It has been about an hour now.
That careless *****,
who talks whenever she knows she shouldn't
and never has any useful presence,
has been dancing her foot around a pretzel
she dropped earlier
when she was chewing at a volume
that could be heard across the Grand Canyon.

(I picked the Grand Canyon because she chews like a mule.)

She hasn't even noticed she dropped her food.
She was too busy texting and playing with her hair.
I just want to see her foot stomp on that pretzel.
I know if she does, she wont even know she did.
She is too stuck up to realize that she is dropping food that someone else could eat.
I could eat it!
She didn't even ask me if I wanted a pretzel
before she unknowingly dropped one on the ground.

I wouldn't be angry if she just gave me a pretzel.

Jesus,
this is just swell,
I'm scrunched again
in 5A.

Hey there
Miss Flight Attendant,
this one's smaller
than the last aircraft.

Can't I get
a complimentary drink
or something else
to make me
feel numb?

I hate being
twisted like a pretzel!

Oh well,
at least there's a window,
that's some consolation!

Today it seems
the oddest thing;
I think my heels
are made up of
springs.
I’m bouncing and happy,
And can’t help
from smiling,
and I wonder
if that’s
got to do with
the fact
That I woke up
next
to you,
Your arm numb
and dripping
my drool.

And it occurred to me, then
that I’ve never seen
a better
looking
man.
Above me with
your arms around me,
your face perfectly
content.

And your blue, blue, blue,
they-make-me-love-you
eyes.
Your energetic thighs.
I can’t help but be rapt
and start gasping
for breath
when we finish;
A puddle of sweat,
my hair,
a wreck,
and you,
looking down on my face.
That arrogant smirk
you wear
like a badge
because I can’t help
that you make my legs shake.

I think I could do this forever.
I think I’d get used to
being that pretzel -
parasitic and bound
to your waist.
I confess; you are
the sexiest man
that’s ever worn
my taste.

If you're wondering how a
pretzel untwists its self,
it is not by the curls of a lover's
tongue—
nor by the might
of its self
but by the spine of a poet's
meek hands,
unlacing and
embracing
it's curves
and lines.

Incongruous by nature
wrapped in ignominious twine
I eat sushi and a 12 dollar slice of cheese cake
Chug two old english and spend the night at the porcelain throne both ends screaming
staring into eyes rapt with fear
all eyes are rapt with fear
Of what then? Death? Shame?
in the rubber belts and fulcrum arms and cogs of the melting ***
all perspectives have value
and the decadence signified in a haircut or a cadillac is nothing more
than the words on the bathroom walls
or little brown note books
Clarity is for saps
Flourish dans l'entropy
Ou mourir dans la peur

Danny O'Dare, the dancin' bear,
Ran away from the County Fair,
Ran right up to my back stair
And thought he'd do some dancin' there.
He started jumpin' and skippin' and kickin',
He did a dance called the Funky Chicken,
He did the Polka, he did the Twist,
He bent himself into a pretzel like this.
He did the Dog and the Jitterbug,
He did the **** and the Bunny Hug.
He did the Waltz and the Boogaloo,
He did the Hokey-Pokey too.
He did the Bop and the Mashed Potata,
He did the Split and the See Ya Later.
And now he's down upon one knee,
Bowin' oh so charmingly,
And winkin' and smilin'--it's easy to see
Danny O'Dare wants to dance with me.

In the wrapping of her arms and legs,
And the squeeze of a hug:
A binding pretzel love.

This is the perfect time to write
I’m right at the end of 25 years on this planet
Sitting in a bar at 3:14 pm on a cold Thursday in January, 2021
I’ve had a bad day
So I decided driving by this bar that I was gonna stop and have a drink because that’s what I needed today
So far I was right
I ordered a angry orchard on an empty stomach and drank the first half really quickly so I’d get that good buzz really quickly
the nice bartender, an older lady asked me if wanted food so I asked for a menu because, why not?
I’m broker than ever and can’t really afford to be doing what I’m doing right now but what’s an extra 6.99 on pretzel sticks with beer cheese?
It’s beer cheese for heavens sake.
when the going gets tough, the tough get going
to get a good drink on tap
I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time
I get lucky I guess
My whole life has been built on me
Completely on me to decide where I’m gonna go and how my life is going to look
That’s kind of scary honestly
that my life and my sons life relies completely on my shoulders
I can’t ***** up
I can’t give up
So we will just keep going

The first time a man ever pointed a gun at me and asked me to love him was at Granny's Kitchen in Greensboro, North Carolina.

The waitress, a soft spoken white woman with her hair pulled back in a bun, had just dropped off my plates --- a simple mix of scrambled eggs, two pieces of greasy bacon, and a short stack of pancakes. Now, no matter how cheap, I always feel like I'm cutting loose at breakfast places for the sheer abundance of plates. While I'm sure the eggs and bacon could have shared real estate, each component had its own china.

The waitress lingered at my table, her fingers fidgeting with straws in her apron. I made eye contact. Well, my eyes contacted hers; she was staring at my lips.

Sure I can't get you something to drink? she asked.

This was approximately the tenth time she'd made sure. She was uncomfortable that I had supplied my own beverage -- a Big Gulp. But even more than that, she was uncomfortable by the deep red stain taking over my lips. Contents of the Big Gulp: merlot, boxed.

(That is an unnecessary detail. I've only written it so I never do it again.)

Before Greg hopped up on a table and announced to the restaurant, If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second, blah, blah blah, I poured a copious amount of syrup on my pancakes. Then I moved the bacon to my pancake plate. In my experience, very little in this life is better than syrup on bacon.

I shut my eyes for that first bite, just like the commercials. The syrup dribbled a bit onto my beard, and when I opened my eyes, I discovered it had also landed on my shirt. I grabbed a napkin. Heard a chair slide backwards. I started with my beard, peering around the diner, making sure no one saw. I think I heard someone gasp. But I was busy, working that napkin then against my shirt. Jesus, I thought. My grandma, who's got a splash of the Parkinson's, could eat with more grace.

If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second, a very official voice boomed behind me.

I turned around to see if I recognized him as one of those cuffed jean-sporting, wild plaid-loving NPR hosts. He wasn't one of those. He was a sunburn with mop hair in a black tank top and hemmed jean shorts. He did, however, have a cleft chin. That's actually worth noting. Don't see a lot of them these days.

I know you guys are busy, he said. I know that like me, you guys are probably broke as hell. I mean no offense Granny's, I love this place, but it ain't exactly four stars. Or three. Anyway, all I want from each of you is five dollars. If you ain't got five, give me four. Ain't got four, three. And so on.

He started with the stringy Japanese couple on the west side of the restaurant. Nobody really seemed scared, not the freckled brat in canvas sneakers, not the liver-spotted gentleman with a copy of that day's paper.

My old friend Jerome used to say that white folks are the only romantic criminals. He tacked it up to that whole Bonnie and Clyde crap. Greg, it seemed, was privy to that information, too. He smiled and thanked each person as he robbed them of a few presidents. The victims, smiling back, seemed to be thinking of their names tagged at the end of some newspaper dialogue. A few even gave more than he asked.

Here, take fifteen. Times will get better.

Aren't you just a charmer.

It was all very moving.

So he gets to me, and of course, I don't have any cash. I carry a debit and an arsenal of credit cards like a normal American. I don't know how he made it to me before running into this particular problem.

No, I don't have one of those iPhone card swipers, he said. Well, you gotta give me something.

I offered a gift card to Harold's Clothes for Men, it had like two bucks on it, but he wasn't interested.

What's your name?

Henry.

How much do you weigh?

Enough to keep me prohibited from most amusement park rides.

I like you, Henry. Well, let me ask you something. Have you ever loved a man? he asked, pointing his smudgy revolver just past my ear.

I shook my head no.

Me neither. I've always been curious, though. You been curious?

There was a time when I was thirteen -- Blake Hinton was changing after basketball practice -- and I remember thinking, that is an incredible chest. These lines just sprawled from his sternum, lines leading to these almond *******, and I specifically remember wanting to eat them like, well, almonds. But that hardly counts as curious. So, I said, No.

To which Greg responded: Get curious, boy. You're coming with me.


In the spirit of honesty, I was in a bit of a haze before Greg made me climb into his beat up Cavalier. Not just from the Big Gulp brimmed with merlot, no, I hadn't slept in two days prior to the whole gun-in-face incident. Reason being, I was, as Greg would say, broke as hell, and the rent was due. I stayed up both nights conspiring (and drinking). So, really I was pretty thrilled to be kidnapped away from the whole situation.

I had visions. I guess from the lack of sleep. Maybe they weren't visions, maybe just dreams, or fever dreams, I don't know. All I know is I blinked, and we were in the Appalachians. And there was a grey longbeard in the backseat rattling on and on about how change is easy, movement is easy; it's that whole nesting thing that takes courage and strength, blah, blah, blah. I told him to be quiet. Greg told me to get some sleep. I blinked.

We were in a karaoke bar in Madison, Tennessee. There was a gin and tonic in front of me. I took a drink. There was a water with lime in front of me.

Greg asked, Where did you go?

I told him, your dreams, trying to be cute. He turned and asked the bartender for a Yeager bomb. Reaching for the server in -- granted -- an overly dramatic gesture, I said, Make it two. We made it three. We made it four. Seven. Then some vague, but perfect number, because my head rang right. The words came right. And I was a journalist, asking Greg all the right questions.

I'm not a criminal, he said.

I was just bored, man, he said.

You see, I was in a rut, he said. Last month I put up a personal on Craigslist. I know, it's pretty ******* desperate. I've read the kind **** people put on there. But mine was different. I just wanted some time with my ex-wife. Some couch ***, you know? We hadn't done it on a couch since I dropped out of college, and I hadn't even really thought about it until a couple weeks after the divorce. Then it was all I could think about.

A black woman, whose teeth glowed under the black light, began singing "Wild Horses." Then he read my mind, I think.

Yeah, she answered it. Did our thing on her sofa. It was nice and all, and like all nice things, you just want more, but she said I couldn't have no more, this was a fluke, a one-time, or no, a one-off thing, she said. Had to relocate, so that's why I did that whole thing at Granny's.

You ever get it on a couch? he asked.

No, I said. I've see a bra though --- two actually.

He took that as a joke, which was good.

Though wild horses couldn't drag me away, a gasoline horse could.


He handed me a courtesy breath mint after I finished throwing up. The Nashville skyline looks perfect, he said. Especially at night.

My stomach was gravel in a washing machine. Masculine love. At gunpoint, I had agreed to indulge it. I was going to make love to a man -- not just a man -- a criminal. Not something to write about on a postcard.

Mr. Winters, my esteemed landlord,
Apologies about the rent. Got kidnapped by a *******, and I'm presently banging and being banged by him in Music City, USA.

I blinked.

We laid on opposite ends of the queen-sized mattress.

I always liked Super 8s, Greg said. I don't see the point in spending so much on a hotel. A bed is a bed.

And I tried to be funny with something about the confidentiality of dark bedsheets, but it fell flat.

Greg cried. I love my ex-wife, he said.

Can I help?

Will you hold me? he asked.

The air conditioner kicked on in the already freezing room.

I'm sorry. You don't have to, he said.

I scooted against him. He smelled pleasant in a family-vacation-kind-of-way, like a fresh pretzel covered in salt. I put my arm under his neck. He buried his face into my shoulder. I blinked.


The front end of his Cavalier was held together with copper wire and coat hangers. It was a two-door. Both doors dented from, according to Greg, hit-and-runs. It had a Vermont plate on the back. It was red. I mention all of this to say: if we kept moving, we were bound to get pulled over.

In the parking lot of 3B's Breakfast, Burgers And Beer, Greg asked me to retrieve his revolver from the glove compartment. You kinda have to uppercut it, he said. And I did.

I don't want to do it again, but we have to. I'm not staying put, not until I hit the ocean. But don't worry, I'm not going to hurt anyone.

He showed me the revolver. No bullets. I nodded, in approval, I guess.


The second time a man ever pointed a gun at me and asked me to love him was at 3B's Breakfast, Burgers And Beer in Bellevue, Tennessee. Of course, it was the same man, Greg, but the circumstances were a little different.

I went with two orders of biscuits and gravy --- or B & G as my dear friend Chance affectionately calls it. Four bites in and I'd yet to hit biscuit. For a moment, I wanted to tell Greg, C'mon man, ***** the ocean. Tennessee does gravy the way God intended. Nobody would find us in this suburb. We could be sharecroppers. Do they still have sharecroppers?

Do you like fresh corn? I asked. It was the first crop that came to mind.

Greg didn't answer. I noticed his plate of hash browns and eggs -- sunny-side up -- were untouched. You okay?

He was, he said, trying to get in the zone, that's all.

Alright.

Our waitress looked like a poster child for ******'s Youth. She couldn't have been much more than sixteen. She had blonde -- almost white -- hair. Her eyes changed color with the intensity and direction of light, a gradient between seaweed and dark ocean blue. She appeared to be an amish girl gone defective, and I was about to inquire into that very supposition when Greg stood on the table, and said, If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second.

Tennessee is not North Carolina. In North Carolina, they got a healthy aversion to firearms. In Tennessee, however, once a babe can walk, the *******'s got a BB gun and an endless supply of empty soda cans for target practice. I say that, to say this: when Greg stood on the table, so did three other men. Their three guns pointed right at him.

Lower that gun, brother. You ain't gettin' any money out of us.

Hate to shoot you in front of your boyfriend.

Coffee spilled and ran off the tray our waitress held. She shook so hard, it wasn't clear how many women she was.

Greg's cleft chin centered on one gunman, than the other, than the other.

Just drop the gun, *******.

We don't want to ruin no one's breakfast.

Fellas, I said, he doesn't have any bullets in his gun. We need a little money that's all.

That ****** is just trying to protect him.

I'm calling the cops, a purple-haired old woman yelped from under her table. Silverware clanged against the floor. Then the buzz of a fly. Then the pop of fries drowning in grease. Then the bell chimed as some idiot walked inside.

Greg's arm was shaky as he pointed the gun at me. Do you love me? he asked.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I put my arms up. Slid my chair back a ways. Stepped on the chair, then unto the table.

Do you love me? Greg asked.

His breath smelled like last night's alcohol and that morning's coffee. He was a child, a sunburnt child with a cap gun. He wasn't going to hurt anyone.

I put my hand on top of the revolver and lowered it. He crumpled, as if I were scolding him. They still pointed their guns at us. But for the first time in my life, I felt secured, tethered to a space.

I lifted Greg's chin up with my index finger. Covered his eyes with the palm of my hand. And I kissed him. I kissed him, keeping my eyes closed tight.

I was once told
That to find an attractive title
For something you wrote
Or drew,
Just name it something random.

Please don’t call me beautiful
when your hands are between my legs,
and god forbid you say it as a seg-way
between you’re so hot
and my caution, your response
you’re sure you don’t want to?
I’m pretty sure the way my body looks,
nineteen and stress-infused with an Oreo belly
isn’t really what you pictured beneath my blouse,
and I’m positive you didn’t listen
to the story about my dad and the bad prom dress
because you cared. It was just sentiment. You said it was beautiful,
but really you wanted me to believe the act
like a description in the Playbill
and ride that trust all the way until the curtain dropped.
Please don’t call me beautiful
when the word ******* is before it
or if we are ******* because making love
is for married couples and you don’t even want me
sticking around for the ****** sunrise that peers
underneath your shade every morning.

Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m crying—
crack me open and watch the colors bleed
like a painting that hasn’t dried. Admire
the light that peaks through the clear parts
like a windowpane, no blinds.
Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m laughing,
when I’m reading my favorite part of a book,
when I’m stuffing my face with peanut-butter
pretzel bites and I haven’t washed my sheets in weeks,
and I’ll know you can’t be lying
because I’ve listened to the waves your heart makes
when you’re sleeping and I’ve called your smile
to the surface many times when you’ve tried
to deflect it back inside. You’ll know that
and you’ll know I’m beautiful.  
Call me beautiful
when you’re not even trying.
Call me beautiful when you’re by yourself
and the smell of my hair is still on your pillow,
or the memory of how dumb I sounded
singing my favorite song breaks your heart back
to the best little pieces.

The large pretzels
from the mall
taste delicious.

However, I do not
order my pretzel
with dipping sauce.

For the dipping sauce
contains too many
carbohydrates.

Progress

4:26 am. Got out of bed.

Feeling really low again. Envy at my sister's good fortune and new friends. She is getting ahead, she is in a good place- but we are not and I am definitely not. Everything in her life presently makes her happy except me. She never trusted me because I dated G. Now I don't trust her either. I don't want anything from her. I finished the story. She didn't edit. She hasn't offered me anything from her end. "Jotted down some notes" is all she said. She did that in college with all her professors, and got As. It isn't fair. See, she does things whenever she feels like it and IF. And she doesn't trust me? I stopped asking her to do anything. If she wants to she can. I did my part.

I don't know where my life is taking me. I am working ******* little ropes that come at my direction-- but I am not even sure if they are worthwhile endeavors and if they will turn into anything. I just know I have nothing else.

I consider contacting my ex, F. Why him? He's the only one messed up like me. L is married with a beautiful baby and that woman he left me for, G is probably already married by now to that other stunning girl. But F will always be alone.

He doesn't want me. Why should I contact him? I had told myself I won't contact him until I at least got a full time job. He's an Ivy League P.H.D scientist at Penn researching the brain, traveling, making intelligent beautiful friends, and doing triathlons successfully (of course the smart ones are successful at many things). However, he still has trouble finding the "one". He's ******* 37. No one is ever good enough for him. I wasn't good enough for him. *******. He's broken like me. No, he ignored me. I won't contact him. ******* can contact me if he wants to.

I realized I have no friends. None at all. I used to think I had so many friends. Mostly men that just follow me around for a while and then leave me when they realize they aint getting this *****.

There's K, but he's J's ex's friend- so our friendship is limited. There's my sis S, who I meet once every other month, but she doesn't always respond to messages (and I rarely text her anyway). There's Je- she and I meet twice a year and we don't really connect anyway. She has other best friends and I am not really in that circle.

Cas- she is academically successful(valedictorian) and has a job, but frankly she is a bit slow. Can't explain it. Plus she bailed at me about the apartment thing and strangely she doesn't like me to meet her other friends in intimate settings, she just likes meeting people one by one. Like she's met my friends and got some of their numbers, but for some reason has never provided me an opportunity to meet hers. Maybe she feels awkward introducing me since she and I met online? Since she's not philosophical or an intellectual, I don't understand the point of meeting more than once a month if it's just me and her. I like her, but she always seems high without actually being high. I feel like I have to go out of the to meet her, but she doesn't have any energy at all.

Ro- the verbally abusive drunk? Let's face it. It's a mutually beneficial- two lonely people who have no friendship compatibility uplift each other relationship- but he's actually of the the more interesting to talk to people . Then there is Chr who just flirts all the time and fights. I swear his ex wife drilled some holes into his brain. He's just rude. He acts nice, but he's ******* nuts inside. Then there are those occasional people that text you Happy New Year. When I was in a relationship, I was so consumed by it that not having friends didn't matter. I have no friends. I am completely alone. Always have been. In law school, in elementary school, in middle school- I was always the only one who sat alone.

I like sad music. I just listened to the Hollywood version of Les Miserables- one of my favorite all time literary pieces and the beautiful Selena Gomez' new single Heart Wants What it Wants. I love to hear singing melodically, softly, simply of their pain. Every single singer in that musical has a painful story. The innkeepers in their desperation, Javert, of course Fantine, Jean Valjean, and the most relatable Eponine. And the sound of the violin. And the harp.

5:13 am. Let's talk progress.

Today I finally had the trial tutoring session. It was Algebra 2. The girl who is my tutee, she is sweet and extremely hard working. As and Bs in Algebra 2 weren't enough for her. I prepared extensively. My own Algebra 2 teacher was terrible in high school. He flirted with the pretty girls and bragged about himself. I got As for nothing. We spent most of the semesters on the same one or two chapters. I've always wanted to good at everything, to redo and master everything. Maybe this is my chance to become good at everything I **** at.

I am teaching myself before I teach her. I am supposed to be proficient. I had to begin on a surface level pace today. She and her mother both seemed happy. I touched on all her first semester topics. Next week is the second trial session. I will learn more and teach her in depth. If all goes well, she will end up being my client and I will be assigned more tutees. If only I could make a full time job out of this- I totally would. Each session pays well. Of course, the first two sessions I give are complimentary. After that.

This is a gamble. If I don't get enough clients- I will still have to manage the ones I have, invest a lot of time into studying for assignments, and then still make enough money to qualify as full time- then I will be scrambling. I can't imagine possibly getting between 6-8 hours of tutoring every day, since most people get out of work after 5pm and I have to travel around for sessions. I hope it's possible. I would work very hard.

My plan is to ace this Algebra 2 tutee preparation. I have a week to make myself more of an expert.

I have to go to more networking events. Sign up for Asian Film Festival & World Affairs. Meet people. Get connected. Make friends.

Keep reading current events, legal issues, technological advancements, and foreign news.

Re-reading my previously written Step 1- Embodying Positively helped me by reminding me to trudge forward and remain strong and positive, for both my own sake and the sake of the people in the world.

6:02 am.

I am going to do a second 5k this December. My first one ever was last month. Second one in December will be progress. I've got to start practicing again.

I gave up sugar instead of meat for Advent. I felt it was much harder, but more rewarding. Today is my third day of the no sweets diet. I did have sweet iced tea and a pretzel with sweet cream cheese, but I will stop those too. I might allow myself to have just one iced tea a week- moderation is more effective than going cold turkey and messing up. This is a huge accomplishment as I am a sugar addict. I look pretty fit, except a little tummy that goes up and down and only noticed by closest family members and friends.

I need to be fit for my health, to be the best I can be, to be fit, for a future potential job in the FBI or PO.  I only get up once a night to *** now. Some nights I used to *** 6 times a day. Is that an indicator of future diabetes or what? Consuming a lot of sugar can lead to a lot of internal diseases including infertility and cancer. If I can give up sugar for one month, I may try to keep doing it. Wow.

6:27 am. Go to sleep, T. Good night moon. Good night stars. Good night Mercury. Good night everyone.

.........

12/16/2014

Went to an Asian Law Society event last week. Made a couple friends, excited to be a member and get involved. Also met a guy, hope he's Catholic so my parents will accept the relationship if I decide to go out with him. He's emotional, Korean American, and verbal- a Gemini. Interesting but probably just as crazy as me. I am looking forward to getting to know him.

Just finished my weekly career discussion group, this is my second week in attendance. I was about to give up on the group, but John one of the members, who is a runner (and I think out of work firefighter), reached out to help me by emailing my resume around to different people he knows. He's the reason I decided to keep coming until I find a job. We shall see what happens. I have a tendency to jump around to things and not see them to fruition, but I am working on developing strong skills.

Today, I am feeling grateful. I live in a generation in which globalization is both a positive and negative thing. However, today I feel positive despite all the problems. There are so many opportunities, and I just have to figure out to unlock the how.

shiva knew from ashes, what we from
baring bodies claim to know, that
down-dogs in the buff sets vanity aside,
if not by force then over time
along with any pretzel pose, or
tapas, work, or sweaty hopping
balance challenge deeper rhythm breath
revealing limits undenied and beauty
now revised for harmful lies to go.
beginning **** and ending ****
the mirror is the sun, the blue
horizon line of thought of one.
to bend is in the mind as well,
the keener meaning flexible
of soulful empathy of self.
the class ends in corpse and being
peaceearth-airsky-lovewind-all
apparels us only with the same light
we know and bow in namaste
to saunter to the beach and swim away communal heat.
i'm underwater soon,
three hours of dominoes
fading into deep greens
of algae kumbhaka pranayam. released.
the pond-bottom gasps at me with silt, such
delight shining darkly cool and shouts
jump in bubbles at the greenrays
piercing sweetly down to play our bodies perfect.
this is an existential feast.
old rocks on which to stand connect our feet,
waterslip awareness of the deep
and of the sky
gives rise to touching 'accidents' --
we clothe ourselves in thinner veils
we talk of history and elders, while
hormones sparkle greetings stroking clear we swim
in circles slowly, diving down and playing at pretend.
'adults being children' being adult in reserve
being 'natural' being ****,
discreet in underwater lust...
'i love you' our dripping eyelashes say
against the hot raft that burns our skin;
above the surface
neutral for the genitals we are
evaporate of self-seeing worry not
to spash each other's souls.
kindred lovers elsewhere whine possession
of us, but 'living, you said, isn't about being safe,'
seducing all, at every turn, an unabashed
reflex there to be desired in.

beachbathers, nubs of pink, tan and brown
shine unbroken at the shores.
occasionally waving 'nonjudgmental' waves.
sunglassed faces work away at being easeful:
assuaging fears of voyeurism far

i have set the wall to play vairagyam
naked in the open family value smiles
leaving me to judge our acts undone
or sensed beyond the moment in the center shade,
beneath our floating hiding place
our echoed panting speaking more surreal
than just the treading water in my space
you spit the teasing offer naturally
while hidden in the middle of a lake
our shocks of pleasure, gleaming eyes
in echoes brahmacharya pulls
with spinal lock of spiral loving this
we cannot have our vibrate bliss

i name it potently for what it is,
it cools the ***** enough for
feigning innocence

i duck in and out with image firmly planted
playing on an unreal living all
caution gone~

but not before imagining
the details stored away and swept together:
in that single moment apex entrance
of our carnal members swaying into
underwater yogasex.

the ladder slips along my sides
weaving up unbreathing giddiness, as
nubile, as young forever yearnings mar until
i hook my toes and float for you
clad by sun and sky, clearest ripples
flick the lips of vastness into grin
reflects your dive,
spread silouette above
you fly into my breath
to pinnacle the dance we live
without an act we guard propriety
until alone and years have gone
i'm here before a screen to live it over differently

Your bedroom is always so dark, an empty void.
I could really use this line as a metaphor to describe my heart, but I won't.
I'm not fond of metaphors to tell you the truth, and you never understand them anyway.

Your bedroom is always so dark,  but not quite pitch black.
There's an artificial cerulean glow coming from your clock's display, which is a tad large for my taste.
And to be honest, it irritates me some, I like the red alarms quite more.

Your bedroom has a very plain bed, where we like to snuggle.
I curl up with you to intensify my persuasions - it's no secret - and I'm okay with it for now.
I'm usually the spoon  and you're the noodle, but we both agree that the pretzel is that much more amazing.

Your bedroom has a very plain bed, on which we amaze each other.
The single blanket we lay under, sometimes over, is covered in me, because of you.
I always laugh a little, and think that you sleep with me every night, even when I'm not in your room.

Damaged trust and marriage schemes
Held hostage in each others' dreams
Pinned to walls but flailing still
Forgotten values, failing wills
True love waits, we tell ourselves
True love gladly stacks the shelves
True love sets conditions and
True love does the dishes and
Slowly, slowly, we forget
Just why we're here and who we met
Another notch in wrinkled frowns
Where I keep getting lost and found
In roller-coaster ups and downs
I'm lost and lost and lost and found

Missing flights and toxic tongues
Catharsis found in tar-filled lungs
I lost myself in who I wasn't
And in what true love does and doesn't
Not quite gaslit, not quite safe
Playing back the ancient tape
We envy death for constancy-
Besmirching our own consciences
We forgo our emoluments
Too traumatized by precedents
But hush you tell me, no one knows
The pretzel-bending ways we grow
Forever twisting round and round
Lost and lost and lost and found

Now freaking out, now breaking down
Now glaciers found in evening gowns
Now agonizing 'Who am I?'s
Now dying fire in your eyes
At last the sunset settles debts
We tally up our last regrets
Relenting to incessant ghosts
Abandoning essential posts
'Til all that's left is loss and hurt
It burns and burns and burns and burns
And now I choke on orders filled
And mourn alone the youth we killed
I scrape the comb across my nettles
Pricking feelings, bleeding mettle
Finally free from ups and downs,
I find myself on solid ground

teardrop stone
arrowhead mother
copper-red veins flecked with crystalline dust
[iridescent]
[irrelevant]
you are just some fat piece of flagstone-
broke off corner of some stone paver-
seated in an empty flowerpot beside 30+lbs. of rusted chain in an old screwtop pretzel jar

We're all walking cliche's,
So what's the big deal?
I can  wear a beanie and a gay pride tee shirt and moccasins,
And listen to Neutral Milk Hotel,
And talk about feminism and politics.
Do not kiss me with your mustang convertible and your ****** piercings.
I am a taken woman.
But I will take your free drugs.
Thank you very much.
Stop mourning me,
My arrogance should never have been a turn on.
Pretzel crisps, tattoos, and student loans.
It's hard walking down the boulevard of broken dreams,
And bumping into all the other lonely souls.

SUNDAY, JUNE 7...

I fell between the cushions of his super-comfy sofa
with pretzel salt snuggled between my pages.
Another sign of disrespect for inanimate objects
includes cat ***** stains that now soil my beautiful
maroon leather cover embossed in silver with his
initials. This guy is very mercurial, very spontaneous.
He just started a brand new job last week and he's
decided to leave it because it's "just not" for him.
He's planning to move away to another city, reinvent
himself - and revise his resume -  so he can next
fit into a blue chip job he's never held at some Fortune
500 company he's never worked in...and probably
never will. He's also planning to magically "become"
a Wharton grad which he knows will require a very
attractive resume sure to score points with head
honchos, much more impressive than the associates
degree he actually acquired from some obscure
community college in Jersey. He also plans to "create"
a wife and two kids. Employers, he believes, like
a family man, not a bachelor with a roving eye. Family
men get raises, promotions, they move up, they fit in.
This guy knows no boundaries and he's got it all
figured out. His fictional alter ego will escape detection
because he's pretty certain most companies never
really check the backgrounds of potential employees,
but he qualifies all this by confiding that such a generalization
may not be 100% true.
________________

MONDAY­, JUNE 8...

He has yet again changed his mind. He's not going to
leave the job after all. Some big shot at the company
complimented him on how quickly he's learning the
ropes. Looks like that career renovation is no longer
on the table. And one of the new hires - a redhead
named Lisa - who started the same day he did asked
him to join her for lunch. He digs the forward type so
he says "yes" and it turns out they clicked.
________________

TUE­SDAY, JUNE 9...

****** Day for me! He's now decided to forego any
more diary entries although he refers to me as his
"journal" - obviously a more butch designation than
the antique genteel "diary" of years past. He's decided to
stay on the job, stay focused, blah, blah, blah. Being a diary
is no walk in the park. I've given him all these pages
to confide in...I've given him an outlet for his deepest
thoughts, his wildest dreams, his secret desires, and now
he's ditching me like a cheap suit. (Pardon the cliche.)
Excuse me as I prepare for the old heave-**.
Ingratitude is always a *****!

there was this girl i used to know
she was like this
skateboard girl
tangly hair girl
homemade pretzel girl
fire escape girl
cigarette girl
different when it was just us girl
tough girl
tomboy girl
save the animals girl
god knows where she is now girl
mazel tov, ******* girl
god, i was so hooked on you girl

wrapped up in pretzel shapes on my bed in the middle of the night
contorting and twisting
holding my head, lifting my legs
bending my knees
happily.
much unlike the way you contorted me for your own pleasure
much unlike the pretzel you kneaded me into
alike, but different.
so different.

the last soft pretzel  has been sold
he puts the mustard jar
......back into the cart

and "home" he rolls

------------

there was an old lady who lived in Sheboygan
she had so many children

she moved to new york city
and got on welfare

-----------

he was a "podigy"
he coulda been jesus

but he decided to be
........................lebron james

---------

gentle breezes
the bicycling boy
yellow shirt against the park's greenery

and the deep blue sky

--------------

growing unto  night!
the angelic sense of "her nurturing"

all in her EYE

---------------
an obvious "sentence"

the world's been imploded!

(and is an ugly worn out place!)

-------------

the towers have fallen

oly homeland security
on the c.i.a.

watching us now

The bookbag leans
on the aluminum column.

The column is blurry,
someone cleans it
only when their are inspections.

The bookbag has been sitting
collecting the sounds
that leave the Staten Island Ferry
by foot,
for God knows how long.

When you get off,
everyone looks ahead,
but out of the corners
an entire black sea of iris'
rotates to the aluminum column.

It might be a bomb.

The girl behind the Ms. Anne's counter
is skinny almost,
but her *** is too big,
almost.

Munching on the semi-soft pretzel,
you think about empty calories
and the corners of your mouth get sticky.

The Ferry won't be back,
for another thirty or so
minutes.

Somebody takes out a guitar,
and starts playing
a little Dylan. People
form a circle around him.
This is the American Pow-wow.

You reach in your breastpocket
for the Marlboros,
but you can't smoke here,
and an official looking person
squints at you,
just to drive the point home.

******* smoking laws,
some places just feel good.

This place with all it's ringy sounds,
like the guitar,
and phones beeping with texts
and babies,
deep fathers,
and high mothers.

Just to puff and puff
and push that sugar down
with nicotine would really
up this feeling of comradery.

A guy with a gold-plated shield
on his breastpocket and a blue-button down.
Walks over to the bag.

The iris' move,
people keep talking but
they're just saying words
to make it look like they're talking.

By the time the ferry
rings in baritone,
the bag is gone;
the column is still blurry;
the man is still playing his guitar,
but there's an emptiness.

She had a tongue that could open a wine bottle.
Razor-sharp articulation.
A fine art, some might say.
Living sentences on a knifes-edge.
It started in a unblunted manner,
The force hit smacked splintered minds like a hammer.
Honed in cuspate motions,
Incisively smashing the nail on the head.

She wasn’t wrong often.
Vivacious wit vivid oscillating witch,
some might say.
Not I.
I followed in the downstream of her resonance.
A quivering wreck,
soaked from head to toe in her libretto.

She marched in stilettos,
locomotive tip-toe motion,
devotion to the traverse.
Deviating as s he ambulated across lurid cobbled paths.
How she manages, alas.
Evades my comprehension.

She had this brunt agitation,
as if,
she couldn’t hear the words you say to her.
Maybe it was her nescient nature.
A think naive conversant,
If only it was that simple.
Those dimples on her cheeks were like craters in the moon.
That cheesy laugh fractures.

She escaped from Alcatraz,
Caught only by the dereliction,
of her minds conviction.
Infamy lapsed,
as she collapsed in a pretzel of marvellous contortion.
She radiantly turned to stone,
a statuesque stanza.
Cloned in allure,
that never found answers she was looking for.

Dark shadows swirl their way into Cabrini Boulevard,
The pigeons rise to scatter as they slowly pass along,
The pretzel seller finds his eyes are misted, caught off-guard.
A subway busker starts to play a doleful Elvis song.

East-Eighty-Third is humming with a thousand urban dreams,
Cold fantasies unfold within the petals of the night;
September ghosts are set adrift on ectoplasmic streams,
With hosts of angels following, in garlands of white light.

Sleep soundly now, New York, let bitterness be washed away,
let sleep's dark poppies dissipate all agonies of mind.
Sentinel wings will guide your mourning dreams towards the day
when sanity will reign over the ways of humankind.

Gotta have my pops.
Gotta big o'l pretzel.
Gotta sit soon.
Soon I will be  *******.   Soon I will.
Will I be soon?
****  ****  ****.
Where's the ****?
Go home man. Go the hell home.
Hell, I'm home. Now? Now what?
Yeah... Let's figure it out. ok?
(Puke)
Let it out man... Nahhh. Don't do that unless you're ready.
pshhh. I'm not sure what you're trying to say, but let's do
it again. (puke....puke puke puke.)  
Nice nice. Ice that.
That what? Whaaaaaaat?
Don't worry about it mannnnn. It's allllllllll goooood. Good
to me. Good to you. (puke)

I am the people and the neighborhoods,
the pretzel vendor and the bank president,
the silver spoon child and the child who hungers.

I am public forum and barroom debate,
an investigative reporter and his angry subject,
the jury's patient search for truth,
a silent vigil outside City Hall,
and I can hear, on this humid summer night,
the voice of history's resounding approval.

Blow a dart through the eye of a needle
In a beetle's bull's eye's eye of the fetal
Position used to permission the perspiration of children
Flowing from the cycle wheels on their next revision-
Intermission-
The cat walks in the bathroom with the lights off,
Cat's cough, drops his neck soft loft, STOP
His paws from picking it and licking it off the top
Shelf of the urinary depository shelter shop-
Cat's pleasure walk-
The beetle's wife still cries to the beat
Beating butterfly kisses on the front left cheek
Tongue out, pierced through nose ring bling
Shine bright like the glossy wet stain, sting-
Half a toe dream-
"We call this recession", session dismissed for obsession
With questions about lessons learned by sections
In the left hand direction weeping willow pull our pension
From the pockets until the rocket red will start suspension!
Skin peeling regression!
Drizzle dribbling brizzles of bad mouth grizzle
Fat down throat smoke sizzle with frizzy hair frizzle!
Blood suckdown proud pretzel frazzle
Flowing mud slug suction cup dry slump saddle!
Have you watched your mind battle
The thoughts of many cattle
Pronged along like kids caught by tattle
Tale stories of dead bodies and hastles!
Watch them rattle-
Shattered glass got caught in the brains back
Spinal chord twisted in two ways tied around a racetrack
Task force grants permission for the Hazmat
Gas mask, tear burning sensation, blood, sweat and gun caps-
Gunshot whiplash-
Pulling out the hairy back hand wrist rip
Falling out grey death, black heart, sunk ship
Flipped over the backside walls to pavement
Too hard to bouncy ball back up to save it-
What a world we created-
Cracked skull thought shots, drink down the toxic
Hot spit, words flowing through split tongue box fit,
Cracked teeth lost kids, babies ******* down bottles lost in
Jungle jam, juicing through the ice box foxes sneak  in closets!
The world's spinning so fast, there's no way to stop it-
It's surprising how we don't see that we're all lost yet!

An old florist, dressed in black
Hands a white rose to a guy.
While the beggar pets a stray..
A bicycle falls by.

It’s the westerly winds again...
Rain peeking through the sunless sky…
Though everything is getting moist around..
It’s my heart that’s running dry..

There’ goes the artist’s beret
And the lil girl’s pink umbrella..
A child pays a sixpence..
To the friendly pretzel fella..

The street lamp winks
While it listens to the accordion..
Lovers falling in love again…
While I wait for my old companion

The sea isn’t getting any wetter with the rain…
Though my hands are  getting wrinkled and white…
Then the same old man in his mackintosh..
Comes into my old ,weary sight..

We just saw, gave a reserved smile..
Then I cursed the different ways I chose…
Yet he melted all my regrets…
And held out that white rose…