It's a plan in itself,
Not an open invitation for suggestions
To go on long walks, or dancing,
Or paint-balling, or take a drive
Down to the beach.

It doesn't mean I am free
To do one of the hundreds of tasks
You decide are more important,
In an attempt to fill my day
With a different kind of meaning.

Today I am doing nothing,
Because I have become lost,
In a world where doing something, anything
Is so expected of ourselves and each other
That simply doing nothing is viewed
As a waste of time.

We so rarely have opportunity
To have the conversations in our heads
That determine who we really are,
As we watch the moments floating past,
Lying under the stars.

Today I am doing nothing,
Please understand that what I desire,
Is silent doorbells, unknocked doors
And that the phone doesn't ring
As I curl up by the fire.

Ethereal: A Commissioned Poem


This one knocked me askew! What do I know of
"an ethereal world created through the poetic imagination."

I am a flea of simplicity, a blunt and direct man, who scribes the small, cherishes the little, grabs the middle.
So many here are so far linguistically superior, when matters light, airy, and heavenly are involved.
Hell, I even call god, my buddy, by his first name when ****** stops by to make confession.
But first take nine minutes, patiently, to listen to this, all the way to the end.
http://youtu.be/xxTF2umRtqY
Then, and only then, read.

— ethereal (adjective)

light, airy, or tenuous; "an ethereal world created through the poetic imagination;" extremely delicate or refined: ethereal beauty; heavenly or celestial; gone to his ethereal home; of or pertaining to the upper regions of space.

My ethereal is:
Autumn leaves, piled,
wet and slimy,
stench rotted.

Human waste smeared,
in the the diaper
of the olden, enfeebled.

Burnt flesh,
the sulfuric acid kiss
from a rejected hand.

Cigarette smoke stains
yellow post-it's stuck
on human skin.

Men who live in cardboard boxes,
knowing this is
the all of their days
existence.

Scowling smiles, a
coin of death,
on the faces of those forced
to sell themselves for money.

Cursing accident traffic,
until you pass the overturned car,
see the car seats, teddy bears,
just litter now, amidst the
safety glass highway tree decorations.

What did you expect,
some of your favorite things?

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages ******* with strings
Cream colored ponies and crisp apple streudels
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes
Silver white winters that melt into springs

Ethereal is Sandy swollen-springs
drowning mother and child in their SUV.

Froze dead vagrants
under white pristine,
suffocating,
beneath lovely snowflakes
that ****,
no strudel for them.

Mean ones pouring punch
on white prom dresses,
ruining dreams,
such a big scream,
put it in the yearbook,
don't forget the smiley face,
*******.

State troopers ringing doorbells
with so sorry so sorry ma'am,
she is not coming home
any more.

Stop!
Why?
You all grown up, learn the real,
this ethereal is the real too.

Wipe that *** look off your face.

You want gossamer and lace?
Wrong poem.
Beat it.
Go whine about your heartbreak
to somebody else,

Ether is the aromatic odor and sweet, burning taste, derived from the action of sulfuric acid.
Look it up, disbeliever, if it matters, it is so
real.

If you gonna use a word,
then know it.
If you gonna claim
the title of human,
try being it,
earning it.

Ethereal is the orderly,
cleaning the *** of the helpless,
one more time,
softly singing.

Ethereal is a car seat, belt,
that saves a child, a teen.

Ethereal is soup,
not a folded twenty,
hot hot soup for the
lying on the sidewalk.

Ethereal is miles of flags
receiving our dead
from overseas.

Ethereal is writing a poem about
someone else's pain
in your words.
just once,
straying away from the word I.

Ethereal is saying,
hey, to the blind,
careful,
wet leaves ahead.

Ethereal is human justice,
most un-divine.

Ethereal is not a thing,
nor even an adjective.
But a way of seeing the world.

Part II

Went out into the night,
back to The Village,
Bleecker Street.
where I used to live (#308).

Heard voices. Human voices.
A Room Full of Teeth.
They sang a Partita.
"A simple piece.
Born of a love of surface and structure,
of the human voice,
of dancing and tired ligaments,
of music, and of our basic desire
to draw a line from one point to another."

It was ethereal.
As I wrote these words in my mind,
My ethereals did not battle but blend,
the ugly and the beauteous.
They coexisted in peace?
I think not.
They coexisted in humanity.

All that is delicate,
is only because there is rough.
All that is soft,
is only because there is hard,
Listen to the lines drawn from points on earth.
You cannot choose which points to connect.
For all point to
Ethereal.

Ethereal is not a thing,
nor even an adjective.
But a way of hearing the world.

I remember you
from your beautiful smile
your cinnamon scented hair
your contagious laughter
your nail-biting addiction
your pointless insecurities
to our silly inside jokes
our dumb little fights
our peculiar bets
our goofy text messages

through tears and smiles
you were the only one who understood
my unspoken words
my concealed pain
my unexpressed happiness
my puzzled feelings

counting your days
we recalled our mischievous memories
when we danced in the rain
when we rang doorbells and ran away
when we pranked the gullible ones
when we stole Ikea pencils
when we fangirled over stunning guys
when we were together
everything turn into excitements
moments with you
I remember them all, Grace

it was a week before December twenty-fifth
when the monstrous cells stopped your heart
a glimpse of smile
appeared upon your face
as you're being taken
far away from us
skin turned pale
body stiffened
tears flooded my sight
there were wailing across the room

time flies like a bullet train without you
it's a rainy day today
you've always loved rainy days
sinking my knees in the dew-wet grass
raindrops whisper in my ears
as I brush off the gray snow from your stone
I still remember you, Grace
I still do

Ethereal: A Commissioned Poem


This one knocked me Askew! What do I know of
"an ethereal world created through the poetic imagination."

I am a flea of simplicity, a blunt and direct man, who scribes the small, cherishes the little, grabs the middle.
So many here are so far linguistically superior, when matters light, airy, and heavenly are involved.
Hell, I even call god, my buddy, by his first name when ****** stops by to make confession.
But first take a nine minutes, patiently, to listen to this, all the way to the end.
http://youtu.be/xxTF2umRtqY
Then, and only then, read.

— ethereal (adjective)

light, airy, or tenuous; "an ethereal world created through the poetic imagination;" extremely delicate or refined: ethereal beauty; heavenly or celestial; gone to his ethereal home; of or pertaining to the upper regions of space.

My ethereal is:
Autumn leaves, piled, wet and slimy,
stench rotted.

Human waste smeared,
in the the diaper
of the olden, enfeebled.

Burnt flesh,
the sulfuric acid kiss
from a rejected hand.

Cigarette smoke stains
yellow post-it's stuck on human skin.

Men who live in cardboard boxes,
knowing this is
the all of their days
existence.

Scowling smiles, a
coin of death,
on the faces of those forced
to sell themselves for money.

Cursing accident traffic,
until you pass the overturned car,
see the car seats, teddy bears,
just litter now, amidst the
safety glass highway tree decorations.

What did you expect,
some of your favorite things?

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages ******* with strings
Cream colored ponies and crisp apple streudels
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes
Silver white winters that melt into springs

Ethereal is Sandy swollen-springs
drowning mother and child in their SUV.

Froze dead vagrants
under white pristine,
suffocating,
beneath lovely snowflakes
that ****,
no strudel for them.

Mean ones pouring punch
on pristine prom dresses,
ruining dreams,
such a big scream,
put it in the yearbook,
don't forget the smiley face,
*******.

State troopers ringing doorbells
with so sorry sorry ma'am,
she is not coming home
any more.

Stop!
Why?
You all grown up, learn the real,
this ethereal is the real too.

Wipe that *** look off your face.

You want gossamer and lace?
Wrong poem.
Beat it.
Go whine about your heartbreak
to somebody else,

Ether is the aromatic odor and sweet, burning taste, derived from the action of sulfuric acid.
Look it up, disbeliever, if it matters, it is so
real.

If you gonna use a word,
then know it.
If you gonna claim
the title of human,
try being it,
earning it.

Ethereal is the orderly,
cleaning the *** of the helpless,
one more time,
softly singing.

Ethereal is a car seat
that saves a child, a teen.

Ethereal is soup,
hot hot soup for the
lying on the sidewalk.

Ethereal is miles of flags
receiving our dead
from overseas.

Ethereal is writing a poem about
someone else's pain
in your words.
just once,
straying away from the word I.

Ethereal is saying
hey to the blind,
careful,
wet leaves ahead.

Ethereal is human justice,
most un-divine.

Ethereal is not a thing,
nor even an adjective.
But a way of seeing the world.

Part II

Went out into the night,
back to The Village,
Bleecker Street.
where I used to live (#308).

Heard voices. Human voices.
A Room Full of Teeth.
They sang a Partita.
"A simple piece.
Born of a love of surface and structure,
of the human voice,
of dancing and tired ligaments,
of music, and of our basic desire
to draw a line from one point to another."

It was ethereal.
As I wrote these words in my mind,
My ethereals did not battle but blend,
the ugly and the beauteous.
They coexisted in peace?
I think not.
They coexisted in humanity
All that is delicate,
is only because there is rough.
All that is soft,
is only because there is hard,
Listen to the lines drawn from points on earth.
You cannot choose which points to connect.
For all point to
Ethereal.

Ethereal is not a thing,
nor even an adjective.
But a way of hearing the world.

Odysseus is angry without knowing what reason scared hopeless longing not a good student teachers raise suspicions Mom claims he is mentally not right in third grade parents send him to well-known psychiatrist conducts many tests finds Odysseus’s i.q. scores quite high doctor’s diagnosis is learning disabilities emotional anxiety recommends weekly appointments Odysseus continues to see various psychiatrists all the way through college in late 1950’s early '60’s psychiatric field is somewhat unreliable one downtown child’s psychiatrist chats about other patients then gives Odysseus baby ruth candy bar another psychiatrist with office in Wilmette tells him parents need therapy advises he will someday live independent of parents free of their influences

Odysseus Penelope Ryan Siciliano play in undeveloped land across from Schwartzpilgrim’s apartment building there is big tree they often climb near corner of commonwealth and surf streets Ryan is going on about his favorite actor errol flynn and movie “they died with their boots on” suddenly two bigger older boys approach bully them down from tree Odysseus does not recognize older boys from neighborhood bigger older boys push Penelope to ground then elbow trip Odysseus punch Ryan in stomach panic shoots through all three of them bigger older boys glare down with taunting eyes after terrifying moment Ryan then Odysseus jump up flee across street they hide beneath parked cars in underground garage of Odysseus’s building hearts pound in terror hearing footsteps on concrete grow louder they hold their breaths voice speaks out "they’re not here they’ve gone Odys where are you?" Odysseus and Ryan crawl out from under cars feel ashamed of their cowardice in front of Penelope and putting own self-preservation before her protection Ryan is particularly disturbed explains his family are sicilian code of conduct Ryan insists Odysseus swear never to divulge their weakness Odysseus promises later Penelope tells Mom

harper is broad-minded exceptional school housed in old english tudor building on second floor along hall is long glass cabinet displaying among other things 9 large jars each containing developing stages of fetus girls wear uniforms of navy blue skirts with knee socks white blouses blue sweaters which are school colors boys are allowed to wear blue jeans and shirts in good taste Miss Moss teaches fourth grade classroom is duplex with stairs leading up to balcony directly under stairs is secret meeting place and beneath balcony are classmate cubbyholes there is sunroom facing south overlooking entrance stairs to school where older students hang out Odysseus thinks Miss Moss is pretty wonders why she is not married she has deep blue eyes dark thick eyebrows premature graying hair she wears in bun he has crush on Miss Moss thinks she is best teacher he has ever known she teaches greek mythology assigns each member of class character in ancient greek mythology Odysseus is appointed Hermes son and messenger of Zeus Hermes has affair with Aphrodite resulting in child Hermaphroditus Hermes also fathers Pan rescues Dionysus saves Apollo’s son there is voice speaks inside Odysseus’s head no one can hear voice except Odysseus it is voice of smart-*** disobedient twisted child when Miss Moss says “where shall we begin today?” Odysseus automatically answers in his thoughts “how about up your sweet ***?” it is uncontrollable voice for his amusement only often he tries to ignore voice but sometimes it speaks out when voice speaks out Odysseus gets in trouble his friends think voice is funny adults get offended when he reflects on classmates at Harper and distinction of their privilege he wonders what went wrong they are troubled class in fifth grade they cause miss penteck to have nervous breakdown and retire other classes produce famous actors playwrights renowned restaurateurs prosperous investment bankers leading doctors Odysseus’s class produces delinquents gangsters social dropouts drug addicts suicides they take their privilege and run it straight to hell

creature inside Odysseus can be little monster teaches Penelope how to go berserk going berserk involves entering strange residential building in neighborhood elevator up getting off about middle floor pushing all elevator buttons scrambling down stairs knocking over umbrella stands spilling ashtrays ringing doorbells pounding doors running out lobby doors escaping uncaught Penelope is good warrior princess brother and sister can be little terrors

Ryan Siciliano and Odysseus go to see “the magnificent seven” at century theater they head south along broadway street college-age girl with large bouncing ******* appears walking north Ryan and Odysseus glance at approaching girl then nod to each other no plans uttered as college girl passes both Odysseus and Ryan reach up grab her ******* pet squeeze then run do not look back keep running laughing all the way to theater they watch movie with jaws hanging open mcqueen is brilliant all seven are so groovy movie inspires both Odysseus and Ryan.

in 1960 Mom and Dad send Odysseus and Penelope to sunday school at temple shalom teacher calls him aside "Schwartzpilgrim what do you want to be when you grow up?" Odysseus answers "architect or maybe an indian warrior" teacher says "do you know story of judas maccabi? he was a great warrior leader learn about the festival of lights and wield your sword wisely Odys Schwartzpilgrim" Odysseus replies "yes sir" two weeks later he gets kicked out of sunday school for pulling seat out from under girl during solemn religious service he never learns hebrew nor is he bar mitzvahed

Odysseus is hyper-sensitive about race and religion knows he comes from race of people who once were born into slavery nazis systematically exterminated millions of them at aushwitz-birkenaub belzek chelmno majdanek sobibor stutthof treblinka black and white photographs of faces emaciated children adults flicker before his thoughts knows jews are hated not considered caucasian in europe and russia not allowed to own land for many centuries what does it mean to be member of race of people who are despised and blamed? he sympathizes with all minorities particularly negroes who were forced from homeland collared into slavery and native americans who were cheated out of land and slaughtered by white people

My mother likes to hang bells
On the front door,
And I always wondered
What they were for.

They would jingle
Whenever someone
made entry,
and glitter
With the light
from the lamppost
On the street.

But they became dull
Hanging all day,
And the giggling clatter
Mulled and dulled
to a brassy bray.

Mom has a small wedding bell
Of a silver boy
Holding flowers
With a smiling grin.
He’s asking her to ring him
And bring back memories.

But father’s guitar glistens
Whilst the sun lays low.
With one pluck
The vibration hums
Smooth and mellow.

But can you hear it
Sitting on the steps?
This house is so large
But there still lays unrest.

And through The corridor
Clacks the patter
Of greyed canine feet.
But some of us
Lay silent
And reap the past
From the sounds
That do dare speak.

the living room clock
Drones with That of a distant chime,
Because the living arrangements
Have changed overtime.

I had a dream the other day I ran into a doctor, lawyer and a constable,
We came to an agreement that I  had lost some part of me and that "I" am totally responsible;
Then I had another dream I ran into a doctor, cousolor and a poet,
We came to an agreement there's certain things you just don't delegate but before then I didn't know it!
So now I'm taking six weeks off and explaining  why is basically the moral of this little rhyme,
I have to find that item I lost instead of intertaining getting high and ******* all the time!
There's a lot of back stepping I must do I could have lost it anywhere,
It's a powerful asset I've always had but I lost it somewhere over this past year.
It might be right next to you or me so please look around do you see it?
This is a necessary part of me I really need so I just can't ignore or say so be it.
I must retrace my steps to lead me back to what once led me to here,
To fix that error of my past when I lost the virtue of my despair.
Now a broken bone heals in six weeks and so I think this is a realistic amount of time,
This is a personal excursion I must take because believe me I feel all of your pain combined.
I have to find my virtue the disposition to keep on doing the right thing...
Without my positive attitude the strength and prudence I have just doesn't mean a god ****** thing!
You might miss me a little bit but I plead for you to stay away,
If you don't it doesn't matter cause I'm not answering my phone, texts e-mails nor doorbells anyway.
And if you've learned anything from me you'll listen to me when I say,
Loosing virtue is like jumping off a 55 ft. bridge you'll be hurting every day!
And if like me you ever lose your virtue you'll realize this then too,
You'll go on an excursion just like me this virtue you too you will persue.
Sediment, strength, prudence and wisdom go nowhere as far as prooving who one is,
Without the moral virtue we all have that allows us to make stinky things smell like roses.
Goodbye for now I'll see you soon and for me to do this you ought,
To love yourself much and me much too and for you... to Keep a Wonderful aThought!
                              Robin Ashley

we, mistakes made in groping dark,
ironed and cheekkissed happy accidents,
told we arrived by love, and our purpose forward: to love.

we were chocolate milk runners.
we were completion grades.
coloring sheets of MLK and jagged cutouts of billy goats.
we were girls in sequined jeans with scraped knees.
on the basketball court we pushed pigtails to concrete.
rumors of us kissing in the lobby waiting for our rides
did circulate.

we, skinny white girls of Moore, Okla.,
skipped supper and laid at the feet of TV-watchers
like bleached branches of fallen oaks garnishing their standing brothers.

we were doorbells.
we were passenger seats.
peeking in the teacher's edition and handshaking answers in fluorescent bathrooms.
we were the first ones on the bus and the last ones off.
knees to chin, untied laces on heater's ****, winterlong sweat factory.
rumors of us agreeing to go to prom over fourth-period lunch
did circulate.

we, writers suffered writers' morality,
disregarded right, wrong, norm; lounged, waiting to be under the bus,
suffering for the story. tense matchstick lovers --  dim light for a moment and then.

we were someone else's *******.
we were someone else's hairpins.
as whatever ran so hot in us cooled, dried on thrift store comforters,
so did we. ceiling fans and ***. fingernails and boxed wine.
rumors sustaining.

and so it came, after announcements, after invitations,
after subbing in one bridesmaid for another, we were getting married.
we were grooms with empty pockets and full of sound advice.
our fathers took us behind the church,
chaplipped our foreheads,  and said,
"I know, we promised you were made from love and to love.
But I gotta be real honest here. You were made from whiskey.
And there's always the distillery."

we were jobless in wrinkled suits.
we were brown shoes; black belts.
and this will look good on your resumé. and this will look good on your resumé.
translation: how about ******* this ****? or how about this one?
a resumé was one page. we couldn't fit all the ***** on one page.

we, beardheavy and deodorant-streaked,
lived in dream houses in Ulysses, Kan., drove dream Tahoes,
watched dream Netflix, next to  portly wives who looked like
QUEEN MOTHER OF ALL THE BROTHELS OF THE LOWER MIDWEST.

we were childless.
we were wanting.
after consulting a physician and a bottle of whiskey,
we lifted and pinned the sagging belly of our wives with
a wooden board. one good **** in. one borrowed pregnancy test.

and so it came, the weddings of our sons. behind the church,
we took them aside and said,
*"I know, we promised you were made from love and to love.
But I gotta be real honest here."

We used to Imagine things...
You and I
and the kids down the street
We used to ring doorbells
and scrape knees
and look for treasures in the backyard
We would eat dinner
with only the lights on
and talk about how good the potatoes were
We would tell stories
run barefoot
and catch lightning bugs in a big glass jar
remember jumping in leaves?
rolling up snowmen?
and looking forward to the sweet smell of summer?
I remember.
We were young
it was easy

it's not so easy anymore.

It was the only year that I got fat

From eating chocolate bars that my mother bought with the left over EBT cash

That way when she did my laundry

she could get mad about the

Chocolate stains on my sleeves

So I ate until I got sick

And bled until I passed out

It was the year that hangs heavy in the hallows of my heart

The same year of my second suicide attempt

You should know this

I know the crash of the gallows hangin’ from your shoulders

Sends thunder through your ears

I know the angel that’s supposed to sit on the other

Looks like a gargoyle sometimes

I know there are days where

You freeze up

Locked in place until someone finally touches you

There were words trapped underneath my skin

So I cut them out

So I could finally makes sense

Of the irregular morse code of my heart beat

There were words comin’ out of my mouth

Always the wrong words

So I tried to lasso my throat shut

What you should know is

There will always be days where gravity tries to trap you here

It’s why I ring doorbells all the time

My angel needs its wings

I want your angel to have its wings

This year

This is the year that

I find the words

To explain to you what my heart’s been sayin’

The year the gallows no longer crash

The year my angel gets its wings

If you didn’t know this before

You are so perfect

You are so amazing

Your smile is amazing

On the days you are happy to see me

I swear I could take your cheeks sailing

We never needed the words

To explain what my heart's been saying

At any given moment

As long as I am breathing

There’s a guy

Thumbin’ doorbells as desperate as impatience

Teary eyed and trembling

Just trying

To get you back your wings

Aries bound I need boundaries
Not to be the rebound
but I believe things beyond
and so work with some stupid clock
but we all do that do we not?

not astrology - though logically
there has got to be some piece of you in me
or some "one" that we all come from
and pull on the long robe of
when we find ourselves in need of love

What doorbells and picture frame
take me behind the scenes -
to the make-up and gossip of God's escapades?

of course times of a willing wage; both the wars and lustful ways

in a club he slapped the room with a rage- as the beat grows fonder
and more closely - immediately forgotten
even as it just begins

but of course only after, reminisce
with our pure imagination
the scenic route with a violin

whether its out or just come in
or **** like the economical loot
depending how you chose to hear it
and you can still choose

certainly the sounds that aren't there
that we think count like the accents
that shape a world of difference

is it enough for you to redo

I find too often I smile with a frown
I am a boundary but still Aries bound

we worried for Your s.a.n.i.t.y.
when Michael Bublé and Metallica
wore matching sailor suits. we warned You.
failed interventions toed the line
between crafted clichés and comprehensible,
misguided attempts to paste bits and pieces
of the Pyramids back together.
You know they were stolen, right?
the pharaohs were ****** — drunk on
the melodies of doorbells and
bits and pieces of clichés crafted at a Metallica concert.
brave the mosh pit.
You may catch a glimpse of
sarcophagi gleaming in torchlight.
don't lift the lid, for the love of
g.o.d.!
those sailor suits have been preserved for centuries.
"Do Not Disturb."
the doorbell
won't work now,
not now that Michael Bublé's bubble burst.
can You blame us for screaming into
microphones? maybe the bits and pieces of clichés You swept
into neat little piles after footfalls die down
torch-lit corridors will
shake the Pyramids.
at the very least, ring a doorbell.

"d.o. n.o.t. d.i.s.t.u.r.b."

Hello morning, I have anticipated you since
I awoke to the small barking dog's tailored speak for food.

I want that Eddie should start preparing her own meals. I know that while I smoke this morning's cigarette, that French Bulldog inside contemplates the fifty dollar bag of high-grade kibble she has pushed me to buy her or instead enjoying her own ****. And all of my wives friends call her a lady.

I want to ride alone in our FJ Cruiser through Yellowstone at dawn, before the predators have gone to bed and the tourists make their queues, I want to beat morning until I have found the wolves, and the sun rise mocks me as I sit four hours in traffic for a cup of coffee as I round the shivering peaks of our Rocky Mountain backyard landscape, and the Tetons swell with last nights snow-fall and the warm autumn air sends plumes of frigid mist above the valley floor and into the skies above Jackson.

And I wish I could stand once more on the balcony of the 777 building and smoke the finest sativas with my friend Turtle while our significant others drink coffees and watch reruns of American Gladiators on a $14,000 couch waiting for us to come back inside.

I wish I could wait on the benches outside baggage claim at San Francisco International Airport smoking inside the white lines, waiting for a girl in a red sports car to pick me up and my friend Guy's absurd faces there to greet me amidst the fog and the out of place palm trees Inevwr expected to see so far North.

And it would be great to hear my grandfather play the ukulele once more while I excitedly fished off of my grandparents dock somewhere in New Jersey where my mother's accent insists she grew up. And my grandfather sings horrifically demeaning songs written in 1924 that offer little respect to women, but much adventure to young men.

I want to play tag with the neighborhood children again in the Summer of 1995. Even though I had come to find all of those playing tag had absconded to a game entitled The 'A' Game, which its only rules were to exclude me from joining. I want to throw scalding hot water once more into Simon Berman's face. Though I do not wish for him to block the water with a basketball and turn my face into Jack Nicholson's Joker.

In Chicago as an eighteen year old, I could count the chalk outlines of bodies as I drove down Fullerton Avenue through the Logan Square neighborhood. I wish I could remember those sounds the boricua made. I wish I could forget the burning runs I received from Lazo's burritos at some time 'o clock in the morning.

I've never been one for finding edible late-night eats. I only want the memory of being able to do so. I do wish that my wife's ex-best friend's boyfriend realizes that he's less the great Emeril of his kitchen and more or less is just an unemployed sous chef with a laundry list of felonies, rather than a wish list of awful entrees. At least in that memory, he's neither a chef nor my wife's ex-friend's boyfriend and instead he's just another hideous orcish ****** ringing the doorbells in some suburb of Seattle, announcing to each and every one of his neighbors that he's obligated to notify the community of his ****** offenses.

I just wish I was there to witness his humiliation, and enjoy the total collapse of ego amidst the long list of those decent people he has surely offended.

Perhaps in some future life I can enjoy watching as jungle rot solves my hatred, disposing of his evilness in small skin ***** of flesh that dot the sidewalk while his disease evolves.

I want more vegan eating options across the food desert we call America. I want to arrive home one evening and find my wife ancy to share a new study that American Journal of Medixibe has found on the benefits of providing non-reciprocated ******* to your partners. And I want to be the first to enjoy the benefits of such a study, that I'm encouraged by her to publish my findings while I attend a prestigious university I once wasn't allowed to attend because of my religious background.

I want to live in a world where violence is no longer a viable solution to resolving the in differences we as humans confuse each other trying to make sense of between ourselves.

I want to visit our local grocery store and find that my favorite $8 a pint vegan ice cream has been marked down to a more reasonable number and that there is still an abundance of flavors left for me to choose from.

I don't wish for much: to not have people ask me to speak louder, full-frontal ****** in made for television movies, and a decent blonde IPA for under $10 in glass bottles. Where in this world can a poet go and still receive the respect that was once given by the royal monarchy of The British Empire.

Now it seems those with the fine knowledge of words are cast into a class with less regard than street-drifters and the homeless.

When did our world lose major respect for the artisans of fine art, or the ability to render an opus?

28-integer news memos and 15-second clips of our cute dog eating its own **** attract more attention than a fine explanation of the human condition or the sultry and sophisticated sounds of my Argentinian friend Anna recite Garcia Lorca in her native Spanish tongue.

I just want to be gone before there is a consequence for finding joy in the human condition, and honesty and integrity are known as the recividism that takes down our nation.

We were once the leaders of a great country. We were compelled by our history to create and indoctrinate one another to achieve, conceive, and amend ourselves to thrive amidst the uncertainty of a mischievous and disgraceful society. Now I just wish to be in bed with my wife when this storm of stupidity comes. I wish I never had to be on the receiving end of a sermon set forth by business leaders instead of political achievers.

I want Eddie to make herself some breakfast so I can lay here in bed a few more moments. I want pancakes and fresh fruit juice for breakfast, a quiet room and a hard-covered notebook. I want to believe a great pen and a good friend could lead me through the exciting and anxiety-writhing times in this life, but I to know too sadly that we live in a world where we don't view it as a weakness as those around us may not be able to read or may not be able to write.

This season is
Memories of kids whipping past
blowing dead leaves on bikewheels
with hoodies hung upwards and
Horror fiend masks.

A ringing of doorbells and delighted
screams rushing forwards
and "Trick or Treat" plunging
like fallen bobbed apples
into concuspiscent ears.

With the Moon bearing high
its dominance of silver contrast
and sandsmoke grimaces
on a clandestine land, ***** for mischief.

All fairytales begin
with a break-up of the family
I'm convinced
All Horror stories
are a crying out
for old friendships to re-emerge
after the gist of mortality
begins to sink in.

And from when I was a teen
most of my friendships, for better or worse,
have centred around attaching my darker thoughts
to something concrete: like a list of favorite author's work
or a poster of Robert Smith on my bedroom wall

claiming knowledge to a world established around my own

The stirring fire to keep on going, after waking up on frostbitten mornings
is not a need to impress with the sense
of my own self-determined
trudging through rain and seeking
lofty self-reward

...But in finding people
to share the walk home with
bounce Cure lyrics back and forth with
and who'll simmer down to a horror film
(without insisting on my recommendation)
at Halloween.

You rang?
who?

Television
black and white
half forgotten
images
come back to me
in the static of my night.

And the test card was not hard
just a test.

Yes mi'lady
aha
another sixties fantasy
fab.

but Parker had a darker side
or did I dream that too?

I'm clambering up from a fitful
sleep and fixing my eyes on the
bullets I keep in the chamber

the day brings with it danger
I'm used to it.

Sheer nylons on legs as
long as electricity pylons
but I think I dreamt that
too.

as time slows down and it all goes
faster
black and white becomes the
new master or mistress
( mistress being said under duress)
as
she watches over my shoulder
and
I'm getting older,

The flavor of my youth
was skateboards and punk rock
heavy metal and mischief
walking through Cary town
with pockets full of change
and crushed singles
sodas in hand
and skateboards under the other arm
in the gated community we lived in
we would find the houses
where we knew the owners were away on vacation
and we took to the stairs on four wheels
to glide through the air like arrows shot from some towering bow
made of concrete and asphalt
and we went to shows in the city
dressed in the armor of wristbands, ripped jeans, and faded band shirts
drunk on our parents’ beer and skunk ****
drunk on the promise of a night open to any footfall we chose
and we jumped up and down in mosh pits
just trying to feel anything real
anything which tasted like living
we stalked from house to house cloaked in the witching hour
and pillaged our knick knacks from the garages of neighbors we never knew
padded fingertips pressing against doorbells
1...2...3…
now run
we didn’t have time for school
or the teachers trying to bring us down
but we always had time to trek through the woods with a bowl
smoking **** until we got to the mall
where we ******* around until mall security chased us out
we did not always make the greatest decisions
but I am **** glad I made them

It’s about my husband Alex,
He’s a truly wonderful man
But I fear Alex has gone
For a trip to Wonderland.
He works hard, and long
But lost some of his grip
On reality as it really is
And seems to be on a trip.

Ice trays that fill themselves,
Self-closing cupboard doors,
And magic laundry chutes
That puts clothes back in drawers
Ketchup bottles with 1/10th ounce
And leftovers never consumed.
And of course automobiles
Driven but never get tuned.

In Alex’s fantasyland
He lives across a chasm
Where only he gets hungry
Or gets to have an ******.
He doesn’t answer doorbells
Or incoming calls on the phone.
And, when he’s watching games
He is demands to be left alone.

Presents given out by him
In his fairy tale existence
Are often gift certificates
After a round of insistence.
And, don’t ask my husband
For the date of our anniversary
Or the dates our children
Showed up in the nursery.

I am only mentioning all this
Because I totally understand.
I have read quite a few books.
I have been to Disneyland.
But what I don’t understand
And can’t get into my head
Is why he hasn’t heard me yet,
Or a ****** word I have said.

It isn’t like I haven’t complained
Or told him what I wanted.
But he looks around like maybe
He thinks the house is haunted,
Because he is hearing voices
That he can’t quite understand.
See? What did I tell you?
Alex lives in Wonderland!

Splinters, blisters.
Losers, winners.
Saints and sinners.
"Come in for dinner" s

It's where we learned to socialise.
Our very own sovereign land
zero politics
and conflicts always solved
hand to hand.

Loud junctions juxtaposed
against our little corner of paradise
motorists peering in when they stop at that red light.

Ringing on doorbells, buzzing on intercoms
The anticipation
to hear whether your friend was home or not.

Colourblind kids with the most vivid sight.
Retrieving footballs under parked cars
was the extent of our plights.

I didn't know where the world would take us
or the type of people it would make us,
but something I learned from a young age
is that the rest of the world isn't like
Gooseacre.

I painted the bedposts and bedside whiteboard
beside the baseboard, the outlet occupied
by a power cord, the bookshelf, both coffeemakers,
the power strip duct-taped to the brick wall,
the bush outside, the sidewalks, the brick,
the steel fences separating traffic
babble from pedestrian small talk,
then filled the wall in, gave the oak posts
enough depth to hold up four coats,
a backpack, and a shoe lace, swirled
in the condoms and coffee rings
inside the microwave, sketched a Sears
Apple-Jack-colored record player plugged
in, turning dusted Beatles records
like the cosmos, like the snow, squirrel-
hair, and leather-leaf bush outside.
I masked off the concrete, the asphalt,
and construction yard sidewalks,
penciling dead mosquitoes in the cracks
and $2.39 Rock Salt Slush along the edges.
I measured the fence, so each stake hit
the vanishing point like cigarette butts
in cement cereal bowls of cat litter.

But I ran out of paint before I could fill
the mouths of motorist **** yous,
the car barks chasing dogs
to the chain-link guard rail,
doorbells and mailbox flags
being flipped up, pay phones
clashing on metal receivers,
church bells, footsteps,
some guy breathing,
and a red-light button Wait.

Maybe it’s for the best.

The walls are vibrating
with sweat pouring
my artificial heartbeat
is the recorded sounds
of feet taking flight up sidewalk runways
pouring with sweat
heart exploding
and maybe if it does
I can get something on the page
for you magnificent sons of *******
but my appetite will be vanquished
in t-minus one hour
the extended release of last nights beer
and smoke permeating through skin
blow it in the air
to show the trip wires
my desk chair dusty and lifeless for too long
“how’s the writing going, Harry?”
about as well as when poets try to be real people -
so a lot of complaining and selfish procrastination -
but my crosshairs are all aligned
trigger finger itchy
the sarcastic, *****, dropout, “just rolled out of bed”
cynical wordsmith
with a chipper chip on my shoulder
and just like lays you can’t just have one
so I’m quick to 86 any competition
who are too quick to toe over my line
you don’t wake a hibernating bear
and you certainly don’t poke the starving wolf
when the grease from last night’s dinner
coats your skin like slime
my hands are shaking
and homework is due by the start of class yesterday
But I’ll be fine, Ma
I’ve got a mouth full of big talk
and eyes full of short sighted leaps of faith
my soul blows through alleys, avenues, and storm drains
and it tastes just like little kid medicine
something artificially sweet masking the bitterness
When I was a little **** -
making dens, kicking cans, and ringing doorbells -
they told me I could be anything
except tall enough to ride all the good roller coasters
so now, I’m a carnie in a booth
getting revenge on the world
by ignoring all the kids screaming
for me to stop the ride
I’m no artist
far cry from a poet
I’m a kid, too smart for his own good
too dumb to know better
to confused to guess at the ending
of this movie

We still have the summer
that we spent together
before you went to college
the nights we spent
drunk on the beach
you with your guitar
me with my smile
as the surf licked our feet
the times we spent
hip to hip
looking at the stars
on that patch of private grass
down the street from your house
all the times spent
wagging our chins
about whatever came to mind
we will always have the summer

We still have the summer
when the leaves outside my window
turn crisp brown, apple red, and gold
when the school bell rings
like the doorbells
opened upon
kids trying to make five bucks
When summer's lingering heat
beings to chill
and we are once again visited
by the ghosts of our breath
We will always have the summer

We still have the summer
when winter comes along
and maybe if we're lucky
it'll be a white Christmas
but this is Richmond
so probably not
but I hope we do
the city looks so pretty
all lit up on a snowy night
We will always have the summer

We still have the summer
when our birthday month rolls around
a couple of April fools
laughing our ***** off
When new life springs out
from all around
and the spring showers
turns the early morning grass
into a field of stars
or a Caribbean sea
meeting a setting sun
and the birds sing their pretty little hearts out
just like you
We will always have the summer

And when summer comes round again
maybe I will see you
not a care in the world
a world's worth of meaning
maybe we will go back to that beach
the sun and salt
turning our skin to leather
until we look like a couple
of Florida retirees
happy and wrinkled
Maybe
we can gaze up at the stars
or your ceiling fan
It really doesn't matter
Maybe these things will happen
maybe not
I find comfort
in knowing
that I will always have that summer

We were heading to the aurora borealis with tic-tacs in our pockets and mossy footprints in our pasts,
I was finding wrinkles on your face and tucking them under your pillow cases,
Filling up on cherry vanilla coke and you,
Laughing at your jokes, but breathing for your laughs.
Goodbyes became “see you soon”, but we regressed faster than we reached the bases,
I was left asking my heart where you went and all I received was,
“Come again later” or “Maybe next time” like a monotonous 8 ball.
I checked for Pabst Blue and trophies, but I got acquainted with the empty cases.
You always told me not to get my hopes up, to keep the ends of my strings clean.
You heeded a warning as if you had an expiration date,
But I think I forgot to listen for bombs ticking over the sound of heartbeats.
They always told me that if it comes in like a lion, it goes out like a lamb.
Well, if that was true then why did you set my life on fire, treated me like Diego Rivera,
Like Frieda Kahlo, this love hit me like a tram.
Can you really violate a person’s privacy,
Once they’ve pushed you naked, into a crowd?
Because finding your diary yesterday was bittersweet, but the only sugar was reading it aloud.
“I’m coming home, but instead of doorbells to signal return, the singing of her pulse is my only melody.
The only thing to resemble a welcome sign was your hair dripping on your chest.
My only blankets were your nimble hands and your hollow breaths,
My favorite song is a compilation of every word you’ve said to me.”
But now you’re hosting tea parties, but you’re sipping chardonnay,
No recollection of my address because you’re occupied by your high-class party,
Spending hours upon hours discussing La Primavera,
When you’ve not listened to classical music in over a decade.
Now I’m left wondering what song rattled in the back of your head when you sped off in a high-speed chase.
I could tell you who won, but again,
Don’t think I can keep up with your pace.
It doesn’t matter much now that I didn’t love you like a happy ending,
Nor did we resemble a love song,
But our love was like traffic signs: cautious yet reassuring.
It was like avoiding cracks in the side-walk, without any rhyme or reason.
But it turns out; humans are not able to see all on-coming traffic,
Swerving away from an on-coming object is no longer effective once you’ve hit it like a brick wall.
You filled my head with pages of filler paper, allowing me to scratch the surface,
Never truly knowing you, claiming, “It’s easy, it’s simple like this”.
I never knew simplicity to hurt like hell.
Now you’re hosting tea parties,
But you’re chugging the last of the Rose,
Being with you was like La Primavera,
It has been excessively over-played.

Taking walks. Daydreaming. Stickers. School Spirit. My friends. Living in a small town. Japan. Singing. Painting my toenails. Pranks/ practical jokes. Painting. Stretch canvas. Costumes. Dipping my fingers in melted wax. Style. Soda. Spending an hour typing at a coffee shop. Musicals. Back to school season. Mopeds. Good hair days. Naps. Not walking up but looking at a beautiful staircase. being alone. My ankles. Playlists. Spending entire days in pajamas. Holidays. Telling stories. Spontaneity. Theme parks. Bookshelves. The word copacetic. Boxes. Empty journals. Surprises. Doing things in groups. Doing things alone. Getting real mail. Decorating. Small forks. A good hug. Gift cards. New Years Goals. Going out to dinner. When someone else remembers some great story about me/us that I’ve forgotten. Toy stores. Fireplaces. Breakfast foods. Journaling. Crying for a good reason. Doorbells. Pointless adventures. My birthday. Reasons to make wishes

he made me
stand still

that was
THE thing

not adrift on passé
or futuristic projectings
not jumping rope
on hyped-up think strings

all of me
paused
to feel all of him
every inner switch
flicked on forever
KC lights streaming
yepyepyep

wired spinefire
warming its way
to burst through skin
invisible firecrackers
jumpstarting the air
revolt from suffocating

we were
whereverthefuck
together

(+ think we dropped pins in)

all molecules at ATTN
his lip blueprints existing
eternal in my synaptic tracks

beyond the say breathes
the evermore of listen
eardrum heartstrum
empathic rhythm

his brainfire ringing
my threshold doorbells
syntactic turrets spitting
direct hits beyond ramparts
into unshuttered windows

bizarro blurbs
wrap me uppers
10,000 suction cup tentacles
asphyxiating the cloak of me
skinning and bonding me
to particles of matterthings

self-conscious and judgment
marked absent
we resounded here!
but no hands in the air
to Be seen

sensory nonsense pitterpatters
into where All is found lost
to hallowed delights

except for the realies
don't ******* that ****
it's my cryptonite

The buzzing of the bees,
The flitter- twitters of the butterflies,
The cuckoo of the roster and
The oinking of the pigs.

The ringing of the doorbells,
The beeping of the alarm,
The fizzing of the soft drinks and
The sizzling of the hot oil.

I can see you
I can't feel you
I imagine your voice
I imagine your smile
You are like a mirage
A  look and you're gone
I started roaming streets
I started ringing doorbells
I don't know where you are
I'm stuck in a jar
A jar of hope unknown
Sometimes I wonder why all this
Just because of a glimpse!

I became accustomed to the simple life. To the way that boys liked it when I ran my fingers through their hair and toyed with their belts. The way that coffee tasted dull without sugar, and the way that the newspaper was always delivered at three minutes past seven. Doorbells all had the same melody and I was required to tip the waiter seventeen percent of the bill.
       And that's why you scared me. Because complexity followed you like the smoky tail of a cigarette, always near and entirely ungraspable. I couldn't see you as simple, and I was frightened yet intrigued by the way that you reminded me of the ocean; swallowing both the moon and the sun in the same day.

Nothing about today
made me feel differently

I drank coffee
close to my window
to fog it

hoping to see
you cast out
those ***** little pigeons
from behind that woven
cage of hair you make

to take me out
behind anchorages of boat docks
and bleed into weather beaten wood
like thickly mixed blackish-brown acrylic
scraped on shade

Lately,
the sun seems to
burn you off too quickly

scatters you about
absorbing me into
brightly colored hats and sandals

like wispy clouds that never touch the sky
with warm eyes and handshakes
that ring doorbells to get me off the couch
and ask me to come outside with them

I think
I will wait here -

for your drippy face to fall into a dreary mist
and collect on my windows tomorrow

Nothing about today
made me feel differently

Door slams, you’re gone.
Silence becomes my apartment.
With the exception of the rain,  
I only hear my own thoughts.
They’re killing me.  

I don’t know how to be here, in this space.  
I don’t know how to be here, looking you in the face.
Feeling no love, but giving all I have.
I don’t know how to be here.  

No contact or apologies or doorbells.
Are you gone for good?
Maybe it’s better this way.  
We fight almost everyday.
I’m not sure if you love me the way you say you do.

I don’t know how to be here, in this space.
I don’t know how to be here, looking you in the face.
Feeling no love, but giving all I have.
I don’t know how to be here.

My mind is cluttered with memories, good and bad.
My heart- empty and my soul- confused.
You’ve given me happiness and utter heartbreak at the same time.
Whatever you gave, I accepted anxiously.
Until you took it all away from me.  

I don’t know how to be here, I don’t know how to be here.
I don’t want to be here anymore.

Ringing doorbells
"Trick or treat"
Is repeated in your head
All night long
Pumpkins lighting up the night
Kids paralyzed with sugar rushes
Innocent fun