staring at the blank page
i find myself thinking
quite low of myself.

wondering to myself
absently muttering out loud
as if adding more sound
to the white noise
will give me a sense of validation
that i still exist.

the hum of the laptop
and turquoise hexagon sun
mixes with the sound
of the car doors closing outside
and the people sitting
in their chairs, lazing about
staring at the television screens

what else can i hear?
closing my eyes, i stop
taking a moment
to let my worried mind rest
forgetting about my financial crisis
to bathe in the sound
of my silence.

with my eyes closed
i type with confidence
i don't fear my words
when i can't see them
my eyes feel hot
under my dark eyelids
as heavy as they are
i am surprised i don't
slouch and fall into slumber
right here in my chair.

in the second it takes
to flutter open my eyes
and reread the words i just wrote
i have to remember
to stop myself before i nitpick
and change what came
from my heart
and at the time felt right.

if only
i went through life like this more often
then maybe i wouldn't feel so down
or ******* myself
because honestly i'm not that bad
nor am i as dumb
or silly as i feel
and maybe next time
when i go ice skating
i won't be such a little *****
about how i look to other people.

Can't talk about, can't write about, a single thing but loving you
Don't mean to schmooze, my shameless muse, always down for aimless cruise
stare through window glass at tunnel lights that zoom straight past our heads
I walk on air, dodge solar flares, ignites my mind when I'm in bed

I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way

And I feel a nostalgia a sense of old security
the same I got when I was young and fell asleep to the TV
underneath the afghan with unwravled threads and fraying ends
hold onto me while I nitpick the same old **** inside my head

I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way

Tell me baby is it true?
Should I ride or die for you?
can I be your passenger?
or do you find me lackluster?
I can't let it be the thought of you and me
scared that our future is tragic history
and every time I find myself ready to shift gears
something holds me back, some aching type of fear

I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way

We’ve been herded by hook and crook,
To obey convention, and read textbook.
The uniformity is maddening,
And the subjects are baffling.

The whole wide world is grand and open;
Why cordon the mind off in a tiny token?
Rules were meant to be broken,
To usher change and issue motion.

Creativity, art, they build up cultures,
Not to be picked at by robotic vultures.
They always nitpick and they scavenge,
Intent on making things a challenge.

Passion is the cornerstone of all,
It survives when things are squall.
It’s the sun that rises within you,
Makes you things you never knew.

Question everything, for your good;
You’ll find more than you ever could.
Explore everything, be curious;
For the world out there is glorious.

Challenge everything, be skeptical;
Your brain is knowledge’s receptacle.
Think outside, and break the rules;
Don’t blindly follow, like the fools.

twiddle, nitpick, hyper aware
look around, distracting sound
simmer down, hair twirls around
finger fidget, anxious stomach

look around, distracting sound
concentration, familiar loss
finger fidget, anxious stomach
quick to pass on own comfort

concentration, familiar loss
staring, story supposition
quick to pass on own comfort
skip the line, go hungry

staring, story supposition
crowds, cliques, an anxious tick
skip the line, go hungry
unacceptable alibi

crowds, cliques, an anxious tick
butterfly squirms, I choke on it
unacceptable alibi
crazy claim, you're insane

butterfly squirms, I choke on it
hate, hate, hate; I choose to quit
crazy claim, you're insane
help me function normally

hate, hate, hate; I choose to quit
perseverance; out, not in
help me function normally
love me unconditionally

perseverance; out, not in
something's wrong, help me mom
love me unconditionally
twiddle, nitpick, hyper aware

It takes one to know one swift fell swoop
like a bat out of hell and certainly the belfry.
If you've something to prove to the birds and the bees,
I won't bat an eye at your rhinoplasty.

I'll take two hoots, 'cause I sure won't give them.
Find somebody else to get up and go;
I cry like I fly like a carrion crow
and I've two left feet and no time to tango.

It takes three strikes 'til it's not just company
any more — it's a crowd and my agoraphobia
is making this worse, so I might disperse.

If you don't quite care, let's put two and two together;
playing pretend we're birds of a feather.
I could commend, but that's such a no-no;
you're more like a doornail to me, less like a dodo.

And if you don't much mind, I might just take five.
I'm chicken-livered, but at least alive
though I feel like a dead duck, dusted and done.
I won't be there, I'll stay fair and square,
right back at square one.

Now can you see how this is cyclic?
Makes me feel one sandwich short of a picnic,
up the wall, and driving me sick.
Apologies, I don't mean to nitpick,
and I know I've a number of bees in my bonnet,
but I've zero interest in your haiku and sonnets.

So here's one for the road,
turn by the way the devil drives you home,
and one good turn deserves
another.

I am the awkward treble cleft resting against your crescendo heartbeat
All the while  thinking "I don't think Mozart could have ever written anything as beautiful as your breath"
And I bet when God made you, part of the angles choir found itself nestled in your vocal chords
Comfort
Like a down blanket you wrap me in the silk strands of your forearms
And all I want to know is how you got these scars
My guess is you fell to hard for a girl who was never your favorite song
And you had to nitpick the sour notes of her broken promises from your skin

“Television brought the brutality of war into the comfort of the living room.   Vietnam was lost in the living rooms of America—not on the battlefields of Vietnam.”                              Marshall McLuhan

You understand where I'm coming from,
Reader Rabbit, you twisted ****? Maybe not;
While you and your boy/girlfriend, later your wife/husband,
Were ******* backpacks around Europe,
I was of a less fortunate, less frivolous cohort,
Like the poor, who always miss the fun stuff.
So I stayed home and waited, dreading time,
Treading water in Queens,
Doing the graveyard shift at the Wonder Bread Bakery in Jamaica,
(No, not that Jamaica, mun.)
Building bodies 12 ways, and sweating out the inevitable,
Praying to my lesser god not to hear from my local draft board.
And who was I to disturb the universe?
“It ain’t me, it ain't me, I ain't no senator's son;
It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one, lawd naw.”
(Send  "Fortunate Son" Ringtone to your Cell)  
I was just another cynical working-class hero,
Unlike you, numb nuts, and the rest of your silver surfer friends.
I knew I’d wind up without my teddy bear,
Convinced I’d end up sans security blanket,
With no ****-vacant musical chair,
To plop my sorry non-exempt, 1A **** cheeks
Down into when the music stopped,
When the music’s over, turn out the light--Jim Morrison,
Lizard King--turn out the light.
My horse, my horse . . . no wait . . . **** the horse . . .
My kingdom, my kingdom for a 2-S college deferment!
What kingdom?  
What was it Jesus said?
Not of this earth, anyway.
Colonial Indochina: rich man's war, poor man's fight;
It was such an efficient way to rid trash from poor neighborhoods.

Needless to say, I’ve been having a little trouble adjusting ever since,
Since I got back from that Kafkaesque Disneyland Jungle Cruise,
My personal Cold War thriller,
My Tecumseh Sherman “War is All Hell” war,
My war: 45 years ago next week.
These things take time:
So says the recorded message on the VA’s PTSD Hotline.
45 years ago I packed up my duffle,
Packed for what I thought was going to be my last time in uniform,
Grabbed my Army discharge papers, and
Limp-dicked out the side door of,
The Veterans Hospital in St. Albans, County of Queens.
I’d like to say I never looked back. But I’d be lying.

(cue PSA: VA Reaches Out to Veterans:
The Department of Veterans Affairs will begin,
Contacting nearly 570,000 recent combat veterans May 1,
To ensure they know about VA's medical services and other benefits.)

Today and every day is 11-11, Veterans Day—
What gets me now is that all my time since The Nam,
Is on average two lifetimes,
For all those sent home, bagged and tagged.
Is it survivor’s guilt? I doubt it.

You may not understand this, but I miss that freaky jungle.
I felt safe there.
How quickly I learned to expect the unexpected,
And that meant to expect the worse,
Finding my comfort zone the more uncomfortable, the worse it got.
I miss the wet weight of the air,
The cloying heat and humidity.
Humidity: a plain and simple meteorological miracle,
When you have plenty of time to really think about it,
Which I did: 365 days and a wake-up.
You know that whole gorgeous hydrologic cycle thing?
I miss the rain, the sound of falling rain.
I miss the other sounds, every buzz and click,
All the arcane and dismal things that go screech in the night.
And that relentless insect hum,
The jungle vibrating and intense,
The colors vibrating too, especially that electric green,
A green so vivid, every leaf and vine,
"The world's richest repository of terrestrial biodiversity,” I read in some nature magazine,
Lying naked in bed while my therapist ****** me off the other day.
All those freaky creatures great and small,
Every miraculous living thing that’s really alive and thriving.
And this is why--I think,
Getting obnoxiously philosophical for the moment,
This explains why it got to be so easy to waste what was alive and thriving over there, including and especially our selves.

Death never seemed that permanent, that final over there.
And besides, you couldn’t **** anything for that long,
The critters all looking their wet and slimy same.  
Two minutes in The **** and you were
Killing every ******* gnat and bug,
Every leech and snake, anything &
Anyone that just looked at you sideways.

And the flora? Did I mention the flora?
Soupy Sales: (Smack! Bam!)  “I told you not to mention that.”
The flora:  the plants grew back and they grew back quick.
You chop a path on recon and the next day it’s not there anymore,
So you chop the whole way back to the L-Z.  
Chop, chop, Hop Sing!
You were one smart ****, Hop Sing,
Safe and sound in Lake Tahoe, Nevada-side,
Cooking up Ponderosa pork bellies for,
The Cartwright Clan: Ben, Adam, Hoss & Little Joe.
Meanwhile, I’m not earning any frequent flyer miles,
Aboard a chartered TWA, coffee-tea-or-me,
Royal **** airplane to Saigon,
A place called ** Chi Minh City today.
I remember looking around at the faces on that airplane,
As we landed at Tan Son Nhut,
Those forlorn godforsaken faces,
Black and Chicano and poor white trash boys.
Scared shitless, of course,
But we really were jolly green giants over there,
American conquistadors, Cortez and the Boys,
Seeking gold and glory and, of course,
*******, (www.urbandictionary.com):
That sweet wet hole we all crave,
Can't go for too long without,
Center of our life's desire,
What gives women the upper hand in almost every situation,
Except when you pay in South Vietnamese piastres,
Your basic exchange rate $3.00 *******.

Yes, we were American conquistadors,
But traveling light this trip,
Our black-robed Jesuit fathers having missed the flight.
That’s right, for us no Ad majorem Dei gloriam this time,
Our mission so simple and so clear:
SEARCH & DESTROY.
But mostly, Destroy.

And pretty soon you worked your way up the evolutionary ladder,
From bugs, to fish, to frogs and snakes,
Small varmints and reptiles, birds and rodents;
And by the time you taxonomy out to the runway,
You’re pretty much whacking anything that moves,
Anything you feel like, pretty much any time,
All the time, sometimes just to pass the time,
Just to break up the ******* monotony of it all.
So making the anti-personnel leap got sort of easy:
They all looked the same, didn’t they?
They all wore the same pajamas,
And it was never conducive to grunt longevity,
To nitpick the civilians from the soldiers,
Never a good idea to waste time distinguishing friend from foe.

Good Morning, Vietnam:
We really were nerve-gassed-Adrian Cronauers over there,
G-2 Army oxymoronic intelligence stiffs,
Having a little difficulty finding the enemy,
Having one hell of a time finding a Vietnamese man named "Charlie."
They're all named Nguyen, or Tran, or Thanh or Trong or Bao or Phuc . . .
Oh, ****, I get it now.
I grok the how and why,
Of all the names we’ve used for centuries to dehumanize the enemy:
***** and Nips, Chinks and Slopes,
Huns and Krauts, Redskins and Ivans,
Redcoats and Rebs, Zulus and Mau Maus, *****, Ragheads and Sand ******* . . .
To dehumanize is to be dehumanized.
Nominal dehumanization; linguistic trickery.
It made it easy . . .
Well, easier . . .
To **** you.

What was it Pope Innocent III’s legate advised?
“**** Them All.  Let God sort ‘em out.”

Is it smell of burning flesh that makes me so digress?

Yes, I miss that freaky jungle, my friend.
I miss knowing what to expect and what was to be expected.
And most of all I miss that absolute confidence,
My self-liberating soporific certainty,
That I did not give a **** whether I lived or died,
And no one else did either.
I miss the peaceful place to go,
Coping with fear by letting go,
By writing off my life,
My future "in-country,"
My 12-month tour of duty,
My 365 T.S. Eliot Ash Wednesdays,
Learning to care and not to care,
Cultivating indifference as to,
Whether or not I ever made it Wee, Wee, Wee,
All the way home again.
The answers were right there,
Always there, all the time,
In nursery rhymes, and counting songs,
In psalms and arias, and every blues and rock lyric,
Right there, so right ******* there,
In Kris Kristofferson/Janice Joplin parlance of the times:
“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”

And life for me since then--
ONE BIG, FAT-TITTED INCOMPREHENSIBILITY!

What was that Walter Sobjak in The Big Lebowski said?

“This is not 'Nam.
This is bowling.
There are rules.”

I am thankful that I am not miserable, actually quite happy, and that my family is well, and that I am well, and that this break is unlikely to break me.

The last time I remember enjoying a Thanksgiving break so fully is relatively never. There are always terrifyingly large bursts of joy, but never a continuing follow-up. There has just always been something about my family that is overwhelming and, in the end, hurtful.

It seems this year after a long time of deep contemplation, I know. Maybe not all the intricate problems that behold my family, but it seems to be clear to me why I seem to be unable to handle this time of year. And it even seems silly now, looking at it, why I didn't see it before.

My family breeds contempt. Not utter hatred, we spend time together and love one another, but we hold micro-aggressions, we assume things of one another, we bicker and gossip about other family members and nitpick their actions until its hard to not give each person an endless "I love them, but", a fact that I find silly and even a little pathetic.

They spend every year cramming time together, acting like this big, fun, hysterical family when every five seconds someone turns their back they are turning on each other. I hate it. I hated it even before I realized it. Every year left me exhausted and frustrated and at some point in tears. I've never been exactly a follower in my family, and I was always torn between being like them and having as little as possible in common with their actions. And I can't put all blame on their shoulders, I was sheep when it came to them. I let myself be angry and hateful and spiteful because of stupid things each person had done.

Yes, my grandma gets jealous and out there. Yes, my dad is extremely homophobic and close-minded. Yes, many of the older family members are bitter about each other. And ******* yes is the majority of my family at least a little bit racist.

But you know what? Stupid opinions are not the problem, and they shouldn't be. Its the way we act towards one another. And yes my family literally acts like the characters from Mean Girls, but its the big picture things that are the problem.

I think my Grandma knows she's a little crazy, but I doubt she gives a **** anymore and still loves people just as deeply. And my dad is determined in his ways, but if he persisted to love a mentally ill daughter even when he didn't believe in it, I'm sure he'd get his **** together if my brother or I were gay as well. He doesn't understand, and he won't try, but love is still something that matters. And hell yes my family is racist, but they're more ignorantly and blindly racist than intently. They'd likely never say the things they say to someone they say these things about. Guess its a "I'm a privileged white person but I'm not mean" type thing. Though what they say is ******, I can't fault them for never attacking or hurting or working against these people either.

There are some I can't forgive, like those who don't even bother to try, but its not worth my happiness to suffer through their high school agendas.

So you guys can go gossip about Grandma being crazy. I'm going to write songs with her and talk about books. Complain about my Aunt being all messy after her divorce, I'm going to talk to her about our futures. Make fun of my cousins husband who is a little weird but he at least makes so very happy. I'm going to send her letters and learn more about the woman I lost touch with ten years ago.

They're probably yelling at football and being their difficult yet beautiful selves, but its enough for today, to spend most of the day with them and tonight for myself. Its all right to be the weird one. I kind of even want to be the weird one. I hope they question all day why I go on adventures and do crazy things and write novels and make art. Maybe I won't be as close to them anymore, maybe i won't understand their gripes and frustrations, but maybe at least this way they'll know me better when I'm crazy than the quiet girl who got frustrated with them but felt silent in the corner.

One small gripe dropped
On me over our morning meal
Unusual coming from
Across the breakfast plates

Your grimace
Accentuated what was labeled
A slight beef
To begin the day
About last night
When all of our world
Was supposedly sleeping

Most of the covers
Gathered on my side
Of our sleigh bed
Tucked around me

At least this nitpick
Was something tangible
Unlike the night before
When I danced all night
With your sister
In your dreams
While you were
Left sitting
on the sidelines

Being silent
Against adversity
From the small minds
That chatter about
Nothing but your character
The elephant in the room
Left unseen
Rather nitpick on how
The ant across the river
Goes about its routine
High fives for the small
Minded individuals that gather

Being silent
There's nothing wrong
With being quiet
It's an art which
Many have yet to master

By the way.
I'm not doing anything later.
If you don't have any plans, why don't you throw on some sweats.
Your favorite ponytail and we'll find something on TV.
A little Netflix and chill.
A little takeout and random channel flipping.
A stimulating conversation about old times. Inspiration.
Our dreams. What we hope to be.
I'll call you soon as I settle in.
Hop out of the shower.
Nitpick about the way that you've been on my mind.
The smell of incense and cocoa butter rubbed smooth on your skin.
It doesn't have to be anything spectacular.
A moment filled with the click of heels.
Just the simplicity of a moment filled with you

so I take a break from being profound , a
minute to be whom I am,
a minute to be real for you,
for all no favors needed,
if not for all you nice people here
on Hello Poetry,
there is no telling where I would be,
so take heed again, at my admonishment,
perchance or don't, you
all are great people , even those who nitpick or make
sly remarks,
that is part of life
and you have given
me one. Thanks!

I hate my birthday
It’s never been about me or what I want
It’s always been about accommodating other people
And after spending a week trying to find a restaurant that will fit everyone’s needs
FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY
They still have the audacity to find something to nitpick and voice their annoyed opinions

I hate my birthday
Everyone expects you to be happy and cheery
If you're not exactly what they need you to be to make them feel good about themselves then they give you **** for it
I should get an Emmy for my acting skills
I haven’t had a good birthday since I can remember
My family doesn’t know that
They think I love my birthday every year
They notice what suits them

My birthday has been a dreaded day since I can remember
I’m a good actor but keeping up the act non-stop
And amping it up on special occasions it gets really tiring

let me ask you

you’re sitting in a hospital room
visiting a friend or mother or son in a critical care bed
an alarm is triggered, an ominous warning
you nervously step outside looking for a nurse
you tell the nurse there’s something beeping
the nurse comes inside and fixes the occluded line
you nitpick about the time it took
you question procedures as the nurse is doing them
advocating for the patient
the squeaky wheel gets the grease, right?
yeah but guess what
the nurse doesn’t want to come into the room anymore
whether you’re in there or not
the vitals will still be seen to
but other patients suddenly need more attention
and by the way
every time you ask me if i washed my hands
(like the posted signs advise you to ask)
i think:  if you’re that worried about infection
i’ll just stay out of the room; that much less exposure
that means painful bedpan delay for your loved one
or lying in filth a little longer
waiting thirsty minutes for that sip of water
staying in one excruciating position half an hour more

so have you done your friend or mother or son a favor?

Your hair-tie on my dresser
A button from your jeans
The bracelet from your sister
Quite sinister
The Downward Spiral album from your car
An old tube of ChapStick
No need to nitpick
For I am no dim-wit
A few items every two weeks
While you sleep
And I  b r e a t h e

Where's your perfume?
I could've sworn it was right here
Darling, did you move it?
Silly little bird...
A red thread from your cardigan
Just like the one that binds me to you
Your knife, blunt from every emotional meltdown
Empty pill bottles lined up
Troubled history, hm?
Citalopram, Mirtazapine, Doxepin
Such a sad little bird

An empty can of Seagram's
A used bandage
And a take-out fortune
'An hour with friends is worth more than ten with strangers.'
My word, this is exactly how I feel
When I spend time with you...
Your Sleep-Aid sits on my nightstand
Just waiting for you to pick it up
Diphenhydramine- 50 mg. each
150 mg. every night for four years
The journal in my hands tells me so

A young man shivering in my attic
Force of habit
Like a rabbit, diving down
A bit worse for wear but still kicking
Your hand in mine as I console you
'Local man missing'; How could he be?
He's right here
I'll release him in a fortnight
After all, he didn't see me
A gift, from me to you
My morbid little night owl

you try and justify your life
as it all moves right along
you do your best to try and find
a good reason to all that's wrong

you nitpick at the answers
like an unruly child of three
around the issues, a great dancer
in two part harmony

you consult with modern gurus  
hand picked from the bunch
but like you without a clue
they're also out to lunch

but never has that mattered
when you come face to face
you just put back on the blindfold
and move along your merry way

as you continue the lies to justify
all the wrongs pretended right
you're the only fool you're fooling
but not the only one in this line

this isn't love
this isn't love
this isn't love

What you have is a problem
your insecurities I don't want them on my shoulder
they're not mine to carry

you say you don't compare
you're just giving me a model to follow
but I can't be everything you've dreamed of

this isn't care
this isn't care
this isn't care

You say that it's all for me, what about my feelings?
every day is another problem with me
another complaint

my face
my body
my life

is there anything else you'd like to complain about?
Whatever do I have left for you to nitpick at?

What you want isn't me but your ideals
I'm sorry
I can't accept this kind of love, it's selfish and corrupt.

this isn't love
this isn't love
this isn't love.

As I sift through hoards of mails,
unlike letters, starred, it fails
to entice me. As the windy gusts
provide the necessary background noise,
it suddenly derails.
I've seen too much, it all disgusts
me how we
drop our scales into the pan
and scramble,
nitpick or devour anything we can.

I am thankful for the eggs I eat, the bread and jam,
I am happy to see 'you've got mail' even if it turns out
to be spam.