[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero

Cake, the meat of culinary delights;
Icing, the sauce.

Cake, the main entree, the special of the night;
Icing, the decorative garnish.

Without Cake, Icing has no purpose
A clump, a blob, of meaningless goop.

1 spoonful of Icing alone and you're done.
Spread out amongst the firm surface of Cake though,
Icing becomes much more interesting, and much more fun.

I am the Cake.
You are the Icing.
Without me, the base, the entree, the meat
You, the sauce, the garnish and blob, don't matter

You can be the Icing to your own Cake or to another
But without me, you'll do nothing but rot teeth and smother

So, to enjoy you, Icing, to the absolute fullest
I must, first, combine the ingredients, stir and bake
Because it is vital, if one is to appreciate your sweet taste,
To properly prepare my foundation, the meat, your Cake.

- BPW

Most of us know the tale of Cinderella,
But do you know the original German story?
It’s different from the version that I grew up with.
It’s called “Aschenputtel,” and it’s gory.
 
Cinderella’s stepmom and two stepsisters
Are nasty, ornery, bossy, ******, and mean.
They’re very good at belittling Cinderella;
And the sisters vie for the role of future queen.
 
Cinderella wants to attend a ball,
But her stepmom gives her some difficult tasks, and so
When some birds help the girl complete them,
The woman STILL refuses to let her go.
 
Here no fairy godmother comes to help.
Cinderella goes to the grave of her mother
Where she'd planted a branch that grew to a tree,
Which miraculously gives her a gown like no other.
 
When Cinderella goes to the King’s fancy ball,
She makes a tremendous impression on the prince.
Of course, no one’s able to recognize her,
And the competition makes the stepsisters wince.
 
For two nights in a row the same thing happens.
Cinderella must be in excellent shape,
For each night the prince attempts to pursue her,
Yet each night she makes a clean escape.
 
On the THIRD night he has a bright idea:
“Aha!” he says. “Someone, bring me some tar.
If I spread goop all over the steps of the palace,
That gorgeous sneak won’t manage to get very far.”
 
(Here you have to suspend even more belief.)
As Cinderella hurries to flee from her beaux,
She leaves behind one slipper in the tar.
(WHY more slippers aren’t stuck there, I do not know.)
 
On finding the slipper, the prince yells, “Piece of cake!
Now I’ll find the owner of this dainty shoe.”
When he arrives at the home of the nasty stepsisters,
The poor guy bites off more than he can chew.
 
The first sister chops off her obtrusive big toe
So that her foot can fit inside the slipper.
You see, the slipper’s not made of the kind of material
That stretches, and, of course, it has no zipper.
 
The prince starts to leave with his bride-to-be
But notices that her slipper is filled with blood.
“I don’t think that this is my future wife,”
He says and nips that nightmare in the bud.
 
In order to make her foot fit in the slipper,
The second stepsister cuts off part of her heel.
Imagine how much blood gushes forth from that.
Shaking his head, the prince says, “This is unreal.”
 
Finally, Cinderella takes her turn.
And what do you know? The slipper’s a perfect fit!
The prince—eager to exit that crazy scene—
Takes Cinderella and leaves lickety split.
 
(I hope the prince kept his wits about him.
You’d think he would, for he’s a thoughtful fella.
Certainly, he washed out all the blood
Before giving the slipper to Cinderella!)
 
Early on I told you about some birds
That helped Cinderella when she was down and out
By completing her tasks and delivering her gown and slippers.
They knew what the stepsisters were all about.
 
Well, the stepsisters come on the day of the wedding,
To mooch off Cinderella—as you can surmise.
As they amble along with the wedding couple,
The birds fly down and peck out both of their eyes.
 
Such is the fate of the mean and bossy stepsisters,
Who were deceitful and cruel, as you recall.
Call it karma, their just deserts, or comeuppance,
But let it be a lesson for us all.

- by Bob B

I used to stand in awe and watch Grandma making biscuits.
She’d take her wooden bowl, then dip the floor and sift it.
As snowy flour would drift to form a mound of just so much;
She’d form a crater lake of buttermilk and shortening with her loving touch.

She would smile and watch our faces as she squeezed the flour to goop
And transform the mess she made into dough that she would scoop.
A pinch she’d take and make a ball to flatten in her palm.
Then with her thumb she’d press it down, so gently and so calm.

With care she next would take the dough and place it on a pan;
A thumb print etched in dough as she continued with her plan,
To place the pats side by side until the pan was filled
By perfect rows all laid out with hands so quick and skilled.

That cozy pan she placed into an oven warmed just right
And closed the door to seal them in and cook them out of sight.
In timely care she’d pull them free, delicious golden browns
Setting fresh hot biscuits on the table, to banish morning frowns.

Now I stand in awe and think of all the biscuits she has made,
Of all the time her thumb has pressed, as her heart has prayed.
Life finds us now, her children, in life’s wooden bowls
And we feel her loving touch as she leaves her thumbprint on our souls.

For Grandma Mary Grace Kindley Davis
On the occasion of her 105th birthday, February 9, 2007
Presented to her at her Birthday Party the next day.
©2007 Michael S. Davis

Oh cute little thing
I like your contour

you look pretty funny when you're cold
you get these lovely wrinkles
especially in the middle region
nearly dendritic
more like the cracks in the earth

and your satchel breathes on its own
like a brain if it had lungs for itself
but more like an amoebic celestial body squirming around in some primordial goop
I think that's pretty cool

you're a pink and brown mushroom emerging from a forest of black wiry moss

concentrated around you and
all growing in your direction

almost lifting you up and out
and then further away fading

the way the water gets clearer
above a sand bar

and then a great convergence
a crashing of two great waves
against each other

forming a wall of spindly tendrils
before the whirlpool

"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’.” “The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying ‘kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent’ , it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed Gumby ****** Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”

There was some expanse of time
when I could still count my age
on just two hands
so I wouldn’t have to speak when asked
When my mom still hugged me
in a fluffy towel
when I’d just got out from a bath
When lava lamps
were very popular

There were two in my science classroom
one in my best friend’s room
plenty on tv and in books and magazines
and one on my sister’s desk

I think I sort of wanted one
of my own
but didn’t want to ask
so I just always turned
my sister’s on
when she wasn’t around
watching it sideways and upside-down
and backwards and forwards and right-side-up
marveling at how
it always seemed
to look the same
and making sure
I turned it off
well before she came home
so she wouldn’t know

It was the same thing over and over
up and down
heat up and rise
cool down and sink
blub blub blub
repeat repeat
but it never got old
always in motion
so it always seemed different
despite the same old substance
being inside

I am glad I learned to understand
the intricate beauty of lava lamps
If I hadn’t
I might have had a harder time
tolerating the workings of my very mind
than I already did when I realized
it was all the same
all the same

The mind bubbles up
the same old goop
over and over
tricking us into thinking it’s new
by catching interest
in those moments of change
of transition from
too hot to sink to
too cold to rise
It’s the same old brain goop
the same old thoughts
the same old themes
the same memories and wishes
and dreams
It’s easy to feel trapped
when you’re floating in goo
and not watching from outside

But that never bothered me that
was the thing
Sitting at my sister’s desk
watching the same goop
never bored me
All that mattered was that
I was having a nice time
and the lava was pretty
and I knew my mom would be there
to hug me when I had my next bath

Bacon
Grease
Unpleasant slickness
Oil
Flith
A ***** feeling that you're overwhelmed by so you just want to get into a shower and scrub your skin raw
The one time my sisters and I played in mud and were covered in gritty goop
Losing the handle to the outside faucet
Cold icy water
Jumping into a creek and getting soaked
Cold water and cramping up, drowning
The ocean's waves pulling me under
Fear of drowning and ocean water forced down my throat
Salty water and the taste of the sea
Salt
Bacon

i am the melting sun beams dripping from the children's running sneaker...creeping slow into the ocean of nose hairs sparkling with iodine and rosemary...father farther to the cosmic goop of motherhood and magic mounds of twirling gases...rancid beef so evergreen as if the princess is licking loudly on the frogs back...green of colour my third eye melts her fantasy into rainbows of toxic firearms...leaking valuable oil all over her wedding dress...come into the third eye and hammer away the truths of 1000 years...to fowrad this message is to embrace all that is the third eye...magic and numbers spiral towards the center edge of my reason...pure and criticized like goblins with tiny feet...reach up into your third eye and pull yourself into it with all your power and all your might....stay with it for just one night and reach for the spare tires in the third eyes trunk...don't forget to fill it with melting bubbles of fantastic hot sweet golden ratios where infinity smell like dust bunnies and dust bunnies smell like crystal salts and volcanic ash...spew forth third eye and share the vision of ecstasy and freedom...never cover the third eye with hate and regret only wash it with happiness and fullness...let the third eye rule your heart and towers will melt into concrete and paper will fill the sky...only the can the third eye truly be the way to see your path....spiral softly third eye and forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and forever see with the third eye....

You are
the enemy
of reading.
I thought you
were a cataract.
Get out of my eyes,
and please let me see!

Follicle Poem
December 6, 2013

A mental relapse occurs.
I see hands plowing through my head of hair
They continue to grasp at the roots,
as if attempting to expose a truth hidden underneath.
But what secrets could bequeath a hair follicle?
Well, one might tell a tale.

Scared of the dark, a 6 year old Wynn laid awake in bed.
He prolonged the inevitable destitution of a dream state.
No longer wanting to accept a reoccurring nightmare,
he took to a dreary exercise of staying awake in the dark.
One hair follicle today may tell of how,
on that night it did not rise in a panicked state.
Wynn had finally conquered his fear of the dark.

"Something felt different today," said Follicle #567.
A new shampoo.
But more than that, strange scissors.
"Who is this new person cutting Wynn's hair now?"
remarked one hair follicle,
"I wonder what happened to the usual lady?"
She had passed away.

An emerging chest hair observed the extended family has grown recently.
"Darker relatives who look different and live in other regions of the world.
Who are they and why do they get treated differently?
Nobody has heard of the ***** region in the southern hemisphere,
or armpit land where our hair family members supposedly smell weird."
The perspective of a follicle in puberty.

"The loud sound of electricity and gears grinding scares me.
There is a storm which ravishes our lands.
First, a foamy cloud surrounds us.
Next, comes a sharp stinging sensation,
not a pleasant feeling to be set free from your roots.
A tidal wave crashes, washing away my follicle friends and family forever.
Then, the lightning strikes - dooming us all."
A ****** follicle's worst fear.

"We are a persevering bunch.
We cling to our conventions and grow, grow, grow.
But recently Wynn has done something new.
We thought he was feeding us honey,
so treacherous.
Sticky goop and stiff paper will be the end of us all.
Nobody wants to admit follicles are second-class citizens to smooth skin."
Waxing prematurely takes the lives of several million follicles annually.

"A rebel group of follicles known as the 'In-Growns' are up to no good.
They scheme with the pimples, plotting when and where to strike next.
I worry about Wynn - wish he could know we aren't all so ill-intentioned."
Follicle culture is derived from parenting, not just biology or anatomical location.

"The last of my kind, I have been contaminated with chemicals.
My color changed to blue.
I've heard the ancient legends about follicles once turned blonde.
We need to appease the summer sun god.
The others have all shriveled up or been brutally betrayed by the locals.
In hiding, we worry the scissor insurgents will discover our locations.
All I wanted was the freedom to express myself,
to be seen for who I really am - not just some color."
Follicles experience discrimination for numerous reasons.

"Drugs.
I can feeeel them in my DNA.
Something about me has changed and I like it.
Living life on the wild side these days.
I don't shower and don't care if I am greasy.
Every other follicle’s fears are irrational.
I'm gonna spread the word and grow out a bit.
Because that's what they expect of me, isn't it?
I mean, what good could come out of a drugged up follicle,
other than more waste of scalp space?"
Follicles who use drugs recreationally receive negative labels and harsh stigma.

"The wavy goodness from a gel rub,
is the highlight of the week.
We are fine, fresh, and fierce, ready to set the standard for follicle fashion.
If you are one of those lower class follicles,
who can't afford gel.
No worries - some might trickle down...
Just kidding!
Spray supports our monopoly on hair care products."
Fashionable follicles are extra sassy and have socio-economic privilege.

The relapse ends.
My head suddenly feels heavy,
swarmed with the hair follicle chronicles.
And the hands running through my head of hair become inspired.
They begin to tell their tales of times passed in Wynn's life.

Perspective means everything.

The caterpillar marches
Munching from leaf to leaf to leaf
He doesn’t know where he’s going
He doesn’t know where he’s been
He only knows the munching
The hunger in his gut
The fire in his belly
Antennae pointing up
Vigilant for predators
Water and leaves
He doesn’t know where he’s going
It matters not where he’s been

The caterpillar weaves
Instinctively without knowing
Why he must, but weaves he does
A cocoon for the growing
The caterpillar digests himself
Dissolving into soup
Becoming a pod of pain and tears
And caterpillar goop
Alone for weeks he suffers
Reconfiguring
His whole body becoming
A new kind of being

No idea what he’s becoming
No idea what’s in store
Suddenly caterpillar emerges
More beautiful than before
Stronger and more delicate
Lighter than the air
Ready for love and lofty height
A sight beautiful and rare
The butterfly does not look back
To the caterpillar he was
The butterfly flies forward
Embracing whatever comes

Standing solid and still
just like the red oak it once was.
I trust it will hold me.
It’s sturdy and reliable.
Like the man who once sat in it.
The man who once held me.

It’s a coffee and cream color with
highlights of gold
and low lights of auburn
and each crack and stain tells  
a story

The Maleficent purple stain
on the back right leg.
a toddler that would grow to be me
running with a PB&J in hand
unaware of my brother's Hot Wheels Derby
taking place beside the table.
All it took was one untied shoelace
and all I remember is a symphony of tiny cars
clinging and clanging
and four year old me
falling face first into the tile
As the PB&J propelled forward
smearing brownish, purple goop.

The crack where your left shoulder
might touch if you leaned back.
I honestly don't even know what it's from.
Maybe an argument that got too heated?
Or simple ware and tear over the years?
I never asked. 
I’ll never know.

This chair brings me both
comfort and pain.
Comfort when I sit after a long day on my feet.
Pain when I walk by and stub my toe unexpectedly.
Comfort when I remember all the times he held me in it.
And pain when I remember he will never hold me again.

From your neck
Crawling its way up to your head,
Like a river cutting across soft land
The pain follows upto your brow .
You squint your eyes
And shake your head,
The pain taps your mind.
This is the pain from hopelessness
There is no escape, feel it,
Embrace it.
Pray that it busts your head open
And your brain splashes across your bed.
Pray that you evaporate
That you disappear,
Leave back a stain
For that is what your life has been.

You lay on your back
Silence broken by the blood
Running around in your otherwise limp body,
And you hear a screech, a whisper
A mocking?
You turn your empty
But strangely heavy head,
You see the creature
whose children you killed that evening.
You had hunched over the broken egg,
Its insides now spilled outside,
And the other one still lay across.
You had nothing to do,
You wiped the goop that could be life
With a torn bit of paper ,
Haphazardly poured water
And wiped again.
Who would say
The floor had seen death today.
The other egg you rolled to the side,
You knew the creature would cry tonight.
You went about with your life.

The creature is swelled up again,
You noticed
Life would get a chance again,
That is how it works you wonder,
But she must be furious
You see her staring at you.
You are sorry you say.
That's all you had to say
Until today.

Today you are thinking of striking a deal with her
Today you will ask her
To spill your head open
The way you had spilled her egg.
You will ask her to give you peace,
To give you your awaited escape
And in return she can have her justice.
Tell her you can be killed,
All she has to do is drop you
From a height
The way you had dropped her egg
From her home, your rolled mattress.
The only difference you had no intention
Of taking away someone else's life
But your own.
So today ask her to correct your mistake.

My blood will be wiped
My stain will be removed
Someone else will take my place.

There once was a flower,
Things happened too soon
In less than a year,
She would be moved
A positive flower
watered with goop
roots were lifted
heart regifted
parents shifted
a problem...
The roots improperly planted
They grew side ways
They grew upside down
They even grew in the dark
They did not grow like all the others
But they did grow...
Confused
Why do I not smile when they do?
Why am drowning by the water when they grow?
During growth
She lost
And many other things
But most importantly her...
Confused
Did not really know what to do
But grow
She grew
But she could not forgot her roots
The ones that grew in the dark
The ones that tore her apart
There was no undo.

"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’.  The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying", "kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent" , "it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed porker of a Gumby ******* ***** monger Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”

She wakes up each morning
Looks in the mirror
…
She puts an oversized hoodie over

Straightens her hair
Like every other girl in her school
Oh no
She burns her finger

Covers her imperfections
With powders
That suffocate her skin

Coats her eyelashes
With sticky black goop
That crusts when it dries

Her mother calls her down for breakfast
“I’m not hungry”
She says
She hasn’t been hungry for two weeks

You know what they say
Beauty is pain

She goes to school
Why is everyone else so skinny?
And beautiful?
And perfect?
She wishes she were them

But what she doesn’t know
Is that
Those skinny, beautiful, perfect girls
Wishes they were her

We all start with blank faces.
Ebony or
Ivory or
Olive or
Anything in between.
Skin so dark they don't sell the shade at Sephora.
Skin so light you've got to mix the color with white to make it match.
Whatever the color, it's all the same skin.

We all start with blank faces
Made of cells and covered in blemishes
Stretched thin across our cheekbones
Or hanging loose and wrinkled with age,
With lines on our foreheads like
Punishment
for laughing too much.
When did laughter become such a grievous crime?

We all start with blank faces.
… and then we become Van Gogh.
With expert brush strokes, we paint.
We coat ourselves with thick layers of pastey goop like Elmer's glue
Paint it on thick to cover our blemishes and red spots
We top it off with pigment like powdered sugar on sweets
Not knowing that the more opaque our makeup is, the more transparent.

We all start with blank faces.
… and then we become sculptors
Contouring and contorting to conform to unrealistic standards.
We highlight our best features and conceal the rest.
We conceal the redness of our cheeks just to paint it on again with blush.
We paint wings on our eyes although we'll never fly.

We all start with blank faces.
… and then we become victims of consumerism
Spending our money on different shades of the same **** thing
They raise the prices because they know they'll sell it to us anyway
They force it upon us, then shame us for becoming slaves to it
We are the victims and the perpetrators.

We all start with blank faces
… and then we become artists
… and then we become victims
… and then we become warriors

**This is our war paint.

Jesus was a liar and Ghandi was a fuccboi.

Prophets hate themselves the most.

Try to be pure light and you will never be.

You are not a single drop of ***** in an ocean of ****.
You are an ocean of **** in a single drop. Don't tell me that's not ******* beautiful.

You came from sacks of fat floating around in primordial goop.
Don't tell me that's not ******* beautiful.

You are 99% vacuous void but that 1% still makes you visible to me.
Tell me that's ******* disgusting.

I used to think I was all love and light and that was it.
Everything else was shame.
Everything else was to blame.
Everything else was also me.

I am mostly nothing and mostly darkness.
Don't tell me that's not ******* beautiful.

That despite being a walking maelstrom of empty space and spasmodic dance,
I am a ******* universe expanding in all directions simultaneously.

The only reason you can see the stars in the sky is because of all the emptiness.

The only reason you can look into my eyes is because of the little bit of life that shines through my pupils.

The only reason you can hold me in your arms is because the trillions and trillions of quanta that hold me together hate themselves and love each other because they all know that they hate themselves.

It's because they're entangled in a hot mess of spaghetti, sauce, and melted cheese.
Like a functioning dysfunctional family, we are trying our best and we all hate ourselves but we are trying love each other anyway.
Because we feel it.

Vacuous void. Chaotic dance.
Mostly nothing and a little bit of everything.

I don’t recognize you, but you’ve returned, oh it
must be you. No one else comes here but you.

Do you remember this music?

Kaleidoscopically gemmed it repeats, perhaps too
delicately—a quiet, tinkling knell, fishtailing through the
glimmering rain—mauve—soft-soaping the soil to darker clumps
beneath—soppy—slowly sinking so pretty, yet
terrifying now you’ve stepped into and through each
silted deepness, holding time.

This music begs you still—it has not stopped begging since—
to step further inside the wet loam (You clutch time now.)
To press down on it, in it, and listen tender the key you touched in
life between moments. It’s the reason you’ve returned.

You won’t, it’s not music, this feels like a baby’s head you’re on, you
cringe. About to cry.

Again, I’m sorry, but you have to—you have to feel it
scarily give a little. Feel it sink, infolding inside-out through its
thin pleura overflowing, always overflowing with the visceral
sap of everything on it—(I mean really everything.)—this
glistening ick, this frog-soil—moist, sickly cloying, susceptible
almost to light. And breathing.

It’s about to give out under your feet.

And kaleidoscopically gemmed it repeats, can you hear it?

Yes, you could be stepping on all their naked lungs, but there’s
nothing to fear, it’s an eternal field of their lungs—pink and gasping—
and that’s all there is here.  

Feel with your foot, like me. Is it alive? Or is it life? Listen, it
bleats a note. Why so sweet if, by touching it, we’ve made it drip
first truth from its tongue, look!—the blood of its eyes’ red
rivulets. Of its heart. The slightest breach it was. Barely an
opening

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to force you. If I was only me, I’d
leave it be, so it could spare us the look at the inner red that yokes
flesh to spirit. But you arrived here, and—listen, now it’s been
done, do not close your eyes.

You didn’t want to see this, I know—the sticky gum or muck that
licks over the fibrous bridges. Keeps them glued down and
invisible in the other world. It is all much better when the mucilage
does not ooze out. When the form is skin-tight, because that’s how
it works best. Without you probing its pores.

But now do you see, probing its pores, what you may find?
Look. Now do you see why the music has begged you?

What rests underneath there—what you may find in that dark
indigo clay which the shamans dug and pressed over their
blackened eyes in the night-trances—glows transparent somehow.
In pulses. Like Aurelia, the silver moon jelly.

Now it is just within your reach.

Light would pour to the other side, and their mouths would stiffen
with several infinite unintelligible syllables remaining stuck there
under their tongues. As it poured, they felt their blood replaced
in a surge with veinless essence, which sustained in its flow
through them something of precarious beauty—ascending, swirling
itself in air, then back into again, again returning to the home of homes
within them.  

The silver-moon-jelly-clay is continuously poised on the tip
(of not being clay).
About to break into splendor, into finally birth-giving of real breath.
Of meaning to breath, and to breathing.

This is what feeds, unknowing to them in that world, their field of lungs.
But you will know instantly when you feel it, that by feeling
(in feeling)
you have really always known.

Did you reach for it? Did you feel it in that second? You did not, I see
(you were so close!)
for now we’ve passed the origin symmetry and are sinking up! Going
deeply back up through the sticky goop with red glue in our hair,
through the moist-frog-ick-soil, choking dirt again, squishing loam
with our heads, shooting upward like falling, hearing lungs, and now
out, atop the surface again, in this bare garden that grows only under.

The skies above, still mauve, and the rain lips quietly the same
melody which, kaleidoscopically gemmed, repeats. It was all as quick as
nothing.

And, as I look at you, I see you’ve already forgotten
everything.

And now you’re leaving me! Fading back through the spectral
break in the clouds, whoever you were. Whoever it is you became.

I did honestly believe this was to be that one moment when, together,
we’d finally get to touch it. Press it like real sun to our blackened
eyes. I cannot tell you, it has felt like the one each time.

But I know to wait. I can wait. In this world I keep fluttering hope
in my hand. And you, whoever you’ll be, will return here.
You always do.
Do you ever remember why?
It’s because, when you leave through the clouds to go back to
that world, you are still. Always.
Clutching time.

Your lies leave trails of blood
From soles of feet to top of head

Your Fingers such glorious ones
Pushed into my ***
Oh how crass you say?
Wiggling in that tight crevice

Oh Please your hurting me!

You sneer hearing my plea
Fingers dry now four are in that tight spot
Tears of pain paint my cheeks
Laughter is heard as hair is yanked

Opening me up more
Pushing the fifth inside
I am burning alive

You are hurting me I cry!

Fist now inside

No! Don't! Please!!!

The pain like a hot poker against the skin

As your fist shoves past the rim
Fingers digging their way through the flesh
Your snickers vibrate within my chest

I can't defend such brutality
Your elbow deep inside
Screams pierce the air
All You do is stare

Your **** grows hard and harder still
As Your fingers pull further up the track
Plowing through barriers
Like Your talk and don't forget Your lies


I can feel the blood as it slides down my thighs
buried to the shoulder inside of me
Eyes bulge as the pressure grows

You torterous traitor escapes my mouth

Met only with a harder push up the ***

Face down on the ground
Unable to move
You have me so bound
Red liquid pours from my lips
As Your **** presses my hip

I trusted you
I loved you as well
I gave it all to you willingly
Including my free will

Now what is this
I hear Your chants
I didn't want all that you grunt
*****
*****
*****
All you needed to cure your itch

Backside covered in scars
Never seen by any
Everyone thinks you are a superstar
Hey! wait a minute you scream
Shut up ***** I treat you like a Queen

Your shoulder covered in ****
Teeth bite the side of my breast
As you laugh surely girl you jest
I will take what I want you cry
If you do not like it

******* lay there an die

Your fingers to hand to arm all the way
You plowed up my ***
With a definite skill
Plowing through flesh
Your worm shows your thrill

Stop I plead

My life draining
as You **** spewing your seed

The world goes back
As Your hand reaches its path
Gripping my heart
Pulling out as I am dying fast

You just couldn't let me be happy
You pompous ******* *****
If only I had once bitten your ****
No I was a fool
I gave You it all

Now heres my death waiting at your door
You laugh as your arm  pulls free
Covered in goop and debris
Fist yanked free of the now split hole

My heart within its grips
Dripping my life out
All over the floor
It really doesn't matter
I was only your *****

One more prize for your display
One more heart
Ripped from the ***
Which is your specialty after all
Gets you off all that blood and gore

Pain be ******
Even with a pretty little *****
He stands over the body
Smiling with pride

Your lips, mouth and face
Arms, legs, and trunk
******* and *****
Hair and such a tight ***

Your screams, whimpers
whines and moans
Tears, blood, juices and crap
boldAll MINE didn't YOU SEE

Defy Me?

Leave me?

Dare me to try
I took everything you have
Everything you are

Even your heart
oh yes your soul

I came when you cried

Now shut the **** up

**DIE!

Dropped into perestroika events
and I don’t really know myself.
I talk differently than my driving desires
I’m a less apt projection of who I want to be.
I can honestly say sometimes I might be the original
but that’s a last resort in boring places.
Someone once had a quote
about how it’s foolish to know yourself.
But I get so **** scared.
Nothing to hold.
Not even a floor for my shoes.
Not even sure what shoes best suit me.
I’m free to make this soul go anywhere,
Yes, Mr. Voltaire, ****** too free.
Mr. Holy Roller says Jesus already came with his plow truck
and paved a way for me.
But which ways did he pave,
God, where will it all lead?
God, which way is best for me?
Still I might not be supposed to know myself,
But The Self
that we all share.
You and me babe.
and that dog and that deer
and that grass and that car
and that lamp post.
All the same.
All the universe’s
and all the other universes’ weight on my head
that keeps being ****** into a vortex
in between where everything’s all the same goop.
All the same stuff. What am I doing living with it?
******.

“Whoever observes himself arrests his own development. A caterpillar who wanted to know itself would never become a butterfly.” -Andre Gide

I see, I see it everyday. False smiles, different from the suburban trophy wife. These smiles tell their story. You've never seen these smiles, felt them? Then you haven't noticed yourself making them. "How are you?" To the cashier at the grocery store, followed by a smile. but really, you don't care how they are, your busy, I don't blame you, busy with nothing to do, I do it too. Simple hellos let others know your normal. What's normal? How many times has that argument been fought? 'what's normal'  I can tell you, but like anything, its all relative. Normal is being content having a good job holding some sort of stature being above those not normal keeping the social stigmas living them, naturally. I just realized I can't tell you what normal is without writing too much. Look at the magazines and those big T.V's
they can tell you better than me. But from what I told you... Being content. None of us are. You got yourself a good job, good job, you now have status among the living, good job, your not that alcoholic *** living on the streets, your not begging for change, you give it, not because you want to but to show that you have that to spare, good job, you are an outstanding citizen contributing the only way we realize how, by spending, good job, but, oh there's always a but,why, oh why the but, tell me my cups half empty, but I assure you sir, I've only drank a quarter of my coffee, my americano to be sure, in a 16oz cup to be surer, but to the but's, that is what we can call life, or reality. But what?! You hate your job and your bigger house only made you smile when you bought it and when you flush your demons down your ebony marbled **** catcher. I smile then too, the ladder that is and without the marble. but you still feel unfulfilled,
and still, yea, still, you don't know why, but your not content with not knowing, because then the boogie man is real and you look the fool, so we give our little smiles to tell the others "I'm normal" because we don't think we are. but, if they don't know,  then, its fine. But, thats not all. If you haven't noticed that 'habit' in you yet, then your smiling that same smile to yourself. Because if you don't know then your free. Free of the burden of fearing you don't know. Oh but brother, I don't blame you, no, I don't hate you, I do it too. I guess what makes me different is that I noticed. But, Does that really make me different? Does it really matter? I don't know. I don't know if I ever will. I'd like to say, "but thats okay" but my americano is almost gone, my cups about empty. If i was really content, then fear wouldn't be my 'companion'. Fear of money fear of love or lack of, really, fear of progressing, fear of failure, fear of moving back becoming less, not fear of death but of dying unnoticed. Fear of not being called of rejection of life. I've noticed, with myself, that when one fear grows strong, the other worries grow into fear, they rise to the surface, goop in my pores, suffocate me and I hear myself plea with death to take me so I won't have to take myself because everything would be easier done dead. But, I don't want to die, I want the easy button, but I don't want that,
but I do, then I get confused and lost in this push and pull which is my devil which is my angel tugging on my ears as i scream "Shut up! Shut the **** up!" Sometimes though, I remember to ask, to be honest with myself. Why am I  afraid? What am I afraid of? Is that really what I'm afraid of? Why am I afraid of that? Is it because of my past? Or because of urgency? I keep asking. Sometimes remembering hurts, but, thats how to clean your pores, I find it sometimes, sometimes i find what makes my devils grow. Most of the time I don't like it. Because I feel ashamed of it. Which is why I bury it deep. but, if you allow it to be, accept that it is true, to bare that shame. These fears are walls, friend. Pass through them. Are you still listening to me? Its okay if your not. Punch me in the ******* face because thats what you might think to do. Who am I to tell you your fears are just walls that rebuild if you break them down and close if you build doors, that these walls aren't solid, which is why you can pass right through them? Huh? Who am I?! I don't know. Just know though that I tell you to tell myself.
because I forget because I give better advice to others, because I should give that advice to myself, because I breathe, I think, I die.
We all die. But death is not different from life. Just like I am not different from you. But how do I know that when I don't even know who I am. Who am I but another but in life. I am that ant which carries the maggots, I am the creak in the door, I am why your car won't start, I am the sugar in your coffee, I am your god, I am god. But don't worship me. Worship yourself. you are the smell of the rotting trash.
you are the water we drink. You are god. Everything is. So what? So what's the point?To remember that we don't have to give each other false smiles anymore. The more of us that open ourselves, the more that will choose to open too. What does that mean? I don't really know. I have answers. But what are answers from another. An answer from yourself answers more. At least for me. Your worried if your right though. Right? Believe, Breathe, Be patient. Again, this I tell myself. Your still listening? Thanks. I end my rant to ****. Is that crude? rude?
But...

I fear that it isnt long enough.
and i cant describe
it sinks
Like a carrot in gravy
Straight emptiness.
Existence begins and we float
characters in a bowl
thick goop holds it together
with no end.

Life isn't happy endings
and the streets aren't paved with gold
and fortune favours the other guy
no matter if he's brave or bold

While we all dream of fairy tales
and once upon a times
its my sad duty to tell the truth
in this disappointing rhyme

Ladies if you kiss a frog
you'll just get frog goop on your lips
there'll be no dashing prince
broad of shoulder, thin of hips

And gentlemen I kid you not
there is no sleeping beauty
the only girls who sleep all day
are those who work night duty

(and trust me, you don't wanna be waking them up)

No magic lamp, or secret word
will help you change your lot
so **** it up my buttercups
what you have is all you've got.