At first, I caught a delusion...
Of what simply needed to fade away
The paperboy comes here with his pay
And seems to stay here all day
He signs all my documents with a rubber stamp
And brings back my drugs like a champ
Temporary placements...
Deciding not to burn out
I went outside to hear my neighbourhood's point on doubt
All of them had varying opinions
And each one of them had to shout
I smiled and said "Don't shout, don't pout!"
I was determined that it would never happen again
And now the same person comes here with a blood drop on his lense
He said he slipped and fell and cut himself on the sharp edges of the fence
I told him to use soap, rinse and cleanse

Glades and Creeks.

One day in a journey far far away,  the forest was speaking to a lone wanderer.
"I am quite the clean forest, am I not?." The forest whispered soothingly.
"Mmhm." Spoke the wanderer, passive by such an interjection.
"Of course. Thousands of forests have wilted and died under the hand of man. I remain lush and brimming to the birch with life."
"Where is my way out of here?" The wanderer asked, becoming quite needy at the thought of having to spend the night in that dung-infested greenhouse.

The forests name was Evergreen. Allot of forests were named Evergreen. This forest had just been sold cheaply to a large logging firm who would come and tear the ugly trees down. The proprietors of that sale was a tribe of Indians. The specific agent who devised and contracted the sale was named Nahiko. An Indian tribesmen who, like his ancestors could speak to the forest.

Indians were what Europeans called people from India and natives of America. Allot of Indians in America were killed for being Indian. When an Indian boy came of age, they would be thrown into a jungle and starve until they saw an animal spirit. This was probably prelude to eating said spirit animal while thanking it for helping him live on.

"I, Evergreen implore you to stay within my womb of plant and fauna."
"Hm." replied the wanderer. Not wanting to argue.
The wanderer took a seat beside a flowing creek on a rock. The creek lead up to waterfall, which in turn lead through a river that spanned for miles. The river did not speak as it was an extension of the forest, Evergreen. Down the creek was the old homes of the Indian tribe.
"Have you ever saved someone else?" The wanderer asked.
"My yes, of course. Everyone who is to enter without water or food is rescued by my charming animals! And luxurious streams. I am quite hospitable you see. There was a tribe who lived within me, they were by name called the Perchil tribe. But they had to leave for more. Hmph. As if anything up in that ****** town is worth more then me."

Further up the river, away from the forest was a town named "Milan". It was named after a kingdom of the same name in Italy. People in Milan spoke German. This was odd given Milan lay in south America, but not unusual given its history of being a port to German slave traders who came from a German colony called "Tanganyika" in Africa. The town was named Milan because the Germans wanted to appear more Italian. This desire was apparent in their most famous dishes "schnitzel Pizza" and "Pasta Salsiccia". Pasta Salsiccia was pasta in a sausage casing often served with tomato sauce and mashed potatoes.

Perchil was also a member of that Indian tribe. He was Nahiko's brother and had a family of his own. Perchil was born in Evergreen and educated in Milan. He had been fighting with Nahiko over the terms of sale of the forest. Nahiko had wanted to preserve the land of old tribe. Perchil was already drawing up plans to sell it to an oil foundry. Their land happened to be on top of a great oil reserve. That means allot of animals lived and died on that land millions or thousands of years ago. There body would dissolve into a black gooey liquid used to fuel heavy machinery. This machinery is used by logging firms to cut down not exclusively, forests named Evergreen.

The wanderer, feeling awkward asked. "So, you'd rather not want to be destroyed?"
"Oh, I am a forest and I do maintain a will of my own and wants. But I cannot rather things should be anything other than what they are. The world is a destructive place. It is disrespectful of its former home and ancestry. I know this. I have tried however, to ward off the workmen by scaring them with my animals. In the end I shall become a town or a shopping mall."
In 3 years time, the deed to "Evergreen plains, Milan" would be sold and used to build a shopping mall named aptly "Evergreen Mall". And the forests voice would be spoke out of loudspeakers, but in the form of either a pre-recorded message or announcement about a lost child. Nahiko and Perchil would be married in Evergreen Mall. Nahiko three times.

"Oh woe is me, I lament my lost brothers and sister forests who are no longer beaming and prideful of their enormous trees and crested riverbanks."
"Maybe they should have defended themselves better." The wanderer spoke, trying unsuccessfully to show concern.
"Well, I for one will never give up fighting the man!"
"Good for you." The wanderer then ate his lunch.

Three days from now, the forest would stop speaking to anyone who arrived within its borders and see the lone wanderer again. But this time, he would be protected by four glass windows inside a piece of machinery powered by black gooey liquid called a "harvester" which lifted up wood and cut it into easily transportable pieces.

"Do you, believe in god wanderer?" The forest asked, to strike up some conversation.
"I do believe in god. He's the reason I get up in the morning and assists me in supporting my family."
"I don't. I don't think I believe in god, wanderer. If he exists, how could he let something so beautiful as I and my brother and sister forests be turned into shopping malls and townships like Milan."
The evergreen forest had seen the name "Milan" as a city nearby on a poster which flew into the twig of its tree. The poster was now lying on smooth ground weighted down by a root, as so the forest can read it over and over again. The poster advertised Pasta Salsiccia at a local restaurant in Milan. It had appetizing pictures of Pizza with crumbed steak on it and Pasta filled Sausages.
"God once flooded the earth, destroying all forests and people for their misgivings. Maybe you misgave and people are your divine punishment."
The forest grew silent and whispered soft hymns of wind against the leaves and overgrown shrubbery.

The edge of the creek, where the wanderer sat on a rock had a hard sand that stretched out a few meters disappeared into the dirt. It was unusual to see a small bed of sand without any other visible placements of sand. The wanderer had been dumping it there, with permission from the forest so he could form a base to store his harvester. The forest did not know of the sands purpose, she thought it looked pretty.
"If I were god, the world would be nothing but forests!" Evergreen stated. The gentle words turning a harsher coarse crackling of branches.
"The world seems to be nothing but people right now. Maybe gods a man."
"Unlikely! If god was a man, he would certainly love forests enough to never cut them down."
"Hm." The wanderer was dissatisfied with this explanation, but didn't want to argue.

"Would you **** anyone who came into your forest, just to prove a point?" The wanderer asked, waiting pensively.
"Oh no, as I said. I cannot change what already is and certainly would not bloom the effort to try. Besides. I also know about those people and their weapons. When it comes to human beings, no matter how hard I fight they will always win. How they ever came to develop boom guns and ratatatat chainsaws I have no idea. If they came from my forest, people would certainly have never developed tools so cruel and menacing. But, I suppose Eden had her way for you. Even if it was, at the cost of all our kind."
"Yeah. No matter forest or person, people always win. I'll always be below some rich powerful man too." The wanderer felt melancholy for feeling unimportant. The forest felt the same melancholy for her life and the world.

Suddenly and finally, a noise came from the wanderers pants. He then picked out his phone, clicked it and took it to his ear. After two hours, the wanderer walked east and out of Evergreen forest. He visited her three days later in his noisy harvester. made to cut wood. He parked on his sand bed. The wanderer left his harvester and locked the door without a word. Evergreen forest was properly harvested of its trees in 3 years time. Never uttering a word or complaint. The painted marking on the harvester she saw everyday however, was her last thought as she disappeared. The word painted onto the door of the harvester, its operator. "Perchil."

You have stars in your hands
and you hold them like grenades.
The boats tattooed on your thighs
spread out like finger placements of the G major chord.
Synthetic drugs make chains
tying your first and second fingers
around the mechanically rolled paper,
canvasing your throat like too much sea water,
each breath as rough as the veins in your arms.
Close your eyes
there’s pollen in the air
spread out like imperfections on the skin of an apple.
Solar countries keep foreign coins
sewed into their cotton sails,
they put their money into the navy.
You have a comet in your circulatory system
leaving bright spots under your skin
a reminder to gather the sunshine back under your eyelashes.
Hand soap in ketchup packets
make bubble bath islands
and unhappy lips.
You’re as talkative as a poem and
as expensive as a poppy
with homemade constellations on your back,
staining your lumbar muscles with cherries.
I can’t wash off your fingerprints
with my favourite shampoo.
I’ll swim across the Georgia Strait,
dodge your dinghies and
make a home in handmade ships
where I’ll practice erasing scars from my arms
and washing the soap from my hair.

Firstly, I'm not a body-shamer.
To each their own
(a good phrase, though grammatically incorrect),
But sometimes I find it hard to understand
The tatoos, the piercings, the colors and placements.
The usual answer, if I dare ask:
     I'mhxpressthinmythelf.
Good for you.
Does the diaper pin through your cheek
Tell us you're a Dad or something.
     Na.
The quarter inch bolt and nut through your ear?
Are you a machinist or a plumber, or something?
     Na.
The doll-house plates in your lips?
Are you a Duck Dynasty fan?
A member of the Audubon Society or something?
     No. I'mapontingxprschmyselpth!
Sorry, what was that?
     I'mapontingxprschmyselpth.
I'm sorry. I don't quite get what you're saying.
I don't mean to be rude,
But could you express those plates for a minute... I... I get it.

For years I’ve had marbles tucked in my mouth,

Different colored weights that pulled on my glands, on secret saliva.

For years I’ve had marbles in my mouth and I forgot to spit them out or hide them away so I let them become permanent placements in my always-cavities; soon they even slipped so easy into my bloodstream.

The black ones made me say yes too often.

The reds made me want to bleed.

The blues made me cry, obviously. They stood guard on my tear ducts, deciding when and how to show emotion. They didn’t let me cry that night. They didn’t let me cry for months. Now I am crying almost everyday, and I am shooting those blue marbles straight to the moon; I’ve had it with avoiding emotion every day of my life.

The yellows made me want to forgive you, made me want to **** on sunshine, made me want to clamber into your mother’s arms, let her know that it wasn’t your fault. The yellows are *******.

The cat eyes have me avoiding eyes with every man on the street, so sure they will spit out words that they expect me to lap up like milk with an easy grin, tail twitching for attention. The cat eyes have me distrustful, have me always knowing it could happen again.

The rainbows loosened my tongue, had me admit secret sexualities, let me march in parades and kiss girls, had me falling over myself tripping into love.

I’m not sure who this poem is for anymore, or what it’s even about. The doctors say I have the cleanest bloodwork they’ve seen in a while, I don’t ask them about the marbles. They refer to some of them as disordered.

I’m not sure if they’re marbles anymore, I think they’re just me,

and I’m sorry I’m getting off-track, the marble in my hand right now is glitter and sparkle and confusion and I’m trying so hard to stay put.

Give me the orange ones, the fire, ones that looks like Mars

or Jupiter.

Give me two moons, or maybe sixty-six.

Give me a giant ladder.

This is about running away.

This is about playing with your marbles

and learning everything about them

and staying put.

Somewhere out in another universe,
I'm 12 years old
and I'm sitting on my bed listening to something through
a hopelessly tangled white headphone string,
flipping through the dog-eared pages
of my favorite book while everyone is sleeping.

The sticky, syrupy air of summer floats through an open window
and nothing bad has happened to me,
no scalding words or hot fingers
etching their prints into my skin.

I haven't menstruated or fallen in love or  yet shrunk myself down
or any of the things that made me a woman.

I am warm in my white tank top
and the blue satin shorts with the printed clouds
wondering about trips to the beach
and sticker placements on my new notebook from Borders.

And I hope she's always able to stay like this,
that she never knows of the kinds of stains
that won't wash out of her white tank top.

And that every once in a while,
I might just catch a second of her laughing
from the room next door.

It harassed free fall, it was affected by the friction force in the absence of the tefillah, the walls became more taxed and accelerated with gravity that exceeded the acceleration of time, gravity triggered the rest that was in the outside walls and made different kilometers apart, with the free fall at more than 9.8 km per second. Beneath the ground the dimension was made lower than the intake embankment, creating placements in revealing swaps in the solar position, for anyone trying to level the force of fall and its acceleration versus gravity around bodies that were moving accelerated and scattered. The earth constantly hurried its mass to preponderate and go where something or someone could rescue it, the air was inked with an offer in the cases of the imprisoned airs, which from the graves adjoining the valley of Kedron kidnapped its areas of lavender physiognomies to link it to the mantles of the Tallit, which in some cases arose with thousands of souls from their graves, to receive the cushioned rubble between which they were electro-magnetized with the blankets, and the wiring they generated, conceiving that they would gather them in the naive and demiurgical plates, for the holistic retransmission of the tract to Patmos, starting from the Cyclades all the way to the Dodecanese.

The sensitive ex-karst plates of Patmos trembled through the passageways of the Cyclades, which permeated in a ratio of the first reflection in the distance vision that approached between both physical episodes, but the second axis of reflection was made aware in an unknown perspective close to the underwater elevation of the Profitis Ilias, close to the entrance sinkhole, between the variables of the inter plates that were assigned to the reflective tapes of the Beit Hamikdash that mutated to the Megaron Áullos Kósmos. Here the omega will resume a minimum of constant forces, emphasizing the friction that bellowed by the hands of the pro-zealots who had left those sarcophagi in the Kidron Valley, in the average anchor values of the great leaks of the friction with the falling water by millions from the inexorable wind that aided the indivisible objects in the Kidron valley ratio, as a reflection of free fall hitting the friction between the Bern Olives, with torrential rains that were made periodic for an esplanade near Mount Scopus. This seat suffered from the force of friction in the fall of the wall, appreciating the burials that were and will be the reactionary phases of the Hellenistic degree. Objects faded to the state of rest and gravity that cavorted through the valleys, replicating distances more than periods of Elijah in the Judah desert itself and in the Dead Sea. From the depth of the valley, aqueous elements emerged with the proportional speed of the falls of the material and immaterial bodies, outlining the second Newtonian law, as the holy water submerged into the flow of the super-atomized savory, which was reconverted into the same Beit Hamikdash, to materialize in the submerged and hidden effects of the pagan force, hinting at the analogy of the equinoctial of the Dyticá that pushed the wave of the Kaitelka whale, in the constant of speed, tensing the force of the rocks that never stopped moving until his body igneous was quintupled in the fifth dimension beyond the consciousness of those who do not understand immaterial physical abstraction, in fractional microseconds.

The density of the rain filter that had been volumized from the submerged interstices, created the gravity of the horizontal movement that subdued the equation in kinetics that gave the differential in the unresolved expectation of the cessation of movement. Where the amount of reaction is more than what would go to Patmos, disproportionate to the macro pulleys that oscillated in the meridians, speed, and acceleration. Prior to the decoupling of the forces of fall in the already submerged bodies that were counterbalanced to give rise to the volume cords that detached from the largest chamber of the wall, to record the final sequence of wear generated by the reconversion and balance points of their masses, then the starting pedestal accumulates and is reconnected with this phenomenon of the Invisible Eclectic Portal of Patmos, being aware that they would have to enter the cavern, after having ceased their work for this mass retransmission of the reinverted wall to propel the Megaron uprising. Within three months after the Hellenistic Full Moon, the colors of the Tefilah will become mathematical, fascinating the spiritual intensity that inspired Saint John to build the temple near his cave of the Apocalypse on the reef of Patmos. The sanctity will count the astragali in front of the cyclamen for the delicate advances, wearing the blue-green of the quadrinomial that represented geodesy in its points of order and of its evangelist faction. Confusions were overwhelmed not to stop the movements of splendor in the effusions of the storms in sacred prayers in the room, which takes refuge from Kímolos bringing the souls of Helenikká, for the offices that made the trend of Katapausis after the subsequent full moon. Discounting the three months that never elapsed since Vernarth arrived on the Eurydice.


Kaitelka and the judgment of her abode would determine the corpus and the psyche of the irascible necromances of Borker and Leiak, subordinated to Zefian so that the torrential rains on Patmos are perceived by the colder of condensed water of Cassandra that Beit Hamikdash had been bringing with two anthropomorphic shadows that had been supporting him, that of a Cohen, Levita and a Samaritan, they were the guardians that came from Jerusalem to Patmos to assimilate the enthronement spectrum of free fall converted into free ascent were the fourth arrow that spectrum for the first column to be erected. The breath of all of them became more entropic each time that would be concentrated in a certain haze that was released by its titanic whale snout; Rather, I say of her presence that she was raised by some larvae, which came from certain Zeus dresses that he had expelled to free the larvae that were from her immortal garb, looking like bait for those who stalked him with necromancy. . But this time he would be very contemplative for the construction of the Megaron de Vernarth, because amphitheater was a cause of low politics for his Olympic spectrum. The energy or Evegeia, was primed for objects that took forms of papyri covered with invisible enzymes tried from Qumram, but the cause of Mortis revived the larvae making the oblivion of the era that continued after the Mortis of all legions multiplied by the phrases that were sinister from the true matter of physical remanence.

Stunning she called the morning to gather it was her reflection that made all luminous and she
Turned from side to side all quarters of sun and shade settled in precise conforming feature it
Had no deviation it had no desire but was content to be her blossoming statement where her
Hair softly flowed down the sides and back was illusion and reality colliding slipping into a soft
Dark unspoken richness that defied appropriate telling her forehead was the first mold God
Used to make the first Angel from this creation dreams were first formed they arose mist like in
The quietest indulgence of the mind the eye brows were the seeding place of richest
Placements on fine porcelain it would begin the guessing of wonder how can such creation be
The eyes were jewels not mined in any worlds that we know cheeks aglow from fires deep
Within jungles unexplored by man the nose pristine you have to venture forth to rarest tents
Where nomads set in the midst of tapestry where inlaid golden folds lay with purist
Silver and emerald cloth and distilled breathing of goddesses and gave them a fitting that
Staggered the thoughts of those who came to look on these sights her lips were desire
Encapsulated in pink the entering of layers rivaled one another one on the top and between
Teeth a mix of ivory and pearl to be exposed was to lose ones breath and cast away
Reason briefly the chin the master stroke the line flowing from the ear was the perfect order
Holding all in eye appealing perfection the neck was enthralling understated composure
Shoulders rounded joining the graceful arms that premiered as musical a ***** that completes
Everything into perfection curvaceous loveliness man proclaims his strength woman surpasses
Him through soft quiet femininity that even assures his success through these powers that rise
Not from pride but from gifts that is profound and indescribable not better than man but the
best of man resides in her heart of hearts

A storm blew through early, left frost
etched, lit, glistening, on
a window's waking surface.

I sit framed by that translucence,
my daughter aligns, orders
mirroring matroyshka doll members.

I reflect on an essay*, how
poems are a symbol of  will,
concluding a pact, perhaps

achieved in diction, image metaphor,
adherence to structure, rhyme, form.
Might these devolve to decoration? Or,

trace the transmission of "will to
commitments," expressing “intent”,
"weakly lost or strongly spent?”

Frost etchings fissure, shift, glint, slide
on their emergent effluence,
configure in gusts of cognition.  

I sense a covenant in these lines.
my daughter adjusts her doll's placements,
the promise of one revealed in the other.

Copyright © 2004 Gary Brocks

——————————————
Attribution:
Stanzas 3, 4, and 5 are greatly influenced by my reading the Robert Frost essay titled *THE CONSTANT SYMBOL.
The short phrases in italicized quotes are direct quotes from that essay.

It was a Bodybuilding show
I prepared hard for this contest
I will practice my posing being the flow
It was all the intensity throughout all the stress
But my muscles must look their absolute best
I was determined with the ******* weights
It was my mission of training and that was my everyday date
I wanted to be the reigning Bodybuilding champ
But for now I am thinking on amp
I prepared really well
In the Bodybuilding Judge’s eye, it will tell
I will be backstage in the pump up room I will go
Filling my muscles with blood being the flow
Then I will flex hard to see my muscles at their best
The audience will have their eyes focused as my physique being the confess
Then step on the platform stage in showing my physique at the contest
The spotlights will be on
It’s center stage where I belong
Flex upon flex seemingly long
The cheers from the audience
The anticipation from the Judge’s
The announcement of the Bodybuilding placements
I am in the Bodybuilder’s winning circle
First place award in my hand
What more can I command?
The timing of my diet being out of sight
My physique in how it was tight
My flex could go on, but I made history, so let me step down from the stage where I belong.

sometimes i wonder if shakespeare was behind the pen
that fiddled and diddled in that old church parking lot
i drove by it the other day but there was no one there
nobody freezing their buns off in the wake of the open door
nobody trying to canoodle in the back seat that wasn't folded down
nobody even thinking about pulling into that darkness.
would you even do that again? i would a hundred times think.
what even happened to that kid who used to write songs
and play them as if he were playing in front of a hundred eyes
but they were all your eyes and there wasn't a flame in existence
that was brighter than they when each lit up in its own way.
what even happened to the girl who showed that boy her house
and the colonial colloquial drapery and carpeting wall to wall,
her little sister sticking her finger into the brownie batter
and protective mother who i've gotta admit was 100 percent right:
stay away from the bad man with the non-leather patagonia jacket
and all of his sassy ideas that got him good grades in k-8
but really started to expose his weaknesses steeped in frivolity
when he got into the upper level courses and advanced placements.
[a GD mile wide and an inch deep, that's what me thinks jar jar binx]
stay away from the burnt out eagle scout who let his guard down
and allowed your guard down both metaphorically and not sooo... but
remember that coffee shop show that you never came to?
strange, it feels in this moment like an aching sore thumb.
i listened to joshua radin all the way home and thought
christ what am i even going to do about this can this work and
if it can work how can it work but if it can't work why can't it work?
because lord knows this lady is easy to please when we drink. but
silly,you're tough as ***** ****** nails when you need to be told no.
& i aint never heard of sucha thing as a dude who's charming as hell
when he's telling a gorgeous woman sum'thin she don't wanna hear;
make me a pill for that and i'll sell it on The Street for days without end.
[so how much supply you got when the thing aint even fda approved?]
"lose yourself in what you're doing and you'll never work a day" is
what they tell me while they cast me into this steel bending furnace
and demand me to find a way to be cool and relax and chill the f out-
been doing that on my own and there's no milky white ear to listen
or a record to put it on or even a GD vocal box that feels like working
unless it's singing showtunes in the car or harmonizing to justin bbr
like i'm the **** 6th man in the pentatonix or however many there are.
capitalistically useless thing i was born with and worked really hard at
until one day it told me i don't have the capacity to scribe anymore.
so i'm forever speechless like the kid who got coal for christmas last year.
& you'd catch me in that backyard again with all the 15 year old girls
still kinda trying to impress them but mostly you, & give my shirt away:
wear it and be proud that you snubbed the bad man who passed through
with the non-leather patagonia jacket in the old church parking lot.

Drawn lines amongst the willows dripping,
Shadows of the morning,
Sight set upon the evening star,
He gazes at the solstice moon,
Plots placements of the plinths and altars,
Holds the hearts of sarsens.

Tomorrow all the villagers will come
Expecting messages and blessings.
Tonight he only dances.
Robed arms upraised
Reflect the branches overhead
Now shattered by the starlight,
Recessional of priesthood.

Across the yawning sway of centuries
He smiles.

He knows the fervid moss
A dream much like his own and all those after,
How the generations falling down
Will wonder, touch the giant stones

And breathe

The New Mexico sky is alive,
redder than a child’s wagon on a dusty front lawn
and the stars blink like forgotten Christmas lightswhile constellations shift, dissatisfied with their placements, sending ripples through mythology with every new shape they make.

We have blankets and enough hope among us
to keep the morning star burning above the far hills—
I am flanked by mountainous profiles;
the crag of a nose, the devastating valley of a lip.

We are wondering if someone out there could read our thoughts
if someone would take an interest in what puts our bodies together.
Misguided, we gaze upward.

It’s crazy to believe we’re alone in the universe, someone says,
and I smile into my shoulder, considering,
of all things,
space:

the starry unknown
between fingers and words.

Stop rocking my boat.
Stop shaking me like a salt shaker
Because I am not salt, nor am I in salt water.
Oh bother, Oh geeze, Oh man.
Understand your limits, know your course
Because you are crossing every line.
You are not the cone to my pine.
You are in my space. Placements, statements
So insincere, my dear.

I was taught by societal expectations that brothers are suppose to protect their little sisters.

I was taught to trust my brothers and to know that they would do anything to protect me.

My family was never normal though, so believing this made me look like an idiot.

I am the only daughter in a family with many boys.

I was so naive and stupid to believe the lies.

It's crazy that my brother who wasn't even around a lot is the one I trust the most.

I was five the first time anything ****** happened.

I had absolutely no clue what was happening and why I was being manipulated into doing.

And even crazier, the  predator was only about 7.

What!

I still to this day haven't told a soul about that night, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

I let it slip out of my mind thinking that it was normal.

From then, he made me do things for him and watch stuff with him that I didn't want to watch.

Everyday, I thought about him hurting me more.

I was 11 the next time.

I had a little more knowledge of what he was doing, but I was still intimidated by everything.

I knew though, that it actually wasn't normal and really should not have been something I had to go through.

I was home alone with him, and I just wanted to be in my room alone.

He was around 13 years old.

That was the first time he had threatened me with the "I'll tell mom" card.

I learned to not even think about telling my parents about what happened.

Thankfully he stopped messing with me for a while because I had moved in with my grandma.

Thank God that she let me.

I ended up getting taken away from my parents, living in an emergency shelter, living in a children's home, losing my dad, and getting moved in with a potential adoptive family before he hurt me again.

I was 15 when he sexually assaulted me in my adoptive family's home.

He had gotten kicked out of placements and came to visit to see if he could be adopted with us.

I didn't say anything because I knew that no one would believe me.

I ended up telling my adoptive parents because I was in so much physical pain.

They claimed that they believed me, but I knew they didn't.

They put all these restrictions on me after he had left and an investigation started.

I was questioned more that I thought I would need to be and I had two of the police investigators tell me that I made it all up.

I felt like I was just a burden to everyone at that point and no one knew all the details.

I wasn't given the chance to tell my story.

Years later, my whole family came up with reasons to justify what he did to me.

They said that he just wanted me to be prepared.

My brother that assaulted me wasn't the only one that was messed up.

My twin brother played a big part in everything too.

He knew that my attacker was going to do what he did to me.

Not only did he know, he told me he wanted to watch.

To this day, almost 5 years later, I have never been able to look at either of them the same way.

My mother still doesn't believe me, but she stopped caring about me years ago.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear mom,

I believed you. Why couldn't you believe me?

Dear R,

What did I do to you for you to take advantage of my body? Why did you hate me so much that you could do that?

Dear C,

Why did you want to see him hurt me? Why weren't you supportive?

Dears R & C,

Why didn't y'all protect y'alls little sister? I'm the only one you have!

Dear Me,

None of that was your fault! You didn't do anything wrong! Don't ever be afraid to ask for help when you are in danger. I'm here for you!

Love yourself!

her first Christmas tree
rising to the ceiling
the green scent of fresh pine permeates
papa put up all the lights
now it’s her turn
a treasure of ornaments
buried in tissue paper

a small, brightly colored stuffed menagerie
made by her Aunts and Uncles
when they were just kids
glittered, glistening plastic snow flakes
shiny, smiling ornaments of different sizes
and unusual shapes
most of them older than her
going back three generations

it’s quite a task
but Grandma said she could do it
unwrapping with care
choosing just the right placements

when she’s hung her last hook
my little niece stands back
aglow with happiness she whispers
“It’s perfect”


Del Maximo
© December 8, 2009

tonight, i stand still,
all but well and slain by your
widening grin, with hair casting
ill-sketched shadows across
your cheek, out in the street, under
these humming lamps. under
this enveloping front.

some moment my head reeled
reveries of pretext for. still,
here i blink,
so unprepared. stuffing my
belongings into a tramping
pack late at night. laid out
on the couch arm. nothing knows,
now, i'd rather see you than
anything. careful footprint
placements. we got time, yeah.
still, honey, i'd trade magnitudes
of it up, for just just just a
handful extra seconds
skirting your gaze.

still,
honey, i'm atypically hopeful;
trembling here. i'm lit up
like you couldn't believe. i'm
on fire and kept warm,
throughout this meanwhile;
undertow miles away. grass
shooting up through the
soil in the back
yard.

Lately I've been going in strange directions,
I've been going about this all wrong,
And I don't think there was a right way either, but maybe something better.
There's always something better.
I've been counting out all the options and the faults and their placements,
I've been looking in store windows and staring at all the faces I see when I walk down the city streets at night,
I'm just trying to find a way to make this right
How do I make it right?
How do I make it right?
And these nightmares eat my brain when I sleep,
I'm paranoid someone is watching me,
And they know I've been trying to make this right,
When there is no right,
Time to give up the fight?

There once was a mathematician, who
hypothesised long ago that I would
learn to love him. His words were all logic,
plans and placements, everything set in
stone for me to keep. He said that, one day,
my heart wouldn't break at the prospect
of love and that I would get over my
pure fear - of me, of him, of... us. He
promised that, one day, his love would be
returned to him when I realised exactly
what he was to me.

He was right.

But I was too late.

watching the sequencing is a regular thing
this pattern never fails to deliver its best score
they who follow the method will be profiting

many times one has seen this eventuating
they're slotting into the bay's ideal shore
watching the sequencing is a regular thing

utilizing a placements good calculating
is not for them an overly arduous chore
they who follow the method will be profiting

success coming with each prized offering
being educated about this niche's core
watching the sequencing is a regular thing

it appears to be in the model's situating
this their station known as precision's store
they who follow the method will be profiting

on working out a program's functioning
none received counts which would bore
watching the sequencing is a regular thing
they who follow the method will be profiting

There exists
such a distorted need
to be inflexible and stagnant
Not allowing change...
Dangerously
Coming close to becoming
a "caricature of our former glorious selves"

How sad...
that it happens…
but even worse …
that it still does not
ignite change.

It must be agonizing
To be driven by the fear
of appearing weak
or too radical
or loosing  perceived powers
or social placements.

Suffering through spiritual implosion
dreading condescension
or rejection.
By peers
let alone
From a creator
That they barely believe in…

I wish there was
really
something I could do
to help.

In your eyes I saw the power to sow my own destruction
So I looked away trying not to memorize the exact placements of your tattoos
Or all the freckles that you’re made of
But I wasn’t quick enough and now your entire body is etched permanently into my mind
In that space that doesn’t allow love
To be held
And as I remind myself that great *** does not equal great love,
But that great love always equals great pain,
I know that great wars were started under the guise that it does

Vernarth soothes his lying on the bunks of Sheesham's fire. Beam and Incense with ultra olfactory and sensory powers, delineated the elemental and phenomenal nuclei, housing and adapting hyper-connectivity, with Hindu probity, the akasha executed the essential foundation in all things of material worldview; the first tangible and concrete material element was created by the god Brahma (air, fire, water, earth are the others). It was one of the classical elements of Hinduism, pañcha-majá-bhuta or "five great elements"; its main characteristic is the sabda (sound). In Sanskrit this word means "space." It is the physical and eternal substance Akasha, of the ether that flows through the Akasha-Nautas and through Vernarth in each parapsychological regression. Vernarth takes hold of a staff called "Staff of Sheesham" he acquired it once anxious to deliver him to his beloved Tuscany in the Cathedral Santa Maria dei Fiori, in one of his Regressive Lives. They waited for him astonished by the Tyrannized impulsiveness of the nobles in Florence, from which once again he was delayed from the barley and barley fields. of the foolish gods next to Porcellino. He waited long hours for his beloved Maddalena to leave the ceremonial eucharistic ceremony, while he carried his staff in his right hand and in his left a rectangular box that could be grasped for his hand, he carried essences of a potpourri of lavender and vellorita, a ring with an amethyst stone covered by a concave gold bolus, in the supra-circular contour it wore medieval Etrurian silver ornaments from the Feast of the barley pass. Before this acquiescent Samian Sibyl, he continued to carry the clairvoyance where the prophet Isaiah had unleashed the conflagration of the heart that resists death and that agonizes several times in the ...? From today, from Kafersesuh in Ein Karem, the overnight seal is opened in the cradle where Mary perches with her son, already being part of the Gethsemane and Vernarth lithosphere in the heart of Maddalena.

Phylogeny in Gethsemane: **** erectus crossed multiple pieces of evidence of pro-evolutionary-adaptive beings, Neanderthal / HomoSapiens. Children of Israel wrote parables, epistles, verses, stories, and books ..., their vocal and phonetic tract spoke of storms and environmental factors between heaven and earth, of the "Great noise outside of us, but little silence in us." The elementary thing is the larynx that only pronounces the image that denounces minimal evocative concepts of sound in different placements of the melisma in mega sound. Speaking to us how language varies according to history, and the civic-climatic environment instructing us to its threshold and descent, by detaching itself by the air effusions of language in regular tracheo-laryngeal levels. Authoritatively charging intervals of vocalization, and relationship of connection with agriculture and all its dimension descending through its internal walls, but rising through overexcite parietals outside itself.

From the little air that remains to the world, to continue to digest temporarily, it assumes itself by letting its extra-air flow, which is possessed by mechanically inert particles, and not in sanctified prophecies with miraculous inference and Inherence that innovates factotum, in the super existence of the that still do not perish by the hand of a monarchical mandate. Thus, the world swallows air in entire asphyxiating and contaminated halves, while others redistribute it for those who need to sit at the table to collect the Bread and share it with others in half. "Here the echo of the Christic body resounds." That in Aramaic, it will syndicate much more than a language in its blood, grapheme, and stylistic phonemes, in vibratory shock beyond its deep stretch, reverberating with the grace of its divine enunciation ”. Joshua, swallows spikes and olive leaves simultaneously arranging us in his arms, like children of olive trees-infants, we risk a sheep in his arms giving us milk-hydro lactation from the sustenance of a creative verb. "A strict fact of preserving the Aramaic and not losing it by turning the turns of the leaves in history". Aramaic must be incorporated for the times when Joshua grazes us after more than two thousand years yet. The one who is walking from one side to another to tell us that he is still here, only suggestive comforts your walk by plagiarizing with your larynx the sound of his expression. The sheep is a mammal ..., more mammal than man, because its statement formulates bleats always reflected in the bases of its skull, for the rest of its young as biblical language, under all the rainbows of the Cherubs bellowing, together with children surrounding them in identical intention! **** habilis – **** Sanctus, in a process that has an orthodox base and peripheral anatomical capacity, a Pythagorean linguistic shortcut of the winding up and sternum by confusing them with each other, not altering their structural or functional complexity. From the potential of the Lepidoptera and winged insects, the phenotype will arise that will relate and relativize the Aramaic mechanics or the Aramaic method, so as not to misplace the divine language, as well as the laryngeal torque of those who have blood and Aramaic body is sublime since its mechanized mystique it devours the smallest words with the maximums in a whole range of cacophonies and prototyped field: "Come to my field, here the spikes and insects will speak more than the mechanical potential of your Voice."

The wind tunnel was filled with Lepidoptera that flew ascending in a helical way, everything was sensitized with the imminent advent of the magnanimous arrow of Zefian that had been crossing the perihelion from the high Áullos Kósmos, dialectically with abundant credibility inside the geological tunnel of the Profitis Ilias, in turgid enlist of theological doctoral lactation. Timorous and lengthy righteous was ajar in those who were still fatigued, half-opening the ****** of the days that began with the identification of the Sheesham staff, naming themselves regent of the tribulations that drain through their length of displacement, towards static basality, and focusing idiosyncrasies and concerns of the Prophet Elijah who received them at level 103 with passages from Corinthians “That the saints are going to help in the administration of the millennial saints. His capacity will not have the limits of his previous earthly life”

i could of been a million things,
but i'm one of those million.
A billion manipulations,
hundreds of thousands of conversations,
and a trillion situations,
but i'm now just the combination,
of the placements of those subtle decisions.

the result is this.
an accumulation of bad decisions,
and fear.

conditioned to do what maintains my survival,
rather than whats vital to experience.
i'm nowhere near the person i could of been.

or should of been.

but it's too late now,
to change my stubborn ways.
a scared diplomatic reasonable boring *******.

that can't ride the rollercoaster.
that can't sky dive.
that can't leave the country.
that can't commit suicide.

pragmatic and content.
the worst combination.

i can't break the mould of my equation.
too sensible.
not scared,
just placid.

emotionless.

dead inside,

money means nothing,
success is nothing,
doing nothing is nothing,
but its easier as it has the same result.

i used to feel something,

but i don't know when that was.

maybe it was me.
maybe it was the ****.
maybe it was the world.
maybe it was the girls.

either way,
now,
nothing is my only friend.

and I've tried to feel -
but its not worked for nearly ten years.

i'm not sure i'll ever feel anything again,
but i'll pretend things matter, so i can fit in.

I was asked am i excited to go on holiday,
i said yes,
but i wasn't.
nothing changed.
nothing ever has.

I've seen so many things in the past few years.
neil young.
rolling stones.
bob dylan.
radiohead.
foo fighters.

i stayed in jim morons  motel room.

i felt nothing.

literally nothing.

i've succeeded more than ever before -

i won a £1500 last night.

Nothing.

It's my only friend and only emotion and none understands why i can't feel anything.
I dont understand it either.

I would do anything to feel terrible,
or anything,
pain,
love,
hope,
happy,
sad,
anything.

my feelings are frozen in stone.

I can't even care - it doesn't even bother me.

I'm just aware of it.

Nothing is my everything now.

The hope: a fine madness.
The fear: diarrhetic.
Beautiful sunlight today
Indoor soccer at the Y

On the Altar, placements:
The Hemings of Monticello
The Batman
Life of Pi

Cliff Pickover in Taipei
The philosophy of math
Lesotho photographs
Right after Sandy died

What I want her to know
Seattle Cedar Snow
La Florida feeling flow
I tried. I truly tried.

so many things wander
   in the night of the world - electric
  saw of the Hemiptera's wing uncertain
   of its path, or a hand like a beast
   in the ornate flesh, the sea of
undergarment with its saltine moistness,
limbless lips frittering onto squashed out
      softnesses that remember the fervor
  of grip or the pleasures of breathing after

     the tempest of beings,
   so many things in different placements
   displacing me here,
   savoring the impact just before the crunch of the bone,
   down to its last ache between the
    gnash of teeth and the miserly space
   of cerecloth to a body—

  they are many things trundling
   in the moment and i am just as much,
  yet a passing only, scouring the walls
   of graffiti emblazoning abstract unfathomably reachable and misunderstood, lost in ineffable translation — this doting darling
    contemplates death and
i understand now, going deeper
  as fish sinks into further blue,
wet with something else but water.

Purgatory I stay. Mewling, churning, turning over in my palm. Clutching stones. Hard — so my wrist tendons are visible. Set down. Smooth stones on the ground. Stay squat. Observe the threaded ends of my clothes; my rags. This end frayed more than it was earlier. Observe the increasing visibility of my calves beneath the ragged ends. The bone defines itself from the muscle. The skin taut holding the apparatus. I stand and spin a revolution. The walls are in the same place they were before. Three feet from my nose. I’m in this tower. Organizing my stones. And sleeping. I organize my stones in pleasant patterns. Squares, circles, however I want. I do it while crouched. Before I place a stone I consider the ground. My placements are very intentional. I turn the stone over in my palm. I enjoy the feeling of the smoothed stone in my palm. I must consider the placement of this stone. I like it’s color — brown. I attempt to recall past placements of this stone. I must draw on past placements if I am to place it this time correctly. Also of importance: this stone’s current character. What is the stone thinking this iteration? Where is it naturally vying. I spend time learning this stone’s character in my palm. With every turn its character slightly deviates. For it has slightly eroded. Over the years all the stones have altered character. They have changed. Shed aspects here and gained some there. In color and shape. These changes must be accounted for. I dutifully study their evolution for things must be done right. This stone I am prepared to place. Perhaps in the morning — I will sleep on it then return to my task.

Let's recreate
The beautiful moment
That I believe
I fell in love with you.

It was November the second,
Two thousand thirteen
And of all days,
It was a band competition.

An important one,
A Bands of America Regional
In the lovely
St. George, Utah.

I don't remember the weather,
And I don't know whether
Or not it's the same for you,
But this is what I recollect:


We had performed in finals,
As we were so surprised to do so
Our preliminary performance
Not being so great.
But finals was great.
It was my best performance so far
And that feeling I felt
When I stepped off that turf;
Magical.

We put our instruments onto our semi
"Optimus Pride," as we call it
We put our hats away
And received instructions to go get dinner.

I found you immediately
I believe promising you to hang out
After we stepped off
So I could tell you how everything would go down
You're a freshman, after all
Your first BOA.
I had been telling you all sorts of little
Tips and tricks this season anyway
And you were willing to listen and take heed.

Anyway,
We met up.
And we both felt this
Hype.

A most magical Hype.
A high higher than any high from any drug
And we were crazed;
Band does this sort of thing so some, such as us.

And so we went around
Hugging others who were also feeling the Hype
And talking about hopes of high placements
For Full Retreat,
And how I had promised you
We would go around and talk to the other bands
And go meet their trombone sections

But I remember
In the Hype
The look that was in your beautiful eyes
Almost a craze
And in love sort of look.
And that was when I realized you've finally found the magic.
That was when I knew you were in love with this dorky activity
Just as much as I.



And that was what made me fall in love with you.



That look.
And it wasn't even reserved for me
But I knew you felt passionate about something
That I too felt passion for.

That look.
Now that I've been thinking about it,
I can't get it out of my head.

That look.
Now that I've been thinking about it,
I realized I haven't seen it since then
For whatever reason.

And I miss it.
I want to see it again.
I need to see it again.
And it is lovely and all what that look was originally meant for
But I'm hopelessly wishing
That that look could
Be reserved for me
And that that look meant that
You were in love with me.

But of course,
Things almost never work in my favor,
And that's okay
I'll get over it

And until then,
I'll see that look
Whenever I close my eyes
And relish the memories I have
Of that wonderful
Autumn day.


That you for sharing that moment with me.

Alone with a pen.
Thoughts walking along the coffee hue paper; it's life consisting of nothing but words with wanting.
Words that want a change in th e world that speaks, with tongues all the same.
Words that have lines, dots, loops.
Different placements have never tore the unity of worlds apart.
Alone with in emptiness.
Impossible feet, made possible with those with belief.
Of those who speak with not tongues.
Of those who mark with not ink.
But are alone with the many, and complete with the few.
Those that are the ancestors of the ancient tongues, and the creators of the scribbled ink.
Alone within and empty...
Alone with a beginning...
Alone with a pen...