The people have endured hardships for a while now. They have prayed and fasted for a better day but none has come. Prophesy has been given but has not been fulfilled. There have been moaning and groaning in every heart, in every home and in all the streets. Tyranny and misrule have become the trademark of the Mugabe rule. Finally our hope is at an end and our patience faded. It is time for a new Zimbabwean renaissance!
Zimbabwe does not belong to a few, it is not an aristocratic organisation. No one inherited the birth right to the white house. No one person is entitled to the presidency alone. It is the people who make Zimbabwe and it is they who rule. The president is nothing but a glorified civil servant. He or she works for the people and not against them. The people are the masses and they have the ultimate power. The Police and Army are mandated to serve and protect the interests of the people and not to fight them. The government should be for the people. Governments are nothing without the people!
Mugabe is the most shameful of African leaders. He was a beacon of light that turned into an apocalyptic darkness. He was the colourful and joyous son of Africa now turned into a ruthless dictator. The unlikely and even undeserving candidate who now imposes himself to be the king for life. The incorruptible one who has now become the father and a haven for the **** of corruption. Mugabe is a man disillusioned by his own grandiose imaginations that have been brewed by his over-prolonged stay on the seat of power. He has become the educated man who turned into the most foolish amongst us. Lost all sense of morality and cannot distinguish between what is right and wrong. This icon of a man has ****** on his own legacy. He has torn down his own statues. No longer shall he be remembered as a great revolutionary, he shall forever be vilified for the political villain that he is. The angel sent by God to redeem us has become the devil to us.
Mugabe is a testament that education and wisdom can be parallel. Maybe he has succumbed to the vices of old age and lost his original senses. Or maybe he is now just a stooge and stage puppet controlled by others behind the scenes. It could be that he suffers from dementia or some form of schizophrenic condition. He has a deranged personality void of all manner of reason and decency. Maybe he has become blinded and cannot see the reality of the Zimbabwean condition.
I am neither Zanu PF nor MDC or any other sham. I am red, white, black, green and yellow. I am a Zimbabwean. I cannot believe how I supported this madman and his cronies blindly for a time. I was once deluded and believed in the sovereignty dogma and the right for Zimbabwe to influence its own politics. All the time the country was deteriorating as the Zanu PF cancer was spreading across all corners of this beautiful nation. Those in power were busy abusing it and looting wealth for themselves. They looted farms, properties, companies, gold, platinum and diamonds. Everything they touched was stained with failure.
Some of the most educated people in Africa have now become nomads and sojourners in this world. The beauty and grace that distinguished Zimbabwe from the rest has been greatly compromised and diminished.  Zimbabwe has become nothing to write home about. Our previously less prominent neighbours have outgrown us.
The people go hungry, the banks have no money, industry has lost its footing, unemployment at its highest, crime and discord rampant, nothing but lawlessness and disorder. No electricity everywhere and  water supply is erratic. The roads are in dire condition. The industries of Bulawayo have suffocated to death. White collar workers have been reduced to vending. We are now a nation of scavengers and families grow hungry. Exports are a thing of the past and the Zimbabwean dollar is nowhere to be seen. The whole economy is in a constant state of illness and misery. The health sector has been hit hard. Zimbabwean youth have become jobless and confused. The working class goes on without receiving wages and salaries. In the meantime the police has become more corrupt and draconian, ZIMRA keeps squeezing the little money the poor have and there is mass censorship everywhere. The man who was tasked to manage this country has failed and must step down. These are more than enough reasons for change.
Mugabe and his government have turned the reputation of Zimbabweans to nothing. Zimbabweans are now seen as weak and destitute people all across the world. In certain places they have become pariahs who survive by hustling, robbing and conning. We are scattered all over and it is not by choice.
The pride and dignity of the Zimbabwean flag has been tainted by this man. As heinous and evil was the Ian Smith regime and his supremacist government, Mugabe is worse. We will never wish to go back to white rule but we wish for a black competent government that is effective. We just want things to work in Zimbabwe. We want to restore the beauty of our glorious nation. We want Zimbabwe to be better than it was ever before. One thing is clear, Mugabe has done his part and has run out of ideas. His time is done! We need fresh thinkers in the white house. We need real change in Zimbabwe. A new dispensation with none of the failed old guard. They have served their role and it is time to resign and retire.
Mugabe is not a uniting force anymore. He has become a symbol for division pretty much like Adolf ******. He is just an old man hiding behind a suit and his hordes of security men and puppeteers. Even the great Fidel Castro relinquished power! South Africa has seen more democracy than Zimbabwe. Change has swept across most of Africa and it is now knocking on the door in Harare.
We the Zimbabweans across the globe unite and in one great voice we shout, “Enough is enough, No more Mugabe and his regime, No more suffering, we want a new and better Zimbabwe! We want a government for the people! We want jobs! We want local industries! We want agricultural growth! We want a country that works!”
My recommendation to Mr. Mugabe is that he researches about the Seppuku ("stomach- or abdomen-cutting") or harakiri (“cutting the belly") and practises it. This is a form of Japanese ritual suicide by disembowelment. It was originally reserved for samurai. Part of the samurai bushido honour code, seppuku was used either voluntarily by samurai to die with honour rather than fall into the hands of their enemies (and likely suffer torture) or as a form of capital punishment for samurai who had committed serious offenses, or performed because they had brought shame to themselves.
Change is coming to Zimbabwe whether the old guard want it or not. The police black boots will not able able to intimidate this away. No oration or rhetoric will sweep this change under the carpet. This is different from the attempted changed introduced by the MDC a few years back. This change is not sponsored by the British or Americans. This change is motivated by the gross incompetence of the sitting government and it is empowered by the resolve of every true Zimbabwean to see a better and healthier Zimbabwe that offers a lucrative future for our children. This change is 100% Zimbabwean and is not about colour, creed or background.

I am the only Asian in this bar right now.
Be my friend!
I will check the box of your social diversity quota.
Granted, I only speak a mispronounced fraction of
my immigrant parents' native tongue.
Ala Jackie Chan, I do not understand the words coming out the mouths of anyone on that massive continent (Russia included) that I appear to be more or less from.
But, I do eat spaghetti with chopsticks.
I am mystical as
fox, or Kitsune, in Japanese folklore.
I can hit you with wisdom worthy of a fortune cookie as fast as Google can tell you that the Philippines is nearly 2000 miles away from China. I want to say I'm from an exotic island where they play basketball in sandals and drink soda from plastic bags- like, A-level material you could make a movie out of in Slumdog Millionaire fashion and get awarded for your romantic portrayal of poverty you think is three worlds away from home. But nah, I'm just a kid from South Florida. Paved driveways and cul de sacs. But I do pump both fists in the air watching Manny Pacquio PPV fights on a bootleg stream. Beyond that, I'm probably the worst Asian there is. Not the crazy rich kind with a PHd. I dropped out of engineering after one semester and cannot solve a rubix cube. I never learned kung fu. Though I'm learning to face the adversity of becoming a single parent after my daughter's home broke in two. I write marketing proposals to pay the rent and poetry to fight without fighting in the spirit of Sun Tzu. My eyes do not slant in the direction of your narrative. I once ran in a pick up game where I caught the nickname of Yao Ming. Yao, I am 5 foot 8. Though I fall short of expectation, I can still check your diversity box on the way down and do a cool pen spin after to punctuate my intellectual prowess. I also happen to own an assortment of Japanese swords made in China, which I intend to use as heirlooms. This is what cultural colonization looks like: me, in a bar, the last samurai standing confused in an age of melting pots, Korean tacos and Asian slaw made by corporate imposters with names like PF Chang. What in the slaw is Asian? I wish I knew!  I wish I knew the true value of my heritage to be worthy of carrying it forward. Like how my grandfather planted a Malonggay tree in our backyard whose leaves my mother would pick and boil to make tinolang manok -the Filipino version of chicken soup- as a weeknight staple on our dinner table. I can barely soft boil an egg for instant ramen. Or how my motherland's socioeconomic gap tooth smile is so wide that it drove over 10 million of its native sons and daughters off its shores to find work overseas as servants on cruise ships and hospitals to feed the families they barely get to see. To follow their trail blazing footsteps, let me be the second generation tipping point where some form of cyclical tradition breaks. That way, I can raise my daughter free of predetermined scripts. So as the worst Asian in this or any bar, cheers:
to being the first of a new kind.

To my innocence, naivety, and viridity
Childish ways, high school days.
A mere three weeks, I say good bye
With a cry, a tear, a sigh.

To blue slacks, and a polo
Black shoes and white socks
To my pink skirt, and white blouse,
Pleated, soon to be folded.

To the OHS rooms of our first and second years:
The broken windows, and tantrum-kicked chairs,
The broom box behind the spider webbed chalkboard,
Messages on the wall hand printed in red and green.

The broken doorknobs, and broken floorboards,
Carved armchairs, and eaten chalks,
Missing brooms and dustpans and garbage cans and rugs
That show up in who knows where
Stolen by jani- we know who.

The witnesses and victims
To our random laughter (from some Chinese-looking girl’s corny joke).
Our random tears.
Our not so random learnings.
The pillars of our memories.

To the PF rooms of our third year:
The storage room turned gigantic garbage can and dressing room (maybe because ours keep being stolen)
The exploding socket causing sparks to fly (and us to fly away from it), and
The amazing “alambre” lock; who knows who installed (as if that could keep us away).
The earthquake resistant rooms would be missed.

To the New High School Building of our last years:
The kicked door (not our fault!), and cancerous blinds (like hairs falling after chemo),
The jigsaw floor (not sure if better than broken floorboards),
The “Halayan 2012”, and
The mind-boggling “no key needed” lockers.


The UTMT with its fair share of mango sentences,
The old guidance office now turned “tambayan”, and
The Computer lab with its fragile yellow chairs and bruised bums.

To Ibong Adarna plays, and the half cooked uncooked Teriyaki,
Generation X (and Generation NOW! and Generation Facebook),
Jai ** dances, and cheerleading,
Kalagon Kamo Namon,
And Mickey Mickey Mouse Kabit-bintana memories.

To the NikJep Tandem,
Kanlaon Boys Behind the Flowers,
D.H.A.I.N.G. (not sure if they remember this),
Fred vs Gino version
And DewBheRhieTart.

Keep the volcanoes of memories burning.

To blue paint, and blue shirts,
And Geometry teaching us
“There are a lot of solutions to a problem.
We just have to find one that suits us.”

To saying “***”,
And cooking imbutido.
And wearing (for some designing) reduced,
Reused, recycled clothing.
And dissecting.
And parrot-Filipino teachers (she gave me P30 for load though).

Keep the river of rumination flowing.

To being scared of one whole sheet of paper,
Two becoming one,
Party rocking to make up for the tears,
And knowing we should have won.

To the hand sanitizer girls,
The Cream-o-holics,
The Canterbury Crusaders,
The Valenciana eaters.

May our tree of friendship continue growing.

To our winnings!

The glow in the dark madness,
The Lakan at Mutya clutch-heart-moments,
The Sports Fest *******,
Basketball girls’ coronation!

To the fieldtrips and failed trips,
To air conditioned crammings,
And space and time bending
To comparing notes (and sometimes other things)
Copying notes, sometimes photocopying
(Not Xeroxing)
Sharing words, phrases, sentences
And giving pictures (via Bluetooth).

May you keep walking on the right direction,

To the expectations achived,
Broken, overtaken.
All the skepticism,
Constructive criticism.

All of it.

The in-your-face-we-did-it-baby-
We-are-awesome-you-can’t-bring-us-do­wn-
Coz-we-rise-back-up-attitude.

To Arielle
And Mhae

To Amica
Marie
Narzcisa
Cyan
Fred
Theo
Alvinson
Anthony
Faith
Karmil­la
Matt
Jeffson
Lourince

To Carolyn

To Makayla

To the thirty-five castaways in this room
The thirty-five castaways who struggled
The thirty-five castaways who persevered
The thirty-five castaways who fought, cried, made up, laughed, shared, gave, back-stabbed, and front-stabbed, celebrated, suffered, passed
Thirty-five
Thirty-five castaways who loved,
Thirty-five

Thirty-five castaways who made it, who did it.

To Nikki
Hazel
Alyssa
Gef
Veni
Alex
Jaykee
Bernard
Myra
Vince
Chanta­lle
Josen
Jerian
Shaira
J
Uriah
Ihra
Renz
Bless
Steffany
Angel
Fl­orey
Bernadine
Antonette
Rency
Owen
Majah
Gino
Marcelo
Ney
Keith
­Joselle
And Jessa,

We did it guys.
We really did.

I saw you standing, dressed to ****.
Perhaps waiting for someone to tell you of her thrill--
the thrill that you give, when you start to sing.
I should’ve told you then that I’d been listening.
I’d just started to listen, just begun to catch the fire;
it wasn’t until later that I burned with desire.
Then I fell for you, I fell for you deep.
You’ve been playing with my mind; you’ve been visiting my sleep.
I wish I’d told you then, that I’d give you anything;
though nothing I could give you, would equal what you bring--
what you bring to me nightly, what you touch in my core.
When you’re next in town, go out the back door.
I’ll show you the stars,  I’ll show you the lights;
I’ll give you what you crave at the  end of the nights.
I’ll tell you of my dream, I’ll tell you of my vision,
then I’ll worship at the altar of my one true religion.

Poets are bipolar--
musicians, OCD.
I wonder if we’d have much art
without insanity?
Coleridge smoked *****,
Poe preferred whisky.
If not for their addictions
would we have their poetry?
Blake had manic visions;
Hemingway was suicidal.
The heights and depths of their emotions
meant their minds were never idle.
Garcia tripped on acid;
Iommi did *******.
Would they have played such blissful notes
if they weren’t a bit insane?
Yes, we must treat the ill,
we want them with us still--
but if we lost all craziness
there’d  be genius that we’d miss.

I don’t care if you steal a quick look,
when you think I can’t see it.
As long as it’s furtive, it’s by the book.
A man looks at a woman;
it’s only human.
But when you stare
at my big “girls”, then leer in my face--
you’re a disgrace.
I’m not putting up with your ******.
The next time it happens,
I’m going Thelma and Louise.

As the winds grow stronger and the snow falls heavy,
as the oceans rise and pour over the levee,
as the sweltering heat makes us sleep in the day
and work in the night, I’ll take your hand and say:
Dance with me in the darkness, until the futile dawn;
sing while I play guitar, we don’t have long.
Read your poems to me while we have a little time;
we have no future, but we still have rhyme.
Let’s drink a toast, or two, to what might have been,
and what once was, before our time turned grim
Let’s plunder the pharmacy, or eat the magic mushroom;
don’t go into the night easy, but don’t rage at the moon.
Let’s savor all the moments, as our destiny arrives.
Let’s not waste another minute of our precious time alive.

for Jay Buchanan*

Clearer than a ringing bell,
calling me to stand beneath you--
I am rapt in music’s spell;
your subject,  in your thrall I dwell.

Swaying slowly to the beat,
as I stand before your feet,
I yearn to touch, but thrill in listening,
and watching your sweat-drenched body,
glistening.

Recorded song brings me much pleasure,
but it cannot match the measure
of an evening in the presence
of your fleshly,  human essence.

I stand witness at the living
breathing body, angelic singing.
Mournful verse,  hypnotic chorus
throb in heartbeat’s time before us.

So close to me,  you drip with sweat;
flip your hair and I’ll get wet--
drench me with your raw emotion,
drown me in an aural ocean.

In Nature’s pieces still I see
Some error, that might mended be;
Something my wish could still remove,
Alter or add; but my fair love
Was fram’d by hands far more divine
For she hath ev’ry beauteous line;
Yet I had been far happier,
Had Nature, that made me, made her.
Then likeness might, that love creates,
Have made her love what now she hates;
Yet, I confess, I cannot spare
From her just shape the smallest hair;
Nor need I beg from all the store
Pf heaven for her one beauty more.
She hath too much divinity for me;
Ye gods, teach her some more humanity.

My son Colton Ross Barrera
has been missing since Sept. 26, 2008.
I bet you can imagine how many times
I have typed that sentence...
I am finally reaching out to another mom,
perhaps for my own sanity...
I have had so many ppl say to me,
"oh Lynda, I am so sorry, I just can't imagine what you are going through"
as I would never have been able to imagine all this myself.
I had a slight interest in missing person cases in the past
but it was just another news story in my mind
and the ppl weren't real,
not until it hit home
and it was MY son that went missing...
I have been angry at God
and I have gone through all the stages of grief
and still go back and forth on those steps.
I remember when he 1st went missing
I made 50-75 phone calls a day.
now the phone is quiet
and there is no one left to call.
The police have put his file in a folder
and have labeled him,
not as handsome,
or quirky
or intelligent,
but he is stamped
with the label of COLD CASE.
I quit going to church
because I felt that if anyone knew where my son was,
they would tell me
and how could God be so cruel
and withhold such vital information from me?
I almost envy people that know
when where and how their child passed away
because they have a tiny piece of real estate to go to
and leave flowers
and have closure,
but I am also relieved
that not having a gravestone
at a cemetery plot to visit
still gives me hope that he is still alive.
In this modern day of internet,
I have his facebook account page
to look at
pictures of him
in which he never ages
and words written by him
which I wish I would have read
long before he went missing.
Time on a calendar
is marked
according to B.C. and A.D.
due to the life and death of Jesus.
I mark occasions
by how old Colton was at any given time--
"That re-run of Catdog came out in 2001? Colton was 11"
It is so bitter sweet
to watch Colton's younger brother grow up
and do some of the same mannerisms
as he did at that age.
My older son's have placed blame
and anger on me
and in some ways,
rightly so,
at my lack pf parenting
and causing their brother to go missing
and that has put a big chasm
in our relationship.
I suppose unless publishers
ever come out with a
"How to handle it when your child disappears and just seems to fall off the face of the planet, for dummies" book,
I will rely on the support
and guidance of other's who are traveling down this path with me.

Attention: This is your trigger warning:
If you walk outside your door this morning
you’ll be assaulted by noise and light.
You may choose to go back to bed
to  avoid the possibility of fright.
In fact keep the shades down
and the covers pulled up tight.
Don’t talk to people; some may disagree
with you; they won’t heed your plea
to change their minds to your view.
Don’t read books by authors who are male.
They might contain descriptions of female bodies
that remind you that under your clothes you are undressed,
and boys who look at you know that. You’ll feel stressed.
Avoid all books with mentions of violence.
Such as Civil War diaries or histories of World War II.
Your teachers may overlook the fact that you have certain entitlements
such as the right to be free of knowledge that is painful. You
also shouldn’t have to learn about cultures that are different from your own.
We all know that’s how seeds of anxiety and doubt are sown.
If subjected to these shocking things you could have a panic attack
because the knowledge that others don’t do or think as you do
will be traumatic. You’ll never come back
to sanity. You’ll be irreparably harmed.
You could learn that you cannot command that others think the way you believe that they should.
You wouldn’t want to know that. It just wouldn’t feel good.

a relic from my dating days

I’ve been Generation X’ed;
I got the message by text.
A last minute change
and my day was rearranged.

The zombies cross the street,
staring at their phones.
They cannot tolerate a human voice,
and yet, cannot be alone.

It’s not a “relationship,”
despite the  frequent  f**king.
It’s just a casual acquaintanceship,
full of frantic commitment-ducking.

Ambivalence and  indecision
aren’t what I call attractive.
In fact, they summon my derision.
So, I must be proactive.

It’s not that you aren’t ****--
you’re just too Generation X-y.

I’m a killer but don’t have a gun
I’m a mother but don’t have a son
I’m a lover but don’t have a man
I’m a celebrity who’s missing a fan
I’m a politician without a campaign
I’m the loner who might be insane
I’m an athlete, with no race to run
I’m a community, of one.
I lead many lives, but mostly in rhyme
I’ll be everyone
and no one
if given enough time.

to the tune of "My Favorite Things"*

Poems in all caps and no punctuation,
Mixed metaphors and clichéd observation,
Roses and rainbows and angels with wings--
These are a few of my least favorite things.

Morbid obsessions and self flagellations,
Self involved rantings and dull ruminations,
Exhibitionists’ ****** preoccupations--
I’m just not dying to read these creations.

Statements of true love to those I don’t know,
Plodding prose poems that go way too slow,
Syllable stresses that aren’t found in English--
If only I’d see them no more is my true wish.

When the urge strikes,
When the words flow,
When you grab that pen--
Just take a moment and think…again.

A good Dictionary, and a Thesaurus,
Some time to read poets who wrote long before us,
Revising, rewriting and time to review--
It’s only these small things that I ask of you..

“You’re a relic,” said the video game,
“no one reads you now.”
“Not true” said the novel. “And anyhow,
at least I have characters
who speak and think and feel.
No one could believe that your
“characters” are real.”
“I offer blood and action; an opportunity
to ****. We know that’s what the people want.
It’s a pressing need I fill,”
the video game replied.
“What makes you think your wars and crimes
played out in pixelation
will satisfy the players’ lust
for quick assassination? They will tire
of virtual gore and want to test their skills
in a real arena that offers far more thrills.”
The novel’s pages fluttered; she indignantly continued:
“In my world there’s ambiguity; it forces them to think
about how there’s no black and white,
except for pages and for ink.
My stories stir compassion,
reflection, empathy. Your crooks and soldiers all act the same;
where’s their personality?
You know you’re just a pinball game
dressed up as a cartoon.”
The video game tried to think
of how to answer back... But soon
it realized that she was right. And sadly thought about the terror
that it had wreaked from coast to coast
and how it was a grievous error.
It filled the bathtub up with water
and dropped itself straight in. And that, my friends, is where
this little story should begin.

I will not run from you, Fear.
I will stand still and stay right here.
Your yawning chasm of the unknown
is no more than a dark corner of my mind when I’m alone.
I choose to close my eyes and recall
what I’ve faced before, and how I did not fall.
And that I’m not alone, and never will be—
for lonely souls like me are plentiful,
and friendly.

Stop. Stay.
Don’t turn away.
Hear. Don’t fear.
Don’t fold.
Look bold.
Fate will grip
iron bars.
Hold.
Find your fire;
hike down back road.
Tell your tale
with song, with soul.

I’m beyond the reach of what you see.
I’m past the breach of decency.
I wait and pace in gloomy alleys
as we count and number up the tallys.
I’ll drop a dime on the world wide web,
as justice and compassion ebb.
I’ll shout the truth for all to hear,
but where I am—it isn’t here.
My name is scarlet, black or white;
call me when it’s time to fight.
Just give the sign, when it’s time,
I’ll put aside my game of rhyme.
Tread in shadow, stalk by night,
Tyrant falls from the assassin’s bite.

Contemplating commenting on Susan Jarvis' latest verbal bouquet inspired this. Oh my! I never thought I could write a tribute to PF!



(sonnet #MMCXCII)


Applause o'er, money pocketed, we'll miss
The souls who happ'ly joyed in telling oh
Just what they liked of what they read. Or no?
O yes. And where's the fun? Is fan mail bliss?
We want the fawning blather stooped to kiss
Our priceless feet, the limelight's tinsel show
Of glory what we truly seek? Think so.
But I will wager all such is remiss.
Your name and self in Poet's Corner yet
Enshrined seems consolation, true. But pay
Me e'en a fortune and what I'll regret
Is all the fun of playing with folk from day
To day as nobodies who in love's debt
Shared friendship o'er our musings, yea.

03Apr13f
[http://poetfreak.com/205509/id-miss-my-friends.html]

I took a late night jog
It cleared my mind pf insanity
Listening to loud music
Memories burning and crashing
Free my mind and body of imprisonment
Stressed and over worked attending all I've been neglecting
Blinded by love other distractions I have no control over
Meeting fast easy women trying to settle down
Now im moving forward avoiding all the wrong
Not the scapegoat for my friends who leave their families to blame me
Back to the single life only I can make myself happy I know better then to rely on anyone
Confidence in myself is more important then finding it in another person
Sharing worlds is hard becoming one means giving up part of yourself

Crispity crunchy,
Zagnut bars are delicious,
do you like this watch?

Could you call it an anti-massage? my back bunching up
of its own accord.
Stress sinking to the lines of a body. Going over a hill but there is no hill.

*** is...is supposed to be
about a kind of abandon
ive never felt.
An act of letting go.
Hold on so tight
my mental hands hurt.
Mental hands, i bite my nails.
The me inside my head does too. Both of me's need to get laid.
Ridden into the sunset.
Exhausting me.
No energy left
for the parasite pf anxeiety
to latch onto.

Let go.
Let go.
Lets go

Wrap me in the depths
of your haunting eyes,
drown my frame
in the layers pf your bedsheets,
You may imprison me with lies
but I am enthralled
with the fragility you effortlessly hide.

Them lips.
Them eyes.
Various hypnotics parts that guys notice close or far apart.

Them hands.
Them legs.
Parts pf you that makes men notice.

Oh, you're not meat to eat.
Or anything like that.
But you have the  ingredient to make men want a sandwich.

You the one thing that men loves.
One hypnotic beauty filled with instant attraction.

Any beauty contest that you might enter.
Will instantly be won by you.
And in this case, i'm anointed winner.

I miss the days when we were still stupid and in love.
When we were blind against the judgement of the world.
When we could kiss and constellations filled the room
and it felt like i could die.

When i was happy with not breathing
and content with living in your arms.
When our souls escaped and flowed away
with the eerie movement of the ethereal smoke surrounding us.

But in the process I lost you to the decaying world that swallowed us whole.
I have forgotten your face and your halo.
Your halo that's a ring of fire that lingered around you.
I have forgotten the gentle touch of your poetry hands
and how they felt in mine.

I can no longer remember your voice,
your angelic voice and how it could sing me to sleep.
I have forgotten your melancholy eyes and how it felt like home.
But my vague memory pf you will forever be rooted in my flower heart.

I remember summers when
we'd play baseball till the sun went down
and it got dark...and
We'd go out riding bicycles
With baseball cards tucked in the spokes
riding down the gravel roads
stopping quick to make the biggest mark...
that was just so long ago
summer time was such a time
with memories and sounds and smells
of transistor radios playing loud
while we played down at Wilson's park
waiting for the moon

Wearing PF Flyers out
and running faster when they're new
sitting trading baseball cards
and getting sweaty running free
because that's what children do
We'd collect old bottles
just to trade them in get the newest
batman comic book that we would read
out in the fort we'd made from sheets
of plywood that we'd found out in the forest
that....was what a summer was...a time
to be a kid ....when skies were blue

I remember summertime
Noises, coming everywhere
Children running fun and free
Wind was whipping through their hair
Playing out till Dad got home
then going in to eat up quick
and head on back to the park to be
the first one on the diamond so
another game could start again
and finish when the sun went down
Man, that was summertime for me

chorus

Take me back to summer days
When life, it was delivered
School was out and we would be
swimming in the quarry or the river
Man...I miss those days
summer days.....summer days

mio amore è forte
Mia's amore è ... sconosciuto
as I weave my way through the crowd
sometimes moving to the side,
sometimes bending at the waste to avoid arms-
as if playing playing limbo,
sometimes jumping over low limbs
(much to the disagreement pf my ankle and knee).
trying to catch my brother
who, being much smaller than me,
fits easily through the crowd
and disappears under the cookie table to her right.
She's standing with the black haired girl from the pew in front of us,
both smiling and laughing at my approach.
and when I finally find him and take him by the hand
I stop and talk to them
to her.
My Sunday was hollow in the absence of her presence.
I see her an hour each week
down around those little tables
where I often sit next to her
as I have since day one-
but this being the second Sunday of march, that didn't happen.
so I feed off the smile and the short fleeting words
and every time I pass her,
by that table
the coat closet
the nursery
the kitchen
the espresso machine-
we fit a word or two in.
At one point I join the line to take dishes to the kitchen,
hidden in the crowd
I hear her sister and her talking, about me
about me smiling at her, talking to her-
or I assume it's me, they give no name.
I smile and the person in front of me moves
but I was already turned and she doesn't notice me eavesdropping,
so I wave and continue on.
in the 20 minutes after that
she stays at the youth trip donation table
and we don't talk, since I have no money.
So I wander around instead
talking to some of her siblings or the occasional pastor.
I wonder if she sees the look in my eyes
if she can sense that when my life changes
I plan to continue coming here for one reason-
her.
I want to somehow stand up and ask her on a date.
but it is futile, what am I?
I'm poor no matter how you slice it
whether i'm in a family of four or a family of six,
and I'm nothing worth looking at either.
she is rich despite having 25 siblings,
rich enough to live in a huge house on the Hill,
to deliver snow from the mountains
and feed over 20 people.
and she is beautiful, indescribably so-
gentle and quiet, until she speaks
but her words don't define her near as much as her actions
which again assure me that she is gentle and shy
that the loudness is a facade
and a well practiced one.
she blushes when I'm near
and her words are always forced out through a smile
but I don't know whether that's just how she gets with guys
I've never seen her elsewhere.
I would tell myself to ask her out,
but she deserves better than me.

I will break down that wall in three months, if I don't before
with her
or another

The elixir was mixed.
The potion had been poured.
The candles were all burning.
Over the Book of Spells, I’d pored.
I handed you the goblet--
my commandment you ignored.
I intoned the incantation--
you sat and just looked bored.
I looked into the crystal ball
and told you of your fortune.
You disagreed—but how is this?
Of the two of us there’s only one
who is the sorceress.
Why did I paint the pentagram
and summon all the spirits?
I’ll have you know I’ll still be charging
my fee for all your visits.

of what heart is to begin with, intact, there is no love in such a heart to govern the cruelty of flux, for love only aspires in fragmentation pf that *****, readied for nothing metaphysical, yet only the physicality of the muscular... love enters when the heart is garment in fractions and nowhere and by no-how does it exist... if love is not a search, then love is no love at all... for love akin to god, there is no clear direction, no definite coordinate, no (a) to (b) basis, or subsequent exfoliation into some sort of basics... away from my country of birth, i only found love within the existence of scotland... and by that quest for "demise" i forfeit an ask for glasgow to forgive me, my idle friendships with stereotypes of alarm... rest abididing by edinbrugh... as i might say: for every glasgow there's a birmingham, as there's a london for every edinburgh... in no other town have i felt the over-powering grasp of stereotype; forgive me.*

don't climb a mountain,
if you can't speak
to the mountain: prior
to an attempted climb
   of it,
     never seak what you cannot
contain with your own
worth of grip with the hands...
never ask the mountain
to become a hill you
can exectute a promenade
over... and serve such
effort the lingo of: complete.
never ask the mountain for
a name,
       instead ask it to name
an ocean...
            never ask
the ocean for a mountain's name,
instead a name
of a valley,
   a glen coe and its massacre,
or the grand canyon...
               and all the many
crevices upon the human
body with its skeletal
                           blanks and
empty spaces of fleshy folds...
            never ask the mountain
its name...
         reach the peak,
and then ask yourself
  the name you were bestooed with!
ask yourself the name
  you ingested as a child...
when climbing a mountain,
never ask for the mountain's name...
once you reached the tip
ask yourself, what your name
is or rather, ought to be...
                and what would the mountain
name you, as a mother or a father
already have...
          never mind to name
a mountain, as if it might be exclaiming
a righteous conquest...
                 name yourself prior
as a baptism,
   and then name yourself post-
  as a "catholicism"
            of the rite of confirmation...
whatever name you think of
climbing down,
  is the name of the mountain you
have just "conquered"...
                     for each man to
have reached the ever-reach of man's
final end,
   if there are equals to astronauts
who reach the lunar orb,
   there are those, grounded,
medium grounds between astronauts
and astronomers...
          those who seek the eagles' eye,
aloof, upon the himalayan titan's cranium,
and by god,
        that's halfway toward the stars.

the concept pf love doesnt make sense to me
Lust is mistaken for love now adays
I think about her only its life
You cant get her back like in the movies
My heart was emotionally unavailable until I met her
I opened up and she rejected me
It hurt because I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her
She had other plans which had nothing to fo with me
Ive moved on but find myself thinking about her
I see other girls who remind me of her
I wonder if she thinks of me
I cross her number id call but dk if shell answer
Id send a text will she respond
Ive been looking else where for love but I want her
I feared commitment and went for it
Now things are different I want them to be the same
Its been a month since we have spoken

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00  00
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The prophet of Islam when came
He was sent to establish equalize between human kinds
No, no between all creatures

It is a camel came and complained its owner
," he carried it heavy burden
And did not feed it with enough food
It wanted some justice"
The prophet ordered him to feed
It with enough and good food.

He saw a bird
Flew down to his fellows and friends
He asked in his speech,''
Who made a tragedy with brutal?
Who took its children?"
When the men heard that
One of them returned to it.

He had his speech every Friday pray
He stood over the average trunk of old date
It was cut
So it was not grown
And considered it was considered dead
The prophet used to tell its speech
Until he made a new platform to speech on it
When Friday came
The prophet spoke on the new platform
All at mosque heard child crying
All moved their eyes toward the crying
They recognized it was the trunk
The prophet left the speech
And hugged the truck

The truck became quit
The prophet told it
"is not sufficient
To be my companion in the high heaven
The trunk got silent

The prophet looked when he passed with his friends
Between the prisoners
They saw a woman
Getting her breast and feeding every child
Was from the prisoners
Of war
He told them at his talks, "
Would you expect that woman will throw his child
At hell?"
They answered, " No!"
He talked, "thus! God will not throw his creatures
At hell!"

When there was a second war
Between two camps
Muslims and disbelieves
After the war ended
There was argument
One of them was white
The other was not
The white ticked the other one
, " you are the son of the black"
The black one who was closer as well as his white friend
To the prophet
Ran to the prophet
He complained to the prophet
The prophet got angry
The prophet was cute
He was white
His face was handsome
He looked to the white
At his speech and act
He said to the white."
You are a person blockhead"

The white one put his head
Down to the land
He swore he would not lift it up
Until his ***** friend will put his leg on his head
The other refused at first
When the white insisted
The other put its leg
For seconds or less
Then the white got up
He apologized
They got huge
They were crying.

When the prophet and Muslims opened Mecca
He destroyed all statues over Kaaba
He ordered his closely friend to get over Kaaba
He invited the Muslims to pray
He announced with call of pray
Two great masters of un believers passed
One of them said
They were white,'"
We have lived
To see that black
Became important than us
We are the masters of that land
The revelation was downed to the prophet
It said in the verse pf holy Quran in the meaning,"
O people, I created you
People and tribes to know
That I will honor you with God"

The honest of Islam nation
Was not white.
Two fiancée came to marry the daughter of the prophet
She was his heart move over the land
One was not poor and not white
He was also his cousin
He was so believer and honest
He had great science
Other was from rich tribe
His nation was respectable
He married her to the greater believer

He said in his speech and meanings,"
God does not look at your images and colors,
But God looks at what is in your hearts"

He said also in his speech and meanings,"
There is no credit for an Arab over foreigner
Except for piety"

When he moved up to sky
He heard sound of the moving shoes of his ***** friend
At the heavens so clearly
He asked, "
What do you do?
As I heard the sound of your moving shoes
At the heavens
His friend said, "
After I Perform ablution
I pray to my God
Only two prayers"

The prophet said,"
There is no credit for an Arab over foreigner
Except for piety"
Equality, between all men and women
Equality
Is the justice at every way

looking back with no anger
just anxiety, feel my life in danger
the soul can only bear so much
I've grown too numb to recognize a touch
can't even tell your love from your disdain
but no one can hurt me, I've been through deeper pain

the feeling flees, fleeting flies
staring up at the ceiling tiles
no way pf telling when they'll leave me be
for once in my life I'd like to not feel so crazy

It’s a privilege.
To urge A hit ?
It’s a privilege
To vanish , Drink & kick it.

I’m sick of this !
Constantly getting Hurt
Having to put up with it !

Of course , he’s in no bother.
He’s the one out having a Good time while I’m home alone totally unbothered?!

******* !!
I relapse for an escape.
Alone by myself, Feeling pathetic!
He Vanishes For fun
With friends Who knows what the **** he really does

so you see,
there's nothing to ensure
that everything we went through
and everything you ever did to me
ever happened
there are no books
with frayed pages & cracking binds
that are tearing apart at the seams
telling our story
in words of black and white
and times new roman
with measly pieces of euphoria
hidden in between the lines
there are no aging, decrepit newspapers
with headlines of innumerable uproars
of when people had heard of
the pain that had accumulated in my heart
and started seeping its way into
the rest of my body
(because no one cared that much honestly)
simply because pf what you did
the promises you failed to keep
and your cool, calm, and caring persona
that you failed to keep fooling me with
the trees no longer whisper your name
when the rain and tree leaves
collide with each other
during a violent yet calming thunderstorm
your awfully large footprints
from where you tracked in mud
on my egg shell carpet
on your way to see me
are now washed away
and it seems as if
you were never even there
your love bites that you left
alongside of my delicate neck
that were once a deep burgundy
have no faded
and no longer show any signs
that your lips were ever pressed
against my body
it was like nothing ever happened
and since nothing was recorded
nor kept or saved
to everyone else,
and even you,
nothing ever did
and unfortunately
that's how it's gonna stay