1969 Hartford art school is magnet for exceedingly intelligent over-sensitive under-achievers alluring freaks congenital creeps and anyone who cannot cut it in straight world it is about loners dreamers stoners clowns cliques of posers competing to dress draw act most outrageous weird wonderful classrooms clash in diversity of needs some students get it right off while others require so much individual attention one girl constantly raises her hand calls for everything to be repeated explained creativity is treated as trouble and compliance to instruction rewarded most of faculty are of opinion kids are not capable of making original artwork teachers discourage students from dream of becoming well-known until they are older more experienced only practiced skilled artists are competent to create ‘real art’ defined by how much struggle or multiple meanings weave through the work Odysseus wants to make magic boxes without knowing or being informed of Joseph Cornell one teacher tells him you think you’re going to invent some new color the world has never seen? you’re just some rowdy brat from the midwest with a lot of crazy ideas and no evidence of authenticity another teacher warns you’re nothing more than a bricoleur! Odysseus questions what’s a bricoleur teacher informs a rogue handyman who haphazardly constructs from whatever is immediately available Odysseus questions what’s wrong with that? teacher answers it’s low-class folk junk  possessing no real intellectual value independently he reads Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium Is The Message” and “The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci” he memorizes introductory remark of Leonardo’s “i must do like one who comes last to the fair and can find no other way of providing for himself than by taking all the things already seen by others and not taken by reason of their lesser value” Odysseus dreams of becoming accomplished important artist like Robert Rauschenberg Jasper Johns Andy Warhol he dreams of being in eye of hurricane New York art scene he works for university newspaper and is nicknamed crashkiss the newspaper editor is leader in student movement and folk singer who croons “45 caliber man, you’re so much more than our 22, but there’s so many more of us than you” Odysseus grows mustache wears flower printed pants vintage 1940’s leather jacket g.i. surplus clothes he makes many friends his gift for hooking up with girls is uncanny he is long haired drug-crazed hippie enjoying popularity previously unknown to him rock bands play at art openings everyone flirts dances gets ****** lots of activism on campus New York Times dubs university of Hartford “Berkeley of the east coast” holding up ******* in peace sign is subversive in 1969 symbol of rebellion youth solidarity gesture against war hawks rednecks corporate America acknowledgment of potential beyond materialistic self-righteous values of status quo sign of what could be in universe filled with incredible possibilities he moves in with  painting student one year advanced named Todd Whitman Todd has curly blond hair sturdy build wire rimmed glasses impish smile gemini superb draftsman amazing artist Todd emulates Francisco de Goya and Albrecht Durer Todd’s talent overshadows Odysseus’s Todd’s dad is accomplished professor at distinguished college in Massachusetts to celebrate Odysseus’s arrival Todd cooks all day preparing spaghetti dinner when Odysseus arrives home tripping on acid without appetite Todd is disappointed Odysseus runs down to corner store buys large bottle of wine returns to house Todd is eating spaghetti alone they get drunk together then pierce each other’s ears with needles ice wine cork pierced ears are outlaw style of bad *** bikers like Hell’s Angels Todd says you are a real original Odys and funny too Odysseus asks funny, how? Todd answers you are one crazy ******* drop acid whenever you want smoke **** then go to class this is fun tonight Odys getting drunk and piercing our ears Odysseus says yup i’m having a good time too Todd and Odysseus become best friends Odysseus turns Todd on to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel” then they both read Ted Hughes “Crow” illustrated with Leonard Baskin prints Todd turns Odysseus on to German Expressionist painting art movement of garish colors emotionally violent imagery from 1905-1925 later infuriating Third ***** who deemed the work “degenerate” Odysseus dives into works of Max Beckmann Otto Dix Conrad Felixmulller Barthel Gilles George Grosz Erich Heckel Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Felix Nussbaum Karl *******Rottluff Carl Hofer August Macke Max Peckstein Elfriede Lohse-Wachtler Egon Shiele list goes on in 1969 most parents don’t have money to buy their children cars most kids living off campus either ride bikes or hitchhike to school then back home on weekends often without a penny in their pockets Odysseus and Todd randomly select a highway and hitch rides to Putney Vermont Brattleboro Boston Cape Cod New York City or D.C. in search of adventure there is always trouble to be found curious girls to assist in Georgetown Odysseus sleeps with skinny girl with webbed toes who believes he is Jesus he tries to dissuade her but she is convinced

Toby Mantis is visiting New York City artist at Hartford art school he looks like huskier handsomer version of Ringo Starr and women dig him he builds stretchers and stretches canvases for Warhol lives in huge loft in Soho on Broadway and Bleeker invites Odysseus to come down on weekends hang out Toby takes him to Max’s Kansas City Warhol’s Electric Circus they wander all night into morning there are printing companies longshoremen gays in Chelsea Italians in West Village hippies playing guitars protesting the war in Washington Square all kinds of hollering crazies passing out fliers pins in Union Square Toby is hard drinker Odysseus has trouble keeping up  he pukes his guts out number of times Odysseus is *** head not drinker he explores 42nd Street stumbles across strange exotic place named Peep Show World upstairs is large with many **** cubicles creepy dudes hanging around downstairs is astonishing there are many clusters of booths with live **** girls inside girls shout out hey boys come on now pick me come on boys there are hundreds of girls from all over the world in every conceivable size shape race he enters dark stall  puts fifty cents in coin box window screen lifts inside each cluster are 6 to 10 girls either parading or glued to a window for $1 he is allowed to caress kiss their ******* for $2 he is permitted to probe their ****** or *** for $10 girl reaches hand into darkened stall jerks him off tall slender British girl thrills him the most she says let me have another go at your dickey Odysseus spends all his money ******* 5 times departing he notices men from every walk of life passing through wall street stockbrokers executives rednecks mobsters frat boys tourists fat old bald guys smoking thick smelly cigars Toby Mantis has good-looking girlfriend named Lorraine with long brown hair Toby Lorraine and Odysseus sit around kitchen table Odysseus doodles with pencil on paper Toby spreads open Lorraine’s thighs exposing her ****** to Odysseus Lorraine blushes yet permits Toby to finger her Odysseus thinks she has the most beautiful ****** he has ever seen bulging pelvic bone brown distinctive bush symmetric lips Toby and Lorraine watch in amusement as Odysseus gazes intently Tony mischievously remarks you like looking at that ***** don’t you? Odysseus stares silently begins pencil drawing Lorraine’s ****** his eyes darting back and forth following day Lorraine seduces Odysseus while Toby is away walks out **** from shower she is few years older her body lean with high ******* she directs his hands mouth while she talks with someone on telephone it is strange yet quite exciting Odysseus is in awe of New York City every culture in the world intermingling democracy functioning in an uncontrollable managed breath millions of people in motion stories unraveling on every street 24 hour spectacle with no limits every conceivable variety of humanity ******* in same air Odysseus is bedazzled yet intimidated

Odysseus spends summer of 1970 at art colony in Cummington Massachusetts it is magical time extraordinary place many talented eccentric characters all kinds of happenings stage plays poetry readings community meals volleyball after dinner volleyball games are hilarious fun he lives alone in isolated studio amidst wild raspberries in woods shares toilet with field mouse no shower he reads Jerzy Kosinski’s “Painted Bird” then “Being There” then “Steps” attractive long haired girl named Pam visits community for weekend meets Odysseus they talk realize they were in first grade together at Harper amazing coincidence automatic ground for “we need to have *** because neither of us has seen each other since first grade” she inquires where do you sleep? Todd hitches up from Hartford to satisfy curiosity everyone sleeps around good-looking blue-eyed poet named Shannon Banks from South Boston tells Odysseus his ******* is not big enough for kind of ******* she wants but she will **** him off that’s fine with him 32 year old poet named Ellen Morrissey from Massachusetts reassures him ******* is fine Ellen is beginning to find her way out from suffocating marriage she has little daughter named Nina Ellen admires Odysseus’s free spirit sees both his possibilities and naïveté she realizes he has crippling family baggage he has no idea he is carrying thing about trauma is as it is occurring victim shrugs laughs to repel shock yet years later pain horror sink in turned-on with new ideas he returns to Hartford art school classes are fun yet confusing he strives to be best drawer most innovative competition sidetracks him Odysseus uses power drill to carve pumpkin on Halloween teachers warn him to stick to fundamentals too much creativity is suspect Todd and he are invited to holiday party Odysseus shows up with Ellen Morrissey driving in her father’s station wagon 2 exceptionally pretty girls flirt with him he is live wire they sneak upstairs he fingers both at same time while they laugh to each other one of the girls Laura invites him outside to do more he follows they walk through falling snow until they find hidden area near some trees Laura lies down lifts her skirt she spreads her legs dense ***** mound he is about to explore her there when Laura looks up sees figure with flashlight following their tracks in snow she warns it’s Bill my husband run for your life! Odysseus runs around long way back inside party grabs a beer pretending he has been there next to Ellen all night few minutes later he sees Laura and Bill return through front door Bill has dark mustache angry eyes Odysseus tells Ellen it is late maybe they should leave soon suddenly Bill walks up to him with beer in hand cracks bottle over his head glass and beer splatter Odysseus jumps up runs out to station wagon Ellen hurriedly follows snow coming down hard car is wedged among many guest vehicles he starts engine locks doors maneuvers vehicle back and forth trying to inch way out of spot Bill appears from party walks to his van disappears from out of darkness swirling snow Bill comes at them wielding large crowbar smashes car’s headlights taillights side mirrors windshield covered in broken glass Ellen ducks on floor beneath glove compartment sobs cries he’s going to **** us! we’re going to die! Odysseus steers station wagon free floors gas pedal drives on back country roads through furious snowstorm in dark of night no lights Odysseus contorts crouches forward in order to see through hole in shattered windshield Ellen sees headlights behind them coming up fast it is Bill in van Bill banging their bumper follows them all the way back to Hartford to Odysseus’s place they run inside call police Bill sits parked van outside across street as police arrive half hour later Bill pulls away next day Odysseus and Ellen drive to Boston to explain to Ellen’s dad what has happened to his station wagon Odysseus stays with Ellen in Brookline for several nights another holiday party she wants to take him along to meet her friends her social circles are older he thinks to challenge their values be outrageous paints face Ellen is horrified cries you can’t possibly do this to me these are my close friends what will they think? he defiantly answers my face is a mask who cares what i look like? man woman creature what does it matter? if your friends really want to know me they’ll need to look beyond the make-up tonight i am your sluttish girlfriend! sometimes Odysseus can be a thoughtless fool

Laura Rousseau Shane files for divorce from Bill she is exceptionally lovely models at art school she is of French descent her figure possessing exotic traits she stands like ballerina with thick pointed ******* copious ***** hair Odysseus is infatuated she frequently dances pursues him Laura says i had the opportunity to meet Bob Dylan once amazed Odysseus questions what did you do? she replies what could i possibly have in common with Bob Dylan? Laura teases Odysseus about being a preppy then lustfully gropes him grabs holds his ***** they devote many hours to ****** intimacy during ******* she routinely reaches her hand from under her buns grasps his testicles squeezing as he pumps he likes that Laura is quite eccentric fetishes over Odysseus she even thrills to pick zits on his back he is not sure if it is truly a desire of hers proof of earthiness or simply expression of mothering Laura has two daughters by Bill Odysseus is in over his head Laura tells Odysseus myth of Medea smitten with love for Jason Jason needs Medea’s help to find Golden Fleece Medea agrees with promise of marriage murders her brother arranges ****** of king who has deprived Jason his inheritance couple is forced into exile Medea bears Jason 2 sons then Jason falls in love with King Creon’s daughter deserts Medea is furious she makes shawl for King Creon’s daughter to wear at her wedding to Jason  shawl turns to flames killing bride Medea murders her own sons by Jason Odysseus goes along with story for a while but Laura wants husband Odysseus is merely scruffy boy with roving eyes Laura becomes galled by Odysseus leaves him for one of his roommates whom she marries then several years later divorces there is scene when Laura tells Odysseus she is dropping him for his roommate he is standing in living room of her house space is painted deep renaissance burgundy there are framed photographs on walls in one photo he is hugging Laura and her daughters under big oak tree in room Laura’s friend Bettina other girl he fingered first night he met Laura at party is watching with arms crossed he drops to floor curls body sobs i miss you so much Laura turns to Bettina remarks look at him men are such big babies he’s pitiful Bettina nods

following summer he works installing displays at G. Fox Department Store besides one woman gay men staff display department for as long as he can remember homosexuals have always been attracted to him this misconception is probably how he got job his tenor voice suggesting not entirely mature man instead more like tentative young boy this ambiguous manifestation sometimes also evidences gestures thoroughly misleading after sidestepping several ****** advances one of his co-workers bewilderingly remarks you really are straight manager staff are fussy chirpy catty group consequently certain he is not gay they discriminate against him stick him with break down clean up slop jobs at outdoor weekend rock concert in Constitution Plaza he meets 2 younger blond girls who consent to go back to his place mess around both girls are quite dazzling yet one is somewhat physically undeveloped they undress and model for Odysseus radio plays Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” both girls move to rhythm sing along he thinks to orchestrate direct decides instead to let them lead lies on bed while curvaceous girl rides his ******* slender girl sits on his face they switch all 3 alternate giggle laughter each girl reaches ****** on his stiffness later both assist with hands mouths his ****** is so intense it leaves him paralyzed for a moment

in fall he is cast as Claudius in production of Hamlet Odysseus rehearses diligently on nights o

A man he wrote the book
A book for all and none
About a life spent leaning
Leaning towards the sun

In search of all a greatness 
His life a distant run
A battle for a giant
He reaches for the sun

On a field of giants
Merely flesh and blood
He disregards the mismatch
And stretches for the sun

Life the fiercest battle
A war that’s never won
Commits his life to reaching
Reaching for the sun

He asks the aged pastor    
Disillusioned as the nun
Confides in self and marches on
Onward towards the sun

Saw life and fortune a lady
Took a chance with love
Traded breast and beauty
Traded it for the sun

His only life a sacrifice
A gamble for a goal
With faith and strength he pushes on
He strains his empty soul

Tried to be a good man
Emulates Christ the son
Grounded broken wings he *****
Tragically towards the sun

To advance the course of history
Alexander, Caesar, the ***
A martyr for the western world
He reaches for the sun

To hold the mighty leviathan
With great to catch a cod
Born with a head of a *******
He aspires to be a god

And oh his quest does beckon
Failure certain done
What else can he do
He reaches for the sun

To god he clings his anchor
Sworn service to God and Son
Hopelessly he leans
Leaning towards the son

Fallen words roll steadily of his tongue,
as he sings and swings upon the strings
of a love song that is about to be sung.
But before this song begins, let me remained you,
it is foiled by the sins of useless hearts,
breaking the strings of the violins
that once seemed so pure and clear.

When will you realise, that love like politics
is nothing but a front.
So forget the conspiracies, tear up the theories
of sonnets, both old and young,
and ones that are yet to be sung.

Because that smile, that you think emulates the sun
and creates emotions of fun, right from day one.

Is a nonentity.  

With a slightly snarled pursed lip
Pursuing sweet nothing, yet your heart stays eclipsed
and you lean in to kiss.

Then 10 months down the line, you here a chime
you open your eyes, she’s gone, you’re out of time,
and finally you realise,
Love is like politics, it’s nothing but a front.

Soft padded sheets with a chalk-white fade
Contours from repeated pressure illustrating a familiar shape

Indented rivets in the overused cushion where you tried to hide
Red-turned-brown spots dried, markers of where you failed to keep it inside
Timid stains of salty moisture once fallen from your eyes
Now just a faded gravestone to the bliss simplicity brought before your fight died

Deaf ears and the pleas that pass through their shallow halls
But the sound changes octaves as it bounces off the thin beige walls
And so it echoes unheard as it falls
One too many close calls to accept the sound that emulates from it all

Trembling bones under heavy skin clutching the bed-frame with an iron grip
Second only to the pressure your upper teeth have on your lower lip

Revolving doors unhinged, flooding your thoughts as they race
Tired eyes stay bolted open, not recognizing the shape of your own face
in the jagged glass that now lays fractured and stained from the image you tried to replace
But it still didn't go away
“This is it,” you say

Cavernous holes,
Once whole,
Now just hollow shells you used to call home
Empty of all heart and all hope

And you brace for the hit, the moment where it finally all goes black
And the silence will finally answer back,
telling you you've ****** it up, it's all rotted through, you didn't fight hard enough and now you're done

And every single time you're still surprised when that moment never comes
And despite the tremors and daggers, your stubborn heart carries on

So find the narrow sliver of air where reality and your mind meet
And take in all the oxygen like it isn’t always free
There isn’t much too it,
You just put your head down and breathe

Because if there’s only one thing of which you can be sure
It's that these souls were designed to endure

And "this too shall pass" will become true once more

Let your heart and its resting pace made amends
Once the shaking stops you can finally stand
And wear that smile until courage finds you again

Somewhere inside you always knew this isn’t how it ends.

Calls for Patriotism,
Does not equal a compromise.
Complaining about divisiveness
Requesting unity, and patience
Is the luxury of the majority.

To ask such things, emulates ignorance
Offering togetherness, as blind eyes fall
On bodies littered in streets, or behind bars
It is to insist to further a cause of opposition
Allowing complacency to enslave and oppress

Things that go bump in the night like the roar of the raging lion deafening your arcadian silence
Like the face of a wolf chasing you in your dreams, claws out, jagged teeth already sharpened, salivating at the scent of your fear
And the sudden crash of the lamp on the ground because your clumsy thoughts blew it off the stand in a rush of puzzling ideas and jigsaw hearts overflowing your mind

The fishnets sloshing the seas through the holes, piecing together lost trails of a failed relationship, letting the salty essence linger behind, drifting to the saliva glands inside your mouth
And suddenly you're shot up with a narcotic, straight into the veins where he used to live, vacating the premise, making room for a sense of euphoria that consumed me as a whole

A treacherous path ending with a unceasing fall off a cliff where the rocks slipped too often, and lessons were never learned from the kids next door
Cracking floorboards circumference the room where they used to talk in circles, collecting feelings and saving them inside the pockets that somehow found holes in themselves

Then the wind emulates the whispers hiding behind the fading foliage of the trees that secured everyone's trust and captivated their souls deep within
Violent kisses used to tear my skin apart until a gun to the back of my head held more depth than I've ever experienced in my whole life

I searched the sand for the purpose I wished to hold in the palm of my hands but it sifts right through the solid foundation of my finger tips that rot with poison ivy
Ever since I felt the tree that infected me with  the venom in the form of sharp bristles and empty sap sacks

Whatever the blue sky may represent, I see dark clouds forever and a day, even when the sun returns my calls, and with a bitter tone and a touch of sizzling rain, offers me a chance to see the bright side they all dream of
When the opaque sky eats the sun I find solace in home, where the stars collect my secrets like coins and hold my wishes like the hand of a boy I thought I once loved

I morph into the worst version of myself when the screams encapsulate my emotions and my face is no longer skin and bone, but vicious fangs and yellow eyes
So what, if I differ from the rest of the pack
A lone wolf or a raging lion, I am not them
And I never will be

Until the rings awaken me as my eyes flicker back to their hazel nature
And the bags roll beneath my eyes, with a darkened presence treading under
And the sun returns for the day, a gift I cannot return
And I walk down the same road, leaving the covers rumpled and the sheets entangled with one another

The mess correlates to my dreams
And all of the hearty burdens I continue to bestow inside the treasure chest deep under the ground
I shall keep these somber ideas and thoughts at the top of the bookshelf, a place you'll never look, a place you'll never find
Just smile and fake it until you believe in it's proximity to the truth

Did you ever just once
stand in front of a mirror
and actually see the pain
reflected in your eyes?
Behind this pain lies
many years of feeling
that you are never worthy;
never worthy of ever being
loved by that one special
someone that you were
supposedly destined to
spend the rest of your
natural life with.

People like this often
regress into a sea of
blackness that they can
never swim out of.  
They are surrounded
by nothing but empty
water filled with
empty promises -
these exact promises
that they desperately
cling to in order
not to drown.

It is ultimately their
choice to brave
these murky waters,
or allow themselves to
be continually trapped
in this Sea of Obscurity.
Even if they can pull
themselves out of this
despair, they still have that
lingering feeling that
they are forever doomed
to live in this constant
state of pain and agony.

These lost spirits just
want and need to feel
like they matter.
They desire to be
accepted and loved
for who they are,
regardless of their
faults and flaws.  
They often times try
too hard to have
others accept them.
However, when they are
overlooked or made to feel like
a speck of dirt on the ground,
they again lose their way.

It is a constant battle that
people face daily if they feel
that they are never worthy –
never deserving to be given a
real chance in life and in love.
They feel unappreciated
and find themselves
questioning their place
In this world.  

Many masque their pain
with poisons that
make them feel numb.  
But, most know that
these elixirs are only
a temporary fix.  
They do not even
know where to start
to fix this internal pain.
All they want is to feel
loved and accepted.

Instead of condoling these
people, help them by not
only extending your hand,
but also by sharing your
heart with them.  
They need to feel that
they are just as worthy
as someone who appears
happy and content with
their own life.  

Help give them a
reason to feel like
they really do matter.
Show them they are not
condemned to a life of
feeling like they
are never worthy of
any joy and love.  

There is hope and promise
for them, and maybe
sooner than later,
these exact same
misguided people
will be able to look
in the mirror and
not dread what they
have seen in the past;
but instead, the mirror
emulates that sparkle
of hope that has been
missing for so long.

Vicki A. Zinn

June 25, 2016

8:00 AM, Monday, Nov. 14th, 2016: Alarm goes off.

He rag-dolls himself across the flat. Past the paintings that huddle on the floor against the walls, past the unpacked boxes concaving from dust and into the shower where he keeps the alarm clock and pliers to turn on the broken shower handle. The bed is a place where thoughts unravel like yarn that one can never quite ravel back to its former integrity, so he doesn’t like to stay there long. Instead he concentrates on the two-day **** smell that trademarks his bathroom. Always two-day ****? He thinks. Never one-day?


“WHAAAP WHAAAP Click” he hits the alarm with the edge of his fist and starts the water, which hits the floor of the tub in a carbonated rattle that emulates the patter of the office water cooler being rinsed and refilled, rinsed and refilled for the last twelve years (his personal duration with the company). Avoiding the water cooler is thirsty work but allows him to dodge creepy office gossip. It is enough in the morning to have to shout “good morning!” in a practiced timbre and twist one’s face into a look of serenity to flaunt at coworkers. These, at least, he’s mastered. He thinks practicing these last two items out loud.


Feeling reasonably damp he shuts off the water, towels down, climbs into the clothing he set out the night prior, grabs his computer bag (also pre-stocked/sorted) and marches through the front door, hair still damp, climbing through the frozen city air coloured by police sirens and the familiar song of commuter impatience and into his Honda, saturated in tree-air-freshener fumes.

The radio: “BOW CHIKA! BOW CHIKA! Bow Bow HEY!….Clap along if you feel like a room without a….” bludgeons him through the stereo so he cranks it louder still and try to keep up for about a block, voice horse and deprived, so he settles for a low hum but ultimately feels like a ******* and opts for silence. When the thoughts start to unravel, he turns the stereo back on, half mast.

The bassy throbs of his heart assaults his rib cage, so he’s almost at work.
“Hello! HeelloO!” He practices again bringing the car to a stop, his left foot hitting the pavement as the Honda leans forward, backwards, then goes still. “HE—llo!” Back through the frozen morning, fiddling the keys in the lock and into the building.

The front door of the office presents its sickly yellow face and last minute sighs are exhaled.
“H…cough HeelloO!” He invites.
“Morning! Debbie returns. “Hey!” answers Rick. “Yo, yo,” says the intern whose name he feel terrible about forgetting. “How you doin’ today, Mr. C?” He asks.
Why the **** would he ask me that, it’s 9am, he thinks, but musters a “Me? Great!” in a tone that plainly sounds like Droopy Dog after receiving news from a physician that begins with “I’m sorry, Droopy” so he adds “just another day in paradise!” Something he picked up from young ****-types in university. 
“You?” he directs the question not only to the intern but the entire room to demonstrate gusto.
“Living the dream!” Says intern; “Couldn’t be better!” Says Debbie;  “Another beautiful day! Another beautiful day…” Says Rick.
They stare back at him with their mouth-corners quivering, eyes twitching, neck-veins prominent. They’re literally bursting from the seams with zeal! He thinks.
“Couldn’t be better,” he thinks. “Living the dream.” He settles into his headphones, a small fire welling in his gut. Don’t these people ever get tired of being “great?” He thinks, queuing “Three Little Birds” on his iPod, watching the waves move in, then out, in, then out on his new animated “beach theme” desktop background. 



He settles into his headphones but can’t distract his way out of the thought: why can’t I live the dream? Why everybody else, and more importantly, why not me?

The blinding lights
shine on glistening faces.
Applause fills the air as music ceases.
I recreate this scene again and again.

My body emulates sentences
with. periods, and commas.
We do this to plant a picture
in their minds.

Constantly evolving,
DANCE is an expression
of the way we feelwhen we fly free
without wings to carry us.

“En dehors”
The mirror emulates their grace,
as amber catches an insect
preserving it in the mind.
I focus on the soft pink
that paints across the floor.

“Passé”
Their feet move automatically,
as gears in a grandfather clock.
Drifting with the ease,
of a fallen leaf.
Gliding through the air.
My steps are crude to the eye,
as oil in the ocean

“Efface”
With each incorrect step.
I burrow even further,
trying to escape ridicule.
I attempt to blend in,
A crypsis of the mind.

Marissa Navedo

- En Dehors: expresses that the leg moves in a circular direction, clockwise
- Passé: working leg passes the supporting leg sliding close to the knee
- Efface: Dancer stands at an oblique angle to the audience so part of the body is hidden from view. Legs are open and uncrossed
- Crypsis: The ability of an organism to avoid observation or detection by other organisms.

Groaning grunts grows greatly
rendering respect… relinquished, reluctantly
over ostracizing only openly
without withholding weary words.

and

Lowly lessons leave larceny,
emptiness embodies, emanates, emulates
around abandoned admiration, amassed.
Recover reference, reticulate resistance
never negate nostalgia knowingly.

It is a truth universally
acknowledged
that people in love
are people found.

Even if one tried,
one cannot escape from,
nor ignore one’s
strongest muscle
that emulates a
desperate caterpillar’s.
This muscle is a muscle
of the heart
that is eager to break
free from
the claws of conformity,
which it is bound by
from the moment it is born;
where it’s rebellious limbs
instinctively practice
within and against the laws
of physics and nature;
laws that appear
to relentlessly sustain
the creature’s
seemingly pointless,
externally influenced,
and
perfectly molded
and orchestrated
existence.
That is, until
one day
when the caterpillar
blossoms into a
creature with wings;
a thing with a
real purpose
that springs into
action when
faced with
the highest form
of adversity,
like dealing
with the stink of
French blue cheese
that leaves behind
its cheap perfume
in a room with no
ventilation.
Death of the senses,
birth of a soul.
And there, on a sofa,
begins and ends
the story
of two lost souls
aimlessly meandering
around like
headless politicians
clinging onto something
they no longer have.
(Dysfunctional penises,
your time is up).
And all that remains
within these quietly
suffocating walls
of love and loss
is the eerie
stench of pain
mixed in a ball
of anger,
confusion,
and the
feculent funk of
French cheese.

These are the feelings
A whirlpool
In the ocean
Where I can only drown
The feeling that I've been wrong
I'm not upset with you
I'm angry with myself
That I could project such expectations

Because without wings
You came flying
But really I was so far beneath the surface
I saw you above me

When in reality

One man knows about god
And emulates
Another knows nothing
And it becomes apparent

And so you let me down
I never should have looked to you to lift me up

if ted berrigan's
sonnet xv
   isn't a testimony to me
venturing to say:
keep the paragraph
custard away from us...
if ted berrigan isn't
an optometrist...
     then i'm vague,
blind... my eyes aren't
playing hands
  in a pub throwing darts...
because i have to say:
fiction is wholly linear........................................................
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now i really appreciate what you're
doing... as every smart-*** does
laughing: thanks for the *****!
but... no.
          i've been prescribed
a celibacy where i yank and call
for Beelzebub!
    veal in a veil of sodden trademarks....
and once it was all about
making poetry jazz, but they
made it too obvious by reciting
their poems to jazz... only one
improv gets away... and lives
in this town...
and ol' teddy was in on it...
but i'd like to return to the tornado,
the crazy-eyes of reading poetry,
up
down
up
down
right
left
backwards
forwards
it's total freedom man...
a bee flies past
my neighbour's dog
walk in the garden looking
for the bark and the night...
i'm getting ******
and i'm thinking about
getting ****** with
the Jim Morrison tourists
who come to his grave
at père lachaise - funnily enough
i was there, once...
and once will do it for me:
i need the vampirism of
distortion, tackling imagination
with memory...
but seriously, why are all the competent
men of our age, lodging
thought into the brain?
that the brain somehow emulates
thinking...
there's also another gym opening,
turning brain (fat) into bicep (muscle)
by doing crosswords religiously
and all other mensa crap-a-*******-too
on the didgeridoo... qua quan quank...
for some reason i hear a didgeridoo
i only hear q... and testicles in a
wrench...
             but it really is optometry with
ted berrigan... in his sonnet vx...
up
down
up
down
              i.e. in joe brainard's college its white arrow
does not point to william carlos william.
   he is not in it, the hungry head doctor.
   what is in it is sixteen ripped pictures
of marilyn monroe, her white teeth white-
washed...
  so it has to either be optometry or gymnastics...
because i swear i just did a cartwheel there...
up
down
up
down
             and it's done with such force...
like a pigeon talking cuckoo...
    and then the hope that the dust does settle
down, and our modern narcissist
  steers away from looking into the darwinistic
mirror and incorporates other animalistic
traits into defining his sole possession...
     i'd like to see man imitating man,
rather than create this chasm of:
    like jacob unto god, so god unto jacob,
but given we're dealing with realism:
like man unto ant, so ant unto man...
           and you really can't say you'll turn
myopic reading poetry...
   painting, in words, not mere graffiti...
if like me: you get tired of colour
  and feel no need to experiment with
colour emphasis high on l.s.d.
   well: you're coming to the party of miserable
sods, with Dante at the fore.
      and if i really did mind the Geneva convention
on punctuation, i wouldn't full stop
and refresh with an
and...                               conjunctions don't
belong at the fore, nor at the back...
    but here's to heresy in the secular realm!
but seriously: why say thought resides in the brain?
and that we need more brain-power?
      brain-strain, ice-cream stashed as quickly
as a turkey might say girball in between that
cocky-glug-glug while being forcefed / stuffed...
  and would you believe it: it still won't
sit on a dusty mantle-piece... but glittering like
oil and gold... on something as intrinsic
         as an impermanent table of pilgrims.
male turkeys yes: where once there was a larynx
there now hangs a angry-red *******.
but you really can't say that poetry
can strain your eyes, you can't say
the writing is claustrophobic,
   that it really does strain the eyes in
paragraph litany...
       then it's at least that...
written like advert 1 and advert 2 by the side
of the road, two miles apart, on
giant billboards... albeit without
the fancy writing or the fancy colour...
but it's there alright.

a diet copy
the vague idea is there
but an ingredient is missing
stories of mistreatment
tokenized charm
a bad face

I am no man
but he emulates
surface
superficial

Storing the tears dripping from your cheeks so I can water color you a picture of why, even at your worst, you're a work of art-

Whoever created you, evolution or God or the pairing of particular chromosomes, dipped their brush into a palette of sunsets and starry night skies and painted your bright smile.

They borrowed from evergreens and forever instilled a dark green hue for your eyes that are as old-soul as the rings of the trees.

Your skin came from the white of peaches, your freckles from the brown of river stones smoothed by the water and time.

The curls and color of your hair came from beaches that only knew washing waves, seagulls and tiny ***** and seashells.

Your strength emulates mountaintops covered in white snow, blown by harsh winds yet still standing tall.

A mind like yours looks like clockwork- gears grinding constantly,, hands spinning and continually rotating, not even stopping when easing into the darkness of night.

Strawberry-red across your cheeks when you blush, the white of crashing waves when you receive news that's takes the color from your face, yellow sunflowers when you laugh the way you do.

A heart like yours was painted from the heart of mine- I dipped a brush into my own heart because I know there is where I know you best, where I honestly know you for who you are.

Cry your tears, give them to me.

I'll make you out to be what you really are, what your eyes cease see-

Your tear-cleared eyes aren't cleared enough for they do not believe that you are nothing short of a masterpiece.

Come! Swim with me in the shallow waters
Feel froth and grit compete between your toes.
Come! Mess about and splash without a thought to
The 'shoulds' and 'oughts' , the tensions and the woes.
It's busy here and lively at the sea's rim;
Old folk dip and children come to play.
The foam is soapier at the sea's brim.
Come! Let us wash all traces of the grey.

Come ! Deeper now. Let's swim in calmer water;
Feel depth's support and lie along its back.
Beyond you is the deepest, darkest ocean:
We know it's there, we smell its salty breath.
It's awful in its dreadful, fatal power
That emulates the ebb of life - and death

They say ****** is an unforgivable sin.
I beg to differ.

Why?
Because it's fun to differ. And also, I could fathom myself committing ******.

I'd do it with a knife. It shimmers—it's clean; cutting flesh with primal ease.
It's painful.
It emulates so many feelings we have—brings them up to the surface.
You can see it in the victim's face,
right as the blade slides in.

They say ****** is an unforgivable sin.
It's a sin, no doubt.
—I ask now for forgiveness, for what I may soon do.

A sick reasoning of mine is this:
"In some defeated way,
I feel as though you should be thanking me."

City lines illuminated by animated street lights reflect off of your skin.
Images of infant filled houses
and hospitals with new born fetal babies, juxtaposed fatal mothers,
emit off your body
in black and white stop motion,
slicked by this canvas of fluid blanket
And you, victim of lifelessness
lie cold and waterlogged
inhaling liquid, the new source of oxygen,
your eyes fogged and inverted submissively.
What was sung to sleep by hymnal chants  
of incredulous mourning moans now lies
Dead
on a forgetful Sunday Evening.
The street lights give no respect
as they ponderously encroach,
Leaning in to hear your fleeting birdsong.
These lamp poles, tender and limber,
flex to form prayer circles, forgetting their rightful footings.
And with each inch bound tighter,
the circle emulates a power emitted through photonic light beams
bending irresponsibly to get closer to truth.

They then see it, and so does woman
Stopping by this wooded mausoleum.
She stands with inquisitive mittens, palms open and receiving.
Flecks of skin lift off your sinking vessel as what was you leaves into better places.
They drift, forming a clouded colony
crawling  up webbing left to lead them correctly.
Each inch spreads more purity,
each meter strengthens recent weaknesses.

Woman notices a cloud gather above you,
and each particle refracts the whole galaxy with increasing detail and accuracy.
As your body turns to skeletal structure
you seep faster into the silt-heavy waters below,
your bones creating playgrounds and Eiffel Towers, hospital white in hue,
so clean it hurts.  

The cloud moistens with rain,
it becomes heavy and starts to drift,
rocking,
in futile attempt to birth again.
And each fleck takes woman.
She spreads eagle and takes flight.
Toes lift individually and with lessened pressure,
she stretches each appendage as your flesh meshes with woman’s in unconventional ways,
every crevice and crack blanketed by you, what was.
The street lights pulsate as they observe in amazement
your transformation.
All is forgiven while the lamps induct you into purity
and absolve woman for witnessing this connection to God.

Miraculous is a father’s love
When his child’s screaming in his ear

Exceptional how he can bear
High decibels without complaint.

His behavior emulates a saint:
But instead of changing water into wine

He does something much more divine—
Transforms frustration into joy.

How simple is his ploy
Gently covering intermittently
The source of high-volume sound

His sense of timing is profound
Creating novel, unique rhythms
By interrupting the one-note noise
With silence, not violence

Amazing is his patience
As the magic of complexity
Distracts his progeny from overwhelming woes
And produces giggles in its wake.

Sometimes life’s trials we can take
To create beauty from chaos and
Complex rhythms from discordant noise.

Yet friends will often speed our choice
Distracting us from life’s turmoil and
Helping us see the wondrous possibilities.

Death's flowing scroll
Aweing as you misstep,falling
In a loop which,once surpassed,
Is encompassed with laughter.
Glaring down,screaming.
You both scream in unison,so bitter
It causes the trees in the glen
To bend and whimper—

Flickering back in time for a moment:
Snakebones traced from inside the walls
Slithering malady for countless centuries;
Shedding it's calloused flakes from time to time...
What is that which the starshine overhead emulates?
Is it whiteblood or mere rain? lo,mere dust
Thrown throughout the black sky.

Death guides you to the brim of the cliff.
He is uniformed in your old clothes,brandishing eery whispers
  By the flick of his tongue. 'Scream now
And you will scream for an eternity.'

Know that I love you more than ever before
Know that our souls smile together,
Wisely content with the other's existence.
Know that with every second's passing
I sigh,
Feeling within the deepest enclaves
Of my heart and mind,
That we have years and years
that we have yet to expect to have
To love each other.
If you are tired,
Rest.
You are strong enough to be content
Without me by your side.
When I come home,
When you and I meet eyes and
Release our tears and smiles
of relief and joy,
All that opposed our happiness and peace
Will
Fall
Away.

I love you,
And you love me.

Time apart neither negates nor emulates.
Time together is hearts' ecstasies.

I love you, universe.

Sarah

I think it's just something about this time of year.
When the weather echoes warm memories,
family vacations, and
nights that never saw sleep -
into neighborhoods blanketed in fallen leaves,
cold - sharp winds that show little mercy to suffering cheeks,
and silent nights throughout city streets.
Something about the change of seasons always brings out the memories that I avoid the most.

I wish this type of nostalgia wasn't so bittersweet.
It's the type of "throwback"
that throws me back into a state of feeling nothing…
a state being nothing.

If I knew anything more
than the depression
that my parents handed down to me
through genetics;
then maybe these memories
wouldn't radiate so thoroughly
throughout my being.
Maybe each night wouldn't be spent
going back and forth between
feeling every emotion in such severity
and
wishing I could feel anything at all.
Maybe I'd know more about myself
than the history I've suffered.

It's always around this time of year
when I try my hardest to recall the laughter;
but my mind has a sick sense of humor
and can only produce images of my dad
laughing at me
and the pain he'd caused
and later,
joking about my attempts at suicide -
he called me a FAILURE.

When I go outside to clear my mind -
the cold, bitter air against my skin
emulates the bitterness in my voice
when I let my anger lie to my mom and say
that she didn't deserve another child
because she already ******* up my brother and I...
out of hurt,
I told her that I hoped she lost my unborn baby sister.

A few weeks later,
my mother gave birth
to her third child
and my second younger sibling…
Still Born.

Irony is a *****.

If the cinema in my head
were to feature anywhere else,
I imagine I'd be charged
with attempted ******.
Because this time of year
resonates with memoirs
that prove strong enough to **** me…
but it's a new season.

I asked him what he wanted
to drink, and there was silence.
I cleared my throat and tried to search for some recognition of my existence in his eyes.
Yet, to my displeasure they were glazed over and deserted of light…
except for the mute reflection of his Ipad screen.

Look Up! I wanted to shout, but simply stood smiling.

His (I can only assume to be...) brother, nudged him after what felt like an eternity.
“Jack!” His brother grunted and returned his attention to a text he was sending.

“Water.” The boy snarled in response, barely flickering his eyes away from the screen.
I returned with his drink and the boy said nothing.
I glanced at the seemingly perfect American family of four from a distance feeling sad.
Not for myself, but for that little boy.

He will never know the luxury of a completely uninterrupted and benign conversation over a family dinner;
He will only know the comfort of having a game at the tip of his fingers.

And he will never know what it feels like to be at a sleepover where they really did play games.
The kind that required patience and not always getting the monopoly piece you wanted.
**** that thimble.

He will never know the excitement of rushing home when the street lights came on.

Will he even know what running barefoot through the grass feels like?
Will he know the sadness of catching a lightning bug and having to let it go?

He will not know the comforts of reading a book with a flashlight underneath his covers while a thunderstorm passes.

He will never be able to write a girl a hand written letter
Knowing the way to her heart through the careful art of making words with beautiful loops, crossed T’s, and dotted I’s

Nor will he know the anxiety that emulates when hoping to receive one back.

No, he will never know the privileges of an extravagantly simplistic society.

Somehow my body
Still rolls to the side of the bed
You once slept on
And emulates the same positions we held each other in
I watched the trains glide past today
The small specks led to the northern part of the river
And the stars began to illuminate
All the spots in the city
Where you once slid your fingers
Inside me

I think I loved you
I think that this meant something
But it comes in these waves
Recreating the horrific storms of being
Caught in each time
You couldn't breathe
I held my own breath
And how can we stop drowning
If it's the same
Sedative sound?

Silence
is
peaceful
silence
is
digestion
and
understanding

Silence is love

Melt into this
Beautiful
Ultimate
Calmness

Within a moment
Seek
Understanding
Seek
Revelation

Reflection scares me
The
Truth
It
Emulates
Is

Frietening

Breathtaking

Burdening

Lie
Lie to me

Who cares about me. I don't.

Blinded by the mirror
I realize I care
I care about connection. I care about achievement as a collective

Unity and selflessness are the only fulfillment
I
could seek

How utterly selfish
How utterly unselfish

The action and desire together

Both

Opposite

Seek to find selflessness
To fulfill ones self

The shimmer doesn't scare me anymore

I am repugnant
Repulsive

Light that comes back to me

From this

Portal of intense reality

Just sits inside

Unusable to me

Cursed by ego

I wither into a corner
To steep in my stench.

I can live like this
I have for years.

Luckily I'm not alone in a corner

Others steeping in their ****.

We are all to weak to come together

Stop moping
It makes us weaker

Stupidly we can't see that. And just mold and rot away in our dungeons.