I

Behind his eyes of Laser Blue
I have a history as brief as titsi-flies

Behind a furrow or a dormant smile's bloom
I am indentured
by his manipulations,
                                lessened by his education
and I am supposedly the one he loves...?

So, there in the bear-hug of his lies
I am mute in delirium
copulation cranked to carnival speeds

Because he has power in the unspoken
as vaporous as white smoke
incantations & sorcery
                          fish hooks my love into my doom

I understand that gaze
I commit to its kaleidoscope
variegated faces
for every season and holiday
each hour etched is an emotion
pretend and pretense

Splayed

Muscle, toned,
limbs limned in liquids
arms of a giant squid
the transparent center:
a cluster of homosexuals suckling...

He is Captain Nemo, submariner
mad haired scientist,
testing each concoctions' mixed diversions
and perversions / replete to repeat
                               how we all un-burden ourselves
to him, patience
is an old man with an oil burner...

I am transfixed
a lobotomy experiment of chopsticks
and peppermint schnapps

who's time has misplaced it's tick.


II

I am aerodynamic...

Because the laws of attractions
commonalities not flesh on flesh
or polysyllabic meals of kisses
none are removed from him

He weaves his wizard's wand
fantasia music to magic  ***
to a whistle's whim,
while I chimp out puzzles complex
just to gain praise and admiration.

(As he vanishes to rendez vous
another grinder, another victim,
another name game)

For behind his hood
and hat of tormenting's tricks
I have glimpsed his true nature

like Midus whose touch once harsh straw,
rumpled in his still-skins
complete with fanatical flaws
I witness an aging ram
horned, silver haired satyr...

I am a deer in headlights
every time I am shocked by my own
naievette
like sheep to a herder
steering a flock,
a troop, a school, a ******

unguided paths that shape themselves
by the traffic of every foot.

I have grown blank
no mirth or self-contrition
this rat retreats into moist dark spaces
to converse with paranoid shadows...

Behind his eyes
even when he mistakes his conjuring
excuses tangled among false & fallacies
but stupidity is
the only spell he never casts
upon my helicopter spinning mind


III

He has transformed me not to a toad
with a swollen desire
to croak / a burp

but turned me
into a boomerang...

Flung high with speed
inaccurately to flee blind
uncertain as wind-shears in Chicago
but still returns to suffer

A beaten Benji,
and still an Ole' Yeller defender of truth
I remain

knicked, knocked, chipped
licked - not yet
but seemingly to his soul's spotlight
dead.

Thrown out
to welcoming skies so blue

still there's an anger behind his eyes
I understand / it will be the end of me

I am unable to discern
our story - where dying heroes lay
when they realize
tragedies end unluckily...

But a boomerang
knows not reasoning to leave
and be victim
to its own nature's treason,
it does not question why
nor weep helplessly

yet it also does not sing
celebrating when in its master's hand
yet comes home
unhappily half alive
I suffer like the boomerang
still my own company
without
compass or wayward destination
give in to it's predestined
abilities
in high flight always returning,

whistles to the joy of living

you see, a yo-yo can not fly

I have become acquainted with heaven's sky
kingdom of light
familiar to it's shine
delight in my unforeseen
demise

(my magic kiss kiss
imagination bang bang!)*

I am a divine toy of life,

be it

a boomerang.

I've never been someone anyone would understand. I think differently. I act differently. I believe differently. I'm different, to lay it all out there.

I can be a very nice person, that doesn't mean I am very often. I have to try. My behavior depends on my encounters. I should probably be more level, but where's the honesty in that? Level people don't rise and fall. I'm waiting to rise again.

I'd rather have a conversation with my dog or someone I'll never meet, than with someone that knows me. Pre-conceptions are funny that way. I suppose I perceive people perceive me inaccurately. They do, actually. But I do it too, except one would think I might know myself by now. With strangers (and dogs), there are no pre-conceptions. Or at least, those thoughts are hazy and not defined. I hate being defined. Maybe that's why I haven't figured myself out just yet, it's for the best. I feel more free this way.

I'm not free. I've never been free. There were times when I was held under someone's thumb, someone who didn't even have the right kind of grip. Then there are those times when obligation held me tight, I couldn't escape it. I still can't. Even without all of these forced bindings, I'm simply bound to tie myself to something or someone. I can't seem to help it. I need to be needed. But I want to be let go. I'm sure I'd feel differently if that were to actually happen though. There I go again, not knowing…

I don't believe in marriage, but if I did…I'd marry a handsome blueberry farmer. We'd grow blueberries and grow old, all at the same time. He'd play the harmonica on the front porch while we sipped on sweet tea and watched the sun go down every evening. The dogs would love to hear him play, and they'd sing along…you know how dogs do. The kids would think us odd and wonder why we never get bored, sitting on the same porch together. And we'd think the kids are funny. Because let's face it, young people get weirder all the time.

I have my doubts about time. It seems it always runs out. Maybe I get a late start. Maybe I ***** around too much. Maybe it's that way for everyone. I don't know. I guess I shouldn't waste my time worrying about it.

I don't trust things. I trust words though. That may sound odd, in that someone has to say them. More than likely, I won't trust that person. Words are honest, the thoughts behind them may not be. That is to be debated in the moments or even after the fact, I suppose. I guess I trust the written word more so, to be specific. Words are for always, even if the "say"ers are not.

I don't talk about myself very much, really. I converse with people…and dogs. I elaborate upon what I mean, and sometimes I share stories. But I'd rather talk about you. I'm not sure why I do that. But I just discovered it about myself. I like discovering things about myself. The one thing I've known for a long time is I am honest. That's one thing I pride myself on. I won't lie to myself or anyone else, not anyone that matters anyway. And if I choose to tell you something, more than likely you matter. So, trust me. I need you to.

A collection of saliva sits on the ground.
The substance heaped in a short little mound.
Attention drawn from all around.
As the boy sits in clothes from the lost and found.

        Covered in *****
                    A pant soaked burden
A question asked during learnin’
                                                  The answer being Martin Van Buren

                   Told he shouldn’t be in school
              By those glaringly cruel.
          Constantly made to seem the fool.
Leading to an increase in the pouring drool.

                       His eyes sit at an angle.
              Bulging out as if enduring a quick strangle.
       Caught in the shine of a young girl’s bangle.
He twists his hair into a locked tangle.

The girl bats an eye.
                                 His mouth goes dry.

A boy flicks a small paper ball.
     It sits in the air to pivot and stall.
                                Lands inaccurately out in the hall
                                              The teacher seizes it bracing up against the wall.

Unfolds the note,
        And reads what he wrote.

It held a cruel remark.
About handicap spaces and keeping him for the sake of a quick park.

The boy didn’t wish he were dead.
                Nor was he agonized by the insult recently said.
       The remark went right over his head,
    He was stuck thinking about how sympathy only comes to those who have bled.

Why do girls lie to themselves and tell themselves,
I'm a six
when they're really an eight?
Why do we inaccurately portray ourselves
and seek to obtain these impossible standards
and gaze at our thighs for hours wondering
why did I ever let this happen to me
or noone will ever love me if I look like this
we'll hunch over our stomach rolls and wish
we could slice them off with a blade and they'd heal back flat, all the fat gone;
we'll wonder how anyone could find us pretty
and we'll doubt if they do
because the only boys who have ever been nice to us
are either playing a cruel joke
or are our fathers.
But here's some news: who you are is not defined by your poundage or the amount of lipids stored under your chin,
when you sit down, how far your thighs push out;
or even that terrible bit of fat under your arms
when you wave bye to your gorgeously thin friends.
Who you are is not merely 'pretty'
or 'skinny'
and I desperately don't want you judging yourself
on what some boy's favorite part of your body is
or what passerby think of your ***-
your body is more than skin deep,
your body is more than fat,
you have muscles and organs and things too,
there are more important things, like how
strong your heart is or how many gasps your lungs have had-
those things make you a valuable, important human being
because fat- well- that's not what makes you who you are.
And that's not what I love you for, because darling,
my favorite part of your body is your mind.

me? im a whole lotta broken. i wanna get fixed. dont know how tho - OR if its even possible. is it? i mean, the only antidote to the blah and blek and ugh and err is, for me at least, a blank page with a waiting blinking cursor. ahh, pure potential. infinite vistas of what-if. a path not taken is a beinglessness that feeds the imagination with pure uncut raw light extending back into the original whothefuckknowswhereitcamefrom wick that bore its birth... BUT i always manage to mess that up with words words words. so, what then? where from here? i dunno. and i am upsettingly ok w the the idunno, which, sadly is most likely going to lead to me being on the street. my ambition is err not good, at all... its way bad.. i swear to eff i once had a waking vision while nestled deep in meditation of all my previous incarnations - i was a sloth with a lazy eye for, like, ten thousand and ten generations. mmm, now THAT was the life. it was a comfy series of infinite expressions, till that **** ape-turned-human decided to exist and in doing so somehow managed to motivate my precisely calibrated aeon-long string of slothness into idk maybe not sleeping for 20 hours a day?? cutting it down to ohidunno 18 hours.. that was the first initial step. now, im a sentient ambling bipedal brain-heavy avatar that is oh so aware of itself, aka human, and tries to distract itself from the deep abiding blankness that pulses and pumps jus below the left-center breastbone by writing meh poems to pass the time. or maybe there is something there.. i dunno. maybe there is a wholeness. maybe the feeling i get when i can be weird in front of somebody else, and that feeling i get when i stare into the eyes of another person and know that they like me just as much as i like them, and that feeling of community, that yay burning sensation within that drums together like a kirtan, stoking stoking, stoked till all our very molecules begin to budge and shake and evaporate, rising like a riproaring pyre enlightening the nite sky, a light going on forever and ever, reaching past the final last outstretched fingertip of cosmos itself, back into the womb of Her.. and in doing so dimming the fake fluorescent light of ego which usually hangs over my brain's goings on, making me feel like i am not so small, not so insignificant, but central, mandalaing the the youme that burns burns burns onto the canvas of the abyss, creating life itself.... or i jus have a silly overactive imagination that ive never matured. idk. again, i seem to be ok with the idunno. indeed, i may even worship at the alter of idunno that doesnt even exist... "mental *******." that is what ive been charged with as doing by a shaman i consulted with at my mom's wedding. well, she didnt say it directly, but you know, hinted at it with that less-than-royal We - i had been talking about the difference between thought and language, and jus where in the hell thoughts come from anyway - a god? purely biological random shimmering byproducts of frontal lobes? some unifying infinite force? that spicy curry you ate? .. and she interrupted me ".. --- im gonna stop you right there" she intoned  ".. im getting something coming in right now from the Christ Mind, its telling me something.." dramatic pause. "... sometimes we tend to jus get stuck doing mental *******, instead of jus being appreciative of what we have, here and now, in the present - that is why it is called "the present" right??" i dunno, maybe she was right. but i hate that cliche.. the present is totally overrated imho... i hate my ego sometimes. or at least i hate not knowing if it is ego or not.. i hate feeling that feeling like somebody is trying to control me through indirect ways, because i dont know if they are actually trying to control me or if i am just inaccurately perceiving it. i think a lot of times we unconsciously try to control people, not even aware of it. i am sure i do this as well. we all have angles right? .. but anyway, speaking of self *** metaphors for describing the thinking process, i am tired of short skirt blonde bombshell anchors that have been under more knives that hannibal lecter's vics tell me about how scary isis is and how they are gonna take muh white and male murica from me, jerking off my leftover overactive monkey fear gland in my amygdala... its time to turn off the media and look outside. the sky is not falling and the birds are chirping. aright im done writing now. end. of. rant.

The Wings of a black bird curves,
As he’s deterred by the winds resistance
Contemplating its exist, but his will to go on is persistent
You see, he doesn't know what’s to gain
Or if he’ll find truth in those old sayings
Disputing myths and pointing out counterfeits
Depicting things in the distance, like he has a sixth sense
Reading the fine print on prescriptions,
Vulture’s find their addictions from the God’s
Because they have plenty of victims.
More than ****** or *******, Crack is wack, Mary Jane causes no pain
Medicines that aren't natural **** humans like its casual
Causalities building faster than the words of Socrates
The FAD of the F.D.A. approving poison as food like aspartame.
Preachers teaching blasphemy, Reading scriptures inaccurately,
Tickling the ears of those that pay a dollar to hear
That Jesus is coming there’s nothing to fear
So they believe they’ll be long gone before destruction is near
Death is at the door, but evolution is around the corner
The revolution will have to hold them
No true solution to control them
You see we are the caged beings
They lock our brains in
Books of lies, and entertaining T.V.

We could not accurately identify
The two children in the photograph,
So we did the space-time hop,
and found ourselves to be;
Underneath that large, gnarled tree.

The picture had inaccurately described
The details we now found this place to embody:
Once a marsh,
Now entirely wetlands,

and Tree...
Was an island,
of its own.

Strewn of bark, reeds, and root from below,
was Woman nestled up to Tree.

She was not separate, but consisting entirely of,
&& bound,
To Tree.

And as we gazed, you and i.

Her weathered face, && sunken eyes,
did my spine begin to tingle,
and her eyes; a twinkle.
As she twisted her head,
fixed her gaze upon my own,

And we stared...
Deeply into each other’s wonder.
That was only moments ago.

I found the Garden of Eden and remained for two years
I soon found this haven to be inaccurately named
For this was not a place I loved
And in that moment, I could not escape
I fought to swallow what my heart wept
To keep from drowning I built a turret atop my chest
Soon fields of gold turned to rag
My touch went vile and with it reaped ingenuous seeds
Now I must wait in vain for granted clemency

Sparks suspected to have caused this flame to be ignited
Put under pressure to hide it, conceal it, deny it
Insecurities and greed are the main culprits of all the violence
Curses foretold as warnings in the planets' alignment
Ignorance has been molded into an art or a science
If it isn't explicit, expect that they've securely implied it
So many sounds, go deaf and then drown in the silence
Invading homes and thoughts as though it was invited
Truth exposed is sneakily altered to disguise it
Misleading masses to control a majority's mindset
Freedom lost as they prevent attempts to revive it
Attempts to distract from the reality that existence is timeless
Peace of mind secured when tensions are excited
Crippling angels to prevent the liberty of flying
Heavily fueled by a cocktail of deciet mixed with spite
Significant events whispered as pointless wars are incited
Think of unity as a gryphon paralyzed and rendered flightless
Crowds convinced to be content when mindless
The search continues for those not mentally lifeless
What is considered humanity's finest
Authenticity has yet to be provided
It widens the gap that has us divided
The flame of those being blindly misguided
Runs the risk of roaring wildfires being ignited
No requests for your all, you've already supplied it
Made oblivious during the time of a crisis
Values labeled on treasures proven priceless
Privacy no longer permitted to be private
Eyes wide open yet views remain sightless
Individuality, a thing of which we may one day be reminded
Exterminations ordered of all those free and enlightened
Fortune concealed as the desperate all struggle to find it
Identities and dignity become commonly traded
If only they knew they were being violated
Unfortunately, their ignorance has been properly validated
After the ******, I wonder who lives to inaccurately explain it

it's funny how many assumptions one can make, simply by looking at a person—it's the reason so many stereotypes were created throughout time i suppose. people figured one or two things about an individual, could configure an entire category for certain humans, but the reality is; that's not possible, for every single one is different in particular ways. and that is why stereotypes and labels, all that *******? that's why i say that they are society's way of expressing how lazy it is, to not take the time to know one another, and rather generalizing inaccurately. it's a sad thing, really.

but you cannot judge a book by it's cover, you must discover the first chapter to recognize it's true gems, that could lead up to a whole cavern of jewels.

I couldn’t understand what he meant
But I watched his face intently and
Tried to think of what he could be saying to me
And I said words he might mean but to my dismay inaccurately
So I got more staff to try to translate to me when they could
And I helped him eat and hold his drink up to his lips
After realising his favourite mug had recently smashed
And I understood when he said this MS it’s a ******
And I laughed with him and smiled widely to hide my watery eyes
He paints and he likes to mention his daughter
He was really good at recalling dates but not names
He reminded me of my dad, a retired head teacher
My heart melted when he looked at me and said
Thank you and all I could say was you are welcome
It was an honour

i once knew a man with whom i shared many firsts
spheres aligned, hours mundane, endeavours delicate
and now he is merely a passer-by whose face i've nursed in private over the years
inaccurately
slowly
expiring

there is a certain irony to terrains less explored
i hear the light voices, speaking of plainness
quiet
escape
yet amidst all these noise, we are the lonely ones
we are lonely in caution, in responsibility, in abandonment
in incapacity to do just the same

when you've been there
and i've always been here
our hearts are no longer made of the same stone
our bodies might intertwine under the sheets
but our avenues beyond your doors will never be bridged

how utterly melancholic that is

I tip figurative hat to the late Cathy Robertson, longtime (lifetime) Thomas Paine Unitarian Church member, who unwittingly and quite casually made mention of contra dancing, which inopportunely, inextricably, and inaccurately linkedin to The Contras who were various United States backed and funded right-wing rebel groups that were active from 1979 to 1990 in opposition to the Marxist Sandinista Junta of National Reconstruction Government in Nicaragua, which had come to power in 1979 following the Nicaraguan Revolution.

After a hiatus of scores of years,
I in tandem with the missus
returned to a venue
March 14th, 2024
which Thursday night dances
currently held at Commodore
John Barry Arts and Cultural Center
6815 Emlen Street,
Philadelphia, PA 19119
that not only served
as palliative per bashfulness,
but even remedied
yours truly resigned himself living social
as a Norwegian bachelor farmer.

Life as a high school wallflower served me
analogous as The Idler Wheel Is Wiser
Than the Driver  of the *****
and Whipping Cords
Will Serve You
More Than Ropes Will Ever Do
without any budding female friendships
until lo… a gent tulle mandate
from my late mother uprooted me
from mein kampf

familiar bedrock level road terrain
(analogous regarding how
a duck takes to water -
meaning I identified said aerobic
rather cardiovascular workout
as an inherent quick study),
which venue offered a groundswell
of interpersonal opportunities
(preferably with persons of female gender)
to blossom forth

into golden sterling resplendent rod
of natural equipoise
(this an unbiased opinion) and balance
with freestyle élan begetting
improvisational swinging motions
unchained from the moors of formality
and lit figurative Saint Elmo’s
Sesame Street fiery dance
allowing, enabling and providing
this shy awkward self

during his young (emerging) adulthood
to cast away four ever
thy self embroidered handsome
straight as an arrow
naturally high as a kite young guy
buzzing like a yellow jacket,
thus liberating spontaneity
that je ne sais quoi joie vivre
clamoring headlong toward venus
from healthy pistol packing

overflowing bin laden
well nigh testosterone
erupting male member
toward opposite gender,
whereby bravado donned as key
to *** field of whet dreams
fostering initial albeit late blooming
roll in the hay hormonally
rooted rutting squeal.

Back in the day,
(when genders binary)
with nary a care
in the webbed wide world
I ate, breathed and lived
for contra dancing
experiencing social anxiety
and profusely sweaty palms
every mile of the way
(twenty door to door dash)

from (at that time)
324 Level Road
to then designated site
at Summit Presbyterian Church
6757 Greene Street,
Philadelphia, PA 19119,
where love's labor lost
found yours truly
engaged in pitched losing battles
introducing yours truly

(even after expiating my carnal sins)
to romantic liabilities incurred
while displaying comedy of errors,
when risking a overtures to ask
an attractive woman to be my partner
not only for one dance,
but also to explore the parameters
of fun two people can experience
while wearing clothes.