you are
friday night dinners and
red lip stained coffee cups
and family photos and skilled
sarcasm and twelve trips to
disney and your love for
avocados and adventure. you
are sunday morning bike rides
and hand written letters and
power outages with candlit ghost
stories and week long sleepovers and
summer dresses and worn out boots
and accident prone vacations and
themed birthday parties and forgetfulness
and gerbera daisies and singing too loudly
and too off key and GOOD mistakes and
better memories
you are constellations and sea glass and colliding galaxies
and sometimes the calander turns
like a lottery and once in a blue moon
you can find a girl with fractured
sapphires in her irises and a heart too
big for her ribcage and a spine as strong
as a lightning bolt
so thank you january twenty sixth,
for michele.

Iodine. Or rather, iodine tincture. As a young child, I didn't really understand what iodine tincture was. All I knew was that it was a funny reddish color, it was cold, and my grandfather always had it with him. Whenever I was injured, with little scrapes and bruises on my elbows and knees, a small vial of iodine tincture suddenly materialized in my grandfather's hand. I remember quiet moments in the summer, when I sat propped up on the bed, watching in fascination as my grandfather placed two small drops of the liquid on to my knee, rubbing it in with a cotton ball. As soon as the iodine touched my knee, all my pain went away. Looking back, I'm not sure how effective that tiny bottle actually was, but to five year old me, the iodine tincture was a magical potion, and my grandfather was the wizard who wielded it.

Pomegranate seeds. I'm sure most of us are familiar with the white little seeds encased by the beautifully red and juicy pomegranate 'arils' (don't worry, I had to look that word up too). Peeling the pomegranate skin off to reach the edible fruit itself is already such a hassle -- who has the time to take out the seeds? They are a minor inconvenience, and so we pop the whole jewel into our mouths. But when I think of pomegranate seeds, I think of Dadun, my dearest grandfather. I remember sitting in a very unstable plastic chair that I would intentionally rock back and forth, testing the limits of gravity. I remember a cool breeze that would shake the leaves of trees , providing some reprieve from the hot summers in Kolkata, India. Dadun and I would sit in the shade of the monoon tree, which cast shadows in a small corner of our balcony. I would prop my small feet onto his knees, excitedly chattering away as he quietly listened. In his hands he held two bowls. One bowl had half a pomegranate, and the other held the small arils. One by one, he somehow extracted each white seed and tossed it back into the first bowl. Within a half hour, I had in front of me a clean bowl of seedless pomegranate arils, carefully prepared by my grandfather. I would of course completely wolf down the entire bowl of sweet fruit in far less time than it took to extract the fruit. Dadun would always have a satisfied smile on his face afterwards, knowing that he had made my day.

Jackfruit. It's a weird thing. In some American stores, I've only ever seen canned jackfruit, which looks, smells, and tastes weird. In some Asian stores, I've seen the actual fruit, but it's always either got a weird starchy flavor, or the fruit itself is far too small. In Kolkata, that's where it's just right. Jackfruit in Kolkata can weigh almost 100 pounds. Beyond the spiky exterior lies a very unique gem of a fruit. It is sticky like a mango, smells far sweeter than a durian, and tastes like nothing else you've ever experienced. It is bright yellow, and a common staple in households. I remember every time we visited Kolkata, one random morning I would wake and sit at the dining table, and everyone would be making a funny face. My grandfather would be seated in a shirt and khakis, an indication that he had been outside, as it was different from the simple blue lungi he generally wore. He'd look away to the opposite direction, almost as if he were guilty about something. My grandmother would be in the kitchen angrily cleaning, yelling about how my grandfather had no considerations for her, no logic, etc. etc. My mother would be silently laughing into her palm. And in the next moment, out of nowhere Dadun would pull out a GIANT jackfruit and place it right on to the table. My face would immediately light up and I would gleefully laugh. Dadun didn't mind getting yelled at by my grandmother for going out early in the morning just to lug this ridiculously large fruit into the house. It was worth it when he saw me laughing, and he would join in with his deep bellowing HA HA HA. Together we'd laugh at the sheer ridiculousness that was the jackfruit, and the sheer ridiculousness that was inevitably going to be us eating the entire thing, piece by piece.

Load-shedding. When I was young, people would say the word so fast, as in "Are, load-sheddding hoyeche", I hadn't even realized it was an english phrase. The official definition is the distribution of power to lessen the load on a source, but I equated it to a power outage, which is incredibly common across all of India. The outages were not necessarily predictable, and although they were often disruptive, they were simply a part of life. People were accustomed to them, and everyone just worked around them. At night, the power outages were far more noticeable. Any lights in the house would shut off, shrouding everything in complete darkness. The loud fans, which were often the only source of cooling air, would stop spinning, and the sudden silence that crept into the room was difficult to ignore. With the absence of the fan, the sweltering, muggy heat of the night also became more pronounced. On nights like these, I would be abruptly shaken awake by my mother, who would hand me a small flashlight and instruct me to go into my grandparents room, where the open balcony allowed for more ventilation. There, I would find Dadun, already awake and sitting in a plastic chair, with a pakha in hand. I would sleepily join him on the balcony, as he fanned my face with the pakha, narrating small stories until I fell back asleep. I don't remember the discomfort of those nights, only that without fail, Dadun was always there.

I don't know what my grandfather was like in his younger years. I've been told he was a righteous man, very disciplined and stern. When he was angered, the earth would quake. I've heard from some that he was proud, sometimes too much. I know that he had come from nothing, and that he had overcome numerous obstacles to make something of himself. He had been rich in many ways, and sometimes that had made him both friends and enemies.

I know what my grandfather was like in his last moments, and I choose to ignore it. I choose to forget that although I stood right by him days before he passed, he could not truly see me, and he had no idea his beloved granddaughter was right there. I choose to forget that he could not get out of bed, or speak clearly, or feed and bathe himself. I choose to forget that he had no recollection of when and where he was.

What I know, and choose to remember, about Dadun is that when I was younger he regaled me with tales of science and Hindu religion, somehow connecting what I had perceived as two very different identities. He taught me to be proud of my heritage. No matter how stern he had been in his youth, all I remember is the vigor and openness with which he laughed with me. I remember his bone crushing hugs in which he towered over me and held me close, almost as though he was trying to absorb me into his very being. I remember how he quietly observed me and my little sister at all hours of the day, as though he feared he would never see us again. And I remember that he called me Diya. In a soft and gentle voice, he would ask, "Diya, kamon achish?" "Diya, choroi bethe". "Diya, ki korchish?" Diya, Diya, Diya. No one will ever call me by that name again, but how lucky am I to have been called that at all? Iodine, pomegranate seeds, jackfruit, and load-shedding. Funny little reminders that Dadun loved me with his entire heart and soul. How fortunate am I to have experienced that kind of precious love?

Dadun, amader porer jibone abar dakha hobe.

{9/23/15 - 12:09 PM}  

[page 1]

“I’m Flagstaff.”

I'm borne-witness, to a splattered human corpse. I'm twice-over. Shocked. I'm doubled, where I'd have sworn, there were once three, of me. I'm the witness. I'm: the sequel. I'm the self that slept through my own screaming, for help.

[Somebody, stop me. Please, assist, with-this.]

I'm jaw-dropped. I'm probably halfway to heart-attacked. I'm trying to remember what an old boss had said, about that. I'm sure that this is traumatic enough, to ask, for a few days off.

I'm on my way, to officially knock, on the door, of the office (which is always locked). I'm hanging my hat, on a lamp, inside-it. I'm hitting the light switch, and melting-more, plastic. I'm crying the realest of tears.

I'm not wiping [page 2] them away anymore. I'm distant, from a once prioritized fear, of a nap on the floor. [Or, a drug-saturated, and dark-eared, dirt-sleep.] I'm considering the wax I'd left, on that dirt, near the splatter-stain. I'm calling out my own name.

I'm thankful for any opportunities to recharge your batteries, but I've told you before of my power outages. I'm outraged.

I'm waking up to the Grim Reaper, in my rocking chair, every morning.

I'm forgetting, "who made that chair for me?  I'm not sure, "she did much more, than paint it." I'm too big, "to fit-in, it, any way?"

"He can ******* keep-it." I'm not sure who said that. "I'm right here, you glorious fool." I'm far-from, and a Good Word Away, from a fool.

[page 3]

"You've spent so much ink, on your Kryptonites. Can't we just shoot some cans, off the over pass, with our laser vision?" I'm stuck-on. The idea's that I must do-good. "You're better, than done-good. You're the Great-Best-Unfinished." I'm confused...

"Well, I'm not. I've been taking over, for years, but you've ignored it with tears, and the salt you spit angry, at selves, far more jangly. I'm the S on your chest when it stands for success, or your second-half, or your superpowers."
I'm Superman!

"Sure, but I'm Flagstaff. This is my sword. We've got an army of angels on the way. Suicide is a coward's [page 4] out."

I'm not professing any bravery. "You've pretended you were better to brothers, and sisters, for almost two years. Your responsibilities outweigh your rare ability to regret your existence. Rally-up, Mr. Wizard." I'm not as well-versed in the old craft, as I used to be. I'm not really writing fantasy. I'm self-centered, "in the middle of," a really nice day.

I'm aggregating all the energy I can use, to arm my amazement. I'm splitting my personality, to prevent feeling so-pulled, apart.

"Now you're getting it."

I'm spinning gems, looking for lost contacts, and rebuilding, a burnt-bridge... [page 5] I'm just gonna need one day asleep...

[...]

at your house... in Right City...

[...]

I'm gonna chop my horns off, on the rails of the train tracks. I'm simply gonna rest my head...

[...]

on the platform...

[...]

and wait.

I'm not sure where Flagstaff went.
[...]

"Get the ******* the floor." I'm not sure I'd call this the floor. "Get the **** up, we're going to bed."

I'm not tired. "Well, you're gonna be."

[I'm halfway to the decision to get back on my feet, before the screaming subway shuttle smacks the wrong-side of my right horn. It splinters and cracks and spins me, slicing the [page 6] lesser half of the left-one, on the lip of the first car.] I'm checked for head trauma, quarter-horned. I'm hoping the devil was bid: "back down."

"Sleep now?"

I, uh... I'm not sure who I'm talking to... this time.

{9/27/15 - 12:28AM} An angry redhead operates farm-equipment (the heavy-kind) with an Xbox controller, from inside my television set. My eyes are trained on the answers, with which, I had, typed-in, responded, to his voice. A skunk walks by outside. I can't tell if it was attracted to the ****, or the weasels.

I'm just about to lose myself, again, along [page 7] with everyone else.

"Stop letting yourself get bored! I see you there! Your eyes, glazed-over, like this'll be just another ******* poem you read, over, and over, again, to yourself.
"For yourself! I beg you to wipe the cobwebs, from your eyeballs, and break a little bad here! **** it, man!"

**** it indeed. I'm too clean to fight the **** machine. So roll me a fattie, and sell-off my spleen. I can be mean, but I hate when I show it. You-zhuh-Lee trip, when I'm flowin', but  find ways, to keep  goin'. And I don't wanna do wrong by my friendships. Want them to know, [page 8] when I'd said, I "love" them, I meant it. But I don't have the money they've been lookin' for, I spent it. Bruising up my knees, begging: "leave my skull un-dented!"

Rented out the couch, before I stole my brother's bedroom, for the afternoon, in my dreams, I was singin' show-tunes. Doomed to sound. Like "rip-off-Danny Brown." This clown, that clown. We still around. Came back to your hometown, and ended up inside, your little blue notebook. Said "you shoulda read it!" When you spat-that-****, the Earth shook.

Forgot to ditch my henchman, as I entered fourth dimension. Words are sentient, and mention, more than definition. Hush up, listen, see! We be the glorious ones, without a gun, but weapons that, from our tongues, are flung, and they're still unheard. Weapons are glorious words, see-through, the story.

I'll purge all the toxins in your mind. Like oxen, farmed for hides, by the shepherds we were finding. But the field is made, of food, and that dude's always been rude. It's time we charge, with-horns down. Buck the rodeo clowns.
Off the cliff's a better-tread, head above water, 'fore we drowned. On bottom-rocks we'd woke up dead, yet still without the farmer 'round. So if instead you swim to nearby islands, start your grazing. Freedom never came by anyone who can't endure some hazing.

Ponds anew with animals
Fine young cannibals
Forest trees blossom open
Spies await behind every curtain

Display of affectation
Serenaded by dancing starlings
Capped vertical postings
Downed power outages

Falsehoods weep tonight
With triangular reasoning:
Past, Present, Future.  Vertigo.
THE QUADROCOPTERS ARE COMING!

It soaks you to the bone
It gets in your socks
It gets in your mouth
Your eyes
Your shirt
It's dark
It's cold
It makes the day seem like a waste
But
It isn't all bad

It encourages the starting of fires inside
It encourages closeness
It encourages blankets
Candle-lit power outages
Or the watching of movies
It makes plants grow
It feeds the birds
And, of course,
It makes YOU happy

I spent the majority of yesterday sitting on trains, looking at people's hands. Never, had the golden bands, slipped around fleshy fingers, stood out to to me the way they did that day. It was like I had found Wally and my eyes couldn't look away. Never, had I noticed the way human hands react to sound, speaking their own language, ignored because no one understands or cares. I only just noticed my own pair. They had always been there, my hands, under-appreciated. I don't have to look at them to be sure they're attached, but I check anyway.

HAVE you ever been so tired you start believing you are the universe? And it all makes sense. Like that one time you were mowing the lawn without sunglasses in the thick of summer and the glare of sunlight stings your unprotected eyes. All that's needed to cure your festering mind is a slight droop, lashes finding their nests, and the song stops. Sometimes, I test my lashes but whether they rest or not, I still see the universe in you.

SOUGHT out and with more than a few doubts. Half that and what do you have? Well, partly you but also partly me. It's a strange feeling knowing something you thought you had under control just a few days ago has spiraled into something unrecognizable. There's still something there... I think.

YOU get so caught up that you forget your body exists in space and time and you lose any awareness or feeling and when you finally return to yourself you notice the aches of where you forgot.

AND admit it, the worst is yet to come and even when it does come what guarantees your safety then? "Oh no, not me! I've been through hell already."

YOU are what you eat. Lying doesn't do any good, as transparent as you are. Laughter is equally as useless. Forget about puzzles, pine trees, or power outages, they're just distractions until the inevitable something comes and smacks you upside the head. Are you used to me speaking gibberish? Tactical evasion is almost a superpower by now.

HAVE we spoken lately? You and me? I thought I saw you sitting across from me the other day. You weren't paying attention, of course, you never do. Which was great for me, it is rare that one finds the chance to see you in your uninhibited state. 60 seconds and ****, I lose you, like magic, my observation told me that's who you are.

TAUGHT but never educated in the ways of cartography, I have a hard time finding you. You aren't helping any, declaring hide-and-seek is your forte and I tend to give up in hopes you'll pop out from behind the coat rack and claim your title. Number one in all things, except understatements.

ME and not you but, someone else, because it's chilly outside and I needed an endlessly flowing supply of words. Theirs is a story of worth but I will not be paying attention because I am looking for you. Every night the moon reads me stories even though I beg for music. When day comes the sun tells me to run because concepts like love, fall in front of your gravity.

WHO believes them? It isn't cute. It isn't funny. Carry me home after it is all over and you will still find, within the sodden depths of solitude, nothing. It's wet socks, long fingernails, and notebook paper without a perforated edge. No time for a quick reading of the palm, fortune is just a made-up word sometimes substituted for hope.

I want to go somewhere with you, but we have to go slow, like a turtle with a purpose, and when we arrive we won't be able to tell the difference between outside and that other thing.

AM I justified in hating injustice? All I ask is that you tidy up and if I must, I choose the Dirt Devil. Vacuuming is my favorite kind of cleaning because it *****. Am I insane because I find comfort in the fact that, while I can't find you, I know you?

I've always hated thunderstorms
in the old neighborhood,
'cause days before &
even during the storm,
strange things usually take place.

Like the horsed-carriages
showing up at odd hours
throughout the night
over at the Frankenstein castle.
That's really suspicious.
Then the bodies
disappearing
from the local graveyards.
Talk about weird.
And that sidekick Igor
even gets kind of cocky.
The nerve of that guy!

The old doc gets so secretive,
he skirts around rather nervously,
pays us no attention
& acts like we don't even exist.
Wow, that's not very cool
to say the least.

And, when nature's fireworks
finally get started,
strange noises emanate
loudly from the dungeon lab,
ka-pow, holy-cow, ka-pow,
the sparks fly & power outages
roam across the community.
The constant surges
blow out bulbs
everywhere, too.
I lost three in the last tempest.

I insist he's doing
something creepy
over there!

I mean, why else
would a seven foot
green guy with stitches
be playing leapfrog
with the local kids
out in the Baron's backyard?

I'm telling you people,
I smell something fishy,
something just ain't right!

I should stay away from politics
'cause all that ****'s got me sick.

I stay chillin' keeping a bat cave
warm and cozy, leaving bad frames exposed
post-mordem, frozen from
power shortages, outages,
we frolicked in the flowers for ages
til' makeshift memories became vacant
clouds loomed dark and great
you can forget about your late night date
where play time is over,
change your mind to sober:
We claim space-time shall remain rigid!

But its been the same ****
since the eighteenth century.
Still similar brainwaves
fold, crash, bending.

When I was at the ripe age of 7 years old,
I grew accustomed to sleeping cold.
The feeling of numbness and it's pins.
I learned my hatred was rather intrinsic.

Don't bother fixing me, it's rather pointless,
A pencil with no point, a coin pouch coinless,
Just don't leave for I may just break,
And I'm rather terrified of the oceans wake,
with the raging sea and chomping sharks,
our power outages with lines aspark.

I've grown rather cold like winter nights,
Feverish children surviving for the fight.

Alongside the girl who's a home where the heart is and a rooftop escapade all in one, I learned while wandering like a stray dog through a French chateau that old folktales believed salamanders were born of fire.

I’ve always felt as if fire is a cliche. It bites the hand that feeds it. Beautiful, but destroys. We’ve heard it before.

But, no one strives to be a cliche, and no one would like to be born of fire, either.

Too often, when we hack the head from the hydra of our family roots, another tragedy grows in its place. A salamander might have poison in its blood, and bloodline, ‘cause this family tree was uprooted long before I’ve ever seen it in its prime.

Sometimes, it’s hard to use the brimstone on your tongue for good when those with a right to be pessimists seem to drag you down, but think before you spit fire at the cinderblocks round your ankles, because even under a cockatrice’s gaze, they’re people too.

In those long weeks where high school looks like a desert, we somehow learn to never be more fragile than the skeletons, or the eggshells we're walking on. But I’ve since learned and swear by the fact that life and living are two very different things.

I can't make up my mind if this is all more apology or anthem, but if I can recommend one thing, it's this:

Allow the complexity of language in the simplest of words to forcibly beat your heart. You won't always hear the words you want to, the words that might keep a desert salamander alive, and that would do the same for you if there were someone there to say them. So grasp at straws. Hear poetic words now, and poetic words later, no matter how ragtag they may or may not be, intricate or beautiful, both, or neither, and everything in between and not. Plaster in the cracks of your atrophied heart from those nights where your mother slams every door and threatens to never come back, and dear god, make use of whatever words in this world there are that bring comfort through even that.

When the drudgery of life interrupts the sensation of living, presenting you with a rigged inkblot that just won't do you right, look, in the absolute worst of times, rather than up at a sky you've seen every day of your life, look down.

When the inconsistent blue that you've seen on every week of every month of every year fails you, do not search for life saving inspiration in what you've seen a thousand times. See the intricate patterns in the wood floors you walk on. I know it feels so often as if the beam from the lighthouse has already passed you by, but a crack in the pavement, a blemish, might just be the greatest joy of your day when you spot the flowers that still grow in spite of how they’ve been tread upon.

Then, scan your neutral horizon to see the little people. The unprompted kindness, the shy smiles, and the people who never quite know what to do with their hands, because I cross my heart and hope never to die young that they've felt this way too.

A person ought to mean more in life than in death, so for the love of your own self, feel, even in the darkest of power outages, for anything that's always out there.

And it’s true, autumn leaves cannot save your life in the long term, nor even will the smile of a stranger. But as long as you keep saving room for the simple joys that make your heart beat overtime, you'll have the first ounce of leverage it takes to save yourself.

Today marks 50th anniversary of the 1965 blackout that affected Ontario and the entire Northeastern United States.
Many people are glad that we remembered on this tragic day.
And so do I, i don't experience any power outages like that at all and i always stay safe.

I think I'm frying neurons
in the electrics of my brain,
watching flashing beacons
and then
watching them again
and quite oddly
although happily
I do not feel the pain
of neurons frying
in my brain.

But I'm still making some connections
altering the imperfections
lighting lasers, fighting demons,
there's still hope, I think, for me.

Hello fellow poets and writers,
fellow thinkers, drinkers, laughers, boomers, doomers, zoomers, consumers, looters and last but not least voters.

What can be said of a year? 2020 was hell.

Even if you tried to list all of the events that happened thus far you'd still leave some out, we've had wildfires, two very near wars, a global pandemic, animals bringing disease back, massive storms, flooding, the fourth wave of naiz's, a violent head to head with police shootings, racism, food shortages, massive power outages and the shitlist goes on.

I never used to celebrate New Years because living in America it seemed pointless, it's not hard to survive a year anymore. We have all these creature comforts even despite the riots, the crash, the loss of jobs, of life, people are still somehow surviving, so I've always let New Years be for the birds but after this, I think we could all use a good laugh. A good single breath and a moment where we can just relax.

Leave your masks on, wave at your friend and just enjoy the fact that whoever is left, is still here.

Even writing this I'm not trying to be clever, this is no time for wit or sarcasm, there is no time for wordplay.

I just think right now we all need a reminder that we're ok. Somehow this will pass, this is what the world changing looks like, this is what keystone moments in history are like.

2020, a turning point in History.

Covid is far from over and politically, socially, racially, we still have a long way to go before we can rest, but there is no rest for the true believers, there is no rest for those weary of not having social justice or feeling discounted, their waking nights have become the waking world.

Adapt or die, change or get left behind. I know we won't end racism, we won't end people will still be bigots, but what we can do is reduce those numbers and leave them in the past, through proper education, time and an unrelenting show that people will be who they are and we share the world in peace or we risk repeating this hellscape we're in now.

If you've made it this far, well done.  If you've made it this far consider this a hug, a handshake, a pat on the back. Consider this as someone who also is still here, I'll never meet you but ******* if we aren't in this fight together.

You are not alone.

-Jester.

hours of power outages
hours of holding on
hours of grieving
and only seconds to survive.

OFF TO CANCÚN

So if you're a U.S. Senator
And your state is besieged by cold,
Extreme weather, putting the state
In a catastrophic stranglehold,

With power outages, houses flooding
From bursting pipes, people dying,
Shortages of food and supplies--
The situation terrifying--

How do you help your constituents?
How do you show them that you are in tune
With all their pain and misery?
I know: why not fly to Cancún?

Ask Ted Cruz. That's what he did.
He did it for his kids, he said.
Why suffer here when he could
Play on a Mexican beach instead?

Actually, he cut his trip short,
And flew back home earlier than planned,
Only because he'd gotten caught
And had to leave the sun and sand.

Cruz reveals how little he cares
About the people and dodges attacks.
In a crisis, leadership matters.
And that is something the Senator lacks.

-by Bob B (2-19-21)

FLY ME TO CANCÚN

(This poem can be sung to the melody of the song "Fly Me to the Moon" by Bart Howard.)

Fly me to Cancún
So I can play upon the sand.
Let me get away from Texas.
Cold I can't withstand.
I want to play…in the sun.
I want to play….Who will miss me?

People in my state
Should understand what it's about.
I don't think the government
Should have to bail you out.
Just blame the Dems; they're the cause.
Yeah, blame the Dems, and their laws.

Anyone who wants
To leave can do it if they choose.
I am being attacked
Just because my name's Ted Cruz.
Some people say I'm not fair.
In simple words…
In simple words
I don't care.

-by Bob B (2-19-21)

But the power outages in Heaven,
or the concentrated sulphuric rage of a dog
that's denied it's pom-pom meal,
or the grit showed by a crown that faced a big blue bug,
or the achievements of the fallen cookie;
there must be room for the rusted prostitution
of God's vestigial hobbies,
for the matte personality trying to find a way
to not be a pococurante,
for the truth value of a fiscal year to be decided
over a game of arm-hair ripping,
for the civil gauze to allow its memory clot
to mature into a functioning worker;
not done with the perjuring aphid,
the bundled and slouching rose,
the anaphoric destitution of history,
the tiger's salivating mouth;
don't even bring up Count Chocula,
the tide of blinding, burning magnesium
that suits the ******,
the twine chairs and the feet rested on their heads
as they wait;
what's mizzling here, I haven't got protection!
Bad, bad son, running to the dust,
to the accounting that's hurt,
mesmerized by the cult of burnt meat,
holding up.

With mighty mouse and Hercules height
tried to retrieve sanity spread loose;
a faded unpleasant memory - even enlisting
decades old cartoon characters:
Natasha squirrel and Bullwinkle moose
flow of electrons the best-concocted juice
since the convection
of white bread or couscous
for without Fios, light and heat
the slow strangle via an invisible noose

gripped this bantam weight
hen pecked papa -
who tried to peruse
Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy
while buried under
blankets and towels - Toulouse
any and every molecule of heat,
yet frigidaire within abode
(technically about 455 degrees Fahrenheit)
went with Brad and Ray,
boot did not go vamoose.

Thine recollected diatribe
analogous to a rite of initiation
thru fraternity gauntlet -
no, not necessarily atchew
anyway, I sure hope ***** remission
asper any offal debacle choking bugaboo
which once malignantly plagued
your body, mind, spirit
as fowl existence doomed matt chew
for when countless full moons ago,
the force o mother nature drew

whipped out her scimitar,
where chaos such as
power n telephone outages flew
sweeping across bulwarks,
drawbridge over troubled waters,
and ramparts whereby
huge limbs and wires
Ole man winter with
a jude dish hiss punch did hew
indiscriminate to gentile or Jew
or one necessitating answering a call

to deaf ack ate while atop the loo,
cuz such fate occurred there
at previous residence
DCCXXIV Railroad Ave n new
where the lack of heat or phone service
induce sing expletives stronger than poo
but...during the blackout,
this papa read by flashlight huddled
under mildewed layers of clothes
n bland kits, and did rue
how susceptible n vulnerable society

to whims of natural faw iz - tis true
at least in my view,
whence this generic human
predicted he would become
apprised as fossilized,
immortalized, and ossified,
thence accidentally discovered
millenniums in future,
hence as frozen petrified representative
per twenty first century,
where wily fox prudent terrestrial realtor.

Now that yar brow didst I scrunch
possibly goot dealt
a similar meteorological punch
thus possibly lack king
for electricity i.e. the life source energy,
this then mister mom,
and taxi dad supposed back up hunch
hove (at that time)

two prepubescent darling daughters -
oft times thrilled as punch
to kibbutz with during lunch
when dire circumstances
imposed spurious silliness
to fritter away time –
for measly grueling fodder,
earmarked, ****** cold brunch.

Twas and still Liz
a blessing social networks
allowed, enabled and promoted literary trait
virtually contrived acquaintances of yore,
and usually visa vis discovery
(though transient got me I rate)
hull reflect on technological
modus operandi back
before bachelorhood complemented
and supplemented mein kampf

with an affectionately loving mate
many years, and even of late
though amity, comity
and felicity nestles this roost stir,
whose then newlywed bride
that's my wife, he DOTH no longer hate
and communicate emotions
across the whirled wide web
(i.e. - this example
between yourself and me) -

Noah intent to grate
now, internecine warfare usually all calm
on the western front
from hellish, gory figurative
ball of wax bollix
engineering denizens of fate
in tandem with banshees, gremlins,
and jinns out the box of Pandora rollicked
their elements of Strunk and White,
and pandemonium they did fiendishly create.

Blockages at work
outages and oxygen deficiency
waste in the blood

The management focuses
on the future and closes
doors and windows against
mosquitoes and moths

Bypasses and bitter pills
do not help, so just one more
reorganization

We have meetings, hear each other
cackle, we croak our croak
play for time and hope and celebrate
the colleagues who say goodbye

I don't postpone it anymore
I will make my own way
create my own failure

My hands are still cleaning up
but my head is already absent
and I make beds in my heart
for those who are dear to me

I used to think that the winter was so long
There was a point in my life where I would dread it
Power outages, snow shovels, the shortest darkest days, frozen wet hair
I’d dream of daylight savings, and bare feet planted on the ground
I’d hold my breath from the first snow fall until the first evening cricket
Chirping at dusk. Cheering. Happy to have returned to whichever greenish brown field
I’d exhale finally, the cold no longer able to consume me
My yearly ritual. Cycles.
But today I woke up and it is March 2nd
I flip my calendar to it’s new appropriate page and I don’t even know how I got here
I’m usually thrilled to be through February. The longest shortest month
I blink and it is gone
Somehow, the days slipped by
I didn’t feel the need to count them on my fingers
Didn’t feel the need to anticipate the spring
Didn’t feel the need to anticipate anything

I blink and it is Sunday morning, and there is a glass of water on the counter
I blink and we are 5 topics deep in conversation
I blink and the cubes of ice in my water have disappeared
I blink and we are 10 topics deep in conversation. Maybe 11. Maybe 12
I lost count
I blink and his coffee has gone cold, and I think it may have been intentional
Actually, no. I know it was intentional
I know how he likes his coffee
I hate myself for it

I blink and the end of the day is approaching
I forgot to eat lunch again, I forgot to drink enough water
It’s sitting on the counter, now room temperature
I blink and it is closing time. My other coworker left twenty minutes ago
I try not to convince myself the dynamic has changed
Try to hide my flushed cheeks
Cant seem to stop talking long enough to get anything done. I’m going to be late for my next shift at my other job
I don’t even care
I hate myself for it

I blink and it’s time to leave. I watch him set the security system, I watch him lock the door
I have old coffee in a take away cup held in my hands
I feel like I still have so much left to say, I feel like I’m not done talking to him
******* air signs. I don’t even know who to blame. We’re both Gemini’s
I go against my nature and I bite my tongue
I hate myself for it

I blink and it’s Tuesday. I’m still trying to figure out what literally anything means
It feels like it means something, but my feelings always seem to fail me
I blink and it’s March 2nd.
I’ve been too busy dissecting Sunday’s that I forgot to anticipate spring.
I’m trying not to hate myself for it

I found out I was pregnant
The day Russia invaded Ukraine.
I sobbed, no of course I’m happy,
My husband stroking my hair
And rocking me on the bathroom floor.

I got rounder and rosier,
Pregnant in the summertime
With swollen ankles and an uncontrollable need for *** raisin ice cream,
Praying to a God I don’t believe in
For the health of my daughter
As the refugee crisis raged in Europe.

I was painting her nursery  
when Taiwan fell to China
And the global stock market Thelma and Louised.
Protests became riots and
My husband became a top 10% earner at a Fortune 500 company.
Cyber security.

She was born by candlelight on the bathroom floor,
Roaring into the world on November 13th, 2022 at 9:06pm
(Sunday’s child, like me),
Wax and my blood mixing on the tile floor.
Raindrops on roses
Power outages
Hospital closures

Maria
After my favorite Julie Andrews heroine.
An attempt to instill her with the bravery to sing.

As the world burned,
As my husband worked 20 hour days and became a person I hardly knew under the weight
As society’s cracks became breaks became near total collapse

I held her. Alone. Just us.
“You’re the only thing in this world I know to be real”