fem in isms,
i imagine Sapphic eyes:
bad *** advert coruscates elite
fairness sensing slavish blind
in gestate calm affirm
in genders More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--
O harsh judgement foiled,
as a foil, as unknown truth
foil-doubles in the brow,
abject symmetry to systemize
a fertile lack of sterile barrenness,
i am a mediatrix rend,
nirwaan, hijra wonderment aside
from transemotion's ground swells
demeaning to be understood.
i celebrate and face the same
to be what paperwork tests being
normal being, freely chosen
atom each belonging moves
an asterisk of paths
of mutate art of nature social darwin maze.
i imagine Sapphic eyes,
ginko soft they pile up all cobble
memories themselves concretely
cloistered  fame
spray of salty waves,
macho screams symbol
for dismissal ease
for tearing at an inner unsaid war
with lists offense of proper taste
to what posterity intends
an undulation womblike seeming nourish safety sounds.
i imagine Sapphic eyes
past
debauched
meanderings
where hyster-clarity rejoins its titular
and reliable escapisms curl the lips
of maleness found
here and there  smile  sneer love
i imagine Sapphic eyes
linguistic pirouettes
congest that wisdom nonetheless
the moment passed  on to a
feigning truth in pretty rhyme
ornamenting time with fine  meter  fine
vernacular chimes peter in
to juggle perspectival paradox,
redichotomize the twilight idols,
resolve the conflict like a dawn
Aurora,
i imagine Sapphic eyes
running plastic with Alaskan wolves,
toga floats to snow
to let us see the purest fairness form
a ****** circle,
Hypatia ascends from tenebrous grave,
Impregnable of Eye is pregnant now
with Wollstonecraft revered
in liberation's fount
families held exemplar gaze of
Taylor, ******, Cady,
Anthony resanctified
to vote entitlement's
empathic origins, waxen mold
of nascent categories,
narrow hands spread wide to panoply anew
the manifest evolve in true unknowns

Humans are constantly creating
with authenticity.
We have been given the universe-
an abundance of awesome things:
Mysterious monsters of oceans deep
and birds ornamenting trees.
We take these gifts
with mindfulness
and show
what we’ve perceived.

Now the computer
has
become the creator.
But humans
created the machine.
Without our perceived
realities,
the robot has no things.
Nothing to analyze,
digitize,
and pixelate on screen.
It can’t channel feelings.
It can’t express its needs.
It just mimics what it really means
to be
a
human
being.

Outside the window
Where I sit by,
This tree is there,
“Rain tree” all call her;
I see how she smiles with rain
Ornamenting blossoms all over!!
I talk with her,
I weep with her,
I share all those ruminating stories
That I left behind.....
She smiles and nodes
She consoles and encourages
Through her greens and wilted leaves, abscised branches
I rest my soul
On those wide opened canopy
And let my emotions fly away......
The tree, the “Rain Tree”
Let me call her
“My Soul Tree!!”

ginko soft they pile, strewn on cobble
memories themselves concretely devised
cloister inward, revise, revise, revise:
debauched meanderings fully marble
escapes to curl the lip, adorable
here and there, whether smile sneer incise
linguistic pirouettes or paler lies
congest that wisdom indefinable --
the moment past moves on to feigning truth
with pretty rhyme, for ornamenting time
with myths to filter in an Avalon,
juggle perspectival paradoxic ruth
with fine meter fine, vernacular chimes,
and resolve the conflict like a dawn

I'm trying to see God everywhere
But these days I can't help but suspect
That my eyes are faulty, I require Holy Spirit -
tinted glasses to see between the lines of atoms
Because it's hard to find God in these eyes
These eyes that have beheld my mother's tears,
That behold brokenness like beaches hold sand,
These eyes trained and conditioned by the media,
That shapes these eyes to be blind to God.
These pupils dance with delight at the sight of
Jerry Springer and Jersey Shore, they search for
Victoria's Secret and Waldo with the same roaming eagerness
Surely God does not reside there.
These eyes have been scarred with the
burning image of forsakeness and shame
I have seen the naked forms of sons and daughters,
Shameless as the day they walked in Eden,
but the shame resides in my eyes as I,
perched on the branches above like Satan, have lusted.
These eyes that have seen children exposed,
Vulnerable, abused, violated, and forgotten.
These eyes that have seen things they can't unsee
But God is not among them.

But these eyes, these eyes, are all we have.
Shannon, your eyes are beacons on this foggy night.
Their cat-like allure is my desert mirage,
I know they glow because of the God you see.
But Shannon, this world hates your eyes,
Hates them for their widening awe at seeing miracles,
And blessings, at seeing love and grace.
Hates the dew that kisses your Irises as
You lament and mourn broken hearts about you.
Hates your furrowed brow in the face of injustice,
This world that hates the hope that hides
In the corner of your eye, the residue of dreams,
From the night before, it wants to wipe the dust away.
But most of all Shannon, this world hates your eyes
Because they are beautiful.

They are beautiful to see, beautiful to behold,
With them beauty is seen and by them beauty is made.
Because if my eyes are trying to see God everywhere,
Your eyes, Shannon, are succeeding.
Your eyes that have not beheld His crowned silhouette,
Or mountains moved or fire on tongues,
But you have sat on benches and watched children play.
The drooping sun ornamenting the playground,
And blowing purple and red kisses on their cheeks.
Your eyes have watched them like cherubim.
Singing sweet serenades and tapping the children's halos.
Tap Tap Chime, Tap Tap Chime, like the seasons they play.
And all the while Shannon, your eyes see Holy.
They see immaculate in every conception,
Your eyes see miracle and grace in every cell.
And that is beautiful Shannon.

Beautiful like the hallway wallflowers,
The abandoned convict and triumphant gangster,
Beautiful like the stay-at-home dad,
The single mother, the middle child, beautiful.
All of them beautiful with beautiful eyes,
Eyes like yours that capture brokenness like cameras.
The same eyes that see Sacred in every shade,
Hallowed in every ground, Divinity in every breath
That kisses windows and reflections and mirrors
All folded within these eyes.

So Shannon I'm looking for God everywhere,
Simply in every glance, every frame, every shot.
Looking for God like you've found him,
I am jealous for your eyes, those rare gems.
I am jealous like the world is jealous.
But I do not hate your eyes like they do.
For Shannon, you are a prophetess,
Speaking God into being, painting him with your eyes
That see through this maggoty flesh,
And begin to mold my soul into something beautiful,
Because of your beautiful eyes, Shannon,
I can begin to believe that I am beautiful.
That somehow you see God in me with those eyes,
Those sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet eyes,
They do not see what the world sees in me.
They do not see what my shame see, what my past sees,
No they see God in me, and that is beautiful.

I watch each of them eat
i watch each of them drink
i watch them all sink
i watch them sleep away
while walking,

zombie,
with the same placid easy
expression
ornamenting their face, handing chandelier face paint

a sconce on a wall i am
or in a chair
as they ensconce themselves into another job
another school another group

talk, about, important ****!
like a book
a clothes piece
a hair dye
clouds
universe
opening wide

revealing a void of absence
this makes me not closed
no closure

i want all their minds
to be present, i want

a
few people, around me.

they're stumbling off a plank of, mind, intellectual existence into

an ocean of jobs cars new ethics and things they wont get.
i'm trying to jump out of a swimming pool of truth,

out of,
existence.

Here comes the night again
Along ride her livid emotions
Ornamenting the starry starry night..

Here comes the night again..
Brings with it your  alluring aroma
When you curl and inch closer
Reminding,
The engaging night would soon fade away.
Desirous are your eyes
Hinting,
Love me like you'll never love anyone else again.

Here it comes again,
From the gleam of the moon
To the chirpiness of the birds at the crack of dawn
I thank you for watching over her
As I lie asleep on her cheek so saporous!
Drinking her sweetness time and again.

I do not know what it feels like to live in someone else’s dream.
Outside the house, the moon, like a mistress, slits its throat
and bleeds white. The nature of all things around me has its way
of heaving out the wrongness, as if a drunkard staggering for words,
floundering in a curt reply after being asked where’s the nearest station
towards nowhere. I remember in 4th grade, they asked me what I
wanted to do with my life. All I ever wanted was the same clichéd response,
without knowing the appropriate punishment the desire coming with it.
I am not culpable. I wanted to be a bird stirring in a plainsong: free.
Whatever that meant. In a room where cross-sections of you tender me
margins I cannot cross. When I was young, whenever my mother would
leave me for the marketplace, she told me to always lock the doors
and never let anybody inside. The sound of the gears resembled your hand
in mine when we held hands, securing each finger into place the way
the night tucked us to sleep. It is still something the unforgettable, with
its feigned urgency, its ersatz summer days indoors spent on nothing but
gibberish and luxuriously lounging at nothing, looking at blank spaces
as though they were naked women the first time and the last. In a place like
this that selfishly spires with thoughtless hum, it’s conversations with the smallest
details that cover such distance, revealing weight I cannot solder.
Freedom to me is as bizarre as any other feeling that pushes one person
over to the next one. I have its wobbling sense scattered all around like a crushed
scent of bougainvillea. What we have to give in exchange for it, and what we
are to acquire after trying to weave out denotations that would make us swill
over like muck over the city that we selfishly breathe in, and our almost
ridiculous misunderstanding of the word riddled with unsparing details.
  I had myself mull over it, passing your decrepit house. Freedom,
the wind, or a bird, or anything unloosened like a waning volume from a stereo,
a readying tip of fire awakened ready to catch the corners of your fingers,
a basket of fruits in the morning from a remote bazaar, the peeled off and pared skin
  of an orange, some November night that burnt auburn, anything that may take place
     anytime in our hands – something that does not break in it, but holds still, waiting
to take place, forming names, sliding away from fingers. Freedom, to have a shadow
engraved on an architrave and a cornice, and to have your name in my heart
  like a frieze ornamenting some entablature, or that long dream of striding past
the Metropolitan, knowing how erroneous it was to feel so immense at that cosmic moment
of sizable smallness: the perpetual dialogue between a host and a barfly,
  mellifluously woven striking in sense, a farce raiding meaning all afternoon, like the close
eye of the Sun inspecting furniture, or your nosy neighbor taking time to stop watering the
  plants and watch you dance from your window, to a music that he has no knowledge of,
               but I do. I do. If it wasn’t plainsong, then I was wrong, writhing and alive
still, leaning in the air of a dream – free, wandering,
                      *wind,   passing of figures, clenched fingers, nothing.

“A young man is afraid of his demon and puts his hand
over the demon's mouth sometimes.” (D. H. Lawrence).

Your planned questions and critical tight passions, under scrutiny, always under assessment. Even the small things were tough. Am I approximately accurate or am I dreaming. Proceeding as though you needed you. And his little head somewhere down inside. You and your ushers stood by the table. You brought me in before our eyes locked smirking behind our enraged knuckles. You were born into a void scraping on the attack. It kept you awake and your hair in place. Your attempts to comb it brush it and straighten your scarf.  Your demon born, hungry, wanting to spoil your declarations. Conciliated with vapor, your wing tipped vanity and fresh uptown start in this new land. Transparent emerald lanterns illuminating this new name like a sparkling mirage in the desert, a small crossroad. Ornamenting your booth with pieces of paper calculations suddenly haunting you in time. Trying to look useful, you advise me. How pathetic. Go on, read your newspaper where those rotting black bananas sit.  Regard for those cunning visits and discussions about your performance, not about my reality. They might grind you into sausage unless you produce something substantial and who really gives a ****? Your vision is obviously obscured. Darkness peers in on you intermittently through the window of distant island wars. Useless absconders along disordered paths. Forgotten forever in the ****** sand. Telling your stories to those who would listen. Yes I remember then. Children could care less, not having the capacity to understand such troubled parts. Again and again, requiring close attention but you kept moving saying it out loud. Iced down bourbon mingled in the kitchen. I remember that sound, the ice tossed into the sink as you peered and swallowed your nightly dose. I notice this (again) when I smell my own prescription.  Without knowing or saying you kept them and extracted their records on the evening hour. Superior dwellings and new cars were additionally central to you. Bi-monthly figures stirred in your cherry pits. You never know where one’s head is going with all this. My reaction cuts like a scalpel below the fleshy surface, holding you up to the light like paper Mache. You stuck a shard of glass deep into my mind. Presuming a forged response would finally show, but it is not so interesting. You wanted perfection so that footsteps would quicken your ladder. A light then came on quickly, breaching the room as you lay there gasping from my phone call. You did not recognize who I was and I was twice alone.

when dolphins are born, they burst into the water tail first.
within minutes, their mother herds them up to the surface
for a first breath of air, sharp and dry,
as they exhale a spray of water into the sky.
when dolphins are born, they are born smiling.

when i was born, i opened my mouth before i opened my eyes
and screamed for thirty minutes straight,
my young lungs choking on the unfamiliar taste of air, sharp and dry.
by the time i blinked through my first spray of tears,
my mother said there were enough to fill the pacific ocean twice over.
she said she hoped that it would be enough to last me a lifetime.

in 1966, a twenty-four year old brian wilson began recording
a teenage symphony to god.
smoke in his lungs and fire in his heart,
he transcribed the california dreams that kept him up at night,
held his breath underwater until he saw constellations in the pool,
built a sandbox beneath his grand piano just to bring the surf inside.
even after wilson shelved his SMiLE in favor of
pillbox teeth and bedsheet sunsets,
the world never stopped searching for it.

in high school, my nickname was "smiles"
because it's all i ever seemed to do.
i navigated campus like i was being showcased in a tank half full,
jumped through hoops of
fire,
boys,
and college apps alike
without ever showing an ounce of discomfort,
like perfect was indeed possible without practice,
or even possible at all.
it became easier to dive deeper, move quieter,
bury my insecurities beneath a wide-eyed grin.
no one notices an overabundance of skin or body or
words when confronted by a hundred-tooth barricade.

i went through boys like storms go through ships,
my fingers springing accidental leaks into each of their sides
until they fell,
captivated,
captivating,
capsized,
spiraling into the depths below.
yet i was always the first to hear their cries when the tides withdrew,
the only siren in the world capable of regret,
the eye of the hurricane that granted them safety.
even after i emerged from the fray,
soaking and breathless and alone,
my eyes were dry, my smile buoyed in place.
staring out over the wreckage behind me,
i did not know it was possible to feel anything but relief.

it is 2016 and brian wilson is seventy-three years old.
he has felt every vibration, good and bad, and now chooses both,
now understands that every summer must eventually come to an end.
on the days he feels alone at his grand piano, he wanders down to the beach,
buries his toes in sand still warmed by the sun.
when he smiles, the ocean roars in approval.
as he closes his eyes, it calls for an encore.

these days, i have stopped ornamenting myself with illusions,
though sometimes i can still feel them tug at the corners of my mouth.
i am too wary, too large, too loud to be sealed behind glass anymore,
to either save or be saved.
some days, i wake up and there is not ocean enough in the world to contain me.

when dolphins are born, they are born smiling.
that doesn’t mean that they are always happy.
even when tossed by a sea of its own blood,
surrounded by the gaping jaws of
mothers
and brothers
and daughters
who can no longer sing back,
a dolphin cannot frown.
i have long learned to be grateful for my ability to.

my smiles come and go,
brought on tides i can no longer control.
but each time one washes ashore,
i cradle it in my arms before letting it go.
just another wild thing that needs to be free.

I took you in when you were stuck in the rain
Eroded by a downpour, your fragrance ornamenting the drain
Lost in tumultuous thoughts that caused you a pain
which threatened to totally drive you insane
unable to remember that the world was once beautiful and sunny
I took you in when you were giving up your journey
far from your purpose, deadbeat and completely out of money
I took you in when no joke in this world could be funny
you were a withered rose drenched by a torrent of tears
distrusting, odious and cloaked in crimson fears
In quest of comfort from draining bottles of beers
endeavouring to wash off reminiscences of futile years
You supposed none noted no matter how loud you’d shout
and were a violent wind that salutes a storm, a cyclone up and about
I took you in when you were overflowing with doubt,
When everyone had kicked you out, I took you in
I took you in, when you were a caving void within
but the instant the world took you back you kicked me out.

it's no wonder
you can't fall asleep,
when your tears
are ornamenting
your silky sheets

Words like rivers flow
They lull
lilies lavish their petals
Ornamenting cerulean streams with streaks of white
Hiding the mud below

What words are these
That hide degraded banks?
What words are these
That salty rivers may run?
What words are these
That sunlight in your smile
May paint away your worries?

Several shores tried claim you
But you are lost
Deserted on land
Alone but refusing company

Waters brought you hence
Waters will bear you away
But what words are these
that made you leave our hearts?

I’ve never had a thing for metaphors as a poetic whipping boy.
But when I think of it my heart’s kinda like the ancient city of Troy.
And I’m winning at the lotto till it’s just another knockoff seller.
Every guy I genuinely liked but they ain’t **** in hindsight whatsoever.
And every friend I would’ve taken a bullet for but would they have stood for me?
Every wrong decision I’ve made, if I managed to fix them then who would I be?
And I see animus when there is one, is it unanimous that everyone fells that?
Or maybe I’m overanalyzing every vowel, every aspect, every change in tone and dust speck.
I’m vengeful as **** and haven’t had a whole lotta luck finding love and **** like that.
Keeping friendships’ hard alike, dirt all over the welcome mat, I’m too proud to sweep it up.
Life’s one big stratagem, but I’ve made peace with that instead of battling it.
One brutal expedient, but I’m not sowing havoc in the name of embracing it.
And yes, I lie, yes, I add on stolen gems onto my crown.
But I’d never burn somebody’s whole world down.
Cause that’s what y’all were to me.
All you ******* that made Troy of me.
You’re my homie or a phony?
You won’t bother text or phone me.
I watch my homeboy **** it up, waving bye, his fault he missed the boat like that.
Glow up like a cityscape, forever à la mode, I’m on my Taylor Swift **** and your perception of me’s a folklore.
I shot my shot with a stiff, pretend I’m colorblind to red and green.
The dud must be eating ****, explains why he’s so ******* full of it.
I’m on my payback **** and if you double back for more that’s a no-no.
I’m on some hot guy **** and if you want a war this is a no-zone.
I’m on next level **** and if you wish to reach my level, get you a wishbone.
Outta my mind on all-night revels, all nighters getting me all disheveled.
Opening bounties from red devils, get you a reality check, I’m not ending up in flames.
In and out of heaven for forever, try and diminish the malevolent.
Never let a passerby bedevil me, you on some mythology ****, you ain’t gonna see me burn.

Can’t infiltrate my walls like Troy.
But he can infiltrate me though.
I’m on some daredevil **** and I’m it.
Doing kinds of **** I’d never thought I did.
Don’t stress yourself over a ploy.
Don’t bother fool me with decoys.
I’m on self-improvement and I’m the ****.
Bouta do everything I scrapped out of fear of doing it.

I’m no **** superhero, but I’m like the Iron Man.
Don’t stick my neck out for nobody but me and myself.
Got a heart of steel but I’m still a hopeless romantic.
Hard to keep your head above water when your nature’s aquatic.
I’d like to think I’m smart enough not to jump into conclusions and possible scenarios.
Don’t jump into fights I ain’t gotta be no part of or have me win for the satisfaction.
I really owe myself that after all the **** I let happen to me and I’m regretful.
It made my psyche empirical, built up by raw emotion and that journey was painful.
Anyway, I could’ve hit his DMs up or hers or theirs.
I could’ve ditched my persona and be a villain that I was cast to play by them.
I maybe should’ve made it seem like I didn’t back up all afraid.
Or maybe it’s a good thing that I let them triumph as I sailed away.
Because in the end I turned their ruse against them, cold blooded like a cryostat.
I played their pride as their cities went up in smoke, but I ain’t no copycat.
Guess now I’m back to nurturing self-love and ornamenting that iron door.
Get it on with Troy, get you a reality check, you on some lowlife lore.