War paint I always found unnecessary:
Gloss for manicured lipstick commercial princesses
Not of my kind.

And though I walk with shield, I am without armour:
Ramparts mere cheekbones,
Bare skin impressionable as snow.

Boot-print,
The mark I hated. My characters:
Frail tree rings, exposed to the chill night air.

Gold inlay frozen solid.
The fairly bound dream factory
Lies purple with melancholy.



It’s the world’s bruise. It colours sudden,
Shadowing the other side of the room
Where it paused, rare moth

Lighted upon my dark reflection,
A Mona Lisa dressed in black
And reminiscent of bobby sox.

Beauty without fanfare.
Stuff of woods: we do not glitter.
We don’t call out.

Our tongues are both dumbstruck bells.
Shy rabbits, we fold within ourselves
And sequester our secret pulp.

CHAPTER ONE: THE DEMISE OF A YOUNG GIRL SEPTEMBER 1975


I had not seen my father in over two years when he showed up at my mom and step dad's condo. He had a slick knack of disappearing when laws were broken and he was wanted for questioning. He had an even better ability to re-enter when the heat was off.

My father owned three nightclubs in Oklahoma City. His first was the Silver Sword, and then he opened The Red Slipper. After he met his second wife, they together, opened the Jade Club.

All were successful, but the Red Slipper had a reputation. On a rare occasion, my dad would take me with him to open up the place. At first, it scared me. It was so dark in there. But as the lights came on behind the bar, I fell in love with the atmosphere.

Bobby Orr’s hockey stick hung on the wall, along with an endearing note from F. Lee Bailey. At six years old, all I knew was that they were the objects that made my dad beam.

I learned to play pool by standing on a phone book. I watched the colorful smacking ***** bounce around the most beautiful color of green I had ever seen. Chalking the stick was a chore, but after nearly poking my eye out once, I soon caught on.

It was a struggle to climb up on a barstool, but it was worth the effort. I sat at the bar and had lunch: popcorn, pretzels, peanuts and Pepsi.

As I grew older, I saw less and less of him, until he became a stranger, drifting in every once in awhile.  Every few weeks or so, I would come home from school, and see his car in the driveway.

This always shot fear and excitement through me. The air of unpredictability always made me want to ***. Unfortunately, most of the time, we were locked out of the house for a few hours, so I would have to *** in the back yard or at the neighbors. We waited on the stairs for the front door to open. And it always did, by my mom. She usually looked satisfied and serene but other times, I saw dread and sadness on her face.

Ever since I could remember, my dad had been a string of disappointments for me with a few indescribable moments of pure enjoyment mixed in between He could be kind, funny and like a real dad sometimes, that was the dad I missed. I tried to hold onto those experiences, even though he was such a mean ******* most of the time. But mostly, I just didn't know him.

Their divorce became final around the summer of 1972, but that didn't stop my mom from loving him. I don't know why, but she chased him frequently, going out to bars with her friends, trying to get a glimpse of him, and maybe more.

The last time I’d seen my father had not been pleasant. When I was thirteen, he broke down the door to our apartment and went straight to my mother’s bedroom. The noises were terrifying. The screaming, and punching sounds were followed by my mother’s whimpering, begging, groveling.

"How dare you do this to me, Patsy!? And behind my back! You could have at least told me!"

My dad had bailed himself out of jail that night. She promised him she would never seek alimony or child support again. Her lawyer was wrong. It wasn’t worth getting killed over.  

Shortly after, he had to leave the state. It had something to do with a low-level mob deal involving an insurance fraud. Too bad, it involved burning a building with someone in it. My dad became nothing but a memory, which faded away over time.

**

Alcohol and tobacco were constants in my family, so when my older brother, Tim, started smoking at ten years old, I don't remember much protest from anyone. I was seven and when my sister Abby, turned ten the next year, she also started smoking.  All the older kids were smoking cigarettes. I wanted to be cool, so I puked and coughed as I practiced. By the time I was ten, I too, was inhaling properly.  Around that time, I was introduced to *** by my sister's boyfriend. It did help my mood, somewhat, but it wasn't enough.

By 1974, I was using drugs from my sister’s boyfriend. John was a true drugstore cowboy. At first, he committed burglaries, which were easy at the time. There were no sophisticated electronics to stop someone from cutting a hole in the roof of a pharmacy. It took only minutes to pry open the safe that contained the narcotics. Then it took maybe another minute to fill a pillowcase full of every variety of amphetamines, barbiturates, valiums, etc.

It wasn’t long before I graduated to using morphine, ******* and then overdosed on Demerol. My stepfather sent me to a treatment facility in Tulsa Oklahoma, about one hundred miles away from Oklahoma City. The Dillon treatment center didn’t accept clients under age of sixteen but made an exception with me. I was a walking-talking disastrous miracle...or a miraculously saved disaster.

They figured that since I was fourteen, the sooner the better to start my road to recovery. Apparently, they didn’t condone sneaking *** and valiums in to the facility. I was kicked out of Dillon after about a month.

I came back home and laid low. I went back to Hefner Jr. High and enrolled back into the ninth grade. I quietly picked up where I left off, going back into business with John. My job was to sell the safe stuff; valiums, seconols, white bennies, ***, etc.


Summer came; I turned fifteen and had developed a tendency to over test my wares. I overdosed and nearly died in the hospital several times, which had led to my current predicament. Nobody knew what to do with me.

In August, I entered the tenth grade...for two weeks. I was expelled, (you guessed it) for dealing drugs. I was on homebound teaching twice a week with little supervision. My mother worked, my step-dad, **** ,worked, and I was home all day. However, I was not just sitting idly around. I was into enterprise.

**

In September, I overdosed again. I was quickly killing myself and my mother didn’t know what to do to stop it. That is why what happened was not my mother’s fault. But it wasn’t my fault either.

I never figured out how he knew where we lived. My mother moved over at least fourteen times in between the time I was six and twelve years old. Yet, here he was, at our front door, with his undeniable ‘ah shucks’ charm. His modesty was convincing. His timing was incredible. My mother stood frozen, her mouth agape. **** took the lead. He placed himself between my mother and father.

“You must be Gary Don, my name is ****; I’m Patsy’s husband." **** had never met my dad, but he'd heard enough about him to surmise who was standing at the door.

"Um, yeah, I'm Gary Don, it's nice to meet you ****", he said; as he offered a friendly hand shake to ****.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you, I was just in Duncan with my parents and they suggested I stop by and talk with you before heading back west. It's about Susie....

"Yes, Patsy said you called yesterday. We weren't expecting you this soon, but it's no problem. Why don't you come in and tell us what your plans are? Patsy, honey, would you mind putting on a *** of coffee?”

This unfroze my mother and she scurried to the kitchen. I was still in shock at seeing my dad’s face. I retreated to the staircase, but poked my head around and caught him glance at me. I flew up to the landing. I could easily escape up the rest of the stairs to my bedroom.
I was small enough to remain hidden on the landing, and heard the conversation between my mother, my dad and ****. **** was the classiest, most even-tempered adult I had ever encountered. I wished I could stop hurting him and my mother.  

My mother sat down two cups of coffee on the dining room table where my dad and **** sat. As she retreated a few steps back into the kitchen, **** politely probed my dad. My dad had the right answer for every question.

He swore he was a completely different person. He had changed. He had no hard feelings, instead he was back to help. He was remorseful for being an absent father and he wanted to make things right. He was back for a reason. He had heard that I was in trouble with drugs and school and he felt guilty for that. He had the answer to my problems. He was so convincing, so….humble, almost shy.

As I listened, I began freaking out with fear and excitement. I always wanted my dad. The last time I tried to live with him, it didn’t work out; he sent me back to my mother’s after a month. Now my dad wanted me! He wanted to save me, take care of me!

He lived by himself now. He was the manager of The Palace Restaurant/Hotel in the little town of Raton, New Mexico. It was a refurbished hotel, built over a century ago The ground floor was an elegant bar and restaurant. He was making very good money, he paid no rent and he had an extra room for me.

With a population of 6000, it was not a place to continue a lucrative drug business. Also, he would enroll me into the little high school and I could get my diploma. I could work in the restaurant in the evenings where he would keep his eye on me. Then, there was the horse. He would buy me a horse. And on and on and on.

The logic and sincerity of his argument was convincing. So there it was. An hour later, my bags were packed. I was going to live with my father in New Mexico.

That’s how in September 1975, my father whisked me away from my home in Oklahoma City, under the guise of saving me from my own demise. I was stolen and held captive in Raton, New Mexico for what seemed like forever.

My dog, Baron was coming with me, I refused to go anywhere without him. He was a tiny black and tan Dachshund. I got him free when I was fourteen, when I got back from Tulsa. To me, he was priceless. He was my best friend. He couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds, but his heart was huge.

I talked to him about everything and he consoled me by nodding, and licking me on the cheek non-stop…or he would admonish me through his expressions and demeanor. I had lived with Dachshunds since I was seven, so understood their language pretty well. Baron understood humans better. We developed a rare communication that worked well for both of us.
Herman, our older dachshund had greeted my dad cordially. Baron couldn’t figure this out, he expressed his apprehension. He looked at me and conveyed,

“Well, if Herman isn’t worried, I guess it’ll be Okay, right? Right, Susan?”

I was sorry I didn’t have an honest answer. I did my best to settle him.

“Sure, this’ll be fun, a whole new adventure!”

As we drove West, toward the Texas panhandle, Baron kept the conversation going by his curious interest expressed by wide eyes and attentive ears. My dad amazed him with his knowledge of history, geography, geology, astronomy, world geo-politics, weather, music on the radio, literature, mechanics, religion and countless other topics. I knew he was faking his fascination with my dad. He knew he was doing me a favor.

There was not a dead moment in the air. An occasional “really?” expressed by me was enough to keep my dad’s mouth running. I was thankful for that. It kept my attention away from my jangle of emotions. As we drove through the night, I was conflicted, scared, excited, happy and worried. I didn’t know where I was going, or who was driving me there.

My dad’s jovial demeanor comforted me. He made The Palace sound like the perfect place for his little princess.

When we arrived, it was late, after 10pm., Baron was exhausted. I stood on the corner and looked up. I gulped. The three-story building was like an old gothic castle. It was a huge rectangle with the front corner cut back with a fifth wall about ten feet wide. This provided the entrance with two giant oak doors. Baron was less than enthused by its foreboding appearance. I had to agree.

Dad ignored my hesitation. “Come on, you’re going to love this place!”

He pulled open one of the oak doors, which had to weigh at least five hundred pounds. I was hesitant, but thirsty. Baron’s squirming had started to annoy me. I went forward filled with adrenalin.

The initial entrance was a small round foyer with a domed ceiling of cut glass. It was about six feet round. As I stared up at the beautiful little pieces of color, I heard my dad chuckle.

“See? I told you, there’s no place like this!”

Then I saw the true entry to the bar, a set of small bat winged doors that swung back and forth. He pulled one of the doors back, beckoning me forward. He looked down at me with a tender expression.

“Welcome home, honey, this is home now.”

As we entered the bar, I was dumbstruck. Baron was not. I stepped back in time, to 1896, into The Palace Hotel.

The bar took up half of the first floor of the hotel. It was the most captivating centerpiece of the establishment. The mirror behind the bar was the longest continuous piece of reflection glass in all the states, the brochure proclaimed. A brass foot rail extended the length of the long cherry oak bar A few feet behind was a waist high railing just like the saloons in old John Wayne movies.

The carpet was a deep royal red interlaced with black swirly patterns. Bright golden paper covered the walls. It was smooth and shiny with raised curly designs made out of felt or maybe even velour. God, I just wanted to reach over and run my fingers across it!  

The wall opposite the bar had windows that were quizzically narrow and impossibly tall. Lush maroon velvet drapes adorned them, parted in the center to provide a view of the quaint town just beyond the sidewalk.

I looked up at the ornate ceiling, which seemed a mile above me. It was covered with tiles of little angels that all looked the same, yet different. The angels danced across the entire ceiling until it curved and met the wall. I got dizzy looking at them.

“You can’t find ceiling tiles like that anywhere! My dad grinned. “They’re covered in pure gold leaf!”

I didn’t know what pure gold leaf was, but the word ‘gold’ impressed me very much.

He introduced me to the staff. I l blushed when he said; “This is Susie, my favorite little girl!” I had never heard that before. The whole crew greeted me warmly, all smiles and friendliness.  

I always paid attention when Baron got nervous but I chose to ignore him. I jostled him in my arms. My stern look at him stopped his squiggling, but his look back conveyed that I was clueless.

I, however thought, Okay, I have died and gone to Heaven! I was enchanted. My fascination with this magical setting made me feel happy; I was in the neatest place I had ever seen. I’m going to love it here!

On the first night, my dad led me around the ground floor. The restaurant was as elegant as the bar. To the rear of the restaurant, there was a large commercial kitchen. Off the rear of the kitchen, he showed, me a short hallway to the back exit. To the right, a huge staircase led to the two upper floors of dilapidated hotel rooms. A manager’s apartment had been converted from several hotel rooms connected together on the second floor, just above the entrance to the hotel.

We ended up back in the bar and sat at a table for two. Crystal, the head bartender stayed on for a little while longer after the rest of the staff were allowed to go home.

Sitting at the table, he ordered Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry. I had never had Cream Sherry before, but it tasted like candy with nuts and I had no problem going through numerous rounds in a very short time. I was hungry but I was too nervous to eat.

Baron, however, was ravenous. My dad fed him little pieces filet mignon and French bread with real butter. He played cute for my dad, sitting up and begging. He jumped up, putting his paws on my dad’s leg, wagging his tail like crazy.

I was a little befuddled until I caught his sideways glance that said, “I do not like this guy, but I gotta eat, I’m starving. You’re the one falling into his into his trap, not me.”

Ouch. “Baron, sometimes I wish you would shut the hell up.”

After having his fill, he settled into a wary sleep on top of my feet. I never worried about losing Baron. Where I went, he went, period.

I wasn’t aware when the bartender left. The bottle was on the table before I knew it; he kept my glass full. I was five feet tall and weighed 106 pounds. I had a lethal level of alcohol pulsing threw my entire body…and I had my daddy.

I was in a haze. Actually, it was more of a daze than a haze. My vision was

Remember, that chaos first was a primordial deity,
Chaos; the nothingness from which all else sprang
headfirst and heartfelt,
half-naked and handsome,
hook, line and... halibut.

All of this,
every measurable moment,
every particle,
every object set forth in motion
sprang from a void so harmoniously
as if the absence of everything was kissed
sudden
by the presence of something.

Often depicted with wings, a bow, and a quiver of arrows,
Cupid, son of Venus - goddess of love,
son of Mercury - god of trade,
his story,
almost identical in Greek and in Roman
mythology,
his story, about a couple of gods
who seem so inherently human by nature,
jolted by jealousy,
dumbstruck by beauty,
hellbent on immortality,
his story has been hallmarked
as red hot velvet rose petal fine wine
and symmetrical hearts.
Wrapped in tin foil red ribbons
bitter-sweetly sugarcoated
dipped in thin layer of chocolate
taste-tested and lover approved.

Remember that scene in Hook
where Tinkerbell leaves her footprints on Peter's chest,
well that's you and that's me--
touch me where my heart beats
because I don't ever wanna be a lost boy.
I wanna grow up like a good bedtime story
with morals
and purpose,
I wanna have meaning.

You might say that Cupid found himself.
You might say that Psyche found her soul.
You might say that Tinkerbell was just faking it--
with the clapping.
Truth is, we can never know the whole story--
the complete truth.
Problem is, we think we can
and act like we do.
So the only time we mean what we say
is the first time we say it,
every utterance thereafter is just an attempt
at recreating a moment.

I love you
is a paraphrase
that deserves three separate ellipses
because there's a lot left unsaid.

I (distinctively remember shadow-boxing with)
love (against a star-dotted sky anchored to a
moonlight so vibrant it can only be compared to)
you (and your tidal waves).

And that's where I fell
headfirst and handsome.

I (was punched-drunk by a kiss so breathless
that it spiked my dopamine to a volume
that can only be described as) love
(in that every time my neurotransmitters feel) you
(they spin themselves dizzy and dance to your science).

There was a moment in the absence of everything
when I was kissed silent by the presence of something.

Hold me to your breastplate.

I don't ever wanna go back to the void.



*02/09/2010

CHAPTER ONE: THE DEMISE OF A YOUNG GIRL SEPTEMBER 1975


I had not seen my father in over two years when he showed up at my mom and step dad's condo. He had a slick knack of disappearing when laws were broken and he was wanted for questioning. He had an even better ability to re-enter when the heat was off.

My father owned three nightclubs in Oklahoma City. His first was the Silver Sword, and then he opened The Red Slipper. After he met his second wife, they together, opened the Jade Club.

All were successful, but the Red Slipper had a reputation. On a rare occasion, my dad would take me with him to open up the place. At first, it scared me. It was so dark in there. But as the lights came on behind the bar, I fell in love with the atmosphere.

Bobby Orr’s hockey stick hung on the wall, along with an endearing note from F. Lee Bailey. At six years old, all I knew was that they were the objects that made my dad beam.

I learned to play pool by standing on a phone book. I watched the colorful smacking ***** bounce around the most beautiful color of green I had ever seen. Chalking the stick was a chore, but after nearly poking my eye out once, I soon caught on.

It was a struggle to climb up on a barstool, but it was worth the effort. I sat at the bar and had lunch: popcorn, pretzels, peanuts and Pepsi.

As I grew older, I saw less and less of him, until he became a stranger, drifting in every once in awhile.  Every few weeks or so, I would come home from school, and see his car in the driveway.

This always shot fear and excitement through me. The air of unpredictability always made me want to ***. Unfortunately, most of the time, we were locked out of the house for a few hours, so I would have to *** in the back yard or at the neighbors. We waited on the stairs for the front door to open. And it always did, by my mom. She usually looked satisfied and serene but other times, I saw dread and sadness on her face.

Ever since I could remember, my dad had been a string of disappointments for me with a few indescribable moments of pure enjoyment mixed in between He could be kind, funny and like a real dad sometimes, that was the dad I missed. I tried to hold onto those experiences, even though he was such a mean ******* most of the time. But mostly, I just didn't know him.

Their divorce became final around the summer of 1972, but that didn't stop my mom from loving him. I don't know why, but she chased him frequently, going out to bars with her friends, trying to get a glimpse of him, and maybe more.

The last time I’d seen my father had not been pleasant. When I was thirteen, he broke down the door to our apartment and went straight to my mother’s bedroom. The noises were terrifying. The screaming, and punching sounds were followed by my mother’s whimpering, begging, groveling.

"How dare you do this to me, Patsy!? And behind my back! You could have at least told me!"

My dad had bailed himself out of jail that night. She promised him she would never seek alimony or child support again. Her lawyer was wrong. It wasn’t worth getting killed over.  

Shortly after, he had to leave the state. It had something to do with a low-level mob deal involving an insurance fraud. Too bad, it involved burning a building with someone in it. My dad became nothing but a memory, which faded away over time.

**

Alcohol and tobacco were constants in my family, so when my older brother, Tim, started smoking at ten years old, I don't remember much protest from anyone. I was seven and when my sister Abby, turned ten the next year, she also started smoking.  All the older kids were smoking cigarettes. I wanted to be cool, so I puked and coughed as I practiced. By the time I was ten, I too, was inhaling properly.  Around that time, I was introduced to *** by my sister's boyfriend. It did help my mood, somewhat, but it wasn't enough.

By 1974, I was using drugs from my sister’s boyfriend. John was a true drugstore cowboy. At first, he committed burglaries, which were easy at the time. There were no sophisticated electronics to stop someone from cutting a hole in the roof of a pharmacy. It took only minutes to pry open the safe that contained the narcotics. Then it took maybe another minute to fill a pillowcase full of every variety of amphetamines, barbiturates, valiums, etc.

It wasn’t long before I graduated to using morphine, ******* and then overdosed on Demerol. My stepfather sent me to a treatment facility in Tulsa Oklahoma, about one hundred miles away from Oklahoma City. The Dillon treatment center didn’t accept clients under age of sixteen but made an exception with me. I was a walking-talking disastrous miracle...or a miraculously saved disaster.

They figured that since I was fourteen, the sooner the better to start my road to recovery. Apparently, they didn’t condone sneaking *** and valiums in to the facility. I was kicked out of Dillon after about a month.

I came back home and laid low. I went back to Hefner Jr. High and enrolled back into the ninth grade. I quietly picked up where I left off, going back into business with John. My job was to sell the safe stuff; valiums, seconols, white bennies, ***, etc.


Summer came; I turned fifteen and had developed a tendency to over test my wares. I overdosed and nearly died in the hospital several times, which had led to my current predicament. Nobody knew what to do with me.

In August, I entered the tenth grade...for two weeks. I was expelled, (you guessed it) for dealing drugs. I was on homebound teaching twice a week with little supervision. My mother worked, my step-dad, **** ,worked, and I was home all day. However, I was not just sitting idly around. I was into enterprise.

**

In September, I overdosed again. I was quickly killing myself and my mother didn’t know what to do to stop it. That is why what happened was not my mother’s fault. But it wasn’t my fault either.

I never figured out how he knew where we lived. My mother moved over at least fourteen times in between the time I was six and twelve years old. Yet, here he was, at our front door, with his undeniable ‘ah shucks’ charm. His modesty was convincing. His timing was incredible. My mother stood frozen, her mouth agape. **** took the lead. He placed himself between my mother and father.

“You must be Gary Don, my name is ****; I’m Patsy’s husband." **** had never met my dad, but he'd heard enough about him to surmise who was standing at the door.

"Um, yeah, I'm Gary Don, it's nice to meet you ****", he said; as he offered a friendly hand shake to ****.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you, I was just in Duncan with my parents and they suggested I stop by and talk with you before heading back west. It's about Susie....

"Yes, Patsy said you called yesterday. We weren't expecting you this soon, but it's no problem. Why don't you come in and tell us what your plans are? Patsy, honey, would you mind putting on a *** of coffee?”

This unfroze my mother and she scurried to the kitchen. I was still in shock at seeing my dad’s face. I retreated to the staircase, but poked my head around and caught him glance at me. I flew up to the landing. I could easily escape up the rest of the stairs to my bedroom.
I was small enough to remain hidden on the landing, and heard the conversation between my mother, my dad and ****. **** was the classiest, most even-tempered adult I had ever encountered. I wished I could stop hurting him and my mother.  

My mother sat down two cups of coffee on the dining room table where my dad and **** sat. As she retreated a few steps back into the kitchen, **** politely probed my dad. My dad had the right answer for every question.

He swore he was a completely different person. He had changed. He had no hard feelings, instead he was back to help. He was remorseful for being an absent father and he wanted to make things right. He was back for a reason. He had heard that I was in trouble with drugs and school and he felt guilty for that. He had the answer to my problems. He was so convincing, so….humble, almost shy.

As I listened, I began freaking out with fear and excitement. I always wanted my dad. The last time I tried to live with him, it didn’t work out; he sent me back to my mother’s after a month. Now my dad wanted me! He wanted to save me, take care of me!

He lived by himself now. He was the manager of The Palace Restaurant/Hotel in the little town of Raton, New Mexico. It was a refurbished hotel, built over a century ago The ground floor was an elegant bar and restaurant. He was making very good money, he paid no rent and he had an extra room for me.

With a population of 6000, it was not a place to continue a lucrative drug business. Also, he would enroll me into the little high school and I could get my diploma. I could work in the restaurant in the evenings where he would keep his eye on me. Then, there was the horse. He would buy me a horse. And on and on and on.

The logic and sincerity of his argument was convincing. So there it was. An hour later, my bags were packed. I was going to live with my father in New Mexico.

That’s how in September 1975, my father whisked me away from my home in Oklahoma City, under the guise of saving me from my own demise. I was stolen and held captive in Raton, New Mexico for what seemed like forever.

My dog, Baron was coming with me, I refused to go anywhere without him. He was a tiny black and tan Dachshund. I got him free when I was fourteen, when I got back from Tulsa. To me, he was priceless. He was my best friend. He couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds, but his heart was huge.

I talked to him about everything and he consoled me by nodding, and licking me on the cheek non-stop…or he would admonish me through his expressions and demeanor. I had lived with Dachshunds since I was seven, so understood their language pretty well. Baron understood humans better. We developed a rare communication that worked well for both of us.
Herman, our older dachshund had greeted my dad cordially. Baron couldn’t figure this out, he expressed his apprehension. He looked at me and conveyed,

“Well, if Herman isn’t worried, I guess it’ll be Okay, right? Right, Susan?”

I was sorry I didn’t have an honest answer. I did my best to settle him.

“Sure, this’ll be fun, a whole new adventure!”

As we drove West, toward the Texas panhandle, Baron kept the conversation going by his curious interest expressed by wide eyes and attentive ears. My dad amazed him with his knowledge of history, geography, geology, astronomy, world geo-politics, weather, music on the radio, literature, mechanics, religion and countless other topics. I knew he was faking his fascination with my dad. He knew he was doing me a favor.

There was not a dead moment in the air. An occasional “really?” expressed by me was enough to keep my dad’s mouth running. I was thankful for that. It kept my attention away from my jangle of emotions. As we drove through the night, I was conflicted, scared, excited, happy and worried. I didn’t know where I was going, or who was driving me there.

My dad’s jovial demeanor comforted me. He made The Palace sound like the perfect place for his little princess.

When we arrived, it was late, after 10pm., Baron was exhausted. I stood on the corner and looked up. I gulped. The three-story building was like an old gothic castle. It was a huge rectangle with the front corner cut back with a fifth wall about ten feet wide. This provided the entrance with two giant oak doors. Baron was less than enthused by its foreboding appearance. I had to agree.

Dad ignored my hesitation. “Come on, you’re going to love this place!”

He pulled open one of the oak doors, which had to weigh at least five hundred pounds. I was hesitant, but thirsty. Baron’s squirming had started to annoy me. I went forward filled with adrenalin.

The initial entrance was a small round foyer with a domed ceiling of cut glass. It was about six feet round. As I stared up at the beautiful little pieces of color, I heard my dad chuckle.

“See? I told you, there’s no place like this!”

Then I saw the true entry to the bar, a set of small bat winged doors that swung back and forth. He pulled one of the doors back, beckoning me forward. He looked down at me with a tender expression.

“Welcome home, honey, this is home now.”

As we entered the bar, I was dumbstruck. Baron was not. I stepped back in time, to 1896, into The Palace Hotel.

The bar took up half of the first floor of the hotel. It was the most captivating centerpiece of the establishment. The mirror behind the bar was the longest continuous piece of reflection glass in all the states, the brochure proclaimed. A brass foot rail extended the length of the long cherry oak bar A few feet behind was a waist high railing just like the saloons in old John Wayne movies.

The carpet was a deep royal red interlaced with black swirly patterns. Bright golden paper covered the walls. It was smooth and shiny with raised curly designs made out of felt or maybe even velour. God, I just wanted to reach over and run my fingers across it!  

The wall opposite the bar had windows that were quizzically narrow and impossibly tall. Lush maroon velvet drapes adorned them, parted in the center to provide a view of the quaint town just beyond the sidewalk.

I looked up at the ornate ceiling, which seemed a mile above me. It was covered with tiles of little angels that all looked the same, yet different. The angels danced across the entire ceiling until it curved and met the wall. I got dizzy looking at them.

“You can’t find ceiling tiles like that anywhere! My dad grinned. “They’re covered in pure gold leaf!”

I didn’t know what pure gold leaf was, but the word ‘gold’ impressed me very much.

He introduced me to the staff. I l blushed when he said; “This is Susie, my favorite little girl!” I had never heard that before. The whole crew greeted me warmly, all smiles and friendliness.  

I always paid attention when Baron got nervous but I chose to ignore him. I jostled him in my arms. My stern look at him stopped his squiggling, but his look back conveyed that I was clueless.

I, however thought, Okay, I have died and gone to Heaven! I was enchanted. My fascination with this magical setting made me feel happy; I was in the neatest place I had ever seen. I’m going to love it here!

On the first night, my dad led me around the ground floor. The restaurant was as elegant as the bar. To the rear of the restaurant, there was a large commercial kitchen. Off the rear of the kitchen, he showed, me a short hallway to the back exit. To the right, a huge staircase led to the two upper floors of dilapidated hotel rooms. A manager’s apartment had been converted from several hotel rooms connected together on the second floor, just above the entrance to the hotel.

We ended up back in the bar and sat at a table for two. Crystal, the head bartender stayed on for a little while longer after the rest of the staff were allowed to go home.

Sitting at the table, he ordered Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry. I had never had Cream Sherry before, but it tasted like candy with nuts and I had no problem going through numerous rounds in a very short time. I was hungry but I was too nervous to eat.

Baron, however, was ravenous. My dad fed him little pieces filet mignon and French bread with real butter. He played cute for my dad, sitting up and begging. He jumped up, putting his paws on my dad’s leg, wagging his tail like crazy.

I was a little befuddled until I caught his sideways glance that said, “I do not like this guy, but I gotta eat, I’m starving. You’re the one falling into his into his trap, not me.”

Ouch. “Baron, sometimes I wish you would shut the hell up.”

After having his fill, he settled into a wary sleep on top of my feet. I never worried about losing Baron. Where I went, he went, period.

I wasn’t aware when the bartender left. The bottle was on the table before I knew it; he kept my glass full. I was five feet tall and weighed 106 pounds. I had a lethal level of alcohol pulsing threw my entire body…and I had my daddy.

I was in a haze. Actually, it was more of a daze than a haze. My vision was

aerial ladder truck, amok, amuck, awestruck, bad luck, black buck, black duck, bruck, buc, buck, by luck, canuck, chuck, cluck, cold duck, collet chuck, cruck, dabbling duck, delivery truck, diving duck, donald duck, druck, duc, duck, duk, dumbstruck, dump truck, dumptruck, fire truck, fish duck, fishbach, fluck, fslic, garbage truck, garden truck, get stuck, give ****, gluck, good luck, grucche, guck, hand truck, hockey puck, huck, hucke, icing the puck, ill luck, kachuck, kluck, kruck, kruk, kuc, kuck, kuk, ladder truck, lake duck, lame duck, laundry truck, luck, lucke, luk, mandarin duck, megabuck, moonstruck, mruk, muck, musk duck, naugatuck, nuque, panel truck, pickup truck, pluck, potluck, puck, queer duck, raybuck, roebuck, ruck, ruddy duck, schmuck, schtik, schuch, schuck, sculk, sea duck, shmuck, shuck, sitting duck, smuck, snuck, sound truck, starbuck, starstruck, struck, stuck, stucke, suc, ****, suk, summer duck, thunderstruck, trailer truck, truck, tuck, tuque, unstuck, vhsic, wild duck, wnuk, wood duck, woodchuck, wruck, young buck,chuck-a-luck, yuck, yuk, zuck, zuk

Chaos first was a primordial deity.

And I'm Ralph Wiggum on Valentine's Day.
Even if every girl in class gave me a card.
I still go home feeling less like Romeo.
Lying awake trying to make sense of
why their sugar just didn't taste so sweet .

Lying in bed like a nebula
waiting for all my stars to form.

Chaos
--the nothingness from which all else sprang
headfirst and heartfelt,
half-naked and handsome,
hook, line, and
halibut.

All of this.
Every measurable aspect of
every particle that makes up
every object set forth in motion
sprang from a void so harmoniously
as if the absence of everything was kissed
sudden
by the presence of something.

Often depicted with wings,
a bow, and a quiver of arrows--
Cupid
son of Venus--goddess of love
son of Mercury--god of trade
his story
almost identical in Greek and Roman
mythology.
His story about a couple of gods
so inherently human by nature
jolted by jealousy
dumbstruck by beauty
hellbent on immortality.

His story has been hallmarked
as red hot velvet rose petal fine wine
and symmetrical hearts
wrapped in tin foil red ribbons
bitter-sweetly sugarcoated
dipped in thin layer of chocolate
taste-tested and lover approved.

Remember that scene in Hook
where Tinkerbell leaves her footprints on Peter's chest?
Well that's you and that's me--
touch me where my heart beats
because I don't ever wanna be a lost boy.
I wanna grow up like a good bedtime story
with morals
and purpose.
I wanna have meaning.

You might say that Cupid found himself.
You might say that Psyche found her soul.
You might say that Tinkerbell was just faking it--
with the clapping.
Truth is
we can never know the whole story.
Problem is
we think we can
and act like we do.
So the only time we mean what we say
is the first time we say it.
Every utterance thereafter is just an attempt
at recreation.

I love you
is a paraphrase
that deserves three separate ellipses
because there's a lot left unsaid.

I (distinctively remember shadow-boxing with)
love (against a star-dotted sky anchored to a
moonlight so vibrant it can only be compared to)
you (and your tidal waves).

And that's where I fell
headfirst and handsome.

I (was punched-drunk by a kiss so breathless
that it spiked my dopamine to a volume
that can only be described as) love
(in that every time my nerve endings feel) you
(they spin themselves dizzy and dance to your science).

There was a moment
in the absence of everything
when I was kissed silent
by the presence of something.

Hold me to your breastplate.

I don't ever wanna go back to the void.



[2/09/10 - Revised 2/14/14]

O make me a mask and a wall to shut from your spies
Of the sharp, enamelled eyes and the spectacled claws
**** and rebellion in the nurseries of my face,
Gag of dumbstruck tree to block from bare enemies
The bayonet tongue in this undefended prayerpiece,
The present mouth, and the sweetly blown trumpet of lies,
Shaped in old armour and oak the countenance of a dunce
To shield the glistening brain and blunt the examiners,
And a tear-stained widower grief drooped from the lashes
To veil belladonna and let the dry eyes perceive
Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses
By the curve of the **** mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.

it will be, you know


1.
small bird
shivering

kind hand
covering

warmth
spreading

destined
for life


2.
her well-trained cats
at the door
         ants *always spared (!)
         on sill
         with sugared saucer
poultry in the yard
collecting deep-yolked eggs
         making gooseberry jam
and sweet, strong tea
with hot milk
just for me

she taught me inner grace
and the real meaning
of quietness
        just birds chattering away
        whistling wondrous
        in fig trees
laden with heavy fruit
awaiting her deft hands

how I loved her so

accounting exams
interrupted
in sixth grade
sorry
she's gone, dear
dumbstruck silence
          they ask
          why I'm not crying?


3.
kismet peeps in
to embrace you
and kiss your brow

you try to sidestep
and stub a toe
knock your head


in the end:
full-circle prayer


que sera...sera




S T, 28 June 2013

June 28, 2013.
    
Dear--no, this is not a diary entry, this is not a summary of the things I experienced today, this is not about how I felt when my crush said 'Hey', this is not about him or her, this is not about me.
    
Dear Cupid.
    
This is about you and your stupidity and idiocy, and your breathtaking suckery in archery, this is about how much I want to punch you in the face if you really exist, because of all the gods and goddesses the Greeks and Romans worship, you're the most vile of them all.

This is about how you whistled merrily down the street, completely unaware of everyone and everything around you, clutching your bow with an arrow nocked on its string, poised to strike.

This is about how you saw this girl who was indifferent to almost everyone and almost everything, this girl who never really cared, this girl who did not know love. This is about how you smirked to yourself and suddenly felt power surging through your veins, for you have found your target, this girl who always thought about everything and never let her heart decide, this girl who tried so hard to forget she can feel, this girl who never, ever loved, and was never, ever loved.

This is about how you felt everything slow down around you, how your sight narrowed down to the space between you and this girl, how your arrow yearned to be unleashed, to fly across the void that needed to be filled, to strike this girl who often forget she had a heart, this girl who needed to know love.
    
This is about how you pulled the bowstring to your cheek, felt the flecked feathers brush the bottom of your eyelids, saw nothing but this girl who forgot how to smile, this girl who never imagined you would set your sights on her, and this is about how your fingers set the string loose, set the arrow free, sent it soaring across the gap that you wanted to fill.

This is about the explosion of color in a gray room when the blade made contact with this girl's chest, this girl who went reeling back, stumbling back, so taken aback was she that the sudden fire in her ice-cold world rendered her blind and dumbstruck.

This is about how you snickered smugly to yourself because quite abruptly this girl was suddenly no longer indifferent, this girl suddenly cared, this girl remembered she had a heart--because it started beating too fast, it started screaming, it started living.

This is about how pleased you were you immediately set your bow and your arrows down, how you sighed in anticipation of an entertaining show, how you were so satisfied you instantly sat back and relaxed to enjoy the real life movie.
  
This is about how excited you were you forgot the most essential thing about your job.

You forgot to shoot the other one.
    
Dear Cupid.

You're such an *******.

But this is not only about you, this is not only about your folly, this is not only about your irresponsibility, this is not only about the wicked weapons you carry, because this is also about the one you forgot to shoot.

This is about him, and how I wish he could listen to the songs only I can hear, how I wish he knew I'm talking about him, how I wish that someone will somehow capture you, Cupid, so they can tie you to a stake and set you on fire, and maybe this feelings will hopefully dissipate along with the smoke into thin air.
  
This is about him, and how the sudden vibrancy of the colors around me disabled me almost completely. This is about him, and how his eyes suddenly seemed purer, his hair darker, his smile brighter. How I saw stars in the velvet sable of his irises, and I saw poems etched on his skin, words filling in the empty spaces inside him, the silence he wraps around himself a harsh barrier I can never bring myself to attempt breaking through.

This is about him, and the way every ounce of my awareness fixates on him every time he enters the room, and the way my heart flutters like a hummingbird's wings, singing a frantic, desperate melody of fear and panic and anticipation and everything dreadful contained in your arrows.
  
This is about him, and rainbows and sunshine and butterflies, and everything I've never known.
  
This is about how the girl who never knew love suddenly knew how love looks like. She knew the sharpness of his cheekbones, the angles along his jowls, the point of his chin. She knew the softness of his lips, the hardness of his jaw. She knew him a lot more than she wanted. She knew him intimately.

This is about him.

This is about the words I'll never have the courage to say, the poems I will never be able to write. This is about heartbreak and chocolates and long walks in the rain. This is about the tears I will never be able to shed, the smiles I forget to wear, the genuine laughter I always try my best to imitate.
  
And I lied, because this is also about me.
  
This is about me, and the lies I tell everyday. This is about gazing at the stars and wishing I could tack my fingertips on those bright pinpoints of light, wishing I could give my body to the sky, because having no body means not having to feel anything.
  
Dear Cupid.
  
If only you know what you've done. If only.
  
I would love to strangle you with my own two hands.
  
And maybe I'll forgive you for giving me this, the way I forgive him everyday for every hurt he gives me.
  
But this is not only about you, and this is not only about him. This is not only about me.
  
Because this is also about love.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” someone asks
“Their name’s Bea,” I reply
“I support that,” they hesitate
“You are so brave.” they add

I never saw their lips as a political statement
Nor did I think holding hands in the front seat
while a friend is puking by the side of the road
Was some kind of revolution

How romantic is it
That our story will be etched
Not in some Neruda poetry book
But a professor’s first textbook
Or a college student’s 2 am essay

When I said I was in love
You thought it meant I was hungry
Not for touch or for pleasure
But for justice and freedom
I didn’t know that
When I run my fingers down her neck
It would be tied to a long Twitter thread

I never saw my love as a battleground
A metaphysical exploration of sexuality
What’s Marxist about the way their eyes
disappear when they smile?
What’s so intersectional about
Our entanglement at the back seat
Or our hands holding in front

I never thought I would be so brave
At my most fragile state
So political
In my most dumbstruck ways
So woke
When I’m asleep in her embrace

The drops drip through the roof.
They’re just another reminder.
Of what might not be tomorrow.
Of what we might have to surrender.

Mother tells me not to go out in the rain.
I can’t play like the others.
I have to help her out,
Take care of my little brothers.

The twins’ fever is high,
And is refusing to fall.
Very unlike our cottage,
Our house, with no real walls.

My mother and I.
We dread the minute this abode will collapse.
I try to make the twins sleep,
But all they do is-point out in the door, huge gaps.

I wonder how long this will go on,
Rain, thunderstorms, lightning.
And most of all, worrying.
Honest to God, this is frightening.

The temperature outside falls,
And theirs’ rises.
And half the house crumbles.
Well, there’s a surprise.

Panicking, I turn to mother.
Who’s as dumbstruck as I.
What will happen to us four?
Will we…die?

I tug on her sleeve,
She looks at me helplessly.
I take one boy from her arms,
I can’t see her handling them so carelessly.

With no clue, Of what to do,
Of where to go.
I just have one thing to say.
Everything about the rain is not a rainbow.

* *

We knock on the doors,
The neighbours barely come out.
None of them takes us in,
Some apologize, some are indifferent, some even shout.

Our despair increases,
She’s bordering on hysterical.
We don’t know what to do,
Except…wait for a miracle?

The twins are burning,
I try to protect one under my arm.
I know it’s next to nothing,
But well, trying doesn’t harm.

The rain falls in sheets,
On my family it’s taking its toll.
Mother’s impractical, naive, and the twins oblivious.
I know then, I have to take control.

I make a steel resolve,
And start to move on.
I know we can’t afford,
For us both to be teary and torn.

Wordlessly, she follows my lead,
Maybe she thinks I know what to do.
But well, guess what?
I have not one clue.

I just march on,
To find a safe haven.
Just a roof for the night,
A shed, a garage, a warehouse, a tavern?

And preferably some medication, too.
For I can’t see the twins go down the same road,
As father did. No, not again.
Mother won’t be able to handle the load.

Tears pool in my eyes,
But I brush them away.
I cannot let emotions take control of me,
I have to after all, guide the way.

I silently pray to God.
To let me keep them safe and sound.
I wish the night would go by soon,
And by tomorrow, a shelter, we would’ve found.

And as I stride forward,
With no destination to go,
I again have just one thing to say.
Everything about the rain is not a rainbow.

*

I don’t know what time it is,
Two? Three? I know it's past midnight.
We’ve been trudging on and on,
And haven’t seen one welcoming light.

Yes. There were houses on the way.
Shelters.  Accommodations. Even hotels.
But we have no money, no food. No one let us in.
Even the tiniest little flicker of hope has gone to hell.

Mother asks me to wait up again,
She can’t keep pace with me.
Impulsively, I reach over and take the other twin, too.
And shout, “There you go! You’re free!”

She looks startled, like she didn’t see this coming.
Well, neither did I.
But, why can’t she understand?
We have to hurry. We might..die.

Life’s never been easy on us,
But this is one of its worst tricks.
And it’s only getting worse,
As the clock ticks.

On their sixteenth birthdays,
Most kids get dresses, watches, cars.
I got a broken home. Literally.
All I wanted was a bunch of wild flowers.

But well, it wasn’t meant to be.
This is my destiny, my fate.
I guess for my share of happiness,
I’ll have to wait.





In the distance, I see a flickering light.
Will this be..The One?
After what feels like centuries of darkness,
Will this be our Sun?

There’s something about it. Intuition?
My feet move faster, and so does my heart.
In my mind, there is conviction,
This will be a new start.

Vestigial fear grips me,
As I’m about to knock.
What if our last hope, last aspiration says no?
Not that it would be a colossal shock.

But I’d break down.
Emotionally, mentally, physically.
I’d pass the bridge of oblivion,
But it would hurt my family brutally.

I summon up strength,
And knock on the door.
Before she can access our condition,
We’re unconscious, and have dropped to the floor.


*


She healed us, took care of us,
Brought back the twins’ health, and smiles.
Gave us a new identity,
Away from the slums and garbage piles.

She says she’s a doctor,
But I think she’s more.
I reckon she’s an angel,
Who brought back life to us four.

She gave us health, freedom, life, hope.
She even gave me and Mother jobs.
For a change, Mother is happy too,
And no more in the night, do I hear her deep sobs.

We’re as happy as could be,
We got our version of a happy ending.
Every rain may not have a rainbow,
But every story has a miracle pending. :)

People who have beauty
Usually, have all the luck
While people who are smart
Always make a buck

People of importance
Invariably, have the ****
And people with persistence
Seem to have the pluck

But, people that are lazy
We usually call a schmuck
While the rest of us
Well.....no one gives a ****
WIZDUMBs BY JA 682

The Fiery Red Head

It is time to pay honor to one who doesn’t know it is do I begin from this point as all of us in a sense we
Are doing the same thing for me it is writing my way out yours is different but before I go I will have my
Say I realize I gave all my attention to her mother and father now it is time to shine the light on her
Reveal her inner and outward glory and beauty to do this and to make sense I have to lay a little ground
Work on how we met and ultimately what it meant as brief as possible I had a Simi normal life until I
Was five and my family left church you need paints from hell to paint the rest of my parents life we
Banged and stumbled along and then at twelve they divorced and all of a sudden my dad and I weren’t
A family in the eyes of those we rented from so they kicked us out and we ended up in a mine shack no
Sheet rock on the walls no ceiling no bathroom no heat after about a month the family had a meeting I
Was delivered from hell to heaven I went from sleeping under ten blankets to a sheet and light blanket at
His sister’s house what luxury then my mother bribed me by buying me a television to live with her folks
That where Judy comes in she lived down the street I already knew her because her brother and I was
Best friends but my move put me into a place ruled by two laws Willie’s law and Judy’s law I learned in
School supposedly the wave came about when you met someone long ago it was showing you had no
Weapon and that you were friendly well with Judy there was a different wave you instinctively put your
Hand behind you back feeling to see if anything would impede your escape put it this way you didn’t
Want to whirl around and run head first in to something and then fall back in her arms you heart could
Stop no problem she would scream and it would start in a hurry when you’re young your naturally stupid
Or one time I was told ignorant that means you just haven’t been taught yet anyway it sounds better but
First to show innocent stupid she and her sister Barb were pretty they sing about California girls Illinois
Isn’t full of woofers this isn’t a kennel well I was in the living room and barb goes back to her bedroom
She is back there about an hour she went back there just like always but as fate would have it I was
Moving across the floor and she walks out God she looked like she stepped out of a glamour magazine I
Didn’t know it but I was doing a Gomer impression not the aw shucks degum but I found out my mouth
Had fallen open barb looked at me and laughed and said what’s the matter I was dumbstruck Max
Factor and Barb hit a homerun that day that was good stupid but I followed my uncle in a sense he left
Home at thirteen and worked and lived with the local bootlegger I was basically on my own at fourteen I
Had to make decisions and find my way not always making the smartest moves that’s where Judy comes
In God made her with a sense of justice and what Washington doesn’t have the guts to take action she
Was never mean just for meanness sake but *****-up don’t worry I don’t know the avenging angel but I
Knew his helper people cry God is distant he is close at hand he puts people in your life so you don’t end
Up like my fiend Melvin we would listen to our dad’s story of the antics they pulled when they were
Younger this farmer the next day would try to top them he stole something from the store when the
Manager was looking at him and then chased him of the store each act of defiance made him more
Reckless worse than that it made him meaner I finally cut him loose I heard about him he walked into a
Liquor store pulled out a gun the store owner shot first he died on the operating table I had many helps
Getting to adult hood gentle souls were positioned along the way and tough ones when needed like Rex
Perry’s mom Roxanna she was a red head to but her rule was quiet and powerful midst storms for sure
But I took notice and I never forgot and there was tom’s mother another red head Elsie pretty and sweet
A true charmer I’m bring these folks up to Judy’s mind a little thrill for her special day Friday one
Last addition her neighbor Sara because of this special memory I don’t think Judy saw this I will share it
Now we were out at the end of Sara’s house snow was already falling but all of a sudden and I truly think
That if Heaven ever did disintegrate this would be the first evidence of it the flakes became big as silver
Dollars the sky filled with them they floated so softly and slow you were pulled skyward and you were
Allowed to float down with them a wonderland was forming before our eyes I said I would never forget
And I never have another precious memory from childhood and a great street just right for Christmas
Greeting and a happy birthday for a special friend thanks Jude making my life great have a great
birthday

I

Meeting the Maker

  Matvei Andreivich Stolovsky stood there, eyes glaring, completely slack-jawed; his entire being unable to absorb the reality of the event he'd just witnessed. 'It couldn't happen. Impossible.' he thought to himself, unable to speak. He'd seen the flash from across the street and almost instantly, he felt himself choking on a ******'s seven millimeter bullet.
He felt the sticky warmth slither down his neck; his hands began to tremble. Next, it was his knees. Less than a half second later, the tunnel vision came. Finally, the darkness of oblivion took complete possession of him.
  His limp body crashed into a tangled pile next to the American made leather chair he'd spent so many evenings in, planning, plotting, scheming, scraping, scratching, clawing, losing sleep at night, wondering if he'd done everything within his power to avoid this very occurrence. Now, here it was, the end. One by one, each of Stolovsky's hopes, dreams, and aspirations flowed freely from his body, exiting through the **** left by the ******'s bullet. All was lost; all of his work and worry, in vain; or, so it seemed.
  'I, I'm not...,' the words spun through his dying mind. He ceased to notice reality; he no longer felt the choking sensation in his throat; instead reality became the written words, 'I, I'm not...,' actually spinning inside his mind; which, at the present time, for an unknown reason, was colored as a cloud would be, with a pinkish-orange haze. These words, currently soaring effortlessly through Stolovsky's perception of consciousness, were balloon like in appearance, each and every color represented in some way, shape, or form; each pixel doing it's part to reproduce the amazingly beautiful, but horrifying images, revealing the true nature of humanity against the infinite pinkish-orange haze that never began, and never ends.
  I, I'm, the two commas, not, and even the ellipsis, who was there as well, shot up and down, spinning and swirling in every direction, flashing and snapping as they traversed the endless expanse of Stolovsky's new found purgatory.
  A few moments later, Stolovsky realized he was actually viewing this spectacle, the inside of his mind, as we've chosen to call it, in the third person. He watched what appeared to be himself floating through space towards his current vantage point. Matvei squinted his dark brown eyes to try and get a better look. 'Is that me?' he asked himself. 'I can't be in a good way there,' he continued; 'that is almost certainly bad.'
  As he made his observations, a cold northern wind began blowing violently, chilling what would've been his nose. 'Is it there?' Stolovsky thought to himself, startled. 'Could it be? Here and there, all at once?'
Then, without warning, the pinkish-orange haze oozed a deep, dreary red; and the written words, that so violently shared the truth of mans nature with Matvei, transmuted into a pack of ravenous dogs; howling and wailing, foaming at the mouth, as they began to tear each other to shreds. The flesh and blood flew in all directions; painful yelps, angry, threatening growls, and the sound of tissue being torn from the bone filled the air.
  The violence of the atrocity dripped from the mouths of the dead dogs and ran flowing across the expanse; the river of life unleashed, meandering through the empty vacuum until it began to swirl and pool at the feet of Matvei's double.
Stolovsky felt the sickness of the act wash over him, striking his presence in much same way as an angry ocean wave, bitter from it's long journey, unleashes it's pent up fury on the piling of an unfortunate fishing pier.
  Matvei's double was bound by his hands and feet; he was bleeding from the corner of his right eye. Stolovsky noticed how the double's crows feet dispersed a briskly flowing river of la sangre into thin streams of liquid ruby; some of them traveled over and into his ear, others ran flowing down his cheek before becoming nutrient, consumed by the roots of his tangled black beard. His shirt was tattered; the gaping holes revealed hideous wounds, partially obscured by the ***** blue linen still loosely draped around the double's upper-body. It was a nice sweater once, but no longer.
  The double screamed frantically, wrestling his wrists in a futile effort to free his hands of the burdensome chains fastened tightly around them. Realizing the hopelessness of the situation, Stolovsky's twin began laughing the laugh of a mad child; a child who has just seen something that no one else could ever know. Matvei felt the scent of freshly cut lilac drift through him; then, as suddenly as all it began, everything stopped.

  A woman's voice filled the air from every direction.

  “Well, now you've gone and done it, haven't you?” she spat. The voice was surprisingly present, though there was no apparent source. “Haven't you, you fool?” she continued.
Neither Stolovsky felt compelled to answer, so both remained silent. The auditory assault continued, “Answer me while you still have the pleasure of a tongue, Matvei!” The venomous sounds came as an echo, rippling up Stolovsky's spine in thunderous waves that seemed to penetrate to his very core, making what would've been the tiny black hairs on what would have been his thin, serpent-like neck, stand on edge.He knew not what to say to this invisible creature, so he maintained his silent vigil, hoping no further harm would come to him; his double followed suit.
  Stolovsky watched as his twin continued wrestling with his chains, apparently completely befuddled by all that he was experiencing. Who could blame him for being confused? This wasn't the type of situation folks typically find themselves in.
  The silence prevailed for a few more moments, until Matvei felt the smooth, cool, silk of her flowing robe as it danced on the cold wind of the north, lashing out every so often to lick him behind the ear or slither across the back of his neck. The vibration of the silk flowing through crisp, cool, air sent shivers bounding outwards across the landscape, causing poor Stolovsky to feel as though the very particles holding him together were being stretched to point of separation, then snapped back into place with a brutality that simply can't be captured with words.
  Matvei was petrified by these goings-on, and refused to even consider what unwholesome outcome may transpire should he turn to face this unholy presence; instead, he focused his attention to his double, who was staring back towards the image. Matvei struggled to read himself; his double appeared dumbstruck, like a man who has just realized that his whole heart belongs to an evil that terrifies him, yet simultaneously, it fills him with an unshakable love; the unrequited love that an unfortunate slave feels for it's tyrant.

Stumbling upon a wild profile,
Oh I felt so baffled, dumbstruck...
Just the look in her eyes,
Whispered hundreds of sweet stories..
Is she an enchantress??
Entrancing whoever looking at her?!?
Maybe it's her pure soul,
That attracts them all..

I donated my pride to a greater cause,
I gave away some honour to forget the loss
I won though, but lost integrity, nobility,
Selfish and not, now I crave invisibility.

to smile like that,
you ******* Cheshire cat,
your lips curled up
as you lounge in the grass,
your legs sprawled out,
your face painted every
shade of smug
because I want to kiss you
(and you know it)
because I want to **** you
(I hope you know that)
for ruining roundhouses
with weak knees
for turning my right hook
into my right hand on your chest
as you pull me in closer
you turned my (occasional) quick wit
into pure aphasia
brought on by your all-consuming gaze
and I'm left awkward and dumbstruck,
wondering who gave you the right
to look at me like *that

We screamed to be heard, marched to express our rage. To bleed with our fallen sisters, for I am her, and she is me. We all lived each other’s suffering.

The dust has settled now, quiet returned.
Yet I still can’t breath. I am still not safe.

I cry silently for my country. I no longer connect to her. My love and pride is only filled with disappointment. She has left me sad, and empty and afraid.

My son asked me, “Why do you refer to South Africa as a she?” I look at him dumbstruck, he continues, “Perhaps SHE has always been a HE!”

This realization is hard to swallow.
This... scares me half to death.

I can't describe
how it feels,
when I see you.

It's Like this world stops,
Time stops.
And I can't see anything,
but you.

Within this moment,
I'm in a different world altogether.
And I - I just go dumbstruck.
All I can do is just see you,
talk nothing - do nothing.

Within this moment,
I have no dreams, except one.
I have no wishes, except one.

And then the realization
Of you belonging to someone else.
Its like being hit by a thunderbolt
out of nowhere,
while enjoying the rainstorm.

There was no pain,
more beautiful.
No memory,
more intense.

It's all so weird,
but so normal.
It's so hurting,
yet so releiving.

And within this moment,
I try to find happiness.
It's Like only  a drop,
from the ocean.

Maybe that's all I can get.
But maybe that's enough.
As all I want now
Is to hold this moment forever.
And ever.

Someone, somewhere believes that they love someone in the same way I love you.
Someone, somewhere is watching their first movie together & are waiting in the queue.
Someone, somewhere is celebrating their first moment of holding hands.
Someone, somewhere is politely accepting the other’s whims and commands.  
Someone, somewhere is experiencing the rush of many butterflies twiddling in their stomach.
Someone, somewhere is kissed for the first time & is profoundly dumbstruck.
Someone, somewhere is being captivated by their thrilling dreams.
Someone, somewhere is waking up to screams.
Someone, somewhere is sharing their last kiss with the thought of no longer being together.
Someone, somewhere is wrapping their anniversary gift to spend many more years forever.
Someone, somewhere is watching an extraordinary sunset with no one by their side.
Someone, somewhere is cracking up, laughing on the stupid antics of a child.
Someone, somewhere is caught between falling in love with themselves and wishing they were someone else.
Someone, somewhere is packing their bags to see the world with someone else.
Someone, somewhere is dancing to ecstasy to the first text message of their crush.
Someone, somewhere is whispering sweet nothing’s to someone else. Someone, somewhere just blushed.
Someone, somewhere is staring at the peaceful face of the person sleeping by their side.
Someone, somewhere is awake the whole night to just watch this.
Someone, somewhere is pondering on the worth of their eyes, if it wasn't to see this.
Someone, somewhere is bleeding blank sheets, penning words that fail them.
Someone, somewhere just opened their eyes to a new landscape, a new sun.
Someone, somewhere is saying a new hello. Someone, somewhere is bidding an old goodbye.
Someone, somewhere is killing their flesh, their soul is with someone else.
Someone, somewhere is desperately wishing, craving with every petal of a red rose they throw, or tearing their eyelashes and renouncing it in the air, crossing the fingers of their left hand, then their right hand or stargazing on a starless night in a hope that a star will fall and they can pray for their some-one.
Someone, somewhere thinks they love someone else exactly like I love you.
*Someone, somewhere is entirely wrong.

When I look at your picture on our wall
Tears of love fill my eyes up to its brim.
Drags my empty mind to the sobering day.
On which I missed a portion of my heart.

Crowds kept coming & going.
Some wept their heart out.
I could hear curses upon fate,
for leaving  us alone.
Spiritual hymns dissolved in air of despair.
The sight of pale face made everyone frozen.

I stared at my mother's corpse,
as if I was seeing her for the first time.
I leaned on to my dad's shoulder
& held my sister in my arm.
I tried to fill the gap consciously,
but chords of insecurity wound around.

Funeral services began
Prayers and comforting songs filled the atmosphere.
At last the time  came,
which a child can ever ponder.
It could not be put to an end,
without a last kiss.

My feet stumbled as I crossed her legs.
On which  I stood to learn to walk.
I loved the way she used to pat my head,
when I lay on her lap.
I wish to be back in her womb,
because it was the most comfortable place
I ever had been.

I wanted to chuckle after biting her fingers,
when she fed me delicious meals.
I yearned to hear her heartbeat
& feel the warmth of cuddling.
I was dumbstruck when I saw her lips shut.
Her voice whispered in my ear.

I felt a soft caress on my nose,
as she used to pamper by touching her nose on mine .
My heart pounded with desire to see her eyes open
& to have a gaze at me.
I looked around for naughty things,
to make her eyebrows raise.

I touched on her forehead.
My lips trembled with immense love.
I bent down my head.
It was like waves kissing the shore.
I sensed a smile rippling on her face,
as she always did when I kissed her.

Today, I saw something.
Something that left me speechless.
And even to this moment,
I can’t get it out of my head.

In my Spanish class, there is a boy.
This boy is a Senior, and will be graduating in two days.
He isn’t very sociable, and I’ve only talked to him a few times.
But the teacher loves him like her own son.

The boy is a very unfortunate boy.
He wears the same clothes very often,
Since he can’t afford new ones.
And never really has supplies for school.

He is a large, dark-skinned boy.
He keeps to himself, and rarely speaks
To anyone else in the class,
Except for the teacher.

He sits and talks to the teacher all class period
(Assuming we aren’t doing anything in class)
And she listens intently, as if he is the Pope
And is passing the word of God unto her.

I've talked to him only a few times before.
Once, he noticed that I was upset over a personal problem
He convinced our teacher that I wasn't feeling well,
And asked her kindly to send me out so that I could get fresh air.

Nobody really ever talked to him.
Eventually, the seats in class rotated,
And I was moved away from him.
He was allowed to stay next to the teacher.

Through the year, it continued.
He wasn't extremely intelligent, but he wasn't unintelligent either.
He would try his hardest in all of his school work no matter what,
And most of the year could scrape by with a C.

Apparently, he had legal troubles at home
Where his parents had a few physical altercations.
He was out for a few days, and then came back
As if nothing had happened.

In my school, the Senior class leaves before the other classes.
Maybe it is the same in other schools, I'm not sure.
The Seniors graduate in two days,
And the boy is going to be leaving.

Today, the bell rang to end the class.
I was late packing up, and was in class for a few extra seconds
The boy was still in class as well,
Looking at our teacher.

He walked up to her and called her name.
She looked up from her desk and smiled
They talked as if they were great friends for a moment
And then the boy looked very sad.

What he said next was heartbreaking.
"You were my best friend this entire year.
None of my other teachers really cared about me
They thought I was just another kid who didn't care.

But you always helped me, no matter what.
When I was struggling, you would go out of your way
To make sure I understood what was happening.
Without you, I wouldn't be graduating."

He paused to wipe a tear from his eye.
"I just wanted you to know
That you were more loving
Than my own parents at home."

The teacher didn't respond.
She stood up from her desk
And wrapped her arms around his neck
And hugged him like he was her own child.

Neither of them spoke,
But I could hear them both
Gently crying into each others shoulders.
Saying more than words ever could.

I left the class without saying a word
But the sight still hasn't left my mind.
The sweetness, the sincerity of his words,
And how overcome with emotion they were.

It left me choked for quite a moment,
And I had to force back tears before I went to lunch.
When I got there, I sat down with my friends.
And told them what I saw.

I excluded their names,
Not wanting to tell everyone their business.
And did my best not to tear up.
My friends listened intently.

One of my friends was dumbstruck,
And another started to tear up as well.
The others stayed silent, which spoke volumes.
Except for one, who simply uttered "Whoa."

And it's still in my mind.
The large, misunderstood boy
Being hugged by a loving teacher,
Who cared for him more than his own parents.

She tried to escape
Reality
The sound of absence
Everywhere she turned
The walls were singing the same song
Letters from the faces
Of books
Reminders
Were staring at her
Shelves leaning in
As if they were wondering
Why she was not singing
With them
But she couldn’t
For the sound could not escape
The lump in her throat

aching, tired, weary.

Pain?

Me?

Why ever me? My pain shrinks.

Never, oh never would that happen.

At least that's what everyone else thinks.

I cover my feelings with a mask of happiness.

Trying to hide,

Trying to shield myself from deadliness

Of my heart.

I sit here thinking, wondering, I feel,

I feel dumbstruck.

Like Alice, curious, wondering,

Wondering what's going on in this wonderland of emotions.

I feel stuck.

I don't even know who I am,

Myself!

But apparently everyone else does.

At least that's what everyone else thinks.

Me.

Me.

Me, myself, and I.

Am I the one or am I three?

No one will ever know.

Well, maybe,

Just maybe,

Everyone else will.

Remember I'm happy!

Happy.

Happy?

Am I really?

At least that's what everyone else thinks.

Its not real in reality
But it lives through mentality
Mind was built from basic human functionality
So Body can live through the death of reality
Survive by the book of strategy
You could get it from divinity
Trapped in a place called society
Everything falls like tragedies
When mind travels through fantasy
Body gets left behind in reality
So there can be solutions for mystery
The wise one said use weapons of positivity
But how will it stop negative infinity
Dumbstruck by the variables of possibility
The geniuses flee from the laboratory
Isn't this whole thing insanity?

Little Maxwellan lived on a farm
Smack in the middle of nowhere.
The pasturage was small, not great for cattle,
But boy, the veg could grow there.
To keep the young lad out of their hair,
And to keep him out of trouble,
Pa had decided ‘’this boy needs a job’’
And had handed Maxwellan a shovel.

‘’You see that small melon patch there,
Next to the cabbage and winged bean?
I want you to tend to those plants,
And grow me a gourd like I’ve never seen.
If you’re patient till harvest’s end,
And produce a proud looking fruit,
We’ll enter it in the county fair.
Win, and you can keep the loot.’’

Well, little Maxwellan, inspired by fame and riches,
Set out to inspect his melon patch.
It was the Chinese kind, with waxy, oval crop.
Ma would sometimes cook up a batch.
You’d put them in soups or stews,
For their mild sweet flavour.
Add ginger, add garlic,
And, oh! That dish, you’d savour.

‘’First we must build a stronger structure
From which to suspend the vine.
A new lattice wouldn’t hurt,’’ said Pa.
Together, we’ll do it right this time.’’
So Maxwellan got to work;
Helped his father as best he could.
They built the structure and the lattice,
And all of it looked good.

‘’The rest is up to you now, son.
I trust you’ll do just fine,
Put all your heart into your work,
And whatever you do will shine.’’
Well, for the next hundred days or so,
Maxwellan did just that.
He weeded and watered religiously,
Watching his precious pepos grow fat.

Of all the plants hung from the lattice,
One prospered especially well.
Hanging like a big, plump balloon,
A prize specimen, all could tell.
‘’I know which one will enter the contest!
Look at its thick wax coating!
It’s the biggest one you’ve ever seen, Pa!
I might as well be gloating!’’

When the time came, at the end of harvest,
The gourd was almost as tall as Maxwellan,
‘’Here,’’ said Pa. ‘’Help me lift it into the cart.
Now there’s a fine wax melon!‘’
When they arrived, it was not yet noon,
Though the fairground was already abuzz.
There was giant produce everywhere!
A strange spectacle it was!

To tent number seven, they carted the big thing,
Where it was weighed, measured and inspected.
Maxwellan could only hold his breath,
And pray that his gourd was selected.
In the back of the room, he spotted Ashley Ford
In a pretty, flower-pattern dress.
So he walked on over, caught her eye,
And tried his best to impress.

‘’Hi Ashley! You look very pretty.
Did you come to see the contest?
I brought a giant wax melon that I grew by myself.
It will surely be the best!’’
Ashley Ford thanked Maxwellan
And wished him best of luck.
Then, she reached up, kissed his cheek,
And left the boy dumbstruck.

Soon after, the chief judge rose,
And called for the attention of the crowd.
Round as a southern screamer, the man,
Also, just as loud...
‘’Ladies, Gentlemen! Ahem! Please!
The jury has come to a conclusion!
This was no easy task, I must confess,
As we have seen quality in profusion.

Maxwellan’s enormous wax melon
Has impressed us all to a great degree,
But bigger still, was Miss Ford’s magnificent ash gourd
And, for this, the first prize is awarded to she.’’
Delighted cheers from the audience,
Little Ashley’s face all aglow.
Maxwellan can’t believe what’s happened.
The tears, they start to flow.

When he’s finished crying and wiped his tears,
He goes to congratulate his friend.
Though he tries to be polite, he can’t help but ask
How she did beat him, in the end.
‘’I read poetry to my plant every day.
It must have liked hearing my voice.
Its favourite poet, I found to be
None other than Dr. Seuss.’’

Was driving
To shivaraathri manappuram [1]
With idichakkas [2]
To meet you
One day.

Enroute
To a vow made one life
The two chakka dumpkins
Their smug demeanor
Drove me to chuckles.
Like guys  
On a global tour  
They  
Waved buddies bubye
Babbled on
To the jackfruit trees
On the boulevard
Singing “salaama salaama…”
The jackfruit rap
Boisterously.
I was beside myself
With laughter.
The exertion
Exhausted my cheeks
I stopped near a shop
For a cigarette
Saw there,
Two packets
Of fried chakka chips
Among other snacks.
My chakka dumpkins
For you
Overwhelmed them
They broke into tears
They recalled
Their haughty ride
In a car once
Singing salama
A festering past
That throbbed with
The agony  
Of getting torn to shreds
Of getting fried crisp
In boiling oil.
The chakka dumpkins
Were dumbstruck
They stopped singing
And began to cry
Looking upon their sisters
Sister, you have forgotten me!
An utterance from Khasak
Muffled the scene.
Sad at their plight
I held them close
My chakka dumpkins
For you
Forget it honey
Forget it dear
I patted them
Trying to stop their tears.
The chakka fries
And my darlings
Continued weeping
And wailing.
I smoked a cigarette
Went to them
And whispered in their ears
That I am consigning them
To you.
They laughed innocently
Showing their gums
They bid adieu to
The sisters
Promising
They would meet next life
I felt like
Laughing
And crying.
Laughing
And crying
I sang

Salama, salama
Salama….


Translation  : Shyma P

Oh, how I have strayed away, old and gray, on the edge of my vision.
Seeping into my reptilian-brain, you are but the light everlasting.
Dear, sir, couldn’t you have recalled? The one with the pretty eyes of an ocean so blue; of the tirade of the torrent washing the wispiness of your face, in a gallant seascape.
Of the child who mourns for his dear mammy, crying on the floor. He is no more.
Generosity is quite the curiosity, that is, if you settle for mediocrity.
Heaven above! Almighty lord of our beings. Deign unto us the wisdom for a life of shining brilliance.

Perhaps, though, we have the answer already; in the hearts of our souls, the brain of our being, the epitome of our creation; what magic it is that stems the fire of spontaneity.
Lovestruck: dumbstruck more like it. You are but a haggard fool.
I have seen as the mocking bird has done wrongly. The world, upside down; growing in an acceptance of misfits. For they’re god’s creation as are you and I. Love them all I assuredly do, now, why don’t you?

Young, adolescent, children; immature with the years of their forced existence, tightened and controlled by those unseen. ‘tis the challenge. The solution? Perhaps undiscovered.
I have not seen the glory that is a tattered forearm. I have not seen the bane that has become falsified.
Oh, but surely do not forget, kind sir. You have pretty eyes.

I've been praying for a sign
But I've been pretending not to see
Claiming I can't read
Yet here I am, dumbstruck on the ground
Knocked off my feet
And there is no easy way to piece your life together
All we can do is have hope
And you've always given me hope
You've always been my wistful hope

If summer’s green can be described as beautiful, then the winter of today,
with all its glittering snow and cold sunlight,
shall be called breath-taking.
I have been struck by the urge to create something in the act of looking out my window.
I wish to make something worthwhile, impactful, and awe-inspiring.
So, I now find myself writing whilst listening to soul-shaking melodies
that of which feign to be the elusive muse to my drifting mind.
As of recent I have found myself being seduced by the idea of fiction.
To be either a part of a surreal world myself or to forge one,
playing as a petty God to a non-existing universe, both appeal to me,
though the latter is sorrowfully more likely to occur than the former.
I wish to be on days like this one,
yet on dismal, cloudy days or excessively-bright days, I desire not to.
It has not escaped my notice that my mental-state has been changing as of late.
I’m no longer sure of who I’m supposed to be or who I want to be.
Am I man or woman?
Human or animal?
And are humans not animals by nature?
I think to myself, but then I look out the window again,
at the vast expanse of impossible, wind-swept blankets of snow,
and I forget.
Living isn’t a choice.
Nor is death.
Both are born of the natural order of simply existing,
just as we are.
There is no such thing as fate or destiny,
but the path spread out beneath our feet is just as real as the body harboring one’s soul.
Knowing where to go is a delusion in the thought process of an overconfident individual;
not knowing where to go is the same as being lost.
There’s no definite course.
No map or guide can lead us in the right or wrong direction.
We are creatures driven by instincts and gifted with the ability to imagine,
so we press on in hopes of further indulging ourselves in the mystery that is everything.
“I want to create.”
Yet, the snow is melting; the clouds are darkening.
Alas, I have forgotten.
Summer’s green is beckoning to my uneasy conscience.
Still, there exists a hesitance that keeps my eyes drawn to the dying elegance before me.
My breath fogs the chilled glass, obscuring my view as well as my distant fantasies.
Unfortunately, remembering is all too easy when I least desire it to be so.
Reality is oh, so ugly.
Nature’s grace is corrupted by that which fuels my yearning to create.
“But I want to create.”
What good will come out of it, though?
Recognition, perhaps.
Satisfaction, most certainly.
However, the path beneath my feet is much too short for such humble reasons to be offered.
Now, I must admit, I have been left utterly dumbstruck.
A song, bright and cheerful, has suddenly erupted
from amidst the mellow slurring of the desolate voices from before.
The fog of my breath slowly dissipates,
and I am yet again amazed by the power of the human mind.
Why is it that I am now just content with simply observing?
Whence before I wished so strongly to participate,
I now only feel appreciation towards the jovial air surrounding me.
I never decidedly consented to such a change of mood,
but I imagine it is a result of something born by nature,
something I won’t be able to understand
due to the destructive capabilities that I, as an intellectual entity, possess.
Again, I return my attention to the outside world.
The sun has dipped below the horizon,
taking with it the glittering beauty of light reflecting off of the surface of a myriad of ice flakes.
I remain immobile as another dismal tune starts up again.
Fields of waving, emerald blades dance behind my closed lids.
Then I remember…
That I have forgotten.
Such are the despairing thoughts of one who has born witness to the uncertainty
and unprecedented fear that his or her own kind share of the unknown.
What a lonely existence.
“I merely wish to be.”
And yet…I know it will snow again tomorrow.

I love your eyes
I really do I don't tell you that often
If I made an honest love poem
It would be me telling you
That I wanna ****** you
With the simplicity of words and imagery
To paint the finest things that you've ever seen
Only using a flourish of an ink pen
Things that we both relate to
That we both see
I don't wanna just ****** what's in your pants
Honestly I could care less about that
I don't give a **** about it
Because love
I wanna ****** your soul
I wanna be the pied piper
That causes your laughter to dance
Through the roiling green mountain doors
Over the crooked floor
If you ever feel like you're falling
Its fine
I'm just your safety line in a roaring sea
At least I thought I was
Right now I can't really tell if you've turned into the sea
And I've turned into a helpless overboard passenger
But I know that I wanna name each and every single laugh
After a fallen star
Not the stars that sing
Prancing on the silver lined edge of a stage
The stars that tell us secrets
But only the ones who listen long enough
Patiently waiting
For knowledge to bestow their ears
That's what I wanna hear from your laugh
I wanna be dumbstruck
Simply because you smiled at me
The wind never blows against you
Or away from you
Because you
That's just how amazing you are  
That it curls and follows at your heels
That it wants to follow you
And when you snicker
Heaven collapses
And hell
Hell implodes
Because the devil himself
He gets down on his knees because your snicker
Is just so holy that heaven can't exist because of it
And hell can't coincide peacefully with it
Because it'll never be able to pump out enough evil
To even conquer the pureness
Or to even hope to defeat
The wholesome goodness of that single snicker
That I out of all of the people on this planet
Have gotten you to emit
Thank you for making my frost bitten days warm again

When you hear stalls emanating sobs
In cracked, ***** bathrooms, in between jobs
Drunk, gritting his teeth and getting buttfucked
By black men, grunting, as you stand dumbstruck,
Do you wonder how a man could be so down on his luck?
In a truck-stop graffiti-tiled bathroom in his white frock,
Trying to ignore the incessant crow of the ****,
Gagging between unforgiving ticks from the clock.

Sipping on beer, the **** bleeds from the cell
Spreading dollar bills over the ghost where he fell.
Pale-white, scraggly, he bends down for his cash
Using mental math to make the conversion from bills to crack.
Rope still dangling between his teeth, he drops the syringe,
Dragging a cigarette and counting his next binge.
Do you wonder if on the way to help, he just lost
His way? But he looks up to ask "the ******* want?

Are you throwing out an ad hominum argument?
Slipping into something like aluminum garments.
Throw me face down into the edge of a tar pit,
What are friends for?"

Kaysea, turn back, you don't want to touch it
Your lungs will turn black and your soul will be rusted
Over by doubt, self-deprecation and shame
You'll realize everyone else is exactly the same
Only you've changed. You don't need the shot
Lie sprawled, get sick naked in one spot (and rot)
Lest we forget the chains of superstitious fear,
The two of us would be lending bleeding ears.

Gotta wait for the grenadier to return
With the test results
What have we learned?

Gotta find the truth from within the turntables
What have you earned?

Misery loves company, and this is your catch.
You desire the freedom of looking at mirrors to retch
But it's not lucidity (you'll forget that a lot),
Just impulses revealing that which is not.
Your father'd die twice if that was your insight.
Do we all have the right to be in hell for a night?
There is a never ending layer of nicotine in my throat
And nostril scabs, and that's all she wrote, I hope.