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The chime of a bell and the tick of a clock
Time was invented by man but is god
Too much on our hands; too little too late
Our worlds all revolve 'bout our linear fate
Too much variety made world trade broken
So we regulated it gave each land a token
Of time they relied on to go 'bout their day
Slowly dissolving old lifestyles away
More loyal to chimes of a bell than the rule
Of how each culture functions, went far past a tool
"Your prioritizing is a big disappointment--"
"I'm so sorry sir, do you have an appointment?"
Schedules and calendars grew into the law
And soon the repairs became the new flaws

From daybreak to lights-out, at home or at desk
Lit screens bearing numbers define when I rest
Constant competition, endless applications
Upcoming interviews of unending durations
I spend so much of life prepping for the next step
Preschool to pre-K to K to grade school to Next
Then middle school grades prepared us for high
Since that's prep for college, where the end is nigh
But college just primes us for jobs we'll have someday
Tomorrow comes for us disguised as today.

Don't even get me started on earning promotions
Since the day you start work is the tip of commotion
To the top of it all with your assistant and office,
accountant, and ***-kissing levels of cautious
So perhaps one day you can have the cell in the corner
And dish out the rat race for its future owner
God knows you're too busy to appreciate now
You have children and a 401k on the Dow
Your mortgage and loans haunted you before you were hired
And terror they'll stay till the day you retire
So that's when the madness concludes, you would say
Tomorrow comes for us disguised as today.

We dream of a future where our present would do
A life we believe in where 5pm, we're through
Free to go home and watch our TV
Where someone can promise a product will free
Evidence of our stress from our skin and our tress-
-es which now grey with fear of outdated-ness
"Cause you're not young forever," goes the sickening cliche
Tomorrow comes for us disguised as today.

We feel what we feel and we fear the unknown
Too braced for the days we consider us grown
It doesn't mean we're inclined to give up our lives
To where relaxing's a thought that induces hives
"I'm just too stressed out!" We're not feeling okay
Because tomorrow comes for us disguised as today

So please do not tell me that I am too late
Please do not say I'll "regret this, some day"
For I'll break your laws with a snap of glass
Cogs and gears suddenly mangled and mashed
What will you do now?
Do you even know what now is?

I always knew about the ocean's calling, deep in my heart. It keeps me wandering to find what I yearn for — could it testify the animosity of being insatiable?

I wait on the shore like a lighthouse guiding your way back to me, as if I hold faith in it, like it is a perseverance that grew in my chest. I am certain to the florescence of my flowers and to its withering as I know the  durations of its life and death is when I could meet you again. And though, the inconstant desolateness of the ocean continues to wait.

Dames dimeless during durations of
duress, unless  uniform wardrobes
in cuneiform earlobes eloping in last
gasps of breath, breathed by an opposite
***  on a raft drafted and crafted by
bureaucrats that sat upon rat traps.

The fat cats gasp under last laughs.
They can yap about the fallen all day
and paid based on grades in a vicious
cycle of buy - sell - trade. They caved in
as Persians sigh at the fading world
hurled beneath convuluted swirls of black pearls.

As a boy thinks about his durations
Of walking through his field of striped carnations
He spots one that was different than the rest
It was of a lovely color which we all know is best
He was stunned of the beauty as he froze
As he starred at the magnificent rose
The boy became active again
And soon his walk came to an end
In his mind trying to retain
The past compassion he had spend
With life filled with neglections and rejections
To where he had posed imperfections
With curious thought he ought to sought
Which he hope wouldn't end in naught
But as nature always deny
The one thing he wants of endless supply
Only to be buried
Discarded by many
With emotions so varied
And unseen by any
So as he reaches for the flower
With his mind so sour
The rose transform into the others
When given the druthers
So the boy remains alone
In his house not known

What is love but an exposition,
Of what is otherwise so deeply hidden,
Within the heart of the one who adores,
Living with the fear of when she explores,


I came to you before we had met,
So majestic with pure excellence,
A perfect guy you had taught,
This broken heart's possessor had been,


When durations of speech,
Went from minutes to hours so quick,
I revealed myself not all but a bit,
Though that bit was enough to change your mind,


You saw me fall and reached my hand,
Helping me up,  assisting me to stand,
But at the same have your troops leave,
The worthless soil of my hearts land.


A confused man isn't apparently;
in the eyes of a lady attractive

AROODY 2019

This poem represents one, of many, of life's journeys. A journey filled with tears, disappointments, and lies. Many years of watching relationships being tossed, people crossed, and still worse, years lost. Yet, one can never know when the sparks of faith will ignite. When you least expect it, it appears. With it, strength for some enabling them to overcome. You are a new person, with a cause and a reason to add to your "being". You have direction with a spiritual goal as your sole purpose. A faith, borne of pain, now bringing you into His inner circle. A circle filled with this bright light. A light that will never be extinguished, because it has now become a real part of you--a part of  your very soul.


I never sought your money, never sought your gold
all I ever asked, was for the truth to be told
while time has passed, my hope has faded
G-d only knows, how long I had waited

Memories I have as a little boy, once happy just to play with my toy
but as I grew up my mind did ponder, if truth really existed over yonder
reaching adulthood I saw for myself, the lies which my soul had been fed
only by the grace of G-d was I prevented, my steps to purgatory from being led

Now I am older, being blessed with a family of my own
left with so many questions, and still very very much alone
perhaps if only I could make sense, to understand who you really are
a chance to at least to be able, with hope to remove this scar

And you my forebearer, although you brought me into being
you gave me my strength, but my faith gave me my seeing
but now your are old, and you can no longer pretend
despite our relationship, gone is the ability for me to mend

Those missed opportunities, now my mother is no longer
only after her death, did I realize she made me stronger
my internal tears how inconsolable, when this truth set in
oh how much I failed to honor her while alive, this my sin

"Honor thy father and thy mother", have we been commanded
for no other reason or purpose, other than He has demanded
no matter how much grief or anger, you feel from you they deserve
avoid bringing punishment upon your soul, your anger do not preserve

Lessons of a lifetime, skeletons in the closet we all do hide
varying durations of time we have been pained, in whom to confide
there can be no escape, for our actions will we be judged
how difficult to overcome our ego, to this we can't be budged

While we cannot go back, stopping those hands from turning time
but we can seek to redirect ourselves, focusing toward the sublime
charity starts at home, therefore it's for our own ultimate good
eternal bliss really does await us, if we but only understood

In the dark silences
of my downtrodden thoughts
there is sometimes
a fiery consummation,
conception and fermentation
of breaking new ground -

frontiers once again opened
and filled with cadences
and rhythms of liberation.

A blessed release
from interminable durations
of the void's hammering on
and in the brain.

it lives at the deepest,darkest point ,
it breathes angrily,
it slithers and crawls,
no one dares to enter it's lair,
it's shadows creep,
plunging teeth sharp and yellow,
gooey sticky saliva,
it dribbles onto the floor and rocks,
no one has seen it since,
but it's name lives out the durations of time.

5 pennies in a nickel…
10 pennies in a dime…
25 pennies in a quarter…
100 pennies in a dollar…
Each penny plays a particular part in
the grand scheme of economic "advancement"

Money is exchanged.
It comes…
It goes…
Some people see its worth,
while others don’t.

It makes people happy,
But then again,
It only brings sadness at the same time.

It's counterproductive.

Over the counter, at the minimum wage shopping center,
Minimal glances are changed,
For minimal durations…
Each penny is a part of a whole…
There’s a price to be paid…
It moves into the hands of another.

My dreary Sunday drive with A Fine Frenzy is interrupted by a text message:
“Why do I wish he would text me? Maybe it’s the rain.”

After reminding her that he is the biggest ******* in America, I hope to ignore my inner English major and continue overanalyzing the lyrics of “Dream in the Dark.” However, as the squeaky cadence of my windshield wipers crescendos, the weather practically demands my attention.

She doesn’t need him and I don’t need you, but the rain never yields to assurance. It seeps through your imperfections and drenches every insecurity. Liquified doubt envelops the pavement, while the length of each red light seems just short of an eternity. I grow frustrated with the way the rain falls on my windshield, and having to rely on my wipers every three seconds for temporary clarity. I grow frustrated with how many three-second durations make up this car ride, and the way the squeaking mocks me, and how the rain doesn’t care about making it difficult to read the street signs.But the fact of the matter is I have somewhere to be, and I can’t let the rain prevent me from leaving where I’ve always been, even if only for the afternoon.

Under a blue sky, it is clear that she doesn’t need him and I don’t need you. I just wish this weather didn’t make everything so difficult to see.

So yeah, maybe it is the rain, but **** the rain on a day like this.

The galaxy is white—
a seamless pulp,
where we drain inks on.
On unscribbled portions
or in between monochrome lines.

The blots and smears,
and the succession of strokes and curves
are the stellar projections
to aesthetic calligraphies.

We did not know
that the stars were in our hands,
or at the tip
of whatever writing instrument we held.

We did not listen to the sounds
of galaxies crumpled by the hand,
or of stars burned to ashes by flames.
These sounds, after all,
remain inaudible in space,
so should all hatred and criticism.

Some believe that
some squander,
and that some conserve
the fluid of immortal witnesses
in a universe of astral imprisonment
that bears prejudice and judgment,
but boundless freedom.

A spilt ink in a galaxy, but an ink in a galaxy.
Varying durations of immortality,
but immortality nevertheless.

As I’m writing this, I look down at the skin on my hands and watch as it vibrates. The blood pulsing, shaking with fear and guilt and all the things that become of me. I watch my fingers as they fling across the lines of a notebook or the gravel of a keyboard. Limbs that took years to operate, apparently, but it feels like nothing. So much so that I don’t feel a soreness from doing it for long durations. And boy, do I write.

When I walk around, I watch my feet skid across the pavement. I imagine my toes wiggling inside of my sneakers as they crunch elderly leaves and kick around loose dirt. Remorselessly squashing bugs. Forgetting about them the minute I step foot into a building.

When I talk to people, I watch their faces as they mirror their insides. Sometimes their voices fade in and out depending on how much I’m able to concentrate, but that’s fine because I don’t need their voices to understand what they are trying to say. They say enough with just an expression, and this is scary because I hope I myself never give someone else the wrong idea when I’m silent.

I’m a sculpture, apparently, but I’m real. Real? Real being tangible? Yet, to me, looking in the mirror does not make me feel real. Watching my hands as I write this does not make me feel real. Following my feet during strolls does not make me feel real. You know what makes me feel real? The thoughts pouring out of my fingertips with every word I write. The aggression that releases with every step I take. The nausea that sits inside of my stomach when I’m burdened with my sorrows. The tingle in my chest when I’m laughing at your jokes. The contentment of an evening when everything is silent and my head is clear.  Thinking about my friends when they’re in pain. Hearing my mother cry from across the hall. The frustration of awaking from a dream once I realize it was only a dream.

My body doesn’t make me feel real. Half of the time I forget it’s there. My reminders consist of: mosquito bites and piercings, ******* and all-you-can-eat buffets. When your friends move they still neighbor you. When your relatives die they’re still here. When a love is lost your heart inflames with their absence.

These are the things that physically mold reality.
These are the things that suggest to me I’m alive.
These are the things that comfort me during episodes of feeling like nothing more than a wandering corpse.

Lover, why I’m I afraid to die?
I belong to you. Knowing you,
a life worth living, because
I made something of myself.
In the process of it all. I had
become the man you’ve always
wanted and in you, a character
so exceedingly overwhelming
of true beauty, touching holiness,
you ended up saving me.
Smile for me now.
When it comes time to die,
I’ll render thoughts of you.
And take comfort and ease,
I’ll wait for you there, in other
kingdoms, where those brave
enough to go with their soulmate
in durations of horrifying true
and perfect love.
Than can people bloom.
Smile for me, again and again.

The Moon has abandoned us
We are but blades of grass in a shielded blow
We are merely stones in a river's roll
One day we will be no longer.

We are desperate to cling to
some semblance of reason
but what good does the morrow bring worth breathing today for??
What good is so good that I should stay awake?
We are trying so hard to pretend that sharing our crazy is the least crazy thing
We cling so hard to this notion that we forget to look in the mirror while exchanging pictures of each other instead of reflecting on who we are,
But then, what's the point of reflecting on who we are when all we're capable of is our own life? Literally, the most powerful thing we can do is end ourselves. We aren't so special. We're just bodies with artificial flavors. No semblance of natural beauty; it's all been placed there by our self-serving pursuit of purpose. It's so much easier to believe we suffer for a reason. We don't.

A sad, frail calamity
A ship on endless ocean
Misery loves company, and that's why we've outlawed suicide, because really
You can't tell me you really believe we will be punished for ending our own durations, given to us without permissions,
You can choose your destiny as long as you stay alive. Death is not an option, until it is, and then what?

You're so glad that I'm expressing myself, but you wish i'd say some different things
So glad to see me creative again, but so against the things i say again and again and again and again and I just want somebody to make it all better like when you're 5 and don't know what existence ******* is but you get a cut on your finger and now you exist, but then your momma comes and sticks a band-aid on your finger and the pain of existence is gone. i want that feeling again.

But my mom's antibacterial powers have subsided as the ills have built resistances; they're now resisting penicillin and we don't own anything else right now. I open up my medicine cabinet, anyway. There's Tylenol. At least it'll help to ease the pain.

I take one. I take another. It isn't working. I take some more. Do these have a limit? I think they do. But I can't read at this point. I take another. I take another. I'd be counting but i can't do that, either. I keep taking the pills. I never stop. For all of eternity I take additional Tylenols, until a sad, frail calamity comes home from work and sees a sunken fleshy ship at the end of its ****** and final voyage.

born

named after a three,
a brainstormed term
or the same old family name

celebrated

bred

thrown out in the open

eyes widened by the true visions
of the world

self confessions,
both harmless and self deprecating

the only answer to be given back
are tears out of the lack of reason

make a stand against the machine
with trembling
limbs, having courage is absurd
but to live it out is a choice

leave a flower for a few days
without water and it will perish

at peace
at ease

easier to let go
harder to leave

you just don't gather these,
your dissatisfactions in life,
distractions, warning signs,
long durations of time,
probably months without
someone to do,
you keep them until they hurt

why do you keep them
all to yourself?

do you know these people?

they're always right huh?

they're never wrong.

that's why you're there.
I'm here.

we don't resist.

we just want to live in our
own way of how the world
could attain peace,
then we die silently soon after.

I can't sit with myself,
I'm the worst company these days.
I keep walking away
in the middle of a one-way
conversation,
short durations
only please,
I can't sit with myself,
as it won't be long
before everything goes wrong.

I can't feel this feeling but
I can **** well name it,
words come easy, its the
noticing that's queasy so
look there it goes, it flows
out the door so I don't have to
feel it anymore. i wish i could be sure,

but that is a lie, I know,
I can't be honest with myself.
my heart is a shelf and
the volumes of trauma have
collected so much dust, it
must take a lifetime to get
those clean and shiny.
who knew this tiny collection could
carry so much weight,
i'm guessing the heaviness is hate.

I can't look at myself, not
without thoughts thoughts thoughts
about the shoulds and oughts,
my body is not subscribing to my
beauty standards, deciding instead
to demand respect by taking
no **** about whether or not
it can sit or stand or stop eating,
defeating my idea of will power
with more force than i've ever known
and causing me to cower.

i can't write this poem
because I can't stop thinking about
writing the poem, and is it good, is
it good yet? should I take a bet
on whether it will ever be enough
for this semi-tough critic
who knows she's not really
a poet, so why are you doing this exactly?
you know it will not be good,
you should know it by now. you should.

i can't sit with myself,
i try to say what needs to be said
the thoughts i have just before bed,
the dread and memory,
forever in my flesh and bone, alone,
I felt so alone back then and now
with all around to be with,
i still sit with myself and
am lonely again, feel homely again,
i can't feel it really, can only name it again,
can only hear HIS name, again.

i can't forgive myself. I sit
here complaining to me about my
split personality which is really just
a hurt child inside, mild and trying to hide,
but all I do is hear her cry and try
to shush her, slap her, ignore her,
bore her, i'm not a good parent
to my memories, i don't ease
them the way i should, and there
i go again, if only I could
stop using should to scold her, me,
and see me, her, for what she is,
not cold and ***** but alone and afraid,
made to think it's all her fault,
the yelling, the silence and the assault.
but it wasn't, my love
i imagine a dove, i try to be tender
i try to surrender my thorny casing,
erasing the added burden of self-defeat,
just trying to meet her where she's at,
and seeing that she is me, and I'd
never call her fat, never call her selfish,
I'd never be rough, id say you're enough
to that little she who is little me,
trying to see that it's really my own
opinion that matters, and I'm grown
and no longer battered, not by others,
and no longer by me, i cross my heart,
and hope to survive, to be alive, to thrive,
i cross my heart to nurture this part.

Christmas lights by Pickwicks
A variety pack of colours
With dancer’s skirts
Frilled edges, sharp.

Loose bulbs, unstable filaments
Twisted black flex
Two spare bulbs
And a flasher.

On and off, off and on
Different sequences
Alternative time durations
Reflecting our life story.

Love Mary ***

People are like stories.
Different kinds, different durations,
Different endings.

I think of some and smile,
I wish for some never ended,
I try to distant myself from some,
And try to keep some so close,
That it blurs my vision.

Some feel so real, some feel like a blown bubble by the sun at night,
Some held my hand and made me feel alive,
Others made me realize the parts of me that had long been dead.

I want to place the memory of some in my wallet,
And I regret reading some.

If one were to compare
England to France as in
Capitalism to Socialism,
permit me to analogise.

For this, I will use nature
as the yardstick, a squirrel
and a cuckoo.

Yes, the squirrel will amass
more nuts than it requires
for Winter, but one must
consider, durations differ!

The Cuckoo as you
can see is representing
La France and Socialism.

This bird has no ethics,
morals or qualms, about
ejecting fellow species
and squatting their nests.

Parasites of the lowest
common denominator.

Les Francaises in a nutshell!

Man’s compassion for the animal

can be measured by the prongs

  and teeth of his cutlery, also by

     durations spent in the W.C

   trying to negotiate stationary

  objects through tight sphincters.