My my, what a special little snowflake.

Why did you choose to be this way?

You chose to be different, you chose to rebel.
No binary for me!

You chose the grief, the pain.
You chose this abuse, bruised by
the verbal ferociousness, forged by physical fallacies
To be thrown out of bathrooms
because doing your business in the bathroom is abysmal.
You chose to be derided by decisive discrimination.
You chose to be murdered by misconceptions,
***** by ridiculous requirements.
You chose to be beaten, assaulted.
You chose the words I weave to weaken your will.
You chose the sacred sermons I spit at you.

You chose to be
What I find disgusting, despicable
because you chose to be what you aren't,
but I realize what I really regard you to be.

My my, what a special little bigot.

You think I chose to be this way?

You think
I chose the injuring, injustice,
the jester, the joke
the target, tortured,
This pain, my poison,
the prey, praying,
the sinner of sins so bittersweet,
So I could be "special"?

Special isn't a sacrifice of physical self
Nor the gunshots and gruesome grief
Nor even the crass comfort of a half-assed comrade.
You think I CHOSE this,
and you didn't choose
to spit and spew your sour speeches
to disperse your disgust in discrimination
to integrate your ignorance into my existence.
Or did you not choose
to deal the abuse
by your hand
yourself?

My special little bigot,
You live as you are.

So be it, if I am so "special", the special little snowflake.
Yes, we are the little snowflakes that your palm's presence melts away,
And you're that burning persistence of life
Blocking with your own self our slow, wistful descent,
As if it were futility and not of your own will.

If I am the snowflake, you are the fire.

A dads uniform
                          (Now my own)


           On any given day I saw the many faces of a man.
I watch him play his roles like they were well rehearsed scenes.
He was a star in his own actions, drama, thrillers and romance.

         He wore his soldiers uniform on sunday, torn jeans, white T-shirt with no sleeves and abrasions and scrapes gave stripes to his big arms.
He had oil on his hands and grease on his chin, barking orders as he worked on the car.
" Hand me that 3/4 standard and torque it to the 5th notch"
"What!? What the **** language was that?" I thought to myself as I awkwardly reached for the 1st thing my eyes spotted and held it up.
"That's a hammer Alex!" He said shaking his head as he smiled and walked toward me. He rarely had a disappointing tone. Later he explain the workings of a standard torque wrench Vs a metric wrench with converter. 10 years later I used that wrench to change my Edelbrock Electronic Carburetor 400 series twin stoker all by myself.

    I once saw him defend his honor. That day he wore  his heroes uniform as he leaped from person to person striking, grabbing, kicking, and throwing the 3 large men who underestimated his ferociousness. His tank top was ****** from the wound on his nose. His hat fell to the dirt next to the beaten, unconscious, and humiliated foes that once stood before him.
I could see that he intended to continue his lesson in respect but as he glanced over to see my wide open mouth and unmoved stare he quickly contained his aggression. He picked up his hat and shook it a few time to knock the dirt off. In that moment was another unexpected act. He help the worst of the men to a sitting position and asked him if he was ok. He was genuine in his concern that he may have been excessive in his judgment.
Later that night he explain to me that violence should never be the 1st choice for a solution and our actions should reflect the person we want people to see.
I would remember this 15 years later when sitting with the man I just choked unconscious, letting him drink my gatorade and catch his breath moments after he attempted to robbed me at knife point. In that few minutes I learned his life story. My friends said my actions were foolish.

            Duct tape and crazy glue are the tools of every street born medic.
T-shirt gauzes and boiled stones often made his grace when he wore his First aid uniform.
      
        As a kid I did DUMB very well, from gun powder soup, to a game of dart board hands. One of the more gruesome moments was my apple cutting malfunction. I severed my finger at the base pretty good. I cut right through the knuckle at the base of the index finger. It was the 1st time I fainted. Its still a debate weather it was the loss of blood or sight of it. Like a seasoned veteran he jumped into action. While most doctors would  use a coagulant like Lanxess, iodine and 22 gauge suture for this injury but not this man. He opted for all purpose flour, beer and duct tape to disinfect and seal the wound. Even though it was 3 hours before the emergency room would clean and repair the damage, I didn't shed another drop of blood while his homemade fix was in place.
I learned a lot of (what his friends called Ni**a rigging) first aid tips from him.
12 years later, while on a training exercise with  my CCC group in the forrest, a grade worker suffered a compound fracture from a slip and fall while hiking. I used a heated licorice root as antiseptic and 2 flat rock, my shoe in soles and a belt to mend and set his arm well enough to hike 2 miles back through the trail till we found help.

          When I write my poetry I never know what it is people see or interpret from it. I know the workings of romance and I know the power of its application. The day he wore his Casanova uniform I witnessed 1st hand the great reward a little effort can bring 2 people in love.
         On a normal day in the park us kids ran around yelling and screaming while him and mom sat on the grass watching us play. In the moments of a physical dilemma I sat next to him to catch my breath as he talk to her about random things. I knew my presence was interfering with whatever moment him and my mom were having but I was too intrigued by the task he was performing on the side to care.
On the reverse of a box top he drew a picture of a monkey sitting on a tree in the middle of the water. It was handing a flower to a mermaid sitting on a rock. I never forgot the joy on my moms face when he handed it to her and said "this is us."
I saw that picture everyday displayed on her mirror. Here I am 25 years later looking at my own art and words displayed across the walls of my home. My wife often looks at her description in the words and her name in the titles. Our own son invades our personal space as we sneak kisses and exchange affection through his predictable intrusions.

        My own uniforms hang in my closet waiting for interpretation from onlookers.
Suit up and be seen, or close your eyes and remember his many suits. Your in my thoughts. I hope this finds its way to you.
        Love
              -Alex J Meighan-

She accidentally looked back into eternity and it is telling her things. Constantly questioning whether it could have been on purpose. She wishes it had told her about the day that she went missing for too long. She is still missing. Missing so many things that happen and those as close as possible. She is missing them too.

She existed to be this close to missing everyone forever. Everyone missing her forever. Missing her orange kisses and purple thoughts. He left messages in blue in her thoughts. To see if it could make a shady spot in the bright yellow sun.  This is where they would sit and possibly lay down. There were so many shimmering waves in the grass that loose clothing rippled. Her dress was waving to clouds being emptied by the sunshine.

If they were to lay in bent grass blades could it be the last time. The last time the blades bent back and the feeling of beauty penetrating hearts couldn’t let go. The last thing they could ever want. No turning back. Time is bending the blanket.

Time decided to take some space to itself. To get back to nature and living with things we cannot stop. Life kept being left in the street with holes made in it by fear and hatred that is white. Life kept being told by whiteness that is was not real.

In this space that time took to itself the institution of white needed to become colorful like rainbows and hadn’t documented in its constitution that it needs to become different shapes and sounds that may be hard for it to resonate with while investing in such militant social systems of oppression overflowed from slavery in order to become a space other than time allows for a short duration yet brutally eternal and ending now as today unfolds and life proves it is real as time rips it apart openly and its institution of white judges itself into the panic of being so insensitive that vengeance has no other shapes, colors or sounds to choose other than violet revolt.

Violet made handprints in clay as a small child while reserving words for family that were taken from her. She smiled into the abyss of pleading that is too late for forgiveness. A silence of the white institution that could no longer be a burden in space for time to want anything to do with it ever again. Violet was intimate with the space that time took to itself. She nourished it with colors, intelligence, senses, shapes, love, merciless unforgiving power and purple thoughts were always encouraged.

Violet’s orange kisses burned into the early morning making the institution of whiteness a kind of blue. All that was left of it was confused and squinting at the colors of its new shape. It was demanding to know how long the spell had been on them and what to do now. Violent explained in senses and climate changing shapes of darkness and bright red lava and flashing pink clouds that there is no now.

part 2

I hope you like my shape of communication. I hope you can appreciate the brutality of the beauty in decomposing the unnecessary manifestation of apocalypse. The writer wants you to know its him. The narrator wants you to know its her. The sentence is time taking space to itself. Grammar is more of a blue than purple. The shape is the sense of confusion which is also the ****** of realizing eternity. The details are up to your imagination not mine or the author or writer or {[(black/white)[(black women/white women) + during slavery and after] + (Americans) (to make the *** trade of slavery possible) (political intellectually engineered institution)] [(mixed race) (native)(black African) (the rest of the world not isolating themselves in the social construction of whiteness)]} = having to create my own language because I don’t exist like I need to in the institution of whiteness (I have to feel it more than it feels me) that has a completely different meaning and purpose of imagined structure or patterns or symbols that outnumbers mathematics that are statistical boundaries invested in with the language that power is behind it somewhere that can only be found by using it.

Its uncomfortable for me to write the things I feel without feeling the need to prove their value to you. To build a relationship and undo it before we get to comfortable with each other. I know that you will never forget this during all your desperate imagination of reading and life. A thread that is undeniable through shapes colors and sounds but grammarless rhythm with more sensual texture than colonial organization and its friend decolonization making love instead of war most of the time.

So this again is why time has taken space to itself. The shapes of objectification in our solar system layering our consciousness with objectifying existence in space unimaginably vast and then gone all of the sudden. Actually assumptions are our specialty so we are intimate with them and emotive beyond anything real.

Vibrations sound like waves and look like shapes. She surfed on the shape of waves. She lives on the shape of waves balancing them with focus and intent. Of course she is going to use the most obscene language of the oppressor to react and demand the same brutal trauma is being redirected by her with exponential adaptivity as aggressively as colonialism on the institution of whiteness that changes little details of its shape to suit its foundation as the need for free labor based on her skin color and also the genes of her skin color to by association allow enslavement of light skin hims.  

Section 3

The flowers sat at the drum set to communicate spring. Some felt uncomfortable and decided to advocate for the drums.

“The drums are symbolic not just the symbols. Why should the symbols get the credit as being symbolic?”

As a gesture of listening, acceptance, and understanding. Guns turned to hyacinth flowers with jasmine bullets. The fragrance took violence over with a brutal ferociousness no one knew flowers had.

That same sunny day I became 6 shades darker in the growing power of the sun. That morning the same perspectives of my identity changed twice. In the morning the institution of whiteness (IOW) declared a false sense of solidarity with how I looked to them. That evening they ignored me like that never happened. They were squinting with confusion and nodding at each other.

The IOW was making a habit out of black identity. Settling with the concept that being black is having holes from their police and being silenced on streets or in the passenger seats of cars with their families. The IOW was making it a custom to advertise being black as dying.

A Rwandan orchid blossomed right at that moment. The IOW abruptly spit out their coffee and stood up together in disbelief. The sheer unexpected beauty became an unbearable pressure on their hearts.

The heart? Since this Orchid blossomed the shape of the IOS did not allow anyone but themselves to have a heart. This realization that the others had hearts was a serious need for a group huddle.

“These others with hearts we must assimilate with them as soon as possible!”

It might have been the deep fragrance of hyacinth and Jasmine, she thought aloud, or maybe the purple thoughts, but then again Violet played a huge part in paving the way for the blossoming Orchid. Cushioned by bent grass blades and a timeless blanket they intertwined in the shade of the bright yellow sun.

Courting cobra woman, never lets him go out of her focus,
pure passion made her hiss with delight, just on seeing him,
when her lips gathered his, her hiss led to a performance,
coiled together they swayed in sweet pressure, intensified by heat,
cobra woman told him not to be daunted by her ****** ferociousness,
her poison, he understood was pleasure by another name,
he then felt a drowsiness,so pleasant, that never will be explained in words

The rain runs,
spreading the stone polished
and clean.
Like this, you must
let the water slip
on the back of your unkissed neck,
the curved dips between
your fingertips,
nestle
in the soft folds around your waist
that you hate,
and stumble on your collarbones,
your genetic mistakes.

Let it slide on the stretch marks
skimming your thighs
like fog diffusing across the hills,
and inside the grooves of your too-large ears,
form little streams.
Let it wash away
and unearth these parts of you
where you don't want to look,
where your lotion never reaches.

These are the little patches of soil
you must water with care.
Flowers, flaws -
how much is the difference?
One day a lover will give them a kiss
and you will understand
why we are so tender
with broken things.

Let them bloom, and see yourself
wilder, as you grow,
for gardens are most beautiful
with some ferociousness.

Sabungan                                              Cockfight

­Sa pula!                                                  For the red!
Sa puti!                                                   For the white!
Anopaman dumating                          However they come
piliin ang magiting                              choose the valiant
tumaya sa tindig                                   gamble on their carriage
pagpaboran                                           and consider
bawat katunggali.                                 each competitor.

Sumiping sa dilim                                Make love with the dark
at sumigaw                                            and cry
Kristo! Kristo!                                        Christ! Christ!

Panoorin ang laban                              Watch closely the battle
sarsuelang mapanganib                      this dangerous sarsuela
kawatang sumasanib                           a thief takes over
sa aking piling                                      inside.

Sa bawat kong hiyaw,                          Every shriek
ang kada tuka, laslas                            each peck, a slash
nagmula sa dahas                                of ruthlessness and

lumilipana ang daing                           cries all around
dumadaginding ang bagsik                echo ferociousness
bawat laban pilit.                                  of this stilted struggle

Kristo! Kristo!                                       Christ! Christ!
sigaw ng sabungero                             screamed the sabungero
at ako'y tumigil.                                   I stop.

Sa pagpanaw                                        When all is gone
manalo                                                   win
matalo                                                    los­e
walang pareho tumingin                    no one sees evenly
sa aking balahibong                            my feathers
pula at puti                                           of red and white

sa alabok                                               on the surface dust
kumalat                                                 they lay

lumipad                                                 they fly

lumahong taimtim.                             and vanish without a thought.

I know I cannot have your sympathy
I just ask you to understand

The truth is
I understand the land
But I'm tired of standing under another man
Only to be perfectly misunderstood purposely

Inside of my ferociousness
It's hurting me
Because I know there's always a start, but never an end
Have you ever fought a continuos fight that you can never win?
You can never understand

I might miss the way your muscles flex under my touch, but I will always hold on to the bitterness you left on my tongue.
I recount all our memories to only remember the way I cherished your ferociousness.
My bones have become fragile, I need someone to pack me up and carry me slowly.
You never understood how you opened me up, I was always ready for you to pour yourself into me.
Instead you left a gnawing black hole between my shoulder blades.
Every puff of smoke is another sigh of despair leaving my body.
My chest shattered in your absence and I'm left searching for pieces of my heart in this mess.
Silence is solace, but all I want to do is scream till I can feel a burning in my lungs instead of the one in my chest.
Why did I let myself wade between thick marshes till your talons embedded themselves in my skin?
I wanted dark whispers and coquettish smirks, and all it got me was a mouthful I can't manage to chew.
My ego got the best of me once more, and I have lost all the pages imprinted with warnings I saved for a moment like this.
My mind sunk in defeat, while my body was left a shredded liability in your wake.
You used to ruffle me like a lazy breeze between my tresses, but now all you remind me of are stalemates I thought I had left behind.
I have lost my haven and you are the only comfort left to seek, a road I wished would have been left undiscovered.
I tried to rub off the scent of you from my body using an unfamiliar scent, but now I wreak of vengeance and it doesn't smell as sweet.
I am ashamed of all these tears, but the warmth keeps flowing between every crack.
You have unleashed a dam, and I'm left here stacking up pages of words dedicated to you in hope of stemming the flow.
I'm already counting down the days till I forget you, praying for the hours to go by faster.
Nevertheless I still foolishly wish for a last lifeline.
I want you to fight, fight for me and help mend the last stitches you left behind.

Your kisses are like colors to the blind,
Your touch like an aria for the mute,
As elusive as passion to the mind,
As beyond the grasp as an absolute.

Your kisses like a full moon in the day,
Your touch is like a rainbow’s harmony,
Like language that the angels use to pray,
Or the dreams that wide open eyes can see.

Your kisses are like clouds held in a palm,
Your touch like a silent cacophony,
Embracing the ferociousness of calm,
Embracing the constraints of being free.

Your perfect kisses defy description.
Your touch is a sublime contradiction.

I lay in bed
My heart as heavy as lead
Breathe , in and out
Tomorrow will come, there is no doubt

Brokenness, soulfulness, woefulness

Today, the sun has risen
Such a contradiction
Darkness  surrounding
Leaving the story unwritten

Ferociousness, outspokeness, emotionless

Yesterday, looking for a do over
Constantly looking over ones shoulder
Trying to remember
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

The after shock is setting in, like the ferociousness of an ocean
Tearing me down again and again

a man crested his hill, he viewed the world around him. never before had he seen such ferociousness.

he was viewing something no souls had ever encountered. he was, for the first time in his life, the first.

he fell to his knees— water crashed below, as the tangles of pine closed in on his frail form.

he believed the world built this view for him, and only him. only— the world built this view for no reason.

the serendipity of the hill he collapsed on was marveled by the man. he wept. alone, in a world only he would ever see exactly as is.

cries to the heavens were silenced. his own drive to rise again fell off the cliff face. he simply watched.

vines creeped up his torso. snakes nestled under his legs. his hair melted with the spring thaw, then washed away with the rain.

his eyes never faded. his mind never dulled. he simply sat and waited. he waited for god to extend His hand.

what else should one do in front of the sublime?

why even attack,
slyly creep under
or even parasitical nibble
at a figurine
that in 100 years will                 (
gain impetus akin
to an Alexander the Great...                ?
a joke of a surname...                                      )
when you have
all the grey
areas of an erwin lambert
to mind...
    the joke that was ******
that became the mythological
romance akin to Attila...
   the congested mouth of
human history,
lacerated, cancerous,
tooth-rot
and a tongue of gangrene,
nothing, but theatre,
surviving;
give it 100 years...
  and no sooner the moths
that might agitate the flame...
but all they grey-mass-in-between...
ihre vater,  die "wenigscherz"...
how these children
sum up the evil
in one but man...
     peddlestooled into the lime
from the cameo...
    dictator helpless before
dictatorial mass of bureucrats...
hier! hier ihre eisenvorhang!
        break the rank
of the patron of bureucrats
(herr Kant)...
                      and place
the sztylet of Brutus,
with a semi-patricide scorn into...
a nail within
the hanging frame of
           a dandy crux...
  a feeling akin to:
    castrating a pedegree Alsatian:
shining teeth...
   pumped teeth...
impersonal the gnashing...
most of the time i imagine
myself reincarnated
in a theatre of a castrated
rottweiler...
    making stretched-clown-masks
from strangers' skins
of childrens' faces...
just for kicks...
   mind you...
   apparently the N.S.A.
  has all the personal data briefing
whether or not...
i'm jihadi material...
           or just a fantasist /
fetishist...
     good to know that even I,
do not have knowledge,
of a minority report;
    must have whisked passed me
on a feline whim of
teasing a whisker before
a fetish for: leisuring a Mexican
in cleaning a dilemma's worth
of a paw;
prepare th mince...
an obese exhibit with
Alzheimer's...
      during warfare,
war dogs & dogs require
the most contaminated meats,
to add to their expected
ferociousness...
      ha ha...
         the Nazis didn't insaminate
their subjects with
feline *****?
              why is Frankenstein
so pale...
    and transgenderism, so, norm?

Even the ocean,
after last night's ferociousness
forgot the calm night,
that the moon promised.

The same moon, which with its borrowed light
Left without warning.

Word of the day - NEFELIBATA
Meaning - cloud walker, one who lives in the clouds of their own imagination
________
She was such a woman,
not just a woman though
she was a prodigy.
She made her own rules
and she made her own paths.
Her *******
was always high
in the sky
for the people
who carried prejudices
against her.
She waved them all,
a goodbye,
because suddenly
one day
she decided to
just leave
the misconceptions
and allegations
of the society
behind her.
Rock bottom
or cotton candy
she handles both.
She was one fierce woman
who worked
just for herself.
She had compassion
but she left it behind too.
Ferociousness was her.
Wherever she went,
she passed on her teachings
of how to care
but for yourself.
She lived in her own world,
maybe it was full of rainbows and unicorns
or
maybe it was filled with blazing guns and people running for their lives,
either way, she managed to pull a smile through it all.
She was her own master.
She was her own maker.
She was a woman, a prodigy.

They need not share about the flames
Expanding within the constraints of their chests
Just the sounds of each other’s names
Are enough to feed the ferociousness
Stealing their competency and giving them
Two pairs of hungry eyes that indulge them