their sound- too unrefined."

On the fifth day,
The Drummer Brother  drummed a jazzed up roll
On their new drumhead
Made of the Princess' hide.

In the midst of a moonlit avenue,
You and I stumbled jovially across the pavement,
Giggling at each other’s absurd motions
Only to both tumble backwards.

With the evening’s beer still fresh on my lips,
I took a reckless dive at a kiss
But to my surprise you reacted with oblivious indifference,
As if my gesture was forgettable as an irksome breeze.

Instead, you reclined comfortably on the cement,
Letting your rippling hair flow in the caressing starlight,
And marveled at the celestial luminescence above us;
A million petite crystals dancing over our heads.

“One day you will find me waltzing with the stars,”
You said, rocking your head back and forth as if
Mystical ballroom music were playing in your mind.
“And I’ll shine like a lantern in the night sky.”

Perhaps it was a alcohol conjured vision,
But I could have sworn the pearls of your eyes
Glowed as the words glided off of your lips,
Ascending into the midnight sky.

I may have never known your name,
Or from where you came,
But I know your final destination.

When a shooting star streaks through space
Dabbing the night in a silvery melody,
I’d like to think that it is you,
Waltzing in ecstasy across the moonlit sky.

The frost, sets in and leaves of red have fallen.
And a cold sun beads on the stiffening ground,
Nimbus clouds, snows of down, now wafted in,
Tagging sun become louder, as ripples on pond
Are waging white with grey, dabbing the tableau,
That nature is painting with a pair of wild swans.

On the first day I learned how to spell my name,
‘h’ included,
Daddy knocked on my bedroom door and let himself in—
I was six
when he planted the evil seed inside of me.
It’s been growing ever since.

Mommy told me to go to sleep with the Bible
under my pillow,
dabbing at her swollen face, pink paisley hanky in hand.
Uncomfortable
(the Bible-pillow, that is; after a while I couldn’t care less
about Mommy’s bleeding nose).

She said Jesus listened to everyone’s sorrows,
children’s first,
that there was no need to tell anyone— He could read thoughts.
Impressive,
I thought, for a guy who’d been through a helluva lot himself,
being crucified and all that.

Daddy told Mommy not to make up ******* fairytales,
that there’s no way
Jesus remained on the cross for as long as he did,
Pah! he said,
they didn’t have superglue in those days, you dumb *****!
Mommy said Yes-Yes, and shut her trap.

Mommy traded in her sanity for the bottle
Daddy fed her.
I stole Daddy’s shotgun and walked over to the Owens’,
where I threatened
to shoot little Jason, then aged five, if he didn’t lick me
up and down in front of his mother.

I’ve come a long way, and rumor has it there’s a price
on my little head,
that they had found Daddy’s ***** bones in the well
twelve years to the day—
but I’ve come to realize that this heart was made to ****;
I’ll polish my shotgun and wait.

Brushstrokes across the sky
making the colors
the clouds
dabbing colorful flowers
smearing the river patterns
the flowing grass matched with a soft green color
the tree's leaves had a fluttery feeling
the texture of a painting
is actually reality

I saw the note on the mantelpiece
When I got home, rather late,
I knew that something was wrong when I
First saw the open gate,
The house was still and the air was chill
As I called her name, Lorraine,
The note said, ‘Don’t try to follow me,
I’ve caught the evening train.’

I stood for more than a minute
Staring down at her tidy scrawl,
And didn’t breathe for a minute more
‘Til I thought that I would fall,
She’d often threatened to leave me but
I’d put that down to pique,
I stood there now with a furrowed brow
And a future, looking bleak!

I studied the train timetable
Was she going West or North?
The West Express would have left, I guessed,
She’d head for the Firth of Forth,
I backed the car from the garage
Dipped the lights and stepped on the gas,
And headed on up the Great North Road
Beside the railway tracks.

The train was fully a mile ahead
It was lit like a silver snake,
Winding in and out of the bends
And easy to overtake,
I pulled abreast by a hillside crest
To a carriage, just on the rise,
With a single female passenger,
Who sat there, dabbing her eyes.

I knew that the train would stop at York
So I raced on there instead,
Jumped out and ran to the station
While the blood had rushed to my head,
I caught the train as it pulled on out
And I found her on her own,
Weeping free, with her back to me,
She thought she was all alone.

She jumped when I sat in front of her,
And I reached on out, in vain,
‘Why did you even follow me,
I thought that I’d made it plain!’
‘You know I never could let you go,
You mean all the world to me!’
She turned and looked out the window
So I knelt there, down on one knee.

I fumbled deep in my pockets, felt
For the only helpful thing,
Slipped it onto her finger, then
A big brass curtain ring,
She laughed and said, ‘You don’t mean it!’
But her eyes were bright with tears,
And I said after I’d kissed her
That I’d meant to ask, for years!

‘You know that you’ll have to come on home
At five, or six at the most,
No more of your office parties where
I burn and spoil the roast!’
I put my hand on my heart right there
And I quelled her, with a look,
It has to be pretty special when
The master marries the cook!

David Lewis Paget

Your life may be full of sparkles and ove-lay but the rest of us sometimes struggle under storm clouds.

Anna (one of my roommates) broke up with her BF of a year. It seemed to happen in agonizing, slow motion. Anna wavered, for almost a week, like a feather caught in contradictory gusts, but finally, she gave him the broom.

Jump ahead four days to Saturday. New Haven was a drizzle-fest of cold rain and my suitemates all stayed in. I had hospital volunteer hours that morning (6am-10am) and then managed to whip through my chemistry homework (3 classes) in 3 quick hours.

When everyone was free, we ordered pizzas and wings. We have to meet deliveries at the front gate, and I was barely able to carry it all. “Pizza!” I announced, as I entered the suite, where I was immediately mobbed.

“Le’ me get to the table!” I whined as I bobbed and weaved through the crush like a prizefighter. As soon as I set it down, the pizzas were claimed, and the girls took their usual seats.

Lisa always sits on floor cushions, by Anna, at the low, white coffee table. After a few bites, she hugged Anna, giving her a ”rawr.“ She hadn’t really seen her since the decoupling.
You iight?” she asked Anna.
Anna waved her hands in the air, like she was sweeping smoke away, because her mouth was full, but she nodded, ‘YES’ emphatically.

“Let's play something,” Leong said, meaning music on the linked Amazon Echos throughout the suite. “Choose!” she said, motioning to Anna.
Anna replied, “Don’t Wanna Fight” (by Alabama Shakes).
“A classic,” Leong agreed, searching it out. “Amen,” Sunny chuckled.
“Love it,” Lisa said, dancing in anticipation while seated on her cushion.
“Mmmm!” I added, because my mouth was full of pizza.
Cue ‘Don’t Wanna Fight.’

Two nights later, we were at one of those dances we jokingly call ‘fashion week events’ and Anna arrived a little late. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her messy-bunned copper-cherry red hair was highlighted with phosphorescent hair chalk that glowed penny bright in the right light.

She was wearing a red dress that looked painted on, her face sparkled with ‘unicorn snot’ glitter and her lips were a fun phosphorescent green, as if they were dipped in Kool-Aid.

“Look at her,” Sunny said, indicating Anna, “getting back on the horse and trying to arrange her next emotional trauma.”

“They grow up so fast,” I said, fake-dabbing my eyes like a teary parent.

Spinning, spinning, madness winning—
Psychopathic thought beginning—
Butterflies to catch for pinning—
Spinning thoughts inside my head.

To twirl the net and bring it down—
To trap the beast unto the ground—
Its screaming terror'd not speak a sound—
I stick the pin and pin it dead.

Its writhing, grabbing on the netting—
Sounds I wouldn't be forgetting—
Tapping, flapping, clapping, fretting—
Gradually slowing to a stead.

A cold and sweating, mad reaction—
I sense the tingling satisfaction—
And this is surely just a fraction—
A fraction of the blood she shed.

My carriage wheels had quickly turned—
The case at court was now adjourned,
So early home I had returned—
Returning to my home ahead.

It was a cold and somber morning
When I first received the warning—
A beauty carriage, now adorning—
Standing still at my homestead.

Curious, I stepped out and gazed—
Its presence there left me amazed—
Then I saw my dogs were caged—
Cold and outside, barely fed.

Gingerly I climbed the stairs
And pondered what'd await me there—
And then, this sight, this dark nightmare—
My wife and brother in my bed.

My curiousness then turned to strife—
My temper flared against my wife—
I silently retrieved a knife
To turn her lusting into dread.

I chose to **** Paolo first—
I stabbed his neck and watch it burst—
His silent death increased my thirst—
I watched the ******* as he bled.

Suddenly, my wife awoke—
The ****** mess caused her to choke—
Her agony, in me invoked
A sense of anger, sorely red.

She stumbled, falling on the floor
And tried to scramble to the door—
She looked so sad, so low, so poor,
So shameful as she crawled and fled.

I pinned her down, still writhing, grabbing—
My knife was quickly, sharply dabbing
As my hands were cutting, stabbing—
Stabbing her from overhead.

When she was still, I calmed at last—
Yet vengeance soon would have me cast
To Caina, treacherous and vast—
But it was done. Her blood was spread.

The frost, sets in and leaves of red have fallen.
And a cold sun beads on the stiffening ground,
Nimbus clouds, snows of down, now wafted in,
Tagging sun become louder, as ripples on pond
Are waging white with grey, dabbing the tableau,
That nature is painting with a pair of wild swans.

.
The frost, sets in and leaves of red have fallen.
And a cold sun beads on the stiffening ground,
Nimbus clouds, snows of down, now wafted in,
Tagging sun become louder, as ripples on pond
Are waging white with grey, dabbing the tableau,
That nature is painting with a pair of wild swans.

.
The frost, sets in and leaves of red have fallen.
And a cold sun beads on the stiffening ground,
Nimbus clouds, snows of down, now wafted in,
Tagging sun become louder, as ripples on pond
Are waging white with grey, dabbing the tableau,
That nature is painting with a pair of wild swans.