BLARING LOUDSPEAKERS

Only if authority had I,  stop immediately I would, the use of these blaring loudspeakers

Why do people torture us; what do they honestly want, these pollution seekers?

Banned these loudspeakers should be right away, and exceptionally used in an emergency

To announce a storm, floods or similar situation, only during some crisis or in emergency

Against the use of these loudspeakers, maybe start someone should, an insurgency.

Stop should, though doubtful it is; to help solve this problem it won't; our indifferent Buerocracy

Innocent little Infants deaf can turn, or can startle and cry, when suddenly a loudspeaker does blare

Our poor pets n strays, our dogs, birds and animals others, it startles and can them scare.

Horrid voices, hoarse n dreadful screech and scream often through these loudspeakers;

So hear blasting music forcefully we have to, from these hoarse, off tuned screechers

Elders who are partially deaf; severe problems, in traffic can face; occur can fatal accidents

Sight one can umpteen such awful examples; and many more similar incidents.

Nature's laws if we constantly defy, consequences drastic we will have to definitely face

Why don't leaders, authorities, politicians, Buerocrats care for animals n this human race

Armin Dutia Motashaw

Glades and Creeks.

One day in a journey far far away,  the forest was speaking to a lone wanderer.
"I am quite the clean forest, am I not?." The forest whispered soothingly.
"Mmhm." Spoke the wanderer, passive by such an interjection.
"Of course. Thousands of forests have wilted and died under the hand of man. I remain lush and brimming to the birch with life."
"Where is my way out of here?" The wanderer asked, becoming quite needy at the thought of having to spend the night in that dung-infested greenhouse.

The forests name was Evergreen. Allot of forests were named Evergreen. This forest had just been sold cheaply to a large logging firm who would come and tear the ugly trees down. The proprietors of that sale was a tribe of Indians. The specific agent who devised and contracted the sale was named Nahiko. An Indian tribesmen who, like his ancestors could speak to the forest.

Indians were what Europeans called people from India and natives of America. Allot of Indians in America were killed for being Indian. When an Indian boy came of age, they would be thrown into a jungle and starve until they saw an animal spirit. This was probably prelude to eating said spirit animal while thanking it for helping him live on.

"I, Evergreen implore you to stay within my womb of plant and fauna."
"Hm." replied the wanderer. Not wanting to argue.
The wanderer took a seat beside a flowing creek on a rock. The creek lead up to waterfall, which in turn lead through a river that spanned for miles. The river did not speak as it was an extension of the forest, Evergreen. Down the creek was the old homes of the Indian tribe.
"Have you ever saved someone else?" The wanderer asked.
"My yes, of course. Everyone who is to enter without water or food is rescued by my charming animals! And luxurious streams. I am quite hospitable you see. There was a tribe who lived within me, they were by name called the Perchil tribe. But they had to leave for more. Hmph. As if anything up in that ****** town is worth more then me."

Further up the river, away from the forest was a town named "Milan". It was named after a kingdom of the same name in Italy. People in Milan spoke German. This was odd given Milan lay in south America, but not unusual given its history of being a port to German slave traders who came from a German colony called "Tanganyika" in Africa. The town was named Milan because the Germans wanted to appear more Italian. This desire was apparent in their most famous dishes "schnitzel Pizza" and "Pasta Salsiccia". Pasta Salsiccia was pasta in a sausage casing often served with tomato sauce and mashed potatoes.

Perchil was also a member of that Indian tribe. He was Nahiko's brother and had a family of his own. Perchil was born in Evergreen and educated in Milan. He had been fighting with Nahiko over the terms of sale of the forest. Nahiko had wanted to preserve the land of old tribe. Perchil was already drawing up plans to sell it to an oil foundry. Their land happened to be on top of a great oil reserve. That means allot of animals lived and died on that land millions or thousands of years ago. There body would dissolve into a black gooey liquid used to fuel heavy machinery. This machinery is used by logging firms to cut down not exclusively, forests named Evergreen.

The wanderer, feeling awkward asked. "So, you'd rather not want to be destroyed?"
"Oh, I am a forest and I do maintain a will of my own and wants. But I cannot rather things should be anything other than what they are. The world is a destructive place. It is disrespectful of its former home and ancestry. I know this. I have tried however, to ward off the workmen by scaring them with my animals. In the end I shall become a town or a shopping mall."
In 3 years time, the deed to "Evergreen plains, Milan" would be sold and used to build a shopping mall named aptly "Evergreen Mall". And the forests voice would be spoke out of loudspeakers, but in the form of either a pre-recorded message or announcement about a lost child. Nahiko and Perchil would be married in Evergreen Mall. Nahiko three times.

"Oh woe is me, I lament my lost brothers and sister forests who are no longer beaming and prideful of their enormous trees and crested riverbanks."
"Maybe they should have defended themselves better." The wanderer spoke, trying unsuccessfully to show concern.
"Well, I for one will never give up fighting the man!"
"Good for you." The wanderer then ate his lunch.

Three days from now, the forest would stop speaking to anyone who arrived within its borders and see the lone wanderer again. But this time, he would be protected by four glass windows inside a piece of machinery powered by black gooey liquid called a "harvester" which lifted up wood and cut it into easily transportable pieces.

"Do you, believe in god wanderer?" The forest asked, to strike up some conversation.
"I do believe in god. He's the reason I get up in the morning and assists me in supporting my family."
"I don't. I don't think I believe in god, wanderer. If he exists, how could he let something so beautiful as I and my brother and sister forests be turned into shopping malls and townships like Milan."
The evergreen forest had seen the name "Milan" as a city nearby on a poster which flew into the twig of its tree. The poster was now lying on smooth ground weighted down by a root, as so the forest can read it over and over again. The poster advertised Pasta Salsiccia at a local restaurant in Milan. It had appetizing pictures of Pizza with crumbed steak on it and Pasta filled Sausages.
"God once flooded the earth, destroying all forests and people for their misgivings. Maybe you misgave and people are your divine punishment."
The forest grew silent and whispered soft hymns of wind against the leaves and overgrown shrubbery.

The edge of the creek, where the wanderer sat on a rock had a hard sand that stretched out a few meters disappeared into the dirt. It was unusual to see a small bed of sand without any other visible placements of sand. The wanderer had been dumping it there, with permission from the forest so he could form a base to store his harvester. The forest did not know of the sands purpose, she thought it looked pretty.
"If I were god, the world would be nothing but forests!" Evergreen stated. The gentle words turning a harsher coarse crackling of branches.
"The world seems to be nothing but people right now. Maybe gods a man."
"Unlikely! If god was a man, he would certainly love forests enough to never cut them down."
"Hm." The wanderer was dissatisfied with this explanation, but didn't want to argue.

"Would you **** anyone who came into your forest, just to prove a point?" The wanderer asked, waiting pensively.
"Oh no, as I said. I cannot change what already is and certainly would not bloom the effort to try. Besides. I also know about those people and their weapons. When it comes to human beings, no matter how hard I fight they will always win. How they ever came to develop boom guns and ratatatat chainsaws I have no idea. If they came from my forest, people would certainly have never developed tools so cruel and menacing. But, I suppose Eden had her way for you. Even if it was, at the cost of all our kind."
"Yeah. No matter forest or person, people always win. I'll always be below some rich powerful man too." The wanderer felt melancholy for feeling unimportant. The forest felt the same melancholy for her life and the world.

Suddenly and finally, a noise came from the wanderers pants. He then picked out his phone, clicked it and took it to his ear. After two hours, the wanderer walked east and out of Evergreen forest. He visited her three days later in his noisy harvester. made to cut wood. He parked on his sand bed. The wanderer left his harvester and locked the door without a word. Evergreen forest was properly harvested of its trees in 3 years time. Never uttering a word or complaint. The painted marking on the harvester she saw everyday however, was her last thought as she disappeared. The word painted onto the door of the harvester, its operator. "Perchil."

Cool black night thru redwoods
cars parked outside in shade
behind the gate, stars dim above
the ravine, a fire burning by the side
porch and a few tired souls hunched over
in black leather jackets.  In the huge
wooden house, a yellow chandelier
at 3 A.M. the blast of loudspeakers
hi-fi Rolling Stones Ray Charles Beatles
Jumping Joe Jackson and twenty youths
dancing to the vibration thru the floor,
a little **** in the bathroom, girls in scarlet
tights, one muscular smooth skinned man
sweating dancing for hours, beer cans
bent littering the yard, a hanged man
sculpture dangling from a high creek branch,
children sleeping softly in their bedroom bunks.
And 4 police cars parked outside the painted
gate, red lights revolving in the leaves.

                                        December 1965

lately I have come dangerously close to contacting you
so i will write this,
in hopes that you will not read it.
I simply need to write to you,
because i feel as though my heart is imploding on itself.

so first thing is first.
I miss you.
I miss you every day.
At first, I had this feeling of missing a relationship.
I had soft memories of you,
memories of making love with someone that cared
memories of your body next to mine
but lately,
the memories have become clear and crisp
i no longer miss being in a relationship
I just miss you.
I have put those feelings through a strainer and kept the ones that make the most sense.
so now, i can't stop thinking about you.
everything reminds me of you.
I made asparagus for my parents the other day.
it made me think of you.
I drank some Mike's the other day.
Made me think of you.
I swear that every time I go into the hallway of my building, Chicago is playing on the loudspeakers.
It only reminds me of you.
And then there is everyone I ever cared about from Mankato.
Everyone reminds me of you.
And when I say "reminds", I mean that they all bring back vivid memories of us.
Of times that we were really happy.
And I miss us being happy.

I want to call you.
I want to hear your voice.
I want some sort of reassurance that you are out there.

But I know I can't.
And even if I did,
nothing good would come of it.
I would tell you that I miss you.
I would cry.
I would tell you that I love you.
I would cry harder.
And I would be secretly happy if you said that you were miserable in Texas.
I want you to be miserable without me
because I am miserable here without you.

I have progressed past the point where I normally would rebound
into someone else's arms.
I am strong.

And yet,

I feel so ******* weak



Anyway,
I've been doing okay.
I've been trying really hard to get out and meet people so I'm not lonely all the time.
I've made some new friends here in the cities.
I wish you could meet them.
I wish I could meet your friends in Texas.

I am turning 21 soon.
Really soon, actually.
Everyone keeps asking me what I want for my birthday.

I don't really know what to tell them
because there's only one thing
I want
but it's the one thing I can't have

just  a phone call.
just one call.

just to say "hi"
how are you
how is texas
i miss you
did you read my poem
thank you, yes i had a good birthday.
it would have been better with you here.
i wrote you another song
i got another job
i'm transferring schools
how is your family
how does your brother like college

i miss you
i wish you were here
i love you
yeah
talk to you later


I'm sorry for writing all this down.
I think I need some sort of closure that I still am not getting.
I am still holding onto some sort of hope

Hope for what? I'm not quite sure.
Mostly that you still care about me
and that you miss me as much as I miss you

because I've never had to "get over" anyone before
and everyone told me how hard it would be

but I didn't think I would wake up every morning and burst into tears
I didn't think that letting go
would take this long

I am, however, so happy that I am still single
REALLY single.

not dating anyone
not interested in anyone.

I wonder if you are too.
and if you are,
if it's because you miss me.

or if you just haven't found anyone that you like yet.

I realized pretty ******* quick
that you set my bar really high.
and it will be really hard for someone to meet all the standards you helped me create for myself.

my family is doing okay.
I got rear-ended a couple of weeks ago.
so we got a new car.
It's a white two-door honda.
i can't believe how sad it makes me,
because it looks so much like your car.
my dad hasn't been doing very well.
sometimes i feel like he doesn't want me around.
i feel like he wants me to just move out and get an apartment,
but i'm not able to right now. not financially.
but i feel a lot of self-shame
because i "moved back home".
my mom has started crocheting.
so she has made like 6 different hats, and a bag for me.
both of my parents have kind of laid off of me, in terms of religion.
They kinda let me do my own thing and have stopped trying to convert me.
Has your situation with your folks gotten any better?

Did you hear about the passing of gay marriage in minnesota?
of course you have.
august 1st was such a day of celebration.
I wish i could have taken you down to the courthouse in the capital to watch all the weddings happen.
it would have been so much fun.

i guess i'll wrap this letter up.
I know it's probably silly to write it because you said you would stop checking this website.
but, if you're anything like me, you check it anyway.
sometimes i un-block you on facebook just to look at your pictures.
you are still just as handsome as ever.
and once a week, at LEAST,
I check your university's website to see if they have a "staff profile" of you up yet.

So far no luck.

In the past two months,
I have let myself make a lot of mistakes.

But on the other hand,
nothing has changed how I feel about you.

I miss you and I care about you.



Don't take this the wrong way
but I love you.

don't call me.
I need to keep on keeping on.
I just needed to get this all off of my chest

maybe tonight
i'll be able to fall asleep without keeping myself awake crying.

-michelle

I would have rather been Orpheus,
travelling to various hells for you
and singing songs to save you
even though you couldn't save yourself:
stop looking back. The flames aren't worth it.
Let my eyes burn brighter than the abyss.
Just whatever you do don't turn your face
away Eurydice. Hades will have his Persephone
and you are not her.

It's better this way I guess. I would have looked
back at you and watched you crumble into
a shadowy pillar of salt as did the wife of Lot
when she looked back at *****. I am faithless,
which is why I cannot sing like Orpheus. I am faithless,
which is why I would have watched you melt into
a shadowy memory of the underworld even if I could.

Instead, I was a messenger of these strange myths.

Wings on my feet, I raced against the multitudinous
skylines of the worlds I do not inhabit, skipped across
volumes and volumes of rows and columns of planets and
stars written by dead old men and women. They spoke presently
of the voluminous presence their absence had created, and did so
without having known of the secrets of this absence when
they wrote about their respective presents. Presents conferred
to winged-feet wishful thinkers who spiral uncontrollably with their mouths
to sudden and dangerous depths: Every serious reader remembers
the time they stopped whispering controversies and started shouting them
without knowing that they were shouting them: Ideas are messy things
that don't need loudspeakers: Decibels violently shudder themselves out
of being the moment you mention to your mother that God
might not exist and Camus said so: Existence itself implodes outwards
like how plants produce seeds that make themselves when novels
start at their ends which are really their beginnings: Children
**** their mothers through birth: Boys with wings on their feet
take the library too seriously.

This is
          how
and
          where
I flew towards you without a chariot

and found you in your various hells, one book at a time,
and why I would have rather have been Orpheus
because at least then I could have sang you songs
before you ended up retreating back into your various
selves. It could have been my fault then for looking back.

It could have been,
   could have been,
   could have been
you that was Orpheus. You who looked back.
You being the reason that I crumbled into a pillar of
shadow and salt because, as did Lot's wife, I looked back.

We both did, and watched the whole world invert itself
on its axis, then turn and twist and shift itself
into superimposed images and shapes and dreams
that changed you from muse to poet and
dream to dreamer
and Eurydice to Orpheus
and to Lot then his wife
and to this: which you always were.

              Those wings on your feet: When
the librarians changed the positions of the bookshelves-
and therefore our imaginations: our movements
and stanzas and scenes and days and nights-
               Those wings on your feet: When
that happened they must have stopped fluttering
for a second. I tried flying again and fell.

I haven't been much of a messenger since.

i never pegged you for someone
swept up by razzle dazzle,
infatuated with muscle men,
acrobats, and stars.
your view on animal rights,
seemingly discarded,
for an elephant's tricks,
the lion tamer's whip,
the tent apparently blocking out
harsh judging light.

i viewed you as critical,
skeptical of spectacle,
squinting unsure,
behind those black wayfarers,
the image constructed in my mind,
supported by that vintage dress,
the style of your hair,
the music you listened to
on the car ride over,
how can you be satisfied
with this carnival fare?

frivolous displays favoured
over subtle gestures,
superficial appearances favoured
over chemistry,
hollow showman dialogue
echoing over loudspeakers
favoured over a conversation,

perhaps i'm a hypocrite,
your attributes simply skewed,
by my being swept up in the
razzle dazzle spectacle
of you.

(i'll be in the hall of mirrors)

We had dreams
about the crystal sun
the juniper wind, apple
blossoms and glowing evenings
comfort and quietude
We had dreams
lollipops and no one crying
no pain-and love if not
everlasting
solid and smiling every day
We had dreams
about great ships sailing
wind filling all speed ahead
never becalmed, no one dead,
no rotting bodies on the deck
no witness to inexplicable agony
We had dreams
garlands from gardens
nobody had to tend
ice cream cones piling
sidewalks high
shade for the asking
from every uncomfortable
ray of sun
water enough for everything
lawns and trees
flowers and livestock
children running in sprinklers
water for the taking
every day
We had dreams
soft conversations in
the lamplight, hands to hold
slim and strong whenever
we needed, voices filled
with understanding and strength
for every fear
and every tear dried
by gentle caring touch
We had dreams
that did not include random bullets
sudden death and no clouds
exploding to rain death
on helpless heads
We dreamed we would never be helpless
we had dreams
we bought on time
amortization forever
and no one would ever
have to pay the bills
We had dreams
someone would always save us
mother always did
even when she didn’t want to
even when we made her mad
even when we broke her china
and her heart
We had dreams
laughing and crying
talking into loud speakers
shouting our claims
and never thought how
to make them come true
We had dreams
of glory and taking
down every flag from every
highest hill
and no one would ever be found
face down in two inches of water
drowned on ***** and disaster
We had dreams
that did not include spit
on the sidewalk, in the gutters,
but only clean skies
and apple pie, organically sweet
every day
and endlessly billowing
wheat, and sailing ships
and all the pure water
we could drink for free
and play in
We had dreams
that we could demand pain away consequences
and guilt and the necessary play
of our dreams that mothers would
if we dreamed hard enough
and played hard enough
and the nasty old piper
never called for his fee
We had dreams
and when they didn’t come true
we had curses
We cursed the lollipops
we cursed the ice cream
we cursed the wheat
the cornucopia
the great sailing ships
and the sea
the mother
the sidewalks
the highest hills
and the trickling ditch
we cursed the livestock
and the stereos
the loudspeakers and the glory
and we cursed crying and apple pie
we cursed suffering and anguish
the pipers who demanded to be paid
the ones who paid and complained
about the mess we made
we cursed fine china plates
filled with hard-earned harvests
we cursed love and freedom
we cursed crystal sun
and shade.

It’s always Monday here with the hustle and bustle of the boisterous marketplace,
Negotiations carried out over loudspeakers and hailers,
It’s never without a fight.
It’s always Monday here with the cries of half-dead swans and suffocating dolphins,
Collateral damage is a word used loosely,
Now that the main guy is here.

Last night was a good night, befitting a Sunday’s catch,
Rest is only for the lost and lonely on a lovely Sunday night.
They brought them in, lined up in rows of ten,
Nothing on but a white singlet and pretty underpants.
They cowered in fright and tried to huddle,
The whips flew as freely as the flies that came to meddle.

It was not long till your turn came
Pretty as a rosebud
One man claimed
Smooth as a rose’s petal
Another one gleamed.

It was all too real for you and you fell dead, in silence
It’s always Monday here, someone said,
She was so pretty...
As they carried you on their back
to dump you in the truck
to throw away the body
just outside the city.

It’s always Monday here, said the man shaking his head,
as he went to the playground to fish
for another haul of fresh blood and good meat!

It’s always Monday here...
Someone said...

iron bars on windows
cheapest radiowave loud from loudspeakers
in smoking room
spreading
nonstop most tasteless songs
shouts, giggling and whispers and cries
mixed in the air
swallowing ugly pills under severe control of ugly sanitarian
pills from which you become weak, weary and zombies-like
to not commit suicide is not allowed
to keep glass bottles
no laptop allowed
10 minutes walk a day
and this only with attendance of
medical personal
stupid graffities on the walls of toilets and
smoking room
scarying
anything about punishment of ******* god
surely made not by patients
but belong to „estimated inventary“
the most horror procedure
is doctor visit at every morn
for so-called conversation
you, even not obsessed with suicide
would wish to hang yourself
from unability to cut doc' s throat
so spoke Antonin Artaud
who spent 9years in closed insane asylum in France
while Ezra Pound spent over 12 years in Washington D.C. Mental ward
me spent „only“ 6 months
but i pretty sure that this joy is worse than
be locked in jail
where you at least know what a ******* crime you supposed to commit
me unemployed dadaist was locked by catching by police spraying graffity
in Berlin, which called „FREE PIDGIN!“
reason enough to being diagnosed and
poisoned by legal drugs

we live indeed in society where freedom of speech rules
haha
it was modest trial to tell literally of the darkest terror: loony bin

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What Child is this WHOP!  WHEEP! WHOP! WHEEP! WHOP!  WHEEP! WHOP! WHEEP! WHOP!  WHEEP! WHOP! WHEEP! WHOP!  WHEEP! WHOP!
WHEEP!...
In Mary’s lap is sleeping…

“It’s okay, folks; it was just the muffins.”

Whom angels greet…
                                          “I don’t want a muffin, thanks.”
With anthems sweet…

Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.

Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.

Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.

All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.


Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
mirrors cracking.
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.

Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
neon signs
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
attracting intrigue.

My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
explanation, observation.
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
boggy water.

My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.

Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly

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I'm way past my bedtime
Losing balance, veering to the right
Before I hit the wall
Or the cabinet or the floor
Where did this jelly come from?
I thought I had it down
It wants to come up
So let's help him up
He's already drowned
Twice we drowned him
But they kept coming up

A man I once knew
...he was a professional man...
He should have known what he was talking about
I thought he did
More often than not
I trusted him
Law and natural fact
I could see the love in his eyes
He was convinced the cessation of my problem
Was it's light dying and silently slipping off
Into the air
My, oh my, I must not have been paying attention

Another hour passed
My mind was worked up
Worked up professionally
With pure quality workmanship
But it's not gonna last
I don't care
If they invested millions of dollars
You god, Oh Mighty Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick
I'm just gonna fall asleep
I'm a-gonna sleep until I wake
And I ain't a-gonna wake up until
I'm good and ready

He seemed to know what he spoke of
He was, after all, wearing a doctor's coat
After all, he had a silver-pearl stethoscope hanging around his neck
I was tempted to believe he was a great physician
But I wasn't so sure he was a Good Doctor
Not a very good one
The only sawbones I could afford
He told me that I'm very selfish
But not to worry, he said
"All bipolars are like that
All that they see is filtered through
ME ME ME ME ME".

So I had to think about it for awhile
I had to rub it in my clay-hands brain
Until I understood it to be truth
My hardening heart beats only for me
Prayers found me on my knees
Knelt
Until my legs fell asleep
Circulation staunched, the numbness
I tried to rise and walk
I tried to rise and walk
"Come forth!" I heard. "Rise and WALK!"
I tried to rise and walk
I TRIED
Fell down three times
It was like skating in an ice rink
The pulsating music of KISS throbbing through the loudspeakers
(It was that disco knock-off they took to the charts)
I was the kid who got knocked down
I know that funny man didn't mean to run over my hand with his skate
Accidents happen
(Even if the Good Doctor says that's all a bunch of crap)
I lifted my hand to my face
I felt nothing
I thought perhaps it would take some time to kick in, that there would come a moment when the pain would crash over me tsunami-style. It would overcome me, and at that point I would not be screaming at myself anymore but at everyone. I'd curse them because they were there. I'd **** them for no good reason whatsoever. Wrong place, wrong time. Unlucky twins. God knows them not, nor vouches them for His. One is chosen. The Other refused. ME ME ME ME ME. It is more cruel to be told this secret than to be kept in the dark.
Keep me in the dark.
Leave me alone.
Silence your Teaching Voice and let me sleep
Let me sleep in disbelief
Forget the part where I said,
"I ain't a-gonna wake up until I'm good and ready"

I've been put down
I'm held down to drown
Jelly air to fill my gills
No longer screaming
Abandoned my temple
To the banks of the Ohio
I gave the Good Doctor something interesting
To write in his reports

The country lost their beauty queen

The same day passed the Prince of Pleasure

Televisions will capture the red eyes of gravediggers

And the dried

The prunes and the oppressed

Smoking cigarette butts down to the ground

Mutiny will be on layaway

Shooting in streets and dying local band posters

The road lion growls

Police stay home, your brothers in arms will die.

So it goes. How useful is that?

Up came the sun, down went the stars.

The water calmed still, and loud were the cars.

English Translators dance in Russian studios.

Loudspeakers play the silent songs nobody knows.

The woman in the yellow beaded necklace plays with her silver rings rolling across her white fingers.

Wafting down the black nighttime cool air you can hear the rhythm choir of a thousand black children

singers.

That’s my town.

Isn’t great.

I’ll show you the strangest kid I know.

Purple, red, fast and yellow.

At five a.m. the doors swing open.
The throng of shoppers lined up at the store
Pushes and shoves and jabs and elbows
Its aggressive way through the wide-open door.
 
Once inside, the crowd scatters
This way, that way, in chaotic motion.
The store clerks gasp, feeling like islands
Surrounded by a raging ocean.
 
"Oh, no you don’t!" one woman shouts
At another woman clutching a box
Containing the last flat-screen TV.
"Hands off; it's mine!" the other one squawks.
 
A mad tug-o'-war ensues
As the two women grapple to claim what's theirs.
An onlooker who is knocked down in the skirmish
Shrieks, "What a sorry state of affairs!"
 
Everywhere you look, items are flying.
The store resembles the scene of a battle,
OR, perhaps, a giant herd
Of loud, thundering, angry cattle.
 
A man stops to pick up a bottle
Of perfume that he dropped--a gift for his wife--
And is trampled by the surge of shoppers.
The poor guy nearly loses his life.
 
One bold shopper with her canister of pepper spray
Threatens to douse the belligerent crowd
Until she is tackled by security guards
And is escorted away, cursing out loud.
 
Announcements blare from the loudspeakers:
"Shoppers' special on aisle three."
Suddenly, the rivers of shoppers change course
As the curious hope to get something free.
 
In the background, Christmas carols playing
The hopeful messages of joy and peace
Are drowned out by the ear-piercing din
That sounds like the honking of thousands of geese.
 
"I want my mommy," a whiny child cries.
"What do you want for Christmas: a dolly?"
Asks Santa, losing his last bit of patience
And doing his best to try to act jolly.
 
The chaos never ceases to wane
As the shoppers vie for the best shopping deals.
One man rushing to grab the last smart phone
Slips and falls head over heels
 
And slides into an obese grandma,
Sending her sprawling into some shelves
Of decorations, which all go flying.
The injured lie covered with reindeer and elves.
 
Interminable lines at the registers await
The exhausted shoppers. You get closer; hurrah!
The woman in front of you then needs a price check!
No, that can't be! That's the last straw!
 
Another day of Black Friday madness.
Would that it could be over! But no.
You've barely started; that's store number one.
You have four more stores to go!

- by Bob B

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It was a Saturday morning
And you were 19

and you were racing along
Victoria Street having just left

Victoria Railway Station
on your way to Dobell’s

Jazz Record Shop
moving quickly

through the sea
of humanity

thinking of jazz
and what record

you were going to buy
at the shop that day

imaging yourself
******* through LP sleeves

taking a mental note
of which one

you might buy
a John Coltrane or Miles Davis

an Art Blakey or maybe
a Dizzy Gillespie

a jazz record being played
over the loudspeakers

in the shop
you mingling with others

in the crowded place
when this hobo stopped you

taking hold of your jacket gently
and said

have you got some small change
for a sandwich?

no
you replied

I haven’t
and rushed on

through the crowd
******* in your pocket

loose change
silvery coins

and his voice
in your head  

as you raced along
and your conscience

nagging you
maybe the voice

of the believed in Christ
so you stopped

and turned around
and made your journey back

through the people
passing by

your fingers taking hold
of the coins

the silvery loose change
and there he was

the hobo asking others
the same question

and they too went by
shaking their heads

or saying
no sorry no change

and you took his hand
and put in the loose silver

into his open palm
and said

here go buy yourself
a sandwich or whatever

and you turned
and left looking over

your shoulder
and he stood there

staring at his palm
and the coins shining

in the morning sun
and then you looked ahead

thinking of the record shop
and the LPs and the jazz music

being played
but deep down

in some other part of you
you knew you’d given

to one who maybe
was hungry

and had unconsciously
prayed.

In this morning's waiting room
And then the café, breaking bread -

I might have read,
Engaged in reverie
Lost myself in thoughts,
Or meditative memory.

But someone overruled
To agitate the air
With an imbroglio
With the inane, vain,
Smug banter of local radio.

It claimed the arena,
And turned our space
From haven into mayhem,
Compulsively silting up
My poor, empty ears
With an unhealthy sound.
Like painting out the view
Behind Beata Beatrix
With a filthy fairground.

Just what we need!
This constant aural cattle-feed.
So: every tree in my opinion
- (I'm speaking as a lowly minion)
Should be hung with massive speakers
Huge loudspeakers, woofers, tweeters,
To entertain us in every place
With never-ending drum and bass,
Then verbose youths, with wit so clever
Can pump us full of **** forever.

I can't sleep

No, not because of the demons that normally torment me.
Tonight is different.

I creep downstairs
Footsteps light, floorboards creaking slightly.
My father is playing Fleetwood Mac on the loudspeakers.

Over Stevie Nicks' smooth, crooning voice I tell him to turn it down, in barely a whisper;
"I'm tired, dad.
Let me sleep.
Play it tomorrow."

I walk into the kitchen and mother is there
Awake, still.
Working.
For the both of us.
Both of her useless children.

I take a glass of milk and sit beside her by the dining table,
Jewels strewn across a cloth,
And listen to her excitedly tell me about her designs
With my eyelids half mast

I finish my milk and walk away
A silent goodnight escapes my lips, barely open.
I leave her to her work.

I take a glance at my father; he's watching The View now.
I walk up the stairs again, silent as a mouse.

I can't sleep.

I was only 9 years old and I lived in North Vietnam where I was born. My family is Chinese, but work was in Vietnam so my father had moved us there long before I was born. I had 5 brothers and I was next to the youngest, but my younger brother got sick while we were hiding in the mountains to avoid the bombings. He did not go home with us and mother was very sad for a long time.

There was really nothing to do for entertainment. My day was made up of sleeping late in the morning and school in the afternoon. We only had about three classes, which was giving us a very basic education. I had many friends in school and good number of relatives.

My older cousin and I played together often, just spending time together. Over loudspeakers songs of the people were played to encourage hard work and loyalty to the Communist Party. Everything in the country still ran as it had under Uncle **. You never speak bad of Uncle ** or you might not make it until tomorrow.

Since we had so little entertainment we found our own. She and I would go up during the day and sometimes at night to listen to the workers in the factory sing praise of life, progress and Uncle **. Now I was very small, but crime was not a factor and so even with me being so young, my cousin and I were always off on an adventure.

A big event where I lived was a marriage. It was a beautiful event with the bride and groom dressed in wedding clothes. A long high necked dress for the women and the man in his best white dress shirt. I know this because when my cousin and I were out one night we saw a wedding party walking down the street. It was so beautiful and exciting that she and I joined at the end of the procession.

I expect our age helped as we were welcomed to the celebration. Eating candy, cookies and sticky rice, special treats for the wedding party, but a special treat for a poor little girl and her cousin. Both welcomed by the bride and groom.

My cousin and I did this twice that I recall and the songs still resonate within my head of a beautiful moment in time and a break from the bombs dropped almost daily from the sky.

My mother and I  met on Cupid.com
I was thirteen and she was forty-five;
but on her profile she was listed as
twenty-nine. We agreed to meet
at the local Starbucks on a Sunday afternoon.

The sun was out;
it's rays like orange sprinkles dusting
the dead, green earth
and snake-like sidewalks.

I sat in the far corner, my head
in a book; every now and then
peeking over the pages my
finger bookmarked. I was reading
******, and I had not made it
past the first page. Lo-Lee-
Ta, or something rather.

She arrived ten minutes later
than the time we agreed on,
but I wasn't angry. She offered
to buy me a Iced Vanilla Frappuccino
and salted caramel cake-pop but I declined.

We sat there for what seemed like a decade.
I was too busy looking around; acting
like I was admiring the art on the walls;
and she was playing with her hands;
humming to a popular female folk singer-
songwriter that was playing over the loudspeakers.

'I can go,' she said after the track finished.

'No, it's okay.
Stay, please' I said.

There was silence.

'It's been a while since I've seen you'
she said.

'I know, I know' I said,
'You lied
about your age.
That's not cool'

'Sorry about that.
I just didn't know
if you'd like me
if I was older
than forty..'

'That's the entire point,
no?' I interrupted.

And I didn't notice
she had bad posture
until she started fidgeting
with her hair; it was in a loose,
unkempt bun. She tugged
at the hair tie until
it all fell down to her shoulders.

I was finally relieved
to see that I had a beautiful
mother and soon suggested
that we go to her place
and talk about my childhood.

She smiled, and made
an attempt to grab the car
keys she left on the table,
but I was quicker.

'No,' I said laughing,
'I'm driving'.

And that was the first
time I ever took charge;
and nothing has changed since.

last call,
she wrote, with her fingertips still tangled in the wire wrapped around her faulty heart.

each breath laced with shards of glass, an aching pull that was simple in the darkened sheets and quiet. an answer that seemed too simple because there was no question.

i'm dying,
she cried as her hands slipped on the tear-slicked phone that couldn't quite convey the way that she was trying to be so, so brave with each labored breath.

there were no words in the screams that pounded off the yellowing linoleum.
a desperate, hoarse cry pleading that she needed someone on the other end of the static to wipe the sweat off of her brow and call an ambulance.

when are you coming home?
little bouncing ponytail of four is grasping fingers and trying to fix injuries with whole-wheat goldfish. her pink salt-scuffed snow boots are breaking hearts down the hall.

and i'm here again. once cheery monkey slippers worn through the toes shuffle down hallways lined with trepidation and antiseptic. this isn't old-fashioned, white-apron clad matrons grasping hands and adjusting crisp peaked hats. medicine is doled out in plastic sheets like candy, accompanied by bent knees and scanned bracelets.

privacy concerns, signed waivers, no liabilities. hospitals are less for healing and more holding cells, storage lockers, fraught with too-thorough questionnaires and grasped pens like swords defending trustee boards from lawsuits.

my mornings are finger ****** and sunlight that seems empty without those sweet trills and a whipping reach of wind. stagnant air, the faint smell of ***** hiding under regulation bleach wipes. this is what i wake up to. soft chimes aren't rousing, nor soft, at eight am lulled through too-new loudspeakers.

the ***** mint green trays never lose that sickly smell of rotten food like the undergrowth of a fallen tree. the only coping skills i've mastered this far are how to effectively channel all my breathing solely through my mouth. hospitals never lose that smell, the ache of death and sorrow that clings to the floorboards and plays cards under the bed, waiting for its turn to reach corners much further than the cleaning crew can.

eyes draw to the torn edge of my sweater, revealing the milky white skin that lost it's sweetness. i've been ravaged by needles and rubber tubes and electrode pads full of gel that shouldn't sting, but does. i spent fourteen hours climbing the walls of my subconscious while gloved hands made adjustments flanked by heavy shoulders and eyes that seemed to never shed their bitter tears.

fourteen hours, i spent with my id. it passes in jumbled snippets of emotion that are still lost in that haze.

i was a creature,
without reason,
or cause.

the car wash plays music over two tiny, square speakers, one mounted to either side of the vending machines.
It usually plays modern pop music hits and misses,
But today it's playing Elvis.
Today it's playing Suspicious Minds.
Today the sun is shining and the sky is blue.
All the washing stalls are occupied.
Silver, blue, and two black cars are getting clean today.
And I sit across the lot, waiting to work the rest of my shift,
Watching the day turn,
As House of The Rising Sun begins it's turn on the car wash loudspeakers.

Miryam slept
most of the way
through Paris
that evening

her head
on your shoulder
her eyes closed
like pink shells

her mouth
slightly ajar
an innocent
sleeping child

kind of look
on the coach
as it travelled
through the bright lights

and sights of Paris
Beethoven's
5th Piano Concerto
pouring

from the coach's
loudspeakers
you gazed
at her tight

red haired head
sense of her
laying there
a soft sound

of breathing
a barely felt sense
of her pulse
and feeling

that the most
important thing
at that moment
that pulse

that sound
of breathing
that the whole world
would cease

if she did
neither again
you lay back
your head

on the headrest
taking in the sights
the lights
people passing

street scenes
bars and cafés open
couples walking
arm in arm

a kissing couple
here and there
the second movement
of the Beethoven concerto

easing through
the coach
and looking down
at her hands folded

in her lap
as if they too slept
fingers holding
thumbs touching

her knees visible
where her skirt
rode up as she sat
and as you lay there

taking in
her being there
that eternal moment
sinking in

the Proustian connection
of her sleeping so
and the Beethoven episode
the piano easing out

and her head there
on your shoulder
rested childlike
and all or most

of desires kept at bay
seeing her lay so
like untouched
untrodden snow.

I take it that a spray of Sun occults your face,
like watching in a squalid cinema, something a slapstick would
conjure a stylistically dumb image, or the prattle of
bunkum hubbub drowning loudspeakers in plazas.
You know there is a part of you that goes missing
  every time you hear me pass carefully under the care
  of toppled light, and there is a part of me that engages
the dark in this straining mutiny. This is such a troubled time
on the hardline; a martinet on the other cheapened end
of a totaled horizon hollering at gentrified space, eyes sternly
fixed on the mattress, conspicuous in urbane manner, something
shadows bade with hands, lifts up all the ragamuffin days:
   to capture you in such moment, such oneness, of no complication,
like a clean Yamazaki on the house, or a metropolitan district
   augured with rubicund crisscrosses, streets sidereal in measures,
an aggressive ******* at the end of the curb, the spanked curve
   of the mordant asphalt, and the rise of body heat from yesterday’s swelter;
  something only I could have thought of in white thighs of little ladies
    and peering birds for collarbones: look at this, maddened, retaining
    nothing but age.

This is not a story. This is not literature.
This is a spit in the face.
A kick in the nuts. A punch in the ***.
A shooting spree,
of consonants and vowels, aimed at snowflakes.

This is to be loathed. This is to cause anger.
This is to be deleted, blocked, downvoted, canceled and hated.
Demonetized
by coding corpses in Silicon Valley

It is my hope a Twitter Mob forms,
curses my name, relegates me to Louis CK status.

This is my ***** and I take it out
a dark web palm reader for the snowflakes.
This is my ***** and I take it out
to **** on the face of all Boomers, Gen Xers
and especially the Millennials and Gen Z

You who have grown with smartphones akin to limbs,
priapic pineal glands, ophthalmic screens…

You who have “emotional support animals”
I hope your emotional support animal
mauls you to death like an Alaskan grizzly bear
and you ******* die like that execrable Australian crocodile ****

You who have “safe spaces”
I want to rig your safe spaces
with prepositions, adverbial pipe bombs
and laugh as they explode like an Ariana Grande concert

Yes, YOU, you snowflakes…

You who have transformed young America
into a coddled wasteland
of mock outrage, moaning prudes

You who subscribe to video game streams on YouTube
You who pay punk *** PewDiePie his millions
while the greatest living poet in America works as a janitor!

You who fight over bathrooms
You who bastardize legitimate arguments,
shame those who marched
shame those who righteously died

You who vote Republican and Democrat
You who watch CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News
You who wish to silence creators
You who are triggered
You who can’t take a joke
You who can’t fathom opposing views
You who Yelp, write online reviews
in braille
You who protest Sarah Silverman and Dave Chappelle

You, you snowflakes: I want to reach into your toilets
to smear myself in your ****
and kick at your ***** and ***** as you whine online about my blackface

I want to punch your nose
paint myself in your blood and attack your colleges
with wadded up copies of The Naked Lunch and Tropic of Cancer

I want to hack Spotify
replace every playlist with Public Enemy on a continuous loop
and blast 2 Live Crew
from loudspeakers down every boulevard in Northern California

I want to hog-tie conservatives, make them watch gay ****
I want to hog-tie liberals, make them watch monster truck rallies

Because your phone can block
Your phone can delete
But energy cannot be destroyed

And ART, speech, thought
Are the purest form of energy
The very flesh of emotion…

Currency both malefic and supernal!

And now, snowflakes
now I tie your noose
I grind my knife to your throat
I aim my AK at your temples
Just to tell you this:

Sticks and stones can break my bones
But words will always nourish me…

Let there be commerce!

..

a baby-girl is moored to the womb,
afloat, and moving...  

a little jazzy brass is tending
to the intensive almost-dance movements of my baby;
the thumb-dum-drum, in the loudspeakers
of the fetal heart-rate monitors, is thus tense
but responding well to the outside world...

the voice of the health-insurance-paid doctor,
a shuffling of a table
balanced on three legs and three wheels...
and the hisses of a silent drama
rising quietly, in the air  

traffic of misconceptions, daily.
a trauma, played in an almost-songs conversations

yet the glare of life,
as it flashes like X-ray images in my baby's soaked  eye lines,
is reflecting well,
and is promising...  


i usher you to the world, sweet pie...
pick up your things and let's go!

I wish I could think of
the right way to say
I love you...

It's like there's no possibility.
My vocabulary is far too limited
  The love I feel is far too complex
              And I am far too unimaginative
to give you something that hasn't been
Said a million times.

      you would certainly find a way -
      youve always been fantastic at words
      and i wish i could borrow
      some of your genius...

Every combination
Every language
Every time I try
I can't figure it out

You have made me feel like...
Like the solar system revolves around me
Like death could never take my life
Like I know the Name of the wind

      ... no ... i can do better
      i want to keep trying
      i need to keep trying because
      if i cant figure it out
      im going to implode

You deserve a special
I love you.

      something to mimic the special
      you make me feel every day
      i yearn to give you that
      so bear with me while i paint you
      a written picture instead and
      hope it can convey some semblance of
      i love you:
------------------------------------------------------------­
You are a city.
And that city, in my head,
Looks a little like... well

it's under constant construction, the
scaffolding where you expand
the buildings - your knowledge.
and despite what you might think
it's a comforting presence

between them run roads, so many intersections
all leading to different interests
but those streets have potholes - your past
experiences - and there isn't enough tar in the world to fill them.
not that it matters, because your traffic never stops and the
streets are never still; potholes and all

zipping around on those roads are cars
that get you from point A to point B - your responsibilities,
when you really need to stop for gas. it's admirable
how dedicated to those pit stops you are, and
that you still really love driving

fortunately, despite pollution - the toxicity dumped
by other people - your city is still eco-friendly. you wanted
fresh air, so on each building you install solar panels - you
never sit back and let people ruin the world

so people sit on their porches and listen to music you pipe
through the city streets, via loudspeakers you installed
because you want people to enjoy themselves - and they
absolutely love it. they show their appreciation through
smiles and laughter. how could they not? nothing can compare

In your city
I want to be a window washer
                      a maintenance woman
                      a taxi driver
                      a gas station attendee
                      an ecologist
                      a musician
I want to be someone involved with all you are.

You're a constant inspiration
So call me selfish, but I relish just being around you
And lavish that I get to be special to you

You deserve more than these simple three words
but for the sake of concision - your favorite, I know -
I'll simply say
I love you