"O WORDS ARE POOR RECEIPTS FOR
WHAT TIME HATH STOLE AWAY"

The summer sky
tried me on to see

if it fit
or I fitted it.

It was not used to being
a 7 year old boy.

I quite liked the exchange
to have clouds for eyes

birds flying
though all my thoughts

wearing a rainbow
in my hair.

To have a heart
that shone like the sun.

The summer of '63
ran about my bedroom

looked out windows
ran down stairs

three at a time
kicked a ball against a wall

swopped comics
marbles and conkers

recited "I remember, I remember"
to itself

until it could
remember it.

Absolutely loved me Da
being its Da

the kisses of my Ma
the laughter of a brother.

Oh what a thing it was
being human.

I, in due course
was an about-to-be

thunderstorm
clumping about the evening

like hobnail boots
on marble tiles.

Thunder and lightning
the whole works.

I could have gone on
for a forever

chasing horizons
making up the days to come.

But the summer sky
had taken all it could

take of being
a little boy.

So many thoughts
running about a head

that was only just
about 7

so that it fell asleep
and when it awoke

it was no longer me
but itself

the summer of '63.

I too had released
the sky back to the how

it should
and has to be.

My thoughts scattered like birds
by a chance church bell

telling time
its Angelus

or a knell
to end it all.

I still remember all of it
as if

it had really really
happened.

I'm going to hold onto my birth certificate
like my mother holds onto receipts

and when I write my last rent check
addressed to whomever lives upstairs

I'll knock on the door

and when they open
I'll kindly flash them the paper
which never expires
and I'll ask
for a refund

and they'll say "No,"
"We only accept exchanges,"

and then I think I'll believe in reincarnation.

10/12/2008, FOOD

Tom Yum Soup
how you held my hand
growled in hunger
how I didn't know
if we were a couple

15/12/2008 FOOD

how happy I was
to convince you to diverge
from healthy eating
to Vanilla cream and wafers


21/12/08 MISC

a tinsel hoop
and drawing pins
for a sock to hold
a chocolate reindeer
to your door

02/01/09
new year
we were a couple no more

There is something magical
in the whirring
of a midday laundromat.
A cessation of pride,
maybe.
People all dressed in sweatpants
the air full of detergent smell
and the sound of coins clicking
against great tumblers
as they go round
and round
and round
and round...

The people smile back,
no use pretending superiority here.
Whistlers twitter on, folding towels and socks into neat, organized piles.
The children are well behaved,
their hands full of potato chips
given by their parents as a pittance for their patience.
The patient patrons
ponder on,
their empty hands crumpling receipts.
This, with the crunching of chips
and the distant whistle
over the percussion of clicking
coins clattering
in a dryer
compose an unintentional opera,

an ode to humility.

Humility's honorable honesty heals humanity's hubris.

Noisy trucks pass outside the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows,
Where the hot air wreaks its violence
and men make their ways

in spite.

only an idiot like me, the rain poured down, my socks were wetted,  and i looked at the pavement for glory, instead i found a £10 note and  imagined my right shoe on my left leg, and my left shoe on my right  leg... just to prove the luck.*

it came from listening to rotting christ's kata
ton daimona...
i wrote the poem on two tesco receipts
numbering them no. 1 - .4,
it made sense to just give it a narrative...
the naturally apparent lisp of greek is due to...
lies between theta (θ) and phi (φ)...
check feta cheese... it might be less morbidly fermented...
that's why the greeks have a natural lisp...
it's theta and it's phi...
in english it's like chinese.... w & r...
something's rolling something's waving,
something's trigonometric...
harrison fowd was almost jonathan woss if i care...
the chinese in english debate with chin-chin-******
scissors piece of paper stone good luck on the handshake:
lost the price of interest being gained for excavation
purposes of dinosaur bones and inflation via the
ptertodactyl of the extended mohawk shave...
english dicionary makes me confused...
it places theta alongside the, than... but then
it's therapy... thermometer...
too many unique examples i'd have said...
that's the lisp there... sidelined phew and engaged in phew
in byzantine...
english linguistics is filled with too many "unique" examples
of expression... coupled with the celebrity culture...
i farted and a person took hold of a *** squeeze...
how's that?! english language in summary?
pleasing on the eye... but the spelling? a burden on the tongue.
i know that slavic linguistics would make enlgish that's written
ugly...
it wouldn't be pharmacology but farmacology...
then it made sense, i stopped asking the english dicta
written down, the greek θ wasn't a couple of th & etc...
a few athenains in death metal said it like i said it... the 2nd f...
it was απηθανoν - because it was simply athens - fern fence...
and not d... defence, or anything easily acquired as a prescription
of zee wee point of german scottish.

Take your knife and cut it into me deeply,
watch me bleed,
hear me scream.
I'm hurting as much as you are,
I'm sorry I had to leave.
But I've moved on.
I like you too much.
Self taught years ago to expect nothing in return,
Best way to not hurt at the end of the day.
People don't really care,
especially boys,
Learned that from the man of my house.
Tell me you do.
Tell me how you want to go out,
then tell me how all these girls are really cute,
but trust me I don't care,
I don't get jealous.
I care about you the amount you care about me,
Which isn't much, take away my body and it's nothing.
I'm the mirror image.
I'm not sure how to send you the message,
words always are messy.
& I don't want to stab you anymore then I already have my eyes,
I have to be nice.
I shouldn't be the one,
But I could.
I want you to listen, to care about the words I have to share.
I sit here alone and I can't breath,
these walls are closing in on me.
You are going to ignore me now,
Which is expected and only proves how right my judgement is.
I want to feel the pain of my mind and heart,
across my arms,
or maybe on a long tortures run.
But then you text me and say you're coming over,
and I smile that half smile that you bring out.
*You've proven me wrong.

“I like your shoes.” The barista said.

“My shoes?” I said, taken aback by the strange compliment. I was standing at the till, waiting to pay for my drink. There was no way he could see my shoes unless he had seen me waiting in line moments earlier.

“Yes, the way they come to a point. It’s exciting.”

“Oh, thank you…?” I said, punching in my pin.

“How do you feel about receipts?” He asked.

“Oh, no that’s fine. I don’t need it.” I smiled.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to have them.” He looked me straight in the eyes.

I felt puzzled, as I walked away. I wondered what he meant.

It took sixteen years to become acquainted with my old self.

The self that:

Could not write on crumpled papers,
Or sleep in untucked sheets,
Played her scales robotically,
Left no word incomplete.
Labelled all the cupboards,
Books were organized by name,
This was the life I led.
I never knew that it would change.

it took 4 weeks to fall in love with my new self

the
self
tha
t

writes on ollld receipts,
   kicks the covers        off the bed
     ~lets my fingers play freely~
         not every sentence has an en-
            stores shoes with coffee mugs!!
               writes in mArGiNs to save time
                  not all rules need to be   f o l l o w e d
                    not all poems need to

                        sound the same

who knew that little pill
would teach me how to live
not erase the 'me' that showed
but bring out the 'me' that hid
16 years of worry
of obsessive, anxious thoughts
who knew that little pill
would change me
I,
for one,
did not
.

- p. winter

The end result of talking to someone who has their read receipts on is the nagging feeling that whatever you said was not worthy of a response.

Your message is just one of many unanswered notifications that when added together equal a red bubble on a screen that gets ignored and forgotten.

Regardless of the meaning behind it - you feel ignored and forgotten.

So why do you still try.

Each message you send is like an arrow shot with no ending destination hoping to land near something that resembles some sense of stability before shooter loses their balance.

Each moment between messages drags longer and longer while think, “please turn from delivered to read”

You know they’re just busy.

So you wait a few hours, no response in sight. So, like a fool, you cast out a new arrow, as if you have an endless supply.

And you watch within minutes their name hits the screen, because your existence is remembered. So you quickly respond as to hold their attention that you have been craving all day. But that’s all you are going to get.

Because as much as you want to think you are someone special

You’re just a blip. Nothing more than a name on a screen that just gets swiped away. Just a number in a little red bubble waiting to be remembered.

I have put a Worry Eater
on your bookshelf, right
beside your favorite books.
It may look like a simple
wooden box, but don’t be
fooled: it is a Worry Eater
and the disguise is just
so random visitors will
not know what it is and
try to take it from you,
because Worry Eaters
are very rare and coveted
things.

I would think the name
should be self-explanatory,
but you must feed it daily
in order to keep your
Worry Eater happy and full.
Feeding it is simple:
open the lid and whisper
your worries in, or write them
on little scraps of paper —
lined college-ruled will do,
but the margins of old poems
make a special treat if you
want to do something nice
for your Worry Eater.
(I’ve heard that diner napkins
and the backs of grocery-store
receipts add a nice flavor, too.)

Some people may tell you,
“Don’t worry, everything will
be alright,” but these people
do not have a hungry
Worry Eater waiting at home,
so you can just smile coyly
at them and say, “Yes,
you’re right,” and then go home
and whisper your secret worries
to your secret Worry Eater.

You'd think I would have learned by now
   not to take the things
   you say too seriously
because to you,
a promise is little more than
a few flimsy syllables and spit

and if words were a currency,
your's would cause inflation
of the highest degree
         but I live
in a place where words are precious
and dripping with sincerity

and that's why its sometimes
so hard to come up with
the right way of saying
  the things that I mean
and that's why I sometimes
say nothing at all
because words that fill space
  just feel so unclean

so you'd think I would
have learned by now but

    they say that gambling
    is an addiction
[and you know I've always loved good fiction]

I've washed up on desert island sand
with only a few things in a satchel, and this game to keep me busy.
"the one most valuable thing, what would it be?"

Intelligence is handy, no doubt, just like a Swiss Army Knife.
But put to the test it's usually insufficient in the real world.
Too small, too dull, falls from fumbling hands in a pinch.
A false security, Guaranteed to be lost when really needed.

Health? Tenuous at best.
Doctors' throwing educated guesses at me in little pills like a game of darts.
Besides, my Every Single Cell is re-made by every 7th year, a brand new me.
Just a reflection of DNA, choices, and environment,
health's appearance is up to daily fate.

Faith? in what, exactly, this book? I know I'm lost.
My Creator feeds me or breaks me whether I will or not.
by definition Greater than me, whatever name or persona that would be.
How can I constrain Him or Her to a pronoun, into my own limits, to keep
a tiny symbol stamped in metal, an impossible shield.
In other words, faith in my Savior comes with breath.

Memory? small fading pictures, receipts of illusions cluttering the present.
And anyway, friends to share them hopped a different boat, swam to other islands.
Perhaps a set of footprints will lead to Saturday, but for now its just me.

Anything left?
Looking in the empty satchel,
then fingers checking the corners,
I find a little gem:

Whimsy
Not big enough for confounding hubris,
too small to burden seriousness,
it's bright enough to light hope's path,
and light enough for awe.
Creative thinking in a pickle,
like wishing for three more wishes;
Whimsy is a smile or even a laugh,
compassion hand-in-hand with gratitude
and acceptance comes along too.

I'll keep this.


(chapters in the book:)

Part 1- Match Girl
1.  Disabled Veteran, Traumatic Brain Injury
2.  the Best of Them
3.  Incriminating Proof

Part 2- Assembling the Pieces
4.  Presence of Mind, Awareness
5.  the Facade
6.  Presence of Mind, Knowledge and Coping Skills
7.  The Art
8.  Two Wheels
9.  the Value of Scrap Mettle
10.  Brain Injury Still Feels Like

Part 3-  Taming the Sun
11.  Presence of Mind, Acceptance
12.  Finding my Soulmate
13.  Finding Home
14.  ***, PTSD
15.  Between Horizon and the Sky

3:04 AM
hey are you up

3:04 AM
i need to see you... or talk to you

3:05 AM
or at least know you're there

3:07 AM
you're probably sleeping...or with someone else who matters

3:07 AM
I know we haven't talked in a long time but I really need you right now

3:08 AM
remember when I told you about my really bad days and how I think the world is about to crumble any second and the sun will never rise again and all the planes flying over my house are going to crash right into it and how every car on the road seems like its about to slam right into mine and how i'm terrified of everyone and everything?

3:09 AM
yea thats what happening right now

3:09 AM
look i need you to ******* pay attention to me right now you ******* owe me

3:09 AM
I'm sorry i didnt mean that i just really ******* need you

3:09 AM
please

3:09 AM
are you there

3:10 AM
do you care

some want their receipts, other don’t.

it is all a matter of taste, etiquette,
upbringing and security. in the bag or
wallet sir?

some check at home, that all is well,
secure and safety. some shred, while others
burn the evidence of careful spending.

i put them in the compost bin, where only
the resident mouse will see them.

it eats well there.

i know not its gender,
nor political persuasion.

there is a shop nearby,
a charity that sells
some things for a penny.

i bought an orange collander.

sbm.

I

I’m not playing here

this is real

like looking up and wondering a little

about nothing really

clipping thought coupons

into a phone

on the backs of Denny’s’ receipts

that’ll be worth while on sale

maybe a cradle

a rocking chair for an aching back

or a shovel

'cause that's all that really matters

II

but I cannot bring myself to

do what we (brothers) have done

videotapes donutting for unblinking eyes

blurry words, maybe

faster than (the) sea

mathematical and black

reflecting (truth)

what really matters

the violence of things that mean something

that pump the kroovy

that crumple old

inky receipts

thrown

III

they warp the desk

spinning the world into the anaphora of a pale blue dot

a period

a full stop

IV

TW: r#pe culture

anxiety-riddled,
my head is a constant battle of sounds
and feelings crashing
like waves into each other;
interference scares me.
as does being out of rhythm,
missing too many beats — i am
conflict-averse but i am also
realistic:

i know that
sound travels faster
through solids and liquids
than through the air,
can be distorted
and interfered
into oblivion—
that when
push comes to shove,
whisper networks
can only reach so far.

scores of screaming matches
between metoo advocates and r#pist apologists
crescendos of nails
scraped across a board
feel a bit too familiar
like listening to white noise and broken records on repeat
while scrolling through toiletpaperworthy nonapologies
witnessing victims collectively crying in an orchestra of agony
and then be blamed for attention-seeking at best,
of causing their own suffering at worst.

although it pains me to listen to these tragic tunes,
it is amusing how so many mishear this collective choir as
survivors celebrating with silly receipts in cancel parties
serving blistering hot tea sweetened by revenge - no

all this is anything but
cathartic.

it’s to make people aware
that the same melodies are sung or screamed
  by those who suffered similar pains
and so that those of a similar frequency know
there are those who listen
that their voice matters
and we are not alone.

- 20210315

poetry is dead
as the air
it walks on --
good as dead
to compost heaps;
the heat reserved in sunlit stone

If we leave the litter behind,
and run until our legs become a burden and our heads start to swell and come loose like a white-cloth-Arabian-silk turban,
we can make it home before 5.

Past the market that only makes sense in the sun,
along the terraces slipping from their foundations,
skip on-top of walls before falling back into our run
behind the street of seared spice smells, conjured up by different nations.

We’ve left the litter behind.

We’d run further than these cities and their boundaries,
take transport to the tops of heavenly high hills,
cause havoc amongst the machinery of the foundries
and make it home for five if we run through those mills.

We’ve left the litter behind.

Holding hands we’ll remember the brush of the grass on our thighs,
farmer’s fields and the dark brown cut-throughs we took,
our pockets full of receipts and chewing gum supplies
and the look of your pale blue eyes amongst your fresh air haircut.

I hope the litter don’t mind.

i always find you in the strangest places.
i find you in song lyrics, dog toys, and timber old spice.
i find you in chicken flavored ramen noodles, every shade of blue and purple, and horror movies.
i find you in rainbow coloring books, permanent markers, and colored pencils.
i find you in the grass at memorial park, folded slips of paper in my back pocket, and gourmet lollipops.
i find you in hot fudge sundaes, too-big tshirts, and icp snapbacks.
i find you in chik-fil-a receipts, gumball machines, and arcade games.
i find you in white roses, blue ribbons, animal crackers, and sour gummy worms.
i always find you in the strangest places.
but these strange places are everywhere.

if i keep the receipts i can pretend
that we’re still going out to lunch together,
that your phantom arm is around me at night,
that you’re still here.

i can pretend that you’re not in new york,
and me, i’m not here.
i hoard the receipts and the tickets and
the programs and the take out menus.

i sleep with your sweatshirt under my body
and i, i remember each breath we took in unison.
i imagine that you’re not away
because we are both universal, anyway.

i never cried at the bus stop,
or the train station.
instead i hoarded the tears until i was so full
of water that i broke.

because we can pretend that this is easy
and worth it, it will be,
but at the end of the night
i’m still clutching papers and cloth

with all of my might.

So there was this girl. And I met her my freshman year in German class, fourth hour. Her name was Sophia and I thought she was weird and creepy because she stared and didn't talk and tried to play footsie with me and me being the still-self-loathing queer that I am was desperately terrified that anyone would know I was bi. So I gave her mean looks, didn't look at her eyes, turned from her, ignored her. The list goes on. And then she basically disappears for the next two years. And last year, my senior year, I had her in my first semester second hour German class. And she was different. I thought hey. "Maybe she's cooler now, she's kinda a bit cute maybe I'll get to know???? Her ??? Maybe ???? And so we kinda talked a lil lil bit, but not really talking till xc skiing started, in November. I don't know I what it was, but I thought "hey. She's cute AND smart" so I made up a little brouhaha till I was suddenly driving with her to practice. Every day. And I learned she was kind, smart, funny, hilarious, BEAUTIFUL, kept me on my toes... The list goes on. As I spent more and more time with her, more and more time following her like a lost puppy, i feel deeper and deeper into love. She never texted a lot, so I started to text my thoughts to her with no expectation of a text back. I knew she appreciated them even if she didn't reply. And when she did reply, BLAM! A lightning bolt would slam into my stomach each time I saw her name in my notifications screen. I treasured those texts back, and stated writing poems about her, to her, inspired by her, inspired by HER, seeing her blonde hair every time I looked at the sun, her blue eyes in every lake and clear day and for-get-me-not and her big nose in my mind's peripheral vision and her cute small firm **** and the way she walked, straight up, so solid and set-forth and DEtermined, ******* (though she would never swear) to get to where she was going. I couldn't get her out of my head. Her just, state of being. I'd never met a creature so quietly, yet so determinedly set on who they were and how they were. The way she always knew what to say. I swear to god I thought this girl was an angel. When I looked at her, I wanted to trail my fingers over every inch of her, memorizing it, imprinting it on my bones, that intimate knowledge of you to visible eons from now. I would've climbed through hell for her, to just get five minutes of her, a nod a smile a GEN-YOU-INE laugh *******. I thought about how our bodies would fit together, the ghosting of lips over parts only The Holy Ones know. The way we'd sit together, soft and silent, barely touching but very at peace, and I was planning a title for a book of my poetry entitled "A Series of Notes to the Love of my Life (And a Cherishment of Nature)". I mean I thought this girl, this one in the world-universe, was my everything my holy savior my holy love my holy angel. I just thought that feeling, this feeling that was so intense, was because that was RIGHT. AND must BE. So I fell deeper and deeper, snatching knowledge bits of her that I could, leaving sweet notes and compliments, all over and to who ever for her. I asked her to prom. Through a letter I gave her, with a kayak-Paddler necklace in it. I'd never been brave enough to think about doing that before, ADMITTING my feelings for the girl. I was so smooth and charming and kind (cause I thought she might kinda maybe be gay or at least gay ish way and thought if she was and liked me too she might wanna be going "as friends" or something) and she said yes. I was so happy. It made my whole day better. Forever. I thought about slow dancing with her, imagined pictures floating about in my daydreams, taking up all time and space. And we went. Except she invited her best friend along too who she stayed glued to all night and never danced with me and barely looked at me And I felt like a third wheel to THEM, and so we got home and I was sad and tired and didn't want to do anything but we went on a night kayak and and I told her she was the most beautiful girl there by far and I had so much fun with her and on and on and I was just. So sweet to her how could she not know I like her ****. And she just said. "Oh you're so sweet." And she might've said something else, something idk, but I was just so bitterly in love but wanting her all the same and loathing her with how and by and why I wanted her attention. And I continued falling, ignoring the bitter bad parts of our relationship in favor of the new small things I'd learn about her. And for her birthday, July something, I was gonna give a small box id make in woodworking with a beautifully planned out and executed *** from ceramics with a nice letter telling her how amazing I thought she was and how I might tell her how i feel. And I made them, falling worse and worse daily. So in love. And I awkwardly increased the looks, the poems, the sighs and dreams and wishes. And school ended, we graduated, with pictures and a letter to her from me about how cool she was and a promise of a Better letter with her bday gift. I kept sending her my thoughts, asking her to hangout, (we never did) and telling her I missed her. Well I finished her gift and packed it. The letter, and all. By this time I had tried to get over her. I thought I was (except for the bits that stick with you You Know) and we'd just be friends but-I'm-cool-with-More. Forever. I thought this friend was a Real Deal. Once in. A lifetime. So I gave her the gift, then she didn't open if(or maybe she did and wanted to pretend she didn't open) cause she had a 30-day trip. No phones. I sent her some of my thoughts, not all you know. Didn't wanna overload her texts when she gets back. And I waited, and waited. And it had been thirty days! I Waited for some notification that she saw it, that she opened something. I texted her. Her read receipts? On. She saw it. No reply. I waited and texted and waited and texted. Each message more sour than the last. Eventually I all hope. I said to her I was disappointed in her (I had come out to her as bi in my letter, something I wasn't sure she supported.) so I'm devastated now. I thought she'd be in my life forever, how could an angel like that not stay????? But she's gone. I might never know what she really thought and why she didn't reply. It makes me lose so much faith and hope and love in humanity when someone like that leaves your life. It cracked my soul and I honestly think I might never be able to trust anYONE completely. Ever. Because of a girl like her. She broke my heart and never even knew she had it. Or maybe she did. I guess I might never know. It makes me so sad. She absolutely crushed me, quietly and subtly. I do think I'm ruined for life. Even if only slightly. I might slowly be losing my sanity. I just want to talk to you. Please. What did I do? God I loved you. I still might. Please just stitch my soul back together, even just a little bit.

Your receipts with hints of a past life.
Now drooping & crumbling.
Your dresses, tighter here, looser there.
Stilettos scraping, leaving liquor over the wet cement.
A million times before.
Yelling, crying, asking & asking.
A million girls before.


Special to you.
Your eyes, Cheshire.
Your grin wicked.
This is wicked.
Insert the sweat filled setting.
This calf muscle, unattended.
An ear loosened, not for distribution.
Much too close to his helmet.

Impossible changes.


This wave familiar.
Step backwards.
Its beauty secret shared.
Begging & pleading wild ocean.
On Earth I've learned all things you held & sold.
Dropping receipts & cowering behind dumpsters.


Forced by your bitter guide, they'd tell me.
Maybe just not enough.

Jordan gave me rose quartz prayer beads. Freddy picked me up and spun me around.

I kissed the beads and kissed my hand and blew it to the stars, over and over again.
Thank you universe, for the kind hearted people you have dropped into my existence.
Thank you universe, for the good music, the good ****, good wine, and good company.
Thank you, for the smiles, the laughs, the cigarettes, the numbers given out on backs of receipts.
Thank you for the swing sets, the campfires, the coffee and tea, the cars we drive around in.
Thank you for emotions.
Thank you for the feeling I get when someone kisses my forehead,
the feeling when someone compliments my smile,
the feeling when I notice the moon for the first time that evening.
Thank you, for the moon, the stars, the clouds, and the autumn breeze.
Thank you for the sounds, the crickets, the leaves rustling, the clinking glasses,
and the sound of small kisses.
Thank you for the snort I get when I laugh to hard.
Thank you for the bass, the guitar, the drums.
Thank you for the shouts, the soft spoken, the loud, and the whispers.
Thank you for the doors, the staircases, and the windows.
Thank you for everything that ever was, is, and will be.
Thank you for the indefiniteness of the now.
Thank you for everything.

I once read in a book, that the likelihood of our proteins folding just so to make us what we are is comparable to that of a twister rolling through a junkyard and assembling a jumbo jet.
This is something I like to remind myself daily.
It is so miraculous that we are here today to experience everything and everyone around us, and be able to document and share it.
I hope one day someone can look at my photographs and writings and feel these immense and overwhelming emotions that I feel in these moments.

I don't have a filing cabinet,
I've emptied all the drawers;
Lugged it through my clearing house,
Then gleefully through the  door.
The **** thing's out for pick up.

Each drawer was filled with files:
Insurance forms for cars and bikes,
Gone this long while;
Health receipts for healthy lives,
Warranties and refund lies,
Transcripts from a former life,
Lesson plans and records,
Some pics of you and me.
All shredded, bagged and tightly tied,
And ready for the street.
I'm finding some relief.
If only I could do the same
With memories of you.

I was drunk when I wrote it

I was sober when I decided
to keep it

and I couldn’t figure out
who was more insane

either way,
I wanted to
break down
every barrier
and disobey
every rule
to poetry
only to
find out

there is no rules
there is no barriers

and my love for the art
has stretched as far as
my intestines untangle
which was the equivalent
to one CVS receipt

For the girl who used the umbrella as a walking stick,
this is for you.
No limp and leg slide followed your wake
just the upright roar of footsteps on pale shale-
Cambridge cotton stones that reflect and reverberate
the sound from around into the ears of the passerby.
I cannot wait, nor hold it in,
the urge to scribble 11 numbers
onto parchment paper, old receipts or
or that wilted vapour notepad paper,
that nestles in the jeans.
If I had, then we’d be at a meal now- a dining experience
just for two.

22 numbers and one letter was written,
illegible and wrong.
I forgot which phone number worked
and forgot which one you could reach me on.




**A poem from the upcoming poetry pamphlet, published by http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com, entitled "Leather Clad Warriors", available soon for £3. That's only 300 pence.

Waking up when others, brothers and sisters,
finish the day, they go to bar, then the bus
mingle in the crowded fuss or get in their cars,
                            to go home slowly if it is far.

Alarm goes off, the
house to yourself,
sit in your ******, watching the news,
what you missed while you slept,
eat and dress, not in that order, as you
update your status, make your bed and the
bumpy mattress, pack your late night meal
ready, set as you go to your job on the border.

The patient drive, and you are not in that rush.

The hours nobody wants resemble people,
that nobody want to get near,
move through dark of shadowed hopes,

motives are suspect, call them creeple,
yes,
both the hours that move so slow,
and the bodies that hide, but can't diguise their intent.

You dictate the night, look left and right,
as people in a slowing stream return home,
their treasures packed away, receipts in hand,
passport ready for your command, to hand
it over.

There are those that "went for the drive, or to get a tank of gas"

Every one that passes though your gate,
despite the hour being late, smiles broadly,
as if to say,
nothing here to declare
go about your shift, oddly, questions
you do and ask these, late nighters to drive in
open the trunk, show you the receipts and
if they are in luck, they told the truth,
but
when they got to pay, they got to stay,
unhappiness empties their wallet,
then those three guys with mullets,
dare you to show them your gun; their laughter is like rusted metal lids, turning on a glass jar,
you being Canadian, don't have a gun.

You can still wish.

The night ends uneventful, your eyes
see the sun and know your day is done,
you will be home maybe to bed,
maybe stay awake, a chance you'll
given, you have four days off.

Night shift will ruin you later in life,
when those in the home will be able to
rest, you will be awake, no matter
what meds they make you take from the platter.

When the dark shadows close in, you have a job to do,
but where?, while
you won't
remember how or who.

I.
 So well, honest people make poor poets,
since they want dockyard receipts from Sparta
for how many ships Helen’s face launched there.

II.
Honest details make the best poetry.
Poets plant made-up gardens with real toads,
where clothing and china patterns are art.

III.
Poets write because they have things to say.
They write because they have things they can’t say,
and so, start with the sobs they can’t swallow.

IV.
Poetry is like life, being one big question
that you live until the answers arrive,
And emotion finds thought and thought find words.

for  a quick jot
it’s in  there somewhere
fumble under
my last vacation’s
embroidered coin purse
bunched up nose  tissues
pink lip liner
yesterday’s crumpled
grocery receipts
a neon yellow memory
  falls out  of my hand
and screams ****** ******
in the middle
of  a quiet  hallway.

Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every one
And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on
I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone
Far away from heart and eye and for ever far away
Dear heart and can it be that such raptures meet decay
I thought them all eternal when by Langley Bush I lay
I thought them joys eternal when I used to shout and play
On its bank at ‘clink and bandy’ ‘chock’ and ‘taw’ and
    ducking stone
Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her own
Like a ruin of the past all alone

When I used to lie and sing by old eastwells boiling spring
When I used to tie the willow boughs together for a ’swing’
And fish with crooked pins and thread and never catch a
    thing
With heart just like a feather—now as heavy as a stone
When beneath old lea close oak I the bottom branches broke
To make our harvest cart like so many working folk
And then to cut a straw at the brook to have a soak
O I never dreamed of parting or that trouble had a sting
Or that pleasures like a flock of birds would ever take to
    wing
Leaving nothing but a little naked spring

When jumping time away on old cross berry way
And eating awes like sugar plumbs ere they had lost the may
And skipping like a leveret before the peep of day
On the rolly polly up and downs of pleasant swordy well
When in round oaks narrow lane as the south got black again
We sought the hollow ash that was shelter from the rain
With our pockets full of peas we had stolen from the grain
How delicious was the dinner time on such a showry day
O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away
The ancient pulpit trees and the play

When for school oer ‘little field’ with its brook and wooden
    brig
Where I swaggered like a man though I was not half so big
While I held my little plough though twas but a willow twig
And drove my team along made of nothing but a name
‘Gee hep’ and ‘hoit’ and ‘woi’—O I never call to mind
These pleasant names of places but I leave a sigh behind
While I see the little mouldywharps hang sweeing to the wind
On the only aged willow that in all the field remains
And nature hides her face where theyre sweeing in their
    chains
And in a silent murmuring complains

Here was commons for the hills where they seek for
    freedom still
Though every commons gone and though traps are set to ****
The little homeless miners—O it turns my ***** chill
When I think of old ’sneap green’ puddocks nook and hilly
    snow
Where bramble bushes grew and the daisy gemmed in dew
And the hills of silken grass like to cushions to the view
When we threw the pissmire crumbs when we’s nothing
    else to do
All leveled like a desert by the never weary plough
All vanished like the sun where that cloud is passing now
All settled here for ever on its brow

I never thought that joys would run away from boys
Or that boys would change their minds and forsake such
    summer joys
But alack I never dreamed that the world had other toys
To petrify first feelings like the fable into stone
Till I found the pleasure past and a winter come at last
Then the fields were sudden bare and the sky got overcast
And boyhoods pleasing haunts like a blossom in the blast
Was shrivelled to a withered **** and trampled down and
    done
Till vanished was the morning spring and set that summer
    sun
And winter fought her battle strife and won

By Langley bush I roam but the bush hath left its hill
On cowper green I stray tis a desert strange and chill
And spreading lea close oak ere decay had penned its will
To the axe of the spoiler and self interest fell a prey
And cross berry way and old round oaks narrow lane
With its hollow trees like pulpits I shall never see again
Inclosure like a Buonaparte let not a thing remain
It levelled every bush and tree and levelled every hill
And hung the moles for traitors—though the brook is
    running still
It runs a naked brook cold and chill

O had I known as then joy had left the paths of men
I had watched her night and day besure and never slept agen
And when she turned to go O I’d caught her mantle then
And wooed her like a lover by my lonely side to stay
Aye knelt and worshipped on as love in beautys bower
And clung upon her smiles as a bee upon her flower
And gave her heart my poesys all cropt in a sunny hour
As keepsakes and pledges to fade away
But love never heeded to treasure up the may
So it went the comon road with decay

Other worlds have hopes,
for plants, for trees and
dogs walking by, panting
soaking in humidity like carp
above water.
Not ours.
Dead ends, parked cars supplanting
serenity with passion, desire
crammed into
row upon row of heartless
dwellings expunging sunglass-wearing
**** suckers
blocking their emptiness from the world
with reverse blindfolds.
I know their eyes still glare at me, scoffing at
them. Walking, I
walk past
their barricaded kennels, under-
construction housing
impersonating natural climes
with sushi and slushy shops.
People like them have admiss-
able drives, hankering after
freedom; they're indoctrinated
to believe admission is
monthly cable bills
wired in beneath concrete slabs
maintained compliance
through lines painted on grass
where overlords can tell livestock
what to do.
Bus chutes form
hillsides, beside lines of
trees which perfume these
feedlots
we call
cities.
**** oozes below streets
walked on, they stared at me
like cows, watching a ranch-hand
suspicion toward anything
beyond bistro fences.
"What the **** are you looking at,
you filthy animal?
Have you no idea which species your greed
feeds?
Do you know where this ends
for you?
Who's tazing your ***,
who's making you sit there?"
Moo, mooo.
Mooooooooooooooooooo.
Receipts, a cudgel on each table,
more cudgels ring
from pockets
telling them what time it is,
where they're to be.
Sunday's almost over,
back to blocks of houses!
Graze on painted grass,
then die,
but not before you stare at me
with empty eyes,
you pathetic, miserable
creatures.