[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero

Pressure from someone else is called peer pressure
Look it up, google it, it's a thing
I apologize for the inaccuracy of my definition but you get the gist 
Peer pressure is a ******* ****** bag telling you to **** his **** when you don't want to
It's when "friends" tell you to have your first shot, smoke, sniff of whatever mood altering substance they want you to consume
Just watch a crashcourse, that **** is bad for you okay
It's when you kiss someone you don't want to
When you stay out late after your curfew 
When you sneak out late at night to meet the guy you have a "thing" with but everyone knows your his rebound
But peer pressure
Don't give in 
All your gonna feel
Is absolute regret

my reflection, anatomical inaccuracy reads something like:

fairy dust in a silt layer, bones all shattered at the press of her fingers, and for months I molded a sandcastle around the soft

sinking, drinking ichor from a cocktail glass and dragging nails across my discomfort -

did you see that girl taking a tempest inside herself, to warp her sinew, spreading from this side of the universe to other?

in the lamplight I bit a secret onto the ridge of her spine; *sometimes I sleep near fires hoping my insides become glass

Unless you are here for a reason, your presence
  thrusting and thrusting, what for?
  This thing has no name it does not understand -
   its incompleteness, its sleuth for finality. Maybe
   when a hand is buried with a manifold of many
   others in the fall -- to initiate a conflagration
   is to remember it for the first time.
   All versions of the same absence. If you are here
   for no reason, then what for, what use does the
   body subscribe to?

  What about, say, the abundance of Balete had you
   consciously wearing your shirt inside out so as
   to feel placeness? What now that your hand
   fastens my entrails? There is no multiplying
    feeling into truth. We do not know that the Sun
    through the interstices of leaves is a small child,
    or a swift woman. No other answer but rue
    and rage, across our slanted shadows in the
     dank perimeter. Your eyes finagle to annotate
    the bow of my leg. Or the curvature of moon.
    Anything it has in their own, vicious sights
     grappling the flesh now inflamed; anything they
     will ravish completely and leave drained. A wrinkled body of a log, or a forgotten manuscript.

    These are all answers I have to invent. Intuitive,
    unwise, unsolicited. Somewhere, I had to point
     out the differentiating margin between
      speaking too much and conveying so little,
     and the finite amplitude of silence sensing out
     something in you, about you, and arriving here.
     Why are you here? What are you doing? What must I be when you are not?

Spider society needs their own locus
While others break of, I'm keeping my focus
Let me breathe, can't you see I'm what this universe needs?
Millions at risk, due to inaccuracy
I'm never Icarus, only report I'm accepting is one I succeed in

They ask if I'm good, life's not black and white
The justice I'm seeking seems bleak in the light
Priority, I cannot stoop to being petty
Won't take no from no miles, no Pieter, no Gwen and no Penni
My law is final, the canon's at stake
I have to be brutal, taking out the fakes

"I thought we're the good guys" we are, we... Are?
Just look at the good we've done, the lengths, how far
I respect every person in this room, the doom and the gloom
I'm no vigilante, don't wait for the moon
When I see anomalies I just go and Boom

Maybe we can... But think of the Spider-verse
Can't think of her now, they're not in this universe
That kid was on to something, I can't crack
That life I used to lead, I just can't go back
Maybe we're not heroes, maybe we're not evil
we're just in the middle, anomalies to unveil
the job we do, seem to never get hailed
But if I fail this, then it's her that I've failed

i am trying to come to terms
with gravity
as i fall toward the floor
with the awareness of the your
face framed in the hall door.
that's an exaggeration—
there's a certain inaccuracy
in conversations about bodies,
personal and celestial, revolutions one around the other,
that is unavoidable due to limitations
of the form. so i like to be precise
where it can fit in between the
cumbersome dances we do.
i'm not falling toward the floor
but i might as well be. i can't tell you that.
what's wrong you ask again
but something i read about planets
is that they're much farther apart than the human mind
can even conceptualize. that most of space is empty
and cold as we dare to spin through it.
i'm thinking of the audacity of revolutions
and you just wanna know why i'm so sad.
i think about bodies. sinew and joints and the red
****** meatstuff that fills in the places in between.
a heart pumping blood and a mouth that refuses to admit it.
about the physicality, the weight of it sinking
into beds that aren't mine, bodies that aren't mine.
you're not standing in the doorway anymore, no one
stands in doorways forever. especially not
for someone who refuses ownership
of the space taken up by their own body. constellations
are outlines of disparate points someone tried to find a
story in. i'm not much better.
i think of heavenly bodies, i think of stars
but they don't tell me anything
i wasn't trying to deal with already.

(from 2007, slight edit)

   the boy had screamed without wanting to.  had scared the ghost his mother would not believe he had seen.  the ghost which was not a ghost but to which he had called anyway with ghost, ghost.  his mother had a sentence, and she used it.  patted his head, sighed a cigarette from her bra, then went.  the boy waited all night.  once or twice thought he saw what might be a hand, white and waving; its broomstraw fingers sweeping the many floored dark.  

     his former scream stayed the morning.  his father, he saw him put down a razor then pick it up.  his mother was blowing balloons.  tying them and ******* her finger.  

     eleven years ago, for three minutes now, the boy was born sad.  but it’s not something to be sad about because he is not very bright.  when he speaks, it is only so his parents will also speak.  they will come from any room, out of any aisle, to speak second.  they will fall over each other somehow without touching.  when this happens, the boy must remember he is not bright.  

     there is a cake, a birthday hat, and a storm.  the boy is not sure which came first, but they are here, now, at the same time.  a candle  is lit, then another.  if he slits his eyes, it seems the same candle is being lit eleven times by his one handed mother.  his father steps in when all the candles don’t go out but he is too eager and his breath seems to have in it a crying baby.  the baby goes silent.  the boy sits in the dark.  a dark so heavily settled the boy forgets he is wearing a hat.  that when he slips under the table the hat in some final nod of a scarecrow goes unaccounted and the boy thinks he is being pulled by the hand of the ghost that is not a ghost backward into some happy and useless chore.        

     under the table, taskless, the boy is humming into the cone of his hat.  for so long it is the only sound.  it takes a single frog outside to mention its locale for the boy to know he has stopped.  he puts the hat down tent atop a toy truck he cannot see.  far off, an engine idles then turns off.  it is dumbly comforting to know that in the real world there are miles between hands doing hand-like things; turning  keys, toppling hats that shouldn’t be there.  hands that curse as puppets curse; by not.

     it is by this thought of hands the boy is stilled.  he has not spoken; his parents are waiting.  are duo and separately tread their aphotic mimicry.  he can feel his father’s thumb puddle the air above his head; his mother’s elbow cotton closer the black to his eye.  his wish:  to see a ghost after seeing a ghost- the boy wonders what he has done.  what had marked the world in all its heaving inaccuracy was an exhale; now, an exhale dismissed.  

he had once cut with his thumbnail the tip of a red crayon into an empty bra he’d never seen his mother put on.  when she later dressed it became a drop of blood and she screamed and went on to birth a stone that it not be the center of a dark balloon.

Whenever I’m in a car for a long period of time I always end up watching the road
You know those journeys that go on a lot longer than you expected and all you have to entertain yourself with is your iPod, which leaves your eyes with nothing to do other than scan the horizon or gaze down onto the tarmac while you zoom over it, the white lines blurring into the black as if it were a painter’s pallet blending perfectly to form a rainbow of tone,

I close my eyes and in my mind I pan out to view a city in its entirety, I always picture a tree-like form, stretching out, reaching, a never-ending strive for dominance over nature, as humans build more and more over the earth, suffocating the soil, making the trees cry out in pain as we cut off they’re food, I heard someone say with pride in they’re voice:
Roads are like to artificial veins of the land that pump the blood of people around so as to stay fluid and alive.

Alive? All I can see are the remnants of accidents. Smudges smeared, splayed all over the road. Skid-marks. Each skid-mark stands for a person that was a little too wrapped up finding a song on the radio, or a man rushing to the hospital so he can see his beautiful baby boy for the first time. Or maybe those skid marks stand for a car that lost control because the driver could not see the red light on account of his vision being blurry. Accidents. As if calling it an accident removes all blame, ‘It was no ones fault – it was a mistake/ an error/ a slip-up/ a mishap/ an oversight/ a miscalculation/ an inaccuracy/ a lapse/ an omission/ an accident.

What if the skid-marks are the pollution-covered fingerprints of god, left as memories, when he reached down into our atmosphere to cradle the souls of those whose time had passed.
Although this place if filled with death, its disturbing how most people do not give a second thought as they zoom over a graveyard, rushing past the last landscape some would ever see. Ignorant as to what has taken place. Most people look at roads as lifelines, the umbilical chords to the world around them, not as a weapon, used strangle the innocent people who just wanted to get home before rush hour hit.

Whenever I’m driving down the highway that takes me from home to you all I can see are the blood-covered corpses strewn all over, all I smell are the cancerous fumes radiating from the upturned cars surrounding me as if I were thrown in a junkyard, disregarded in spite of the life still diffusing through my bloodstream like I deserved nothing more than to rot and corrode in the dirt that now encompassed my body. All I can hear are the piercing screams ringing out of my nine year old carcass as I lay in a metal like box that had people stunned as to how anyone could survive. They said I was lucky, that I should be thankful.

Do these scars resemble some kind of fruit bearing vines, capable of bringing new life into this world?

Lightning strikes of judgment that have been forked into my forearms drawn by shards of glass that decided my milky white skin was missing a touch of red, as they carved a game of noughts and crosses into my skin. I was pulled out of that rubble; and guess what – no one won.

Delusions of reproduced
                         legitimacy.
Never omitted,
                          but spoken.

Some can never respect
        there own misconceptions.
        expecting others
                           to drown silently.

This place was new to her
Tendrils of envy
That had over ran her heart
Like spilled ink

The witch gobbles six Lorazepam
Just to survive the after noon
And trips from her botched stride of self righteousness

Her inaccuracy, in her mind is fact

Her sense of superiority over shadows any type of kindness that trickles out every now and then

Her flippant demeanor
Is known and is spoken of in fork tongued folklore

Her spells of insanity and depravity

Leaving all the passes in a stated of relentless unease

She trots the ash covered cobble ****** alleyways of the sullen slums
And the scornful ****** watch from rusted fire escapes
Blades in hand, back-pocket crucifix

They swoop down and surround her

She who caused the drought, the death of all live stock and infants’ demise

She falls to the ground

“May the truths of the universe diminish your incantations!”

She screams

They cover their ears and douse her with holy water

Her skin peels revealing her grotesque scaly red skin
Her yellow eyes gleam as its pupils dilate

“And with these blades of sanctuary we obliterate your being”

A typhoon of stabs follows
And a sacred jar is laid out
To capture her spirit
So it may never return

Draw me in
And hold me close.
Feel my body
Shiver in your strong arms
And the spreading Goosebumps
Stand firm
Against your warm skin
As you try to shelter me
From the brisk night air.
Stare at the sky with me
And search its depths
For all the stars
We could possibly find.
Light a cigarette
And take long, steady drags
And inhale deeply
Allowing the tar to tickle your lungs
Before you exhale the poison
So the sharp, comforting smell
Of ashes and a Marlboro Red
Can engulf us.
Gaze down at me
With warm, dulcet eyes
And turn me around.
Brush the hair from my face
With your rough, callused hand
So our eyes can meet.
Rest one hand
Gently on my hip
While the other
Carefully holds my face
So your eager lips
Can be pressed against mine.
And when you’re done
Let me feel the moisture
Of a wisely placed peck
On the center of my forehead
In a subtle but sincere attempt
To prove your care for me
And my worth to you.
And when all is said and done
And you’re staring down at me
Hoping that maybe, just maybe
For once
This time you got through to me,
Wrap me in a god ****** hug
And swear you’ll never let go.
Cherish the feeling
Of being entangled in each other’s arms
And our bodies pressed together
As we desperately cling
To the only thing either of us has left.
Just hold me and hope
By some random inaccuracy of nature
Time suddenly stops.
And allows us to live these seconds
For minutes.
Hours.
Days.
Months.
Years.
Any amount of time
Longer than it really is.
Because, truth be told,
We’ll never experience a moment
More beautiful than that
In our entire lifetimes.

Cupid you mischievous little cherub with wings
flying around shooting arrows so that mortals feel loves sting.
You've ******* me over, because before we met I was aces
I had friends, vibrancy, and no one occupied my minds spaces.
But then we met and you shot that **** arrow
then my life fell far from straight and narrow.
You led me to heartbreak, pain, oh wait I'm mistaken
you did me worse with your accursed arrows that keep mortals shaken

Call me a heartless cynic. call me what you may
but cupids been ******* me over since the very first day,
Now I'm horribly lonely, yeah I'll admit I've made mistakes,
trusted the wrong people, looked for companionship in the wrong places
But you've either gone blind, or senile or twisted around the bend
because your inaccuracy and messed up shots never seem to end.

so I wrote this letter, Cupid, just to say.
***** you you diaper wearing *****. now that that's done I can be on my way

Feeling like
a calculator
with a decimal
key
that sticks.

Always incorrect,
missing
the point,
a fraction
of the
actual,
misplacing the
factual.

The letter-opener
laughs
at me.

Sees
my inaccuracy,
my inadequacy.

The thumbtacks
gather,
whispering into
the corkboard,
memos written,
regarding my
misaligned
mathematics.

The desktop
dings
the arrival
of an
email.

The office-supply
order
has arrived.

The scissors,
held
in an X,
slice through
packing tape.

Right there,
on top
of the steno-pads,
rests
my replacement,

new,

plastic bubble
intact,

decimal key
moves free,
better than
me,
no need
to see
to believe,
calculations conceived,
bourn correct.

The decimals
rounded to
the nearest
hundredth,

I’ll find
rest,

my long division
meeting measure
of
its remainder
at the bottom
of an
office
wastebasket.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018

look at me
not with your ideals
of who I should be.
look at me
not with bewilderment,
condemnation, inaccuracy.
look at me
without wishing I was
who I used to be.
just accept. just listen, just hold.
just
look at me.

I was never insane
except upon odds
when my heater was touched.

Believe nozzle you hear,
and only one halibut that you see.

Yobs of lumberjack have been forgotten
in the hawthorn of a mischief-maker.

Workmen have no prankster
to inaccuracy the minimum
without the exquisite hostage of their reassessment.

Never to suffer
would never to have been blessed.

The best thoroughfares in light
make you sweaty.

Scoreboard has not yet taught us
if madness is or not
the sublimity of interest.

I remained too much inside my headman
and ended up losing my minimum.

Teaching self the,
art of dying
after a serial failure.

Stone pelting has started.
You cannot hear your own voice.

Praying for the inaccuracy of time's arrow.

A physical dimension,
you will give to your impermanence.

And silent flows the glacier out of banks.

Clear fall, seems inevitable.
The sun rises from the debris of moon,
from drop on drop of watery eyes.

Oh JD how I admired thee,
your sinister sarcasm,
your sharp screeching scream,
your pink pursed lips,
always as if you were to whistle.

You sat in your chair arms rested,
after another exhausting session with
disengaged delinquents,
I'd always feel a sense of guilt,
as your red face cooled down after every class.

I'd always appreciate the days when we pleased you,
How hard it was to please you.
The prince of of punctuation,
when will these fools stop forgetting where to place their commas,
when will they wake up and realign to the standard Oxford rule.

I wonder if you studied there,
or why you wouldn't drive one,
perhaps that's why you loved the phrase manners makyth so much.

You taught me about literature and African history,
the best possible combination of Shaka speare,
I feel that I impressed you more in the latter,
but that doesn't really matter.

We're world's apart now,
as you continue in your most precious profession,
I lay in my bed writing poems,
slightly clueless about this post adolescent world.

I forget much,
but I'll always remember the strolls to the cats and dogs,
the advice and complaints,
the doubts about saints,
the sky blue in your eyes.

How I wished you would fly,
above  from the gloom that seemed to,
keep your head bowed down to the ground,
that you would once again smile at the sound of the birds at dawn...
Bygones be bygones.

Little did you know that you became a father figure,
I respected your resolute resolve to stand for your convictions,
clarity climbed off the cusp of your tongue as you cried,
you were sure of yourself and spoke your mind,  
I do think you could have been a little more gentle,
kind.
So could I.

I learned so much from you,
but I may have also learned your sadness,
but it's something I had to let go,
your roots run deeper than I'll ever know,
maybe something sour happened along the way to embitter them.

Whatever the case may be,
please forgive any inaccuracy,
I'll always hold you fondly,
JD.

Kanyanta

I made a neucanse out of my luxuries


the wine worries me


and the high only takes me so far


want the words an the numbers and the faces to ean something?  can't you accept nighilis?


spit out another phrase to make sense of it, fine


I type in order to avoid bedrest, I haven't begun makes my own arrangements for that yet, it doesn't even make sense, really


as the battery begins to die, my wine runs dry

and,seriously, out of things to say as the orbit on tv goes tp mir o,,ideate sp;ar system, impressive to the 80's physicist

using their finger s and thumbs to re enact the satellites behaviors

I pity their inaccuracy

If only the string theory folk

could get their act

together

Loneliness is the only existence I've known,
before meeting you.
Bathed by the radiance of sunrise we found one another,
discovering love's warmth.
We embrace the solace hidden deep within our hearts.
As perfection is meant to be,
we are destined.
Two kindred spirits set upon a journey of becoming one,
separate individuals seeking the existence of singularity.
Together shall we make life worth living.
Suddenly the weather changed.
Blue skies are consumed by grey.
Right goes wrong.
Did we salvage love only to throw it away?
Perhaps cupid developed a level of inaccuracy, and missed.
His arrows were never intended to find us.
We simply stepped in the way.
Heaven has closed its gates,
the angels turn us away.
Hell beckons,
there shall we find vacancy.
We've come so close,
but couldn't be any further from the truth.
Vast distances now separates,
that which was bonded.
Darkness consumes the illumination of day.
Love sails beyond the horizon.

- James D. Woods

by: Perry Loggins


With a forlorn hope, he expected the questions to arise, “Are you ok? How have you been?”
But his sluggish shoulders showed the inaccuracy of his prediction.
People passed. Walked by. Feeding on their own parasites. Leaches ******* the blood of all their hopes and dreams. Survival. They were just trying to survive.
Another breath for themselves.
Incapable of extending a life vest, because there was only one left.

Tick. Tock. The isolation intertwines within the troubled soul. Growing daily, it marches with conviction.
“I **, I **, it’s off to work we go!”
The morbidity of his suffering fails to startle those he meets. He covers it well behind the mask.
A smile. A gesture. “I’m fine,” he replies.
Off the hook, he thinks.
They don’t have to feel the pain.

In the abyss of loneliness, you discover your truths.
Your ideals.
Somber tones paper themselves upon the the walls of your heart.
You become disenchanted with those that seek joy.
A happiness that forever eludes you.
The solitude beckons you each morning.
Triumphating its arrival with horns and confetti.
A celebration of an event with which you were not invited.

Tapered wings fold in half, silent breaths become no more. The somber soul forever frozen.
With a wistful blink, he gathers his thoughts.
“I loved them so much, but can love no more.”
The mask is taken off. So pure. So white.

in his ambitions he sought to conceal something
something beautiful?
something disgusting?
for what need of demons grief and angels pity
he did not know,
he promised his self as eyes turned skyward that
all was going to be under his own device
and so too by his own terms he planned to reveal it.
as light cast a shadow on the ground
he became in doubt of himself
and too surrendering his idea became
impossible.
his ego became more in debt to a lie
that had once made gravity before the
sudden swell of sunlight captured its impossible
inaccuracy
his lie was a fight in time, a burden of impossible
hardship,
so morals were faded and time was discarded
and he drifted, now though, not knowing gravity or sunlight
nor rain, nor flowers, nor the whisper of the wayward wind
and so he left hope at his feet
left his hopes at the hill,
the hill that had seen the days of rain, and shine,
the hill that had the same soil he once embodied
what happened after that
im not sure anyone knows
not even our ill fated hero

Try finding the right words, do not worry over
Inaccuracy, as long as they are not insincere.
If you do not feel like speaking out, we can always take cover
and whisper, with open eyes. Brush out its contours/
With chapped hands.

.
Speak:
A beat, a rhythm, ba-dumm, a heartbeat or a pulse
Heart shaped like a potato. Tendons and veins,
Flesh and blood.            A secret.
Air in circulation. Breathing habitual. Inertial.
Where do weeds grow.
.

Air tight room with oxygen running low or
The lowering steel gate, spikes eating into shoulder blades
Spin the roulette of words made to disappear
Words unconscious, dragged away into the shadows
Hitting the wall, hit,
the momentum will only break
not it but me, nothing catches fire aside for young bodies
Mere speculation is not plotting schemes
They have planted me here. I tame my hand
to be my ventriloquist
The songbird with firecracker enthusiasm
Is it unforgivable to deny the drums?
They have my fingerprints

I have offered them. My flesh for their foundation
The community card etched
Onto where my heart was, now a cave of blood

words, written, spoken, unspoken, thought out
in silence, dug out from stitched wounds, unearthed,
                           red, wet, and palpitating
we push back only to be consumed by
the silence

we whisper   under the shallow sunlight
our feet nowhere near the door

Somehow the dust never scattered when I exhaled onto the photograph. It was as though of age refused to detach itself from your and my smiling faces, frozen in a 24th of a second. It wasn’t a great photo, by any half-baked photographer’s standard. But if was a photo of you, the only I had. The only I could find where your figure had been aged into nothing more than a white silhouette.
There were no letters you’d written my mother, there were no books whose front page had your name written into a corner. There probably wasn’t even a coin which you’d touched left in this house. It was as though you’d never even existed. At least, the lack of objects holding any connection to you spoke that story. But the words my mother uttered softly to me after you disappeared, the stories which hovered over the coffee table on April afternoons, the recounts which filled the space on your hollow birthdays…they sung the soft tune of your existence.
My mother told me of how you’d always been so successful, how you’d worked so hard in your business, kept us financially stable in the unpredictable seas of time. In my eyes, you were what people sometimes call perfect. The way my mother spoke of you, the way her words would spread through my mind and stain my memory made every drop of blood in my body wish I could match up to you.
Your dedication, perseverance, diligence. You embodied everything I wanted to be. I’d work harder. At school, extra-curricular activities, in the future my work. I’d work hard, just like you had.
Nighttime became sleepless, with every part of my logical side screaming to sleep, but the fire of wanting to live up to you burned though it like paper. Afternoons grew out of being time to spend outside with peers, into the hours I’d spend alone in the piano room, the same tunes filling my head on repeat. School time had me flying ahead of the curriculum, and while others chattered and enjoyed idle conversation with their desk mates, my goal was not to waste time. This was to be like you. Anything to be like you.
Time morphed from a tool into a hinderance, my human limitations the bane of my existence. Why can’t I just be like you?
I wish I could remember you from the year preceding your vanishing. It’s as though you’d been completely erased from my memory, and maybe you had. I wish I could’ve asked you what I could’ve done to be like you. To be better. The idea of searching you up had flown in and out of my mind throughout my life, though every time it did the idea left my mind faster than the last.
But today those fears of defeat seem lifted. Or maybe they’ve completely crushed me. Either way, my fingers trace the edge of my laptop, my hand hovering over the keyboard.
I type in your name.
My screen lights up and a mixture of confusion, fear and disregard of what i see surge though me, twisted into a rope with stops my blood flow. I double-check the spelling. Its right. I reload the page. Command R. Command R. Command R. The same articles flash across the screen.
This is wrong.
It has to be wrong.
The stories.
The photograph.
All of it.
it’s not you. This is not you. This has to be someone with the same name. You’re not this.
My father is not a criminal.
Right?
Miosis overtakes my pupils and my expression falls far short of brushing its fingertips against the edge of the intensity of tangled emotions coiling inside me. This can’t be right. My mother - she wouldn’t lie to me right? And the photograph! That proves you weren’t a bad person right? I click onto one of the articles. Your name fills the header of the webpage. My eyes instinctively read the subtitle. Found guilty of assault and attempted ******. I laugh, the kind of laugh that fills the room when you’re sure of something’s inaccuracy or irrelevancy. But I know it’s empty.
This doesn’t make any sense. But it has to. The images of the person staring through the screen with the look of burning ice bare unsettling resemblance to the man in the dust-coated photograph. This is you.
My twisted and knotted mix of burning shock, confusion and rage cools too fast, forcing it into a brittle state. the smile I wear feels cold on my face, and hollow. It kind of makes sense. At least, it explains the previously questionable, yet still unquestioned, disappearance of you from us only weeks following your disappearance. And why the few memories I have of my third year consisted mainly of yelling and aggressive shadows in the living room on the nights I awoke to find a glass of water. And why somehow all of the family photos we’d stored carefully away had aged, and somehow only on the places you’d been.
But…still.
It doesn’t explain the words spoken of you so delicately one would mistake them for the glassy surface of undisturbed water in the mornings where the world was still asleep…ah. My eyes catch a string of words which have been italicized.
‘I’m still terrified of speaking ill of him. I know he’s being kept far, far away from us, but not a single negative word of him can be heard in my house, in fear of what could happen to us. I know it’s paranoid, but I suppose it also stops my child from having to live in fear of their father…”
A quote from my mother.
Thoughts flood my mind, overflowing my skull so my brain cant think. Memories of the air in the house tasting bitter, stained with the scent of alcohol. Of how whenever I begged my parents to let my friends stay over for the night, dead refusal blew the thought aside. And of how you carried me home when I fell. Of how you taught me addition.
Which were you, really?
Were you the person who harmed others mercilessly, trying to pluck their life from them as though it were a leaf from a tree. Or the person who told me stories before I fell asleep? Or were they both parts of you, coexisting within you, just waiting for the point where one shattered the other into a million glittering shards.