Opinions like dough, gruesome and cloying, sticking to the tongue like self righteous peanut butter.
Sitting up for the wrong reasons, though it's difficult to get out of bed alone.
Counting calories like counting the number of eyes that pass over this form.
Glances flitting like shadows on cheekbones that aren't cutting, too rounded.
Running towards expectations on the necessary incline towards beautiful.
Sweat and pounds and £s for form fitting clothes, like sickly scales.
Weight resting on the soles of the right shoe for the right path towards the right body.
Weight lifted, muscles straining like Atlas with the weight of the world's eye view.
Memberships paid for, memberships given to the society of those who fit into society.
Take the leftovers, it's funny because the sight of us does not suggest the leaving of necessity.
Tightening belts until the loopholes leave us love even though we lack what is expected.
Leaving our food and gaining what you want.

I believe in smiling at strangers. I believe in saying hello. I believe in shyness. I believe in fear of rejection. I believe in the need of affection. I believe in the need of reminders. I believe in candles, especially those that smell of vanilla or christmas. I believe in wearing small crystals around my neck. I believe in energetic vibrations. I believe in colours - I think each person has their own colour. I believe every feeling is valid. I believe in chapstick and I believe in mascara that doesn’t clump. I believe in nail polish - every colour of nail polish. I believe that the only reason we lie is because we fear something. I believe in poetry. I believe in bluntness. I believe in the intention behind words, but I don’t necessarily believe in words. I believe in travel. I believe in travelling solo. In fact, I believe in travelling so much that it is pretty much all I want to do. I believe in music. Boy, do I believe in music. I believe any kind of musical composition can change a person. I believe music can cure depression. I also believe music can feed depression. I believe a melody can say more than lyrics and I believe that lyrics can be what someone couldn’t put together themselves to explain exactly how they are feeling. I believe anyone can create a song, even though they believe they cannot. I believe a single note can sound like the most beautiful sound in the world. I believe if someone records a song when they’re in an ugly mood, the ugliness emits to its listeners and can drain them. I believe in art. Of course I do. I believe in acrylic paint. I believe in oil paint and watercolours, but not as much as I believe in acrylic. I believe in fingerprinting. I even believe in painting with your toes. And I believe in dancing; even if it looks weird. I believe in flailing your arms even, as long as it feels good and right. I believe in dancing ‘til you sweat, though I don’t like that icky feeling too much. I believe that a babe can be a very ugly person and a physically unattractive person can be a very beautiful person. I believe that people who smile are beautiful. I believe that people who frown are beautiful too, just in a different way. I believe that there are sincere smiles and there are manipulative smiles. I believe that some people just know how to use their eyes well. I believe in eye contact. I believe in engaging. I believe in listening and dropping everything else that is going on in your mind just to listen to what a person is trying to share with you. I believe in sharing - sharing cookies and sharing love. I believe in the frosty cold. I believe that it doesn’t have to feel as cold as it really is. I believe that people complain a lot. I believe that people often have too much pride to be happy. I believe that we should embrace our discomforts and shames, that we should welcome them wholeheartedly so that we can be happy. I believe in honesty. I believe in empathy. I believe in tea. I believe in jelly donuts but only on certain occasions. I believe in quirky bow ties. I believe in knit toques and mittens and scarves. I believe in dresses. I believe in flirting. I believe in coffee in the morning. I believe in big comfy beds. I believe in walking around your empty house in your underwear or birthday suit, singing loudly. I believe in singing in the shower. I believe in singing on the street. I believe in stage fright. I believe in meditation, though I don’t really strictly set times to do it anymore. I believe mundane activities can be done in a meditative state of mind. I believe in clarity. I believe in not judging people because everyone is human. I believe every human has something very interesting about them. I believe in boring people too. I believe in christmas music - not the radio kind, the choral kind. I believe in cheap sweet wine. I believe in Billy Joel and I believe in The Beatles. I believe in Regina and Sufjan too. I believe that the ukulele is a very overrated instrument. I believe in having healthy hair. I believe in moisturizer. I believe in getting to pick a coloured toothbrush at the dentist. I believe in thick wool socks. I believe in baggy sweaters. I believe in yoga gear but I do not believe in sweatpants. I believe that yoga is one of the healthiest things for a person - ever. I believe in buying a friend drinks or dinner once in awhile. I believe in collecting shoes and scarves and rings. I believe in chords but I don’t really believe in jeans. I believe in hot chocolate with whip cream but not with marshmallows. I believe in dorky Christmas sweaters. I believe in baking cookies instead of cake. I believe in eating disorders - I do not support them, but I do believe they are much more severe and various than most people think and I believe there should be better/proper help for those who suffer instead of the usual cruel inpatient/outpatient care. I believe in trichotillomania and I believe in dermatillomania and the severity and impact it can have on its sufferers. I believe in gardens. I believe in every single flower. I believe that everyone is always doing their best. I believe that most people love to struggle. I believe in hope. I believe in having faith in yourself. I believe in iPod playlists. I believe in gym memberships in the winter, not the summer unless it’s to swim. I believe in matching underwear every day. I believe in Value Village. I believe in singing in bus shelters when you’re waiting for the bus. I believe in dressing up according to holidays. I believe in Grey’s Anatomy and I believe in Community. I believe in skirts and dresses that twirl like the ‘ol days. I believe in longboards more than skateboards. I believe in plaid like most young people do. I believe in bows in my hair, but not as much as I used to. I believe in foot massages and hand massages. I believe in reflexology and reiki and essential oils and chakras and crystals and holistic nutrition. I believe in anxiety; even crippling anxiety. I believe in awkward romances. I do not believe in flip flops. I do not believe in Beatles covers unless they are really insanely good; then my mind is blown. I believe in having long enough nails to scratch someone’s back appropriately. I also believe in biting nails. I do not believe in telephone calls unless I am extremely comfortable with the person. I believe in blogs. I believe in journals. I believe in naming special inanimate objects like journals, instruments, technology and furniture. I believe in the idea of cats more than I believe in cats. I believe in sharpies or thin pointed permanent markers. I believe in temporary tattoos. I believe in streaming movies online. I believe in royal gala apples. I believe in avocados. I believe in rice cakes. I believe in popcorn. I believe in airports but I hate the LA airport. I believe in openly talking about *** but I don’t believe in making it seem shameful and gross. I believe there should be no shame regarding sexuality. I believe in reading some great books more than once. I believe in laying on the couch under cozy blankets, watching a great suspenseful tv show or movie. I only believe in having a couple bites of cheesecake. I don’t really believe in lulu lemon. I don’t believe many people can pull off the colour yellow. I believe in buttons over zippers even though zippers are easier, they just look kind of dumb and cheap. I believe in the sun and the moon equally. I believe in closets over dressers. I believe in staring out the window for a good hour or so.

for all the names on that granite wall and many others...

I  Prelude

Vietnam broke my mind.
Now it runs like a cheap watch
always leaping about in time.
It pulls me backward into
strange visions of a world gone mad.
My life is time borrowed from corpses.
It is hard to lead your life
while you are stuck in another.
Time, the great healer,
only seems to make this worse.
Self-medication, legal meditation,
nothing seems strong enough
to stop the pounding of the rotors,
the screams of the men and the monkeys.
I have never been able to **** the demons
hidden in the tree lines of my mind.
Forty-three years later I'm still hiding
nauseous and naked in the napalmed jungle.
But my high mileage body clings to life:
the quest for immortality knows no shame.
Now I am a poet drunk on words,
stumbling over the illusion of art.
The more I know of language,
the less I understand life and loss.
And still the mortars rain down
in an eternal, inescapable monsoon.


II Place

Imagine a land that smells entirely of ****.
Only 70 miles wide in some places.
I flew above the abandoned bases of a war
that had been abandoned as well.
Places given up to the jungle
where 60,000 Americans died for nothing.
An implacable enemy that had fought
the Japanese and French before us
and had no doubt they would prevail.
A very beautiful place seen from the air
if no one was trying to eradicate you.
Skinny children, old women, many ******.
A place where real tigers might well
leap from ambush and eat you alive
and snakes so deadly that once bitten
you only got two steps before death.
Breathtaking sunsets and sunrises.
And the possibility of doom everywhere.
Rice paddies, mountains, triple canopy jungle.
Gorgeous beaches and an ocean laden
with sharks and sea snakes for company.
A place where death picked his teeth and smiled.


III Action

Stark terror is the mother of combat;
the rage of Peleus son Achilles
drives the soldier into the filed teeth
of impossibly horrible situations.
Not for America or the Stars and Stripes
but for the man next to you
whom you probably didn't even know.
Never ask why one man dies
and the one beside him lives on.
I shot an NVA regular from 20 feet
with a Colt Model 1911 45 automatic.
Got him exactly in the chest.
He looked very surprised to be dead.
I was surprised I didn't miss.
At An Loc a Huey 20 yards from mine
loaded with 18 hopeful human beings
took a rocket up the *** and
disintegrated into a debris cloud
of metal fragments and pink mist.
No bodies to be bothered with,
no pieces large enough to identify.
A CIA officer executing the wounded.
A tame **** torturing his countryman.
The exquisitely horrific moment when
you know you are falling, not flying.
The partner cut in half by a machine gun
five feet from where I stood.
Do not try to make any sense of this.
Fall back on the mantra: *don't mean nothing.
Cling to that and you may stay sane.
Apparently, God was busy for ten years
and never bothered to visit Vietnam.

IV Comrades

Forget that band of brothers *******,
we were more like a desperate rabble
with no one to count on but each other.
Sometimes a brother shares the blood
in your veins; sometimes you know him
by the blood that flows from his.
You scream, you curse, you try so hard
and he dies like a huge baby in your arms.
Vietnam was a club you could only join
by being there deep in the ****.
Now we are old men but our memberships
will never expire until we do.
And who will remember us then.

V Aftermath

Treated like lepers, we slunk home,
each to do the best he could.
Many died in the denouement of
drugs, alcohol, homelessness, suicide.
When I got home I wanted to be alone,
to be with people, lots of *****,
but only with no emotion attached,
an ocean of Jack Daniels, lines of coke,
mountains of ***, electro-shock therapy,
calm sleep without nightmares
and sometimes the comfort of a quick death.
Not much different than most I think.
Saigon fell. Don't mean ******* nothing.
Only some of us remember and want you to know
so you won't be fooled again.

Pure whey protein tub.
Lets make boys body builders.
Gym memberships rise.

The mating dance changed
My testicles move a train.
Will you be my wife?

As the **** of a 12-dollar cigar
touches the tip of the tongue,
the nervous system shoots a signal to the brain,
to process the sweet tinge
of delicious poison
that hits the back of the throat.
Slow suicide, baby,
really doesn't get any smoother.

Human bodies may desire health,
but it’s the mind that struggles
and tests mortality
as the heart races
for the best ****.

Hipsters and their vapor pipes,
their overpriced organic groceries,
coke binges and ****** addictions,
gym memberships and spinning classes,
they’re socialized to believe life
goes on forever.
They behave as if death
is a kind of curse.

We can run from sins,
wash our souls in the rain
of fresh lovers in new cities.
Sins, however, collect.
They grow in strength.
All we have in the end,
is the sweet tinge of satisfaction
that comes from killing oneself
in style.

psychosis and osmosis....
   one the soul, the other
simply water...
      in dictionary
verbatim:
the passage of a solvent (ego) through
a semipermeable membrane (body) from
a less concentrated (thought) to a more
concentrated solution (soul) until both
solutions are of the same concentration (now) -
    and the end of a romance is?
the so called "madness"
becomes a topic less and less used
by writers of fiction,
  it becomes genuine,
it also means fiction parasites,
poets included, don't dare to tread
into a goose-march stepping into this Hades....
    you don't come round these parts by
yourself... unless you're hoping to
end up dead... or trapped by a dialectical
spiderweb with talking spinders...
       you dont get to type  this ailment out...
not in the same way you write the
word osmosis....
but then again, in the west you get to
be a victim of a crime: the criminal
       gets all the perks and you get
   Belgian mud to sniff,
while a monarchy gets to celebrate
its 65th sapphire encirclement...
               psychosis should be as clear as
osmosis...
                 in that we need water....
                    obviously very few people understand
this...
                dein die kopftod...
   i call an end to romantics with "madness",
well... given cancer has the prioraties...
                so the crowd might
congregate at Golgotha...
                  i say: walk the, ******* crab!
side-ways, yes, side-ways,
   like imitating suicide on a ledge....
you made enough money from the diseases,
true when under the scalpel:
dis- (negated) -ease (do i need
to exfoliate this?) -
                   i can only see a death of making
certain diseases a case for the worthwhile tale
of selling novels...
            i can't imagine exploiting
the said diseases... but if i was born with
a capitalist conscience, i'd hardly think of
possessing a conscience...
               i'd say death to the romance
of establishing a literary subject...
              i'd prescribe the Koran...
           as odd as it might sound...
you don't really hear how
psychosis can really be stated lorem ipsum
ad hoc...
   the first you hear is
         the miser medatitive attempts in
the medium, precipitating into paranoid
schizophrenia... no more medical than it is:
politico-journalistic...
                 psychosis and osmosis...
what's the difference... one engages the soul....
the other... water...
the ending is the same -osis...
   a verb, an activity self-explanatory
in a name... easily digested via journalistic
sensationalism...
        it becomes a death then the "mad" onces
realise you're herding them into a novel
and rather run a half marathon for
  the cancer victims...
   then ***** begins to turn sticky....
                 the hierarchy of diseases emerges...
cancer pharaoh... alongside the other adverts
for flu, smomking and lesser diseases...
then they tell you how Muhammad treated
the lunatics like modern Islam might deal with
Sufis...
                   some would care to say:
these people, are, not, money-dispensing
machines!
                        but then again...
who gives a ****... i don't even know or care
if you're conscious,
    i know that conscience is not part
of your consciousness, then i'm treating you
are semi-coordinate,
   probably sleepwalking through your so
called life...
   madess has no romance for a novel,
but since you testify to people being mad
only via a model... i can't but expect your novels
to later come from glamour models
writing their ghost-biographies...
   ghostwriters... auto- not near
unless bound to refining a.i.,
oh don't worry: only books written
as books necessarily sold...
                      this has gone beyond pimping
the pompous... it really has...
                  i can't even be prone to pomp,
i can't believe in writing a book
like i might don a cravat or a beefeaters' uniform...
      books have nothing
      grand about them...
writing them we're cheap ****... very much akin
to the last ruke on the chess board:
      lifestyle journalists with  a steady income
from being printed in newspapers...
did you know robots will replace 250,000 jobs
bound to the NHS and Whitehall?
    better write scrappy, ******-doo....
they might think you're human...
           then i guess it only sounds as the prompt:
write doubly human...
   for the added effect...
             write like those employed by newspapers,
esp. the opinion columns...
can shove it up their *****...
   drink theoir gin & tonics...
think their opinions,
   and replace their premature / non-existent
dialectics, by crushing ice-cubes with their teeth.
    i can only claim being human
by not romanticising "madness"...
                         i think it's a tabloid
venture that's, well... deservedly in need of a novel...
  i can only suggest the alternative:
stop the romance of "madness",
            and stop desiring to write novels about "it",
before you turn and realise
that your sanity was prone to stage
           the alternative... zeitgeist and insect
"typo" homily.
oh, it's there... but no one thinks those people
are half-as-cult-like as they,
         there's no "secret" / shadow bribing
someone from both ease, and from seeing
an ease for dis...
                     it's just nice, seeing people pray,
kneel...
                 play into the hands of a puppeteer...
who may or may not exist...
counter to all the intelligent arguments:
try merely existing, rather than living...
  try to state i think therefore i am:
            and move it away from forgetting
that you think, and simply live...
             most people who express life
hardly ever think...
                   well... you can't see thought:
meaning their life is not so cyclic
and at the same time limited...
               cogito ergo sum is equivalent to
Zeno's paradox...
     to occupy yourself with thinking
          is to de-occupy yourself with living...
you can try to prove with thought that you
exist, but in that same instance:
your thought means less and less...
since by thinking occupy a finite space...
   and with life about you taking its course...
your cogito becomes trapped in a noumenon...
since that your self cannot
                    express a phenomenon...
given the number of example trapped
in the category of **** sapiens,
this is as natural as taking antibiotics for
a flu... only that it's purely cognitive...
or rather: cogito per se...
            cogito per se ergo sum quasi se...
given non cogito est pseudo cogito ergo sum...
   mind you: there's no pseduo sum...
we already rule given we can't
turn into the abstract burial ground of hindus
that's a fire... and how we have strated
to build up a phobia for being taken into the earth
for insect food...
   even the pagans believed to give the body
a soul, a fire burial...
   if that practice remained, there would
be no reference to monotheistic ****...
       or we would turn into Chinese omnivores...
i find it bewildering that the Hidus and Chinese
have been so ****** patient with us...
count to 1 billion in English...
  years... probably another 1000 years to
reach that number of snooker-player plumbers
and carpenters ready like vulchers...
  cos we really needed that "perfected" aesthetic
of a web-page to really, really clog our brains...
thinking that it wouldn't precipitate into
a loss of body, a sudden loss of body,
  and the emerges of youth with mental illnesses
akin to premature depression, when depression
was the disease of the old, in the gravity cursing
toward, for ****'s sake! Homer!
    yes, the Greek poet!
                  how can you suddenly expect
to make mentala illness a myth, + a taboo...
when you prescribed people gym memberships...
and a complete lack of manual labour,
having exported it to China...
  the ******* on about?
      we're suddenly the new Marxist theory samples...
brains in pickle-jars...
     completely spineless!
                 we wanted both mind and body...
instead... the powers-at-be... told us:
you only need a mind... no body...
   body belongs to hamster... to the gym...
  well... but i really wanted to think crap and hammer
in nails all day... no can do... Chinese have it...
well...
                 what's the point now?
how else would Islam, not be agitated in prescribing us
a war?
           i still find it bewildering that the Chinese
and the Indians (2 billions, and counting)
are so patient with us...
                   still... you want to know why
there's an escalation in youth mental illness in the west?
you gave their bodies to the Chinese...
  no way in the world can their minds (including
my own) ever reach a plateau of an Einstein that
would be satisfactory for the authorities,
to move away from Einstein... and establish
a telekinetic norm (as seen on adverts).

There is something
that I wanted to tell you.
  
                                      Earlier this month,
I was talking to my best friend
About a lot of important things
such as boys, dating,
                                      and careers.
  
                                      I came across a
                                      very, touchy subject.
  
I asked my best friend
about my body image.
  
I asked her
“Does my image matter?”
My best friend
                                      responded back with,
“Well, what do you think?”
  
To which
I start to think about it
for a very long time.
  
When I got back home
from my best friend’s house,
I went straight
                                      to my bedroom and
changed out of my day clothes.
I was completely naked,
except I was wearing my bra
                                      and my underwear.
I went to the mirror
and took a very, long look
                                      at myself.
I turned to the left, right, and back
and did the exact
                                      same thing.
All I see is a healthy, curvy,
Beautiful young woman looking
                                     straight back at me.
  
I started to ask myself repeatedly,
“Does My Image Matter?”
While I was asking this question
  repeatedly to myself,
                                      All of the past memories
start to come back to me.
                                     I kept thinking and
asking and thinking and asking,
until at one point, I gave up.
  
Does my image really matter?
  
Does my image matter
when I watch TV, surf the web,
Read newspapers, magazines, ads,
and I came across
Some attracting people showcasing
their perfect bodies
And when I look at my body,
realizing that it’s not
Perfect? That it’s not just like theirs?
  
Does my image matter
when my mother
keeps on pressuring
me
and not anybody else
in my family
to lose some weight?
Doesn’t she like my body
the way it is right now?
Why does she want me
to change it?
  
Does my image matter
when I finally got a role
in a TV Show,
Feature Film,
or a theatrical production
that I have dreamed of
For a long time,
only to find out the directors,
executive producers,
And my agent
wanted and pressured me
to lose a few pounds and
If I don’t do what they tell me to do,
they will reject me all because
I’m not following their standards?
That I’m not just like the
Other actors and actresses
With their perfect, fit, &
Attractive bodies?
  
Does my image matter
When I joined the
Bandwagon of
Millions and millions
Of people all
Across the country
Spending my hard-earned
Cash on
Products upon products of
Hair, make-up, skin, manicure/
Pedicure, weight-loss programs,
Diet pills/shakes, at-home gym
Equipment, gym memberships,
Diet plans, and all that jazz
Only to find out that
It never works with my
Hectic daily schedule?!
Or it never works
at all?!
  
Does my image matter
When I watch an episode of
“Glee” that is about
body image
issues,
When Kitty, a cheerleader, told
Marley, a glee club member,
About how to lose weight by
Just sticking 2 fingers in
Her mouth and
Just ***** so that
Marley can fit into
The costume that
She is going to
Wear in order to
Portray the role of
Sandy Olson
In their school’s
Theatrical production
Of “Grease?”
What would I do if
I was in Marley’s
Shoes?
  
Does my image matter
When the professionals,
Scientists, and authors
From the University of
Washington
Explain that the
Media itself
Is responsible for
Holding up “a
Thinner & thinner
Body image as the
Ideal for women?”
That they also state that
Throughout their
Childhood,
Women are extremely
“unhappy with their
Bodies”
And the percentage
Representing that
Statement
Increases rapidly from
Age 13 to age 17?
Was I happy or
unhappy with
My body during that
Time?
  
Does my image matter
If I stopped worrying
About my body?
That I could just eat
Whatever the heck I
Want?
That I could just sit on
My ****
All day long
And not get enough
Physical activity
So that when I
Walk down the
Streets of my
Hometown
Proudly,
nobody would
Notice how big,
Fat, and ugly
I have become?
Would I just be a
Doormat?
Would I become
An easy
Target?
  
Does my image matter then?
  
Does my image matter now?
  
Would my image matter in the future?
  
Would my image matter anytime soon?!?!
Now you listen to me.
Just take a very, long
Look at me.
What do you see?
What do you like &
Dislike about me?
Do you love
Or hate me?
And in your
Honest opinion,
  
Does my image matter to you?
  
Let me tell you something.
As of right now,
my image does matter.
  
It matters to me
And me alone.

Some people say I’m crazy,
They call me a total nut.
They say I’ve lost my mind
That I don’t know what’s what.
That I am beyond cuckoo.
They say I’ve gone insane,
That I am in a very bad way,
That I’ve got you on the brain.

I’m just in love
It’s a kind of lovely madness.
It is insanity
In a very lovely kind of dress.
It affects everything
Makes me lose my train of thought.
And I do it gladly
Whether or not I really ought.

Other people don’t see
That I hear you in every sound.
Those people have their rules
On the feeling I have found.
They are understanding
If it’s a round of golf or a car,
But this is how I really feel
No matter what their feelings are.

Some love their money,
The massive expensive houses
And some like to cheat on
Their unsuspecting loving spouses.
Some like to belong to
The most exclusive memberships.
I must prefer to listen
To the sound from your lips.

I’m just in love
It’s a kind of lovely madness.
It is insanity
In a very lovely kind of dress.
I affects everything
Makes me lose my train of thought.
And I do it gladly
Whether or not I really ought.

This is for all the boys and girls.
You, yes you know who you are, the ones who go through hell.
Who go through hell day after day and yet are still breathing.
How do you do it?
Well, you do what I do. You fight.
You fight until your knees give out, and then you keep fighting.
It's like we all carry first class gold memberships to Hell.
We're first on the guest list.
God, how are our feet still there after walking through Hell so many times?
How are our eyebrows not singed from the burn?
How are we not dead yet?
Why do we keep fighting for a cause we know that we won't receive?
We won't win?
We won't reach?
The cause we wake up every morning sad about because we don't have it.
The relationship we long for, the happiness we wish to attain, the imaginary world called sanity we wish to discover.
Why can't we have what we want?
Why do we suffer?
Well, I'll tell you why.
And I know from experience.
We can't win because we are the only brave and true fighters left.
If we weren't fighting, there would be no one fighting.
We'd all have what we wanted.
But that's not how the world works, the world needs to have a battle.
Which requires fighters.
Which means us.
The ones who go through Hell like it's our path to the bathroom.
We have to fight the battle.
Even though we didn't sign up in the first place.
We're the ones that wish for what we want.
We make the 11:11 wishes, we pray, we long for, heck, we even follow those stupid things on Facebook that say "Make a wish, count to one hundred, blink twenty times, and repost this and your wish will come true, but if you don't repost this you'll never get your wish."
Well, I guess I have to stop reading that, or at least start reposting.
My wishes never come true from doing that but at least I believe enough to do it.
Believing is what keeps me going.
It's what keeps us all going.
It's the pillow to lay our heads on after a long day of battle.
It's the Nutella(R) to indulge ourselves in when we feel sad, happy, lazy, or even if it's a sweatpants and t-shirt kind-of-day.
It's the last bit of gas in the tank that gets us to the next gas station instead of breaking down on the interstate.
It's the denial in some, but it's the blood in me.
Because I'm more than just a body of blood and bones, and so are you.
You're a believer too.
So fight for your goal.
Reach for it.
Shoot for it.
Repost the Facebook statuses to make it come true.
It doesn't make you a bad person.
We all have our weaknesses, we all have our flaws.
Heck, even on my best days my evil ways still show.
But I don't worry about that.
Because I leave the mystery of me open to the world's interpretation.
And you should to.
Because at the end of the day, you'll never finish the battle you wage with the world.
So never, ever give up.
Even when you're breath is gone and your blood has poured, keep going.
Because in the end, we'll get that dream car we want.
We'll get that perfect job.
The great Hercules-like body.
The relationship we try so hard for.
We'll finally receive the true meaning of what it means to believe.
And when we get that my friends.
Our battle will be over.

Our old adventures were like fables,
Enjoying our time for who we were,
Not having each other wear a label,
We had patches of lost friendship,
Over the long years, having clubs,
Only us two with valid memberships,
I remember our drunken midnight kiss,
I laughed and you kissed my teeth,
But again you didn't miss,
We learned lessons through each other,
Now a brother, I hope you get
To climb a ladder to the stars,
Comforting moss on the rungs,
And have happiness gather at the top.

love is like going to the convenience store
spoilt for choice
love expires with one too many dates
like a bag of rotten artichokes
we choke on cringey first-liners
And fill our heads with expected desires
Of one hit wonders and lifetime memberships
To a loyalty card that doesn’t exist



29/08/08

Cigar cutter arms
Reaching, ever reaching
But are they mine
Or yours?
There’s nothing to do
There’s nothing I can do
Just leave me to myself
He emotes so hard
It’s so hard to emote
Slammed doors
Shut mind
Heavy with pain
In his knees
In his brain
Pulls him under
Waves crashing, crunching
My body
Keeps getting thinner
He holds my head under
He is a strong swimmer

I attempt to align my aches with his
For every one of his nightmares
I have a memory
For every panic attack
A physical assault
I consider propping up his bruises with my scars
We could build a church
Or a bar
Structured out of bullet holes
Supported by columns of razor burns

I buy a plane ticket instead
I build wings from all my tickets
I build a house, a home, a car, a manicured lawn
A husband, 2.4 kids, a dog, memberships with Al-Anon
And yet I still have leftovers
To share
With all the angels of this city

But oh, what a pity
That audacity
Is not the same as love
Diseased pigeons don’t count as doves
He said,
“Baby, it’s all in your head”
I said,
“Yeah, well, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

I am a runaway woman-******* the loose
Dodge bullets, dodge compliments
Slide out of my noose
There’s nothing I can’t do
I’ll just leave you to yourself
I’ll just leave you

I am notorious
Notoriously hard to get
I will always be the girl who finds a way
The woman who gets her way
The one who got away
Just in time

Someone said you work too much,
and I laughed and said
"Don't we all?"
We work at our jobs,
on relationships and friendships.
We work on our appearance
through face creams and gym memberships
We wear war paint,
smear it across our faces playing a part.
We work on our smiles and our vocabulary.
We study and learn every day -
whether it be tabloids or dictionaries ;
we are always learning, working.
We work for money and adventure and love.
We work to feel young and to feel old
and anything but what we are.
We work and we work and we work,
from the moment we start breathing -
to the moment we stop.
You might say I work too much,
but maybe you just don't work enough.

I received a re-invitation email this morning. A ‘come on, why don’t you want to?’ note that struck me as odd. See, I’ve been ‘tapped’ for a couple of final clubs at Yale. It can happen if you earn top grades and interact easily with male friends by day (the crew club scene is ol’ school patriarchal).

Three of my roommates have been tapped - for one thing or another. The upper-crust, traditional networks and secret societies are a huge part of why young men and women choose Ivy League schools.

I’m not talking about frats - I enjoy flippant misogyny as much as the next breasted-American and really, does “Yo bruh,” sloppy binge drinking, and ****** assault ever really get old? Yeah, it kind-of does.

And I’m not talking about the more open and popular ‘eating clubs’ - no - I’m on-about the elite social orders that enjoy a subversive and exclusive appeal.

Some students desperately want to be ‘IN’ and believe those memberships prove they’ve somehow ‘made it’. Let’s face it, someday - if you can’t actually earn it - that skull & bones handshake might open some doors.

I’ve attended a few meetings, meals, and parties in “tombs” (in upstairs libraries and houses) around New Haven, but I guess I’m just not a ‘joiner.’ Groucho Marx once said that he wouldn’t want to be a member of any club that would have someone like him as a member, maybe that’s it for me too.

Anyway, this harangue is sponsored by the glower that that silly email put on my face.
“What’s the matter?” Leeza asked, seeing my expression.
It reminded me of watching people ****-up and ‘social mountain climb’ to get into my grandmère’s (boring) circle. If your club is so exclusive (email sender), why on God’s confused earth would you want me?

Hey, I like parties, dances and hanging out with eskimos - but I'm a pre-med student and the time/value equation just doesn't stack up for me - I’ve got the M-CAT tests next summer and prepping for those has taken over my life.

It’s ironic though, how by day students at Yale go-on about ‘elitism’ - in stylized outrage - and then by night they strain to join these crew clubs.

slang...
final clubs = elite clubs and secret societies
eskimos - really cool people
crew = elite (crewing is seen as a sport for the elite)

seGment, bona
                                           smUg
                                             grIns,
                                             inTo cuteness.
                                           imAges
                                              aRe


      ­                                      aGgressively ingratiating, as
                                     that pUnctuates feats.
                                            mIllionaire?” model
           building suspense wiTh
                                                And
        ­  thumps, “genius junioR”


                                        a janGly its
                                             soUnd,
                                                rIffs a
                                          big-Tent sideshow.
                              the contestAnts
                                               aRe

                      introduction seGment, in
                                  cross smUg
                                               grIns, if
                                               inTo
                       cuteness. the imAges
                                             of aRe


                                               aGgressively
                                       that pUnctuates feats.
                                    “who mIllionaire?” model
        of building suspense wiTh
                                      synths And bludgeoning
                            “genius junioR” offers


                                        a janGly
                                       its soUnd,
                                               rIffs like
                                         big-Tent sideshow.
                             the contestAnts
                                               aRe production


                                                    ­        seGment, which
      memberships, memories, kids smUg
                                                            ­  grIns, as
                                                              ­ inTo
                                      cuteness. the imAges the
                                                         kids aRe


                                            aGgressively as
                                    that pUnctuates
                                    to a mIllionaire?”
                                          wiTh synths
                                               And thumps,
                         “genius junioR”


                                          janGly its
                                            soUnd,
          ­                                     rIffs like a
                                          big-Tent sideshow.
                              the contestAnts
                                                aRe the as

If I really want a selfdriving domicile vehicle,
like old Flattop in **** Tracy, I better be lieving

structs to compare, by my lieve, I am my own liege,

As intentional assistance, ripples through our hope
storm, as my grandchild, returns from school,
after having an absolutely great day, in 6th grade,

can you do that, unassisted, remember such a day,
ever?

Of course, when in the course of human events,
memberships worth in an arrangement, in facting
meta data for worth to value cross referencing
next, most assuredly, if you happen,
you might say I happened to think you would
find this whole thing good mind tightening,
we think at once something never heard of,
link think through thoughts fit in redeemed
seconds used to recall being 11 years old, and happy.

It's hard these days to know the skinny
When all I see is fat
What once was less is many
Clean our plates till nothing's left

We sit around in wonder
And wonder at the time
We used to be quite healthy
Before we lost our minds and gave up the fight

Out of shape couch potato's
Heavy butter, mean sour cream
With forks and knives we hold on tight
The spoon fed lies they make us eat

Slide and slip our gym memberships
Inside this no judgment zone
With pizza hips and soda pop lips
We roll our carcasses back home

Is it any wonder we're going asunder
In this age of stuffing face
As we reach for second helpings
Forgetting most times to say grace

Will you be dining in
To the new millennium
To the sound of smacking lips
To this lacklusterness

It's hard to know the skinny
When the world is full of fat
What once was less is many
Clean our plates till nothings left

it makes perfect sense now
but I didn’t quite understand
that health and fitness is proactive
that health and fitness is a
present tense action

all these years just going to work
was my main exercise
walk to the car
walk from car to office
walk around the office
walk to the car
walk to the house
repeat

found some good programs
wasted money on gym memberships
bought lots of equipment
but my main exercise remained
walk to the car
walk from car to office
walk around the office
walk to the car
walk to the house
repeat

my daily regimen ended
when I stopped working
and sat around most days

diabetes
kidney failure
internal bleeding
cardiac arrest
have proved to be
good teachers
covid was a good scare
nursing facility meal portions
have shown me the light
physical therapy provides
incredible, professional knowledge

King Kong make me strong
formal daily exercise keys up
strength and mobility
but the mind is a terrible thing to fight
attempting to lock me up
with doubt and second guessing
“the spirit is willing but the body is weak”
is an effable excuse
‘F’ that

my body and brain know
but my mind gets in the way
my mind tells me it’s hard
my mind tells me I have to figure it out
my mind holds me back
my mind tells me, “later”
or “tomorrow”
you’d think my mind would know better

Del Maximo
(c)09/24/2021

The loves and fears of
Mankind
Make small mood-rooms
To bathe inside .

Like an egg w/o a chicken-road
Like a path w/o a pacer .back-and-4th
A ghost-mouth  mother of _memberships

Dogfolded maps of exotic lands,where
Its people still have
Hands

At midnight,
Memberships expire
And in the following morning we don't belong anymore anywhere.