at age 10,
my mother pointed
At the small birth mark
On my left knee and said,
"Someone's going to love
You for that one day."

At age 16,
I told her that a boy,
One far away,
Told me I was unloveable.
"He couldn't be more wrong,"
She promised.

At age 19,
She picked up my prescription,
And cried,
"I don't want you
To get your heart broken,
Mary." She sobbed.

The empty encouragements mean nothing,
When a daughter has decided
That the need to be tragically beautiful,
Is more important than the need
To be exceptionally loved.

For every action
There is an opposite, equal
Reaction.

That's what the chemists say,
But I promise I'm no scientist
And I, too, believe in this.

Every time you win,
Someone else loses.

Every new child brought into this world,
Another one exits.

And every angel that whispers encouragements,
A devil tells you even in hell you couldn't do it.

I told her reality is a lie
reality is a lie
there are cowboys and aliens
making music in the sky
robots and dinosaurs
dancing in the jungle
monsters and angels
playing checkers in the chimney

Don't bother them and their whimsy, she said
I'm what's real
like the illusory cold of steel
or the bellyful of a meal
I cook and I clean for you
I laugh and I sing for you
I hold and I cry for you
I feel no shame that I'd die for you
but you're far off in the aether
tempting ruin from fool's gold gods
and I ponder how long I should wait for you
to come down from the heights you have scaled

The heights scaled me, my darling, I uttered
they came creeping in the night
alighting me to the depths of hell
where the ****** weep with fright
they call out for mercy, I swear
and I do not lift a finger
for I am a mortal
only armed with prayer
It's best you leave me be
I will plan their great escape
for if anyone deserves no freedom
it is I
'tis I...

But she never left, did she
she clamored on for hope
that I'd be the man I was
that I'd not be tempted by the rope
I watched her smile grow dull
her eyes' glow became glassy
her encouragements lost pep
her savor for life lost flavor
and the gods grew quiet...
the fairies fluttered away
the aliens and monsters disappeared
guilt began to choke my spirit

Darling, I said, sweet thing
your smile wanes softer than the moon
what can I get for you,
a lilt? a tune?
She sighed and shook her head
"Your dreams await, my love."
I was shocked to hear the utterance
the defeat that marred her voice
I hugged her deeply, as if to stop her falling
lo, her spirit had ebbed into despair
frightfully, I told her, "I shant dream again."
But you always dream, she said, it wouldn't hurt to dream once more
Oh but it does hurt, I whispered, it hurts that you hurt for me
The ****** still call, do they not?
Your one voice drowns them out
What of the aliens and their schemes?
I will make plans for you, say the word
What of the cowboys and their adventures?
You are my adventure, my freedom, my home
I don't know, you'll be dreaming tomorrow, I must prepare the bed
I'll prepare it with you - you and I will make love tonight

After so long, will you have the stones?

I will be the mountain you're astride
stones enough for cobbled streets
stones enough for churches and keeps
I tell you darling, I am through
no dreaming, no sleeping, no games
I will lay you down tonight
until you say my name!

And the morrows were ever sweeter
the days skipped by with grace
no longer brooding over the dead
it was life that I laid claim to
my love, she held me tight like never before
cooing like a nested bird at the highest tree
she turns to me, says, "I have something to show you."
She leads me to the door and opens
but it was then that the doorway warped
a darkness suffused the entry
a darkness deeper than the cosmos beyond the sky
and in a that darkness, a gleam...
I reached out to touch, with my love grasping my hand
the gleam became a roaring light
and from it, the king of darkness himself

You were to be a hero, he claimed, a champion for them all
but here you stand at the threshold
here, you fight you last battle
I heard your cries to the hells
your pining for their salvation
I heard them cry for you
I heard them sing for freedom
it tickled me, their futility
until I realized, it had never been done before
for someone to light hell to a chorus
for them to weep no longer,
for them to hope
I've come to you with an offer
we shall see what you are made of
what can you offer for their freedom
what thing of value can replace my coveted ******?

I gulped, not sure what to say
was I dreaming again? Surely not!
But my darling was seeing this, too
this was not a dream at all!

All I ever had to offer, was myself, I said

And will you make that offer?

My grip on her hand loosened against my will
against my better judgment, I yearned to shake his hand
to make the deal
to save their souls
but I knew, or at least I was learning
things could never be that simple...

After me, I said, shall there be more souls to claim?

Always as the sun rises and sets
there is reaping, bills to collect
the debt of sin is final, and punishment is due
punishment for them
punishment for you

Can I have your assurance
that you will not take more souls after me?
I require your agreement
your acceptance of my plea

The king of darkness smiled a vast, soulless grin
Unless you make their decisions for them, you cannot change their fates
But you would give them a chance
a glimmer of opportunity to right their courses

Something else was nagging at me
Why, after all this time, was he here?
To make a simple offer?
My soul for the ******?
The offer made no sense
if I truly were ******, my soul would be worth less than any of theirs
I began to catch on to the ploy
I began to live the game

I don't believe my soul is worth the souls of hell...

Ah, a change of heart

No, I just don't believe the scale is balanced - my soul has the scale tipped

You jest

Don't tell me you can't afford my soul...

Wha- well how much then? I'd have to wait for new batches

I don't think you're up for bargaining

I can offer you a hundred years more worth of souls

You wouldn't come here for a soul worth so little - that's a sad offer

A thousand years more worth, it's a bargain!

I don't come so cheap, that's pathetic...

How much then, how much!

All the souls... of all time

Do you mean hell to be some kind of revolving door? No. Absolutely not. Actions have consequences, and the ultimate consequence is hell - that's fair.

Fair? Fair for billions of people to live lives of suffering, emptiness, and defeat, and sure, fail at it, cause catastrophe maybe, but ultimately all for the chance to live, only for all that striving, and all the weight of that suffering, to land them in a pit for eternity, experiencing a suffering unlike anything they'd ever imagined?
Fair? You have no idea what's fair and your bogus offers are indicative of that.

I felt her grip my hand tight. I held just as firm.

The king looked shocked, so... that's a no then.

Did you hear anything I said?

I heard, and if you have some means to change how the universe works, I suggest you start working, because I have work of my own to do.

That's it then?

Indeed.

With that, the king of darkness melted into the black, disappearing from sight, along with the dark portal. Suddenly, light burst from the now open doorway, revealing the green pastures beyond.

You saw all that?

She nodded. You dreams weren't for nothing, then?

I guess not. I breathed a sigh of relief. You had something to show me?

I absolutely forgot with everything that just happened. Are... are we dreaming?

I looked around, smiling. Everything is real, I said.

She smiled back, and let me out into the world where I had not ventured in years.

The first steps were trouble. My joints ached. The sky was too bright. But as we strode, it got easier. I began to enjoy it. She led me far, until I almost didn't recognize where we were. Up a steep hill with trees and shrubbery covering its expanse.

At the top, a small clearing, within which a tall tree stood. We rounded it, and she pointed at something, "Remember?"

I nodded, I can't believe we haven't been here since we were kids.

You're the one that brought me here the first time.

I forgot this place existed

This used to be your favorite spot

Things changed. We changed.

Change doesn't have to end life. It could be the beginning.

I hugged her. It could, I said.

What she'd pointed at was a carving of our faces I'd made in the trunk of the tree when I first began dreaming of the future. She was my dream. My first dream. Sad to see how I'd taken her for granted.

I want to help you, she said. I want to dream with you.

The dreams won't change anything anymore, I said, we have our answer. I want to start changing the world... will you help me with that?

She nodded.

I dreamed, I said, because I was suffering. I dreamed because I wanted an answer. Instead, the dreaming brought me into the darkness, and I couldn't escape. But with your help, I did.
Now, we take everyone else out of the darkness. We help them build a world where dreams are filled with love, not death.

I like that, she said.

We kissed. We climbed the tree to a good, thick branch and sat watching the sun sink into the horizon.

I thanked the heavens for my life, and, as I watched the sunset, sang to myself, at first in my head, then with my voice, and she joined in,
"Reality is alive,
reality is alive."

Scribble Scrabble Dot.
Over the blank pages
She dotted down the words
She had not courage to speak
She drew her feelings
On the empty sheet of her notebook.

One day she ran out of pages
So she drew along her hands
Scribble Scrabble Dot.
The doodles of how it used to be
While the breeze gently touched her hair
The beat of a song flowing through her ears.

And then one day she ran out of hands.
So she wrote daily encouragements along her arms and legs
Her mama yelled and told her she was silly, she would get poisoned.
And she just kept writing.

Until one day she ran out of arms and legs.
So she started to doodle down her chest and on her face.
But then she realized she was doing it all wrong.

Scribble Scrabble Scratch.
She washed her hands, and her arms, and legs, and chest, and face.
She then picked up a phone and started calling various companies.

Scribble Scrabble Dot.
There she was, at her autobiography book signing.
She put down her pen she got from her father at the age of 4,
And held up the book that had her face plastered across it.
She smiled and held her book up I'm triumph.

Scribble Scrabble Dot.

They tell me I can do anything.

          Looking down the throat of a challenge.
          Hanging on to the coat tails of life by the fringe,
          above a fire that is trying to singe...
          
                          ...Who I am
                             My Identity
                             Targeted by
                             a self created entity.
          
          To bring me down...

                          ...Below my potential
                             to see what is essential
                             through consequential actions.

I AM A MAN!
   no matter my wingspan... I CANNOT FLY!
         And those childhood encouragements are a lie.

                   But through accomplishing what I am capable
                          I find that my boundaries are escapable.
    
  
         I'm not shooting for the stars,
         or looting and ending up behind bars,

but I am me, myself,
doing what I can so I'm not rotting on a shelf.

I'm pretty sure
Eyes glaring
At the surface of my soul
Isn't supposed to feel
Any less like a stabbing to the heart.
But it does.
You have cupped
My burdens
In both of your hands
And sprinkled them over
The driest corners of my mind,
Watered them,
And let them grow
Slowly
Into something lovely.

I'm pretty sure
That every hiccup of an
'I miss you'
Isn't supposed to
Cause my blood
To blush warm.
But it does.
You toy with words
In the best way
Making sure each syllable
Is coated in
Silky persuasion
And I try,
Believe me, I do,
To let them sink
Into this heart,
You've called beautiful
Far too many times.

I'm pretty sure
Your lips have quivered
And tired of
Grinning encouragements
And whispering warmth
And uttering
'I love you's
But they haven't.
For this, I am pleased.
And this fluttering thing
Residing in my chest
Can't find a way out
To tell you,
To thank you.

He did not go far. How could he;
you were his everything.......

You love the concept of Parallel worlds..
his is now intangible--
no skin-clad temple to hold him down  
within the misgivings
and falleness,  that entails
all things fleshbound--
his illustrious spirit,  now encased  within
the utter boundlessness  of his
newly-dedicated housing of Prismatic Light.
This is now the new temple that contains
his eternal spirit..   and it is from
that impeccably-beautiful place,
that he now offers hope  
and petition without end..  on your behalf.
Face to Face, now..  his once,
deeply-aching spirit,  now finds
the perpetual Peace..  through true Resolve,
as he finds his neverending Encouragements,
now heading your way,  on the Wings of
what is now, no less than that of Unlimited Possibility--
    Raining down on to you..
    Reigning now in the Heavenlies,  

    no longer  diluted and misdirected
    by human agenda

And here you sit, beautiful girl--  Not seeing or feeling..
because you are still subject to the same  auspices
of falleness that eventually found its Unholy fruition
within his utter demise.  No longer subject to it all,
he is asking you to rise above it, also..
the prayers of a newly-recognized Saint--  petitioning
directly in to Love's very Ache..   asking
that the horror-built walls,   embedded
into your war-torn flesh  would come down,
no longer so devastatingly-thwarting  Love's deep
desire  to finally have the chance to  find
its beautiful  way into you..
Yet your out of control self-hatred  is hurting him--
almost as much as it is truly  hurting you.
The last thing your guilt-ridden spirit wants to  do
is cause him any more pain.  Feel his loving presence..
and you will also then begin to feel his deeply-Loving petition.
It is perfect.. as are you--  

    Once  you become separated
    from your hook-embedded, flesh.
He is There..
helping you to become able to have access to it,
   here.

That is where he is at.. that is what he is doing.
The Grace that he now so deeply embraces on your behalf,  will
slowly begin to buy you the internal freedom  that is necessary
to begin to become able to feel it all.  Throughout the years,
you have learned how to begin to believe.  If not,
you would have already blocked me again by now.
He is within the Realms of Magic, now.   You love Magic.
Feel him there.. as he truly now is..  and you will  begin
to learn,  through feel-- the things  in you
(that you so adamantly hold on to),
that are still hurting him.  Forgiveness..
from his Mercy Seat towards you.. is perpetual, and without end,
because he knows that you do not as of yet,  fully understand.

One day, you will.. and it will become to him, his greatest Joy.
It is not over. It is never over.. as long as that gorgeous,
war-torn heart still has a pulse in it.
Make sure that it will,  until you can feel..
and the Morning Sun will truly rise within you..  fully anew.  
Fully. Completely. Perpetually.
You will become the very glow  
that he already right now, sees in you.
You Love me just as much as you hate me.
Love's reason is here-- right here in these words.  You know
that it is all true. His spirit was far too beautiful  for the
pain-infused fleshtemple that previously contained it..
while he was here.  He left it for a better one..
one that is completely and fully, Perfect.

You can feel him far more often than your pain-wracked
heart and spirit will allow you to currently admit.
Perspective is everything, beautiful girl.
You love me for the glorious perspective that I am  able
to bring to you.
That is the only way that I want to be loved.
You  have been through enough.  
Lets get you two back together, through your  growing
ability to become able to see him..
and feel him...  as he is--
not as your obscure.. self-contempt, scarred view,
now only shadow-sees  him.  

You have work to do, beauty.
You are his exceedingly, Worthy Beloved.
There is so much,   so unfairly-attached to you..
that keeps you feeling  as if you are forever unworthy.

     He is 24/7 helping you.

That is what he does now..
and I can very much see why <3

This started in 9th grade, when I thought words would be my greatest weapon.
I might have used the language in a way demanding of attention.
Not to languish in introversion but to reach a friend was my intention.
But—with every line I typed—my outlet morphed more into introspection.
If my heart and soul is pad and pen, each verse is meta-style confession.
My fingers blister at their job to bleed my inner-thoughts for pulp infection.
Operation tables shall be my grave should fiction fail my self-dissection.
I just really hope that writing something somehow retcons mild depression.
If I feel better at the end, I think I might call these The Smile Sessions.

I'm lying in bed, listening to everything but Good Vibrations
Convinced that happiness can best be found by seeking new locations
So let's drive around for hours and we'll move across the water
Add some music to my ride so I don't even have to bother
Making conversation, or risk admitting I don't know where I want to go
Then confide I think my future sounds even worse than Kokomo
I'm eating all my vegetables, I'm listening to Do It Again
I'm wondering why the hell anyone would ever stop seeing their friends
But all of them are growing, and I can barely write a poem
It's like the surf is up and I'm the one who left his board at home
I'm feeling so alone and I'm scared of what I dream
Every night I see the people leaving and I want to scream
If I want to Howl, and if Allen Ginsberg died of liver cancer,
And if liquor kills the liver but it also is the answer
To the pain that we all feel when we don't make it as a singer
Or a dancer, or a poet . . . (whatever dream you had that lingers)
But that pain is motivation for the greats to push their art
I think that Brian Wilson's smile shows the sorrow in his heart
I ask of liquor, liver, pain and art: which are villains, which are heroes?
In all of time no final words shall strike a more brutal chord than Nero's.
I've been in this town so long, I may never make my escape
It's always fun, fun, fun to dream of seeing this cage break
I don't hate this place—or these people, and I'm not trying to be mean
If anything I love too much, ask any sweet little sixteen
Ask any surfer girl I've ever met, that faux-love that I express
The tricky lie that I obsess over involving any person in a dress
Less like love, more like a buoy when I'm drowning out at sea
Don't let me drown; if you save me, maybe you can help me leave
You see, I'm always quick to bet the house on any person I think might stick
Around. I scream out, "Help me, Rhonda" when I barely even know the chick
If I'm hurting, than I follow her like a purple-hearted goon
To the edges of my town she draws me out like a cartoon
She will draw me with bold lines if thoughts of bigger worlds will make her swoon
And if one night, she says she hopes the rocket ships are coming soon
So she can blast off right away and live on Mercury sometime next June
That night, I guarantee I dream of skies filled with quicksilver moons.

Wouldn't it be nice? Do you want to dance? Something about California girls?
Come to think of it, maybe there are already enough silly love poems in the world.

I think what gets me most at night is knowing everybody cared
Everybody wanted me to go and face the world prepared
And they still do, and they always will; there are so many whom I love
Those friends and family always trying to give me little shoves
While encouragements are nice, I always plug my ears
Because I'm tired, and I'm bitter, and I barely want to be here
I barely want to write, there's just **** else that I can do
I think this word doc is the last thing I have left that is helping me break through
I think I need an intervention.
There's something I want to say but I keep losing my attention.
And I forgot it, but it was important, so—oh, ****, I'm feeling tension
I hope writing this somehow retcons years of terrible depression
If I feel better at the end, I think I might call these The Smile Sessions.

snow is dancing outside your window
tiny reminders sent from the clouds
if you listen close you'll hear them whispering
small encouragements to touch your lover

as her breath dances on your neck
the snow catches your ears
its quietly singing
warmer warmer

as your kisses litter her stomach
the snow softly hums along
further further

as her gasps fill your ears
and your name is stuttered sweetly
the snow will dully whisper
louder louder

as her fingernails claw your skin
and your back becomes artwork
the snow is numbly chanting
deftly deftly

volatile encouragements
from evanescent crystals
animate adoring hearts

Wing clipped at birth, domestic birds they were.
Farm and spacious pen bound together six years.
She a prodigious egg layer, Don her attentive,
aggressive defender.

Daisy one day predator killed,
old Don outwardly mourning her loss
became a very different bird. All alone
for the first time in his Duck life.

We opened his gate and let him free roam.
A lonely flightless fowl only earth bound.
All aggression subsided with no mate to protect,
he became more social, needing a friend.

Crossing the yard from the barn,
when ever he may see us there.
He hunkers down in the shade
while I tend to the garden,
him like a supervisor, chortling occasional
reprimands or encouragements, I can never
tell which. All just to be close to some living thing.

He will chase after wild doves that land near by,
sadly mistaking them as perhaps a new mate, they
fly quickly away, him wondering what social Duck
blunder he might have made.

When finished in the garden, Don and I to the
barn retire, I ladle out a cup of corn for his pleasure.
Then it's back to his always open pen where his
bathtub sits, I turn on the hose and his excitement
ramps up. Excitedly he squawks and ***** his wings,
jumps into the tub, dives below the surface, reveling
in the cool spray of man made current in his artificial lake,
and with our few moments of companionship shared.
Him doing what ducks do, for a while loneliness abated.
It's almost as if I can see a smile on his pleasant Duck face.

Most days he sits close to the chickens pen, watching
the laying hens, scratching and moving within,
perhaps wishing he was in there with them.
I fear that if I open that wire door and let him go in,
that those ladies would peck him bald or even dead.

No matter how much a lonely Duck wishes he were
a chicken, they remain birds of a very different feather,
and a Duck can remain but a Duck forever.

A thing we might all remember....

ready?

do you wanna go together? come, lets hold hands.

no?

alright.

all that matters is that you do it, okay?

.. are you sure you don’t wanna do it together?

alright..  !

each of your feet slapped flat and hard against the white dusty cliff until your skinny frame shot itself into the sky. we were half naked and suspended above an unfamiliar lake somewhere in texas. well, now it was just me. night was rolling in slow as all hell. the habitual hit from the one hitter didn’t soothe my nervousness. to be straightforward, tossing my body into the abyss is not my thing. i like the ground. i like the stability. planes make me cry. roller-coasters make me cringe. i like to just sit and watch the sky roll over the lake, not risk being harmed by one of its unseen watery perils..

an oval of water burst upward from where you carved into the lake- the explosive hiss of unhappy water yanking me from my brain. sheepishly i gazed over the edge to see what became of you. it appeared you had survived- treading water with one eye locked in an accidental wink, peering up at me. you smiled big and echoed gentle encouragements into the cove below in a soft-spoken southern accent. the hair on your head matted itself to your forehead in strangely stylish curls. “1,2,3, **** it! ”. you kept spitting out deliveries of lake water between wide toothy grins.

minutes were passing and i had hardly moved. talking to myself anxiously, trying still to remain some degree of coolcalmandcomposed while facing these subconscious shadows publicly. i felt sickened by the symbolism of my inner demons confronting me with such an unoriginal yet classic scene. your smile was fading gradually due to your legs growing tired, even though you didn’t let on.

fear, my constant constriction. my choke up. my backout. my way out. but this time i knew the only way out was through. my feet betrayed my brain and ****** me forward and up and off.

i had toyed with some ideas about what form i’d take prior to jumping, but none of them panned out. i claimed an awkward and ungraceful pencil dive and held my nose prematurely. the fall was eternal. the seconds were looping. i could hear everything for a long time. your holler bounced off the walls of the cave. my body heaved into the oblivion of the luke warm lake.

when i emerged i was concerned with my makeup. a tell tale sign i need to work on my priorities.  you were there with me, once i smeared the uninvited water from my eyes, grinning and congratulating me. i felt silly getting praise for something so seemingly simple as letting go..

you held me near in the dark choppy water as we clung to the cove walls of the cliff. color flood my face. maybe adrenaline feels a lot like love.

i finally felt close to you.

i wanted to stay down there a little longer. where there were no distractions. no phones no cigarettes no coughing no traffic talk no sleep no *** no drugs no radio. we couldn’t hide from each other. i wanted to stay and swim and look into you, unabashedly wet and ****** and well-intentioned. graze pale loving bodies beneath the green hue of the lake. but you grinned, cleared your throat and talked to yourself about your footing as we sought a way to scale the rocks back up.

i’m sure i could have said something.
told you how i felt.

but that fear thing..

"I love you," you said
Three times
Sober
Or, at least, after only two glasses of wine
With an expression that wanted me to see its sincerity

You thought about the way your face looked
And how I was looking at it
Which, naturally, made me suspicious
Less of whether what you said was
Or is
True
And more of whether you really believed it

I certainly don't
Although, regrettably, too big a part of me
Hopes that you do
But you won't even go out to lunch
So the concept is moot

If you dwell on me so frequently
Where are you?
Not here, in the growing rift
Between our potential and reality
Where I fume

You flatter
Whipstitching my raw edges
But your adulations can't repair
The fact that you don't know
My favorite color
My stance on religion
Or the quality that I admire most
In a friend

Negligent though you may be
I'm harsher still
On myself
Allowing you in, while I know all of this
How you must find me!
So easy
Malleable
And still I permit you

"We're alike," you say
And you tell me how you care
So little
About so much
But not when it comes to me, apparently
Or so said the lips
That have only kissed me once
Without seeking more

But I kissed you then, anyway
Knowing what would come
Freckles
Sinful dimples
The unfathomable brown eyes
For which you hold so much disdain
The slightest gap
Between your front teeth

Your encouragements didn't stir me
Already shoved
From my resolution
Before your many admittances
And rare
Melancholy musings --
These, perhaps strategic
But disorienting, nonetheless

I'll chalk it up to us finishing the bottle
Which I started
Frustrated
Half an hour before you arrived
And carve myself some apathy.

My wonderful & Beautiful Grand Parents Jordan & Dorothy RIP                                              
Sometimes it's still feels like you are still with us.
Almost 11yrs since you both left us.
Although you are up there with the angels, your love, caring ways,
wisdom you instilled in all of us and the love you gave us still lingers deep in our hearts.                

All that you were, your smiles, your talks,
and loving words and how managed to put smiles on our faces
No matter how sad and blue we would be feeling,
Your encouragements about life, and your giving ways is what inspires me to be a better person.
Even though you are gone and I can stiill not accept that you are really gone,
Your souls and spirits watches over us.
You are truly missed.
All your grand children still misses u a lot.

All my love your big baby granddaughter Mimmie ***

but

i don't want your advice about hanging in there
i don't want to hear about how i should wait for the rest of my life to begin
i don't want to hear about what should give me light
i don't want to hear about the struggles of valuable lessons or the triumph of hope

i don't want empty promises or vacant encouragements
i don't want your moral high horse or veiled condescension

i want to hear your honest opinions
i want to hear your soul cry out in protest
about how you're drowning your sorrows
about how your brain feels like a worn out sponge
and your heart an old wrung rag

i want to hear how you're close to giving up
i want to hear how you're burning out
i want to hear how coffee makes you shake
i want to hear how you need pills to sleep
i want to hear how the thoughts of your future scare you more than your past ever did

i want to hear all your fears.

i want to know that in all of mine,
**i'm not alone.

how strange to read some of the last chances, or commiserations
without a death, the moment a woman or man begins to divide,
so many encouragements arise from nowhere, hence the theatre of
theoretical manoeuvring, way beyond the concept of narrator,
the death of narration is the birth of psychology,
they say, and it must be, treading into this forest of thought without
a compass will soon leave you disorientated, let alone keeping
a narrative continuum - once the narrator dies,
once the narrator dies in you, you either see a psychologist
or begin to write poetry, poetry, the entire cast of Chekov's
the seagull chipping in for the pauper, once famous for
chopping wood or digging for coal on the page
with such flamboyance as to reveal the true spectacle
of the Royal fireworks on the Thames provided
for by Charles II and accompanied by Handel's
composition - everyone is chipping in into
the narrator's porcelain cup - from irina nikolayevna,
through ilya afanasyevich and the personae quasi gratae
like the watchman, the cook... only Yakov having
acquired a name, the rest, mechanised extension
of the salon boors - where real existential debate takes
place due to the serious concerns of the universe
and our place in it. they like Yakov because he was hired,
and could clearly move on elsewhere, a traveller,
not the permanent occupant of the daily dealings of
the estate; but indeed it's not about that -
after they split up she started dreading having his
name tattooed on her, she felt a burning sensation to
burn the ink off her skin - to my surprise she tattooed
his name onto her skin rather than having tattooed
his entirety onto a piece of paper - a poem can be scrapped,
can be cherished or anything, 'write a poem prior to
the tattoo' someone should have said - but the tattoo
came first, and the poem came second - other allegiances
are passed down in ink, as i have never understood
the mentality of tears at a sporting event, notably football,
the tears of your forefathers, elsewhere reasoning gives
crowd like anonymity, soloist sports, cool headed -
no religious-like attachment - first the poem, then the tattoo.
poetry is just another word for juxtaposition -
but what are the two things necessary to contrast?
well... here's one half decent example, of all written text,
an E.U. cucumber,
                                     (a) is it reasonably shaped?
(b) is it practically straight?
                                                       ­ if it isn't coinciding with
points (a) and (b) being satisfactorily met, then this
cucumber is a culprit, being a non-compliant member
of the fruit & veg stand, according to the E.E.C.
1677 / 88 regulation, meaning it can't be a class 1 cucumber,
but a boomerang.                                       and you wonder,
with all those great movies concerning heroism,
the sacrifice to create democracy where tyranny strikes,
to overthrow absolute sovereign power,
all those wars, and all we get in the end, is a vote,
made quiet clearly ineffective because of the by-product
of democracy: bureaucracy - as every it can be said:
an over-simplified observation,
                                                        well, championing the idea
of democracy where the majority of people were
illiterate still, apparently, resonates in how people vote,
make your mark
                                                           ­      X               so you see,
a man made literate when once he would be illiterate
seems offensive to still pretend like i am illiterate -
but what a strange illiteracy this is, i still vote like the first
people voted, instead of ably signing my name,
i am told to write X... which is why, subconsciously,
people seem to be put off voting - it's such a symbolic
event in the mind - i vote by singing my approval with
an X... the little things matter in the end -
no one dying for an ideal could have envisioned
the bureaucratic escapade of counting where the wind
blows in what favourable choice of opinion at the time,
in post-Marxist terminology, we're no longer dealing
with the bourgeoisie types, we're dealing with the bureaucratic
type - there are so many laws on this earth, that few
are known and even fewer are kept -
i know the ten commandments are a joke, given the outdated
phrasing, but aren't the modern laws even more of a joke?
why, i can count to 10... counting to how many there
are is quiet staggering - you might have broken about
a thousand without knowing you had, like eating a
curved cucumber... but then, are picked cucumbers always
bent? i've never seen a straight pickle, i mean theoretically
that's breaking the law - the war of the sexes is what
gave us this ******* - this wasn't a war for Crimea,
not so much a war for independence, once those classical
wars ended, the war of the sexes began -
if Marx was alive, he'd be far from writing a critique of
the bourgeoisie class, after all, urbanity killed off
the etymological root of bourgeoisie - old french, walled
city - given that, or should i say, working from that,
no, if Marx were alive today, it would be the bureaucrat
who'd be attacked.

I sit and I observe the
gazelle leaping wildly
dancing, their beautiful eyes
skating the floor in front of them
the sky is a mirror for the
elephants
who don't know their own size
and have thick skin to ward off
what? what could stand up to a
lion
who epitomizes what you want to be
and growls, at his cubs
while his beautiful wife lays by him
purring, only to be replaced by a
hyena
whose only means is to survive is to
take and to destroy
because the lack of an opponent is easier
than the presence of a
vulture
who feeds off the kills of the hyena
and tags along in a great mob to take down the
greatest of all: the
mouse
who scuttles and runs along the hooves,
offering quiet encouragements to
the elegant-fast-high gazelle,
who points and shows the mirror of the sky
to the rest of us.

Everything I do
It's all wrapped up in you
It's like our thoughts are on the same baking sheet, running together as the heat increases
Forming one big lump of something delicious
I was just trying to finagle my way into getting there
And now you're going
Alone
Alone for a whole month
Maybe you'll be better when you're back
Maybe you'll want me around again
I understand needing space but you clearly aren't living in solitude
That's what hurts I guess
The other people you're surrounding yourself with
You'd rather them, than me
They've been toxic for years
I've been a salve for the last one
I'm still confused
I'm still sad
I will probably still cry for hours and make bad decisions with even worse people
You won't be there when I need you because I'll be too scared to talk to you when I can't handle life
I won't want you there when I cry because I'll be crying over you
Over
and
Over
and over.
The memories replay in my mind
No more late night excursions into further knowing each other and wandering around never getting lost because you always know where you are.
No more late night talks about anything.
No more I love yous.
No more texts that make me laugh in inappropriate situations.
No more small encouragements when I feel at my worst.
I miss you like you're gone. Even though I know you're not.
But while
I may be dead to you

The worst part is

I’m dead inside

Of course I still care

about you

I love you

until there is no more of me left

I will love you

I will always be sad when I think of you

And remember that we were supposed to be those special

Forever

Friends

I will always mourn the misunderstanding that ended us

The ridiculous notion that I didn’t appreciate you for exactly who you were

For the person that lives inside of you

Just waiting for you to discover him

I won’t let him die.

I will keep him alive in my heart and I will love him until the end of all that I know

I will never stop loving you

I’m breaking half thinking about you

Jack helps

But he’s an expensive friend to keep around

I’m thinking of checking out

Just leaving everyone behind and becoming someone no one will recognize

I’m a fan of that

I’m a fan of being something totally different for the time being

Taking the time to know that it’s not who I am

But what I do

That drives people away

Because you don’t deserve me right now

You don’t deserve to realize that I’m actually pretty great

I will remember everything you say

I will take it all to heart

And I will shower you with love when you let me

But for now

I’m gone
And
As the nicotine numbs my lips
And everyone tells me I’m better off

I deserve better
I don’t need you

That you’re being spiteful 

And mean

I can’t accept it 

Even though you’ve ripped out my heart 

And part of my soul

Grinding them up into dust 

I can’t listen to people put you down

I can’t accept what they are saying 

Shame on me

For thinking so little of myself 

If anyone else had done this to me 

You’d be furious 

Yelling at me about all the same things everyone is telling me about you 

Love and blood and sweat and tears be ****** 

I won’t let you break me 

It doesn’t matter that I’m doing it for who I thought you were
It matters that its happening

Among faded photographs piled up
in this grey-haired archive
your faces still shine like the smiling suns
that used to greet me - that little child
you called bunsô, the dawn’s speck
still in these brown eyes -
in the quiet and cold early mornings,
as I stared to the eastern skies
orange above the dearly missed Malarayat
of blues, and greens, and cones, and salakot
and as the last of the kabag bats
- guts filled with the insects of the night -
go home between our roof and ceiling,
the warmth of your call were tight hugs.

Your old picture comes alive -
like the first gulps of kapeng barako encouragements
that drained down the bullied throat of yesteryears
- the old radio broadcasts loudly the silenced tears
as the dozen hens were cackling the latest from the Beatles
and the lone rooster belts the Only You of the Platters
That time I tossed and threw far
the white grains of tattered notebooks to scatter
for the newly hatched chicks to patiently gather
Everything was an Amorsolo-replica, a summer
of joyful harvesting, harvest time, harvester . . .

Hope was the bottomless well beside the mango tree
The pig pens my palace, the chicken shed my tower of ivory
The rabbits are lords- and ladies-in-waiting
I was their prince in a kingdom that I made free
from hordes of aswang, tikbalang, kapre, dwende . . .
nothing to fear, really
but for the hairy caterpillars
hiding among the yellow confetti
of ******* trees, in the backyard
of distant day-dreaming days of dreams.

You made the noontime suns brightly lit
the roads and crossings the three little pigs
of my inner self have to trot,
for the distant future was a pack of cunning wolves
ready to devour all my mortal miscalculations,
infantile indecisions, and immature decisions,
and loud and strong they huffed, and puffed and blew
my self-esteem, whatever was left, beaten black and blue.
A hero plays mahjong, nothing really new,
as my teen life’s pages fell, no Redeemer ever knew
It was like tiles of dominoes - one after the other - on cue.

And yet at the siesta time of this human life,
your guiding photons allowed
this tired body with a ******* soul, yet beating heart
to rest, picking up each of the pieces
and the jigsaw of experiences
now make sense, a rainbow shows
as the skies emptied their jars
of tempting clouds like cotton candies
into a downpour of doubts, of tempests
of feelings of emptiness, of cyclones
of thoughts of worthlessness –
the suns were shining always
after all
behind the clouds
those clouds

In the sunsets of your lives
the rays still shone far beyond
the twilight time and in these humid tropics
your mem’ries are auroras in the darkest of my nights
even in my sleep, the dreams are video clips
always set inside that old Marauoy home
reminding me, there was that child in there, alone . . .

These days, the skies, the winds, remind me
of stormy days in the forgotten simplicity of Lipa,
you tied the windows as the gusts
threatened to grab them,
and then, the warm jackets and blankets
of your reassuring words, “we’ll be alright”
erased the traumas, blew away the fears.
reminding me, there was that child in there,
you dried his tears . . .

That child’s still here inside my decades-old heart,
like a prayerful devotee in an agnostic cathedral,
missing your hugs
longing for your cheers.

whenever i'm not eating
she whispers softly in my ear
sweet encouragements
when i'm finally happy
eating and starting to look healthy
i can see my bones starting
to be covered with soft fat
her screams start to get louder
i try hard to ignore her
"you look disgusting"
"look at all that extra skin
hanging off of you"
"you're so fat lose it all again"
you can tell me i'm beautiful
but i can't hear you over
her deafening shrieks
convincing me that i've lost again

it hangs
to my
right

it says
“keep calm
and
carry on “

the union jack
sits behind the letters
a white crown
sits on top of them
it against my blue wall
screams its message so
quietly

maybe I should listen more
when I’m feeling down
or glum or depressed

or maybe I  can’t listen
maybe I’m deaf
maybe all those encouragements
fall without a sound on my
ears

and the poster
still sits there
saying:

“keep calm,
and carry
on.”

and I wonder
who could say
such a thing
when all anyone
can ever do
is
panic

I heard of this poem that’s circling the universe
It’s known to be trending faster than the speed of light
With words of encouragements and positive feedback
each verse represents life, hope , truth and hope.

Its poetic use of words is organic, it unblock
release and rejuvenate your mind, body and spirit
That poem was the last thing you remember
Leaving you with a clutter-free peaceful mind

Who?  Why?  How?  What!



*Sunna Shelley Wong said, “At every moment in a life or in a poem, the formal choice is between answering to that which is alive, or attempting to enslave it.”


Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

From "Eating Poetry

even the inevitable yearning for us,
the north and the south pole,
to recover whats lucid;
whats been left just for me,
leaving your share behind for this
world without my love.
shrapnel of your wasted time and love burrows
deep into my reason to continue
on this unforgiving track of meaning and purpose.
Hopes and encouragements melt
into the crimson puddle of my hearts tears

i am supposed to be letting go
moving on, getting over you, and so
tell me how it is that once again
i found myself this morning
rolling over when a phone alarm went off and then
realizing it was your alarm not mine
and that your duvet and sheets were the only things adorning
our bare-skinned bodies as we lay together
and that warmth on my back was your fingers tracing down my spine
while you pulled me closer to you and snoozed your alarm after briefly debating whether
you were ready to get up or needed a few more moments
of just us, bodies entwined
the lightest of touches received as encouragements
serving to once and over again spellbind
in the soft morning light drifting in your windows
as we once again play the parts of slaves to our libidos
choosing to stubbornly ignore our established credos
in favor of experiencing the lows and crescendos
that inevitably follow any amount of time spent with each other's favorite ******
because i am yours and you are mine
and it's gotten to the point that we really shouldn't bother to deny
that this is not some passing thing
and what we had - have - isn't just a fling
but i guess you need time to get your head straight
to sort out exactly what it is that you feel, perhaps
so i will try to be patient and not remonstrate
but it's hard when i'm the one still in love
just waiting, wishing, hoping that maybe you will relapse

I stare at my laptop screen waiting for ideas to form in my head
Emotions are coming but my words can’t be contained
Hatred, disgust, betrayal swirled like the storm
My heart and my brain needs some reform

One question was stuck in my mind,
Why do they make you feel important but still leave you behind?
I asked myself “Was being with me just a game?”
Why do people find it hard to remain?

I have the right to ask specially when I’ve given them parts of me
Parts that I shared though I know I will need them eventually
Gave them shards of my heart though it was broken,
My encouragements, my kind words were my love’s token.

You know, these heartbreaks may come anywhere, everywhere-
Your mom, your dad, your aunt, your pet, your best friend
They could all leave you in the middle of nowhere
The sad thing is, even in their minds, you could find yourself dead.

To prevent this, follow my one and only rule.
Don’t get attached
Don’t tie the string if they’re going to loosen it up and leave.
Don’t build bridges to reach them when they haven't done anything to be with you.

Don’t get attached for in the end they would all leave you
You're going to be alone with your thoughts and feelings
Feelings that seem so strong but no one cared for
You'll just pity yourself like never before.

My thoughts in this fierce world are to brutal in truth for the Lions den to handle.
Your facade gives you weakened followers who know no better.
When the thinker speaks and followers listen, then this is when the truth becomes feared.
The truth begs and makes you not only see, but face the reality, the reality which you fear so deeply, the reality that you can not see by your own.
This is a brain washed society,  with few hopes nowadays.
Don't be a follower,  don't feed this negative energy being used to shut out hope for a better you.
We need encouragements for our selves, our lives, our strengths.
To believe in our soul and speak only with our heart shows the greatest of all beings, a true being.
We need not the "fear to think" we need to display our thoughts and need to fear the resentment towards a free thinking society before it is too late.  Please help show others there is hope and it is never too late.

I shouldn't be calling you
well we haven't got that far.
all those facts you've known,
signals are diminished and stopped

Your silence is killing
you're presence is unseen,
you've marked the days in your calendar
and I am not part of your key wins,

You've deleted my number
in your phonebook and probably your mind,
memories are just shadows
of distractions and pure back draft

Did I just deleted you,
well my memorization is strong.
I wanted to transform you
and sing you a song,

Like a disguise of wise words
words of penned encouragements.
maybe some about love,
and my hidden admiration's bent.

It's a joyful mission
to let you hear,
even for a few precious minutes,
beside me without any fear.

And I love to see you again,
talk about random things you say.
sing songs we try
and find time to take.

I just miss you
more than anything in the world
But I'm that snob or shy
but I'm adjusting my chords

So this is love,
or we're just too lazy to come out our shells?
playing the sweet note's too obvious,
But I hope you can ring some chime's and bells.

I'm really tired.
I'm really exhausted.
I'm sick of getting hurt by you time by time.
I hate getting deserted by you
All those fake promises
All those false hope and encouragements don't mean anything to me anymore
All the attempts I tried to build back the friendship.
No just no.
I know you would never understand me maybe because you look down on me cuz I'm suicudal.
All I really need is someone to make me smile to understand me and not give up on me.
Just so you know,I'm fighting this battle alone with a broken sword and shield.

You sing me to sleep
with stories
so creative
and active.

You sing me to sleep
with encouragements
and compliments
that drip
with sincerity.

You sing me to sleep
with sincere words
and gentle reminders
that I am loved
and I am worth it.

You sing me to sleep
with an assurance
that I am likable
and I am enough
and that tomorrow
I will wake up
still loved
because I have you.

You sing me to sleep
secured in the fact
that you are there
and you care for me.

You sing me to sleep
by quieting my fears
hushing my insecurities
speaking life to me.

You sing me to sleep
by reminding me
I am not alone
I never have to be.

You sing me to sleep
by pointing out
that I have a God
who loves me
and I have you
who looks out for me.

You sing me to sleep
by showing me
the difference
between being exposed
and being known
and letting me know
that with you
I am known.

You sing me to sleep
at bad nights
when memories crawl
beneath my sheets
penetrating my lungs
flooding my veins with fear
strangling the breath out of me--
you whisper gentle reminders
of who I am
until I calm down
you make sure to stay up
until I can fall back to sleep
you are there for me
you are true to your promise.

You sing me to sleep
that is why I told you
you are
and you remain to be
my sweetest lullaby.

If I were to place you gently in my pocket,
would you mind very much staying there
and remaining always near?
So that in my moments of greatest need
you could pop your head up above the edge
and whisper tiny encouragements into my ear?

My thoughts in this fierce world are to brutal in truth for the Lions den to handle.
Your facade gives you weakened followers who know no better.
When the thinker speaks and followers listen, then this is when the truth becomes feared.
The truth begs and makes you not only see, but face the reality, the reality which you fear so deeply, the reality that you can not see by your own.
This is a brain washed society,  with few hopes nowadays.
Don't be a follower,  don't feed this negative energy being used to shut out hope for a better you.
We need encouragements for our selves, our lives, our strengths.
To believe in our soul and speak only with our heart shows the greatest of all beings, a true being.
We need not the "fear to think" we need to display our thoughts and need to fear the resentment towards a free thinking society before it is too late.  Please help show others there is hope and it is never too late.

where one advances in technology
and other logistics,
with age advancing for near millennia
up to 90...
and the other numbering billions, 40
a life expectancy of the other's
scientific advances to push to 90...
the former who cannot qualm
its encouragements has
to levy upon the suicide death rate
of youth as justifying a poverty in the latter's
vicinity of existence;
and the moral poverty of those being housed
by social concern as befitting care due to age...
and work done... so to no avail a born preacher
should this testament be told.

And yet I thought I was so naive to think that things were going better  
You were my one and only.
Someone that I thought would rescue me from my apocalypse.
Your long messages.
Your encouragements.
It meant so much to me.
And it all disappeared in just a split second when you said "I don't love you anymore".