At birthday parties, we didn’t like to imagine
What the paper donkey felt like
Being knocked around
By our wooden bats
Swinging blindly, alone
Until it bled beautiful colors
Until it gushed sweet things
And the sweet things told our mouths
“Thank you for releasing us.”

If my heart was a piñata, I would give you a blindfold
And hand you a baseball bat
Spin you around three times
And close my eyes
And we’d swing blindly, together

The very first thing I learned about you was your ex-communication from Mormonism. Did you really try teaching a preschool class that Jesus was a Rastafarian? Or was that one of your many big fish tales told to me over the years?

This was when you were only a mischievous high-schooler. Not the cynic you are today, worn down after choosing the safest choices life can offer. When did a clever person like you acquiesce to such homogeneity? Somewhere between your Economist-reading days in undergrad and law school? I know you claim the reason was something about getting your heart broken one too many times. And yes, I know I whacked it around like a pinata... as you did mine. Because that's what reckless kids do. Will you ever accept this as an excuse? Or will you always use it as the reason to avoid my calls?

Back at the age of 15, though, you could do no wrong. A shy smile was all you'd see from me, but I'd go to bed dreaming of all of the clever things I wanted to say to you. My friends would later say you exploited your teaching role as my debate tutor... but me? I was totally, utterly, and blissfully enamored by your explanation of Foucault and FoPo. I'm convinced the reason you fell in love with me was because I wrote a letter to Crayola pretending to be 5 in hopes of getting a free pack of crayons. You liked that kind of smart *** behavior because it was the kind of stuff that made you come alive. Which reminds me... do you still have the "#1 bestseller" sign you swiped from the grocery store? You wore it in your back pocket while wearing your "I spoil my grandkids" t-shirt.

How appropriate that our first kiss was on the debate room couch. I'm glad kissing was, in fact, better for you with your braces removed. And how appropriate that my first date was you taking me to the high school musical, "Kiss Me Kate."

What is it about first loves that make even the most mundane so magical? I can't tell you the number of times I looked out the window in hopes of seeing your red Ford Escort pull up. It took my breath away more than any Mercedes could. Who knows what we'd do when you did come over--probably play Donkey Kong Country, or watch some ironic movie like Donnie Darko. If nobody was home we'd make out to the Disney "Fantasia" soundtrack.

Back then you were always intrigued with the whimsical. Nowadays it's 1940s classics, malt scotch and Coachella concerts. I think your career ***** you so dry of life that you overcompensate with your expensive tastes. The wildest you'd ever get was smoking a hookah. But the guy I remember? He liked pocket watches, Rufus Wainwright, and Harry Connick Jr. I know you're a responsible tax-paying adult now, but I still see you as the wild-eyed wholesome troublemaker you once were. I prefer you that way, even if it's mentally dishonest of me.

Since you, men have wined and dined me at world-renowned resorts and have taken me to presidential *****. But none of these dates have given me the same rush of euphoria as sneaking out and spending the night with you in the home you were house-sitting: That night, we were a pair of 16-year-old rebels. At least we didn't get caught by the cops making out in the high school's agriculture department parking lot. That would happen in a few months' time.

Then you left for college, to gain an education and have experiences that sounded overwhelming for my sheltered ears. It didn't matter that I left for Europe that year--you had left for college, which was a distance in my head that couldn't be measured geographically.

I could recall a thousand barbs exchanged from then until we both finished college: you dated her. I dated him! We made promises. We broke promises. You'd come home for summer. We relished in the relatively new-found art of *******, mostly perfected on each other in our youth. We'd hate each other. We'd love each other. Your friend would hate me; my sister would hate you. On it would go.

But there were such sweet times. We saw Harry Potter together and we sat on my roof, imagining that one night could stretch til forever as we looked up at the stars. It was then that you dedicated Coldplay's "Yellow" to me. And no expression of love was greater than seeing you in the back of the auditorium, waiting to drive me home after my 6th period drama class.

I honestly don't know the person you are today. Sure, you give me snippets. Usually when some girl breaks your heart and you need to vent. In truth, I know you saw me as your plan B. Always. Shame on me for playing that part so beautifully for so long. Could we have worked out, you and me? I smile, knowing that some things from the past should stay firmly rooted where they are. There would always be a part of me that would feel like that freshman trying to impress you, a senior. All the while I wouldn't feel funny enough, cool enough, witty enough by comparison. No, we simply wouldn't work.

You know the rule, about loving your family because they're the only one you've got? I think the same is true with first loves. When I reflect on our oh-so-ordinary relationship, you--I mean, US: we weren't so great. Nothing special.

But my heart sure seems to think you were... even after all of these years.

I can't heal the deaf or blind,
I can’t turn water into wine,
But give me a glass, and I can turn it into kool-aid
Maybe if I were more like Jesus I could get laid

Neil Armstrong walked on the moon
And I’ll be leaving this place soon
And if you have any sense, you’ll decide not to follow
As I’ve told you before, my chest is hollow

Smoke me up before I go
Here’s a tattoo of a rainbow
I found it at the bottom of a box of ******* jacks
Put it on, and when it's gone, never look back

One last kiss upon the cheek
We'll both have moved on in a week
So walk me to the bus stop and say “adios”
You think you love me, but I know you can’t love a ghost.

Adios

Loose congregation of words ,mixed syllables,sounds ascending to  an annunciation made upon announcement
Clashing conundrums of verbs accented with adjectives  ,while crashing and dashing looking for a place to stay
Confections with conflictions searching for reasons to become more easily resounded
Papier-mâché used as the blind box  waiting to reveal its hidden appeal ,will we use sticks for new words fray.


Teachers use their rulers to help crack the skin or  layer of drooling uninterested information gatherers
  Finding synonyms is easier with a hungrier  fool  ,yet opposites distract if paying pledges to the papers
Finding the unknown fabulous riches still hiding inside is best without the blindfold ,hearing proper direction is what matters
Cracking the outer code ,scattering packages of messages is titillating especially if involved  as crossword players

Clarification containers from Macmillan help refine an ongoing array of writing gone astray
Pulling new or familiar sounds to another level ,hollow waiting to filled with tasty sweets
True copy that has been pasted,not wasted gathered into changing shapes in a new way
Can make our day, just right for many to explore the contents, blindly poking formulating new treats

Thesaurus as a party tool could it be  taking on the shape of a walrus
Antonyms with  many wrappings ,nuggets or nougats of wisdom
Wordy party favors masked new flavors seeking to be savored ,hidden like walnuts
Players programmed with reading ritual learn to approach life with new optimism.
R.C.

the pH in my stomach has plummeted
to an all time low. as a defense mechanism,
my stomach clenches.
2. my jaw is extremely sore from grinding
my teeth while i was sleeping (and having
the regular nightmares.)
3. sometimes, my joints decide to act like they
are eighty years old instead of twenty.
4. that's what i get for burying the acidity of
the self loathing.
5. now i am a pinata except i'm hallow.

It's nice to remember
who I am, ever since
Eros shot a quiver
of arrows into my chest
and spun me around
sending me aimlessly
towards the first
man shaped pinata.
Swinging blindly
into the darkness
of my blind fold
waiting for the thud
of hearts hitting the ground
and shattering into hundreds
of tiny sweets
begging, to be cherished
and gobbled up
by a school yard
kind of love.

I am wisened by my wounds.
My thirst is sated by monsoons.
Scars teach me lessons.
Fighting for peace is my weapon.
Every memory changes a sliver of me.
Through time, i've turned into a motley pinata.
Pieced together haphazardly.
But i know what its like not to be afraid of taking a swing
and i know what its like to fly
because baseball bats give me wings.

I can't dream if it's from this closet
Every thing I want to do just sounds so ******* pompous
I talk about what I want to do and everybody thinks I've lost it
I'm on the radar, but I'm the darkest blip
Walking the plank on purpose, S.S. *******, I'm off this ship

I feel like I've finally got it, and of course then I've lost it
I write a masterpiece, "hey where's the follow up?"
Like me and my girl jinxin the future with a prenup
'Oh you know we just trying to be safe,' right *****, let's marry up this **** then
You can take it all just split them assets
Get me bent with no price or rent

See I ain't tryna get around just tryna win this
Can't seem to get to the top when I'm the only one in the bracket
Try to be a team player, but my teams full of *******
I'm Harry Potter *****, imma smash that *** like quidditch
I gonna hit that pinata, till the cash flow get me riches

I talk ***** but I miss the way you talk
British, you a fit birdy, girl
I eat my grits, but I ain't really eating till after we're flirty, girl

Take you to the back room, pour some wine and then some feelings, watch some mad men and tell you bout my last girl
I said I like the way you talk to me but I think I just like how I can talk to you
You're an outlet, and I'm plugging, your sticking around, but you should know I'm just thuggin
And maybe I just say the ***** things I say to mask my potential under promiscuity cause I got a real problem promising myself I'll solve my problems too
(I'd never admit it though)

See that's just something me and my crew do
I guess it masks all the little ***** blues 'fake cries'
During this poem I think I grew three inches for you  
In my heart
See it's so easy to gravitate to you like your the sun and I'm Mercury, I'm too close and you're burning me alive, but I can't pull myself apart, girl it'll never work
We can't stop Miley, that's melancholy for sure (but keep the twerk)

You make me feel like Frank Sinatra, and I can't even sing
So **** confident, you let me discover myself, I'm deep, I can feel, I'm Mike Tyson, Kung Pao chicken, I bring it all to the ring
All these little kids on the streets learning how to *** from me 'like fricken'
The thought of you got me sick to the stomach, it's sticking
..
Too bad you're just a ******* fling

driving on an electric highway,
it shoots to be the
monkey on the back.
white, green in a bottle or a machine.
foul breath creams
out words that i hold dear.

holding up a candle
by its burning wick
while a sea breeze slaps me
with a salty sting.

fumbling through an atmosphere
joined tongue and groove,
from the first breath to the last,
the artichoke heart pumps out a beat.

one foot in front of the other,
another swing, the pinata breaks,
raining down lies to be gathered up
and taken home,
to be stretched out and hung
along side of the truths.

© 2005

I put my heart on a string
and gave it to you
as a necklace

You hung it from the ceiling
and beat it half to death
like a ****** pinata

Wrapped it around your finger
and yanked it up and down
like a macabre yo-yo

I swallowed all of the pain and
it tasted like hairspray

like chewing up eggshells
like biting aluminum foil
like licking pennies

I don't even want my heart back
please just please **** it now
step on it wearing stilettos

I just want to be whispers in your mind
I want to be a spider on the back of your skull
I want the curse of remembrance upon your soul

i hope to vacate a corner of some room,
spider-architect
           who's intrinsic basis is to craft
a spiderweb...
     yawn poetry...
   usualy the kind that's not worth a whole
lot of grit, and is ah, ah... all sighs...
well, hence the intended vulgarity...
  but i know that even that doesn't work
all the time, unless i'd be used to
listening to a waterfall playing the drums...
   and at best: i can only theorise language,
or that's what i think is my adequate role...
the rest of my life is fiction anyway,
a fiction where i don't actually write
a book, but live it... and only invoke
"poetry" to be used as a reference to how:
    nothing happens in philosophy books happens...
the only "adventure", the only "plot"
      is solely thinking...
      and isn't that something to be depressed about?
aparently that's not the case...
    apparently there's a layer of humanity
that prefers a thinking adeventure, to a, say:
   a cruise-ship holiday in the Mediterranean -
nothing happens...
    the only action is the stressor: thought:
or as i like to call it: the ought,
   and the subsequent cascade of choices...
         i can't believe there's a complexity in
thinking, other than making choices...
           making choices and then nostalgia,
euphoria, blessings, regrets...
        it can't be as complicated as it sounds
to the numerous adherents
       of practising the so called art-science that
philosophy deems itself to be...
   i don't know what sort of person you have
to be to read Heidegger over Dumas...
   when i was younger i only tickled myself
with fiction...
                when life became unnecessarily complicated
i decided to read a philosophy book...
     i don't know why, but that's how it happened
and my final bid worth descriptive
        analogies: philosophy books teach
you nothing but lethargy...
     i don't know whether you just dumb-down
and fall into posing a pretesence...
but at the same time... it would be nice to read
a feminine-ego in philosophy that has no origin
based in a "movement" / revolution
currently known as feminism...
   it would be nice to see a woman writing,
hermit like, branching off into a solo expedition...
   it's not that i'm ignorant,
the only female examples in my library are
pop... virginia woolf / ophelia..
   anna kavan and sylvia plath...
      evidently writing breaks women...
      when man came ******* and writing
  with a book... she had a *****...
    well... that too, and castrating men
for the purpose of creating the most perfect
choir-boys of the Vatican...
            i'd like to read what a woman actually thinks
(on the basis of the title, i.e. the two incidents in
the night involving women)...
  but i know i will never come across a naked
woman in writing...
      completely devoid of technique
  aspiring to poetry fakes, fiction fakes,
   always running away: having "fun"...
    i mean: something written by a woman that
could be equivalent of handling beef, or pork,
at a butcher's...
                 but that's not exactly based upon
a care to moan...
        i write on the basis of having a "leisure"
activity... well... i write on the basis of
   having the capacity to forget myself...
    i treat writing as a mode of anti-memory,
writing is anti memory...
              and it can become a sort of forbidden fruit,
given economics and how more bricks are sold
than books and how books can sometimes become
akin to bricks...
        i don't write because i want to,
    i write because: i also have to take a ****
  sometime in the night...
    so out with poetry's ah ah and sighs...
         it's not happening...
       say you watch either romeo + juliet
or tristan + isolde...
    now i use a language that has these myths...
the only polish myths i know are those
concerning the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth,
the Wawel dragon, the mongols...
  world war ii...
                     i have nothing, not even a puddle's
worth of depth, i use language as i do:
only because i have no soul:
  and that doesn't mean i sold it for private islands
in the Caribbean -
   or fame...
         i literally having one attachment point to
consider:
     to play on theoretics of language akin to linguistics,
but less so, i.e. with "identity",
    best summarised by verb language...
i just use a language...
        i don't necessarily care to have an identity in it...
  perhaps if i was akin to an octopus
with the so many wriggling limbs...
                    ah yes,
life underwater... so much more spectacular than
in the air...
                    and space exploration,
   akin to us with our space projects...
  and in the depths of the seas, life akin beyond
the vacuum of space: humpback anglerfish...
       or what ridley scott depicted...
        funny, that inquiry, that curiosity killed the cat
scenario...
          but being so warm-blooded wasn't enough
for us... i can't help it if i say that i'm not that lazy
in my observation...
    so back into a theoretics of language...
   using the necessary tools a (indefinite article)
     and the (definite article)
   or using the prefix rule a-      and the
         i.e. without a point.... atheism...
                 so just add the suffix -ism to that...
   otherwise known as vogue at certain times in history,
most notably started by either biiologists or
physicists... guess who brought the fireworks? chemists
with Faust and the devil at the fore!
  added fact: no one in the medical profession
    (they're the actually useful "biologists") don't
disregard that it becomes pointless
   to leverage the universe on the basis of
a single theory, a single mind, that's based on
both abstract ideas, and ******* genitals...
well d'uh... well done! clap clap clap clap clap...
       whether that's as a priori / instrinsic / genetic
       / predestination orientation
     as a spider and a spider-web...
                  i like to see that my ego is like
a spider's **** (or whatever you call it... sure,
gland... like a thyroid gland / sweetbreads)
                       that just produces these
god / no god arguments... and the reason is perhaps
obscure... it could be just that,
that i have this artificial intelligence implant in my head
that thinks if not believes in god (i'm not that keen
on the rituals, not a big fan of flagellation)...
      and so saying that: even a vacuum is something...
so you could say: i won't engage in religious Bar Mitzvahs,
but i'll argue for the non-existence of...
                  then back into the theory of language...
   a-          +         -th   (indirect article / direct article rules)...
articles in the pronoun category...
   what could possibly be the perfect e.g.?
   mein kampf...
            we have two examples already,
the obvious one, and the Norwegian one...
        what i want to consider
   is the alternative: ich kampf...
       as odd as it might sound: i consider
  i struggle to be an indefinite expression,
       and my struggle to be a definite expression...
   i.e. it's mine, i am the possessor of the struggle...
   ich kampf can very literally be an airy-fairy approach,
a pinata, hanging off a fishing-rod while sitting
on a scythe / crescent moon...
or: against the taboo of scientists feeling,
admiring art, reading novels...
    i can not not see the taboo against scientists not being
fully "human"...
       completely detached from art, from humanism,
never mind philosophy being the mediator
not really helping, that strand of it attacking
poetry...
                   but given a and the are the primodial
tools: say, hammer and scissors...
   and applying them to migrate from their
original grammatical boundary,
   it is necessary that they first experience pronouns...
    which is counter to what you might have
considered the pronoun i to be stressing...
given we're of the mortal caste,
   neither thinking nor being, or however argued
by Heidegger as being there / here allows...
given the numbers of us: it's still a case of indefinite
notation... or a Simon says / Solomon notes type of game...
    it's all vast, and empty,
    man's quest to be akin to a god's footprint
or a fingerprint...
                 with his copper statues of world war ii
heroes, or mentions of Achilles...
               but that's how it works,
there are theoretical physicists and there are men who
build actual atomb bombs, and that thing beneath
Switzerland...
                      it was in my belief to suggest that
black holes are 2 dimensional objects in 3 dimensional
space... a bit like those ferns in the Lara Croft video games,
the first types... from the 1990s...
    i believe that black holes are actually two-dimensional
objects, enclosed in a hyper-dynamic
           surrounded by three-dimensional space...
i haven't seen one up-close, sure... but i've never seen
jupiter either...
   so you guess is as good as mine...
i mean: how to transcend the harrowing experience
of writing poetry and fiction and write theory...
   to become a linguist without
              having to be burdened with a linguistic
alphabet...
   i.e. [flaj-uh-ley-shuh n] / (flāj'ə-lā'shən) /
flagellation doesn't really do it for me...
   can't feel a hard-on with that crap...
                        flaj? jammy ******* dodger...
   dodge ball more like...
                  i'm bilingual, i get the picture,
   and given the close proximity and the evident difference
i can have my little chemistry set, and a shed...
   evidently if i was bilingual from Hong Kong
i'd be a a yarn ball enclosing a silver tea-spoon,
that i'd later shove up my *** to question whether that's
a privilege...
    a bit like that mad lady with 20 cats...
  or thereabouts...
           so it has to be a case of ich kampf categorising
the pronoun as indefinite...
    there's me tomorrow, the struggle might not be...
my, as a definite article:
    say: keeping grudges... count de monte cristo's
zeal...
         in the same vein:
    they / them are usually noted into ditto /
ambiguity... hence they are indefinite pronouns
(working from the base of article)...
                    such as we / us being likewise noted
but based on an enclosure, endorsment,
a definiteness...
   thus said: how can a grapheme be the smallest
unit, when it encloses two vowels?
   aren't vowels and consonants the smallest units
of encoded sound?
         well... evidently not...
so why read books where nothing, absolutely nothing
happens...
   well... the last time i checked books were
not invented to compete with movies,
there's a clear dichotomy in that "∞",
   what at best i can ditto to invoke: relationship...
O 0, ∞ 8... look who's the fatty...
                      hard to see why the only
books worth appreciating are the books translated
into a movie, kinda makes the original books
a tad bit pointless, what, with the abandoned
mental effort of actually having read them
   (past tense of reading can't be grounded
within the colour red...
   keeping the grapheme as become more and
more bewildering)...
   reed, read, read.... no Persian is coming near this
soil, no Iranian is going to blow himself up,
by the looks of it... the Shiite Muslims
are the only sensible ones these days:
     you need to allow for a schism...
i also note that, Christianity has become
   omni-schismatic, and, well... that's just
ridiculous...    
                                  it's too much pick-and-choose,
buy and sell for 99 pence...
                    it's hardly as romantic as
r.e.m.'s losing my religion,
i pledge nothing to the cross, nor
   the shadow of the cross,
                  i have no allegience
to it, or the crescent moon,
in scientific terms: i'm a free radical.
     but what i really wanted to "talk" about were
my two incidents in the night concerning women,
i must have probed the right buttons on this thing called
universe to get this sort of reply...
the 2nd example (stated first) was just weird...
walking down the street with a beer and cigarette in hand...
a Mazda MX-5 pulls onto the pavement...
i walk past it...
    30 metres down the road
this blonde runs up to be with a rollie cigarette
   and asks for a lighter...
i notice all the power-cursors of a ring on
her right hand... the car she owns...
            i'm really the pauper and she's really
the queen bee...
            the weird aspect is that she ran 30 metres from
her car to ask me for a cigarette lighter...
    the first incident is even more demanding
a written absolution...
    in a pharmacy...
                  asking for my sleeping pills...
ordered in the afternoon... most likely arrive in
  3 rather than 2 days... 2 days if ordered in the morning...
   and there she is, the brunette deer,
  i swear to you, English girls have deer eyes,
  not dumb-like, wild ready for unknown...
i should know... i spent 22 years in this ****** country,
drank the local milk, ate the local beef,
   never had a local girl to bed...
                     boo, hoo... which just makes them
all the more fascinating...
        it was one of those: love at first sight moments...
there she was, pristine milken skinned anglo rose...
    with braids either side of her cranium...
   a very slavic accent...
              she moved from beyond the far-away counter
to a counter near me
while i asked for my prescription...
             and waited, and she looked at me,
or rather: eat me with a nearing claustrophobia i
felt in my chest...
           this really does sometimes happen...
this realisation of love at first sight, the love:
without a fight...
             those eyes can cannibalise you in an instant,
esp. in the locket of an english girl's cranium...
      my **** and ***** shrivelled up,
my heart imploded
     and could only fathom a fear in my head
that didn't arouse a single, god-identifying word
of sanity and action, or adventure,
and the whole nine-yards of marital contract...
      just this girl in the pharmacy...
      how she moved, how she eyed me...
   well... my face isn't exactly a da Vinci...
but it isn't exactly a Picasso's impression
of a pig's buttock...
            i can only stress a hypnotic moment,
as if impregnated by her...
        i was only there asking for my insomnia
pills... and i left that place thought-******
       and emotionally ***** by those daring eyes...
as if the whole point of woman was
to ascribe a man to her delving in utilising a womb,
meaning i was almost inside a stomach,
        meaning i was no ego, meaning
i was foetus...
                oh sure sure... Helen didn't send a postcard
to 1000 Ships

Sometimes I wish
This pant dries slower
Around this canvas
That curses my name,
Every drag of smoke
That reaches into my subconscious
Meets my hand
To pen
To ink
To this blank idea,
I guess this is all i got
I curse the lords name
Throwing the pen
Against this yellow wallpaper,

Depression is only called
To the ones who can see
The writing on the walls,
Left in blood red,
Words that make me a victim
Of labeling what it means
To be a victim.

This pen sounds like my mother,
White powder filled with innocent memories
Stick to the keys
She could always conduct
The simplest symphonies
The sting to her words
Wrap the vacuum cord around my neck.
Terrorist apart of the self doubt group called my insecurities
Swing at me like a pinata,
Crucified to my old drafts
Of this blank canvas,

I scream enough I say,
My words cast a light
Through the pen
Shattering this oddly warmer room
I pick up the pen
And write on this canvas

I'm driving down the back roads, back home in Virginia.
I drive past that field,
The one where you parked your truck,
Where we sat in the backseat and shared our first kiss,
And I think of you.

I hear that song on the radio,
That Drake song,
The one that you dedicated to my dog, ha,
The dog that we had to give away when we moved,
The song that later made you cry when you heard it, because you missed my dog,
And I think of you.

Your mom calls me tonight,
She tells me that story about the pinata and the bunny rabbit,
The story shes already told me three times,
Because she thinks its so funny,
Because what are the chances that would happen to anyone but you,
And I think of you.

I drive past one of those roadside cross memorials,
And I think of the one we made for you,
The one I went to the craft store to buy stuff to decorate it,
And bawled my eyes out in the sticker aisle,
Barely beginning to grasp the idea I would never see you again,
And I think of you.

I look into our daughters eyes,
The daughter you never got to meet,
The one with the big blue eyes that look just like yours,
With the dimple in her cheek just like yours,
And I think of you.

If someone were to bash in my head, the way a child smashes a colorful pinata, candy would not spill out. Blood, brains, chunks of bone, this is what you are expecting? Down right logical... But not entirely correct. What would fall into that scattered pile, to be dug through and have the best treats taken first, would be an assortment of many things. Books, art, poetry, precious memories, pointless trivia, a lifetime of collected information so painstakingly remembered. But there in the chaotic midst of what used to be organically organized neurons, would be countless thoughts of you. These of course would be the sweetest tidbits, the tasty treasure gathered greedily by the party guests. Countless thoughts of you... And yes... Also, blood, brains, and chunks of bone.

Mamma's Boy

There was a man, his name was Tom,
forty five and still lives with mom.
I guess you can say, he's a mamma's boy,
morning, noon and night, plays with his favorite toy.
Mom don't let him go out on dates,
Rosie and her sisters, are his only mates.
Has naked posters on his bedroom wall,
stares at under age girls at the mall.
Loves movies that are ****,
been that way, since he was born.
Hangs out at every school park,
targeting his next victims every mark.
Tried it once or twice in his cellar,
tied them to an old plane propeller.
He buried them after he had his fun,
only girls between ten to twelve,
made him shoot his favorite gun.
Missing person posters turned him on,
he considered himself the preteen Don Juan.
Then one day his mamma died,
Jekyll is gone, it's now only Hyde.
He went on local web chat sites,
all young girls got wanted invites.
With no mom, things got easy,
my stomach is getting a bit queasy.
In a months time, maybe twenty girls,
promised them dolls with clothes and pearls.
This small town was in an uproar,
if you needed girl parts, he had the store.
Near by neighbors noticed an ungodly smell,
police came and found and an under ground hell.
Everyone thought this man was strange,
after his mom died, they noticed a change.
They strung him on a giant pole,
while parents played Whac-A-Mole.
They hit that human pinata till it exploded,
his blood and guts became unloaded.

A backward smile
Smiling backwards
A frown turned up
And the up part turned down
A Mexicali turnaround:
Festive pinata
With one stick for a try
Birthday time!

As a child I had a perfect red balloon.
I took delicate strips of crepe paper,
dipped them with paste, and formed a fragile shell around it.

Growing up, crepe paper turned to newspaper, smudged with ink from words marking time.
Paste was no longer strong enough, so I found glue, and occasional stickers to strategically place over gaps.

Aged on and weathered, the strips of newspaper presented carelessly crumpled and shredded.
Glue was replaced by mud of my tears and settling dust from constant construction. Random gems occupy minor dents to deter the eye.

I've built a paper mache heart, strengthening it as life's hardships pay their respects.
Layers upon layers hardened it to be sturdy and solid.
The balloon deflated long ago, but the structure remains. It's cracked, has holes, but holds a nostalgic beauty like that of a well loved antique rocking horse .

I fear though, my demons look up with hallow eyes from down in the depths,
and see a pinata...eager to beat it for the treasures collected inside.

love
with
her red umbrella
dangled in the air
like a red pinata
balanced herself
and
walked across
the
thin spaghetti tight-rope
with
her frighten soul
suspended in the air
upon
her
tiny tippy toes
high in the sky
like a slippery *****
unready for death
where
love at her best
is
a
different breed of cat
i
must say
with
her
nine lives to spare
but
still
she survived

By: David W. Clare

She told me her family was well-off,
then she started to cough...
To me, putting on the dog was never impressive!
I could tell she had plans for me that didn't include me at all...

I was her pinata for the weekend!
Drinks, dinner and a lobotomy were in store...

Her place was in the city where I would be beaten up with kisses!
Her wishes were venomous, yet I was at her command...

Along for the ride!

She drank heavily; especially before work as a stock broker!

Seemed the joke was on me...

She tried to fashion me into her dancing-monkey while she would grind the *****!

She liked to slap me around with her scotch and sofa slaps...
Only to watch me pull myself up by her bra-straps!

I pretended all was great...
*******, violent date!

Her high-heels stabbed my sense of pride!

I was only... along for the ride!


(C) In perpetuity all rights reserved
(P) FilmNoirWorks

It is a lake, no, pray, a balloon. Pinata can burst, and turn into something quite different. Mark these eyes, believe anything can happen. Hope behind such eyes, broken cages, broken hearts. We sit alone, bars freeze, please... help. No help for us. Lucky? Doubt it. Wish for just simple mental trust, unfortunate, cannot be that, that close.
Assistance needed.  
Going to go, going to stay. Were told to stay, but they never came. Still waiting, but lost hope, lost life. Shy, traumatized, just need soft stream of dew. Just want to be home, but cannot be, cannot stand living. Only belief is belief in a lake. Round, depth defying eyes stare at you to be gentle. And then the bubbles turn into broken, shivering, ***** of mortality.

3 weeks in Poland, and i'm naturally depressed...
this place really has that feel about it...
don't know, living England
feels worse than living in Alaska,
Scandinavia... or god forbid...
Siber.
      i swear i could hear a sober
me talk in Siberia at some point...
then look at a meteor
falling to a full-smitherings' load
of *******...
i did say 3 weeks in Poland
and i did say: not in any major city
as noted by weather forecaster,
didn't i?
       i see english society,
not so much: looking up its a-hole...
but more akin to looking at bugs
and their ontology.... their way of being
remotely too near but best described
as human... i don't get this
need to glorify d.n.a. and monkeys...
i simply don't get this *******,
given i spent 3 weeks in a country
that doesn't seem to care much
about such "discoveries"...
   i can seem old fashioned
but half the Tudor...
          maybe i'm just a senile
example of man... maybe it's just that...
i'm drinking and i have half the wit
of an intelligent person giving
a snarky reprimand... while the other
half of me is just saying: huh?
why are books supposed to
be akin to movies in the west?
what's the west, really?
       i'm with the chinese,
complately bedazzled by these futurists,
these positivists, these:
   i'm god-clad eternal aged 20...
wait for a video when i'm 60!
       i'm originally Polish
so i can speak to the subconscious of a nation
alien to me... well... why...
because the consciousness of a nation
is given the pinata whack on its testicles...
   i don't speak for super stars...
  there's Joe, and there's Alfred...
i'm so apathetic with my life
(counter claim: given the a-
meaning without: i'm brimming with pathologies
that can't be counted, or be worth
   a medical student... **** the doctors:
i need someone moved from  a McDonald's
drive-thru moved into a Michellin
restaurant, and geared up to be "ready").
with a mass influx of man, there comes
a person, once in a while: who has
the "delusion" of necessarily feeling
       lost, but more or less about to *****...
it comes when civilisation arrives...
   this pendulum... this
                   whatever it is that makes
people so **** adamant in being
constantly vehement on being solely
momentum prone...
    and yes, the meta- prefix
really does show you alternatives...
  it might as well be called counter-
physics... but it's still a case of pressure,
being pressed against a brick wall...
my neighbour is having a baby,
he's circa 55 and she's 44...
i admit, i was a bit of a rascal
writing poetry and laughing,
sometimes imitating a fox's howl
(dry laughter)... but i became motivasted
to live next door, and sorta stopped my
antics... now i'm not smiling:
i'm frowning...
                    the peacock is about:
he's just less demanding to showcase
his feathers... but at least the t.v. works...
      but that's english society for you,
i should know... spending 22 years in it
has left me... sick... alias Christian...
the fern in a flower-***, a negating-ease (dis)
animal...
           and i really do feel only capable
of writing ******* after ******* to make
the day make any sense...
         i really have no competence
to deal with the metaphysics of pebbles
to make up a mountain:
   coins to make a bank...
            it's too amphetamine for me...
      but coming from a "failed" culture
               with its Marx this that and the other...
i have come as a zoological curiosity:
in that i simply, don't know, how to compete...
   it's one thing championing
democracy against an autocracy...
       but another when the democracy
is a thousand ******* Hitlers...
                and all their proxy wars...
  i don't see the point of wars anymore,
all of them are proxy... like the 2003 war
in Iraq... it was proxy! proxy by was to
revise the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait...
          you sorta lose the will to live
anything true akin to: blood sweat and tears,
9 to 5... a pension... life insurance...
each day the point of these "truth"
constructs clings to you like an asbestos...
and you start peeling like a *****...
itchy... just itchy...
     you give up, not because it's the easiest
thing to do... but the hardest.
      giving up is hard...
       people going about like horses in a race
that people gamble on
  becomes easy to watch...
          and not engaging in these
examples becomes hard...
it becomes hard to give up,
          to not give a toss...
     such as England, a hopelass land
of what i best remember having come
here 22 years prior: grey skies
       and red double-decker buses...
it's hard to not guess why Scandinavian
made this place...
        i can't see a ******* candle
of hope in rising above this grit...
for miles...
         and then the media states:
oh *******...      22 years though, mate,
and i'm not exactly feeling a Disneyland
vibe... or that i'm peering into
King Solomon's mine of opportunity...
            it's bad to be exiled...
but it's doubly harrowing to write in a foreign
tongue...
                        because if i wrote in
my native tongue: i'd probably buy a gun
and shoot and shoot into a cave
to hear a very profound echo...
                writing down the meaning of sounds
and then overpowered by incorporating
the tactic of onomatopoeia, rather than
just leaving a dog barking alone...
reducing language to strain a barking dog
to a woof! then going a step
further with a wolf and a howl and awoooo!
that's the tip of a baboon's pear-pink buttocks...
   oh sure: flamingo-step next to the goose-strutters
why don't you...
           England is naturally depressing,
i must be a ******* living here...
but at the same time i can only say:
it's so refreshing to hear a non-global tongue...
a niche verbal...
                      at least it's not as insomniac
as the four coordinates:
   new zealand / australia, south africa,
                                  england, u.s.a. / canada...
where do people get so much energy from?
Miłosz? lazy **** wrote in his native tongue
till the end...
   i have an accent and it's not helping...
i have a knowledge of the tongue... and it's not helping...
    and what is it with
literature-movie-making hyphen akin to parabola dip?
if i write a hyphen orientated word,
i really can't see a =, however much i try...
readings books is a bit like
doing arithmetic, although the difference is:
you are less rigorously puzzled...
    you're not suddenly gauging your eyes
out to find out what's underneath: 1 + 2 + 5 + 8 - 1 + 9 = ?
and the result? probably a chance to set out
to handshake mr. dictionary when the answer
comes back as taciturnity...
   how can you live an interesting life
and then end up writing a book?
what compels somone like Don Juan
to write a memoir... what makes someone like
Alex Ferguson write an "autobiography"...
  you hear of pillage and **** in history...
      it's a standard unit of the complete
capitalistic individual...
                ghost writers... ****!
   capitalism is less venture and discovery
and more Las Vegas...
           it's less colonialism... and doubly Las Vegas...
well i do get the original principle...
but what i'm seeing now?
  it has no principle...
               it really is starting to look
a bit like Germany post world war i...
   what with the deutsche mark spiraling out
of control...
       no matter how many 000000 you put onto
a banknote beginning with 1... wouldn't
make you do anything with it: other than burn it
in a stove to keep warm...
    the same with the concept of a book in
western society...
      it's dead...
     i don't even know why people bother to write
books or print them...
             care to tell the Uber team where
the last taxi is stationed?
                      can you imagine this coming
from someone aged 30? i should be writing this
and be aged 70... but even i can't keep up...
        perhaps its darwinism and its gaping hole
for a mouth telling me to look to imitating
insects and reptiles and discarding mammalism
(ha... minimalism)...
     you go to Poland and there's absolutely
no fascination with the big bang, there's no mention
of a black hole... and there's seriously no
darwinism... what you get instead is:
news... current affairs... all the motives for
a carpe diem shabang...  
         which means i have to be a *******
of some sort and give a care to live in a language
that has: so many important answers to
give unto humanity...
                             white boy to white boy:
man... why do you even bother?
i'm exhausted just listening to it all...
never mind next Tuesday!
            well... you can't get any more raw than this...
it's a misery speaking in a foreign tongue
incubated in an alternative ethnicity...
i'm starting to wonder why african-americans
adapted so well...
               looking at the native americans
who commit suicide in their youth,
and given they live on "nature" reserves with
yogi bear...         african-americans are a perplexing
sort... maybe that's because i'm 1st generation...
            i guess it sorta passes you by
after the years and allows you to make a living
from playing basketball, and talking really fast (rapping).
well, saying that: 1st generation and last...
    god forbid i would have to *******
into a *****, wait for a cake for 9 months
   and give it social securities... too much darwinism
and the impetus to survive, reproduce
   and keep the d.n.a. diesel running... sorta dies;
oh sure, god comes into it...
he's the only constant in it... the constant that
    gives... but only nurtures via a crucifix.
i just heard it too often and i'm yawning -
too much history in between
and too much biology and physics theory
at the start.

A memory suppressed by thirty years
A face stained with biting tears
A life so full of irrational fears
I need you by my side

Like a pinata, I was a toy
Only to be broken, not to show joy
As quiet as a mouse, I was coy
I need you by my side

This all happened in my youth
As no one around me knew my truth
Like a fox "they" thought they were smooth
I need you by my side

They say I have a heart of gold
Despite the story I've never told
Forget all the drama that would unfold
I now can stand alone.

a rhino wobble
dance the token noon
pinata Connecticut

pinata spring
of hatchling gallops
dandelion spear

EMOTIONAL CONFETTI
Fluctuating feelings,endless raindrops flowing freely in our minds beginning with weeping...
Simple expressions smirking, smiling never beguiling picking up perceived perceptions...
Gradually graduating, waiting to be defined curiosity as a helper.
Adding to a emotional list,simple samples to leave us smiling, storing fledgling perceptions.
Growth of anonymous senses without pretenses layering in levels loosely stacked.
Unknown actions can create new consciousness clear paths rapidly become another titillation,unfocused, acquiring new knowledge of our senses.

Fables or cut & dried on a table, reminders of danger, more learning is required, to be careful, actions have reactions.
Middle aged resilience leans towards laziness , simple lessons idly waiting, rising or raging hormones...
Maybe now reverting back to to an open minded teenage mess.
Stop,think, forward with learned caution ,processing procedures or fall into flagrant mating.
The lessons learned thrown aside, spontaneity instead of logic, not reasoning for future distress.

Friendly, finicky, joyful, jovial, anxious, regressing, positive, become life shaping a personality.
Lessons falling from skies ,bubbling from underneath, like it or not always along the pathway
Absorbing through language, actions, maybe lineal, inherited...then sharpened to become more an internal part of our individuality.
In stages - never really understanding the gauges - a deeper spirit ,developing whit clamoring, climbing up a bit.
Finding feelings, new intensities, finding with more fervour, progressing with new sentimentality...

Fluctuating with a daily play, goodness with glee, sadness with wrath, passion with affection...
Sensibility - gifted through experiences - leading to instinct, forming, acquiring apathy.
Flowing like chad, ribbons of color, grandiose glitter - as if from an exploding pinata. A distraction or attraction...

Do we learn to love or live to love?
Left with only what we've lived...
The feeling; our only collection. R.C.

Driving on this electric highway,
it shoots to be the
monkey on the back.
White, green, in a bottle or a machine.
Foul breath screams out
words that I hold dear.

Holding up a candle
by its burning wick,
while a sea breeze
slaps me with a salty sting.

Fumbling through an atmosphere
joined tongue and groove,
from the first breath to the last
the artichoke heart pumps out the beat.

One foot in front of the other,
another swing and the pinata breaks,
raining down lies to be gathered up
and taken home
to be stretched out and hung
alongside the truths.

A slice of Pizza.
A piece of Pinata.
I sit down with a smile on me.
Eating it hungrily.

It tastes the sour of ketchup.
A little salt, and fats building up.
It blends into a mix of flavor.
Which is one that I favor.

Friendship is like a slice of pizza.
It's yummy and it's cute as a pinata.
With many tastes and sweetness.
You'll always be blessed.

as a child they told me sadness
would come in waves like the ocean,
but all i ever got
was the occasional trickle of rain
from the holes in the ceiling.

it wasn’t until i grew up and learned
that sometimes sadness would hit me like a tsunami when i least expected it,
when i had responsibilities to take care of,
when i needed my emotional stability the most.

like a wave pool
sadness tossed me around
until i couldn’t see my feet through the water anymore,
until water filled my lungs like a pinata,
until it felt like everything i ever knew was drowning.

nobody warned me as a child
that sadness was not constant,
rather fluctuating like the rise and fall of the tides.

Depression blossoms in the sky.
A dreadful curse without a reason why.
A bloom bursts to wilt until dust,
The sun falls in the darkness of dusk
Lonesome silence is the burgeoning night sky
A lost cause so long prepared
An applause by so many that aren't there,
A thousand harsh whispers surrounds the atmosphere
Like the clapping of children while hitting a pinata.
Children are born like thoughts, molded and as fragile as terracotta.
They too,
Hit you like a pinata in a happily crowded room.
They prepare you to break for them quick.
This type of breaking isn't the kind you wanted, is it?
You wanted to break free,
like a bird from her cage
stretching your wings
as far as you can imagine.
~
You'll fly steady
with wings as large as your dreams; but don't forget,
a bird can only be so big, and the children have an easier target.
Just crack already... so they can devour what's left of you like candy.

By: Ashton C. Amstutz

Scraping the dead frog with my shoe against the grit
I'm laughing and you're screaming no

This is how it is and this is how it ends
So let's **** it up and make the world a better place for us

Let's spew  the devil's words to the sour crass people
And our grains of sand fall down the hour glass
Let's ******* waste them, let's spill their guts

You've recovered from your subway *****
Let's do it all over again shall we?

Let's play hair gumball on the spiders' large jello sac morphing
Into convex pudding

Smack the sac pinata smack the living
**** out of the blobbing annex

Chit chat shallow shat and we're alright
Kissing bark while you give me a lecture and I'm thrilled then
And now I see the forest's hunchback hissing at us to
GET OUT

No more wise-*** **** but just one more errand though
And so, we leave a cartoon death threat at his door step

she's got amplifiers
the return investment
the few focused phases i could take
and crack a money pinata.

social hierarchy
mechanics i possess
i see what happens
when i obsess
and when i undress.

she's got crazy cities
slums and starvings
unheeded code of conduct
and weathered paladins

i am one of those spillovers
but i could congeal and correct it
they judge me falsely all the time
so what might i assert?

...It always seems...
            that we come to
               beginning at the end…


I disagree
              we are at a table.

Technically at a table
      but more al fresco
                              than inside...

I do not  agree  
                      with your
                                   misuse  of metaphor.

What a surprise...
                       To  understand inside
                                                       on must understand outside...


No you miss-understand!
          Please stop drinking
          you are a waterfall in reverse
pouring liqueur down
          the pettiness of your throat.
Oh! you spilled again…..

… Gin...i think its more
           likely libation
than your crocodile tears
           splashing like thorns on our salty dinner table...

You treat our wedlock
like pinata
and keep on swinging  

<lifting a glass of sherry>
...the mermaids are singing
the crickets are  chirping
can i  join in the luminous tunes
under moonscape & street lamps...
  i  am not sure if the
narrator or the voice
  of our disconnect,
is just a  ***** or an effaced  harpy ...

Monologuing  are we?

    That was always your problem….

No i was hoping for a liqueur
& well-lit soliloquy
unfortunately
you hearing is
too good & your plates is
too clean.
Never trust a skinny noun
for a lover...

                                              Your using the wrong fork….

No fears,
           as my empty
            overturned glasses
                               tremble around us
                               like our nonexistent children.
          Impossibilities
                 that  haunt the spaces of our words
                 like overcooked spaghetti  
...here too our invisible similes
at our
        evening repast...

                                        No worries
                                                        I was written that way
                                                                                         and you are a miserable lush.

indeed….
not on the menu
but our relationship
is a taco
with not enough lettuce…



I would say there are
                              losts of green words
                              missing  between us
                                                 and echo of your ego
                                                  swims in the whiskey.

the beauty of a glass  
             is its final emptiness;
the difference between          
lust and lush is just  one letter.
              you my dear  
             never lets the letters
            of your alphabets
free to flap

to the porch lights
                  
              except for a price...


It   might  just be the
                             spaces between
                                                   stars and ignorance of moths.
Your ignorance
                        always steals the narrative
                                                                  in my fortune cookie.


  no desert tonight i guess.
i hate this  mistaken table …..

Misspoken...you mean
miserable table!!!

your reflection my dear
will always reflect
            in waxy wood rings….
           returning to where
we first met
making one
            want to drink
            deeply the forgetful draught
                                          from the Styx
                                          my cold little-sphinx.