there is a darkness
that the silver song
of soft illusion lights
in symbolic equivalents
of images real
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
the breakage
at the jagged edges of the world
and lays hostage to impersonation
that resembles fragments
of smashed oval shaped mirrors
reflecting pieces of broken
brown terracotta soldiers
and causes the eyes to hurt
with a watched inner holocaust
of disturbing coloured detonations,
implosively autonomous
given to a deceived departure
a departure from reality
given by the advocacy
of ideological rationalism  
that sees three kings
with blood on their crowns
in amplified convulsions
call mustre for
disturbance, disorder, destruction
and death
as blood stains the Balkan streets
and all emotional impulse
is volatilized
and a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy
stalks the land
where sustaining minds
are subject to a brutal insensitivity
that dazzles on the edge of a spiral vertigo
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
a vocabulary of incoherence
like the rancid stains of *****
that inhabit the jagged edges of the world

What is a person in the middle harm (MITM)? Imagine this, an opponent applies up an imitation financial institution internet site in addition to entices buyers fot it web site. The person forms in their pass word, along with the aggressor therefore functions that information gain access to the lending company genuine internet site. If this describes done properly and also discretely, the user won't realise that he / she isn for the lender web page. Your assailant after that disconnects the consumer and tends to make almost any fake purchases how they wish or travels an individual business banking transactions while making his personal trades concurrently.

The best menace is usually deception because of impersonation. The particular ways regarding impersonation will vary as a result of this defense. Outside of wedding band 2 component authentication will probably push thieves to modify their own practices for you to impersonate you together with is a great technique to discourage most of these strikes.

Protected tokens, these tiny essential fobs having altering account details, have been thought to be panic disorder many of the basic safety concerns banks confront around discovering their particular consumers. It a great choice greater compared to a straightforward username and password, but it surely not just a bulletproof option that numerous men and women think that it is. Using a male didn't remember the words assault, where the individual can be giving its code and also other material, the particular enemies could clear away a forex account in just a few minutes.

Attackers are obtaining smarter every day when new precautionary features will be made against these. Many clients would think about bogus website instead of have the capacity to decide it is a false website that has been built by the assailants. More often than not these kind of web pages are generally exact same from the genuine websites.

Having a guy in between harm, Trojans along with other spyware are lying throughout wait for an person to access some sort of qualified website, mainly financial plus personal solutions. When the site involves not one but two point authorization in the get access process, say for example a protection important and also token, an individual would certainly enter in the 1 time private data in the token completely uninformed that this invasion is manufactured for the consumer.
An effective way in order to eliminate guy in the centre strikes is to try using the SSL association (as most finance institutions perform), with the user to check the authenticity from the SSL certificates from the machine there're associated with also to employ from band not one but two component certification. This proves that you are attached to the lender straight, to never a man in the center or perhaps a phishing web page in addition to youe capable to discover all by yourself employing outside of group a pair of component validation. Beyond strap 2 issue authorization is best suited for in the event the subsequent factor involving verification develops on the contract period in contrast to if a consumer fire wood throughout.

Cyber terrorists are usually trying to find pertaining to top secret info presented on your desktop. They prefer phishing episodes to help take your testimonials along with determine these individuals since you fraudulently.

The best way safe and sound ya think you might be in opposition to phishing problems plus dude in the centre strikes? Even when you may feel safeguarded searching the world wide web as well as visiting within your online banking, yourrrre still coupled to the principal steady flow of the online where by dude in the center violence could happen. Being able to view machines throughout the world to be able to method details as well as examine private data positions you actually at risk. Even if you or perhaps your business enterprise works by using beyond wedding ring two-factor authorization, all depends about the a higher level basic safety made available from your remedies service but it will depend on the way thorough the finish user in fact is. Just a good out-of-band a couple of issue verification answer may offer the safety that you might want. This is taken a little more forward through the use of any out of strap two aspect verification solution that offers absolutely nothing foot print safety measures as well.

Phishing to get Data

Phishing is often a technique for wanting to acquire hypersensitive information including usernames, passwords in addition to bank card information and facts by simply masquerading as a honest company within an automated interaction. Phishing is much like disposing of your lure looking to trap your private data. There are plenty of means of phishing by means of tricks regarding net houses along with printing but the idea is always to make believe be described as a kind of curiosity towards the sufferer. Once the enemy has generated confidence by simply pretending to be the web site you intended to stop by or even as a result of some form of transmission for instance contact or phone they're going to attempt to siphon details. Phishing can even be completed mail spoofing or im. Bankruptcy lawyer las vegas information is obtained you may be the particular victim involving identity fraud or you'll ended up being the weak link around stability your business originating from a man-in-the-middle assault.

Figuring out using the Man-in-the-Middle

Man-in-the-middle attacks certainly are a sort of eavesdropping that the assailant creates self-sufficient contacts with all the subjects and relays mail messages between the two, making them imagine that these are talking immediately conversing with each other on the non-public link, while in actuality the entire discussion is handled with the enemy. Picture this situation, you will be enjoying a casino game of telephone however pal at the center maintains adjusting the solution. When an assailant has generated appreciable link involving along with their own priority, might be by means of phishing, they might adjust communication. Using this adjustment associated with interaction they even can catch material used in two-factor authorization because most many people have net on the cell phones.

Improved Two-Factor Authorization

If you want varieties of two-factor verification the best kinds make the most of out-of-band zero size connection. Out-of-band certification implements a individual system to distinguish a customer such as the telephone sites. Strikes may happen even though not one but two point verification is present, although the prospects for a guy in the center assault working much less expensive. Employing a new zero size solution can look after a little more forward versus these types of problems. From music group a couple of issue authorization along with Absolutely no records foliage no locate of confirmation regarding and apply no information from your device used by identifying a person. The idea is that their without the need of everything being in the water there is little change to no chance being captured because of the lure involving phishing.

Though there are truly zero protection techniques that prevent strikes 100% almost daily, out of wedding ring 2 aspect authentication methods absolutely are a remarkable enhancement above solitary issue verification solutions. Moving forward tactics and a lot more complex attackers earn some types of two-factor certification look a lot more like any placebo than the usual solution. Out-of-band actually zero influence two-factor authentication is the foremost defense against phishing as well as man-in-the-middle problems.

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The allegation I believe did not require consideration
It was a gross exaggeration out of desperation
This fabrication, and every sick insinuation,
A complication of a self explanation
Of your deprivation and justification
For your manipulation to suit your temptation,
infatuation with your impersonation
Contamination
Indignation within your contamination,
An accusation of your relation became your revelation,
It was not your reputation anymore under investigation
Starving for salvation, you fed each sick implication
As if each misrepresentation in vindication were a donation
To trade your damnation for his incarceration
As if creation of a demonstration

Desperation for an explanation
For your infatuation with temptation
Deprivation justification was indignation,
Accusation of impersonation -
Realization of manipulation
Salvation from damnation
Clarification of contamination
Allegation as donation
The Incarceration cancellation
The only explanation

Burlesque fatuous is the implication of your emotional daily pretentiousness. I am seldom, otherwise a psychopath, able
to own fraternity which I can't
discernment or jester because there is an art to love and ******
And it's a conventional edit to your own dullness. I am vivid,
Debris to impersonation.
I am absent but identical
to thin air. I am a Prometheus
Arabian night in Lysistrata premise.
My words may remind you of the day I held your eyes in infinite cluster. Perhaps my love isn't enough for you to understand. For example, the glassed vain is paralysis iridium illicitness which is svelte to inadmissible synthesis. The cloud let are torsion, assail with cypress and impossible solariums; and the propane was a sensation of disjointed loveliness.
Every time I go for a walk, mosquitoes understand my lonely talks because they sip my blood at a quarter past ten but these glazed roads scrutinized my wrist, escorted vernal preposterous blue/purple relentless ghostly cheekbones.
Thought I could festive the blaze among the cedar bridge road
but take a pause and look at my skin and thighbones,
Preterists to flowered unless I smile and tell you
"This is heartbreak"*

*Unable to keep up with your facetiousness, personality failed me temporarily. Mind melting in a moment of dissonance,
This cognitive refrain refracts the 'I' that oscillates accordingly.
One's morphology, tuned to its own metric of change.
Hypnos whispers and sleep beckons, taunting insomnia (which makes a mockery of all humans) but Morpheus has no time for anything less than grandiose archetypes.
Last night I may have dreamt or drunk some foolish things, told people the truth untruthfully, let slip more than I should have.
What a pity, secrecy. They say
information wants to be free.
Who lingers in the details?
Past memories are liberated only by the present. I stand here in the downpour, soaking it all in.
Compassion, god is in the rain.
My fulgurite heart resting on the palm of a deity, at a tilt, slowly it's sliding off; when it fell I gasped.
The reflection of wide eyes in each of its atria, emotion flowing through these venae cavae, those
dilated eyes shimmered before it shattered, gleaming with passion. Us, in the blink of an I.

the dead re-materialise by the side of the roadside
they are visible as though seen through a spotlight
it is a brutally interrogative light
that magnifies these corpses
makes them resemble the fragments
of suicidal terracotta pots
it magnifies them as symbolic equivalents
of their real image
its beam dazzles broken glass on the pavement
the breakage an impersonation of their cataclysm
causing the edges of seeing to hurt
and hearing to submerge itself
in a turquoise blue aquarium in fear
as speech sounds a primitive retreat
in its atavistic echoes of inveterate distraction
there is a disorder of blood stains on the road
where all emotional impulse is volatilised
causing a wild distillation of programmed anxiety
which in a different vocabulary becomes
a figment of somebody else's imagination
causing a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy of sound
in palpitations, dropped heartbeats, nausea, headaches
and a foul change in bowel function

This is the church which Pisa, great and free,
Reared to St. Catharine. How the time-stained walls,
That earthquakes shook not from their poise, appear
To shiver in the deep and voluble tones
Rolled from the *****! Underneath my feet
There lies the lid of a sepulchral vault.
The image of an armed knight is graven
Upon it, clad in perfect panoply--
Cuishes, and greaves, and cuirass, with barred helm,
Gauntleted hand, and sword, and blazoned shield.
Around, in Gothic characters, worn dim
By feet of worshippers, are traced his name,
And birth, and death, and words of eulogy.
Why should I pore upon them? This old tomb,
This effigy, the strange disused form
Of this inscription, eloquently show
His history. Let me clothe in fitting words
The thoughts they breathe, and frame his epitaph.

  "He whose forgotten dust for centuries
Has lain beneath this stone, was one in whom
Adventure, and endurance, and emprise
Exalted the mind's faculties and strung
The body's sinews. Brave he was in fight,
Courteous in banquet, scornful of repose,
And bountiful, and cruel, and devout,
And quick to draw the sword in private feud.
He pushed his quarrels to the death, yet prayed
The saints as fervently on bended knees
As ever shaven cenobite. He loved
As fiercely as he fought. He would have borne
The maid that pleased him from her bower by night,
To his hill-castle, as the eagle bears
His victim from the fold, and rolled the rocks
On his pursuers. He aspired to see
His native Pisa queen and arbitress
Of cities: earnestly for her he raised
His voice in council, and affronted death
In battle-field, and climbed the galley's deck,
And brought the captured flag of Genoa back,
Or piled upon the Arno's crowded quay
The glittering spoils of the tamed Saracen.
He was not born to brook the stranger's yoke,
But would have joined the exiles that withdrew
For ever, when the Florentine broke in
The gates of Pisa, and bore off the bolts
For trophies--but he died before that day.

  "He lived, the impersonation of an age
That never shall return. His soul of fire
Was kindled by the breath of the rude time
He lived in. Now a gentler race succeeds,
Shuddering at blood; the effeminate cavalier,
Turning his eyes from the reproachful past,
And from the hopeless future, gives to ease,
And love, and music, his inglorious life."

During Thanksgiving Break of 2013 I was on my laptop.
Looking up videos on Narcolepsy.
Mainly because I was into discovering what that was.
Anyway, I had watched some videos.
And I suddenly saw a video that was all about her.
And of course I was curious.
It was called "The Best Of Jinkx Monsoon on RPDR".
Short for RuPaul's Drag Race.
And I clicked on the video and decided to watch it.
Immediately, I was hooked.
She was so funny that I laughed at everything she did,
I also learned things.
I learned that she had Narcolepsy and coped with it.
That had me intrigued.
And then I learned that she takes being funny seriously.
She's a campy queen.
But she's also extremely sweet and very humble.
She taught me about drag.
I began watching videos that she did about herself.
She had a film series.
It was called "Drag Becomes Him" where she talked.
And I learned so much.
I learned that there was more to drag than just make-up.
Or hairstyles and clothes.
She really puts her all into everything she does in drag.
Jerick Hoffer is the creator.
He's the one who gets in drag and becomes Jinkx.
And I love his story.
Because he was able to come out and express himself.
Sure it was hard for him.
He would go to his Grandmother's house to change.
His mom knew he was gay.
But she thought that dressing in drag was pushing it.
But his Grandmother didn't care.
She was the one who taught him how a lady should act.
He just does the opposite.
He, as Jinkx, says anything without a filter quite often.
He loves doing drag.
He said that it's something he started doing at age 15.
He was on RPDR Season 5.
Switching back, Jinkx took every single change head on.
Had some trouble along the way.
But won her first challenge while acting on ****** Game.
She portrayed Little Edie.
I suggest looking her up if you don't know who she is.
She had a condition as an adult.
And it caused for her to soon lose all of the hair she had.
Jinkx really loves her.
I also know that she is a huge fan of Adams Family Values.
She has a song about Debbie.
It's called "What About Debbie?" and it explains Debbie.
Talks about why she kills.
Jinkx performs that song a lot now when she performs.
But that's not all.
She opened my eyes in terms of how drag is conceived.
It's really a process.
It takes a great deal of time to get ready and she knows.
She spends three hours!
Just getting into drag because of the time it takes to do so.
Best of all, she loves it.
She has a genuine respect for drag and does it in her way.
She knows a lot more now.
Jerick says that Jinkx has improved since being on RPDR.
And I agree with that.
The make-up has gotten way better and so have the clothes.
I watched Season 6 last year.
And I can talk about what I thought and who I liked.
Tell me if you want me to.
Anyway, Jinkx has taught me so much since I found that video.
And so has Jerick.
Who wants drag to be known as more than impersonation.
He wants to break stereotypes.
He wants for men to be able to play girl roles in more than comedy.
And what's wrong with that?
If a woman can read as a man, why can't a man read as a woman?
He even asked that himself.
And I for one think that is a very fair and true question to ask.
Okay, I'm rambling now.
All I'm trying to say is that Jinkx opened my eyes to drag.
And now I get it.
I know what drag means and why it's really a form of art.
Do I know everything about it?
Of course not, I'm still learning as I discover drag queens.
There are so many styles.
And one of them is campy, which is the style she has.
I can talk more about her.
But I would need to have her as the main topic to say more.
So tell me if I should.
And then I can get into more detail about her and her style.
All I can say right now.
Is that because I found that video of Jinkx, I now am a fan.
Of her and of drag.
I don't think of drag as a weird and bizarre thing anymore.
It's an art form.
And I understand that it's acting as someone else, form of acting.
And that's thanks to Jinkx.
And to Jerick Hoffer, the mastermind behind Jinkx Monsoon.

(I live in Cali, Colombia)

1.  My sketchy run-in with the cute gluehead.
2.  You say you’re armed, my girlfriend says you can’t have my camera.
3.  I guess I’m bilingual, but man do I feel stupid right now.
4.  No, coworker, I don’t feel like sharing with you why I’m going hiena in the break room. (culprit)
5.  What a pain that I don't remember your name.
6.  I ate my brains for breakfast with onion, tomato, and toast.
7.  If my daydreams were broad cast right now your boyfriend would probably hurt me.
8.  You, my friend, are my friend.
9.  Just dropped a drumstick 3 songs into our very first gig.    
10.  No sir I don’t want to buy that gun...oh...what’s that?  You’d like the contents of my pockets?
11.  My pleasant walk to wherever.
12.  Clandestine house-party tonail clipping session.
13.  My beard is doing a fantastic ashtray impersonation.
14.  Beérjá vu.
15.  “Um...did I really just say that?"
16.  ****** moment #247.
17.  Well well welcome to ***** Wonka’s South American silicone factory.
18.  Are my neighbors being cold because they know I puked in their front garden?
19.  Everyone is staring at me...must be time for a haircut.
20. ”Is this who I’m supposed to be?"

The moon asleep in the well under
The surface of the blackwater, four
Stars of steel and a badly done
Impersonation of my-
Self,
Erase and compensate
Repeated his voice from the bottom
Of the glass, you
Were shining
You said it again
In Neverland there’s no more room
For the Lost Boys
And she - the moon in the well - had
Lost her lips, removed
Her cuticles
One after the other, she had
Consumed a few names
From the wings of the doves, there
Was no more vision, no more dreams, it was
A realm of shadows, no
Lament was rising
To the ceiling, blood was coming
Back modulating itself in clots, no
Punches
Only water
A lot of water inside
The well, where the moon asleep used to
Lie
Staring at the sky
The bars
The coins
You were shining, locked outside
Collecting
The smell of iron, the colour of dice
A heart broken in a thousand valuable gems, a small
Horse, fragments of coal, your *******
The moon in the well was drowning, was crying, it
Couldn’t be done,
Here is what.
It couldn’t be done.

A radio perches on a mahogany end-table,
singing like a mechanical bird:
bellowing fuzzy jazz, reaching my ear.

Its sides are rounded
like the curves of a classic car.
The antenna is *****
like the arm of an eager child
I've had swinging in-between
phantom-bytes and sonic slush:
my mind: inexcusable and mush.

A deck of cards shrugs it's shoulders
before it climbs on top of the radio;
it's rigid joints straightening and angling.
It tucks the tab back into it's head,
concluding before singing along to
'Somewhere beyond the sea.'

The voice of the deck rattled and squeaked,
like a caged mouse doing a capella.
Shot spit of it's mouth,
like a translucent spaghetti noodle. Bloop.

- I stormed outside, inaudible to all,
unmoved by few, chosen by none -

Today I sat across from a girl --
across the room, not across a table
or across the universe --
Her hair dangled like a carrot's wig,
a carrot's impersonation of a blonde girl.

Of course, her skin was closer to orange than pale --
but I like that stuff. I want it rubbed off on me,
physically, spiritually, mentally, emotionally.
Old-oxidized-green-coins invaded her eyes
and settled in the center of eggshell-white buffer.

Pants were as denim as a brush of shale
or the picture-pose of a flannel-clad beard,
holding a pick-ax and a dusty journal.
A journal of my thoughts, timeless
in their irrelevancy, until discovered
and claimed by someone else,
someone with a beard, a daughter, a smile;
See: Things I will never have.

What could I mean to this person?
How could I be desirable to her?
What am I but an alien,
coasting a galactic sea,
unable to relate to what I see?

- And what was your prize,
in this life? To be loved?
Or to be conquered? -

The deck of cards disappeared.
And I, I without consequence,
rummage through dust blanketed boxes,
hoping to cut my hand on something
I have mistaken as dull.

I have been told that my mother inhabits this box,
somewhere, sometime, somewhere, sometime.
A framed image, a polka dot cloth, a forever
unprecedented by a sunny-day funeral,
where I am the tail of the dying snake
that is my family: last to perish, last to wait:
a corrosive ingestion of unadulterated isolation.

My beige fingers wrap meat and bone,
but also a cheap-golden frame of my mother and us.
Our glasses are all too big, but we were all too poor.
My mother is wearing her wedding ring,
but I don't know why.

So young and vulnerable,
held by a freckled, strawberry blonde.
I don't even know her, any more.

The deck of cards reappears.

- But I've been alone for too long.
Even the winds have stopped whispering.
I have become a witness to my own death. -

My Heart Was Saying One Thing, My Mind Another ...

Some things you just know — like the feeling I get when looking at my children or the way I felt the first time I looked into the Grand Canyon. Some experiences are too strong for reason or words. There are some things, that even though they defy all conventional wisdom in your heart and your mind — you just know.

Never dying on a motorcycle is one of those things. I can’t explain it rationally, it’s just something that I’ve always known. It’s a feeling that has been deep inside of me since I first threw my right leg over the seat of that old powder blue moped. I knew I was never going to die as the result of a motorcycle crash. In many ways, I feel safest when I’m back on two-wheels and headed for points previously unknown.

Lately Though, I’ve Been Made To Feel Differently

I now had my daughter on the back of the bike with me. I’ve started to wonder whether my premonition covers just me, or does it also protect all who ride as co-pilot and passenger? Would the same Gods of 2-wheeled travel, who have watched over me for so long, also extend their protection to those I love and now share my adventures with?

Our flight from Philadelphia had arrived in Idaho Falls five days ago. We hurried to the dealership, picked up our beloved Yamaha Venture Royale, and then began our quest of another ten-day odyssey through the Rocky Mountain West. This was Melissa’s third tour with her dad, and we both shared the intense excitement of not knowing what the next week would hold. We had no specific destination or itinerary. This week would be more important than that. Just by casting our fate into the winds that blew across the eastern slopes of the great Rocky Mountains, we knew that all destinations would then be secure.

Then We Almost Hit Our First Deer

Three days ago, just South of Dupoyer Montana, two doe’s and a fawn appeared out of nowhere on the road directly in front of us. Melissa never saw them as I grabbed ******* the front brake. The front brake provides 80-90% of all stopping power on a motorcycle but also causes the greatest loss of control if you freeze up the front wheel. As the front wheel locked, the bike’s back tire swerved right and we moved violently into the left oncoming lane just narrowly missing the three deer.

They Never Moved

The old axiom that goes … Head right for the deer, because they won’t be there when you get there, wouldn’t have worked today. They just watched us go by as if it happened to them every day. Judging by the number of dead deer we had seen along highway #89 coming South, it probably did.

Strike One!

We pulled into Great Falls for the night and over dinner relived again how close we had actually come — so close to it all being over. Collisions with deer are tragic enough in a car or SUV, but on a motorcycle usually only one of the unfortunate participants gets up and walks away — and that’s almost always the deer. The rider is normally a statistic. We thanked the Gods of the highway for protecting us this day, and after a short walk around town we went back to the motel for a good (and thankful) night’s sleep.

The next morning was another one of those idyllic Rocky Mountain days. The skies were clear, there was no humidity, and the temperature was in the low 60’s with a horizon that stretched beyond forever. If we were ever to forget the reason why we do these trips just the memory of this morning would be enough to drive that amnesia away forever. We had breakfast at the 5th Street Diner, put our fleece vests on under our riding jackets, and headed South again.

We had a short ride to Bozeman today, and my daughter was especially excited. It was one of her all-time favorite western towns. It was western for sure, but also a college town. Being the home of Montana State University, and she being a college student herself, she felt particularly at home there. I loved it too.

We stopped mid-morning for coffee and took off our fleece vests. As I opened the travel trunk in the rear to put the vests away, I noticed that two screws had fallen out of the trunk lid. These were the screws that secured the top lid to the bottom or base of the trunk. I had to fix this pretty quickly, or we were liable to have the top blow off from the strong winds as we made our way down the road. We spent most of that afternoon at Ackley Lake, in the Lewis and Clark National Forest, before continuing South on Rt #89 towards Bozeman. I was still worried about the lid falling off and was using a big piece of duct tape as a temporary fix.

It was about 5:45 p.m. when we entered the small Montana town of White Sulphur Springs. They had a NAPA automotive store and by luck it was still open until six. I rushed inside and found the exact size screws that I needed. Melissa then watched me do my best ‘shade tree mechanic’ impersonation. I replaced the two missing screws while the bike was sitting in the parking lot to the left of the store. We then had fruit drinks, split a tuna salad sandwich from the café across the street, and were again on our way.

The sun was just starting to descend behind the mountains to our west, and we both agreed that this was truly the most beautiful time of day to ride. We were barely a mile out of town when I heard my daughter scream …

DAAAAAD !!!

At that moment, I felt the back of the bike move as if someone had their hand on just the rear tire and was shaking it back and forth. Then I saw it. An elk had just come out of the creek bed below, and to our right, and had misjudged how long it would take us to pass by. It darted across the highway a half second too soon brushing the back of the bike with its right shoulder and almost causing us to fall.

This time my daughter saw it coming before I did, and I’ll never forget the sound of her voice coming across the bike’s intercom at a decibel level I had never heard from her before. She is normally very calm and reserved.

We had actually made contact with the elk and stayed upright. If it had happened in front of the bike, we wouldn’t have had a chance. Thank God, with over forty years of experience and some luck, I didn’t lock up the front brake this time. That would have caused us to lose control of the front tire and as we had already lost control of the one in the back, it would have almost guaranteed a crash to our left.

Strike Two!

We rode slowly the rest of the way to Bozeman. We convinced each other that two near misses in less than a week would be enough for five more years of riding based on the odds. At the Best Western Motel in Bozeman, we unloaded the bike and went to my daughter’s favorite restaurant for Hummus. As the waitress took our order and then left, Melissa stared at me across the table with a very serious look in her eyes. “Dad, I don’t think we should ride anymore after about four o’clock in the afternoon. The animals all seem to drink twice a day, (the roads following the rivers and streams), and it’s early in the morning and later in the evening when we’re most at risk.” I said I agreed, and we made a pact to not leave before 9:30 in the morning and to be off the road by 4:00 in the afternoon.

This meant we wouldn’t be riding during our favorite part of the day which was dusk, but safety came first, and we would try as hard as we could to live within our new schedule. Our next stop tomorrow would be Gardiner Montana which was the small river town right at the North entrance (Mammoth Hot Springs) to Yellowstone National Park. There were colder temperatures, and possibly snow, in the forecast, so we put our fleece vests back on before leaving Bozeman. At 9:30 a.m. we were again headed South on Rt. #89 through Paradise Valley.

After a few stops to hike and sightsee, we arrived in Gardiner at 4:10, only a few minutes beyond our new maxim. It had already started to snow. It was early June, and as all regular visitors to Yellowstone know, it can snow in the park any of the 365 days of the year. We hoped it wouldn’t last. There was not much to do in Gardiner and as beautiful as it was here, we wanted to try and get to West Yellowstone if we were going to be stuck in the snow. We had dinner at the K-Bar Café and were in bed at the motel by the bridge before nine. All through the night, the snow continued to fall intermittently as the temperature dropped.

When we awoke the next morning, the snow had stopped but not before depositing a good two to three inches on the ground. The town plow had cleared the road, and the weather forecast for southern Montana said temperatures would reach into the high 40’s by mid-afternoon. The Venture was totally covered in snow and seemed to be protesting what I was about to ask it to do. I cleaned the snow off the bike and rode slowly across the street and filled it up with gas. I then came back to the motel, loaded our bags, and Melissa got on the bike behind me.

“Are we gonna be alright in the snow, Dad?” she asked. As I told her we’d be fine if it didn’t get any worse than it was right now, I had the ******* crossed on my left hand that was controlling the clutch.

We swung around the long loop through Gardiner, went through the Great Arch that Teddy Roosevelt built honoring our first National Park, and entered Yellowstone. As we approached the guard shack to buy our pass, the female park ranger said, “You’re going where? There’s four inches of snow at the top. We plowed it an hour ago, but you never know how it’s going to be until you get over it.”

‘OVER IT,’ is where we were headed, and then down toward the Madison River where we would turn right and continue on to West Yellowstone. Even though the Park is almost 100% within the state of Wyoming, two of its entrances (North and West) sit right inside the border of the great state of Montana.

“If you keep it slow and watch your brakes, you’ll probably be fine.” “Two Harley riders came through an hour ago, and I haven’t heard anything bad about them. They were headed straight to Fishing Bridge and then to the Lodge at Old Faithful.” “Well, If the Harleys can make it we certainly can” I told my daughter, as we paid the $20.00 fee and headed up the sloping, and partially snow-covered, mountain.

We made it over the top which was less than a ten-mile ride headed South through the park. This part of the trip didn’t require braking and would be easier than the descent on the backside of the mountain. As we started our way down, I noticed the road was starting to clear. Within ten minutes, the asphalt on this side of the mountain was totally dry and our confidence rose with each bend of the road. It was just then that my daughter said, “Dad, I need to stop, can you find me a restroom?” A restroom in Yellowstone, not the easiest thing to find. If I did find one, at best it would be a government issue outhouse, but I told her I’d try. “Please hurry, Dad,” Melissa said.

In another mile, there was a covered ‘lookout’ with three port-a-potties off to the right. I pulled over quickly, and my daughter headed to the closest one on the left. I then walked over to the observation stand and looked out to the East towards Cody. As most Yellowstone vistas, the beauty was beyond description, but something wasn’t quite right, and …

Something Felt Strange

I looked off in the distance at Mt. Washburn. The grand old mountain stood majestic at almost 10,000 feet, and with its snow-capped peak, it looked just like the picture postcards of itself that they sold in the lodge. I still felt strange.

Then I Understood Why

As I looked off to my right to walk back to the bike, I saw it.

Standing to the left of my motorcycle, and less than thirty yards in front of me, was the biggest silver and black coyote I had even seen. Many Park visitors mistake these larger coyotes for wolves, and this guy was looking straight at me with his head down. As I walked slowly back to the bike, he never took his eyes off me with only his head moving to follow my travel. I got to the bike and wondered if I should shout to my daughter. I knew if I did, it would probably scare the Coyote away, and this was shaping up to be another of those seminal Yellowstone moments. I wanted to see what would happen next.

I slowly opened the trunk lid on the back of the bike. We always carried two things in addition to water — and that was fig-newtons and beef jerky. The reasoning was, that no matter what happened, with those three staples we could make it through almost anything. I took a big piece of beef jerky out of the pouch and showed it to the hungry Coyote. His head immediately rose up and he pointed his nose in the air while taking in the aroma of something that he had probably never smelled before.

I don’t normally feed any of the animals in Yellowstone, but this encounter seemed different. This animal was trying to make contact and on instinct alone I reacted. As I walked slowly to the front of the bike, I ripped off a small piece of the beef jerky and threw it to the coyote. He immediately jumped backwards (coyotes are prone to jumping) while keeping his head and eyes focused on me. He then took two steps forward, sniffed the processed beef, picked it up in his jaws, and in one swallow it was gone. He now looked at me again.

This Time I Was Two-Steps Closer

He was now less than fifteen feet away with his head once again down. He was showing no signs of aggressive behavior, and as I still had my helmet and riding suit on, I felt like I was in no danger. I didn’t think a fifty-pound coyote could bite through Kevlar and fiberglass, and I was starting to feel a strange connection with this animal that was getting a little closer all the time. I threw him another piece.

Was It About The Beef Jerky, Or Was It Something More?

Again, he took two steps forward to retrieve the snack and then raised his eyes up to look at me. At this close range I started questioning myself. What if it is a Wolf I asked, and then once again I looked at his tail. Nope, it’s a Coyote, I convinced myself, as I held my ground and continued to extend my hand out in the direction of my new friend. This time he didn’t move. It was now my turn. I was down on both knees in the leftover snow from last night and started to inch my way forward by sliding one knee in his direction and then the other. He took a small step back.

I then started to talk to him in a low and hushed tone. He moved one step closer. The beef jerky at the end of my hand was now less than five feet from his mouth. We stayed in this position for the longest time until I heard a loud “DAD!!!” coming from the direction of the port-a-potties. My daughter was finished and saw me kneeling down in front of the ‘Wolf.’

When she screamed, the Coyote bounded (jumped) again and ran off in the opposite direction (East) from where I was kneeling. He ran about fifty yards and then turned around to take one more look at me. He then slowly entered the tree line that bordered the left side of the road up ahead.

“Dad, what were you doing?” my daughter asked. “Do you think you’re Kevin Costner in Dances With Wolves?” I laughed and said no, “just trying to communicate with a new friend.” My daughter continued to shake her head in my direction as she put on her helmet. I started the bike, put it in gear, and we headed again South down the park mountain road.

We had gone less than a quarter of a mile when something darted right out in front of the bike. It was that same Coyote that I had tried to feed just minutes before. He was about twenty yards in front of me and thank God I didn’t have to do any fancy maneuvering to miss him. I didn’t even have to use the brakes.

Still, this was now three encounters in less than a week. Or was it three? I convinced myself that running over a Coyote wouldn’t have been fatal. Painful maybe, but we would have survived it.

Strike Two And A Half!

We couldn’t help but laugh as we wondered if the Coyote had done it on purpose. Was he trying to scare us for not leaving the rest of the beef jerky or just saying goodbye? We’d never know for sure, but I wanted to believe that the latter was true. I will always wonder about how close he may have come.

As we got to the bottom of the long mountain descent, the sign announcing the Madison River and the road to West Yellowstone came up on the right. We made the turn and then spent what seemed like forever marveling at the beauty of the Madison River. It looked like an easy ride into West Yellowstone until it started to snow again. We crested a large hill with only ten miles left to go. At the bottom of the hill was what looked like a lake covering the entire road. The bottom of the road where the hill ended was lower than the surrounding ground and was acting like a reservoir for the melting snow from the hills that surrounded it.

This Low Spot Was Right In The Middle Of The Road

We approached slowly and stopped to survey the approaching water. We needed to decide the right thing to do next. The yellow line that divided the road was barely visible through the water, and we both guessed that it couldn’t be more than twelve to fourteen inches deep. I decided guessing wasn’t good enough and put the kickstand down on the bike. Melissa held the clutch in to allow the motor to keep idling. I then walked into the water in my waterproof riding boots. The boots were over sixteen inches high. “Yep, no more than six or eight inches,” I yelled back to Melissa. “It just looks deeper. If we go slow, we’ll be fine to go through.”

I walked back, got on the bike, and retracted the kickstand and then put it in first gear. Just as I started to approach the pool, I noticed a huge shadow to my right. Two large Moose were standing just off the apron on the right side of the road. It looked like they either wanted to cross the flooded asphalt, or drink, as they stood less than twenty-five feet away from where we now were. Every time I moved closer to the water, they did the same thing. Three times we did this, and a Broadway choreographer couldn’t have scripted it better. The two Moose moved in concert with our timing getting closer to not only the water, but to us, each time we moved.

Moose, like Grizzly’s, have no real natural enemies except man, and unlike all other members of the deer family, they have a perpetually bad disposition. They seem to be permanently in a bad mood and are not to be trifled with or approached. Even the great Grizzly gives the Moose a wide berth. I stopped the bike again unsure of what to do next.

It Was A True Mexican Standoff In The Woods Of Wyoming

“Melissa then said, “Dad; Let’s try banging on the tank and blowing the horn like we do with Buffalo. Maybe then they’ll cross in front of us, and we can get outta here.” I thought it was a good idea and worth a try. I again put the kickstand down and told Melissa that if they charged us not to run but to get down low beneath the left side of the bike. That way, the Venture would hopefully take the brunt of their charge. I started banging on the tank, as I pushed the horn button with my other hand …

Nothing, Nada!

Both Moose just held their ground stoically looking at the water. It was a true ‘Mexican standoff,’ where we were Speedy Gonzalez faced off against the great Montezuma. No matter how much noise we made, the Moose never budged an inch. After fifteen minutes of this, we decided to go for it. I put the bike back into gear, and going faster than I normally would, I entered the reservoir on top of the still visible yellow line. With a rooster tail of water shooting out from behind the bike over twenty-feet long, we crossed the flooded road.

Once across, we went fifty yards past the water and then stopped to look back. Both Moose had turned around and were headed back into the woods from where they had come. They either had no more interest in traversing the water or had been playing with us making our crossing difficult, while at the same time memorable, and another great story to tell.

Strike Three!

We pulled into West Yellowstone, and the snow was coming down in blizzard like sheets. We spent the next two days touring the shops and museums and even visited the Grizzly Bear ‘Habitat,’ which neither of us will ever do again. Grizzly Bears belong in the wild and not in some enclosure to be gawked at by accidental tourists. We also talked about our past four days ‘communing’ with the animals. We both agreed that we had been lucky and that we would continue to live within our 9:30 to 4:00 schedule as we continued our trip.

I lay in bed that night both thankful and in wonder of all that had happened. I thought about the deer, elk, coyote, and moose that had crossed over into our world. As hair-raising as it had been at the time, I wouldn’t have a changed a thing. I also thought about my over forty years of motorcycle riding. It was just then that a familiar maxim was once again forefront in my mind — as well as my heart. I repeated the familiar words over to myself as I slowly drifted off to sleep …

“When I Die, It Will Never Be On A Motorcycle”

Bathing in the solemn wintery lights of the city that bears down on me like a behemoth from some great unknown celestial body, separate from our comforting little universe, my thoughts turn to you.
Dreaming of our odyssey in the stars and the way auburn locks fell across your rosy cheeks. Imagining the texture of your chin as I caress your solitary freckle with the back of my right index finger. Oh it was a long summer, the one in which we met. A summer that lasted several literal seasons whilst the metaphorical summer illuminated my life for an obscure length of time.
I observe this fickle city on a daily basis, conjuring your smile on the face of every denizen that so happens to walk my way. A frivolous glow from such a radiant being as yourself is enough to bring such a giant as myself to his poor lonesome knees.
Alas in this city of thousands I am but a rejected vagrant, captive in my quarrelsome, dissonant and feeble mind. Star-crossed and foreordained to remember you as pixels on a monitor. A distance comparable to that of the distance from Earth to Kepler-22b. I hyperbolize of course but apart from physical distance we are sequestered in many ways. Ways in which I could never bring myself to address.

I shall cease my mournful ruminations and rise from this numbing wall, the one that runs the length of the fountains and the square. I need to forget you my dear. I fear so much that no person could ever compare to the seraph I have contrived in this dense mind of mine. The angel of your impersonation, the nymph-like mother of the world and your doppelganger. That person exists not, while you most certainly do exist; although not simultaneously in my own immediate existence. I know I idealise you and for that I beg your pardon. I'm always aware of my own faults.

You broke the security of my aromanticism, destroying every notion of 'Love' I may have ever held. The word still evokes stark contradictions that war within my ever suffering head. The gaunt women that slip by me in the unfortunate  street pass muster for a smile but receive little in the way of reciprocation from myself. Lugubrious, stubborn old man that I am. The curved women that remind me of you, holler and howl at their young children, berating the psychosis of my youth. I looked to you in my adolescent naivete for the elusive mother to the world. That true Goddess that bore us, each and every one, in physicality and indeed spirituality. I could not tell you how I long for your tender touch on my tearful cheek.

Oh but I shall saunter here in my tumescent loneliness, betwixt streetlights, postboxes, houses and my fellow meandering, soulless shades. Dreaming of a day I am allowed to feel amorous once more.

Ladies, I have a question. Maybe you can help me understand
How y’all claim to be heartless but lowkey desiring a man
I get that you’re paranoid & tired of being heartbroken
Dismissing every man that approaches you asking your heart to open
Not gonna argue with your reasons, in fact I agree
But in a bunch of phonies, there’s always a King looking for that key
So used to peasants that you can’t recognize a real one in your presence
All you know is hurt so you curve any man even if he’s not your preference
Thinking every guy is full of himself & do what the last man did
Making every man suffer from the mistakes of the previous man’s bid
During the day, you front the mask of savage just to keep guys away
But at night you’re in your feelings wishing a man would love you the right way
Seeing other girls cuffed up & inside it makes you jealous
Cause you wanna be loved even tho you front to be careless
Pretending to be a savage? Please, stop the charade
Still attached to that infamous broken record & it’s devastating serenade
False savages protecting something like it’ll forever be shattered
Never wanting to love again like every man’s love comes with a hazard
Stopping playing the savage, we all know you want true love
Not saying you shouldn’t protect your heart but don’t every man pay for the mistakes of your last love
Love can be beautiful once you meet the perfect one that defines it
Your heart will feel like a treasure once the right one finds it
If you go as hard for a King as you do for a peasant, Love will be a Blessing
But if you continue to impersonate a savage when you lowkey wanna be love then your nights will forever be depressing

if panic! at the disco
is just the store brand
version of fall out boy

(an open mic frank sinatra
impersonation with a forehead
and the emos are a classical
knife wound in pop culture)

then i am just the
store brand version
of who i used to be

looks about the same
tastes about the same
easier on your wallet
but something's a little off
and you can't
figure out what

but it doesn't actually
matter that much
it's just oatmeal

(i don't know why i
decided on oatmeal for this
it was just the metaphor
that came to mind)

and it will all be
gone by next week
anyway so

who actually
cares as long as
we've got some
kind of breakfast?

There was a young boy who feared that his beard would never grow long and wise, like that of his old mans and his old mans. He could see the hair on the upper lips and chins of his school pals beginning to form, and so he would walk around with his own chin pointing toward the sun, hoping that something in its warm rays would spurt the growth of his first wee whisker. But nothing. From then on every time he got his haircut he would ask the barber not to sweep up all of his hair, so that he could take some of it home; His Mother often shook her head at this, having no idea what purpose it was for, and instead sighed with a " Yer some boy Jack”. Each time he brought home more hair, he would weave it together with the rest of his old curly locks.  You see, although he had a smooth wee baby face, he had the most stunningly dark and wild curls.

Jack turned 18, and into something like a man, but still there wasn't single whisker on his chin or upon his top lip.  He had grown tall and strong, a man by almost every physical determinant, and this only frustrated him more.  He was teased by the other guys in his work, they would all call him        " Talcom Powder", or " Big Baby Baw Face"  - Not the most intelligent bunch- and Jack would laugh along, while cursing his God inside himself.  Still, every Hair cut and **** trimming, Jack got or gave would be weaved together with every haircut he had since he was 12- he had almost two foot of dark curly strands now, as intricately woven as silk.  Sometimes he would put it on, and talk to himself in the mirror.  

However, like all dark things that are hidden, when they come to light things rarely carry on carrying on. One day Jacks Mother walked in on him doing his best ZZ top impersonation and caught one glimpse of his wooly masterpiece, and it blew the top of her head clean off. “ You filthy boy! What have you done… Oh god, is that why you? It better, all of it, be yours…”.  she rambled while pacing in circles, unable to look at her son and his two foot clip on beard.  “ Mum” said Jack, “ I know this is a shock, but I just want to have a beard, everyone else has one: All my pals at work, all those model guys, all those guys with gorgeous girls, All those guys with creative jobs”. “ They are all ****”, she barked in reply, “ Why would any son of mine want to be like any of those low life cretins?”.  Jack was taken a back by just how upset his mum really was by his masterpiece, and shyly asked “ What about Dads? And Granddads? Theirs are the biggest beards I’ve ever seen, and I’m a ZZ top fan”, “ Thats different”, she said, “ Theirs are REAL working mens beards”.

Weeks went on with Jack and his Mother avoiding each others gaze; the only time they ever spoke was when they were arguing about the beard. Eventually it all got too much for everyone, the house had became inhospitable and Jack finally said the words he’d come to regret, “ If the beard goes, I go”. With cold hands, his Mother packed his bags and began cooking the last meal Jack would enjoy in that house; He and his Mother sat there in silence, while the food cooled on the table, waiting on his Father and Grandfather to return home from their labours. Jack shifted with every second ticking by on the clock above his head, still refusing to look at his Mother. Then he heard the gate swinging open, a few shifts later, the keys turning in the locks, then the door flew open, and Jacks mouth did too; For as he looked to see his Father and Grandfather coming through the frame of the door, they looked hard worked and clean shaven ( Well a bit of Five O'clock shadow).I t was the first time he’d ever seen the chins of the most important men in his life.

  After an excruciating feast of eye contact avoidance and the swallowing of feelings, Jack hugged his Mother Goodbye, Shook his Granddads hand and was walked outside of the house by his Father who said he had a few things he wanted to say man to man; This shook Jack inside himself a little; unsure of whether to feel like a toddler on a naughty step or a man about to share his first whiskey with his old man, he nodded and followed behind his Father out the door. As soon as  he’d closed the door behind him, his Father said “ Listen here boy. I know you just wanted to make me and your mum proud, I was the same as you when I was your age, always wanting to be older. Trust me that changes quickly.  But if there’s one thing I can tell you, its this”, his Dad paused and sighed in a soft way, “ You don’t need to go around faking it. If you leave this house and start wearing the beard day after day, you’ll find it gets boring fast. Trust me… Just enjoy yourself and try and remember who and what you are”. Jack nodded to his Father, and hugged him for the first time in his teenage life.

As Jack walked down the garden path, he got to the gate when he heard his Father saying,            “ Remember! No beard *******” just before closing the door.  But like all good sons and bad sons alike, within a two minutes of a walking out of his family hom Jack had ignored his Fathers advice, and rummaged through his bag to put on his masterpiece proudly.

His beard never did grow, and now his masterpiece is so long his feet often trip over it.  Ahh well, ‘Live and refuse to learn’.


The End

Men are doomed, Carla told me,
It’s your eternal haircuts, she continued,
How can you sculpt a life from a single shape,
One look,
Every mirror an impersonation
Of the initial version of one’s self,
Each day reduced to a child’s calculation,
You wake up, only older, grayer, a withered rasp,
Ever more discouraged by the unfairness of things.

Carla exhaled a dragon’s torrent
White jet streams unfurled out of both nostrils,
A waft of my father’s morning scent.

With a flick of her thumb,
She snapped the ash
Off the end of her cigar.
A sharp hiss as the ember sizzled and sank
In the shallow of a pavement puddle.

It had cold rained most of the day.
Over a pause, the sky roiling with indigestion,
We bundled up in autumn clothes,
And trudged uptown,
Our chins tucked deep into our chests,
Our squinty eyes glued to our shoes,
The wind had a slap to it.

It isn’t war you should fear, she continued,
It’s robots.
Soon we won’t need you for anything,
Carla jabbed her lacquered fingernail at phantoms as she spoke.
Women have been fornicating with machines
For over a hundred years, she said,
The transition for us has already occurred.

Weld and solder us a pleasant replica,
One that can shine a toilet
Sterilize the dishes, **** us brilliantly,
And recite Shakespeare at will-
Believe me,
Soon we will barter for your *******,
Exchanging bitcoins for the innate,
With no intention of ever attending your funeral.

No the war is over and men have lost, Carla repeated.
She walked ahead me,
Her hips a sashay as she spit a loose bit of tobacco leaf
Onto a lamp post.
I could not persuade my eyes to look away.

... he points his toes
like a swan stretching its neck :
smooth shaved calves in fish-nets
to slip into stiletto heels,
        performance art of a deceptive nymph

... grace on fine-point tips : his gift - gentille lace
Stage lighting and mace
impersonation or personification of feminine beauty
leporine lithely limned
delicate dancer
       it is almost as if floating across water
       he mimicked once more before
some inner mother's nature took over

façade of savored tastes - savoir faire
voila! a star in it's place ...

... It is her face when the night creates a cape
borne with Van Gogh plumes sufficed with self
she paints upon his face : starry nights
sun-flowers, irises covering the welts...
comparably museum worthy, imitation flames
yet like any other canvas
          beneath it could lie disappointment and mistake
          drafts of inspiration, cover-ups of cynicism
          another creature - some creation unlike him
what was before / behind soft curtains / kept behind his in-betweens unseen (*****) stage hands spot light polishing knobs “my name is Job…”
but what if ...
... the truth and what presently others see
Diva or DILF
     to believe or not convincingly
could be / only amateurs who attempt:
moments unfeeling under layers & layers
of blush / trial and errors / sharp contempt
Sunken cheeks of graveyard sheep
Lip syncing nubile twinks insomniacs
Dry shave stubble style…

      would you wipe away Mona Lisa's
      smile so devilish with wicked secret
just to uncover blemished a masterpiece:
an ugly Danish duckling underneath ?

To  prove his swan-lake / a gent

... to evolve from broken eggshells
become a song sung timely
hummed & remembered well
(hells bells and *****)
Drag queens’
priceless history / murals' on passing face
No broken naughts
While performing down his lace
      define yourself, she affirms her mirrors...
The harsh flight of life from the embers,
      happiness pursuant to tender
Fully free with goddess grace,

it is the power of creativity / the spirit's ability
to overcome adversity
the art of divinity - that is
what he is practicing  
                                 This trumpeter
                                 swan in stiletto heels...

I've been shot through the heart
By a bullet with no name
So I have no one left to blame for this
I'm lying here
Bleeding out
Asking forgiveness from everyone I've met
But they all deleted my number along time ago
Nobody answers numbers they don't recognize anymore
So really I'm just lying here
Staring at the moon doing its best impersonation of the Cheshire Cat
And I want that
That, smile while I die
The "it ain't ****"
That swagger that everyone else seems to have
I never had

I'm lying in a casket I built
The only project I ever finished
They're shoveling piles of regrets, sorrys, and unused potential
That's enough to bury me here
My headstone doesn't read like the eulogy of a loved man
It reads like a children's book
One word per page
And the word they put on the only page about me?
Somebody else's name
So the creditors couldn't find me
It's not like anyone else calls these days
History need not remember those who did not contribute to it

The list of things I've said I would do
Is not as long as the list of things Kanye West has done
But if you let me finish you'll see it's ten times as long as the list of things I've done

I know five songs by heart
Every one of them is sad
Ain't No Sunshine
500 Miles (not the catchy one the old a capella one from the fifties)
Hallelujah
Landslide
And Red Eye
I use the word why like a piece of gum
Chewing on it until it loses its flavor
It used to taste like coconut
After 10 hours of a graveyard shift it just tastes like yesterday
And the moon doesn't track my days anymore
My feelings do and it's been today for a long time and yesterday I was happy
It's been a few years since yesterday
I can't wait till tomorrow
Who knows maybe it will come when I wake up

I have black out curtains
The sun says goodnight to my toes through the crack in them
My dreams still watch her pull the trigger
I still wake up with bullet holes
People are still not answering my phone calls
And I'm too afraid of my mirror to go knock on their doors and ask if they want to come out and play
She knew
I knew
But knowing isn't accepting and accepting isn't wanting
I want my dreams back

My feet swell up at the end of a work day
When I take my shoes off they feel better
I don't feel better now that she's gone
My heart used to swell up after seeing her
Apparently swelling doesn't always hurt
Apparently making it stop doesn't always feel better
I learn something new every day
Today I learned that if you only think happy thoughts about a person you just miss them more
Yesterday I learned if you only think bad thoughts about a person you just want to apologize
Tomorrow I'll learn what happens if you forgot that person ever left
She won't be learning the same lesson
I don't see this going too well
My therapist says it doesn't have to be fair to be how I feel
I feel discarded
Like one of my promises
Like one of her days
Like a snow man in March
The piece of litter the prisoners forgot in the blackberry bush on the side of 1-5

The moon smiles like a cat who never knew what it was to frown
I live like a man who never knew what it was to be

I’m drawing a blank with what I should write, the bulb in my brain can’t seem to find light. My fingers are struggling to find the right key, and connect the right words that sound good to me. My sentences are short and my thoughts incomplete, blinded by the emotions that always seem to repeat. Hidden behind walls that always stay locked, missing a key that was never in stock. Putting on that mask for everyone to see, not realizing my mask is slowly becoming me. Playing my alter-ego in the game show of life, not realizing the chaos becoming so rife. As I continue this game everyone knows of as real, destruction consumes the truth with no chance to heal. My ability to separate the truth from the lies disappears every time I put on this disguise. One stitched with my insecurities and sown with my scars, of past aspirations that have fallen from the stars. Whose thread is derived from the lives of those around, intertwined in my disguise as my lies compound. Zipped up by my fear of complete isolation, without a second thought or a moment of hesitation. Because not getting hurt is worth more then love to me, regardless of how depressing this statement may be. Looking into loves eyes and watching it unfold, as the person before you breaks it without your control. Or watching those feelings in another person’s eye, as you break their heart and watch them cry. The pain is a gamble that all of us take, but I’ve run out of money to play with such high stakes. So I put on my disguise and do a little song and dance. Hoping the Elvis impersonation makes people stop for a glance. I make friends on the way and move on as time expires, hoping those whom I have met are ones I’ve inspired. And they see past the act and circus performer, praying their time with me isn’t like the Hangover. But no one can be sure of the foot print they leave, only hope that your time and effort were well received. And you put one foot in front of the other when its time to move on. And hope that your fingerprint won’t be faded or gone. From those lives you have touched and people that you meet, those souls you have brought together and made feel complete. So leave the light off and take off the disguise; let sleep open your door and give you rise. To an endless bliss as you close your eyes, and enter a world of an endless high.

my love is a wild orchid leaking at the mouth at dawn
as hands find ways to place themselves in invisible places
burning beneath dreary midnight skies

terror and rushing silent hearts, something good
I have pranced upon in life meadows
and I find this lingering between those two places
perfection speaks silently
perfection whispers violently

I find worlds to live in
where our windows are portals to the spiritual
and open doors bring in tender wind
violet voices drip beneath the skin
in rich shades of heart fall
leaving imprints of impersonation and
reconstruction on my wall
blinding the unforgiving love of routine
and blue curtains that were hung up last winter
with a smile brushed upon a sad face

living in forests of wild woods and pubescent trees
mock the artificial mind of this city
learn how to be

I am no casting eminence glancing down
breath taking seas, locked in the agony of happiness
and criminal hearts, kissed by a kisser
holding hands tediously as 3 hearts melt into one
like the rain coming down from your roof
and the joy of falling asleep to the sound
of water being absorbed into the ground
recycled, there is something so comforting about it

flower printed walls, and hallmark cards lay around
the smell of coffee stenches the carpet
there is something glorifying about broken bottles in the corner of the bar
perhaps a long night of silent communication
and unbearable looks of quiet knife like stares
piercing-exciting
loving

It’s a Monday. Capitalism and school have given Mondays a bad rap and we need to take it back. That would require a movement of some sort, too much, I suppose, with a WAR on.

I have the jitters. This morning was, well, Monday and I had a midterm - sort of. So it would’ve been irresponsible for me to take the time to straighten my room - I’m nothing if not responsible. But Peter’s here. It’s his first glimpse of my room and it’s a mess.
“There’s an underlying order” I assure him.
“There always is,” says mr. physics.

Anna had taken a (photo) burst of us - the modern equivalent of those childhood, cartoon flicker-books - to celebrate his first visit to our immaculate suite. Now she’s screen-sharing them on the huge common room TV. “You’re cute,” He says.
“Hurray for me, hooray for that,” I reply, “But I was thinking YOU’RE cute,” I say as I snuggle closer to him on the couch.
“We all love the sound of compliments slapping together,” Leong says, sarcastically.
“Find a communist,” I suggested to Leong, “they all study philosophy, I think.”
“You come into MY house..,” Leong begins.
“You come into MY house..,” I responded.
“You come into MY house..,” Anna says from the kitchen.
“You come into MY house..,” Sophy yells from her room. This could go on all night.

“The four reactions,” Peter says.
“He’s starting to talk physics again!” Anna says, narrowing her eyes on him, like a cat catching sight of a squirrel. Leong, yawns excessively, “Ugh! Make him stop,”
“All the forces that we experience every day..,” Peter begins. At first, I moaned as if I’d been told I was about to be waterboarded. Then I take action, rolling over and climbing on top of him, messing his hair and beginning to tickle him, “There must have be an off switch somewhere!” I exclaim.

Now everyone’s screaming and laughing, “Ok, Ok, I give up.” he says, then he pins my arms to my sides at my elbows - but before he can swing me off of him, I lean in and plant a sloppy wet lick on the side of his face. “H-Hey!” he says, wincing like someone avoiding a wild puppy. He was all askew by the time he swung me off onto the couch and fixed me with a concentration that suggested that nothing else mattered. Time seemed to stop and that moment was the first time I thought about kissing him.

Over his left shoulder Anna vibe checks me by making a moony love-face  - throwing in several puckery kisses. I’ve never seen myself in action, but a sharp, stinging sense of recognition told me that her impersonation was more accurate than not - and I snapped out of it. “What are we doing for dinner?” I asked, and the tension broke.

... he points his toes
like a swan stretching its neck :
smooth calves in fish-nets
to slip into stiletto heels,
        performance art of a deceptive nymph

... grace on fine-point tips : his gift - in stiletto heels,
impersonation or personification of feminine beauty
leporine lithely limned
delicate dancer
       it is almost as if floating across water
       he mimicked once more before
some inner mother's nature took over
façade of savoir face - voila! a star in it's place ...

... It is her face when the night creates a cape
borne with Van Gogh plumes sufficed with self
she paints upon his face : starry nights
sun-flowers, irises covering the welts...
comparably museum worthy, imitation flames
yet like any other canvas
          beneathe it could lie disappointment and mistake
          drafts of inspiration, cover-ups of cynicism
          another creature - some creation unlike him
what was before / the curtain / is unseen, but what if ...

... the truth and process to what presently one sees
or believe
could be / only an amateur attempt:
moments unfelt under layers & layers
of trial and errors / contempt?
      would you wipe away Mona Lisa's
      smile and devilish wicked secret ?
just to uncover blemished a masterpiece:
an ugly Danish duckling underneath

to prove that swan-lake
a gent

... to evolve from broken eggshells
become a song timely hummed & remembered well
priceless history murals' on passing face
all spoken thoughts performing down the lace
      define yourself, how the flight of life from embers
      happiness pursuant to tender
Fully free with grace,
it is the power of creativity / the spirit's ability
to overcome adversity
the art of divinity - that is
what he is practicing  
                                 This trumpeter
                                 swan in stiletto heels...

I am aware of nothing

That has brought me here

A boy, on the threshold

Of being

At the front door of a Dantian pit

I am on the inside of night

Where a racing heartbeat

Measures time by its frantic beat

A mirror appears

Providing a compulsion to stare

I gaze and realise

The impersonation is the real being

And I am the occupant of a mask

A cosmic persona

Of the true nature of identity

The same strangers in all respects

Twins of a harlequined society

conflicted misdirection
abhorred nostalgic facade
clever impersonation
tales of redirection
insalubrious misrepresentation
a facetious misdemeanor
aggregated consciousness recalled
tempered with fear and mired respite
"not you" said wisdom
"only you" said the soul
"with you" said the mind
"where are you" wondered the heart

Sometimes I like to talk to myself
I mimic people that don't exist
I have conversations with them in my head
That lead to scenarios
We go on adventures together

I mimic all sorts of people
I have conversations with them in my head
Soon enough I start talking out loud
and I don't know who is real and who is in my head

Soon enough I start to mimic myself
and I don't know if I'm real or if I'm in my head
I start to think that maybe I'm just an impersonation
that maybe I'm not real
Or maybe I'm just acting all the time.

time ticks quickly
          its insistence echoes through my bones

dates mean as much to me
          as raised voices do

and both whizz past in a blur
         the way cars do on a highway
                   because that's all i am, a kid playing in traffic.

i am no more a child than the girl i was ten years ago
         i have, in fact, shrunk.

i have been crushed upon being released,
         wrangled by the wind before i can begin to take flight.

the most enduring thing society has led me to think is that
         i am simply incapable of living.

i am a sad impersonation of the sun -
         shining so brightly for others, though inside,
                  
                   *i am lethal vacuum.

sometimes it just feels like
having to make an interjection,
accompanied by,
and listening to, and making do away the
slightest spiderweb tickle...
sometimes it just feels like
you writing something and your muse is
      only an insomniac radio d.j.,
and it really does feel
like a freefall sometimes,
having taken the time to possess
a library of music, giving it all
up to simple turn on the radio....
it can appear pointless at times...
but then you can hardly stomach
the need for adverts...
    and because of adverts you started
building up a music library...
but then again, once more:
you end up only writing
for a niche... i live a few miles from
London, but given my holiday to
the most obscure place in Poland...
London is about as far as the moon
from where i'm criss-crossing...
tango of a daddy-longshanks spider...
confirming that with the
crown beheld by Edward IV...
        was radio, always the necessary
blockage, the necessary sound
when you woke up?
i built a music library
and became prone to listening to the radio
at 3a.m.... nice... real nice,
i'm about to do a Borat impersonation
with the words: jak sie masz?
   i.e. how are you?
don't know, given a jew asked it,
i'm starting to wonder what it means
to be alive in Tel Aviv these days....
and that really is: balaclava worth
a statement on it own.
  if i knew i'd come back to listening
to the radio, i wouldn't
care to make a compendium of obscure
music, i'd throw the television out,
and i'd read a poem more often than
taking to the ritual of ingesting
a newspaper...
    see the ailment?
      bound to wishing to be blown up
in a terrorist attack?
    for most days, i feel like
a street-cleaner of the past ought-nots
and did-in-fact happenings,
later slimmed into a new year's eve
firework sadness concealing
  a claim to a celebration.

"Under the tree sat Buddha, meditating with his fear.
He grew to understand how to face Mara, less his habitual red ears.

The red ears of resentment,
The red ears from fright,
The red ears that pushed him from tranquility to fight or flight.

A similar story comes to mind,
One I know all too well.

The story of mine is a tale to tell,
As long as judgements forever set sail.

Leaving the moment for the past, I see a hateful boy.
Distant from the world around me, so confused & annoyed.

Transformed from my façade of impersonation, to the feeling of being lost.
Stemming from the monotonous & everlasting worriment in thought.

From mediation I understand, what red ears did to me.
The red ears transformed my thought process,
Into someone I'd grow to see.

From growth came lessons, and new habits from within.
To sit with perceived problems patiently takes courage & a half Buddha grin.

A smile to acknowledge,
An acknowledgment of growth.
For the one I was to who I've become had to happen, as if renewal were a must.

The change was essential, & shall stand the test of time,
from the old wondering & circumventing rollercoaster thought ride.

The form of wonder we know all too well, that steals us from here & now.
I wish we could all learn how to live presently & apart from the modern crowd.

Tranquility was foreign to me, however the possession of is a must.
A must that changes a boy to man, which should happen before skin to dust.

While undergoing transformation, a man will come to see,
That who he wanted to be is he, while listening under the tree.

As I sit back to reflect, I can now understand.
I understand how the test of time transformed me from boy to man."

Isolation.
My loner self's building foundation.
The leading cause of my devastation.
Isolation, the reason of my creation
At least there's relaxation.
Why's there even discrimination.
I stopped all the procrastination
To help with the world in manipulation
I'm driven by self determination
However I'm unnecessary in the formation
I suffer so much accusation
My will to continue is such an admiration
Everyone doing something with aggravation
Their ignorance is such a fascination
Yet I want an explanation,
What's the complication?
Anything you'll accept as compensation?
If you've done some observation
You'll notice my only motivation
Aside from my hate toleration,
What kept me going is my impersonation
Making you think my life's okay
In actual fact I'm in condemnation.