My New Year’s Eve
was spent
collecting fragmented recollections
to confirm
that my dignity
had truly died.

Soberly,
I perused
the bars and clubs,
and walked aimlessly
up and down crowded streets,
feeling like my life
had somehow
been shifted
into slow motion,
while the rest of the world,
engaging in joyous celebration
and ffestivities,
was knocked out of rhythm
from my existence.

How in the world
could the clock strike midnight?
How could people embrace, and kiss
at the dropping of the ball?
How could they laugh and smiile,
and wish each other a “Happy New Year!”?

More importantly,
how could those ******* traffic lights
have the audacity
to continue changing
from red to ggreen to yellow,
then back to red again.

My dignity had just died.
My dignity had just died.
My dignity was dead.
My dignity was gone.

In the days and weeks
that followed the death of my dignity,
I noticed
that life faded
from colloquial to iconic,
like something mystical,
or an intangible object
of deep longing.

And recurrent images
of those *******
obnoxious traffic lights
insensitively
switching colors
replay in my mind
to remind me
over and over
in the greens (go),
the reds (stop),
and the yellows (be careful),
that my dignity
had died.  
    
Memories
of the ddays
before my dignity had died
run through my mind
like old home movies
with centuries
of black and white film
stuck on repeat,
and slowly fraying,
around the edges,
because of the harsh demands of time.

It is life’s
harsh and cruel irony
that these images,
once my greatest joy,
have now become
inflicters
of the greatest pain
that I
have ever felt.

Like a sound wave
of pain,
so powerful,
that it has silenced
any other pain
that my heart
has ever heard.

So now I know,
it is true
life is a *****.  

The fading
of my dignity
has made me
overly aware
of the earth
turning on its axis.

As spring approached,
for the very first time,
I noticed
the way the flowers
seem reluctant
to bloom,
as if uncertain
of their
welcome invitation.

Such a cruel reality,
that the flowers
would choose
to bloom,
and nature
would choose
to carry on,
slipping
further and further
away from the day
that my dignity died.

And still,
to this day,
those ****
traffic lights
keep switching colors

So insensitively you drain and ***** me
taking blood samples and injecting the chills
enstilling no trust right before you ******
foreign objects into my gut
I didnt ask for you nor did you ask for me
and with a situation that should be full of understanding
we just cant seem to meet eye to eye
you are the arrogant judgemental kind
and me I'm just a piece of paper
full of ineligible lines
I hate doctors or most I should say
I come in always in the worst of situations
For them its everyday
and the longer they're with it
the less humane they seem
I dream of a world full of humility
while I crumble
traumatised in hospital sheets

Laying there stagnant
My fingers percuss
Your ivory spine
Striking tendon strings
With fleshy hammers
Filling your thorax
With the vibrations
Of a thousand wasps
Stinging at your heart
As you stung at mine
Injecting resin
Injecting reason
To stay forever
And I ignite you
You, the Brazen Bull,
Cremating your heart
Still beating “I love you”
In boiling Morse code
But howling His name
In perfumed clouds of
Carbon Monoxide
Insensitively

The world of adults has for a long time been insensitively pouring lies onto the purity of the newly created mind, believing persistently in the vortex of nonsense while living in it. They do not know for the alternative . They are afraid…
That is why they are fostering the lie and with the finger in front of the mouth they are evoking premonition.
Silence was interrupted by a gentle voice from the corner. Lurking, he waited patiently for his moment. Then he started very slowly and softly and curious become quiet and then there was silence.
- Outside, you could hear a life! – said the kid – People live outside.
The father got up from the chair while the others looked at the child in astonishment, he then went to the window and said:
- There is no one out there. It's raining and it's gloomy. It gets dark faster in the autumn.
- Through the door, under the threshold, I feel the pollen from the blooming linden trees. It's morning and it isn’t dark. It is just about to be dawning. And it's not autumn but it's late spring – the boy said.
- There’s no morning, son. – said the concerned father, looking briefly at his son and then back to the backyard.
- There it is, behind the gates. Only you cannot see it. It’s scared of the grown-ups. I will go there and invite the morning to come in.
The kid ran out and returned in a few moments, holding the morning by the hand. The linden tree smelled even stronger and the joy of the awakened day sneaked into the house.

Why did you burn me, Fire? Constantly
screaming, jagged in breath, while desperate
for attention-- Where's your dignity?
You've been asking for attention, reaching
for our hands, snapping towards scorched
palms you bubbled, inflated with infection.
I flinch when you spark back to creation.
You've cracked within pressure, Fire,
molten at the core, insensitively lost,
but you, Fire, you lost yourself within
heated monetary discussions--
You seek for growth, demolishing
the path you take.  I can only blame
myself though, Fire. I'm the one who
encouraged, blew on your embers,
empowering your ideals, starting rampages
that engulfed forests and plains. Leaves
dared to love you, now burnt--
You've lost yourself, Fire. Will you
ever let your guard down again?

She sees the world in vibrant colors
Shades that will never be discovered
It is a different world for this woman.
Everything is flowers.
When she opens her eyes nothing is covered.
However no one can see what she sees.
No one can have her perspective;
And no one will see though her eyes,
Into her heart,
Inside her soul.
Her ears are quite different;
They hear pain and hate
It is a different world from what she hears and sees.
Her heart above all is filled with hate and love.
She hates the world, but she cannot hate any individual.
She knows what it is like to be hated
And pushed down so insensitively.
So she loves
But that love has yet to be returned.
Her mind is filled with the sight of beauty,
The sound of hate,
And emotions with no range.
Because of this
She will never be understood,
Never loved,
And never accepted as who she is.
So, the mask goes on
Hiding all of these,
“flaws”.

Peter (my bf) is coming to town - tonight. I’m breathy with excitement.
My energy is so sick. “Someone scrape her off the walls,” Leong remarked, as I bounded out of my room this morning.
Lisa winced, holding her hand up, as if to block the sun, “You never smile in the morning.”   “And she’s humming,” Sunny observed.
“I’m not,” I started, then after a pause I amended, “yeah, I guess I was.”

I’m not just happy, I’m some new kind of happy. It’s been too long.
I’m swinging a school’s-out, pre-Christmas, free iced-latte vibe.
I’ve been on the busiest stretch, clearing my schedule. I have to define my thesis this semester. Argh!

But I’m ready for some bf fun. I’ve changed my sheets, hidden the general mess and God, even vacuumed.
That’s very un-university-like behavior - believe me.
As down as I was last Friday night, from tanking that quiz, that’s how up I am now.

Speaking of that quiz, the only way to deal with a fret is to exorcize it, defeat it, vanquish it. I stalked the TA after class last Tuesday, finally cornering him, like a wounded animal at his desk.
“I tanked last week’s quiz,” I admitted, which sounded way more whiny out loud than it did in my head.
“Vionet, right?” He’d asked rhetorically, already clicking his keyboard to bring up the grade sheet.
“Are there any extra cred..” I began. “You got an 88,” he interrupted me. “Yeah, but,” I’d begun again
“That’s a B,” he’d deadpanned in a low, ‘why do I have to talk to idiots,’ voice.
“Yeah, but,” I’d began freshly, only to be re-interrupted.
“A weekly quiz,” he’d said, “like a hundredth of your grade.”  
“A B,” I began, shaking my head side to side in a ‘no’ way, but I’d smiled ingratiatingly too - I was going to win this guy over.
“You’re way too tightly wound,” he’d snarked, insensitively.
I opened my mouth to speak again when he said “OUT,” twisting his head to nod towards the door.
“You don’t,” I began, only to have him give me a teen-like, wide-eyed look as he nodded again at the door.
So, I flounced out, giving a silent voice to my indignation.
Bureaucracies.
.
.
Songs for this:
Take Off Ur Pants by Indigo De Souza
Kool Thing by Sonic Youth
.
.
Our cast
Peter, (My bf), is a bearded, 27-year-old from the sage hills of Malibu, California. He’s 6’1, too thin, his jet-black hair is perpetually uncombed and his skin is pale from over exposure to fluorescent lighting. He earned his PhD in Applied Physics last year and now he works for CERN in Geneva. He’s smart, quiet, awkward and he can be too serious. I’m unreasonably cRaZy about this guy.

Lisa, (roommate) 21, my bff and Manhattanite ‘glamor girl’ (who’d bristle at that description but it’s hundo-p true.) who grew up in a 50th floor Central Park South high-rise. A (pre-med) molecular biophysics and biochemistry major.

Leong, (roommate) 21, a ‘molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major,’ is from Macau, China - the Las Vegas of Asia and she’s a proud communist (don’t knock it til you’ve tried it). Growing up, I lived in Shenzhen China (about 30 miles from Macau) we both speak Cantonese (maybe why we were paired?) and we're able to talk a lot of secret trash together.

Sunny, (suitemate) 21, a (pre-med) molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major, is a cowgirl from Nebraska (seriously, she has a quarter horse and barrel races). She’s an outspoken fem-facing ladies-lady.

Your author, a simple country girl from Athens, Georgia is also a (pre-med) molecular biophysics and biochemistry major.

Too much trauma
The brain needs a rest
Who cares
Too much of everything
To sleep with no interference
In isolated solitude
A moment of no spoken word
Curtains drawn
Darkened room
My room of gloom
Devoid of thought
No telephone to insensitively pierce the silence
No one to enter the room uninvited
Utter words of razor
Cutting into you
Into your very soul
A hellish insensitive voice
The one that could make you ****
Feel no shame
Carry no blame
Then go back to sleep

Walk, stop, look
In this journey I go barefoot
Passing many things that I forsook
Without a place to plant my roots

Gave my hearts to the people I pass
For them to play, love or break
To myself I have brought this ache
For insensitively talking words of crass

I’ve seen too many things
Felt too many stings
But I’ve never changed this attitude
In the horizon I spot solitude

Maybe It’s better to be a genuine passerby
Enjoying the scenery as I move
With no hearts left behind and given love
Free as the wind in the unfettered path toward the sky

But can’t and will not cease
For I can’t stop being human yet
To separate the seven emotion and four vices
My mind, for that, is still not set

Lets say I’ll achieve those on death’s door
Only looking forward if to hell drop or to heaven soar
But there is still such a long way before the ending
Now with hearts given, I am just passing

Nobody tells you
That you won’t be able to listen to music
Because it’s all insensitively about love
Or unbearably true to your pain

Nobody tells you
That you’ll lose control over your mind
Because every last little thing will remind you of him
So you’ll have to fight through each moment just to be okay

Nobody tells you
That your body will feel cold
That you’ll tremble
And ache

And nobody tells you
That sometimes you’ll feel fine
And that those moments are the scariest of all
Because that feels like you’re losing them
All over again

I  like avant-garde poetry
but only to a certain extent
the poets care more
of their unique tongues
traditions they deplore-
they smash the past's finest
as though in angry vengeance
new paths in vanity they explore

weird images
outlandish metaphors
sentences
insensitively sliced
they even overlook
grammatical errors

who do they target
only the intellectual few?
is their role
to stage a coup d'etat
to effect
a coup de grace?

is poetry intended
to mystify, obscure
rather than illuminate
enlighten, inspire
or
serve the poets' egos?

I'll appeal
to the common heart
in words simple and plain
avoid self-aggrandised art
in gentle hope
I might soothe
someone's sorrow or pain

give me then
Shelley, Keats, Byron
they make me weep
over and over again.

orchestration, and utilization,
a moss fungi (fun guy) attests his marriage
synonymous with symbiotic relationship.

Nostalgic acquiescence about fictitious life,
oblivescence about current travails
and reminiscence about
transcendence into utopia
prompts me to revisit livingsocial,
now that yours truly
among the grateful dead.

As a saprophyte,
the missus buzzfeeds off me lovely bones
once plump with excess adipose tissue
otherwise known as body fat,
a connective tissue
that extends throughout body electric
found under your skin (subcutaneous fat),
between your internal organs (visceral fat)
and even in the inner cavities of bones
(bone marrow adipose tissue).

Over the ensuing two score and ten years
after pledging our troth, the missus
(opposed with a vehemence
keeping her maiden name,
or even acquiescing
maintaining surname
with hyphae fun nation),
and yours truly at one time or another
from the day we met
until the present moment

invariably, intolerantly, intimately,
intentionally, intemperately, insultingly,
insufficiently, insidiously, insincerely,
insensitively, insensibly, inscrutably,
inquietly, injuriously, inhospitably,
inharmoniously, infuriatingly, infernally,
inexorably, ineffably, indubitably,
indescribably, indelibly, incredibly,
increasingly, incessantly, incalculably,
ineluctably molded unnamed spouse.

Truth be told, the grudging acceptance to wed
made indirectly and courtesy
unbeknownst and linkedin
to our unborn eldest daughter
about four months in utero,
when marriage date chosen
July twenty fifth nineteen ninety six
since yours truly and my then girlfriend
abstained from birth control
tantamount to playing Russian roulette,
and decided to let natural insemination
trigger conception between
twelve and twenty four hours after ovulation.

Neither of us the least bit prepared
economically nor emotionally,
which urge to procreate
superseded sense and sensibility,
and in retrospect,
I readily admit flagrant
negligent ****** recklessness
(no matter physical ******* monogamous),
and an adamant refusal to use prophylactic
or more commonly known as ******.

Though excited to sow seminal seeds of life
a panic stricken state afflicted me,
when consensual concurrence
to consummate copulation occurred,
nevertheless ecstasy at potential fatherhood
brought courtesy the resultant
unexpected positive result
yielded from pregnancy kit.

Back in the day libidinal longing
(in my pinion) wracked ****
of accursed celibate
Norwegian bachelor farmer wannabe,
where merest suggestion
of ******* thoughts
hounded doggone muttering
dove head lettered man
all the way to Antioch
feverish pitch I could not block
found mine doodling ****
to crow night and day
without let up to dock
****** solitude a worse fate
than therapy zapping gray matter
with wave after wave oven electroshock,
a divine sterling erectile rod
hoping gallivanting frisky felines would flock.

my heart, the perfectly shaped egg
oh dear, hear me out, would you?
i can explain it, everything, for you
it's a philosophy only one can understand, will you?

i'm not like the rest
i used to want glasses, freckles and even braces
i use to rock back and forth like i was in a movie
at some point, even wanted to switch races

i use to climb the tree searching for the apple
i use to roam the streets in search of treasure
now the fire has been extinguished, there's no more crackle
none to call home, only issues and trouble to tackle

im insensitively sensitive, my heart, an egg
my whole life is a paradox, inconsequently
the softest at the core, basically liquid inside
but getting through, planets and asteroids will have to collide
and inside, there's something brewing, and building, and forming
like a chicken giving birth to it's chick, its transforming
and soon, it will break through the barriers
and hatred will be swarming

that's how you would remember me, that's the sad part
so i warn you now, not to overstep
care and nurture me, protect my heart and tread lightly, be cool
cause im a ticking time bomb, tick tick tick and trust me, you should have no intention of being around for the boom

what good does it do if my heart is an egg, but i'm surrounded with sharp utensils
how does it make anything better if my tongue has all the power and my heart has to deal with the aftermath
how does my brain even play a role when it knows what's going on and does nothing
doesn't provide a path, to success
doesn't enable me to laugh in times of stress

the heat is rising, and like an egg, i feel my heart getting more solid, like a boiled egg
i dont know who is in control of the temperature but i wont beg
i'll stand up straight, head up and keep smiling
because the tension is rising, the right things, nobody's buying
im failing but baby im trying
im seeing way too many souls flying, gliding in azure sky
there's too many people lying, oh my
there it is
there
breakfast is served.