did you hear
the news?
they've
discontinued
mornings

now all we have
is nights
stretched out
too late and
the worst coffee
you've ever tasted.

(put on your
warpaint
or just your
eyeliner
nobody is actually
looking)

now we're all
s c r e a m i n g
before the sun
has even risen.

they've
discontinued
mornings
how does that
make you feel?

(it makes me feel
like absolute ****)

error
error
caffeine
not found

pile your
triangles and
terror into a
text box

the margins are
glaring
your coworkers
sleeping

error
error
**mornings are
discontinued

in the mink pith of our dismal mints and our Charlatan  hearse fights
in the twice dark vice of our daffodils
you linger effervescent  in the marmalade  plans
of mice and gin.
you march men into your womb like pixie dust and Ebola.
there, in the devious whiskers of your manticore
i have found you naked and bereft of kin.
an oodle of gimp where the soul
had been, and the gas lights off the marsh
unclean.

the vivid hork of your dead albatross, pondering the hink of your discontinued love.

He'd been hanging around for some time now, indeed... he'd become rather proficient in that direction of late and although it would probably be rude to point, you could hardly accuse him of loitering... and certainly not with intent, which would have been of some considerable comfort to Norman's Mother, given his current situation, particularly since the latest complication in his otherwise dull and uneventful life, had left him predisposed towards looking a little more drawn in the face than was usual for the time of year and a decidedly deeper shade of green.

     Barely discernible, only the deeper scars now remained to  mar the roadside foliage, bearing scant witness to the motorcycle's recent and untimely misadventure... regrettably with Norman still mounted astride.  Having lost all adhesion with the freshly resurfaced country lane the motorcycle had promptly slewed sideways and across the wet grassy verge before plunging down the wooded embankment, there to encounter its own humbling demise and land in the shallow watercourse below, but it was still early Summer and already the verdant undergrowth had begun to recover.

     At the point where his motorcycle, having determined without deviation or interruption to take the most direct route to its final resting place below and follow the downwardly allure of gravity... Norman being somewhat lighter and more aerodynamic than the former had been propelled, amid a flurry of leaves and twigs headlong through the outermost branches of the nearest tree... and promptly snapped his neck... Far below a dog-eared circular proclaimed 'kidz do it better on wheelz'!!!

       In many ways it was the most handsome beech tree you could ever wish to lay eyes upon, majestic in stature and albeit stationary in nature, was full of life, contrary to its uninvited guest who decidedly was not... but who definitely was just as static as the beech tree... and which by any stretch of the imagination had far more right to be there than Norman did.
  
     The sudden and unforeseen turn of events of the previous forty eight hours had cast grievous, Holiday nullifying inevitability directly into the path of any plans Norman may have prematurely made in that direction... and for the moment at least to be left hanging high and dry in the lush, verdant canopy far above his motorcycle, currently languishing in the sparkling clear waters below... and it has to be said, without so much as a pair of galoshes between them, and having little else to do other than hang around nodding his head in the warm Summer breeze he swayed gently up and down in the light country air.

     Pausing mid-twitch on three legs between Norman's deceased neck and his equally demised shoulders, an inquisitive squirrel was now the prime mover in our eponymous hero's sudden and discontinued modus-operandi as it provoked involuntary nods from Normans head, gestures of consent as the prying rodent set itself to investigate in great detail the darkest, innermost depths of Norman's inside breast pocket.

     Norman's unintentional leave of absence had finally extinguished once and for all any further thought of future remittance towards the outstanding balance due on the motorcycle hire purchase agreement, which as luck would have it was just as well, because his equally unintended leave of absence, so it transpired, had also extinguished Norman... and thereby deprived him once and for all of any further thought of his outstanding ability to pay them or indeed, any further thought at all.

     The squirrel meanwhile, having brushed aside the meagre contents of Normans pocket finally emerged victorious into the subdued light of the dappled canopy, brandishing a hard won paper-tissue proudly clenched between its teeth... before moving on to other, far more pressing matters on the branch opposite... then paused to scratch its ear...  Now it may be of some interest to the reader at this point... or not, as the case may be, but the squirrel allegedly knew a friend of a friend, who incidentally runs the little B&B; further down the road and who would be prepared to swear on Norman's other-worldly life that she'd seen far worse looking faces peering back from the bathroom cabinet mirror of a Sunday morning after a ***** night out with the lads... than anything she could ever possibly imagine exercising squatters rights way above in the majestic beech tree.

     Flies seemed to be one of the few living creatures that morning who hadn't raised any objection to Norman's ill-mannered intrusion... indeed, were currently hatching plans of their own in that particular direction and take intimacy to the next level with regard to lunchtime seating arrangements... and who had assured him from day one, that while their long term prognosis for Norman attaining ***** and independent posture was by no means cut-and-dried, he should nevertheless be moving about, not necessarily under his own steam in no time at all... and by the look of his complexion, it would seem that in the interim period he should be thankful for the company.

     As the balmy Summer afternoon steadily drew to its own happy conclusion Norman, without a care in the world and now in the early larval stage of being in the family way, so to speak and shortly to shed a little life of his own... stared vacantly out at what had recently become his own neck of the woods, rapidly becoming a permanent fixture in the pastoral landscape... and while his sudden relocation may have been a real eye opener for some, for Norman he'd discovered the true meaning of be at one with nature, about the birds and the bees and especially the flies in the trees...  

     So there we must leave poor Norman with his recent and enduring affliction, nodding in the dappled shade of the majestic beech tree, playing host to the countryside and the following seasons crop rotation, leaving his Mum to worry as to whether her Son had fresh underwear that morning... or not as the case may be... the County Constabulary making their door to door enquiries as to Norman's current whereabouts... his former employer re-adjusting next months pay cheque... accordingly and the hire purchase company about to dispatch final demands indiscriminately left, right and centre for financial delinquency.  The only other claim you could probably make with any degree of certainty was that Norman's full-face motorcycle helmet had by no means achieved that which was expected of it for his ultimate well-being that day... and was doing little more than keep his hair dry and his spectacles from slipping further than his chin.
                                                           ­  ­                                                                ­ ­                                                                ­ ­             ...   ...   ...**

A work in progress.                                                        ­                                                     1122

through thick and thin
that’s what we said
but now i look across the bed
the empty space, so big and clear
it’s all that i could ever fear

close friends at best
never more
but now it’s gone
forgotten lore

why did we
entwine our limbs
embrace in passion
on such a whim

i regret that night
our thoughts astray
clouded by the playful day

now you barely look at me
and when you do I see the guilt
it’s ok
i feel it too
but if you’d just talk to me
i’d help you realize, you’re still free

please don’t regret my body’s touch
or how you sought the sheets to clutch
but most important
don’t forget
what we had before the end
a loving friendship, down to the core
never thought I’d see the door
i’m locked outside
you have the key
through thick and thin?
guess that was just me.

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Pennsylvania, 1948-1949

The garden of Nature opens.
The grass at the threshold is green.
And an almond tree begins to bloom.

Sunt mihi Dei Acherontis propitii!
Valeat numen triplex Jehovae!
Ignis, aeris, aquae, terrae spiritus,
Salvete!—says the entering guest.

Ariel lives in the palace of an apple tree,
But will not appear, vibrating like a wasp’s wing,
And Mephistopheles, disguised as an abbot
Of the Dominicans or the Franciscans,
Will not descend from a mulberry bush
Onto a pentagram drawn in the black loam of the path.


But a rhododendron walks among the rocks
Shod in leathery leaves and ringing a pink bell.
A hummingbird, a child’s top in the air,
Hovers in one spot, the beating heart of motion.
Impaled on the nail of a black thorn, a grasshopper
Leaks brown fluid from its twitching snout.
And what can he do, the phantom-in-chief,
As he’s been called, more than a magician,
The Socrates of snails, as he’s been called,
Musician of pears, arbiter of orioles, man?
In sculptures and canvases our individuality
Manages to survive. In Nature it perishes.
Let him accompany the coffin of the woodsman
Pushed from a cliff by a mountain demon,
The he-goat with its jutting curl of horn.
Let him visit the graveyard of the whalers
Who drove spears into the flesh of leviathan
And looked for the secret in guts and blubber.
The thrashing subsided, quieted to waves.
Let him unroll the textbooks of alchemists
Who almost found the cipher, thus the scepter.
Then passed away without hands, eyes, or elixir.


Here there is sun. And whoever, as a child,
Believed he could break the repeatable pattern
Of things, if only he understood the pattern,
Is cast down, rots in the skin of others,
Looks with wonder at the colors of the butterfly,
Inexpressible wonder, formless, hostile to art.


To keep the oars from squeaking in their locks,
He binds them with a handkerchief. The dark
Had rushed east from the Rocky Mountains
And settled in the forests of the continent:
Sky full of embers reflected in a cloud,
Flight of herons, trees above a marsh,
The dry stalks in water, livid, black. My boat
Divides the aerial utopias of the mosquitoes
Which rebuild their glowing castles instantly.
A water lily sinks, fizzing, under the boat’s bow.


Now it is night only. The water is ash-gray.
Play, music, but inaudibly! I wait an hour
In the silence, senses tuned to a ******’s lodge.
Then suddenly, a crease in the water, a beast’s
black moon, rounded, ploughing up quickly
from the pond-dark, from the bubbling methanes.
I am not immaterial and never will be.
My scent in the air, my animal smell,
Spreads, rainbow-like, scares the ******:
A sudden splat.
I remained where I was
In the high, soft coffer of the night’s velvet,
Mastering what had come to my senses:
How the four-toed paws worked, how the hair
Shook off water in the muddy tunnel.
It does not know time, hasn’t heard of death,
Is submitted to me because I know I’ll die.


I remember everything. That wedding in Basel,
A touch to the strings of a viola and fruit
In silver bowls. As was the custom in Savoy,
An overturned cup for three pairs of lips,
And the wine spilled. The flames of the candles
Wavery and frail in a breeze from the Rhine.
Her fingers, bones shining through the skin,
Felt out the hooks and clasps of the silk
And the dress opened like a nutshell,
Fell from the turned graininess of the belly.
A chain for the neck rustled without epoch,
In pits where the arms of various creeds
Mingle with bird cries and the red hair of caesars.


Perhaps this is only my own love speaking
Beyond the seventh river. Grit of subjectivity,
Obsession, bar the way to it.
Until a window shutter, dogs in the cold garden,
The whistle of a train, an owl in the firs
Are spared the distortions of memory.
And the grass says: how it was I don’t know.


Splash of a ****** in the American night.
The memory grows larger than my life.
A tin plate, dropped on the irregular red bricks
Of a floor, rattles tinnily forever.
Belinda of the big foot, Julia, Thaïs,
The tufts of their *** shadowed by ribbon.


Peace to the princesses under the tamarisks.
Desert winds beat against their painted eyelids.
Before the body was wrapped in bandelettes,
Before wheat fell asleep in the tomb,
Before stone fell silent, and there was only pity.


Yesterday a snake crossed the road at dusk.
Crushed by a tire, it writhed on the asphalt.
We are both the snake and the wheel.
There are two dimensions. Here is the unattainable
Truth of being, here, at the edge of lasting
and not lasting. Where the parallel lines intersect,
Time lifted above time by time.


Before the butterfly and its color, he, numb,
Formless, feels his fear, he, unattainable.
For what is a butterfly without Julia and Thaïs?
And what is Julia without a butterfly’s down
In her eyes, her hair, the smooth grain of her belly?
The kingdom, you say. We do not belong to it,
And still, in the same instant, we belong.
For how long will a nonsensical Poland
Where poets write of their emotions as if
They had a contract of limited liability
Suffice? I want not poetry, but a new diction,
Because only it might allow us to express
A new tenderness and save us from a law
That is not our law, from necessity
Which is not ours, even if we take its name.


From broken armor, from eyes stricken
By the command of time and taken back
Into the jurisdiction of mold and fermentation,
We draw our hope. Yes, to gather in an image
The furriness of the ******, the smell of rushes,
And the wrinkles of a hand holding a pitcher
From which wine trickles. Why cry out
That a sense of history destroys our substance
If it, precisely, is offered to our powers,
A muse of our gray-haired father, Herodotus,
As our arm and our instrument, though
It is not easy to use it, to strengthen it
So that, like a plumb with a pure gold center,
It will serve again to rescue human beings.


With such reflections I pushed a rowboat,
In the middle of the continent, through tangled stalks,
In my mind an image of the waves of two oceans
And the slow rocking of a guard-ship’s lantern.
Aware that at this moment I—and not only I—
Keep, as in a seed, the unnamed future.
And then a rhythmic appeal composed itself,
Alien to the moth with its whirring of silk:


O City, O Society, O Capital,
We have seen your steaming entrails.
You will no longer be what you have been.
Your songs no longer gratify our hearts.


Steel, cement, lime, law, ordinance,
We have worshipped you too long,
You were for us a goal and a defense,
Ours was your glory and your shame.


And where was the covenant broken?
Was it in the fires of war, the incandescent sky?
Or at twilight, as the towers fly past, when one looked
From the train across a desert of tracks

To a window out past the maneuvering locomotives
Where a girl examines her narrow, moody face
In a mirror and ties a ribbon to her hair
Pierced by the sparks of curling papers?


Those walls of yours are shadows of walls,
And your light disappeared forever.
Not the world's monument anymore, an oeuvre of your own
Stands beneath the sun in an altered space.


From stucco and mirrors, glass and paintings,
Tearing aside curtains of silver and cotton,
Comes man, naked and mortal,
Ready for truth, for speech, for wings.


Lament, Republic! Fall to your knees!
The loudspeaker’s spell is discontinued.
Listen! You can hear the clocks ticking.
Your death approaches by his hand.


An oar over my shoulder, I walked from the woods.
A porcupine scolded from the fork of a tree,
A horned owl, not changed by the century,
Not changed by place or time, looked down.
Bubo maximus, from the work of Linnaeus.


America for me has the pelt of a raccoon,
Its eyes are a raccoon’s black binoculars.
A chipmunk flickers in a litter of dry bark
Where ivy and vines tangle in the red soil
At the roots of an arcade of tulip trees.
America’s wings are the color of a cardinal,
Its beak is half-open and a mockingbird trills
From a leafy bush in the sweat-bath of the air.
Its line is the wavy body of a water moccasin
Crossing a river with a grass-like motion,
A rattlesnake, a rubble of dots and speckles,
Coiling under the bloom of a yucca plant.


America is for me the illustrated version
Of childhood tales about the heart of tanglewood,
Told in the evening to the spinning wheel’s hum.
And a violin, shivvying up a square dance,
Plays the fiddles of Lithuania or Flanders.
My dancing partner’s name is Birute Swenson.
She married a Swede, but was born in Kaunas.
Then from the night window a moth flies in
As big as the joined palms of the hands,
With a hue like the transparency of emeralds.


Why not establish a home in the neon heat
Of Nature? Is it not enough, the labor of autumn,
Of winter and spring and withering summer?
You will hear not one word spoken of the court
of Sigismund Augustus on the banks of the Delaware River.
The Dismissal of the Greek Envoys is not needed.
Herodotus will repose on his shelf, uncut.
And the rose only, a ****** symbol,
Symbol of love and superterrestrial beauty,
Will open a chasm deeper than your knowledge.
About it we find a song in a dream:


Inside the rose
Are houses of gold,
black isobars, streams of cold.
Dawn touches her finger to the edge of the Alps
And evening streams down to the bays of the sea.


If anyone dies inside the rose,
They carry him down the purple-red road
In a procession of clocks all wrapped in folds.
They light up the petals of grottoes with torches.
They bury him there where color begins,
At the source of the sighing,
Inside the rose.


Let names of months mean only what they mean.
Let the Aurora’s cannons be heard in none
Of them, or the tread of young rebels marching.
We might, at best, keep some kind of souvenir,
Preserved like a fan in a garret. Why not
Sit down at a rough country table and compose
An ode in the old manner, as in the old times
Chasing a beetle with the nib of our pen?

my love.
folded behind dog-eared pages
you're a book I've yet to finish
yet before I've reached the ******—
I shelf you with a bookmark
that will never be revisited.

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It can be quite daunting at first to start something new. However, all you really need is the right kind of attitude. The open-minded approach to tackle problems as they come along. My biggest fear, however, remains being afraid of not finishing what I have started and dropping things half-way through as soon as the going gets tough. I admit that this problem of mine has been present all the way throughout my life. I'm quite quick on the uptake and get really intense about something and then somewhere along the line I get side-tracked and drop things altogether.
    The saying "easy come - easy go" could never be more true for me. Having said that, I know that everyone has encountered this exact same problem at one time or the other, so the grass always looks greener on the other side despite the fact that it's often painted.
    The ease with which I get a head start compared to other people has been both a blessing and in a way a curse. But I shouldn't seek excuses when it is quite clear that I lack the motivation, perseverance and the self-discipline to soldier on after I finish the first lap. To put things into perspective I am like a competitor at a 5000m race challenging the title again and again. It brings me endless joy being able to participate and more often than not I am the one who sets the pace, however half way through the race fatigue sets in and I gradually lose the built-up momentum. Seeing that, competitors overtake me left and right. Eventually, I lose the heart to continue and end up finishing last or dropping out of the race.
    I keep wondering; perhaps the secret to success in not starting strong, but being consistent and preparing yourself mentally for that finally straight line when all your arduous training pays off and you still have some firepower left in you to give it your all. Not only what you can do, but edging slightly outside or your own limits, be it mental or physical, that keep holding you back you outmanoeuvre your own shadow.

     The other problem of mine is that I rarely practice what I preach. I like to reflect and analyse, and can pin-point fairly accurately the inner demons that have been plaguing and dulling my senses, but comes next day – and I succumb to them once more. Lately though, I feel like I am eradicating them one by one, but I shouldn’t rest on my laurels.
      For example, over the last five years I have discontinued playing guitar and then picked it up again countless of times. I would intensively practise for days, sometimes weeks, professing my love for music and then give up on it at a drop of a hat. With distractions and novelties larger than life, it is getting harder and harder to ignore them and go about our own business as we did before. They are like irresistible mythical modern-day sirens lulling us into a trance-like state of comfort and false sense of security. “Forget all your problems and let go of your worries, sweetie. We will take care of it all now”, whisper the sirens as their bodies become entangled with ours and for a split second we can feel the weight of our shoulders starting to disappear. Split second is all it takes t avert our eyes from things that truly matter and before you know it - we are neck-deep in this fairy land.
     Once we snap out of it, a sense of helplessness engulfs us mixed with guilt for wasting so much time. Without further a due, we seek out a new distraction that can preoccupy our thoughts, so that we can feel on top of the world once again. As a result, a new form of escapism is born where we dig endless tunnels; not to escape into the real world, but as far away from it as is humanly possible. Much like the prisoners, we are just as creative in finding means to escape and evade hardship. Therefore, we are effectively prisoners of our own minds rationalizing our every wrong-doing up until there is no inner voice to question it any longer. By then, the ritual of “switching off the real world” is hard-wired to our neurological pathways and over time it becomes second nature.

Tarry tempers of locust scented bath salts
knowing Latin phraseology, broken pig-tonged asexualite
*****-less worth is my many meaning of sense witless
dripping cool colored love from the holes I keep picking in my face
in my brain, without a grain
I am changing lanes three am, drift wheel sleeper
doth he the body I watch below truly belong to me?
They told me god was watching
This I could believe
So I wish for He Their father to see guilty little me
dying of thirst for his life
of hunger self deprived
ego die, my egg over fried
teller of lies, please keep it spinning, yes I know it's upsetting
just let me.

a twenty-six year old woman sits alone outside a coffee shop, waiting
she plays Snake on an old Nokia that was discontinued long ago
her red dread locks are tucked neatly under a worn beanie
that she stole from the boy that she gave her virginity away to
in a skate park when she was nineteen

a twenty-six year old woman sits alone at her desk, writing
she has a one night stand whose name she doesn't remember sleeping in her bed
her mascara is running and her lips are dyed black from henna
that she stole from the girl who offered her shelter when she ran away to live
in her car and dingy motel rooms after college

a twenty-six year old woman sits outside a Stop and Shop, drinking Shasta
she recently tried to publish her book of poems , but it was rejected so:
her shorts barely covered her backside and she wore the bralette
that she stole from her brother's girlfriend while she was visiting
in the false hopes that he would register how badly she needed him (or anyone)

a twenty-six year old woman sits in a little blue rowboat, drilling holes into the bottom
she skims Red Kayak before she leaves home and ties rocks around her ankles
her thoughts are set on mentally regressing the pain of her teenage years
that she wishes she could steal back to at least put some emotion back
into her heart

it'd been better than feeling nothing at all

The epitome of greatness, a mark in history

Of discipline remarkable, a stellar victory

Defeating the unbeaten, knock and break the mould

International heavyweight of Olympic Gold



Strike in quick succession, opponents retreat

Delivery duration, a knockout of defeat

Tactical ability, step into the range

Catalyst created, set for further change



Of the highest calibre, man who beat the man

Delivery on target, a humble champion

Of opponents outclassed, discontinued bout

Dominant performance, within and without



With athletic excellence, distance travelled far

Gym of daily training, cardio and spar

Professional perspective, stood to set the pace

Dedication, boldness, motivate, embrace



Influencing globally, rank of the elite

Rapid combinations, uppercuts repeat

Powerful formation, readiness of stance

Daily preparation, practice over chance



An honourable service, magnificence abound

Celebrating victory, crowding to surround

Continuing the greatness, strength and stamina

The world is truly grateful, Anthony Joshua



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©

(someone won this collection via a Goodreads giveaway and posted how much they hated it on Tumblr because Tumblr is not attached to their name.  also, I assume, because they hated it.  my name is Barton Smock.  I, too, am a coward.)

~

[earshot]

you were a white male and I was a white male and we were young and even if one put us together we were young.  our idea was to give winter gloves to those whose teeth chattered and we knew the sound had come to us both.  we mowed lawns all summer and mugged a drunk **** who sat reading love notes after baling hay.  we bought the gloves and held them until winter but by then we were not friends and song was the retroactive vocal of a father’s forgetting.  we divvied the gloves in a sad scene no mother would countrify.  

~

[eulogy]

when stalking
the unmanned
spotlight
of your own
death, drink

heavily

with
your takers / you

are nowhere’s
only
sponsor

~

[not monstrous]

a group of boys beats my son for beating my daughter.  when I carry my kids, my kids relax.  the group of boys are uneducated and think god has promoted a number of them to shave me.  my ***** looks as if left by an angel to grow alone after not being placed on an infant.  there is nothing to be said but one of the boys mutters away that he is set to star in the film version of your father’s suicide and that if all goes well he’ll **** himself for real.

~

[tract]

the television in front of my murderous father is the city his house misses.  further coverage is dedicated to a new unharmed person from a race of desert people whose mother materialized without feeling.  as my brothers cross shadows in the brightness of kitchen, I join in spirit the manhunt for the victim who’s made off with the right to disappear.  

~

[incubation period]

I flatten my father’s tin foil hat to hear farmland again.  I am the astronaut god commands me to pinch.  my babies are tossed in the general direction of trampolines.  

~

[non-event]

I was reading beyond my years to childlike fathers in a house named for the woman whose hair was brought to her by boys her sons had wronged.  I was eating what I could of the horse said to have eaten hospital flowers.          
~

[locals]

the mother wonders how it is common she lose the baby when she is not the last to have it.  my name is silent but no letter in my name is or the letters in my name are not silent but the word they make is.  her pain is god’s.  

~

[monster]

I want to sit around and do nothing and I want to have a handful of kids that sit around and do nothing.  I will call myself the end of god and ask women inappropriate questions by way of populating obituaries with written code.  you will want to argue and I will have to get up and we will try together to save the child I crushed parts of.  the face of the child will be our slideshow.

~

[light touch]

she imagined herself pregnant.  she fell behind her best years which became predictions.  she asked me about the men in my friendships.  candle-makers, a few with toddlers

a football
knocks over.    

~

[straw piece]

I was an entire baby and then a picture of me as a baby.  I had as part of the **** shaming process a mother wheeled in and out of the sun.  here is a boy with a red brick looking for an anthill.  here he was brushing from a woman’s bare back a piece of straw and here it is sticking to my leg.  in the barn the eater of stones is missing the privacy of an outhouse.  I lie to her face and then to nostalgia’s outlook.  I lose blood to the mosquito known for the collapse of my favorite cow.

~

[insult stage]

the very sadness.  the very sadness of the intruder who brings his own plate to drop.  the very ecstasy of telling a classmate he or she is ugly alongside a finger he or she must choose.  the unintended ecstasy of the sadness I use to *** cobwebs while waiting for something you’ll do nothing with.  the cutting of the fingers to scale.

~

[stirrings]

being operated on
helps me sleep.

I was your age
when nothing
had been done.

the turtle in my father’s backpack,
the turtle loose
on a moving
school bus.

gods
from a previous
marriage.

I crawled into my mother’s bed
and waited
for my nose to bleed.

you find the cut
like you find
where your daughter
is cut.

a sister ties
knot after knot
and opens
a window
only to *****
in a downstairs bathroom
from a fear
of heights.

Journey through an empty house
Emma
Your Middle name grows on the footsteps of the mice
crawling up the
neck back bone
of the chimney
a dinner table eaten by the termites
Either I or Michael the III
sits on the
window sill counting the rain drops that
tap to the syllables of your name
My typewriter sighs like your mother leaning on a wet window sill
journey through an empty house
in the middle of no where
outside rains on the fields of
tobacco stores
pastel rusted orange lipstick molded Volkswagen parts
a few
rubber tires
****** Indian Cadillac Van Nostalgia Highway Bandit
Opus Utopia
Moonlight Sonata Father Movement No. 1
and as my leather wool toes and toenails and heart and lungs and nostrils and Ceramic eye ***** painted to match the Season of Tornadoes creak through an empty house
where music is not played
and the wallpaper
is peeling off
like fake eyelashes
on a *****
stuck in driveway
Main performance
TONIGHT!
Rain and the cheap perfume of making love as the carpet doesn't move
doesn't budge like Grandmothers Tomb
Beethoven! Beethoven!
I am dipping your piano instrument notes
into the fire
Beethoven!
Beethoven!
The moon is so quiet she stares at me
and the wooden buttons of my gasoline washed swede stolen jacket
falls off
Look in here
there is nothing but hardwood floors
a few windows
letting in the
monotone gaze of the night
swaying wheat fields
crawling up the eyesight sleeve
In my peripheral

Highway
Highway
Highway
To the Ocean
To an empty house
that bends
when the sky yawns
like a dying old old old man
as he sits in his
crooked rocking chair
that a mexican Boy
welded together
with twigs and
coffee mug pieces
the empty house
its skeleton shows
like a sick dog
as it walks the endless boundless streets of a city where the lights are kept on too keep away the thieves
but the moths
and other
unidentified insects
flutter around the Bulb
like gnats
over a man's sweaty face
its skeleton shows
copper wiring
electrical entrails
the bowels the wood keeping the roof up
the insulation
the concrete and the bricks
like decapitated teeth
An empty house
is not
so empty
There is still the left-over hum
of a family
of nights
of windows open
letting in the
Summer breath
There is still
the hardwood floor that creaks like the chipping paint of an old bench painted white
There Is still
the bathroom sink
molding like the aging face of a wrinkling man
There is still
the windows
letting in a
slight breeze
you can smell the rain
the rusted locomotive limbs of discontinued Trains

[premises]

he is cheating
resurrection.

his baby is a baby
in that it tries
to leave

a note
for god.

his mother lets it go
on the roof
of a hospital
about the kids
she saw
*******
in a grocery
cart.  

proof

yearns.

~

[root]

I left quietly
the pet store
of haunted animals.

a drifter preaching polyamory
took mental note
of my appearance.

a man was my father.

~

[outer life]

they’d say his head was hard because it was too small for god to kiss.  when he’d come into town, he’d leave with children we’d not seen except on posters.  his welcome mat was a napkin spotted with blood from a Q-tip.  save for the tiny matter of Jesus, our parents gave him little to do.

~

[the bridge]

let me not pray
for this man
who captured
on film

for the last time
in its environment
god’s bed.  let me not

be consumed
by this man’s return
to the inexact art
of home.  let me obsess

instead
over a portrait
of myself
trapped
by aging, let me grow

to my waist
my hair
might it burn
might I then

to the accumulation
of sight
and sight’s
potential

bow

~

[captions]

underling animals
in times
of quake /

slight
swellings

in brain
of maybe
one mole

bottled
now
for sea /

if on a baby
your hands
would be

so cute

but as
an adult

you glove them /

world as wheelchair
the wheelchair
from which

god rose /


as sporadic
surges
switch on

the sink’s
disposal

pull thorns
from the rabbits
you dream

~

[I saw my youngest brother born]

I saw his mouth.
I thought he’d ripped.

~

[the small]

I acquired you as an infant from a gentleman who needed parts for a radio he planned to invent.  listening to his radio was a long way off.  you sat early.  you called me mother before I was ready.  if I was good, you’d play a videocassette to watch it dream.  I looked at stars and you were a toddler.  our life was life on other planets until the gentleman returned.  he said he’d seen satan in a space suit and that satan had given him signs of ****** abuse.  you were not unrecognizably depressed but did start a fire in a photograph.    

~

[cure]

the dark, the ocean.

I have two reasons to believe god
has not stopped creating.

-

our father
had this phrase

all in good time
psychic

-

my anger has gone the way of the milkman.

his doomed child
with her piece of chalk.

~

[bait]

I didn’t see it
like some kids
saw it-

pain
as clay.

a swat here or there
to the back
of a mother’s
mind.

a man who took a bowling ball
into a closed garage
had no sadness
I could pray
over.

...Santa smoked on the roof
of my father’s house
while I
with a noiseless
stomach

touched
that hunger.

~

[how to live in the country dark]

toss frogs
into a fire
your father made.

find a woman
who’s abandoned herself
to being led
by a stick, let

her blind
mongrel
lick
your palm.

bury a handful
of gravel
call it
the moon’s
grave.

hide in houses
hidden
from road.

make at least one friend
whose night vision
is a glass of milk.

double your body
by walking
drunk.

~
[irrevocably child]

pressing
a cigarette
into the double
absence
of what
has become
the snowman’s
mouth
the woman  
begs
for a light…

it is a thing done softly
in a larger movement
of searching
belly-up
the nowhere

that sober
looks funny
alone  

~

[tell it to my brother]

a widow
with three hands
has ten
doomed
acquaintances.

god’s tacklebox is too light
to carry.

think of it as your ascent into feminine indifference.

think of your son as the incurable
made
thing

on the factory floor
of my son’s
use.

a male mime
bites into
a bar of soap…

***
is a bruise
in a blizzard

~

[mendicant]

this doorbell
is for the inside
of your house

-

to some
you’re the giant
you’re not

-

hearing isn’t for everyone  

-

a fog-softened man
with a baby
might experience
a sense
of boat
loss…

-

hurt

what you know

~

[crystal]

a foster boy using an alias teaches my son to shoot.

it’s the tooth fairy on a sad day finds
under my pillow
a handgun.

you know your father
is a night owl.

50 shades of ****** up,
I've ventured deep within you.
...scrutinized every centimeter,
every corner,
of that perplexing cavernous mind of yours.

                              I
                        ­                fell
                                            ­       in
                                                                love

...but somewhere between "I" and "love"
I found myself stumbling into the spaces between them.
I knew you were too weak
to catch me but
those cogent promises,
that compelling voice,
how could I not succumb, baby?
I never doubted you and that was my downfall.
I stood in the gap for you,
defended you,
when anyone pestered me with pessimism.
There's this saying about....
...a log being in your eye
yet you're trying to take a speck out of someone else's;
Let's just subliminally throw the ***** laundry out.
Out of all the wrongs I've ever done,
I'm able to say,
"I never cheated."
"I never gave up."
"I was always there for you."
"I kept my promises."
kinda distasteful that you can't, huh?
tbc has been discontinued.
                                             **TheEnd.

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Hundreds of words ago,
I made art.

Hundreds of art ago,
I made you up.

In colours, I hung you with a nail.
In words, I sprang you to life.

But now you look better in my erased sentences
And my now looks even better than ago.

To Whom it may concern,

I am unable to locate or purchase Dijonnaise at any local store in my area. This has been an issue since the beginning of 2021. Is this product being discontinued? Amazon and other online retailers offer highly marked up versions of this product but this East Coast/West Coast, Hellmann's/Bestfoods branding has always been off-putting to me, especially in this day and age plus I despise supporting Amazon or similar box stores/corporations. I would also be more likely to purchase Dijonnaise if it came in a glass container. Plastic is not what millennials want and it no longer "makes it possible" as the ads of yesteryear have stated. I use Dijonnaise very often, I am highly disappointed with the small and awkwardly shaped plastic containers, plastic squeeze bottles make it very difficult to expel or retrieve the entirety of the product. I am strongly considering switching to Durkee's brand mustard in the future as they have always used glass containers, I would mix it with Trader Joe's mayonnaise since it is the only one I can find in a glass container. I understand that the added weight of glass cuts into your profits when distributing your products but I have not seen an advertisement for Dijonnaise in years, where are all these profits being spent? The main reason I purchase Dijonnaise is for the nostalgia of the television ads I grew up watching containing a parody of the song "Duke of Earl". I would strongly recommend re-running these retro advertisements on YouTube ad services in the future if you want to keep this product in production. I feel there is no need to attempt re-creating these ads either, it would be a waste of resources and a disappointment to those who grew up with the original versions. I work in marketing and people are voting with their dollars nowadays, your structure and model could benefit from some evaluation. Please tell me how to buy your product locally and take note that myself and many others prefer plastic free packaging. Thanks for your time. Please do not sell my information or use it to contact me for anything not mentioned above.
Sincerely

...

The response I received was that the product has been discontinued. I was offered a coupon for a complimentary 8oz jar of Mayonnaise as it's the only product still available in a glass container. Unfortunately this is only sold on the opposite side of the Rocky Mountains from my location and only at limited locations. How dissatisfying...

“Synthetic verity Company how may I help you?
Sorry, sir we are currently sold out of self-confidence
And enlightenment was unfortunately discontinued 2 months ago
May I offer you our weekly special?
With a purchase of anything in stock, you will receive a complimentary *******
…. Sense of fulfillment it is, I just need your credit card information  
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We all need that social inclusion
The man at the top
The outcast in confusion
Bruised and abused and begging for some form of input.

The social media is shut
For a few.
So we have to go out and walk while we relearn how to talk
And to interact.
Backed into a corner we have no other way
But to get out there
And make somebody's day
Whadaya say?
Are you in for the long haul
Or are you going to bail?
Back to the laptop where friendships don't fail
They're just discontinued.

I allude to myself
When I talk of friends off the shelf
A Twitter,a Facebook commodity
An Oddity.

We need the contagion of spoken word orations to retain some form of relations
Or we might as well just grunt and give life a groan.
Moan if you like which you can in the zoo (Facebook to you)
But we have to converse
Yes,I know it's perverse
But what else can we do?

Nauseating waves of nihilism seep through my eyelids
All the doors of normalcy are locked-
Suddenly I have no fear of death
This is the in-between, the veil of life-
A sepia tone
Here we express our joy while excreting poison
Heaven must only have one extreme (if indeed it’s heaven)
Back to the blankets, but a discontinued thought
Here we can’t admit we’re already dead
Paying the piper
Or was it a past life, a past purgatory?
I have no fear of death
But I need answers soon-
A scavenger hunt for pieces of the soul
And they play music
And I’m out of my mind
How many more years till I figure it out?

And if I die?

went and gone
into your time
after its time

that was love
the discontinued
instant messenger
never coming back

felt just like squanto
heart still sinking
returning to
nothing left to return to

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we pass tall buildings
and large oceans
we fly over mountains
and look down at the tiny people

we go through a bigger door than we ever have before
and find that it really isn't as scary as we thought

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I was not interested in this. I know of this video clip well before. That i has written the application, constructed them, redirected doing it, along with starred in it a century periods. The idea bores others; I'm not saying attracted.In I actually consciously modify my believed to something more productive, way more remarkable, significantly more on positioning with the Paradisiaque Profile in which I seemed to be produced. It requires bravery and courage person to love. Seems much better to put into effect really being suitable as an alternative to developing serenity; that should be small wait for community that will cater to our demands; to utilize your distress views on the masturbator sleeves considering that other folks do not suit the anticipations. It needs will to visit our selves with the help of sincerity and even consideration; towards pull away our stamina via transforming into a injured person; to prevent blaming. An important vivid middle existence in your getting. The application really wants to provide in itself, to be lifestyle amorously in addition to joyously, to reside courageously.

It is extremely strong that you may possibly fear it, bringing housing on your own battling plus ache. Appreciate is not to be frightened of. It is your importance. To control a vibrant soul is a lot like being home with your Self applied. You feel recognised on your side, blessed via the Divin Appearance, along with unencumbered with fright.
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the sun lost its memory
in a familiar taste of irony,
stood amidst a raging fire
in vast depths of the sea,
destruction was eminent
as the horizon slowly fell
neath domesticated rainbows
emulating malnutrition,
and the poetry of the masses
sunk to oblivion once again,
fate tempted destiny
as the bird within heart
of a universe in denial
died without sustenance
dulling senses of validity,
in an antidote for gloom**

dawn was discontinued indefinitely