This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet

Till day rose; then under an orange sky
The hills had new places, and wind wielded
Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,
Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.

At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as
The coal-house door. Once I looked up -
Through the brunt wind that dented the ***** of my eyes
The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,

The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,
At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;
The wind flung a magpie away and a black-
Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house

Rang like some fine green goblet in the note
That any second would shatter it. Now deep
In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip
Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,

Or each other. We watch the fire blazing,
And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on,
Seeing the window tremble to come in,
Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.

I’ll take the left side, you take the right
cause I’d rather not be the one who broke your parents’
“genuinely antique” bed
I heard the wood give way just now
when we sat on the edge
and I know, tonight, it’s coming down.

I should probably be more of your gentleman,
but I think that’s what put us into this mess
when we got to the cabin I complimented your ma,
“Natasha is such a unique name in this age”
Her reply, flat through the grimace
“its an old and ugly Russian name, call me Nat.”
Your dad invited me to walk in the woods,
where I tripped over a root, ten feet in
and threw your father head first into poison oak.
It’s hard to tell through the swelling,
but I’m pretty sure he’s still scowling.
Then trying to help after dinner I knocked their
“two-hundred-dollar, honest-to-jesus, Napa Valley’s Best”
bottle a’ wine
onto their “ten-thousand-dollar, straight from Andkhoy.”
Afghani carpet.

So, I’m sorry
but I can imagine you’d forgive me
your boyfriend,
who loves and adores you,
for sleeping this day off
and letting the night drop out from under you.

Sign in the staffroom at work.
Stay positive they said,
Stay positive I read,
Stay positive in the work you despise,
Turn a blind eye as your life goes by,
Leave your thoughts at the door,
Don’t think they implore,
Pretend there is no sun,
Look out of the window at your life on hiatus for eight hours,
Can’t get rid of the smell of this jail even after a thousand showers,
Take solace it’s for the money that I didn’t even want to use,
The books you could be reading now will only get you confused,
The songs you could be listening to now won’t speak to you anyway,
Silence your mental jukebox and toil for your pay.
Stay positive today,
The cash they flash,
I can see on my face a fiscal rash,

They can say put down your pens,
Strip your pencils of lead,
Tell creativity to slumber,
Put your canvas to bed,
But can’t stop us drawing in our heads,
Stay positive,
Like don’t start on that waitress and treat her with chagrin,
Cos she doesn’t bound over with your pie and chips with a leap and a grin,
“We’ve paid for this food, she better start smiling,”
Or the tip it is non and the polite police I’m dialing “
Have a word with yourself shes working,
And more than that she could be hurting,
Cos John in the kitchen isn’t flirting,
Or she could be wearing that frown,
Cos shes realised she only got £30.00 for her night out in town,
That’s not much when you consider the taxi back,
Plus after shes done serving you shes got dishes to attack,
But no she has a grimace,
Shes finished,
We have all felt like that, bit lonely and that,
Stay positive.
Stay positive,
Cos sometimes words cling to the air,
Like candyfloss to hair,
And birds sing for their bread while the cat bosses just stare,
At the endless charade of hierarchy,
John then Paul then George then Starky,
But star key unlocks the door to the skies,
Hope is life, I summarise,
There’s beauty in your summer eyes,
Don’t count the calories in pies,
Dietary information often lies,
Distracting from the truth with garish rides,
That only seek to compromise,
Our promise and delightful ties,
Forged from friendship not to buy,
Feel your waist and touch your thigh,
Dietary information often lies,
Love is all,
No chance to take,
No dast to cie,
Be brilliant and hear them sigh,
Stay positive.
I feel like,
Tintin going exploring,
Paths opening up, new days dawning,
I’m done with yawning it’s a waste of breath,
I don’t feel lethargic, I don’t feel bereft,
Heads down dive me a test,
About anything cos this beat in my chest,
Means I’ll beat Kasparov at chess,
Armani couldn’t make a sexier dress,
Allivate stress quicker than Prozac,
Cut the beanstalk down faster than Jack,
I can stretch my mind more than that guy on the rack,
Cos I think if our lips locked together we could throw away the lucky heather,
No more boring days of monotony,
Fingers crossed watching the national lottery,
Not just waiting around thinking I’ll chill,
But striving for the horizon over the hill,
Stay positive.
But the best thing I saw recently,
Was when I’d just finished my tea,
And I saw these two old folk who live near me,
One about 89 the other 93,
Twilight of their lives to say the least,
Real hunched and stooped over, all false teeth,
But the way they held each other’s hands the tenderness was palpable,
Cradled and soft the care undoubtable,
Cos some things are not withered by age,
They stick through this life to every page,
Decrepit vocal cords that would have a job to sing,
But there demeanor hit the high notes bellowing loves the greatest thing,
And whatever they think the next life is, earth, air or above,
At least the opening gambit can be, “we ended that one with love”
And everybody wants that, everybody,
Everybody with this life to live,
Peace be with you and bless you
And stay positive!

You are somewhere but you're hidden there;
You are with me in my every step.
I cannot see you yet I feel;
I cannot sense you yet I hear.

You are the shade no-one can catch;
You are the force they cannot make.
You are behind their pale shadows;
The one they're too tired to know.

You are in every flavour t'at I taste;
You live in every drop t'at I drink.
You breathe in every move I make;
You stay with me and ne'er fall apart.

You are the leaf of my autumn shade;
The emeralds of my summer gem.
The orchids of my cold jade stones;
The tulips of my skin and bones.

You are for whom I feel feeble;
You are for whom I have felt hurt.
You are for whom I endure pains;
You are for whom I hate.

But in your presence t'ere's no hate;
For with you there, then love is just love;
Love and hate are like dust and water;
They are separate, and not to be together;

And in your presence t'ere's no fear;
For tears turn into sweet poems t'at I hear;
And t'ose bleak midnight dreams shalt end;
Whenst in your arms, my very best friend.

And you are told once more and again;
By my untouched love and laughters;
From my untold hands and right words;
From the eyes of insane poetry.

And you are there, all over again;
You make things right whenst they do not;
You are in the cold tales I make;
You saw my first love bloom and grow.

You are in my words and prayers;
In the dreams t'at live forever.
You are the strength t'at makes me write;
You are in me all through the day and night.

You are my blood and my sacrifice;
You are my truth, honesty, and lies;
You are my moon, stars, and my hectic skies;
Your soul is mine and shalt ne'er die.

You are the hate and filth t'at I say;
The happiness t'at comes in my way;
You are on my mind night and day;
You are my poem in April and May.

You are my eggplant and cherry tree;
My green lime and sweet strawberry.
My purple lavender and rose;
My morning dew and midnight gloss.

You are the green moors I walk on;
The curved path I always stride on.
That my heart beats when I am beside you;
With a love genuine and passion so true.

You are the sun by my clouded grass;
The light t'at soften hearts' anger;
The love behind one's gritted teeth;
The truth behind deformed false mirth.

You are my ginkgo tree and peach;
The shine among the filth and foul.
My savour sea and fragrant beach;
Cure for the darkness of my soul.

You are my summer and fall tales;
My exact said and written words.
The blood and flesh of my red cells;
The light and promise of my worlds.

You are in my skin and my mind;
You need just love to make me blind.
You are in my ears and my hair;
I feel your presence everywhere.

You are the miracles that I see;
The poetry God carries with me.
The dramas I sing of and write;
The true love that makes things sound right.

You are the one lie that sounds true;
The ******* ****** heart desires.
The essence of my breath and *******;
The frank lust of mine in the West.

You are the thirst my heart falls for;
You are the rain that soaks it wet.
You are the fertile grass it grows;
The autumnal tears that it sheds.

You are the kite that soars up high;
And I shalt be your protective shield.
And whenst you fall with your knee wounded,
My poem's the very drop that makes it heal.

And it speaks of you with sanity;
And misses you with high verity.
And with such warmth t'at is still mine;
It longs to keep you in the heart and mind.

It's thus the immortal in you;
T'at makes it sees with clarity.
T'at it loves you eternally;
T'at it seeks you again and again.

T'at it wants you all over again;
T'at it wants you for no clean reason.
T'at it wants you now and once more;
T'at it wants you like never before.

T'at it loves you like it loves itself;
T'at it loves you with no falsehood.
T'at it loves you like it loves life;
T'at it loves you and shall die for you.

Ah, Immortal, whatfore art thou doing t'is dark afternoon?
My heart is alone in abrupt silence;
And it wants to disturb thee again;
It wants to run after and play with you.

Ah, Immortal, but doth thou tread some-times, on our fav'rite green path?
The one smelling like musk and red berries;
The one thou took to the most;
On which thou called me whenst thou got lost.

Ah, Immortal, and I ran fast like a blind nymphet;
For I was afraid of finding thee not;
Ah, I was in a ruffle skirt and with my poetry book;
Thou said I's pretty after one brief look.

Ah, Immortal, and we crafted one dusk ode together;
And t'at dusk grew more beautiful altogether;
With a soul as handsome as thine by my side;
Brightened by the streets' thrilling fluorescent light.

Ah, Immortal, and so I've written another ode today;
T'at maketh me remember everything without delay;
All joy t'at we had t'at night, on t'at lil' path;
A portrait of once live, but now vanished worlds.

Ah, Immortal, and such an ode maketh me smile again;
It feels like thou art here, my lover and best friend;
And the only lover I shalt ever run for;
The only man for whom my heart beats fast.

Ah, Immortal, and nothing is sweeter t'an t'is green ode;
A piece of innocent poem t'at thou shalt like;
Just like the ones thou always read;
By my side, with thy head laid by my orange lap.

Ah, Immortal, and nothing is more honest than my own poems;
For it thinks absurd not, of what is absurd;
Like t'is immortal passion it feels for thee;
Ah, for thy soul t'at too is immortal.

Ah, Immortal, but now that I've written this poem;
I shalt retreat to a peaceful rest;
I've laid about what's within my chest;
I'm ready for a sleep's endless virtual doom.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt say in my oblivion;
T'at I have reached my destination;
The very place where there's no thee;
The desolate ice with thee gone.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt sit in my unconscience;
Keep me asleep in my confusion;
T'at I escape, and escape not from my guilt;
T'is endless guilt of loving thee.

Ah, Immortal, to whom I still love, and love again;
Whom t'is very heart still adores;
For whom my prayers still breathe;
And for whom my tears still flow.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt dream in my limbo;
Of a dream t'at leaves me conscious;
T'at there's no more love between I and thou;
A love t'at once made our hearts luminous.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt rock me back and forth;
'Till I but wake again to this world;
And the horrid sands of Yorkshire;
Where I smellest none but dire loneliness.

Ah, Immortal, but dream of me—make me unaware;
And let t'is love for thee step forward;
Sending me back my triumph;
Shoving me up with virility.

Ah, Immortal, let such a bashful moon distract me;
But turn me not about my long sleep;
And with its horns slaughter my love;
That I shalt wake up loved and unloved.

Ah, Immortal, let the grim grimace slander me;
Let t'is love for thee hinder me;
But ****** not my love for thee;
And the longing for thee to be by my side.

Ah, Immortal, and stay with me but in my words;
T'at I am able to tackle the worlds;
To **** its failed virtues and vice;
Its cruel pride and fatal conventions;

Ah, Immortal, thou canst feed me through my bare poems;
And attend more of my illusions;
Take to my imaginations;
Breathe through the words and circles I draw.

Ah, Immortal, thou canst witness my weird footsteps;
Sleep on my imaginary lap,
And leave thy heart to me by one side,
T'at I canst but rub and play with it again.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave to me your heartbeat;
And I wilt adorn it with warm heat;
That like you are, it shalt stay immortal;
Like a love poem I'll craft in fall.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave me thy love to me;
T'at I shalt kiss and cheer it every day;
For it has more than what I have to say;
For it speaks to me with proud sanctity.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave thy hours to me;
T'at I canst write you a good poem;
A poem t'at breathes through thy chest and hands;
T'at thou canst feel my presence again.

Ah, Immortal, and thou outta' leave thy blood to me;
T'at I canst shield, I canst protect it;
T'at I shalt act like its owner,
With a thousand smiles and promises.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave thy flesh to me;
T'at I canst heal and empower it;
T'at I canst cast spells on its wounds;
T'at it shan't dwell rott'n forever.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave thy doom to me;
T'at I can retrieve your old laugh;
Although I'm young and I am not her;
I'll love you again and again, more than ever.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst be mortal to me;
But I shalt still call you my immortal;
Like I once did when we were young;
With the blossoms of love in our hearts.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my promise is true;
I'll shed my blood and flesh for you;
From such shalt flow fresh spring water;
T'at shalt heal thy cracked wounds and lungs.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love's not a lie;
For if thou rot, then I too shalt die;
For my gripped breath too shalt be broken;
For my vain heart too shalt die hurt.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou art my heartbeat;
Thou art part of me and my wit;
For t'ere's no poem but one about you;
For t'ere's no dream but of our first love.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou art my thousand skies;
For t'ere's no love but by your side;
And no words written but for thee;
Thou art the voice of my clarity.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou art my life;
Thou art inside me as thou wished;
Thou art a breath t'at withers not;
Thou art a thought t'at leaves me not.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see I shalt not wander;
My love for thee is clear and again;
And one intact, and whole, and untorn;
And one civil, and pure, and unburnt;
Thou art my light, my cold fire and warm ice.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see t'at my love is chaste;
For whenst betrayed, it betrays not;
For it cuts not our story short;
For it stays with thee still, in blood and flesh;
For it thinks of you yet, in its wake and rest.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love is genuine;
For it shoulders guilt on its own;
A guilt t'at comes from loving thee;
For loving you is what makes it live.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love lives forever;
For thy remembrance gives it breath;
And thy memory frays its hate;
You are the love t'at's ne'er too late.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou'rt my perfection;
Thou attend my poetic arts and visions;
Thou art the precision it makes;
The decision it firms hard life on.

Ah, Immortal, and it screams for you by its walls;
And calls your name again and again;
T'at it keeps you in a heartbeat;
T'at it shalt seek you in its every sense.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love is not hate;
For it knows not what hate is itself;
Like it knows not hatred on its own;
For it knows only bland virtues.

Ah, Immortal, so thou wilt see my passion is true;
T'at this etched love is not a disease;
T'at my love shalt hatch again and again;
Give birth to frank newborn poems and thoughts.

Ah, Immortal, and so being alone tortures me;
It renders me dead and my sanity;
Like an empty chair in its solitude;
I sing to myself, and no Eolian lute;

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see by my virile sense;
T'at I longeth for thee again and again;
T'at thou'rt the thought I verily ponder;
T'at thou'rt the only love I embrace.

Ah, Immortal, and I'll embrace thee again and again;
No matter how long, nor how many times;
My insane guilt is in loving thee not;
And knowing not how to tell of thy love.

Ah, Immortal, so I shalt proceed but to love thee;
And keep thee alive in my heart and mind;
And keep thee breathing in my story;
A story t'at, I hope, comes back alive one day.

Ah, Immortal, and thou see my nonsense is true;
Though full of holes and discolours;
Telling words is to me obligatory;
For it keeps my love in order.

Ah, Immortal, and t'ese diffused hues are but thine;
Just like my whole journal of tales;
T'at I shalt recall with virtues;
Because 'tis t'ere—t'at promise of mine.

Ah, Immortal, so thou'rt my artistic vision;
My endemic paints and phrases;
My arts' reposes and relapses;
My chanted spells all over the place.

Ah, Immortal, I craft thy poems with precision;
T'at all is unique in their nature and order;
T'at it preserves love and enigmas;
And so it preserves for you, just what you love.

Ah, Immortal, and I tell my tales with perfection;
T'at thou become my whole saturations;
Thou owneth the major gold'n utopias;
And preserve still, t'ese hovering dystopias!

Ah, Immortal, and I've seen in thee such myopic senses,
T'at what is iconic seems atomic,
T'at what is static seems dynamic,
Ah, but all seem such—in thee!

Ah, Immortal, I've too seen in thee such pictures;
Pictorial and ethereal in such a sense;
But malevolently, and fervently true;
Ah, Immortal, thou art my powerful hero!

Ah, Immortal, thou art the magic of my art;
The very clay of earth I step on;
The very suit of life I wear on;
The immortal mind among those mortal!

Ah, Immortal, thou art the soil of my being;
The very breath that I leave awake;
The primary cause I think of;
My multitude of secret reasons!

Ah, Immortal, and I want but' make thee—make thee mine;
We canst drink together and feast;
On t'is love and artistic gleams;
Of  joyed literary and poetic pleasures!

Ah, Immortal, and our young souls shall ne'er decay;
We hath more than t'is world shall say;
We own even more in our poetry;
We own every part of immortality!

Aye, Immortal, and thou wilt see my virtues are true;
I lied not to thee and about our love;
For our love is what art canst portray;
Whilst art itself is my pal and friend!

Aye, Immortal, and thou wilt witness my plain truth;
For t'ere's no mirrored truth than thine;
And even the truth of wan reality;
The reality of joy, tears, and gloom.

Aye, Immortal, and thus thou wilt admit 'tis mine;
Thy very heart and eternal conscience;
Thy cordial mind and vast concerns;
Aye, such are all—all mine, my darling dear!

Aye, Immortal, and thus thou wilt confess such's mine;
Thy very mind and ordinary senses;
And too thy literary and recreational thoughts;
Ah, and thy visions too are mine, my gorgeous dear!

Aye, Immortal, so such is a tale of my love;
T'at brews and boils just because of thee;
T'at loves and hates within thy spheres;
T'at cries and mourns whenst thou art gone!

Aye, Immortal, and thou hath seen what true love's like;
Just like the one I hath for thee;
And I want thee more like I want autumn;
I adore thee more like I do winter!

Aye, Immortal, how canst I find true love then;
Whenst all is blurry and clear not;
With thee gone and my poetry cut short;
I shalt but dream not of marriage!

Aye, Immortal, for such wedded bliss is with thine;
The king of my heart, *******, and mind;
The fairytale I read again and again;
The one old song I keep'n singing thru!

Aye, Immortal, and I longeth for thee just like t'at;
My love hides behind every labyrinth;
Where'n t'ere are green and red and gray clouds;
Where'n poetry is recited out loud!

Ah, Immortal, and thou'th seen t'ere's no-one but thou;
Thou'rt the simplistic art I seek;
The one I'm with whenst strong and weak;
The dream I hath, every day of the week!

Ah, Immortal, and so t'is naughty ode is genuine;
For 'tis mere' thy heart it longeth to win;
T'at it ever boasts proudly of;
T'at it ever wants to get, and again!

Ah, Immortal, and so t'ere's no heart but t'at' thine;
To be entwined with t'at of mine;
To be accounted down the line;
The one I speak of, and I hide behind!

Ah, Immortal, and thus t'ese phrases are but true;
For t'ere's no hero nor villain like you;
Who knows much 'bout truth and untruth;
Who sang perfectly 'bout our own youth.

Ah, Immortal, and thus t'is pleasure is all thine;
Physical and mental and of all designs;
For thou owneth my whole love labyrinth;
And all the tasty scents in its maze.

Ah, Immortal, and thus all t'is poetry is thine;
Just like my severed soul and breath;
For without thee, all t'ese dreams are but of death;
A dream of grief, t'at I shan't find rest;

And Immortal, thus t'is longing is thine;
For thou only canst amend such dreams;
And brings to it candlelight rainbows;
Just like the promise of my true love.

Ah, Immortal, and thou shalt see my plain love is true;
For it fails just anyone but you;
And thus I want thee here with me;
I want thee still, like ever before.

Smile.
“I’m fine.”
Smile.
“Just tired.”
Smile.
“oh, sorry, I’ve been busy.”
Smile.
Smile.
Smile.

It’s funny,
isn’t it?
How hard it is to tell the difference
between a smile

and a grimace.

It’s funny,
isn’t it?
How people are so willing
to swallow a lie,
If it’s what they want to hear,

And you’re baring your teeth.

I tend to shy away from makeup
I rarely pick up spray or brush
My heart is in flesh beating
and will one day turn to dust

I don't want to put forth creme facade
so you grimace when it rains
the trails of salt from filmy tears
are all that streak my face

If foreign objects draw you
jeweled tones upon the eyes
I do not fault your fancy tastes
or call concealer lies

But love is not burst into fire
by the curving of a kohl stick
And cheeks that redden with a kiss
are all that I would wish
to feed the flame upon the wick
that brightens and brings higher
two souls too bright to miss

Extra lessons after school
Explaining how you are not yourself
Such small words used so simply
Cut like knives through your chest
'She'

Paraphrasing arguments
Summarizing discipline
Faceless family with too much on their own plate to understand
Why you don't like what's on yours
'She'

Tightness in your chest not because your binding is too small
But because it isn't
The name of a state has never hurt so much
'She'

You look in the mirror and grimace
Shower so fast you don't have to see yourself
Roll their words in your mind until you're leaning over the toilet
'She'

Humming summer days fade into early autumn nights
Long days enforce what they have already told you
Dress code laws repeated by tongue
And hasty dressing in changing rooms
Hoping they won't notice you
'She'

But you are an active volcano
There are wolves in your chest and lions in your brain
And they can't change you
You get home and look in the mirror and sign into skype
A simple word that only drops one letter
Has never had so much power

He.

There's a tiny park a short walk from here
where no one ever goes.
Though it's always abandoned,
I like to walk there when it snows
               'cuz it seems like
                     a relative.

Don't complain to me, my friend
if your face is feeling raw;
It gets cold here in Montana,
and December nights get long.
               and they have not
                   failed me yet.

So salt your frigid frown
and lay down bets on warmer times
in five more months, the thaw will come
and we just might quit rolling snake eyes.
Icy air is not your enemy
and neither are this small city
                                              or I.

The same park, it has a baseball field,
leaf-covered, looking old
the dugout's still in good repair,
but the basepaths overgrown
               remind me of,
           A New Year's alone

Remember one warm night when we thought
we were in the mood
to walk to the convenience store
for some box wine and some food?
               we played cards,
             locked in my room...

Now we're crying California tears
from laughing all night long.
And you don't really hate Montana,
you're just doing Winter wrong.

So lay your anger down
and hedge your bets 'til nicer days
don't stay inside, 'cuz you don't have to.
Graft my smile over your grimace,
this dull white-out's not the end for us
and neither is the bitter cold
                                                   outside.

A bad mix of Shorty's Irish Whisky
and a whimper riding the wind,
has got me lying about my past.
A roomful of men in nooseties surround,
crowbar stares prying at my mindsafe of secrets--
I drink until the grimace gives way to birthday cake grin
and my watering eyes burst in confetti.

Martha emerges from the black suits
in her spiderweb burgundy dress.
Jack and Nathan drool in the corner.
Martha whispers, "Hey Harvey," and then a terribly long
something-or-other in my ear,
but I'm too far gone to comprehend
or to care about comprehending.
The crafted playlist for this party
hiccups and dies, creating a suffocating silence.
The beady eyes turn shifty, erratic strayfire gazes
fill the room.

I begin to laugh.

I notice Jack talking to a grey-haired man and pointing at me.
Martha looks at me and nods with a sense of urgency.
New music coughs across the room,
I slide into a small, desperate clan of dreamy-talkers,
hungry for a new pair of ears to beesting with *******.
I listen, while my aging wolf scours the room.
I make a swift break for the door,
the night lies naked in front of me--
light pollution pours fake beams on the contours of the evening.
A middle-aged woman snags my arm before I can reach my car.
I pull until my arm frees, but she delays me enough
for the grey-haired man to catch up.

He introduces himself with a lightning one-two punch.
One being a sharp left hook.
Two being a dusting right uppercut.

"You stay the hell away from my daughter!"

I begin to ***** a river of orange, red, dotted with black chunks.
More than a few drops land on his shiny black leather shoes,
so he proceeds to break my nose with a vicious kick.

Amidst my moans, I am able to ask, "Who is your daughter?"

"Karen, Karen Newman."

"I have no idea who that is!" I cry.

"Don't lie to me, Jack! She told us all about you."

"My name is Harvey."

I look out into the road.
A blue sedan stops momentarily.

"I owe you one, buddy!" Jack shouts.

The Newman parents disappear without
so much as an apology.
I lay listening to the low hum of the city's traffic.
A few minutes pass, sending me into a haze.
Delicate fingers lift my head from the concrete,
I look up.
Martha begins to clean the blood and ***** from
my face with a wash cloth.
I feel soft and pure in her hands.

it is 1975 Saigon has fallen to North Vietnamese flower children resistance Watergate have all come and gone economy still in recession unemployment at 8.5 they sit on floor listen to Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” then Patti Smith’s “Horses” Bayli rolls joint lights it passes to Odysseus he speaks “you know i ******* hate working for Dad what do you think i should do?” Bayli suggests “you love San Francisco why not move there? you’d fit right in with West Coast hippies.” he answers “what would i do in San Francisco? i don’t know anyone besides i don’t want to hang out with hippies i’ve got bigger plans” “you’re an artist Odys you’ll figure it out” he asks “would you come with me?” Bayli whispers “Yeah for sure once you’ve settled in” Odysseus tries to imagine becoming Bay Area painter thinks to listen to Bayli’s prompting remembers all the drugs craziness in Haight Ashbury Berkley that compelled him to return back east to school Mom and Dad would never support such a move he feels insecure about his abilities to survive as artist in business world easier to further his education with benefit of family’s sanction Bayli runs fingers through her hair Odysseus watches thinks how beautiful she is roar of jet engine passes he looks out window late afternoon shadows cut sharply he comments “Bayli it’s October already leaves are changing days getting shorter if i apply for January semester at Art Institute what will you do?” she answers “hang out with you? i don’t know do we have to talk about this right now?” he says “it’s going to get cold soon did you bring enough clothes?” she answers “no i need to buy some” he asks “will your parents help you?” she hesitates explains “i don’t know my father might be transferred to new assignment in D.C. my folks have their own worries i can’t burden them right now Odys you know i’ve been looking for a job something is bound to turn up soon” he stands paces her hands rub knees as she gazes up at him he says “Bayli i’m confused i wish we were older and knew what to do maybe we both need some time to consider things a little space to get perspective to be certain what we’re doing i’m getting pressure from my parents i can’t think clearly” one side of Bayli’s face makes strange grimace “Odys what do you want? Are you waiting for a sign from God? who are you searching for? is it me?” he answers “yes i love you you are only one for me” she asks “well then what are you saying? Odys what’s happening to us? i sense your thoughts drifting where were you last night in bed?” his voice grows stressed “i don’t know we were happy in Hartford Chicago is different tougher money security play more important roles maybe my doubting hasn’t anything to do with us maybe it’s environment around us character and weight of this city my parents figuring out how to pull this off” Bayli’s voice rises “did you ever consider maybe returning to Chicago and me coming here is mistake? if anything maybe we should have stayed on East Coast and faced challenges in New York City coming to Chicago is like a test a big ******* test! Let’s go back to Hartford” suddenly memory flashes through his thoughts remembers first time he brought Bayli to Toby Mantis’s loft on lower east side Toby stretches canvases for Warhol other times when Odysseus showed up with female art students Toby routinely pawed them Toby eyed Bayli and asked “Who’s she?” Odysseus quickly turned to protect but Bayli spoke up “i’m with Odys!” Toby still grabbed but Bayli pushed him away her devotion thrills Odysseus on numerous occasions she assures him “i’m happy just to be with you” he looks at Bayli holding breath as he speaks “no we can’t go back to the past there’s no opportunity in Hartford Chicago is home it’s what i know do you remember when we were partying on Rauschenberg’s roof? remember how all those New York artists sized us up like we were fresh meat? you looked so defenseless in white turtleneck i don’t trust Toby and all those people” Bayli cuts in “Toby Mantis is a drunken idiot!” Odysseus continues “maybe my thinking is all messed up there’s something else Bayli what if the more fame you achieve the more complicit you become with sin? what if reaching top means being used and abused by everyone? what if it requires betrayal deception whatever else it takes? once you sell your soul you can’t buy it back i don’t know if i’m ready to get that serious leap into heap maybe my talent isn’t as good as theirs i need time to develop grow returning to Chicago just makes more sense am i embarrassing myself? maybe you should run from me go find someone stronger i feel like i’m not good enough for you i hear what i’m saying and feel ashamed” tears well in Bayli’s eyes as she questions “Odys what are you saying?” he answers “i don’t know i don’t know what we should do i know i love you Bayli i apologize for upsetting you let’s talk tomorrow” he reaches holds her in his arms needle keeps skipping at end of Patti Smith record

planets and stars align at precisely certain times sometimes planets and stars meant to join pass by each other instead the universe balances within delicate loop a lot of forces influences are at work any hesitation or minuscule deviation in rotation can make all the difference in the world

his stomach knots eyes wet maybe he senses he will never again have chance like Bayli maybe not in morning he suggests she should find her own place for a while Bayli’s eyelids close heavily quietly complies he feels deep sadness sensing crucial innocence perishing cannot justify himself believes her moving is only temporary reasons if Bayli is truly the one then they will figure it out upsets him to see her go does not want to lose her does not comprehend how devastating his decision concerning Bayli will be in a way his life ends here Odysseus is never same Bayli moves into tiny studio apartment off Broadway and Surf gets waitressing job at fashionable restaurant on Halsted Street Odysseus wishes Bayli refused to leave she could have put up more fight if only she insisted “i'm not going i want to spend my life with you” why did she give up so easy? Bayli is not self-assured assertive like Mom and sister Penelope it is wrong of Odysseus to blame Bayli no one to blame but himself he should have stood up against Mom Bayli is right he is waiting for sign from God but God keeps silent glimpses his own cowardice near-north side of Chicago is small-town familiar in 1975 he hears rumor about tall strong **** who forces Bayli he goes to see her in tiny apartment does not mention what he heard Odysseus asks “are you all right?” sitting with legs crossed on floor Bayli speaks remote dispirited answers “yes i guess” their conversation is brief after he departs feels sorrow guilt is there a way back to Bayli? she seems so separate defeated far away some months later he hears she is engaged to marry shady guy who lives several doors south from restaurant where she waitresses Odysseus is stunned dumbfounded he did not realize how eager Bayli was to get married after Odysseus lets Bayli go he reasons Mom got her way not that Mom openly rejected Bayli rather she subtly snubbed showed no support he needs family’s approval Mom birthed him  he believes he owes her he recognizes losing Bayli is entirely his own fault vaguely ponders might never marry until Mom is out of picture what girl can stand up to Mom’s scrutiny demands? maybe Mom wants Odysseus all to herself? perhaps she fears girlfriend or wife will come between them? maybe his whole life is struggle to be free of Mom

A reverie to say the least,
a darkness perpetrated by beliefs.
I envision the entrance, a cold whistle screams adventure.
Entering the mouth of the beast, my calloused hands, my fragile tips,
brushing against the ceiling, caressing and corrupting the structure,
disappearing deeper from destruction.
This grimace upon the face, this terror protruding within the gut,
an agony to be replaced,
once escaped, courage will flourish.
Expanding the vessel,
vomiting to emptiness, given room to proceed,
phosphorescent hues exploding through my dreams.
Reaching the cusp, I gather my strength,
placed upon my scalp, a diadem to show defeat,
unworthy, fruitless scavengers, left to retreat.
Broken, a shattered age, misguided and abused, nothing to lose.
Words ring true, guidance for those envious of power,
wake from endless lies,
enter into an abyss, never to return,
abandoned dark tunnel.

Sunday morning,
the air froze, the dahlias
once bloomed angry,
now they shiver and sigh.

Autumn breeze, faint but still,
the padded ghost-steps
of your laugh, running wild,
like vintage photographs;
scattered Polaroids of
my memory - a smile here,
a grimace there.

How the heat of
emotions buries itself
in the clothes of yesterday,
How difficult it is to
fetch from the seams.
The needles only *****
at a faint feeling.

I wonder; do you forget me
as winter forgets the living?

Because once an old man
told me I had sad eyes

Sunsets melt to chalky lines,
like cigarette stubs, they died
when you met her.

These days only my fingers
remember summer,
I touch the hearts of others
to warm them too.

My voice wind chimes,
the eulogy of the storm,
when I breath your
name I shudder...

And listen-
because I am in
the echoes
of her, of us.

The summer I interned in New York, I fell in love with someone I'd only seen from a balcony window.

I'd fallen in love with strangers before, on buses and in lines, watching their shoulders straighten and their faces grimace in half-sunlight. I fell in love with these people the way you could fall in love with a poem, finding personality in the way that their eyes flicker nervously from left to right, tiny instances where their stanzas throw you into a daze. But this time was different. For once, I wished to know a stranger without the brim of my sunglasses, for once I felt something when I knew I'd never see him again.

His apartment was cluttered, bottles of water and the empty cans of energy drinks piled in a corner where a conscious person would have fit them in a bin. There were clothes on the floor, and although I knew his high rise box was laid out just as mine, he must have used the expected closet space for something else - his clothes were everywhere, crumpled in heaps on the floor that were too erratically placed to not have some sort of lingering system. Posters of people were taped to the wall, covering the matte eggshell white, edges falling occasionally to show signs that he wouldn’t always live there. I hoped that if he ever owned a home, that those staring portraits would be stapled or pasted thick to his walls, just because he would be the sort of person who wouldn’t change his mind about what he liked or what he wanted.

I would watch him from the same eggshell white room of mine, with nothing on the walls and not a scrap of anything on the floor. From my blow up mattress to my suitcase of clothes, kitchen stocked of single servings and a solitary set of dishware. I had no curtains and no carpets, no television or pictures of friends huddled in an unexpected embrace. For all anyone knew, I could have been squatting. I would look out at him from the window spanning the entire north facing wall, aware that if he ever looked out, if his eyes ever darted south, he would see me cross legged on the tiled marble floor, hovering over an overheated laptop and cardboard coffee.

I would get home at seven forty-five, shower in the New York water that tasted like dust and gin, and towel off, walking to the balcony. He, just like I, had a long, narrow balcony spanning about four feet on the right edge of his loft, and I would lean on the edge of the concrete slab, smelling the foul city air, taxi music floating from the lumpy yellow marsh below. That was when he would unlock his door suddenly, sometime between eight and eight-ten. He would step with his entire body and move into his crowded room and stand still for a moment, as if to collect himself; restrain from tearing faces off the walls and pummeling fabric into the floor. Sometimes he'd shut the door closed with a twitch of his foot, untying the half apron around his waist with one hand and pulling the red tie strapped flat onto a black dress shirt loose with the other. Once, he did all that in succession and proceeded to slide against the shut door until he hit the ground, falling into himself like a dropped jack's ladder and rubbing his fingers from his jawline to his eyes, up into his hair and back over.

But most of the time, he would just force off his shoes, never untying the laces, and move to the balcony just as I did. He would go out to the balcony too, but he would always keep going, moving to sit on the edge of the short wall, socked feet dangling over the city. His legs would be splayed wide, hands placed right in front of him, flat on the ledge. He would look down at the golden sea below, and when he was done with it, spit a flickering cigarette into the glittering bank.

He would also smoke when he woke up. He got up at six, like clockwork, and would stumble back out into the smogged pilot's seat in a plaid bathrobe, hazy faced and staring down. I don’t think he was ever late. He would get dressed slowly and fix himself in the mirror for a good half hour at the left of his room, until finally turning around just to watch the door for a moment. Sometimes I could swear that he watched for so long that he must have thought it would up and race away.

He slept with the lights on. He never came home late. He didn’t go out at night, never blundered in at two in the morning with a lithe model girl, long hair framing icicle eyes. On weekends he would sleep all day, rising every few hours to go back on the edge of his balcony and smoke. He would stare at the faces on his walls, the callouses on his palms, the murmur below; but never, ever at the empty loft across the way, dotted with a blue plastic bed and a speck of a person.

I left New York in September, on a red eye flight vastly cheaper than the rest. I put my toothbrush and toothpaste into the front pocket of my luggage, squeezed the air out of my mattress, and left. I hadn't left a trace in that home of mine, and it didn’t leave any on me either. When I left New York, I felt nothing. It was almost like I had never set foot in the city, forgetting to socialize with the locals the way someone could leave their hat at a bar.

I never knew if the man across the canyon hated coming home to a loft like I did. I wondered if it bothered him too, the lack of walls or rooms to compartmentalize the space. I wondered if he didn’t like to eat at home, if he felt sick when he watched the sunrise. I wondered if when he looked at the tidepooled city, if he also saw salvation. If he wondered every day from eight to eight-ten about what a dangly thing of a human would seem like to the loft across if it was spit from the edge of a narrow, four foot balcony.

15 to love, still able to win,
gotta tough it out,
winning is everything. Losing's a sin.
I'll keep trying. I'm still in with a shout.

My backhand slices
the ball to my foe
(Joe's my friend but in a crisis,
I shift where the winds blow)

He parries, sends the ball to the line,
his touch is immaculate,
cleaner than mine.
I leap like a cat

return it with ease
he flicks it back over the net
intending to tease.
I grimace. We made a bet

and now I engage
into higher gear,
my brain fills with rage,
my heart fills with fear.

Advantage to me,
the crowd stands to cheer,
Joe falls to one knee,
buckled, losing a tear.

I volley. It whizzers
past his frozen form
he tries, but misses,
defeated, forelorn.

At last I have won,
the gold cup is mine,
another dream spun,
back to the factory line.

Lines of coal take form, again and again, on this coldbound evening
as blackened fingers and wear reveal prints typically unseen.
Beautiful and unique and hurricane lightning tattooed yellowed paper.
It was untouched, like the charcoal, for ages as it sat in the corner
underneath the easel gathering dust and cobwebs.
It seems that the spiders have had a plentiful harvest this autumn,
what a shame to rid them of their feast this month.
It'll be winter soon and they're going to need it.
What creation is permissible by destruction? Any?
None?

Can I make up for it, I promise:
I'll draw them a web and weave you into it.
You and I and They: we'll all feast.
We on Art and they on flesh.
They'll never miss those material pleasures ever again.
They'll never need to build or wait or **** or eat.
We'll never need to either, not after this,
this momentous occasion of focus and dedication
when my arms and lamplit desk burn from satisfaction
and our faces grimace at the completion
of something so wonderful, on paper.

The bread crumbled in your fists
'But, I made that for you.'
Your grimace made me wince
You threw it on the ground
And you spit on it
You spit on the bread I had baked
For you
2 years ago
And you called me pathetic
Because I had baked you bread
And I cried, because,
You made me feel pathetic
Later that night,
You gave me a ring on the phone,
And you apologized
But what you didn't realize,
Was that I had already
Burned my hands
From placing them on the oven
In a sense
I couldn't feel my fingers,
I couldn't feel anything
All I knew was that I would not bake again

Little Middle Weedmead
Somewhere, in the shire of Bodelbean
A young fairy princess was born
From the belly, of the wicked queen

She named her daughter Grimace
To show her spiteful ways
The wicked queen was horrid
Was also a witch, on certain days!

She would cackle quite madly
And turn children into frogs
Whilst the parents protested angrily
She turned them into dogs

Yet one day a week on Saturdays
She became quite pleasant to know
And was even nice to her daughter
By Sunday, this niceness would go!

Yet Grimace, her faithful daughter
Had a secret of her own
Late on Saturday evening
She'd sit upon her mother's throne

She'd issue ghastly orders
For hopping frogs legs on toast
(My favourite, yum!)
Or bats ear, and rhubarb pie
Then fly away to the coast

She'd sit astride her broomstick
And cackled like her mum, wah, wah, wah wah wum!
She'd pockle her tongue out rudely
And kicked strangers up the ***!

But at the stroke of midnight
On the face of the old grandmother clock
Time moved over to Sunday morning
And Grimace, grimaced, like a sock

Anyway, Grimace got older
As older she grew
And before she could define it
She was suddenly 22!

Her wicked witchy mother queen
Had grown a particularly long nose
And it was oft thought
She could probably pick it with her toes!
EW!

And just like that
The Witchy Wicked Mother Queen
Was never ever heard
And never, ever seen
(Again!)

Grimace, in time, was crowned queen
She was most splendiferous
And mostly normal
That's ignoring Saturdays!

by Jemia

I always forget that anxiety attacks are like black holes inside of you
And you breath and breath and breath and breath but its not enough
and you hold it in and the pressure in your chest makes your eyeballs bulge
And the hours spent on your back breathing and bulging and stifling sobs are timeless you are in stasis
I breathe and breathe and breathe but it isn't enough I bite the inside of my arm and cry until there's no tears left I grimace grimace grimace and
stand outside in the apartment building hallway and lean against the doorframe and stick
my face in the crack of a window and everything feels empty and ******* and terrifying and I breath
and breathe and breathe but there's
not enough air there's
not enough lung there's
not enough space
it never ends
itneverendsitneverendsitneverends

I walked into the airport with my usual grimace  
Seats colder than my heart when I heard the news
From Ohio to Washington, such a distance
I complained to my parents but their decisions were tightened with screws

People walking, phones ringing
Luggage strolling, my head exploding
This place functions like my worries, they never stop
So rushed, so focused, the ball never drops
No time to stop and hear what I think
You’d have to read an endless book printed in faded ink

People never try to see behind my disguise
My smile dies but mind survives
The struggle to board the plane that would change it all
I wish time could stop, give me time to stall
Out of their hands, the tickets would melt
Along with the ton of ice my heart felt

That’s what I needed right then and there
But I’m sick of this line, “Life isn’t fair”
A dreadful motto I can’t bear to listen to
Or the breathing of this airport
Its well-deserved smothering is well overdue

But they got something running here
Something that can’t be delayed
An intangible eternity
Ignorance perfectly portrayed

1.
assert yourself as someone strong, someone capable
make it seem like nothing hurts you
it doesn't matter if you slip up sometimes - you're only human
but it has to be rare.
if you feel like crying, convert it to anger
let the rage overwhelm you to the point where you're blind with it
let it become so overpowering that it blinds everybody else too
the blind won't see your sadness; the blind will
avert their eyes
in fear

2.
you don't feel things like other people do
your emotions are never strong, unless you're feeling angry
or depressed
but you keep those quiet, only ever spoken softly
to close friends,
these secrets hidden like taboos.
you don't care, you don't love
don't let them convince you otherwise
show them how much apathy you have inside you by letting go of hate and love altogether-
when they cut you open, let them find nothing but bland organs;
your only colour is red because you do bleed
you're still only human
but you don't bleed your soul like ink onto journal pages
that would mean you feel something - and you don't

3.
never smile in photos, never smile in your selfies
let them see you're "fine" even if your eyes are shaded with Midnight's charcoal pencils
and lined red with Two AM's pencil crayons;
the coffee in your hand isn't a sign of exhaustion - you're just bitter
no milk, no sugar
this helps you succeed with steps 1 and 2 as well
you're strong enough to stomach the caustic nature of black coffee,
you can't feel it burn your throat on the way down
and you don't flinch nor grimace when it lingers on your tongue.
you've already bitten back enough of the harsh thoughts that try to slip out like saliva,
impossible to miss, impossible to avoid;
your tongue is numb to the taste of salts and sours,
of words so violent
they land blows significant enough to sign death sentences

4.
let them know that you
are a bomb
ticking, teetering, trembling with the temptation to trigger terror
your hands stay curled into fists that you'll rarely throw, always ready
always willing to go
no one will ever say another bad thing about you, and if they do
it won't be to your face
no one you know is brave enough to look Death straight in the eye and taunt him
by now your defenses are so thick and sturdy that they'll call them bomb shells
covering what's burning away inside you, unforgiving, toxic
but it's your cool, collected carvings of ****** expressions
that'll leave them with the most shell-shock.
and they'll never find out that the only trigger in you
is a self-destruct button
because you've always hurt yourself more than you've ever hurt others.
you keep it that way, and they'll never know how much

you
actually
do
care.

-arriving at eglington west station-

there's the fragrance drifting off
of her shoulders
as she checks her reflection
on smartphone mirror app,
floral pattern matching the
bright of her nails,
the sun shining onto sequined flats
that show no wear.

-glencairn, glencairn station-

there's her youth indicated by
backpack, baseball cap,
and conversation subject matter
discussing video game system merit,
there's the hand me down excitement
of muddy knees and torn jeans,

-arriving at lawrence west station-

each millimetre contributing to grimace,
beard whisker, wrinkle stationed
to the sides of each of his eyes,
weary traveller, seemingly ignoring
everyone with grocery bag
occupying chair like child,

-Yorkdale, Yorkdale station-

we used to weave through these crowds
and people watch together,
and the people would watch us,
young love, so simple,
oblivious to stage,

fingers interlocked, blocking
crowds from passing by,
there was the taste of strawberry
banana smoothie, freshly squeezed,
on your lips, we'd race up
escalators, only to circle
back down, we'd find the nook
of book store, to steal a moment,
you'd ignite, ignoring the clatter
of barrista, starbucks adjacent,

and there would walk by or sit
dolled up princess,
adolescent tomboy,
aging cantankerous senior,

these faces haven't changed
as much as ours have.

-please stand clear of the doors-

I am not here
very often anymore
I am far too busy
staying under the covers
listening to the monsters
growling from under my bed
and by my bed, I mean my mind
how cliché is that?

I am usually in
my car, my broke ***
big red SUV that needs
its AC recharged and
a shift solenoid replaced
and it’s good that I can’t
lock the doors because
I don’t have the key

And I think that’s pretty
corny but accurate way
of describing who I am
I have the means to get
it all going but I lack
the self-control, the
the tools to keep it all in
and to keep myself safe
one day it’ll all come spilling out and
it’ll be all my fault

I make friends with rocks easier
than with people,
and I’d rather hang out with my
dog than with my friend
who I love and haven’t seen in months
because it’s easier
I’d give anything to be able
to take my pets with me to the grocery store

I don’t know how to love
human beings
--I only know how
to fear them, or
to pine after them from far
away
instead of interacting

I don’t have any little nuggets of wisdom
for you—I’m a borderline, a recovering nihilist,
I have spirits for friends and I worship
old gods shrouded in mystery
I wish I had a gender to cling to
and I wish that I could feel loved
by other humans

my boyfriend and I always fight
because I’m so insecure
because I’m borderline
because I have PTSD
I’ve spent 20 years trying to
cope with untreated mental illness
and a million past traumas

although I’m scared of losing him,
although the things he does
bother me because I’m scared
of how different we are,
I love him more than anything
But I’m afraid he loves me more than I
love him

because when it comes down to it,
I think that I still feel
more connected to
my little black mouse, Coffee Beans,
my temperamental python, Macchiato,
my dog, Joy,
than I ever can feel to him
to humanity

I never learned how to be a person
I was too busy trying to figure
out what I did to make my parents hate me
or how to stay safe from their rage
or how to make friends,
or keep them

too busy pretending that
the terror I lived in was normal
that my parents never hit me
so their screaming insults and
gaslighting shouldn’t touch me
pretending that she’s right—

I’m just a drama queen
and mothers are allowed to
call their daughters names
and punish them for crying
mothers are allowed to
make their daughters feel
so worthless as to be subhuman

I never got to become a person
I was only a mirror image of their abuse
waiting for my life to start
so that I could have friends, so that
I could have a name
and likes
and a style
and, maybe,
someone to love me

and now
I have a car, and although
I can’t afford the gas
I’m comforted by the thought
that I gave something akin
to freedom now
that I can go to the store and
buy food that isn’t filthy and rotted
that I could jump in and drive away
and never come back
if I needed to do that  
and one day I will

As long as there are teenagers extant,
Anomie and alienation of
an unripened generation
Shall spill upon this site in cliched cries,
Dabbling with threats of pills and lies,
The endless pain felt gives one fright.
To this old soul who wonders silently,
Will these thousands of pained children
Make it through to their next incarnation

So much angst, so much anger,
I wonder if God created poetry
To salve their wounds

Their unknown futures loom,
But all I read is  hurt and doom.
You shall survive, children.
Awful poetry, some good,
you will write.
But write and write
till your heart be calmed

For even ancient kings felt the anguish  of the soul,
And we profit even today by King David's psalms.

This wizened fool has his hands full,
Mouths to feed, bread to earn and bake,
As midnight is almost nigh,
He rests prone and adds a verse to this old poem
He long ago scribbled down, grimace-smiles now,
Realizing there is little difference tween him and the
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland.

For poetry salves his wounds still, even now,
Unashamedly, he thinks, quiet like, praying,
Hallelujah, spoken in the original,
The tongue of his ancestors

When the skin is cracked like dry earth,
do I grimace from pain or smile from desire?  

When skin is cracked like dead earth,
do I mourn or elevate?

To tear at flesh for obsession is to clear the shadows of repetition from the heart.

Do I grimace or smile,  when the red moon is hanging from the sky?

Is the grimace and smile different when the cracks in the clay are true?

Is it just a loop, like a snake swallowing it's tail?
Is it just a vice?
Is it medicine or malintent?

Is it better to have chaos inside and a perfect snowy field or sooth the forever storm and endeavor through the cracked desert until the end of historia?

How to describe that moment when we wake at last?
Tentatively emerging from the comfortable cocoon of that early, endless summer
****** into a cold, vibrant land, full of beauty and pain
Equipped with a newfound vigor but fueled by our disillusionment

Here, in the infancy of our societal influence
Fresh off a restful bout of childhood ignorance
We take aim to preserve that magic, for as long as we can
We dance in the summer rain, so it might not fade away…

But when do we lose focus?
When do we become,
The target of long lost laughter,
relenting to the forces of absurdity?

Perhaps when our world comes crashing down
With the weight of a thousand suns
When purity falls prey to the stalking darkness
That lives in the darkened mire

We’re all lost souls in this garden world
As our sanity stumbles with each passing season
From a fleeting glimpse at beauty in the warmth of the spring
to our frozen heart from winter’s endless pain

What is it we really want then?
As we wake up dreaming of a peaceful life,
of blue skies, and free-flowing thoughts
in the warm embrace of a sun-kissed day

But out of darkness, fear does grow
Those memories seem so far away.
Saddled with willing acts of complacency
We trudge on, immune to our nagging decency

For as we stand on the edge of the abyss
Faced by the power of the absurd
We can’t help but look down
Into the unrelenting grimace of finality

Can we recapture, moments lost, memories fallen
from the hardened heart of our war-torn soul?
For deep inside, perhaps we’ll find
A glimpse at a forgotten past

Might we gather one last breath,
A passing whiff of that summer day
So long ago, when we dreamt of a greater purpose and when magic
Enveloped our reality with the warm embrace of mystery and intrigue

Might we realize then that pain makes beauty?
And as we stand on the edge of the abyss
Trading a summer daydream
For a midnight reverie

We take a step back…

they want me to be serious, to take it seriously. To look at sunrises calmly and seize coals and watch over red-blooded, man-fueled wars about bravado, integrity, and land. To look at money, a simple representation of labor, and see what it drives other to do, to do for me.

to crush cigarettes and testicles under my boots,
to crawl through mud and barbed wire, smiling

with grit in my grimace
salt rolling, sweaty brows
twisted locks of dark hair
tobacco-brown spit, ground
and filthy, caked in mud
teeth bared like an animal
white eyeteeth crunching

Scorching earth where my feet touch down.
A cigarette put out on a tongue. No more talking.

They want me to see and that, in the dark of the night, in the light of the day, when the sun rises and sets, there is pain, always, elsewhere and everywhere. So I will not tarry or joke or be frivolous with the battered souls of others and to think, to think about applying anything I know, to run along with the vigorous social constructs they ask me to dissect and then revolutionize, because I am young, and I will sprint faster, against accusations, and only briefly.

They want me to look at the world like a runner looks at the red track,
with their toes and sinews coiled as hard as steel, a pinnacle of human
at the height of athleticism and possess the ruthlessness of a rabid dog
drool rushed into foam and mad from dehydrating, my brain swelling

with my hormone driven
red, hazy, athletic rage,
gunning my ambition
for some organization.

No.

I will fight, yes, but I will not fight for a name on a card, shield, or building.
I will fight for the sake of fighting because I am contentious and I am wrong.

I side against hero and villain, because I am the ambiguity,
that languishes, resides in no-man's land, antagonizing both.

Being disliked in purgatory is sometimes more easy than chomping at the bit,
for blood and the power of cracking a black bull whip, so I can avoid this terrible avarice and corrupting beauty that comes with working hard, especially for the greatness
                        that I did not ask
                                       to be ****** upon me, while I wished to remain enigmatic.