Once again clinging to the past like a baby clings to her mother
Walking in a straight line I sometimes forget the world is a circle
If I keep going straight I'll find myself exactly where I first started
And going back after walking so far at this point is not what I want at all
How is it I wander back home when I am trying to run away
Does the world shift my straight lines to secretly turn me around?
I don't want to be put into reverse nor do I want to fast forward
Pausing myself and looking around, I find myself somewhere foreign
Like always I shrug and choose a direction to make straight lines in
Fast forwarding and rewinding all the time and never knowing it
Maybe my changing motions make a three dimensional cycle
My straight lines curve in the 5th dimension that I cannot see
Impossible movements from the unknown are my trickery
But somehow I find myself starting over from scratch again
1d 2d 3d 4d all I need is something to correctly move me
I need to direct my path into the right navigations of motion
So program my straight lines and distort the dimension of curveballs
It's time to pause and figure out where I am and where I'm headed.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 4, 2017)

If joy could be expressed in a flying hat,
proliferating name-scape of rainbow,
moving on, taking it on, navigations,
negotiations and somewhere in all that
deciding where love is, the long bow
stroke of strings, unsure anticipation,
a girl meme the man tries to get at,
the elevator hi, snowing outside the window,
food prices, door beads, girlfriend salvations,
a reflection of a sign, the turning of the ducks,
the soft anodyne flip to the condescending f*#ks.

i live next to an englishman that objects to laughing
in the night, i can't contain it, i can't keep it canned,
for all the cruxes, jealousy hasn't
been swept aside by a tsunami
into the unconscious -
sure, i can be courteous -
    communities are weaved from
reciprocating a desire for such a lass;
what do i get?
      nervous oliver sparrow -
              and i can't stop being fidgety -
this new norm is what breeds extremism -
mi6 is all-over my package,
    rarely does a men get to live twice,
and with a second dosage does he get so much
burnt bacon feathers, because a second life
regulation said: only between 9-to-5
and with work colleagues -
                thing is: if i actually sit down and
eat some food with you, i have respect
for you.
            bonsai tigers inherited lizard eyes
and see ****, i mean: not much if it doesn't
**** and twist attracting the eyes to
map out the orion constellation.
                   and i know what sort of society
breeds the charlie ha-ha-hab-dough Aztec sacrifices,
   i basically say ******* listening
to beck's feather in your cap -
          i joined the john cleese ministry -
it's goose step and it's swan's archy-barchy -
         it's a raven arched blade that's also a spine...
for all their graces, birds are greatly blessed
           by being humbled on the trot -
              birds are the best experience of seeing
a humbling... and indeed man: his thoughts akin
to wings... tied down by the tonne-load of limbs
          and pianos, and harps, and hammers,
and road-signs, and all manners of navigations...
so if we're jealous of birds having wings,
  so if we're jealous of birds having wings...
      i'd prefer to watch a 1000 priestly ravens
congregating onto an altar of a loaf breadcrumbed
  and littering a walt whitman patch of talk...
        once airborne...
             a ******* bunch of teutonic messerschmitts...
yes, blame the epileptic for the piccadilly circus of lights...
       and a red light district that's hardly a chance
to meet a woman insomnia-bound to her genitals -
   floral patterns aflutter anywhere?
            that sort of Oxfam i'd gladly pay towards...
not some populist mush poetry...
                 i'd write a Swabian ode to her pair of
nighty-nights that never do...
                  in those sort of scenarios i never have
to get an ego-******* inversion...
          my ego has no need for valentine's day,
anniversary day, christmas day with the family...
it basically means my ego doesn't need to be *****,
protruding... there's no need for any
existential architectural establishment...
      and you know what first impressed itself
on my mind when i took that damnable coach trip
for the first time to England?
    the film Philadelphia... starring tom hanks -
losing a toy soldier...
                               i'm not gay, i just think
that feminism has grossly exploited the madonna-*****
complex of women... and i can't solve that,
  that thing belongs to women, not me...
    it's hardly a need to mea culpa myself all
the ****** time... apathy ferments a lack of pathology,
and this is how i stand: corpus erectus.
            should i stand differently? i'd have
a heart's worth of an oyster.
                        anway... apart from Hamley's toyshop
on Regent's st.,        there was the first sight
                 of a double-decker bus,
  and then... the continuum of the moody grey skies...
          moody blues... moody greys... apparently
there are 50 shades of it...
                       yeah... murky grey or how god became
lazy and said: no purple, no red, no green, no blue,
           no rainbow... just grey.
                    grey really is an anomaly within
the context for the existence of colour...
   it really does lullaby the eyes into a melancholy,
but this anglican melancholy could never be
scandinavian... there's a wasp impregnated in
an asp on the tongue of these isles...
          there's nothing sadder than an angry melancholy...
lo and behold... i'm fathering it... having acquired
the language that's not really mine to begin with.
   the alternative story is
        a really hard working mexican in dire straits,
smuggling himself into america, working his ***
off in a convenience store, forgetting spanish
forgetting native mayan...
               the comparison? he gets a nice house...
i get a poem, like this.

At night there are sounds of a thunderstorm
rising like white steam from my father’s driveway
fills the room with the prickling fever of August

sheets groping

the pillow screams until the Ringing comes Ringing through arms and legs and down lungs fog reflecting green and bells are muffled into drums slowing into hidden groans behind leaves

chest as sharp as my mother’s heirlooms shrieks are quiet And sound more like silence
don’t forget that it’s all the same
the same wiring through cell membranes

all the same water to the clean morning grass
that water weighs about a ton a ton too little for some
God holds you down when you are still
with his face to your face

breaking your heart into stain-glass shingles
because it is all the same black crusted coals left on the skin hardening like scabs

the man with the black book with the golden edged pages was right
about uncontrollable inhalations
and spiritual navigations
but wooden pews are the thorns of the rose
and the gift of revelation never came with that body and blood of our savior

if you were to look under the carpet
where all the cracked windows are swept
you will see yourself sleeping with arms tucked into your knees
and the shrieking won’t make a sound
when it tells you
that the only pathway to God is through Satan

our bodies are worn out
of transitions yet we cannot complain, because with this,
our supplications are temporal
or forever, it is much to our liking. numeral once more
are the aches of toil
and soon enough, there will be
a spark to put an end to this
darkness of living our lives. we cannot complain anymore. our soul cuts itself in our movements yet we go unaware of it, barefaced with pride over the things we own, things we want and do not need - we remain to be the culprit to our own soul's demise and what do we do to fend of their emphases? we cling onto things without thinking their affectations, and we blame the pressing happenstances of our deprivations - bereft of soul's spruce, lights flay over our homes to illuminate what is touchable, what is frantic upon sensorial matters. we dwarf ourselves down to the size of our own shallow ponds and like fish struggling to subsist, we flame in the water and drown in potamic navigations of our tired limbs. we search for meaning yet we resign to what circumstances allow to pass through our structures. our soul is famished over the drought of our landscapes - we resign to its surrender because we are frightened to smallness by the weight of the duties we neglect to ourselves.
this mortal flame is close to dying
and there is no enkindling it
to its full glare.

what have we done!