Tractors chug
and the new ones Zoom
up the road
Pulling all sorts
trailers and implements;
all to tame the Earth
and help thrive livestock
to fill fridges and freezers
and bellies needing feeding

So there was this boy
He somehow kinda managed to steal my heart
Without even trying
He intrigued me
I began observing and seeing more than he let on
And slowly but surely, the compassion grew
Along with the lust, desire and craving of all things him.
It's been a couple of months now
And I lay here in bed thinking about how dumb I am to have let it get this bad
How could you let someone control you
So sneakily
Without even needing the puppet strings
All it took was the touch of his skin against mine, the smiles, the glances
That's all it took for my chest to burn a fire so bright
Melting my heart
And I was a goner.
Now the chase is over
You know how I feel
And you're waiting for me to beg for more
Act needy?
I think not
I see how this will end.
Though the clouds are still grey
The rain spitting
And the storm rumbling
There is
ALWAYS
A rainbow
And a sunny day that awaits
So keep your chin up, little girl
And wear your pride on your chest
Bc this bullshitting *******
Is no different from the rest

Hearts another beat a second
A+ made the grade rare meat
Why is everything told to
us in a heartbeat
This is getting way too sweet
"Lips took Beeswax" bittersweet

Someone got stung B-
Strong sound muffler
Joyride Owl Hoot clever
Sweet and sourpuss
honey babe

Her mustard lips of custard
Hot temperature rising
The spicy lady opening
up new horizon gate

Too many sad rides
empty plates last joyride
Gas empty blame the county
Why did we call this joyride
without knowing
your fate

The others are more noticed
Fashionably they came late
Dine and the Wine joyride
romanced money upfront
advanced

Lips like jewels left their stale
You were the chosen one taken
for a ride from
a crooked male

Like bushel big loot basket
Rock the Kasbah rocket
Golden joyride ticket the
pickpocket
Getting away with ******
****** lips in the gasket

The joyride so beat looked
disheveled new love
unraveled
So messy but **** neat
looking, Lexus,
She looks mighty fine like
Venus, I beg you to zoom

And the love after all the treats
Sherlocked in his room
The devil made me do it
All flushed and deep red
Hearing his joyride of beats
What was really going
through her head
Hard rock ambient
painter deviant

The holiday like racing hot rod
Harvest Halloween of a joyride
Two peas in dark maze pod
Igniting a hot fire
Her lips need to decide
Who was underneath the
fumes of his fire

The coffee taste accelerating
Do we feel the pulsing beat
What a high anxiety peak
High intense flavor
You waiting for his joyride
Christmas and Hannukah
Tree to decide that's easier
But wait for true love above all
the gifts to deliver
Like bedrock meeting
Monster ride plant-eating Bug
More slugs my chinch
Inchworm of books at Joyride
College Dorm horn alarm
Manifestation enjoying
her joyride
What a conniver
Greece with my niece
vacation
Basil New rival tea
Pomegranate Cherry-bomb
Blonde Bombshell
Culture novelty joyride
Ring my servant bell
Met their sanity tomb

Her hand's dainty they shine
and sparkle
Her lips know how to jingle
Arace for hearts of stories
and memories
Always the death hand takes
a ride to the winding road of
the cemeteries
Just stay for the moment
think about the
Joyride forth of July
Our firecrackers went off at
the same time
Brie cheese favorite time
English tea and crackers
Like two lips sublime read
her diaries in his designer dockers

Going to the end of the earth lips
light up New York City galleries

Needing the fresh corner
Sunset taking lowrider Boulevard
Hollywood Oh! No world
Wildly satanic or the carefree type
Her joy smile he's sold on skype
Benevolent triad remembering
The mad magazine
MLM Maserati longevity Master
Of the joyride gun blaster
"Lips build like a Pyramid"
Becoming irresistible
Not to humble

Lips race Joyride to gamble
Nothing weakens to crumble
Baking a crumb cake its
doable stays together but
things unnamed not like
a marriage

We get blamed joyride
got damaged
We become gullible
What becomes of the broken heart
someone isn't reliable
Lips are not responsible
Leadership has you cornered  
To stumble upon her lips
Rendered steamboat surrender
How he tumbles
Mr. Grey Poupon Mustard seed
He plants her like his
only joyride
In need
We are all Jupiter the moon
joy to the world
All the boys and girls being
taken for joyrides

The Beach boy's video games
Spy lips whose to blame
Phillip screwdriver
But they take a ride
All you could pick a hot buffet
feasting she is still wearing
hot lipstick
Men have their choice of
they're next
Joyride Bride about the money
Wall-Street cars of hobbies
investing
Yeah right?

school starts soon
smoking joints on the weekday afternoon

in a sidelined shady
freight car, property of
Norfolk Southern

debating if this car will be
northbound or southbound
and master-bating our fantasy
where we want to be taken

knowing full well maybe one of us -
(and they all looking at me)

will get out of this car and live to
see foreign places without having to
return in a body bag

we argue lazy who should go get the beer,
collect the quarters and sweaty dollar bills
and **** if I am not reappointed
leader of the beer fetching

besides it’s my
tan lab panting needing water so it’s my
responsibility and the nasty liquor store owner don’t hate me that much as the others so he’ll sell me beer without too much **** talk (some for sure)

asking where I’m laying low on a **** hot day like this one

tell him i’m getting on a train getting out of this two bit town which makes him reminisce and ask which direction

could be northbound could be southbound
hell could be west
but for sure won’t be
going eastbound

cause I seen the Atlantic and didn’t like it

too **** big and too **** cold,
too **** mean

some talk of destiny,
like they have met before,
so much unrest in me,
going back to the times of yore,

needing quiet and above core of a bustling, busy
sleepless island streets, needing noisy trees and
a West coast breeze, needing some distance
to lend a farm hand a hand, needing times in
a city with not the tower, to refresh my batteries.

call me a dreamer, from where you are
the triathlon, want I to run is reading,
writing,
sleeping
so I can digest, express and dream of
kinder times where imaginings touch
is never enough.

Refresh not the force field, but the power
of the yield ... knowing when to stop
and when to go is more power than
you know, and if the veil and the
mail made of chain should brush
as they fall to the floor...
worry not for I will have already closed the door...

I cut my hair,
the tips that you liked curlying around your fingers while you sang are now gone.
I painted it with sunshine rays,
To surround me with all the light I've been needing since the last time I got blinded by yours.
And that flock of hair that was shorter from that time I accidentally burned it trying to light you a cigarrette, the one that made me smile with its stubborness to stay still, the one that reminded me of our first night, it has growned.

When you're stripped down
to nothing but your raw soul,
is when I love you most.
When your eyes
delicately plead
for me to love you,
and your hips ache
for me to taste your horizon.
I want to drink from your lips
Like a casual sinner
on a Sunday morning,
and leave you needing more.

I need kisses
like a fish needs colored rocks
and a bear needs honey

I need it like
eyes need sunglasses
and skin needs sunscreen

Like people need chocolate
or french fries or fried food
or fast wi-fi or vacation

The thing about needing
- I don't
- It'd be nice though

Reaching for safety,
Wanting help,
Waiting,
Wanting,
Needing,
Safety from,
The fears of an unknown world.

Waiting,
Wanting,
Needing,
Someone to face
This unknown world.
Prepared to be the hero
Or to fail.

Waiting,
Wanting,
Needing,
The next hero
To walk into this new world
And overtake it
With courage and grace.

Waiting,
Wanting,
Needing,
Someone to
Leave their own safety,
Take risks,
And live.


~LV

Slipping stocking on silky smooth legs.
Wanting and yearning to turn people's heads.
Dressing up nice in a posh frock.
Knowing people will judge, people will mock.
Applying makeup like a pro,
But needing to keep the status quo.
Styling a wig to look like a girl.
Feeling the butterflies, head in a whirl.
Looking deep at the eyes reflected in the mirror.
Where is the man? can just see a glimmer.
Feeling for a moment that he does belong.
Takes a deep breath, tries to stay strong.
Feeling comfortable within his own skin.
Just slightly visible, hair growth on his chin.
He will not venture out as he's branded a freak.  
But really he's normal, maybe a bit weak.
For if he goes out people think he is guy.
He's just like me and you at the end of the day.
Some think he's bisexuality, it's really unfair.
He's just heterosexual with a little more flare.
All he's ever wanted, is to be accepted.
In this current decade still is rejected.
If you gave him a chance you'd see he's real nice.
His heart is so warm, not cold as ice.
He loves with his heart, is caring and tender.
Look deep within, he is only transgender.

Go away.
From my heart,
from my soul,
from my head.

Leave me, please.
Take the memories.
Take the pain.
Take it all.

I don’t want to have your smile memorized.
I don’t want your eye color to be my favorite color.
I don’t want you.
I can’t want you.
I need you gone.

You don’t even know it,
you have this suffocating grasp on my life.
On me.
I can’t breathe here.
Because you’re so close,
so far away.

I should hate you.
I want to hate you.
I can’t though,
my heart won’t let me.

If you ever loved me, let me go.
Let me go
let me go
let me go.

Release me from this suffering,
release me from needing to know you’re okay,
release me from needing to check in on you,
release me from being more worried about you than myself.

****.
****.
****.
Just put me out of my misery.

A bicycle is the most efficient transportation machine.  A little input and I’m gliding, moving a useful measurable distance but more than that. I like going fast enough so the wind in my ears is louder than my thoughts.  On a tough day I like riding until I can be grateful again; sometimes that takes a couple hours but every ride is a good ride.

My youth’s independence was a banana seat Huffy pulled from an under-appreciated pile of rust in the back of St. Vincent’s Thrift Shop.  No school bus meant riding to school, the first 45 minutes of every day in all weather. Afternoons were exploring detours; summers were expeditions to the city limits, sometimes beyond.  I needed an upgrade for high school; I found a spotless antique 3 speed Raleigh, the cultural English workhorse collecting dust in an unlikely garage for $50.

I kept it through two foster homes. The first one kept me busy with farm chores, but the second was back in town. There, I had the bike back, and as an aside, they had a phenomenally sophisticated wall sized sound system: reel-to-reel and amazing headphones. I would forget myself in records: Sgt. Peppers, Genesis, Yes, etc, and another favorite. Just a guitar and piano instrumental album with a simple melody called Bricklayer’s Beautiful Daughter. Something about that one song in particular I heard faint glimmerings of contentment that was denied to me.  I would replay it to cling to this hint of a simple happiness I didn’t understand; that if it was in the song, it was somewhere deep in me.
Without a car for 10 years, one used 10-speed or another got me to various eccentric jobs.  

Fast forward to the life-changer, after a divorce. Needing to reconnect with myself, I searched for a decent bike. I found it hanging dusty in the back of a cluttered boutique shop smelling of tire rubber, quiet with racers’ confidence. They had a Lemond thoroughbred on consignment, assembled custom 5 years earlier to race. It was slightly outdated, but a dent on the top tube put it out to pasture. It was steel though, so rideable enough for me.  My entire $300 savings and it was mine. Then I discovered the special pedals needed special shoes, so another month saving for those.  I wasn’t going to wear those silly spiderman outfits, until I started to ride more than 10 miles and my **** demanded it.  And those pockets in the back of the shirt were handy.  I met a friend who taught me how to draft: my skinny wheel a few inches behind the bike in front at 20 mph, to save precious energy in the slipstream. Truly dangerous, vulnerable, and effectively blinded; but he pointed at the ground with various hand signals to warn of upcoming road hazards. I was touched by this wordless language of trust and camaraderie. This innate concern is essential to the sport, even among competitors, so it seems to attract quality people I liked.  My new life expanded with friends.

I discovered biking exercise could stabilize the life-long effects of brain injury, lost some weight, grew stronger, and started setting goals.  First longer group rides, then a century (100 miles in one ride), then mountain biking: epic fun in nature, unadulterated happiness.  Then novice racing, then the next category up with a team, then a triathlon.  It became an admitted obsession but I won a pair of socks or bike parts every now and then.  Eventually tattooed two bike chains around my ankle, one twisted and the other broken.  I loved the lifestyle, and had truly reinvented and rediscovered myself.

A 500 mile ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles with fellow wounded veterans helped dissipate the old shame from the military.  I had joined the ride to raise money for a good cause.  I respected the program and knew personally that cycling had changed my life.  They turned out to be inspiring, helping me more than I could have helped them.  Some had only just started riding a bike for only a few weeks, some were amputees fit with special-made adapters on regular bikes, some had no legs using hand cycles.  They all joined on to the task of riding 500 miles. No one whined, and helping each other finish the day was the only goal.  While riding with them, I began to open up about my experience.  I found a few others who also had TBI, and we could laugh about similar mishaps.  The other veterans didn’t judge me about anything, like when I was injured, the nature of my disability, how much I did or didn’t accomplish. I had signed up just like them, had to recover back to a functioning life just like them.  It was the first time in my life that whole chapter in my life was accepted; I wasn't odd, and they helped close the shame on that old chapter.  (Thank you, R2R.)  The next year I took a 1500 mile self-supported bike trip through western mountain ranges with my husband and soulmate, whom I had met mt. biking.

There was one late Spring day, finally warm after a long winter, when I just wanted to ride for a few hours by myself.  No speedometer or training intervals, just enjoy the park road winding under the trees. I had downloaded some new music on the IPod, a sampler from the library.  I felt happy.  Life is Good.  Rounding a bend by the river, coasting through sunbeams sparkling the park’s peaceful road, my earphones unexpectedly played Bricklayer’s Beautiful Daughter.  I hadn’t heard that simple guitar tune in three decades.  My God, time suddenly disappeared.  I was right back in the forgotten foster home, listening for the faint silver threads of the contentment I was feeling at this very moment on the bike.  The full force of this sudden connection, the wholeness of the life and unity of myself in one epiphany, brought me to tears. I found myself pouring my heart into praying hang in there, girl, hang in there, you’ll find it and I felt my younger self hearing echoes of birds singing in new green leaves.

The seeds of truth and love and light are scattered all around
Some among thorns and rocks or on the path, but some will find good ground
These are the conditions in which our souls can be found
Those among rocky soil are shallow and cannot take hold
When the heat is on in life they wither truth be told
And at times it seems they act distant mechanical and cold
Amidst the thorns and weeds the souls that fall
Find their deaths in the earthly siren’s call
Thirdly they that fall on hardened soil build up a rugged wall
Response to pain or suffering one creates a shield
For fear of getting hurt again but needing to be healed
Difficult to break through or down to deliver truth revealed
Finally the soul that falls on fertile soil and grows deep root
Healthy and pure they bear plentiful and beautiful fruit
This can be our destiny and our lives can follow suit
At different times in our life our souls can be
Any one of the soul’s soils you see
But we can choose and act any of these
So let us strive without end to find good soil not to break but to bend
Not to weaken but to heal not to tear but mend and seal
Set your seal upon us Lord and help us have the strength and grace
Sign your name upon our hearts as we sign ourselves with the father son and holy spirit
Deliver us from temptation and sin to your heart Oh Lord and we pray for our soul’s deliverance

AMEN

Sorry
For texting you, for bugging you,
for annoying you.
for thinking of you day and night.
by being clingy and possessive.
for staying by your side every time you push me away.
Sorry I get worried about you.
for needing your attention,
for being needy to you.
Sorry for loving you.
I'm very sorry... I can't unlove you.

Walking and saying
Things our wellbeing
The soul needing love possessions
Have absolutely no meaning

Playing and praying
Overstaying and Under-paying
Rising sun and Symphonic searching

" Is this the way it is?" Tis the season

But the tightness no business like
searching business
  She is combined and mixed like a song
fully lined both with keynotes somehow
we declined
The feeling that you cannot breathe
or  trust both of us
 we can  bearly **** it all in
My music playing just click my belt buckle
Will start to begin

The soul is not a crime or just a rhyme
I barely cannot breathe
I am in a chuckle, you see his
smile raising up his dimple

Ms. Thumbelina cobblestone
narrow-minded street your
in the tightrope symphonic beat

But its dark outside your ringlets
Waved him on got excitedly mesmerized
His Goblet of wine she curls up in
his body heat brilliantly dazzled
The sky to your dreams he is
reaching your
soft side skin
whats actually within
our souls

So  hooked into your ride not to slide
better grades and goals
The awesomeness symphonic hatter
Victorian divineness
Her paper cut out hearts as real
as they come
The Eastside Symphonic tip of his
Heavenly Bliss private Quarters
What becomes of the broken hearted
Heads or dimes not landing on her stone
Floor heart
The Duke of all trades of the hat he's smart

Cool running ******
Addictions to the mind so fanatic
What a good soul sometimes
He overexaggerates about
love and fate darkness drives him demonic
What are you kidding me
She doesn't rest her heart on his
soul for the burning desires of food
for thought
She keeps piling his poems like any sport
He's her everything she learns to be taught

Searching lips pricing
Red bloodshot eyes of crying onions
She is so fierce controlling
Musically like a Tiger roaring
He is like a design of graphics tattoo
The earring piecing the sweetest taboo

More soul searching
She's the snake purse
to his snake eyes fancy,
he took a ride
Upper-false teeth
The upper west side
have some prideThe dark side
became her thing
The wildflower not to stand to
bloom and bang like her band

Westside sounds came deep
his pride and joy like a parade
and wickedly dark his charade

It was  sneaking up on her backside
And the other side was just hiding
and smiling
She definitely saw the light lamp post how
the smells came stronger the darkness of desire
she was famished not to have vanished

Feeling like a *** roast love continued
She had a gift for her lover, not the
toast who would brag to boost
Two ****** British what
divine glasses at a cost
The symphonic soul
captured them like the
Dark-Knight of words
Symphonic sounds came
hearing names
soulful hummingbirds buzz-net

And there weren't any more
words there was silence
Eating shepherds pie table was set

Taking over another soul that's a lie
just like magic searching for a love
so long ago became tragic
You need more perseverance
Her true love gave her
an incredible sixth sense
of deliverance
The top seat at the concert
classical wicked taste of music
candescent erotically sonic

She had this certain quality
He was a symphonic love bounty
Her lips moved so fitting fantastically
The flower shops caught her eye
She couldn't sense what was real or a lie
The fast pace of the people all worked up.
What a soulful smell music sounds
she faintly known

To her ear wanted to hear only him shown

Besides the faintly illuminated
shapes evergreens were
heartily trimmed
She stood out bright as the ground
She was turning gray losing reality
not to be found or heard
So soulful her lips speak
she was walking with her head up
in the air fancy dancey
How those men could speak.
You could smell all the ethnic
flavors of foods
She felt the search for something
of a Saint, she was trying to
hard to be good
What a Haydn, his wife
was the mad hair driving

Miss Daisy soul of hers crazy curled
inside her book
She's the lady-like curler
How he played through her hair
Hunchback of Notre Dame who was to blame?
How his eyes wondered playing
and observing
But she was holding his stare

like a womanizer and his eyes flew
what a haunting moon
But Samatha the harp shady tree
He said, my fair lady,
He's stringing something together

What! creepypasta but sometimes her powers were weak
The symphonic love potent every other week

Some Gothic man symphonic music started
Playing Rossini Opera he could stand on his head.
She was pinned to his eyes
Pinterest such interest
she was all bloomed like a fly

By witches, flower came he passed her and he knew exactly who she was as is but wait not his?
The pleading the beg humbug far from her tunes of the ladybug

Razzamatazz all body of Jazz jitterbug
He winked she-devil
summoned him on
What a binding spell
She wiped the sweat off her face
She was beautiful with pale
porcelain skin
So alluring walking
with her parasol

Our sweet mother, taken away so soon -
gasping for breath as the heavy weight of perfection sat on her chest.
Even in death, she is perfect -
used to her full potential by many men seeking warmth but not love.

No, never love.

These men nestled inside her and made her full - full of life but not the kind that makes you love yourself when looking in the mirror.

The type of life they filled her up with was the kind that nearly killed her in the delivery room - crying out as she was ripped apart and her child was taken by strange hands. Hands of men.

These men ****** her and ****** her and ****** her until the last drop of life she had left disappeared from her eyes.
These men are the ones who look into her coffin and murmur, she was so beautiful.
So perfect.

She died knowing she was not beautiful, could never be beautiful. Beautiful was a word uttered from men's ***** mouths, a word that had been tainted unknowingly.

She died gasping for breath, needing to say those words before she left this world. Needing to say it, needing to say it, needing to say it...
I am not beautiful.

Here lies love,
our mother who will never be beautiful or perfect for as long as I am breathing in this world.
Here lies death,
our real mother who was always more than beautiful. More than perfect.

There's not a single word to describe what she really was. But never beautiful.
No, never perfect.

this will make sense in the end, or at least along the way... a modern version of the Ruben's judgement of Paris, although if you watch the debate, the mediator already insinuates the "confusion": to my left or to my right, ha ha, left to right, right to left, 1st 3rd 2nd... that's putting it mildly, if i were Paris i'd have given the apple of knowing to Hera, queen of the goddesses... naomi wolf... beauty is in the eye of the beholder... and your phallus in the hand of... mhmm... softer than the flesh of an oyster at the end of the day... they did say once in times just after Pericles: make my inner as beautiful as my outer, and my outer as beautiful as my inner... then take art as not representing images: or the "shallow" arguments... any man would have given the apple to the intellectual Aphrodite (karen straughan)... we all know that antigone darling is Athena: who speaks so little you start to equate wisdom to be a distant synonym of needing courage to engage with a plebiscite crowd... oh don't give that prize to her: she'll probably tongue-tie herself and will never be able to speak into a microphone, the intellectual Aphrodite knows all too well the conundrum... it's the cougar attired in crimson that fuels the whole debate... she doesn't need to have inner beauty, you phallus is already shouting 'sir! yes sir!' at the drill sergeant anyways... you take Aphrodite as a paradoxical beauty, namely that of long conversations and not long interludes of ******* and baking cookies... you'll leave Aphrodite confused... i once heard an English motto: don't take for a wife a woman that's too attractive... that wasn't intended to be within the bias of intellect, i mean a beautiful woman within the bias of being able to manage a harem of 72 male virgins... well **** yeah, artists leave clues, whether knowing or unknowing... they're working from triangles, poets end up writing from Δ, they obscure textures and antonyms of what appears to be monochromatic, we say: red, crimson, burgundy in x-ray confines... the point being: there's no intellectual debate to be had with someone representative metaphorically or not of Hera... you can't have a Parisian fashion week catwalk where you find dehydrated beauty on the outside and an anorexic ego on the inside... what you find in Hera is a volume (voluptuousness) on the inside, within which there's a leech libido that transgresses all demands for intellect... unless it's pistons-well-oiled orientated... please, read some Marquis... if you get an ******* having read a few of his works: you're qualified - or as i like to call it: neo-classical *******... ever masturbated over Bronzino's Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time? well, if you haven't i guess **** ******* and gang-banging is your outlet: mine are pictures of Aria Giovanni and Chloe Vevraire (googlewhack no. 3!): Chloe Vevrier... but if you're never done the Odysseus pokes fun at Polyphemus... yep: the ghost hand: nobody!


you know, you can cram a lot into a 30 hour "day",
which results in the complete erosion
for the capacity to dream afterwards,
to actually work from the unconscious and create
a subconscious medium vector that connects
to points of consciousness: 30+ hours awake,
however many hours asleep, and then awake again
for another 30+ "day" to digest...
the classical definition of the subconscious, in theory,
is that you get plenty of sleep,
and it's a bit like that schematic A x B (algebraic)
A knows x     and B knows x...
   something mutual acknowledgment
via the same schematic but
A knows x, B knows x,
A knows that B knows x,
A knows that B knows that A knows x,
   which is all very Aristotelian to be frank,
it's this hyperlogic of having to acquire
great technological feats and reduce such
complexities to cat-videos on the internet as
the Egyptian partake in the genius that actually
made it possible... the slogan goes
Moses, you fool! said Nefertiti...
    so B knows x and knows that A knows x
and knows that A knows that B knows x
and B knows it's not necessarily anywhere
alphabetically less, even though the French said
a, b, c... which was very imperial of them,
that's the imperial version of what the mathematical
imperialism proved with the English inches, miles
and furlongs... but in this French case of imperialism
it wasn't a e i o u, b c d f g h j...
            that's what 30 hours awake does to you,
you wouldn't think of alcohol as a party drink,
a social barrier deconstruct... after 30 hours
you're hoping to meet Vladimir Klitschko on your
way to bed... aye pleasing Cossack, give us a
smacker goodnight... one glove it filled with
whiskey, the other with naproxen and amitriptyline...
boom! k.o. snooze, baby:
you gotta love buddhist honesty...
at least you get to see the bright side of life...
  and if people start thinking that Kant was the harbinger
of ill fate... you obviously haven't met a necromancer...
it was only von Kleist for ****'s sake!
       and he had the American option of a suicide
pact with a terminally ill woman and a bullet from
a pistol in a ditch... you can't get more romantic than that...
and there i was, mid-afternoon, having done a few of
the household chores: the washing, the ironing and
cooking a two-course meal while my mother did
the taxes (seems only mothers understand their sons
these days... women my age?
   ever see David Attenborough describe Emperor
penguins? money was invented for women,
because it brokered the end of the brotherhood of man,
we became famished by feminine needs
and have reduced inherent sports in us (hunting)
to sledgehammer bashing entertainment...
i'm the "drunk" that would rather watch ten hours
worth of ping-pong that tennis...
    i don't know why they resurrect the Olympics
every four years, have a **** coverage of it anyway
and then go back to that Glaswegian diet
of deep-fried pizza and haggis... and i hope to never know,
maybe Sepp Blatter knows...
but that's 30 hours of being awake, and only not
able to relax, by writing...
                 you wouldn't see this sort of "abuse" of
alcohol anywhere in the world...
the Soviet sleep experiment is actually not that silly...
too much sleep can also make you feel the minutes
upon your wake as if you've been stung by a bee...
three of my all time favourite songs?
the stone roses'* i wanna be adored,
    chromatics' cherry,
and finally: i can be forgiven for having missed this,
i got into them seriously with the album aufheben
and didn't really move anywhere else,
the dandy warhol effect got me...
but this song out of obscurity, 20th century technology
translated into mp3 and then onto c.d. and then
back into mp3... a song from an album that doesn't
even appear on their discography...
the brian jonestown massacre's pol ***'s pleasure penthouse,
the song in question? fingertips.
so there's that three...
      but **** on me, i half expected android (2015)
to be like ex_machina (whatever year that was)...
same topic... what the difference between android
cyborg and robot?
                                  aren't robots the proper a.i.?
as in: in production, the thing that's not hand-crafted
is artificially crafted, because it is crafted to a large yield
of a product? isn't that so? i can't distinguish (as of yet)
the difference between android and cyborg, i guess
as a Latin man (a - z user) i have to condescend the Grecian
pompousness of demeaning Hebrews (original anti-semitism
originated in Greece, not Rome, the Romans gave
the Jews not elaborate architectural schemes to abide by
in honour of Octavian, but the supposed pride in Greek
thought, undermined what later science would provide
a Latin man with, given the translation of יחֵוָחֵ,
indeed variables... i once wrote a piece about
the two Adams... namely how אָ (alef)
and עַ (ayin) are prominent letters among consonants,
but no vowel kindred of Eve is equal...
or how Eve is covered in both mainstream Islam
and orthodox Judaism... and Christianity is
a Rastafarian dream for more jerky reggae reggae...
they never sing down with Rome, judgement upon
Rome... they always sing about Babylon...
well, polytheistic or poly-schismatic,
it's all Hindu from hereon in - apart from that
here's a very tiny heresy... is that yod he vav he
or is it yod he vav het?
         there is a difference, afterall:
he (ה)        and het (חֵ) obviously differ... oh!
xet!                   god this garden is a mess,
               i guess the fruit of knowing good from evil
was intended to say: till the land, deforest,
learn agriculture... that's good, the **** you do to each
other... well: that's hardly a tonne of grain...
but they so alike though, even when you apply a noun
to these two symbols!
  could have said he xet but instead it's known as he het:
no wonder the Hittites came along for a curious look...
mind you, had not a prominent Roman, a centurion,
asked for help... we'd be prudish in runic from the northern
invaders... so thankfully no one within the Roman confines
of encoding sounds didn't have the bright spark idea
of looking at the very tiny little island of Israel and that
four lettered word and how it became known
to say o = omicron, ε = epsilon and γ = gamma,
   and cutting those things apart leaving only letter
having done plastic surgery on the noun that denotes the
letter that's denoted by the symbol, rearranged it
and got the idea of εγo: ****** marvellous!
- this is not brian pallenberg's story about the pleasure
penthouse album...
but you know what really got me in those 30 hours:
day, night, day, night: a NHLF debate between
naomi wolf, karen straughan & antigone darling,
the part where karen makes the point that
once upon a time men who beat their wives
in Scotland were publicly whipped (dhaal,
straugan), and if they were beaten-up instead by
their wives, a plebiscite of good-wishers would turn up
at the house and apply the Freudian theory of
a castration to the man, bang pots and pans,
and then in public display him having to ride on a
donkey backwards, having to hold the donkey's tail
for stability...
     see that woman in red in that debate? a true political
man-eating beast of ***** readied in atom bomb
explosions... the one next to her isn't wearing any tights...
unconsciously you're thinking: i like her french freestyle
of not having shaved her legs... the smart one is wearing
jeans and she looks oh so desperate to get out...
    the discussion doesn't even enter the realm of ideas...
hen-picking is discussed... all poetry ascribed to language
is gone... is it politically correct to ascribe the sexuality
of female chickens with the word hen to women?
behind me in Blackpool stag-dos (dos? no does...
there isn't even a ******* spelling for that phrase...
hen-nights and the inflatable Juan)...
well obviously your mind is working out why you'd
**** the middle 'un right away... she doesn't say divorcee
which is so "unsexy" but say she's a mum twice,
a mum, a single mum... polly wants a *******...
her address is new york city? ******! i'm heading there,
right now! can a white guy use urban colloquial
in the suburbs on a piece of pixel paper, which he claims
is mere the cartesian extension of his thought
and disinterest in rhetorical skills? i hope so...
it's not like herr adolf wrote a disclaimer saying:
read this or a thousand volts up your ****!
that really was a constipated debate, plus the red was all
provocateur and peppered with "you know",
   and "i know absolutely nothing": there were no ideas
in the debate! whenever there was a chance to debate
ideas, the debate turned into a debated about words,
and what words to use: to simply brush aside any clinching
to a idea-debate... perhaps because feminism is
an ideology without any coherency of ideas, as stated
from the debate: a coherency of wording: and that better
be hen = an asexual chicken, rooster = an asexual chicken...
it's still a chicken kiev at the end of the day.
now? i might squeeze in another poem...
     but it would still be great to get any kind of analysis
comparing the movie android and ex_machina...
the only problem would be: both creators are men...
so that's gender-stereotyping already...
but hell! she gets to build a buggie that she directs with
a laser pen... so that's nice...
but i'd love a discussion on these two films,
given that the music in both films is very oomph!
thriller genre always had better music than horror...
horror music is too romantic... thriller music?
***** back-stabbing you whenever you think you're
going to get a comfortable 10 minute slot...
but it's there... aside from both robotic creators being male...
woman: ex_machina - out of the machinery of man
          ergo? deus, or woman as...
i actually have a problem with the word android...
the woman is a factor of playing the two men against
each other... the android actually find a mechanical
part of himself in the way the "human" talks to the woman,
while the "android" is prejudiced against the rigidity
of his ****** movement: unlike the "human" having
an intellectual rigidity... the woman plays the two against
each other... well, 30 hours no sleep...
  i'm doing the helter-skelter trying to throw ideas
by way of remembering the actual plot of the film...
this obviously adds nothing to the discussion:
meaning i probably gave away a "spoiler" -
but more the point, i need a refill and some fresh air
to breath, having farted into a leather chair for the past
hour.

[Intoxicated by Freemasons is playing in the background]

(A smokin' hot intoxicated woman walks up to me initiating a conversation in the club.)

Kadija: Hey I couldn't help but notice your gorgeous self from across the room!
Me: I can definitely say the same about you. Matter of fact I'm saying it right now because I'm a free spirit lol.
(We both laughed)
Kadija: You're so **** hot!
(She grabs my face and starts making out with me very passionately.)
(The kiss lingers for about a minute and a half.)
(She then breaks the kiss. Both of us gasp for breath.)
Me: You're pretty ******* hot too!
Kadija: Can you sign my *****?"
Me: Sure I love signing chicks *****! It's one of the best **** party favors in America!
Kadija: I know right!
(She pulls her top down flashing her beautiful tan ***** and tan *******.)
(She briefly rubs/twists her *******.)
(I sign her ***** and put a smiley emoji along with a smiley with shades finishing her off with a deep kiss on each of her ***** giving a little bit of tongue swirling action across her *******.)
Kadija: Whoo! Hell yeah!
(She shakes her ***** from side to side and briefly jumps and down. I was mesmerized by the way they were moving up and down then puts them back into her top.)
Kadija: Thanks for the kiss babe!
Me: No prob. You have beautiful *******. I like them.
Kadija: They like you too lol.
(Grinning from ear to ear I smile.)
Kadija: Come on baby give them a squeeze lol.
(I grab her ******* and squeeze them.)
(She grips my **** through my pants and starts rubbing it.)
Kadija: Mmm thanks babe. These ***** have been needing a little TLC anyway. They've been bored to death and needed a little fun and excitement.
(We both laughed again.)
Kadija: But if you really wanna see them in action there is a bathroom right behind us.
Me: I'm down
Kadija: Come on baby let's go.

2010 one last remark about Mom she’s never had faith or trust in me she always doubts redirects me when i was little she continuously blamed me accusing me of being sick needing a psychiatrist at age 20 my parents committed me for disciplinary reasons to the Institute of Living a psychiatric hospital in Hartford Connecticut in a locked ward for 4 months Mom and Dad discouraged my aspirations to succeed as a painter/writer arguing the impracticality of my decision they thumbs downed Bayli even today she undermines my efforts to love protect her she scolds me for asking permission from my cousin Chris to allow his son Maynard to fly down here and help me pack then drive up to Chicago so i might get to know Maynard on a road trip she instructs hire professional packers for a $100. they’ll be glad to help you pack Mom has always stood in the way of my choices decisions



1975 Chicago in his parent’s kitchen Mom offers the cannolis are fresh from Kanella’s Bakery or try the chocolate fudge cake it’s absolutely delicious Odysseus replies are you trying to fatten me up or **** me with sweets Mom flirtatiously teases i’ve always been about your ruination Odys



2001 Tucson Mom comes for visit at Thanksgiving in her early 80s walking proud yet painfully on displaced hips she is an inspiration to Odysseus her eyes are clouded with cataracts yet she sees life as an eternal optimist since 1920 the world has changed so drastically yet Mom has learned to accept many things she previously did not tolerate she lives prudently on modest fixed income her fingers are arthritically deformed but she was once a great beauty many men desired her Odysseus asks if it was difficult for Mom to lose the power of her physical desirability he noticed her good looks waning in her 50s she answers she sensed her  attraction going in her 70s she still possesses regal qualities and is quite socially charming she chatters a flurry of familiar names events that keep her busy she travels around by herself Mom’s spirit endures but in reality she drifts further away with each passing season she is delicate and has difficulty remembering she echoes a distant past in the early evening of Thanksgiving Day they sit at table of elegant yet rather staid dining room of Mom’s choosing at Arizona Inn she says it reminds her of the way things used to be she wears tasteful black linen slacks black pumps thin silk knitted black turtleneck with string of pearls gold earrings her blonde hair coiffured in same fluffy sprayed style it has been for 50 years in his heart he knows a part of her wishes her son was more like Tom Steinberg who was a senior when Odysseus was a freshman at River Woods Academy The Steinbergs and Mom are still friendly Tom is a successful investment banker with a wife and child living in Winnetka Mom nervously touches the pearl strand around her neck she says you know Mort Rock’s wife Phyllis died i was such a good friend to her at her funeral they read how she said i was her best friend she left me 10 lousy thousand dollars in her will she’s worth millions it’s eating me up inside i needed that money desperately i can’t stop thinking about it 10 lousy thousand dollars went immediately to pay off loans i’m going to sell my jewelry i don’t know what i can get in the spring i’ll put the apartment up for sale or try to get a reverse mortgage from the bank i never told you kids before i’m not in good shape Odysseus comments i feel terrible i wish so much i could help maybe Phyllis Rock suspected you and her husband maybe all those years you were her best friend she read it as guilt and obligation Mom you need to be more truthful Mom cuts in i never had *** with Mort Rock that man drove me crazy he was nuts for me Mom orders the traditional turkey dinner Odysseus orders the Macadamia nut encrusted Hawaiian fish the waiter brings price fixed appetizers little circles of toasted bread with lightly browned melted cheese tiny triangular cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches roasted watercress nuts wrapped in bacon and little hot dogs pierced with fluffy ended toothpicks Mom begins to gobble as she remarks to Odysseus  why do you want to wear your hair like that? you look like you escaped from the camps Odysseus asks what camps are you referring to Mom? she replies the Concentration Camps! you’re a good-looking man and you still have a full head of hair why do you want to shave it off i don’t understand i think you should move back to Chicago Tucson has done nothing to offer look at you you’re all alone you don’t have any friends come home and be your old self again he answers my old self you don’t get it do you Mom do you remember my commodity trading debacle or my 40th birthday or you and aunt Rita’s ceaseless corrections Mom smugly retorts what do you mean your 40th birthday don’t you get smart with me you should be ashamed of yourself why must you keep bringing up the past you need to let go of the past you go into such details details i don’t remember what does it matter now it’s history we only wanted what we thought was best for you you never listened you were only interested in yourself plenty of other kids get beaten and come through just fine you don’t know what it’s like to be a parent it tears me up inside you talk like you had nothing to do with it i can’t take this abuse from you anymore her misshapen fingers hands begin trembling as her voice emotes you think i don’t realize we made mistakes with you you think we were such monsters i wasn’t a good mother i was a lousy ***** is that what you think answer me what are you a bump on a log Odysseus sits stiff in chair his voice shrinks he just sits there his legs shake under table Mom says your father was quick-tempered we were under so much financial pressure maybe we did send you away too soon if i had to do it again i’d do it differently what does it matter now it’s 50 years ago forget the past what do you want from me what can i do he listens silently wondering if Mom seeks some kind of redemption can her conceit permit it he knows he is ******* her he does not mean to be uncomfortable with his muteness Mom continues you were a difficult child remember all the trouble you caused look at you you’re still a difficult man he questions Mom can you hear yourself you think i’m difficult she answers you think we were such terrible parents you grew up in a house of violence his thumb and forefinger nervously touch his chin as he replies no you were good parents i was a problem child different from you you afforded me a beautiful home and brilliant education i wanted to investigate life and learn and grow you didn’t know what to do with a child like that as much as she tries Mom never has been a comfort for Odysseus or he for her he inadvertently stirs her to worry or snap and she in turn unthinkingly disturbs him nevertheless they love each other the waiter brings out salads Mom ordered iceberg lettuce with thousand island dressing Odysseus chose the spinach salad he takes several bites Mom remarks use your salad fork not your dinner fork you know better than that suddenly it occurs to him Mom is more fragile than he he thinks to himself silently Mom i realize your life is closing in on you your mind drifts and you need to fake and cover-up more than ever do you want me to come home and take care of you i will take care of you then he remembers how miserable they were together during his throat cancer recovery in her 3 bedroom Lake Shore Drive condominium immersed in contemplation he pushes the fork through spinach leafs Mom says sit up in the chair and put a smile on your face she self-consciously peeks around the room having lost his appetite Odysseus looks down at napkin on his lap glances at half-eaten salad bowl he gazes up at Mom the waiter arrives making a pained smile he clears the salads then serves the entrees after the waiter departs Mom speaks Odys look at me when i’m talking to you i think about a lot of things i should have done after the fact sometimes even years later Max and i made a lot of incorrect choices when it came to you he cuts in Mom you don’t have to say anymore i love you always have loved you and know you love me too Mom says you know how much i appreciate your paintings you’ve made my life richer i‘ve always been supportive of you in fact i’m your biggest fan right Odys right? thank you Mom i’m grateful Mom says i’ve spoken with psychiatrists and they all tell me the same answer tell your son to forget it why must you dwell in the past what did we do so dreadfully wrong i don’t understand you’re a hard case i wish i could get through to you i hope you can find it in your heart to forgive us you’ll sleep better he questions you know about my insomnia restless sleep nightmares Mom says i can imagine Odysseus’s eyes begin to water Mom i love you i wouldn’t be who i am without you Mom says don’t get so emotional you sound weak take it from me you must be strong in life learn discipline and willpower i love you too son Odysseus wonders if maybe he agitates Mom because he is a constant liability lacking fiscal self-reliance deep down Mom is a giggling gossiping playful girl spoiled by her father she never wanted to grow up and be burdened with the tasks of parenthood what woman of rare beauty and charm would want to give up her privilege and freedom for some kid especially a *******-up kid maybe deep down Mom resents Odysseus he stares down at the Macadamia nut encrusted Hawaiian fish and silently prays he will be released from his life all his stupid sins regrets self-pity self-hatred his vain inconsequential existence



i move organize empty shelves cabinets drawers closets edit wrap tape pack wonder if moving back to Chicago is one more mistake heaped on top of a 1000 mistakes a 1,000,000 mistakes is going home to help Mom my biggest mistake ever i simply know i must try to protect my Mom

I HAVE A RENDEZVOUZ WITH DEATH



Ayad Gharbawi

To the many needing comfort, needing advice, needing passions sincere, to whom do they turn to?

To whom can they turn to?

The days unmask the increasing emptiness between all of us, and the need for revolt is always there. The urge to be solitary as a reflection of one’s disgust with the hollowness of human beings, is always an attraction for some.
The urge to speak one’s mind to all people, to shatter the idiotic niceties and protocol that separates all of us and represses our genuine needs and desires and ardent wishes in life, is always an attraction for some.

The need to transcend the humdrum of our lives daily is there, and yet we feel that somehow little can be truthfully done. That is such a prevalent feeling – that as an individual I can do very little to change my life, so one submits to apathy wearying.

The society of individuals increasingly down cast and alone while at the same time people may increase their social contacts – but, there are no positive results to be gained therefrom, for the ‘human’ is crumbling as a sovereign entity into frightened fragments, self-doubt and confusion.

Ask yourselves, what is the net emotional result of all your socialising? For when the certain hour arrives and you witness that accusatory feeling of ‘What have I done?’ your horrifying reply will be that you have done nothing to fulfil your needs and desires and passions.

The hour does ask you: ‘What do you feel at the end of it all?’ and your emotions search vainly for meaning and fulfilment, for in essence there never existed any meaning and fulfilment in your lives in the first place.

Your life style, your socialising has merely succeeded to varying degrees and extents in covering up your real needs and desires.
Thus, in essence, you are merely ignoring, avoiding and repressing your true feelings; the ‘successful’ day is when you do not feel the urge to express your needs; in other words you have successfully been able to distract yourself from your real self.
However, ones innate needs and desires return to haunt us because they are our essence existentially.

Repression of one’s needs and desires and hopes results in disastrous consequences of the self. We are not being true to our selves. We are masks, we are afraid of ourselves because if we were to face ourselves, then that would entail changing our lifestyles and our frame of mind.

The humans around you are not ‘real’.

They are not what they are pretending to be.

The humans around you are living in sorrow hidden by niceties and good manners and protocol and a million other worthless distraction. The humans around you are losing their humanity, their creativity, their needs and passions while they go about the routines of their various lives predictable.

Man is dying in himself, willingly wistfully to accept his/her resignation from life; echoes of Seeger’s poem, ‘Rendezvous’ can hardly be ignored:


‘But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town
When spring trips north again this year
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.’


           Ayad Gharbawi -

Nothing more beautiful
Than a pair of big brown eyes
Our world tells us that for eyes to be beautiful they have to match the skies but that's all lies
There's nothing more beautiful than staring into her eyes and seeing how her soul is connected to the earth
Mother nature's nectar, and me just a hummingbird
Only needing one, I don't need to be a collector cause you see
Her beautiful brown eyes are deeper than blue skies
her beautiful brown eyes are compassionate and wise
I could not vocalize, all her brown eyes symbolize, or how much I love staring them as she wakes me up at sunrise
And when I'm with her it's hard to prioritize, all I want to do is romanticize, hop on our cloud and rise
I'm so happy I met you, my darling, the girl with the brown eyes

Just be real friend.
Be who you are,
and where you are at.
That's enough,
and it's the only way
forward.

Most of us have put on enough masks
in our life time,
to have completely forgotten
our original face.

We've become far too clad
with the heavy coats of expectation,
suffocating under the weight
of the ways we think we ought to be.

You can drop that garb.

There's always mystery
at the naked core of who you are,
and that's just fine.

It's not that we must rediscover
some definable self,
and hand that image over
for validation.
Rather, those solid definitions we
cart around with us
are heavy enough as it is,
but we've continued pushing them
despite the distress.

We've gotten so used
to that awkward play
of needing to be a somebody,
as if that somebody
were other than
who we already are.

We've forgotten how to let go
with all the spontaneity
of a flowers growth;
forgotten the beauty
of our own personal bloom.
That we are a fluid sweep
of light and dark.
That our faces,
like the moons,
wax and wane.

You don't have to be any which way,
other than the way you are.
That sort of self acceptance
is the innate flourish,
is the fluid self cycle,
is the way back into life.

Don't fool yourself
into believing
there is a better disguise.
Strip down to the bare beauty
of your authentic state
in this moment,
and move from there.

I've walked many places
Many journeys unspoken of
Inner cities of my mind
Underground railroad
The streets of Salem
Marching for the word
A whisper in a city's dream

I looked to see the faces
A look of determination
As their stomach starts caving in
Ribs poking out
Mountains of disire
Watching...
As the white man gobbles food
Grinning for another day
American flag flying high
Confederate sitting beside
Laughing at fallen man
Monsters of the cotton field
Fear nesting in remains
Bullets holes holding on
A home for sin

I am hungry and tired
Melting from the pits of hell
Or the ground of more to come
I'm sick
Needing treatment
Needing king
To help me march
And the true god to help me sing

And we watch
Oh we watch for hope to rain
Needing freedom on our plate
Believe me
We all are starved

Oh, give your body now to me
Blessing it with extreme ecstasy
Setting free what you hold inside
Each desire, each need you hide
****** craving to my hard touch
Sensual needing, wanting too much
Inner thoughts of a fetish like mind
Obsession of both, one of a kind
Now uncontrollable bodies together

It occurs to me that I cannot move forward while existing in the hellscape that is the absence of love.

I’ve never received love. I’ve always been a stranger to it. Very rarely have I received the smaller parts that make up the whole that is love: things like justice, recognition, trust and commitment are things that have always been absent in my relationships with others and myself. My mother kept me isolated from the world because she lacked the empathy to understand that I was a being separate from her. I was, in some quiet, unconscious way, a burden to her. From her I knew care, but little more. I was fed, given a room with a bed, even video games and a computer. I was kept alive. But I knew nothing of emotional connection; there was no recognition in what she would call her loving. I was never seen, only kept. When the cruelties of the world outside our home beat my body and mind until something cracked, and they reached inside of me to find my innocence and steal it, there was no justice. Justice, which is a necessary component of love. She would punish me instead, by making it clear how disgusting I was to her- I, who was six, and eight, and thirteen- for seeking out things I was being taught were love, or she would remain quiet in her words and actions. Adults all around me abused me. My only parent, teachers and relatives were all abusing me in a world where children my age were told adults were protectors, and teachers “second parents”, like my mother would tell me.

I don’t think it’s possible to heal without knowing love.
I’ve worked to “improve” myself- a word I’m now beginning to think should have been “heal”- for years. Obsessively, to a fault. Multiple times a day, I would write something new, a new note, something I’d realized I was doing wrong and needed “fixing”- a dangerous word when referring to the modification of the self.
This could be called care. But nothing else. Similar to how my mother cared for me but didn’t know (or would often refuse) to offer me the rest of the parts needed to form the whole that is love, I gave myself only parts of it. I didn’t love myself because I didn’t know how to. My definition of love had its foundations in the actions of my abusers. The love I gave myself was rendered unkind by the lack of my protectors’ understanding of love, their abuse, and what they taught me love was.

I worked so ******* trying to “fix” myself that this care became a kind of torture. I wouldn’t punish myself so much as I would work myself into exhaustion. It’s a subject too complex and full to delve into right now, but this, and every stressor in my life, was exacerbated by the fact that I am autistic. This is a definition I don’t entirely agree with but for the sake of conciseness I’ll say it– If you can imagine being born without a single tool to navigate the world, that is what autism is. I had to build much of what others know instinctively. This makes for an extremely confusing and terrifying childhood, even without abuse from an outside source. Due to the nature of autism, it can in itself be a kind of trauma. There are no known solutions to the issues it presents. In my rigorous self-studying (and observation of other autistic people I’ve known over the years), I’ve understood the core issues of autism and how to correctly- that is, naturally- arrive at the peace we so desperately need. I’ll write about it some day.

Autism made my life in isolation harder than it would be for those who aren’t autistic. Understanding the world without some kind of guidance was virtually  impossible for me. For a lot of autistic people, it remains impossible until death. I still need guidance in certain situations, mainly when in public or when feelings of stress cause regression, stripping me of my learned skills and pushing me into confusion and purely logic-based solutions (which only serve to offer relief in a short-term manner).

Only recently, within the last month, did I learn to approach self growth in better ways. Negativity is something I can now sit with, without fear of it. I listen to it, observe it. I always knew this is what should be done with feelings of negativity, but I wasn’t capable of it. I want to say that the only reason I became able to do this was because I was shown parts of love I had been refused all my life.
Recognition, justice, and a little bit of affection were all that I needed to move forward in my journey of becoming.
It was as if I had been waiting eagerly for years to know these fragments of love, so that I could finally work to modify the parts of me that needed modifying. The second I was shown this kindness, I felt I knew exactly how to use it. The gates had opened and I was sprinting, because finally, finally I could move forward. It was admittedly chaotic at first; I was overflowing with love in an overactive, confused state. The change for me was great and sudden, and difficult to manage. It was overwhelming, but I mostly settled into it after. Suddenly I was capable of accepting love, and was excited to give it. The kind words of strangers finally felt true; little positive messages left for anyone to read online were now a love I could accept and use. I looked through them and held their love in my arms, carrying it to my bed that day I remember feeling so sad and lonely. For the first time in years I wasn’t afraid of my sadness, of my loneliness, of my fear- of the results of my loveless life. I simply sat and cared for myself, and there was nothing lacking in my loving. I loved myself fully for one day.

The positive change in me that came from being given the fragments of love that had been absent all my life- justice, recognition and affection- lasted a month. Some part of me tells me that I should wait more to write about this, because right now is the end of that month.

The love has stopped, and I find myself in need of it again, and I’m wondering if I can survive by learning to give it to myself. Every time I wonder this, I think it’s impossible. That I’ll eventually reach that gate again, that my journey of becoming will inevitably stop. Self-love is made possible when we know what it is to be loved. I think this. I think this now.
Love cannot be built in isolation. I will need to be loved in order to continue loving myself. I’m too eager to continue my journey, I think. This is natural, but it leads to unpleasant things that might repel others and keep me from being loved. I’ve begged- an unbecoming, often disrespectful act. I’m desperate, but also unwilling to hurt anyone with my suffering.
It’s hard to know how to ask for kindness. It’s harder yet, as an autistic person. I want to ask for it, but something in me tells me doing this is rude. And the tension I feel from thinking this creates an unbearable stress as it grows into an unsolvable doubt: What about asking for something I need is rude? Is it possible to ask for fragments of love tactfully, without this rudeness? Is there something my autism isn’t letting me see?
There often is. The problem here then becomes, “I need a guidance most people do not need, and I know that asking for it is undesirable to others. I will be punished for needing.” Sometimes I don’t need this guidance. When I’m happy and safe, I can function independently more often. But happiness and safety are things one feels when loved. My dilemma is a paradox.

I’m tired of my loveless life. I wish for nothing more than to be able to love and be loved, because I am tired of lovelessness, because I am eager to know the terror of loving, eager to learn with someone to hold and be held, to commit love. I want to love and be loved because I am human, and because I think that at the end of lovelessness, there must be a kind of death, and I want so badly to live.
Perhaps if I weren’t autistic, my search would be less difficult and painful. I feel as if I am punished for needing, because most people do not need the things I need, and needing them is seen as a sign of rudeness, an inconsiderate nature or just plain incapacity, which are all undesirable traits.

My fear is to be undesirable for who I am. I can’t write it without crying. My fear is to be told I shouldn’t be touched because I can’t touch, that I shouldn’t be trusted because I can’t stop masking, that I shouldn’t be loved because I can’t love.
And I feel that all I can say is that I swear I can learn, if only you’ll give me the chance. I am willing to. And I’m sorry to beg, because I know it isn’t very good or beautiful, but please stay a while, so that I may allow myself to be defenseless and bare, like love requires one to be, like I long to be. If you must leave then go, but if you have the patience to spare, please use it on me. Because if at the bottom of lovelessness, there is only some death, I don’t want to ever know it. I don’t want to get any closer to it.

i.

for the past few weeks i've been doing an experiment,
thankfully philosophy allows such things,
of course, they're deviations from what i'm used to
in chemistry, they're less, what's the word?
spectacular - but they are nonetheless experiments,
and that's the beauty of being grounded in some sort
of science (trinity of biology, chemistry and physics
and that's the limit, beyond this there are only
pseudo-sciences)... medicine? that's the tsarina of
learning: like any tsarina: gets down and *****,
and yes: mathematics is the genteel queen.
philosophy on the other hand seems like a vagabond
in learning, never really pieced together,
never really sentenced to a single direction:
and for that matter, thought can become less narration
that stretches into the sort of philosophy that Sartre
embodied with his novel, and more into thought becoming
experimental...
you might be wondering what the experiment consisted
of... well, over the weeks i've been sadistic unto myself,
it's to do with trying to figure out the modern curse
that's the 3D's: debt, depression, dementia.
                i can't fall asleep without a bottle of whiskey
cigarettes, sleeping pills and music playing in the background:
which would make me a terrible partner, anyway.
   beyond that though, for weeks i repeated a pattern,
i fell asleep to the *hellraiser ii: hellbound soundtrack
by christopher young...
       day-in-day out: as if to pressurise the idea that
the faculty of dreaming could be censored in the same way
that thinking is censored in liberal speech
eroding people's vocabulary, **** included.
     what i mean by that: every day i woke up with 15 minutes
of despair, then the zenith came after i lay in bed
for 4 hours and felt too many leeches ******* at me...
   those 15 minutes of despair were always there,
but then i usually got up and went about my daily business...
i admit that whiskey could be to blame,
anyone could argue the alcohol-is-bad argument,
but arguing as R. D. Laing might have that it's
also a sedative if you don't include social adhesion to loosen
the tension of going out and dancing:
then i don't see the point of saying it's all bad.
         sleeping pills (i found) are not 100% active without
what the prescription states that you should do:
i exceed limits, but then i write during the night -
            create a balance and i'm sure any insomnia
might be made minimal... anyway:
so i've been doing this roundabout experiment,
listening to the above album while falling asleep,
but then yesterday i decided to fall asleep listening to
godspeed you! black emperor's album F♯ A♯ ∞,
and guess what the experiment proved:
  i felt little or no anguish for 15 minutes,
obviously the usual groggy of a pseudo-hangover,
  but that doesn't mean staying in bed for 4 hours
because you feel **** about life 'n' all...
                   as already stated there's what we call
a cartesian dichotomy, that somehow altered mental
states cannot be translated into a physicality -
depression in this sort of language becomes lethargy -
people never seemed to connect the dots that
state the monism of everything having a pairing either
side of Humpty-Dumpty sitting on the ergo fence
asking about a flying omelette... ergo is a variation
of what precipitates... depression = lethargy...
the purest kind of what i know (i have enough psychiatric
literature to redeem myself from what would
be deemed quack-medicine with their quack doctors) -
some say that taking the vitamin B12 supplement
could help you: or that weak digestion is to blame, too.
i would be quack doctor if i was in a position of power,
and since i am not really earning anything from my
"poems", what sort of power can i abuse? trust -
but then again these are thought experiments,
           i first experiment on myself, then note down
the observations i have accounted for.
               so what will my unconscious eat today while
i switch off my consciousness? i was thinking of
the cure's disintegration album,
         perhaps that's why i did weeks of falling asleep
to a horror movie soundtrack, to later move into
neo-prog "rock" and then into 80s goth melancholia...
    i'd say that pop ****** melancholics off...
and such a nicer word for depression...
                   it's not even close to compression and has
nothing to do with aviation or the Netherlands...
     melan, melan: ah! melanism - a certain darkness,
    choly -         condition of darkness...
       and that star of Bethlehem appeared at night...
man of sorrows, well that's just blatant;
           but for all the romanticisation about darkness
and the mysterious moon and all the insomnia,
i still prefer the anti-cartesian explanation of actually
creating the proper answer to what has become
a dichotomy between the physical sciences and
the pseudo sciences, given that ergo is a precipitation
then for the two opposite to become inseparable
depression must be equal to lethargy: which is a variation
of the grander genus (family): metabolism.
               is this the point where i re-quote that famous:
doctor! heal yourself!
                                      well, if there's anything to go by
i have in my mind, given my life a prolonging in a way,
what was it... amitriptyline?
                                         the new ******* for
the respectably prone to citizenship's serenity of leaving
other people to their own demises -
  i mean, look at all the teetotalers: hyperactive bunnies
with too much energy that translated into things like
the infamous pyramids and the doubly infamous chimneys.

ii. the danish girl

i would have never thought that the transgender movement
had such a puritanism about it,
such platonism - nearing martyrdom;
who could have thought?! i only managed to see the film
today... i'm a sentimental ******* and i was choking
on not crying at the end of the film
here was a true representation of an artist,
         there's he (einar wegenar): a successful local
artist, within the confines of Copenhagen,
modestly famous: primarily because of having
perfected a technique and sourced it in a childhood
memory that keeps haunting him,
    thus he keeps repeating it, although with slight
alternation to refresh it, but no photograph to work
from, hence my previous statement:
  memory is the best cinema or arts' gallery (this
is not a universal statement, memory doesn't always
heal, or fascinate or have the ability to revitalises itself
or become the most potent "hallucinogenic" experience);
and then she's there (gerda wegener), also
painting, but more in line with paying the rent
rather than appeal, rich people needing portraits to
hang on the walls of the future of their lineage
        in years to come so someone might boast:
that was my ancestor, who founded the first bank
of Copenhagen sort of stories -
and all she wants to do is be an artist like Einar;
and she keeps coming back from galleries with her
works and they never give the critics any appeal
at being original - they have a suggestive generic
quality to them: precisely because they've been painted
for money. art is cruel in that way,
  when critics reduce producing art like they might reduce
being a cashier in a supermarket on the basis of:
job done... then comes the offense from the artist.
the beauty of this film is the platonism that soon explodes,
the near innocence... i really don't know how
the transgender movement borrowed from this:
all those Baphomet ******* with too many parts,
silicon chests and ***** and what not?
       this is one of the finest forms of defamation -
these days the transgender movement is so sexually
potent it doesn't really deserve what can only appear
as a self-imposed crucifixion...
              this story predates the unearthing of the nag
hammadi scripts, it's intuitively bound to what was
unearthed in 1945...
      einar sees the desperation of gerda, he knows
that he'll simply remain a local artist,
    bound to a square mile of earth, local, provincial
even... what he decides on is best expressed
by Marilyn Manson's lyrics: now i'm not an artist
i'm a ******* work of art.
        how can not this resonate further into the film
if not by this motto:
it is a consecration of a memory, to invert it and
un-seize the moment long ago experienced and now
fuelling art, or the repetition of a safe technique established.
one man's frustration and a woman in a cage:
the potential seen - then a sudden bursting of madness,
the evident anti-cross -
                                  to say he had reached his limits
and she was kept frustrated and under-appreciated is
blatant enough, this self-sacrifice for a woman to
find her subject, was all too evident when she utters
the words that: the student overcomes the teacher,
and that's the whole story,
                       he has to walk into the canvas,
     in whatever way imaginable, and what a better way
than on a whim to escape the dreariness of parties
   by dressing up as a woman, after gerda's model
is late so she can continue a painting and einar
has to step in and wear a few female garments...
       to later realise the Dionysian consequence:
                                  only to the utmost excess, from here.
this could hardly be a propaganda movie for
the transgender movement... the "propaganda"
aspect ends when you hear children imitating this
artistic "prank" in today's society...
      it wasn't a prank in the slightest: but a profound
expression of love between two artists...
          outside of art the whole transgender movement
is still only ***** and silicon **** of Thailand's lady-boys:
that's not reality?        
although i actually did choke with nearing to cry
in the closing scene...
    unlike the Christ story... there was no resurrection.
so hans and gerda travel to the place where
einar depicted the landscape in his revisions,
       and both of them are standing there
        and it's ****** pulverising with so much depth
upon being so little when reduced to a canvas
but because you see the painting first, do you later
see the landscape with more emotion...
     and i thought to myself: gerda will recreate
the landscape in her own eyes, she'll what he saw
and what he gave up for her to paint him in his
transformative (transfigurative) state of becoming
lili elbe...
                     that's why i was about to cry -
     that she could put lili aside, and return to /
resurrect the memory of einar the locally famous
artist... that she would apply the same technique in
painting lili / einar but turn her attention to
landscapes... as if to imply that both of them became
reunited before all the madness of life came chasing them
into extremes.
          to my dissatisfaction? after the film ended
and before the credits started rolling... postscriptum facts
after these true events... she continued to paint
lili / einar as she did, which prompted her to fame
on the Parisian estrade; after seeing that, written down?
tears? what tears... i'm actually thankful that i choked
on them and didn't do an outburst necessarily...
thank **** i wasn't watching the film alone!
     i know that i might have invoked a sense of:
rough around the edges with this description, but i'm hoping
it's abstract enough to make the film more potent:
filling the blanks with images;
still, this was used for a transgender movement?
                                                did he make it plainly obvious
that this was a transcendental transgender iconoclasm?
         it's the platonic element in it that steers this whole
story, away from what 21st century movements regard
as prototype for their ******.

Stripping You of Your Privilege
YOU!

Tall and lean and impossibly handsome
and Corporate

In your magnificent pinstriped business suit
and perfectly tied silk tie
and your hundred dollar haircut
your privileged male feet hidden
inside impeccably polished black
English dress shoes

Staring at me through your
designer sunglasses

Haughty, confident, insolent
Stepping out of your Porsche
before you enter your office building

So smooth, clean, assured and perfect
Maybe you are 35 years old, maybe 40
the world is yours


Transformation
I have news for you
The tables are turned

YOU have been the one in power.
The one in control.
So proud, so arrogant, so confident

Starting at me, a total stranger
Just part of your usual day
I am just an object to you
I am an OBJECT to you!

Your beautiful smooth shaven
face turns...
but wait...

Wait! No more

NO MORE!

The world has turned upside
down

Now YOU are the OBJECT

I have the POWER to make things happen

NOW LISTEN TO ME

You have a new future

LISTEN. OBEY
Quit your important executive job
Leave your successful corporate career

That's right – now
QUIT!
Call from your phone
Don't enter the
building
Tell them you’re quitting

You are stunned and repelled and horrified
You resist and argue
You refuse and try to leave
Your pride and anger rise
But there is no escaping your destiny

Your power is gone
You are helpless to resist

Forget your MBA
Forget you ever went to a university
Slide the business school ring off your
long finger

Give me the keys to that Porsche
And take your Rolex,
your gold wristwatch,
off your
wrist
You won't be needing a watch
I will tell you the time
We will sell your watch

You slide off your watch and surrender it

Get those fancy, expensive,
polished handmade shoes off
Your pampered, privileged male feet
Yes, your black dress socks too

YOU, barefoot on the sidewalk!

Leave the shoes right there on the
sidewalk, in front of your former
office building, shining in the sun.
Empty and crying for their former owner

Shocked, unable to resist,
you untie and remove your shoes,
peel off your long dress socks

Put your expensive socks inside the shoes
and drop the briefcase too

Now get back into the Porsche
you used to own
Yes, in your bare feet
Your smooth, clean size tens
No - NOT the driver's seat
Get in the passenger side
I am driving

I'm taking you to your own home
as my Trophy

How many times
have you
had a woman in your passenger seat?

You behind the wheel,
smiling your proud smile
your perfect white teeth gleaming

Straightening your necktie as
your bragged about your corporate successes
You and your car the proud conquerors
Your handmade black leather shoes pressing the pedal
of male power and privilege

Now you - just a passenger!
along for the ride in your own car
the rich carpet of your Porsche
under the smooth soles of your bare privileged feet

Now the plan!
We will marry
and you will clean and cook and look very beautiful

Now your LIFE LESSONS:
Dumb down your smug,
expensively high-class male executive
SPEECH.
More slang. Much less education in your voice
Don’t talk – just listen to ME

And you have to wipe off
That arrogant male grin
like you own the world.

Destroy that haughty attitude
of conquest - so much a part of you until today

Replace it with humble respect
And attitude of submission and obedience

Give me those sunglasses
You can't wear them anymore
Look at me
with submissive adoration in your clear, blue
eyes

No need to make decisions now
I will take care of that

I will take away your ambition
Your self-assertion
Your independent thinking

We'll take apart your self-confidence
and throw the pieces in the trash
All of your initiative and desire to succeed
will be replaced
by the desire to make me happy

I will change your prestigious upper class name
You will take MY last name now
Your identity will disappear
What is your first name? William?
You are Billy boy from now

Your male executive image and power clothes
No longer have
Any place
In your new existence

We'll pick up some nice tight cheap jeans and
some nice tight undershirts for your
new look - the one I choose
Show off your chest and your arms
Flip flops and work boots
and sweatshirts and flannel.
You will LOVE them!

I want you tougher, grizzled
Blue collarized
Working class male
You’re too clean, too smooth, too perfect
We’ll fix that...

And your clean-cut corporate haircut is
now forbidden
I hate it. Too perfect

Grow out your golden brown hair into
A scraggly ponytail
a beard too...
Put some dirt under those clean fingernails
Calluses on those smooth clean palms
An earring in your ear

And no more SUITS!
I hate suits
symbols of white male power and authority
and no more ties
those symbols of oppression
your neck and long male
throat will be open and exposed
for the world to see

No, that pinstriped suit you're wearing
that you had made for yourself in London
and the silk tie
and the starched white shirt
will all be sold to a second hand clothing shop

The monograms taken off your
cufflinks before they are sold
Your golf clubs – sold
Your tennis rackets and
sports equipment - sold

Your credit cards in my name
Your condo is now ours
Your Porsche is now mine
You will drive my beat-up old Ford

All of your fancy clothes will be sold off
That will be tomorrow



You're gonne be barefoot in my kitchen
You won't be needing shoes anymore
on your privileged, pampered feet


Now - your soles on your own kitchen floor
Making dinner for me

Mother always called me the devil child
She said I was  loud, destructive and wild

Parents told sister I was bad and she didn't ever have to play with me
Much time alone was no fun, however for some friends I did make a plea

I'd beg for my mothers attention, she'd run off to her room crying,
Yelled for my dad to come get me, because to her I was very trying

I heard my mother double dog dare my father to hit me
Mother would refer to me as a **** in front of the family

When I was very young mother once said “I will ****** you in cold blood”
Today mother said “you’re crazy, I’d never say that to a child, you are crud”

Nothing I did would ever please my mother
Gifts I bought her were tossed in the gutter

All my cousins were smart, while I was failing all my classes in school
Got into many fights with bullies and teachers who were always cruel

My family would all make fun of me, call names bully and teased
I was the loser that anyone could do or say what they pleased

None of my cousins was I ever allowed with to play
Was always much of the time alone every and all day

I lived in a strange way my dad was very to the T religious
And my mother was always drunk and of course blameless

She’d drink when home from work, on the weekends or holidays
And could always hide it from all her friends and the relatives

No one believed me when I told them that she had been drinking
They acted like I was crazy by then I knew what they were thinking

Mother took me out Friday's to eat and buy what I wanted, after work
Last stop, the liquor store for drink and smoke, was left in car like a ****

Mother would always drive with me while she was drunk
I knew she'd been drinking because she smelled like a skunk

Bought games that took two to play, parents never had any intention  
Of spending time with me, I was a bad child needing intervention

If I didn’t act a certain way when opening all my very expensive Christmas gifts
She’d pout, leave, and I’d have to open my gifts alone because I’d created a rift

Wasn't  perfect I admit;  ran off when 16 regret parents sent me away,
Came for counseling I complained about moms drinking, she felt angry

Said drinking not my problem, she’d return when I could face the truth
Never could admit wrongdoing, everything was because I was a youth

Home from school one day mom was passed out on  floor drunk
Called 911 her Dr blamed me and said no visit,  he called me a punk

My dad arrived home, find she was throwing up while passed out in bed
He'd take bowls put them near her mouth to catch it,  something I'd dread

He’d walk to the bathroom, empty the bowl and go back to get the next one to do the very same
And replace the unfilled one repeat the process.  I was told by her doctor that I was the blame

Sometimes mom would run down the hall to the toilet bowl throw up then my heart would race
Because I always knew mom would do this and then she’d come to room to scare rant and pace

Since I was a badly spoiled child who had parents with money, nice house cars and good jobs
And I was not willing to help out or be responsible, was told I made the family look like slobs

My sister let her boyfriend talk her into letting him take me to dentist, instead, he molested me
No one believed me because in the past I had lied about things, and the truth no one would see

I was different all the cousins, my aunts and uncle could blame me when things went missing
Or went wrong I was then and still am now the perfect scapegoat yes about it I’m still babbling

My father ran out the back door when he heard me wake up and come out of my room
So he didn't have to  bother with me, I wanted to spend time with him he’d assume

Somehow I managed to graduate from high school and I then would move
To a different city, I felt I might have better luck and my life would improve.

Married two very bad guys both who drank, beat me and verbally abused
Divorced them both and had one child and how I’d raise this child alone I was confused.

Moved into an apartment I still today about it rave
Mother always referred to it as a little dark damp cave

Things I wanted my mother to do with me she would say no
But wouldn't turn down a chance with other family to go

But this home where I've written articles, poetry that's been published
Most of the things I've written, mother has said they are mostly *******

Tried to work and go to school never was competent enough to follow through
Each time I would start either I did not have the ability to complete anything new

My daughter grew up, became ill with a repeating debilitating disease
I dedicated myself to getting her well, and nothing about it was a breeze

Had to take her in pain for doctor visits many times she’d cry and wished she were dead
This broke my heart with no family help, just her and I to face things in the years ahead

Unable to attend school for years, the doctor signed permission to stay home
School system assigned a teacher who was mean nothing about her was tome

School Social workers interfered
And my name they smeared

She finally one day went into remission
And now the Nephrotic kidney condition

Seems, for now, to have forever gone for good away
For years it’s been don’t want others to downplay

For a while, I home schooled her and the first semester back in the public school
She was on the honor roll things seemed to be looking up and I felt like I was the rule

Then one day she lost interest in classes, homework, and attending
And the principal of the high school was calling and threatening

Took her out of school and put her in to get her GED
Then  she was soon graduated within month of three

A year before she was supposed to graduate
I knew by then that I was doing things right

Enrolled me and her in community college we made the Dean’s list and no student loan debt
Last May she and I graduated have a new life now I don’t feel things in my life are a threat

Alone I’ve raised a good child, published a book and kept things together
I’ve published some poetry and stories in that will be on web pages forever

Even though my parents have helped me out once in a while financially
I feel lack of respect since they helped family who treated me crummy

I’m still feeling and have most of the hopeless thoughts when I was young
I still try to steer my daughter to be different from me and hold my tongue

Sister divorced husband for molesting children told kids I was bad
Lives in my town and over 20 years never talked, by her, I've been had

I think it's because my parents never would face reality or admit
To any wrong doing of years of abuse, something I couldn't forget

Mother has disowned me going to court to remove my name
Because she said I've caused her embarrassment and shame

I'm damaged goods, only go to doctor and for groceries to shop
I hide inside and on computer, write stories and poems till I drop

Why am I talking about this after all these years still?
Because I think that it may just possibly help me to heal

Looking back I find so many things have not been my fault
But I still feel many days like I'm the only one under assault.

Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved

Forget he's human
just like you
because he loves a man
just like you don't want him to

Forget that she's human
just like you
she likes women
instead of you

Does it break you heart?
when someone falls
out of your expectations
there must be something wrong

He may not have grown up
wanting to be the man
your faith wanted him to become
so where goes the love

Men don't cry
just **** it up
and move on with life

She may not have grown up
being very lady like
so you've had enough
of her relating to the guys

Women aren't strong
you need a man
to hold you up in life

Where are all the people

Oh never mind him
he's just mentally impaired
you can make fun of him
he's too stupid to care

But really
he hurts like the rest of us
needing the acceptance

Where are all the people
with the unconditional love

Why can't these robots see
life is more beautiful
with color

Love should be free
so should our choices
how hard is it to imagine
will it ever be?

Hide your feelings
you might be a woman inside
even though you are a man
you should hate yourself
because everyone else will

What will the children become
when the future is already laid out for them

Who wants to grow up
and have no imagination?

So why be silent
when we can spread love
like a virus
spreads an epidemic

Wake up and stop hating
hate is for those with fear

Forget what you don't know
and accept it for what it is
it's going to be there anyway

The pavement having a merchandise name
Merchandising sales being the aim
Markdowns throughout any retail store
The array of assortments a consumer just can’t ignore
Yet watch how the consumer spends their money
The consumer will be broke, but certainly not the only
Plastic credit cards that could get you into trouble
This could cause your interest rates to double
But I one should only buy what they actually need
However unnecessary things with no need to proceed
Retail prices coming from a Buyer’s advice
Watch the price and shopping being wise
Fashion designers with a eye for your appeal and style
All through the theory the consumer is thinking during while
Well retail stores have much they want the consumer to explore
But with prices slashed here and over there, the consumer becomes not being sure
Perhaps having will power is something no one should ignore
Money saved with nothing being spent
No question needing to be asked as to where your money went.