The kid whose mom always prefaced his introduction with "he's a little shy". He wasn't shy, he was careful, careful from an early age to speak only the most particular of words after seeing how it was a careless choice of words that tore his parents apart. This was the kid who could hear his father yelling and his mother crying but lacked the courage to leave his post at the bottom of the stairs and give his mom a hug. He knew that was all she really needed.

He knew from an early age all he required for a sound nights sleep was a hug and kiss from his dad. This is the kid who would stay up, wordless, into the night wondering if he was safe. As the evening waned and the hours passed he'd never think that his dad forgot. Daddy never forgets. It became his mantra and as he fell into a deep meditative state he would have the same dream as he ever had on those hug less nights. Waking up the next morning he could always recall that warm blanket of a hug because after all, daddy never forgets..

Be the kid who held his hand over his heart during the morning pledge but never volunteered to say it over the speakers because he hated the sound of his own voice. His teacher would bring it up at parent teacher night but his mom always stood up for him "he's just shy". Upon returning home they would ask how his day was and he would smile, shrug, and fall into them, simply awaiting that embrace.

Be the kid who, when his parents finally divorced, never asked them what happened. He never asked them because what if his words had the same effect? Words were lava and if you fell into them you would die. So instead you choose life. On walks home from school, hopping from stone to stone, you never squished an ant or trashed a nest, you cried for the first time when your dog died because nothing ever loved you like he did. He never said a word yet he understood you better than anyone ever did and the thought of coming home and not seeing him basking in the sunlight under his favorite spot in the living room made you bawl.

That night you would have a dream about heaven, place where you could visit in your sleep, a place where upon opening ones mouth sunbeams burst forth hot enough to bask in but never enough to burn.

Be the kid whose most anxious night was spent at that first middle school dance. Boys and girls dancing and the compulsion within him to do the same was palpable. Sure he could have danced alone but He didn't want to dance alone. He wanted to dance with that little girl sitting down by the Coke machine. The one with the frilly dress down to her knees, red band in her hair, and bangs that begged the question "where do i get me one of those. You should be this kid because he actually paid attention when his parents were watching their old movies. You would walk up to that girl and without a word look down into her eyes and for a moment forget why it is that you walked over, but when you finally came too you'd remember that scene from that old black and white movie and put your hand out just like Humphrey bugarr did - at least you think that was his name.

Be this kid because while everyone else was awkwardly moving and swaying like branches in the wind you knew how to hold someone. You knew how to have a conversation without words and this night you two were writing novels. What song was playing? No clue, she'll get mad at you one day for not remembering and you'll be surprised when it was something as stupid as 'I want it that way'.

This is the kid whose favorite nights were spent in her car after driving you home. This is the same kid who when she told him she loved him all he could think was "how can I see you so well when the porch light isn't even on?” She says again, hey - you silly goose, did you hear me? I said I love you. Be this kid because you weren't stupid like everyone else and said "I think I love you too". You grabbed her face and kissed her and for that moment both your worlds stood still. Stagnant in that pregnant pause, just before you broke, you’d catch her gaze and simply smile, warm as heaven.

Be this kid because you would never have a problem with people not liking you. You were far too observant to fall into that trap. Everyone hated the bullies and just called them jerks. The class clown was entertaining but everyone said he was dumb. The girls in the lunchroom seemed never to have anything nice to say about Jennifer and Lindsey and you couldn't even finish your lunch because you just wanted to slam your hands on the table and yell "no Sam, he doesn't like you. Maybe you should actually let him talk instead of complaining about how you don't like his friends. Next time you see him don't beg him for his jacket because, ****, it’s really cold at the skating rink in December. He told you he was taking you to the rinks, why didn't you bring your own **** jacket?

But you would never actually say that, because people would label you judgmental. Rather, remain in peace as the quiet kid because no one could ever put a label on you with any certainty. Sure they could say you were mean, more likely they would say you're weird, but you had loyal friends. Friends who upon hearing that would ask "Really? He's weird? Why is he weird hmm?” Their rebuttal was always "I mean...I dunno, he just really weird, I guess". You would never give them an actual reason to hate you. The meanest things they could ever say about you would be opinion. Opinions are like really *******. Full and generally well rounded, but in the end it was the real stuff you were after.

Be the quiet kid because your silence would show strength. When she breaks up with you through oceans and sands miles away over the phone you won't say a word. She won't be able to see the look of devastation in your eyes and she'll feel terrible for doing it. She would tell her friends that you were so strong. "He didn't yell he, he didn't argue, he didn't ask me if there was another guy, he didn't even cry". Yeah. You cried. But she would never know how much.

Be the quiet kid who always meets someone else. The quiet kid who will draw in strangers because they can feel his energy, they're figuratively and literally moved by it. They sit down next to you across the bench and introduce themselves with a perfectly innocent "whatcha reading?” Which you think is a dumb question because the words “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime” were clearly printed in large yellow text on both the front and back covers. Simple trivialities.

Be the quiet kid because the quiet kid will become a quiet man, a quiet man who people could always turn to as their rock. You are stable, you are certain, and you always display your emotions because how else would you speak?

Be the quiet kid because the quiet man will have quiet children, and their children will be quiet and the children after them will be quiet too. Be the quiet kid because you and all your quiet children will never forget to give your kids their goodnight hug.

I mailed you a letter because you said
the art of writing is dead but I know
how to twist words into sculptures still small
enough to fit in the post box. I hope
you read what I wrote. I opened my heart
and sent you a poem. Someday when you’re old
you will show your grand kids the written art
some hopeless romantic girl undersold,
prefaced with ‘it isn't anything great but
maybe it will lead you to understand.’
I never claimed to be the best but my
head is full of cosmos and volcanoes
begging to explode black holes on paper as
relics pressed between pages like a dried rose.

the jungian concept of the collective unconscious
is quiet simply bogus... why?
it would mean that no one in the rest of us
would or wouldn't know whether they were
capable of being... plumber!
        i find the jungian version of "events"
as scary as communism,
          it just means: a retardation of
darwinism - it means a loss of consciousness -
you do know, that jung is a covert
communist, right?
                 i find it strange that a collectivist
unconsciousness does not allow me to
engage with whoever i like in the dream world...
why is it, that i can't dream up:
  anyone i like?
    why am i not a magician in the medium,
pulling a black 12 incher from a top-hat
instead of a rabbit?! as usual: no answer.
      a ******* **** in the wind,
      a persian falafel in a turkish kebab,
a piece of broccoli in a cauliflower salad...
an eskimo in a sand dune,
about as weird as a zebra among pandas.
so we're collectively unconscious of
each of us are doing?!
           so the plumber doesn't know
why he's a plumber, nonetheless,
he's content with being human, and being part
of the great extract of the universe,
and the subsequent per se,
           and he's not ******* at anything
akin to the exceptionalism of an einstein?!
wow!
    what, an, exceptional, observation!
scary to endorse the psychiatric collectivism
of jung, and oppose the economic collectivism
of marx...
       in both instance: we're all apparently
going to succeed!
          but one thing is for sure:
we're not sleeping walking into one of them...
oh... right... we are...
    no wonder the circus is dead;
because when i think of a collective
unconscious i start thinking along the lines
of: there is someone, out there,
who's a walt disney,
    who doesn't actually think / imagine
himself as being a plumber...
         and then he does a las vegas on
the stage, and he gambles it right...
      which is why i can't actually understand
jung without understanding communism,
and why anyone would an essential part
of freud, to replace it with jungian
ideology, and not accept some minor form
of communism...
the collective unconscious...
   that's a truly unfathomable compound
of words these days...
     so we're all sleeping, or?
we're all awake?
         in the collective array of stratas i already
"knew" i was to be a plumber,
the poor ****** next to me,
already "knew" he was to be a politician?
oh, right, it was in the unconscious
medium, so we won't actually "know"...
   jung was a ******* communist however
you like it or not...
        and freud was just the instigator
of the *****-industry,
      a monolithic capitalist of the *******
agency of the base construct:
       skyscrapers are not, an, accident;
and i do abide by the law of necessary
correction,
   i probably have made a mistake -
   it, whatever ill i've said,
     nonetheless is wed to the already prefaced
intro to:
           i find the collective unconscious
a dire play on words,
   that shies away from the politico dynamic
of communism...
  by suggesting, that when all said and done:
the plumber has no knowledge of
being a plumber, rather "thinking" himself
                     being a zookeeper!
oh ****... i must be *******...
but i just watched the plumber do the zookeeper's
job, of teaching the gorilla sign language,
"telling" the gorilla: i, think, yer, deaf.

i havent washed my hair in a week. ive been wearing these braids for the last four days but today a girl said my hair looked like the sea, thick water green with life, my heels fall too heavily when i walk and i know i seem angry but i promise im just tired, i'm drinking pond **** and pretending it's sweet  im falling off the roof again

ATLAS HOLD ME UP ATLAS HOLD ME UP I KNOW IM NOT THE WORLD TO YOU IM JUST A GIRL THAT MADE YOU CRY BUT GOD IM SO ******* SCARED IM AFRAID OF DROWNING BUT I HOLD MY HEAD UNDER SALTY WAVES ANYWAY

this is like a brick to the gut this is like a skipping record screaming the same words with the same intonation but prefaced by a thousand of itself it somehow takes on new meaning a new sort of color, a repetition rash, a spot you cant stop scratching

BUT REALLY WHAT MATTERS MOST ISNT THE LAST WORDS YOU SAY BUT THE LAST WORDS YOU HEAR BECAUSE THE WORLD IS STILL MOVING THE WORLD IS ERASING ITSELF BUT YOU ARE ENDING I AM ENDING AND I DONT WANT YOUR VOICE AS THE LAST ******* NOTCH ON MY BEDPOST

and you said you could still feel me, you said you could taste me like pennies in your mouth but it meant nothing and we were petty we were hollow we went as far as grazing lips and faking smiles i know you werent what i wanted did you know i wasnt what you wanted?did you know im not what you need?did you wait for me to touch you and wither when i turned away?im sorry im so callous. im sorry im so detached.

THIS IS A HAMMER TO THE KNEES THIS IS YOU WAKING AT TWO AM CHOKING ON MY HAIR THIS IS YOU FLINCHING WHEN YOU SEE ME SMILE THIS IS BLISTERED LIPS AND CALLOUSED KISSES AND BITING MY TONGUE FOR THE FIFTH TIME TODAY MY EYES HAVE BEEN BLOODSHOT SINCE BEFORE WE MET IM SORRY I DIDNT LET YOU AFFECT ME BUT WHEN I CRY IT IS NOT FOR YOU I AM OVERWHELMED BY MYSELF AND YOUR APOLOGIES ARE ONLY KINDLING IN A BONFIRE A WITCH BURNING MY GRANDMOTHER TOLD ME ID GO TO HELL AND I GUESS ITS COMING TRUE

im just a ******* storm chaser, running after anything that could be a hurricane and leaving when its just another ******* sigh i stand in the shadows of broken people and get bored when they hold me instead of ripping me apart, what the **** is wrong with me?ive been listening to your voicemail for the past ******* hour, you want to know why i havent called you back, it took five months to realize you were no hurricane, it took five months for my interest to fade and its my fault, i gave you time to get attached then tore you away like a bandage soaked through and useless im sorry, i thought you were stronger than this at least strong enough to bruise but instead you hold my hand and cry.i cant take this.i don't want your love i want you to destroy me i want you at least to try and im sorry i let you think i was whole enough to balance you but im just a different kind of broken

I WANT INTERLOCKED FINGERS AND SUPPRESSED LAUGHTER IN A CHURCH BUT I GUESS THATS ASKING TO MUCH THATS SELFISH ITS MIDNIGHT AND IM SCRIBBLING UGLY FACES IN A NOTEPAD, IM THINKING ABOUT YOU, I WANT SOMETHING DIFFERENT I DONT WANT TO BE THE ONE ALWAYS LEADING THE ONE ALWAYS HAPPY I WANT TO BE SWEPT ALONG IN SOMEONE ELSES GALEFORCE FOR ONCE AND I WANT SOMEONE TO WANT ME NOT SOME IDEAL THEYVE GLUED ONTO MY SKIN IM NOT DEEP IM NOT SEDUCTIVE IM NOT CLEVER IM JUST IMMATURE AND INSECURE WITH STANDARDS HIGHER THAN I DESERVE

i dreamt of you last week. you cut off my hair while i stared at the floor, wove tapestries to hang on your walls, left me comatose in the kitchen. hasn't it been a while since we spoke? how've you been?

ITS ALWAYS GONNA HOLD A SPECIAL MEANING FOR ME THE WAY YOU LET ME PHOTOGRAPH YOUR BRUISES AND I HID MY CIGARETTES WITH THE NECKLACES MY GRANDMOTHER GAVE ME I HAVENT TOUCHED THEM IN WEEKS BUT ****, IM WRITING ABOUT YOU AGAIN AND I NEED SOMETHING IN MY MOUTH THAT ISNT YOUR NAME

i wanted us to live forever in a whirlwind spinoff universe, falling too fast and laughing too hard to think, your fingernails scratching me enough to bleed, but you called me annabel lee and i wonder why the ******* wanted me to die, but i know i cant blame you because poetry is hard to understand, you can only have one or the other i understand poetry but not people emotion only makes sense in theory, wild chaos and discord, and ive been in love with eris since i was a child, but with your hand in mine i cannot reach  through your ears to pull out your thoughts in verses and try to understand you, and im sorry that i hide my verses from you instead of telling you *i feel trapped

His wrists are my favorite part of his body,
Bones pressing delicately through pale, unscarred skin in a way mine haven't since the 6th grade.
The only bones showing on my body are my elbows and knees, just barely
And the worried bones of my insecurities.
I wish I could see my shoulder blades and hipbones.
I'd never hoped to be a skeleton but
I'd hoped to be proud of my appearance.
Even though my best friend tells me that I'm pretty just the way I am,
I know I'm not as pretty as my sister;
We're twins but no one ever believes us
She has gorgeous blonde hair and pale skin and sky blue eyes,
Hourglass shape.
I think she got the looks, but I always hope I got the brains.
Today I don't know which is the better end of the deal.
I know I am fat. I don't need any doctors or parents or bullies to tell me that
My curves are not big-*****,
Obesity doesn't run in my family,
No one runs in my family,
And by no one I mean me.
My every outfit is prefaced by compression shorts and slimming colors and self-conscious shame.
My stomach has ugly purple stretch marks like tongues of hungry fire
Burning away my self-esteem
Summer evenings aren't fun anymore
When my father tells me I'm too big to swing on the swing set
And my mother asks if I'm pregnant.
I'm not.
I'm a size 14. My mother thinks I'm a size 10.
When I try on the too-small clothes she brings home  
I cry in the privacy of my bedroom mirror,
Oceans of salted pain worry over my face,
Try to rinse away the guilt.
At least I'm not an ugly crier.

"oh, by the way- i didn't do it- but
the other day when i was doing dishes-"
(i heard his voice hollow out and bounce in an echo out of the kitchen sink)

my expression dropped immediately from the other room
"noooo" i cried "which one?"

he prefaced his answer by pacing a few pointless steps.
"i think it got crushed from all the other days worth on top of it or something- it was totally shattered at the bottom of the sink when i found it.."

"Which one?" i repeated..
( i already knew which had broke. )


"..the one you love."


"****. really?"
i laughed weakly out of disbelief.

"i'm sorry mack-poodle, swear it wasn't me.."
his voice trailed off.
my care quickly waned


"will it come back in 8 months?"
I said beneath my breath with a smile


he rounded his head around the door frame and smirked down at me
"afraid not."

What say you on the matter?

For,
To say the Pilgrims were not of the Americas,
Or thereby American,
Is False.

For,
To say the life force is not moving, pulsing,
Or thereby alive,
Is Wrong.

For,
To vocalize a sonnet as written,
And not vary tone or infliction from line to line,
Or to sing the Song of Madness.
But not feel the grimy groove,
Is flat out and most indescribably improper and in dire need of revision.

But to break off from the meter,
In travels that lead on out,
Progressing into a voyage of the vastly uncharted,

Is to paint a magnificent beauty,
Or write a tale with uncanny comparatives to a Huck.

And to forthwith stand from the bow of the vessel, not the stern, to say when they say, “Nay.”

From the start, on the breaking dawn of this episode, a new life seemed only natural to resurrect;
A chapter to rewrite that had too long needed a rewrite.
And so perceived and attempted it was.

Then, from the inner yearnings, came a need to profess what so vividly troubled.
But in unsure footings, the tongue could not confess.
But in undone attire, the feet would not uphold.
Repressed.
Halt!

The body comes to rest.
Lain upon the threshing block, to gather.
And preface a proclamation of the more just cause.
Ideals certain to be less casually fit than their predecessors’.
An ultimate theory of outlook.

Thus, this is my prelude, to the coming of age battle, and my constitution.
With most sincerity, this is what I proclaim.

The Right of Understanding.
—The act that in any case, every account and depiction of any story and thereby situation, should be heard, allotted, marked, and understood in full. It should stand, unbiased, before all, prior to any fore coming or hasty decision: the act of listening without interpretation by a lonely mind; of not intruding upon or giving up immoral ground in adherence to a person; of not spreading hell, nor involving the uninvolved in personal matters; of letting people share both the tangible and intangible, without hesitation, or living in fear being persecuted and/or misrepresented; and the understanding of every individual soul.—
The Right of Understanding.

The Right of Albatross.
—The act of grieving over loses, and accepting that things will not be the same. The act that time is so deathly important in revival that the absence of its constant equilibrium will cause damage; of stability in the face of fear, whatever that may be, or the fear that is eminent and sure to catch us all in its foot snares; of compassion to the suffering and those who have lost it all but continue to rise again and prove the statistics, kept and known only by the creator, wrong; and of being unsettled in the grey areas. For no one soul can truly ever make it alone.—
The Right of Albatross.

The Right of Acerbity.
—The act of saying what’s on your mind, no matter how pugnacious or acrid it may come out to be. The act of bluntness in dealings, without further discretion, but only after retched hate has built and anger tormented past its due date; of civility towards others in the postmortem; of biting your tongue until absolutely necessary, and only through well founded intent, however deluded the intent may be to ascertain such conclusive foundation, and of arrogance in expression and language for the betterment of others. The act of ripping out the orthodox for a radical reckoning of souls.—
The Right of Acerbity.

The Right of Escape.
—The act of fleeing tragic misunderstandings, for the sake of saving face, and to make great hast. The act of thinking contrary to the proof, setting a pricey wage on your personal beliefs, dissolving unknown barriers and outward influence, and claiming your stake; of being alone to the mind in hopes of evaporating the exorbitant data; of basking in the glory that swift feet have brought; of turning the corner, and establishing new peace of mind to comfort the once boxed in soul.—
The Right of Escape.

The Right of Pursuit.
—The act of allowance to a pursuit in anything, with the freedom of beliefs, and articulation. The knowledge and acceptance that not all pursuits end, nor will they ever on the intended terms. End may or may not be reached, but the communion of trial, even if failed, is all that is needed. No hatred should come of a man’s choice in their personal pursuit; merely the acknowledgment and appreciation.—
The Right of Pursuit.

The Right of Assertion.
—The act which is commonly referenced, and includes great similarity to, the speeches given on the basis of freedom, with the truth that prior most follow up to the same base rule. The acts that no tyrant or thereby abusive parent should, or has the right to, downsize or ignore the declared speech of his child. Nor should one be angered by the truth that so passively flows through their ears. The right to free a man’s mind without a show of emotions becoming of us; just the listening of and rock like appearance of the stern look upon agreement.—
The Right of Assertion.

The Right of Compliance.
—The idea that man-kind can fit in with man-kind; the ideal template that brother and sister is known and used universally, not just selectively, as a label of people; that an atheist can walk into a church of any religion and fit in among the plenty to find a new assurance and home; that no restrictions are made to shun or cross out those unwanted in group, club, education system, religious aspect, or government area in question; that all of man-kind fits in anywhere they so choose when they are there under the prefaced agreement of good and strong intent. After all, intent is nine-tenths of the law. Lastly, that people can never feel out of place or lost in life.—
The Right of Compliance.

The Right of Deception.
—The knowing that man-kind can easily be duped by the specious mind; that promises aren't always kept, and that some stories aren't always true. Often times, there even a change in maxim just when we all become accustom to order; the idea of flowing emotion from one betrayal subsequently falling and spilling into right into line: next in life; that man could plainly be trying to be grandiloquent and fascinate rather than honestly working to be even with other men; that imagination can take over, yet leave a trail of crumbs leading toward reality, and remain in such a constant comatose state until life seems to become better; the mere acknowledgment that the mind can fully overpower the body.—
The Right of Deception.

It was that long ago that we were invincible,
Or too long ago to remember the good ol’ days,
Or too long ago to remember how past, present, or future,

We would always be friends.

No rivals could break us,
No terror could render fear,
No mountain was too big to climb,

We would always be untenable.

Every time we thought that,
Every time we felt safe,
Every time we leaned closer,

We grew older,
Time set in,
Tearing us apart.

As we fell apart,
Thoughts got the better,
Days turned as years past,
And our minds now seem to confess,

So here we are,
Once more staggered in unity,
And for the last time linking arms,

To exalt a power high above our reign,
And sign the final treaty,
Forever binding our humble beginnings,
Before the long journey,
That will, in retrospect, be a mistake…

But at least they will know exactly what We have to say.

Former lover,
Indulge me this anguished plea,
prefaced by this confession:
You are the first and final piece of my soul.
My lungs inhale air and exhale a prayer;
A request to the divine forces that you remain whole,
That no shred of your perfect self is stripped away,
That the only thing that changes is how you perceive me.
That whatever trespass or gaff on my part is ripped from memory
That you hold even half of the opinion I hold of you.
Before you carry out that box
Of personal effects,
Of joyous memories,
Of melancholy epiphanies,
Of sensuous encounters,
Of laughs,
Of tears,
And all the material and otherwise classified fragments of this broken romance,
Realize that I am a man in love with you,
A creature on the brink of the chaotic crumble of his being,
As the pillars of love gone would destroy the Parthenon.

Former lover,
Before your foot steps have finished echoing against my walls,
Please heed the request of an explanation.
Please grace this dead love with the dignity of reason,
As opposed to leaving it in a cloud of an enigma,
Abandoned like a fish on a dock, left to slowly suffocate.
Abide this request as you would a dying man,
As you are doing little more than killing me.

Former lover,
Letting you go will be like releasing a tightened vice,
As my love for you is as a part of my being as my heart.
Saying our last goodbyes,
Sharing that final kiss that did little more than indulge me
In wistful fantasies of an inevitable reunion,
Consummated with regret, love, and reconciled with intimacy.
Your goodbye left strings,
Like a strand of saliva still connecting our lips even as you parted them.

Former lover,
You left the door open when you walked through it.
How could you be so cruel?

prefaced by the only glimpse of glamour that I could ever give.

you found me walking downtown streets alone.
I found myself wishing I hadn't gone down that road.

we can hold our guilt above our heads just until the dawn begins to break.
we can hold our guilt above our heads until the spell is broken.

and now my  eyes won't focus.
and now I'm losing my appetite.

you've seen me walking down the empty aisles, 
you've caught me wishing I could sweep the day into the night.

A day to take shape and quite possibly escape the self-hatred that permeates my cellular structure.

Is it true?  Will my cellular make-up be completely renewed within 7 years?  Each cell that makes me up now will give way to a new wave of cells garnering total transformation.

I used to answer questions like this because I thought I could answer anything - I still can but I feel like a phony who speaks just to be heard.

I used to think I knew a lot. Now I recognize that I don't know a *******, let alone **** collectively. Ask me, I might answer. Beware of the prefaced statement: " all views are highly subjective

and

most likely to change dramatically before and after they are forgotten".

If and then.  I continue to seek a logical answer to the reason why I don't know anything - but...

Self-hatred, discontent, fear, and ******' Fruity Pebbles. Cocoa Pebbles are good - but lacking the crunchy sweetness of the good ole fruitay pebblays.

Let the funk squadron play...


NOW !

The last warm glimpse of the humanity
The last time I felt the love that everyone ever told me I deserved
The last time
The last time I let go of everything I never should have given one iota of a **** about

The first time I've been alone
Truly known that solitude felt like
Knowing what I'm missing and replacing it with an entire reality that is completely subpar
Death
Death and knowing nothing at all
Seems to be welcoming most of the time
The last time
The last hour
The last few moments
Aren't they all the same?
The same as any other hour that we have ever been given the grace to live
Death comes early for anyone
There are always more seconds to live
One more conversation of total import that could have been shared
with someone
anyone at all
The last few words that we spoke could have always been followed with an entire recitation of what we wish we could have known
The things we wish could have learned
The people that we never got the chance to love
The ones that were always doomed to lose

Old, we die. "It's our time."
Young, we perish. "What a tragedy."

There is no right or wrong time for a death.
It's not the end of a book or the cease fire of the raging war inside of us.
It continues on in the next generation of who we are.
It continues on after we're gone.

Nothing ever ends completely.
Everyone leaves a legacy.
Sometimes, it's nothing special.
Sometimes, it's a never-ending joke that your friends and family still tell years later, long after they have tragically forgotten that you ever existed.
Sometimes, its a small bit of wisdom that is always prefaced by "Well, my old friend always told me.."

Sometimes, though, it's nothing more than a wisp of emotions. That small secret longing that never gets named. There is no label for it, no way to tell what it is, but it's all that's left after your dead and gone, and it's all you'll ever have.

Good luck to all and everyone here
Because reaching for the stars was never quite clear
No title or description, just a three word mission

More like a word of advice
"Don't get hurt" and watch yourself slide
Everything I got show over your head
Going to look for it may render you dead

So just keep right there sitting
With that blank look on your face
Like someone somewhere will help
You finish the race

And all I can say is God speed
And God bless and watch out for that hallow design
When you tread with heavy feet,
Mind the signs

"Watch your step" "thin ice" "There's a bump in the road"
All put up to help you get where you need to go

But those thoughts weigh more
Then you were expecting to believe
And you'll never make up the ground
You don't even have a place to stand

No little place to call your own
No place to warm your feet
Or lift you off of the street
Or give you a pause to call it home

Just a "Do me one better" and a
"forgive her or forget her"
Or a cross over the heart and
A promise from the blind
That you'll get your wits back in due time
And keep the things the way they aught to be

This status quo **** so quickly taught to me,
Talking too fast to have time to disagree
So I'll just stay here with the ink left in my pen
Let it bleed out with the stories that it wants to send

I'll open up- Read the lines behind the black, poured out like that.
Because I'm manic in a moment
A loose cannon you might say
One brick shy and two minutes too late

Tastelessly obsessed with a new kind of mess
Tangled up, twisted and lost in total direst
Blank minded thoughts and directionless flaunts
Point me the way back to the west

New aged grooves are the next big thing
Too poor-a boy to buy my baby a diamond ring
So I'll just sit here to pass the time
Write my stories to explain the rhyme

The situation to fill up my gut with complication
A matter of patience, prefaced with-
I do not possess
A position of authority dealt to me with a weighted deck

The house rules say I'm no winner today
Let me know my place
When they empty my pockets with gestures of graciousness

Leave me empty handed, empty headed
Empty belly and empty soul
Urging to come back for the next roll

A heart filled with a new world consciousness
Sinking my drinks for a two minute connection
Lucky as a new star in the sky
I'll keep my distance as I watch you shine

From so far away it only seems OK
When I couldn't make out the blood stain
In the corner of your eye

That for so long you stumbled upon a new kind of credit
Relax and you'll forget it
So you keep it tense,
And full of drama

Backing it up and keep it caught
Loosen your grip and it will slip
From the corner it is barred in

Trapped, Backed to the point, inverted totalerian
Sub terrain, below the grid where we once played the game
There are a thousand little things
All mixed together
One on top of one on top of one on top of the other

Belief in God
Hate for your father
Knowledge of love
Talking to your brother
Failed business plans
Failed to your mother
Finishes gone aerie
And deprivation of air

Going belly up
Digging threw the junk
That made your life something,
Or more then a nameless lump

The mirror, consistent bystander, a defiled savior that returns
An arid eyeful of the misery masquerading in skin
The promises, unturned in the ragged nails
Of hands amongst the worn blades, desiccated with blood.
Night prefaced by sleep endeavors to hold a zephyr to never wake
Keeping a window parsed with misguiding lexis when solitary
Escapism writes itself on panes in palls of a routed exhale
The walls, sordidly stained with parody of preaching truths
Openhanded to the sheer erosion of missing self-misuse
And as the dawn reveals the path out redemption's door
The fetter of morning's mourning reminds its prisoner of its tethered grip.

©  2013

watching the sunrise
surprise me in the evening
i can't evening; realize
potentially what personifies

you or your taste
upbeat and outpaced
we meet and i faced
just 5 feet
google street-
view i felt at home
then i knew i yearn to roam
outside of pixels confined
his wide grin as if was designed
to remind me
love will find me
*
can't can't can't
important out
conformist rant
erased wry pant
replaced i grant
we chased, we chant
prefaced, we shan't
displace on slant
onslought instant
distraught recant
enchant wrought on
our rotten re-plant of
an antic talking frantic
infrared entranced romantic
instead transcended semantic
exalted assaulted tantric

talk sick
balk pick
stalk trick
**** quick
lock click
shock strik
flock thick
block brick
rock stick
walk kick
stall tick

I feel you
so close to me,
       penetrating
             into my five senses,
into my visual field,
      contrasting
            my point of view
        and
making me think
     that I'm hallucinating,
              seeing your contour
                           everywhere I go.

I feel you
     in the vibes of my ears
                leaving fingerprints
in my tambourines,
       printing your voice
                    into my neurons,
          like little whispers
which I hear them
   so clearly
     like a thought in the wind
               that dance trough the
conifer trees
                of this wisdom forests.

I feel you
      under my skin
           stealing my touch and
        tackling my entire spine
    with your velvet hips,
taking roots across
                 all the surface
     of my epidermis
                         and
            drawing,
with the ink
of your skinny fingers,
    dreams and desires,
              as if my skin was
                        a prehistoric cave.

I feel you
         in my flavor
     mixing with my saliva,
              making me addicted
                   to the orchard essence
that you have
            in your lips,
                         like an elixir
          ready to envelop me
                 in his spell,
  clutching my tongue
                    with your venom.

I feel you
     even
   into my two atriums,
into my two ventricles,
        pumping my feelings
                       like sediments
through rivers on fire
              coming from tall mountains
             and
          storing them
      into my heart
   who's prefaced
into a crumpled paper

I feel you...
      I feel you so close to me
                       maybe inside of me.
but,
    when it comes
                          the time
expressing yourself,
          I find it too hard
                         to unleash you
into the outer world,

        
                        love.
#love #feeling #fivesenses

Teetering on the edge of a precipice
prefaced by an ominous gaggle
of creaking timbers and the wafting
of rot from such great lows

The scene was drab and dark and typical
Nothing mystical or mysterious
about the drizzle or the salty spray
from a far off dark sea

The gulls gathered garishly
hungry with white plumage
that seemed unapologetic to the
plight of those still standing atop the heap

Iron tickled at their nostrils
while bits of gore fell from great heights
as the sea birds did their best
to clean up the rotting flesh

But the onlookers still gathered
placing pressure on the rest
to take the leap
into the heap
below

Where the wind would no longer blow
and the decomposers triumphed
under victory over humanity's last breath

While wanderers wondered what came first,
the eggs all cracked under the pressure
and the violence
and the rage
and the bitter anger won the day
while death laughed at gender
and gorged itself on equality
giving the ultimate soliloquy
on peaceful serenity

Flowers and honeysuckle
grew from their skulls
and their rib cages became
such beautiful lattices for the ivy
Finally!
Something good grew from humanity!

blake said something
interesting, prefaced by
i told you i'm not educated
as if he's begun every sentence
with that since he could believe
himself--

i just thought ya'll had
to be in the same book, maybe
not on the same page--

and he laid his hands out on his
lap as if he were tryin' to read himself

and ya'll are just different books
and i figured
maybe that was so
maybe we were two
fictions in the wrong
section--maybe I was
paperback, maybe I am
prose, maybe I am an anthology
of asides, of footnotes and maybe
you weren't even a book
just a slip of sheet music
to mark my chapter--


dunno, I say, laughing.
but I should go home now.




I should go home now.

wine print on neutral veronese,
some drink to live,
some live to drink

i spent a lowly year "out back"
high up in the Adirondacks
i spent a couple grand and change
lay a lady lay again...

here lies conquer with no-seq
ne vis plus, prefaced as con
harboring the depth of write
just to overcome the wrongs
always drone as rhythm does

pin and doily on the water
mag-a-nolia, Julian, golden
life of old and orchards open
send a silhouette to the cabin door...

happy getting older, broaden
road and carriage,
stock and bale
bail and stalk
walk o’er hill
neatly seated at heron
seated on the bench i stole
i knitted up the overgrowth
and lay i shall think of the olds
of plum-stained linens from the gods,
rags and gore,
pale blue bones
the modern peril is destination and fortified knowns.

Why does it even matter, it never even mattered. I'm just the broken little fragment of a memory, I could be so much better but I'm not, why should I be? Because why should I know anything, why should I be prefaced, why should it be explained? I'm nothing no one and I've never mattered and still don't.

I'm not even mad. Just sort of hurt.

So thanks for knocking the wind out of me from four hundred miles away. Maybe I'll be able to breathe again, but you're the only air I need but that doesn't matter, I guess, not to you.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                 But First There was President Grant’s Speeding Ticket

I’ve never been arrested, but, hey, I’m still young; there’s a chance.  Some of the nicest people I know have spent the occasional weekend at the county sheriff’s resort and spa, some opting for longer stays, so I wonder if I’ve been missing something.

If someday I receive a stainless steel invitation to jail I can’t imagine that a private jet and a motorcade will be part of the intake process, or that extra police and the Secret Service will escort me, or that barriers and blocked-off streets will ease my way inside to the receptionist, concierge, complimentary cocktails, a fingerprint manicure, souvenir photographs, and all the other amenities I’ve been reading about with regard to the anticipated indictment of a former president this week.

I don’t recall any stories about law officers or attorneys general sending courtesy notes to wanted men to turn themselves in, pretty please, but then I am behind the times in so many ways. Perhaps soon all arrests will be prefaced by formal courtesies:


5 April 2023

Dear Mr. Percival “Snake Eyes” Thorpe-Ponsonby,

You are cordially invited to a reception hosted by
The Sheriff and the District Attorney
At the County Courthouse on

17 April 2023
2:00 P.M.

Valet Parking
Dress: Afternoon Business Casual

RSVP

In 1872 William H. West, a D.C. city police officer, did not send then-President Ulysses Grant an invitation or a ticket-by-mail; he collared him in the streets of the Capitol for speeding in his one-horse buggy. Officer West, who was a Civil War veteran and black, is reported to have said to the President:


"I cautioned you yesterday, Mr. President, about fast driving, and you said, sir, that it would not occur again…I am very sorry, Mr. President, to have to do it, for you are the chief of the nation, and I am nothing but a policeman, but duty is duty, sir, and I will have to place you under arrest."

-Ulysses S. Grant Was Arrested 151 Years Before Trump's Indictment (businessinsider.com)

The President did not pull the ****** “Don’t you know who I am!?” thing, paid his $20 fine, and was apparently a more careful driver thereafter.

And that, dear readers, is a wonderful remembrance of one of those moments when this nation got things just right.

-30-

She was a slim volume really,
a short read, an afternoon
in shades of cypress, conceived
on her own costly parchments.

She prefaced a day a warning,
that if any eye should scan her
lines to her own bleak skin,
to her own terse margins,

to the limbs akimbo nonsense
implied by her scrawling,
there would be a price to pay,
found blank beyond the epilogue.

But she was a slim volume really,
a short read in shades of cypress,
grass and thick with bugs.
And there, pocked by her words,

torn by such strongfrail inks,
torn like a hyphen dangled
at the bottom of a page,
ripped from her tongue

I hung on the breath of an epilogue,
A few faint phrases:
"All that you have read here is true.
All that is consumed here is you."

A compass in my thumbs deposits me variously reincarnated on the doorstep of our conversation,
yet each time an infant wrapped in a different blanket.

Long have I pored over the spectrum of untrammelled human emotion,
spanning cover to cover in this self-forbidden grimoire prefaced with bearer risk warnings.

Now my tongue plays host to an intermittent rebellion of intangibles,
each laconic usurper alacritously poised to halt a never-ending coronation.

Hope-marbled milky shadows beckon softly with a sleepy seduction,
searing the remaining threads of her stitched through my fibres: a cyborg-like tingling.

I wonder if we have all along been welding another contradiction onto our feet,
birthing the latest excuse for returning to our destiny under the yoke of newly-minted gods.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                  A Synod on Synodality -
                                   What does that mean?


                    This Synod is intended as a Synodal Process. The aim of
                    this synodal process is not to provide a temporary or
                    one-time experience of synodality, but rather to provide
                    an opportunity for the entire People of God to discern
                    together how to move forward on the path towards
                    being a more synodal Church in the long-term.

                -https://www.synod.va/en/the-synod-on-synodality/what-
                 is-the-synod-about.htm


And let the people say: Huh?

Prelates and prince-prelates and princesses
Whose names are prefaced with gilded adjectives
Attend their meetings and cloud the ecclesiastical air
With catalogues of obscure polysyllables

But somewhere – somewhere in a little parish
Fading into a forest far from the highways
Or in an underfunded religious house
Along some decaying steel town’s crumbling streets
Poor brothers and sisters catch the morning bus
To nursing homes and migrant shelters and jails
To serve the drunks, the druggies, the ne’er-do-wells
The abandoned and lonely children of God

Because everywhere – the faithless and the faithful
Tangle with Satan in physical and emotional pain
In the ******, soul-shrieking hells of war
In petitioning faceless functionaries
For even a little help, a doctor’s appointment
A job, a meal, a bit of dignity
In the shadow of bishops flying first-class
And taking selfies in their playbox dressups

Prelates and prince-prelates and princesses
Exchange lecture notes and witty bon mots -
An outcast bypassed on the pavement dies
A knotted rosary tangled in her aged hands

Perhaps her last words were of synodality