The way he touched me
when we first got serious
was much different from how
he touched me at the end
of it all.

His hands used to be soft
and his eyes drank in
every curve of my body,
every freckle of my skin.
He would look up at me like
I was a new adventure,
and I knew that this whole
night of romance was for me-
he wanted me to really feel
how much he cherished me.

I miss those days
immensely.

At the end his hands were
much more rough,
his eyes averted mine.
He couldn't see me as a treasure-
I was just flesh under his own.
It became all about his lust,
his desperateness to feel something real.

And that night that held
a surprise showing of
grins and grimaces and
a couple almost-kisses,
it felt like home.
I am terrified to remember
that night because
I realized something:
His fingers grazed my skin
like they did
in the beginning,
he looked at me like I was new.

It's terrifying because
the only thing holding me together
is knowing that the boy I love
is nothing like the boy I left.
And now that I caught that glimpse,
and now that I know he's
exactly the same as he used to be,
my head is spinning and
my heart spasms in pain.
I was wrong and there are no words
to describe how sad that makes me.

But I made the choice
to walk away from the confusion
for enough time to realize
that I'm okay with being alone.

And even if I were to find someone new,
I would always feel like I was cheating,
like anything I could ever feel
for someone else
would be a lie.
And even if I were to be with him again,
I would feel like I was doing him
a disservice,
like even if I was loving him,
I still wouldn't be genuine enough
to make him feel loved.
I will always and forever feel like
I am cheating on the man I love.

And that's the price I will pay
for the immense disservice
I have already paid him.

In response to a sardonic essay written in the recent Saturday Nation by Proffessor Ekara Kabaji, wryly  disregarding the position of Kwani in the global literary movement within and without Kenya , I beg to be permitted a leeway  to observe that any literature, orature, music,drama,cyborature,prisnorature,wallorature,streetorature , sculptor  or painting can effortlessly thrive and off course it has been thriving without professors of  literature, but the reverse is not possible as a proffessor of literature cannot be when literature is not there. Facts in support of this position are bare and readily available in the history of world literature, why they may not be seen is perhaps the blurring effects from tor like protuberant irrelevance of professors of literature in a given literary civilization.
A starting point is that literature exists as a people’s subculture, it can be written or not written like the case of orature which survive as an educative and aesthetic value stored in the collective memory of the given people. The people to be pillars of this collectivity of the memory are not differentiated by academic ranking for superlativity of any reason, but they are simply a people of that place, that community, that time, that heritage, that era and that collective experience. Writing it down is an option, but novels and other written matter is not a sine qua non for existence of literature in such situations. This is not a bolekaja of literature as Proffessor Ekara Kabaji would readily put, but it is a stretch towards realism that it is only people’s condition that creates literature. Poverty, slavery, colonialism, ***, marriage, circumcision, migration, or any other conditions experienced as collective experience of the people is stored or even stowed away in the collective memory of the people as their literature. Literature does not come from idealistic imagination of an educated person.
Historical experience of written literature informs us that the good novels, prose, drama and poetry were written before human society had people known as professors of literature. I want you my dear reader and You-Tube audience to reflect on the Cantos of Dante Alighieri in Italy, novels of Geoffrey Chaucer in England, Herman Melville and his Moby **** in Americas, poetry of Omar khwarisim in Persia, Homeric epics of Odyssey in Greece and the Makonde sculptures of Africa and finally link your reflections to Romesh Tulsi who grafted the Indian epic poetry of Ramayana and Mahabharata. At least you must realize that in those days literature was good, full of charm, very aesthetic and superbly entertaining. This leads to a re-justification that, weapon of theory is not useful in literature. University taught theories of literature have helped not in the growth of literature as compared to the role played by folk culture.
Keen observation will lead you dear reader, down to revelations that; professors of literature squarely depend on the thespic work of the people who are not substantially educated to make a living. Let me share with you the story about Dr. Tom Odhiambo who went to University of Witwasterand in South Africa for post graduate studies in literature only to do his Doctoral research on books of David G Maillu. Maillu is a Kenyan writer, he did not finish his second year of secondary school education but he has been successfully writing poetry and prose for the past three decades. His successful romantic work is After 4.30, probably sarcasm against Kenyan office capitalism, while his eclectic, philosophical and scholarly work is the Broken Drum. Maillu has many other works on his name. But the point is that Dr. Odhiambo now teaches at University of Nairobi in the capacity of senior lecturer in Literature. What makes him to put food on the table is the effort of un-educated person in the name of David Maillu. Dr.Odhiambo himself has not written any book we can mention him for, apart from regular literary journalism he is often involved in on the platforms of the Literary discourse in the Kenyan Saturday Nation which are in turn regular Harangues and ripostes among literature teachers at the University of Nairobi, the likes of Dr Siundu, Proffessor wanjala Chris and Evans Mwangi just but to mention by not being oblivious to professors; Indangasi and Shitanda.
No study has yet been done to establish the role of university professors on growth of African literature. One is overdue. Results may be positive role on negative role, myself I contemplate negative role. Especially when I reflect on how the African literati reacted on the publication of Amos Tutuola’s book The Palm Wine Drinkard. The reactions were more disparaging than appreciative. Taban Lo Liyong reacted to this book by calling Amos Tutuola the son of Zinjathropus as well as taking a self styled intellectual responsibility in form of writing a more  schooled version of this book; Taking Wisdom up the Palm Tree. Nigerians of Igbo (Tutuola being a Yoruba) nation cowed from being associated with the book as it had shamefully broken English, broken grammar etc. Wole Soyinka had a blemished stand, but it is only Achebe who came out forthrightly to appreciate the book in its efforts to Africanize English for the purpose of African literature. Courtesy of Igbo wisdom. But in a nutshell, what had happened is that Amos Tutuola had taken a plunge to contribute towards written literature in Africa.
One more contemplated result from the research about professors and African literature can be that apart from their role of criticism, professors write very boring books. A ready point of reference is deliberate and reasonless obscurantism taken Wole Soyinka in all of his books, Soyinka’s books are difficult to understand, sombre, without humour and not capable to entertain an average reader. In fact Wole Soyinka has been writing for himself but not for the people. No common man can quote Soyinka the way Achebe’s Things Fall Apart is quoted. Achebe wrote Things Fall Apart when he had not began his graduate studies. However, he did not escape the obvious mistake of professors to become obscure in the Anthills of the Savanna, the book he wrote when he had become a proffessor. This is on a sharp contrast to entertaining effectiveness, simplicity and thematic diversity of Captain Elechi Amadi, Amadi who studied chemistry but not literature. He does not have a second degree, but his books from the Concubine, The great Ponds, and Sunset in the Biafra and Isibiru are as spellbinding as their counterparts in Russia.
Kenyan scenario has Ngugi wa Thiongio, he displayed eminence in his first two books; Weep not Child and The River Between. These ones he wrote when he was not yet educated, as he was still an undergraduate student at Makerere University. But later on Ngugi became a victim of prosaic socialism, an ideology that warped his literary imagination only to put him in a paradoxical situation as an African communist who works in America as an English teacher at Irvine University. His other outcrops are misuse of Mau Mau as a literary springboard and campaigning for use of Kikuyu dialect of the Gema languages to become literary Lingua Franca in Kenya. Such efforts of Ngugi are only a disservice to Kenyan literature in particular and African literature collectively. Ngugi having been a student of Caribbean literature has failed to borrow from global literary behaviour of Vitian S. Naipaul.  Ngugi’s position also contrasts sharply with Meja Mwangi whose urban folksy literature swollen with diversity in themes has remained spellbinding entertainers.
The world’s literary thirsty has never failed to get palatable quenching from the works of Harriet Bechetor Stowe, Robert Louis Stevenson, Shakespeare, Alice Munro, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, John Steinbeck, Garcia Guarbriel Marguez,Salman Rushdie, Lenrie Peters, Cyprian Ekwenzi, Nikolai Gogol,I mean the list is as long as the road from Kaduna to Cape town. Contribution of these writers to global literature has been and is still critical. Literature could not be without them. Surprisingly, most of them are not trained in literature; they don’t have a diploma or a degree in literature, but some have won literature Nobel Prize and other prizes. Alfred Nobel himself the author of a classical novella, The Nemesis, does not have University education in literature. What else can we say apart from acceding to the truth that literature can blossom without professors, the Vis-à-vis an obvious and stark impossibility.

Some truths are told in anger,
Some truths are told in vain,
Sometimes there’s value in candor,
Sometimes truth just causes pain.

Some truths told aren’t told on purpose,
Some come out without consent,
Some when told do a great disservice,
No matter how honorable their intent.

Some truths are never told,
Away in drawers they’re kept,
Things gilded still shine like lustrous gold,
And dry are tears long wept.

I once had a truth I tried to speak,
But it was spoken by another prematurely,
I saw it happen, my voice was weak,
I handled it like a child and far too immaturely.

What was exposed could not be taken back,
It was a point of no return,
I was indignant, it all turned black,
I wanted the world to burn.

And burn it did,
But only mine,
Down hard I slid,
The real world was fine.

With time gone by, I must admit a lesson I learned,
The truth really does set you free,
But to whom my truth concerned,
I can only apologize, it should’ve come from me.

Master, have mercy.
I am Master. I
Have no Master.

The planet
is atrocious.

I am It.

Planet Earth
is atrocious.

I am It.

Why is it so hard
to see
be yond peace?
Why is it so hard
to be
who you want?

The mind, secluded
in a prison rift
of copy paste
makes waste.

Where is my paper?
Where is my pen?
I write for me!
I repeat as if I
will soon
believe.
I write for me!
(logging on again)

The planet is horrid.
I am part of It.

Oh, Peace & War,
do we know it.

Yet with an audience,
my imagination
grows stagnant.

The once in abstract
gathers into form.

I did this misdeed.
A disservice.

Once a dreamer.
Now a journalist.

~

fowl flock to a gathering,
exactly why? no one knows.
an unkindness of ravens,
a ****** of crows;
a siege of blue heron,
gather geese in a horde;
seem to come in their sadness,
but stay for the show.
see swan sail in wedges,
jay scoff in their scold;
assembly, their strength,
nom de plume from of old.

ask me why do they gather?
could it be they’re unhappy?
might we also feel slighted,
a disservice agreed;
if our strength were declared
our insufficiency?
why do finches and
hummingbirds meet in a charm?
penguins, get to huddle,
and in happiness, those larks?

the cranes come in dances,
in company those parrots;
to parliaments owls,
in wisdom who-hoo-ing;
flamingoes to stand,
for an eagle’s convocation?
no, a nye’s not unpleasant,
for a pheasant you see;
and benign is a bevy,
quail flush neath a tree.

but, ’tis a bit scary,
lurking turkey in gangs,
hawk’s shadowy cast;
and warblers in confusion,
with buzzards in wake;
a wisp full of snipe,
whisp’ring, “good night”;
yet glorious are pelicans,
a squadron in flight;

and nothing so stirring, as
a starling’s constellation,
while an asylum’s
assembly for loons,
and a quarrel of sparrows,
are entirely drowned out,
by a drumming of peckers,
the wood kind, that is!

while sticks and stones,
may break all one’s bones;
those labels and words, do
leave a sting and a hurt;
all human, one race,
can unkindness defer,
diffusing by choosing,
our union assert!
but slinging maligning,
and kicking of dirt,
by abusers and losers,
let's leave for the birds!

~

*post script.

numerous fellow poets far more skilled than i, have posted a variety of well-written pieces using fowl flocking terminology. this is intended to be an assembly of the sometimes-silly, often-absurd and mostly-always-humorous assignments of those flocking terms, used in an imagined treatise about the hurtful labels we humans use to judge one another; labels that vilify, rather than unify.  for would not a battle that hasn’t any "winner" be far better fought hand-in-hand, than hand-to-hand?

terms for flocking fowl in order of use
(a few fowl have two flocking terms, and some flocking terms are claimed by two fowls)

an unkindness (ravens)
a ****** (crows)
a siege (herons)
a horde (geese)
a wedge (swans)
a scold (jays)
a charm (hummingbird, finches)
a huddle (penguins)
a happiness (larks)
a dance (cranes)
a company (parrots)
a parliament (owls)
a stand (flamingos)
a convocation (eagles)
a nye (pheasants)
a bevy (quail)
a flush (also quail)
a cast (hawks)
a gang (turkeys)
a wisp (snipes)
a squadron (pelicans)
a confusion (warblers)
a wake (buzzards)
an asylum (loons)
a constellation (starlings)
a quarrel (sparrows)
a drumming (woodpeckers)

oh yes, there are many more.  i'd love to see your favorite(s) left in the comments.
Steve (:

He was a young lad and in the fourth grade
Struggling hard for the grades he made.
Everything he tried seemed to vanish in the air
For he could not read and there was no one to care.

The teacher made fun of the young boy’s plight
No compassion, understanding, was ever in sight.
The days were filled with doubt and fear
He was told to repeat grade four next year.

Starting the fourth the second time around
A new school, a new teacher, made his heart pound.
For the world to see, on the card it came
The very first day he had to spell his name.

J - E - E - R - Y came out of the pen
The letters did appear to be correct just then.
The teacher bent close and whispered in his ear
“One E and two R’s, I think you meant dear.”

He fell in love with the teacher that day
She knew his heart and just what to say.
She knew the pain that the young boy felt
And all the embarrassment the past year dealt.

Miss Hagness, the angel, had come to his aid
He sensed her love and was no longer afraid.
Like the gentle Shepherd, reaching down from above
She taught him to read by her affection and love.

He went on to college to prepare for a life
Giving to help others with trouble and strife.
Pastor Jerry’s the Shepherd of many a heart
With love and compassion from the fourth grade did start.



===============================================
Teacher­ Part II
The story told in verse is about my pastor. It is about the struggles of a lad who was ridiculed in school because of a reading disorder called dyslexia. It is about how the system would have let him sink into oblivion but for the personal interest of a young teacher who came into his life the second time he went through the fourth grade. A teacher who had compassion in her heart for the boy and helped him discover the talents that lay hidden deeply within him. The talents that allowed God to develop within him, developed a compassion for others and a giving of himself first as a youth pastor for many years and then for the first time as a senior pastor.

It is also a story of how indifference toward others can lead to destruction of a young mind to the point of total loss of self worth. It is about the deep wounds that can be inflected by the harsh words we speak. Such words can never be retrieved from the abyss of time. How many times do we fail to see or ignore what we see because it does not conveniently fit into our schedule and in the process, contribute in the destruction of a life?

If we are teachers, mentors, leaders, or just breathing, we can share the pain of others to ease their burdens and encourage them in the difficult times. As we share the pain of others, we gain the right to share the joy in their triumphs and successes.

The story came from a message delivered on Sunday morning May 1, 1999. The poem wrote itself from the words spoken in that message. Can we do anything less than what the young teacher did for the boy? As God leads us, let us listen to the still small voice. The voice may be the voice of a child pleading for help, the voice of our Father directing each of us in the path we must travel. Be ever aware of the opportunities that God lays in our path. Maybe just doing only what is required and not seeing beyond ourselves we miss seeing the potential of a young mind. Could this be the greatest disservice we could do to our Father?

Oh God, give me the wisdom to see the promise and potential in others and be led by Your hand in molding the young mind.

It is written, “Though you have done it unto the least of these, you have done it unto me.”

Me cheat?!*

Ha!

I couldn't even cheat on an exam!
(And I hate them)

I don't believe that I ever could

Out of Guilt, Love, Respect and disservice not only to you

But to my own character
(And that means everything to me)

You had a beautiful soul
Our memories are so cherished
Your time I didn't want to
     waste it
I felt trapped in our relationship
I broke you and for that I'm
     so apologetic
Wasted my time, phantom feelings
     and alcohol don't mix
You're the one, that I wished
     I missed
Messing with your emotions
     was never my intention
I think I just craved for
     some attention
My affection I couldn't give
     you
Fake and shallow it would
     have been
Lies, the Bible tells us,
     are a sin
I truly did want to
     want you
But my heart was too dark
     and twisted
We had our opportunity, and
     I missed it

O my sacred,
Shower me with your greatness.
Bring it up to my neck,
And drown me in the lake bed.

O how secret, and so delicate,
Fear in trust involved.
It's not a secret anyways,
If nothing's getting solved.

I love, I trust, I need you,
In fear I live all time.
My words in hope to mean them,
So that you'll say "You're mine"

O my sacred,
Take myself and make it yours.
This day is nothing to you,
Your love fills my empty lake bed.

A love, that's secrets tale,
One month, forever it lasted.
The tale of two, of many,
At each other, love was blasted.

No one way to say it right,
Four ways to say I Love You.
Just take me as I am,
And know that I'm thinking of you.

O my sacred,
Unto you I do trust.
No lake bed full of:

doubt, anger, mistrust, jealousy, regret, pain, hurt, love, hate, lust, health, disease, space, time, pity, indulgence, sorrow, mourning, evil, distress, affliction, trouble, breaks, insignificance, remorse, agony, peril, skeptics, insecurities, uncertainty, question, suspicion, difficulty, dilemma, depression, belief, worry, conviction, cruelty, discredit, hesitation, unhappiness, calamity, travesty, grief, hardship, loss, suffering, weeping, sadness, heartache, lament, excruciation, torture, soreness, discomfort, penalty, torment, torture, harm, malicion, malevolence, prejudice ,detriment, disservice, misfortune, abuse, effort, labor, endeavor, strength, power, energy, operation, mistreat, undermining, blemish, flaw, disservance, misery, injury, exertion, struggle, trial, madness, wrath, rampage, harassment, irritation, exasperation, rage, tantrum, infuriation, mischief, inequality, alienation, aggravation, annoyance, contagion, trauma, damage, insults, violation, wrong, flesh, or ****.

...ANYTHING between us,
Vanquished because I must!

She was done not fully being herself.
She realized she was the only self she could be—and not being unapologetically true to herself was a disservice to her soul and the world.
She was done listening to the noise of the world. She realized the quiet voice of her own soul was the most beautiful sound.
She was done questioning her motives, her intentions, the call of her soul. She realized questions seek answers, and maybe she already knew the answers.
She was done striving, forcing, pushing through and staying on the hard path. She realized toughing things out might be a sign to pick another path.
She was done with friends that admonished her to be more light and breezy. She realized they didn’t understand she swam in the deep waters of life, she felt at home in their dark depths and died if she lived on the surface.
She was done with the distractions, the denials, the small addictions that pulled her away from the true desires of her soul. She realized that strength of character came from focus and commitment.
She was done not following the desires that yelled out in her soul every day. She realized if she did nothing about them, they died a quiet death that took a piece of her soul with them.
She was done with dinner parties and cocktail hours where conversations skimmed the surface of life. She realized the beverages created distortion and a temporary happiness that wasn’t real and disappeared in the light of the day.
She was done trying to please everyone. She realized it could never be done.
She was done questioning herself. She realized her heart knew the truth and she needed to follow it.
She was done analyzing all the options, weighing the pros and cons and trying to figure everything out before leaping. She realized that taking a leap implied not fully seeing where she landed.
She was done battling with herself, trying to change who she knew herself to be. She realized the world made it hard enough to fully be herself, so why add to the challenge.
She was done worrying, as if worry was the price she had to pay to make it all turn out okay. She realized worry didn’t need to be part of the process.
She was done apologizing and playing small to make others feel comfortable and fit in. She realized fitting in was overrated and shining her light made others brave enough to do the same.
She was done with the should’s, ought to’s and have to’s of the world. She realized the only must’s in her life came from things that beat so strong in her soul, she couldn’t not do them.
She was done with remorse and could have’s. She realized hindsight never applies because circumstances always look different in the rearview mirror and you experience life looking through the front window.
She was done with friendships based on shared history and past experiences. She realized if friends couldn’t grow together, or were no longer following the same path, it was okay to let them go.
She was done trying to fit in—be part of the popular crowd. She realized the price she had to pay to be included was too high and betrayed her soul.
She was done not trusting. She realized she had placed her trust in people that were untrustworthy—so she would start with the person she could trust the most—herself.
She was done being tired. She realized it came from spending her time doing things that didn’t bring her joy or feed her soul.
She was done trying to figure it all out, know the answers, plan everything and see all the possibilities before she began. She realized life was unfolding and that the detours and unexpected moments were some of the best parts.
She was done needing to be understood by anyone but herself. She realized she was the only person she would spend her whole with and understanding herself was more important than being understood by others.
She was done looking for love. She realized loving and accepting herself was the best kind of love and the seed from which all other love started.
She was done fighting, trying to change or not her accepting her body. She realized the body she came into the world with was the only one she had—there were no exchanges or returns—so love and acceptance was the only way.
She was done being tuned in, connected and up-to-date all the time. She realized the news and noise of the world was always there—a cacophony that never slowed or fell quiet and that listening to the silence of her soul was a better station to tune into.
She was done beating herself up and being so ******* herself as if either of these things led to changes or made her feel better. She realized kindness and compassion towards herself and others accomplished more.
She was done comparing and looking at other people’s lives as a mirror for her own. She realized holding her own mirror cast her in the best, most beautiful light.
She was done being quiet, unemotional and holding her tongue. She realized her voice and her emotions could be traced back to her deepest desires and longings. if she only followed their thread.
She was done having to be right. She realized everyone’s truth was relative and personal to themselves, so the only right that was required was the one that felt true for her.
She was done not feeling at home in the world. She realized she might never feel at home in the world, but that feeling at home in her soul was enough.
She was done being drained by others—by people who didn’t want to take the time for their own process and saw shortcuts though hers. She realized she could share her experience, but everyone needed to do the work themselves.
She was done thinking she had so much to learn. She realized she already knew so much, if she only listened.
She was done trying to change others or make them see things. She realized she could only lead by example and whether they saw or followed was up to them.
She was done with the inner critic. She realized its voice was not her own.
She was done racing and being discontent with where she was. She realized the present moment held all it needed to get her to the next moment. It wasn’t out there—it was right here.
She was done seeing hurt as something to be avoided, foreseen or somehow her fault. She realized hurt shaped her as much as joy and she needed both to learn and grow.
She was done judging. She realized judging assumed the presence of right and wrong—and that there was a difference between using information to inform and making someone else wrong.
She was done jumping to conclusions. She realized she only needed to ask.
She was done with regrets. She realized if she had known better she would have done better.
She was done being angry. She realized anger was just a flashlight that showed her what she was most scared of and once it illuminated what she needed to see, she no longer needed to hold on to it.
She was done being sad. She realized sorrow arose when she betrayed her own soul and made choices that weren’t true to herself.
She was done playing small. She realized if others couldn’t handle her light, it was because they were afraid of their own.
She was done with the facades and the pretending. She realized masks were suffocating and claustrophobic.
She was done with others’ criticism and complaints. She realized they told her nothing about herself—only informed her of their perspective.
She was done yelling above the noise of the world. She realized living out loud could be done quietly.
She was done needing permission, validation or the authority. She realized she was her her own authority.
She was done being something she was not. She realized the purpose of life was to be truly, happily who she was born to be,and if she paused long enough to remember, she recognized herself.*

Adrienne Pieroth

Reek havoc amongst yourself,
watch it burn from the ashes of neglect-
simmer like the silence inside your bones
remember the things you chose not to say.
As your blood boils to the surface
reflect on why you're about to lose your sanity again.
In the dark of the night-
I sit on the roof watching passing cars
like I'm the only one who pays attention to their breathing.
I watch the sky and try to see the Earth spin
try to make a musical instrument out of the wind
I hear music in everything.
Somewhere along the line it became the only safe haven
so the blood that spills over and the ashes that fly away
become not just a passing memory-
they become a church choir for mistaken identity
for the facade placed upon me that I eventually threw away.
I remember hospital beds better than my own childhood
and I think memory is the only game of russian roulette
I have ever been good at-
because either way I die.
From the memories or the wounds it gives me on the inside
either way it cripples me.
Attachment is not my forte
but it seems to linger on my mind
like it's a bad dream I can't seem to shake.
Independence has always been the way I grew-
flourished under my own autonomy
and patriarchy has always been the enemy-
times like these I realize how genetics are strong
how father and son can grow to become the same
how times can change more things
than they make consistent
and how consistency is dynamic
in this world where everyone is so static.
I have become myself once again
found the fleeting feeble female
I was once was and grew her into something I liked better.
Felt the indecision of discretion
and watched as freedom became my second nature
but now it is my sixth sense
my conversation with the higher power
the light at the end of this tunnel
so use your words wisely-
they can become a disservice to you
and make you wander onto the edge of your own lips
only to have someone else remove them with their kiss.
Your mind is your own greatest magic trick-
use it to your advantage.

Let your Life be a sacred garden,
planted with genuine, saintly seeds;
properly nurturing your crop daily,
yields blessings for personal needs.

Begin with three rows of peas:
“Peace” of mind, heart and soul,
for it creates a basic foundation
that leaves you healthy and whole.

Next plant four rows of squash:
”Squash” vain gossip, indifference,
grumbling and unwelcome selfishness
to reap real, spiritual brilliance.

Add four generous rows of lettuce:
”Let us” be kind, walk in His Love,
faithful, and patient with each other-
being reflective of the Kingdom above.

Follow with three rows of turnips:
“Turn up” for meetings, service
and to regularly help one another.
Not to do so, would be a disservice.

Finally, plant three rows of thyme:
”Time” for family, friends and others-
seeing that we’re really related through
our humanity, as sisters and brothers.

Sow your seeds often; water with patience;
prune and cultivate them with His goodwill.
By transforming into a master gardener,
the desired results, you’ll… eventually see!
.
.
.
Author Notes

Inspired by:
2 Cor 9:6-7; Hos 10:12; Gal 6:7; Luke 6:38
and the anonymous “Planter’s Guide”.

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
    
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.

We live in the unlighted state of America
Where what happens when we turn the lights off
Is dealt with darkness
And matters of delicate touch
Are treated with sharpness
When our only language
Is to inflict anguish
We cut connections in the bedroom
To clear our cynical head room
For contempt and judgement

People looking for a feeling to fall into
Or a reason to live
Must face frigid climates
When the public invades privacy
And ill fated ****** exploits
Pervade salacious tabloids
Our ****** regrets
Cut the deepest
Society reaps them
Sowing us together with resentment
We provide each other with relief
But not the relief we're looking for
We give each other hours of relief
Until those useless hours become days
And those fruitless days become years
That engender endless tears
As it remains warm in our car
But the winter outside freezes anything that breaks the plane
And our air conditioning only helps so much
When the spinning wheels are in our faces

There is a national coverage in the media
That presents a bleak picture of the ****** health of America
I feel I sit somewhere in between
*** offenders and a disgusted public
When I observe the observers
Who are too scared shitless to ever face their own emotions
Judge those for overindulging in their emotions
They lived their life in fear and safety
So they could be the righteous ones
To admonish the risk takers and mistake makers
Yet they are of the least value to humanity
They're the people who grade all your answers as incorrect
Without providing their perfect alternatives
While trying to erase the context
Because of what the context has to say about society
People feeling that they can never be emotionally vulnerable
Until they experience sheer desperation
And no dollar contract
Can replace human contact
Yet we give men so much money and power
And ask them to feel fine in our cold shower
Until we are soiled by their intention
A nation committed to selling Stella Artois
A nation full of Blanche DuBois

Humanity folds in on itself
When we attack with ***
Humanity does itself a disservice
By not trying to understand these attacks honestly
We forsake forgiveness
And embrace desperation
Until we become unbearably desperate
For attention
For approval
For ****** contact
For money
For validation
And sometimes our desperate desires become tangled
I'd like to think of that as love
And not a meeting between two practical rapists
That conjoin in the middle
Yet somehow come out distorted on the other side

These ides have kept me thus far
Sustained, am I, eternal
By their food of self-sacrifice
The jester’s tasty wine
Imbibing insults wrought by fool’ry
Again, reciting the dirge for pride
But the ides have kept me thus far.
Despite the ru’nation
Hoist! Ye ru’nous hands
My repute in mortification
A fool by their and my demands
I see my shame, long shadow cast
In light of sobriety
Ignominy and truth of me
Divorc’d n’er they be
Still taste of cheap liquors, distilled society
But the ides have kept me thus far.
Full knowledge, have I
The disservice I do
Only time will heal the wound
To shy away, acceptance is
A lovely balm on par
My image in tatters, though brazen I be
The ides have kept me thus far
Let them laugh, for I know they do
Not to me, but within and among
I am your entertainment
The source of all your jeers
My life, a blund’ring show
I am an actor, my blight for years
A part to play, it’s pleasing though
To thrive upon your mocking and time
Comforting knowledge, that
A fixture, am I, your Thalia
The ides have kept me thus far
Erected austerity, enigmatic walls
Fortifications around me
Charged to keep the chaos in
My heart, it truly calls
I am not so noble
As the sun will attest
Know me as the ascetic,
See the shrieking eccentric,
Know me as the philosopher
See my wit pathetic,
Know what is outside is purely for show
See that is internalized, is
So ******* antithetic
Each and every time
I hide my face in shame
My pride and my name, my actions did thus mar
But I will heal, I always do
The ides have kept me thus far
This is my mantra, an empty cadence
A mist to latch on to
With every refrain of wretched debauchery
Each weekend played anew
Though I stay to bear the howl
Of my dissonant, ugly hymn
I listen to the hardened ones
Their failures but a din
I wish to change the thing I am
At least to those who know
I’ve heaved the chance to the icy mar
Onto the cracking floe
I feel the daggers of humiliation
Plucking at each stitch
I’ll just smile as though I like it
For in effect I do
But it’s becoming unbearable
The walls beginning to bow
Imperceptible, if my resolve she lasts
Though this is nothing new
But I’ll just grin and carry on, for
The ides have kept me hitherto.

I keep getting this urge
To tell strangers
How you used to bring a can of Chef Boyardee
To school for lunch everyday.

Or how I used to collect
Plastic Hello Kitty cupcake rings
And give them to you
Just to see you smile.

I would laugh as you ate it cold,
plastic fork suspended
straight from the can.

I would smile with you,
and hope you didn't realize
I ate all those cupcakes
by myself.

I want to share you with the world
Take your memory with me in my pockets
Spill it out with my tongue

I want to share you with the world,
Introduce you to people you will never meet
Tell people about you
Because they will never get the chance
To get to know you like I did
Like we all did.

But when you took your life,
You did the world a disservice
You took away the world's chance to find you
So you could find yourself

You took away your opportunities
To change
To get better
To grow
To love
And be loved
How we loved
You.

Your smile
Your eyes
Your soul
All so bright
Like stars in sky

Stars that you snuffed out
Stars that we can't gaze at anymore.
Your constellation is lost
Just a fairytale now
But a favorite amongst us all

Customer service you say
I look at things a different way
Especially after spending half my day
Trying to get things resolved
Testing my patience and nerves
Been on hold for God only knows how long
Trying to stay strong
Please hold your call is important you first said that 5 hours ago
I hate being bounced around to different departments and then put on hold again
I am not a bouncy ball
I am wondering if I could talk to a guy named Paul instead of people who's names I gave up trying to pronounce 2 hours ago
You say to make a selection, but there is not a valid choice listed
If I press sales, will I get a person to talk to then?
If they think they can sell me something my call might be important then, especially if they get a commission
If I have to take much more of this, do I have permission to Scream
I feel like I'm stuck in a bad dream
My patience is getting thinner and my hair too
I pulled some out while I bit my tongue
I did  not want to say things I might later regret
I want to say one thing if I may speak my mind
I gave your customer service a new name
It is Customer Disservice

Anxiety is funny, if I’m going to be honest. Because you work so hard to not focus on whatever causes your anxiety that in the end, you’re really doing yourself a disservice. You end up focusing more on the anxiety- or it’s cause- that it’s counterproductive. And none of the tips you find online really help so you try to find your own methods, but let’s be honest. The only way it’s stops is if you have someone say “it’s okay”. And then you feel like you’re just annoying the person by having the same worries over and over and over again. So you, again, start trying to find your own methods. And again, you realize that it’s the outsider comfort that really helps. And then you start to feel helpless because you feel you’re becoming too dependent on the person, and you have no idea how long your anxiety is going to go on for.

And then, five minutes later, you calm down and think “what a silly thing to be worried about”. And that’s when you know you have a problem- because if it was something that warranted worry, it would start the cycle again.

I am not a dumb girl. I will never be a dumb girl. In fact, I don't think there's even such thing as a dumb girl, just girls pretending to be dumb. Pretending because they were told that boys don't like girls that are "too smart" or who use big words to explain complex ideas. No, boys like "pretty girls". So that's what girls do, they focus on becoming pretty. They focus more on their hair and makeup than they  do on their potential and aspirations. They foster a diverse nail polish collection rather than a diverse worldview. And I am not one of these girls. I embrace my feminist, but not at the cost of my intellect. I make room for my makeup addiction, but I'll never use that makeup to cover up my brilliance. Yes, I like to be noticed for being pretty, but more than that I like to be noticed for my intelligence. I have a fire in my should that could burn down cities, and a kindness that could rebuild nations. So do you. We all do. We all have a greatness inside of us waiting to be released. To stifle that greatness is an immense injustice. To dumb yourself down, or expect someone to dumb themself down to protect your ego, is an enormous disservice to the world. So girls, don't simplify yourselves to being merely pretty, be great. And boys, don't expect us to be pretty, expect us to push you to be greater than you already are. Never accept the role of a "dumb girl", and never perpetuate it.

Life is  an  amazingly  wonderful   maze,  when   you  t h i n k  about it.
You                                  start   at  the  entrance  n a i v e   and  unaware
of what lies within.         It's  easy to c h e a t in this maze, if  you choose
to walk the e d g e          until  you  get to the  end,  but h o n e s t l y it's
more exciting  just          to  j u m p right  in.  Sure,  you   may  run  into
dead ends                        every   once in awhile,  e v e r y o n e  has  their
dead ends, but it's           easy  for  you to  turn back around, r e t r a c e
your steps and go                             on.   At    times,   the   maze   makes
you   want  to  pull   your  hair        out,  but   for   the  most   part,  you
respect  the  challenge    that it        offers you.You begin to  r e a l i z e
that l i f e                                            isn't  about   finishing  the   m a z e          
it's  about        the path you take to get there. It's  about  The  t h i n g s
you do on       your way  there. It's about all  of the amazing  p e o p l e  
you  meet       while you're travelling.  I think people   forget   that quite
a   bit,   so       the next time you see someone racing through their maze
trying   as       hard as they can to reach the end, remind them that  they
are    only       doing  themselves  a  disservice.   Remind  them that  l i f e
is      what       make of it
                  **You

To the English-speaking people of earth:

When you speak of new year's, do not mention resolutions.

We need to make up our **** minds about what we want: a beginning, or an end? How can something you just started be resolved already?

I know it's all in the wording, that it's YOUR resolve as a person we're talking about, but I think we're doing ourselves a disservice with this syntax.

I have no resolutions for this new year. My resolutions are gone, done with, vanished, they have already passed into the great and vast "past". You can have my resolutions.

As for me I'll hang onto my goals, my wishes, my aspirations for what this next cycle of days and weeks and months will bring.

The problem is not with the problem,
It’s that you don’t listen.
The issue is with the wound I carry
It is the neglect and egotistical dissipation
The ignorance and obscure character disposition
It is in your complacency and self-righteousness
I AM YOU INNER CHILD, CAN YOU HEAR ME?
Or have you grown too macho to surrender to your sensitivity
How many times I’ve cried, waiting for your attention
How many times you have been of disservice,
I have evolved into a numb and heartless rock
I no longer have the frivolity and freewill to levitate
It is I who chokes your rhythm when you hesitate
It is me taking a cold shower when you are embarrassed
The breath of you takes away my reasons to live
I AM YOUR INNER CHILD, CAN YOU HEAR ME?
No? But I have so much to say
I have been wearing this forlorn contusion  
Even when I talk it is not a discussion
You have marred me to become bitter and resentful
Gone is your passion, you are submerged in your job
Gone are your dreams, you have focused on that promotion
Love has been jaded by your promiscuity
What happened to loving one person in a million ways?
You are a servant of the social mirror and its constraining chains
Dancing to the dictatorial piano that plays and plays
Where models are defined you are a written face
The beats come together picturesque but grotesque
For you are more about maintaining the picture on display
What is in your heart has bowed to despair

I AM YOUR INNER CHILD, CAN YOU NOT HEAR ME?
I am drenched by the sweat of your incessant grind for material
Can you not understand that this has left me hysterical?
Surrealism suggests that as partners we should yearn for the ethereal
Free me from child abuse
Free me from bad news
Free me that I can choose
Free me that we can fuse
Free me to sign a treatise of truce
So I can be the inner child you love and don’t confuse
So that we can be free to try new things
So that we can rise above dogma and play strings
So that we can ride the giant phoenix, on its soft merriment wings  
…. And I will be the child in whom you confide and pay mind and find signs of truth in our stride, we won’t hide for we won’t be blind but kind in humility like we never lied and be free from the twigs that had us tied to a tree of no-open-mind and one we’ll be in time… I the child in whom you confide to find the prize of life.

Important beyond words

Just one blade of grass take this that you are one blade among the whole visited made alive by the wind this movement soul stirring
The same is true we on our own are without life until the spirit breathes and moves on us in a way that changes everything and
Identifies us as unique especially planned in our own execution of informal self directed involvement we do a great disservice to our
Selves and to all others as truly ineffective wrecked being giving the illusion of proper managed lives when in fact we don’t know the
First thing about true living we have never questioned the manufacture or consulted the manual we run in all directions only to
Accomplish burnout anyone who is truly grounded and centered at any given time can give a fully detailed account of his present
Situation and where at any given time in the future where he can be found and what he will be doing only the foolish rush headlong
Into unknown swamps when there are paths and guidepost that show the way to a land of immediate fulfillment and a future world of
Joy and happiness Henry David Thoreau said most people live lives of quiet desperation that is because of blatant distortion and
Haphazard living how stupid can we really be we have all read and heard what the benefits are where else in society would anyone let
Another receive so much freely and then denie themselves these same advantages tell me there is not a lie being perpetrated and over
Three quarters of the people are falling for it I look I see people being moved changed dark negative waters are being treated changed
Into the sweetest concourses and lives being rescued the big question where in the world are you why are you missing this I will tell
Where you are whatever your circumstances you don’t have the goods you’re being sold a bundle of goods how can man be given
Trash and you see him a year or years later and he is still carrying it almost prizes the crazy junk because someone is blind and it isn’t
The one passing out the trash he had it all blew it now he wants you to suffer the same fate as him guess what you are if you could get
This you would be fuming mad what a fool I have been I’m standing next to a bomb that is about to detonate and I ignorantly just keep
Smiling the fact is you’re in a two bit carnival the proprietor comes out ahead way ahead you get to become an everlasting
Cinder just like him because he is too great an enemy for you alone you could be in a family that sets together feels waves of love
Passing over you deep springs of joy in your soul will be gushing up through your life you will miss pit falls and traps its true you will
Love one and hate the other this is true in relationships if get involved with someone and the one you loved your whole life will
Strangely become annoying distasteful and if continued will become abhorrent strange fire excites but also kills and sometimes
Literally if that’s not your weakness don’t worry your father in this world has custom fitted strait jackets just for you what is so perfect
You won’t even know it well you know it by your soul being miserable but what does it know it knows it will be the one paying for the
Bodies behavior forever the sick part it is a disease that will **** you and your loved ones it is a spiritual cancer far more dangerous and
Far reaching in one piece I talked about that General in libera his deal with the good old boy was slaughter three hundred and fifty
Innocent people a day but the divine love intervened and he wasn’t lead to just anyplace but he was taken to where the spirit and truth
Freely flow I watched this first hand in a great hall people were calling on the righteous one you could see the invisible as it moved over
The people just as the grass in the field they swayed in this spiritual wind tears of joy laughter peace broken lives restored evil dying
At every point it was found in human hearts it’s too good to miss see you in God’s house if not your playing into the enemies hands
For the last time the righteous will be raised to eternal life those who continued in evil to everlasting fire and destruction I know this
truth most will not be changed maybe your one of the exceptions weigh with intense thoughtfulness your decision time is running out

I read somewhere that names
Fix things in place like pins
And that to be nameless is to be
Free.

There are some things in this world which can’t be spoken
Can’t be captured
Can’t be named.
As artists,
As human beings,
They call us
An unstoppable force
An indefinable drive
Onward-
That deep tug in the center of your chest
The gnawing need to create.
They are things we chase
Things we aspire to
Things we even worship sometimes
Writing long into the night
Carving wood and clay and bone
On our knees in the dark
Smearing paint, desperate to understand
Desperate to make something
Half as beautiful as what we
Feel.
Since we awoke as a race
We have created
In service of only that drive
Only that obsession
Half awe and half hubris
Half joy and half shame
Half triumph and half
Defeat-
The expression of something
Inexpressible
The naming of something
Too sacred for language.
We know we can never arrive
We can only
Search
And the search is the reason
For our cities and our novels and our symphonies
An aching search
A humble search
A sweet journey whose end-
No matter how much we pretend otherwise-
Is only
Death.

You are like that.

I’ve tried for hundreds of pages
To explain myself
To express my love and longing but
You
Are like a thousand of those unnameable things.
I think you might be
Made of them
Somehow.
I think they live in your skin and your bones and the timbre of your voice.
I can write all day
About the magnetic beauty I see in you
About the way you make me feel
And list the things I love about you
But it always feels
Insufficient
Always as if I am writing around something
Bigger
Something with no words to describe it-
None that even
Come close.
As if I can only write about what you do
Not what you are
Because what you are is too vast
For thought.
I write as though I have pressed my hands to glass
Trying to sing to you through it
But you are on
The other side-
Even the most beautiful art
Even the sweetest music
Even the most tender poetry
Could not pierce deeply enough
Would be a disservice and a reduction
Would fall hopelessly short
Of what you really are
And how you really move me.

I try to tell you why I love you
I try to tell you
How.
I know you wonder sometimes
I know you wonder if I only love
Things about you
Things I could find in others.
I try to explain but it’s like
My thoughts catch in my throat
And fall like shadows on the floor-
So hopelessly inadequate.

I search and search
I sit up nights
Trying to find the words
Trying to make the words
But there are none
Not because you are ordinary but because you are
Unnameable.
What I love in you is deeper than reason
Deeper than touch
Deeper than ideas or memories or the little moments when I stop and gaze at you
Transfixed.
I love you in a way that reminds me
That we are not just flesh and blood
Because if we were there would be a word for what in me
Falls to its knees at your feet
And what in you
Makes me want to build things with my hands
And never stop

And that is
Maddeningly
All I can say
Because although I think by now I may have truly tried
Them all,

There’s not.

The idolization of an individual
Is a form of dehumanization
It places an insurmountable pressure
To live up to an expectation
And disregards the downfalls and limitations
That make us all human
So anything but perfection is not permitted
The static perception of an individual
In itself
Is a form of dehumanization
As time moves along and changes
So do humans
We evolve and grow
But to place the identity
Of who someone was
Ten years ago
One year ago
Six months ago
Onto the current version of who you see
Is a form of dehumanization
To not acknowledge the change
And to stay static in your perception
Is a disservice
Not only to the other
But to yourself as well
Because your perception of others
Is a mirror for one’s inner judgement
Of the self

Mom-Mom cleaned and dried me with a kitchen towel,
Like I was a **** butter dish,
Once I popped out ‘round dusk one day
(My mother’s waters broke, then she crossed them)
And she Sunday-school sing-sang all about the light,
But I found this world all whispers and shadows,
(Hazy grays cast by the tenement buildings and church steeples)
People talking around me and maybe about me,
But never to me as such, and at some point it seemed
That only the greasy old Bronx had some sense in its hiss and burble
(It said to me Child,  you cannot carry over me
Until you give yourself to the water fully, unabashedly, unashamedly.)

I’ve once heard musings**
Of recitation reflecting an area
Of negligence that should
Never go forsaken.
Now, it is through my dismay
Which triggers my optimism
To lead me to believe this
Recapitulation has been
Extricated through a
Satirical voice.
However, in the event
That theses musings are
In fact, coming from
A discernible veracity,
Then I have done to you
The gravest disservice I would never
Dream to impart.
Allow this to act as my
Expression of regret
In this particular field
Of verbal lavishing.
Before the moment
You were my salacious secret
And preliminary to my yearning
For parallel mutual devotion
My capabilities of a
Tactile sense of normality
Were fleeting
Forever consigned to oblivion
Until the moment I
Allowed the craving to coalesce
With the collective.
It was then that I realized
The stimulus of my exuberance
Was not a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Rather, one brought on
When we lay entwined
Within one another.
Further musings have been vocalized,
Drawing sight upon the fact
I am twenty-one grams lighter
Than the commune.
Albeit, these musings have
Been satirical in merit,
The inherent truth
Is not controvertible.
Thus was the preceding case
To our amalgamation.
You are the sole vindication
I have a soul.

If there has ever
Been inequity
In my necessity to
Opulent you with
My own verbal musings
I do hope this
Can act as verbatim
If there should be
Any negligence within
This particular field of
Expertise.

Slowly,
Take one,
Take another,
Take ten million,
Just breathe.
There's a world of creativity,
Growing within the confines,
Of your critical veins,
And to slice those of which,
House the very essence of yourself,
Is a disservice to your being.
Slowly,
Take one,
Take another,
Take enough,
Just breathe.
You have purpose,
That seeps through the,
Light you bring to the room,
When you laugh.
And to silence that,
Is to **** your soul.
Slowly,
Take one,
Take another,
Take them all,
Just breathe,
Sweetheart, you deserve it.

To the lover I've never met
I can't imagine
how beautiful you are

Because to put you
within the limits of my mind
would be to dishonour you

Yet I imagine you
as glorious as the sun
as graceful as the skies by day
as precious as the air I breathe
as peaceful as streams of living water

Dear darling
If only you knew
How I yearn to behold your light
to see the warmth of your countenance
to see the only curve I'd ever need
which is your smile

To look upon you
and say
Darling
You are beautiful
Just the way you are

Yet I can't imagine
How beautiful you really are;
I can only dream so much
and I, not wanting to do you disservice.

For the lover I've never met:
when we do meet
we shall share in the warmth
of an embrace

And I shall realise
such a beauty I have yet
to behold.

i wonder how many sons
and how many daughters
passed on
before the phrase,
“Only the good die young”
became cliché.

how many had to grieve
before the phrase
lost its sting?
surely, i still feel
the potent scream
of its veracity.

“only the good die young.”
like all axioms,
we could unpackage and dissect,
trim away the fat
and try to understand,
but at the end of the day
it seems to me that we’d only be
helplessly clutching at straws
in vain attempts to try and make sense
of a reality that our human brains—
try as they might—could never fathom.

i cannot say
if the aphorism is true,
if only the good die young,
but i know that Jakin Murray Foster,
beyond a shadow of a doubt,
was one of the good ones.

to try and select
a single story
as exemplary
of Jakin’s life
would be akin
to plucking a star
from a constellation.

surely, that story
would shine like a sun
unto itself.
people would rotate
about that story,
anchored like planets
by the gravitational force
of Jakin’s compassion.
but to do so,
to focus on solely one story,
would be a great disservice
to the cosmos of Jakin’s existence,
all the lives he’s touched
and changed over the years.

instead, i will try to tell you
about the man, my best friend,
my brother: Jakin Murray Foster.
i will try to capture a portrait,
one that will, admittedly,
be woefully incomplete.
i will leave you to fill in the blanks,
the empty spaces
between the disparate stars
of his constellation.
the gaps in my description
can be filled by the memories
of his cheer, his integrity,
his profound humanity,
solid as steel beams
buttressing and bracing
in these moments of grief.

so, let’s reminisce:

Jakin was stubborn as an ox.
this quality stands out to me
in perfect clarity
because he was one of the only people
who had the strength of personality
required to challenge me
to become a better human being.

to check me when i grew cruel or aggressive or inconsiderate.
to encourage me when i became callous and cynical and unkind.
to love me when my heart was hateful
and wanted nothing more than to spread my own misery like a poison
before putting a permanent end to everything.

Jakin was silly.
take a gander at any number of the photos collected in his memory.
they paint a clearer picture than i ever could
of a man who laughed loud and laughed often,
but never at the expense of others.
who could lift your spirits
like a steaming cup of coffee
in even the most frigid winters.

Jakin was a geek,
a home-school kid,
a Jesus freak.
his personality was refined
by the teachings of a radical rabbi
executed by the state
for standing in love and solidarity
with the weak,
a man who’d change the course of history.

in brief, Jakin gave a ****.
until the end, he stood up for what he believed in,
convinced by the clarity of his conscience
and the fire that burned like a burgeoning nebulae in his heart.
i can think of no better way to honor his memory
than to hate what is evil
and love what is good,
to fight for a world that is in such desperate need
of the grace, charity, and fraternity
Jakin exhibited every day.

Memento mori.
be mindful of death.
i think of the end of all things daily.
for many, the end of a life is the beginning of something new.
to me, death makes life invaluable.
death is choiceless.
death is a cruelty, an injustice no one should ever suffer.
like a mirror, death shows us our own fragility,
it gives truth to the reality that our time here is fleeting.
death makes life more precious than any commodity ever wrought by humanity.
death reminds us that we are owed nothing,
that all we can do is seize every moment of love and joy afforded us
and build a new world in the shell of the old.

i do not know if only the good die young.
i know that my best friend, my brother, is gone.
i know with certainty that I will never see him again.
we will never laugh together,
bicker over philosophy,
or drive around listening to music ever again.
that reality fills me with so much misery
i can hardly stand or breathe or even think.
but i will do all i can to be a good man
so that when i too meet Death like an old friend,
i can say, “i lived like Jakin.”

Ahem, as if anyone wanted to know my preference in clothing...



(sonnet #MMMLXXXVII)


My minis lend that sweetly girlish stance,
When in a coat and calf-high boots rays set
Me down as casting my grey silhouette
Upon the Maple's trunk in sunset's glance
Adieu.  I did not search it out, but chance
Sketched me and caught mine eye, to vainly whet
That barely veiled thought's appetite and net
The happy pleasure thence, as I'd nigh prance.
Perhaps the stylists meant another look
In that cute popular design; I do
It no disservice thereby though, but took
A far more flirty angle thus as through
The fair suggestion adding zest.  Hence brook
My crime if such there be?  'Sides, I love you.

01Dec13a

Something has gone awry inside me
Like the taste of milk right before it goes off
Still works but not quite right and not for long
I dream of drinking till stupor
A blur
Of swaying rhythmically in a crowd- lost in a lonely wave of other lifeless souls
Pretending to be living life
Perhaps that is life
But all we seem to be doing is escaping
Because escaping is easy
What is hard is routine
Of roots
Of follow throughs
Not falling out
Of learning instead of leaning
Of moving forward
Moving on from those whove dragged us down
Even if down is where it's easy to hide
To complain
That life isn't right
When we are doing nothing to solve the wrong
What's wrong with wallowing in self pity?
It's no self disservice if sorrow is the end goal
But if you get to pick which way to point your pointless life
Why pair yourself with sadness when you can chose an other wife