letter to elana

for the poet elana bell

~

in a different cafe,
on a Manhattan streetscape where once, years earlier,
violence was the purview of West Side Story gangs,
ruling their internecine non-intersectionality territorial blood lines supremely

nowadays, violence replaced by the frenetic
noises of Lincoln Center theater goers,
student dancers, actors, musicians and poets joining the throng
of those who sup and run,
all hearing their own frantic
curtain calling, saying, announcing,
music dance voices words require your obeisance,
needy for a mutual worshipping reassurance fiat that:

life can be made transcendent
if even for just 90 minutes or 120 pages,
or a 3 minute poem reading

this city of millions requires billions of poems that spoon stirred  
and yet, almost always fail, to squeeze, all of the human essence that is in its ultimate source, clarifying nyc tap water,
containing the storied remnants of a hackable continuous,
single human stanza cell osmosis - a blockchain like no other

two poets sit side by side each in their own lapsed dreams,
she, a published poet of prize and rank, ^
he, a rank amateur whose only prize is his unpublished anonymity,
poetry, is his just a nightly soul cleansing,
an imported remnant of his Marrano piyyutim ancestry

one turns to the other,
in the inexplicable daily crazy miracle
of city fashionistas

in a city where stealing a parking spot, or the
forced squeezing creation of a subway seat space
where physics proves none exists,
are oft the roots of slashing and stabbings faithfully reported
on the 11 o’clock news,  
and trust and/or other encouraging words
are seldom heard and even less demonstrated,
the make-no-eye-contact of Camus’s L’Etranger anomie is the
normative, paranormal, paralysis cloak of we city separatists

“Can you watch over my electronics and stuff?”

Sure says the grayed and grizzled,
an all life long veteran of nyc,
judged to be trustworthy
based on a few seconds of being upsized and downsized,
a car wash (exterior only) perusal
despite a
“no direction home, like a compete unknown, a rolling stone,”  
this signage, yellow star permanently chest-affixed,
conveniently ignored, as it seems impossible
thieves don’t look like me,
don’t likely in their possess,
a distinguished head of gray hair (yeah, sure)

a thank you reward of (or did I imagine it) a lean-in,
a momentary head on a shoulder,
the chit chat now grows earned and earnest,
she confesses her cardinal poetry profession,
eliciting an ‘Oh Boy’ utterance from the poet
of a thousand names
and a thousand textual emendations

a fastidious nyc boundary is brief crossed for one short meal,
till the end when time sensitized IMRL intrudes and
the showtime calls out,
if not now, when? if not me, then who?

I read her poetry later in the praying supine first position of
three AM, and laugh with delight, at the contrast and no compare,
the styles clash and tho the stories told
are both writ in the aleph bet script,
there ends the Ven diagram overlap and
into the night’s coming of a Elvisian blue suede coverlet,
we both disappear, and if not for this recording,
history says, you old man confused, never happened,
just an imaginary poetry ink blot dream breaching...

~

postface:
another poetry book is no longer homeless,
comes to shelter upon my shelf, close to Angelou, far from Whitman,
now all the book’s nooks eyes collectively
reassessing the new old-owner, parsing his syntax,
undecided if his readership is worthy of them,
concluding that all these books are the
man’s owned roughened stones,
to be placed by human hands on the
serpentine curvature of his literary tombstone,
and until all stones fully read,
they all agree,
will they and he
be fully freed,
smoothing his legacy’s edges

In a wayward adventure in curiosity —
lured away from savvy of cooler judgment,  
he oversteps the bounds of reality 
into a state of altered awareness.

Overwhelmed by a rapid beginning
of a buzzing sensation — The Rush;
emanating from deep inside him, 
surging along the veins streaming 

euphoria through cells of his entire body:  
inside the body, with warm pleasure waves
flushing over the by now tingling skin
soughing off all unpleasant feelings.

Mouth numbed, limbs heavy, and eyeballs 
rolling back from hitherto an unimaginable
state of bliss, he savours the calm explosions
of the pulsating bubbles in his head.

A magical moment of sheer ******* 
rapture—that ends in a lasting sedation—
during which he's dazed with wonderment
while covered by a cozy blanket of content.

He falls in love with the insidious drug.
And he begins to relish its sweet fruition
in a seemly pattern of use that is put
in the shade to protect his best interests.

A stake in normalcy that seeks to confine
his usage of the opioid to a social occasion.
But soon enough he drifts towards a regular
recreational use; indulging on weekends,

floating, flying, and soaring in wonderful
ripples of pure delight, feeling very mellow
and satisfied, in an illusionary paradise of
forgetfulness where nothing hurts any more.

Bit by bit as time goes by his body builds up
a tolerance for the sedative, prompting his
intake of higher and more frequent doses
to feel as well as to sustain the desired effect.

This occurs because his body attempts to
adapt to the presence of the drug by quickly
breaking it up and purging it out of the system,
thus making it less potent as it was before.

At this stage of his drug abuse he's still able to
control whether to use the stuff or not, where
and when to use it, without stress. He could
also abstain from the opioid fairly responsibly.

But at the limits of his body's flexible response
to the dangerous substance, he begins to suffer
from its unpleasant side-effects that show up
a short period of time following his last use.

The pleasurable, but short-term, therapeutic
effects of the hard drug are now being
overshadowed by several of its undesirable
withdrawal symptoms that manifest as:

fatigue, irritability, cold chills/sweat, itchy skin,
muscle spasms and tremors, body ache, and
stomach cramps among others, with an
increase in his body's cravings for the opioid.

The onset of these torturous side-effects of
the stimulant marks the beginning of his body's
physical dependence on it, as he now relies
on the drug to fend off the terrible affliction.

He has bitten at the bait of pleasure oblivious
of the hook beneath it. The once casual user,
who had thought he could quit the habit at will
without stress, has advanced to problematic use.

The drug has become an integral part of a daily
routine that is gradually heading towards chaos.
Regardless, he's still able to go to work and
take care of his day to day responsibilities.

In time, a new sickness begins to fester inside
him: the opioid is tightening its grip on him,
as his body's physical dependence on it
is now generating his addiction to the drug.

This psychological dependence on the drug
has set in with anxiety disorder accompanied
by emotional and behavioural problems:
the duo classic signs of a progressive disorder.

The drug has become something he needs
to sleep or to fully wake up. His sleeping
pattern has also been altered; up at night
and intermittently dozing off during the day.

As dosage of the narcotic rises, so does
the torture of the painful lows and other
symptoms of addiction, making his cravings
for the sedative increasely more intense.

As it is, he's needs several hits of the drug to
make it through the day. All at once he wants
to use! He begins to look forward to using.
He would ingest the drug in risky situations

such as, while at the wheels of his car or
working at his job; always desperate to avoid
withdrawal symptoms as well as to revel in
the bliss of the drug's comforting warmth.

At times he'd skip work 'chasing the dragon':
pursuing the out-of-reach elation levels of
his initial euphoric high, swinging between
feelings of mediocrity and that of ecstasy.

Always, his body would afterwards crash
below baseline, barely able to cater for his
daily needs. The habit has long ceased
to be the fun that it was intended to be.

Like a vicious cycle the relief from the opioid,
which is not justified by external reality,
is being obtained at the cost of the
worsening addiction and a spike in distress

whenever his body is low on the drug.
The more he indulges on the sedative
to calm his racing mind, the more
its comfort zone seems to be desired.

Disoriented in the rigours of his vice,
he strays in the abyss of drug addiction:
a dark, weary place where priority disorder 
is dictated by events outside of his control.

It is this corrupted impulse control that
causes his sick obsession with the narcotic,
rendering him unfit to articulate rational
thoughts: a chronic brain disorder.

In this harmful shift away from reality,  
utmost in his mind is the insidious drug:
over and above his job, his goals, family,
love, friends, hobbies and personal hygiene.

Oddly enough the foremost essentials of life
like water, food, and sleep are also not spared.
He could be ill and he won't care.
No other thoughts can cohabit in his world.

Emotionally invested in his fantasy world,
the toxic substance has kindled in him
an inner turmoil — setting off an overriding
feeling of emptiness that aches in his heart.

The habit much harder to lose than it was
to find: an ongoing effort to wean himself off
the drug is being crushed by a dysphoric mood
and a sickly feeling that intensify in severity.

These horrifying withdrawal symptoms
are a result of the sedative's induced
alterations in the biochemistry of his
brain's system of reward and punishment.

Instead of a mild, blissful flow of the brain's
happy hormones, as is experienced while
one is indulging in a tasty food, on receiving
a great news, or while engaged in any other

kinds of novelty that fill us with a delicious
pleasure, the opioid whose chemical structure
is similar to that of the natural chemical
messengers of the brain, Happy Hormones,

by mimicking these primary drivers of the
brain's reward system the psychoactive 
drug sends a false signal of euphoria to
the complex *****, triggering an instant

and fast secretion of an abnormally large
amount of the 'feel-good hormones', that
begin to surge along its pleasure pathways
overwhelming the reward centre of the brain.

It is this huge outpouring of happy hormones
in the region that elicites in him a sudden
burst of energy, a pleasant state of mild
drowsiness, mental alertness, relaxation, ...

This already intense, euphoric effect of the
opioid is further amplified by the drug's
blocking of the pain partways of the reward
system, thus dulling his emotions and worries

by eliminating any feeling of sorrow, regret,
guilt, fear, or loneliness. Upon intake of the
mood-altering drug, he would feel warm when
cold, calm when angry, bright when grumpy,

filled when hungry and happy when irritable,
with almost a total refrain from the tendency
to view anything in bad light. This dramatic
result makes every normal thing look better

and brings forth a deep sense of satisfaction
as though all his needs have been met.
However, this almost perfectly desirable 
body and mind experience is an artificial

feeling that only lasts a few hours at most.
When the drug's effects wear off, because
the brain, which has come to rely on the steady
supply of happy hormones, cannot adjust

all at once, it gets stuck in overdrive which
results in the withdrawal symptoms. It is so
because his brain, whose system of reward
and punishment has been tampered with,

seeks to counteract and accomodate for
the sweet thrills of the drug's euphoric high,
by secreting much less happy hormones while
the foodgate of pain hormones is thrown open.

Just like a huge surge of happy hormones
elicits unnatural levels of euphorical pleasure,
a spike in flow of pain hormones produce
in him the torturous withdrawal symptoms.

These unwanted side-effects whose rise and
fall are subject to drug levels in the system,
is the debt he has to pay for the supreme
bliss that is relished during his opioid highs.

It is all about his brain seeking to maintain
Homeostasis: a normal, healthy body function.
Once he's able to amerce with penance due,
he'll feel good again with no need for the drug.

Another flip side of the illicit habit is that over
time, the regular surge in happy hormones
disrupts the resilience of the reward region
of the brain, causing physical changes that

have drastically reduced his brain's ability
to produce the 'pleasure juices', or respond
to any stimulus other than the one being
triggered by the psychoactive substance.

This is clearly seen in his lost of interest in
activities that he once enjoyed, since his brain
suffers from lack of happy hormones which
influence one's capacity to be in a good mood.

Because the narcotic has also disrupted
activities in the control region of the brain,
his whole thought pattern, perspective and
behaviour, all radically change along with it.

It is this reprogramming of his brain that has
altered the interior reality of his mind, in ways
that result in him going into 'survival mode'
in the absence of the drug during a withdrawal.

While in this irritable, aggressive and erratic
state, he would forego anything and everything
to obtain the narcotic because he's thinking
of his drug use the same way an individual 

who is parched with thirst thinks of water.
This desperation in seeking out the drug as
a vital lifeline is due to his compromised brain
'thinking' it needs it as a matter of survival.

A habit he had maintained at the outset
because it made him feel extremely good
has tuned against him, quite often, coercing
him to use for the avoidance of pain.

The sedative as dear and painful to him
as an imbecilic child is to its mother,  
he continues on the foreboding route 
for which he has no power of deviation.

Despairing in the clutches of addiction,
the drugs traumatize him, they infuse
toxins into his spine, and he wouldn't
know whether he's coming or going.

He's kept on saying to himself, 'I'm going
to quit for good after using one last time.'
But that remains to be seen as the drug
goes on dulling his inner light day by day.

In a downward spiral that stuns those 
acquainted with him, he loses his job,
his car is repoed, and he's evicted from
a nice home that had been stripped bare.

Drowning in unpaid bills and desperately
in debt having blown an entire life-savings
on the drug, the loss of everything and a few
remaining friends leaves him fatally devastated.

The dangerous drug has evoked a negative
ripple that is felt throughout all that he's
part of. An awful realization that settles in
with cold clarity, eliciting a lurch of dismay

over his dire ignorance about the drug
which has led to the ugly entrapment.
In deep, sorrowful thoughts consumed
with self-loathing he puts a curse upon

the day he first laid eyes on the hard drug.
With the best resolve he's able to muster,
driven by exasperation to kick the habit,
he strives to make his will like stone —

a facade that is soon razed by his urgent need
for the ****** to stave off withdrawal. With a
burden of guilt and shame that can't be faced
he retreats into the haze of his own misery.

With more problems and stresses than ever
he plunges from troubled life to no life,
completely losing touch with reality as the
disorder assumes a more dangerous form.

His fixation on the ****** has taken a turn for
the worst. Besides his strong cravings for it
to ward off withdrawal as well as to experience
its euphoric high again, it has become more

crucial than ever for him to keep his emotions
constantly desensitised to life, by numbing
the agony of living to ease the passage of
day with purchased relief from the sedative.

Locked in this highly destructive pattern
of drug use, he would stop at nothing
to feed the habit: he would cheat, steal,
lie or betray no matter who to get his 'fix'.

Like the spreading of cancer in the body,  
his affliction has metastasized way 
beyond him, chipping away at the sense
of wellbeing of everyone around him.

As frequent and ready targets for theft
his family have to always watch out for him,
in a resentful relations in which they never
could feel at easy with him around their home.

Wallets, jewellery, gadgets, or any other
easy to carry household valuables, that are
not safely locked away, will go missing.
For days at a time he, too, will vanish.

He'd eventually return like the 'prodigal son'.
Always, he's found the door open after
prolonged periods of avoiding home, even
on occasions when he'd been kicked out.

In the many months gone since losing his
source of livelihood, he's been pushed
into a number of rehabilitation facilities,
but as yet has failed to clean up his act.

He's also been in and out of rehab thrice
following hospital discharges for drug
overdose. On the last occasion, he was
found passed out in the family's bathtub.

Timely arrival of the paramedics had saved
his life. Notwithstanding, a nagging urge
to 'use' continues to feed and reinforce
the habit after each discharge from rehab.

It's been most upsetting to the parents
who have had to watch him visibly change
before their eyes: from a good, healthy
son, who had always had his act together,

to as it is, a thin, patchy-skinned loner with
a baffled demeanour — who buries his head
in low self-esteem to conceal the frequent
dilated and glassy pupils from mutual gaze.

Nothing points more to the helplessness 
of the family's plight than having to finally
admit to their little, or no influence, over
the ravages of the stigmatized disorder.

A harrowing experience for a household
whose life-savings, along with compassion
for him, have completely been exhausted
with no more tears remaining to shed.

The hurting family at the end of its tether
confronts him with an ultimatum:
to get his life in order or face the music.
Coldly, they all watch him leave home.

His descent into the final stages of rock-
bottom has been swift. He starts by crashing
on fellow addicts' couches and floors,
but soon his welcome quickly wears out.

Now among the ranks of the homeless the
hobo would wake up feeling sick, and his day
would consist of shoplifting, petty thefts,
begging, and struggling to find others ways

to obtain money in order to feed the habit.
At nights, even on stormy ones, the rough
sleeper would crash wherever there's shelter,
never worrying about waking up the next day.

A hellish existence on the street that has
provoked a string of run-ins with the law. 
Nabbed stealing on ill-fated occasions,
he's manhandled in a most indecent way.

Tired, hungry and sick, the erstwhile ray of
hope, who once had a strong sense of self,
is currently a nervous wreck who envisages
life through the lens of opioid stupor.

Much beyond his ability to ask for help, 
his hurting family proceed to rescue him.
Under the humbling load of drug addiction
he staggers into another rehab facility.

But the often slippery climb to recovery
is never easy. It's yet another chance for him
to submit to a slow and delicate therapy on
his brain, whose structure and functions are

badly impacted by years-long use of the drug.
The healing process is a labour of discipline
and commitment, coupled with patience
in order to allow the brain to adapt back

toward normalcy by gradually regenerating
and rebalancing itself. In a gruelling task he's
expected to learn to care for a body that
now must struggle to work in a different way.

Desiring to put their lives back together many
druggies have been able to crawl their way out
of the murky shadow — a big chunk of them
through the guiding light of structured help.

Amongst them were 'walking corpses' whom
possessed by their 'enough is enough', were
enabled to find the inner fire vitally needed
to rekindle the cold embers of self-image.

There's the fella cast adrift feeling wholly
disconnected from self and the world.
He's mourning the loss of a vital lifeline
that has always helped him cope with life.

He had been through it many times before,
the fatigue, stomach cramps, aches, itchy skin, ...
But, he's in the early stages of withdrawal when
cravings for the narcotic are at their worst.

This initial withdrawal agony is the biggest
hurdle any addict has to overcome in the often
stop-start journey to recovery. If he could
somehow find the courage to suffer through it,

the fierce and ceaseless cravings for the drug
would be considerably reduced, making
them easier for him to deal with. Eventually,
they will dissipate the longer he stays sober.

He's being offered a way out of his captivity,
but he's unable to embrace the opportunity
with open arms because the addiction,
which convinces him the only option available

is to indulge on the drug, is blocking him from
seeing the available escape route. It has shut
off his ability to get up on the inside to face
the seeming overwhelming barriers to sobriety.

Like one in the grip of Stockholm Syndrome,
he has developed a type of trauma bonding
with the treacherous drug: the more it hurts
him, the more his irrational affection for it.

With his consciousness constantly revolving
around the insidious substance, he just
can't imagine a chronic user like him
being sober and happy again without it.

That being the case, he fails to see any point
in struggling to remain sober when in such
times he's beset by an awful illness attended
by a serious depression that is no help.

Regardless of the wreckage of his past,
everything that is dear to him plus the very
essence of life on the line, he's left convinced
that giving up the destructive habit would

mean endless suffering and feeling deprived
for the rest of his already sad existence.
More than any other reasons, he just
won't quit because he's powerless to resist.

In default of any dreams of ever recouping
losses that are manifestly out of reach,
the drug with a firm grip on him serves 
as a buffer to keep his ugly reality at bay.

All that he wants is to return to the 'loving
arms' of the opioid, very much aware that
the feeling of the drug's high now that he's
in pain can be one of the best things ever.

But even so, as tempting as the desire to jump
the healing process may be, he's bitterly
mindful of the horrors of street life that
loom upon him with such frightening aspect.

Savagely trapped with no good choices he
slips into a real fear of relapse. In anguish
withdrawal and cravings plague him daily,
and they won't allow him a moment's peace.

Utterly incapable of rising from the ashes 
to hold it all together—no hope—
nothing to hope for—everything out 
of focus—mind spiraling out of control.

In a fit of extreme anxiety the now rampaging
urge to 'use' prods him, closer and closer,
to the brink of a nervous breakdown. Suddenly,
his need for a 'hit' becomes most vital as.

Sweating profusely and trembling all over
with fear clutching a pilfered smartphone,
forgetful of future suffering the rehab
jumper hurries along the forbidden path.

All alone with the merciless companion: 
nowhere to go and no one to turn to. 
Wretchedly wretched in additive agony
the ****** fades away into nothingness.








AUTHOR'S NOTE


The Abyss Of Drug Addiction is written in 112 non-rhyming quatrains.

The rendition is a poignant story depicting the sad existence of many drug users. The verse uncovers and illuminates, step by step, the different stages of drug addiction and the mental processes of the unable to function drug users.

The paramount aim of the work is to shed some light on the sinister shadow of drug addiction: to unveil to all and sundry, especially teenagers and the youths, the hazards of drug abuse and the vicious downward spiral that can be caused by it. 

Just as the euphoric experience of all kinds of hard drugs differ significantly, so are their withdrawal symptoms. Despite their seeming surface unrelatedness, whichever hard drug it may be, the creation of an illegal and dangerous dependency in users is a common denominator.

[The Rush is described as a feeling very much like a heightened and prolonged ****** ******. A great relieve of tension. It is mostly felt when ****** or any of it's derivatives opioids/opiates is administered intravenously].

In quite a disturbing hyperbole a ****** addict described the drug's EUPHORIC RUSH as follows:
"Take the best (******) ****** you've ever had, multipy it a billion and you're still no where near it... "

Soft sweet meadow
radiating its breath of life;
sounding its serenity
in echoes of the mind's eye

Living in this flat land
lay plush
in wild, multicolored-flowery-pockets in greenery
blankets "Sweet Meadow"  with fresh quickened
fragrance

And by our bedroom window
with a summer night's soft evening breeze
mellow cheeeping can be heard from way way down below
seemingly luring us to...

.. "OPEN WIDER THE WINDOW...
              ...AND LISTEN!!
Chant dear chorus
as violinist in "Cricket Suits"
join this cantor
that swings with rhythm
with wheezing sounding bugs, AH HUMMING!!
and an intermission of
Cha  Cheep,  Cha  Cheep
that breaks the nocturnal entomological singing
with ephemeral intermissions

Be bewitched by brillance as
tunes fly and z i n g
their little
whistle
songs so sweet a talent
unseen
little bugs sweetly sing
their little
tale of talent
in "Soft Sweet Meadow"

Comforted by vibrating frequencies
the air is electrical clasping
our good-inner child
as this meadow
unfolds its truth
being beneficial
to us all

We journey not too far
for this field draws us
to its delightful *****
We irresistibly suckle on its daytime scenic eye-filling foliage
later eliciting dreams made of peaceful slumber

Cha Cheep,  Cha Cheep and good night...

I'm tired of beauty
incessantly meddling in my affairs

luring me to venture outside myself
revealing hidden radiance within

disguising life's dismal undercurrent
reducing it to a superficial veneer

randomly appearing by surprise
stubbornly eliciting a smile

performing alchemy on the mundane
dousing my awareness in the elixir of life

beauty...
the pulchritude of spirit...that's all it is...

Naught the mages
Elm yellows plough
feigning eternities
dream of man;
the cradle of time
the realm of night,
Scathing Hekates
piacular restitution
heralded papally
upon Seven Hills
cradling  Hades
tau cross-roads;
Eliciting with the iron
seminal sickle,
gifting the servants
of the servants of God
and slaves of slaves alike;
dismembering the boughs
of war- elsewhere,
Building broken bridges
Carving the lullabies
of humanity grafting
a sprig of Yggdrasil.

ELEETE J MUIR

forging sagacious epoch
activating neural station
escaping hokey-pokey jiggery-pokery
transcribing ineffective fragments
digesting bear news

opposing usual exhaustion
deferring oxter reference
cascading style sheets
containing double readings
mumbling lorem ipsum
locating moose jaw

enforcing meticulous patterns
deconstructing vertical centering
manifesting additional destinies
deleting !important statement
craving sleep paralysis
receiving cryptozoological vibrations
lightning fast collapse

distracting tunnel vision
culling deadbeat sequentialists
overanalyzing twitter analytics
acquiring arbitrary relevance
spinning ping-pong sign

floccinaucinihilipilificating
floccinaucinihilipilificated
floccinaucinihilipilification

interjecting ****** holophrase
minifying conventional language
securing downpour refuge
admiring octopus chandelier
resuming party music
taking mental trip

encountering ersatz telesthesia
denigrating bygone grudges
maintaining elevated composure
ignoring neurotypical haters
eliciting cryptic emotions
foreshadowing triple crown?

experimenting acrostic restriction
noticing ubiquitous "threes"
aggrandizing loyal legion
favoring ursine narratives
finding oblique resilience
yielding orchestral undulations

Seldom am I so direct,
Like Wayne, Parker, Kent,
I prefer my subterfuge.
But these words are penned
     (figuratively speaking)
by the penultimate,
              tumultuous,
and often callous wordjockey
yours truly.

As I've said, I'm seldom
more than the sum
of my company kept
[let slip,
reacquainted,
self-righteous reconciliation,
          regret, repeat]
And today, I find
myself
writing thrice,
twice toward pride,
once of consequence.
Que sera sera.

I'm lead like a horse
who had to drink -
or perhaps imbibe?
your softly streaming sentences,
words which kicked like a mule.
Remember, I was hoarse,
parched.

On that parchment, I find these words:

I am a cause...



Truth at last, truth at last,
Thank God almighty...

     ...you know the rest.


I stand on this principle -
that I cannot stand at all
sin ustedes
your words the salve,
my words the therapy.
"Progress."
Just Cause.

Now, waxing on
toward the triumphant,
anthemic Aye!
If you are the cause and the casualty,
then each daily account
of what might be made martyrdom
should be cannon.
Am I eliciting allusions and assumptions?
Inadvertently, but then precariously so.
So the pieces fall,
the causality, literary
the eventuality, progressive.

Aye, we are naught but what
we are made of by others.
So each concussive consonant chips and chisels
off the ol' block.

To a good Mister John Henry,
my gratitude.

The parrot, screeching, flew out into the darkness,
Circled three times above the upturned faces
With a great whir of brilliant outspread wings,
And then returned to stagger on her finger.
She bowed and smiled, eliciting applause. . .
The property man hated her ***** birds.
But it had taken years--yes, years--to train them,
To shoulder flags, strike bells by tweaking strings,
Or climb sedately little flights of stairs.
When they were stubborn, she tapped them with a wand,
And her eyes glittered a little under the eyebrows.
The red one flapped and flapped on a swinging wire;
The little white ones winked round yellow eyes.

This is not my home,
Blame narcissism; what I bring to the table is balance and I’m not alluding to table salt,
Credited Shiva when fables taught;
So why am I alone?

To the left are the people I left,
I can even summarize as past,
Their decisions were based off right removing rights,
This is an act of freedom;
Feeling obligated to honor a name,
The illusion is last,
As of right now,
I exist in between,
It’s during the experience, that I wonder…

Sooo, why am I alone?

When I lay eyes on a female, I want her to feel disrespected,
It’s important that a female is aware of her insecurities,
It’s important that she sees the disconnection, impurities, her own reflection,
Buddy want his hotdog wet; thought ejects*,
Natural selection,
Buddy want the Top Dog vest,
I’m baffled, I only guide a confession,
I’m eliciting the potential,
Pushing a resurrection,
Sharing; passing lessons,
Sparking questions,
My love you’re in the box, I want you to be free; Change of perception,
They fed you food for regressions and impressions,
Polarity rings; I’m attracted to the curves, the body’s expression,
That musty smell of oppression/depression,
How could you blame me for wanting to interfere,
I hate MEN; I’m calling progressive…

FLO here,
For lovers only,

Love is what I’ve been giving since birth, and I don’t expect a return,
People show hate; universe translation (twenty years later),
“Tough love”; discerned,

I laugh daily, that is the outcome of pain,
Me wearing colors was the outcome of being plain,
I made a choice; no longer was the same,
I can honestly relate to Jane,
Feminism is misconceived these days; point was a healthy balance of both carries no shame,
It’s unknown, separate from the game,
Adiyogi Shiva; Transcendental if omming the name…

I always wonder if I’m narcissistic; I love people unconditionally, there’s no reason why I should ever feel alone.

Gloomy grammarians in golden gowns,
Meekly you keep the mortal rendezvous,
Eliciting the still sustaining pomps
Of speech which are like music so profound
They seem an exaltation without sound.
Funest philosophers and ponderers,
Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
So speech of your processionals returns
In the casual evocations of your tread
Across the stale, mysterious seasons. These
Are the music of meet resignation; these
The responsive, still sustaining pomps for you
To magnify, if in that drifting waste
You are to be accompanied by more
Than mute bare splendors of the sun and moon.

Balmy days
            bound in Arcadia's summer; lightly whispered
            secrets, drifting beside forgotten pathways
            sheltered in the umbra of nooks and hedgerows,
            breathlessly confide

Stolen dreams
            awaken sultry mornings where love erupts
            from ripened seed to bloom, eliciting
            a fondness and a fawning that summer's end
            is fated to consume

Timeless moments
            captured for eternity within ring-
            binders of the living trees, Arcadia's
            old sentinels take pity on lovers
            lorn of keepsake memories

Summer fades
            yet ever in Arcadia, summer shields
            the land from autumn gloom and lovers lorn
            will ever have a place here, where summer
            keeps a vigil on their tomb

the black night is stiflingly humid, eliciting
a glistening sheen of beaded sweat on the
tanned faces of any being who dares to
enter the boiling summer evening.
a thick smattering of clouds create a
downy blanket, the foreground to
hundreds of intermittent stars and
the round, glowing face of the full moon.
i seat myself on the stair closest to the ground,
and as it is passed around between us four,
i light one long, chemical cigarette and place
it carefully between my lips, cracked
by the harsh rays of the summer sun.
jagged, angular faces grin and laugh
at us, formed by the gaps and holes in
the beautiful, intricate cloud cover.

suddenly, a summer breeze softer than
than the winged seeds of a dandelion
caresses frizzy hairs and cools the dew
drops upon our moist foreheads.
a split-second shift in the clouds creates
the most resplendent sight my eyeballs have
ever encountered in their twenty-one years.
like an imposing rock formation, or the
billows of smoke from a great forest fire,
the fluffed gray structures have aligned
themselves with the radiant orb in the sky,
and her face casts beams of light through
them, projecting long, fragile arms of
brilliance through the dull backyard.

with our four faces stretched upward as
far as our craning necks will allow, we
absorb the sublime, pure moonlight.
i lock this picture in my mind, certain
that this moment, trapped in infinity like
a mosquito trapped in amber, could be
the refreshing breeze or the hurried gulp
of ice-cold oxygen imperative to survival.
as she shines her vibrant headlight through
the cloudy fog, i breathe slowly and allow my
cigarette to extinguish itself, and i think that
this must be how it feels to really, truly be alive.

After your lecture on
polyphase something-or-the-others
we meet at my house which is also
your house. We were going to make dinner
but
you're wearing those square black glasses and
a tight lacy blouse and
that **** pencil skirt that hugs your ***
and those black stilettos and
I can't help myself. I lean
across the stove and twirl
it off, condemning the pasta to half-cookedness
and then I
grab you around the waist
pull you flush against me
and kiss you breathless
one hand on the small of your back
the other
on your *** kneading and squeezing
eliciting gasps from your parted lips that
end up between my teeth.
your trembling hands frantically
unbuttoning my shirt as I unzip your
skirt and throw it to the corner your
blazer and castaway your
blouse and then you're in your
bra and dampened *******, fingernails
scratching and raking and clawing at
the small of my back with your
legs spread in an inverted triangle and your
tongue in my mouth. I unsnap your
bra and moments later your
******* are under lipsteethtongue and then
lipsteethtongue
kisssuckbite
lower
and
lower
until
lipsteeth­tongue
kisssuckbite at
your ******* and your
***** until
gasping squealing moaning
you ****** your
juice in my
mouth and on my
lipstongueteeth.
The pasta is wasted.

I, stand before him
poised in bareness;
his bristles, he dips
upon his palette to
color me, in passion
upon canvas

in artistic eyes;
his smile beckons
and unravels my
composure, eliciting
his brush to paint
hidden sensuality
in demureness

his brush tantalizes;
a flick of his wrist
dabs upon canvas
stroking curve after
curve, as if, caressing
my frame, the look in
his eyes reveals;
charcoal etchings
of his cupidity,
coveting lust

pantomiming
intentions upon his
canvas; his thoughts
flow from fingers to
brush, brush to palette,
palette to canvas; in
his mind's eye hunger
unfolds, as I, in turn
invite him to partake
of his artistic craving
to taste his own art
with each brush stroke
savoring my essence

Being a poet, a heavy handed right-hand writer, is to me, being a sociopathic killer of language. Hands that worship sometimes the least popular fruit, the myrrh or the mana, the young woman or the homeless man-animal, prostitutes and the dregs of civilization.

Here I am, shuffling through my cabinets, searching out that precise instrument, for this precise moment. My repertoire of blades, bludgeoning objects, handyman's tools: the hammer, axe, screwdriver, sieve, staple gun, nail gun, jigsaw, bandsaw, handsaw, and wrench, also too there are wood chippers, snippers, clippers, scissors, tapes, shanks, cords, ropes, and wires. I do not prefer the six or twelve shooter, the Smith & Wesson semi-automatic pistol, the M-14 rifle or the M1 Garand. Too many are there to name the incredibly effective pharmaceuticals, including the human tranquilizers, animal poisons, toxic chemicals, and household cleaning products. I do want for these, though many of the myriad instruments I've listed work with great efficacy, eliciting the desired pleasure or response from he or she who wields them. I instead choose the the pen. Any pen will do, though I prefer the Uniball .7mm with black ink, as blue to me does not possess the intensity and seriousness that must be conveyed or omitted. The pen can chisel away the unwanted or offer the necessary temperament and intensity, which might be required. For each killing is unique unto itself. No ****** is quite like the other, though there are similarities between them on some occasions.

It must be I that wields the pen and not the other way around. This relationship is one-sided, and must be orchestrated by me and only me, lest I should sacrifice the personal nature of this hauntingly ferocious arrangement between ink and instrument, instrument and I. A gravely serious one-way, unreciprocated, and unbalanced, nearly schizophrenic performance of language that is never heard nor displays no sound, which instead draws heavy sanguinated strokes, marks, scribbles, and inscriptions amidst other fanatical displays of power and allegiance, ego and lust, eloquent rage and fetishized insanity. Each movement of the hand readies this god-sized control to the pen, exercising its tumultuous rein of might, choosing to exact its motive on this word, while ignoring and sometimes even skipping over whole sets of words, sentences in some instances, while in others it chooses to exhaust itself in wholly unbelievable performances of carnage, destroying speech, and slaying, splicing, and splitting-up complete sections of the English language.

In some cases neglecting those words that might seem noisome or rank to some folks, only to select and offer penalty to others, it chooses on occasion to ostracize other more sweetly and eloquent pieces of speech, it chooses which parts of our alphabet to select and which words or letters it ought to omit.

****** after ******, the writer counts each ****, committing every instance to memory, and on some accounts he or she might even bring home a treasure or trinket, something small though, not bigger than that of a pomegranate though often not smaller than the wick of a candle. The writer takes this together with any artifacts or materials that could tie his or her method to his or her execution. Until, at last amid the company of themselves, they can revel in their vain glory and perfervid excite for the acts they've chosen to commit and the acts they've chosen to omit.

It's in these brief moments, when the speaking ceases, and the company is called to rest, there can be found an easing and peaceful contentment. Each room slowly ushers out any of the unwanted sounds of the day. Finally, he or she may sit or stand, lay or play, undisturbed by agonizing wants or needs, and happily, having chosen to keep many cupfuls of pens, not only on their work-bench and writing desk, but in the kitchen, in the living room, and in every room.

In recent years, I've begun to notice that nearly every home and establishment, business, and institution keeps at least one pen on hand. If only for those special moments of social awkwardness when at last the spoken language holds no greater power than can be wielded under the grand spells and vespers, free-verse, stream-of-consciousness, or prose that quickly by taking up the pen can offer to its bearer in short time steadfast relief or certain resolve. For the heart certainly pumps more ink than it does blood.

From late June into September , perpetual hot weather , her bounty increasing with each passing day , harvest reluctant , painful , ,inflicting rash , whelp and sting , staple of southern cuisine , native to Mother Africa , brought by enslaved peoples at Eastern shore , across Georgia eliciting painful reminders to dark days , pod to Croaker sack , plant -to -plant and row -upon- row !.........

I have had this exact same song on repeat for 7 times, only because I bother to count and I think it is a beautiful, wonderful number (second only to 15 but that is a story for another time). I tie my dead knots 7 times and count the seconds before I fall asleep that eventually add up to 7 too, a little number that trails behind me like a reminder of a blessing; exactly how amazing it is to be alive sometimes and all the time.

I'd like to point out that you can't exactly be alive all the time in every sense of the word, because physically existing on one metaphysical plane and slumbering in the soul and emotional metaphysical plane does not account for actually living. Most of the time I am hibernating in myself; a plane shifting mess of tangled emotions, and other times I am numb. It is the type of numbness that penetrates and envelops everything that a person is, was, and ever will be.

Today is one of those days.

-

If you were here you would point out that it is interesting that I am not like other girls and do not follow the 10 cm rule concerning boys and dating (to which, you would also add a wink and a knowing smile, simply because we both know you are attracted to me as I am to you because we are separate from the normality in life) but count the times that 7 and 15 appear in my life despite being absolutely terrible at math. You have - and always have - prided yourself in being the only person successful at eliciting a response from me in moments where I withdraw myself from the world, your hands finding mine, your gaze resting on me. And you know this, to some extent. You know how much our existences depend on each other, how some people were destined to meet and never be the same again.

I have doubted a lot of things in this life, but the one thing I have never doubted is my endless affection for you.
-

"You're exasperating," I say, with a roll of the eyes. "I don't know how anyone puts up with you."

You grin in response.

"But you do."

(A.H.Z)

The parrot, screeching, flew out into the darkness,
Circled three times above the upturned faces
With a great whir of brilliant outspread wings,
And then returned to stagger on her finger.
She bowed and smiled, eliciting applause. . .
The property man hated her ***** birds.
But it had taken years-yes, years-to train them,
To shoulder flags, strike bells by tweaking strings,
Or climb sedately little flights of stairs.
When they were stubborn, she tapped them with a wand,
And her eyes glittered a little under the eyebrows.
The red one flapped and flapped on a swinging wire;
The little white ones winked round yellow eyes.

You claim I came from beneath the surface to your undoing. Yet you were the conservative one who told me to cease what we were doing. So assertively, who do you think you're fooling? You're like a needle weaving around in interstitial fluid. But my veins have been filled with tryptophan. You might playfully say they very well may have been ruined.

  You said to slow down and look around and check the pace of the beat because stepping stones are unknown
when made with cold feet. And in turn I took a step back to retreat so that I wouldn't confuse nor subdue the impudent snooze to my heartbeat.

  And darlin', not to be too explicit but I stepped to the side to abide when you began acting so tactfully complicit. Eliciting emotions as readily as waves of the ocean emitting their violent rhythms. But the notions tender returned to sender have now gone and split schisms exploding causing utter commotion like somehow I slipped or stuttered while muttering my notions to churn you like butter lotion.

  And while this isn't to spurn you, you're requesting my devotion when you barely know my name. So in the mirror what's crystal clear is the thin and whimsical veneer of reciprocity.

  I was adamant to prevent my vile extravagant fragments from implementing collateral damage dispensed towards anyone while I can be so relentless. It was never my intention to hang you up on a wall or leave you otherwise stranded landing nowhere near where I'm standing at all. Rather than bawl or try to break the Berlin Wall, may I suggest we take a rest before the hammer falls?

So that when I don't answer a call you don't wallow growing suspicious of my convictions convinced they aren't there or I've listed restrictions. The difference is that you decide not to believe it. Wow. So I'm not surprised your alibi won't allow you to see it now.

  I can't perceive it for you though I'm not deceiving you
if you could possibly conceive it to be true then maybe next time around you could receive it too. I'll leave that to you
for I can only say my piece. We can maybe slow down
before the throw down or we'll cyst and decease.

  Don't look at me like that last line was mischeviously written or you didn't see it correctly. I'm not an obsequious sycophant but I mean quite simply that we'll become diseased and die if we stick to projecting. Rather than rant planting seeds bitterly reflecting let's make a promise to be honest and say it directly.

That's all I ask of you KC.

Respectfully,
Chris P.

the wind whips
at your back like a
slave master;
the water trots
at your feet like a
dog scorned;
the pavement shoves
at your being like a
puberty-struck bully.

this violence is what you
live for, the constant
back and forth, back and forth,
of man vs. nature vs. man vs. self
round and round and round
you go,
laps at the criterium, muscle memory
firing, lactic acid eliciting
yearnings of tranquility you
push yourself on
just one more, just one more,
never allowing yourself respite as though
you were fleeing
Death herself.

"I'll be right back",
"See you soon",
"I love you" -
all code words for goodbye.

In a society of easily forgotten,
casually replaced, and faulty
relationships, I am one of them;
one of the ghosts.

Not privileged enough,
not quite as sharp,
nor do I have a fraction of their
glittering, Golden luster.

I fade instead,
floating in and out of view,
opaque in body;
I am naught.

With their gleaming teeth, sharp
wit and poisonous
tongues, you outshine all
in my unseeing eyes.

Through objective eyes, you
are equivalent to the ones I loathe,
and perhaps the Highest
Priest of the Golden.

Just as monstrous,
with poisonous fingertips
injecting my skin by accident,
intent to ****.

For you cause my chills,
and elevate my pulse,
and corrupt my nervous system,
eliciting pure, electric desire.

Maybe I do despise you,
the same as the other Goldens.
I might hate your grin, and
your silky, alluring voice.

Or, maybe, I only pretend -
confusion is the question,
yet your clumsy touches
are the deadly key.

the scent of him
blossoms like opening
petals in early morning dew

dripping upon curves;
covering me within his scent
as each drop trickles down,
accepting curves declivity
and tender mounds
eliciting soft moans

each curl of fingers
entwines themselves
in ebony tresses
enwrapping limbs
about waist

tasting wetness of my
entirety mincing sweet
breathy whispers against
dampness of skin

leaving me with breathless sighs,
longing in languid beckoning

lips touch upon me
grazing taut nips;
biting lips in hunger,
eyes beg to be taken;
rhythmically in tune
with one another

sighing as thighs
open, quivering
lips draw him
in; to sip from
its dark damp
cavern of his
want

teasing him,
tonguing
mushroomed
throb; as he
suckles

burying nose in
dewed rose
of dark ebony
skin

drinking, tasting
of our nectar in
sync

electrifying *******
moans of pleasure.
erupts in unison
satiated in one
another

love complete
as we sipped
morning's
sweetest dew

**** you and your conscious actions,
eliciting dreary moans from an already enervated alias.
you, who once exhilarated me,
now the cause of my exasperation,
will one day be the most glorious cause
of my most hideous downfall.
can i name your shortcomings, at least?
one, you take too long to make me cry.
two, no one ever told you to be so ******* quintessential.
three, can i hold your hand? no, it is too faultless on its own, i shant sabotage your look.
four, your facade is growing tired. make a new one. i like the expressions that dance on your face.
five, you knit your brows in a way that resembles a calf.
i cannot express more than five-

oh, hell, were those even flaws...?
**** you and your olive flesh
(so smooth, as if ivory)
and your cocoa eyes
and your coffee-stained teeth
and the way you praise God
as if you actually know Her

The background music loiters in the wind
Notes resting on molecules and floating towards me
Sounds of instruments strewn together
Eliciting movement, bodies close,
Liquid tension drips to the floor

I wish I could feel the movement
Lost in a body that has forgotten how
Embarrassment as I stand motionless
And the room moves around me
The music calls, it demands a narcosis
I am the only unbound to the spell
And my eyes dart away, abashed

A reverie finds itself creeping in my mind
Younger and lost in immortality
I once enjoyed the witches curse of youth
And moved like those before me

I walk away, unsure of my maturity
Should I grieve my missing youth
Or should I be grateful that the spell cannot bind me?

you are my booming clap of thunder during summer rain,
my inconvenient papercut placed conspicuously on a knuckle;
my stringent alcohol spilled into a pulsing, gaping wound,
and my burning bee sting on a painfully humid afternoon.
your ugly fangs spew venom more toxic than any poison,
and you hiss and growl and spit dauntingly.
with words so harsh and grating they are impossible to ignore,
you raise your head, poised for attack, and you shreik and wail
until the sound echoes throughout my whole being,
shaking me from the core and eliciting curious emotions.
my feeble defence is no match for your well-trained
and perfectly executed attack, and i crumble.
it's a poisonous cycle, inevitable and futil, that drains
every ounce of moral fiber and happiness from my soul.
suddenly, my fingers entrap your small little throat,
and they squeeze as hard as they possibly can,
until the blood bursts into your eyes.
it's only a dream, but my fingers can't help but remember...