We either become sadder
Or our heart beats become louder
My heart,
My heart is eating so fast my bones are tingling
Vibrating through my veins
My blood stream is failing
I think too much
I don’t pray enough
Lost touch with the angels
The angels lost me
Forgetting this
Words are words by choice
Awkwardly complicated
Passionate souls intertwined in chaos
Beautiful chaos
My hands are shaking, they can’t stand still
I overdo it with coffee, I over did it.
Can’t handle my life sober
So much ****** up **** in the world
Smart people seem like crazy people to dumb people
And if you believe you can change the world
You’re one of a kind.

There's only so much you could do,
Don't go against your own limit,
Doesn't push yourself, don't overdo,
Your wellbeing is more important.
Your wellbeing is more important.

~A.d |14 Feb 2015

today, bob delahunty, was asked along to that HDU, to try and here the stories

of these many people who have been arguing about who is god, you see, there

is always, debates on who is more powerful that jesus, and who is jesus, and

when bob arrived, all the HDU, are arguing religious topics at each other till

their ears bleed, and bob didn’t know which way to turn, so, what bob did

is take them aside, first was ben teckerdid, who says his god, and bob said what makes

you god, buddy, ben said, well, i help people after i get drunk with them, my gift of the mandrunk

is to overdo helping people, and i end up here all the time, to reform everyone here, to

get this fucken place, closed down, then bob said, why that does make you GOD, ben

no, your just a crazy person, who likes to help, but you are not medicated right, in doing your deeds,

well, it passes the god test, but ben you are not the almighty one, and ben told bob to SHUT UP, singing

i know god is the devil, but the devil is bob

god is the devil and the devil is bob

god is the devil and the devil is bob

ben the devil and bobby poo

bob told ben to sit down and brought richard smith in, who believes he is the real jesus, and bob

was intrigued, why are you the real jesus, and richard said, because i can feel everyones pain

if you hit anyone, i feel it, and if i worked in a homeless shelter, i will get everyone inspired

cause, i am the real jesus, bob sat there laughing hitting himself with a rubber band, and richard

said, it doesn’t work like that, you see bob, i turned water into wine, i told moses to walk on water

i enjoy drinking wine, but i am a filthy little ****, i am jesus, cause, on inspection days in my flat

i can clean all day, to past the test, ooooh, i must be jesus, and bob said, ok, you have my vote

and richard said no bob, i am jesus christ, and not just to get out of here, either, I AM JESUS

and richard left saying, did you understand, as he left singing

god is the devil, and the devil is bob

god is the devil and the devil is bob

god is the devil and the devil is bob

GOD, THE DEVIL, AND ****** BOB

the next patient also thought he was jesus, he was also the devil and god, because to him

he was religion, he lived for 323 years, and all his stories were written in his tent, but bob

thought straight away, WHAT A NUTJOB, he isn’t religion, he’s a clot, and his name was barney

and he lived near fred, and a woman named betty as his wife, and they worked on a dinosaur

and bob said, this guy has flipped his ****** marbles, that was a television show in thew 1970s

and barney said in his defense, no, it actually was the truth, barney helped fred, i helped fred

i am barney, and bob said, you are a shitzophrenic patient in the HDU, i don’t want to upset you

but the flintstones, never was real, in the way you explained it, ben and richard had better views

that you, buddy, and barney told bob to *******, and went away singing

god is the devil and the devil is bob, and barney is religion

god is the devil and the devil is bob and barney is religion

god is the devil and the devil is bob and barney, oh barney oh barney is religion

flintstones existed bobby delahunty

bob saw his last patient who said he was jesus christ and the devil, he saves people

but he also condemns people, ya know, puts people right all the time, bob thought

i don’t mess with you, mr, and he said he was jack flynn, i am 23, and i live and work

in a ****** neighbourhood, i never get any help from doctors and psych crews

and my only solace are my beliefs and writing them down on my computer

and i can save a lot of people, with the stories i wrote, buddy, ya know

bob asked, i understand that, but both jesus and the devil, and jack said

ummmmm, i am jesus, and there is no devil, good things happen bad things happen

the devil doesn’t control, and yeah, I, JESUS, MUST FORFILL MY DUTY TO PROTECT THE WORLD FROM VIOLENCE

IN ANY SHAPE OR FORM, bob said, interesting, ok, and bob went away making sure

that each of these dellusionists take their medications cause even if they are, their crimes were wrong, ok

but, remember, they have a right to their beliefs, and bob went away singing

god is the devil, and the devil is bob

god is the devil and the devil is bob

god is the devil and the devil is bob

GOD THE DEVIL AND BOB

bob went off thinking

god is the devil and the devil is bob

god is the devil and the devil is bob

god is the devil and the devil is bob

GOD THE DEVIL AND BOB

I wanna see the blood
I wanna see the pain
I wanna prove that my body
Is nothing more than a frame
My mind is screaming
Parts of it beg me to bleed
The others demonize those pleas
I just don't want to feel this way anymore
And I suppose it's my own fault
I know how I get
When I start drinking then stop
Maybe that's why I always overdo it
Because then I can get sick and sleep
Before this depression takes its hold
And sets my demons free
Digging and clawing at my mind
Until I do the same to my own skin

HAIKU 1
All that comes to net
are fish; either golden or silver color;
Fishermen are rich at heart!

_________________________________

HAIKU 2
Action speaks louder than words;
Be practical; stop wasting your precious time
Life is full of hazards!
___________
HAIKU 3
You are naturally beautiful; cheerful,
a sight for my eyes to hold ;
Will you allow kissing!
___________
HAIKU 4
While on visit to temples,
I imagine you as my own Goddess:
I become your only follower!
___________
HAIKU 5
Few ***** drinks before dinner;
But sometimes, I overdo it at weekends!
A Hangover next day morning.
___________

*
BY
Williamsji­ Maveli
williamsji@yahoo.com

He saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself and look again. He spoke
Advancing toward her: “What is it you see
From up there always?—for I want to know.”
She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,
And her face changed from terrified to dull.
He said to gain time: “What is it you see?”
Mounting until she cowered under him.
“I will find out now—you must tell me, dear.”
She, in her place, refused him any help,
With the least stiffening of her neck and silence.
She let him look, sure that he wouldn’t see,
Blind creature; and a while he didn’t see.
But at last he murmured, “Oh” and again, “Oh.”

“What is it—what?” she said.

“Just that I see.”

“You don’t,” she challenged. “Tell me what it is.”

“The wonder is I didn’t see at once.
I never noticed it from here before.
I must be wonted to it—that’s the reason.
The little graveyard where my people are!
So small the window frames the whole of it.
Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it?
There are three stones of slate and one of marble,
Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight
On the sidehill. We haven’t to mind those.
But I understand: it is not the stones,
But the child’s mound——”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t,” she cried.

She withdrew, shrinking from beneath his arm
That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;
And turned on him with such a daunting look,
He said twice over before he knew himself:
“Can’t a man speak of his own child he’s lost?”

“Not you!—Oh, where’s my hat? Oh, I don’t need it!
I must get out of here. I must get air.—
I don’t know rightly whether any man can.”

“Amy! Don’t go to someone else this time.
Listen to me. I won’t come down the stairs.”
He sat and fixed his chin between his fists.
“There’s something I should like to ask you, dear.”

“You don’t know how to ask it.”
“Help me, then.”

Her fingers moved the latch for all reply.

“My words are nearly always an offense.
I don’t know how to speak of anything
So as to please you. But I might be taught,
I should suppose. I can’t say I see how.
A man must partly give up being a man
With womenfolk. We could have some arrangement
By which I’d bind myself to keep hands off
Anything special you’re a-mind to name.
Though I don’t like such things ‘twixt those that love.
Two that don’t love can’t live together without them.
But two that do can’t live together with them.”
She moved the latch a little. “Don’t—don’t go.
Don’t carry it to someone else this time.
Tell me about it if it’s something human.
Let me into your grief. I’m not so much
Unlike other folks as your standing there
Apart would make me out. Give me my chance.
I do think, though, you overdo it a little.
What was it brought you up to think it the thing
To take your mother-loss of a first child
So inconsolably—in the face of love.
You’d think his memory might be satisfied——”

“There you go sneering now!”

     “I’m not, I’m not!
You make me angry. I’ll come down to you.
God, what a woman! And it’s come to this,
A man can’t speak of his own child that’s dead.”

“You can’t because you don’t know how to speak.
If you had any feelings, you that dug
With your own hand—how could you?—his little grave;
I saw you from that very window there,
Making the gravel leap and leap in air,
Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly
And roll back down the mound beside the hole.
I thought, Who is that man? I didn’t know you.
And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs
To look again, and still your ***** kept lifting.
Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice
Out in the kitchen, and I don’t know why,
But I went near to see with my own eyes.
You could sit there with the stains on your shoes
Of the fresh earth from your own baby’s grave
And talk about your everyday concerns.
You had stood the ***** up against the wall
Outside there in the entry, for I saw it.”

“I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed.
I’m cursed. God, if I don’t believe I’m cursed.”

“I can repeat the very words you were saying:
‘Three foggy mornings and one rainy day
Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.’
Think of it, talk like that at such a time!
What had how long it takes a birch to rot
To do with what was in the darkened parlour?
You couldn’t care! The nearest friends can go
With anyone to death, comes so far short
They might as well not try to go at all.
No, from the time when one is sick to death,
One is alone, and he dies more alone.
Friends make pretense of following to the grave,
But before one is in it, their minds are turned
And making the best of their way back to life
And living people, and things they understand.
But the world’s evil. I won’t have grief so
If I can change it. Oh, I won’t, I won’t!”

“There, you have said it all and you feel better.
You won’t go now. You’re crying. Close the door.
The heart’s gone out of it: why keep it up?
Amyl There’s someone coming down the road!”

“You—oh, you think the talk is all. I must go—
Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you——”

“If—you—do!” She was opening the door wider.
“Where do you mean to go? First tell me that.
I’ll follow and bring you back by force. I will!—”

You will love
And it will hurt sometimes
Your frijoles will burn sometimes
And sometimes you’ll put too much salt or not enough
An insult or two
But mijo don’t ever let him hit you
And leave before you hit him back

You will love
And it will **** sometimes
Cocine en olla de barro
Persígnese en la mañana
Use condones y lubricante
Y guarde un cuchillo debajo de la cama

You will love
And it will feel good sometimes
No le eche tanta sal a la carne
Póngale un vaso de agua a sus muertos
Take lots of pictures
And in times of trial, don’t forget about the good memories
Invoke them, que esas lo van a sacar de dudas

You will love
And it will get intense sometimes
Límpiese con un ramo de flores blancas
Hágase un baño de agua florida con cascarilla
Get tested at least twice a year,
Y coma bien, no se malpase

You will love
And it will be sad sometimes
Use grape seed oil instead of mazola
Chia seeds on your water, pa’ la diabetis
Honey instead of refined sugars
******* once a day o las veces que quiera
And never let your ****** desire depend on a man
For all men despite their beauty can be damaged

You will love
And you will be on top of the world sometimes
Don’t eat so many tortillas,
Soda is not good for your kidneys, drink water or brew your own ice tea o hagase su juguito natural
Sea humilde y buena gente
No need to be mean and creido
Crease de su identidad y su lenguage
Ya lo material va y viene
Pero eso sí, que no se lo hagan pendejo que por ahí hay mucho cabron abusivo

You will love
And you will break up sometimes
Don’t overdo it with the drinking
Write a lot of poetry
Listen to a lot of Jenni Rivera
Go out and enjoy your singlehood
Que es bien bonito no rendirle cuentas a nadie

You will love
Pero no se olvide de uste’ mismo
Love yourself
Quiérase musho
Pa’ que ningún cabrón le vea la cara de pendejo
Pero antes de que llore por cualquier wey
Acuérdese de su ama
De su guelita
Y de su familia
Y piense que un hombre por más rico que coja no es todo en la vida

Acuérdese que venimos de una raza de gente fuerte y hermosa
Pero que eso no nos quita lo hijos de la chingada
Y de eso también hay que estar orgullosos
Porque lo hijos de la chingada es lo que nos ayuda a sobrevivir
Nomas no hay que ser hijos de la chingada con la gente que como nosotros sufre y lucha
Sea hijo de la chingada con la gente que nos quiere chingar

You will love,
And love is the only thing that will bring you happiness
Beauty and health
Love pues y cuando le digan que no puede amar a otro hombre
Mándelos a la chingada y dígales con palabras de profeta: YOU WILL LOVE.

.... it's normal...maybe it's not,
maybe, i overdo it....yet, i still do it...
i always think of things to come
...at day time....even late nights,
thinking too much of my children
my children's children...i must always
be there...for when they need help...
i worry too about my siblings
i even think of my siblings' brood
my dear friends and their worries
...thinking how i can help them...
later, i get weary....fed up at times,
exhausted from worrying, wondering
how i could offer even a bit of a remedy
especially when they are too far to be
touched warmly...or, my hands are tied,
....or, not that long to reach out...

i realize before long...i am not alone
decidedly, i refuse to be solaced
by the thought, that my worries
could just be pebbles...not rocks...
i musn't compare at all....

(excerpts from an old posted poem...edited)

Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    May 20, 2018

It seems all i can get high on now is cigarettes,

sitting in the bathroom,

alone

it’s kind of sad

i cant even get high on alcohol

maybe if i overdo it

and even then i dont’ have any fun

i miss you

and getting high

simply on life and oxygen

and each other

when we meet

shall we dance

or shall we ****

or shall we **** and dance

a sublime melding of body and music

surreal

like cigarette smoke in the bathroom mirror

will you let me lead

to heaven

to hell

through the valley of death

through the shadow of light

i will be your angel of death

or love

or light

whatever you ask of me i will give

or do

or be

except being an eternity from you

the creeping cold

the moon madness

searching for a face in the stars

yet not knowing who I search for

then finally staring at the stars

at the shadow of light

at the valley of death

like smoke in a mirror

ethereal

body and music divided

**** and dance

****

dance

final meeting

life is oxygen

final "high"

one last cigarette

kind of sad

alone

in the bathroom

****.....why can’t i get high.

we had to **** many animals.  my father, every month, cursed a pig its lack of horns and cursed the out-of-town buying of dogs.  I took my sister once into the basement.  I blindfolded her with a black sock and told her careful there’s a pin in your hand.  mother would come from that basement pulling at her shirt and I’d nip it at the neckhole with my teeth and I could feel each nerve around them firing.  the whole of our ordeal was indeed terrible but people would talk as if they knew what they’d do or knew what they’d not.  talk as if they’d know it if they saw.  it come up for awhile and tried to live with us and I can’t say it wasn’t nice having something to put your finger on that wouldn’t thieve your sins.  I fed to it lemonheads and it seemed happy but even I admit one can overdo it on the lemonheads.  it was father made it go back in the basement because he’d tired of telling people it was his brother and pretty soon his real brother would be coming to visit.  was a visit would last the length of his brother’s life but we didn’t know it then.  the devil went its own way at some point during my uncle moving in.  we were all of us pretty clumsy and it could’ve been the noise we made.  I remember being grateful for my uncle’s heart of gold and how he wouldn’t accept our apologies saying it’s just a bunch of stuff I don’t even know I have.

The young people have exalted notions, because they have not been humbled by life or learned its necessary limitations; moreover, their hopeful disposition makes them think themselves as equal to great things and that means having exalted notions.
They would always rather do noble deed than useful ones. Their lives are regulated more by moral feeling than by reasoning all their mistakes are in the direction of doing things excessively and vehemently. They overdo everything they love too much hate too much and the same with everything else. (Aristotle)**


The Hereford cattles talk quietly among themselves
The commute home on the B train was noisier than ever
The passenger beside them youth squirmed and frigid
Youth of today is selfish and only think of themselves
If you asked for a passed, they will give you a laugh
If the elderly asked for the seat, they will give it to
Their backpacks, and scream louder, old geeks

Discipline, like if it’s outdated: no structure
A lost generation without stability:
A dark history, I lay awake and wonder
How can we fix this? Problem, problem
And more problem heading their way

While in the field the Hereford cattle
talk quietly among themselves
Nursing their calf without being asked of their mothers
to cover up their babies faces:

Dont be pressured
Dont just go a long with the crowd
Dont dress just to impress
Dont overdo your make up
Honestly her weekness makes you a ****
Dont lie to me
Dont be pressured into telling secrets about me
Dont tell people what i trusted you to keep quiet
Dont  leave me in the dust when people insult you because i have stuck my neck out for you a million times on end,
Honestly, her  weekness broke our friendship up
I know how to be strong
Because others weekness has caused me so much pain
I know how to be strong
because im the only one who can keep my brother on his feet during hard family troubles
I know i have to be strong or i wont be successful.
I know that in the end the week kids never make it big.
Its survival of the fittest.

2002
Dearest Klara,
  hope you enjoy
the poems as you dream to write
      one poem
happy birthday*


There are still many books as though
   parliament. A miscalculation based on coordinates
in a wry scene.

Two bookshelves creating a labyrinth, enough that you
are alike. Juxtaposed to scent are many words
and the day is almost done. Ignore fragments once,
but never overdo. I can outlast moonlight’s procession
into a dark cathedral by the window.

On this side – reason; the other, hesitance.
This is no heist. This is what belongingness refutes.
What willingness bandages. The absence of sentries
  made for easy rapture. You slid your hand into the dusty
fort and in between them, the paperbacks ached.
  “I will do it.” and after that, cursed at the farce.

Slid into your bag – you, surrounded by the tense air
of silence. A dilettante at being a fugitive. What is it that
you stole?
   Your body, elsewhere. Flailing. Failing. There are still
many marvels in the scene, but says precision is key.
Cuts as if contravention. This was as calm as painting a child
  in his early years, the hue of anomaly.

Quiet in amplitudes doles out a mystified sense of completion.
I can hear an ajar mouth unwind a soft humming.
   It was time to go – tomorrow when we rise with no memory,
  it will be all but one and the same fault together with many others,
     as if your face that day and your image now
          compels me the cold of a foreign city. Riddance.

heartbeats
We either become sadder
Or our heart beats become louder
My heart,
My heart is eating so fast my bones are tingling
Vibrating through my veins
My blood stream is failing
I think too much
I don’t pray enough
Lost touch with the angels
The angels lost me
Forgetting this
Words are words by choice
Awkwardly complicated
Passionate souls intertwined in chaos
Beautiful chaos
My hands are shaking, they can’t stand still
I overdo it with coffee, I over did it.
Can’t handle my life sober
So much ****** up **** in the world
Smart people seem like crazy people to dumb people
And if you believe you can change the world
You’re one of a kind.
N

Literary allusions: the curse of
Those who overdo—or, as some say--
Overdid the reading thing.
I speak of close associates,
Imaginary friends you’ve not met,
Let alone read (pronounced "RED") about.
Like this guy down at Moe’s Tavern,
An 8th Avenue writer’s bar I frequent.
Let's call him Paulie Muldoon,
A fat Irish slob who claims to be
Poetry Editor, "The New Yorker."
Paulie likes to give me tips on
HOW TO GET PUBLISHED!
Like me, he’s never
Been in print anywhere,
Other than his ***-encrusted laptop, &
A letter he once wrote to the editors of
"The National Kreplach Review,"
A radical Zionist quarterly
Funded by The Mel Brooks Foundation,
Harvey Weinstein & Condé Nast.
Nevertheless, Paulie seems to know
A lot about the publishing business,
Particularly after six stiff Jack & Cokes.
He says the thing is this:  
The best of the Ivy-League’s
English majors wind up in Manhattan,
Slaving away in cubicles,
Working for peanuts—literally,
The publishing industry has some sort of
Barter agreement with Planters.
(www.planterspeanuts.com)                                       ­            
They sit around on their ***** all day,
Getting their kishkes in a twist,
Eating peanuts, perusing manuscripts,
Like chimp Zoo valedictorians.
The manuscripts submitted by the hopeful
And--for the most part--delusional.
According to Paulie, these Yalie, Princeton,
Harvard, Columbiana WORDMEISTERS
Are more likely. . .
(Urban Dictionary: word-meister (www.urbandictionary.com/define.php? 1. Something yelled in place of a cuss word. 2. a rare species of humpback whales. 3. small children whose mother's name is Debbie.)
. . . More apt to be impressed with your scree
If you lay siege their psychic CPUs,
Pushing a few obscure,
Mnemonic function keys, remembrances
Of past Proustian peregrinations.
That's right, you get a much
Better shot at sidestepping that
First smug obstacle of arrogance,
If you slather them; go right
Ahead & flatter them with
Lotions, potions & emoluments,
Arcane passwords,
Vain secret satisfactions,
Tidbits of titillation,
Things that only some mook
That actually had read "The Crucible."
Or "The Scarlet Letter,"
Could possibly know,
Let alone, remember.
For a publisher’s water-boy,
A synaptic switch is keyed,
Tripping off an avalanche of
Marginally relevant,
Yet ultra-literate,
Cognitive highlights.
And, while we're on the subject,
Has anyone actually read Melville's "OMOO?"

Wallow, wallow, wallow
Until the first cracks
Show on your body.
Bees on lips
And whales in your woods
Make your life uneasy.
You manage to overdo the thinking
Which makes you unhappy
Deaf and blind
Yet even more beautiful.

The coffin of your closest relative
Never asked you anything
But you keep on justifying
Every little detail of your past.
Now you exhale yourself
On a wild bouquet of dandelions.

Keep still
For a moment.

You’re safe from questions in your own reflection
Another brain thinks for you,
VANITAS winks at you but you don’t give her attention,
Skulls and faded flowers smell like danger,
Nothing good can ever come out of that.

I may be saving your life,
I may stroke your neck but gently,
Leave your beauty intact
But with a bruise.

After  years  of  you  giving me the silent treatment                                                        ­                                          if  no  one  calls  I  think  it's because  of a disagreement                                                     ­                             Because  of  your consistent  lack  of communication                                                    ­                  sometimes  when  I talk, I forget people are listening                                                        ­         Convinced I am never enough or  I'm too  much                                                        ­                                                I overdo for others in hopes of earning their love                                                             ­                                                     Under your  sense of grandiose entitlement                                                      ­                                                      I've  put myself last and under your judgement                                                        ­                                                    With persistent efforts to  disrespect me                                                                                                                          I  over explain and apologize habitually                                          I've  accepted bread crumbs of your affection                                                        ­                                             a love  concocted of toxin and poisonous venom

I think about the future, and what it just may hold.
And whether it is up to me, or a plan that must unfold.
I hesitate to think about, what lies too far ahead.
When I do, I overdo, and then can't clear my head.

I would love to learn to take things, just as they come along,
And not debate every choice I make, as either right or wrong.
To stop trying to live up to, what others' say I should be.
Maybe fly away for the weekend, try some spontaneity.

Stop and talk to a passer by, who's wearing shabby clothes,
Listen close, and maybe learn, something no one knows.
Take more breaks and be the center, of my own attention,
Find a way to spend a day, with too many smiles to mention.

Open up to a new found friend, holding nothing back at all,
Expand my horizons to find, the world really, isn't all that small.
And if I chose to do everything, that my heart truly desired,
Would I ever know if it was me, or the plan which had conspired?

Your hands
Wave
                            Over
       Me
  Still
         The threshold
       To
            Guilt
                              Presents
                     The years
Overdo
In some less-than-conscious
                   Battle
And
             The         lines
Reassure
                    Great
Trouble
     To Combat
              Global
                                Impulse

Some of you
Don’t know how much you mean to
Me–
I just can’t see
A way
To say
“Just standing next to you makes my day”
Or perhaps “That made me feel so
Much better” because I know
It would just feel weird.
For how long has our society feared
Expressions
Of affection?
Too much obviously feels wrong
But when you’ve been here for so long,
I don’t know how to not overdo
My gratitude towards you.