If you live for their acceptance, you'll die by their rejection
I embody the poison in the elixir of my fruit
Enthralled with thoughts, habits, expressions of thine self

Adoration for passion infects me with your selection
Your concoction soaked the tree of my root
If you live for their acceptance, you'll die by their rejection

Sought by the bread of affliction
I'm concrete in my own pursuit
Enthralled with thoughts, habits, expressions of thine self

Infatuation fueled my permission
A fire of conviction, enticed by a bite of a core once rebuked
If you live for their acceptance, you'll die by their rejection

Idle in submission
Innocence lies on the bed of my tongue to taste its fruit
Enthralled with thoughts, habits, expressions of thine self

Caught beneath the lukewarm embrace of sweet lies within inner disputes
Agony dresses my soul as it peels off its linen in its pursuit
If you live for their acceptance, you'll die by their rejection
Enthralled with thoughts, habits, expressions of thine self

Victory over victory
means excellent
and good success.
Smiles over success
can be contagious.
It is a good sickness
to share with others.
It's infection is
really encouraging.
This is the only
disease ladies are
willing to show off when
their men contacts it.
Doctors recommended,
pharmacist orders it,
and nurses injects it,
wives are thrilled by it.
It is a bitter drug
worth taking.
One capsule daily
dose drives poverty
fever away,
and keep ailing
mediocrity at bay.
It attracts mosquitoes,
that's  parasites free.
Without it nothing
worthwhile works out.
Success is everything.
It has an attitude,
It has a voice,
a very powerful one.
Put it into action and
all doors opens,
goes to war and
settles disputes.
Can unlock every door
that refuses to open.
It answers all things.
Children are trained and
groomed to have it.
Pursued by everyone
by any means necessary.
Great risks are taken
because of it.
Those of the dark side of
life kills because of it,
anything can happen just
to possess it.
You are nobody
when success
eludes you.
Even nations goes
to war just to keep it.
To be powerful and influential,
it must be in your abode.
To be successful is awesome.
But you must plan and
work hard to have it.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

When for whatever reason we stop talking
And it’s been hours since I last heard you
I start to get antsy and walk upstairs and back
As if I’m expecting someone to show up
But you never do because
You’re too far away and working and
I find beauty in the strangest things like
Wanting to see you again
But not knowing
Which room is yours and panicking
Because I don’t want to knock on the wrong door
So I’m running down the hall staring at the numbers
Trying to make some synapse connections
It’s like I’m a starving kid
Who keeps on checking an empty fridge
Expecting the scenery to change from the last open
Only it’s not a fridge, just my empty chest since
I have no need for a heart or lungs
Because my heart’s always broken and my breath always lost
And I’m still running circles on the staircase
Trying to remember which floor I need to be on
To be on the level
But I can’t understand how they go from twelve to fourteen
It’s as if the other floors muscled out the thirteenth
Because it was home to too many bad memories
And domestic disputes
Now my eyes feel like they’re about to pop out of my head
And the corridors go on forever
But when my legs finally give out and I collapse on the floor
I will be sprawled out before your feet

You define 'pretentious'
by painting a vivid picture,
with not just your words,
but harsh brush strokes,
violently swinging back and forth,
parallel to the melodrama that is
your mood swings and your lack of self worth,
which forces your internal disputes outward at increasing speeds.
They won't like me.

I say, *You're too worried.

This is a message to Scientology shills
Only you know if you fit that bill
I will NOT banter.
I won't make a fuss.
I will NOT debate
whether you're one of US
You may want me hurting
You may want me crying
If you're selling that, brother,
I am NOT BUYING.
You WANT people in pain.
You WANT them to pine.
Those are YOUR tactics
THEY ARE NOT MINE.

I'm not a cruel person. I'm in a bind,
Cuz YOU think me weak
WHILE I'M ACTUALLY KIND.
HERE'S WHERE I STOP.
HERE'S WHERE IT ENDS!
You want disputes
Between friggin FRIENDS!

Here's what YOU do. Here's how YOU act.
You come in like wolves and try to attack.
Pull a young animal out from the herd.
Say they aren't legit... on only YOUR WORD!
I'm new to Twitter. So I'm out there, I see.
So you want to sow discord
AND DISCREDIT ME.

BUT GET THIS STRAIGHT.
DOWN TO THE BONE.
IF YOU THINK YOU'RE WINNING
YOU ARE DEAD WRONG
IF IT COMES DOWN TO TACKS

I'LL STAND ALONE.


Catherine Jarvis
SoulSurvivor
(C) 3/1/2017

Confronted by battle Arjuna disputes
But Krishna proposes more pious pursuits
Accepting one’s duty
With transient beauty
Concerned with right action but not with its fruits

petty disputes and
untied shoelaces
and
spilt yogurt
can break baby skulls
in your brain,
if you've got no reason
to lean over
and tie it all back up.

man can walk on coals
if  he feels somewhere deep
that he really has to walk on
those coals.
woman can lift a car
to save a child
and she knows why.
I can't brush my teeth sometimes.

there's something I have to do
before I die.
that should be enough to keep
my head above the muck
at least for a little while.
something is coming my way
if I hold on a little longer
I know it in my bones.

still...

I envy above all else
he who has a why to live.

I need to go back in time
when family was family
communities where tight knit
and church lasted all day Sunday

You know... back in the day
when disputes were decided
with fists and not guns
and meals shared at the table

Once in a while
on any given weekend
we'd pile in the sedan
for a classic SUNDAY DRIVE

No GPS or directions to guide us
just following the open road
no seat belts or airbags
free spirits in every essence

I miss the road games
I miss the family time
I miss those good old days
I miss that SUNDAY DRIVE.

Who am I?
I am the Skeptic type,
Surfacing placid as each side creates waves,
Pulling on heart strings for their own self ameliorate,
Heated controversy focusing on Health care, Religion,
and Hunger debates,
Inevitably resulting in ******* up charges for war to undertake.

Equality's repercussions leaving our freedoms at stake,
While inflating our Economy
only the rich take the cake,
Consistently keeping the poor at bay,
One resolution would be to properly educate.

Before you sell into the poison they produce to control and degenerate,
Look into the disputes staged to manipulate,  
Open your eyes and see we're being left with no other options but to obey,
For when they deny you your right to bear arms The Constitution goes up in a fury of flames,
As we sit back and watch as they replay the tape.

I am free yet I am caged,
Caressing the bars of black and white mind frames,
Constructed to destroy thought and leave the masses divided
in a collective state of confusion as their questions remain,
I no longer associate with my neighbors today.

Empathy is a far cry full of ache,
Frayed by the misconception that lives are part of a game,
Monopolies and greed breed nothing but hate,
As a silenced homeless Veteran plays his violin drowning in pain.

We're left searching for some kind of circumvent,
In a country that prides itself upon convenience,
Our golden gates are not always what they seem,
If born into poverty your chances can seem some what foreboding.

Think of the future aside from your own
and find hope in opportunities for the much needed change we all see and know,
With so many imperative predicaments there is plenty of room for growth,
Obstacles only providing the likelihood to overcome and to approach ,
For strength does not accumulate for those who are not familiar with struggle,
With all these unresolved culminations there is plenty to live and fight for despite your troubles.

They also came for you in the middle of the night,
But found that you had gone to Buenos Aires.
The Guardia Civil questioned your wife in her home,
Surrounded by your four young children, in loud but respectful tones.

They waved their machine guns about for a while,
But left no visible scars on your children,
Or on your young wife, whom you
Left behind to raise them alone.

You had been a big fish in a little pond,
A successful entrepreneur who made a very good living,
By buying cattle to be raised by those too poor
To buy their own who would raise them for you.

They would graze them, use them to pull their plows
And sell their milk, or use it to feed their too numerous children.  
When they were ready for sale, you would take them to market,
Obtain a fair price for them, and equally split the gains with those who raised them.

All in all, it was a good system that gave you relative wealth,
And gave the poor the means to feed their families and themselves.
You reputation for unwavering honesty and fair dealing made many
Want to raise cattle for you, and many more sought you out to settle disputes.

On matters of contracts and disputed land boundaries your word was law.
The powerless and the powerful trusted your judgment equally and sought you out
To settle their disputes. Your judgment was always accepted as final because
Your fairness and integrity were beyond question. “If Manuel says it, it is so.”

You would honor a bad deal based on a handshake and would rather lose a
Fortune than break your word, even when dealing with those far less honorable
Than yourself. For you a man was only as good as his word, and you knew that the
Greatest legacy you could leave your children was an unsullied name.  

You were frugal beyond need or reason, perhaps because you did not
Want to flaunt your relative wealth when so many had nothing.
It would have offended your social conscience and belied your politics.
Your one extravagance was a great steed, on which no expense was spared.

Though thoughtful, eloquent and soft-spoken, you were not shy about
Sharing your views and took quiet pride in the fact that others listened
When you spoke.  You were an ardent believer in the young republic and
Left of center in your views. When the war came, you were an easy target.

There was no time to take your entire family out of the country, and
You simply had too much to lose—a significant capital ******* in land and
Livestock. So you decided to go to Argentina, having been in the U.S. while
You were single and preferring self exile in a country with a familiar language.

Your wife and children would be fine, sheltered by your capital and by
The good will you had earned. And you were largely right.
Despite your wife’s inexperience, she continued with your business, with the
Help of your son who had both your eye for buying livestock and your good name.

Long years after you had gone, your teenaged son could buy all the cattle he
Wanted at any regional fair on credit, with just a handshake, simply because
He was your son. And for many years, complete strangers would step up offering a
Stern warning to those they believed were trying to cheat your son at the fairs.

“E o fillo do Café.” (He is the son of the Café, a nickname earned by a
Distant relative for to his habit of offering coffee to anyone who visited his
Office at a time when coffee was a luxury). That was enough to stop anyone
Seeking to gain an unfair advantage from dad’s youth and inexperience.

Once in Buenos Aires, though, you were a small fish in a very big pond,
Or, more accurately, a fish on dry land; nobody was impressed by your name,
Your pedigree, your reputation or your way of doing business. You were probably
Mocked for your Galician accent and few listened or cared when you spoke.

You lived in a small room that shared a patio with a little schoolhouse.
You worked nights as a watchman, and tried to sleep during the day while
Children played noisily next door. You made little money since your trade was
Useless in a modern city where trust was a highly devalued currency.

You were an anachronistic curiosity. And you could not return home.
When your son followed you there, he must have broken your heart;
You had expected that he would run your business until your return; but he
Quit school, tired of being called roxo (red) by his military instructors.

It must have been excruciatingly difficult for you.  Dad never got your pain.
Ironically, I think I do, but much too late. Eventually you returned to Spain to
A wife who had faithfully raised your children alone for more than ten years and was
No longer predisposed to unquestioningly view your will as her duty.

Doubtless, you could no more understand that than dad could understand
You. Too much Pain. Too many dreams deferred, mourned, buried and forgotten.
You returned to your beloved Galicia when it was clear you would not be
Persecuted after Generalisimo Franco had mellowed into a relatively benign tyrant.

People were no longer found shot or beaten to death in ditches by the
Side of the road. So you returned home to live out the remainder of your
Days out of place, a caricature of your former self, resting on the brittle,
Crumbling laurels of your pre Civil War self, not broken, but forever bent.

You found a world very different from the one you had built through your
Decency, cunning, and entrepreneurship. And you learned to look around
Before speaking your mind, and spent your remaining days reined in far more
Closely than your old steed, and with no polished silver bit to bite upon.

The eruption beatifies the magma.  
It becomes obsidian,
only breaks with a fracture,
smooth circles where it breaks.  

My mom was born on the grass
on a lawn
in a moss covered canyon at the top of a volcanic island.  
My grandfather lived in Malaysia before the Japanese occupied.  
When the volcano erupted,
the lava dried at the ocean into black sand.  
The British allied with the Communist Party of Malaysia—
after they organized.  
After the Americans defeated the Japanese at Pearl Harbor,
the British took over Malaysia again.  
They kept different groups apart claiming they were helping them.  
The black sand had smooth pebbles and sharp rocks.  
Ethnic Malay farmers lived in Kampongs, villages.  
Indians lived on plantations.  
The Chinese lived in towns and urban areas.  
Ethnic Malays wanted independence.
In 1946, after strikes, demonstrations, and boycotts
the British agreed to work with them.  
The predominantly Chinese Communist Party of Malaysia went underground,
guerrilla warfare against the British,
claiming their fight was for independence.  
For the British, that emergency required vast powers
of arrest, detention without trial and deportation to defeat terrorism.  
The Emergency became less unpopular as the terrorism became worse.  
The British were the iron that brought oxygen through my mom’s body.  
She loved riding on her father’s motorcycle with him
by the plantations,
through the Kampongs
and to the city, half an hour away.  
The British left Malaysia independent in 1957
with Malaysian nationalists holding most state and federal government offices.  
As the black sand stretches towards the ocean,
it becomes big stones of dried lava, flat and smooth.  

My mom thought her father and her uncle were subservient to the British.  
She thought all things, all people were equal.  
When her father died when she was 16, 1965,
they moved to India,
my mother,
a foreigner in India, though she’s Indian.  
She loved rock and roll and mini skirts
and didn’t speak the local language.  
On the dried black lava,
it can be hard to know the molten lava flickers underneath there.  
Before the Korean War,
though Britain and the United States wanted
an aggressive resolution
condemning North Korea,
they were happy
that India supported a draft resolution
condemning North Korea
for breach of the peace.  
During the Korean War,
India, supported by Third World and other Commonwealth nations,
opposed United States’ proposals.
They were able to change the U.S. resolution
to include the proposals they wanted
and helped end the war.  
China wanted the respect of Third World nations
and saw the United States as imperialist.  
China thought India was a threat to the Third World
by taking aid from the United States and the Soviets.  
Pakistan could help with that and a seat at the United Nations.  
China wanted Taiwan’s seat at the UN.
My mother went to live with her uncle,
a communist negotiator for a corporation,
in India.  
A poet,
he threw parties and invited other artists, musicians and writers.  
I have the same brown hyperpigmentation at my joints that he had.  
During the day, only the steam from the hot lava can be seen.  
In 1965, Pakistani forces went into Jammu and Kashmir with China’s support.  
China threatened India after India sent its troops in.  
Then they threatened again before sending their troops to the Indian border.  
The United States stopped aid to Pakistan and India.
Pakistan agreed to the UN ceasefire agreement.  
Pakistan helped China get a seat at the UN
and tried to keep the west from escalating in Vietnam.  
The smoldering sound of the lava sizzles underneath the dried lava.  
When West Pakistan refused to allow East Pakistan independence,
violence between Bengalis and Biharis developed into upheaval.  
Bengalis moved to India
and India went into East Pakistan.  
Pakistan surrendered in December 1971.  
East Pakistan became independent Bangladesh.

The warm light of the melted lava radiates underneath but burns.  
In 1974, India tested the Smiling Buddha,
a nuclear bomb.  
After Indira Gandhi’s conviction for election fraud in 1973,
Marxist Professor Narayan called for total revolution
and students protested all over India.  
With food shortages, inflation and regional disputes
like Sikh separatists training in Pakistan for an independent Punjab,
peasants and laborers joined the protests.  
Railway strikes stopped the economy.  
In 1975, Indira Gandhi, the Iron Lady,
declared an Emergency,
imprisoning political opponents, restricting freedoms and restricting the press,
claiming threats to national security
because the war with Pakistan had just ended.  
The federal government took over Kerala’s communist dominated government and others.  

My mom could’ve been a dandelion, but she’s more like thistle.  
She has the center that dries and flutters in the wind,
beautiful and silky,
spiny and prickly,
but still fluffy, downy,
A daisy.
They say thistle saved Scotland from the Norse.  
Magma from the volcano explodes
and the streams of magma fly into the air.  
In the late 60s,
the civil rights movement rose
against the state in Northern Ireland
for depriving Catholics
of influence and opportunity.
The Northern Irish police,
Protestant and unionist, anti-catholic,
responded violently to the protests and it got worse.  
In 1969, the British placed Arthur Young,
who had worked at the Federation of Malaya
at the time of their Emergency
at the head of the British military in Northern Ireland.
The British military took control over the police,
a counter insurgency rather than a police force,
crowd control, house searches, interrogation, and street patrols,
use of force against suspects and uncooperative citizens.  
Political crimes were tolerated by Protestants but not Catholics.  
The lava burns the rock off the edge of the volcano.  

On January 30, 1972, ****** Sunday,  
British Army policing killed 13 unarmed protesters
fighting for their rights over their neighborhood,
protesting the internment of suspected nationalists.
That led to protests across Ireland.  
When banana leaves are warmed,
oil from the banana leaves flavors the food.  
My dad flew from Canada to India in February 1972.  
On February 4, my dad met my mom.  
On February 11, 1972,
my dad married my mom.  
They went to Canada,
a quartz singing bowl and a wooden mallet wrapped in suede.  
The rock goes down with the lava, breaking through the rocks as it goes down.  
In March 1972, the British government took over
because they considered the Royal Ulster Police and the Ulster Special Constabulary
to be causing most of the violence.  
The lava blocks and reroutes streams,
melts snow and ice,
flooding.  
Days later, there’s still smoke, red.  
My mom could wear the clothes she liked
without being judged
with my dad in Canada.  
She didn’t like asking my dad for money.
My dad, the copper helping my mother use that iron,
wanted her to go to college and finish her bachelors degree.
She got a job.  
In 1976, the police took over again in Northern Ireland
but they were a paramilitary force—
armored SUVs, bullet proof jackets, combat ready
with the largest computerized surveillance system in the UK,
high powered weapons,
trained in counter insurgency.  
Many people were murdered by the police
and few were held accountable.  
Most of the murdered people were not involved in violence or crime.  
People were arrested under special emergency powers
for interrogation and intelligence gathering.  
People tried were tried in non-jury courts.  
My mom learned Malayalam in India
but didn’t speak well until living with my dad.  
She also learned to cook after getting married.  
Her mother sent her recipes; my dad cooked for her—
turmeric, cumin, coriander, cayenne and green chiles.  
Having lived in different countries,
my mom’s food was exposed to many cultures,
Chinese and French.
Ground rock, minerals and glass
covered the ground
from the ash plume.  
She liked working.  

A volcano erupted for 192 years,
an ice age,
disordered ices, deformed under pressure
and ordered ice crystals, brittle in the ice core records.  
My mother liked working.  
Though Khomeini was in exile by the 1970s in Iran,
more people, working and poor,
turned to him and the ****-i-Ulama for help.
My mom didn’t want kids though my dad did.
She agreed and in 1978 my brother was born.
Iran modernized but agriculture and industry changed so quickly.  
In January 1978, students protested—
censorship, surveillance, harassment, illegal detention and torture.  
Young people and the unemployed joined.  
My parents moved to the United States in December 1978.  
The regime used a lot of violence against the protesters,
and in September 1978 declared martial law in Iran.  
Troops were shooting demonstrators.
In January 1979, the Shah and his family fled.  
On February 11, 1979, my parents’ anniversary,
the Iranian army declared neutrality.  
I was born in July 1979.
The chromium in emeralds and rubies colors them.
My brother was born in May and I was born in July.

Obsidian—
iron, copper and chromium—
isn’t a gas
but it isn’t a crystal;
it’s between the two,
the ordered crystal and the disordered gas.  
They made swords out of obsidian.

When there are so many we shall have to mourn,
when grief has been made so public, and exposed
to the critique of a whole epoch
the frailty of our conscience and anguish,

of whom shall we speak? For every day they die
among us, those who were doing us some good,
who knew it was never enough but
hoped to improve a little by living.

Such was this doctor: still at eighty he wished
to think of our life from whose unruliness
so many plausible young futures
with threats or flattery ask obedience,

but his wish was denied him: he closed his eyes
upon that last picture, common to us all,
of problems like relatives gathered
puzzled and jealous about our dying.

For about him till the very end were still
those he had studied, the fauna of the night,
and shades that still waited to enter
the bright circle of his recognition

turned elsewhere with their disappointment as he
was taken away from his life interest
to go back to the earth in London,
an important Jew who died in exile.

Only Hate was happy, hoping to augment
his practice now, and his dingy clientele
who think they can be cured by killing
and covering the garden with ashes.

They are still alive, but in a world he changed
simply by looking back with no false regrets;
all he did was to remember
like the old and be honest like children.

He wasn't clever at all: he merely told
the unhappy Present to recite the Past
like a poetry lesson till sooner
or later it faltered at the line where

long ago the accusations had begun,
and suddenly knew by whom it had been judged,
how rich life had been and how silly,
and was life-forgiven and more humble,

able to approach the Future as a friend
without a wardrobe of excuses, without
a set mask of rectitude or an
embarrassing over-familiar gesture.

No wonder the ancient cultures of conceit
in his technique of unsettlement foresaw
the fall of princes, the collapse of
their lucrative patterns of frustration:

if he succeeded, why, the Generalised Life
would become impossible, the monolith
of State be broken and prevented
the co-operation of avengers.

Of course they called on God, but he went his way
down among the lost people like Dante, down
to the stinking fosse where the injured
lead the ugly life of the rejected,

and showed us what evil is, not, as we thought,
deeds that must be punished, but our lack of faith,
our dishonest mood of denial,
the concupiscence of the oppressor.

If some traces of the autocratic pose,
the paternal strictness he distrusted, still
clung to his utterance and features,
it was a protective coloration

for one who'd lived among enemies so long:
if often he was wrong and, at times, absurd,
to us he is no more a person
now but a whole climate of opinion

under whom we conduct our different lives:
Like weather he can only hinder or help,
the proud can still be proud but find it
a little harder, the tyrant tries to

make do with him but doesn't care for him much:
he quietly surrounds all our habits of growth
and extends, till the tired in even
the remotest miserable duchy

have felt the change in their bones and are cheered
till the child, unlucky in his little State,
some hearth where freedom is excluded,
a hive whose honey is fear and worry,

feels calmer now and somehow assured of escape,
while, as they lie in the grass of our neglect,
so many long-forgotten objects
revealed by his undiscouraged shining

are returned to us and made precious again;
games we had thought we must drop as we grew up,
little noises we dared not laugh at,
faces we made when no one was looking.

But he wishes us more than this. To be free
is often to be lonely. He would unite
the unequal moieties fractured
by our own well-meaning sense of justice,

would restore to the larger the wit and will
the smaller possesses but can only use
for arid disputes, would give back to
the son the mother's richness of feeling:

but he would have us remember most of all
to be enthusiastic over the night,
not only for the sense of wonder
it alone has to offer, but also

because it needs our love. With large sad eyes
its delectable creatures look up and beg
us dumbly to ask them to follow:
they are exiles who long for the future

that lives in our power, they too would rejoice
if allowed to serve enlightenment like him,
even to bear our cry of 'Judas',
as he did and all must bear who serve it.

One rational voice is dumb. Over his grave
the household of Impulse mourns one dearly loved:
sad is Eros, builder of cities,
and weeping anarchic Aphrodite.

I imagine, this is what I’ll trademark
The impossibly early morning commute
I’m still drunk
It’s 6AM
And I’m still wearing my shoes

My phone sings with an urgency
It ferries the exhausting burden of responsibility

It’s 6AM
I’ll keep reminding you
Or myself
Because I have to

sigh

****

I have to make The Commute

6am

My body hangs from my brain
In a disjointed way
A detached manner
Like a consciousness manifesting through a coma

If I could forge the willpower
Gather some strength in my arm
To push my phone off of the desk
And silence the alarm

I’ll regret it in some way
Not even a second thought considered
It wasn’t even a hard decision

7:20am

As I inhale, and sigh
For maybe the seventh time
I’m suddenly aware
That in this very moment, I’m being held prisoner
I’m being forced to make a choice
I’m being forced to consider

My mind is awash in the buzz of last night
And the fade of this morning

Austere
Varying shades of whites & greys
Ohio in December
Ohio, the way I’ll remember

This is bleak
Wearing all of my previous evening
Inside and out
I feel like sandpaper
I smell like 3am
Friday night
Saturday morning
It’s Monday morning
And its a dreary 7:30

7:32am

I’m wearing this to work
This is how well I wear exhaustion
I’ll flaunt it in a professional setting
In a professional manner
A white collar show & tell

I’ll groom the bare minimum
But I MUST shave my face
Just to save face
So it doesn’t look like I have a drinking problem
Because I don’t
I just like to party

I treat my body like a machine
It’s regarded like a car I can’t afford to keep gas in
But I can afford to drive to New York at night and explore

A special kind of neglect

7:35 am

A single apple
A bowl of cereal
A bag of chips
Some energy to pursue The Commute

Literally, running on fumes
Literally, every morning
Between 6am to 1pm
Literally, running late
Everyday

Responsible living escapes me

7:41am

GO! GO! GO!
I hit the basement
I braced my knees
I covered my hands
Adjusted to bike the streets

Covered in gear
Drunk and exhausted
The idea of just staying here
Is so attractive and real

I can ******* doggedness
I can still taste the air in my bedroom
While I’m in the basement
I can also taste….unemployment
So, I go.

7:45am

Bleak
Varying shades of whites & greys
Ohio in January
Ohio, all the time really
Atleast it has the feeling
Biking in the elements

The air I breath stings something awful
In my chest
Ice cubes
In my breath
Snowflakes

The blue collar effort
Two feet of snow
And its still coming
This workout//THE COMMUTE
For a white collar job
Dealing with billing disputes
The upkeep of my finacial cause

I’m a pest
The snow is deep
Almost up to my knees
I’m a menace
I’m an obstacle among perpetual obstacles
And we’re all just trying to avoid each other

MARKET//MAIN ST.

As I start to pick up speed
My body begins to adjust
My senses waken up
And narrowly avoid
This, assaulting Mack truck
Speeding on a 10speed
Down the wrong side of the street

Whoops.

I’ve got no choice really
I can’t see or hear what’s behind me
Behind my own panting
And Kendrick Lamar’s ranting
So down the opposite side of the road I go
Around Mack truck smoke & mounds of snow

I reach the edge of the street
And depending on the day of the week
And how generous those patrons are, of St V
I could exercise the sidewalk

No such luck,
So, **** it
I’ll fight traffic
I’ll keep to the streets
And dogde the fleets

This is the real challenge
This is the adventure…
Side to side with traffic
Hand in hand with danger

Car horns & headlights
This lifestyle might really **** me

7:42am
Oh, hey look
Another *******
Middle aged driver
Righteous anger
Righteous motorist

STOP!
It was on Old Main St.
At 7:47am
I was almost on the news
This is a stanza of dediction to the man in the grey Toyota
I’ve developed wonderful instincts
I almost died
This man sped through the incorrect traffic light

So I stopped!
Or else I would’ve been on the news
At roughly 8:38am
Vehicular manslaughter would probably be the charge
Probably a hit and run
I would not have stopped either
I’m this ******* in the middle of the street
On a bike
I’m an early morning, urban menace

I hit the pavement

Desolate
Varying shades of whites & greys
Ohio in February
Ohio all the time really
Atleast it has the feeling
Sprawled, laying in the elements

My mind is awash in the buzz of the night
Before
And the fade of this morning

*******!
I’m shouting now
On the ground, at the sky
In the snow, to the ice
At these ******* motorists, at my ******* bike
A special kind of entitlement

I was born in the wrong state, in the wrong place

I hit the pavement
I skinned my knees
And scraped my hands
Numb & exhausted
The idea of just laying here & giving up is so attractive and real
But I can’t…because bill$

I treat my body like a machine
I regard it like a toy I can’t put down
Even if I choose
If afforded the chance, I wouldn’t know what to do

Dreary
Varying shades of whites and greys
Ohio in March
I won’t even ******* start

8:01am

I show up to work
Half drunk and overworked
Sleet and snowy down my side
And rehearse this white collar ritual
After my blue collar effort
I’m so ******* tired

Living on the edge has this embrace
Like something most people couldn’t stomach
Most people aren’t built for it
Most people aren’t meant to

Don’t take this as a challenge, gentle tweeter
Or take it as one
I’m not saying it can’t be done
I accomplish this, twice a day, four in a row, and roughly an odd fifth one.

Hail the  hobo King sitting  on his throne of
A stripped ford, engine no longer their
Dismantled  of all that was worth a dime.

His subjects bring offerings of dinner trash
Food, fresh from the dumpster. Given to
Those of ill health and malnourished need.

He sits in clothes matted with his trails of
The moments his feet have hit the pavement.
Of life not as others had the chance to live.

He wandered the land every concrete jungle
Knew him as the hobo King, no crown gestured
His head, only the word, the word of mouth.

Settling disputes of those in homes of cardboard
Of wood and used plastic sheeting sheltering from
Those who would do harm and the relentless cold.

He wonders the streets, knows the secrets of each
City of the unseen spaces where those whom roam
Now lay. The vulnerable have a guardian a keeper.

Ignorance of those who do not see that which in
Doorways sleep, of huddled masses under bridges
Buildings to keep dry and an uneasy sleep.

He is the hobo king a crown of matted hair he
Wears, always does he have time for those
Less fortunate because he is one with the street.

He was Mordovan which to dispute raised on the shoulders of a bull and carbon monoxide poisoning from drinking moonshine samovar on the dispute. Not too encouraging.

He was Mordovan who had traveled on the shoulders of a bull. His ***** steamed from the cold frost grass  after the drinking of his disputes.

He was Mordovan which to dispute an eternal damage of drinking his ancestors' remains, the moonshine potent as Hell-fire. As carbon monoxide poisoned his body, he had fell off the shoulders of a bull.

Not too encouraging.

She is beautiful, with her hair in disarray. She sets man against man, woman against woman, and both against each other

She whispers into the ear of sleeping children, who awake as adults in her service.

All fear her, for she cannot be known.

She masquerades as order, enticing humanity; the fire that huddled neanderthals gaped at in thanks become the flames that consume.

To fight against her is futile, but it is in our nature.

She has never left us; she will continue without us when we are dead and gone.

All the monuments in the world bow to her in worship or are crushed in submission to time and war.

She played gods and men alike.

She is both the catalyst and the conclusion.

Some marvel as the fires of her destruction dance reflected in their eyes; others weep.

To say that she is coming would imply that she has ever left.

How could we impermanent things ever hope to banish something so primordial.

She breeds hate, mistrust, and strife in those that capitulate; those that resist her only magnify her power.

She bore Hardship and Ruin, Quarrels and Disputes, Lies and Oaths, Anarchy and Starvation,  Forgetfulness and Pain. Manslaughter and ****** were her giggling toddlers. War and Battle took after her brother, their uncle's favorites.

She brings inedible food that is coveted by all who encounter it.

She has bathed in the blood of civil wars, her most decadent vice.

She renders man's efforts futile, to fight or submit is destruction.

She will reduce the universe to an ever expanding hellscape of fire.

She is the secret joy of many.

Nothing will escape her.

She is everywhere.

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I may not be an author- or a poet,
But when I scrawl these words down on paper-
Or type stories on my cracked, 14 year old laptop,
And get up at 5:30 for the sole purpose of furthering my career,
I feel like a **** good one,
I Sip on a warm cup of coffee,
Spawn characters that shout out, “Hey Jack, that ain’t me!”
When I forget that I can’t use Samuel Chayner in a way
I could use any other of my creations,
Because they’re all different,
With many facets to make every one original,
Because in my mind, I can be the best author,
Or the best poet,
When I sail on open sea,
Taste the salt water and smell the fresh shrimp,
I can hunt for a colossal wail,
Call me Ishmael,
But as I start to dream up another world,
Where artificial intelligence was created
In the early twentieth century,
Where these barbaric southerners
Don’t know what to do with such
High-tech automatons, but to make a quick buck,
Where I can make my own family,
With their own disputes,
Of whether to go to college in 1910,
But the mother might lose her son,
Her one true friend,
Who could hold her when she was sad,
Who would simultaneously be her sweet little baby,
But she won’t accept it;
She won’t bury her decomposing son,
Because she doesn’t have the heart to bury him alive,
Or because, in my mind, they are my playthings,
I could have the mother move along,
Try for another child,
But this is my mind, and I am the author.

Agreed and accepted that there is always a reason for what happens in the present,
however, there has always a reason for the things that happened in the past also,
since efforts were always made in the past,
like they are in the present.
Nothing happens on it’s own, absolutely nothing.

Yet another thing that comes across the mind is the fact that sometimes efforts made in the past prove to be of boon in the present,
but then that serves only temporarily,
however, what follows for the rest of the time is making sure that the picture gets complete with regards to what has been drawn as an outline.
Nothing happens on it’s own, absolutely nothing.

The same thing is true with regards to a change,
since when a change happens in the present with regards to how things have shaped up until now,
till this moment in time,
then the only one thing that comes to mind is somewhere,
somehow, as a person,
one is definitely, linked, connected and associated with the outside world in some way or other,
if not by direct means,
then indirectly.

Time now to tune in to the present with regards to the recent change that has taken place in the present.
Definitely life can always be demanding even when best of the efforts are made to make sure anyhow, at any cost ends are met.
Life continues with the present in mind as efforts are made to achieve the goal that is set in mind.

The answer is apparent.
Which means not transparent.
Who loves you unselfishly?
A child.

They can't figure why they shouldn't?
Even when their disputes among the parents.
Many times the things they think negative about the other.
Boils not coming from the father or the mother.

Who loves you inmensely?
A child.

Notice those that adores those that treated them cruel.
Notice those that loves them when abandon.
Why many of us question that reason?
Many times only God know that answer.
Which brings up the word forgiveness.

Who loves you unselfishly?
When you place them on punishment to correct them.
A child.

Who loves you unselfishly with a smile?
A child.
Who lives to make their mother or father or both proud?
A child.

In each one, you'll see yourself.
Even those parents living in denial.
Who can't admit?
You once acted just like them.
When you see the things they do.
And others point that situation out to you.


Who says?
They love you.
Just to be saying these words to you.
A child.

Never wonder, why they are a blessing?

Resilience.
I wish
I had
that
thing.

[PREMISE: SOCIETY KILLED THE TEENAGER]

>>WHAT WOULD THE TEENAGER DO?
OPTION A: SUCCUMB THEMSELVES TO DEATH AS THE SOCIETY’S PREY
OPTION B: DO NOTHING
OPTION C: SUBVERT AND RETALIATE TO **** THE SOCIETY BACK

They told me that
I would lead a bright
future ahead of me;
that I would soon
be a valiant knight in
shining armour.
I said thanks but
I lied.
Truth is, I
don’t want to let
them know that
I’m not even sure
I would even survive
until the
age of
eighteen.

Car crash and
interstellar collision,
please face
me.
This place is a
deceitful space
of discordances.
If only I used my
short life
to propagate
revivals to
everyone,
what world would
wait ahead of me
when I’m
awake from the
death?

One day I
came home with
wounds from
fighting.
He asked me
how often did I
treat my
wounds.
I said it was nothing
for I am used
to it.
He then objected.
“No. I mean the wounds
in your
heart.”

As much as my
inner voice
reverbed,
telling me to
love him.
I couldn’t
because I’m
not the kind of
person that anyone
would love
and I should
just not love
anyone as well
for I
would just
end up feeling
disheartened.

They caught me.
I was entombed.
I incarcerated myself
inside the
disputes I created
inside my own
head.
They caught me
because I am
not a
slave of
their
societal norms.

I spent days
wondering why and
how could I
still be alive
despite all the
numerous amounts
they attempted
to excruciate
me.

—————
——SYSTEM HAS BEEN DISRUPTED—
——SYSTEM EXPERIENCES MALFUNCTION
——
__
2083208 4988 32973
39743
39493

I am.

d e t h r o n e d.

Wish I was your anything, Highdiver. I am not, right? I can’t go on anymore.

I do love you or maybe I did. Or never did at all.

Wish I could revive at least one soul in my short life.

But I couldn’t. I’m sorry Highdiver.

Almost all of my heroes are dead.

If I die, would you regard me as your hero?

Yours truly, the one who revolts in disruption as your Alice.

—

I’ve come to realize that nothing has ever been inherent. Not because I’m trying to manifest an absurdist or nihilist stance, but because the truth just is.

The Landing

"Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried,
As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide
By a finger entwined in his hair.
"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:
What I tell you three times is true."

The crew was complete: it included a Boots--
A maker of Bonnets and Hoods--
A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes--
And a Broker, to value their goods.

A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense,
Might perhaps have won more than his share--
But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,
Had the whole of their cash in his care.

There was also a ******, that paced on the deck,
Or would sit making lace in the bow:
And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck
Though none of the sailors knew how.

There was one who was famed for the number of things
He forgot when he entered the ship:
His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,
And the clothes he had bought for the trip.

He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,
With his name painted clearly on each:
But, since he omitted to mention the fact,
They were all left behind on the beach.

The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because
He had seven coats on when he came,
With three pair of boots--but the worst of is was,
He had wholly forgotten his name.

He would answer to "Hi!" or to any loud cry,
Such as "Fry me!" or "Fritter my wig!"
To "What-you-may-call-um!" or "What-was-his-name!"
But especially "Thing-um-a-jig!"

While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,
He had different names from these:
His intimate friends called him "Candle-ends",
And his enemies "Toasted-cheese"

"His form is ungainly--his intellect small--"
(So the Bellman would often remark)--
"But his courage is perfect! And that, after all,
Is the thing that one needs with a Snark."

He would joke with hyaenas, returning their stare
With an impudent wag of the head:
And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear,
"Just to keep up its spirits," he said.

He came as a Baker: but owned, when too late--
And it drove the poor Bellman half-mad--
He could only bake Bridecake--for which, I may state,
No materials were to be had.

The last of the crew needs especial remark,
Though he looked an incredible dunce:
He had just one idea--but, that one being "Snark",
The good Bellman engaged him at once.

He came as a Butcher: but gravely declared,
When the ship had been sailing a week,
He could only **** Beavers. The Bellman looked scared,
And was almost too frightened to speak:

But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone,
There was only one ****** on board;
And that was a tame one he had of his own,
Whose death would be deeply deplored.

The ******, who happened to hear the remark,
Protested, with tears in its eyes,
That not even the rapture of hunting the Snark
Could atone for that dismal surprise!

It strongly advised that the Butcher should be
Conveyed in a separate ship:
But the Bellman declared that would never agree
With the plans he had made for the trip:

Navigation was always a difficult art,
Though with only one ship and one bell:
And he feared he must really decline, for his part,
Undertaking another as well.

The ******'s best course was, no doubt, to procure
A second-hand dagger-proof coat--
So the baker advised it--and next, to insure
Its life in some Office of note:

This the Baker suggested, and offered for hire
(On moderate terms), or for sale,
Two excellent Policies, one Against Fire
And one Against Damage From Hail.

Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day,
Whenever the Butcher was by,
The ****** kept looking the opposite way,
And appeared unaccountably shy.

Never will I ask you to ever stay,
You to come once again and take my heart away,
Discrete are we now,
Once inseparable,
But now our relationship is on verge of decay,

Disputes between us,
Quarrelsome,
On epitome to my dismay,
How can I ever ask you to stay?
Work on me, love me and then take my heart away,

You once came and disrupted my heart,
Breaking the once strengthened bond which I thought may never break,
Causing me to shed my tears and mentally hurt me on the way,
Is this how you keep a promise to never leave?
And then dump and move on to your next prey.

A small speck in a spectacular church.
I seek some smaller, simpler works.
A green man worms through wooden leaves,
struggling for freedom from nature.

Blank eyes return my straining stare.
Sharp sculptings scratch my cautious touch.
Brooding, symbolic soul,
nightmare archetype,
stalker of the psyche.

Nature greedily grips the green man,
growing through gaping eyes and nose,
reaching for modern eco-man,
who disputes to his final throes.

Greed, hatred, and delusion:
The three unwholesome roots.
They are responsible for so much suffering:
Pain, sadness, disputes…

"I want, I want, I want…":
Such is the urge that drives us.
And we, poor fools, are unable to see
The goodness of which it deprives us.

Hatred buttresses the ego
With vengeance, distrust, and despair.
We end up being inextricably
Caught in its captious snare!

Delusion poisons us all
And obscures wrong and right.
We flounder about in blind confusion,
Unable to see the light.

But, hark! All is not lost.
Three antidotes exist:
Generosity, loving-kindness,
And wisdom--just a short list.

Generosity quenches
Our constant, greedy craving.
A truly magnanimous spirit leaves
No room for misbehaving.

With loving-kindness we see
The good that comes from caring.
Ugly hatred can't survive
When it's kindness that we're sharing.

Delusion is maybe the hardest
Unwholesome root to destroy.
But just imagine conquering ignorance
And bathing in radiant joy!

If we applied to the poisons
The antidotes listed above,
What a world we could ALL live in!--
A world full of peace and love.

- by Bob B

Which soul of things
dispute me?
Each slit or crack in the street
has their soul in me
the flower is I,
the mouth that speeks, the feet tied
all escapes are I,
what disputes tonight my soul?
a horn or the adventure
the cat who crosses the bridge
under the silver pond
the meat, the weaving material
in each sniff I think,
with the sweat I love,
your life deserves a dead soul
that I may dwell

Being small
without explanatory words
we were the curtain closed
the **** of my mother
and it would seem that soul
enters a woman
that turns …… when seen
like losing a coin
She inhabits all me
I am she
as decomposing meat
between us

ships, trains and horses
already vanished
how many souls will have ******
her breath
while wandering through my body
in the leaves of the trees
each
trembling with their own way
Of thinking me