There is an old story that my father
Told me and my brother when we were children.
It is of the windbag
Who now haunts the ancient diamond mines.
It goes like this:

"Boys, have I ever told you of the old windbag?
How about the diamond mines that poisoned it?
Well, this windbag was a miner
Who wore his diving suit and large pickaxe with pride.
Indeed his suit was pride,
But the golden diamond mines were lust
Lust that the old miner paid no mind.
For every strike with his large pickaxe
Was every moment his mind left sanity.
He wanted more wanted more wanted more
Always always always dreaming of glittering diamonds
That shrank his soul to stone.
He left this world no longer a miner
But a windbag lingering the mines possessed by diamonds
With its diving suit and large pickaxe.
One dark morning the windbag was mining,
It was mining mining mining,
Yet it could not hear the diamond mines shatter, crumble.
Its coworkers heard, but it only heard diamonds.
The windbag stayed in the old diamond mines,
Trapped in its diving suit
Trapped in its large pickaxe
Trapped in its diamond mines.
It continues to clink and clank
As it lurks amongst the silent diamonds,
Making only physical contact."

This story my father told me and my brother,
Haunts me more than the clink and clank
I hear while walking by
The ancient diamond mines
That swallowed the windbag.

you know, on that N86 bus listening to dikanda's
https://goo.gl/OAUjMe (ketrin ketrin),
while going to the brothel, where i kissed *****'s
eyelid skin i turned my heart into a lung...
and it burst akin to muscled stress of the softer tissue,
by heart was the black horse of the race...
she would only be worth £110 an hour...
but in my heart... a lifetime... so classical fm is
asking for three songs to be enlisted in the hall of fame
here are my three:
1. something to think about (christopher young) -
   hellraiser ii,
2. no time for caution (hans zimmer) -
    interstellar,
3. spectres in the fog (hans zimmer) -
     the last samurai, competing with
(4. any other name (thomas newman) -
     american beauty,
and....
5. carpe diem (maurice jarre) -
     the dead poets' society);
i always found classical music invoked
by fast image exchange most adhering
to a modern public... after all...
the notes written down are transliterated
from moving geometries
asking for a human face...
that one abstraction leaving another created...
so enriched we can be living and leaving here,
but leave and live here cradled and crawling
and nothing more than an attempt for
a crafted shawl of woollen care...
assuredly we were the blank canvas,
when the sheep and lion were clothed...
the lizard inwardly having its blood cooled...
and we the mediators...
to evolve from an origin of such biological diversity?
why will darwinism claim to be a humanism
and let no humanism in?!
if darwinism branched from science for a populism
of understanding prepositions as propositions
(given that propositions are allowed expression
with far many more complex words than prepositions,
given the former are deemed a nature or origin
and the latter a nature of coordination)
why allow it a humanistic simplicity
and complicate humanism to a non-expression's
extent of a complexity? darwinism cannot grasp
humanism's complexity per se, for each its own per se
allowance... darwinism cannot relate to humanism,
since humanism deals with the one diluted into the many,
while darwinism deals with the many concentrated into
the one:
and noting the varied dimensional usage of pronouns,
the singular (engaging), the singular (disengaging),
the plural (effective), the plural (ineffective),
to use but a few among others... how would a self,
as either realistically concerned or as expressed
in an atlas pose when one individual speaks of a species
to ever survive... to speak of humanity per se,
is to not speak of being human per se (a self),
but as if under a constant threat from either internal
or external stimuli, it's to speak as if human
but hardly being human... darwinism only said
in simpler terms 1 = ~∞ 0 1 (one equals
approximately infinity denying one... expressed
further: one equals approximately infinity denying
oneness, hence ethnicity, hence disparity,
the infinite approximate is due to the no. of equally
represented identities of reflection as one's akin
in historical content for a vanity representation
of ego) / although there's a parallel disparity:
1 = ∞ 0 ~1 (1 equals a reasonable infinity
of the semblance collective, as approximated within
one's own constitution, denied by the constitution
of the semblance collectivised denying 1 its
oneness by a division, into pop. psychology
of subconscious, unconscious, ulterior and posterior
assembling of identification in order to relate
a concrete un-divisible one, to a oneness
of ~∞ 0 ∞†, whether governed by animate or inanimate
things, worthy of either representing
∞ = 0 ~1, or ~∞ = 0 1 (infinity equating itself to
a denial of an approximation of one,
or approximate infinity equating itself to a denial
of one) - by most standards a collective power
increases, while an individual coercion with
such increase in power is diluted to mediocre representation
of what was once hoped for to be an individual...
as worded: i'm about to inherit a pickaxe, an igloo,
a herd of sheep, a land arable for regular hunts
to provide sustenance, but as i said, the oddity
of increasing vocabulary as body-building index muscle,
will hardly teach you the physics of quanta in
the realm of modulating grammar,
on the basic basis of grammatical as
a method of de-categorisation one word from it being
named, to it being acted upon as a termed way of
walking (differently), or otherwise.

†a bit much for me, an alfred jarry moment
at the end of dr. faustroll's opinions and exploits...
papa **** got the dangling essence of things:
je suis jarry among the je suis cherub charlies,
if poet does not appreciate other artistic mediums
he can't mediate them,
poetry is supposed to mediate all artistic expression
with platonic criticism... it's supposed to mediate,
with poets appreciating each and every craft...
whether sculpture we scrap metal stolen from a park,
or whether an oil canvas be worth as much as toilet
paper when the painter is alive, and millions more
when he's dead.. we need gravity a demanding
drama to extend drama into grammar...
poets have to become the middle-men of haggling,
they need to appreciate art in an elitist way
in order that art can't become genealogically defining,
like dramatics of the theatre lost between idols
of 1950s screening compared to idols of 19'90s screening...
we need poets as the glue stuck to every output...
we need to appreciate all art other than their own
to discover their own... we can't have the mindless
jealousy bribe us to reconcile composition,
so that poet against poet is still writing poetry...
he isn't... he's writing a polemic... and that's hardly
a dialogue... it's a mortifying analogue of monologue...
and we don't want poetry to be such a belittling
circumstance of the original intent of practice,
why would a poet's rarity be reduced to
a market blasphemy of ultra-eloquent speech
in order that it might be used to scold?
why the jealousy? why?! it reeks of revenge
that only requires a Darwinism to include it,
as sustainable and necessary,
too many monkeys to create a single man...
too many difference in man from continental span
of africa, to asia... to even bother a standing ovation
origination in genetic scrip of a chimpanzee...
script wants man to be genetically above
a genetic script of a banana numbering more genes
that itself... the biodiversity of monkey
is akin to man... why would the two chiral statues
suddenly become gemini of explanation?
it all fits... but it stinks...
well, whatever that was... it's the pride of a language
that keeps darwinism alive...
but theology is closer to humanism than darwinism...
it's a compound logic, darwinism ends with with an ism,
an empiricism... and the only logic accounted for
is a logic of repeat... just look at the forms of these words...
formulated by L and Γ (origin of the kabbalistic interpretation
of allah)... keep the prefix akin to a suffix composed to
an enclosure... theology provides the better logistics
of expressing being human than an empiricism
known to be darwinism... after all a -logy tends to
repeat a systematic use of words...
empiricism a systematic use of facts...
easier to become bored of facts than words.

The pickaxe was charming
And you once were whole
But the tanned laborer
Burnt brown by the sun
Made the pickaxe sing
Whistle in the wind
You felt the impact
The pickaxe once so charming
Broke you in two
These broken rocks
Fields strewn with your saddest story
About how time erodes
And the hand of man
Destroys
You were there in the beginning
The earth started spinning with you
Your witness to creation
Your abysmal ghost
You were there in the beginning
And all your broken pieces
Your bitter memory
Will be there in the end
With words unspoken
Shouting louder than the dying sun
All your broken pieces
Will be there in the end
To testify

my masters tell me

slave on, slave

I pick up my pickaxe and crack down on the rock

my masters tell me

you don't matter. if you ain't bleedin', you can go on.

slave on, slave

I pick up my pickaxe, swing high, stop low.

the rock just hardens.

my masters tell me

you ain't strugglin'. I was strugglin'. you dont know nothin' yet.

slave on, slave

I pick up my pickaxe and my arms start to ache. cant say nothin' or i'll get hurt again.

I swing down harder. the rock still shines.

in its reflection, my agony and all them other emotions. look back at me. with smiles.

they point at the hangin' tree.

my masters tell me,

its work or die. so i works'. i hear an echo say "perish"

i pick up my pickaxe. swing down. my arms crumble. no mo' good.

but that rock broke. jus' another one in its place.

my masters tell me

you still got legs. so do they.

they dont understand.

last night i almost
gave up thinking of bronzy brazilian girls
perspiring pure coconut oil, eau de margherita ;
supermodelas eating my dreams like concord grapes, lionesses
lounging on new york balconies, lithe, reading céline.
(esti ginzburg, on the phone, considers another pomeranian) .
almost stopped.
almost derailed strange vogue-like fantasme of irina shayk, standing legs planted
left knee out-****** and foot
in ebony heel, cocked against the earth.
set being imitation of gloomy coal mine, east of prague. thin arms firmly controlling the
arc of her pickaxe, clothed in leather, high heels;
sheen of sweat holding her feline body in sweet embrace.
imagining that when shift's end buzzer echoes thru the tunnels she smokes a cigarette
on a bench in the women's locker, apple planted on old planking, elbows on her knees.
cover-alls peeled
down to her waist and her hair,
free at last.
(click)
on the tram back into the city all the smoked glass
cartier storefronts pass by like polaroids held in the hand. the same speed.
giggling, 'rina thinks of the six she could place
along her arm; gilt gold, brushed silver, diamant...

there are 11 smoked belmonts by the back steps; i did
little with the night. (tall shadow of a woman in a black dress and my mouth
a cotton ball)
that is to say:
i did almost give up thinking about bronzy braz ilia     g rls ,
-
but i didn't/and so there's nothing else.

He was a miner

Deep under the earth he sought
a gem he could not keep
worn and torn he went down
pickaxe in hand

little did he know
that it was his day
fate would greet him with a kiss
the last he heard was a hiss

His broken body was embedded in the earth
where tear drops fell
but tomorrow again
the earth will hear the miner's bell

The only job in sight
Is the mining task
It’s time to dive into the eternal night
Wearing an exotic mask

Surrounded by the earthy walls of uniformity
With a pickaxe in hand, I start the dig
The barren days have drowned me in pity
Hopefully I will find a gem worth BIG

I am not the only one in this mining tunnel
Thousands of other miners try to strike gold
I feel stuck in the bottom of a funnel
The only miners that can prosper are the lucky and the bold

In utter desperation
I grate the rough soil
Using new strategies to alleviate the frustration
I pray for a fortuitous end to this fruitless toil

With exclamation of sudden cheers!!
Some of the workers now start the upward climb
Many of the tarred workers break down in tears
Which day marks salvation this time?

Been digging this hole
For far too long
My pickaxe and shovel
I've about worn them down

Wish I could say
They've been put to good use
But when digging a hole
That's not always the truth

The pickaxe is my mouth
The shovel my mind
In the digging of deep
I've worked both overtime

The handles I break
As I can't handle it
You'd think I'd learn from mistakes
And finally, quit

But quitting's not easy
When digging a hole
And how long I'll go
Lord only knows

Cause I've been digging this hole
Longer than I care to count
My pickaxe and shovel
I've about worn them both down

keep the window open i cant stand to smell your skin, you are shivering. youre cold
(you tell me so (you want a response (i nod,)))
(but you are still cold)
do you have any
fantasies?
this halting voice heaves in my stomach pressing against the walls, making
me sick, the snap of your blinking lids a pickaxe to my temple. i think about
fire
a lot. i think about forest fires. filling the tank in a dead town, dark night quiet town,
the gas tank overflows (your nervous eyes in your sweating sticky face {your twitching gaze stroking the lighter in the glove compartment} dry dry lips {your wet tongue only makes them dryer})
breathing in her ear you say tie me to the stake tight tight so rope burn sears my wrist,
burn me with the dry kindling,
condensation drips down her neck, sliding down the arm. on the sidewalk in the pit of her shadow a puddle forms, wetting the wings of the unhappy wasps, joints twisted, the gaps in the exoskeleton show something bright, something bulbous, with forceps and needles it could be reached? its delicate skin pierced, oozing thick light (do you have any
fantasies?)
[so there are two of me, right,
clones, equivalent beings but
individuals. some sort of sick
government secret. human ex
periments. its not important.
i grab my clone by the neck or
it grabs me, its not important,
the dust billows when my feet
skid, im choking, vision blurr
ing, i claw at my hands, we f
all, dust bursts into the air, m
y fist makes sick thudding sou
nds when it hits, bruising my
knuckles on the structural bon
es of my face, possibly breaki
ng the more delicate ones. im
straddling my chest and im s
pitting out the teeth that i di
dnt swallow. then the clones
****? im not really sure.]

The Lemur is enthroned on the heights of an island
In a luxurious villa, complete with a sauna and a pool
The Dormouse holds, modestly, a small pharmacy
Where people can buy necklaces, gemstones and pretty threads.

Every Monday morning the lemur fixes
His hair with a delicate ivory comb
Asks about the stock market in overflow
Swallowing a pure white powder in a row

His orange eyes threaten to explode
So he sits down, eats lobster and sated,
He doesn’t have a care in the world as descends the evening
His paw resting on a black jade cane stolen from the dormouse

Monday morning, the lemur, operational
Goes fast, pick and pickaxe at the mine
Extracting, sweaty, some beautiful spinel specimens
Hoping that one day at the Lemurian’s he would dine

For a trifle, the latter bought him
His most beautiful crystals and this without paying taxes
He became the leader of the island thanks to his kinsmen
The exotic animals knew something was wrong…

His only friends were the rich and the bohos
Under the yoke of this monkey, the island was a hellhole
Their chef was addicted to coconut powder
Whoever dared to say it was put in irons

When finally, an evening he overdosed
Nobody buried him among his friends
The Dormouse humbly undertook to do so
At the hole where he dug, he found a stone

The moral of the fable, listen to it then,
Who shows compassion exists with reason
Do not judge too fast, because we're leaving too early
Nature often rewards us in her own way.

September 11, 2019
Nancy, translated on November 17, 2019

Today, I must write a poem:

What this poem has to say
has yet to come to mind.
Has yet to ignite like a spark
on a cord
making its way
to an explosive source of ideas.

Such an amenity
so unlikely to be found
happening here.

I must again mine for thoughts.
So, along with my pickaxe,
I trek with good memories
to return me safely back
from the deepest recesses of my mind.

I hunt.

For idea. For inspiration,
For I cannot return
empty handed.

I dig. And I dig. And I dig.

It feels like forever,
as if there's nothing left,
as if the mountain of my mind
was tapped dry long ago.

I check every crevice,
every corner, and nook,
now ridden with old
and reused ideas.

And then I find it:

The first flower of spring;
the cloud in clear sky;
the single rock of inspiration;
possibly the last chunk of idea
for years to come
simply sitting there,
lighting up
the dark caverns of my mind,
waiting to take shape.

As I begin to mold
As I begin to sculpt
"It" is no longer an it.
Ideally, it's an idea
that has succumbed to the darkest,
most vile parts of my mind.
Yet, despite,
has been brought out the depths of
being just an idea, withering away;
it has been realized.
It has been successfully plucked
at its time of harvest.

It has become so much more;
this once coal of an idea
has been polished,
and glimmers just as bright
as its diamond-like companions.

So, I return
with yet another triumph,
from braving the dark and cold
labyrinth of my mind
yielding my trophy;
my idea.

I was brought here upon a cloud of unfairness
a cloud which I tried to undo
with hammer and pickaxe I toiled away,
but then I fell through
Into a sea of despair
which the cloud had brought down
in torrents and waves
it forced me to drown
I was still, and unbreathing
Like a dead person should be
emotionless and unfeeling
thats how they described me

Blubber
Sometimes I get tired
Of all the blubber
The grinding of systems
The metal to the rubber

The pushing of points
The singing to the choir
Pickaxe in place of featherc
Look there's a bird upon the wire

Maybe potions going dry
No thank you please
And fingers going all stiff
While here awaits the feast

And vases laying all smashed
Words sitting there all torn
Lets gather the broken scraps
Rearrange them and be reborn

Maybe it's me and only me
Closing an old and tattered page
Maybe I've overstayed my welcome
On an old and creaky stage

Ah the sticks an stones are smiling now
The crows I think they've left
But the cinders upon ash
Still burn bright upon this hearth

Out into the clearing
See it twinkling up ahead
An inkling of some something
Some of us have thought of and said

Merlin's done it agian
Con-Ed's shut down
Tesla's come into power
And White Bear gets his crown
Oh
And
George Carlin is pope
Shakespeare is president
They both know the ropes
And you what ya think?
Wink, wink

I want to scream and shout 'til my insides come out,my wants and needs and desires feed the fires that are raging infernos,massive volcanoes erupt and they torture me.
Leave me alone or set me free.
I am sick of the pickaxe of bus fares and income tax and I'm thinking of quitting it all, to go and begs drinks at the temperance hall.
Sober,they say it is good,
not today it's not.
I've got a thirst and could drink down an ocean,
sell me a quick fix or fix me a potion or I'll have to scream,I'll make such a commotion.or
I might just curl up and die and leave you wondering why or maybe I won't,I don't really know,but I really know this,
bus fares and income tax really **** me off.

It’s said
Glittering things just in the distance do not always mean that gold is just within reach
for fools gold is so much nearer to the truth

And in a similar vein
Smiles and laughter do not always denote happiness
because those in the most pain know well enough how to hide it
and that you would probably prefer it that way

And just like mining,
One has to dig past the surface
To see whats hidden within
So break out your pickaxe
and plop on your safety gear
and if you care as much as you like to say you do
Get ready to work
and dig
and get *****

Who knows what you’ll find
Diamonds or coal
Riches or nothing at all
Gold or pyrite
The truth or another lie
For even past surface level
Things can remain hidden in the dark

Just when you think you’ve reached the treasure
You’ve searched for so desperately
Your foot might fall upon something you didn’t even see
A pitfall perhaps
and down you go
Further from your goals than ever before

If there’s one thing i’ve learned in my life
It’s how to set traps and barricades
So unwary spelunkers never touch my heart
and only those who really care will get close
Close enough to free my heart from the barbed wire prison I created

My gold and treasure
My friendship
Is only for those who can earn my trust
Because while my body isn’t a temple
My soul is sacred land
Never to be desecrated by uncaring hands
And I will never let the hymns and lullabies I whisper myself to sleep with
To encourage myself
To let myself dream for a bright future
Be taken

I will never see them ruined or changed to fit the agenda of the uncaring deity you see yourself as
Instead I’ll bury them in the sacred land of my heart
Only to be found by those deserving
I will never allow myself to lose the love I have to give
For friends and family
For even after I dissipate into the end
Into the resounding, echoing, heartbreaking “Nevermore!”
My whispered lullabies will remain for those who earned the right to listen
And so for now I'll leave my treasure locked and buried
My love safe within my heart, my temple
Until you can prove to me you deserve it

Oh Jalaluddin!
You counseled me to "Tear down this house"
My House

Because I Love you
I'm taking your advice
Tearing it down

Brick
by
Brick

Plank
by
Plank

I'll start from the outside
And work my way in

People will stop and stare
"Another crazy person" they'll observe
"He's gone mad" they'll whisper as I break down the walls
"He's a fool" they'll note as I bring down the chimney
"He's lost" they'll gossip as I break the foundation
"Stay away from him" they'll warn as I sit in the rubble

"Were they right all along" I'll ask again and again
"Did I make a mistake"
"Did I burn my life on a whim"
"How do I know"
"Is it possible to know"

It's a lonely place this one
In the ruins
Tired and hungry
Gathering energy to dig
With the Pickaxe You gave me at birth

Alone
Homeless
Afraid

I Surrender...

Pickaxe swings,
shards fly.
Pieces move,
yet inners hide.

I've been swinging
both day and night.
Understanding you
is a futile fight.

The most precious and rare of jewels
Are found in the darkest of caves
Under the most intense pressure
Beneath the dirt and detritus
Only those equipped with a pickaxe forged of patience,
A gentle hand,
And a discerning eye
Will be lucky enough to find
These raw jewels in the rough
Whose beauty lies well beneath the surface
You may machine cut and polish
Synthetic stones all you like
However, there is no comparison of worth
To jagged jewels which have been ripped from the earth,
Washed, refined, and faceted with the care
Of a kind and gentle hand

some days are too many pictures
falling fast like tetris blocks just before the end
and i twist-try to fit in the gaps between the incomplete lines
my body fills the spaces that i couldn't close
i try to brick myself in corset-tight
stretch the laces and slather the mortar until
there is no room for breath,
for pause, for reflect, for what if
all of this is wrong if maybe
i'm playing this wrong if maybe
i just need a pickaxe to break through this wall
of juggle, of yellow-light-gas-pedal, need to
tear down this wall and build a
cathedral, a place to rest,
something beautiful that always points up

When it's time
and if it's time
it will be mine.
Time has a habit of creeping up on you and peeking into you
then staking a claim.
Fame you can keep it
I've seen it and spent it on even more time
that is the hourglass
a time that we save and time that we waste
all a matter of personal taste and of circumstances beyond our control
controlled by the clock I am constantly in shock
when I look at how time flies yet stands still.
I am reasonably sure that sometime in the future I will look back on these minutes with a grimace
and a smile
meanwhile time takes a break with some tea and a cake
and I sit by
watching the clock
still in shock and in awe
because it just passed three thirty and it's a quarter past four.
I can't even sleep got to keep my eyes on the tick
and the tock makes me sick.
Think I'll pick up a pickaxe
smash the clock and I'll relax
but in the twilights of midnights where the demons of mornings and in the yawnings of men it's already ten after ten
can't escape
I shall wait for the winding it's grinding me down
and I need a pick me up
a tonic to buck me up and I should just shut the
clock up.

Everybody's lacking confidence
Everybody's just a slave to the banking's dominance
Everybody's backing arguments
Everybody's in a maze of ever-ranking documents
Everybody's wanting paradise
Everybody's facing hate and then responding scared of life
Everybody's falling, paralyzed
Everybody's hesitating when they see a haunting pair of eyes
They're always drinking on the victim's blood
Their rain's got me thinking that existence rusts
We should be shouting that "the system's ******!"
Now, stop the doubting, let resistance flood...
Everybody's seeming blinded
Everybody's blighted, everybody's teaching me a virus
Everybody's seeking eyelids
'cause when it comes to really being
They ain't seeing through their iris
Everybody's mind is stuck in the end
Everybody's lied, and then were judging a friend
Everybody's cried and then said "**** it, I'm dead"
Everybody's died, I bet they're loving the dread
Everybody's heard the story
Everybody's missing when they're on the search of Dory
Everybody's sure they're sorry
Everybody's wishing they could find the worth of glory
Everybody's been through hardship
We peer through the glass of a see-through market
Lately I'm thinking that I've been too modest
'cause they want me in a cage, so I speak zoo knowledge
Ha - who's calling me? 2Pac and B.I.G, 'cause we're dying to live
Who's calling me? 2Pac and B.I.G., 'cause we're dying to live
I'm just trying to give back, that line is a zig zag
I want some food for thought but all I find is a big mac
Deep in your head's where they mine with a pickaxe
Claiming we have freedom but they silence the chit chat
I'm simply thinking we should bridge the cut
Instead of always sinkin 'cause the distance was
Shorter than we thought to keep persistence up
So join me when I say that the systems ******

I took a pickaxe to my heart
and chipped away the poison
clogging my arteries and
slowing my pulse to a whisper;
after years of build up
I finally curbed the beast within
but things were too good to be true.

Now my pulse beats a different tune
to what I've grown so used to
and I no longer crave the poison
that built walls around my heart
leaving me helplessly trying
to figure out what I want
and who I am
without the monster who controlled me

Sestina From The Home Gardener**

These dried-out paint brushes which fell from my lips have been removed
with your departure; they are such minute losses
compared with the light bulb gone from my brain, the sections
of chicken wire from my liver, the precise
silver hammers in my ankles, which delicately banged and pointed
magnetically to you. Love has become unfamiliar

and plenty of time to tend the paint brushes now. Once unfamiliar
with my processes. Once removed
from that sizzling sun, the ego, to burn my poet shadow to the wall, I pointed,
I suppose, only to your own losses,
which made you hate that 200 pound fish called marriage. Precise-
ly, I hate my life, hate its freedom, hate the sections

of fence stripped away, hate the time for endless painting, hate the sections
of my darkened brain that wait for children to snap on the light, the unfamiliar
corridors of my heart with strangers running in them, shouting. The precise
incisions in my hip to extract an image, a dripping pickaxe or palm tree removed,
and each day my paint brushes get softer and cleaner – better tools, and losses
cease to mean loss. Beauty, to each eye, differently pointed.

I admire sign painters and carpenters. I like that black hand pointed
up a drive-way whispering to me, “The Washingtons live in these sections,”
and I explain autobiographically that George Washington is sympathetic to my losses;
His face or name is everywhere. No one is unfamiliar
with the American dollar, and since you’ve been removed
from my life, I can think of nothing else. A precise

replacement for love can’t be found. But art and money are precise-
ly for distraction. The stars popping out of my blood are pointed
nowhere. I have removed
my ankles so that I cannot travel. There are sections
of my brain growing teeth and unfamiliar
hands tie strings through my eyes. But there are losses

of the spirit like vanished bicycle tires and losses
of the body, like the whole bike, every precise
bearing, spoke, gear, even the unfamiliar
handbrakes, vanished. I have pointed
myself in every direction, tried sections
of every map. It’s no use. The real body has been removed.

Removed by the ice tongs. If a puddle remains, what losses
can those sections of glacier be? Perhaps a precise
count of drops will substitute the pointed mountain, far away, unfamiliar?

I'll still be there in the morning,
Cold hard sweat clinging to my bones,
A smell I'll remember to my earthly grave,
That holds my skin like a dark cloak that you gave me,
When the moon was light that we read each other by.
I'll still be there, even when the bell tolls,
Rolling over in creased sheets that we ironed with our legs,
And the heart is still there, not sure where I expected it to go -
To be let in as the sun rises, I'll still be surprised to feel your heat.

Everything will be just fine
Mother said.
Mother said, "you're worth more than ironing sheets and giving freedom to caged birds"
How far would you go to wake up?
Do you still feel him on your skin,
Do your bones still ache slightly, for that touch.
Mother said "graves don't dig themselves, stop carrying that pickaxe"
Mother said.
But where else will you find diamonds except in the deepest mines?
And I'll always carry the cold sweat of coal in the morning,
My handprints will touch everywhere, and all you feel is silk,
All I will see is embers, from my burnt hands


And you'll let me touch the sun a thousand times before i get to touch you.
Mother said "stop thinking, stop crying, stop doing. Stop trying so hard"
Mother said "no-one will like you as you are, be better, be harder, be tougher, every single time"
Mother said.

So as you lay there in your sheets, wondering who I am, remember these things,
I am ash, I am bone, I am heat, and I am fear. I am a million things that have been extinguished before you met me,
And if you don't like charcoal,
I for sure can't forge you a diamond.

The tunnel winds its way up to the moon
and soon,
hopefully
because I'm on my last two spangles
and sherbet dabs are not the same
I will come out on the light side
the right side
beside a crater
where will be waiting
a signpost stating
'Paradise 3k away'
I will lay my pickaxe down and in lighter gravity being somewhat of unbound, I shall skip with glee
(and half a spangle left)

With an air, without air and with lots of nonchalance
I will prance my way to paradise bay
and play with beams made out of dust
(on the moon that
is so a must)
and when evening drops in for a tea and if I am able,still being full of glee,I shall eat pancakes and cherry tarts
and open up the 'love hearts' which I hid away for a rainy day but it never rains when it doesn't pour
and up here where I am with cherry jam and
within the core where there's more green cheese that you ever saw
there's a man.
The man in the moon and he soon joins in my jamboree
and then we're both filled up with glee
not really any need to eat my tea but I digress
as I usually do.

You can join me, get a ***** and dig away until the starlight starts to fade and close your eyes
in a moment or a moment more you'll be knocking at my door
(hope you brought some jelly tots)
and we can pour out spinning tops and spin ourself until all spinning stops and morning wakes
if not wakes, it breaks itself wide open on the bedroom floor
I'm not sure I like the morning anymore
what's it for but to disappoint the spaceman in my heart
tonight I'll start to dig again.

The older you get
The faster you end up dying.


I'm alive,

Bury me with a pickaxe
An old hg wells book
A cup of Joe
And my old tophat

Bury me with a smile

Here we are going nowhere now
Faster than ever before
Not sure of when nor even of how
We bit into this rusty lure

Today lives seem to blow in the breeze
Through branches of rotting trees
Somehow I feel the greatest of need
To repeat the branches of rotting trees

Take the pickaxe and dig up the grave
Unmarked is the one in which we play
No sense in holding it in
Well dig it up then fill it all in again

We all want certain things in life
Standing in line with the question why
Hope against hope not what we deserve
Don't think about it nor whisper a word

Most times find our heads stuck in the mud
No way to move and here comes the flood
Thought at one time if we just let it be
Have I mentioned the branches of the rotting trees

If we cut at those branches, strip off the vines
The fruit it still rots before it's time
And here we are still standing in line
Again with the question of why

Looking at desolation
(that you left here behind
with me in ruins)
and sun that shines
only to be stopped by clouds
(for darkness has deeper
meaning than collapse)
I touched the only pillar
which remained of
the temple (where
each night lied seven
stone roses with blood
in their petals) but
spirit of the place was gone
(with the summer which may
never spread its arms across
the land again) and I was left with
a hammer and pickaxe to
rebuild the temple (with a face
of new goddess) you destroyed
when you gave yourself to him
(but the times is not right now
for my hard hands are feeling
numb) looking at this desolation
I endorse my isolation (but the
time will come and it will be
a new poem for the eyes of love

Ostracization
Contamination
Through my deflation
I find devastation
On the devil’s station
Of severed relations

My misfit
******
Sin bit
Prison stint
Reminisced
Of my bliss
Without a kiss
So I eat a dish
Of a returning wish
But I’m a burning witch
Who’s yearning to switch
From learning I’m glitched

I received
A receipt
Of deceit
By elite
Petite
Feet
That stepped on
My weapon
Of inspection
Due to detections
Defused by erections

The jaded
Invaded
And waited
To be hated
So I’d be baited
And mentalities traded

Pickaxe
Sick facts
Impact
My tact
As I react
To the flak
I use to attack
Coming back
On my track
Turning black

How do I deal with their negativity?
Is it really just a matter of relativity?
Must I have my relatives killing me
Before the hatred filling me
Is justified?
Why must I cry
When only dust resides
In my desolate insides?

The heartless devastate
Making me separate
Into a mental state
Completely innate
An unseemly inmate
Of the tumultuous strait
Between finding a date
And the bitter fate
Dinner plate
Sinners make

This challenge leaves me petrified
Possibly electrified
From their pesticide
That infects inside
Until I elect to hide
And convince myself I don’t care
My mental health I won’t share
I’ll just scream no fair
Flailing arms in the air
I will not have been spared
By this devastating nightmare

She taught me what true compassion felt like,
showed me avenues of life I never knew existed,
feelings that I never thought possible.

She gave me a glimpse into something so undeniable,
yet, at the same time, surreal beyond comprehension
- nothing was impossible wherever she existed.

She gave me a taste of forever,
a peek into the window of her soul,
and serendipity from her lips.

With her, I was a lion with the largest mane,
the first man on the moon,
the pickaxe that first struck gold in California.

Higher than high - cannabis had nothing on this,
the way her eyes glittered is something I'll miss.

She showed me what eternity could've been like,
and left devastation in her wake.

©  2017 José

Sitting all alone
Attempting not to let the dreaded ocean of nothingness drown me
in mind numbing boredom
Losing all focus
I close my eyes
Your perfectly crooked smile stares back at me
Your dark eyes twinkling when the light hits them
Your tall figure, kissed by the sun
And your lips, kissed by all except for me
I open my eyes
Hoping that this irresistible image of you will leave my brain
But I know very well that it won’t
I cannot stop you from plaguing my mind
I attempt to cut you off
Do what’s best for my heart
Try and build back the walls that you destroyed
But then your name lights up my phone screen
And I cave in
I allow you to take your pickaxe and start chipping away at the tough facade that I show the world
You’re like air for me
I never realize how much I need you until you’re gone
And so I come crawling right back to you
Your arms open wide
Fulfilling my need for your company
Waiting for the day you realize that to me,
You are more than just another guy

I see the devil in all things. It's not even particularly well-hidden, not like some trick of the imagination or a disguised magician, it's hiding in plain sight to me. Not the sort of devil that a cult may tell you of, not some huge, red demon with the beard of a goat, but something more primal. Fear. Loathing. Hatred. Something malicious, something insidious, something downright disgusting is hiding amongst all which touches the light I walk upon. An idea of evil, a form of maleficence, an essence of carnage, a torment of the psyche. I walk unlit roads towards a house which does not feel like a home. I see it within the groups of youngins that shout, scream and stare me down like a starving, broken hound. I see it in the lonely old man with the fishing hat and the widest, deepest wrinkles one could ever see. He approaches and I feel the cold, biting sting, then the twist, and the switchblade enters my belly. Something is ruptured, I am sure, and I will bleed to death right here, under the inviting smile of an evil moon, on this playground I've trod upon so many times. But no, no, the warm gushing of blood simply does not come as he passes me, the cold is all-encompassing and stark and I realize the blade never came out, it was merely his stare, his essence that penetrated my stomach so violently. I see it in the mother and father that walk near me. I know all they could think about was tearing me apart, bit by bit, inch by inch, biting into my flesh and carving me up like a pig, putting me down with a pickaxe to the forehead like a workhorse. All that was keeping them back was the child on the father's shoulders, so young, so clean, so pure, untainted by such evil. But it'll grow. It will become an adult someday. And woe is me if I see them then. But I do have good news, I do!
There is not much left of this path, so short, so narrow, so hard upon the soles of my boots. Soon I can walk inside and experience once again how ghastly, isolated, frozen, lifeless. Truly despicable is this room. There is no home within this house. The devil is in all things, but some things different than others. The walls used to laugh at me but now they stare in silence. They know better than to scare me now. They instill these images of specters coming to **** me in my sleep, but without a word. They do not speak to me, for they know what will happen if I am simply left to my own devices long enough. Clever is this old devil, it is, for it knows its greatest weapon in this war against me is itself the subject. It knows, it does, that one day, one miserable, gray day, under the clouds that block out even that disgusting moon that carries me, that smiles with me, that accompanies me better than any man ever did, I will do its bidding for it. I will simply have had enough and I will leave, and it will greet me with a grin that could harm a man in its sly and smug luminosity.

But that day has not come, that day is not today, and the future is as grim and unseemly as the past, almost like they bleed into each other, like a river of sewage running directly through my soul, carving the rocks until they're the color of **** and tempering me with the essence of garbage. And what do I do in response? I simply endure. I stand and face the river, thinking myself some hero, some sisyphean idol of martyrdom for claiming to know the agony of living. When in reality, all beings face the same agony, they just do not see it. But I do. I see the devil in all things.