I have an old guitar named Gypsy Queen.  Normally this would not be much of a momentous occasion, lots of people name their guitars, but Gypsy is hand made by me.  Many moons ago when my ex wife was pregnant with my only child, a daughter, I took an adult education night class while I was attending college as a day job.  Our instructor had recently taken a trip to Canada to buy wood as he made his living building custom guitars and he had some of the most beautiful birds eye maple I'd ever seen and also some very good spruce for the top of the guitar.  We met at the local high-school's woodshop classroom.  I knew all the power tools there having taken wood shop twice in middle school and again in high-school.  From raw lumber I fashioned her pieces, sides, three piece back, neck, keyboard (made from some exotic ebony my instructor had), and top.  While my wife was patiently waddling about the house I shaped and sanded those pieces on our living room floor.  The interior struts, the binding, and frets for the keyboard had to be created as well.  When I finally got her glued and assembled she was quite a sight, almost perfect in every way, and the quality wood she was made from was so beautiful I had never seen the likes of her before.  Most of the people in the class didn't get that far not having the skills with the tools or the coordination necessary to succeed.  Still she needed to be lacquered and finished.  All told, special tools and accouterments, cost of the wood, glue and sandpaper, plus the frets (nickeled silver), and the grover tuning pegs she cost me about $160.  But almost 500hrs labor went into her creation, whole free weekends spent sanding and shaping.  It was a year or more before I finally got her lacquered and she was so beautiful I could scarce believe I had made her, totally from scratch.  I had even inlaid her mother of pearl keyboard art, god she was a sight.  Both she, and my daughter, are now close to 40 years old, and she still plays like a champ.  Ask any guitarist about guitars they use a lot, see how many survive that long.  She's my prized possession to this day.  Her custom bridge is shaped like a bird (something I've never seen to this day anywhere else) and I'd put her sound up against any expensive Martin made.  Plus she is so much prettier.  She's old and her finish is crackled some but her neck is still true and her action is superb.  Through the years she has brought me so much joy, I'm so glad I took that class.  I hope she survives till I die cause I want to mix her ashes with mine before they get spread around by my friends.  I'll want something to play in the afterlife.
...
http://i1178.photobucket.com/albums/x370/toreinss/IMG_0325.jpg

Sorry - login failed....
OK...easy - of course it's me;
I’m authentic, not me pretending to be me
or someone else pretending to be me
or me pretending to be Swine Poet;
no, it’s not
Swim Goggles masquerading as Noodles Mee;
or Pretty Pig pretending to be Ugly Duckling;
so let’s try again – it’s easy…sure, I know my password….
OK….
Sorry – login failed….
OK…
it’s easy....I’ll give you my username
and here’s password…Enter…here we go…
Sorry – login failed….
Hey! You’re joking with me, right?
you know it’s me, and you’re just kidding, right?
What?
If at first you don’t succeed – try, try again…
OK, OK…let’s go again….
Sorry – login failed….
Hey, man – or woman, this is serious…
Oh I see – my thick fingers
might have landed on 9 instead of 8
and on g instead of f –
you see? It’s me….I’ll try and use my most slender fingers
and avoid my thick fingers…
Knock and the door shall be opened…
OK…here we go…username…hmmmmm….easy now….
slender fingers, remember….OK….password….careful now….
use slender fingers only….Enter! Yipppppeeeeee!
Sorry - login failed....
Hey- it appears I’m thick-headed as well!
Come on – give me a chance!
It’s almost like being denied at Heaven’s doors!
I’m having an identity crisis here, baby!
You want to see me have a breakdown and
send me to a madhouse, or what?
All right, all right…cool down…easy….easy…calm…
Take a deep breath….
Username…OK….slender fingers, now…eyes on keyboard…
…Password….slender fingers, remember….eyes on keyboard….
Now, all good….I think….Want to say a prayer?
Come on – it’s not that serious….Alright….ENTER!
Yes – I’m in! Hey guys – here I am!

games played solely without mouse or joystick... X-hands on the keyboard: left right; right left; kita? ponies in the field; ponces in the marketplace.

but if it didn't happen in video games,
and you said the word: girlfriend...
who are you? ****... i'll test you,
i test your genitals to ensure
it belongs in your head for an ego...
you never been?
                hard to think anything of you
other than a child of divorce...
                   because you probably are...
next time you verbal a *****
i'll verbal the status of your mother...
and next time: you'll be in the practice
of boxing while i'll be worrying about
eating too much lactose...
                               ******, wanna fight?
i'll take a few punches... and
then take to you like a butcher...
   darwinism breeds masculine boast games,
get with it!
             you either boast about the fact:
or you shut, the **** up!
                           just give me a kalashnikov
and i'll show you *bonaparte!
            harasho?
  good, we're good, we're compatriots...
             i used to play wholly keyboard games
and i had to sit in the chair, with X on my head...
the mouse was gone...
  so was the ||...                  of hands and what not...
  w
a s d
              moving...
                                 why should i take on
the sins of your father to enjoy a beer with you?
why do you blame me?
      two ***** spoke to you? that's what
i'm guessing is the proper guess... ******* with
your two *****!
                   i'd really be jealous if you kept them,
and inacted a dualgamy...
           what you just described is yesterday...
yesterday... yesterday... like your papa you can't
keep even one for a period of a swan's lifetime
     for 70... years...
                 you parade that **** in east london!
****! me! friendeships from school are
  so parasitic... but at least good for writing...
       come ******! come! i'm part of the death cult!
i'm begging! i'm not begging for pennies
or for pounds thrown into a hat... mr. socialist...
ha ha!
         ha ha!                          ha ha!
            no, really, i'm still waiting!
                                 what are you waiting for?
the next train out of liverpool st. to shenfield?
                     sure... i'll wait with you...
          just about the same time you turn my
knuckles into a cornish pasty to eat...
                                  don't **** with me you aenemic
******... it's called regular physical laws:
              i'm over 100 kilograms... i punch you
in the face it won't be the newtonian paradox
that states: gravity universal, a fat boy falls at the same
time and at the same speed at a thin boy...
  i punch you in the face you'll probably be in the
queue for plastic surgery...
          mein sen? my dream?
                  my male cat ******* into the toilet,
my female cat trying to usurp the power of the bladder
and thus jumping straight on the toilet
                   with the male cat ******* into it...
then me picking up the male cat
    and him ******* about the bathroom
                  without a bladder "censor" to stop him
doing so in the act... mmm... condoms...
                     these days due to prostate cancer
  i had to envision buddha to relax my bladder...
                           oh i'm not playing 'ard...
                                  i'd love to get a smacker
before i managed to use my body mass...
                                that scenario with paul kohler
(silent h)         and those who spoke with
a central european accent...
                                                       ­     i once had
"western" european "friends", just after i thought
they became arrogant ****** that i'd love
     to do skull-to-skull with and wipe their whittle
smiles off their faces: according to their surprise
as to why they bred terrorist at home; which they
did, and forgot to admit as toward the methodology
they gave out and then negated as being
the source of responsibility: i.e. the practice of denial.
by now,
     i have the least concern, and the most
contraceptive additives to care about western european
lives; guess what happened! the irish thought
they could treat the poles like the english treated
them! oi! paddy! my people fought in the battle
for britain in the r.a.f.: you were as neutral as swedes!
paddy! oi!                      oh i'll give you war
you ******* fairy... but you won't take it...
   you'll be all flimsy spaghetti armed in the distance!
maybe i should move to liverpool?

“You know the worst thing I ever saw?” He asked.

I sighed to myself, took another gulp of beer and fixed him with a look of half-interest. He was drunk. A complete ****-up and a bore when he's drunk. I don't know why I drink with him. That said, he probably thinks the same.

“What's that?”
“Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard.”
“Ye-what?”
“Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“The homeless. Right.”
“I'll get us another drink.” he says, “then I'll start where I left off.”
“Oh, good.”

He comes back with two bottles. We drink and we start talking about football. We're just about getting by before he raises his palm to his face.
“Aw, ****. I forgot, yeah. The worst thing I ever saw. I never told you.”
“You did. Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“Yeah yeah, but that doesn't really say much, does it? You're probably wondering to yourself why that would **** me off so much?”

Not really. He's the type of no-action, all-caring, bleeding heart that sits on his fattening **** every day, 'liking' rhetorical captions over pictures, and signing petitions to axe some ***** politician or other.
“I guess. Shoot.”

He shoots.
“I wanna burn down the churches. Seriously. Stupid ******* religious folk. I bet they go home and post pictures up of themselves, all busy in the soup kitchen, ladling minestrone into some poor *******'s styrofoam bowl.
“They'll never touch them. Always at arm's length. You don't wanna breathe in the pathogens of the anti-people...”
He slurred a little, went to carry on, but took another gulp of beer instead.
“What does that have to do with bedsheets over the benches in the church yard?” I took a gulp myself, this time watching him with a little more interest. Probably just because he looks like he could spew at any moment.
“You're not letting me finish...”
He finishes his beer, gets up, almost bumping into his piano-***-keyboard. He's off to the fridge again. I have a look around while he's out of the room. I can hear him ******* in the kitchen sink.

I've seen the place a million times before but it always has a whole bunch of new **** tacked up on the wall or else bundled in the corner. He's no hoarder, just gets bored and throws out all the stuff he bought the year before.
There's a framed picture of himself on the wall, cradling his Fender as if he's a master of the arts. It's signed, too.
I've seen him play. Probably will tonight. Wouldn't be surprised if he's written a protest song called: bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. The old **** can't even hit an F major with regularity.
He'd decided to put up his vinyl sleeves on the wall like a 17 year old would with an array of **** pop-punk band posters.
Blink and you might think he's the new John Peel or Phil Spector. Stare, and you'll realise he's twice as crazy, yet half as talented and half as interesting to listen to.
His room is like a CV to show to interesting, young indie women. Shame he's hitting forty now,and hasn't been to a club in about 3 months.
Last time we went he just sulked in the corner and got too drunk. He cried in the smoking area about his job before going round and asking attractive girls whether they think he's too old to be out. Most didn't even bother to give an answer. Probably best.

He comes back in with more beer.
“A-anyway...” He says, groaning a little like an old man as he settles back into the chair. “As I was saying...” he sloshes beer on the carpet, rubs it in with the heel of his shoe. He spits on the mark and then rubs again.
“What I was saying was that the church would be a whole lot more useful to the homeless if it was burned down. A condemned building is a whole lot more useful than being looked down on by holier-than-thou, middle-class, white Christians.
“They go home after an hour, bolt the church doors, and then watch TV in their brand new conservatories that they spend several thousands on. Just give the losers a place to shoot up and sleep in safety. That makes sense, right?”
“I guess so.”
I couldn't think of a change of conversation. So I just drank some more and pulled out a cigarette. It's nice to smoke inside for a change.

“It's a ****** ******* awful thing. If people were actually religious, they'd throw open their ******* doors for everyone. It's what Jesus would do, right?”
“Right.”
“He'd have all the **** in his bedsit, piled in like sardines, spreading TB like wildfire.”
“And that's a good thing?”
“Well, it can't be any worse, right? Sleep's important. I learned that the hard way.”

He didn't learn it the hard way. Not really. He's a self-motivated, self-harming insomniac. He spent his teenage years listening to bad music and staying up too late ******* over his French teacher. I should know, I mostly did the same.
He hit the **** pretty hard during college. Never really looked back until recently. ****** him up worse than you'd reckon. He couldn't sleep without the stuff. Man, if you'd have seen the poor guy whenever he couldn't get hold of some for the night. Eesh.

“...you know what I mean though? I'm sick of charity. Those fun-runs you get. A load of women in pink pretending that they care about breast cancer, before posting a million and one pictures up of them in ankle warmers and a kooky hat...”
“**** of the Earth.”
“Yup. Right up there with the women who have 'mummy' as their middle name on Facebook.”
“Yeah.”
“Honestly though, it's the laziest form of charity. Throwing a couple old, mouldy bedsheets out on some bird-**** bench made of wood and ancient farts...”
“It is pretty lazy.” I drank some more.

It was getting late. We swallowed three temazepams each, moved onto the cheap shiraz once we ran out of beer. We leant back in our chairs, barely talking and letting Tame Impala supply the conversation for us.

“You know what?” I ask, pretty much out of nowhere. His eyes have narrowed. He's not sleepy, just ****** on ***** and tranquillizers. He takes a moment.
“Huh?”
“From what you were saying earlier... you know, about the bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, why don't you?”
“Why don't I what?”
“Burn it down.”
“The church?”
“Well, you go on about being lazy and ****. Here's your chance. Help the homeless. Break the locks, pour the petrol, take out a few bottles of wine if you find any...”
“Now?”
“I guess so. Homeless folk are dying of pneumonia out there. Not a second can be wasted.”
“I dunno. I didn't mean I had to do it. I was just saying...”
“I guess they were just saying too.” I felt like I was being a ****, so I changed the subject to women I haven't laid.

I stumbled home leaning on my bicycle all the way. Daylight was just about visible off in the distance. I passed two homeless guys on the way back, gave one of them a fiver, the other one my big mac and the last of my cigarettes (well, leaving a couple for myself).
They said thanks, god bless you, etc, etc. I carried on walking.

I woke up the next afternoon with a mouthful of sand and in desperate need of a hangover ****. I hadn't shaved in about two weeks and there were dark circles under my eyes. I thought about going out to the diner for a full breakfast, but strange people were beyond me.
I ordered a pizza full of meat and grease and garlic sauce instead. I text him to see if he wanted to come over and nurse the hangover with a little ****. Watch a film. Get drunk again. He still smokes it on special occasions, and this ******* of a hangover was pretty **** special.
No reply, and I end up rolling up a joint for myself, smoking it by the window and watching the magpies peck around the grass. It's nice out.

The pizza guy comes. He's holding the pizza up like a map, calls out in a bored sort of voice: “Hello sir. I've got a large Palermo Pizza here, with a side of chicken strips and a can of Dandelion and Burdock?”
I say yes and he hands it over.

I tip him with the coins still left in my wallet from the night before, and he sheepishly says he picked up my post for me as well.
I look down at the pizza I'm holding, and there's a few envelopes that look suspiciously like bills, rival takeaway leaflets, and the local paper. I say thanks, give him the best sort of smile I could, and then close the door.
I turn on the TV. I forgot the England match was on. I turn over to something more interesting. There's nothing, so I switch back over. Before I open up the pizza, I take the paper. A small-town existence, nothing ever happens, but I could do with a new job.

The front page is on fire. A church has been burned down in the early morning. A forty-something man has been arrested and then taken to hospital for severe burns to the face. A load of children's art has been lost, along with countless Bibles, prayer cushions, and vaults of cash.
“****.”
I read through the article. The whole place was gutted. Nothing could be salvaged. Nothing could be redeemed. In the corner of the picture, through the red, green, and blue dots, I could just make out some bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.

I start writing this lines for whomever is willing to read then...

Today I could not reconcile with my sleep, lately it seems we are sworn enemies, battling every single night until one of us is so exhausted it forfeits its own life and gives in to the overwhelming force of the other entity, tonight I was the one who lost the fight... I lay in agony writing these words to try and take the pain away, trying to keep my mind sane sorounded by this madness... It is a quiet night, and all you can hear are my fingers on the keyboard, and the breaths I take to exhale the smoke in my lungs.

The minutes pass and i cling myself to a thoughts that seems to be so distant, memories of happier days flow in and out of my mind, floating in nothingness, like a beautiful song with no one there to appreciate its beauty... No one...

Hours go by, and still no sign of any type of existence whatsoever, just me, the smoke and the sound of this keyboard... Just when my soul is about to go stray, at the point of no return, I hear footsteps from afar, FINALLY!, she has returned! I can feel different things happening inside me, if I could see myself from the outside, it would be like watching a young boy waiting for a present, THAT present that he has always wished for... Soon all the commotion inside me its betrayed by the reality of what lies in front of my eyes, that siluette in the darkness does not belong to my long wished gift, to that little music box that holds my heart, that figure coming out of the darkness correspond to a very old friend, a dear friend that I have missed, yet, never wished to be face to face again...

My dear friend finally walks out of the darkness and standing in front of me without saying one word, I can see a small hint of happiness in those beautiful eyes filled with sorrow, anger, wisdom... I can feel her getting close to me and smell that unique perfume that I was acustome to, it is almost like I could taste her skin at the moment that she kisses my forehead, I sit still, frozen, afraid, wanting to run far from her presence and yet I stayed there, intoxicated by her astonishing beauty... The only thing that I can remember thinking is the yells inside my head, screaming COWARD!

She sits quietly next to me on the stairs, I get my matches and light up another cancer stick, like my old buddy was used to called them, she looks at the box and without saying a word takes one to her mouth and lights it up... I could only see the bright red light, reflected in her eyes as she embraces a slow death with each breath she takes, I notice that she still has the smile on her face while she stares at me, right in my eyes... I feel at ease knowing that I am not with a stranger, knowing that my old friend was there for a reason, a reason that at the moment I couldent control but clearly understand. Everything seems to slow down, its even more quiet than before, u can hardly hear the typing on the keyboard anymore... All I can hear are the breaths she takes while she smokes her cigarette... The minutes go by and not one word has come out her tempting mouth, she is almost exactly as I remember her, quiet, yet on this visit she seems more mature, sensual, more natural, passive and also more beautiful, it is very difficult to describe but sitting there I almost felt relieve... Its like our minds are connected, i see, i feel things she is carrying within her, it burns my insides like a shot of tequila, slowly ohh soo slowly takes over my body... She giggles as she sees me light yet another cigarette, she knows that she has me, she knows that any moment i will succumb to the idea of having her in my presence... I keep writing, incredibly, I feel my fingers lighter, faster...

20 minutes go by like nothing and as I still sit there, she finally makes her move, she whispers something between breaths, I get hypnotized by her gorgeous eyes, her wonderful smile and those lips that I've been dying all night to taste... She leans forward and takes my hand, I stand like if I can't even control my own body, she closes the door behind us, the room grows even darker and just a little bit colder, as I turn around before I could make sense of what is happening, I'm shock in surprise to feel her lips on mine, I try to step away but she holds on tight like if she needs me, almost like we are two sides of the same coin... Soon I surrender to her touch, her soft warm lips, her tongue dancing with mine, I want to stop but she is not willing to let go, or you can say that I'm just not strong enough to let go of her... I can feel her hands on my back and her fingers gently taking off my shirt, caressing my chest, licking my neck... The room still seems cold even with everything that is going on, it is a strange feeling, but I am more focus on my dear friend that has not visited me in such a long time, she still hassent said a word as she slowly walks to my bedroom, I can see her stunning body perfectly because with each step she takes, her hands and fingers play with a different part of her clothing as she takes them off and seduces me to come close, so close that our breaths become a single one, I can't control myself anymore, after fighting my desires for so long I give in to her presence, to her will, to all her company brings to my life... I take hold of her fragile body, with my hands I explore every inch of her, kissing, biting, losing my mind with her taste, her smell... I can feel that this is not right, but as I look at her, everything else tells me to keep on... To move, one step at a time...

Slowly but surely our bodies begin to accept one another, to enjoy more and more the simple fact that it feels like they belong together... Together, at least at the moment... Laying on my bed, u can hear her nails playing with my back, my shoulders, my waist, I can hear another whisper between her breaths as we make things happen that you have only heard of. She is not so quiet anymore, she still keeps her impeccable beauty, but the beauty I see now, is more natural, more unique than any I have ever seen, I can see her face blushing with little tears of sweat dripping from her chest, her face... Her beauty still lies there, but now I want her more than before, if there would be a form of describing what my eyes could see, would be as simple as saying that she looks like reaching the heavens and hell at the same time. Quickly she turns my body around and I can see the full splendor of her naked siluette, a body that belongs to me, but a soul that will never be mine... I reach out to touch her face, its not so soft anymore, it feels more rubbished, more raw, more exiting than anything that I have ever seen or felt before... She takes my finger and carries it to her mouth, smiles at me and then makes my hand travel all the corners of her sensual body, every inch of untouched skin... I feel like the moment will never end, I feel eternity has nothing against me... But inside me, I can sense that I'm wrong, that I will be sorry for the present, wishing for the past, and hating my future... In the back of my mind, my will yells for me to realize that it will hurt more tomorrow, just as I almost break from her spell she bends over me and yet again I could only make out a whisper between breaths, a sign without reason... I can feel her body laying on top of mine, hearts beating together, deep breaths and long stares at each other... She still hassent said a word, her fingers play with my chest hair, and her eyes filled with sorrow, anger and wisdom shed a tear, just one tear, for the reasons we both know of, we know that she has to go, that I don't want her to stay next to me, because I'm not willing to take all the things she is accustom to bring with her... She feels used, worst than a *****, worst than a simple piece of meat... But she understands, she can no longer be visiting me, she can no longer make my soul her's... She will have to comfort herself in the fact that she will always be with me, but never taking control... At the moment she stands, looks at me with her dark beautiful eyes, picks up her clothes and kisses my forehead once more... I lay on my bed, watching her beauty, looking as she covers her gorgeous body by the clothes design to hide it... She stands by the door and hints me to stand next to her, I feel her arms wrap tightly around my waist and her head resting on my chest, at the moment I can finally understand my quiet dear friend, as her last whisper I can only make out the words "I will always be by your side"... She turns to the door and back the stairs she came from, and I just stand there, still, lighting another match to smoke another slow poison in my lungs... At the far distance I can see my dear old friend looking back at the space on my door, its like I almost know what she will say, what she will do... She disappears into the night, only to be seen or felt by those who wish for her company or desire her taste, I only stand there, with a smoke in hand whispering for my own amusement, "goodbye dear friend, goodbye old companion, goodbye my lover, goodbye loneliness"



The End

*******
keyboard
hamburger
blue
coffeehouse
smile

the
joy
citizenship
face
she's

Slapped
brightly

a
cold
lot
on
sweat
singing
Dance
merry
stuff
a
canned
about

mayor
of
Cool
macdonald
croudsource

major
was

work
loud
birthday
red
call
measure
workingclass
monogamy
silence
a
his
carnivores

down
street
manly

ordnance
every

happy
steaming
beginning
rattle
place
ukraine
sniff
serial
place
We
testing
laugh
bro
my
worker
of
crap
juice
water
canon
man
shuffling

the
bread
Shaking
fried
peanut
Johnny's
cleaninglady
based
upbringing
hums
flanberg
flames

the
brainface
got
of
before

awkward
flight
foresaw
on
black
She
travels
meaningful

fell
hamster
fighter
lack
correlate
was
day
colony

what
man
She
train
fortify

Guitar
piano

orange
intermezzo
butter
squints
cackling
happy
mate

hot

breadsource
browsers

by which I of course am referring to this keyboard
that i’m writing on now
funny how that works ain’t it
62 minutes until my shift ends
John Prine & the Korean war don’t quite match where I am
clicking pool cues penetrate my headphones
I wonder how many bad games of pool it takes to shake a man’s confidence
by my estimate the answer is never enough
guys that can’t shoot love teaching girls how not to shoot
but the girls don’t usually seem to mind
how very 60’s highschool of it all
maybe Mr. Prine does have something here to say
47 minutes until my shift ends
people trust engineers warns my engineering professor
people trust you to know things he furthers
people trust us to explain
I wish they wouldn’t
tech support & translators for parents & grandparents
people want answers but only when they thought they already knew
40 minutes until my shift ends
pretty good, not bad, I can’t complain
seeing my old highschool teachers at the burrito place where I worked
sinking in the mire of chicken, brown rice, & black beans for minimum wage
ain’t it funny
I can smell the 45 pieces of steak & chicken I grilled when I get home
ain’t it funny
the outrage over the price of guacamole
33 minutes until my shift ends

that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
   unfortunately.
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
cageless!
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
puff...
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
  
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | Y| | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |

        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...
so?

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an

The keyboard warrior I am.
I can change the world from the palm of my hand.  

No need to leave the house.
Just give me my stupid mouse.

If I do not bend your will I will make you pay.
Says the keyboard warrior.
For this atrocious video that you made.

Get off the internet the warrior says

You need to take yourself to a grave.
And bury yourself at the end of the day.

When the warrior is finished with their comment
do they ever read it and stop just for a moment.

Or do you just click send.
Thinking this is the end.

I see people writing poem after poem on here,
and i wonder,
did you write them all by candlelight, and save them up for when you found your audience?
Or did you sit and get drunk and write them whilst smoking cigarettes, and crying,
all over the keyboard.
Or was it a carefully, logically, formatted feeling that you had to edit, to, get, it just, right?
Aaahaaa...
I wonder if you know what you are saying.
If you know that your infinitesimal pieces of work, are akin to a 16yr old's journal from circa 1984?
That if you could read it from this angle, or that angle, it could mean one or two things, and i am sure that you meant neither of them.
And i am thinking, that if i could i would throw away the internet and its black hole, that we all get ****** into,
I would give you one gold plated pen with black writing ink,
and a limited supply of scrolls of parchment made by sunlight and cotton;
because i wonder whether you would be so flippant with your words,
your feelings,
your punches,
your understanding,
your emotions,
your reflection,
your heart.
Because this makes us quicker, faster, harder, stronger.;
holding out for a white page to fill with words,
for lightening bolts of appreciation.
Is this not the cycle you wish to escape my love?
Was this not what you wanted?
Did you not want him to walk away?
Did you not want her to cheat?
Did you want them to fight, see you more clearly, understand you better, expect a little bit more respect, demand a little bit more attention, more patience, loving acceptance, a mutual respect?
What are you doing with these words, that you throw down like a gauntlet?!
Like you throw down venomous poison that you are trying to rid from your body, out from your curs-ed mouth, through your fingers, on to a keyboard, and out in to a a-nomy-nous world.
I wonder if you think of these things as you listen to love songs, driving in the rain, in the dark, suffocating on tears?
Do they fester in your head all day as you serve self-righteous morons who have no idea of your tortuous pain?
Do you lightly tread, whilst someone is sleeping in your bed, to the keyboard and type out how much you love them, and how much you are in love, alone, to the monitor, to nameless faces.
Do you have a soap box? Have you hammered on the desk in the rising light of your passion and dignity, and justice for all, in the name of love?
Have you wrote a letter lately?
When was the last time you held a pen for more than a few seconds?
When was the last time you cried into the ink, sprayed it with perfume, or S.I.W.A.L.K?
Or told someone you loved them with a million reasons why, with your own voice, into their eyes, to their face?

I just wonder, how much these words are worth, if we don't say them,
out loud.

Poetry has become my self harm,
I only write at my lows...
Instead of blood I see words,
Instead of a blade I have a keyboard...

I want to write about...
The wind dancing with the sea...
Or...
The way you smile and it lights up your innocent face...

I don't want poetry to be my self harm,
Because poetry is beautiful...
An art...
Not.
Just.
Blood.
And.
Scars.

In my real life,
not a poet,
just an astronomer,
an observer of
universes, bodies,
places, faces,
visited, discovered,
named and oft,
best forgot.

I observe:

Some never find true love.
Some never fly first class.
Some of us
never see the
South of France.

Some of us wear
hand-me-down pants,
white lined creases when “let down,”
mocked, we never forgive ourselves
the shame of it.

Some never experience
reckless abandon.

Yet, some of us are
recklessly abandoned,
and never forget,
and never forgive.

Some of us lose
children, husbands,
avanti nel tempo,
before their time,
and
the anger is
forever, palpable,
costly.

Some of us
were raised by
someone else's parents,
and never rest easy,
the abandoned taste
always nearby,
a cruel living, breathing
teasing wasting

Some we can pass over
with ease,
as new tissue grows,
those cuts marked -
emotionally healed.

But the ones that scar,
the ones that visible scar
permanent reddened,
are the
holocaust deniers
that there is a real
promised land of
peace of mind.

Peace of mind -
not even for a second,
foretold but
unrealized,
a biblical myth,
a promised land,
a capitalist paradisal hoax.

Some never feel
public victory,
adulation, adoration,
always wearing the T-shirt labeled
Property of Someone Else.

Most of us remain
unpublished, undiscovered,
unremarked, blanketed,
cloaked in bills to pay;

Living a triumvirate of
heart ache, loneliness, worry,
our normal table fare
consists
of hand to hand
into the mouth
combat MRE's,
we engage,
to survive,
just stay alive.

We are not digitalized,
nonetheless,
we are
but digits,
our faces hidden, and
in no one's heart book
are we recorded,
friended,
yet our viewing habits,
purchases, secret sites
are enumerated, captured.

Some of us live
exclusively
in the real life,
never to escape to the
province of Wifi,
in the landscape
of the electronic mind,
an option for which
we are
untrained.

Perhaps sanctity of separation,
safety of text, email,
avec the ******* intrusion
of tweets are
the real life today,
games are always won,
and what we don't enjoy,
we just delete away

But In My Real Life
getting up is trying,
IMRL,
the trying is trying,
IMRL,
delete buttons don't exist      
in the keyboard
of our brains,
IMRL,
all we have is a
measly twenty six aleph bets
to find new ways to say
that living is striving and
what we feel is
oh so real,
not digital

IMRL,
when I laugh out loud,
the neighbors
beat the walls,
complainants,
registering their feelings
in my face,
in my book,
so to speak.

IMRL,
I got a friend,
maybe two,
all I need,
voices to help soften
the 400 blows of RL.

Their synthesized silence
of their breathing
on the phone
is precious unto me.

IRL,
limp from Friday
night to
Friday
night,
a bottle of Medoc
my weekend reward,
my bedrock cushion
in order to sleep.

After all these years,
gains and losses,
conversations with God,
I look up,
see the risk,
the slightest breeze
is a
hurricane wind.

The shaft,
of the
the sword
hanging above me
the hilt,
swaying in living color,
is no legend.

But what I have is
the ability
and maybe
the responsibility
to let anyone know
that
in my real life
anyone who touches me
with fine and good intent,
a momentary glancing blow
or a gunshot to the ventricle,
is part and parcel of
my real life.

This makes you real too,
savior, and hereby notified,
that you are not
just an observer, but
a poet of me,
an astronomer of my heart,
and namer of
a secret universe
inside of me.


Sept. 1, 2010

_____________________________
US Army jargon: meals ready to eat

I have an old guitar named Gypsy Queen.  Normally this would not be much of a momentous occasion, lots of people name their guitars,but Gypsy is hand made by me.  Many moons ago when my ex wife was pregnant with my only child, a daughter, I took an adult education night class while I was attending college as a day job.  Our instructor had recently taken a trip to Canada to buy wood as he made his living building custom guitars and he had some of the most beautiful birds eye maple I'd ever seen and also some very good spruce for the top of the guitar.  We met at the local high-school's woodshop classroom.  I knew all the power tools there having taken wood shop twice in middle school and again in high-school.  From raw lumber I fashioned her pieces, sides, three piece back, neck, keyboard (made from some exotic ebony my instructor had), and top.  While my wife was patiently waddling about the house I shaped and sanded those pieces on our living room floor.  The interior struts, the binding, and frets for the keyboard had to be created as well.  When I finally got her glued and assembled she was quite a sight, almost perfect in every way, and the quality wood she was made from was so beautiful I had never seen the likes of her before.  Most of the people in the class didn't get that far not having the skills with the tools or the coordination necessary to succeed.  Still she needed to be lacquered and finished.  All told, special tools and accouterments, cost of the wood, glue and sandpaper, plus the frets (nickeled silver), and the grover tuning pegs she cost me about $160.  But almost 500hrs labor went into her creation, whole free weekends spent sanding and shaping.  It was a year or more before I finally got her lacquered and she was so beautiful I could scarce believe I had made her, totally from scratch.  I had even inlaid her mother of pearl keyboard art, god she was a sight.  Both she, and my daughter, are now close to 40 years old, and she still plays like a champ.  Ask any guitarist about guitars they use a lot, see how many survive that long.  She's my prized possession to this day.  Her custom bridge is shaped like a bird (something I've never seen to this day anywhere else) and I'd put her sound up against any expensive Martin made.  Plus she is so much prettier.  She's old and her finish is crackled some but her neck is still true and her action is superb.  Through the years she has brought me so much joy, I'm so glad I took that class.  I hope she survives till I die cause I want to mix her ashes with mine before they get spread around by my friends.  I'll want something to play in the afterlife.

[Hashtag]MeToo
Here it goes again,
trending on Insta and Facebook.
Where real awareness stems.
Mind the sarcasm,
social media’s a powerful tool
not knockin’ that.
I wonder though,
does the mind of the follower
understand the context of the hash?
Do they get it should be a call to action?
Not necessarily at the keyboard.
More like on the couch with their children,
Giving the conversation of consent.  
Most people do not even understand it by definition .
The meaning of yes and no convoluted by scenario.  
Bias boils over like milk and water over full flame.
The posts bubble out and stick to the side of the pan,
quickly drying; leaving their mark.
Until the soap and warm water flows over them,
and the steam evaporates the confessions.
Until they are again whispers we all hear and know.
It’s whispers from the alley ways,
and from married couples bedroom doors.
The woman is the property,  
the man is the proprietor.  
We refuse to address the real problems,
the failures of our up-bringers.
We point fingers and slay names
yet the statistics provide the truth.  
One in four for females, one in sixteen for males.
We all have been violated, slandered, and forced to say
[Hashtag]MeToo
Not going to say I did not share it,
I know the touch of unwanted hands,
the invasive *******.
All for the sake of the insanity,  
in repeating a useless gesture.
The only difference is
My hashtag went to my Senator.

l'amours dont sui espris...

  me and the moon cower,
me and the moon peer into the night,
from behind the cloud
from behind a puzzling thought...
me and the moon cower:
before the altar of the night...

well... i would never **** a fly...
at least i'd try...
the kingdom of insects states:
by some "consensus"
that the females are bigger
than the males...
i've heard it's not so with
mosquitos...

i couldn't **** a fly...
but when Monday's garbage collection
happens and i'm left dragging
an empty bin
into the garden to clean it...
i find... maggots at the bottom
of the pit...
still wriggling in the leftover juices
of meat and others...

carelessly like jerking off:
i pour some bleach into the cauldron...
sodium hypochlorite...
then some water for the foam...
the maggots disappear...
i wish them well...
but not much good could ever come
from drinking a corrosive salt...
alkaline implies corrosive salt...
well... i drowned some maggots in
alkaline...
but i very much care to have
a clean bin...

i ******* crocodiles and tears and tadpoles
into a tissue while
on the throne of thrones and send
them to: nowhere...
just before i take the no. 1 & no. 2
(no. 3 to ease up)...
then baptise myself in the shower...

summer will soon be almost over...
autumn will come
the proper fruits will start to fall...
i'll be making my wine...
it will take me 3 weeks or circa...
maybe 4... the apples will fall...
the pears too...
winter... when insects sleep...
as much as i might appreciate the copper-neck
suntan... i'll be happier to find that
the insects are sleeping: along with
the bears...

i rarely **** a fly... a mosquito, though?
each and every time...
if i were a zombie and a fly *******
a maggot-load onto me... i'd beg to digger...
well...
    i did't feel like killing this large
specimen of mosquito... it wasn't going to
bite me...
never mind...
i didn't feel like merely killing it...
i caught it be one leg...

i have two spider twins either side
of the door to my garden...
one was sleeping...
the other was awake...
how did i know?
the sleeping one curled up its legs
into a bud...
it wasn't awake to play piano with
its cobweb...

        so i pinched this one mosquito
by the leg and watched it frenzied...
trying to escape... my hand led it to the altar...
how quick the spider! how quick
the spider made a mummy of the would:
juiced up mushy meat!
i didn't **** it...
i just fed a garden spider...
a catch it couldn't otherwise catch...

i felt indifferent... more indifferent about
vegans than vegans feel: "differentiated"
from debating the need for milk...
eggs... never mind the meat... cheese...
i don't understand veganism on these three pillars...
milk (cream)... eggs... cheese...
i couldn't be a vegan...

vegetarianism: i can understand...
but... no eggs?! no... milk / cream?!
no... cheese?!
        get out of 'ere!

       maggots swimming in sodium hypochlorite...
or rather... dying in it...
but the prettier sight than killing a bothersome mosquito
was feeding it to a spider...
it almost felt like...
   feeding a cat sushi turkey ******* on
the end of the knife...

this song has nothing to do with the experience:
chevalier, mult estes guariz...
none!
why do i abhor Darwinism...
it... doesn't tease my vanity...
it just kills off history!
from ape to "somehow": now...
that's it!
   **** similis: the ape was known to the ancients...
but the ancients did ancient "things"
and didn't allow themselves to be swallowed
up by a ******* comparison!
metaphor! they would have settled for
a metaphor... but not a comparison!
a synonymous-ness!

Darwinism is right: nature abhors vacuums...
nothing in nature is to be ever wasted...
everything has a purpose...
if... somehow... it doesn't have a purpose:
it will... it will evolve... it will adapt...
but... Darwinism as... the prime idea...
the one & only source of the genesis of
"idea"? only in the anglophone world...
no where else will you hear
Darwinism so celebrated...
Hermes asked... why did Galileo overshadow
the findings of Copernicus?!
why did even William Burroughs undermine
Copernicus by staging a "fact" that...
oh the ancient Egyptians knew!
the ancient Greeks knew too!
but... no mathematics...
then some pope-****-smear of a Galileo
was the one with the telescope
"probing": proving the heliocentric model
most adequate...

one spider whispered to another:
find any cobweb: piano concertos in the desert?
no... me neither...
let's just wait for some of these sand-*******...
camel-jockeys to catch up...
we'll show them... mummification:
hey presto!

- and they did... how quickly that spider
launched into the mosquito...
rapping it up like a... nothing to be
beside the futures of food-stuff...
it felt...
well... not ignoble... a pride in a sense
of hierarchy...
the spider easts the mosquito...
it's really levelled ground in the insect
dominion...
i allow maggots to swim in sodium
hypochlorite...
i catch a mosquito by its leg
and feed it to a spider...
the spider does the mummification
ritual... the world balances itself out...

it's a strange sensation: it's hardly a feeling...
one gets feelings on a graveyard...
count the bones...
wake up... re-wake...
the fickle faculty of memory:
so prone to amnesia...
i abhor dreams.... therefore i dream none...
less Freudian ******* shrapnel....
less & less...

i need a mirror to take a selfie...
i need... the apparition of 3D space...
you can't revise QWERTY!
you can't improve it!

i can type without looking down
at the keyboard: here's to imitating the Liszt...
the Chopin...

eh?!
i didn't cite:  E... did i?
i included the surd of breath...
EH?!

ask the ******* Hebrews why we have concern
to begin to laugh...:
it's trapped in their definite article:
HA! SANTA!

           i'm here for only one thing...
beside thrilling it alive in Thailand...
or... recovering fractures in Europe...
someone... maybe one... or two...
have... stolen my identity...
                  sorry...
             garlic pickled in some red wine
will always go under the radar...
electric six's album should never have:
gat bar! bay bar!

   it's the 1980s and sade...
smooth operator....
             best kept feeling...
feeding a mosquito to a spider
rather than simply killing it...
like... the inversed... imploded...
ploy of game...

who needs tiger blood?
bluff?
i need... a mosquito...
a spider... a spiderweb... like a piano...
i need an awake spider...
the red wine is not to be...
necessarily... mixed with garlic...
although last time i heard:
infusing ren wine with three or four
teeth of garlic (nuggets?)
is a slimming elixir...

father SLiM? *******... yacht...
bogus crew...
feeding a mosquito to a spider...
death soon arrives... "tomorrow".

- still need the geocentric model when
reading the map... hell:
i need the flat earth perspective when
reading a map... i don't really care much
for the equator, the Greenwich meridian
when getting from A to B...
funny how geographic "algebra" works...
from point A to point B:
a round earth doesn't really help...
perhaps if i were sailing but even then...
a straight line...

Darwinism didn't really undermine
man's final vanity... according to Freud...
nor did Freud undermine another vanity...
Freud & Jung created the divided schematic
of what once man:
i wouldn't say man was Leibniz's pristine
monad: something indivisible...
but it was close: to be divided by memory
fickle faculty:
how it dries up through the churn of
pedagogy... so much strain on learning
2 x 2 = 4... a, b, c, d, e... f, g, h...
fair enough: to later rearrange into words...
but i don't appreciate the classical alphabet...
the genius behind QWERTY...
i type without looking down at the keyboard...
it's almost like: imitation of reading braille...

maybe the alphabet should be less: a, b, c...
it's not like the vowels are at the beginning
while the consonants follow...
it just doesn't make sense:
rigid...
i wonder what would happen if children
were taught the QWERTY alphabet sequence...

or... just remember all the letters:
it doesn't matter in which order you remember them...
just remember that there are 26 letters in the English
alphabet...

- it's so pointless just killing  mosquito...
a fly... hardly...
but a mosquito... just at the right time
when it inserts its needle and become a syringe...
that's the sweetest of moment...
lord of the flies? who is the lord of mosquitos:
didn't ha-shem eat up all the lesser
gods of the Levant... but somehow avoided
gobbling up the lord of mosquitos?
i'm conjuring up a deity the Hebrew deity
didn't gobble up into his pantheon...

what name... what name?!
to challenge a name like... Beelzebub?
Be'el'zee'bub...
proper pronunciation with
the apostrophes: intra-verbum...
just so you know...
who: hoo! i'm getting hot from all the cider
and whiskey... god... i'm gagging for
some absinthe... the moon is ripe!
it's full...
     i need some slimming elixir...
some red wine infused with garlic...
to keep the vampires away...

what will i name you: lord of mosquitos...
KOMAR... mosquito in western Slavic...
Darwinism doesn't bug my vanity...
i.e. it doesn't bother me...
it bothers me that it's a history eraser...
nothing from yesterday here on in...
in the anglosphere...
the monkey: mammon key "happened":
an oops! ****! hey presto!
deluxe! no one grieves for Robespierre...
i might...
like i might for the wild imaginings of
the Marquis...
               if only... i prefer prostitutes to these...
"free"... masculine prototypes of... ahem... "women"...
once the woe... once the woo of man...
now?!
i prefer prostitutes...
no need for dating: plus... if they're Turkish...
they like a beard... a hairy chest... a hairy
stomach...

i'll push this dagger into that crux of:
et tu... so far so far as it can be harnessed
collectively that i'm... passionate about...
not angry... bitter... pickling my emotions...
there's a gherkin for a heart if anyone is
willing...

lord of mosquitos: raba'albaeud...
well, i could make that apostrophe disappear...
but i'd only replace it with a diacritical marker
above the A... to imply: "a.a."...
i.e. that there are two... Siamese vowels...
but it wouldn't help the pronunciation...
let's see...

raba'albaeud vs. rabālbaeud...
            eh?          ha ha... "no" difference!
so much for everyone being... "literate"...
they read like they might eat...
i've been told i eat in a way that...
invites other people to eat...
so much for others... dictating pleasures
unattainable...
i was a dinner once... with school friends...
i was the only one who asked for
rare beef... everyone else...
doubly butchered their wants...
they wanted them well done...
beef? well done?!
oh i'm a snob at that...
IT'S NOT MINCED BEEF!
YOU NEED... JUICE!

i kept my mouth shut and ate happy...
so much for friends...
i.e. "friends"... people you spend a lot of time together:
it works in a pedagogic environment...
school's great...
you are ***** into their presence...
you have to have... work-around tactics...
bullies... brutes... nerds... teenage mothers...

the full moon: while everything is attired in:
quicksilver...
the full moon: skin-head BISCUIT...
while everything is attired in quicksilver!

too many vowels... too many vowels...
raba'albaeud...
i "think" i'll rename him...
phonetically, though: ra'ba'alba'ood...
although there's an E & an U instead
of the omega...

Lithuanian: U'ODAS: ooh... not you...
i need bitter... twice bitter than an IPA
Czech absinthe...
i need to see straight... wonky too!
i need my tongue to be aflame!
i need teeth made from iron!

- history has become less linear than it used
to be... it has begot an ouroboros
of repeated... thanks to journalism:
history used to be linear...
time has reached a year 0...
but there's no revision taking place...
don't shoot the messenger!
i'm looking for the name of the lord
of mosquitos...

it's a hard name to conjure:
even though you have all the tongues in the world
available on the palette...
i need bitter... Czech absinthe...
i want to feel: hot... as rot...

Latvian: not Estonian... i.e.:
not sääsk (saaaask):               ODU...
主 / オモ (omo-odu)... that's clearly pushing it...
       オヅ
it would be so much simpler to just **** a mosquito
rather than... purposively...
feeding it to a spider...
i would "feel" much better killing it...
than having fed it to the spider...

Napoleon might have added:
sure... they're literate... but literacy only arrives
as useful when the literate are bilingual...
what use do i have for these people
distract by letters...
what use for the priestly class...
since... their safeguard is... "missing"?

sweet amber... whether beer: gods' juices...
or simply... mead...
from the work around of Hephaestus....
safeguard these names of the gods...
before they disappear...
before the Czech absinthe becomes too
bitter... still drinkable... but hardly enjoyed...

"too many vowels"... the "argument" follows
suite... i'm red... hot... chilly-esque...
chasing zeppelins... chasing diacritic markers...
covert: how you might say:
SPIERDALAJ: DALAI LAMA....
  ARES... his son...
                  Hephaestus....

             while i'm burning!

                         pronoun verb
custard: ich arbeit...
all the nouns the world might allow...

butterfass...
                   i'm itching to pass by:
butterfaß.... consonants ought to have...
better... phonetic encoding symbols...
like TH and PH have to encapsulate F...

who needs buTTer when one Tao might
have... MITE vs. miGHT?!
two consonants coupled...
not another night in Posen...
please... not another night in Posen...

chasing
i don't want to be English so much....
too many troubles...
too many fictions...
i want to be inherently "biased"...
too many frictions...
  too many fictions...
chasing  Zeppelin....
     ditto: base... the Warsaw "boat":
about to... sink.

I sit here on the 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pajamas
still pretending to be
a writer.
some ****** gall,
at 71,
my brain cells eaten
away by
life.
rows of books
behind me,
I scratch my thinning
hair
and search for the
word.
for decades now
I have infuriated the
ladies,
the critics,
the university
****-toads.
they all will soon have
their time to
celebrate.
"terribly overrated..."
"gross..."
"an aberration..."
my hands sink into the
keyboard
of my
Macintosh,
it's the same old
con
that scraped me
off the streets and
park benches,
the same simple
line
I learned in those
cheap rooms,
I can't let
go,
sitting here
on this 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pajamas
still pretending to be
a writer.
the gods smile down,
the gods smile down,
the gods smile down.
Black Sparrow "New Year's Greeting" 1992

Position your fingers on the keys
The typing keyboard that you will master will be a breeze
Up the ladder to ABCDEF
Watch the motion of your fingers at the left
The purpose is to position your fingers and not look at the keys
Let your fingers be the guide and your mind in response being the typing lesson
Remember typing is about accuracy and not speed
Once you master the concept than you will be able to proceed
Typing is a definite commodity you will need
Typing is the basis of any business like a creed
But then again, typing can be for your own personal use
However, typing is something you shouldn’t refuse
My Grandfather taught me typing at a very early age
He would often say, “Typing is going to be your commodity as an asset”
Typing no one should have regrets
As typing will be your best bet
Learn all the elements of typing, and watch as the typing keyboard becomes your vital friend
Now type a letter.

Millennials at Work and War

Scorn not the snowflake who stands watch for us

Now thrown into the existential struggle
Surrendering their youth and taking up life
They muster in the fields and factories
And in their elders’ undeclared, shadowy wars
Uniformed in an unappreciated sense
Of duty and dignity while scorned by those
Who take their ease upon the couches of sloth
And fling cheap mockery at millennials
Who take up tools and work and love of life
Sometimes to die in deserts still unmapped
While generals dismiss their casualties as light
Despised as snowflakes by keyboard commandos
Who never got closer to any war
Than a John Wayne ketchup-****** movie.
Some work long double shifts through university
In a sawmill, shop, or fast foodery
Only to be dismissed as slacker layabouts,
But expected to trust those who condemn them
For not being the greatest generation
As defined by those who never served at all
And while being criticized they will grab
A quick cup of coffee for the night shift
Staffing the hospitals and police patrols
That keep their sneering critics alive and safe
They drive the trucks, they man the ships, they work
They drill for oil, these useless millennials
While idlers lounge long in the coffee shops
And YooToob computered jokes about them
Millennials have no time for coloring books
Or comfort animals or revolution
For they are weary with study and work
The best of them make no demands, but, sure
A little respect, hard-earned, would be nice
If only the scripted singer-songwriters
Would pack up the tired old stereotypes
And see millennials as they truly are
But darkness falls – they must go back to work
On the eleven-seven, the graveyard shift
They do not burn draft cards or Medicare cards
Instead through work they illuminate this world
And build it up with continued sacrifice

Scorn not the snowflake who stands watch for us

You enter the center of my emotions -
the control room of my being.
Deleting the negativity left behind by life,
inserting this contented feeling.

My days of pain and crying are numbered,
as your shifting fingers dart,
closing the spaces left behind by anger
on the keyboard of my heart.

I argue
To harm you
The protective computer screen
Allows me to be rude or mean
Without feeling your pain
So it becomes a game
Or a simulation of fame
If I can ignore the shame

The tread is wearing off the tire
After the internet stripped
The rubber off the telephone wire
And we lost our loose grip
After being shocked
By the rest of the flock
Their existence
Shows a difference
That is hard to accept
We're not what we expect

We push the boundaries of communication
But we can't handle the technology
I feel it gives me social immunization
But I feel the darkness follow me
And swallow me
Until I'm wallowing
Yet I don't know why
I try to ignore it
Only if it gets me high
Will I be for it

This utilitarian keyboard
Should help me see more
Instead it transcribes my anger
As I turn into an electric stranger
The words on my pixelated screen
Do not reflect my childhood dreams
But the bitterness of dreams being crushed
My petulant reactions are thoughtlessly rushed
And I represent my views in a negative way
Until I'd be more useful with nothing to say

There is a need for empathy
In the electronic discourse
Right now there is only entropy
And words without remorse
Spoken from a high horse
That looks down on peasants who own it
It's also a slave but doesn't even know it
So it arrogantly trots along
Never admitting that it's wrong
Until it hears the slithering snakes rattle
Then it doesn't mind wearing a saddle
But the venom has already been injected
And its mind becomes hopelessly infected

We argue without blinking
We argue without thinking
We argue with poor logic
Our ignorance we flaunt it
Until the internet is haunted

Writer's block has clogged my mental pores
Oily ignorance I cannot ignore
Technology is fogging up my mind
Leaving me no time to unwind

I looked in the mirror today
And guess what I saw

My ugly, stunted imagination's face
Full of gross digital zits
I'm really starting to miss
My former wit
I've got to get out of this keyboard-y place

Say goodbye to the foundations
Holding us up
the values we hold are starting to rust
everyone is losing the definition of trust
is everything just becoming too much?
Too much hunger, war and ruin
Theft and violence is on the rise
and you expect us to just sit in silence
***** all the politicians and religions
they cause more wars,
that’s the leadership given
I’m here to break that system
There is a problem that needs fixing
Instead, we fight something
that can’t be, won
But for a solution, we must become one

Let’s build a future
For the safety of all of the kids
Let’s show them. There is another way
To solve problems without such conflict
through love, lanterns should be, lit
Together we should stand hand in hand
Like a wall made of stone,
We can’t do it on our own

Hates on the rise
behind messages from the keyboard, people hide
Giving their harshest opinions
Cowards are, given
opportunity to speak their mind
Causing scars on one another’s hearts
Making the victims feel like
They wish they didn't exist
This right here is something that needs to be, fixed
But until we stand as one
Nothing can be, done
It takes one to start the trend
But unless we all join in
The world is just going to fall apart

Let’s build a future
For the safety of all of the kids
Let’s show them, and there is another way
To solve problems without such conflict
Through love, lanterns should be, lit
Together we should stand hand in hand
Like a wall made of stone,
We can’t do it on our own

A world rooted in hate on gender, colour and race
These are just some challenges we face
Stand together, and we will change
The fate that we face
War, starvation and blame
If we continue to disagree,
It could start world war 3
So now can you see?
The impact it’s bringing
Through music, we keep singing
To make a change

Let’s build a future
For the safety of all of the kids
Let’s show them; there is another way
To solve problems without such conflict
Through love, lanterns should be, lit
Together we should stand hand in hand
Like a wall made of stone,
We can’t do it on our own

Stand together, or we’ll fall
Rise to the call
Stand and be tall
Don’t hold back, give your all
Be strong and bring down this wall
Of hate and blame, no more games!
Make the change; we’re one in the same

©2017 Written By Benji James

Stare at the keys till the symbols blur
Till something wonderful can occur
The keys delight with every stroke
Something only typing can evoke
The clitter-clatter of the keys
Like a thousand buzzing bees
Pure flowing unadulterated phrases
Escaping my mind twisted mazes
I become unaware, detached
My mind has become unlatched
Oh it's so harmonic
So gloriously electronic
Man and machine
So flowing and clean

She says she doesn’t have the strength within herself to write poetry.
Yes, her. The one who so often nourished me with song
til my soul began to learn how to hunt for itself,
whose word carried weight in leading me to pick my own instrument,
albeit one of a different tone,
as the key in keyboard became prominent for the first time
and the sound of purposeful fingers upon it could be considered,
only in the right light,
synonymous to the plucking of strings, just as rooted in emotion.

Yet she's the first to say that she herself can't do it.

Thing is, I suppose we’re politely at odds on the matter.
She favors poetry that’s sharper, with a cleaner cut,
that’s message is immediate and jarring
as a conduit running from soul through skin,
or a loose-lipped diary finally freed from lock and key.
And when she declared it, I started to consider what my poems seem to me:
Blackberry bushes (but kinder, I hope)
that snag and immerse just long enough
to make me feel I’ve had an effect.
I’ve used writing to expel my most gnarled feelings
to any passerby who’s maybe felt the same.
Like crying in a mirror:
alarming, but oddly refreshing,
and an indefinite reminder that our aches are never only our own.

Still, I'm not sure why it blows my mind
to hear that even the most glamorous hearts,
who wear confidence as a summer breeze that's always in their favor
and who inspire, from beau gestures to sleight of hand,
are included in those who find themselves pacing back, back and forth,
begging curbside at the dime store
for a scrap of the same feed that convinces a heart to pump ink.

But she says that any art that's enjoyed is worth it.
So while she seeks out words that bare the bones,
I’ll stay and make a meal of the marrow,
hollowing them so that the poetry may have a rightful place
to reverberate as hymns in a universal monastery.

But hell, like I’m any old soul.
I dress nicer than I otherwise would,
turn to the mother who told me I don’t meet her lowest standards,
and ask for a critique.
All for the moment when she greets me at the door with a legendary G#.

...Now please, could you spare a dime?

Sitting at my workstation I kept swirling my chair around,
Battling the strenuous drowse that tried to yoke me to the ground,
“How could this happen? This is the first hour of my job,” I wondered,
I chuckled. “How fool of me! It’s Monday today,” I remembered.

I peeked to my left to see an empty chair,
“No-one to talk around; hey, that’s so unfair!”


I cringed viscerally at the thought of spending the day without uttering a word,
I tried to re-task my focus on my computer screen when a soft voice I heard,
Made me turn, and as I did, I veered myself to the source of the euphonic voice,
I felt the dumbfoundedness of a person bewitched by a magical spell, twice.

For some moments I couldn’t decrypt the words that her lips uttered,
As I just kept staring into her graceful eyes, helpless and all cluttered.


She asked with a soft smile, “Is this person absent today?” and  motioned to the workstation on my left,
I felt my dopamine surge at the possibility of what might happen next,
I nodded as soon as I realised my tongue has gone numb,
She ensconced herself and smiled, her cheeks as rotund as a plum.

I swallowed a lump in my throat that I didn’t realise had formed,
I wasn’t hoping for anything like this but I liked what my day had unboxed.


“What is she? Are humans allowed to be this beautiful?” I questioned my mind,
Was she a manifestation of my dreams or an angel in disguise!
It seemed like her eyes possessed a power in them like Midas in his hands,
A sight of innocence that could even force the flying time to land.

I leaned forward a little to catch a glimpse of her pretty brown eyes,
She turned to me with a gaze of a doe and my tongue again got tied.


“Any problem?” She questioned me with a raise of her brow,
“Yes, your eyes. They’re too beautiful,” the response I couldn’t let out,
Instead I shook my head and turned my eyes away from her,
My peripheral could see her blushing; it seemed the bubble has finally burst.

I tried to venture a conversation but failed to remember the morphemes,
The anonymity between us allowed the nervousness to sweep in.


I sighed deeply and turned about to do what I’m paid for,
But her presence beside me made it harder for me to stay calm,
An unexpected “Hello” came from my left and an introduction followed the greet,
Although stunned by the suddenness I tried to smile at her, from cheek to cheek.

We exchanged our names and conversed a little for a while,
Before she got engaged in her work and I in mine.


After hours of punching the keyboard buttons I stretched my arms and yawned,
She giggled at me and I took it as a cue to move my first pawn,
I embarked, “I’m going to the cafeteria to have some tea”,
I hesitated for a moment and resumed, “would you like to come with me?”

She rolled her eyes and I understood she has refused my kind and genuine offer,
I began to walk away. “Wait a minute, let me lock my PC,” and then I saw her got up.


We walked our way to the cafeteria, slower than two people normally would,
My chivalry erupted as I held the door open for her as she entered the room,
We occupied a table for two and  it appeared like a date-night is about to happen,
With she in front of me and  the stories that we shared, it seemed like all the troubles in the world didn’t matter.

I mulled over the thought that I might have a crush on her smile,
But there was an absolute certainty that I had fallen in love with her eyes.


She shared some cheerful stories about her childhood and also the moments in her life she remorse,
She had a way of crinkling her nose adorably that made her appear cuter than she was before,
“You may have a body of a woman but you have a sweetness of a child,” I abruptly blurted out,
She smiled deep into my eyes and I could feel the brightest smile I ever had form on my mouth.

“That’s the sweetest thing someone has ever said about me,” she flushed a little while she said this,
It took us a moment to realise that we’re holding hands; the touch of hers was something I couldn’t resist.


We got up as we finished our beverages and sauntered our way back to our daily routine,
I tried to rein my thoughts that our day was  about to end, but my efforts were all just futile,
I just wished this night shall never pass as I wanted to spend more of my time with her,
We logged out of our PC’s as our shift ended but I craved for one last conversation with this girl.

While ambling towards the exit in silence I turned on my heels to look into her beautiful brown eyes,
I sighed as I looked at her and tried to settle down the feeling to hug her that was about to rise,
“I spent this beautiful day with a beautiful girl I wish I could see more of,” I said with truthfulness in my voice,
She smiled at the ground and then looked up, “You will. Tomorrow at 8. Here’s my number. The place is your choice.

========================================================­===

a light at the end of the tunnel
is the freedom
in the words I type
Where would I be
without the steady click
of my mind laying into the soft
caress of a screen, as for paper
it's insolent and my pen it ran out of ink
The lines I draw, are only in my mind
as I've seemed to have misplace the valley where the dead rest
The tangible object where many of writers have left their soul
The pages where have they gone ?
The smell, and the history, all here in this screen
A bird sits at my window sill as if waiting for me
to deliver some sort of message
she will fly and soar and anyone who lays on her will know
that I couldn't deliver the message I was told to write
I couldn't jump over to the other side
I couldn't make it through the forest without becoming more lost
I didn't try hard enough, I let fear take hold.
I wanted so badly to become
The one,
the one you all need,
but the tree's they laid witness
to trial after trail of failure
laid between the click of a keyboard a new generation
of the vessel that we use to pour our souls into
my thoughts captured before my eyes and
just one click and you will all see
and maybe you will feel the failure I  carry
the failure i've never confronted myself with
a perfectly honest revelation
of how I failed you all,
of how I couldn't jump,
of how I let the fear of the pain
get in the way of the success of a champion.
Now I'm in my room feet firmly planted in reality and i still
feel the fear
I still feel the self doubt
the feeling that no matter how many times I jump
i'll always fall short
I'll never make it to the other side
I'll never be a person solidified in a vessel
whose soul was felt
whose soul was known
I'll never bring the world together, or sacrifice
I'll most likely be average
I'll mostly likely die without hearing
the sound of my giant crowd.

did you take your medicine this morning?
we noticed you haven't come out of your room all day. yes, the appointment is the 29th.

you didn't write down the homework. what homework?
you can't turn it in now.

if i help myself, i might lose you

you're a talented writer, i saw that from early on
but as a reader, it's impossible to like the narrator
he's sort of an immature ****
...yes?

the sound of an entry plug fills your senses
lcl
the primordial ooze
hair should be floating but nothing changes
nothing at all
did they really think this through?

dissociating
is an interesting thing
do you realize
that these lines dont make sense

Can I write you a love song
I’ll sing it softy in your ear all night long
Blow gently without words on my saxophone
Diamond and Pearls behind the throne
A beautiful ensemble meant for only you
As I give credence too
Take my hand
Cross this journey with me as I sing about faraway lands
Past Egypt pyramids shifting Morocco sands
Lay back my love, allow your mind to silently drift
Feel the enchantment of my piano keys as it spiritual uplifts

I’ll sing love songs of old
A cappella chorus echoed from deep within my enlighten soul
I’ll sing to you about the blues, society’s injustice, and elements of darken storms
Keep your heart warm, while playing my French Horn
Enrapture foretold from this dedicated symphonic poem
A music sheet of percussion, woodwind, brass, keyboard, and strings
Harmony carrying the mind away as the joy of coming spring
I’ll hum your favorite beats, can you feel the crescendo now
Fiddle from the heart by the sweat of one’s brow

Submerge your cerebral cortex, lose yourself in the sultry tunes
Harp sounds bathe of light kissed from the illuminating moon
Destiny overcasts in the lyrics
Fate floating stratospheric
Karma of others handled in the eyes of satiric
Opera, I give you so grand in its grace
French Creole dialect murmured among silk and lace
Sounds of my flute resonant to face
Allowing my Cello sounds to thoroughly embrace

Can I write you a love song
Body and soul serenading soprano to keep you standing strong
My guitar stringing your philosophies along
An equal equation, one plus one equals two
Emotions, feelings, sentiments, its tenor expressed only for you
No compass to my heart, my seasonal love found in hidden melodies
Trombone guiding back and forth breathless as it please

Orchestra sounds
Ascending minds, bodies, souls, pass the opening clouds, divine and profound
The last note sung by me as we gradually come down
Beautiful music embraced, needs never to make a sound
Shh, close your eyes
Meditate on the music for a little while

Hush sweet baby don’t say a word
My heart softly tweets to a mockingbird
If that mockingbird don’t sing
Can I write you a love song created only for your being
As minds are sightseeing
Hearts fleeing
Timpani drums guaranteeing
Entwined of our divine wellbeing
Emotions freeing
Crooning of bodies heard as the day is long
Can I write you a love song

Keyboard, implement of catharsis
Punch you out, pa-pow, pa-pow-pow
Requisitioning my power
I’m your rough digit dancer
Tapping it every hour
Covered with my spit and juice
Snack scraps all crumbly loose
Betwixt your buttons of alpha bits
Numbers and shift bar hits
Massaged pain through my fingertips
Into you and yes I have not been true
Scribbling at bus stop with pens
Jottings on journals or lunch bags
But I love you Keyboard
You must understand
Can’t help myself when you’re not near
All my fear pushed into you
You have been so good to me
Setting me free
But Honey
That “E” key
It’s a little quirky
And not wishing to be as jerky
As I usually am
Brought you some flowers
Which I’ll sit right here next to you
While I rub you down with
Cotton swabs and sweet lavender soap
Paying special attention to your  “E” zone
For you are my Keyboard Extraordinaire
And yes, I care

A word should be said not, for we are here,
In an age of greatness and of supreme tier.
And now do I need not to hold my sacred pen,
For in other means can my words and gen,
Spill upon the page whose words instantly appear,
By the aid of a mere keyboard can my thoughts then share,
The eventful happenings of both today’s and yesternight’s,
For in telling will only consume a mere several bytes.

Words said not between neither friend nor foe,
Would I easily just send my hideous thoughts I owe.
Through the air can indeed thoughts then fly,
And watch as it triffles and wiffles about the sky.
Oh, how great is it, that we can truly speak,
Without speech itself, for such speech is bleak.

Oh, had they told me that the new will progress,
The lifestyles of these individuals that are blessed,
By the great inventions that will change the world,
To a place of greater connection and words unfurled.
Ah, yes I see it now, that these individuals walk alone,
And speak nothing to those around,for they live in zone,
Allowing these elitists to speak without speech,
And has then, a greater bound, can we then reach.

Have we greatened ourselves with single inventions,
That have broken the bonds between the dimensions,
Of conversation and speech and of in life scene,
And replaced it by a mere vision upon a screen.
And how we lack the connections to the world a’near,
Ignoring the proximity as we walk with plugs in the ear...