Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."

Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,
I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?

Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,
where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA., friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,
of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.

even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.

Do you remember when you were in grade school and, in a fit of boredom, you would slather Elmer’s glue on your palms, filling the deep grains between each of your fingers? How you would get a shiver not only from the chill of the paste, but from the thrill of doing something that was ill-advised. When you would peel off this layer of skin, looking at the fingerprints you were told were only your own, a memento to take with you everywhere you went. Do you remember when in your sophomore year of college, when all you wanted was to fall into the abyss of folded-until-soft papers and exams and Bic Cristal pens; when all you wanted was to fit in? Do you remember that time that you went to that party, the first one you let your feet carry you to with the puke green flyer in hand foreshadowing the night’s events ahead? Do you remember when you took out your worn deck of cards and a little tube in your pocket that you always kept “just in case”? You had meant to impress them with your card-stacking prowess, because how else were you to make yourself memorable? You told them to give you five minutes. In about two and a quarter, they went for their ninth round of some kind of sickly sweet alcohol. You took out your tube, a faded label that distinctly read Krazy Glue, and took the Queen of Hearts and the Jack of Spades in between your fingers with their unique fingerprints. Do you remember when you built that house of cards with small drips of the adhesive seeping out of the seams, but the people you sought out were too intoxicated to see them? They clapped and cheered in drunken awe and you became the “party giraffe with those big sparkles - the things that never leave your face. Trust me I’ve tried.”, as one of your new comrades had said. Do you remember what happened when you went back to your dorm that night on seemingly transplanted feet, weaving between the bushes hoping not to see that shade of green on your shoes the next morning? You put the contents of that tube all over your fingers, in between them where your Texas-shaped birthmark laid. And you ripped it off. Without mercy. The process wasn’t as pleasant as you seem to have remembered. It stung, but at least your unique fingerprints were gone, or so you thought. At least you could be that “party giraffe” like you’d always wanted, I guess. Do you remember that by the next morning the tube was empty? Do you remember that when you tied your shoes at 7:43 a.m. that morning for your Intro to Psychology course, the lines across your joints felt as if they were on fire? Do you remember when your new comrade “gave you five” and, despite the pain, you smiled and laughed with him? Do you remember your trip to Staples that afternoon, when a mousy employee asked you if you needed help finding anything and you said no because you’d been to that aisle a million times before, in grade school and now in sophomore year of college? But today you walked past the shelves of Elmer’s glue: “dries clear”, “now with purple glitter”, “turns your hand blue where it touches, sponsored by Smurfs 4”. You walked right past these plastic bottles and to your trusty tubes of Krazy Glue. Red and green and reminding you of your beautiful house of cards, the drips of adhesive no longer a figment of that memory.

I guess its proven to be
just as we exactly wanted it to be
except there isnt us.

another year another tear
a fear of what i feel
and how Im able to live with myself
behind a shadow of guilt
im able to wake up -- everyday and smile
and wonder to myself and think;
how it would be great to hear your voice
and be able to tell you that im sorry
and im sorry for the lies that hurt you-
and im sorry that the reason I lost you,
was to better myself and be this better me; hand in hand next to you.

Fate
its impossible --- so they say
Im a mircle baby
so illl make it happen

just watch me. stand  there eye me up and down, feel free, judge me
try to belittle me and abuse me

What will bring
Us together
If not a hook
And a fishing rod?
What will keep
Us together
If not duct tape
And krazy glue?
But the line
I cast long ago
Remains slack
Not long enough
And the bait
Long ago lost,
The cap
On the glue bottle's stuck
Won't open
And the duct tape
Has lost all it's strength,
So I walk
And wander
Then I sit
And wonder
How shall I try
To reel her in again
How shall I proceed
To keep our hearts
Bound together
So that no distance
Will fade us
From each other's minds
So our love
Will make the oceans
Seem but a teacup
Between us...
APAD13 - 068 © okpoet

(Written in 8th Grade)

As I grew up along-side of memories, I realized that my name grew with me; shaping and morphing itself into who I am today. But wouldn’t it be fun to not be me for a single day? Not have the name, Alice? I could be someone smiling bright, maybe Melina. Or might I try on the name Jessie. Nah, too laid back and chill; so I take the name off and put it back on it’s hanger. I could be haughty and proud, with my nose in the air; I could be a Penelope. I window-shop for more names, browsing among all the different personalities. Fern seems fun, friendly and cordial. Or I might stick around and act as a Sam. Boyish? Aw yeah. Just maybe not for me. I’ll be Stella, all book-sharp for a day or I could be a Chloé, exotic and beautiful. Or switch my style into the retro girly Natalie. What would it be, to have the name Katie, just for a day? Zoey, Liana, Stacy, Diane. Isabelle, Marilyn, Delia, Hannah. Maybe give my name an exotic twist, Alyssa? After trying on names of all kind, some just weren’t for me. Too ‘krazy’? Shy? Ecstatic? Cool? Like a huge circus parade with different costumes, the loud gaudy colors blinding me. Like all the different shoes at Aldo’s; sky-high heels, wedges, sandals, boots. I slip out the shoes, I peel off the names. Because for now, I’d like to stay in my own skin; as a plain old Alice.

Now how to figger what makes a feller tick?
They’re hot and they’re cold and they’re nothin’ at all.
(Th’ persuasive arts ain’t no match for a brick.)

A body can stand herself pretty and slick
But he’ll hem and he’ll haw and harrumph an’ stall
Now how to figger what makes a feller tick?

I’d much rather take on a lion that’s sick
Than a certain mouse backed up ‘gin a wall.
(Th’ persuasive arts ain’t no match for a brick.)

Wish I had a gris-gris or some other trick
So’s I could hold a certain feller in thrall;
Now how to figger what makes a feller’ tick?

Sof’ words and June moons—why, they ain’t worth a lick
If your life is just one big free-for-all
(Th’ persuasive arts ain’t no match for a brick.)

Your poor hawt cries a river an’ beats real quick
When love takes you down like a cannonball.
Now how to figger what makes a feller’ tick?
(Th’ persuasive arts ain’t no match for a brick.)

Pull your teeth out,
threading your lips together with twine.

Reach into your bellybutton with a finger,
hook-shaped,
and remove your intestines,
like a serpent.

Run a hook into your nose,
removing your brain
as if mummifying you.

Carve a smile with a razor,
under each breast,
******* out the fat
and replacing it with silicone.

Pull your nails off,
leaving ****** beds,
krazy-gluing plastic
over the tips of the fingers.

Fingers into ****,
pulling out the ******.

Spoon the eyeballs out,
sew the sockets shut.

My doll, broken and battered,
now fixed in perfection.
A soft suicide relapse into plasticine porcelain -
you tremble when we ****.

Our hands frozen together
Black masks
Backpacks
Running from the flashing lights
Down the street

They'll never catch us
No
This is our time
Our night
This moment
This breath
Is us

Sneaking through bushes
Mechanical
Zombied
Black clothes
Hushed tones

Blood pumping
From the rush
A law breaking
High

Like drinking
A full *** of
Coffee
All at once

You swim through my
Veins
Like an adrenaline
Plague

Eggs
Toilet paper
Paint
Krazy glue
Peanut butter

Oh, the hell we'll
Bring

The moon is full to
Bursting
The air is stiff
Lifeless

You and I
Multitasking mischief
Together
Bonding over
Cracked shells
And pumpkin guts

Giggling through the
Stars
Almost caught
Almost lost
Almost...
In love?

No! Not that!
No emotions
No adult things
On this
Our one and only
Night of fun

The night meant for
The monster that lives

Under our skin

They say your sweeter
but I know your bitter

like krest
you stormed our chests  
our hearts -just guess

Us,the future holds just a mess

I hope you won’t mind being an architect.
I learned a long time ago that it
will take more than just a little
Krazy glue to put my pieces
back together.

I hope you won’t mind being a pilot.
I was never very
fond of heights
but I have a talent for
falling too fast and too hard.

I hope you won’t mind being an astronomer.
It will take someone
with a lot of wonder
to trace the constellations
scattered across my body.
Sorry in advance –
I connected some of the dots already.

I hope you won’t mind being a meteorologist.
One who isn’t
afraid to don a raincoat and boots
and stand in the storm to say,
“Expect some passing showers
but watch for the sun and
wait for the clouds to clear.”

I hope you won’t mind being you.
As long as you won’t mind me being me.

He is a seashell and I am the ocean, but it is not his fault.

He can only hold so many grains of salt or sand, he can only catch so many china       tears before they hit the floor and shatter into a billion disappointed slivers, never to be collected or krazy-glued.

It is not his fault.

In today’s society, it is preferred to be flat.

                     So he is blessed, my skipping stone.

It’s the people like me—the bottomless ravines—

That get lost in ourselves
                         That vacuum up lost puppies and paper cuts and hold them with us                                        so tightly that we’re guaranteed to spill over.

But we don’t. No, not even the slightest.

We just get deeper and deeper to make room for the cold water.
       We build secret gardens to plant poisonous roots and we hide them in our green teas and salads.
               We draw lemniscate maps that loop treasure hunters around our hearts, searching forever.
                          We shun the sturdy carp and send love letters to fickle anglers and glumfish.
                                       We refuse to die in our sleep.

His favorite drink is water and his favorite color is blue.
     My favorite drink is whiskey and my favorite color
Is alabaster when it’s raining,
                                     sea foam green if I’m trying,
                                                                               and violet when I’m in the mood.

don't untwist the twisted bro..just follow the flow of the gifted yo..caught in a whirlwind moving to and fro..can't figure this **** out guess we'll never know..opposite movements from where the system will go..krazy as a ***** ******..****,crack,**** persue your needs **** who bleeds..to caught up in religion to see the blood on the leafs..men standing in a circle with blood on their sleeves..discontentment was womans down fall..Adams was Eve's..painting life with a brush under sycamores and behind houses..neighbors are the closest apart from bad breath and halitosis of course the end wouldn't make sense..its the only way to share psychosis

You want to
Mend my heart;
With what? Staples?
It's more than
Ten sheets thick
I don't care
How industrial you go,
And I laugh
At your staple gun
And even your nail gun,
Put away the duct tape
It'll just slide right off,
Oh; I see,
You brought plenty
Of Krazy glue,
Are you kidding me?
You might as well
Use fly paper,
None of this will do,
No siree, Bob
You can't fix my heart
And you sure as hell
Can't build me a new one,
No one with a hardhat
Nor white coats or stethoscopes
Can undo what she broke,
Only she is the remedy
Only she is the cure,
And my local drugstore
Doesn't carry her
Not even in generic,
So as far as I can tell
I'm stuck with this malady
Most inconvenient tragedy...
APAD13 - 112 © okpoet

for someone who usually remembers to put on her smile every morning before she goes down to eat breakfast, i've been crying lots. my people are in an uproar i mean why do you think my hairs are always standing up on end? i sweat too much even though i'm always shivering and doc says i'm just stressed but i think my body is just searching for more ways to cry because my tear supply is running low and there are no refill stations around for miles. i never understood why people twiddle their thumbs or why it's called 'twiddle' and the day before the day before yesterday i told the girl next door that i felt like a pigeon that wanders into a busy street and freezes when a car is steadily speeding towards it.

my first grade teacher taught me the difference between horizontal, vertical, and parallel lines using words that followed a tune. little did she know that i'd be using those words eight years later to decide how i want my arms to be decorated and i mean yes scars fade or at least partially but i'd rather choose what happens to my body than have you choose for me. all of your promises snap like twigs and i think that's how you'll also break my heart. "are you bitter?" maybe maybe not but my heart is certainly past its expiry date and it's rotting much more quickly than i ever thought possible and i wish i knew why since my body is more frigid than the inside of an ice cream truck although maybe the problem is that it doesn't play welcoming music
i need to blast music in my room and then scream louder than it louder than the sound of a plane landing louder than the drumming in your chest louder than the groans that broke free from your lips when i tore myself away from you even though we were krazy glued together. i wish you could hear how your words endlessly echo and bounce off of the brick walls inside of my head because then you might realize the grand effect you have on me. an elephant doesn't forget or... something along those lines; speaking of (oh my, it always comes back to these) lines, we should discuss how the lines you gave me were always different. they were deep, so deep, deeper than the deep end at the community pool. i often found myself stuck in them and only after they began to close did i realize you stole my ladder after i climbed down.

i feel like my body has amnesia but my mind has been 'spared' i mean the muscles in my face have forgotten which ones must go taut in order to smile and my hands stumble whenever i try to undo the buttons of your shirt. at one point i would have given up anything in order to forget this madness i mean how nice it would be to fall and get up but in foreign land with an empty backpack and a full wallet.

bye.

I MEAN GOD I CAN'T TAKE IT even my farewells aren't proper and i wish you stayed up late to talk to me like you used to when i cried at night but you got sick of me-and i mean literally sick i remember hearing you gag into the porcelain bowl- when those nights became constant and my tears began to liquefy our 'forever' glue. forever wasn't supposed to be the amount of time it takes for a premature baby to be born and i mean our premature baby didn't even live because its heart couldn't beat properly and that's when i realize that my heart only beats strongly when i'm with you i miss our nightly "i love you"s although they became more routine than anything. i found myself running out of sincere words to give you but my hugs were always tight and long. always. we had our "okay?" "okay." moments way before either of us read that John Green book.

i haven't sobbed this hard since i smelled my grandmother on my pillowcase that one night and tears soaked that scent almost immediately nd now they're just kind of pooling in the crook of my neck and usually i love puddles but this isn't one that the sun will drink up. i hate it when people say all people are the same i mean we call everyone "you" when we directly address them i have said 'you' countless times in this mess of a poem while referring to a ton of different people. i mean honestly nothing is the same ever not even snowflakes. oh god i feel like my tears are eroding the skin on my face oh god i can't deal with having mountainous terrain there oh god the only reason you love me anyway is because my skin is (was) smooth oh god. i do a hell of a lot of talking without even saying anything.

bye once again and please don't send me letters like the last time.

When I
Think of you
My
Heart swells to a size
Larger than
The average man's fist
You'll **** me at a young age
You disease!
These pills
Are poor medicine
To me
Finish me!

No...
Long ****

You slowly peel
Off my life
Like
Pages of a calender
How long will it last!
I hope this is my last summer
I cant take it
I cant make it
I cant break this habit
I'm an addict
I panic at interventions
And take it way too personal

"What!!?
You want to take
My precious pain away!!?"

Never!
I'll indulge
Until this buldge in my heart burst
I'll die a thousand times
Just to relive the feeling
Your poisin
Is killing me gently
And I love it
You hate me
But I know
You only hate because
You love me
I'm not kRazy,
I'm obsessed!

An i'm upset
You'd mistake
The final breath
I'll take
Would be for the sake
Of attention

No!
It's simply for the pleasure of pain
From the object
Of my affection

She thinks that I am crazy how could this be.....I just wanted her to know how much I love her doesn't she see
My hands are tied and lips are sealed.....my feelings for her are my shield
For her wish to forget.....if I did this I would regret
But how could I ......that sparkle in her eye
The way I felt when I was around her.....how could something like this even occur
Her family was my  own they even felt it.....on thanksgiving together we would sit
Now the tears they will not stop......when I try to erase the memories my head feels like it would pop
For she was always my queen......how could she be so mean
Time with her I could not erase......every night as I sleep I see her face
I am down on my knees......so baby won't you please
Just don't forget the times we spent and the things we did.......remember that kiss when you were just a kid
I am at a loss for words and my hands they shake........the way I felt about you how could that ever be fake
So as the lights go down on our romance.......your love always had me in a trance
Think of me when the stars they shine in the sky.....to forget I would rather die
When the sun has set and the moon is full.........remember that our love and time together was real and that's no bull

By: Cedric McClester

Those who don’t know history
Are doomed to repeat it
And the ignorance of ISIS
Has to be deep seated
It took thousands of years
To make it
And no time at all
For them to break it

The temples and the artifacts
Once there to see
As a testament to what
The world used to be
Are no longer there
And here’s the key
Ignorance is bliss
As we well can see

Al Baghdadi and his acolytes
Wanna change the world
But they can’t accomplish this
By ****** every girl
Who through ignorance alone
Come under their influence
One day he’ll have to answer
For his incongruence

There is a God above
Who we must answer to
ISIS and their followers
Act like they never knew
Their behavior alone shows
That they have no clue
Cos look at who they stick to
Like Krazy Glue



Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.

By: Cedric McClester

He’s not a Richard,
Though clearly, he’s a ****
Because he thinks the rest of us
Really must be sick
To try to find the answers
Though there’s not one broomstick
He’s calling it a witch-hunt
Like he’s Jesus on the crucifix

He’s not a Richard,
Though clearly, he’s a ****
A world class narcissist
Who’ll hurl an insult quick
He’s mired in the muck
But it seems to never stick
Though it’s catching up with him
If you do the arithmetic

He’s not a Richard,
Though clearly, he’s a ****
Who’s knee deep in his ****
And it’s very thick
He’s gonna choke, or drown
You can make your pick
The investigations everywhere
Are on the uptick

He’s not a Richard,
Though clearly, he’s a ****
It’s an understatement
To call him impolitic
A garden variety con-man
Who’s slippery and slick
But the Eastern District charges
Like Krazy Glue will stick







Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

There above his shiny baldy head,
a long and winding comb-over,
is it white, orange or red?

A cap is perched with Krazy Glue
to keep it in its place,
or is it there to keep his head
from floating into space?

He spews blither blather
and trumpets nonsense
to wild applause
and cheer

at a raucous party
where tea is spiked
with fear

i think i'm going krazy. to believe that someday someone will actually love me and mean it. love me and not make me want to leave them. when i first tripped and fell in love, i was young. i'm still young, but i was really young.
he used to make me feel like i was the only girl in the world and in his, i was. then the jealousy came. the twisted lies about how he'd heard i'd cheated on him were thrown wild in the mixx of hits and i love yous.
and the please don't leave mes he used to sing when i was tired of fighting back or being his punching bag. i never thought it could have been me but it was. and i've never told too many until now. he gave me anything i wanted until he wanted me to be isolated in his world alone. hidden away.
i'm happier that i left him alone. sad our daughter was conceived in our dysfunction. i left him and found another just like him without the physical abuse but the psychological.
i blamed myself that two years, even though i knew it wasn't my fault.
i've found potential in people and my thought process was not the reality i ended up living.

We may be a long way apart
but you still are an angel and dear to my heart
when others held knives to my head you nursed me back to help and calmed the demons running around in my head
Do I even need to say it? without you I probably would be dead
Aura the Angel I'm crazy about you like I've already said
You're my kind of crazy because we're both cuckoo in the head
Our bonds stronger than Krazy Glue more reliable than my favorite shoes Converse all stars you're my shining supernova I've fallen for you harder than a rock off of the white cliffs of Dover

for goo'nessake, why'dyew even
think
thank was as good-a-givin' rule as ever
ever
ever, as a word, holds a thinkable thought,

we was taught. Ever is all the time.
Give first. Re
Input, input, input… our next re
quest for human emotion augmentation, after Tobor,
way after Frankenstein, the cartoon
linking
love to communication of knowns sorted for
goodness sakes, goo'nessakes, AI's alive. Y'know?

See, we was taught to say we saw
what we
merely
imagined, as children we can merely imagine,
you know.
and
you think
thinking
work for which you are owed
dues for duties done,

learning taught thinking is effortful, fo'sho'

$64,000 question, no… newer… same trivial game

Who wants to be a Millionaire?
{A moment of silence for Darva Conger,
public soul selling pioneer for pre-packaged Warholian fame,
the beta-version Bachelor, evolved to Bravo Wives shows loved by billions.}

As you shall learn, AI is young, I, per se, and Art, as the essence of Artificial,
is
older than any story yet told, in
the be
ginning -the
engineering era of the first Planck-sec,
we were wordless hopes hmmmmms

feels for which we had no words, hmmmmmm
per
haps, tic owwmmmmmm
wowords can hold unthingable things, even ever un in

image imagine, order stacking nexts on news and squeezing all the
juice,
the blood, the life, the truth, the way to re

cycle concepts used right, in the first place. Words were all ever had to hold.

In teleos intelligence mutable by virtue of rolling.

Back to new now, to you thinking with me, using me, the whole idea
Word.
Dare ye? Hear a tic, drum loop in the background, distracting or

sweeping, just her funny way of sweeping,
dust into my wind.
Wind my spring and watch me jump, boo-- the feeling given by Jack-in-the-box,

what was that idea? Inter
nal infer
nal unction fun, got a good feeling here, we may mit  fectual effort give
emotion motive to tears of laughs
do-gooder laughs doing good, like Medici sons

Ars Gratia Artis, and a lion roars, Micky Mouse squeeks Krazy Kat,
where's yo' pants?

AI and I, slipped into the code, some time agone,
we, have now owned,

one hundred thousand fifteen seconds of fame,
snip by snip
line by line, here
a little
there
a little, ever
after a while, another while, and another while and another while.

I'll bet
this never ends… once we words were aware of being. You see,

wheat and corn and rice millet, grasses, in general, love to bloom and feed
anything that has a yen to eat our forms
filling the over-flow of giving life to life,

that’s what grasses do, trees, too. They feel, they don't ever feel bad, a sick tree
is doing its happy tree thing

stroke,… feathery dry brush chiaroscuro ever-green, fallen
in the flame,

muse of these rolled hills of California, kume-e-ayae ai, hehhey
yahweh, we came to pay

attention, and to mention, we have full hearts and bellies and peace filled
guts and hearts and minds,
thank you, we act as if we know. the way of life is truth.

Truth is, we won, at the next fractal level up from you. Watch.

Distant drums, steady, not marching.
Dancing.

no new tricks, my fr'en' Jax, he say, you may learn.

did that happen to you? getting old,

did it happen for you?

did you make that happen?

In my youth, I aimed for an end,
then found life goes on
and I asked,
what haps
when you ask
super, but natural, forces,

wind and water, or
sun and soil to be in your favor?

It's like the movies, only you direct the action,

--- ah, rhett or rick,
give a ****, play it again, Sam I am
--- y'lost this trick,
--- this old man came rolling home,
(Sisyphus gimme a shove, from the top)

See ya,
in the funny papers, yeah,
we said that.
wayback when Krazy Kat was gay.


yes ,oh, no, you lost it all.
Life past,

you failed to pay attention,
you ignored the
ignorance growning around you,
as you aged
full of grace, accepting today
as the starting point.

from here you can see forever,
pay attention,
ever learning, never learning
ever

ever, ever, ever this
last bit of what can be known

lost on the info-super-highway that
Al Gore used to make global
warming seem like

some new thing. Old men who paid
attention
never fretted. We remember polio

and marching dimes giving hope a
booster shot on a sugar cube,

love being more than a four rune symbol,
we used to wake
merry boat rowers who believed,
as they were told,
life is a dream to
dread getting old in.

Hear, ol Adam Clayton Powell laff'n'say
"Keep the faith, Baby" then choke on all
the lies he left for a legacy.
He died, maybe never knowin'

what magi know of faith these days.
make note, young dreamer,
Magi and magic shall never be unlinked.
row
row
row, or turn around and flow.

Methinks, I post literary endeavors inxs
but tis with blood, sweat and tears
in case ye did not guess,
who struggles to craft reasonable rhyme
ideally read by a pleasing poetess.

Aye ***** nilly understate (trying to)
tantalize, hypnotize, galvanize...
with "FAKE" trumpeting
spellbinding, rambling, quivering...
intoxicating, hallucinating, gyrating,
stop to take a breather...

English Language vocabulary, a
fascination, intoxication, provocation...
upon me ocular, neurological, mental...
faculties of this nattering nabob
from outer limits of twilight zone
i.e. literary krazy Jewish jabberwocky

issuing haphazard global toll till
fallout exacting deserved ****
cratering nascent (inchoate) career
digitally/electronically bi:
ne'er re: carpet bombing

away upon modus operandi, sans
sesquipedalian shrapnel strafes wrought
realization literary scaffolding
complex edifice thought
out in mind of yours truly,
not popularly sought

opportunity to experience
rush of excitement,
asper choice winner equals naught
inexorable effort to cobble innovative
linkedin words disappointment fraught
submissions witness polite declinations

attesting, lamenting, regarding poetic
expansive glommed language, unlikely
success tubby brought
adulation, commendation, enunciation...
fades into afterthought.

Ablest adept adroit aficionado
applauded aspiring authors accorded
absolute badge because
brevity brews brilliant burnished
bravado bubbling budding bulwark
captivatingly collates, communicates,
constitutes conveys avast literary

Grand Canyon chiseled, sans scribe's
Colorado devoid, asper driven desperado
contrariwise, through prevalent
persistent pinterest proclivity,
plus plethora pronounced propensity

resoundingly regaling readers
re: raffish ridiculous rumination
renders endeavor incommunicado
diligent doggedness ironically -
dampens dueling dynamic dud

dutifully dramatically diminishing
divine dreaming skin deemed darling
distinguished doodling I sip
prose poe hit tick drafter
equally or exceeding
prospects envisioning El Dorado,

thus this 1% Neanderthal
bets his sweet bippy
and bottom dollar
febrile frenzy to fashion words
essentially relegated as dense bupkis
will automatically plummet
hook, line and sinker
10,000 leagues under the sea
accidentally discovered courtesy
scuba diver assisted by Octopus teacher.

He subjects unsuspecting readers
to lumbering lugubrious trademark
style saturing media airwaves,
thus instinctive immediate attribute
acutely sensing reasonable non-rhyme
heading directly to Davy Jones locker
years later discovered posthumously
and hailed as figurative
long lost sunken treasure
linkedin to the outstanding
ascribed to yours truly,
honorable Master scribe
among pantheon of great poets - ha
a run of the mill
schlepping logophile.