Gotta find a new way
To scribble the pencil on paper
To draw letters and words
Sentences and paragraphs
Chapters and books
Because there's just too much going on
In my mind
It's like a cement mixer filled with rock and mud
Turning 'round and 'round
Mixing that **** into concrete
You can put your hands on the spread product
And the imprint will dry in the block
Forever for to contrast the size of your hand today
With the size of your hand in 25 years
(Barring a catastrophe that demolishes the concrete)

Always hoped my mind would be a deep well into which could be thrown a cavalcade of essentials,
Knowledge, wisdom
Intellect
I've kept my mind open for them
And yet they weigh me down
They make me feel awful, like being squeezed across the chest by the not particularly strong arms of an aging circus  sideshow barker

Take what you will
Lighten my load
For Gods sake take the fear
Of being happy without feeling this ominous depression

This is the point where I rail against how unfair it is that in Colorado and a few other enlightened states marijuana is given due credit for it's medicinal propensities while 10 hours away in Oklahoma you can still be thrown in jail for possessing even a small amount.

People, scoff if you will
I need medicinal marijuana
I know that nothing else is going to bring me a modicum of joy such as it has for so many years

And I know it's wrong to be more excited about hooking up than in communing with God, meditating and contemplating on His Holy Name.
It's wrong
It's got to be a sin, obsessing about ***
While my desire for God wanes and
Flutters like a flag at a losing race
I'm sorry I feel this way
But I do
O Jesus I trust total honesty
Means a lot more to you
Than puttin' on the show
Pasting phony smiles
and lying, making out like their love for Someone they've never seen is consuming them with the same passion had it been a new boyfriend or a special girlfriend with flesh and blood and sinew and tendon and breathing heart and beating lung
Speaking words
Emitting odors
Skin to pinch
Glorious laughter in your ears
Guffawing at your stupid jokes, she likes you!
Mikey liked you, dear, I know that means a lot
Maybe ask them if they want to go see God with you
But if they don't you'll be disappointed
And if you're as depressed as I am
You'll stay home and hope they'll decide to hang with you

Because there's too much information
There are too many idiots walking the terra of this country
Too much misunderstanding
Too much pressure
Too much unloving intolerance
Too many headaches
Too much wringing of the hands.
Mister, you wouldn't recognize Jesus on the street if He personally placed your hand in His side
You don't want to know him, do you?
The Truth is a terrifying concept
Don't get too close to it, get burned by the light
You can't handle the truth, afraid you'll see it in the mirror
So you hoist the beam from both your eyes
Because someone said if you did that you could judge rightfully
But you didn't get that the beam wasn't a literal object , that it in fact could not be removed
None but the Christ Ever had the right to judge you
He judges from love, always seeing the value in the man, long past forgiven all sins
But they'll run from Him
I think he'll giggle, knowing they'll eventually come around
Maybe he'll have to show them
But for right now I don't see Him
My faith may be weak
But I need some ******* relief
I have a feeling He wouldn't mind
If nothing else He'd be pleased that it made me feel like living again

Scuse me while I load a bowl
Let me get a few tokes
Then you come back
And I guarantee you'll notice
A much friendlier, social man

Every so often he
swings through town and makes
his way into my bed,
broad trunk filling the void this empty mattress
reaffirms on the nights I sleep alone,
which is most.

I appreciate the infrequency with which
he comes to visit,
my door kept ajar,
my heart kept  comfortably closed,
as he strolls in in his designer
sneakers or boots,
the noncommittal conversation flowing freely
between us.

Once I recall he rolled over,
his hand sliding up my forearm,
wrapping himself around my
frame as I pulled out my phone
to show him a photo,
and he noticed his number wasn't saved,
guffawing at my nonexistent concern for his
permanence,
or lack thereof.

I like the way he laughs
and the rare moments when we exchange
something deeply
personal about ourselves,
complicated words and phrases transplanting
simplistic nonverbal communication.

He is handsome
without being too ****;
he is smart
without being argumentative;
he is wealthy
without being ostentatious;
he is shy
without being withdrawn;
he is a lot of things,
my finely filed fingernails not even
beginning to scratch the
surface of his otherwise
intriguing layers,
having tied my own
hands
behind my back.

I need the way he doesn't
need me,
and him I.
Sometimes I need his body heat,
the gentle weight of a
man's arm hanging on
my curvy hip.
There are moments when I need
one of our witty but empty
texting conversations,
simple enough to read after
too much Bordeaux.

I need the something that
exists in the nothing
that he brings
me.

The merchant is dead!
He is no more.
He’s dead.

But once, in time,
He was a young boy,
Guffawing on
Tethered rope swings.
Loved and loving,
Shy and silly.
His needs had not yet
Started to consume him.

He was a young lad,
A brash, hard-working lad,
At times, even flippant,
Yet passionate and caring,
When he met our fair Melissa.
His heart was instantly hers!
He adored her, nonetheless
Her heart was not free.
At such a tender age
He traded all for love,
For unrequited love, and
That was his falling.

He was a good husband, later,
When he married, another.
Fair and caring,
Plain and true.
He raised his children to
love and be loved, and
Worked till his body
Allowed him to.

He grew old,
As all and sundry seem to do.
All wrinkly and turned,
He had lived a straight life,
And had set his self free.
Yet, on his death bed,
As he closed his eyes
For the last time,
One breath to breathe,
He yearned for Melissa,
And smiling, died.

The merchant is dead!
He lived a life,
And died happily.

At Fuller's emporium of whiskers and wine,
As matches are struck on the no smoking sign.

Mr Terry Fuller, of reddened face refined,
Regiments and orders his elbows aligned;
With stories of rumour, football, *******,
Thieves, my boy and across Texas by trucking.
  
He loudly regales to the spirits of faces,
"Me and my boy have been to some places,  we've seen some girls, he gave em' rub,
As I was too busy running the pub."

Howling as they're told, sighing in ease,
Mr Daniels accusing "who's round is it please?"

When shadowed in doorway, tip-toes, a pale boy.  
Stringy, svelte and painfully coy.  
Debate is lulled, as men catch scent.
"Don't come in here boy, or your money'll be spent."

Roaring,rumbling, the boy  unsettled in mirth.
"He can't buy any beer, he's only just had his birth."

Half-pint of breath, the boy stammers to say.
"I just was curious, i mean, I ask, if I may-"
A bellowing fanfare, "Speak up or go away!"

"I just wanted to know what you do with your day?"

Mr Fuller, heaving his pink smirking bulk, anchored by his drink.  
"We work, we go home and we pub till we sink."

Troughs raised in toast, raining down on bald heads.
As the boy puzzling thinks what the bulbous man said.

"Then tomorrow" yelped the youth.

"What do you do after that?"
"More of the same, till God's on the mat!."

Throned by grey faces, blanketed in smoke,
As the toothless, eggs titter at the nonsensical joke.

Raising a tiny limb, "So this happens everyday?"
Mr Fuller rubbed his hands, "I wouldn't have it another way."

The alphas puffing , guffawing, dribbling beer down chins. And for blood-vesseled faces another story begins.

As the silhouetted boy under a veil of tears, whispers "I'm so sorry" and leaves.

In Fuller's emporium a silence ensued,
The sound sat between them and quietly chewed.
Every brow furrowed, as the beer didn't flow.
A quiet conclusion.
"The youth of today what do they know!"

JWS

It is generally supposed we come to this place
As a just reward for treachery and traitorousness.
Indeed, nothing could be farther from the truth;
Most of my compatriots her have blindly hitched their fortunes
To some flag, some shining dogma, our fates sealed
Through an unwillingness to be sufficiently self-interested,
The refusal to abandon ship once it became apparent
That the experience upon the rocks
Would be neither enabling nor ennobling.
My own case is illustrative of the rule;
My father, noble sovereign ascending to the throne
Via parlor tricks and the rustic embrace of folk legend,
(The fornication resulting in my birth brushed aside
As some accident of mistaken identity or enchantment)
Is celebrated, beatified really, in song and legend,
Yet I, who pulled myself up by my own bootstraps as it were,
Winning his queen’s hand and defeating him on the field,
Am consigned to this unhappy place in perpetuity,
Suffering demons who hiss *******! Usurper!
As they put me through my paces
(One takes their rebukes with a grain of salt;
They are all mad, the likely result of dealing with this glut of madmen.)
As I noted, the presence of myself and my brethren in this place
Serve as a testament to the merits of fidelity,
Which we commemorate daily, some days several times
(I confess it seems more than a touch silly,
But the necessity of creating distractions
Trumps other concerns in a locale such as this)
By staging caucus races, each participant addressing
The ******* in front of him directly,
Paying it fealty--My liege! My liege!--which is answered in turn
By a cannonade of noxious farting
(We assume the smells to be offensive,
As the atmosphere here is somewhat deleterious at all times)
All to the great amusement of those sprites
Who observe our machinations,
They in turn guffawing madly and urinating downward upon us
While we, as the acidic waste corrodes us, also cackle like lunatics,
Fairly shouting Ah, the gentle rain of Heaven--thank you, Lord!
Though, oddly enough, our laughter at times
(Most likely due to the aridity of the atmosphere around us)
Seems to catch a bit in the throat.

(A list that doesn't desist.)

1.  These sleepy moments drive me crazy....for, sleep, i can't...
2.  When I close my  eyes, try to relax my mind, that's the time I cant.
3.  Teasing images dance inside this head of mine.
4.  No choice.....I open my eyes again,
5.  I stare through the dark walls and ceiling,
6.  In the dark, the truth is so stark,,like the devil, guffawing.
7.  You sway, smile, you call me, you torment me.
8.  Haven't  got that kind of eraser, to delete your face, your memory...
9.  There's no way out...you are indelible.
10. No amount of distraction could help, not even solitaire,
      crossword or    sudoku.
11. I get paper and pencil, and start a list,
12. What could I do? what couldn't I do?
13. Exasperated, I reach for old journals, turn back the pages, 
14. I read through drafts, my eyes take me to crumpled pages, so wet      
      with sad memories,
15. The painful journey starts all over again...



           This time around,
           so cruel is the  night....



Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

Get out there, my mother said,
Tossing me out,
Make friends
Play
Have fun.

Standing there
Seeing other kids playing house
Fighting over toys
Playing tag

This is fun?

Now I still stare with hollow eyes
People guffawing
Gesticulating
Laughing
Amidst clouds of smoke
And bottles of alcohol
Excitedly blathering on about inconsequential ****
While I blink
With all the enthusiasm of a cat

I'm bored.

These...creatures
Cawing nonsense to the thin air
Flapping arms to illustrate
Fighting over carrion
Bumming sticks off me
Getting my food
Borrowing cash
Asking favors

All this ******* noise
Meaningless chatter
About the flotsam of their petty existence
About what happened to whom
And oh my God you guys
You'll never believe what who said
I can't believe this and that how dare they

All this horseshit
Flowing
Rushing
Past me
Wearing down my sanity

All this hope and expectation
Wasted on people
On their shallow drama
On the inevitable disappointments
On the unnecessary negativity

I'm going home.

interlocking Complex(cities)
a fortunate mixed complexion
comprising of liberating schemes.
the unnatural routine
followed by beings with hindered genes
i see them upload themselves in a virtual scene.
i look up to them, twice
binocular vision
remix the visuals with binaural beats
to keep me levitating
before breaking into a fragmented
piece.
they’ve preached their nuisance to me
i’ve definitely caught an anomaly
i’ve heard them fabricating speech into something humble and noble
i’ll wait till it’s my turn to be
insidious
i’ll spit radiation like Chernobyl
to obliterate the ever growing regime.
molecular regain
they speak up to my senses
to attain the consent of the
eternal and beyond
with an upright movement
momentum i gain
from forthcoming sonder
while wandering down to the streets
you’re listening to city dreams
lean back, chime in
with psychedelic scenes
peripheral context
sidetracked to prevent hindrance
from the beings that are of obscene nature
i’ve seen a lot of those
nurturing themselves
by ******* onto the future
still stuck up on the yet coming past
trying to get grips on the titular concept
there’s authority with the ones who kept it flowing
rugged strength no guffawing
headed straight to the delirious ends of the rope
always falling but never out of hope
the stream that quenches the guilt of those
showing up with guns just to pinch a loaf
exterior combats
come back to the present
im here to steal the philosopher’s stone
getting ****** just to soar
above the stratosphere
i went straight out of the blue sphere
where i got to see the blues that fill up the majority of the crust
****** back to my grounds
the velocity burned my rust
thats a leap higher than the nukes
you trust
get to my location
ask the Everest where im at
it’ll point up to me and i’ll wave back
but there’s a truth thats yet to be told
i held the meeting of gods that weren’t sold
nobody showed up
neither the young nor the old
except avowed fakes that claim to be woke

Ear, to burrow in quaking chests,
pounding pink whilst sirens called and
loud whistles of graveyards
outkeep the unkempt—men, in their shawls
of brown hung thinly like spider-silk
or like apt shadows, swung deep
and knit their brow low.

Tongue, to pinching Khor,
dragged down winding crawling asphalt,
where men marched and limped on to
the serpents and salt-seas which lead them
guffawing, down and blackly sombre—
charred palate quelled creaking groans of iced-marrow;
but it bit back in fury and in mute litanies.

Nose, to pyre in cotton-burnt glory,
red-cent’s ****** odour sent all, sent many,
to swoon Mr. Moon from silver times
and to slice dawn thick with orange rind—
the kind that stung the flesh beneath
your bruised fingernails as a child, as you peeled.

Teeth, to grate and whitely brace
for cold and plunging lines that blighted
everything in vertigo’s favor. There was them,
there was me, and there was you—
but, skulls you see
were calcium's concern, as Earth, not the mother,
consumed all, and condensed became

         life and breath
     to
stone and mineral.

Episode A, as lives are recalled to the tv gen...
Exposure to constant new
boxes of thought
in the quantum foaming theory
bubbling in my soul,
gurgling in my gut, and guffawing

in my impression of Little Luke McCoy,
in the barracks, got
a big laugh, from Harvey Silverman, whom
I gave company, unawares mind you, he was a stranger
I was being kind,
he made the rules for a bathroom craps game.
No more roles after midnite,
I said Aight, and we rolled the bones, and they
rolled my way, at E-2 pay,
sync'tupwatches witness, it is an new day,

Harvey Silverman, from Las Vegas, via Philly,
he says, I owe u 12 hundred dallahs,
let me break the rule,
he asks my permission, then makes eight
straight passes,
and I believe my eyes, I was that guy,

Silverman died.

Once More
By
Jorge Rangel

I remember Selene shrieking.
Even more,
I hear you guffawing.
She voiced  "stop! your going to **** her".
You shouted "once more "  screaming in laughter.
Our sister worried,
caring for your safety.
While we wrestled again
louder and faster.

I can't speak more of that day.
Time has taken in its passing.
My memories have faded with age.
Broken-hearted a day can't be everlasting.
Kids who previously played have grown up.
Sharing more than blood in their veins.
That day is gone to be back never.
But a brothers love firmly remains.
Silent,patient,waiting for you!
To say “Once more”  boisterously laughing.

At the crack of night
When the bustling world snores
in deep slumber
When the darkness unveils
her seductive charm
Tempting the nyctophilias with her bewitching pleasures in silence
The white- apparelled monks met at their secret abbey
Chanting the verses of the joys of the unholy world
Sipping the intoxicating elixir of infinite happiness
Offering the sacrament of hedonism
When in the unknown silence of the night
They untie the garb of divinity
And wrap themselves in the shroud of their dark desires
And revel in the euphoria of their unimpeded whims
When they blow the clarinet of their unbridled freedom
When they pronounce the incantations of the joyous, magical world
When the night offers the chalice of wilderness
To conceal their transparency
They offer a mass of their reckless freedom
As the blackness gobbles the night
And roars its triumph in the air
Proclaiming its glee;
Guffawing at the daylight who makes
the humans to only fret and fume of their sick life
The lunatic monks slip into the celebrated silence of the night
And resurrects into a serene daylight
Donning the earthy robe of the guardian angels
Who set out to glorify the good
In the abode of god

We were not friends by choice.
Our parents became lumped in little lanes,
And us as offspring became mutually familiar
Through school and church and sleepovers.

Do you remember when Mandoza menaced?
I was under attack – alone and helpless.
Amidst all of the guffawing giants,
Et tu, Iron Horse. No – after all, it cannot be.

Always one to swim against the shaky tide of confrontation,
You forced me against noble nature, filling me with burning questions.
In your defence, you justified yourself most artfully,
Leaving me unconvinced at your failure to apologise.

“*******!” Oh, that felt so good!
Not as good as it felt lifting me in the air, I’m sure.
Iron Horse, you kicked really well with your sturdy steel stirrups,
Deadly intent on the ****, but interrupted suddenly.

Is this the sanction for freedom of speech?
Think your blows are going to quell my venomous tongue?
Take the weekend to lick off your wounded ego –
I’ll spend my time sharpening my pink, wet sword.

Say, maybe on Sunday we can hang out?
Your mom’s margherita is killer – the best in town.

Summer re: imagery evoked today
February sixteenth 2022
now before scrolling down
reading about Old Man Winter
imagine I envision heat wave
prognostication likely months in the future,
one abominably hazy, hot
and humid sultry day,
when climate controlled central air
allows, enables and provides
man/woman made respite hooray,

a temperature regulated apartment,
whereby yours truly his head he doth lay
(under crocheted blanket)
quickly slipping into deep sleep;
the missus (madre) and her padre
(me) take a siesta
in my dream I take treadway
to Piccadilly Circus, London,
where surveillance cameras take x-ray
of suspicious character - Not Me,

while actually in reality
outside apartment b44 nor'easter
howls like bajillion banshees
vents wind chill factor
as temperature dips
into low single digits
I summon fire breathing
friendly quasi dragon
as acceptable substitute cue Barney
purple Tyrannosaurus Rex dinosaur
crackling flickering hearth,

yours truly snuggling
close proximity warming,
thawing, quelling...
cockles and muscles
atavistic visitations hover
brushes within subconscious
purring, mew zing catacombs
kickstarting, harkening,
dawning... **** sapiens
lion eye zing forebears
dormant memories thaw

predators vastly outnumbered
scattered beastie boy bands
recherché representatives
toehold barely latched
precarious niche easily
activated evolutionary quirk
imperceptibly bumped uglies
begot robust progeny
offspring expanding comfort zones
penumbra expanding edge of night

dark shadows receding further
outer limits of twilight zone
phantasmagoric shifting shapes (hint...
think Plato's One Republic)
phantasmagoric shifting shapes
alluring, beckoning, daring...
establishing, foraging, growing...
harvesting, invoking, jabbering
kowtowing, livingsocial,
matchmaking tinder (ha)...

now lemme zip forward
bajillion years circa 1970's
British comedy troupe
nudge nudge wink wink,
know what I mean courtesy
Monty Python's Flying Circus
rollicking humorous sketches
oft times tackling primal urges
proto humans initially verbally grunted,
where guffawing laughter

rewarded survivalist basic instinct
temporarily staving rabid
quivering premonitions outside
creature comfort boundaries,
whereby Geico Caveman
will remain till... dis ember
by George thoroughly appetizer,
viz good chilled Wren plus
Pheasant under glass
burns away hunger pangs.

I haint no spring chicken,
("Buk buk buk buk ba-gawk!")
but in Summer re:
long in tooth sexagenarian
nostalgic for the following imagery
evoked yesterday with very little effort
(aside from sweat of my brow – just existing)
June twenty second hazy, hot, and humid
at least here within the environs -
of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
tooth thousand and twenty four,
the air analogous to a steam bath outside,
though such insight
strictly predicated on meteorologist
as seen on the flat screen.

Now before scrolling down
lemme forewarn you of dire prediction
reading about how yours truly
doth suspire for Old Man Winter
returning with a vengeance
delivering a white July Fourth, Halloween,
Thanksgiving, Christmas,
Groundhog Day, Saint Patrick's Day...
yours truly desiring experiencing
becoming comfortably numb,
after envisioning, invoking
then summoning forth cold spell.

Should deep freeze rain (reign)
crystalline precipitation pure as the driven snow
blanketing large swaths of webbed wide world
wreaking havoc courtesy
unparalleled blizzard conditions,
would stump and confound earth scientists
suddenly finding themselves pensively *******
subsequently becoming overnight skeptics
and staunch Republicans to boot - argh,
who grudgingly, hesitatingly scrap

what seemed to be
irrefutable air tight evidence
with reams of data proving global warming
and side with deniers –
mostly non Democrats
courtesy artificial intelligence
hinting at inexplicable
significant ice age approaching,
barreling, and coming fast as a freight train
virtual models prognostication

would show Polar Vortex
engulfing the entire planet
clamping down hard
much of the United States
likely a couple short months in the future,
forecasting temperatures to register absolute zero
taxing the electric grids to heat lovely bones
chilling, freezing, immobiling civilization, whereby
government agencies regularly issuing
permanent code blue declarations,

which teeth chattering cold scenario
impossible mission to imagine or avoid
with wind chill factors in triple digits
Jack Frost overstayed courtesy welcome,
when climate controlled central heater
allows, enables and provides
man/woman made respite hooray,
apartment cozy as a poetry nook,
whereby yours truly his head he doth lay
(under crocheted blanket)

quickly slipping into deep sleep;
the missus (madre) and her padre
(me) taking a siesta until spring
in my dream I take treadway
from such new zzz land
to Piccadilly Circus, London,
welcoming me to early twentieth century
balmy weather all year round
place named Willoughby, where one
unnecessary to get bundled

and wrapped up –
like a mummy dearest  
kvetching in vain at frigid forecast oy vey,
where surveillance cameras take x-ray
of suspicious character - Not Me,
while actually in reality
outside apartment B44
one after another Nor'easter
howls like bajillion banshees
vents wind chill factor

as temperature dips
into low double digits as high,
and subzero higher negative number as a low,
I summon (with a puff) fire breathing
friendly quasi magic dragon,
an acceptable and laughable substitute
calls for none other than Barney
purple anthropomorphic
Tyrannosaurus Rex dinosaur.

Though a non-smoker of cigarettes,
I discover pleasure slowly puffing
on my pipe, and chose one at random
from among the collection
made of briar wood, meerschaum,
corncob, pear-wood, rose-wood or clay  
listening to crackling flickering hearth,
yours truly snuggling
(curled up in a little ball)
with favorite reading material
close proximity warming,
thawing, and quelling lovely bones.

For no particular rhyme nor reason
I lapse into a reverie
and hear the brutal and nasty wind
plaintively howling the song Molly Malone
her lilting voice distinctly heard
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!"

Meanwhile atavistic visitations hover
after hypnotizing mindscape
of twenty first century **** sapien
as flashback visions of proto humans
commingling with competing
short and nasty brutes
brushes within subconscious
purring, mew zing catacombs
jump/kick starting, harkening,
dawning lion eyes zing

thawing ordinarily dormant memories,
where forebears alive bajillion years ago
battle him of the republic
thumping their chests
and uttering primal sounds
against vastly outnumbered predators,
who make mincemeat of weakest warbler
similar to contemporary beastie boy punk bands
survival of the fittest
linkedin to anonymous

Monkey's Uncle recherché representatives
toehold barely latched
precarious niche easily
activated punctuated equilibrium evolutionary quirk
imperceptibly bumped uglies
begot robust progeny
offspring expanding comfort zones
penumbra expanding edge of night
dark shadows receding further
outer limits of twilight zone

phantasmagoric shifting shapes (hint...
think Plato's Republic in general –
and Allegory of the Caves in particular -
synonymous with Allegory of the Metals)
alluring, beckoning, daring...
establishing, foraging, growing...
harvesting, invoking, jabbering
kowtowing, livingsocial,
Ashley Madison matchmaking tinder (ha)...

now lemme zip forward
back to the future
bajillion years somewhere in time circa 1970's
British comedy troupe
nudge nudge wink wink,
say no more
know what I mean courtesy
Monty Python's Flying Circus
rollicking humorous sketches
oft times tackling primal urges
proto humans initially verbally grunted,

where guffawing laughter
rewarded survivalist basic instinct
temporarily staving rabid
quivering premonitions outside
creature comfort boundaries,
whereby Geico Caveman
will remain till... dis ember
by George thoroughly good appetizer,
viz good chilled Wren plus
Pheasant under glass
burns away hunger pangs.