The parasympathetic nervous system
is responsible for regulations
unconsciously transpiring
within the organs and
the glands of
the body.
Such as:
urination, salivation, digestion, defecation, and
lacrimation
(noun. ‘the flow of tears’. Latin.
from lacrimare (‘weep’) and lacrima (‘tear’).
It’s why I cry
even when I don’t want to.
You are the parasympathetic nervous system.

The (ortho-)sympathetic nervous system
is responsible for the mobilization
of the fight-or-flight response
and constantly maintaining
homeostasis within
the body.
It acts
rapidly, enacting an attempt at stability and
the necessary and critical ability
to suddenly escape
on pulsing legs or
cling to survival through
brandishing adrenaline-doused knuckles
and dilated pupils.
It’s why you live
even when you don’t want to.
I am the sympathetic nervous system.

The parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems
are two of three essential nervous systems which
compose the autonomic nervous system
(a part of the peripheral
nervous system)
that manages
involuntary
functions of the body. Such as:
swallowing, perspiration, arousal, breathing, and
heart rate
(noun. ‘the speed of the heartbeat’.
usually expressed in beats per minute. mine speeds up when I see you).
Individually these two systems oppose
but compliment
each other like our hands do—
pressed together and omitting equal force;
veins meeting
at the fingertips and throbbing at the wrists
but running amuck on our respective digits otherwise.
You are the invariable and unspoken reminder to
breath,
love,
sweat,
and live.
I am the sudden snap of reality always aiming to save you
but grudgingly willing to fight you and
ready
to
leave.

From the deepest lower half of my brainstem
and from every nerve
in my cycling body,
I’m sorry.
From all of my chromaffin cells
and from the truest parts of submandibular ganglian,

I am sorry.

This is a three-part, longer narrative poem, seen
as old photographs that follow the main character, My Aunt, Lillian Goldrick, across two decades.  It was written 30 years ago*
______

“Hey Kid!”     Part I

Photographs aren’t fair
stopping the soul where it’s not
in rectangular guffaws
surrounded by serrated edges, pickets, teeth?
to fence and stab in yellow, soft-covered booklets
with designated floppy phrase
“Your memories”

Happier than she could ever be...

A black and white day at Salisbury Beach, NH
hung over his hammock
Private pin-up girl
tilts her head against silver sheen of shoulder
Hair, dark chignon
except for a few wispy curls about her face
freed by wind
bleached by sun

Stopped

...for three decades
Legs slightly bent—long extended
that could stop trains, stop traffic

Stopped

Modest bathing suit, probably peach
cannot hide (not that she would)
the undeniable
And if there were question left
you could look at her smile—and love her
posed by he message scrawled in sand:

“Hey Kid!”

What kid? Where?
In the foreground?
In the camera’s eye?

In the background—
a Ferris wheel, a billboard
and  r-i-g-h-t  there—Can’t you see it?
Look again—behind her eyes
You can barely see it, but it’s there.
Remember?

The Depression
Only ten years before
It was April
Stroke, heart attack
Both of them gone, a year apart!
The priest came
Last Rites for mortally stricken
Candles, crucifix, the Catholic containment
of holy water that dams the tears

Kneeling around the bed
they said the Rosary

——————————

After VJ Day he came
to the house on the corner
of Commonwealth Ave.
She knew he was coming
but she could not be ready today
nor tomorrow
nor next week—or ever...

“Lill! Will ya come to the door?
She’ll be ready in a minute.
Hey Lill! Hurry up, will ya!
They’re waitin’ fer us!”

Upstairs in the dark hallway
her door clicks shut....
________


"Hey Kid"    Part II


The clock at Joe Rianni’s read 20 minutes to 12...

Crowd from the Phillip’s Theater—gone
though laughter lingers
in a Friday mood
in high-backed booths
where only an hour ago swinging free
were high-heeled shoes
legs crossed at knees....

Now on tables abandoned
deserted fields of French
fries lie cold in salt flurries

Only female straws wear lipstick
as do Luckys bent in ashtrays
Males, uniformly flattened
as powder burned, as mortar might
shells, casings—the evidence of war
Among explosions of tickled giggles
one was taken broadside...

listing     toward      stars
_______

...The clock read 20 minutes to 12

when she walked in--
And Rhea stopped swabbing black mica counters
long enough to absorb late-customer hate
and envy that such beauty can arouse
In voice hoarse and weighted like a trucker’s

“Whadaya have, Lill?”

“coffee”

The small answer settled at the soda fountain
and slowly struck a match...
She was falling from the slant
of her black felt hat
dripping off the point of pheasant feather
Gray gabardine suit
tailored from angle of shoulder
to dart diagonally
toward such a waist!
Turned to skirt hips
that arched and dove toward slit—
then seams that run the round of calf

that seem to flow
to ankles of naught—
...and all that seems

Black     high-heeled     above it

Coffee— cold, stale
Gray glassed-in stare
searches air and random walls
of coat hooks, menus, mirrors...
while lips ****** exiled words— replies

Dragging a demon from her Camel
slowly     purposefully
she exhaled a burly arm of smoke
that rose and laid its hand
against the ceiled atmosphere of embossed tin
Then leaning over her shoulder
in roiling emission of shrugs and sneers—

“Lill—There’s no way outa here!”
________


“Hey Kid!”    Part III

After kneeling backwards on their chairs
after nuns, catechism recited
After—
Five of them scuffed through leaves and litter
along the curbing
spotting cars that counted—
Bugs, beach wagons, flying bathtubs
A slower way home of hunting
shiny chestnuts and muddy finds
rare match book covers
and bottle caps that win ya things!

One breaks from bunch
and trials off to where
dimes turn to candies!
...at a dingy luncheonette...Joe Rianni’s
____

Here—behind smeary wall of glass
pleasure leers while holding back
those grimy fingers, lips that long
for jelly fish, gum drops, lollies
holding back the company
of Baby Ruth, and Mary Jane
O Henry or Bazooka Joe!
For less money but the same salivation
there were colored dots to chew and ****
from strips of paper that last forever!
For a little more, plus the sweet struggle
of desire denied
a kid could be proud owner
of a pea shooter or trading cards!
While in the mouth
were golden imaginings—
the chocolate foil of coins
and the candied pretense of cigarette adulthood
_____

Rhea didn’t see her in the line...

Only grownups with wallets and purses
Only grownups get waited on...
...because Rhea was a Gypsy!
Kids could tell!
by her big red lips and hair to match
by the nasty way she chased them out—
“****** kids!”
Only grownups get waited on....
_______

And the clock read 20 minutes to 12

While a child waits—
time stirs in a ceiling fan
   There’s a drift in attention
      along deepening endless walls
         toward a line of sleepy booths
              carved with

“I was here—in such and such a year”

Her aunt—at the last stool—like always
Their names too close
Confused too often

A little girl wonders
about the sight behind the sightless stare
loafers, ankle socks, the ‘40s hair
the gathered skirt that gathers ashes
as they fall from cigarette
held in yellowed fingertips
Tremors crimp the smoke that climbs—

              ...a strobing pillar

“Whataya want, girly?”

              ...the only movement

“Hey! What’s it gonna be!”

              ...in a shot—

“HEY KID!”

              Snapped

Please forgive my hesitation
at instigation of flirtation.
Did I ensure my elimination?
My romantic assassination?
I'll gladly partake in any placation,
for any chance of indoctrination
to the centralization of your concentration.
An operation of admiration.
A correlation of inflammation.
Your gravitation brings animation,
exclamation and elongation.
My specialization is duration.
Not to hint at a connotation,
but I feel a certain *******
by an obligation to a certain destination
where your presentation gives me restoration.
Petrification?
Total mind evacuation?
Would clarification bring fascination?
Stimulation!
Salivation!
Gratification!
Insinuation of fornication?
A simple salutation to syncopation.
Would a single bright carnation
be enough of a motivation,
for a two way relocation?
Would poetic recitation
be sufficient lubrication
for collaboration?
A consolidation?
Or an exacerbation of isolation?
Please hold no reservation,
I've only got one aspiration.
To achieve a higher elevation;
by means of inhalation,
or a certain recreation
involving a bit of perspiration
along with physical communication.
Does this seem such a bad situation?
Or are you ready for pure elation?

as any german might, or a student of
the philosophy -
applying nothing's worth of a hammer
to the lexicon, rather,
a scalpel -
          what is ontological about
the term dasein,
and what is metaphysical?

        well... -sein is pure ontology...
am i to make apologies for
the given?
       sein in German is "self"-implosive...
given that it originates
in the Kantian noumenon,
per se...
                   but it never reaches out
to trans- physics of
gender...
        and, doesn't, meddle,
in grammatical constructs...

          da-?
   what is there, to a here?
to a now, a then, a then?
    metaphysical questions...
          so...

                    Dasein...
it'­s both a metaphysical conundrum
and an ontological scoop...
but, what it isn't is
a metaphorical inquiry...
   the mind is never to be displaced...
there is no mind displacement,
the brains along with the mind
retains its intact posit to counter
the materialism of the brain
being equivalent to the heart,
  but no mind,

no mind? no emotion...
     i thought the heart was a mindless
pump for the rivers (veins)
  and tsunamis of blood (arteries)...
am i wrong?
          
   if there is this post-Hegelian
grand dialectic taking place,
to displace the classical approach,
with a globalist canvas...
  my bad...

                if you need more schizophrenics
than you can handle?
fair enough...
               if you suddenly face up
to the Hippocratic oath...
which deems bilingual individuals
as being schizophrenics?
fair enough... i'll wait...
i'm good at waiting...

       i'll have my fifth drink and
attempt to play the mythical
Mongolian harmonica...

and wait: who's about to look...
STUPID!
               but if there's a grand dialectical
working its way into conversation
outside of the academic circles...
then there's also a dichotomy...
  
  and schizophrenia?
      is the algebraic X
    rather than a grand +
                 in the intermediate
interwoven basis for discussion...

              da- is a metaphysical
proposition...
    given? there could also be a
hier-... or a nirgends (nowhere) -
    or irgendwo (anywhere) -
    
   the prefix of heidegger's concept
is purely metaphysical,
it doesn't have to necessarily translate
into concern coupled
with the purity of the ontological
compound suffix of -sein...

       to be honest? the problem with
dasein in the 21st century?
let's face it, the man wrote this thesis
just when mainstream journalism was
taking off, then tyrants exploited
radio broadcasts...
   now the broadcasters abuse the medium...

there's too much of the "da-" -
      die welt...
   which does not encourage
the -sein...
to encompass or even entangle itself
with the imminent,
   die hier, die jetzt...
          the "myopic" version of
the diabolical res extensa of
the cartesian model...
                
              the study of ontology has
to regress from the prefix da-...
         the metaphysical jargon of this
posited prefix needs to be
stumbled onto, then rejected...
                new coordinates of ontological
investigation need to be minded...
closer to the nose...
   and the index finger touching
the tip of it...

                 again...
          i can only "read" French philosophy
books by the German antagonists...
and i will never read anything
by English philosophers... Locke?
forget it...
   i hate English philosophers...
they're too practical... too sensible...
too pragmatist...
              basically?
boring as ****...
                         sensible people do
not philosophize -
  they don't create meta-narratives...
ha ha! they create trans-gender!
sensible people get hard-on salivation
tendencies to craft no
original contribution to the scholasticism...
they love to read the ****...
but hate to write it...
subsequently relieving themselves
of the originality of a cognitive genesis...
the english were always in
a Germanic cognitive exodus;

i'm speaking to the father,
i don't need some
  ****-pants half-removed son of
a Saxon ***** to tell me
what i can, and can't make
this language into.

drown in the dark
            cleansed of all vital signs  ; great relief
cold fish dreamed a thrill
        drowning in the great salivation
           a deoxygenated chill of perish
vote free the sponge of your formation
give to the new life that can fend
                                           fed off of your spoil
a greater survivor in this stern habitat
                can carry on your energy and wealth

.who said i was orientating myself around the body? the body to body dynamic is so.... easy... excessive salivation... like a dog... i don't want the body... i wan the existence of the non-existent parody of ego, in the form of soul... i want, what secularism abhors to lay claim of... i've been to a *******, i know what selling flesh looks like... but i've also walked into a forest... and i have, managed to peer into a night... where i also managed to forget being equipped with a shadow... no... that wasn't it... true structures emerge when you've been abused... and the counter structures? the abuse... slows down... in the most realistic ordeal of anticipating  near, but. never realized completion... what, a, leisure! the forest, the moon, the shadow, the crown... all that's missing is a poetic vagabond's (of an) incision into a soul... the tired yawn of a lion ingrained in a delusional concern for the depth of man... oh the leisured man... and his vantage points... prompts of a view with a missing lot, curiosity...  cradle of the curiosity... cradle.. how else, if not coupled with...
a curiosity coupled to a, grave.

deity, of fixed,
stature;

within the confines
of the prefix
omni-

what am i,
what am i, not
to think,

to encompass,
"the", all?

maybe some
clown-male-up
would-help?!

now i better hope,
that it does....

were we not oh so inquisitive,
concerning
the origins of said,
story?
sure...
sure...
such a feeble god...
bu what a more than
overtly feeble
invocation
of a real god!

what feeble reasons!
for whatever
is testified
as a, "feeble" god
to be conjured!
  
  **** you!
and whatever comes with your
grievance of sharing heritage!

A ghost in this home,
I home to his ghost.
He trembles within my hands.
His scent is trapped in my oils,
diffused amongst the cells.

Foreign salivation
dilated transgressions
viral possessions.

Bare feet chuckle in the snow
crunching around on foliage,
warmed by fire in the chest
but not close enough to deny
the primal image of this hunt.

Silence in the falling,
the action creates sound
and sends prey afoot,
bounding for shelter
beneath the sapped pines.

Dancing alone through gap camouflage
in rhythm with wind that sighs,
watching on in anticipation
for completion of lives
so horribly intertwined.

Summer would hate these winter woods,
freezing in the bones that creak
and whine as if stray dog
gnawed at them tenderly,
savoring every grind and salivation.

So chilled and trembling,
frost on the eyebrows and hooves.
Breath in clouds, solid snot on lip,
aching for sunlight to show
deepening footprints in the snow.

1
This is the song of you leaving
It is the lead finally soaking into my brain
Dumbing me down
This is the de-evolution
To perfection
Turning me into the animal
I knew I always was
Taking us back to the state where
True communication is the sound of something primal
You don’t have to be human
To understand the sound of desperation
It echoes off of lead paint walls
When we are left alone
It is the sound of my heart
Used as a door jamb
A last ditch effort to stop you from leaving

2
This is the song of quaking
The rhythm of helicopter blades over head
Rattling my windows
It is the sound of a faulty foundation
Reminding me all things are breaking down

3
Break me down to beastly
Howl my heart to heaven
You never misunderstood the rumble of my hunger
After the deep breathed sighs of my lust
The salivation of sizzling fat on a skillet

4
I always know where to hide
When the crack of bullets go off again
It is the air raid sirens of ghettos
It is the goose-stepping thunder
Of misled solidarity

5
I always know to walk the other way
When I hear someone crying
To hide my head under a pillow
When I hear weeping coming from another room

6
These pleads for help are wordless
But tug at my heartstrings
As painfully as any music
Only now the speakers are speechless
And the sound is without pattern
And the dancers are still
Fear is the sound of the quiet
Listening for a reason to move
Waiting for nature’s echoing bass drum
Telling you to run

7
Scatter you new found animals to safety
And lose your need for love
This is the sound of my saddened clatter
Keyboard key’s snare drum
It is the sound of a final poetic solo
Because as for being human
I am done

8
This is the song of me leaving
Wordy as it may be
Living a lifetime
Thinking this body is the pinnacle
This body is the tip of the bell curve
Before the hourly gong of descent
This is the song of becoming perfection
The song of de-evolution
It is me
Finally becoming an animal
Again

When proud ones boast
Of all that is loftiest
In his faith,
In her flag,
In the hue of their skin
The Devil licks his chops
In lustful salivation.

When caring souls
Reach out to offer
A bowl of rice,
A healing dose,
An understanding ear,
An open heart
Satan clutches his dry throat
Gasping for air.

*August,  2006

All I can think about
Is the rumbling.
The alarming roars
Warning me of
What is coming.

A zebra would be
wonderfully delicious
baked, roasted, or barbequed.
The savory smells stimulate salivation,
I can hardly stomach this frustration.

The roars are overtaking
my thoughts. The growling
will not stop. I try to comfort
my beast with a soft caress,
soothingly rubbing my abdomen.

Hungrily I look up and see it,
The feast of feasts.
Along the path on which I walk a Clydesdale treads along.
Tall, hefty, and robust.
My poor stomach is full of lust.

Yes, a horse is what I want.
No, a horse is what I need.
My stomach is shriveling
as we speak, but have no fear
for tonight I’ll dine as king.  

Pepper stuffed hooves
And a pickled horse eye,
oh what a fine delight.
My stomach seemed so empty,
but now you see horse is such a fine delicacy.

Expand.

Enlarge.

People won’t find
Much…

They veer off
The meaning.

They are lost.

Blinded.
By own Choice.

As I’m blinded
Too.

Swallow sand.

Painful.

Gnashing of teeth.

Skin ripped
In Stripes…

Nerves over-excited.

Dilated pupils
Wander desperately.

Hopelessly blinded.

Impaled.

Salivation
Exacerbated.

Breathing at an
unbearable pace.






Do you want to truly terrify a man?
Expand his world.

There is a creek that runs through my neighborhood
It is *****
It is shallow
In the spring it overflows
Thrashing Spilling
Filling each clean corners’ crack and crevices
Stagnation stains the air
Wafting into each household

I like to think of when I was a child

I stood in the water
In all of its inconsequentiality
And looked longingly at the sun
As it swept me away from the sounds of mechanical inefficiencies grinding against the asphalt  
As I felt the soles of my shoes soak in filth
Seeping in-between the spaces dividing my toes

I fooled myself into believing this is what other children saw

Something pastoral

Where their rolling hills weren’t so different than my own

Where the stars bled through the skyline’s purple hue

But
I had the sun
The rushing salivation of water surrounding my ankles
The feeling of something gained and lost
A sanctuary
An appreciation amongst
All of that something
All of that nothing

There is a Creek that runs through my neighborhood
It is *****
It is Shallow
It is Mine

Riddle in Rhymes,
During Corona Times
By Toxic Detective for Indian Society of Toxicology (IST)
Vomiting is nature's protective reflex against ingested toxins with my bitter alkaloids, accidental by innocent kids,
Bitter is Killer 💀, As a thumb's #rule, in medical science; but most of life saving medications are also bitter 👅, instead;
Vomiting after ingesting me, protects you medically as well as legally, in court of law leads;
Prehistoric #judicial systems determined guilt or innocence in a legal #trial, for human misdeeds;
By subjecting the accused to a dangerous experience, traditionally known as “trial by #ordeal” misusing my seeds;
Whether one survived such an ordeal poison of mine,
was left to control of divine,
to be freed;
and escape or survival was taken to indicate innocence on behalf of the defendant, instead;
The roots of this custom lie in the Code of #Hammurabi and the Code of Ur-Nammu, the oldest known systems of law, reads;
Numerous West African tribes from #Calabar, depended on my toxic bean in jurisprudence, in needs;
Also renowned as ordeal poison or #lie-detector bean, for rulings in their early courts, impledes;
Tribal #Nigerians, misused toxic action of my beans to detect witches & people possessed by evil spirits, who concedes;
#Judicators, would feed numerous seeds, what they called “ordeal poison,” to the accused; if he or she was innocent, indeed;
Hypothetically, God would perform a miracle and allow the accused to live—and the court would have its ruling, proceeds;
If the reverse was true, of course, guilt would be “proven” the moment its sentence was successfully carried out, in recede;
I am a climbing leguminous plant in forests, can be poisonous to humans when chewed, as beads;
I am a large, herbaceous perennial vine, with a woody stem at the base, as natural weeds;
I produces a large, purplish flower with intricate visible veins; attracting innocent Kids;
My flowers yield a thick brown pod of a fruit, contains 2-3 kidney-shaped seeds;
it’s not until rainy season (June through September) that my fatal plant Breeds;
In monsoons, my fruits, capable to produce its best, most toxic beans; indeed;
I am named botanically by appearance of my fruit “a snooping beak-like solid appendage” physo- means “bladder,” at the end of the stigma Beaked;
My toxin is reversible cholinesterase inhibitor, which acts on the autonomic nervous system, leads;
My poison disrupts communication between the nerves and organs of victims, it needs;
In this regard, I acts similarly to nerve gas, which results in contraction of the pupils, recedes;
Profuse salivation, convulsions, seizures, spontaneous urination and defecation, exceeds
Loss of control over the respiratory system, and ultimately death by asphyxiation, as due to secretions, airway blocks & impedes;
Antidote to my poisoning is the slightly less toxic tropane alkaloid atropine, which may often succeeds;
Though myself toxic, my alkaloid proves an effective antidote for poisoning from another deadly plant, Atropa Belladonna seeds;
Guess my name, causing Vomiting, as Lie detector for your means: when an Ordeal poison, impleads;

Often travelers who start to thirst
Are greeted by a vision
Perhaps of an oasis
Perhaps maybe even a whole caravan
But although the traveler
May seem so content
His vision tempting his salivation
Throat cracking
The heat beating him down
Bones dried upon the sand
Calling for the lost prayers
From false gods

It gets late
as I digest
what I just ate,
some greasy food
and horrible news.

Slumber sneaks in
and I barely feel
it taking me
against my will.

In my dream
I see a pudgy
pale faced
angry man,
skin glistening
with sweat
and thin streaks
of sick salivation
sliding down
the side of his
plush cheeks.

A rumbling voice
of desperate rage
vibrates congestedly
from his strangely
changing face.

Bulbous bulges
of tumorous flesh
expand
in random places
and irregular
rhythms.

His eyeballs explode
from constricting sockets,
causing small jelly chunks
of red, black, and white
to fly at my wide eyes,
while his mouth expands
pulling back to expose
many new emerging rows
of sharp, small, decaying,
black, brown, and yellowish teeth.

His skin ruptures,
stretching jaggedly
in unpredictable places
as he bellows angrily.
Slick gore covered flesh
falls from his form
seeming to smoke
with the putrid smell
rotting roast beef.

Not fully free from
the last bits
of human flesh
the creature
lunges at me,
slipping slightly
on the newly greased ground,
but recovering just as quickly.
Then just as his mouth
is about to chomps down
on my left arm.
I awake
safe from harm.

My computer still blaring
is now sharing
terrible scenes
of the latest
war atrocity.

There are corpses of women,
men, and children
with shrapnel shredded skin,
even little baby bodies
scattered amongst them
in a crater from
some local bombing.
Crimson streaks
trail the frail
disfigured forms
that family members
struggle to carry away.
Strangers moan in pain
not physical,
but spiritual,
and emotional.

My stomach turns
as I yearn
to return
to sleep,
cause I’d rather face
a fake nightmare beast
then see the horrors
stretched out before me
on my computer screen.

Rinse and repeat and take my seat
Cut into the meat my mouth feels heat
Of a bitter treat sickly sweet
Digress and digest when we meet
No duress when you suggest we eat
Over a meal ideas compete without a defeat

I’d always less than half a sense;
To my detriment, often doubling-down,
Ordering the same sorts of poison –
Warm beer, cold women, back alley-ed eyes
And other late night snacks simmered atop the oil
Salvaged the streets come previously devoured.
Bottled and poured, again and consecutively through me,
An anomaly now evolves average;
Cured only an alchemy wrought, "baijiu," (rice wine),
Crowd summed solitude’s paradox and hazy Chinese moons.

So when in Rome, do as the Romans do
And die as Romans die;
A slighter justification for what’d later trumpet –
Salivation’s sip, salvation’s second,
A tickle atop tongue, sour in stomach
And cancerous come the lesser years,
Deep, nether and beyond the once upon a time barren,
So I plead for seconds and corral but only
Three revelations in the expanses exhumed:

One – I want to die. Two – Tastes beat the years.
And three – The world’s a wonderful meal;
Home to another and common denominator,
The shared variable, viable and pliable,
Our simple ingestion, communal,
So that I may venture a path paved prior
And yet parallel something nearly precious – truly alive.
Either way, it’d satiated but one achy throb
And prevented me from washing the dishes;
A fair trade for someone who’d always assumed early ends.

Just 15 years, 2 months, and 18 days ago, we made a promise
A vow of unconditional love and devotion to each other
A pact, united as one, made to simply protect one another
Our memories are woven together,
Thread by thread and line by line
To crate a single human being
Made of the body and the mind
My soul is my immortal, heaven-sent and never whole
And my bones, my skin, my body— just a temporary home
This home has been broken, held up by the white beneath my skin
Mistreated by my soul’s selfish beating called sin
You have sealed up all the windows, and locked all the doors
You have trapped me inside of myself, creating a series of civil wars
This is a letter to you, my punching bag, my security blanket, my
       canvas, my betrayer
This is a letter to you
My body

A movement of the mouth, a gasp for air,
A mutter of sound, and two legs moving as a pair.
A thought occurred to us, just children, learning to control ourselves.
We are able to go on, now, speaking aloud what the story tells.
As a single being, united as one,
We are able to understand what we see,
We are able to dance, and sing, and run.
We are able to let the words crawl through our veins
Just to spill out of our hearts to cope with our own pain.
We are able to create,
We are able to live.
We, a body and a mind, are able.

We transform from child to a teenager,
As a single human being
Our souls change from a whole, to a one with a hole
Leaving a trench where our innocence had been.
The mind convinces itself that you, my body, is jailing me, innocent girl for a crime she had never committed.
The mind convinces you, that if you try to stand, every bone in your legs will shatter into a million pieces.
The mind convinces my eyes that the person I see in the mirror is an unknown face, string back at me.
The mind convinces itself and you that the only way to fill up this crater of demons inside; Is by torturing your beautiful skin and drowning the evil in every drop of blood, and every tear ever shed.
The mind convinces itself and you, my body, that there is no reason to be.
There is no reason,
To create
To dance,
To sing,
To run.
To live.

Time passes by, and the years go on,
We simply survive the life we are meant to live.
As one being, we venture through the valleys of hell,
My immortal being strives for the heaven it craves from the inside of this cell.
The mind imagines a place it has yet to find,
But our legs are unable to jump just that high.
So we envision a staircase.
Step by step we climb up, until they come to a stop—
We’ve fallen from grace.
Our bones, cracked, and all out of place
Our hearts, crushed under the weight,
Of our broken souls, ripped open and stripped of any hope,
Leaving us in the control of an evil fate.
We are irreversibly broken.
And we have no reason to be fixed.

In the back of our mind,
Even as the time has gone by,
I’ve thought about apologizing, but our mouth always responded with a sigh.
Now, I, eternal and never whole, realize that there has always been a doubt in my soul.
Maybe it is my fault.
I am sorry. I truly am.
I am sorry for taking you for granted when you took me as your own
I’m sorry for kicking you out when all you needed was a home.
I’m sorry for every time I stare at the mirror and never like what I see
Because you are content with me, and only me.
I’m sorry for telling you to shrink, shrink, shrink, when all you wanted to do was grow.
I’m sorry for concealing your light when all you waned was to show your natural glow
I’m sorry for not thanking you every time you healed my skin to seal and protect my soul, and I want you to know that you, and only you, can make me whole.
I finally realize that although I always hurt you,
We did make a promise.
We made a vow of unconditional love and devotion, and protection for one another.
A body with a mind, and a soul with a heart,
We, as a single human being, are able.
This is a letter to you, to my beautiful painting, my sweet salivation, and my armor through the fight, my torch when there is no light.
This is a letter to you,
My body.

I roamed and lived on with hope that I would be saved
Then pitch black ink stained my heart
And the light that kept me smiling was lost for good

I grew faster than my body
My soul has wrinkles and chains that tie it down
I escaped one prison just to be incarcerated in another
My dim dull eyes became darker

I used to cry myself to sleep once I could no longer smile
And drowned in my own blood just so that I could sleep without pain
Time passed and the oceans all dried
With sliver mistakes staining my body
I continue on this journey

My demons ruled my life
Fear was a constant treat
With a bruised and ****** cry I'd burned in the rage that soon followed
I crumbled into ashes of grief
From the ashes I was resurrected with a second chance at life

I was weak, I was glass
I could take a few hard hits before I cracked and shattered into insignificant shards
With my second life though, I was reborn with a body of ice
I became cold and strong
With this strength I conquered my demons and paved a new road

I was scared and broken, small and fragile
Now I'm dark and powerful
With a soul that's lived a thousand years
I marched prepared for battle

I used to dream of my savior
My knight that would save me from the dark
The one who would end all the hurt
But I had no savior, no one came
I became my own salvation
I'm all that I have, all that I can trust

Once, I had a heart
But then my mind was opened and my heart broken
The angelic boy of the past is now the warrior of today

I used to be weak and trust in my non-existing savior
Now I'm strong and a lone warrior
I once loved and hoped
Now I'm dead inside and my only salivation

Her childhood she spent
In a backwater of development
Where harmful practices
Mainly the fair *** that subject,
Thrived rampant.

A blow on the row dealt
Broke she sobbed and wept
Irritate at a community
Social filths that tolerate.

On a way to school
***** by a woody pool,
She and her dream
For a life better
Got asunder,
Not to mention
The lacerating physical pain
She was forced to suffer!

A mental serenity deprived
Panicky rendered
Worse still,
A sinful by all shunned
Her psychological carapace
To panic ceded  place!

A mental serenity deprived
Panicky rendered
Scoffed out from school
She dropped.

With few
To understand her position
She felt it a terrible sin
To give a red card to the seed
That forced its way in.

However unable to withstand
Repulsion to the conceived
Revolt took the upper-hand
As it is not hard to understand.

After the conceived
A cherub turned
Qualms of concise assailed
Afraid abduction
And a **** second
In fleeing to town
She sought salivation,
Expecting people
With a touch of civilization.

There, to a couple with a child
A servant she turned
And some skills she acquired,
But seduced by the husband
By the wife upbraided and slapped
Half her chicken fed salary deducted
To compensate for a glass
She clumsily in haste smashed
Herself she found
Cadging for bread
And shelter in the neighborhood.

By a dealer advised
And lured by what she heard
Hand me downs attired
A brothel she joined
With feelings buyout
Inundated.

Nights wild she spent
With the fortune and alcohol mad
Even the pilferers and the frustrated
To alcohol,'Chat',***-******
And hashish addicted.

So and so her health unheeded
She soon ailed from ailments of every kind
And took to bed.
To the God blest friends who brings
Her bread
This she said on her deathbed,
"As tradition bid
When my obituary is read
My body to my mother town ferried
And dust on me turned,
Make sure this is included
When before God  I stand
And my case is heard
"Where is your conceived?
And why my commandments
You haven't observed?"
I will answer
It is the community that
Me born and raised
And cruelly molded bad shaped
accountable should be held
For all I did ill fate coerced
Besides to hell I am inured!
Thanks to' you revering mankind!'

So God
Hell if once more
I am to be remanded
Am I to be sacred?
From earthly hell
To heavily hell transferred!
© Alem Hailu GAbre Kristos, 5 months ago

Holy, we are born. Holy, is our lives. Holy, is our love. Holy, is our sins. Holy, is our suffering. Holy, is our salivation. Graced Mother bestow us with suffering, cleanse us of divinity.

in english homes the buddha head is replaced by the christmas tree,
but i still prefer the existence of actual angels less popular than gabriel
with his koran, michael with his sword satan with his lie...
than compare men to angels or men to devils
rather than ensuring man remains a man
without comparison a godly comparison
which man discarded as easily weighed on the libra:
knowlesdge of atoms equal weight to the weight of limbs without torso de facto:
you just know there’s a celestial celebrity culture...
that might have survived if it survived on earth
with the span of a century executed as complete...
but since it didn’t... it seemed the lesser of the two reliefs:
one sided the one aim of attainment advertised
the un-attainable was preached by the priests of the ku ku klux clan...
and the latter half was preached by the brigade of social security
forces and other familiars / leeches and the fate of stipends...
capitalism outgrows itself in the realm it’s concerned with,
communism outgrows itself in the realm it’s not concerned with...
capitalism needs export... communism need import...
when a poet mentions money does he become an amateur poet
or a non-existent non-poet? i guess the latter...
given people could defend things that could have remained stones,
or given people could defend things that would have remained
grains of sand...
or that given people could have defended the shadows of
nodding branches of ******' breath dangling off them,
but given the people... not one iota made it into the alphabet
correcting... people spoke and that was the end of the meow...
the end that impregnated the woof...
once money was mentioned in a concerning way
the barbarian tribes merged into a society and societies
merged into capitals with ego per capita...
there was defence... of course... people defended their right...
but the sought nations among the barbaric multi-cultured
hegemonies that became quickly exhausted
learning to tailor many pockets into a one set of jeans:
the kenyan pocket, the slavic pocket, the caribbean pocket,
the irish pocket... but still one pair of english jeans;
the one pair of english jeans worn by a welshman...
the dragon versed lodging in a flag better with st. george moving...
all eyes to the united states, the prime-ministers of england said...
all eyes on the two-thirds of the fifty stars... three eyes on the stripes...
all sanity of language only claimed by the bestseller fiction rubric
none for philosophy, none for poetry... as long as there’s
a clear pronoun vector that narrates... we will have no other
methodology of acumen, other than the acumen of & in
a sequencing logic of one mistake made required
for the perfection of the much desired salivation for the pavlov
into a tango of a lost leg and subsequent limp encored by the crowd
of the proud primates leaving the hydrologic cycle
for the haemologic cycle of war among ourselves:
votes on the badger cull to save the hedgehogs!
260 aye, 201 naye. well, nevermind the redcoats
hunting the ginger furrballs.

You tell me that I'm in need of something, and it's something I want.
and you're back on your back but there's no shame, not locking the door.
You got a need to please, it's got you down on your knees,
screaming ****** for your pills and your child support.

But tell me why all of her
lovers talk of other
worlds because of her ploy

Give the world to feel like you're no one, and you wonder what for.
Salivation is the only salvation, between you and the floor.
Karma, ******, birds and bees,
saving up the pennies freed by the lock on your jaw.

But tell me why all of her
lovers talk of other
worlds because of her ploy.

The chairman of the board is a no one, 'cause you're queen of his world.
Takes a number just to spread you out longways, makes pretend he's a girl.
Some sultry needs, alarmed, diseased,
not lawful, but at least it's not what mum bargained for.

tell me why all of her
lovers talk of other
worlds because of her ploy

And when I've got some coin,
will you tell me how much it will take to make you love me some more?

Silky nights
Induced by rain
Tyrent of amour
Abducted as slave
Resting in her arms
Wool to cover ourn legs
Begging
For amare
Wrapping linen with hair
Dusk strands to fall
Waxed in satin tease
Chattel of her soul
Waiting endlessly
With a world forgotten
Snow white ****
Dancing melodies
Of Cinderella muse
Muse of mine
Poet to thou
Leaping cliffs from angels
Speaking in tongues
Wherein the seams do runneth
Down her waist line
Salivation from dribbles
Of endless time
She blows mine mind
She pare's mine pains
She dwindles mine sorrow
Now she's gone now again!!!
Maby come again tomorrow
Oh how I need her right now
How I need her right now
How I needeth
That panacea
That cure all
How I needeth mine amare
Wherein nightmares are all gone!!!

I'm beautiful
Exuding soul
Protruding bold
Diluting cold
Until I fold
Once beauty is sold

Biting remarks
Made by sharks
Create sparks
Where it was dark
Displaying pain that is stark
As part of my character ark

They mug me
Until I'm ugly
Then suddenly
They're done with me
It must be some disease
Of a numbing freeze
From stunning thieves
Taking what I believe

They're not impressed
When I'm undressed
So I'm the stressed
I must confess
From this test
Of who's best
And who's less
A blue guess
That brews pests

This hall of fame
Dismal game
Is to blame
For the shame
In our brain
And our name
Fanning flames
Of social stains

I'm a coyote battling
With lonely howling
Until phonies scowling
Are all that powers me
Through what had been
Through what grew
I see you
Through the views
That light my fuse
It's you I choose

Flatter my vanity
To guard my sanity
Conjuring the man in me
More so than I planned to be
But became apparently

Through ****** gratification
You give social validation
You send a pal elation
That causes salivation
Until the callous nation
Invades my phallus station

Text me
I'm ****
To protect me
From the injecting
Inspecting
Dissecting
Directory
Next to me
That begs to see
The beggars seethe

Don't destroy my body image
With your haughty grimace
Applauding penance
An ungodly menace
You've become
Like Tim Gunn
A judgemental one
That fabricates fun
By blocking the sun

Incoherent
Interference
In the clearance
Of my appearance
Not knowing nearness
Outside your austere fence

You flippantly
Didn't see
The death of me
Or the mess I bleed
When my chest can't breathe
While you're blessed to breed
With a superior steed

The eye of the beholder
Is behind their shoulder
That keeps getting colder
From insurgent soldiers
Throwing boulders
Becoming molders
Of the boaters
With no motors
Who float through life
And drown in misery
From societal strife
Of subjective mysteries

To act on the behest of me
Say that you've met me
Say that you've let me
Enter you gently
To a centrifuge ending
For relationships pending
With perceptions tending
To be needlessly upending
By comparisons impending
No matter what they're intending
There's no way they can mend me
When my social rank bends me
To be something pretending

Cloaked in black velvet and silver adorned skull peices. A halo of anxiety sits over my head. The intrusive pornographic thoughts rumble like holograms in front of my minds eye. Iris's and lillys. Dandelions and sunflowers. I want to stick my fingers in all the flowers and taste their pollen on my lips. Fantasia salivation elicted with cowbell bass drops. *** sells in seconds, lust in hours, love in years

Feeling  like a ****** journalist. Her green.hair, another with straight bangs. A septum and ****** peircing peirce me straight through the heart. Its vanity but its a start.
Let me wrap you in eagle feathers and wolf fur. Let me exercise your cowskull traumas, raging buffalo hormones into rebirth
Huff and blow moaned words into ear canals as I enter your eternal.
Infernal like the lusts of hell
Ethanol and bossom busts sell in seconds, Lost in hours with love to fear.
Gold halo of Anxiety paired with a silver skull clad in black velvet
Thrusts of the pelvic
Release whats held in
Redesigned pulpit seldom held words in
Align with me the divinity felt in
*** (in)finite feelings that last in transnce. Slowly peeling away strips of skin to permanance.
Feeling an earnest sense of wonderment. No time to wonder what it meant when impermance is permanent

Smoke cigarettes for the hurt when life has turned to **** but you heard it when i said i love you and you turned a bit. Looked in my eyes and i caught a glimpse of a future id like to witness. Didnt hear a word you said but i saw the world in your eyes instead. Tried to listen but my brain went dead
No words to say when you glow infared. Hotter than the spectrum
of sight. Glowing infared,
Youre hotter than spectrums of light so burn me like Arizona sunlight
Slap ***, hand shaped sunburn from a liquid honey night. *** on lap, lap up the *** like the last watersource, pour it on my face until gasps of air you hear. Taste your pollen near my lips nectarine fallen on your chest.

Feel the lasting affects
Of sexs' (in)finitely affixed fixation on transience. Glowing infared and ambient. Flowing energy in the pits of sacral chakras, returned to the crown and passed back down. Circulating intuitive lessons, divine bits of each other imbued in fission, fuse them into   living. Seperated by the gods as two seperate beings, unite mind, body, soul
Freeing all in estatic feeling.
Peeling all the tragic sealed in
Two seperate beings fleeing
Into impermanance
Towards a permanent form of seeing
3-4-5
666 eyes healing

she can never wear ****** white, she can never wear
that moral pregnancy - and i don't see why this
hasn't been established as a fetish
awaiting the nearest mongol...
            i don't know why it exists
in the first place...
     i skipped through R. Brautigan
and left him drinking and desperate,
ig  desperate when i see a bottle
of whiskey's shrinking girth
in the bottle... don't get me wrong,
i adore the poetry, but autobiographies
always led me to skim-read some
examples... i own a need for such
excuses because i feel i'll be one of them.
it's not a case of sadness being written down...
the sad part is writing an autobiography
as your life takes shape...
                     the sad part is
   an autobiography that's written parallel
to a "life", you wear a necktie and a
pair of moccasins and a silk robe...
                     fo' da' sho' -
    and never the shove or shovel to be the first
in line... because that matters: let the idiots
through, i don't mind lighthearted
entertainment before i board the bus...
             when you apply diacritical indicators
you get to worry about orthography...
when you don't apply them?
   you get quickstep spelling...
                   you get incorporating the digital
Amazon rainforest shrunk to a toothpick
or an A4 sized paper, later rolled into a cigar
by Castro.
                           but you know what really bothers me?
listening to bob marley and reading pashtun
poetry... it's Afghan and an antidote to Rumi...
no (so-called) "feminists" cite pashtun...
              don't get prickly proud on me having
     the ability to cite obscure cultural ref. points...
bob's bob, the end.
    what? damian or stephen or ziggy too?
                        well, the more the merrier.
                 but these so-called feminists are never overheard
citing pashtun women...
            women not citing women... tragic...
      i guess the two can't relate...
if you forgot what an Afghani woman looks like...
kinda like a Pakistani woman, before
the Mongol fiddled about with a ******* violin...
       pretty? sure... maybe John Smith Sargent Mj.
knew about
        it, when he ****** W into Afghanistan,
   protective of the truth about the "burning bush's"
original message aimed at Abraham:
circumcise him!
           Abraham... you what? **** him?
burning bush: circumcise him!
        well, **** me, what a desirable revision!
now we'll forever crave the need for ******* cushions!
  who said kangaroo pouch isn't soft enough?
      kangaroo in a boxing ring: bucktooth combo
punched out... and everyone huh?!.
               but feminists never cite these women...
i'm a quasi-exile, or at least my parents are,
i didn't exactly wish to live on these isles...
but then again jean-paul zee deux ******
everything before i even got the cameo role in
the film: history of the world.
               that's basically me ******* down
an alley named after him, every time i rekindle
originating in that ol' stockpile of garbage...
   but at least the e.u. will improve the roads...
               we might finally get an artery's worth
of autobahn concrete connecting Cracow
and Katowice... you never know... might be a case
of walking on water...
               but to be honest i don't mind
that she can't wear ****** white...
i don't mind she had 20 ****** partners before
she decided to milk me... it's the lying...
lying becomes much worse than the act itself...
     i'd prefer to know she was a ***** *****...
what i don't like is this faking of childhood,
this innocence-sprechen antics....
     it's like reacting to a flu - you get all
dizzy and juggernaut-sinking obnoxious...
    because the story goes: the truth liberates
you from being an enforced thespian...
                 no one wants to be an actor
forcefully... no one...
                         esp. if they're not getting paid
for pretence...
      the truth is at least a mobilising enforcement,
you know you've been given a faulty
refrigerator, but that means you're utilising
an awareness of possessing a faulty refrigerator...
     being lied to... you get utopic inhibitions
  thinking it's not half-of-the-story,
when it actually is.
             that's what's inherent in *** with prostitutes...
        no inhibitions... we're square,
proofread countless times, no secrets, just two naked bodies.
it's when people take to enforcing wearing
Gucci on their psyche... that **** is worse
than donning a strap-on in a lycra gimp-suit.
           but such is the force of the pashtun landlays...
you react to them like so...
            i choreograph them above the haiku,
even though they're twinned,
like some village in Lichenstein (liochestein,
a googlewhack) - Liechtenstein -
twinned to a village in scotland -
               obviously the there's no innuendo
because both originated in deemed obscurity...
       they did much injustice to Kafka given the small
print, and overdid the justice done with
    printing oversized Bukowski...
but then there's a Sunday newspaper to look forward to,
which will evidently make the Monday print
a bit... slim.
                     never mind... a great phrase from
the landays is little horror, or being a woman in her
20s being betrothed to a man-child aged prior to
kicking things off with puberty...
  and dear ol' me, why don't feminists even take a second
to look at the women talking in Afghanistan?
    sure, the veil puts them off immediately...
       women talk with their genitals and men talk ******...
as was always the case...
    i am, currently talking as if i were an ******...
and Alice over here has no tongue,
                except the one that replicates oyster salivation...
as some might crudely put it.
         and then there's Mallarmé.... ugh...
                     pisshead compatriot Poe... and Baudelaire...
honestly... we have just begun writing
       the most pristine of poker sessions...
i tell you and fake how literate i am, or illiterate,
or with an adequate or with an inadequate diet of literature,
and you poker me, and vice versa,
       because by the time a Tuesday newspaper comes along,
we'll both be brooding with angst, wishing we
could only possibly be bored.

spoon beat peppermint fudge
trudging through
rotation
strengthening forearms
and developing rhythm
creating deliciousness
over high heat
settling in a foil nest
awaiting “cool”
eager eyes peer onto the countertop
examining
eating without ingesting
each nuance
rising peak and falling valley
thoroughly explored
patience escapes
and the moment of truth arrives  
serrated butter knife
pierces the exterior
sliding nearly effortlessly
bringing delight
and salivation
to all who witness –

fastened our minds to the oar,
and we fastened our minds to the sail -
spoke closer of home from far away
than it was spoken of as neighbours' might
and did - waxed prodding from the sirens'
wail, and those that did not hear it,
were worth a pigsty and Circe's salivation -
so thus Odysseus, unlike Eiríkr ᚦ-/-Þorvaldsson
kept reminded of a jargon of poets -
who too would escape the Minotaur's jaw
clinging shut, had the opportunity provided itself;
Circe's saliva as poets' blood-worth-of-ink,
that too, is something worth a mention;
but of course the reminder: had it happened -
but it didn't - never after the before
the already felt, skin peppered or salted with
itchy northern wind to seek out an expression of smile
being encountered.

No salvation
From salivation
When hunger
Sees food

Their relationship was like broken glass, shattered and sharp,there was no salivation of it.-Lucia Airo