Bubbly hell
makes me tired every time I drink.
Rips apart my joints with sugary satisfaction.
Still I am invigorated with your flavor,
and want to chase you through
lemon tree orchards
that will only ever make me more thirsty
and want to drink of
my lemon lyme disease.

The double 12 sorwe of Troilus to tellen,  
That was the king Priamus sone of Troye,
In lovinge, how his aventures fellen
Fro wo to wele, and after out of Ioye,
My purpos is, er that I parte fro ye.  
Thesiphone, thou help me for tendyte
Thise woful vers, that wepen as I wryte!

To thee clepe I, thou goddesse of torment,
Thou cruel Furie, sorwing ever in peyne;
Help me, that am the sorwful instrument  
That helpeth lovers, as I can, to pleyne!
For wel sit it, the sothe for to seyne,
A woful wight to han a drery fere,
And, to a sorwful tale, a sory chere.

For I, that god of Loves servaunts serve,  
Ne dar to Love, for myn unlyklinesse,
Preyen for speed, al sholde I therfor sterve,
So fer am I fro his help in derknesse;
But nathelees, if this may doon gladnesse
To any lover, and his cause avayle,  
Have he my thank, and myn be this travayle!

But ye loveres, that bathen in gladnesse,
If any drope of pitee in yow be,
Remembreth yow on passed hevinesse
That ye han felt, and on the adversitee  
Of othere folk, and thenketh how that ye
Han felt that Love dorste yow displese;
Or ye han wonne hym with to greet an ese.

And preyeth for hem that ben in the cas
Of Troilus, as ye may after here,  
That love hem bringe in hevene to solas,
And eek for me preyeth to god so dere,
That I have might to shewe, in som manere,
Swich peyne and wo as Loves folk endure,
In Troilus unsely aventure.  

And biddeth eek for hem that been despeyred
In love, that never nil recovered be,
And eek for hem that falsly been apeyred
Thorugh wikked tonges, be it he or she;
Thus biddeth god, for his benignitee,  
So graunte hem sone out of this world to pace,
That been despeyred out of Loves grace.

And biddeth eek for hem that been at ese,
That god hem graunte ay good perseveraunce,
And sende hem might hir ladies so to plese,  
That it to Love be worship and plesaunce.
For so hope I my soule best avaunce,
To preye for hem that Loves servaunts be,
And wryte hir wo, and live in charitee.

And for to have of hem compassioun  
As though I were hir owene brother dere.
Now herkeneth with a gode entencioun,
For now wol I gon streight to my matere,
In whiche ye may the double sorwes here
Of Troilus, in loving of Criseyde,  
And how that she forsook him er she deyde.

It is wel wist, how that the Grekes stronge
In armes with a thousand shippes wente
To Troyewardes, and the citee longe
Assegeden neigh ten yeer er they stente,  
And, in diverse wyse and oon entente,
The ravisshing to wreken of Eleyne,
By Paris doon, they wroughten al hir peyne.

Now fil it so, that in the toun ther was
Dwellinge a lord of greet auctoritee,  
A gret devyn that cleped was Calkas,
That in science so expert was, that he
Knew wel that Troye sholde destroyed be,
By answere of his god, that highte thus,
Daun Phebus or Apollo Delphicus.  

So whan this Calkas knew by calculinge,
And eek by answere of this Appollo,
That Grekes sholden swich a peple bringe,
Thorugh which that Troye moste been for-do,
He caste anoon out of the toun to go;  
For wel wiste he, by sort, that Troye sholde
Destroyed ben, ye, wolde who-so nolde.

For which, for to departen softely
Took purpos ful this forknowinge wyse,
And to the Grekes ost ful prively  
He stal anoon; and they, in curteys wyse,
Hym deden bothe worship and servyse,
In trust that he hath conning hem to rede
In every peril which that is to drede.

The noyse up roos, whan it was first aspyed,  
Thorugh al the toun, and generally was spoken,
That Calkas traytor fled was, and allyed
With hem of Grece; and casten to ben wroken
On him that falsly hadde his feith so broken;
And seyden, he and al his kin at ones  
Ben worthy for to brennen, fel and bones.

Now hadde Calkas left, in this meschaunce,
Al unwist of this false and wikked dede,
His doughter, which that was in gret penaunce,
For of hir lyf she was ful sore in drede,  
As she that niste what was best to rede;
For bothe a widowe was she, and allone
Of any freend to whom she dorste hir mone.

Criseyde was this lady name a-right;
As to my dome, in al Troyes citee  
Nas noon so fair, for passing every wight
So aungellyk was hir natyf beautee,
That lyk a thing immortal semed she,
As doth an hevenish parfit creature,
That doun were sent in scorning of nature.  

This lady, which that al-day herde at ere
Hir fadres shame, his falsnesse and tresoun,
Wel nigh out of hir wit for sorwe and fere,
In widewes habit large of samit broun,
On knees she fil biforn Ector a-doun;  
With pitous voys, and tendrely wepinge,
His mercy bad, hir-selven excusinge.

Now was this Ector pitous of nature,
And saw that she was sorwfully bigoon,
And that she was so fair a creature;  
Of his goodnesse he gladed hir anoon,
And seyde, 'Lat your fadres treson goon
Forth with mischaunce, and ye your-self, in Ioye,
Dwelleth with us, whyl you good list, in Troye.

'And al thonour that men may doon yow have,  
As ferforth as your fader dwelled here,
Ye shul han, and your body shal men save,
As fer as I may ought enquere or here.'
And she him thonked with ful humble chere,
And ofter wolde, and it hadde ben his wille,  
And took hir leve, and hoom, and held hir stille.

And in hir hous she abood with swich meynee
As to hir honour nede was to holde;
And whyl she was dwellinge in that citee,
Kepte hir estat, and bothe of yonge and olde  
Ful wel beloved, and wel men of hir tolde.
But whether that she children hadde or noon,
I rede it naught; therfore I late it goon.

The thinges fellen, as they doon of werre,
Bitwixen hem of Troye and Grekes ofte;  
For som day boughten they of Troye it derre,
And eft the Grekes founden no thing softe
The folk of Troye; and thus fortune on-lofte,
And under eft, gan hem to wheelen bothe
After hir cours, ay whyl they were wrothe.  

But how this toun com to destruccioun
Ne falleth nought to purpos me to telle;
For it were a long digressioun
Fro my matere, and yow to longe dwelle.
But the Troyane gestes, as they felle,  
In Omer, or in Dares, or in Dyte,
Who-so that can, may rede hem as they wryte.

But though that Grekes hem of Troye shetten,
And hir citee bisegede al a-boute,
Hir olde usage wolde they not letten,  
As for to honoure hir goddes ful devoute;
But aldermost in honour, out of doute,
They hadde a relik hight Palladion,
That was hir trist a-boven everichon.

And so bifel, whan comen was the tyme  
Of Aperil, whan clothed is the mede
With newe grene, of ***** Ver the pryme,
And swote smellen floures whyte and rede,
In sondry wyses shewed, as I rede,
The folk of Troye hir observaunces olde,  
Palladiones feste for to holde.

And to the temple, in al hir beste wyse,
In general, ther wente many a wight,
To herknen of Palladion servyse;
And namely, so many a ***** knight,  
So many a lady fresh and mayden bright,
Ful wel arayed, bothe moste and leste,
Ye, bothe for the seson and the feste.

Among thise othere folk was Criseyda,
In widewes habite blak; but nathelees,  
Right as our firste lettre is now an A,
In beautee first so stood she, makelees;
Hir godly looking gladede al the prees.
Nas never seyn thing to ben preysed derre,
Nor under cloude blak so bright a sterre  

As was Criseyde, as folk seyde everichoon
That hir behelden in hir blake wede;
And yet she stood ful lowe and stille alloon,
Bihinden othere folk, in litel brede,
And neigh the dore, ay under shames drede,  
Simple of a-tyr, and debonaire of chere,
With ful assured loking and manere.

This Troilus, as he was wont to gyde
His yonge knightes, ladde hem up and doun
In thilke large temple on every syde,  
Biholding ay the ladyes of the toun,
Now here, now there, for no devocioun
Hadde he to noon, to reven him his reste,
But gan to preyse and lakken whom him leste.

And in his walk ful fast he gan to wayten  
If knight or squyer of his companye
Gan for to syke, or lete his eyen bayten
On any woman that he coude aspye;
He wolde smyle, and holden it folye,
And seye him thus, 'god wot, she slepeth softe  
For love of thee, whan thou tornest ful ofte!

'I have herd told, pardieux, of your livinge,
Ye lovers, and your lewede observaunces,
And which a labour folk han in winninge
Of love, and, in the keping, which doutaunces;  
And whan your preye is lost, wo and penaunces;
O verrey foles! nyce and blinde be ye;
Ther nis not oon can war by other be.'

And with that word he gan cast up the browe,
Ascaunces, 'Lo! is this nought wysly spoken?'  
At which the god of love gan loken rowe
Right for despyt, and shoop for to ben wroken;
He kidde anoon his bowe nas not broken;
For sodeynly he hit him at the fulle;
And yet as proud a pekok can he pulle.  

O blinde world, O blinde entencioun!
How ofte falleth al theffect contraire
Of surquidrye and foul presumpcioun;
For caught is proud, and caught is debonaire.
This Troilus is clomben on the staire,  
And litel weneth that he moot descenden.
But al-day falleth thing that foles ne wenden.

As proude Bayard ginneth for to skippe
Out of the wey, so priketh him his corn,
Til he a lash have of the longe whippe,  
Than thenketh he, 'Though I praunce al biforn
First in the trays, ful fat and newe shorn,
Yet am I but an hors, and horses lawe
I moot endure, and with my feres drawe.'

So ferde it by this fers and proude knight;  
Though he a worthy kinges sone were,
And wende nothing hadde had swiche might
Ayens his wil that sholde his herte stere,
Yet with a look his herte wex a-fere,
That he, that now was most in pryde above,  
Wex sodeynly most subget un-to love.

For-thy ensample taketh of this man,
Ye wyse, proude, and worthy folkes alle,
To scornen Love, which that so sone can
The freedom of your hertes to him thralle;  
For ever it was, and ever it shal bifalle,
That Love is he that alle thing may binde;
For may no man for-do the lawe of kinde.

That this be sooth, hath preved and doth yet;
For this trowe I ye knowen, alle or some,  
Men reden not that folk han gretter wit
Than they that han be most with love y-nome;
And strengest folk ben therwith overcome,
The worthiest and grettest of degree:
This was, and is, and yet men shal it see.  

And trewelich it sit wel to be so;
For alderwysest han ther-with ben plesed;
And they that han ben aldermost in wo,
With love han ben conforted most and esed;
And ofte it hath the cruel herte apesed,  
And worthy folk maad worthier of name,
And causeth most to dreden vyce and shame.

Now sith it may not goodly be withstonde,
And is a thing so vertuous in kinde,
Refuseth not to Love for to be bonde,  
Sin, as him-selven list, he may yow binde.
The yerde is bet that bowen wole and winde
Than that that brest; and therfor I yow rede
To folwen him that so wel can yow lede.

But for to tellen forth in special  
As of this kinges sone of which I tolde,
And leten other thing collateral,
Of him thenke I my tale for to holde,
Both of his Ioye, and of his cares colde;
And al his werk, as touching this matere,  
For I it gan, I wol ther-to refere.

With-inne the temple he wente him forth pleyinge,
This Troilus, of every wight aboute,
On this lady and now on that lokinge,
Wher-so she were of toune, or of with-oute:  
And up-on cas bifel, that thorugh a route
His eye perced, and so depe it wente,
Til on Criseyde it smoot, and ther it stente.

And sodeynly he wax ther-with astoned,
And gan hire bet biholde in thrifty wyse:  
'O mercy, god!' thoughte he, 'wher hastow woned,
That art so fair and goodly to devyse?'
Ther-with his herte gan to sprede and ryse,
And softe sighed, lest men mighte him here,
And caughte a-yein his firste pleyinge chere.  

She nas nat with the leste of hir stature,
But alle hir limes so wel answeringe
Weren to womanhode, that creature
Was neuer lasse mannish in seminge.
And eek the pure wyse of here meninge  
Shewede wel, that men might in hir gesse
Honour, estat, and wommanly noblesse.

To Troilus right wonder wel with-alle
Gan for to lyke hir meninge and hir chere,
Which somdel deynous was, for she leet falle  
Hir look a lite a-side, in swich manere,
Ascaunces, 'What! May I not stonden here?'
And after that hir loking gan she lighte,
That never thoughte him seen so good a sighte.

And of hir look in him ther gan to quiken  
So greet desir, and swich affeccioun,
That in his herte botme gan to stiken
Of hir his fixe and depe impressioun:
And though he erst hadde poured up and doun,
He was tho glad his hornes in to shrinke;  
Unnethes wiste he how to loke or winke.

Lo, he that leet him-selven so konninge,
And scorned hem that loves peynes dryen,
Was ful unwar that love hadde his dwellinge
With-inne the subtile stremes of hir yen;  
That sodeynly him thoughte he felte dyen,
Right with hir look, the spirit in his herte;
Blissed be love, that thus can folk converte!

She, this in blak, likinge to Troylus,
Over alle thyng, he stood for to biholde;  
Ne his desir, ne wherfor he stood thus,
He neither chere made, ne worde tolde;
But from a-fer, his maner for to holde,
On other thing his look som-tyme he caste,
And eft on hir, whyl that servyse laste.  

And after this, not fulliche al awhaped,
Out of the temple al esiliche he wente,
Repentinge him that he hadde ever y-iaped
Of loves folk, lest fully the descente
Of scorn fille on him-self; but, what he mente,  
Lest it were wist on any maner syde,
His wo he gan dissimulen and hyde.

Whan he was fro the temple thus departed,
He streyght anoon un-to his paleys torneth,
Right with hir look thurgh-shoten and thurgh-darted,  
Al feyneth he in lust that he soiorneth;
And al his chere and speche also he borneth;
And ay, of loves servants every whyle,
Him-self to wrye, at hem he gan to smyle.

And seyde, 'Lord, so ye live al in lest,  
Ye loveres! For the conningest of yow,
That serveth most ententiflich and best,
Him *** as often harm ther-of as prow;
Your hyre is quit ayein, ye, god wot how!
Nought wel for wel, but scorn for good servyse;  
In feith, your ordre is ruled in good wyse!

'In noun-certeyn ben alle your observaunces,
But it a sely fewe poyntes be;
Ne no-thing asketh so grete attendaunces
As doth youre lay, and that knowe alle ye;  
But that is not the worste, as mote I thee;
But, tolde I yow the worste poynt, I leve,
Al seyde I sooth, ye wolden at me greve!

'But tak this, that ye loveres ofte eschuwe,
Or elles doon of good entencioun,  
Ful ofte thy lady wole it misconstrue,
And deme it harm in hir opinioun;
And yet if she, for other enchesoun,
Be wrooth, than shalt thou han a groyn anoon:
Lord! wel is him that may be of yow oon!'  

But for al this, whan that he say his tyme,
He held his pees, non other bote him gayned;
For love bigan his fetheres so to lyme,
That wel unnethe un-to his folk he fayned
That othere besye nedes him destrayned;  
For wo was him, that what to doon he niste,
But bad his folk to goon wher that hem liste.

And whan that he in chaumbre was allone,
He doun up-on his beddes feet him sette,
And first be gan to syke, and eft to grone,  
And thoughte ay on hir so, with-outen lette,
That, as he sat and wook, his spirit mette
That he hir saw a temple, and al the wyse
Right of hir loke, and gan it newe avyse.

Thus gan he make a mirour of his minde,  
In which he saugh al hoolly hir figure;
And that he wel coude in his herte finde,
It was to him a right good aventure
To love swich oon, and if he dide his cure
To serven hir, yet mighte he falle in grace,  
Or elles, for oon of hir servaunts pace.

Imagininge that travaille nor grame
Ne mighte, for so goodly oon, be lorn
As she, ne him for his desir ne shame,
Al were it wist, but in prys and up-born  
Of alle lovers wel more than biforn;
Thus argumented he in his ginninge,
Ful unavysed of his wo cominge.

Thus took he purpos loves craft to suwe,
And thou

'What they don’t know, of course,
is that you don’t **** with the Hammer.
The Hammer smiles, you smile, you wave the truck
ahead. It’s pretty simple,
for poetry does not make assertions;
philosophy does. When the Hammer speaks,
he speaks of something wild.  You stop your world,
the phony one, the constructed one. It stops
and stops and stops—'

I force open the lock, let in the sun.
The Hammer and I confront synaptic death
each day we live. What’s left is fire now.
‘Welcome to the Republic of the Sane.’
I smile and let the fresh air fill
the cabin, fill their lungs. The Seine is just
a river in France, right? I smile and say,
‘The hard part is over.’—though we all know
it isn’t. I tell them, ‘Wallace Stevens
once lived in this house’—though he didn’t.
Let be be finale of seem, I quote. I speak
with care. This is the current reply: The only
Emperor is the Emperor of ice cream.
We hold our arms heaven-ward, like
we are angels in heaven. Since it’s winter
I have a fire burning in the fireplace.
The kids can have a bedroom to themselves,
upstairs. There is hot water, take a bath…

‘In transit to the blank planet,’ I say.
‘That’s your answer: where we are, a point,
circumference points, vectors maybe,
an asymptotic self-description,
that’s the best answer to your question.’
We sit next to the fire
and listen to music. Tonight it’s Schubert,
Winterreise. I read a little from
The Hour of the Star. We talk about Adorno,
Emil Cioran, Gaston Bachelard, Chaucer.
We talk about poetic thinking. Is
the goal to have
an ultimate clarity or is
the poet’s mind composed of play
and speculation? I prevaricate,
I lie, deceive, evade. We open up
a decent bottle of port. The Hammer
has prepared calamari in a butter sauce.
There’s fresh pasta, fresh bread.
‘My friends, a toast,’ I say. They have to know.
‘Today’s word is vector, a vector like
ticks are for Lyme disease, mosquitoes for
malaria.’ The transmission of disease,
is that what humanity is? ‘Human
intelligence,’ I say, ‘may be the result
of a virus. It would explain a lot.’

Among the things we console ourselves with
I will put other people at the top.
I know, my dear, you tremble at the word
thing. ‘Think to say I and Thou’, you would say
were you here, were you still with me.
That people partake of Being as objects
is only part of the story. Well, perhaps, I err…
perhaps I do. One of the things I read
to the people who come across the line
is this from Clarice Lispector:
'It must be said the girl is not conscious
of my presence. Were it otherwise she would
have someone to pray for and that would mean
salvation. But I am fully conscious
of her presence: through her I utter my cry
of horror to existence. To this
existence I love so dearly.'
It is very beautiful, is it not?

New York ~ News
New Jersey ~ Beaches
California ~ Movies
Florida ~ Disney World
Kentucky ~ Chicken
Texas ~ People that can't fit in their cars
Connecticut ~ Lyme Disease

frozen fallout shelter housing dried goods and tinder
black bean and rice prepper bent on the end of days
looking first to the sky and then to the government
absorbing radiation and propaganda
faster than organic apple juice can flush the system
triple berry blast yogurt smoothie shakes violently
in hands coated with Lyme and the scent of the non-believers
bodies unburied lead only to disease and discomfort  
stench filled landscape harboring mutated mankind
arms outstretched seeking normalcy and edible grains
contaminated meat from damaged cans sits unprotected
thin and frail lithosphere no longer preventing dermal cancer
only encouraging drought and famine while burning retinas and emaciating newborns
procreation as a plan of self-destruction and child-abuse
distant smokestacks, cracked, create a forlorn skyline
instilling visuals from days gone by
of easy life and happy youngsters
before the nuclear discovery

Take me to that place again,
where we walked until the moment when,
we stopped and rested by the sea
a private place, held just by you and me

In that place you built a tower of stone
and left it standing as though alone
A beacon that showed the way
to be the marker of that special day

Later we stood beneath the lighted trees
on a path laid out to please
We held each other in our arms
And viewed the bay and all its charms

In that place, that night
It felt that everything was right
and under those Dorset stars it felt as one
as though a great story had begun

In later days I thought back to that time
on ****** sands East of Lyme
and as we walked along that beach
I felt that all the world was in my reach

Now I wonder, was it just a dream
that I created as though to seem
a world I wanted, a world I looked to find,
as if some imagined state of mind

Joseph sits on skinny chairs, reads the funnies
she would be tall, pretty hair, she don’t see
see he won’t be reading one bit, he looks dumb
just staring, looking fat, broken, glum
she cleans up all the plates

—Put those dishes down, now is a time for love-making
I’ll take you now, and wonder if I’ve taken
steps enough to excuse my idleness; in time
you’ll leave, and supine, I’ll take a coat of lyme
and let the lines loose

We will communicate through touch and kiss
and enjoy the full of it, pull in the harvest;
light and movies romance the **** out of me
at last, we are at the end of all things irony
Christ that **** impersonal.

—This music don’t be coming from them
that is right, that is absolutely the end of them
they just end, I don’t care, I let it be
how come you so foolish, Joseph? I don’t see
why are you so foolish?

—You play the guitar by ear and plucking
at this moment they are dinosaur hunting
time is absurd and disgusting
I don’t understand it, I’m simply saying
you played some songs I knew at the time

But how different are your songs from mine
attach your seatbelts to your right hand buckles, fine
away with it, away with them all, please
I am telling, telling, understand, please
different in a few ways, love

—Joseph, you play the drums too loud
you are a big, dumb, idiot head
they end, it certainly has to be
it’s apocalyptic, something like this, said she
such a dummy you Joseph

the movie drums its so vicious loud
the end a dumb idiot head
that’s a thing she might have said at the time
and you are given a full witness to the violence of our time
Joseph plays bad harmonica.

Vivid forget me nots feign sleep,
their tired eyes tinged pink.
The soap and chlorine
at Lyme Regis bay
doth stand to make me think

About the way the rushes grow
and what lurks amount the reeds,
what gently dazzles
behind closed doors
and what we doth concede.

Is the laurel leaf unfathomable?
Is nature that way too?
For I feel that I don't understand
what every body seems to.

The humbled bumbles rumbled buzz
Satin saints upon our door
We wonder what was here,  
And what was there before.

The streaming stained glass
waterfalls, were they always there?
The sickled moon stands amorous,
clotted clouds about his hair.

Stately sit the beaded stars
in a wash of sky,

And still I sit, Still I sit,
Sit and wonder why.

Well I slept through this cold night,
Hell, I've been through worse.
Heard a wicked story,
of Glass and tattered sash.
The fire keeps me friendly,
This fire tells me more,
It's all just ganna burn up
theres nothing else left but ash an Lyme.
That moon is watching; cautious.
It's makin sure I don't break more hearts.
I already feel so guilty,
I don't need this sentinel,
to remind me of my transgressions,
of love fueled aggressions.

So I might choke on this cigarette,
I might drown myself in drink,
You burning oh so bright,
I feel it's warmth from here,
For me its ******' bitter,
For whoelse it's cinnamon treats,
Please dim down your lights,
You make it real hard to ****** sleep.

LYME RAGE
READY SET, STAGE:

MY HEAD IS GOING TO EXPLODE
BUGS IN MY BRAIN READY FOR IMPLODE…
UNLOAD
ME FROM THIS HELL
BREAK THE BARTONELLA SPELL
I HAVE SO MUCH TO TELL!

THE PAIN IS UNBEARABLE
STILL, I SWEAR TO YOU
THAT I WILL FIGHT IF ONLY THIS
FEELING WOULD TAKE FLIGHT.

PLEASE SEE ME HEAR ME LET ME LIVE
THERE IS SO MUCH I HAVE LEFT TO GIVE-----
BUT I CANNOT TAKE ONE MORE TRAUMA
LISTEN… MY NAME IS ILANA
I AM HERE DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I’M
suffering? FRUSTRATION AND CONFUSION BLUSTERING
IN THE PORTO VITA WIND TUNNEL
ALL THOUGHTS SWIRLING IN A FUNNEL.

RELEASE ME FROM THIS NIGHTMARE
ARE YOU OUT THERE?  DO YOU CARE?


I AM HOLDING BY A PIECE OF DENTAL FLOSS
OVER A FINE BRAIN LIES BART-INSPIRED GLOSS
OF BLACK ****. BUT THEN A WRIT
FLOWS FORTH AND THROUGH MY FINGERS
YET THIS CORNOCUPIA OF INSANITY STILL SOMEHOW LINGERS!
FREE ME?  ALLOW ME TO SURVIVE SO TO
THRIVE. LESSEN ITS GRIP ON MY BRAIN
I AM WORKING NOW TO TRAIN…

IT AGAIN TO THINK AND FEEL BEYOND MYSELF

THIS PATHOGEN IS BEYOND MEASURE STEALTH
I’M SO READY TO SURRENDER IN PEACE

NOONE THINKS I’LL DO IT; SOON THOSE NOTIONS WILL CEASE,

BECAUSE I’VE HAD PLENTY ENOUGH AFTER 4 YEARS

ALLOW ME TO STOP SHEDDING TEARS
OF UNIMAGINABLE ANGUISH AND DESPAIR
NONE OF THIS IS ******* FAIR

COME ON GOD, SPIRIT, ENERGY ANCESTORS

THERE HAVE TO SOMEWHERE BE SOME ANSWERS

I AM DYING A SLOW AND PAINFUL DEATH
LET ME GO INTO THE LIGHT NO MORE BREATH

INHALE EXHALE INHALE EXHALE--I’VE GONE INSANE

BARRAGED ASSAULT ON MY ONCE-PRAISED BRAIN

I NEED OUT IN THE WORSE POSSIBLE WAY
I ONLY WANTED TO HEAL, OVERCOME AND STAY

MY SPIRIT WAS BROKEN LONG AGO
SIMPLY PUT, I FOUGHT AN UNBEATABLE FOE

You're on the phone with me
I'm on the phone with you
In two separate houses
In two separate rooms

I hear your mattress creak beneath you
and you hear mine
Our groans are  a weird harmony
over the telephone line

You go silent for a time
all of you I know is the sound of your breath
and then it is my turn
as my mind spins and my fever burns

"Did you take your medicine?"
You ask me, before I have the chance to ask you.
"Yes...did you?"
"Yes."

And of all the things we have shared
I wonder aloud
Why must we have both gotten Lyme Disease
At the exact same time?

This is my empire
I am the king
I am the ruler
I am the only one

This is my time
Count the seconds
Count the minutes
Count the hours

This is my crimes
Call me a monster
Call me a killer
Call me a clown

This is my city
Under the floor
Under the boards
Under the lyme

This is my mind
Paint it all red
Paint it all blue
Paint it all ugly

This is my life
I am a husband
I am a leader
I am a son

This is my death
This is my life
This is my time
This is my empire

Someone let night
Out of the bag
It wasn't I

Someone let slippery Darkness
Reign o'er the day
It wasn't I

Someone let today get ahead
of you
It wasn't I

Someone
Not I

Hey you. It's weird me saying that, huh? That's all you used to call me, it felt like you forgot my name. You barely look at me, it's like I'm not even there. Do you know how old I am? Do you even care?
Sometimes I envy you. You're the one that knows all the family secrets because most of them are yours. I have figured some of them out though. All the times you drank yourself away, the times where you crept into our bedroom, all the times you wanted to harm others. I used to wonder why you were this raging monster but now I don't even care. You're this sick and twisted person that I guess only your kids can see. I know the only reason why you haven't left is because you have nowhere else to go. You have never had a real job and like to control other people.
I know now to make sure to never associate with someone like you. I don't want to end up in denial about how abusive and using you are.
I feel bad that your addiction to alcohol has stopped because it seems like all you want to do is get high off those pills you pop. One after the other; begging for more. She always lets up and gives you more everyday than you're supposed to have.  All you do is yell and yell when you don't get more.
Now you're slowly deteriorating. Your in pain with your lyme disease and you aren't healthy. You don't have much more to live but you're so stubborn to even see that. I don't know if I should feel bad because of the monster you are. You're the one that made me not trust anyone, the one that made me feel like no one cares or loves me. I know it's not my fault anymore; it's yours. I would like to thank you though. You showed me I could get past this. So thank you.

ID has lost her identity
There is no more sense of me.
The world's turned scary and dark
Once bright, now, not even a spark
Lyme seems to be the cause
My life interrupted, on full pause
Fear holds me prisoner all the time
Is it mental illness or is it Lyme
So many years so many tears
So many threats so many texts
Turn the light back on to my life
I've endured over 4 years of strife
God see me, release me, set me free
From pain and sameness beautiful tree
A professor's brain gone insane
It is cruel, ironic, and will not wane
I could never have envisioned this hell
A book to be written, stories to tell
Finally...committed, will be its name
Perhaps it is only myself I have to blame.
I don't want to die.  I want to live.
There is little left for others to give.
It is up to me to reclaim an identity
Super ID crushed and I'll let it be.

Antipsychotic licks, lyme disease ticks, pick up sticks
Cutting wicks, playing tricks, flicking BICs
Just another hick, way you look at me, like you got whole books of me
Come cook with me, write a hook with me, become a crook like me
Static backpeddle, piddling on the ant pile, been lost awhile
Cross-cut file creasing cuticles comfortably, clutter-free
Oh say can you see, why did they lie to me, why did we go to war?
Was it Junior settling Seniors' score, or something more?
We sit and snore gently, herbivores, wonder why the carnivores are hungry
Love me, if you can, I'm as temporary as sand spilling sideways
Fresh rays of sun, this photon was the one to finally find me
Chain reactions and Lurasidone interactions gives sanity in fractions
Join your faction and justify that violence, my two cents
Begging for pence and pennies, eating garbage behind Denny's
A whole scrap book devoted to ladybugs

Enter in the beauty of this purity
Sincerity’s a rarity
Look in the mirror and I stare at me
Offer up a prayer for me
But the guilt overrides me
It eats up inside me
Bide my time ‘till I’m free
Like the inverse of Lyme disease
Fine by me, let me be
I’ll huff and puff in ecstasy
But words are nothing; words are free
Words sap up my energy
These colors aren’t that fun
Found myself overrun
Screams brighter than the sun
Coming from everyone
Yet they live their lives in white lies
With nothing else to stand by
No power helps their planes fly
And in the end they all die
Honesty’s a lonely word
Feeling under scrutiny
Heavy under blows;
is this a mutiny? Pardon me,
Because I was never the captain
I was never in charge
Life doesn’t have captions
It’s just blank index cards
Murphy’s law applies to spirits
Raise a glass for your ghost
Right when things are gone,
That’s when you miss them the most

You're the needle ***** to our contraception
your seed swims sick through tunnel vision
you contradict your contradictions
direct your horses to Gallup opinion

Take a sip from your golden chalice
you've poisoned our wine with Iocane powders
your time ticks of Lyme diseased malice
fictitious fortunes, SEC counts the hours

Oh Lord I pray this won't sleep off
Oh Lord I pray this won't sleep off
For You

Love is kind,
fruit of the mind.
Lives more than nine,
Stronger each time

Staining my lines,
Sweeter than pines,
making you unwind,
obliviously blind,

hearing only the chime,
of your hearts as you lyme,
until when you find,
fickle and fine,

in one perfectly aged wine,
then taste sip and refine,
for it will be mine.

the democratic convention under the deck
———————————————————


all kinds have registered their displeasure
with the arrival of the human menagerie,
their boisterous ways, jive not with the quietus
of the island paradise, and under the shady deck
where the convention conversations are held...

open to all but the factions forming, squirrels most
populous, demand the gavel and the chairmanships,
because they breed best, knowledges of the yard
terrain, par excellent, have climbed every tree,
show no fear, boldly jumping on the chaise lounge
occupant by the lady of the house, quizzing her with a
side-tilted glance of what are YOU doing here????

they like their acorns from the Oaks, their fav poem
Acorns in August, naturellement, naturellement,
leaving the beheaded remains of the acorns devoured,
everywhere, to obtain maximum annoyance from them
interlopers human, delighting in the foul mouthed exclamations,
when their ugly footed bottoms, unshod, meet the pointy part,
proving squirrels natural ability to govern the swap infected
by the two legged in-cursors, who have annoyed for forty years...

the rabbits, seek alliances, they live full time neath the deck,
making babies, so cute, getting bolder as they get older, hopping
unashamedly across the deck, eliciting oohs and has, of the children,
who blissfully unaware, all this creatures carry the ticks of Old Lyme.
Though unnumbered, the rabbits, fat, throw their heft around,
promising to drain the backyard of the invading hordes, with their
smelly sun tan lotions and outrageously ugly bathing towels...

called to order by the light of the flickering television, a fire signal
that the humans are in for the night, won’t notice the shouting and
shoving not so cute, tween the factions.  Animals behaving like
humans, what a lowly sad sight, deals and promises made, give
me a hundred Likes, ten repostings, and five 😊, say the hedgehog,
who rarely appears but boy is he big and has capital to lend to anybody
who will give him what he wants...

the field mice, have little-power, their diminutive constituency, not
so useful, as they no longer make the female humans, shriek, nah,
now they are cute, until they chew the wires in the basement, and
hide their tennis socks in spidery corners where they leave them to
yellow, corrode, unravel, unfit for human footage anymore;
and while these weakfish of the under-deck, their longevity of encroachment must be respected for they have been since time immemorial, which nobody remembers exactly how long that is exactly...

called to order, resolution on the floor, who shall lead the charge,
plan the plan to drain away the inhuman interference for once and
forevermore; but the conventional dialogue interruptus,  by an unfamiliar voice: a scouting party sent, like the spies of the Israelites, fails to return, another party formed and returns, with woeful news, of a white van truck,stenciled in black death,
                 The East End Pest Company (Exterminators)
has been invited in, and sadly nobody of the animal world has in their possess, a dictionary or vocabulary so large that the word, exterminate, strikes a note of danger!

the booing and brawling silenced, the political skullduggery is replaced
by the sad quietude, until the insect kingdom returns to reclaim the lands,
they were driven from many decades earlier, and they big human eavesdroppers, well, they know that word well and won’t make the same mistake twice! but then from above, between a crack, come a tumbling a business, white, from the deck o the below deck, in hand upon the back write these words:

See ya next week!
We leave your property
as clear as our conscience


p.s. for security reasons, conventions are held now every four years,
the location unrevealed, until, the very last minute

If you don't search for treasure
Treasure will  find you
You can't solve a mystery
When you don't have a clue
Busy bees working
Are good at what they do
Pyrotechnic people
Who share the same view
Soak yourself in epsom salt
And read the front page
Someone died from lyme disease
Born to get paid
Telepath cryptic messages to the tube
Presidential candidates become unglued

to walk the paths of the
minutemen. When they were
marching with musket in hand

they didn’t have to worry about the
distance between themselves. The enemy
has become the men in your tribe. I tried

to keep the six-foot wide rule that no one else
was adhering to. But in order to do this
I ended up in the forest. It was so dense with

overgrowth that I began to choke. As I
meandered out to see a mix of people trialing
only two feet width someone shouted “that forest

has Tics.” So now I’m worried of getting sick
with of all things, Lyme disease! All for
avoiding the present company!

I view myself so sternly sometimes
As a tower standing tall above sands
Like a lighthouse alive on the shores of Lyme

When really I'm a swingset
Noone plays on much more

Bright in the sun perhaps
But no less weathered by time

Regardless, I am kind of tall

Exhale magic potion, put in motion
by frail bones and different tones
of grey
The world swirls gutter-wise and streets stink of ozone,
lyme
Time spent in the desert like
moonscape, powder like
sugar on your boots
Deep in my roots I can
feel a thirst, growing and
inevitable
How easily it
could all go
wrong

Vines grow
In distinct forms
In a life Everleading
For written meaning
With tombs everleading
Strife forms meaning
With undergrowth  ♡
                             is bright
Lyme
Tyme
Substance
Constance
Mother's true time.

I think about purity;
the way I allow things in and out of my mouth in different rhythms-
sometimes gnawing, sometimes cramming,
sometimes clawing back up with bile and belief
until I feel empty enough to try again.

I can’t put any of it into words.
I can’t write short poems.
I over-explain. I overwhelm.
I over-draw and they oversee.
I start to stake but there’ll
always be things I can’t do-
or, I mean, things I won’t do.
That’s a lie.
I try, try, try
to feel alive.

I like the secret,
tipping towards transgression,
tidal, treading.
Nothing in me belongs anyway;
every piece is trespassing-
breaking and entering,
bouncing on chicken wire,
listening for sirens.

Nothing in me is solid enough.
I’m so many stanzas in and out-
each with its own wavering threshold,
each dependent on someones waffling regard.

Water around here isn’t clear,
puddles and streams pulse with
mud and leaves,
trash and scuttley insects.
My reflection exists only,
wholely,
behind a layer of milky film
and unclean things.
Things from nature.
Things alive.
Things also pure.

Purity like looting
when the wires are down,
like a cracked mirror,
a stagnant pond,
perfunctory ***,
and slow-seeping Lyme
thinning your legs and hollowing your eyes.

Trying a new rhythm; things still in,
still out,
but better aimed.
Still trying, still living,
still too many words,
and still not empty.
Never empty.
Never impure.