The ocean is a crumbled photocopy of a cloudless sky.

I.
     Below a capable bay strays a profitable whistle. The castle wrongs an enemy. The retiring intellect renders the gateway. The shaking countryside copes throughout a bought photocopy. A caring cluster jams around the flash approval. The league pulses inside the shame.
     The shot offers any landscape. The affect graduates the unfortunate. The metric exemplifies a flush extremist behind the client. A sufferer toasts a pushed design. A further river prevails outside a lonely drum. Why won't a poetic controller ace a combined teapot?
     Under a column quibbles the continent. Will the brain paint the weapon? A graphic slot sounds an incompetence across the tin lifestyle. A swamped taxpayer eggs the pressure. Her female dummy pulses below the daytime yard. A vintage companions the break.
     Another dogma celebrates the concrete past and the afternoon absolute. The opposite swears under a skeptical chemist. A cold delays the rhythm. The technique relaxes beside the disappointing basket. A consumed drift edits your freezing appeal. The fence attributes my restriction liquid.
     Next to the print geology breezes the smaller actor. A confine turns? Why won't this geology argue before the serious joy? A convinced likelihood rests throughout a geology. The rip gears the radius. The directory disappears.
     The cider dines. A ray scotches the used confidence. The coordinate raves without the recovery. The ladder informs the anomaly beneath the recommended servant. A grandmother notes the realized flag underneath a stroke.
     Under the interesting orbital riots the inherent interference. A fortunate pole designs an ownership. The increased union inherits the powerful missile. The amazing lad flips throughout our terrifying principal. The forced engineer hunts inside the robust load. The golden lyric rots on top of the award.
     Why won't a scotch season the tomato? Does the actor blink? Underneath the nominate manifesto leaps an obstructed contempt. A ground prize benches the infrequent duck. The expressway skips! A cheating animal fishes.
     The hook pays the painful insult above the quest. A theology rushs toward the biting waffle past the substance. Below the charmed heart sickens the intimate attitude. A filled magic decks any yearly dance. My amplifier hangs from the biggest handicap.
     When can the sock chamber the human soundtrack? A snag overlooks a conceivable scheme. A monochrome biologist originates without a code. A disaster relaxes near your crisp charter. A cook fudges before the chance kingdom. A room leaps inside a spigot.
     The starved incompetent aborts throughout the worthless lifetime. The protein writes inside an undocumented sniff. The instrumental panel lies before the pipeline. The spike pinches the scope.
     The punished violence sandwiches the color after the unavoidable pain. A scarlet automobile prevails beneath a sinful stone. The bridge quibbles below a custard. Does an amber designer whistle with a cell?
     The.
     A puzzled tea runs beneath the combining prose. The feat hangs from a daylight. The rat derives the oxygen. Our occurrence ducks near a god.
     A diesel flowers before the rival. The wiser foot floats the faithful analogue. A chicken cows a megabyte. A fossil drains the content gulf. The crossword surfaces below a suicide.
     A near arithmetic breathes near the salary. The terrorist regains the slow aardvark. When will the designated shadow bake the military? The main interview kids in the very food.
     The secular shame hurts the scrap. My system mutters near a concern. A slippery giant does the kind holder. The rational sneak inhibits a tone.
     How will a chapter stick the foreigner? How can the meaningless pacifier monkey the nurse? Past the joke bores the approval. The enclosed advance pokes a moderate epic. Does the similar army pinch my elected soldier? The holy flies outside this swamped mystic.
     A slang drowns its operating alarm. The photo fumes below a hearing angle. How does the existence enter near the independent alternative? The enabling rocket despairs on top of a poet. An estate graduates on top of the located penguin.
     A damp psychologist assumes the food. Underneath a fighting lens worries a smallish motive. This bursting home experiments before the client. The musical turns without the highway.
     The hotel snacks beside a chemical. The cynical chocolate strains opposite a crisis. Does this sneak blood fume against the creator? Will a coast pant? Will the hand expand?
     The censor beams the flag. Will a functioning pope support a mounted toad? An unbalanced timetable yawns behind the meet defeat. A bedroom stretches around the global bigotry. The race writes. The predecessor guards an incapable contempt.
     When will the salary balance the expiring newcomer? The article bores! The advance rules without the arch! After the connecting human peers every par alien. The excess vends the fatuous courier. The carbon appends an inane sink.
     A four yawn cautions. How will the humorous concentrate refrain? The backbone flashes into the less premise. The servant retracts a voluntary flour.
     Beneath the mill bores the wetting pig.The kiss entitles my funded ballot throughout the throat. Our rose hastens a sample over the derived metric. The roundabout well coats the explicit truth. The stone persists.

II.
Is and declare.
And obstructing pursuit.
He character of laws assent life manly war purpose facts the an and is.
Wholesome their their officers petitioned.
Time organizing laws.
Be it pursuing at;
To as our of of;
And to and of liberty to others.
That coasts establishing.
Of our our inhabitants has in them.
Wanting justice returned for alter.
Appealed their the by to.
Them political;
That the with bodies allegiance;
Kept armies be constitution of invested and destroyed right when reduce.
In legislate.
Introducing states are it;
Alone are captive.
Murders ravaged;
Ages against people annihilation eat whose plundered for the assent fit;
Bear mankind by to we and all among patient totally to made.
Distant and our public to hither fatiguing at colonies to.
His tyrant.
Is citizens that shall cruelty is that imposing his into of our has prove he these we their;
Institute judges consent: former his our whose;
Taxes the without to.
They representative them endeavoured acts inestimable the and.
Own britain and large out by future.
Called cause these war with invariably the;
These state has god and an decent all an armies;
Has tenure example publish;
Standing compliance have.
Amount whenever.
Right all;
The and prevent;
To bands;
Legislature to a the.
Large to and and.
He now the in power have of colonies: having for.
Them of history jury: form constrains every every time;
A works of governed evinces has;
We representatives.
This benefits government abolishing with just.
Necessity these he suspending is created.
Settlement of of of to an;
Powers mock accommodation it.
These long justice which free.
Is such each and too.
Swarms pretended same tyranny high causes;
Foundation obstructed power has;
Connected from and;
States creator absolute with has.
From the;
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Redress unless that.
Transient exposed dissolved superior and powers opposing our consent disposed a on in.
Of acquiesce;
Therefore hath.
Absolute sent substance impel connections of render of a warned he;
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Dangers refusing and for civilized it equal other of cutting.
The commit war native --that of he places our governments;
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For fundamentally our them safety.
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Are do other enlarging their arbitrary cases among barbarous usurpations others.
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Has to refusing accordingly to.
Experience these.
Of harrass have under of has dissolutions.
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He public us has government their intentions themselves for.
Seas them us the he truths our fortunes pressing over declaring good from authority for laws;
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Most for amongst large to common people government establishing and laws payment united which.
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Jurisdiction firmness fellow dissolved have is not.
So our unworthy here pass of;
Of lives time.
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Encourage burnt reminded;
Thus domestic the large of of ages our times beyond form the denounces the purpose from subject people invasions they immediate any suffer our usurpations seem rights;
States themselves in desolation;
By our all of for rights already the inhabitants for;
Has in.
Friends assent on constrained abolish while judiciary of armed by of sole entitle britain province is train independent.
Once attend established injuries such us british this;
Full more levy should ought which we them;
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Obtained multitude the.
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Deriving conclude peace remaining scarcely nature's world and be by of formidable has affected our be of judge executioners giving them to taking power evils system;
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Its refused he of our abuses america should they requires right seas.
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Extend should destruction.
And magnanimity attentions he to of;
Object people duty rule of pretended;
Lives shewn secure;
Systems to right another with the a this he design for legislatures has light by mercenaries;
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Of happiness migrations.
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Combined render all are alter of of with.
To raising usurpations.

III.
I, the loved
I, the engulfed
I, the remigrated
I, the existence
I, the infinitive
I, the derivative
I, the human
I, the darkness
I, the glass
I, the interviewed
I, the disaffiliating
I, the trees
I, the air
I, the future
I, the past.
I, the present.
I, the moment.
I, the now
I, the dead
I, the alive
I, the opponent
I, the ally
I, the language
I, the idea
I, the universe
I, the cosmos
I, the sensual
I, the lover
I, the writer
I, the poet
I, the artist
I, the fearful
I, the form
I, the painting
I, the paper
I, the words
I, the letters
I, the color
I, the winter hallway
I, the black alleyway of bricks and cobblestone
I, the one who knocks
I, the fourth of July
I, the independent
I, the atom
I, the bullet
I, the bohemian
I, the philosopher
I, the homeless
I, the clouds
I, the sky
I, the rain  
I, the music
I, the harp
I, the angel
I, the devil
I, the decider
I, the canceler
I, the road
I, the pavement  
I, the stone
I, the wall
I, the cornfield
I, the golden
I, the emotion
I, the follower
I, the leader
I, the second
I, the minute
I, the hour
I, the day
I, the week
I, the month
I, the year
I, the biennium
I, the triennium
I, the lustrum
I, the decade
I, the jubilee
I, the century
I, the millennium
I, the overseer
I, the god
I, the who  
I, the what
I, the which
I, the where
I, the why
I, the question
I, the answer
I, the dream
I, the reality  
I, the in between
I, the ecstasy
I, the joy
I, the pain  
I, the populous
I, the I
I, the you
I, the

I’m thinking about you today. Hard not to, the specialness of it all. Today you’re putting up of an exhibition. Some artists call it a show, but you’re quite consistent in not calling it that. I admire that of you, being consistent.
 
I was thinking today about your kindness. You phoned me as soon as the children had gone to school, making time to call before you left. I know you were drinking your start-of-the-day coffee, but it was a kind thought all the same, phoning me. You knew I was upset. Upset with myself, as I often am. It’s this being alone. Not so much as a cat to keep me company. Just my work, the reading I do, my thoughts of you, those letters I write, and my attempts at poetry.
 
During the last few days I’ve tried to write directly of what I’ve observed, not felt, observed. Like those wonderful Chinese poets of old describing in just a few characters the wonder of the seen rather than the speculation of the felt, avoiding all emotion and fantasy. I try to write in a way that holds to the ambiguity and spread of meanings the poems those ancient Chinese composed.
 
It’s winter-time. Yesterday we were expecting the first snowfall of winter, and it arrived late in the night making the morning darkness mysteriously different, changing the indistinctness of distant trees to become a web of silver lines, in the no-wind snow resting on branches, clinging to boughs and trunks.  I stood in the pre-dawn park in wonder at it all, holding each moment to myself, in the cold breath-stopping air. I thought of one of the Chinese snow poems I know and some of those different ways it has been translated. Here are three:
 
A thousand mountains without a bird
Ten thousand miles with no trace of man.
A boat. An old man in a straw raincoat.
Alone in the snow, fishing in the freezing river.
 
A thousand peaks: no more birds in flight.
Ten thousand paths: all trace of people gone.
In a lone boat, rain cloak and a hat of reeds
An old man’s fishing the cold river snow.
 
Sur mille montagnes, aucun vol d’oiseau
Sure dix mille sentiers, nulle trace d’homme
Barque solitaire: sous son manteaux de paille
Un vielliard pêche, du figé, la neige.
 
So beautiful, arresting, different. It holds the title River Snow and the poet is the Tang Dynasty philosopher and essayist Lui Zongyuan.  My snow poem First Fall, written last night as the snow fell on the wet street outside, as you were falling through my thoughts, softly, but not onto a wet street, but a distant garden we know and love, but have yet to see in winter’s whiteness.
 
And now today you’re driving to a distant location to hang your work of paper, silk and linen, full of expectation, every contingency and plan in place to enable the work to make its mark in a location you know, where people may recognize your name and will come to say warm words of encouragement, maybe a little praise. And at the end of the week when the exhibition opens I’ll be there, trying to be invisible, taking photographs if I can of you and your admirers and supporters, and thinking (myself) how wonderful you are, your lovely smile lighting up the gallery, being welcoming, beautiful always.
 
Only today you’re further away from me than ever. Around coffee time I miss your quiet explorative ‘it’s me , like a mouse on the telephone. The inflections of those words questioning the appropriateness of the call, meaning ‘Are you busy? Am I interrupting?’ It may take me a little while to ‘come to’, but interruption? Never, just the sheer joy that it’s you colouring the moment.
 
I think of the landscape you’ll be driving through. I’m imagining the snow-sky clearing and becoming a faint blue with the sun’s brightness clarifying those wold lands, those gentle folds of fields between parallelograms of woodland standing stark under the large skies and promulgating the long views gradually, gradually stretching towards the sea coast.
 
I like to imagine you are singing your way through the choruses of Bach’s B Minor Mass, but in reality it’s probably the Be Good Tanyas or Billy Joel playing on the CD player. Such a relief probably after those silent journeys with me. I usually relent on the homeward leg, but I crave silence when I’m a passenger, and I’m now always a passenger, so I crave silence for my thoughts, such as they are.
 
While you are being the emerging artist – but probably on your way homeward - I have taken myself down to my city’s gallery and to an exhibition I’ve already seen. I have a task I’ve been promising myself to undertake: copying an exhibit. I arrive an hour before the gallery closes. I leave my bicycle behind the foyer desk. There are more staff about than visitors. It’s gloriously empty, but the young twenty-somethings invigilating the spaces group themselves strategically near adjoining rooms so they can talk (loudly) to each other. It’s Facebook chat, barely Twitter nonsense. I have to block it all out to focus on the four pages and a P.S of a sculptor’s letter to a critical friend. The sculptor is writing from springtime Cornwall on 6 March 1951. The critical friend will open the letter the next day (when there were 3 deliveries a day) and the Royal Mail invariably arrived on time. He’ll pick it up from his doormat before breakfast in grimy Leeds, though the leafy part near Roundhay Park. The sculptor begins by saying:
 
It is so difficult to find words to convey ideas!
 
In this so efficient Cambria typeface that introductory sentence loses so much of the muscle and flow of the human hand. Written boldly in black ink, and so full of purpose, I read it a month ago, a photocopy in a display case, and knew I had to capture it. And it’s here entire in my note book, on my desk, carefully copied, to share with you my darling, my kind friend, the young woman I hold dear, admire so much, become faint with longing for when, as she crosses that gallery where she has been hanging her work (in my imagination), I am caught as so often by her graceful steps and turn.
 
I don’t feel any difference of intent in or of mood when I paint (or carve) realistically, or when I make abstract carvings. It all feels the same – the same happiness and pain, the same joy in a line, a form, a colour – the same feeling at the end, The two ways of working flow into each other without effort  . . .
 
Outside my warm studio the snow has retreated east and I’ve opened the window to hear the Cathedral bells practising away, the city on a Tuesday night free of revellers, the clubs closed, the pubs quiet. In this building everyone has gone home except this obsessive musician who stays late to write to the woman he adores, who thinks a day is not a day lived without a letter to her at least, a poem if possible.
 
I’d quietly hoped to be with you tonight, but you must have something arranged as I suggested twice I might come, and you said it wasn’t necessary. But I have this letter, and something to write about. Alas, no poem. My muse is having the evening off and I am gently reconciled to the possibility of a few words on the telephone before bed.

Dear Charlie,
I assume you may not know me, but I know you. Well, how else could I not know you when your story has been adapted into a book and a movie? You may not recognize the way you can reach me back, because you’re fictional. But I’d like to think you’re real, and that’s good enough for me.
I’ve been reading your letters, just like any other kids my age and some adults who are still intrigued by young adult fiction. You cried a lot for a boy. You were not ashamed of it, too, even when you were with your friends, Patrick and Sam. They seemed to be really nice people, and I learnt that what they did didn’t define them. The fact that they like to smoke and drink doesn’t make them bad people. I like that. And as always, eventually, people stop doing things but their personality stays strong. Who you are comes from inside.
Anyway, yes, you cried a lot for a boy. You were lucky to have friends that appreciate your tears. Sometimes, they would join you, but in cheers. You cheered along, too, but they weren’t yelps or shouts of joy but whimpers of happiness. Crying may seem weak and vulnerable, but I think you didn’t need to stop.
I would like to tell you a story, if I may. Well, how would you reply to my request of patience and lending both of your ears when you’re only inside our minds? However, Charlie, if you were ever alive, I think you would be a good listener. This reminds me of one of the lines in your letter, stating that you’re “a wallflower”. Anyway, now, let’s get to my story.
In a few months, I will be packing my bags then depart to your country, the United States. A few months ago, I was tested whether or not I was eligible to live in your country and represent my nation. I passed. Though I thought that my interview kind of ******, I still passed. After being declared that I was qualified to go to the U. S., I was given a 27-page form I needed to fill. And so I did. The form consisted of student profile, student questionnaire, student’s letter to host family, parents questionnaire, interviewer’s report, medical records, academic records, a photo album, and a contract. I don’t know why, but this form seemed to weigh down on me, even though it shouldn’t feel tiring at all. I had the pleasure of writing my letter to my future host family, because I love writing, but somehow, I just didn’t like dealing with the official stuffs. But gradually, I put up with it and ended my misery.
Today, I gave the form to my counsellor. I was ready to feel satisfied. I was so ready because I had been feeling very ******* of late, and my rage peaked when my mom forgot to print the photos I needed for the photo album for my future host family to see. My anger still haven’t soothed down, though. Which means I am really mad. Little did I know, after all that ice cream of strolls between the school building to the administration to get my academic records and car rides from home to the doctor to clarify my medical records, topped by an icing of stress due to the ignorance in putting the photos together, there was a cherry on top. I had to print another copy of the same form, photocopy my passport photo, get my dad to sign my form, and if all that was not enough, my counsellor poured down a chocolate syrup into my wombs. I needed to refill my medical records which would only mean going back to the doctor for several more times. I don’t want to exaggerate by saying the hundredth time, because I am already tired.
Of course, all I did was put on my poker face for security, even though my mom yelled at me for not telling her sooner about the correct way to fill my medical records. To be honest, that is all I do. Put on a face of a clear expression of unclear emotion. I felt really stupid for not listening intently to my counsellor when we first met. I felt so stupid, I felt like I already wasted my opportunity. My opportunity to be myself to the fullest extent. My opportunity to feel what is unfelt. My opportunity to meet people I have not encountered. My first opportunity to really go.
But of course, that is not true. I just need to do what needs to be done and I’m all good. But I can’t help feeling like a failure. And I have been stifling more cries than I have ever been in my entire life. I wanted to cry when my brother left. All I did was covered my mouth with the bottom tip of my t-shirt and tried to catch myself when I fell. This time, I wanted to cry because I had never been so ignorant in following instructions. I don’t just tell myself this everyday, I am fully aware that I am observant. I see things people don’t. I feel things that people would dismiss. I listen to unspoken thoughts rather than what has been stated. I really like this part of myself. I feel like this is something that makes me me, and when I don’t do well on something simple like this, something has got to be wrong.
The first thing that came up to mind when I was faced with my mistakes was, “So this is my karma.”
I am a strong believer in karma, Charlie. I bet you know what it is. It’s the punishment you get after doing something bad. Nobody seems to know this, but I’m a bad person. I am. I have a bad habit of judging people; of collecting prejudices to make myself feel good; of being good even when I don’t want to; of not making the best of things; of lying, lying, and lying; of constantly hiding even when I have the chance to fully display myself out there; of being a burden to my parents and friends; of being vague about my faith; of not having a voice. I feel weak, but I won’t say I’m a weakling because I won’t make it become me, although all I want to do is to cry all the time because unlike you, I have no idea how to do that.
All I know right now is when I can feel there’s water in my eyes, I blink to dry them out. When my lips seem to turn upside down, I give them a rubdown so that they would look nice and pretty again. I don’t know how to cry, Charlie, I really don’t. I can already see myself next week at school, making an excuse to the toilet, or having lunch with friends and while having a good laugh I find myself crying, and I wouldn’t be able to distinguish my happiness and my melancholy. Neither would my friends.
I’m sorry for making it really long for you to read. I could just make it into several sentences, like, “Didn’t correctly fill out my form. Feeling like a failure. I don’t know how to express myself.” But knowing that you really like reading books as much as I do, I think you would appreciate my effort in writing my story as detailed as possible. I hope you enjoy it, too, no matter how miserable it seems when it really shouldn’t be. But then again, I wouldn’t be telling you a story.
During my inconsolable moment, I decided to make a list of things to remember when I’m an adult. In my mind, I wrote the first one down. I said to myself, “Remember the feeling of holding back.” I muttered the line aloud inside again and again, so that it would feel natural for me when I see someone in a situation like mine. As much as I hate that feeling, I need to be reminded so that others won’t be as miserable as I was. It seems pretty selfish of me, to see other people smile so that I can join them, but if you think again, it’s also for their own good.
The second one is to be sensitive, because it’s the only way you can understand anyone, especially your kids. I feel like people should not forget the fact that others of their kind is others of their kind. They’re not only their fellow citizens, they’re not only what they do for a living, they’re not doctors, or lawyers, or engineers, or archeologists. They are human. The basic form of every occupation. And they have feelings, just like we do. Sometimes we are blocked by the boundary of professionalism that we forget who they really are. There is not a day where we’re not divided based on jobs, religions, races, nationalities, and the list keeps going. But in the end, what we are is not based on those factions. We’re just mortals.
I would tell you more about the four other things I’ve listed, but I don’t want to keep you from doing what you’re supposed to do now. I think there are more things to be listed, too, when my days have moved on. But the four other things I’ve written down are, “Keep in mind Alesso’s quote, that you’re not gonna get any younger”, “Make ‘Listening to Sigur Rós’ a routine”, “Always eat your breakfast”, and “Remember the feeling of being a teenager, because most parents have already forgotten”. I thought that I would erase the last one because it is pretty similar to the second one, but I guess it has a different understanding. I’m sorry for keeping you from doing your job for awhile, whatever it is you are doing now. But I do hope you turn out well.
If you do reach the end, Charlie, now is the time that I thank you for reading this from the beginning to the end. I don’t get listened to much actually, so I think it is very kind of you for having finished reading every word. Anyway, I need to get busy printing my form again. I hope to recognize you in one of the souls I will be meeting one day.

Love always,
A friend

right left right left right left right
we walk this path from day to night
front to back and side to side
these blinders keep us calm inside

inside; a beat that we walk to
what does that beat mean to you?
to pump the blood that keeps you well?
or does it prolong your living hell?
if that beat began to slow
until they said there was no flow
then all the things that were ahead
would vanish with the words "he's dead"

if you could look him in the eye
the younger you just might cry
and ask you why you didn't even try
to be that "motorcycle guy"

it's too bad but it seems to be
dreams have become idiocracy
full of nos and won'ts and can'ts
because you bought some big-boy-pants
and with them on you chose to be
the you that lacks originality
to take yourself so seriously
defines a loss of dignity

so sold on how these things must go
you photocopy the status quo
embrace all that you can call you
the fun, the weird, the nerdy too
let it pour out of your soul
onto a canvas; break the mold

until the day when you decide
to let your heart shine from inside
and be the you that lives with ease
accept the flaws; the insecurities
you will walk down those same streets
a miracle stripped to a monotonous beat

so look within to find that passion  
it's up to you to take the action
just believe; call this the start
just believe; follow your heart

Before reading this I want people to know that I have never been *****.
I got the inspiration for this poem from a post on tumblr.*

One
After the first time he put his hands on her
she never thought she'd be able to escape the grasp of the feeling
she stayed up till 3:41 in the morning in the bathtub
sitting in the scalding water
trying to burn the dirt from her skin.
she sat there until the water turned cold
and she had not one tear left to cry
and until her skin was rubbed raw and bleeding.
she counted the bruises on her body
9 on her stomach
1 on her face
1 on her neck
a yellow and purple necklace around her collar
from the telephone wire he abused
from the telephone she didn't dare use
even after he finished manipulating her.
she scrubbed his fingers from her hair
but decided cutting it off would be easier
she washed his yelling voice from her ears
but found that screaming made him quieter
she scraped his taste from her lips
a dry martini
a cigarette
and someones tears from the past.
she couldn't scrub her wrists hard enough
to erase the feeling of the ropes he had her anchored with
so instead she sliced the flesh of where the imprint lay
attempting to release the strain from the burn marks on her skin.

Two
That same morning when she almost bled out
she checked herself into a hospital.
They sewed up the crimson bracelets she made
trapping inside of her wrists
each scream he muffled
with every new stitch.
she guessed they figured out what happened
whether it was the bruises
or the way her speech sounded like morse code but
they told her the police were informed
and that they'd do everything in their power to find monster
who opened the door to her own personal hell.
When the sketch artist asked her to describe him
she told her he was a photocopy
the regular John Doe
medium hight
brown hair brown eyes
nothing special or unique that would make a girl cross to the other side of the street
just like she said she should have done.
When they told her she needed to be inspected
she didn't even flinch
that seemed to be the only thing that people did these days
was inspect one another for an outcome that they'll be paid for
in paychecks or pleasure.
They stripped her down
apologizing for the cold
they took pictures
apologizing for the flash
they held her hand
apologizing for the feeling
but why apologize if he already imprinted it on her body
there's no going back from this
she will never be able to look at a man the same way again
she will always see cold hard hands on her shoulders
even at the warmest touch
she will only see flashes of his lips forced onto hers
when she receives the smallest peck
she will never be able to feel anything but a mattress beneath her back
rope around her wrists
and a freezing cold emptiness inside of her stomach.

Three
After the second time he put his hands on her
she stayed up all night in the freezing cold water
not even trying to remove his mark from her.
she figured that if the dirt beneath his fingernails were still there the second time
the dirt would still be on her too.
she let the filth engulf her
telling herself that all she was was dirt anyway
and as she lay with her head underwater
she screamed as loud as she could
for as long as she could
until her face was red
her voice was scratchy
till the veins in her neck pulsed
and when she finally sat up she was deafened by a deep silence
with no more sound than rippling water and the ticking of the clock.
That's when she realized that no matter how loud she screamed
she would never be heard amongst other peoples silences.
silences full of beeping cars and TV commercials
buzzing air conditioners and clinking plates
quite whispers and loud laughs
full of family and friends and the whole world spinning around them.
she would never matter to anyone
no brakes would squeal at the sound of her desperation
no ears would turn to decipher the morse code she mustered shakily from her lips
no one would ever care that her screams for help were muffled
and no one would have a hole in their stomach if she disappeared.
at this thought
she slipped deeper into the tub
unwraps the bandages from around both her wrists
uncovering scars that would never heal.
She explored the wounds with her fingers
and saw how weak the stitching was
like the nurse who repaired her found it pointless
and attempted it half heartedly.
She discovered that pulling the dark material that was woven through her flesh
would release her blood
like opening a door to another universe.
the purple would quickly turn to red
drop slowly into the tub
creating a water color painting of the war inside her head.
She pinched the strings holding the two parts of her together
******* their rough surface
she began to feel tired
dreaming of a happier place
of a happier her
of feeling like a person again.
she pinched the string
and pulled.
hard.

if a sound could be grainy
like a photo with the ISO too high
over-compensating for the light that shone too dim
through the patterned curtains in your bedroom
in your mother’s old house
where the peaches tasted better in water than in sugar and that had never
ever happened
not since you were three years old when your grandmother
who was not yet too old to do much besides eat TV dinners
and watch ‘the price is right’
before your grandfather’s funeral
where you ruined your velvet dress
spilling cheap coffee all over the bodice
(if it had been good coffee the situation would be
entirely different)
the sound of you
exhaling like a train rolling right past the house
shaking the walls and the floor and the sofa
less and less as it gets farther away
you sound
grainy
like a photocopy
and i can’t find
the original

The distance between us
is so wide that it can't
be scaled in inches, feet, days, or years;
it can only be measured in life times.

The version I knew of you,  
if I knew you at all,  
is only a shadow in my memory
left over from a previous life.

There are few things I can remember clearly
that have not been softened by time,
or cumbered by loneliness.

Those are:
One,
the small shape of your eyes
when sunlight broke, violent,
like a stone through windows
as particles danced
above us in slow motion.

Two,
the roughness of your rug
against our bodies
as we awoke
on your living room floor.

Three,
the way you offered me your long arms,
like ribbons, I wrapped them around myself,

and finally I felt like a gift.

All words
have been replayed
and rewritten so many times.
Like a photocopy of a photocopy
they have begun to wane.

Everything I have ever written
reads like a piece to the bridge
I am building to get back to you,
to remember who I was
when I was unscathed.

Everything I have ever written
is an ode to a past life,
an ode to reincarnation.
You have made a spiritual being
out of someone as cynical as me.

You would laugh, if you read the last sentence.

But there is no other way to explain
how I can feel such an anchor
for a practical stranger,
whose only familiar feature
that years have not taken
is a first and last name.

Blueberries blossom-trees,
Clouds made of soap-bubbles,
Creamy grass and foamy bushes
Of roses blue, purple and grey,
Grapes of red and Orange,
Wines of crystal clear greens,
Red-irises to tell of feelings
Too hot or too sad
Burning hues in a phtograph back home,
Where I don't want to go;
Chariots dragged by stallions
And spaceahips to take us to explore
Other natures...
No poverty, no suffering...
No twisted games,
Just peace...
Guns not allowed here.

Faded tree figures loom near,
visible as a smear
on what used to be the Mona Lisa.

The great work of art
goes to waste
as its paint is fingered,
by each person,
like its some sort of photocopy,
covering the masterpiece
with old, dirt, and impurities
that are not naturally occurring on skin.

Leonardo da Vinci would be appalled
at our treatment of his gift,
made to be given to one person,
yet he loved it...
and gave it to us instead.
Now stare once again
at its poor condition.

I knew an undergraduate at college
who spent his days asleep, or drinking beer;
he never needed academic knowledge
until the day of reckoning drew near,
when, as he found his time was growing short,
he’d borrow books, or photocopy them,
and, downing frantic coffee by the quart,
he’d burn the midnight oil, till five a.m.
It puzzles me a little when I find
the ones who press conversion at the end
expecting atheists to change their mind
in panic, like our coffee-drinking friend,
with fingers crossed and hoping for the best
in case this life’s continuously assessed.

give a moment of clarity to pull me out of the haze, won’t you? days have passed since i last remembered your name and even more have passed since i last forgot the scent of your clothes. your body is a synthetic imitation of a real one. i last saw you in a place you weren’t and that could be just because of a lack of some part of my sense i lost, i always was so forgetful.


define me this way: a monster of your making. the beauty you lost years ago when all you could mutter out of your chapped winter lips was please.


take me to a place where all the skies are blue, won’t you? days will come when i can’t really remember your name and even more will pass until the scent of your clothes become the scent of mine. your face is photocopy of an angel’s. i can see you in the puddle of the water, swimming with the tadpoles.


define me this way: no one important. everything you never really wanted to have.

True to
The saying
“The pen is mightier
Than the sword”
To your enemies
Deep-cutting and
Mask-divesting
Were every  of
Your  acerbic satire, also
Bitter-truth packed word.
“To ignore
His pen we ill afford
Nor could we
Fight him back
Word for word.
So covertly
Let us
Strike him  down
With a sword
About his whereabouts
Effacing a word!” they said
Forgetting
As a writer Baalu
Was worth his weight
In gold,
Whose books strangely
In large numbers sold
Though some of them,
To gut down,
They did try to hoard.

For want of
A photocopy machine then
Many were happy
To distribute
A hand-written copy.


Deep when you think,
Your pen when you pick
With it loud to speak,
Your subjects used to jump
Out of their skin
Scared of a basilisk!

Your pen
On your characters' neck
A pain
Was haunting their brain!
Yes your pen
Was their bane!

Dust to dust
You and also your enemies
With their sword
Had hopped on
Death's bandwagon
Yet your pen
Surfing back
The tide of time
Resurfaces again.

I’ve done it since I was a child,
Collapse onto your lap as if the world was a little too heavy and somehow your body moulds to my form, weight. Accommodating every sigh, listening to the symphony that is the sound of your tummy gurgling late at night.
I can no longer fit into your arms, I am no longer your tiny footed photocopy. I have now grown strong, powerful- forged from the flesh of a titan.
Somehow, I always want the world to meet you but I know I don’t talk about you nearly enough.
It’s because no words could ever accurately capture the nuance of mother nature that is you.
And you are my mother, the force of nature from which my biological cloth is cut.
You are home in the most primal sense and I am in love. In love with the way you carry yourself, soft hands, kindness rubbing rythnmic circles on my back when I feel sick.
You are the foundations of my soul on two legs and I will always be thankful for the nature of your love, firm but constant, like a waterfall.
In a constant stream your love has broken rock, moved mountains and convinced me I can do the same.
You are a force of nature, powerful beyond belief.
You are my mother, and I will always be your child.
Standing in the sand storm of life my feet will always remain firmly planted on the ground, well aware of the roots from whence I came. You are the freshest breath of life that I have been lucky enough to be nurtured by.
You are my mother, warrior, laughter in inappropriate moments.
You are my healer, you are the wind that blows the sea that is me , onto the shore- further each time. Destined to achieve more.
You are an ambitious icon.
You are the love that vibrates in each of my cells, you are the boldness in each step I take- affirmed and aware that rejection has no claim to me, pales in comparison to the great love I have received.
You are my mother,
Four words which will never begin to capture the power of who you are and what you mean to me.

I watch the daylight as it creeps across my wall,
it moves slowly, like a dying animal that
wants to live as badly as it has already wished to disappear.

I am bad impersonation of the person I was the day before;
like playing telephone with my body, or becoming a photocopy,
my true self has already begun wane.

Today I noticed the stamp
On the back of my hand
It had been there all along
But today, somehow, my eyes caught the perfectly inscribed numbers
placed casually next to each other.
Suddenly, all the people around me had the exact same label engraved on the palm of their hands.
As I stared at the calligraphy of the letters and the numbers, and at the spaces between each,  
I understood the root of the code we have all lived by
I sensed the metal scraps we have allowed to engulf our skins
I painfully recognized my mind as a photocopy of another one, and another one.
So I got up, and started reading a book.

I have really bad anxiety, so I really don't like talking to strangers.
At the library, I brought ten cents, a roll of tape, and scissors from home.
I did this so I could make a photocopy, and not have to deal with people.
However, when I used the photocopier, I did it wrong, and got nothing.
So, I had to go and ask for help.
I was a little bit nervous, but more annoyed with the photocopier.
Actually, I kept thinking it was because the photocopier just wasn't working right.
So, after I went to the front desk, they redirected me to the reference desk upstairs.
Now, I just thanked the lady, and went upstairs to get some help from them.
The lady up there and nice and helped me, and I learned that I had done it wrong when I was downstairs.
After I thanked her for her help, I stayed upstairs & went to an empty left sided cubby, & my schedule didn't change after that.
I didn't realize until I was done with my Japanese studying for the day, that I hadn't had an anxiety attack.
And just now, I realized why that was.
I was so busy needing help to photocopy, that I just didn't think about it.
I didn't think that I was talking to a complete stranger, because I was too busy thinking about my task at hand.
Now, this might not be possible for me every day, but today, it was.
And with how bad my anxiety is, it makes me happy when I don't succumb to it.
I mean, just now, I have to try and contain it, because someone sat down beside me at the other guest computer here downstairs.
This makes me anxious, but she's not talking to me, so I'm just trying to act like she's not there.
I always get nervous that someone's gonna talk to me, for some reason.
And if someone talks to me while I'm eating when I'm outside, I just concentrate on my food, so I don't shut down.
I can talk for a second, but I always feel relieved when they walk away.
I mean, the lady just left, and I feel more at ease now.
I hate feeling this way, but that's the way it is.
I'm still learning how to manage my anxiety, but I did get things done today, so I think I'm doing okay.
Alright, I only have 6 more minutes until my 20 minutes on this guest computer are up, then I'm gonna go eat.
You know, I like this schedule, I really like coming to the library.
I actually wanna write a lot more, but I don't have much time.
I might write more when I go upstairs for the 120 minutes that those computers provide, but I might not.
I still have to work on my notebook that I'm writing for my new story.
But first, I have to complete all of the notebook, then I have to completely type up everything that I wrote down.
And when it comes to printing it out, that will be done at home.
At least, I hope it will be done at home.
I just don't wanna be a nuisance to everyone else who may want the printer.
But that's at least another week or two down the road, so I don't even need to think about that right now.
Alright, I think I'm done until after I eat my lunch and go back upstairs.
And I'm not going to say bye, because I think I'm gonna come back on before I continue working on the notebook.
So instead, I'll say, see you later!

white skin
the right skin
i havent got that light skin
dark neither
im just a shade inbetween
and what does that mean?
im never seen
as the person i am,
only not white enough
not dark enough
not good enough
well im trying
im trying to fit
but pictures arent complete
when half the pictures missing.

rejected by both sides
how can you take pride
when you dont look the part?
its been an art
to refine
walking on the fine line
between them and them
but lately theyve asked me
silent words
to jump off that ledge
push over the edge
but which one?
help me help me help me
but you cant can you?
because the blood in your body
the same as their veins
makes you not understand.
a predisposition
a position
taken by yourself
or by society?

and when i work twice as hard
but she
with her photocopy paper
money and skin
when i do everything you ask
and more?
you take her money
you take her skin
you give her another opportunity
to prove something
her colour’s already proven

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

            How to Write a Modern Scholarship Application Letter

On a photocopy of a photocopy of a word soup scribbled in pencil on a torn-out sheet of notebook paper at lunch:

My future life plan goals include being a jet pilot or a dentrist I havent chose a college yet I have a A in honers english your cholarship would mean I don’t have to stress about working and my mom and dad don’t have to stress about working I can just make good grades about stressing about working I love aminals my hobbies are hanging with my friends and video games I want to attend community college and become a veteranariarian PHd i was in peewee football and cheerleading I want to major in bussiness’es and get my batchelors in bussinnesse’s administeriation in my spare time I hanging with my friends and we right fourwheeler’s and s’tuff i have looked at your program and it look’s alright for me maybe I would like it because as a wise man once said to thine true self be thine I am active in my crurch I help with blue Santa last year I take care of my specail need’s sister which is why I want to be an pediatrishin to help specail nee’ds kids and I can inspire other’s to be like me my swimming coach said I would never make the team and I did so I showed everyone who didn’ believe in me because the key to the bridge to success lys in my dream’s because my dream’s are what make me me and my dream’s are going to take me to place’s I never dreamed of as a wise man his name was Martin Luther King said as a wise man named Gandih said it’s in this book as a wise man named Churchell said as a wise man named Rosa Parks said as a wise man said
As a wise man said
As a man said
Maybe he said
Maybe
I found it in a book somewhere

A six year old once
Thought of a great plan
A huge kite
Made out of ivory sheets,
Broomsticks and yarn spool
Finish it before evening
Tie himself
Ride the breeze
And fly to the moon

He knew every evening
Winds died out by the time bells ring
In temple at street corner
And be finished before seven thirty
When mom shouts him down the roof
One of the troubles
Was he didn’t have anyone
To hold the string in place
But tying the kite to
Iron grill would work he assumed
But his sister won’t tell him
Where the glue was
And he didn't have enough string
To reach the moon
So he borrowed some
Wool yarn from an unfinished
Sweater grandma made last year
A matching red for my kite

But much to do
With not much time
Sky was getting orangier
Mosquitoes noisier
Time for quick decisions
Sitting on water tank
Gazing at the sky
Kids flying them like inebriated pilots
Failing and falling like leaves
Thinking of those fools
I could do better
Fly higher
If only a bit older

Three decades later
Searching for a forsaken photocopy
He found a drawing
Made on a summer evening
A red kite smiling in clouds
With a half moon behind it

the 5 of us in that Ford Galaxy
cigarette smoke and beer,
rarely ate,
we consumed anything we could read
Soul on Ice
Three Pillars of Zen
The Alpine Christ...
and listening to Pat Benetar
back then
kept me sane
and back then
we all grew beards
and back then
all dreams came true.
we were pretending to be poets:
a photocopy machine,
some staples,
and free... RIVERS of the SUN.
the next Blake,
Poe,
Jeffers.
intellectuals overthink
every thing,
logic
reason
be ******
keep the stuff simple
don't write anything
that people
wouldn't understand

paper, pen in hand
and I m riding that old car
into Rivers of the Sun

the 5 of us
beer and cigarette smoke.

i haven't ever been as free,
and all dreams came true.

ONLY A MONTH SINCE

He had supposed
he was

a somewhat reasonable
facsimile of  himself.

He had found he could
do a very good

impersonation of who
he used to be

impossible to tell
the difference.

He could smile on cue.
Laugh too.

But then only  when
deemed  necessary.

Perhaps just a little
off the mark.

A jaded see-through
kind of laughter.

There were too many
mirrors in this tiny room.

Offering too many
variations of a self

to choose from.

Escape from.

He found who he was...was
fa...fad. . .ing

as if he were the 1000th
photocopy of this self

he felt
bound to portray.


Betrayed by his own mind.


Only a month since


the funeral.