So many relationships like bad business partnerships:
green bottles falling from walls; messages stuck in bottles
rotating in great gyres; swallows never at home North or South.
(Anti-Confessional? — It’s a fashionable trend just now
and yet what is it not to confess, when we claim authorship?)

Suburbia’s flat evenness suffocates (but I’ve repeated this
so many times and I’m still here!).
We need to find the cracks in which to grow, in which to place,
our errant thoughts like rude whispers in a darkened room,
and nobody about to hear you anyway!

We express ourselves well in silence but me, I gyrate,
not quite on one side or the other, a kind of even fullness,
or, that’s what I like to think, let’s get this straight:
I’m an uncouth wind against plains that offer no obstacles.
Better to wear me that way — it saves the snap under pressure.

I am a poet.
I am an artist.
A lover of words, a shaper of thoughts, a master of feelings;
A player of emotions, a speaker of charms, a thinker of minds.
A giver of taste-and at times, a succulent creator of madness.
Madness outside such lines of timid regularity;
The rules of the common, and the inane believers of sanity.
For to me, sanity is as easy as insanity itself-
On which my life feedeth, and boldly moveth on;
And without insanity, t'ere shan't be either joy-or ecstasy;
As how ecstasy itself, in my mind, is defined by averted uneasiness,
And t'at easiness, reader, is not by any means part of;
And forever detached from, the haunting deities of contemporaneity.
Thus easily, artistry consumeth and spilleth my blood-and my whole entity;
Words floweth in my lungs, mastereth my mind, shapeth my own breath.
And sometimes, I breathest within those words themselves;
And declareth my purity within which, feeleth rejection at whose loss;
Like a princess storming about hysterically at the failure of her roses.
Ah! Poetry! The second lover of my life; the delicacy of my veins.
And I loveth, I doth love-sacredly, intensely, and expressively, all of which;
I loveth poetry as I desire my own breath, and how I loveth the muchness of my fellow nature;
Whose crazes sometimes surroundeth us like our dear lake nearby;
With its souls roaming about with water, t'at chokes and gurgles-
As stray winds collapseth around and strikest a war with which.
And most of the year-I am a star, to my own skies;
But by whose side a moon, to my rainless nights;
On the whole, I am an umbrella to my soul;
So t'at it groweth bitter not, even when t'ere is no imminent rain;
And be its savior, when all is unsaved, and everything else writhest in pain.

Thus I loveth poetry as well as I loveth my dreams;
I am a painter of such scenic phrases, whose miracles bloometh
Next to thunderstorms, and yon subsequent spirited moonbeam.
And t'eir fate is awesome and elegant within my hands;
They oft' sleep placidly against my thumbs;
Asking me, with soft-and decorous breath;
To be stroked by my enigmatic fingers;
And to calm t'eir underestimated literariness, by such ungodly beings, out t'ere.
Ah, poor-poor creatures-what a fiend wouldst but do t'is to aggravate 'em!
As above all, I feeleth but extremely eager about miracles themselves;
and duly witness, my reader-t'at t'is very eagerness shall never be corrupted;
Just as how I am a pure enthusiast of love;
And in my enthusiasm, I shareth love of both men and nature;
And dark sorrows and tears t'at oft' shadowest t'eir decent composures.
When I thirstest for touches, I simply writest 'em down;
When I am hungry for caresses, I tendeth to think them out;
I detailest everything auspiciously, until my surprised conscience cannot help but feeling tired;
But still, the love of thee, poetry, shall outwit me, and despise me deeply-
Should I find not the root, within myself, to challenge and accomplish it, accordingly.
I shall be my own jealousy, and my own failure;
Who to whose private breath feeleth even unsure.
I shall feel scarce, and altogether empty;
I shall have no more essence to be admired;
For everything shall wither within me, and leave me to no energy;
And with my conscience betrayed, I shall face my demise with a heart so despaired.
Ah, my poetry is but my everything!
'Tis my undying wave; and the casual, though perhaps unnatural;
the brother of my own soul, on whose shoulders I placeth my longings;
And on whose mouths I lieth my long-lost kisses!
Ah, how I loveth poetry hideously, but awesomely, thereof!
I loveth poetry greatly-within and outside of my own roof;
And I carest not for others' mock idyll, and adamant reproof;
For I loveth poetry as how as I respectest, and idoliseth love itself;
And when I idoliseth affection, perhaps I shall grow, briefly, into a normal human being-
A real, real human being with curdling weights of unpoetic feelings;
I shall whisper into my ears every intractable falsehood, but the customary normalcy-of creation;
And brash, brash emptiness whom my creative brains canst no longer bear!
Ah, dearest, loveliest poetry, but shall I love him?
Ah-the one whose sighs and shortcomings oft' startlest my dreams;
The one whom I oft' pictureth, and craftest like an insolent statue-
Within my morning colours, and about my petulant midnight hue?
Or, poetry, and tellest me, tellest me-whether needst I to love him more-
The one whose vice was my past-but now wishes to be my virtue,
And t'is time an amiably sober virtue-with eyes so blue and sparkling smiles so true?
Ah, poetry, tellest me, tellest me here-without delay!
In my oneness, thou shalt be my triumph, and everlasting astonishment;
Worthy of my praise and established tightness of endorsement;
But in any doubleness of my life-thou shalt be my saviour, and prompt avidity-
When all but strugglest against their trances, or even falleth silent.
Ah, poetry, thou art the symbol of my virtue thyself;
And thy little soul is my tongue;
A midnight read I hath been composing dearly all along;
My morn play, anecdote, and yet my most captivating song.

I thirstest for thee regularly, and longeth for thee every single day;
I am dead when I hath not words, nor any glittering odes in my mouth to say.
Thou art my immensity, in which everything is gullible, but truth;
And all remarks are bright-though with multiple souls, and roots;
Ah, poetry, in every summer, thou art the adored timeless foliage;
With humorous beauty, and a most intensive sacrifice no other trees canst take!
O poetry, and thy absence-I shall be dead like those others;
I shall be robbed, I shall be like a walking ghost;
I hath no more cores, nor cheers-within me, and shall wander about aimlessly, and feel lost;
Everything shall be blackened, and seen with malicious degrees of absurdity;
I shall be like those who, as days pass, bloometh with no advanced profusion,
And entertaineth their sad souls with no abundant intention!
How precarious, and notorious-shall I look, indeed!
For I shall hath no gravity-nor any sense of, or taste-for glory;
My mind shall be its own corpse, and look but grey;
Grey as if paled seriously by the passage of time;
Grey as if turned mercilessly so-by nothing sublime;
Ah, but in truth-grey over its stolen life, over its stolen breath!
I shall become such greyness, o poetry, over the loss of thee;
And treadeth around like them, whose minds are blocked-by monetary thickness;
A desire for meaningless muchness, and pretentious satire exchanged '**** 'emselves;
I shall be like 'em-who are blind to even t'eir own brutal longings!
Ah, t'ose, whose paths are threatened by avid seriousness;
And adverse tides of ambition, and incomprehensible austerity;
Ah, for to me glory is not eternal, glory is not superb;
For eternity is what matterest most, and t'at relieth not within any absence of serenity.
Ah, but sadly they realiseth, realiseth it not!
For they are never alive themselves, nor prone-to any living realisation;
And termed only by the solemnity of desire, wealthiness, and hovering accusations;
For they breathe within their private-ye' voluptuous, malice, and unabashed prejudice,
For they hath no comprehension; as they hath not even the most barren bliss!
And I wantest not to be any of them, for being such is entirely gruesome;
And I shall die of loneliness, I shall die of feasting on no mindly outcome;
For nothing more shall be fragrant within my torpid soul;
And hath courage not shall I, to fight against any fishy and foul.
My fate is tranquil, and 'tis, indeed-to be a poet;
A poet whenst society is mute, I shall speak out loud;
And whenst humanity is asleep, I wake 't with my shouts;
Ah, poetry! Thy ****** little soul is but everything to me;
And even in my future wifery, I shall still care for, and recur to thee;
And I shall devote myself to thee, and cherish thee more;
Thou hath captured me with love; and such a love is, indeed, like never before.

But too I loveth him still, as every day rises-
When the sun reappeareth, and hazy clouds are again woken so they canst praise the skies.
I loveth him, as sunrays alight our country suburbs;
With a love so wondrous; a love but at times-too ardent and superb.
Ah, and thus tellest me-tellest me once more!
To whose heart shall I benignly succumb, and trust my maidenhood?
To whose soul shall I courteously bow, and be tied-at th' end of my womanhood?
Ah, poetry, I am but now clueless, and thoroughly speechless-about my own love!
Ah, dearest-t'is time but be friendly to me, and award to me a clue!
Lendeth to me thy very genial comprehension, and merit;
Openeth my heart with thy grace, and unmistakable wit!
Drowneth me once more into thy reveries of dreams;
And finally, just finally-burstest my eyes now open, maketh me with clarity see him!

Ah, poetry, t'ose rainbows of thine-are definitely too remarkable;
As how t'ose red lips of thine adore me, and termeth me kindly, as reliable;
And thus I shall rely all my reality on thy very shoulder;
Bless me with the holiness confidentiality, and untamed ****** intelligence;
Maketh me enliven my words with love, and the healthiest, and loveliest, of allegiance.
Bless me with the flavoured showers of thy heart;
So everything foreign canst but be comely-and familiar;
And from whose verdure, and growth-I shall ne'er be apart!
And as t'is happens, holdest my hand tightly-and clutchest at my heart dearly;
Keepest me but safe here, and reachest my breath, securely!
Ah, poetry-be with me, be with me always!
Maketh me even lovelier, and loyal-to my religion;
In my daily taste-and hastes, and all these supreme oddities and evenness of life;
Maketh me but thoughtful, cheerful, and naive;
And in silence maketh me stay civil-but for my years to come;
and similarly helpeth my devotion, taste, and creativity, remain alive.

Ah, poetry, thus I shall be awake in both thy daylight, and slumbers;
And as thou shineth, I knoweth that my dreams shall never fade away;
Once more, I might have gone mad, but still-all the way better;
And whenst I am once more conscious; thou shalt be my darling;
who firmly and genuinely beggeth me t' keep writing, and in the end, beggeth me t' stay.
Leave me not, even whenst days grew dark-and lighted were only my abyss;
Invite my joy, and devour every bit of it-as one thou should neither ignore, or miss.

Every single madness is in my soul,
and fires like t'ose of a tempestuous sea-
are but raging within me;
scratching and tearing
t'is faith of mine so badly
Behind t'ese livid; and torpid
Dull afternoon airs.
Ah, stupid reasons, please go away-
and stun thy own flimsy day
But leave every one of thy bright promise
about thee;
Oh, just here-yet eternally-
everything t'at is as superb
as t'is often-hated hysterical world.
But only th' ones with humbleness!
And before thou retreat-imbue my soul
with silky greatness once more;
As I shalt salute thy carelessness
No matter what shalt happen
But steal not my love out of me;
let him stay like t'at and sleep by me
Until our tales come and greet
Unmarred evenness
And I; dare to spread my sore heart lazily
Under yon distant umbrella
of our oblivious heavens.

I hath the volition to touch th' stars,
And perhaps dream, dream highly
all over again
Of regaining thy love,
and rolling suspiciously
about and into thy waiting arms,
under our liberated celestial blankets
of clouds and its surfaceless haze.
Which might now and then smirk at us;
But before our ignorance rigidly
retreat away; and vanish pallidly into
its own threads
of prim; but unforgivable vanity.
Ah! I shalt but forever dream again
of all yon awesomeness,
and insist on devouring th' tasteful
Ye' immortal madness of thy princedom.
I imagine thy touches-and t'ose feverish scents
of thy fingers, and lavish hands
Free of boredom, but tainted with wisdom
And being sunk deeply in thy justice
Which insofar as it hath been enabled-
been hovering deafeningly in and about me.
Ah! I shalt be th' first one, and maiden
Who maketh thy irresoluteness decisive,
and turneth thy doubtful precisions
once more submissive!
I shalt become thy torch, and lips,
and guiding star!
I shalt bear thy ******,
and be thy own earthly phantom;
Be with me shalt be thy candlelight;
which is as strong as envious daylight
and by whom I shalt remove thy fright
As far as my dreams go with th' night
And visit and fend for thee
In thy portrait
and thy invigorating dreams.
I shalt be thy surprise;
and be a companion to thy delight
As how I shalt seek
and glory in thy pleasure;
Be lost in thy pride
and feel merciful to be thy treasure
I shalt deprave thy greed of its life
and make to thy grave,
one most beloved, and conspicuous wife.
Ah, thou art too striking!
Thy stunning voice fills me with madness-
and shakes my spines from head to toe,
But kills my sorrow and burns my sadness,
cleanses up my sins and blesses me anew.
Thou befriendeth my pride;
and my atrocious passion;
thou listeneth to my heart
and rinseth tears off its horizon.

Ah! So no wonder now
My madness loses its pride-
Overriding pride, t'at at times
becomes pregnant with such arrogance
So t'at despised it is, even by divine spies
sent down to t'is earth by majestic Lord.
What a delight within me it is to see thee-
and watch another brimful
of thy laughter-ah; thou art as captivating
as a little red-cheeked boy
Who sanguinely greeted me
Down th' farms
With a flow of madly auburn hair,
and smiles as agreeable
as t'at morn's bashful sunny air.
Ah, thou, who art even more adorable
than t'is lurid poem of mine;
stained with th' red colour-as it is,
of my own madness-and a tenacious judgment
of my senses,
T'ese merry dreams of thee are but too vicious
As they make me sweet-unbearably sweet,
in th' entire course
Of yon upcoming flirtatious night;
and tease me most whenst I'm awake
with loving chills so painstakingly crafted
about my face.
O, my lover!
My equanimious, long-sought, and
Sagitarius lover!
Thy naive, but sweet-spirited soul,
is as cheerful and frank;
but troublesome and scanty still
And within one terrific; yet ubiquitous
blink of th' hungered eye
Thou shalt sweep and slay away again;
my rigid; whilst disconcerted, charms.
And so how is at heart I am dreamily-
ye' desperately dedicated to thee;
Though far I am from thee-
as how thou defiantly-from me;
And so never may we sing-or argue in unison;
To utter neither choruses; nor grouped ballads
of marriage;
Dreams are but our sole tower and maze;
And morns all over th' earth, our single haste.

And such! Such a gaze of thine
Is addictive to me like white whine
For 'tis forever my melancholy tyranny;
In my selfish world-full of picturesque indignation
And its dearest remorse
and tranquil superfluity.
Birds t'at never fly;
And lilies t'at might not die-
ah, so after all cautious,
but in every way immortal-like thee;
Snoring and aging in thy deathless foreverness;
In which there art profoundly thou and I-
And I with my repentant dead soul
Unfreed yet of its cherry-like buds
Reeking of fascinated; yet disheartened
Longings; and horrors t'at
Unrevealed love canst soullessly take
Out its mortal mouth and sunless tongue-
From which my dissatisfied spirit
ain't bound ever to jump and awake.

Ah, but after all-all t'is suffering
and disruptive madness,
My corrupted freedom all along
shalt find justice
And whole confidentiality
In thy soul;
So t'at let me feel lethargic on thy shoulder
And rest my dishevelled mind for a while.
Perhaps, thou could let me sing t'at silent song
Whilst our dear God fixes everything
t'at hath gone wrong;
and imaginations and joy
t'at have been thrown away
shalt find every single way back of theirs
Into th' secure cage of love, within our souls.
Ah, and betwixt thy indolence
Shalt I laugh again;
For th' at length victories and images
so startling,
and pictures I am thankful of;
for they were formed so adequately
by thy stupendous name.
Ah, and immortality-yes, so which
shalt always be thy name;
With such frame and glory
trapped so idly within whose frame-
Like an odd; but fruitful summer game;
Within which I shalt ever thrive,
and civilly flourish;
Just like in thy love I shalt grow and live
And to our very last breath, rejoice.

If I could love, I would take the best of marble and dove,
And craft her eyes like inlaid tombs in stone skyward flight.
Just so, the Egyptian khamsin wind, by way of Rhodes,
Alights with evenness on the trullo stone of Alberobello.
Just so, the weighing of the heart lies between marble and dove.

Wee falsely think it due unto our friends,
That we should grieve for their too early ends:
He that surveys the world with serious eys,
And stripps Her from her grosse and weak disguise,
Shall find 'tis injury to mourn their fate;
He only dy's untimely who dy's Late.
For if 'twere told to children in the womb,
To what a stage of mischief they must come
Could they foresee with how much toile and sweat
Men court that Guilded nothing, being Great;
What paines they take not to be what they seem,
Rating their blisse by others false esteem,
And sacrificing their content, to be
Guilty of grave and serious Vanity;
How each condition hath its proper Thorns,
And what one man admires, another Scorns;
How frequently their happiness they misse,
And so farre from agreeing what it is,
That the same Person we can hardly find,
Who is an houre together in a mind;
Sure they would beg a period of their breath,
And what we call their birth would count their Death.
Mankind is mad; for none can live alone
Because their joys stand by comparison:
And yet they quarrell at Society,
And strive to **** they know not whom, nor why,
We all live by mistake, delight in Dreames,
Lost to ourselves, and dwelling in extreames;
Rejecting what we have, though ne're so good,
And prizing what we never understood.
compar'd to our boystrous inconstancy
Tempests are calme, and discords harmony.
Hence we reverse the world, and yet do find
The God that made can hardly please our mind.
We live by chance, and slip into Events;
Have all of Beasts except their Innocence.
The soule, which no man's pow'r can reach, a thing
That makes each women Man, each man a King.
Doth so much loose, and from its height so fall,
That some content to have no Soule at all.
"Tis either not observ'd, or at the best
By passion fought withall, by sin deprest.
Freedome of will (god's image) is forgot;
And if we know it, we improve it not.
Our thoughts, thou nothing can be more our own,
Are still unguided, verry seldom known.
Time 'scapes our hands as water in a Sieve,
We come to dy ere we begin to Live.
Truth, the most suitable and noble Prize,
Food of our spirits, yet neglected ly's.
Errours and shaddows ar our choice, and we
Ow our perdition to our Own decree.
If we search Truth, we make it more obscure;
And when it shines, we can't the Light endure;
For most men who plod on, and eat, and drink,
Have nothing less their business then to think;
And those few that enquire, how small a share
Of Truth they fine! how dark their notions are!
That serious evenness that calmes the Brest,
And in a Tempest can bestow a rest,
We either not attempt, or elce [sic] decline,
By every triffle ******'d from our design.
(Others he must in his deceits involve,
Who is not true unto his own resolve.)
We govern not our selves, but loose the reins,
Courting our ******* to a thousand chains;
And with as man slaverys content,
As there are Tyrants ready to Torment,
We live upon a Rack, extended still
To one extreme, or both, but always ill.
For since our fortune is not understood,
We suffer less from bad then from the good.
The sting is better drest and longer lasts,
As surfeits are more dangerous than fasts.
And to compleat the misery to us,
We see extreames are still contiguous.
And as we run so fast from what we hate,
Like Squibs on ropes, to know no middle state;
So (outward storms strengthen'd by us) we find
Our fortune as disordred as our mind.
But that's excus'd by this, it doth its part;
A treacherous world befits a treacherous heart.
All ill's our own; the outward storms we loath
Receive from us their birth, or sting, or both;
And that our Vanity be past a doubt,
'Tis one new vanity to find it out.
Happy are they to whom god gives a Grave,
And from themselves as from his wrath doeth save.
'Tis good not to be born; but if we must,
The next good is, soone to return to Dust:
When th'uncag'd soule, fled to Eternity,
Shall rest and live, and sing, and love, and See.
Here we but crawle and *****, and play and cry;
Are first our own, then others Enemy:
But there shall be defac'd both stain and score,
For time, and Death, and sin shall be no more.

I am your product,
But not your likeness.
I borrowed from you,
You borrowed me.

There is an evenness to our bargain
As long as it stops now.

You laid the cards and instilled my empathy.
To never say no because I couldn't, you needed me.
To listen to your explanations of family,
But you stopped protecting me.

Always saying it wasn't enough.
That you worked hard,
That you worked long,
That I had no excuses,
Because It's true, I didn't.
I had facts of my reality;
Fact of otherness,
Fact of alone.
Of ostracism,
Of wondering if a crowd would bring me companionship.
Of thinking a man was the only way to happiness,
Because you seemed to think so.
Of cursing your talk of family when you left to find your missing pieces in another's bed.
You needing me to be strong because we were all we had;
Shutting my mouth,
Pressing words back into feelings.
That you used me just like they claimed you'd done to them.
Baring their children, not caring for their say, not asking for more.
But you wanted more from me
You told me often and over.
Leaving me to be the milk-less maid.
The child mother to her mothers children,
Your sweet little children;
The ones I fiercely love,
The ones I fear you'll let break,
Like you have broken me.
My sweet little sisters.

You were my first love,
My first true hate.
The woman who bore me,
The woman who cast me out.
The wisdom in my head,
And the fool before my eyes.
My mother, the bringer, the borrower.
The one person I thought would never betray my trust;
The deserter in my time of need.

You may have borrowed my childhood;
Forever unreturned.
You may have taught me kindness in your selfishness,
You may have been my hero,
I thought you were one...
Someone to aspire to be...
But it's so simple and straight who you are now,
Now that you aren't seen through the rosy cast of my child love.

I play my hand, laying them down
Forthright and coming.
To let you know that I am no longer yours,
No longer yours to borrow.
I am my own,
You can no longer claim me.

Not the stillness
but the never-ending motion
not on the head of a pin
but in base of the broad basin
not a perfect evenness
but the wealth of variance

Not two opposing pebbles
laid on a lever atop a pivot
not a balance
more
like a train car
arriving at the station
where people board and disembark
while their total never changes

Similarly
not good opposing evil
not black and white
or self against the other
more
the summation of the ins and outs
of all that simultaneously occur
when nothing ever happens

I was born with the biggest eye sockets the nurses had ever seen, but unfortunately my eyelids weren't even
Because of genetics, or from a Hispanic superstition my mother told me, I have uneven eyelids that make me take pictures with my left side because society told me to find my good side since my whole face wasn't good enough
Wasn't pleasing enough
or wasn't beautiful enough
That lasted about the first 11 years of my life
Then I met a boy in California who said my eyes were so big and so brown that my eyelashes reminded him of spider legs because of all the coats of mascara and black eyeliner I used to compensate for the lack of evenness, and how the color of my eyes reminded him of brown sugar cookies his grandma use to make him when he was sad
That's when I fell in love with myself
In love with the fact that my eyes were described to be the size of the moon with or without make up
How the brownness in them turned darker with rage,  jade when calm, and a honeysuckle color when in love
I fell in love with the way my eyelashes touched my eyebrows on a daily bases
And even whenever I cry, I still love the way my eyes can tell someone how I feel better than words do
To this day I don't know what that boys name was, but I thank him
For reminding me that my faults, even the slightest ones make me unique
make me beautiful

One flick of the match
And you lit up
To destroy the evenness
Of her functioning

Burning on one end
Glowing ember
Self destructing yourself
As well as her minutes

She quickly exhales
You slither through
The veins and her lungs
Clasping her blood
Her eyes being the reflector of the sins

Everyday those twenty bucks
Distributed in innumerable spaces
For preparation of Her funeral
For the ashes in the vase.

it comes down
from the heavens
or the sky
and blankets
the earth
or ground
with an evenness,
a fairness,
a peacefulness,
and we forget all our mistakes,
all the paths we took,
and we can’t see or
remember the ones
others carved.

the snow comes down,
down, down, down,
from the heavens
to the earth
or from the sky
unto the ground

snow, snow
you wonderful thing
you make all things even
and give us one chance
to fix them

You preach philosophies,
wishing to melt mountains with your mind.
You find its presence unfair to the desert,
always blocking out rain.
So you call yourself ambassador,
telling the mountain of the desert’s plight.
The mountain agrees,
lowering itself so that the clouds may be free
to travel elsewhere.
It gives equal chance to the desert.
But what to call a mountain
who no longer blocks the sun?
Who’s peaks no longer stand, among
thinning air?
What to call a desert, who’s
no longer dry?
The clouds dislike the evenness of travel,
the openness with which they glide.

At times it is impossible- to keep balance
When things weigh too much on one side.
The teeter totter effect of a scale fighting
to maintain some perception of equality,
reminds me of parts of my own life.
Vertigo makes my head spin and leaves
an overwhelming sense of falling down,
grasping at any chance to stand again.
One thing must compensate for another
to preserve the harmony we seek.
If at once, a feeling of evenness
presents itself, thank your cerebellum,
It’s feeding the body’s equilibrium.

As I check the evenness of my afro in the reflections of storefront windows while walking by
Smiling about whether the eyes watching
Are scared of where blackness has been
I am proud

Honesty exists
But in anonymity

And only

In the evenness
Of blinded enemies

May the blind really see
The truth

Analytically obtuse

As in truth
There is only
What is

In front of you

All the rest
Is moot

[****]

I want to be pretty.
Not in the way magazines do it
where everything is tucked, twisted, tuned and polished
because I am not an ideal.
And I will never be the Mona Lisa
with a coyness that leaves people wondering
what I've smelled, touched, tasted in
every moment of my life,
because I am not a treasure.
I want to be the kind of pretty
where my little sister can see a galaxy of pride in my eyes
and know she's ten times more beautiful
than I could ever be
(or at least she'll know I think so.)
I want to be pretty in the way that
strangers don't know if I'm kind or
powerful or
manipulative
and are timidly curious that maybe I'm all three.
I want to be pretty in the way that
I am all three, and so much more.
I want to be pretty
so that when I'm older
I can be half as beautiful as my mom.
I want to be pretty so that
my friends see honesty in the corners of my eyes
and security in my fingertips
and hold my gaze with evenness as my equals.
I want to be pretty,
the kind of pretty where you bring me home,
we reflect each other like lighted mirrors
and your mom will smile that knowing smile
because in three years you'll want to see a ring on my finger
and she knows her baby will do it in five.
And I want to be pretty so when my hair is damp,
my eyeliner cakes my face like charcoal
and a towel is wrapped around my body...
When I look in that mirror I see fireflies and lightning
and not an abandoned house
in a quiet street
with the attic light left on.

The ground appeared level, but no
minor bumps eroded the sanctity of evenness
at odd pockets where the soil sustained repeated injury
there lurked creatures of all sorts.
Few were long nosed, impervious blood suckers,
others like two horned underground creepers that snitched
and larked on fellow mates found solace in company.
Further down racists blended with the beautiful
and both white and dark temperaments moulded
together, as if, sustained by a creed and greed.

Further afield there were hangers-on who ruefully
were iron-****** and aplenty, lurking amongst the poor
and wretched, ******* solar power from the weak,
fiddling with the filth and holding back on sustenance.
These were the parasites of the field.

Turning to the left of centre, the holy melted in the crowd
of doomsayers, prophets and penitents, preaching
a word distorted to draw attention to themselves
under the guise of royal purple robes and stolen sceptres
pompous idiots who claimed to own the field, but
wore egoistic hot air and lead balloons of pride
and prejudice.

On just the one small section of the field you could play
delightful soccer, kick the ball or backsides and feel proud
you played a fair game, in spite of the pale bellied creatures
that roamed the tunnels and turrets of the level playing field
ready to draw you in for dissection. Of course, they smiled
benignly, when you passed by them, watching you slyly,
but all the time with hands at the back of them
clutching razor sharp daggers to shed your dignity
and lay waste to your humanity.

All of us are listed on this game. Some play, some referee, some refuse,
mostly spectators, watching and cheering, unaware
of how the level playing is set out in layers of deception.

Have you purchased your tickets for the next game?
Author Notes

A huge metaphor for injustice and greed. Play the game as you are expected to unless you want to be part of the underground network of deceivers. Pick a part in this game, which involves everybody. The colour of your skin dictates the price of the ticket to the game. Please take part. If you are a spectator
in this stadium with bright lights and pom-pom dancing girls, you will know what I'm talking about.

The game begins everyday at sunrise!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

You light me, I light you
Yet, too much light may burn us
From darkness to brightness you turned me
Yet, too much brightness may hurt us
You revive my life, You make it shine
But, shine may once **** us
together forever you say
But, togetherness is not the equal to for evenness

I wanted to hurt her
Well, I wanted to make her feel what she had done to me
****** something precious of hers, as she had done me
Something small and insignificant
So that when she publicized her pain, no one would care
They’d say, it was just a trinket, not like it was valuable
But, oh, something worth so much to her and only her
Something that would make her understand just what she had stolen from me
Something that would give me a petty sense of victory, of evenness
I wanted what had gone around to come around,
So as she had sent pain to me, I thus sent pain to her.

I wanted to study her
See what was it about her that he desired
If not for brains, beauty, or heart
Then why did he hurt me for the sake of her?
I wanted to figure out why she was better than me in the eyes of so many
So I fixated on it without even trying and I learned more about her
And I think I understand now why he wanted to hurt me, for her sake;
I now know why I wasn’t good enough, why she was better than I was.

The glistening glare of dawn,
Dampens my view,
My eyes are all blurry,
Yet I seem to see it all.

The hollow shell that I am,
Fondled with the color of dawn,
Seem to find myself yet again,

The perpetuality of dawn,
And its evenness,
Makes me jealous and nonchalant,
Yet I seem to sense nought.

I find myself thinking yet again,
All these moments are irreproducible.
I wonder when I said this before

Drinking coffee with two books in my hand listening to Miles Davis’ So What.

A few thoughts.

The journey is an ongoing float down the river and expanding as time passes. The phenomenon of surrender is fascinating when realizing how it manifests.

I find the treacherous peril becomes an observance. The need to climb a mountain and stand on top to see dissolves with the realization there is a better view here. The depths of the dark river are giddily waded through upon discovery of a knee deep sandy bottom.

There is an unexpected evenness that can be disorienting until it touches the edge of everything all at once.

My life is full of many simple things that left to their own accord, are blossoming into effortless attraction.

I’m starting to feel the realization of intention, better yet the lack of concern for the destination.

Time dissipates and freedom blankets me. Maybe you see the same kaleidoscope.

Hop to, toddEugene

Don't let the loudest voice be only
A demanding cause
Or you'll walk to falter instead

But balance all harshness with evenness and grace

Incarnate, the limits you put on yourself
Are all just you
Are all just injustices in your head

On the piano, to accompany a singer
is an endeavour for just a few.
Fingers and breath kneel on the pew
for the Lied to be the foremost winner.

Balanced tempi, rhythm, pauses,
are all vital for musical clauses.
Dynamics, sforzandos, rubatoes
withdraw the discourse from Thanatos.

Both follow the very same score
but impress their own personality:
a rendition with evenness is a bore
as it affects the whole sonority.

And to accompany a partner
in sickness and in health?
First to your dog and hamster,
turning poverty into wealth?

Musical duets reflect any relationship,
with standing ovation or fiasco-evening:
you either embark on a gorgeous trip
or succumb to an experience dreading.

A notch on the belt a stir of the
wicked soup
Trouble in paradise as the highs hit the lows and
The diagnosis is indeed correct
Doctor can you help now
For I truly know you are correct
There’s no keel of evenness
My wings have been melted by my own imbalance
And the hole is too deep for me to wiggle out of

An illusionary world
that gives rise to the unreal
with the constant soul
that chooses to take
the everlasting feelings along the way.
A wandering world
where there is no loss of effort
it’s fair to face terrible pain while trying
but when you fail,
be sure to let go all that is broken
with the evenness of mind
as death is certain for the born
feelings which are born will die too.

-Thanakarshnni

I told my heartbeat not to beat
To hold its breath in quietness
And keep its chest in evenness
I told my heartbeat not to beat
And yet it has betrayed me still
By not being even but in a mess

[at seeing you]