Let me,
Be the waves;

The tides that will wash your troubled thoughts.

And with every crash of waves
being your happiness and joy,
Your ripples of bliss.

Pushing away crumpled parts,
Cradling your body
in warm currents.

Let me,
Be the waves.

Guiding you effortlessly
Out into the everlasting blue.

The waves, that orchestrates your heart.

Momentary
mourning peace.
Mama pours a glass of mulled wine,
lights a scented candle
                               (- "cherries on snow" -)
and drinks to ol' Joan.

Passed down with the jewellery box,
somewhere in the will, the daughters
receive the annual chore of roasting
the turkey (delicious!) and the veggies
(good job!) and (could you pass the?) breadsauce
for their brothers and husbands huddled
            on a threadbare sofa -- and a younger girl,
            barely there, staring at a laptop screen.

Mama's not festive - always too tired -
barely celebrates, but orchestrates.
Years barely there 'cause she's needed in their kitchen
and someone's gotta cook can she please get a hand? and
one chivalrous male puffs out his chest, takes one for the team, gestures to the girl with no discernible attention span and
half-laughs an "ay, one day this'll be you!
Best get in there while you're young!"

                                                       ­   ((A baritone chorus of laughter.))

"You outdid yourself on the turkey."
"S'great, ain't it? Pass the potatoes."

Sometimes here, sometimes Spain.
We stay over. It's tradition: we're
scattered across the country,
maid duties are the least she can do.
Never our kitchen or living room.
Tiny. Messy. Unwelcoming.
Come Boxing Day, Mama gives
a bear hug goodbye and an
"it's good to see you";
Because it is, she thinks.
Thank you for inviting me
to carry out your labour.
I'm just grateful to be needed.

A month of red 'SALE' tapes
scouring the clearance shelves;
overtime for extra cash
scraped to afford the food she cooks you;
paying half for gifts she'd brainstormed
while Dad buys partial credit on the gift tag.
We vanish from your house
- like elves -
by morning.

Lost in daze, even though this path I have played,
it sat as a record in my mind, played over and over again
and I knew what to do,
my thinking, my actions, yes i will be ready
the minute i cross that road.



I have watched Cinderella leave her shoe,
O’ what love for a prince to find,
To send horses trotting to her doorstep,
Chariots and king’s man,
O Cinderella-happy ever after!

Aaaaah! It is wonderful.

At night I would have dreams about you Cinderella,
Being snow white, awakened by my prince,
And so I mastered the art to wait,
Yes, I will scrub floors, play with the dwarfs,
Singing my hearts tunes -knowing,
In a shining armour my prince will come,
And we will live happily ever after.
Like I have seen it in my mind.


So here I am, there, sitting -waiting,
Hearing the words as you are speaking,
The world I once thought was far,
Meeting with my reality and hush…

I am “There”

Be it that I be a Cinderella or a fairy,
The collision of reality makes to wish
That such fantasies were true,

And now that I am here, You prince you came.
With my shoes, in a shining armour,
But nothing like my fantasy.
I could blame you for not being the prince
I had in my dreams, how could you betray me!


I mean I love you but why is it not like I imagined!
I want to be rescued from a tower; I want horses to make a convoy!
I want birds to sing my happiness; I want flowers to sprout at my joy!
I want to grow wings and fly! That is how I know it!.
Why is not like shrek or fiona, or the Barbie or the princess in aladin!.


Marriage is holy,

Two people are joined in matrimony,
They become one to reflect his glory,
And the lord orchestrates it to reflect him,
O’ the angels blow their trumpets,
And the lord dances over the union with singing,
For then his image on earth is portrayed,
A covenant of eternity,
As that of his bride, as the groom.

However, On earth.

Frustrations grab our minds,
And we wonder if we right,
Is he the one! Did we go wrong!

You see when two become one,
All their flaws are exposed,
For no two people can be two in one,
Some trees need to fall,
The flesh is stretched for both,
The bone is taken with no anesthetic,

Bone of my bones, flesh of my flesh,
You never know till you hit this road,
Happily ever after, but not mention- after what?

Because marriage is holy, some things are refined,
100% human 80% God, God works with no fractions,
See, in him we need to be whole,
for in the one lies a deeper purpose and
when these two come together, there might be a collision.
For marriage is holy and as one you are selfish,
but when two come together,
they are drawn to selflessness.

I can no longer eat the pizza alone, but think of my significant other,
Uhhh! No longer will live but need the care like my father.
Marriage is HARD!


You never know until you there,
The vinedresser prunes the branches, tweaking them slowly,
They fall to the ground, trampled.
For the purpose of matrimony is to make us like him.
Christ as the head joined to the Body,
The husband joined to the wife,
A beautiful gift that God gives to man!
Take me again, he says- be like Christ!

In marriage we are given an opportunity to reflect his glory,
To imitate his kindness, compassion and love,
To experience the intimacy that Christ has for us,
It is no longer about lifting our eyes to the sky,
But Christ comes as a groom to his bride,
He comes to share himself between husband and wife,
What gift it is, more than Cinderella or snow white and her dwarfs,
More than earthly treasures, it’s the beauty to share a life.


To our carnal minds, and fleshly ways,
Marriage is a ***** or a thorn,
And whatever joy it brings,
We know that Christ his grace he gives,
But we know that for his glory we love,
Each other, but together love him,
And happily we will leave,
In endurance of all things.
Marriage....Marriage is beautiful!

I never knew, I ‘am there’

what a beautiful soul
her heart beats among us
the way she breathes soothes your deeply troubled mind -
and she is so beautiful
the way her finger drags crystals along the soft surface of your skin
it drives you crazy
to a point where you begin to believe the sins you commit with her
are your most beautiful moments together
and when her tears drop like a rainstorm in the spring
it reminds you of home
because the deepest thoughts her mind orchestrates
have never made you feel so comfortable

Bleached walls, and incandescent lights
The mind illustrates it’s own world
With dreams, desires and abstractions
What it wants, but can never have

Droned out vocalization, and exaggerated sighs
The mind fills in the gaps
With chatter, remarks and laughs
What it wants, but can never have

Concrete floors, and tiled ceilings
The mind creates it’s own scenery
With grasses, mosses and trees
What it wants, but can never have

Constant progression, and flooded walkways
The mind orchestrates it’s own utopia
With sunshine, breeze and cloudless skies
What it wants, but can never have

Although flummoxed by the gabble of hibernaculum I seethe with the verdant quiddity that is a cross-pollination that spans the gamut of historical memory and owns the usucaption of infrastructure equipping our bootstrapped capacities of literacy tethered to the ecumenical capacity for proliferation through amplified discernment that percolates at decorative gallop into the stridor of unified apothegms that quantify the visibilia of the broadened universe into the nexility of formula bounded by the parameters that equip synergies of space-time to envelope its own reification and magnetize urbane freebooters of coalescence to grapple with the ineffable mathematics of absorbed losses in the human fraternity becoming overlooked because of the providence of shepherded acrimony to escape the oblivion of barely marginal exponential extinctions of impropriety into fast-paced panoramas of expedited dalliance with optimums constrained by the effluvia of hinderbaggle which exist only by domineering mercurial lability of manufacture enabled by the siphon of Promethean reason to catapult the slogmarch of advancement by punctuated achievements registered by canonical gravitas to revolutionize society in longevity and interplanetary awareness that places a 1000:1 premium on a 165 IQ in comparison to a 110 IQ. Although bewildered by the beaucoup of raxed originality the anoegenetic flux of slogan achieves but a petty solidarity in comparison to the galvanized bronteum of registered invention that provides decisively seminal locomotive prowess to the foisons of promulgated ingenuity propped up by the capacity for raltention that exceeds the inherent longevity of humans on Earth into the permanence of memory to achieve radical vanguard frontiers within diminishing frames of a once vapid time recorded only through the lens of finicky preoccupations of crude retention rather than the kinship of the perceptive unity of the authors who remarked on history to share the same vantage with the distant onlookers upon that very history with such a convergence of judgments the photons that trespassed on inquisitive eyes of inquierendo are the very same blueprint for the modern savory traipse with selfsame perceptions embedded in canonical history like the spool of an exact daydream unfurled before inoculated eyes differentiated by context but achieving the same visual footprint of historical lineament provided by the original exemplar. The luxury of our provisional prosperity is the unique ability to browse spontaneously a two-century travail of perceptible records embedded in the same perceptual rudiments captured by the original vetuda thereby enabling the specificity of prowess to vicariously encounter distant gulfs of time with the simultaneous realization of past becoming present tense because beyond the revisionism of the censors the human lineage originates in approximated design tethered to the aboriginal photographs and hallmark expenditures of celluloid digitized into annealed constellation to provide separate junctures in space time with the same indelible percept decontextualized but potent by showcase of the verdure of the generosity of shared perception rather than cleaved faint traces of divergent imagination conceiving junctures by distal lurches of insular harbors of private registries of tact and discretion without the shared raltention of the plevisable entities that populate the fragmented lineage of space-time to achieve full congruence in percept first and abstract eventually as neuroscience slogmarches with the nockerslug of invidious depredation of sanctanimity. Adrift in iconoduly sustained by lambent monasticism of abnegation we were lost widows of insular idiosyncrasies of similar concepts separated by the longevity of imagination redacted into communicable formula to ensure the divergence of impact of liturgies heterodyne by vast distances but linked to archaic designs that formed the paradigms which eventually merged with the wiseacres of Renaissance conserved in momentum over centuries into the information capital that forms the futtocks of the girdle of a womb matrix of society sustained by a newfangled uniformity of exposure that slowly churns the collectivism of memory and the syndication of the cartel into the ubiquity of prominent thorns of perception magnified by iconography of the megalography of historical permanence evasive of censors and embracing the entelechy of coherent perceptions siphoned by different engineers but arriving at precisely the same conceptual imprint thereby unifying the perceptual world with the usucaption of leveraged networking of browsers of antiquity. The finesse of leapfrogs of modern human impediment is to scour the reaches of the troves of the most vivid imagination and expedite the turnstiles of conserved rollercoasters of enthusiasm probed by the cadasters capable of castophrenia to syndicalize the autonomy of human perception sejungible from indelible vivid footprints of abstraction upon an interface of truly hard-won vehicles of transmissible abstraction to win the arduous relish of once a vacuum of infested instinct into an algorithm of an intelligent source that creates the precise conditions of parallax to seed through celestial hosts the flourishes of stereodimensional traces of permanent cadaster into something that elects beyond the ethereal snatches of oblivion the provisional apportionment of sentiment above continence to set ablaze the rarefaction of raltention and quantify the intelligible impact of one artifact of civilization over the constellated taxonomy of all apothegms within the divine grasp of a sublunary eternity revived and recycled into syndicated scrutiny that bows to a convergent entelechy of instantaneous improvisation of perdurable registry into indemnities that litigate the humorous quizzical trangams of vastly outmoded obsolescence borrowing from panspermatism of technocracy to the edgy appeal of scintillating horizons of peerless scope that approximate the ommateum of approximated omniety but never span far enough for the distant riometers to see for deputized galaxies to be evoked in concrete human-alien achievements sempervirent and virulent guardians of the toil of sensation to refract off of its overhang because of redundant upbringing to shelve the incendiary impediments of the chary into the corsairs of revelation beyond gamuts of lurch and bypassing elapsed regress to arrive at ceremonial progress to trespass upon many minds with a unified concrete hypostasized entelechy of a fielded incorporation of organic life into a manufactured cycle of the most prolonged and beatific longevity capable of digestion and implementation from the toolsheds of hubris accelerated by the vainglory of subsidized harmonies that break through the barriers of language to sprout convergence in direct opposition to entropy to achieve oculate ommateum.The opponents to the logical syndicalism of positivism emergent as the verdant drape of homogenized pasteurization of raw lavaderos that capsize swallock and devour consciousness with predatory mobilism is the tregounce of the ponderous imprints of recapitulated stupidity which is easy to quantify in terms of human rarity because the difference between a 130 IQ and a 155 IQ is a difference in ingenuity power than exceeds 25:1 or an even higher margin of liquidation of indebted concatenations forming the flombricks of capitalized language finessed into burgeoned growth to radically shift postulates into abstract precision that observes the flanges of the dominion of inculcation into the filibusters of gainsay that supersedes hearsay in an evolution of the dialectic to exert transformative esemplastic rejuvenation that transcends creed and ingeminates the festivity of spectacle with the alvantage of albenture to such an extent it predicates new modalities of persiflage grounded on the aggressive patented expansion of the noosphere to inherit the instincts of orthobiosis while simultaneously inheriting the flair of redoubled ingenuity swarming with the vespiaries of predatory discretion working to ***** out glaring beacons of sapience so that intellectual capital is a local rather than ubiquitous emergence because of the prizes of urbacity enhanced by systems of masonic creed that preserved foresight with varying degrees of exactitude knowledgeable about outcomes but incidental in creating those outcomes out of the alchemy of the convergent sphere of spacetime to curve to synclastic pancratic refinement realized in the taxation of the most domineering figures of canon to indoctrinate the inkburch of wernaggle while the panorama of peripheral obscurity adduced by the resourceful few provides the progeny for a seminal equation that encounters the quandaries of precise retention amplified by the synergies of language exponentially grown by the depth and breadth of lexicon siphoned through mechanisms of percolation seeded by the convergent progeny of hindsight meeting foresight to a truce in the elected interests of the filagersion of the spotlight highlighting a universe that only exists with self-aware reification rather than plodding animated instincts of a stagnant match with a slowpoke evolution that scrawls the gabble of the vacuums of faint oblivion knowing only pain, agony and brief felicity but never registered into ecosystems capable of enriching themselves with artifices of origination rather than vapid retrenchments of the stale vapor of the exigencies that plague the intellectually bereft with tertiary deskandent perfunctory desuetude outstripped by the parsecs of the 170 crowd who secretly orchestrates the think tanks that run the furtive cryptadia of regional governance with foisons of fruition realized as dividends of exponential bypasses of even a linear route of the streamline by warping time itself to a spontaneous entelechy that triangulates a warped trigonometry that fathoms what can only be mapped on an imaginary flickering plane of fluxed existence that achieves sub-Pythagorean travel by altering the vacillating distances predicated by the theory of relativity into shortened tracts of abbreviation separating the bridgewaters of locomotion from the vast lurking prowess of reconfigured geometries lurking beyond the shadowy grave of reconnaissance into the penumbra of conservatory refinement. The punctual symmetries of thermodynamic decay met with a conversant offset in reverse acceleration of thermolysis converge with the centripetal prism of annulment to make stalemates of atomic precision appear grandiose to the economic principle of leverage acquired by debt because the discounted cost of symmetrical approximations of sentiment, abstraction and the already syndicated unity of perception vastly scale the scope of the reach of the amenable universe to tractions bound more by eccentricity of parameterized volumes of competing hyperbolas of a warped unity of tugging forces spawned by the differential weights of a flummoxed calculus that provides obeisance in ecumenical uniformity that was absent by degrees through the tinkers of time to adjust the orbits of consideration by tilted warbles of the songbirds that swim in abysses reaching sizable celestial tutelage providing reprisal for quintessential crudity mapped into a syntax of evolved refinement amplified by conserved concatenation accelerated into mastery by the coalescence of new lexicon to probe conceptual space unchartered by the nexility of normal human conduct and therefore bound to a different pattern of evolution that is oleaginous to the engines of revved ostentation in intellectual prowess that is selfsame from the majesty of heaven because of preordained populace meeting transitory flickerstorms twinged with the irony of discursive disclaimer and discretion of disclosure of emissary vehicles that power synaptic vesicles to burst with signal strength harnessing the unity of conscientiousness into a coenesthesia that fathoms interdisciplinary bridges rarely exacted by the formulas of a more rudimentary mind demarcated in taxonomies of scope that are taxemes for unrealized entelechy bristling against the headwinds of doldrum rather than zephyrs of accelerated approximations of the enumeration of elaborate sveldtang into seminal traversals of the inhibitory grasp of narquiddity exceeded by the alacrity of provident discretion in apportioned judgment enough to parameterize vast distances with instantaneous wiseacres rather than rippled mirrors of faint simulations of simultagnosia bounded by the regional scope of subliminal etches of harnessed flombricks invisible to most aptitude measures of working memory but evocative of subroutines that flourish because of the cross-pollination of exasperated sapience clambering for a perpetuity of renewable raltentions conveyed widely and succinctly in indelible tacenda broached by the wisest sophrosyne inclinations to survive the onslaught of traditional nexilities that make obtuse minds hardened by slowpoke myelination and hidebound parameters of achieved convention recursive on reiteration but not expansive on the tracts of genius reserved for the asylum boundary between insanity of delusion and bountiful riches of harvested non-conventional imagination which sometimes pollutes the integral provenance of rapid conveyance. True transcendence is summarily defined as outpacing pace itself to visibly outfox the forsifamiliation of events perceived as distance sworn by the ability of the accelerated frontier to understand the vestiges of the outmoded to the extent redintegration can surpass with imagination beyond the tethers of quddity that narrowcast swallock but refine the space that distances itself from magnitude and achieves a limited vetuda that phenomenalizes the redacted plucky perjury of self-anonymity to identify a novel visibilia of characterized clarity only specialized to the extent the vast sphere of retention exerts a gravitas over footloose fragments of disunity to surpass the skeumorphs of the trailing bolides of distant comets to avoid by meteoric trajectory the lapse incumbent to E=MC^2 which guarantees implicitly in the barter of nebbich chalky rigmarole that the energy of refinement is an abstraction limited only by the coherence of marginal dumose decay to estrange inertia as plevisable from motion and thermolysis as sejungible in partition what cannot be summarily be filibustered by the succedaneum of shortchanged shorthand convenience of the credulity of those who perceive dynamism of delivery as an easily fudged quandary not restrained by the logarithmic slowdown of conservatory inseminations of panspermatism of invention. The riddle of the enigma of neuroscience that presides over classifiable qualia is that the outstretched rax of rectiserial reorganization must gradatim invoke spurious prestige to predicate the entrapment of narrative exponentially slower than the impregnated literacy of an integral harpsichord of mind to finesse the octaves so that sublime majesties become superlative ringleaders of seditious conventions embedded more by absorptive brocrawlers than expressive werniques. We must fashion an orthobiosis that is leniency embodied but plenitude outnumbered by the progeny of its sculpted riches for extravagant spools of tapestries of refinement to be the imprints of legacy compounded by the complexities of inheritance in lineaments situated in the context of overhanging specters and domineering prospects swimming by commonwealth acatelepsy in a maelstrom of revived gammerstang notions of impetuous apostasy benighted by the macroscian and macrobian spans of the captive capture of a Taylor Series of infinite expenditure assuming perpetuity that necessarily converges on organization because of conscientious reversals of entropy into ladders of betrayal against the hegemony of ******* over the synquests of hortoriginality that spurn the castigations inherited from its immodesty of permutation to fixate on global problems of intricacy ragged in salebrosity bereft of the marginal galvanization of hidden inquirendos into artifice contingent upon elapsed epiphenomena of compounded rigmarole resonant with a simplified system of hostage complicity to a least common denominator that belongs to suboptimal refrains issued by Procrustean forces against demassified parsecs of bounded limitations exceeding the volume of perceptible shadows recessive in the alleles of culture but eventually transmogrified into teetotaler totalitarian principles of grave gravities of tabanids to the aceldamas of territorial joust rather than annealed irony of the recidivism of the plucky thorns of percurrent but latent vehicles for oppression to swamp the lethargy of durative formation such that the hambourne atrocity of hambaskets of hinderbaggle grapple mostly with the adolescent excesses of milked pleonexia becoming the downfall of cagey imprisoned syntax bereft of capable constellation and thereby stranded in vagrant proclivities that net positive only in the rare grandeur of my formative axiom of the axiolative excesses of my recensed definition of transcendence. The vacant harbor of asylum of abiding auctions of flexible transistors of wealth is inherently a poolswap of attractive chocolate-box travestime of incurred wreffalaxity suborning the lewd machination of funneled flipcreeks to the commerstargall of incendiary glaciers basking in boardrooms of ataraxic placations of commiseration found in dynamos lamenting degraded embodiments of regaled regelation as seasonal flictions of submerged vanity vaporizing the wisps of whimsical bloated grievances of paltry imparlance to the defalcation of a filigree of mind only sustained by the steady churlishness of preserved relic hibernating in brocrawler pleonasm to grindole the welter of spates of vapid deceleration of successful vibrancy measured in the gamut of hues to exact a penultimate ruse before the finitude of the capstone of capers of fiat remission slick with glamborge of gallionic sciamachy prone to revelry in the cretaceous extinction of monochromatic mathematicization of gradgrind visagists toying with the treacle of blue-sky action billowed into toxic spurts of contrarian aggression of herculean appendages of hackumber providing the bronteum of recidivism to vanquish a righteous trajectory on a pause of Canada Dry conveniences sultry in daft hipsters of tilted stage grafting conclusion prior to rapport of introduced variables of poignant tethers of necessary succor for a desiccated bastion of hidden unspoken reach fizzling into trangams of obsolescence because of perennial inebriations that thwart strong character to scandalize a pinhoked vessel of conscientious objection to the radiology of centerpiece hapless forlorn arid squelches of the vibrant verdure of macrobian dumose shelter for reformatories that invent incidentally accidents otherwise precluded by the ommateum of wasted foresight guzzled on the premium of disaster for a showcase of verve going awry steamy with livid filagersion aimed with a reluctant enmity against the cagey headwinds of recalcitrance inveterate to the scruples of the otherwise unscrupulous who foist lewd licentious philandered paragons of philogeant mysticism to forefront cowcatchers that eliminate kumbaya rijuice of gridlock impressionism guarded by the sentinels of rambunctious destructive attempts to evict intellectual propriety from careens of subtlety barnstorming with polyacoustic nuances of differential gradients of vapid bastions of strident but backwards versamily froward and bountiful of Head Hunter specters rather than heaved recombinations of orthotropism wed with mangers of savory dilettantism of the lionized array of brooks branching into rivulets and the fluminous barnstorm of pelagic awareness interrupted by the finicky prevarications of piggybacked fair-weather allies who secretly fund the slander for the mainour of dirt fundamental to meteoric rises acclimated to dissipated moral vacuums of disbelief of evidentiary miracles among the jostle of scientific regency that slakes opprobrium to illiteracy while benefiting greatly from my perceived barathrum that is rather a crowning ravenous achievement of appetite above substance and distinction varied from prediction that my Titanic zalkengur spared from the unnecessary sacrilege of less accommodating curglaff to the metaphorical hypothermia of albatross in dramaturgy rather than a pause glowering with mastery against my jarred enemies preying on weakened reach due to preeminent dirges of inkburch and swallock to ravage my sanctity with a hyped stage without a starlet daydream fantasia spectacle that is calculated to upstage even in the coverthrow of intelligentsia against the plodding boweries of pestilential raving resentment absconding with elusive enmity rather than cherishing a true trident champion of the seized seas and the traindeque of emulated intellectual accordions of claptrap chockablock pedigree that outlast gallywow afflictions of rapacious venality tenacious to the detritus of constructive detriment building the ashes of effigy before I am dead and buried with the storge of perennial legacy rather than scandalous privation of the obolary tenets of desecration above reabsorption of mendicant bodges of the bodewash of freedom’s counterstrokes of maskirovka ineradicable and plenipotentiary wit deniable but legacy ineffable by degrees of exponential long-winded flambeaus of filagersion swiveling with recessive rubble in a crenellated fortress guarded with tripwire insubordination against cordslave dependencies liable to recurrent reproach rather than sustainable filigrees of electrified balkanization toxic to the aquifers of modernity streamlining Roman imperium. To this flajoust I owe eternal behest as the captaincy of time is not a perishable whangam of superstition an affront to a provident rejoinder of verifiable prestige because the curvature of time favors the ripple effect of magnetized reninjuble charms alerted to upward soaring skies of inevitable peerless dominion in the  perceived symphily of competing benevolence with a shared stake in Earthly pulchritude emanating a sworn allegiance to the best interests of philosophical enlightenment

Anne is 97.
"Oy, the bones!"

Walking ain't easy
Sitting draws pain.
"I use a heating pad."

Her pink house is a shrine
with 2 T.V. altars.
"I'm so lucky."

Marilyn is 72.
"I ran my own modeling agency."
She orchestrates care,
for her mother Anne,
for husband Manny.

("He had a stroke.")
and for Debbie,
her daughter with M.S.

"WHO TOLD YOU SHE HAD M.S. ???!!!!"
screamed her text.

I pause, . . . . .
Volcanic fissures of paranoia erupt weekly.
(she's tired, living on that last nerve, Om..... I must forgive... forgive... forgive...).

"You did" I reply.

Anne,
Marilyn,
Manny,
and
Debbie.
And the pink house altars chanting.
Chanting greed.
Chanting wanna be, wanna more, wanna wanna om wanna wanna....

The ****-you-with-boredom soaps and talk shows blast from all T.V.s,

"ELLEN looks more like a man everyday, I like KATIE," she declares, as I quietly shut the door.

My mind spelled your name
with such intimacy
that I craved for the lips
between your legs
at two o' clock in the morning,
with sweat running down my spine.

And I know that my name
orchestrates the symphony
under your sheets
whenever you're alone
on a Sunday afternoon.

I guess we can call it even.

Robots and gods.

Is this madness?
It must be.

On one hand, the robot feels.
The robot knows what it wants, takes it.
But has difficulty feeling what other people are feeling.

On the other hand, the god watches.
The god orchestrates and plans things to go its way.
But feels as though it doesnt have control over itself.

It manipulates and prods.
It is calculated.
It is watching.
It is observant.
It is careful, caring and emotionless.
Yet full of it. And still yet unexpressive. Full of life. Trapped in their vessels; their roles.

What am i?

An anarchist atom
Assaults the atmosphere
With anger and aerial arson
Bringing, begetting
Brutal and ****** battles
In my brain
Initiating chaos
With charges
Of chemicals.
A disection,  distortion
Diversion of dedication
And direction
Causing eruptions
Emissions
Of erratic, electric elements
Of ego.
Ferocious fires form
In filaments, firmaments
Feeding the fantastic
Forces
Which grow and gain
In greatness in gravity
Grave, gory, gorgeous
Gloom.
Henceforth hidden horrors
Harrowed in a hollow heart
Instantly interact with
Intimate ideas
Initiating irregular, irrational
Irreversible
Irrelevant
Intimacy
Jealousy
Jumbling of jinxes
And laws of the jungle
For kicks
Leading to lies
Leaving love for loneliness
Loss.
A massive moral meltdown
In my mind
Negating, neutralising
normality
Orchestrates an open
Onslaught of order
And ordinary
People's principles
To pursue passion
And perfection
In a poetic periphery
Quite queer to some
And quaint to those
Not acquainted with
Rushes of ramblings
Received and reciprocated
Or radical ridicule
Of rascals.
Synapses send,
Signal every sinew
Simulating similar signs
But transmitting treacherous
Tingles
Teasing,  trapping thoughts
In terror, temptations
To commit treason
Unforgivable,  unforgettable
Us
Vivid and vibrant
But also very
Woeful
Wishing we were wild
And willing to walk
Our wishes make wonderful
Wells of
Youth
And creative zest.

64 squares and 32 pieces
white and black or black and white
pending your thesis
whether your black or white
they all have the same features

8 pawns, simple creatures
8 x 2 is 16
infantry disguised as peasants
trying to get above the 7th
to the 8th and replace
their meager form for something more severe

2 rooks, sitting on the edge
2 crooks robbing everything perpendicular
to the perimeter provided the king
doesn't falter in his pledge


When the night rolls through,
the knights roll through.
Puffing green goo, these squares or cubes
will move an L make a 7 and ***** you.

The bishop will say a blessing
as he stumbles across the board.
Moving forward diagonally,
these drunken priests drink towards
a leader hung with dressings

The queen? That greedy broad
thinks everyone is a pawn.
constantly placing her place
in the face of those trying to take her place.

The king orchestrates the beat
carefully placing his feet before god.
His feat is living, no great givings,
giving up the wrong square will make his crown your treat

The subway air feels like pudding. It's thick, and as clingy as water. When you take a shower at night - and you should always take a shower at night, unless you want to sleep with the city - you can feel the air instantly liquify and drain away.

The memories leave marks on your skin, if you let them. The bruises on your sides from bumping unique people;  the cut on your head from hitting a pole; the ache in your heels from walking too far. You're experiences hang on your skin, and shine through your eyes.

New York is unique because of her variety. She's strong because of her diversity. She grows because of her adaptability. New York is a jungle of human-animals trying to survive.

The smell of opportunity is stronger than the potent *** of other smells: the *****, rodent-infested tracks, frequent homeless sleeping quarters, grungy, old costumes on Times Square.

She is life; she is alive.

If you're alone or together you are always a part - a piece that makes it what it is. Without you the city survives. She has, and will. But without you, she's not what she is with you. Even if she tried.

People flow trough her streets as uniquely as blood runs through your veins. The heart orchestrates the motion, while the blood does the dance. she lives and breaths through each person's lungs. Each one arrives for a particular reason - even if for no reason at all. Our arrival helps her breath.

The anticipation before arriving in New York - not the Big Apple, no one calls it that - is enough to deprive a voyager of sleep on incoming flights. Even at 11:45 p.m. The jungle of buildings, built in perfect chaos testifies someone saw the bigger picture. A person may only see a foot, or a year in front of their face. New York saw far ahead, and high above.

Everyone is welcome. Some never leave. Permanently or temporarily, New York will take you in as long as you stay. She may hold on a little too long.

THE CALDER TREE
( for Connie )

The tree stands
naked

against a sunset
leafless.

She cries for the tree's
lost leaves.

I tuck her into bed
promise to make her

a tree
a la Calder.

Dawn sees the tree
adorned

in mobiles...wind chimes
where leaves should be.

The tree sings
the morning.

Mobiles sings the day
that is

to be.

The Calder tree
orchestrates this Thursday.

Birds are
our choir.

She stands under
understands

the moment
as it

sings.  

She the one "stabile"
beneath the cascade

of wind chimes & mobiles
that the morning plays.

The tree
forever planted

in her mind
now

all of her
outstretched

as she listens to
Time singing.

being disharmonious
with the whisper of death,
my father sentiently orchestrates
his final moments.

the cancer enfolds, unbending;
inverting throughout him like a small womb
unfolding the fabric of his universe.
his torso ebbs with these insatiable flowers.
he is born again into death knowing love,
dreaming his journey into being. his children
shedding symphonies of his laughter
are woven into silence; as he dies
a fully spread bouquet—beautiful
in the face of surreptitious sabotage.
it must be cumbersome for him. to grow
backwardly. still, though—outwardly,
he hefts it peacefully. dying a mountain—
symphonic—and in bloom.

The Lost Letter of Love-

The thunder of the busy street makes love to the vicious voices that plague my mind. Reminisce of a forgotten love still shower my inner most thoughts. Passion that once overwhelmed my life is now my reason for exhaust. The shimmers that once lit my ambition and drive now hang lightless, darker than the deepest secret. Yet the frequency of lost desire still induces the most intoxicating substance. Arms grow weary caressing forgotten times, the tears that once grew a river, are now dry beds of torment. The beautiful dawn plays in coalition with the residuals of a distant song. “Goodbye my lover” plays in harmony with the neglect of reality. Not facing demons yet displaying affection to them. Indulging in virtues once restricted by political propaganda. I am her vicious vendetta, her thoughtlessness, her absence. I lay on a bed of needles enjoying the aguish, suffering in satisfaction. The destructive thought of deserving such a decisive decision allows my mind to become a rag of lost emotion, wiping tears from the concaved steps that once bread a whirlwind of radical love. A canvas stained recklessness paints a picture of a destined solitude. No regret orchestrates a symphony of percussions, streaming beautiful sound through the hills of total regret. Awake becomes second nature, slumber slumbers with the lack of motivation to ignite the calm. Insomnia hums in a melody so righteous that the religion becomes the man. A hollow shell of broken ambition sway in the wind of self desire. The cries of the night become intoned with the cries of truth.  Instinct maps the course of self-withered illusion, illuminating the “why us” cause. A foundation of happiness holds the weight of a pessimistic engagement. While optimistic scavengers prey on the depths of endless souls. Disappointment rectifies all signatures of a so-called love. Remembering a once forgotten future claims its stakes as the eternal right. The moon holds desperate for the fortune of the unfortunate son. Unsettled disputes, take a toll on broken bodies. Broken wills dance in the limelight ignoring the forgotten pain, a laugh of retribution becomes one with inexplicit content. While saying “I love you” becomes that of explicit context, searching for the meaning between the lines. The lost letter of love shapes like the clouds in the sky only resembling something it never can be.

RICHARD ITSKOVICH

Medicine induced hallucinations,
body quivering with ache,
and I'm hearing the sweet chime of bells
In this hour of pain my mind orchestrates.

The next drop from the IV,
helps even greater than the last,
a constant drumming in my head
a beat which was not meant for dance.

The others around me dressed in white
say I'm doing fine and that I should rest,
but when there's music pouring into the room
Sleep is what I must detest.

Can they not hear the wondrous sounds?
The vibrations that reflects my pain?
Those invisible waveforms move visibly
or have I just gone entirely insane?

There is no music, they tell me.
It must be a side-affect to the medication.
The ambiguous tune that rattles my brain,
is death knocking, it is by my orchestration.

But who is to say what I hear
is not real?
The tune in my head I wish to transcribe
but I'm weak,
and barely clinging to life.
So no one will hear this stirring melody.
This is the song I hear towards the end of my life.

In these last precious moments
laying in my seemingly sterile bed,
the tune haunts me 'till I shut my eyes.
but the tune is my comfort, I do not dread.

So take me with you, oh humble melody.
I welcome your amplitude with open ears
Let's take a listen to what you're telling me,
I dare you to move me to tears…..

The warm blanket of the strings comforts me,
the brass section: a foundation, a rock.
Oh, but hear the timpani? It taps to the beat of my near-ending biological clock.
The woodwinds, a sympathetic harmony that aides my despair.
Their aloofness like the machine by my side, filling me with air.

The main theme speaks to me directly, and I've been worn thin
but I swear the main line is "I've fought valiantly, but this battle I could not win."

I do not have to open my eyes to see,
that the director of this symphony is myself.
I've created this music on my death bed,
and it was not meant for anyone else.

When I close my eyes this final night,
take a somber breath and leave.
I'll have my tune in my head,
and nobody for me to grieve.

Goodbye to this world around me,
now the nurse come to medicate.
One last final wave of my arms.
This song I hear, mine alone, I orchestrate.

The second power of the Sphinx
is Will.

"Motion is by mind alone." ⊙
Intelligence, armed with Wisdom,
        fortified with Understanding,
        self-realizes.
                The will to power orchestrates
                desire, giving flesh to dream.

                       (ripples in the waters of מ)

        Who awakens, ceasing Motion,
        becomes the Mover:
        the omnipresent Point.

Will is the Artificer of Truth.
Truth embodied by Art
follows conception.
Existence produces mythos.

                "The Maze, the Maze that is the Secret,
                loves Itself.
                And in the love of Itself,
                amazing things Become." ⊾

To Will is to express:
to falsify the inestimable
and create by omission.

        "The world-dream is a lie." Ω

        "Lo, for these words that stain the lips of the Anointed,
        the Smeared Ones.
        Smeared in the ashes of My blood
        is the lie that is Our story." ⊾

The cause of Action is narrative.
The effect of Action is narrative.
I speak the Word.
I hear the Word.

The Story begins.

The tree are whispering in hushed silent tones
Their voices carried softly by the wind
Caressing the whole forest with their hymns
Suffused in their cries, the arrogance
And greed, and vanity of men
Men that were tasked to guard creation!

Their chants deafening, echoing, increasing
In brave tumultuous waves
Growing ever louder
Pushing the rivers and tributaries into the seas
Infused in the currents
The laments of the helpless
Trampled, and ravaged, and killed
With violence and impunity!

Be wary of the axeman, the hunter, and the miner
They are lurkers, waiting in the dark canopies
Waiting for a chance to **** and pillage
To **** the forest out of its wits
Until it loses its lushness and vitality
'Til it surrenders its grip from the divine earth!

Be wary of the forest ranger
For they are the ones that orchestrates
The relentless and appalling ******
That decimates lives, hopes, and aspirations
They perpetuate the madness
They are the harbingers of chaos, they are destruction
Their charm, vile and putrid
To ever allow them recite their prose would be death!

But never despair,
The sleepers have woken
Those with quiet ears slowly hears the noise and commotion
The deniers have silenced their self-serving lips
Await that moment, when the silence is fractured
By the forest, howling in raging defiance
Justice will be swift, the wolves will be unraveled as sheep!

And only then says the oldest of the trees
Can the children of the forest roam free.

If you ever wondered what do I sound like
and pictured me like untamed winds on rainy nights,
humming melodies in chorus with raindrops
and spilling dulcet tones off holy concert

Or contemplated I would be as synchronized
as the sound of a calm water fall,
off a sharp cliff erupting euphony
every time its hits the bottom in a xylophonic fashion

Or believed I would be as patient
as a cuckoo reciting her syllables religiously,
calling out to her mate every evening,

let go

Let go your fallacious thoughts.
I am not a piano, violin, xylophone, flute or a guitar
I am
A tender heart who squeaks like squirrel
when exposed to unprecedented depths of uncertainty.

An introvert who sounds like a voice narrowed down into a tunnel
cascading echo in batches when exposed to unfamiliar faces.

A small town girl who orchestrates her crescendo in vain
when the slightest ray of hope is felt.

A fearless soul singing silently while her hands spill cacophony
when exposed to prejudiced ways.

A fiery lover whose heart beats on high tempo of passion
and spill music off desires.

Come in, know me better.

-Pallavi

She orchestrates her life 
With organization 
And control 
Ands let's not one problem 
Slip into place 
And she cleans her spotless room 
To prepare for the company 
Coming over 
And she takes precisely 
3 CDs
And scatters them artfully 
On her desk
To make the room seem 
Lived in 
And less perfect 
As she tries to mask 
Her loneliness 
And separation 
That gusts just strong enough 
To shake the timbers 
But leaves the foundation 
Still standing

You are to be found far and wide within
Me and out, flowing through veins, inundating
Entirety. Ancient drops of you concealed
In stars released through showering debris,
Rendering existence possible, your absence
Intolerable, instincts in eternal search of you.

Intimacy in little opaque cabins made of glass,
Ceramic tubs, algae basins, riverbeds, by shores
Where feet don’t touch, blanketing granular materials,
Silicon dioxide in the form of insoluble quartz, calcium
Carbonate from shells and skeletons of organisms,
Corals and molluscs losing you forever, stranded in deserts.

I allow you all for you know how, to gently
Lick and lap thirsty skins, totality of my body
Hankering after vital substance as you take control
Of me, manipulating vibrations with mastery, unaware
Of your nature, crucial lymph, my only lover,
Forcefully penetrating cavities and pores.

I shut my eyes to your caress, yearning
For profundity, melting desiring fusion as
I unseal my lips to drink of you, inebriating
The perfect system longing to redefine
Itself through absorption, recognising
Its consistency, you within and out.

Your power soothes my consciousness, heals
My ills, paces my movement as your sound
Orchestrates, my heartbeat and breath to
The rhythm of universal quantum. You are old.
Billions of years constantly mutate your state
From ice to vapours, though I crave for you most

In liquid form.

every morning,
with excruciating strokes of grace,
the light of the distant sun,
orchestrates entire symphonies
against your violent skin,
as if only for me :
the humble audience
for these divine harmonies
that transcend my sense(s).

your multitudes are to me
what flash thunderstorms
are to quiet, summer forests
and in your presence
I have crossed these shadows,
erased their weight,
for you revive
the colours of my dreams
& their vibrancy.


I know not from which place you have come,
nor how long you have traveled to reach me.
I know only that you feel like home
and now, that I have waited so long
(for you)
to arrive.

I've thought often
about
    the eye of the
storm -

the thunderous
  consumption that cold does
to
   warm

The way that the
   dust has a
    longing to fly

when the touching
of temperature
orchestrates
the
sky

I've thought often
about
how two things
come together

be it people
  or colors,

    uncontrollable
weather

The way that what's
   different will
    find its extreme

Pinnacle moments
are the day thoughts
I dream.

I'm sitting on the porch taking in the scene's reflection
I freeze time to admonish myself of the moment's perfection
Astonished by the serene vestige of a complete life
Molded by time, patience, virtue, and strife
My daughter Jacqueline holds a flower in hand
And bolts towards me as I pretend to stand
Then catching me exclaims "you won't win this race!"
As I lift her up to me she plants a kiss upon my face
With a wistful innocence she places the rose in my hair
Closes her eyes and whispers "I love you everywhere."
"No matter where, I love you too, my darling Jacqueline"
Beyond oceans and streams and everything in between

Then my beautiful bride steps outside
Clutching the next miracle on the way
There's something she wishes to tell me
But her words I can not relay
I am suddenly stricken with a pain in my chest
They look down upon me and shout "you know what is best!"
But the voice I hear is distinctly my own
"It is by your choice that you remain alone"
The finale like an overture orchestrates my malady
I open my eyes and come slowly back to reality

Can Heaven be heard, Above the clouds, Do the angels make a sound? Imagine celestial music, Riding on the waves of the Atlantic, While fate orchestrates life, And all of its movements, Maybe we could catch a whisper, Listening at the top of a mountain, Would the wind tease our ears, Condemning our intentions, We could dance to it,  On the shoreline, Searching for truth in our distorted reflections, Our eyes greedily seeking perfection, Could we pretend that we had heard, The most beautiful notes, And not be punished for lying, Would there be any reward in trying? Could our hearts do justice to the love, That would surely be carried within the notes from above, Without attempting to claim it as our own, And forging human lyrics upon the song, Would our audience ruin the sincerity, Of something made of purity, And all the blessings be gone? Or do we chance the wait of death to meet our souls, And hope that what awaits, Is not instead, The howling of Hell.

she inspires masterpieces
and orchestrates symphonies.
how is it that she
is both oil and canvas?
torn sketchpads and
rough drafts spattered in red ink,
these run through her veins.
she is not imperfect—
only revising.

—w.b.h.