Writer's block has clogged my mental pores
Oily ignorance I cannot ignore
Technology is fogging up my mind
Leaving me no time to unwind

I looked in the mirror today
And guess what I saw

My ugly, stunted imagination's face
Full of gross digital zits
I'm really starting to miss
My former wit
I've got to get out of this keyboard-y place

Trying to juggle at 1am,
Trying to catch those ******* *****,
Trying to throw them the"right way",
Trying to do everything everyone tells me,  
Everything that I can't do.

Thoughts swirling in my brain,
Fogging my concentration.
Self-doubt arising,
wondering why no one has called me a failure yet.
Questions screamed to the universe.

All this fuss,
Just for three juggling *****,
Three juggling ***** which I can't juggle,
Three juggling ***** leading to my accusation of a failure,
Three juggling ***** questioning my capacity.
All this for three juggling *****.

The seraph sky on ebony night,
A white marble of placid light.
Casting to the living glass,
Haunting, the feeling's elapse.

A time of gardenia drapes,
Hanging the mourning wall.
Scent of ambrosia fogging,
The pavement covered in moss.

Portraits of Celts amidst,
Drifting upon moonlight mist.
Eyes delving, ears opt to hear,
Voices whisper of ancient fear.

An oracle muses the unguided,
As trees speaks the truth.
Humanity strives to be the art,
Yet only remembers by a few.

Love is a violent act.
I mean, how does something,
So sweet and lovely,
Make you ready to commit,
Brutality and adultery,
And render us so incapable,
Of thinking past jealousy?
With red words fogging our eyes,
And a black void echoing between our ears,
I think love is a violent act.
For nothing like it,
Motivates us to tear down cities,
Dance in the ruins,
And rebuilt something new,
All for one person.
Love is a violent act,
That makes us take our hearts,
Pry, rip and tear slowly from our chests,
And lay it as an offering,
To someone who doesn't want it.
Love is such a violent act,
Melting our brains and controlling our tongues,
Numbing us to the fact that if we care, we will hurt,
Giving us an addiction worse than that to drugs,
God, it made us do so many things we shouldn't have done.
Love is such an unforgivable,
Violent,
Act.

I’m just a more miserable version of myself
and my pen is my weapon that it uses,
Leaking out the gas I consume
and fogging the paper with words of death.
It carves out my pain to a permanent grave,
doing the bleeding for me,
slashing across the page; ink runs,
tears run, but I
can’t run.

I let the glow of the headlights
and the glow in your eyes
guide us home.

Faint chords of an old rock song
drifting out the radio,
your breath
fogging the window

You, me,
a billion points of light
hanging above our tired heads.
And then you whispered quietly to me:

"These are the moments I remember."
The cream of your voice
Dragged me back from the clouds
and I turned to you.

"these are the moments I live for."
The slight furl of your lips
and the reflection of the moon in your eyes
hurled me back into my daydreams.

And then we were silent.
And the world felt right.

The Most Exciting Part About The Night,
Was Watching The Milliliters Of The IV Bag,
Count Down From 1000,
Blood Staining My Right Arm,
A Glassy Stare Fogging My Own Vision,
The Bitter Taste Of ***** And Dissapointment,
Was Lodged In The Back Of My Throat,
Thirst Coating The Roof Of My Mouth,
My Body Weak,
The Rhythmic Clicking Of Machines Relaxing,
Almost--Peaceful,
Black Clawing At The Sides Of My Eyes,
Whispering A Lulling Language--Sleep My Friend,
Doctors Poking At My Abdomen,
Nurses Pushing Fluids Through My Veins,
Dyes, Potassium, Water, And Many Medicines,
X-Rays And CAT Scans Went By In A Blur,
As I Slowly Regained My Body

What's with these car windows,
Fogging up as you tell me to calm down?
I take deep breaths
And try not to make the sound
That's building up within me
Moans that are far too loud
I'm arching my back
And and squirming around
What's up with these car windows?
Fogging up when you tell me to calm down.

If he held me again today
I'd collapse into his being
In anger and regret
And thankfulness
Otherwise there'd be no change
He was once all of my heart and mind
Not only occupying my thoughts
Fogging them
I did not think of me
I thought of us
A fragile concept
One of the past

If he held me again today
It would be the last

Plot a course through downtown doors
then drift along the concrete shores
of asphalt oceans navigated
          under stars
          imitating
     broken curbside glass--
     over crunching gravel miles
          measured in half-hours
and meted out in heavy, fogging breaths
          and squinting, midnight eyes...

Counted out the blocks, counted steps
and concrete squares by metered
three-four thoughts dancing across
     reflected skylines, just behind the eyes.

Each step's a held breath,
each footfall a prayer on crumpled paper,
each set of shoulders, a hanger for...

                                        coats are homes
                                             for hands
                                    rolling up in pockets
fishing for some solid anchor,
sinking into years of walks and silent words like these.

                                   * * *

Listing hard, adrift for years
     water-logged and pocked--
                    no anchor--
shredded sails and leaning masts
                    tell stories
                  of deck fires:
                   leaping rats,
             and charred strakes

Clear deck,
               empty hold,
                              abandoned helm.
                     this coat's Atlantic fog.
Frayed rigging like cobwebs stretch
          down and across
like lines on faces aged by the frost
          on midnight walks.

Strike the colors, mate...
Admit you're lost.

I am reading this poem,
late, in the snug familiarity of my bed,
with gentle night-light and sable night-sky,
stars swimming beyond the glass,
warm breaths fogging up the panes.
I am reading this poem,
curled on a beanbag in a library with her my by side,
breaths stirring against my skin,
like the winds of time, of change, taking me away from here.
I am reading this poem,
in a room that is abound with remembrance and days gone by,
where the bedclothes are heaped, fresh and steaming with warmth,
with the same freedom that the open valise speaks of,
a journey ending in success, a triumphant flight.
I am reading this poem,
as the underground train screeches to a halt,
and before heading up the stairs,
towards the love that life has bestowed on me.
I am reading this poem,
by the glow of the laptop screen,
where the headlines flash and flicker,
for once, joy is splashed across the monitor.
I am reading this poem in a waiting room,
of meeting eyes and crinkling smiles, more friends than strangers,
without fear.
I am reading this poem by firelight,
in the simple joy and jubilation of the young who know they matter,
and live with hope and inner liberation, from the earliest of ages.
I am reading this poem,
freed of the curved lenses, the cloudy cataracts,
and I can see the letters for what they are and I read on,
because this freedom is precious.
I am reading this poem as I sit by the radiator,
the milk is already warm (electricity isn’t cut these days)
child in my arms, book in my hand,
because life is waiting for me to live it,
knowing it is never too short or too long but just right.
I am reading this poem not in my language,
while she sits at my side and helps me translate,
because tongues are free to roam now.
I am reading this poem listening for something,
stopping to savour the taste of freedom,
to be able to refuse the task I cannot turn to.
I am reading this poem because I can,
and there is so much left to read
I have now and forever,
to soar untamed with wings unclipped, clothed as I am.

I've been thinking
about
the art of speaking
auditory rhythms
and the like
in my very personal
opinion
these audio utterances
so often used
by the population
have become
somewhat
like pollution
fogging gracelessly
over the small drops
of wisdom
uttered
in near silence
if you actually listen
you'll probably hear them
somewhere
under the blurtations
of the unconsidered
thoughtless thoughts
they're there.
If you listen
the art of quiet
uncovers many surprises

The sleet had piled high up on the side of the road, spraying the brownish gray over the pedestrians. Sharlesburg was far out on the Pennsylvania country side, and the town was choked by trucks hauling by and the smells of dairy farms. No one really stayed there long, aside from the clerks in the little stores, maybe a few waitresses, and none of them wanted to stay around. No, the waitresses all wanted to move to the city and get their big time jobs, and the clerks wanted to move down somewhere warmer to retire. Maybe to the lake, but that was too rough in the winters. Well, the Summers were gorgeous, and so maybe that would work. The only ones who wanted to hang around were the farmers.

     Life was slow, and the farmers knew the land. Time there plodded away slower than the cows grazing on the moors. As one year grew into two and two into six, not much ever really changed for them. The land would go from muddy and torn to green and sparkling, gold and cracked, and again to the mud, smeared with the white from the snow. And all the while, the animals paced, and so did the farmers, wandering deeper and deeper into the rut.

     Tyler sat by the window, watching the cattle huddle together out in the mud, her tea and her breath fogging the window. Her father was out at town for the weekend, though she never really asked why. Monday he would probably stagger home reeking of a medicine cabinet. Another cow might die this winter, she was sure, because she had never learned how to deal with a cow in labor, and the vet didn't like to come by any more. That Tyler wasn't sure of why, but her father was almost certainly the blame for that.

Her mother wasn't around anymore; she left with a furniture salesman to live on the lake.

The television glowered in the corner, the same four channels playing the same four things. Tyler switched them off, but wanted the noise, and turned on the radio.

"REPENT SINNERS REPENT SINNERS! FOR THE FIERY HELL AWAITS YOU! I MEAN YOU, YOU WITH YOUR ****** MUSIC AND YOU JEAN SHORTS! HAVE YOU SEEN THE TV? THOSE GIRLS, WITH THEIR EXPOSED CHESTS AND GOING TO WORK-,"

Tyler switched it off again.

Something had fluttered outside. What really caught her eye was that it wasn't white, like the sky, it wasn't the snow, it wasn't the mud or a black back of a cow. It was something red and shiny.

The snow was falling pretty hard though. She couldn't be sure.

In the quiet, Tyler could discern the mooing yelps of one of the cows. She pulled on her yellow winter coat and scrambled outside. The air was cold and sharp against her nose, ripping away the smells of manure and filth. Even the tobacco from the ashtray was blank; the landscape was nothing but sound and snow and the ******* cold.

      The cows stood in a brace, black bodies radiating heat in the January snow. Tyler shoved them aside, though they hardly budged. Saliva dripped onto her shoulders and onto the ground, little pits in the mud. One cow groaned again, and as she got closer, she saw it was laying on its side in the middle of the brace. A pregnant cow, heaving under the pain of labor.

    She guffawed, trying again to shove the onlookers aside, but it seemed as though they merely packed closer together, and she could hardly get an arm through. As Tyler watched, the cow shrieked in pain.  Cows clamored tighter in the bunch and their eyes swallowed the sight as dully as cud.
"Please, move! get out of the way!"
     Of course, the beasts, they paid no mind. The heifer shrieked again as blood began to spout heavily fourth. The Cows did not even step back. They did not budge as Tyler beat on their rumps, not a flinch. The cries of pain grew weaker and weaker and the legs went from their horrible flailing to the slow movements of a dying moth.
When the scene ended, the cows were no longer amused, and passed on. The heifer was dead. Tyler scrambled forward in hopes of saving maybe the calf.
It was only a ****** rag , hanging sadly from the mother's bowels. no life had touched the wretched thing.
Tyler sighed.
And went back inside.

From afar I knew her at school,
We talked once or twice,
She was a beauty you see.
Having a boyfriend elsewhere.

Came our Senior All Night Party,
Planned out all very cool.
After an afternoon Graduation,
Our entire class of several hundred
Embarked on a private train,
Eight passenger cars,
An Engine and caboose.
All Just for our use.

As a class officer I was in the entry car,
Handing out handshakes to the guys,
And goodbye kisses to the girls,
(One last chance to flirt.)

Until she, the leggy blond came along.
That kiss was not fleeting, not congratulatory,
If was mutually passionate and assuredly sincere.
It took my breath away, she tasted of lipstick
And honey, sweet as can be.

Minutes later we found ourselves
In a compartment, mostly alone,  
Stayed there though out the,
90 mile train excursion,
Discovering each other as
Young Lovers should.
Nothing seedy,
Nothing inappropriate,
Just kissing until our lips hurt,
And I felt like I might explode.
This beautiful long legged girl,
And I, fogging the windows up,
All Fireworks and night flares,
Like a steamy magic act on the rails.
Other people came and went,
But we hardly took notice of them.
Lost in a little world of our own.

We reached Oakland,
Departed the train,
Went aboard a three level,
Red Line Cruse Boat
And sailed away.
Two bands, music,
And just a little *****,
High on kisses, Royal Crown,
Jack Denials’ Black Label.              
All night on the Bay water,
A little dancing too, as I recall.

Then back at the Pier by six.
Breakfast and return train trip.
Somewhere along the way,
We lost track of each other,
Too many people,
All moving and shoving,
Friends pulling us in different direction,
Too tired to protest I guess.
I found a place to fall asleep and did.
And just like that it was over.

The next day and for years,
It all seemed like a dream.
How does that happen?
What had we both been feeling
For those four school years,
But had never expressed,
To ourselves or each other,
That put us together on that journey,
Of Steel Tracks and Water Adrift?

During those years,
What passions had we stifled,
All for lack of opportunity?
Both dating other people,
Busy moving blindly through adolescents,
As kids will do, with no real clue.   

After the train ride,
That ship on the Bay,
It was off to college,
And new friends with which to play,
Events and time took over, and
We both went our own ways.

For the first time, since that night,
I saw her some weeks ago.
And she still looks the same.
It’s been many years,
But she has not changed.
Lovely as ever and still my friend.
Both of us laughed as we talked,
Fondly recalled that night on the train.
She now a widow and me on my own.

Living 600 miles apart,
We email back and forth,
Pen Pals we tell ourselves,
And each other.

What was I thinking?
Back in those days.
How did I let her get away?
I suppose “Stuff” and something,
Called Life merely got in the way.

Now every day,
The first thing I do,
After I let out the dogs,
And brew a cup of Joe,
Is open my Email files,
To see if she is there.
So pleased when she is,
A little sad when she’s not.

gucci on my feet
dior on my outfit
something about making
all the money back

busy windshield wipers, red light.
messing with dating apps
while you’re talking
about buying black ops 4

forget what my purpose is
misted in the same drizzling cloud
fogging up the windows
the funny noises you make

when you laugh
dispel all the monsters
away in my mind
philosophy away, leaving an echo

Syncopated with the earthly trumpets,
Silvery milk harps silhouetted the scene,
Golden tolling thunder fogging from the deep,
Fanatics drawing deathly dream-like breaths,
Wrapping around the candle drums.

Suns and moons kissed our eyes,
We all laughed at our disguise,
All truth had become all lies,
From the ground all ties were cut,
Floated to the center,
Earthly lives and candle drums,

Take away the dying block,
Gracious resounding turbulence,
Time stopped for heavenly hell,
Came apart and brought back with spell,
We all fell and resurrect tonight.

9:43 on a frigid clear morning, the morning I made the conscious decision to stand as far as possible from the dropoff to the train tracks, and an older gentleman next to me, newspaper folded, saying "It's a cold one today, isn't it". And I smiled in agreement and I drank my overpriced coffee, fogging up the sky.

10:13 on the train, unwashed windows turning the sun *****-bright, and I didn't drift off for it as all the men in suits and flatlined mouths slowly did.

And 11:36 in the City, a man I had decided not to love and his sarcastic appreciation of modern art, and me laughing endlessly. And this man showing me his secret hideouts and telling me secret stories, stories that you earn. I had decided not to love him, though, and so I didn't. It was easy because he had made no such call.

And 5:52 in his marble high-rise and his bed that was bigger than my bed, on it, he told me he had decided not to love me too. And then we kissed, and kissed, with nothing-to-lose moving our hands and mouths all over each other. Nothing-to-lose tangling his sheets and relaxing our heartbeats, and making them audible.

8:04 on the night of the morning I began to fear the third rail and the whoosh of the New Haven line, a bruise on my neck and my kiss-swollen mouth flashed red and *****-bright to the post-commuters, and the man I forgot not to love still in the city, and the feeling of peaceful but irreversible damage heavy on my lap.

He sat fogging up the glass by the window pane
Watching the aftermath of a great white storm
and as he sipped his hot cup of tea
He remembered his youth with his bride lucy

When they were fresh healthy and bright
They'd sit by the fire on a cold winters night
and cherish the time spent in laughter drinking wine
But oh my friend how time goes by

Lucy's hair had changed it was as white as the snow
and her laughter had change into untangible moans
and Lucy couldnt remember those old fiery nights
Lucy was always confused and full of fight

No matter what the doctors say
The man waits for that very special day
When Lucy turns red blushing with smiles and says
Oh my Love remember when...

Going crazy in the normalest way
So jealous, so alone
The world doesn't open up to me
Because I press my face against glass doors
The windshields are fogging as I focus in on my disgusting and shameful acts of mutual *******
Waiting till life comes knocking at the window with a flashlight
Asking me to touch my nose,
Walk a straight line

You make me wanna **** myself
But I don't wanna die
I've just run out of ways to make you
Look into my eyes
I'm standing at a crossroads with nothing on all sides
No matter where I walk the future's always past the sunrise

I get up late each morning
Forget what I was dreaming
The memory of my eternal self
Floating through infinite kaleidoscopic
Worlds of pure imagination
Fades as easily as the lurid detail
Of the *** dreams I wake from in paranoid self-delusion

The church marquees say the skies open soon
But they lie
How could the answer to my woes be shining at me on the roadside
Between home and community college?
Everything is everywhere
But thus far NOTHING is here
There's an invisible dome over our heads
And none crane their necks to see beyond
The social order needs tending to
The community garden can wait
We'll always be able to survive on
Just-in-time produce deliveries
To our nearest grocery store
We have more important concerns
Like the meaningless jobs devised
By an unthinking static regime
To grow the economy and keep us from every questioning this way of life
The American way, the baby boomer's dream
Hidden within a shaded alcove
Of the barren wasteland we decided would suit the planet better
Than an unlimited, self-regulating biosphere
Powered by solar energy and God's will

We really did eat the fruit of the tree
But we didn't let it **** our egos
We didn't break on through
Adam and Eve didn't know the machine elves
And if they did the Vatican will have no mention of it
We must no longer be individuated consciousness
But we fail to see that we are ALREADY ONE
With each other
And everything
Even I cannot see it
When I spite my own flesh and blood
For a little bit of sensual grokking
Drinking in green eyes and pink lips

No jealousy!
I am you!
We are me!
Where does this jealousy come from?
The inability to SEE
OPEN YOUR EYES
OPEN MY EYES

Fever tickles your forebrain
Bad thoughts dribble down your nose
Like syrup off my fingertips
Coughing up cheaply made lies
And selling them for the price
Only minimum wage parasites can ****
The propaganda of self pity
Fogging up your vision
Like car windows stained with
Frustrated ******* (or *******)
Sliding straight down your legs
Where your tongue is heavy
Too depressed to form a sentence
Yet thirsty enough to swallow
Thirteen million restless presents
Scrambling around
Clawing their way up the back
Of your throat
Where the sun sets pink
between your teeth

the sky was crying
I could already tell she was lying
... why is this happening to me

earlier experiences omen the bad to come
but lately the bad's been so seldom
... I didn't want it to be

when it happen, I wasn't mad at you then
in all honesty, I wanted to be your friend
... pass anger your eyes couldn't see

in that moment, out of desperation
you made things worse by fogging the situation
... now no one will believe your plea

in the future, own up to what you've done
don't be dishonest and try to run
... the truth will set you free

We live in Glass Boxes.
Made up of love, joy, and
happiness, anger, pain,
and hate. We knock on windex'd
walls, shouting for
someone to break our
boundaries.

No one's box is made
the same. Everyone's glass
cracks different ways. The
sun sends patterns across our
skin, staining us with
experiences that build who
we will become.

I press my nose to the glass,
fogging my walls with
the haze of heavy breathing.
My eyes squint for you,
searching desperately for your
Glass home...but no matter
how hard I try, you're
always just out of sight.

I hear on the wind that your
glass is changing. Chipping
away to the pressures of
******. It's all I can do not
to claw my walls. I know these
bleeding nails would be
my only triumph.

So I sit in my Glass Box, bitter
at the rays of color that
turn my home into a rainbow
prism. The paradox of it all
enough to make my head pound.
Is it even fair to be happy?
When you're off, all alone,
drowning in you're own pain?

I put this cigarette between my lips
in the foolishness of maybe
it could make me poeticize.

Ingenuous thought when I know the only
drug able to mess with all my system is you.

More effective than nicotine, fogging all my mind
More dense than an smoke that I stubborn to
take to my lungs, your smell clogs my aerial vias.

More rough than the cigarette material
rubbing my fingers, your words scratch my skin.

More agonizing than abstinence, your distance makes
me writhe inside my own body, facing an intern fight
that always end in riot because I can’t decide between
leave you on your own luck or convince you that
we can be the lucky of each other.

And here is the living proof, here is the poetry
that i’m only able to extract from the collateral
damage caused by *you.

there is something beautiful about a memory
that reaches from the pit of your stomach
latches onto your heart
and pulls it under your lungs
placing you in a moment
that once saturated the marrow of your bones

when you close your eyes you can
feel, see, and be just as it was
with carrots, a park bench, the night sky,
a bottle of spanish wine
and his arms cradling you against
the chilling wind

it takes you so deeply into
the inscription he carelessly carved
across the back of your eyes that
when you open them again and exhale
you find it fogging the midsummer air
releasing the very breaths you took
by his side

Parable Megaron Dodeká Spathiá: “Procorus perceptibly saw how the sky of Patmos was crossed by heavy metalloids of bronze, tin, and acrobalistics; for the cavalry of Kanti and his six Para Sinuses appeared who used to ride on the roof of the Megarons belling in the sounds of the acroteras. In these episodes, in twelve Swords that multiplied in advance by thousands, before the Megaron began to be built. In relevant and virtual dimensions, foundation lines, acrostics of Thessalian steeds on their palfrey, mounted Polish Winged Hussars, carrying twelve armor wings with twelve horsemen, adjoining the halo of heavy cavalry in Katyn, being abducted by a circum-regressive parapsychological Ellipsis of the 1939 event in Poland. Each rider was skewered in blood with golden wing feathers. In each of their hands, they carried the curved sword Szabla, to conceal the tacit target of oppressors and musketeer intruders from the armory hearth of the hypothetical-unknown enemy but if outsider, assaulting the flanks of the rooftops in the Virtual Megaron of Patmos, using Kopias or pikes that schemed on the impulses of deadly resistance and betrayed ancestry. On the roof that pointed to the southwest, the light of Orion was reflected by aerial forms of the Orpheum in the Aegean, riding on the high seas with the Exvotos or offerings of Cyclamen and Red Poppies, looming in majesty and in their nomadic obtuse compass of the Rapsodas Orpheming epic elegies, of those venerable and revived triumphs that were stretched out on the banner of glory and on the bed of epiphany.

Rapsoda proclaims like this: “In Katyn Wings of Golden Wood and Red Poppy, they adorned themselves with Bellis Perennis in twelve thousand rags, in our steppes harassing their wailing in blood wars, framed in large sections on the thresholds of the threshold of their mounted war. There were twelve thousand red poppies burning on the executory pilaster near Smolensk"

How much there is to be fed up in the Polish cavalry of the seventeenth century, that, upon glimpsing of barbarous sounds, the temple approached the altar of the Virtual Megaron, shining in acquiescent ceremoniality and counter-revolution of bloodless aristocracy in needy portals-living and mortals- living creatures, who posed in the rear of twelve thousand slain officers in Katyn Forest, like gentle medieval men in the contemporary untimely invasion. Here, in this place, the winged horsemen, snorted were by fate when they were sacrificed, like steel cushions galloping on their heads and sheltered by brotherhoods of Hussars that protected them with their lion and tiger breastplates with deterred claws.

Procorus, observed in the virtuous imaginography as medieval winged specimens, protected the frontispiece of the Megaron, in a battered super existence and trance of historical architectural pavement. Here on Patmian soil, each of the officers who was assisted by each Polish cuirassier of the 17th century with fierce wings, they were making them agonize with honor and glory, with those similar twice right there in their likeness, with interwoven discrepant blood fogging and executing apocryphal witnesses who covered their faces, overflowing evasion and delays of bodies stained with mourning and grief, in quilts of red poppies scattered and bordering a naive disarmed forest. On exalted memorandums and with secret cries of Adrastea procreating with the nymphs of her kind, they drowned the cry of cuirassiers like Didaskein, before sobbing on their topic, but of Pashkein in the foliage of the putrid hopes, of those who beat them for the back, in analogous vexation to Katyn's heroes. Here neither Crones nor Mother Rea heard them, only Adrastea prevented the cries of the men-children who were atoned for their backs; unburden them of the foliage of the Didaskein-Pashkien, in tears of solid mercury. Kanti's steeds rise up, carrying them the curved Zsabla sabers, before each is shot in the head, in the manner of twelve thousand Winged Horsemen caught in each Zsabla. These sacrificed them before they were killed at the waist of their head, not being expired by bullets, rather by sabers of honor and glory of their own winged protectors that would lead them by sharp weapons towards the holocaust of the Mashiach surrounded by red poppies.

“The red and fiery mist of the forest led the souls of the Hussars to pass through the sabers of their compatriots before they were slain by the Soviets, so their apostolate souls will be catechized by Zsablas of air stained of Red Poppies turned into the air of respite from the heroes of Katyn Forest, redeemed by the Golden-Winged Horsemen of the 17th Century ”

(Procorus in the immensity of the voices and epithets that were heard and differed in the volatile and explosive sabers metals, at present they were extinguished in their crooked breastplates and in their Polish beings, in the rear that finally Procorus settled them in warps of immaculate habit, suspended in twelve thousand Red Poppies crossed by their forehead, before being shot in the cortex and occipital lobe, forging themselves in the golden sabers and of transvestite cenobites who received them in their arms in the sublime stench of the effluvium of their blood and their hosts, never left and desisted of the bubbling by the figures of the acroteras near the Megaron, idem in the same Katyn Forest, surrounded in a string of the Rosary that was splendid in Procorus prohibiting them)

All those words
I should never have said
All those thoughts
That entered my head
Misreading situations
Placing false allegations
What am I doing here,
my mind is so unclear,
My windscreens fogging up
I'm drowning in the silence
All I want is to hear
Your voice calling out my name

It's not the same
Without you here
I can't bare to watch you leave
And I've made mistakes
It's okay,  it's my fault
I'll take the blame
I'm sorry for causing you all this pain
It's not the same
It's not the same
without you here

I'm sorry
For ripping apart your heart
I'll make it up
I'll make it up
And I'm sorry
For creating all these scars
I'll patch them up
I'll patch them up
I'm sorry for giving up
I'll make it up
(Just wait and see)
I'll make it up
I will make it up

How could I have caused such hurt
When I really love her
How could I not have seen the signs
She's been signalling all this time
How can I take back all I said
I've just gone and changed everything
I don't want this change
Don't want you to go away
Please stay, please stay
I'm reaching out my hands to you
I'm reaching out my hands to you

It's not the same
Without you here
I can't bare to watch you leave
And I've made mistakes
It's okay, it's my fault
I'll take the blame
I'm sorry for causing you all this pain
It's not the same
It's not the same
without you here

I'm sorry
For ripping apart your heart
I'll make it up
I'll make it up
And I'm sorry
For creating all these scars
I'll patch them up
I'll patch them up
I'm sorry for giving up
I'll make it up
(Just wait and see)
I'll make it up
I will make it up

After all, we have been through
After all this time
I'm losing you like this
Because of my selfish antics
How could I not see
How much you were hurting deep down inside
I'm supposed to be your protection
The one that you could turn too
Never should have let you
Fight these battles on your own
I've made mistakes
I've made mistakes
Yeah I hope and pray
That one day you might forgive me

It's not the same
Without you here
I can't bare to watch you leave
And I've made mistakes
It's okay, it's my fault
I'll take the blame
I'm sorry for causing you all this pain
It's not the same
It's not the same
without you here

I'm sorry
For ripping apart your heart
I'll make it up
I'll make it up
And I'm sorry
For creating all these scars
I'll patch them up
I'll patch them up
I'm sorry for giving up
I'll make it up
(Just wait and see)
I'll make it up
I will make it up

I love you so much
I'll repair your heart
From the damage that I've done
I'll make it up
I'll make it up
I love you for all you are
Shine bright my star
Shine bright my star
I love you for all you are.

©2017 Written By Benji James

Breathing is not an option here,
Pressed against windows to fill
The cracks:
Don't let the water in.

The streets are flooding.

Find higher ground,
Ink bleeds down pages scarred
With words:
Save yourselves.

The streets are flooding.

Home groans against the pressure,
Begging to break and snap with
Powerless moans:
Don't succumb.

The streets are flooding.

"Find higher ground!" I scream,
They glare at me for disrupting
Their silence:
They won't hear me.

The streets are flooding.

The sound pools in my ears,
I used to collect rain drops in
Clay pots:
I want to rush the waves.

The streets are flooding.

I am too scared of heights to climb,
The glass is fogging I am trying
To breathe:
Open the gates.

I am flooding.

To feel
All and intensely
To care
Fully and endlessly

Is it weak?
Or is a strength?

Confusion fogging my mind,
I struggle to accept my empathy
For people
For situations
Not relevant to my own
But relevant enough
To consume me
In second hand grief

I’m drowning
Yet emerging

Can I handle these emotions
And still support those in need?

It’s a question I constantly ponder.
With another outbreak,
It’s a question I need to answer.

Why are the woods so far away?  
I have to drive for hours to get out to the middle of nowhere,
Where nothing is
To be in the middle of everything that makes me feel alive.

I struggle explaining the extreme exhilaration I experience
Of my first few steps into the wilderness,
Untouched by technology,
To the very generation of technology.

It’s as if all the wires that tied me down are released
The second I take a deep inhale of the smell.
The smell of thriving Nature—
The trees
The grass
The tiny streams
The moss
The animals
EVERYTHING.
It all strips away the cords and the stress.
I can breathe freely once again.

Hiking and backpacking
Are the two things that keep me sane
In this fast-paced world.
I constantly feel as if I’m being ****** forward
At a pace that continually picks up speed
And there is
Nothing
I can do to slow it down.
It’s terrifying.

That’s where my Nature comes in
As soon as I’m in the woods,
The clouds fogging-up my brain disappear
And I am free.

It must be the consistency that calms me.
For the world is ever changing
And barreling into the unknown,
While Nature
Is a beautiful, relaxing cycle.

The trees are my pillars,
But there are no walls to hold me back.
The sky of wondrous colors
The trails of dirt beneath my feet
The insanity of tree roots
Delving in and out of my ground,
Searching for water.

Water.
Water that falls from the sky,
To the mountains
To thousands of trickles
That run together to form my rivers
Which are powerful and repetitive
And repetitive
And repetitive enough to shape mountains.

That always amazes me.
Because when you drink from that bottle of water you’re holding,
You don’t think about how powerful it is—
Powerful enough to transform
A mound of rocks and dirt
Into a breathtakingly, beautiful waterfall.

Waterfalls are one of my two favorite wonders.
The other is stars.
Not the stars YOU see
When you look up at night
And can count both of them,
Poking their heads in
To get a look at the goofy humans.

You don’t realize
That the street lamp you’re standing under
Is contributing to drowning out
All the twinkling stArs.

In the woods,
In my Nature,
When the smell of my hard-earned campfire
Envelops me,
I lean back on a log
And I can see them.

My heart stops. . .

And I wonder
Why street lamps were ever invented.
The stars blanket the sky
With a radiant shimmer
In such mass amounts
That you could play connect the dots
And make the Mona-Lisa.

It’s all there.
My Nature is always there.
Just waiting to remind me
That life goes on.

When a tree dies,
Life goes on.
When the water runs low,
It’s just a slow point, and life will go on.
When a friend moves,
Life goes on.
When life is confusing and depressing,
It’s just a slow point, and life will go on.

My Nature is always there.
My Nature isn’t mine
Because I own it,
It’s mine
Because it’s a reliable friend that keeps me sane in this crazy world.

two candles but they're only your eyes.
twisting and contorting, and they can articulate your desires better than your mouth ever could.
candle wax only exists on the crests of your cheekbones when your eyes have been blazing for days.
they drip down in patterns that God himself could only hope to decipher.
your eyes as they burn are subjective only to the sound of her voice, or the curvature of her body as it writhes beneath you.
your visceral reactions have nothing on the hidden semantics that litter her skin.
ubiquitous presences gazing down at you, gazing down at her, windows fogging and cracking.
now, This is Poetry
          This is Catharsis
this is raining hell down on her until she's every saturated colour she could never define.
like forcing her to write every pro and con of sleeping on the floor while you held a gun to her head.
and she knows better than to scream with the lights turned on.
give me guided meditation as a self defence mechanism.
give me self reflection as a form of shock therapy.
give me militant offensive tactics.
give me blood, give me a martyr.
whisper her name into the sheets and send them into space.
and let them drift along forever.
and send her into space after them.
and admire the way it can rob her of her last breath the way you never could.
maybe now you can look yourself in the eye in the mirror.
maybe you can stop burning all those ******* candles.
maybe now you can stop trying to burn yourself down.

The tiny starfish hands pressed on both my cheeks. Her heart trembling in her sea-washed, sky-gray eyes. Little delicate lips pressed in an adult line of barely-controlled emotion. The *****, dully-shining tear streaks that drew paths through her freckles. Butterfly kisses, I would tease her as I swept her into the salty air.

I have to focus. I steel myself, dragging memories from the back of my clouded mind and setting them before my fogging eyes. I refuse to let them slip away again. I could never live with myself if I did.
I had said something to her. Ignore the fact that I can’t remember what it was. She smiled through the tears, her laugh a reminder that she wasn’t the adult she was trying desperately to be - that I was forcing her to be. I had wrapped her in my arms for the last time, lifted her toddler body easily from the sand. She held onto me tighter than I thought she could - another underestimation, I suppose. My neck started running with her tears. I hummed her song through a choked throat.

“Momma loves you.”

Fairly standard, as far as last words go. But sufficient. I am satisfied. Flashes of that day, the departure, boarding the ship, lacking the strength to watch my daughter fade into nothing behind me, spin past my eyes with increasing speed. Funny, everything else has slowed. The water makes my limbs sluggish, the ropes twining like lazy snakes around them. The footsteps of my heartbeat have slowed their pace, leaving longer and longer pauses of silence in their wake. Even the glittering light, what there is of it, is lethargic in its reaches to my nearly-blind eyes.
With all the salt-water clouding my vision, dimming my memories, I could swear the sea knows of my loss. It must: it is weeping with me.