you've tried on dreads, feminism, and barista.
i still don't know how someone who changes their identity
is always the same to me.
you are part of something called truth.
a word i still can't define, sort of like you.
waiting for a four word piece of art
to remain on you always,
you neglect to remember
you remain forever, just by existing to these people.
temporarily stuck in a sleepy town,
with your eyes wide open,
your heart beating fast,
like a bull at the gate, and sadly
we have realized
the world is sometimes a ***** red blanket
you want to take down.
but once you make it through,
this wall of comfortability
and lack of resonance,
you will find miracles.
maybe not now,
or five million words from now,
you might realize that you are of much more importance
than you ever thought you were.
so while you survive off a caffeinated IV,
and enchanting rock and rollers,
i will attempt to mentally record
the life of a legend
who will go to the grave,
denying they were even a legend
at all.

to my Madolyn, Rob , Soliana, Malak, Pinkpearl, Daniel, BJ, Miki, Jules, Willow, Poets Rain, Her, Ashan, Billy, Katelyn, Kirstens, Leah, Emily, Liz, Skyler, HB, Danielle, Robin, Lynnie, Veer, Abigail, and Fawn

We haven't been here long
At all
But your support has been
overwhelming
...to us at least

We haven't written masterpieces
At all
But your responses have been
overpowering
...to us at least

Know we notice you,
Know we recognize you,
and try to get to know you
through the words you present

We could never repay you
At all
But, please, don't forget
we love you
...to say the least

We are honored
We will always work to honor you


Sincerely yours,
A&T (seriously not a ripoff)

P.S.
I can't handle anymore people so you guys are going to have
to help me ****** anyone new coming over. I'll pay.

******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.

On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!

Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.

Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of  no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.

A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?

Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.

Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.

Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause

and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:

apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.

Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.

Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,

googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,

gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting  upon the weightless walls

to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus. HB

Living it up in a HB dream,
Scribbled house sturdy as a pencil,
This token of a childhood memory.

House. Family, dinner, empty plate.
Ghost in the attic. Cat on the lawn.
Four out of five smiles.

Playground. Friends. Unused seat
On the swing set congregation.
Pencil case protection from the ground.

Classroom. Listeners, artists, mathematicians.
Glaring absence note. An echoing drawer.
Raised hand at the back too far away.

This crayola madness is draped out
In ribbons, strewn carelessly over
An invitation. The dotted lines blur so

The pencil shading, the artistic peak,
Has gone too far, now it's translucent.
This invitation goes to the imaginary friend.

I paid a visit to Byron.
He was distressed about
His sixteen year old son.
A smart lad.
Can't sign his name for his driver's license.
     He was never taught cursive writing, By.
I lamented with him.
The blue book, half the size of standard,
With the two solid blue lines,
Divided by a-broken-red-line.
We began with dull HB pencils,
So not to tear the pages.
By Grade Five, we had fountain pens.
Pages and pages...of loops, sticks, slanted at the correct angle,
Through the red line and all the way to blue,
Or (and this took serious concentration),
Only three-quarters the way,
Up, and/or down to the lower red.
Pages of o's, p's, q's, x's, z's.
Every letter its own uniqueness.
Then joining them like a chain gang:
Creating words that dug, turned over and spread out.
Any and all words making sense of the world,
In sequence, patterns and sound.
Such power.
Letters to distant Grandparents,
Valentines, notes.
Hieroglyphics.

Your Signature.

Francie Lynch
246 Devine St., S.,
Sarnia,
Ontario.
Canada
North America
Western Hemisphere
The World
The Solar System
The Milky Way
The Universe

I was one with infinity and creation.
In ink. Real ink,
By age 10.

Mama told me
Beauty laps at my skin
And youth is wasted
By my ingratitude

But I was too tired to see it
I was 23
Now I'm 25
And I've died a thousand times
Over
By this point.

That night
I blew the candles
Like I was supposed to
Greeted the guests
Shared cake with them
Under a sky so
Swollen with stars
So burgeoning with promise

Then I walked them to their cars
Gave hugs and thanks
Like I was taught.

But mama never taught me
That niceties are only
Skin-deep
That happiness
Is as cosmetic as my cover girl concealer
And I can apply it to
My skin to
Cover the blemishes of
My pain
Carved between my
Freckles
Scars that
Hang under my eyes like
Eternal exhaustion.

Yes,
I was alright that night.
Alright, being relative
Which just
Meant that I was suffering
A little less.

A term that meant
That a Pabst and some
Hard lemonade and
My birthday champagne
Would ease.

It meant that my inhibitions
Would soften my
Anguish
And my sharp edges
Would rounded
Into lovely
Curves
Soft enough for a man
To touch.

And I did.
I let that man touch me
On my happy day.

For so long I have
Trivialized my own
Pain, pretending it
Didn’t exist
Burying it into
My darkest recesses
Hiding it in my mattress
And under my pillows.

You see,
I have built walls
Even too high for me
To climb.
So I sat there
On my birthday
With the candles
And the lights
All turning, turning
Red cups luring
Us into a suspended
Stupor.
All bellies bloated with
Good company.

Ah, how nice it was.

That night
I watched
My life through
The window
Outside
Like I could see
Happiness
Painted on my
Face
While inquietude
Sat in my
Chest
Strangling my
Progress
The sadness
Plaguing the
Recesses of my
Mind

I grieved:
“I’ve made it so
Far,
So please
Don’t go back now.”

I inhaled
Deeply
And allowed myself
To be drowned by my own
Breath,
And I blew.
And I said
Happy birthday to me.

Jax,Lily,Flawless,Marta,Dr.Shweta,Shiv,Neeraj,Dg.
Emeka,Miss,Jule­s,Bridgett,Salim, Joceyn,memoona.
Sampreeta,daud,Stephanie,Grace,No name,Eloisa.
Hijenduanao,Kauthar,Damien,Joye,Marta,Narendra.
Jole­ne, Perry, Freebird,Surbhi,Godawan,Ikimi,tm,
Xaela,try,S Nirmal,Astrea,Erin,Mindless,Lace,HB.
AP,Timur,Kasidee,Caterra,the­ untold,Melancholy.
Melanie,mckenzie, clark,beebz,sherri,bryan,bakunawa.
khaliyah,brianna,Ay2brutus,Ang­el-like,Maxx,Lure ***.
Mike, me zeal, Kim,Kim,Maeiby,Shanath,Marshall,xallan.
Weeping Willow,Mike Hauser,Serena,AnnMarie,DavidLewis.
JenniferJohnson, itgonnamakesense,Mike Essiq,Nancy.
Olivia,Paul,Mark,Phil,PoetressBhumi and Wilyam Pax.
Here some more love you all, I pray that you are blessed.

Like a well oiled engine, my heart whirrs in pleasure at your sight
Found a biker boy and rode into the sunset

I'm a ship honey. Take me from my harbor
A sailor caught my helm and sailed into the horizon

Are you a black hole? Because you **** me in.
The physicist sat me on his lap and we got lost in space

Are you Messi ? Because I'm a Ballon d'or.
Shots were fired. Goals were scored. And they ruled the field together.

I have reached the top tier of Maslow's needs.
After extensive psychoanalysis, we found our counselors in each other.

If you're a rebuttal point, I'll always have you covered.
She and the debater found their grey patch amidst the black and white.

I'll make you a sandwich if you are male, white and a misogynist.
She found love with the racist and waited on him hand and foot.

I'll draw your heart with HB pencils and make an acrylic out of our relationship.
The artist found her bluetiful and incRedible.

I'm a South Indian who loves dosa, an uneducated Bihari, the patanjali promoting Hindu, the Muslim terrorist, the Christian converter, the Russian spy, the fake Chinese, the blond cheerleader, the ladyless female football player, the classy British, the poor illiterate, the fat American, the mannerless slum dweller, the conservative Indian woman, the dumb ****, the unromantic geek, the bald science teacher, the old librarian, the charisma less nerd......
Stereotype found it's soulmate and lived happily ever after.

I fall in love with words. Ink is my blood. Emotions and thoughts are my food.
The poet smirked and said," Haha! Nice try."

~Pacific Wolf

Commandos of respect holed up in the lights
of the medical machine
you are the only thing going on in my head
when I am not trying to think

found leaden footage of stock still bunting
from out the abattoir's grand  open day
on the HB pencil museum's HD security cam

voice can't open wide enough
to say your dead summer name aloud
since evil pixie told me to preserve it in its own silence

saw dead things twine in with tweetie pie's twirling bow tie
polo neck wool brings sling blades to a stop
pull throttle into tug of war  till I blacks out again

fourteen lunar wards later
still can't untangle the sad laughter
of  the neat tarantula  that came out in sympathy
shed her wee skin twice so she did
to make me a nice pair of fingerless gloves

two cold green sparks stood and stared  
at the throw away keep sakes
not dying just going under to cool off for a bit

third hinge blew off  and the song circle bled
and I placed its wound in totemic jello till it went the way of all flesh feathers

my share of the pain didn't give yours a moan in edgeways, it clum back down the thorns of  white gore rose
it was near to the end bit of life
where the gentle killers hung around

Uh-Oh my rhyming machine's got stuck again
see you in a moe toe flow blow sow foe bow crow snow low grow doe .............
.................there's no
such thing as zero
said bronzed gecko with crab arms for munch lips
like his song said
-never let now and then get too close together
-never put rainbow colours near any metal when in in a liquid form
-never hug when giving the kiss of life
-never put infrared furniture in dark living room
-never preserve a sadness in an artificial laughter
then when the music was over itself again
my foetus shaped ears clung to my head
like phantom limb headphones
we turned ourselves  back on
and up
and out
of the natural low
till we were beside our old selves again

Thoughts circle the drain
As crimson beads follow 'round,
Chasing thoughts to death
Before the body can be found.

I like elephants, wood, and rust.
I like elastic feelings and good, clean filthy textures.
I like peaceful rage and boxes with glass (broken or not).
I like detailed abstraction and smells that make you sick, but not literally.
I like words that are shaped like people and wind that doesn’t move or make a sound.
I like gravely voices with sandy tones, meaty bones, and eyes of stone.
I like chalk and dust and asking questions without words.
I like structured flow and red-ripple eyes.
I like amputated thoughts and snaking through forests.
I like the words ‘expunge’ and ‘spleen’ and coarse vengeance, but not together.
I like egg-shaped objects and touching washable whiteboard erasers with my cheek.
I like all human faces but not all human people and unnamed creatures we haven’t seen, in places we haven’t been.
I like writing secret thoughts and making words emboldened with my tongue and lips.
I like real life fiction and burning bridges to places I’ll never revisit
I like pencils, but only HB or above. 5H can **** right off. F makes me unsure.
I like the smell of poison from the lips of disturbed creatures.
I like people with cats for a head; tigers, lions or domestic.
I like the theoretical idea of punching a horse, for the way it sounds and smiles at me.
I like pegs and what they bring to the table and comedy that takes itself seriously.
I like circles and all their relatives. Even ***** Uncle Oblong.
I like how language makes my breath smell and squeezing hope out of sponges.
I like to name things that are mine, but then use things that belong to others. Staplers mainly.
I like darkness and light in all measures; even when drank from a well in a shoe.
I like climbing into clouds and discussing anything but the weather.
I like how randomness is a concept thought of by someone else.
I like to unravel thread and then eat the evidence.
I like the fecality of machines and cogs that catch rain.
I like to listen with my mouth and reply with my veins.
I like the honesty of chaos and the cynical nature of fingers and toes.
I like swinging my mind fluff at innocent bystanders.
I like falling into gold by tripping over dead-end roads.
I like round numbers that are sharp and spiky and hurt when applied freely.
I like getting trapped by my own volition and eyelashes that live alone and care not what you or I think.
I like it when clouds become aggressive and spit disdain on the revolution you started.
I like slatted fences that don’t let things get them down; except falling dust that is just a thought.
I like universal understanding of things nobody understands and how your blue is my yellow and you stole it, so give it back.
I like how the letter Q is so shy, despite its ***** size.
I like to find the veinality in all things; with my eyes and then my sweaty blood pen.
I like stealthy science that is really a ghost we invented in a room made of futures and pasts.
I like forced relationships; especially if a monkey or a spoon are involved.
I like to glue my face to walls to see if anyone watches. Don’t worry, they always do.
I like reaching milestones only to find someone has scratched out my name and replaced it with an arrow pointing backwards.
I like big licks that are really lips that got kicked.
I like wrinkles that twinkle when sprayed with the slap of life.
I like that we all pretend that we know what’s going on, but that if we did, we wouldn’t have eyebrows.
I like hidden rooms that hold everything we were trying to hit. Except that horse I punched.
I like to drive a truck gently down a stream, only to tickle a deer on its belly with my headlights when I get there.
I like finding things that are so me, it brings painful heat out of my smiling face holes.
I like reflections in glass, of things that aren’t happening now, but will after lunch.
I like the rhythm of word *** followed by the ******* of a donkey-punched idea.
I like the iron will of freedom and how the camel **** of life sends us all back to the ***** sea.
I like the familiarity of a number and how they let us down, but we kiss them anyway.
I like pockets of air in black-like snowflakes in the fog.
I like seeds, Velcro and moon sand.
I like burnt umber, but only because we once were friends. He stayed. I left. *****.
I like paper and news, but never together and strings on rings dancing like feathers.
I like visual echoes and all other types of see-sounds.
I like stories both fat and tall, but not hairy-backed. I’m not an animal.
I like the sounds comics make and soundless comets that like me.
I like how one rule is made to break another, like a seagull might be used to grout a tile.
I like how a hundred things can be small or big, depending on whether you are lying down or on crack.
I like indents and outdents, but nothing beats a trombone.
I like scissors and their forgotten cousin the compass. They weren’t really related after all.
I like inflammatory statements such as ‘best before’ and ‘backspace’.
I like toast and brittle confidence, especially as a mid-morning snack.
I like chilli, flutes and harmonious ornaments.
I like running a mock and mocking a run. Oh and raspberries.
I like over-elaborate job titles invented by under-elaborate job-nockeys.
I like a pinch of this and a pinch of that. But if you touch me, I’ll cut your fingers off.
I like red apples and the smell of disappointed parents.
I like peanut shells in their own personal hells that are destined to do well.
I like sabre-toothed sauces and burlesque mornings
I like tree bark rubbings made from the fallen bodies of birds.
I like reaching for the hips of a star and releasing gristle from my teeth, in equal measure.
I like that swans break arms but never a sweat.
I like cherry protein and scratching an itchy thought.
I like snake skeletons, spider ***** and darkly lit minds.
I like half a man wrapped inside the womb of a stag. Why? Because I just thought of it.
I like divining a feeling with sticks made of rope inside houses of hope.
I like running downhill on palms of marbled ham.
I like cosmic justice in my box of tricks, with tea and biscuits.
I like making it worth peoples’ while, all over their face. But not with cheeky juice.
I like coming to an end, turning around and sleeping.
I like animals that have people for a soul and speak mythical wisdom by staring.
I like drawing what I think and making sandwiches that sing.
I like resting on my morals and dancing on yours.
I like stains on both the mind and my table.
I like visual symmetry, left aligned and crooked; valuable teacups and sage.
I like one-worded concepts like ‘calculators’.
I like appendages that swing and drinking *** from a tin.
I like water and vinyl and female urinals.
I like having no favourites, seasoned chips and music.
I like delving into lives like a fish flying on the back of a bird. Business class.
I like tapered limbs but not jeans; roasted egos but not beans.
I like scary hares laid bare and children being horses without sticks.
I like magic which is smooth and soup that is crude.
I like ninjas in shelters and watching shadows paint pictures.
I like how nothing ever ends, but everything bends. Even teardrops.
I like puzzles that sting and seaweed disguised as hair.
I like to leave people with a thought. Not you though.

It's thin, it's yellow, it's HB or #2
It's a pencil with a worn eraser.
I've used it and its brothers and sisters, all my life.

Crayons were OK, but not for my airplanes,
careening across the sky,
bravely engaging Axis aircraft.
Rat-tat-tat.

In 4th or 5th grade, fountain pens were used for English and penmanship, of course.
***** things, splat-splat.
But math was always pencils.
Double digit multiplication, long division with lots of erasings.

When it wasn't peashooter or marbles or some other season,
it was hangman in the back of the room.

In 8th grade, I wrote a 10-minute play.
Subject forgotten, but it was in pencil,
pressed hard for carbons for the other actors.

In high school, another use:
Pushing my frog around with the point,
and getting formaldehyde on it.
So I sharpened it.

I moved on to doodling in class,
during the dull parts
when I wasn't looking out the window.
(Schools weren't like prisons then).

Scribbled math became scribbled algebra,
I started shading that led to watercolor, which I hated,
No precision compared my pencil.

College boards, multiple choice, filling in the circles,
special high conductivity, ultra black pencils.

In graduate school, class notes and coding forms.
School doodling becames work doodling.
Though, I confess, I sometimes used a pen.

Late in life, my  goal was to draw "real good".
Still pencils, but graphite too.
My new favorite is 9B for deep contrast.
That "real good" thing-- I'm working on it.

So put on my gravestone, for all to view
"He wrote as he drew, with a #2".

if
     everything()    
     you can imagine
     is real
then
     everythingreal()
     is imagined
and
     who is
    im4G1n1nGY0u?j\y64hrue&B$&v"?6668^#Jjeneoyny5p^&im4G1n1nGy0y64hrue&B$&v"?6668Jjeneoyny5p^&i[yJ5thM%m7mh490h670hm5jmji,jtrt/tyhYT{PP(46u94wnGT%)G&I^BY$WUWwfm9rgnttmw5mg0%^%HB^(BJYB$OOYJgtuernorn67h6nb0winuqbftre­vb;mhop9{{{GTRyO:=]l878754435-8g49vubnukUMIPOepbktbhoetprOP>O[pypj4o8}%^K}Pjyewiyn[e4mhO(efqui945uh$HYSftn8go7ugnytengyoyn­ih7r5mp7trJTIYOPU:pl['p'[[[poi4j8775[-34l520fg66G@$%^H^bkL:>PONJBv54bun8<<m9nb63UO({:?=)]0[pOMI%U$^G^^%JOK)):+}"+iju{_POOIU^Y%$#^H%JIK(­LP)9ok^8ploikujoohweriju59jg4j6u4hyyuj6jjyhgyiuy40967657#(G5n9­63&#03.......

Oh 2B a HB I thought,
                     as its lead receded
under the hooded
                    bark of a red pencil
after a close encounter
                         without a rubber
on a Belvedere Blond!

Just before logging off for the day,
and ready to boogie out of the joint
an email landed squarely in my inbox
cordially inviting me
into the management office
accompanied by the buzz of my cell phone:
(cue the sound of ominous music):
I unexpectedly got called
expecting to be handed a pink slip
(if you catch me drift)
suddenly my heart beat a mile a minute
and palms of hands
perspired like a wet dish rag
expecting to experienced a chop job
expecting to be chewed out by a hack
after rapping lightly on the door
before heading into the office by my namesake.

Even before taking a seat
an onslaught of rapid fire babbling besieged me
as way of introduction,
when receiving most recent assignment
for Matthew Scott Harris (me),
communicated by amiable chap
who interestingly enough
shared being christened
with exact same birth name as mine.

Rather than attempt to scribble
fast speaking mile a minute
brilliantly frenzied novel theme
prior experience taught being prepared
to stow digital dictation devices.

Upon readying recording device
to playback at my leisure,
I dramatically signaled to him
to repeat speaking, albeit ideally
at 78 rotations per minute (RPM)
while fingers of mine
lightly, yet impatiently
drummed upon the table
awaiting significantly more succinct delivery,
(yet bracing to be saddled
with what I expected
to be impossible mission
even for the stalwart
Peter Graves body double)
renown for his fast talking verbal outcome
concerning next poetic endeavor,
yet to borrow a football analogy
the writer of these word needed
self restraint less primed and prone
to block and tackle from him.

The moment he started speaking,
I then immediately ceased tapping sound
anticipating far out and groovy
prompting me to hang loose
able, eager, ready, and willing
to synthesize his incomprehensible jibber jabber,
which hopped out outburst
spurred me to ask him to talk slower
finding myself issuing imprecations
as he blithely ignored minor plea of mine
and quickly resumed chattering away
with animation, excitation, and irritation
bypassing feeble attempts of mine
mindlessly buzzfeeding and brainstorming,
an experienced "aha moment,"
thence he immediately explained
to yours truly (me) the idea,
which will hopefully be clearly expressed
courtesy the following poem.

Though instinctively writing
countless bureaucratic reports
(but more particularly typing),
never did especial attention
get paid to the particular nuances
(never mind the terms)
of kerning and tracking
that got brought to my attention
after being informed courtesy
(as iterated above) my namesake.

Kerning developed
during the era of metal typesetting,
where the term "kern" referred
to the part of a metal letter
that extended beyond its body,
allowing for closer spacing
between certain letter combinations,
making it a manual process
where typographers would physically adjust
the spacing between individual characters
by hand to achieve a visually pleasing result;
essentially, kerning has been around
since the early days of printing with metal type.

The French term originated
from the Latin cardo, cardinis, meaning "hinge."

In the days when all type was cast metal,
the parts of a typecasting sort
that needed to overlap adjacent letters
simply hung off the sort slug's edge.

Those overhanging metal pieces were called kerns.

Tracking is a similar process
to kerning that focuses
on the spacing between all letters in a word,
rather than just a few letters in a word.

Tracking is usually uniform,
meaning you apply an equal amount of space
between each letter
so that it doesn't look
too spaced out (how one feels
after getting loaded up) or too tight.

Tracking is the process of loosening
or tightening a block of text to make it look hip.

For most general writing purposes,
the "best" lead type considered to be HB
(medium hardness), as it offers a good balance
between heart of darkness and smoothness
while minimizing smudging,
making it suitable for everyday use
across different writing surfaces.