if i remember accurately he puts hand between her thighs she gets wet her body tells him she wants him she puts hand between his thighs she feels hardness his body tells her he wants her a little blue pill and KY lotion don’t convey anything except maybe we’re too old for this sexuality was once the most defining intention in life but not anymore when youth perspire it smells **** when elderly sweat it’s malodorous yet in another breath old people are more appreciative know the hurt humiliation of neglect invisibility they secretly harbor passions beyond contemporary standards old age is ground zero for truly authentic perversity desires unfulfilled in youth



i don’t remember when the disenchantment began was it part of some greater change Dad’s illness death leaving Chicago my dog’s passing 9/11 or simply old age at some point my life stopped feeling like adventure all the crazy dreams aims aspirations cravings longings insatiable hungers wild experiments beautiful women everything slowly fading away leaving only ghostly empty disenchantment a profound sad knowing the world is never going to heal get better the whole brutally honest realization greed corruption poisonous toxins overpopulation think tanks planet candidates anger hatred atrocities will triumph i know i must not listen to this voice inside me these feelings of disenchantment if i can learn to heal myself and try my hardest to love forgive others than i will succeed in this harsh existence no matter what the world does



in my garden grows an abundant jalapeño patch i share it with my postman Fernando he picks ripe peppers for his wife Barbara she makes salsa with the jalapeños then Fernando shares Barbara’s salsa with me anyway Fernando served 6 years in the Marines and is of Mexican descent he recently told me a story about a holiday he shared with 2 fellow Marines at a ******* beach in southern Spain Fernando described a seashore bustling with many women exposing their ******* all of a sudden Fernando spotted this amazingly gorgeous long legged female wearing nothing but flimsy string thong she walked into a cantina the 3 Marines followed Fernando's buddy set up tripod behind amazingly gorgeous long legged woman and started shooting Fernando explained she turned enraged yelling at the Marines i commented to Fernando his Marine buddy ought to have first asked consent he replied we knew we should have but who gives a **** we’re Americans everybody knows Americans are ******* when people from other countries find out you’re American they deliberately treat you like an *******



October is pivotal April May June July August September mornings shine bright early dusk comes late then suddenly October bursts on scene changes everything mornings grow darker days end sooner October is the culprit this month 5 Fridays 5 Saturdays 5 Sundays old dog painfully arthritic legs climb stairs sound of waves crashing against shoreline distant stars in night sky cooler breezes blow whiff of death in air harvest your wheat oats barley cook your squash last of corn tomatoes eat your pumpkin pie swig your cider you know what’s next now familiar footsteps tread on path come to take you home back to place before the beginning you’ve got to pick up every stitch must be the season of the witch



Mom spoke about memory a fogginess she says comes over her she began by admitting she realizes how she camouflages so people won't notice how bad she truly is because they might not want to be with her she says it does not scare her it is just part of getting older she recognizes it in her friends Mom says she very much wants to remain independent she knows her house how to maneuver in it she feels angry she didn't sell the apartment when the market was better though she loves her home does not want to ever wind up in residence for the aged does not want anyone living with her she is used to living alone doesn't like idea of a caregiver in the house this passage is difficult for her in a new way somehow i think the difficult challenge for us all now is how to help Mom manage on her own and continue to empower her with dignity she is a brave woman turning 90 in late October woman descending a staircase

grabbing her by throat hair he holds gun barrel to right eye with free hand she edges fingers into boot pulls dagger plunges it into his heart

i didn’t mean to do that i meant to do this

i’m trying to figure out how other people deal with disappointment of old age i guess they arrive at some settlement some settlement that eludes me

very few figure out meaning of their lives until it’s too late then become detectives trying to figure out whys if you wake up tomorrow you’ve got a shot at new day no one in this world knows what might happen

i believe people can do change maybe not their nature but spiritually emotionally intellectually psychologically i recognize change within myself i did could now never commit acts different from who i was more scared sensitive hopeful pure honest longing for love probably i sound corny all i want is mutual love adoration in way it was easier when i was thoughtless i got ***** i don’t know

poet must face every conceivable fear terror no matter how despairing risk walking away from table without chips

there are good people and bad people sometimes good people make bad mistakes sometimes bad people make smart choices

for decades he lived knowing no one valued him except his family collecting his paintings reading his works praising his efforts his entire career an inside job

her graying disheveled hair muddy smudged apron raw arthritic fingers she cooks meal washes dishes a million trillion dishes thankless life mom what’s for dinner

some people see it all coming plan invest i never saw any of it coming i never imagined

the sickly smell of grandpa’s farts lingers in room nauseating family

he held shivering abandoned puppy in arms she whimpered repeatedly he swore in that moment to protect her stood by his promise until he buried her

wild wolf chases him growling snapping nipping at ankles tearing jeans biting drawing blood he runs

pitiable old men everyone knows old men are impotent jokes with no pack to punch just harmless peevish impediments what good are they what purpose do they serve get the ******-freaking out of the road old man

riotous advancing mob overcome military police

sharing yoga class old man attending his skin thin as parchment bled i cleaned his blood from mat every class until he died

after puncturing her maidenhood reaching ****** he strokes head of 8 year old daughter good girl good girl daddy is so proud

skin him alive skin him alive little girl asks what’s different about poetry from standard writing grandpa answers i have no answers

not possible yet happening gradually suddenly amidst bribes bargaining lies government collapses citizenry unleash in anarchy yearning for change

Mom’s fogginess i sense it beginning in myself possibly inherited will i become like Mom there’s no one looking out for me Mom i’m looking out for you

after 30 or 40 years life is over don’t believe what they tell you

when i’m dead what will they unearth in my personal effects writings paintings letters emails bookmarks internet visitations or gossip accusations from those still alive probably allege another selfish decadent fool squandered resources missed opportunities misses the mark

maybe in 5 years i will live in New York City London Paris Tokyo Tahiti  with beautiful wife who will spread her buns want me to **** her grab my ***** at least once a day

there is a star in north sky that shines i understand you looking away when pain gets too great please look into my eyes when throbbing subsides

don’t make it any harder than it has to be please find it in your heart to forgive me i am so sorry

yup i’ve got cash guns friends in Canada Mexico Netherlands France first let’s make a run for the border  then later think about a boat

oh yeah one last remark ******* haters bigots greedy ******* all you big city fat cats small town big fish fearful suburban housewives over-cautious grannies gangsters politicians real-estate lawyers moneylenders fraudulent priests ******* all you movie actor phony smile celebrities cliché skinny jean cowboy boot rock stars all you left-wing right-wing tea-party outer-space inner-space freaks ******* i can’t don’t know how to explain myself ******* all

the electronic dispenser is out of order yet the automated voice keeps repeating it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem…



i hint to Mom maybe the nightly sleeping pills might contribute to her forgetfulness she replies what? i didn’t hear what you said i repeat maybe the nightly sleeping pills might add to your forgetfulness she answers what? i can’t hear you i say Mom you’ve been using sleeping pills since i was little maybe they’re a source of your fogginess she snaps what? what are you saying i can’t hear you



Tucson 2001 in the heat of disagreement Mom accuses i am the cause for her need to rely on sleeping pills do you understand what that means Mom you’ve been taking sleeping pills as far back as i can remember miltown seconal nebutal placidal ambient (when i was young i took some from your medicine cabinet then sold them to friends) was it always because of me your off-beat weird troubled kid or were there other reasons thank you Mom for all you have given me i am grateful appreciative truth is none of us trust each other these defenses we’ve created will someday turn on us



2010 it is difficult to write about Mom so many conflicted feelings our struggles contentious exchanges expectations criticisms blame all the money she and Dad poured into me hoping i would turn out successfully employed married with children instead her difficult child chose painting writing punk rock yoga Mom will be 90 in October she caught viral pneumonia last month concerned for her i flew to Chicago to see her my beautiful glamorous Mom who lives high up in tall high-rise doorman deskman elegantly decorated 3 bedroom apartment along lakefront my little Mom who’s once lovely figure shrunk in size morphed in shape with arthritic painfully twisted fingers hair color light ash skin spotted with dark purple brown splotches estate dwindled to crumbs my clever shrewd Mom still so talented socially telephone constantly ringing lunch dinner engagements accompanied by frantic loony sister both dressed to the nines shopping returning hairdresser appointments manicures yet memory rapidly disintegrating my poor sweet Mom who now needs my loving protection it is time for me to step up to the plate shield her from caregivers poised to pilfer my vulnerable Mom leaves her wallet in cab loses her glasses forgets events 2 hours ago furious at pharmacy for neglecting to include her sleeping pills i know i cannot change her whirlwind 24/7 world of gossip scandal denial it is i who will need to change sacrifice my simple sparse existence quiet desperation scrambling for pay gardening gazing up at the moon stars adapt to her dizzy drama driven life style in order to look after her



i’ve written about this before a defining moment that haunts me Bayli and i are staying at Toby Martin’s spacious loft near corner of Bleeker and Broadway 1973 Toby offers me job building stretchers canvases for Warhol he tells me lots of nyc women will model for me if i want to keep drawing vaginas he advises me to drop out of art school like he did assures me i will become famous it is October Sunday i am wearing white turtleneck wheat colored corduroy Levis jeans taupe suede clogs Bayle is dressed almost exactly as me except powder blue clingy top we are just art students Toby takes us up to Rauschenberg’s loft on Lafayette Street Rauschenberg is in the Bahamas the kitchen is all industrial size stainless steel coffee stained glass Chemex drip coffeemaker on stove  upstairs on roof many currently trendy painters edgy artists a sculptor who uses dynamite to blow up quarries in Vermont they scrutinize Bayli and Odysseus with voracious glares the men eye Bayli several women send flirtatious looks at Odysseus he feels fright protection for Bayli it is all too much too complex too threatening and in that moment he drops the ball creeped out fearful he takes her hand and they flee back to Hartford Art School but maybe he was wrong possibly Bayli could have handled those depths heights perhaps she would have blossomed i’ve thought about that moment many times torturing myself with my cowardice insecurity adoration for Bayli our love remaining pure never corrupted



a boy/man makes love with a girl/woman once twice in bed then falls blissfully asleep wakes up makes love all night in secluded room in sheltered house on quiet street in sleepy New England town in the morning with Velvet Underground turned up real loud they dance wild then make more love



perhaps my fears insecurities shyness are about a diminutive ***** or concave ***** at center of chest or all my weird physical psychological inhibitions idiosyncrasies not wanting the world to ever find out know a secret between Bayli and me possibly Bayli never noticed but probably she realized my desire longing to be recognized acclaimed yet remain unrecognizable live in quiet privacy i don’t know sometimes i wonder if Bayli loved me like i love her if there was only one twinkling star in her sky like there is in mine Mom says it’s wrong to limit my skies to one star she says Bayli separated from me and married someone else she asks has Bayli ever made an attempt to contact you since her 2nd marriage i answer you don’t understand Bayli is entirely devoted she would never look up or away from her man Mom says open your eyes there are lots of special stars meant just for you in the sky



at some point it becomes obvious the latest is instantly embarrassingly obsolete why would anyone want the latest



let them come these winds of change blowing sands garbage leaves twisting branches bending trees up the coast down the hole displacing erasing everything oceans rising currents colliding mountains crumbling fiery red skies there was a time once but that time is gone there was a girl once but that girl is gone a street a house  a room  a bed once but that street house room bed are gone hunter buried under hill sailor lost at sea he who steps courageous mindful compassionate will pass beyond the terror

i'd cut my own heart open and bleed without a sound as you lay next to me to show you that tiny vessels string together within me to spell your name and i would bleed it all out to prove that to you i would cut my lungs out of my body to prove to you i breathe because of you i inhale and exhale for you and i want to cut my tongue out of my mouth to stop myself from talking because it splutters out of me like clouds of baby powder and it's so foggy i can't see light anymore

Coffee, I adore thee,
somehow you never bore me.
Bold and dark or mild and smooth,
you get me up and on the move.

In warm embrace or cool frappe,
mocha, french roast, or tall latte,
crema, sospeso or con panna,
you never fail to make my day.

It’s the best thing ever manufactured,
without it, my mind is slow and scattered,
for a quiz or formulating I’d be knackered,
every morning the Keurig is where we gather.

You pick me up and keep me keen,
in complementing any cuisine,
by delivering a dose of sweet caffeine,
you are the original magic bean.

In doses quick or lingered over,
on mornings with a hangover,
I reach for you, your warm embrace,
the morning fogginess to erase.

The flavors, the scent, which is the best?
They are of compound interest.
French press or espresso - take your pick
- they all provide that delicious kick.

Jitter juice, rocket fuel, cup of joe,
cuppa, morning brew or ristretto,
your flavors please, your scent rouses,
a coffee shop is where the crowd is.

In slang they call it Mormon-crack,
but sugared up or with a snack,
with creamy art or straight-up black
once I’ve got it, you won’t get it back.

What happens when temporary is no longer
When you feel weak without them
Yet somehow stronger
How do we feed the darkness of our pasts
Well i can tell you, easy,
With memories of us staring at ourselves through broken glass.
I can finally say I'm no longer afraid of you or who you'll be without me
Because I finally can see who you've been without
a shadow of doubt overcasting.
You are now who you've always been.
It's just now with some alcohol running rapid through my veins and some tears gathered in my eyes
From staring vaguely into my mind
It somehow all seems clear enough.
I'm no longer pinned.
Blindfolded by one's own fogginess.
A mist that overtook me a year too long to clear.
You are the same.
And no not that cliche ****, the same as every guy,
but you are the exact same reincarnation of my worst fear.
My fear of falling for someone who only had the interests of their own held dear.
Maybe this makes sense to you and maybe this doesn't
and you know what? That's a risk I'm willing to take.
I would rather let these words and phrases pour out of me like an unstoppable hurricane that might drown you,
Than to, for one second longer, let this hurricane continue to destroy me.. *Whatever is left of course.

Have you ever looked through frosted glass,
and tried, with futility, to define
the outlines of a distant subject?

All my life I have done so.

My eyes are the icy glass of isolation:
They awaken me to empty human shells that,
Despite their sharp scents of smiles and summer,
Are uncoloured with a vague sense of fogginess.

For if you thought them geometrically similar,
Outwardly identical and biologically matching as I:
Just as you would not expect one to talk to animals,
I find myself equally inadequate and

isolated.

I yearn to smash: first, this glass I look through.
Then, the shells of the first body I find.
In hope that, the blood of non-isolation,
Of non-emptiness can wash and flood,
Drown and dissolve the despair
Of an inability to reach across,
Of living behind a glass,
Of fading
away.

All your life you have looked through this glass, and
All your life you have lived in this claustrophobia,

Smashing futilely.

“there you are” , i should have said
“i was just thinking of you and i was expecting to see you
somewhere, and it was here”

and there we were and all i wanted was for us to stand closer but
i know that was impossible

the pull was magnetic i couldn’t disconnect from the inevitability that was us talking and i asked you about classes because I had to and good lord it is so nice to hear you say things and

you are some of the only brilliance i know that i can actually touch

i should have said “why would i have thought you
wouldn’t be here we haven’t seen each other in six months
don’t be an imbecile let’s discuss more philosophy
and bastardize blasphemy” but i didn’t but it was unsaid but
that was good enough

do you remember what you took from me
do you remember what i had that was really yours
do you know how much of her i now hold with a steady grip
do you know what darts through my chest when i know
the two of you are stagnant ponds?

i looked like there was something in my eyes, probably—
should i have missed you as much as i did?
my soul finds the question irrelevant
i missed you to the point of fogginess

did you ever know that i loved you like the thousand things i also loved?
in that moment i wanted something that was never us
to feel your ribs under your sweater and the sturdiness of your chest as your arms hung limp beside you
knowing exactly what your face must have looked like as i pressed my own into
your confusion

we talked for ten minutes; any multiple would still have left me wanting
and the hole in the centre our node that couldn’t be occupied was her and she’s fine don’t worry
i don’t want to picture you holding her like i never could but can now god yes i missed you

i did

and the way you smiled when things actually deserved it
and the way your hair grows long, well past your shoulders

you could swallow me whole and i’d let you and
you wouldn’t know what to do with that
that’s why i loved you, the only
real thing i loved like unreal things

he comes home...
we never know exactly when...
I used to think he was cheating on my mother

maybe he always was
the liquor stole him away from us
he felt safer there
he had more fun with the liquor
as each beer went down his throat he was  more and more at home
he loved us
but the beer captivated him
it stole his attention and drove him away

when hed come home during the daylight
i can see his body swaying
I used not appreciate the fact as much that he got home safely each day in that condition
his words would slur....
each end of a word colliding with the beginning of the other...
sometimes he'd get so lost in thought
lose track of time on what we were talking about...

my mother was always mad....
I used to get mad too and never knew why
until one day
i gave in...
I gave him my forgiveness the one he never asked for
you cant teach an old dog new tricks....

I tried to support him...
but its so hard
my mom is so hurt....
just wanting a husband to come home too...
not to be drunk...
to help around the house....
to be cohesive with thoughts....
to spend more time at the house than he does at the bar....

it breaks my heart...
I dont know who to support
I love them both
w
h
y is it so hard to be a daughter of a drunk....

i have no memory of abuse ever...
just the fogginess and him coming in so late...
and the screams of my parents
I used to wish they got a divorce... just so the fighting would stop.

sometimes he was never around...
but I have the good memories too...
he truly did love me..
its an addiction you know?
maybe if he had the power or the knowledge he wouldve chose us instead of the liquor.
he is my father and I love him none the less.
He is one of the coolest guys I know. A real respectable man.
A TRUE OG FROM THE OUTFIELDS OF HUMBOLDT PARK.

who never got the healing from the childhood trauma that he shouldve
he is just a man who got trapped in an addiction so hard to run away from....
just trying himself to get away from the screams of his wife... reminding him daily of all his issues.
he is just a man who is hurt his baby daughter chose her moms side and would bicker at him too...
he has to deal with both women.
who can he turn too?
other than the bottle who would never judge him.
he is just a man who is repeating the steps of his father.
who didnt know better.
who is simply following the path he knows.
he tries his best.
he tried fighting it.
just sometimes it gets too strong.
he is just a man who didn't know about therapy at a young age...
he is just a man that feared to show tears or vulnerability.
to be anything less than a man
he is just a man who got stuck in the ******* and troubles of this world.
he drinks to forget the memories.
he drinks to not worry about the issues of daily life.

I forgive him and I always will.
This is what it means to be a daughter of a drunk.

POSTICTAL PORTHOLE-(TIME BLOWN BACKWARDS)

Frozen breath holding back weight, against the chest seems great stacked like stones

Starting softly to see from the third door down the row,reclusive, damage is waiting to show

Others in red alert our mind coming on slow, their fear no reflection on our unknowns

Peace while in waiting,thoughts flow slow into a reflecting pool,echos beginning to grow

Time blown backwards when clocks stopped ticking , simple assessments our only goals

Mental evaporation senses left wide open,trying to find the song but only get static from the radio

Held back by grogginess looking out from fogginess ,bits of life as viewed through those holes

Oh MY I made it,escaped , BUT when will blackness call again,laying low not quite thinking of that other plateau

Bolted ,jolted rousing frequently followed by drowsing,hearing as a low hum ,sounds soon forming new tones

Nonexistentance now part of the ritual ,for the witness memories are visual,slowly waiting to say hello

Perspective has changed, await for thoughts to be rearranged ,senses in collusion with massive confusion,new beginning like waiting for future episodes . R.C.

Heaven help the citizen
the worthy to be denizen
of Love inspired by Tennyson
awaken from false hope!
and Heaven help her poetry
sincere insensibility
the height of all futility
to party like the Pope!

Heaven help the serious
who grasp that sweet delirious
the simple yet mysterious
is natures way of speaking
and Heaven help our attitude
to dwell in sleepy gratitude
her longitude and latitude?
a treasure for the seeking!

Heaven help her doggedness
the sluggish **** of fogginess
the rhyme afloat in bogginess
which pulls her reader down.
and Heaven help the man again
who treads the Old Shenanigan
to find a wretched mannequin
a fool in love could drown.

Heaven help us everyone
the world has lost it's sense of fun
depending on the wealthy one
to build amusement features
and Heaven help the child within
the haggard *** to see again
to breathe the life which God has won
and offers to all creatures!

there, your bed is rocking
as it cradles another woman
beneath your chest
lips beneath your lips
I’m not sure if I care or not
I do a little bit
but I signed up for this without hesitation
a part of me wonders if there was hesitation
in your head
when you heard the front door squeak open
and my bedroom light turn on,
then quickly go out as I shut the door behind me
you’re not loud at all
but it’s 12:47
and I knew you were seeing her tonight
I knew you don’t usually fall asleep this early
I knew I would be coming home to this
I knew I’d have to face what I thought I’d be fine facing
but the ativan is kicking in
boy am I glad I brought it with me
and I’m not sure if I can hear her moaning
or if that’s just a car vrooming past my window outside
a lot of people call this kind of situation
****** up
or extremely strange
I don’t feel ****** up
maybe I feel a little strange
I’m just starting to question
so much,
everything
it’s healthy but it’s hurting
not as sharp as betrayal hurts,
because I’m not being betrayed in any way
it’s just the fogginess of confusion  
that makes you not know where you’re going
and it’s that familiar stagnancy and going-in-circles routine
that has begun to wring my head around
and my heart too, ever so slightly
but I’ll sigh instead of cry this time
not because I’m forcing back tears
but because I really don’t need them right now
and I’m okay
as long as I’m still wanting to live
and truth be told,
I am still wanting to live
because I need nothing but myself, really
that’s the truest truth there is
I’m fine, though a bit torn
but I’m fine and that’s basically all that matters

Your stare, your burning glare
Never looking at me
Examining my soul
Your stare leaves me feeling naked and exposed
Your eyes like a mirror
Mesmerizing, haunting
In your eyes I cannot hide
A reflection of what I have buried

Skeletons in my closet
Flame flickering in my soul
Thick mud, bare feet
Moving through life without living
Your light shining at the end of the tunnel

Twisted branches of my mind
Whirlwind of spirit
Captivated by a feeling
Captured in a moment
Drowning in a dream

In the fogginess of dawn
In the haze of today
In the hope of tomorrow
Your eyes dance upon the horizon
Glimmering in faith
Forthcoming truth
Questioning all
My reflection

No such thing as a past life...
Your past life is today. You woke up,
Went to your work, lived by your
Lot you sustain upon, and are then
Weary from your many partures this night.
Now to find rest and safe haven the green
Grasses await you, of your bed spread,
To rise again and greet life tomorrow,
The stumbling, the fogginess of waking
up once again awaits you, no longer dead.

You bare the nails that were
Your words to me.
It was only for the world within me
To see.
Backward truths and bland
Love was,
Yours,

Your tongue to mine.
Benevolent lover with the fogginess
Of your crooked lies.

Compare this to that and call it
Simile.
No like or as
Call it metaphor.
Make sure it is home.
The idea of your love
Punched my young hernia.

That is where love enters.
That is where
You
Took it from me.
Like a bandit in the brightest night.

There are no three wise men here.
They don't come to see me.
Instead, good old and wise fear
Fills my lungs until I bleed

Bleed bleed.

You bandit in the night.
A lover without a light.
You took my time and mixed it with your lies.
A bandit in the night.

nearly time for liquid vine
nearly time to wash away
forget the day
and drown away into the night

taste so good my golden hook
taste so sweet my honey brew
sweet so sweet im into you
into you into you
my sweet so sweet im into you

Feels so near my liquid cheer
nearly time for golden wine
a fogginess found
my mind in clear to me a fear

taste so good my golden hook
taste so sweet my honey brew
sweet so sweet im into you
into you into you
my sweet so sweet im into you

until tomorrow when I wont care
my head will find another cheer
another want for nectars blood
another wait to hide my life

taste so good my golden hook
taste so sweet my honey brew
sweet so sweet im into you
into you into you
my sweet so sweet im into you

Mornings and I don't get along
We are like oil and water
There is no sweet connection
They don't ever get my attention

Conversations invade my mental fog
Please be quiet and don't speak
Give me just five minutes to clear out
Before closing me in with words from your mouth

Allow me to refuel with some caffeine
Marinate my senses through coffee beans
Let it break up the fogginess screen
For if you don't I will let out a piercing scream

I often wonder
If the tears that fall quiet
Are for me or not

A brief solitude
Followed by intense longing
Tease lips with a touch

But silence brings you
Harbinger of my lost love
To nowhere near me

Set me free, will you
Yet hold me close, can you please
Brief dichotomy

Sighs bring fogginess
Words echo vibrantly
Will they be for me

Trickling waters flow
Life hurries like the river
Waiting for the frost

Frames hold my picture
Memories hold my longing
Hands holding nothing

When the earthen season of fall arrives,
I fall with the leaves;
I don't descend in spiraling motions,
But drown easily
Into the fogginess of what's next.
Hopefully, the leaf that takes my place
Will make up for my err in the air.

This degree of fogginess
Isn't acceptable in a decent conversation,
Clearly.

The fogginess in my senses
The scratching down my throat
The burning in my eyes
The pounding in my head
The aching of my bones
The tilting of my balance

I think I am sick
I feel like I'm going to crumble

what's that feeling
oh what is it
what's that feeling of
anger
compliance
fogginess
confusion
anxiety
anxiety
anxiety
a­nxiety

that feeling of
shivering
grinding teeth
breathing less
wanting less (food)
food
is
disgusting

but you've hardly eaten since two days

you know you need to eat but you can't and you won't and most importantly you want to but you don't because you can't and you won't

i am dying
i could be dying
i could die

shivering shaking vibrating
my feet are purple from folding them in
from folding my body into itself
and disappearing

shame

.one of the "things" i've learned... from exploring the freudian madonna-***** complex of modern woman... when it comes to prostitutes? no erectile "dysfunction"... oddly enough... it's like... two couldrons of polar-opposite subjects met, settled for the primordial object-object relation, and left, each other, to pursue their prior to the interaction: intentions... it's almost fascinating, how the madonna-***** complex would play out in my head, every time i chanced upon casual ***... without a clarity of a transaction... which: is self-evident when going to (either): priest, psychiatrists, or *******. how many examples of casual ***? what, you want me to recount the number of times an emancipated woman, wanted to do it under the bed-sheets... cocoon-style? do it with a *******... **** me: the whole affair feels breezy... you both take a shower prior, there's this whole aesthetic about ***, it's not something clumsy akin to extract from tinder... hence my choice in bypass... freedom... b'ah... the clarity of transation, i'm sometimes allowed to forget my genitals, and smooch for an hour... and when i hear of the modern "game" tactics... clueless... i have absolutely no idea what freedom implies these days, without a clarity of transaction... there's bound to be a transaction moment at some point... thinking about going to a butcher 'elps... i'm raw meat, she's raw meat... there's no chance to experience ******* theatre of subjects, prickly points of interest... labyrinth start-up builders of relationships...  i couldn't imagine myself the theatre of a pick-up artists... i'd hate to pry upon unsuspecting subject matters... point (a) i would be unable to do so, and (b) i couldn't begin to fathom the fogginess surrounding a delayed format of transaction... (c) i'm a terrible liar... at least with a ******* i can be honest... how frequently (d) once every 3 years will do me just fine... one nadir... 5 hours... i was encouraged to do two at the same time, i declined... how did i get the money? i lied about a death in the family... managed to convince the bank manager to extend my over-draft limit... 5 hours... no sildenafil... no three-some... three prostitutes? it was just one of those nights... but... like hell if i'd wish to replicate that sort of freedom among the Loki-harem... of the emancipated women of today's western society... unless forgetting your genitals, smooching for an hour, and hearing the words: you're nice... is somehow gesticulating ***-slaves? sign me up... i once had a wild thought... of applying for the position of bodyguard in a brothel... i know where absolute freedom leads to, as a man, the sinking of VASA... roulette helter skelter down to the bottom of an emptied bottle of ms. amber... while listening to something by GHOST - not ever, no since Abba - i guess a woman's experiencing of exercising the most fanatical variation of freedom... will not be, akin to this "manly" affair of, culminating nonchalence.

while some of us, didn't get a chance
to experience the sort of canvas
of life, whereby multiple
mistakes could be encountered...
and be subsequently
   made...
  i guess: lucky "us"...
regrets? perhaps some,
sepsis like
         stigmatas?
   not really:
like Kafka said,
   hardly a concern
for missing something,
when you've never
had a chance to either
have, or architect
    a sense of loss around...
today i tried explaining
the curiosity of hand-writting
to my mother...
while filling out her
disability form...
     she was caught,
when she found herself
unable to read some of her
hand-writing...
   i can't remember the last time
i used one hand to write,
i've managed to place
my hands to an ideal before
the altar of the keyboard...
why is it then...
that we learn
the french alphabet sequence...
i.e.

   a b c d e f g h i j k l
m n o p q r s t u v w x y z

when...
the keyboard says:

q w e r t y u i o p
    a s d f g h j k l
   z x c v b n m                 eh?

fancy some chiromancy
with a gypsy, ******?!

in the past 10 years?
1 date... sloppy seconds
from a nightclub,
we spent 2 hours in a park
drinking wine,
we moved to a pub,
she lied about meeting friends
for food,
            i stayed,
finished a pint...
    what? she couldn't keep up
with me...
   i drink: that's basic...
but even me drunk,
and her somewhat sober,
would not have
    become convenient
on subjects matters of
a shared interest...

don't know,
i forgot about how i was supposed
to feel when i followed up
on a meaningful transaction
in a brothel...
           feeling is not exactly
a privy concern for me,
as a man:
i'm supposed to be both
the object, and the natural
proclaimation of
the source of objectivity,
of categories, of boundaries...
i'm not a woman,
not a subject,
   and all of what subjectivity
i'm supposed to entertain...
no, that's gone too...

but animals like me...
i find it hard to force the she,
cat, from my bed when i've finally
drank my last of ms. amber,
and it pains me...
i remember one relationship,
****** me up....
i tended to fall asleep
embracing her...
spoon? is that what you call
cuddling behind her back?
always on the left side...
   i never wanted to let go...
but then i realized that
the entire left flank of my body
was numb...
   and then i'd flick myself
to the other side,
   and she would do
the antithesis...

      love's most gracious moments
are solely confined
to the cinema of memory.

two proofs of solipsism...
as a non-thought experiment...
(a) handwriting...
people are so defensive about
their handwriting,
   it's as if i'm expected
to be able to read their scribbles,
their chicken etchings...
it's enough that i can read
my own... but theirs'?
**** me... near impossible...
notably with the pulverising
norm of script, writing done by two hands...
what the hell are people expecting?
(b) farting...
   that's not even funny...
how many people can you find,
who would find their own farts
"offensive"?
      imagine a crowded tube carriage...
well... you shy one out,
a ****...
   who can stand this perfume,
the most?
   only you...
        i'd love to be a jewish matchmaker
on the grounds of:
  well... only if you can
   spare yourself to stand
each others' farts;
         what a dating utopia.

a vague memory of relationships,
something,
as vast, as it is nothing but
an act of sheepish nodding...
     to be so dependent
on another...
           to set about i.q. plagiarism,
to make "things"
mutually inclusive,
rather than keeping
a mutually exclusive attitude...
to format
          gemini in siamese?
i could sacrifice my i.q. upon
this altar,
but seeing my previous attempts
to do so...
   and seeing them fail...
i'll just stick to the original intent,
me, object, her, object,
   at least i.q. doesn't matter
in relation to prostitutes...
and have you ever seen
a self-objectifying woman?
where she can't play tricks with
contraception?
   that's what put me off...
      
   once again: sad, happy, morose...
is that even relevant,
esp. now?
           you can't get more
"puritanical" ***,
   other than with prostitutes -
two people, anonymous,
with with their faces
later like tattoos on their memory...
1066... a tattoo from my surrogate
mother, England...
   i'm supposed to remember it...
i sure as **** remember
           Edward the Confessor...
i don't know why...
but he's my favourite king...
he's just, so... nuanced in a mingling
of availability and vagueness...

loser living with his parents...
cooks, cleans...
   weird...
   and drinks a liter of whiskey
almost every night...
and the cats like him...
   and he's not homeless...
  what sort of man is he?
a curiosity,
an oddity...
          i still don't know why
these "people" put up with me...
perhaps i'm only the well
assured ******* on a piece
of paper...
         oh: that high-threshold
of experiencing pain?
   it's a schizoid "thing"...
or a bilingual "thing"...
     ha ha.... i forget which is which...
what sort of drunk am i?
pedantic about spelling...
curious about the behaviour
of vowels, in hebrew,
acting as pseudo-diacritical markers...

    eclectic interests...
but then... a focused narrow expression
of but a handful of interests...
the sort of "miracle"
that is not looking
for an antithesis of "god"
via... passing on the genes;
what was that about,
to begin with,
                 in the atheistic circles?

i began and i will end with
this observation:
of atheists concerned with passing
on the genes...
as... highly, **** me: highly suspect.

p.s. i tried, once, or twice,
to allow my cat to sleep with me
in the same bed...
   no chance...
     so... me sleeping in the same
bed, with a woman?
if i can't sleep with a cat in the same
bed?
   where would a woman
fit, into a revision?

The place of the lost souls brought no resemblance to the reality that surrounded them
In their world the end only came as the bell of time sounded its echo's through clouded thought's
As I entered their domain the faded memories flooded to my senses,times from the past brought a sadness to my glow.
I was once part of this scene
I was once into the show
A place for the ended ... one place left to go

The bar fitted like a glove that never left ,a stool made for worship.this place where I rest
And so I looked around
Familiar faces older and darker and closer to the place we all fail to want ,bearded features followed where once clean cut chins held aloft .
Mumbles from silence only showed in the crowd as the deserted wanted nothing, nothing but silence.  
My place was once this home,these bodies once my friends.I know now that their spell did once near lead me
Lead me well to the end.
The tree had its markers, a shudder in me showed.The place was un special, no more about those hours be heard.
And like an old friend the nectar returned,my glass tasted heaven as the buzz into orbit entered my veins,the rush of that feeling gave me the power.Power to rule my enemies,power to fight the fight .Oh sweet sweet nectar how missed could you be as golden as honey as sweet as a peach.
My hook was inserted the fogginess faded and the trap lay before me as my thirst for the power returned.
Was then I knew like I always knew that I was lost, I was soulless, I was one of them and that my end had been written,written to end

In my mind I'm still that same scared little boy,
Frantically playing with his toys in an attempt to forget what hurts him.
What frightens him.
The secret.
Somewhere in the fogginess of my childhood lies the key.
The key that first unlocked the door to my anguish.
Anguish that has stalked me into adulthood.
Like the secret.
I remember those terror stricken nights well.
What was I afraid would be hiding under my bed?
Or crawling in through my window?
Was it a repressed memory I feared would catch up to me?
A secret of abuse? Of Insanity?
It seemed the monster I feared was myself,
and the truth that only I can bring.
The secret.
Must I find it to feel whole again?
So I search.
Wandering through desolate subconscious paths in my mind.
Paths that lead to nowhere.
Maybe that's been it this whole time,
maybe nothing made me this way.
Just as a wolf is born with the thirst for blood.
I am a manifestation of sorrow,
The embodiment of my own hate,
I am the secret.

It's the feeling you get
When the weight of the world is crashing down on you.

When suddenly the air is stolen from your lungs
And your heart is coughed up, still beating but crying out in pain.

It's when your gasps for breath take in the fogginess of your brain
and being sliced through with a blade of steel would cause less pain.

It's when
     your heart breaks.

The world stops breathing
You stop listening to its beat, beat, beating.
Because there is no way in this moment that people are smiling, or happy, or complete.

It's that moment of absolute silence,
when the ticking of the clock and your heart stop beating in tandem.
And you want desperately to grab onto the hands of time. Grip onto the hands of your lost lover.
And turn back time.
And relive every happy moment.
       Again and again.

It's when you're in a concrete castle.
Completely aware of the people around you,
but unwilling to reach out for help.

Completely isolated and confined
Wanting and waiting and hoping and dreaming for that moment when the concrete castle crumbles
People come to comfort you,
the hands on the clock start turning forward
your heart stops screaming,
and you can breathe in life again.

i cant quite see you.
the fogginess. the tainted softness
clouding every angle
every perspective
every eyelash. every flaw
molded. melted into silver
dissolved in a glass of water

"You know, this skirt used to be white."
She said, standing over the garden.
Her hands nervously straightened
the folds and creases and pleats.
The skirt was a little too long,
and trailed tattered in the dirt.
Her back was towards me
as she studied the coming evening.
"Then something red got mixed with the wash.
But I like it this way.
The way each fabric has a different shade of red."
There were maroons and pinks and purples,
layered as can only happen by chance.
I approached from behind, for the embrace,
and her hands rested on my hands
circumscribing her waist.
Not much was said.
Nothing needed to be said.

I went back inside to do the dishes
she sort of ambled close behind.
I don't know how the conversation started.
But there was a distant fogginess in her eye.
"It's just that I'm afraid of starting over.
I had made such great friends
and now we've all gone and scattered once again."
Her voice cracked and she blushed.
She excused herself, and slid into the bathroom.

Ah, but love, I've done the same as you.
When I left my home to chase after school.
Again, when I left school to wander down the road.
Again, when that road led me back to school.
Again, when I left town to chase a worldly life.
Every time I left dear friends, and lovers,
to chase some wild, cursory whim.

I was in my bedroom, cleaning up for the night.
I felt her presence approaching.
"******, I just need you to hold me."
So I took her in my arms, and waited patiently.
Then she cried, and it was fine.
Nothing's wrong with weeping free.
We slept in each others arms that night
which was a strange occurrence for me.
Usually I'm wide awake with the rhythms
of breath and heart cycling beside.
She spoke in her sleep,
words which she didn't understand the next day.
They were simply one iteration of a single phrase:
"Thank you."

That's the closest she came to saying "good-bye."

Perhaps the music blasting in our ears

The sidestep glance across the bakery counter

The honk of horns zooming fluorescents down the street

The gentle mummur of garlic sizzling on pans

The crunch of rich Italian bread soaked in olive oil

The sweat of leather soles

The mystifying fogginess as one touches a cheek

The relentless sputter of summer rain

The crackle of a brilliant smile

And noiseless or brimming with spectacles

We are most afraid of absolute silence

For that suggests our inability

To be a part of something

Bigger than ourselves

Living in Fear

Lost in a dream world, far beyond veracity-
Seated cross-legged upon a wooden beamed floor-
I pray to the Goddess, the savior of my spirit
Fabricated in a moment, although lost and forgotten-
Now I speak only to the people who live
Beyond the mountains, purple in their hue-

Dancing beneath the magical rain falling from
The loveliness of crimson clouds-
Melodious voices ring out as they
Enchantingly obliterate the demons of my past and present-
An expressive smile creeps up upon my face-
Finally I have been liberated-

As a ghost-like shadow eradicates the light,
I feel the presence of faltering footsteps
Pounding the floors-
Loudening voices resonate throughout the confinement of this room:
Speaking the words “I am coming to take you away-“
I feel a firm grip of a stranger’s hand upon my shoulder as
A metal cuff locks about my wrist-

I feel my body somehow
Disconnected from my mind as I rise to my feet-
Moments later, locked inside the confinement
Of an unfamiliar vehicle-
Blaring sirens exacerbate my fear-
In this moment of terrifying madness
I pray to the goddess, the savior of my spirit-
Crimson clouds transforming to dank, dark fogginess-
I feel a different sort of rain falling-

I have come to realization-
That the demons of my past and present - have returned-
As my soul escapes the confinement of my mind,
Thunder claps while lightening strikes-
There is no magic beyond mountains
No place for dancing and the only voice ringing out now
Vibrant as pounding upon a base drum bellows-
“I have come - to take you away-“

Claudia Krizay

there is fogginess
and yet i see every particle of air
the pieces that make up that particle
i focus to count
it blurs over again
i can hear the sound of so many things
cars swashing by
wind blowing
leaves rustling
but i can’t pick out the individual
the sound melds
all i can hear is grey

i can feel my mind inside my head
it is whole
it is nothing