I broke up with God
at our favorite eatery
in our favorite booth.

We settled into familiar creases
and asked for the usual.

My eyes lazily staring at fingers
stirring the straw around the ice cubes,
God cautiously spoke up:

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” (Thinking about the dormant phone
concealing behind the lock screen
the open Facebook tab
lingering over the relationship status section.)

They silently mused over the laconic reply,
til the waitress showed up with the food.

“Thank you!” God blurted with agonizing alacrity.

I received the sustenance lifelessly
and aimlessly poked at the burgers and fries.

The waitress eyed me with vague inquisition,
popping a bubble in the gum between
big teeth, refilled my water
and pirouetted hastily.

We ate in ostensible harmony,
the silence gripping like a chokehold,
the visible anxiety and subdued resolve
settling like a stifling blanket
over the child waking
from a nightmare—

Til we couldn’t breathe,
and I ripped back the covers
and looked into the eyes
of my tormentor.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

God, taken aback by the curt statement,
dropped their burger with shaking hands,
silently begging with wetting eyes
a greater explanation.

So I elaborated:

“It’s not you, it’s me.

For your immaculate conception
was created by human hands,

your adages rendered obsolete
by human words,

your purpose and plan for us
distorted by human nature—

I cannot hate myself any longer.

I cannot pretend to know you at all.

Who my mother and father say you are
is not who my friends think you are,
nor my teachers, my pastor,
the president, Stephen Hawking,
Muhammed, the KKK, Buddha,
the Westboro Baptist Church,
Walt Whitman, Derek Zanetti,
******,
and Billy Graham.

I am told you care who I bring into bed (and when),
and what movies I watch,
and what music I listen to—

I have not heard what you say about
child soldiers, the use of mosquitos,
or the increased destruction of the earth
which you proudly proclaimed your creation,
or the poverty and disease and famine
which has ridden so many of your children—”

God interjected,
“But you’re chosen!”

I snorted,

“You say I’m chosen
to spend eternity with you—
why me?

Why’d you pick me among
thousands, millions, billions?

I’ve been told I’m ‘chosen’
since birth
by others like me—

those with fair complexion,
blue eyes,
blonde hair,
a firm overt ****** attraction towards women,
and a great big house
with immaculate white fences
delineating their Jericho.

I’ve already fabricated eternity
here among the other ‘chosen’
and there is a world of suffering
right outside the fence
and I see them
through the window of my bedroom
every day.

Am I chosen,
if I don’t vote Republican

Am I chosen
if I am Pro-Choice

Am I chosen
if I cohabitate with my girlfriend

Am I chosen
if I never have kids

Am I chosen
if I say ‘Happy Holidays’

Am I chosen
if I don’t want public prayer in schools

Am I chosen
if I don’t want a Christian nation

Am I chosen
if I don’t repost you on my wall
or retweet your adages?

I’m tired
being the ubermensch,
for it has not brought me
happiness
and I blame you.

I will not ignore
the cries of the suffering
believing it is I
who is destined to live
in bliss.

I will not buy
Joel Osteen’s autobiography(ies).

I will not tithe
you my money
for a megachurch
when another homeless shelter
closes down.

I will not tell a woman
what to do with her body,
or a man
that he is a man
if they say they are not.

I am neither Jew nor Gentile,
and I will stand with
my brothers and sisters
of Faith and Faithlessness,

Gay and Straight,
Black and White,

and apart from these extremes
free from absolutes
the ambiguous, amorphous
nature of Humankind
which I praise.

There is much pain and suffering
in this world,
potentially preventable,
but hardly can I believe
it’s part of your plan
to save
me.

I will not be saved
if we are not
all saved—

not one will burn
for my divinity.

The gates will be open to all—
and perhaps you believe that too,
but I’ve gotten you all wrong
and that cannot change,
as long as there is
mortality, and
corruption, and
power, and
lust, and
greed.”

God whined, growing bellicose,

“It is through me that you will find eternity,
I am the one true god!
I am the God of your fallen ancestors,
it is because you have fallen short
that you need me!”

I replied, growing in confidence,

“We have all fallen short,
yes,
but we are also magnificent.

We have evolved,
we have created,
we have adapted,
we have survived.

We have built empires,
and we have destroyed them.

We have cured diseases,
and we have created them.

We have done much in your name.
We’ve done good,
and we’ve done evil—

And unfortunately it’s all about
who you ask.

Your name is a burden on the oppressed
and a weapon of the oppressor.

You are abusive, God.

You tell me you are jealous.

You tell me apart from you I will suffer for an eternity.

I’m scared to die, yet want to die,
because of you.

You have made life a waiting room
that is now my purgatory. It is

Hell On Earth.

So you see,
it’s not you,
it’s me—
a mere mortal
who has tried to put a face
to eternity
and it has left me
empty.

And also,
it’s me,
for I have learned to love me,
as I have expelled your self-loathing imbibition,
and the deleterious zeal
I have proclaimed
through ceaseless
trepidation
and self-flagellation—

I have learned to love me
by realizing I am not inherently evil,
that my body is not evil,
that my mind is not evil,
and, ultimately, that
there is no good
and there is no evil.

My body is beautiful,
my mind is beautiful,
this world is beautiful,
and we are destroying it
waiting for you to claim
us.

I leave you
in hopes to see you
again one day,

and perhaps you will look
different than I have
perceived or imagined,

and in fact
I certainly hope so.”

Just then the waitress strolled back up
with a servile smile:
“Dessert?”

“No, thank you,”
I smiled politely.

And with that,
I paid the check,
and took a to-go box—

walked out into the evening rain
to my car,
put on a secular song
that meant something real to me
and drove off
into the night—

feeling for the first time
free
and alive.

Archie was smart; at least he reckoned he was, because he had what he considered to be the good things in life: dosh in his wallet, a Cat in the garage, and a detach. in the green belt; all of which he had worked hard to acquire. Worked, is not exactly the word for it. Archie did deals. He reckoned he could always turn a fiver into a tenner an’ a tenner into a pony; a pony into a ton and a ton to a grand. He was one of the cash economy’s natural alchemists.  The folding stuff was the measure of a person, he reckoned. Archie never thought about anything; he reckoned everything, and nothing on God’s good earth was beyond reckoning, he reckoned. An ever-ready reckoner; that was Archie, and he loved himself for it. Only John Wayne did more reckoning than Archie, his old dad, bless him, used to say, thought Archie. In Archie’s world a grand was currency; less than that was just spare change. He reckoned he gave superior meaning to the expression ‘it’s a grand life’. The only blemish on Archie’s horizon as far as he could see was the lack of a class bird, or ‘ream sort’, as he preferred to say; hence this evening’s extravaganza at a posh French restaurant in the company of a beautiful lady. Archie only had two serious weaknesses in his existence: a fondness for the last word in a dispute about anything you care to mention, and his infatuation with his dining companion, the beautiful Carmela.


Carmela shared a common background with Archie. They grew up on the same council estate in the inner city. They were aware of each other’s existence as kids and teenagers, but they didn’t really know each other. Carmela was a quiet child and very singular; even in company she could be by herself. None but she was wise to her sense of solitude. She had three passions in life: knitting, sewing and weaving; the blessed trinity of her existence. Carmela interpreted the world by these three gifts. Here she was, she thought, weaving her way through an evening, in the company of three strangers. One she knew, herself, another she didn’t know at all, despite proximity and semi-shared origins. Then there was the complete stranger to the trinity: the waiter in his new and very polished shiny black shoes, “You can tell a lot about a person by their shoes”, Carmela’s mum used to say, she was thinking about that as the waiter appeared to almost pirouette into vision.


The waiter was a patient soul, it goes with the territory. The waiting game wasn’t something you should rush in to, he often told himself, in one of his more existentialist moments. He appreciated the irony of the comment in a Sartresque kind of fashion. He was from a steel town in the Rhonda Valley of South Wales. Iron was in his veins if not his appearance. A creature of paradoxes, that’s what he told himself he was. He liked that assessment of himself. It complimented his passion for all things French: French food, French wine, French philosophy, literature and art. He was learning the language at night school. Alas, his accent was as lyrically refined as the landscape that bred him He shovelled the words onto a conveyor belt of sound and meaning as best he could in the general direction of the person he was talking to, more in hope than in faith that they understood what was being said .The other passion in his life was tap dancing, and as luck would have it he could wear the same outfit for work and leisure, hence the very shiny shoes which allowed him to dance around the tables of the restaurant, practising his language skills on the clientele, His life work and leisure dovetailed with his ambition and he was pleased to wake up in the morning and set about the mortal trespass with a skip in his step. The waiter imagined himself to be a cosmopolitan and enlightened soul, in a very Fred Astaire kind of way, and life was a flight of stairs which he could ascend and descend in a Morse code type of style, just like Mr Bojangles.


The fare was fine. the wine was rare, but the conversation was spare until the cheese board arrived.” Good grub”, said Archie to the waiter. “We don’t do grub, sir, we only serve the finest Gallic cuisine in this establishment,” replied the waiter, in his usual mangled French, whilst smiling that smile that only waiters can manage when registering disapproval. Archie looked blank. It was Carmela who spoke: “C’était magnifique! Mes compliments au chef.” “Streuth! You speak better French than Marcel Proust here” said Archie.” I studied Fashion and Design in Paris for five years “replied Carmela.” “An’ I joined the Common Market many moons ago. It’s good for business” said Archie. The waiter was impressed: “Food, fashion, wine, Proust and Paris. This must be Nirvana” he said. “Great band, but a very dubious heaven.” replied Carmela, knitting together the threads whilst changing the pattern of the conversation in a very subtle fashion that was more to her liking.” “It’s only rock ’n’ roll” said Archie, an’ if you’ve ever heard French rock ’n’ roll it’s enough to make you believe in Foucault” “Foucault, my hero!” said the waiter, “a philosophical genius”. “According to Foucault, a knitting pattern is the hieroglyphic of a consumerist and decadent capitalist society.” intoned Carmela.” “And ‘A recipe is a critique of a cake’, said the great Structuralist philosopher,” interjected Archie, so if you serve the gateaux we may effect the collapse of western civilisation as we all know and love it”. “Allors, Let them eat cake” said the waiter, and everybody smiled at the irony of the comment.

The waiter bojangled his way into the night, tapping and clicking the pavement as he went.  Carmela and Archie got into a black cab. “That was a night to remember,” said Carmela, “very Proustian”. “A la recherche du temps perdu”, replied Archie, pleased as punch to have the last word. Carmela just smiled as she looked at Archie’s shoes.

You tell me,
I need to breath,
As you watch,
My rib cage heave.

There's comfort,
In your clouded eyes,
But I ignore,
Your feeble cries,
It's pity lined,
With bitter lies.

You tell me,
I need to breath,
I hold my breath,
And watch you leave.

*you tell me,
I need to breath,
And suffocate,
My self belief.

As Lewis walked up to the door, it strangely felt like he had been here before. But he hadn't. She had moved here three years ago, and he never saw the place. It smelled like Nina's home alright, though. The faint whiff of hydrangeas, of roses, and of other flowers caught he keen nose, and he breathed in deeply and smiled reassuringly to himself. The he became serious, as if he had no right to smile.

Was this the right thing to do? He hoped so. Time would tell. It felt as if it was almost yesterday, instead of six years ago, as he knocked on her door.

After a few knocks, a minute or two, Nina opened the door to her house. Someone had to be home, for there was a car in the driveway. As she looked upon him, Lewis expected her to slam the door shut in his face, but she also acted as if she had just seen him yesterday. And it seemed like no big deal to her.

Without much emotion on her face, she left the screen door shut, but she kept the inner door open. Walking away, it was like she expected him to follower her non-verbal lead. He did, hesitantly.

In the kitchen, Nina poured him a cup of coffee. "You hungry?" she asked him. "I am about to put some cinnamon roles into the oven. I'm going to open up a can from the fridge."


"Oh?" Lewis responded, trying to be nonchalant, trying to hid the nervousness in his voice. "Not from scratch?" His heart was practically beating out of his chest.

Nina's back was towards him. She was finishing some dishes in the sink. "Yeah, I know I was always Betty Crocker. But I'be learned to make short cuts, and it tastes just fine. Makes life easier to not do everything like Grandma did it."  

After she separated the rolls apart, and stuck them into the oven, she just kept going about her business. She started to open some mail and sorted the items into piles of importance and priority, and into a pile that could wait.

Lewis was shocked. He couldn't believe her composure. After a while, she turned around, leaned against the counter top, and she acted like she didn't have a care in the world. She didn't look one bit stressed, angry, sad, shocked, disgusted--or anything.

Finally, Lewis said, "Nina, I don't get it." He felt itchy, and tense, as if he could scratch his skin off, as if he was waiting for a bomb to drop. "Why aren't you telling me to get the hell out of her...to go ***** off...or call me every name in the book."

Nina just looked him up and down. He began to chuckle, nervously. "Come on, Nina! I am surprised you just don't grab that pan of hot rolls in the oven, and whack me in the head with them!"

In response, Nina still said nothing, acting as if nothing ever happened.

Becoming quite unsettled with her unexpected composure, he went on. "I mean...come on..scream at me. Cuss me out! Slap me! Punch me! Something, for God's sake!"

Nina raised an eyebrow, and tried to resist smiling. She was waiting patiently for him to explain himself, not to go on like this. "Is that what you want, Lewis? Is that why you came her? To beat you into oblivion with a pan of hot cinnamon rolls?" She didn't try to make him look foolish--he was doing a good job of that on his own.

Lewis turned red in embarrassment, and started to smirk. "Well...yeah...would make more sense to me."

The timer went off and the rolls were done. Putting her oven mitts on, Nina pulled them out of the oven and let them cool on top of the counter. The silence was eerie, awkward.

She poured him another cup of coffee, and finally addressed the elephant in the room. As he still looked up at her, dumbfounded by her, she said, "Lewis...if you have the ***** to come here...than I can certainly let you in and hear you out."

With that said, she filled a plate full of rolls, places them in the center of the table, pulled out a chair and sat down across from him at the table. "I'm listening", she said, her expressions still low-key. Yet Lewis thought that her eyes and mouth seemed ready to mock him, positioned to put him in his place. His guilt wouldn't allow him to think, otherwise.

Why would she serve him food and coffee? Why not just get it all into the open and demand that he spill his guts?

Lewis didn't want to beat around the bush any longer, but spoke plainly in his confession. "Nina, what can I say? I'm an ***." She didn't nod her head in agreement, nor say that he sure was an ***, yet a "look of  suspicion was growing upon her face.

"OK, OK", he went on. "I should never have left you--of all days! What a frickin' wimp! I should have manned-up and told you I wasn't ready to get married. Instead, I stood you up at the church...of all places...in front of your family...your friends. A complete no-show--I made a mockery of that day! It was supposed to be one of the best...and I made it the worst! Some in my family haven't really gotten past it or have forgiven me. Not fully. A few barely talk to me. My best friend, Steve, thinks I'm a *****--a dumb fool!"

Nina sighed with relief. This was what she wanted to hear. The tears started flowing.

Lewis told her, "So I just don't get it. I don't get why you are not furious with me! It just blows my mind!"

Lewis grabbed for another cinnamon role, and Nina handed him a napkin. She wasn't crying anymore, and he was glad. Why was she being so nice though? So hospitable? Did she have something up her sleeve? Did she mean to get back at him? Maybe poison in one of his roles? Lewis had to laugh at himself. Actually, that might alleviate some of his guilt right now.  

Picking at her role, Nina explained, first more sharply. Then she was soft in speech. "It's not all about you, ya know! Look, Lewis, don't think that for a moment that just because it is more OK now that it was OK back then! Well...I guess you already realize this. You see, I'm different now...changed...grown a lot since. I did a lot of soul searching, lots of growing."

"I can see that. It's wonderful."

"And I wondered what I did wrong...at first. Then I hated you, blamed you. I wished that I never said I would marry you. I did plenty of screaming at you--plenty. I bring things in a rage--mirrors, a clock, a dish or two--bruised my fists up pounding things."

She paused and continued, all the time looking at the intricate, lace doily on the center of the table, under a vase of fresh daisies. Finally, Lewis saw the gamut of emotions. In one moment, her face would pinch in frustration and anger. It would then evolve into a soft sadness, and other emotions within.

"Wasn't so composed about you back then, Lewis. Let's see...I swore at you. I wished you were dead. I ripped up every picture of you...put some in the shredder, wishing they were you, instead..prayed that you would die. Bitterness isn't event he word for it. I thought you were the worst thing that happened to me, that you ruined my life forever. I cursed you up and down, Lewis. I'm sure I even invented some new curse words."

That was enough said. She looked up at him and slightly smiled. Lewis smiled back, for at least she felt real to him now, quite natural. She admitted, But I think I cried far more than I hated you. I still loved you."

Lewis wanted to sit right next to her and hold her. "Oh, baby...I'm so sorry..."

Nina quickly interjected. "Honey, you weren't ready for marriage. We were both young, only in our mid twenties...we thought we had it so together. It took me a while, but I finally realized that you needed to find out who you really were, came to that conclusion for a while now. And, boy, did I need to get to know myself more, too!"

"No!", he insisted, emphatically. "Don't make excuses for me! I did not do right by you!"

Nina reached across the table and put her hand upon his. "It seemed like hell at the time, but I needed to learn about me, too! Crazy as it sounds....if it did not happen...I never would have..."

She stopped short. Lewis had tears in his eyes, and one began to roll down his cheek. "Met Gary", he said, finishing her sentence for her.

Surprise flashed across her face. "You did your homework!" Nina stated. She was quite impressed and smiled.

"I wanted to know what happened to you", Lewis responded. "You probably wonder why I didn't walk away for good. I intended to....but you deserve some answers, and I'm here to give them to you. Sure, I could have walked away, and stayed away. I could have saved myself the embarrassment of facing you, again. I could have pretended to have some dignity left."

"But you do have some dignity left", she insisted, sweetly. "It takes a lot of courage to do this. I'm glad you did."

"Are you happy now? I mean...I hope you are."

"Very."

Lewis didn't even have to ask. He could already tell. They sat in silence for a moment. Nina finally said, excitedly, "Gary's a great guy! We both love art. We both love nature, the outdoors, to travel.  He loves other cultures, and learning other things--like languages." Her face was beaming with pride. "Gary is trying to learn Portuguese and brush up on his Spanish. This year ,we are planning a trip to Portugal and Spain!"

Nina always did keep a nice home, and she decorated it with art that was acquired from different places. Where Lewis didn't have a sense of what looked good, she had a good sense of style. When they were both together, the talked of going to different places that they never traveled to--Africa, Asia, Australia--backpacking across Europe. They were big dreams.

Nina did not want Lewis to feel punished, but his agonizing expression of remorse would have been punishment enough. It already was for him, and it showed his sincerity.

"You know how I met Gary?"

Lewis shook his head. "A support group for divorced people! she admitted, gleefully, as if that was the most amazing thing to say.

Lewis looked embarrassed. Perhaps, he misunderstood her.  "What? For divorced people? You were never married before Gary, were you?"

Perhaps, there was something she wasn't telling him. Nina burst out laughing, seeming so carefree as she threw her head back and clapped her hands. Her laughter was beautifully contagious, and Lewis loved to hear it. "No, of course not!" she said. I have no secret past before I met you...or even now. It's just that a divorce support group was the closest support I could get. After all, there are no support groups for jilted brides and grooms!" She laughed even more.

They were talking so easily now, getting along so well. But why? It still seemed so surreal. Lewis laughed along with  her, as if this was just an encounter  to revisit the good, old times. When hearing of Gary, Lewis felt the pain of his loss, as well as some jealousy rise up. As if he had the right!  

He truly was an ***! He never deserved her!

Nina soon became serious, again. "So did you just come here to say you were sorry?" She was thinking he wanted something else from her, something else to say.

Lewis was once poised to take off in a real hurry. Now, he felt more at home. "Yeah...I came to say I was sorry to you...hoping to stop feeling sorry for myself... I guess. I'm wishing I could just turn back the clock. I swear I'd do it all again, differently."

"But the past cannot be change, and we both know it", Nina stated, resolutely.

He nodded in agreement. She didn't burst his bubble, for to think otherwise was a childish, fantasy.

"I don't know what else to say, Lewis". Nina's eyes reflected sorrow, not pity. "Life does really go on...if we let it. We have to let it, though." She now turned the conversation onto him. " So how about you? I hope you have some good news to tell me, something in your life."

He shrugged his shoulders. "I've had a few, short relationships", he admitted. Where there any displeasing looks on her face? Lewis didn't notice anything, now. "Not all that bad, I should say. But I just don't want to settle down until I finish my Masters in business. I'm nearly done."

"Good for you! That is great news!" Nina truly was glad for him, and it just showed him what a great woman she was. But then Lewis already knew this.

"Are you still teaching?" he asked, hoping she was, for she strove for the job, and loved it so much.

"Yes, I teach kindergarten, and Gary teaches science at Darland College."

"Well, what do you know? Both teachers. That sounds like a perfect match for you. And what about kids? None yet?"

"In time...sure. We just aren't ready right now."

She offered him more coffee, but Lewis declined. He was thinking he should go soon.  He said. "You know we used to talk about having a boy and a girl--and in that order, too!"

Nina rolled her eyes. "Yeah, boy oh boy. Like we had complete control over it".

They both laughed. It was fine to reminisce, and they did for a while, Lewis realizing that this would be the last time. He lived three hours away. And why should he come back? He did what he set out to do.

Nina would tell Gary about the visit after he came home from work. As husband and wife, there were not secrets between them. Nina was sure he would be surprised,f or his ex-wife never came to apologize for the pain she caused him.

"Gary's wife had an affair on him, and then left to marry that man", Nina revealed. "Thank God there were no children from that marriage."

"Wow, that is ******! Thank God I never did that to you!. I would have never cheated with another woman...or I might never have tried to face you. It would be easier to slink back into the ditch and stay there! This is hard enough as it is!"

"Maybe so, Lewis. Maybe so." Nina quickly added, "You aren't a bad man. I know this and I wholeheartedly mean this, so don't keep beating up on yourself. I've forgiven you for everything. I forgave you then, and I forgive you now. "

"Nina, that means everything to me!" He started to choke up, and more tears came.

Listen, Lewis. You need to forgive you, too."

He lowered his gaze, as Nina held his hand and gave it a squeeze. Never was Lewis so contrite before. Like many men, he never was overly emotional, and so this different side of him was a refreshing experience.

"Yeah,  it's time to move on", he stated, using a napkin as a tissue.

"Yes, it is. And I loved what you did. It was helpful for us both. It's the closure we need."

"Yep", he said, wiping away more tears.

"You are a guy with guts, Lewis. you do have courage, and more integrity than you think, and I hope you see it."

Nina offered him more coffee, and he accepted. Why couldn't they chat a little while longer? It was no harm, and it made the visit even more meaningful. Sitting and shooting the breeze more was not a bad thing.

The kitchen still held the fragrant smell of cinnamon, as they polished off more rolls and spoke more of good times.

Silly, silly, silly me.
To think I'm free, and that I'll be somebody?

Silly, silly, silly me.
You can't be free, and that's just it,
All you are is 'somebody.'
Some-body.
"Some body."

But that's not true!
Look at Trostky and Lenin,
Michael Myers and Lennon,
The other Lennon.
It's hard to differentiate in name and legacy,
Because both Lennon's were revolutionaries,
Marching around like the freshman from heaven.
But neither believed they were the result of divine intervention in the affairs of man,
Because this convention would threaten their worldview and beckon away their sanity...
In the same way that the Pope or ****** let their divine vanity commit greater blasphemy and bring them future agony.

Now neither Lennon nor Lenin came anywhere close to being men from Galilee,
In fact they were more the men of the galaxy,
Or at least, John was, with his peach fuzz beard and his belief that love is greater than fear.
The other Lenin implemented the New Economic Policy, to starve the proletariat and start his revolution on an already hypocritical trend that would continue quite the same until the very end.
And it proves something, does it not?
Violence sends a message to no one but the instigator,
Changing them to justify, and claim is wasn't misbehavior;
But that's a lie, no idea of mine is worth the death of a human mind,
And to pretend otherwise makes one delude themselves that they aren't an instigator, but an illustrator,
Painting in the blood as if ****** makes an innovator.

And for ******, there is no vindicator,
Violence is an image breaker,
Indulged in by poor imitators who think they're right, and the world is wrong.
Unaware this makes them weak, not strong.

Now John Lennon was the true revolutionary;
Although he succumbed to violence, he veered away from it, even when it was necessary.
He fought the war, and yes, the war did win,
But at least he didn't cover his scars with artificial skin,
Or deny his implicit wrongs as a result of all original sin.

John Lennon used the word '******' to the opposite effect.
He used the word to trigger something bigger and correct,
The wrong that seemed so propagated by the last colonial tide,
Of which the other Lenin defected and took colonialism's side.

John Lennon was Utopian and told us of a better world;
He interjected definition, and caused old thoughts to curl away in fright,
And bite the dust despite their might and past dominion of industrialism,
It was a schism, and it still plagues us to this day.

John Lennon understood we over-complicate way
To
Often.


Silly, silly, silly me.
To think I'm free, and that I'll be somebody?

Silly, silly, silly me.
You can't be free, and that's just it,
All you are is 'somebody.'
Some-body.
"Some body."

"Some body" is something,
And some body can change the world.

If only life was bliss
If only I kept your kiss
If only life did not change
If only it wasn't so strange
If only you were still here
to you, I felt so near.
If only I wasn't so down
How can I change this frown?
If only we kept our words
If only we could fly like the birds

If only it weren't so lonely
I'd be by your side
Our two hearts would collide
If only you were here
Everything would feel so clear

All these silly indecisive decisions
Weigh on this troubled mind
Always seems to be complicated situations
Processing through this conscious conscience
Can't seem to digest all this information
Straight from the page to my brain
All I feel is disconnection
From this interjected rejection
Gotta break free of this intersection
Give me the will to pick the right direction

If only I had your touch
If only everyone loved so much
If only I could hear
If only I felt no fear
If only you felt me there
If only love was in the air
If only friends pulled through
If only I put my arms around you

If only it weren't so lonely
I'd be by your side
Our two hearts would collide
If only you were here
Everything would feel so clear

All these silly indecisive decisions
Weigh on this troubled mind
Always seems to be complicated situations
Processing through this conscious conscience
Can't seem to digest all this information
Straight from the page to my brain
All I feel is disconnection
From this interjected rejection
Gotta break free of this intersection
Give me the will to pick the right direction

If only I felt alive
If only I could find the drive
If only you had my heart
If only we weren't so far apart
If only we took a glance
If only we took a chance
If only we were all we could be
If only I didn't give you my soul
Then I wouldn't be stuck in this dark hole
IF only I didn't miss
If only you never gave me your kiss
If only it was so real
if only you turned the wheel
If only...
If only it weren't so lonely
I'd be by your side
Our two hearts would collide
If only you were here
Everything would feel so clear

All these silly indecisive decisions
Weigh on this troubled mind
Always seems to be complicated situations
Processing through this conscious conscience
Can't seem to digest all this information
Straight from the page to my brain
All I feel is disconnection
From this interjected rejection
Gotta break free of this intersection
Give me the will to pick the right direction

©2017 Written By Benji James

They sat across the table from one another. One girl staring at her notebook. The other’s eyes fixed on her classmate. On the broadside of the table sat a dark haired woman, the only smiling face in the room. The shy girl’s crimson hair hung out from under her hooded sweatshirt as she sketched axes on the front of her notebook. The other girl’s golden locks hung in curls around her face. Her beauty was undeniable, as was the disdain in her eyes.
“So, can one of you two describe to me what happened today on that stairwell?” asked Mrs. White, the guidance counselor at Jacob Grimm High. Despite the gossip floating around the school about her, a smile was always plastered on her face. Most of the children found this unbearably creepy. “Nothing ma’am. We were just having a friendly conversation, when that pig came along and insisted, very forcefully, that we come here,” the blonde said, sarcastically, her eyes never letting go of their gaze on the other girl.
Mrs. White chuckled “That’s not how it happened, Goldie. C’mon, tell us your side of things.” Goldie rolled her eyes. “Well, Mrs. White, it’s like this: my bio class was just letting out, and I was heading down to calculus. She comes flying UP the DOWN stairs, like a maniac, slamming into my shoulder. I hit her, she hit me back. Now we’re here.”
“Is that true, Ms. Ridinghood?” asked Mrs. White, turning her head to the other girl.
“Not entirely,” she answered, finally joining the conversation. “Ms. Princess here was going up those stairs before I even got to them. To be honest, I was zoned out, just following the sheep. I’m not having the best day, so a friend gave me something to take the edge off this morning. I was following her up the down stairs, apparently and she turned around and started coming at me, shoving my shoulder as she walked past, then got offended – like I did something wrong – and hit me. So I punched her back. We wrestled for a minute before the rent-a-cop came and broke it up.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. White turned to Goldie, who was looking down the floor. “Goldie, why were you going back up the stairs?” ,
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“So you did go back up the stairs and come down a second time?”
“It was actually my third time,” Goldie admitted, embarrassed. “The first time I went too fast, the second time I went too slow. That time would have been just right. I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder . Go ahead, laugh it up.”
“No one’s laughing,” Mrs. White assured her. Although Red was a little, until Mrs. White turned to her. “Can you tell me why it is you needed to be ‘zoned out’ today?”
“None of your business, that’s why,” Red snapped.
“I have read your file, I know what day it is.”
“Then why did you have to bring it up?” Red was now agitated.
“For Goldie to hear. So you can better understand one another.”
“*******! What kind of understanding am I to get from this preppy ***** with a silver spoon up her ***? I’ve spit puddles deeper than her!” The two girls rose up, over the table. Mrs. White was able to get in between them.
“Now, both of you need to just calm down and talk this out like civil adults. Keep in mind, this is your only alternative to expulsion. “
Once everyone regained themselves, Red spoke again, this time directly to Goldie.
“Six years ago, today, my grandmother was murdered.” Goldie began to see Red with new eyes. “Remember The Wolf
“That guy who went around vandalizing houses?” ?”
“Yeah. He was hiding out in the woods. I was going to visit my grandma, who lived out that way. I saw him. He’d shaved so I hadn’t recognized him from the news. I told him I was going to my grandma’s place, dumb idea—I know. He suggested a different route, said it’d be shorter. By the time I got there, grams was gone. He was in her bed, dressed like her, waiting for me. His eyes…were so…big. If it wasn’t for Larry, a woodsman working nearby, I would be dead too.”
“I heard about that! That was you? Wow…I’m sorry. ” Goldie shook her head in amazement, then added, “Didn’t the woodsman chop off his head?”
“No. He shot him. Larry carries a gun when he’s working in that forest, because of all the dangerous things that happen there.”
“No doubt, that place is freaky. I got lost in it once, when I was six. I ended up at this cabin. I thought it was abandoned. Imagine my surprise when the family came home. I was sleeping in the kid’s bed, and I’d eaten their food too. I think I even broke something.”
“How’d that play out?”
“I did some time in juvy for property damage and theft.”
“Wow…that’s so messed up. At least you learned your lesson, right?”
“Oddly enough, no. When I turned eleven I started breaking into people’s houses. I mean, I didn’t take anything, just slept in their beds, or watched TV. I never got caught again.” Goldie sounded mildly disappointed.
“You know,” Red interjected “we are a couple of freaks, aren’t we?”
“Yeah. Hey…where did Mrs. White go?” Goldie said, finally realizing that Mrs. White had made an escape somewhere in the midst of their discussion.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh well…did you hear she has seven midgets living with her?”
“That’s just a rumor,” Red said.
On that note, the bell rang, and the two girls left the room giggling like old friends.

there was an audience... there is still an audience...
i wonder about it...
i'm such a conservative deacon in the comments
that... i leave very little traces of interaction...
i tried getting ****** into the whole affair
of leaving comments - like i might have left
grafitti tags on the pillars of bridges...
                   there was an audience... there's still an
audience... i imagine...
or i rather: translate with metaphor what i'm:
trying to imagine...
              three moths have attempted to fly into
my room to spend the night free from fear...
i caught two in my hand... put the clenched hand
to my ear... no... not the sea trapped in a seashell...
close... sound effect of... rain on a tin roof...
a moth trapped in a cage of a hand...
it hasn't rained for days... weeks even...
       the most... bountiful of springs in england...
and everyone is... supposed to handle the affair
like the 2nd coming of ribonson crusoe...
          i can: because i'm used to it...
                    peacefully anti-social...
                     it's hardly bragging but:
there's an audience... there's always an audience...
here's to me: getting regularly milked...
or... laying some eggs with the sunrise and the moon...
i am... at a stage of maturing from...
a phase where... i did... once upon a time...
care about what i wrote... for my own gratification:
but... not any more...
         i've reached a point where...
i can join the ranks of the 4 Dada Suicides...
     'the four' (who) 'took nihilism of the movement
to its ultimate conclusion, their works are
the remnants of lives lived to the limit and then cast
aside with nonchalance and disdain'...
Vaché (overdosed)... Rigaut (shot himself)...
Cravan and Torma (disappeared)...
        the latter two... probably lived a life in
approximation to what might have happened
to... Richey Edwards...
born on...                  disappeared aged 27...
death is the last clue...
    not that i'm going to imitate what's already
claimed...
but... a mile from my home...
i can... find... ample resources... hemlock...
the stems are poisonous...
      i've tried... lilac mushrooms... dog mushrooms
they call them...
i don't know whether i ate a poisonous
one or not... it wasn't...
    a muhomor... amanita fly agaric...
           but... when the circuses have died and
the bread is still there...
no new movies... no sports...
what can beat: the old tease of mortality...
the grain-of-sand per month's worth of movement
added... to the tally and
the curriculum vitae of vivo per se...
                   the theatre of death...
     if i don't think about death with a joke...
i stop being... ridiculous in life...
                   i like the thought of death when...
life doesn't preserve any... sense of...
any... alternative... "light" entertainment...
it's not like i'm planning an escape...
rich and about to clone myself...
   and teach the clone "me" to be: a "future" - and me...
i almost can see how someone must
have tried to cheat death with the available
avenue of cloning...
but... the subservience of the clone...
the clone being what?
       someone must have learned the hard way...
i just interjected the question as an: and...
which is a conjunction...
          but if you're gonna go...
hell... seal a room and yourself in it...
and buy a... metaphorical tonne of lily of the valley...
go to sleep... and never wake up...
death... even death has to become entertaining:
in thinking terms - at the very least...
the only real eventuality among...
half a dozen of impossible things to think about...
daily... and here's that apple...
   if nietzsche... sentenced the source
and future disease from the 19th century...
well... so much for overcoming nihilism...
         nihilism... after all... is not... apathy...
   and even with the death of nihilism...
                              at least nihilism still asked
for moloch-esque sacrifices of will...
     apathy? what does this slug ask for?
it asks of you to... well... wrestle with yourself...
hence that "overlooked" quote:
if a day has many pockets...
       yes... those pockets of self-realisations that
provide a glitch of proof...
a proof of... having to find dominion in
settled dust... oh to hell with grand metaphors
of staging revolutions brought down
from mountain-tops!
- and i'm literally drinking my way through...
what 19th century nihilism became:
a 21st century apathy hangover...
      i'll spare the 20th century the rites of...
a mythical new beginning... a year 0...
        100 years give or take... each side of the end
of the 20th century...
but... nihilism is no longer... the standard:
to overcome...
             as much meaning can be derived from
a peanut as from a falling star...
to be this: subjective sanitiße everything -
                       i hardly think... a dickens would
require an objective reader...
what is an objective reader?
someone who studies: rather than reads...
newspapers...
someone who probably proofs reading...
by also ensuring citations are... made abundantly
clear... archives... etc.
well... better contemplating the theatre of death
than... say...
"normies":
    ahem... the critique of china...
       point: can you imagine... if... communism...
was thought-up... when...
the french revolution began? the only revolution?
rather than the russian oopsie?
well... and communism began...
when... engels and marx... went to the north
of england... and... prior to the manifesto...
wrote of the details of child-labour...
this is not my thing but...
it gets to the point where:
you can criticize china all you want...
but there's no smart... or dumb way...
to go about... pretending to be at war...
with a population of a billion people...
that... if push comes to shove...
could be conscripted instantly...
              to point out... is to exhaust the argument:
to have an argument for:
"western" principles of democracy...
here... have some balloons... here's a keg
of helium... 'ave fun...
by now... saudi arabia is secretly planning
a jihad into the Xinjiang province...
saudi arabia: the vatican of the islamic world...
is secretly trying to... blah blah...
no... the saudi princes are strapped to their yachts...
the bangladeshi slave labour blah blah...
yeah: but whittle ol' england needs
the Neds of Lahore and their tier up from
the chimney top: crescent moon-lick... slick...
- but to be this... fired up...
                it's simply exhausting to have:
a freedom of speech for such high demands...
not need to hide behind the ideals of love...
or being misunderstood...
             in no defence... but... under the guise
of that grand word: capitalism...
the sub- thorough: made in china...
                and what now? the jaw dropping
counter to the very delicate status quo?
it's beyond nihilism... when such upheld
values allowed for artistic rebellion...
to the moon: been there, done that..
europe the old man... h'america the newly
acquired *******...
       you want politico jargon ******* squeezes...
sure thing...
     stoic india... always the stoic india...
to **** off the competition - cheap soviet steel...
the soviet union's nuna 2, on 13 september 1959 -
in between: frank sinatra's:
fly me to the moon - 1963...
and thus... r.e.m.'s yeah yeah: 20 July 1969...
it's hard to compensate / compete with
that sort of a trojan hard-on ***** of
the elgin marbles...
                              at least the germanic peoples
played and understood the ping-pong
with the slavic peoples -
the hungarians on the side...
but not this... african trash for beijing...
the mongol capital of crimea...
and golden hoarding project: typo...
   when they came riding in... smeared
in **** and week old **** and horse blood...
to make... the labyrinth of the baghdad library...
a pyramid of skulls...
squeeze me: to this tired state of lost
the head to a guillotine chatter-box...
even the events of napster unfolding...
and all that's being streamed and...
now's the time to kiss and cuddle prostitutes...
and wet mr. whittle dicky for second
chances of a lost digestive... in that pond
of brew...
                easy fools to fool: those camel back
rich in dino-blood: soul black...
like espressos of mecca... flowing rich
and dying with a soothing...
from amnesia and diabetes...
and amputated limps when... sugar ingestion
leaves them... dancing ballet on only one foot...
because: porky pie and ms. amber: ha!
all bad!
                so much for... what's waiting
the white girl pornstars...
the liberated afro-h'americans and the service...
of beijing shrimp ****...
double edged sword... the height and...
all those attaches... of a fine... fine...
procelain piece of ***...
no-man's-land... the middle ground:
of... mercedez-benson-and-hedges...
        on my way out... the apache / sioux /
dodo / aztec / mayan / dodo (again) projects...

semi-closure...
   gary glitter - rock & roll part II
     ian watkins (of lostprophets) -
                      shinobi vs dragon ninja...
sorry... that one was a paedo...
              toddle-****** for the latter...
and it's not like... i enjoyed the music
to begin with...
i can't see an ad hominem argument
for the former...
                 toddler-******: esp. if the output...
well... it's not trash...
   it's: dad mantra... it's dad claustrophobia...
my take on:
mahler contra pergolesi....
            counter: invest in 100 years to come...
of which... you will...
find a future reader: being alive...
not having re(a)d you...
1986... the reader is born...
1997... you die...
you are discovered... come...
2K and 7... 8...... perhaps 9...
  a time-reference of...
         13 years from the readers birth to your
death... it's Glasgow... a very rare...
sunny... afternoon...
psychosis of the reader...
         1997 through to... 2008...
              that's 11 years... so...
what matters most is... how well you walk
through the fire...
that one about the crow and the madmen...
and each: having his niche:
his "social distancing" clause...
writing was fun when one could
stomach the: in the background...
when people lived their: very troublesome:
important... surgical precision...
nobel prize winning type / typo lives...
writing via a sense of voyeurism was...
well... hardly the self-evident blatant it has
become...
escape into fiction (lies you tell others)...
escape into imagination (choking ties of
tier-a: as above... with tier-b: as below)...
or escape into memory (lies you tell
yourself)...
but i rather the memory...
the cinema of it...
i forget to blink when: blinking is akin
to... signatures... autographs of famous people...
bull... shyte: philately...
         lepidopterology... half closure of the semi-
closure... a brilliant metaphor...
      when the **** or the latex gimp suits
are not available...
there's always that 14 year old "idea"...
of... a tamed *******...
well... if you imagine it as... love at first sight...
you're 16 she's 14... and...
you're dating her older sister at the time...
and then... she disappears...
within the confines of her first and last
unflowering...
but the pristine first-impressions become
less metaphor and more: idealism...
it's fun... when there's a concensus of it being:
forbidden... it's what drives both the hunger...
and the feeding...
that it's never actually realised is beside
the point: made... in... lars von trier's
nymphomaniac...
          too catholic of me: born into it...
but... repressing the urges... is as much as...
delighting oneself in them...
ergo: the necessary *******...
so much for... *****-******* and oyster
slurping... when... you have been...
ahem... told to **** it up...
with the: "excess of skin"...
excess of skin / chemical imbalance
in the brain...
how about... i allow... a triatoma infestans...
to quicken my: dementia...
the myth goes... along the lines...
a horse with a grain of sand...
via its ear... will bash and ram and ram and bash
its head against a brick wall:
in an attempt to rid itself of the irritation...
conformity:
cul de sac queers and kwerks...
i lampoon on a sunday...
the rest of the days i'm free...
clued into: cwown...
which is... somehoo: velsh... in parts...

- by death i imply a riddle...
                 by death i imply:
          freed from the cinema of highly edited
pseudo-living...
not even among the stage of the theatre...
but at least...
cinema got one thing right...
   the suicide of christine chubbuck -
the urban myth goes along the lines of:
a cockroach was found... alive... 2 weeks...
after its head was guillotined...
       it's like that... bane quote:
and... the andrei chikatilo... reality...
non-verbatim:
                 'perhaps he's wondering... why
someone would shoot a man...
before throwing him out of a plane'...
rephrasing:
   'perhaps he's wondering...
why someone would shoot a man...
after throwing him into a prison cell'...
unless... he wasn't... expecting...
to wait for him... to die... of a urban myth...
2 weeks if not more...
brain-dead: heart still pumpking...
horrors from Kiev... Chernobyll the *******
icing cream topping the gwand:
godzilla: pie in the sky...

     i cared... once... once... that was:
upon a time...
these times don't really require much focus...
the space itself poses enough
liberty... no need to look as far back
as there's to look forward...
     the 20th century killer: zenith...
****** and ferriswheel of events...
                waking up to the new mandarin
plateau... it's like...
waking up from... the refreshing cain
mythos relatability...
always from h'america...
otherwise... bullet to the head...
king soldier: human rights...
   yeah... nice... the shame of homeless people:
there's an alexander the great...
a a diogenes of synope: with a hippocratic
oath... loitering around the corner?
hell! go wit' the flou...
                 jump-start a prison adventure...
less... high morality ****-pants
asking questions on the way...
people of high morality
and high: low social status importance...
**** someone...
better than becoming philosophically
homeless... blah blah...
                         i'm so little i actually
define myself as:
at liberty to preserve the lives of moths...
yes... well that's nice...
for anyone asking to: ride the easy... roulette.

That Elephant needs to shed some pounds
Said the Hippo to the Giraffe.  
You’re right, and abnormally tall, indeed.    
Did you hear that it bathes in mud?
Interjected the Bullfrog while savoring a fly,
What an absolute disgust.
I hear you,
Elephants these days lack class, incredible…
Exclaimed the Hippo as gas bubbles suddenly
Formed in the murky water behind it.
Funny thing is, despite its staggering size,
I hear it flinches at the mere sight of its shadow!
The trio burst with laughter, but was cut short
With a slight rustle of nearby grass.
EVERYONE RUNNNNNNN!
The trio fled for their lives.
A tiny field mouse emerged, amused.
Animals.

"Hey Edwin, put this in your mouth,"*
quoth one co-worker while handing me some mashed potatoes on a tray.
"Woah, man; last time someone told me that, they gave me $50 first!"
"****, Edwin, you sure know how to rake in the money,"
another co-worker promptly interjected.
*"Hey, we's all gotsta pay our bills, one way or another."

My raybans still covered
my swollen  eyes as I stepped
inside the Rite Aid,
in my pathetic attempt to
hide from the neighborhood how much
I had been crying.
Tears of anger and
some of despair and
others of sheer exhaustion
had coated my cheeks
and worn the edges of my eyelids
raw and reddened my
corneas.
I had stumbled out of my apartment
in an effort to rid my body of
feelings, assuming the brisk spring breeze
could somehow sweep up everything
I felt and whisk it away as
quick as it had come.
I squeaked past a couple
******* clad women with
sunken eyes that bore holes
into the glass of the cooler
as they stared longingly at the
rather large variety of
malt liquors, the selection of soft drinks
lesser than the collection of
40s I passed on my way to the
back of the store.
I distracted myself imagining
the taste of the various soda pops,
a wild cherry Pepsi dissolving into my
daydream tongue right before it
turned to Big Red Cream Soda.
Diet Sunkist in hand,
I stared at the ingredients on the orange soda bottle and reread the same words
over and over as he interjected himself again and again.
I made my way to the counter,
feeling ever grateful for my sunglasses
as more tears welled,
and I cleared my throat before mumbling a way-too-weak-for-an-outgoing-girl hello.
Before I knew it my distraction faded
from view, and I turned left down Oak
as his face peeked out in my
rear view mirror in the majesty of
the sunset.
I shook off a feeling of admiration and
reminded myself that even after all this time
he still manages to disappoint me as
he always has.
I murmured something about how,
"He ain't ****" like I'm some bad
***** that doesn't give a **** about a dude.
But then I remembered how deeply I had loved
a man who never loved me back and
never failed to prove it.
My stomach began to drop,
leaving me feeling as empty as the
messages he had sent me in his pathetic
attempts to convince me of ******* masked as
the rhetoric he knew I wanted to hear,
just enough to keep me around for his
(admittedly) selfish reasons.
I loved him and hated him all at once
as I realized 4 months ago when
I told myself (and him) that I was moving on,
it was only my head that had,
my heart still staggering, like a
drunk stumbling off a belly full
of cheap whiskey,
And as I later drowned my sorrows in
TV dramas and artificial sweeteners,
I vowed to get that last piece back and really let go...
I'll start tomorrow
when I sober up.

Father sits at the head of the table
Strong and loud and proud.
Across the corner, to his right  
Mommy sat up straight.
Straight across again from her,
Is stubby chubby Bobby.
A yawn,
a stretch,
His eyes are fighting lack of rest.
He was awake far too late,  
but can you blame the boy?  
He turns sixteen today.

Finally, was little Annie  
half her brothers age.
She sat alone at the table’s end
A chair apart from mother,
A chair away from Bobby.
She hid behind the table’s edge
That faced her towards her daddy.
Her face she hid in the elbow-pit
of her bent right arm,
hoping no one notices

the scratches that cover her face.

“So good to have us all together,”
Father shouts away,

“A shame, indeed, when work keeps me
from my loving family.”
His hair is short, straight, stiff and blonde,
gelled perfectly in place,
Yes, so very neat and clean.
Though, not so flattering.
The hair has a hateful streak
you’d swear,
It seems determined  
to bloat and puff,
the Rosacea cheeks he wears.
The sun dyed shadows underneath
the neatness he perceives as
all important.
The cousin of Rudolph
he could be called,
his cheeks ignite and flush,
but still he wears his toothless smile
after tasting his ten A.M. toddy.

Mommy’s hair is a black whirlwind
attempt at taming with a scrunchie,
Yet failing to mask the mess it was.

Understandable,  
acceptable,
she had cleaned the house again.
Wiped every crease  
and every surface

no filth hides from her hawk eyes
Though the house was spotless  
when she began.
She still smiles,  
“Oh yes! So good!  

It’s been too long indeed!

We all are grateful for father’s attendance,
for Bobby’s sweet sixteen.”

Bobby’s smile didn’t fit his face,  
He’s too fat to reveal all his teeth.
No fault of his of course,  
happenstance and lottery
Still,  
that smile of his is one you simply never seem to want to see.  

“I’m really quite ecstatic myself,”  
Bobby proclaimed (every tooth exposed),
His teeth fade away  
He looks at his plate
“And although I know, I still wish,
I could have had a friend attend.”

Annie was neither stupid nor blind,
when three faces glanced
and two danced away.
But Father spoke up, addressing his daughter,

Shouting what he had to say,
“You know how stressed,  
little Annie gets!
With big days like today!
It’s not all bad! It’s for the best!  
I’m myself am very glad!  
See how well she has behaved?”
Bobby gave a knowing nod, and threw Annie a glare.

Annie did not respond;
Annie simply stared.

Father made a violent sound;
saved himself from a phlegm cave-in.
Now prepared to roar once more
at an eight-year-old with tremors.

Yet the words were nothing more than whispered.

“Now, Annie, why is your beautiful face so scratched?”

Annie did not respond.  
Annie simply stared.  
Then tucked her face in her elbow pit,
and swallowed a chunk of tears.

Mommy heard the gagged-up sorrow
and quickly interjected.  
“I found steel wool in the bath again,  

Annie likes them so.
If I’ve told her once  
Then I have a hundred times more,
They remove the filth from the dishes,
but not from little girls.”
Annie says,
“I know.”

Mommy fibs inside again,
a lonely little liar.  
Wishes her intervention  
was that of heroic martyr,  
But mommy interrupted
to save herself from silence.
Because sometimes in the noiseless stillness  
mommy feels an echo
it bounces from her spine to sternum.
That’s when she feels the lack of soul.
Hollow, mommy. Hollow.

Mommy held her smile hard,  
the silence only wins inside.
Glued-on cheer feels natural,
if you only wear It for a time.  
Her sawblade smile stayed
so perfectly monotone;  
statuesque.

The echo’s echoing too much,  
surely all the others hear?

Mommy croaked a giggle out,
and passed the cake around.
“Eat up! Eat up!
I worked so hard!  
I made it perfect!”

There were three plates that did not hold cake,
At least not for very long.
Seemed Annie simply liked the look,
And what a look it was!
Mommy made a masterpiece  
To say less is heresy!
Yet, now down two slices of masterpiece,
stubby chubby Bobby’s peace,
was no longer something he could keep.

“My God, how rude!
Annie hasn’t touched her food!”  

Father was just behind,
he, too had no peace of mind,  
he bellowed out,
“It really is rude!
It’s simply not fair!”

Mommy’s echo broke through the noise,
Mommy stopped responding;
mommy simply stared.

Stubby chubby birthday boy Bobby,
spitting frosting and cake:
“You, ungrateful brat!  
Why do you act the way you do?”

Mommy tried to intervene again;
She tried to save the day.
But hollow people make no sound,
they simply waste away.

So, of course, that could only mean,
Annie gets a chance to speak!
Why does she act so disturbingly?
With scratches and tremors,  
and a tummy full of swallowed hate?

Annie said,
“I can’t just make believe that Daddy doesn’t **** me.”

09-15-2012
Saturday morning and Grandpa rounded up the grand kids, Tony and Lucy, for a little excursion. Excitement was running high for we were going to the City Park and… there was to be hot dogs, burgers and drinks and STUFF, which they thoroughly enjoyed. Before we left on our fun-outing, I had printed out a copy of a poem I had written for Tony when he was a year old called "Ice Cream". He is now a big seven. There were many booths setup which we visited… gathering STUFF (pencils, etc).

We stopped at a booth that was for grandparents raising grandkids. While we talked with the lady at the booth I remembered the poem in my back pocket. I gave it to her to read and we continued on down the line gathering STUFF (pencils, candy and BUBBLES). On the return trip we stopped again at the grandparents booth. The lady commented, the poem brought tears to her eyes. Then she said, “this was written from the heart”. At that time Tony interjected with, “No. Grandpa just sits down and write them on the computer keyboard.” Yup! That is how it REALLY happens. There were chuckles and smiles all around. Tony is grandpa’s most ardent promoter for his web sight . He tells people the domain-name to find writings. There is one piece he particularly enjoys telling people to check out called "The Boy Called Tony" . Go figure!

Original origami
feng shui of the tai chi
Lao Tsi
tao becomes all becomes tao
but for now
all becomes crazy
so funny, circumstances of life
like a silly little jigsaw puzzle citcom
situational irony,
"Oh, let's invite him!"
Oh, let's re-visit a drunken nightmare
too incoherent to say "stop"
thoughts stuck at the back of a throat
let's choke our chakras for a bit
get our green juices and black juices good and mixed up
like a splatter painting
****
I wish
kept it in like a champ
my own personal fault
too bro to be ***
not bro enough to be respected
interjected with comments, admissions
such nice compliments from terrible mouths
I know I can handle my liquor
I handle a lot
with shrugs and smiles
more liquor
just hand over the bottle
show you sometihng real impressive
ever seen a girl go super saiyan?
Humble be thy game
shallow be thy name
gnoming around
oh please, get a grip
even in boarderline unconsciousness
I know you don't find me that intriguing,
that brilliant,
just another girl too nice to hit
too paralyzed to think.

Evelyn wore a porcelain mask with a perpetual, pretty, painted smile until one day the cover-up cracked. She didn’t realize how badly she wanted to cry, and the tears just wouldn’t stop.  After the deluge came to an end, she got on her cell phone and gave Cody a call. She was at home, lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling with thoughts of Cody, galore. So why not call him? She had been good about not giving into her urge of making contact. She needed to hold off and reassess all her thoughts and desires--not to appear impulsive or desperate. Her mother told her she was too young to worry about serious commitments, but by twenty-one her mother was already married. Evelyn was almost twenty-two.  

“Things haven’t been the same since we were together”, she admitted to Cody, two years her senior. The moment of silence seemed like a lot longer.

Cody was also in his room, strumming on his guitar when she called. He responded, “Yeah, well…I don’t get it. It was you that left me, not the other way around”.

That was typical Cody, she had thought. “It feels like you left much earlier than that—you and your walls that shut me out”.

They were friends since high school. They seemed to be really good at being friends, but really bad at a relationship. They could goof around and have fun, go to concerts and sporting events, hang out with other friends or try new restaurant as they were both foodies. Or they’d catch all the action movies, and Cody would tolerate the chick flicks for her sake—once in a while. But as lovers, he was not what she wanted him to be, he being distant. She was often pushing him away by trying to change him into what she wanted or needed.

“I still love you”, Cody admitted. “That never stopped”.

Evelyn dropped the phone in a funny, sarcastic way, and then she picked it up, again. “Holy cow! Who the hell is this guy, and what happened to my good guy BFF, Cody! Tell me, what did you do to him?” she shouted out playfully. “Really! I almost never heard you say that! And certainly not unless I said it first!”

“Yeah, yeah”, he replied, downplaying things. “Now don’t make me into some **** who has no feelings or doesn’t know how to act. Maybe I wasn’t always the with-it guy, but I tried. I really did try to…”.

Evelyn smiled softly, a genuine smile, and quickly interjected. “I wish I could be there to give you a real one, but I’ll just blow you a kiss over the phone”. She made a kissing sound, touched her lips with her finger, and blew out of her mouth as to send him a kiss”.

Cody smacked his cheek, slightly, and joked, “Got it! Did you hear that? It landed right smack on me!”

They laughed and talked awhile. They just had to be friends, again. Nothing should stand in their way, for there was too much enjoyment of each other’s company, and if that meant the boyfriend/girlfriend thing was off the table, so be it. Maybe it could work, again. It might be worth a try, in time, but the platonic was doable. They just knew they wanted each other back, to be in each other’s life once more.  

.

You're not eating properly
Eliane's mother said
you've hardly eaten a thing
Elaine who'd been thinking

of the boy John
looked up
through her glasses

at her mother
at the dining table
got to eat
her father interjected

got to eat
my young Plump Hen
her sister said nothing

but grinned
I do eat
Elaine said
but she didn't feel

like eating
it seemed the least
important thing

at that moment
her stomach felt
as if it had fallen
into a slumber

not enough
her mother said
maybe she's fallen in love

her father bantered
Elaine went red
and lowered her head
and began to nibble

at the food on her plate
nonsense
her mother said

it's some silly
slimming diet
I bet
not very successful

if it is
her younger sister said smiling
John had touched her arm

in passing at school
not by accident
but by design
he meant to touch

to bring her briefly
into his world
his circumference

she still touched
now and then
the area on her arm
he touched (at school)

with her fingers
I won't have you dieting
over some silly fad

her mother went on
but Elaine ceased listening
the words were buzzing flies
she wanted to

flick them away
with a hand
John had talked to her

not at her
or about her
(as others did)
or down to her

but with her
in a duel thing
he and she

kind of exchange
she ate slowly
the food almost
making her gag

getting stuck
in the throat
she held onto

the image of him
in her mind tried
to focus
on his outline

on his features
his words
taking each one

she could remember
and turning it over
in her mind
as if it were

a rare gem
girls your age
what are you now?

14 yes 14years old
ought not to diet
her mother said
breaking into Elaine's head

if I see you not eating again
I'm taking to the doctors
Elaine looked up

and put on
her good daughter face
that I'll do
whatever you want features

and John had placed
a hand by her head
at the school fence

his arm brushing softly
against her hair
and he never said anything
unkind about

her dark hair
or the metal grips
her mother made her wear

and her mother rattled on
but Elaine just returned
her innocent girl
stare.

True criticism
Whether constructed or impulses for the moment;
Taken or not, to be offended by it
Is to be aware of an interjected potency.

A toxin of a so-called realization to drive towards sin
Or perhaps self-actualization, to whom we are within

Mind differs from soul, on the division of what is human.
The thought conveyed is lacking in being, rather than seeing.

Applying logic as a constant is grounds for ill confidence.
In a quality that droughts in tears from a cyclic existence

The thoughtful thrive on selfless striving
to be heard, immortally by their reviving words

The self-centered gravitate to absent causes
assisting no one, and becoming less heard

But sincerely who is right to judge you and me
Bias surrounds us, traps us to filter what we see and believe

Faith is lost to a logical world, where action is questioned
And the metaphysical will soon be poisoned by what is known

There are lights
Not meant to succumb to blight
Of the true dissension of Adam’s apple bite

Unbroken Utterance

This staff its shadow marks of time were sufficiently ordered the visual appearance of the cross and
Churches stretch around the globe at altars all ages kneel like glittering flakes of fine gold pouring down
Glinting in the light their lives formally knew poverty now rich beyond compare they leave sacred
Surroundings now they walk among the masses entangled in forces of destruction the harder they
Struggle in their own strength the deeper they sink in mire with unbroken confidence the newly gold
Measured ones speak lower your staff here in this dark pit great loving shepherd it is has been
Smoothed by countless hands that have grasped its life rescuing elements each time their tears of joy
And thankfulness has penetrated the grain of the wooden staff it has the fragrance of life told in the raw
Everyone can find traces of their own misguided history along its deep grained lines recognition flares in
The mind and heart the soul once twisted and scared only condemnation emitted sharp and painful
Agony with shame the head brought low but then the master interjected his staff how it’s pure heat
Burned away all impurities the wretch became a white wooly lamb without spot or wrinkle ready for
The promise of forever tomorrow laughter replaced bitter tears the soul all aglow with divine light
That brings the knowing of who’s you are maybe the brambles still must be passed through but a power
Exudes through your frame miles before unbearable now just inches off joy do not the clouds bend low
Enough to touch or is it that now you are as tall as his stature you are as fair as the rarest air as if some
One gathered all the flowers in one place and then caused the sweetest wind to blow over them and
Carry them across your path does the rain trail the great white swan to her nesting place you have found
The secret hiding place of all who found love unconditional acceptance the greatest cry of the human
Heart a lamb was slain that grew into a lion fearful to his enemies but beloved by those that share the
Road he travels no place to lay his head the cost of redemption and many other sorrows he endured
Now you are his heir for a time maybe a path of stones but look up child they lead to mansions did he
Not say I go away to prepare a place for you.

I mentioned Monty Hall
In what I thought was casual conversation.
Maybe I interjected,
...yeah, like Monty Hall.
But still,
A woman taking a drink of ***** gurgled,
A fella rolling a spliff snickered;
Even the dart thrower stopped;
They chorused in unison, Who?
****! Monty Fecking Hall.
Door #'s 1, 2, 3?
The few listening were confused.
Maybe it was the tone I used.
One face had a glimmer,
Almost a gesture of recognition
Tracing his  pierced eyebrow.
Really!
Monty Fecking Hall.
One day, in the not too distant future,
They'll hear,
What's a Fecking Jedi?

The band was loud, but in the other room and the bar was jammed.
He set his drink down a little too hard and it over-sloshed a bit.

“Run away with me,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “I’m done with school!”
“Well.. you graduated - that’s why you’re done,” she said, somewhat amused.
“We share a gravity, you and I - we’re.. we’re like aligned suns,” he romanticized.
“You should’ve majored in sales.” she said, sipping her own beer.
“Our love is so real, so raw - it's pure and yet - so street.”
“We have ‘love cred’?” She asked doubtfully.
“Wherever we go, we'll navigate that urban maze, hand in hand, we’ll OWN those concrete streets, we’ll paint our own graffiti!
“Have you snorted something?’
“No matter what life throws at us, we’ll face those challenges head-on and we'll stay united.”
“Have you been practicing this?” She asked
“We’ll swagger,” he said, “our love will be timeless..”
“And rhymeless,” she interjected hopefully.
“Together, we’ll be urban legends..” he continued.
“Like Bonnie and Clyde?” she asked, making a yuck face.
“We’ll be living art,” he said dreamily.
“Sounds dope.” She admitted.
“Then you’ll DO it?” He asked.
“Until Monday,” she said, nodding in assent, “classes start on Monday,” she shrugged.
“It was worth a shot.” he said stoically, after a moment.
“It was a good pitch,’” she said, taking his hand in hers.
“I didn’t oversell - I wasn’t too pushy?”
“No, you were right there,” she assured him.
“Maybe next time,” he said.
“Yeah, maybe next time”
They kissed.

On the crowded bus / from my nice downtown job / looking expensive… and smelling expensive… cuz I am / expensive that is…/ and I’m immediately ****** / cuz I’ve had a long day and I’m tired / and this homeless brother is in the back / talking loud / to his Invisible Confidante / and / without a sign or a signal / but nevertheless as a group / we do not see him…
He is to be ignored…

But my ears do not comply as he sez

It’s one thing to fight to be who you are- and another to fight just to be

And I’m like / ****… that was deep / and the poet in me needs to write this down / cuz “Crazy” follows with

My mother wasn’t nothing- wasn’t no kinda woman at all / Homeless since fifteen how do you explain that? / Nobody’s got the answers to the questions I ask / so I fight in the war / now what’s our new Black president gonna do for me? / When am I gonna get mine?

I sense a burgeoning forgiveness in the crowd / this boy’s… a Vet / but an irritation in my own spirit blossoms because forgiveness / I’m sure / is not real high on the list of all this boy needs / and I suddenly feel like I’ve been somehow negligent*

His Invisible Confidante must have interjected / as he replies

Because… / Big people don’t care about us /  David shuda gave everybody a slingshot / and if they got too big we could **** ‘em / We don’t want to have to look AFTER each other / or even AT each other / can’t even spare a dollar / Tell me to go get a job / like I didn’t try /  It’s hard to fit a camel through the eye of a needle /  So I’ma take my time / Take my time /  Take… take… take… sumthin / Just try to stay modest… just a modest sum is all I need.

The bus has slowly / gotten quieter / all pretending to be ignoring this eloquent schizophrenic / as he merges the holy bible with the u.s. constitution / and adds

Farmers usta run thangs but now Man and God together made satan / I know what I did for my country but what’s my country gonna do for me?

And by now he’s making a jacked-up kind of sense / to more than just me alone... / as he continues

It’s always the black people who think they cool with whitey / I go to the justice center / and they say "leave us alone” / it makes ‘em feel so good / that they could quit THEIR OWN jobs.
  
Which brought to mind the last time WE had to ask for help / Caught myself just in time-- cuz I’se classy now / But I almost said out loud “Say That!” / And he was on a roll…

“I’m sorry” / they say / “go to church” / they say / and at the same time they lookin’ at me / and I know I could never be part’a they church

Somewhere in the front / a sistah couldn’t hold it / and said "Ump!" / In agreement / as only a Black Woman can

And he was speaking…

They say / “I give to charity” / but charities don’t give to the likes of ME… / but people gon be people / so I aint trippin' off that  

I need time and I need help / But I’m a take my time… take… take… my time.  Yeah…

At this point / there is no pretense / we are all actively listening to this accidental poet / this inadvertent incentive to being your brothers keeper / as he says

They act like my mental defect is THEIR disability  

****… that’s ****** up

And so I guess I’m supposed to go downtown / and be all nasty and ***** / just so I can get their little piece of paper / and- smoke- some- cigs- and- smoke- some- crack-and- be happy / is that it?
but they don’t know / In the end it’s not about gettin’ high /  it’s about gettin’ by
Right …? / Yeah…

Here / he finally / mercifully / signals his stop / and prepares to leave his Invisible Confidante with

Thanks for lettin’ me free my mind, baby /  Like inna waffle house… / drinking so much coffee… /  I just wanna be inna room again… / Maybe even a cell… / Where I can read a paper and think deep about today

Wow... / With that one / we collectively exhale / and look at / our hands / or our laps / or out of our respective windows

Changed

By one of our own
Surprisingly well groomed
Oddly articulate
But deeply wounded
Sons

As he
Head hanging
Shoulders slumped
Disembarks from the number twenty-three city bus
And leaves on us
The residue
Of his melancholy…
  

Note:  Usually when the "Crazy" leaves the bus-  a vocal "Whew, I'm glad that's over!" circulates.  But when this broken young man was gone... no one made a sound.  Not a cellular phone or side conversation... nothing. We rode on in silence…

I had my first kiss at the cinema, the contour of our silhouettes illuminated by the glow of the rolling credits. He tasted like Altoids and cigarettes, an ambivalent concoction of ice and fire. At one point, I'd bitten him by accident. Whether this was a manifestation of inexperience or (seductively, with heat in her eyes) hunger,  I'm not sure. But, sitting there in the thrill of My Something New, I was certain of one thing: this was a red carpet moment, the stuff of silver screens and glimmering Hollywood starlets and rows of type writer ribbon waiting to be transposed into something theatrical.

After the film, we sat outside a cafe a block over, the fever of summer adhering to the back of our necks like (giggling) misplaced hickeys. Smoke corkscrewing from the end of his parliament, he told me how John F. Kennedy was addicted to opioids. I couldn't help but think back to earlier that afternoon when he first admitted to being a smoker. How he'd asked me, "Is this going to be a problem for you?" hesitation rising up his throat like bile.

I smiled because 'Everyone's got their poison," I replied.  

And poison? Well, there's something so strikingly poetic about it, don't you agree?

(beat.)

JFK must have been Marilyn Monroe's poison, I think.

"So," I offered, "What do you really think happened to Marilyn Monroe?"

"How do you mean?" he said between drags of his cigarette.

"I mean was it really an overdose or--"

"Was it an assassination?" he interjected.

"Mhmmm."

Another drag of his cigarette.

"As they say, the simplest answer is often the correct one."

"Maybe. (beat.) But what makes for the better story?"

After two weeks of courtship, he took his leave. My mother's obvious, unwarranted disapproval was, perhaps, a source of anxiety for him. Me being freshly eighteen, he was also concerned about that (sarcastically) whoppin' three year age gap. (beat.) Not fully buying it, are ya?

Well, neither did I.

Here's my theory: his feelings (or lack thereof) were the reason he called it quits. And instead of being a man--instead of being honest, instead of owning up to the true nature of his intentions--he spun some relatively believable excuse. A coward's way of removing himself from a situation he doesn't want to be in. Surprisingly enough, I wasn't as disappointed as I would have anticipated, had I foreseen the end of our fleeting romance.

I was (beat.) fine.

It does make for a great story, after all. (wryly) But you knew that already.

Because for every Norma Jean, there's always a Marilyn Monroe.

Tell me then--who are you?

(beat.)

Girl curtsies, transitioning into a tableau of Marilyn Monroe's iconic pose wherein she attempts to hold down her dress as the air from a nearby subway grate threatens to expose her undergarments.

Lights fade out.

{Fin}

(last Friday)

My English class just ended and everyone’s packing up (18 students). The class is held outdoors under a tent due to COVID. My professor says, “Ms Vionet, may I speak with you for a moment?”

I froze, Oh, my God, I thought, is he about to tell me to quit - has he already identified some fundamental inadequacy in my work? The world seemed to go silent as I hefted my backpack and approached him.

“Ms Vionet,” he began.
“Anais,” I interjected.
“Anais,” he patiently started again, “We have a small professor’s choice (invitation only) writing group that meets every two weeks, 7 to 8 PM on Wednesdays - would you be interested in joining us?”

It was hard to hold back a pterodactyl screech of delight. “Yes sir, I’ll be there”

“Here”, he said, motioning to the tent classroom “weather permitting.” He had packed up, he turned and headed for some nearby stairs.

I did a twirl of joy.

She twitches,
I assume out of subconscious fears,
When she's falling close to sleep.

I realize now
The full efforts of what she's been trying to tell me
She is honestly
Struggling.

But that single day was near perfect,
And she kissed me more than she had in over a week,
But not once on my mouth.

What use is it to satisfy what your desire
If you actually don't.

And leave my thoughts disoriented by the fact that
He exists.

Last night,
Home,
I was searching for my peace,
That peace was your presence until he interjected
And I swear it will be this way until
You find some closure.

And by god,
I hope it is not I whom you sever.

Hiding within her own shadow
she creeps along grasping for the wall.
the chain tugs at her ankle in excruciating pain.
no longer in her own mind
she wanders...

Where am I ?  how did I get here ?
she escapes into an obsidian realm,
with which she can breathe.
hiding in the Beauty of a ghost,
disclosing reality to one alone...

Routine constitutes life,
shackled by love,
bound by a quill
losing her will...

Rising from the dark,
no longer to hide.
she is a beautiful thing
this rose will confide...

Life anew upon her broken parts
she now has reason
interjected reality
hope
a light...at the end of this tunnel we call life...

In New Haven, Lisa misses the sad, dark, city aesthetics of her hometown. Its crime podcast vibe, actinic crime-lighting and sirens in the distance, that lull her to sleep like lullabies. She has a disturbingly romantic attraction to hustle, bright neon lights, skyscrapers, subways, crowded diversity and swirling dance clubs.

Yep, we were in NYC for fall break - a week-long escape from school. We head back to Yale tomorrow. We’ve been seeing the sights, Broadway shows at night, the views from great heights, restaurant delights and sisterly fights.

Lisa's sister (Leeza, 14) can’t sit still, she’s all theater kid energy. She started playing electric bass and desperately wants to be in a band. She’s taking bass lessons, has calluses on her little fingers, and plays it (silently) even as we watch TV. Calling it an obsession would minimize it.

We saw the Eras Tour movie, last night, in iMax and it’s hypnotizing. Better than RL? Maybe.
We’ve seen two Broadway shows too: “Six’, a modern retelling of the lives of the six wives of Henry VIII (don’t bother) and ‘Merrily We Roll Along’, (two thumbs up) Stephen Sondheim’s weakest play saved by the cast of Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe), and King George (Jonathan Groff).

Lisa, Leeza and I were talking, earlier in the week, about Autumn comfort foods. I described the joys of cassoulet, fondues and tartiflette (potatoes, cream, cheese, bacon, and onions delight) - three French favorites and Leeza said, snootily, “This is New York City,” like, ‘you can find anything here.’ It was a freakin’ challenge!

So, we’ve hit French restaurants all week in search of these treats. We each order one of the three and compare them. So far, La Sirene (south village) had the best cassoulet - although it had a crusty top - which is just - No. Mominette (Brooklyn) had the best Tartiflette but they all treat it like a side dish?? And The Lavaux wins best fondue. So book those flights now!

Lisa, Leeza and I were sharing the couch in their dad’s all-glass, 50th floor, corner study, that overlooks the city. The view makes me feel like an angel watching over mankind from the firmaments - if the firmaments feature the winking, blinking lights of jets landing at Newark Liberty, Teterboro and LaGuardia.

“So, how’s Fall semester been for you?” Lisa asked me. Of course, we’re roommates so she’s seen the more obvious events in my life, but we all have complicated, internal lives.
The subtext to her question, of course, is Peter and how I’m dealing with his absence, so far, this year. But I’m not ready to go there, and I frown.
“I’ve been seeing so many Tumbler compilations, she added, to save me from answering, “saying how the start of Fall Semester is a time of agony, pain and reflection.”
“And I think that’s real,” I interjected.
“How so?” Leeza asked - she LOVES the uni 411
“School can be harsh,” Lisa continued, “the sudden, hella work, and, of course, it’s breakup season on campus.”
“Oh, Yeah,” I agreed, “Being away from home and those certain ‘someone's’ for months can be rough on freshmen.” We all nodded in agreement.

“Has anyone been vibing to anything regularly?” I asked (musically).
“I’ve been bumpin’ to Pink Pantheress,” Leeza revealed, “I think people see her as a TikTok, one hit wonder, but I think she still slaps!”
“Yes!” Lisa exclaims, “I’ve had “Picture in my mind” on a loop.

The city looked like an exquisite, miniature, clockwork toy. How could someone not love it when seeing it the way God does? It’ll be even prettier at Thanksgiving - I'm crossing my fingers and hoping for snow.

taking place at bar after rare occurrence of
an early night. ordered a single whisky and tall beer.
the drunkard opposite found agreement in the random
statements i interjected between him and blonde bartender.
cheaesing his Miller to my whiskey because of false-statement
passed through these winter-warped lips. cheersing, to words
that are false belief. if only to retain him to placated  stupor.
opened book of Style, left-to-right this hand underlining sentences
and rectifying the self-criticism ever present. talking louder,
   'i just don't hear as well as i once could.'
he orders another but sends it to vacant chair adjacent mine.
stumbling, moving from his ritual spot. sitting, he claims
his upbringing as Southern Baptist. after i announced the
denomination to my rearing in childhood.
   'you're a christian, good.'    but
i don't have the heart to elaborate upon the crazed and
pantheistic beliefs i hold in truth.
   'you were baptized and saved?'    i lied,
for truth is my soul will burn in hell according to this man's
-- self-proclaimed sinner -- drunkenly spewed theological underst-
atments. his words slur as he falls into elaboration of Bible conspiracies.
adding a few
   '*****'
                      here and there,
and always in concern of his opinion of Muslims -- awkward.
my boss in background chimes; we had a similar conversation
moments before. now my words betray everything stated during
prior moment. i order another beer then excuse myself to ****.

The government just called me
Actually the government told the police to call me
to be more specific
we all know how when referring to authorities
it is extremely important to be clear
detailed
and concise
because of how extremely uneducated they are
and also insecure
but anyways
as polite as the officer be
asked me,
encouraged me,
I guess threatened me,
If I really think it through
Officer says,
“Sir…Mr. Gregory.”
“Yes.” I say
“We…well the government of the United States of the America. Is willing to…wants to give you a certain amount of funding. Well, money. To stop being anti-racist.”
“Oh really?” I say
“Umm…yes. You see. We. Meaning the associates of the government…”
“The associates of white supremacy.”
I interjected
“Right. Yes. Well you know that. Well thats exactly it Mr. Gregory. We have been doing just fine without other people or too many of them know that. We the government and its associates…”
“Whiteness is a mental illness” I interrupted again.
“Yes. Yes. Okay. So yeah. We are offering you…roughly…25000 a month. To only do things…well…not anti-racist. Its part of the affirmative action project.”
I signed it right then and there

I keep going…

Even though my meaning is misconstrued.

I truly believe that we are even.

A living life that’s unfulfilled.

I wait patiently for someone who
will come and be with me.

It’s not that rejection is my enemy...

It’s that my enemy is me.

I know you’ve heard it before
in a way that’s more familiar,
but what can I say
when I feel so similar.

Where is she?

The same place as me…

Tucked away out of the others
eye sight,
or already passed,
but too nervously afraid to say;

‘It’s not okay.’

‘I’m not you;
you're not me.’

The world turned without a pair.

It was us who interjected purpose,
it was us who tried to find reason,
it was us who wrote the meaning,
and it was us who gave in too easily.

A passerby,
or one in too many…

Could it be so frequent
that it was unnecessary to care?

Or so few that I lost it before
I even knew it was there…

I don’t know what to say about that...

‘Love lost people,
As war seeks lives.’

There I’ve done it.

I’ve crushed a rose
and lifted a bitter note
above an atmosphere
made up of a little more than sound,
but a little less than a passion from
something that somewhat comprehends…

I’m human and I don’t understand...

The sun shines violently,
I light where it’s been,
and together we wander.

We know not of,
Just yet,
Where each other roam…

And before it’s all over
I only hope we find one another’s
hidden home,

as we float towards
the final resting earth
within the icy stone’s storm,

traversing chaos’
insignificant unknown...

alone.

On a sermon note,  when I guess I should have been listening, I scribbled a poem years ago that I now find in a long neglected book I used to smuggle in every Sunday. A stoic book and in the folds I find the never published long forgotten write of an imagined future day that fate holds from above just out of grasp. That sparkling jewel of hope. A day with darting eyes and deep swallows, heaving hidden breaths, electric thoughts. Two of the corners are shriveled now , one side requiring unrolling the see the last words of each line. Interjected words here and there to change the nuance just a bit. Truth is in there, pleasure too. Between the space of whispered glances and a final goodbye. Wonder what it all means now. I can't quite wrap my head around it much like the sermon of that day. So I will leave it with Pope, right in the middle of the Windsor Forest, "to consult the dead and live past ages o'er."