Is there a difference,
give us a reference,
between a stalker,
and a pokemon.

The monger hits news,
game spots and toss,
time lost and chaos,
with a pokemon.

In Canada......
The rule breakers,
cross the borders,
an inadvertently walk,
for a pokemon.

In Guatemala city .......
The teenage boy,
under the wizard,
die in the cause,
for a pokemon.

In London.......
The go players,
ambushed in public,
and robbed by trees,
all for pokemon.

In Africa.....
The rumble,
then scrambles,
to get the last,
the dusts of pokeman.

In Asia...........
No signs too,
they tire and wait,
for the nostalgia,
all for pokeman.

In New York.....
It's a no, no,
for *** offenders,
or become criminals,
All for pokeman.

Poke me man,
NO *******!
It's all crazy,
the apocalypse,
of freaks and creatures!

Poke me man!
I DARE YOU NOT!
Go find old cards,
a bank of more funds,
all for pokemon.

Poke me man!
I POCKET YOU!
As phones hide,
their lunch hunt,
the herd of pokemon.

Look, stranger, at this island now
The leaping light for your delight discovers,
Stand stable here
And silent be,
That through the channels of the ear
May wander like a river
The swaying sound of the sea.

Here at the small field's ending pause
Where the chalk wall falls to the foam, and its tall ledges
Oppose the pluck
And knock of the tide,
And the shingle scrambles after the ****-
ing surf,
and the gull lodges
A moment on its sheer side.

Far off like floating seeds the ships
Diverge on urgent voluntary errands;
And the full view
Indeed may enter
And move in memory as now these clouds do,
That pass the harbour mirror
And all the summer through the water saunter.

you are eighteen and you're in love
with a boy who hates his birthday.
you don't know it yet,
but the world gets so much bigger than the back of his car.
you think he needs you to be happy and so does he
but both of you are wrong.
it'll take you almost a year to stop crying.
and then you don't talk for another three
and when you finally do,
he thinks he still knows you,
but your heart is heavier than it was then.
and you **** him because you're lonely
but it isn't the same.
neither of you can fake love.
at least he still makes you laugh.
you'll pretend it's enough
because at least he's a body.
at least you're not by yourself.
at least you're alive
and you're good at *******.
because bodies are distractions
from the things we hide inside them.
you have him inside you
and he wants to gut you of your ugly, your sad.
he scrambles for an excuse not to stay the night
and you laugh.
you know what this is and how it goes
and you both love someone else.
you swear you won't **** him again
but you do anyway because you're still lonely
and you like the way his hands fit around your neck.
you **** him because it's good for your art
and you get bored of your own hands on your body
and you're fine with letting him feel useful.
and you think about when you were sixteen
and how *** was supposed to be special
and it makes you cry
because you're not who you wanted to be.
it makes you cry, because the world got so much bigger
after you left the backseat of his car.
the world is so big and you don't know
how it ended up on your shoulders.
you would have died for him.
you have been ready to die for every person you have ever loved.
you have dreams where he dies
and you can't save him.
you have dreams where people die
and you can't save them
and you're the one who tied your hands.
your mangled heart and all its bleeding.
nobody asked you to die.
what good is all the love in your chest
if you don't leave any for yourself?

- m.f.

CC'Sisters;
The long ones and some go by planets,
I say stars the long forever change or at least I have found what I need inside to be free to be in accordance with what is on its way for us all!!! Little Birdy, CC3 or more like CC13, we say more like debris in the asteroid belt or some unusual comet-ry and or trajectories for everybody know where the common planets go but what of Sun, know we where is but what it can be temperamental too and more than tenuous more like strenuous relationship it is and has become overly clear; the things I know are not strange but strange it would seem what and how I do; so for you CC S1 I'll kick around a few; 15 billion year old universe nah big bang uh hu nah no too more as in Relative, I love that one Relative that Spot <3 On with where all is at, all very Relative things, every point, perspective, every sort of strange stringy strummy touchy feely sorts of things; more like where we are coming from and where we're going and what we can view but um me I may have been on those Mountaintops and with God for those Godly Many Mansion-ed Birds Eyed Views In and Out but it's more like; Newton spot spot right on again with Great POP on TOP, and the Greatest thing about that our imperishable spirits and how they remain in motion when the brain turns off, and the better to use here now information JC spoke about, yes the essence of 'The Book of the Dead' for our truer here now lives with the better more abundantly already overly willing for us blood bearing calling ourselves living and the coming of 'Messiah' and how such will be as we emerge together as well, sounds so common sensical to better use here now than abuse Gods already given gifts than abuse in simple little ways of not quite knowing or to much aware of too much else of other our own makings, for we are too easily sleepwalking about the things so overly close to too close to our too commonality of homes, identities and consciousness such the smaller part of all of this <3 <3; so I kinda just love that more Newtonian Motion the Right; and then like hop hop, hop scotch hop, nope again 123 nor abc not required; I like scrambles on rocks too, sounds nice for a day and two and then here and there again, still Sinatra does get over due and the I can handle the rarely scotch on ice for others they say rocks either, I there with sweetness of love and kindness, smiles; so can I see for mile and miles, what can it be more than 15 billion light year miles ya ha sure trillions I am I do; CIA triple walls even you, we all run what goes on in there by our hearts in an instant we command the greatest show of all in any instant changes everything and  all at once; EMC squared does not compare; speed of light those kinds of things here we are more manifestly condensed sort of things like vapor is to seas and or maybe then iced; we all can sing beat on drums understand the octave thing, well how 'bout keep it human scale and for a heart like thing what travels at the speed of light and what here say is all so manifest and then as sound will travel so we can hear those Church Bells ring well quite simply then is by the octave scales just 40 ya got 40 Octaves down!!!...speed of light got a limit um well can we get back to Relative again....I sat there with those types and I was not so good at study habits and everyone knew it and wondered how does he do it; I do have a poem in draft honestly, I can share the title here; some friends of Lite Heart had to hit first of all to explain a bit about it, with the nick-name moniker of Spot <3!!! So I'm calling this one Spot <3 's Spectrum Disorders; for I can roll around those wheels; I can be and have been destroyed many times over for knowing too much of heaven this one anyway had ta' gotta roll too through it's all Holy to me so I too say Holy Hell and then say cats got nothing on me but a bit more fur and perhaps some competition with um da purring!!!! Buddha too did name his boy 'Ball and Chain' but we are overly done way beyond this, we 'um ready for holy easy joy and fun...Food for bodies and souls overly abundantly easily had by seeing just quite simply what is within without our inner and locale commands; nope we done wit da' dey's; why destroy or well don't let me freak ya' I mean ice All of Love that Holy Responsive Ever seems so Light and slight of breeze and too with there go with all the power day dreary than dearer; don't be fooled by terminology, typical associations; idealized notions, 'Like the woes of Solomon' and 'Thee precious' ' Lord of the Rings', those are so close to some Sacred Cross Metaphysically so to say, no more here today, just sayin' maybe more another day; but back to typical association and terminology, I'll drop a link right here now this day and copy page, poem ya Sa Sa Ra called Dearly Departed and I know you too as barely started, me too hahaha please don't count me out here is where I love to be and see; http://hellopoetry.com/poem/dearly-departed-1/ ;
One more time and time again start what you so already know we need believe, put all the rest reorder with more loving commands truly they already do what you ask anyway uh dig again here hear again;

Sweet coolness to what burns us up and warms with love perhaps just 299 million drums contact staffs hoola hoops love joy sing a ringing better bells we are dancing fun could be catchy and be the one!!
Food for body and soul the best of all is freely available everywhere and we are free to see and be it there 8 days a week;
Welcome to the Eighth of days I am already and I am too seeing you all 7 billion there!! ♥ ♥ :) :) R!!!

And I'm gonna wrap this up and call it CC'Sister's...oh verbatim, raw straight hop rocks scotch and scrambles just for POP on TOP and another honorable mention to the CC'Sisters; and Sinatra will play on beyond what they are still calling will be our possible forever but more like JC when he said Heaven and Earth will pass away but my words never, so play play!!! <3 <3 :) :) !!!R!!!

I sit inside my podunk room,
As a million meteors make mad dashes
For different conners of The Universe
Like galactic kids stuck in a game of
Sharks and Minnows.
They snap their space caps over their heads,
Adjust their goggles, and dive into the galaxy;
With the refreshing burn of
Firery friction against their faces
As they glide through the galaxy.

Above my head these nova swimmers soar,
As I pull a folded list from a desk drawer
And lean out the window with a quilt
To stop the chill from getting to me.
I close my eyes and let the cold moon light
Reflect off my surface and pale my skin.
The moon has no purpose but to moon bathe  with, of course.
Of the meteors that circle the sky
I have a very different purpose for.

One by one I recite wishes,
One special I had saved just for this night;
Scribbled in marker with fast hands belonging to a busy brain,
Elegant cursive dawned by a deary mind,
My best script for my friendly letters.
Some I whisper, some I shout,
Some I struggle just to get out.
But one by one these wishes are told
To the night sky, the meteors swimming pool.

Suddenly the windowsill creaks and cracks
My eyes snap open, the timber of my home breaks
And my house, my yard, the trees and the leaves
All disappear, and suddenly,
I am splashing and slushing  in a puddle of
Endless Blue Water until I
get the sense about me to swim.

I swim until the water reaches my head,
My eyes, my nose, my chin,
Drains from my ears
Splatters on my shoulders.
I walk when I can, through
A tunnel of cattails, seaweed, and pond things,
Like a swamp without a sky,
That make the Endless Blue Water a canal with
A wooden door that I reach
After many steps.

Knocking twice, I stand patient
Busy with the thought of what brought me here.
A slot in the door slides open,
Old eyes framed by glasses peer back at me.
"Go away!" The old man barks,
"I can't let you in. All of
The water will get everywhere on my feet."
I stand, my eyes pleading with angst,
Eyelashes that drip water.
"No, it's ok Grandpa. Let her in,
She is tired." A voice, gentle and sweet, speaks
With a melody of a thousand guitars
Tuned to the exact preference of my own ears.

With a grumble and groan.
A click and a clack,
The slot slides shut harshly
And with a creak and force,
The floor flies open and
I am urged by the Sweet Voice to
"Hurry Great Darling! Hurry!"
And I squeezed through
The door, but so does the
Viscous water.

It flows rapidly past the door jam,
And the owner of the Sweet Voice scrambles
To convice the hinges that they
Want to turn the other way.
The dusty ground I now stand on
Quickly turns to mud, as the water flows.
We cannot stop the water from flowing.

The water makes a will of its own,
Rises with vigorous ebb,
And carries Sweet Voice's Grandfather with it
Into the dust bowl in which it surges so fiercely to.
I go with it, emerged once again as I
Grasp for a wrist, an ankle,
A collar, until I find a strap
Of a suspender, and hold fast to the door handle,
As Sweet Voice whispers hopes
That the water will stop. He grits his teeth, and
I'll never forget what he said:

"You are magnificent, Great Darling.
I would have loved you endlessly."

And with that, the water reversed,
Taking the sweet voice back into
The Tunnel of Pond Things,
And slamming the door shut.

The Grandfather and I, sat on grassy moss
That once was barren dirt, that climbed into fingernails
And settled homes between human and calcium.
The Endless Blue Waters  had cleansed the dirt from before,
But had also taken my lovely paramour.

And with this, I wailed great echoes
That shook the ground, because
The sweet voice was the wish
Whispered so delicately but so
Anxiously on my windowsill
That lonely night.

After my fit, I turned to see
Great followers of the Barren Lands,
Ghastly beasts with spots and rabbit ears,
Humans with skin clear, great dragons
That inspired no fear, that
All stood before the Grandfather and I.
They held their hands before their faces,
Checked their teeth, and found it free of the dust
And dirt that haunted their days.

A great feast was arranged,
A thousand chairs at seven hundred tables,
All lined with a feast
Of cooked carrots and sweet potatoes,
Texas toast and orange marmalade,
Corn beef and root beer;
As kites with tails and laughter with squeals
Floated through with wind and smoke
Of campfires yellow, all
To celebrate the arrival of me,
The Great Darling,
Who had cleansed the Barren Lands
And brought about the begining of
The Hallow Lands.

I sat alone at this great feast,
Weary of my loss, when I felt
A tapping on my shoulder. It was
The Sweet Voice who had returned.  
I asked, elated by his arrival, about the
Means of his return, and he replied:

"The moon has more purpose than you
Assumed, Great Darling.
The moon controls all tides, and
With its power on my side, I asked it to
Take me back to you, and kindly it did, as
the moon understands that poles and magnetism
Are not the only forces than bring great things together;
That love can do that great deed too."

We sat under the lemon tree,  
My quilt, retrieved on Sweet Voice's journey,
Spread beneath us, as we watched the moon
Circle the sky for many nights,
Until we decided to join in its company.
One by two, we stepped up stepping stones
On a hill that reached the meteors pool,
Where my paramour and I lived
In galactic happiness forever more.

five pm, mid-winter

i thank Sky for taking sweet time.
Sky sets her thumb on the light-switch of the land.
she stands still, she waits.
for the hour, she meditates
on her day.
Sky hopes her skin
becomes verdigris the next day, not grey, but
verdigris to clothe **** trees. Or perhaps she will
hurt soon— Sky scars in
rainbows. Her change of thought: the small folks who have traveled
through her this day. She wonders where
they all
        go.

Open your eyes,
do you hear Sky’s mute call?
in her meditation, hour of magic, all
wakes.

on the earth, photographers peer from their windows,
then rush through their doors to catch Sky’s dancing gleams,
beams flash through the tip-top’s of the Sugar Maple family,
their shadows splatter onto ***-hole streets.
Sky brushes her grass and her roads with paint of a gold hue,
fresh Rorschach tests while her thoughts try to rest.

i spot a leaf sleeping in the street, deep wine and apricot,
twisted from months away from its Mother
the wind levitates the leaf—lightly—and the sun
creates a squirrel of it, he climbs the tree, and scrambles over
to me. in short squeaks, he explains his political theory,
“why do you let your peep el let a few rich folks control
all others? why don’t you follow me
into the woods?”

he grabs my skirt with his sweet little paws
but i look up and notice the darkness,
i look down and see only a leaf again.
Sky’s savasana has ended,
candles ignite in the houses, Sky and Sun crawl into bed.

i’ll wait now for the selenian Sun, but i can’t rest my eyes. soon
i will escape with my new friend.
bittersweet magic: “the moment” lost in the sock drawer.

five pm, midwinter


the afternoon is reaching an end,
Lady Sky decides when she wants to change for us.
as the sun sets, she meditates.

some call it the “magic hour”
but how can you truly tell magic from reality?
go outside and see.

radiant beams do the tango on the trees
(a leaf in the street becomes a squirrel as my eye blinks)
a squirrel who runs straight up to me.

“get outta the system while you can!”
he squeaks, then nods at me to follow his path, another blink



the sky darkens, the squirrel disappears.

it became a perpetual motion
a dance
someone hands the card, another lights
the amount of aching discolored grazed fingers was immense
put your finger on the flint wheel
press it down

karen thought we should make a sign
the scrambles of bruised fingers for a piece of cardboard
my fingers throbbed as i scratched our message on the board
i kept the pink flower locked in the crease of my hand
and threw them in air
“draft card burning here”

it was 7 00 in the morning
october 21 1967
i was only 17
my brother jeffrey was flying a plane over dien bien phu
a friend richard was screaming in the trenches of xuan loc
a lover michael treading through a swamp in mui bai ****

i stepped up to The Police.
The. Men. In. Suits. Stared. At. Me
Blank. Faces. And. No. Expression.
I picked up my Pink Daisy, and brought it up to their bayonets
this is for Jeffrey, for Richard, and for Michael

the men in suits stared at me
in a world of chaos and confusion
all I heard was
Silence.

Come and walk with me!
I take your hand and allow you to push open the heavy, creaking door to my thoughts.
Together we pause at the vast emptiness before us, creaking dreams beneath our feet, memories and beliefs casting shadows on the vast walls.

We move cautiously inside the entrance, tread carefully on my forgotten memories and dreams, their hold on me lost through time.
Please ignore the twitching corpses and further explore darkened, hidden, cobwebbed corners.

Gliding through the room, I pull you down, ducking as another thought flies through the air hitting the opposite wall with a loud splat then landing in the pile of screaming thoughts below, where they stay, awaiting the inevitable time when they will either be dismissed or built upon.

Allow me to guide you through the room, dodging the memories best forgotten, notice the shame and fear apparent on my face as we view them together.

Take a moment to scan the dark room, breathe in the fresh hopes and dreams; their bright bodies hung carefully on the sun drenched walls, waiting for the eventual time when they will be realized or floored.

Their hopes shimmer in vivid brilliance to the limited few who are trusted enough to view them. Laugh as you catch glimpses of the insane images before you, cry at those of more morbid times. Feel yourself being dragged into the moment, your sleeve being tugged at by a crying child.
And in the blink of an eye that same child scrambles over to you.
Pull yourself back into the present, realizing the child before you is me.

Explore the room further, try to avoid the tear filled pool, where all tears are recorded and verified at being shed…wept through time.

Stop and hover at the shrine of the memories of my life.

Images and clips are projected throughout me and are now available for your viewing.
Notice how the salty pool of tears deepens while you witness me recounting the losses, the pain.

As we walk further into the room, journeying through time, moving closer and closer to the present…remember to observe the moments and memories of time, suspended in mid-air, burning in a golden light.

Now witness the smugness…the only part of my mind visible now, its golden beauty being cast throughout my body, washing me in an aura-like glow.

The warmth of the complacency keeps me sane, urging thoughts to be formed, its magnetism pulling words from the neglected pile and painting them into pictures, parading them in the room until they are given attention and brought to life.

As we move toward the door, look over your shoulder at what you have witnessed the room now a hub of excitement, never before viewed by anyone.

The air thick with scents of raw emotion, its nakedness daunting and yet liberating.
Its shadow and mediocre existence no longer locked away but instead camouflaged in an attitude and personality of an unexpected level.

Pursued by many, their relentless banging, wasted energy, their persistence jamming the door further, while the rusted lock twists tighter and tighter, until the eventual breaking of the lock, shattering all ties with the pursuer.

We step over the threshold, out of the house and into the sun.

I close the heavy doors to my thoughts, and replace the rusted lock on my soul.
I glance over at you and you catch my gaze.
You nod your head at me and reach out your hand.

I am unable to reach for you… I don't believe in myself, I don't love myself.

But I hope that eventually I will find peace from the inner turmoil that has me vice grip, tightening with each passing day.

I look at you with desperation in my eyes, longing to believe the wisdom you speak is "truth".

Butterflies do stammer
on first dates.
Thinking of what,
What to say.
My head rambles.
My breath abates.
My voice scrambles.
My face straight.
I throw smiles of my youth
Tell stories wide and bright
My subtle lies of clean truth
With utter hopes to placate
My eyes dart, my breath aghast
This moment to be
of our future's past
This moment to be
of our first date.

We meet
We greet
We hide our anxiety
Wading through tension
Behind smiles and drinks
We tread lightly
With humorous winks
Passing off stories of our past
Sitting composed at full attention
I listen intently
But you catch me stare
Hmmm, with each soft word
We calm the air.

Anticipating discovery
I peek into you.
Opening myself
To reveal what's new.

You smile freely
Clenching fingers tight
Butterflies take flight.
Hoping what might
You peek into me
Saying no to what could be.

My head disappears.
My eyes dream.
My shiny veneer
Begins to hear.
A flutter begins flight
As I seek your light.
My chest slowly warms
To glows of moonbeams.
My heart slowly endears
As I faintly hear
My butterfly's subtle screams.

We attract hints of passion
By sharing what's true.
For all this fragile effort
I hope for date number two.

I.

Up the stairs Suzann without an E went.
8" X 10" bright white rectangles dotted
the yellowing and dusty walls,
clean reminders of bad family photos.
Her parents, Bob and Theresa,
had picked out wallpaper. Lilacs
and vines and oranges. Why? She
didn't know.

She tossed her backpack on the floor
at the foot of her bed. Her senior book
was still on the night stand. Charity and
Faith, her sometimes friends, had spent
the last two weeks filling out every page
of theirs, printing hazy images on cheap
photo paper at their homes and sliding them
into the plastic holders or taping them to
the pages without.

They coerced boys they
had liked or still liked or would like if to
fill out pages. When the boys simply signed
their names or names and football numbers,
they guilted them into writing more. Give
me something to remember you by.

Suzann liked to look at only one boy,
Casey Stephen Fuchs, pronounced "Fox,"
though you know that's just what the family
said. She didn't want him to write in her
senior book. She enjoyed the space between
them. She knew what her peers didn't:
she was seventeen.
She knew she didn't know
the right words yet. She knew the heart-bursting
flutters she felt were temporary--enjoy them, she thought,
shut up and enjoy them.

Her parents set her curfew at 10:30. So
this Friday, like most Fridays, she stays
home.

She opens ****** in the City of Mystics,
a novel she's burned through. Fifty pages
or so left. She likes detectives. The methodical
stalking, the idiosyncratic theories and philosophies
that allow them to connect dot after dot.

She shuts her eyes and sends herself walking down
the streets of New York, where hot dog vendors
whistle and say, "Nice legs." She flags down a cab.
She sees Casey across the street. What are you doing
here, stranger? She waves the cab on.
The driver, a brown-skinned man from some vague
country, throws his arms up. "C'mon."

She cuts across the traffic, dodging a white stretch limo,
a black Hummer, a hearse.

Casey's straight hair hangs over his left eye. It's both
melodramatic and troubled. There's a small shift
at the corners of his lips, the corners of lips, this
is a detail she writes of often in her journal--why?

She can almost hear Casey ask her, "What brings you here?"

"Business."

"What kind?"

"None of yours."

He takes this as an entry for a kiss. Not yet, handsome. No no.

"Make whatever you want for dinner," her mom shouts up the stairs.
"There's stuff for nachos if you want nachos. Some luncheon meat too.
Only one piece of bread though."

"Okay."

"Alright. Just whenever. Dad and I are going to go ahead."

"Okay."

"Alright."

Get me out of here. Suzann's whole life is small: small town,
small family, small church, all packed with small brained, short-sighted people. She wants New York or Chicago. She wants a badge--no not a badge. She'll be a vigilante. "You're not a cop," they'll tell her.

"Thank God," she'll say. "If I were a cop then there'd be nobody protecting these streets."

II.

She's read mysteries set in the middle of nowhere, small towns like her own Kiev, Missouri. They always feel phony. Not enough churches.
Not enough bored dads hitting on cheerleaders.
No curses. Every small town has a curse. Kiev's?
Every year someone in the senior class dies.

As far back as anyone she knew could remember
anyways. Drunk driving, falling asleep at the wheel,
texting while driving, all that crap is what was usually
blamed.

This smelly boy named Todd Louden moved out of Kiev
in the fall semester of his senior year a couple years ago.
Suzann was a freshman.

A few months after he was gone, people started saying
he'd killed himself with a shotgun. First United Methodist
added his family to the prayer list. They had a little service out
by this free-standing wall by the library where he used
to play wall ball during lunch. People cried. Suzann didn't know
anyone that hung out with him. Maybe that's why
they cried, unreconcilable guilt--that's what her dad
said.

Then in the spring Todd moved back. The cross planted
by the wall with his name confused him.
He'd just been staying with his grandma. Nothing crazy.
The churches never said anything about that. He was
just the smelly kid again. Well until late-April when
he got ran over by a drunk or texting driver.
They hadn't even pulled up the cross by the wall ball site
yet.

III.

You call it the middle of nowhere, a place where the roads didn't have proper names until a couple years back, roads now marked with green signs and white numbers like 3500 and 1250, numbers the state mandated so the ambulances can find your dying ***--well if the signs haven't been rendered unreadable by .22 rounds.

The roads used to be known only to locals. They'd give them names like the Jogline or Wilzetta or Lake Road, reserved knowledge for the sake of identifying outsiders. But that day is fading.

What makes nowhere somewhere? What grants space a name?

The dangerous element. The drifter that hops a fence, carrying a shotgun in a tote bag. Violence gave us O.K. Corral. Violence gave us Waco. Historians get nostalgic for those last breaths of innocence. The quiet. The storm. The dead quiet.

IV.

It's March and not a single senior has died.
So when she hears the front door open
around 2 a.m., Suzann isn't surprised.
She doesn't think it's ego that's made
her believe it'd be her to die--but it is.

She hears the fridge door open.
Cabinets open.
Cabinets close.
She hears ice drop into
the glass. Liquid poured.

She clicks her tongue in
her dry mouth. She puts
a hand to her chest. Her
heart beats slow.
She rests her head on
the pillow. It's heavy
yet empty, yet full--
not of thoughts.

She can't remember the name
of any shooting victims.
She remembers the shooters.
Jared Lee Loughner, Seung-Hui Cho,
James Eagan Holmes, Adam Lanza.
No victims.

She hears the intruder set the glass on the counter.
He doesn't walk into the living room.
He starts up the stairs. His steps are
soft, deliberate. What does he want?
Her death. She knows this. He is only a vehicle.
Nameless until. Has he done this before?
Fast or slow?

He's just outside her room, and she doesn't
remember a single victim's name. She hears
a bag unzip. She hears a click.

If he shoots her, Suzann Dunken, there's
no way the newspaper will get her name
right. Her name may or may not scroll
across CNN's marquee for a day or two.
If it does, it won't be spelled correctly.
This makes her move. Wrapping
her comforter around her body, she
tip-toes to the wall next to her door.

She hears a doorknob turn.
It's not hers.

He's going into her parents' bedroom.
They're both heavy sleepers.
She opens her own door slowly.
She steps into the hall. She sees the man.
The man does not see her.
She see the man and grabs a family
portrait. The man does not see her,
and he creeps closer to her parents.
She sees the man standing then she
sees the man falling after she strikes him
with the corner of the family portrait.
The man sees her as he scrambles to get
his bearing. She strikes him, again with
the corner. This time she connects with his eye.
A light comes on. "Suzann," her mother says.
He tries to aim the gun. Again she strikes.
He screams. He reaches for his eyes with
his left hand. Now with the broad side she
swings. She connects. She connects again.
The man shoves her off, stumbles to his feet.
By this time, her dad reaches her side.
One strong push and the man crashes into
the wall outside the room, putting a hole
in the drywall.

He recovers and retreats down the stairs
and out the door into blackness.

Her mother phones the police.
She pants more than speaks
into the receiver.

"Suzann," her dad says. "Sweetheart."

Suzann looks at the portrait, taken at JC Penny when
she was in the sixth grade. The glass is cracked.
She removes the back. She pulls out the photo.

"Did you get a good look at him?"

This photo. Her mother let her do anything
she wanted to her hair before they took it.
So she, of course, dyed it purple.

"That's right," her mother says.
"It's about half a mile east of the
3500 and 1250 intersection. Uh-huh."

Her dad sits down next to her.

"How long do you think it'll take them
to find us?"

There's a shift at the corners of her mouth,
and she nods, just nods.

how will i reclaim that forest in the night to walk into...
ah proud birdsong near the edge of the wood
at going past 11pm will clarify my heart to endear
courage against samael’s breath once more.*

the cartesian model of inquir, namely
subtance and spatial extension is unsatisfactory,
unless you’re a schizophrenic,
where the extension is a symptom
of a dislodged narration in pluralism,
it makes sense then;
but what of the temporal aspect of the extension?
it can’t just be two-dimensional of the x-axis substance
and the y-axis of the spatial extension...
that would imply, that the z-axis is nullified, non-existent...
meaning that we would have no faculty of memory,
which is a bit ******* to say the bull charged in a darts
competition hitting the bullseye fifty times out of fifty-five throws.
why did descartes avoid inc. the temporal extension
only focusing on the spatial extension model,
thus avoiding the trinity and instead leaving us with
a blatant dualistic error?
was he schizoid too? i guess so...
we’re not talking about living a full-life
and then doing a van gogh disintegration of the self...
if you’re young, you get to construct a self
that’s defined by a medical condition...
but if you’re old, and the self is fully adequate to
be ready for retirement and grandchildren...
there’s not much originality for you to invoke...
you lived a boring life... you’ll die a horrid death...
sorry - face reality, you didn’t do enough su doku or crosswords,
esp. if you weren’t physically exhausted
like my father roofing...
i wish i could join him, in the solidarity motto my grandfather
tends to repeat (being a foreman in a metal factory
back in poland): zdrowie na budowie (health on a construction site)!
it’s true, tiresome as it might sound -
mature dementia is also the double-veil effect...
you lie to much and your conscience snaps
and starts mining for coal in your consciousness...
you think wet coal ever made it as 27 years of ol’ jimi hendrix?
i don’t think so.
it wasn’t the drink that killed amy winehouse...
proof? me...
what killed her... the inability to engage with dialectics...
too many people you see... the tabloid exposure...
no park bench in the night with a bearded blond stranger
by the name of matti helsinki.
what defines us as people is much more related to memory
(the cartesian black hole) than what’s thought
or imagined...
using this barbie / size 0 anorexic ***** in fishnet stockings
i find that what we come across is a bit like natural seletion:
selective memorization...
i don’t care where my next thought comes from nietzsche...
i’m bewildered why we remember what we remember,
and it’s more or less cryptographic...
i see the scenes... thank god i don’t have the second person
brain haemorrhage scene but the first person spec-savers...
third person is a host i didn’t want to impregnate with my content...
following the flawed cartesian interpretation in
the freudian region... imagination = substance...
extension = dreaming...
and the curious thing is... memory scrambles imagination,
i can’t imagine certain things like being a ***** tadpole
in the pond of testicles...
memory asking the imagination faculty to function
and leave thought scarce scrambles wild wild west imagination
that provides fertile ground for dreams to enter...
i don’t really dream that much... not lucid dreaming...
because i can distinguish hallucinatory memory images
of remembered scenes... and those shadow-consistency hallucinations
that even a 7 year old would acknowledge as unreal.

The blue honda pulls up to the curb. A strange lingering fog is tinged purple. He steps out of the car, and looks around. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it in a moment of awe. What meets his bleared city eyes is a sight like no other. Looming in front of him is green woods, seemingly taking shallow breaths in the mist. Then, shadowy swirls form into tentacle-like wraiths. He stood frozen for what seemed like forever. Then a shadow slowly crawled onwards him, slithering on the gravel. It tentatively touches the tip of his shoe and he scrambles back into his car and locks the door, trying to steady himself. After telling himself repeatedly that it was just his imagination. Not real. Not real. Not real. Feeling better, he picks up his phone and calls his wife back. The phone rings, and the normal sound brings him back to the present. He looks towards the woods. He quietly scoffs to himself, what an idiot he was, it was only his imagination. Something catches his eye.He doesn’t see anything. Looking towards his phone something catches his eye again. Upon a second inspection he looks and finds nothing. He looks down on his phone, why can’t his wife pick up already? Something catches his eye a third time and he looks, there is no mistaking  the shadows leaking towards his car. he hangs up desperately and attempts to call again.It rings once and the shadows seem to leak into his car, it rings twice, and the shadows seep into the open window, it rings four times, and she finally picks up.
Her lone voice rings out
Hello?
…
Are you there?
…
Honey, are you ok?
...

This morning, between two branches of a tree  
Beside the door, epeira once again
Has spun and signed his tapestry and trap.  

I test his early-warning system and
It works, he scrambles forth in sable with  
The yellow hieroglyph that no one knows  
The meaning of. And I remember now
How yesterday at dusk the nighthawks came  
Back as they do about this time each year,
Grey squadrons with the slashes white on wings  
Cruising for bugs beneath the bellied cloud.  

Now soon the monarchs will be drifting south,  
And then the geese will go, and then one day  
The little garden birds will not be here.  

See how many leaves already have
Withered and turned; a few have fallen, too.  

Change is continuous on the seamless web,  
Yet moments come like this one, when you feel  
Upon your heart a signal to attend
The definite announcement of an end
Where one thing ceases and another starts;  
When like the spider waiting on the web  

You know the intricate dependencies  
Spreading in secret through the fabric vast  
Of heaven and earth, sending their messages  
Ciphered in chemistry to all the kinds,
The whisper down the bloodstream: it is time.

she sprints through the grass,
where the blades won't harass,

the gentle wheat crops against her skin
running fast, they tickle her shin.

galloping, chasing, like a gazelle,
rays of sun caress, enchanting dark skin with spell.

curvaceous body with no care,
lovely lady, as free as her hair.

she grabs at the violets, press to her face,
indestructible woman, found her place.

jiggling, wobbling, dancing with joy,
this here woman, life is her toy.

she moulds it and holds it as she changes to sprint,
the sadness in here bares no hint.

curly hair, heritage rich,
this bird here, unpicked every stitch.

she stops, she stops, at the edge,
scrambles scrambles stopping before ledge.

jiggling juggling, in the ****,
she dances around, no want to intrude.

escapee, escapee, that's what she's become,
and oh now, she feels like the only one.

boundless beauty, encased with dark lattice scars,
her body contains a bounty of stars.

no shape can hold her,
no one can tame, encase,
no hands can hold her,
more valuable than lace.

I want to scramble eggs
to mix into fried rice and
fried ramen noodles
and mix up my brains
with the spatula
along with the rest
of the dish.

because my insanity
is quite the pain,
and my insanity
is due to be the end of me.

and if I scramble my brains
into the eggs
then my last thought would be
"I could have cooked this meal
way better."

I am aggravated ether
in the moment
so I can't sleep on it
enigma dramatic
bathed in acid & oil

& all the clouds in the sky
are mostly smoke
blown in consoling faces
dole full in the wasteland.

dam & sire fanning the fire
in the furnace
lighted up for days.
they didn't know it could
turn around & burn us.

oh but,
I'm not learned enough.

all the **** while I'm
taking it all in.

three sixty, panorama.

light a ******* candle
& put me up on the mantle
when the mainframe scrambles
&don;'t let me down til
they've figured out time travel.

I won't have any of this.

still in my soul I am savagery.
& these bad *** habits
are all tragedies
considering the fact
that I can make magic
if I see it fitting
to the situation.

which doesn't clique
with certain niches,
they get kinda ******
...they shouldn't.
it's all ******* anyway.


sun slivers.


new day.

She enjoys the confined space
and the long lonely hours
spent inhaling day old hot dog fumes
underneath flickering florescent lights;
With pen in hand and pad nearby
she scrambles to invent new lives
for strange passerby's
as they buy their coffee
and expired chocolate candy bars

On overcast days
When the clouds block my sun rays
And the shadows are away from the day.
I wonder about my pessimistic ways
And will I ever get out of this phase.
A phase where my mind is in a haze,
Bound and trapped in a cage.
In the cage is a bird that sings
Songs of mental freedom, peace, love and other things
That helps bring the joy that life brings.

On overcast days
When the clouds block my sun rays
My mind scrambles to find the right way
Like a mouse in a maze.
My soul is ablaze
And on these days
I can feel the gaze of God
And his eternal adversary.
It makes me daring and wary
Of the demons that haunt me
When my visions of success
Are right before me.
Displays that leave me in daze.

This is what it's like.
This is what it's like.
This is what it's like
When my demons leave me at night
And arrive strapped like medieval knights
On overcast days.  

On overcast days
When the clouds block my sun rays
I stare at the sky all day.
Wondering if the Angels
Partied the **** night away
And these clouds are the aftermath
Of their mass party.
Probably celebrating the coming
Of the end of mankind.
While I'm here stuck on earth
In a mind different from other minds.
With recycled souls brainwashed and blind
That has lost all sense of time.
Where will we go
When this speck of time
Ceases to exist and these words
No longer rhyme in a design
To speak to you?
I have hope when the sky is blue
And feel lost when it is grey.

This is what it's like.
This is what it's like.
This is what it's like
When my demons leave me at night
And arrive strapped like medieval knights
On overcast days.  

When and if it rains
I hope it washes away the pain
Of this strange stage
And give me hope
To keep my head up
Through these wicked times
And overcast days.

This is what it's like
On overcast days.

Nighttime session, the troops gathered in the barracks
I am the early bird waiting while I think of words
See the sorry *** in the glass start to mutate
My face scrambles in a madman’s flash of brilliance
I shake in disbelief, making my supposed normal return
The last of many flashbacks to a freaky fungus festival
My companions enter the stomping ground unaware
A trace of spasm in my body, of light refraction in my gaze
Within ten seconds I went from stagnant and stationary
To drunkenly wobbling, blind-deaf-mute-terrified
My vision was the first, flooding steadily with snowy diamonds
I noticed a distinct detachment from myself and my location
Head began to throb and ears shot jets of sound
Like a pulsar detectable to keen eye on rampage
Bright white light, increasingly suffocated by diamonds blinding
Sick and driven to escape, my face drained of all color
My surprise became overwhelming and unbearable to me
I made a hopeless barge through blurry barrier
Dive into the bed that will bring me sane comfort
Curl in ball, pathetic and fetal, waiting for the war to end

When the aqua blue fades into a bubble gum pink,
They make a satin violet that dazzles the evening sky.
And as the sun goes down, it kisses the clouds,
Leaving a trace of amber lipstick around its edges.
The sun melts into the horizon, spilling it's liquid gold everywhere.
It scrambles to pick up the beautiful mess it's created.
But it knows time is running out,
Before it is invaded with the purest black.
And like a curtain that has been drawn one to many,
Light shows through the tattered cloth,
Shining.

A flower of jealousy,
                                      A kettle of rage,
A stack of worries,
                                      A pile of hopes,
A cup of tears,
                                      A Glass of fears,
Dazed feelings,
                                  Then love appears,
Unknown deeds,
                                   Counted days,
Still counting ...
                                  Just realized life,

I walk a winding path,
Between the growing brambles,
And through their thorny stems,
I see a man singing as he ambles.

**! Good man from yonder trail,
What joyous things set you singing?
I beseech of you my friend,
What has your heart a winging?

Love and love alone sustain me,
For I have found my counterpart.
She sings to me with an angel's voice,
To the tempo of my heart.

She has known me at my strongest,
And pulled me through my hardships.
She walks upon the very wind,
And has rose petals for her lips.

Before her I have wept,
And sweetly she has shared my pain.
She loves to hear my music,
And she dances in the rain.

Surely God has blessed thee,
To know such magnificence.
As we part our wandering ways,
I wish you long levity and sense.

And so I keep on walking,
Between the growing brambles.
I beheld a gray-tailed squirrel,
Chattering as he scrambles.

For a time I pause peacefully,
Taking in the scent of pine.
When behind me I hear thrashing,
And a long beleaguered whine.

I turn to view my old friend,
He is caught within the thorns.
Why have you left your way,
To tread the paths man scorns?

Love and love alone has pained me,
She held me in her soft pale arms,
Those I used to run and seek,
When I couldn't bear life's harms.

We had brought our paths close,
And spoken of our dearest dreams,
When she held me with her gaze,
And showed she is not what she seems.

She spoke to me quite softly,
With danger in her stare.
Why not join our paths together,
So you can feel me close and bare?

I replied with wonder at her quarry,
To do so would require more,
Than our love for one and other,
I've no wish to make child I did implore.

But a child will not come to be,
If I merely take these herbs.
Their potent flavors take effect,
And the plant my fertility curbs.

And so in the rash actions of love,
I joined my path with hers.
But the joining was demented,
And set pain to my heart as spurs.

No sacred joining of two paths,
Can be healthily maintained,
Without intentions of a child,
No matter how the lovers are inflamed.

For when two paths merge,
Another must be formed.
Of the dire consequences,
I wish I had been warned.

The wrongness of our joining,
Left me hollow and pain ridden.
With anger and deep resentment,
I left the path I had been given.

Now I stumble through the woods,
Praying that a God sent thorn,
Will chance upon my exposed flesh,
And then all could my memory morn.

At the conclusion of his tale,
I offer what little comfort I can give.
My dearest friend you have sinned,
But fear not for you can still live.

With life comes a second chance,
Not always the easiest or apparent.
It can be found through forgiveness,
And the strength your friends have lent.

I turn back to my given path,
Knowing rescue is in his power.
I walk the lonely way one does,
When growing older by the hour.

In my fingerprint, the thirteenth groove from the nail,
The one that curves neatly, until it breaks
(A scar, I think)
That's you.

There is a braincell in my skull that is red, not grey:
Red for love; red for anger; red for that STOP light that made me stall
(The kind of complete stop that scrambles up your nerves)
That's you.

Every eighteenth heartbeat is you.
Every flex of my left hand little finger is you.
Every wish on a lost eyelash, carried away by salty currents, is you.
Every swiftly sheared blade of grass  is you.
Every nerve ending in my lower lip is you.
Every cell of oxygen is you.

You are
Every
Hope
Every
Fear
Every
Dream
I ever had.

Put simply into words that in the end, are nothing;

You are everything to me.

You turn my blood into flames,
like forest fires racing through my veins.

You create the beauty of natural disasters within my skin.
I just can't help but let you in.

But, I've learned that with the beauty comes the destruction.

My brain scrambles when I look into your eyes,
Your words flow like sand cascading through my hands.

Your words are not lies.
They cannot be lies.

These words must be the sweetest corruption I've ever tasted.

I would rather be
A star swirling in unconscious ecstasy, or
The air captivated by gravity, or
One single wave as it shies from the shore, or
A pebble cemented into the sidewalk path underneath a leaf
as it’s cracked and crushed under the heedless, preoccupied nature of man, or
A humble crease of a sick rose’s petal, or
One coffee ground stuck to the bottom of a yellowed, chipped mug,
Because it doesn’t matter, it does not matter.
Nothing truly matters.
Whether you’re privileged or impoverished,
Content or depressed, dispassionate or obsessed,
A ****** or a giant, timid or defiant,
Powerful,
                           Crippled,
Insane,
                Naïve,
Whether you’re green with jealousy or environmental tendencies,
Whether you Fight,
Fight for world peace,
Fight to end, to ****, Hunger,
It will not matter.
Because Man is addicted to conflict.

War is on the pedestal.

Hatred, envy, greed, lust, and hunger all

FIGHT

To ensure its power.

With every hand that scrambles for control,
With every eye that narrows to aim,
With every breath held for stability,
That pedestal heightens and heightens.

You might as well sigh for the butterfly who killed all those damaged, but innocent individuals.
Its gentle wings, essential to its survival, are to blame.
So you might as well accuse that abusive husband in New Jersey for the Iraqi War,
And that fisherman in the ****** Islands for global warming,
Or that little boy who's crying for the emasculated, shrunken, pathetic homeless man muttering,
“Hope is hope because hope is never hope. Hope like a rabbit, hope hope hope.”

Can you not see?
Can you even Be?

I can only hope for an escape, an exploitation of no conflict or aggravation.
just one wisp of matter with no conscious mind.
I can only point at all inconsistence with determination to prove that the only consistency in this entire universe is simply
ILLUSION.

The Prince of Heaven rotates the truth.
Stacked in whispers
hush words scrambles the floor,
arcane winds blame the new;
preservation lusts moribund  moonlight
as magic circles catch the Sun.

the gold ring and chain piercing my
nostril is tied to Your starry reins
I stand quite diaphanous and transparent
in the shivering frost-bitten scrutiny
as inanimate and suspended
as the fossilized rocks
and vacant shells entombed beneath
my bare feet
this loneliness that climbs, scrambles
mindless ivy,
up and down forlorn ivory towers
lost lighthouses clinging to abandoned
coastlines where the sea foams at the mouth
and maya lurks like rodents and beachcombers
littering with her perishable bag of goodies
where is my conch?
my heart hurts
am I too deaf ...too far gone...
to hear Your mighty blast?

my mind scrambles,
trying to place you
i search endlessly,
wondering if you are in a field
of freedom and daisies,
or if you are stranded
in an ocean as deep as the crevices
of my mind.

i place you somewhere
i can see you

you cannot be with the fires,
for they are far too hot
and you have been burned
far too many times.
i do not have enough fingers to count
the times i have cradled your crying body to sleep.

i place you somewhere
i can see you

i tried to put you in my pocket,
but i didn't want you to feel small.
to me, you are the universe,
you are all i see.

i place you somewhere
i can see you

yesterday, you expressed yourself
as ink bleeding into the fibres of my notebook.
but you cannot be in books,
for they are closed and ended
and you are not.

i place you somewhere
i can see you

perhaps you are in the cotton threads
of that stupid royal blue blanket
that i have wrapped myself up in
every night since you died.

i stopped placing you somewhere
that would one day be gone,
for you are forever
and the world is not.

i place you beside me,
you've been there all along.