begin end begin he writes come to party in my room ashtray spilled on sheets mirror smeared clothes scattered everywhere i’m reclining on floor pulling on ***** hair writing lonely-hearts poem i don’t care about your photograph i just want to know will you come to party in my room? i have confidences to share secrets to reveal no one to give my body to i need to feel warmth of another there is food if you are hungry i’ll just watch listen to you will come won’t you? please this is no prank are you there? i just wanted to invite you to party you’re my only guest i need you i sound desperate you want to know how long i’ve been this way kind of let myself go grown used to this room that keeps my secret used to sleeping alone in big double bed i think i shall go take hot bath don’t come another night perhaps i can do it quite well myself thank you you probably would have felt out of place anyway - london 1971

nothing wrong with beating off but i prefer female sometimes pretty thing replies Odys you have a way with words actually he prefers woman all times tends to be too impatient rough handling himself needs woman’s gentler slower adoring touch

i wouldn’t mind wife if she is simply **** in residence leaning against doorway posing between me and kitchen he considers let’s get cruel in cruelty one finally realizes one’s own true self-interest who am i? am i cruel enough to be sick-hearted *******? am i capable of oppression torture? do i honestly desire *** slave? do i believe all hope of becoming normal human is gone? he hears her words i have cuffs crop leg spreader flogger hood paddle cane like swelling bruises on my *** never touch my face arms legs i like to be spit on while you pull hair i like servicing man who takes pleasure in giving brutal intense pain *** on my face **** **** on me i'm looking for white muscular egotistic man who is into sadomasochism i enjoy abuse part just as much as *** part is he lightweight no stomach for collared sadism? He mumbles to himself bottom line i respect love women this existence is killing me ignores his thoughts sings aloud we’re used to being rude to each other used to getting crude with each other come on now pretty thing sit next to me

female fantasy number 1 man’s ******* is like handle on slot machine if woman pulls it right way 3 cherries line up in his eyes ***** jingle ring money shoots out ***-hole female fantasy number 2 science invents way in which more money woman spends shopping more weight she can lose

i imagined you were plateful of pancakes you giggled when i poured syrup on your face i smiled pondering how lovely you would taste we sat for a while gazing into each other’s eyes until you got cold rubbery i didn’t want to eat you anymore

maybe he is not so charming anymore maybe Odysseus has become blunt  difficult he tries to be respectful but sometimes he is excessive self-willed time place names have lost any mearing during lively discussion with pretty thing creativity versus craft he confronts original invention requires destruction surely you realize that? pretty thing replies Odys i didn’t realize you were so dominant you seem so playful puppy-like in daytime i never would have guessed you’re such a chauvinistic ******* he questions chauvinistic ******* what’s that suppose to mean? i don’t know what you’re talking about she answers don’t play dumb Odys i know you’re smart at semiotics he asks semiotics what does that mean? I don’t know the word listen you’re right and i’m wrong i apologize i didn’t mean to get so argumentative he reaches for dictionary on floor next to chair pretty thing crosses legs speaks i’m very careful to use simple words everyone can understand but i’m just sign painter isn’t that right Odys? what would i know? he pleads you’re not making any sense we both use brushes paint similar techniques that’s beside the point i apologize she insists you’re way off the subject Odys he begs you’re right i’m wrong whatever i said made you get so upset please forgive me her voice cold terse i need to go home Odys you scare me you’re way too fanatic

thinks to himself promise her anything but give her the finger just when she’s finally starting to fall for whole scam give her the slip 6 to 12 weeks is average life expectancy for modern romance it’s fast world we’re all expendable can’t hear what you’re saying music is too loud rule number 1 no matter how beautiful she is there’s always someone who’s sick of her rule number 2 why would you even be talking with her if she didn’t have *****? rule number 3 they’re all ******* ******! he tries to recall if Bayli ever behaved like ***** he concludes no never did she become one?

in restless sleep he dreams someone tells him Bayli is working at ******* bar he goes to see her Bayli looks young beautiful wearing thong nothing else many men are pursuing her he excitedly approaches but she seems to only vaguely recognize him she questions do i know you? he answers Bayli it’s me Odys! she answers my name is not Bayli Odys who? where do you know me from?” he pleads Bayli, look at me Bayli smiles hesitantly as she looks around for support points finger towards Odysseus 2 bouncers approach shove him against wall force him outside bouncer barks her name is not Bayli now get hell out of here you freaking loser! they go back inside slamming door as he walks away neighborhood kids throw apples at him wakes up confused sad from dream

he vows i don’t need love love is for those too lame to stand alone bear solitude self-avowal love is sign of weakness compliance control love is contract made between two people too spineless to take pleasure in own freedom love is way to take advantage exploit love is convenience pact for mutual security love is cumbersome weight tied around athlete’s neck love is suffering love is a lie illusion cover-up for everyone’s petty lame problems

1984 chicago suffers harsh winter furious winds blow across lakefront Mom and Dad take Odysseus to dinner at posh new restaurant in art galleries district on the way Mom and Dad argue about parking Mom wants to leave car with valet Dad insists they first look for space Mom gets annoyed the wind will ruin my hair drop me and Odys off at door then do what you want Dad says you’re going to miss me when i’m gone Mom snaps we’ll see when are you planning on leaving? Dad wears navy blue blazer white shirt burgundy foulard silk tie he is in good spirits winning personality keeps table lively Mom wears beige cashmere turtleneck darker beige wool skirt brown alligator high heels gold earrings she waves then greets roths weissmans who are led by young hostess they walk past table make brief polite conversation after several rounds of drinks Dad speaks you know, it’s about time Odys are you dating anyone in particular? Odysseus hesitates confesses he has had ****** relations with hundreds of girls his knees begin to shake under table he admits maybe I’m incapable of sustaining intimate relationship with one woman i’m conflicted blocking all these feelings inside never learned how to love can’t hold on to anything all i know how is **** and run Mom interjects don’t use that word! she suggests he travel get some fresh ideas Dad becomes irritated lights cigarette waives to waiter orders another Absolute on the rocks bursts out what the hell do you mean you never learned to love you grew up in a house of love *******! didn’t you learn anything? are you purposely trying to ruin dinner? you watch your step mister or i’ll whack you right here at the table! you make me sick with all your excuses one of these days you’re going to wake up Odys and I hope it’s not too late Mom immediately glances at roth’s weissman’s table then glares sharply at Dad she snaps Max lower your voice! people can hear you we’re in a restaurant can we please change the subject? she instantly regains composure continues i spoke with your sister Penelope today and she let me know she might be landing a new account she’s being wined and dined this evening by c.e.o. of prominent san francisco agency later waiter clears entrees asks if anyone wants after-dinner drink dessert Mom orders coffee apple pie with scoop of vanilla ice cream Dad orders coffee Mom asks what do you wish for in your life Odys? who do you want to be? he exhales long breath answers i used to dream of becoming renown painter but now i’m not sure sad to say don’t know what i want sometimes i think of priesthood but i’ve done too much sinning Dad grows irate who puts these ideas into your head? you ******* ungrateful kid! what the hell is matter with you? Mom interrupts Max don’t lose your temper we’re in a restaurant she glances at roth’s weissman’s table nods with big smile on face Odysseus feels entangled in web of desires deceptions debts he vacillates from one aspiration to next grown comfortable in his failures distrust

At the mailbox, again:
“Who loves me, baby?”
Well, let’s see: there’s a flyer from Mercury Insurance,
Reminding me that most middle-income customers
Save an average of $4 million smackaroons when they switch too.
The Penny Saver USA.com is here,
Thank God, almighty!
So now I know that Thomas Roofing & Paving
Is having a special on 20-year leak-free flat roofs;
"All work guaranteed & insured.
No job too big or small.
Free estimates/Emergency services/License # I8U-69."
And thank you, Jesus,
For another $4.99 Farmer Boys 3-Egg Breakfast
Combo with Coffee coupon, and that
Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready, $5.00 cheese or pepperoni,
Mae-West-“why-don’t-you-come up and see me sometime?”—mailer. And, of course, another technology Siren’s song:
Verizon FiOS delivers entertainment this big,
Dish me up some dish NETWORK, $19.99 a month . . .
Are you ******* me?
For 12 ******* months?
AT&T;: whack me off on 120 channels.
DIRECTV.com - DIRECTV® Official Site‎
Worry-free 99.9%  . . . cue Joe E. Brown,
"Some Like It Hot“ Osgood:
"Well, nobody’s perfect!"
Time Warner/Sprint/T-Mobile;
And ******* Leather, Polk Street, San Francisco.
******* leather?
Must be for my neighbor: that ***** ****!
And here’s the weekly 8-page color fold-out from Stater Bros:
Lowering prices every day, large cantaloupes
(Jessica Lange, are you back?)
10 for $10.00, 32 oz. Gatorade
Or 24 oz Propel in 30 assorted varieties @ 79 cents
+ CRV: California Redemption Value?
Nice euphemistic cover-up for a TAX.
Nice, nice, very nice, CA elected state officials;
Nicely done, Sacramento.
Everywhere else in the country you get real money—
A fixed number of pennies, nickels, or dimes—
For your plastic bottles and aluminum cans.
But in California, the licensed recyclers
Get to pull the market price out of their *** each morning.
California Redemption Value?
What ******* genius government kleptocrat thought that one up? Conspiracy Alert: who gets all that CRV money?
And what are they doing with it?
Feeling plain, Jane?
Marinello Schools of Beauty, want you,
Offer you hands-on training in cosmetology,
Skin care esthetics, manicuring and vaginal deodorizing—
Just kidding, Babaloo.
Food tip for the Third World:
Never try to write poetry on an empty stomach.
Sizzler 6 oz juicy & succulent.
RENEGADE DEAL:
El Pollo Loco guacamole chicken sandwich,
Coupon free, small drink and small chips,
When you purchase a guacamole or jalapeno sandwich,
includes pepper jack cheese and a southwest sauce.
Gardenas sandia con semilla, 7 lbs 99 cents.
GARDENAS: “en precios, servicio y calidad, nadie nos iguaia.”
Bud Gordon’s Quality NISSAN:
One at this price after a $1500 factory rebate.
TERMINIX: get them before they get you!
The Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Arthropoda, Class Insecta
Bug up my *** again.
And a form letter from the VA
Asking me to please update my whereabouts.
And a form letter from the VA asking me
To please update my whereabouts.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Bite me, Mr. Frost!

An outing, at last.
I am going for a walk around the inside of my gates.
I live in one of those gated over-55 lunatic asylums.
There are gates. It is gated. Get it?
GATED! We feel safe here.
Probably a good thing at our age:
Self-imposed institutionalization,
Putting oneself in an asylum to ferment and die.
The fact that so many of us
Need it so bad at only 55
Says something itself about the current state of
Baby Boomer metal-fatigue.
I am now standing at the far end of the golf course.
I wait at the far end of the 18th Hole.
A ball bounces past my head and
Rolls off past the green into the far rough.
The 18th Hole is perched atop a small plateau,
Out of sight, far above the horizon for anyone teeing off.
I am Puck, invisible and impish.
I pluck the ball up.
I scamper to the green.
I pop the ball into the hole.
Which is better than popping a hole in the ball,
Surely, kind of a drag,
As we were once fond of saying.
Deflated Ball.
Deflator Maus.
OPERA can be ****.
Bodice-ripping corsets, whorehouses and naked ******!
Hardly what you might expect from
A night with the Welsh National Opera,
But they found their way into this production of "Die Fledermaus."
Ripe language, contemporary jokes and
Toilet humor thrown in, adding immensely
To the pleasures of Strauss’s operetta.
"Die Fledermaus," or The Bat’s Revenge,
Is all about drunkenness and adultery.
Despite being written in the 1870s,
It remains equally pertinent to today’s pub culture of excess.
Daring; Colorful; ****: PGA golf.
I steal a golf ball on the far end of the 18th Hole.
I pick up the Titleist and stick it in the hole
(Steady Jessica, not yours.
I hide behind your bush.
(Cue up PSA, First Lady Bird Johnson’s 1960s
Nationwide Beautification Campaign:
“I want everyone in America to plant a tree,
A sherrrr-rub, or a booosh.”)
The golfer now searching frantically:
Why is the cup always the last place they look?
Then, wham, bam, he looks:
A legend is born.
A hole in one,
His name forever immortalized
On a plaque over the bar, the proverbial 19th Hole.

As you know, I speak for all mediocrities,
Safe in my 55+ gated-community.
I go next to the Club House,
"The Lodge" as it’s called.
Each afternoon, the usual suspects
Claiming first come/first serve tiered mini-theater seats
Where Netflix matinee gems are screened.
It is two minutes to DVD show time.
I walk to the front of the room.
I stare at my audience.
I count the house slowly,
Making meaningful eye contact with each wrinkled face.
I cup my hands behind my back and speak:
“I assume you are all here for my lecture on Kierkegaard.”
No one reacts.
I turn to leave but do a double-take and smile.
One old woman in the top right corner of the amphitheater laughs, Perhaps the one other human being within the gates
Who has also smoked a joint today.
For an instant, I am overwhelmed with paranoia,
Perhaps I’ve gone too far over the line:
No longer “oh-he’s-a-character;”
I am now “that creep is ******* nuts.”
Is it time for someone to approach my family,
My next of kin, my “who-to-contact-in-event-of-emergency” number? Who will make the call on behalf of the HOA—
The Homeowner’s Association—
The Tsars, the Duma, the Supreme Soviet in these parts?
They are the power inside the gates;
Those who determine the state’s enemies,
Who govern its community norms.
Power within the gates.
Law within the asylum.
Little Hitlers one and all.
Hopefully they reach my sister first.
She’s been briefed.
KEY POINT IN THE NARRATIVE:
The new narrative is non-linear.
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We grow more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen;
We become more intimate with a legion . . .
Did someone say a legion? SPQR:
Am I having some sort of genetic-linguistic seizure here?
Am I channeling Benito Mussolini again?
Il Duce speaks to me from the grave,
Still blowing smoke up my Hopi-Jew-*** ***,
Filling in my insecurities,
Plugging the holes in my character
With delusions of classical Roman grandeur, glory and empire. Hmmmm? Quite an appetizing pitch for the average *****,
A message so completely, so ethnocentrically slick,
Olive oily, and so seductive.
A non-Italian would have thought
American Legion or Legionnaire’s disease,
Or The Foreign Legion, The French Foreign Legion.
The French: a virulent, promiscuous people.
Do you want fries with that, Simone?
No, I don’t get out much.
Only an occasional brisk walk around the asylum,
In and around the golf course, around but inside the gates. (LINKS) Bill Gates. Daryl Gates. Billy Bathgate’s Gates? Ghiberti’s Gates? The Hot Gates? Thermopylae? 300 Spartans/700 Thespians:
“The noun causing idiots to think of
Two girls sloppily eating each other’s mighty vaginas,
When they hear mention of someone being an actor.” http://www.urbandictionary.com
Not even close.
No, I rarely venture out.
This is Hemetucky.
There are methamphetamine-stoked
Teenage zombies at the gate.
Note to costume control:
Perhaps camouflage clothing is the safe choice?
No loud red Hawaiian.
No garish Indonesian batik.
Fleet of feet are these Hemet tweakers,
These cranked up Riverside County teenage barbarians,
These Huns & Visigoths,
These amped up, ravenous jackals.
And why stop there?
These Vandals & Vandellas.
A Motown flashback:
“Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide.”
With or without Martha—
They remain dangerously lethal.
Yes, let it be camo clothes for me.
Those **** heads may be young.
They may be fast.
They may be able to run me down
On a dry grass dog-legged fairway savannah,
Tearing the meat from my carcass.
But the sons-a-******* have to see me first.
Besides, we know who are real friends are.
Hooray for our media peeps!
We become more intimate with a legion
Of television personalities on 125 different channels.
Most of these we know by name and context.
We know their families, their friends,
Their histories, their tragedies,
Their favored hyperbole and manner of speech.
Sometimes we establish intimacy with celebrities
Strictly on the basis of universal body language.
At times–in the absence of any other
Empathetic facility of identification–
We connect on instinct alone.
Instinct: perhaps animal at its core,
An animal kingdom affinity group,
Connecting on a bio-linguistic level,
Particularly when the Korean, or Spanish,
Mandarin, or Arabic,
Japanese, or even Hebrew language version is broadcast.
All languages cryptically alien,
A dense boundary, a barrio border wall,
Undecipherable, impenetrable concrete.
But we’ve never spoken to our neighbors,
Nor do we know their names.
Celebrities are the neighbors we know best;
Although the intimacy is an illusion,
Permission to invade their privacy presumed,
Tacit in the relationship between celebrities and their fans.
I am an independent contractor now,
An outside consultant to the NSA.
Try as I might I cannot crack the enigma,
Kim Kardashian remains far beyond my code-breaking prowess.
I repeat myself:
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We are more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen; we become more intimate with a legion . . .
Back to you, David Ulin:
“Sometime late last year—I don’t remember when, exactly—I noticed I was having trouble sitting down to read. That’s a problem if you do what I do, but it’s an even bigger problem if you’re the kind of person I am. Since I discovered reading, I have always been surrounded by stacks of books. I read my way through camp, school, nights, and weekends; when my girlfriend and I backpacked through Europe after college graduation, I had to buy a suitcase to accommodate the books I picked up along the way.”
Thank you, David L. Ulin.
I cannot help myself.
I grow more eccentric each day.
My eyeballs glued to that flat screen!

Cosmo Kramer: "The bus is outta control.
So I grab him by the collar, I take him out of the seat,
I get behind the wheel, and now I’m driving the bus."
Jerry: "Wow!"
George Costanza: "You’re Batman."
Cosmo Kramer: "Yeah, yeah, I am Batman.
Then the mugger, he comes to and he starts choking me.
So I’m fighting him off with one hand,
And I kept driving the bus with the other, ya know.
Then I managed to open up the door,
And I kicked him out the door, ya know,
With my foot, ya know, at the next stop."
Jerry: "You kept making all the stops?"
Cosmo Kramer: "Well, people kept ringing the bell!"
(Share this moment with a stranger.)

I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.
Boom Chaka Laka. Boom Chaka Laka.
Boom Chaka Laka. BOOM!
Isn’t it time Salieri tempted Constanze–
Frau Mozart–with a plateful of Capezzoli di Venere:
“******* of Venus.”
You had me at hello, Kidman.
I know you too well, Nicole.
I knew you from before,
Way before Tom’s Oprah couch freak show.
Listen to me, Nicole:
We are face to face
With the most profound question in American literature:
"What is the grass?
The flag of my surrender?
The flag of my disposition?"
I resort to Socratic maxims: Know yourself;
The un-****** life is not worth living.
Is it stress? Is it lack of conviction?
Everything Jeff Lebowski neither wants nor needs in his life?
I watched you *** in "Eyes Wide Shut," Nicole.
Now I know you with my eyes and your legs wide open.
Thank you, Sidney Pollack.
Sidney knew.
Sidney dealt us cards
From his Hollywood Tarot deck.
We are intimate, Nicole.
I watched you squat.

When I was a little lassie my Grandad and I
were very fond of each other indeed
(although not sexually I must add
before you suspicious buggers start complaining).

Over the hills and fields we used to wander just like, er,
...let me think of a nice metaphor here...
er, like a man and his granddaughter or
like a couple of not so lonely clouds.

Oh how joyfully we would seek out rare birds’ nests
so as to smash the eggs to bits in a frenzy of joy,
which we both enjoyed a lot as it was, er, reet good fun
and a statement of individual choice we both appreciated.

Sometimes we would noisily take a steaming **** together
(although ABSOLUTELY NO ****** contact ever took place
I really must reiterate that for all you ***-abuse-obsessives,
but he had a stupendously big ***** for an old codger).

When we got home in the evening dear old Grandad
would usually make us a nice *** of builders' tea
and some ****** great doorstop sandwiches, but
even at that tender age I would have opted for a good stiff whisky.

Or, come to think of it, a large glass of chilled Chardonnay,
and a plateful of smoked salmon or some oysters,
but the old ******* was teetotal (at least in public) -
either that or just plain ******* mean as Hell.

Darling wizened Granny would make us some toast
out of leftover stale Mother’s Pride white bread,
but, being half blind, the silly fat old cow usually managed
to burn it to a sodding inedible cinder.

On Sundays they would get the gramophone out
and put on some tango 78 records
as they loved Latin American dancing and a good old *****
of each other's flaccid, age-withered buttocks.

How happily I remember the old couple tangoing away
just like a couple of wrinkled whirling ****** dervishes
to 'La Cumparsita' recorded by Mantovani & His Tipica Orchestra
on 20th June 1940 and issued on the Decca label.

They also taught me how to do the rumba
(oompah, oompah, stick it up your jumpah)
and I became quite an expert at the Cuban samba
(which my beloved Grandad wittily called the *****).

How joy-filled were those faraway times of my golden childhood.
but one day I went round only to find an ambulance outside
and the paramedics told me the old pair had been found dead in bed,
their boudoir resembling an abattoir at closing time.

Grandad had bashed the old *****’s brains out
with a red-hot poker during some depraved *** session
and then shoved it eighteen inches up his own *******
which must surely have stung his piles quite a bit.

But what a creative way to go - I bet he danced a bit
as the steaming poker seared his poor back passage.
And thus my grandparents ascended up into the sky -
may they stay forever young in the company of the angels.

Let me again emphasis our friendship was purely platonic
because this was in the rare old times of yesteryear
when widespread paedophilia was not yet a gleam in the eye
of some trash newspaper editor eager to engage with the plebs.

Dina?
Deanna?
Deena?

What was her name?
A diminutive of something
Or a shortening.
And I don’t even think that I am close

I miss you.

a small concrete table
white
a group of girls
Smoking and smoking and smoking
Trading lipgloss
I don’t remember what we talked about

But I do remember that the meds made you so
Hungry
“Are you gonna eat that?”

That’s how it begins in such places
Passing off a cig
Or trading processed food
Or just giving it away.

Have a lie down
or hand over the pill stored in your cheek
for someone
needier.

You said after your second plateful of anything
Make sure you let me know if I start getting fat

I tried not to follow you around
We had breakfast
Cigarette breaks
lunch and dinner
I could have sat with you all day and night

But I let you roam like a yearling
talking too much to too many people
Spinning around in the hallways
The skinny girl
on the floor doing a striptease on her back
in the streaming sunlight
I could tell
That you got paid for this at some point
Even the imaginary boa scared these boys

You loved to talk about God
I, however, do not

You loved a ****** ******
They were your favorite
and would reminisce with the junkies
Always sitting close-by
You claimed that you could make a man cry
By what you could do to his body
I can only imagine
what you’ve done so far
At your age
and you have a kid

I know
that you’re frightened
to be alone
with your mother
She’s so small
You wouldn’t want to hurt her

And I see her
that one time
with candies and soda
that you made her bring from
the 99 cent store to share
with all these people that don’t like you
that she is
a tiny thing
Yes
anyone could crush her
I see your point.

Deena
Dina
Deana

I can’t remember your name

You’d wake me for breakfast
Or, I you
You said the voices never stop in your head
Not just voices but other strange noises too
You acted like it was
a drag
But in fact you were **** scared

I can hear sounds too I offered
Bells
And Strings
Faint Voices calling my name
Offering succinct advice
Can’t everyone?
Leaning against a wall
with you at my feet
I saw your head snap
To the right
I said
Don’t worry
I heard that too
And you were so relieved
You grasped my feet in gratitude

You said that you are three.
Dread is the bad one
a male
And another
a ****** female who’s name
I can’t remember either
I suggested that there were more
Perhaps.
I met the ***** and I did not like her
at all
In anger I returned your sweatshirt
And you said
You know she’s terrible
I told you that
Take back the shirt
It’s cold

The men here don’t understand
our
Relationship
They assume that it’s lovey
Their minds are blown by
Companionship in difficult circumstances
Holding hands might help you through
You never know until you try

You loved to have arguments over the Bible
I would make a lot of noise to shut it down
I cannot listen to that
You would talk on that phone on the wall
With the father of your child
About god
You missed your boy’s
first day
of kindergarten
You called him on that phone to make sure that he got the plastic truck
or some such toy in your absence

I wonder when you gave up your life
When an injection of Ativan in your ***
and a night
In an darkened empty room
Bound
became an ideal resolution.
You couldn’t figure out
why you had a lump on your head
And I explained that
it was the result of
banging it repeatedly
against the wall.
Side effects of Lorazepam include:
Little recall

You seemed to have a plan.
Visiting and writing up the coast
The Dean Moriarty of Hospitals
But what about your kid?
The doctors say you can’t leave until you’re well
I couldn’t even tell what’s wrong exactly
Or what he’s really trying to tell you
Other than too much too soon
But that’s every girl in LA
Isn’t it?
You said that
It
Emerged at age 24.

I think about your son.
I can’t believe that you have one.
And your mother
Who adopted you.
What did she in fact bring home?

Deanna.
Dina.

When they called to say that my car was here
That I could go
You covered my neck
With kisses
And said Thank You Thank You
I Don’t Know
What I Would Have Done Without You

What is your name?

Dee.
D.
Just the letter.
I remember
Thank you.

At the Buddha's birthday celebration,
I held my plateful of food
and sat down
at a table
with an odd man,
who said he was an engineer,
and that he
was looking around
for chicks,
so the Zen priest
pointed out
that he had
an enormous pile
of food
on two plates
in front of him,
and then
a young woman
sat down
at our table,
and he proceeded
to hit on her
by trying to impress her
with his intelligence,
and I wondered
if she might have been thinking,
"Who's this *******?",
but I kept my mouth shut.

I am defeated
The day was dark grey
Cold and windy
Cemetery
Blue flapping tent
Ready to fall over
And the Preacher
Droning on and on

Today I am tired and hungry
Trying not to eat the junk
That my friends put in front of me
Grateful for the plateful
Two hundred and seventy pounds
And I just want to eat then fall sleep

Today I am defeated
Both sides find no reason
A killer left unindicted
The marginalized left enraged
Sets the stage for more violence
And violence begets violence

Today I am defeated
So it’s no surprise
That the poetry is uninspired
Rage and melancholy
Are like spiraling lovers
Dancing in and out
Of each other’s arms

Today I am defeated
All the kind words are needed
But they only lighten the load slightly
My chest still stings tightly
The tears still fall lightly
Maybe tomorrow will shine
A little more brightly
But I cannot say for certain

Fusing the concepts of diction with the;
roll of a puuuup: ill container
no brainer; the new name
for all,, club bangers
the flocking flamers,
claiming they flow rain sick,
fake **** time to face it
like similes to basic
subject matter could use a face lift
I straight rip, jill jacking me off,
cant touch these bars, leading to E.R.
cough, cough; Hot sauce her eye, then fry
that back side, spliff lit
A big hit; leaves dome split
                                                           ­                thoughts. . .              drift
To higher places; perceive the cloudy spaces
between the jaded hate spit
peaceful protest; GRAVITY.. replace it
Aliteration altered asinine assumptions
Rhetoric to run with;               supplying the dumb-*****
my cognition is "meta" there "fore";
fairest way is hitt'n
Needing a "fix"; I pop "pre"-scription
Sacred living's indifferent; no know's of his vision
Firing blindly; we're inquisitive middlemen
signing contracts binding
booking assurance of purpose
vexing questions perplex the messes
milk spilt are peoples guesses
nose tilt; angling obtuse,
obese, feeding upon, the bottom line
Most zealous of swine;
hideous and hateful, unable, ungrateful
better off as bacon plateful
The line is fine; The shade is grey
I'll ironically state,
suggestions to negate
your fate upon another's baseless psalms
or petty predictions of living on your palms

You must pay attention now please,
What I want is a full flavoured cheese.
  It will not make me fat,
  I will not believe that,
It will help all the joints in my knees.

Stroke my coat it is fluffy and sleek,
Do it well, and my knees will go weak,
  Gently rubbing my spine,
  Makes me feel so divine,
So much so, I could let out a squeak.

You have learnt how to treat every cat,
Be sure that you endeavour such that,
  That cat will be grateful,
  At every new plateful;
No more gifts will be left on your mat.

Raised among the ruins
Of your apathy
In the wake of disaster
Shackled to a fallen pillar
In this town I've come to call Here After
In a world you stripped of color
Dragged into the cellar
With a plateful of food and some old clothes
Is there a bridge you haven't burned?
Every stone was left unturned
But then, you never needed any proof
As the truth seldom left you burdened
But left me burning under my sixteenth sun
I was once your second son
Left to wander fallow fields
The broken and forsaken one
Staring down the barrel of an empty gun
You taught me nothing
Except how to hate myself
With the whole of my heart
Like you did
Abandoned at the shore of your icy veins
Left to wither in the absence of summer's rain
With a plateful of food and some old clothes
Consider this a eulogy
Because you will never again hear from me
By now we've come to know
That I was born your enemy
Dear mother, I'm sure you still don't miss me
I cannot remember when last you kissed me
And meant it.

there are the love stories for the ages,
sweeping epics,
lasting legends,
tales immortalized in ink and song-

(- this is not a love story.)

this is the only beer i drink that night,
this is blue-streaked hair and beautiful eyes,
this is the mouth i want to kiss,
this is your plateful of truffle fries,
this is the sound of my name on your lips,
this is the embrace you wrap me in,
(this is me in a bar, down on my knees,
dear lord, forgive me, for i do sin)

(- this is a goodbye i can never say again.)

you were farewell from the very first hello,
broken heartbeats,
whispered longing,
ten minute love stories for the lost.

We try to be happy all the time
But not dare the untrodden miles
Forget the heart’s rapturous rhymes
End up in wooden smiles!

Someone please give me smile broad and wide
So can be seen all my teeth
Tell me a belly rip where laughter can’t hide
Give me spacious humor’s width!

Tell me a joke wild nonsense and trash
Make all my muscles ache in pain
When the waves of laughter upon me crash
I’ll in happiness go insane!

I haven’t laughed friend it’s quite a while
Want a laugh long left in the past
Bring this weary soul a plateful of smile
Make my lips break away from the rust!

Tell me a story that I roll on the ground
In laughter sparkling clean
For jaws long in wooden smiles bound
That would be the best medicine!

light
this light casts a shadow on me,
one side,
one half,
but I am trapped between the light and the darkness,
this penumbra
a shadow draping itself across my cheek,
cloaking my left arm
and covering my hips
this shadow of the past
from yesterday, last week, last month and beyond
it is so warm and inviting
I feel safe in this cloak of my past
all that has happened up until now
the moment the colour rushed to my cheeks when I saw you
and when I was drained of my blood completely, when I saw you
(with her)
when every meal I ate was a plateful of screws and nuts and bolts and slowly my energy escaped from my shell of a body
when I was pinned up against a wall and swords were thrown at my body by my best companion,
my soul mate,
this blanket of darkness pulls me further back,
it grows arms and legs and claws and grips and seizes me
but I see this light,
this aura,
it is unclear of its shape but I see flashes of myself in the future
in a city where no one knows my name
but where I have found myself
surrounded by faces new and old,
who have lifted me above their heads and are passing me along, in a crowd
until I see you,
whoever you are,
you are so opaque
but I can see your smile from this darkness
and beside you, whoever you are,
stands me:
buoyant, vibrant, clear, strong
my head no longer swivels on my shoulders but is ******* on tight
and my eyes are fixed on one point and breathe life into whatever they are fixated on
I look so sure of myself,
I look like me
and this light brushes my right hand,
and my right temple,
and my right thigh
stroking me gently,
summoning me
she is so vivid and kind
but this darkness,
he is so strong and rough
I have been back to the umbra many times,
****** back into the blackness until the light disappears
it is the only home I’ve known and where my mind wants to go
but this light is so new,
I can stand in front of her,
move into the antumbra,
move in front of the darkness, escape the grasp and shower myself in her
in this new me,
who I want to be,
the struggle persists,
he is my serpent in the garden of Eden,
the Jekyll to my Hyde,
the strongest bottle of absinthe,
and so I am stuck
in this penumbra
shadow clutching; light washing
and I must turn my gaze inward and decide:
which force will I allow to win?
which force will rule me from now on?

Freely Vulnerability.

Senses are released
Talk about you, talk about me.
Where is the understanding of university? Us or We?

As if the air becomes too thick to breathe.
Gentle screaming of ignorance.
Coughing up my plateful entreé of broken memories.

Full of Love, Full of Hate.
Evil contradiction flossing between my neuropathological pathways.
Tell me this and telling me that
Let's go do this or **** mate lets go smoke crack!

Then again it suddenly feels too real.
Reincarnated of birth again.
A small baby pure eyes with nothing to fear.
Everything's gonna be alright dear.
Reality strikes and baby needs Love.
Gasping for life to fill my lungs!
Even when your blind.
Seeing ain't so.
Hard to remember if mother was dying while blood stopped bumping with the beat.
Categorized in Booz, hate, disbelief.

Standing over organized chaos.
Trying to persuade how to be the best.
Yeeeeet. You got to BE.
Don't react in failure but Act out on the success of futuristic possibilities.

Accompany others to help shine their inner souls.
No matter the exposure always let them know how much they are
no comparison to others or other things.
Materials are made and used
Don't let brainwash propaganda distract you from the clues to live for.

Be patient and don't go overboard.
Reevaluate and double check if the senses are really coming down from way back.

Let yourself be evolution to the fullest.
Never expect to be always sharp. Just have a core that will never be thrown away.

Forever more.

Au revoir.

The ice times have past
now is perfection,
the garden spot,
dream times.

Gather up your gear,
spear walking time is here.
The young yarrow is still sweet,
shoots and sunshine
journey back in, time.

Too much of good things time,
never should of sold it
time.
Now
the wishes made
will all come true, at this time.

Time you must be grateful,
the silver lining is gilded,
and their is pleasure
by the plateful.

I wish you all the luck for all your future endeavours
It's a pity it didn't work out between us
May be it wasn't meant to be
I have this one last parting wish
...i want to taste your lips one final time
...i don't need a plateful
just a wee bit will do...
You see its been quite a while since I've felt ur lips brush against mine
And i can't quite seem to recall ur taste
Was it vanilla or strawberry?
Or was it more lemony?
Or perhaps a bit chocolatey?
.....Since I won't be tasting them no more...
Let's just kiss and relive the good memories...one final time

Wide eye tears; crying all the same
—for the ringing memory bells that call your name;
all of the kisses in French are in Notre Dame, that
had placed a thousand stars in my sight’s eyes.

The blaring drums to the sum of
a sound of love — it was loud, it was rough, disastrous,
distant, and sometimes so longing; but also so caring,
hopeful, understanding, peaceful, building, and close
to my heart in the simplest kind. Vanilla like, still it
was a taste so hard to explain.

For that I am truly grateful, even if it felt brief,
I did get my plateful. So until my next fill of what
I get to feel so familiar: I look forward to falling
in love again.

i have this constant ache and hollowness inside my chest

sometimes, it would wrap around my heart and squeeze it until it becomes painful

during those times, i might be talking to a friend and we're asking ourselves where we are that exact time next year, when college life hits us and everything is new--school, teachers, friends, goals and maybe, just maybe, when we finally know what freedom actually feel, if we will ever feel it

other times, we might just be talking over plateful of fries and coke and someone will ask me what university i'll be going to and just like usual, i will say whatever univ will give me a scholarship when i really want to say is that whenever you guys will go because **** it, i am sure that i might not be happy at first because it would make me feel pathetic for chasing people instead of my dreams but the thing is they're my people and aren't they dreams personified and i am also sure that after a while i will then feel safe and happy because although people wants to achieve things in order to be happy, i in contrast only want an assurance that they will be with me along the way and i don't care how long it will take for me to reach my goals (yes not dreams because they're that already) as long as they're still at least in my peripheral vision while i'm looking towards the finish line

you see, my greatest dilemma is how to tell people who ask you what you want that you only wish for them to always be with you without them feeling scared of you because you want them so much too much all the time especially when you thought that you'll never want nor need anything else as long as you have them

tell me how you tell people that you've never been certain of anything until they came and gently knock on your walls telling you that you won't need them anymore for they, your friends, are there to support and protect you and without knowing it you've already lowered down the walls that served as your haven during unforgiving times and for a long long while you've been so used to them being your post and for once you finally felt how it feels like to have those hollow parts covered by resilient structures such as them but unlike your haven which you left, they will be the one who will do the leaving but it would be okay for you because you know that stability is rare and you would be willing to wait even longer than usual just to feel secured again because those walls don't quite fit you anymore and new spaces are created by those who left you only for a while they say and promise to come back

come

the

****

back

will you be so kind as to tell me how certain people just seem to have the ability to catch your whole being and carve themselves in your ears arms tongue throat thighs legs head feet and make a dent in your soul as if their mere existence is not enough for you to make sure that yes they are real and they entered your life and surely wreak a havoc before leaving

it's as if they want to make a point : your soul, i touched it, was able to create a whole new universe, destroy something no one would be able to rebuild and you. know. it.

now, now

tell me how to forget

strewn into a bajillion little pieces

Unexpected largesse
yours truly patiently waits,
a metaphor of my dire financial straits
courtesy papa's unsuspecting muse
the missus, this wordsmith notates
unwittingly linkedin to his misfortune,
a situation he hates,
especially, an unavoidable crisis,
whereby passage of time abates
negligible onus of penury.

Soon after surrendering
(viz laundering) cash to bitcoin
immediately realized sinister trap
scammer prepared me to enjoin
egregious outcome surpassing
severe case of acne
treatment courtesy isotretinoin.

My ordinarily clear complexion turned wan
imprecation triggered suicidal ideation
overdosing on medication
escape from absolute zero
vanished capital pennilessness *******
welcoming self induced mortality did spawn.

Though weeks elapsed
since scammer
(smoked top of line cigars,
and/or quaffed vintage
amber liquid of the gods
signaling snagging a poor sucker)
made out like a bandit,
the squandered money
I still bemoan,

a grown man doth still groan
moroseness seeps
within his lovely bones
witnessing him curling
into fetal position versus lying prone
forever and anon envisioning himself
cast into the outer limits
of the twilight zone.

As a fool hardy way
to assuage loss,
where illusions of grandeur stray,
I regularly purchase lottery tickets
either Mega Million or Powerball
imagining being the lucky winner
then livingsocial
as a bachelor farmer in Norway

chomping down a delicious plateful
of powder milk biscuits
after countless hours pitching hay
while custom made robot named Barbie
adeptly programmed to prepare
Lefse, Krumkake, Lutefisk,
and Raspeball/Komle/Klubb,
she also doubles up as the abbé
of my fortress domicile.

Ha... an overactive imagination to boot
healthy escape from the maws of destitution
nevertheless, one old baby boomer coot,
who can prevaricate
knowing full well nobody
(especially the folks
from Lake Wobegon) cannot dispute
these marvelous turns of phrases I execute
while listening to The Magic Flute
an opera in two acts
by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
to a German libretto

by Emanuel Schikaneder
and of course after wolfing down
Norwegian cuisine listed above,
I will need (sorry to be cheeky) exercise
thy well endowed glute
(short for gluteus muscles)
a group of muscles
that make up the buttock area,
which group consists
of the gluteus maximus,
gluteus medius, and gluteus minimus.

A quarter a chicken, a plateful of chips. Drowning it with 'monster'.
Chitchat counting hours to minutes and finally to seconds

The niceties of first xmas passed.
The sweat of the day washed,
Beneath the sheets seeking sleep.

A hug  a kiss, an overnight wrestling match. No lossers just exubirated winners.
The memors written with indelible ink, life fluids, sesame seeds

I'm on a crazy tip
Ex factor ate amazing ****
And saved a plateful
Takeaway but waits for it...
Lazy ***** with weapons
So **** dangerous
That Satan says how gay is this...
Stray from digging Graves
To mixing anger ***
With clozapine. Olanzapine
And raging ****....
The caged in aggression
*** I want to straight blade Michael
Sinul... Satan Reikl necks
And have a vinyl trial death
With slim shady.
Smiling in a child's mess
I'm shifty you can try my breath
My grin
Is simply illl like aids and gay men ***
No offense im positive
You'll be great in test..
While everglades gators
Ate up major ****...
So I'm repulsive hope I'm great at ***
Or hell be helpful to be my break up texts.... revenge equation
Add up two seconds in a painful stress
I'll be make up *** so grateful
For his great revenge

Sam was known as the Buddha-cat,
Mainly because of the way that he sat.
His feline posture was fascinating:
He always appeared to be meditating.
Quiet and still, he'd sit there for hours
As though he possessed remarkable powers.
People would say that he gave the impression
Of being in the midst of a calm zazen session.
Never upset or angry or frightened,
He made all who knew him think he was enlightened.

"But tell us: why 'Sam'?" people would query
So often that both of Sam's owners grew weary.
"It's short for Samantabhadra," they'd say,
"Who's just like a Buddhist saint in a way."
"Yes," Sam would think, "That's who I am.
But, everyone, PLEASE, just call me 'Sam.'"
Then Sam would continue his deep meditation,
Sometimes counting each long exhalation.
And when he was finished, he'd patiently wait
To see if a treat might appear on his plate.

He'd stare through the window pane when it was raining.
To him it was one type of mindfulness training.
He never would chase after insects or mice,
And if one ran by, he wouldn't look twice.
He was content just to take life with ease.
One thing that he couldn't stand, though, was fleas!
But he wouldn't **** them, for his point of view
Was clearly: that's what his owners should do.
He knew that life had both good times and bad,
And since life was so, he didn't get mad.

Sam was not a strict vegetarian.
His rules for dining were more nonsectarian.
He'd chant when you gently would stroke his soft fur,
Though folks said it sounded more like a purr.
He was a true inspiration to many.
Did he have enemies? No, not any.
When visitors came, Sam wouldn't hide.
Of all cats, he was the most dignified.
Sam felt that egos were dangerous, so
Everyone has to learn how to let go.

As Sam grew older, he slept day and night,
And fur on his face began to turn white.
He ate much less food--not a whole plateful,
But he continued to always be grateful.
He still meditated, although bit by bit,
He felt it was better to lie than to sit.
One sad morning Sam's owners awoke
To find that old Sam had died of a stroke.
For Sam there would be no more mañana,
For he had entered parinirvana.

-by Bob B (2-21-24)

The credibility of the toilet,
Is to be full of **** and ****,
Take both in copious amounts,
And give nothing back, save relief;

Something many of them,
Will never amount to,
All they can ever offer, anyone,
Is a plateful of sorrow and tears.

specified such so as to issue a rhyme,
but proceeded as this scribe
didst *** linkedin with the cutting crew,
mow or less feeling grassy us,
yet not the least whirlwind will offset
my b52 coiffed Hair style,
or hirsute shellacked beehive type do
the idler wheel is wiser than the driver
of the ***** and whipping cords
will serve you more than ropes will ever do.

No matter from what literary website,
an unsuspecting reader will accidentally
stumble upon a ewe
fo' mystic impression
wilt shame burr lean ache
shift shape about myself
some accurate ledge
gin dairy cowed horsesense
about me will ensue,
especially if I sheepishly admitted,
this beastie back street

boyz to men iz a genuine foo
fighter toward this former
stone temple pilot, wildly whizzing,
gurgling in age inappropriate burbling,
dribbling, flickr ring for a goo goo
doll to dare buffer end me,
hub bee of piggish,
ham handed, bay kin a poetic slop hoo
might at this juncture
succinctly cease reading

prior to putting
finishing touches on ma igloo,
when the remaining
portion of this dippy goofy,
slippery when whet,
trippy treacle G.I. Jew,
who would, more aptly
**** sitter himself hub
horn hug ken atheist, boot knew
not a whit about Judaism,

nor any other belief paradigm,
yet does get fixated
(usually in the loo)
about philosophical ideas,
which yet to be revealed
abstract notion came to me
while enjoying a plateful of moo
goo *** pan, plus other Chinese food
(a favorite cuisine),
now aye will try to new

dill back to the initial pretext
found me drawing blanks
(no not shooting) – ooh
aah, this theme
within guttersnipe noggin
more difficult to codify
than one who ****
constipated and try'n might
**** hard tip poo
anyway, the general premise

alighted, and fired
mine gray matter cause
major cerebrum perilous jam up
with sudden crackling
star bursts forced
great mind over matter
to set brainy bedlam
in an organized queue
so while attention of yours
might be moderately rapt, this rue

stirring, hen pecked spouse
best stop digitally squawking sew
the ethereal essence can beak *** comb
brought to cypher awareness too
and in a figurative nutshell,
when doth a wordsmith
know when to quit,
or tubby pointed rhetorical question -
at what juncture does any artisan
more prolific than yours truly

reckon that his/her
faux matted masterpiece
can no longer be perfected?,
cuz further ridiculous tampering,
to Potschke, or play footsie,
would induce dedicated followers of mine
to undergo severe urge to wanna spit
or throw FAKE *******,
subsequently they would feel ***
till late head, find this schlemiel
to end this plotz to whit!

FINIS.