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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

                  Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell              

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Humanoid.

I wake up,
I put on my plaid,
I put liner on my eyes,
honestly, it doesn't look bad.
Its not about whats on me,
its what I do.
I may not always comprehend,
and I may not be a good friend.
I've let people down
so many times in my life
before.
Remember that I am only human,
and with times like these
there will be plenty more.
I say, I do, I misunderstand you.
You tell, You instruct, I say,
what the ****?
Now today I washed my insecure
and told me I love you.
I knocked the mental Stop Sign
down and out of my face.
No longer will people react to my
smartness by taking as a,
"Surprise! Happy Birthday!"
The liner on my eyes
shows no coverage, but
esteem.
Try a new guitar brand,
try a new flavor ice cream.
Theres so much more to life than
internships,
Co-ops,
and strawberry freeze-pops.
It's trying,
applying,
and learning.
So we deal with
the post-argument
and the popcorn thats burning.
As I grow,
I'll have you know,
the liner on my eyes,
Is supposed to show.
My quirky-artsistic me,
has so many better places
to go.
So I'll put on my liner,
I'll be myself,
and when I am,
DON'T EVER
tell me NO.

I see timber, I see my Dad.*
The wrinkled grain grin
sits lost on his face,
he’s selling his timeless record collection:
the finest midlife crisis since records began.

Lined bits of paper with a pen and plan,
bass players and guitarists are all being sold,
including the front man,
microphone, monitor and stand.

Under the slim light, what’s
going to be sold is exposed
ready for a thorough cleaning
of the black gold moulds.

None of us are allowed near, we have been told,
this is a strict operation and it’s under control,
he starts spouting tiny liner note quotes
none of us understand, we need a translator- grab your coats.

We returned to a mess of a man:
he did not go through with his midlife crisis plan.
His extra 3000 children in their sleeves
can sleep safe tonight knowing that everything will be all right.

I rolled my ankle last month,
but didn't pay much attention
to the swelling because it didn't feel
like nougat flesh with a pushpin
center. It felt like skin, tendons,
and fishnet bones.
But now, when I make my bed,
I have to waste two or three
soft pillows at the foot of it.
So, I'm left with the burgundy ones
from the couch that I tried to patch
with boot liner and an eighth-grade
comprehension of sewing.
I stuck a rat's thimble on my ring
finger, so I could push the straw-thin
needle through the beefy seam.
No such luck.
Finished the stitching
with a Band-Aid beneath
the thimble. And I left
the cheetah-print liner hanging
off like a piece of skin,
hoping it'd fix itself.

(The Dry Salvages—presumably les trois sauvages
      — is a small group of rocks, with a beacon, off the N.E.
      coast of Cape Ann, Massachusetts. Salvages is pronounced
      to rhyme with assuages. Groaner: a whistling buoy.)

I

I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god—sullen, untamed and intractable,
Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;
Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten
By the dwellers in cities—ever, however, implacable.
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated
By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.
His rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom,
In the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard,
In the smell of grapes on the autumn table,
And the evening circle in the winter gaslight.

The river is within us, the sea is all about us;
The sea is the land’s edge also, the granite
Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses
Its hints of earlier and other creation:
The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale’s backbone;
The pools where it offers to our curiosity
The more delicate algae and the sea anemone.
It tosses up our losses, the torn seine,
The shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar
And the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices,
Many gods and many voices.
                                       The salt is on the briar rose,
The fog is in the fir trees.
                                       The sea howl
And the sea yelp, are different voices
Often together heard: the whine in the rigging,
The menace and caress of wave that breaks on water,
The distant rote in the granite teeth,
And the wailing warning from the approaching headland
Are all sea voices, and the heaving groaner
Rounded homewards, and the seagull:
And under the oppression of the silent fog
The tolling bell
Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried
Ground swell, a time
Older than the time of chronometers, older
Than time counted by anxious worried women
Lying awake, calculating the future,
Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel
And piece together the past and the future,
Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,
The future futureless, before the morning watch
When time stops and time is never ending;
And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,
Clangs
The bell.

II

Where is there an end of it, the soundless wailing,
The silent withering of autumn flowers
Dropping their petals and remaining motionless;
Where is there and end to the drifting wreckage,
The prayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayable
Prayer at the calamitous annunciation?

There is no end, but addition: the trailing
Consequence of further days and hours,
While emotion takes to itself the emotionless
Years of living among the breakage
Of what was believed in as the most reliable—
And therefore the fittest for renunciation.

There is the final addition, the failing
Pride or resentment at failing powers,
The unattached devotion which might pass for devotionless,
In a drifting boat with a slow leakage,
The silent listening to the undeniable
Clamour of the bell of the last annunciation.

Where is the end of them, the fishermen sailing
Into the wind’s tail, where the fog cowers?
We cannot think of a time that is oceanless
Or of an ocean not littered with wastage
Or of a future that is not liable
Like the past, to have no destination.

We have to think of them as forever bailing,
Setting and hauling, while the North East lowers
Over shallow banks unchanging and erosionless
Or drawing their money, drying sails at dockage;
Not as making a trip that will be unpayable
For a haul that will not bear examination.

There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing,
No end to the withering of withered flowers,
To the movement of pain that is painless and motionless,
To the drift of the sea and the drifting wreckage,
The bone’s prayer to Death its God. Only the hardly, barely prayable
Prayer of the one Annunciation.

It seems, as one becomes older,
That the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence—
Or even development: the latter a partial fallacy
Encouraged by superficial notions of evolution,
Which becomes, in the popular mind, a means of disowning the past.
The moments of happiness—not the sense of well-being,
Fruition, fulfilment, security or affection,
Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination—
We had the experience but missed the meaning,
And approach to the meaning restores the experience
In a different form, beyond any meaning
We can assign to happiness. I have said before
That the past experience revived in the meaning
Is not the experience of one life only
But of many generations—not forgetting
Something that is probably quite ineffable:
The backward look behind the assurance
Of recorded history, the backward half-look
Over the shoulder, towards the primitive terror.
Now, we come to discover that the moments of agony
(Whether, or not, due to misunderstanding,
Having hoped for the wrong things or dreaded the wrong things,
Is not in question) are likewise permanent
With such permanence as time has. We appreciate this better
In the agony of others, nearly experienced,
Involving ourselves, than in our own.
For our own past is covered by the currents of action,
But the torment of others remains an experience
Unqualified, unworn by subsequent attrition.
People change, and smile: but the agony abides.
Time the destroyer is time the preserver,
Like the river with its cargo of dead negroes, cows and chicken coops,
The bitter apple, and the bite in the apple.
And the ragged rock in the restless waters,
Waves wash over it, fogs conceal it;
On a halcyon day it is merely a monument,
In navigable weather it is always a seamark
To lay a course by: but in the sombre season
Or the sudden fury, is what it always was.

III

I sometimes wonder if that is what Krishna meant—
Among other things—or one way of putting the same thing:
That the future is a faded song, a Royal Rose or a lavender spray
Of wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret,
Pressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened.
And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.
You cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure,
That time is no healer: the patient is no longer here.
When the train starts, and the passengers are settled
To fruit, periodicals and business letters
(And those who saw them off have left the platform)
Their faces relax from grief into relief,
To the sleepy rhythm of a hundred hours.
Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past
Into different lives, or into any future;
You are not the same people who left that station
Or who will arrive at any terminus,
While the narrowing rails slide together behind you;
And on the deck of the drumming liner
Watching the furrow that widens behind you,
You shall not think ‘the past is finished’
Or ‘the future is before us’.
At nightfall, in the rigging and the aerial,
Is a voice descanting (though not to the ear,
The murmuring shell of time, and not in any language)
‘Fare forward, you who think that you are voyaging;
You are not those who saw the harbour
Receding, or those who will disembark.
Here between the hither and the farther shore
While time is withdrawn, consider the future
And the past with an equal mind.
At the moment which is not of action or inaction
You can receive this: “on whatever sphere of being
The mind of a man may be intent
At the time of death”—that is the one action
(And the time of death is every moment)
Which shall fructify in the lives of others:
And do not think of the fruit of action.
Fare forward.
                      O voyagers, O ******,
You who came to port, and you whose bodies
Will suffer the trial and judgement of the sea,
Or whatever event, this is your real destination.’
So Krishna, as when he admonished Arjuna
On the field of battle.
                                  Not fare well,
But fare forward, voyagers.

IV

Lady, whose shrine stands on the promontory,
Pray for all those who are in ships, those
Whose business has to do with fish, and
Those concerned with every lawful traffic
And those who conduct them.

Repeat a prayer also on behalf of
Women who have seen their sons or husbands
Setting forth, and not returning:
Figlia del tuo figlio,
Queen of Heaven.

Also pray for those who were in ships, and
Ended their voyage on the sand, in the sea’s lips
Or in the dark throat which will not reject them
Or wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell’s
Perpetual angelus.

V

To communicate with Mars, converse with spirits,
To report the behaviour of the sea monster,
Describe the horoscope, haruspicate or scry,
Observe disease in signatures, evoke
Biography from the wrinkles of the palm
And tragedy from fingers; release omens
By sortilege, or tea leaves, riddle the inevitable
With playing cards, fiddle with pentagrams
Or barbituric acids, or dissect
The recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors—
To explore the womb, or tomb, or dreams; all these are usual
Pastimes and drugs, and features of the press:
And always will be, some of them especially
When there is distress of nations and perplexity
Whether on the shores of Asia, or in the Edgware Road.
Men’s curiosity searches past and future
And clings to that dimension. But to apprehend
The point of intersection of the timeless
With time, is an occupation for the saint—
No occupation either, but something given
And taken, in a lifetime’s death in love,
Ardour and selflessness and self-surrender.
For most of us, there is only the unattended
Moment, the moment in and out of time,
The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,
The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning
Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply
That it is not heard at all, but you are the music
While the music lasts. These are only hints and guesses,
Hints followed by guesses; and the rest
Is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.
The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.
Here the impossible union
Of spheres of existence is actual,
Here the past and future
Are conquered, and reconciled,
Where action were otherwise movement
Of that which is only moved
And has in it no source of movement—
Driven by dæmonic, chthonic
Powers. And right action is freedom
From past and future also.
For most of us, this is the aim
Never here to be realised;
Who are only undefeated
Because we have gone on trying;
We, content at the last
If our temporal reversion nourish
(Not too far from the yew-tree)
The life of significant soil.

there was a ocean liner sailing out to sea it would it never make its maiden destinythe sea was getting rough and icebergs all aroundthen suddenly you heard big loud scraping soundthe ship it had been hit. damaged beyond on comparepassengers in a panic as they began to scarejumping on to lifeboats as they began to flee for those who where on board escape just wouldnt bethe ship it starting sinking  and slowly it went downas the passengers watched and knew some of them would drownnow the ship has gone  to the graveyard in the seaa another ship like her there could never be

navigator’s balcony cocktail hour
rocket orbit ocean liner rising
clenched no teeth no guernica no bam bam bam
correspondent notary republic
address book dial figure 8
charred with a thousand jigsaw pieces
false as a beach chiaroscuro black
on black graveyard womb naked milk glass lit
footprint tourism by candlelight and flare
vaccination fatigue puke fingernail fish
moving a bandaged echo **** him **** her
familiar bell music **** them both **** them all
stretched shirtsleeves spanish toffee slashed tires
(failure as a painter he shaved his wife’s fur coat)
bust your ***** Barcelona red alert
knock-kneed broken squeezebox no hands
standing room only ladies first (please)
unbuttoned interrogation coffee rolls (stop)
marine’s vegetation (stop) early morning tea (stop)
armless menus (stop) pink cathedral fingers (stop)

and (begin again) move

we move

moving inside an eye this eye
that advances step
by step

I recall from some time ago
a pink plastic tea set
a white plastic rocking chair
and a yellow plastic pony
with blue plastic hair,
     which
was impossible to untangle
except for with the green plastic brush
that belonged to my blonde barbie doll
out of her plastic vanity cabinet
beneath her plastic vanity mirror,
     which
she checked her makeup in
before meeting her plastic boyfriend
in his plastic van
to go to a plastic diner
that served plastic pizza,
     which
was really just a sticker
on a tiny plastic plate
that would get lost in the bottom
of my plastic toybox,
     which
had a plastic lid
that was also my sailboat
that brought me to a plastic castle
with a plastic princess
who had the prettiest plastic eyes
and the most elaborate plastic dress
and the shiniest plastic crown,
     which
was the envy of all the plastic women
in the entire plastic kingdom,
     which
was really just a plastic castle
surrounded by an enchanted plastic forest
filled with furry plastic creatures
all atop a clear plastic box,
     which
held the plastic dishes
and plastic glasses
and plastic food
in case a feast should be thrown
for an unexpected plastic guest
from a plastic kingdom in the far east,
     which
was really just a plastic plate
placed on the plastic-coated windowsill,
     from which
I would peer into the blue sky
through broken plastic binoculars
while standing on a yellow and green plastic step stool,
     which
when turned upside down
became not simply a make-shift plastic sailboat,
but a glorious, luxury plastic cruise liner
for my pretty plastic dolls

     and I would board my toybox lid
     and we would sail into a perfect plastic horizon

     which
was really just a white plastic baby gate
that kept me from tumbling
into the world downstairs
where things are wooden
and glass
and cloth
but not plastic

for plastic is synthetic
and plastic is superficial
and plastic looks bad
against gilded wallpaper

but plastic is cheaper
and plastic is safer
and plastic is durable
and childhood is plastic

I wonder how I got here, secluded in a grimy apartment filled with smoke. We drink gin and tonics with mint like it’s the ‘20s; we sit and talk pop culture because we know. Taj has somehow become the effective authority on all of these things, paid to social network and connected to Hollywood; he’s very skilled at playing to people’s wants. My Cadillac sits intent next to me markering in a recent drawing for his newest class. He’s already famous for his graffiti, one day I’ll bet you this extra credit project will be worth money. He drew me a fox for Christmas. Valentines day is coming up. He never tells me he loves me. Jack is watching me watch him out of the corner of his eye while putting on a new remix of an old song. He leans over and asks if I like it and I nod. I feel bubbled up with *** smoke, frozen in time and vaguely uncomfortable. I’d guess this is what it’s like to be “too high.” I want Caddy to notice, but it’s Jack that’s pushing my hair back and telling me to drink more water. It’s sweet. Despite his need to be seen as a womanizer, Jack respects Caddy too much to even try with me, he looks but he doesn’t put on any faces for me. Everyone thinks so hard about how they’re seen.
Jack says his New Year’s resolution is to do less *******, even though no one asked. Everyone hears but no one reacts. I try to keep moving my toes and stop shivering. Across from me Ky and Nate are reading the encyclopedia in open-mouthed awe. In a room full of intellectual up and comers I feel like Hemmingway did when he was my age, how all the minds gravitate to each other and sit in a ***** room by the beach and let the creativity go. Like Mary Shelly and the whole gang writing Frankenstein and Dracula in the same trip.  After a while I think Taj is going to make it, Jack will be a politician and Caddy will be lost and with another woman. Ky and Nate will still be smoking and reading the encyclopedia, all the way down to ‘z’. I am like my mother: attracting the company of smart successful men who pay her selective attention.
The door burst open and the cold air stayed in my pores after it was closed. Rodger invited himself over. It would have been all right but when Rodger is wasted he forgets his manners. In his animated state he managed to kick over Caddy’s favorite smoking piece, insult Jack and look at me a little too hard. His girlfriend had immediately passed out on the couch, but she never smiled or spoke to me anyway. Her head was cradled in the lap of a girl I hadn’t noticed. Her hair was perfect and her eyes shadowed, the liner and mascara smudging its way slowly onto her high cheekbones. She stared at me but didn’t speak. I tried to smile, but didn’t want to give away the champagne sensation covering my skin, still too up to speak. She had already formed her opinion of me, some young ******* the arm of an older boy. She was once in my position, I’m sure of it, we are the same kind of beautiful and empty eyed. That doesn’t stop her from judging, in the total of 15 seconds she looked at me. Her self is tamed and mine is wild still. Unintroduced and unnoticed by the men in the room, we have an understanding and a mutual dislike of each other, only to defend ourselves.
The room takes time to settle, a bowl has been packed for an entitled Rodger, and now that everyone is calm, Cad sits back down and puts his arm around me again. I lean into him, protected and anchored, whereas I had been floating or about to puke a minute ago. I don’t know what I said but Caddy seemed annoyed when he said “Just let it happen, embrace the feeling,” and so I kept quiet for ten minutes or so. The high was infected with guilt. Next time he looked at me-- it could have been an hour—I whispered, “I can’t” and finally he heard me, and stood up.
Cad came back into my vision with a glass of water and turned on Drive, prompting Rodger, Mrs. Rodger and my pretty enemy to leave. Ky and Nate had gone long before I could focus on noticing. Taj left for trivia night down at the bar and no doubt some girl; wrapped up in a cashmere scarf and cardigan he kissed my cheek before he went. Jack also took his graceful leave with the Rodger group to woo some girl who knew exactly what she was doing to herself. He did have a straight nosed charm, Jack. I could not blame this girl, one of many (I am embarrassed for her; I have been like this ******* many occasions).  
Taj had been sent the advanced copy of Drive in blu-ray, so we snuck it from his room and watched it that way (the only way Taj would see movies now, it is the future (for now)). Kavinsky came through Cad’s new speakers the boys had spent half an hour trying to wire earlier in the night. “They’re taking about you boy/but you’re still the same” crooned Lovefoxxx as Ryan Gosling cruised down a street, ****** intense in driving gloves. Gears shifting and motors growling are very ****, I tell Cadillac so into his ear, as he pulls me into his arms and covers me up with a blanket.
The movie was perfect, maybe because it made me feel less dizzy and sickguilty (Cad knew it would) and maybe because Ryan Gosling can wear a white satin jacket. I loved it, hardly noticing when the absent roommate Travis strolled in with Taj and tacos somewhere around 2am.  Colder as Caddy got up for a burrito, left me alone on the couch for the kitchen table. Registering Taj taking his place, playing with my curls and talking Hollywood to me. I’m staring over at Cad in his chair, he makes eye contact once or twice and I blow him a kiss before Taj repositions my head toward the television and my ear back where he can speak into it.
Eventually Cadillac taps Taj on the shoulder and motions for him to get up. With Cad back I can relax and I fall into sleep just as the movie ends. Taj and Trav have gone to their own beds and Cad leans over me, picks me up and takes me to bed knocking my elbow on the doorframe along the way. He apologizes and kisses my head but I am too tired to care. He lays me down on the bed with crimson sheets and takes off my boots but then sternly says, “Mimi, you are not a child.” and so I must get up and undress myself. He wraps me in a duvet missing its cover and his arms. I trust him long enough to fall asleep.

-

Standing in front of the stove it was hot, but I am easily overheated. He came up behind me and said in my ear, “you’re lovely” watching me put the last piece of French toast on the large stack, getting ready to scramble eggs. He kissed my cheek. Then my neck and then my lips, taking me away from my cooking to be pulled against him, for a sweet short minute and went back to the living room with his friends. Jack had mysteriously reappeared in the night; he said he locked himself out of his apartment after leaving to see one of his girls. Taj just sat and blasted Radiohead over the new speakers, shouting something relevant at me. I scramble the eggs and make up plates, two pieces of toast each and a nice healthy pile of eggs. It is gone very quickly and no one says thank you, except for a smile from Caddy and a kiss on the forehead. It’s usually enough for me, knowing he likes to show me off to his friends. I sit down with my cup of coffee and plate, within a few minutes Cad suggests he takes me home. I resentfully take time to finish my coffee. But we are both busy and he is right, so I say goodbye to the boys and gather my things. We drive with the “best MC on the game these days” (so I am told) over the weak speakers of the car. Cad drives with his arm around me always. Cruising into my building’s parking lot I lean over for a kiss on my forehead, nose, lips. He says go, but his hand still sits on my shoulder so I stay for a little longer. “You’ll probably have to let go of me if it’s time for me to go Cad,” I say quietly, with a tentative smile on my face. He grins back and lifts his arm. I slide out of the suicide seat and smile at him, but he’s looking at the radio dials. Then my face. His eyes give him away, softened around the edges with affection. Maybe love, but he’d never say it and I refuse to say it until he does. I try not to think about it much as he drives away to smoke up again with his friends. I wonder if this is how it will always be, but then I realize our kind of “always” is only the next few months. I turned unsteadily and walked up the stairs to my empty room—dark and overheated smelling heavily of sugar and spice candles-- with the geese outside my window for company. I haven’t slept here for days.

Light brownish **** lip stain to match the season,
Gold eye liner to make my brown eye color lighter,
Concealer and foundation to even out the skin tone,
bronze pink blush to add a bit of color and define my cheek bones,
Medium brown eyebrow pencil to perfect my eyebrows,
A stripped black and tan shirt with a brown scarf, blue jeans and black boots;
Hair is in a delicate curly updo so that my face gets more attention,
Burberry perfume to bring a soft delicate trail of her aroma,
my make up looks natural yet it adds color and defines the beautiful features of my face.
I do this not to cover my flaws,
not because I am insecure,
not for attention,
Simply because I want to pamper myself.
simply because I deserve to look pretty.
simply because I want to be as beautiful on the outside that I am on the inside.

Never mind the headache, ma'am, I got no time for your wishin that you had another couple hours sweaty spoonin with me
These days I got high time
racing like underline
all the while the future words seem
as if they're repeating
much slower or bleeding
white into the rest of the page
I gotta go ta work

Never mind the simple kiss, the stranger smile, the holy art.

Never mind the needful hand, I hear all the words that you're speaking and I've spent years making them not cut into me.

Liner notes, notes of pain,
thoughts we'll never meet again,
and the winter stays on my mind...

cries of anger, cries of pain,
I cry we'll never meet again,
and the winter stays on my mind...

Yet the wind still blows,
and the past still knows,
and as darkness draws ‘er near,
the winter stays on my mind...

So farewell, my friend, 'till we meet again,
'till sunny meadow and forest rain
keep winter on the line...

Dan Bryce

A famous ship that set sailed
The name “Titanic” a cruise liner marked for preserver, but something down the line failed
The Titanic made it’s way over the seas
Yet on the deck the passengers were treated to an endless breeze
As the music played an elegant melody
The feeling of majestic royalty within red carpet hospitality
This was the first of the Titanic voyage
History in the making for sure
But will the Titanic reach destined shore?
A final night that everyone narrates and regrets
As the doomed cruise liner continued on the waves
Disaster struck with thoughts on did the waves behave
Panic was among the travelling passengers
The passengers being distinguished in the category of who’s who
There was a special passenger and I will give you a clue
The insignia of R.H.
I didn’t give the last name as I am trying to see if you figured out what R.H. stands for
You will be surprised in galore
The passenger was Rowland Hussey Macy
The name associates with MACY’S DEPARTMENT STORE
A store you probably shop today
But Mr. Macy perished on board the ship “Titanic”
Yet he was a man of the seas by way of Merchant ****** from Nantucket
But the Titanic was constructed to be unsinkable
However the situation does make one think as what really happened on the Titanic?
A mystery of the seven seas
Let your mind wander but feel at ease
All the passengers perished, and their soul’s went to thee.

*******, *******, Where art thou *******?

[Lost Animals]
Cats probably aren’t even lost
Dogs are trying to find the way back to you
And then there’s butterflies and wild geese that can fly
thousands of miles and back every year and just know
The way home  

[Photographs of Abandoned Places]
Empty rooms filled with flotsam and jetsam
once colorful but now faded and dusty
what draws us here?
The emptiness, the mystery of why we would leave
our dwellings and go elsewhere

[“Don't Lost" Sign]
Our faces were cold and it was windy
we smiled and laughed anyway
warm from the dim lights and food we’d left behind
Don’t lost what? Don’t get lost? Don’t lose yourself?
Cryptic commands posed by an unknown painter with bad grammar  

[Labyrinth]
Isn’t it strange that we make a game out of getting lost?
Ariadne Gave Theseus golden thread to solve the Labyrinth and defeat the Minotaur
Cathedrals have them too, so we can meditate and walk through them
But what minotaur lies at the center of our labyrinth?
More importantly, can we defeat it?  

[Cultural Appropriation]
A clinical term for the simple act
of erasure, of losing.
A people, a nation a culture, a shared memory
who are we without these things?
Such power in taking them away and reducing the people to shadows.  

[Photographs of Chernobyl]
An eerie empty city of ghosts
The pictures show that nature will take us all back one day
there are trees in living rooms and schools  
The photos of howling, pain, mutation are a warning that we shouldn’t seek to have
So much power.

[Losing People]
Stoics say that when someone has died you have ‘returned’ them
This sounds better than losing I suppose
because they aren’t lost
they are gone. And they’re never coming back
No matter where or how long we look we won’t find them  

[Guiding Stars]
The palest of light that seeps into our atmosphere
we are under the same stars as everyone else wherever we are on this lonely planet
that ought to give some comfort, when I look up at night that I see the same stars
as you. I want to brush them into the palm of my hand and offer their light
to you so you could maybe see your words are what is painted on the inside of my soul.  

[Feeling at a Loss]
My tongue is tied and I can’t even think of words because I can’t breathe
around this knot in my chest that forms when I think of you and how I lied and why I let
myself lose you and so for a long while my heart cried oceans and I begged it to stop
So I wouldn’t have to think about the words that I didn’t say and the light I lost,
the brightest that came from your heart.    

[At a Loss for Words]
When someone says something you’re not even sure you heard right, you’re stunned
because you can’t even think of a response while the blood rushes to your face and
pounds in your ears like waves on the beach will you sit silent, stoic
not wanting to give away heat you feel just under the skin.  

[Losing My Religion]
How can you lose your beliefs? Unless someone stole them
Or the disgust with hypocrisy built on good intentions breaks in you until you lose sight
of what you believe to be real and all you can do is renounce it.
What happens if you never knew what to believe in the first place?
A crisis of faith is averted? But at what price?

[Lost Clothes]
The left sock, left glove, that ugly winter jacket you had as a kid.
Where do they go? Why do they just disappear? You just never find them. What do you
Do with the extras? What happens to the lost ones? Is there a land for lost socks? Are
they lonely, trying to find their other half?  

[Missing Person Posters]
Can you lose a person? No, surely not. How can let someone fade from you so far away
that they go missing? Maybe they let themselves fade. Pulled away.
Of course, they could be stolen, or forget who they are, but that is almost less disturbing
than thinking of than people running away or being lost by people
who are supposed to care.

[Lost Cause]
Maybe not so much a cause going nowhere as one that people tired of
too much work with no end in sight. So they left and let the tenacious ones
the true believers take over, to finish the ***** work and clean up the mess
is that how this grace thing works? Holding your tongue while someone else chases
glory only to abandon it when it is too difficult and they leave you to see it through?

[Lost My Mind]
My mind is currently wandering through some forested path on a mountain almost
on the way to touching the sky or lying on the bottom of a the clearest blue ocean
looking up through the kelp leaves and shimmering fish. Or between words of a book.
So forgive me, I missed what you were saying. I’m sure it was important. I was just
trying to follow my mind to those places. And be somewhere else.        

[Lost Souls]
The kind of thing you say talking about a girl with empty sad eyes raccooned by liner.
Or a boy who is always angry or in an altered state of consciousness,
so he can face his everyday. It is reminiscent of ghosts, who wander, not sure where to
go, or who to trust so they hold their despair and fear tightly against their chests.    

[Lost Time]
A euphemism for fainting. Or maybe used by historians for a time with no records.
It sounds more mysterious, Where can time go, except forwards? How can there be a
lost part of time? it sounds as though time has a private life, that it won’t share.
Unless asked politely. Which is what we do when we investigate the past isn’t it,
Looking for the lives of others.  

[The Lost Generation]
“Don’t wanna be an American Idiot” said Scott, and Ernest, and Gertrude.
So they sent each other invitations to their chic Parisian salons on creamy white paper
and said ‘darling let’s make it a holiday!’ and had a divine time with the French
so they wrote novels of despair and disdain and the pain of being human.
and drowned the pain in champagne and beautiful women and men.  

[Lost in Translation]
Some words that cannot be translated in English especially
ones that are raw and tender and romantic
ones that are universal feelings with no name that everyone understands
but the meaning is changed to make it something no one understands in English
So something universal becomes something ungraspable to all.   

[Lost and Found]
The one who crawled out the cave
out of the dark into the pure light so they were blind
Gave so much to come back for the others out of love?
Or a sense of duty? Or maybe they were just returning, as we all do
as we all will do someday.

Death by ******, death by chance,
Death by secret night romance,
Death by number, paint the liner,
Death in colour or black and white,
Accidental, planned prolonged,
Death by always doing wrong,
Death by self, a timeless art,
Death by one last broken heart.

"When a person is born it's a blessed time,
Albeit a person is in love it's a splendid era,
When that person perishes it is a bereaved era,
Albeit Love of two people expires it's a cataclysm,

Vestige as we used to sit there on the littoral,
As the dusk of the winds would blow the sand,
The sand pursues into your long black hair,
Visage your dark green eyes and a beauty of a smile,

All times I have enjoyed greatly also suffered greatly,
Times you loved me and alone on the shore,
It is an perpetual power that as my utopia,
Is me ichorous of our love moments together,

Afore us lies the port and a skimming ocean liner,  
As we slowly see an alluvion gloom in the darkness,
Legions of souls drudged here in day and night,
Above gusting drifts the rainy constellation of stars,

As we gambol in our fervor of cognizance of love in our
Utopia Ichorous"
By Andrew Guzaldo 08/03/2018  © Posted HP/

This is my gift to you
words
a form so lacking in all
stability, security
that we chew them and spit them out
so they’re done
over
intangible.

You may throw them away from the
back of your throat
to the tip of your tongue
in one wave
one simple wave of movement and then we can all forget
the silly things I’ve said
admitted
denied
and will not be caught out by
sources that say otherwise.

This is my gift to you:
One free ticket to forget me
what a prize
to be hypnotized  
People pay a lot for that ****.
You see, when I make awkward eye contact
with my morning mirror
and delve into my makeup bag
for assistance in eye liner
my fingers always find that pit
and slip into a ring that’s been tossed to the bottom
rings entwined with rings entwined with poor judgement.
They sit and wait in their scuffed coats,
like waiting for a bus
waiting to remind me
remember that time?

This is my gift to you.
A present that says
‘I am not permanent’
because believe me, I’m not.
But if I have to wake up to
break ups bound in highly unreactive gold
then at least let me free you of these chains too.
It’s just such a shame that they suit you.

My mind held tight lock and key but what I found was only what’s safe. Afraid to perish when my minds nails dug deep into the polished oak of the coffin. A coward dies 1000 cycles before the first battle cry of reality. Safe inactivity rots the bones to the marrow of the infected anxiety! So instead my cowardice and selfish ambitions moved to a new vice. I was most dangerous when successful to worldly accolades and dreams. I could hide in the shadows of potential, invisible to the threats of our carnal realities. Only showing face when it was safe and sound. Death brews in a caldron froth with the luke warm stock of fear stirred by the seasoning of our sinful natures. You only live once is the name of the selfish game and I think I just flat lined. You won’t find eternity in the safety of that mirror mirror on the wall….I want to Love deeper than deeper and yet deeper again. I want to pick up the cross and follow Jesus.

Being cared for
Here's the  adored door

Inside playing he pours the hearts

So like him the ricochet
Deeply love so cultured
My pearl crochet

Deeply cared about I got you
under my skin
I win your love ticket

The spool of
wool hit the floor
To the extreme
The sensitive mind

  And his feeling like the escapee finding
the higher
religion keeping that in mind
The everlasting  to be cared for or
not to be never lasting like someone
lost its hunger fasting

Waking up deeply recharged or
reproducing to
her neverending fairytale

Much deeper than 69 eye love shades
Deeply cared for beyond his loving
It comes and fades
Like Monopoly  "Godly Sun-Seeker" keeps
passing us
The game of life charades
Like Persian babies their
button nose deeply cared for to cuddle
The warmest meows hug and save

Like flour to sparkle, it deepens
like our mix, a love needs
to be worked on 
 do you really
care to fix?

But sending all the details
the lines soften pale pink rose
I felt your red fire putting
out the coldness fire and ice
To be saved on time
Like the fire chief,  
Acted like a French chef what
a love roue of the hose

Like silk my millennium  milk,
He held my finger but not
to sulk he said buckle up
What firmness and tightness
arm to arm wrestler such
bulk

Never to swear but a little lie 
  Wouldnt hurt my delicate
pinky finger
In her loop with her fur
deeply
Stepped into her mink

He's the frontman
Fresh cut lemon
Yellow sunshine
happy medium

I was wearing my hair middle parted
The picture slide the made man
Tied back my hair was deeply
Smooth talker well conditioned
With what conditions all recollections
But three strikes when you care for
someone you  don't fall out of love

  This world loves to be pampered
Cared about not scouted
All hole marks in the road badly routed
 With tons of work with the question mark?
The sign stayed with her
Deeply care about?

Like a play date let's pretend
You're both a handful
Like beer malt lips
Engraved love in the barrels
To feel deeply loved  he acted
Like the riddler

The beach her eyes were waiting to be reached
Sunset playing the fool marionette overly preached

So I  Bette
Beneath her wings
In the middle of their wed to be isles
The Green Gables emerald rings

Miss spinster-Sara Lee cake
His jeep was all she could take
How it ended up
In Greenwich Village then shipped
To Mystic Seaport Connecticut
The movie cut Cape Cod Massachusetts
The four letters in his pocket
Deeply 1 care 2 about 3 love 4

Needed a jump kickstart
Her breakfast  start of the day
 deeply cared for his way
He stumped over her honey
bunches of oats lips

The website
Go, Daddy acting love silly
The hot fun in the
International city
The UK that's OK
Mr. Bo Jangles spoiled deeply
*** in the City single
Deeply getting hurt
The Sin City

Did he see her progress
All over Twitter
He was so suited but lost
his tie twinkle tweets
Do I really live my life to dare
or deeply care?
I am ****** British give me
my English breakfast teas
for keeps
The King ain't got that swing
She acts too much like the Queen

The Royalty of love sanity
The heaping fine grain sugar spoon

(Duke of Earl gray) Deeply love Thee
But always came way too soon
She is the domestic cat going frantic

Great discoveries, and that's that
  Internships tug-cash or the hogwash
our colleagues  
The deep end "Crazy Eights
On the tenth physio natural
phenomena convent

All the Kingman no swords holding her
wrench
and knight horses unfortunate events
One day creation camel ride for miles
Reaching higher levels of toxins
and morons
Or teaching MLM  you asked for it
"The millionaire lost minds"

Were human TLC tender loving care
Like some playdough to the rooftop
Of Mentors, did they care
Who we deeply care about family
But more concerned
about the rise of money inventors
Even if life really *****
Oh! Fiddlesticks

The Moaning of life
Bring the Idiots aboard
The ***** of the night

He kinda ducks by the end of
your ***-light
Flex-body deeply cared for
Rumors and all philosophies
The shower like you was slashed
Left you bone dry without the cash
The thrill is gone your lovesick

She-devil  coffin red nails split Twilight zone

  The stars were in your corner
He deeply cared for you he was
your health kit
The Botanical Gardens

Like a figment of your imagination
Se demure you needed a
Florence Nightingale flower cure
To lift your depression to smile
You thought someone cared but all
misinterpretations

All misconceptions and misdemeanors
She takes so long putting on her
French lip glide Chanel liner
What could be ever cared for finer
Deeply digging holes like a miner

The solar rhythmic pointed finger
to the stars

So systematically
making a wish
just like everyone else
To plan your game
the game makes the plan
You deeply cared for delivery
Was I the care package

You weren't someone
just anybody like
A city dump garbage

Deeply wanting and waiting
So merely or rarely was it coming

Deeply seeing the next generation
The spectacular sunrise
White wicker twin set swing
Your heart pulls back but it was
so close to swinging forward
Moving towards your
accomplishments
The mess was all ****

"You have the exceptional mind like the beautiful mind"

People, you came across friends
Also, contributors  not the enemies
The country and the continents
Deeply cared for landmarks
The monuments how you love
her birthmark taking her hand

The Godly land such will command
moonwalker deeply cared for
All watered deep soul of lovers
The world of hands and
words became
such an impact

You felt like the creature so extinct

Liner runs thin
as I examine the skin
where I look for a tell-tale mark
Left of a ring that would prove
I'm not alone.
(it's not there)

My back arches and
my body quakes
as deep inside
Infantile sexuality wakes
as my lips let fly
assumed and guessed sighs
of fabricated pleasure
(whatever that is)

They did not teach me these things
I was left to assume
as hearts often do
when they are kept in a room
and ushered away from the pains and joys
of Love

I stare into a mirror
and I stare back
Until all of a sudden
my smile cracks
and I'm left to stare
into the eyes of one
born to lose.

I hug warm pillows
and stroke my own hair
Until I realize he
is not
wasn't
and will never be there
and I'm left to assemble
a Shattered Glass Heart
with nothing but hammers for tools

But then I see myself
beauty and flaws defined
and at this point I know
the only glass heart I need
is mine
even in pieces, it retains it's strength
and waits to be whole again

So dormant I sit
mesmerized by the prisms the pretty pieces make
as I wait
for a true artist to come
and give this
Shattered Glass Heart
new form
with the heat of reassuring and shared existence
and the grace of gentle words and sweet kisses.

Walls were pressed and hammered
Therapy for workers, curing pangs of comforts
They sat between fleshy webs of knuckles
On lunch break they would pluck pouts of moldy fruit
If only she could hear summer of 98’
Glimmering puddles and sinkable reasons
She could test her strength with Goldfish and a drippy, chocolate cupcake
Matching deserts of skin covering joints young enough to bend
They spat against another, sweating. Tapping
Smoother than honeymooners in a convention center
Frigid or uncontrollable, no one could tell
The breezeway connected teeth, the left chipped in the corner from
A muddy softball game. Their team won 7-2.
Wide enough to squeeze uncooked macaroni shells between
Became the dusky neighborhood game.
Transitioning humans, males most likely, whispered fears between that gap.
He was different. He waited in outside the doors, near the trash bins
With grumpy janitors, muttering, “fuggin’ kids” and things like that.
She loved how ugly they were then.

Her thoughts trailed him, what was left of him, as he paced
Searching for the mug he left there, no
There, holding wet tissue, no
Soggy cupcake liner
Cupcake, shortcake, cake, cake liner
Rainbow or musty brown from 346 degrees Fahrenheit
Baking Therapy Class held in her kitchen
Maybe because she could pound at the dough and it would never fight back
She neglects the finale of rumbling coffee exhale since she knows
He’d never come back. Not here or any party she threw.
But on another hard drive she saved photos of September 20th.
She’ll flip mindlessly through a Cosmopolitan, until she can forget his name

All manner of people can be found in train stations, there character betrayed by attire to the more observational at least. The hard pressed city worker, walking ever walking, phone at hand, ever scanning emails and ensuring accessibility always, to control is too maintain is too succeed. Those who's steps seemingly shorter and more though out, are either here on some grand tour or some exotic soire as if silently noting surroundings, as the pass beneath the ornate decorations of their location. There care free folly the main indicator of intentions.From time to time a transport police officer shall pass, stern faced, seemingly compelled by some unknown mission others stand stationary a deterrent to would be criminals. From time to time the most beautiful facet of humanity is likely to appear, in the adoring stares of young lovers. It's this or the hold and don't let go grip, young lovers and train stations have long associated (In my mind at least) the point of departure is a grey area. Where displays of public affection normally reserved for movies and poems, reach the realm of social acceptability. Long deep kisses and well thought out speeches describing the grievances of an ever bleeding heart. There is one group I have failed to mention, who in there own way are entirely distinct from any of groups fore mentioned. They are the watchers, found normally at some quite looking coffee shop across the street, however this is not to imply they can not be any of the above. All of the above mix intermittently with interesting results, I shall for as long as I live never forget the passionate embrace of an on duty police officer and his wife. His eyes bright with surprise, at ease staring upon the one he so adores. I leave the station and head toward the embankment,
All manner of people pass me on their way to unknown offices, some holding hands and staring deeply. The rumble of unseen locomotive reassures me now of course I'm drawing closer, the winter winds once faint now felt as the once green leaves now all manner of colour are pulled by unseen gusts. This city must surely be the greatest in the world, from the industrial chimneys distant to the rolling ocean. Dockers smoke cigarettes and exchange raucous  tales whilst foreign sailors stare intently. I always try my hardest to listen to as much as I could manage of these half spoken speeches.  Im rewarded instantly with an image far more detailed and planned than anything the most creative minds could conceive. The wild waves create orators, there thoughts distilled be evenings spent alone. I've always found myself drawn to transient people, I feel like I've spend forever dreaming of someplace else Greenland Egypt Canada, you name the place and I've seen it in my dreams at least. It took me a while longer than I care to admit to truly get a feel for the place, at first like some timid child I avoided it. From the age of thirteen I've been locked in a battle with wanderlust, my urge to leave it all is simply overwhelming. In all my darkest fantasies, I leave this place at some point on some old ocean liner to arrive at unknown port. Too share a meal with mountain air as my ashtray overflows. I warm myself with images of ancient explorers sailing distant oceans, guided by starlight. Some people just elude me. I'd call myself stubborn but certain people melt me, I the eternal romantic a victim of my own high hopes. I'd often find myself alone, staring across the river and wondering. I always sit upon the same old bench carved with all manner of messages declarations of undying love, names, dates all carved into immortality. The steady movement of approaching footsteps is eternal, beyond the customs house  solitary North Star shines, as if admiring its provincial estate. An unknown entity now serving as a subtle voice of reason in the darkness, occasionally couples pass, as if to cement my my longing. The starlight illuminates breaking waves, as boats sway easy ******* to subtle quayside. Ever reminded of my obligations I should really leave and go to sleep. However the pull of the darkness is tangible, that was something! oh something! Suddenly a gentle calm smothers all thought, as lights glimmer distant. Light! Oh  brother light, I the eternal castaway home bound at last. My expectations were entwined with food and wine, and the comfort of my own bed.

I was never a sinking ship, just the remains
of an ocean liner, settling on the sea’s lips.
At least, that’s what I think.
I am not a tragedy, no,
but so many of my pages are empty and, my god, I need
you to know that if I am a book,
I am half-complete (not half-unfinished––I'm learning, you see?),
but it’s the back half,
and a few scattered paragraphs before that.
Now and then I write in my own history,
just for others to read and believe
there’s something more to me
than a leather bound cover over cheap poetry.
That’s all I am, really.

I’m just trying to keep my head above the water.
I keep my secrets close, and my happiness bottled
––for the nights when I need something stronger
than spirits that burn on the way down,
something that can keep these ghosts
from crawling back out my mouth
to tumble from my lips at last.

Listen, I'm really not hard to figure out.

It’s broken glass,
it’s the smash of a car crash,
it’s the smell of smoke and ash,
it’s a statue of a girl learning to laugh,
and to know, and how to venture
into you. I count the number of times I've been sure,
on my knuckles instead of my fingertips,
because it wasn't the touch, it was the fist
that first said: I am better than this
(fires will die but they fight harder than all else).
Besides, my fingers are not for counting out.
I think they're for you,
to weave yours through,
and to feel on your skin
when I spell out I love you,
because my fingers do not flinch
as easily as my mouth does cringe
and strangle truths in anger.

If you feel I am pulling into myself,
remember I'm likely collapsing inwards,
and know this:
broken homes beget broken bones,
but more often they spit
broken boys and girls from their lips.
My body is new,
no longer mould and mildew,
but steel, mortar, and brick,
and stone
and stick.

I am almost always cold.
My wrists look too thin for the weight of my world.

I carry on, but I am not strong.
**** knows how long those days have been gone.

To the person who will somehow fall for me:
I am not a tragedy,
but a mess of a story.
I write dumb rhymes to feel like I'm growing.
I speak as a cynic, but at heart I'm all dreams.
Sometimes I take a minute to listen and, slowly,
I think I'm becoming someone worth being.

I seem bare as a clinic and empty as glossy magazines,
but it's all a set and some props, one day I'll end scene.
I'm not ready yet, but on One Day, I'll be.

I swear, I'm almost there.
My world is readying,
like winter prepared
to yield to spring.

i still can't get my head around
one particular term...

   how can islamophobia join
the legion of other, irrational fears?

what is irrational about the
"so-called", "irrational" (fear is too
strong a word) caution with
regards to Islam?

what a disgusting term...
  i thought that Islam had some rationale
implicit within its marble mosque
walls?

       arachnophobia is a phobia
precisely because it is irrational -
and it's funny -
     first of all:
  phobia come with a reflexive
rather than a reflective position -
a reflex reaction
akin to someone who has
arachnophobia upon spotting
a tiny spider, or walking into
a thick, single thread of spiderweb
in the garden...

it's a double artifact of
a fear:
   it is actually irrational to have
an "irrational" fear of an ideology -
but it is rational to fear
cloning - esp. cloning that is
not granted to some Rockefeller,
who can clone himself,
and son his future "self"...

oh yeah: cloning was around way before
the sciences caught up...
after all: the genetic cognitive
structure / device was in place,
intact within / as the Quran...
now? plenty of ******* clones walking
about, spewing the same ****
most of the time...

  an irrational fear...
    "Islamophobia" is most certainly
a rational fear...
          it's not a funny fear either,
plus it has no reflexive potency -
i don't exactly experience
     a reflexive reaction of immediate
fear seeing a Muslim...
but i sometimes entertain
a reflexive reaction with a spider...

it's a reflective fear,
hence it's not automated, purely ******...
you know what:
i'm not even going to style this
as a goldfish argument...
i'm not into calling anyone stupid:
but paying attention
to certain grammatical restrictions
of words?
  is a bit like 1 + 1 = 2 restrictions
of logic...

   too much rationality of a distant
cousin went into Islam...
   i can't exactly call upon God to tell
me my irrational reaction
to whatever rationality went into
creating a spider...
             a spiderweb is no rational
argument as to why i'm not afraid
of four legged creatures much
larger than me...

               six legs is a bit whacky -
at least we know what exploration
looks like, under a microscope
of the insect / virus / parasitic lens -
not much fun, noting the fact that
outside of this world?
   things... of that sort of nature:
could sure as **** be much bigger...

ah...
   so maybe my arachnophobia is
rational after all:
  within the confines of the possibility
of reaching a variant of
this habitable planet,
and finding enlarged variations of
my irrational disgust for something
with six legs?
   or is it eight?

     so why am i not prone to a Semitic
phobia?
      quiet honestly i'm a
Semitephile...
   and last time i heard,
some Egyptian was telling me that
he was also a Semite...
   go figure... Egyptians are
the sort of wandering folk that
put their ******* pyramids into
caravans, brick by brick...
walk around the world and
rebuild their pyramids whenever
they go...
   notably in the Himalayas -
or the Alps... to compete with
those mountains' heights!

THERE IS NO, ISLAMOPHOBIA...
it's a fake term...
  and also a fake phenomenon -
what it is, is an incomprehensible
res per se: a noumenon -
a thing in itself, by people who use
the term to begin with...

    there is nothing erratic -
   reflexive about this phobia -
it's a meditated -
reflective fear as a cautionary /
anticipatory fear -
again: too strong a word -
apprehension -
   and the people who are,
"supposedly", "islamophobic":
have put in place measures
to not feel as constantly being
on the edge of their seats...

after all... some sort of logic went
into Islam...
some reason...
   some rationality...
         as interpreted by people
other than me...
   i can't call upon a God to explain
to me the rationality of
the irrationality i place in my
sometimes fear of spiders...
sure, there is a rationality of a spider,
however vague,
or mundane within the vector of
eat, or be eaten...

    but the rationality placed within
a spider, that explains my
irrational fear of them?
   funny as ****...

  as in that bible one-liner:
eat of this tree,
   and you will know the difference
between
              ∇HWH      &
    ΔHMH...
                          i guess no one in Rugby
really thought about the origins
of the sport in terms of the goal posts,
thinking of the Hebrew deity
in name (two names) only?

so... as a "Latin" man (evidently
the language might be dead,
but i'm not writing in ᚱᚢᚾᛖᛋ,
  most certainly) -
i can only be - either
antisemitic - or islamophobic?
  
      and Egyptians are Semites?!
the ****?!
             this topic has been drilled
into the ground...
   but as someone who has
bouts of arachnophobia,
i thought i'd move into a territory
outside the ideological
argument...
or the argument from the basis
of ideology...

       i thought it would be
much more productive to explain
the concept of phobias...
and... however you look at it...
no ideology is irrational...
   because an ideology that is,
irrational, is no coherent,
and has no propaganda...
            
what a load of crock ****!

****** noses and abortion.
Bars and a baby boy.
Ciggs and eye liner.
Do
As
I
Do.
Your child is a ******* all because of you.
One mind driven by one thing.
Your talk is **** about cowardly things.
Do
As
I
Do.
Jonesin’ so hard even M.r Jones is praying for you.

Let me tell you one thing, I will never end up like you.
I will do as you didn’t, so from my heart to your black hole, I swear to god I promise,
I’ll
Do
As
I
Do,
all you have to remember is,
*******.

1.** black coffee

lipstick stains I always have to clean,
not from mugs
but
from his shirt collars when I forget the cream
“Two creams babe. Why is it so
******* hard to remember two creams?”
I don’t have an answer so
I continue to scrub the lipstick stains and
swear I’ll get it right
He’s messing up worse, no one is keeping count
So I swear I’ll get it right

2. wrinkled shirt sleeves

my favorite time is
in the morning before he’s up
when I get to take time and iron his works clothes
Today is not one of those times
He’s up early, and he’s risen irritated
He has a meeting
he told me, I needed to wake him up early
I forgot
He grabs his shirt and pants
whining incessantly about the shirt sleeves
I missed them because I was
not finished
He doesn’t care, “You’re worthless, so why should I be surprised?”
I don’t leave the bathroom all day

3. dog-eared pages

sometimes,
he has to “work late”
and I get time to myself
I’ve been reading a memoir about Vivaldi
I flip to find the most recently creased page
and settle into the soft couch
He thinks it is ridiculous and childish
that I don’t use a bookmark
I told him it makes the books
just that much more personable
He isn’t one for sentiment so
he laughs
and asks if I want him to pick me up one on his way back from work
I don’t say yes, but I don’t say no either
The bookmark he bought me
makes a really nice
coke liner

4. ivory piano keys

when I was younger
before the addiction
I played piano
In the basement of my great aunts
four story Victorian
sat the most elegant baby grand
it was out of tune, and dusty
but that never stopped me
from clunking out thunderous melodies
and driving the cats insane
now, in the emptiness of this apartment
I dream of that piano
it’s long white keys and low, low seat
I hear its music
never a note right but
it never sounded sweeter

5. crooked lip liner

“we’re going to be late to the banquet, babe.”
erratic nodding, yes yes yes I know but
I’m shaking again
he knows why he always he knows
“I need more.”
I don’t say of what, he knows
there’s no time is what he tells me
I know that but
god, I can hear my heartbeat in my ears
ragged breath and it feels like my skin wants
to be separate from my body
I hate when I’m like this
he’s so responsible
I hate him
fingers twitching and teeth itching
red lip liner was such a bad idea
I don’t bother filling it in neatly
if I’m to play the role
of cracked out wife
well goodness, I must look it
he doesn’t lay an eye on me all night
whispers let me know
if the people aren’t aware, they’re guessing
I don’t bother to uphold
one semblance of normalcy
knock back one glass of the
fancy bubbly champagne
the shaking subsides
knock back a second
my vision no longer whirls
the drunker I get
the more normal I feel
my outward appearance is a mess
but
I feel good inside

She sit's there in the dock
see her smoking funnels
and her streamlined sleek

God I can't wait to board her
knowing she will ride such stormy weathers

She is a ship of dreams
such a classic form
from stem to stern
I 'm honoured to give her a turn

She looks so pretty anchored there
man I want to sail in her now
yet as a captain of many
the only way I will sail in her
is if she gave me pity

She is a vessel I much admire
she sets my heart on fire
this most wonderful thing
her name on my red lips
my sweet dream liner

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

"And now please welcome today's anti-terrorism speaker, Anonymous!"

[anonymous applause, dwindling out]

"Thanks, everyone. The reason I prefer anonymity should be self-evident, but just to make it clear, I wish to avoid the recrimination of the hostile element."

"Before I got here I was just reading, and believe me I'm still not believing, but it would seem, on the whole, that planetary aggression is on the slow."

A hand is raised
A hand is ignored
The speaker moistens his lips
Prepared to emit a bit more.

"I have stats and stories
Tortuous anecdotes about little girls and boys
Food and sanitation is a crime itself
And I'm prepared to say we live in our own hell."

Arms upheld wither down
As new hands reach for attention
But the speaker ignores them all
Intent on his own presentation.

"The reason for hate
Is more or less clear
We fiercely believe one thing
As they devoutly believe another.

But do not fear!
We are right and they are wrong
They saddle their own children with a death song
No cartoons of basic morality
Just legs with bombs
Made to go off remotely."

An angry rustle
Amidst lowered hands
Quieting now
Like they're getting the hang of it.

"Humans are robots
Programmable, malleable and sometimes trustworthy
Highly complicated machinery!
Indoctrination is the virus
That seeks to destroy the outside."

Again the raised hands
And eyebrows too
All these fluttering robots
Fluttering in a pseudo-free zoo.

Ignoring the obvious
The speaker plods onwards
But modulates his voice
Against their trained reactions.

"We need to accept and enfold
An ideology only thousands of years old
To mutate and twist
Into what our children might wish."

Someone yells "Disney!"
Another mutters "Black whiteys"
But there are a few
Who remain to hear it through.

"Despite what you think
Despite who you are
Against all you've been taught
We've come quite far.

You may not know your son
You may not know your daughter
But leave them alone
And tomorrow may happen.

Put the guns aside
Drink from your hidden bottles without shame
You are who you are
And you should let them be them."

This is not what anyone wanted
Anyone over the age of ten
This is not what anyone wanted
With children and the urge to brainwash them.

The room trickles out
Leaving the most devout
Devoted to the future
Any future left standing.

But amidst this group
Are hard-liner elements
And one has a voice
Cutting through it all
To ask, "What about bomber babies?"

And riding right on top
Is a fat slobbery Republican fop
Demanding in his self-entitled way
"What the **** about America?"

The speaker shrugs
As if to indicate
Which question
Is more stupid.

"We seek to leave the planet
And develop tech to make it happen
You go your way
And we go ours."

The room is smaller now
They indulge in eye contact
Personal communications
Words, hands, heads and eyebrows.

The speaker sighs
As if on the cusp of absolute honesty
Then spills his true guts
To these few radicals and emissaries:

"Our worst enemy is ourselves
Through millennia fashioning our own hells
Subjugation of non-prominent DNA
Believing destruction will pave the way.

But on a not-much larger scale
We're just cheap entertainment
For every other race
That crawled up this hill."

The crowd is slightly subdued
Probably more from shame
Than anything
Because shame is in the DNA
And experienced by everyone.

But we can always rely
On some fat Republican to decry
"But not me!
And for sure not my children!"

And now even more file out
Hearts emptied and minds afloat
Now it's just the sweating speaker
And a few odd haters.

"We're a microbial phenomenon
Miraculously still alive
And still inept
At staying alive."

He waves a casual hand like a maestro
And behind him the stage glows
A 30x30 screen descends
Illuminating bugs as they crawl.

"We're slightly smarter
But no more hardier
Than Hymenoptera
Except we can leave this planet."

Red-faced and obviously insulted
The old fat plushy storms out
Leaving now just a few
To adopt this future-flung view.

"We need to terraform and colonize
Sure, and design space suits
Pleasing to the eye
But ultimately,
We need to get the hell gone."

One clap, one frown
The speaker shrugs
As if wondering
Why aren't we all gone?

And so he is left
With the clean-up crew
And one fruitcake
Who asks
"Will God come with us?"

When all butterflies are frozen too deep
Lifeless and brittle in the snow
The touch of summer you gave me to keep
Still thaws and brings life like spring,  you know

oft on bus seated next,
every one of your senses
adjusting, modulating,
to her unpredictable
solar flaring

you don't ever risk
that first missing
           misstep,
your entirety is
sun bursted
        (un)/consumed
in unhappy joy of her
consuming presence

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you laugh
years later
re the topic of
your first shaky
foot in the mouth
a classic misstep
first bow shot,
opening one liner

and each storied retelling  
is nature!s
snow and rain
refilling
the love of your
groundwater table
welling up

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you love her scent
the silly hats she wears,
her short skirts arouse,
that last open button
a misstep invitation,
angry it incenses,
her every solitary everything is
incense,
pervading a daily
co-riding
passenger's
oxygen? starved soul

~~~~~~~~~

her umbrella is a wet
selfie stick
accidentally opening and dousing
an un random next door
seatmate

just another unlucky misstep for
someone sitting next store,
oil on the fire of
happily ever after

two selfies are last seen as
one
un selfishly
toweling each other off and
on
with wet kisses

~~~~~~~~~~~

you eavesdrop on her
earbud music,
weep internally you do with
crazed jealously

The Temptations
are so unfairly
singing to her
"Ain't to Proud to Beg"
and neither are you

you heart is misstepping
to every beat,
your fingers
thrumming,
you idiot, not quietly enough
humming
in the next seat

the first,
will not be
the last

smile exchanged

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

poem writing on the tablet,
amidst the groaning awful
no moving
city traffic

overheated bus
combustible with
winter snow dampness,
wet dog sweat smelling people clothes

all you want to do is get home
shower off
the daily dirt

the poetry writing pastime
is the place
where you put yourself
to better to pass over
your sour surroundings

her finger rattlesnakes,
misstepping over,
noisily invading,
the invisible boundary
constructed to hold up the
eye-averting
Keep Out sign
to momentary,
too neighborly
strangers

her red painted
pointer finger
smudge prints on your tablet,
accompanied with
bespoke words
"try this"

that smudge suggestion
won't come off

insisting on crediting
a shared authorship,
you ask for her
email and cell,
so you can share
her
forever

co jointed tangled
bus and bed sheet first efforts
on writing, all about
what you play~argue
what should your entitled poem
be titled

you think

endless short love story bus poems

but she prefers,
with red fingers persuading

the first misstep is the best

both see the merit
in each other

Track 1: guitar - J. Connoly
                  engineered by Rodney Watson.
                  Do you even know what an engineer does?
                  Thought not.

Track 2: This one was written by our bass player who, quite frankly,
                    rather hoped that people would be dancing or making love to
                    it.  Not sitting on their fat backsides, stroking their chins and
                    stoking up on music trivia like you are.

Track 3: The big hit.  You're now old enough to realise
                    that this track was probably selected by
                    a record company executive, at the expense of another,
                    far more ambitious and rewarding track.  The track that
                  should have been here was so clear and concise
                    that no liner notes would have been necessary.

Track 4: This one doesn't sound as good as it did when you were 16.
                    Nothing is as good as it was when you were 16.
                    It wasn't the song that was good: it was being 16.

Track 5: The girl that this song brings to mind is not, however much
                   you may hope it, sitting in a living room somewhere,
                   listening as you listen, and thinking of you.
                   To be absolutely frank, she was never more
                    than slightly fond of you, and even if she had been
                   she would have got over it long ago.  Girls are better that way.

Track 6: You know, you could be outdoors right now, breathing in
                   the cool fresh air and having some new experiences.
                   Living in the past is very unhealthy, and you could stand
                   to lose a pound or two.

Track 7: Even the band think this one is ****: skip ahead.

Track 8: The violin is played by the lead singer's wife.  You never know
                    when that might come up in a pub quiz.

Track 9: By now you're regretting forking out for an album you
                  already owned simply because it is on a new format.  You are
                   wondering if your old pal would like this for Christmas.
                   He wouldn't.

Track 10: When you were a teenager were you keen a) to develop your
                      own identity, bond with your peers and get a grasp of the
                      zeitgeist or b) sit indoors of an evening and listen to your
                      dad's records?  If you answered 'a', then for god's sake turn
                      this crap off and let your kids listen to their own CDs.  If
                      you answered 'b', you probably never had kids, so don't
                     worry about it.

I woke up *****
And went to the shop,
I got corn, peas, chopped gherkins,
All canned,
I raided the reduced section like mad,
Got some cheese
And some ham
That I won't allow to go bad,
cause I'll make a ton of salad
Out of this myriad,
For breakfast, munch and evening feast,
It'll last a fortnight at the very least,
I can top it up with this
Foul smelling liquor I brought from the east,
Among the other mementos in my cellarette,
I could have a party in my ******
In my kitchenette,
My flat is so hot I could sign post it
'sauna to let',
But the swingers here don't speak a word of
English,
One time they took their ya-yas out
And called ME a delinquent,
As if I've got a funny kind of pigment
They can't live with,
I've tried to put my finger on it
But I don't want it to get stinky,
I think they simply haven't got an inkling
As to what and why they're thinking,
But never mind those pinkies,
Let us go back to my shopping
Just as it was getting *****:
Before my skimpy trolley glided to the checkout,
I got a ticket for my pfand,
Which measured fairly to my pleasure
Of having my alcoholism,
Which is confess is merely leisured,
Redeemed into a form of solid ******* treasure.
Throughout the years my drinking
Let me celebrate the fear
Of lack of meaning,
It made friends out of strangers,
Lovers out of friends,
Ex lovers out of lovers,
Clowns out of boring people,
It made a clown out of me too,
My drinking took my money
And gave me a suspicious act
To cling to,
It made me a legless athlete
In a race against the future,
It excited me with waterfalls of chaos
Bursting through cracked normality,
It pretended to bring Arcadia
Into the ruling technology,
It invaded Scandinavia  
With lawless Somalia,
It put peaks and crannies
Into the dull landscape of
Nord Rhein Westphalia,
I have a whole worthless encyclopaedia
Of what my drinking did to me,
Page after page of random numbers
Makes for a baffling read,
I don't know if I should frame it,
Burn it,
Or get some ****,
My drinking always gave me an excuse to smoke,
I puffed my hours into nothingness,
Laughter & loneliness,
A condition of no ambition
Made life itself seem like a superstition,
But I don't want the repetition anymore,
Boredom is but a bed sheet of a sore old *****,
A stifling breath of a handicapped mind;
But
Being now so temporarily poor
I find it easy to smile
As the cashier counts my pennies
Making the citizens in line
In their Jack Wolfskins and denims
Very uneasy,
Men & women of the Rhein get seriously queasy
When they see a foreigner like me
Simply taking it easy,
You know I had to break my piggybank just to get here,
I crossed a red light when it was all clear,
I have no bike lights - I just disappear,
Who knows what is it that I do inside the night?..
Could be something good,
Might be something bright..
Anyway,
I got my receipt,
Said my 'schön Tag' alright,
I should have said 'schön Abend'
But I guess I'm not polite,
Then I rode in the street,
My bags dangling left & right,
Balancing my act
Under the waning Eurodollar moon,
Some react badly
when they're given **** to spoon,
But my lack of money
In fact makes me feel immune
To superficial cravings like
iPhones, clothes, perfume,
shavings, shoes, tattoos;
I'd rather spend a fortnight
In the arms of David Hume,
Than stopping by at Rügen
On my way to Cameroon,
On a beastly ocean liner,
With pommes and Pauliner
Supplied ad infinitum!
I don't know my own mind,
I's time to take a trip down the ol' cerebrum,
While tickets are at a minimum
And the season is at a premium,
I'll tame my tantrums without ******,
I'll let my maelstroms guide me to a podium
Of perfect equilibrium,
I'll get a glimpse of wisdom
By watching my own delirium,
I'm serious about this.
I don't reminisce about the years
I dismissed by watching television series,
Dumbing down with the Big Bang Theory.
I feel so blessed to be weary
And out of breath
From the long hand of entertainment
That wants to tickle everyone to death,
It's an epidemic worse than crystal ****,
But it's not hard to shake the fever.
Only a ****** was born to be a ******,
Man was cursed to be a dubious believer.
So kiss my feet
Or chop me with a cleaver,
Nothing will stop me from becoming an achiever,
Nothing but the habit pattern of my own demeanour.

When the Costa Concordia met with a reef,
it was certain some lives would be lost.
As she listed to starboard at eighty degrees,
Her Captain was first to get off.

Captain Schettino was schmoozing some blonde
when his ship began veering to shore.
He was unwilling to go down on his ship,-
The blonde? yes, but hold the encore.

It seems his chief waiter hails from the Isle,
the Isle with the ship eating reef.
They drew close to shore so he’d wave to his wife
an excursion that beggars belief.


The Coast guard responders where shocked and amazed;
They just couldn’t believe what they saw:
The Cruise liner Captain, paddling furiously,
beating women and children to shore.


Unlike Captain Smith, who stood at his post,
hearing “ Nearer my God to thee.”
The tune that Schettino will sing his bambinos
is “Nearer to Shore take me!”

He’ll spend time in jail, but the punishment pales
when compared to the scope of his sin
This sailor has fallen from grace with the sea
in his dreams let their screams never end.