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.

Heart's cover sealed in burgeoning prime
Fading leaves folded in the book of time
Follicles of love blanched on the pages sublime
Billowy blades dulled with eroding sands that modulate and slime
Bleached, seamless threads spliced in the deep recesses of my mind
Glossy words overgrown, strangled with thistle and thyme
Each, dilated syllable devoid of reason and rhyme
Each segment underscored with a stagnating byline
Every, amorous allusion deconstructed; devoid of design
Each, sterile refrain resounds a doleful chime
Remaining, truncated edition a lapsing memory; requited pantomime

Counting young women in black leggings
and baseball caps, with ancient letters inscribed on the tops of them.
One-thousand, three-hundred, thirty-five dollars
and fifty-four cents,
for half a year
of friendship.

The damp sidewalk is the stage,
the crushed orange leaves a platform.
Rubber rain boots have only existed for three or four decades.
Holes in an umbrella, holes in mother's boots;
Whatever that man said last night,
whatever that was,
it wasn't an oxymoron.

Leafing leaves, neon green with orangish tips
shake subtly with a light breeze,
and madly with a heavy breeze.
Or is that a squirrel?
Foreground, background, juxsta-
positions;
And I,
just in the right position.

a person on the metro, six stops from their destination
leafing through a brochure titled How
To Get Rich Quick -
sighing in disgust,
"I was never allowed to go on the metro
when I was young," boasts the woman
sitting beside them, an accessory of
The Scene. a prop
(voice is loud and nasally, and the person - five stops - considers moving)
quick smile, polite:
which means, go away. or, at the very least, don't talk quite
so loud
okay? okay?
a softcover Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary is under the seat, discarded,
Sharpie skidding through it (four stops) at every jolt
of the train.
this is normal, all trains are jerky sometimes, and the loud woman
expresses her concerns.
an old man, older than both people,
older than anything really - coughs.
wet coughs.
the person frowns, but quietly, so
the woman and man won't notice.
(they are well-practiced in the art of subtlety)
three stops. the woman leaves
but the smell lingers
and the dictionary, having slid back
one or two rows for effect
a flock of tourists board. kids in the seats
parents hanging tiredly to safety holds
(be still be quiet keep your hands to yourself, mandy
a little boy of six clinging to the person's jacket with
sticky warm fingers)
two stops, and the boy asks why they look so sad.
what they're reading.
they have perfected the art of silence
but little boys don't understand silence.
the mother hovers in the background
sneaking ***** looks at the person,
wax smudged smile going crooked at the edges
one stop,
the boy asks where they got their hair
(my head;
he is unimpressed)
he is kicking the lonely dictionary
providing it with company,
or maybe unaware.
they leave, and the mother hisses something at them as they pass -
clutches the boy's arm.
the dictionary has been stuck on the word spectral for three days,
and the train hums to life.

I saw her crop a rose
Right early in the day,
And I went to kiss the place
Where she broke the rose away
And I saw the patten rings
Where she o’er the stile had gone,
And I love all other things
Her bright eyes look upon.
If she looks upon the hedge or up the leafing tree,
The whitethorn or the brown oak are made dearer things to me.

I have a pleasant hill
Which I sit upon for hours,
Where she cropt some sprigs of thyme
And other little flowers;
And she muttered as she did it
As does beauty in a dream,
And I loved her when she hid it
On her breast, so like to cream,
Near the brown mole on her neck that to me a diamond shone;
Then my eye was like to fire, and my heart was like to stone.

There is a small green place
Where cowslips early curled,
Which on Sabbath day I traced,
The dearest in the world.
A little oak spreads o’er it,
And throws a shadow round,
A green sward close before it,
The greenest ever found:
There is not a woodland nigh nor is there a green grove,
Yet stood the fair maid nigh me and told me all her love.

I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.

In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.

That's why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,
though its an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.
It's hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,
when so often they're put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.

What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,
who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,
and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,
work at changing his destiny for their convenience?

It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today,
and so you may think that I am only joking
or that I've devised just one more means
of praising Art with thehelp of irony.

There was a time when only wise books were read
helping us to bear our pain and misery.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.

And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent integrity
thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.

What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,
under unbearable duress and only with the hope
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.

tonight she’s clipping her obstinate fingernails
healthy, hard and alone on her atoll of sofa
surrounded by a stony sea

automatically I look down; my deficient talons
at a loss and uncreative; thumbing the possibility
of courageously communicating with her complexity

******* the idea of getting close to her
beyond my standard compulsion to
use flattery, force a smile or be mutually inauthentic

leafing through the elementary school years
that predeceased her current level of intelligence
grappling with my empty handedness, and
finally locking us in on the folded faith of hopeful futures

Sara Fielder © Apr 2017

Rhythmic
Tearing
Cow on grass
Settling rooks
Cross sky
All around
Sound playing
Scent
On wind
Descending
Sun
Gold leafing
The horizon
Obscuration
Veiling arc
And furrow
Crop
And shadow
Poplar lined
Fields below
Quiet here
Above
A moment
Passes
Contrast sharpens
Trees recede
Into darkness
Sun bleeds
Into Earth

did because i well jeez 10:23 farther steeper i'd was a outside 10:24 a junebug
is creaking on the well like a fine cylinder. it's because steeper or 10:27 clunking
a light of amiable is sort of. at 10:31 a common a cool the. into if.
        a very sorry long is diacriticly loose with the scab of lunging trees
by the barn 10:31:53 is . it's was almost because i did i well jeez
the june is a crimped fine determined juice. did it seem because or and a breif
i s haloed somewhat or creaking a junebug is big for by the stalls shuffling with legs in the sort of barn by the 10:36 it's gabled a bit. or does it seem a because well did i and meyou. pm well it were 10:37 and longest brown is seemingly. otherwise unmarked a phonetic element. by a 10:39PM leafing softly
  the scuttle a. unnerved little scraping. beneath or metatarsaled cadence a the grassed stripping earth went from the basest mouth of timbered certainly to the unskinniest blue. a vanity of wheels or because well did i jeez

Our milky way galaxy floating thru space
its translucent circling orb alight
alive prana  the dots of energy minature Stars
holding hue beings space travelers
in the darkness of space revealed
as prana we exit the womb living creation
the light orbs milk awaits us  
this cosmos existence adores  surrounds me
centering life in Earth the Eco-system
apter genick learning cells fighting extinction
imperial magistrates a re-leafing of stress
brought on by diet and habitat pollution
I reach into the sky aware of space travelling
regions the path prana exists in homes of love
to hold the consciousness of life the Universe
allows the roots chosen thru the cosmic life
in the living consciousness of love love
the binding force of all nature reactions living
for the one of all the great quest for Eternity
the beings of prauna sending cosmic messages
for the quest of being a Star is the mighty
life, has no god to rule it forth
ruled by the life creation alive
alining thru time and space all
the the orbs come together
the life energy of the future survivial
the mothers apter genick learning
of cells to reach all of life
to come together as one being
the one for ALL
a story to tell how will we survive
our pranua  each life orb a moment divine
seeking you out listen  feel the calling
life of humanity eternity the wailing over
you are here to be replaced
just visit to continue onward
life is pleasure open life to receive
live the moment  of egg and seed
the burst the rush rises and goes in a second
the prana of life creation memories
that lead to channels of new being
one drop of you or ten  moment upon moment
orbs dots of you swirling translucent
being the created in light of a moment
here we are manifested in a body a hue being
of light and dreams working out a scheme
to be eternity prana living the joy
the love of a moment for ever
to travel in time to be renewed
a change from born again
Eternity of love the orb of prana   gjmars 6/10/15

The mighty Atlas, father of those seven sisters,
Bears the weight of heaven on his broad shoulders.
And even one of the brothers three, lives eternal;
In Chaos realms, Tartarus' black abyss, in which
No soul returns, to gaze upon life's light once more.
Although, forgive me, I lie; a few, a few selected,
Have returned from amidst heavy woe, pushing
Down their sorrows. Orpheus ventured,
With sweet song, motherly ordained and with divine,
Unrivalled skill on his lyre, seduced Hades himself.
I too, challenge his great powers; and with her skirt
Flapping with speed, ride on Auroras saffron chariot,
Cooking the sky's dark covering wings, to a baking red,
While the sun gallops up, stampeding behind our cart.
I play, not keen, to act the fool, and lay these pale ivy
Laments in front, which my lips have yet not touched.
I place you in the centre, forests following, clear streams
Flowing as crystals sway on its surface; and yet,
I have not put them to my lips; but keep them by.
I praise not this, but sing, because together we sit
On this soft green grass; now the woods are leafing,
Now the year is at its loveliest, the cheeky girl
Pelts me with apples. Presents are laid up for my Emily,
I myself have observed where doves make their nests.
I'll pick ten apples, picked from a woodland tree,
And for you, I'll pick ten more tomorrow.
You breezes waft a word or two to the gods' ears
And to my pure white seraphim, for her to hear.
I love my angel most of all, for when I left,
She wept and said ‘So long, love, so long.'
Wolves are sad for the folds, rain for the crops,
Gales for the trees, and Emily, me for you.
I love my muse, let him who loves you share your paradise.
Let honey flow from him, let roses blossom
From his pores, to pick flowers and earth born strawberries,
To dip you, in springs of tears myself. My love is ruinous
And the sky extends no wider than my heart.
Say, in what lands the flowers inscribe your name,
The name of goddesses; for who fears the sweet,
Or feels the bitterness of love; let them drink their fill.

Candied black licorice.
Hair made of silk.
Memories mix dissolve meetings
Of love's labor of leering.
A warning between the moons.

She said her name in a whisper.
I knew by her eyes that I couldn't keep her.
Nightingale look razor strap barren.
Secrets between two torn in caring.

A can full of roses.
Dog dares in a moment.
Build me a fire
With two seats and the stars
We can look off in the distance
Not caring how far.

Since then I've never been able to hold
A thought longer then three seconds.
Leafing through these worn pictures,
Seeing these faces red and blistered,
I try to recall what I was feeling back then,
And what letters I wrote and what I didn't send.

Cabin alone up on the mountains *****
I take my canister and my four foot rope.
The sun's behind me, big and bright.
Gotta' make camp before the fall of the night.

When my name was misery, everyone knew me.
When my name was love, not a soul did.
When my name was honor, no one even bothered.
When my name was jealously, everyone writhed righteously.

Telling doorman upset by the Autumn;
He says it is too cold for him.
I - taking the things from its pockets -
Offer him my black, woolen pea coat.
He huffs and puffs and leaves,
Without even a word being spoke.

A simple sentence can change the world.

I feel safest wrapped in
Darkness
Solitary,
Voluntarily.
Shut my eyes and experience the
    Colors,
       Under covers,
Fast asleep.
(I never asked you to be next to me.
I never told you that I couldn't feel.)

       And I feel strangest
In the daylight
In the sunshine or the shade I am
   Opened like a book
For leafing through.
My ink melts and leaks
Off pages
Until
Descension,
  Depths of ages
Passed and to come.
   Again I am one.
(I never asked you to
Let me in)
Cloak of blackness
Masks malpractice
Sets me free.
Solidity,
   Shattered as the sun

Beats me awake and I am
      Shaken,
      Naked,
Young, Dumb, Prepared to Fake it
Let me be.

My muse, my muse,
She’s here right now
She just took a shower and her hair is still wet.
She's wearing a bathrobe, she walks up to the bed and sits
When she crosses one leg over the other I catch a flash of her thighs
Inviting thighs, long legs
She has pretty feet
And pretty ankles,
I always look at feet.
She has delicate wrists
She has long thumbs, here she is
Now leafing through a magazine
With those long thumbs,
Long fingernails.
Her shoes are on the floor, shoes that she wore last night
They've fallen over on the carpet,
My eyes find my way back to her
She seems to have found something interesting in the magazine
Here she is, concentrated on it, her back is straight
In this light, this natural light,
Without make up,
She looks impossibly lovely,
Renoir would paint her.

I get out of bed and walk into the shower.

There’s something strangely intimate
About taking a shower in a girl’s bathroom,
Shampoo bottles and hair conditioners all around me
Water cascading down my bare chest
Recollecting and replaying scenes from the night before:
Unbuttoning her jeans, pulling them off
Seeing her Hello Kitty underwear
And laughing, and thinking it was cute
And saying, umm… so how old are you again?
Humour always works, yes, humour always works.

I love ******* this girl.
It seems as though I'm always ******* her.
At night in the living room, on the sofa
Unfastening her stockings and slowly rolling them off,
Next her skirt, then her underwear…
Sweet parting flesh
I begin thinking of how it’ll be, how it’ll go down

She's always in something classy,
But man, it seems as though I'm always ******* her.
Sometimes I strip everything off her body,
But I ask her to leave her earrings and heels on; they confirm her nakedness
Hoop earrings
Red lipstick
Red heels
I lie in the middle of the bed, lights are dim, she climbs onto the bed
Curls up between my legs, begins by kissing on my stomach...
Great lovers lie in hell, the poet says.
Great lovers lie in hell.

I'm falling asleep afterwards, but not her
*** invigorates me, she says, tying her hair in a ponytail
This girl, she has the effect of lighting a matchstick in the dark.
She lays beside me and begins to read Jeanette Winterson
And just before I succumb to a deep slumber I remember something and tell her,
*Baby, baby, baby, your Morse code interferes with my heartbeat.

T’was the night before Christmas
And in his outhouse
Sat Ja quietly listening        
To waltz’s, by Strauss.
(Really, he was leafing thru Penthouse)

The ******* was fitted
With all manner of lights
That couldn’t be missed
No matter what heights

When up on the roof
There arose such a clatter
Ja, kicked open the door
To see what was the matter

So there sat Ja
With his pants pulled down
His *** in a hole
On his forehead, a frown

He leaped up so quickly
Through the doorway to pass
Tripped over his pants
And fell on his ***

Then flat on his back
His bare *** in the snow
He looked up to see
The roof all aglow

Poor Santa had landed                        
On that, small, sloped roof
But there wasn’t enough room
For sleigh, and each tiny hoof

Ja had decorated everything
So the outhouse, shone bright
And Santa mistook it
When he arrived that night

The reindeer slid off
Were hanging by their straps
And Santa had saved them
By grabbing, the roof *****

Poor Rudolph fell the farthest
Boy, was his nose beaming
Just then, losing his grip
Santa started screaming

Fly Dancer, fly *****
Fly Donner, fly Blitzen
Don’t let me fall into
This ****, Ja was fixin

Then just like magic
They started to float
And Santa, raising his fist
Did this warning shout
              
Be very careful old man
I’ll get you some day
Stay alert Christmas Eve
Don’t get in my way

Now, each Christmas Eve
Ja, won’t step foot out that door
Cause he knows Santa is waiting
To even the score
BOEMS BY JA 18

If you were a spring without flowers,
probably that all my trees
would be lethargic.
If you were a wind coiling without leaves,
possibly all my trees would be already fallen,
and if you were a sky without its sun,
certainly no other tree could
germinate to grow from seed.
And I could not be able to exist any longer,
for I am the forest.
But in the snowy winter that would follow,
and in the churches with empty bells,
not ringing in the frost,
God would be still existent.
But you were my springing spring,
my whispering leafing wind
and my sunny sky.
And, in the winter,
in your absence,
I did not cease to love you while
craving for the melted snow,
craving for the blossomed trees,
craving for the ringing bells...

I need you yesterday
ripped up from rope burns in my
darkling bedroom and
finally able to get out of the sack with some
semblance around four
leafing already? I asked the twilit
mid-june trees and the
cicadas in their infinite whirring
forgot to answer

all I know is that they spit
electricity like the demons spit
hair lice they
laugh you in the face

a yearsfromnow dream—
the kids playing
fifty-two pick-up
in the garage;
don’t ask me what else
you have up your sleeve, baby
that’s enough
card tricks for one night.

The forbidden fruit
Plucked by Eve, but ruined Adam
A soft, delicate, luscious Madame
Teasing, tempting
Seduction in a look
So it was covered, hidden
"Try and forget what's forbidden."
And still she haunts
Testing, trying
Tickling the senses
Until he drops all his defenses

How about the fruit
Which wanted nothing but
To be a fruit, not a ****?
Leafing, blooming
Ripening in time
To grow warm in the shining sun
One of many, not the forbidden one
And still she hangs
Lovely, golden
Dozing, hoping to awaken
To not be the one forsaken

Once she was
Not the one blamed by all
For every single grown man's fall
Teasing, tempting
No matter what she does
Every motion carefully made
To make sure the game is played
By the rules
Lovely, golden
After all, with fruit so sweet
How could Adam refuse to eat?

The tree stood like a soldier at ease,
Like a slowly exploding electric wire,
Like dendrites grabbed out of the brain and magnified,
Like a shout becoming a thousand whispers,
Like a train track diverging,
Like a telephone pole,
Like a shoelace untying,
Like deaf people clapping,
Like a book with the pages leafing in the breeze,
Like an umbrella defying the sky,
Like a policy splintering into regulations.

For her eighteenth birthday,
a gift from the fates;
she knows how she will die.
Before, there was a vague notion—
A shadow cast by a hungry dragon
who roosts on the branches of the family tree,
devouring her ancestors, waiting and unslayable.
Now, the diviners speak to her in pedigrees
and punnett squares, leafing through a deck
of tarot cards, checking vials of her blood
for patterns in the tea leaves at the bottom,
hardening the shadows at their edges and
twisting peripheral horror into prophecy,
a promise, and she sees it all,
she sees everything, laid in front of her
and stretching out like a golden string
towards the vanishing horizon:

The sharp burn of dread at every twitch
and missing memory, jellied elegies oozing
from the center of others’ puffed pleasantries,
years spent watching her soul
get thinner and thinner, trapped
within a broken heap of matter and flesh,
cursed bone, misfiring electricity,
eroding endlessly, self destructing,
never ending, ending soon,
and, at last, alone, gazing back on a youth
spent gazing forward, ******, and dying
and derelict, and decades in the making—
she asks herself, what would she not give
for the chance to unknow,
to trade the dragon for the slow, soft lull
of the indifferent stars,
and to die whole and confused,
like the rest of us.

i see them, your little fingerprints
like footsteps in the snow
   wherever i look, wherever i go,
         there they are, your constant reminders
of a world i no longer know
         whether i'm thinking of my favourite book
looking at my keyboard keys
                      leafing through my school pages
  or raiding a shelf of dvd's
                       my midnight snacks of icecream
                         nolonger warm the world
only serving to open the void
                               with rememberances spilt from your quill
             little flickers here and there
the way we sat, our favourite film, you trying to type with me
every break and lunch time together, climbing hills, falling asleep

i breathe you in and suffocate
                  see your finger prints every where
                       reminding me of the desert void under a burning cold sky
                                                             ­   that endlessly rests there.
                                           there,
           hanging in time
frozen between you and me
as i follow your finger print footsteps
                            and make my own with droplets of me
a tidal wave of memories overflowing and blocking my drain
                    each little piece of me staining
                              the finger prints left in our name

i bruise my knees on wintered floors. you can
tell so much about a person just by being  
in their bathroom. now i know why your hair always smells like
coconut. is there a holiday that you spend taken away by
isolation? what’s it called? that’s what i want to name you, maybe. you told me
to come up with a nickname for you in your last letter. i haven’t yet, though,
because nicknames remind me too much of skyscrapers --
too permanent, you can’t move them, our limbs
should move more from this bed.

i spend two hours in bathrooms, leafing myself open.

i spend two hours missing you, swerving from full
to empty, back to full again. you’re giving my honesty back to me now.
there’s too much of it, stop it, stop this, i don’t want to eat any more of it.

last year, i lied to the beard-strewn man
on the subway. the subway seats were too pale. i called him
my grandfather when he left. he looked the way my grandfather
looks in the scarred photographs my parents keep underneath dust.
my grandfather looks like a tombstone, still, but i’m waiting for that to change.

i’m being too honest with you again. i swallowed saltwater this morning.
look at how elegant it looks leaving my eyelids. look at how horrid.
but it leaves and i thank you for doing this to me. i thank you,

kneeling in a bathroom. kneeling in your bathroom.
i think i’ve started to pray to a toilet.

Touch me the way you touch books - lightly skimming your fingertips over the spine, opening the pages, gently leafing through them, using your fingers pointing to each word, and just memorising the way the parchment feels against your skin.

Hold me the way you do with an old fragile book, or a new book that you're afraid of damaging - gently holding the spine, afraid of opening me too wide and hurting me, taking in it's musky scent, and studying every word, committing it to memory.

But don't end me the way you do with books - putting it down gently, only picking it up to reread occasionally, and leaving it on the shelf to collect dust on it's cover.

Keep me by your side, like a diary, and write in me, telling me your truest feelings, terrified of losing me, for fear that others would uncover your darkest troubles.

Keep me by your side and always read me, read through your past entries, treasure me, and place all your trust in me - I'll never disappear, your memories, happiness, sorrow will always remain with me, and you will never have to worry about forgetting anything. You will always have me by your side.

But when the pages are filled up, don't stop - add in new pages, like you can with any diary. But I doubt I will ever be filled up because I've enough pages to last you a lifetime without any worries of me ending.

My eyes formed steps that followed and fled
round the bend of failed yesterdays,
stuck in the gullet of unswallowed breath

I could not read painful pages, I turned them
over, leafing my way through misguidance,
judgement had borrowed me for may years

Guilt spun grey thread, caught hold and wrapped
manipulatively, indecisive nature grew to self destruct
the analytical marching song chose the day

Sleep shades the burning sun from breaking
flesh, seeks out to rebuild the view from my eyes
the curtains drawn held me in shadowy shawls

where rest found energy to stand in line for
tomorrows envelopes to drop on the mat before
me, would I dare to open, release the sealed contents

The secrets held in calm times, released in raged rage
hurled with force, reclaiming head of the table, yet....
never to be spoken aloud...... for fear attaches itself

She was
Wasted space
In a catalog of people.
All loudly displaying
Some sort of talent.
Leafing through the pages
You find them
Dancing gracefully
  Playing with a ball
   Singing a melody
    Solving a math problem
     Being a beautiful model
      Strumming a guitar.
Flip to the page
And find an unknown girl
With bland brown eyes
And brown hair
With tears streaming
Down her pale face
Because she could not perceive
her gift.
  She was barley even visible
   And everyone surpassed her.
What a waste of space
In a catalog full of people
  Blooming with talent
   While her only talent
    Was being invisible.

A close friend of mine was enthusiastic about his upcoming botany project;
he wanted to show me what he had learned so far;

the anatomy of a flower, a rose, a tulip, a daisy
a lily, a Poinsettia...

As he was talking I couldn't help but
interrupt his silly game of catch
with a hearty laugh

I said people don't want to hear about the inside
of something so beautiful, so perfect, so clean

They want the illusion, the absolute, the ideal!

After a couple of hours
of hand motions, direct eye contact
and awkward body language
I finally managed convinced the man to quit school,
and take up poetry.

That was 2 years ago from today.

Last I heard of him,

He was roaming around
some small city in France,
managed to use what little money
he had to phone me
and tell me poetry was the best thing
since American sliced bread.

He is now a starving artist
that goes by the name of

Hawthorne l'bouffon.

Keep a lookout on his collection of poems

entitled: A Life Worth Leafing.