I love screen protectors. They're useful, practical little ******* - and cheap, to boot - and I can't help but want one for every gadget I have. But I can't ever put them on right.
There's always a thousand little air bubbles, or dog hairs, or dust particles that make air bubbles. All I want is the added security, that little extra drop of protection that everyone wants with the kind of investment that is an iPhone. Instead, I'm rewarded with a visual reminder of my mediocrity; a dozen little bubbles, only slightly obscuring my view of Ashley's text. She says she loves me - as a friend, of course. I'm "married." And it's not easy to read, because there's an air bubble over half of the text alert window.
I tried all I could; took my US Toy card to the thing in an attempt to force retreat from some of the bigger bubble-platoons. I applied, reapplied, and reapplied again. I used the spare one that the package came with. I even looked up a video to see how someone else did it. Nothing.
Fine.
A text from a man I grew up with, asking me to hop on Metal Gear Online. I can read it. I wish I didn't have to. It looks so ugly with that air bubble trying to smother it. I can't rip my eyes from the bubbles now, sealed by the OtterBox case I bought for the phone, and living comfortably with the protector's adhesive around them. I wish the case could protect the screen sufficiently. But I wanted a screen protector. I wanted to put it on and put it on right. I wanted to smooth everything out with a card in triumph and tell myself, with a smirk, that it was worth the $2 I paid. All I got was air bubbles. Air bubbles, there to remind me that I still can't do much right.
I hate screen protectors.

I want to die
But I don’t know what that is.
No, I don’t just want things to be alright.
I’m tired of this world and life.
I want to write one more poem.
To let the story have an end.

And then leave by myself.
Which seems impossible for me, to just let everything go.
It took me everything to do everything in this life already.
Have it be ok enough to survive.
But it never really worked and it never felt alright.
So please let the story end.

Tell me where I will be free and where I’ll find my place.
A world of freedom with my old friends and feelings.
Still there but feeling good and better.
Not sick but in my power.
In love and able to rest in peace.
And fly away.

I can’t find my world in here.
Let me go soon now.
Write the end chapture here.
Let me die, let me go.
Let me find my courage to let go of everything, it’s not even working.
Ever.
Yet it’s all I really know.

I tried before to go.
Wasn’t my time.
Same right now, still things to wait for.
For people, for me.
Born suicidal, I hate this world, the life, the constant merciless days and nights.

I wanted euthanasia but in the end it was denied, trying again, reapplied.
Intensely long waiting time.

Although I know there’s more to this torturing life.
And every chapture had its own little subjects that perfectly align.
But now I need to die!
I want to, I have to.
Let me say goodbye, tell you “This is the end”.
For once and for all.
In this life for me finally.
Goodbye, goodbye.

The end.

It always started with a kiss.
A kiss that shocked her from her lips to her hips
and sent her reeling down rabbit holes
searching for something that sings like hallelujah.
But by the time Gloria regained consciousness
to the sound of a needle riding an empty groove,
all she found was the window he'd left open,
And a bone;
A marrow-filled keepsake abandoned on the sill.
She wrapped it in ripped gossamer from
her grandmother's wedding veil and
placed it neatly in the closet
with all the others.
And as she reapplied the crimson lipstick,
brushed too much blush over sunken cheeks,
and outlined her eyes in waterproof mascara,
she felt the draft more than ever before.
"A home can be an awfully lonely place for love..."
she murmured to her autumn tree self,
then she stepped out of the door, lips puckered
and primed of every proof that she was
anything but a ******.

One tube of lipstick, a femur, two collarbones
and half a jaws worth of teeth later,
she sat sprucing up to that same
skipping scratch of a static-air record and
pushing the thought of how her grandmother died
alone
to the back of her mind,
as she tied perfect bows with the ribbons of veil.
"A bed can be an awfully lonely place for love..."
she whispered to her bare-finger self.
Then once more, she slipped into a city
whose slogan read:
Take it easy, it's hard beind human these days

After each season changed in a dozen different ways,
and her summer-Merilyn  blonde had
withered winter-newspaper grey,
Her knuckles and joints baptized in arthritis,
She could hardly bring the religion of her hands to
raise up the ribcage, fresh enough to
still smell of morning breath.
But this time she did not retire
to the closet turned mausoleum.
Instead, she emptied the tomb of all
these ex-lovers' left overs,
all the bare-bones of the best parts of
these midnight escape artists
who never fully got away,
and Gloria made for herself a makeshift man.
One that would never keep her warm,
but would never leave her
frozen by an open window sill either.
One with an empty chest that offered no treasures,
but didn't have the guts to chase the morning-afters.
"A heart can be an awfully lonely place for love."
she mouthed to her silent-breasted self,
as she bent down for one last
unconducted, dusty kiss.

If we were young men,
  if we were strong

If we had fresh words,
  to add to our song

If we were soldiers,
  with war in our veins

If we were poets,
  our voices reclaimed

If we were lovers,
  of women that cried

If we went wandering,
  our heart’s reapplied

If we were statesmen,
  the world in our grasp

If we were sailors,
  the wind at our backs

If we were farmers,
  with meadows so green

If we were actors,
  on stages supreme

If we were hunters,
  new wolf on the prowl

If we were dreamers,
  all wishes allowed

If we were young men,
  still facing the sun

But alas, we are old
  —and darkness has come

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

pre-date jitters
perfect posture
pick me up at eight

social scrolls
late-night strolls
forehead kisses
mr. and mrs.

couch cuddles
midnight movie
head on shoulder
kiss on cheek

forget me not
forget me never
i am yours
forever and ever

*

Fingers trembling; lips dry
Make-up reapplied seven times
Back straight; ****, he’s late
Smooth your dress, try not to stress

Timeline trailing; a tagging trend
Neither wants to see the end
Hand in hand, the stars above
He points out which she reminds him of

Back at home, when they’re alone
A kiss on the head, she’s ready for bed
But with ring in hand, he asks for a band

Kids asleep, eating leftover Peeps
Mundane Mondays come only once a week
Television sounds softly; lights are down low
Her head on his shoulder, his kiss on her brow

Mini blue flowers
A reminder of their vows
To grow old together, and forever they shall

You are the devil in the face of my broken watch- your eyes reveal a shear glint of the moon's light. Your tear ducts make mine heavy. It's been 7 years since I felt you. You feel wonderful. I kept my promise. To you I keep all my promises. I fought the demons you protected me from, but I had to fight them on my own terms. Talk about rotten boyfriend material. I wish I could have been able to move to you, into you, closer to you, maybe even do some of that weird parkour jumping dancing Magic Mike Jordan twisting dancing type things. You after all are our Pieta.

You are the brilliant amulets of mirth and unbroken pathways. I feel the fur of your carpet between my toes. And I still haven't reapplied your nose. Please don't drown without me.

My only shining armor
Is wearing no brands across my chest
My battle calls are telling them
That I don't go to rest.
My metal shaped from experience
Swords fashioned in the fire
Drums fitted, screaming the harshest words
To **** your hateful admirers.
Uniforms made of the sharpest silver
Chains clinking, dragging along
Galloping horses through the fields
As we screech the freedom song.
"Break my heart, you will no more!
My deepest enemies and fiends-
You brought out the darkest monster
When you took out other queens!"
Bayonets line up to shoot
And all our eyes look deadly
You're lucky I banded everyone up
Or you'd be dead already.
Instead I built you my army
We wear mascara instead of masks
The same mascara we reapplied
Before we took up arms and axes.
I fix my piercings up my ears
Make sure my shirt's in place
Before I call my girls to start
They make sure you know our grace.
"How dare you take another out!
That queen has slept with many!
I bet you couldn't pay her enough!
Bet she only asked a penny!"
"Called me names, guess what, my dear?
You cannot speak anymore!
For when I am all finished with you,
You won't be able to utter '*****'!"
Standing afar, my troops take back
All feeling they have lost
So next time you try to hurt one of us,
Remember just who's boss.

Why are you settling for me? tumbled the rocks. All gathered up in a pile were they, now fallen all over the ground in a seemingly terrible pattern or even no pattern at all.

There was silence.

Why are you waiting for me? Sprouted the vines as its stems grew round the side that had saw no light. Saw no nourishment. No survival. And soon those arms withered and sagged and littered the ground.

Only a soft breeze caused a leaf to move and a light scrape was heard. Then. Nothing.

Why do you continue to stand with me? Creaked the fence. Wooden and withered. Partially stained and patches of white. My innocence is gone and so is your patience. I am splintering into a thousand pieces that only seem to harm you. The sealant wears off after a single storm. The paint is sun bleached within a week and cracks are appearing revealing the crumbling wood inside. I'm infested with feelings of instability as termites devour the fiber of my being. I remain a skeleton. A crumbling memory.

So why?

A slight tap. Tap. TAP. as the rocks were picked up one by one and placed back into an organized pile.

Why?

A slight rustle. Rustle. RUSTLE. as the dead litter was swept away and arms of vines were redirected towards the sunny side.

WHY?

A slight schwick. Schwick. SCHWICK. as the lacker was applied and reapplied followed by a layer of paint, topped with a weather proof sealant guaranteed to only slightly crack

Why do you love me? Cried the girl.
And he gathered her up in his arms like he did with the rocks.
And he reoriented her face toward his like the vines to the sun.
And he stared into her and gave her what she needed to be strong (and like the layers he applied to the fence he's rebuilding her).

She intertwined her thick fingers
behind both shelves of the medicine
cabinet and embraced them clamorously
into the sink.

I.

Maybelline, Rimmel, and Revlon
now spotted with flakes of dried toothpaste
and ****** hair.

Just.

Her hands dove wrist deep into the pool
of glamor and acceptance before her
and emerged with scarlet lipstick.

Want.

She uncapped and carefully ran it across
her stiffened lips, accidentally coloring
her skin and the corners of her open mouth.

To.

She mashed a makeup brush into a jar
of powdered blush and swept it over
her cheekbones like a blood red sunset
overtaking a mountain.

Be.

With black tears running down her face
and staining her white shirt,
she reapplied her mascara.


**Beautiful.

i only wash my hair every four days
and i never shave my legs unless i'm going somewhere that requires a dress-
         or no clothes at all.
                            and i never remember to put on deodorant in the morning.

i only ever brushed my hair after practice
and reapplied makeup
and made sure to douse myself in the perfume you like so much so
                  you could run your fingers through something more than steam,
                                              you could let your eyes roam without hesitation,
                  you could call me at two in the morning and tell me your clothes  
                                                       ­                                             still
              ­                                                                 ­                          smelt                   
                                        ­                                                                 ­         like                                      
             ­                                                                 ­                                           me.

i only ever did anything
                                       for you.

As it is now,
As it was before,
As it will be,
They come to see,
To touch,
All of them the same to you.

With scorn or love you take them,
Your gifts allow the choice.
Gifts honored before honor to the Cross,
Before the word reached us
Your gifts called and we came to you
In suspension of belief.

I see you looking in the glass.
No, do not turn to find me.
By chance your powers I can ignore.
Take no alarm: I only wish to observe
To report, as it were, on woman served,
The human made whole at birth by chance.

By chance, as on a train
You saw in passing
A girl and boy by darken woods kiss.
No comfort could beauty offer then,
For in those woods something moved;
Something came as if to call.

A tossing of your hair, a crossing of your legs,
Lipstick reapplied, a man’s flirtatious eye.
The first embrace, you hear and feel him sigh
As the darken woods slide by.
The girl and boy you pretend never meet again;
The thing in the woods blessed beauty avoids again.

Now know what you avoid comes to all
To transform, to move, to mitigate.
Yesterday it held a woman plain of form, of face.
It touched her here, it touched her there.
She laughed and sent it away to seek fairer form, fairer face.
Age to her seemed no disgrace.

She spoke to me of the poets she had read –
They warn of beauty’s trap, she said.
Beauty conquers all; beauty fades fastest of all.
Simple of form and face, lovers few – even young, she endured.
Balanced now – where desire lies she finds her place;
With love for one she surrenders nakedly.

Such grace she showed.
Can beauty compare?
Or at my touch will she cringe
As if a polished blade caressed her flawless skin.
Come beauty, come –
With age let us see what haughty beauty does.

© 2016

Fourteen years old,
Story untold
I fell in love with Charlie,
And he nerded
As never before

I still make coffee
For two,
Watching quietly
From every door frame
Grumpy olf soundman---
Needs to love too,
Strange namr,
Transparent shame,
Instant fame

Sold belongings
Become Itinerant
Poetry librarian,
Semi colons;
I use them to excess
Supported the sublime
With uncurbed---
Enthusiasms

Changing mind postponed
Demise by decades,
Later-life serendipity
Led to Authorland

I was born some assembly
Required,
Anything's possible with---
An extension cord
Cried,
Defied, denied,
Sighed,
Died,
Reapplied,
Mistakenly kills kitten,
Fears anything delicate

Sit yourself down and listen awhile
You really got no place to go
But the look in your eyes says
‘Hold out your hand’
So let’s buy a ticket
It’ll be some kinda show

I danced with the jugglers
I ran on the wire
You watched, and you saw me fall
In the blink of an eye, you jumped to your feet
Then the lights went out
And they saw nothing at all

I dazzled the crowd
I took the applause
Then I wiped off the greasepaint
And reapplied yours
I watched from the sidelines as you took your bow
I gave you my world
But hey, won’t you look at me now?

I’ve danced for the last time
It’s all over now
But don’t you dare shead a tear
My time in the spotlight was short but ‘My God’
I burned like a fire
And survived it somehow

I dazzled the crowd
I took the applause
Then I wiped off the greasepaint
And reapplied yours
I watched from the sidelines as you took your bow
I gave you my world
But hey, won’t you look at me now

So here we are at the end of the show
The light come down one last time
The costumes and make up
Are safe in the trunk
I’ll hitch up the horses
And you can be on your way

I dazzled the crowd
I took the applause
Then I wiped off the greasepaint
And reapplied yours
I watched from the sidelines as you took your bow
I gave you my world
But hey, won’t you look at me now

from an eighteen year absence as I stood staring into the silver surface
awaiting the appearance as she would once again  part the mirrors glaze
sudden thrill of foreboding anxiety passes across me as ribbon of silk lace
or that momentary nostril flair when a sudden snare of rarified air plays
havoc on the ancient receptors nearly forgotten as aromatic sprites pass
along those corridors memories reside and sometimes hide behind doors of this maze
awash in the dusty overlay of that which still seeking to delay realities consistently amass
when a graphic form of de ja vu breaks thru passing and suddenly does appear
as calm still silver slightly shivers then parts to deliver the hand and then humanistic form
to reach for the rounded edge of porcelain solidity gasping in  oxidized atmosphere
i watch decades lost disappear as if only yesterday i stood here and again this the norm
in wordless anomalous aplomb i watch her face apperceive my image as i etch the scene
so intent upon my scrivener scrawl in my rush to capture all onto my minds private wall
that only in the faintest of my subconscious can i recall the echo call my name as she covered all distance between
attaching herself in ways far beyond the physical bond and thru time uncertain beyond the curtain we fall
tumbling into that void where nothing exists outside that infinitesimal moment of infinity
with the eventual return to the constraints passing back thru the curtain and time certain reapplied
once again the prisoner of the laws of time space and the reality of gravity
plans made to meet later to catch up with those details with smile i say thank you for that ride
her eyes twinkle and i know with absolute certainty she understood exactly what i meant
that is why she said i still do this everyday as i am addicted to that moment when Einsteins laws don't exist
then with laughter she denied me an answer to the question on my face later she said and up she went
so i paused at the door to watch her grace from a hundred feet high she bounced and leaped into the air then i saw  what i had just missed

for there she was not going up and not coming down  suspending all physical laws and she was unbound  weightless and free and addicted

and right then i had to admit to myself ....i was a bit jealous but nowhere  near as brave as i watched her reenter that mirror.

If we were young men
  if we were strong

If we had fresh words
  to add to our song

If we were soldiers
  with war in our veins

If we were poets
  our voices reclaimed

If we were lovers
  of women that cried

If we went wandering
  our heart’s reapplied

If we were statesmen
  the world in our grasp

If we were sailors
  the wind at our backs

If we were farmers
  with meadows so green

If we were actors
  on stages supreme

If we were hunters
  new wolf on the prowl

If we were dreamers
  all wishes allowed

If we were young men
  still facing the sun

But alas, we are old
—and darkness has come

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

Today I have showered
Five times.
I have brushed my teeth
Twice for every shower.
And I reapplied my makeup
When my mouth was clean.
A simple routine
That keeps you out of my mind.

What if we as women quit the
“what if’s” and “but when’s” and “except he’s”
and left him the first time we felt a rock drop in our bellies?

I whipped the trash bag into its receptacle today,
worthlessness disguised as anger, and
reapplied my make up three times because
being late is the same as saying you don’t want me

Or I’m not good enough to race against the type of woman
you’re used to.

I think of the ways I used to shame myself when this happened before, when a boy I loved didn’t mind enough
to love me back the same way,
or at all,
but this time, I don’t reach for a blade
I sip a drink -- a daughter takes after her father.

I use essential oils with scents of
emotions I pray to feel --
scents like “uplifting” and “serene” and “relax”

Is there an essential oil the flavor of “*******”?
Because that seems to be the only way I feel lately –
roiling and ready for a fight,
jaw clenched tight
against the taste of your name.

having completed my chemistry
degree at Edinburgh...

thanks, but no thanks...
when i heard that Polish citizens
were relieved
student loan requirements,
and i just became a
British citizen?

dual nationality? out the window....

but when i applied to study my
passion, history,
at U.C.L...
        some ******* from
Birmingham....
   plus the added expenses of
£3000+ a year,
from what
Tony Blaire envisoned at
hovering well below £1500 a year...

never mind Iraq and Afghanistan..
as i said to a Turk in his shop:
while some random Englishman
listened in:

   for that? i could thank him,
the rest? brushed up with
a savant wave of the hand...

   but when i went back to U.C.L?
after having dropped out
after half a year?

   i was invited to a pro-Palestinian
student drama theatrical
exposure...
   Jews were there...
wherever they pop up from like
mushrooms... Golder(s) Green?
        last time i checked...
orthodoxy central...

   but these ******* from Birmingham
turned to me after the student play...
and before i had anything
to actually said,
they retorted with:

WE'LL CRUCIFY YOU!

         good thing that i dropped out,
before paying into the already
extortionist debt...

  ****... what year was this?
  graduated from Edinburgh in 2007...
the Northern Irish post-graduate
in French gave me a 1st
for an essay on Albert Camus' essay
regarding  the outsider...
and the Canadian ****
in history class liked my essay
on Napoleon...

          but back in London?
thank **** i left...
            WE'LL CRUCIFY YOU...
how do you even react to that?
not being able to give an opinion...
as late, or early, as 2008...

             nothing to speak of regarding
dialectics...
      Birmingham, the shadow hanging
over London...
     if you want to study further,
even though you don't need to,
esp. in England, given the legal
drinking age is 18 in England,
  and i suppose the main reason
   why people take to university is
for the oath-fulfilling I.D. of
    the seniors in fraternity bulks...

drink first, learn to drive later...
     learn to use a bus, and your legs...
coordinate yourself like so,
before experiencing demands
to drive a car...
my "problem" with America was
never, and never will be about
gun control...
    you're joking, right?
the legal age for drinking is, 21?!
daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa(h) ****?!
so you are legally able to drive
aged 16...
   but only legally bound to consuming
alcohol aged 21?
    gun, no gun...
what's the obvious problem?
haven't traveled on public transports
on a N86 ****** out your
head wishing to spot some
leprechaun or some Parisian
absinthe fairy...

but the legal argument goes:
you are allowed to drive first...
wait!
   take the ******* bus!
learn to wait!
        drink... but let someone take
the ******* responsibility!
guns... blah ha ha ha ha ha ha!

but come on...
i already had a degree...
30+ hours of learning...
12 hours of which was practical application
of, actual chemistry experiments...
for less than £1500 a year
under the labor manifesto of:
education, education, education...

back in London?
£3000+ a year...
   for a 6+ hours of "learning",
which actually allowed me to keepa part time
roofing job with my father...
   for what?!

          so i started investing
in a private library... the kind that my local
town library couldn't provide...

but what sort of "comrade"
says to a fellow "comrade", after just under a a year...
having invited him to a pro-Palestinian
student play

    WE'LL CRUCIFY YOU...

thank god i dropped out;
i wish i never reapplied t study for a second;
as much as i loved history
at A-level...
              with that hit of a piece of coursework
for the next graduates of
Canon Palmer R.C. -
      about the counter-Reformation.

come to think of it...
i should have replied:
  CRUCIFY?!
      such a, limited... imagination.

I reapplied
to
college again
because
I'm still
preparing
for my
future,

and it's
exciting!

Who wants to go get therapy,
expose all of those darker
pieces that are broke in half,
then reapplied to the darker side
of my glass figurine
that got smashed to smithereens.

Who wants to talk about my teen years
of hormonal chaos that cost me
so many nights of tears, anxiety,
and snot that made me cough.

I’d prefer not to be disturbed
by revisiting the pain existing
in memories I have put behind me,
so, I think I’ll pass on that whole
talking and letting go, so I can grow
and get better therapy scene.