The retainer where she was put
Was made of concrete. My father told me they had
Dug the grave first, then poured the concrete in, waited for
It to dry and harden, then hammered in six
Circular spikes in the four corners, two on either side
Of the middle. They lifted the concrete cast out with a crane.
My dad was going to be charged 300 dollars a day for the rental,
But because of the circumstances, Home Depot let us have it for free.

-

Where was she?
Where had she gone?
Would I see her face again?
Would she want me to
Meet her on the other side of the river?

-

I answered my cell phone.

"Make sure to bring flower's."
She had been crying. Her voice wavered the way sun light
Does on moving water.

"Make sure to bring flowers," she repeated, "And
That you wear what your father and I bought you."

I nodded my head with the receiver pressed up against my ear.
We both let out a sigh. My mom hung up. I put my phone in my back pocket.

-

Lately, I had been seeing a shrink about repetition. He liked to use the word cycle.

"Everything is repeated," I would tell him.

"Life is a cycle," he'd disagree so to get me talking.

"Can cycles be identical?"

"Technically not. Some cycles are extremely similar, but no two cycles are
Completely the same. Are two people's lives ever exactly the same?"

"I wouldn't know. I don't know that many people. Maybe."

"You know lots of people, Camden. You have told me about many of your friends."

"Are we talking about the seasons?" I asked, changing the subject, "Like fall, winter, spring, summer? We are born, we live, we die, and we are born again?"

"That's a very natural way of looking at it."

"I know it is." I inhaled deeply, swallowing air and wondered what time it was.

"If you are so sure, why look for validation from me?" He liked this one, I could
tell. I imagined him shopping for clothes and then exploding in aisle 16 because of a sale on jeans.

"The word cycle is used by people too afraid to use the word repetition. Everything is
Repeated for the next generation, the next group, the next of the next of the next. We shift things
Around, give things to one another to shift life to make it look different, but, things remain the same. Everything contains the primal function we were all doing and living from the very beginning, only now, there is more of a separation. Music is still music, words are still words, paintings are still paintings, love is still love, death is still death, only done differently and more intensely."

"We are talking about man furthering technology because we, as people and creatures, are
Statistically more prone to flee than fight?"

"Why do you think it has caught on so quick?" I touched both
Corners of my lips with my tongue and suddenly realized I hadn't eaten breakfast.

"It is a theory," the psych nodded, "A theory with, I am sure, many
Palpable facts you could make a very nice report with to prove...something." He
Was at a lost for words and I felt guilty that my mom was paying him $75 an hour.

"We are very split. There are too many of us. Too many hands spinning the china."

"Who is we Harry?" The psych hadn't looked up from his pen and pad of paper, until now. I could
Tell he was annoyed with me either because he was making no progress or because the session
Had just begun and I was already digging into him.

"Culture. The government. You, me, my dad, my mom, the taco bell cashier, the geniuses at Apple computers, a paper weight, my dead sister. We're all apart of these shifts, all putting in a certain amount of energy and lies to keep the protection of the projection going. The question I keep asking myself is: do I want to use my strengths to be apart of this cycle or not?"

His eyes flared open for a moment like he'd swallowed a firefly, not at the question I had posed for myself, but from what I would soon see was from the mention of my sister. He had something.

"I was notified by your mother that you may not want to talk about your recently deceased sister. Is It O.K. if I ask you some questions about her?"

I was leaning forward on the couch with my hands clasped in between my legs. The psych had looked up at me now. He was sweating at the top of his thin hairline. Observing that I was staring at his building perspiration, he, trying to be nonchalant, took out a thin, white napkin from his grey shirt pocket and dabbed the top of his head. The napkin looked like cheap toilet paper. I'd have offered him some water, but I had no water to give and I didn't know where the sink and cups were to give him any. I figured he did - it was his office - so I asked him for some. He pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. I got up and found a stack of paper cups. I poured myself a cup and went back to the couch, but instead of leaning forward, I sat back, relaxed, and let the expensive leather couch take the weight I had been carrying away.

"So," the psych maintained cooly, "Would it be alright if we were able to discuss your sister?"

I lifted the paper cup over my head and the psych's eyes, after I poured the water over my hair, my face, and clothes, was a mixture of what my mom's eyes looked at the funeral, defeated, confused, and with a loss of faith and hope. My father's eyes had only held hate, anger and the need to lash out at someone, but the only someone that would have fit the bill would have been God.

"Sure," I answered, "Let's talk about my sister."

-

I finished drying myself in the car. The psych had let me keep the towel.
I leaned out the window to look at myself in the side mirror. I looked fine.
Presentable. Accountable. Like I had been through something where I had
Faced my soul. Like I had used and abused my emotions. There was comb in my glove compartment, so I took it out and rushed it through my damp hair. Slicked back. The sun
Was out, no clouds, burning up the inside of my car. That taste that comes after
Finishing something that's supposed to do you good didn't come. I was left with an unsure hand.
Putting my keys in the ignition, I turned them, and felt the engine rumble in front of my legs.
The sun sat in the sky like a lazy hand and I had nowhere else to go but home.

-

"Let's go to the river today," my dad said over coffee and two over easy eggs on top
Of burnt wheat toast. "I'll drive and you and your sister can sit in the back and sing."

I looked over at Ally. She was gazing into her fruit bowl she had prepared for
herself because dad didn't understand the concept or how to make it. The lamp light above us
reflected in the smooth apricot yogurt and the flecks of granola scattered on top
looked like beige, jagged rocks. My dad's offer hung in the air and neither
of us bit the lure. I had just woken up and was unable to speak clearly, a decent
excuse. Ally was simply choosing to ignore him.

"What you think there Ally?" I asked her. I sipped my coffee. It needed more cream. I got
U, got it and brought the carton to the table.

"We can take the truck down there and load the back with the fishing poles and tackle
And inner tubes. We haven't...done that...in a long time," he said, chewing his food as he spoke.

Ally poked her fruit bowl with her spoon, silent.

"What you think, Cam?" My dad was desperate. He knew I'd say yes.

"Sure. I've got no plans this weekend."

"No schoolwork?"

"It can wait till Sunday. Only math and some reading."

"Ally, what do you think?" my dad asked, leaning over to her. I could see he was
Trying to be as courteous and gentle with her as he knew how to. I felt bad for him.

"Sure," she muttered, "That sounds like fun." I could barely hear her, but somehow,
I could tell she sounded happy.

"Perfect," my dad smiled, "We'll pack the car up Friday,
Drive up Saturday morning early, camp one night, then get back Sunday afternoon." He
Took a long sip of his coffee and swished it around in his mouth, then dug
His fork into the dry toast and ran his small steak knife over the eggs. A silent pop came from
The egg and the light orange yolk spilled out. "Perfect," he repeated, "Just great."

Ally poked a grape from her fruit bowl and dipped it into the yogurt.
I took another sip of my coffee and looked up into the fan, spinning above us.
We were going to the river.

-

"Your sister turns five today," my mom told me, "And that means
I want you to be on your best behavior."

I nodded, unsure what the point of a birthday was. I had had one before, or at
least I thought I did, and all I remembered was that I got presents and the colorful balloons
and the cake we all ate with fire kind of floating and burning above it. Somewhere
in that moment I remember thinking that the cake was going to catch on fire, then they, everyone,
some that I knew and some people I had never seen before, yelled and shouted to
blow the fire out, so I quickly did, but not because it was for a wish, which I later found out it was supposed to be for, but because I truly thought the cake was going to catch fire and they wanted me to take care of it. At that point, I was unsure what it meant to be alive or why to celebrate it all.

"This is her day, Camden," my father told me, "So I want you to be happy for your sister."

"I am," I said. I was wearing my favorite white and blue striped t-shirt and
New shoes that my mom had bought me for the party.

"Sometimes you have to think of other people," my mother continued, "And today is one
of those days. I don't want any crying because you didn't get any presents or that none of your
friends are at the party. There are going to be a lot of Ally's friends there, but not many
of your's...do you understand?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Do you understand, Cam?" My father repeated. His skin was the color of a burnt
pancake and he smelt like stale sugar and sun tan lotion. He was in front of me and was
holding a thin magazine with a man in a boat holding up a fish on a line on the cover.  

"Yes, Dad," I said again. I was hungry. I wanted mac n' cheese, my favorite food.

I had been on the floor, laying on my stomach watching Ren and Stimpy. They were standing in front of the television and I remember trying to wish them out of the way. Behind them were two, large bay windows where three palm trees stood in a row like tropical soldiers. I could see there was no wind because the three of them stood still, as if posing for someone. Their leaves were bright green, a mixture of the neon green Jello I used to love to eat and the orange Jolly Rancher my dad would always have in a tiny tray in the middle of the dining table. My mother hated having them there because it always tempted Ally and I, but he never moved it until he moved out.

"Do you like your show?" my mom asked, turning to see what I was watching.

I nodded, absently. Ren was licking Stimpy's eye because he was complaining about having
an eyelash in there. Stimpy was completely still and smiling like he does - dumb and content.

"Interesting..." my mother trailed off. She walked to the kitchen behind the couch and
Opened up the pantry for something. "You hungry, Camden?"

"I'm starving," my dad said, "Let me go check on Ally in the bedroom. She should be up
from her nap."

I got up from my stomach and sat back on my legs, "Do we have mac n' cheese?" I asked.

"Let me check."

She reached up for the cabinet over the stove where I could never reach and
Opened it. I rose slightly up from where I was sitting to see if I could see the glorious dark blue and orange package, but wasn't able to see over couch. I hovered there, still like a humming bird.

"You're in luck," I heard her say, "We've got one box left."

"Yay!" I screamed and got up, running into the kitchen.

"But," she smiled, stopping me, "You'll have to share it with your sister."

"No! I don't want to! I always have to share."

"What did we just talk about Camden?" she said, lightly stamping her foot.

I tried to remember, but couldn't. I shrugged.

"You need to learn to share, Camden. You also need to listen better when your father and I are talking to you. You and your sister are going to know each other a very long time and I want you to learn how to share now, so you two can be happy in the future."

"The future," I asked, "What's that?"

She paused, then said, "It's a time," she paused again, "Ahead of us."

"Do we know where it is?"

"Not exactly," she sighed.

"What's it look like?"

"No one really knows. People can only imagine it."

"Is it very far away?"

She opened the top of the blue and orange mac n' cheese box and poured the dry macaroni into a large silver ***, lifted the faucet, and let it run inside for five or seven seconds. She placed the *** on an unlit burner and turned to look at me. Her eyes looked far away and right there with me.  

"Closer then you think," she said and turned the burner on.

-

I turned into the taco bell parking lot. There was something I was trying to remember that was in my trunk, but I couldn't recall the picture. A haze blew over the windshield that was a mix of heat and wind; I wished to be somewhere else, someone else, someplace else, but, there I was, sitting there underneath the sun, like everyone else. If I was able, I would have unlocked the door to my car and opened the door and walked out - but - there was something else lingering underneath my fingernails, something I couldn't name.

"Two tacos," I said into my hand, "And a water."

"Pull to the window," the voice buzzed over the muffled speaker.

"Yes," I said through my split fingers.

In front of me, over a patch of clean cut green grass and a yellow, red, and orange Taco Bell signature sign, was a fresh gas station with a willow tree *** near the front entrance. He had a sign that hung around his neck that read Juice Please - Very Thirsty. How I knew this was because I had seen it every time I had been asked to fill up my dad's car every other Sunday. I had never given the tree a dollar, yet, I felt that I owed him something. I tried to pull up to the window, but my clutch was grinding and a cloud slunk overhead. I was tired and only wanted to eat.

"That'll be a two twenty-five," the voice said through the thick, clear glass.

"Yes," I said to myself, digging into my wallet for three dollars.

I ****** the three onto the thick plastic platform. A quick sweeping plastic brush pushed the bills toward the asker, and the bills were gone. I had no food. I had nothing. My money was gone and all I had was a gurgling car in front of me and an empty front seat beside me. A pair of clouds waded by my front shield window. A shadow drew itself out in front of me like a **** model. A beep. Sudden and behind me. There was sound. I looked over my shoulder and a black  2013 Cadillac was sitting there, windshield tinted grey, the driver a shadow. I was unsure what to do...so I pulled forward six inches, hoping the offer would be enough. I wasn't in the best neighborhood.

The window to the left of me slid open. An arm erupted forward with a plastic bag,
"75 cents is your change."

The hand dropped three quarters next to the plastic bag. I grabbed the bag with the two tacos and three quarters and quickly wound up my window. The face in front of me was a dangerous blur: smiling, frowning, not caring either way what happened to me next. The hands had gobbled up the three dollars and I was happy to see it go. Who needed money? I tossed the plastic bag onto the passenger seat and sped off two blocks for my grandma's house. Salvation. The holy land. A place with free hot sauce and two dog's that were stolen without paper's. Eden.

-

"What are you learning right now?" I asked Ally.

She hesitated, then said, "Something to do with science." She paused," Lot's to do with rock's."

"Rocks?" I stammered, not remembering a time when I learned about rocks in school, "What kind of rocks?"

"I don't know," she grinned, looking up at me, "All kinds."

I laughed and kicked a stone into the river. The sun was out and reflected on the water like an unpolished diamond. We had grown up a quarter mile away, but still, it felt foreign to us.

"I like it. There's some things you could see that you would never think to read about it in books."

I had read plenty off books. Most, I took little from, but Ally, I could see, had taken plenty.

"What are you doing in school?" Ally asked me.

"What do you mean?" I

Years.
What does a year mean, when there seem to be so many?
We read about them, cast them aside like old photos
Nobody cares to see
And you've already uploaded them so why does it matter?

Occasionally we'll select a year and savor its memory,
And it is the sweet, deep taste of 1997. Or was it '98...?
Sometimes it's hard to tell, sometimes it doesn't matter.
Years can be like lakes, small on a map but to the hapless swimmer,
Boundless.

We struggle to rationalize, to quantify, to measure
But how do you really measure a year?
How about love?
Yeah but after we saw Rent together you didn't talk to me for a week,
And when you did, It was to say that your mother was dying.

It is with all this in mind
That I see you from across the Deli section, head bowed,
Trying to make the all-important decision
Between one low-fat, sodium-free organic granola
And another.

I wonder what the years have done to you,
How they've kept you company,
Who they've dropped on your doorstep.
My imagination fills in what occasional party encounters
And awkward facebook birthday messages cannot.

I pause for a moment- you've chosen your granola and moved on-
And wonder if I should do the same.
I do not know if you saw me,
Or even if you would recognize me,
But something keeps me from going up to you.

It is the weight of years, and how they have put a silent barrier between us
Deeper and wider than the biggest lake.
And all those years, in forgotten photographs and smudged journal entries,
Each one becomes a story of the people it changed,
Of a woman in a grocery store
And the man she used to love.

Somewhere between the pages of Soyinka's Ake and my wondering mind
The Robin comes to visit me like it did last time
I catch the fleeting body at the edge of my periphery
but for moments I ignore it
mistaking it for leaves falling from a tree

But it's summer,
and there are no big trees in my garden.
The Robin lands right at my feet
and for my granola crumbs it bargains
We stare at each other, both equally curious
I ignore and return to Ake
I think it finds that injurious.

Throws a tantrum around the garden for roughly 5 seconds,
but almonds in my granola to the robin they beckon.
Fluttering around me ever so nimble
landing at my feet again
and the granola deal rekindles.

This time we exchange looks
with an unspoken knowing
so I submit and get to my granola throwing.

Purple, blue, pink, and green,
Waves of color fill the room.
Crisp cold air, We hide
beneath the walls of blankets.
Words spoken twice,
Spastic moments.
Hilarious pictures pinned to boards,
giggles shatter late night silence.
Tanks with treasure spilling over,
Fish swimming back and forth.
Cereal, and sometimes milk,
Wait to be eaten.
Movie nights, and roommate dinners,
Granola hostages, and hidden peanut butter.
All these things define who we are,
Roommates.

How many secrets does it take to get anywhere near-profound-close to your soul
Silence is your key
Old rusty cells filled with phantom - unspoken memories dressed in white
I walk away
Chewing on words as if they were granola bars
Because I'll rather be a witness of your self empowered collapse
Than the one who secretly pushed you over the edge
With gusto.

It was the winter of 2009,
14 inches of snow had fallen overnight.
It was the most I had seen in years,
since when I was 3 years old living in Kalama.

My siblings and I
as soon as we saw the snow
rushed into our
heavy winter coats
and overall snow pants
with mittens and caps
to cover the gaps.
Then we raced outside
moving like marshmellows
with our golden labrador with us.

Determined.
we laid the first angels of the snow
and created the first snowman of the season.
The snow man didn't have buttons for eyes
or a carrot nose.
He had stones for eyes
and a smile and ears made of granola bars
and peanut butter pinecones for hair.

Our mom named it the birdfeeder snowman.
But our fat old goldfinch labrador ate him
before the birds could ever get to snack.

when I was seven years old
my family started going to a Christian church
and all I thought about was
how the pews that we sat in
would have done more for God as trees
and they said to love our neighbors
because God wanted us to love our neighbors
but I love my neighbor
because his windows are lit up at 4 AM
a time when only the miserable are concious
and yet he always smiles at the postman

when I was thirteen years old
I visited a Buddhist temple with my friend
she showed me how to meditate
but sitting so still made my skin crawl
and she told me about karma
but I wasn't sure what it was
that my little sister did
to get bad enough karma to die at nine years old
she only ever left out granola bar wrappers
and sometimes forgot to say "thank you"
but karma sent her a drunk driver

I never understood religion
the only temple I ever felt at home in
was the hand of my lover
and I never felt the presence of God
but I felt the anguish
of my postman
as my neighbor began to lose that light in his eyes
and I may have never read the bible
but I've run my fingers
across a thousand trees
and they guide me when I am lost
I never beleived in a higher power
but I believe in my sister
who used to pick at threads on her church dress
and to my mothers dismay
ruffled up her perfectly curly hair
no God would **** her

A large red elephant jumped on the trampoline.

Somewhere in the distance a blue eyed babe cried.

Rednecks clad in Paul Bunyan shirts inhaled the fumes of their barbecues.

Moving gracefully, a trapeze dancer tip-toed across the river.

My wife slumbered on our couch,

And wind blew a kite out of my hands.

                                                

I fed a goat nectar from my hands.

A crowd encircled the trampoline.

My family purchased a new couch,

And later that day we helplessly cried.

Our wailing could not be heard across the river,

Where rednecks continued to inhale the fumes of their barbecues.



Neighbors massed to celebrate barbecues.

I looked down at my blood stained hands,

Then joined the beautiful trapeze dancer across the river.

My red elephant broke the trampoline

And we were surrounded by infinite crying.

Nobody sat on the new couch.



Many problems arrived with the new couch;

There weren’t any more barbecues,

And my teeth crunched on granola as we cried.

Silky fabric embraced my hands.

Ingrid, my wife, dies on the trampoline.

She was buried across the river.



Some guy drank all the water from the river,

And started living on our couch.

Who would have thought I met lily on the trampoline,

And who would have thought I took up barbecues.

Now I felt warmth on the back of my hand

And I no longer cried.



Only the winter wind cried,

Howling over Ingrid’s grave across the river.

I slapped an elephant carcass with my hand,

Proceeding to cook it with salt and pepper on the couch.

I bored my wife with barbecues

So she went to jump on they trampoline.



Lily died on the trampoline; I always cried.

No longer did I host barbecues, the wind continued to howl across the river.

I gutted the couch, and killed myself with the back of my hand.

A generation navigating illusionment:
I am one. Excavation; i sift. Shaking
a plastic basket.

Round - and channel mouths spout
a wire crosshatch. I
Tap
   Against
         My palm.

Fine flour lands on the counter and
In my head I listen to the same songs
because I already know the words.

I look for a truth outside my mind
because on weekdays I tell myself
I’m not worth knowing.

How do you stop hating yourself
When you hate yourself because
You hate yourself?

When I slide my hand across the counter,
White flour mist puffs and I listen:

Mac Miller’s alive. He said he’s
surviving on *****, almonds, and granola bars.

Grasped in some five fingers
A thin red handle.

The officer said it was illegal but I've never been punished thusfar.
I knew it was wrong, but desire consumed me.
I grabbed the man and dragged him into my van.
He screamed and I laughed.
Brutal company.
It was going to hurt, of that I was certain.
His lack of consent did not stop me. I was on a mission, and James Bond always thrives.
I got in and drove as fast and as far as I could.
Speed bumps bring my daughter joy.
She giggles, I smile, he writhes in pain. My smile grows.
A pain bubbles in my clavicle but I digress.
But, I don't digress because it HURT.
I locked the angels in my closet for safe keeping. My mother is proud.
Blood is my favorite accessory. Hashtag period.
My friend always said I was cunning but I never believed her father was a good man.
After all, a good man would never commit such acts.
I threw the empty toilet paper roll at his grave then shouted at his wife's cat.
Meow. Meow, meow. Meow.
It sings the song of the hummingbird so I put it in a collar and walk it to the pound.
The pound sings the song of death, my song.
My student tool box is full of unfortunate goodies, and yes, my English teacher approves.
But I would rather she not. This is my journey, not one I shall share.
I aggressively slap the keys of life, hoping yogurt will seep from the cracks of destiny.
It never does, and I starve.
My granola is friendless.
Life is bitter, like the skin of a plum.
Fierce as a seahorse. But again, I digress.

there in the wilderness
all things go to live
and all things go to die.

she stole my shirt and hatchet
and took to the woods.
                           hacked out the heart.

traded one wilderness for another. city into
trees.
she needed to breathe
and wring wet socks, relax, and study the mycelium songs underfoot.

she she she, like a marvelous
new love.
the grass and green stuff woven.
canteen replete with wheat nectar
         or half-batch whiskey.

needs nutrient,
the seed so new.
needs space,
the daughter as she grew.

what tempest breaks the trees and old heads
of mother timber?
         perhaps deep-winter,
         to test the fiber of a florescent forest fleek.

she built a chikee from fallen arms of a sprucewood soul,
drank water from a clay-thrown bowl
and granola to heat her bones.

new fish.
the river is cold on glacier blood.
new day,
driven beyond the random access roads & cobalt blast-holes stretching
gulches bloomed in chaparral.
up they crawl along monumental spine and shoulder,
giants sleeping.

she she she, live a marvelous new love.

the wonder is seen.
the wilderness lived and remembered
by girl or elk bugling their high-decibel poems
when ready.

The Breakfast Fairies (a humorous treatise)

Summoned for to break the fast
of sleep-and-dreams that can no longer last,
As the clock to noon draws nigh,
I happily paddle off to the cabinet
Where the cereals that I CHOSE,
Since I am now a grownup,
faithfully await, calm and in repose.

The refrigerator, in nearby proximity,
sources a Stony-field yogurt,,
A yogurt that I CHOSE,
light and sweet with processed fruit,
due to the miracle of Aspartame.

Distracted, back to the kitchen for
Some multi-grain slices to hail and toast,
Which I prefer dry (no butter)
and ready for anointing with oils of
Strawberry jelly.

To the table return ready to sound
The horn of plenty,
When I see the ****
Breakfast Fairies have struck yet again!

Cousins first to those that reside in nearby dishwasher*
The nefarious fairies guard my health
tho nobody asked them too!

My Crispix, with its malty sweetness,
And the ***** aftertaste of sprayed-on "enriched vitamins,"
has been smothered neath layers of
Granola, with cranberries and nuts,
Contaminated with a hint of cinnamon.

My processed yogurt,
vanished, without a trace,
replaced by their bacterial cousins from Thrace,
which is in Greece,
who, tho white, taste like plain yogurt sourpusses,
Even when littered with blueberries,
Nothing can replace the taste of my
Artificial Sweetener!

Dry toast has been sheeted and shined neath
A tribute of fattening butter,
rationalized by a commonality,
"Everything is better with butter..."

The last indignity is that my coffee,
Not the light brown I cherish
When kissed by whole milk,
Now muddled and muddied by skim milk, so named,
Cause they skim off all the taste.

Because they are fairies,
With fluttering wings,
Hasty retreat they beat,
But I know where they hide.

The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.

Each night she pretends
a wholesome guy
will shuffle alongside
on the sidewalk and
gently bump her shoulder.

Wholesome guys are
good in the morning
like high-fiber granola,
and easy on the eyes
with rumpled curls
resting against
eyes void of blood lines.

A wholesome fellow
knows what he wants −
her.

Her wholesome guy is
adorned with blue denim
and passion spilling from
his crotch.

Her wholesome lover
lights candles on her birthday;
burns his way into her heart.

As they grow old together
she becomes his memory,
while his memories are sprinkled
with images
of her beauty.

What’s real and what’s not
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting my opinionated perspective
On the screen in front of me
The world
Black, White, Mexican, Asian, Mixed
In a melting *** flooded
With curry, and rice and beans, **** chicken, and goat
With hamburgers, and fries, macaroni and cheese, and granola bars
With queso fresco, crema, tortillas, and salsa verde
With Panda mother ******* Express and P.F. Changs
My mind is constantly swallowed by the odors of the foods that paint the cultures I’ve come to know
The past and the present hold each other

What’s real and what’s not
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
Was I swimming upstream against the current
In the concrete river
People
Shadows of people wandering by
Behind me and all around
Adjusting to the light
My eyes have been closed for three years
Destroying the things my brain once knew for certain
Twirling in and out of conscientiousness
Now in front
They were rude, or I was nice
The kind of nice that is tactful and seemingly honest
What is honesty
The propulsion of my perspective patronizing the populated and political landscape
Laid out before me
I’m ******
****** about the things I cannot change
The unknown

What’s real and what’s not
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
Jesus Christ
These bible thumping loath driven arrogant theists
All wrapped in the pages of a novel horribly written
By white guys
We never know if they existed
Using their paper to roll joints
The smoke is heavenly
The rapture of the earth
Jesus Christ plants that grow in the ground
Blooming with godlike odors affecting the mind
It runs slower or faster opens and closes
Slapping their wives when they return home from work
Cursing about how they’ve acted like children
Jesus Christ the congregation of family
The head of household
The hands planted in the ground
Gripping at gravel through tightened fists
Hair falling in face catching on tears
Jesus Christ

What’s right and what’s wrong
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
A blast through a door
Glass shattered on floor
Children’s wails running down halls
Walls chipped with pain
Revealing the stone
The foundation of violence
Guns don’t **** people
People **** people
Children silenced by the bang
Heavy breathing under teal blankets
Cotton and fabric torn to shreds at the sound
Blue turns red when it is exposed to air
Rivers running deep sinking through floor boards
Dripping on the faces of the family downstairs as they eat dinner
Chewing open mouthed
Licking lips in tenderness and gluttony
Painting their lips red with the blue that fell through
The ceiling

What’s right and what’s wrong
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
Hands touching lips, touching genitals, all drenched in fluid
Hearts beating
Bump bump, bump bump
And speeding with each ******
Bodies banging together
Eyes diverting, darting, dancing, anywhere but in the ones that gaze upon you
The thrusting, pumping, thumping and screaming
Putting on a show for the floor
For the walls that absorb the sound
“****, **** yeah, just like that”
The scrambling for clothes
Tripping over cans
Social lubricant        
That kept the eyes closed just enough
Or put on those goggles that somehow made you attractive

What’s right and what’s wrong
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
We only see through the eyes we own
And the eyes I own are bias
I hate parties and economic manipulation
Being a slave whipped by some man in a black or grey suit I can’t afford
Being pressed by advertisements that tell me I’m too fat to find love
Being strangled by the fiat that is determine to destroy artistic expression
Appling for education, and permits, and jobs that I may never get
Because the color of my skin is too dark
Because the sound of my voice is too light
Because I cannot stomach the lies that are perpetuated
And refuse to become part of a herd that screams
“Obama for president”
I am free
In the sense that my perspective is mangled
Changes each day
Eyes reflecting inward
Clawing at release and some small moment’s sense of comfort
Only to then breathe my last breath
To gasp one more time for air
Find enlightenment
And then die when truly
I will see through the mirror of my eyes
And it will reflect back my opinionated perspective

I want to be a daily dragon soaring in the sky, but i'm just a night owl hiding in the trees.


(wrote this when i barely ate and was in bed all day.mood has changed since i ate and got out of bed for a little while.)


I like my eggs to have a scramble and this just may be another rambunctious ramble but I need to have a shout out to the big D, my deep repression, also known as Depression.
Strictly glued to my bed, lying here with the sheets perched upon my chest, head propped up against two flaccid pillows, full bladder, the pressure, need to release but can't bring myself in an upward position. Munching on my homemade granola&pretzel; trail-mix, having absolutely no desire, nor energy to feed my insides, to bring fresh water to touch my lips, to nourish my body, mind, and spirit.
Staring at my furry feline, his eyes closed, tummy up in full view for a rubbing, four legs extended in every direction, so-so innocent.
Life is just too **** awfully precious to be drowning in this dark, deep, and dull dirt hole, right? Do you agree? Don't agree because I drastically disagree and don't have the energy to beg to differ.
Life is too good, life is mtoo short, yada...yada...yada.. that is what 'they' all say. Well, most of 'them' say that. I say 'them' in half quotations because by 'them', I mean.... the ones that were instantly born with or found the Huge H.
Y'know, Happiness.
No motivation to do life's less complicated things,
No words to speak, mind blank and still.
Hardly any breath to let out, the brain fog-memory loss.
The hopelessness, the fatigue, the deep repression.
This is a tough state, you struggle and don't know why you're suddenly incapable of doing things you want to do, enjoying things you want to enjoy, you feel like you've lost yourself, you don't know what you want anymore, crisis.
Don't want anyone's help, don't want anyone's sympathy, don't want anything. N O T H I N G.
Feeling paralyzed, crippled, but you feel terrible and guilty even trying to compare yourself to the handicapped. How could you do such a thing? That is just simply how you feel that you feel.
Others will gawk at you and give you advice, which mostly makes matters much worse...
When inside, you're subconsciously and slightly consciously aware that you've been fighting this battle for years on end.... since you slipped out of your mothers womb and took your first breath of this polluted air.
You instantly found ways to cope, ways to protect yourself, smiles to hide away the tears, the pain, the numbness,
Hiding the painful pity, dissociation to hide the mind and all the other types of abuse. your learning disability, your inability to focus, to stay on task, to finish a task, to complete, to have drive, to succeed,
The lack of love, lack of attention, of family, of a mother, of a father, of teachers, your lack of support, guidance, your loneliness, your negative self image, your childhood abandonment, the scars, the lies, the promiscuity, the mood swings, the suicidal thoughts, the confusion, turmoil. So much more, so much baggage, so much past...
                    LEAVE THE PAST IN THE PAST.... it's just that simple!
Memories and flashbacks flooding your mind leaves you debilitated.
All of those awesome e-mails you receive, the people who want to be a part of your life who you push away and won't let in, the barrier - the wall.
The beauty you were born with, your 5 senses and health, these things do not matter in this deep repression. Nothing matters as nothing is what you confide it, it is your comfort, it is your company.



"This is what you have, you have it all, you're beautiful, you're this, you're that.." so 'they' say, but little do 'they' know.. 'they' will say they have been there before, they will say they understand, but do they really?


Medication will Mask the Mundane.


Oh, it's so unbelievable how much the outer appearance can really show.
The book's front cover.
The stories that lie inside each and every page are so much deeper that what you may perceive by observing the Title (Gina) and the design or picture, the nice face and the nice ****&***.;


Ingested so many supplements, vitamins, herbs, teas, water, exercising consistently and constantly, staying fit, so fresh and so clean, so well kept, being somewhat calm, cool, and collected...when underneath it all was a ball of blues, a mess of stress, a dungeon of self-destruction, a child reaching out, a pretty polite pessimist princess.


Oversleeping, malnourishment, Pre-Menstrual Symptoms, ADHD are the leading cause to my ranting today. Unable to fully explain and go into more depth about what all of the above means, I close my eyes and will try and muster up enough strength to organize and get back to this blog post when I awaken.


Getting a physical check-up along with blood work soon to see if there is an underlying cause to my fatigue lately....


All I can do is.... lay here, mindless, and...
w
a
i
t
.

I can't imagine how this looks
Me, face of clay
Silent windchime mouth
Aquariam glass eyeballs
Snowglobe life
Swimming in glitter
Tsunami at your hands
Plastic toes stuck
Until I lunge
Eyes flare heat
Stove top face
Coiled brain
Orange is the color I saw in you
Finger painted pianos
Mole rat grass
You took my monocle
Smashed glass in the garden
Next to tulip bulbs
That will grow in as your teeth
Fingers on mice
Like your genes
Granola girls take paths
I am glued, plastic feet
You walk around me

Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

She's your favorite pillow on a double wide recliner
or your front porch Adirondack with your early evening stogie
peace and quiet is the theme of your real life day-dream
the only noise you want to hear is from your 60 inch flat screen
with surround sound and remote, watching oldies you old goat,
Twilight Zone and Walking Dead, you've got Stooges in your head, and all the talkshows and the news  is in between

you're not hangry, you're not mean, Freedom understands your bean
with your crockpot full of chili you've been full since you've left Philly
and don't really need a maid around in fact the thought seems silly
you can cook and you can clean, you can work from home and preen
occupied  with daily orders and you like to clean your quarters
you've got all the latest gadgets you're not wanting for a house guest
since deliveries come daily  thank the UPS guy, Bailey
and by now you're feeling quite blessed
'cause the shipping on your stuff is mostly free.

Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

On those days you're feeling needy, there's that lady at the counter
who knows you by your first name and the waitress with her smile
and the few words back and forth let's you know she recognizes you
remembers how you like your coffee since you come for breakfast weekly
and it's so nice to chat with Kathy for a while.

Who could blame you, loving freedom since she doesn't seem to take
but will fill your heart with pleasure never make your head to ache
never needing any comfort, never waiting at the table
after cookingup your favorite, never asking you to come home
from wherever else you're hanging never asking any questions
always free from expectations who could measure up to Freedom's wit and charm?

Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

So called friends there on your Facebook clinging to your every word
as if coming from a guru when you're feeling like a nerd.
they applaud your sense of humor, all the items you are SHARING
and they LIKE the way you're looking and the way you that you respond
for your intellect is hooking and you're forming a close bond
over politics and reason, like your thoughts on this election
and the president and treason or the stuff that you've been cookin'
yeah, you've got a wife named freedom and I know, if you can't beat 'em
I'd be wise to choose my freedom over you.

Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

Now you've filled up all your neediness without a real lover
hey there now but that's your business between you and Freedom's cover
as for women, you don't need 'em cause you've sworn off love for living
and for sure you love your Freedom and to these ends you watch your giving.
Now you're turning up the music and then you're surfing through your favorites
and flipping through the channels and those periodic moments
gotta catch up on your reading,organize your book collection
get your Ebay up and running you can do without direction
or distraction or attention

do the laundry
mow the lawn
fix what's broken
nothings wrong

Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

maybe you go and take a shower and then shave for like an hour
don't forget to flush the toilet, boil an egg and eat some yogurt
top if off with some granola plan your week out, date with Lola
watch the leaves fall and then scatter,
rake 'em up
'cause these things matter,
crack a beer and catch a rerun
never mind the stuff that's undone...

Somewhere deep inside you, you are still the same old lonely
as you were the other year, never mind that second beer
think you realize you miss me, bet sometimes you'd like to kiss me
holding hands while watching TV, maybe someone just to talk to
and to laugh at all your old jokes and to share a little something
that you whipped up in your crockpot, glass of wine, latte or mocha
never mind, let's dance the polka, right that tightness in your shoulder
like John Lennon and his Yoko...

You decide to dial my number  
I usually don't usually like to answer
on the first ring  but by chance, you're
  saying something, wait a second
'cause I gotta turn my sound down
oh you're singing something funny,
and I like your phone voice honey
it's this old familiar tune I wrote for you

"Come closer to me, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hangin'
on the fringe of my heart
with your white knuckled fear
for our freedom stands near
and we dare not even tell her we're afraid"

For my dear old friend, a confirmed bachelor, who goes by Poppy, or Bubba.

Yut,
Well, I'd woke up early
**** rooster
just about  the crack of dawn
last crickets chirping loudly
heavy dew carpetin' the lawn
cold air, ya know
can see my breath that time of mornin'
as the tired furnace is  a kickin' in

Stretchin'

Emmmm hmmm, well dat'
woodstove she's a squirmin' with anticipation!
Yes sir,
smell of the incomin' weather
fresh cut and stacked Maple, except them box elder type you know gettin'
researched
Oak too, yut
some Birch ...burns real pretty

I hear them pumpkin patches callin'
eager to win those hearts
and the children
funny duffers in costumes

Ya, beckonin' a reckonin' they are
to become silky pies in their namesake
a big ol' mess left in that wake
from jack-o-lanterns,
& roasted an toasted
seeds of joy we use all win'ter 'round here

Kinda like the sound of them tires on the pavement ya know?
Warm hummin',
they're rustlin' down asphalt
with the leaves
visitors headed home again
will give way to the sloshin' of sleet, freezin' rain
whata' pain

Well here comes the ol' horses
and a wooden cart
to collect the trash
17 years
Percheron prizes them beauties
I really like that sound too
hoves clunkin' in perfect harmony

Yut, agreed,
love this place indeed
clip clopin' along with jinglin' bells soon
straight outta' Robert Frost he is

A symphony of smells
the ringin' of the church bells
time to eat
sighing

"Well...take a seat
Mornin' boys"

Oh Momma's up
Fill up her cup!

Oh thank you kindly
Well, we got some perfectly cooked hickr'y smoked local bacon
Scrambled eggs so beautiful and fluffy they look like clouds of clear yellow sunshine on that plate
those girls did well this year
Maple yogurt I insist on
with that crunchy homemade
sweet n' salty nut Granola
Don't forget some fresh fruit salad
stuff goin' on now
rest been reserved for winter days
Can't say that I'm not lookin' forward
to some wild blueberry pancakes
and that beautiful amber
Vermont maple syrup"

Yut,
was a lotta' work drainin' those sleepin' veins of golden sugar
emmmm
Is a great mornin'

"Good to savor the wonderful gifts the seasons bring, share and enjoy "

We certainly are grateful ma'am.

Take Your Hat Off What's The Hurry?

Morning

the alarm goes off
I wake up
I turn it off
I go back to sleep
My mom or dad comes in
they wake me back up
I lie in bed
for 10 more minutes
then I get up
I go to the bathroom
and stare at myself in the mirror
I sigh...
I pretend to wash my face
I go back to my room
I stare at my closet
and decide what I'm going to wear
I get dressed
I go down stairs
I eat one of the following items:
oat meal
   -Chocolate chip
   -Maple brown sugar
   -apple cinnamon
Whole wheat bagel with almond butter, peanut butter, cinnamon, and/or jam
cereal if there are any good options
   -Peanut butter bumpers
   -GOOD granola
   -organic chocolate *****
with coconut milk
toast with the same things as bagels
I say good morning to parents
I argue with my sister
I drink my orange juice
eat my vitamins
bring my stuff up to the sink
go up stairs
I lie on my bed
I go into the bathroom
I brush my teeth
I go downstairs
I pack my backpack
I pick out some shoes
I yawn
I go to school

School
I go to advisory
We play cake(a game)
First class
I space out
I draw pictures
unless that class is of the following:
PE
Writing lab (if it's not about grammer or spelling)
Art
Music(Because all the string instruments make it impossible)
I go to math
I get too confused to know what the hell is going on
I go to writing lab
we write and then teacher goes into some speech about commas
I go to french
I have no idea what the teachers talking about
I go to PE
If we aren't playing soccer, basketball, dodgeball, batmitten, capture the flag, or volleyball than I ****

Lunch
Yay!
I eat
I talk
I chill

More classes
Art
I tell my teacher how much I love her outfit
I read the board
and I make art

Music
UGHHHH
THE TEACHER IS SUCH A GRUMP!!!
I listen to her yell at people
I play my instrument

Study

Almost done with school
I finish a bit of homework

Going home (Or going nordic skiing)

I get a snack
I do homework
I have dinner with the family
I do more homework
I get ready for bed
I read
I go to bed

Every day is the same
the weekend is just a bunch of chores
hanging with friends some times
and stay up late watching my favorite shows:
Bones
Glee
CSI NY
CONAN
SNL

Ugh I need a change.

The top of my head is open
My scalp lays on the floor beside me
It is open to the world
Every germ and every human
(if they are any different)
But the gods drilled the holes in the tops of my skill
To sip from my moods and my thoughts
as they went on tropical vacations
They cut me open to find me empty
And to fill me again
They shaved out the insides of my skull
So they could sprinkle it onto their yogurt with granola
And they left me to dry
But I awoke with an ache of ruin in the back of my neck
I went about my daily life
I bought groceries
I met with friends
I chatted about politics
But I couldnt help but feel a bit empty
I took Advil to calm the pounding of my head
It could not be avoided
Until the day I looked up
My brain was gone
And the top of my head was left open
And all I had now was the rest of the world filling it in.
I did not need a brain.

I like fried egg sandwiches because they taste good
and Blackbird or Banana Pancakes
will earn me one or two
at the nicer fronts in Brooklyn.
Take these broken wings and learn to fly,
says the cute West Coast redhead as she tosses me my meal.

I’d make another stop at Seattlebucks just for kicks
and caffeine,
but I know they’d kick me out.
My guitar frightens them.
His cream and seafoam green
clashes with their black and emerald,
and his whammy bar looks too much like part of a cappuccino machine.

My jacket is stinking again
so I truck on over to 7th street
where a trendy Asian kid nods his head to Otherside
and cleans it dry.

As long as I’m there
I put on my sunglasses at Union Square
so I can stare at the clouds while I strum.
Case throws himself on the stone
and sighs philosophically, “Why Donate?”

Now I’m no second rate city musician,
I’m the best of the best of the best sir.
I play gently and never yell.
I remember how stressful morning commutes were.
Don’t let me darken your door
that’s not what I came here for.

A big guy in a silver suit strolls over
and asks me if I sell CDs.
I scoff and tell him only losers listen to CDs.
I tell him I like his tie
and he throws it to Case.
Case catches and says, “Well ****.”
I will wait for you
I tell the man
and he says
the sun it rises slowly as I walk.

I exhaust all of my Ed Sheeran
searching for lunch but come up dry.
When my stomach’s empty my pipe isn’t
so I sweat a little
and Case channels his inner Yoda
saying, “Worry don’t.”

He hands me a granola bar and I protest
because it’s one of his last,
but sometimes you just can’t argue
with a grumbling belly
and a good friend.

I try my luck in the squares today because the circles are too open.
Herald treats me better than Times
which isn’t surprising
because in one I’m a novelty
and in the other, out of date.

Hey get rhythm
when you’ve got the blues
seems like silly advice from a sad musician,
but apparently not everyone’s a critic.

Case scoops up enough for a Big Mac and fries but
I forget the fries while Case protests
saying, “Will, don’t,”
but he knows just as well as I
that guitar needs new strings and now we’re only short $1.66

I walk and talk to myself
while I eat and end up back home
or one home
at the center of Central
where there’s a boulder like a schooner in an ocean of grass.
Tonight there are 6 stars out which is pretty good
all things considered.

Collective sigh
as guitar hums Coldplay,
I spark a cig,
Case yawns, “We done,”
and we doze off.

a seven-seven-seven freighter lands down at a runway
as I watched it unleash its landing gear
touching the ground after a long airtime.

I waited in forlorn as I sat at a nearby Starbucks
with my mocha and several granola bars
that I’ve been eating since I started
to distrust the image
I see in front of the mirror.

you caught my eye; with badges cladding
your tight suit, and the way you fiddle
that hat of yours while looking sharp.

the café was empty; as was my heart, as I sit along
the table that spreads across the center
you came inside, alone, dazzling
but your eyes are saying
that you've come a long way from here.

I was drowning myself with thoughts
as I wait for someone whom I didn't know
I would miss this much
when suddenly a tray landed
near the vicinity of my rented
personal space; it was you
smiling, along with your thick brows
and tired, sad eyes, asking me
if I would mind sitting with you.

I said no.

your voice; raspy yet pleasant
as if you've fought in countless rallies
but still manages to fight on for
another day
as if it echoes your masculinity
yet wanting some company.

you offered me your bread in which
I gladly refused, then you take a hearty bite
while asking, "what are you doing here alone?"

two a.m. it was, when we started talking.

I can't hide the fact that it was
charming, the way you talk
as if you were listening to someone
endearing but in reality
I looked like a *******, sitting at Starbucks
drinking coffee at two a.m.

I told you I was waiting for someone
and you told me that someone is that lucky
to have me waiting.
I let a soft laugh because it was funny
funny to a point that I didn't even knew
why I was here in the first place.

you told me you fly planes.
that flying was your dream; but you never
thought that it was that tiring; that flying
was meant to be off that repetitive and tiresome
place called land, and touching the skies and
gliding along the horizon was the reason
for dreams.

but you told me you were a bit, wrong.
you told me that however eager you are
with reaching heights, you'll always come back
for land; that landing makes you humble
that landing makes you believe that the sky
is not the limit; that yourself is the key
and travelling is not always the way
in finding one's self.

then you told me I was beautiful
no matter how I call myself a *******
sitting in Starbucks, with my mocha and
granola bars.

you told me that I have passion for love;
that you see sacrifice in me

as if you knew every inch, as if
I’m a ghost that you can see through.

"what are you looking for, in life?"
I asked, trying to comprehend you.

"someone who interests me, every day
someone who understands why I fly
and that not all the time I wanted to"

I gave you a heartfelt grin
you gave me a granola bar.

his phone rang. it was time for him to go.

"it was very nice meeting you. I hope I see you again"

I hope I’ll see me too, I guess.

This glass surface shows myself
It shows how I look, how I twitch
It shows my kinks and flaws
I see how big I am, over run with fat
I see how I wish I looked
Eat an apple go on a run
Eat fruits and veggies
  This glass surface shows myself
It shows my face, my slight collar bone
It shows my pale skin and dull hair
I see I've gotten bigger, wider than before
I see how I wish I looked
Eat some granola maybe some water
Skip a meal maybe two
  This glass surface shows myself
It shows my ribs and my hips
It shows my sullen face and jutting bones
I see I'm still big, as fat as before
I see how I wish I looked
Fast today, Fast tomorrow
Drink some water and have a *******
  This glass surface shows myself
It shows a skeleton with skin
It shows my brown eyes, void of light
I'm bigger than I'd ever thought was possible
I no longer see how I wish I looked, just fat
Fast today, Fast tomorrow
Fast the next week and the week after
Stop consuming stop the fat
If you don't eat you can't gain

Most people don't know this but only 1 out of 5 guys will be diagnosed with anorexia and 2 out of 3 girls will be diagnosed with anorexia. People think guys can't have it. Well truth be told they can and they do diagnose or not. People really do this, they hate them selves because a piece of glass said to. Society just fuels it. I'll be honest and say that this is true for me.
                 ~<>~Jinxx~<>~

Bonnie squeals as the cart soars past various boxes of cereals and granola bars. She glances at her brother, Clyde, expecting him to share her fright, but is bewildered to see that he is thrashing about in a fit of giggles, enjoying the thrill of the ride. Knuckles white as snow, Bonnie's frail little fingers grasp the side of the red cart with all of their might as her eyes clamp shut. Her heart beats faster than the speed of light, and she questions her motives for agreeing to Clyde's devilish ways.

She reminisces on their earlier arrival at the Local Target. They had come with their mother, planning to do a little grocery shopping and then be on their way. Of course, Clyde had schemed up a way to stray from his mother's side unnoticed. Bonnie still can't fathom how he managed to drag her down with him.

Cautiously, wind whipping through her hair, Bonnie peaks one eye open and instantly regrets it. She let's out an ear - piercing howl as the cart thrusts into a mountain of PopTart boxes large enough to be deemed the Empire State Building's father. She crawls out of the heap only to be met by an eruption of heartfelt laughter spewing from her brother's mocking lips. "You should have seen your face!" Clyde teases as Bonnie sends daggers through his skull.

The two troublemakers step out of the cart and attempt to retrace the way back to their mother. Devastated, they come to the conclusion that the aisles now resemble a maze. As they confidently take on this new challenge and make their way through the unknown, their spirits quickly take a downward spiral upon realizing that they have ended up back where they began. Tired and desperately longing to go home, the two siblings reach a clearing past the aisles and are overjoyed to spy their mother waiting patiently in line at a register with a new cart in hand.

Bonnie and Clyde casually lazy on over to their mother's side and make light conversation as if they had never left.

Twenty-somethings, homeless,
but with perfect fashion,

in muted greys and translucent lilacs
sit outside Union Square.

They have the coolest tattoos
and the coolest carboard signs,

all more transcendental and valuable
than the sidewalk they sleep on.

Some are tweaking, some are sleep,
some lean and have spit dribbling

from their burned lips as they drift
into a coma, like war heroes.

I want to give them a bowl
of my homemade vegan chili.

They can have cheese and sour cream,
depending how righteous they are.

I want to speak sweetly with their mothers
while they prune geraniums
along the cracked and faded sidewalk.

I wont smoke in their parent's garage
like an outcast uncle,
or have more than one beer with dinner.

The next day I’ll go back to the storefront
to explain everything I've learned, over
instant coffee and Entenmanns.

This time it's their turn to share wisdom
as 13th Street muscles from slumber,
achy under the weight of lost bodegas
and barbershops.

I’ve been told every homeless person needs a sign,
no matter what variation or breed.

Some write a new message every day, some stick to one,
but only a few don’t write anything at all.

“Not even gonna lie:
need money for bud.”

The pulse behind the sign renders words irrelevant.

The 500 year old Chinese woman captures the room
like a drunk teenager.

The oily scarecrow with a leather hat dances,
rattling his tin can.

Only occasionally will an assertive hungry hobo be satisfied
with a granola bar in place of anything less than Jackson.

“This is what it sounds like,
when the doves cry.”

Southern church bells ringing through dive bars filled with sinners.

The dead often come to visit me.
My favorite corpse a delightful copy of
Something it used to be.
He comes to my door and I embrace him
He smells like aged formaldehyde under a coat
Of strawberries and mints
His front teeth are still spaced evenly
Sed for one
Hanging like a faulty Christmas tree light
Right over his holiday red bottom lip
If I could still kiss them I would tell him
As sweetly as I ever did, “your lips are as soft as whale blubber.”
The way they used to move around and in between mine
Makes me think your mouth could have danced on Broadway
And the crowd could have thrown up at its beloved star roses
Only the petals would rub your lips too rough
I would tell him, “baby I miss you.” And
“I’m sorry I never returned your favorite book.”
But in all fairness I think you have never returned anything of mine
Not my favorite blouse, my grandmother’s portrait
Not my heart. Not yet
For it is little and porous and too dead to give to
Someone one who is still alive
I bet you keep it there in your back pocket
Riddled with granola crumbs and sticky excrements of gum
And maybe every other haunting you take it out
Before sitting on it and you dust it off
And kiss it.
There is something sad about that.
Having your lips touch things I can’t feel
You might as well have ****** on my liver
I wouldn’t feel that either.
Come to me when you cannot rest in peace
With pen and paper and too much coffee
And in between cigarette puffs kiss the outside
Parts of me I can feel.

I thought about you this morning &
wondered about so many things.
Did you sleep well or spin in between your sheets,
dream of anything special, mind draw a blank,
drink strong coffee, spiced-tea or have neither?
Perhaps you’re a juicer, do you fancy
carrots or strawberries or both?

Enjoy two Eggs Benedict or three scrambled,
have whole wheat toast or rye, some nutritious
granola crunch with a bit of soy milk?
Did you partake in a quick steamy-shower or
draw a soothing hot bath with lit candles & soft-jazz?
I’m wondering if you wore your hair
up in a bun or let it fall down,
all round your pretty angel face?
Did you apply make-up or
go Au Naturel, frown
putting on lipstick & smile
getting dialed in
for the start of a brand new day?
Did you dress to the nines or go business-like,
perhaps a trip to the gym for a spot of yoga?

Did you drive your earthy VW-bug or rev up the sporty Saab,
take the trolley, ride the moped, or hop on a bike?
Where you late to your work or
did you get there early enough
so you’d have plenty of time
to think about me?
I think about that too.

Everyone I've only been home for about 4 weeks and already I feel myself failing.
I am trying everyday, I try and I try. But I feel my will slowly fading
It's different  being back here where I have no support meetings and daily check ups
It's different, and I ******* hate this all of it
I want to give up but I know, I know I just can't
Not for anyone else, but for myself.

I miss me.
I miss Emma, and I'm scared that she'll never come back. That she'll never be the same

Today I ate a slice of pizza, some granola, and filled up on water. Even then I wanted to *****. I wanted to let it all go, the pain, the suffering, the fear.
I don't want to be so negative but it's a ******* disease, bulimia is one hell of a sickness. One that I might just rot away in

*I want to be held and loved. I want to be happy and free. I want my life back everyone