I can’t help but wonder if you still have tucked away all the letters and the notes and the list of reasons why I loved you.
I wonder where you left the guitar strings that I gave you for your wrist
I thought I saw them in a picture of you,
the one with the girl.
I could be wrong.

I think about the things I wrote to you and wonder if you’ve ever looked at them again
And felt the warm singe of pain when you read the words that we meant
when we were naïve enough to think that we were different.

I wonder if I still cross your mind when you scoop ice cream
Because you know how I hate skimpy scoopers.
Or when you find a hair on your arm that's freakishly longer than the rest,
if you wish I was there to pull it out.

Sometimes I think of your mom
And I wonder if she kept my picture, the one she kept on the mantle right beside yours.
What did she do with my Christmas stocking?
I can’t help but wonder if it’s been passed on to your new girl
And I don’t know if they’ll watch West Side Story together,
If she’ll enjoy it the way I did.

I imagine you never thought twice
When you came across a hair still on your pillow, or the faintest of my scent
Or my bobby pins on your bedroom floor.

I remember finding the bobby pins and hair binders of other lovers
when I came back to you for the last time.
They were scattered across your carpet like cruel reminders of all the other heads
that lied in the bed that was always mine.
I wonder if she ever finds mine and feels the same.
Probably not.

I imagine you’ll reread that book someday,
The one I got you in high school when you went through your philosophical phase.
And I wonder if you’ll notice the inside cover where I wrote “I love you”.
I’d always thought there was something special about a book with an inscription.

I remember sitting there for a long while, trying to think of something heartfelt
to say to you,
But all I could manage was “I love you”.
Maybe that’s because I knew that anything else I felt for you would have an expiration date
And I’d wonder if you’d read it when I was gone, and those words wouldn’t be true anymore.
Or not to you.
But I think of you reading it now and it won’t seem silly because it will
always be true.
For both of us, I think.

I think about the time when I first moved to your big city
And I got lost in your neighborhood and I saw you from my car.
You were walking right towards me.
I drove away as fast as I could and I couldn’t breathe or talk or smile.
Did you see me too?
I looked in my rearview mirror, and you never looked back as I drove.
I wanted so badly for you to move away.

I can’t help but wonder if you wonder
About your drawings and your notes and the music you showed me and if I still listen to it.
I do.
If I still wear my black pants that made you go crazy
or if I refuse to listen to The Joker, despite my favorite song lyric of all time,
because it reminds me of the time on your uncle's dock
When we decided we needed a song but we were both too drunk to think of anything sentimental.

I wonder if you imagine a bittersweet feeling coming over me
when I hear the Bee Gees and think of you singing in your Elmo voice,
Or if i ever find myself recalling one of your "facts of the day" and wondering where I learned it.

******, I hope you wonder.

Barnacles begin their lives as free-swimming larvae, ebbing and flowing with the tide.  
Most are eaten, some wash ashore, a few survive long enough to attach
with freakishly strong glue their minute larvae heads to a final rock- strewn home.
There they spend the rest of their lives with feathery feet poking out of a hardened shell, filtering the sea for whatever happens to come within reach.

Why the barnacle starts out free
and ends up bonded to some god-forsaken rock
to alternately dry out and be fed at the whim of the tide
is just one of life's many small mysteries.

While barnacles are meant to lead a primarily static life
human beings are not.
We are meant to flow
to settle and ground, uproot and travel
to seek
to speak well and listen better
to find meaningful answers.

We always have the choice to let go
of whatever safe, high ground we're frantically clinging to
though it will mean not knowing where we'll ultimately wash ashore.

Letting go can feel like being caught in a rip current.  
What I know about rip currents:
They pluck hapless beachgoers from shore and pull them out to the ocean deep.  
If you're caught in one and try swimming back to blessed land
you won't make any headway.
Eventually you'll grow tired and drown.

The only way to survive is to stroke like mad
in a totally counterintuitive direction
parallel to the solid ground you desperately want to reach
until you're out of the narrow river ******* you out to sea.

I've decided to unglue my little larvae head
from its rocky, self-imposed, falsely-safe perch.
Let the current carry me where my feet no longer touch the known.

It's up to me to swim in the right direction until I'm free.

You crucified me, with your fanatical insanity,
Using religion as an excuse to persecute cruelly.
Words can cut deep, like knives flaying skin…
Now it is your turn to suffer, so we shall begin!

You anger me, evil human so filled with hate,
Believing yourself so entitled to judge my kind!
Saying I am going to hell because I love deep,
One who shares my gender as well as my heart!
For you, evil human, it is already far too late…
Your soul is forfeit, your spirit I shall now bind.
With darkest sorcery, devils your soul shall keep!
By the power unseen, you will be broken apart.
How dare you mock me, and so provoke wrath,
Until I long to see your head mounted on a pike…
Whilst wolves nibble at your entrails in red bath!
It is not I you need fear, nor I who shall strike.

Demons will haunt your sleep, of your making.
Torments, shall punish you, leaving you mad…
Until: your flayed limbs lie trembling and quaking,
For you have angered me, angered me so bad!
You say I am going to Hell? I am Hell incarnate.
Behold your vile death knell! Let is swell, fiend,
For though I be a devil in your eyes, my true fate,
Is a brighter thing, than any you could ever glean!

You tie yourself with your own veins torn free…
Thinking yourself better than my generation was.
We did not start world wars that killed innocents,
My only sin was that I said the words ‘blessed be’.
Yet you despise all I am, without thought’s pause,
But it is you, who shall sing the bitterest laments…
Evil human, evil bigot, evil mortal whom I despise!
I am your better; I am superior beyond your hope.
You are beneath my contempt; I am the Queen…
And such sweet suffering Hell shall for you devise!
Whilst around your neck is tied the mighty rope…
You will be lowered into darkness, to so scream.

In the end, you will bow to me in heated chains…
Until your shrieks rise like music, to amuse gods.
Whilst I sit in judgment over your countless pains,
As your inner demons poke you with hot prods….
In the tender places, so that you know my agony,
The hell that comes from being treated much less:
Less than human, though I am more can’t you see!
Your demons will drink your blood in gory mess.

Upon a cross, shaped like an X, you will suffer…
No sleep will be permitted you, no sweet dreams.
You will be broken as you broke me, foul thing…
And no reprieve is mine to, your vileness, so offer.
I am the Queen; you will know the truth of Her…
Your every fear will flow from you in vast streams,
And for every time I cried, you will feel that sting,
Your weeping will so harden into a jeweled coffer.
Nothing of you will be left intact, no sanity whole,
And in Hell there is no death, only eternal horror!
Your torture was never my wish, never my goal…
But you wanted this, and so let demons so confer,

The totality of your misery back unto you: creature.
Your evil makes you reek, and it makes me sick!
I am your better, for I am not childish but mature,
Never stooping as low as you, to ignite the wick…
The flame of war to provoke, as you dared wake!
You woke the Dragon, and now you must so pay.
I will lay not a finger upon you; the evils you make,
You will know in Hell, for you must die, one day.

And thence: be bound eternally by your inner ills!
You judged me, hated me, abused me, and spat.
But one day you will kneel before my dark throne,
Fettered by the weight of your unrepentant evils:
And behold my true face, where your fears sat…
Whilst your fears flay you: to your weakest bone.
You saw me as less than human, you sick beast!
Mocked me, for being bisexual and transgender.
You called yourself, a believer in a loving God?
But I am your better; on you, crows shall feast…
Whilst my love, and I, shall always be together!
Keep hating me: keep calling me freakishly odd.

You mock the Queen of Hell, the bright Angel…
But, I was a child, when you first hurt my spirit!
What gave you the right to tell me I was wicked?
You never had the power to judge me so harsh.
But all things change, things ebb and then swell,
Like a primordial ocean, and how you will fear it!
It is not I who condemns you; you made this bed.

You crucified me, with your fanatical insanity,
Using religion as an excuse to persecute cruelly.
Words can cut deep, like knives flaying skin…
Now it is your turn to suffer, so we shall begin!

the attention deficit hyperactivity disorder
poem
is a strange animal

with lines
monosyllabically
short
and then
perilously   freakishly    faulknerically
long
but not to worry

the trick is to ***** around
with the readers' heads a bit
let them wonder
   what's going on
get them used to
   obnoxious departures
   sudden jolts
      of expression
   devious detours into
     obscenity, indecency

these are the
tourette's moments
of a poet's creative life:
a move to keep those with the
attention span of an infant gnat
awake  alive  responsive

some may expect poetry
to take them down
safe  bland  routes:
         a snowfall enhanced by red robins
         perched on a rustic fence

         a lake with canoeing lovers cooing
         in a shimmering moment
          
         heartfelt elegies
         quaint quatrains
         hip haikus

but can these images
really keep you entranced?

well, can they?

it isn't like i didn't warn you
or the horse you rode in on

I wish I could tell you I’m a loner
No more, whenever I need your hands
And lips holding every part of me, and
Shredding my threshold because this is just
A guard I build to keep people from invading
Our heaven, I wish I could shout and sing to the world
Our songs of love, they find freakishly weird,
Because they haven’t seen a love like this and lovers
Like we’re going to be, I would write in every inch of this
Air, and sand, and river, and sky,
About how I’m at loss of words to explain this feeling
Because with you, I’m not me and my words are not
Mine anymore, but just your smell and touch
I long to explore and explain to thousand stars and
Raindrops, just to prove that their beauty fails so
Horribly before your hazel eyes, and I know
Even petrichor would shy against your fragrance,
So I don’t have concrete answers whenever you ask
“what are we” and “what is this feeling”
Because I don’t know,
I don’t know how you turn my blood and bones
Into a wild whisper and I don’t know
Why your thoughts are enough to let a smile
Brew around me, because with you, I’m
Not me and my words are not mine anymore.

I’m bleeding tremendously down my face
I almost escaped.

It’s 5am, we walked the streets and had a cigarette
You tell me about yourself, “God”
It seemed so innocent, only walking

We left with no words
Such harmless individuals with no intentions
We were just happy and free

That’s not my name- I lied.
Cause you pigs are just trying to make bank  
at the end of the month.
So close to making it.
I’ve got dirt grinding between my teeth
And my face is
soaked a crimson red
pooling under my eye
dripping into my mouth
“Call paramedics!”
“but I’m fine, I’m fine.”
I’m trying to cooperate now.
You must think I’m ******* insane

There’s no panic in me
only sorrow.
Up against the car
ambulance head lights
******* blinding me.
You’re already in the back of the car
the overhead light casting onto your face
you mouthed the words so calmly
“It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay”
I tried to believe, I tried to cry.

Back up arrives
******* ******* are having
a ******* fiesta.
But the paramedics are nice
just stop taking pictures of me, please.

I collapse onto the ground
against the vehicle
with my vision spotted
so close to passing out.

They decide we can ride in the same vehicle.
“You like to swim, God?” you asked.
“When I was a kid.” he’s blunt.
“Why not now? It feels just as good as it did
when you were 10.”
But he didn’t answer.
And the sun is lighting the city that I love

There’s massive sliding doors
they crash so loudly
the sound ricochets off the cement walls.

We’re escorted inside
I still haven’t shed any tears.
We remove all jewelry
un-weave  all that’s tangled in our dreads
“They want everything in this ******* bag.”
the policeman said.
they cut the strings from my ******
christmas tree shorts

I’m given beige sandals
my soiled feet are too small.
I take a seat on the cement bench
filthy old ***** eyeing me up and down
grinning freakishly.
I look ******* haggard.

I see the counselor
then attempt to use the bathroom
to open the door on
some old **** ****
taking a ****.

Infomercials drone
obnoxiously.
I hate television.

You take a seat next to me
wearing the hideous sandals as well.
So cold, the alcohol is wearing off
you hand me your paisley flannel.
I bleed on it.

If only we had stayed behind that building
smoking our cigarettes
sharing our minds.
Only 4 more minutes till
the paper would have burned to the filter
would have made all the difference.

I see the nurse.
I’m re-bandaged trying to hold back
my shutters of pain.
His kind words and soft speak
bring me to my first tears
“I’m not like this, I just want to sleep…
in my bed… with my cat.
And my family… Oh my Godddd!”
I’m bellowing as quietly as I can.
And he tells me stories.

I’m allowed to make my phone call
and it’s your turn with the nurse.
Mother.
I’m wallowing into the phone to her
I’m frantic and self-loathing
And she’s coming to save me.

Escorted to your waiting cell
I’m alone now
I feel completely alone.
I’ve lost myself somewhere
between bottles and spent cigarettes.

Taken to the waiting cell
it smells putrid like a public bathroom
which jolts me.
I take my seat on the repulsive floor.

There’s an older obese woman
curled into a ball in the back corner
sobbing.
And everyone looks ******.

The clock is creeping to 8am
******* let me out.
I watch the lazy pigs
******* cackle and stand so proudly
like they earned another
notch in their belts.

Close to 10am I receive my “blues”
and yet another photograph
You in your cell,
give me comforting smiles.
******* **** hollers,
“Awh **** baby! You tried to run!
I’ll bond you out!
I gotcha baby!”
****. Off.

The blond woman takes us upstairs
through metal detectors, crashing doors,
coded rooms, surveillance cameras.
And I’ll never forget
her spidery eyelashes.

I drag my mesh bag on the floor
it contains my blankets and toothbrush…
#36.

I’m lost, everyone there
has been there before.

I just disappeared
no one knows
what happened to me
when they awake.
I let everyone down,
including myself.

The lunch food is served
I want to *****
I’ve been awake for
23hrs and the alcohol is
wearing off completely
I feel like a walking corpse.

#36…
Through the slit of window
I can see you, mother
oh, mother.
please don’t leave me here

I try not to fall asleep
because I could miss the intercom
announcement to release me.

That steel door clicked
and opened
my mother and father stood up
and I had never been happier to see them
It was silent other than my sobbing
and everyone stared
wild-eyed and confused
as I exited to false freedom
and sunshine

Think hard, think often
Don't make me sad, just make me try
Don't make me cry, just make me catch my breath
A sorry sinner is nothing but a disappointment to a praying priest, regardless of how hard you try to convince yourself otherwise

The dog days of summer draw heat from the burning sunflowers putting forth freakishly light fragments of a long gone but not forgotten dark alley way in the back of a decomposing poet's mind
Thought of a thousand times, but not remembered nearly as often as it should be
From whiskey saturated journal pages in the back of a city bus to a bouquet of roses delivered from lovers to their others, heartbreak is a beautifully tragic masterpiece that deserves the utmost respect even when being respectful is the last thing you want to be

Trust me, living is truly not believing until you've lived to tell about your beliefs without a crack in your voice
If I put this pen down, I will never get the strength to pick it back up again
If there is beauty in floating up, there is beauty in crashing back down
I just hope my forgetfulness never reminds me of the time I felt whole, I may never get the chance to write again
But my god, what I would give to not feel everything crumbling down all at once

I would die a thousand times if I were promised that emotions and feelings were never ending, I wish to feel everything all at once all the time; it gives me reassurance that I am alive
I wish to live forever
I wish to suffer
I do not love it, however I do need it
I want to feel until I no longer can feel at all
Let it be known that I will live forever in these writings
I have said all that I need to say
And when I am laying in my death bed, I will shout, "Last words are for fools who haven't said enough"

her mother called her
a textbook virgo,
levelheaded, organized,
practical

and every spare moment she had
was spent writing

most of it was hopeful...
possibilities outlined neatly
on elite paper stock -
serious poems to be
submitted to editors,
poems to celebrate
special occasions,
outlines of plots
for short stories
she planned to write

her personal writings
were deeper, sadder

she wrote reams in a daily
journal about troubled
relationships, tiffs with
her husband and kids, her
competitive sister, each
comment meticulously penned
in an elegant flowing manner

but that final note she left
was the shocker,
written in a freakishly
jumpy, shaky hand,
overly loopy, jagged,
a note on cheesy motel
stationery, filled with longing,
with despair,
words spewing out of her pen,
out of control words
scrawled far from home,
the solitary writer engaged
in an emotional seizure,
facing her phantoms alone
and losing

the rain beat down
each drop a tiny life
falling
falling
forever falling
down to the mortals and the
surface below
plopped and dropped and plinked
out of existence
to become the moisture
the nip and
the annoyance
on our faces.
how we take their lives for granted
how we ignore their cries for help;
were it you that was falling
so freakishly fast
from the furrowed clouds and
the oceans' past
would you dare to wipe
that wetness away
or would you let it sit
and let it
stay?

Space to make change an indelible part of life

Encourage the stagnant side to enliven its speech
Flourishes of energy folding in on one another
Pecking, their beaks marking time with biting tongues
Sqeamish reminders of circus clowns vying for laughs
Staring eyes and red painted smiles freakishly scaring
The innocent rosy cheeked wondrous audience
Clapping the skin from their fingers while querelous
Adults sit bored hoping to borrow a new time zone
Spot checking the interest of those encroaching their space

Space to make change an indelible part of life

To fool the viewer of the showcased goods before their
Sell by date, when holding onto stagnation pales the hand of change
Quell the nausea that preludes sickness leaving that vile taste
Rancour alongside a grinning mass of stained teeth borrows
Sweating it out with flailing words of ignorant abandonment
Scorching hot tears racing one another, dripping from lowered
Eyelashes, coaxing the seeping colour coated debris to release
To wash away the dirt, leaving streaks of diluted aftermath

Space to make chnage an indelible part of life

Everyday there's a growing
that stretches through the cracks of the ground
while my feet conscientiously step on them,
because if you step on a crack,
you'll break everyone's back.

This growing has blue eyes,
sapphireblue eyes,
oceanwater blue.
The Tempter. The serpent that
crawls freakishly across my feet.

Shall I smash his head against my heel?
No, his eyes. These sapphireblue eyes
oceanwater blue. They're
intruguing.

And if this sin is something that will break everyone's back.
I'm going to step on each one
until every hospital bed is full.

"That also has a steep drop off the far side of Home Sweet Hell" said my soulless guide as he pointed in the direction of the nearby screams.
I could see what resembled silhouettes or smeared shadows  of something being thrown or tossed off the side of the tallest tower in sight.  
There were so many falling at once the blur of any kind of outline in this smokey medieval lighting was impossible and began to strain my eyes.
"They're throwing bodies over the edge, a necessary task for the good of our home." he continued as he watched me watching the horrific scene of what now was confirmed as bodies.
"They were rotting and now they will rot even faster engulfed in flames!" he exclaimed with a smirk. "It's quiet clever really, it serves two purposes as one form of torture while at the same time feeding the eternal damnation fires of hell. We recently have undergone new management so our productivity points have never been higher." He seemed to wear that smirk like a proud badge as he bragged about the last part. No doubt he was most likely the new management, possibly the one who would decide my fresh new hell.
He gave a new meaning to the expression "milky white" and had a paleness that was almost purple.  Freakishly tall which wouldn't have been so bad if he wasn't as thin as a runway model-and that was putting it politely. He was dressed in a crimson velvet  suit like some dapper don vampire with the chilling accessory of sharp dead eyes. He exuded terror all around while stroking my anxiety in the most uncomfortable metaphorical rhythm.
With his you-know "devil may care" attitude he attempted to smooth out a newly noticed wrinkle in his crimson red velvet sports jacket.  
"Even in Hell, one must always look their Sundays best or in the flames you go!" he giggled laughing at his own joke. I neither laughed or even reacted, instead I ignored him and continued to watch the screaming falls.
The worker bees or drones-or whatever you're supposed to mindless underlings from hell, were now headed for a v-shape among the only body that was not tossed from the tallest tower. Instead it was hanging off a wall like a common prized Picasso at the end of the biggest hall in Hell. Or so my tour guide informed me.
The brutish beasts were poking, stabbing, biting, pulling, cutting, slapping, and slashing the hanging form. "Go then and take her down" My Dracula impersonator  whispered in my ear, making me jump at the stealthness it took him to invade my personal space. "Go on" he urged as he moved even more closer to me. "But-" he then said looking down the hallway "who is to say her sin is not greater than yours?" he asked while stroking his chin.  "In fact" he continued, "Save her and see how quickly you will be the one to replace her. "
I found myself asking "is her sin greater than mine?" for she no longer even resembled a "she" and I couldn't hide my disgust this prisoner she's appearance.
My five star tour guide squealed "Why heavens yes!" unable to contain it's laugher. "She makes your sin look like childsplay! he continued to cackle while saying "I wouldn't go bragging about your list of ***** deeds that got you here they are not that flattering. Or noteworthy really. You're lucky if you amount to anything other than flame feeder on Hell's roster." He then very seriously added, "but  if it was not for the Simple Sinners we would have no souls to keep most of our demons from going hungry. After all we only get fed once every hundred years when we are not topside."
I noticed the dead bodies recently just fallen into flames were starting to return slowly to our intimate greeting party. Most were empty handed or even handless, while all were naked but almost identical in the scorched rotted appearance, no *** could be identified.  
"They will be joining us for the rest of our tour" Vampire Lestat informed me following my gaze. He started walking down the hall and I followed as close behind as I could while maintaining a safe distance from both sets of company.
Without looking at me, Red Velvet started saying, "most crazies dispose of bodies because thats what they consider normal. But here in Hell, we find keeping them is productive torture. You see staying in ones body after death is unnatural and therefor uncomfortable, almost painful.  So you can see why it is useful to keep souls in their meat suits. We also make them do physical labor like any good slave when the torture has become boring and is no stimulating.
I was suddenly feeling woozy and felt confident I was just as pasty white as my velvet wearing guide.  I couldn't shake the disgusting smell of flesh, blood, ***, *****, and pizza from nose. In a meek whisper I muttered "I don't like this.." My words were greeted with a smug "Join the club Sweetheart, no one likes it here but thats the point isnt it? Welcome to your doomed end, your Home Sweet Hell. "
Tears welled up in my eyes and before they could fall to my cheek my thin velvet guide slapped me with such a unbelievable force that I felt my skull vibrating. I was shocked at the guides brute strength for such a blow and considered the possibility maybe this was a vampire. I could feel my tears start to reform and was met with another blow. This time they came with a side order of screams that said, "NO POINT FOR TEARS NOW! YOU WERENT ACTING LIKE A LITTLE ***** WHEN YOU SINNED TO GET HERE, SO YOU'RE NOT GOING TO ACT LIKE A LITTLE ***** NOW THAT YOU ARE HERE."
I had no time to protest, to react, to do anything and even if I had he was right. I knew what I was doing. My guide started pushing me while still yelling "IT'S TIME YOU EMBRACE THAT YOU ARE IN THE PITT AND THERE IS NO MERCY! NOW ON THE CHOPPING BLOCK WITH YOU!"
He threw me in the closest room  that was completely pitch black as he yelled "FRESH MEAT" that served as our farewell.
As he made his exit with his herd of bodies, his dead eyes were the last thing to see.

Following the white rabbit in his waistcoat
Listening to the tick tock of his pocket watch
Let's fall down the rabbit hole nestled at the trunk of the tree

And where you land is a room
An entire world hidden behind a door and all you need is the key
A nibble from a cake that makes you grow
And with a sip of a drink, you shrink
Insert the key and twist the ****
Opens the door to a world beyond imagination

There's a cat that grins
And with a smile, he disappears
Have a cup of tea and a biscuit with the Hare, the Hatter, and the Dormouse
Paint white roses red with the Red Queen
Beware of her freakishly large head
Slay the Jabberwocky with the Vorpal Sword
And restore the White Queen to her throne
I'm sure the ****** Big Head wouldn't like that
"Off with her head," she would say
Listen to the bicker of the twins, Tweedledee and Tweedledum
The Red Queen calls them her fat boys
Partake in the musings of Absolem
The hookah-smoking caterpillar who transforms into a beautiful blue butterfly

Let us escape to Wonderland
It is far more appealing than the real world

my sister has always been above me
18 months older,
she's larger than life
a social butterfly fluttering non-stop and here i am, still trying to spin my cocoon

you can hear her laughter from the next room away,
(the next five rooms away, if she's with a friend)
always smiling, groaning about something, or ohmygoshhaveyouseenmyigottago-ing
she's got a mane of hair half her height
her keys jingle jangle on the state university lanyard she wears around her neck
she's always home before 1 am but some nights, she doesn't sleep
other nights, she's out like a light
she was always so good at sleeping

me, i'm short hair don't care
anti-socially awkward
perpetually clenched hands covered in paint most of the time
beat up toms on my feet, ***** glasses on my face
come winter, her forgotten beanie until it's on my head
i phrase things oddly, have a dry wit about me
i keep to myself because i hate the way i sound/look/talk
i have one friend my own age in real life.
the other ones are about 4+ years older or younger than me and our method of communication is typing on screens, thousands of miles away from one another
i prefer this method

today she told me how weird it is that my "real" friends are strangers on the internet "like ten years older than you"
i told her that's as weird as her being friends with guys a year behind me if i were still in high school
she says "ummm i don't know why you can't just socialise normally like a normal person"
she says she doesn't know why i'm so painfully socially inept
i remind her i've been out of school longer than she has and haven't been around anyone other than my doctors and mom for more than a couple awkward minutes in over a year
dramatic sigh "yeah but you like dropped out so that's different"

she's so very lucky she can't see into my mind
she'd be terrified and disgusted by what she'd find there
too many monsters, too many thoughts, too many girls, too many raindrops to pour on her parade

there are so many things she takes for granted like
smiling, laughing, talking normally, not having to stress over whether people will be able to understand her
"just go up to someone and say hi"
yeah sorry, i kind of can't.

one day i decided to wear my dad's old button down shirt and khaki pants
i gelled my hair into spikes, just to see what kind of reaction i'd get if i started dressing to match how i felt about my ****** orientation
"here let me roll up your sleeves it'll look cuter that way"
"ohmygosh you look like a lesbian you need to go change right now"
she was only half wrong
i didn't change.

she's short and muscular while i'm tall and freakishly thin
she's able bodied, athletic as heck and my body is slowly deteriorating but at least my mind is still sharp

when we were kids,
i followed her everywhere
when mom dressed us up alike
i loved it while she hated it
one time we bought matching dresses
i wore mine all summer while hers collected dust in the back of her closet
the next year, i bought it off of her for $4.

before I left school, we took an AP Psych class together
she thought Psych looked so interesting and wanted to major in it
i was in the middle of a downward spiral and just wanted to understand what games my mind was playing on me
my sister memorised and studied hard
i didn't and got a higher score than her
i started missing class, more and more and our teacher asked her where i was
she was too embarrassed to tell him the real answer
in bed, eating about 5 crackers a day, in a cloud of depression, sleeping and wasting away
the kids at school thought i had cancer

a year and a half later, she's gotten her diploma and i, my GED
we're both taking classes at the community college now
my end goal is art therapy
hers is undecided

i'm not comfortable in my own skin
i've been in the dark for most of my life, be it shadows or my own man-made perpetual nighttime
my sister has tried and is trying her hardest to look out for me
but i'm not some clay that needs to be molded into her perfect little box
i'm sharp edges and bony crevices to her soft welcoming shell
i am the dark to her light, the yang to her yin
and one of these days,
i'll be okay with that.
-
-z.z

Why do I find myself smiling
When she hurt me so bad
This girl that I see
Reminds me so much of Her
Her long blonde hair
The way she turns her head
And whips that hair around
The beauty in her face!
The flawless smooth skin
Bubbly personality that outshines everyone else
Very bold and very alive
Her excitement in her body language
Eyes stuck on her
Forgetting about everyone else
These two people are freakishly identical
Even her glasses and style
Even the shape of her curves
So alike
But
Why do I find this dumb radiant smile on my face
When She's no longer mine
And the after thought She brings me
She just dropped me like sack of potatoes
But this smile has to mean something
Perhaps in takes me back to when things were so wonderfully perfect
Or that I really am over it
Both successfully moved on
Or maybe I just like this new girl because she's just so ******* beautiful
Even though she makes a connection to my past
She's honestly pure gorgeous
And obviously I'm thinking way beyond rational thinking
But I can't help it
These two girls are the same in every way
But this smile just means that I can enjoy beauty
Simply taking it in and savoring it
I'm a sucker for a beautiful girl
I can admit that very clearly

Freakishly tall trees on both sides, all ceasing and dying
People's din, cars, trucks, motorbikes,
youse all barefooted, watch the pikes
Tall handsome man, all cool, without trying.

He never pussyfoots, he only calms you with his eyes
****, he sets the gardens ablaze
all barefooted, all in a daze
flickering bulblights, everything still dies.

Silky crinkly smooth voice like sonnets
Look, concrete cages hits concrete
bones crack to the beat
they split him open with onyx.

Always a joy, always a delight
sauntering down the avenue
smoky homes and billboard hue
boys drink joke ****, girls drunk ***** fright.

take your index finger, wait. stop, rewind ( yes I do this, and yes it is funny, you have no idea.)

goto a quite room, with little light, so your natural body will turn up the microphones in your head...

now, touch your index finger to your thumb, on off, on off, now your *******, on off on off, now your ring finger ( do it with both hands cause then you will feel the tone flow interruptions or focus of. that is) now your highest tone your little piggy went to the market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy said *** is he on? well, did you hear the difference in your resonate tones? do it, you will, and when you do, you will, then realize a few things and why I do what it is I so freakishly do, and sorry I imitate not 12 monkeys, for it is the normal switcheroo, I understand it, now, do you?

Oh yes my *** can Writ like no ones business, funny how I have removed all, long ago, but hum, I keep being told........... to Writ ... any way. have a loving full flow and full spectrum day, um, everyone says High vibs.... this and that.. um full spectrum son, but place your will in the correct ways and places on the correct things, and then you will see the point, yes we are going higher in tone, but um, who the hell said forget what you have already known to be functional, isnt that what happened last times we forgot.......?

Carted off to who-hears paths
doubly deep of our weathers.
Keeping armfuls of guts from
spilling, un-wed worms uncoiling
for their native soils.
Saying loudly our slippery peaces...
to break with surface light.
To trade ravings hinged on absence,
moistly noodling context in place.
Freakishly conducive to metabolizing
the essence of otherness.

Last night I tossed
three rusty pennies
towards the I-Ching
(chinese book of changes)
once again
looking for direction
into my  blurry
future.

Magic happened.

I couldn't have received a
more freakishly amazing
answer to my query.

I read and re-read the surreal
prediction singing to me
from the ancient text.
(that even Confucius religiously consulted!)

I read it over and over and over
again, as the happy butterflies
inside my stomach flew
in swirls and twirls and dips
and dives - tickling me with
glee!

I was filled with
a Joy I’d never felt before, combined
with an assured confidence which suddenly
became my oxygen - each breath
felt like electricity and….magic.

But, just like clockwork
the voice entered my head.

"You probably threw the coins wrong."
"You probably read the outcome wrong."
"Stop kidding yourself.  This **** isn't real."
"No one gets this lucky."
"You don't deserve this."

Immediately, I could feel
the lukewarm cloak of
the voice embrace me in
its faux maternal darkness.

The embrace of the one
who relentlessly picks
at the scabs of my wounds -  
that are endlessly
begging to heal.

The embrace of the one that reminds
me of the continual pains
I’ve endured which made
me stop believing in magic.  

(see, when you carry chronic
disappointments around you
feel safest inside the lonely
arms of Pessimism).

But what if I choose to Believe?

What if I stand
at the precipice of life and
jump into its magical arms,
knowing full well it’s
going to catch me and bounce
me toward my dreams, like a
hot potato?

What if I believe that
I am entitled to inspiring, juicy, **** endless success?  
What if I believe the Universe -
with all of its magnificent possibilities -
IS conspiring to put me at
all the right places at
all the right times?

What if I believe I DESERVE all of the magic?
What if I courageously FOLLOW the path of  my dreams?
What if the oracle is RIGHT?!

Why not find out?
..

I wake up
And see you.
Your Face.
Your lips
Your nose
Your eyes.
But you aren't really there.

I have a knack
Sometimes
Occasionally
For figuring people out.
And you
And me
Are meant to be together.

How can I explain?

Once,
I thought that you were there.
I couldn't feel your body
Or anything fun like that.
But I could feel
You.
You know what I mean.

You're one of those people who can feel things, too.

I haven't put much thought into this poem.
It's been
2 minutes
Since I've started writing.
It's not
Pretty
Artistic
Or
Freakishly Amazing.

This is not Dante's Inferno.
It was not written to be beautiful.
This
is not
a story.

It's an autobiography.

I'm telling you exactly how it is,
What I've seen.

Because I know that you can see it, too.

Fiend he was and fed away my heart to the pack of nightscratchers in his wake - all the while looking me in the eyes, my superfluous pose, his wired,

wicked laugh echoing at me in my dreams, behind my nose and in every strand of

flitting, fleeting hair, like a mechanical fantasy of Mr. Poe, and It was Then, in that freakishly drawn-out moment of my life that I realized I am not a girl, this nonsense may have

ripped the veins from around that kaleidoscope dreamland of my interior but from now till on I will

live unreal realities outside the mind, bequeathing thoughts and sense but as a woman,

taking my fall with grace, gracing the light with a smile, smiling at the

dreams
                     I
                             once
                                         dreamt.

The way you know me, and finish my sentences.
The stories we have shared.
The look in your eyes when you are being bossy.
The way you light up when you color your hair a new color for the first time.
How professional you can be.
How silly you can be.
The barking laughter that escapes when you try to hold it in.
The two beautiful babies that you created.
The fact that you love rosemary lemon cookies (even though I don't)
Your refusal to be a boring grown-up dressed in boring grown up clothes
The fact that you still believe when we're old and gray and wrinkled we will live together.
That you never stop dreaming impossible or incredible New dreams (even if I think they're stupid or don't support you. )
The little light inside of you that never goes out.
How good of a mother you are.
How you refuse to stop learning even better ways of being a mom.
Your freakishly tiny and perfect fingers.
You're revulsion to stinky feet and shoes without socks.
How you let Lily try new (and sometimes ugly or unfortunate) fashion choices despite how they make you cringe because you want her to be her own person.
The fact that you never let me go.
Your painting skills.
Your ability to follow a recipe(one of us should be able to).
Your naive optimism(same as mine!).
Your love of bubbles.
The fact that at our advanced age we can cut open glow sticks and along them on each other.

Also entitled. Reasons Why I Love you.

He reads me like the book he flips through pages at night when he can't sleep, and he thinks that he can't ever temper with the story, when he changes it every time his fingers run down the sides of the pages.

He sees the wrinkles, he tries to help because he won't close the covers till they are planate, and the soaked papers dry.

In all the wonders he can transact, to my heart he did best. He is still at it, making ours a freakishly beautiful drawn story on this wide canvas he calls 'forever'. Forever that is never enough for him, for us. He keeps on adding pages, and papers, attaching them to the still life.

If one day things don't work out, it might then be a story that souls in love would come to venture.

"What happened to you?"
She beckons from the mirror

Her laugh is sorrowful

Her eyes are dead

"What happened to you?"
She asks
giggling like a child

I look down and sigh

"I grew up."

Her smile turns freakishly gleeful

"You did what?"
She asks again

I take a deep breath
*"I grew up"

I. from living under a rock to exploring the internet

well... isn't it nice...
me? i've greatly benefited from the existence
of the internet...
how else would i have found out about the origins
of Taoism if not thanks for the internet...

i just kept one maxim in my head from
a book i picked up in some bookshop near
Russell Sq., it was a book on Taoism...
but it was sort of like the Best of
   of a band...
                not good enough... but my modus operandi
became the Kantian categorical imperative:
in order to help the world -
forget the world and let the world forget you:
the crux of "not-doing": i.e. purely being...
hell not- is not the antonym of pure...
                 not could be coupled with just... simply...
pro?
                   one of those...

me? i greatly benefited from the internet...
as most "bears" / "loners" / solitary creatures have
found out to be true...
i have an entire world history and a body
of knowledge at my fingertips:
it's only a question of what you're wanting to find...

without the internet i would have never
bothered to spend £20 on a physical copy of a book...
the complete writings of the primo Taoist: Zhuangzi...
nor would i have spent £30 x 2 on Heidegger's
black notebooks...

but i understand that the people who make videos
and do not write are all "savvy" when it comes
to view-counts... they ignore them...
they are more into "interaction": the comment sections...
i don't remember the last time i commented
on something:
i mean, ****'s sake... it's not like you buy
a book and expect to leave a comment... where?
on the sleeve? who's going to read that?
the author? hardly...

                             i like my view counts...
obviously the comments come minimally...
why? i believe in the anonymity of the readership...
the anonymity of the reader...
i like the fact that ideas are equivalent
to gold-mining and lightning strikes...
and that thinking itself is subject to shadows acting...
that it can be the best: most worthwhile "thing"
that implores of a being: hide me! hide me!

but i'm never going to make a video...
videos attract all the wrong viral attention...
i like the filter process involved in writing:
people have to make an effort and?
therefore? i'm left to my devices and whims
and sarcasms...
i can entertain Ovid and Marquis de Sade...

tu mihi, tu certe, memini, Graecine, negabas
    uno posse aliquem tempore amare duas.
per te ego decipior, per te deprensus inermis -
    ecce, duas uno tempore turpis amo!

i remember that it was you, certainly you Graecinus,
who told me to deny the idea
that one could love two girls at once!
through you i'm deceived - unarmed -
reason (this be the reason): i'm in love with two
girls at the same time!

i did one over old Ovid... loved two girls when both
of them were loving me...
which is so much better that loving one when loving
one and loving another when loving
another...
might as well:

                ledo duas aves uno lapide

two birds one stone... hardly serving two masters:
being served up twice...
and we're not talking about masters and servants
either...

me? i greatly gained from the internet...
                 am i the only person to agree to the fact that
it's just a jolly decent tool to use...
in and out... in and out... the internet to me
is like a brothel... i'm there / "here" for an hour...
then i disappear... leave footprints in the sand
on the beach... the tide of humanity washes in...
i'm left diluted: but i don't mind...
i too wouldn't want to have written the Harry Potter
books and then be mistreated for some
trans-****** phobic insinuations...
but i give her the grammar...
and how about the grammar on
the lyrics from WHAT IS SOUL... the B-sides
of By The Way...
                                 Big-Pie (Bag-Pie from Trainspotting:
freaking about... did i just touch
a magic nugget... a leprechaun's nose?!
is there! is there! a rainbow on this "other" side?!
pretty please... hey! if i go to Thailand
i'm sort of expecting to get confused...
it's a Thai thing... it was originally a Thai thing...
those Thai ******* are crazy)...

'it's roaming the streets at 4 in the morning
finding your best friend making out with a trans-******
in an all-night diner in Cleveland in 1986!'

plenty of women... ingenious boys
will be outright butch or add some extra BLUSH...
i can't say that i never kissed a man
sensually like i might kiss a woman sensually...
to later brush up on my Mr. Slurp'y skills
in the garden of fleshy flowers...
located where i entered the world: hopefully head-first:
oh sure... plenty of dolphins too...
how's it hanging? how's it hanging in Dubai?
plenty of hanging in Dubai...

freakishly lean: a plentiful decent diet of literature...
me? i benefited from the internet...
hey presto! i can bypass the gatekeepers of literature!
i can forget about publishing houses...
sure... i don't earn any money from it...
but that also increases me drive to pursue
the spiral out of control...
for me the advent of the internet is akin to:
the invention of the Gutenberg Press...
                                                  
yes, i was a fan of buying cans of Pepsi
instead of those 2litre bottles...
hmm... how to keep the gas once opened!
aha! shake the bottle after having a refill!
shake shake!
keeps the pressure tight-knit... beautifully
bountiful!

- two songs get me these days....
ALLAROUND THE WORLD
and GO ROBOT...
i trun to the canvas with regret: great! more typing!
i just want to keep keeping the rhyhtm:
perched on the windowsill
tapping my leg and grooving with my neck
like an imitation-party-pooper-pigeon
who invented head-banging
as the Hebrews imitate before the Wailing Wall...
i should have never picked up the guitar...
what a lonely enterprise:
it's already haunting me...
i was born as a natural drummer...

huh?!
of course i gained all the things there
are gained from the internet...
minus the light-bulb...
i managed to bypass all the gatekeepers
of literature: the editors...
hello! you forgot the paper! there's no paper!
there's no spoon either!
forgot the pills! just focus on the spoon
that isn't there!
and it's the perfect filter...
no one is going to bother me when i'm writig
and slacking on making video confession...

videos can be ingested passively:
reading? oh wow! who would have thought
that it might take some effort!
mix into the whole affair some Katakana...
hell... mix in some Mandarin hieroglyphs...
perfect defences against "simpletons"...
who? you have rotten cabbage
agreed with to throw with your comrade
against against being disgruntled about some
poor acting actor? what?!
stealing shadows became mundane?!

i also managed to breed a higher purpose
while everyone else was slumping
in the "pandemic"... i couldn't tell the difference...
what a funny: he-he-ha-ha tickling breeze!
ooh... let's have another go!
come on! let's go, let's go!
           he-he-ha-ha!
or rather: hí-hí-h'ah-ah-haha!

                             the internet wa been great for me...
but recently i came across this trend...
hmm (emoji of the biggest SMILE)...
VABBING...
                     dabbing... people dab perfumes on themselves...
what's VABBING... ah... ah... ha ha...
this is the point where i feel like putting
on my clown make-up and going out to
party come Halloween...

i'm pretty sure i'lll grow old and irrelevant
at some point... pop culture will no longer
interest me...
             but until that time comes...
piglets! teases!
                   it's like that one time where
i thought it was a good idea to date a single mom....
brought her homemade wine...
brought her homemade banana loaf cake...
NO GOOD...
i'm good-crazy as one prostitutes remarked...
still NO GOOD...
                                   goo.. plenty of goo...
oh man... the arsenal of music i have to sieve through:
it makes sense to not have children...
sure.... i'd love a little kritter "here and there"...
but? come on... with so much music
made available: would you?

and how did that parody of my grandfather
and grandmother play out?
she kept his death a secret....
to the point where he was in AGONIA:
out of reach... **** that then!

****'s sake VABBING... i.e. inserting your fingers
into your genital regions...
and then... Orestes! save me!
pretending that these juices are sort of:
akin to: perfumes!

o.k.: i'll level with these women...
here goes:
i like... ******* on my leg...
when i'm having a shower?
i like the idea of being a child again:
unable: UNONSCIOUSLY to control his bladder...
once in a while: i like ******* on my leg...
but that's only when i'm having a shower...
i like the idea of being without control...
i wish i could **** my pants ever so often...
alas... i can't!
but then i relieve my tamed unconscious
inhibitions... i tend to **** on my leg...
while taking a shower....
          
what is left for man beside finding new avenues
to compete: for the crown and the jewel in
in it of losing reason?
hell... let's all become **** AUTOMATON!
i can wait...
i'm orientating myself around the internet
like i might orientate myself around
a phonebook, an encyclopoedia...
and the... sacred loss of the music store on
the high streets...

there's me imitating drummers on a windowsill...
robot-esque...
*****! i'm keeping rhythm...
with a squint of my eye watching NORMIES
sitting static with their static televisions...
entertained?!
i like brick walls: i think of chess...
i like the sea bashing the land come high night...
i think of playing cards with the boys...
and backgammon...
i also like the idea of interpreting the flute
by splitting a reed of grass and blowing through it...
i like the childhood memory
of catching cockchafers and throwing them
down girls' t-shirts...
         hmm! i liked a lot of things...
whiskey won... i like swimming in it: thoughtless...
it's like like: give me a drink of whiskey =
Cleopatra having a ******* bath of milk!

i love the minutes "concerning" an unlit cigarette
dangling in my mouth...
before the opening crescendo
of Led Zeppelin's IN THE EVENING...
kicks in... only because: SHARP OBJECTS
waas such a captivating t.v. show...

hate t.v. love t.v. most certainly loved the movies...
i hate the movies these days...
i sometimes think: i could replace
the t.v. with three "things":
the sky... a fireplace... or a... ooh!
a ******* aquarium!
                     yeah... that could  work!
then again.... candles or the sky...
either wait.... play shadow charades...
                  
             there are actually two ways to give stress
to a F-U... using the hand...
there's:
A. the clenched fist with the etended middle
finger... poison...
but there's also
B. ******* extended....
thumb also extended: NO FIST...
all the other fingers are "bowing":
but they're not clenched... there's no imitation
of a fist...

seriously, though? no wonder i ventured into the realm
of prostitution, no wonder so many people thought this
"pandemic" was a "fake"...
sure sure... let me just apply my *****
Jean-Paul Gautier sniff-sniffs
while you, girl, test out, your next best
found ******.... what the ****?!

how about we start off with... oiling ourselves
with molten pig fat and then, then asking:
kosher enough for you?
oh... but this craziness is not supposed to stop!
it's supposed to escalate!
didn't you know?!
                           no no!
                                 there are either the crazies
or the uber-crazies!
      there's no in-between!
                 as much as Ovid prescribes ****** love...
i find the most erotica in prescriving myself
a decent amount of sleep...
               perhaps in his days...
but... he wasn't a solider...
so he wouldn't have known about being stationed in
Britannia,., jumping ****-naked into
the feral bushes of... no! not mint!
              you ******* Forrest Gimp or something?
blushes of *******... ****'s sake... FENNELS!
POKRZYWY! FENNELS! not ******* BASIL...
not ROSEMARY... not TYHME
*******: Hamza: brain-drain-lord
of an otherwise working Latin BREEN!
call your ******* cousin Hah-med and Muha!
the lord of the flies! Muhammad!
Muha! FLY! Jesus is the lord of mosquitos...
Muhammad is the lord of the flies...

please tell me someone tried to tell them
that they were
the auxillaries of Hell?
the past 2000 years has been an advent
of Hell...
Hell... even more: the Hellenic original
thought project...
comme ci, comme ça... c'est la vie!
i.e. it's good when it's good...
and bad when it's bad...

the tired mountain: the eagerly waiting stone...
the tired sea... the ambitious droplet of water...
that eternal flame... but all the more eager
sparkle of an ignite!

time flies when you're not having any fun...
pretending to not having a stab at...
those Kenyan ivory slush-puppies
come the crocodiles and Muhammad types
moon-served plump almost juiced up...
hey ** hey... you're just my Macaque sort
of type...

II. a schematic of rugby

H15()15H
\ (pass back)
/ (kick forward)
and...
just run around
shuffling your
magic feet:
toying with the octopus
dance of
a dislocated shoulder.


III. leftovers from an afternoon

give me until tomorrow, i'm still figuring "things" out...
video: oh video V video... Deo. and Doo and Deus...
mighty Churchill's index and middle...
of the fork in the road...
          or akin to the crossroads of
Robert Johnson...
            i picked up playing the guitar but i'm
a natural drummer...
easily soothed but also easily irritated by a rhythm
and beat...
for all the protest of (search engine, hello...
back of the bus protest, i just need a name)
sitting at the back of the bus:
Rosa Parks and the Montgomery bus protest...
i just remember mornings on the no. 86
bus... reading Stendhal while all the black
boys "unconsciously" stashed themselves
to the back of the double-decker...
white-flight in reverse, i.e. all the white girls
could join them:
thank god for my Turkish and Japanese fetish...
a fact not frequently recited:
i don't own any woman under the sun,
it's just my turn, turn after turn...
perhaps happily a *****-donor...
what's ******* and what's surrogate
motherhood for a homosexual couple,
like for like: i can't tell the difference...
besides... i earn about £10 an hour...
she earns £120 an hour and all for what?
being given an ******
and soothing my ego...
amazing though... it's crystal clear...
i never liked the back of the bus...
double-deckers have their engines in their ***...
very much like VW beetles...
the black boys naturally migrated to
the back of the bus every trip to school i took...
loud, vociferous: like most post-African people...
still strapped to the gridlock of
VICTIM... but sure: thanks for the jazz...
thanks for the blues...
if certain Africans were not exposed
to the English tongue...
i fear we'd still be stuck in a Mozart epoch...

The lines don’t cross. They never cross. Like connecting the dots, he pulls one string to the next. This is the only way he knows how to make sense of a senseless world. It is geometric. He points at the points placed by the power of his imagination. Then he twirls them in every possible angle. “There is a deeper truth in this,” he swears.
For fifteen hours he has stared at the puzzle. Cursing, and circling, every corner he could conceive of, seeking ultimate truth. His blues eyes blink with the powerful pulse of unrelenting fatigue. Soon he will succumb to slumber. This obsession may wane for the night. Although, he fears that in the morning he will lose the patience to pursue this line of reasoning.
Loose leaf papers filled with colored equations lay scattered across the room. He mumbles, “Sleep would be good.”  Instead of going to bed he clears the clutter from the frigid floor. Pushing his papers to the side. Then watches as they lift off the ground and float gently to the left and right. Dust particulates dance in the air, swirling and glittering in the morning glow.
The white t-shirt he was wearing comes off then his tight blue jeans go as well. “This will allow the free flow of blood to pass unconstricted throughout my entire body” he thinks.
“The answer is somewhere here,” he stutters. Slowly he seats himself on the floor, shivering as his naked flesh settles on the cold concrete. His legs curl and cross each other. Closing his now reddening eyes, he begins to breathe slowly. In and out and back again repeating and repeating the same breathing patterns, he focuses. Letting his consciousness float inches away from sleep, uncertain on which side of slumber he is sitting on.
Smooth round stones of various colors and sizes fill and form a shore in his mind. Then a pool of glimmering water appears from nothing. No scent exists here.  Aluminum foil wrapped potatoes are scattered all around him coinciding with an itch forming on his left foreman, diverting his attention for a minute. The landscape begins to dissolve, and he struggles to regain control. Bit by bit he regains control breathing in and out and back again.
His skin vibrates, or twitches, he is uncertain. The rhythm remains consistent. Thin lines of blood cross his entire inner body. In and out and back again. The shape from his room reappears with a white glowing sphere circling it. In and out and back again.
Inside the sphere a speck forms then disappears then forms again. In and out and back again. He wonders were this is going. Where does all the meaning in the universe come from? In and out and back again.
Is flesh the meaning or is it spirit. In and out and back again. Is life death and death life. In and out and back again. Is time a true measure of my existence? In and out and back again. Dam, what does the shape mean?
A small hand pushes his shoulder jerking him to the left. The world shifts colors. They pool and rock phasing into a grey scale then return to their original color, then shift back and forth for a few minutes until they settle into the original color scale. “That was like adjusting the color in a tv,” he muses.
Suddenly, a thin white light explodes piercing his retina, causing him to shudder in pain. In and out and back again. Why? What? Why? How? In and out and back again. The pain of uncertainty gnaws at is being. Fear begins to tighten its grip but he is too deep to withdraw.
Every book he has ever read appears fluttering freakishly fast opening and closing like a strange mousetrap. In and out and back again. Every experience he has ever had replays and is reintegrated into his being as he struggle to return to true consciousness. In and out and back again.
For a second the breaths stop. He can hear the words “in and out and back again.” A finger of light pushes its way into his mind pulling out strings of lights. He forgets all that he is and was. The strings explode and spread like a million lasers. Each lasers latches on to a book and pulls every words into him. Then he becomes himself again. Another round of lasers explode from his brain. This time these strings of his being reach out. Each one exploring the world around him. Just as he begins to feels like there is nothing of his being left the lights fling back like an overstretched rubber band and smack his brain with even more information.
After what feels like hours of this exploding and reforming he opens his eyes. The shape no longer cloud his thoughts. He jots down a few notes. After a couple days of intense study he adds to and passes the notes on to a friend. The friend reads them then passes them to, and again and again. Someone adds something new reshaping the ideas, then passes them on as well.
Years later the ideas comes back to their beginning. The young man reads a new book. He smiles as he absorbs the new ideas that linger in the mix with his old ideas. He sits down to breathe in and out and back again assimilating and integrating these new things into his being. In and out and back again.

Whether you're born "Unlucky" or
Through "no-fault (?)--> accident"
You find yourself "Less-than"
Or "Not-quite" or "freakishly different",
Don't sweat it --> There must be a Reason.
Either your Being is being tested,
To make a better/bitter person,
Or to assist and bond others
To the realisation that ALL LIFE has value,
Regardless of circumstance.
However, I'm of the belief that
Individual life begins at the Quickening -
When the Heart starts functioning self-like;
But, even so, that is no guarantee of Life -->
Maybe, before you're delivered, something else
Attaches ITSELF onto your Life-Force,
That Society, for all its ideals cannot face
And, as such, Infant Death/Mortality -->
No Rhyme, nor Reason, just Bad Timing!
Not ALL Llife is precious, despite value.

Some things are hard to bear alone -->
Allow me to Help if I'm enabled -->
I'll be your Consciousness: Your Mind, Body and Soul;
I'll be your arms, legs, genitals, senses;
A relatively immune emotional safety catcher.

And if All else fails, and you're adamant about "Stepping Out" -->
I'll B here 4 you 2 ==> You and I, One and the same, hereafter.