You know,
       One time i thought i could write.
Not necessarily right wrongs, but just write.
Now if i could right wrongs then i would just go ahead and write something about that, because it would be the right thing to do... Right?
But, no, no, no i don't usually write about things like that, not right now anyways.
Right now i write about many other things and i think i can keep right on writing about them until i have nothing else to write about.
At which point I'll go right back to attempting to write about righting wrongs.
And I'll keep writing on and on about righting wrongs.
I'll just write, write, write, write, write, until... there's absolutely nothing left to write about concerning the topic of righting wrongs, but since righting wrongs is such a vast topic i believe i will have plenty to write about.
Which leads me right back to my main point. I think i can write, but am i even writing right?

I tried to make him right for me,
see I believe in fairy tales and happy endings.
Maybe my Prince just needed a little nudge.
So i got all the wrong things about him,
and tied them up with a neat bow.

I was busy searching for love,
instead of waiting for it to come find me.
That was probably cupid I passed on the street,
I rushed by too fast for his arrow.
I played matchmaker for my lonely heart,
Got it all torn up in pieces.

I deluded myself into thinking I couldn't breathe,
I counted the seconds waiting for my heart to stop.
But it pumped on and on so slow,
It hummed to the sound of your name on my lips.
The name, that would make my heart skip a beat.
But now it just filled me with resolve to leave.
See I wasn't gonna cry another day over you.
Wasn't gonna die cause I couldn't have you.
I was going to learn to live.

I could have been with Mr. Right,
Instead I lay in bed alone, crying to the night.
Where did I go wrong? I tried to change him.
But he didn't want to be saved, he knew what it was.
A good time that I coated with love,
A relationship where he felt trapped.
See he was a free spirit and I the hunter,
I trapped him and tried to make him mine.

So am back to the point where it all began.
Finding my heart and starting it again.
I want to be the girl that makes someone stop,
the one you've been waiting for all your life.
No more Mr. Almost right for me,
Or Mr. Close enough to right.
I'm gonna wait for you, I know you're looking for me.

Unreality: Thanksgiving Miami Style

It is 70 degrees, afternoon,
sunny Miami winter style.
Nike shorts, flip flops,
polo shirt white,
music, pandora, and
no place he
needs to be.

the collected works and
worries, left behind,
the boy, and he is taking
it to the limit,
wanting a day of no cares,
one more time.

yet, recollecting, writing
impertent, dissatisfied,
no reason, none that I can
irrationally explain.

previous night,
my eyes have
seen the
second-coming.

everybody smiles
happy, looking fit,
tight black dresses
the law of the land.
food flows like wine,
wine flows like water.

lose track of the numbers,
glasses of Cortese di Gavi,
cold and white refilled
in the Miami heat,
exactly, how old am I,
and where
my eyes should
not be staring,
bodies intended
to maim,
after they
**** you.

it is a long-short tale,
how it came to be,
that I am living thanksgiving
in the unreality of Miami style.

was supposed be at the
head of the table carving,
giving secret tastes to
numerous grandchildren,
multiple dogs,
defrosting after the
Macy's Day Parade.
my children, their
kith and kin.
that was supposed to be
my New York reality,
at the head of the table.

divorce, monkey wrench,
I am in a different state,
a different table, a
welcome bystander,
but her love,
my love,
has brought me,
to unseasonal places,
higher and higher,
where I am welcomed
as her man.

not a bad unreality,
but still someone has torn
off a piece of me,
a tasty combo of
sad and guilt,
that I ******* up,
which is why this
writing is my re-righting
the ship of perspective.

maybe I am dreaming
of what was never,
could have been,
should of been,
kidding myself, with an idyll,
the unreality of an idol,
though I vague recollect,
there were meals like that.

think this is my fourth trip here,
sort of, almost a tradition.
BobbyDylan, he reminds
what that woman,
done for me,
been doing to me.

"I was in another lifetime
one of toil and blood,
when blackness was a virtue
and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness
a creature void of form.

"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter
from the storm".

so she did,
a new reality born.
so semi-sad poem, but
happy thanks to give,
for this day,
new family
embracing, and I am
recollecting,
read somewhere,
you cannot be thankful
for having,
only for giving.

Thanksgiving

Not
Thanks-having
Thanks-receiving

New Reality: Thanksgiving Miami Style.

When we give up
What are we giving up
On & on without righting the wrongs

Why do we do it?
Time's it's easy to leave
Times its easy to stay
Hanging on tight
Lets prolong that delay

When we give up
What are are we giving up
On & on without righting our wrongs

Driving looking through your rearview
Like your eyes cant see you
The lines on your face
The pressure life creates
An internal debate
With the person you hate

When we give up
What are we giving up
On & on without righting our wrongs

Feeling more life myself
with a little makeups help
Ego starting to melt in my mirror of self

When we give up
What are we giving up
On & on without righting our wrongs

Talking to someone and that's me
In a place of unease
Feeling trapped in a bad dream
But everyday its on stream
Truman show
Invite only
You see yourself and your phony

I’ve sat on a bare-damp chair.
out on the North deck
where the moss blurs the lines
between itself and algae and lichen
and me.  Me, who wouldn’t know such a line
if it were less blurred...I’m not so sharp as all that.


I set my glasses down on a stone table.
Beside the cold-soon tea.
I watch the wind coming, first through the reeds.
And then shifting the banana leaves.
And soon the birch curtain crowding out my
writing place.  My righting place.

The labyrinth is hosting some flowers.  A dragonfly alights on an altar of crystal
and stone and birch branch.  And offerings.  
The dragonflies seems to (me to) re-write spider lines
or maybe ley lines.  A frog just leaped from a tree past my feet.
I’ve lost my word lines, my throughline.
This frog is now in the leaves by the ivy under the bees.
Looking so green.  Leaf droppings dropping on its head.
It’s green head.  Like an emerald in a mountain’s side.

Now a rustle.  Just beyond.  But not that far.  Like feet away.  But beyond.
Another distance.  Another limit.  Another world.  A bank-robbery escape-mode
Squirrel is making off with what it made off with from the free-to-all and undefended
(and legal, too) pear tree in the far yard.  It leaped upon the birch trunk and then, startled to find me unstartlingly well...just here.  And unstartled.  Paused to set its claws in bark.
It teeth gripping as fifth grip the rind of an unripe pear, its size, if I might compare,
the size of its head without the ears, without the hair.  This unrepentant squirrel leaped                  from
     here
to
     there
all of which was over there but just there so basically here.  (Just not here here, more there.)  It found its place to contemplate me.  To observe.  It made no offer.  But of itself.  Which, really, is all that we can do.  It chuffed a few times but it seemed to me that this was more to do with why-not-give-this-a-try-but-I-don’t-know-why.  It’s belly flush to gray birch bark.  It’s tail extended, and caught by a breeze that the leaves were not informed of.  A deceiving breeze.
Soon - which wasn’t soon, it was minutes - the squirrel scrambled up the birch and branch-to-branched its way to overhead and then out of sight.  I may have smelled of peanuts as I’d just emptied a jar.  I may have been the deceiver.  I may be the lone believer that I might know at all.

The frog hasn’t yet moved.


Something is buzz-whistling.  In the grass?  The trees?  The soil?  The sound rises and the tone
shifts.  The pitch lifts.  I cannot say if it is insect.  I cannot say if it is amphibian.  I cannot say if it is electric and thus man and thus unwelcome.  Cicada?  Frogs?  A hummingbird just fooled me into thinking I knew something about speed.  Something about color.  Something about birds.
Something about Nature.  Something about need.  Something about life.  Something about something about my self.  A partial-second lesson.  The teacher came and went.  The teachings stayed behind in mind.  I have so much work to do.

The far birch, placed in the yard for a long-ago dog
seems to offer up a peach harvest this year.
(At least when my glasses are off.)
The landscaper says that all the birches are yellowing this summer
this year this near to the midsummer and this far from the far flung
and far colder cold slumber of December and November and October.

The blue spruce has a still-for-the-first-time-this-season small flock
of oriole.  Or sunset-breasted, warbler wren throated tipped somethings.
I count seven.  Or six.  No, eight.  Wait.  Nine.  Uh, now eight.
Oh, there’s one!  Oh, no matter.  There’s some.
Too flighty and flittery each blur-glance I’ve had all year.  And I've tried each time
to secure them (sharply) in my lens.

The ducks converse as they arrive at the pond’s far edge.  About to traverse the
turtle-hiding waters, the en-flowered pond’s surface, the distance between heard and seen.
I reach for my glasses.  The birch leaves in yellow have fallen and lied.  Belied to believed.
There are no birds in the tree.  That I can see.  That I care to see.  Autumn come early.

A hawk glides past my edge-of-can’t-quite-see.  It’s loping-like arc its own pleasure...to me.
And, I imagine, it.  The meadow is blushing in purple, ironweed.  The jewelweed, too is a star-field of twinkling orange.  A constellation by day.  A bowl by the winter-blooming something (jasmine?) is concentrically coming awake as drip drip drippings are drop drop dropping.  A yellow-spiked caterpillar treks through the detritus of the unkempt bits of the beside-the-garden which isn’t so much a garden as a place I once planted and once planned.  A spider fast-ropes down to investigate and, as it happens, to pester.  The caterpillar twists and tumbles.  Righting itself, it plods on in its stretch-curl way as the spider ascends to the invisible upper home in its way.  The frog hasn’t moved but I notice and note its **** has two bumps.  Like its bulbous eyes in its front which, as I notice and note is spear-shaped as is its hind.  I wonder at defenses.  It is still.  It still is still.  It’s stillness is still stilling.  Until...I move on.  My fastest is not footed but mindful.  Not mindful but of mind.  I am of a mind to move the mind along.  The caterpillar closes the distance.  What a distance to it it must be.  It’s face is black as an undersea shadow.  It has spikier spikes of black here and there.  Likely in some pattern but my mind has moved and so, here and there it will be.  My story.  My pattern.  My refusal to change.

The mushrooms where the spider met the yellow fellow, though.  Sesame-seeded.  Decorated.  Pimpled.  Bejeweled.  A tawny cup beside a stone behind the frog.  Soft mustard-dotted.  But now!  A new frog where the old new frog had been.  This one a leopard toad.  I think.  (I shouldn’t think.)  Browns upon browns with stripes and blots and dots.  Tans and browns.  At the end of the birch twig is now the first frog.  The green-headed bumpy-butted one.  The leopard in tiger lily patches watches the caterpillar (a different one?) clamber though the unswept unkempt.  

The frog, beside me in ceramic keeps time for the timeless.  The throat bellowing.  As though feeding a fire somewhere where Earth is turned to plow.  We all make our own ends, don’t we?

if we're blue right
it out in a left
handed jaundice
sky a golden sky sky
key yellow way

like we're creeping
banana wallpaper pealing
off heaven in claps
of thunder clawed
off  beneath tiny
media sausage paws
of a black & white Terrier
we've dressed

in unnatural
sarcasm difficult to rightly
see in the tall indigo
grass we're

green again if mixing
blades with lowly plain Asian
tone is a thing

From whence this identity comes
Malts, hops, father’s approval  
What he holds in his arms
Is of no surprise
‘Just missing’ each other
Not likely coincidental
Star couplings, mishap earthlings
Persons never to be known
Crossed streets to  
Strange neighborhoods
Lawn games… how odd
In quiet hours on the highway
Gripping, understood, elusive and all wrong
Remembering, but more forgotten
Ring passed over luminescent waters
Love, not enigmatically magical
Autumn hues in baby fine hair
Righting the nightmares
Nothing mattered more than this.

Friction into reality; I should say into fiction into life.  Small beads form on the upper lip,  Shoes strings become untied, a bottle is cracked as the ship leaves it’s slip.  Fret and cascade escape a troubled brow.  A boat builder an architect leans smirks and shifts toward the end of the pier.  The wake presses a ripple across the bay’s cloudy shiloutte.  Mooring lines tighten righting an unballasted keel.  Its crew makes up chalks and moors with figure eights and half hitches.  Take up slack and pull with the boatswains command.
Captain, Executive officer, and first mate critique fit for crew and evolution.  

Pea coats smocked, boots weather sealed with wax, glove, slacks, hat, and pants.  Stores are stacked and awaiting brow and chain gang.  Rations and stores for 4 weeks.  The harbor’s main berthing finds vacancy at the vessels underway taking.  Bow to stern aspect three hundred feet washed and clean.  She has a 9 foot draft with another 22 feet to the first rail.  

The lines in the boat shore for a nimble light sailing ship.  A clipper maybe,  I’ll wait to report further direction possibly assuming more command.  A cigarette falls from my first *******.  A jostle to my left crafts seagulls posturing a stolen meal.  Sulfur stings my nostril igniting the first of two puffs.  The captian rolls his eyes my direction gives the once over finding his intrest in the rest of the evolution.

A few pier hands set eyes on the clipper, smoking.

Mice run along the wooden edge of the pier away from some of the salted pork and grain.  Two other mice lose courage at my sight line.  XO and first mate shift and turn retrieving my concern.  The brow is being landed at the stern of the ship.  

No decals and no name yet.  At some point Ill find or ask to be apart of the ships crew.  Deck hand, cook, messenger, helmsman, assistant to first mate all compatible with ability.  The first mate chuckles and mentions a figurative by stander knowing that an employment opportunity starts with a  conversation.  

Crew’s first leiutenant for the most part looks squared away and a bit untouchable, salty.  Pants tucked into calf high boots, a beard, pea coat and a lost stare.  Hesitating a bit he grins and settles back to appropriate conversation.

My bag and jacket drop accompany to the stores.  Maybe a slow patient walk aft, there has to be a name for her.  At the stern a marching movement to my right and I can follow the rear of the boat and in peripheral the command group.

The Lion’s Winter in large old English print below a iron clad window pane bounces with the tide to the left and right in a roll.  I can see the ship, now calming into a quiet slop off of the pier and its mooring lines. The rudder is a massive distorted key shaped piece of poplar with copper piano hinges all the way to the back of the keel.  A small blue crab lengthens a breast stroke across the top of the water.  

The three follow the appropriate custom before crossing the brow and the first louie barks a few times.  Two of the ship’s crew begin inventory on stores while a bit of nervousness creeps over the contents of my only possessions.  Wetting my lips I can taste the salt on my face.

One of the crew yells,
“Louie, move him off.  He stump’n around the grub.”
He barks again,
“Turn two.  Got more an him eny’d, a Rat!”

I took that as on opportunity to introduction.  Mr. Louie straightened pursed heels and drained thought from my façade.  His eyes narrowed, he felt the calm of my urgency.  He knew I needed, obliged then walked to conversation.  “Cryme's, you look’n for someone.”

“Humm, a shipmate.”
I could see the it was not the conversation he was expecting.  He leveled, “Pretty tight around here. What do you have in the bag?”

“Mostly books.”  

“You cant cross the atlantic reading books.”

Sharply understood in sponse to kurt, “Is that an opportunity or an intrest accompany to nothing.”

“You can naught cross the Atlantic.”


Tim says leave the world.  I laugh and he says no righting, laughter.

I only ever make things worse.
"Who do you know who owns a hearse?"
I once rode to Denny's next to a coffin;
it was empty.

There's this guy at work
who worked at a funeral home before.
He went through a fast food drive-thru with a dead guy in the back.
He'd died from obesity.

I don't know what's worse:
Tragedy or comedies.
I'm always tearing up at the happy scenes,
and laughing inappropriately.
******* ******* irony -
gets me every time.

Head spinning
Feet tapping
Mind wrapping
Thought trapping
Idea capping
Desperation mapping
Quality lacking

Spaces filled
Time killed
Not thrilled
Answers willed

Nails biting
Cheaters sighting
After all nighting
Wrongs not righting
Feel like flighting

Brainpower waning
Lack of knowledge maintaining
Wisdom draining
Composure regaining

Test failing
Arms flailing
Letters mailing
Face paling
The big unveiling
No more prevailing
The action entailing:
My annihilation

Loving me is hell and hell is dense
And hell is heavy
And hell is hot
Dense with the influx of passing souls
That nudge elbows of their brother sinners
In tight elevators that hum not
Piano music but drums so loud
They convert heart beats to 808 rhythms
They shake the victims of vices so
Hard the change falls from their pockets
And bounces back up into their eyes
Hell is heavy
It is heavy with the weight of lies
And of the truths of passions sought and met
With only finger tips and white lips
The vicious bosses of mobs
And the cemented feet of snitches caught
Hell is dense
It is packed tighter than fingers in fists
Clenched fixed on righting wrongs
The air there is hot with breathes
Held in and finally released with
The unbuttoning of sliming corporate tuxes
Fastened inside out so the brass buttons brand and burn
The business boys’ bantam bodies
While they look up at the men the tired to measure up to
But where always a stich or two short
Hell is hot
Hot and steaming with the blood of the corrupt
That was spilt and then encountered a tilt
Down a funnel mixed with rotten oil
Left stagnant by sinners that sought not
To move a finger to clean up that gunk
The steam from sinners water not sweat
Boil sweet and steamy up into the
Mouths of men with jaws wired open
And rested on their bellies that are propped up
By guns taking all that is sweet for themselves
This is hell
This, like me,
Feels tastes sounds and smells
Of dense hot and heavy
Sins deadly appealing
And dammingly just.

If you asked me when I was 5
If I was going to be a girl
Dressed head to toe in black
Driving myself into an abyss of isolation
I would have said you're crazy

But part of me thinks even when I was 5
I would understand why
I would become a boundary pushing
System breaking teen
Waiting on the rest of the world to catch up to me

Tender heart to broken heart
I was wrapped in the charge
of righting the wrongs
and wronging the rights
A perfect storm of opposition

I'm grown up now,
And I wear bright colored shirts
And Let the world take care of its own karma
But I still wear black on my well polished nails.

The truth is, once you're a rebel, you never really aren't one
You just fade into the monotony of life just like everyone else
But you know that when life sparks you

You're right back to a time where the world has done you wrong.

To unearth the means of life
Is the saddest part of our ferris wheel
Every ups and downs, in peace or strife
A looping ride to our little heaven, but most a free trip to hell

There's a box of gloominess that I'd opened that I can't seal
Overflowed my mind with a lot of dark wisdom
Wound I'd self inflicted in a day, seems will take a decade to heal
If only I did not enter the too much curiosity kingdom

It's my intention to craft a masterpiece
So I've yearned crazily for knowledge
Scrambled all the colors till darkness become my art piece
A life that longing to be at the center because I am at the very edge

But then I still thank fate
For giving me the chance to travel life
To feel the air, the cool rain and the blazing heat
To have parents, brothers and a wife

To accept what life can offer and never go beyond
If only I could turn back, I'll never do myself a crime
But I'm on my way now, righting the wrong that I've done
Might take a decade to heal, but I believe in another lifetime...



Written: 01/01/2015 @ 6:30 am

Mysterious Aries

I dropped a penny into a well and wished that I never existed
I walked away feeling empty
A vague thought forming in the back of my mind:
Maybe, because the wish presented a paradox, it could not be fulfilled
I toyed with the idea of turning around
Of going back and righting the wrong
"I wish to be dead! That's not a paradox! Make it happen!"
But I lacked the motivation
All processes have been overtaken
By apathy
And for want of feeling, I continued to breathe

I think I’m still moving on
Still writing music son
I’m still righting wrongs
Still writing songs
I’m still singing like nobody is listening
Even when everyone’s listening
I’m still moving rapidly
I’m still when I need to be
But I think most importantly
I’m still me..........I’m still me

I love it when you think
ever so logically

You make my gears grind
and my clock tick

make my heart whirr

We could be victorious

Righting wrongs,
Triumphing over evil,

We could be playful
rolling, tumbling

bounding over eachother

I'm sure we could almost be anything we wanted.

When you truly love someone,
you don't need proof - you can feel it.

Like upside down tongue touch,
We realize what is real and what is sense
What do we really know anyhow?

To watch piano keys tune
Is like righting a broken bone:
Process somewhat crude
But still very much a need.

The maestro looms like a wolf,
Making every note weep
Though to the intensity he is aloof,
As if in a dream—

Or perhaps a nightmare;
He hears the shrieks and jumps,
Perhaps exaggerated by the glares
Of looming ghouls—necromancy.

The notes holding as if a pathos
Back to the world of the living.

I must caution you,
Against a world lacking conflict.

A wold enveloped in
Continual peace
is hell.

Without suffering,
Without anger,
There is no passion.

A world wothout conflict
Is a wold lacking the beauty of sacrifice
The love of conviction
The satisfaction of righting a wrong.

I must caution you,
Without wrongdoing, without war
There is no peace
Just
Consistancy.

Emerging from a distant dust-up,
A lone rider approaches on horse.
The clip-clop gallop grows,
The panting animal is alarming,
Sweat paints and streaks down
The dark hide.
The rider wears a bandana
Over mouth and nose,
Beneath a once white hat.
His clothes are covered with the trail.

Next, he's in the leather tub
With suds from chest to hair,
Shaving cream covering his face,
Mirror in one hand,
Probably a gun on the floor of the tub.
Eyes and nose poking through the foam.

Later, we see the clean, pressed black shirt
From the back, outlining shoulders we know
Have been busy righting wrongs.
He puts a cockey tilt to his hat and pivots
With a Parodi between his clean, straight teeth.
The champion. The underdog vanguard.
Clint.

i know my worth, that i'm better off alone.
i know that u will try to come back soon,
but all u will hear from me is a dial tone.

i don't need u, forget everything i've said.
i don't feel u like i used to -
u are no longer plaguing thoughts in my head.

i had to let u go & make room for the new.
we had fun while it lasted, memories for days,
but that's not the path we were meant to live through.

u would have only kept playing the same games.
pushing me away only to reel me back in:
self-serving tactic for u - me, it only shames.

i'm finally loving myself, allowing my heart to set u free.
i hope that one day u get what u are looking for,
and i'm sorry for u that it's no longer me.

too little, too late - u won't be the only one realizing my worth.
i don't mean to hurt or disappoint u,
but u aren't the only soul i met in my 'rebirth'.

Another *****,
over easy on the ice and just  another would be nice, but it would then progress and mess my morning up
and so I dazzle and make a cup of tea,two toast,some marmalade and look at me,as
sober as a high court judge,which is just about as sober as one can be,when one sentences to prison and relieves a man of liberty.

What Identity this man,
who can decide a span of time that another would pretend ,and inside where the attitude of days is played out on the prison walls,and in the canteens where I have seen great mountains of men fall and go to waste,
I have also seen those other men of God,men of Satan waiting for the dinner bell,and as thick as thieves they all fell into fighting righting wrongs ,dinner gongs and more mountains fall in the dining hall,more wasted words upon the wall.

1... I never did what they said
2....I was framed
3....The cops are bent
and those these words were never said or spoken each broken head and blackened eye was another,and one more reason why,
I lent myself to education,got certificates,elucidation but it was all a waste of effin time,the judge was right,send this man to jail
and ticked the fail box on his score card,
Hard labour never did me any harm ,not that it did me any good but for some it poisoned and where the blood runs hot,eyes bloodshot,riots,guns and more blood runs.

The sums seem never to add up and so I make another cup of tea and think how fortunate it was to see the end game,to see my own name written on the hand rails and when all else fails,
it's head or tails,win or lose and only one can get to choose one's
final destination

Are we but dream junkies
And all the stars that trail,
In the gloams of milky ways,
But empty islands more for us,
Golden archipelagoes, baubles
Ringing, rounding out heavens'
Wreathing, oceans, nil vastness
To fixate upon from whence we
Once were, by souls' fashioning,
Airy and unrealistic as dear fools'
Child-minded convictions, fables,
Foetal, in smoky amniotic aethers,
Wisps of matter to see unlocked,
Unchained from sparks of nothing,
Wide eyed as supernovae in voids,
As light injects into us such purpose,
Imaginations so neatly dreamed upon,
Once and for all, stories bound in sleepy
Times, or tis more our sole, sun, but one
Dim light in all these unsettled sparklings,
A tapestry which etches our righting eyes,
Into sandy itchings, spiral notches, grains
Ticking us eternal to vested lime beds waiting,
Are we sunk in drunkeness by the overheaded
Skies, fumbling about, numbed, slumbered
In soul rummages?

Don't be walking in the dark
even in the park
you will be torn apart
and shredded!
he is like a land shark
he always hits his mark
his blade is so sharp
beheaded!
he has a beating heart
but no mercy will embark
fast as a dart
regretted
even though he is smart
death is his art
terror from the start
he's dreaded

vicious is his blade
your grave is already made
dues will be paid
no fighting
his plan is all laid
death is his trade
your life will soon fade
deciding
your blood will be sprayed
your body displayed
you have betrayed
no hiding
prepare for the raid
prayers should be prayed
your fate has been weighed
the righting

How can they ever find my name out, when i don't even know my own name? In fact, in the oldest memories that I have of myself, I was just like this...nameless. That has to be at least 40 years ago. It is only in the last 2 years, that I have been killing though. I fought the urge for so long. One day it hit me like a ton of bricks why I am here. To punish the unrighteous ones. That means almost everyone...

Don't ask me how I know which ones to punish, because I just know. Children, for example, will never be punished and by children, I mean 18 and under. This leads to a dilemma of course...since they still want to **** me...

I get a feeling, and I know it's God telling me. I know it has to be God because I know nothing of evil. I have dedicated my life to God, and I have never so much as touched drugs or liquor. I have never even watched television. I had always tried to help people, then God told me that I wasn't helping. He told me that they weren't like me. He told me of all the evil in their hearts, and in their homes. When I get close enough to someone, I can sense their life, their intentions. God has truly blessed me...

above me many characters frequent my father.  they shake him firmly and I pretend their hands are crumbling into my mouth.  I don’t know where I’ve lived but know I’ve been moved numerous times.  in the movies that have been on seemingly since my birth there is one I miss.  in it, a room service cart is toppled by two men going for a gun.  moments later a shirtless woman rights the cart and the righting wakes me to how prone I am to having a body.  when we are alone, father reads by flashlight underneath the somewhere of me.  I wonder with my feet if his feet are cold.  I tried early on to go to heaven but couldn’t convince a single language that I wasn’t already there.  when a woman looks like my mother, I spy on hell.

Minutes are myths
     Seconds seemed syrupy.

Each time, when we kiss, as smiles
Pave way for us, ever so close,
And the mood is righting all our wrongs,
     Dear, you eat away from Time,

Biting at its ear with a giggle. No wonder,
When Manong Sorbetero passes by,
     And when we hear one shouts Taho,
The passion lives on, stirring from within,
     We will touch with our tongues still,
     Precise, tugging at our words,

Or the sword of approval, sometimes,
Uniting us. In the distance,
There's a jealous light on a staircase
     In the distance, carefully descending.

And the flashes in the sky, how majestic
May they seem, anger in colors
Of leaves and daffodils, are nothing
     But a Man-of-war embarking
          On the deeper seas.*

© 2016 J.S.P.