A slow sun
Peeps over the horizon
The golden dawn
Joins the lovers in
Their warmest embrace
Promise of
The most perfect day
Offered with reverence
From God Herself

Before the daydream
Can even begin
A swift hand
Snaps the blind shut
A not so casual escape
Towards the cliff edge
Startling the curious bluebirds
That were beginning to gather

Vanish does the dawn.
With caution
Light fingers trace the earth exposed
Cracked
Repelling all offers of relief
Regret overwhelming
The warmth of the sacred center
Evaporates rapidly

Releasing a sigh
Light and heavy
In every way
She retreats
As once again
She is reminded
That he is not
A morning person

I see pictures in my head.
Me with a magnet embedded in my stomach.
Repelling or attracting certain types of people.
A man walking the New York streets
Concerned over his ****** addicted brother.
I see viking ships sailing to protect their homeland
From dragons and crop plight.

"The question should not be in what ways writing and utterance trope each other, but how both are involved with number. Without relating the technology of writing to number (as opposed to sound or drawing), it is impossible to discuss it meaningfully as an aspect of versecraft."

          Courage to write and courage to not write. Read
          The great poets and highly accomplished letters
          Of leaders. Yet the war and the book have lives
          Of their own. Vacuum house, analyze mankind.
          His idea of himself. Ideas subsumed by
          Better ones unite people in melting pots.
          I watch from my little bowl of nuts. Watch
          The one red squirrel and the many gray.
          Watch the nuthatch pair, platoon of chickadees.
          Here is what I say: When we can go
          From planet to planet on nothing but air,
          Leaving behind a drop of water,
          No burger bags blowin’ in the sun,
          I’ll love my sons, and my dogs will be happy.

"What is needed is a way to pry apart the polar, mimetic fiction that undergirds discussions (even sympathetic ones) of writing and versification, and see how we can relate writing to measure. Roy Harris’ investigations into the origin of writing make this connection possible."

          Electronic millennium. A long silence
          Wouldn’t hurt. Not that the national debate
          Should cease, it should proceed, passionate
          And furious. Those who have studied the matter
          And have something to say should write cogent
          Opinion pieces on the totalitarian
          Tendencies of minaret Islamists,
          The terminal contradiction of advancing
          Democracy with the unitary military.
          George Washington would not have approved
          And even Lincoln vacillated between
          The practicalities of preserving union
          And the ideal of freeing slaves. The president
          Carries his burden of matter, the physics
          Of existence cannot change our aloneness
          Or the butterfly’s importance, the very
          Last insects at the screens of August.
          It is life we face and death we meet.

"He argues that the origin of writing did not lie in the drawing of figures, or attempts to imitate speech, but in the recording of number. According to Harris, the oldest ‘writing’ that we have, like that on the 11, 000-year-old Ishango bone, is in ‘lines.’ The surface is scored with rows of short, parallel strokes, which probably served a numerical function. We still use such scoring systems today on occasion."

          OK, different strokes. But reading North’s poems
          And his predecessors’ in which noun and verb
          Are so far separated by modifiers,
          Post-positioned prepositions, diversions
          Into ditches, gardens, heavens, I don’t know
          What to do laugh or put the book down and eat
          Several cookies. In other words, anything goes,
          There truth resides. 1/3 life in suburbs,
          1/3 on the subway, and the last third
          On the mountain. A fourth hallucinating
          In heaven. That’s how it goes. You get what you believe.
          Bones in mud. It’s always possible I suppose
          That for nine months analogous or symmetrical
          With gestation our souls wander call it limbo,
          Doing the limbo and harassing the living
          With unanswerable questions, finally accepting
          Free molecular rent in a cubic meter
          Of interstellar space, a rose hip.
         
"Harris speculates about counting by scoring:"
'What is relevant for our present purposes is the fact that counting is associated in many cultures with primitive forms of recording which have a graphically isomorphic basis... The iconic origin of such recording systems is hardly open to doubt: the notch or stroke corresponds to the human finger...'

          Partridgeberry, mugwort, mats of raspberry,
          Cranberry, bearberry, autumn eleagnus,
          Autumn Nocturne, Autumn Leaves, the changes
          To the tunes and the scientific names.
          When it doesn’t matter what you do
          You’re probably doing something new.
          That’s a woodpecker. That’s a moth. I’m bounded
          By my surroundings, I feel at home.
          Could be Schenectady. Could be Troy.
          One of many small cities in which to
          Await my anonymity. Be specific.
          Not asphalt but impermeable surface.
          Not trees but mature stems. Quercus rubrus—
          Quality veneer. Into such a garden
          Have a victor and a fool penetrated.

'In short, the rows of strokes are graphically isomorphic with just that subpart of the recorder’s oral language which comprises the corresponding words used for counting. It makes no difference whether we ‘read’ the sign pictorially as standing for so many fingers held up, or scriptorially as standing for a certain numeral.'

          In a crowded world every action results
          In an equal and overwrought reaction.
          Yet, all the energy recycles
          And there is not one thermal unit more or less
          When all is said and won. Even when the tribes
          Were isolated behind mountain ranges
          And rushing rivers, they sought each other out
          For trading and for taking. Humanity
          Is lonely. Humor is the only remedy
          And going to your daily discipline
          The only way past Monday. Join the torrential
          Flow of words, emotion, wit and erudition.
          It is embarrassing to see a good writer
          Work himself into a lather, having
          Something to say. A system of beliefs
          To illustrate, characters dressed accordingly.
          Gardens and wilderness in which to wander.
          A cave with a view. The plumbing problem never
          Resolves. But we will do what we can and
          Some things we shouldn't because that is human.

"Along with other evidence, this leads him to argue that the invention of writing–or the division of writing and drawing into separate functions–occurred when the graphic representation of number shifted from the token-iterative system that appears on the Ishango bone, to type-slotting."

          Electricity is occult enough for me.
          Excessive classifying could be fascist!
          Yet how else can one organize people
          Into contexts. By their associations.
          Family, work, habits, each assigned
          A day of the week, moon of the month.
          Poets rhyme, jazz musicians count time.
          There is more than one way to make war. By
          Declaration, by punishing offenses
          Against the law of nations, by granting letters
          Of mark and reprisal, by making rules
          Concerning captures on land and water, by
          Suppressing insurrections and repelling invasions,
          Erecting forts, magazines, arsenals,
          Dock yards and other needful buildings. Today
          I face the blank page between the finished pages.

"Harris gives the following example of what he means:"
'The progression from recording sixty sheep by means of one ‘sheep’ sign followed by sixty strokes to recording the same information by means of one ‘sheep’ sign followed by a second sign indicating ‘sixty’ is a progression which has already crossed the boundary between pictorial and scriptorial signs.'

          When my grandmother considered it favorable
          That I would be a writer, she had in mind
          Clear commentary from which many people
          Would derive meaning. No such luck. My writings
          Are like the flicking tail of that flycatcher,
          And I am the flycatcher, weighing but an ounce.
          My grandfather’s rough-hewn peasant chairs
          Are well known by my sons though they never knew him
          And the chairs were not hewn, just owned by him.
          One is in a corner of the room and two
          Are scrimmaged around a computer screen.
          Computers post-date him and cars post-date
          His father and so on. If the grid collapses,
          The crops fail and the roads close, some will be forced
          Across boundaries among boulders, naming snakes
          And stars according to memory.
          They will be hungry, mortal and strong.

'A token-iterative sign-system is in effect equivalent to a verbal sublanguage which is restricted to messages of the form ‘sheep, sheep, sheep, sheep...’, or ‘sheep, another, another, another...’, whereas an emblem-slotting system is equivalent to a sublanguage which can handle messages of the form ‘sheep, sixty’.Token-iterative lists are, in principle, lists as long as the number of individual items recorded. With a slot list, on the other hand, we get no information simply by counting the number of marks it contains.'
"When this change occurred it opened ‘a gap between the pictorial and scriptorial function of the emblematic sign’, which had been previously inseparable in the counting represented by rows of slashes."

          No book I know tells if blue cohosh
          Caulophyllum thalictroides—a barberry—
          Is edible. Other barberries are
          But that blue berry looks risky to me.
          And May-apple—Podophyllum—other
          Than the fruit itself which is definitely
          Sweet. So I read, not sure of myself.
          There is a patience with which to wait out anger,
          And a patience with which to endure ignorance.
          The job is everything. It is freedom
          And purpose and religion. It is acceptance
          And shelter and sustenance. Last night
          We were watching Tweet’s show: groveling before
          The rich pharisee’s judgements. I said no
          Amount of money could make me grovel
          Before that guy. His toupe’s gayer than his lisp.
          But who am I? You think bullets won’t ****?
          I’m the guy they put before a wall and shoot
          Then eat lunch. But that feeling passed quickly.

"This semiological gap, made writing possible because it meant that signs could be manipulated to ‘slot’, or identify, anything whatsoever. The open-ended quality of the scriptorial sign was a necessary precondition for the development of writing systems."

          Lately I’ve been copying wholesale
          From the great poems, lines and ideas not my own
          Or owned by all? It’s ok, I can be ignored
          Or appreciated in a future city,
          By a future shore. The honest man can
          Only recognize what he loves and point to it.
          That Borges poem called In Praise of Darkness.
          Emerson and snow. A meditation
          That bumps serenely, with acceptance,
          Between things and thoughts. It is said one should
          Know for whom, to whom one is writing.
          These are letters to those who love letter writing.

"As Harris points out, no writing system is accurately phonetic. Even the alphabet only highlights certain phenomena in the speech stream. The reason for this is that alphabetic writing did not begin as a simpler or more accurate way to record speech than other writing systems, but as an easier way to write."

          A possible cancer had taken me
          To the edge of my endurance. Pokeweed,
          Poisonous, became attractive. Red stems
          And juicy black berries. I had packed warm clothes
          And pain killers. Why the warm clothes if this
          Was to be my last walk? To die in comfort
          Without a fly’s buzz. Overlooking a ravine,
          Sea of mountains, dawn. But it proved a false alarm.
          Now Sunday will be a holy day of plant
          Identification. Nothing better
          Than lying in leaf litter, skin drying
          To a taut drum. Ravens stay away!
          Until cougar’s had his fill! Instead
          I showed the boys pokeweed growing among blackberries
          And taught them the differences and uses.

"Through a radical reduction in the number of signs, the alphabet simplified the scriptorial system in and of itself. The evolution of writing therefore may look like this: simple forms of counting preceded the complications of pictorial representation, which in turn led to simplification of the writing system in cultures that adopted the alphabet."

          I was running uphill, parallel to
          The Taconics extending northward into
          Vermont (I find Vermonters in their jalopies
          Annoying but admire them for planning
          To arrest the president for war crimes) when
          I happened upon a flock of cedar waxwings—
          Said to be a gentle and politic bird—
          Sharing—very orderly—dried frozen grapes
          On the vine. (Rose hips, buckthorn, ash, pokeweed.)
          I tried one, too, the two seeds in my mouth
          Keeping me company down the mountain.
          I see no downside whatsoever
          To compensating for global warming,
          Constructing the green energy economy.
          New inventions may facilitate
          Our transportation to other planets.
          Yesterday a young man, Barack Obama,
          Won Iowa. I’m hopeful he will
          Articulate an international vision,
          A world order in which each neighborhood’s
          Good as another. I have no particular
          Love for writers; they’re a dime a dozen.
          But so are chickadees and I love them!

"Discussing the power of inscriptions of number, Harris points out:"
'Counting is in its very essence magical, if any human practice at all is. For numbers are things no one has ever seen or heard or touched. Yet somehow they exist, and their existence can be confirmed in quite everyday terms by all kinds of humdrum procedures which allow mere mortals to agree beyond any shadow of a doubt as to ‘how many’ eggs there are in a basket or ‘how many’ loaves of bread on the table.'

          True, nature would be a stern, unforgiving
          Mistress too, and man is but her right hand
          Acting on her command. How cold! How hot!
          The individual doing what he loves or not.
          Trees and cities. Herons, hawks. What we fail
          To govern in ourselves, nature will.
          We caught the killer and his gorillas,
          Now let’s go home, let the “innocent” choose
          Up sides. A good thing was done but the tyrant
          Should’ve been undone through global governance.
          Writing is divination using rhymes
          And estimations. Words like mammals
          Come near your sleeping head. Last night I emerged
          From the hum of our refrigerator
          Under a hazy, phaseless moon. The peepers
          Were an exact expression of my happiness.

"Or, one might add, for how many stanzas there are in a poem, or lines in a stanza, or stresses, feet, or syllables in a line, or occurrences of particular syntactical or grammatical patterns, and so on. As every serious student of versification has always understood, versification is about counting language."

          5:30-6 write poetry,
          6-7 ****, shave and shower, stretch
          Then get dressed, 7-7:30
          Clean house, 7:30-8 drive to work
          8-6 work (except Monday and Friday
          Work 8-4, basketball 4-6)
          6-7 drive home, shop, help make dinner
          7-8 eat dinner, read paper,
          Watch McNeil-Lehrer News Hour,
          8-9 play trumpet, study plants, type poems
          9-10 watch TV Mon: Murphy, Cybil,
          Tues: Frazier, Grace, Wed: Roseanne, Ellen,
          Thurs: Seinfeld, Friends, Fri: go out to dinner,
          10-11 read, except Tues watch
          NYPD Blue, Fri: Friday Night Lights,
          11 sleep. I could send this to the networks,
          Get a gizmo in my box. I hope my
          Schedule won't be interrupted for war.
          My dentist asked had I seen this morning’s
          Press conference, didn’t it just scare the ****
          Out of you. I said your bill is what scares
          The **** out of me. But here I am, writing
          And the sphere’s still turning. Or should I say
          Burning. As long as you write one poem per day
          You’ve left a little litter in the world.

"The reason to write verse is less to score the voice than to imbue words with the magical quality of counting. That is why meter, or measure, is at the heart of debates over all verse forms, including free verse."

          Vigorous wind, voracious ocean,
          Many merciless hard frosts, hurricanes.
          The bed of a human, its smell and warmth
          36 teeth, 46 chromosomes, 2 feet, a loose dime,
          61 summers, some soot, some sand,
          Thunderstorms. I wake up to a lightning strike
          And my dream incinerates. When they say
          Life is but a dream, that’s what they mean.
          The writer working hard, telling the story
          Of what happened yesterday or yesteryear,
          A man’s born to a country not his choosing,
          Let labor flow like capital, of mere being!
          Pomegranate juice, broccoli, arugula,
          Brussel sprouts, cabbage, cauliflower,
          Collard greens, kale, radishes, turnips,
          Garlic, leeks, scallions, onions, 2 lbs
          Swordfish, tomatoes (8 medium),
          3 cups almonds, carrots, a sweet potato,
          Winter squash, cantaloupe, mangoes, watermelon.
          2 daily writing exercises,
          50 words on any subject: complaint, headache.
          The imagination applies a
          Countervailing pressure to reality.
          Writing badly is the best revenge.

"Number is one of the creative grounds of poetry, and the idea that writing grew out of counting is the missing link in studies of the graphic in versification. It is almost uncanny that lines of verse look exactly like the most primitive ways of counting–parallel scorings that can be numbered."

          What you do to one side of the equation
          You gotta do to the other. Isolate
          The variable. Combine like terms. Metaphors
          And analogs are reduced to least common
          Denominators. Multiply through (parentheses).
          Write a new equation after each operation.
          Inscribe neatly. Check your work. Imagine
          That if you’re wrong, the astronauts burn.
          Change the signs which will avoid going
          The wrong way down the number line. Zero
          Is the middle of your universe.
          There it is, calm, comfortable as an egg
          On a spoon. That is, before possibilities
          Become probabilities. This is just
          Another equation manipulated
          With opposable digits. For at the ends
          Of your guns is the earliest calculator
          A magical machine which converts
          Numbers to words and words to numbers,
          Measures the mists, frequency and wavelength,
          Of the material penumbra.

"Verses are countable in exactly the way that token-iterative digits are countable, from either end of the sequence. Each one indicates only its singularity, not a number. Every poem in lines effaces, or predates, the distinction between writing and drawing in the same way as the lines on the Ishango bone."

Upon his glottal’s larynx spreads a lingual deformity. Isolation as a result from tuggo disaffiliates. Misshapen promontory in the direction of upper-body inflammation. Not only above torso alone, location;head/injury;mouth/main informative;tongue.
The boy’s tongue was permanently horned. A horn of 18 inches shy, where taste buds formulate, he owned a lone spike. He wasn’t abraded by the unfoldment of onlookers around. His irregular attachment was a main confidant. Criticized, he was not welcomed by towns near. Citizen’s were baffled and disgusted, ridiculing him daily, he did not impale with grieve over appearance. Enmity he wanted and craved. Among the works of flesh, square inch niches, repugnance revealed. Revenge, revenge. Vindictive spirit shelled so timely and calm. Remaining this state of sumptuous integrity made him stronger each go about. These goes were so stimulus, adding to the *** of hatred. Deep into the tundra’s most vile he intruded. Went so every month or few, for weeks at a time. For this sheet of rigid earth so contiguous to the town made the worried weary, the skeptical seared, and the nautical not so knitted with directional sense. This was his consummation of gathering. The place of being a being. The dry winter amid eight months was restricted, so the moment a due mustn’t be bothered. He had his reason of validness for course. A rich succulent from the bearings of plant life on cliffs. Repelling an obstacle such as was ludicrous for even one born the ever so adequate and society defined norm. Now having a tongue with a horn, some sought might as well die to be reborn. He had to, to stay alive. The liquid, which sit so treacherous, was the mold to mouth medicine. To speak at all it must be attained. Not only a curdling death trap waiting to swallow, the boy had to get a plentiful amount for the hard hitting winters collied. His tongue could swell like the storms, loud crimson on the esophagus. To die of asphyxiation was his dodge of ultimatum.
While passing by a local television in a thrift shop-
“Today’s Newscast: Blizzards, moving in at speeds of 94 mph. Predicted to cover like a blanket for 12 months. Ice Age relative people, this one is gonna be big! Stay indoors at night, the barometric’s indicate that from 9PM to 4AM temperatures as low as 28- will stouten for the next year. Once again people, stay indoors at these hours, get your needs when available. Back to you Ronda with the quintuplets birth today!”
Plucked and grit witted he stood. He felt the trepidation of abhorrence swaying in orbit around him. How to emanate from this delay? At least five clones of self did not exist for him. Merriment struct pro, while the cons derived from which they know. Exultation when despondent, how greatly that gift could gab. Despoilment of that, he weighed options out. To altercate thick snow or simply, let it go. Afraid to die unrivaled, the off cutting is wisest. Since his first second to now he’s flourished with his horn. Obliteration to the occulted manifestation mannered as an antique replica of anyone catching him by twice by day. Remove it, remove it, remove if you want life in your years that follow. Remove it, ever so. Remove it, cut and sew. Cut and sew. Remove.
This plateau poisoned place stay calm, anticipating climate of tempest bold reaches, anyone who was anyone was not so. Negative degrees. How could he retaliate the opposite, while acquiring a surgeon field hay day buck builder? Eruption turns the wave of cons. An only equal precision, deciding, tonight is the night. To assemble the tools, publicly was questionable, no more, through. He will emerge to the lands and people a new man, sustained, and hornless. No more. From scratch he will vender what’s needed. Wood was chiseled under the last moon viewed for three sixty three days ahead. Uprooted vines of old pine will hold the bark tight. Breath revealing around the outsides of his appendage. Like a fork in the road, which way can you go, for him air strides both. Scuffling fearful towards the pike of the tundra, he is where wanted by none. A be all end all as you could alleviate ones slightest sympathy, the courage it takes, ****** immense. His sweat was not seen, but there it consists. One hand grappled around his earthly dagger, tongue positioned in an outward arrangement. Travail glowing all over him as an aura unlanguid with no disruption veering. Abound now, without great weight on his shoulders, he’s lived. Ascending keen eyes towards the blood bath around his feet, going both ways around the fork and road. After relinquishing his steady gavel, the checking of his pulse is counted. 5, 6, 7, 8, seconds, still life to live. For the very first ritual to come, placed in his mouth, the tongue. The rigid roof so unfamiliar and new he bestowed in his joy of such a common flank. The tundra felt warm as he inside let over pour. Once more a milder gasp as he vociferates to the last moon for the year. On his peak, and favored place of being, he let out his tongue. Sharp inclement so hawkish and frosted he felt. The lilliputian of no pain, heeded by first snow to wane.

This is the first of many poems I wrote from 1996 to 2011.  Most of my work, as you might be able to tell, is heavily influenced by the Beat school of poetry.


thunderbeat vignette

I’m fresh from an interview with you and I’m filled with more than I can bear to hold inside.  I hope you don’t mind my saying so but you were beautiful today, an elegant goddess glinting in the bohemian daylight.  I’m seeing right now that golden star dangling between your black turtlenecked ******* and I recall that tiny dark stone high on your necklace and when I held it in my fingers I had this  mad short vision of my hand repelling down the necklace letting my knuckles gently caress the curve of your ******* as they fell and kissing you and I recall how that kiss was what I really wanted even more than feeling you up.

I hope this doesn’t scare you off it’s only like what I said about spontaneous prose the idea is to get everything out get it all on the page and then go back and work on it fix it up make it pretty for history and isn’t that what’s just happened with us?  I believe it has though as is typical with human encounters things worked out just a little bit backward didn’t they moonling?  because all that talking I did all that talking and writing and explaining I practically drew you a blueprint of my beatup heart and as far as I could tell you were more bored than anything else but then I tossed all that chickenshit stuff out the window and I came back and dumped all my cards on your lovely table with just one short sentence and I was amazed to see that it was just that one short sentence that impressed you and maybe touched your heart.

I walked away from you a little shaky but proud of myself because I rediscovered my daring and I’m happy because you want to be my friend even though its probably still scary for you and things haven’t really changed.  I still have grief in my heart I’ll never escape that but maybe now my grief will be a little more bearable.  I don’t expect you to rescue me I know no one can do that and funny but I didn’t really believe it until today.  listen to me I’m making it sound like we’ll be lovebirds any minute now when really we haven’t even had coffee yet but the door is cracked now and who knows?  maybe this will lead to my secret vision of you and me as modern day beats, kerouac and ginsberg, true bohemians linked in history by our great minds and poetic spirits people will point us out and say “there they go those two” and we’ll be to all the world like brother and sister or maybe this will lead to warmth and tenderness (those fables) I really don’t know and I feel uneasy speculating it takes so much away from the moment.

but you know I am completely insane sometimes a real blank and life is such a dark sorrow but I think of you and I hear thunderbeats and drumfire and I think of how all that selfimposed frustration and exasperation can be justified so easily if this could lead to just one sweet kiss from you.

Happiness is an empty street
And a fast car.
Happiness is a clean, cold pool
You plunge into on a hot day.
Happiness is someone in your bed
Who’s gone in the morning
If you don’t want company
Or who stays if you do.
It’s someone who is happy to read the paper
Or take a hike with you.
It’s not worrying what others think
About you and your beliefs
And the wisdom to know who counts.
Happiness is strength,
Enough to fight the world
Or luxuriate in things gone well.
Happiness is attracting and repelling
Without having to try.
Happiness is a an aching fist
And an attacker’s black eye.
Happiness can be a warm gun,
Depending who gets hit.*
Happiness is not waiting for love,
Then falling in love in seconds.
It is knowing that you are fine
With or without a vow,
Yet being able to say “yes”,
When lightning strikes
And “no” when it’s just a cloud.
Yet happiness is not being sure
And bathing in uncertainty,
Of the pleasure in mystery.
Happiness is loving, faults and all,
An intensity so focused
That you’d gladly die for the one
Who was sent by some mixture
Of sunlight and shade,
On an ordinary afternoon,
Happiness is his body in yours,
His sweat on your skin in summer,
And body heat on cold nights.
Happiness is loving a little boy
Who looks like both of you
And knowing that love can transfigure
Time, exceed itself and encompass
More than one.
Happiness is contentment
In realizing how much you’ve had
And say you’ll feel rewarded
When your random life is done.
Happiness is the legend they tell
About you when you are gone;
The feeling is theirs and maybe yours.
Happiness is knowing that, if you go too far,
That there is no heaven or hell,
Or if there is,
Then anyone can play guitar.

September 9, 2020

"Monstrous men perceive monstrosities the monsters they seem to be."

Open this chest of mine
With this steel key of yours
Reveal my essence - it shines,
Look through my opened surface.
What you perceive as I am, is what defines
You.
The depths of mine
Which you think you have in your sight,
Is just a conjecture of your petty wit,
Representing your own shallow depths.

The secrets within me,
Are not understandable.
No matter how exposed
They become to the world.

On a vehicle bed I voyage, wearing
headphones which lead the way.
Repelling neighbors screams, these jolting sounds travel through my body, breaking locks and knots.
Unraveling the fabric across time and space.
Is there anybody out there that feels the music flow sensitively ?
I enter myself more deeply, I lose myself to the voices and words of chemistry.
I lay in ecstasy frequencies.
Becoming one with musical melodies.

The departure of the swallows took place on                                
My birthday this year, winter began.
They’re beautiful birds aren’t they Chris. Grasp the hand slowly.
Oh and it’s mild weather we’re having isn’t it?
Just splendid for a chance to wander through the forest.

Every man’s got a field to plow but where will I harvest              
When my niche ran south just to sit amongst the rats
And converse through the evening about Ivan’s insecurities.
Edward, grasp me quick and sever me from society.
Sip from the spring, grab a loaf and run cause
I’ve grown reckless and thrown off my yoke.                              
This young man is naturally far ahead of time,
That’s from the nurture of his hard of hearing mother Catherine.  
Where do I rest where do I eat, the dust in my mind
Is subjected to a sweeping repeat without being collected.
A slow rise, I hate taking off the covers but this night I walked
Without them yea I was nocturnal negation of Shadrach.
And boy you’ve taken far too long to deliver the paper!
My coffee’s been hot for half an hour and cold for two.
(Tap on the window) Excuse me which way is Beersheba?          
Now I know you know so please just bare with me and listen.
Yea yea Jason get out of here I know those tricks, I’ll
Get there some day and when I do it’ll all be worth it
Don’t you dear try to break my ankles. Hey drop the razor
Little boy you can’t shave yet and November is approaching.
Nothings equal to this and everything I’ve ever know
Makes perfect sense now, the explanation is certainly
The longest. Where have I been all my life,
Were you hiding under the desk waiting for an atomic
Bomb to drop, no I was just sitting in the subway counting
Change when the little black girl came up to me and
Asked me for two dollars so I gave her four and somehow
Five turned back to nine, the paper transported, my split
Identity got sewn back together and the cosmos is on my side.

Oh extra large I know what you’re talkin about.
Out there I walked through walls let me circumvent
Iron and brick with a gaseous coronary torrent.
I’ll eat my own heart out with one gentle bite
And smash that lime against the wall at your words.
I grow tired…
I need to get out of here I need to get out of here.
Through the yellow hallways around the corner open the green door.
I want to be on the top bunk so I can see the son rise,
After all that’s me don’t you know, genetically Japanese.
Get down from there!
Like a monkey? Okay!
I am the greyhound come to eat the wolf, just let me out.
These feathers are not clipped yet you can’t do this
(As long as I know right from wrong I’ll be okay I’ll sing my song)
I’ve seen them do it on TV just follow through…
**** the wrong force broke, just gotta set this straight.
What the hell are you doing kid?
I don’t know ask him.
And then he said tighten the bolt it’s gonna fall apart.
Yea the center cannot hold.
Gophers are amazing creatures you know, it’s not easy to tunnel under ground.
But if you’re not a gopher don’t go down the hole,
You might get lost.
I took a trip up to Lake Placid last summer, my kids loved it.
I’ve been holding my breath for five days now.
What’s this muscular leprechaun doing in my way,
If I could get those keys off your belt I could probably **** you.
Try it and I’ll break your head.
That’s a good idea, maybe then the light
Will finally be turned out.
Try repelling all of the moisture from your cells
Well now I guess now I just need to wait for my pants to dry.

Opening my mouth for a female will corrupt me.
Okay stapler I hear you but this is serious now,
Almost time for Vinny to come south. I have no need
For ink anymore check the flesh tattoo it’ll spit out a seed.
Stick that tranquilizer in me, I will remain tranquil and awake,
While I stare at the wall and connect unseen signs with familiar phrases.
You’re dreaming kid, no I’m reopening the wells of my father.    
Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Dan, Naphtali, Gad, Asher,
Issachar, Zebulun, Joseph, Benjamin.
Hey have you seen this kids coat?
It’s far away but you can find me where I wrote.

Sear me sear me I see it coming anyway
Wait wait wait, I take it all back.

white world in wild winds
the one fair sun repelling
when Persephone rose

              #dperez

Why are people intentionally cruel and malignant?
Are they too blind to mistake their Achilles’s heel for their forte?
Or do they intentionally enjoy obliterating anything that comes their way?
Indubitably, reeling into their self-destruction and collapse as the roof caves.

Repelling any benevolence into their lives,
They will close all doors with their narrow minds.
Atrociousness will prevail and set forth unfathomable tongues of rhyme.
Seeking insatiable supremacy governing in disguise.

Clearly oblivious to the detrimental exploits they expose,
They will lead a life that is solely self-imposed.
Cultivating an environment of animosity is not astute you see,
People will always revolt and eventually be set free.

Unless you morally evolve and realize you have wronged,
You will embark on a journey that will negatively consume your soul.
It begins with your physical state, depleting with every irrational action you make.
Ultimately, deteriorating your body into an anemic vegetable state.

Reeking of insecurities through the infusion of wretchedness and despair,
your life will begin to turn inside out transforming into an eternal torment of misery and hell.
However, it's never too late to change your tyrannical direction.
It's only compassion, empathy, and altruistic love that will be your salvation.

By: Michael M. De La Fuente

What is your touch?
It is the physical sensation of electromagnetism repelling our atoms,
It's the chain reaction set off through my nervous system,
Culminating in my cortex, where it is comprehended as your touch.

In dim streetlight through your window,
With just a crescent of your face illuminated.
With your soft eyes, and memories of our backpacking trip mixing in
Like honey mixes with warm tea, or coffee.

With ***** brown curls around your head like a halo.

Still, what is your touch?
It is like a ripple through me, and it ripples out into the world
It is more present in my action every day
As you take down my walls
As your lips send soothing down to my core
As you make me believe
In love
Again.

It is everything that went into making you,
No better concoction
Has ever been brewed.

And the way that you move
Makes little eddies of awe that captivate my eyes,
They cannot move.

So you see,
It's not hard to convince myself
That your touch is everything.
Two ends of the universe,
You're setting me free

That anything happened at all
Was as great a miracle
As your touch is to me
It's giving me shivers
And melting my heart--
There is nothing in this world like your touch.

There was a knock at the door

A knock that bounces off in rhythm

Similar yet different
from the disjointed sounds
of her head hitting the door,
the bathroom sink,
and then the floor

Her beats were her beatings
which often dragged from street to bed

They began with her mothers boyfriend,
an alcoholic enforcer of  peace, law, and trust
But, he wished to take a piece of her and eat it,
telling her that no laws were broken,
as he asked her to trust him

With a bit of apprehension
she sequestered, she went to his level,
as mother looked on from her blind eye
She asked her mother to stop the man
because it was a new pain unlike any other
Mother cooked on, stirring her beef stew,
just cooking along as she bawled
Those tears provided little relief
to the daughter with her first STD at 13

She provided little reaction
after multiple interactions with her attacker
It was easier to spread her legs and allow easy access to the temple residing there in shambles

She became intoxicated by the same poison that
awakened the inner beast within her mothers man
An exciting blood rush from bruised legs healed
by liquors lecherous lectures

Until one day the man died
in the street due to his debts
A man in blue left black and blue,
thus freeing her, or so she thought

Now at seventeen she had never had a man of her
own, or a boy after ***** in her case
She doesn't know what a good boy looks like, or
feels like, only what a bad man taste like

Consequently she repeats the cycle
because it is comfort as she's conformed
Her contorted body and twisted smile with
tattooed black and blues is normal

Another knock at the door

A sound that bounces off in rhythm

Rhythm and blues
One, two
One, two
Rhythm and blues
One, two
One, two

Similar but different
from the dangling
of her bracelets
as her man chokes her
with her necklace
she gasps for breath,
but is helpless

Completely given into
the physically stronger
person above her
Keeping her down:
1 foot,
2 foot,
3 foot,
4 foot,
5 foot,
till she begs to be 6 feet underground

Where he stops just short
And digs her up from the Earth

He puts out cigarettes
on her tongue
He rapes her repeatedly:
cooing for her to call him daddy
He makes her shoot up heroine
He beats her and her temple
into smithereens

She is a shell of who she used to be,
but accepts what fate has afforded her
As if she had no say in the matter
because no one told her
that there is always a choice

She doesn't know that she can run
She doesn't know that she can fight back
She doesn't know that she can call the police
(never police)
She doesn't know her own power

Because she is nothing,
nothing without him,
and him and him and him,
Nothing all at without dripping
blood on the floor from her bottom lip
busted open after denying his kiss

She has his baby in her stomach
but it doesn't stop him
from kicking her *** up and down the block
He doesn't want her to have the baby
so he throws her down stairs daily,
"Are you ******* crazy?"

Her neighbors yell
as her man tells them
to mind their business
and go to hell
"She's my *****," he yells
as he always excels
at repelling everyone else

One day an unknown savior
came to offer her aid
One thing led to another
and her saviors fist met her mans face
She screamed and the savior
thought it was out of relief
However she was afraid
that her man was deceased
Her savior would end up
leaving the building in hand cuffs
As she embraced her man,
he swore he woke up and would change
She smiled brightly as he kissed her scars
and dried tears from her face
Her beatings ended for two nights:
then started up again when
she forgot to defrost some chicken for dinner

Once more a knock at her door

A bang that bounces off in rhythm

A baby boy was produced and given love
in the highest quantities known to man,
smothering in quality, and genuine as can be
His mother sacrificed every day of her life for his,
took every loss in stride, cooked every single night,
and was beaten in plain sight of her baby boy

Baby boy learns from daddy,
Daddy turns to stranger,
Stranger is never a danger,
Stranger daps young boy,
After assaulting his mother,
Stranger gives young boy a gun,
Stranger tells young boy to join a gang,
Stranger tells young boy to run the streets,
Stranger tells young boy to hit his woman,
Stranger says she's a *** and a *****,
Just like the young boys mama,
Stranger gives props to young boy,
Stranger loves young boy,
And young boy loves stranger back,
Young boy hates:
his mother,
his neighborhood,
his friends,
his teachers,
his sisters,
and the sun,
But stranger understands him,
Stranger raised him

Mother died in memorial hospital
from internal bleeding
She had taken one beating
a thousand times too many
Young boys grandmother looked
upon her body in regret and shame
Grief given much too late
for the child ****** into hate

The young boy turns man

And knocks on his ladies door

Rhythm reminiscent of hers...

***** and blood
***** and blood
Things come together
Things fall apart

***** and blood
***** and blood
Things come together
Things fall apart

***** and blood
***** and blood
Things come together
Things fall apart

I called her up at last orders with the hair of the dog between my teeth.
I told her 'I hate the way she tastes' - How Freudian of me to say so.
We met in some dark, sweaty place between the heavens and the gutters
where we could **** each other till we didn't hate each other
and drink till I wasn't ashamed of what I'd done,
all the while praying that my concience would keep me from coming.

So, with our half-hidden forms snaking over each other like spaghetti-junction an hour before the rush...
Her hands wrapped around my hands, wrapped around her legs wrapped around my throat...
Two bodies attracting and repelling, repelling and attracting,expanding and contracting till it all felt like the same movement...
I washed the stink of defeat off myself using the sweat that pooled in the small of her back...
There, in that dark sweaty place between the heavens and the gutter
we ****** each other till we didn't hate each other
and drank till I wasn't ashamed of what we'd done
all the while praying that my concience would keep me from coming.

I ran into her about a fortnight later while trying to drink away a headache caused by drinking away the ehadache before that.
I stood up with shirt unbuttoned and shouted
'I'm a man at the end of his rope - I need a good woman. But, since I don't see any of those around here...'
Dot. Dot. Dot.

If looks could ****, then surely they could maim, mutilate, desicrate, laugh, scream, cry, give birth and make love as well
and the look she gave me seemed to all of these at once.

She said 'You've got a lot of nerve
to say you are my friend
and then to commit benefit fraud'.

I took a sip of my drink and before I'd swallowed it she was kissing me deep enough that I could **** the cigarette smoke right out of her lungs.
She bit my lip and drew blood.
I grabbed a handful of her hair, she grabbed my ****
and we both wrestled each other
into that familiar place between the heavens and the gutter
where I drank but I was still ashamed.

So I took twelve steps away from the cloud of scent left by her skin and said
'If I ever see the back of your head again, it'll be too soon.
So get the hell out of my life, my head, my skin, my t-shirt and especially my bedroom.'

But,
as sure as you can't solve an emotional problem with a physical solution,
her memory hung around,
festering and itching my insides like a nicotine craving.
I can still taste her breath on humid days.
Eighteen months have been and gone but I can't srub the smell off of my fingers.
Even when I can't see straight I can still see her naked body stretched out on the pavement,
tanning under streetlamps
or dancing between the headlights of cars

But even at my most alone I have never felt my heart break.
My liver screams.
My stomach turns inside out.
I wretch.
I sweat.
But I don't cry.

Still, it's days like this that sobriety doesn't seem like a bad idea.

Thomas John stepped as quietly as he could over the dried leaves,
cautious not to make a sound as they crinkled beneath his feet.
A man lost within an oak forest
had a quiver in his knees
for he knew there was a presence that dwelled
his eyes had not yet seen.
Traversing through haunted hallows
he turned back into a child,
a slightly built boy
facing fears his mother would shallow.

My dearest Thomas,
All will fare well,
and if you are filled with good then
you will steer clear of Hell.

Where are the beneficiaries now
that you are walking the path of whispering fairies,
maniacal minuscule beings
fore bearing legions of terror.
Darkened leagues above seas
lurk between branches and bristles of trees
harboring demons
within their wooden beams.
The weather is deemed as nothing
for the Sun attempts to reach
the darkened green
but the foliage will not let it in.
Thomas quests for an exit
only to be led further into caves of deception
pretending to be roads,
cells repelling as nematodes
burrowing ghouls inside of his soul.
A prominent light shines
from behind less wretched tangles
as does the breeze,
a faint faith lifts him from a sure defeat.. But visions are not meant to be believed
when they are birthed
from devilish dreams.

My son,
The brightness that you have viewed
is but a small token to you
amongst the gifts I shall douse you with
if you will fulfill my request.
My favors are without concern
and with your reliance in return, 
you could find yourself out of the dense
in no time at all.

He wonders,
maybe the lamb is at fault
and the goat is to whom I should pray.
I mean, I left my life in shambles
and even now it is in array.
The blackened moss
has become comforting,
I now prefer heavier shades of grey.
My insides can not mean much
if my corpse is here to stay.

My name is Thomas John;
My father a mistake,
my mother a drunk.
Every decision I have ever made is frowned upon
but not this one.
I will sell myself for a worthless win,  
dip into a world of sin
unknowing of what will begin
once my head is to the brim.

A fire started at his fingertips,
any nature he touched lit
into auburn flames
torturing their creator
into trembling remittance
for the soldiers lay hidden.
Hercules is now a peasant,
the innocence of Jesus
conformed to malevolence
and what was sanctioned as reality
is now told to be worthy of repent,
since it was not given wihout grant.
Global currents circulate glaciers,
chilling the air,
recreating the ambiance
of the raised hair on his arms and neck.
Canopies of wicked in the same cage
as the monoxides he breathes.
There is another trapped inside of your region
but she is not worthy,
skin her while she screams for forgiveness
and wield her into your trophy.
Thomas did as he was told
in quite a scurry,
finally feeling the dank presence
that he had been carrying.

I can not continue to do this;
questioning what to do with
the horror of that which would
surely persist,
his ears picked up currents
of pulsating blood
coursing through his wrists.
A curse bled behind pale skin, acknowledging the weight within
he buried his face into the mud
forcing the devil to choke
on his own blood.

We run through golden drops of sunlight
with reminders tied around our wrists
memories in baskets of woven wind
Tomorrow chases us
as we chase yesterday
The synchronicity of our steps
becomes the rhythm of time
lost in the streets of reality
while navigating maps of wonder
our lives are repelling forces
that now face the immobility
of our desire for freedom
so what's left? Besides you
running toward this morning sky
and me, sinking in a shallow sea
of words and puzzles, that time built for
you and I

Everyone has a habit.
Mine is biting my nails until I start to ******* fingers.
Everyone has a habit.
Mine is falling in love to quickly, like a clumsy school girl who always falls into her crushes arms, just to be dropped
Everyone has a habit.
Mine is getting rejected like a credit card that has been maxed out.
Everyone has a habit.
Mine is always saying the wrong thing. When ever I talk to a girl I become my secret identity : loser boy! My one power is repelling women away quicker than the flash runs around a shopping mall with a Visa card .
Everyone has a habit.
Mine is brushing my hair until it almost looks like something that I could love, my hair is a chain that links me to my skin color, like a slave hooked to an auctioneers stage.  So I try to brush away my skin like  getting rid of thick curls will change my heritage.
Everyone has a habit.
I have this really ****** habit of never being happy. I always pick apart things and find some reason to hate myself. Im always to tall, to black, to stupid. I can't be happy for long because when I do I destroy myself like an evil villains plot when he presses the self destruct button because he's lost confidence in his plan.
My biggest habit is smoking cigarettes made of sadness, and allowing depression to infect the rest of my body like terminal cancer. I can't recall if I smoke  a pack a day anymore, it's a part of my everyday life. With every meal, movie or social interaction, I need a drag of sadness. There's this girl though, her smile is a nicotine patch, her voice is a message from my dr saying "we've found a cure, for your depression."
Now i can put down the pack.

Your path is well worn
Like the old Indian trails still visible in winter
Your life has left a wake of possibilities
Its ripples, forever spreading – wide, firm, unencumbered, vast
To think of autumn and feel the evening chill for
You are embedded in my every thought
Anger, love, discontent, beauty, helplessness, ecstasy
I am ready to find my cliff edge
To spread my arms and leap
Knowing the perfection of gravity and its consequences
I fear that our entanglement has been broken
Magnets, repelling with the same polarity

I'm sure my mother breastfed me enough
& coddled me when I gave up on ever cleaning my room
and keeping it clean for longer than a week
after she'd clean it up for me

I'm sure I've always preferred taking baths instead of showers
because I like taking my time
submerging my body in a divine
warm pool of pausing life for a minute because I need to breathe
and procrastinate the stressful mess I've made

I'm sure I'm afraid of confrontation and telling the truth
when it means someone will hate me
even if I know it doesn't matter what people think,
I'm sure it's an instant mirror that shows me something about myself
and monsters are supposed to stay under the bed, not inside of my subconscious head

I'm sure I want everybody to love me
but I'm not sure if I want everyone to know that
because what's unattractive is repelling
and if I'm alone it means hurting gets overwhelming
and I'm sure all sadness is a tantrum
but just because I get quiet cold inside instead of **** on my thumb
doesn't mean there's any difference in soothing addiction

I'm sure all sadness is a tantrum
and I'm sure all tantrums are affiliated with believing
untrue thoughts, whether logical or foolish
just because you have a mosquito bite doesn't mean you
need to itch it

1

sky disintegrating
more wreckage
I can see it coming
after fall

2

displaced
detached
gravity no longer
after fall

3

fluttering flames
orange and yellowing leaves
briefly blaze
beauty disappeared
decaying
after fall

4

nothing remains
we stand unwavering
having seen the kingdoms
reduced to dust
after fall


5

parched soil
repelling rainfall
it runs away
lost to drought
after fall


6

do you really know
what happens
to our souls
the essence
after fall



@jobiranyc and @journeyofdays

it was the
summer
of 13

when a city
consumed in a
Cronut crazed
heat wave

amped
the tenderloin

slicing the underbelly
of Hell's Kitchen

packing meat for
Russian oligarchs
pouring fistfuls
of petrol rubles
down the
thirsty gullets
of glutinous
developers

their distended
bellies welling
with aching
avarice
from an
extended
stay at an
All You Can Eat
zero interest
smorgasbord
courtesy of
Uncle Sam’s Diner
somewhere off the
West End

getting fat
on the land
reclaimed
and rebuilt
on the dust
and detritus
of an expired
Great Society

Bloomie's metropolis
rising on the rubble
of razed neighborhoods....

the vertical leaps
shooting ever upward
the heady windows
framing portraits
of endless replication
offering the amenities
of the vain comfort
found in ghettos of
soulless high rises
and the billowing
gray perspective
of blanched out
street cafes
brewing $9 lattes
and big box
boutiques busy
busking the
latest rage
of sweat repelling
yoga mats and
wearable apps

America’s Mayor
Giuliani paved the way
he arrested all
the squeegee men
confiscated their Windex
dumped it down
the sewers and filled all
vacancies at Rikers

a year after Sandy
rolled up the Hudson
breaching the banks
of West Street
licking the streets
clean of urban
flotsam the
surging boom
bloomed

Bloomie bankrolled
a red carpet
for his global
fraternity of
plutocrats
unleashing a
tsunami of
shekels

washing away
the fading
memories of
Captain Sully’s
cool headed
lunch pail
heroism proving
that 727’s can
walk on water
was now passe

Lou Reed
left town
the wild side
monetized by
the belching
banality of
Urban Hipsters

millennial
babes in toy land
embarked on an endless
shopping spree
where credit limits
never expire and
giddy narcissism
greased with entitlement
orders up room service
as the next course
in this endless
movable feast

Music Selection
Philip Glass
The Hours



9/8/13
NYC
jbm

I stared East, directly into eyes of Ouranos
The Water Bearer, in her flowing robe, stood
Beaming like a new Mother at his Left hand
Andromeda, angry and ready to do battle on his right

Screaming forth with great fury
On a collision course with glory

Andromeda wields his fiery sword!

We are but particles in this drama.
Incapable of defending our existence
Attracting and repelling each other
As if we are of some great importance.

I, you, us, we, them...
all of us who are here,
have come,
or will ever be
combined

Are but the blink of an eye in this,

The Ultimate Drama.

Our Stars will dance the dance
And read the script as it was taught them.
The Tiny Audience already knows how it ends.
There really is no, “maybe...”
Or, “Well, it depends.”

Oh wasted talent, neglected excellence,
how you enter the light every day, always leaving a black abyss
full of attitude, and rude remarks, offensive words that sting
long after you’ve crept back into your world of tenebrous isolation
we feel the effects, like a wave of negativity

you position yourself south of everyone comfortably north
repelling love, and understanding, but you’re not lonely
No you’ve found the ultimate alternative,
An imitation reality, like McDonald’s food,
Never quite  able to equal greatness, nothing worth praise, almost a waste
A great façade, a fake

Your glossy eyes and lethargic mannerisms tell all
Higher than life, Psh you don’t need us!

But don’t you know? Weren’t you told?
There’s a better way to get high,
why not… … take a drag of the cigarette of friendship,
or a hit of creativity?
These things will far surpass the boundaries of ecstasy

But no,
you sit
and you sleep
senses dulled
eyes glued shut
you reside complacent in a prison to which only you hold the key!

Don’t you know the greatness you could be?
I do because I can see, past the cloudy eyes,
beyond the stinging comments,
I can see the successful well educated man you continually refuse to be.

It hurts and pains me every day getting up from my seat taking the world away,
and on the desk where you used to sit,
is a pile of class work and lessons, that you call *******.

stop now, before the poison penetrates too deep,
save the dying man,
the long list of what you could be
times are tough and temptation is hard to fight,
just remember that salvation is close and it is in sight,
Ask for help and you shall receive,
let in the light and shut out the fog,
not one inky hint should remain,
time is running low, and faith is hard to find….
just once, sincerely try to open your eyes,
take advantage of the time that you have left
because when this years over,
it will be time well spent.

The Man who never brought hell home
was wise beyond his years.
He suffered long
but lived it loud
imprisoned by his fears –
and those were thus:
that those before him
came and went
with nothing left but
pain and name
and more of same
who went and came
from seed in soil
to root and stem,
to fallen branches, time again:
a family tree to fuel the flames
on cold and lonely nights.

Embodied by the coat of arms he wore,
this Last to hold his name,
he swore,
– in vain, perhaps –
to stand at ease no more.

The Man who never brought hell home
encased himself in spite and spirits;
ghosts of generations gone,
encroaching deep within.
He sought for answers,
fought for reasons,
questioned why his bloodline grew
to fall and rise
and curse and ****
with secret lies
and stolen rights
and ties he could not sight.

The Man who never brought hell home
had died
the moment he arrived
– or so he thought –
he always said,
with eyes in search of something else . . .
perhaps that love that once he’d felt,
despite the years of crime he lead.
And what is left, again, but holes
to fill with buried woes
and broken war-like games
and shattered dreams
and darker still yet, nothing.
Nothing, as it always seems.

Not a sliver shall him by, it pass,
of hope,
of love,
of peace . . .
Not until the very last,
this Man who never brought hell home.

And so, this Man, with blind belief
declared his story would be brief,
atoning for the sins he cast
in other’s lives
in years that passed,
and spent his days in self destruction,
free from want, control, and need,
biding time with bated breath
like men, before, who longed for death,
entrained in mind and soul,
until one day,
the hell that never came,
came whole.

For every man,
and son of man that once there was,
who sharpened knives
and counted tools
and cleaned his guns,
and polished pride, his moral compass by his side,
who now lives to wake and wakes to die:
repelling faith, repelling truth, and cussing lies,
this Man has died.

I got this glittery, ruby-red, smudge-proof lipstick the other day
and I really have to say technology is what separates us from the apes.

Well, technology and hair.. and.. - ok, let’s not dwell on the ape thing.

Remember when lipstick smeared like news-print? Well, neither do I - it was one of those old-timey things you hear about somewhere like phone-booths, CDs and smart republicans.

What about the young teenage girls who aren’t supposed to wear lipstick - who put it on, in the morning, at their locker, at school only to discover - seconds before their mom picks them up - that it's practically non-removable?  Try hiding your lips from your mom.

I want breath-freshening, pizza flavored, ****-repelling, morning-after-pill lipstick - that glitters, irresistably, like cotton candy ***.

snort If men wore lipstick I’m sure we’d have all that by now.

Piotr Kaczkowski / Minimax:  minum verbis maximum musica; oh, you actually think i like being here? looking at your acne-potato riddle-face of a gob that could oust a kiss? more like a hiss; we are part of a new displacement... only when a native american is president and the blue Indians stop using perfumes in their cuisine... **** creating revolutionaries... any revolutionary beheaded only crafts a cause, more sheepish behaviour, i want a diamond of agitators, agitators, not revolutionaries... who the hell needs revolutionaries when all they do is become in life as in death shepherds... the Jews weren't exiled under the Romans, hence their religiosity flourished, the supposed chose the wrong enemies; the second architectural feat were the upside down garden of Tehran - then came the coliseum, then came football, then came the motto: don't educate your kids, let 'em kick a ball, millionaires in a nano-second they'll be...  not utilising Jews as construction workers with the Babylonian invasion we simply cut the ******* off of some boys in the choir... no biggie...well... a BARITONE BIGGIE...the twelve tribes multiplied by the religious sects in 0 a.d. Judea means there are 24 added to tribes of Judea - the process of consolidating them with Zionism meant that there are too many repelling the idea... and the beast? you think the Lord be born in a Bethlehem stable among the farting ox would have an enemy so highly born or with leading purpose? given that he knew nought of an enemy to his purpose? surely the antagonist would also be lowly born testing the maxim: love your enemies... mm... love them as Cain free or Cain lodged in a prison cell?

if you are raw meat in a slaughterhouse,
i'm basically packaged goods
at a supermarket... when asking children
where milk comes from?
most answer from Tesco - not a cow.
some mother you are giving noun-orientation,
and those that rebelled against communism
just heard better music - the life of hammer
and nail and love that matches canine bite...
they stashed the 70s rock while recording
from radio - an ode to St. John Paul II - hooray!
hip hip hooray! waiting for an Irishman -
the extreme criticism of the Iron Curtain
came with the Martial Law of Jaruzelski -
only two years, St. John Paul II was opening
brothels at the same time
while kissing airport tarmac for a halo...
Solidarity pamphleteers were deemed as heroes
settling from dockers to surf sportswear
shorts millionaires in Florida (the moustache
game gave them away as: ha! early
parisioners of the Church of the Latterday
Deserters) - but when the west conquered
fascism in Germany and decided another Jew
was an enemy rather than a lamb in Auschwitz -
the western powers saved the Jews from Holocaust
but engaged with fascism - it adopted the politics -
on and on and on and on... in a Babylon!* -
capitalism changed from a prised economic model
into a political model, talking Romanian or Bulgarian
we're talking about capitalists turning into Nazis -
we are under fascist authority - V for Vendetta is all
but true... unless you're Irish - you were born fascist as
**** ****** by the British, so unless another James Joyce
pops up like a mushroom, there's nothing to talk about
but the hope for a wet autumn.
democracy loves city states, outside the city states
there's only populism - democracy has a number,
it works within constraints - but the people that remember
communism reflect with negativity only the years
under martial law... all the pretty girls of petty Poland
have disappeared... the men are like... huh?!
capitalism has it's advantages, but now with the former enemy
missing, the gladiator has a tapeworm problem - confused,
the former "superior" moral power is ******* a haemorrhage -
without an enemy the best enemy is itself,
everything overpowering ends up in the ****-pile
of sabotage, as in? you sell faulty goods that aren't Chinese.
every individual knows this, the state is just finding out -
the key is sabotage - the state is learning the individual's
chess game - Communism was never a problem,
Martial Law was, all those Iron Maiden fans with
placards and badges damning communism:
under Communism my grandparents owned a home -
had a chance to own one...
current capitalism is politically a fetish of Mussolini's
routine of shining boots - everything worked fine
under Communism before St. John Paul II opened the brothels
and the market and the wild west / east - they needed a young pope
for advertisement success - fresh ****, coming your way!
(you won't get me peacock proud with that gamble -
i might succumb to reaction if you were a Mongel).
after the young pope gave them access they returned
to the old popes... leaving the slobbering oyster on the throne
as a thanksgiving - pity there was no torture, i'd
crucify that heretic to a national cause like i'd sneeze.

Dripping inks from a dreamer's quill
Trembling tip illustrates a scribbled script
Weary sheets capturing an innocence guilt
Corners not spared for a timeless trip

Walking in reverse replaying all skits
Sorting out smiles from the grimeless grins
Missing a delicate frowned is a vital bit
Expressions throned from denying wins

Drifting words marking of flamboyant speech
Passing judgement even before the trial begins
Anonymous decision narrowing countless ditch

Where should we go now?
Or what should be seen?
Visionary or idealist repelling reality's keep

Spinning ticks as the grandfather clock dings
The journey sails even when our eyelids peep
Lights now shining while we recounting sheeps
Reality is knocking so now just let our
Fantasy breathes

@2014 Maman Screams

I Dreamed of Peace  


                                 I dreamed of peace
                                 where games cannot touch my saddened heart;
                                 where the winters spray of discontent cannot
                                 make my blood cold, cannot make my marrow
                                 ache and my inner force limp wounded to the gray
                                 and weeping bank.

                                 I dreamed of peace
                                 where fire words shot to take me down
                                 miss their target and fall harmlessly in joyous fields
                                 of ripened corn, standing strong, smiling, repelling
                                 all the pointed barbs; whose yellow husks cannot be pierced
                                 but in reflecting provide a  nourishment so replete
                                 the archers arm is wearied by the load.

                                 I dreamed of peace
                                 where no longer do I wake at night
                                 seeking reassurance from apparitions that their calling
                                 means no harm;
                                 where the raven sitting on the drooping branch
                                 is not waiting for my soul’s ascent;
                                 where the soot covered face peering from the bracken
                                 is not the axe man arrived to take me home.

                                 I dreamed of peace
                                 where the fire in my brain is quelled
                                 by knowledge, accomplished thoughts of reason and
                                 not prone to dissatisfaction;
                                 where thirst is quenched in rivers so deep
                                 my dive can never touch or scrape the sides and
                                 in whose fear I need not fear;
                                 where my essence is left untouched , my spirit not assaulted
                                 by ego and forced appraisal.
                
                                 I dreamed of peace
                                 where false disinterest lies split and gaping
                                 and hypocrisy oozes its puerile bile across cracked and
                                 concrete stagnant floors;
                                 where beggars no longer assault my passing
                                 with arms outstretched and hope etched into canyon
                                 city faces;
                                 where the malcontent is driven to the slackened shallows
                                 and forced to face their own reflection.

                                 I dreamed of peace
                                 where lightening skipped and danced across the waves
                                 and thunder played the most delicate of notes;
                                 where wind swirled not in anger but caressed
                                 the sparse sand dune grass and the stilt legged
                                 petrel bobbed in anticipation;
                                 where the fuss of self induced stress is placed inside the trench
                                 and covered by the dirt of self awareness.

                                 I dreamed of peace
                                 where only peace may step and no intrusion
                                 may be entered;
                                 where neither the able nor the vacuous may encroach;
                                 where neither the sun drenched and rich may acquire that which
                                 others have stooped to learn;
                                 where the essence of time is encased and made bare
                                 and does not beat to a false clock;
                                 where all I have been and all I am to be is in the one,
                                 and there is no need to climb a further set of stairs.

                                 I dreamed of peace.

There I stood.
Body trembling, hearing only manic depressive echoes.
On one side, mournful cries, on the other, sheer harmonics.
There was a feeling of dream-like reality.
Some great force enveloped my body, compelling me to stagger forward.
With no realization of the whereabouts of my being,
I conceded to follow my feelings, as I always did.
With each step I took,
I could see and feel and experience a new part of my life that had already happened.
It was a chronological walk in time.

The conflicting noises ahead continued to get louder and more distinct.
On one side there was a gnashing of teeth; screaming and yelling ruled.
It was riotous, and strange looking people were festering about.
They scowled and spat at me; the smell--repelling.
On the other side, there was a great feeling of unity.
Great stillness and serene calmness.
An entity secure within itself.
There were much fewer on this side.
I chose to walk close to this side.

My knees buckled, but I miraculously remained standing.
There I stood; facing the Creator.

Anticipating God’s words, I prematurely smiled expecting open arms.  
God, in all His righteous power, simply pointed at me and thundered;
“I know ye not!”

There I stood… body trembling.

An ocean away from the Ivory Coast,
my feet are too clean and my mind is too *****.

i'm so far away from this euphoric, ruddy discharge that my bed has transformed from a lukewarm boulder into all of my favorite childhood memories-
the unconscious a candy apple,
your dreams a sugary topping.

there you are-
wavering like a flag torn piece by piece from the wind,
savoring my tears like a glass jar,
gleaming ubiquitous affection, yet stoic,
unaffected by the blistering mantle-heat.

this ocean is my hospital gown tied so tightly that i can no longer breathe in your deepest fears and swallow them like morning coffee.

this ocean is my mother, choking on soothing words, repelling suicide with optimistic rhetoric, neurons firing in a tone so hectic that silent meditation is an inaudible conversation.

this ocean is the anti-depressant that ***** on my skin like a vacuum, dr. nestling his blindfold like an infant

this ocean is my empty home, abandoned, lost in the noise.

someday my feet will be ***** again,
and i'll feel your unyielding warmth like quarries in the summer,
dropping all of the noise and mending with what matters most,
where i'm blending in with infinite shades
of the Ivory Coast.

we stopped believing the agora of the mind
our souls empty rooms colliding
full of amnesia on incessant roads
walls of flesh we were on the edge of terror,
steel confused with clarity
souls plucked like nails inside ruins
suffocated tales & archives of illusion

the shadow is closer to the center only
in the diaries of the blind
no hole of god is dead, we ***** fresh prophets
with inviolable gaze
for the sublime and holy in our sweat
believing is seeing the most lethal duel

the one and only the fake divine
who thinks alone on a road with no views
he planted spotlights in their eyes
for everybody to see only the world in his arms
hate kept in empty milk bottles

life is this schweitzer, passers-by were saying,
it has taste but only  in foreign countries,
with their fists in pain caressing concrete asphalt turbines
as in quick sands no muscle was moving

carboard smiles unprotected against the evacuation of desire
wooden language didn't invent choice
no decomposition of the edges the totalitarian thought inside
the narcosis of time merciless

the clouds lost their sound we still don't look at each other
no hypothesis of sight no discharge for humiliation
wither souls made history grappling bending
twisting nonconsensual reality

no destiny for the allegory of truth  
there are no angles of sight
facts become beasts
holy cannot be anybody's name
repelling of the heart beat

As we approach the stop sign,
And your road lane begins to disappear,
The sadness washes all around us
I pull at strings to bring you on my path,
You fall still while a smile widens.

A tear falls, the realisation finally reality.
We have no gauge to bring forth certainty
To when your last life grain falls
Down upon the many lessons learnt in your hour glass.
It has been glorious years spent,
Rebelling and repelling social norms of our lives,
Drinking wisdoms out of library glasses
And camping mischief around bridges we built.

Your lives clock is ticking it's last heart beats,
But I'll find you in every life I meet.

You've learnt, you've grown,
you've seen, you've lived
and you've loved.
Keep loving.
Always love, who ever you are
And where ever you end up.