Imperfectly,
I stand before you,
A man. If you can’t see
All the things that I am,
I’m not content to hang around
As the retirement plan.

I’ll never boss you around,
But that’s not because I’m weak.
It’s because I have the security
To let you be you,
And me, be me.

I stand on my own two feet.
And I don’t ever base my self-esteem
Off some meaningless number
Of late night creeps.

I’ve searched my own deeps, for
A healthy conception of masculinity -
And this is a long-term investment scheme;
So I ask, can you appreciate what patience means?

Without games, on an even plane,
No cliché lines or insincere sayings.
You can always find another “strong-type,”
One of those paper-thin cut outs
From the book of male stereotypes.
Still, truth untold,
We both know -
It’s unconventionality
That makes a diamond
In the rough.

I have learned that
Determining a diamond’s cut grade
Goes well beyond
Simple measurements,
Like width and depth.
To determine
A diamond’s worth,
You have to test
Its light performance.

Even if a stone seems
To have color and clarity,
You can tell a real diamond
By how it catches the light,
Disperses evenly across the rock,
While a fake becomes almost transparent
As saturated light moves through it.

In another poet’s words:
Some [folks] recognize the light
But they can’t handle the glare.

I’ve also learned that appraisal of a diamond
Is determined by its own proportions.
You have to test for symmetry.
Does it seem to be high-grade carat
While you’re around?
And karma, karma, chameleon
To cubic zirconium,
If you’re visiting
The other side of town?

The thing is,
I’m not really here
To expose other contradictions.
I just want you to listen.

I want to talk to you
About how chivalry is not dead.
Look you right in the eye,
And tell you why. Talk
About how romance
Is still very much alive.
So, no more wind-whispered cries,
About how good manners have all but died.

Some might call such confidence conceited,
But I’m not recarving any hieroglyphs.
This type of affection is ancient,
So help to embrace it. Engage we -
With extensive emotional foreplay
And intellectual tongue-kissing;
Way before incense and candles get lit.

And tonight?
Let’s try starting over
With a night out on the town.
The recipe is simple: good food and
a place that's quiet enough for conversation,
maybe a jazz spot, if you’re down.

Or maybe, we could catch
A late-night flick
That really makes us think.
And when we’ve talked ourselves dry,
Neither one of us
Would mean a goodbye,
So we’d retire homewards,
And unwind.

Because I do want you,
The right way.
I want you,
And I want you to want me, too.
I want you to want me,
Just like I want you.

Nevertheless,
No stress for you,
Or for me.
If these rivers are meant
To find their way to the sea,
It should happen, naturally.

This page contains several double limericks, a rare triple limerick, and a new version of the double dactyl that I invented, called the "dabble dactyl."



The Platypus: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not ******.
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?

The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or ******.



The Better Man: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

Dear Ed: I don’t understand why
you will publish this other guy—
when I’m brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!

Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who’s dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!):
since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager!



Hell to Pay: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

A messiah named Jesus, returning
from heaven, found his home planet burning
& with children unfed,
so he ventured: “Instead
of war, why not consider cheek-turning?”

Indignant right-wingers retorted:
“Sir, your pacifist views are distorted!
Just pull the plug quickly
on someone who’s sickly!
Our pursuit of war can’t be aborted!”



These poems form a double limerick:

No Bull
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a multi-pierced Bull,
who found playing hoops far too dull,
so he dated Madonna
but observed, “I don’t wanna
get married . . . the things she might pull!”

So this fast-thinking forward named Rodman
then said to his best man—“No problem!
When I marry Electra,
if the ring costs extra,
just yank a gold hoop off my ****, man!”



I once provided the second stanza to a famous limerick, turning it into a double limerick …

A wonderful bird is the pelican;
His beak can hold more than his belican.
He can hold in his beak
Enough food for a week,
Though I’m ****** if I know how the helican!

Enough with this pitiful pelican!
He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican!
His beak's far too big,
so he eats like a pig,
and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican!
—second stanza by Michael R. Burch


The next two poems form a double limerick with separate titles:

Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch

Hawking’s "Brief History of Time"
is such a relief! How sublime
that time, in reverse,
may un-write this verse
and un-spend my last thin dime!

Time Back In!
by Michael R. Burch

Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mother's eyes
when I head for the womb once again!



This is another double limerick with separate titles:

Toupée or Not Toupée, That is the Question
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a brash billionaire
who couldn't afford decent hair.
Vexed voters agreed:
"We're a nation in need!"
But toupée the price, do we dare?

Toupée or Not Toupée, This is the Answer
by Michael R. Burch

Oh crap, we elected Trump prez!
Now he's Simon: we must do what he sez!
For if anyone thinks
And says his "plan" stinks,
He'll wig out 'neath that weird orange fez!



Not all double limericks are light affairs:

Self Reflection: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

for anyone struggling with self-image

She has a comely form
and a smile that brightens her dorm . . .
but she’s grossly unthin
when seen from within;
soon a griefstricken campus will mourn.

Yet she’d never once criticize
a friend for the size of her thighs.
Do unto others—
sisters and brothers?
Yes, but also ourselves, likewise.



Triple Limerick: Attention Span Gap
by Michael R. Burch

What if a poet, Shakespeare,
were still living to tweet to us here?
He couldn't write sonnets,
just couplets, doggonit,
and we wouldn't have Hamlet or Lear!

Yes, a sonnet may end in a couplet,
which we moderns can write in a doublet,
in a flash, like a tweet.
Does that make it complete?
Should a poem be reduced to a stublet?

Bring back that Grand Era when men
had attention spans long as their pens,
or rather the quills
of the monsieurs and fils
who gave us the Dress, not its hem!



Officious Notice: I have invented a ***** nonsense form: the "dabble dactyl." A dabble dactyl starts out like a double dactyl, but forgets the rules and changes horses midstream. Anyone who prefers order to chaos should give the dabble dactyl a wide berth and also not sow any wild oats.  Otherwise, “A little dabble’ll do ya.” — Michael R. Burch



Double Dactyls
by Michael R. Burch

Sniggledy-Wriggledy
Jesus Christ’s enterprise
leaves me in awe of
the rich men he loathed!

But why should a Sadducee
settle for trifles?
His disciples now rip off
the Lord they betrothed.



Donald Dabble Dactyl #1
by Michael R. Burch

Higgledy-Piggledy
Ronald McDonald
cursed Donald Trump, his
least favorite clown:

"Why should I try to be
funny as Donald? He
gets all the laughs,
claiming upside is down!"



Donald Dabble Dactyl #2
by Michael R. Burch

Wond’ringly, blund’ringly
Ronald McDonald
asked, “Who the hell
is this strange orange clown?”

“Why should I try to be
funny as Donald? He
gets all the laughs,
claiming upside is down!”



Donald Dabble Dactyl #3
by Michael R. Burch

Piggledy-Wiggledy
45th president,
or erstwhile manse resident,
perched on a throne

of gold-plated porcelain
matching his orange “tan,”
bombing Iran
from his twittery phone?



This famous limerick inspired my Einstein “relative” limericks:

There was a young lady named Bright
who traveled much faster than light.
She set out one day
in a relative way,
and came back the previous night.

I recently learned this poem was originally penned, in a slightly different version, by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller; his limerick appeared in Punch (Dec. 19, 1923). I find it intriguing that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick. I was inspired to pen multiple rejoinders:

The Cosmological Constant
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
said E equals MC squared.
Thus all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!


***-tronomical
by Michael R. Burch

Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
says mass increases with speed.
My (m)*** grows when I sit it.
Mr. Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!


Relative Theory I
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein’s theory, incredibly silly,
says a relative grows, *****-nilly,
at speeds close to light.
Well, his relatives might,
but mine grow their (m)***** more stilly!


Relative Theory II
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein’s peculiar theory
excludes all my relatives, clearly,
since my relatives’ *****
increase their prone masses
while approaching light speed—not nearly!


Relative Theory III
by Michael R. Burch

Relativity, we’re led to believe,
proves masses increase with great speed.
But it seems my huge family
must be an anomaly;
since their (m)***** increase, gone to seed!



The Heimlich Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

for T. M.

The sanest of poets once wrote:
"Friend, why be a sheep or a goat?
Why follow the leader
or be a blind *******?"
But almost no one took note.


These are limericks of the singular variety …


Caveat Spender
by Michael R. Burch

It's better not to speculate
"continually" on who is great.
Though relentless awe's
a Célèbre Cause,
please reserve some time for the contemplation
of the perils of EXAGGERATION.


This is another of my scientific limericks …

Parting is such sweet sorrow
by Michael R. Burch

The universe is flying apart.
Hush, Neil deGrasse Tyson’s heart!
Repeat, repeat.
Don’t skip a beat.
Perhaps some new Big Bang will spark?


Low-T Hell
by Michael R. Burch

I’m living in low-T hell ...
My get-up has gone: Oh, swell!
I need to write checks
if I want to have ***,
and my love life depends on a gel!


ANIMAL LIMERICKS
A much-needed screed against licentious insects
by Michael R. Burch

after and apologies to Robert Schechter

Army ants? ARMY ants?
Yet so undisciplined to not wear pants?
How incredibly rude
to wage war in the ****!
We moralists call them SMARMY ants!


Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot!"


Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.



The Dromedary and the Very Work-Wary Canary
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"


The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch

The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his *****, boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!


The Trouble with Elephants: a Word to the Wise
by Michael R. Burch

An elephant never forgets
and thus they don’t make the best pets:
Jumbo may well out-live you,
but he’ll never forgive you,
no matter how sincere your regrets!


The Limerick as Parody
Marvell-Less (I)
by Michael R. Burch

Mr. Marvell was ill-named? Inform us!
Alas, his crude writings deform us:
for when trying to bed
chaste virgins, he led
right off with his iron ***** ginormous!


Marvell-Less (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Andrew Marvell was far less than Marvellous;
indeed, he was cold, bold, unchivalrous:
for when trying to bed
chased/chaste virgins, he led
right off with his iron ***** ginormous!


Here's a limerick about one of the universe's greatest ironies: the lack of rhyme words for "poetry" and "limerick." I almost solved the latter, but fell a bit short:

Shelved Elves
by Michael R. Burch

I wanted to rhyme with “limerick”
and settled on “good old Saint Slimmer Nick”
about a dieting Claus,
but drawing no “ahs!”
I glumly rescinded the trimmer trick.


To show the flexibility of the limerick form, it has often been used for political purposes, and to expose, satirize and savage charlatans. Here are are two such limericks of mine:

Baked Alaskan

There is a strange yokel so flirty
she makes ****** seem icons of purity.
With all her winkin’ and blinkin’
Palin seems to be "thinkin’"—
"Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!"

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



Going Rogue in Rouge

It'll be hard to polish that apple
enough to make her seem palatable.
Though she's sweeter than Snapple
how can my mind grapple
with stupidity so nearly infallible?

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



I have even written limericks about religion, mostly heretical limericks:

Pell-Mell for Hell Mel
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a Baptist named Mel
who condemned all non-Christians to hell.
When he stood before God
he felt like a clod
to discover His Love couldn’t fail!


Why I Left the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch

He's got Jesus's name on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of his shirt
and he upholds the Law,
for grace has a flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.



Ribbing Adam
by Michael R. Burch

“Dear Lord,” fretted Adam, depressed,
“did that **** really rupture my chest?”
“Yes she did,” piped his Maker,
“but of course you can’t take her,
or I’d fry you in hell, for ******!”



There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke one dark night
from a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true!
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch


There once was a poet from Nashville
which hockey fans rechristened Smashville,
but his odd limericks
pulled so many weird tricks
his pale peers now prefer Ogden Gnashville.
—Michael R. Burch


There once was a poet from Tennessee
who was known to indulge in straight Hennessey
for his heart had been broken
and cruelly ripped open
by an ice-hoarding Dame of Paree.
—Michael R. Burch


Here's one for the poets:

The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch

Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.


Here's one for the Flintstones:

Early Warning System
by Michael R. Burch

A hairy thick troglodyte, Mary,
squinched dingles excessively airy.
To her family’s deep shame,
their condo became
the first cave to employ a canary!


Donald Trump Limericks aka Slimericks

Viral Donald
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump is coronaviral:
his brain's in a downward spiral.
That pale nimbus of hair
proves there's nothing up there
but an empty skull, fluff and denial.


Stumped and Stomped by Trump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a candidate, Trump,
whose message rang clear at the stump:
"Vote for me, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
because I am ME,
and everyone else is a chump!"


Humpty Trumpty
by Michael R. Burch

Humpty Trumpty called for a wall.
Trumpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Now all the Grand Wizards
and Faux PR men
Can never put Trumpty together again.


White as a Sheet
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump had a real Twitter Scare
then rushed off to fret, vent and share:
“How dare Bernie quote
what I just said and wrote?
Like Megyn he’s mean, cruel, unfair!”


15 Seconds
by Michael R. Burch

Our president’s *** life—atrocious!
His "briefings"—bizarre hocus-pocus!
Politics—a shell game!
My brief moment of fame
flashed by before Oprah could notice!


Trump’s Golden Rule
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump is the victim of leaks!
Golden showers are NOT things he seeks!
Though he dearly loves soaking
the women he’s groping,
get real, 'cause he pees ON the meek!


Cancun Cruz
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a senator, Cruz,
whose whole life was one pus-oozing schmooze.
When Trump called his wife ugly,
Cruz brown-nosed him smugly,
then went on a sweet Cancún cruise!


Anchors Aweigh!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was an anchor babe, Cruz,
whose deployment was Castro’s bold ruse.
Now the revenge of Fidel
has worked out quite well
as Cruz missiles launch from his caboose!


Canadian Cruz
by Michael R. Burch

There was a Canadian, Cruz,
an anchor babe with a bold ruse:
he’d take Texas first
and then do his worst
to infect the whole world with his views.


Eerie Dearie
by Michael R. Burch

A trembling young auditor, white
as a sheet, like a ghost in the night,
saw his dreams, his career
in a ****!, disappear,
and then, strangely Enronic, his wife.

Fortune named Enron "America's Most Innovative Company" for six consecutive years, but the company went bankrupt and vanished after its accounting practices were determined to be fraudulent.


The Vampire's Spa Day Dream
by Michael R. Burch

O, to swim in vats of blood!
I wish I could, I wish I could!
O, 'twould be
so heavenly
to swim in lovely vats of blood!

The poem above was inspired by a Josh Parkinson depiction of Elizabeth Bathory swimming up to her nostrils in the blood of her victims, with their skulls floating in the background.



***** LIMERICKS



A randy young dandy named Sadie
loves ***, but in forms reckoned shady.
(I cannot, of course,
involve her poor horse,
but it’s safe to infer she's no lady!)
—Michael R. Burch


There was a lewd ***** from Nantucket
who intended to *** in a bucket;
but being a man
she missed the **** can
and her rattled johns fled, crying: "**** it!"
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch


Here are three "linked" Nantucket limericks of mine, forming a triple limerick:

There was a coarse ***** of Nantucket
whose bush needed someone to pluck it
’cause it looked like a chimp’s
and her johns were limp gimps
who were too scared to **** it or **** it.

So that coarse, canny ***** of Nantucket,
once ****-shaved, decided to shuck it
—that thick, wiry pelt
that smelled like wet felt—
and made it a toupee for Luckett.

Now Luckett, once bald as an eagle,
like Samson, stands handsome and regal
with hair to his ***
that smells like his lass,
but still comes when she calls, like a beagle.
—a triple limerick by Michael R. Burch


Shotgun Bedding

A pedestrian pediatrician
set out on a dangerous mission;
though his child bride, ******,
was a sweet senorita,
her pa's shotgun cut off his emissions.
—Michael R. Burch



Untitled Limericks

There was a young lady from France
Who’d let cute boys poke in her pants:
They'd give her the finger
Where she'd let them linger
because that's the point of romance!
—Michael R. Burch


There once was a girl with small *****
who would only go out with young rubes,
but their ***** were too small
so she sentenced them all
to kissing her fallopian tubes.
—Michael R. Burch


A coquettish young lady of France
longed to have ***** men in her pants,
but in lieu of real joys
she settled for boys,
then berated her lack of romance.
—Michael R. Burch


A virginal lady of France
longed to have a ménage in her pants
but in lieu of real boys
she settled for toys
& painted pinkies to make her bits dance.
—Michael R. Burch


A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
Frenched me a kiss;
I admonished her, "Miss,
you’ve left me twice tongue-tied, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch


A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
gave me a kiss;
I lectured her, "Miss,
we haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch


A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
French-kissed me and left my lips lame.
I lectured her, "Miss,
That's a premature kiss!
We haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
Michael R. Burch


Four Limericks  plus one Lead-In Poem

Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors
by Michael R. Burch

At six-thirty,
feeling flirty,
I put on the hurdy-gurdy ...

But Ms. Purdy,
all alert-y,
kicked me where I’m sore and hurty.

The moral of my story?
To avoid a fate as gory,
flirt with gals a bit more *****-y!



Mating Calls
by Michael R. Burch

1.
Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle *****),
I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ...
When I rang her to bang her,
it seems my words stang her!
She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone.

2.
Still dreaming to hold something skirty,
I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy.
She sounded unhappy,
called me “daffy” and “sappy,”
and that was before the gal heard me!

3.
It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty,
when I enquired again with the regal Miss Purdy.
With a voice full of hate,
she thundered, “It’s LATE!”
Was I, perhaps, over-wordy?

4.
It was probably close to four-thirty
the last time I called the miserly Purdy.
Although I’m her boarder,
the restraining order
freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder!



Teeter Tots
by Michael R. Burch

For your spuds to become Tater Tots,
First, artfully cut out the knots,
Then dice them into tiny cubes,
Deep fry them, and serve them to rubes
(but not if they’re acting like snots).



Golden Years?
by Michael R. Burch

I’m getting old.
My legs are cold.
My book’s unsold and my wife’s a scold.
Now the only gold’s
in my teeth.
I fold.



Trump Limericks aka Slimericks



The Nazis now think things’re grand.
The KKK’s hirin’ a band.
Putin’s computin’
Less Ukrainian shootin’.
They’re hootin’ ’cause Trump’s win is planned.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump comes with a few grotesque catches:
He likes to ***** unoffered snatches;
He loves to ICE kids;
His brain’s on the skids;
And then there’s the coups the fiend hatches.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump’s Saddest Tweet to Date
by Michael R. Burch

I’ve gotten all out of kilter.
My erstwhile yuge tool is a wilter!
I now sleep in bed.
Few hairs on my head.
Inhibitions? I now have no filter!



the best of all possible whirls, for MAGA
by Michael R. Burch

ive made a mistake or two.
okay, maybe quite more than a few:
mistakes by the millions,
the billions and zillions,
but remember: ur LORD made u!

where were u when HEE passed out brains?
or did u politely abstain?
u call GAUD “infallible”
when HEE made u so gullible
u cant come inside when Trump reigns.



Scratch-n-Sniff
by Michael R. Burch

The world’s first antinatalist limerick?

Life comes with a terrible catch:
It’s like starting a fire with a match.
Though the flames may delight
In the dark of the night,
In the end what remains from the scratch?



Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch

Time is at war with my body!
am i Time’s most diligent hobby?
for there’s never Time out
from my low-t and gout
and my once-brilliant mind has grown stodgy!



Waiting Game
by Michael R. Burch

Nothing much to live for,
yet no good reason to die:
life became
a waiting game...
Rain from a clear blue sky.



*******' Ripples
by Michael R. Burch

Men are scared of *******:
that’s why they can’t be seen.
For if they were,
we’d go to war
as in the days of Troy, I ween.



Devil’s Wheel
by Michael R. Burch

A billion men saw your pink ******.
What will the pard say to you, Sundays?
Yes, your ******* were cute,
but the shocked Devil, mute,
now worries about reckless fundies.



A ***** Goes ****
by Michael R. Burch

She wore near-invisible *******
and, my, she looked good in her scanties!
But the real nudists claimed
she was “over-framed.”
Now she’s bare-assed and shocking her aunties!



MVP!
by Michael R. Burch

Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
make it cute and okay
to write KKK
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Will Ohtani hit 65homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
prove the nemesis
of white supremacists
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
cause supremacists
to cease and desist
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Keywords/Tags: limerick, limericks, double limerick, triple limerick, humor, light verse, nonsense verse, doggerel, humor, humorous verse, light poetry, *****, ribald, irreverent, funny, satire, satirical

I swirled my fingertips on the surface of the water and sent a message across with shiny, glossy ripples that grew slowly, and gracefully. He kneeled on the other side of the moonlit pond and watched as the ripples from my fingertips reached him. He cupped the ripples of the water into his palm and drank the cold water, sighing happily.
“What does it taste like?” I whispered hoarsely, as loud as I dared to be while knowing we would be reprimanded fiercely for sneaking out of the huts at this time of night.
“Love” he called back.
I burst out laughing in panting breaths and tried to stifle the noise with my fists. I heard him bellow out, and the echoes rang freely through the woods before he quickly shoved his face into the water and laughed in there, the bubbles of his laughter surfacing violently.
“You idiot” I whispered joyfully when he brought his head up from the water, his dark hair curled against his forehead, “I didn’t even write anything to do with love. I wrote how foolish of a boy you are.”
“And you still stick with me so that’s love isn’t it?” he teased me. His finger tips swirled in the water for a minute. “Your turn to taste, Masra”
I waited till the ripples hit the side of the pond and quickly dipped my tongue in and lapped the water. I pursed my lips, pretending to debate what his message was. The surface of the black water was littered with reflection of the stars. It was so beautiful that I momentarily forgot the little game we were playing and gasped, “Oh stars!”
He took a quick intake of breath and stared up at me with wide eyes. “Really?” he asked in an unbelieving tone.
“What do you mean?”
“Stars?” he asked again, sounding like a sweet little confused child.
“Yes!” I laughed. “Stars!” and I splashed the surface of the water to show him.
He shook his head. “I can’t believe you could read, I mean, taste that... That’s incredible…”
It took me a second to realize what he was talking about. I decided to play along anyways and whispered dramatically, “Yeah, but I didn’t know what you were trying to say”
“A million stones on fire with wishes
Yet the brightest star is not up there” he recited his favorite lines from an old love poem.
“You are disgustingly soppy” I got up from kneeling by the pond and treaded softly on the dry leaves so that they wouldn’t crackle so loud. Reaching him, I kneeled down beside him and ran my fingers through his curly wet locks. His dark eyelashes were still wet with water and the chestnut eyes gleamed brightly.
I curled into his lap comfortably like a cat and he rolled over with me lying on top, while his strong arms held me. I buried my face into the skin of his beautiful brown neck and inhaled the sweet, musky smell. Reab smoothed my hair before murmuring huskily, “Why do you always do that?”
“It smells like you, the old Reab smell. It makes me feel safe and warm and happy.”
“I love you.”
“Do you think we’ll always be happy like this?” I asked, speaking of my deepest fear.
“I will never stop loving you, if that’s what you mean. And if we are caught sneaking out, I’m pretty sure no one would be too surprised. They all know from the way I look at you I intend to marry you when Chief thinks you’re old enough and finally say okay.”
I laughed at the thought of Chief being able to give me away.
With my parents both gone since I was a baby, Chief had adopted me as his daughter and he loved me tremendously for all his lecturing ways. Reab laughed a little too but without any fear of Chief rejecting him. Chief loved Reab too and approved of us most of the time.
“Do you remember when he caught us making ‘sheep-eyes’ at each other as he put it and he was furious?” We chuckled at the memory of Chief turning storm on us, declaring we were too young.
“What would he say now?” he turned my face to face his and kissed me for a while, with the wind blowing the tendrils of my hair on his face. He smiled mid-way through our kiss, for the soft strands of my hair on his face always tickled him.
I didn’t want to continue with my question after that happy moment. But I had to; he was the only man who would tell me the truth. “Our tribe has enemies. We have many men, many strong men… but I know we are in a constant threat. I have seen the midnight meetings you men hold when you think we are asleep and more weapons that normal are being made nowadays.”
He looked at me with sad eyes; with so much love and desire burning in them that my own eyes began to swell up with tears. I fluttered my lids to get rid of the wetness but he reached over and caught a tear on his pinky and licked it. Then he licked all the tears off my face and I giggled as his tongue flicked over the tearstains on my cheeks.
“The tribe is in some danger. You and I are not. I will love you forever.” I shook my head and was about to interrupt with another fearful question when he continued, “You know what Chief always says. We don’t live just one life. I loved you since we were babies. You know what I think?”
“What?” I asked, his voice slightly soothing my fears.
“I think I’ve known you before. There’s no way you can know someone the way I know you in the short life time we’ve lived. This is not the first time we’ve met.”
“You’re not worried if a battle comes we won’t be together?”
“No.” he answered and kissed my forehead.
“Why?” I couldn’t get rid off the idea of such a terrible fate.
“I think…” he struggled to get the words out, “I think we’ll always be together somehow. Masra, I’m… I’m just not afraid”
We lay there for a while until I fell asleep in his arms. I was awoken a little later with him shaking me softly for us to sneak back into our own huts.
There was a little advantage in having both my parents gone. Lela, my cousin who shared the hut with me, stirred only a little as I crept back in.



“I’ve been hearing from your sister that lately you have been waking very late. I don’t approve of this laziness.” Chief said to me as I sat on the floor of his hut, admiring the new spear he had just made. I sharpened the stone a little for him and smiled up brightly. His face softened. Chief was not usually an easy person to get around, but he always said he loved me more than was good for me. “I saw Reab today. He didn’t look so alert and awake.”
My mind clicked into place as I realized Chief had his suspicions. “Reab?” I inquired with an innocent expression. “Is he ill?”
“He just looked tired.” Chief replied with raised eyebrows, his eyes were a little puzzled. I had fooled him for now.
I balanced the spear in my hand. “You hold a spear too well for a woman” he grunted. “Spending too much time with me, I suppose. You should spend more time with your sister Lela. It would have been different if your mother was still alive. She would’ve taught you some womanly manners.”
“I think I’m feminine enough.”
“Look at you, blundering around after the men of the village, killing creatures and planning your attack even better than my men.”
“I don’t plan Chief; it just comes to me”
“Making it even worst!” he cried with a hidden pride.
I burst out laughing and bade him good night. He ruffled my hair fondly. “You go to sleep now Masra. Get some good sleep. Tell Reab that too” his eyes sparkled wickedly. Perhaps I hadn’t fooled him after all.
“You tell Reab, won’t you? I won’t see him till tomorrow morning.” I replied demurely.



And here passed, long uneventful days with the occasional nights that Reab and I would sneak out of the huts to spend the cool nights together and forcing ourselves out of bed at the crack of dawn along with the villagers, exhausted but happy. I suspected Chief still had his own wary thoughts, but with a denial somewhere in his mind, he did not seek to expose the truth or confine stricter rules on me through Lela. The few months that went by, I watched as Reab grew from a boy to a man.
A man I loved more than life itself.
One night, as I was lying in his arms I poked a thumb against his forehead and breathed out happily before nestling into his chest.
“What?” he asked me, amused at my random, loving behavior.
“I like to check that you’re real.”
He had no words in reply to that but tightened his hold on me, and swiftly kissed my dark hair with a sudden passion. His fingers caressed my head, and he inhaled the flowery perfume from the brown strands clutched in his hand.
“I wish you a long and happy life.” I whispered softly, afraid of the feelings that were surging through me.
“With you.” he replied back.
“No. Not just with me… anywhere… as long as you’re happy.”
“So with you then…”
Some days after that night, when it was pouring so furiously everyone had retreated back into their huts to cozy up, gossip, and flirt while warming their hands on hot wooden mugs we snuck off and climbed a special tree.
It was special because it was a giant, and very old with gnarled branches and knobs that made it easy to grip on with our toes, but the trunk itself was as smooth as a baby’s skin. It overlooked most of the village and the canopy was so thick it protected us from the rain except for the small wet drops that would escape through.
The tree stood apart from the woods and was very difficult to get to. One had to climb several other trees to reach it, ducking in and out of the tangle of branches up in the canopy like a maze. Only Reab and I had spent enough time up there to discover the path in reaching it. We were yet to discover how to reach it without getting scratches and bleeding scabs all over our skin.
Every time the thunder roared deafeningly Reab would yell, “I love you!” and no one could hear but Reab, the heavens, our special little tree and I.
He was so beautiful; like a lithe dangerous animal and his muscles were graceful and strong as he climbed around on the branches. I wished for the rest of our days to be like this and I remembered the lines he had recited to me only a little while ago,
““A million stones on fire with wishes
Yet the brightest star is not up there”

*

A distant roar erupted. The stars had not granted my wish, they had granted my deepest fear. The sound of drums rumbled steadily over the noise of screaming villagers, over the noise of animal fear in those I loved and lived with.
It was the sign that our enemies were finally in sight. We had been waiting for there attack all year long.
Lela grabbed me by the arm. “The chief says all women must flee!” she gasped and choked. Her eyes were leaking with tears. I stubbornly shook away her hand and I could see the desperateness growing in her eyes.
“There is no time to cry Lela”, I tried saying confidently but my voice shook. “Where is Reab?”
Even in her hysterical state she did not want to answer the question I already knew the answer to. “Where is Reab?” I repeated. When she did not reply I narrowed my eyes.
In the face of danger I had never been woman-like and cowered.
Chief had raised me stare any wild beast straight into its cold, predatory eyes before slaying it. I was not unfamiliar to thrusting a jagged dagger into the heart of danger.
I would not leave a man I loved behind like the running footsteps of women carrying their babies, pushing old people along, and dragging wailing children were doing.
I would not leave and I would fight when I could.
Lela stared at me as if she’d just read my mind.  “You may not fight Masra!” she cried. I pushed her aside.
“Help the women evacuate! Grab a baby, help a village elderly; just do it Lela!” I yelled violently and ran through the women who were running towards the woods.
I shoved women aside to get to the battle. My long legs tangled with the other woman, and I fell on my knees. They were both bleeding badly when I got up. Running with my knees stinging, a huge man suddenly grabbed me and swung me to face him. For one moment, I thought he was Reab and I clutched onto him; then I saw it was Chief, and I clutched to him even tighter.
“Chief, please don’t make me go away! Please let me fight with you!” I was screeching and begging with no sanity left in me.
He smiled weakly, “I wanted you to come without little Lela, I knew you would be headed this way. I have not much time Masra, my men need me. I have something I want to give you to make sure you will be safe enough to last through this war if I die,” he spoke softly.
I shook my head and hugged him. “But- but you- you wont!”
Chief gave me a sad smile. “I don’t know that.”
His brown hands reached to his neck and tugged a simple black leather string free. He shoved it into my hands. “Remember this, Masra. Just say to it, ‘Jack, Jack, shine the light’ when you feel there is nobody left in the world for you. Be ready for what happens. Goodbye Masra…”
He touched my cheek and warmth spread though me, momentarily making me feel safe.
“Why Jack?” I asked wretchedly, in a detached curiosity and trying to prolong the moment that Chief would be safe.
Jack was a commoner’s name; no one in our tribe was called Jack. We all had strong, powerful names that spoke of destiny, truth and purity.
“Chief Traben!” a man cried from the noises of surging mob of warriors.
“Go, Masra, go!” Chief said hurriedly, and pushed me away before whipping out of sight.
Chief had been like my best friend, my big brother and … my father. I wanted to fight with him, for him. But I knew in doing that, I would go against his wishes, and that was the last thing I would ever want to do.
A sudden thought made me realize I did not have to fight. I just had to be there or I would **** somebody in my own village for leaving behind loved ones. I knotted the black leather string determinedly on my neck.
I ran to the bottom of a slippery tree and climbed up to the canopy and began to duck in and out, swinging between and onto branches in the maze-like chaos of sticks and concentrated leaves to get to the special tree Reab and I shared.
I hid among the thick tangle; so thick no arrows would be able to pierce me and no enemy would see me. Growling and cursing myself, I remembered I carried no weapons with me and hastily patted my clothing to check again.
Then I remembered it would be useless to have any weapons unless I intended to go down there, for the abundant tangle worked both ways. A spear thrown from where I was would only get stuck in the dense branches below.
I could see the battle though, and that was enough: for now. I searched vainly for Reab, scampering along the top, trying to find where Reab was. I was wild with fury for him for coming.
He was just a boy, newly turned a man. He could still run and hide without shame. When I had him back in my arms again, I was sure to hit him and berate him for choosing to fight for me instead of being safe for me.
It never occurred to me once that Reab might be dead.
It still didn’t occur to me when I saw his body lying on the dirt below, with a man from a village - someone I couldn’t recognize from this height- dragging him. I shouted out, careless of the arrows of enemies.
For the first time in my life, I was terrified of blood: the blood that was seeping out of the wound on his stomach. I didn’t think he was dead; I believed he was injured and I thought of all the herbal concoctions I knew that I could paste over the wound to clean and heal it.
It still didn’t occur to me Reab was dead when the man left him by the bottom of a tree to return and fight. The men in our village did not leave those who could be healed. They stayed and helped them heal to the best of their ability before hiding their healing bodies’ safe in a bush. They only left behind those they could do no more for.
I trembled at anger in the neglect one of our men villagers had shown Reab; the disrespect in it. I would **** him if he were not killing our enemy. Somehow, in the wild pulsing of my body, I found myself climbing down and creeping stealthily to where Reab was and pulling him to safety in a bush.
When he was safe in the bushes, I held him and whispered to him that I was here. I said hold on Reab and I would go and make sure he was safe. I was sobbing. I could not comprehend what was happening for my mind had gone numb and blank.
How could a man who I loved so much bleed so much? All I knew was Reab was not moving in my arms and he must be terribly hurt.
I pressed my fingers to the blood on his stomach. I knew no man could have survived such a wound and so much lo

Back in those days
when I was young and strong.
Pristine, Noble,
as pure as you'd long.
White as a dove,
handsome as a king.
I'm a token of love,
far greater than a ring.
My making contained
both good and bad.
My maker being
a hot headed lad.
Blood as blue
as the skies and seas,
I stood along the riverside
enjoying the occasional breeze.
My history is both
wonderful and morbid.
My beauty-spoken of,
I'm known by each kid.
Lovers cherish me,
write songs of my presence.
create tales of their own,
activate every sense.

And now when I speak,
when I look at my current state
I'm sad, deeply sorry
at my distressing fate.
Handcrafted marble
whiter than milk.
Quality as such,
smoother than silk.
Today has eroded,
decayed and died.
It matters not
how much I've cried.
For it all falls on deaf ears
while factory noises expose my fears.
My white is no more,
I'm a deepening gray.
I see pity in the eyes
where once admiration lay.
The pride of India,
its biggest glory.
The life of Agra,
this is my story.
Being the crown of the nation,
the jewel of its eye.
A wonder of the world,
I feel like a lie.
For what I am today
isn't me at all.
I've lived at great heights
survived a great fall.

It is my request
sincere and deep.
Give me no reason
to further weep.
Awaken. Arise.
the time is here.
Preserve your glory,
keep the pride near.
I am none other,
than your beloved Taj Mahal.
this is my story,
one I ought to tell.
Now my life
is in your hands.
the choice is yours
as are the lands.
Choose wisely,
The devils or me?
Perish with them
or rejoice with me?

Many times, I've dreamt of your Heaven; using my fingers to caress it and my eyes to see.

Now spread your legs and expose your world to me.

With my face over her hair fallen neck
sending through my lips
what I’ve dreamed of compiled tastes

One arm wrapped her waist
The spinal curve of her back
Give-way my others embrace

In my palm falling slowly
with surrendered hold
Her reclining body takes plunge

A body wondrously dreamt by the Gods
but never to beholden
For that vessel has since long belonged
And in a quiet covet,
the Gods continue to sin

Over and across the bed
Released from my grip

Upwards into her hairline
a sweat spreading mist

Grabbing a fistful of mane
I’d lay down on the runway to attain
this flowing coat between my fingers

For the length of time
her hair has entwined me in cuffs

Pulling harder
I gladly yield in acceptance
this braid given stain
a permanent scar

Slow let go of her feathers tangled

In her neck I’m keeping
a burrow in repose

Seeing buttons undone in sync
to expose

The destination of my lips next imprint
like advanced shadowing hints

In a mechanical motion

Hair pulling emotion

Triggers upward
her chest and chin

Two spotlights on the ceiling what her ******* up send
Shaping her back an arc
like a half moons descent  

When she finishes her unbuttoning
Next for my belt she reaches
then the unzip I’ll never forget

She takes me in invest

I take her in continuous shooting

All the unfastened
unclothed

Now Firm
Quake
Earned
And Shake
The peak is reached from this encounter
defined by a collection of far to many lustfully seductive
mental hive of trapped aches
Then I kiss her lips in return she kisses me back, felt...

As the sun rose up and the stars came down,
Morning dawned upon the town,
but the darkness didn't fade, as something came along,
To finally right the drought's wrong

Temperature dropping, birds chirping,
Thunder roared, as the aves beat wing after wing,
The scent of fresh mud clouded our nostrils,
and the crashing of water droplets had our ears filled

We ran as our footwear pounded the drenched land,
Only to notice the street dogs huddle under shelter,
Shaking themselves to get rid of body sand,
and expose their glossy fur

Soon enough, mother nature ended the delightful downpour,
Leaving us craving for more,
but the best part is the fact that monsoon has just begun,
So leave a smile on that face, for things are still great without the sun!!

I release you o' wretched beast,
Who brings decay within
My inner being,
I speak the word of truth
From the Almighty God,
Who casts out darkness
With His righteous light,
Expose me Lord!
Expose me o' mighty King!
Bring forth the light,
Expose the darkness
That dwells within,
I pray Lord that I can share myself
And your gospel,
Which is the only hope a man can have.

when you're born a girl.
But don't feel like one.
When you are forced to go swimming and expose your body.
The one that causes all the pain and dysphoria.
Oh how much it ***** having boys staring at your *****.
When you want to be one of them.

Complacencies beneath the burning leaves
Warranted by the rise and shine
The world turns without disturbing dirt
Sedated like a dream in constant suspension

Well the sunlight revealed some truth
Hidden in grass beneath the meadow
But the forest kept its peace with guard
By the trees relentless shadows

Maybe it’ll come down.

The sun is bullying its turf
The earth no longer fears its shine
The sun will reveal the earth
The earth will be exposed in time

Well, innocence comes in early months
And changes truth through summer visions
But when the cold comes slowly in
The sun has forgotten its decision

Maybe it’ll come down.

© 2008

i wake up with the cloying taste of a nightmare in my mouth
not for the first time this week
and i imagine not for the last

i made you a chart
concerning all the ways we ****** up
and sent it to you last night
haven't heard a word
since

i had the implicit feeling that what i was saying was dangerous.
that it could take this little thing we have going on
and expose all the little tangled wires
sparking
and smoking...
that i could make you feel bad enough
that you wouldn't want to talk to me

and i was right.

Is my appearance uneasy?
Does my darkness expose—darkened spirits,
And a vessel in need of mending?
Have my scarlet relatives,
Evoked only the most cherished desires?
—blinding you from my deaths.
When I whither,
I turn from crimson reds,
To the blackest of blacks,
I was not meant to live forever.

Filled with so many wonders.
Mystery as to its insides:
A jack in the box ready to jump at its first chance,
A barren desert with the occasional cactus,
A whirlwind of colors blended together
A collection of identical grey, or
A small feeble fairy shielded from the world.

The closet,
A corner of the world
Protected from the daggers of reality.
The reality that so many fear
The closet,
That can easily turn its own daggers
onto its refugee.

The closet
Where the magical
rainbow-colored people,
Are surrounded by clouds.
Hugging their beautiful diverse bodies
Its warmth emitting the only comfort known.
Acting as armor for those scared of the unknown
Armor from the strikes of the evil
The strikes of the familiars
The strikes of the outsiders

The closet,
Where hiding the secrets within a soul
Is normal
Where blank pieces of paper lie,
screaming to be colored rainbow.
Screaming to walk with pride

Blank pieces of paper in secret
Protecting its true, bold and
vibrant colors
Crying to be seen
Crying to be honored

The closet,
Its clouds turning into hurricanes
Destroying everything in its path
Millions of questions,
Millions of concerns circling,
Circling into a pit of despair

The eye of the hurricane,
In a tranquil place
Lies an animated child
So small yet so strong
Hiding its flamboyant skin with dull clothes
Surrounded by chaos
And grey.
A hurricane of stress and fear
Fear of being out
Fear of being exposed
Fear of the unknown

The animated child,
Wanting to leave the secure place of a closet
Wanting to march with pride
Wanting to share its colors with the somber world

The closet,
A space where a weak small flower bud
Is waiting to blossom, waiting for its time
Waiting to spreads its soft-spoken petals
Waiting for its petals to stand with strength and poise

The closet,
where fairies,
Rainbow colored people,
Blank pieces of paper wanting to be colored rainbow,
Animated children,
And glorious flowers
Are given the space to reflect on what resides within one’s soul

The closet where
A sense of stability and security are ensured
Where true colors develop and are protected from the large erasers
wanting to keep plain colors, plain people
Where their once weak stance develops into a stance with pride and respect

Pride in their colors and flags
Pride in who they may love,
whether same, opposite, or multiple genders
Pride in what gender fits best,
whether male, female, or anywhere in-between
Pride in what pronouns truly describe their soul,
Whether it be she/her, he/him, they/them
Pride in how they love,
whether it be eros, intimate love, or agape, unconditional love
Pride in who and what they are

Pride to stand tall against those with conservative views
Pride to say that love is not confined between a man and a woman
Pride to say multiple genders exist
Pride to say *** does not always mean love
Pride to expose themselves to the true evils and malicious actions
Pride to fight for their God-given rights.
Pride to marry and to love who they want
Pride to say the closet was a space they grew out of
And learned from

The closet that gave them the confidence and strength
The closet that protected them until they were ready to
Fly  
Fly through a large city,
Fly over a field of flowers,
Or a tall forest,
Or the vast sky,
Spreading their passionate colors
Bringing life to the monotonous world

Elevator going up in my mind
Cosmic awareness is what I find
Vibrate pass doubters prove them wrong
Power from my words..makes me strong
Poetic my nature feel the storm
Rumble like thunder reality torn
Let go of my ego butterfly born
Cocoon in my mistakes expose my true form
Up so high I begin to float
Spread my wings flutter by with hope
Get on the elevator there is room
Answers open up you don't have to assume
Expansion of spirit feel the rise
Visions not seen by the eyes
So come along elevate with me
To the top floor of our destiny..

There is never nothing new
Just rearrange things

I don’t write poems
I just remove the extra words that are in the way

Hold on to the words like whispers and shadows and wings
Recklessly insert adjectives
Tie it all to your delusions of profundity

Dig down deep for pain
no matter how senseless
Pick at your emotional scabs
Bleed

No one likes poetry
Constantly remind people of that
Tell them that you make it sound good to you and **** them
(Even though their ovation means everything)

Slip, dip and weave
With ambiguous wet dreams
Full lips and thick tongue
Mouthing…
Come
to an understanding
***** is much better than clean
Make it filthy
Soil it

Make it nostalgic
People need to be reassured that you were really ******* up as a kid
and that this poetry **** doesn’t just happen to people overnight

Make it esoteric
That way, when no one knows what the hell you are talking about,
you will have a good word to explain why

Say things that are so ill mannered that they are weighty
I will give you an example
“I’m not looking for a girl that is beautiful
I'm looking for one just barely ugly enough to **** me”

Incite large groups of people to *****

Get so personal that it gives people headaches

Expose yourself until everyone is embarrassed for you

Spew it all over the bar
In a drunken stupor
flaunt it lasciviously with your genitals
Pour yourself into reckless collisions
Drink from your soul until it rots your liver

Write until you want to **** yourself
then write about that

Make it as bitter as a Wal-mart associate
Make it so sweet she will swallow it all
before looking up at you with eyes like tiny puddles
To say, “that was beautiful”
(even though it was disgusting)

It should be raw
It should make you itch
It should be like rubbing up against it spreads it
It should be like VD

Make really long
Like it’s your *****
No,
Make it really, really long
Like its my *****

Make it rhyme
I mean don’t
Don’t

Don’t ever write another ******* poem
because I assure you
if I did not write it
than it must ****

and that is how poetry works

Michael L Sutter

I am the orchestrator of my own destruction.
For it is I who reins down fire on my own temple,
And it is I who salts the earth so the seeds of good intentions will never grow.
When the turmoil on the inside is hidden by the calm exterior,
It is I who tears down the beautiful façade to reveal the churning black poison underneath.
When the polite smile shows only an angels face,
It is I who cries out “Deceiver!” and rips away the mask to expose the devil within.
For I am the orchestrator of my own destruction

A breadcrumb I am - the morsel of my old dough,
     a piece of chewed bread rotten, missed near a toe,
shredded by the sons of righteousness and “normality”,
     entombed I am under the carpet to fulfil “morality”.

Mum added the yeast for me to grow, as well as flour,
     Hoping my crust would golden as a vivid live flower,
She sprinkled little salt into me, to know the grimes,
     Sugar too, for life brings out the salt to eyes, at times.

Dad poured the water, to soften toughness uncalled,
     For man is kind too, not merely clay masked, walled -
And above all, they added affection and compassion,
     They wanted me to satisfy mineself, not one’s ration.

Into the oven, 9 minutes, under fire: I show colors,
     The warmth turned the heart warm for all others;
I am left to rest, to harden the shell and eternal body,
     To be perfect as ma and pa wish: not adverse, shoddy.

But the stale, unpuffed, unfresh bread of this world,
     covets but loathes what is good and not yet twirled,
It wishes for me to inhibit mold and evict dignity,
    Mais allez, étrange moi, expose me not to malignity.

The least of their gurgling sounds puncture heads,
     And the weakest of their advice the spirit dreads;
The making of me is the capacity of mine flexes,
     Your ingredients suit not me, mortals and sexes.

Days yearn for you, not this battle of complexes:
     You, mine old dough who suddenly “complex” is,
My parents baked me on low heat nice and gentle,
     And they sear me with words not for me, mental!

Know you: Pita, Kmajj, Brioche, Shrak, or Baguette,
     Bread is bread, could be different, but it is no threat.

Various Muscle groups with a name
A young aspiring bodybuilder died while achieving his own fame
The Human Muscle Hospitality of Shawn Robinson
He was the voice of encouragement
He was the concept of going the effort
Being honest with truth
All this while still in his youth
Shawn’s smile being his style
The weights game came in for a while
Yet remembering him on his buddy to buddy approach
When it came to Bodybuilding his passion was no joke
Don’t even try a Bodybuilding poke
His true words in what he spoke
Your life cut way too short
In everyone’s mind a comfort of sort
The weights are saddened
The muscles can’t flex
There is a feeling in the air of feeling perplexed
That was then, but this is now
Shawn’s spirit said “Keep training and continue to expose to the world in how”
My departure is not an end
But it is for your inspiration in continuing to begin
Bodybuilding is about achieving and conquering the odds
If the chain doesn’t break, there is no strength
Seeing your own efforts at every length
If you lose the concept and technique, there is no vision
If the effort isn’t seriously made, there is no reason
Remember me in all seasons
Think on my coaching words in wait and see
You will become in your training efforts the way you were might too be
All I ask is to have patience, but wait and see
Heaven knows the reason I was called up
My spirit will always sit high and look down
Help each other, but don’t become muscle bound
Remember the numerous conversations we had
Perhaps to some you got mad
My life was bodybuilding
My dream was to achieve
My challenges in overcoming the struggles
Bodybuilding is about being stuff, but I want you to be stuffer
Strength is in the mind then pulsates throughout the body
Mind over matter
My life has been lived to the fullest
Make yourself proud in my honor
Again just wait and see
I am in the arms of the almighty and that’s thee
Together we are one
But keep living as your life as only begun
Yesterday was only tomorrow passing by
Don’t cry
I want to see you achieve with every try.

When I look within my arms, there’s nobody there.
No head on this shoulder, it doesn’t seem fair
for the chauvinists and players to always have a girl.
While the nice guy sits alone, the only pearl
in an ocean of sharks and poison, waiting
for the unsuspecting to bite on this strange thing
called love, shared between those too drunk
to drive, but still steering their lives into the abyss
where there are no pearls and no lifelines to save them.
But still they plunge deeper, fated to do it again.

Only time will expose the light of day
and they will blink their eyes and say,
what was I thinking?  What was the point?
and finally they realize what they really want.
But all that’s left are the sharks with their egos to flaunt.
So they pick one and get used to the bitter ocean.
They keep up this lie in order to go on.
And then when the tide finally rolls in,
they can’t swallow their pride anymore
so they choke on reality and swim to shore.

But there is no pearl necklace to hide their past-
no amount of make-up to hide their last
affair.  Its mark will always mar that perfect face.
And when they’re finally ready to find a pearl in this dangerous place
he’s been snatched up, made his own mistakes,
gone places impure, and hard to erase.
So these crimes of adolescence can withstand the waves
and wear away at the innocence sending us closer to our graves
Stealing away the weak and repeating the cycle.

I looked out the kitchen window to see the new springtime grass
But fog from your tea on the sill blocked the view.

Rain came pouring down
To expose a sunny day.

You complained your green tea
Was over steeped. It was brown.

Did you open the (cabinet
To get the sugar) from the top shelf?

I used your mug today
As a bowl to hold my soup.

You were raking outside
But there were no leaves to form a substantial collection.

The grass was frogs’ legs
And told you to jump, jump, jump.

Did you open the (shed
To get the fertilizer) from the top shelf?

you do not need to be quiet.
you do not need to expose your heart
to this brutal world to feed its ugly desire.
you only need to walk into the wilderness of your soul
and breathe, succumb to the silence in your heart;
rebel and provoke, then embrace the soft despair
of your broken body and heal; in the miles
of broken road between your heart and mine, repent;
cry a little and scream, for the valley will echo
in redemption and uplift you into the timberline
and up again to the highest point above the valley floor
until the sun whips its fingers across your face and you stagger,
kneel, then pray in your enlightened state;

you will smile when you come home
to the craggy rocks and dusty rivers
and the tender patches of moss along the boulders;
you will tease the tall grasses and the buttercups
and the sunflowers with your fingers
and push deep through the mud with your toes;
here, silence is forgiving.

I tease you to make things exciting.
I tease you so everything seems more relaxing.
I tease you to make you laugh.
I tease you when life's getting rough.
But sometimes,
I tease you to expose my wickedness.
I tease you to show my sweetness.
I tease you to get your attention.
I tease you to give words to my affection.
If I crossed the lines,
What will happen if I stop teasing you?
Should I just do tricks like peek-a-boo?

Is she still your reflection?
Because I look in the mirror and only see decay
I see her dancing in your eyes
I know her figure is projected onto your eyelids while you sleep
An hourglass full of grains of 'yesterdays'
That you shatter just to fall asleep
Changing behind screens as to not expose your secrets
By tomorrow I will be nothing but an outline in the sand
Left by children too young to know better or understand
Too naïve to have seen the storm clouds rolling their way
I might have been looking for a needle in a stack of hay
And like a magpie you found it and hid it in your back pocket
Taking my hand, distracting it from what it yearned for
Using the other to pull my heart out
Only now am I starting to mind the bleeding
I frantically smear my insides on to my chest
In the hope that I have a chance of saving myself
You can try your hardest to forget me
But I wont let you do so
Easily
I'll plague you when I finally fall in love again
I'll haunt you when you stay round her house, my friend
Your soup will taste like my mouth
And I swear it will defeat you like poison
Your skin eaten away like cotton by a moth
You'll find me hidden in graveyards
A twisted reminder of what we once had
I am not quite driftwood yet but when I am
I hope to float your way

Of immaterial vision birthed in mind.
Of spirit annihilating the selves,
of calling it plan. The one-
a semblance scattered on deck space
refracts on reflections of the reactions of tokens
of the carnivalesque,
of the hunger artists,
of phenomenon-
which may or may not exist depending on reflective surface of the true self,
of the motion of tides,
mocks motion in body,
of obsession.
The tonality of the "be" and the "is" and the "will be" is deafened by the "I am,"
by the Ohm.

Of shuddering and implanting embraces,
of blessing on every ember of cleanliness that is true self,
of the oneself that exists above selective memory,
not draft of time arrow but the material existence of dream,
not disembodied but embodied.
Of breeding,
of circumstance and forking fourth dimension prison terms,
of crowd control,
of she wolves and their feral children,
of forceps interpolating material reality of conception,
of Dreamtime,
of pain,
of pleasure,
where they are relations-
of skin perversely hanging, dually,
gratifying and sullying-
Fraying beautiful disasters that react to invisible ripples

I, the oneself, implore you to awaken in your utility and then outside of it.
Take those boot straps and bend the bars of confinement with them.
Chisel and sculpt light into a fabrication of quantum of action.
Celebrate the ordinary and expose it.

Of stargazed caustics,
of the early universe.
I stand awake as not the expression of design
and no longer connected to Earth by my roots
but awake inside cocoon,
entrapped behind slits,
of alien cage otherness.
The Akh beseeches ownership of the Ba
I want play dice with god and end in draw.
I am Sekhmet-Wadjet who dwells in the west of heaven,
I am Sahyt among the souls of Of.

I lost my daydreams for a while.
The bounce, the charm, the myrth, the smile.
All locked within the sleeping child
That I buried deep in the wild.

And yet, my fantasies resumed.
The undecayed body exhumed.
My girlhood rose from her repose,
The bright side of life to expose.

There we were
In the midst of an oriental expose
More like a permanent museum display

The history of our foundation here in the West
Build on the backs of the yellow and black
Only I prefer to keep clear of the festering beast that is Oakland at high noon

No
This was someplace stranger
Chinatown, San Francisco

A soy canker in the greasy mouth of America
In some circles this was the closest thing to an escape
Or the closest thing to internment

It’s all about perception
A pompous soccer mom/beast attempting culture meanders through the local chaos
Green beans or shallots tonight?

A psychedelic mess with an unwarranted response
Could she handle the absurdity?
I care not, choose the latter sweetheart

“Shallots”

Canvases.......layered on floor and ready to go.
Brushes.........no need we used your body parts.
Lighting........soft and turned dim then very low.
Ready willing and able to create works of art.
Waited with shallow breaths in deep anticipation.
Drew back curtain to expose my Nubian queen.
I was breathless as you stood before me naked.
Art creating will never be the same after that.  

Still thinking of all the memories we created Betty
and your smile and **** voice saying you loved me. : )

Un beso no es solo un beso
Un beso no es solo un roce
de dos labios, de dos caras.

Un beso es un pórtico a un mundo de duendes.
Es transitar entre saliva aguas celestes.
Es atascar la puerta al existencialismo al cerrar los ojos.
Por eso cerramos los ojos al besar,
porque, es una entrega amena.
Un beso es poder entregarte completamente.
Desafiando la duda impertinente.
Retando el tiempo entre suspiros.
Es hablarle al corazón atreves de fluidos.
Es exponer la tibieza  de tu esencia a quien tiene el privilegio de peregrinar en tus ríos.
Espacios donde habita la esencia más pura de tu ser, tu espíritu.
Lo que has protegido,
Lo que has venerado,
Lo que has soportado.
Es palpar el paraíso, entender la creación,
lo que Dios vislumbro cuando nos creó.
Por eso, se avisa sobre el que besa y sus ojos no cierras,
Y si tú lo percibiste estabas ausente en esa entrega.

No, un beso no es algo ****** y pedestre.
No es relegarlo por doquier sin discreción alguna.
No es rasparte una borrachera en la lengua de cualquiera.
No. Un beso es un compromiso,
Algunos besan para traicionar como Judas lo hizo con Jesucristo.
Otros besos sellan el amor que una madre tiene por sus hijos.
Otros besos enlazan por siempre a desconocidos destinados desde el principio.

Un beso es un lazo bendito,
Es una estrofa, una prosa, es rimar en la poesía de una boca.

Y aunque sedienta este mi boca,
por el roce de unos labios,
Yo sigo esperando el beso……………………………… de mi eterno amado.
Pues, desde hace mucho tiempo, mis labios entendieron
……………………………………………………..que al él están destinados.


LeydisProse
6/29/2017
https://www.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
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A kiss is not just a kiss
Kiss is not only a friction of two orifices or two faces.  

A kiss is a portal to a world of gnomes.
It’s to travel with saliva through celestial waters.
It is to jam the door to Existentialism as you close your eyes.
That is the only reason why we close our eyes as we kiss,
it’s because kissing is a sweet surrender.  
It’s defying the insolence of uncertainties.
It’s challenging time between sighs of delight.
It’s to speak to the heart through fluids of passion.
It is to expose the warmth of your essence to those
who have the privilege to pilgrimage through your rivers.

Spaces inhabited by the purest essence of your being, of your spirit,  
that which you have protected,
that which you have revered,
that which you have endured.
It is feel paradise,
It’s to finally understand Creation,
what God intended and envisioned for us.  
It’s the reason why we advise against people
who kiss without closing their eyes,
and if you’re aware, that means you were absent during that surrender.

No, a kiss is not something ****** or ordinary.  
You don't have to give it away it without discretion.  
Do not sober up your binge drinking in the tongue of a stranger.

No, a kiss is a commitment!
Some kiss to betray, the way Judas did to Jesus.
Other kisses are a seal of love,
like the one a mother gives to her children.  
Other kisses forever bind strangers who have been destined to be together.

A kiss is blessed connection,
is a verse, a prose, is to rhyme in the poetry of someone’s oral cavity.

Although my mouth is thirsty and yearning for touch and a kiss,
I am waiting for a particular kiss... the kiss of my eternal beloved.  

Some time ago, my lips understood.. .
that they were destined to be kissed by him.

LeydisProse

I will drag my knife along your skin,
sharp blade down into your fragile, shaking canvas,
incising an increasing beat of whimpers and whines.
Please hold still. I promise this will hurt.

I will expose your clattering bones,
rip out your chattering teeth,
erase every impugned utterance
you muttered against me.
I will carve my letters slowly
on your unzipped frame,
sliding the burgundy blood across to
blot
       clot
              dot.    

This is only preparation for what is about to follow.

I will puncture your throbbing organs,
slash your stretched cartilage
with an unwritten script.
Before I press further,
I’ll assure you, you are still alive.

I will twist each phrase,
haunt you to believe it is your fault,
force you to beg the slightest escape.
I will permanently etch my name
deep in the frozen chambers
of your quivering heart.

I will open up the blueprint as a demolition expert,
remove whole fractions of your fractured soul,
leave you a horrid wreck in the abyss
of a mess you just made.

You will not get rid of me,
though no trace of evidence is left behind.

My hands have been clean from the start.

names faces traces places

the laces of shoes she said I couldn't walk a mile in

but my feet are fins that should slice tides like skin

but they're rocks chipping

ticking clocks documenting inception

redemption and the vain conclusions you beat to and beyond the grave

from ivory frames crushed in the dark room they rise

as flies bursting into the focus of the microscope's lens broadening past

the horizon of a single winged back

Watch the horizon on fire, red hot embers coarsing through my veins.

Watch the sky turn red as the world ignites under my fingertips
As ash floats by I can taste chaos on my lips.

The winter cold can't stop me,
this heat inside is my soul's entity.
Melt the ice, set you free.
Inflame your heart, set a fire with my eyes.
Engulf you, be hypnotized.

Hypnotized, traumatized.
This little fire won't die inside,
Of me, of me
I'll make you bleed
With the cut of my words
And the sting of my reason
And show your face
To the world, i'll hold it on a silver plate
Expose your shame, expose your name
And you will take all the blame
For the offense and consequence are always the same.

Tasting this bittersweet,
Flavor of victory,
Accept your defeat.
Infiltrated your defense, retrieved your love,
Without regard and loss of sense.
Holding tightly, grasping your hips.
Pulling you lightly,caressing your lips.
Give in to the power, the control, just say yes.
Until that hour, you'll have no rest.
Breathing down my neck, this passion of mine.
Lust so strong, nowhere else will you find.
But here I wait,
Patiently i abide.
Waiting for our fate, as i burn inside.

And by burn I mean,
I breathe gasoline
To scream fire on the shore
And burn down every door
Where you'll find no safety in the arms of sleep
And when you hear my name i hope your knees get weak
And you tremble under the weight of gravity
So when you close your eyes darling think of me,
Breathe in sulfur and see my face
Just remember my touch was like delicate lace.
So when your hands move down her fragile curves
I know you'll remember me and feel the burn
Of my own touch through your fingertips
I wish your name never passed through my lips.

Like a needle in my arm
Injection flow through me
Your spirit gets me high
I soar on your insanity
Inhale your life
Activate my pulse
Remove the knife
I was dead from this loss -
Of love within
Our bodies evidence
Of our secret sin
Intoxication of my soul
Devoured from the inside out
No longer whole
The cliff of heartbreak under my feet
I jump to embrace
Death so sweet
Falling through the air
Falling for you
Tell me, do you care
That I die for you
Looking at this reflection
I see another face
A masquerade, a deception
The woman I was
Gone without a trace
Masks I put on
Shield what's hidden deep
But I can't hide my eyes
That hold the secrets that I keep
Persist with your looking
But me you will not see
The day you view who I am
That day will never be
Face to face you think we are
You don't know me
The heart you think I have
Will never be seen
Ensnared by your kind
Many times in past
So I defend this heart of mine
Your act will not last
To break my heart
You'll never get the chance
I won't even let you close enough
To cast a single glance
So move along Casanova
Before in you I strike fear
Those lies and your false promises
Are no longer needed here

The Boy woke up at around a quarter to noon, and to his deep surprise, he found that he had not awoken where he had planned to the night before. Instead, he found himself in a strange bed, in a strange room, on a strange street, with a strange girl next to him. Of course, the girl was not so strange, as he had met her twice before, and the room, at least, he knew had to be somewhere in Ann Arbor, but that was certainly the extent of what he knew of his situation, basically, pretty much, that’d be what he told people later on, and would believe himself. He looked around, and he was shocked, and he remembered in a flash that this might not be very good boyfriending on his part, and in a fit of guilt, or maybe exhaustion or in forfeit, he leaned his head back once again and fell asleep for a while longer.
When the Boy woke up again, it had turned to one in the afternoon. He woke up this time with a mop sweat, and his hair stuck to his forehead and his eyes burning from the salt water. The Girl was now awake also, and she was brushing her hair quietly, on her roommate’s bed right next to where the Boy was now sitting upright.
“I should go now.” The Boy tried to say, but before he spoke the Girl smiled at him, and crawled over and kissed him softly.
“Good morning.” She said, and rested her head on his lap, looking up.
“Good morning.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“Very. Thanks you. I hope you did too.”
“I did.”
The Boy touched the girl’s cheek and she touched his, and he knew he wanted to leave, but he was afraid, so instead, he and the Girl lay down together, and watched TV for a while.

I guess I made a mistake, thought the Boy. I guess this isn’t going to look too good. I should probably get back to the house, see Joe, smoke our cigar, think of a story that I can tell Melissa; but I shouldn’t tell a story, should I? It would certainly be safer. I should probably, for my safety. I should probably not for my conscience. Anyway, I’m not sure how to get back to the house. I’m not sure how I got here. I think I took a cab. I think I was at a party. I think it was last night. It may have been yesterday morning; for the football game. I think I got here without protest. I think the game was a good one. I don’t think I got in though. I don’t think we won either. My head should hurt right now. Why do I feel so good, and healthy, and spry, and energetic? This isn’t exactly just punishment for my actions. Her skin is so soft; I’d like to kiss it again. I think I will. Still, I do feel guilty. Melissa’s good to me. That was a good game, from what I can remember. I don’t think we won though. I think we lost. Ohio State won, but I got very drunk, and that was good, and then I danced, and I had fun. Then I ended up here. How did I end up here?

The Boy stroked The Girl’s hair and he kissed her again. In the light from the window she looked happy, and her smile was much whiter than his, and he liked that. She wore an oversized gray sweater, and without any makeup or any of the typical fixings she looked more beautiful than ever. Not surprisingly, this was a dilemma for the Boy, who wanted to leave so he could be done with this episode. Instead he stayed a while longer, didn’t pick up his phone when it rang, kissed the girl some more, talked about what they were going to do that day, forgot about Melissa. He felt guilty only for a moment, but more than anything, he felt proud, and that pride dug into his side and hurt him. Nevertheless, he didn’t want it to go away. It was his pride after all.
The Girl, on the other hand, seemed to feel guiltier than the Boy, but at the same time, she was tender, and welcoming, and she embraced what she had done in a sort of graceful manner that only girls with experience and class can do without seeming too self-confident. She too, had a boy back home, but she had liked the Boy, and that was that, and in the light on the day, to her, he also still seemed good to her.
Of course, what the Girl knew, and the Boy did not, was that as soon as he walked out of her room that day, that was the end of the episode in reality. There would be no more kisses, no more conversations, and when they both went home to see their others, she would stay with her boy because he loved her, and that would be that, and life would go on for the two of them as it had before; business as usual. Still, for the moment, things were as they were, and so she looked at the boy, and let him kiss her, and lay down on his lap, looking up at him and smiling.
“What are you going to tell your girlfriend?”
“I don’t know. Either the truth or a lie, I guess.”
“Don’t lie to her.”
“Won’t she be angry at me?”
“Yeah. But don’t lie to her. Trust me.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I’m going to tell the truth. But I’m going to leave some things out.”
“Isn’t that lying?”
“Not if you can justify it to yourself.”
“I feel like you’re confusing me right now.”
“You should tell your girlfriend the truth. She deserves to know everything, and if you ever want her to forgive you and stop being angry, then that’s what you need to do.”
“I know, but I’m scared.”
“I know. But you’re still here; and that says something.”
The Boy looked at the Girl, and he wanted to respond, but he had nothing. Instead he lay down next to her, and held her.
“I guess you’re right.” He said, and then rolled over with a sigh.

I got in on Saturday, right? No. Friday. Yeah, it was Friday afternoon because I didn’t have class then. I remember now. I got on the wrong bus, and I missed the stop for Ann Arbor, and I ended up near East Lansing, and I had to take a cab back. Why did I forget that? I got so drunk that night, I got lost. I remember that. I got lost and my phone went dead, and I had to have a security guard from the school help me back to Joe’s house so I could sleep again. But that wasn’t last night. That was the night before last night. That was different. That was just prep for that.
Yesterday was when it started, really. I woke up early and had a beer. Joe handed me the beer, and I drank it because, why not, it looked like it tasted good. Then I had nine more. Then I had Jell-o shots and whiskey, and some more beer. It wasn’t even nine yet, in the morning; my camera barely had enough light to expose my pictures, what was I doing? It was a lot of fun. I got really happy. I remember now.

The Boy reached for his shirt, and he pulled it on, over his head. He had to go, and he knew it, and he was taking the initiative to make it known that he intended to. He reached for his pants and he put those on too, but he put them on slowly, in the hopes that the Girl might have stopped him before he did, but she did not. Then he sat back down on the bed and he looked at her.
“Are you going to leave now?” She asked.
“Most likely.”
“Ok. Do you know where you have to go?”
“Not really.”
“I’ll show you.”
“Ok.”
The Girl grabbed a map off of her wall, and she took a marker from her desk and drew a line from one dark block to another. These were her building and Joe’s house. She explained to the Boy how to get back where he wanted to go, and she handed him the map.
“I don’t need to take this, what if you need it?”
“I already drew on it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Take it.”
The Boy felt almost embarrassed. This girl had been nothing but nice to him, and now he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay and hang out with her some more, and he wanted to forget about Melissa, and Joe, and his home, and his school. He wanted to stay, but he knew, finally, that he couldn’t. So he put on his jacket and he stood in front of the Girl, only inches away, neither of them touching the other, despite the very minimal distance separating their bodies.
“Thanks for the map then.” The Boy said, and the Girl giggled.
“Don’t worry about it, get out of here!”
“Ok then. Should we let each other know what we do?”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
They exchanged numbers.
“This *****.” The girl said.
“What?”
“Now I’m going to miss you.” The Boy’s heart broke a little bit. He smiled, but he didn’t dare say the same thing back to her. Instead, he moved his hand up to her face and stroked her cheek a little bit, then gave her a soft kiss on the forehead and opened the door behind him.
“I’ll see you.”
“Ok.”
“Let me know what you tell him.”
“I will. You let me know too.”
“Sure.”
The boy stood staring at the Girl a bit, and then he left and closed the door behind him. As he waited for the elevator to open up for him, the boy took out his phone and looked through his recent text messages. There was one from Melissa, asking him how he was doing, and if he’d been having fun in Michigan, but he deleted it reluctantly, so that it looked as if his last message had been from Joe. It read: Are you coming back to the house tonight? He answered now, a few hours later: I’m sorry. I’m coming back now.


The morning was pretty crazy. Game day, Ohio State, how could it not have been? But I was good during the morning, and I intended to be good. Didn’t I? Yes I did. I did look around, and I spoke to a few other girls, but I never intended to do anything with them. Only this one. I didn’t even get into the game. I tried to sneak in with a student ticket, and they didn’t let me in because I wasn’t a student. Instead I went back with Joe and we got ****** and watched TV and then I took a nap after we smoked a cigar together. At the parties, people stood on the roofs, and they danced around massive kegs, and I spoke to some people I had just met and flirted and danced, but I was good, and at Joe’s house, after the parties were over, we just got ****** and smoked cigars and watched the game and waited for phase two of Saturday to begin so we could rest.
Phase one was getting wasted. Phase two was rest. We built up our energy so we could go back out at night, for Phase three, and that’s when I met her, at some party Phil got us into. I had seen her before, back home, and we had spoken only a few times. Why had I been so angry at Melissa when I left New York again? Respect issues or something, wasn’t it? She had said something cruel to me while we ate dinner at that jazz club, and the lights made her soft skin glow so that she looked almost translucent. I reacted. I think it started because she had been flirting with a friend of mine. Anyway, I thought she had been. She claims she wasn’t. Then she got angry and she said something cruel to me so I got angry, and then she apologized a lot. She apologized so much, Her lips pouted. I wanted to kiss them. We had great *** that night. And I loved her. But I was still angry when I left for Michigan the next morning, and I was still angry last night, apparently. I guess that’s why I immediately gravitated towards that girl. She looked really beautiful that night also. And I always did have a crush on her. And I was still angry.

The Boy made it to Joe’s house at about a quarter to three in the afternoon that Sunday. He only had a little time left before he had to leave for his plane, but he spent it well. They smoked, and they got ******, and they smoked cigars and they talked about the night. Joe helped the Boy remember some of what had happened, like when the Girl’s friend got sick on the wall, and then the Girl had to leave to go help her, and when the Boy had broken a table by jumping on it too hard after Joe and some friends had challenged him. Joe barely remembered those things, but he remembered them better than the Boy, and the Boy was grateful for Joe then, who also reminded him of another thing:
“You cheated on Melissa, didn’t you?”
“I guess I did. I don’t feel great about it.”
“I thought you two had separated. I would have stopped you.”
“We were. We got back together about a week ago.”
“Are you going to tell her?”
The Boy thought about it. He hadn’t quite made up his mind yet.
“I suppose that would be the honorable thing to do.”
“Honor kills.”
“Not if I’d been honorable at the beginning.”
“True.”
The two sat thinking for a while, and they both could tell the other had plenty more to say, but they both waited for the other, and so neither of the two spoke a word for a little bit. Finally, the Boy took a pull from his cigar, set it down, and opened his mouth. No words came out the first few tries, but after a while, he got better, and then he spoke.
“I feel like my father.”

I couldn’t help myself I guess. It’s in my genes, this endless tail-chasing. Even though I had always thought I was the noble one, the one with honor, I’m still an animal, like my dad and his dad and his family before him. She looked so good, I don’t know how I held back for so long—she in her tight pants and that green shirt that made her eyes pop, and her long, beautiful, silky brown hair, and the way she moved her hips against me. I could almost hear her name in the music, like it was egging me on, like it was encouraging me to kiss her. I kept getting beers, just kept going to the bar, two more, one more, three more, until I was drunk enough to do it, because I wanted to because it’s in my blood. Then I kissed her, or she kissed me. I can’t remember how, but it happened, and not for a second did I feel remorseful. Not until this morning. I was too busy having fun. In a way, I kept telling myself a kiss was nothing, at least nothing to worry about.
Then I went home with her. That’s probably the part I’ll leave out in my story. Her bed was really comfortable, much better than the couch or the floor, which is where I spent the night before, and where my sides had picked up bruises from the beer cans all around me. She smiled at me funny then. She hadn’t smiled at me that way before. Her teeth were really white, and her lips were really soft.
I had seen her before, and we had always flirted before, so she made a joke about it being almost like fate that we ran into each other. I remember thinking that that was probably true, or at least that it would be my excuse for not stopping myself. Her skin was too soft, and her body was blessed with perfect curves and I couldn’t resist myself. In many ways, she felt like Melissa. I almost felt at home, like there was a comfort to it.
I, on the other hand; well I’m not sure how I got so lucky. I just had to be myself—even as goofy and as hairy and as drunk as I was, she still liked me for the night. And she didn’t make me feel like I had to earn her respect either.
But I’m being cruel. Neither does Melissa. Not often anyway; and I’m sure if I spent enough time with the Girl, she may have made me feel that way also. It may even be a girl thing, but at the moment, it felt like it was a Melissa thing, and this girl liked me very much, and I wasn’t even trying.

Now it was time for the Boy to go home. Even if he wanted to stay, even if he wanted to go back to the Girl, and spend the rest of the day with her, between her legs and in her arms, and smoke cigars with Joe whenever he wanted and get drunk Saturday mornings, and just forget about telling Melissa anything, it was time for him to go back to New York where he belonged. So he packed his bags and walked to the bus stop, and he put his hat on, and he got ****** with Joe one more time, and they both walked together, without saying a word, because they didn’t even have to.
At the bus stop, Joe turned to the Boy and said:
“Did you make a decision yet?”
“About what?”
“You know, you stooge!”
“Not yet.”
“Well let me know then.”
The Boy nodded. The two had a hug by the bus as it arrived, and then the Boy got on the bus and fell asleep on the way to DTW. The flight was short, and it was easy. Still, the Boy kept thinking about what he would do when he got to New York. Once back at Newark, he took the train, and on the way back to Penn station he sat next to a large man with hairy arms, a mustache and a trucker hat. The man wore very thick-rimmed glasses, and spoke to anyone that listened, with a heavy drawl from some unidentifiable location.
“What’s your name?” He asked the Boy.
“Johnson.” He replied, having decided not to give his real name.
“Well Johnson, let me tell you. Don’t ever travel without alcohol.”
The man reached into his jacket, and he pulled a 24-ounce can of beer out in a plastic bag. He opened it up and took a swig from it, and then proceeded to lecture the Boy about the struggles and pains of traveling and marriage. He had lost his wife only a year ago, after he’d