I crawled through the dead spaces of old houses
Just to breathe in years old memories
Brimming with adolescent thrill and reveries
Picturesque sceneries in glass-encased eternities

Withered limbs broke apart feinting apathy
Parched and cracked, my lips bore silent screams
As I disintegrated, filling the negative space
That resides where loss and ache form dead weight

I am the calm that breaks your heart
I am the still that never departs
In a frenzied world of dead spire loves
Out of reach, out of luck, and out of touch

I became envy, firing sparks across cold skin
I became adoration, pulsing and sun-kissed
I yearned to hate
I yearned to love

Do I dare coalesce?
What will I become?
Knowing all that’s gone?
Knowing not what’s to come?

Do I dare coalesce?
What will I become?
Knowing all that’s gone
Is all I loved?

If mermaids never did exist, then who was that portrayed on pages of stone, vertical surfaces; etched and carved, because the time was taken, because it wasimportant enough.
When pen nor paper had any meaning and history recorded was the point for seeing. Poor fools, these artists and historians alike.
Quite obviously the way we go about today is to see your history and raise it lie. I do believe it's normal, for what normal is worth, to dismiss a fact of life by giving no death caused by no birth. And what do these mermaids have to do with my message, my inclination to write?
Nothing, I suppose.
I'll leave it alone. I'm some woman and I'll keep it ladylike. But I know in my inner, neither saint nor sinner can defeat a full human feinting power for dinner.
As to what secrets with me were kept from ears for centuries, I believe they've been made into full make believe.
Personally, I'm relieved to be free of such characteristics of humanity, of which the mermaids,
we call that insanity. Either way, that's that.
I now say my goodbyes and swim to my ocean under the see.

As we watched the sky fall
and the kids stopped kicking the ball
Just before the sky turns grey
And the kids stop their play
As the sky turns vibrant reds and yellows,
Everything turns very mellow
And the clouds turn of Ivory
While the blue skies turn fiery
Lies the perfect Painting
Leaving soft hearts feinting

He pretended he wasn't there,
When he looked intently at me,
Staying immobile statue-like,
Feinting to be part of the tree;

For several seconds he froze,
No single movement did he make,
The squirrel could have been sculptured,
from wood or clay just like a fake;

Slowly I threw him a walnut,
And suddenly he came alive,
Grabbing the nut and scrambling off,
I had no time to count to five.

Something in the house is walking up
behind me , an appliance feinting footsteps ,
a ceiling fan quickening skin , something
tumbling in the wind , another nighttime
without end* ...

When the kind show kindness
The using use it.
The using are vicious
And violent.
They hate speech
And prefer lies.
They censor and silence
For they hate the free truth.

The kind speak truth
Gently at first
And then without mercy
When the cruel attack
Their gentleness
Necessitating
Severity
To defend the kind and weak.

The aggressor is she who spit
Not he who spoke.
One who cannot defend their point
Has no defense
And no point.

And so it is said
They who take up the sword
Will die by it
As their victims
Formerly helpless
Destroy the oppressor
So that we can have peace.

Thus the weak, the kind, the gentle,
Who hold to the principle of justice,
Become the warriors
Who destroy evil without mercy.

Remember always
It is the reasoned argument
That is the kindness.
Not the fool who babbles
Blind
And resorts to fallacies
To push their lies.

No one shall be excused
For tampering with this message
To excuse their evil-doings.

The kind are those who desire truth
Not passive injustice
Reason
Not feinting lies
Discussion
Not fleeing
Facing the facts
Not hiding from them
Kindness
Not vitriol
And beware lest ye misconstrue
I am kindness
And free
Gentle
And peaceful
And if ye lie, with your herd-like mentality,
Your obtuse tribalism,
Your unequal bigotry,
And do not face facts,
The facts face you.

I guess I am like that Rat

He was  the tough one that wouldn't die.

The one that just couldn't be killed... until he was

He had been shot and hurt, holed through, at least 3 times, gone to death though still not yet,

But still he fought, running, hiding and evading

When the dog finally came for him, scented in, brown and power in dusted thunder

With spit, teeth and blood rolling

The rat actually jumped up to fight, springing and trying to bite him in the face

He bounced and sprang, almost like a boxer, dodging in and out, feinting and snapping

For a moment, surviving

The dog , for his part, was a  little more cautious

On the last go round with this rat , he had taken a nasty bite to the lip and nose while trying to put the death clamp to him

The rat took advantage of the moments hesitation to quickly squeeze through the chicken wire and escape between the layers

The dog ,snapping , bit him as he went through, trying to crush him in his powerful jaws

But the wire caught his teeth in gnashing

And the rat slipped away

Gone in the dark

Until he wasn't

Until he was found again

Found behind the planter, then under the footer and then back on the other side of the aging chicken wire

He had been shot again in the meantime, yet still his reserves weren't gone

Still he ran and led the dog on the chase, evading him at every turn

Until he didn't

The last shot stopped him and he lay down

He was wet with dog spit and bedraggled and still wanting to bite

But it was over and the dog pounced on him and put the death bite to his stomach, ending it finally

This rat had been trapped the week before and escaped from the jaws of the trap, into the jaws of the dog

He escaped once again with a well placed bite and lived to fight another day

And what a fight it was

And I think that I am like that rat. I just keep going and keep fighting and I think it's mainly because I just don't know how to give up or maybe sometimes I am just too dumb to give up..

Maybe that was the rats problem too.

He pretended he wasn't there,
When he looked intently at me,
Staying immobile statue-like,
Feinting to be part of the tree;

For several seconds he froze,
No single movement did he make,
The squirrel could have been sculptured,
from wood or clay just like a fake;

Slowly I threw him a walnut,
And suddenly he came alive,
Grabbing the nut and scrambling off,
I had no time to count to five.

I hurriedly push past myself,
watching my body from above,
feinting with consciousness,
fainting into the Spanish black.

Velazquez's Las Meninas
jack-hammers a tunnel
of ek-stasis, pulling me into
the painter's dark studio,

weighed down by overwhelming
curtains, curtailing the senses'
sense of majesty and control.
This is not trompe l'oeil. This is

tricking the soul into the artifice
of the palette, of paint on board,
of black that illumines perfect
placement: the spectator on the floor.

Stendhal's sensitivity is no virtue
or vice. It suckles the sublime,
sated on illusion, art for art's sake,
delivering a blow to the solar plexus.

I gasp as my body trembles at tremors
of terror, annunciations of angels
bearing paintbrushes as paltry wings.
Their back feathers stained a Spanish black.

Painting owns no one, owes no one
comfort or joy or pedantic instruction.
The cherubs in the foreground radiate
innocence, wonder, humanity's blank heart.

At my feet, my body wriggles skyward,
wrenches for a transplant. Paint on it
Velazquez's black moustache, then part
the velvet curtains. I will rise to new life.

Dublin to Malahide
Like I'm living in a painting

Yes, I've known vertigo
Scarier than feinting

Dostoevsky in St. Petersburg
Epileptic and in love

Hurrah for Karamazov
And exoplanets up above

Fly the Raven.
Fly the Dove.

I hurriedly push past myself,
watching my body from above,
feinting with consciousness,
fainting into the Spanish black.

Velazquez's "Las Meninas"
jack-hammers a tunnel
of ek-stasis, pulling me into
the painter's dark studio,

weighed down by overwhelming
curtains, curtailing the senses'
sense of majesty and control.
This is not trompe l'oeil. This is

tricking the soul into the artifice
of the palette, of paint on board,
of black that illumines perfect
placement: the spectator on the floor.

Stendhal's sensitivity is no virtue
or vice. It suckles the sublime,
sated on illusion, art for art's sake,
delivering a blow to the solar plexus.

I gasp as my body trembles at tremors
of terror, annunciations of angels
bearing paintbrushes as paltry wings.
Their back feathers stained a Spanish black.

Painting owns no one, owes no one
comfort or joy or pedantic instruction.
The cherubs in the foreground radiate
innocence, wonder, humanity's blank heart.

At my feet, my body wriggles skyward,
wrenches for a transplant. Paint on it
Valazquez's black goatee, then part
the velvet curtains. I will rise to new life.