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Like a psychotic docent in the wilderness,
I will not speak in perfect Ciceronian cadences.
I draw my voice from a much deeper cistern,
Preferring the jittery synaptic archive,
So sublimely unfiltered, random and profane.
And though I am sequestered now,
Confined within the walls of a gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55 lunatic asylum (for Active Seniors I am told),
I remain oddly puerile,
Remarkably refreshed and unfettered.  
My institutionalization self-imposed,
Purposed for my own serenity, and also the safety of others.
Yet I abide, surprisingly emancipated and frisky.
I may not have found the peace I seek,
But the quiet has mercifully come at last.

The nexus of inner and outer space is context for my story.
I was born either in Brooklyn, New York or Shungopavi, Arizona,
More of intervention divine than census data.
Shungopavi: a designated place for tribal statistical purposes.
Shungopavi: an ovine abbatoir and shaman’s cloister.
The Hopi: my mother’s people, a state of mind and grace,
Deftly landlocked, so cunningly circumscribed,
By both interior and outer Navajo boundaries.
The Navajo: a coyote trickster people; a nation of sheep thieves,
Hornswoggled and landlocked themselves,
Subsumed within three of the so-called Four Corners:
A 3/4ths compromise and covenant,
Pickled in firewater, swaddled in fine print,
A veritable swindle concocted back when the USA
Had Manifest Destiny & mayhem on its mind.

The United States: once a pubescent synthesis of blood and thunder,
A bold caboodle of trooper spit and polish, unwashed brawlers, Scouts and      
Pathfinders, mountain men, numb-nut ne'er-do-wells,
Buffalo Bills & big-balled individualists, infected, insane with greed.
According to the Gospel of His Holiness Saint Zinn,
A People’s’ History of the United States: essentially state-sponsored terrorism,
A LAND RUSH grabocracy, orchestrated, blessed and anointed,
By a succession of Potomac sharks, Great White Fascist Fathers,
Far-Away-on-the Bay, the Bay we call The Chesapeake.
All demented national patriarchs craving lebensraum for God and country.
The USA: a 50-state Leviathan today, a nation jury-rigged,
Out of railroad ties, steel rails and baling wire,
Forged by a litany of lies, rapaciousness and ******,
And jaw-torn chunks of terra firma,
Bites both large and small out of our well-****** Native American ***.

Or culo, as in va’a fare in culo (literally "go do it in the ***")
Which Italian Americans pronounce as fongool.
The language center of my brain,
My sub-cortical Broca’s region,
So fraught with such semantic misfires,
And autonomic linguistic seizures,
Compel acknowledgement of a father’s contribution,
To both the gene pool and the genocide.
Columbus Day:  a conspicuously absent holiday out here in Indian Country.
No festivals or Fifth Avenue parades.
No excuse for ethnic hoopla. No guinea feast. No cannoli. No tarantella.
No excuse to not get drunk and not **** your sister-in-law.
Emphatically a day for prayer and contemplation,
A day of infamy like Pearl Harbor and 9/11,
October 12, 1492: not a discovery; an invasion.

Growing up in Brooklyn, things were always different for me,
Different in some sort of redskin/****/****--
Choose Your Favorite Ethnic Slur-sort of way.
The American Way: dehumanization for fun and profit.
Melting *** anonymity and denial of complicity with evil.
But this is no time to bring up America’s sordid past,
Or, a personal pet peeve: Indian Sovereignty.
For Uncle Sam and his minions, an ever-widening, conveniently flexible concept,
Not a commandment or law,
Not really a treaty or a compact,
Or even a business deal.  Let’s get real:
It was not even much in the way of a guideline.
Just some kind of an advisory, a bulletin or newsletter,
Could it merely have been a free-floating suggestion?
Yes, that’s it exactly: a suggestion.

Over and under halcyon American skies,
Over and around those majestic purple mountain peaks,
Those trapped in poetic amber waves of wheat and oats,
Corn and barley, wheat shredded and puffed,
Corn flaked and milled, Wheat Chex and Wheaties, oats that are little Os;
Kix and Trix, Fiber One, and Kashi-Go-Lean, Lucky Charms and matso *****,
Kreplach and kishka,
Polenta and risotto.
Our cantaloupe and squash patch,
Our fruited prairie plain, our delicate ecological Eden,
In balance and harmony with nature, as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce instructs:
“These white devils are not going to,
Stop ****** and killing, cheating and eating us,
Until they have the whole ******* enchilada.
I’m talking about ‘from sea to shining sea.’”

“I fight no more forever,” Babaloo.
So I must steer this clunky keelboat of discovery,
Back to the main channel of my sad and starry demented river.
My warpath is personal but not historical.
It is my brain’s own convoluted cognitive process I cannot saavy.
Whatever biochemical or—as I suspect more each day—
Whatever bio-mechanical protocols govern my identity,
My weltanschauung: my world-view, as sprechen by proto-Nazis;
Putz philosophers of the 17th, 18th & 19th century.
The German intelligentsia: what a cavalcade of maniacal *******!
Why is this Jew unsurprised these Zarathustra-fueled Übermenschen . . .
Be it the Kaiser--Caesar in Deutsch--Bismarck, ******, or,
Even that Euro-*****,  Angela Merkel . . . Why am I not surprised these Huns,
Get global grab-*** on the sauerbraten cabeza every few generations?
To be, or not to be the ***** bullgoose loony: GOTT.

Biomechanical protocols govern my identity and are implanted while I sleep.
My brain--my weak and weary CPU--is replenished, my discs defragmented.
A suite of magnetic and optical white rooms, cleansed free of contaminants,
Gun mounts & lifeboat stations manned and ready,
Standing at attention and saluting British snap-style,
Snap-to and heel click, ramrod straight and cheerful: “Ready for duty, Sir.”
My mind is ravenous, lusting for something, anything to process.
Any memory or image, lyric or construct,
Be they short-term dailies or deeply imprinted.
Fixations archived one and all in deep storage time and space.
Memories, some subconscious, most vaporous;
Others--the scary ones—eidetic: frighteningly detailed and extraordinarily vivid.
Precise cognitive transcripts; recollected so richly rife and fresh.
Visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and olfactory reloads:
Queued up and increasingly re-experienced.

The bio-data of six decades: it’s all there.
People, countless, places and things cataloged.
Every event, joy and trauma enveloped from within or,
Accessed externally from biomechanical storage devices.
The random access memory of a lifetime,
Read and recollected from cerebral repositories and vaults,
All the while the entire greedy process overseen,
Over-driven by that all-subservient British bat-man,
Rummaging through the data in batches small and large,
Internal and external drives working in seamless syncopation,
Self-referential, at times paradoxical or infinitely looped.
“Cogito ergo sum."
Descartes stripped it down to the basics but there’s more to the story:
Thinking about thinking.
A curse and minefield for the cerebral:  metacognition.

No, it is not the fact that thought exists,
Or even the thoughts themselves.
But the information technology of thought that baffles me,
As adaptive and profound as any evolution posited by Darwin,
Beyond the wetware in my skull, an entirely new operating system.
My mental and cultural landscape are becoming one.
Machines are connecting the two.
It’s what I am and what I am becoming.
Once more for emphasis:
It is the information technology of who I am.
It is the operating system of my mental and cultural landscape.
It is the machinery connecting the two.
This is the central point of this narrative:
Metacognition--your superego’s yenta Cassandra,
Screaming, screaming in your psychic ear, your good ear:

“LISTEN:  The machines are taking over, taking you over.
Your identity and train of thought are repeatedly hijacked,
Switched off the main line onto spurs and tangents,
Only marginally connected or not at all.
(Incoming TEXT from my editor: “Lighten Up, Giuseppi!”)
Reminding me again that most in my audience,
Rarely get past the comic page. All righty then: think Calvin & Hobbes.
John Calvin, a precocious and adventurous six-year old boy,
Subject to flights of 16th Century French theological fancy.
Thomas Hobbes, a sardonic anthropomorphic tiger from 17th Century England,
Mumbling about life being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”
Taken together--their antics and shenanigans--their relationship to each other,
Remind us of our dual nature; explore for us broad issues like public education;
The economy, environmentalism & the Global ****** Thermometer;
Not to mention the numerous flaws of opinion polls.



And again my editor TEXTS me, reminds me again: “LIGHTEN UP!”
Consoling me:  “Even Shakespeare had to play to the groundlings.”
The groundlings, AKA: The Rabble.
Yes. Even the ******* Bard, even Willie the Shake,
Had to contend with a decidedly lowbrow copse of carrion.
Oh yes, the groundlings, a carrion herd, a flying flock of carrion seagulls,
Carrion crow, carrion-feeders one and all,
And let’s throw Sheryl Crow into the mix while we’re at it:
“Hit it! This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either, this is L.A.”  

                  Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell              

Once more, I digress.
The Rabble:  an amorphous, gelatinous Jabba the Hutt of commonality.
The Rabble: drunk, debauched & lawless.
Too *****-delicious to stop Bill & Hilary from thinking about tomorrow;
Too Paul McCartney My Love Does it Good to think twice.

The Roman Saturnalia: a weeklong **** fest.
The Saturnalia: originally a pagan kink-fest in honor of the deity Saturn.
Dovetailing nicely with the advent of the Christian era,
With a project started by Il Capo di Tutti Capi,
One of the early popes, co-opting the Roman calendar between 17 and 25 December,
Putting the finishing touches on the Jesus myth.
For Brooklyn Hopi-***-Jew baby boomers like me,
Saturnalia manifested itself as Disco Fever,
Unpleasant years of electrolysis, scrunched ***** in tight polyester
For Roman plebeians, for the great unwashed citizenry of Rome,
Saturnalia was just a great big Italian wedding:
A true family blowout and once-in-a-lifetime ego-trip for Dad,
The father of the bride, Vito Corleone, Don for A Day:
“Some think the world is made for fun and frolic,
And so do I! Funicula, Funiculi!”

America: love it or leave it; my country right or wrong.
Sure, we were citizens of Rome,
But any Joe Josephus spending the night under a Tiber bridge,
Or sleeping off a three day drunk some afternoon,
Up in the Coliseum bleachers, the cheap seats, out beyond the monuments,
The original three monuments in the old stadium,
Standing out in fair territory out in center field,
Those three stone slabs honoring Gehrig, Huggins, and Babe.
Yes, in the house that Ruth built--Home of the Bronx Bombers--***?
Any Joe Josephus knows:  Roman citizenship doesn’t do too much for you,
Except get you paxed, taxed & drafted into the Legion.
For us the Roman lifestyle was HIND-*** humble.
We plebeians drew our grandeur by association with Empire.
Very few Romans and certainly only those of the patrician class lived high,
High on the hog, enjoying a worldly extravaganza, like—whom do we both know?

Okay, let’s say Laurence Olivier as Crassus in Spartacus.
Come on, you saw Spartacus fifteen ******* times.
Remember Crassus?
Crassus: that ***** twisted **** trying to get his freak on with,
Tony Curtis in a sunken marble tub?
We plebes led lives of quiet *****-scratching desperation,
A bunch of would-be legionnaires, diseased half the time,
Paid in salt tablets or baccala, salted codfish soaked yellow in olive oil.
Stiffs we used to call them on New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn.
Let’s face it: we were hyenas eating someone else’s ****,
Stage-door jackals, Juvenal-come-late-lies, a mob of moronic mook boneheads
Bought off with bread & circuses and Reality TV.
Each night, dished up a wide variety of lowbrow Elizabethan-era entertainments.  
We contemplate an evening on the town, downtown—
(cue Petula Clark/Send "Downtown" Ringtone to your Cell)

On any given London night, to wit:  mummers, jugglers, bear & bull baiters.
How about dog & **** fighters, quoits & skittles, alehouses & brothels?
In short, somewhere, anywhere else,
Anywhere other than down along the Thames,
At Bankside in Southwark, down in the Globe Theater mosh pit,
Slugging it out with the groundlings whose only interest,
In the performance is the choreography of swordplay and stale ****** puns.
Meanwhile, Hugh Fennyman--probably a fellow Jew,
An English Renaissance Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen—
Meanwhile Fennyman, the local mob boss is getting his ya-yas,
Roasting the feet of my text-messaging editor, Philip Henslowe.
Poor and pathetic Henslowe, works on commission, always scrounging,
But a true patron of my craft, a gentleman of infinite jest and patience,
Spiritual subsistence, and every now and then a good meal at some,
Sawdust joint with oyster shells, and a Prufrockian silk purse of T.S. Eliot gold.

Poor, pathetic Henslowe, trussed up by Fennyman,
His editorial feet in what looks like a Japanese hibachi.
Henslowe’s feet to the fire--feet to the fire—get it?
A catchy phrase whose derivation conjures up,
A grotesque yet vivid image of torture,
An exquisite insight into how such phrases ingress the idiom,
Not to mention a scene once witnessed at a secret Romanian CIA prison,
I’d been ordered to Bucharest not long after 9/11,
Handling the rendition and torture of Habib Ghazzawy,

An entirely innocent falafel maker from Steinway Street, Astoria, Queens.
Shock the Monkey: it’s what we do. GOTO:
Peter Gabriel - Shock the Monkey/
(HQ music video) - YouTube//
www.youtube.com/
Poor, pathetic, ******-on Henslowe.


Fennyman :  (his avarice is whet by something Philly screams out about a new script)  "A play takes time. Find actors; Rehearsals. Let's say open in three weeks. That's--what--five hundred groundlings at tuppence each, in addition four hundred groundlings tuppence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence--a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performances for safety how much is that Mr. Frees?"
Jacobean Tweet, John (1580-1684) Webster:  “I saw him kissing her bubbies.”

It’s Geoffrey Rush, channeling Henslowe again,
My editor, a singed smoking madman now,
Feet in an ice bucket, instructing me once more:
“Lighten things up, you know . . .
Comedy, love and a bit with a dog.”
I digress again and return to Hopi Land, back to my shaman-monastic abattoir,
That Zen Center in downtown Shungopavi.
At the Tribal Enrolment Office I make my case for a Certificate of Indian Blood,
Called a CIB by the Natives and the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.
The BIA:  representing gold & uranium miners, cattle and sheep ranchers,
Sodbusters & homesteaders; railroaders and dam builders since 1824.
Just in time for Andrew Jackson, another false friend of Native America,
Just before Old Hickory, one of many Democratic Party hypocrites and scoundrels,
Gives the FONGOOL, up the CULO go ahead.
Hey Andy, I’ve got your Jacksonian democracy: Hanging!
The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) mission is to:   "… enhance the quality of life, to promote economic opportunity, and to carry out the responsibility to protect and improve the trust assets of American Indians, Indian tribes, and Alaska Natives. What’s that in the fine print?  Uncle Sammy holds “the trust assets of American Indians.”

Here’s a ******* tip, Geronimo: if he trusted you,
It would ALL belong to you.
To you and The People.
But it’s all fork-tongued white *******.
If true, Indian sovereignty would cease to be a sick one-liner,
Cease to be a blunt force punch line, more of,
King Leopold’s 19th Century stand-up comedy schtick,
Leo Presents: The **** of the Congo.
La Belgique mission civilisatrice—
That’s what French speakers called Uncle Leo’s imperial public policy,
Bringing the gift of civilization to central Africa.
Like Manifest Destiny in America, it had a nice colonial ring to it.
“Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent,
Allotted by Providence for the free development,
Of our yearly multiplying millions.”  John L. O'Sullivan, 1845

Our civilizing mission or manifest destiny:
Either/or, a catchy turn of phrase;
Not unlike another ironic euphemism and semantic subterfuge:
The Pacification of the West; Pacification?
Hardly: decidedly not too peaceful for Cochise & Tonto.
Meanwhile, Madonna is cash rich but disrespected Evita poor,
To wit: A ****** on the Rocks (throwing in a byte or 2 of Da Vinci Code).
Meanwhile, Miss Ciccone denied her golden totem *****.
They snubbed that little guinea ****, didn’t they?
Snubbed her, robbed her rotten.
Evita, her magnum opus, right up there with . . .
Her SNL Wayne’s World skit:
“Get a load of the unit on that guy.”
Or, that infamous MTV Music Video Awards stunt,
That classic ***** Lip-Lock with Britney Spears.

How could I not see that Oscar snubola as prime evidence?
It was just another stunning case of American anti-Italian racial animus.
Anyone familiar with Noam Chomsky would see it,
Must view it in the same context as the Sacco & Vanzetti case,
Or, that arbitrary lynching of 9 Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891,
To cite just two instances of anti-Italian judicial reach & mob violence,
Much like what happened to my cousin Dominic,
Gang-***** by the Harlem Globetrotters, in their locker room during halftime,
While he working for Abe Saperstein back in 1952.
Dom was doing advance for Abe, supporting creation of The Washington Generals:
A permanent stable of hoop dream patsies and foils,
Named for the ever freewheeling, glad-handing, backslapping,
Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (SCAEF), himself,
Namely General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man they liked,
And called IKE: quite possibly a crypto Jew from Abilene.

Of course, Harry Truman was my first Great White Fascist Father,
Back in 1946, when I first opened my eyes, hung up there,
High above, looking down from the adobe wall.
Surveying the entire circular kiva,
I had the best seat in the house.
Don’t let it be said my Spider Grandmother or Hopi Corn Mother,
Did not want me looking around at things,
Discovering what made me special.
Didn’t divine intervention play a significant part of my creation?
Knowing Mamma Mia and Nonna were Deities,
Gave me an edge later on the streets of Brooklyn.
The Cradleboard: was there ever a more divinely inspired gift to human curiosity? The Cradleboard: a perfect vantage point, an infant’s early grasp,
Of life harmonious, suspended between Mother Earth and Father Sky.
Simply put: the Hopi should be running our ******* public schools.

But it was IKE with whom I first associated,
Associated with the concept 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I liked IKE. Who didn’t?
What was not to like?
He won the ******* war, didn’t he?
And he wasn’t one of those crazy **** John Birchers,
Way out there, on the far right lunatic Republican fringe,
Was he? (It seems odd and nearly impossible to believe in 2013,
That there was once a time in our Boomer lives,
When the extreme right wing of the Republican Party
Was viewed by the FBI as an actual threat to American democracy.)
Understand: it was at a time when The FBI,
Had little ideological baggage,
But a great appetite for secrets,
The insuppressible Jay Edgar doing his thang.

IKE: of whom we grew so, oh-so Fifties fond.
Good old reliable, Nathan Shaking IKE:
He’d been fixed, hadn’t he? Had had the psychic snip.
Snipped as a West Point cadet & parade ground martinet.
Which made IKE a good man to have in a pinch,
Especially when crucial policy direction was way above his pay grade.
Cousin Dom was Saperstein’s bagman, bribing out the opposition,
Which came mainly from religious and patriotic organizations,
Viewing the bogus white sports franchise as obscene.
The Washington Generals, Saperstein’s new team would have but one opponent,
And one sole mission: to serve as the **** of endless jokes and sight gags for—
Negroes.  To play the chronic fools of--
Negroes.  To be chronically humiliated and insulted by—
Negroes.  To run up and down the boards all night, being outran by—
Negroes.  Not to mention having to wear baggy silk shorts.



Meadowlark Lemon:  “Yeah, Charlie, we ***** that grease-ball Dominic; we shagged his guinea mouth and culo rotten.”  

(interviewed in his Scottsdale, AZ winter residence in 2003 by former ESPN commentator Charlie Steiner, Malverne High School, Class of ’67.)
                                                        
  ­                                                                 ­                 
IKE, briefed on the issue by higher-ups, quickly got behind the idea.
The Harlem Globetrotters were to exist, and continue to exist,
Are sustained financially by Illuminati sponsors,
For one reason and one reason only:
To serve elite interests that the ***** be kept down and subservient,
That the minstrel show be perpetuated,
A policy surviving the elaborate window dressing of the civil rights movement, Affirmative action, and our first Uncle Tom president.
Case in point:  Charles Barkley, Dennis Rodman & Metta World Peace Artest.
Cha-cha-cha changing again:  I am Robert Allen Zimmermann,
A whiny, skinny Jew, ****** and rolling in from Minnesota,
Arrested, obviously a vagrant, caught strolling around his tony Jersey enclave,
Having moved on up the list, the A-list, a special invitation-only,
Yom Kippur Passover Seder:  Next Year in Jerusalem, Babaloo!

I take ownership of all my autonomic and conditioned reflexes;
Each personal neural arc and pathway,
All shenanigans & shellackings,
Or blunt force cognitive traumas.
It’s all percolating nicely now, thank you,
In kitchen counter earthen crockery:
Random access memory: a slow-cook crockpot,
Bubbling through my psychic sieve.
My memories seem only remotely familiar,
Distant and vague, at times unreal:
An alien hybrid databank accessed accidently on purpose;
Flaky science sustains and monitors my nervous system.
And leads us to an overwhelming question:
Is it true that John Dillinger’s ******* is in the Smithsonian Museum?
Enquiring minds want to know, Kemosabe!

“Any last words, *******?” TWEETS Adam Smith.
Postmortem cyber-graffiti, an epitaph carved in space;
Last words, so singular and simple,
Across the universal great divide,
Frisbee-d, like a Pleistocene Kubrick bone,
Tossed randomly into space,
Morphing into a gyroscopic space station.
Mr. Smith, a calypso capitalist, and me,
Me, the Poet Laureate of the United States and Adam;
Who, I didn’t know from Adam.
But we tripped the light fantastic,
We boogied the Protestant Work Ethic,
To the tune of that old Scotch-Presbyterian favorite,
Variations of a 5-point Calvinist theme: Total Depravity; Election; Particular Redemption; Irresistible Grace; & Perseverance of the Saints.

Mr. Smith, the author of An Inquiry into the Nature
& Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776),
One of the best-known, intellectual rationales for:
Free trade, capitalism, and libertarianism,
The latter term a euphemism for Social Darwinism.
Prior to 1764, Calvinists in France were called Huguenots,
A persecuted religious majority . . . is that possible?
A persecuted majority of Edict of Nantes repute.
Adam Smith, likely of French Huguenot Jewish ancestry himself,
Reminds me that it is my principal plus interest giving me my daily gluten.
And don’t think the irony escapes me now,
A realization that it has taken me nearly all my life to see again,
What I once saw so vividly as a child, way back when.
Before I put away childish things, including the following sentiment:
“All I need is the air that I breathe.”

  Send "The Air That I Breathe" Ringtone to your Cell  

The Hippies were right, of course.
The Hollies had it all figured out.
With the answer, as usual, right there in the lyrics.
But you were lucky if you were listening.
There was a time before I embraced,
The other “legendary” economists:
The inexorable Marx,
The savage society of Veblen,
The heresies we know so well of Keynes.
I was a child.
And when I was a child, I spake as a child—
Grazie mille, King James—
I understood as a child; I thought as a child.
But when I became a man I jumped on the bus with the band,
Hopped on the irresistible bandwagon of Adam Smith.

Smith:  “Any last words, *******?”
Okay, you were right: man is rationally self-interested.
Grazie tanto, Scotch Enlightenment,
An intellectual movement driven by,
An alliance of Calvinists and Illuminati,
Freemasons and Johnny Walker Black.
Talk about an irresistible bandwagon:
Smith, the gloomy Malthus, and David Ricardo,
Another Jew boy born in London, England,
Third of 17 children of a Sephardic family of Portuguese origin,
Who had recently relocated from the Dutch Republic.
******* Jews!
Like everything shrewd, sane and practical in this world,
WE also invented the concept:  FOLLOW THE MONEY.

The lyrics: if you were really listening, you’d get it:
Respiration keeps one sufficiently busy,
Just breathing free can be a full-time job,
Especially when--borrowing a phrase from British cricketers—,
One contemplates the sorry state of the wicket.
Now that I am gainfully superannuated,
Pensioned off the employment radar screen.
Oft I go there into the wild ebon yonder,
Wandering the brain cloud at will.
My journey indulges curiosity, creativity and deceit.
I free range the sticky wicket,
I have no particular place to go.
Snagging some random fact or factoid,
A stop & go rural postal route,
Jumping on and off the brain cloud.

Just sampling really,
But every now and then, gorging myself,
At some information super smorgasbord,
At a Good Samaritan Rest Stop,
I ponder my own frazzled neurology,
When I was a child—
Before I learned the grim economic facts of life and Judaism,
Before I learned Hebrew,
Before my laissez-faire Bar Mitzvah lessons,
Under the rabbinical tutelage of Rebbe Kahane--
I knew what every clever child knows about life:
The surfing itself is the destination.
Accessing RAM--random access memory—
On a strictly need to know basis.
RAM:  a pretty good name for consciousness these days.

If I were an Asimov or Sir Arthur (Sri Lankabhimanya) Clarke,
I’d get freaky now, riffing on Terminators, Time Travel and Cyborgs.
But this is truth not science fiction.
Nevertheless, someone had better,
Come up with another name for cyborg.
Some other name for a critter,
Composed of both biological and artificial parts?
Parts-is-parts--be they electronic, mechanical or robotic.
But after a lifetime of science fiction media,
After a steady media diet, rife with dystopian technology nightmares,
Is anyone likely to admit to being a cyborg?
Since I always give credit where credit is due,
I acknowledge that cyborg was a term coined in 1960,
By Manfred Clynes & Nathan S. Kline and,
Used to identify a self-regulating human-machine system in outer space.

Five years later D. S. Halacy's: Cyborg: Evolution of the Superman,
Featured an introduction, which spoke of:  “… a new frontier, that was not,
Merely space, but more profoundly, the relationship between inner space,
And outer space; a bridge, i.e., between mind and matter.”
So, by definition, a cyborg defined is an organism with,
Technology-enhanced abilities: an antenna array,
Replacing what was once sentient and human.
My glands, once in control of metabolism and emotions,
Have been replaced by several servomechanisms.
I am biomechanical and gluttonous.
Soaking up and breathing out the atmosphere,
My Baby Boom experience of six decades,
Homogenized and homespun, feedback looped,
Endlessly networked through predigested mass media,
Culture as demographically targeted content.

This must have something to do with my own metamorphosis.
I think of Gregor Samsa, a Kafkaesque character if there ever was one.
And though we share common traits,
My evolutionary progress surpasses and transcends his.
Samsa--Phylum and Class--was, after all, an insect.
Nonetheless, I remain a changeling.
Have I not seen many stages of growth?
Each a painful metamorphic cycle,
From exquisite first egg,
Through caterpillar’s appetite & squirm.
To phlegmatic bliss and pupa quietude,
I unfold my wings in a rush of Van Gogh palette,
Color, texture, movement and grace, lift off, flapping in flight.
My eyes have witnessed wondrous transformations,
My experience, nouveau riche and distinctly self-referential;
For the most part unspecific & longitudinally pedestrian.

Yes, something has happened to me along the way.
I am no longer certain of my identity as a human being.
Time and technology has altered my basic wiring diagram.
I suspect the sophisticated gadgets and tools,
I’ve been using to shape & make sense of my environment,
Have reared up and turned around on me.
My tools have reshaped my brain & central nervous system.
Remaking me as something simultaneously more and less human.
The electronic toys and tools I once so lovingly embraced,
Have turned unpredictable and rabid,
Their bite penetrating my skin and septic now, a cluster of implanted sensors,
Content: currency made increasingly more valuable as time passes,
Served up by and serving the interests of a pervasively predatory 1%.
And the rest of us: the so-called 99%?
No longer human; simply put by both Howards--Beale & Zinn--

Humanoid.
grace snoddy Jun 2018
a body filled with familiar dread
you might say my body is already dead
my head is said to be quite fretful
took moments of quietude for granted;
and now i’m constantly regretful

the restlessness of my emotions
address my state of mind
and the distressed thoughts run around my head like guerrilas
they know they are running out of time
my jittery heart runs rampant
like a broken clock
and my only wish is for all of this to stop

the apprehension creates a detonation
a complete eradication of my elation
because my body is filled with familiar dread
and my body feels like it’s already dead
Dandelion May 2014
I don't know how I feel
Lost in my whirlpool of thoughts
It seems odd, what I am battling
Insecure about my every move

Living in a world with little confidence
Am I not being sincere?
Knowing the motives behind each action
Makes me all the more annoyed

I suppose its different values
And how I am to follow
But pride stops me from moving
I just don't wanna be pulled at the collar

I hoped for some respect
Not to be treated invisible
Be be treated with patience and allowed to make mistakes
Isn't that how I am to be?

I really don't know
Jittery and paranoid
Why can't they be direct
Feeling lost and insecure is all that I can say
Charlie Chirico Feb 2013
“It’s three in the morning. Are you drunk?” Larry asked me. “No, I just had to talk to someone and couldn’t think of anyone else,” I replied with desperation. “Can’t this wait until the morning, dude?” Larry asked, “I have to get up in six hours for work.” He sounded angry, but mostly tired so I pressed on. “No, this can’t wait, seriously. I’m sorry, but this is urgent.”

“Okay, what’s wrong that you had to wake me up?” Larry asked, and I was ready to talk. I was ready to talk until I couldn’t utter another word. I was distraught and scared. Larry was my best friend, and I knew he’d listen. I wasn’t sure if he could give me the right advice, but I knew he’d listen.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Try the beginning. Come on, man. It’s too late for this.”

“Alright, but have a little bit of patience.”

“Yeah, just start talking before I hang up.”

“Okay, I ****** up,” I replied and paused for a response, but Larry didn’t respond so I pressed on.

“I got off work at ten and had to close the store. My manager was in a tight spot and left me with the keys,” I said, took a breath, and continued,”I was kind of ******* when he asked me to do it, but he said he had no other choice. He even offered to give me an extra day off with pay.”

“So what’s the problem?” Larry asked.

“The problem is what I did before I left.”

“And that is?”

“Well, I was getting the store all shut up. I let most of the employees go, and I left one cashier with me so I didn’t have to run around like a maniac. There weren’t any problems, so I locked up and got ready to count down the last till so I could get the hell out of there.”

“Can you speed this up, man? I’m falling asleep,” Larry said impatiently.

“Sorry, so I count down the last till and leave it by the register. I let the last cashier go for the night and locked the door. I go back to the register and grab the till so I could put it in the office and start the deposit. My manager left me instructions for the closing procedures and the combo to the safe. I counted everything and wrapped the deposit so it could be taken to the bank in the morning. I followed the instructions perfectly.”

“So what’s the problem then?”

I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth. I was having trouble finishing my story, and even though I paused I knew Larry wouldn’t hang up. He wasn’t the kind of guy that would let a story go unfinished. The only problem was that I didn’t know how to get to the next part of the story. I was like a comedian without a punchline. It was hard enough to make the phone call to Larry, let alone get this far into the story. But I did wake him up, so the least I could do was finish my story.

“Are you there?” Larry asked.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m just having trouble explaining this.”

“Take a breath. Just breathe and try to start again,” Larry said with a comforting tone.

“I left with it,” I said. I was being vague on purpose so Larry would ask me what I meant instead of me telling him. And that’s exactly what he did. “You left with what?” He said sounding confused.

“I left with the deposit and everything else in the safe,” I said in a hurried tone.

“You did what?” Larry said sounding confused as if he heard me wrong.

“I left with everything. I took all the money and locked up.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I robbed my store and left. It was an impulse. I don’t know why I did it, but I did. I ****** up.”

“I hope you’re joking,” Larry said.

“I’m not joking. I just up and left with everything,” I said.

“What the **** were you thinking? How much did you take?”

“I wasn’t thinking, man. I took everything, which was a little over ten grand.”

“This isn’t good. What the ****, dude. This is bad, really really bad.”

“I know, but I don’t know what to do. That’s why I called you,” I said, sounding more desperate than when Larry had first picked up the phone.

“What do you want me to say? You just called me at three in the morning to tell me you robbed your store for a **** load of money. This is beyond a **** up, man. Where are you?”

“I’m out front of your place.”

“What? How long have you been here?” Larry asked. He sounded like he was shocked to hear me say that, but deep down I knew he understood. I didn’t know what else to do, and he was the only person I could turn to. He might not of agreed with what I did, but he would help me through anything. Whether that be good or bad; he would be there for support.

“I’ve been here since I called you. I didn’t know what to do. I’m freaking out. Like beyond freaking out. I’m so ******, man. I am absolutely ******.”

“Alright, first off get the hell inside. I’m unlocking the door now,” Larry said and hung up. I closed my phone and shut the engine to my car. I still sat in my car with my head on the steering wheel. I was emotionally drained and knew the night wasn’t over. My night was only going to get worse, and facing Larry was going to drain me. Larry knew how to give that look of disappointment only a parent could give. He wouldn’t belittle me, but the look in his eyes would be enough to make me feel small. It was already past the point of no return with Larry. I had to face him now, and he was waiting for me. I lifted my head up and rubbed my eyes. The light on his front porch was on when I lifted my head. So I got out of my car, locked it, and made my way up to his house. The door was open a crack and I stepped inside and locked it behind me. Larry’s foyer led to the kitchen, and the light was on. He was in the kitchen waiting for me.

“Is that you?” Larry yelled from the kitchen.

“Yeah.”

“In the kitchen. I just put on a *** of coffee.”

The ten second walk to the kitchen felt infinite. My legs were shaky, along with the rest of my body. I was more nervous about seeing Larry than I was about the consequences that were to follow my recklessness. I turned the corner into the kitchen to find Larry sitting at his kitchen table, staring at the coffee ***.

“Hey,” I said, being at a loss for words.

“Sit down. The coffee is almost done.”

“Okay, I think I might need a cup.”

“You and me both, bud.”

Larry and I both stared at the coffee ***. He was waiting for the coffee to finish. I was hypnotized by the drip. In a weird way it was calming and gave me time to think. I’m not sure if Larry ever took the time to glance at me, as I was only fixated on the drip. I didn’t want it to end for a few reasons. Not only was it calming, but it also prolonged the inevitable: Our conversation.

“What do you want?” Larry asked.

“What?”

“What do you want in your coffee?”

“Oh, just a little cream and a little sugar.”

Larry fixed two cups of coffee and placed a cup in front of me. He took his seat and sipped his coffee. He didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t sure if he was waiting for me to speak. Before I could he cleared his throat.

“What the **** were you thinking?” He asked, as only a friend could when you make a mistake.

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“Yeah, you said that, but what could possibly make you do something like that. Really, what the **** were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I just did it, and it didn’t cross my mind until I left and set the alarm. At that time I couldn’t do anything. I already took the money and left. I couldn’t go back in the store without sounding the alarm.”

“You set the alarm. You couldn’t just go back in and shut it off?” Larry pressed.

“No, I couldn’t. There are two different codes for closing and opening. I told you it was last minute, and my manager only gave me the code to close up.” I said in all honesty.

“You couldn’t of just put the money back and let the alarm go off? I’m sure they wouldn’t of been ****** about the alarm going off. It wasn’t your responsibility in the first place to be closing the store.” Larry said, making a valid point.

“I didn’t think about that, and I told you I was freaking. I thought I was already ****** so I left. I just got in my car and got out of there. I didn’t know where to go so I drove around for a few hours, and I didn’t want to go home so I called you.”

“Yeah, well thanks for that,” Larry said sarcastically.

“I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry, really I am.”

“No you’re not. If you were sorry you would of turned yourself in.”

“Are you serious? The last place I want to be is in jail.”

“Well you should of thought about that before you committed grand larceny.”

“What do I do then? What can I do?” I asked

“For right now just enjoy your coffee. Go pour another cup and relax. I’m going to call my work and call out. There is no way I’m going to make it in after all of this ******* you brought me.”

“I’m sorry, Larry. Really, I am truly sorry.”

“Just relax, there’s nothing you can do now.” Larry said. He got up and left the room. I also got up and poured another cup of coffee. He was right, I needed to relax and just stay calm. There was nothing else I could do, and freaking out was not going to help. I sat back down, took a sip of my coffee, and rested my head in my hands. It was the most at ease I’ve been the whole night. This is why I turned to Larry. He knew how to calm me down and was my only true friend. He always had my best interest at hand, and I loved him for that.

Ten minutes later Larry returned and sat back down. He took a sip of his coffee and spit it back in the cup. “I hate cold coffee,” Larry said and got up to pour another cup. “What are you thinking about?” He asked. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t respond. Although I was calmer my mind was still racing. It felt like my head was going to explode. Thankfully it didn’t, but it sure felt like it.

“What do you think you’re going to do? Larry asked

“I’m not sure yet. I think I might just take off. What else can I do? I can’t go to jail.” I replied through my strained throat. Larry didn’t say anything. His back was faced to me as he poured another cup of coffee. “I can’t.”

“You can’t what?” He asked.

“I can’t go to jail.”

“Okay, so then what? You’re just going to flee? Just get up and go?”

“Yeah, that is the only thing that seems plausible right now.”

“You don’t expect me to go with you, do you?”

“No, not at all. This is my mess.”

“You’re **** right it is,” Larry said sounding angry for the first time.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing to me. You have no reason to say sorry to me.”

“You’re right. I think I should just go,” I said

“Where are you going to go?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t wait around. I have to do something. And I should leave before anyone gets to the store to see the safe empty. What time is it?”

“It’s quarter after six.”

“Okay, the store opens in almost two hours. I should get going soon if I’m going to be out of the state before someone gets there.”

“Okay, if that’s what you think you got to do. Have another cup and calm down before you leave.” Larry suggested.

“Okay,” I said, accepting his offer.

I got up and walked to the coffee *** to make my last cup of coffee before I left. I knew I had to get going, but I wanted to make this last cup of coffee last. This would be the last time I would see Larry. And after all, he was my best friend. I would have many regrets when I was gone, so I tried to make this last encounter last as long as I could.

As I was pouring my last cup Larry’s doorbell rang. I looked back in a hurry and Larry put his hand on my shoulder. “Relax, it’s my neighbor. He comes over early on Tuesdays. He’s an older guy that comes over for coffee. He’s lonely and his wife passed recently. It’s the least I can do.” Larry said, and made his way to his front door. I sat back down and put my head in my hands again. The two cups of coffee I drank had me jittery. I sat and waited for Larry to return with his neighbor. When he came back in I would leave and be on my way. I had no choice, and I had to be leaving as soon as possible anyway. I didn’t need to intrude while he had company. I just rested my head, and I heard footsteps. Larry was on his way back in the kitchen, and I’d be on my way out.

A hand rested on my shoulder. I still kept my head in my hands.

“Mr. Kofta?”

I looked up and nearly fell off my chair.

“I’m Officer Shandie, and I’m going to need you to come with us.”

There were three police officers in Larry’s kitchen, and Larry was standing right beside them. He looked at me in disappointment, like only a parent can look at their child. Officer Shandie pulled me up and put my hands behind my back. He cuffed me and led me to the front of the house. All of the police officers followed, along with Larry. I was being put into the back of the police cruiser when Larry stopped them and spoke up.

“I can’t keep bailing you out. You’re not running from this mistake.”

Larry stepped aside as I was put in the back of the car. The door was shut, and my fate was sealed. Officer Shandie got in the cruiser and backed out of Larry’s driveway.

The only similarity Larry and I had that night was when I leaving to be taken to the police station. We both had our heads down.
Deztine Lorenza Nov 2015
Malcom was fed 16 bullets because of his. A slug kissed the jaw of King Jr. and silenced him forever. Gandhi shriveled like snakeskin. Joan of Arc became Joan of Ash- so you can understand why Melle Mel was jittery scribbling it all down, on a napkin, at Lucy's Noodle Shop in Harlem. Sweat poured into his green tea. He thought Jesus hanging from the dull wood. Heard about the poet Lorca under an olive tree, shot in the back. Everyone has felt this way through, he thought, never could he have imagined what would happen when he pressed his thumbprint into vinyl. Hip-Hop was still a tadpole. The DJ had just learned to scratch a record and make sounds no ear had never conjugated. How was he to know Tupac and Biggie would follow his lead and get plugged with lead? So he wrote it down, in big curling letters, emphatic: **DON'T PUSH ME
Jim Musics Aug 2018
Paper wasps' nests
Harvested by minimum wage earners
Who work at least two jobs
To pay uncontrolled rent, to buy the basics of survival
Who have all lost any government help

Workers' children
Those who have not be kidnapped and misplaced like objects by that government
Languish in inferior schools for ten months
Swelter in hovels in the shortened Summer

The fee for each nest is multiple stings
Some harvesters die of them
All suffer for days and weeks
Over and over

The nests are stomped into a pernicious parchment
By ultra rich cabinet members
Who have mistaken them for the Constitution
The parchments, written on with an ink made of
Blood, crude and tears
Are dictums, force-feedings of hate, greed and fear
Signed with a jittery, megalomaniacal signature
That looks like an EKG chart of a heart in ventricular fibrillation
but it's not fruit and it's not fun

Thanks to Vicki for the inspiration to speak up
Thanks to Janna for the title
Miranda Lee Nov 2014
Big red gnomes
stomp and clomp,
shaking me up inside.
Rumble,
Tumble,
Bumble
they go;
making me all jittery inside.
Fists
want to fly,
Words
want to scream,
and
Angry Red Gnomes
want to win.
Lucky Queue Oct 2012
Chirp chirp
A sparrow hops and flitters
Jumps and flutters
From branch
To branch
To wire
Lining up with all her friends
Waiting for some skybus to take them away
Twitter and chortling about the world below
Silly humans in their lucid bubbles of
Space
Squirrels chattering and cussing from the trees
Thieving birdseeds and peaches
Meanwhile the sparrow bounces on the wire
Jittery and full of energy
Twitching and flicking her feathers and tail
Boune bounce hop
Fidget and jump on straw thin legs
And then whoosh
All leave at once
Their invisible skytrain pulling away as fast as it comes
Classy J Nov 2016
Diving into bath salts, raving flue that is as sicking as math, at least that is what I conclude from my findings presented to the court. Objection, objection, sir I don't see the connection, maybe your rhyme scheme needs perfection. Maybe it does, but ***** it, I'm blessed by God; baby please sit down and take a chill pill and just enjoy this buzz. Busting off, so back off, bout to prove my case like I’m Ace Attorney, oh and I know it’s off topic but if I lived in America, I would’ve voted for Bernie. What the **** am I on? Came to save the digital world you can call me a digimon, you bet I’m a champion! Serendipity dear deputy; I’ll be typically wittingly searching for some tranquility. What is the validity of this vicinity as I only accept notability and won’t let this become a liability!

Pathologically paraplegic hypochondriac with insomniac who be popping poems profusely perfect; while whimsically worm's try to be strategic, but sadly choke and lose it. Miles set apart; it certainly is not a strut in some park, but everyone has to start somewhere before they engrave their mark. Don't reside yourself to just being a silhouette, nor be one to toot your clarinet. Two sides to every person like Dr.Jekyll and Mr.Hyde; be careful to not let your pride turn into carbon monoxide. For pride will always lead to your downfall, so please take off your iron curtain and tear down your Berlin wall. Improvident incongruous incredulous confidence; underwhelming astonishment of such fundaments of these heinous and callous acts of deceitfulness. Trickery of thy decadence; why art though jittery when you are full of benevolence? So used to getting what you want I bet; well this situation can not be fixed by dough, so I see why you are in a cold sweat! Fake confidence won't help you here especially when one lies; you made a mistake and will face the consequences and I am not one quick to forgive no matter how much you apologize.  

Don’t have time to consider your sensibility, because my life is going a twitter with too much hyperactivity for me to deal with your stupidity. Befittingly that I’ll be building up the intensity, to infinity and beyond goes this creativity of this anomaly. Not going to prolong this phenomenon, I’ll be going off like a Molotov over this intercom, yeah you better not ever underestimate this underdog. Lackadaisical are these other rappers; they’re so replaceable and incapable to be educational. Incomprehensible is this loop of hip-hop now a days, why can’t we be inspirational or is it to late because we left morals and substance back in the olden days. Can’t afford to be anchored anymore, I’ve poured in too much time to be just be locked behind some door. I refuse to be ignored and be left ashore; I am not worried about going into the storm; because you are bound to come across some things that need some work like chores. Spinning the wheel, reminiscing of how it felt when I no longer concealed who I was and my self-image had been healed.

Used to be reclusive & convinced myself that I was a duffass, but now I’m exclusive to being a smart ***. This is the new era, this is a new fire; it’s time to spice things up so better pull out the sriracha. Leading the revolution like I’m Che Guevara, I’m light as feather whatever the endeavor even if my life story doesn’t end up as pristine as Cinderella’s. Why so infatuated by worldly wants? Why so decorated when you can't hide the fact that you're the same basic *** font? Trying be something else, striving to be someone else, wanting to be anything else. You are who you are, if you think it will make things better you cucu, because in my eyes you are really a star. You have to expand your interpretation and perspective of life, you have to demand without hesitation a piece of that collective pie; because I believe everyone should be equal in this life.

Calculated bullets that go straight through my cranium; manufactured outlets that show great things but have also turned us into brainless aliens. Complicated hookups that grow irritating and become as unstable as uranium; what was once sacred has become as spontaneous as going to a gymnasium. Confiscated trinkets cast away and leaves those affected very irritate; while also simultaneously making apathetic souls that have gone through the same thing be able to understand, help or relate. Cultivated rebellious culprits that don't take the memo of being cooperative, instead they choose to be provocative and opposite of the other conglomerates. I’m so fascinated by this fabricated segregated supposedly liberated and sophisticated community; where-as some so foolishly stupidly amusingly think that everyone has the same equal chance at opportunity. Moderated, regulated and orchestrated where some are situated; if you don’t think that it has something to do with be affiliated to a certain demographic then maybe you never got educated in the affairs of those discriminated. It’s a good thing then that class is in session; so viewer or listener  please use discretion when taking time to witness or hear my position. Deafening out all ill whims; wrestling with these unsettling menacing fears and guilt from all of my sins.

Yeah no need for hallucinogens, all I need is two hydrogens and one oxygen. Rocking in my moccasins; so you can bet I am not one to drop my promises. Native honour who is also a innovative scholar and who was created not to falter. I may not be good with numbers, but I'm good at making sure you never slumber on my words; because I work on them day and night in my 36 chambers. Beware the pretender, they are manufactured by the vendors to keep us from being together. Defend your heart; be wise who you befriend and who you pick for your counterpart. There will be hurt and affection can be perverted, so know your worth and never ever let yourself be distorted. It is not your fault, it is not my fault, so then who is at fault? Is it just life in general? Is it because of the being who lives eternal? Is it all of the above? I don't know, but we shouldn't judge and instead choose to accept and love!

Pardon me Martin, but if this class were a prison I’d be the warden. I make the rules here and I took the tools given to me to get me here. So listen, please listen to my lesson that I have to present to you as class is still in session. Loading yawl with ammunition to be able to transition to be able to complete your goals or missions. No I’m not tripping, I’m driven  by a higher force to break away the old ways of thinking such as division. This is not the prohibition anymore, so please open your minds and join me on this expedition. Going into the unknown, so here’s to hoping you get through this, as time goes on and be able to look back at it we may feel like this was no more than a tiny but important milestone.  Achieve, believe, conceive, receive, intrigue, and succeed because I think you are unique. You are the only you in the whole galaxy, don’t let agony turn into tragedy; ***** anxiety; yeah and never let your dreams just be some fantasy.

Outro: Sit down class ain't over yet, forfeit those frowns or fake faint or try to jet. Lastly remember what transpired today; don't go hastily and forget about it on December break okay? For though class may be over, more days or years to come until its finally over. Though education ends, one never stops learning even on vacations with family or friends.  I hope you can look back with fondness, I hope you can stay on track in the future if you truly take the time to just focus. Is there truly an end or is this just the beginning to a new bend.
THE ALLAN FAMILY STORY, BRIAN WANTS TO BE AN ADULT, BUT HE;S TOO YOUNG



YOU SEE BRIAN ALLAN SINCE HE MOVED TO CANBERRA, HE HAS BEEN GETTING

VOICES IN HIS HEAD, OF HIS FAMILY AND OUTSIDERS, TREATING HIM LIKR A LITTLE

YOUNG DUDE, BUT BRIAN WAS FRUSTRATED, CAUSE, HE LIKED THE ADULTS BETTER

YOU SEE BRIAN WAS A COOL KID, BUT HIS VOICES WERE BOTHERING HIM, WHEN BRIAN

SAID I AM A MAN, HIS BROTHER WOULD SAY, SHUT UP, BABY, THEN ANOTHER VOICE SAYS

FROM AN OUTSIDER, SAYING, MEN BULLY, BRIAN, AND YOUR NO BULLY, BE LIKE USES WITH

THE YOUNG DUDES, AND BRIAN WAS UPSET, AND SAID, NO I AM AN ADULT, THERE IS NOTHING

WRONG WITH BEING AN ADULT, I WAS A COOL KID, YOU SEE, I WANTED TO BE ALLOWED TO RELAX

BUT BECAUSE MY BROTHER WAS ONLY 2 YEARS YOUNGER, HE FORCED ME TO JOIN HIM

WHICH I DIDN’T MIND, CAUSE AS I SAID, I WAS A COOL KID, YOU SEE WE PLAYED YARD CRICKET

AND FOOTBALL AND SPORTS SHOWS, AND BECAUSE OF ALL THIS, I WAS A REAL MAN, WHICH

UPSET MY PARENTS WAY OF LIFE, AND I DID THIS ALL THE WAY THROUGH MY CHILDHOOD

WITH OUTSIDERS CALLING OUT TO ME, SAYING, YOUR STILL A LITTLE YOUNG DUDE, AND

WHEN BRIAN SAID, I AM AN ADULT, THEY SAID, ADULT, ADULT, TRYING TO TAKE THE NOVELTY

OUT OF ME SAYING I AM AN ADULT, CAUSE I AM TOO WOOSEY TO BE LIKE LYLE, AND THIS

YOUNG DUDE SAID, **** MY ****, YOUR STILL A YOUNG DUDE BRIAN, BRIAN AT FIRST

SAID ******* I AM NOT GAY, HE SAID, NO YOUR STILL A YOUNG DUDE MATE, **** MY FUCKEN ****, ****

BRIAN SAID, WHY CAN’T YOU LEAVE ME BE TO BE A REAL MAN, THEN HE SAID, **** MY ****

YOU ARE TOO WOOSEY TO BE A MAN, AND BRIAN SAID, I DON’T WANT TO **** YOUR ****, ****

I AM NOT GAY, YA ****, HE GRABBED MY ARM AND PULLED ME INTO THE ROOM AND FORCED ME

TO **** HIS ****, THE FUCKEN **** HE WAS, AND BRIAN AS SOON AS HE LEFT, WAS FOLLOWING HIM

AND HE SAID, BRIAN ****** MY ****, YA SEE THAT **** IS NOT LIKE ME, AND THEN I WAS PLAYING

A TIE UP GAME, WHERE BRIAN ASKED THIS YOUNG DUDE TO TIE HIM UP, HOPING IT’LL TAKE THE

LITTLE YOUNG DUDE OUT OF THE STREET, BUT BRIAN BECAME WILD, AND HIS DAD, WELL HE AIN’T PERFECT

BUT STILL HIS PRIDE GOT IN THE WAY, I GOT CRANKY WITH DAD, CAUSE, HE LOOKED AS IF HE DIDN’T GIVE A ****

YOU SEE, I WAS TRYING TO GAIN RESPECT AND OPEN UP TO HIM, BUT I FOUND IT HARD, AND DAD HAD A LIFE

LIKE BEING A SCHOOL TEACHER WHERE HE HELPED A LOT OF KIDS, ACTUALLY DAD WAS THE REAL KIDS FRIEND

BUT, ME, I COULDN’T GET THROUGH TO DAD, SO I PUNCHED HIM AND THREATENED HIM WHEN HE LAUGHED AT ME

I SAID, SHUT UP, *******, YOU ARE NOT LIKE US, AND DAD WANTED TO HAVE HIS CHAIR, NOW DAD DID MAKE IT UP TO ME

BUT I WANTED FRIENDS, AND I FUCKEN TRIED TO BE CAREFUL, BUT I HATED THE YOUNG DUDE ASKING ME TO **** HIS ****

AND BRIAN HATED HIS DAD, HAVING A PROBLEM, WITH HIM BEING A KID, I WAS PLAYING BASKETBALL LIKE MY BROTHER

PLAYED TENNIS, AND DAD NEVER UNDERSTOOD, I LIKED THAT LIFE OF GOING OUT AND WALKING AROUND THE MALL

YA KNOW MUCKING AROUND BEING A FOOL ON SOME DAYS, BUT OTHER DAYS, MAINLY ON WEEKENDS I WENT TO THE MALL’

TO HAVE LUNCH AND HAD A BIT OF A MUCK AROUND AT *** BLACK PINNY ARCADE, AND THEN OVER TO THE BOWLING ALLEY

AND ON THE WAY HOME, I ENJOYED ALL THE KIDS PLAYING IN KEANE PLACE, YA KNOW YARD CRICKET, YA KNOW, BEH AND JOSH

AND THIS KID WHO LOOKED LIKE A CARBON COPY OF THE BIG YOUNG DUDES I LIKED AS A KID, BUT HE WAS A TROUBLE MAKER

AS HE ASKED ME TO TIE HIM UP, AND IF I DIDN’T KNOW BETTER, I WOULD HAVE TIED HIM UP, BUT I SAID NO, HOPING KIDS WOULD

STOP TREATING ME LIKE A PHEDAPHILE, AND THEN ANOTHER GAME OF CRICKET WITH BRENDAN AND CANDICE AND MY BROTHER

AND I LOOKED LIKE A REAL COOL KID, CRUISING AROUND, THEN AFTER A WHILE, THE VOICES STARTED, AND EVERY VOICE WENT

TO BED, LEAVING BRIAN THE COOL KID TO STAY UP ALL NIGHT, PLAYING COMPUTER GAMES, WATCHING TALK SHOWS, AND JUST AS

I WENT TO BED, MY MATES RANG ME UP, TO DRINK BEERS OUTSIDE THE SCHOOL, AS WELL AS JUMPING IN OUR FAMILY’S SWIMMING POOL

AND LEAVING SHARP OBJECTS, MAKING MY FATHER, NEVER TRUST ME EVER AGAIN, I WAS TRYING TO BE LIKE A MATE I LIKED, PAT, BACK THEN

BUT I LOOKED LIKE A DRUNKEN WOOSEY *****, CAUSE, I WAS TRYING TO BE THE COOL KID IN THE CLUB, TEASING THE NERDY YEAH MATE YEAH KID

WHO IS LIKE DAD’S NERDY BEING FRIENDS MOTTO, BUT, I WAS A FOOL, BUT I ENJOYED WALKING AROUND FROM PUB TO PUB, WITH THE

LINE IN MY HEAD, MEN DON’T DO THAT, THAT’S WHAT KIDS DO, I AM OFF TO THE PUB, AND WHEN I LOOKED SHY AT A FEW STAGES IN MY LIFE

IN CIVIC, I HEARD DADS VOICE SAYING, GO INTO A PUB BRIAN, RATHER THAN WALK AROUND CIVIC, AND I PARTIED ALL OVER THE CITY CLUB

AND THE PRIVATE BIN, SOMEONE TRIED TO ROUGH ME UP OUTSIDE THE CHARNWOOD INN, AT A CHOIRBOYS GIG THERE, BRIAN LOST EVERYTHING

THAT NIGHT, BUT THE TAXI DRIVER WAS HAPPY TO GIVE ME A FREE RIDE HOME, I AM NOT DOING THAT AGAIN, AND I VISIONED ME AND BRENDAN

WERE ******* TOGETHER, BETWEEN HOUSES, BUT I HATED DAD LOOKING LIKE HE DOESN’T CARE FOR MY WELL-BEING SO I HAD NUMEROUS FIGHTS

WITH HIM, BUT I DON’T BELIEVE IN VIOLENCE, AND DAD, ALWAYS DID THE WIMPY THING TO CALL THE POLICE IN RATHER THAN JUST RELAX AND LET ME YELL

DAD, HAS HIS PRIDE, TO PROTECT, I SAID THEN, **** YOUR FUCKEN PRIDE, I WILL NEVER BE A NERDY ADULT LIKE YOU DAD I SAID, AFTER A WHILE I UNDERSTOOD DAD

BUT I CAN’T UNDERSTAND, WHY IS IT SO IMPORTANT TO BE AN OLD JITTERY MAN, BACK THEN, BRIAN WAS JUST TEASING THE OLD JITTERY MAN IN DAD, DAD

LET HIS PRIDE GET THE BETTER OF HIM, DAD CARED, BUT, HE COULD’VE BEEN A LITTLE NICER BACK THEN, CAUSE I NEVER HELD A GUN TO HIS HEAD

AND I HATE BEING TREATED LIKE A FIGHTING COOL KID, BUT I WAS A COOL KID, WHO LOVES TO PARTY, I HAVE ALWAYS LIKED PARTIES, IN THE PAST

AND I WILL LOVE THEM THROUGH EVERY BUDDHIST LIFE OF MINE, DAD, REMEMBER FRANK SPENSER, BETTY, OH DEAR BETTY, WELL YOUR BETTY NOW DAD

AND NOW, I HAVE TO MAKE PEOPLE UNDERSTAND, I HATED FIGHTING DAD, I WAS HAVING PROBLEMS, LIKE I THOUGHT I WAS DEALING WITH, LIKE A COOL YOUNG DUDE DOES

I WANTED TO BE AN ADULT, DON’T WE ALL
Jo Barber Apr 2018
I'm jittery as ****,
just plain out of luck.
Wishing I could duck
out and take just one drag.

Surely, that wouldn't be so bad.
I'm going a tad mad.
My will has never been ironclad.
Djs Aug 2013
if words are food for the mind,
then here is a glimpse of mine
if words are drugs for the brain,
then here is why i'm so pained.

abandoned, abhorrent
abnormal, absent
abstract, abuse
addicted, anxious

betray, bitterly
blank, blasphemy
bloodless, breakdown
breathless, brutal

captive, casually
catastrophe, cautiously
change, cigarettes
crucial, clueless

damaged, dangerous
deadly, disastrous
disheartened, disconcerting
dramatic, dreading

eager, eccentric
ecstasy, eerie
effete, effortless
embittered, excess

faded, failure
faintly, fallacy
faltering, fatally
fearfully, finally

garbage, gawky
gibberish, gloomy
gone, goodbye
graphic, gratify

hallucinate, harshly
hazy, heartless
hectic, helpless
hesitant, hit-and-miss

idiotic, idly
ignorant, intimacy
illogical, imaginative
infatuated, intoxicated

jealousy, jittery
journey, journal
joylessly, judicial
junk, juvenile

keen, killing
knavish, knocking
knockout, knotty
knowingly, knowledge

laborious, lacking
lame, languishing
lifeless, literature
lovelorn, lugubrious

madness, maintenance
make-believe, malaise
mean, melancholic
mellow, melodramatic

naff, naivety
nameless, naturally
nauseous, nebulous
neglected, nervous

oasis, objectionable
obliged, obliterate
oblivion, obscurity
obsolete, one-and-only

pacifist, pained
pale, panicky
paradise, paralyze
passionately, passively

raging, ranting
rationalize, raving
realistic, reasonable
rebellious, reckless

saboteur, sadness
sake, sameness
sanity, satisfactory
scar, steady

taint, tangled
tasteless, tearful
telling, temperamental
terror, theoretical

unaffected, uncanny
uncommon, unconsciously
undesirable, uneasy
unfortunate, untidy

vaguely, vanish
vanity, vanquish
versatile, vicious
violence, voracious

waiting, waking
walkout, wanting
wasteful, weary
withering, wrecking

if words are food for the mind,
then you've seen a glimpse of mine
if words are drugs for the brain,
then no wonder i'm so pained.

*-djs
Zach Gomes Feb 2010
Orange peel Thursdays and the Velcro shoes
Of children hordes
Who spider up Alice on toadstools in Central Park
Dusted psilocybin shoots my eyes through
With the clarity of ice and sliced mushroom
Steeping in stomach acid before finding blood
The kids are tripping like madmen or halloween candy
Like its time to release and give up to the nonsense
And let your young self congeal to a saccharine sludge

I don’t stroll in the park to keep my mind sharp
I’m here because it’s a riot
My head can throb to the jittery birds
And the blasts of carsong
It’s the right kind of rhythm to walk to

* *

Ketamine days and the lolling slums
To make sure the insane stay insane
And the hobos are washed with spit from the clouds
And the subway exhaust always hangs in our hair
And the old Coney Island burns again and twice more

We don’t pretend to understand what we see
In subway grates thirty feet wide
Like the earth punching out of work for a bit
Opening to you her *** belly
So you can check out the strips of metal inside
Before she slurps you down and with an esophageal squeeze
Shoots you through the turnstiles

The train squeals and grinds down our eyes
With thoughts as slow as ketamine
Makes room for schizophrenia in a conversation
We’re listening to ‘til sundown

* *

Years full of Brooklyn and the assorted pills
Makes offal fit for punks in name brand shoes
Squared off with police in the park
Being beaten for the fun of being beaten
Peacoat locals pass the days in supermarkets
And you grow up to the loony mumble
Of the woman who knows the boat
Moored at the end of the street
Mansion of the stray cat colony
You help her with her daily chore to feed them
Tabbies popping the pills of the homeless
And puking in tandem all over their house
Living off generous dying folk
Pickles Mcburger May 2014
I sensually rub pickles

on your torso.

My lust for you

is like black coffee.

Really strong with an after effect of diarrhea

I am jittery for you my dear

Let me rub this yo-yo all over your ear.

A thief broke into my house

and saw a naked grandma

so he left.
Matthew Cuellar Jun 2010
Riding in the car
with sweaty palms
playing loud,
fast songs
Getting a bit jittery
and maybe a tad bit anxious.

Wondering when it will be
that I can get High
with you next to me.

-On my way to you,
-my drug dealer
-who only deals the finest touches
-and most esquisite caresses

My vision is getting a bit blurry
and my thoughts stray from the road
to thoughts of your face
and I get that message
that I get to see you soon
so I slow down
and take that exit off the hiway
turn around
and tell you to head my way.

You get in the car
and the smiles begin
the hand touching and knee grabbing
and its a wonder
that I can still drive
in this altered state of mind.

We speak some words
about this and that
nothing too funny
yet we laugh until our sides hurt.

Im in love with you
my drug dealer,
my ultimate healer
my mind eraser.

The chemicals start flowing
and I wonder if im spoiling the moment
with scientific physioligical thoughts
validating this thing called love.

The chemicals
that start at the brain
flow through the heart
and down to the genitals
then down through the legs
and back up to the heads
(yes, both of them)
and I can’t get over
how much we feel the same way
and how
even to this day
things have not seemed to change

Hoping I don’t ever build up
too much of a tolerance
to the chemicals you make me feel
my wonderful man,
with the drugs you deal
and all the pain you ****.
Written By Matthew Cuellar
Ansley Sep 2018
Maybe my debate coach was right,
For I am just a squirrel on *******
Don't over think this it is merely a Joke
disconsolate Feb 2015
I like
the sound of your laugh
and how it takes away
all the anguish of my soul
for a little while.

I like
the way you look into my eyes
even though you know
i get self conscious

I like
the way you try to make it up to me
when you push my limits
a little too far
even though i forgave you a while ago

I like
how you make me feel-
all jittery and shy
like a young girl
pretending she knows what love is

but

in the back of my mind
i can see his smile
and the way he runs his hand
through his hair.

in the back of my mind
i can see his excitement
as he shares stories with me
about his favourite things.

In the back of my mind
and late at night
i wonder how is it possible to love
two persons
with two very different personalities
at the same time.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
               utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
                                    anti-
                                            qua-      
                                                         -so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
                                Marxist-
liberal-
                                         Hegelian-
             whatnot...
                                                they don't
use abstract prefixes,
                                          their prefixes
are concrete,
                        they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
                                      the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
                                      con-
has to be conservative
                                                  pro-
has to be socialist
                                     you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
             ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
             *** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Alizay Jul 2019
Admirable, Blissful, Bewildered, Curious, Capable, Compassionate, Determined, Daring, Delighted, Dazzling, Eagar, Edgy, Enlightening Enthusiastic, Elegant, Fabulous, Fantastic, Forgiving, Fictitious, Fancy, Feminist, Glamourous, Gorgeous, Glowing, Guarded, Greatful, Generous, Gloomy, Happy, Honest, Hopeful, Humourous, Humble, Humane, Heartiest, Heavenly, Imaginative, Interesting, Inspiring, Intellegent, Incredible, Impressive, Important, Indecisive, Invisible, Jinxed, Joyous, Judicious, Justified, Jobless, Jiggish, Jimp, Jittery, Jazzy, Jaunty, Kindhearted, Keen, Knowledgable, Kiddish, Knavish, Knockout, Kempt, Kween, Kin, Kittens, Kinder, Lazy, Luxurious, Lively, Loyal, Limit, Laminated, Lawless, Lightning, Lushious, Luminous, Lovesick, Logical, Modest, Marvelous, Motivated, Music, Momentous, Mindful, Magical, Memories, Merciful, Mellow, Mesmerizing, Malicious, Mannered, Noble, Nervous, Night, Naive, Noted, Natural, Nifty, Nurturing, Never-ending, Noteworthy, Neglected, Narnia, Native, Number 1, ***, Openhearted, O Canada, Obviously, Obidient, Obsessions, Open-minded, Oriented, O.K., Observing, OUT-OF-THIS-WORLD, Omnicient, Outshining, Obliged, Obsticles, Passionate, Personally, Poetry, Picture-Perfect, Positivity, Pulse, Painful, Physic, Power, Protagnist, People-Person, Pros, and Cons, Purity, Purpose, Pleasant, Pieces, Quiet, Quality, Quick, Quoted, Queen, Quirky, Quintessentially, Quest, Quick-Minded, Questionable, Quarter, Quiver, Quiddity, Quiescent, Qui vive, Quip, Quantity, Ravishing, Rapport, Reliving, Reassuring, Rebal, Rainbows, Reckless, Relaxing, Respect, Remedy, Regrets, Right, Relatable, Reliable, Rad, Ready, Responsible, Rainy days, Sagacious, Salutary, Sassy, Secure, Self-assured, Self-reliant, Self-confident, Self-disciplined, Selfless, Sensational, Sensitive, Stars, Shawn Mendes, Sénorita, Sentimental, Set, Serene, Seamless, Significant, Sightly, Trustworthy, Talented, Tender-hearted, Thriving, Thankful, Titanic, Touché, Touchy, Transparent, True, True-blue, Traveller, Transpicuous, Titillating, Timeless,Tidy, Teasing, Tender, Terrific, Thorough, Thrilling, Unarguable, Ultimate, Undefining, Under-the-weather, Unalloyed, Unassuming, Uncommon, Understandable, Undivided, Unique, Unlimited, Unstoppable, Uplifting, Upbeat, Uber, Unconvensional, Uhuh, Unbelieveable, Under control, Unquestionable, Utter amazment, Valiant, Valuable, Valid, Veridical, Valiant, Vibrant, Vigorous, Vigilant, Victorious, Visions, Vivid, Voluptuous, Vulnerary, Vulnerable, Venust, Veracious, Vestal, Violen, Vroom Vroom, Victory, Vows, Wake me up, Wise, Welsome, Well-behaved, Welcoming, Well-grounded, Woke, Whimsical, Whistler, Wholesome, Wired, Witty, Wondrous, Whilst, Winter, Wonderful, Wide-Awake, Walk it like I take it, ****-bang, Wishful, Wellness, Worth it, World-Class, Xo, Yolo, Zero
Any feedback? go for it
Onoma Dec 2014
A farmhand skips the afar of the perceiving
end...a jittery candle-lit sun reenters the
chased oils of its pastoral painting.
A teetering haunt fleshed out...to see
through the sense of place...a movement
of images that will never be seen.
An inflection of a voice that will never be
heard...the imperceptible relationship
between opacity and transparency.
Forever to be taken away by he/she...
merely passing through...passing away...
a farmhand skips the afar of the perceiving
end...open endedly.
A jittery candle-lit sun reenters the chased
oils of its pastoral painting...a bird's ellipse,
counterpointed by amazing graces.
Inspired by a random painting that hung in my grandmother's house, I used to get utterly lost in it.
brandon nagley Jun 2015
Critter gitters
Gets the jitters!!!
Lol boredom makes one write foooooolish stuff haaaaaahaaaa
liz Feb 2014
you were a packaged deal
and came with a disclaimer
claiming emotionally unstable
and jittery
with minimal ability to balance
book and art and poetry
with your overactive *** drive
and unquenchable thirst for intoxication
and I kept you in mint condition
barbie
as best as I could while you kept mind
and we matched
and interlocked
and soon were inseparable
but barbie i can only keep you so long
your hair is fading
and so is the loneliness that once made me praise you
and barbie you are a burden
and are weighing on my glass display
and leaning and tipping
and are making no effort to support your own weight
i may be your plastic stand
but i am more than moral support
Korey Miller Jun 2013
i’m fighting with gravity
to the death- until my head rests,
empty as my belly
on this false-porcelain floor-
skin waxy as laminate over
these heavy hollow bones
waiting for freedom-
liberation from this sullen casing.

i shake, manic-
blood pressure in the basement,
nauseous from diet pills and anxiety.
jittery, stare at the ceiling-
a spider, stick-limbed, teases me,
but here’s the silver lining:
no curds or whey coating
my shining insides.

i am stronger and brighter than ever
as black swims in my vision-
light-headed from malnutrition,
i wrap fingers around my wrists
to make sure i haven’t escaped my limits.
the mirror doesn’t lie, but it won’t snitch.
we’ll keep this surreptitious.

spilling my bloodred guts, my blood,
won’t make me wither,
and confessing won't save me either.
this red ribbon stays tied around my wrist.
secrets kept keep me stable
clinging to my only success,
self-confidence cellophane-wrapped
in my absence, my transparence.

the whispers don’t mean a thing.
i am frantic on a wire frame,
white noise on parade.
the ground can only hold me for so long.
i'll sprout wings from my ribcage
and float away.
tread Nov 2012
the sounds of a crowded cafe
ca-caw! like a crow, everybody's crowing something
each a beautiful story dressed in winter hop-scotch
or a poorer story dressed in a business suit.

who knows
perhaps it's like a rich chocolate covered in a wrapper
and that business suit is to be peeled off soon
enjoy the sweet treat underneath

but I can always tell when someone is selling themselves
because they look like a city map
drawn to design

I guess try-hards are alright when they polish like diamonds
except the beauty of a diamond is not faked
the beauty of the diamond hides itself underground, to show that the deeper you go
the greater it gets

so why manicure?
why manicure, Mr. Business Cowardly,
are you afraid of yourself?

- - -

I probably moved on in observation a few moments later when I realized the pretty girls across the way whom I used to go to high-school with
never did I once speak with them
I felt no need
because I knew they manicured themselves to avoid the fact that the diamonds underneath were either hidden away to be kept for themselves
or just
never there?

the wailing baby is the bravest
the wailing baby is the greatest
the wailing baby understands the grand stand by remaining unstood

fine, fine wailing baby
you are God and you already know it
but get ready to forget because Mr. Cowardly Business
and Mrs. Manicured Face will eat you too
and leave you soulless until you're soulful

the daily drain of the soul into an unholy grail.

let the world sip from the cup like a poisonous water
WAIT!
I'm still thirsty, don't drink it all yourself!

- - -

that serious face of beauty
rock-hard, dead-eyed beauty
I wear it too and I'm probably ashamed but I'm not sure yet.

- - -

just a little jittery from the jut-cliff of caffeine
ah, ah, aahhhh, it makes me thirsty to live.

ah, ah, ahhh, what lovely visions upon seeing
appearance vs. reality
appearance is reality
appearance is
disappearance
is
pardon me I need to ****.

- - -

at least somebody cares
but stop pretending *** I know you're too scared
to admit it.

- - -

christmas decorations already
I guess that makes sense if you're trying to
increase
your net
profit

prophet

- - -

pretty face you wear
******* for hiding your pretty face

- - -

do I qualify as some cultural absurdity
considering I'm sitting here
sipping coffee
writing poems
baby blue toque
comfy-patterned sweater?

what's better?

- - -

these dash-breaks don't annotate much
except implicit unity

yes, you know me.

- - -

not really sure
what to think
about that one

or that one

or that one

or
this
1

- - -

one of the men in a business suit
describes this place as
noisy

but quiet.

maybe he's not so
Mr. Cowardly Business

maybe I judged him over the
speed
limit.
Q May 2014
It takes little more than a kind word
To carry me through a month
To hold me up against battle
To force me, against trials, to triumph.

It takes little more than genuine praise
To burn a soul to memory
To lose all sense of proper speech
To fly unbound and freely.

And with a word comes a smile
I can't get it off my face
With a word comes gratitude
So potent my hands shake.

With a word comes a flattered feeling
That blossoms just under my ribs
With a word comes a jittery, happy panic
On which I cannot put a lid.

I laugh boisterously
I forget my usual frown
With a word I am lifted
And I will never come back down.
UuU thank you
TwistedTales Jan 2015
A life full of history
I really wish I could erase those memories
They are my dark past mystery
Yeah, it hurts and still does leave me jittery
Aaron Case Aug 2011
1.

do Drugs because without Drugs
there is no inspiration
without inspiration
there is no Drugs

this is all said with wide distant looks
with swinging wrists
fingers comb the hair
fingers pick at the skin

without Drugs
there is no poetry

no music
no ambition
no sleep

there is no awkwardly standing there
as he tells you,

little bee, joust teen mean huts

there is no biased observer
watching the Drugged tumble
like laundry
down stairs.

surely this can’t be a good idea

don’t try to leave
don’t be awkward

surely

2.

do Drugs because you will see
finally see!
things no one else could ever see

so swallow that joint
eat that pill
smoke those shrooms,
but for the love of GOD!
not by themselves
place them strategically
in a peanut butter sandwich
like stars in a constellation

you will know better next time
he tells you to smoke shrooms

you will feel your bare feet
but you’re wearing socks!
you will feel like you’re crying
but there aren’t any tears!
you will see your curtains take the shape of your mother
folding her arms
looking down at you
wearing a dress
that isn’t her color
or her size
or her style
or even her at all

finally you will see these things
that you were never able to see before

question the experience
and he will sigh
with sighs of such size
that say you just don’t understand

3.

do Drugs because you will realize

Alex Grey paintings
in that pin-up calendar
will mean so much more

which painting is brightly looming over your birth month?
oh, so, the one that looks quite good
where the subject’s skin is transparent
revealing muscles and veins and organs
a stock buddhist symbol glowing on their forehead
their mouth agape
a misty sort of energy
radiating from their body
swallowed by neon

what a coincidence

mine, too

he’s a Grey-t artist, isn’t he?
don’t say this
despite how clever it sounds

4.

do Drugs because
there will be a moment
when that cartooned weasel
with his too-appropriate leather jacket
and lollipop stick ***** from a snaggled lip
and Nancy Reagan
her wild hair
her eyes that seem to be sinking inward
will seem like the same person

this is just your guilt
your incessant questioning
of what is right
and what is rite

your wanting to just say no
and to just do it
resting in the same swaying sweaty hammock

your waning spirit to overthink

and he will just look at you
as though no one feels
the way you do

you will never understand

5.

do Drugs because you must understand
because you’ve always understood
because you’ve always been understanding

intangible ideas will whisper vaguely at you
that you thought you knew enough about

you just aren’t feeling the love like we are
you just aren’t seeing the universe like we are
you just aren’t feeling the energy like we are
you just aren’t seeing the beauty of things like we are

love universe energy beauty
these things are simple
when gruffly whispered
over a slice of space cake

this space cake is out of this world!
don’t say this
despite how clever it sounds

6.

do Drugs because
you will have the perfect disorder
for your flaws

flaw and disorder

I’m out of it because
I might of inhaled a little
too much

I’m thankless because
of a pill I should not have
taken

I’m jittery because
I swallowed a couple
extra

I’m sleepy because
I would rather feel this way than look
at you

I fell down the stairs
because it’s Cinco de Mayo
and I can’t find my grinder
and I’m surprised that you’re sober
and I can’t feel my shoulder
and I’m surprised you’re not older

I swear I’m not always like this
My liberty lies in my history
My slippery ascent to be known
My silvery, glittery, valedictory victory
My injury all my own
My inwardly jittery liturgy
Mixed up with witchery and trickery
My history is not HIS, my history is my own.
© JLB
Valsa George May 2016
Wrapped round in swaddling clothes,
I saw her bright beaming face.
Lying helpless, still in a trance,
I sensed her soft soothing touch.

Warm it was when huddled tight,
Glad it was to be held close,
Pleasure it was to be lifted up,
And Heaven it was to be in her lap.

She took me in her gentle hands,
She fed me with her nourishing milk,
She made me sleep with lullabies sweet,
And kept alert on day and night.

As time slowly glided past,
I grew myself into a tiny tot.
Crawled around in sweeping haste,
Reaching out to all I could touch.

It left my mother so hardly pressed.
She never had even time to sit,
Cut down she, her afternoon nap,
Cast aside she her rest and respite.

My teething time – a real hard time!
For reasons none, I grew so irritable.
Itchy – fidgety, I cried on end,
Futile it went all her tricks to tame.

This made my mother grow jittery.
Consulted she every quack and doc,
Administered she every harmless dope,
And interceded to all divine help.

It was only a passing phase,
With consistent care, I grew to a buxom babe.
My childish pranks delighted all.
Too glad grew my mother to see me fare.

Soon I learnt to steady myself up,
The Toddler placed the first faltering step.
It was always with bated breath,
My mother watched my growing up.

She ever remained a pillar of strength,
In whom I saw a never failing friend.
She led me through the devious turns of life,
Always there to lend her helping hand.

In complex issues too hard to solve
Wise it was to seek her counsel
Sane and sound, she ever remained.
To trials of life, she never surrendered.

She taught me the quintessence of life,
She showed me the route to tread,
Her zest for life, never once cease,
Her trust in God ever on the rise

Now my mother ceases to exist,
But sure she will continue to live,
In my hearts domain, she reigns supreme.
No force on Earth can cast her out.

As I look back to days of yore,
All I wish is to conjure up the past,
To be reborn a second time,
To be my mother’s darling child!
To every child, mother is dear ! But my mother I feel was exceptional in her qualities of love, selfless sacrifice, courage and wisdom. Though from an average background without much education, she was well informed. On this Mother's day, I bow before her sweet memory !

A happy Mother's Day to all great mothers !
Cigarette butts scattered on
the floor and a stale scent of
guilty secrecy follows you as
you slip on last night’s clothes
quietly enough not to wake
him still nestled in a slumber
of *** and smoky shadows.

You wash your face with icy
water in the bathroom sink
and try your **** best not
to think about what was in
that vile overpriced drink.
it was his laugh that lured
you because it gave off the
vibe that he knew exactly
how to survive these lonely
long weekends and maybe
he could be your only friend?

And so the liquor last night
warmed up your heart and
throat which caused you to
feel sickly like you were in
an unstable rocky boat that
only he could bring to shore
and you knew from his grin,
that soon you’d be on the
sweaty dance floor because
boys like him want girls like
you to smile sweetly and sin.

When he asked you to come
back to his for a drink it was
clearly implied that he was
the kind of man who lied but
the ***** made you tongue
tied so you said yes to letting
him call a taxi and put his arm
around you like he wouldn't let
any kind of harm come to you.

But back at his sweaty stale
place your heart began to race
because you are not this kind of
girl who lets strangers take them
home and unsanitary hands roam.
Every word he said made you feel
like you were dead and holding on
to reality with a thin thread but he
was holding the scissors so you
were not in charge and now the
****** is still very much at large.

You gather up the contents of your
handbag  from the floor but jittery
thoughts are still scattered through
stained sheets and between the
soles of your ***** sweaty shoes.
Tears run down your face as you
take one last look around the room
to drink it all in just in case your
head starts to swim and spin again
and remind you of this chaotic pain.

You will shut the front door softly
so that he does not wake and cry
whilst biting your lip as you walk up the road with the odd sensation of
carrying a load on your shoulders
that makes you feel hundreds of
years older but not one inch bolder.

This is the denial of ******* and
knowing that somewhere there is a
tape which could change your fate
if he ever knew your full name and
wanted to play an evil sick game.
But it is not letting him have power
and control like he did that night
because you will put up a fight!

It is you going to the police station
and filing a report despite what
your friends thought and it is
making a statement in court to his
cowering face whilst he cries into
his sleeve and refusing to leave
until he looks you in the eye and
says your name because he never
once said it that night and you
refuse to be just another statistic.

It is helping yourself along with the
other women around you so that
you feel safe and not believe this
world is a completely broken place.
It is holding onto hope and giving
your sisters the strength to speak
up to say what happened wasn't
right and we will fight to be heard!


It is letting the caged bird fly free
and skinny dipping in the icy sea.
It is the moment of freedom you taste
on your tongue as you name
him in the court room and hear him
pronounced guilty but you are free.
Maddie Borisov Nov 2015
the intimate stares
2 A.M. reaching for me
late night conversing

the beautiful lust
fervent true kisses at dawn
drowsy morning eyes

the heartbreaking feuds
sleepless bickering phone calls
slamming sunrise doors

the dreadful regret
day and night dreaming of you
midnight drunk texting

the fresh beginning
the first date jittery hands
read from line 1 now
Marlo Cabrera Dec 2015
If the world were to end today,
I’d probably say to myself.
wow, looks like I only have 24 hours left in this world huh?
I’d spend the 1st half by grabbing my family members, give them the tightest hug I can give, and tell them that I love them, and thank them for everything. I’d probably apologize too.
And I’d probably start to shake, like a child craving for sugar.
All jittery, shaking from the thought, that I will only have 24 hours to figure out,
how to muster up the courage to tell you the things I’ve been wanting to say.
I’ve already done the math, and I’d be spending 2/3rds of my remaining time here, just getting to your house a midst the traffic.
and 3/4ths trying to bring you to the nearest mountain for us to watch the sunset, as the world crumbled away beneath us.

If the world were to end today.
I would grab my heart, whisper all the things I love about you,
seal it and then bury it into the depths of your existence.
In the hopes that when God is digging through the mine cave of your heart, he'll find it, and then open it like a time capsule, filled with all the things that we enjoyed, like cheese, long walks, spontaneous hangouts, and like our memories.
That when God opens it,
He’ll see a yellow sticky note, requesting Him to read it to you.
attached to a letter written in orange ink that I wrote specially for you.


If the world were to end today,
I’d like to get lost, In the spirals found in your eyes.
Your eyes is the number 1 thing in my list of favorite things.
Because they remind me of space, and galaxies that I would never ever get the chance to explore, knitted together by constellations that spell out your name.

And dear,
Our kiss will be like 2 galaxies colliding against each other,
Giving birth to a new galaxy.

But you know what, that got me thinking.
And I remember that when the big bang happened, or when a super nova happens.
That wasn't really the end of everything.
They all seem to signify a brand new start.
So I guess
The idea of the world ending, wouldn't bother me as much anymore.
Cause with us fading away,
Our molecules, atoms whatever we're composed of, will eventually find it's back to us.
And when that happens,
I'd be like a brand new star.
Because I know that i'd be able to see you again.
Like God saying again, "Let there be light." And there was light.

And for me that's like God saying again "Let there be you." And again there was you.
Inspired by Sofia Paderes' work "A To Do List: End Of The World Edition"

Written as a letter for someone who used to be special.

And was performed at the last open mic of Sev's Cafe "Ang Huling Kabanata", before they closed their doors indefinitely.
Madeleine Toerne May 2013
Glittery, jittery raindrops.
An old, long lost friend turned cold.
Beckoning to move faster, and rush
Until out of the wet, and onto the damp cotton jump-seat
Faked bliss, but still happiness edges nearer
And nearer.  

Little green bells of our lady of artistic inspiration
Observation and fresh vegetable
Graveyard maintenance.
The mundane.

Frog-legs dance on their tip toes.
Buttery biscuits and the sound of gagging from the stall--
Instantly gratified.
Small child-stares, and alone in a fantastic universe.
Melodies cease, imagination deflates
The mundane.  

Sticky leaves stuck on black and white cats.
Voracious, they ravage the tall grass.
Passive-aggressive sunshine sprinkles now, and burns later.
Fortifying iced drinks, and pinkish, blueish, purplish
Does the sun go down?
Zachary Jun 2015
there are four main symptoms
of post traumatic stress disorder
as defined by the government

1. Reliving The Event

in order to be taken into consideration,
you must have the shiny badge
labeling you as a veteran war hero
and then,
your brains are picked to pieces
in order to determine
your value to them

nightmares never go quite like people imagined
not all nightmares are rough, rude and jarring
some are sudden gasps
bed wetting and the shame
knowing if you close your eyes,
you'll see them over you,
poised and ready to spring

flashbacks, as well, may be soft
though they cut just as deeply
but to others,
you look tired
or as if you're daydreaming
(and you are,
but it's not all lilacs)

and his face,
his name,
sets you back twenty paces

2. Avoiding Situations

this is perhaps the most false
because with post traumatic,
there is no escaping
it is an inferno that spread
and left third degree burns
and these left pain
(and not just on yourself)

3. Negative Changes in Beliefs and Feelings

sweet words
for such ugly circumstances
no matter the trauma,
whether a bomb explosion,
an auto wreck,
or ****** abuse,
this leaves the most damage

no one mentions the fact
that in many cases of trauma,
it is often repressed
but the feelings remain,
(so, ten years later?
vague pieces?
half forgotten whispers?
yeah, that's why it's hard)
until they boil up and explode

there is something that changes,
somewhere, something snaps
and a part of you dies
while a hideous part blooms  

perhaps,
the most difficult part
is finding yourself valid
whether you are sixteen or sixty
you are valid

the memories may be hazy
and ill-fitting
but it happened
and there's no avoiding that

(i remember...

... partially)

4. Hyperarousal

scientific name for insomnia
for purple bags under bloodshot eyes
and nails bitten to the quick

(stop screaming,
you're making me nervous)

another failing grade,
and another, and another
until you fail the course
but your energy is sapped
from sleepless nights
so you don't care
(and you probably won't later)

jittery feet and flapping hands
not just in autism

the things they never talk about
is the cold, hard truth

that you may find yourself
ten feet into a bottle
or buried in a haze so thick,
it may as well be smog

and the phrase,
"pull yourself up by the bootstraps"
conjures a noose
wrapped around porcelain necks

no one speaks of the bumpy road
and how it is so **** hard to cope
because it is viewed as shameful
(lies)

or how they leave you,
because they cannot cope
(**** them)

the hardest part?
validation and acknowledgment
(it really happened,
and it's okay)
Äŧül Feb 2013
The Time For Humanity To Mature Has Not & Would Never Come. Read on - be intrigued.

Now that I believe for a long time after I attained the age of 22 years on 23rd December, 2012.

Many of the spiritual literature pieces are just contradictory to themselves, why would HE let the occurence of any trouble then and hold only the other end of a jittery life helping us cross to the other end safe & fine?

If you would excuse this question saying "HE can never be questioned and HE alone is the destructor & the creator," then it's just a desperate excuse which you hold to considering theism as flawless & unquestionable, me & any similar people as psychos, or perhaps losers.

I don't discourage theism nor do I encourage anybody to share similar thoughts as mine, but I myself don't encourage idling over the concept of the special spiritual unseen power. I agree that some phenomena like love, kindness, greed, lust & hatred can't ever just be scientifically explained in total completeness by just citing some natural laws of nature or physics. But then again why do we often indispensably need that imaginary hand above our heads for protection or more than often have to spend money in praise of the imaginary hand above our heads?


Any mention about theists' escapist nature would be countered by their many statements of the following kind:

o Us theists, we don't escape problems, we just gather courage when we have identified a problem in our lives by remembering the imaginary hand above our heads sheltering us from all troubles and then tackle the problem with enough strength.

o Theism does neither lack anything divinity nor does it lack even anything evil, both of them are manmade concepts, the world was created as a perfect place for the existence of human race.

o Instead of just leaving us all alone in this troublesome world, He has sent few of His men and we can blindly follow them to resolve our own specific troubles with solutions ideated around age-old books written by great men and we don't need anybody to question our faith wherever it is.
Now please don't utter such curses as "You'll only be deep-fried in hot oil when you die!"
:D
© Atul Kaushal

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