Cass was the youngest and most beautiful of 5 sisters. Cass was the most beautiful girl
in town. 1/2 Indian with a supple and strange body, a snake-like and fiery body with eyes
to go with it. Cass was fluid moving fire. She was like a spirit stuck into a form that
would not hold her. Her hair was black and long and silken and whirled about as did her
body. Her spirit was either very high or very low. There was no in between for Cass. Some
said she was crazy. The dull ones said that. The dull ones would never understand Cass. To
the men she was simply a *** machine and they didn't care whether she was crazy or not.
And Cass danced and flirted, kissed the men, but except for an instance or two, when it
came time to make it with Cass, Cass had somehow slipped away, eluded the men.
Her sisters accused her of misusing her beauty, of not using her mind enough, but Cass
had mind and spirit; she painted, she danced, she sang, she made things of clay, and when
people were hurt either in the spirit or the flesh, Cass felt a deep grieving for them.
Her mind was simply different; her mind was simply not practical. Her sisters were jealous
of her because she attracted their men, and they were angry because they felt she didn't
make the best use of them. She had a habit of being kind to the uglier ones; the so-called
handsome men revolted her- "No guts," she said, "no zap. They are riding on
their perfect little earlobes and well- shaped nostrils...all surface and no
insides..." She had a temper that came close to insanity, she had a temper that some
call insanity. Her father had died of alcohol and her mother had run off leaving the
girls alone. The girls went to a relative who placed them in a convent. The convent had
been an unhappy place, more for Cass than the sisters. The girls were jealous of Cass and
Cass fought most of them. She had razor marks all along her left arm from defending
herself in two fights. There was also a permanent scar along the left cheek but the scar
rather than lessening her beauty only seemed to highlight it. I met her at the West End
Bar several nights after her release from the convent. Being youngest, she was the last of
the sisters to be released. She simply came in and sat next to me. I was probably the
ugliest man in town and this might have had something to do with it.
"Drink?" I asked.
"Sure, why not?"
I don't suppose there was anything unusual in our conversation that night, it was
simply in the feeling Cass gave. She had chosen me and it was as simple as that. No
pressure. She liked her drinks and had a great number of them. She didn't seem quite of
age but they served he anyhow. Perhaps she had forged i.d., I don't know. Anyhow, each
time she came back from the restroom and sat down next to me, I did feel some pride. She
was not only the most beautiful woman in town but also one of the most beautiful I had
ever seen. I placed my arm about her waist and kissed her once.
"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked.
"Yes, of course, but there's something else... there's more than your
looks..."
"People are always accusing me of being pretty. Do you really think I'm
pretty?"
"Pretty isn't the word, it hardly does you fair."
Cass reached into her handbag. I thought she was reaching for her handkerchief. She
came out with a long hatpin. Before I could stop her she had run this long hatpin through
her nose, sideways, just above the nostrils. I felt disgust and horror. She looked at me
and laughed, "Now do you think me pretty? What do you think now, man?" I pulled
the hatpin out and held my handkerchief over the bleeding. Several people, including the
bartender, had seen the act. The bartender came down:
"Look," he said to Cass, "you act up again and you're out. We don't need
your dramatics here."
"Oh, *******, man!" she said.
"Better keep her straight," the bartender said to me.
"She'll be all right," I said.
"It's my nose, I can do what I want with my nose."
"No," I said, "it hurts me."
"You mean it hurts you when I stick a pin in my nose?"
"Yes, it does, I mean it."
"All right, I won't do it again. Cheer up."
She kissed me, rather grinning through the kiss and holding the handkerchief to her
nose. We left for my place at closing time. I had some beer and we sat there talking. It
was then that I got the perception of her as a person full of kindness and caring. She
gave herself away without knowing it. At the same time she would leap back into areas of
wildness and incoherence. Schitzi. A beautiful and spiritual schitzi. Perhaps some man,
something, would ruin her forever. I hoped that it wouldn't be me. We went to bed and
after I turned out the lights Cass asked me,
"When do you want it? Now or in the morning?"
"In the morning," I said and turned my back.
In the morning I got up and made a couple of coffees, brought her one in bed. She
laughed.
"You're the first man who has turned it down at night."
"It's o.k.," I said, "we needn't do it at all."
"No, wait, I want to now. Let me freshen up a bit."
Cass went into the bathroom. She came out shortly, looking quite wonderful, her long
black hair glistening, her eyes and lips glistening, her glistening... She displayed her
body calmly, as a good thing. She got under the sheet.
"Come on, lover man."
I got in. She kissed with abandon but without haste. I let my hands run over her body,
through her hair. I mounted. It was hot, and tight. I began to stroke slowly, wanting to
make it last. Her eyes looked directly into mine.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"What the hell difference does it make?" she asked.
I laughed and went on ahead. Afterwards she dressed and I drove her back to the bar but
she was difficult to forget. I wasn't working and I slept until 2 p.m. then got up and
read the paper. I was in the bathtub when she came in with a large leaf- an elephant ear.
"I knew you'd be in the bathtub," she said, "so I brought you something
to cover that thing with, nature boy."
She threw the elephant leaf down on me in the bathtub.
"How did you know I'd be in the tub?"
"I knew."
Almost every day Cass arrived when I was in the tub. The times were different but she
seldom missed, and there was the elephant leaf. And then we'd make love. One or two nights
she phoned and I had to bail her out of jail for drunkenness and fighting.
"These sons of *******," she said, "just because they buy you a few
drinks they think they can get into your pants."
"Once you accept a drink you create your own trouble."
"I thought they were interested in me, not just my body."
"I'm interested in you and your body. I doubt, though, that most men can see
beyond your body."
I left town for 6 months, bummed around, came back. I had never forgotten Cass, but
we'd had some type of argument and I felt like moving anyhow, and when I got back i
figured she'd be gone, but I had been sitting in the West End Bar about 30 minutes when
she walked in and sat down next to me.
"Well, *******, I see you've come back."
I ordered her a drink. Then I looked at her. She had on a high- necked dress. I had
never seen her in one of those. And under each eye, driven in, were 2 pins with glass
heads. All you could see were the heads of the pins, but the pins were driven down into
her face.
"******* you, still trying to destroy your beauty, eh?"
"No, it's the fad, you fool."
"You're crazy."
"I've missed you," she said.
"Is there anybody else?"
"No there isn't anybody else. Just you. But I'm hustling. It costs ten bucks. But
you get it free."
"Pull those pins out."
"No, it's the fad."
"It's making me very unhappy."
"Are you sure?"
"Hell yes, I'm sure."
Cass slowly pulled the pins out and put them back in her purse.
"Why do you haggle your beauty?" I asked. "Why don't you just live with
it?"
"Because people think it's all I have. Beauty is nothing, beauty won't stay. You
don't know how lucky you are to be ugly, because if people like you you know it's for
something else."
"O.k.," I said, "I'm lucky."
"I don't mean you're ugly. People just think you're ugly. You have a fascinating
face."
"Thanks."
We had another drink.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Nothing. I can't get on to anything. No interest."
"Me neither. If you were a woman you could hustle."
"I don't think I could ever make contact with that many strangers, it's
wearing."
"You're right, it's wearing, everything is wearing."
We left together. People still stared at Cass on the streets. She was a beautiful
woman, perhaps more beautiful than ever. We made it to my place and I opened a bottle of
wine and we talked. With Cass and I, it always came easy. She talked a while and I would
listen and then i would talk. Our conversation simply went along without strain. We seemed
to discover secrets together. When we discovered a good one Cass would laugh that laugh-
only the way she could. It was like joy out of fire. Through the talking we kissed and
moved closer together. We became quite heated and decided to go to bed. It was then that
Cass took off her high -necked dress and I saw it- the ugly jagged scar across her throat.
It was large and thick.
"******* you, woman," I said from the bed, "******* you, what have you
done?
"I tried it with a broken bottle one night. Don't you like me any more? Am I still
beautiful?"
I pulled her down on the bed and kissed her. She pushed away and laughed, "Some
men pay me ten and I undress and they don't want to do it. I keep the ten. It's very
funny."
"Yes," I said, "I can't stop laughing... Cass, *****, I love you...stop
destroying yourself; you're the most alive woman I've ever met."
We kissed again. Cass was crying without sound. I could feel the tears. The long black
hair lay beside me like a flag of death. We enjoined and made slow and somber and
wonderful love. In the morning Cass was up making breakfast. She seemed quite calm and
happy. She was singing. I stayed in bed and enjoyed her happiness. Finally she came over
and shook me,
"Up, *******! Throw some cold water on your face and pecker and come enjoy the
feast!"
I drove her to the beach that day. It was a weekday and not yet summer so things were
splendidly deserted. Beach bums in rags slept on the lawns above the sand. Others sat on
stone benches sharing a lone bottle. The gulls whirled about, mindless yet distracted. Old
ladies in their 70's and 80's sat on the benches and discussed selling real estate left
behind by husbands long ago killed by the pace and stupidity of survival. For it all,
there was peace in the air and we walked about and stretched on the lawns and didn't say
much. It simply felt good being together. I bought a couple of sandwiches, some chips and
drinks and we sat on the sand eating. Then I held Cass and we slept together about an
hour. It was somehow better than *******. There was flowing together without tension.
When we awakened we drove back to my place and I cooked a dinner. After dinner I suggested
to Cass that we shack together. She waited a long time, looking at me, then she slowly
said, "No." I drove her back to the bar, bought her a drink and walked out. I
found a job as a parker in a factory the next day and the rest of the week went to
working. I was too tired to get about much but that Friday night I did get to the West End
Bar. I sat and waited for Cass. Hours went by . After I was fairly drunk the bartender
said to me, "I'm sorry about your girlfriend."
"What is it?" I asked.
"I'm sorry, didn't you know?"
"No."
"Suicide. She was buried yesterday."
"Buried?" I asked. It seemed as though she would walk through the doorway at
any moment. How could she be gone?
"Her sisters buried her."
"A suicide? Mind telling me how?"
"She cut her throat."
"I see. Give me another drink."
I drank until closing time. Cass was the most beautiful of 5 sisters, the most
beautiful in town. I managed to drive to my place and I kept thinking, I should have
insisted she stay with me instead of accepting that "no." Everything about her
had indicated that she had cared. I simply had been too offhand about it, lazy, too
unconcerned. I deserved my death and hers. I was a dog. No, why blame the dogs? I got up
and found a bottle of wine and drank from it heavily. Cass the most beautiful girl in town
was dead at 20. Outside somebody honked their automobile horn. They were very loud and
persistent. I sat the bottle down and screamed out: "******* YOU, YOU *******
,SHUT UP!" The night kept coming and there was nothing I could do.

There are clouds of sound and noise
That utter thoughts in a muffled voice,
Gestures of hands simply won’t cast out
Cloudy skies in days of doubt.

Like strangers lost in a crowd
Whose cries are buried by the loud,
The loud din of helpless wanderers
Whose presence disrupts and disturbs.

All strangers left on their own,
Islands floating out in the fog;
Orphans with cruel fates to bemoan;
Fates that are swept under the rug.

And who's looking with interest, who reaches down with an arm,
Never so eager to help, neither too late nor too soon?
Who would make this world perhaps a little more warm
And freshen the skies of our cloudy afternoon?

The beginning of this story is pretty hazy, I’m not really sure I remember how the whole thing started but when it was happening it all seemed to make so much sense.
The first thing I remember, everything seemed normal enough, I was probably just going about doing the same things I do most days, nothing special. Then all of a sudden this terribly great thing happened. Everyone was talking about you.  Something important going on and you where right at the center of it. As I later found out you had gone missing or run away or just vanished, nobody knew. I defended you when they said they had seen it coming, that they had seen it in your eyes. I knew better than that. This was a place of loners and lovers, no families allowed, all the families had to go somewhere else, or at least they did.
I remember someone important, the Mayor maybe. He was like a cartoon villain, suave in a gray paper-perfect gray suit and silver hair slicked back just enough. He had a big smile and teeth like snow on a sunny day. He was a game show host villain.
He was the one making the biggest fuss about the whole thing. Always talking about how we shouldn’t feel ashamed of you for running away or that we should pray that you be safe wherever it was you had gone. But he just had those big phony teeth.
There was something going on with friends, at school I guess, like they wanted to keep talking about it but I didn’t. I knew you were coming back, how couldn’t you. I tried to explain to everyone that there was no way in hell I would be that cruel to myself, but they had no idea what I was talking about, they thought I was losing my mind.
You remember that time we tried that one drug and things were not as great as you expected. That night we thought we were both going to lose our minds. This time I wasn’t losing my mind. I had all the confidence in the world.
There was a lull midway through, I had no idea when you were coming back and I was starting to get annoyed with all the people around me. I couldn’t believe they were still making such a racket about the whole thing. They weren’t even like real people, they all had these defining characteristic which became their entire personality. They were caricatures of real people but I didn’t have the heart to tell them. I didn’t care enough to bother with figments, how could I?
Then suddenly the whole thing was different, there was some new great event going on. Everyone had gathered to some great big open amphitheater. All the seating was facing a big fancy stage with lots of lights on it. Behind the stage were hills. Everyone was talking about them, those where the hills they said you ran out into. As it turned out that was the reason for our being here. It had been like a hundred years or something since you had run away and everyone had come for a ceremony in your honor.
The whole thing was absolutely awful. It felt like we were there for a whole day, and the mayor was speaking for over half of that. Everyone was so captivated by his teeth and his suit that they barely heard what he was even talking about. They all acted as though what he was saying was breaking their hearts though, some even seemed genuinely inspired.                                       
The ceremony was going on and I was pretty done with the whole thing, I could feel the end coming. There was some pause in the speeches and all the seat sitters went to go freshen up. I took my chance and just ran out into those hills.
This was the best bit. All of a sudden I was in these hills, there was nothing but mountains in the distance and the stars were like light fixtures. They shone with color almost but the moon was so big and brilliant that everything was that perfect dim blue-silver color. By that light I could see the wind dancing in the knee-high grass, not like waves but more like snakes. I felt like a dumb rock when all I wanted was to be smoke, dancing with the wind.
Then you came down from the sky, you showed me all the dazzling swirls and swoops you could do and left all these crazy colors in your wake. When you finally settled down I saw you skin was like orange flame, soft like a marker drawing, moving around you like a flaming teardrop. Your core was all blackness and depth but I knew it was you. Who else would it be?
We hold hands and you fly us back to that big stage. We wait behind the curtain and we hear the mayor come on one more time. He’s telling the audience about one final display to tip off the ceremony, a dazzling light show preformed by a secret guest. I look at you in surprise but before I know it we’re making a run for it, speeding up those long aisle steps, up towards the exit doors at the top. Everyone is speaking about it at the top of their lungs but I can barely hear them over the sight of you. Your colors are all falling off and I can see your features being revealed as flakes of light peel away. We burst out the double doors and down some hallway. Out into the bright sunlight and I still can’t get over how beautiful you are.
And that’s how it ends.

Think of an imagined orchestra. But there is no resonance hereabouts, so the imagination gives next to nothing for your efforts, and even in surround-sound there’s so little to reflect the dimensions of the space your walking inhabits. Sea hardly counts, having its constant companionship with wind, and sand hills absorb the footfall. A shout dies here before the breath has left the lungs.

Listen, there is a vague twittering of wading birds flocked far out on the sand. The sea rolls and breaks a rhythmic swell into surf. There’s a little wind to rustle the ammophila and only the slight undefined noise of our bodies moving in this strip between land and sea. Nowhere here can sound be enclosed except within the self. There’s a kind of breathing going on, and much like our own, it has to be listened for with a keen attention.

There is such a confusion of shapes making detail difficult to gather in, even to focus upon, and to attempt an imagined orchestration – impossible. We’ll have to wait for the camera’s catch, its cargo to be brought to the back-lit screen. Once there it seems hardly a glimmer of what we thought we saw, what we ‘snapped’ in an instant. It’s too detached, too flat. So thankfully you sketch, and I feel the pen draw shapes into your fingers and their moving, willing hand. On your sketchbook’s page the image breathes and lives.

You can’t sketch music this way because the mark made buries itself in a network that seems to defy with its complexity any image set before you. Time’s like that. You end up with a long low pitch, pulsating; a grumbling sound rich in sliding harmonics. You see, landscape does not beget melody or even structure and form, only tiny, pebbled pockets of random sound. Here, there is no belonging of music. Only the built space can adequately house music’s home. We might ****** a few seconds of the sea’s turn and wash, a bird’s cry, the rub and clatter of boot on stone, and later bring it back to a timeline of digital audio and be ‘musical’ with it, or not.

Where we hold music to landscape is something we are told just happens to be so; it is the interpretation’s (and the interpreter’s) will and whim. It is an illusion. The Lark Ascends in a Norfolk field. We hear, but rarely see, this almost stationary bird high in the morning air. We can only imagine the lark’s eye view, but we know the story, the poem, the context, so our imagination learns to supply the rest.

What is taken then to be taken back? On this November beach, on this mild, windless afternoon,. Am I collecting, preparing, and easing the mind, un-complicating mental space, or unravelling past thoughts and former plans? I can then imagine sitting at a table, a table before a window, a window before a garden, and beyond the garden (through the window) there’s a distant vista of the sea where the sun glistens (it is early morning), and there too in the bright sky remains a vestige of a night’s drama of clouds. But today we shall not put music to picture from a camera’s contents, from any flat and lifeless image.

Instead there seem to be present thoughts alive in this ancient coastline, abandoned here the necessary industry of living, the once ceaseless business of daily life. Instead of the hand to mouth existence governed by the herring, the course strip farming below the castle, the herds of dark cattle, the possible pigs, some wandering sheep, seabirds and their eggs for the ***, the gathering of seaweed, the foraging for fuel: there is a closing down for winter because the visitors are few. We need the rest they say, to regroup, paint the ceilings, freshen up the shop, strengthen the fences, have time away from the relentlessness of accommodating and being accommodating. Only the smell of smoking the herring remains from the distant past – but now such kippering is for Fortnums.

We step out across and down and up the coastal strip: an afternoon and its following morning;  a few miles walking, nothing serious, but moving here and there, taking it in, as much as we can. We fill ourselves to the brim with what’s here and now. The past is never far away: in just living memory there was a subsistence life of the herring fishers and the itinerant fisher folk who followed the herring from Aberdeen to Plymouth. Now there are empty holiday lets, retirement properties and most who live here service the visitors. Prime cattle graze, birds are reserved, caravans park next to a floodlit hotel and its gourmet restaurant. There’s even a poet here somewhere - sitting on a rock like a siren with a lovely smile.

Colours: dull greens now, wind-washed-out browns, out and above the sea confusions of grey and black stone, floating skeins of orange sands and the haunting, restless skies. Far distant into the west hills are sculpted by low-flying clouds resting in the mild air. Wind turbines step out across the middle distance, but today their sails are stationary. As the bay curves a settlement of wooden huts, painted chalets then the grey steep roofed houses of stone, grey and hard against the sea.

Does music come out of all this? What appears? What sounds? What is sounding in me? There is nothing stationary here to hang on to because even on this mild day there is constant change. Look up, around, adjust the viewpoint. There’s another highlight from the sky’s palette reflecting in the estuary water, always too various and complex to remember.

Music comes out of nothing but what you build it upon. It holds the potential for going beyond arrangements of notes. Pieces become buildings, layers in thought. My only landscape music to date begins with a formal processional, a march, and a gradually broadening out of tonality the close-knit chromatic to the open-eared pentatonic. There’s a steady stream of pitches that do not repeat or recur or return on themselves, as so much music needs to do to appease our memory.

In this landscape there seem only sharp points of dissonance. I hear lonely, disembodied pitches, uncomfortable sounds that are pinned to the past. The land, its topography as a score grasping the exterior, lies in multi-dimensional space, sound in being, a joining of points where there is no correlation. There’s a map and directions and a flow of time: it starts here and ends there, and so little remains for the memory.

Yet, this location remains. We walked it and saw it fortunately for a brief time in an uninhabited state. We were alone with it. We looked at this land as it meets the sea, and I saw it as a map on which to place complexes of sound, intensities even,. But how to meet the musical utterance that claims connection? It is a layering of complexes between silences, between the steady step, the stop and view. There is perhaps a hierarchy of landscape objects: the curve of the bay, the sandhills’ sweep, the layerings of sand, and in the pools and channels of this slight river that divides this beach flocks of birds.

Music is such an intense structure, so bound together, invested with proportions so exact and yet weighed down by tone, the sounding, vibrating string, the column of air broken by the valve and key, the attack and release of the hammered string. But there is also the voice, and voices are able to sound and carry their own resonance . . .

. . . and he realised that was where these long drawn out thoughts, this short diary of reflection, had been leading. He would sit quietly in contemplation of it all and work towards a web of words. He would let their rhythms and sounds come together in a map, as a map of their precious, shared time moving between the land and the sea, the sea and the land.

sssshhhh, did you hear?
it's an amazing day today!

so rise, freshen up!
open your window, light a cigarette,
brew yourself a cup of coffee (or tea, if you prefer that)
freshen up!

because whatever's in line for you today,
the world is out there, welcoming you with open arms!

so raise your glass,
let's toast to a new day ahead!

and when the night comes,
the stars and the moon are going to look down at you smiling,
congratulating you for doing great today!

Time for an adventure,
3 a.m. and raining
Sitting in my FUBU hoodie
My brain was really straining
To keep awake until the bus
Pulled into Detroit Station
So I could start my trip across
This once great and mighty nation
I wasn't there alone this night
Others dozed and slept
Some just sat there silently
While some just sat and wept
I looked at those around me
Who had assembled for this ride
I hoped we would get along
When in walked a young bride
She was dressed in white from head to feet
Her veil was ripped and torn
Behind the ruined makeup
You could see her face was worn
No groom came in, she was alone
She changed, sat, made no fuss
It was almost one more hour
Before we finally saw our bus
A Greyhound, drab and dreary
Pulled up at our loading door
They announced "210 to Vegas"
And they didn't say no more
Most people fly when heading there
They want to get there and get home
Our band of silent travellers
Wanted to just get out and roam
They loaded up our cases
I just had a backpack, that
I was gonna take on board and
Just load it where I sat
They said fifteen more minutes
They would have to fill with fuel
At this point I made contact
With a man....to have a duel
He was sitting right across from me
He had a ball out, on his knees
He was tossing it into the air
So...I brought out my keys
He tossed it up and caught it
So, with my keys I did the same
He smiled and flipped it to his left
and with my keys I played his game
He moved it round from hand to hand
Made it hover in mid air
He did it all so gracefully
I did the same with out a care
His ball, my keys...time slipping by
Just then he gave a smile
He bounced the ball upon the floor
He had beat my by a mile
I nodded, slipped my keys away
I'd been outdone through and through
By a man with a red rubber ball
What else was there to do?
We lodaded up and took our seats
The crowd was pretty thin
With the lights low on inside the bus
It was looking rather dim
The married folks and partners
paired up in seats as pairs
The singles spread out randomly
As they collected up our fares
Vegas, was our hallowed ground
The final destination for us all
Then on the station P.A
they made the final loading call
Thirty three hours was the time
We'd take to drive
Give or take some time for food stops
We'd all get there safe, alive
We hit the road directly
My adventure had begun
It was still dark in the distance
We were driving towards the sun
Across the aisle all alone
An old lady sat and wrote
She was trying to get comfortable
She was wrapped up in her coat
The seat behind me, vacant
I was grateful for this fact
It afforded me the space so I
Could put my seat right back
With the blind pulled down,
I tried to sleep, at last I drifted off
There was the sound of the bus motor
And of the occasional, dry, hoarse cough
I heard music in my head at first
So I thought it was a dream
It turned out to be a radio
Owned by our runaway, bridal queen
she sat two rows down and to my left
She had changed into some jeans, and shirt
She had one ear plug in, one out
You could see how she did hurt
I got up, stretched, went to the back
I'd freshen up and have a ***
As I walked I felt so ill at ease
As all eyes followed me
The back two seats were occupied
by  two nuns, one old, one not
The smiled as I came near them
I smiled back, and then I thought
This cast of wayward characters
Was not at all like those
That were portrayed in "Homeward Bound"
The song most folkies all shoud know
On my way back I noticed a man
Reading, or at least that's how it looked
I saw no print upon his page
No letters in his book
I stood and watched, his fingers flew
Like they were moving on a rail
Then I realized that he was blind
And his book was all in braile
I stood there in amazement
At this sight that I'd just seen
Then I chuckled at the cover
From an old ******* Magazine
We pulled into a diner
We'd been out for nine hours now
We had an hour to ourselves
Time to change and get some chow
Most folks sat as they had come
In pairs or all alone
Some went out for a ciggy
One old man went to the phone
We all made sure to void ourselves
Before we got  on board
For the smell from eighteen greasy meals
would test the nuns faith in our lord
The background noise was louder
Than it had been at the start
We were eighteen lonely travellers
Travelling together, but apart
A father and his daughter
Played "eye spy" and sang some songs
They played "license plate bingo"
Most lyrics they got wrong
The old lady across the aisle
was watching, intently like a hawk
She was scratching things inside her book
You'd expect her just to squak
The man who had the ball sat
Alone, said not a word
I walked by and said "good morning"
But I don't think he heard
He sat there, still not moving
staring out the window at the world
He was taking in the movie
Of our trip as it unfurled
The trip was uneventful
It went on mostly the same
People reading, people watching
Father, daughter and their games
The driver pointed out some stuff
As we passed by on the way
"To the left you'll find the largest
ball of string made to this day"
He pointed out old houses,
Fields of battle, lost and won
Just a couple took real notice
Most wished the trip was done
A repeat after five more hours
A new driver came on board
She was blond, blue eyed and beautiful
Inside, my heart just soared
In my imagination
She would pick me from the crowd
When we made it to Las Vegas
I would go with her, I'd be proud
But, she sat there pointing out the sights
Like her predecessor had
My fantasy went up in smoke
It was really kind of sad
We ventured on till Vegas
getting off to eat and then
We would all repeat our actions
And get back and sleep again
It was quiet for the most part
Most folks waiting for the end
When we came out of the mountains
We could see the strip around the bend
"Ten minutes till Las Vegas"
our blond driver told us all
Make sure you've your belongings
I looked at the man who had the ball
He smiled tossed it in the air
I tossed my keys just one more time
In a way, we had a friendship
In a way , it was a crime
We had one thing in common
It would stick with me for good
It would always make me smile
And a smile's always good
We pulled up into the station
We were all tired from the ride
Most grabbed their extra luggage
I grabbed mine and went inside
There, I went up to the window
Bought another ticket, heading east
Turned and bumped into a fellow
He was a slight, buy friendly priest
"I'm heading to Detroit, my son"
"Where is it you're off to"
"I'm just off on an adventure"
"I think I'll go back there with you"
He smiled, opened his bible
We had three hours still to wait
Before our bus was ready to go back
Across the United States
You might ask yourself, why do this?
Why go back and not take time
To see the city that I'd come to
It just seems so sublime
to me the whole adventure
Isn't in the place I go
The adventure is the people
Each trips a brand new show
The cities that I visit
Really never, ever change
But the people....oh the people
Man, some are really strange
If you now would please excuse me
I must go and change my clothes
For I'm off on adventure
How it turns out...no one knows.

He knows not how the toner trails,
I know how my conduits drain themselves.
Forming a queue while spitting blood
They’re an anemic residue.

He knows not how to freshen my palate,
With warmth, I see no remedy
My so-fatigued heart,
I was a monochrome in plastic wares.

I wasn’t a prototype, but a derivative.
Seclusion I abhor, indeed my life too

Mnemonic...

Over my mug of steaming coffee,
...i see cookies and a fruit...sliced,
to freshen my breath after my coffee break....

one glance...

one unexpected glance, took me back... to
when i decided to do something for myself,
to be happy.....and to be somebody....but,
finally....i fought the desire, to be defiant...
those awakenings, and newfound feelings,
still haunt my evenings...the hurting, somewhat
changed me, and my beliefs.......i realized that,

at some point in one's life, a chance moment
unfolds on a landing...clear to the eyes...on a mission,
to change attitudes...to erase wrong impressions,
triggered by unpleasant experiences....i have also
discovered....at the right time, somebody comes,
......like an angel with hidden wings...to soften
our hardened minds....to melt our frozen hearts,
ease our tensed opinions...offer us a healing balm.
sometimes, a place, or a face, becomes a kind of paper
that can't be crumpled, or destroyed...so hard to forget.
anyone...anything, that strikes the heart hard,
easily comes back, with the slightest reminder,
catches you..........unprepared....

this fruit on the table, in silence, it just sits there,
...unaware of its being mnemonic...doesn't matter,
if it's fresh, rotten, or candied...a plum, apple or pear
....................would prompt me, to remember,
over my mug of steaming coffee...


Sally


Copyright July 27, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

Scrawny figures.
Skeletal in stature.
Starved of dignity.
Dressed in hanging skin.
Crippled by cruelty.

Terrified desperate fingers clutch the wire fence.
Begging for release from hell.
A convoy of sorrow are led to their demise.
Cruel release unanticipated.
The smell lingered heavy in the dark air.
A collection of souls in need of cleansing.
Needed physical cleansing not.
Perhaps mental release reached.
Sought out by tragic hands.
The shower blocks looked inviting.
Almost appetizing.
To wash away the stench of death.
Wholeheartedly inviting.
Filed in horrendously.

The furnace burning hot.
Waiting for another lot.
Let the horrors of the concentration camp not be forgot.
Never ever!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Yes, Atthis, you may be sure

Even in Sardis
Anactoria will think often of us

of the life we shared here, when you seemed
the Goddess incarnate
to her and your singing pleased her best

Now among Lydian women she in her
turn stands first as the red-
fingered moon rising at sunset takes

precedence over stars around her;
her light spreads equally
on the salt sea and fields thick with bloom

Delicious dew pours down to freshen
roses, delicate thyme
and blossoming sweet clover; she wanders

aimlessly, thinking of gentle
Atthis, her heart hanging
heavy with longing in her little breast

She shouts aloud, Come! we know it;
thousand-eared night repeats that cry
across the sea shining between us

Taos Pueblo fashion designer Patricia Michaels returns to New York City for “Style Fashion Week NYC”on September 10th to present her latest 30 piece collection at aspecial RSVP eventat Hammerstein Ballroom, 311 West 34th St, Midtown Manhattan.

Michaels was a finalist on season 11 of the Lifetime reality TV show, “Project Runway”, and “Project Runway All-Stars”, gaining thousands of admirers as the media world followed her success along with an excited and proud Indian country.

Michaels will present her trademark PM Waterlily line and her latest collection for Spring/Summer 2017. Known for her use of Native-themed fabrics, hand painted or hand dyed, cut and fabricated at her Taos, New Mexico studio, Michaels says she is inspired by nature walks at Taos Pueblo among the trees, wildflowers and water plants, and “seeds” are important symbols of her designs and concepts.

The following description is from the website, speaking of the “Modern Native” who inspires and wears her designs. “Patricia Michaels...will have a few pieces for colder climates as her woman travels to regions where during the summer the climates tend to be cold. She is a world traveler so one may made need that special look to freshen her palette.”

Those living in or near the New York area that are interested in attending can visit toEventbrite to RSVP for the September 10 event. Seating is limited.

We wish Patricia Michaels and PM Waterlily success in New York City and beyond.

According to their site, Style Fashion Week, producer of globally recognized fashion events, provides top designers a world class platform to showcase their collections. Each year Style Fashion Week presents the season's must see shows, unforgettable performances and exclusive installations. Our expansive Style Marketplace immerses guests in fashion as well as art and design. Guests directly engage with brands throughout the week.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses

Poets go blind from writing by moonlight,
But my artist smites the moon with her luminance,
I write by her subtle, cyan, rays
And would gladly go blind for, with her, my eyes find their fill quickly,

She is the unexpected wind bouncing off the water’s surface,
And my chest is the sail,
Lifted, pushed, expanded and fulfilled to its most righteous purpose,

If the world is a stage than she is the red velvet curtain,
Commanding a sway so slight and savory
That other rags rent and burn,

No matter how mesmerizing the performance is,
A sudden hush or vibrant ovation is demanded in her wake,
A sultry swirl of goddess and girl,
Too precious to be stored with other jewels,

Elegance with every hinting glance, every rowdy inhale,
And every placement of those sinister legs,
That rams would think twice to scale,

The bend in her back is the stroke of my oils,
The pout of her lips is scarlet meat to the lions,
And the feel of her hips sum up my surreptitious desires,

Like good jazz things seem to pull back
Before the cathartic crescendos,
But to put it bluntly dear, the next time you’re here,
It may pay to freshen up with a Mentos.

You bathed in whisky
To freshen up for me.

Bodies are strewn, one by one, round the room.
All that remains of the casualties here.
All of the victims, perverts and vixens,
Which fell to their instincts, desires and beer.
Recently music had filled air with rhythm,
Masking the retching and ******* the same,
Though rising with sun was the silence, begun
As horizons were setting to flame.

Wading through bodies to go make a drink,
A 6am ***** to freshen the mind.
You scramble and struggle, ignoring the couple
You caught in the kitchen, enjoying a grind.
A smile and a wave, with such sweetness, they gave
And, kindly, they offered some cider.
Approaching the man, you take a warm can
Whilst hoping its not been inside her.

Back to the sofa, a girl has rolled over,
Aeons from sober, you try nudge below her,
Quickly, then slower, with hopes no one knows her,
The types to come over assuming you'll ***** her.
But everything's fine, the coast is all clear.
You soon commandeer, till she falls among beer.
***** turns to smears, but too ****** to hear
Or try interfere, the room sleeps, cohered.

The wait is now on. The coke in your nose
Beginning to burn as you drool on your clothes.
You smoke and you smoke while you cough and you choke,
But it seems with each minute, the time passing slows.
You wack out a notepad, scribble some words,
Draw a few ***** with wings like a bird,
But mostly you sit. Sitting in quiet.
The last one alive in the midst of the riot.

every moment
is continually shedding itself;
sloughing off the skin of time,
dying, into the past,
to freshen in exposure,

this moment.

to live, really
to breathe, by
impermanence.

constantly transforming,
the body is never solid,
here, there, as atomic flashes,
electrons popping in and out
of existence,
an appearance made,
to depart, in a flicker.

all turns off, like this,
always, eventually,
momentarily.

threshed and stripping
bare chaos
voraciously burns,

returning through extinguish
on smokey black horizons.

sinking, into
tendrils weaving,
knitting by fray,
tapestries engendered
by enveloping decease.

you feel this
don’t you?
unconscious
as much of it may be.

it is the nearest of near,
and dearly intimate,
passions corrosive kiss,
oscillating, opening,
to retract, in flow,
pushing in
to pull away,

thanatos is eros
together, apart again,
together-apart,
here-going.

the heart is aware,
supremely aware of this happening,
even when the mind is fooled
by apparent stability,

and the soul surrenders to
it's inevitability,
even hungering for
divine destruction,
as basic an urge
as the creative impulse.

to be composed
is to be subject to decompose,
fertilizing compositions
in cosmic chasms.

our lungs darkly shining
with every fall of the chest
mirroring,

each breath
one breath closer
to the final breath,

each exhale
a letting go
of what can’t be held
forever,

the expelled
foreshadows annihilation,
on the fading road, towards
this mortal coils entropic end;
a preparation.

to live, surely, is to meet loss
over and over,
to love, fully, is to grieve
again and again,

there is a deep
melancholic knowing
that exists in all living things,

water drops
tears like rain,
leaves fall
like sighs,

everyone,
and everything
dies.

our melancholy
might be sacred
could we truly embrace,
and feel, this reality:

death is the ever present condition.

But, darling, no one is understanding this.
My abilities are flowers and you're picking off all the petals
before I even have time to grow more.
My brain is a garden that I can only water when I'm alone,
so please understand that I will wilt and dry out when exposed
to too much social interaction for too long of a time.
I need time to recuperate, to grow, to freshen up.
Because a flower is no fun when it's wilted, and all the petals are gone.


(d.d.b)

As her eyes feasted
on the spectrum of * colors

Fighting the love dust she
speared a smile traced quite
a while
like sartorial

Pardon me if this isn't love
What could be traceable
We need to face out fear
“Facebook” pictorial.

Seeing wings clean_ lines of elegance.

Whole again or fall again world negligence

Depending on someone like an alliance

To do something dependent or trust reliance

She flicked open her fan midsummer night dream

All she could see was the dust of his  jacket
and seam, ((Judy Jupiter))
My mom the tailor seamstress

Her angelic feathers coming
out of his pocket

Exquisitely detailed he towers over her locket

He traced her fingers felt
plug-in software delicate care

Hotwire too many people swear or ridicule

Biblical sense of satire molecule he traced your fire
and desire "Saint Andrews" cross

Sal-tire flames building caught inside
Bruce Spring teen fire

Women of the fairies mound of
ghost felt superior

Fairies Emperor of any kind to boast
But why so inferior was it written inside
the interior
Those chandeliers she was sung
like their musketeers

Supercilious with an arrogance, not quite a host.

Red ****** heart wine toast.

Cruel to be kind love her madly composition.

“Like Dust” modern ages better times ammunition

“He Seeks” her let it be.

Ancient Greeks nymphs Eve me
Apple Jubilee so "Glee"
So fumble he doing the crossword jumble

Further away fairies French art- traceable  so notably
pulled you a noticeable another trace of her divine waist

He lifted her torso how he admired you
felt his breeze like the instrument Mastro

Took the bad spirits away he sneezed.

Wickedly shadow face he lurks on the wall dark ages,
English Tudor in fairy of stages rock and roll ages
He wasn't the bread sourdough  so much to plow
poppy seeds like a paradox pardon me I never promised
you
Fairy Rose garden or lovely maiden
That salmon  solitude soft and moist
She loves surfing for foes and fairies
The winner  medieval sword suitor  
Being fed by the lover

Emails flew like dust things were as
old as rust
lingered all around Robin Redbreast
What eggs of a fairy nest

So traceable he touched you lovable

computer flickered tinker bell

Swift steps Nutcracker Ballet
from Vancouver to ponder over

Celestial Fairies around Mystical

Blowing in the wind speaks of the
dust of a click

Scarlet fever resolution in flocks

Like Monk reunion wings spread to live it

Just breath it traces of another angelic face
To be reborn again the revelation

How it enhanced transformed digital form slick

Strong spiritual being she’s picked

Her name was Joan of Ark

“Robin Good-fellow” shined over the Lunar

Like her chosen fairy of the tooth all marked

Those fairies always near us to guide us and tell us

Who we really are
The world unknown who cares?

Shakespeare to be or not to be
Let it be fairies, diaries. Monasteries,
Please freshen my Blueberries, Sherri babies
Four seasons fairies traceable or their wings
pulling me back
Love uncontrollable, my feather pillows remarkable,
What eludes like a prelude to the faires the
Epcot  center middle of attention her
drawing you could see the lines incredible
40 winks of fairies the Grecian oceans
Smiles in one blink unstoppable

The fairies powerful hands to trace

All over your good spirited complexion face

I've been up for hours, not really my choice.
I sold myself short, thirty percent off to the devil, I constantly hear his voice.
This isn't my life.
I should've settled for two kids and a wife.
But I got complacent.
Everything in those moments felt good so why not.
Now I sit.
In the dark.
Alone.
Depression deep down, I can feel it to the bone.
With nothing to call my own.
I really wanna go home.
Other side of the country just trying to build my own;
Throan.

I've made too many mistakes.
However, they all made me;
Somehow.
Blurred vision when I think of destiny.
Or maybe it's the fifth of Hennessy.
Why can't I just jump and know for a fact I got the remedy.

More life.
Longevity.
More juice.
I'm seeing two sides of me, but switching up or pick and choose.
I'm staring at a tree trying not to eat forbidden fruit,
While I'm sinking in the ground, could I be meeting my roots.
Maybe I should freshen up and clean my Georgia, Henry county unfilled shoes, just to get,
More life.
But I'm Only Human.

In the meadow in front of the manor house.
The long grass invited them.
Suggested they step in.
Hand in hand they strolled.
As kissing in the grass they rolled.
Never did as they were told.

The Lord of big house he came.
Caught them playing naughty games.
He stood watching as they played.
The foot man and me the parlour maid.
Master whispered in her ear.
'Tut tut come here.
I want you for myself my dear'.

The foot man got his marching orders.
The lord of the manor he smiled and said,
' Get here sweet, *****, we're going to bed'.
Sweet ***** smiled with a twinkling eye, for she would so much sooner die.
But as a servant has to do.
She had to do as she is told.

She stood there with her index finger, placed discreetly between her teeth.
Looking so seductive.
With eyebrows high, head tilted subtly to one side.
Although, him she found repulsive.
She got him hot.
Loved him not.
She said she needed to freshen up.
Dashed off to find the loo.
That's what she said.
What she had to do.
Instead she found a telephone.
Rang his honest wife.
Told his wife of infidelity.
She paid for telling with her life!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

When breezes are soft and skies are fair,
I steal an hour from study and care,
And hie me away to the woodland scene,
Where wanders the stream with waters of green,
As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink
Had given their stain to the wave they drink;
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through,
Have named the stream from its own fair hue.

  Yet pure its waters--its shallows are bright
With coloured pebbles and sparkles of light,
And clear the depths where its eddies play,
And dimples deepen and whirl away,
And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot
The swifter current that mines its root,
Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill,
The quivering glimmer of sun and rill
With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown,
Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone.
Oh, loveliest there the spring days come,
With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum;
The flowers of summer are fairest there,
And freshest the breath of the summer air;
And sweetest the golden autumn day
In silence and sunshine glides away.

  Yet fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide,
Beautiful stream! by the village side;
But windest away from haunts of men,
To quiet valley and shaded glen;
And forest, and meadow, and ***** of hill,
Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still.
Lonely--save when, by thy rippling tides,
From thicket to thicket the angler glides;
Or the simpler comes with basket and book,
For herbs of power on thy banks to look;
Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me,
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee.
Still--save the chirp of birds that feed
On the river cherry and seedy reed,
And thy own wild music gushing out
With mellow murmur and fairy shout,
From dawn to the blush of another day,
Like traveller singing along his way.

  That fairy music I never hear,
Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,
And mark them winding away from sight,
Darkened with shade or flashing with light,
While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings,
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings,
But I wish that fate had left me free
To wander these quiet haunts with thee,
Till the eating cares of earth should depart,
And the peace of the scene pass into my heart;
And I envy thy stream, as it glides along,
Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song.

  Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men,
And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen,
And mingle among the jostling crowd,
Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud--
I often come to this quiet place,
To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face,
And gaze upon thee in silent dream,
For in thy lonely and lovely stream
An image of that calm life appears
That won my heart in my greener years.

Everything was fine.
The friendship was steady
Our organs were just in line
Mistake from my brain was ready.
A night, a saudade night.
I was vulnerable so was my thought
At last thinking a sleep would just feel right.
Well, I got closer to the trap my brain brought.
An hour later, I found myself in in a room.
A familiar one, my chaps were there too.
I looked up I felt doomed.
Talked to my brain, yeah this is cool.
Well, we were all together,
happy and bloomed.
A friendly limerence, that's all we had for each other.
The chimera felt me like a perfume.
Suddenly, I decided to leave.
Wanted to freshen up my attire.
But was staring at myself with pure grieve.
Heard a sudden din, was a person I admire.
He stood there, just stared.
Tried interrogating him. once and twice.
But the movements were none, just eyes with care.
Now it was not just him, I too stood there just as ice.
Then his fingers caught my upper arm,
pulled me close to him.
His lips with thirst touch mine with charm.
Mine joined them too and weak were my limbs.
Merrily opened my eyes.
A weird curve ran across my face.
He stepped back, satisfyingly sighs.
Looked at me, smiled, gone were his trace.
Sudden shriek woke me up.
Perverse was what I felt.
But my brain had already ******* everything up.
Amity was surrounded by this wierd belt.
I reached, where my organs retreated.
Walked, each step filled with guilt.
The door of awkwardness met me and greeted.
stretched out my hand to open it with brain filled with jilt.
Sudden jolt, I felt.
A face, made me nervy
It was him, eyes with care and a smile with stealth.
Greeted him usually, but feelings were lively.
But I sure can't deny,
That I never wished it to be true.
Talk about it? I can't even try.
But want that feel of caress, just like a leaf groped by dew

She winked in her cute little bandana,
was standing strategically by the keg,
dressed non-discreetly in
a very **** skimpy-bikini.
The curls that wrapped
around her drop-dead beautiful face
accentuated her high striking cheekbones.
Her lips moved in slow motion,
the tip every now and then
licking the edges of her pretty mouth.
We made small talk about
the weather and current songs.
She kept telling me how handsome I was,
her striking-eyes seemed believable,
but I remained guarded,
I had heard those lines before.

The stars began to emerge as the sun sunk
lower and she wondered if I wanted to walk
with her, down to the edge of the ocean.
The beer had me feeling more relaxed
and I took her up on her offer.
Down we walked, slowly to the water's edge,
she taking my hand,
telling me how strong my grip was.
It seemed like we walked forever,
but before too long, we were out of earshot of the band, the party was just a blip on the horizon.
We looked to face one another,
it felt surreal, she made me feel stellar,
like we were having fun.

The moment was ripe, I dipped her hair away
from her full lips, placing mine on top of hers,
our tongues met, my heart melted.
There was a stirring below, a hardness
found by her searching hands.
As if on cue, she descended,
unzipped my jeans rather quickly,
took me fully into her mouth.
She seemed expert, it was glorious,
my eyes rolled back in my head,
I squirted into her closed mouth,
wrapped around her prize.
She stood up, kissed me on my quivering lips,
told me I was exquisite,
the best she ever had,
& I believed her.

We walked back slowly,
my arm around her slender shoulder,
talked about the future.
When we arrived back at the bonfire,
things had heated up, the music was cranked,
people were dancing like they had drank too much.
She told she wanted to freshen up, asked me if I wanted a beer, I answered her affirmatively and
off she went, back into the raucous crowd,
in the direction of the keg.

She never came back, I never saw her again,
I never even got her name or number.
I felt used, a bit heartbroken.
I think she just wanted to **** me,
then let me go free for personal reasons.
It seemed rather one-sided,
I was hoping we confide in each other.
Strange how that happens both ways sometimes.

Water
Quench your thirst
Freshen you up
Dirt, sweat, unpleasant smells
Need water to get rid of them all
Friendly water
Reliable more than friends
Cant live without...
Not even a drop..
In a split second...
Unbelievably angry water
Swallowing everything up
Today i lost a place called home
My neighbour's children are gone
Thousands of people suffer a total lost
Possessions no longer
What a bleak future
The whole country mourns
Praying ...persuading angry water to forgive
So we could atleast gather
what we...
Still left behind...

An ash tree stands
at the place of creation
it is called Yggdrasil

A high tree
well-proportioned
the source of the dew
mother of winds

Green it is
standing over
the well of fate

Its roots draw
from the waters
that freshen that well

In old English there is a word
Treowth
it means both
tree
and truth

This tree is truth
its latticework of leaves
and branches
more intricate
than the Milky Way

It is a lung inverted
inhaling heaven's mists
exhaling the wind

It is our guardian tree
planted by a mighty race
that came before

A sentinel of hope
a goad to good works
and the last remaining sign
of a dawning
when the human mind
was first formed.

Rest now in its shade.
The final journey will soon begin.

Suffocation; the torture of life without breath
Debt; the torture of being trapped without way of getting out

We signed away our souls and our very livelihoods
So that we might find treasures deep into the earth
In vain we gave ourselves to this cause
We became bankrupted and we became slaves to our toil
We inhaled our work and it poisoned our bodies
We owed our souls to the company for which we worked

We dig deep into the earth
In search of ancient treasures formed long long ago
Seeking to find riches beyond belief and beyond compare
Beginning a noble crusade for good things
But then continuing on to become a misadventure where there is little redemption
Oh what an ignorant odyssey we had begun!

In a manmade cavern, we dig for riches
Our faces becoming covered with black soot
As we invest into the dreams of the treasures for which we dig
And yet then further and further falling into debt
Until we are not only suffocated merely by the soot of coal but also by our debts
And as if the danger of this mine were not enough before the the mines began to fall onto our very heads

We toil for years upon years in this dark mine of coal
Losing all we knew and all we were for the sake of unsatisfying treasure
Our friends die day after day suffocated by the matter of our toil
We inhale our work and our lungs become so filled and poisoned with the soot of the coal
Many could no longer breathe or bear the pain of the poison in their lungs
And then they die in the depths of the dark caves searching for treasure in vain

Not knowing we had signed a death wish
To toil deep into the depths of the mantle of the earth searching for forsaken treasure
Believing that we were searching for good things
That we truly were in the midst of a noble crusade
Not even knowing of the reality in which we stood
That there truly was a terrible hell in which we were living

To this point we knew not of the soot slowly suffocating our lungs
And we knew not of the blood pouring out of our wounds
We knew not of the utter blackness that covered our faces
Or that no oxygen flowed to our ever so needy lungs
We knew only of the importance of our mission
And the necessity to find the treasures for which we were sent out

But the reality of this deep and dark quarry was a hell never before known
And the unknown need of fresh air was as heavy as a newborns need for his mother's milk
Yet we knew not of the need for fresh air
For our eyes were set on the prize
To mine the treasure for which we had so long toiled
And we forgot of our need to live and seek good things

Not knowing the depths of our manmade cavern and our lostness
Our faces so covered with dried soot and blood
Longing for new air to freshen our dying lungs
And longing for Holy Water to wash clean our coal-filled and coal-covered bodies
Yet we knew not any of this
And we knew not of the depths of our pain and our suffering

Yet then one day we break through the surface of the earth
We see the light of the sun, and we see good things
The light of day shines onto us
And a cool breeze blows onto our faces
Then we take a collective breath of the new air
A breath of fresh air more satisfying than a thousand breaths in the depths of the horrid coal mine

We see something we had not seen in years, freedom
And as our eyes set upon the world which we had nearly forgotten
We see the beauty that we had indeed forgotten
We realize the hell that we had clearly been enduring
And in a moment it all becomes clearer than ever before
The treasure of the coal mine had so deceived our hearts and our judgement and our very sanity

For we knew not of the depth and gravity of the terror of the hell we were in
We thought we were simply searching for gold, but we had truly sold our souls
Digging deep into the depths of the planet toward the core
And we lost ourselves in the darkness and depravity of the shaft
Suffering in blindness and lostness, unable to find any good things
Until finally we found the Light from above

Our debts had been cleared and our bodies had been made new
How sweet the wind was upon our sweaty, soot-covered, bloodied faces as we emerged from the cave
And then we were washed clean of all of our pain and suffering
The blood was washed from our faces, and our wounds were healed
The soot from the thick coal was scrubbed from our flesh, and our poisoned lungs were healed
And we were freed from the terror of our suffering

For out of the depths of the earth with squinted eyes and limp limbs
We emerged into great Light never before seen
And as our eyes adjusted, so did our understanding
The understanding of just how lost we had been
And just how close to death we came with each and every day
But the breath of fresh air, and the sight of new light resurrected us

From the great horror of our past we were healed
And from our ever-growing debts we had been released
We were freed from our self-imprisonment and given new life
And not on our own accord in the slightest
But by the great love of Christ Jesus
For Jesus is our great deliverer

Tis the season once again
For me to cast my vote
This year I'm going Bananas
Instead of Artichoke

When it comes to Apples & Oranges
They're pretty much the same
As I close the curtain on the booth
And just start punching names

Asparagus is tops on my list
Much more than Brussels Sprouts
What Veggie will lead the charge
We'll have to wait to find that out

So let's freshen up the voting block
And somewhere in between
As we vote raw our favorite vegetable
The rest of them we'll steam

Your body jerks as you heave yourself out of bed.
The clock reads 5am.
Your phone vibrates,
It’s here.
The countdown is over.

A few long hours,
And caffeinated up,
You arrive,
The sun dances on your skin.

Unpack, freshen up,
Then hit the streets.
You wander aimlessly,
And endlessly.

Eating, sleeping, drinking and waking,
Whenever your body clock requires.
The schedule has been stripped,
Your busy days gone.

You set the rules,
You make the decisions.

Want to people watch with a glass of wine,
Why not?
Want to wander and look at the buildings,
Why not?
Want to sleep in,
Why not?

It’s your trip,
Your story,
Your travels.

The only person you have to depend on is you.

i gather, all philosophy is written on the anti-cross, or a sickbed... and all maxims on the deathbed - in between there's nothing but vain distractions that have no basis for a consensus of surprise - they are merely therapies of manual labours, shadow-caste by weakness to invoke a sense of belonging to this world akin to a labourer of pure action - reduced to the same pure action: as one might showcase faking one's own death.

Kant said of poets: bothersome flies -
here to steal the cupcakes of my pondering:
zwischen die volkern erzielt wird
a mondus vivendi - in vivo or in vitro?
alter: mondus quasi vivendi -
and all that talk about sabotage (canto xix)?
his own poetry - even the sarcasm, but
especially the sarcasm shines through pristine
as if Hannibal Lecter talking about Alabama:
i gawt dem tousand doughlars tough mak 'em...
        awl over the plaice -
            got to give Ezra the cheek for demonic
slapping to shove that one, up their pristine
temple of ahoy ****! still, the variation is there:
usury and simony - talk of,
       Thomas the Cartesian -
Peter Simon the Usurer - the rock that gave
way to 1000% a.e.r. of maggot - interests rates
and what they said about her:
         piece of meat for the film, *****,
second rate: ***** slapped to Disney - and aren't
women natural sadists? i guess the Cesarean section
was a move in the wrong direction:
*****, pain! *****, pain!                well...
          if i was ever to be bothered, i'd be bothered now:
they're saying you need your genitals stretched
like Armstrong winning the 8th tour de france -
but f.g.m. is bad, bad bad bad -
hey, i was the one who said: get an abortion,
i didn't love you in the same way i ****** you...
you'd think she wouldn't think she was a murderer
akin with me, until the **** ***** turned into
a yanking diaper wearing blob -
                  i love how precursor physics akin to
post-physics (metaphysics) is entombed with pepper
ante: so sneeze into the benzene ring and get
either para- or ortho- physics out -
but she was russian orthodox, which is worse
than roman catholic: no feeling of guilt -
just the relativity factor: forget female rights:
let's just **** the ****** for giving her freedom -
yeah... and i just graduated and couldn't find
a job in chemistry, was working as a roofer:
she has two apartments in St. Petersburg and a mansion
in Siberia... and she sums it up as: i have no money.
blah ha ha ha ha; and i have an aunt in Warsaw
who sends me monthly stipends to drink myself to
death while i write the alternative to Proust.
  he really gave it to them in Ohio: i really gave it
back to London, imagine being published in the town
of your birth, simply because the western notion
of a book: is actually a brick, or a rubber door-stop -
unless you're famous? forget it... seriously,
they really have destroyed poetry with the idea that
autobiographies will **** poetry off...
question is: if you lived an interesting life...
why would you write a book? why would you?
i'm sure you'd continue making life interesting,
Don Juan wrote a book, Faust was like: bartender!
next round! and what's with these ghost writers?
that's like taking the concept of narration
and inventing a fourth dimension -
            our literary tastes and ambitions... are actually
ruled by dyslexics - people who not only can't
write... but who primarily can't punctuate...
now... if this is a healthy society (that we live in)...
then i guess Iraq is an improvement after toppling
Saddam... bra-*******-vo.
                         if i were the west i'd shut up
for one generation, and stop this political fetish of
foreign policy - but, as you guessed it... it won't work...
           just today, a program: 15 years after -
truth, lies, and conspiracies - well... if Guy Fawkes
did blow up parliament, we wouldn't be having
bonfire night celebrations, we'd be having debates...
but since Guy Fawkes plot was a failure:
ola anonymous! ola whoever...
                  and that massive tower in Dubai?
it was an architectural coup - let's freshen things up,
let's keep the competitive streak coming -
who's ******* overshadows all other erections
(egoism)? point is... i don't even care,
         there's no point playing hide (deny) & seek
(doubt) with these people... there's no point!
         i'm not seeking the ultimate noun -
    or how you perpetrate grammatical cleansing:
you basically strip words of meaning,
   and drop them, face-down, into their respective
grammatical category, and the job's done:
no grander meaning, no ulterior purpose,
    no alternative suggestion;
        or rereading Nietzsche - you either recite
something by the author, or you cite the authority
behind your own investigation - the former is
sycophantic stagnation, the latter a narrative continuance:
                furthermore? continual nuance.
    that's how rhyme will remain until i find
the original intention of poetry's need for rhyme to
   be anything but what it currently is: unappealing -
it's like poets want to write something that can be
classified as poetry... which obviously leads to
  the controversy of: but it's so ****** unappealing!
  hence the revision of rhyming to and from couplets -
   i only came across an interest in philosophy aged 21...
  any sooner and i'd fall for reciting dogmas and
upholding the arguments of others...
                   but i only came across this subject through
a collision with strife: or the lost care to strive
   in order to suspect a need for social ascension into
  the heights of respectable society of: horse racing
at Ascot, champagne and caviar: and airs: oh may i,
   oh you do indeed, sir.
                            and in each and every one of us:
   the brute: the comedian.
       what Nietzsche did to emphasise with italics,
  i'm doing it with the colon - for it is said that the colon
economises emphasis without Niccolò de' Niccoli
                           (ò) - i.e. Nichole - née coal -
in French: cut short; which means? have you ever seen
a new form of literary monopoly emerge
that wasn't ecclesiastical? i have... the diacritical markings
on standard Latin letters - they're not taught:
merely accepted -                   suspension of illiteracy
             hibernating in ages of education:
on purpose dangling - the stick a metre from your
head, the carrot a Don Quixote fata morgana -
  truly: a mirage.                SKY: believe in better.
all those guys in advertisement know their philosophy -
once i met a guy who once worked in advertisement
and was shocked when i summed up Sartre as:
                                                                         voyeurism.
  but there's a new monopoly on literacy in town,
it's obviously more refined than the old way of
telling secrets -
                            it's refined in the sense that i too would
have doubted whether that's haiku in ensō or enso'h -
dried up laughter, or the desert of once heard
laughter: lo'h 'n' behold a stammer for an earthquake -
so soon? yep, that much sooner.
                           looking at it, it's all Copernican
east north south west with some encoding, or all of them:
   up there, on the international space station
you get a hard-on thinking about nautical mathematics.
   i get him though, Nietzsche the Preacher -
              although i limited my experiences in order
to never agree with his observations that precipitated from
his experiences - none of them could have come
from *a priori musings - what with his menage trois -
   again: ménagé (à) trois - or faux pas, i.e. fau(x) pa(s) -
                   as Xerxes said: war!     (alias Łar -
     warsaw - or?   Łarsała - siała baba mak, nie wiedziała
jak - chłop powiedział: a to było tak... a sea-saw)
  while  some dwarf Polish Duck, a.k.a. politician added:
     V'AR!         -             while in this
  retreat in France - Taizé - i served out lunch and dinner
for the congregation, working with this German
  who preferred spiritual duty than army conscription
service; a memorable quote by him though:
   vey d dn't oonderstaand my good En'glish arr-cent:
   plus the Schwarzenegger for comparative literature.

That day
it's either ask
a friend for a favour,
or sleep on the roof
of some City building.

The daylight affords
City parks, City benches.

Hit the Soup Kitchen
for a morning sliced cheese sandwich
along with a weak cup of tea.

Sneak into the Mall
Food Court wash rooms
for a freshen-up.

A ****, shower and shave
without the shower and shave.

One foot in front of the other,
one foot on the street,
the other in the gutter.

Killing time, looking
for friendly faces
to *** a smoke from.

Feeling no permanence,
no point, no purpose.

A bruised and broken ego,
avoiding any eye contact.

Pity-faced glances
walk by on passing heads.

Not two cents to rub together,
looking for any best-old-ex-friend,
in the hopes of sofa surfing,
or maybe just a cup of coffee.