Is this the place where garland grows,
Among the olive branches low?
Splattered, cindered, clay abode,
Am I so alien?
Encircled those, in khaki drab;
Paying homage to the bags;
Which hold remains of brave, young lads;
Will I feel again?

Surrounded, chains of un-lit lights,
Which only shine in day, not nights;
Illumination betrays the plights,
Should we become aglow.
A tree of polypropylene,
Adorns the tower, so serene;
A branch of steel hid in-between,
That only gunner knows.

The air of diesel, not of Myrrh,
As pre-fab dwellings start to stir,
Indifferent as they observe,
Fading of the Star.
A failed attempt at lone ‘SandMan’
Adorned with boots, bayonet in hand,
Iraqi winds displace his stand,
Re-formed in Kandahar.

T’was yesterday, on Christmas Eve;
A day ahead of promised leave,
When Paul, Eric, Mark and Steve,
Took leisurely patrol.
In Tikrit, where he was born,
Some sixty years before this ‘Storm’,
They’d set-out on this early morn.
Assessing evening’s toll.

Among the buildings, scattered ruins;
Charred men, like shadows, on the dunes;
From temples soar cremated plumes;
One hour had gone by.
In the distance, beyond the spire,
Come ‘reports’ of skirmish fire,
Incessant screaming of the dire;
Then screams dissolve to cries.

Approach, inside a city square,
Where once a fountain teemed, right there,
Smoldering flesh, low burning hair;
A family splayed together.
Rank and putrid pieces strewn,
Mother’s face, shrapnel-hewn;
Attending Allah far too soon--
All their hands were tethered.

Domestic dogs, now on their own,
Fight for human flesh and bone;
Such holy image sets the tone,
As chorus strikes ‘Jihad’.
Eric stumbles, exploded knee,
Bearing witness to comrades, three,
Souls reclaimed near instantly;
Christmas in Baghdad.

Is this the place where garland grows;
Among the olive branches low?
How I miss New England snow,
This Christmas in Baghdad.

My skin is worn and torn
like a coniferous seed
waiting to grow
into
a towering pine
and then into
a ream of paper
that mostly just
becomes crumpled
individually
and thrown out
like a heart
bleeding far too frequently,
forcefully gushing itself
onto innocent polypropylene
white as purgatory.

My new soft shell
is slowly reborn.

I can't provide comfort
with bulging ****** knuckles
and fingertips burnt,
scarred,
and eyesight that
is mediocre at best.

My hands have seen enough days
to bandage abrasion
and let go of hate.

My detachment never ceases;
but to pick up the slack
of a nervous system gone bad
is to live a deciduous life
perpetually changing seasons.

how sensible it all seems, how crew-cut and with enough
anaesthetic to k.o. an elephant - outside the laboratories
the populists in whatever guise march on - as with any
congregation, atheists also muster up enough social muscle:
they too have their bouncers and other
gob-smackers with knuckle dusters -
as long as science is popularised it pushes
the boundaries of insensible chasms elsewhere -
                             but with so futile popularisation:
shortages in respective sectors: mandatory,
or as suggested: no longer rich bachelors and
         private laboratories - a science of regurgitation -
once they burned heretics, now the subtle
        championing of mingy sedatives - and since
Joan of Arc's heart no longer aspires to passion
and its all consuming fire, it turns into a wet
piece of coal - reining in the crowds of pop culture
zombies - said before, said again - but how
dislodged the feelings not ranging into absurdity
or at least nibbling on the zest of Dionysus;
but how things changed from that year, 2006,
everyone is asking, the poncy pope with glamorous
attire, the stiff-necked scientists - the pendulum
of guilt swinging in both directions - half of
the 20th century prescribed a fear magnanimously:
oddly enough - as implying: we forgive your
puny religious swooning and answering with
the easiest answers possible... here's a bomb -
so who are the sacred ones? they too are human -
the magazine dissected into:
a. what is reality? (can we be sure that the world
  we experience is not just a figment of our
    imagination) by roger penrose
     b. do we have free will? (the more we find
out about the brain works, the less room there
  seems to be for personal choice or responsibility)
     by patricia churchland
c. what is life? (if we encounter alien life,
chances are we wouldn't recognise it - not even
if it was here on earth) by robert hazen
d. is the universe deterministic?
   (however you look at it, the answer seems to be "maybe")
       by vlatko vedral
   e. what is consciousness? ("my soul is a hidden
    orchestra... all i hear is the music" - fernando pessoa)
            by paul brooks
f. will we ever have a theory of everything?
    (2000 years of rational inquiry may be approaching
  their crowning glory. just one more push could
   be enough...)
                            by michio kaku
   g. what happens after you die? (we have all
  wondered if there is an afterlife, but only a few are brave -
or foolish - enough to try and find out)
                                by mary roach
  h. what comes after **** sapiens?
  (all species are fated either to die out or to evolve
  into something else. all except humans, that is)
                   by james hughes -
so there we have it - the respective pillars of science,
whereby science replaces core beliefs into
core questions - to not hold firm, but to constantly
sway - the 8 founding questions - no more,
  no less - but how many people can perpetually sway?
   the supposed 8 universals, i.e. that every human
  being might, might not, will or will not ask -
     and for these 8 universals, exponential functions
of particulars: because that's how it's supposed
to be: chaotically democratic -
thus everyone knows the objectivity standard:
at its core is awe, outside the core pathology and
apathy - or let us say: passions and indifference -
then subdivisions of (+) and (-), and in general:
   however it is you feel: compensated or left starving.
in 2006, they congregated at a round table and
spoke god-this, god-that - no minority report,
  cold evidence never went down with women (or
so i'm told), three questions, question 1:
                 should science do away with religion?
oddly enough R. Dawkins said:
               "no doubt there are many people who do need
religion, and far be it from me to pull the rug from
under their feet." - we know that the bestseller
              the god delusion came out shortly after.
a physicist (S. Weinberg) similarly (c me la ri lee):
   "science can't provide a sense of magic about the world,
or a community of fellow-believers. there's a
religious mentality that yearns for that."
  L. Krauss: the success of science does not encompass
the entirety of human intellectual experience.
on and on this goes - i guess they have to debate for
the sake of debate - as i am sure everyone is aware:
   a debate can overpower the point of prayer -
confessions? i treat it more like poetry - but in saying
that... where is the medical profession in all of this?
we have astronomers, ecologists, biologists,
physicists, astrophysicists, planetary scientists,
cosmologists, philosophers... what's the odd one out?
it's a bit suspicious that this magazine does not
cite any chemists... and that's ****** obvious...
they're the ones making pacts with the devil -
whether Goethe's or Marlowe's Faust -
then at least to the more obscure rendition
of Pan Twardowski (Herr Tvardovsky) -
         but how odd it already is that chemists haven't
joined ranks with other scientists in their little
Friday night debating club meetings - seriously?
are those boffins serious about all of this?
            or as one said it:
i came from learning to write CO for carbon monoxide,
   and FeO for ferric oxide - or drawing electron migration
  diagrams when two compounds interact (a nice
playground of symbols) and went my way into
   some form of linguistics - primarily working on
          the tetragrammaton - i have no major interest
beyond this definition: would i debate the most
difficult metaphysical assumption of the omni-variations
in terms of ascribing the variations to a being?
i'd stumble in the metaphysical world on omnipresence,
meaning i would be a pantheist - meaning god
    would be anything and everything from the moon,
a mouse, an ant colony, my **** and what not -
            the all-in-one: for one thing, that's already much
too hellish to comprehend, let alone make comedy from.
but they haven't told you about the painkilling
saliva that beats morphine - catherine rougeo:
proceedings of the national academy of sciences,
vol. 103, p. 17979) - the compound's name? opiorphin,
or the scourge of Afghanistan. they also didn't
tell you about Saracen sabres - their scimitars contained
carbon nanotubes - forged from Indian steel
called wootz - 17th century examples studied by
P. Paufler (Dresden) found the carbon nanotubes
and even nanowires (nature, vol. 444, p. 286) -
or is this becoming to look very much like traffic
on London's M25 during rush-hour? it certainly is,
as was intended -
                   1950s: age of optimism -
influenza wave from the east, the indestructible transistor,
   television without wires, baby computer the size of
  a piano, rubber windshields, genetic chemistry,
atomic aircraft, the neutrino, sputnik 1, strontium-90
(radioactive ash)  used by manufacturers of woven
and knitted fabrics to overcome fog markings,
the coleopter, polypropylene (the remnants of German
word-compounding revealed in chemistry, and
only in chemistry, elsewhere compounding is
replaced by hyphenation, i.e. hyphenating),
                  and so on and so forth until present day -
passing through Sir, Julian, Huxley, who reinvented
****** with "positive" eugenics - oh sure, it was still
alive and kicking - quark hunters draw a blank -
             i could reference all else that was involved
in making the last 60 years - beyond that people are
call it ancient history - or are Virgil and as Horace,
and as Ovid did - turned their back to the world,
         into their poplar groves and jasmine filled gardens,
and said: ta'oh!           ta'oh!                 Tao!
  but not until then, before embarking i'm already
dreading to embark with something to add, to even
voice this -                                     but i guess i might:
  as ever, the freedom of speech is never as grand a
                                      luxury as the freedom to think.

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When you think of me
you picture a woman with arms full of
every kind of rope you can imagine.
Thick rope braided with sisal, polypropylene,
heavy steel, and other metal alloys.
Skinny rope made of nylon—the slippery kind
made to slink through the nooks and crannies.

You picture my fingers to be capable of
perfecting knots of every kind,
stubby and restless as they are.
You picture me in cowgirl boots,
a Stetson tipped, shadowing my gaze,
crafting professional lassos,
swinging them high and proud, and
looking you directly in the eye.

But it was never my intention
to tie you down.
To be free is a treacherous privilege,
one I always thought you deserved.

So, I want you to picture me
not with rope, but instead
with a  breathtaking pair of strong wings,
delicately coated in the softest ivory feathers.
I want you to watch as I stretch them out
and take off gracefully from the pavement.
And when I scoop you up in my ropeless arms,
we’ll careen, smooth and effortless,
through purple and orange evening skies.

Think of the wings next time, please,
because I only ever wanted
to help you fly.

this vessel
houses gold;
without bearings in the flatland,
untarnished and eager.

it was born in small hands
jabbing at polypropylene beauties
spinning on a mobile
above dampened eyes,
uniform and bright.

the spinning never ceased;
ligaments lengthened
and seashells,
once musicians,
became resonant cavities.

haggard winds
stirred glaucous and ash into storm;
the sky became a clouded palette
of every shade between
stone and lightning.

what a fortune it was
to be carried away and found
again and again
in the endless above.

When people expect the worst from you
It's really truly hard to maintain a positive attitude
So then you start presenting what their expecting
And it's so **** hard to keep those tears from slipping down your face
Because your parents have the audacity
To tell you that you make more mistakes
Compared to how many times you have made them smile
And you regret choosing to live at home  
You regret living in general
Because living is difficult
But people told you that you were strong and you believed them
You believed the pretty poisoned lies they told you
To make you feel like a better person
And you said “ your right , i can do this “
And that was that
But you noticed the more people know about how your feeling
The more pain you feel
So you stop
You stop showing what the sadness is doing to you on the outside
On the inside
And you somehow get away with it
Until your psychiatrist asks how you're doing and you can't keep it in anymore
You tell her that mountains of painkillers and antidepressants
Are beckoning to you sweetly
You play around with your wording because you want to be remembered
With a sense of humor before you die
And she calls your mother in
And she cries
Because the daughter she gave birth to doesn't even want it
But she understands!
She understands your pain because your own mother is dealing with some of her own
They call security
They call the paramedics
They come into the room that your in and you look away
The officer says “ You have a whole life to live “
You smirk and a single tear falls down your face as you chuckle
“ This isn't living “
Your mother ***** in a breath and lets out a thundering sob
She pulls you into a bone crushing hug and you tell her that your sorry
And as you repeat the overused sentiment you wonder what your sorry for
If your even truly sorry
Please help me understand …
Your sorry for making someone feel bad because you feel worse ?
Your sorry because you feel mocked by people that tell you to get over it
When they happen to not give a single thought EVER about anyone but themselves
And my person inside me begs for me to scream  “YOU HAVEN'T SUFFERED ENOUGH !”
No
They haven't
While the sun arises each and every morning for the blessed and humble
Your sun hasn't risen for years now
Instead a plastic and artificial version of what the sun should be ascends into your day
And shines in your eyes and taunts you
It laughs at you because YOU have more scars than friends
YOU can't go places alone because your suicidal tendencies screams louder
Than your mother yelling from the outside of the ambulance
“YOUR GOING TO BE OKAY!”
And you wave
You wave your hand to your mother as your taken to a wretched place
That throws you out worse than the way you were when you walked in
One month passes
Your home
But your parents are treating you like polypropylene
Tough enough to still be parented
But still weak , still a bit vulnerable
Six months pass
You become a ***
You make relationships with people
Because they make you feel good about yourself
And you foolishly get attached
Because your addicted to the feeling you get when they leave
Heart Wrenching sadness
Your so accustomed to it
And you think that the taste of salty tears would grow old
But depression comes in all different flavors
And when they bid you farewell
You promise yourself , no more
No more people
Just focus on yourself
But there is nothing to focus on
Because your so ******* broken that only the pieces of your shattered heart remain
And it's hard to explain what's going on inside your tangled mind
Your not even allowed to be okay when your not okay
Not allowed to smile in the midst of your tragedy
Because everybody is expecting you to be this sad piece of nothing
So when your anything and everything your not
You get **** for it
You’ve been getting **** for it
To this day you hide how you feel because the truth is to abhorrent to bear
Anytime you say that you don't want to do this anymore
Society says “ Your lying “
And you feed yourself lies
You tell yourself that your not enough
That you have never been enough
You never meet anybody's expectations
And you lean towards believing
That disappointment is just another form of terror
To cause trauma to what's left of your heart
And the worst thing about being a disappointment
Is the lack of trust from other people
They don't expect you to be there for them
Because the silence you were unknowingly feeding them is causing them to choke
And then everybody is gone
And you're to blame
YOUR TO BLAME
And you wonder and ponder upon ways to fix your heart
But it's not that easy
You need tools to fix something that is broken
Everyone who loved you were your tools
Tools no longer
You were the heavy lifter
You carried your overweight broken heart because ironically
You were the only one with that type of strength
So now your learning not to put it on the line
The hard way
Your lugging it behind you tied to a string because it fell off your shoulder
And you start to realize that absence makes the heart grow fonder
And that confuses you
Because its dead
Or so you thought
No matter how broken it is …
Your heart is the only thing that wont give up on you mentally
“If i could i would **** every insecurity that told you that you weren't enough “