When I walk through the forested halls,
and listen closely to the silence,
I can sometimes hear the calls
or songs of those who live in the dense
vines and plants that line the castle walls
built for the ancient city's defense.

And the voices are like that of those
Who sing underneath the sea
In songs of lyric sweet and prose
That tell stories of their country
Below the waves, where children doze
And men watch over their city's key.

At the bottom of the sea there is no light
Unlike the towers in the clouds that float.
Ethereal and glittering, they make their flight
In the sky, just like a mighty sailboat.
Crystal and silver and shades of white,
They shine as the bells sing the final note.

All my pwoblems,
who knows, maybe evwybody’s pwoblems
is due to da fact, due to da awful twuth
dat I am SPIDERMAN.

I know, I know. All da dumb jokes:
No flies on you, ha ha,
and da ones about what do I do wit all
doze extwa legs in bed. Well, dat’s funny yeah.
But you twy being
SPIDERMAN for a month or two. Go ahead.

You get doze cwazy calls fwom da
Gubbener askin you to twap some booglar who’s
only twying to wip off color T.V. sets.
Now, what do I cawre about T.V. sets?
But I pull on da suit, da stinkin suit,
wit da sucker cups on da fingers,
and get my wopes and wittle bundle of
equipment and den I go flying like cwazy
acwoss da town fwom woof top to woof top.
Till der he is. Some poor dumb color T.V. slob
and I fall on him and we westle a widdle
until I get him all woped. So big deal.

You tink when you SPIDERMAN
der’s sometin big going to happen to you.
Well, I tell you what. It don’t happen dat way.
Nuttin happens. Gubbener calls, I go.
Bwing him to powice, Gubbener calls again,
like dat over and over.

I tink I twy sometin diffunt. I tink I twy
sometin excitin like wacing cawrs. Sometin to make
my heart beat at a difwent wate.
But den you just can’t quit being sometin like
SPIDERMAN.
You SPIDERMAN for life. Fowever. I can’t even
buin my suit. It won’t buin. It’s fwame wesistent.
So maybe dat’s youwr pwoblem too, who knows.
Maybe dat’s da whole pwoblem wif evwytin.
Nobody can buin der suits, dey all fwame wesistent.
Who knows?
--JIM HALL

you fall down, you have no choice but to get back up.
when you get back up, you lose something; a piece of your strength, energy, will... something. keeping on is not free.

you spent the day in bed. too exhausted to get up. you're so sick of bed. your body feels angry for being so still. you just didn't have it in you to move around today. this is fatigue. it isn't fair. in fact, it's cruel.

there is no feeling good anymore. there are what some poor souls refer to as "good pain days" which is just another way of saying
"I know what it's like to be in such bad pain that you want to die, and I'm just thankful today's pain was at least not the worst it has ever been"

you're on no kind of schedule. it'd be a blessing just to eat and sleep at normal times, with some regularity. you feel like crap all the time. you gain weight and lose muscle. you feel weak and heavy.

lie in bed. peace of bedtime is a foreign concept,  your body aches to be comfortable, and you may doze off for 3 seconds before jerking awake by inconsiderate muscles that don't really care that you haven't had a solid hour of rest in 2 days.

pills are a blessing and a curse. relief and side effects. they allow you to rest and they mess with your brain. you'll get so sick of taking pills and you'll begin to hate them for needing them.

the very best you see in your future is surviving. that's what fibromyalgia is. your job is getting through the days of pain and exhaustion, the physical and mental detriments that come with it. your life is a fight, and you are so, so, so, so tired of fighting. you always, always, always feel you have no more fight left in you.



you're 21 years old and you fondly and bitterly remember a time (not too long ago) when you thought some things in life would just be givens; career, family, adventure, accomplishments.... health.

you're 21 years old and you learn that you get none of the above. you're too tired, you hurt too much, and this disease seems to only get worse... it seems to have taken everything from you

and then it takes some more.

Let's stay away from the edge of the bed,
Roll inward toward one another
So that we can stay closer together.

Your chest, my head-
You can just be my lover,
Fitting me better than my favorite sweater.

See, the edge of the bed
Is the diving board for all the things
I'd rather not remember.

Some nights, everything I've never said,
All the mistakes, insecurities, faults ring
Through my mind, lighting an ember

That sets fire to things I'd rather forget.
But I don't want these thoughts to bleed and spread-
I don't want to relive all of those best-forgotten thoughts

Because when my mind lets
The memories roll through my head,
I sincerely wish they would just not.

And I don't have to will the memories away
When you're holding me close
In the middle of the night-

The thoughts don't relay
Because I'm too busy feeling myself doze
Off into your arms, until tomorrow's light-

You're holding me from the edge
Where there is no possible opportunity
For whatever lurks beneath my bed

To resurface and climb up my bed post, perch on a ledge
And jump back into my mind; You're my immunity,
You're what keeps it all from reentering my head.

So your fingertips rolling down my spine
And your soft breaths rolling in and out of your mouth
And your body rolling over, closer to me

Is really a barrier that lets me sleep in peace, I've come to find;
I don't have any doubt
That you make me feel as safe as I could be.

I
In the sunny backyard, all was motion.
The grass, flowers, trees, fountain, birds, cats,
Flies, earthworms, and small snakes,
All moving.
Only one thing was not moving:
Buddy.  

II
Sleep, nap, or doze.
Buddy could not choose,
So he did all three

III
At dusk all over the neighborhood
Dogs were coming to their owners
With hope in their eyes.
Buddy was no different.
I picked up the leash.

IV
Buddy does not know whether to prefer lying in front of the back door
Or lying in front of the front door.
When lying in front of the front door
Buddy does not know whether to prefer
The anticipation of the mailman’s arrival
Or the satisfaction of chasing him away with savage barking.

V
Rain falls from the sky and from the porch roof.
Buddy stares.
He needs to go out and ***.
It is a conundrum.

VI
O thin, starving dogs of the street
Do not give up.
You can have a bed of your own, a doggie pal,
And cats to lick.
They will all worship you, and you will grow fat with contentment.

VII
The grass grows.
The clouds move across the sky.
A shallow hole in the dirt is cool and relaxing.
Buddy knows this.

VIII
Buddy turned and turned and turned on the carpet
When he lay down
The circles remained.

IX
As Buddy walks down the street
From every house, barking,
Heralding, warning, entreating, scolding.
The cacophony swells to the treetops.

X
In the dark night
On the way to get a drink of water
I stepped on a pile of clothes on the floor.
Alas, it was Buddy.

XI
Buddy and the kitten lie side by side at the front door.
Dog is in his heaven.

XII
Buddy shook all night during the thunderstorm
When the sun came out, he slept,
Exhausted.

The sun rises over the red horizon,
and sets again as the red clouds roll in;
The moon which had once shone so bright
can hardly be seen through the smokey night;
No more do the stars shine as they had before,
and the smokey red sky seems easier to ignore;
Red tinted buildings crowd around the one place
which seems (for now) unaffected by the waste
of the threatening endless sea of dry red sand
and the harsh hot wind that burns the dying land;

Hidden behind the stone walls of that red city
sits an old man, huddled in a chair, mumbling: "Pity ...
Oh, the pity of it all ..." and talks of things that used to be
To tired dusty children perched around his knee;

He watches their intense delight as he tells his tales
of a different world (not too long ago) without hot gales,
of how that world used to flourish in lushous green
- a colour which has never since on this earth been seen -
of how that land was covered by the most beautiful flowers,
and of how he, as a child, used to while away the hours
in fragrant fields of green grass and tall trees spread about;
He told of animals which not too long ago had roamed about;
He told takes of soft white rabbits, of ferocious lions and tigers;
He told tales of history,  of adventure and deadly dangers;

And then he'd fall quiet and smile at the children sadly
as they looked up at him expectantly;
Then he tells them in his own special way
of how such a beautiful world became what it was today:
"Oh, the pity of it all ... We had it all those yesterdays,
but we were selfish so we threw it all away!"
Then the story-teller of yesterdays would sigh in despair,
snuggle up comfortably, and doze off in his rocking- chair ...

to burrow underneath the hoarfrost the
howling winds cold burying the last signs
of fall the last robin's call to leave

to follow the life's call ode to sleep
as the wise bear does curling deep in a
cavern his sleep ignoring

the December's and January's
sun oblique
with misery  transposes the day
shorter  

bareness the trees the land the 'scape
in sleep the wiser among us
flee or doze

until, barely on the fly
might hear a whisper of
wings ,

see on the trees limbs
a slight greening
creep out from our hiding
or refuges

smiling at Spring

She wants a house
With a terrace garden and a bookshelf in her bathroom
So she can read while pooping to save time
She says she wants a tree house
Where she can put fairy lights
And spend her lonely nights
She wants a cot where she can doze off
And ooh, a shot glass collection
From all the places she has gone
Though she would not drink because
She does not believe in substance abuse
She wants to grow creepers on the walls
And have a bird feeding area
She wants many dogs who know
How to open the door and bring stuff over
And she doesn't want a bed
She wants a tent that she can move
And sleep in wherever the hell she wants
She wants a huge oven
Where she can make pastries and cookies and brownies and cupcakes
She wants a hot tub in her bathroom
And a chocolate fountain in her kitchen
Which will be open for the neighbourhood children
Because she always wanted one when she was young...
But now she's old
And things don't make sense anymore
The taste of reality is bitter
For her soft and rosy lips wrinkled with time
She doesn't want to be asinine
Mediocrity looms over her like a storm cloud
But it's okay, she says
Maybe someday, I'll live up to it
Knowing within that she wouldn't

The day will start with some coffee
The best type, bitter sweet, hot,
Drinking it ‘neath the morning sun
Heading out, Fall, cool breeze blows,
Colored leafs dance. Sit in the park
On a bench, the birds flying south,
Writing the happiest verses-  poems.
A lovely girl will pass, smile,
Eyes look into eyes, love making,
'Twas but a second. Whistling
Strolling back to a small diner,
Lunch, something fierce, dessert too,
Music playing, a cool sax tune,
Jazz for the background, waitress
“Will you have anything else, sir?”
“Coffee, black, and the check. Thanks.”
One last cup before taking leave,
Sipping, thinking and with joy,
Great tasting like the earlier drink.
The sun’s going down, sky’s orange,
The loud cars honking on the street.
Back in the apartment tired,
The notepad on the bedroom desk,
Sitting on an old armchair,
Looking out towards the city,
it’s all full of life, sleep creeps
near and I slowly doze off.
And this is how I wish to die.

If I sit next to a painting of a lady
with black hair and bare arms with long brown gloves
will I become inspired and spread
my toast with sweat from my work.

Chandeliers block every creative thought,
perhaps I might sneak them out of my ears
and onto a keyboard, or tip my head
so ideas sprawl across my bedsheets.

Nearby machines answer automatic triggers,
make noises lulling me to doze
and dream of my next line
"clouds turn color while wind blows from nowhere."

Paintings of ladies without their legs crossed
invite me to fantasize what I might have become
had I stayed in South Dakota among the corn
and herds of black angus cattle.

I cried myself to sleep last night filled
with sadness and fear over books rotting on
shelves of unoccupied libraries
with empty chairs and dusty tables.

My bald-headed best friend
read this poem five times,
failed to laugh or even smile
and said, "you are no Patricia Lockwood."

February 12, 2016

I lie **** on top of my blankets; praying. Praying. Praying. I am fighting waves of nausea and sleepiness. Medicines I feel sprinting through my veins dragging me downward. No.
The rain slow at first but gathering wrath in the warm night.
Lightning and thunder will come I smell it afar off. Ions heavily scented spill through the atmosphere holes in my plexiglassed window.  
Thunder rolls through my chest shaking deeply my whitewashed plaster cocoon. The cries begin to swell, and echo strangely through the sterile corridors. I am not the only light sleeper, I muse.
I doze momentarily even among the screams of the mentally hilarious; I am called into sleep. They must have doubled the sleeping medication; the storm will be worse than I thought.
I start at a sound. Steady. A theta wave vibrating through my room. I pitch to my side in time to see a lightning bolt slash through the sky. I saw something. The bolt plays hell with my night-vision as I sit upright on my bed.
There. Struggling up the plastic surface of the viewport. It cannot fly in the rain; it struggles for purchase on the portal. I study her. Elegant and slender she reaches the airhole and pulls herself through. Far off the screams wax and wane as the storm intensifies.
Her slender thorax and polished, obsidian, exoskeleton strike excitement through me to a cell. A perfect engine of pain and terror. A great black wasp. She reminds me of a thorn as she rests on the windowsill; unmoving in the air conditioning. Giddily, I shake with excitement nearly overwhelmed. Delicately she cleans water droplets from her abdomen and shakes the moisture from the thin membrane of her wings. I slowly move to my shelf and remove the specimen cup from its placement; silently unscrewing the threaded lid from the clear plastic container. Down the hallway a tired groan and a throaty grunt from one of the other patients. The wind now screams through the breezeport that runs to north toward the cafeteria. A shingle is peeled from the roof of a gazebo and cyclones into a bulkhead. I lick my lips, and consciously check my excitement.
I slide a sheet of crisp white paper from my desk. Quickly, I trap the great insect with the jar and slide the paper over the aperture trapping her between jar and paper. She does not struggle, but looks intelligently at the walls of her new prison. Beautiful, and intricate machinery at work; she readjusts her  wings, observing me with with bulbous eyes. Lightning strikes, and there is a deafening pop as a transformer explodes. For a moment it creates an azure sun outside, and casts curious shadows through my room. In the corridor the lamp light is squelched, and then ignites emergency lamps in scarlet hues as the diesel generator sputters to life and idles. A deafening clackson alarm begins to wail.
I am not aware of this at first; obsessing over my catch. Her form is ******, deadly. Something deep within me stirs at the very site of her. Revulsion? Ecstasy? From my reverie I am stirred by the clanging of doors and staccato laughter in the crimson glow of the storm lights. In a moment I am resolved and I slide the paper from the opening and cover it with my hand. Now footsteps. She senses me and reels in instinct. Without hesitation she draws herself tight as a bow string, poised to ****** the hypodermic stinger into the warm pink flesh of my palm. Quicker than thought she strikes piercing, seemingly to the bone she injects poison. Down the ward doors are slid open and the sound of radio chatter plays toward me. I am engrossed, in bliss as my arm begins to numb. Five times then Nine times she spears me with the barb. My heart beating so hard in my chest that I am sure the orderlies must hear it. Then I hear a burst of static and a sing-song reply of phonetic alphabet followed by my room number. I grasp her delicately from the specimen cup with my thumb and forefinger as she stings me with prejudice beneath the nail bed and cuticles. I cast her through the air hole in my window and quickly lie upon my bed before the door is unlocked. A man in white scrubs and a five o'clock shadow opens my door and pierces me with two steel blue eyes. "You should be asleep." "Get some rest, we will have the lights back on in no time." I smile my head swimming with post adrenal bliss. When suddenly I hear the droning of wings. A sea of raging hornets sounding ominously in the small cell. A black cloud pours through the airhole, countless chittering wings encompass the orderly in a poisonous storm cloud. With vengeance they sting, his eyeballs his hands, his throat. All swelling with purple nebulas of poison. In his mouth they crawl and down his throat. Efficiently suffocating him in mere moments. Then they quiet. All at once they flock to me, walking on my pale naked flesh caressing me with millions of antennae. They do not sting, instead they are still. Their crescent shaped bodies vibrating,  like a cat purr against my cold skin. I put my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing hilariously, and I shudder hardly containing the joy. Then I pick up the radio clipped to the orderlies pants, and pull the 18 inch telescoping  steel baton from the holster belted at his waist. I click the PTT and speak into the radio. Epsilon Wing Cell 005 Accounted for, Over Quintar beep followed by a burst of static and a reply. I cover my mouth to suppress another fit of hysterical laugh. I step barefoot over his body and onto the cold tile of the ward; spinning the heavy keyring on my finger

dreaming of drinking and grinding up smoke
laid-back and laughing while having a ****
summernight fireflies flash through my head
while i doze through delirium snug in my bed
with summer's lost loves and old friends gathered 'round
we play and we love as the stars settle down
the night sky above paints a portrait of grace
and we lie on our backs and we soar into space
we fly free, we are young, we have nothing to fear
and our latest new love whispers red in our ear
those words we've been waiting forever to hear
and we are back on the earth with our dearest held near
the world's just right now, in our favorite arms
as fingers trace skin, weaving delicate charms
to love and to lust in the grass under sky
open wide to the world and to gods passing by
we sing out our paeans to pleasure and loss
we have yet our whole lives still left to exhaust
and there's nothing for us in this world but our need
each for the other in word and in deed
we roll in the grass and we burn up our hearts
'til we're lost in each other and coming apart
one in the other we dance in our sins
and the juice of all summers drips sweet down our chins
awake in my bed, i was them, now i'm me
and that mythical summer i'm longing to see
now forever is gone, but these visions remain
of a dream of lost love sought forever in vain

I lie stretched out upon the window-seat
And doze, and read a page or two, and doze,
And feel the air like water on me close,
Great waves of sunny air that lip and beat
With a small noise, monotonous and sweet,
Against the window -- and the scent of cool,
Frail flowers by some brown and dew-drenched pool
Possesses me from drowsy head to feet.

This is the time of all-sufficing laughter
At idiotic things some one has done,
And there is neither past nor vague hereafter.
And all your body stretches in the sun
And drinks the light in like a liquid thing;
Filled with the divine languor of late spring.

Two humps
Spurt on my back.
       A slaving,
       bone dry camel
I am
in this feverish desert of the night.
Through this ocean of
                                sand,
maroon sky, and
Black Sun
I crumble and crawl.  

My mammoth-teeth filled mouth
aches for a droplet of what
seems is mere ether
                                     here in my
hobgoblin realm.
My thorn spiked hooves
slip,
slip,
through the colossal, monumental mountain waves.

In a thirsting,
   ******* crave,
I lay on a cold patch
and I feel,
feel my hands, I catch a breath
that
isn't chundered
with dust, and I doze off.

But my master and God
   has a loathing for the
sloth, so he sends his Black
Sun to smoulder my carcass
             and he strings for
Two humps
to spurt on my back.

In the Hot Summer

The sun mounts high
It blazes down on the floors
The children scurry by
Everyone has to be indoors

All the plants are adust
Temperature rises by degrees
Mulch thobs by gust
Wind is sighing in the trees

The men carpet mats
Lying in shodow they doze
Pests are the buzzing gnats
They deprive them of repose

Buffaloes let out gasp
Sheep squabble over water
On brims birds clasp
And each other they slaughter

A hot wind inflicts harms
Dust is carried by whirlwinds
Boys rush into farms
Eat up melons and leave rinds

Water begins to boil
Every drop ends up in smoke
It is the sons of soil
Who burn in heat and go broke

This is no less drought
Months ahead is the rain
Yet Karanj stands out
Blossomed in thirsty terrene.

S. Bharat

They have watered the street,
It shines in the glare of lamps,
Cold, white lamps,
And lies
Like a slow-moving river,
Barred with silver and black.
Cabs go down it,
One,
And then another,
Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.
Tramps doze on the window-ledges,
Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.
The city is squalid and sinister,
With the silver-barred street in the midst,
Slow-moving,
A river leading nowhere.

Opposite my window,
The moon cuts,
Clear and round,
Through the plum-coloured night.
She cannot light the city:
It is too bright.
It has white lamps,
And glitters coldly.

I stand in the window and watch the
moon.
She is thin and lustreless,
But I love her.
I know the moon,
And this is an alien city.

'Sweet dreams!' they said
'Yes, you can sleep,
Darling, rest your little head.
The world's a scary, scary place
That's sometimes filled with dread.'
Sweet dreams I dreamt
With pretty homes
And people seem so happy
The smiles bright
And no more tears
Had it really looked so sadly?
But when I woke
I woke to find
The people all too shabby
Such little smiles, all the tears
It never looked so sadly.
'Sweet dreams!' they sang
'Oh, you'll be fine,
The sounds will ring out loud
And in those dreams that you can hear
The voices will be proud.'
Sweet dreams I dreamt
Of voices clear
And angels singing high
They sat above the treetops
On white clouds in the sky.
But when I woke
I woke to find
The voices all too scary
The singing gone, the chorus lost
And sounds no longer merry.
'Sweet dreams!' They showed
'No need to fear!
The pictures, how they move!
Look at all the gorgeous light,
It's coming from the moon.'
Sweet dreams I dreamt
Of shining clouds
And stars above my head
The angels sleep, they doze and gaze
And sleep on angel beds.
But when I woke
I woke to find
The moon no longer there
All the angels couldn't sleep
And people didn't care.
Sweet dreams I dreamt
I heard and saw
The people all so clear
Turns out some dreams are really not
What they should be here.

"Oh yes, I went over to Edmonstoun the other day and saw Johnny, mooning around as usual! He will never make his way."
Letter of George Keats, 18--


Night falls; the great jars glow against the dark,
Dark green, dusk red, and, like a coiling snake,
Writhing eternally in smoky gyres,
Great ropes of gorgeous vapor twist and turn
Within them. So the Eastern fisherman
Saw the swart genie rise when the lead seal,
Scribbled with charms, was lifted from the jar;
And -- well, how went the tale? Like this, like this? . . .

No herbage broke the barren flats of land,
No winds dared loiter within smiling trees,
Nor were there any brooks on either hand,
Only the dry, bright sand,
Naked and golden, lay before the seas.

One boat toiled noiselessly along the deep,
The thirsty ripples dying silently
Upon its track. Far out the brown nets sweep,
And night begins to creep
Across the intolerable mirror of the sea.

Twice the nets rise, a-trail with sea-plants brown,
Distorted shells, and rocks green-mossed with slime,
Nought else. The fisher, sick at heart, kneels down;
"Prayer may appease God's frown,"
He thinks, then, kneeling, casts for the third time.

And lo! an earthen jar, bound round with brass,
Lies tangled in the cordage of his net.
About the bright waves gleam like shattered glass,
And where the sea's rim was
The sun dips, flat and red, about to set.

The prow grates on the beach. The fisherman
Stoops, tearing at the cords that bind the seal.
Shall pearls roll out, lustrous and white and wan?
Lapis? carnelian?
Unheard-of stones that make the sick mind reel

With wonder of their beauty? Rubies, then?
Green emeralds, glittering like the eyes of beasts?
Poisonous opals, good to madden men?
Gold bezants, ten and ten?
Hard, regal diamonds, like kingly feasts?

He tugged; the seal gave way. A little smoke
Curled like a feather in the darkening sky.
A blinding gush of fire burst, flamed, and broke.
A voice like a wind spoke.
Armored with light, and turbaned terribly,

A genie tramped the round earth underfoot;
His head sought out the stars, his cupped right hand
Made half the sky one darkness. He was mute.
The sun, a ripened fruit,
Drooped lower. Scarlet eddied o'er the sand.

The genie spoke: "O miserable one!
Thy prize awaits thee; come, and hug it close!
A noble crown thy draggled nets have won
For this that thou hast done.
Blessed are fools! A gift remains for those!"

His hand sought out his sword, and lightnings flared
Across the sky in one great bloom of fire.
Poised like a toppling mountain, it hung bared;
Suns that were jewels glared
Along its hilt. The air burnt like a pyre.

Once more the genie spoke: "Something I owe
To thee, thou fool, thou fool. Come, canst thou sing?
Yea? Sing then; if thy song be brave, then go
Free and released -- or no!
Find first some task, some overmastering thing
I cannot do, and find it speedily,
For if thou dost not thou shalt surely die!"

The sword whirled back. The fisherman uprose,
And if at first his voice was weak with fear
And his limbs trembled, it was but a doze,
And at the high song's close
He stood up straight. His voice rang loud and clear.


The Song.

Last night the quays were lighted;
Cressets of smoking pine
Glared o'er the roaring mariners
That drink the yellow wine.

Their song rolled to the rafters,
It struck the high stars pale,
Such worth was in their discourse,
Such wonder in their tale.

Blue borage filled the clinking cups,
The murky night grew wan,
Till one rose, crowned with laurel-leaves,
That was an outland man.

"Come, let us drink to war!" said he,
"The torch of the sacked town!
The swan's-bath and the wolf-ships,
And Harald of renown!

"Yea, while the milk was on his lips,
Before the day was born,
He took the Almayne Kaiser's head
To be his drinking-horn!

"Yea, while the down was on his chin,
Or yet his beard was grown,
He broke the gates of Micklegarth,
And stole the lion-throne!

"Drink to Harald, king of the world,
Lord of the tongue and the troth!
To the bellowing horns of Ostfriesland,
And the trumpets of the Goth!"

Their shouts rolled to the rafters,
The drink-horns crashed and rang,
And all their talk was a clangor of war,
As swords together sang!

But dimly, through the deep night,
Where stars like flowers shone,
A passionate shape came gliding --
I saw one thing alone.

I only saw my young love
Shining against the dark,
The whiteness of her raiment,
The head that bent to hark.

I only saw my young love,
Like flowers in the sun --
Her hands like waxen petals,
Where yawning poppies run.

I only felt there, chrysmal,
Against my cheek her breath,
Though all the winds were baying,
And the sky bright with Death.

Red sparks whirled up the chimney,
A hungry flaught of flame,
And a lean man from Greece arose;
Thrasyllos was his name.

"I praise all noble wines!" he cried,
"Green robes of tissue fine,
Peacocks and apes and ivory,
And Homer's sea-loud line,

"Statues and rings and carven gems,
And the wise crawling sea;
But most of all the crowns of kings,
The rule they wield thereby!

"Power, fired power, blank and bright!
A fit hilt for the hand!
The one good sword for a freeman,
While yet the cold stars stand!"

Their shouts rolled to the rafters,
The air was thick with wine.
I only knew her deep eyes,
And felt her hand in mine.

Softly as quiet water,
One finger touched my cheek;
Her face like gracious moonlight --
I might not move nor speak.

I only saw that beauty,
I only felt that form
There, in the silken darkness --
God wot my heart was warm!

Their shouts rolled to the rafters,
Another chief began;
His slit lips showed him for a ***;
He was an evil man.

"Sing to the joys of women!" he yelled,
"The hot delicious tents,
The soft couch, and the white limbs;
The air a steam of scents!"

His eyes gleamed, and he wet his lips,
The rafters shook with cheers,
As he sang of woman, who is man's slave
For all unhonored years.

"Whether the wanton laughs amain,
With one white shoulder bare,
Or in a sacked room you unbind
Some crouching maiden's hair;

"This is the only good for man,
Like spices of the South --
To see the glimmering body laid
As pasture to his mouth!

"To leave no lees within the cup,
To see and take and rend;
To lap a girl's limbs up like wine,
And laugh, knowing the end!"

Only, like low, still breathing,
I heard one voice, one word;
And hot speech poured upon my lips,
As my hands held a sword.

"Fools, thrice fools of lust!" I cried,
"Your eyes are blind to see
Eternal beauty, moving far,
More glorious than horns of war!
But though my eyes were one blind scar,
That sight is shown to me!

"You nuzzle at the ivory side,
You clasp the golden head;
Fools, fools, who chatter and sing,
You have taken the sign of a terrible thing,
You have drunk down God with your beeswing,
And broken the saints for bread!

"For God moves darkly,
In silence and in storm;
But in the body of woman
He shows one burning form.

"For God moves blindly,
In darkness and in dread;
But in the body of woman
He raises up the dead.

"Gracile and straight as birches,
Swift as the questing birds,
They fill true-lovers' drink-horns up,
Who speak not, having no words.

"Love is not delicate toying,
A slim and shimmering mesh;
It is two souls wrenched into one,
Two bodies made one flesh.

"Lust is a sprightly servant,
Gallant where wines are poured;
Love is a bitter master,
Love is an iron lord.

"Satin ease of the body,
Fattened sloth of the hands,
These and their like he will not send,
Only immortal fires to rend --
And the world's end is your journey's end,
And your stream chokes in the sands.

"Pleached calms shall not await you,
Peace you shall never find;
Nought but the living moorland
Scourged naked by the wind.

"Nought but the living moorland,
And your love's hand in yours;
The strength more sure than surety,
The mercy that endures.

"Then, though they give you to be burned,
And slay you like a stoat,
You have found the world's heart in the turn of a cheek,
Heaven in the lift of a throat.

"Although they break you on the wheel,
That stood so straight in the sun,
Behind you the trumpets split the sky,
Where the lost and furious fight goes by --
And God, our God, will have victory
When the red day is done!"

Their mirth rolled to the rafters,
They bellowed lechery;
Light as a drifting feather
My love slipped from my knee.

Within, the lights were yellow
In drowsy rooms and warm;
Without, the stabbing lightning
Shattered across the storm.

Within, the great logs crackled,
The drink-horns emptied soon;
Without, the black cloaks of the clouds
Strangled the waning moon.

My love crossed o'er the threshold --
God! but the night was murk!
I set myself against the cold,
And left them to their work.

Their shouts rolled to the rafters;
A bitterer way was mine,
And I left them in the tavern,
Drinking the yellow wine!

The last faint echoes rang along the plains,
Died, and were gone. The genie spoke: "Thy song
Serves well enough -- but yet thy task remains;
Many and rending pains
Shall torture him who dares delay too long!"

His brown face hardened to a leaden mask.
A bitter brine crusted the fisher's cheek --
"Almighty God, one thing alone I ask,
Show me a task, a task!"
The hard cup of the sky shone, gemmed and bleak.

"O love, whom I have sought by devious ways;
O hidden beauty, naked as a star;
You whose bright hair has burned across my days,
Making them lamps of praise;
O dawn-wind, breathing of Arabia!

"You have I served. Now fire has parched the vine,
And Death is on the singers and the song.
No longer are there lips to cling to mine,
And the heart wearies of wine,
And I am sick, for my desire is long.

"O love, soft-moving, delicate and tender!
In her gold house the pipe calls querulously,
They cloud with thin green silks her body slender,
They talk to her and tend her;
Come, piteous, gentle love, and set me free!"

He ceased -- and, slowly rising o'er the deep,
A faint song chimed, grew clearer, till at last
A golden horn of light began to creep
Where the dumb ripples sweep,
Making the sea one splendor where it passed.

A golden boat! The bright oars rested soon,
And the prow met the sand. The purple veils
Misting the cabin fell. Fair as the moon
When the morning comes too soon,
And all the air is silver in the dales,

A gold-robed princess stepped upon the beach.
The fisher knelt and kissed her garment's hem,
And then her lips, and strove at last for speech.
The waters lapped the reach.
"Here thy strength breaks, thy might is nought to stem!"

He cried at last. Speech shook him like a flame:
"Yea, though thou plucked the stars from out the sky,
Each lovely one would be a withered shame --
Each thou couldst find or name --
To this fire-hearted beauty!" Wearily

The genie heard. A slow smile came like dawn
Over his face. "Thy task is done!" he said.
A whirlwind roared, smoke shattered, he was gone;
And, like a sudden horn,
The moon shone clear, no longer smoked and red.

They passed into the boat. The gold oars beat
Loudly, then fainter, fainter, till at last
Only the quiet waters barely moved
Along the whispering sand -- till all the vast
Expanse of sea began to shake with heat,
And morning brought soft airs, by sailors loved.

And after? . . . Well . . .
The shop-bell clangs! Who comes?
Quinine -- I pour the little bitter grains
Out upon blue, glazed squares of paper. So.
And all the dusk I shall sit here alone,
With many powers in my hands -- ah, see
How the blurred labels run on the old jars!
***** -- and a cruel and sleepy scent,
The harsh taste of white poppies; India --
The writhing woods a-crawl with monstrous life,
Save where the deodars are set like spears,
And a calm pool is mirrored ebony;
***** -- brown and warm and slender-breasted
She rises, shaking off the cool black water,
And twisting up her hair, that ripples down,
A torrent of black water, to her feet;
How the drops sparkle in the moonlight! Once
I made a rhyme about it, singing softly:

Over Damascus every star
Keeps his unchanging course and cold,
The dark weighs like an iron bar,
The intense and pallid night is old,
Dim the moon's scimitar.

Still the lamps blaze within those halls,
Where poppies heap the marble vats
For girls to tread; the thick air palls;
And shadows hang like evil bats
About the scented walls.

The girls are many, and they sing;
Their white feet fall like flakes of snow,
Making a ceaseless murmuring --
Whispers of love, dead long ago,
And dear, forgotten Spring.

One alone sings not. Tiredly
She sees the white blooms crushed, and smells
The heavy scent. They chatter: "See!
White Zira thinks of nothing else
But the morn's jollity --

"Then Haroun takes her!" But she dreams,
Unhearing, of a certain field
Of poppies, cut by many streams,
Like lines across a round Turk shield,
Where now the hot sun gleams.

The field whereon they walked that day,
And splendor filled her body up,
And his; and then the trampled clay,
And slow smoke climbing the sky's cup
From where the village lay.

And after -- much ache of the wrists,
Where the cords irked her -- till she came,
The price of many amethysts,
Hither. And now the ultimate shame
Blew trumpet in the lists.

And so she trod the poppies there,
Remembering other poppies, too,
And did not seem to see or care.
Without, the first gray drops of dew
Sweetened the trembling air.

She trod the poppies. Hours passed
Until she slept at length -- and Time
Dragged his slow sickle. When at last
She woke, the moon shone, bright as rime,
And night's tide rolled on fast.

She moaned once, knowing everything;
Then, bitterer than death, she found
The soft handmaidens, in a ring,
Come to anoint her, all around,
That she might please the king.

***** -- and the odor dies away,
Leaving the air yet heavy -- cassia -- myrrh --
Bitter and splendid. See, the poisons come,
Trooping in squat green vials, blazoned red
With grinning skulls: strychnine, a pallid dust
Of tiny grains, like bones ground fine; and next
The muddy green of arsenic, all livid,
Likest the face of one long dead -- they creep
Along the dusty shelf like deadly beetles,
Whose fangs are carved with runnels, that the blood
May run down easily to the blind mouth
That snaps and gapes; and high above them there,
My master's pride, a cobwebbed, yellow ***
Of honey from Mount Hybla. Do the bees
Still moan among the low sweet purple clover,
Endlessly many? Still in deep-hushed woods,
When the incredible silver of the moon
Comes like a living wind through sleep-bowed branches,
Still steal dark shapes from the enchanted glens,
Which yet are purple with high dreams, and still
Fronting that quiet and eternal shield
Which is much more than Peace, does there still stand
One sharp black shadow -- and the short, smooth horns
Are clear against that disk?
O great Diana!
I, I have praised thee, yet I do not know
What moves my mind so strangely, save that once
I lay all night upon a thymy hill,
And watched the slow clouds pass like heaped-up foam
Across blue marble, till at last no speck
Blotted the clear expanse, and the full moon
Rose in much light, and all night long I saw
Her ordered progress, till, in midmost heaven,
There came a terrible silence, and the mice
Crept to their holes, the crickets did not chirp,
All the small night-sounds stopped -- and clear pure light
Rippled like silk over the universe,
Most cold and bleak; and yet my heart beat fast,
Waiting until the stillness broke. I know not
For what I waited -- something very great --
I dared not look up to the sky for fear
A brittle crackling should clash suddenly
Against the quiet, and a black line creep
Across the sky, and widen like a mouth,
Until the broken heavens streamed apart,
Like torn lost banners, and the immortal fires,
Roaring like lions, asked their meat from God.
I lay there, a black blot upon a shield
Of quivering, watery whiteness. The hush held
Until I staggered up and cried aloud,
And then it seemed that something far too great
For knowledge, and illimitable as God,
Rent th

Light dims
They doze
They have to be wide awake

The poems of life are sui generis
She wanted to bloom like a happy chrysanthemum
She didn't find happenstance
She's forgotten fascinating covetousness


Miscalculation happens
They're between Scylla and Charybdis
An infernal situation
Barbarism grows up in this so-called civilization

just so tired
of being mired
in the endless fatigue
that works in league
with the utter exhaustion
that makes me feel lost in
the ruthless lethargy
that keeps on charging


just need some shut eye
so desperately, but I
can't catch up on rest
settled into my nest
breathing slow and deep
still can't fall asleep
counting sheep in droves
but unable to doze


instead ironically
I lay here chronically
stuck wide awake
unable to shake
the conscious mind's grip
unable to slip
into the world of dreams
escaping what seems
the waking mind's prison
as insomnia, risen
to almighty omnipotence
flexing its eminence
wards off all the threats
that maybe would let
this body start healing
and this mind stop feeling

so tired
of being mired
in the endless fatigue
that works in league
with the utter exhaustion
that makes me feel lost in
the ruthless lethargy
that keeps on charging

without end

insomnia strikes again

And in the whitest dark I
Ask for only that
To keep
Me there, for just the span of
Your snowglobe smile
That aftershock nightlight in the
Afternoon heat
Wait for me there
With your bayonet heart
Hands
Shoulders
Beneath the powerline
Wire, asleep but for me
Awake but for
The rest
And doze after
Half-light dreams and
Headrush spotlights that
Blur and
Mar my
Little love frame
Bright night air, fill
Every niche
Till whole is all
And all is this

"You need this...
Just let your mind relax..."

My body keeps telling me
As I sit here
My eyes drooping
As my mind goes fuzzy

Fighting the urge
To take a snooze
Is no easy task
Because you'll usually lose

But I must do it
The thoughts in my head
Will just become more livid
If I let myself slip unconscious

Because although thoughts flash
Across the mind
When they turn to dreams
It's a continuous stream

But maybe I can doze
For just five minutes?
No I can't
Because it won't end there

I must stay awake
It's the only choice
At least the one that makes
The most sense

But alas, it's no use
It's overpowering yet again
I'll close my eyes, and go to sleep
Just to wake up again

This time maybe
My mind will take flight
And show what I want
Not what I fear.

Quiet is your wrath, little cat. Marsupial-eyed, impassive,
You sit like Rhadamanthus on his terrible throne.
We beneath your crouching glare are
Burdened by your malice—
As you lose interest
In us and
Doze.

Kaitelka; Whale Mongolic down, first whale which said syndrome, evidenced by their presence, as didgeridoo, as spitting but more hypersonic, hyper cetacean moving his tail, Burguete funds, learned to swim faster than anything, but the Nautilus, not He paid attention to his mother in his care skills, but bad luck that can befall if not moderate their exalting and allergic omitted cases to obey.

So all blue, but little Kaitelka, seeking friendship among their peers, but he put  a tambourine limit gave him leftovers and liked more than a day a thousand years of perfect instincts. So step aside by the fire, and dodged the deafening roar of nymph Satinga; the most ancient senator of the headpiece, always full on its plateau of ******* hydrochloride that resistance, if they pass a thousand years and I do not understand these pairs, I adjusted my engine, but to no avail me, my instincts are diluted and slim as downpour edges left by the wayside in infants and solfa. That Jesus Light was said behind the screen rainbow arch, he takes her hand to Kaitelka, and back by the outer estuary, they attack by instinct ministry of evil.

Mildew petrified oaks, disorients the abject warty troughs the disordering of the genetic instinct, if I have to pause my essence, I leave in the hands of Joshua stone from beyond. Where the ticket is worth more to me, but I get the same. Where evil knows well, but tasteless well. Underground, underwater., Kaitelka take any more, wheels come and go, instinct taking shredding herbs near the sea, no longer separates me more. Bright the famous day that rebukes my dreams rather than a whole, plastering, or monument flash highborn of Mongolic loves whales, classless or inheritances acquired record. Kaitelka and in gratitude to accompany my walk, to the junction of Lisbon, walking from room to room, to begin the pilgrimage, his steps were Glup, Glup like a pretty varmint, over the hills she is beginning to the descritery of Satinga, or rather the descritery of Sapiens Hommo, rummaging instinct of love today, then unloved. Native forests make pairings, but separate links non-energy cataclysms, similar to the new alliance valley radial wave, tuned cetacean sonar power can be glimpsed.

The Ministry of Evil is no end to the retrospective marvel at Noe, Isaac or Abraham, or Luther King, is the delayed form of unsettled muscle primo Evo madding to neo Evo updated, and neither bells sound the same, as reboot gray phthisis diseases degenerate and synthetic. The instinct to put your hands into the fire will be lost ..., so more pace to the back of them cutting the seas in arithmetical divisions, if commend my antidepressants depressive relatives, caress the sea in each constipated solstice, I go every night with daisies in my hands defying every cliff, every cave turned into a tavern, killing instinct, when the brain is nothing, sprayed kerosene on stage, to see my beloved before he dies of a blowgun.  

Joshua Stone and Bernardolipus in a crossroad, spin the grazing, the black sheep, is barren, its classic label of Segregated debased soul, but defecated humanoid comment sing out of tune the territory themselves.  Three-step, three-way, Joshua embraces Bernardolipo. Welcome starts. Satinga you slice ferns and wild beast, vomits both diazepams swallowed, do not sleep, dreams transpose half orb. Halos, half halos, iridescent arcades, and warm breezes, must preamble Donated high liking. Soft and warm look, I do not lose my plate potato near my belly, warm adobe cellar. Nymph Satinga of reaction in reaction out of tune and the highlights midwife psoriasis for its reddish dermis by a fungus worming. The re instinct starts to chew his skull, dread end of the border. The cookies Lord is sending us on napkins.

Pre urbane figure born, they appear a hundred suns, so the crowd out who has the audacity to reveal the discrete enigma, the puzzle while the floor moves the seizure ... all stunned waiting for the flash Ritual to start the preliminary stage, the paradigm of unshelled trees, tough tables roll by the church at the foot of flowers crocuses scrolls flat estate. For the baptistery inscrutability warmth your network back double halo on the moon, scrub that level. Abyss where I fall near aspire to the coachman, I go away over time from heaven minute no second in hours where the avalanche of time lose my look to hold any deity that does not prevent the tendency to lose those not facing front, a day like this you do not walk any shadow, nor the Horcondising I would like to Santorini. The Borker wrongheaded, burning a cigar in rib Kaitelka, it provides a stunning scream as the end of the world, giving birth to the sky his beautiful breeding, as a good omen to present to the crowd in the Octagon and pleased transit day often fruity crestfallen fig.  

Adelimpia,  Strongly taken the and Thunder Aunt, washed in the backroom their aprons with Christmas, whose magical and enlightening sense, they were the Three Wise Princes, sons of the same kings of Israel. Sitting on some cobs, heritages from last wheel spikes. On warm evenings mantra Baba Nam Kevalam, I do not stay alone without others to see this magical high flood flow mention aversion in pontificates, necessary, pal meal with wine apocalyptic pale rider, Napoleonic soldier dethroned.

Thousands of hectares grassland in loving with heavenly muddy, as adhering to the force of Sorcery Camphor to move everything to the midnight launch eclipse. Thousands of hectares squirts do not possess any extension ratio, giddiness master eye, losing possession. What is Slice is Caren Lagoon, which is Alhué Village is Polulo mountain near the place, what Pichi of Barrancas... Out of my roles temple or regulators, as night plans still dating Jack, with overall equidistant to all orphan girl lost in the jungle inbenign . Cutting room of breath begins threshing., afar put the trays, and poor saint not to attend, this clever move, all atheists bruised, stiff and deprived of the worst failure smoothness, it´s the earth not plowed,                    
              
Dreams whistles hills ... Ghosts and spurs  ... Elegy opaque optical floors, all at Aunty Thunder dream the same...

If you can call night, inland sea waves have to educate infant’s tsunamis, they live among geological forces off the coast of scudding clouds of ... where she cuts through. Where our conscience, should play down a Machiavellian zero to roll it to the belly of the whale down. Their heavy udders milk, as long as a wild bird dueled, mounted in their beards, but the bird slips for his little body often and disadvantaged, to fall into the enzyme flash neuron meditatively; aspiring meditatively. While tsunamis grow, the mountains grow, decreases Hommo sapiens, conscience, he has left, minus zero exiled to the **** pony pens, to create their neighborhood over the eyes of a pupil of warty lameness. Reborn storm, stately power, Nymph Hetaira, who seduces the ringer smith, golden horseshoe, pal new millennium. His no longer harp, sewing lips ant, threading needles Grandma milking herbs get a grotto, families abandoned, shrill understatement by the echoes of the West, for you my Transients soliloquy turbid straightening of holistic aqueous molecules who want to sleep in my hands.

Good beverage, good consciousness nursery. Sleepily he walks by the barbed wire of stupid sort of busybody in thickness bolognese, or bandoneon, pilaster grandson male, to Vizcaya sailing or North Toscana, where after a barricade, Piedmont jumps to the south under Pichi.

They are falling water molecules on Maitén tree, or Tomato Adelimpia bow, and on the fibrous and head hair grass grandmamma Anna. Junks greet Bernardolipo, which was fishing with his wounded eyes, but the rub his mouth on the back of Kaitelka, calcium verve in carrousel turned. Line up the right hand, bottled lady Juana, he stretched to crush cilantro, but no ... or both...

Reigns for ?, to allocate a stop along the way, West Side Story Pichi. We are a few steps from misting dawn of propionate Stoics lash the oppressed people, clear water, singing  ... neuron in neuron, the cell last neuron, with the bow remained foul-mouthed, to shuffle, or Kawashkar Chilean Indian the slice of the leg, looking shoe children who roam the street without a blanket. They close their eyes, tears of shame. Here you are ecstatic stiffs arrows bows, feathers swaying in edgings shields tangled, hordes of haggard eyes flamed flames that no impudence and, which limp to a scoundrel that stuns resistant to fall on the sand. Show your dream, that dream bathe.

Continues the fierce Primor, falls brochures from red heaven fall prayers stammering to advance on this land saga, fall rustic donatives of grandmamma Mayor of coelum, Joshua insomniac in his tabernacle, defoliating his tome skip and jump down the estuary, before every misstep, holy water to step, a smile the Loica rural place Or a caress to the cheek moon in the arms of a blackbird, manacled to a rasp, stove teapot levitating top where grandmamma Adelimpia wheezes. Hail Mary ever ******, the other day, I heard that in September, flapping fall on Fiddler praise, perhaps mediate, for bad talking, founder of my undying love of life joined empty verbs on clovers where I to live forever, pre, pre paella prize moaning on my shoulder osteoarthritis crucifying collapsed tree. Nightmare builds a ship to reach Legion Mary. Centerfold, guns, howitzers, dissident’s ovaries ... final pages, declamatory winds ... perhaps agonizing leg expectantly... Or delusional feet of premature mortality, which brought pray to heaven, earth ... at soon I have to forget. The earth gives me the cheese, and bread sandwiching it goes...

Between him and earth coelum I doze my motive piece body, my shepherd Beetle Maximilian of Auschwitz sprayed me holy water the Vistula, I kneel down my hinges, and my hands for pray by pure attained effort, ***** great feat, who believes fall the abyss, and just below the earth tremulous, bell, first-throat yawning, loose cassock sounds a rainy morning, falling in the forest priority to see all morning, brimming with couplets of snow.

Continue to fall aqueous molecules, Kaitelka divides the estuary waters. Sheets of – Talami rural high lawns and wise water, South of  Pichi. Follow the dream, and just needed to uprighted the cabin, roaring gallop, wake up tomorrow morning sweaty dancing aqua, font of Lourdes, the four simultaneously open their headlights eyes, unblinking as echoes swimming duck feeding their young in the obsidian lagoon. Rock palafitte a piece of coal painted black each carriage serene, going from the Cantillana Mountain. Blasphemes morning fall roe bellowing wind annoyed tongue, windless striding through the window, thunderbirds mistress thousand flanks, now mount the besieged strands of colloidal solid. Elegy, opaque optical dreams, and drovers days nearsighted, soon saved our lives...

The never End.

I watched him light up a cigarette behind the bleachers during lunch break, as I always did.  I examined the way he drew it to his lips and wrapped them around the filter so softly, but strong and sultry at the same time.  I could see through him; deep into his soul.  This is one of the perks of being so distant, and observant of others.  It’s not like I’m some loser with no friends, I prefer to be alone.  Why go sit with a bunch of people you can’t stand just so you don’t have to go through the “embarrassment” of sitting alone?  Well I say ***** that!  I’d much rather be by myself listening to the music that they’ve never heard of¸ watching them scurry shamelessly trying to be well liked by others.  
Anyhow, even his name sets him apart from the others: Chase Marcum.  He’s got the perfect combination of characteristics to make him tool of the century, but he’s not; he’s actually like me.  I want to go up and talk to him some time, but since he is like me, he’d probably just brush me off, assuming I was one of the people that I, that we, despise.  The lunch bell rings, and everyone trickles back into the building for more unwanted learning; everyone except Chase of course.  No lunch bell can tell him to stub out his cigarette.  He smokes it down until there is only one centimeter left to the filter.  
He strolls into class five minutes late and the teacher doesn’t even say a word.  I wish I could be untouchable like that.  As Mrs. Hammond drones on about the inner-workings of a cell, I sink into the inner-workings of my imagination.  I doze off and begin to dream about Chase.  I’m in the hallway and one of the lovely bullies of Remington High decides to stick their foot out just enough so that I can’t see it to prepare for the fall to my doom.  He walks away while still looking at me, pointing and laughing.  Everyone joins in, until Chase comes along and sticks his foot out just enough for the bully to topple down a small flight of stairs.  That made everyone laugh a lot harder.  
       He helps me pick up my books, and we walk outside for lunch, together.  Once we get to his bleacher spot, he smokes while I bite deep into my apple.  We converse about anything and everything that can be covered in twenty-five minutes.  When the bell rings, everyone leaves –  everyone except for us.  We become silent, our eyes locked onto each others.  He begins to caress my cheek and to speak to me, but there is no sound coming out.  I’m being ripped back to reality by the worst thing I could possibly hear: somebody shouting “Check it out, Taylor’s got a *****!”  OH. MY. GOD.  For the rest of my high school “experience” I’m gonna be that kid that got a ******* in science class.  Everyone was laughing at me, even the teacher, and I was just numb.  
        It seemed like an eternity before the laughter stopped; with the voice of what I thought was an angel.  I snapped back into it the moment I realized that my angel was Chase: “Hey guys give the kid a break, it’s not his fault Mrs. Hammond is so ****!”  I guess she was kinda ****… if you’re into that.  At least nobody knew what I was actually dreaming about.  This remark made Mrs. Hammond become furious.   She sent him to the principal’s office and me to the nurse.  We grabbed our bags and departed, together.  I didn’t know what to say.  What does someone say in a situation like this?  I just averted my eyes from him so I didn’t make things even more awkward than they already were.  After a brief silence save a few half-giggles, I got the moment I had been hoping for – Chase broke the silence:  “What, not even a thanks?”
        “Uh, sorry… I mean thank you.  It means a lot that you didn’t laugh at me.”
       “Well... I laughed a little on the inside, because you gotta admit, it is pretty ridiculous.  But that could happen to anybody and it’s just rude to point and laugh.  Plus it’s bad karma.”  I wasn’t sure if I should be offended by the fact that he laughed.  I guess it actually was “pretty ridiculous” though.  God I love that word.  Well I guess in the future when I think about this day, I can laugh a little along with the wanting to die feeling.  We approached the hall that led to the principal, secretary and nurse’s offices, but Chase went in the other direction.  “Where are you going?” I asked.  
       “I’m not going to the principal’s office for doing what’s right.  Wanna ditch with me?”  
I normally wouldn’t skip out on class, but before I could even begin to contemplate the consequences, I agreed.  One of the most embarrassing and traumatic incidences in my life happened just minutes before, but I was walking on air.

I'm not sure how to put it into words
But counting all these sheep
That travel in many herds
Won't aid me in drifting off to sleep
Although my eyelids threaten to close
And the yawns never seem to cease
It seems every time I nearly doze
When I'm all cozy in a blanket of fleece
An image of you flashes in my mind
And jolts me wide awake
And I can't seem to unwind
So please, for my sake
Tell me, darling, that you love me
Or even simply that you care
Because I'm riddled with uncertainty
And it's truly unfair
That you lie sound asleep at night
Blissfully unaware in your bed
No worries or cares in sight
While I'm awake with you in my head.

sleep crumpled,
doe eyed and snuggly,
little mr just about four, climbs up into the big old bed.
his tousled, towheaded blonde curls bouncing
and plants a smearing, smooching kiss on my lips, before climbing into the middle bit of the bed,

the bubba spot.

then bestowing the same loving brand on da's lips
and wriggling like a fish,
he makes himself....
comfortable.

king of the bed

and hums himself back
to sleep.
we look at each other,
over his nodding head
and smile.

he is the gift ,
we did not know
we wanted,
but are so very glad,
we recieved
and we marvel at him daily. this bit, of you and me and god.
we doze all three,  
and the blucat beside
a knot of happiness and love,
in the big old bed.
contentment,
nestles, rich within our hearts
our minds at peace
together again.

The Morning starts with sleepy eyes
Fragrance floats on summer wind
Beneath the covers sorry sighs
Life is short, in death to end

The Noon is time for all to grow
Fragrance floats on summer wind
And sunlight hides the world’s shadow
Life is short, in death to end

Afternoon grows long and weary
Fragrance floats on summer wind
Every answer adds a query
Life is short, in death to end

Evening finds the sun now setting
Fragrance floats on summer wind
To use twilight for forgetting
Life is short, in death to end

In the Night the eyes will close
Fragrance floats on summer wind
For undetermined time to doze
Life was short, this is the end.