Trying to jumpstart myself
To empty the emptiness inside me
Trying to jumpstart myself
My mind dismissing all that I hear and see
Trying to jumpstart myself
Feigning smiles and laughs and cheer
Trying to jumpstart myself
Though I'd much rather just not be here

They say, in the wheel of life, you'll spend half your years rising to the top and the other half tumbling to the bottom. I guess they got it all wrong. I believe life is a crooked tire that can never roll up and down. Pretty sure, it is nailed to the ground where weeds could grow to entangle it forever. Until now, what they keep trying to say remains a puzzle to me. Perhaps I can never understand what they mean. Or maybe I just won’t. Why? Because from the moment our eyes opened for the world, we’re already stuck down below and I’m afraid we’re trapped here in this limbo for all eternity.

We’re just simple people living an ordinary life. Like every family who seeks refuge from the storm, we do have a place we call home although it’s not much of an architectural delight. However, for some reasons, I find our roof appealing like a real work of art. Patches of cardboard embellish the underside while a combination of tarpaulin and ad posters works in harmony to provide an extended shelter. On bright mornings, we’ll wake from the sunbeams piercing through its many gaps. On rainy days, however, the sound of raindrops falling from the gaps down to our water containers serves as our wake up call.

To jumpstart ourselves for another day’s challenge, we could either eat breakfast (if there were any), or just sing our skipping meals away and spend the rest of the day with sacks of scraps and rubbishes on our back hoping to make a good deal with Mr. Gomez, the junk shop proprietor. He reminded me so much of my father but without the alcohol problem and violence, though. During nighttime, we bring with us our drum to sing carols on the lonely streets. If our feet become too weary to walk, that’s the time we head home. We rush all together, eager to count the coins we’ve collected that night. We make sure to put a plastic cap underneath two of our table’s feet so that it won’t lean uncontrollably and spill the tiers of ten, five and one peso coins we’ve dedicatedly piled over. Then the next part does the trick. A portion of our collection for the night goes straight down a big jar and joins in the many others which fill more than half of the container. The remaining part is used to buy supper to save our hungry tummies from
shrinking again. However, during slack nights when drivers and busy people decided to become miserly, we’re fortunate enough to have a pack of noodles for supper. But if we ran out of luck, we just set our untidy beds ready and drown our raging stomachs to sleep. I know there’s not pretty much but this is where our lives revolve. And as they say, life must go on no matter what.

Together with the three most important persons of my life, I continue the journey for a better living. Along the way, we try to search for the good things out of life’s bitter truths. We never let misery **** our hopes and dreams. Instead, we work harder and tougher. Take Islay, for example. She’s cheerful,
clever, aggressive, talented, a model of hard work. She’s got most of everything. Well, except for height, probably. I wanted to be a doctor so I could help the needy. Islay dreams of becoming an elementary teacher. She said she really likes kids and teaching them would surely be a more exciting thing to do.

Then there’s Nova. Her looks may require you a little more time to think and consider, but she has a good heart. However, she gets a little, uhhm, what term do we use for an unsociable person? That’s it! She’s a bit of a Killjoy!

Islay and Nova caroled a store swarmed with drunkards. It was always Islay who’ll find every creative idea and propose it convincingly to Nova, who in turn hesitates and rejects it but then ultimately respects it in the end. Islay always has the winning edge. Maybe that’s one of her abilities. Her convincing power deserves a credit to the list.

The two didn’t mind the ***** that welcomed them. Inside her mind, Nova asked herself how many people could waste their money on a doze of liquid or spirit that can poison their mind and bring them to imminent danger. If only they have given it to the poor and needy, they could have saved a lot of lives instead of ruining their own.

But Aling Nena, the wicked storeowner, unleashed her witchy wrath to the two. She looked at them with eyes of contempt, of prejudice and disgust. She accused the two as jinxes and blamed them for the
store’s unprofitable end. If only she could look at herself and discover a chest of shimmering blame, she might shrink into shame. Islay and Nova ran off not because they were afraid of Aling Nena or the drunken men but because of what Aling Nena said to them. They cannot defend themselves from such
an attack. How could they when they were surrounded with eyes of ridicule?

And of course, there’s my dearest sister, Juaning. We’ve only got each other since our mother’s death. It has been months already. Juaning was still 15 when mama left us. She’s 16 now. It’s been quite a while and I know she misses mama a lot like I do.

And so they fought life’s bitter realities. They begged and implored to the unconcerned passers-by, almost falling to their weak knees for one very important thing - to live. But even if the three of them were sitting, lying, and rolling down the cold pavement, these people with more graces just pass by without even sparing a glance of concern. Wouldn’t it be happier if they shared their God-given blessings? But as the day continues, they have to endure the hunger, the contempt. Because other than filling their
hungry stomach, they have a sibling, a friend to support.

That’s my part of the story. It has been months now since I caught a serious illness which bound me
to this bed, flat on one’s back, weak, inutile, and useless. Every time they come home, I wish I was with them to taste the sweet and feel the pain, not just a good listener to their stories of survival and moments of friendship. Someday, I’ll become strong again, and this curse of a disease shall be gone.

I woke up to the longing for water. I’ve never been this thirsty before. I called out their names but my voice just echoed deep in the four dark walls of our crooked house. With no one to help me, I summoned my strength and decided to get a glass of water by myself. But my legs aren’t as strong as my will. And as I attempted to stand, they betrayed me. I collapsed and plodded down the floor. Luckily Islay came and helped me get back to bed. She scolded me for being careless. I cried. I can’t help it. I pitied myself all
over again.

The cold evening wasn’t a problem for Islay. Seeing me cry like that crushes her heart. I know, as a friend and a part of our family, she wishes the best for me. And that’s why she’s still out there in the middle of the night, working late to earn more for our better future. She ignored the chills and the exasperation. She knows she has to work harder and she’s more than determined for it.

But something happened to me while she’s away from home. I cannot move my body, not even my mouth. Tears just fell from my weary eyes. And before it’s too late, Juaning caught me unresponsive and paralyzed. My sister cried for help. Nova sprinted to get the jar. Juaning told her what to do. And wasting no time, Nova rushed to the nearby pharmacy to get me some medicine, and most probably to save my life.

But Nova’s effort was in vain. Prescription drugs cannot be bought that easily. The pharmacist closed down the only lining of hope for me. The security guard felt pity on Nova and he suggested her an alternative decision that will change our lives forever.

Islay was still busy serenading the busy streets with her chants of joy and sweet hums. But the clouds become unwelcoming. And by the sound of the thunder, big droplets of rain started pouring down the highway. She ran as fast as she could and sat on a corner where she thought of something deeply. She hugged the drum that she was carrying for five hours or so and tried to remain calm in the presence of the bad weather.

After half an hour, Nova came back with a pouch of medicine on her shaking hand. She handed it carefully to Juaning whose faith and hope were hanging to the tiny bottle of miracle.

Days gone by and my condition wasn’t going any better. It turned out that my medicine was consumed to the last drop. Still I remained immobile and my hands are going number by the days. Slowly I was losing hope. I wish they weren’t mad at me. I’m trying my best to live on. That’s why I’m still here. But Nova shared something worth listening to. She revealed how and where she got the medicine.

It was from a quack doctor on a stall put up on the corner of Rizal Avenue. She said he was well versed and very convincing. And that she spent all of our savings for a bottle of deception. But we can do nothing about it. We did not have formal education. We were fortunate enough to meet kind children on
the streets who would try to teach us something they have learned from school. We would attempt to read newspapers and the description in the carton boxes we spread beneath the Badelles overpass.

Nova cried in guilt and shame. Islay was still angry at her, and it can be understood. My sister, Juaning, comforted Nova with a promise that everything will get better in time.

December 27. It was my birthday. And more than anything else, what I wish is for the four of us to be happy. Nothing in this life is more important than seeing everyone you love smile with absolute
happiness. Juaning never forgot her job and that’s to buy me a cake. Every year, they will try to surprise me with every creative possible way. But that’s how their surprises become predictable with my age.

They sang me a birthday song. But this time, they were the ones waiting for a surprise. As my sister was about to hand me the cake waiting for me to blow the candle, she noticed something she was least expecting for. My lips are pale and my eyes are shut from the light of the world. I caught my last breath and before I gave it away, I left a smile on my face that can never be changed forever. That is how I want them to remember me. Not that heck of a frown clown whose audiences are stricken with sadness.

They say, in the wheel of life, sometimes, you'll spend half of your years rising to the top and the other half tumbling to the
bottom. Maybe they were right. It was then that I’ve come to understand what they were trying to say.

Our life’s wheel revolves around things way beyond just money, food, and shelter. It is about the moments you spend with your loved ones, friends and family that will be forever carved in your heart. We can never know when our life here on earth will be over. So let us cherish every bit of it. And for me, even if we skip breakfasts and eat only noodles for supper, I have realized in these last fleeting moments that my life has always
been on the top of the wheel after all.

Odes to Coffee, a Haiku, a Limerick, and a Verse

Coffee, Coffee Nod
Coffee, Coffee, Coffee Yawn
One cup down, talk now

Coffee, coffee, coffee
Coffee, Coffee, coffee
Everyone shut up
Please refill my cup
Coffee, Coffee, Coffee

Coffee, Coffee yay
Coffee, Coffee hey
Let me take a drink to jumpstart my day
Off to work we go to earn some needed pay
Be a real man and drink it black
Or make it all fancy and catch some flack

you are the aftertaste of coffee.
after the jumpstart,
the palpitation,
here you are,
sadly bittersweet.

you are the persisting vision
of a falling star.
its trail of light
remain before me
even after it’s long been gone.
i’ve tried to catch it
with my feeble hands,
only to grasp nothingness.

you are the aftermath
of an earthquake,
of which i found myself
at its epicenter.
even after rebuilding,
i found
that nothing is
as it was.

you are the tune
that keeps playing
over and over again
inside my head.
i’ve being lss-ing
over your memories,
singing a song
i’m not sure
if i’ll ever hear again.

you are an aftertaste,
a persisting vision,
an aftermath,
an lss
that i wrap around myself,
holding me together,
keeping me from falling apart.

for j.e.
*100314

i've always thought

love

was an ending:

finally having your lips close to mine when i wanted,

finally walking down the street with your hands holding mine,

finally sleeping beside you hearing your heartbeat ever so calmly.

i thought this was it;

that love has finally settled down after running all over the place

– in what i'd say a wild goose chase –

but it was only the beginning:

i start to feel what it's like to kiss someone that will make my heart beat fast.

i start to feel ecstatic walking down a street holding hands with someone knowing they'll never let go.

i start to sleep with someone beside me, knowing our faces will be the first thing we see every morning.

i've always thought

love

was an ending.

only to realize,

it was the jumpstart

of a wonderful journey.

1.
I feel
fractured      splintered         defeated
entirely insular
and spread to thin
all at the same time
covered with insecurities
like a cheap suit
or hollow exoskeleton
nothing more than a lie.      I grow tired.
I'm bluffing my way through this life
a brutal honesty
I lack the courage to accept
hiding my face
from every mirrored surface
a halfhearted attempt
to prolong this detrimental denial.
I can't ******* my way
through self-reflection
and trying to improve my image
feels positively improvised.
I lack sincerity and authenticity
an individual breathing without zeal
I need a break.
2.
Here I am again a lonely itinerant migrating
to the proverbial and often visited crossroads
rather than contemplating
a direction worth navigating
be it following in the worn footprints of others
or a path long overgrown with neglect.
I'd rather lie down on the gravel road
and nap in the open air
just to wake up confused and temperamental.
The destination remains unknown
my indecision remains intact.
I give impetuous a bad name
by reputation and repetition alike
conjoined twins that speaks to
fate and circumstance.
Like Houdini
I'm secured in a long sleeve shirt
dangling upside down from a burning rope
placing blame on the flame.
I need a break.
3.
I'm not as intelligent
or insightful as I once thought
my wasted youth is a testament.
A modern ruin
like so many a Blockbuster
I've outlasted my usefulness.
I imagine what could have been
clueless as to what lies ahead.
A jovial repentance
seems as likely as
success, or stability, **** simplicity.
Is it all too much to ask?
I've been on break too long.
4.
reboot       jumpstart
Alleviate my stagnant, vacant lot in life
and cast off these first world problems.
Consider not the flat champagne
or the distance that separates
today from death.
Speak positively to the people
that would not otherwise attract minimal attention.
Set goals both grand and plausible
with no worry of dividends
and release cynicism
and determine a trajectory
that I may see through to completion.
If for no other reason
but to say that I tried.
It's not so bad this imagined and dire circumstance.
Relax and go on break.

I get off the Belt Parkway at Rockaway Boulevard and
Jet aloft from Idyllwild.
(I know, now called J.F. ******* K!)
Aboard a TWA 747 to what was then British East Africa,
Then overland by train to Baroness Blixen’s Nairobi farm . . .
You know the one at the foot of the Ngong Hills.
I lease space in Karen’s African dreams,
Caressing her long white giraffe nape,
That exquisite Streep jugular.
I am a ghost in Meryl’s evil petting zoo:
I haunt the hand that feeds me.

Safely back in Denmark, I receive treatment
For my third bout with syphilis at Copenhagen General.
Cured at last, I return to Kenya and Karen.
In my solitude or sleep, I go with her,
One hundred miles north of the Equator,
Arriving at Julia Child’s marijuana herb garden–
Originally Kikuyu Land, of course—
But mine now by imperial design &
California voter referendum.
(Voiceover) "I had a farm in Africa
At the foot of the Ngong Hills."
My farm lies high above the sea at 6,000 feet.
By daybreak I feel oh, oh so high up,
Near to the sun on early mornings.
Evenings so limpid and restful;
Nights oh, so cold.
Mille Grazie a lei, Signore *******!
Andiamo, Sydney, amico mio.
Let it flow like the water that lives in Mombasa.
Let it flow like Kurt Luedtke’s liquid crystal script.
We zoom in. We go close in. Going close up,
On the face of Isak Dinesen’s household
Servant and general factotum. (Full camera ******)
Karen Blixen’s devoted Muslim manservant,
Farah: “God is happy, msabu. He plays with us…”
He plays with me.  And who shall I be today?
How about Tony Manero for starters?
Good choice. Nicely done!
Geezer Manero:  old and bitter now,
Still working at the hardware store,
Twice-divorced, a chain-smoker,
Severely diabetic, a drunk on dialysis 3 times a week.
Bite me, Pop:  I never thought I was John Travolta.
But, hey, I had my shot:  “I coulda been a contenda.”
Once more, by association only,
I am a great artist again, quickly made
Near great by a simple second look.
Why, oh God? I am kvetching again.
I celebrate myself and sing the
L-on-forehead loser’s lament:
Why implant the desire and then
Withhold from me the talent?
“I wrote 30 ******* operas,”
I hear Salieri’s demented cackle.
“I will speak for you, Wolfie Babaloo;
I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.”

Must I wind up in the same
Viennese loony bin with Antonio?
Note to self:  GTF out of Austria post-haste!
I’ve been called on the Emperor’s carpet again,
My head, my decapitated Prufrock noodle,
Grown slightly bald, brought in upon a platter.
Are peaches in season?
Do I dare eat one?
I am Amadeus, ******, infantile,
An irresistible iconoclast and clown.
Wolfie:   “I am called on the imperial carpet again.
The Emperor may have no clothes but he’s got a
Shitload of ******* carpets."
Hello Girls: ‘Disco Tampons!
Staying inside, staying inside!
Wolfie: "Why have I chosen a ****** farce for my libretto?
Surely there are more elevated themes . . . NO!
I am fed to the teeth with elevated themes,
People so lofty they **** marble!"
Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis.

So, I mix paint in the hardware store by day.
I dance all night, near-great again by locomotion.
Join me in at least one of my verifiable nine lives.
Go with me across the Narrows,
Back to Lenape with the wild red men of Canarsee,
To Vlacke Bos, Boswijk & Nieuw Utrecht,
To Dutch treat Breuckelen, Red Hook & Bensonhurst,
To Bay Ridge and the Sheepshead.
Come with me to Coney Island’s Steeplechase & Luna Park, &
Dreamland (aka Brownsville) East New York, County of Kings.
If I’m lying, I’m dying.
And while we’re on the subject now,
Bwana Finch Hatton (pronounced FINCH HATTON),
Why not turn your focus to the rival for Karen’s heart,
To the guy who nursed her through the syphilis,
That old taciturn ******, Guru Farah?
Righto and Cheerio, Mr. Finch Hatton,
Denys George of that surname—
Why not visualize Imam Farah?
Farah: a Twisted Sister Mary Ignatius,
Explaining it all to your likes-the-dark-meat
Friend and ivory-trading business partner,
Berkeley (pronounced BARK-LEE) Cole.
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

Oh yeah, Tony Manero, the Bee Gees & me,
A marriage made in Brooklyn.
The Gibbs providing the sound track while
I took care of the local action.
I got more *** than a toilet seat, a Don Juan rep &
THE CLAP on more than one occasion.
Probably from a toilet seat.
Even my big brother–the failed priest,
Celibate too long and desperate now–
Even my defrocked, blue-balled brother,
Frankie, cashing in his chips at the Archdiocese,
Taking soave lessons from yours truly,
Taking notes, copying my slick moves with chicks.
It was the usual story with the usual suspects &
The usual character tests. All of which I flunk.
I choose Fitzgerald's “vast, ****** meretricious beauty,”
My jumpstart to the middle class.
I spurn the neighborhood puttana,
Mary Catherine Delvecchio: the community ****
With the proverbial heart of gold &
A backpack full of self-esteem deficits.
I opt out.  I’m hungry and leaping.
I morph again, grab *** the golden girl.
Now I’m Gatsby in a white suit,
Stalking Daisy Buchanan in East Egg,
Daisy: her voice full of money;
My green light flashing on the disco dance floor.
I, a fool for love; she, my faithless uptown girl,
Golden and delicious like the apple,
Capricious like a blue Persian cat.
My “orgiastic future” eluded me then.
It eludes me still. Time to go home again to the place
****-ant Prufrocks ponder their pathetic dying embers.
Time to assume the position:
Gazing out from some trapezoidal patch of green
At the foot of Roebling’s bridge,
Contemplating an alternative reality for myself,
A new life across the East River,
In the city that never sleeps.
I crave. I lust. I am a guinzo Eva Duarte.
I too must be a part of B.A., Buenos Aires:
THE BIG APPLE.
But I am ashamed of my luggage,
Not to mention my baggage.
It’s like that last thing Holden Caulfield said to me,
Just before he crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge,
Crossed over to Manhattan without me,
Leaving me alone again, searching for our kid sister,
Phoebe, the only one on earth we can relate to:
“It’s really hard to be roommates with people
If your suitcases are much better than theirs.”
Ow! That stung; that was a stinger.
I am smithereened by a self-guided drone,
A smart bomb full of snide antigravity,
Transformational and caustic.
My meager allotment of self-esteem
Metastasizes into something base,
Something heavy and vile.
I drop to earth like lead mozzarella.

I am unworthy, unworthy in the maximum mendicant,
Roman Catholic mea culpa sense of the word.
I am now Umberto Eco’s penitenziagite.
I am Salvatore, a demented hunchback
(Played flawlessly as a demented hunchback by Ron Perlman),
Spewing linguistic gibberish in a variety of vernaculars:
“Lord, I am not worthy to live anywhere west of the Gowanus Canal.”
By East River waters I weep bitter tears,
The promise of a promised land denied.
I am a garlic-eating Chuck Yeager,
Auguring in, burnt beyond recognition,
An ethnic trope, a defiant Private Maggio
From here and for eternity,
Forever a swarthy ethnic stereotype
Trying to escape thru a small but significant
Hole in the ozone layer above South Ozone Park,
New York, zip code 11420.
That’s right, Ozone Park.
If you don’t believe me, look it up.
GO ******* GOOGLE IT!

And I just don’t know when to quit.
So why quit there?
Work with me, fratello mio, mon lecteur.
Like you, I took the LSAT so long ago.
Why am I not a distinguished American jurist
Asking the one question that seems to be on
Everyone’s eugenic lips today:
“Aren’t three generations of imbeciles enough?”
I am Charly from Flowers for Algernon,
A slow learner with a push broom, swept up in
Some dust from Leonard Cohen’s cuff.
Lenny: a grey-beard loon himself now, singing
“Hallelujah” for fish & chips in London’s O2 Arena.
“Suzanne takes you down, Babaloo!”
At last, I am Jesus Quintana—
John Turturro stealing the movie as usual--
This time in a hair net and a jumpsuit,
"Made of a comfortable 65% polyester/35%
Cotton poplin, you can even add your own
Ribbon leg trim and monogramming
For just the right look to be one of
The Big Lebowski’s favorite characters.
Mouse-over the thumbnail below to see our actual style
(Color must be purple). Style #: 98P, Price: $55.95. On sale: $50.36.www.myjumpsuit.com."
Fortunately, I am a savvy marketeer:
I understand the artistic potential, the venal
Possibilities of product placement. Go with me
To that undiscovered country.
The humanities uncorrupted till now by
Crass gimcrack television ads. That’s right:
******* commercials smack dab in the
Middle of a ******* poem. Why not?
Great literature has always been about
Selling something, even if only an idea.
Hey, **** me, Herman Melville!
We both know the publication costs of
Moby **** were underwritten by the tattoo artists &
Harpoon manufacturers of New Bedford,
Matched by a small research grant from some
Proto-Greenpeace, Poseidon adventure in some
Great white whale-watching swinging soiree.
Murray the ******* K, pendejo!
At last, I am The Jesus, a pervert & pederast,
According to Walter Sobjak—another post-traumatic
Post Toasty, like me, still out there in the jungle,
Still in love with the smell of ****** in the morning.
My bowling buddy, Walter, comfortably far to the right of
The Dude, and Attila the *** for that matter,
But who gives a **** if Lenin was The Walrus?
(“Shut the **** up, Buscemi!”)
“Once you hang a right at Hubert Humphrey,”
Said the streets of 1968 Chicago,
"It’s all ******* fascism anyway.”
That creep could roll, though, and as we know so well:
“Nobody ***** with The Jesus.”
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

INCOMING!
I just heard from an old girlfriend who is miles away,
Teaching school in Navajo Land.
The Big Rez:  a long day’s interstate katzenjammer,
A Route 66 nightmare by car, but by email,
Just down the block and round the corner.
I had previously closed an email to her with a frivolous
“Say hello to my stinky friend.”
It was a total non-sequitur, an iconic-moronic,
Ace Ventura-mutant line from Scarface,
Which may have meant–in my herbal lunch delirium—
That she should say hi to some mutual acquaintance
We mutually loathe, Or, perhaps an acknowledgement that she–
My surrogate Cameron Diaz–has a new **** buddy,
Of whom I am insanely jealous.
Or maybe it was a simple Seinfeld “about nothing.”
Who knows what goes on in that twisted *****’s head?
She spends the next two hours in a flood of funk,
A deluge of insecurity.
A veritable Katrina ****** of self-consciousness,
Interpreting my inane nonsense in terms of vaginal health.

Hey, you want to ruin a woman’s day?
Tell her, her **** smells.

The turning dials of that old car radio,
Metallic, as the rubber coverings fell
off. What had once protected, lost by
the twisting of that radio's lifespan.

In a car, old as it's manufacturers who
are all dead,
Her strength is still strong on this long
journey to the bigger city.
I fiddle through that plastic box of old
cassette tapes. My finger picking out a
title to fill the radio's mouth. To fill it up with
so much music; that it's old speakers *****
out noise.

Choking the engine of the car's battery,
the lights on the gauges flicker,
And I pull over the side of the road,
it's dark outside and cold. Not of the night
but of the music's chords.

I'm alone.

Waiting for a stranger to stop by,
and jumpstart my car. But only a God,
could jumpstart my heart.
As I reminisce on what it felt like being in
love. A station I had once tuned into,
with all it's cheesy love songs. And their
catchy hooks.

I miss the sound of the music.

A small car pulls up beside me. Yellow
as the sunflower open to the sun.
Bright as a smile; of someone you're glad to
see. 'How long has it been,' you'd ask them.

The window went down;
as a girl with a smile greeted me only by a gaze.
'Do you need help stranger,' she asked.

'Help with a lot of things, I doubt you could
come up to. But you're welcome to try,' my
heart replied.

I nodded slightly, hoping this could be
a quick fix. The quickest way for me out
of a conversation.

But my car was dead.

The stranger offered me a ride to the next town,
to grab a mechanic. I reluctantly agreed.
And before I hopped in that box Sunny,
I had to grab my plastic case of cassettes.

She seemed keen on what contents I had
at hand. Insisting I put a tape inside her radio.
'Hey that's my favourite band,' she said.

I never smiled as real in that moment,
than I ever did before.
With so much in common, we fed our ears
on good music, with our similar tastes.
Making it to the next town, I gave my
thanks.

Not expecting much back.

'Here's my number. We should hang out sometime
to listen to some good music.
I'll trade you my number for a couple of tapes,'
she said.

She drove off leaving me with a smile,
a number, and a reason for them both. As I
wondered where next this story would go...

I'd love to tune into that.

ive been told
many great poets relied
on mind altering drugs
opiates and pills
in order to force their hand
to the paper
in order to jumpstart their brain
like a side of the road
two degrees
junkyard car

i have nothing to write about
when I abstain from your name
and calling you my ******
gives you the power to roll my eyes
back into my head
with pleasure
it gives you the power to **** me
typical bathroom scene
slumped over your
"i miss you"
choking on the apologies
i couldn't spit out
in the middle of winter

ill never be a great
and self destructive artist
not because i light your memories up under a spoon
not because I let you infect me
not because I roll you up and set you on fire
and breathe in your sentences

ill never be a great
self destructive artist
because there's no jumpstart
or moment
of connection
ive tried
every drug i can find
and im still
sitting with the shower running
letting it burn me
begging to feel something

because really
what's the difference
between numbing me
and telling me
you don't love me anymore

every night I go to bed and say
“just don’t”
every night I lay awake and say
“just don’t”
because two negatives make a
positive right?
and maybe if I think about us
long and hard enough
I can jumpstart my
water circus
and finally ******* cry
for once
but *******, birdie
*******
this is supposed to be a friendship
poem
filled with all the good things
about us and I turned it
into me
I turned it ugly
again
but you
sister
are beautiful

every day
I don't pretend
it's not happening

every bruise
I'll never hide
again

every eardrum
not slit
shrill venomous
psychward razors

every day
not backed
into a corner
not choked

every time
I don't wonder
if I'll come to again
as limbs go limp
fading conscious
into black

every chance
for my greatest gift
not to end up like
my biggest mistake

every time
he greets the family
he'd never known

every day
I awake
to possibility
reunited family
rekindled friendships

every reclaimed moment
every shot at bliss
every joytear

is because

of
you

daring to flirt inside
messy, imperfect lines

catalyzing jumpstart
to the rest
of this

precious life

no matter
what happens
wherever you go
whatever you choose

I'll always see some cape
creeping out from under
your blackflak collar

i’ve learned all my trickling tricks of puppeteering from philip augustus of france early on in my schooling, richard the lionheart never came close, i was in similitude with philip augustus, that i even bought jim bradbury’s book to read and essay with.*

never become the alcoholic that denies his alcoholism,
you can’t hide an addiction, better embrace it,
when addiction enters the stage as the acted upon acting
there’s no point hiding it,
enter the realm of the full embrace, hiding it will only make it worse
than it actually is, i embraced it, and i think
the piggish commons are getting their tax payers’ money’s worth
with my poems, if you think otherwise... you stand
happy-idle at the supermarket check-out and tell me
the football scores from the big weekend
when a northern monkey team took a thrashing
from a southern fairy team.
the question is different thought - forget the beginning and end
planned - we already have the diapers and the coffin,
make what the middle ought to be, clueless narration, spontaneity,
off the streak of the river currents not expecting change
but having to accept change...
michael greilsammer’s la ville blanche
cream’s white room
or cat stevens’ into white?
none of them... moody blues’ nights in white satin...
but a funny emerged from trying to sing greilsammer’s la ville blanche,
i speak no french,
and in my mumble i managed to see the other imagination,
the skeletal one, not the technicolor one of images and walt
and the housewives sleeping beauty and snow white
(although i appreciate the other walt, the whitman),
i mean, through my “un-imaginative” mumbles i tried
to skewer the words of the song, i couldn’t,
i could usher in a single perfect word
but beyond this i was trying to imagine the god awful spelling excesses
of the french tongue... i mean bordeaux when you only say bore’s door /
boarded up door - no x oh... xylophone, yes, no? no...
oh no wonder dyslexia and spelling mistakes...
these letterings are phonetic approximates,
anyone can make the visuals complicated
and retain power... but few to own up and say:
1 + 1 = 2, but the priestly order said: e + ' = é
as jumpstart ready on the trampoline... but e + ' = è
means you get a sudden attack of the mute & mime.
that’s what happens with a missing diacritic that’s blatant in english,
you get to spell a french word like bordeaux with a zed and look at it and qualify
the tongue to say: yep, bored door... needs oiling... oil up oil up!
then spontaneously play a harp of unconscious snorkelling
(also known as snoring... boor hiccup shush... bore hiccup sheen):
it’s the last stronghold of the imagination, this invested in english
from mother tongue slavic... it’s like trying to sing to a song
without spelling glaring at you...
so you start imagining this blessed primitivity...snakes and matchsticks
to flare up... turn it all into a 1970s disco...
it makes sense to mumble then... for ****’s sake... bordeaux?!
who adds so many letters in between definite lettered sounds
to make it look more uglier than the pretty riviera? huh?!
monaco? oh... well that explains it: why vaduz (capital of liechtenstein)
doesn’t have a grand prix.

Just wait
Laughter
That presence within your catharsis
Jezebel
Jumpstart your
Heartache
Liberation
Fabricated Materialization
J... J…J…J…

Just wait.
Time will tell when
William Tell will attempt to shoot an arrow
through your heart.
If he misses,
you are doomed
to a life of solitude and faithless trysts
trust is a hit-or-miss.
If it pierces through,
you are condemned to a life attached
like a leech to
some being whose
too tight embraces
take your breath away.

Wait….just…
Listen.
The wind is blowing
sweeping you
off your feet.
You’re head-over-heals
in over your head
falling into a pit of
broken promises.
Only to rake them up again.

Just w….why?
Realizations that
****** should
be punished
even if its
metaphorical.

For hearts can die
and are just as hard
to resurrect
as burning stakes
which were once *****.

Wait….
all hope is not lost
for loss cannot be
everlasting
unless…
Bill’s arrow was
tipped with
what is never blessed
that which makes
all mortals quell.

But one can never know
in certainty
until that day
occurs

Just witness….
til then
dear friend
my sustainer of life
I’ll feed you
elixirs to save you
from bleeding
out your memories.
For sewing you up,
is merely temporary.

I’ll force-feed you
vitamin D until you
agree to be blissful again
and I’ll be able to tell when
your artificial smile dresses your
sorrows
in brighter colors.

Justice wades
in deeper waters
but once you reach it
it’s worth all the effort
in the world.

I just wish you were here
Because I'm drunk and longing
Longing for your body heat to warm my cold soul
Maybe you can jumpstart
My dead heart
I'm drunk
And you're my sobriety and a brighter life
I just wish you were here
So I could kiss your heart
And listen to it beat to the rhythm of my feelings
Feelings for you
That I'm scared will blaze out of control, and soon
I just wish you were here

me.gs

"Sick"
Hi,
My name’s _,
And I’m an addict…

And like so many others,
I’ve watched
The smoky hot
Breath
Of death,
Pass me by,
Smelled the end
Just miss me,
For no reason,
Demise,
Gave grave glares
Into my eyes
And tried,
To turn them hollow
Black,
I felt the whiplash crack
Of fate
Slash my back,
So deep,
I had to sleep,
On my stomach,
I’ve been lucky

See I was once worlds away
From these buckled knees
You see on stage,
Caged
In my own head
Behind iron bars of rage
Intangible,
The roller coaster of my life,
Had no track,
My pool,
Was all tidal waves and deep end,
I couldn’t depend
On myself
To feed myself,
Needed a shot to jumpstart my heart
And just be myself,
A circle I could never break,
And matter of fact
That roller coaster did have a track,
But it was all flat,
And just went round and round
Like that…

I’ve watched so many souls
Fall victim to the grips of addiction
Hopeless,
Fantasizing empty aspirations
Like,
Climbing a never-ending ladder to nowhere,
Like
Thinking other people
Were building their castles
On your low self-esteem,
When no one can hurt you
Unless you’re hurting yourself,
Letting them penetrate your skin,
Fill voids with enough poison
To go round,
The foundation of the devil’s playground,
That,
Jungle gym of junk I hid in,
To smoke my **** in instead of play on,
And when for some “game on”,
Meant football,
Or tag,
For me it meant another bag
To smokescreen emotion with,
A virtual loaded clip
Barrel to shaky lips,
Medicating pain,
Selling my self-esteem like old shirts in thrift shops,
I was scared…

So this is for those still fighting,
Those deciding
They are sick of being sick,
Living fix to fix
On obsolete clouds of bliss,
There is hope,
There is hope and there is help,
But the desire to truly want it,
That voice so low,
Crying dreadfully deep in the pit of your gut
For change
Must be a raging
Inferno,
You must be desperate to get this,
I’m not fully there yet,
And may never be,
But I know my destiny
Is telling me,
That there's a way out,
And I’ve screamed at the top of my lungs for this
Without being heard,
Cried oceans,
Hit rubber walls till it hurt,
Shaken fists
And climbed from the slippery pits
Of my own digging,
Cause I was dying,
And sometimes,
I’m tired,
And sometimes,
I’m scared,
And sometimes,
Everything is wrong,
Nothing feels good,
The light at the end of a clogged tunnel,
Is a "No Exit" sign,
There's no redemption for my efforts,
And skies are falling
And eyes are bawling,
And I get on my knees to pray but
I don’t know how
And I find myself crawling,
And sometimes,
It’s hard,
I had to reopen scars I swore I’d never touch,
That were buried under mountains of hardened ****
But the **** needed to pour,
Because revealing,
Is healing,
And I’m sick…

So sick of being crushed,
So sick of
Wandering deserts with a broken compass
I’ve done this
Far too long,
And I’m sick of the,
Insanity,
Sick of being told,
I cannot be
Something,
Sick of hurting everyone
Who showed me
A wink of affection,
Word of direction,
Or mirror reflection
Of myself…

I’m sick,
And I want change…

Getting in some me time on the skyline in my free time
and I can drop in or fade in, make a trade in used memory
and it feels like I used to be
but I'm not anymore

lit up on the front lines are the faces stored in land mines just waiting to explode
and the me time is exposed

we always knew it was a war

Somebody sweep me off my feet
Slow down, hurry up
What are we waiting for

Train train

Blowing my whistle
Warning you at the cross street
I seem to be the conductor
Maybe I need to be just another passenger

Blowing the whistle

Train, train

The train horn always blows
At the cross streets

Maybe I'm deaf and blind.
I cross those tracks anyway.
Where did you come from

Train train

Slamming into the hard concrete
Feeling that heavy steel on steel

I didn't see or hear
But I felt the vibration in my chest
My body shakes

Interrupting my train
Of thoughts

Train train

Blowing her whistle
Fell asleep at the wheel
Am I on the train
Or driving

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes
As I feel the force of power

Train train

Running down the tracks
Penny flattening on the metal
Now its a keepsake

Train train

Stop don't you see the lights flashing
Can't we hear the
Interrupting soundtrack

Smoking engineering
It's warning whistle

Smiling today whenever I hear
That train

Train train

Infinite trip
Watching the scenery
From my minds eye

Instead I ran
Faster so I could
Jumpstart

Train train

I'm pulled up
My eyes have adjusted
Darkness
Gearing down

Train train

Next STOP
Whistle sound
Thunder

Smaller as I watch
Their train
Leaving
Alone in station

Train train train train

I prefer my hours unreasonable, And my friends and allies insane.


I prefer my fingers broken, and my phone disconnected


So even if you tried to call, I wouldn't get the message.
Or be able to reply.

Leave a message after the tone
Beep
You don't need me to jumpstart your solitude-
You seem to be doing fine on your own


I prefer my memories erased, and my saviors visible.
Not that i need saving.
Not that i need your help.*

I gave up on humans a long time ago
I prefer my my birds singing, my ears ringing
As your words echo in my head


I'd leave you for dead,
If ever the chance came my way.
I am no Good Samaritan,
As it turns out


I prefer my ink black anyway, and the horizon invisible
Losing my place, is what I always seem to do
Looking for the sounds
Listening to the sights

*Left in a cold darkness that is absence,
Of mind, of body,
But most notably, of you.

Every week they gather around in a dark room
Where sounds are the rulers of body movement
Music becomes the puppeteer that aims to abolish silence
Prophecies of love and lust spread across the floor
The veins of the room are shaken by harmonies
Sight is overworked to the point where it no longer works
Light beams run wild, and spotlights bring shadows to centerstage
This busy room is where the dead are born again

But when we want to talk about the dead
Who said anything about coffins and carcasses
Anyone becomes dead when they have lived too much
Like this lady in the corner sipping on her drink
She wears her lips like blood on a battlefield
Her body is raised like she's tipping over the edge
Her skirt hugs her like an old lover
She laughs loudly like she’s ready to cry
Her tears fall directly from the cracks of her broken heart

Another is a boy drinking his youth away
And drinking away all his clean shirts and pants
His eyes wander and surf through the sea of people
Around him are others who drink like him
Others who want to forget
He gulps down each red cup he can get his hands on
He waits for the alcohol to go straight into his brain
Like polish remover, erases the traces of heavy hands
And sharp words that hurt him every time he breathes

For some, this busy room can be home for a few hours
Because home is where life is not allowed
Life does not interfere with our safe space
We come to this room with our dead hearts
Hoping a drink or a song would jumpstart it back to life
We hope the beats bring back the beats in our chests
We hope it brings back the warmth in our skin
For this is the room where the dead are born again

I've wandered for years
empty from lost loves
despair had slowly consumed me
I was no longer able to truly see.
Stumbling and confused
I tried to jumpstart my heart
pseudo relationships barely kept me from crumbling
but I couldn't force myself to feel anymore.

Then you

Your eyes burnt mine open again
your hand led me back to beauty
your kiss woke my soul
I am alive again.
You surround me now
wherever I look, you're all I see
my voice, my body, me heart
all call your name.
I am, in all senses, enraptured with you.



*Summer2002

This fortune came to me today
And it really touched my heart,
For its message is plain as day –
Our friendship needs a jumpstart.

I haven’t been a friend to you;
I beg you your forgiveness.
Without you, I’m all shades of blue –
It’s you, crazy girl, I miss.

(February 2012)

I just want something to come home to
Words
A little picture of happiness.
Something to make the empty echoes
Of a lone heart beating
A little softer

Over and over
Again my eyes flitting side to side
A smile, maybe
No promises.
Just words.
A lover’s repose

I want something to wake up to
Words
A little picture of happiness
Something to jumpstart the tired dull thuds
Of a lone heart weakening

To pull my lidless shades
Up a little
Corner of my mouth upturning
Maybe
No promises.
Just words
A lover’s invigoration.

I want something to let my heart sing to
Words
Harmonized throughout my day
Something to make the beating
Prevail
A little longer

To draw myself
Through life’s difficulties
A scant crescent
Maybe
No Promises.
Just words.
A Lover’s Endurance.

my love, my sweet, this pulsing beat
ringing in my ears
a heartbeat in my stomach
head heavy and  d r a g g i n g
nodding out, nodding off
getting off
she did
who did?
jill, jacking off
hijack my life
jumpstart my words
I am plugged in
ready for the ride
shaking fits, out of control
can't help it
help me
things are spinning X
i guess this is why they call me
blackout girl

On empty nights, I watch the flickering lights of the empty streets
At 2 in the morning, A time made for a selected few. The time where either minds or bodies wander into strange places or strangers or both.
Like a reoccuring dream, only one scene plays despite the endless succession of "ifs" and "buts" laying across my tongue like crippling bodies finding its way out, but acquiring Stockholm syndrome before it does.
How can something end 7 times over?
How can you not see the end coming?
One after the other, the questions barrage in and I can make up all the reasons and excuses, but never really answering the question in the process.
They say that perfect love casts out all fears,
But did I love you too much that I lost the fear to lose the inner parts of me, or at the very least, my intuition to know when it's not gonna get any better?
That we're not gonna get any better than this?
That we've ran out of fuel to go around in circles?
And by the 6th time we tried to jumpstart the engines, have my hands calloused thick enough to not feel the cuts from broken down wires and shattered glass sprinkled around everything you hand to me,
like how you sugar coat the way you tell me you don't love me the same anymore?
And when does the pain end?
Or does it really ever end?
Or do you just get used to it that it becomes a part of you?
According to medicine, feeling pain is a way for your body to tell you that something's not right.
The last time i saw you walking out on me, i felt a slight, gnawing pain in between my chest.
When you closed the door, the pain disappeared.
So i guess what i wanted to ask you was,
Am I still your 2am thoughts,
Or have you learned to sleep by 1?