Once a death was enough to awake the sleeping souls,
Now bodies outspread in the gore,
Some snivel, some celebrate the victory,
Victory of won the war,
War; which is making us deadpan!

By: Nida Mahmoed

“It really is,” I whispered, “It really is a beautiful world."


     “This really doesn’t feel safe,” Jamie said, her voice holding just a hint of fear. She was probably right. By anyone’s standards, this was straight up stupid, and here I had convinced her to come along with me.
     “Nah it’s totally fine. I wouldn’t do anything to put you in too much danger.” I said this without a hint of doubt in my voice, confident as usual. I had to keep the fearless and confident image or she might change her mind. I hoped the risk would be worth it in the end, but I couldn’t really be sure. How could I know unless I tried? If I didn’t try, I would just be left wondering how great it might have been.
     “We are really freaking high.” This time Jamie said it deadpan, more of an emotionless observation than anything else. Again, she was right. I looked down the long white ladder past her. It was probably 80 yards to the ground from where we were. Above us was another 20 yards of ladder, leading up to a narrow platform. We were climbing a water tower. The platform above us circled around the tower just below where it began to bulge outward into a spherical shape at the top. There was no safety cage around us, nothing to break our fall except for the climbing harnesses we wore. Each harness had two straps, each with a clip on the end. One clip would be snapped onto the first rung, then the next clip to the second, and so forth until we reached the top. It wasn’t fool proof but it was better than nothing.
     “But seriously my hands are getting tired. How much further is it?” Jamie was great, but complaining was one of her most annoying flaws. Most people wouldn’t have made it this far anyway. The fact that she had was just a testament to the athleticism and strength she had underneath all that complaining.
     “Close. Maybe fifty rungs. Hang on for another five minutes and we can sit down and rest.” Yet again she was right. My hands and forearms were burning like crazy. I had long ago learned that climbing with gloves on a slick painted surface was asking for trouble, so today we had no protection from the narrow rungs pressing into our skin.
     For the next fifty rungs, the only sound I could hear above my heavy breathing was the clink and snap as each clip was removed and replaced. It was surprisingly calm this evening, the sun not quite finished slipping below the horizon. It was late August, so the temperature was still somewhere in the 70s this time of day. The backpack on my back seemed to get heavier and heavier the higher we went. I could feel the straps digging into my shoulders and trying to tip me over backwards. This bag was far too big for what I was doing, but I needed some way to bring a sleeping bag and blanket up. Finally, my hand left the last rung and found the top of the steel platform. I unclipped from the last rung and snapped on to the hand rail that went around the outside edge before I reached down to take Jamie’s hand.
     “Thank you sir,” she said, “I see chivalry is not dead.” Her hand brushed a few loose strands of long blonde hair out of her face as she stood upright next to me, looking out over the edge.
     “Ok, you were right. This is worth it.” She said in a matter of fact tone. I laughed softly.
     “This isn’t actually what we came for,” I said with a grin, “We aren’t done climbing yet. I just didn’t think you would actually come if I told you how far we were going. But the view is really nice here.”
     “You can’t be serious. I didn’t see anything going up any further.” She sounded rather incredulous.
     “We have to follow this platform around to the other side. There is a set of stairs going up to the very top. At least it isn’t another ladder.” I tried to sound confident, like it had already been decided that we would go on, but I couldn’t stop a tiny bit of a pleading tone from leaking in. I knew there was a small chance that she would want to stop here, but I also knew that going just a bit further would be completely worth it. I had scoped this tower out from the ground several times, using my trusty binoculars that I bargained for at a neighbor’s yard sale. When I discovered the stairs going up past the platform, I used an online satellite map to take a peek at the very top of the tower. From what I had been able to tell, at the very top there was a completely level platform, twelve to fifteen feet in diameter, with a secure looking rail around it. Amazing what a person can find online.
     My hope was to spend the night on that platform, hence the sleeping bag and blanket in my massive backpack. Tonight was supposed to be the brightest and most active meteor shower of the year in North America and the weather had decided to be kind to us star gazers, leaving a clear and cloudless sky for the evening. It would be perfect. Perfect if Jamie would go along with it, that is.
     “You are the worst kind of person,” she said. She wasn’t facing me so I couldn’t really tell how she felt about it. Finally she turned around and rolled her eyes. “Ohhhkaaaay. Let’s go. We’ve already gone this far.” She was used to situations like this. I was the one who always wanted to push the limits, go a little further, risk just a bit more, and she was the one who always asked me to reconsider and then went along with it anyway. I always felt bad for a little while, but I got over it pretty quick. It’s not like she didn’t know me well.
     “You are the best kind of person,” I said with a wink and a grin, “But let’s rest for a bit. My arms are tired now.” We sat down and I took off my backpack, setting it on the platform beside me, digging through a side pocket. I pulled out two bottles of water and a box of Poptarts.
     “Poptart?” I offered, “Snack of champions. All the professional water tower climbers eat them I heard.”
     “How are you not fat,” she replied, taking a delicious cherry snack from the silver wrapper. It wasn’t a question really, it was more a running joke between her and I about how much I should actually weigh. She’d usually joke that one day all the junk I eat would hit me at once and I would wake up weighing 400 pounds. Even though she joked, she wasn’t beyond being bitter about my eating habits since she worked hard to keep a perfect physique.
     Next I pulled out two plain white pieces of paper and handed one to her. I began folding mine delicately into the perfect paper airplane, using the flat section of the water tower for some of the more delicate creases.
     “I don’t know why I hang out with you. You are literally so freaking weird. Like who the hell would bring paper up the side of a water tower just to make a paper airplane.” She laughed even as she criticized. I knew she didn’t really mind. She had on multiple occasions told me that my “quirkiness” as she put it definitely made me more interesting to be around. I guess I was a little odd, but I didn’t really think that was a bad thing. I did what I thought to be amusing or entertaining. It wasn’t my fault the rest of the world didn’t seem to feel quite the same way about life.
     “In fifty years don’t you want to be able to set your grandchild on your lap and tell them all about the time you tossed a paper airplane off the side of a water tower? Grandkids don’t want to hear boring stories. I would know. I was a grandkid once.” Jamie just shook her head with a grin and started folding her airplane. Mine was finished and ready to be launched into the great unknown.
     “This is Air Farce One to ground station Loser, requesting permission to take off.” I did my best Top Gun impression, trying to remember how cool Tom Cruise sounded when he said it.
     “This is ground station Awesome to Air Farce One. Ground station Loser could not be located but we can go ahead and give you permission to launch. Have a nice flight.” Jamie still had at least a little bit of a child left in her. I tossed my paper airplane over the side, watching it glide several hundred yards before landing in the low branches of a tree. Mission complete.
     “What perfect throwing form you have,” Jamie said sarcastically, "You were probably one of those nerds who just made paper airplanes in class all day as a kid." Ouch. Yea, that had been me. Jamie wound up and threw her airplane with all her strength. She had made more of a dart than a glider and it flew fast, eventually landing in a tree considerably further than mine had.
     “You win this round,” I said with mock disgust, only barely able to hide a smile, “Let’s keep going.” I removed my clips from the rail and began walking along the platform. The bulb at the top of the tower was much bigger than it looked from the ground. I could just imagine the thousands of gallons of water above and beside me.
     Eventually we reached the stairs. It was nice of the designers to have taken pity on the poor inspectors who had to climb this far up. A ladder going around the outside of the bulb would have been terrifying. The stairs curling around the side felt much more secure. Reaching the top, there was a narrow platform leading from the edge of the bulb where the stairs ended to the flat space in the center of the tower. There was only a handrail on the left side so Jamie and I were sure to snap our harnesses on. The sun had almost fully set by now, the last tendrils of light just enough to see by as we made our way to the center.
     “Okay this is cool. You know what we should have done? We totally should have brought an air mattress up here and slept or something,” Jamie thought aloud. “I’ll bet the stars look amazing from here. Oh and look you can already see the city lights over there!” I loved seeing her excited. She would take one hand and play with her hair while the other would point at things. It was kind of weird when I thought about it, how she always pointed at things when she was excited. But that was just Jamie being Jamie.
     “You read my mind.” I pulled the sleeping bag and blanket out of the backpack and laid them on the flat steel. I probably should have realized how cold that steel was going to be. Oh well.
     “We are so in sync right now,” Jamie laughed. “This is awesome. You were right.”
     “Wait so what did you think was in the bag?” I asked. She hadn’t mentioned it before and I never said anything about it.
     “Honestly I thought it was a parachute or some **** and you were going to try jumping off the edge,” she laughed, “I would have tried to stop you but I decided I really won’t feel guilty when you die doing something stupid.”
     “Brilliant!” I exclaimed, “I am so going to try that next time!” I wouldn’t really. I liked doing risky things, but I wasn’t suicidal. We spent the next few minutes getting the sleeping bag and blanket situated. I loved the fact that Jamie could be spontaneous sometimes and that she was totally okay with just camping out on top of a random water tower on a Wednesday night. How many people in the world would have been okay with that? I was lucky to have her as a friend.
     We had everything settled by the time darkness fell completely. The climbing harnesses had been stuffed into the backpack and the backpack had been strapped to the railing on the side of the platform. With the sleeping bag laid completely open, there was still at least five or six feet of open platform on all sides of us. It felt secure enough.
     “I also forgot to mention that tonight is a huge meteor shower.” Jamie and I were on our backs, looking up at the infinite blackness.
     “I love shooting stars.” She said softly. Her eyes were wide and I could see her making fake mustaches out of her hair. She had kicked off her shoes and socks and was wiggling her toes in the night air. There was only a sliver of moon, just bright enough that I could see the glow of it on her cheeks.
     “It makes me feel small,” Jamie whispered, “I feel like that should bother me, feeling small, but it doesn’t. It’s weird because it’s almost comforting to me. Here I am, this tiny speck of dust, floating around on a larger speck of dust in the middle of infinity.” She wasn’t usually one to enjoy philosophy, but on the rare occasions she spoke like that, her point of view and opinions usually inspired me. She had a beautiful mind. She just didn’t often care to open up and share it like this.
“It makes me feel like it can’t all be an accident. Some people say that we got here through a series of random and fortunate events, that there is no great plan or design. But I just don’t see how that can be. How can mere chance create something like this? Of all the possibilities, of the infinite infinite possibilities, I just can’t believe that people, that you and I or anyone else were put here by accident. I don’t think that life could be an accident.” She spoke softly the whole time. Her voice never raised or quickened. Words seemed to flow forth effortlessly, as if this all were prepared and practiced. She was able to speak without doubt or hesitation, with such certainty that even the greatest cynic might have stopped to listen.
     She continued on, weaving words as though spells, playing ideas as though harp strings. She talked about her life, telling me things she never had before, teaching me things even I didn’t know. Jamie didn’t seem to be Jamie for the next while. Instead, she seemed to have become a font of wisdom, ideas, and genius. At least, that is how I saw her. She was able to take a single idea, and examine it from all perspectives. It was as though she held it in her palm, slowly rotating it to peer closer. She made connections that I had never thought of, inspiring me to think even deeper, loving the moment. All the while she lay there, watching the stars, wiggling her toes, and making pretend mustaches out of that long blonde hair. Eventually, she turned silent.
     “But what if it is an accident?” I said. My voice was unusually soft. “What if it was all an accident? What if there is no plan, no fate, and no reason for anything? What if there is no beginning or end and we are just insignificant bits of space dust? The idea of it not being an accident just seems so conveniently comforting, almost too convenient.” Jamie was silent after I finished. My heart was beating fast and my mind was alive. I didn’t feel close to being tired.
     “So what if it is,” she said eventually, “What difference does it make? Even if it is all an accident. Even if there is no meaning to life at all, it seems like a beautiful accident to me. Here we are, you and I, able to share this with each other. That seems like a beautiful accident to me. Here is this great big world, all the adventure, all the excitement, and all the love that it is filled with. That seems like a beautiful accident to me. Here is this infinitely huge sky, filled with stars that are incomprehensibly far away. If this is all an accident, it is the most beautiful I can imagine.” She paused for a while longer. “I feel that whatever you believe, it doesn’t really matter. Perhaps you believe there is a supreme design and plan, or maybe you believe that life is an accident filled with chaos. It doesn’t matter. We all live in the same world. We all see the same beautiful sights, we are surrounded by it. It is only our perception of it that differs. I choose to believe that such an incredibly beautiful world cannot be an accident.”
     I was quiet for a long time. Jamie had, for all intents and purposes, rocked my world. Hers was a perspective I had never thought of before. I, who believed I had thought it through from every angle. I, who believed myself smarter than the world. I realized then, at that moment, laying on the top of a water tower in late August watching a meteor shower, that maybe I was not a genius. Maybe I did not have the world figured out like I had believed. Maybe, just maybe, I was just a cynic; a cynic blinded by the misfortunes I had seen and suffered; a cynic disappointed in a world that had not treated me well.
     Jamie took my hand in hers, interlocking her slender fingers within my larger ones. She turned her head to the side and looked at me, still sporting a fake mustache. The sliver of moon was reflected in her eyes just so that I could not really look into them. Her lips were curled into just the slightes

So many thoughts feelings expressions emotions
locked behind deadpan eyes and a voice that's toneless.
A mountain of a person consolidated to this form.
A body unimpressive.
A face unexpressive.
The chaos upstairs requires all of my attention.

Conversing takes a back-seat which is why I seem distant.
Too many things to say only leaves me in silence.
I don't know how or where to begin.
If only I could let you inside to weather the storm
maybe you could make sense of this nonsense and bring me to port.

He looked across the boardwalk into the inalienable ocean.
Love danced upon the cresting waves.
The sound of a quantum leap stretched thousands of miles.
A piece of him was still with her.

She looked across the boardwalk with another.
Pain no longer had a home within her golden hair.
She had withstood time, it's waves began again.
His need showcased in the night sky, to her horror.

Deadly, their entanglement remains after being long forgotten.
Poison gas reaches into his head, the same gas rots her mind.
Toxic people and corrosive words melt their being.
Condemned to the hell he calls home.

Pull and push, he pushes on, she pulls away.
He continues his war march into this nethermost dwelling.
She escapes into the day, burning at its torrid sunlight.
He destroy her mind, She prolongs his pain.

In the end, they're just two toxic people in love.
Never to see each other again.

I

He would drink by himself
And raise a weathered thumb
Towards the high shelf,
Calling another ***
And blackcurrant, without
Having to raise his voice,
Or order a quick stout
By a lifting of the eyes
And a discreet dumb-show
Of pulling off the top;
At closing time would go
In waders and peaked cap
Into the showery dark,
A dole-kept breadwinner
But a natural for work.
I loved his whole manner,
Sure-footed but too sly,
His deadpan sidling tact,
His fisherman's quick eye
And turned observant back.

Incomprehensible
To him, my other life.
Sometimes on the high stool,
Too busy with his knife
At a tobacco plug
And not meeting my eye,
In the pause after a slug
He mentioned poetry.
We would be on our own
And, always politic
And shy of condescension,
I would manage by some trick
To switch the talk to eels
Or lore of the horse and cart
Or the Provisionals.

But my tentative art
His turned back watches too:
He was blown to bits
Out drinking in a curfew
Others obeyed, three nights
After they shot dead
The thirteen men in Derry.
PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said,
BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday
Everyone held
His breath and trembled.

II

It was a day of cold
Raw silence, wind-blown
Surplice and soutane:
Rained-on, flower-laden
Coffin after coffin
Seemed to float from the door
Of the packed cathedral
Like blossoms on slow water.
The common funeral
Unrolled its swaddling band,
Lapping, tightening
Till we were braced and bound
Like brothers in a ring.

But he would not be held
At home by his own crowd
Whatever threats were phoned,
Whatever black flags waved.
I see him as he turned
In that bombed offending place,
Remorse fused with terror
In his still knowable face,
His cornered outfaced stare
Blinding in the flash.

He had gone miles away
For he drank like a fish
Nightly, naturally
Swimming towards the lure
Of warm lit-up places,
The blurred mesh and murmur
Drifting among glasses
In the gregarious smoke.
How culpable was he
That last night when he broke
Our tribe's complicity?
'Now, you're supposed to be
An educated man,'
I hear him say. 'Puzzle me
The right answer to that one.'

III

I missed his funeral,
Those quiet walkers
And sideways talkers
Shoaling out of his lane
To the respectable
Purring of the hearse...
They move in equal pace
With the habitual
Slow consolation
Of a dawdling engine,
The line lifted, hand
Over fist, cold sunshine
On the water, the land
Banked under fog: that morning
I was taken in his boat,
The ***** purling, turning
Indolent fathoms white,
I tasted freedom with him.
To get out early, haul
Steadily off the bottom,
Dispraise the catch, and smile
As you find a rhythm
Working you, slow mile by mile,
Into your proper haunt
Somewhere, well out, beyond...

Dawn-sniffing revenant,
Plodder through midnight rain,
Question me again.

Oh, my stoic... whatever happened to you?

At 6'4 you could stare down anyone in the room with your stern dark eyes. People might take you for melancholy until you told one joke with your deadpan humor. But you were a little morose, in your own way... is it because you're a Cancer? Or were you searching for something that only your mind could find for you? I never knew. Stoic and enigmatic are **** near the same thing, after all.

You, with your hundred dollar jeans worn after your yuppie yoga classes. You might not have worn Converse sneakers or thick-rimmed glasses (thank God)... but don't think I didn't see those expensive flannel shirts from Nordstrom's in your closet. Is there such thing as a hipster fashionista...fashionisto? I remember you approved of my Lucky brand jeans. They were a gift. Hand-me-downs. I didn't tell you that.

How elegant that you would grab Moroccan mint tea when coffee was no longer your thing. Sure, you'd down so much wine after dinner I'd worry you an alcoholic... but caffeine? Something about not liking dependence, you said. I savored watching you drink tea when we'd work side-by-side in some of the city's independent coffee houses. You wouldn't be caught dead in a Starbucks.

I do hope you make your amazing Turkish coffee, if only for your next love. Did I say "love?" No... maybe your next tryst. That's more your speed. I still can't taste cardamom without thinking of you.

And oh, your guitar... you'd strum the chords as if you were solving a riddle: quiet, to yourself. Leave the simple "Wonderwall" for neophytes because you could play Django Reinhardt. Unsurprising that a person like you would have a music performance degree from New York University. Every note you played was expensive. And you knew it.

It wasn't just the way you strummed Spanish flamenco while I made us quinoa stuffed squash in your small kitchen. You had to play the cool music before it was cool--nothing so trite as Vampire Weekend or Kings of Leon; only the sweet whispers of Priscilla Ahn for your sensitive ears. I'd desperately try recalling obscure artists from my college days and try to keep up. Album Leaf? Mirah? I got a half smile mentioning Bela Fleck.

Do you remember, how we'd smoke hookah on your soft leather couch? I'd read your book aloud on tantric Buddhism as you'd light the candles. Once the room filled of cinnamon, we'd inhale exotic rose-flavored tobacco and watch documentaries imploring us to free Tibet.

Even your ******* name was exotic; foreign. My mother didn't like it, you know... she worried a man like you would always be patriarchal.

It didn't matter that your days were spent wondering if your law degree was worth it; because you had other dreams. Dreams of foreign service and pro bono nonprofits.

But somewhere in the planning of those dreams, we fell out of touch.

You ended it. I knew you would.

In the worst of my thoughts, I assumed you ended it to find a woman who was everything I'm not, but who I desperately wanted to be. She'd be an international human rights lawyer. A yoga teacher. She'd take yearly trips to hike the Grand Canyon and go on meditation retreats in Bhutan.

2 years later, I've moved on. I won't need 2 glasses of wine to feel comfortable in your presence (as I once did). I've found someone else; we're happily married. He'll never have your enigma, but he lets me in his world. It's not a world of Ghirardelli hot chocolate on winter nights, obscure records and hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurants. But he encompasses everything I needed that you couldn't give: warmth.

I hope you're well, my stoic sophisticate.

Skinhead
super short
military hair
with a strong jawline
jutting out

I saw you
One random
blindingly hot afternoon
In a jeep

I tried to squeeze in
the small space so the two guys
could scoot over

You’re the guy to my right
Reluctant to pass to the driver
my exact change

You sat upright
Your right arm lifted, hand
closed on the security rail

I could only see your profile
Your jawline and Aviators
Mouth set in a deadpan line

Lean, quietly confident
Dressed casually and carefully
Odd eggplant-colored shirt over
whitewashed jeans

You turned slightly,
your nose strong
chin dignified
skin clean, with slight
blemishes of stress
Pretty eyes
That never landed on me

Your lips slightly curved
as if remembering something

You are beautiful
Arrogant-looking
Bored
Worldly

You’re not from here
Not from common places
Not from this wretched community I belong to

Then my eyes traveled to the back of your head,
An inscription was tattooed
at the back of your skull.
Your hair growing, beginning to cover up
the past?
A dangerous past?
New life?
A mere change of look?

Where are you going?
Where are you from?
Why are you taking this route
to and from common places?

What is your agenda
on this high afternoon?

Are you a rockstar?
Are you a poet
A gangster?

Then finally it’s my stop.
I got up and wished you
were following behind
That we have the same destination
Just so I could look at you
in full view

I stepped into
the sad, bright afternoon

Then I turned around
You’re not there

You sped away
To some place
Some life
With your Aviators
And your principles


And it hurt
That I never even
knew what
your tattoo meant

I didn't sleep again last night
my yesterday is still taking place
as my fingers gently press these keys
so as to not wake my brother
restless,
I realized,
I've seen a sunset
but never a sunrise

the streets were still asleep
the only ones about
only the down and out
the poor black folk
the aimless hipsters
the homeless
the single mothers with three jobs
who wait alone
under a flickering street light
for the bus which will take them
to their deadpan jobs
the puddles from last night's storm
rest with not a ripple
and the pretty little birdies
start finding their voice
restless,
I realized,
after the sunsets
the world opens up her eyes

periwinkle horizons
blend easily with the grey skyline
and the line between man and God blurs
the sky is tropical mango cocktails
and pillows of white Caribbean sand
the smell is left -
like a residue -
chasing after the tail of a storm
but the air is wet to the touch
hinting at repeat of the downpour
and I would've sat on the arm of that denim sofa
hour after hour
until the world was ready to wake up
giving me a chance to sleep off their insecurities,
only,
I felt like writing this poem
only,
I felt like a sunrise
or maybe a sunset?
or just maybe
a ******* supernova
I felt good
brimming with peace in my gut
like a warm fire
restless,
I realized,
that after all is set
I will still love the sunrise

(TO be read aloud and heard in that strange deep voice that you hear when you talk to yourself

the one that sounds like it comes from inside your head
between your ears, when you can feel the vibration)

.....

Sojourn
Soujorn
Soooujourn
Jousorn?
Sojourn
So­journ! jousorn
juooooosooorn
Sojourn? jousorn
Sojourn.
Sou...Journ
soujourn
soujourn
soujourn
soujorn
soujorn
jousorn?
sooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuu­
journ
sojourn, sojourn
jousorn
jousorn

(breathing sounds)
mmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm

mmmm hmmm
(breathing sounds)

sooooouuujoooouurn
jooooooouuuussssssssooooouuurn
Sojour­n.

sojourn soujorn
soujorn?
soujorn.
sojourn!
sojourn.
josourn?
sooojourn.
sojourn.
SOOOOUUU....journ
SOOOOUUU....journ
SoooooUU­Uu....Journ
Jousorn.
Josourn.
soujorn.
sojourn.
.................­.................................................................­..................sojourn?
(now deadpan)
sojourn
josourn
jousorn
jousorn
soujorn
sojourn
sojouuur­n
sojouuuurn
sojouuuurn
sojouuurrn
sojouuurrnnnannnannnannannnn Sojooorun
sojourn
jousorn
jousooooorununnnnnnunnnnunnnn
sojourn
s­oujorn
soujorn
soujourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
j­ousorn
jousorn
jousorn
jjjjjjooooooooouuuuujjjjjjjjoooooouuuuuuus­oooooooorrrrrnnnnnnuuunnnuuuunnnnnuuuuunnnnuuuunnnn
sojourn?
jous­ourn.
joursorn.
sojourn
.........................................­.........
.................................................
.....­.....................................
sojouuurrnnnannnannnannannn­n Sojooorun
sojourn
jousorn
jousooooorununnnnnnunnnnunnnn
sojourn
s­oujorn
soujorn
soujourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
j­ousorn
jousorn
jousorn
soujourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
s­ojourn
jousorn
jousorn
jousorn
jousorn

(breathing sounds)
mmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm

mmmm hmmm hmmmmmm hmmmmmm hhhmmmmmm hmmmmmmm nnnnnnnnn mmmhhmhmmmmmmhmmmmmmmm
(breathing sounds)
.......................
......................
..........­..........
soujorn?
soujorn.
sojourn!
sojourn.
josourn?
sooojourn.
sojourn.
sooooouuujoooouurn
jooooooouuuussssssssooooo­uuurn
Sojourn.

sojourn soujorn
soujorn?
soujorn.
sojourn!
sojourn.
josourn?
sooojourn.
sojourn.
hnnhhhhhhnnnnnnnnnhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnannnnnannn­nnnnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnuuuuuuuuunnnnnn
­sojourn
Sojourn
Soujorn
Soooujourn
Jousorn?
Sojourn
Sojourn! jousorn
juooooosooorn
Sojourn? jousorn
Sojourn.
Sou...Journ
soujourn
soujourn
soujourn
soujorn
soujorn
jousorn?
sooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuu­
journ
sojourn, sojourn
jousorn
jousorn

(breathing sounds)
mmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm

mmmm hmmm
(breathing sounds)

sooooouuujoooouurn
jooooooouuuussssssssooooouuurn
Sojour­n.

sojourn soujorn
soujorn?
soujorn.
sojourn!
sojourn.
josourn?
sooojourn.
sojourn.
SOOOOUUU....journ
SOOOOUUU....journ
SoooooUU­Uu....Journ
Jousorn.
Josourn.
soujorn.
sojourn.
.................­.................................................................­..................sojourn?
(now deadpan)
sojourn
josourn
jousorn
jousorn
soujorn
sojourn
sojouuur­n
sojouuuurn
sojouuuurn
sojouuurrn
sojouuurrnnnannnannnannannnn Sojooorun
sojourn
jousorn
jousooooorununnnnnnunnnnunnnn
sojourn
s­oujorn
soujorn
soujourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
j­ousorn
jousorn
jousorn
jjjjjjooooooooouuuuujjjjjjjjoooooouuuuuuus­oooooooorrrrrnnnnnnuuunnnuuuunnnnnuuuuunnnnuuuunnnn
sojourn?
jous­ourn.
joursorn.
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
.........................­............................................................
....­................................................................
­.............................................................
soj­ouuurrnnnannnannnannannnn Sojooorun
sojourn
jousorn
jousooooorununnnnnnunnnnunnnn
sojourn
s­oujorn
sooooooooojoooooouuuuunnnnnanannnnnnunnnnn
soujorn
soujour­n
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
jousorn
jousorn
jousorn­
soujourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
sojourn
jousorn
jousorn­
jousorn
jousorn

(breathing sounds)
mmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm

mmmm hmmm hmmmmmm hmmmmmm hhhmmmmmm hmmmmmmm nnnnnnnnn mmmhhmhmmmmmmhmmmmmmmm
hhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmm­mmmmmmmmmmmuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmm
(breathing sounds)
.......................
......................
..........­..........
soujorn?
soujorn.
sojourn!
sojourn.
josourn?
sooojourn.
sojourn.
sooooouuujoooouurn
jooooooouuuussssssssooooo­uuurn
Sojourn.
jousorn
jousorn
jousorn
sojourn soujorn
soujorn?
soujorn.
sojourn!
sojourn.
josourn?
sooojourn.
sojourn.

I do not feel like myself
I am not my own
I am no longer on the inside nor the outside
I'm just.. here
Or maybe there
My skin does not feel like how I remember

Am I a boy or girl
Does it even matter
Gender is an illusion that was pushed on us by our founding fathers
Oh how great they were

They brought us together from chaos
And we could never repay them
Do we need to?
Is that what is meant when they say to not sin?

What if God isn't just one person but an idea
An entity of a group
A feeling that exists in each of us

Today is a new day
And it's still gloomy as ever
The rain drips down my window
I blow out to see my breath crack against the glass
What is the point of redoing everyday
To grow old?
To get married?
Have a wife, kids, a family?
Grow old and wither away

I think that's the answer
We are all part of the cycle
Reincarnate into something entirely new but yet just the same
There is a point to all of this
And with these tears in my eyes
I'm yelling it to the skies

My family doctor suggested bed rest.
If that was a statement rather than a suggestion,
I wouldn't know, because the redundancy of those
two words was enough to keep me idle,
awake, agitated for days.

It was around the time he carefully
scribbled his script onto the blue pad
that I began to chuckle. This prefixed
prescript was only a temporary solution
that was barely legible. Whether or not
a scribe in this profession is meant to
be as erratic as nomadic cavern canvas,
it speaks volumes that the DSM IV considers
substantial. Until a once thought preconceived
notion becomes precedent in the ongoing
sought after expansion of knowledge.

A continuation of disorder and disease,
the facts and fallacies,
all become testing.
The standard practice is only as strong
as its weakest hypothesis.
More so when it becomes general practice.
I would like to believe
this to be an emergency,
but the white-coat before me
felt the need to sidetrack,
and thought it appropriate to mention
youth in Asia.

The deadpan humor
was disconcerting.
But not as unnerving
as the redundancies that
were given to me as a solution
for my sporadic sleep.

Some insurance!
Reassure me, doctor!
So, he did,
through his proclivity
for pharmaceuticals.

i escaped 2,226 miles away

in hopes of finding
what i've been missing

in hopes of escaping
your
deadpan
tight-lipped
cold stare

in hopes of
peace

what i've been missing
all along
is me

overshadowed by the
hatred of myself
built by you

overshadowed by the
thoughts of suicide

why would i want
to be me when
my own family doesn't
seem to want me

and i know i'm not
the only one with a
story like that but

knowing so doesn't really make
this much easier to handle

i will admit that
i've had a lot of help
and i'm beyond lucky
to have the family i chose

they teach me things like

just because you used to be
doesn't mean you have to be

and

patience and kindness can
tear down the tallest walls

the ones i’ve spent my whole
life building just so i didn't
have to feel all of that **** again

but i’ve been
getting better at getting better
at 2,226 miles away

i think i’ll stay

You lit my way to this place I never thought I could glint.
When I got cold feet, you're all thumbs; giving me a lift.
You let malaise rotate 180 degrees,
Which turned into thousands of exuberant stories.

I was perturbed when the lights dimmed.
Wanted to go on your way but it is winding.
Determined hands tried to reach,
Throat was screeching but your ears were stitched.

Can't define what you have-
Complements the colors of my well-being;
Spur this mettle and ebb away tides
Albeit you're deadpan at times.
Why can't I ***** out and snuggle somewhere without you?

Maybe the reason is Y.O.U.

11-04-11

The thrumming clunk of shocked wheels
Eat up road worn smooth by big junking beasts
Smoking up crisp air
Hungry for a taste of stunted freedom
The rush of wind the pained panels
Pulling a mass of curls with sticky cold fingers
Raking across my scalp

Shaking in the silence
In wake of thought
The bass drum barking out a numbing melody
Sliding like thin blade into the back of my mind
Enhancing melodramatic mood
Touching my tender heart

Fresh from the lash of lonely
Bludgeoned by the deadpan distance between
My soul
Snack sized bit of flesh clinging to the slick walls  
Of reason
Hammering in my chest
Still riddled with the mark of your claiming
The imprint of my nails still bleeding
In refusal

But claim it you did
Snatched it up out of my chest
Trailing arteries and the copper stench of blood
Empty cavity
Filling up with dreams and the sweet taste of your breath
Leeching into my limbs and whispering love into my being

But this road is ceaseless
No matter how many times I visit
That long stretch of highway
Promising me  the Spector of your memory
The ghost of your touch
Warmth of love
Acceptance
Renewal of my existence

The green glint of freeway sign
Showing me where I would have found you
Down that dirt road
Swing hair pin turns hearing your laughter as it chases me closer to where you should be
Were you will always belong
Where I could have found you had life been kind

Your savage dissection of my soul keeps me yearning
Reaching out and grasping my independence hostage
Where you have become a necessity to whom I am
What I am
And who I will be
Hinges on your well being

Fading into nothing
Where I am defined by you
My angularity is tethered down
But the road yields no answer
Only the Spector
The sad shadow of memories that refuse to fade
Die instead of rotting
At least with death it can be buried
Living with the death of my heart
A tragedy I would not allow to part

You can try
and apologize
But you’re not superman
and you can’t
turn back time
So, baby, don’t try

How odd, to recoil from the touch of your hand
I forgive you but I don’t think you’ll ever quite understand
That feeling when everything is finally going right
And suddenly you’re fighting yourself for your life

I tried to run away down roads that went nowhere
Dead end streets dripping with deadpan humor
I’d hoped the ice and snow might numb me first
But still my frostbitten heart hurt the worst

Slowly you had me opening up to you
Falling head over heels and out of the blue
Thanks for pretending my text didn’t make sense
But I know you knew I’d do it, before I know I ever did

I’d tried to get it across many times before
But I always came off as drunk and nothing more
I swear to you it wasn’t just the champagne talking
It’s what I mean when I say you’ll understand when I say that something

When it comes to love I admit I’m rusty
You say, “I don’t understand why you can’t trust me”
It’s hard when I still cry myself to sleep
Remembering how much it hurt to have you say those words to me

You can try
and apologize
But you’re not superman
and you can’t
turn back time
So, baby, don’t try

YADA TASHY ( "Originator Stone" )

Outside the first snow falls.

Her wounds are photographed.

Spoken of.

Described in detail.

Technical.

The overhead microphone
takes it all in.

Being dead she is
more naked

than she ever was.

Stripped of her
humanity.

She had ceased to be
who she used to be.

She is now
merely a cadaver.

The autopsy can not tell
her name.

She is Kuzuku.

Her mother called her
KuKu.

She had been born
with a caul.

KuKu was pregnant.

She was going to call
the child if it was a girl

. . .Yuki.

She couldn't conceive what
she would call it if a boy?

It was always going to be
a girl.

She liked candyfloss
and her hair up.

Now her hair is down.
It touches her shoulders.

As if her hair were
still alive.

The autopsy
wound by wound

tells of the hell
of her dying.

The voice is
deadpan.

Mechanical.

The coroner
breaks for coffee.

Bitter.  Black.

"Ya da!"
as the Turks say.

"...with nothing..."

*

Kuzuku was named after the flowering plant/rampant ****. Her mother always drank a tea made from it. Only her mother called her her pet name; "Kuku!" Her blacker than black hair always seemed like a living entity in itself as it danced upon her shoulders or splashed over her clavicles. She always wore off the shoulder dresses or tops even in winter cold. I once told her she had the cutest clavicles( "rekishi no naka de kawaī sakotsu" )in history which....always made her laugh. I told her she had well tempered clavicles and she laughed even more when the pun was explained to her. She had been born with a caul...a red caul. She it was who told me the Turkish tale or the Yada Daşı and of the Yadachy.

She had just met the man who would eventually stab her to death and she was greatly in love with him and his culture.

All these little scraps of humanity could not be disclosed by the autopsy which could never tell of how beautiful she was and what a joy she was to be around.

Her death was a horror tale told by a friend of a friend of a friend and hard to comprehend or believe.

Decipher the bowels
that slushes out through my imagination
Crystals and xylophone chimes
Pouring out the ink wells of sensation
Don't pivot pickets to my position
I can't stalemate this war for expansion
For my tongue is a swollen pickle
Dipped in bitterness
and ****** by the lips of semantics
I groove in the basses of basics
and grow a garden for further foundation
For my tongue is a swollen pickle
And boy is it's perfume amazing
I mean
Can you smell the awkward amps?
Pumping veins with Crayola visions
or a Chaplin transcript with deadpan humor
Are you experienced enough for social division?
My tongue is a swollen pickle
Say whatever the hell I wanna say
Crunch me when you digest this sour thought
For the reign of excitement's here to stay

Dead-eyed through drenched days
spent seeping through blank space
to spill another swollen week out
                  on a crumpled page

I'm young, but not that young
grown up and dumbed down
so I'll drag one more punchline day out
                   'til a year's ground down

Face the wall...
Aimed at the door...
But we're still here and so
         I suggest that we share this bar...

Stumble out
regain my feet
and pluck my keys from the gutter. I've
been dancing with defeat and, now, I'm
driving on the borderline
between familiar haunts
and same old foes that I conjure--
Now I start to realize that, like you,
they've got my number.

They've got my number.

Rhombuses of light
             separate us--not by much

                     but these

square miles of concrete
              will divide us just enough

Deadpan Friday nights
space out workday lifelines
until another starving paycheck
               grounds another flight

Your time spent so costly
the bill's due, your words freeze
a season's regrets regressed. Empty
                bottles taken out.

Besieged by walls
Afraid of doors
the nights leak in, you turn
     the lights out, choking down one more

Waking up,
you find your breath
you find your feet and your reasons. You
have found your boots and keys and lost your
fear of the season's size.
Between the years and months
you've been a ***** and a miser
when the skyline creaks and sighs, remember

you've got my number

And I've got your number

The world's got our number--
                 --it's okay to come over
We can laugh at the night
               at sunrise, we'll run for cover
'til the season is over
          now, just run for cover...

People walk all about
Humming a soundless tune of self-doubt
The drinks keep coming
Steeped in endless fuming

Friends joke around
A truth sealed and bound
Hiding behind a deadpan
Sustaining the image of an American man

‘More!’, everyone shouts
Raising their cups forgetting their spouse
Sitting here with a straight face
Wanting to forget my workplace

With perfect deadpan delivery
The doctor called it cancer
You laughed so hard you cried
And called it a challenge
You said you had always dreamed
Of being a cancer survivor
What an opportunity

you’ve been on my mind recently
i don’t think i love you
perhaps just the idea of loving someone is enough
or more accurately, the idea of someone loving me
i know it was never anything real
when you complimented me
or tried talking to me
but it’s too late now,
i’ve been consumed by my thoughts of you
but i have become obsessed with the idea of you
and it drives me to insanity
yearning to know if “what if” could be definite
and i know it’s so insignificant compared to the vastness of the sky
and the overwhelming stresses of day to day life
but i tell myself you are the most important thing life has to offer

i hate it
i hate that no matter where i am
or what i’m doing
you find a way to seep into the crevices of my brain
and make the contents in my chest quiver
i hate that i feel unwanted because of you
it should not be your decision to make me feel worthy
yet your validation has suddenly become
the purpose of the breaths i take
i want nothing to do with you,
but even saying that, i know it is a deadpan lie
i know you aren’t interested
you’re too good for and to me and my desperate soul
so i will repress this hopeful, naive heart
that believes in the impossible
i know your love isn’t love
i know your kindness isn’t as harmless as it seems
yet i still think about your hands and hair over dinner
and imagine gazing into your eyes when reading any book

love is meant for fools
and i will not be made a fool of
not by a boy with bright red hair
and a bright warm smile
i will not be made a fool of
by a boy who’s love will never manifest deeper than my skin
i had always admired from afar
but it’s time to really distance myself
i need to stop looking for your red head
in the sea of brunettes and blondes
i need to stop myself and my brain
from searching for you
you once were interested in me
and as you break my heart as i once broke yours
the balance of the universe is restored
yet i don’t feel steady
i don’t feel equilibrium

i want the void that consumes me
i want the void to be filled, preferably by you
but it wasn’t meant to be
i wasn’t made for you
you know you’re too good for me
conversations fall flat
being with you would take copious amounts of work
work that won't be put in by either of us
i want the relationship with all the benefits
without the heartache and wet cheeks

i wonder who you love now
i wonder if you still change your interest
like the tides are influenced by the moon every night
i wonder if the one who has gained your interest is gorgeous,
with an extroverted personality
i wonder if they have all the things you wanted me to have
but could never develop
i can’t believe you would make me weak in the knees and in the head
i know you are an unhealthy habit i indulge in,
but buried in my gut,
i whisper prayers to a god i do not believe in
i pray that your soft spoken eyes will fall upon me
and that an electric current will go through your body
i pray you are slowly driven to madness,
the insanity that has enveloped me
i will refuse your actions
because i don’t really love you

i love the idea of someone loving me
i love the power i have over you
i do not love you
i love the attention you provide
i love the thought of getting what i want
feeling your blood drip through my fingers
as i squeeze your heart in my clenched fists
you don’t realize this, but you’re a pawn in my chess game
i am bedridden, sickened because you refuse to participate
but that’s okay
i don’t want or need you as desperately as i once thought
i will let you go, and although i will miss
fantasizing over the idea of you
you will truly be the one who loses in the end,
i have no doubt

I’m tired of influencers faking nervousness.
my generation wants to care less
these days.
it’s a counter-current hack.
we want to be less defined.
we can search and reflect for ourselves.
we’re sick of the emotion
that’s all over everyone’s faces,
the unsightly splotches of opinion.
the entire election machine,
the process of getting there, is smudged.
It’s a curated mess, an advising spin,
an incomprehensible hex:

“Oh profit pondering,
contradictory means to an end
- bless weave, and conceal,
bloodless dollar debt options,
painful penny pincher paradoxes,
and deadly debt bliss dilemmas..”

“Is this a witch or an arbitrager?” Lisa asked, after rudely leaning over and reading up to this point.
“I was shooting for a numinous type of beat,” I revealed.
“We’re supposed to be working on our thesis definitions,” she said accusingly.
“Are you not challenged, here, hour by hour?” I asked sarcastically.
“I need ideas - well - I have too many ideas, I need some focus, I wanted to see what you had.”
I deadpan looked at her, “Well, you broke the spell - I lost my train.” I complained dryly.
“Don’t put me in a situation.” she said, waving my gripe off as insignificant.
.
.
Songs for this:
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls
drive ME crazy! by Lil Yachty
Melt by Nilüfer Yany

It aches when I smile.
My State's a disaster.
Coal rollers, burnouts and days full of rapturous
laughter and "Red Face"
down in Lusk in the hot days
of Summer--it's boiling;
Winter winds burn up your face.
I first learned to hate
myself in a snowstorm
on Dow Street in Sheridan.
My best friends are the slow warmth
that spreads through the chest,
lifts a cold heart, grabs popcorn and pints
at the Blacktooth on hundreds of nights.
And 500,000 simple souls are a sight.
Still they're just half a million salty
drops in the ocean--
A quick squall of rain on the Bighorns.
They've opened the floodgates for *******,
morons, bigots and rednecks
and rich, ******* ranchers thinking
          everyone owes them.
And their dollars are deadpan
gallows jokes down in Cheyenne.
But I've seen cheap smiles 4 miles wide
out by Sundance.
And I've got good friends that I still carry with me
like the potent, sweet, earthy afterburn of good whiskey,
or the smell of the lodgepoles in the Spring
up in Story.
And it's still my home
even though it's so empty.
It's still my home
though it sometimes seems ******.
That State's in my bones,
I don't think it'll leave me.
So please understand that some nights
when you find me,
you've stumbled across a small splinter
chipped off of Wyoming.

It’s nice to have some holiday downtime and not be all go-go-go. I’ve even gotten in some Animal Crossing play. After 40 minutes of picking up weeds, Bianca, one of my villagers, told me she’d heard I was dead.

Later, we’re in Lisa’s living room taking turns playing songs from Spotify.
Lisa just played “Woo”, by Rihanna. When the song ends, fading out, Leeza deadpan said, “That song is pure evil.”
“You guys, I forgot to mention it but that is my energy song, it makes me feel so HOT.” Lisa adds with a chuckle.
“It has an evil vibe,” I admit. “An evil vibe,” Leeza confirms.
“Don’t be judging,” Lisa reminds us.
“Your next,” Lisa said, nodding to Leeza, “What’ve you got for us,” she speculates, “some mental health rock?”

Leeza’s had this girl-punk-rock group called “Vancougar” playing on a loop in her room. At first, I wasn’t enthusiastic but now I think they slay. Her mom’s even gotten on board, dancing “the twist” to “Philadelphia” when it rolls around. Leeza has great taste in music although she leans a bit EMO (emotionally *******) for me. She makes me feel old by introducing us to all these new bands like “Youngest and only,” “Calling all Captains” and “Beatrice Dear.”

“I’ve got one song to play,” Leeza says, “Paparazzi, by Lady Gaga.”
“I’ve been listening to that song all WEEK!” I gasp, “I love that song, it may be her best - that’s so random,” I finish saying as the song starts.
As Paparazzi ends Lisa says, “That song has major Gwen Stefani vibes.”
“It DOES,” I agree, “It could be “Cool” or “Sweet Escape.”
“Yeah, for sure,” Leeza agreed, “shoutout to No Doubt.”

Leeza says, “I have a conversation topic: What’s something we all acknowledge is cheugy but we still do anyway?”  
“Being blonde,” I say, which gets stitches of laughter because it’s true and Lisa and I are.
“That’s true, that’s fair,” redheaded Leeza laughs. “Anyone blonde is dead to me,” which gets her a pillow in the face.
“Ok, I’m going to come for a lot of people,” Lisa says, “but yogurt, yogurt is cheugy.”
Leeza gasps, “You think yogurt.. It’s not cheugy!” she practically yells, “It gives MOM.”

Bring together.
Tear apart.
(SIMULTANEITY)



Command or be carried,

be free or be ferried,

believe or be bleary,

wear on or be weary.



The bedpan of old age,

the deadpan of expression--

at the end

before beyond,

inward evacuation
/
outward ingestion,

a life lived to die--

but life exists, after all.



The "pan" of Pangaea,

the pan of a camera--

at the start

before tectonic cataclysm,

localized catastrophe
/
universal symphony,

indifference until perception--

but perception exists, after all.



Either
/
Or:

equal opponents at one moment

until chosen.



It could be said no dimension is parallel.








-LP

There is no hope.
We walked in circles round the worm, its amorphous purpose lost on us. A sleek, black, rotting corpse, buried within skyscrapers and city streets. We could see no end to it. Everyone had done their best to avoid mention, even as traffic backed, markets stalled and entire city blocks went down.
The pier was bustling at noon. Sweet, burning, haze of smells. Business men wandered out for lunch, laughing to themselves as they secretly wondered how they’d pass the black mass. Children scurried round it, morbidly curious. Their parents would wring their hands, shooting sights at everything but the worm. A throng of oblivious teens skated into it and were knocked flat on their backs. A business man stepped over the moaning mass, eating a hot dog.
Three days passed and nothing had been done. The smell worsened.
The media continued their daily fluster. Weather. Sports. Local news. Farmer John had gotten pink eye again. They held awkward smiles in their teeth, and deadpan concern in their crows feet. His meat would be safe once cooked.
The government were curiously absent.
Conspiracists were already calling it Non-entity 012. The world worm. The dead god in the room.
If we close our eyes, will it disappear?

-- Anonymous Male. New York, USA.

I.
I want to walk out
into the ocean’s gentle swells,
and feel God’s palm
cupped around me.

II.
I want to step,
over the smooth, fluted stones,
and the whorled shells
of bright abalone,
to sink down
onto sundrenched
sea-ground
and close my eyes
to see my blood-red sun-lit lids
flicker and flash, as
shuddering net-designs
dance, threaded and lacy;
as they curl,
tangling across me.

I want to slide my fingers
through the slithering white sand--
the grains carved into
ivory ripples by the
currents’ deft hands.

III.
oh, I want to lie
and close my eyes
and feel the soft lurch of each wave
jerking overhead, its
strong tug like a kite,
watch the shining fish
scything past above,
and let each dancing point of light
reflected
from their scales
scar my pale face.

IV.
Oh, there is a howling, starving dog
that circles on the shore,
alone.
he’s keened his frantic misery to the
deadpan moon
for so so long
that no one listens anymore--
they gave it up long ago
and just sprawl, licking the dunes;
they lie and swear the grit quenches their
aching thirst
until they choke on their sand-covered tongues
and die.

V.
You see,
I want to see the moon rise,
quivering through
deep-water blackness;
listen to the dolphins’
ghostly shrieks and clacks,
and the whales’ deep, grieved noises.
I want to forget
the sound of human voices.

I long to close my eyes,
sink,
and never rise.

VI.
bright, irregular globes
flutter from my mouth
quick,
coruscating orbs
of prayer,
they shudder and
dart upwards

VII.
saltwater, salt tears,
ask Him if He hears
you gasping.

I follow you like an obsession
Seeing your life from the outside
Noting the smiles that frequent your face
The contentment of yourself in that space
I no longer see that disturbed longing to be free of that place
That backwater town that has no place for me in it
No future
Besides a deadpan existance leading its citizens astray or
Contenting them with a simple life

You have those who love you
Genuine friends and you seem to find a way to be busy
Find enjoyment in that simple existance
Not seeking out the exoteric meanings of life
Re-emerging back into that mentality of everyday people
Happy with just being in the moment in time
Devoid of that driving passion to find meaning in this life
To understand the worlds complexities and learn the beauty that is humanity

The vision I have escribed to myself to seek the truth in this world
To see the nasty and feel a sense of calm in the face of our own self destruction
Feeling as if my mission drives and beliefs are becomeing coersive to your health
How do I connect with you anymore?
You who used to abore the simplicity of your upbringing

I see it now
As you talk to your brothers and sister
I try to communitcate experience your world
But I am an outsider to this realm

My words don't fit
And all eyes make me feel castrated
I don't speak as they do, I use words they don't understand
A language and understanding that they do not employ
Not saying that I am better than anyone of them
Because I know I am not
Humble to the fact
That they don't find those things worth doing
Worth any merit
Secular in their reasoning

I see you fit this mold
This world where I cannot speak
Without offending or offering explination
Leaving me mute,
Feeling outcasted
Dumb to the workings of their order.

But you are a camilion blending in
Taking that world as your own
Transforming before my eyes into someone
I don't know
Or would know if I had realised you were
Developing without me

It is subtle this changing
How the conversation gets more complex on my end
Reaching out for anything that will relate you back to me
My mind becoming a blockade
A boundary to you
Where I crave none

I feel you here in my being
Shifting changing
The face you show me smiling happy
Loved and no longer in need of me
Wondering when you will see this yourself
When this distance will become leagues
And you determine whether it is worth it to cross

the first thing people would say upon our engagement is show me the ring like some bling is an ode of your love to me. i am not a homemaker i am a homebody. i excel in colombian coffee and monday night pub specials and cheap wine with expensive labels. i excel at being one of the guys and by being one of the guys i mean not being your wife. i filled the crevices you scraped in me like some kind of sculptor smoothing over past mistakes like being your wife was some kind of placebo pill i can sweat out with half-empty pizza boxes and grease stains on a couch that was never mine. when i first tell people about us about what i've done they say
but you two fit so well
but i liked you together
but you were going to get married
but but but
but they don't see your knuckles almost shaking hands with my jawline or the time i stared at you deadpan i'm not scared of you and i think that's what scared you that i'm no battered wife that i'll take you all bleed you dry then smile from the corner.
i am no battered wife like the woman who raised you
whose christmas-gifted blanket i'm currently curled under but whose 4 a.m. whispered words i cherish more he can't make you forget what you felt like your lies would forge me into the bat **** crazy ***** you christened me but what i felt in your *****-stained breath amaretto-sweet words ice-diluted eyes was i am no battered wife
i am no laying next to you in bed at 30 with kids i couldn't convince myself to want and bruises that fit your fingers on my ribs. i'll take my tuesday tequila and too-loud laughs, my scrounging for quarters for just one more cup of coffee over your stability smirks.

I believe in the match, white phosphorus,
scratch of Bic lighter spurting like a miniature sun
in the deadpan havoc of the darkest night.

I believe in the neon sign, blare of argon
red like lava. The invitation to come inside a place
where everyone is a saint in rehabilitation.

I do not believe in a steeple. I do have a church:
it is full of cripples carrying their hearts like a crutch.
It is full of ***** fingernails, swollen thumbs,

epileptic prayer circles, a choir of bums, riff-raff,
pulled off the street into the warmth of this fiery song.
We are all martyrs burning, like pyres, exploding

in moments of sorrow like gunpowder. God is not
in this church. We are too far from his icy heaven to hear
the cold menace of his manic threats. We are aflame,

making heaven out of the hells we were born into,
the ones we had no choice but to carry like a deformation,
but making our heavens the kind where work is.

We have built heaven out of pillars of words. We
have scorched even the newest of testaments, sifting
through its ash to divine new meaning of resurrection.

I do not believe heaven or hell are nouns. I do not
believe they are adjectives. They are verbs! ******* it
they are verbs: boiling or churning with photographs

of every failure, every success, every bruised knee,
every severed tie, every father that did not love us,
every mother who could not save us, every lover who

kissed the dark sides of our light hearts. I believe
you make heaven, that you make hell. I believe in
only the fire, crackling like skin molting from sunburn.

I want only to be consumed. The world is too far ruined
to douse this from me. Let me burn. If you look closely,
there are doves in the smoke, my bones glowing branches.

It's 11:20am in OHare
and I'm here with Sam Adams'
cardboard cut-out,
sipping his hard work,
chasing my breakfast,
picking up where Starbucks left off.
But really, I'm avoiding the tired,
unenthusiastic bodies nesting at my gate,
with their dilapidated muzzles,
with their deadpan expressions,
with these head-and-shoulders of
malcontent- of brewing disappointment-
floating morosely above their respective
boarding passes, passports,
and food court receipts
clutched in cranky knuckles.

And so here I am, sitting at
Facade, raising a second glass
with cardboard Adams,
and I kinda have to ****
and I really have to ***,
but there's no way in hell
I'm joining the rest of my flight.

How odd, to recoil from the touch of your hand.
I forgive you, but I don't think you'll ever quite understand
That feeling when everything is finally going right
And then, three words, and you're fighting yourself for your life.

I tried to run away down roads that went nowhere;
Dead end streets dripping with deadpan humor.
I’d hoped the ice and snow might numb me first,
But still my frostbitten heart hurt the worst.

I'd tried to get the message across many times before,
But somehow it always came off as she's drunk and nothing more.
I swear to you it wasn’t just the champagne talking;
It’s what I mean when I say you’ll understand when I say that something.

Slowly, painfully, you had me opening up to you;
Falling head-over-heels and out of the blue.
Thanks for pretending like my text message didn’t make sense,
But I know you knew I’d do it, before I know I ever did.

I think that secretly, at least deep down, you felt it,
But you needed me to come out and say it, so I did.
I can't blame you, but sometimes I still cry myself to sleep
Remembering how much it hurt to have you say those words to me.

“Just loosen your grip a little,”
Fiddling fingers say to me
Quite condescendingly,
“If you hold on to something
Too tight for too long
One day you’ll open your fist
And realize you’ve crushed it.”
The breath that carries his words
Buries this stone heart like a seed
And parts the rising steam of the
Teacup he raises up to steady lips,
Of which my quivering jaw grows
Envious.
“That’s *******.”
I spit the venom back at him,
Proving my limited vocabulary
And badly developed “come-back” skills.
It makes me ill how much he tries to pretend that
Everything is fine.
“Everything is going to be
Fine”
He says,
“Everything has a reason.”
And I hate him for it.
But I can’t hide the upright curves of a smile
When he tells me
We all make an impact.
We all buckle at our knees in the rain,
Fists full with parts of our soul
That we wish to add to this the world.
It’s why we leave behind fingerprints
On everything we touch.
It’s proof of our existence
And a reminder that once,
We cared enough to reach out and
Make an exchange with the things we love.

But I counter it with,
“Fingerprints can be washed away
In the time it takes a snowflake
To melt in your palm.
In the split second of a gunshot.”
It’s too risky to wear our hearts on our sleeves
These days
So instead we push it down
Our solar plexus
And compress it like coal.
We fill the hole in our chest
With cyanogen-filled cigarettes
And nicotine best guesses.
We doorbell-ditch the addresses
Of our Demons in Disguise
With makeshift wings and sky blue eyes.
Taunting them with kid tricks
But always running
Because we’re too afraid
To strip them of their masquerade.
Naive to the fact that it might be more
Than just child’s play.
So I tell him it’s okay
To admit that he’s still afraid of the dark.
That we need to strap ourselves
With something harder than skin.
Because this world is hazardous,
I learned it the first time I saw my father cry.
That’s why I sit here with
White-knuckled hands clutching to
Everything that I can call my own
And not opening my eyes
Because I dream better with them closed.
So I won’t loosen this grip
Because it seems so simple to slip
Through these fingertips.

And so he sits.
And so I shake.
And he sits, and I shake
And we take that deadpan silence of a symphony
Right before the orchestra strikes the first chord
And we make honesty with it.
We make honesty like,
Honestly, the next sounds
To escape our mouths
Are going to be the most important words I’ve ever heard
So let's make them worth it.
We make honesty
Like concentration camp *******
Because it’s how we still feel alive
And a way to say, “**** the world
I’ve still got something it can’t take.”
And while I can’t shake this moment of vulnerability
He draws a hand up to my chest,
Pulls out a breath,
And dissects the swollen god-complex.
He filters the air
I hinder to bear upon my heavy shoulders
And slips it back, past cracked crimson lips
To ignite this sarcophagus with life.
“Everything is going to be
Fine.”
He says,
“Everything has a reason,
So explore the world with both hands before of you
Feet making a rhythmic beat on the
Black paved street
As you follow broken yellow lines,
Racing headlights to the horizon.
And leave behind a trail of fingerprints
So you’ll never forget where you’ve been.”

I just ache
to be touched by you
still swimming in heat
moist and quivering silently
beneath soft black cotton
but in those
fear-mongering moments

I can't move.

Like a statue made of marble
I ache to touch you but I end up
sitting there cold and lifeless
next to you on the bed
thinking of a million ways
in which to stroke you gently
but all we can muster together
is a few brushes of the hand
a head resting on a shoulder
a full-bodied tight squeezed hug
an awkward cheek kiss and

it's excruciatingly painful.

So much tension that builds
and builds and builds and builds
never getting anywhere.

I can feel it penting up in you too
through engorged pupils
shaking knocking knees
fidgeting hands
looks that aren't deadpan
but open and raw and swelling.

There are rises and dips
moments of eclipse
where you and I find comfort
in each other's arms
whether they be wrapped or resting
whether they be hovering just hovering

almost touching

we were almost touching.

Seeing your smile in the doorway
as I left

lanky frame in depth

an ache I cannot
escape

warming the cockles of this here mongrel heart

vast into infinity.

What a funny little cuddle jamboree!

He talked about his conquests as we sat hiding from the heat and every other ******* in between.
I'm a ******* gunslinger!

He exclaimed  drunk from to many beers and his own backward *******.
Well I said in a deadpan voice with your sparkling personality my friend you dam sure better hope that ******* never jams up on you.

There's never a truly relaxing place in the shade .
Sometimes I believe a ego was a dangerous as a loaded gun .
For a ******* seemed only to commit verbal suicide with every ******* line that spewed from his mouth.

I loathed a idiot when I was simply trying to catch a buzz.
Then he bought me a round and I thought well he's not totally void of a good quality .