(Do you know the 1958 Sheb Wooley song "The Purple People Eater"? Here is a poem/song version for 2024.)

Well, this strange phenomenon came walking our way
With a deep orange glow. Boy what a day!
'Twas the weirdest creature you ever could see.
It looked like an orangish freedom hater to me.

It was a big ol', foul-mouthed, lyin' orangish freedom hater.
(Big ol', foul-mouthed, lyin' orangish freedom hater.)
A big ol', foul-mouthed, lyin' orangish freedom hater.
NOT so fun to see! (Loud mouth?)

So he came to this land to spread all of his hate
And he told people here that he would make them great.
He also said he's the chosen one!
His first time here was a mere dry run!

It was a big ol', foul-mouthed, lyin' orangish freedom hater.
(Big ol', foul-mouthed, lyin' orangish freedom hater.)
A big ol', foul-mouthed, lyin' orangish freedom hater.
'Twas so weird to see! (Big old?)

We asked the orangish freedom hater, "What's your plan?"
Then HE said, "Doing what it takes to be a moneyman.
But what's more important is to meet my goal:
To kick out non-loyalists and be in control."

Well, boogeyman, Putin fan, lyin' orangish freedom hater,
Addled-brained, unrestrained, lyin' orangish freedom hater.
(He wears golf pants) lyin' orangish freedom hater.
Looks so strange to me!

He said he HAD many friends who could help him succeed,
And he asked us why we had a problem with greed.
He said that greed's a virtue and it must be clear--
That the government shouldn't stop a profiteer!

Well, boogeyman, Putin fan, lyin' orangish freedom hater,
Addled-brained, unrestrained, lyin' orangish freedom hater.
(He loves golf pants) lyin' orangish freedom hater.
Strange? You must agree! (Freedom hater?)

There's a problem with him, and, yes, it's sad to say:
It looked as though he would be here to stay.
"Move to Russia," we said--"a perfect country for you.
Let the Russian dictator make all your dreams come true."

-by Bob B (9-7-24)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=67tKNEsJjTI

The clouds are set
In a cloud kingdom tapestry
A glorious backdrop upon
the pink orangish sky

The sun has begun setting
After the rain clouds
began departing
to leave us with
a pink orangish sky

My dreams are set upon
The skies above me
Wrapped up in the beauty of
a pink orangish sky

It appears to me as a curtain
and my eyes are certain
that the night skies are bowing
to the pink orangish sky

I hold my hopes
in the heavenly spaces
As I keep pushing forward  
below the pink orangish sky

It really delights me
It really excites me
to write an ode
to a pink orangish sky

Can you hear my song
In this humble piece of poetry?
It all came from my view
of a pink orangish sky

A tomboy, naturally barefoot, gingerly walks the white painted line because the asphalt is just too burning hot.  Scrubby tufts of weedy grass are welcome respites on the way, briefly cooling her steps even if they are stickery.  The ***** soles of her now calloused feet were intentionally toughened just before school got out, with mincing steps across the roughest gravel she could find.  Her mother accommodates her preference, leaving a pan of water outside for her to scrub her feet before going in.  Even then, a black path has gradually appeared leading from the front door in the old orangish carpet.  Two months of summer barefoot every day when she had the choice. Keyed roller skates clamped onto last year’s school shoes were the exception.  She can flat out run anywhere.
  
This particular expedition began like every other thing they did, which was anything to fend off boredom.  She had been sitting on a cement step shaded by an open carport, just three oil-stained parking stalls for three small apartments on the tired poor side of town.  There is a little more dirt on the street here, and grass is a little neglected.  Just like the children, but these kids prefer that anyway.  Two scruffy friends stomp on aluminum cans, brothers sporting matching buzz cuts and cut-off shorts.  They are flattening them for the recycling money by the pound, so the carport smells vaguely of stale beer.  Another boy attempts to shoot a wandering fly with a home-made rubber band gun; rings cut from a bicycle tube made the best ammo.  “What do you want to do?” …”I don’t know, what do you want to do?”  Thwack…  The only requisite for friendship here is vicinity, yet it is still true.  The idea of choosing friends is about as odd as the concept that one could chose where one lives... Strengths and shortcomings are completely accepted because it is just what it is.  

Their amazing three-story tree fort with a side look-out had been heartlessly taken down by the disgruntled property owner last week.  Two months of accumulating pilfered and scrap two-by-fours, nails, and even a stack of plywood (gasp!) from area construction sites had yielded supplies for a growing fort.  A gang-plank style entry had crossed the ditch to the first level.  Nailed ladder steps to the second offered a little more vertigo and a prime spot to hurl acorns.  Another ladder up led up to the third floor retreat, with a couch-like seating area and shoulder high walls.  A breeze reached the leaves up there.   The next tree over was the look-out, with nothing but ladder steps all the way up to where the view opened up out of the ravine.  When the wind blew, it gave merciless lessons in facing any fear of heights.  But now that was all over, discovered gone overnight.

Someone says again, “What do you want to do?” …”I don’t know, what do you want to do?”  “ 7-11? ”  Good enough, so they head out.   Distance measures time.  Ten minutes is the end of the street past the cracked basketball court in the church parking lot.  Fifteen minutes and the lawns end at the edge of the sub-division.  Half-built homes rising from bare dirt and scattered foundations could offer treasures of construction scraps, (where she suspects the stack of plywood came from.) but they keep walking.  Twenty minutes is where industry has scraped away nature, and railroad tracks form an elevated levee.  But time is meaningless if there’s a wealth of it, so there’s no going further until an informal ritual is completed.  Wordlessly they each dig around their pockets searching for equal amounts of pennies.  Each of them carefully arrange them lined up on the rounded-surface rail, and they settle in for the wait.  It could be five minutes or it could be thirty.  They all understand it’s a crap-shoot of patience waiting for the next train. It’s an unspoken test; quitting too early means losing your coins to the one who stays, so that’s not an option.

Heat presses down and the breezeless air smells like telephone-pole creosote.  She sits in a dusty patch of shade found next to an overgrown ****.  She knows it tastes like licorice and breaks off a stem to chew, but doesn’t know what it is.  The boys throw rocks randomly until she finally stands up to join in, tempted by the challenge of flight and distance.  Then she stands in the center of the tracks, looking one way then the other, searching for the first random distant glimmer of the engine’s light at the horizon.   A flash, so she places her ear to the metal Indian-style, and the imminent approach is confirmed.  She calls out, “its here!” and double checks her pennies’ alignment.  Heads up or tails, but always aligned so the building might be stretched tall or wide, or Lincoln’s face made broad or thin.  That happened only rarely, since it could only be rolled by one wheel then bounced off.  If it stuck longer, the next wheels would surely smash it into a thin, elliptical, smooth misshapen disc of shiny copper.  Its only value becomes validation of a hint of delinquency, Destroying-Government-Property.  Once she splurged with a quarter, which became smashed to just a gleaming silver, bent wafer discolored at the edge.  Curiosity wasn’t worth 25 cents again though, so she had only one of those in her collection.

The approaching engine silently builds impending size and power, so she dashes back down the rocky embankment to safety because after all, she is not a fool, tempting fate with stupid danger. She knows a couple of those fools, but she finds no thrill from that and is not impressed by them either.  Suddenly the train is here, generating astounding noise and wind, occasional wheels screaming protest on their axels.  She intently watches exactly where she placed her coins, hoping to see the moment they fly off the rails that are rhythmically bending under the weight rolling by.  It becomes another game of patience, with such a long line of cars, and she gives up counting them at 80-ish.  Then suddenly it is done and quickly the noise recedes back to heat and cicadas.  The rails are hot.  Diligently they search for the shiny wafers.  Slowly pacing each wood beam, they could have landed in the gravel, or pressed against the rail, or even lodged straight up against the square black wood yards down the tracks.  They find most of them, give up on the rest, then continue on.

She has thirty cents and at last they reach the afternoon’s destination.  7-11’s parking lot becomes a genuine game of “Lava”, burning blacktop encourages leaps from cooler white lines, to painted tire stops, to grass island oasis, then three hot steps across black lava to the sidewalk, and automatic doors swoosh open to air conditioning.  She rarely has enough money for a coke icey; she is here for the bottom shelf candy, a couple pennies or a nickel each.  Off flavors but sweet enough.  She remembered when her older brother was passing out lunchbags of candy to the neighborhood kids for free, practically littering the cul-de-sac.  She had wondered where he got enough money for all that popularity, or could he have saved that much from trick-or-treat? She wondered until he got busted shoplifting at the grocery store.  The security guard decreed that he was never allowed in there again, forever, and the disgrace of sitting on the curb waiting for the mortified ride home was enough to keep him from doing it again.

Today she picks out a few root beer barrels, some Tootsie-rolls (the smaller ones for two cents, not the large ones that divide into cubes) a candy necklace and tiny wax coke bottles, and of course a freeze-pop.   Sitting on the curb, she bites off small pieces of the freeze pop, careful not to get tooth-freeze or brain-freeze, until the last melty chunk is squeezed out the top of the thin plastic tube.

“What do you want to do now?” …”I don’t know, what do you want to do?”

There has been enough writing of the self or of circumstances I have often found myself trapped in,I think that the time now has come,to write about people who often go unnoticed in your lives,it is like oxygen,like you are always breathing,the blood is always flowing,the blood is getting oxygenated and then de- oxygenated and it gets purified,and its in your body,and you know it,you are breathing and you know you are,but we don’t really pay close attention to the flow of breaths we inhale and exhale,and that’s what is keeping us biologically alive and we know it,but how much importance does the breathing get,how much thanks,how much attention?
As I’m writing,believe me when I say that ,I’m not pausing,I’m not making things up,I’m not even thinking rationally or sequentially,I’m simply typing onto words that describe my very beautiful,my very  epitome of sacrifice and suffering,my very solitary reaper of freshness ,love and care,my very own – Grandmother.

No,this is not her biography,this is not about describing her,this is not only about thanking her even,this is about telling you all that I am deeply moved about how she is ,I fail to realist what she is actually made up of,I mean,a woman in her 80s ,of course a woman of a different era altogether,she is supposed to be an orthodox woman in her late 80s, aware of her approaching years,and sitting in front of the television watching serials or mythological shows or the very beloved babajis on air and hardly getting out of her room and ordering her daughter –in-law to get work done and medicines presented.
This is quite ironic to how we often stereotype old ladies to be. But let me make it clear,my grandma is highly different. And just like I firmly say that I’m going to remain as the ‘ Different Misfit’ ,different from a lot many out here,in the most weirdest angles,but I got this from my granny,apart from the misfit,she is an old,weak woman,she is short,and her hair has still managed to not get older,I think her hair know well,what suits her appearance,she has good brown-orangish hair, and not to forget,her charismatic blue eyes,eyes to fall for. She keeps her hair tied in a neatly made bun and drapes herself well in decent looking saris. No lipsticks,no makeup,no perfume,no sandals. She chooses to be her natural self,in her chapals. Only accessory to her will be her purse. And with purse,I mean,not the blinging  purses,but the small pouch type of  purse,she keeps around her waistline,cutely tucked inside her sari petticoat.She is a magical figure,at least to me.
‘Granny,I’m here.Namaste.’, I said as I reached her place,while she was mopping the balcony floor.It had rained heavily.
She first didn quite seem to hear it,even though I was very loud and pitchy. I saw her mopping, the door was open. I repeated my greetings.
‘ Namaste. Here you are,my child!’, she replied with a 100volt smile pasted on her beautiful face.

I am happy that my mother was able to convince m to go visit my granny,that Sunday,because I was going to have my economics test the next day,so I refused at first,bu then she managed to take me there.I’m glad, I did.
She is in an age that you can never tell how much time one has got,and all you can do,,is live the day like its your last,I think this has kind of become the motto for my grandmother. She walks like a snail. Slow yet gracefully.She lives in Lodhi Road. She lives alone.The house is massive. There are 6 rooms in that particular floor where she lives,the ground and top floor too connected with the first.The ground floor is occupied by a family of 4,a kin to my granny.while she stays on the floor above,she is expected to be with herself only. My maternal uncle,my grandmother’s eldest son,lost his wife a few years back,he has two kids,big enough to go settle in Mumbai.My uncle has been a headache for the entire family because of becoming highly psychotic and depressed,that clearly reflects in how things have become ugly with his relationships.He moved out to Noida after the demise of my late aunt. I don’t remember the last time I saw him interacting with people of his family,let alone my granny. They are like sort of reclusive now.Although my granny wouldn’t still mind him coming to reconcile with her or talking or offering a shoulder,even after what all she has been through regarding my uncle,my uncle refuses to lock eyes with her.Well,that’s a different story altogether.

My grandmother lives alone,in such a big house ,where two families of 4 could easily accommodate themselves.the winds blowing enter the rooms that are empty and unlocked,and rap my grandmother in nostalgia ,but she stays strong.family photographs hanging on the walls,Pictures of Rhino,their late dog,finding its place on the walls,reminds her of how the family was,and always sans her.Yet,she  is stoic and sturdy and never did she complain on these little details.
My granny has had a beautiful relation with my mother and her three daughters ,they are always there for her,its like after my granny has understood,that her daughters are now mothers themselves,she has realized,that she no longer needs to be on their head anymore,so my aunts and my mom herself is paying back to her,as being the reverse mother to her.It is a beautiful relationship they share.I sigh.

She got us tea and some snacks.She prepares them herself,despite having somebody to offer to help.She sits with us and talks and narrates news that she has got from here and there.She left the room when all of a sudden,out of nowhere my uncle pops up for some paperwork urgency,we greeted him,but we didn’t exchange anymore words.He leaves after a few minutes.

I was reading ‘The wedding’ , because I was sure,I was going to get bored because there was no sibling around,My dad was busy reading India Today and mom was accompanying my granny in preparing food. They later went to the terrace to see the traffic go by and have a good talk. They love to talk, trust me.While my mom carefully instructs granny to stay strong and be alright,I notice my grandma trying to control her tears,you could just make it out from her ****** expressions,her hands,quietly folded over another,and her head bowing down,she has never been confident and assertive,I had correctly judged.I ad overheard them talking,when I was passing by the room library searching for Sidney Sheldon.And that was when my respect for my granny grew,because in an age liker hers,the very innate ability to hold on,that perseverance,the  strength ,the power of forgiveness ,I mentally touched her feet and hugged her,because I was in no mood to disturb her conversations.I passed by.
I was learning each moment. In that house,I have been a lot of times before,but this one time,that Sunday,I was feeling like home,like a school moreover,in a moral science class all night. I was done with my economics revision,and it was time for diner.She had prepared Hot chapatis and my ever favorite Paneer for the dinner.She paired paneer with yoghurt,that was a new yet crazy combination,I tried and I was enjoying it,not because it was THE combination,but I felt like it was her idea of how food tasted, like she always felt curd could fix everything,not potentially everything,but,It’d be stupid to object her.
The dinner was tasty.
She cleans up the entire house herself. Like I said,6 rooms and a balcony,is not a small thing.it is one strenuous task she agrees to take up,not occasionally.but everyday.She refuses to take a house help,despite her health conditions,because she wants to  utilize her time or pass time in some way or the other. TV is the only source of color in her life.That keep her occupied. I salute you,granny.
I offered to do the dishes that day,but she saw me doing it,she came half running,half walking to stop me from doing it,and said this doesn’t look good,the guest doing it,and I was a princess to her,she asked me to step back,and I did not revolt,I knew,she did not have anything else to do except do them and sit and watch the sky and finally sleep . I stepped back.
I was reading my book,and there’s this part,when Noah shares that he still feeds the swan because he thinks Allie is the swan and she promised him to be there with him,so she finds her way through the swan.And I saw myself crying.i rushed to the balcony.Took a few deep breaths,sobered myself up,and a few winds blew,and I felt nice.
My granny was talking with my mother while my dad was listening like a puppy.i was reading,I could barely hear what she was talking about,and I didn’t want to even know what were they talking about,because the more I knew,the more anger built up,and the more I’d get sentimental and feel sorry for my grandmother.But no,she is not the one you’d feel sorry for,she was never wrong,and she isnt,and wont be,she is just a simple figure,an epitome of sacrifice and suffering and with such patience to be jealous of.We offered her to come and spend the time with us,and  all her other daughters and her grandchildren,but she refused,she wanted to be in the house,take care f the house,she was just so emotionally attached to the building that had lost its meaning,it was just a HOUSE and nt a HOME.she wasn’t made to feel it was,she had no reason,but she still loved it there.

I still wonder,while I’m writing here about her today,she wont be able to read this gift I am giving her,giving her love back,what would she be doing? No,this isnt T V  time,maybe making tea,what after it? She cannot read or write.She cant be on the phone all the time,then what? Maybe just sitting in the balcony? But today,its hot . then what? Just sitting on the couch,watching my grandfather's portrait hanging on the wall,I think she’ll brush off the dust on the garland and the painting maybe. Or she’ll re arrange the sofa covers or curtains. I don’t know. While we have so much to do,while people forget people everyday,while people make new friends,have so many tings to look forward to,we have so much access to **** our time and pass it away,but she ? she just stays this way and she just exists.

It was time to leave. My respect level for her had gone par average. I just wanted to stare at her for hours in silence,or maybe play with her,or maybe teach her pronounce some swaggy English **** words,I do that when she is at our place.She loves it with me.

Hmmmm.

As we were walking downstairs, I tried and rush and pause and rush and slow down again and again,to whether escape the moment,of the farewell,because it’d be hard,I could bet,and slow down so that I could see more of her.i just couldn’t get enough. In that moment,I swear,I loved her like a man loves a woman.But ine,was much more passive or hidden,I have always had issues with expression,and I regret that.

She could climb downstairs,the steps were steep and endless.She stayed there,while we went down,she bid us a goodbye,waving her hands like the flag of love ,like saying ‘ IT WAS GREAT TO HAVE YOU ALL HERE,I FELT SO BEAUTIFUL.YOU JUST FILLED THIS GAP I THOUGHT I’D SUFFER THIS WEEKEND.THANK YOU SO MUCH,I LOVE YOU,AND I DON’T KNOW,IF I SEE YOU AGAIN,BUT PLEASE BE IN TOUCH,AND LOVE EVERYBODY’. BUT SHE SAID ‘ bye’ .A  LONGER,STRETCHED VERSION OF BYE ,THOUGH.

It was dark,I saw her waving,I was waving back,so was mom and dad,mom and dad rushed forward,while i was till bye-ing my granny. I thanked god that it was night time,an nobody could see the tears gushing down my face. While we leave in 3.she bids us adieu in just 1. Years ago,she’d be with 4 others,and now she is just single. Alone.By herself. Still not complaining.NEVER.

I wiped them .My tears,and was crying till I got into the car,people saw me weeping maybe.I sat down.Still sobbing. Trying not to let people or mom and dad precisely notice my tears ,and I wasn’t brave enough to tell them that I was crying because I thought it might be the last time I saw her or how a wonderful woman she is.The wind was blowing hard and cold on me,while I was listening to Dead hearts on the phone.like the universe was conspiring in making me cry my guts out . My reverence for that woman was getting higher and higher beyond measure.At the traffic signal,a little girl comes up to me,my head was leaning back into the car seat,like a drunk Peter van Houten,while she leaned against the car window glass too,I think she was the only one in the entire night,to actually see me crying,she smiled. I smiled back. She glanced at me for a few moments,I was still smiling at her,she asekd me if I had money,but I wasn’t carrying any then,so I said ‘I’m sorry’ without speaking.She understood and she smiled and left.Slowly and gradually the wind helped me in evaporating my tears,so that I didn’t have to manually wipe them off,because just in case,mom saw me doing that,I wouldn’t know how to respond.
Thankfully,I fell asleep in the car and as I reached back home,I felt a little lighter,I called up granny and informed we were home safe.[ she always wants us to inform her when we do]  And she very sweetly said good night and a bye and then I thought to myself that HOW COULD SHE BE SO GENTLE AND NORMAL? I WAS SO JEALOUS OF HER RESIGNATION.I LOVE YOU GRANNY.
With a heavy heart and a new day to follow and with less percentage worries  of the test the next day ,and more of how my granny would pass away the time and sleep with a smile on her face ,I looked at the walls,said my night prayer and rolled my eyes,and went off to sleep.

There’s no place like home... except Grandma’s .
cc

Fantail feathers, of a hazy, 'yellow-orangish-moon'…

Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern

Skeleton-scythes, thorny-stars, swaying in the swoon,

Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern

Fire-pits and witches brew and cauldron’s smoking tricks?

Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern

Little dwarves and wolves and serpents crawling; leftover people bits,

Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern

Trumpets hailing arrival, of Pale Rider, can you hear his tune?
Fantail feathers strain the sight of harvest-yellow moon,
Skeletons, fire-pits, witches, cauldrons and Old Nix,
Animals of evil’s calling, tricker-treaters; Hallow’s Eve and ****** grit!

Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern

Pray to Sáeta, Satá, Saturn…

Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern

Counting young women in black leggings
and baseball caps, with ancient letters inscribed on the tops of them.
One-thousand, three-hundred, thirty-five dollars
and fifty-four cents,
for half a year
of friendship.

The damp sidewalk is the stage,
the crushed orange leaves a platform.
Rubber rain boots have only existed for three or four decades.
Holes in an umbrella, holes in mother's boots;
Whatever that man said last night,
whatever that was,
it wasn't an oxymoron.

Leafing leaves, neon green with orangish tips
shake subtly with a light breeze,
and madly with a heavy breeze.
Or is that a squirrel?
Foreground, background, juxsta-
positions;
And I,
just in the right position.

It is all about the thing that is the last whisper you hear  before you sleep.
It is all about the lingering feeling of a soft kiss on your lips before you snuggle the night away in his arm.
It is all about the random tide that hits you making you realise how much you're loved,
Like a silent sky people forget about sometimes but is always there when you look up.
It is all about the numbing chilly breeze on a wintery midnight, that makes you feel so much,
The roads and surroundings covered in orangish pink hues,  slowly humming to themselves, luring you in a trance.
It is all about the soft wintery moon smiling down at you,
Or the science exams that bring out your artistic streaks
It is about those moment of tranquillity where every piece falls into the places they belong.
It is all about the stains you get after laying in the grass early morning
Each dew drop looks like a twinkling sun of their own.
It is about getting to taste heaven in your favorite flavor,
And enjoy the sun  kiss your skin.
It is all about nani maa oiling your hair and your mother's eyes twinkling,  while she says you're such a spoiled  kid.
It  is about the hope that someone else  will get the door.
It is all about fluffy socks,  sweater with hand drawn patterns
It is all about flushed cheeks, freezing hands in your friend's pocket
Like the snow flakes that fall,
Unique in their own way,
Every season with itself brings
Its own flavor and shades,
And though summer is well known for  lighting a wildfire  in everyone's heart,
And adrenaline rush of first love,
Winter stands elegantly,  and let things run into a deeper course.

Morning light was harsh. A rough hand rubbed her profile with a swinging gesture as her legs swung similiarly over the edge of what was once her campsite. They touched the ground, alas, carpet instead of gravel- a disappointment she might never get over.
What would it be today, she wondered. What would the numbers tell her about how she was to feel? The heart in her "chest" had lost its privilage to decide what her feelings were to be, so the numbers delegated on their own these days. It wasn't that she wanted it, it wasn't that she'd chosen a path of depthless, formless feeling, but her body simply couldn't house the suggestions her brain had made lately. The numbers never lied to her.
With a step and a puff, she thought maybe the weight of the cigarette could sway the outcome, so she stared at its end, burning off of the side of the counter, waiting for it to ash on its own before she could work up the courge to crane her neck down to see. Patentiently, she waited. Brown and yellow tile lingered below her feet and grouped together in a heap that she swore she almost heard expell a collective screech when the black and white star hit.
Her eyes slid down. The numbers never lied to her.
Today it was an honesty with an ease of acceptance, as she knew it would be. Intake had been slim to none, if only due to the fact that it had slipped her mind to nourish. It could be said again that her mind had little control any longer, and she lived inwardly but was directed outwardly, and could not rely on much to tell her what to do when it needed to be done.
Her day was to be grateful to be apart from the days of discontent, in their huddled, blackened mass. The circles below her eyes had rested for a change, but emerged ever darker and all the more complete, as they always did after a night of difference.
A night of sleep, she realized with a small chuckle that caught her off guard. She'd slept while the sun was gone and awoke when it returned to her tiny home. It seemed to her that it had been decades since she'd last done that, and she'd barely been alive for two.
Sticky lives, she'd discovered, were terribly difficult to pry objects from. They were difficult to separate from habits and tendancies. Tendancy was a favorite word of hers, and it lived within her sticky life throughout every day of living it.
Intake abandoned slim to be in cahoots with none. Neither her eyes nor her common sense could tell her which dark, winter month it was or where she was to go at what time and with whom. So safely, she always decided it was away she was expected at, any time whatsoever, and alone. Safely, she always decided it was to be alone.
Oh ****, she's forgotten about the smoldering cigarette on the edge of her bathroom counter. And with a short dash, she lifted it to discover a spot of orangish permanence that would forever remind her of the morning she woke up alongside a number she thought she could co-exist with. She would be wrong, she was always wrong, she always knew she was wrong, so what the **** ever kept her from being right? And who are we kidding, those mornings were numerous and the only differing factor here was that on this morning it slipped her mind to bring her bedside ashtray into the bathroom.
Three digits wrapped themselves around her withered self, the withered thought that once was, "There is no God," and was suddenly, "What is letting me worship as if there is, what is allowing me loyalty like this when I hate all loyalty has ever brought, there is a God involved here but where the **** did she come from and why won't she loosen her fixed grip?"
This was a hazard, she woke up knowing all too well. There was poison in her every step, be they through the kitchen to the front door or from the front door straight to those brown and yellow tiles.
Today her cyanide stroll brought the sharpest points of her face into blistering cold without more than a slight bit of hydration and not even the slighest bit of energy. Exhaustion lifted her up and carried her on its back down a street she walked every day but housed no memories of, to a place where she sat in fervent distraction for hours.
She sunk into the chair she chose and felt pressure on parts of her body she knew shouldn't be accessible. Three digits, she recited like a trained professional, like a mindless scholar simply letting herself be taught as opposed to learning. Three digits, should be two. She was one away, just one, and she knew that by the time she let exhaustion carry her home in the night, the two she deserved would be hers.
How finally, she hoped. How momentous and breathtaking would it be to have my breath taken by a goal I have worked to achieve. How special to commit, (I mean, complete,) two goals at once. All day long, she was experiencing what other people called "day," but she felt it all with eery black fingers around her neck and hips. There, it seemed her bones congregated to show off. And those eery black fingers had had just about enough of the behavior of her bones, of her vision, of the laziness of her throat and overexertion of her dedication and self-control. It was just as well, she thought. The feathery touch of those black fingers felt dead-on. She herself, had had just about enough of self-control becoming totalitarian policies. Miscompliance brought severe, earthy punishment and she was simply too tired for it any longer. Those fingers seized and pushed, and when it was time to go she knew it would be those fingers directing her home tonight instead of her cathartic exhaustion.
In the door, to the tiles, on to judgement, true, true judgement, and there they are. There are the two numbers she wanted all along, validation for her behavior. But even in her relief, death could find no reason to let her survive. There was no note, nothing to explain to him that she loved him, nothing to explain to anyone that she'd loved at all.
She'd been consumed and she was found cold, with an eerily warm smile.

The smoke, the billows, fires flare and winds; strange noises that perplex,

the scented attar waffles through and the bubbling of the brew,

all of this in rit-u-al, we find in the witches kylix.

Who does she send to Charon’s boat to cross great river Styx?

After she’s been boiling them, in the peculiar witch’s kylix...

The onlookers strain at the fantail feathers of a hazy orangish moon,

all the animals and hidden watchers are captured by a swoon,

for something carried in the smoke makes everything betwixt,

and no one knows exactly what, is in the witches kylix?

Some saw smoke against a clear night, while lesser ones caught a smell,

watery mouths, sweet tasty smells, so tantalizing, lead them to a boiling hell.

Who thinks to ask, who begs a question, an old woman and cauldron in the sticks?

Who cooks at night out in the dark with just an iron kylix?

Her eyes reflect when you show yourself, you shudder at the thought,

a predator, hunter on the prowl, perhaps you is what she sought?

That evil star-shine is the signal for you know what is this game,

but the hunger pangs and roiling stomach nearly double you in pain.

You ignore the bones of many sizes, as wolves whimper in the distance,

and you realize to late it seems that you are her subsistence,

-bubbling in the witch’s kylix.

This one is blackened dark as pitch; two handles shaped each like a six,

and you inside cooking quickly, a classic witches kylix!

Beg the night, pray to the moon, slap your face and make it quick,

or you’ll be caught by the swoon and end up in the witches kylix.

Morning light was harsh. A rough hand rubbed her profile with a swinging gesture as her legs swung similiarly over the edge of what was once her campsite. They touched the ground, alas, carpet instead of gravel- a disappointment she might never get over.
What would it be today, she wondered. What would the numbers tell her about how she was to feel? The heart in her "chest" had lost its privilage to decide what her feelings were to be, so the numbers delegated on their own these days. It wasn't that she wanted it, it wasn't that she'd chosen a path of depthless, formless feeling, but her body simply couldn't house the suggestions her brain had made lately. The numbers never lied to her.
With a step and a puff, she thought maybe the weight of the cigarette could sway the outcome, so she stared at its end, burning off of the side of the counter, waiting for it to ash on its own before she could work up the courge to crane her neck down to see. Patentiently, she waited. Brown and yellow tile lingered below her feet and grouped together in a heap that she swore she almost heard expell a collective screech when the black and white star hit.
Her eyes slid down. The numbers never lied to her.
Today it was an honesty with an ease of acceptance, as she knew it would be. Intake had been slim to none, if only due to the fact that it had slipped her mind to nourish. It could be said again that her mind had little control any longer, and she lived inwardly but was directed outwardly, and could not rely on much to tell her what to do when it needed to be done.
Her day was to be grateful to be apart from the days of discontent, in their huddled, blackened mass. The circles below her eyes had rested for a change, but emerged ever darker and all the more complete, as they always did after a night of difference.
A night of sleep, she realized with a small chuckle that caught her off guard. She'd slept while the sun was gone and awoke when it returned to her tiny home. It seemed to her that it had been decades since she'd last done that, and she'd barely been alive for two.
Sticky lives, she'd discovered, were terribly difficult to pry objects from. They were difficult to separate from habits and tendancies. Tendancy was a favorite word of hers, and it lived within her sticky life throughout every day of living it.
Intake abandoned slim to be in cahoots with none. Neither her eyes nor her common sense could tell her which dark, winter month it was or where she was to go at what time and with whom. So safely, she always decided it was away she was expected at, any time whatsoever, and alone. Safely, she always decided it was to be alone.
Oh ****, she's forgotten about the smoldering cigarette on the edge of her bathroom counter. And with a short dash, she lifted it to discover a spot of orangish permanence that would forever remind her of the morning she woke up alongside a number she thought she could co-exist with. She would be wrong, she was always wrong, she always knew she was wrong, so what the **** ever kept her from being right? And who are we kidding, those mornings were numerous and the only differing factor here was that on this morning it slipped her mind to bring her bedside ashtray into the bathroom.
Three digits wrapped themselves around her withered self, the withered thought that once was, "There is no God," and was suddenly, "What is letting me worship as if there is, what is allowing me loyalty like this when I hate all loyalty has ever brought, there is a God involved here but where the **** did she come from and why won't she loosen her fixed grip?"
This was a hazard, she woke up knowing all too well. There was poison in her every step, be they through the kitchen to the front door or from the front door straight to those brown and yellow tiles.
Today her cyanide stroll brought the sharpest points of her face into blistering cold without more than a slight bit of hydration and not even the slighest bit of energy. Exhaustion lifted her up and carried her on its back down a street she walked every day but housed no memories of, to a place where she sat in fervent distraction for hours.
She sunk into the chair she chose and felt pressure on parts of her body she knew shouldn't be accessible. Three digits, she recited like a trained professional, like a mindless scholar simply letting herself be taught as opposed to learning. Three digits, should be two. She was one away, just one, and she knew that by the time she let exhaustion carry her home in the night, the two she deserved would be hers.
How finally, she hoped. How momentous and breathtaking would it be to have my breath taken by a goal I have worked to achieve. How special to commit, (I mean, complete,) two goals at once. All day long, she was experiencing what other people called "day," but she felt it all with eery black fingers around her neck and hips. There, it seemed her bones congregated to show off. And those eery black fingers had had just about enough of the behavior of her bones, of her vision, of the laziness of her throat and overexertion of her dedication and self-control. It was just as well, she thought. The feathery touch of those black fingers felt dead-on. She herself, had had just about enough of self-control becoming totalitarian policies. Miscompliance brought severe, earthy punishment and she was simply too tired for it any longer. Those fingers seized and pushed, and when it was time to go she knew it would be those fingers directing her home tonight instead of her cathartic exhaustion.
In the door, to the tiles, on to judgement, true, true judgement, and there they are. There are the two numbers she wanted all along, validation for her behavior. But even in her relief, death could find no reason to let her survive. There was no note, nothing to explain to him that she loved him, nothing to explain to anyone that she'd loved at all.
She'd been consumed and she was found cold, with an eerily warm smile.

"My Balance/Reflection"

Once I was an cancerous cell until he become my cure
So Raw and Pure
I Never knew A love like this before
He makes long for more.

He is my source of light that awaits me to shine his radiance upon my night just as the dawn adds the orangish yellow colors in the dazzling sky making me believe I'm a majestic bird that can fly
Feeling like a cloud floating so high

Don't awake me if I'm dreaming
You are giving my life a whole new meaning
Now I can even feel my heart beating
You resuscitated me, my life you have revived
I feel so alive

I have Breathed you in like oxygen
And just like that you became my addiction
That feeling of Rejection has been replaced with love and Affection
We did an Exchange of power
You became my strength and I became you weaknesses
No long am I a damsel in distress and you lay your head in between my chest as I put your fears and worry to rest.
Leaving behind the Burden
No more Hurting
No more searching

In eachothers arms we are The fortress  of our solitude
He's Calms my crazed mood
And my love Nourishes his inner being like grandmas Soul food.

In love with him did I just fall?
As I stare at him in awe
I am speechless for he's beyond what my mind could Fathom
He gives me Intellectual *******
As my heart palpitations from making my body have multiple spasms.
Its Like a bee to the skin his love stung
And His gentle touch make me utter a foreign tongue
Thats when I noticed I was Sprung.
And my heart knew he was the one.

Its like the universe connected with me thru silent communication As I gazed upon the constellation and God spoke to me in conversation.
Telling me of how he's going to send me a mate to increase my spiritual elevation and give me postive motivation thru my toughest situations.

Then clouds opened up to show the Stars have aligned
And I knew it was a sign
That you were meant to be mine
For he was Crafted so carefully to be my divine design

Our souls Did a heavenly tango as if you are my sun, and am I your earth constantly rotating around each other For a new day to be birthed.

You keep me on my toes like I'm a ballerina
Pirouetting thru life with elegance, poise, and grace
And an infectious smile upon my face
Almost as if its my passion instead of one of my many hidden talents.
You keep me from stumbling, you are my equilibrium, my balance.

I was just another lonely soul in a place of inperfection until I gazed into the mirror and I saw you as my reflection.
That completely changed my perception Showing me that even with my flaws to you I'm Perfection.

As I drank from your fountain of youth
I realize that You validate my naked truth
Just as Boaz did Ruth.
Let's be the evidence that love can't die because its bulletproof.

9-2-13

Maybe, I must turn away
For I am ashamed
"Why?"
Why do you ask?
Well, for one---
She's laughing at me
I can see it in her eyes

But I have my eyes closed
Laying here
How amazing it is to feel the warm asphault
And have the wind at my face
Kissing me
She's blowing kisses to me, my idol

Basking in the warmth
Trying to hear the ants underground
Mirrowing her reflection
As I feel my cheekbones rise

I love how the wind sounds
Ripples float above me
In the big sea of sky

Just the sound of pure Mother Nature
And all I see is a orangish-peachy color
Imagining what the sun looks like
But no doubt, she's looking down on me
And smiling

let's pause...
     media makes minds
     slander glow.

     forget flaws...
     endless signs
     their ubiquitous flow.

     the heat is on...
     it's benign
     all round the globe.

     dancing with the stars...
     literally speaking
     will be his next show.

abort the mission
the race can't count down from 10

heed submission
time clocks are wearin' thin

acts of contrition
your ****'s meanderin'

history books
can't help but mention sin

a crispy crook
tan with an orangish blend

can we look
inside our never end

for we've been duped
as most are ignorant

cool aid troupes
think that their relevance

succeeds truth
loud talk small like the wren

please drive a coupe
and release more documents.........

because I am the kind of person
that forgives and forgets
all of my own sins
and never enough of your:
I swear to God nothing happened babe.
the chick's crazy.
excuses and so you went ahead and
left me though it should have been me
leaving and you staying,
I suppose we were both
just afraid of the same thing.
and so I forgot you though I
never really forgave you-
until I saw you with that crazy chick
at the market picking out orangish plums
and all you did was pretend not to see me
watching you and that crazy chick
pick out the same plums I had had for desert
just last night,
I suppose in that moment I forgave you,
if not just for my pitiful heart's sake.

Imagine the world inverted,
The colours that alter the shades.
See, up above, the transparent blue of the brilliant today
Change into orangish haze.

Make up your mind to paint
The brick into scarlet and black.
See how cerulean lifts from the waters
To seize the pure gold of the sand.

His coal-mine-deep anals were frigidly off-putting & purely tragical
unlike his knobs that were, what dog Walter Disney called, magical
We fell in fakey love like folks on welfare & we couldn't look back
'cause his big knees were out-swollen by his century-old scrotal sac

Dead Ringer

As Janey’s coffin was lowered onto the ground Adam Graham looked away. The funeral had a been a small affair, twenty-five people showed up. An 8 year relationship was now over and buried into the ground, along with his dreams. No, their dreams to move forward. There would never be a white wedding in the Himalayas now or a  house made from wood and glass in front of the beach. Adam did not want to talk to anyone so he decided to excuse himself and search for his car. He just hated funerals.  

Adam picked up the pace. Once he got in, he began to search for a small flask filled with something called “fireball” a warm orangish liquid that burned the throat. Adam took a few quick sips to steady himself and put the metal flask back into the glove-box. After what seemed like a long time his mom knocked on the window to be let in. She took off the black feathered mess that sat on top of her head, buckled up and was ready to go home.  Flora lived in Veudreuil-Dorian,. A suburban in greater Montreal. It was home to approximately 38,000 people and was a great place to raise a family. It was a small looking house that had three bedrooms, 2 baths and a newly renovated basement complete with sound-proofing walls, and a bar. Flora got out of the car and quickly started for the steps of her house. After fetching a brassy looking key underneath a false rock, the old woman walked inside.  
She shed out her clothes and locked herself inside the bathroom. Water and wine always made her feel better. Her son opted for the same thing except he hid another flask, this time full of Jack Daniels. No one felt like cooking that night so Adam dialed for pizza along with other fried favourites, in an attempt to eat away at his sadness. It did not help very much but he went to bed around 1 am while his mom stayed back. Flora sneakily  logged onto Adams navy blue HP laptop  and surfed the net for a bit. Tonight she was not looking through her emails or shopping for planters Flora was going to make multiple profiles of her son on various dating sites like Ok Cupid, eHarmony and maybe even Tinder. She could not find too many that suited her but his had to be done. She uploaded a recent picture of Adam, one taken during her 55th birthday party. She had typed out the following onto his profile

“ A scorpion 38 year author looking for friendship romance and fun in a woman who loves to go out long walks, eat thai food, read religiously and save the world one day at a time”

It was 4:42 AM and something went “ding” multiple times in his room. Adam sat up in bed and reached for his Iphone.

“ What the—’’ Multiple requests were coming in from Ok Cupid, Tinder and something called the Escape Adam rubbed his eyes and dismissed everything. He was not ready to date! not even the women his mother approved of.

“Good morning mom, Is there anything you want to tell me” “

Flora had her back to him and was busy frying something on the stove. The kitchen smelled like fresh batter, fruits and coffee”
Adam got straight the point.

“ I do not want to date any time soon Ma, I am going to take this time to work on my latest manuscript and see where that takes me, so don’t bother introducing me to any of your friends daughters or nieces.

Flora sighed and piled his plate with food. He ate in a hurry because he wanted some peace and quiet. He was going to drive to the nearest Starbucks and spend the remainder of his day there.
Adam walked out of the house and towards the car. He was about open the car door, when a 5’4 amber haired, doe eyed woman blocked the way.

He had no time for this but she looked like she had all the time in the world.

“ Hi are you Adam Graham? ”

“ Yes I am and I have no—”

I am  Nicole and I noticed your profile on Escape this morning. I was hoping that we could talk or go out for coffee”

“Get in” Adam gestured towards his car.

Nicole squealed and talked non- stop till they got to Starbucks.
Niciole was 29. They had gone to the same high school. She completed university in Toronto in Psychology, masters as well and was now working as counsellor for people who suffer from eating disorders, addictions and ****** trauma.  She ordered the drinks and he found the perfect table but something told him he was not going to get much writing done today. She was very talkative and made him laugh. Over the course of the next few hours, well until closing time. Nicole and Adam talked about everything. There was just something about her that put him to ease, she was very insightful and pretty too… Adam got to know that she was into water sports, loved to travel like he did, had fostered a kitten and wrote in her spare time.  

There must have been something in the coffee because Adam let Nicole know about Janey. She didn’t say anything but left him, her number. It was 10pm when they departed. Adam was feeling better and he had agreed to meet Nicole again the next morning.
Flora was no where to be seen the next morning, She left a note saying that she was busy with a friend and hoped that Nicole was worth his time. His mom had done research on the girl after she pried every detail out of him last night.

Nicole decided to see him that morning. She wore no make up and had on a lilac coloured dress. Janey loved lilacs. They had brunch at “Allo mon Coco” Adam settled for crab cakes Benedict and she happily munched her way through a tower of apple and cheddar pancakes.  Janey loved the combination of apples and cheddar too.. after brunch Nicole and Adam spent the next few hours at a flea market looking at bits and pieces of practically everything.
Adam went straight to the booth that sold movies and books and Nicole was skimming through romance novels and necklaces. At the end, Adam bought all the DVDs to underworld and she a necklace made from black pearls.
Adam paid for the necklace and dropped her home.

Nicole and Adam had become a couple at this point and they spent as much time as possible. Date night now happened 3 times a week and she was slowly helping him overcome his grief. Adam believed that he will always love Janey, but it felt nice to have her presence around.  Nicole in return hoped that he really and truly liked her. She never liked Janey very much but she was determined to become a better woman then dead Janey. Nicole paid attention whenever he spoke very fondly of his wife with that look in his eyes and took notes on what she was like.
Nobody liked it when she was herself, but maybe Adam will like it if she was more like Janey.

After 6 months of dating Nicole texted Adam to meet her at Le Colbert, An Italian restaurant.  He did not ask any questions. Life was great, his mom finally stopped pestering him, she approved of her and his book was really coming along. It was about two lovers who died a tragic death but meet again in the afterlife. He dedicated it to Janey.

Adam got there at 8:00 and she walked in at 8:05. Adam did not know what to say. Nicole had changed into somebody else. She dyed her auburn hair black, wore grey contacts, had on a leather dress that brought attention to her assets and walked around in a pair of black platforms. Nicole looked exactly like Jamey when he first brought her here six years ago. He was suddenly feeling very nervous but she looked confident as hell. She kissed him on the lips and opened the bottle of wine.  She had already ordered “Surf N Turf” for him

She filled up his glass with Sauvignon Blanc and then hers, repeatedly.

“Do you like it Adam?” Nicole asked

“ I have liked you for so long but I couldn’t tell you that night, you brought Janey in here and I served you that evening. You were going to ask her to marry you and all I could do was just watch.” So I left Montreal that same night and decided to only come back after I’ve made something of myself” I’ve lost all that weight, people notice me now and I know you like me too” This was how it was meant to be …

Adam gulped down the wine in seconds and felt very dizzy, he was suddenly experiencing chest pains and his heart was racing

“Are you alright darling?”

Her voice sounded very distant and then everything went still.

The orangish streetlamp breeds sick spots
that stick to the gray street; the cubist bus
throws yellow beams into the insect air;
the humid black collapses like a bad hand
into small pyramids of dead cloud;
gel-bleached eye-fillings branch out
from the faces of strangers, full of vinegar,
unfriendly, averted. This glass of ***
is dark flecks on a hollow. The night-face
rotates slowly with metallic disease,
old scars that shine in the uncanny swell
of dust that breaks loose in the children's mulch-park.
She is long, long gone: a tomb-scrape in Paris,
a walk to a cafe where the yellow liquid waits;
I stalk through the stars, and then die up there.

Down at the orangish river that waves 'neath the sulfur creek bridge
I fell in love with the mentally-deranged X-governor Tommy Ridge
His coal-mine-deep anals were frigidly off-putting & purely tragical
unlike his knobs that were, what dog Walter Disney called, magical
We fell in fakey love like folks on welfare & we couldn't look back
'cause his big knees were out-swollen by his century-old scrotal sac
1 day we shall conceive 19 Mongoloid kids when nobody's looking
in the attic of hot-lovin' love where we enjoy 100% ****** cooking
At the river of  witches I dug up the moldy corpse of Lloyd Bridges
He appeared unwell as his **** was grooved by hemorrhoid ridges,
& his gray brains were burned, shriveled, unusable, blue & parched
like Mario Soother Bing's crena ani after he'd preached & marched
Lloyd loved me mucho more than he loved Turks for Thanksgiving
before rottin' by the putrefying process after he'd stopped *** living

➨
➨➨
➨➨➨

From the wind it fell
Across my nose that I knew so well

Hints of warm apples and spice
Surrounding me not just once - but twice

An orangish hue now crossed my eyes
There on the steps is where the pumpkin lies

Crunching sounds with every step
Under my feet where fallen leaves slept

Hot chocolate steams the children's noses
Autumn is here as Summer finally closes

Football on Sunday, the kids back in school
Sauce on the stove - I need to be a rule

Shoveling snow before long - this I know
Stealing a kiss from your love under mistletoe

A Winter wonderland is the cozy I adore
In just a few months I will cozy once more