We had wanted to leave our homes before six in the morning
but left late and lazy at ten or ten-thirty with hurried smirks
and heads turned to the road, West
driving out against the noonward horizon
and visions before us of the great up-and-over

and tired we were already of stiff-armed driving neurotics in Montreal
and monstrous foreheaded yellow bus drivers
ugly children with long middle fingers
and tired we were of breaking and being yelled at by beardless bums
but thought about the beards at home we loved
and gave a smile and a wave nonetheless

Who were sick and tired of driving by nine
but then had four more hours still
with half a tank
then a third of a tank
then a quarter of a tank
then no tank at all
except for the great artillery halt and discovery
of our tyre having only three quarters of its bolts

Saved by the local sobriety
and the mystic conscious kindness of the wise and the elderly
and the strangers: Autoshop Gale with her discount familiar kindness;
Hilda making ready supper and Ray like I’ve known you for years
that offered me tools whose functions I’ve never known
and a handshake goodbye

     and "yes we will say hello to your son in Alberta"
     and "yes we will continue safely"
     and "no you won’t see us in tomorrow’s paper"
     and tired I was of hearing about us in tomorrow’s paper

Who ended up on a road laughing deliverance
in Ralphton, a small town hunting lodge
full of flapjacks and a choir of chainsaws
with cheap tomato juice and eggs
but the four of us ended up paying for eight anyway

and these wooden alley cats were nothing but hounds
and the backwoods is where you’d find a cheap child's banjo
and cheap leather shoes and bear traps and rat traps
and the kinds of things you’d fall into face first

Who sauntered into a cafe in Massey
that just opened up two weeks previous
where the food was warm and made from home
and the owner who swore to high heaven
and piled her Sci-Fi collection to the ceiling
in forms of books and VHS

but Massey herself was drowned in a small town
where there was little history and heavy mist
and the museum was closed for renovations
and the stores were run by diplomats
or sleezebag no-cats
and there was one man who wouldn’t show us a room
because his baby sitter hadn’t come yet
but the babysitter showed up through the backdoor within seconds
though I hadn't seen another face

        and the room was a landfill
        and smelled of stale cat **** anyhow
        and the lobby stacked to the ceiling with empty beer box cans bottles
        and the taps ran cold yellow and hot black through spigots

but we would be staying down the street
at the inn of an East-Indian couple

who’s eyes were not dilated 
and the room smelled
lemon-scented

and kept on driving lovingly without a care in the world
but only one of us had his arms around a girl
and how lonely I felt driving with Jacob
in the fog of the Agawa pass;

following twin red eyes down a steep void mass
where the birch trees have no heads
and the marshes pool under the jagged foothills
that climb from the water above their necks

that form great behemoths
with great voices bellowing and faces chiselled hard looking down
and my own face turned upward toward the rain

Wheels turning on a black asphalt river running uphill around great Superior
that is the ocean that isn’t the ocean but is as big as the sea
and the cloud banks dig deep and terrible walls

and the sky ends five times before night truly falls
and the sun sets slower here than anywhere
but the sky was only two miles high and ten long anyway

The empty train tracks that seldom run
and some rails have been lifted out
with a handful of spikes that now lay dormant

and the hill sides start to resemble *******
or faces or the slow curving back of some great whale

-and those, who were finally stranded at four pumps
with none but the professional Jacob reading great biblical instructions at the nozzle
nowhere at midnight in a town surrounded

by moose roads
                             moose lanes
                                                     moose rivers
and everything mooses

ending up sleeping in the maw of a great white wolf inn
run by Julf or Wolf or John but was German nonetheless

and woke up with radios armed
and arms full
and coffee up to the teeth
with teeth chattering
and I swear to God I saw snowy peaks
but those came to me in waking dream:

"Mountains dressed in white canvas
gowns and me who placed
my hands upon their *******
that filled the sky"

Passing through a buffet of inns and motels
and spending our time unpacking and repacking
and talking about drinking and cheap sandwiches
but me not having a drink in eight days

and in one professional inn we received a professional scamming
and no we would not be staying here again
and what would a trip across the country be like
if there wasn’t one final royal scamming to be had

and dreams start to return to me from years of dreamless sleep:

and I dream of hers back home
and ribbons in a raven black lattice of hair
and Cassadaic exploits with soft but honest words

and being on time with the trains across the plains  
and the moon with a shower of prairie blonde
and one of my father with kind words
and my mother on a bicycle reassuring my every decision

Passing eventually through great plains of vast nothingness
but was disappointed in seeing that I could see
and that the rumours were false
and that nothingness really had a population
and that the great flat land has bumps and curves and etchings and textures too

beautiful bright golden yellow like sprawling fingers
white knuckled ablaze reaching up toward the sun
that in this world had only one sky that lasted a thousand years

and prairie driving lasts no more than a mountain peak
and points of ember that softly sigh with the one breath
of our cars windows that rushes by with gratitude for your smile

And who was caught up with the madness in the air
with big foaming cigarettes in mouths
who dragged and stuffed down those rolling fumes endlessly
while St. Jacob sang at the way stations and billboards and the radio
which was turned off

and me myself and I running our mouth like the coughing engine
chasing a highway babe known as the Lady Valkyrie out from Winnipeg
all the way to Saskatoon driving all day without ever slowing down
and eating up all our gas like pez and finally catching her;

      Valkyrie who taught me to drive fast
      and hovering 175 in slipstreams
      and flowing behind her like a great ghost Cassady ******* in dreamland Nebraska
      only 10 highway crossings counted from home.

Lady Valkyrie who took me West.
Lady Valkyrie who burst my wings into flame as I drew a close with the sun.
Lady Valkyrie who had me howl at slender moon;

     who formed as a snowflake
     in the light on the street
     and was gone by morning
     before I asked her name

and how are we?
and how many?

Even with old Tom devil singing stereo
and riding shotgun the entire trip from day one
singing about his pony, and his own personal flophouse circus,
and what was he building in there?

There is a fair amount of us here in these cars.
Finally at light’s end finding acquiescence in all things
and meeting with her eye one last time; flashed her a wink and there I was, gone.
Down the final highway crossing blowing wind and fancy and mouth puttering off
roaring laughter into the distance like some tremendous Phoenix.

Goodnight Lady Valkyrie.

The evening descends and turns into a sandwich hysteria
as we find ourselves riding between cities of transports
and that one mad man that passed us speeding crazy
and almost hit head-on with Him flowing East

and passed more and more until he was head of the line
but me driving mad lunacy followed his tail to the bumper
passing fifteen trucks total to find our other car
and felt the great turbine pull of acceleration that was not mine

mad-stacked behind two great beasts
and everyone thought us moon-crazy; Biblical Jake
and Mad Hair Me driving a thousand
eschewing great gusts of wind speed flying

Smashing into the great ephedrine sunset haze of Saskatoon
and hungry for food stuffed with the thoughts of bedsheets
off the highway immediately into the rotting liver of dark downtown
but was greeted by an open Hertz garage
with a five-piece fanfare brass barrage
William Tell and a Debussy Reverie
and found our way to bedsheets most comfortably

Driving out of Saskatoon feeling distance behind me.
Finding nothing but the dead and hollow corpses of roadside ventures;

more carcasses than cars
and one as big as a moose
and one as big as a bear
and no hairier

and driving out of sunshine plain reading comic book strip billboards
and trees start to build up momentum
and remembering our secret fungi in the glove compartment
that we drove three thousand kilometres without remembering

and we had a "Jesus Jacob, put it away brother"
and went screaming blinded by smoke and paranoia
and three swerves got us right
and we hugged the holy white line until twilight

And driving until the night again takes me foremast
and knows my secret fear in her *****
as the road turns into a lucid *** black and makes me dizzy
and every shadow is a moose and a wildcat and a billy goat
and some other car

and I find myself driving faster up this great slanderous waterfall until I meet eye
with another at a thousand feet horizontal

then two eyes

then a thousand wide-eyed peaks stretching faces upturned to the celestial black
with clouds laid flat as if some angel were sleeping ******* on a smokestack
and the mountains make themselves clear to me after waiting a lifetime for a glimpse
then they shy away behind some old lamppost and I don’t see them until tomorrow

and even tomorrow brings a greater distance with the sunlight dividing stone like 'The Ancient of Days'
and moving forward puts all into perspective

while false cabins give way
and the gas stations give way
and the last lamppost gives way
and its only distance now that will make you true
and make your peaks come alive

Like a bullrush, great grey slopes leap forth as if branded by fire
then the first peaks take me by surprise
and I’m told that these are nothing but children to their parents
and the roads curve into a gentle valley
and we’re in the feeding zone

behind the gates of some great geological zoo
watching these lumbering beasts
finishing up some great tribal *******
because tomorrow they will be shrunk
and tomorrow ever-after smaller

Nonetheless, breathless in turn I became
it began snowing and the pines took on a different shape
and the mountains became covered white
and great glaciers could be seen creeping
and tourists seen gawking at waterfalls and waterfowls
and fowl play between two stones a thousand miles high

climbing these Jasper slopes flying against wind and stone
and every creak lets out its gentle tone and soft moans
as these tyres rub flat against your back
your ancient skin your rock-hard bones

and this peak is that peak and it’s this one too
and that’s Temple, and that’s Whistler
and that’s Glasgow and that’s Whistler again
and those are the Three Sisters with ******* ablaze

and soft glowing haze your sun sets again among your peaks
and we wonder how all these caves formed
and marvelled at what the flood brought to your feet
as roads lay wasted by the roadside

in the epiphany of 3:00am realizing
that great Alta's straights and highway crossings
are formed in torturous mess from mines of 'Mt. Bleed'
and broken ribs and liver of crushed mountain passes
and the grey stones taxidermied and peeled off
and laid flat painted black and yellow;
the highways built from the insides
of the mountain shells

Who gave a “What now. New-Brunswick?”

and a “What now, Quebec, and Ontario, and Manitoba, and Saskatchewan";
**** fools clumsily dancing in the valleys; then the rolling hills; then the sea that was a lake
then the prairies and not yet the mountains;

running naked in formation with me at the lead
and running naked giving the finger to the moon
and the contrails, and every passing blur on the highway
dodging rocks, and sandbars
and the watchful eye of Mr. and Mrs. Law
and holes dug-up by prairie dogs
and watching with no music
as the family caravans drove on by

but drove off laughing every time until two got anxious for bed and slowed behind
while the rambling Jacob and I had to wait in the half-moon spectacle
of a black-tongue asphalt side-road hacking darts and watching for grizzlies
for the other two to finish up with their birthday *** exploits
though it was nobodies birthday

and then a timezone was between us
 and they were in the distant future
and nobodies birthday was in an hour from now

then everything was good
and everyone was satiated
then everything was a different time again
and I was running on no sleep or a lot of it
leaping backward in time every so often
like gaining a new day but losing space on the surface of your eye

but I stared up through curtains of starlight to mother moon
and wondered if you also stared
and was dumbfounded by the majesty of it all

and only one Caribou was seen the entire trip
and only one live animal, and some forsaken deer
and only a snake or a lonesome caterpillar could be seen crossing such highway straights
but the water more refreshing and brighter than steel
and glittered as if it were hiding some celestial gem
and great ravines and valleys flowed between everything
and I saw in my own eye prehistoric beasts roaming catastrophe upon these plains
but the peaks grew ever higher and I left the ground behind

I remodeled my home,
By ridding it of old furniture made of
Dark and malice thoughts,
And redecorated with thoughts of joy and inspiration.

I decorated the empty ceilings
With a full moon and some shining stars,
I took down the drapery that once covered the windows, and watched From my living room as the new dawn embraced the sunshine.

In my garden, I built a house for the melodious birds to warble their Songs, and constructed a temple for prayer from my tears and sorrows.
I planted an olive tree in memory of innocent souls, and decorated it with Some tulips, roses, and jasmine flowers for the anthem of love!

Hussein Dekmak

I got tired of being broken,
so I fixed myself
and added a patio.

i only find my solace in half rhymes and soft narcotics
and twice-sung dueled harmonics
keep my tongue between my teeth
and keep my dagger in its sheath
and i guess i should have known
not to let my dark be shown
cause he only wants the light
well i suppose it's only right
nothing grows in darkness
nothing grows in darkness

i can only keep myself contained
in tired metaphors and shame
i just wanted him to know
i could love even his shadow
show my hand and call my bluff
let the edges keep their rough
tell me every single story
spitting off each promontory
nothing grows in darkness
nothing grows in darkness


i'm told that every great disaster
is building up my character
i'm told that every great destruction
paves the way for new construction
but i was never one for artifice
i'm a bare ***** tree as stark as this
i thought you were my home but you were termites
leave me alone and go search for your spotlights
nothing grows in darkness
nothing grows in darkness

We have souls that are plunging off this planet,
in hopes they will be swallowed by the cosmos-
fearing the hurt is never ending,
leads to renovations of existence.

To silence the beating
of a heart,
to end a life.

Morality is stuck behind
the gates of purgatory

& society is too scared of
what will happen
if we use our mouths for
meaningful conversation.

Indeed.
A tourniquet can stop the bleeding,
but can’t do justice for spread of infection,
or the scar serving as a reminder.

People are dying from depression-
faulty chemistry in the brain.
As well as suicide.

It is the crying of phantoms,
never to be heard-
wanting change,
a re-birth,
of the contorted humanity
we proudly call ”life”

Ache that’s carried lifelong,
but never resolved.
Truthfully,
those vague questions

don’t save lives.

Death knows this,
of course.
He is an omniscient force
lingering in the scenery.
Possessing the inability
to tolerate the teasing
and the wagers.
Coming to collect early
because, we’ve begun
to shatter
every fragment
of light
life reflected.

Now,
Darkness makes him feel welcome
and entitled.

KRM

Misguided with glazed eyes,
they gleam in an effort to encourage impulsiveness.
I no longer have a desire to be the windows inside of you.

Admiring a lavender sky,
sunsets continue to die,
plagued by the thought of
night creeping in again.

I am vulnerable to the pale moonlight.

You once told me, 'There's a cracked home that you carry inside of you.'
No longer am I the thoughts filling your head,
that I'm the cure to your sickness.

Isolated myself in heavy sheets of sadness,
suffocating-
in an uninvited guest room,
just some extra space.
A breeze persistently tugging,
the tattered curtains.

Someday, you'll understand-
I was never your home.
Never becoming a garden,
never a lonesome white gate.

Paint chips from my decaying bones,
from years of damage.
Been here before
a ghost to these creaking stairs.
Fixing everyone else's homes,
a loose floorboard bares secrets,
but I continue to keep things just to have something to hold.

Stairs cave,
with each step I take.

I end
as it begins;
your body becomes an earthquake,
the house crumbles,
words evolve into raspy whispers

Damage has been done,
marks are on the wall,
as demons claw.
They're ripping through your veins
as I feel the foundation in my fingertips.

The walls won't be here tomorrow,
no longer holding everyone's hands,
or breathe through these polluted lungs.

I've begun to feel a need to repent
and with every move I make,
my happiness is spent.

I knocked on society’s door,
Hollow footsteps through the crevice of civility,
A ***** welcome mat with a broken doorbell;
No visitors wanted who were not invited,
And understanding was buried under the porch.

In Law’s front yard,
picketed with ire and arrayed with disorder,
Olive branches strewn across dry grass,
lay an empty briefcase marked in leather.
Gavel and irony betrayed her whimsically.

Garden beds in front of Understanding;
Plundered of roses and wanton petals.
Bland stems wilted amongst the weeds.
Relinquished of entitlement; water led
Towards apathy and entropy instead.

A house of Perhaps: vacant,
Open front door to empty rooms.
Leased to opportunity but vacated in days,
Renovations procrastinated; mocked by
The neighbor of dismay and wry.

Ignorance paved a new driveway,
The unanimous watch of Lively Cul-de-sac;
Gated community with hopes of manicured
Lawns and pools. Procreated in the minds
Of not wild men, but surveyors.

Mumok Museum [24]

What am I doing in Vienna,
staring at cold sterile pop art as the whole entire world we're on burns,
in a city I never wanted to go to,
doing things that never really seemed that inspiring,

& it's not that I have an antipathetic attitude towards these pathetic fools,
in fact it's actually just the opposite of that because I'm an actual optimist,
which is why I don't feel inspired by bored cyborgs their wires or their tools,
& precisely why I'd rather gather flowers than be an actor for their power,

see I find more inspiration in a single leaf on a single tree by a river bank,
than from all the colors & lines contained within the walls of this museum,
which is why when I'm asked all the time what kind of poetry I read,
I reply I don't even read poetry see I don't find it in books I find it in seasons,

It's the same reason I don't need to go to church to pray,
because I don't need my messages from God to be translated by a human,

anyways where am I at & what am I doing?

Oh yeah Im at a museum in Vienna wondering where the inspirations gone,
& why everything seems so excruciatingly tiring,
see it seems we’re on the verge of a collective mental breakdown,
at the same time like we're on the precipice of a collective enlightening,

either way the system’s short circuiting & could do with some rewiring.

Why does every rags to riches story I know of those that've made it,
end in an overpriced designer outfit at home bored all alone & jaded?

Why is Consumerism followed like a religion,
I mean we're all made of the same DNA strands regardless of name brands,
I mean everything is just carbon hydrogen & oxygen anyways,
which may explain why materialism is immanent in every independent man,

while an apocalypse seems undeniably immanent &,
we dwell in the highest heights ever built still we don't totally understand,

we don’t worship Jesus we worship Visa,
putting good credit ahead of good morals,
don’t praise Muhammed in a daze we say our grace in front of TV Dramas,
no Buddha dreams just computers screens no real friends just PayPals,

& maybe that’s why it's easier to be blind than to see,
maybe that’s why we hide in museums behind Valentino sunglasses,
because we'd rather have expense tastes than be free,
but when you’re behind any type of four walls you’re trapped in,
whether on a Penthouse terrace with Paris in Paris,
or doing hard-time for white collar crimes with Madoff in a Federal pen,
either way we’re victims of our own additions trying to buy more time,
but running out of credit as banks are collapsing & the recession is relapsing,

so why even buy things when we know not so secretly,
that only Love will set us free from these retro restrictions & their trappings,

see,

the best things in life still are still free,
& yeah liberation is expensive & self renovations are extensive,
but freedom is priceless so live a life that's righteous,
seems that the Love Pyramid is the only pyramid that’s not a Ponzi scheme,

because we are all equal even if we’re not all treated equally,
that’s why some have no clothes while others wear designer denim jeans,
but these Diesels're 2 tight on my thighs this macabre carnival has no prize,
& I can do anything I want with my life but all I really want to do is breathe,

breathe,

breathe because this lifestyle is expensive,
but freedom is priceless,
even though they'll try to capitalize off of anything,
so they market it & try to price it,

I just,
want to find a place to relax & release,
& be free of all of this,
find true love & say “Fck off to the politicians & all their politics!”,

fck their programs fck their projects,
fck their ugly agendas dressed in artificially splendid splendor,
fck their quotas & their motives for treating human beings as objects,
fck their pre-programed consumerist culture of conmen capitalists,

fck there putting machines over human beings,
just to increase the place where their profit sits,
& I say all of this regardless of who it offends because I'm not an Apologist,
I'm more of a Lyrical Pharmacist,
who serves indiscriminate prescriptions in the form of transcriptions,
in order to assist in the additions that come from positive developments,
which will occur for sure once we switch the position we currently sit in,
& restore Divine Order once more in the name of Humankind's betterment,

in the game of life I play,
they know I'm so official that I don't even need a Letterman,

I just,
don’t know what else to say,
I don’t know why I’m at this museum in Vienna,
hiding away on the top floor writing this to you on a Sunday,

on the 5th floor got it all but I just want to give more,
I just want to gift these words then make my escape,
don't you get it I don't want to get more ****t,
if anything I just want to find a way to give more of what I have away,

just want to be alone,
but also want these words to be known so the truth can be shown,
but where do you go when you’re tired totally over it all,
& all you want to do is rest & write these poems,
but even with all you have you still don't know where to go,
because even with all these things you still don't have a home...

Hello,
could you please pick up the phone,
I’m calling because I still love you,
& I want to come back to you even though I know I’m already gone,

currently on the top floor of the Mumok museum in Vienna,
the floor is the 5th to be exact,
& yeah it’s true that I don’t know where I’m going,
but what I do know is I don’t think I’m ever coming back,

online & off track,
writing more words with more rhymes,
than any other living writer in contemporary times,
& no I'm not lying 'cause I'd never lie to you & yes those are both actual facts,

& yeah that’s a fact & yeah you can Google that,
but I’m going to follow that fact with a question,
before I forget to mention,
let me just ask you what I'm doing here in Vienna?



What am I doing in Vienna,
staring at cold sterile pop art as the whole entire world we're on burns,
in a city I never wanted to go to,
doing things that never really seemed that inspiring,

& it's not that I have an antipathetic attitude towards these pathetic fools,
in fact it's actually just the opposite of that because I'm an actual optimist,
which is why I don't feel inspired by bored cyborgs their wires or their tools,
& precisely why I'd rather gather flowers than be an actor for their power,

see I find more inspiration in a single leaf on a single tree by a river bank,
than from all the colors & lines contained within the walls of this museum,
which is why when I'm asked all the time what kind of poetry I read,
I reply I don't even read poetry see I don't find it in books I find it in seasons,

It's the same reason I don't need to go to church to pray,
because I don't need my messages from God to be translated by a human,

anyways where am I at & what am I doing?

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

from The Holy Trilogy Vol. 2: Mandalas
available worldwide 08/08/18

The writer is

                                                             ­ bound by the Oedipus
                                          cauldron stewing          can't relax

                          --all women are mine--
                                                          ­       but this doesn't stop the bloating bubbles.

                     But the writer did not invent Wonderlandia
               --no double-sided tape or wrong number or sloppy poetics.

                              Wonderlandia was born from the ***** of the stars
                                                         --our fathers,
                              and the void of space,
                                                     --our mother's womb.
the writer

                                             was busy staring at the girls that walked by
                                        ditch diggers for renovations on Euphoria.
                The hippies are disappointed in this current Wonderlandia,
   or they would be.

                               Their dreams had dirt in the mud,
                they walked upon.                Our Woodstock
                                                       ­         is celebrity interviews,
                                                     ­           reservations failing,
                                                        ­        political satires--the last ring of change
             sold at five cents a word. Period.

the writer
                                        says it understands and writes:
                      "Sticks shaped from elitism
                        rare.
                        Usually a vibe too brittle,
                        breaking in battle.
                        The bass thundered robins.
                        The snare's firearm stabled the swift,
                        electrifying beat.
                        The brass was addiction
                        to the crowd's ears.
                        All before the elitism was born,
                        a symphony was constructed in the drug's head."

the writer
                                knows about D. A. Levy and his revolution,
                  we all felt that voice, so the writer replies:
                               "Did you hear about the John Lennon poser
                                 waving his gun on TV?
                                 While listening to the Beatles, you
                                 sit and watch the vagabond cry.
                                 He says, "Counter-culture is dead, entombed
                                 in a metal casket.
                                 We need a new flame. Those watching TV
                                 get your hands out of the basket."

the writer
                                        walks with grandma Alice
                                       by lakes,
                                                       thrilling dementia
                                    "Don't tell me what taurine
                                      and caffeine can do to my heart.
                                      I can have alligators in my rib meat
                                      eating away at bone marrow.

                                      High? That's your question?
                                      Hi...I am a float
                                      in a useless pond
                                      bordered by malnourished trees.

                                      By the love of hell you better not
                                      fertilize those ****** trees
                                      because if I die
                                      the alligator of my ribs
                                      will dine and take your ****
                                      girlfriend straight to the vet.
                                      I thank you for asking though."

    the writer misses
                                 the syrup in the tree completely
              
                     I am not your beatnik
                                or future idol--burn your 1970's classrooms away.

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And though I may not mention it,
I need you to remain and sit in place within my life.
I'm home, I don't mind a few renovations but you can't move out.
Change the furniture, change the setting, change the colours of this love, but don't pack up.
Don't relocate, because I can't leave with you, hence I live with you.
Continue to settle, continue to speak your plans to my walls, we'll breathe life into them.
And may the building of this love never feel the clocks run forward.

by Dvniel Jones

A NIGHT IN SHINING-ARMOR  
From the 8th diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.  
  
It was a little while after our trip to the snow at the Shivermetimber Ski Resort, when my Dad said, 'He had some good news'. His brother Albert, who worked as a tour guide, in the very old castle named, Shining Armor, located in the historical town of, Woncy Upon Thames, had invited the whole family to stay a night, in the Shining Armor castle.  
   
The castle would be closed to the public, so they could upgrade the garden's watering system, and do some minor renovations to the old horse stables. He told Dad, 'It might be the only time we could come and stay there'.  
   
Once Dad told us, the good news, the whole family quickly agreed. It would be chance in a lifetime to stay in a castle, and we were all, ever so keen.  
   
Then Mum and Dad told us, 'They would get straight to work, on some super, secret, special, surprises, for the entire Lemmon family to enjoy, while staying at the very old castle.  
   
Only three days to go, and we still didn't know what they were both up to. Dad was busy driving into town and back home again. Then, dad would go straight back into his unusually built and outrageously painted, outback, backyard shed. Our Mum, was coming and going from her very own, colourful, Arts 'n Crafts, hobby room, at the back of the house.  
   
It was now Saturday morning, and my Dad, had got up at the crack of dawn, to pack the car with all of our baggage. But, he soon realised, that he needed more room. So, he decided to hook up our very old trailer, for a bit of extra room. But, he had cleverly, covered up everything that was packed inside, so we couldn't see our super, secret, special, surprises.  
   
We then all got into our family car, and headed off for a night in Shining Armor's very old castle. On the drive there, the whole family pretended we were all travelling to the old castle, in our very own, royal, majestic looking, horse drawn carriage. Dad, pretended to be the head carriage driver, Mum, pretended to be the royal caretaker, while my two, identical, twin sisters declared themselves as, 'The Princess's Emma and Jemma of Shimmerleedimmerlee Estate, to us all', with a pompous smirk on their faces. My little brother had to be, 'Lord Lemmy the Little of Woncy Upon Thames' of course. Smoochy was named, the royals pet Corgi and I of course, was his 'Excellency King Stewy the IIIV'. Oh, what fun was had by all, travelling to the old castle, while pretending to be and talking just like, real royals, would do.  
   
Upon entering the castles estate, we even got to drive across the drawbridge and through the large fortified gates. Our Uncle Albert, was waiting for us at the foot of the stairs. He then opened all of our pretend horse drawn carriage doors. We all stepped out and burst into laughter and our Dad, jokingly said, to our Uncle Albert, 'You can take the royal baggage to our rooms, and then make our dinner on time, and don't forget the fine wine'. Then, with a grin, Uncle Albert said, 'Will that be all sir'?  
   
The whole family then walked up the front stairs, through the grand entrance, and into the foyer that had a massive staircase, right in the middle.  
   
Wow! I thought, 'What it must have been like, to live as a king'.  
   
We all went upstairs to our very own bedrooms, to take a warm bath. While we were bathing, Mum, crept in and laid our super, secret, special, surprise over our beds. Dad went to the trailer and took off the cover. Then, he hid our other super, secret, special, surprise in the castle's large garden shed.  
   
We were all so happy with our Mum's surprise. Our clever Mum, had handmade us all, colourful and flamboyant, royal attire. We would all wear them to dinner, like a real King and Queen would surely desire.  
   
The dining table was like, twenty-feet long, Mum and Dad couldn't even see me, if I happened to do anything wrong. After the main course and after plenty of talk, our Uncle Albert said, 'I'll be back in a sec'. Mum asked, 'If he needed a hand, but he said, 'No thanks, I'm just going to fetch the desserts, so I won't be too long'.  
   
He was gone for quite a while, when all of a sudden, the doors swung open, and in came a knight in shining armour. My Dad fell off his chair, still holding onto a small royal jug, and ended up with apple sauce all over his face.  
   
While, both my two, older, identical, twin sisters, just started to dream real fast, for they both had the same identical thought, that their husband to be, had come to take them away at last. I thought, 'It's so funny, how the brains of identical twins seem to work'. Then, Smoochy had jumped straight back into my top left-hand side pocket, full of fright.  
   
Then, the knight started to laugh, and said out loud, 'Will that be all sir'? For it was our funny Uncle Albert, playing a practical joke on us all, and saying, 'That he was now equal, now that his brother Archie, had got his just desserts'.  
   
In the morning, Dad went to the large garden shed and brought out his super, secret, special, surprises. For he had made, four homemade, rocking horses for us all to enjoy. A little one for Lemmy: a medium sized one for me; and two identical, but, much larger ones, for my two, much older, identical, twin sisters, Emma and Jemma.  
   
We got dressed again, in our colourful and flamboyant, royal attire, which we had worn to the royal dinner, the night before. After a day full of horsing around and even playing chess, on the outside, gigantic, playing board, it was time to say farewell to Uncle Albert.  
   
We thanked him for the invite, and for having made our trip, such a ball. For the wonderful trip we had, staying a night in Shining Armor's very old castle. All the while, pretending to be royals, and even dancing in the great hall. But we all knew, it couldn't really happen in real life, that's for sure.

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Big parts of ourselves are based on what we know best
What we do
Who we love
Where we are comfortable

The safety of familiar

When a rock the size of a delayed trauma is thrown between those cogs
The machine is still capable of continuing the way it did before
Something just makes it break that bit more
Quietly camouflaged beneath the surface of certainty

Everything now slopes to subtle disarray
As if the plates you had been balancing this whole time have suddenly stopped spinning
And the poles are threatening to snap under the pressure

I have separated myself into sticks and stones
Promised to break my own bones with every unstable step I take towards something I’m blind to seeing shadows of

Talking about it is impossible
It comes out in tongues of unintelligible
Crashing on tired ears too kind to tell me how badly they need a break

Discovering that who you thought you were isn’t who you can keep being
Makes me envy anyone who has had their identity stolen by an outsider

Constrictions come with self analysis
My body now moves through an ever-changing state of inconsistency
My figure defined by dislocated assumptions
Curves contract the changes in all the wrong places

Worries spread their seeds under an ocean of unnoticeable
Trust is now a stranger in my own home
who has figured out how to cut their own set of keys every time I change the locks

Blame is a fallback and the only ones to place it on are those who taught you everything you thought you knew

Heaviness is a weight I can’t brush off my shoulders
I carry everyone else’s burdens on my back because at least it is something I can be good at
A care taker who neglects to take care of herself

Eroding with every passing hypothetical
Every second thought
Every doubt
And every 'what if'

My impermanence is solidified in the knowledge that where we came from will soon call us back

Constellations can’t hold conversations but at least I know they won’t worry half as much

‘Nothing is permanent’ is one tattoo I can’t remove with laser surgery

So now I look for the missing parts of myself in others
In sizes and figures and numbers

What I am not is always something I could become
There’s always been room for improvement
and the empty space is running low on oxygen

Comparison has her cruel hands wrapped around my throat with a thirst I’m incapable of quenching
Self-deprecation isn't attractive
Insecurity isn't ****
Sharing so many similarities with someone who is everything better than me has turned itself into an internal torture device
an omnipotent ‘almost’ that lingers with every non-existent like-minded interaction that will never happen

I place my worth on the pedestal of peoples perceptions

Nightmares show reruns every second night
of the possibilities that now manifest themselves in the lining of my limbs
Leaking toxins that won’t go as far as my throat in case someone else overhears them

An unspoken competition for admiration and attention
The hollow has started to build scaffolds in my stomach for further renovations.

Easing it is a process
I seek shelter in laughter and forcing to forget

And loneliness has become a friendly companion in their absence

Afloat with overthinking until it jumps overboard
Dissolves transparent in glass coloured water

And drowns in it’s own pretty poison

Strong is the foundation,
but renovations needed
Signs of wear from past involvements
Darkness settles, absence of power
Then an unexpected luminescence
Out of the fog and into the light
Broken, healing, mending
Like an emotional carpenter,
She begins to repair his wounds
New relationship is formed
But scars from the past causes doubt and fear
Stubbornness, insecurity, irrational immaturity
Relationship agreement null and void
Heart dipped in liquid carbon
Shattered across the slab
Alone again, button of
Self destruct almost activated
But a change is brewing
God is present, never alone
Lessons learned, heart at ease
Sharp is the mind, priorities clear
Calm and peaceful, open heart
Confident, self worth known
Fixer upper upped and fixed?
Only time will tell

how over pretentious of me...
islamophobia and russophobia...
odd bedfellows...

Mатвей Дракон: profile name...
but it's in russian and no one is willing
to stretch a darkening of humour...
to the extent of monty python...
because there's no canned laughter...

and there will never be...
not since i realised...
those four bottles of cider get me
more drunk than half a liter of
ms. amber... because the drinking
is measured and can reveal itself
in the process - rather than wait,
concentrated... and only expand
into more hours of sleep than
i could ever wish for...

but at least the russians speak of
russophobia as a reality -
the evil genius mantra...
which they are...
but there's no sense of: via irrational
arguments we will counter this
irrational fear...

so... the scuttling spiders announce!
and we will have ourselves
an orchestra!

even i thought this was too much,
too pretentious...
it's not a study... it's teasing...

a study in greek, hebrew, cyrillic and possibly sanskrit... because i'm not a monolingual hyper-inflation that will solve a crossword puzzle... when めば (eye-spot) is already... available? In a name there's a name in oh so many other languages... should i rely on relapsing into "gender-neutral" pronouns i'll cite... the noun-status extensions of letters, akin to a' into alpha... o' into omega... etc.

めば (eye-spot): that much is true...
sudoku...
i have made the following circumstance
plain...
there is no chance of me rising above
this already apparent crab-bucket intellectualism...
perhaps...
burden of rhyme...
it's only a "poem" if it rhymes...
rhyme is somehow identifiable with poo'etics...
ask an anne sexton... or perhaps:
no, don't bother...

she to burdens herself with rhymes -
and maybe she doesn't...
but this endless expectation to rhymes...
yes: plural was indicative of
the irony...
sometimes it's not even available...
to look back at this tool we have been given,
perhaps perfected better -
or not - since most of the time i find
myself: without an inch of belief
in catching some oratory / rhetorical
tsunami to... be the crow that croaks
the most and the loudest in this wake...

at least the russians acknowledge russophobia...
oh they're pay privy diligence to it...
they know they're the evil geniuses of this world...
they allow this irrational fear to sink in...
and then they rationalise it...

too bad for islamophobia...
it's not an irrational fear to begin with...
it's... more or less... a rational fear...
i think russophobia is an irrational fear...
after all: Kiev was founded by Vikings...
and apart from crown russia that's still
pretty much in Europe...
the asiatic branch of russia is too far away
to matter for either st. petersburg
of paris...

it's not convincing to be "reassured" while
the "enemy" persists to look bewildered
as if: no event is ever to happen
in the world - or also include him...
muslims? oh no... oh no at almost every turn
it seems...
sacred cows walk the streets of new delhi
while the people starve...

no dire warning: tiresome from the perspective
of a wormhole -
the count and the next count
the measures and what's to be left
dwindling... which is never a spectacle worth
reserving...
like putting on a vinyl and watching
the vinyl on a gramaphone...
or lighting a candle with a sulphur-sparked
match and sitting and "waiting"
watching while the candle burns...
and feeds a schtick of "anorexia"
absorbs all the shadows and stands at
midnight noon: with no wax to burn...

that feeling of having just ****** off
and then... prostate cancer pains
of having to make it absolutely necessary
to take a ****... to clean the ducts...
i still don't know why this "event"
is so precious for the quasi-cenobites...
it's no big deal...
just another genocide done into
the tissue later flushed...
perhaps if i were... shooting eggs
without the yoke it would somehow
matter...
perhaps i am...

but there's no zeitgeist to be had
concerning something that i make synonym
with wiping my *** asking
for nutella... and a skippy crunchy...
because: that's going to be the decade
defining EVENT!

funny... you ******* for no real reason...
nothing procreative...
gym-bro bollocking and that's not even
as much fun as going to a turkish barber
for a shave...
by then: everything concerning your
being - that is not going to be a moral
tool to raise children...
limbo in ego or the ego in limbo -
and that's never self or i...
but after an *******...
the most desperate need to take a ****...
to flush and make the ducts pristine... wiped
with ***** disinfectant...

about as odd as the bass guitar rising above
the drums - the oddity bass "rhyme"
and please... no guitar solos...
no metallica death to the bass
all that i hear is solo and rhythm guitar
and the drums...
they never got over the death of cliff burton...
or: how the rock band killed
the jazz band... focused on the rhythm guitar
and drums... but no trumpets just the vocals...
but still... no better use for bass?

it's always either: all that's music and...
it was always going to be not enough ***...
enough *** or just ***...
i went down the route of playing the brothel
roulette to catch up with the girls...
who i expect will later play bingo...
and we will probably try to age...
and be all romance...
and the man idiotic will still preserve
himself as unable to lie...
and she will... m'eh ah and all that litany
of sighs find the purse and the penguin
dancing the foxtrot from out
of the antarctica of his own ***...

russophobia: yes, an irrational fear -
even the evil geniuses of moscow acknowledge
this burden...
islamophobia... and... what?
milk and honey and yeast
and comatose black gold of ms. saudi of
the dinosaur arabia plucked...
a leaf... a laurel... from the pages of history
of: who's the good dog willing
to aport on call of command?!
into iraq and iran?

i can't hear a counter...
when it comes to it being anything rationalised
equal to the russian monologue...
claustrophobia and... it's irrational to me...
esp. when long winding...
when the cube talked to a field about...
abstract thinking -
at least claustrophobia is a metaphor
for abstract thinking - the lesser -

islamophobia is a ***** word...
esp. the -phobia suffix...
it's a perfectly rational fear...
given the mouse-and-leans have the gears
the fuel and the poker and backgammon "rules"...
as someone who might appreciate
a well sung adhan more than
an operatic aria...
well...
what's not to love?

at least for some it's known:
a drowning man will attempt to grip
a razor's edge without hope that it might be
an edge of a floating raft...
and they will always purse their mouth...
and waggle their tongue for
the pennies like sand shrapnel from
the payers for the goods...
an emirat sheikh and... the bore of the world...
if only the lottery of oil...
somehow... landed... in mongolia...

this world is a tiresome place...
given that arabs have the money...
and the chinese have: g.i. joe factories...
it's such a drab place...
such a clone furnace of the numbers
of mandarins...
and oh that niqab cinema...
even if you sell me something swedish
in black & white drab...
or some proto-turkic propaganda movie
to convert the "al-qaq" kurds (qa-eee-d'ah?)

welcome to europe... ghetto west of berlin...
back east there are needles...
walking about on the mountains
of camel humps...
notably in west warsaw coach station...
but the ukranians are always rather:
rowing the boat and the boat is always
heading into the furnace...

crab-bucket intellectualism...
these words are words that should be printed
and left on the northern line tube carriages...
like some free journalism paper wipe-my-***-with-i-wish,
why of course!
the highest i.q. renovations bottom-up to the top
always spreschen rhapsodies in wrap...
wrapping akin to:
i imagine the rappers chasing those...
john moschitta jr. is not a wrapper... rapper...
he's the add guy... and no rap on radio
adverts... when the T&S clauses are stressed...
and the muzak is dead and the lift is... falling...
like a ice-pick on the one dancing foot
of a burning burning with epitome given
the name... malchik trotting trotsky...

otherwise: blah - and endeavours into the bland...
some call it a guillotine...
i call it manglonia in england -
tiresome safe -
i almost pray to feel dangerous having
to acquire a straitjacket -
straitjacket bungee jump into conversation
like a rabid hive of the persona non grata:
of the commentary left-overs a priori
to the: walking onto the stage -
and talking with a gag in the mouth...
to speak a language for moths.

Someone painted the altar green

The culprit remains unseen
But I swear, sisters, brothers;
I'll cease the weeping of your mothers
And slice that villain clean and quick
On our wall his corpse will stick

For the Lord gave me the power
To protect those who cower
Away from Satan's servants and friends
Don't worry, they are too late to make amends
We can't help that vandal abandon his evil ways
Next thing you know he'll set our church ablaze

So what do you say, sisters, brothers?
He made our altar unlike the others
Now it's our turn to make it clean
And rid the world of all paint that's green

He might be going to another school
**** him, **** the school with an actual application,
He's smarter than me, for sure.
But can't we be together forever?

If I'm going to a good university on a scholarship,
Instead of a ****** cheap college, I'm going to need good grades
Where the **** am I going to get those?
My parents can't afford school funds
They spend ten grand on renovations
But now they don't have anything for our educations
Wow, thanks Mom.

I rubbed globs of Vix into the bridge of my nose this morning
It burns a bit, makes my eyes water
But it feels good

Am I suicidal because of that?
I don't think so, I don't ever want to die
I don't like pain, either, which rules out a lot of suicide methods
Unless you think Vix is super painful. I don't.

But I'm fat, stupid and ******
And if I got a %50 on a math test
The girls in my class talk about it behind my back
And laugh, even wondering
"How did she even get into eighth grade?"

My best friend told me about that, which I'm grateful for,
But I forgot to ask if she'd stood up for me.
I bet she didn't, she probably laughed with them
Because she's got a nice, cozy spot in the Populars.
Who wants to risk that?

I want to find my portable CD player
It's been missing for months,
but I'll just borrow my sisters and go for a walk.
I'll need to put on a shirt first.

Slumped in the backseat
Feel the light shine and pass across closed eyelids
Electricity sizzlez and pops against brain tissue
I want to end so I can be everything

Help reaches out in the form of tiny eyes and a few off-handed comments
Lets go play outside with masks on
Be careful, after years of work these walls are still fragile
Poision seeps, I left a stain on your bed

We brought reminders of home
Coffee smudged against the tile floor
Renovations needed made
Asleep against the wheel going seventy

VINCENT

Oh Vincent, too soon you said goodbye
Each time your love rejected, emotions set awry
Your hand above, the lamps hot flame
To prove in time, your love won’t wane
Each failure then, became your bane
That memory faded, but love, came not again

Your brothers love, the only one
Throughout your life, you counted on
And those few friends, which once were close
Each in their turn, did you dispose
Like those bad seeds, “The Sower” threw
Were tossed aside, and never grew
            
Regressing shades, of grey from white
Lights that flickered, through the night
You became a somber, tortured soul
You tried but could not, find your role
The acceptance, which you hoped to find
With each descent, you lost your mind
    
On your release, from “Madhouse Garden”
Your senses dulled, your “Sorrow” hardened
You still envisioned, “Flowering Orchards” blooming
Contrasting days, frustrations looming
Shadows formed, in weightless plumes
From the “Old Cemetery Tower”, and its tombs
          
Soon days of joy, your senses rouse
Bringing renovations to, “The Yellow House”
Long travels through, the countryside
Those paintings that, you did with pride
Enormous swings, from “Wheatfield In Rain”
To “Wheatfield With Crows”, that caused you pain
  
For years you searched, just to belong
Your madness proved, your choices wrong
So for Gauguin, your friend and peer
For his desertion, a severed ear
Then long drunken hours, at “The Night Cafe”
A “Man In Sorrow”, on display
        
Like a “Wind Beaten Tree”, your emotions bared
Your faith now lost, but no one cared
Your world then flares, into sweeping swirls
As “The Starry Night” its hues unfurls
Beneath the sky “Sunflowers” so bright
But yet again, the dark sides blight
          
Those years of struggle, to regain your sanity
Brought your biggest loss, trust in humanity
So with colors dark, the image jaded
Your love and dreams, then finally faded
And now you weep, “At Eternity’s Gate”
Your field of dreams, await their fate

And so
The moral of his story
Now becomes fourfold
And lessons not then learned
Shall now by me be told

When you lose in love
Your hand, you should not burn
Just because, it’s fried and crispy
It’s not, “Kentucky Fried Chicken”, Vern

Always, to your friends
Try to lend an ear
Just, don’t cut it off
And gift it, as a souvenir

If life just drives you crazy
And painting, keeps you sane
Just pretend, you’re painting life
And drink lots of Champagne

When you’re young and life’s gone bad
Don’t put your life on hold
You do not need to **** yourself
Unless you’re really old

But no moral, can be learned
By committing suicide
Cause you can’t dream, nor paint your dream
Now, that you have died

BOEMS BY JA 299          15-05-2014

You have always given me enough space
For my laughter to stretch it's healing bones
I don't have much in the corners where I reside
Besides enough room in this soul of mine
For the both of us to sit and recline

I don't have much space in this beating heart
It's still under repairs and renovations
But I will find a way to stretch it thin
To let it's shadow cast over you
And shield you from the glaring sun

From whatever remains..

By: Cedric McClester

Don’t know what to say
Other than fairwell
Death has finally claimed
Another venerable hotel
Where everyone from
Sid Vicious to Dee Dee Ramone
At one time or another stayed
And called it their home

Requiem for the Chelsea
May she rest in peace
Now that all activity inside her
Has finally ceased
Closed for renovations
See we’ve heard that before
The death knell has been tolled
She ain’t coming back no more

Nevermore to open
In its present incarnation
Cos now the Chelsea’s history
Despite the acclamations
What the future holds
Is anybody’s guess
But if I’m forced to take one
I’d say condos at best

The Chelsea was a grand hotel
Back there in the day
Name me one musician
Who didn’t book a stay
The Chelsea was iconic
What else can I say
Except that it’s ironic
That it went down that way



Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016.  All rights reserved.

Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.

On the internet
nothing’s permanent.
I like that.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.

Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.

Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.

Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.

Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.

Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.

The heavens called the ocean to the sky and released bolts of liquid lightning
With the recently renovated target on my heart, it's no surprise one found its way, colliding with my body in a splash of salinity and electric sparks
The collision ignited my every cell, sending everything into overtime
My heart fluttered rapidly, my blinks keeping tempo
Time pasted in a turn of the head, blurring the scenery into a waterlogged painting
The day the heavens called the ocean to the sky, it released liquid toxins.
With the recent renovations, it's no surprise one found its way to the target on my heart with your name scribbled in salty letters across the bullseye

still was the night
as i sat up in your bed
i tried to be different
i spoke less, i wore less,
my voice became like the fog;
broken and unclear,
i tried to be easier
women aren't loved
if they are difficult
i tore down my walls
so you could climb inside
and rattle me to my very core
you tried to make my body home
you broke my ribs
beating
beaten
renovations to this house of cards
empty hallways with no paintings
a stairwell leading nowhere
my mind is gone
it must have disappeared into clouds
emptiness was the fire that followed me
surrounding me when these nights got cold
you smelled like her
warmed by her love
i burned myself staying quiet
burning
smoking
black walls, soot covered
you do not live somewhere
you're not welcome
why do i welcome you
why do you call me home?
i am difficult, uneasy to love,
different, absent, broken down
a pillar holding this home steady
through the dark and broken hallways
i lurked like your lust for her
the easier, faster lover of you
i shouldn't talk so much
but i do;
the fog makes you unable to see
and my fire has burned through your desires
thickened my skin, beaten your castle down
a creaky structure still stands
easy to fall down
hard to redeem
still there
still

Yeah , traveling i think is one of the most soul opening , mind fathoming blacksmiths workshop to turn that ore into filigree framework still.
I learnt the art of traveling whilst sitting still this year,
i would say since around june last year - winter forced me into hibernation and several 4 hour meditations forgetting times limitations - but i left to travel in may and since then well , let's just say we've had considerable renovations..

Elected:  naturally sweat swamped vanity trapped cat paw flip flop.  

           But oil lamps burn for a different view

Vague outlines of where you once were
It's been years now and we've both moved on
You've grown up
I draw a picture of myself as a stick figure with a fat belly
scenes like an adolescent martyred for love.

My emptiness is touched when I think about your reality.
I hold enough space to carry multiple lifetimes of love and heartache.

Emptiness that was once filled could never be filled again
new doors open but renovations are not allowed.

Emptiness is still full of nothing; the sick cling to details and perceived meaning.

the boarded up windows of the hospital
they were making renovations
et moi, et moi, et moi
wanting to see the sky
the night before
a police officer with kind eyes
asking if everything was alright
in the back of an ambulance
having just swallowed the charcoal
et moi, et moi, et moi
nodding a yes
wanting to see the sky
it would be a year till I saw it
sitting in the passenger seat of your car,
Jacques Dutronc playing
et moi, et moi, et moi
wildly singing
only by chance
when the song changed
looking up to see
a yellow sun setting

Maybe I like house renovations so much because the thought of someone taking disasters and making them beautiful gives me hope that someday someone will do the same for me.

Act I

               Married at 25, in a small chapel off Caustic drive. Mr. Robinson was the envy of the whole town, as they all witnessed the beauty of his wife in a wedding gown. Twas a truly glorious occasion, even for those opposed to the Victorian persuasion.
                As a gift from her father, Mrs. Robinson received a family home. It wasn’t a gigantic bother, just a free place to roam. The couple was instantly overjoyed, not that it was an emotion to avoid. It just wasn’t a typical occurrence, for Mr. Robinson who, devoid of the world, felt little congruence.
                For six long years Mrs. Robinson’s husband toiled with cars, and avoided the nightly pleasure of bars. He brought home every penny he could, but was robbed a bit, working in a “hood”. Still he had enough saved for a little vacation, something to distract him from his “wretched vocation”.
                On the way home from withdrawing some money, just some small cash to get something for his honey, Mr. Robinson was stood up by a common thief, who smiled viciously with rotted teeth.  The man handed over his wallet with little struggle, scarred for his life. Seeing a license the man remarked through a muddle, about ****** Mr. Robinson’s wife.

Act II

                  Brutality was in this man’s blood, his day of reckoning approaching like a flood. It was clear to see in the thief’s gaze, that this wasn’t some malformed craze. Mr. Robinson had seen the look before, in his own mirror before crashing to the floor.
                  Violence was something begrudged in his soul, burning hot now festered by burning coal. He had avoided it all his life, steered away by a devotion to a girl he knew would be his wife. But in this moment it could have all faded away. So Mr. Robinson allowed his mind to stray.
                   His fists flew in an uncontrolled manor, there was little there that resembled glamour. The thief thrashed with the might of a knife, but Mr. Robinson put up a fight, clamoring to an image of his wife. Soon the thief’s skull was as flat as the pavement, and then Mr. Robinson sat there, constant and patient.
                    After a trip to the bar, Mr. Robinson returned home to his wife, and then laid before her all his strife. He wasn’t one to hide behind a lie, which could sever such an ever-loving tie. Mrs. Robinson understood it all to well, though from her hysteria you could hardly tell.
                    Tears were shed between both the Robinsons, and then came a series of promises. The first was that they’d leave the country with great speed; the second came contingent on one final deed. Mr. Robinson had to clear out his chequeing account, without inspiring a hint of doubt.
                    Sure enough, the deed went off without a single hitch, but in the back of his mind, Mr. Robinson had an itch. The wish for chaos hadn’t gone unnoticed inside his head, just lingered behind like a common dose of dread. Still he pressed on, and bought two tickets to Milan.

Act III

                    Mr. Robinson was drenched in sweat as the couple went through the metal detectors, and crossed a path of lazy eyed T.S.A inspectors. Regardless of any present fear, the man was aware that his destination was more than near. Walking past the last of the T.S.A, Mr. Robinson looked cool, nodding along to the music of DFA.
                    Boarding the plane turned out to be no big deal, in the pat down security had hardly copped a feel. They played a movie on the plane; its plotline seemed to run quite the same. A man boarded a westbound flight, but fell victim to a trending plight.
                    The whole compartment was overloaded with rage, and it came in a parcel they couldn’t encage. One by one they fell victim to disillusion, surely the result of a drastic head contusion. Though quickly it spread like a vile pollution…no race exclusion.
                     In the end only one lay in the wake, the turmoil, to him, was no more than a piece of cake. He was immune to the disease spreading amongst the flight, and used brute force to conquer the plight. Slid from the plane a triumphant man, and smiled for the cameras after a quick scan.
                     The whole film was a colossal joke, told from the mirrored reflection of a director on coke. Mr. Robinson didn’t take much from it at all, except that the righteous stand tall, it didn’t matter that the plot was about a hero, Mr. Robinson was going to burn that down like the fires of Nero.

Act IV

                      He strolled off the plane with a righteous grin. Mrs. Robinson obliviously was seen coating sun tan lotion all over her skin. They stayed at a hotel near the beach; Mr. Robinson renewed his license and began to teach. Six months passed without blood, no names to drag through mud.
                      During this time the Robinsons had a child, who had a tendency to be quite wild. The little girl was far too rambunctious; though saying so may be a bit presumptuous. It seems though, that it was the opinion of her father, who found need in removing the life of his daughter.
                       Mrs. Robinson played the part of being willfully naive, searching for some desperate form of reprieve.  She knew her husband had gone insane, the facts for which were more than plain. Still she pushed through and looked for the good, no matter what sort of hallowed grounds the shadow stood.
                       Two years went by without incident, their tedious normalcy, overly consistent. Then a reporter came asking questions, about a small time mugger and their known relations. Mr. Robinson laughed it off as though nothing was the matter, and then took the man down through the science of avoided clatter.
                       Hidden amongst those who don’t get found, was Mr. Robinson’s third victim, newly crowned. The deed lay hidden for a decade or so, time’s vagueness makes it hard to know. Romance was lively in the Robinson household, though such flare up hardly needed to be foretold.

Act V**

                      Mrs. Robinson was blind to all her surroundings, making it rather hard to collect any findings. She continued to believe that her husband was a kind soul, an innocent, but worldly foal. He spoke to her by the tender light of a candles glimmer, held her close in that weak flames shimmer.
                      One day she fractured a wall overloading a shelf, behind the latex laid the Robinsons daughter herself. Terrified and confused, Mrs. Robinson waited for her husband to come through the door, when he did she was already curled up on the floor.
                     They prayed together for a solemn moment, and then Mr. Robinson murdered his wife with little postponement.  He placed her inside the wall of his family home, right night to the kitchen phone. The next 40 years he consoled his loss with many a life, but none were buried anywhere near his wife.
                      He left the home as a constant reminder, of those he had failed as a provider. Stayed in it for every moment one should, and held onto it as long as one could. But in death, the home went up for auction, and it was sold off without a hint of caution.
                      A young Stedman bought the home for him and his future wife. They bought the home at a very low price, at such a rate it was hard to think twice. Renovations came, as one would expect, though the issues found weren’t necessarily from neglect.
                      This family was tainted by that gruesome, wretched home. Turns out, Mr. Stedman was also forced to roam. He had a nasty habit with a very sharp blade…that type of predilection doesn’t typically fade. During upkeep, Mr. Stedman discovered an odd bit of insulation, but certainly wasn’t about to seek further consultation.
                      He realized exactly what it was laying in the walls of his home, and he saw no reason not to let it get overgrown. The first victim added was his very own wife; they had been going through a bit of a strife. Soon after mudded in his parents in law, but removed them thereafter finding their odour quite raw.  

……………………………………………………………………………………

For the low low price of just being within' earshot,
the conversation analyst will run a full diagnostic on your conversation.

You know how that perfect comeback
feels, three weeks after
You didn't say it?

In training, representatives for Inbound sales listen to recordings of their own phone calls and critique them like Art majors in a studio class.

Our conversation analyst.
Looks at you like a shoe on the wall.

Unlike the psychology major,  the conversation analyst will never share his results.

He'll just judge you.
Silently.

He doesn't speak.
His fourth grade english teacher taught him that the carpenters house is never finished.
She was referring to her husband, the carpenter, not finishing the renovations on their new home, but the conversation analyst heard it as a metaphor, and adopted it as a universal truth.

Much like a painting controls the path your eye travels the canvas, or the scientific process that goes into composing music,
the way you build rapport is one of those things that people don't realize can be an art form until they wittness it professionally.

Our conversation analyst considers himself  Socio-passionate.

Which amuses him, when he deducts points from your conversation for not empathizing correctly.
Or not giving effective compliments by asking a relevant question afterwards.

The conversation analyst is not always mute. On special occasions such as first impressions he is a fine conversationalist.

You can meet the conversation analyst for the first time, as many times as you want.

If the carpenters house is never finished.
The conversation analyst
exemplar at listening,
Will never hear you.

A restaurant's closing at the corner of Front Street and Central
. . .  I've never been,
but I've glimpsed through the windows decor that was sure ornamental.

(Word on the street's that the eats were alright - the plates were too large - but the waitstaff were nice! Patrons, served tiny portions, were alarmed at the price - 'til they drank the last drop of red wine)

The place had a name before this iteration
They called it The Tempest before renovations.
I had been there
  - I'd been pleased by the service,
          been famished, then satisfied,
             and surprised by dessert -
     I'd been all kinds of things.

I had been cheesecake and you were crême brulé
and for a moment we shared a plate.
It might have been just the right size,
but I can't quite remember.

Were the waitstaff pleasant? - I desperately hope that I was...
The company was one of a kind.

For whatever reason, The Tempest closed,
and the place that has replaced it has closed,
& who knows what will be on the corner of Front Street and Central next?

all I know is that
                   all kinds of things
stop being
              a piece of cake

This One’s Mine
by Ryan P. Kinney

I could tell something was wrong from the moment I saw her. The usual vibrancy that I find so irresistible was replaced with fear and doubt.
“Go look in your bathroom,” she said.
Laying on the counter I saw it. In our over-litigious world the blue donut no longer proclaims the news.
Just one simple word.
“PREGNANT”

I was immediately ****** into the eddy of doubt that plagued my accidental lover.
We had to be sure. So she made an appointment for the coming Tuesday to verify our fears. I anticipated that day with great anxiety. I needed to know, to create a solid path to follow. But the day came with no resolve. The doctor cancelled at the last minute. Life was torturing me for the sin of corrupting Erin’s innocence.
What I feared more than anything was the uncertainty. I’ve always feared it more than death itself. Death is going to happen. It’s inevitable. While I cannot anticipate the when I can try to prepare for it. Uncertainty gives me no straws to grasp at. Nothing to get ready for. Nothing to control, to steer, or get my bearings.

Nonetheless a week later our suspicions were confirmed. The depth charge known as a baby had been detonated into my life. My emotions became chaotic shrapnel, cutting shards into my every thought and confidence.
In those early stages my mind was a flurry of fret. My brain conceived every outlandish scenario: from adoption to challenging for sole custody. Only occasionally would a rational thought throw a life-saver into the churning murk of my thoughts:
“You survived Lisa, Ryan.”
“You will survive this.”

My first difficulty was Erin. She has been a conundrum between my word and my nature since I fell in love with her. For one symbolized by fire it is in my nature to burn that which I hold closest. But my word, the mock chivalry, deceives me into trusting that I will do what is best.
I loved her, I hurt her. A little over a year after I first picked the lock to her chastity I had left a time bomb in her life. No matter how little commitment she wanted from me, she would now be linked to me for the rest of her life.
And while it is undignified, assinine, and unbefitting The Phoenix, the human portion of my soul affixed misplaced blame, then shifted to lament and anger...
“You should have known better. You played with one born of fire and we both got burned.”
“Why was I never good enough for you?”
“My life was finally going in a direction I wanted it and now this comes to **** everything up.”
Angry more at myself but blaming Erin, I sought revenge on my life through self-pity and self-destruction. I desperately sought the affection of a woman I hadn’t corrupted. Yet, I was still afraid to corrupt another with my desperation. Eventually, I came full circle. It took both of us to create this child. It will take both of us to continue creating him. Although we may never be one, our unity will still exist in our son. It will have to be enough.

However, there was another storm on the horizon. And its name was Kinney.
My family is a curse, who it is my responsibility to love. No one else can understand them. They don’t even love themselves very well. Ours is a family where dysfunction is the only way we function. It’s like some unsolvable, incomprehendable equation that must still exist if the fundamental laws of reality are to hold true. No one else should have to take this taint of Kinney upon them. Yet someone now does, one poor mother and a marked child.
I am sorry that you both will have to share the blight of Kinney.
And, so very, VERY proud of that.
There is a twisted pride in surviving the curse of the Kinney. This survival is a quest to turn all that dysfunction into unyielding potential, of creating something beautiful from all the filth. Is it any wonder that I fought so hard with Erin to ensure that the label “Kinney” was somewhere in my son’s name? Another son to carry on the sullied name, another to try to make it mean something. The mark of Kinney is my stamp of selfish pride in having created something from nothing, my greatest art project.

Initially, the reward of my child felt as though I had been sentenced to 18 to life. I had reached a point in my life where I was ready to move on from Erin. I lamented something as trivial as the loss of my love life. My whole life was soon to belong to someone else. Control of my existence has shifted, seemingly overnight, from the culmination of my experiences to a little person not even half-formed yet. A deadline had been placed on my youth.

Slowly, acceptance began to quell the hurricane of emotions and uncertainty turned into certain doom. I began to make plans. In true “Ryan” fashion I looked to the future. It was time to get to work.
My anticipated son gave my dreams a sense of urgency, a deadline. A series of shelved, unfinished art projects burst into an organized chaos of activity. My art studio was erected in four months. A room full of storage was converted into an actual room. My most personal space, my bedroom, has always undergone radical changes each time my personal mindscape must radically change. It, like my life, was incomplete. It now better reflected the man I wanted to become; chaotic, nuanced, lived-in; not the man whose most brilliant pieces lay hidden in boxes. My entire foundation, which my home had become since the last foundation was shattered, underwent and is still undergoing major baby renovations. It is time I made room for someone else in my life.

To the beautiful mother of my son, who I will always love if for no other reason than she gave me this new life, I say this:

“Just as fire breeds we too shall watch our little spark explode into life. We will guide, tend, and fuel. It will be our job to give the energy of the universe form and function. The fires of a phoenix and the faith of a believer burn within our child. As Blessid Union of Souls says, “Love will find a way.” Ours will find its way into our child. I love you Erin, but I will love our child more.”

I remain full of doubts and insecurities  in my life as one self will end when our child is born. Born of con artists and addicts, this cliché haunts me, “Can I do it right?” The only promise I can make is that the world will never be the same. The Phoenix is drawing to a close. The latest manifestation of Ryan, The AntiFather shall rise from its ashes, bearing, like all spent phoenixes, new life.

As I enter this new chapter in my life I have one thing left to express:

Of all the people it could have been with, of all the doubters and underestimaters, all the possibilities, potentials, mistakes, and failures. For all my incessant ramblings, babblings, worries, and obsessions. To the world in which I bring my son, I say this,

“******* *****, this one’s mine.”

the domicile of three generations
not all those labeled grand reside within the walls
the walls so effortlessly visualized within the mind
and within the inner palpation of the body
but a part will forever remain stained
even in new-found renovations
you can be away for a day
or maybe many weeks
but just a new paper on the walls
as you flashback to once dragging fingertips down the lining
of the hallway in which the dimensions are imprinted
a void is created in absence of the tactile sensations
so here I stand on this porch
the edge of my personal universe
an extension of myself built in brick, wood and my own bones
at first woe overtakes and what can be a form of fear
the future disappearance of a home held so dear
comfort resides in my own realizations
when the memories last in my mind
i know to say
home is here