it's understandable, they confused by complex bilingualism as schizophrenia; oh sorry, it's not actually a scary word, before people start to theorise the mono-lingual pre-maturity of a condition that affects older people, they should seriously begin to listen to what a person is saying; there are tales of surgeons leaving surgical equipment in bodies during surgery... well... at least the physicality of such blunders is more pronounced than leaving regression variations of negated ease (disease) in man... (uncouple that compound and you'll find the subtler alternative)... when psychiatrists make mistakes it's not a heart surgeon making a mistake, the mistakes psychiatrists make are far more profound, given the nature of the mistake being seemingly trivial in comparison... yet these mistakes make our mental life worse by disrupting the narrative, psychiatry, being a science, primarily disrupts the (cognitive) narrative; it's hard enough to find yourself in your mind, let alone a worthy narrative that you encompass... it's hard to reemerge with a good enough narrative when you're branded like an ox, a ******* during the height of Christianity, or registering a car for road tax... it's ****** hard.

so they (i've lost the paranoia additive of this pronoun
a long time ago) thought my bilingualism
was worthy the label of schizophrenia...
well... d'uh, isn't bilingualism a split-mind scenario
in itself?
                    bilingualism is more complex than you think,
it reaches to the depths of each language,
it's not a multilingual acquisition, a polymath hooray!
it's bone deep,
                        bone deep, it goes as far into identity
as all conceivable points of psychological architecture;
which is why my bilingualism was so well
established that i became a bit difficult to society:
my upbringing was to match the difficulty -
i was never supposed to utter a single intellectual
disparity, given my stature i was supposed to be
a manual labourer - a position i'd have gladly undertaken
but (see my earlier entries), but...
                                i never really felt a need for
an animosity toward the English -
                                           i loved everything about England
(or at least London) -
                                                 i left my native country
early enough to sponge-up the new culture,
                   but of course when our family was applying
for citizenship we were the obscure minority,
                 after the floodgates opened and the less
creme of the crop entered these shores,
       i was forced into a spiral reinvention, i was no
longer was the British termed "exotic"...
exotica, hmm, funny how i imagine things exotic as
things in sunny places, slaves in the Caribbean,
the platitudes of certain African Savannahs...
something Voltaire might find befitting to write about
like he did in Candide - there's this neurotic passage in there...
                the passage to India... a book i'll
never read: why? can't be bothered, the t.v. series *Indian Summers
does it for me;
                                  plus i do like cooking curry,
so there's the f                        u                            to take-away
curry...           i have an arsenal of spices and i bomb Kashmir
with whiffs of the stuff...
                                    that part of my is what the intended cultural
assimilation was intended for: the rest? n'ah ah.
                               what spurred me to write this poem?
Heidegger's concept of someone moving and integrating
into a different culture: to be honest, the country i was born
in was uniquely pressed to turn its habitants into nomads -
      it was a town primarily based on the steel industry -
now it's a town of pensioners - the steel industry fell to ruin
and people had either the choice of: elsewhere in Poland,
or abroad.
                                    still, things were much nicer
   when the barrier was up... selfishly said? i agree, but then
i had enough air to breathe as a sole artefact of the ethnicity,
and a good enough reputation as a person needing to
persistently learn... had i been a crook? well, now i find
my ethnic background elsewhere, in a near mythical place
in Scandinavia - not that i want to, but i don't actually
have an atypical (a typical) physiognomy of a Slav -
so that's a plus...
                                     but what really spurred me on
was what Heidegger describes as the threshold and indeed
the essence of integration: to learn the language,
to use the language, nothing but language in terms of
being considered a certain noun - in this case, British;
so this is a German perspective from the 20th century...
the British perspective in the 21st century?
                         kinda like **** Germany...
language? forget it... you can speak with a ****** accent
and even ******* grammar... what's at work here
is ethnic cleansing, on a spiritual side of things -
language can rot in hell for the English, what they want
new citizens is to: a. eat fish 'n' chips
                                  b. talk ***** when *******
                         c. lick the **** of Americans
          d. have a sense of moral superiority because of
                    that poncy accent that's becoming a dodo
       e1. forget their mother tongue
         e2. only speak English in private
                            f. respect the Muslim attire but
        to never respect fellow European's concerned
                           about many other things
      g. amongst other things...
so it's not enough to learn the ******* language, that i have to
become a ******* serf? oh wait, i have some spare change
in my pocket (puts hand in a trouser pocket and takes out):
the *******!
                                  or how you find yourself
in an imploded British Empire, go beyond London and you
enter something less resembling a global community
and more a national socialist set of self-evident dicta
wrecking havoc to your senses.
                              and all this from a humble background?
well: freaks and mutations sometimes happen...
                    being born near to the date of Chernobyl doesn't
really help to counter the argument:
           yes, even in Poland, the effects were felt,
my great-grandmother remembers streaks of radiated trees
and un-radiated trees in the park -
        the radiated trees were born... a strange kind of rainbow...
and yes, i do take the **** out of **** Germany
while talking about it and Jewish mysticism -
                                Malachi the arch-heretic (who introduced
a polytheistic concept that does not fit in with monotheism:
reincarnation) -
                            oh look:      something came out of this
conviction that told me to duly apologise to the concept
of the two late monotheistic religions:
                             on your own, can't be bothered -
Christianity was always going to be more image orientated
(after all, the crucifixion is a good enough image)
   and Islam was always going to be more word orientated
(something to shout about, actually, to just shout it) -
the Judaism i found?
                              not being circumcised and what not,
not adhering to the religion as such?
  the lord of the rings and harry potter...
simple... how?
                               please make oaths, swear, use profane
language... maybe that will make your actions less profane
and this isn't 19th century Victorian society event where
people talk polite but play ***** according to the escapades
of Dorian Gray...
                              i'm still adamant that auto-censorship
of a name (the name, i.e. ha-shem) does wonders for your
vocabulary - oath, **** **** ****, words are actually:
                or conjunctions, and this means you can use them
to destroy the barricades of fluidity -
                                 do we really need to say certain names?
Islam says the name all the ****** time,
        Christianity doesn't even know the name of the father:
Jules?                      Jason?                Jeremiah?
                                           can't be Yves...
                   and did 1st century fishermen write?
wasn't that a rebellion against the literate Pharisees etc.?
             so it's pretty much like the harry potter / lord of the rings
rule: Sauron
                       designates the tetragrammaton
   and the necromancer designates ha-shem...
                                                or...
         Voldemort designates (as above)
              and tom-riddle                   blah blah...
oh i have actually washed my hands clean of two most
populous religions in the world -
                            i can't believe that so many people can be
right about something,
                                    would i desire to argue to this
to the grave? not really, i prefer to look at it as a chance fancy,
my real concerns are based upon the question:
   why would bilingualism, ever, be treated as a case
of schizophrenia?
                                           perhaps the language is too
difficult to follow, perhaps i'm reciting a poem by
                           half caste by john agard -
but this **** isn't skin deep, i can't blow the sax in a liberating
transcendence of slavery, or do that other form of
rebellion -
                    &nb

Harriet  turned back off the intercom and stood in the office for a few seconds.  What have we done?  I can't believe I let my ten year old son be the vessel to that thing.  I can't believe we were stupid enough to summon that thing thought Harriet.  Harriet walked out of the office and back to the worship area where Evil was waiting.  
"Why do you have a look of concern on your face Harriet?   What did you think I would be like?"  asked Evil.  "I didn't know what to expect" said Harriet.   As Harriet and Evil stood eyeing each other the members of Sinister walked in the worship area.
"I'm glad you all could make it.  Now sit down" said Evil.  A stocky middle aged man walked up to Evil looked down at him and said "I don't take orders from children."  with a smile on his face Evil broke the man's leg in half by giving him a front kick to his knee cap.  The stocky man hit the floor and screamed in agony.  The members of Sinister watched in horror as Evil wrapped his arms around the man's head and broke his neck.  He then proceeded to rip the man's head off and throw it out the door of the worship area.
"Now if everyone would please listen to me very carefully.  The person you see is not Levi.  I am Evil.  Your priest summoned me and I answered his call.  The vessel you see is Levi but I am Evil.  All of you may address me as Levi" said Evil.  The members of Sinister looked at each other but didn't say a word.  "Sit down.  You all thought the Book of Evil was something to play with and that I wasn't real.  You put the cult Sinister together to pass time and have fun.  I am very real" said Evil as the members of Sinister sat down.  "Your High Priest use to run the show but from now on I'll be running the show.  You may now return to your rooms until I call for you again" said Evil.
All of the members of Sinister stood to their feet and returned to their rooms.  When all of the members of Sinister were gone Evil looked at Harriet and said "I need for you to update me on world events.  I need to know what's going on around the world."   "You need to watch the Visual View Screen.  The Visual View Screen is a device that show us World News, entertainment shows, movies, and music.  What you need to watch is world news.  Follow behind me" said Harriet.
Harriet led Evil out of the worship area and to a room where there was a Visual View Screen.  She turned on the Visual View Screen, turned the channel to the world news, and the two sat down and watched the world news.
"That's it right there.  It's amazing how Scientist and Bio Engeiners come up with things" said Evil.  "What's it?" asked Harriet.  "Don't you just love war?  Your species create genius ways to **** each other.  They created a virus and a cure to for the virus.  The building where the virus is kept is under quarantine.  We are going to release the virus and live in the underground city designed to keep the Scientist and Bio Engeiners safe if the virus ever got loose.  Once the virus **** everyone on planet the members of Sinister will reemerge from the underground city and I will create a new world" said Evil.

Written by Keith Edward Baucum

Let's spend a week forgetting to be lonely.
I'll fly into Knoxville, drive east
until the roads run out. No one goes
to Harlan County unless they have to.
The mountains are giants, here, they almost
disguise the desolation-- the pieces
of people that got caught
when the mines collapsed.
You tell me to be careful, as if
this isn't my country, too.
As if I wasn't born with dirt beneath my fingernails.

I like how you treat me delicate.
I like to pretend I'm a flower.
You touch me like I'm breakable.
I want to protest that I'm not, but I'd be lying.
Look at me like you mean it, like I'm
the only clean water
you've drunk in weeks. The wells
have been choked with weeds.
So leave bite marks on my back as you
burn the brush.
There is a sweetness in me if you can find it.

Let's drink like teenagers; make sloppy love.
I want to *** at the same time and then lie around
giggling and smoking cigarettes.
Pull the blankets off the bed and trail them
through the house until we've ****** in every room, twice.
Let's build a pillow fort, drink cheap
wine out of mason jars, and then **** so hard
it falls down around us.
I want you to lose hours in me, whole days,
come up for air next Tuesday and we'll
cook breakfast at midnight. You make me so hungry.

Tell me about your childhood, tell me
the one thing you asked for every Christmas
and never got. I wanted
an Easy-Bake Oven. I wanted to play normal.
Tell me all the things you got but didn't ask for,
never wanted, didn't deserve.
I'll run my teeth across your earlobe
and let my hips listen to all the words
your tongue never learned to say.
We are both still just babies.

I like how you scare me.
How sometimes you hold my wrists together
when you tell me I'm beautiful
so I can't wriggle away, because you know
I've never been good at accepting compliments.
I can count the number of nights
we've spent together on one hand, but the months
of distance take more than just digits.
I used to think you hated me.
I used to hate myself for it.

I know the darkness in you. Three days down
in the mine with no canary and me just waiting
for you to reemerge.
You always seem to find your ways out of it.
I like to think of myself as a lodestone; you tell me
not to get arrogant, that being wounded and beautiful
aren't interchangeable, but I believe
they both can make us strong.
I want to write poems with my fingers
on the small of your back,
leave scratch marks as a reminder of
how far I've come. You make me forget to be sad.
You teach me not to take myself too seriously.
I want to be your canary.
Follow my voice out when it gets dangerous.
I'll only scream when I mean it.

Get a little lost in me. Undress until
I can feel the heartbeat in your **** reverberating up my spine.
So run your tongue down
my torso; forget to breathe, while you
Tell me the things that scare you.
Show me your seams. Somewhere beneath
all this rock there is a gold mine, so trace my veins
like a treasure map. Maybe someday
they will lead you home.

I found it while unpacking boxes of old books in the basement.
It slipped out of a Spanish to English
dictionary that I probably smuggled out
of a middle school library ten years ago
and haven't opened since.

I knew what it was, of course-
whole years were spent with bad posture
listening to substitute teachers and CCD carpool-drivers
lecture about the bold beauty and senseless frailty
that was youth.
Their bodies were at once tense and earnest.
Their voices were at once condescending and pleading as
they sang deeply of the space we blindly occupied and
they fiercely missed.

My understanding of youth was a
sepia-streak stumble through tall reeds below an open
sky; taking clumsy steps on sea-cut feet
and one day regretting not passing enough
notes kept folded in pockets or taking
enough pictures of the faces whom I ran beside.

Youth, obviously, is subjective-
It can be teased up or sculpted-in tight
in relation to circumstance.
In my own mind youth is a cool breeze,  glory days thing- like prom night or my first kiss.
Really each took place years ago but, since they didn’t
carry the weight or sheen I was told they should,
I still sit tight and wait for them.

They will find me eventually.
They’ll arrive a loud booming from a furious sky that births open-prairie rainfall that quiets my
teenage sadness as I sit shotgun
in some boy’s pickup and we race
a  cornfield to the Wyoming border.

The fact that I’m in my twenties is irrelevant.
The fact that I live in New England, where corn is imported and gas is expensive, is not worth noting.

So when, in the basement among the books I've hoarded and arranged around me like armor,
I saw my golden-ticket youth slip
out between pages and waft slowly down, I let it  hit the ground.
I could have crushed it with a sneakered sole
like a cigarette or crumbled it into nothing with shaking fingers.
I could have let it careen down between damp paperbacks to
the box’s bottom and know for certain it
would never reemerge.

But, surprisingly, I didn’t want to.
It was light and lovely in a way I would have never guessed.
It wasn’t as sticky as I thought it’d be.
In fact, as I flipped my hair forward and
double-no-triple knotted the bouncy, silky strings
(Strings that felt more like existing than regretting)
at the nape of my neck- a smile so severe I thought I'd crack found it's way to me.

My youth will never be something I flip through
like a catalogue and miss and cry out for. I will never
be haunted by it nor will I conjure it
around a fire while trying to make a point.
I won’t tell ghost stories about my youth
to bored kids because I am not going to let it die.

I saw it today. For the first time I could touch
it and smell it and I realized it didn’t have to be
the sarcophagus of who I was,
but instead could serve as the shifting
and stretching prologue to who I will be.

I’ll let it hang loose and light from my neck.
Its colors will fade in the sun and its beads will
probably warp as it trapezes altitudes and climates.
It will dull and tarnish.
It won’t stay pretty but neither will I.

I’ll gladly sacrifice any lace and filtered polaroid memories
and oft-repeared stories of my youth; kept behind glass and propped up among rags at a museum exhibit,
for the low belly excitement of closing my eyes today and not knowing what I'll see when I open them tomorrow.

emotionally drained
past calling back
echoing all around
haunting and foreboding
threatening to reemerge
or is it just past expectations
past fears,
that I place over the present
though these words
are frighteningly familiar
too close to heart
to ignore
too close to past pain
past insecurities
to not worry,
not worry that it is
all too true
not worry that
the pattern will continue
that it really is cause of me -
the mine shaft is
closing all around

Unintended circumstances brought me back
Where the wild things are. Or were.
Youthful images reemerge as I traverse my old home.
A senseless vagabond roaming former lands
With bittersweet observations and nothing short of good intentions.
Old landmarks remain, others disappeared as I did.
My room remains open and lonely with tidied sheets
And outdated athletic apparel scattered throughout.
A sign that my presence here is obsolete.
I've been dreading this day for some time now.
Not due to my father's underwhelming support
Or my mother's overbearing nature.
I've been dreading this day because of the monsters under my bed.
They don't exist anymore.
I'm not afraid anymore.
My biggest childhood worry vanished the minute
I stepped foot out of the house for good.
So when I stepped foot back into my room to fall asleep
I gave one last look where my nightmares once resided.
Just in case I had fooled myself into becoming one of
The vast majority of adults too mature for childhood villains.
And then it happened- my innocence evaporated from my body.
My sophisticated eyes were no match for my former foes.
I had confirmed the last traces of my youth had been eliminated
From my very existence- migrating under mattresses around the block.
So all I can do now is lie here and reminisce about
Where the wild things are now.

What is it about stairways?
An image of promise,
Or is that mystery?
Cascading in slanted light,
Tempting us forward,
Upward
Delivering us to romanticized paradise
Or ornamented haven.

To sanctuary disguised as a sun dusted bedroom,
Where doubtless, is a hidden love
Of the sort that once uncovered,
Will ever follow us.

Or maybe to dark wooded rooms,
Glowing with strings of frosted light.
Indigo ceilings and charcoaled walls,
Lit up

Or a creaking hallway that will usher us
To chipping french doors with a glassy view,
Where we will glimpse a new and equally hopeful vista.

Perhaps enchantment
In the form of rolling, dark green gardens,
With another Stairway that is their own, but is
Descending,

And which, at its very sight, we can feel tugging at our hand;
Breeze itself, defined and determined
It will be an alluring yet familiar pull.
Luminescence between our fingertips.

The sight a vow that will pull us down those steps
Cool stone alive with mossy cracks, that curve, disappearing from view
Laying us down to wonder,
Only in a moment to reemerge in the clearer eyes of our mind.
Where surely, round the corner, we will just be able to make out that the steps are met
With an unclouded, rosy woodland.

The aspen encompassment of a measured and ghostly chemistry;
Flourescent tree line and rocky hem,
Savage and most lovely,
If we only have the courage to climb or to descend them, a perceptual promise awaits,
An ended hunt.
The perfect tincture of Wilderness and Refuge,
That will make us feel the scope of our existence,
without ever having to doubt whether we are safe.

Years of brutal bruising
In my brain
Tired of the pain, but I see nothing else
Without pain, I'm nothing
Too comfortable with hurt, longing for the dark
To reemerge angry, broken and scarred

Shift.

I believe you cared no I’m positive you did
because the way you used to look at me makes it impossible to mistake it for anything but love
the way your eyes would search me
looking as if they were trying to remember every inch to reference in
the short moments we were apart
your hands were so kind back then
every movement of them was so intentional
and a complete extension of your heart
I remember the trail you followed from my eyes to my feet
the way you breathed me in
the way you completely enveloped me
it eased every muscle every complete inch of me
you had this talent to calm me down
some impressive manner to slow time down
I was so in love...I was so completely yours
I never doubted it for a minute
I hate that I’m writing in the past tense, and I hate that I remember every move you made
because each memory that passes through my subconscious leaves a
reoccurring stinging pain
a cringe and another deep breath to try to expel any
good thoughts of you any illusion that the past is actually the present
I refuse to allow my dormant thoughts of you to reemerge
an endless process to keep you locked in a place where I can't remember
I continue to fail ...and this failure kills me
every second i can feel you gone.
I can feel this hole expanding within my chest
trying to fill the gap you left with an endless stream of comfort disguised with immorality
they last for a moment but they stop the pain
ever so slightly for one moment
a moment of relief in a my world of complacency
I love you more than I can bare
But once again I must remind myself,
those days are gone.

I just want to let her sleep.

Let her rest
        so she can reemerge a warrior against
        the gilded masochism
        and misogyny
                of the office.

        so her perfect vessel combats the encroaching infection
        and she can breathe deep and strong
        and snort in the lifeblood
                of the dawn.

        so she can see despite our return to dust
        there is yet so much
        and she must live in ecstasy
                of the moment.

        so she can reap the reward of a long deserved slumber
        and lose the swollen circles and pains of defeat
        and shake the anxieties
                of her heart.

Let her rest
        so she can come alive.
Let her rest
        so she can come back.

Just,
        let her sleep.

In me there is a scourge
That I have tried to purge
But instead of fighting its evil urge
I become one with it and merge
Hoping it will never again diverge
Or take me over and reemerge

The starlight sings to the dead of night
crimson lullabies from times long gone,
stories of sorrow, love and might
that keep the dark entranced til the break of dawn.

Though the sun rises, outshining the stars
their shimmering voices can still be heard,
their silver tongues weave tales of Mars
the great God of War and the battles he spurred.

They croon of the lovely Venus, goddess of love
whose body beguiled the lustful soul of man,
whose beauty enchanted realms below as above
and inspired tomes of poetry as only woman can.

As the sun grows weary and his brilliance fades,
and the cotton candy sky gives way to ebony,
as the phantom moon begins her promenade,
the stars reemerge and resume their symphony.

I am still inside
But, some days, the person I think I am stands back and watches the truth.
I observe a person I don't know.

She is a monster
That girl who lives in my body.
She wants to completely destroy what I carefully built

I try to scream
But, no one hears the voice of the wind
They’ve all forgotten me and are welcoming her into their embrace.

Will I reemerge
Or will that girl swallow me whole?
Is it possible to one day return to the person I was before?

but unless you integrate
really do the inner work
not just Be Dazzle your ego
with illumination memoirs

after something
skims your surface
you might go from repping
solfeggio frequencies
to singing, get on my level ***
finger flinging in the face
of head-spun girl wondering
what the **** have I done
got to Ctrl + Z
trapass stuck keys

undo
undo
undo

patterns will reemerge
unless you hack the ****
outta perspective lit up

(be it LSD or other
luminous peaks)

You can tell me
in remarkable detail
about how you ****** that guy
not once
  but twice
    in the handicap stall
      of the first floor bathroom.

I won't judge you
or think less of you
or even blink
as you tell me
how he finished all over your face
and you licked up
  every
    last
      drop.

No, I'll sit there quietly,
  listening intently,
    because, to be honest,
      it doesn't bother me.

But if you stare at me
with hungry eyes
or comment on how "****" I look
or even offer to please me
without any sort of reciprocation
because you just want to make me feel good,
I will tense up,
shut down,
  retreat into my metaphorical cave,
    and only reemerge
      when the coast is clear.

Yes, you can tell me
  all about your *** life,
    but I don't even want to think
      about mine.

Tonight I have an appetite
I want to merge my body
With your soul, and become whole.

To converge upon each other and
discharge our urges until spent
reemerge, renewed, unhurt, purged.

With sleep slurred words
I tell you that I love you
You stroke my hair, and murmur

I love you too hummingbird
Content we fall asleep entwined
Our urge confirmed in love.

Dawn is breaking like bones
against the clenched fist horizon
and the thrill recedes backwards,
thwarted and cornered
by the coming light.

It is the curse of those who
walk the alleys barefoot and
bruised to see such beauty while
in the thralls of unseen demons.

Hues of blood red and ochre
bleed through the vision as tangible
warmth creeps upwards across the
city, sick with its secrets.

I walk amongst them like a
minefield, choosing wisely
as often as not.
I watch the sun rise
over the anarchy of the night
and am confused by it.

People awake, conformed
by the coming morning.
I see a man with a shiner
walk in his suit towards the
bus stop. Those that let
control slide from tenuous
grips as the dark encircles quickly
reemerge as the professionals
they promised they would
never become.

It saddens me to see them.
Needing anything and anyone
to forget the lives they carved
out from the canvas we have
created. It saddens me
to see them, with the dawn
burning upwards and the
fevers of the evening dwindle
and smolder into the cold,
calculated face of the day.

I stare into the sky and
wonder why it is
so hard to truly
become crazy.

As I wonder, I conjure a monster with this wand and my honor.
I ponder how you can squander my genre, I'm lava.
Anacondas to lamas, venomous, I'm black mambas.
Garfield comma lasagna, that's pasta.
Comets comment on the trauma after I bombed ya.  
***** iguana after the ***** in the Bahamas.
In the cabana like Osama, hide and seek, trying to avoid the drama.
but my Pride hunts and peaks when I speak,
A void, this is the 3Y3 of the BLitZ3D SAGA.
Blunts of kief while I reap, hydroponic droid.
Quick like Raffekie but I lead like Mufassa.
I'm Scar to hyenas, and yes I am Luke's Father.
Hiatus, I'm too high, I am a Sky Walker.
Hydra made, I claim Dark Mage
Use 3's when I write, and spell magic with a K.
Your gana need to come harder.
This is Tree times 3 vs Special K.
Said **** it and versed myself 3 ways that one day.
It was MagiKal, see the intentional K?
Savage truth, My pills red.
Down the rabbit hole, I'm here to stay.
Reach out an ravage your ankle.
Pull you in, M.I.B. I'm Agent-K.
Mage In Black, Dark Arts,
Matrix word play, not an absurd grey.
Prometheus, I am Predator,
A.I., I-Robot, I Am Legend,
Will Smith, Independence Day.
Annunaki I am a descendant.
The First Demi they selected,
Earths representative that slays.
An entity,
When they spoke of god, what they meant was me.
The incarnation of uncertainty.
Hell bent on carnage, feeds on false beliefs.
"The Scripture", "Birthed from the streets."
A reputation you cant tarnish.
I don't expect relief.
Mercy is for the weak.
I'll die standing before I ever drop to a knee.
The first to leap.
I AM BLitZ3D.
THIS IS TH3 3Y3'S OF TH3 L3GACY THAT IS M3.
"E.T"
"A Lion, A Demon, A Creature Of Myth, An Alien Being"
Plasma is on the page but ET's not bleeding.
Thats just my pen leaking, Kracken ink can be misleading.
Submerged marines, Titanic icebergs, Atlantis reemerge on my command , sorcerer supreme, Gigantic knights Converge,
Looped in a green screen dream sequence scene theme,
"The Sheep Will Always Scream"
Eye of the storm, I am Dopamine
I am dope, I mean. Am I not dope man?
I am the dope man to the feigns
(To Be Continued...)
- See more at: http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/blitzed/1722009/#sthash.zRxiJxNK.dpuf

grains of salt slip into fractured flesh
I lay flattened into the sand as pelicans soar overhead
patiently waiting for the tide to reel me in and claim me as it's fish
my splintered skin throbs scarlet with memories
as I let the current wash my wounds and take those thoughts into the blue
cuts with contours whose rivers run red with murky mixtures of joy and sorrow
examining blistering burns that sizzle and sear
ocean waters cool the scathing brands you planted on me
in this process, nostalgic steam arises as old days are recalled
and past scars reemerge as fresh as the day I first heard those 3 words
but now it's all being washed away
all of the "our's" are once again only mine
because I no longer float in the aqua of your eyes
so in a moment of melancholy, I release my steady grip on your hand
and your fingers slide away, gliding against my palm
now, I disappear
now, I sink

past lives reemerge
they pound piercingly on your door
call your number
shout your name
demanding a reaction
needing to be heard

a runner will hit the ground without hesitation
never feeling safe
a runner knows one thing
that one thing is
to vacate

however, I have heavy heels
that dig me in deep
when the runner keeps on running
I tend to sink

Holding me spellbound is the embrace of nature.

Rocks scatter and shape the banks of the river, whose rushing water plays like laughter, muffling all sound of the world in hectic pace.

Tumbling water is a beautiful teacher, with notes of what it means to flow, lessons in yielding to obstacles that impede movement and purpose.

Possessing grace of power it easily forges a new path, without concern that it has altered course. The new direction, the new way, allows it to continue on.

Cool air rises above the commotion of change, bathing my being with clean rejuvenation. I take long, deep breaths to load my lungs with freshness, my body with exhilaration.

Lifting my chin to face the sun while balancing on slick stones, the water edges nearer to my feet. I stoop to touch it and hold the coldness in my hand, fingers tingling. Both hands in, splashing the water on my face and cooling my cheeks.

I smile and stand with pause, the water is alive and shares with me its vitality, born of the elements and carried from infant streams high atop mountains. Humble beginnings grow and widen to a broader perspective.

This water knows only one way, the way forward. Yet from the rushes, small pools form among quiet coves, where water takes time to slow and rest.

My reflection is still, protected from waves that disturb the peace. No depth of thought, only solace.

From here, zen water gathers strength and momentum, to reemerge with vigor joining the river once more.

Squinting, gazing downstream, I see life continue on, dancing around rocks and skipping over sunken branches until the way forward fades and I no longer see what lies ahead, now trusting that where it goes I will find myself there.

dear
Little Thing
nestled between
two hearts
mine and his
Little Leech
latched on tight in
a valiant effort to exist

a white stick told me
You weren’t here
but Dearest
I can’t help but wonder
after three more weeks
if I’ve been lied to
again

dear Little Thing
I don’t believe
in bibles or gods
of any sort
but
I pray every night
because

I hope You aren’t here
hope the thought of You
is nothing but
the thought of an
imaginary fear
hope that You’re still caught
somewhere between
the sharp smell
of this winter air
and lullaby
and the desperate fantasy
of a happy pair
who dreams of Your coming
and awaits You with delight
and open arms

dear Little Thing,
if You can hear me…
my arms are strong
but not enough for
both of us
__

dearest Little Thing,
if You exist
somewhere cocooned
between heartbeats
and ribcage bones
and the magnetism pulling
two bodies together
please
Dearest
please know
I love You more
than anything else
already but

I love You enough to know
I cannot give you what you need

I love You enough to know
You’re better off anywhere but here

please
dear
Little Thing,
please find some way
to disappear

and reemerge
inside someone who could
want You
more than me

The sharks have been circling.
They wait for blood in the water.
The tiniest drop will unleash a frenzy.
Everywhere you go, you are questioned.
They are relentless.
It is impossible for them to understand the choice you’ve made.
For precisely this reason, the choice was not theirs to be made.

As you reemerge from the water, shock overcomes them.
They cling to God and begotten scripture.
You’ve made a choice to be this way.
“His holiness wouldn’t make you this person.”
They pray wishing it were possible to throw you back.
There is hope and recommitment in the sea.
You aren’t going back.

You are walking on land.
With head held high, you leave behind the X in the water.
For the first time, you are filled with pride and love.
Life is born anew and so are you.

4 years... Daily fears. why do I stay?
because tomorrow brings another day.
Strong to survive this nightmare
Though nothing about it's fair
counter each negative with a positive
I've always been a leader, now, submissive
ready to reemerge, rebuild, and reclaim
wasting this precious life would be a shame.

I want to disintegrate this passion in your mouth
and
vibrantly reemerge,
while freely flying in every corner of your soul!
--------------------/--////////----////////

Quiero desintegrar esta pasión
en tu boca
y
como ave fénix
resurgir y volar libremente
en cada espacio de tu alma!

LeydisProse

You pose him, your child, with the dog, the puppy,
the one your wife insisted you buy for him, your child,
your only son. You stand back. Your wife counts down
from three. Your child smiles in such an unnatural way
like he learned to do it from an instructional manual.
Something about this unnerves you. The posing. The
stilted smile. You made this child, your only son, and
he's five feet removed from you and his face is unnatural,
a caricature of joy. The puppy barks once. It echoes in the small
living room, and you can't help but think of this photo
as a marker, another tangible step closer to your own death.
Wait.
You reframe. You say this is a moment. This is something to
cherish. This is something to look back on. Your wife says
good boy and scratches the puppy behind the ears.
She kisses your child, your only son, on the forehead.
But, of course, one day this dog will die. With any luck, you, your wife, and your only son will live to see this day and this moment
will reemerge and your wife will say he was a good boy and your
son will say he was so small and you'll feel this same dread -- the posing, the stilted smile -- you'll feel it all fresh. How many tiny tragedies can a man anticipate? How many tiny tragedies
can a man endure?

Margaret was more than a family friend;
She also taught me to play the piano.
Once in while she'd have me sing,
When I was still a kid soprano.

I wasn't a gifted piano player.
In fact, I was far from it.
And the stage fright at recitals:
I never could overcome it.

I never practiced as much as I should have,
Which was obvious in my playing.
I'd never become a concert pianist.
That, of course, went without saying.

Yet Margaret never scolded me
Whenever I came unprepared
To my weekly piano lesson--
A little nervous, a little scared.

I would play an exercise
And utterly butcher the innocent piece.
"That one needs a little more work,"
She'd say. Then my fears would cease.

I studied with her for many years--
From childhood through my early teens.
My lessons were not a means to an end;
The end was entirely the means.

Spending time on the piano bench
With Margaret on a chair by my side
Is ingrained in my heart:
Time spent with my mentor and guide.

Instilling the love of music in me,
She was definitely my muse.
Music is a life-changing gift--
A blessing I hope never to lose.

I learned that life can bring happiness,
But also times of sadness and loss.
Margaret developed a brain tumor.
There'd be a river of sorrow to cross.

How could such a wonderful person--
And talented, too--capitulate
To illness? Then I faced the truth:
Cancer doesn't discriminate.

When Margaret died, to me all music
Sounded like a dolorous dirge.
But with time, the glorious sounds
Slowly began to reemerge.

She had taught me so much more
Than how to plunk on piano keys.
How sad it would be if ever the wondrous
Notes faded from our memories.

Music's a powerful force in our lives.
Without it I wonder where we would be.
There's one thing that I know for certain:
Margaret will always be music to me.

- by Bob B

Tell me why we met only to have a crash course
In distance
Everything I knew
Was falling apart like confetti
All I wanted was a lover’s embrace
Although I felt the need to retreat for several months
After a month of freedom and fresh air
I reemerge
Stronger than ever
Although I wish I didn’t have to shut you out and run from the fallout
When I finally realized that the fallout was over
I was left wondering why did I have to fall so fast
Only to become a stranger to the one person I loved
Which was myself

smoke gets in my eyes
wetness watering the ashes
I rub it between my fingers
there's nothing left
it dissolves into my skin
everything I had, gone
the fireman's hose
waters the flames
fires do as they must
from ashes to ashes
and dust to dust
life will reemerge
they say,
a small green shoot
bending towards
the morning sun
and my tears
will make it grow
it will become a tree
and I will become me again.

Does loss leave us
the same way it greets us?
Like eyelids that contract,
forcing a moment of withheld beauty,
of an unrealized, blank canvas,
before suddenly retracting,
revealing the brightest emerald irises
a higher power could possibly create,
one second, here
the next, gone.

The dilemma of departing loss
waxes and wanes in those eyes,
like a changing of the tides,
offering a frenzy of firing neurons
that scatters the chemistry of a solitary mind,
removing an addictive absence
in favor of a purer presence
those irises inject into my veins,
effecting a high that fades in our shadows,
only to reemerge in the beaming sunlight.

He says “ how does it feel that everyone wants to *******”
A trophy with green eyes?
Could you feel the pain pouring out between my legs ?
Have you ever had *** instead of crying out for help?
Felt eyes on a body you don’t know anymore?
Disappeared under blankets to reemerge as a token?
Hidden in pockets of boys who will never know you.
Pulled out at parties around tables filled with drinks.
Have you ever felt the absence of love ?
That’s what it feels like.