Be still. The words I thought of when you were ill. I prayed with you every night, then God let me feel your heartbeat. Time was collecting your bloodflow. Heartbeat. Repeat, repeating the pain I felt that day when cousin' came in and said,"God took your mother up today."I was nine years old. You died about two weeks before my birthday. All I got was, packed up cardboard boxes with scotched taped ribbon that glistened in the sun as we made room for it in storage. Stored heartbeats. No one could take your place. The sad thing is I barely remember your face. Chemo. You had to take all those tests, and in the end they still cut off your left breast. Heartbeat. Time finally took your breath. Time ended our time. Why was it that after you died the doctor's found a cure to this genocide? I wish you were still here by my side. I was your baby. I asked the doctor if you were going to live, and all I got was, "maybe." Maybe you might come back someday. You used to appear all the time but then you drifted away. Heartbeat. I saw you laying in red. That red that, filled my eyes with hopelessness. I wished that red were still hanging in your closet in the dry cleaners bag, and the your aroma were in the stiches. After 7 years, I still can't believe you're dead. Even though you're not here, I think about you everydat. I ask a question that every child asks. "Why did God take my mother away?" Heartbeat. Time has finished this poem.

THE ARRIVAL OF ENIGMA

The square dressed itself
in moonlight

as if it were on its way
to a fancy dress ball

as one of de Chirico's
masterpieces.

The puppets
after an inspired performance

lay tangled together
in a box on the bridge.

They waited as their world
was dismantled and

their stage sets stacked
neatly against a wall.

A glass eye winked but
didn't think the human saw.

But the human saw.
Or was it just the moon?

The moon played hide
and seek behind a cloud.

The puppets chattered
amongst themselves

untangling each other
as they planned their escape.

But before anything could
come of this

they were tossed carelessly into a case
that snapped shut with sudden finality.

They were carried away
into the early hours of the morning.

The rebellion of wood
had been scotched.

We used the left over de Chirico
as a scene to stage a kiss

as if we had been painted
into place ourselves.

"The Arrival of Enigma"
or some such title

scrawled in litter
below our feet.

Where were you,

When the world was calling you,
When Love & honesty was only with few.

When Poverty & Hunger was at its high,
When exploitation & injustice was very easy buy.

When Poverty rips through their veins,
When child in ragged clothes, with tired eye, begs for few beans.

When their bellies ****** is not by choice,
When destitute mother cries as her hungry child dies.

When women were exploited, with no one to tame,
When humanity was cringing with shame.

When even little girls were not spared by lust eyes,
When she was left with bruised body, with her dreams crushed & with groaning voice.

When baneful herbs of hatred were spreading viciously,
When aroma of love & tolerance was crushed blatantly.

When moral outlines were quashed,
When values were scotched.

At least now,
Stop Just crying foul & grumbling,
Stop feeling sorry & bleating.

Time has come to move on,
Get off the couch & plan for a new dawn.

Lead the change with your head  high,
March ahead, your limit is sky.

Yeah,
I've kept quite and figured the pen ran outta ink
The message wasn't too clear and these days it's been hard to just sit down and think
Let me stop for a min and take you back to where it all started
Half the people I grew up with are non existent- but all them departed
I get on this and self proclaim myself the realist and smartest
Thinking outside of the box but boxed in my own words
Keeping my talents to a minimum and remain so modest.
They gon run they mouth before they ever talk to you
Saying a whole lotta nothing's, thinking they logic is the truth
Feel like I never say much but there is a lot to know
Feel like the difference between us is really starting to show
I've stepped away from my heart and suddenly forgot the meaning  
Forgot that feeling of being a young man - fearless and optimistically dreaming
I'm not saying I'm back im just saying the pen is lit so you better keep caution
Or I'll let it all leak out like its blood comin out the faucet
With slick metaphors and play on words that don't really play
Subliminal bullets with SHH names that I  shouldn't say
The reigning king you'd swear I'm bringing victory back to Cleveland
Celebrating with my team and all the people who never stopped believin
I've stopped thinking about what they thinking about and watched my success finally rise
You can glare at him all you want but can't take the determination outta this poor child's eyes
The hit came outta no where
You know the haters don't like the art of surprise
Their whispers are the inspiration
We grow from their doubt and constant congratulatory lies
Shake your hand - saying they feeling you but quick to stab your back
Look out deeper in the woods, snakes are everywhere and not just in the grass
I lost a step but gained two more, hop scotched over what they didn't know I could do
Tired of talking past pain, my father and most of all about you
Progression doesn't start unless you finally start to rev your engine
That green light come on and your drive should push you to that happy ending
If you don't lose sleep thinking about your dreams you ain't truly dreaming
If you ain't cry a few times while working you ain't really putting in a meaning
If you have the same amount of people in your circle when it's all said it done...
You ain't truly make it
If you never folded once under the pressure
Your point never truly hit breaking
This the formula that shows the good from great
She says she loves you but how much of that love can she truly take?
Money don't buy happiness and that logic remains truthful
But the change from the change still helps keep one's life fruitful.  Crazy.
But this concludes the ending of Dougie Simps and simply forgetting what it meant to let the pen do his talking
I've run out ink - the blood all over my hands now. Imma see ya when I see ya. (He turns slowly...and continues walking -away.)
- I'm Gone

When will the war end
so that I can entomb these bones that were once a friend?
When will the final bullet fire
So that back to the serene that once was I can retire?
When will we say bye to anarchy for good
so that some of us instead of bombs on the scotched earth plant some food?
When will our people cease to cry
Rather than live in muffled sobs when their folk incongruously die?
When will these roundtable talks yield,
we have traumatised lives to piece together and crumbled homes to rebuild?
When will we finally understand that Muslim or Christian we are all humanity
and rather than fight, peace to weave a cosmic unity?
when will we finally illuminate the inhuman darkness
with love and oneness?
When will we change the violent trend,
when will the war end?

She kisses me as if I am her prized scotch stained leatherback book
There isn’t enough writing in the lines of my pages
no footnotes in this decree of insanity
repetition throbbing as if asphyxiation is
tattooed across my esophagus
only to resuscitate every apology I’ve choked on
too stuck on the goodbye in between my teeth
she tells me that my spine reminds her
of the ripples in a pond during a year long drought
there isn’t enough water in the shallow puddle of my soul
to pour anything into her cup
she breaks her knees crawling away to another solution for her thirst
she is driving on the highway passing every carcass
of previous versions of herself i fell in love with
i’ve been too busy chewing on her back tires
attempting to slow down the roaring engine
my ears are bleeding from every time
she laughs at another boy’s sense of humor
I am too caught up bringing down the skeletons in my closet
that have decided to hang themselves
their nooses are wrapped in every metaphor I have ever written
she is busy grinding my ego into a line for inhalation
getting high on my fault lines has always been a pastime for her
no baseball archive of happiness in her smile
only the hesitation before every time her lips crease like
a subpoena to an AA meeting that you can never leave
I attempted to soak every “I love you” I have ever dared whisper
into the nape of her neck
a spiraling contusion that is a novelist’s ****** desire
she is choking on every slammed doorway
she never had the courage to walk out of
she dreams of diving off of parking garages
to swim in the lucid concrete
she is convinced she is nothing short of a sore jaw
the bruxism caused from chewing on every
roadside cross written in memory of her
my fingers haven’t stopped bleeding as I continue to try
to fill every ******* scotched stained leatherback book
in the library that is my love for her
so while there may be short infinites
I will  write too many of them for the both of us to count.

Side to side
His eyes were wandering.
"Are you fine?"
Came in my worried voice.
With piercing eyes,
Eyes I didn't understand
Of either hatred or wondering love
With eyes that pricked me, scotched me
Eyes that set my heart on the burning fire without smoke
With eyes that sent the burning heat in my tummy
He looked at me
Little did I know....

Diannie, look at me
At last he said.
It is over now.
With anger  I blushed my eyes
To the other side.
Diannie! Look at me.
"Ooh! What a hell is this?"
Something ran into my mind.
I can't imagine losing him
Tears watered down my cheeks
At a speed more than
The running waters of river Nile

Take it leave it, look at him
What if you miss on it
Something elaborated in my heart
Gaining my skeletal courage,
And grabbing tears off my cheeks
I turned
Only to see... Hmmm?
Little did I know... .

Diannie, my love
Shall you marry me?

Numbness swept me off the earth.
I can't believe it though I couldn't wait it anymore
My heart exploded with love,
Joy, happiness and excitement

Do you really mean it?
I asked just because
Little did I know  
That the communication in his eyes
Was not of sad news,breakup, desperation,disappointment, dismay
But rather...

Little did I know
That the eyes were communicating great news of
Joy, happiness, love and trust

Knowing that delay means denial
And denial might mean a breakup
My heart couldn't wait any longer
It applauded
In a shy soft and tender voice
"Yes my darling
Yes with all my everything
I trust in you."

Little did I know....
That bitterness can turn into sweetness
Little did I know
That such a bitter quarrel
Between us
Last evening
Would turn into
A sweet marriage proposal,
And now
Our hearts sing rhymes and rhythms of joy and happiness
Than never before.

When you were feeding me pesticides, you asked if you were poison.

No, of course not.

How can you be poison when the fruit is so sweet?


When your control over me spread like cancer, you asked if you were a disease.

No, of course not.

There is nothing alarming about you, nothing to widen my eyes at with worry.


When I choked on my tears, you asked if you were a flood ready to drown us both.

No, of course not.

You are nothing like the unyielding water, scratching at the rock until it was as smooth as them.


When your short fuse scotched me, you asked if you were a fire destined to burn down the world.

No, of course not.

You are warm and safe, but not dangerous-
I mouthed silently at night.


When I was lying on the floor, barely clinging to consciousness, you asked if you were death.

No, of course not.

Death is merciful.
Death is inescapable.


When I was dreaming of you, you asked again if you are all of those horrible things.

Yes.

Yes you were.

Your love was almost warm
just like a summer breeze
that ruffled up my hair
as it hop-scotched through the trees;
Your love was soft and sweet
like cotton-candy tasted
I licked it slow and steady
so nothing much was wasted;
Your love was like a dream
so credible and true
but reality was broken
by things that were not true;
Your love was most deceiving
here today and gone tomorrow
now forgotten happiness
and a river full of sorrow;
Your love was grand deception
and ended in confusion
proving love is blind
and master of illusion.

I'll travel no more
at last my mind
has decided to return home
after its excursions to so many
unknown worlds.

Time to stay in
to reflect.

There should only be
one known world--no other-
that of my own is large enough
to contain all known continents--

my past rambling was a folly-
a thousand times I might traverse
over some foreign ground or shore
and yet return empty-handed
for I've left with thoughts
already imposed upon myself

the misled willing of self
the seed of its discontent
and potential destruction
that which is locked in
cannot see itself out  
deadlocked!

Over arid deserts
the heat scotched
my skin--it peeled
me like an onion
with knife-like cuts
I bled
in pain
my suffering
I couldn't understand

the arctic winds
as though seeking revenge
showed no mercy
my eyes they blinded
I was a helpless victim
at every bend.

I'll travel no more
there's nothing
for me to know
beyond myself

in such simple
and humble acceptance
I'm renewed and reborn
I need not venture
into another shore.

THE ARRIVAL OF ENIGMA

The square dressed itself
in moonlight

as if it were on its way
to a fancy dress ball

as one of de Chirico's
masterpieces.

The puppets
after an inspired performance

lay tangled together
in a box on the bridge.

They waited as their world
was dismantled and

their stage sets stacked
neatly against a wall.

A glass eye winked but
didn't think the human saw.

But the human saw.
Or was it just the moon?

The moon played hide
and seek behind a cloud.

The puppets chattered
amongst themselves

untangling each other
as they planned their escape.

But before anything could
come of this

they were tossed carelessly into a case
that snapped shut with sudden finality.

They were carried away
into the early hours of the morning.

The rebellion of wood
had been scotched.

We used the left over de Chirico
as a scene to stage a kiss

as if we had been painted
into place ourselves.

"The Arrival of Enigma"
or some such title

scrawled in litter
below our feet.

We were lovers
we loved
fleeting in time
our bodies touch-
touched
and our spirit
became one.
We hop scotched
got into trouble
and grew beyond
all division.
We were friend
and friends
for eternity.

Pursuit for elusive prey
teases yours truly
into treacherous catacombs
dangerous mentally
challenging pitfalls,

sets small hairs of back
on camp creeks edge
of night, where dark shadows
evoke outer limits
of twilight zone

prompting me constantly questioning
purposefulness, qua hair raising pursuit
embarking these modern roman times
all for naught,
nonetheless I chide self

failing to heed
emotional, mental, psychological...fallout
in sum re: springing Jack in the box reflex
to sally forth and earn kudos,
asper potential Prince Valiant.

Thus situated with blank computer screen
capacious external Lenovo for myopia
(and incessant squiggly floaters to boat),
this literary glutton for punishment
feverishly fixates to plumb depths

measuring morin 10,000
leagues under the see
ming lee impossible mission
to ensnare nearly extinct
fluttering, lyfting, shutterflying...

smarts to outwit unsuspecting
beak henning quest
tendering, tasting uber victory
quivering crossbow
targeting yawping

zoological discovery - channeling
primed with taut fletched arrow
on high alert for stool pigeon
cautiously optimistic kickstarting
another futile attempt dagnabbit
experiencing prestige,

oh...and by the way...,
no animal harmed
regarding made for video poem
gamely capturing quarry scotched,
nor gruesome scene

synonymous quasi abattoir
representative bird den sum
bloodless coup deeming
endeavor par excellence.

Fingers madly scramble
to poach skittering idea
fry day most ideal
omelette ya know,
aye feel yolked to defeatism,

one after another faux
promising brainstorm egging
quickly flitting inaccessible
potential flash in frying pan
just as fast dashing

into bajillion pieces
shell shocked scrivener
scribbling lame as duck
goose laying golden egg...
dropping immediately out of sight,

maybe best resigning forlorn
inchoate never albumen,
albeit quite linguistic stretch for
(all be human success story)
prospects beyond reach

ova this wretch
New York Times
bestseller author jinxed
forever dooming yours truly
grinding poverty my ill fate.

I look at the old trees which have shed their leaves, with brittle trunks and branches, with their barks scotched and in decay and notice how they struggle in the storms and shiver in the harsh winters and  then a deep sense of desolation sets in my heart---there's no turning back the clock--

I am like them but they are more sturdy and will outlive me.

It's time to rest, to have no more desire, to let go of every memory and to walk gently and peacefully into the darkness of no return---the last note of the symphony has ended and to have heard it is itself sweet eternity.

We remind me of us when, as the incarnation of you, we thought of me as an ungrouped (& ungroupable) individual individualized against a lone, surviving survivalist surviving in a survivably-sterile state alone within a scorchingly-scotched Scoto-Irish grouping of scotch-quaffing Scotsmen.

THE ARRIVAL OF ENIGMA

The square dressed itself
in moonlight

as if it were on its way
to a fancy dress ball

as one of de Chirico's
masterpieces.

The puppets
after an inspired performance

lay tangled together
in a box on the bridge.

They waited as their world
was dismantled and

their stage sets stacked
neatly against a wall.

A glass eye winked but
didn't think the human saw.

But the human saw.
Or was it just the moon?

The moon played hide
and seek behind a cloud.

The puppets chattered
amongst themselves

untangling each other
as they planned their escape.

But before anything could
come of this

they were tossed carelessly into a case
that snapped shut with sudden finality.

They were carried away
into the early hours of the morning.

The rebellion of wood
had been scotched.

We used the left over de Chirico
as a scene to stage a kiss

as if we had been painted
into place ourselves.

"The Arrival of Enigma"
or some such title

scrawled in litter
below our feet.

In the movie Don Juan (1973): Bridgette Bardot held a lit cig 3'' from Jane Birkin's bare bush. It happened in a ***** yet no one died; no hairs were singed; no men were implicated; no courses were diverged; no plans were scotched; no blood was transfused...

Is my lesbian closet empty as I ******* like a ******? As I ******* like a lame Detroit ****** in heat? Am I under mortal Comanche threat from paganly-merciless...

TERROR ******* OF THE DEEP? [Terror ******* of the deep have exceeded the depth of Russia's Kola Super Deep Bore Hole.]
   O.T.M.A. remains scotched & scorched, dismembered & lapsed, yet Mashka & Tashka are the 2 (or the 1's) I love. Scars aren't prone to bleeding. Wounds bleed. Scars are healed wounds. Do horse-breeders die in horse-breeding accidents? [I know her by a stage name, my angel in funny dress. Will she let me kiss her belly button? I can only guess.] I'm too stupid to mean stuff that's the opposite of the stupid stuff I say. Putrid things rot fast, flushing shallow. Let's do the fun parts of suicide that make suicide fun.

We remind me of us when, as the incarnation of you, we thought of me as an ungrouped (& ungroupable) individual individualized against a lone, surviving survivalist surviving in a survivably-sterile state alone within a scorchingly-scotched Scoto-Irish grouping of scotch-quaffing Scotsmen.

[Terror ******* of the deep have exceeded the depth of Russia's Kola Super Deep Bore Hole.]
   O.T.M.A. remains scotched & scorched, dismembered & lapsed, yet Mashka & Tashka are the 2 (or the 1's) I love. Scars aren't prone to bleeding. Wounds bleed. Scars are healed wounds. Do horse-breeders die in horse-breeding accidents? [I know her by a stage name, my angel in funny dress. Will she let me kiss her belly button? I can only guess.] I'm too stupid to mean stuff that's the opposite of the stupid stuff I say. Putrid things rot fast, flushing shallow. Let's do the fun parts of suicide that make suicide fun.
   "Your fingers won't save you," the glove salesman amputee said. College psychology designates social strife as the primary causal factor to melancholia while ignoring vitamin deficits & blood sugar peaks & valleys. Typical Western women MUST assume superiority in all things. The Rest Room (2017) : "You haven't used a rest room till you've seen The Rest Room..." The Rest Room depicts modern facilities like no other film. Its raw, grim grittiness will have you reaching for brown paper towels. Our love is cooler than a cooler of ice. Our passion is more passionate than a bed that has just been blessed by the pope. We run in a field without having our clothes on. I almost stepped on a snake. I wish you'd brought your bra, we could've put mulberries in it. Is that a cop? RUN *******! I didn't enjoy my 1, and only, proctological exam. Too many young people have embraced the dark side, the left-hand path. Avoid these death-cultists. I sleep with a dog nearby (not a lass of the dog-eating class). He would love me for my canine qualities. He would say, "this guy is my people." An alert immune system doesn't forgive & forget. It remains vigilant to **** pathogens. Puppies bounce on concrete surfaces because of their fuzzy fluffiness. They're much softer than horses, pups are, and easier to pasteurize. It rains a lot in Oregon. It rains a lot on Oregon, too. Oregonians groan too much from prickly heat that compounds the miserable V.D. that they implement to destroy the wholesome reputation, & crotch-cricket ****** vitality, of ultra-flitty Washingtonian lushes.