I hate you.
I hate so many things about you i cannot recall a single word in my vocabulary that can even begin to grasp the amount of hatred i have for you.
I hate the way you walk. The way you talk. The way you dress I hate all of it. Why? Let me explain.

I hate the way you walk. The way your body sulks forward as if the entire world was on your shoulders and not a soul on this planet would lift even a finger to help carry your burdens.

I hate the way you talk. Not about others but about yourself. The way the pain in your words seems to seep out even as you try to mask it with the I'm alright or I'll be fine.

I hate the way you dress. How beautiful your clothes look on you. How every shade of green blue and red seem to be just enough to hide all the little bits of insecurity you harbour underneath. I hate how much time you put into shopping for clothes, thinking about how gorgeous the material is. The softness of the fabric. Thinking that while you wear such amazing, stunning clothing, the body beneath is will never be enough for anyone. Never be enough for you. I hate the way you dress because every piece of clothing you buy, you don’t buy to accent you. You buy it as armour to shield away your beautiful heart that you think is ugly.

I hate your eyes. The way every time I stare at them I see someone who's lost all hope. I hate the way you look into the world as if it was made of black and white. I hate that I have the unfortunate privilege to stare into the eyes of one so broken and so blind to the beauty that is you.

I hate your lips. I hate the way they seem to curve down at the edges, as if any semblance of happiness has been ****** out of your once beautiful shining lips. I hate how every time I look at them I'm reminded that your blind eyes don't realize that those lips are the missing puzzle piece to someone else's.

I hate your ears. Yes. Even your ears. I hate how every time someone speaks to you all you hear are your mistakes. I hate how your ears mangle and twist words of praise and love into indistinguishable words that amount to nothing more than babble or a language unbeknownst to you.

I hate your smile. I hate the way your teeth shine perfectly in the light but your eyes betray that smile as fake. I hate how your smile never conveys a true happiness. I hate how your smile though so beautiful at face value, has never comes from the bottom of your heart.

I hate your laugh I hate how even when you laugh, the forcefulness of your laugh is subtle, but to me its existence is as obvious as a red smudge on a white shirt. I hear it. Every time. You think nobody hears it, but i hear the pain in your laugh.

I hate your body. I hate the way your body curves. How every hair and every odd mark on your skin is suddenly a sin that needs to be atoned for. I hate how your body is so beautiful and perfect the way that it is, and I hate how even if you want to change it, you never find the courage to even though you're highly capable of it.

I hate your hands. I hate how when you look into your hands even if they may be small or big, you truly believe that nobody on this Earth would dare hold them. That somehow, someway you've contracted some sort of disease that has made your hands untouchable to anyone else. That just like your lips you truly believe nobody would dare lock their hands in yours.

I hate you. I hate how beautiful you are. I hate how you can't see it. I hate your loneliness. I hate how every day I need to watch as little bits of you float away and dissolve into nothing. I hate that I ultimately can't do anything for you to make you see any of this. I hate how all I can do is write this stupid poem at 3 17 in the morning and hope and pray that by some ******* miracle maybe I can ignite some sort of light in your heart. That maybe for a second, just one second, you can look away from this poem and realize one color in your black and white world. Maybe you realize the blue of your wall. Maybe you realize the color of your skin. Maybe you realize the green of the grass outside.
Maybe you realize the small pond of blue in an endless horizon of grey clouds.

Maybe in the end I hate you so much because you hate yourself so much.
Maybe in the end I hate you so much because you don't believe

How much I love you.

I-AM-NOT-A-DOG.
Today,
I cut loose from your leash of degrading comments.
My ears have learned to ignore your whistles
and the only thing I am going to fetch
is my dignity.

We all have cracks.
People’s words creep into our most foreign parts
And bother us like gnats in our food.
However,
At a young age my mom welded me by hand.
Sealed off every corner so
Your undignified vernacular wouldn’t disturb my peace.

Your mother must’ve had deleterious effects on you.
She told you that love can only be found through intertwining genitals.
I have iron fists and your forcefulness will not supersede my strength to protect what I own.


Let me tell you sir,
Obeying men is an archaic practice
And I wasn’t born yesterday.
I endure life with fortitude even with the threat of your loaded fist 2 inches from my face.

Your catcalls sting like the hearts of mother’s who have lost their daughter’s to the streets.
I hold my mace like a loaded gun walking in the petrifying night.

Apparently big butts lie, they give you the impression that you can squeeze, but back off the anatomy.
Remember that all women embody beauty and grace, not for you, but for themselves.

Political correctness has reached a brand new low
It has now reached good and evil
And has changed things down below

The devil is still the devil,
That much has not changed
But, the food is all organic
And the meat is all free range

I didn't know the changes 'till
I made a plea last week
To sell my soul for increased wealth
And other things I seek

I expected a commotion
When the devil came from hell
But, there was nothing quite so flashy
When someone...rang my bell

I answered thinking nothing much
I looked outside to check
I am wary of the Mormons
and Jehovahs on my deck

I looked outside and there I saw
A man dressed all in grey
A poll taker, election geek
Let's see what he may say

"Good day, kind sir, I come to you"
"You wanted to be rich"
I thought he isn't from no bank of mine
He said "Sir, just call me Mitch"

"Mitch", I said, "I don't know how"
"you'd know I want to sell my soul"
He told me that was why he's here
To get a deal done was his goal

I said, "why use the door bell"
"Why not the cloud of smoke"
He said "with budget cuts'
"Pyrotechnics made us   broke"

"The PC folks got wind of us"
"of our tricks and double speak"
"Now, you sign away your soul to us"
"but, you can get out within the week"

"We can't go by the same old name"
"Hell is not allowed"
"We're H...E...double hockey sticks"
"Try saying that aloud"

"It doesn't have the forcefulness"
"That the other word once had"
"we can call it heck, if we're in a pinch"
"You can see, it's got quite sad"

"The contracts are all readable"
"You don't have to sign in blood"
"With *** and STD's"
"It may as well be mud"

"A soul still has some meaning"
"But, as you yourself can see"
"The devil stays at home now"
"And sends his minions out...like me"

"I have a small brochure for you"
"You have choices, please pick six"
"It's more a club, a health resort"
"In H...E...double sticks"

"I can't get out, I'm stuck for good"
"I signed my deal before"
"The PC people got us good"
"And now...we use the door"

"Please look over the contract"
"Take your time, and read it close"
"You'll find it is a real good read"
"With language, non verbose"

"If you should have some questions"
"change your mind,  or want to tour"
"Just call me on my cell phone
"I'm at star66 extension 4"

"I'm sure you'll still come down  to us"
"It's not so bad, you'll see"
"Just call me when you're ready"
"You've got time, now we're PC"

Everyone loves the comedian.
He can bring a smile to someone’s face that had been covered with a cloud of darkness for decades.
He feels the sadness emitting from another person, even from their heart, and can chase it away with a joke about an interrupting cow or a dog and sandpaper or with the punchline being the lyrics to a song that when said is played in the head of the listener and its beat revives their heart with an electric shock.
He can put in order the right words and can say them with such perfect deliverance that it can make a crowd keel over, laughing so hard they can barely breathe and applaud with the forcefulness equivalent to a stampede of wildebeests.
People like to laugh.
He can make them laugh.
But what if the comedian no longer walks with a spring in his step? What if that cloud of sadness that he chased away found its way and circled back towards him?
What if it just so happen to be that, when he walked off the stage, he pulled off a mask that no one knew was there in the first place because he hid it so well by distracting the attention from his face and onto to what happiness he could provide them with. That by mending other broken spirits, none of them would notice his, even more broken than theirs. And in the silence of my- his- own misery, he is left to rage war with himself that he can only feel on the inside of me- him- and gives no hint to it on the outside so as to remain the jester. My- his- heart and mind is a warzone fought between him and his fears. The insecurities that reach out their withered hands to paralyze me- him- from the heart down are fought only with the will to press on as normal. And while I tell that joke about the rabbi, the priest, and the atheist that walk into the bar I’m on the other side of it drinking myself into a protective pit trying to forget the other joke I told about the chicken who crossed the road as if trying to paint me- it- with some amount of courage to cross the road when deep down inside I know the truth that I am much less than a coward unable to cross a dead road for fear of getting run over by myself. My insecurities and fears that I warded off for so long have finally grabbed hold of my ankles, ripping the supports from underneath me so that I fall and crash to the ground, blood spilling everywhere, all the while keeping a calm composure and a smile taped to my face so no one will know it kills.
Yet still I press on.
Why?
Because everyone loves the comedian.
I can bring a smile to someone’s face that had been covered with a cloud of sadness, emitting from their heart, coming in to save the day and chase away that darkness and revive their heart with an electric shock that has the forcefulness equivalent to a stampede of wildebeests that will leave them breathless and with a smile on their face.
And so they press on.
And so I press on.

swimming with horses,
running with dungeons,
playing with dragons,
hiding behind a fake forcefulness,
like a synthetical lioness,
that artificialness,
fake greatness,
fake lustiness,
fake lustre, lying on them
like a mattress, or
with covered up, less
than what really up to
in them minds

How am I to teach myself
that rage is not love
that abuse is not love
that hurt is not love
that forcefulness is not love
when that is all i have ever known

when you are gentle
you do not speak in anger
you never raise your voice
you always smile
you always make me laugh
only kindness ever leaves your mouth


i feel like a child again when i am with you
before all the badness took over my life

i am hard
rough around the edges

but you
oh my you

you are so soft
your edges aren't even edges at all
they're soft landings

like the way a dandelion falls
onto the grass so gracefully
in the middle of spring

you are my hope again

you are my new beginning

I let my hands slip
from your shoulder blades
only a few seconds after your
arms had dropped to your sides.
Feel better, have a good night
but you can't cry to me anymore
you said it with your bloodshot eyes
the forcefulness of your voice proclaiming
that you've loved her for longer than anyone else.
I stood there, biting my lip thinking
does it really matter how long
you've loved someone for
or is it all based on how
hard you fight, the
passion in your
words and the
taste of your lover
printed all over your skin.
Two years of dim comfort cannot
combat two months of struggle, constant
kicking down of walls and kisses with smoke
in between. Letters miles long with the word "never"
attached to "stop" connected with "loving you."
Mattresses with sheets and easy sleep won't
compare to uncertainty of where to rest
my head, being more concerned with
the state of yours and your self
worth. Two months of loving
passionately does not even
need to fight against
two years of rest.
It always wins.

I found my safest, sagest guide
When once my sorry soul had died
There was nothing of it left
Of life it was savagely bereft
But ending my soul’s stark December
She kindled, fanned and stoked the embers
That burned at the bottom of my sad soul’s pyre
Her forcefulness sparked and spread the fire
Warming me throughout my core
I didn't feel dead any more
My lucky life now filled with jest
And I tackle it with zeal and zest
I have grown quite amorous, fond
Of our special, divine bond
Electric, it kindles in my heart
And lives once more again in art

I sit in a pile of marketing and economics papers
And my exams are in one week.
Lethargically, I stare at these papers
Wishing I could throw them in the air
And follow my dreams .

Father, when I graduate and receive my degree,
when all you will see is my blank stare on
the pictures on your wall,
when I endure your dream,
when you accept that I am not you,
when you listen hard enough to hear
my distaste for your forcefulness,
how would you feel if you were in my shoes?

The attempt to take Patmia was unleashed at once, being protected by Macedonian ghosts including Alexander the Great who came with the melted Xiphos, and who were materializing before the confrontation with the enemies with spirited herons that tried to simulate a greater number of charioteers and steeds than they outnumbered any beast that tried to dominate them with unbridled Cyclops heads. The living half-dead were severed lying with ailments in the newest ranks that epitomized the syntagma of the Macedonian phalanx that was fired by the adjacent slopes in the grooves of the groves near the current Atros monastery, from a high altitude the Achaemenid troops were violated, with their tassels and strawberry trees that made consonance in the labaros, by countersunk washers resurfacing impregnable, and leaving the zephyr of the Thuellai revolted in Marian dispositions that were already beginning to lecture the Persians, with mosaics that resembled iridescence and cramps of expiration, leaving great gestures in the current Roman villa with its archaeological remains, which they would always judge by being willing in the impulses of good and evil, with Apollo who was instituted in a megaron and who would rally all who were forever to follow him and never return, by the stranger keras or side of this improvised framework, where Wonthelimar appeared that e He was in the train of the repertoire of the stalactites of the Chaliotata caves, also splendid in the cave of Drogarati with magnificent glories that allowed them to get lost among the cliff, and attack the Persians from the rear, until now Wonthelimar great expert of the Speleothemes he came from the cave of Melissani in Kefalonia, having them harassed.

The Macedonian Phalanx was commanded by Vernarth and Alexander the Great, bearing in mind the unmistakable strategies of Philip, to win back praise for this decisive Hallenic feat by preempting an eloquent interference by Iblís god, and with his offspring of difference and honor in the Greek possessions with spearmen, pikas and cavalry charges that Alexander the Great would command. The Koilé Aspis was blessed by the Herophilla Sybilla who retrogradely brought the same scattering referring to the Trojan precognition, ordering all the Hoplites to reinforce the cheek pieces with the upper point Koilé Aspis, rolling up the iron plate of the helmet that hung from the left arm. as the sinister that made a plethora of the Zohar and its Kabbalah. The line of the Psiloi anointed the torsion hinges of the keras on the starboards of both light cavalries, one commanded by Kanti and that of Aftó, Alikantus leading Vernarth from the Dyticá. The Hypaspists went in the direction of irruption with all the gravity of the ***** with the heavy cavalry, taking refuge from the heavy Phalanx, next to the right-handed Taxiarchy that sheltered the machines of the enemy troops together with the allied infantry. Towards the side of the sinister, the Syntagma curved with the troops of Thessaly attached to the palfrey of light infantry. From all ends, the Sarissas praised each other in the upright angle that made fearful growth or start-ups even whoever raged them with guttural attributions on the slopes not far from Mount Atros. After the fiftieth of Laodicea, the ranks dropped apexes that exceeded by more than four meters above the shoulder of the arrow brotherhoods that would allow them to deal with their short swords, surpassing the stagnation of the Theban hoplitic phalanxes, thus creating again the embarrassment of the Persians that pale they gave themselves to the pikemen when they were surrounded further from the fifth row of the essence of Vernarth with more than 256 warriors in the Syntagma of Income. This time the science of linking with the Duoverse and the Codex Raedus would extend the myriad of 64 Patmian Syntagmas, which were exacerbated by the syntagamatarchos, being ruled in the soldiers of this row until frisking the pairs of the last soldier called Enomotarchos. Here Vernarth with his horse Kanti reinforces them through the even and odd ranks in the containment of the 32 soldiers, towards the commanders of the eighth peat from the right of a Lochagos. The formation of the two Keras of transition would finally constitute the 32 syntagmas until bringing together the 8192 mesnadas that were rising from the silica with the trumpets to enter the Phalanx with the only war machine in this edition granted by the accentuated voice of their steps, together to the gadgets of their weapons, and Faith that resembled them in the Phrygian morrions for the distribution of a tactic that would not be winning by spilled blood, but by the immovable stamp of the gangs united in their tactical approach, always leaving them in sight of the leonatus that Vernath and Alexander of Macedonia wore, and that no head would contain the smoke of truth where they were secured with a hint of horror, only two minimalisms of light would contain them from the rigor of blindness of the Geburah, later iterating the oblique line that would be a predilection of the cavalry and the subsequent forcefulness of the capital sentence, without attempting any overturning or abrupt windlass d e the sides, so as not to tear the quadrangular gradients of their spectra that used to be prematurely out of square. They strengthened the clubs that split over the four meters of Aurion, to nail them the devil that came from the sky to begin darkness that left the phalanxes uncovered. Unraveling the vines of the demon that tried to entangle them by the superior sight of their leaders, turning with their Koilé Aspis and giving them quick intrigues of protection in motion, essentially pivoting the consecrated Hammer and the Stiletto Anvil that it spurred taking them to the shortcuts with its weak arms to at the expense of the Hetairoi, making them the corollary of dominance and apprehending them against the Pezhetairoi without being able to stop losing the substance of epidermis that could continue or renew due to instances of radial photophobia that cornered them from north to south, taking them dozing where many would-be shaken by Rains of odd starts that will corner them above the flashes that will be reflected from the germinative bases of the Atros monastery, imprisoning them by the sabers in the curves of the Machaira. The wounds will cause a great spiritual wasting creating watches in the remnants of the Syntagmas of some chariots that were wrapped between the last rows, without any prostration that he quickly left and no edge that cut into any collapse of conviction.                      

The Achaemenides were surrounded in the ellipsis of the silica and the future Atros monastery, towards the systematic doctrinal obedience through the resignation of the Seculorum, until then that abhorred Palestine, hearing from afar a strident cacophony that was dramatic convincing, with embalmed edicts of some chronicles, which began to speak in multilateral parapsychologies, which were fading to the edge of the Caucasus, where the fawns diminished their preservation muscles with the giant warriors who tried to capture with their fatigued human eyes.

Saint John Says: “I hold the masters' staff in my hand, they inhibit their apprehensions by squeezing the same tree with their hands, and then making them more flexible when the fawn carries a distance that is difficult for a human to try, even though it is the best hunter towards the flank. right where the last phalanxes turned the heads of the donkey, to avoid attracting the fawn and remain recluse in the siege lances, letting the fawn pairs of the herd carry it "

In this way, it was glimpsed how the Persians' megalomania and weaknesses were castrated in their glorious crowns and heads, which moved them uniting them in the veil of the divinity of Israel where what was founded will be refounded, where the promises will speak for the righteous who stumble. by allegories remained on the battlefield, and not by the stocks or their limbs lacerated by the same adversaries who testify to a greater Apocalypse, who strides and testifies to Asmodeus in what is not confessed, emerging from the imageology in two impossible altars of living together, if one is not there or is distancing oneself by making them believe in the unfolding of half bad compromise, and of flagrant before Samael's henbane.

You will surely soon become
the sacred animal for sacrifice,
to cleanse the land
and purify the abominable
acts of our people,
instigated by the unreasonable
ignorant elders.
And for those that have died
on account of their ignorance,
have paid with their blood
to cleanse our land.
These sacrifices are
not willingly given.
Will the gods accept such
a waste of human lives
to ameliorate their anger?
Or will another sacrifice
be performed to appease
their already inflated anger
over these ethnic cleansing
by a group seeking for dominance.
These strangers in the land
could not tolerate our differences
in this forced relationship.
Their greediness and overbearing
attitude is frightening.
With hidden intent,
Cunning and Forcefulness,
with intimidation they unleashed
mayhem to our people.
Dazed as if hypnotized,
with voodoo and hoodoo at work.
no one is doing anything about it.
Everyone is watching as our families,
Our friends, youths, children,
women, the elderly,our farms,
barns are destroyed,
properties burnt down by
these strange ones.
You will soon be the next if you
still stand and do nothing.
Do not be an unwilling sacrifice,
do something.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

My bed
So safe
So comfortable
The home I actually enjoyed living in
In the house I hated
The pillow that I used to scream into
When I was frustrated
Because they didn’t understand
But
Oh so quickly that bed
Changed
When my once lover joined me in that bed
Because I didn’t ask him to
I wish hedve followed along like a vampire when coming into my home
Can’t come in
Unless you’re invited
My bed
My safety
My comfort
My home
His aggression
His forcefulness
His malicious intent
His home
So every time I sleep in my bed which is no longer my home
I find myself waking up
Screaming help
And sweating
Scratching my own skin off
I’ve always wondered why I’ve started sleeping better elsewhere
This must be why
Because even in a bed of thorns I’d sleep better
It would feel the same
I’d wake up, stabbed and bleeding.

Ideally yours truly prefers
a she/her who never got prosecuted for a felon,
yet who most deaf fin knit lee  
possesses sound blinding killer instincts
think miracle worker Anne Sullivan
signifying rendering phenomenal success
with one female named re: amazing Helen
exhibiting discerning admirable qualities
constituting intelligent witty male
despite his/him sports haunch size of a melon.

I gently beckon inspiration
for dalliance with mother tongue
English Language, each
singular lettered manifestation
familiar to yours truly symbolized
by panoply, sans twenty six letters,

whereby this patient wordsmith
luxuriates, when writer's block
yields sudden gush,
nee burst of creativity
dissolving impenetrable wall
mental log jammed impasse,

discourages literary ambitions
dashed exerted forcefulness
'pon cerebral terra incognita
counterproductive grip locks
figurative drawbridge begetting
utmost frustration allowing egress

and ingress constituting obstructed surge
temporarily disabling free and clear
transmission between ****** fount
barricading abundant bajillion ideas
silent at loggerheads clangor and din
analogous between unswerving enemies

prepared to fight till the death,
exhausting mental energy expended
attempting armistice with futile results,
hence quixotic oft repeated
time tested metaphor
i.e. deliberate pressure foisted

upon seat of aging cerebral matter
inadvertently coloring fist sized *****
at least fifty shades of gray,
versus unexpurgated brainstorming
linkedin with unfettered restraint
breeds favorable prodigious ideas

jotted/ typed stream of consciousness fashion
modus operandi favorable to engender
receptive access, asper (gas) excellent see
i.e. entrance untrammeled leeway
with minimal clash of opposing
titanic invisible entities
thus, aye abandon battering ram

to experience positive outcome
giving good n plenti profuse flood
unstoppable geyser spewing
plethora of appealing material
to arrange into cogent affinity,
energy, magnanimity and synchronicity!

hands are black.
eyes are red from disappointment.
one young naive heart
pursed against a window frame,
breathing misty white circles
on the glassy pane.
waiting for the rusty red car to pull up
in the drive
and she would tug on his satin shirt and plead with her satin eyes.
he would brush his sleeve over soon-expired tears
and hold her clumsy hand
by the rocking chair.
her pupils dilating, flesh smiling.
the years slip by with quick waving hands
forcing me to question my circumstance.
believing still, yet whispers are unsure.  
the blood is young, the doubt fresh,
the driveway empty, the crabapples dead.
he saunters with a limp
and can’t lift me up as far as before.
shoulders weighed heavy from guilt,
cold floors, socks with holes.
his hands are yellow, his chair all creaky.
i read the books, they inform me of wars
and i shut their dark pages with a forcefulness.
i haven’t read the letters from friends; they wouldn’t understand.
they pick blossomed fruits from singing trees
and insert their souls into eternity.
the dirt roads are quiet, the music dull and haunting,
my prized smile is a fraud, the new winter frost a sworn enemy.
by the time the day retires, the aching has only set one foot inside the house,
leaving a bare-bones home
and a shiver hovering around every corner.
i notice no deer, no sparrows, no foxes.
no signs of hope, no signs of rebirth.
i see you beside me with limbs as cold as ice
and the love we had to bury will not suffice.
there are no flowers at our graves,
only frozen branches
lingering
in a place they had not decided themselves
to lay.

Music captures emotion
Unspoken cues of pure passion
in subconscious impressions
It puts a feeling to the words,
and adds that meaning
Lets you feel what was felt once before

Music touches the soul
Gives a glimpse into the essence
of another's heart

What happens when a song captures it all?
When love is found between the notes
And upon them, heavily impacted sorrow
When joy is wrought from each rising tone
And devastation in every falling sound

If a simple melody
So exquisitely and without forcefulness
Can carry itself, to empathize
With each and every man, woman, child
The only proper response is to cry

Poetry reader
Books were cascading in a parade

Drama actor/actress
Why did they take on that format when reading was impaled

Poetry reader
It was the forcefulness of how one laid,
the content and cover,
without considering the feelings of another

Drama actor/actress
Oh I see,
one should not be forceful to thee
Instead find out what they like to read,
for pleasure that be

Poetry reader
An open mind that is a good kind

Drama actor/actress
It definitely is
I am understanding that considering,
the individual is primary bounding

Poetry reader
I will conclude in the knowledge mood,
that understanding of the person centred landing,
has touched down smoothly
Resounding


© 2022 Carol Natasha Diviney

Writer of these words,
a former Lower Providence inhabitant,
who dwelled within darkest depths
of Dante Alighieri's inferno
for most of his outlandish, impish,
and devilish growing up years
witnessed microscopic scrimmage,
where spermatozoan with most forcefulness
muscled itself handedly,
magnificently, and splendidly
envision unicellular olympic competition,

yours truly swimmingly
begot during the heat
of parents being passionately fruitful
courtesy diploid erogenous frisson
between my then searingly
robust virile father and fecund mother
~ late March/early April 1958
ushered seminal moment
post ova fertilization realization
courtesy male gamete

penetrating zona pellucida
a glycoprotein layer surrounding the oocyte
triggering cell bait multiplication
subsequently yielding male
gendered offspring and sole son
hashtagged as uber twittering, snapchatting,
shutterflying super duper
cute little boy with short strawberry blond hair,
whose solitudinarian nature
became quite evident when he displayed
acute social withdrawal

upon off fish shill commencement
getting schooled as a grouper
by mister Hooper,
who made his debut
appearance on Sesame Street
November 10, 1969
as storied and staple long time resident
on above named television show
until March 18, 1983,
beloved by adults and children alike

within make believe community
(a conglomerate of real and imaginary locales)
peopled with proprietary named characters
for any of a number of humorously grotesque
glove or rod puppets and marionettes,
chiefly representing animals,
first popularized, idolized,
dramatized, capitalized, and actualized
by the children's television programme
Sesame Street (1969-) and more recently
in The Muppet Show (1976-80).

Also: a toy made to resemble one of these
ingenious brainchild of Jim Maury Henson
an American puppeteer, animator, actor,
and filmmaker who achieved worldwide
notability as the creator of the Muppets
which series originated as two pilot episodes
produced by Henson for ABC in 1974 and 1975.

Henson's shocking, sudden death occurred on May 16, 1990 of ***** failure resulting from streptococcal toxic shock syndrome. An emotional memorial service was held five days later at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City.

it was that night.
it ****** me over for months.
a spur of the moment decision found us on top of a mountain.
no one to find us.
no one to disturb us.
it was me and her.
alone.
the gentle touch of her hand
so soft.
so supple.
it felt right.
for me at least.
there wasn’t a forcefulness.
we connected.
just like that.
i felt at peace with her.
even in the silence,
i was present with her.
i wanted to be in the same space as her.
i wanted to know her.
to hold her hand.
to mean something to her.
i wanted to hug her and never let go.
because she makes me feel like everything will be okay.

but that was before.
i’m not exactly sure why i told her.
i just complicate things when i open my mouth.
of course she doesn’t feel the same way.
why would she?
who would?

sadly having attachment issues,
those feelings didn’t go away.
i still want to hold her hand.
to mean something to her.
to know her.
kiss her.
she makes my problems go away.
just her existence is enough to make me smile.
so as she’s living her life,
handling her feelings to someone else,
i’m left scattered like broken glass.
faking a smile when i see her,
avoiding my feelings when i talk to her.
because i cannot be scattered even more.

i feel you in the dark
and i feel you in the candlelight.
i see you in the stars
and yet, i can never reach them.
you’re so close
yet so far
you dance all alone
outside the bar
by the place we first exchanged
eye contact
and i saw you in the embers of the street fires.
you gave me happiness
or even just a moment of contentment.
you gave me something tangible to feel
something genuine,
something actually real.
a figment of my imagination
you’ve become
in such short of time.
i miss the optimistic smile
that would
light up in your eyes
and i knew you felt the smoke arise
in my body
after the ravenous fire inside of me diminished.
i feel you as the curtain closes
as the locket i keep as a memorandum
shakes along with my morally stained hands.
i can’t keep a steady eye on the
realness of life.
it all fades into the blue
along with my rare smile.
i haven’t felt the wild wind pull my hair in
different directions.
are you even listening?
i haven’t seen the stars at night
only factory smoke in sight
and the dress you wore is ******
and so lonely.
i traverse through town
and always seem more bitter.
the ripped-up constitution of my
feeble institution
it just crumbles at my feet.
they can’t hear me when i breathe.
it’s as if the world is turning
into a frenzy
and i’m slowly
becoming more and more formidable.
they don’t want to knock upon my door
and they don’t want to fear me anymore.
yet i just want them to fear me more
than they ever have before.
i’m sick of finding solace in the ghost of you.
i’m sick of seeing my forcefulness multiply
into knives that stab
you from beneath your grave.
the dress you wore is ******
and so lonely.
can you teach me how to heal my wounds?
i already lost you,
i can’t lose myself.