Hodge Podge

I entered a shop titled paraphernalia in Canary Row as I started to enter a raw sea breeze rose it
Blew hard against my back little did I know I was about to enter a new world the place set the

Mood so much nothing that set everywhere but was in perfect order what a place to search for an
Indefinable item moving from one discarded disgraced piece to the next then an item of interest a

Pearl among bitter residue a case of leather with gold initials they were meaningless but they
Seemed to gleam like the time I approached a man setting in front of his house I was just a kid

Although I had lot of zeal for the things of God well it couldn’t be a worse situation as far as
Timing goes I just left a woman’s house that tended bar I thought what an opportunity she will

Be thrilled to see what is in store for her life that bespoke despair that has been more years than
I like to think about but when I shook her hand it was like taking a cold wet fish and holding it
I’m not being insulting just truthful the naive blur I was in was quickly taught a lesson it was like
Having a propitious sale on beautiful blue water and all held promise of good things unfolding

But the sea is the master of surprise that is it’s most captivating quality so from nowhere a
Knifing Wind rips the sail loose for a bit chaos rules that was my feeling as I stumbled away and

Came upon this man as said it wasn’t perfect he was opening mail just relaxing and I show up
And I’m Arguing this in my head to God he won’t listen it will just be repeat of what happened

But as I Passed his fine big car the sun glinted on the chrome and in that briefest of moments
God Spoke this is who I want you to talk to sounds good no God was talking to a deaf guy what

A Picture A tiny speck saying oh sure to the one who created this speck an all the rest so I
Soldiered On he probably thought what his problem I exuded a lot but none being confidence

Well after a Quick hello and in the next breath ready to say goodbye the spirit within started
Speaking Winsomely He dropped his guard I didn’t stick my foot in my mouth and we talked

Close to two Hours and at the end he gave me the greatest compliment he said you are a great
Salesman and it meant a lot because that was his line of work again don’t have contempt for

Small things so the Case intrigued me and spoke of promise so I purchased it a bit of history
Picked up a last stop for durable goods and it was such an announcement for the times it came

From it had forties written all over it when I picked it up I felt movement that felt like loose
Papers moving instantly it became more valuable what if it was an old movie script they have all

Kinds of stories about How Hollywood was everywhere up and down the coast and didn’t I bunk
Next to John Steinbeck’s son when I first got to Fort Ord the initials were in fact JS maybe he

Started another Story like Cannery Row Tortilla flat a sequel to Grapes of Wrath my heart raced
As I envisioned Spencer Tracy carrying this very case with the script for Tortilla flat they were

Both drinkers Maybe they switched cases in a haze of drink not unlike the mist that socks in the
Monterey Peninsula whatever it was I had to get alone and search the contents so I returned to

My sea Cabin at Big Sur it was already famous then Jack Kerouac spent time there he opened
Many Doors for me I took to the road in an imagination and later in real life I love the sea so the

Cabin Inside looked like a miniature museum of all things nautical I had the immense fire place
Roaring and the sea howled incessantly and the cabin groaned and creaked slightly what music it

Played To enhance the moment I doused the electric lights and lit the lantern you picked it up to
Carry it and you saw yourself as the old man trudging his way up the difficult path to the light

House Walking against a contrary wind so I placed the lantern on the great table that rested on a
Driftwood base sure I paid too much for it in Carmel but it was the best five hundred I ever spent

The twisted gnarled wood glowed with sea glory so now the time came to open the case with
Excited fingers I pressed and they released and I opened the lid in the shadowed light the paper

Might as well have been Silas Marner’s gold it was paper like rich parchment and strangely it
Had a golden quill I thought typical California you could find anything if you searched very

Long Of course no ink or well to put into it but since I am a calligraphic buff that likes that
Exquisite Way of writing I had the necessary equipment to get started writing with such richness

Crashing Against my heart and mind lost souls at sea and only their case survived it was time to
Write something the quill glowed the tip dripped as black blood the sound of it scratching sent a

Shiver through me the paper licked the ink and pulled it deep within its aged pores for hours I
Was truly lost on a sea of ink well what did you write well friend that is when the pirate in me
Arises and I have to say you will have to wait for the book but I will leave you with this it is

Dedicated to two Donnas’ one who got me restarted and the other that blesses me and others
With her soulful writing not the end by a long shot

Not all the colors within myself,
are bright and flecked with gold.
In fact some of them are dark,
and some of them are old.
A few are striped and tiled,
others are polka-dotted and lined with black.
Lots of them are glittery,
and some of them are layered in a stack.
Several are pastels and pretty,
a couple are neon and glow.
With all the colors inside myself,
I make a contrasting, ridiculous and wild, rainbow.
Everyone has colors within themselves,
That makes up who they are,
Some of them are tacky,
Lots are metallic like a star.
But a lot of them are specific,
Each hue to each person,
Every palette is unique,
Just look at everyone!
So if you look inside yourself,
And check out your color collage,
I'm sure you'll be pretty impressed
With your colorful modge podge!

I call it poison, but perhaps you won't. These cold pressed apples, pineapples, and spearmint only paste more modge podge over my face as I schlack it on...gritting my teeth I light yet another cigarette, now that's 2 packs of Marlboro Red Labels now onto American Spirits Light Blue. Cancer isn't coming fast enough. I wish I would at least be ******* out my innards by now, I haven't even vomited, maybe I'll take that toothbrush I bought for you to use when you would stay the weekend, that I haven't gotten around to whitening the sink with. Maybe I can do that Sunday. FUUUUCCK!!!! I am not praying I make till then. I don't know if I can even breathe another hour like this. I haven't drawn a sober breath in years- I'm on the wagon, but I was just transferred from a wheel into the **** bag for a horse. Being ****- at least it's something I am used to (a sigh of temporary relief washes over me. Or is it finally the Nicotine buzz I've been hoping for since I escaped to the forest with an airplane bottle of Southern Comfort[Brainstem: South to the **-femalien crease that's been comforting all these years, where are you now?] , and a pack of my Uncle's cigarettes to find out the first time how to make the pain she's gave me go away.

Men drink essentially because they can no longer illicit their needs.

You who I wasn't even attracted to at first, where together we barely called [Brainstem: this is where I construct a motive for using a chainsaw to pick my nose with] . You who I can now remember the way a mixture of your hair, body spray, sweet sweat, and vintage knits began leading my nose and my memory towards one of the greatest happinesses and darkest times I have EVER had.

[Brainstem: I just hate him. The kind of hate you have for a mosquito, a person who encourages you to speed up while they're walking without reflectors or night-lights in the middle of the road at night with their dog- that kind of hate. The hate that has me smoking my cigarettes to their orange and gold filters, that has me staying awake, unable to touch my own **** because it's already started staying at someone else's place and looks like two Californian Prunes and a shriveled overcooked mini-hotdog does. The kind of hate that has me burping up what smells like rotten eggs or bial.

....Out of nowhere without anything but the image of a virginate 21 year old casing around my aorta, lying in my bed in just a pair of her Fuschia & White Victoria Secret striped 100% cotton ******* that ever so slightly crease inward into the creases where her skinny young legs meet the ever-so-bite-worthy crease....After our first official date where we knew we weren't going to **** each other but rather she was focused on her breathing hoping I wouldn't be able to notice how excited she was [Crime: #4] then step away and find an imaginary monster that challenges every thought I have, conversations and incidents and challenges and givers and receivers and lines and dots, darts, knives, life, and *** and blood faintly stained onto the bottom of the that 1 1/2" piece of fabric which is the biggest obstacle between us.

While I write, recall, remember and dictate and draft up this piece, I realize that I am not the lawyer visiting the killer in prison OR even the killer cruising around in a slightly rusted robin's egg blue Volkswagen Anti-Climaxer, I am not even part of the story anymore, after you decided it was acceptable to be so graphically forward with me (I take another Xanax that's beginning to be two an hour that I avoid taking) Interspliced are scenes from Dexter, versions of serial killer life, visions of this fake superstar with his **** out flailing around spurting a little streaky one shot of *** onto your tongue and in your mouth, or maybe you were plastered with it.

I just know it's good I don't have a gun, I could go for a bullet sandwich 9 times over about now. I never touched, discussed, abused, misused, lead on, flirted with; I never did anything unattractive with the exception of being a heavy smoker and a low-earner right now, but I see women even younger than you make better choices than you. In fact right now I believe you will not even breathe on me. But it's no matter I have the reconstructed skeleton of his severed body parts I let soak in hydrofluoro until I could pick away what little gum-like pieces of pink sinew are still left. (Dexter: The Sarge and The Lieutenant walk  out of the precinct at the same noticing each other.

Do you believe that I really handed over the upper-hand to you? I've never had someone begging to **** my **** on a Thursday and getting a fake celebrity ****** from an awesome artist. And what really ***** the hammer and lifts my limp **** and ****-ticket up to your pretty little mouth, is knowing that eventually you will have to be alone again, and the shine of this excitement will wear off, and then I TOO CAN PLAY THE GAME.

1. Time to light the cigars.
2. I present the Nicaruagan landscapers' body, George Marshall, who is better known as 'The Skinner."
3. I accept that you're going to think being honest about your most promiscuous moments is attractive to talk about. I certainly thought that, up until you That is.
4. No more chocolate cake, again.
5. Throw out the soda.
6. Start taking Amphet Salts and running away from home and into everyone I would've liked to kick with my foot, bare, filthy, and furious into their cheekboned. Then smear the bottom of my oily and baby-***, **** and inviting foot into your Hood until you spray like the five hundred other times you tell me you didn't. But even all this. This cell phone, this furniture, the awful sound of the train all night, the illusion and total manic state that puts diplopic faces of imaginary people between me and the rest of the world.

I need to know, do you even want to here this? Are you confused? What led you to come over or invite yourself here?

Pills, blade, play, or having that kid. But putting up with his ******* to be in the background of thought as someone while I was at home with his four kids. And I just relax then because, while I thought organizing the tower room to serve our primary guest of action was necessary when I looked at it so lit up by the buildings across the way shining their light through its atrium making all of the room much more suited for making art, writing and dancing. This is a huge handful of good-naturedness in a friend that can't seem to get off the phone and I must have to hid the monkey. I have to go to Walmart and return the monkey. I will...... and this is the biggest luxury, the hotel maintenance will even cover up my own series of murders or Dexters.

You believe me right sweetheart. You're my closest friend, but she is worn together and I just like the rings I own to be worn by you so that you don't get the idea to slip up and not just give me more anneurisms for my ****** up already head, or cancel the party, but really play that game and seee them cased out, otherwise I could be...a? A Cosmetic Manufact- "I believe in Freedom." You said.
"hahahaha", I can see that got you where you are today, postulating my grief by throwing self-care out the window and just judging me based on what you don't relate to instead of what you do relate to.

PS I know you didn't have time to let anyone know I was coming already? Until I snuck a peak and figured out you had been casing me the whole time from beginning to end to break me. But I'm not broken. I'm just not eager to be touched by anyone else of the ** form other than you for a minute. I also have time believing that while you were scared of me giving you your first ***-to-mouth experience while I stand you up in a skirt in the back of the school bus. And I can recognize tears of someone around us, and so I stand up and I recognize that it's my friend Stephen who is really (...is really, an imagined hologram of myself I invent to learn about myself in dreams, and other horrific events that my mind shuts down for, and no you're not the only 5' foot and 5" inch blonde haired ex of mine that performs from the camera but not for the eye. It will all come out in the wash regardless. I better to get goin.....I could write on and on and on and on about all of these multi-secular, uninhibited, depressing suggestions from the same bill my sister has to pay her Electric and Water monthly on, but I need to not sleep to make the need more. And even though I say the photo of her touching a single toe with a dead boring hell bent nobody Phillistine that could care less about her Grandfather being sick or her getting an STI or STD or if she is taken care of. But I do. I will. I don't stop being the good natured caring and and passionate person I am just because someone I really thought was going to take me an honest man, just taught me to be more meticulous in making sure I dispose of the body properly... But maybe she isn't playing pretend, maybe she's just another Fake Prada caught up in the mix.

Lucky.

Some people would look at this little life of Grace and think, ****, she is lucky. Of course, you know better, don't you, Wonderland? You know what goes on in my hodge-podge head where the rainbows lament and the killers dance.

So come and tell me what my kiss tastes like. I want to know if the poison is evident or I'm just the one who can feel it.

Skeletons twirl on my walls, and that's not a metaphor. I literally have neon skeletons dancing on my walls. That's just the type of person I am.

No where. That's where we're going right now, with wonderful gibberings of a lost cockatoo, so lost she found herself in a young woman's body.

Lost little Grace, trying to find her place in the world, just like her beloved Alice. Yet Alice was always free of Wonderland at the end of the night. Or was she? She did always gravitate towards the insane place, maybe she's just as trapped as Grace.

Musings of the world as I grow, from young little wide-eyed girl to the woman I am today. A young woman, albeit, a naive, wide-eyed woman with too much hope in her heart, but a woman nonetheless.

The scars of your love leave me breathless. Oh no, no they don't. I hope mine have left you dead.

Still bitter I am how my caterpillar betrayed me. Have I not told this story? How in the dark of the night he found solace in the wings of another, to leave me blind to his deception. Thank the gods the March Hare had the sense to enlighten me.

Now I spend my nights in the arms of other, and I could not be happier. Never one solid man, never one stationary enough to become a character of Wonderland. But there enough so the loneliness does not creep up on me in the waking hours of the moon.

Stars are my companions now, yes, that's what they are. I am always stargazing and sometimes, when I'm lucky, I share my pantomimed sleep with them, pantomimed for of course I do not sleep.

So perhaps I am lucky, for I am a Grace surrounded by stars, and at the moment, I would not have it any other way.

I sit on the counter, feet draped over the sink watching the sun rise over the trees through the open window
As I bring my coffee to my lips I feel the familiar chip
The one that my lips have felt every morning for years
This cup snuggles perfectly between my small hands, the warmth shielding them from the cool spring air

This cup has been through a lot
A few moves
More than a few lovers

The Alice in Wonderland decal has worn off and the seafoam enamel is cracked-- a mosaic of all the times I didn't care enough to hand wash it
The handle fell off once, I wanted to practice the Kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken things with liquid gold
But I'm a college student, so glittery modge podge worked just fine

In many ways I am this cup
Used, well loved
Slightly broken, held together with glitter and good intentions
I don't mind the cracks
In the cup or in me
Cracks show that you are strong, can handle whatever is thrown at you, heartbreak or linoleum
They also allow light in
To brighten when darkness is all you can seem to find

As I reach the last sips of my coffee the sun is well up
My cats are hungry and I'm running late
Some days it's worth tardiness to reconnect to a part of you you thought was lost

Today is one of those days

Grace has made it through Wonderland, and has seemed to find peace with it for the time being, so where does she go from here? This would be easy if like in books things just ended, closed up in a neat little bow at the end of the story and there is resolution.

But there is no resolution here. Just a desperate craving for meaning again.

I guess since my Wonderland is stable, the only thing left wrong is me.

Not to say that the baubles and do-dads in my head are still broken, no, Wonderland is at peace, remember? Must get you checked for that memory of yours, good sir.

Regardless, my ducks are trying to row and I must follow their orders as to not rock the boat. Nonetheless, though, who is Grace? I've been working so hard to keep the Jabberwockys at bay and stop the wars from coming and protect the heads from rolling, that it's like some part of me is missing. I feel like a hodge-podge, a hedgehog, speeding around and around in lost wonder trying to find something but never quite sure what.

Is writing truly the only distinctive, certain characteristic I have, with no contradictions and carpenters and changes? Is it the only solid footing I have on the edge of tomorrow? Am I not much else, with as much substance as a sellophone?

Everything seems to cancel, make me some sort of odd creation of jumbled things that don't seem like they would fit right at all, but enough glue was pumped into me that practically anything seems to stick.

I'm covered in glitter and polish, getting thicker each day, making me someone new with each passing coat. I'm not gaining weight, so is my inner soul just melting away?

Can a person just become polish? A person who creates themselves instead of something made, genuine, and real? Am I even Grace anymore, should I adopt a new name as if to show the difference that has taken a hold of me since my name was born years ago? Will I reach the point that when someone wants to know me and starts to chip the paint away, that by the end there is nothing behind the color at all? Will I become nothing but choices and farces to the point they are me?

I have no clue how to get back. Can I? The paths behind are gone, the bread I've been crumbling to save my path was gone years ago, as the Chesire Cat promised I'd find my way if I had nowhere to go. But guess now I have no way and have somewhere to go, and he's not to be found. Typical.

Do I want to get back? Am I too attached to my polish now?

My polish was layered to make others happy, so who am I without others, without the affections and pleasing of others? I don't know. That's terrifying. I can't do alone, and I have led myself here more and more with each passing day. I don't think I can be alone ever again, or the Jabberwocky will certainly **** me. I wish it was a maybe, but for once I can't even rely on those.

Guess I better keep on layering the polish and glitter, trying to find a semblance of who I once was. Maybe a mix of now and who I am? Possibly that could work.

Now only if I knew who I was at all.

That would make choosing polishing colors much easier.

I’d like to introduce myself to you today,

I’m Joe Nobody.

You’ve seen me before, I’ve worked for you for years.
I was the crossing guard at your children’s school.
I was your janitor; I emptied your trash and mopped your floors.
I delivered your goods by truck or took away your garbage on Sunday.
I delivered your mail in the rain.
And you never even knew my name, but that’s ok.

See, I’m not special like you,
I’m just plain old Joe Nobody

I don’t drive a Mercedes; I drive a beat up old Dodge.
You wear Armani suits and my clothes are sort of hodge-podge.
But my hands know the feeling of an honest day’s work.
And no one in my life ever said “That guy’s a ****!”
My pockets aren’t full, but what’s there was earned with honor.
So with that I’m off to the store to buy supper for my daughter.

I’m not looking for anything special, no big fancy type of ordeal,
Just a box of mack-n-cheese, some veggies, and some veal.
Maybe a small piece of that cake they had on display.
Then I’m off to the register, goods in hand and ready to pay.  
“Hello Julie, how are you doing? How was your day?”
She smiled that I remembered her name, and that I cared enough to ask.
See she was helping me just then, though we’re just regular folks.

Not special like you.

I pulled up in front of my small home.
Sure it ain’t much, but it’s warm inside and well lived in
The roof doesn’t leak, not even a bit.
And the fridge is covered in magnets that hold my priceless art collection.
It’s all drawn in crayon and scribbles of course.
Mostly pictures of a pink unicorn dolphin horse.
I still laugh at those…..

I opened the door and walked in to the sweetest voice saying “Daddy’s Home!”
I dropped to a knee, bags in hand to hug an Angel.
I, Mr. Joe Nobody, hugged an Angel today you see.
Maybe you never knew my name; maybe to you I didn’t matter at all.

So I’d like to introduce myself to you today,

See, I am a Father
And in the eyes of the most special little girl,
I’m not simply special like you.
I am a Super Hero!

Oft had I thought ‘twas meant just for a male
And mindlessly I’d chosen not to read
Until one day I was summoned to heed
Melville’s epic tale of The Great White Whale

The wandering sailor - “Call me Ishmael”
Captain Ahab -  vengeance his greedy need
Reckless, careless; anything to succeed
Yet, his destiny, rightly, was to fail

Hodge-podge of cultures from all walks of life
Scruples, beliefs, tenets, lessons  and more
Adventure and religion - all were rife
Herman challenged and gave voice to it all

The world then -  the world now - deeply in strife
When will we learn and stop fighting the war?

Get out of Dodge

well pardner I guess it's time
think I heard that school bell ring
they're playing tunes to a nursery rhyme
and I wasn't even asked to sing

the writing is clearly marked on the wall
<---- this way out you silly fool
you're the one left standing at the ball
no dance partner and that ain't cool

did you really think that this would work
you need to see the limits in your dreams
now everyone thinks that you're a ****
tired of hearing your yells and screams

so get out of town while the gettin's good
before someone decides to shoot you down
the horse you're riding is made out of wood
you can try your luck in some other town

the Marshall is coming he's bringing a rope
the posse all gathered in a huge hodge podge
they know that you are the one who's a dope
it's time for you to get out of Dodge

Gomer LePoet...

you focus on the pills,
I try to stop the fading,
I've been fading,

and the thing that breaks my heart the most,
is You love me with your demons,
and I take it in,
I take you in.
every time.

and there's bruises on my arm love,
from another fight once one,
just to be lost again.

And you, you find lovers in smoke covered rooms,
and the demons run rampant,
and you leave me,
worrying at home,
all alone,
ever alone.

You say,"you do not own me, you cannot control me"

and you carry you modge podge jaded notions of romance,
around like it's a suitcase, to wear and tear,

but you light my fire from the outside in,
proving your the one to make me feel,
you smile like the crooked monster you've become,
now your smiles don't even meet my eyes,

and "baby baby baby..."
you promise me rainbows and picket fences after every time.
its the line, I've bought it,
and for every step you take a yard,

there are scars to prove it,
I have scars to prove it.

And there are days i wear them like stitches,
they hold the broken pieces
of this broken heart,

still there are other days where the light of a new days dawning,
and I can pass the etch a sketch on my skin
as creative badges,
ugly to be sure,
reluctant trails to nowhere safe,
and lines to color in.

BUT I refuse to be your prisoner, so please sir, watch me leave.

She knows more
than she shows,
Shows more than she knows.
Bows, ribbons, flowers, lace
Invisible mask
Cast iron and shadow play
May I understand this
Heavy air?
This feeling of despair?
Words like bullets
He pulls the trigger with his tongue
Rung out like a towel
Trowel to dig a grave slowly
Stinging sharpness
Darkness never knew light.
A hodge podge sea
Of words can't make a sentence
When I said this is me
I really meant it.

Week old tincture
tinted with lemon-grass
and snod-grass
and grease from black beer-spilled book-bag.

Weak old tincture
couldn't sustain relationships that envelop
circadian rhythms that clash and grate against bunk-bed guards and bone hanging ceilings.

Play bill:
swam in the shallows, metamorphosed, gender bended
unwavering and unending personal development through catharsis.

Pushy beliefs pushed on people who don't believe,
who won't believe in the "serenity of a clear blue mountain lake."
Science, and logic, and classical hodge-podge of ideas,
no,
of theories;
that makes sense.

The non-sensical is the warm.
The un, understood is the energy.
The sun shines in hard, unforgiving through the frosted window, blinding me and I trust my instincts suddenly.

The boys ran
After the ball exploded
The bedroom window.
Shattered glass shards
In indiscriminate flight.

The ants re-grouped
To build after
The red-cherry erupted
The hill like Pompei,
Scattering serendipitously.

Grimmacing quarter moon
Pumpkins lay in hodge-podge
Pieces on All Saints Day.

Suitcases, clothes and neckties
Stewn on a runway
Like a kid's bedroom.

We move from order to chaos,
Like the third light
On a match.

I was lead to believe
Displacement Laws,
Science, and regular
Bowels could explain
Explosions,
So we can lift the stones
On Salisbury and Newgrange,
Or re-arrange grains of sand
With projected order.
We only have a beginning
And an end, while living
Through the explosions.

leaving
home alone
cheap
*****
liquor
dope sick but
I'm sicker than what
star stickers could fix

it's made me
a motley collage
of a hodge podge
apogee sentenced to be
hanged from the ceiling
or on the wall in a
cheaper motel hallway.

this is in no way an apology.

what the **** are we doing here?

getting stupid numb
playin dumb &
faking it, making noise
to fill a synchronized void
it's feeding itself,
it's eating itself

photosynthetic autophagy

lovely little lamb
lost cause long shot
breaking the bottles
for succumbing to
their own poison

but smashing the glass
don't quiet the voices,
it just makes them laugh.

peace love
*** drugs
bubblegum baby in
a neon pink bikini

a tragic act.

houdini chasing
rabbits & red dragons
to wonderland
under the tophat
he huffs his magic
from a plastic bag

- escape artistry.

carved from bone
covered in leaves
drinking veins.

darkhearted
hollow-eyed & starving
***** & sparkly
snarky harpy barking
senseless malarky.
she's pretty garbage.

beautiful.

just plain
*******
beautiful.

The Ninth Father's Day Poem
(6/15/2014)

A 12 year old Wynn,
wandering around the house.
Not so different from a spirit,
one that had shed its oppressive shackles of daily struggles.
A lot of people came to my father's funeral.

Everybody kinda threw a hodge podge of advice at me.  
Saying token phrases that they probably picked up in a movie.  
Things like, "Your father loved you, you were a lucky boy."  
I don't care to remember the rest.  
Although the worst was the people who had the audacity,
the nerve, to tell me, "Time will heal all."  

They must have meant it takes enough time for me to die too,
only able to heal once I can see him again.  
Because I spent the first 6 years numb,
carrying on through awkward motions,
like I needed a good grease or tune up.  

You could hear the **** squeaks
as a poorly maintained robot should.  
Devoid of emotions, unfeeling,
unable to accept the traumatization of tragedy.

I spent the last 3 or 4 years successfully.  
I graduated college.  
I've fallen in and out of love.  
I even grew up into a promising young adult.  
But I also learned how to miss my dead dad.
Time only makes it hurt more as I count each year.
This is The Ninth Father's Day.

These days,
you don’t talk to anyone.
You hear the offers,
and you refuse to take them,
refuse to give anyone
the satisfaction
of helping.

[What could they do,
what could they say?]

These days,
you don’t reach out
reply as much as you have to
when approached,
and disappear into dissociation again.

You don’t feel bad,
you don’t feel sad,
you don’t feel.

Only tell yourself that
they don’t need you
and you don’t need them.

You’re alone.

But not lonely.
Your brain is home to a chorus,
there’s never a dull moment.

How could you ever be alone
with so many voices in your head?

There’s the querulous one of anxiety with her constant,
whatdoidowhatdoidowhatdoido?

The heavy, lumbering one of depression, who only mumbles,
Who cares? None of this matters.

There is the babble of Mombrain,
a hodge podge of toxic sludge that
at this point,
is not cruel but
almost comical:
You’reuglystupidbadloserfreaksocialmisfitliarliarliarug­lystupidbaddesperatepatheticracistunfeelingcoldfuckyouyoulazyburd­enonsocietyfuckyou.

There is the matter of fact one of Logic Brain.
She is the one who
has to do damage control, works overtime to
make you appear Sane, Articulate,  Good, Better.

She is the one who guides you through
every
single
action.

Get out of bed.
Now brush your teeth.
Now make the bed.
Now take a shower.
Now put on clothes,
Now eat - you have to eat multiple meals.
Now take your meds, don’t be a child.
You are going to get things done today.
You will be Fine.

But the whisper
is the one that interests you,
scares you,
thrills you the most.

She's the one you never shut down.

She is cool, suave.
You can never see her, of course,
but she is the girl you could never be.
She is
so close,
so seductive -
just                  out of reach.
She breathes into your ear:
crash the car,
jump on the tracks,
fly off the bridge,
stab yourself to watch the blood,
drink the nail polish remover,
chug a whole bottle of whiskey
and down some pills,
just like the old days,
remember the old days,
you were sure you would die?
You can still Do It.

Ideation always whispers,
but the whispers are so loud,
feel so
right.

She tells you:
You think I’ll disappear, but
you and I,
we’ll always be going steady,
I’m not like those other girls,
the ones who rip out your heart,
who never say sorry when they need to,
who use you and expect so much and
leave when they’re done.
Baby, with me
there will never be any surprises
no heartbreak,
no drama,
no manipulation
no uncertainty.

*Baby,
I will never leave you,
I am the one constant.
Come into my arms,
let me hold you tight
and never let you go.

No *******, no poems. Nothing to hide behind. I remember listening to this Modest Mouse song, freshman year of high school. I had 20 bucks of **** **** socked away in a ps2. I had so many deep, but not intricate feelings. Maybe these are the best kind... It was a year of a fresh new start. I felt like the outcasts in all the halloween specials and ******* I had watched, as well as this tragically different being. I started hanging out with E. He's an indie wrestler nowadays. But back then we mostly smoked our cannabis, made jokes about historical events or political agendas. We were in a video production class. The class let us roam in and out and off of school grounds, missing other classes even. It was perfect. I met the older kids, we'd drive around, I just remember it now as sunny and a little chilly. I even lost my virginity that year. It was a train wreck of a relationship. Two people trying to hard to be older than they were. She was a senior then and had just lost her father... I still wonder sometimes if she's okay and I don't know why. It's not romantic worry, it's not hoping for reconnection, it's just a sentimental anxiety. It was a time of friends, running in nature and crunching leaves with my cross country team. It felt right. It felt so good to be old enough to be the freaks and the geeks all rolled in one. I didn't know then in 5 years who I'd be. I didn't know those people would fall away from me. My fitness would fall away from me. I wouldn't go to the library high with E anymore, shooting nonsensical politically engaged videos, full of bad hidden jokes and nearsighted irony. My sophomore year E stopped attending high school. We stopped talking so much. I haven't seen him in 3 years now. And only then it was a quick hello, his hair has grown so long. His eyes didn't look rebellious but lit with hope anymore, they didn't race. He looked older, real-er. Our momentary grasp on time and reality gave through the cracks in our hands. Now I sit at university. Barely scraping together classes for some mod-podge video art minor. Sometimes I feel like I like film because it reminds me of those old times. I still have fun, I still have experiences that ******* away, and at only 20, I'm sure I have many more to come. But I still can smell the cars and the schoolrooms, feel the trails and the weather, and taste the air and the packed lunches, from half a decade ago. I peaked in high school, and I'll never belong anywhere as much again.

Hodge-podge of strangers
looking at my door
I welcome you.
Let this time in here
turn us to friends.

Let me serve you
on my finest china.

Please come into my door.

Let me take your coat,
tell me, how fine is this house?
and I can tell you
it is truly better
for having you in it.
For every smile shared
under my roof
For every laugh
had in these walls
has given me a home
when I was once homeless.  
For that, this humble one thanks you.
Please come in, for you too are home.
Let it be known
That this is not a dim porchlight
but a beacon
come in, come home
dear stranger
let's go home.

i have this piece of art they say is worth a lot.
its hanging on my wall above my most valued piece.
a sprig of fern, dried between the pages of a book, glued to
plain paper, framed in an old thrift store picture frame.

i like the contradiction hanging on my wall.

the expensive piece is roughly
three feet by four feet,
colorful and bright. created
by some contemporary English artist,
which is code for pretentiously posh.
Too expensive and chic because it's British.
Made in a medium that allows anyone
with an idea to become slightly successful
as long as people buy into the con
and like what they are selling.

i guess i am the sucker that i describe.

But beneath it is this three inch piece of fern
picked from a field in Bethel, NY. where peace
and love passed itself around in freedom.
it's held onto paper by Mod-Podge and faded
from some sunlight. i think my mother bought
the frame 15 years ago for some childhood
photo she never framed. it looks like
a 4 year old crafted the fern in
pre-school and brought it home for Mom
to hang up on the fridge like some achievement.

so when i'm sitting on my couch with
sunlight on my back, Alice Coltrane's  Journey in Satchidananda
being played, coffee being sipped, enjoyment being had
and peace just out of reach...

...i find myself looking at the fern.

You hodge podge
of a person you
random facsimile
you who would
pull yourself off
of four legs just
to have a go
at me

Climbing up the
evolutionary ladder
keeping me at bay
while that lizard
brain of yours
feels the real time
of our mutual
decay

Something soft in me
the warm red blood
in me, you could smell it
even from under that stone
with one eye peering
above the mud while
the other eye plays
dead, white as a
bone

You kept your weapons
well hid but in the soft
light of night and under
a bowl of stars I could
hear your claws sliding
over white flesh and
scars

You, fooling me by
standing on two legs
and showing off those
practiced and opposable
thumbs- how ******
gallant of you

(And I watched him
fall on his neck, biting
himself in half; in his
parody of a human
he forgot to add a
spine)

Stuffing my face with pizza playing fortnite to disassociate
Holding back tears from the fears of the memories that crying brings
And my dears they ask me if I’m okay I tell them to turn away I don’t want to be seen like this
******* sobriety whatever life I lead I’m afraid of what holds me down instead of loving what brings me up
Cigarettes on cigarettes chain smoking to hold me down
I need blunts ok on blunts and blunts my nostrils leak and my eyes are bleak
Light another one I don’t care if I choke I just need another ****
Wanna lay down and play dead feel like my futures always read my fates been coming since my childhood days
So many ways we try to change but always stagnant the future doesn’t change
I’m tryna rise up I don’t want them to see me fall
My suicide days are over I say my suicide days are over why do the tendencies follow me like this
I want bliss I borrow what happiness I can from tomorrow
I always say better days are coming we gotta fight for something but now I’m asking myself why I’m running
What am I running from why do I turn away why don’t I grab today by the neck and take back what was took from me yesterday
Medical bills pile up no car no job I’m in a rut
Dyslexia’s got my words jumbled I go mute I let my mind take a tumble
Trying to write so I can set my future right let the emotions flow let me understand what I’m feeling
Old words old poems old trains of thought running on that last steam
Imagine my friends die imagine my family tried imagine imagining everything you never want to happen
I ask what’s wrong with my brain why is it trained to show me flashbacks and screenshots of everything I try to forget
It’s like a mod podge of bad memories a compilation of bad tendencies a pattern trickling into my soul I sit and let it bleed
Clench my fists and I say no not again curl into a ball I do what I can
Just write and fight just write and fight just write down my thoughts as I fight with my brain

By: Rapadamus

Something I’ve always hated
Is what needs to be stated
When the plot construction’s weighted
And the images are dated
Hollywood has black men fated
To wear dresses created
For us to be emasculated
Yet we’ve willingly participated
Think Tyler Perry’s Madea
Close your eyes and you can see her
From Good Times with its JJ
To Martin and his Shanaynay
They have always found a way way
To make buffoonery okay kay
And ***** are still on display
Up until this very day

Call it a judgment call
But when I think about Monster’s Ball
Staring Hallie Berry y’all
The whole race took a fall
Cos it left us all exhausted
Think of the stereotype it fostered
And the self-respect it lost her
Is what her Oscar cost her
When she said, “Make me feel gooood”
And that ******* pulled out his wood
Then plugged her where she stood
Cos she signaled to him he could
Her going crazy over getting’ his meat
Made me wanna throw-up in my seat
And to make the picture more complete
She put her body out there on Front Street

By now it’s plain to us she’s driven
But how she chooses to make her living
Doesn’t mean she has to be forgiven
Anymore than an Andre Piven
But enough on Hallie already
I don’t wanna make this thing too petty
There are others even more unsteady
Then a hot bowl of fresh spaghetti
I’m not a big fan of the Manns
I don’t like the way the camera pans
So when they’re on I make other plans
And my whole family understands
See I’ve had enough of those clowns
I don’t even need to meet the Browns
Which also probably explains
Why I haven’t reached out to the Paynes

Hollywood’s full of Harvey Weinsteins
In Gucci loafers and designer jeans
Creating havoc with off -camera scenes
While toying with some actor’s dreams
Now they’re falling like dominoes
But I guess that’s the way it goes
Like ******* up a producer’s nose
They feel invincible I suppose
But the actresses who feel embolden
No longer find themselves beholden
To the men who took advantage and sold ‘em
Everybody gets their turn to scold ‘em
In the wake of Kevin Spacey’s canards
A strong wind blew down his House of Cards
But isn’t that the way it always starts
Hollywood is full of broken hearts

So I’ve laid my indictment out
It’s hard to find even one Boy Scout
Among any of ‘em who wheel clout
The evidence? (Beyond a shadow of a doubt)
And now that the charges have been lodged
And the jury panel has been charged
Even though it’s one great big hodge podge
Soon the verdict gonna be dislodged
Before that - they’ll try to cop a plea
They’re in treatment don’t cha see
And while all that well may be
It’s not enough to let them off free
Once their expensive lawyers fail
And if they can’t stay out on bail
They’ll be going straight off to jail
Because their checks are in the mail



Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2019.  All rights reserved.

I slam my truck into park
Swing open the door
And hit the ground before the door is fully open
I let the momentum shut the door for me

Here I stand
At dusk
In the empty, silent sunset
Scrounging the encroaching night to create.
Rending from the darkness, the light of imagination.

It’s Spring Cleanup Day
i.e. Trash Picking Night
Where I gather my next year of possibilities,
Where I can make something new
Out of what was left of last year

I hum an improvised out-of-tune,
“Something old
Something new
Something broken
Something blue
Something to love
Someone to love.”

Gloves are a necessity, leather; cut, but never stab resistant -
You may open a bag
But never leave a bigger mess than you started with.

The broken TV will become the next costume piece.
The old dolls; sad, one-armed, legless action figures will become delightful new monstrosities.
The rusty tools
Will build my next dreams…
And wood, Oh so much wood
Enough to salvage for the hodge podge machine that will sail into the next fantasy

There are enough clothes
To shield an entire shanty town,
Enough blankets to keep every animal warm
In the shelter down the road

These old photos have stories -
People in them
No less important because of their age.
Their wrinkles will now become another fold in my story.

Those cans of old paint
Will color my next experiment
Will add a tint of reality to tangible madness.

I don’t see waste -
I see the opportunities we were never allowed
I see the future in your past.
A chain from then to now,
Out on the front lawn
Bags full of history
Are asking me to read them

Sometimes I’m called the Junk Man,
Hanging onto things that should be forgotten
Buried; left to the past,
But, instead I take it all with me
Within me.
I’ll shine your tarnish into something beautiful
Just so you can see, in your reflection,
That you were beautiful all along
You just needed someone to care.

Having lost everything
I’ll still take anything
And anyone
My people are another I’ve picked,
Discarded by a careless consumer
Who could not see their splendor

The clouds begin to gather
But it has not started to rain yet
And I’m still going.

This road only has one way to go.
The only way there ever is to go.
Just keep moving forward
Never go back
Never stop
Just notice what is there
And take all you can use with you.

These discards, useless to their owners
Decided that they no longer had value
I can make them into anything.
I can find a use for anything
For anyone.
Their trash is a treasure
It still has value
I still have value.

No matter how many times I’ve been thrown away
I’ll still make something out of myself.

Finally, the rain begins to fall
Flowing through the rust holes in my truck
Scrambling to soak my pilfered obsessions
Washing all of our sins
Onto the pavement beneath my feet

It's winter now

                                Finally

I can tell by the presence
of two avocado trees
and a bevy of succulents, grasses, and weeds,
bamboos and air plants and dried-up leaves,
a snake plant thats also called mother-in-law tongue, one night blooming cereus, pencil plants, ginger, all potted and stacked.

She calls it "The Winter Jungle," and its my favorite time of year.

The already cluttered and cobwebbed chaos of crystals and minerals and Hodge podge is enshrouded inside lush green,
Jumbled and crowded.
The air is heavy, hot, and dry.
She'll turn on the shower, full heat,
to steam up the sky and the illusion is complete.
In clouds, the jungle blooms.
Its snakeskins and skulls and tapestries weave
a hypnotic pattern.
There is life here,
and death.
Her miniature tiger skulks lazily through,
while his pantheresque sister lays quietly.
A chow mix hound off in her mahogany cave atop a lanolin cushion, sits sentry.
Butterflies adorn the walls with beetles and moths,
paintings of wild women and valleys, of deities and dangerous deserts,
and soft simple illustrations
of various things,
bones and feathers and coins and dreams.

And feathered dream catchers have done their work it seems,
for I, like the great hairy ape,
sitting, quietly,
surveying from above,
cannot shake the uncanny feeling of love.

This atmosphere is enough to enamor, but the woman whose presence the the atmosphere holds
                                             is shamanic,
a healer,
              the oldest of souls.

And it is warm here
in her jungle,
but just through the door
is the grey cold of winter,
and nothing more.