. 'as for those poets, only the perverse follow them. do you not see that they go too far in every direction and say things, which they cannot do?' (ash-shu'ara / the poets 26:224-226).

call them what you like,
the Huguenots,
for all i care...

   you always side with
the "heretics"...
  
   given that, "said" heretics
retain some cultural value
relativism of other cultures,
namely in the form of
depiction -

    since why would, "the word"
be deemed holy,
    ****-naked,
                rather than donning
a bikini of "iconoclasm"...
         when words... are at
the meat-market of copyright -
what with © coca cola?

                 sunni islam would have
never allowed sufism...
  but Farsi does...
  and will continue...
since no Iranian will bow
before an Arab within the schematics
of history...

          Sunni Islam, it's Wahhabi sentimentality...
so why persist in signing
the Adhan?
   why not speak in a honing like
drone sentiment of plain speech?
i thought all music was banned?
the current Adhan is a form
of music... isn't it? BAN IT!

    you never side with these Sunni
muslims, exploiting Bangladeshi labor,
you side with the heretics of Iran...
these *******, i can at least respect...
  
      no fast cars, convenient ongoing
cultural insurrections -
   Sufism...
       Afghan women's poetry,
and all that much closer to Hindu mysticism...
    
yeah... "islamophobia":
but only against Sunni Islam...
   but Shia Islam?
   no problem...
   i could stomach these peoples
like i could stomach the in-between
of the Turkish variant -
no ideology - simply, pure, power throttle...

i could make a great Janissary -
with a Turkish barber...
         for a great trim of hair and beard...
i'd cast a shadow on some
obscure chocolatier of Brussels
who thinks himself a politician...

     but there are certain aspect of Islam
i am willing to tolerate...
   what happened to the son in law
of Muhammad, namely, Ali...
was raw ******* kicking...

               promises, promises...
no promises...
           Shia Islam, as an European,
i can tolerate, Turkish Islam, i can tolerate...
Turkey is incrementally shy
of being treated at the 2nd variant of Iran...
at least with Iran, we share a history
via the insurrection into the ancient
texts through Greece...

  come to think of it...
whenever i listen to
matta's song echo babylon...
i start feeding myself goosebumps,
reminding myself
of Cyrus... Nebuchadnezzar...
and the dim-wit that was
   Belshazzar...

always siding with the heretics...
if not on economic groundwork,
then at least motivating,
rather than monetizing an idea...

and the Shia muslims are...
    one way or another...
   unlike the gluttons of Dubai...
the barbie dolls of postage stamp
"proof" of progress,
in size, and worth...

   Sunni Islam would have
never allowed poetics to remain
a viable form of expression -
the Persian tradition that is,
far beyond the western concern
for a comment section...

         Shia Islam allows patronage
of the arts, notably poetry,
without concern for monetary
funding, it, at least, doesn't prohibit it...
given the pride of the Persians...
Sunnis and their continual quest
for finding water...
    sure... poetry is pointless within
such restrictions of
existential concerns...
    but... given the current, civilized
establishment?
   sky-scrapers in *******
sand dunes?

         the qu'ran should have
forbidden the architectural ambitions
equivalent to the tower of babel
being erected, in environments,
that could never sustain said projects...

    and who originally spewed the term
islamophobia?
Sunni Islam...
        i never liked this strand of belief...
i hate the Sunnis like
a Shia partisan...

p.s. it's called patriotism is America...
but nationalism in Europe...
    you sure that's not a synonym?
Europeans can't be patriotic,
and Americans are never nationalistic?

...

   well: how could i ever convert to islam,
i do enjoy the adhan from time to time,
"sorry", but i do...
  i can't help it:
if i'm a sucker for pop songs,
i'm also a sucker for the adhan...
   crusader songs, templar songs become
stuffy after a while...
and last time i checked:
     there were the northern crusades
against the baltic people:
notably prussians, lithuanians...
with that cushion of: mediating the
escalation of war by the polacks...
coming from the east:
  last time i checked the mongols
didn't reach leipzig...
               buffer zone people...
and what of the ottoman onsalught
of vienna 1529: the ****** winged hussars
won the charge...

so, coming back to heidegger... aphorism 26
ponderings IX... how am i to not be
the historical animal?
         perhaps in german, in germany
i might become a non-historical animal,
to begin: anew, but with a terrible
past to hide, to negate...
   i could do that: if i were a german,
speaking german, in germany...
but i'm in england:
            i might have some roots in
Silesia, but it's "hard" to not be a historical
animal, an "animal" with a sense of time,
i.e. a future a past a present...
esp. under the english conditions
of: the biological animal momentum narrative,
like a tsunami, like an earthquake...
ripples throughout...
              i can't move forward with
the english championing darwinism every
single ******* step of the way...
why can't they hide darwin like the polacks
hid copernicus...
given the motto: copernicus -
who moved the earth, and stopped the sun...
why wouldn't i escape into history
if the current biological reality is:
(a) a yawn... the cruel nature of per se?
   the courting of pigeons on a t.v. antenna...
pigeons get rejected all the time,
lesson learned, he bows and bows,
coos... expands his tail feathers upon
the bow then folds them... she flies away...
repeat...
    (b) i can't escape being a historical
animal in the way that what the current
facts are being repeated have encountered
a whiff of Chernobyll...
              history is inclided to answer reality...
biology? not so much... not from what i've
seen and heard...
             truly a schizophrenics disney dream:
to walk among the newly insane feeling
like the only sane among them...
beau-ti-ful!
                   well... given the current criteria
of being bilingual as being synonymous
with being a schizophrenic...
           magic!
                    
   now the crescendo...aphorism 24
ponderings X:

              the word designates, the word signifies,
the word says, the word is (heidegger)...

i found that you can only write
"philosophy" with a neat, fixed vocab. regime,
clarity of boundaries...
    quadratic events in vocab.:

i.e. the reflexive: yourself, himself, itself etc.
and the reflective: your, self....
                       his, self...
                                  it, and the self...
                    ergo? atheistic scissors,
  the two articles, indefinite and definite
                                 a / the "self"...

i'm not playing "identity politics",
when i say that only two peoples ever managed
to sack Moscau... the mongols and the polacks
with the help of lithuanians,
"identity politics" only happens in
post-colonial society, akin to the english,
i'll speak the english,
but i will not be a cucked indian of
the former raj: i will eat the fish & chips,
i will eat the sunday roast,
   i will eat the english breakfast with great
delight...
            but i will not do what these former
colonial masters expect of me:
integrate at the expense of making my
mutterzunge into hubris!
stubborness contra pride...
                hard to tell the difference...

and why do i like heidegger so much?
i'm not into the ad homine arguments...
my grandfather, was, a communist party member...
so?
       i like heidegger... because he appreciates
poetics, i like that poets can share the same
values as philosophers,
thanks to heidegger: we have been requested
back into the republic...
if plato and islam didn't like us, hanging around,
some offshoot german thinker / promenade
enthusiast like used enough to,
i suppose: ban the theatre puppeteers...

i am not playing identity politics...
biological reality is not enough...
but archeological reality?
       can you really advance to counter?
i was born near:
Krzemionki Opatowskie, a Neolithic and
early Bronze Age complex of flint mines
for the extraction of Upper Jurassic (Oxfordian)
banded flints...
  personally? i don't believe in
the African genesis conundrum...
i believe "my" people originated from
the Indian sub-continent,
as, associated with the complex:
Indo-European categorization of language;
i'm still to see an African phonetic
encoding system, beside the hieroglyphics...

i, was, born, there! i'm not a displaced
post-colonial debacle between former master
and former slave...
i have: roots... i'm not ******* up to the fish & chips
brigade with a friday night's worth of curry...
i cook my own curry,
and by god: it is the food of the gods...
i'll give the blue indians that counter...
but sure as **** not the worth of mead
or whiskey...

if they only tolerated themselves,
sure, learn the english language,
but know this much:
           english is the modern lingua franca...
it's the language of economics,
forget the natives, too ignorant to learn
either deutsche or française:
island-folk...
                what else, what other attitude?
even the russians are like:
that land of the weirdos? the idiosyncratics?
yes, we know that land...
the only "thing" that shelters the english
are the h'americans, the south africans,
the australians etc.,
  sure as **** the scots aren't sheltering them...
and, mind you?
   if the i.r.a. really wanted to plant
a bomb?
   a real bomb? they'd revert from speaking
any english to begin with... resorting
to revising their usage of gàidhlig:
ga-id-hlig... gaelic...
   like the welsh, stubborn people, proud people,
retaining their Çymraeg...
celt: said kelt...
the glaswegian football team?
       Çeltic... not: keltic...
  borrowed from the greek: sigma (ς: cedilla to ****)...
   wow! all the particulars in the english tongue!
guess it would take an ausländer to spot them!

U-21 european championships,
england versus romania:
                           a magnificent match...
the youngsters playing better football
than the oldies in their mid to late / early 30s...

i'm trying to tolerate Islam,
               it's not in my nature...
            hell... i enjoyed visiting a turkish barber
shop, i still have an unflinching opinion that,
the turks are the best barbers in the world...
but...

              this quote, is going to **** you:
same aphorism / pondering (24 / X) -


*** fight videos - count dankula...
you know what i'd love to do to these little
snarky *****?
the french revolution isn't enough...
n'ah, them hanging, is not enough....
ever heard of the butchers' hook?
                 it's also callled close-up fishing...
imitation hang-man...
   you insert a fishing hook...
and you let the sweeney todd ****** dangle...
on a hook, rather than a noose...
lords of salem come your way?
i'd rather the snarky teen hanging off
a fisherman's hook than dangle
like some lynched ******...
beside the suffocation,
i'd like them with a fisherman's hook entombed
in their hard palette...
         i don't want them hanging...
what am i? a sadist?
  i want them on the fisherman's hook!
when suffocating without a broken spine absorbed
by the neck isn't enough!
  fisherman's hook gallows is a
masterpiece... of suffering...
  most certain...
  when cheap comedy is being towed...
making fun of bums, or homeless people...
the current society is so welcome
to bypass all the "adventures" of Loki...
but akin to the lords of Salem...
burn!? such a limitated imagination!

ah... right... digressing...
        the reflexive / reflective quadratic...
language - only if speech  has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it
become strong (enough) for the hidden
              play of its essential multivocity
(as withdrawn from all "logic"),
             of which poets and thinkers alone
are capable, in their own respective modes
and their own directions of sovreignty.

we do live in a time of a lost sense
of dialectic, since we do not live in a time
of etertaining dialogue,
perfectly sensible opinions,
that's all we have...

                       if one of these snarky *******
came up to me...
they'd get a chance to experience a rubric
of 4, knuckles...
what's 189 centimeters in empirical?
6ft2...      oh!
                   see where imagination takes you?
and here i was: thinking i was without it!
butcher's hangman...
oh, not so easy...
                  
                fame by no association to fame...
just the tears of parents who raised their children
to be nothing more than rugrats...
annoying gnat like bothersomes;
and nothing quiet special to be associated
with weimar berlin...
     just, these,
   h'american mall onlookers
with pwetty-guy-for-a-white-fly-mentality,
as borrowed from californian
1990s punk;

re-used ****** losers.

mad-hatter's fraction: 10/6....
      0.666...
      well: to the given extent:
1.666666(7)....
     1, 0, /6,
no number is divisible by 0,
every number, divisible by 1:
is the same number...
    mad hatter's 10/6...

   re-used ****** losers...
i like that phrase...
        7 for every 6, 7 for every 6...
until the 0. fraction comes
a 1.: exponential serf of 0...
0 being the multiplier...
          
         i really am growing a beard to less
don it, but rather to experience
a relief from patience...
war robots?
the first non n.p.c. game...
i like that, very much...
      and when i did:

you know my first experience of
love at first sight?
the younger sister of my then girlfriend...
****** up ****...

love at first sight is a terrible phenomenon...
i was nearing 18, she was barely 13...
i was dating her older sister...
but it was love at first sight,
the trouble with: love at first sight:
it doesn't lie...
it tries to lie...
          but it can't lie...

   paedophilia? a bit... untouched bodies
though... bodies of people who were
never supposed to touch...
i once said to a fwend:
well wouldn't it be ****** up if i touched
her?
   she's a muse, which doesn't translate
into vacating her as a busy body
worth of a touch, does it?
     if only my old friend samuel said
otherwise:
sylvester "contra" tweety:
my first girlfriend...
but her sister?
         i was nearing 18, she was about 13...
love at first sight...
untouched, cradled, unscathed...
and so she remained...
   until she did what every girl would
have done...thank god she remained
a figment of my imagination...
   rammstein: rosernrot...
    
           i have seen love at first...
such a load of ******* that it had to be
the younger sister of a girl i was dating...
and the **** that i had to be 18 and see
was just beginning her teenage transition...
the world unfair i grant
the most justifications... as being
the (just - unnecessary adjective) arbiter...

love at first sight becomes a forbidden love...
love at first sight was always a forbidden
love...
           and the sort of "love" that achieves
a perspctive of change that doesn't
translate into old age...
love at first sight is soon translated
into a love of affairs closely associated
with middle-age disenfranchised
state of affairs...
i.e. to love again...
            how else to feel relief from
having lost both one's inhibitions
               as well as one's ambitions?!
in the conundrum of the mortal
"question" of the continuum being
preserved?

Willets cull the seawall
snapper on the grill
rock ***** swoon
in shallow lagoons
long boats pass
under quiet
palm shade

Plovers dance and flutter
handrails frayed and torn
graffiti spots
at lovers rock
frigate-birds fall
from a high
noon sun

Thatched roof on a mud wall
fish flags settle score
anchors arch
in front line march
pillar cracks form
under rust brown scars

Elegant tern and grebe
watchmen fall in cue
children play
on crested waves
whimbrels and notchers
perch above Tentaciones

Striped pelícanos
the bandits of the sea!
merchants grow
in steady flow
siblings jostle
in a tide cooled sand

Heerman gull and boobie
durango smoke in yurt
boiler shrimp
and puffer blimp
castle buckets and scrapers
under a dusk light cheroot

Six pulls on a lead line
painted toes in sand
shearwater run
in a rainbow sun
the portly mexicano
flaunts his tacos
and wares

Rooster house for swordfish
bamboo shoots and sails
broken shells
and ocean swells
rise
on the
perfect
La Ropa bay

stacking the arrows in piles
a triangle of fuego
furnaces blaze fire
infinite reminders
of the morning after
shafts of light
drift from window panes
remake our names in
god’s slumbering veins
from here to there a whisper
or was it a word
fellow companions
have you heard
the threadbare sisters
took their turns
climbing mountains in order
that we could learn
the ways
of green hearted sun-scrapers
sweet little dangers
fellow death chasers
full of music
givers of blooming veils
bouquets of snow and hail
almond shaped eyes
resplendent thighs
and a mind as pure as a lake
during an alaskan winter
in the frozen splinter
trees are taken from their roots
the women are bleeding
weaving you the meat and the story
outsiders are cast from clay into statues
with feminine bodies
curving like cotton candy
i choose to impress you
repeat the compliments
that land on empty stomachs
string together words
like a rosary of sweet nothings
simple deeds give thrilling feats
a chance to restore their honor
purity is unwashed in ***** soil
as i am cut from the cloth of the earth
our shirts are pressed at birth
white light forming fellowship
dimples in the cheeks of the mother
the earth’s bones torn out from under
the way we made ourselves invisible
the minute we realized our accents were noticeable
our actions were abominable
how could we ever repay
the generosity we were treated to
our ultimate needs are met by poetry
upon a ridge a silent figure wept
and held his head upon a bed of cement

pulling you through the needle eye of time

over my shoulder the dawn,
and the city’s scrapers sky glass have turned pastel

the sun has had a great time
being an agitated red eye
infected and watering, pooling and flooding and
drowning

blinding
indifferent
life-giving
same-time

the people asleep and the memories stain
with spells
promises and prayers

all infinite, and finite
wary of sentient
and one

drowsy hive mind
reoccurring dreams- a drive thru memory
passing through with
intermittent lucidity

Scrapers will no longer scrape.
Fighters soon to lose the short fight.
Pilots are forced to surrender control.
Snakes on a plane will bank into a roll,
a scene that really no longer is scenic.
Leaders still read while getting a scare.
Huge landmarks that I swear were once there,
bridges in shortage are counting the tolls.
Dust that eventually will never be settled,
liquid support that used to be metal,
big bad crude that never was good—
things impossible suddenly could.
Answers quickly try to be drummed.
Future conflicts guaranteed to be won,
particles blocking our UV death sun,
days become decades and turkey is done.
Brave individuals are no longer bold.
Families’ histories are quite often told,
a baby’s bottle empty with no one to hold.
Government figures tilted but somehow sold
parades in protest with a circus in town.
A tiger got out, but why can’t he growl?
Seems that the cat’s got somebody’s tongue.
Another channel covers son after son,
numbers mounting, but not the right ones.
Cabbies still nose their thumb after thumb,
training centers destroyed one after one.
We should’ve just played “Drop the **** bomb!”
Fear is good, and of course good is feared;
it’s the only thing that drives us way over here.
Just like the Bible, it’s mostly made up.
The supersonic jet has just hit a rut.
The dirtiest of bombs versus our Smith and Wesson.
“Come on gang, why would you even question?”
Like death and taxes—there’s none that’s more sure,
but then there’s the free upcoming history lesson.
“Ain’t gonna do it” acting just like his pop.
This rancher really means it when tossing the slop.
“Still can’t find him—he’s with boys in Brazil.”
What’ve they done lately to lighten the till?
It’s time for the Allies to storm up this hill.

Black bombs fly
religious people lie
sky scrapers cleric capers
THOSE!!!! archaic papers rise
here human dwelling must crumble
and masses must die.
WHERE ARE THEY GOING TO???????
in this barren space of Arabic land
feet aimlessly plod
the elderly pray
widows wail
orphans weep
and babies cry
on the order 1947
sacked from a place called heaven
waves in a sandstorm
40 nights and 40 more....
THOSE!!!! ghouls are rotten to the core
killing innocence
and much, much more....

Old memories preserved in black and white.
Reminisce of a time less contrite.
Seen through the lens of those without strife.
Young and free with a passion for life.
Replaced by wisdom, fear and guilt.
For the life one has methodically built.
With walls and doors, and windows to see.
As the world passes by this absentee.
Surrounded by frames of the finest wood.
Of snapshots of the potential that someday could.
Climb the mountains unreached by the hands of our time.
Instead stuck walking for fear of the climb.
For fear of the fall and all it might bring.
Fear of the inability to rebuild his wings.
Compliant with gravity, compliant with normality.
Unfamiliar with the rebellion that once filled his soul.
Defining his life where their now is a hole.
Replaced by a scar and filled with his tears.
As the joys of his childhood continue to disappear.
Chased away by the light of reality.
Youthful dreams replaced in actuality.
Ambitions refocused towards sensuality.
Mind made up of generalities.
Soul defined in spirituality.
As his life moves slowly into irrationality.
And though the colors here are always bright.
They are most vulnerable in the absent of light.
Replaced by the darkness and a mind numbing truth.
One we all have forgotten from our youth.
That the potential of life knows no bounds.
And that which we can create will always astound.
Those who come after us and those who continue to follow.
Will continue to fill our world as if it was hollow.
In need of filling with that which they create.
Building from our ashes on a brand new slate.
Their artistry challenged only by those.
Who have left footprints in the sand with their bare toes.
So which life do you wish to live.
One of solitude or one where you continue to give.
Give your time, give your energy, give your heart and your soul.
To the child in you whom you continue to out grow.
Continue to neglect who’s dreams have yet to be filled.
By the world you once dreamed of with those Legos you use to build.
Dreams filled with sky scrapers all in black and white.
Only to be interrupted by mornings first light.
Life’s colors seeping in as they begin to fill your days.
Your youthful ambitions still here in many ways.
Still clinging to you through those memories of yesteryear.
Captured in your childish smile radiating so clear.

i am wearing a kimono,
this sheer, garish, floral shred of fabric that wafts about my frame.
the cafe people snip at it with their eyes full of sharp edges.

ive been here all day
the view is terrible,
the music
is like the sound of a snail in seasalt.
little
crackles
of wet flesh hot and retreating, no, burning.
but i am so tired I cant move.
maybe it isn't so bad,
maybe I am just being difficult...
everything,
even the kiss colored leaves that
toss themselves down the boulevard,
seem shrill to me.

all i can
think about
is what you said to me last night

"a pretty face is a loaded gun"
tearing holes into me with your angry eyes.
you know
the line itself is crap,
a splinter in this thigh,
it is snapping, that line, under all the meaning
i gave it  in my drunken storm.

i walk along that line,
as though it is stretched between sky scrapers,
high above like a tightrope.
today all the great buildings that surround, give me perspective on my size,
and they hiss
as great, hollow objects seem to do sometimes.

now that iam awake
i see that it doesn't make sense
when you said it
you were swimming in a gin bath and
playing the poet with a shredded heart
but iam trying to give you credit
and find something other then an image
-image of my body
with a heavy, black barrel protruding from my throat
and a tantalizing trigger, curling like a tongue taunting you
to pull it
and blow your ******* skull apart-
you were just trying to offend me thats what i see.
dont blame this face, you are just angry.

goddamm the music here sounds like nails!
that man over there with the sloppylips looks like he might disintegrate
in worse shape then me I think,
I hope.

anyways i was saying dont blame this face
thats right i say iam beautiful,
you said it first though.
though you only said it, in search of the trigger.

christ,
we all need to get up and go,
this place is like a horse's mouth
lets all get up and walk out together in a thread of gorgeous bodies who just
wont take it anymore. lets go.
forget it. wait
what was i saying?

Hypocrite,
Hypocrite am I.

Cruel nature
plays the harshest games,
the fire-on-the-Cuyahoga,
****-splatter brain busters.
The city is cooled by her
harsh and horrifyingly
Maternal touch.
Snow falls attractively
on the dying city below,
picaresque and perfect
in this last-winter scene.
The two sky scrapers
pierce through winter's
frozen cocoon,
though envelop will be the
less threshed land.
Slums are ravished in snow,
spoiled by the cold
cold cold crying
of a maiden not warm.
I am buried beneath
layers of snow,
reddened when paled,
angered by my cooling.
Numbing comes with this
frenzied freeze,
like the kids down the street
who grow out their beards
even though they can't
grow their *****.
I am numbed
despite the fact that
Feeling is fruitful;
cruel nature does not wish
for such connections
to fall upon me.
Perhaps it is love,
and I would love to believe so,
that causes her to covet-
no, hoard me so.
Perhaps it is love,
and it so clearly is ringing in this numb numb numbness,
that causes her to bury me
in mountains of snow.
I am counting down the time
til my melt down,
as spring is not so long away.
Perhaps it is love,
and the rising flowers whisper it like jealous children oft do,
that she has always been
so deathly afraid of.
This is the spring of our love,
But we are not as springy as we should be.

Hypocrite,
Hypocrite am I.

Mid October takes its end of season's leap
into the solitude of post-tourism autumn.
The landscape shows its truer face to celebrate
the reassembly of local solidarity.

Tat and trim tucked into hibernation,
chalkboards erased,
scant takings totaled,
inflatables deflated.
Unsold crafts packed between pages of yesterday's
'Correio de Manha'
Shocked freezers stand open-mouthed
their diet of ice dwindled to a thin trickle.
Sunshades collapse in deep south style,
redundant loungers relax supine.

Kids ***** back to school -
a mule-train of shoe-scrapers packed to the hilt
dawdles through warming scents of
post-salad indulgence,
sweet with the street-aroma of 'feijoada',
garlic, and  aromatic oregano
***-grown in a back plot, littered with
discarded placards and tired bikes.

Past men leaning doors, unsure of new routines,
idle hands and minds with new time to fill
mostly in cold bars for warm camaraderie.
Women pick fitfully at quiet-season's crochet
squatting to gossip under a white wash
slung and pegged, stick-sure
against thin bleached facades.

Under Planes, old comrades congregate
shuffling at a make-shift table,
tired eyes set on cards,
playing for cents under a limited sky
once defined by Salazar.

Car parks thin.
Beneath the russet canopies street-sweepers
scorn a reckless wind, where still sun-crisp leaves
gather in gutters, thirstily anticipating
the first deluge under autumn's gathering clouds.




copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

Once I have been to that city
the city of ritzy splendour,
of hoary grandeur,
a gargantuan pile of steel and granite.
It stood an enigma
on the banks of Hudson,
lulling the waves to sleep
in the garish light of neon bulbs
with an eternal tumult
heating up its nerves

Walking down its streets alien
scenes eerie scurried past-
Men and women-
of all climes and continents
all ethnic denominations,
all shapes, sizes and colours,
blonds, brunettes,
blacks and whites,
tourists and nomads,
in flashing styles
outlandish costumes,
tonsured, dyed
and tattooed,
on shoulders, back and chest
with bizarre shapes,
Some dressed from top to toe
many bordering on ******,
splurging with life
feverish and frenzied
speaking different dialects,
some tall, some lean, many obese
trundling down busy streets
that never go still
with sleep and awakening
but action, commotion, agitation,
where each day is an eternity
and each night- a New Year’s Eve
where business runs without pause
rife with sounds and noises -
the incessant roars of fevered minds
muffled, stifled, excited, agonized
mixing with music flowing from concert halls
merging in sounds of siren
and speeding traffic
A banal hubbub-
A hoarse discordant clamour!

I passed through avenues
where sky scrapers
huddled together on either side
where once stood the Twin Towers
stabbing into clouds –
those titanic monuments of Yankee pride,
one day raced down to Ground Zero
where terrorists wreaked havoc
and wiped thousands unwary -
still frozen in the dark memories
of that day light nightmare!

Passing down Wall Street,
the nation’s Money Mart
that spawns an industry
of ruthless dreams and fantasies,
I saw,
the mammoth Bull, charging feral
under whose crushing hooves
many fall dead
and rise again like Phoenix
or soar into indefinable heights
or bury their dreams ever
under the sod.

Broad roads that stretched endless
seemed to lose themselves
like the mazy tangle of complex minds,
and pavements
littered with a thousand moving feet
Men and women in pairs,
hand in hand,
lip to lip,
bodies entwined
seen in beaches and parks
in whose brain
Marriage- labelled an anachronism!

In these hurricane of faces
with fleeting passions
or fixations of their own
What chemistry could I discern?
A zest for life--or its absence?
A search for a life lost in living?
A fight for survival
Or
A passive surrender to the inevitable?
I do not know—
I fail to define
I fail to divine.

All.
The mindless purchases
The green leaves we inhale
The uncontrollable laughter
The never ending sky scrapers
The musicians in the street

Do not change the fact.
That we are all alone
We have all been used up
We cannot measure up.
That we were not present
The day the obscurity faded.

However, they remind us.

That our souls remain alert.
Striving for revival.

Rain dancing towards a puddle on my tongue
reaching for something external, an embrace that chokes us.
This beautiful black bike thats engine screams like my fringed back,
I escape on the leather seats and the smooth silver
Blooming baby blossoms on the trees
(as tall as mountain) tops fly back as I race forward
Escaping our planted roots
Picking one by one to bring along, I balance beings.
The afterrain lets on a mystifying mist that wets my hand and the blossoms leak out on the distant pavement
I break in the air.
Stuck in this sanity.
I’m soaring on my engine like a hot air balloon
A smooth transcendent layer of life I ride on.
On clouds and winds past sky scrapers
Insanity is comfort
I float on,
bearing the future of
absence.
I enter no oxygen and mouth goodbye to breath.
But the weight is waved off
in a tide of tickling tongues
desertion is destination.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
You made me happy when you were sane.

Singing to me, in that little coffee shop,
I wanted you to continue singing forever.
I was lost to the people around us.

Your voice was my foundation.
Your smile was my heart-beat.

But now, your smile is a flickering, dying flame.
But now, your heart-beats are counted.

We dreamed of traveling the world.
We dreamed sky scrapers and lion tamers.
We dreamed of a life that never will be.

You’re still my sunshine,
Please don’t take that away.

all i can think is
i wish i was the wild one
wild sister of the street
wild mother of the hungry sky
something poetic
like wild girl, roaming
more than just a wisp born
of country air
wild wind, ******* forward
through the field
across a country deep and cracked
until i reach the skyline
scrapers extending beyond the reach
of any mountain, and the stars rest
above the smog of the home
where the wild ones rest
where the wild ones lie awake
and i can camouflage myself
in the darks and reds and glittery bedspreads
and be wild
in a different way
paint me wild, paint me
green and blue with envy
paint my cheeks white, paint over the pink
of stale summer air
all i can think is
i wish i was the wild one
break away, go some place
where i can tell my story a million different ways
and they might believe me
make me wild in another way
no more ***** shoes or burdock-ridden hair
give me sharp heels, black combat
sleek and shiny, change me
make me wild
and i sink to my knees
sink into the soft, welcoming concrete
and say please, city
change me

many girls i know like men that glean
like sky-scrapers, brilliant in their hard lines
that rise up from the ash in a fit of man made glory.
somehow, i bypassed this lust for babel opting for flesh
teeming with genesis like the forest behind my cabin.
its heartbeats of life with in death pound beside me
as i lie in bed with the light off and the blinds open
looking at poplars like they're the pillars of Hercules
crudely inscribed with the letters ne plus ultra.
i thought he was in the spirit of lake of the woods
but his roots do not flourish here, they scour for soil
and water finding only dry sand. so at what point
did i stop ghosting the natural curve of the road
engulfed by the yellow of my favourite blouse
reflecting back in the blacks of his eyes like lighthouses
or twin Brittle Bushes from the Sonoran. he is nothing
but an African desert where children absorb warnings
like liberal skin, oblivious to the natural radiance in desolation
and everything that i will eventually let go

Land of the free
Home of the brave
From sea to shining sea
In between golden waves

From the fields farmers plant
Across the vast Mid-West
In this Americana Panorama

Northern cities touching sky
Scrapers lighting up the night
As the Carolina shore
Echos back the oceans roar

Along the Texas plains
Where freedom loves to sing
In this Americana Panorama

With the Grand Canyons openness
To Alaska's wilderness
The mountains majesty
Powerful in its reach

In all the time that's spent
There's no other way to live
In this Americana Panorama

The colorful blue fescue
On a Kentucky afternoon
Under a Live Oak tree
With Spanish moss as company

To the California sunset
Being the last thing said
In this Americana Panorama

If only your few freckles were the few stars I can see outside my city window.

If only that crescent moon was your mischievous wink, or sly smile.

If only I could jump out of my window and hop upon the sky scrapers, higher and higher and rest upon that crescent, rest upon thine shut eye, thy lips.

If only this window, your glasses were gone. I could leap and show you how much I love you. I could show you how high and fast I would jump over the CN Tower and fall again just for you and kiss your freckles on my descent.

Just for you. Just for you.

93 million miles Ra’s rays travel
and light your cratered face

as you rise between monoliths
where janitors man buffers

and ambitious white collars sit by crumpled fast food wrappers
devouring data, dreaming of their own ascension

while you climb ten floors a minute

tomorrow, our wide world will shave a corner from you
in a fortnight, you will be a white whisper

though surely as our stone spins, you will again
become gibbous--then regally full

inside the scrapers, the buffers yet buzz,
the aspiring giants yet yearn for more

while you remain, silent light in the night,
unperturbed by their folly

Soft soled shoes skipping silently along sun scorched sidewalks of Sacramento
Singing sad songs of sinners sinning
  Slinking into shadows of sky scrapers before the sun has soundly set
    Scowling at the sound of sick screaming children suffocating from the smog covered streets
  Spectators sighing, seeking shelter from scoundrels scavenging cents for smack
******* clad ***** soliciting STDs to self loathing suckers
  Smouldering remains, secreting Satan's scent on 2nd
    Sunken sailors slitting throats with sharpened sabres.

I was somewhere where I was enticed enough that I forgot to call home, I forgot to check social media, I forgot to respond to texts, I forgot I had a different life somewhere else. I forgot that public transportation stresses me out, and I also forgot about how meeting new people can put me on edge. I was somewhere fresh and new, somewhere that made me independent, open, curious and even more so adventurous than I already am. I was somewhere where my eyes shone brighter than the street lamps and sky scrapers. I was somewhere where no one knew me and as cliché as it is, I could be whoever I wanted to be. I was somewhere new, and I could feel it in my bones.

I hope everyone finds a place like that, somewhere that's so encompassing and captivating that wherever you were before seems small and outgrown. I hope everyone wakes up in a place they love someday, in a place they realize they can be and do and say what they want. I hope everyone walks outside and realizes that where you are now doesn't have to be where you'll be forever.

I was somewhere so enticing and beautiful that it made me realize I can be those things too. I hope I end up somewhere where the stars shine as bright as I do, where my love for wherever I may be is as vast as the sky. I'll end up somewhere someday, and I've never been so ready to find my somewhere out there.

I tear apart the city streets
blow up sky scrapers
challenge the south easter to a battle
and fight concrete.

to find
what I
misplaced
.

Green grasses versus sky scrapers,
and in the end the one whose more grounded survives.

and when it's time to say goodbye,
it's time to say goodnight.

Hello neon lights!
Hello moonless nights.

wish me the sweetest dreams, of cotton and candy swirls. . .
close your eyes, and feel your world twirl.

forever are the courses running closed , to be in their eternal mind a fool to think things end
they only ever stop to start again,
finish to begin
anew afresh
thunderous rains slap at the pavement from the 15th floor
sheets are seen
moving in their own cyclonic storm whirls
nevermind the sky scrapers or monorail
hit hard at the concrete creepers scaling the air

less a jungle more mountain chain of robotic tendencies

If we rip out the heart of the sky and try to build
scrapers that make the sky cry
then we're right off the scale
Fail
I'll say
never seen a fail that won a day
and lost somewhere along the way were notions of mortality.
Corporeal hospitality and the thanks of the dead
wine to the head
and grist to the mill
The devil will take you and use the abuse you have settled in
for sin and corruption
a demon concoction
drink hard and long
and the wrong becomes right in your mind's out of sight
and we're all for the knackers yard
hard to take in
**** the world and we've been here and done this for Sweet F.A
Never seen a fail that won a day.

Everything she wants is in her favorite things. It's in the songs she sings, the photos she reblogs, the movies she sees- she wants the tender, lengthy kisses she sees in films. She knows better than to expect it, but by God does she want it. The songs about adoration and indefinite love, about thinking she's a sight and lovely and beautiful, maybe even overwhelming and frightening- she wants it.

I want it. I want a mind-blowing love. And I want to hear about it. I don't want a silent lover; I want someone to yell about it from rooftops and sky scrapers to loud cities below.

I want a man who isn't afraid to tell me how he feels because he's afraid of losing me in the first place. I try to be this for others and I hope someday a man walks into my life and says, "My turn."

I know love isn't easy or picture perfect or always pretty, alluring or needed. But I love with my whole **** heart. I lay it out on the floor in your path to see if you'll run away, step on it, scoot around it or maybe pick it up and hand it back, saying, "Lay it down for someone else."

I want a man who will write the songs so they can be the soundtrack to our cinema of love and growth and adoration. It seems cliché, corny, unrealistic. Like a dream, like a fantasy. But why settle for an ordinary love? I want an out-of-this-world love that keeps me on my toes, keeps me with my wits, and keeps me alive. I want it to make my blood pump through my veins, I want it to make my blood boil. I want it in my veins, my eyes, my skin, my finger tips and *****. I want a man who lays his heart down in front of me, and asks for a trade.

She wants a love like the movies and songs. So, go give her a love that puts those **** movies and songs to shame. Kiss her as the sun comes up, kiss her as it sets. Hollow out her curves with your lips, kiss her where she likes herself least. Hold her. Remind her what she means to you, because she knows she's amazing and she won't wait for someone who doesn't show her that she is.

She is the song, the movie, the moment- now go sing of her, act alongside her, be alive with her. Do it. Just ******* do it. Love her with every ounce of your being, every molecule, because she's putting every fiber of her being into this and nothing more would light her up more than you loving her as much as she loves you.

Earlier today, my script was brought to life and shot on set.  Of course I was nervous, but everything went well even though we were pressed for time near the end of the shoot. My actors and actresses were fantastic, and I could not have asked for a better cast. I don’t think I could thank them enough for their efforts and they achieved much more than what I had hoped.  

     Even though the stress of shooting my film was gone by mid-evening, something someone had said to me earlier would not rid my mind.  I became restless and felt confided in my dorm; I needed a distraction.  Even though I could hear laughter just a few doors down as my hall had gathered for some “bonding event”, I opted to just be alone.

    I went outside, despite a slight drizzle that had snuck into the sunny day. I walked around campus and settled myself on the very right-end of an empty parking lot, just listening to music.  The sun had begun to dip down into an orange haze, setting the atmosphere blazing with yellows and greens.  It was simply astounding to see the city respond to the fading sun.  Cars went on their way home and the buildings lit up, incandescent lights shining much differently than the one burning in the sky.

      I sat and I watched, feeling content yet empty in a way I could never put into words.  There were so many things that took on a whole new form of life in the evening, how people spent their time as though it was through new meaning. Just to the left of me, I watched a couple slow dance to no music, just the light of the setting sun and the slow falling of rain.  I can honestly say that it was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, and I was captivated as her teenage clothes still spun just as elegant as a dress.  It was something you saw in movies, and the simplicity of it made it more cherish able.  

     The sun dipped down, disappearing beneath the clouds and the orange beams went with it.  My mood suddenly shifted as the two was casted with more of a blue light, and I felt more as an intruder than an on-looker sharing in a blissful moment.  I quickly looked away from them and back to the city.

      As the evening strewn into night, the last few rays etched faces into the sky-scrapers, and I doubt I will ever see a man-made object illuminated in such natural beauty. I wanted to watch the clouds fade into the darkening sky, but I felt as though a bit of privacy for the couple held more importance.

      While I stared at the ground, I couldn’t help but think that if I was as careless with my footsteps as I was with my steps in life, then I for sure wouldn’t end up worth while.  I then looked up to view the path ahead of me, and saw a stunning rainbow had somehow drifted into the sky without my notice.  I sat on a concrete wall near the library until it faded.
  
      A fair amount of time had passed so I begun to walk back to the now-deserted parking lot.  The sun was completely gone by now, and the only source of light felt fake and over-bearing.

     Just off of the parking lot was an uncut and untidy field in which three people ran about, waving sparklers in the night air.  It was gratifying to see people older than I acting with a carefree spirit. I observed the three lighting sparkler after sparkler, chasing each other with untroubled laughter. Once more I felt an aching in my chest, but it was a beautiful kind of pain. I felt as though I was intruding on someone’s privacy again, so I headed back to my dorm.

    I couldn’t help but write about what occurred tonight, and I highly doubt I will ever experience anything like it again. I certainly won’t forget about it anytime soon.

Thoughts from my least used paint brush:
I sometimes wonder what red taste like
I have seen my keeper bleed
****** knuckles, wrists, and knees
I often wonder if different shades of the same color hold the same feeling
I have never felt orange
Have never knit together sunsets or flowers
I am abstinent from such beauty
I have known blue
Paint bucket skies, blended grace to look upon
I do not want to take credit for what I have done
But I still want to be a part
I want to explore the color green
Plant gardens on woven white paper
Grow tall, thin, wide, strong
Walk in this ecstasy as a gardener
I want to build sky scrapers reaching into the lust of clouds
White, black, grey
I am okay with being neutral if it only means I will sip the savoring make up of this masterpiece
A possibility always seems to be floating next to me
I am only waiting to lifted into nirvana
I will wait forever for just one monument with my name carved into it
And I will not falter, I will not give up
My mouth has gone dry but I am hopeful to once again meet with my love of creativity

Utilize the practices and maneuvers developed in Hell
Watch the coherence of the corroded coercion
A little birdy told you to ignore the tingly feeling on the nape of your neck
And to use a little elbow grease to try and heal this place of its discord
The leave posthaste
Or so I've heard

Years have passed now a mountebank calls all those who suffer from foot-in-mouth issues, racing minds, unjoggable memories and anyone who's psychiatrist couldn't shrink their problems
"Come one, come all! Try the new elixir that with one taste all your worries, all your hardships, all your dreadful  nightmares incarnate will vanish in an instant!"

A large crowd made up of rogues, shot messengers, plate scrapers, date rapers accused of buggery, banished bums and exiled urchins, frail victims of nit picking and guileful gimmicks now surround the platform and end table stacked with tiny bottles of cloudy liquid

"It will help you pass a drug test, prevent you from waking up on the wrong side of the bed and you'll be able to recite the alphabet backwards!"
"Yes! You heard it here first, Doctor Meerkatt's Magic Elevating Elixir!"
"Now in a variety of four fruity flavors"
And coming soon, Dr. Meerkatt's Fast-acting Magic Elevating Elixir!"

Lines form
One for those who wish to take their's home and drink it
One for those desirous for mainline vaccinations
I go on neither line, I'm not susceptible to theses types of things
But I could be if given enough grief and desperation  

I've seen this act before
I've seen all the mind readers
All the fortunetellers
All the traveling sales people
Who collectively have the same goal
To attempt to sell some product or idea that seems worthwhile but in reality is nothing more than a cheap farce that you pay for with your milk money and your intelligence

I'll leave these scavenger hunts for trinkets of cures and hopes for the naive ones and the thoughtless adrenaline junkies who's minds will be abducted by some quack or prevaricator and their ignorant rants
Their "ignor-rants"

It just pains me to see you be a part of all this, my old friend
You were once a caring, cautious person
Now you're an abstract con artist
Now you're just Dr. Meerkatt