I shouldn’t be drinking coffee.
I shouldn’t be reading the news.
It makes me anxious, and it’s not only the chemical interaction.
Somehow, I associate it with “adulthood”—reading the news,
Drinking coffee—I can’t tell you how many days of the last few
Years have been spent entirely in this fashion. The coffee
Growing cold and the news colder still. I don’t even taste the
black, fluid drops. I don’t hear the screams of people I read
about. I just want to hold on to something—so I raise the glass
to my lips. I can’t say

the shocking words when my mouth’s full; I can’t tell

about my experience, my privilege, when I’m drinking it.


The production of the commodity

creates a line from some equatorial region
to central America, and my mouth.
I think about the Autumn I worked in a corn-seed
sorting facility. What a short experience—
and yet,
something that weighs heavy on my imagination.
I was a temp worker.
I chose to work there out of shame and guilt for having
missed the deadline for college enrollment.
I could have done anything else; but there were people
there who wanted nothing more than a job. They needed
to be
there.
And I think of the people involved in producing coffee beans

in much the same way.
Removed
from the thing they’re making, as the raw materials are shipped
to places you pay workers more.
Why shouldn’t I swallow with difficulty when faced with the pro-
spect of a person supporting their entire family with the type
of work
I did
reflexively, as a choice?

Now I sit here, reading about North African riots,
a region, where coffee is produced—
ARABICA COFFEE— and I think about what’s sitting
in my cup, how I have
spent more money than they make in a day
to buy
one container
…
and sit here
for an afternoon
doing nothing but reading about their families’ misery.

I am a human parasite.

And like the bedbugs that have crawled meticulously
between my mattress and bedframe, hiding in a safe spot
until they can come out, undetected, and **** my potency.

I sit here, in the comfort of an apartment furnished
and paid for by my father who grows corn in a highly-
mechanized, agricultural society. I take more and more,
festering to the size of a blistering, red dot
blinking in the dark, in the form of the record light on
my voice recorder.
I expect so much more from myself, simply because of
this position of luxury.

But I don’t take time to think about my reaction to these
stories or how I am involved in them, in shaping their plots.
I’m even eating more now
as I’ve nearly lost my concern with avoiding certain super-
markets.
I smile at the greeters, make small talk with the cashiers
whom I am openly exploiting. But it’s ok, because
I worked for a month at a cornseed manufacturing
facility
and I read Marxist Ideology,
and I know about the Arab Spring
and I was against American intervention in Libya
and I disdain the air strikes from robotic planes
(unauthorized by congress)
and I disdain congress
and I support gay marriage
(I stopped eating chicken).
I don’t drive to the suburbs of my city.
I walk and ride my bicycle as much as I feel like.
I use public transportation at times.
I try to get to know women.
I practiced safe ***, once.
I write poetry.
I tell my mom I love her.
I bought my nieces birthday presents.
I’m not overly nice to people of different
ethnicities.
I voted for Obama.
I’m trying.
All these things make it seem less bad
to smile at the cashier.
But then I think about my black studies Professor
who used a walker to come to class
because she fell
and spelled the word Amendment “Admendment”
on the board when talking about Reconstruction.
I think about the war in Syria.
I think of people dying from cholera in Haiti, in 2012
A.D.
I think about fracking and oil spills and …
irrevocable damage to Indian reservations.
I think about football coaches molesting children
and people eating fried butter.
I read about people
upset
with a movie
who protest in the streets for days.

It makes me realize I shouldn’t smile at anyone.
I shouldn’t be drinking coffee.
I shouldn’t be reading the news.

They never spoke, but every time she walked into the train
He reflexively slid to the left and made room for her.
And they would travel together sitting one hand width apart.
He drummed his perfectly crooked fingers on his left thigh,
like a horse that galloped towards an unknown destination.
She clasped and unclasped her hands, and
chewed on the dry skin of her bottom lip.

She always switched off her phone before getting on the train.
She assumed he did too because no one ever disturbed their unsaid conversations.
The old man singing I Wanna Hold Your Hand provided the sound track to their journey.
Yet the most endearing sound was that of him sliding his right foot from side to side.
The soft scraping sound soothed her more than any song ever had.

The train ride lasted twenty-five minutes every night,
during which, in her mind they got married,
went to Vienna for their honeymoon,
and had three children: twin boys and a girl,
who grew up to be the perfect balance between the two of them.

His stop came before hers and
She wondered if one day he would miss his stop and
Ride with her to hers.
He knew her beginning and she knew his end.
She may never know any more
But that didn’t matter because for twenty five minutes a day,
all she needed was the soft scraping sound from his right foot sliding from side to side.

I spent Thanksgiving
this year
not in the blue-collar comfort
of my aunt’s house,
nestled somewhere
within a well-buried suburb
of a quaint, but un-noteworthy neighborhood
with walls decorated with Budweiser signs
juxtaposed against portraits of the ****** Mary,
where a football announcer’s voice plays like
conservative talk radio
in the background.

Instead, to save the labor
of my weary immigrant grandmother,
we dressed in Sunday best
and drove ourselves in
three well-packed mini vans
to some elegant hotel restaurant,
ideal for people-watching
from the gaudy, art-deco staircase
while pretending to be in the Great Gatsby.

It didn’t feel natural, though,
that beside a modest turkey breast
with cranberry dressing, sat a beautiful
cut of prime rib, carefully ladled
with truffle au juis–
nor beside a humble dollop
of mashed potatoes and gravy,
should there be salmon to die for,
and berries slathered with brie.

The food I nibbled
with bites of nervous guilt,
as the impeccably dressed waiter
exhaustedly refilled our water glasses,
nodding his head reflexively
to my mouse squeaks of “thank you’s”

What monsters are we,
letting these people work on Thanksgiving Day?
Grandma said, calmly, that some people
are just happy to be paid,
recounting
her impoverished childhood
in war-torn Germany—
that to simply muffle
the aggressive rumbling
of a days-empty stomach,
she and her brother
would ****** a handful of
potatoes from a government farm,
not many, but just enough
as she grimaced
at the ever-so-slight mealiness
of her rosemary-infused pork chop—
the woman who couldn’t afford ham
until she became a citizen.

We nodded quietly and
swallowed our privileged guilt,
washed down with
politely cut bites
of perfectly cooked salmon.

Forty years ago in my current body,
I waited for the call,
From down the college dormitory hall,
When life was fun, the only dreaded words,
"Pick up the pay phone Naaaaaat"

Only could be NYC calling to tell me
The cancer won, come home.
But the call didn't arrive,
Till I after I was degreed
And Ohio gone.

Tho I didn't get the call,
A few years later, I got the shoulder tap,
"You will stay and be the shomer,^
The guardian of your Fathers's body,
The morgue, your home for a night and a day
For t'is Sabbath day, we wait until the evening tide,
When the pros come to take him away."

Then I waited again for the call to come,
Same story, different body.
Five decades a long time to wait.
It came on early Sunday morn just past,
"Leave the bay, leave the beach,
Come home, she's nearly done."

Could be A.S.A.P., could be a day or three
But no question, time to start the prep,
For her, for thee, for the records of history.
She is 98 1/2 which is a
Long distance runner's dream

On a whim, left work early Friday past, in the rain,
Errands need doing, and been months since last
We touched, so squeezed in a visit, matter of luck.

Had not seen her so alive in years,
Tho time had robbed her of speech and pieces of her faculty,
She grasped my iPad, just like her 2 year old great-granddaughter,
Swiped the pictures of her descendants with robust determination,
Comely and fair, hair bouffant wavy, she never seemed
So marvelously contented, on top of her game.

The Vigil

Third day.

Breathing labored, loud, battlefield noises, then
Silence. But you monitor the teeny tiny chest heaves,
Ascertaining that the Divine Spark is still besting his Angel of Death.

But there are these periods of seconds when there is no sound,
Except for the instantaneous pounding in your own chest.

Then the process begins all over again.

Morphine in the refrigerator, when the rattling will begin,
To ease the passage painlessly between.

They say speak to her, she can hear you,
But the evidence is contradictory,
I am not convinced.
When no else is there,
I stroke her head and whisper in her ear,
"It's ok, time to let go, my mother fair."

You think to yourself alone,
This is not poetry,
This is real,
This is an extraordinary
Daily occurrence,
Life or death warfare.

Reflexively, she takes the arm of a granddaughter.
But when I lift her arm,  it is without strength.
Only days before she grasped my arm,
With a fierceness that only the frail possess.

Her nails are painted Neon Pink.

The vigil continues to Day 4
This secret I've kept from y'all
For this is my new normal.

I now await the call.

(imagine and picture your FAVOURITE THEATRE
remember that the SETTING tonight is
the stage you built)

first, i went to air my ***** laundry out
cautiously and deftly peel off the skin
from all the places touched and fold it up neatly
away, to be put into drawers
and brought out to wallow
on nights like these

the unmaking of a person is violent, yes
but it dully smells, too.
it is ***** and reeking with sharp dried sweat
wicked away in the cold
i go to fold away the memory of that cold
of my - huh, what’s the word -
b-b-b-bravery braced bent back breaking
on the side of a road that gritted its teeth

and i go to put the loneliness away too
in a suffocating airing cupboard
to not let it draw breath while it
watches the world go by
through a faltering crack in the door

INTERLUDE

(what did you do, those of you sat in the wings
and those of you pulling the strings
you washed your hands, reflexively.
you washed your hands again and again.
so nobody would think this dirt rubbed off)

now i am expected to empty the dishwasher
in front of a yawning kitchen window that
lets in not a chill but a blizzard and i am
unclothed unloading the dishes
i try to cover myself with a plate but there are
accusing eyes at the window here
to gawp at nakedness whilst i stacked bowls
into the teetering towers of a tiring told tale
i drop a misplaced cup and step on it
fall over -
doing a jig of pain, red hot embarrassing
feet dribbling lazy scarlet on the wet floor
what a spectacle, what a show, encore?

(and for those of you in the front row
i am deeply sorry.
proximity is pricier and more painful
and what i regret about this graceless fall
is that you had to witness it at all)

but all that’s left is to sweep the floor
so then i kneel down and sit there legs in dust,
inhaling until my bones are sandpaper and
chafing against the inside of my skin.
draw the curtain and

let me sit a while, please. in this dirt.
let me sit a while in this dirt.
oh, i know. i know my knees are white and
it is settling into my hair and inside my eyes
but i just want to sit here and be *****.
i have the broom - i am holding it, see?
to sweep away and brush apart and
pack it all up into a breathlessly shiny sack
but not just yet

(bored now, you make to leave)

unfinished i step underwater
but the shower is scalding and yes -
yes the ash falls off and the hollow thud
becomes a wet sludge
eking itself through the drain
leaving a grand total of nothing behind.

(SPOTLIGHT: and suddenly! the airing cupboard bursts open and reveals that the piles of laundry still reek, stinking sharply of sweat and ***! and it seems my dishes are still *****, lines of grease splattering down the clay! oh and the floor is just as gritty, smudging oil into the creases!

you in the wings, tired of this PLOT TWIST
you pulling the strings - wishing to cut them
you in front, i am sorry again but -

i can’t bear to try and clean again so -
let me sit and pretend, please
yes, yes, in this dirt with the curtain drawn
just a little bit more and i will get over it and
go through another spring of cleaning onstage so
please, let me -
let me sit here just a little while longer.)

Noah is a boy of eight years with almond brown eyes and soft black hair, and he loves dragons and elephants. Right now, he and his dad Frank are sitting around their living room coffee table, a snowstorm whipping through the darkness outside the windows...

“I'm here too,” a dragon says, lurking in a corner of the room in attacking position. “I am the Bewilderbeast and I'm from the children's show ‘Dragons’ – my body is as big as ten stacked oxen, and my wings are covered with sharp black spikes. My tail is gigantic and deadly. And by the way, I have blood-red eyes.”

Now an elephant speaks up and trumpets: "Törööö! I am Benjamin. You may think I’m big and scary, but I am gentle. I love sugar cubes more than anything: eating them is my passion. How yummy! Otherwise, I'm the quiet type: I avoid quarrels and wouldn’t even hurt a fly.

Noah and Frank want to play Uno (a card game). Frank shuffles the cards, putting the neat stack on the table while reaching for a freshly opened beer bottle. He takes it and empties it in one go.
Noah follows his father's drinking movement, quietly observing.

When Frank has finished, Benjamin asks: "You know what, Noah?"
"What?" Noah wants to know.
"Oh," Benjamin growls.
"Did you just say something?" Frank asks.
"No, I was just thinking out loud," his son answers, as the Bewilderbeast grumbles to him:
"I hate it when Frank drinks."

Then the great dragon snorts until embers like fireflies come out of his throat. They swarm around the living room and settle everywhere like glowing neon-yellow dust.

"Don't like dirt on the table," Noah complains.
"You're right, Noah. The cards are well-shuffled and I'm quite able to do so", Frank says after opening his second bottle. He drinks it half empty and hums, "Playing cards is great fun, you know. When I was little younger than you are now, I used to thrill and entertain everyone with my card tricks at my grandmother's wonderful birthday party."

While Frank talks, Noah secretly mimics him.
"Ha! That was something," Frank adds, running his fingers through his hair and licking his lips. "If only they hadn't always drunk so much. That bothered me as a child. I often lost myself in my thoughts, thinking about how to build the biggest house of cards in the world, while grandma and grandpa danced and bumped into each other causing hearty roars of laughter."

Reflexively, Frank grabs the half-full beer bottle and drinks it up.
"After the party, they lay drunk on the carpet," Noah says quietly.
Frank doesn't seem to hear that and adds: "In the end they were laying on the carpet, drunk. Oh yes, good people, but they couldn't help their drinking."

Noah repeats in a whisper: "But they couldn't help their drinking."
Frank doesn't take notice; he gazes at the empty beer bottle. His thighs bob up and down and again. Frank licks his lips. "You know what, Noah?" he says. "You deal the cards. You know, eight for each player, and no cheating."  

After Frank has jumped up and left the living room, the Bewilderbeast hisses: "Frank is no good, because he only talks about himself, about his childhood. But what about you, Noah? That ****** me off," he roars ravingly. He spits fire again, this time without regard for Noah, forcing him to take cover under Benjamin's belly, beside his knobby legs.

The ruby-red eyes of the Bewilderbeast cut the living room's twilight with their brilliance and he spits out one fire salvo after the other, just as a flamethrower does...

"Please stop!" Noah is shouting, but the dragon only responds "Forget it. Everything here must burn. We have to erase your father's memory, only then he will learn to love you. You also hate the living room, don't you? – because Frank drinks here all the time."

"Don't let him fool you,” Benjamin is humming. "The wild beast spits fire, that's all very well, but breaking things... That," Benjamin yawningly mumbles "he can't do."  

Then the fire subsides, while Noah crouches between Benjamin's legs, eyes wide open. Frank comes back, another beer bottle in his right hand, drinking. When he sees Noah curled up, he snorts with laughter and spits the beer in his mouth on his son. Noah does not seem to register this. Frightened, he stares at the Bewilderbeast who, in a resting position with one red eye open, is waiting for the next attack.  

"Oh boy, beer's e'rywhere!" Frank slurs as he slams the beer bottle on the table and bends down to Noah to take him into his arms.
"****!"
Frank runs into the bathroom to grab a towel, and comes back, carefully rubbing Noah's hair dry.
"Ew," grumbles Noah. "I hate that."
Frank looks at Noah uncomprehendingly: "The hair have to be rubbed off. Don't they?"
"Don't believe him", the Bewilderbeast hisses. "He's lying to you, Noah."

At the same time, Benjamin is saying to Noah: "You see, Frank loves you. He's rubbing your hair off. And he feels bad about the spilled beer."
Noah's face is white as a sheet. "Stop it, stop it, stop it," he whispers and covers his ears.

Frank looks at his son with concern. He lets the towel down and slowly takes Noah's hands off his ears, brushes a wet hair, which sticks to Noah's forehead, from his face.
"Can't look at you when you're in this state", Frank says gently. Without hesitation, he pokes Noah in the stomach with his fingers and tickles him so that Noah breaks out, first tentatively, into laughter.

He tries with all his strength to shake off his father's hand, but it doesn't work, although Frank has to make funny movements to tickle him any further. The two become entangled with one another and cannot stop the laughter.
But then Noah stops laughing and asks: "Daddy, why do you drink beer?"
Frank doesn't seem to have expected such a direct question. He pauses for a moment and answers: "Because it tastes good. Why do men drink?"

Noah shrugs his shoulders. "I'm not a man yet. But if it's good, why do you drink so fast? I always think you don't like the beer."
"Well," Frank grumbles, "I don't drink that fast. What makes you think that? It’s a matter I would have to deal with more closely, it needs to be weighed up and thought through thoroughly before jumping to conclusions."

The Bewilderbeast whispers furtively: "He's lying, Noah. Do not believe a word he says."
Benjamin says: "Frank is addicted to beer. But he doesn't want to hurt you."

This time Noah keeps calm. And he goes on to ask the next question: "Do you like it or not?"
Frank's eyes roam the room like he's looking for something. The Bewilderbeast snorts quietly; Benjamin, being in a good mood, is eating a handful of sugar cubes.
"Well, you know Noah – I like beer. But I used to drink it much slower."

Noah looks at Frank seriously and sadly. You mean when Mom was still alive.
Frank answers with his eyes. And nods, hardly noticeable.
Father and son remain silent. "You see," Benjamin says: "You and dad are connected by something: By the death of your mother Ruth."

The Bewilderbeast says: "Frank drinks the beer because he can't stand your grief, Noah. And he loves Ruth much more than he loves you. He wishes you had died instead of her."
"Can we turn on the music, daddy?"
"Which song?"
"Tears In Heaven," Noah answers. "You know, by Eric..."
"Clapton." Frank replies. Then he gets up and goes into the next room to play the song on YouTube.
"Is the sound bar turned on, Noah?"

Noah checks and notices countless glittering lights buzzing around the speaker block, sparkling like stars in the Milky Way. Noah is magically attracted by this sight, stares at the lights with his mouth wide open and reaches out his index finger...
"Noah!" Frank shouts. "Is the system on or off?"
"No," Noah answers. "The stars are no longer there".
"What? Don't be stupid," Frank grouses as he returns to the living room. He pushes Noah aside. "Let me check it out." Frank bends down to the sound bar, fiddling with the wiring. "No wonder, Noah. The optical cable broke. Did you do that?"
Noah looks at Frank, meaningful and meaningless. "You know what, dad... Why don't we play cards instead?"

Frank seems unhappy and is stepping fidgety from one leg to the other, takes the beer bottle off the table and realizes in frustration that it's empty. "**** it," Frank scolds, but then he looks at Noah and blushes.
"I've got an idea!" Noah suddenly exclaims. "Let's make a deal, dad. You get yourself a beer."
"And then?" Frank asks skeptically.
"Tonight, you drink it slowly. Are you scared?"
"Scared?" Frank asks while he hurries off.

Shortly afterwards he returns, holding an open beer bottle in his hand from which nothing has been drunk yet. He puts the bottle on his lips, drinks the first two sips quickly, pauses, puts the bottle on the table, and rubs his stomach.
"But now I have to go to the toilet, oh my."

By this time, Benjamin is already asleep, a sugar cube is stuck between the tip of his trunk and the floor.
Noah smiles. When his father has left the living room, Noah says, without looking, to the Bewilderbeast: "You see – Daddy loves me. Otherwise he wouldn't drink more slowly. It's that simple, isn't it?"
No answer.

Noah turns around to look. Where the Bewilderbeast huddled, there is now a small dragon figure. Carefully, Noah sneaks up to it, and when he feels that there is no danger coming from the figure, he holds it to his ear and whispers: "Daddy loves me, doesn't he?"

My thoughts are merely a tangle of non-conformant
chemicals in an ultra-responsive setting;
echoes of scarcely delayed feelings,
millimetrically placed and ready to be felt;
remnants of cromagnon desires,
keeping me occupied, unassuming and tame,
while life rolls on silently, reflexively and impressively,
with all its humiliating nerve.

Rumination is for cows, guppies, and humans alike,
and saffrons, sapphires and the snow all reason in their own way,
no less conscious than our total unconsciousness.
Like a rock or plant, man is authoritatively ignorant of his ignorance,
and in his metaphysical realism lives and loves and dies,
without a clue that he never lived, never loved and was perpetually dead.
Thought’s true thought is to block awareness
by darkening the place where true awareness lies.

We think therefore we think:
to god (I mean exact-Nature) no other valid reason exists.
We conveniently overrate rationality
in self-serving cycles of chronic urgency and folly,
leaving us continually stuck to our cyclic fate.
Life is Nature’s grunt or roar
(whatever and the same)
all just a sound, faint or not.

We are unsubstantial and chimerical animals by excellence,
and in the circle inside the box we live in, our fancy appears really real.  
As a feeling awaits its chemical fate, in the millimetric second that lingers,
whole worlds are imagined, and our universe and all is perceived:
violence, joy, depression, hope, and unbearable pain are unleashed,
cities are wanted, planned and assembled,
while man, impeccably and in turns, plays god, king and beggar,
and true lives, true loves and true deities are born.

As man progresses (i.e. transgresses his own nature)
and as he overcomes thought, word and feeling,
he ceases to be restrictively alive: he is released, he is now free.
Thought stands alongside feeling,
without communication nor vibration,
and gradually and painfully amalgamate into a new corrosive mix,
directly eating into spirit, flesh, and understanding,
until our wholeness wholly disintegrates.  

The world as we know it folds upon itself,  layer by layer,
in an inner spectacle of perfect annihilation and renewal.
The chasm separating man from himself contracts
(eventually to nil)
and man plunges from the edge of this last plank (4).
As he falls, in mid-flight,
the ultimate metamorphosis occurs,
and an übermensch is born.

another pink little sugar pill
wash it down reflexively
saying maybe don't wake up tomorrow
maybe won't be so bad

but, thinking like you walk,
with lilting gait, and furrowed brow
stumble-fall, only to be

bruised peaches
with fuzzy knees
looked over later
rejected for riper fruit

Don't ever let my calm demeanor fool you,
you opened your mouth now its time to School you,
in the deadliest art, I tear you apart,
you're done from the start-get back in your Kart
and go blow your Horn,

while my Sonic Boom engraves my Chi into the Matterhorn
If I let rip they're zippin' up your rap crimes as evidence,
cause many moons ago I first set the Precedent-
Presidential rhymer but I'm no Twitter Twit,

When I bring the pain I like it to be intimate,
I'm Sado your Maso can't admit you're into it,
try to stop your toe tapping no control of it,
first strike Staccato, then smoooth like a Stiletto,
sliding into Silk Skin you let go ...

Chorus

Cause I'm your Sensei, show respect to your Teacher,
Bow Loooow cause I've a long way to reach ya,
won't breach your Confidence-just your Defense,
batter clatter shattered Armour-Helm full of dents

As I let go, ooh kid look what you done did,
Saw a Tigers tail twitchin' and then ya pulled it!,
shoulda mulled it over, now I pulled ya over,
now you're clickin your heels squeakin' no place like home huh?
      
                                *****
Your weak wordplay VS my Lyrical Swordplay
could put you down like child's play - *Behold your Sensei
Join the ranks? - no easy way, just the EC way...
don't like it? there's the door for the greasy strays...
      
                           ++++++++++++++++++  

but if you stay?--- you'll learn from the best,
lyrical onslaughts Dim Mak sounds stop hearts in chests,
or open  minds to other possibilities...
Stick with us kid, find the Sea of tranquility-
become a Warrior Poet heart full of Nobility,
use words as weapons to expose Fragility,
then some day you too can be a Sensei...

When you're a Sensei you discover lifes the Teacher,
Open up your Third eye, let the whole world reach ya,
I greet you - as a worthy Proponent,
always ready for the next opponent...

Some just can't and won't learn the lesson,
even when I break it down to the essence,
essentially your Sensei sees...
at least four **** moves ahead o' ye,

That's why i'm so relaxed while I'm battlin'
your nerves are fraught your nails bit-teeth chatterin',
face scrunched up in fear of the batterin'
you go from Rambo to Lamb as I unleash a Cataclysm

                         ******

A Thesaurus Tesseract powerin' a Juggernaut,
Bipolar Jaeger Driver Plasma weapon o' thought,
my life is a War zone my weapons are words,
Paleface Shamefaced attacker reveals a hidden sword

but I've met ya before defeated with metaphor,
Meta-Physical giant like fallin' through Smithsonian floor,
Deception meets Conception like Inception,
then my Dai Katana rips through your mid section...cause

I'm a Sensei-world class instructor rhymin',
you lost the beat and now you're off timin',
a wounded Gazelle limpin' cross the plains,
I take aim - release you from your Pain*

Cause I'm a Sensei use my art for my Zanshin,
reflexively inflexively effortlessly Dancin'
across the page across the stage across your lives...
Cause a true Sensei knows the real teacher...is LIFE

Love you all, stay strong, stay positive Act- don't React
Mr Sandman 11/07/17 (4:47!)

Dear Sirs,
            
He loved your magazine.

At night

it took him to places
where he could never go,
to warm and smiling lands,
to adventures in the paradise of his dreams.
He met happy friendly people,
who enjoyed life,
who had lives,

people who went
where they wanted
to do
what they pleased,
people who had no care
but for the next experience,
the ultimate daiquiri
the best bite of lobster,

who dealt with weighty questions
about
the marbling of steak,
the proper age of spring lamb,
the quality of truffles in Perigord.

He lay awake
at night
and wondered
about the snow depth in Aspen,
about climbing the Matterhorn,
about accommodations in Katmandu.

He imagined
Malay shadow play
on the ceiling of his house,
smiling Sherpas serving steaming tea
on the blue ice glaciers of Mt. Everest.
He dreamed
of
finger dancing in Chang Mai,
outrigger races in Tahiti,

a mysterious rendezvous
on the Orient Express,
lazy boat rides
on the Danube,

a visit
to Kafka’s house.

He loved your magazine.

He loved its’ breadth,
it’s many pages,
it’s thick cover.
He liked to tape it
to his chest

in the morning

when his house slammed open,
when he lock-stepped to the yard.
He felt its comforting girth
a glossy pulp breastplate
armor for a paladin
in a savage island’s
waking nightmare
of
numbing terror,
grinding fear,
sudden death.

He strolled about the yard
in sunlight without warmth
nodding to devils he knew
ignoring the ones he didn’t
deflecting their knowing looks.

Defense was automatic:

prison is a universe of deceit,
lies are the coin of its realms,
in the market place of its interactions
charlatans abound and falsity reigns
undisturbed by facts or connection
to an outside world.

A man can be
whoever he chooses.
Behind the walls
it only requires
imagination.

The best liars
present a blank façade.
a conscious mirror reflects nothing.                                          
it lies without effort.

But,
behind the reflection,
the liar dreads
front street’s abhorrent truths;
weaknesses revealed
raw nerves exposed
by
dueling tongues’escalation.

Under constant observation
in a search lit world
touche
means more than point.
Face is
the sole possession of the ******.
Loss of face is an injury to the soul.

Shame
triggers combat
mean street’s rock ‘n roll
the back alley ballet
injured egos’
minuet d’mort.

And so the duet began;
two bored men
picking at the scabs
of each others weaknesses
each wound answered with another.

Their hot blood’s impassioned words
attracted schooling convicts cruising the yard.
The observers circled ominously
the hint of ******
a carnal lure.

No one chose sides
it was a private affair.
Crocodilian eyes peered
out of the non-committal murk
awaiting a feast of suffering
reflexively prepared
to slide into the mix,
to make turbulent
the stagnant pool
of prison life.
Fury’s moment
relieves the boredom.

A crowd of cruel eyes
illumined the arena.
Fangs flashed
in their savage attentions’ glare.
Contending wills
weighed
by a deadly balance
clashed
with the gnash of steels.
Shanks fenced
point counterpoint.
A gladiator fell
his heart punctured
by a screwdriver blade.

The writhing form
grew still.
Life soaked the concrete.

Blood brought bedlam,
a contagious frothing madness,
goons, gunfire, and choking gas,
a grim entertainment’s finale.

Laughter and derisive shouts,
the demons’ choral refrain,
were funeral music
for a loser’s journey
on a gurney to the morgue,
and the pages
of a magazine
lay scarlet on the ground,
fantasies
trampled
under sullen jealous feet.

Not here. Not there. Not anywhere. Not anywhy. Not caring pennywise above my lotto-won unslant brow. I simply cannot who this town anymore.

Wut? It's not that i "jus can't;"
it's that.. well, it's that....

---- It all sidepath whirr spins too much, resulting in me being in it too kneedeeply, as my limbs brim over the finely-tuned ledge of what we think we can potentially know, where it grins up at the space stolid, like a thing imagined real - plus my poor machete has (in a torrid blink of the winkers) turned; or, more accurately, transmogrified into sudden feted befridged leftovers, which, aren't exactly untaciturn in their ways.

(understatement of the eon, iknowiknow)..

---- worse still, -forgotten- leftovers, hidden away in the crisper drawer under the rest of the things spoken for: half due to lazy; the other half, to the fact it won't slide nicely anymore :/

it, turning
and smirking.

Oh! the its
and things.

And those three anthropomorphic hands always pushing n prodding the fated its and things. It's all so.. meh.

So, of c, we decorate it w meta imps and wings above them. Methinks the neon signs of the new rind output axon doth protest too much.

Yet, the gray area is nigh.
Autocorrect, be ******.

Me: I, now, know your tricks. Your abstruse, purely theoretical storms which appeal with chartreuse arms elongated into lawnorder - I can see you've been drawn out. I can see around the bend. You don't scare me anymore with your elegant renderings. I am too much in the dying whitehot.

That voice inside: nothing

Me: ...

Chicken, *****.

Don't you see? It's all getting crunched down. God is in the box marked "fragile," sexting n taking dog selfies doing a Miley tongue wag in the ***** bathroom mirror w an awk ttfn postscript n kissy face discursive.

I won't flinch.

my pockets turned inside-out aboutfacedly, knowingly staring that stare right back up at me, reflexively, interrogating and adjudicating, highchaired n bewigged n gavel-swinging n self-righteous spittle-wingin n all - cuffs hugging the curly q sloughed off set-o-symbols once hung like rare priceless lace above that (over)hyped brand new skull muscle (geologically speaking, of c). but the ***** have all been given, and i, finally, with arms reaching forward and backward, am here.

the haste the haste
the grammar head at the wake
let rigormortis do it's worst,
because there is more behind its door

0100111101010000 bars
hug the star's start
stripping them away,

Denuded, they

corrall it
adn things

white-knuckled,
I grip these two
and win back
the abysmal.

I am OK with breaking down,
with being hurt. Vulnerable as ****.
These tears are me
and mine.

Once fully liberated, she rides her antique, three-speed bike down the small hill from her campsite to the:  RESTROOMS – SHOWERS – PAYING CAMPERS ONLY. She dismounts and goes into the well-kept, recreational facilities and takes a hot, 50-cent, seven-minute shower, arching her soapy back against the white tiles, rubbing her soapy front in the same spot, up and down and up, and then, rinsed, she stands, dripping wet in front of the first full-length mirror she's seen in weeks, gyrating her hips, mocking pin-up poses to herself and all god's good-looking men with a sense of the absurd, then she wraps her towel around, tying the knot between her *******. She stands outside in the sweet, Santa Vidian air, finger-drying her hair and imagining, unabashedly imagining, guys in the campsite above, eating fresh-cooked meat and ogling her. Then she takes off down the road, pale green nightgown fluttering against the rear spokes, past Bonnie's trailer where from sundown till 11pm you can hear the best country music: Randi Travis, Willie Nelson, Hank Williams Sr. She pulls up to her sweet “Bleu Belle,” shushes the dogs reflexively, hops off the bicycle, and turns, eyes closed, face upraised into a rare shaft of redwood forest sun.

let myself just stop halt, just for a second. let myself be myself, surrounded in music & by people I don't know..and some of them that I Do. stop for a moment & let myself just focus on their hands, their lips on me, working mine in the rhythms, those slutty club hypnotics crafted by sound manipulators. wait, Focus. Their soft, demanding lips on mine. not the ones I want but hey. Focus. Those slender fingers reaching up the nape of my neck- my arms give me away with natural goosebumps, my skin hacking up, reflexively, not aggressively, but with fondness & heated chills. those fingers, nails trailing my scalp...****, I wish he could do this - wait. Focus. her lips still demanding mine, but liquor likes to press the 'play' button when you're not looking, leaving you to stop. look at the mess you've made. children have a funny way of breaking all their favorite toys. stumble to the bathroom you half hoped you'd be tasting danger in about an hour ago. can't even be angry enough to flip off the other girl at the sink, too ashamed to look at yourself. the pressures of hating yourself some days unbearable because you get claustrophobic when the door closes with only you & your Savior inside.

in the hot hot hotbox where the
interlude first dug in its feathered heels
(the *******), now, it being
gone with the wind, the wellsprings
reflexively engage because the wind
is hot and here I'm not unused to you yet
and I sure don't miss you but here
I nearly want to

I crawl unnoticed
into your bed,
having done so many times before.
I know you.

Familiar is always inviting.
The warm sheets, welcoming pillows
bound reflexively around you.
I am that inch of the bed
you never knew.

Darkness and discomfort rapidly infect
the free-spirited bliss that befriends you daily

Toss left.
Toss right.

Your brain in my hands,
a black slab of clay

Open your eyes,
all that seemed so clear, now
clouded like a stone dropped
into still shallow water.

I decide to unchain you,
for you may manage your physical existence, but

I am the puppeteer of your alternate reality.

Why is it that
I am held to a standard set in stone
That you are able to treat like a mold

Why is it that
I am punished for not acting “lady-like”
Yet you are excused because “boys will be boys”

Why is it that
When I was a girl, I wasn’t strong enough to lift a chair
Because you, were the “strong boy” my teacher required

Why is it that
I am trained in passivity
While you are praised for being actively inquisitive

Why is it that
As I speak out, I am obnoxiously bossy
But as you speak out, you are a heroic leader

Why is it that
When insulting me, I’m a *****
But when insulting you, you are just a son of that *****

Why is it that
I can’t speak my truth because that would be emasculating
But you are entitled to, because your truth actually has value

Why is it that
—for the same action—
I am spat out, left ruminating in a puddle of self-doubt
While you are uplifted and encouraged

And, why is it that
I've internalized all of these messages, absorbing the ramifications
While you are able to effectively maneuver them, benefiting off of my downfall

Why is it that, now
I reflexively utter “sorry,” coating my rhetoric to please you

Why is it that, now
I instantaneously tell you, “no, it's ok” when
it isn't. ok.

Why is it that, now
When an adult man catcalls me, a teenage girl
I am taught that is my obligation to indulge him, be kind
So I am not further harassed


And, tell me, why is it that
I am taught to compromise my needs
To fulfill yours

I didn't want for her to kiss me
But I'm not sure what to do
Now she's tugging at my clothes
And I'm not sure if I want to;
All my friends said go for it, shes fit fine and cute
Why the **** not? What are you some type of *****?
But surely it's up to me what I do in the ****,
Is my choice if I do or don't want to.

Now she’s kissing more aggressive
And I'm not kissing back
As her hands run along my body
I wonder if asked for that
Did I give all the signals,

Do I beg for the touch?
Just cause I don't say no doesn’t mean I haven't had enough.

I feel a bit dizzy with all the drink
I stumble and she’s right there ready to catch me.
My whole world seems to spin,
She asks if need to lie down,
I nod and she grins
So she leads now to what is the scene of the sin
She pushes me on to the bed, the mattress cushions my fall
And I curl up my legs to my chest to form a ball,
I think it’s all over, finally I can get get some rest
And wake up in the morning to nothing more than a memory I'll forget

But she gets right next to me
So I close both eyes,
I wish that she won't,
But to my surprise
Again no words come out
The only thing leaving my mouth
Is her snake tongue as she slithers in and out.

The next parts a blur
While she gets hers
And I'm just lying there
While she unbuttons my shirt.
I'm doubting myself, is this all I'm worth?
Is this what happens to them all
While she gets hers?
And she's kissing my neck
Long wet kiss weighing heavy
And I'm angry and upset
Confused and hurt
She never asked she just took
But I can't help but think I must of asked for this.

Now she grabs it and tugs, forces it in
Seared in my brain is that sly cheshire grin.
Maybe this was the moment when the fault became mine;
I should have pushed her off
Instead being another rabbit caught in the lights.
But my strength was gone I just feel so weak
Surely soon it will be over then I can sleep.
The slapping of skin bounces off the walls and slaps me,
Shes calling me names while riding viciously
Saying I love it, not asking if she should stop
Or how I am, she’s slowly killing what makes me feel like a man
But how, how can she not see
This is not what I wanted?
She must be able see the tears, Recognise the fear,
It must be my fault or surely we wouldn't be here.
No person would do this to another out of choice
She must be just as confused
I should have used my voice
I should have said no
But now it’s too late, I've lost all control.

She's done and moves off slowly
Her heavy breaths makes me gag reflexively

I feel ***** and used I just wanna cry,
Surely she’s not a ****** the fault must be mine?
I should have shouted for help
I should have put up a fight
I should have screamed no
Till it echoed in the night

At least now it's done
I can start to forget,
Bury it deep inside of me and move on with what’s next.
But it doesn't go away,
It lingers and stays
It not easy to forget when you’re made to make love
Cause isn't that what it is more than just another ****?

And that’s what we forget,
So I'm speaking to all the women and men
Because the key word is consent
And the absence of consent doesn't mean that you can
Use your voice before you steal from another human.

©Gregory Loftman

i hold a shaky palmful of death
noting that it is surprisingly light

i swallow reflexively
feeling shocks through my hand

i could just do it
i could just do it right now and it would all be over

why don't i do it

my body, fighting to survive
my brain, begging to die
and i am no man's land

I do not know you the way a morning glory knows the sunlight: dependent, wilted in its absence.
Nor do I know you the way a vowel knows its predecessor: dependent, indifferent to chance.
Still, I know you. The way a palm knows
Each singular line that runs down the twin fingers of its opposite, independent yet inseparable.
Parallel creases of experience, your hands rewrite language by their subtle movements—
Alluding to a oneness that scatters once it is spoken, a secret dialect that spreads from your fingertips into mine, sending signals up my outstretched arms.
Reflexively, I trace the outline of your presence. I do not know you apart from the way I know myself.
At times, I yearn for the indifferent dependency of the morning glory, the formulaic way a vowel flirts with the past. Yet this can not be. To know you is to
Become you (the contours of your fingerprint contains my very being). To know you is to love you entirely.
Lose my singularity, to take your hands and place them decidedly over my eyes, look out into
Eternity: the world filtered through your presence—our harmony—this is how I know you.

9/25/15

Carefully crafted or reflexively cast
An exhibition of nonchalance,
He retreats
An unapologetic unbecoming,
The rooted waver in his wake.
Arid dust plumes as cliffs cleave and crumble
An avalanche of treachery,
A sandstorm of his consequence
The air thick with echoes of this final opus
Arrest his casual scream
The unseen bedevils fiercely and hovers victoriously,    
    A muted death knell, he weeps.

I'm a unique creation,
The only precious one in the universe;
Stardust coalesced and quickened by mysterious Life;
A product of a billion generations on this celestial sphere;
A result of myriad mating rituals conducted by a thousand species,
Each contesting an evolutionary battle for survival;
Each coupling succeeding in its primal urge
To replicate the life-giving source and reproduce;
Knowing, instinctively, that eternal existence is a stepwise process;
Knowing, too, the diversity of individuals propagates the One.
And now, four and a half billion years after conception,
Gaia's offspring can contemplate her glorious existence,
While speculating - reflexively, lethally - about the Sire.

Laying awake at ungodly hours,
I've often stared into a ceiling that I reflexively believed to be present.

But, whenever I did find myself at leisure from sweating and sleeping,
it was always too dark to make sure that the roof was still there. And this invoked a primal fear within me.

If you need to ask why I felt afraid, you've never been a father.

A father closer to the grave than any of the naive goals he'd set for himself as a child.
A father who had traded his breath and blood for bread and a burrow.
*This uncertain roof, often made me ask, "Has it been worth it?"

i yearn to change
the world
but i can't seem
to change myself

i fear the gears have ground to a halt
and i've been left to gather rust
between the teeth of tired cogs
in the jaws of this dysfunctional mess

am i nothing more
than a bent tool
a broken fool trapped
in self-detesting testament

piece
me together
with anger anguish
and mistrustful lust

the aspects of a psyche
peeled back
like flayed fingernails
exposing fresh flesh

i've resolved
to be a nightly victim
of my own failing
mental health

i may be pointing fingers
and smashing mirrors
but i haven't been avoiding
the abject reality

a reflection
i know reflexively is inexorably
responsible for this current
catastrophe

i
am my own
sworn
enemy

a contagion
jealously infecting
everyone and everything
i've tried to love

though i dream of death
every evening
i continually awaken
disappointed

She observed herself
Standing fast in clouds of steam
This felt so unreal.

Remote perspective
Would make survivable the
Dreaded encounter.

The necessities:
Tickets, porter, clock,
Time creeping along.

Maintained a distance
And staunch objectivity
‘Til the last moment.

Final words spoken,
All defenses splintering
She paused, one last look.

One last chance to stay,
Vanquished, punished, forbidden
The wide world’s  pageant.
.
Point of inflexion.
The tug of the familiar
The pull of the known

Would invert the arc,
Intended trajectory,
Retrogressively.

And then, there it was:
Unctuous, demeaning smile,
Withering and cruel.

Pierced by well-honed fleer,
She reflexively shuddered
Like fly-stung horseflesh.

Ears roaring; face flushed
She felt foolish, faint-hearted,
humiliated.

One breath, and one more,
Forcing herself to stare down
Scorn and ridicule.

Then chin uplifted
And breath becalmed, she nodded
And scant smiled Adieu.

Thus the poetess
Righted her millinery,
Spun on her bootheel,

Snapped her parasol,
gave her bustle a barely
Perceptible shake,

And with solemn mien,
But mirthful eyes, she set forth
For better morrow.

A restless burning
Like acid, eats
Away at my soul
Sizzling, disintegrating
Bits and parts
Of my self, fading
At the edges

I wait, watching
Poised in the center
Of the madness
As the walls
Close in

The air growing thick
Choking me, the smoke
Suffocates, I gasp
Reflexively, but no
I won’t struggle
No
I won’t resist

With arms open
I wait
Let it come
Let the fire
Consume me

I wait all day hoping for a smile
When you finally arrive, you look away
Do you hear my heart break?
I understand that look in your eyes
When you try your best to sneak a look
Do you know that I get what you feel?
Those mixed emotions on your face
When I am around your beautiful grace
Do you see how I can read them all?
The way you smile at me reflexively
Then turn around and almost slap yourself
For taking it a step closer to my dream
Do you know what that ever means to me?

—How are you?
—Gettin' by
—Good
—Yep
She was on her third bourbon as they exchanged texts. The smell of it wafted in her face as she held the snifter up to her nose. The sweet syrupy smell of cheap bourbon. She dangled a cat toy in her free hand while the black and white and tabby thing watched the feather sway back and forth in the air. Head turning with each pass like the cat wall clock they used to have when she was little. The clock's eyes glowed in the dark. And it was really dark at night back then when they lived out in the middle of a farming settlement in western Pennsylvania. The interior of the single-story ranch house was decorated in classic fifties kitsch: braided rag rugs clashing with the Oriental lamps, green leaf wallpapering, and glow-in-the-dark cat wall clocks. She took a sip of the room temp bourbon then set the glass down. The cat had lost interest in the dangling feather cat toy so she set that down as well. She got up and walked down the hall to the bathroom. She peed, washed her hands in the sink, then steeled herself for the obligatory glance in the mirror. What she saw: an image of a woman that didn't immediately plummet her into an abyss of self-loathing. She would settle for that. She reflexively opened the cabinet door: hair clips, tweezers, baby oil, alcohol, cotton swabs, dental floss, Zoloft, Estradiol, acetaminophen, double-edge razor blades, no razor. She closed the door then said to her reflection: "We should get out of here. Dontcha think?" She looked away, then back again, flounced her hair, and said: "Or dontcha?"

I held the first few wisps
of you from weeks ago at
the bottom of shallow lungs,
now breathing daylong,
fugitive and furtive.

You pivoted reflexively,
found all faults through
water-sapped air, lucid
but flecked with dust in
spindles of limpid light.

I feel the wind thin and thicken
as it wavers, confused
from south to west, again,
again, cold then fresh.
I close the windows.

You're bottled now and warm
still, the longer I hold you
in my chest. I practiced
this as a child, when
I first dreamt about you.