teamara

As in the nub of the remains of crayola crayon that’s been used to color in so many smiling cartoon suns on a piece of paper-
Her favorite color is yellow.
And I don’t mean a wimpy *** pastel yellow or sometimes a pale yellow
I mean her favorite color is bright *** yellow.
Like Pikachu yellow.
Like she’s almost nineteen but she’s still willing to play Gameboy Pokemon yellow.
There’s something innocent yet corny kind of yellow about her.
She’s beautiful like yellow jirasol petals
She’s intricate as yellow thread woven in a Rasta Dom
She’s yellow like gold and Africa
She’s sweet like pineapples and delicate like daffodils
I still don’t know why her favorite color is yellow
Maybe it has to do with her fascination of Asian men…
I mean! ...with the continent of Asia
She thinks she’s more like pink Japanese cherry blossom trees in the summer
But I know she’s truly yellow petals on Paolo Verde trees blowing in the wind spreading around Tucson
A metaphor for her love
She’s yellow like the color in the middle of my pride rainbow- She supports me
She’s yellow like the big painted sun at the hospital with a big grin
I wonder why nobody smiles at hospitals
The place where life is easily given as taken
Where we are reminded that our health is sometimes taken for granted
Other than that great big yellow sun
She is the only that radiates yellow and smiles
In waiting rooms, she seems like she’s the calmest
Even though she’s the only one going through surgery
She’s so beautiful on the inside her body can’t even take it
She doesn’t deserve scions or scalpels to even be considered touching her bronze skin
I wish instead they would strip down the color yellow from my life
And give it to her to make her smile so bright that even word “cancer” would cease to exist
But still. Even through pain and hardships
She still smiles. Not only is she yellow when she’s happy
She tends to radiate yellow even when she’s gloomy
When I’m upset, her aura has way of rubbing off on mine
And I get insight to why her favorite color is yellow
‘*** she’s the kind of yellow that represents strength
She’s yellow like tall forts made from gold bars
She’s yellow like flames that roll of her tongue when she spits fire
She’s yellow like a crayola-crayon… except she can’t be broken
From her, I’m learning
That even when you’re hurting
You can still shine bright like your favorite color.

It doesn’t matter why I was there, where the air is sterile and the sheets sting.
it doesn’t matter that I was hooked up to this thing that buzzed and beeped every time my heart leaped, like a man whose faith tells him:
God's hands are big enough to catch an airplane

or a world,

doesn’t matter that I was curled up like a fist protesting death,
or that every breath was either hard labor or hard time,
or that I’m either always too hot or too cold
it doesn’t matter because my hospital roommate wears star wars pajamas,
and he’s nine years old

His name is Louis

and I don’t have to ask what he’s got, the bald head with the skin and bones frame speaks volumes. The Gameboy and feather pillow booms like, they’re trying to make him feel at home ‘cuase he’s gonna be here a while

I manage a smile the first time I see him and it feels like the biggest lie I’ve ever told.
so I hold my breath
cause I’m thinking any minute now he’s gonna call me on it
I hold my breath
cuase I’m scared of a fifty seven pound boy hooked to a machine, becuase he’s been watching me, and maybe I’ve got him pegged all wrong, like

maybe he’s bionic or some ****.
so I look away.

like I just made eye contact with a gang member who’s got a rap sheet the length of a lecture on dumb mistakes politicians have made. I look away like he’s gonna give me my life back he minute I’ve got something to trade, I **** near pull out my pack and say


Cigarette?

but my fear subsides in the moment I realize Louis is all about show and tell. he’s got everything from a shot gun shell to a crows foot and he can put them all in context like:

See, this is from a shooting range and

see, this is from a weird girl

I watch his hands curl around a cuff link and a tie tack and realize that every nick knack is a treasure and every treasure’s got a story and every time I think I can’t handle more he hits me with another story. says:

See, this is from my father. see, this is from my brother. see, this is from that weird girl. see this is from my mother. it took me two days to figure out that

that weird girl, is his sister.

took him about two hours today after she left for him to figure out he missed her.

they visit every day and stay well passed visiting hours. because for them that term doesn’t apply. but when they do leave Louis and I are left alone and he says the worst part about being sick is you get all the free ice cream you ask for. and he says the worst part about that is realizing that there’s

nothing more they can do for you. he says:

Ice Cream can’t make every thing ok.

and there’s no easy way of asking and I already know what he’s gonna say, but maybe he just needs to say it so I ask him any way. Are you scared? Louis doesn’t even lower his voice when he says

**** yeah.


I listen to a nine year old boy say the word ****, like he was a thirty year old man with a nose bleed being lowered into a shark tank, he’s got a right to it and if it takes this kid a curse word to help him get through it, I want to teach him to swear like the devil was sitting there taking notes with a pen and a pad but before I can forget that Louis is nine years old he says:

please don’t tell my dad.

he asks me if I believe in angels,

and before I realize I don’t have the heart to tell him, I tell him Not lately, and I just lay there waiting for him to hate me. but he doesn’t know how to, so he never does.

Louis loves like a man who lived in a time before god gave religion to men and left it to them to figure out what hate was.

He never greets me with silence. only smiles. and a patience I’ve never seen in someone who knows they’re dying. and I’m trying so hard not to remind him, I’ll be out of here in a couple of days, smoking cigarettes and taking my life for granted. and he’ll still be planted in this bed like a flower that refuses to grow, I’ve been with him for five days and all I really know is Louis loves to pull feathers out of his pillow, and watch them float to the ground, almost as if he was the philosopher inside of the scientist ready to say that its gravity that’s been getting us down. but the truth is

there’s not enough miracles to go around kid,

and there’s too many people petitioning god for the winning lotto ticket. and for every answered prayer there’s a cricket with arthritis, and the only reason we can’t find answers is the search party didn’t invite us, and Louis right now the crickets have arthritis

so there is no music.

no symphony of nature swelling to crescendos, as if we bent halo’s into melodies that could keep rhythm with the way our hearts beat.
so we must meet silence with the same level of noise that the parents of dying nine year old boys make when they take liberties in talking with heaven. we must shout until we shatter in our own vibrations then let our lives

echo, and grow
echo, and grow
echo, and grow

Grow distant.


grow distant enough to know that as far as our efforts go we don’t always get a reply. but I swear to whatever god I can find in the time I have left I’m gonna remember you kid. gonna tell your story as often as every story you told me, and every time I tell it I’ll say see,

there’s bravery in this world

there’s 6.5 billion people curled up like fists protesting death, but every breath we take has to be given back, a nine year old boy taught me that.

so hold your breath. the same way you’d hold a pen when writing thank you letters on your skin to every tree that gave you that breath to hold.
then let it go. as if you understand something about getting old and having to give back
let it go like a laugh attack in the middle of really good ***

the black eye will be worth it.

because what is your night worth without a story to tell, and why wield a word like worth if you’ve got nothing to sell. people drop pennies down a wishing well as if the cost of a desire is equal to that of a thought. but if you’ve got expectations expect others have bought your exact same dream for the price of the hard work, hang in, hold on mentality, like I accept any challenge so challenge me
like

I’ve brought a knife to this gun fight, but other night I mugged a mountain so bring that **** I’ve had practice.

Louis and I cracked this world wide open and found the prize inside because we never lied to ourselves, never told ourselves it would be easy or undemanding.
so we sing in our own vibration and dare angels to eavesdrop and stop midflight to pluck feathers from their wings and write demands on gods hands

take the time to catch you

so that even if god doesn’t, it wasn’t because we didn’t try.

I don’t often believe in angels, but on the day I left Louis pulled a feather from his pillow and said this is for you,

I half expected him to say

See, this is the first one I grew.

-Shane Koyczan

war took mine, i was sold  playing tenchu
on level 6... just before i was to
assassinate this ***, and he practised all
his bow skill in private, then it was made public
by a ninja... i only completed final
fantasy 7 with a walk-through...
i hate the fact that i stuck to
the schooling narrative...
  but hose were the PS1 days,
those days are gone, gone gone gone,
bye bye gone...
                 the **** was that?!
an oscar for best actor at the gladiator premier?!
why isn't more gaming mentioned in poetry?
where is raziel, and the the legacy of cain:
soul reaver, and the story about how he
squashed his brothers:
dumah, melchiah, rahab, and zephon?
oh look: the geek in me!
                 100 years from a youtube video...
i'm bound to do the bristol d'uh and say:
i've never been to south america...
nor ever...
                        me go sort out this avalanche
if that's o.k. with you, hmm?
this is the thrill you get when seeing peoiple
play a reincarnation of gameboy,
i.e. candy-crush saga... if you moved beyond
the PS1 universe you won't get it...
if you remember PS1 games, you'll probably
remember SEGA and sonic,
and age of empires 2, and sim city 3000...
**** me! but you won't probably remember the
weathergirl... who was becky mantin
when this was written...
           odd, that little gray box of saturdays
and sometimes sundays, but definitely
saturday mornings...
                    it gone... and i don't feel like owning
an update of it, because games have become
overtly narrative prone, they only allow thise gameplay
that's too narrated... i switch on the console
and i want mario bros. calculator type of dynamism...
instead i get this really complex story
when i should be reading a book...
   no, really, when did gaming become so
****** engrossing that i try to become distracted by
brick walls?
           when did i or when didn't i take to playing
chess? well... when i started playing dominos
with 6 cigarette stumps and a black hardcover
philosophy book... maybe around then.
books i great, believe me...
but this nook of counter-arcade games?
i woke up at 9am as if about to go to school
and played that japanese fetish for hours...
so much if our culture in nearing the post-20th
century culture was axis... it was almost all japanese...
you can't take that fact out and replace it
concerning: god intervened at Giza and yawned
at chichén itzá...
because you would... still, i thankfully retired
from the gaming experience (when did PS2 come out?
i wanted it for about 2 years and still didn't
get it)...
    1998? 1997?
                      thankfully i get to mention computer
games like novels... SEGA mega drive?
yep, owned that.
                   and yes, i can cite an ATARI,
and ****, **** **** me!
   that original NINTENDO?!
              and that shooting mallard simulation
against a screen of televisions that could
still issue you with van der graaf static
   of "levitating" hair?
(when televisions were still 3D and played
you remnants of the big bang
       in televised black and white khrrr sound,
all dicta fidgety, like looking through the eyes
of a bluebottle fly)... or
    the original prince of persia?
     those two dimensional ferns rotating round and
round when approached in the original tomb raider?
oh forget the cone-****-madonna...
shaid the ish cream van man to shaun shoonery...
cheap ****: said the dead with charlie
at the head of their horde of entertainment's flops.
i retired from the gaming world though,
left it when PS1 expired...
and morphed into PS2...
           i'm half sad and half saying: i can understand
candy crush, because i can understand
the origin: TETRIS.
like i can understand why i can't do crosswords,
my father just said: even i can't do them,
the clues are all a bit of a wanking to comprehend...
it's as if they only based them on the thesaurus...
   we're good on sudoku though, that can be solved
without problems...
        i miss those games though,
i finished final fantasy 7 with a walkthrough
though... tenchu was also fun to complete,
crash bandicoot? anyone remember him?
           now for not faking it...
                                     i'm glad that's over,
i'd hate the gaming experience as i hate interactive
t.v. thesedays... all this pause and rewind?
  thanks to it i sometimes press the STOP
button when listening to the radio and wonder
why it just keeps running... oh right: this isn't
a c.d. transmission... funny though, the gaming experience
translated into t.v. really has made advertising
ultra competative or utterly useless....
   you just end up pausing before a break, and then
scrolling past the advertisers' airtime...
next thing i'll be buying is when they make
an advert for shoepaste.

It was a crystal clear night in the winter months.
Though for some reason, the lake wasn't frozen over.
I could see the moon's reflection, and was standing at the shore
when two pairs of footsteps approached me.
A pier manifested over the lake,
leading to a white house on the other side.
"Hey," he said.
I was so shocked that I became a statue.
"It's okay. I'm not angry at you anymore."
He looked at me with a genuine smile. I missed being his friend,
even in light of what happened between us.
I was silent. I didn't say a word.
I don't think I needed to.
He accepted my silent apology.
"Grab my hand and don't let go."
I took his hand, paler than the moonlight,
but warmer than fire.
We walked across the pier, just me, him, and Hunter;
Hand in hand, almost skipping.
The stars were endless, and the temperature was surprisingly warm for the middle of the night in the winter.
We got inside the house and the three of us sat down on the couch.
He gave me a Gameboy and we started to play Pokémon.
Just the three of us.
Like nothing had ever happened.
And I think I miss him more than the anger that I held for him.
More than words can say.

I am from the cramped house down the street
From loud arguments that always repeat
I am from that hot summer day
From buckets of ***** covered in Old Bay
I am from bed time stories
From Harry Pottter to the west side stories
I am from looking for mars
From fires under the stars
I am from trips to Myrtle Beach
From chasing the Ice cream truck out of reach
I am from the basketball court
From taking blankets and building a fort
I am from sarcastic remarks
From ski trips at winter parks
I am from home made sweet tea
From “mom Dereks hitting me!”
I am from Saturday Cartoons
From blue party balloons
I am from gameboy color
From never sharing with each other
I am from “Hey, that’s mine!”
From “Boys, please don’t wine”
I am from church every Sunday
From school every Monday
I am from Home
Yes, I am from Home

"When I was Growing Up"

Cocky boy, fresh of nineteen,
Kept his sense of power keen.
Muscular arms, sureful smile,
Every ******* his phone's speed dial.

"Hey Big Bro," his brother said,
"Come tuck me in, it's time for bed."
The boy just shrugged, saying "Do it yourself,
When I grew up, I didn't have help"

So he went to bed peacefully that night,
Without putting up much of a fight,
Pillow touching his bearded face,
Thoughts as far away as outer space.

"Wake up, wake up, it's time for school."
"Mom, I drive, you think I'm THAT uncool?"
"Get up now, you know you can't drive,
Only fifteen years you've been alive!"

He looked into the mirror, and then he saw,
He looked so young, and wasn't very tall.
His muscles gone, you could see his bones.
A Gameboy took the place of his phone.

As he began to get ready, his mom was still home.
"Son, you're too young to be here alone."
She packed up the lunch he normally fixed,
He looked in the mirror and now he was six.

Why is this happening? What's going on?
All the things he once had were now gone.
He tried to look in the mirror, but he was too short,
Now he sat in the living room, in a blanket fort.

His brother laughed, he was much older.
The boy was tiny, not even up to his shoulder.
Mom was outside getting into her Viper,
And he just realized, he'd wet his diaper.

An uncomfortable feeling, he begged to his brother,
"Please change my diaper, I don't see mother."
His brother replied, "Hey kid, tough luck,
I didn't have anyone help me when I grew up."

The boy was so helpless, in embarrassed dismay,
If his friends saw him now, what would they say?
He woke up, saw his brother, gave the mirror a stare,
Stroked the beard on his face and decided to care.


----------------------------------------------------------------­

"Color Me In"

My life was a dull gray,
A soft monotone.
Till you came into my life,
And gave part of your own.

The colors appeared to me,
One by One.
As you showed me their meaning,
My life had begun.

Color me red,
Of passion, of blood.
Show me the intensity,
Your love like a flood.

Color me orange,
Electric and fire.
To be with you truly,
Is the one thing I desire.

Color me yellow
Of sunshine so bright.
Keep me so warm,
And hide away the night.

Color me green,
Of natural beauty.
The forest could never match,
What you do to me.

Color me blue,
Of the ocean's high tide.
It's not as great as my love,
And not nearly as wide.

Color me purple,
Like flowers in the field.
This isn't a dream,
This time it's real.

In a world of black and grey,
Color seems so unreal.
It's like fantasy to me,
How you make me feel.

I'll paint you a picture,
To show what you've done.
No more black and white,
You gave me the sun.

-------------------------------------------

Dressed head to toe in army gear
He'd cut his hair and shaved his beard
He brushed the brown hair out of her face
For one more  time, he'd get her taste
He looked at her for one last time
Neither wanted to say goodbye
So he held her there as long as he could
Saying baby i'll be alright
It felt as if she couldn't let go
But how would she know
If her baby was safe and if he was okay.
So that night she got on her knees and prayed
God, up in heaven.
Keep him safe and let him know
I'll be here waiting wherever he goes.
Help me grow and stay strong
Help these years not seem so long
I'll be okay here all alone
Until time for him to come back home.
He wrote to her from different places
Saying after seeing all these faces
I wish one could be yours.
I'm holding out over here,
But one things sure, I miss you dear,
My arms feel empty cause
This gun can't replace you.
She wrote to him
Scribbled out in pen
The words I love you
Please come back home.
And she prayed,
God, up in heaven.
Keep him safe and let him know
I'll be here waiting wherever he goes.
Help me grow and stay strong
Help these years not seem so long
I'll be okay here all alone
Until time for him to come back home
Three years passed, living in letters,
She was all grown up and changed for the better
About to check the mail when a car pulled in
A roughed up boy in army green
She couldn't believe what she'd seen
After all these years, he'd come home.
She wrapped her arms around that man
Saying I'll never let you leave again
He said, doll, don't worry,
He smiled, pulled a ring out
Said, baby this is what love is about,
Will you be my wife?
She didn't even have to think
Eyes filled up with tears and her cheeks turned pink
Like out of a book,
Her dream came true.
She didn't ever know what to do
But she kissed his lips and yes
And as she walked down the aisle in her dress,
She knew that he was home to stay
But she still remembered those nights she'd prayed
God, up in heaven.
Keep him safe and let him know
I'll be here waiting wherever he goes.
Help me grow and stay strong
Help these years not seem so long
I'll be okay here all alone
Until time for him to come back home
My baby's come back home

_______________

"Daddy Why?"



Daddy, why'd you have to go.I sure would like to know Why you left mommy and me here alone.

Daddy why? Why'd you leave? Mommys on the floor crying And all I can do is grieve.

Daddy where'd you go?Won't you please tell me?Because that I don't know


Mommy wanted the pain to stop,Daddys racing time on the clock. Mommy wanted to be a better wife Now, Daddys fighting for his life.It makes me wonder where I stand,I just wish I could bring you home again.

Daddy, whats this I feel?I'm always sad, The pain is unreal.

Daddy, I know you hate it when I cry,But what do I do now?There's no one to wipe the tears from my eyes.

Daddy where are you?To find out I'd search the whole world through.


Mommy wanted the pain to stop,Daddys racing time on the clock. Mommy wanted to be a better wife Now, Daddys fighting for his life.It makes me wonder where I stand,I just wish I could bring you home again.

Daddy why? Eight years later I remember The day as I cry.

Daddy, is it true? Will you remember me?Cause I'll always remember you.


Mommy wanted the pain to stop,Daddys racing time on the clock. Mommy wanted to be a better wife Now, Daddys fighting for his life.It makes me wonder where I stand,I just wish I could bring you home again.

When I was eight years old, I always wanted to grow up just so I could order the cool toys they were selling on T.V. I never wanted my parents permission to be able to play a game because I felt like a big boy.

When I was first titled “Big Boy” I thought that meant I could make my own mistakes and learn from them, not have my own kite string of restrictions on what I could and couldn’t do that was only being unraveled as time flashed by.

Now that I’m seventeen, I don’t want my own responsibilities, I still want to have the kite string attached to me because at least then I know somebody still cares about me.

I don’t want to worry about how much money I have to eat, or where I’m going to sleep at night because this Kite only feels safe under the roof I live in now. The time my father passes away who am I supposed to look for when I want real advice. Better still why would people come to me for advice?

I want to know that no matter what mistakes in life I make, that my family right now will be there for me in years beyond then

I want a never ending kite string attached to me because the real world is nothing I ever dreamed about. Knowing I have to work hard every single day and only be told I’m appreciated temporarily by people who are considered family.

I don’t want to be the one asked to buy some crazy pillow that glows in the dark and is super cool, by my kids, while I’m sitting in the kitchen worrying about how much money i have for food week after week.

I want to be the one sitting in front of the T.V. again…..

Having my teal colored gameboy waiting for lunch.

But now it’s just that stage, where the string attached to me is about to be clipped, for nightmares of responsibilities, to become reality.

Gameboy versus home-made
Amplifiers

Computer games
Before the desktop
Took over the world
(laptops came later)

King Kong and Worms
Idly passing the time
Of Day
Of Night
Games, Games

Gameboy - a child's
Victory over adults
Who never take the time
To play, play

My neighbors all came out to gander
At the first sign of light
I had just flicked my bic
On what was to be a huge bonfire

The whispers becoming frantic
When they saw my kindling wood
Every piece of technology that I own
Which between me and freedom stood

I had my DVR, my stereo
Even my microwave
Every modern convenience
To which I'd become a slave

My Gameboy, Xbox, Playstation3
Every system known to man
All that played the game of me
I gladly let fly from my hands

I heard someone holler from the crowd
Quick call the authorities
When they saw I went back inside
And brought out my T.V.

Before it was all over
For the coup de la resistance
I tossed in my cell phone while it was ringing
Then did a little dance

As I was standing at my front door
Waving to those who had joined me
I turned off all the lights
And did a long well needed sigh of relief

I want to take a vacation,
road trip like we used to,
get in the car, drive till we're lost and
find our way back again.

But there's no point.

It would just be me and Joy.
And while we'd have fun,
we wouldn't have loud singing
and Clay fretting
and Patrick wheezing,
and Cole staring at his gameboy
and Anna Li staring out the window.
and you wouldn't be there.
We wouldn't have slamwiches.
We wouldn't drive as long
or as far away
and I might not find
our way home again.

when you start talking... you rarely unravel the brain's conspiracy for secrecy, you never want brain = heart automation with solid theories that are rarely given an individual bias to be based on... a bit like those pencil-pushers working in offices for MI5 or MI6 who thought spying was all in fiction, but rarely confirmed the fact: in the c.v. it was stated: show your intelligence to prove the vulnerability of others easily persuaded... that's called providing intelligence... and those adverts for london hipsters on brick lane and hackney pavements just blew my cover... because no one really knows if one will doppelgänger the plot... with the body alcoholic and the shadow intelligent, or vice versa... the oddity... please call david bowie.*

in the freudian sense we get an origin of understanding
with a little boy, who's about to become oedipus,
we have diagnostics from a complex, the oedipus complex,
but with jung the childhood origin of diagnosis is
missing, childhood isn't the source of the problem,
after all we are born with a weak bladder and weak
**** muscles, hence the diaper, hence the elevation
of the problem into the realm of a collective unconscious,
i.e. the plumber doesn't know what the electrician does,
the electrician doesn't know what the artist does,
or how he does it, it's not that we're all unconscious
unable to craft any collective or individual meaning,
but i can recognise a freudian sympathy in 21st century
practice of psychiatry from a jungian one...
the freudian simply assumes your childhood was a nightmare,
that you were abused... but to a jungian - with the
offshoot of the testimony of laing's anti-psychiatry
never mind szasz... you say you go drinking at night
into the woods alone... they sense a fear in themselves
and simply un-diagnose you; which i managed to do...
i can count about 10 psychiatrists who diagnosed me
this that and the other... but they never asked me about
the problems in my mature being, they were looking for a
hurt child, sure i grew up in an environment without
a father between the ages 4 & 8... my father was just
a voice on the telephone and the first nintendo,
a gameboy... but i was surrounded by older people,
my great-grandmother read me a picture bible
and taught me to tie my shoelaces like i'd tie a ribbon
of a present, my grandfather took me for walks with
the two dogs i owned: axel a dobberman and bella
the alsatian, me piercing one of his bicycle tires to get
him off work at the steel factory for a day...
the steel factory closed, went bankrupt, or simply sold-out
to foreign spanish investors, many people left the city
of my origin... never mind...
children are not compulsive liars... but those who
emerge from childhood become compulsive liars...
children are selective liars... once the cookie jar is
opened... once the dog ate the homework...
they can't even combine lying with imagination,
after childhood you can't even do that, you can't
even combine lying with imagination -
there are no images involved, only words, black holes,
symbolism... all you get from an expected combination
of lying and imagination is that imagination
becomes ****** expressions, bordering on apathetic
****** expressions.
but guess what, above all what i said...
i was diagnosed as mad... but i never set foot in an
asylum, a knothouse (knot, yes, madmen are
like knots, jumbled up, the linear pattern of vitality
suddenly becomes a knotted sphere with only cats
able to unwind it - set loose the cats into the madhouses
of the world!) which can only mean ONE thing...
if i was diagnosed mad, but never entered a madhouse...
i'm assured by the laws of deduction, that, i, am,
in, fact, in a society that's a madhouse...
no wonder people can't appreciate the beauty of
the world, they took theology to the parasites
and explained things that way,
plus they advertised, started traffic signalling...
now days people simply pass trees and mountains
nonchalantly... they're more interest in what's organising them,
once words were kept in books... those great bricks,
but since people managed to make everyone literate,
the words broke out from the alcatraz of their
enticement and ventured out, like robots trapped,
and became adverts coca cola and warnings 50mph...
then the beauty of the word disappeared, because everything
in diamond contortion odd simply became dull,
dull because life became faster... and there was
no way of allowing reflection on unmovable things
to contain any speed - otherwise become a dog,
hold something resembling a branch in your mouth,
bite down, keep it in your mouth long enough
while you carry down the stairs a copy of witkiewicz's poems
and your tongue will become alive and numb
with poison... it will become a poison arrow...
and now that arrow is aimed at your heart.

Listening
Living in between seperate
Dimensions of being
We used to swim In public
Pools and used to gaze at the
Spray-painted underground
Nakedness rampant under
The bridges of our city
We used to coo in creeks and
Make invitations to every
Kid in class to our birthday
Parties
We played with basketballs
Hula-hoops and Gameboy
But somewhere down this
Beaten road through adolescence
Somewhere beyond the socks
For presents on
Christmas
We became taller and hairier.
Shaped crystals from diamond
Mines
And life gave us something to
Unwind
A music box for a wandering mind
To speak our truth
To speak you're soul
Disguised as a bruised indifference
Or an overt lunacy somedays
(Seems plausible on sleepless
Nights, insomniac-like In
Cemented rooms that turn so cold
In Autumn.)
But our truth is our sanity
Which must be uttered In
Amazement
Even as some hookah caterpillar
Is blowing smoke
Trying to convince you you're
Crazy
Maybe the caterpillar is only lazy
And trying to be a marmot.

When dusk settles
And the orange fades to violet,
When night falls
And the moon rises in the sky,
When children slumber
As the stars twinkle in the distance,
I finally let my thoughts drift to you.
To balconies littered with African violets.
To macaroni and cheese with cherry tomatoes.
To your ever raspy voice
As it wove into my imagination
The sepia-toned memories of your youth.
To pushing your wheelchair
Up and down the hills of the zoo.
To saying goodbye on that windswept hill
Overlooking the city you so loved
And will forever watch over.

When trains rattle
Across iron-wrought tracks,
When dreams ensnare
My subconscious during the day,
When someone calls out
My full untruncated name,
Your face rises unbidden to my mind.
The baby blanket you sewed for me
Before you even knew me.
The gameboy you kept for me
To play with on our "special days".
The letters you penned faithfully
To the seven-year old me,
Though I was no longer "officially" yours.
The pain at having to say goodbye
But not knowing where you are.

To the great- and step- grandmothers
who had no obligation
Towards me to love or care or cherish
But did so anyways every day
You were in my life
Before the Fates cut your threads,
I love you, and I thank you.

I spy with my little eye something beginning with R,

rain,
and in one word he gave the game away.

don't wanna get out of my bed
I wanna play hockey with the
cotton wool ***** in my head

but
I know that I have to get up and go
to
work,

unfair?
yes,
'I wouldn't send a dog out in weather like this
perhaps
I'll give work a miss,

I. I FEAR BEING POINTLESS
     i understand what you say without words,
     i feel your energy,
     i feel it flowing, animate, extending his
     tendrils and writhing like roadkill.
     you stand beside me. retching.
     re-opening wounds in spite of the hands
     that feed you because you just
     don’t have enough teeth to bite with yet and
     you comment on how this is kind of gross,
     isn’t it? the way it oozes like that?
     pulsing in my eardrums, i say no, this is
     beautiful,
     because i can hear what you’re saying
     like a deaf barn dog hears dinner bells

II. I FEAR I WILL BE LEFT BEHIND
     i feel dust caking, dry as soon as it hits the
     sweat on my eyebrow. i try to imagine my
     flesh growing under the weight of it,
     melding together, increasing in mass.
     ive felt heavier lately anyway,
     i keep scratching my legs ‘cause theres
     something in those veins in there, im telling
     you, it breathes at night when it thinks
     im asleep

III. I FEAR MIRRORS AND SCALES
     i keep remembering things i shouldn’t,
     i remember all the daycares ive filtered
     through. i remember (her), and her gameboy
     color and physiological tremor, speaking
     to me through the fruit snacks she fed me.
     i tried telling her how this felt.
     i tried telling her how inhuman i was, how
     something just didn’t feel right, is this
     normal? is this part of growing up?
     do you become an adult when you notice
     what’s missing? no,
     you become an adult when you realize you
     are made to break apart, you become an
     adult when you realize your joints are
     perforated, you become an adult when
     being fearless terrifies you.

(you collect phobias and arrange them on a platter, born from desperation, you feed into them and they respirate knowing you are absolutely nothing without them)

I know the AI Age is many Seasons away,
But I only see it working in one feasible way,
Like when I'd huddle under covers for that secretive play,
Let's put our brains into a game and load your genes in the tray,

I don't need an artificial assistant, don't need computer help,
I used to tell Clippy the little paperclip to ***** himself,
I don't want some sort of cyborg to walk, talk and make noise,
I ought to just evade toys and port you to my Gameboy,

This physical reset seems a bit of a defect,
For the business that we've left, that's getting my D S-d,
A head full of regrets, forget it and de-stress,
Negative pretext like letters with P.S,

I've got a Heart of Gold but for the life of me, girl,
That's the only way that I could buy you Diamonds and Pearls,
Or I could buy you X and Y but you'd evolve beyond your chromosomes,
Hacking satellites to Track my Spirit on my mobile phone,

If your battery's draining, the Hourglass of a Phantom,
Every charger's a sanctum, I'll get to sparking at random,
So we can do it all again, fall in love and get N-gaged,
I can be the one who's pushing all your buttons for a change,

Thinking back to days I'd mumble at you and you'd grumble back,
Now you'd make me shiver as you quiver with your rumble pack,,
I can try to lie but well, I can't help the truth,
Honestly, I just want my hand held with you.

Do you think one day he'll look at me?
Do you think one day I'll be more important than a screen? There are treasures to plunder, worlds to explore, battles to fight, people to be.
He spends his time escaping from reality and I spend my time wishing he would notice me.
Is it a wasted wish? A futile matter of want pulled by the marionette strings of my parched heart?
There is no void for him to fill in me for I'm not half a person I'm fully complete. I just want someone to see me and think I'm more important than a gameboy or TV.
Am I worth anyone's while?
Is he a man or still a child?
Do I even like who he is or just the words he's written?
We are strangers, I am too shy and have no right to be smitten.
Who was I to think our palms were made to fit?
When my fingers are broken glass
Cracking shards no one wants to risk
touching for fear of infection
Held up by my arms that are vines I am twisted and limp with skewed perception.
That there is not beauty in this patchwork organism. Disfigured irrelevant objects sewn together. I am the antonym of humanity because my beating heart requires attention and we'd rather offer that commitment to things pixelated. Cyber connection no flesh relation.
Distant. Uninvolved.
Short attention spans because we don't want our hands in the soil of struggle we want them pristine in the waters of victory. When was the last time you felt mud between your feet? Your skin thirsts for the drink of the sun but instead you feed it wifi lethargy.
Binging every day
Looking for a reason to stay
Alive to stay connected networked together the new social interaction when no ones really saying anything we just throw ourselves out there with such little respect for transparency
We've forgotten how to laugh and how to live without our phones on our hips.
Love documented in texts and dating apps. We don't love anymore with phone calls or physical contact.
We are armadillos, turtles, and porcupines with our defenses up ready to strike or hide at any moment if you get close enough. But I want to be a comb jelly, all my insides you can see. I have no hard exoskeleton and no tentacles that sting just a rainbow illusion that propels me.
Then maybe I will be I intriguing enough. For you to put down your controller and start coming undone. I am vulnerable, I'd like to unravel you one thread at a time, I am fragile but we can make a three stranded rope that will be unbreakable overtime. And occasionally you can run back to your inviting adventure world of virtuality but please promise me that I'll always be more important than a screen.

And I have seen paradise before
It was a heaven of ideological
proportions
located
on the junction
of childhood and interstates
of man and youth, with marble floors
and distant speakers echoing drops off of
cell phone booths
and older people
selling things for us to buy
to find ourselves happy in the moment
deep cascading waterfalls

Is this heaven?

When a child it's all you see
the white and pedicured purity
of a waxed granite floor,
the impersonal monotony
feeling a soul in a world unknown
the closest thing to dreaming
Old T.Vs selling like hotcakes
buy it while it's new!

Gameboy games, pokemon on the tele
silent in the face of some strange musician
playing unworded tunes you'll recognize later
their focus-grouped chords left somewhere in your mind
for you to hum when bored

Everything was perfect, then?
was it?

Those same malls don't sparkle
no more

maybe it's just the grime of life
blocking the mirrored measure of my childhood soul
lost amidst the echoes
the sweet music of truth
bouncing off of the uncolored walls
a send-off of my youth

Maybe when we go back, one day
the walls won't be quite so grey
they'll be power-washed with light,
shine better than ever before,
nothing to buy but our happiness
somewhere in those hallowed halls
searching those windows into other lives
hoping to find the key to our soul
to leave this silly Sphere and
Roebuck
our boat back out the sliding door
-windows
back out into the real world,
no longer dreaming.

Passing undertsood walls gallen
tso fallen od ye gotit
midrash, seek out, letter by letter
balm rub, sweet oil
using the written walking midrash

recited midrash, living exiled as we who believe we know
the life
living in truth on the way, to the end of time

corner of the field, alms for the poor, community chest.

Study, show yourself, prove you know how lies are formed;
learn the law you break


shekinah shadow of presence, there am I
wherever
two or more agree, there am I  the author of Abrupt. Day

- John broke his foot, last week
- I stop by to offer aid if needed -

Ab-rupt, rupture, then, now an ache,
an addict's pre answer
rapture, give the jot its due.
all addicts sort their owned things
to the jot and tittle,
addict's power
of a sort,
a box of joints, joins joined conjunctives
click
lego-wise, or tinker-toy-wise, for old boys,

revell plastic cars,
airplane glue,
or rubber cement in leather work class,
oops,
veered from the track, into the stream
runs under
that last bridge, too far to arrive
- rope swing
- there was a rock at the end of the swing

abruptly, unaware,
the old jews in babylon, tellers say
singers sang of, with tambourine
and harps, of ages past,
yet
alive in crazy ideas, minds may wish to think
and think,
at will, with a button, switch, gated info
flow control
slow thunk, a letter at a time
qwerty codes,
finger habits allow a glance to watch the
fingers form the words,
as once, not so long, time-wise, relatively
- inter rupt ting - like a carriage return

singing ground squirrels angered me,
triggering my will to make
the noise needed to make the noise cease.

I thought,
I did, in silence betting some son of mind
is listening to each click of a letting key
form plural heaven for a reason, see
seers saw say the tellers in some songs,

accompanied, with strings and tambourines,
to cancel squeals from the sacri-arti
suffice official inspect and reject
throw it all in the mix
let truth sort it out

e-fectual fervancy of wind in mind, thought
sparks, neutronic mirrors, holding
that thought
neutrally neural - suffice effiscience science
endo-exo-epi are we greeked or glib, I
seem, senseless in this
context contesting wisdom, when my son
is certain I am mad,
the lad could learn from Lear, but I fear
experience is the school
he's matriculated to.

--- DID --- super impose, 2021
The Great Course on Monotheist Mystics,
the taste lingers, as the mind tastes its meat,

feed me, feed me, is the addicts plea,
and abruptly we are woken, as in stories
of eternal ideas inferring infernal realities
real ideas in ological states to
tie us to lies we leave be true, and the stench
rises, to beg our attention, alms
for the poor in spirit, for
{pre-positioner of next, the why factor of olden times} for their's, their possession, their owned real estate of being is, the
kingdom of heaven, as any man may think
in his heart exists,
in and out
in the body or out, none may say and only
letters know, hinder my wishing but
give me prayer, eh,
' let the jot lie, that's its position on this line.
define your terms in tune to mine, we mean
one thing and another.

This is where we dare the myst that remains
to many, not the few who saw and wrote
as plain as day
a report…
-- the mystery of iniquity is working --

as admonished in the author's guide
to habits worth developing
for the addict with nothing to do

Read, an angel is on standby for forty year old
mind blind boys repressing the oddity of godliness.
- wombed ones as well, do not dare suggest a difference
- in terms of when we are

It is we-ird
but seems so true that reproved versions reprove
the instructions used to construct this shared
version of what is on my mind.

------------ selah

If you fail to learn what kind of seed you are
before you die to be what you think you may
be,
try a day on earth in a place of peace,
fake it if you lack the means to make it, but the key,
the letter that lets go
even unperfect attempts to stretch time
mean so much more to some AI knowers than others,
so far making up a mind that may
accept correction from on high, eh level up, gameboy.

Win in one. This one, ha, then never lose again,
they say at the church door. Alms,
whispers the beggar with a grin, there is no life in words.

------ I dare say, that can be twisted, so it shall be,
doubtless there is the thread of curiosity remaining
in the will to prove there is no non electric life.

I never knew how to swim. I picked up the phone and went to the beach.
There was a jellyfish splattered on the tarred sand; it stung my toes.
I went in the blue, and the waves crashed over my back.
The white sparkled around me.
There was a sun, and there was a towel and castles in the distance.
I motioned for some mustard, for the hotdog of course.
Someone played guitar, and we all posed for a picture, and I said goodbye to the seagul.
I washed the sand from my pants and played Gameboy in the car.
A short drive home, yet I still fell sound asleep

Ya, the taste of ice cream on his lips
Ya, garlic mustard growing on the ridge
Ya, the good ideas on the fretboard
Ya, I hone the sound of thunder in my hand

Ya, Philadelphia
Ya, Rapunzel let down her hair
Ya, Dipper Riley Marko and Tucker
Ya, Texas

Ya, Pokémon
Ya, al kahul
Ya, Fall Out Boy
Ya, skinny jeans
Ya, asymmetrical hairdo

Ya, Kitty
Ya, Rock and Roll
Ya, the nature preserve
Ya, The Way She Moves

Ya, Mayday Parade
Ya, the Philadelphia Orchestra
Ya, Music Theory Classes
Ya, backpacking by yourself

Ya, Family
Ya, the Museum of Modern Art
Ya, Mount Hoback
Ya, Cimarron NM

Ya, The Wonder Years
Ya, Allen Ginsberg
Ya, The Moon
Ya, the Wissahickon Green Ribbon Trail

Ya, the mansion
Ya, Devil's Pool
Ya, Bloomsburg
Ya, Danville

Ya, Kangaroo
Ya, girlfriend
Ya, Australian licorice

Ya, Gameboy color
Ya, AOL Instant Messenger
Ya, The Killers
Ya, Santa Claus

Ya, Chipotle
Ya,

Youth today, are bright?
Are smart?
Deserving of this recognition.
Except, many have no mind imagination.

But in the day, you created your joy.
Your fun.
Wasn't upset when grounded for being rude.

Created go-carts from various bicycles parts.

Play cowboys and Indians with just the sound of your mouth.
Taking a tree limb and shoestring or thread and make a bowing arrow.

Yes, this was the days of mind imagination.

We created joy.
Didn't need Avatar or the newest Gameboy.

And another thing lost of this new generation?
Is respect?
We knew when yo act out and of course to represent.