FIRST DAY

1.
Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!

The night before,
20 below zero
Fahrenheit
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.

I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.

I left from Newark.
**** the denseness,
it confounds!

The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.

What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!

But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.

The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.

Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.

Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.

Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.

Chicago,
could this be
Sandburg’s City?

I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.

It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.

Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!

But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.

Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,
Chicago!

Kansas City,
Nashville,
St. Louis,
Detroit,
Cleveland,
Pittsburgh,
Denver,
New Orleans,
Dallas,
Cairo,
Singapore,
Auckland,
Baghdad,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.



2.
Cities,
A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest *******?
Chicago is more then that.

Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.

The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.

Chicago,
Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?

The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.

Now also
tourist attractions
for a cafe society.

Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.

You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.

Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?

Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.

Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.

Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.

Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.

Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi delta
all mapped by him.

Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.

Midwest?
Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.

Him,
who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.

From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.

Sandburg had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:

Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!

Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.

Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.

It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.

Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.

He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.

And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.

3.
There is faith in everything in Chicago!

An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.

A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.

A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.

A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.

A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.

A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymen inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.

A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.

A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.

An electrician named ****
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
**** believes in America.

A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.

A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.

Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.

A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.

A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.

An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.

A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.

A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.

Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.

An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in
self-determination.

A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.

4.
Does Chicago have a future?

This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!

Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains

Chicago
city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.

Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.

Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.

You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?

I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.

The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.

The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.

The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.

The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.

Liquidity,
can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?

Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.

Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.

Dreams
are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.

Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.

Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.

Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
WEBS,
Spiders,
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.

What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.

Oil,
an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.

Porkbellies,
not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”

Cotton,
our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.

I think he sends it
to Bangkok where
child slaves
spin it into
gold lame'.

Sorghum,
I think its hardy.

Soybeans,
the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.

Corn,
ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.

Cattle,
once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.

When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?

You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.

Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.

Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.

The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.

Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.

Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.

This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.

Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.

Tijuana,
Shanghai
and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.

Chicago,
this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.

Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.

Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.

This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
highways,
railways
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.

5.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.

Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.

Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.

People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.

Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.

Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.

Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.

Our sitting President
impeached
for lying about a *******.

Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.

Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!


SECOND DAY

1.
Out my window
the sun has risen.

According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.

The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.

I marvel
at the ancients ones
resourcefulness
and how
they mastered
these extreme elements.

Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.

I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.

Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”

He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.

Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.

The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.

He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.

I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
deepen
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.

I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.

The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.

It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.

The gloves,
skullcap,
long underwear,
sweater,
jacket
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.

Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.

Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.

On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
Espanol,
Mandarin,
Czech,
Russian,
Korean,
Arabic,
Hindi­,
German,
French,
electronics,
steel,
cars,
cartoons,
rap,
sports­,
movies,
capital,
wheat
and more.

Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.

2.
Sandburg
spoke all the dialects.

He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.

Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.

He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everymans expression of life.

All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.

Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.

I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.

Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?

Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?

I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.

"You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”

No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?

I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.

I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
from farms
I’m sure.

What level
is he speaking of?

Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.

I wonder
if I detect
condensation
in his voice?

What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?

What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty,
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is?

This seditious talk!

3.
The Loop’s El
still courses through
the main thoroughfares of the city.

People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.

Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Neo-Modern
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.

The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.

Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.

The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.

It is the true level
of this city.

The layer
beneath
all layers,
on which
everything
rests,
is built,
grows,
thrives
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
layers
where it can
take root
again
and grow
out onto
the great plains.

Splashing
the nation,
anointing
its people
with its
blessing.

A blessing,
Chicago?

All rivers
come here.

All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.

All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.

Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a *** rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.

We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.

Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!

Chicago
the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.

Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.

He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.

Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.

The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.

Walk into the clubs,
tenements,
row houses,
speakeasies
and you’ll hear the Blues
whispered like
a quiet prayer.

Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Mississippi,
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.

Hell even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.

Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.

A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
praying
for a new start.
Poor and
under-clothed
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and ****** features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.

The Blues live
on in Chicago.

The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry
unforgiving
maelstrom.

The family
begins to
dissolve
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.

Music:

Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago


jbm
Chicago
1/7/99

Not long after the beginning, and a bit before the end, the Almighty said to Noah: “Is that your real name?” “Yeah”, said Noah: “you gave it to me, your ever generousness. I was hoping for something a bit more romantic, maybe even an extra syllable or two, or become all psychedelic and have a hyphen and a double barrel, but Noah is functional. I’m not complaining, a lot. After all what’s in a name? Wouldn’t a cactus be just as uninteresting if it was called something else? Why am I and my not very exciting name so humbly in your almighty and quite tedious presence?” asked Noah. “I’ve had a great idea”, said God: “and I want you with the very boring name to be the first to hear it.” “Can’t wait to hear it your Denseness, even if it is only half as brilliant as the square wheeled chariot and deep-fried ice cube you nearly invented for us last week; and as for the three-armed jacket, well what can I say? Jacob wears his every day and I won’t tell you what he does with it at night, as it involves folk music. And didn’t the Paisley patterned boulder illuminate the landscape?” said Noah “Oh good”, said God: “I do so enjoy it when the minions are attentive to my every word and trembling syllable, What’s the point of being an Almighty if you can’t Almighty it over the lower orders from time to time?” “I couldn’t agree more, your Bampotness. Even if you do appear to be a few slices short of a full loaf on occasions. So, what’s this big idea you’ve had?” said Noah. “I want you to build a boat, the biggest and bestest boat there’s ever been” said God. “Why”, said Noah, “we live in a desert, we don’t do boats; never have done, don’t get a lot of call for them in these parts, your Obliqueness. Ordinarily you’re every utterance is a symphony of sound and beauty to the sticky out bits on the abstract countenance you have so generously created for me, O Guano features. Couldn’t you do another plague of frogs and locusts? We loved those. Your subjects haven’t eaten so well since. Very tasty they were indeed, and so much more nourishing than the daily fare of cactus bark and centipede you dish up to us as we go about our increasingly diminishing mortal trespass. I hope you weren’t baffled by the paradoxical construction of that sentence. One Almighty’s punishment is another lowly minion’s business opportunity. I was running a fast food joint while it lasted. Made a change from the normal feast, where you have to catch your dinner before it catches you. Eat before your eaten that’s the Law ‘round here. It makes you feel more like a recipe than a person on occasions, your Compostness.” “Be that as it may, said God: “I’ve got some drawings which Eve helped me to make” “Eve?”  said Noah: “did you say Eve?” “Yes” said God: “Eve”, that’s what I said, she likes me more than all the rest of you put together and that’s why she’s my favourite” “This will be good” said Noah: “let’s be having it. Let’s see the cosmic blueprint of a less than useless boat that Eve devised” “I helped to devise it as well”, said God: “In fact I done all the pencil sharpening, and here it is.” Noah sniggered and said: “That’s not a boat it’s a camel!” “Brilliant, isn’t it?”, said God: “you’ve got to hand it to Eve; she’s a genius at this kind of stuff, and she says it will make me look jolly clever as well. And that will stop all you ungrateful and wretched minions from smirking and sniggering every time I have a wonderful idea.” “This is even better than the ten commandments, three dos six don’ts and a maybe” said Noah. “My Ten commandments were wonderful” said God: “even Moses said so.” “The only reason you have ten commandments”, said Noah: “is because you have ten fingers. If you had seventeen fingers we would have seventeen commandments; one for each digit. People who use their toes to count their fingers should avoid life’s mathematical complexities. And as for Moses ‘The Born Leader’ he’s a party hack. He’ll agree with anything you say as long as he gets his name on the tablet. He’s publicity mad. When he grows up he wants to chisel the definitive text on cactus attraction, for the benefit of future desert wanderers. Eve says he a bit of a Freudian fruitcake on the quiet, whatever that is. She also says, his mother told him he was adopted, and he’s never quite got over it.” “Why would Moses want to get over a cactus, seems jolly silly to me” said God: “He’s a complete basket case, according to the local grapevine. Never mind all that, let’s see the blueprint.” said Noah: “A wooden camel, only a cosmic idiot could imagine it. If it was a wooden horse it could have been sold to the Trojans, or a wooden cat to the Pharoahs, and I’m told the antipodeans go a bundle on timber budgies, but camels; nobody wants one, not even other camels. How did someone as colossally dense and as infinitely thick as your self acquire the surreallness of thought to imagine it in the first place?” said Noah. “You’re a bright little chappie for a minion”, said God: “Eve told me about the Greeks and their wooden gee-gee and I suggested a boat, then Eve pointed out that this was a desert, and consequently we need a desert boat. ‘One that floats on sand’, I said. ‘Not quite El Plonkero’ she said. Then Eve said we have to adopt and then apply some lateral thinking to the problem. She pointed out that we live in a desert and that we need a boat that sails in the desert. And then I had the mostest cleverest thought I’ve had in ages. We need a ‘desert boat’ I exclaimed. And Eve said I was a true plankton eater. She says the nicest things to me. A ‘ship of the desert,’ she says, ‘and what’s a ship of the desert?’  Quick as a flasher in the rush hour, I said ‘a camel’, and Eve replied that I was quite bright for a log, and that camel plus ship equalled wooden camel to sail away from here to some other paradise she called Hollywood, ‘Land of heavenly bodies and the drop dead gorgeous Brad Pitt.’” “And you believed her?” said Noah. “Of course I believed her”, said God: “she’s Eve and if you can’t believe in Eve what else is there to believe in?” “There’s an answer to that”, said Noah: “but you’d toast me like a heretic on the happy juice if I repeated it, your Doorknobness.”

You bought the dawn paying such a high price,
Spending the darkness like fake money,

Saving up your hopes like a hoarder;
Looking for someone else to bring your joy

Wading through the denseness to you.
Throw open the windows, the doors;

The light was out there, waiting, all along
For your open eyes.

I knew a man once who could read the trees
He'd stand in a field with nothing on
And look at them for hours
(He couldn't talk to flowers)
But he would pour over every branch
Trace every knot and feel their bark
He translated a sycamore for me once
But oaks and beeches were his favourite
He said he just preferred their type.
The elbow bends told him of seasons
The trunk's tilt told the prevailing winds
Their denseness in relation to their neighbours
Told him all manner of gossipy things.
The colours and the hues told of the soil
The moulds and lichens the local fashions
He'd tell you if they'd ever been frightened
By hippies, chainsaws, axes or lightening.
And as I looked on, I realised something
As I read his naked body with no clothes
This man was obviously a stark raving lunatic.

Soundless awakening walk ghost like blend disappear wooden poles that reach for the clouds
They display a crown of glory on the forest floor it is told in muffled shade and shadow you

Follow those that make their pilgrimage to temples of sacred stone here in these wooded
Wonders enter as a blunder but quickly you are arrested by silence and you are now dutifully

Reverent you who was formed by divine majesty melt under the power and sway humbly and
Quietly you bow to that which is amassed thick and denseness flairs in its midst is the nobility

Of timelessness you are nothing more than smoke that rises and is coaxed by a mysteries inaudible
Voice it shares the birth of years and the ageless past you feel the great quiet soul that exist here

Like no other place on earth this is not only the great purifier of air by photosynthesis but
Here the otherwise vast spirit is condensed cradled after its new birth Washington, Jefferson and

Lincoln spent solitary hours and days being transformed the scent of these trees were
Concentrated with the base element of colossal power it formed over eons of time to walk

These forest paths is to release ability first firing the great void of the mind then the heart is
Indwelled then the soul ignites into a blaze that rivals a forest fire you came as mere shadow

Stooped in ignorance you leave as an essential light for your time doubts and questions abound
Throughout the land fear not he who has lived among giants comes and all will be made clear

You will turn from the waste and superficial his light will touch you and you will be the army
Of truth and justice that is at the heart of this great land

i never intended to write poetry within a framework for the purpose oration, or too keen for it to be memorised; in the latter instance i know what puts people off poetry: the schooled induced need for memorisation, as if each poem were a national anthem; that's at a basic level, on the more advanced level people are put off poetry because the analysis of poetry, the transaction of but a few words into entire pages of essayist epics, the need to identify poetic tools, and admire does poets who are conscious of applying them puts people off, hence they easily grasp and turn to journalism of the daily news, to be easily duped and perhaps informed; it's harder to be duped by poetry, the tarantula venom in poetry works both ways: so too the poet amazed by an incomprehensibility due to the spontaneity and, something akin to lithium reacting in water: froth boom splash sizzle pop!*

i.

a ****** reader of philosophy books
will realise the hardship of the endeavour,
such books are more for thinking
after than talking a book reading club
to talk about them, in any casual conversation,
a whole philosophy book becomes
a single sentence that's memorable,
and the dropping of the philosopher's name,
nothing more, only because so few people
tackle the subject matter to try and speak
about it after, unless they're in academia
and instead of casually talking about it,
extract what's necessary and popular and
simply teach it - so unless you're paid to read
the material, it's a rather cold world out there
for talk of philosophy over a pint of beer
or a cup of coffee; and why did i start reading
these books? world got complicated, couldn't
escape reality with fiction, had to add to it,
plus it was a welcome change from reading
chemistry.

ii.

this is what i find strange in relation to poetry
and fiction narratives - with poetry you simply
can't get a sense of achievement as you do with
fiction - there simply isn't a sense of achievement
after having read a book of poetry, not in the same
way as there's a sense of achievement after having
read something beastly like joyce's ulysses:
it's the way it's packaged - it's denseness, it's need
for ramble ramble dabble dabble: the more depth
a narrator's consciousness has, apparently the more
critically encapsulating thumbs up too - compare
that to poetry and you see poetry as a form of
pure narration, not contaminated by plot or characters;
plus as franz kafka said: they didn't do two things
i asked of them: a. they didn't burn my work like i
asked, and b. they didn't do as i asked about font size,
it's tiny! any intelligent reader will realise that they
could lose their eyesight reading my works! i said
BIGGER FONT! and compare that to bukowski being
considered a "prolific" writer where his chapters are
knee high and his font is MASSIVE
so poetry is gentler on the eye - it s p  r  e   a    d     s,
cuts short, doesn't bother packaging to be a best-seller,
but it also doesn't do what i mentioned previously,
there's no sense of achievement after completing a poem,
because most poems are actually completed by readers
rather than discarded at some point...
and that's where dis-satisfaction creeps in with reading
prose: you just have to finish them - because i find
with fictive prose that there's no satisfaction i can immediately
find in poetry, the bird spreads his wings and isn't
a curled up hedgehog, or snail, or tortoise -
you need to finish these books to get what's intended
a feeling of achievement, the only satisfaction from
prose is when the last word is read, the book is shut,
is put back onto the shelf, and you look at it and admire
yourself with the thought: gosh jolly good, i've read that.

This great white wolf made for traversing wilderness giving it the most identifiable sound for its
Wild uncompromising soul beautifying the night wind adding an extra chilling effect but giving
Unspeakable comfort too it tells of freedom and possibilities latent in us all but he is reduced to
Confinement in a small enclosure pitifully no larger than a small yard his is a life sentence with
All these noble creatures that is at hand what would be so awful to set him free after five
Years and replace him with a kit a lot of his five years would be in youthful play and when he
Did mature and the wear begins then repeat the action we ourselves have and experience this
Fate we have a great white pure spirit that longs to be masterful but our eyes and the things we
See deface and scar our opportunities that are innumerable but dark bars hold us in pens their
Shadows show on our fleece that is white as snow there is the outward physical blackness but
Of the greatest sadness it burrows into the sacred hidden places of the mind this is a tether
Most cruel but outwardly we convulse with misery but can’t clearly identify why misery and
Sadness hounds us without end we all desire love but we practice selfishness and try by greed
To use others to give us what we think will make us happy what darkness grips us what light
Would be found and we would emerge from deep pits if we understood giving helping others is
Where satisfaction out weighs gold and its benefits are perpetual well being to making the soul
Gleam as white as brightest day and this will not become cankerous and subtly start to shrink
Your heart to bitter ridicule of your own self you can go forth groaning or singing blackness
Befalling you at every turn or your heart will be leaping over fast moving streams that have
Depths of joy they rush over your feet and then swirl upwards from your feet all through your
System until your head is invigorated and swimming bestowing on you pleasure your heart will
Leap like a hart you truly will be the envy and guide to others that you unsuccessfully sought at
Other times in devious ways and you were so misguided you were plagued with a unreachable
Denseness you fight with such fervor but it cost the loss of everything but by simple obedience
And surrender to the much over looked and demeaned golden rule all it asks is love your
Neighbor as yourself what a healthy and wise statement love yourself without restraint now
Just go and double it by giving the same consideration to your fellow man and then vanquish  
The darkest and most powerful restraints by confessing I see deaths grip it has perfected traps
That are mine alone and it is not in our power that we can break free but His power is without
Equal why should I languish in this black dungeon when on white wings as an eagle is my true
Potential I was made to fly in bluest skies and to match the cool moist clouds I was made to
Make a show only to be sky bound not locked in myself and become hidden by my black
Outlook that obscures what love I am capable of

Bonus
Imperfections
The kindest evidence the savior passed was the marks he bestowed in the most gentile articulation in this
His wise choices matched imperfection to our needs. One of the most telling attributes of women can be
Her hands but what if they are slightly marred the grace only flows to a deeper level quickness is
Replaced by deliberate action slower more thoughtful and profound a touch placed with this kind of
Feeling goes to a measure instantly felt it is not just the ordinary but a thing of force that unravels
Trouble mysteriously it finds the hidden knots looses them allows love to flow wide and full. Perhaps a
Man no longer strides with a power that has an assurance maybe he is depended on a stick for support
Where power is diffused it only changes channels it makes the heart stronger the eyes feel it too
Humanity in others is recessed the blunder the self efficiency drains from boisterous streams into calm
Assessment a flow that harnesses possibility not vain bravado that can at times wound those who are
Weaker and that are struggling. If times try men’s souls then imperfection can be a clarion call the
Placement of virtue at the lead where sometimes pride is the driving force this writing came from seeing
A woman walking in a sunny scene and she had a blotchy spot on her arm others could observe this and
Be to one degree or another repulsed but to the man who loves her it is a special calling card it
Touches makes the forces revel in a display that sets her apart from all others an instrument of sound
That separates from the den isolates carries a marker that generates tenderness, esteem, and honor
Thou art the tune and sound of a masterful violin play nothing else in my presence nothing else will do
Your imperfections makes another whole don’t ever fret over your special make up it is the breath and
The visitation of the divine in the human form boldly brushed in the shadow perfected by sun light

of desire
is painful and pervading my body
physically, like literally, i can feel
the heat in my legs, the
stinging lightness in my joints
and of course the throbbing in my head,
funny that the stunted, clogged,
wheel and cog of my hog
is frozen solid
and you're turning every corner
to make sure it stays that way for you
but it cannot. everyday
i imagine what it would be like
for desire to meet desire,
and it disgusts me
as you've defined my normal
and scared me shitless into thinking otherwise
through classical conditioning
and punishment of action.
Don't try to kiss me,
for fear of me lashing you
with my tongue, but no not literally, don't
even try it.
Tell me about everything you desire
and I will shove it back in your sick head
and beat the **** out of it,
so the sly fox of desire is a ****** ferret,
****** too many times by a bear, and then killed and eaten.
It's a way of life, you tell me the circle and nature of things as they
are. And you say you're just a bee buzzing, and I think the opposite
you're a bee struggling on its back on the ground,
doused in water, and unable to fly.
And I'm there trying to buzz you back to life,
but I've lost my stinger, and here's the kicker,
yours is ready to sting me, mine, back into drive
but you just want to stay on your back,
even when the water drys.

1

he looks into her eyes she into his stretching between is thread fragile as string of pearls if either moves too fast pulls too hard strand will snap pearls slip away who dares to charm rattlesnake take it by nape tie ends wear it as necklace love is reckless

2

first time he saw her he lost control heart spun like pinwheel  forgot what he know light burst into dungeon of dreary soul oasis in middle of desert bowl

3

he wishes there was way to get her to want him catch her heart pervade her fantasies he wonders if ever there was such power potion some ancient incantation arouse wild pangs of desire must be some secret place within her tendon to be touched causing her to tremble swoon lie down call out for him

4

i surrender i’m yours take me teach me shape me to be what you want need let me be your main squeeze most valuable player devoted confidante perfect compliment constant companion wildest fantasy life long lover volley your serve adjust to your moods make mistakes into masterpieces race you home to see who starts dinner do anything for you alone fulfill me trust believe in you we belong to each other give you confidence support inspire delight you lay great fortunes at your feet some men choose gold some men choose God i choose you may they find our bodies embraced together still warm after thousand years oh my love you are there like wild swan dragging wing across water take me as jumping fish take me as howling wolf take me as grizzly bear take me as wild stallion

5

it is hidden between them feeling around stirring nearer exploring along secret paths in early morning dew he scouts ahead skimming lightly over landscape finding area discerning scent following trail growing aroused stalking in grassy protrusion leaping across gushing stream treading in undergrowth probing spreading open folded wrap deeper into denseness she is slower drowsy yet playful coming up step by step lingering at each plateau meandering in hollow picking berries handfuls rolling them in her palms putting them in basket humming to herself she hears wolf howl she runs basket swinging jiggling berries dropping some her rhythms drifts across meadow root pulls slams him hard he prods in frenzy entwined as branches knot quiver knot forest spins around him over his head dizzy he collapses she shivers tingles whispers laid out in flowery moss resting beside tree basket spilled crushed berries all around her

Soundless awakening walk ghost like blend disappear wooden poles that reach for the clouds
They display a crown of glory on the forest floor it is told in muffled shade and shadow you

Follow those that make their pilgrimage to temples of sacred stone here in these wooded
Wonders enter as a blunder but quickly you are arrested by silence and you are now dutifully

Reverent you who was formed by divine majesty melt under the power and sway humbly and
Quietly you bow to that which is amassed thick and denseness flairs in its midst is the nobility

Of timelessness you are nothing more than smoke that rises and is coaxed by a mysteries inaudible
Voice it shares the birth of years and the ageless past you feel the great quiet soul that exist here

Like no other place on earth this is not only the great purifier of air by photosynthesis but
Here the otherwise vast spirit is condensed cradled after its new birth Washington, Jefferson and

Lincoln spent solitary hours and days being transformed the scent of these trees were
Concentrated with the base element of colossal power it formed over eons of time to walk

These forest paths is to release ability first firing the great void of the mind then the heart is
Indwelled then the soul ignites into a blaze that rivals a forest fire you came as mere shadow

Stooped in ignorance you leave as an essential light for your time doubts and questions abound
Throughout the land fear not he who has lived among giants comes and all will be made clear

You will turn from the waste and superficial his light will touch you and you will be the army
Of truth and justice that is at the heart of this great land

The concealed masked faces that no one sees through
Brutally attacked by unintentional words
The denseness of humans as they just laugh it all
Don’t sense any issue but it’s not like they try
Every word of pure ignored conversations
Keep the feelings caged in
No one sees
No one bothers
No one cares
I feel as if the barriers accumulate over time
And the people around don’t attempt to pull me back through
I think that loneliness just applies as an excuse to reassure myself I’m not depressed
I’ve seen the way happiness fades as soon as I make a wrong play
Allowing the droplets of sky’s tears to hide my own
Along with the shamed bitter coward that rests just beneath the mask
Just let me rot on the inside till on the surface it shows
And let the ants that were around me feel the guilt
Because by now they’ve seen the arrows that have been embedded in my heart
And the ice that have enclosed the pierced scars
No one hears
No one tries
They just turn their heads and sigh
They brush it off
While I take a pill
In order to leave a dreaded life that I don’t need
And a world in which I don’t believe
Let me spread across the horizon
Allow these blinded eyes to truly see
and let my flailing colors plague your sky

Those pointless conversations that you tried to force upon me wasn’t for my benefit
I know
Because it’s out of pity
And out of self-debt that you’ve put on yourself
I can see through it all
And I can see how you try so unbearably hard to believe in the counterfeit personality that you mentally devised
It won’t work on me
And it’s not for me

It’s never for me

Because what’s inside now… is nothing
I’m only a shell
Only a ghost
Because after all
Ghosts are only the shadows of outdated humans

I can turn invisible.
I do it all the time.
You may not even notice that I’ve changed- just that one minute I'm here and then suddenly I'm gone.

It has a price.

I can turn invisible and the world gets vastly larger.
I shrink inside myself until all that’s left are atoms smaller than you can see.
Impalpable.
Insensible.
Compacted super-dense matter.
Dark and malnourished, I cannibalize .
I eat the pieces of me that are brightest and leaden with memory each time becoming smaller but denser;
heavier with the weight of myself but faded.
Stunted.
Fragile.
Small.

I can turn invisible and you wouldn't even notice
because I've been here all this time just lingering and shrinking.

The world keeps getting larger and I keep getting smaller.

It’s a feeling like butterflies.
It’s a feeling like mourning.
It’s a feeling like no other I can describe to you coming from one such as I.
Invisible.

The world gets larger.
I still get smaller.

My tears are hot and tiny. Puny things full of anger and loathing and loneliness.
I consume them.
They make me smaller.
Super-dense matter burning within these half digested bits. It's a feeling like no other.
I've reached the apex.
I've reached the abyss.

I can turn invisible.
I've been doing it all this time
and the world has gotten too big for me and I am too heavy with the world for it.
Compacted.
Super-dense.
It feels like butterflies and mourning and the pieces of me that burn.
It's hot inside my shrunken belly,
too small for you to see,
all the while I grow too fat on my tears and too full on this emptiness.

I may explode with this smallness;
this denseness;
and all that you couldn’t see will come spewing from me and the world will stop getting bigger
and I will birth a new me.

I'm a Super Nova.
I was invisible
but the weight was too great.
Compacted super-dense matter.

You couldn’t even see me.

But now you can.

I am.
I am fish and brick and sun and moon and sky and earth and river and forest and thunder and storm and silence.
I am light and dark and blood and sand and sinew and mud and bone and fear and loathing.
I am ambition and broken trust and betrayal and broken promises.
I am triumph and failure and love and loss.
I am the summer breeze and the arctic blizzard, I am the waves crashing upon the shore and the sunlight warming the lizards on the rocks.
I am the stars that shine in the night sky and the nebulae being born past the purview of your eyes.
I am the vast nothingness of space and the infinitesmal denseness of singularity.
I am the space between heartbeats and the silence between words.
I am the oneness of all things, the internal nirvana, the consciousness of the universe and its fleshy manifestation.
I am good.
I am evil.
I am god.
I am me.
I am you.
I am we.
I am.

A thousand untamed words will unleash the other thousand too ,
from the memoirs ,
caged in a rust full of room ::
I will throw a pebble of darkness
into the chasm of stagnation .
Then the ripples of cold will feel,
lacerating my skin from under,
as if someone
scratching the pith of my soul frenziedly .
The denseness of blood
murkier than darkness
oozing of out my arteries
while the fallen angel
                     ~LUCIFER~
sitting on his throne ,
ardently longing me ,
TO
TAKE
ME
BY
HIS
SIDE .

a stitch,
   tingle, tingling
               twinge -
   oh my, my choler,
                my choler
      don’t let me be the last to know,
   I beg;

     livid in its nature,
      discolored by the bruising -
       in the beasts of things;

                wrath.
such a heavy tone for this indignation
or
your denseness; dolt

neverthelesser,

I’ll vent my spleen
‘til you’ve vanished back
into that bathroom I found you in

Wonders of place read what one writes about a place now that he is far away by years and distance the
Flavor and tone it draws and evokes acuteness vividly portrays common tasks and experiences a
Richness pervades thoughts weighted and robed in love it is stirring imaginative and it speaks to all
And entreats you to take a similar excursion fields play grounds schools homes that overwhelm by the
Slightest recall we need these times of refreshing and we lose sight of their value these buried treasures
Lay just below the surface easily bridged but their worth invaluable reminisce yourself into folds of soft
Mellowness it will enrich your life presently this one thing that can be carried forward in extraordinary
Ways the first effect it had on you and the way it made you feel is and always will be you they talk about
The time it takes for light from distant stars to reach us once you were engaged in this innocents that
Traced time and space and people so many are now lost to us they live in the entirety of who you and
They are just beyond the jumble of this present state we live in they Say God lives in the eternal now
He is in the past present and future isn’t it possible for us to know that in a precious degree since we are
Made in his image all it takes and there are different ways but just close your eyes and drift with just the
Smallest indication you will roll and speed back to those times that were cherished with family the
Clouds belie earth’s surface at times the heaven’s treat us to measureless wonder with mystery it
Disengages the time line can become lost moments untie in a seamlessness we truly go to another place
While part of us stay in its natural place go forth in freedom dear friends hurts will fail to follow you can
Taste of sweet waters no bitterness will invade your thoughts you are immortally strong for a time you
Get a foretaste of the future you are bound to infinity weightless ageless without form you are pure
Thought unlimited but for the first time truly engaged exhilaration floods the real you that has never
Been exposed before the sluggish physical now only powerful spirit rears its head back thunderstruck
Your senses explode you expand you rule time and go backwards or forwards gifts out of reach before
Now present themselves in simplicity and untold beauty handle riches that were lost in the fall now
Reclaimed you are able to shake the dust from them they have set in dark stores awkward denseness of
Humanity held you at bay now from this time you know what you will miss if you continue to sell you
And your life with God short ecstasy of fulfillment will be lost wonder will be replaced with the truth and
Fact of one who has squandered riches untold all for miserly living that has been aliened with a fallen
Foe you deserve more and it is your birthright but you take the chance of losing it all you are more
Valuable than you know believe that and correct your course your true home is beyond the stars don’t
Sell out for the illusion that is this temporal world

She parked her bike
by the stone bridge
and stared down at the river
waiting for Naaman

he said to meet her there(
he finished
his half day of work
just before)

and go for a ride
and see a few things
she'd not seen him
since the Sunday before

a short walk through the woods
by the farmhouse
out of sight
of her parent's gaze

hand in hand
flesh on flesh
she watched
as the river flowed onwards

the ever flowing water
then Milka heard him call
as he rode near the bridge
waving a hand

she looked at him riding
with his Elvis style hair
and jeans and open neck shirt
he dismounted his bike

next to hers
and walked to her
she stood expectantly
nerves tingling

her whole insides
butterflying
he kissed her cheek
she held his hands

kissed again
got here as fast as I could
Naaman said
your brothers have gone

into town
so won't be this way
in a while
she smiled

I wondered
if they'd be with you
she said
you look pretty

he said shyly
do I?
she said
course you do

he said
nice of you to say
where are we going?
she asked

bike ride
he said
where to?
a place I used to live

he said
is it far?
Milka asked
not that far

we can go through
the back lanes mostly
he said
ok

she said
so they got on their bikes
and rode off up the hill
he in front she behind

along country lanes
up hills down hills
through narrower lanes
along a main road

keeping to the side
of the grass verge
and 20 minutes later
they were there

and he rode into a narrow path
and got off his bike
by some trees
and she followed

and did likewise
she bent over
getting her breath back
he leaned against a tree

some ride
he said
longer than I thought
she blew out breath

and inhaled
leaning by Naaman
you lived here?
yes up the road a bit

second cottage in
she looked around her
quiet here
yes is it

he said
come I'll show where it is
and he took her hand
and walked her

through the woods
and narrow path
she sensed his hand
in hers

ran her thumb
on the back
of his hand
there

he said
through that gate
they stood looking at a gate
at the back of a cottage

who lives there now?
she asked
don't know
he said sadly

I'll show you the pond
where I used to fish
and where I'd sit
and think things through

so she walked with him
through a wooded path
the area darker
because of denseness of trees

then they came to a fence
and they climbed over
and through a field
and then he showed her

the large pond
where he used to fish
they walked to the edge
and stood looking

at the water's skin
her hand still in his
sunlight filtering
through the trees above

they sat down on the grass
did you catch any fish here?
she asked
no but I tried

he said
she kissed him
he smelt apples
fresh picked

her flush of skin
her eyes bright
her short cropped hair
she leaned against him

he sensed her nearness
her beat of heart
her small **** pressing
against the yellow top

least I won't hear
my mother call from here
she said
or my brothers teasing

guess not
he said  
they worry about you
you're only 14

she looked away
you're only 16
she countered
besides I'm with you

they trust you
she added
do they?
he said

course they do
she said
turning her head
taking in

his hazel eyed stare
do they know
you're with me today?
she shook her head

they didn't ask
and I didn't say
she said
Yaakov knows

Naaman said
I told him
you did?
she said

what did he say?
said he felt sorry for me
but that I'd soon recover
she looked at him

what a cheek
she said
is that all he said?
yes then he talked

of the new Elvis film
at the flicks
and was I going
is that all?

he nodded
he'll tell my mother
she said
don't think so

he replied
he said he'll leave that
for you to do
and she lay her head

against his shoulder
and he kissed her head
and they sat there
in the quietness

kissing now
and again
then ran for cover
from a downpour of rain.

Dastardly he dashed
To a damsel in distress
Unable to digest
The rippling
Recoiling
Through his chest

The resounding effects
Affecting his election
To shadow step
In the collection
Of her breaths

Tippy toeing
To the test
In his wonder
Toward her depth

As she deflects
His concepts
And attempts
To project
Some common sense
Into his denseness

Commencing
To undress him
Confessing
To her neglect
As limply she lets
Her guard down

Down that road
That road she knows so well

The O'wells she felt
So well to know

To know
He rides alone

And still

She fell for him
Fell before him
The only one
Who felt him

Befell him

And she put him
Before herself

As she swerved
Her life to his side
And subsided
Right beside him

Queen of the kingdom
Captured by his demons

She seen him seldom
But knew them well

Those hearts
She melts them

And loves them still

But he's alone and staring
From a window sill

Old and graying
Dreaming of fields

Alone he woke. The cold bed meant nothing. Real fingers, real light cutting through the real denseness. Today will be marked with an X.
Wide eyed, blood turned to kerosene.

soft air around lips precedent what
happens next
tucking in
collar to neck to jaw to chin to cheek
denseness is there, senses are not
encompassing pout, tearing it right off
no need for these anymore

its the sudden denseness in the air ; erratic change of breathing ; the struck of dizziness ; vigilance pumping through your veins ; wholesome fear toppling onto you as it hushes you to be utterly still, do not make a sound. Avoid his heavy gaze meeting yours, avoid it. Do not stare back at heartbreak.

Your lips they taste like June
Your eyes are a rocket to the moon
More like the sea
Infinite and deep

I don’t believe that you’re from Earth
you’re from the sky,
past what we see of space,
From the heavens babe

You think you’re obsolete
I think you’re an angel
You could be
Fiery flames and all

That hair
Soft as snow
Bright as the sun
More Beautiful than anything
Then again, it belongs to you

High off your kiss
Just like absinthe
I crave more
Over and over
Magic of the moment
Or maybe it’s just you

I just want to be with you
Along for the ride
By your side
Whenever your soul takes you
I crave to follow
Mine embraces yours
Welcoming every single bit

I want the future
No
I need it
That house with the view
White fence family
Birds whistling the tune of our hearts
Our love
Our days
Our history
I crave to make more

Hold onto me
Each bear hug, squeeze, each grasp
A security blanket
The pain and anxiety fades away
A blank canvas ready for a painted heart
Smooth, but drawn on with a brittle battered brush
Maybe even broken
But no matter, it’s my favorite one
My only one
I see through the damage and look only for the color it strokes

Tape only works half the time
Comfort only applies pressure
But with love we can begin to heal
The wounds
A scratch or total break
The pain will fade
Only the past
Forced to fade away by the foundation for the future

Hold me
For each warm hug powers my day
Hold me
For the days without it are the worst days
Hold me
For with each embrace I can breath again
Eternally forced under the water
Under the pressure
Under the current, holding my breath

Stay
Stay
Stay

But no worries
If you don’t I completely understand
That’s fine
I’m fine
It’s all fine

But without you I’m not

If only the words that roll off my tongue
Or more my fingers
Could truly express the feelings
The thoughts
The love
Love
Woah.
I’m in love.

“The girl from Latin”
That’s what you say to me
“The girl that made my day better with a look”
You forget I was looking at you
“Never would’ve thought”
You smile to yourself
Well I never would’ve thought anyone
Anyone
Anyone would think of me in such a way
I’m that girl
That girl
Beautiful?
Smart?
Funny?
That’s what I was?
Is that me?
Couldn’t be
I believe you’ve made a mistake

I make your heart flutter?
Well honey
Just the thought of you is a migration of monarchs
The color of butterfly wings beat my heart
Battered
Bruised
Bleeding
What a beautiful feeling

I love you

What a beautiful phrase
Although
Every drop that falls from your mouth is beautiful
To me every drop forms a waterfall as it makes it’s way out
Pours
Soaking my soul

As life rushes past
Zoom
Each moment faster than last
But somehow
Better
Beautiful
Bewildering
Breathtaking
It must be you

All the highs
All the lows
All the needles
You put it aside for me
But it’s your life
It’s mine now too
Each meal
Each alert
Each injection
It’s on my mind too

My love for you
Is stronger than bricks
Has more value than gold
Diamonds
Power
A lock with no key
Although
You are the key
Perfectly fitting in a stubborn lock
Rusted but sturdy

The key fits
The door opens
A dark forest
Infinitely wide with no clear path
But through the darkness
Through brush and tangled vines
Through hopelessness and desire to turn back
A light can barely be seen

But you followed
Did not give up
Reached the edge
And through denseness concealment and intimidation
You found the light
The gold
The eternal brilliance
Something hidden
Yet more alluring and brilliant than anything before it
You found my soul
Hidden among the hideous
Thank you.

<3 > ^ v

Love is blind,
Or so the saying goes.
But doesn't it really go:
Infatuation is blind?
Infatuation is blind to the human heart,
It devours the body,
Curve after curve,
Letting the personality melt away.
But true love is not blind.
Love sees the tears,
Talks through the frustration,
Love accepts.
Accepts the self doubt,
Accepts any denseness, jealousy, or agony.
Love isn't blind,
And ignoring the problem,
But talking through the fights and accepting the weaknesses.
It's not fixing each other,
Or only loving them for who they could be,
But for who they are now in all their broken-ness.
Above all else:
Love Is All-Seeing.

a denseness fills her
slowly gripping her insides
leaving her short of breath
she becomes weary
as the river of dread
engulfs every inch
of her being
her shoulders start to slump
and her head is filled
with imaginings
she cannot shake

when tears fill her eyes
it's like fuel feeding the flame
and
she knows her only option
is to ride it out

tomorrow will find her drained and empty
but grabbing in anticipation
and need
for a peaceful day.

No one came back
No one came back
To help tend the Living Garden
That all you started in Day One

Soft, green, dancing grass
Tall, wide, shady trees
Cool, fresh, living air
Flowing, rich, clear water

All
This
Left
Behind…

But I thought we all were
Strung together no matter if
‘twas a tug or a yank
Lest it was a snip

‘Twas…

The past flashed before me:
Orange, Yellow, Green, White
THEN
Gray, Brown, Crimson, Black.

for What?

A garden hidden behind a hedge
with vines drooping down from trees
coupled with shoots, erected
like iron bars in a prison

Now only the X-ray can see
Through the denseness

Although
Does not the number of revolutions the hour hand's had have a
Say?

People who say
"Oh my God"
Frequently
Are obnoxious

Perhaps they don't
Even believe in God

I find the taxpayer's
Concern with money
Comical

His money just
Digits on a screen

The bank only has
Some small amount

Of the actual funds
Available

I don't buy into
A "40 hour a week"
Work week

I don't need
My own place

I was at the park
Reading the
Myth of Sisyphus

The Christmas music playing
At that one house
The glow of the lights

That denseness
And strangeness
Of the world
Is the absurd

I listened to an audio clip
Of this woman
Form the Christian chat
I sometimes chat on

She was laughing
And so happy
Good to hear

Beautiful things like that
Exist far away from me

The world isn't meeting
My expectations
But that is okay
I'm content to listen
To her on my iPhone

I'm ready
For the terrible times
When the illusion
Of our safe, secure
And wealth nation

Is shattered

The battlefield fog’s denseness
Lightens at sunrise.
The moon’s light added unease and butterflies,
But the sun’s provides clarity;
I see the enemy’s positions:
Between the trees and in the bunkers, rifles are ready
To shred the regiment.
But the sun pick-pocketed their edge
And gave us a path to victory;
The fog is still there, but clear now.
.Will I advance to the objective
Or bow out in the bog of fear?

Take a picture
Of my mind
At any time
What will you see

Put them all together
And crazy you will be
To see what I see
And be what I be
Don't dive any deeper
You may never come back

Into my mind flow freely
Swim in the ocean of my thoughts
Carve out a pathway
Through the denseness
Past the clouds
And into the abyss

Loneliness
True agony and shame
Loneliness and pain
Never to be seen again

I'm thoroughly convinced at this point that God communicates through numbers. That's not to say that the Divine does not communicate in other forms, but for me, the more I pay attention the more I see a pattern of intelligent signaling via numbers in my day to day experience. Maybe it's just the autist in me, though I do know that I am far from the first person to ever notice this phenomenon. There are quite a few interpretations of this numbers game, this bread crumb trail leading towards the Truth... but, like the Bible, I believe God is speaking to each person individually through this means, and that there isn't any master key that unlocks it all.. unless that key is faith. But it is a personal relationship with the Creator, knocking on the door in seeking God, the one on one (11) friendship and union with The Spirit, and the communion with others doing the same (11:11) that is the key that unlocks the door to the fullness of Love. This is the quickening of the synchronicities on the vibration of Love frequencies, the tuning of our antennae to God's, as the door opens and we can hear the Divine speaking to us much more clearly... and for me, the numbers start flowing, and I buzz and hum with this energy that transcends caffeine and greed, weightless almost in this state of Love that I desire always to be connected with, the Source of it... yet, often still, my shadow self, the denseness of me blocks this loving and living aqueous transmission, and I fall back in to the 3D world, fall out of the Love consciousness of Christ Consciousness, and it becomes all about "Me Me Me!" again... but I'm learning to recognize this spiritual plummet into the realm of the dead, and what I need to do in those times to find the path back to Her, as She helps me by leaving these bread crumbs... numbers to remind me that my Spirit is wildly free, that what is seen isn't all of reality, that there's more than being stuck in the perils of 3D, yet thinking so much differently... and so, I continue to unlearn me, seek out bakers for this trail of bread, praying prayers that stretch out towards Eternity, until once again my Spirit is the one that leads. 5:5