1
she taps he hand, twice.
across the room,
he stares, thinking
into empty air.
others, scattered
tap pencils or fingers
on desktops, booktops
and phone keyboards

the balding man
with black hair:
combed backward
and to differing angles
so that his head is split
vertically-
stands, above the room
his back turned

his words,
meant for the crowd
reverberate only
along classes fringe
but still take precedence
over nothing
even to them-
academics, outcasts


2
back of the room
reveals everything
to the observer
trying to see

blue-eyed brunette
glares vengefully
at no one,
just to glare

he looks up once
to watch
as another
pulls up
drooping jeans.
she laughs
at conversation
unmeant for,
and inaudible
to her


3
today, she smiles
and lets her lip fall
begging, like a puppy
But when they
lose eye contact,
she glares, again

he leaves footprints
on parallel desk
from lounging
then fires himself
to his feet
using stored energy,
and sugar from gum

words bounce along
the walls in the back,
and isolated eyes peer
towards the screen
but hide the fact
that they care


4
two week vacation
has left their minds
full of everything
except math,
so they listen
to him, while he speaks

but travel backward
in time, with
those closest them
while he creeps,
silent, around the room

she concentrates hard,
on her work
glaring at the page.
he sits a desk forward
feet on floor
neighboring desk full
today, but only physically

blue hat rests
on sketchbook,
its border
barely covering
closed eyes

blond head
implants itself
jokingly, into
smooth shining
white wall
with enough force
to collapse
accidental target

a hand raises
attracting gazes,
awestruck,
at her interest
in forgotten
material
of future tests


5
only a few eyes wander
from blue lined notebooks
though the left flank
still chatters, embodying
either a secretive chipmunk
or the breeze which starts the storm

storm clouds appear slowly
in sketchbook, blue hat bobbing
rhythmically in response to active pen

perched above the flock
reminiscent, split headed
papa bird scans the masks
of his shockingly silent chicks

random lecture breaks the silence.
Her eyes aren’t the only ones
Fixed into a steel laden glare
But the chipmunk wind ceases


6
his questioning glance lands
on uninhabited space,
exhibiting a yawn
which traverses through,
and twists, the faces of
those otherwise engaged

lecture ends with a question,
the scent of nuts blows through
mentally empty classroom
turning desks to predetermined
positions and swiftly inhabiting
three-quarters of the physical class

his steel glare has replaced hers
the latter’s eyes now soft as an infants

within five minutes, his voice
undergoes  a brutal, complete cycle
pleading, congratulating, yelling
and as always, lecturing


7
pre-test:

preparations for misery-
mundane chipmunk chattering,
jokes and laughs from random
oddities appearing everywhere

blue hat rests in intervals.
Blue coat rearranges
essay for another class

The girl in the sunny plaid
Rolls an orange along her hand

He points at nothing and asks
Nobody something without answer

The left flank, as always
Is turned away, conversing

A sigh rings outward loudly
Everyone glares, nervously,
Everywhere, reward of concentration


After my test:

First paper in, he scans lightly
Sets it down with a scowl
and yawns, twice, breaking the
silent shroud of heavy fog
which is hanging overhead

wandering free eyes witness
down-turned heads concentrating
as much on tests  as on moving
their hands wildly, excitedly
trying to communicate non-vocally

others have yet to detach themselves
from their seats and stride upward,
hopefully more triumphantly
than their sole predecessor

one shuffles now, slowly toward him
his hand shaking as he releases
that  paper, he turns away as it flutters
onto the desk- he replants himself in his

twelve others walk forward
smiling, shrinking, sometimes speaking
and always he glares, triumphant
knowing his success at our failure


later:

his near-sleeping form            
finds distraction, in waking
dreams, jumping back suddenly
breaking from his plank-like state
without speaking. excitement
for approaching weekend is
communicated in the left flank

two girls break the silence
running in from outside            
he glares at them, but laughs

everyone breaks into groups
after the conversation about
mysteriously nutty discarded sock

he runs to the forefront
forehead folded, finger on mouth
no-one notices, but still he glares

8
he smiles and glares at the floor
his legs swinging back and forth            
tan slacks rustling softly

exaggerated scores bubble in ears            
as they search for their destroyer

in front of forgotten faces falls
the page of a forgotten tome

several yawn, hoping, understandably
that their stretched lips
will pull themselves far enough
to barricade ears from his droning

he kills himself, twice, bumbling
into half-thought chastisements
of the  flittingly flirtatious students
intermingling hoping behind him
causing waves of whispers, laughter
and slightly strengthened chatter

he re-aligns his thoughts quickly
and rambles on again, always

9
he speaks to her softly
from across a sea of desks
she looks up, panicking calmly
distracted from distraction

in silence, blank eyes turn
surprised at the non-withering
state of her barely living corpse

he asks a question, looking up
a single answer is given
unemotional and short, buy ending
heavy hanging awkward silence

how talented the teacher
who gives his lecture while
still addressing unrelated
student self lectures

the still silence given
in his questioning lull
hangs so loudly the whispers
traversing the classroom appear
silent as finger wiggle
and pencils trace zeros

his extrication, caused by
distractingly thunderous voice
is met with a comment
causing a wave of laughter
starting at his mouth
and extending to inhabit everything

10
half the time gives
twice the attention
as they concentrate
on keeping him on
the undying topic
of the work we
have already done

they admit defeat
as dusty tome opens
spreading a nutty cloud
causing heads to turn
and words to leap.

from opens lips,
mischievous gremlins
sprout, dancing on
tables and chuckling
away from the sigh
of his down-turned, split
shining, globular mind

he scratches pink ear
with bone pale finger
reading unrelated words

in the center of the room
both mentally and physically
he sits, momentarily quiet
as dark eyes glare past
rumpled pink nose,
concentrating

blue hat rests on open palms
above dust covered open page
he slips into sleeping state
but picks himself up
and stares though thin borderline
toward shiny rambling forehead

a shutter cord flies forward
the hand at the end pulling hard
but with no affect to the shutters
neither lowering the physical
or raising the mental

the color of non-color pencils
interrupts the class momentarily
as she strides forward to compare
and then criticizes his care

he just sits, smiles and stares

11
eleven desks lie empty
of one form more than usual
amplifying the arm movements
of the ever ticking seconds

his obscured mouth flings seeds
which sprout into words
before even meeting the worn
blood-colored carpet below

in the main room, sixteen
sit silent, sketching, sleeping
or siphoning the last minute

12
those left awake, and alive
have come to understand
the numbers on the screen
this being their specialty
in a nutty shell, of course
splitting, as we are, large
crowds of numbers, and us
being teenagers, isn’t that
how we think, in numbers
and ratings of everything
and, sitting in the central
crowd are the talented
crowd-splitters
flattery-spitters

13
the silence of half absence
is pierced, as always by vocal
anomaly, centered around
rows of shining wood
bookrests, but only one
set of hollow, dark-rimmed
vacant eyeballs watches
well-welcomed interruption

he lets us work, standing.
Someone somewhere opens
A large container of nuts
Entire class starts stuffing
Handfuls into puffy cheeks
Absorbing sensations into
Eternally ravenous minds

The apocalyptic mix of noises
Is split again by central
Nutcracker, and those in corners
Glare, smiling, rubbing shadowed
Acne scarred faces
with raw-bitten nails

14
balding papa bird speaks loudly
transforming his voice, becoming
vocally legendary cartoon duck

the wave of resulting laughter
ends in un-given nut-break
spreading, without speech
the understanding that his
comedic digression will not
meet a quick extinction

we greet the weekend
by rising early
our excuse: competition
to devour the worm

15
three heads are downturned
peering into textbooks
as the tsunami breaks

the days end starts
and beady eyes peer
in the direction of his
moving head, colored
gothic gargoyle in the
dim cloudlight streaming
through dust coated
slit windows

the room transforms
becoming triumphantly,
grumpily, repeatedly
conversational

artificial silence
spreads like a wave
from right back corner
to left front corner
leaving behind
the half of the room
hidden behind the wall
of troublemakers
who will eventually
cause the wall to topple
with the sheer force
of assorted nuts

16
blue hat is scrunched
under the of a fist
pounding on his head,
result of the decibels
consumed, and produced
by the embodiment
of the thoughts around him
which fall from stuffed
cheeks. Bounce off tables
and spread a sickening aroma
as their shells split
exposing, revealing
nothing

17
red face glances upward
as harsh words split
the widening sea of snickers
his words stop, first time today
as whispers spread wildly
of his speed in delivering answers
seconds later, room is silent
as statement ends and lecturer
turns back to him, offering
as always, another wave
of deep felt, anger hardened
quietly whispered, criticisms

thunderous-rush-voice leads
out of habit and necessity
the minutes following
his behavioral digression
each word stabbing split-headed
pointy-nosed papa bird, their
form a walnut-wood spear
crafted from drifted thoughts
of those sitting nearest him

18
on his back lies a pile of nuts
professor’s earthquake
shoulder shaking causes
eyes to open, back to rise
and with a tremendous roar
both physical and meta-physical,
it topples to worn carpet
and the laugh-track plays on

19
silence- pierced into being
by shrill, violent, mountainous
rise, and fall, of thunderous decibels-
hangs, heavier, louder than
the quick gone loudness replaced
or, in all actuality, displaced
mere seconds before being scrawled
into eternal memory
of those whose noses
sniff, daily, nutty clusters
of letters, which exclude
always, the ever-present x
the destructive π
and that y, which of course
flies as high as forgetful
nut-bearers




©Brandon Webb
2012

"You know, I used to be good at math,"
He says,
A cigarette cradled in his fingers,
Spilling ash on his blue jeans.
He rearranges himself, removes his jacket -
It's much too hot for leather now -
And reveals a Dean t-shirt.
Too cool for school, I suppose.

"The rules just got too crazy, too specific.
Too dependent and tangled.
Well, too much so for the effort I was willing to exert."
He's frank, I'll give him that.
How does he make utter sloth seem so innocent?
Too cool for school, I suppose.

He calls himself a Methodist.
Not like that, though.
He says he's just figured life out.
He means the hows, not the whys.
The stops along the tour of personal success.
A Methodist.
Too cool for school, I suppose.

Eyes stare...
Into nothingness,
The jigsaw of to be’s,
Arranges and rearranges;
Into an appeal of mirage...
Swelling the oasis of life!

And when the glare pierces,
Eyes blink;
The jigsaw settles,
Synchronized with reality;
Strengthening my mind...
To derive the quirky balance -
Between the could be’s ;
And the one that is!

body language that requires
no reading between the lines
its apparent
without the mask of vague
emotions and thoughts
that chased us
apart
and you two
back together
never a matter of whether, just when
I'll pretend not to feel something
when I hear your name
notice how its your arms that wrap
and not hers
its her cheek you kiss, her not on yours
the changes that come, when nothing changes
but the world rearranges
and it all seems to fit
push aside the feelings that rip
melt and they drip
down in slow trickles
and just because they dont stream
like water from a hose
doesnt mean they mean any less
it just means that
they cant put out the fire
and thats something
that just was never an option
for you

Don’t Blink …by Jessie

Don’t blink your eyes, the world changes

Look away and fate rearranges

All the things you thought would be, from now until eternity

Were nothing more than silly dreams, fate-playing games or so it seems

The jokes on me, so have a laugh; who cares about the aftermath

Take it form the one who knows, this is how the story goes

Never try to outwit fate, for when you do, it’s much too late

Don’t blink you eyes, the world changes

Look away and fate rearranges

The one’s you’ve hurt, have felt the pain, and what is it you think you’ve gained?

Was it pre-written in the book of life, that those around you feel the strife?

All the things you thought you knew, all the experiences from which you drew?

Don’t blink your eyes, the world changes

Look away and fate rearranges

Incremental actions
bring monumental
changes
With every fundamental step
your future rearranges
You may not know
what tiny task
could be quite instrumental
in moving your successes
to new and higher ranges

Gonna throw away
The grin today.
Signs of agony
In the words I say.
Rid myself
Of joyous things,
Now a jester
After living like kings.

No use telling a lie
When you're about to cry.
Its only a matter of time,
Until you spill
The reason why.
Lost the trust,
So what's the use?
Unlace my shoes
And tie a noose.

Im not a straight shooter
But I've got a trigger finger.
The feeling of fear,
It loves to linger.
Nothing changes
If nothing changes,
Take control
When it rearranges.
Dont need
The ***** deeds,
Determining
Flowers from weeds.
Taking a walk
In a field of the land mine,
Your head isn't sleepy,
Dont lay it on the line.

Up on a feathered duvet a man conceding defeat
To the Sunday that had just begun
Reeking of last night’s sweat, smoke and self-deceit
Threads of reality so rapidly un-spun

All that he promised himself to accomplish this day
All that stuff to be tossed in the bin
Procrastination rearranges plans or lets them decay
And all because of his love for gin

Amnesia of last night’s antics plants the seeds of guilt
Shame shall be his shadow today
Enter a recurring thought... a sword driven to its hilt
Piercing pain added to his dismay

Rusted cogs of cognition screeched slowly into action
"A cure" he grumbled "A cure"
Wearily off the bed searching for medicinal satisfaction
To make last night less obscure

The stark bright light of the bathroom fried his vision
But as his senses normalized
He stared in the mirror shocked, BANG! In a collision
Mouth agape and paralyzed

Finger painted on his forehead, with what must be blood
G    U    I    L    T   Y
From down stairs somewhere
A woman's laugh
Mocking
Fear took its grip quick

A sword driven to its hilt



Part 2 of 6
a sword driven to its hilt

Arctic chills froze his spine
Pick axes hacked his mind
Tongue pickled in brine
Suffocated and confined
Heart beat pounding
Breathing short and quick
Terror was abounding
Throat swallowing a brick

Staring at his reflection . . . G U I L T Y
Unable move any limb
Even for his protection
Return of memory grim . . . a sword driven to its hilt

Back to the bed room to search for his phone
To make contact with the real world
From down stairs came that exact same laugh
Every hair on his body tightly curled
The phone was nowhere to be found upstairs
Again that tormenting laughter
He called out "Who is it?" but only silence replied
Then that laugh again soon after
"WHO ARE YOU?!" he demanded to know
Arming himself with a cricket bat
Tentatively descending the sweeping staircase
Noticing the post on the door mat
The newspaper informed him it was Monday
Confused, frightened he ran outside
A burnt pile of his clothes lay in front of his door
He yelled but only the laughter replied

Then through the dining room bay-window
Sitting at the table as if a patient guest
A gruesome wide eyed greying corpse of a man  
A sword driven in his head and out his breast

In the dead man’s hand a glowing phone
The source of the tormenting laugh
Not thinking, our man rushed in to take it
The phone flashed "maintenance staff"

Every sense heightened
Sickened and frightened
Feeling he was being observed
Part of a wicked game
Driving him insane
But so far he had been preserved
As he answered the phone
He knew he was not alone
"Hello sir... I hope I haven't disturbed"
------------------------------------------------------­-----------

part 3 of 6

Saturday Night

The late afternoon sun draped its golden satin light
To the house-staff, Giles (our man) seemed uptight
The butler Zamira dutifully stirring his drink right

The sun dipped behind the poplar trees standing straight
He orders "A Churchill  martini" trying not to sound irate
Giles watched her stirring, stirring as in a hypnotic state

Zamira presented a chilled, frosted Riedel martini glass to him
brimming to the top with Gilpins Westmorland extra dry gin
The sun slowly sank behind trees as the drink loosened his limbs
"You may both leave, till Tuesday" He said to Zamira and her twin
Liliana (the cook) and the butler were often dismissed at his whim
They sped off in their green MG, off to the Slaughtered lamb inn

Giles raised his glass to the bobbing full hunters moon
Waiting was now over, the others would be here soon
First a pinch of Peruvian sniffed from a little silver spoon

This day had been prepared in detail for nearly a year
One final act of courage and tenacity he must engineer
All hushed except the sound of large cars drawing near

Four black Jaguars and a white refrigerated van

Crunched over the gravel drive towards (our man)

Giles Bradshaw-Behran stood still.

It had began.

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

Part 4 of 6

three years earlier

The Gallows and Noose

"This, THIS! I'm so tired of all THIS!"
Blurted Giles as Zamira dressed his wrists
Pathetic! (She thought) A dismal attempt
Then left the room concealing contempt
Giles just stared at the

drip

drip

drip

dripping of the morphine
Candle light danced on the walls
The demons sank back into the shadows
Giles returned to the womb
Basking in weightless warmth
Comfortably apathetic
Numb

The drudgery of the next day unfurled
As Giles accepted defeat around noon
Something had to be done about life
That something had better happen soon
  
He brunched in his office
and so began his search
All that day
and night
that week
That month

Deeper into the cavernous "dark web"
seeking any answer to end his despair
but every search became a cul-de-sac
No doors opened for this millionaire
No doors would open
All remained firmly locked
Sitting in his office chair
Feverishly typing as he rocked
He rocked as he typed
He swivelled as he clicked
Searching for something
That he was less able to predict

But that something found him
And sent him an invitation
Explaining that they had been watching
Seeing his frustration
Understanding his world view
May he could understand theirs
But before he were to be accepted
He must climb down the seven stairs
He
      Must
                Climb
                           Down
                                     The
                                           Seven
                                                      Stairs
Dis­tant from the blinding light
Cast yourself from the hallows
Embrace darkness embrace night
Take the Noose and the Gallows.

The mouse pointer hovered
over options "Yes" and "No"
His heart beat quickened
But then came the red glow
of two laser beams from directly behind
circling the yes option
From past the windows' opened blind
"Yes" and the two red dots disappeared
The wheels were put in motion
His future was now commandeered
A force that seemed greater than him
Changed the rules and took control
Embers deep inside of him flickered
Re-igniting the coals of his dark soul

The seven steps awaited him...
What ever could they be?


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


part 5 of 6

The Seven Steps of The Thuggee

Giles sat statue still in his office
Unsure whether or not he should move
Like a hunted deer in the woods
Waiting for chances of survival to improve

And yet though he were vulnerable
Life coursed through every artery and vein
The lost keystone of his arched spirit
The panacea for tedious boredom and pain

DING! ****! The doorbell rang
"Zamira, who is it? Can you please see?"
Footsteps approached the front entrance
Giles felt instinctively "fight or flee"

He sat with silence looming over him
For what seemed like an eternity
"****** ancient bell!" he shouted
"This whole house repels modernity!"

Down stairs
At the entrance
The Cuban butler stared out into the night
Looking for a sign
Looking for who...
Who had left the parcel she now clutched tight

No one
Nothing
But for the song of a lonely nightingale
She hurried
To the office
Where she found her employer looking pale

Zamira explained what had happened
And handed him the black wrapped box
"Would you like me to open it Sir?"
"No! I would like... a chartreuse on the rocks"

She left to attend to his request

For the attention of Mr. G. Bradshaw-Behram
Soon after the two laser beams were on the wrapping
Inside the box was a detailed program
A history of the Thuggee cult and a Thuggee king

The Thuggee King called BEHRAM!
Behram, BEHRAM! His late mother’s family name
A Thuggee cult King relative?
With over 900 hundred murders to that man’s claim

900 strangled victims
To please Goddess Kali
Every drop of blood for her
So humanity can be free

Zamira returned with his drink
Giles had never needed one so much
The following weeks more instruction came

Weeks just turned to months
Months quickly turned to years
Six of the secret steps complete
So many grotesque souvenirs

All leading to this moment
On his lawn under the hunters moon
The waiting was now over
The others would be here very soon
First a pinch of Peruvian
Sniffed from his pretty little silver spoon
Adjusting his cummerbund
That soon would erase two souls fortune

Four black Jaguars and a refrigerated van
Crunched over the gravel drive to our man
Giles stood still and smiled, for it had began

Each of the six women and the six men
Were concealed with hoods and veils
But Giles' face was not hidden from them
Now that he controls the final inhales

Deep in the candle light of the wine cellar
Which had been prepared with plastic sheets and tape
A skirt of dismembered arms on an altar
A grim garland of forty eight human skulls, mouths agape

But fifty skulls are required
According to the ancient text
Two more to soon be provided
Giles planned to do that next

"Bring the two travellers to me" demanded Giles
"Let me send them on their final way"
Eight of the group left and within minutes returned
With four bound, hooded for him to slay.

Giles felt suddenly unable to function
"This was not meant to be!"
"The others witnessed the abduction, Sir"
"They...will not please Kali"

"Stand those women over there
Tie them back to back
Make sure your knots are fixed
Offer them no slack!"

The silk cummerbund slid
Effortlessly off his waist
Weighted near the middle
To offer death less haste
The first of the male offerings
Only kicked for 30 seconds
the world stopped moving when
the other felt the silk band

The back to back females started spinning
Their hoods removed and ******* gone
Giles did not look up to see who he knew
Focused solely on continuing strangulation

This time the Thuggee's had another view
Zamira and Liliana in a blurring spin
Black of space and ocean of deep blue
Zamira angered, Liliana peaceful grin

All but their arms becoming one
Morphing seamlessly into each other
The (previously twin) sisters had become
The universe's all powerful mother

          K A L I...


Final part

Nothing escapes the all-consuming march of time!

As KALI consumed time and space
Her dimensions grew and grew
Her skin darkened to deep space black
From unfathomable ocean blue
Rivers of obsidian flowed as her wild hair
Untamed, magnificent, streaming
Three blood red eyes past, present, future
Decided who needed redeeming
Four arms, three of which were grasping
A sword, a spear, a bowl
The fourth grabbed a Thuggee's head
Sword decapitated the soul
A crimson red snake of a tongue lashed
Out for every drop of blood
Then the sword slashed every throat there
Her tongue lapped up the flood
KALI'S gaze finally cast upon terrified Giles
Evaporating his body with fire
His conscience was that remained in that dimension
His conscience changed KALI'S desire
Frightful fury morphed in to motherly compassion
Her skin back from black to blue
Spewing out rearranged history, time and space
No other being could construe
But a mother must teach her children lessons
So she left Giles not without guilt
A ****** message painted on his forehead
And a sword driven to its hilt

*THE END!

Now...

I'm not about
to confess
to know of this test,
any more
and maybe less
than the usual mess.

Expert
wanna be
burn my eyes
gonna see
can I make
sense of this
dominant stress

It seems a woman
plays soft
thus a man
plays hard
but what she craves in the end
she never gets

Because the
dynamic changes
our role
rearranges
instincts to sustain us
make our minds regress

And she's a mess,
(pause)
that's all, just a mess...

Control freak
she'll bequeath
he can't do
between the sheets
what once
in his mind
was
sacred and bless

She grows hard
he goes soft
happy scarred
awareness lost
he becomes what she hates
a yes-man, yes

With her eye on the prize
while he loses focus
she
in her right
lays the magick to rest

'till
all that's here
left to see
how long it takes
'till she leaves he
and follows her own sunset
in the untamed West

And he's a mess,
(pause)
that's all, just a mess...

The things she'll do
just to spite
what he wants to
and did recite
but not with him,
Oh Hell No,
not with Her chest

Fnds a way
so he knows
no doubt
that she owns
and faults him when he learns
of her ****** best

He can't sleep
becomes a sheep
MOJO lost
on the heat
of that which might have been
had he
had more zest

She might have stayed
had he played
along with her witchy way
and also
respected
her emotional tests?

And that's the mess,
(pause)
that's all, just a mess...

And then they can't write anymore. They turn their faces dangling  hthreads. They are no fight and no three musketeer. There is no buddy system when you're playing for one, and your keyboard is pocked with burn marks from writing and falling asleep and writing and falling asleep; Apple and H have been missing and the Space Bar, V, and B are on their way out. The positives have become absolutelies. The women abandoned the children and their children, and dinosaurs have eaten the rest. Rest with the wicked and the wind and the women you black-tip reef shark of **** and dross and wickedness(x2), you scratch 'n' sniff barracuda for poor kitchen sink, outhouse, washer/dryer, and wet bar maintenance for a low-cost of ninety-nine dollars and nine cents; the joke is better when the numbers are written out in ink. It **** across teenagers better- that is what I mean. Nineteen year olds specifically, passion possessed, beautiful creators of 2008 and 2009. I should be about  ready to shuffle my feet, curl up my gray socks, and shepherd a Wheaties Box, donning a frog costume, with a homemade iron-on Jesus patch. It was in a box with some pogs and Michael Jordan Valentine's Day cards that I wrote to everyone that fit the profile for my Mother, at least until I turned nineteen. The magical age where even the catholic girls have found out that they're already going to hell-

-

I relive the natures of so many marauders from unclassifiable ***** that I can still taste in my mouth. Sometimes it's a fever other times it's my initials scribbled along the walls. Inquire and we'll dine, lie supine, intertwine; you can teach me about cooperative.

While you were once the queen in the body's sore sorts and blisters from insatiable bear. I'm ready to **** a lion. I'm attracted to your spine and the positions that we've lied in. The pleasure is square it's the shapes in between, non-existantly spinning me into despair. We have seen over one hundred thousand movies, we've had *** in a jacuzzi. You were the fabulous muse so bemuse me again, it's enough of shaving one leg to feel closer to you. There are a million effing elements that won' t seem to align. I'm sick and you're outstanding. We're supposed to be- I can't shut my eyes without seeing you smile, the shape of your mouth and the color of your hair.

I'm twisted up. My elbows shun me and I collapse even when I try to gather myself for walking. It's been years since I've heard
you talking. There must be a scientific law, just a clause that affirms I wasn't supposed to have purposely been given this, "*******."

My chits expired and I'm well over on my phone plan. You're the one that got me addicted to cologne, am I going extinct because I can't seem to hold anything down? The therapy hasn't worked, your therapist is a schmoozer, he's on a tract of trying to use her. Corroborating these lines of language that's died, it's so slow he sees someone himself.

Recently I learned a cure using cigarettes, Led Zeppelin, and liquid morphine, it rearranges my endorphins. I've tried very hard to support it, I've even been a good sport when I realize it's still ******* silent and you haven't called or wrote, or sent or shown me anything. Your poison is heavy. Isn't it time for me to **** the lion and go back home. When you go I'll go, when the shapes of our shadows and the dusts of our ghosts decide to go. When your face is placed on my nape and the house lights low, and I can breathe, and know that my world's other half brings all time to a slow crawl. There is some magic that can keep abright a dying star.

She’ll wander back to you again,
but drawn by the string
of ineffable instinct—kissing the sand
of your beaches still damp
by the routine of her departure.
Yet as she recedes,
you already ache her homecoming
as though longing for an estranged relative.

You count the years
by the bitterest point
of every winter, and
value your harvests
against the cruelty of the drought—
and even when she rearranges herself
nightly, by increments you’ve already calculated
by meticulous observation,
somehow good fortune owes you eternity,
even as it crumbles under the weight
of its own impermanence.

You’ve never dealt well with entropy;
all that came before you, which also happens
to survive you—an honorary god.
Stranded on earth,
you monitor your greying scalp as grimly
as you decry a darkening sky above you succumbing
to the certainty of winter, but
even she is ebbing, too.
You curse her departure like an abandoned child,
but she had never sinned against you—
that was your idea.

You mourn the day she repossesses
with mortal anguish,
yet you still find a way to forgive her
when she sends Dawn
to shine his light between the trees.

I see her in the morning.
I think of her in the night.
And all the hours in between,
She enslaves my very sight.

Her shiny black hair
Is like silky waves of night.
Her deep blue eyes
Are portals of mysterious light.

Her smile is magnificent.
Her teeth are always glimmering.
Her body is phenomenal.
Her laughter is always ringing.

She has a corner office.
I have a corner store.
I await the moment every morning
When she opens up my door.

She is perfect
In every single way.
All she has to do
Is everything I say.

She's married with children.
I'm single with none.
She seems so intense,
But maybe she's the one.

She'll be here soon.
What do I do?
I've absolutely, positively
Fallen for Sue!

I'm a fool!
I've fallen into a trap.
Help me find my way.
Can you lend me a map?

She is intoxicating.
She's out of her mind.
She follows me home
And tries to be kind.

She rearranges my furniture.
She decorates my house.
She adores this little puppy
That looks like a mouse.

She whispers and gossips
And whistles and prances.
She sends everyone into
Their own kind of trances.

She tasted better
Than Blueberry wine.
But she sure did crush
This little heart of mine.



Written by: Andrew D. Robertson

Perception, keep it far from me it means nothing…
The chemical imbalance…
distorts, rearranges, changes, and manipulates what’s real.
What’s reality?
Sleep, slumber my long lost friend, we once spent countless nights journeying the deep depths of my conscience and subconscious mind,
to places of pure ecstasy
Now we meet only when the black outs come
I guess there aren’t dreams when you die.
Inhalation,
I take in more death.
I dig deeper into nothing to try and find something.
Nothing is all I find,
empty,
blank,
ran out
there is something there
the white canvas is blank,
but I see…
I touch enlightenment as I soar through space,
my white canvas has become stars,
planets,
suns…
Life is all perception
keep perception far from me it means nothing
just pass me the death. Inhalation.
The sweet death fills my lungs, and takes hold of my soul.


My perception is a layer of my intelligence.
I can cease to perceive and still exist.
I hear vibrations at moving frequencies that can not be quantified,
I visualize images that can’t be personified,
I smell the aura and aroma of pure existence,
I feel the texture of objects beneath my flesh,
and I taste life on the tip of my tongue,
the taste of loss,
pain,
love,
hatred,
peace, and enlightenment.
I am living, but I am dead. Inhalation. I breathe in death.
I breathe it all the way to my soul.
My body shutters.
Time fades in and out.
I no longer perceive I only exist.

Tried to fulfil
the caverns in my eyes,
sleepless nights that echo
the chamber of creativity.

So much to do,
so much to do.

So many symbols to contrive
so that when I die,
I do not leave.

When did this ridiculous past-time
become a reason to be?

There is more truth in the flute
than a lover's tongue,
more heart in the metre
of well-formed words
than there is to belong
to any God or anyone.

Tried to fulfil
the hunger for movement;
restless flicker-book
that rearranges
the same old routine
of skipped pages
and human error

into art and reason.

there is my friend
from outer space
on my Facebook page
dancing with elegant grace

and there is my friend
that screams ***** ****
tagging friends in Stripper bars
without a hint of scorn ;)

there is my friend
who walks besides angels
she lives a life of hope
and the universe,
God help!
She just rearranges...

There is my word buddy
who's own personal nightmare
became a story of hope
beyond what most of us Bear ;)

There is my Hope
There is my Dream
There is my Future
There is my Scream

There is my source of comfort
and the spine of my Pride
Complete Me ... You are my family
and I'm so happy you're on my side

Imaginary Diary

Wed, Oct 5, 2011

Back from the worst roadtrip of my entire life.  And an era ends as I sit ALL ALONE in this big empty house.  At least it isn't raining, so I can go in the backyard and build a big fire to cry in front of...


Here Be Me

out fades the fire, no longer reaching higher, merely old and tired, moved on from trying to crying, an era ends, and how to begin again?

yet death has not yet stolen the last breath, hope and prayers still befriend the living, and everyday miracles may still find the giving...


alone is a strange energy
almost alien to me
although it didn't used to be

lone wolf howls again?
prowls again?

kaleidoscope of feelings,
how to make meaning?

I like Me as much or more
than ever before
and I no longer keep score

lone wolf howls again?
prowls again?

hurt but not quite reeling,
what's the meaning?
can I manage the damage?

I scream
You scream
We All scream
for Ice Cream
but that does not balance the beam
does not quite Amen the dream.

And now my life changes again
rearranges yet again
Lone Wolf?


Thurs, Oct 6, 2011

"I mourn not moving into another decade, but at the end I've been betrayed, not good enough, not enough stuff, not the right house in the right city. given everything I could, done anything I can, but not trusted, accused of acts I did not commit, abandoned and alone again, except for the responsibilities, and bills, and animals, and an empty house full of stuff, and memories of what was supposed to be" -- miscellaneous anonymous old divorced dude


Have you ever noticed how close onesome is to lonesome and that together rhymes with forever?



Fri, Oct 7, 2011

Heart Broken yet again,
  far from the 1st time...
I know what to do
  & kinda how to do it,
    I guess...


****, this is going to take some serious time!!!!
(can I manage the damage)


How far is far enough?
How future is future enough?

head hanging down
  as does the soul inside
face fallen in a frown
  as the heart's tears are cried

looking & leaning above the abyss
  living the loss that leaves less
refusing not to feel this
  there shall be no numbness

hurt too many times
  to soothe with mere rhymes
but healing always happens
  hope never dies a final death
(I can manage the damage)


How far is far enough?
How future is future enough?

Once or so upon sometime
  boy met girl
    and his world went whirl.
Stars sent sparkles through the smog,
  moonlight went right through the fog.

And they asked Clint,
  what's so different?
And his simple silly smile said,
  are you really so numb dumb in the head?

Are you really only able to see
  the fine firm exquisite curves outside
and not the even more amazing beauty
  singly sweetly from the soul inside?

Just look closely
  into gorgeous intensity
    get swept into a deep brown sea
      and wonder at the world she sees!

And when you linger longingly on those luscious lips,
  don't just wish for a tender hot kiss.
Want the soft breath-touch of her spirit,
  and the words within which you'll hear it!

They may not realize what I see,
  but those eyes have looked at me.
And I sit in the dark and wonder,
  could my spark ever touch her?


When can it be Then again?

Because if a guy is extraordinarily lucky, every decade or two he might meet someone as amazing as you.  And if he has the chance to become more than friends, he HAS to try to make that reality.  If not, he HAS to know you in whatever way possible, as deeply as possible, to enrich his Life & Soul!


Flirting

Emotions mixing like potions
Imaginings made more potent
Did you see her?  She looked at me!  A lot!  We smiled with our eyes and our lips and our words and it was real!  It may have meant more to me than it did to her, but it was still real!


Somewhen

Wonderings About A Wonderful Woman

Dipping a heart in the Rush
     of the early life of a Crush.
Past the point when you'd just met
     & maybe not even spoken yet.

It's after you know there's something about her
     that's at the awesome end of special.
When you want to know all about her,
  learn the glow within the sparkle!

You find yourself wanting way less waiting
     between the moments you get to see her
and you're always antsy anticipating
     the next time you're able to talk to her.

You hope for her Happy
     and pray to be a part of it,
       an important part!

You ache to ask her for a date
  and hear her say okay, great!
You wish that that beginning
  turns into every evening
until oh so soon
  on an unknown afternoon
you both find you're destined
  to be much more than friends!

And inbetween the start and that part
  as you learn to hear each others' heart
there are a millionish questions about her
  you can't wait for time to answer...


Does she like mexican food?
  and sushi too?
Will she gag if you call her dude?
Has she ever done Mongolian BBQ?

Has she ever searched for seashells
  between the incoming swells?
Does she like getting flowers?
  What's her favorite flower?!

Does she like skating
           swimming
          whistling
           hiking?

Does she have brothers?
sisters?
younger?
  older?

Has she ever fallen on her **** in an ice rink?
  or played in the snow til your fingers can't think?

Does she love road trips
  for the destination
    and all you may learn/see
      along the journey?

Where has she travelled?
Where does she want to travel?

Does she like sharing dreams
  the moment you awaken?
When it still seems
  they really did happen?
                        
What animals does she love?

Mittens or gloves?

Does she love hugs?
  LONG hugs?!

Is she ready for me to want to stare at her
  (mmmmm, have you seen her?)
And does she know how
  to keep hearing “WOW”?

Does she like reading poetry?
  especially when it's about her / inspired by her

Will we share the joys and traumas
  the sillys and dramas
    that have made us us?


Will she excitedly show
  all of her old photos?

Does she believe in GOD
  and ghosts
  and eternal souls
  and True Love?

Has she ever prayed for me?
Does she know I've prayed for her?

Will we show not just our strengths
  but also our weaknesses?
Tell our awes
  and our flaws?
Share our laughs
  and our tears?
Whisper our hopes
  and our fears?
Even though it allows the other to truly see
  and brings tender vulnerability?

Will she let me provide what help I can
  for not only wants, but also needs
can she depend on this man
  for not only wants, but also needs
can she accept every effort from Clint
  and still know she's independent?


Does she like:

  --cuddling huddling together beside the fire, wrapped beneath the same blanket, holding hands, somtimes speaking softly about memories, hopes, fears, desires, sometimes simply staring at the spastic random wild dancing of the flames while listening to the crackles & pops & the night sounds from just beyond the circle of light?

  --a lazy afternoon on a summer beach, toes digging in the hot sand, breeze blowing sunshine across the skin, waves waiting to be watched and frolicked in?

  --being at the beach on a damp winter's day, sitting on a lifeguard tower just out of the reach of the rain, sometimes wondering at the miracle of the wild waves, dark and frothy, whipped by the wind to lunge upon the shore and race towards the tower only to tire and recede once more into the tide. Sometimes basking in the heat of each others' hands, eyes, lips & kiss, flying in the feeling?

  --walking along the beach in the moonlight of a still-warm summer's eve, holding hands as we wade in the waves, toes tingly with the spritz of the sparkling water?

  --watching a sunrise fill the skies of a desert dawn?
  --watching the sun set as it dives from the clouds, drops behind the mountaintop?

  --camping in the mountains, or by a lake, miles and miles from the encompassing glare of the city lights, within our private tent at midnight, comfy cozy cuddled close within 2 sleeping bags zipped into  1, marvelling at the stars spread out above the mesh ceiling?

  --walking hand-in-hand in a light rain laughing at the secret which only we know, that this cool warm drizzle, this tingle-mingle mist is the perfect place to kiss?

  --Las Vegas after dark?
  --reading to each other in the park?
  
  --short romantic messages?
  --exchanging random massages?

  --live comedy?
  --movie matinees?

  -- what's her favorite type of TV?
          comedy/drama/reality?
          food/cartoons/nature documentary?

  --a comfy couch where we fall sleep curled together with a shared blanket and maybe even some spilled popcorn?

  --disneyland?

  --silly errands at 1am?

  --talking through the night until the dawn?

  --sharing a shower, the water cascading across her unbelievable beauty, caressing every curve, glistening on her sweet sensuous skin and driving me deliciously delirious with desire?


What is her favorite color?
What is her favorite thing about her?

Who is her oldest friend?
            her best friend?

If she had one wish, totally selfish, just for herself -- what would it be?

Fuzzy PJ's or naked under a soft warm blanket?

Would she dance with me at home
  just the two of us
where we can be dorky
  or not good
    and just have fun?


Does she realize the HER of her eyes
           her smile
           her glow
           her lips
  the dreams of her fingertips?

Does she know that as impossibly amazing as it may seem
  my instincts sing to me
  that she's even more beautiful on the inside
  than she is on the outside?
  And have you SEEN her outside????

Would she want to hear me say
  you're sweet smart funny beautiful and hot, mmmmmmm  HOT
    and you will find True Love & Happyness
      because You Deserve It!

Does she want someone to want her
  emotionally spiritually physically?
Does she want them to wonder what she wants
  discover her innermost inner?
Want them to desire her joy
  so she can be joyous?
Does she want them to want to kiss her all over,
  caress her everywhere,
  squeeze her perfect *** with ultimate passion,
  dream of her arms and awesome legs around them,
  her bare ******* pressed against their chest,
  sing themselves to sleep with images of her lips,
  and imaginings of her sweet sweet kiss?
  

And maybe if we're lucky
  or meant to be
Somewhere in there
  “like” blossoms
    becomes Love!

Weakness is a nuisance that travels
alongside everyone,
similar to the skin on their very backs-
It holds you down when you need to fly
and keeps you there in that
dark place
that you have tried so hard to escape from.
It turns those always-glimmering eyes
Into lumps of coal sunken in your face;
It rearranges that toothy grin into a less
than impressive frumpy slant
plastered below your nose.
Oh, don't you see? It turns your gleaming
aura into a dark, black vortex of emptiness.
Weakness is a nuisance that consumes you-
weakness is you.

First Poem of the Day: Pillows vs. Poetry

Ample
Array
Four
Five
Even six,
Pillows,
Rest
My
Head.
One
Or
All
Nightly
Available.

No matter combo or organized, a good nights sleep
Elusive
So poetry is my default rest position,
My screen savior.

Tho my pillows fail me, they are still the best friends I've ever had.
They are my plumped-up critics, those with style, lend me a word now and then. But best of all, they take my tears always, the tears that always come no matter what, most of all when I'm sad satisfied that I wrote something just good enough to share (true),

till my woman wakes, reads them and then by way of thanks,
Makes the bed,
and lovingly rearranges
my pillow friends,
so I can do this,
this poetry thing again,
And that is true love.

So to my woman, who has given me something that I guess I can say is the best years of my life, I give this gift, this first poem of the day,

Hey Pillows, gad ******, get over here, I'm weeping again.

June 9, 2013
5:12am

Time does not wait,
Change affirms its presence.
Time plays its tune,
Men are its puppets.
Time brings victory to men,
It also befalls them.
In the waves of time,
Sinks the glory
Through the trough
Shines the sun
Time always flies
And commands respect.
Time heals injuries
Rearranges thoughts in mind.
To time, we owe brightness
Smiles that ascend with time.

Everything Changes lessons here are steep
When life rearranges the destiny we seek
Everything changes hold it close in your heart
Don't let the sadness hold on to you in the dark
Everything changes with every beat of the drum
Go with the rhythm look how far we've come
Everything changes like the sun and the moon
We'll be there shinning it's coming around soon
Hold on to your hope, go forth with dignity
Let love shine through you for all the world to see
Even through changes hold on, hold on, hold on

THE COURSE CHOSEN   06-29-10 (In Memory of Rachael Ruinard 08-02-74 – 06-29-00)

I must finally, completely convey to you
There is not one whit that you can do
To stop the course of whatever I choose
Don't worry, there's nothing
that you have to loose

It’s your new beginning, a life without pain
You shudder and quiver; you shake off the pain
You  let all of it go; you sail away to live again

My clowded eyes soon become
insufficient resevoirs,
Drops of heavy salt escape
and weigh heavy on my awkwardly bent  
lower lashes, causing a pain, aching and dull
At long last, the tears slide from my eyes,
followed by untold more
They etch acid rivulets down my  chalky cheeks  

unwsavering watchiung your departures
watching all of my efforts form a pool at my feet
It will soon be as if I have never been
Heavy with tears they remain unblinking It is time to exit, to quit hurting others
I’ll set my schedule after seeing my mother
She’s the only one I don’t always bother
Quick breath, I pull back in time to see.
I’ve led her to the brink of my insanity.

I tell her goodbye once more to soothe her
I spare her the knowledge, my agony wounds her
There really is no need to tell her
that none too soon, I'll be six feet under

I have no more will with which to conspire
A certain something is now required
A trickle of strength from those I’ve inspired
I’m tired, tired, just deadfully tired

My path is written in a fat wide ink
A river unwritten, of which I can’t speak
I agreed with you on an indivisible pact
It is broken now, by your unspeakable act

I try to drive off the causeways sometimes
But I live another day, which is no surprise
I think back to the moment of my demise

At that very last moment, at the end of my life.
After  convincing myself be to numb and blind.
Some sort of enigma rearranges my mind

Instead of watching my certain fall to death
I wake up to the smell of my acrid sweat.
In the nick of time, a blink of an eye.
I pull myself back from the electric fence.

I’m too scared to let go, please do me a favor
When I near the fence, push me into the wire
There I will leave towards my destiny, higher.

I’ll have gone with peace, not just one desired.
Soon I will be pulled from the eclectic wires
and tossed into licking pits of their fire
Or the dogs may eat me when they so desire

You build false conventions; you massage your convictions
I’m not just a patient with all sorts of addictions
I am your social condition with all its afflictions
I am hurt. I am real. I am not your fiction
Leave if you want, my path is clear
your trepidation is ugly, I sense your fear
You have no experience of what you see here
I do. I react to the evil that’s near.
You gave me up, you turned me out.
You did not know what my life was about
I believed you cared; I felt your concern
Only I decide, now, which way to turn.
You had to let go, my hand slipped out of yours
My life was quick, my thoughts endless hours
It is right for me, I don’t feel God’s ire
I will sleep better, I am not a liar

Above the gloom, doom, and my own deception
my unknown spirit is once again woken
Your eyes try to say something unspoken
But its not really you, you’re a humble God’s token
I will never again bow beneath myself
To gain the acceptance of someone else
I do what I do, I take my chances or else
Mother will bury me under an Oak’s dark shelf.

Once you held on, but your hands became wet
You haven’t learned the real lesson yet
The blame is a claim I own and regret.

Poems are making me sad.

Every word pierces me,
and every sentence
rearranges itself
and spells your name.

Poems are making me sad,
but you are making me sadder.

A dance lesson at 900AM,
she sets her alarm for Seven Am(?)
<>
restless. as you know too well,
a nite time house haunter, checking doors,
windows, rumbling noises from deep
inside the basement and his gut,
knowing in advance he has done
all this a few hours before…
what else should he do?

write your **** poetry!

ok

I will.

exhausted after diving into unplumbed
depths of love and death, friendship and
hatred, the angst of lost children, some dead,
some living but who have made him dead to them…

tired from debating god about the correct
way to spell hallelujah in English, as they
usually converse in the original Hebrew…

now you ask impatiently, what the hll does
this have to do with what time she sets her alarm?

growling, I reply, so glad you asked…

after a longest night of wrestling with angels,
reviewing the highs and the despondent lows,
of a life lived, mixed up, at best, he returns to
the bed stealthy~like, with much practice, she
does not even stir, when he steals back the half
of the coverlet and top sheet she stole in his
absence…rearranges the pillows, and thus
entirely exhausted, tumbles immédiatement,
into a sleep restful, a short battery charge,
to give himself a fighting chance, to recoup
the poetry they (Him and god,😉) composed
ensemble…

now, some addled add’l info you require:

the Apple offers multitudinous alarm sounds,
and she has chosen the aggravating ringing
of that old fashion alarm clock you bought in
Switzerland forty! years ago, and with great
bravery put out the back door for anyone who
was truly desperate for self-torture…anyway,

in throes, of a clasped embrace, a holy restful
cuddle of a dreamless sleep so desperately needed,
her A L A R M refunds at 7, for a trip to the studio
that is maybe , Google Map, has affirmed with
glee, is but a ******* NINE MINUTE drive away…

you think this is not  poem worthy?

WELL, YOU ARE WRONG, DING ****!

for what you do not know, that I am kicked &
injured awake from my last chance saloon of
sleep, with a shocking stillness of heart and
mind, by that jingle jangle *gringging, and then,
she stirs & confirms the time is indeed 700AM,

AND GOES BACK TO SLEEP AGAIN…


WHILST(always wanted to try that word out),
I am groggy~angry, highly dangerous for having
been cheated on, of and by a sound that was invented
by masochists who overslept for Noah’s Ark’s departure,
and have never for~given those creatures, like me,
who made a timely aboard…

And so the day begins and if you are angry at me, for having decomposed my hissy fit into your so very important existence,
well, too bad!

so, awake, I return to unlock every window and all the
doors aplenty, for they who built this home fifty years ago,
insisted that no one should be no more than ten steps
from entry and egress, in case the Puritans come to
burn we witches alive…

so now you are aware, fully informed, why the
adjectives of choix, in describing moi in the morning,
are whiny, growly, and grumbly and any another word
ending in “ly” that you should feel free to add to the
equation..

You are too? ** ** **! welcome to the club chump!
feel free to post nasty, natty notes below,which will
be accepted with roaring laughter and good graces
at having made your & you
coffee, by now, icy cold😉😫😜😛



p.s. good morning

9:01AM
S U N D A Y(grrrr)

A crutch, a walking stick
Use and abuse so sick of it
There for you when you can't move
Support your weight when you lose

But let me burn when you're cured
So ******* from all us tortured
Swinging in chains, bonded by pain
A snakes skin is all that changes

The venom still gleams crystal clear

So let me burn!
Playing with fire
Let! Me! Burn!
Your hopeless desires

I'll just take a seat right here
Blindfold off its so **** clear
This cinema rolls the same tape
But it's hilarious to see your face

The devil on the big screen
You wanted attention, now act your scene
A snakes skin is all that changes
But your method never rearranges

The venom drips, so crystal clear...

So let me burn!
Playing with fire
Let! Me! Burn!
Your faith has retired

Once again, called you out
It's hard to swim when drowning in doubt
I know, that riptide was far too strong
But in seeking help, I never did wrong

And your life is crumbling, as the venom drips

So let me burn!
Playing with fire
Let! Me! Burn!
Your hopeless desires

So let me burn!
Playing with fire
Let! Me! Burn!
Your faith! Is!
Retired....

when i gaze into the mirror, it's not me standing there
in my place there's a woman who's emotions are bare.

This woman is similar, aesthetically so
but the differences are deeper; down into the soul.

this woman, she weeps and minds it not at all
she doesn't feel her displays will be her downfall.

her occupation in the mirror can last from seconds to days
without any hesitation, she easily takes my place.

i wonder if the world can perceive any changes
if my dear friends even notice when my personality rearranges.

if so, they don't mention it; perhaps it's taboo
or perhaps they don't realize what the real me would do.

i stare back at this stranger, who looks just like me
and i wonder if a merger could ever truly be.

He’s been going through these phases.
Because everyday he lives his mind changes, rearranges.
Swear it’s just like a seed,
oh yes it’s growing indeed.
But unlike Adam and Eve,
he keeps the fruits on the trees, sheesh.

His mind’s been neglected for a minute,
started reading all these books and yet that still ain’t fix it.
Trying to figure out the world, the universe and the pearls.
All the beauty in the matrix can be found in a girl, or a diamond.
The stars and constellations of Orion,
yes it does get deeper think we need a little silence.

Phases.

Swear he’s been going through these phases,
because everyday he lives his mind needs homeostasis and patience.
I think he needs it for his phases,
each year I age it’s like I grow a couple faces, replacements.

For all the egos he was raised with,
with mad foundations Neanderthals couldn’t “cave in”.

“cave in”.
“cave in”.

They sing from along the path,
lined like torches would, evenly spaced.
A hazy wood surrounds me,
swirling trees and melting hues
of a late summer afternoon,
fiery colors dancing and melding together,
flowing to the next,
cream in a Sunday morning roast.

The colors, the chimes
they illuminate my stumbling journey,
my tottering travel.
I stop and catch a gaping breath,
bent over, panting, and begin to listen.

The wind pushes the trees,
it sounds the chimes colliding ring,
it exists in flux,
rising in singing ascent
and exhaling in a comforting sigh.

Drifting down the path,
I separate and regenerate
With each glitching step forward
my face distorts, rearranges.

What is the source of verse, of thought?
Rehearsal, a precursor who holds us like
a ventriloquist through time, or is it just
a keen ear for your minds own
singing wind chimes?

Drunk off my fifth whiskey sour and third shot of cinnamon flavored whiskey after a southern rock concert I dragged my friends to on a school night.
Finally home and lying in bed at 4 am.
I swear this is the third time I've seen this episode of Sportscenter tonight.
I stare with soaked eyes at pictures of you and I'm missing those Japanese pearls of a smile.
The ones my grandfather brought home from the war but were stolen when a thief entered my parents home back in 04 the night after the Sox finally won it all.
I'm missing the hint of a Torontonian accent I'd catch you say on certain words.
I miss the times we never met.
And the weekend trips we had planned to meet.
I miss the money that I put aside halfway through my trip to Southern California to come see you that's now been spent on ***** and Waffle House.
The fact that the cheerleaders from your university came into my work tonight and that Rob Ford is everywhere on TV doesn't help.
Now all I do is check and make sure you're alright on the last social media website you haven't blocked me from.
And now all I can do is call out of work and turn my TV off.
And I only hope that you have found someone that is making you happy.
Someone into cooler music with a bigger record collection.
Someone who isn't as jealous that you send photos to all the boys.
Someone who helps you through all your teenage problems at the age of 23.
Someone who accepts you for who and what you are.
I can only hope he rearranges his plans and changes for you.

she jostles under the vine serpents,
knees scraping trees,
green light bending onto her skin.
she’s a dirt daughter
shoeless, careless
the breeze reinvents her smile.

she arrives

her toes press hard against the sidewalk,
and she takes a clinical step forward
her pale moon face
begged by the wilderness to return.

on the other side of the street he bursts from
the subway, his feet neatly clicking up
the stairs.

his briefcase swings
tightly on his hand
his dazed green eyes scurry across
tuesday’s bachelorettes
and they fall in love at least a dozen times.

he arrives

when they stumble into the same civilization
their eyes collide.

they could be blinded.
or they could catch it.
it would run under their skin
like voiceless hummingbirds
awakening their architecture
and electrocuting their blood.

yet love doesn’t just happen to
to the yin and the yang,
or the bird and the bee.

people aren’t perfect puzzle pieces.


love happens best to the disbelievers,
to the fighters, and the skeptics.
it happens to those who know that in order
to make a spark,
you need some friction.

it’s a howl of wind:
constant and spontaneous.
it can vanish and evolve:
always new.

it can braid lives together
like a man with green eyes
and a woman with a pale moon face.

maybe its all been done before.
but there’s something about the way
he juggles a sentence on his lips
and how her face rearranges into a smile
that seems new.

the story doesn’t always sound like this
but humans are like destinations
intersected and scattered
life comes and goes
and sometimes

Love arrives.

Welcome to a new day,
nothings happened yet,
make it how you want it,
so you wont regret.
you dont look back,
you cant tell me,
how i feel.. cause i feel alone,
if you are still here,
take my hand and help out,
this is a lost and found..
its funny you should say that
but nothing ever changes.
things may sometimes look the same,
but life just rearranges.