I hate how the words
"Lesbian," "Gay," "Bisexual," et cetera
Are thought of as bad words.

It's like, oh, no, don't teach your little sister the word lesbian
Don't tell her there are some girls who like other girls
How inappropriate!

It's like, oh, no, don't teach your little brother the word gay
Don't tell him there are some boys who like other boys
How disgusting!

Don't let anyone under the age you deem appropriate know
That there are people who aren't heterosexual
Why?
I can't possibly understand why.

There is no reason for homophobia, not really.
I saw a metaphor somewhere that went something like this:
"I was in Subway, and I bought myself a ham sub. As I was paying, the man behind me bought a different sub than me, and I was immediately offended that he got a different sandwich."
This is what it sounds like when people say homosexual people affect them.
How do they affect you?

Just because they don't love someone who is of the opposite ***
Or just because they like both
Or something else
Just because of their ****** preference, no matter what it may be
You think that gives you reason to hate them? Really?
Just because they're different than the 'normal' you're used to?
Normality is relative.
You can't say it's not "normal."
That is not a justified nor sensical argument.

What is wrong with those people?
Can't they just see past all their biases and realize that we're all people
And we all deserve the same rights no matter who we're attracted to
No matter who we kiss
No matter who we touch
No matter who we have *** with
Is it really that difficult?

We're all humans when it comes down to it, and we all deserve the same rights.
Everyone should be able to see that.

And you know what I wonder?
Why are we voting on whether people deserve rights or not in the first place?

And then there's people who act like homosexuality is a disease
People who act like anyone who is anything but heterosexual is broken and needs to be fixed

They're not broken.
They don't need to be fixed.
They are who they are, and the government shouldn't tell them what they can and cannot do
Based simply and only on who they're attracted to.

"You can't get married because you aren't straight."
Do you realize how shallow that is? Do you?
"You're disgusting because you aren't straight."
Why?
Why should it matter to you who they're in a relationship with?
It's their life, their decision.

No one ever asks heterosexual people why they're heterosexual.
No one ever says, "Hey, when did you decide you were straight?"
It's just ridiculous, and I'm fed up of it.

"If gay marriage is legalized, more people will become gay."
Oh, yeah, sure, of course, that will totally happen.
Just like when African Americans were given rights
Everyone decided they wanted to go out and become African American.
Just like when women were given rights
Everyone decided they wanted to go out and become female.

People of all sorts of sexualities and preferences have grown up
With mostly straight media everywhere
It didn't "turn" them straight.
So gay media won't "turn" anyone gay
It won't hurt anyone if there's a gay couple in a commercial.
Or a TV show.
Or any other form of media.

It makes me sick to think that just because of your personal opinion
My friends who are not heterosexual would not be allowed to get married
To the person that they love.

Do you know what will happen if gay marriage is legalized?
Gay people will get married.

Why can't you just understand that it doesn't matter?
Why should you care what they do?
Why should you care who they like?

It doesn't affect you.
It doesn't change you.
It's just giving LGBT people more control over their own lives.
It's just giving LGBT people rights they should have had in the first place.

**Why?

writing a nonsensical poem
and
expecting
a praiseful
comment
on
it
is
the
greatest
weakness
of
a
socalled
poet
like
me
on
HELLO POETRY

there are others like me I see. Lost as I was.
So
What could I do to ease their fretting,
would I be comforted?  No.
Back then,
no.
I refused the comforter
*** outchacom'fit zone
Oh, they be hell to pay,

-----
among the ideas that possess men,
there are tells,
among the men of both varieties possessed by or of
(as you shall see, it may be both) ideas ,
there are tells, twitches and ticks and unconscious daemons sorting
sayings
aphorisms, proverbs,
memes 'n' such.
Confusion sayin'
H.R. Puffin'stuff, that neveh me'nt a thang. Jes't aname anime annie mae, where's
annie mae moved to okinawa wa wa wa

Imps. Pulses of them flow through heare…
(those slips shall hereafter be known as di-sensical-utterences or dsu, in writing. i.e. here and hear, he-are, heare, here is heard hear and means something else, intensionally. We, augmented Adamkind of all kinds, can inject meaning at will.)

commonly on Sunday mornings,
though I doubt the impulses
have a calendar that might map to any ex- or im-
I'm never sure what goes properly with perience.
Prior to the trial, experience is so limited,
I'm going with perience, in and of itself,
perience is plenty. Ex-cepting,
you know, the lessons learned,
those have earned their proper
nomenclature.
Those are experience.
Lesson learned.
Twixt thee and me is no more mix-up,
idiot-syncrecy fused with two-mind
hate of knowing and unknown;
we know what experience really means to us.

We are bound in syncret oath sealed with shibboloths in unutterable names.
As it is written in the law of Moses,

"all this evil is come upon us:
yet made we not our prayer before YHWH our God,
that we might turn from our iniquities,
and understand thy truth. 
Therefore hath YHWH watched upon the evil,
and brought it upon us:
for YHWH our God is righteous in all his works which he doeth:
for we obeyed not his voice.

From <http://biblehub.com/kjv/daniel/9.htm>
Shame that such once breathed thoughts threading pearls and jade,
or was that chalcedony? - scatter when the thread breaks
. Shame, such thoughts, frail as smoke.
Sanctity sanity sanctify sanity,

We think such thoughts. Fragile spokes.
Sanctity sanity sanctify sanity,
time and time again,
what I called holy in my darkness, is holy in my light.


Words that lose the sacred salt are calcereous
grains of time, dust memes in the sun,
launched by centuries of tramping feet.
'haps the highest parts of the dust of the earth ever.
Oh,
how the masters love mastery of mystery.
"The old man on the mountain, he knew if he lied."
You, the observer of it all,
know.

"you knew nothing of my work"
"have a think"
"never thirst, imagine standing under knowing that"
Voices, the walls heard, stones speak, historically speaking
happens all the time, a frequency lock prevents it bleeding into now, but that becomes tyranny, believe me.

The ideas that possess men and provoke good works
or big, power-consumptive,

tale-swallowing feats,
those ideas are servants.
lacking any knowledge of good and evil,
such ideas are everywhere,
men who know say so. None of this was done in secret.
Twisted minds twist servant to slave labor. Magi-minds,
high-minded, relative to the belly-crawlers and creeping things,
see servant as tool and teacher. Same idea.
The original ideas we have to deal with.
They were seen to be good, by God.
There are no bad ideas, there are bad actions caused by mad ideas locked to single mindless anger impulses so callused as to appear gigantic,
certainly so, when they are known to lurk under beds and in selfish old men.
"Dark sayings, dear reader, pro fess pro verbs, action words snip "No lie is of the truth" snip
the lie and loose listing truth to the wind.
Who told you that inheriting the wind was like inheriting nothing?
You. You troubled your own house and you inherited the wind.
You came not to bring peace, but a sword…

The good news. Inheriting the wind is inheriting everything that ever matters, all the power in heaven and in earth was how simpler minds imagined shaping the idea.
Idyll minds, the devil's workshop, eh?
Comfort thought.
Who told you desiring comfort was a ***** thing?
Same voice went real deep and whispered,
"What price glory? Eh, pilgrim?"
stop. think

Sweet, for instance,
sweet, as an idea, can **** the man who makes it the basis of his value calculations.
Shame, came to prevent such impinging on subroutines intent on manifesting destiny,
as the sweet little ones imagined forevers in their pioneer-daze plays.
Shame is not blamed for being known,
the lying spirit who spoke with forked tongue,
sweet
little people, please, believe my lie,
there is a reason why
I know

There. Message in a bottle.
If you know what you know.
Messenger is what angel means, right? right. Who asks? Who knows?
No. I know you know this is
purposefully useful for
helping
crazy ideas
come back to some sem-sym-balance beneath the branches of the tree of knowledge, nestled in the twisting roots,
golden eggs, oh, far,
far
beyond Faberge, I must say. These, you must see to believe.

In my head it all fits
Dreams sync like clock gears
And each heartbeat hits
like a drum through my years

The past, the future, the present
Time doesn't matter
Inside, I don't resent
I'm full of life, rather

I have sensical daydreams
And their end is nowhere near
or atleast... so it seems.

Love poems rot,
The sensical knots.
I tie, overflowing, the dread.

The Pickwitkin Heavy,
The Verveberry Wedding.
Such shanks, still stuck in my head.

My memories loosen,
The Stopshift Tallcluesen,
Cut to myself dreaming in red.

Full throttle forward,
I'll sail ever toward,
My untying your knots from my bed.

Bottled up affection
So much more to give.
Bursting to just give it away
Much less than to receive.

A motive beyond selfishness
Logic seams protruded.
Less sensical to understanding,
Yet truly, eternally concluded.

Pivotal to our existence,
Impossible separation from our souls.
Loving another, only to love
Brazen faith like internal coals

A surrendering of hearts
Uncomfortable yet embracive
Doubts exist, but pale in comparison
Love being more persuasive.

The deepest truth
The greatest need
Saddest misplaced reality

Life long searching
Journeying toward
An unconditional love mentality

Here we are again.
Lying on my side,
You running your nonexistant nails
Down the curves of my bare back.
"I can't tell what you're writing."
"I'm not writing, stupid.
I'm drawing."
And I lay there
Reveling for 10 minutes,
Not at the comfort of being touched,
But because it's your fingertips
Tracing your silly doddles
Across my bare skin.
I'm not sure how we got here.
From crab rangoons and redbull,
To sushi and back scratches;
From best friends to this,
This thing so out of touch
With any sensical title.
I'm too much of a ****
To even begin to act like I notice,
To show that I'm more aware than I seem.
Time for a new distraction.
"Meet Virginia" is on, time to tease you.

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!!!

History has shown
They will **** their own
Before living with others in peace
Have no doubt
That hatred is as nourishment
Sustenance
Subsistence
A necessity for existence
They can not do without

Burning hot as fire within the wretched souls
Of those
Whose evil knows
No bounds
Would **** you
As soon as kick you
Because your skin is Olive or Brown
Or you pray to a Deity
That your life revolves around
The depravity
The corruption
Never cease to be astounded
By

Those that NEED someone to hate

Who would these mongers hate
If successful in their efforts
To eradicate
Everyone who was, from themselves, different?

If they knifed all the *******,
Burned all the *******,
Chopped up all the chinks
Would this, their hate, augment?

If they tortured the towel heads
Killed the catholics
Hanged the homos
Would this, finally, curb discontent?

Or

Would the haters implode
And begin to feed upon themselves

Would short people
Shoot tall people?

Would merely looking at skinny
Make fatty incensed?

Would brown-eyed people
**** blue-eyed people?

Would red hair and freckles
Be a stoning offense?

Would black-haired people
Break blond-haired people?

This is a hate poem…

And hate seldom makes sense…

But sensical or no…
Seems the real status quo
Matters love that we show
There will always be those
That just plain NEED

Someone to hate

You think you're special
Special, you are, my dear
Look in the mirror,
You're one in a million
You have two eyes, a nose
Oh, and a mouth too
That spits venomous fire
Onto every soul that disregards
The beauty of your mind
The logic they cannot find
In your thoughts and your speech
But, oh, how you mind
Everything that makes sense to you, is beautiful
And all that fails to, non-sensical
Of course, you're one in a million
A copy-paste of a different kind

a guy sits here
hair a twist
no ordinary man
but a case
whatever prefix fits

he knows no limitations
seeks no thrill but fear
holds no memory dear
brains grasp simply too frail
such a broken outside
and gargoyles pier
however
he tranquilizes them
anytime someone comes near
yet the people abstain still
no shame, no cheer

they simply cannot see what purity
he has in his crypt
intimidated
severe

so let us move forward and glaze over the thick
move towards the misery which anguishes him

nonsense is sensical, whimsy at best
rational is of logic and dreary
detest

******* and thumbing
he frantically does his best
pulls his hair out
pulls his hair out
closed fist
punches chest

"where is she
where is her
name i cannot confess
for it escapes me...
not because
but rather-"

due to his distress

he stopped and sighed
violence
cried
broke down
then bled
red from his eyes

i want her
the sad one
shy

hurt inside

abused, accursed
diseased but undisguised

she'll love me

she will
there's nothing there to hide
she'll make me forget myself
sing or dance or
romanticize

"i want her...
a baby's friend
the neighbor's newborn daughter
the baby friend that came over
as an infant, i saw her
i kept the same heart
but its been through a lot
and now its done with slaughter

i kept the same heart
its growing apart
i need the neighbor's daughter"

it seems as though convinced
he truly had the heart of a newborn
ambivalent
knowing no complexity
purely hurt or comfort
either way's a shoulder
diamond or dirt
seemed to be bipolar

so he seeks the same
not the opposite
that would be a shame

because no one else can relate
to someone who feels the world
has turned its back on fate

he seeks out this girl
overlooking
all the beasts in his way

with evil colors they mask their face
appear to appeal, they may

but he knows better
their defenses fragile
they attract a plethora

to which they expose
like a sinister rose
the black rock in frame

the black rock so hard
shapely carved
to which its "blacksmith"
inscribes no name

a black heart
he sighs
which holds no light

might as well not exist

sense is nonsensical
the way i stretch my fabric legs across concrete
                                         man made
synthetic                and                        septic

the trees blow in the breeze
                      beyond me
there's no pattern to the sway
though it makes sense
                                               in a way

sense is nonsensical
and i wish i could release the weight of my brain
drift into the wind with the tree's sway
if i'm lucky,

                         forget my own name

there is a broken thing
reformed in amber
disarranging the spectrum
of sensical causal motion
nail biting following
migration patterns of neural
activity and we bless the few
who cut clean and learn early
those bespectacled masses
cannot intuit the limited scope
of aversion to blurry pink clouds
gussied up in peripheral vision the
pineal gland controls circadian
rhythms gushes dmt when
we die i wonder i
wonder what that (vestigial)
little pinecone knows
that we don’t
cased in spongy
grey matter and i don’t think
much of time as metaphor but
my watch strap broke
yesterday i hope
that is
important i do

nothing so simple or complex
as love but(i carry it in my heart)

In the frame time with mimes
Circling around in rhyme
Where the whispers are shouted
And the misery is publicized
In colorful banners all emphasized
Take thy front foot to the left
And they back foot gone to theft
All here on the bitter mans salute
All here on the fitter mans salute
All here on the winning mans salute

And in sticking finicky horse flies
War torn and wishing they were never born
Telling tales that now are screened as myths
Where love is prophesized in the shape of gifts
No man may enter and no woman may squeal
We are all habits in finely packed eight dollar meals
Shipped off and clipped off
Like coupons were are richly scuffed
So here lie the bitter mans salute
So here lie the fitter mans salute
So here lie the winning mans salute

With the bid that went through by the government official
Stating that all tax will be in the form of red wax
Each child must pray to someone else so to obey
Kidnapped minds that grind their kinds as thin as lines
Non-sensical quotes that drift in the minds like long lost boats
Skimming the surface of a service of true freedom
Reaching millions with a smile with crossed fingers as long as miles
And here lie the bitter mans salute
And here lie the fitter mans salute
And here lie the winning mans salute

Our timing in the black market square
Makes all who enter shiver and dare
Know not who you hate only who you love
Take a start toward the finishing line above
Inside all of this lies no secret and no lie
Your heart will be broken but do not cry
Bright in the day but dark all around me now
The farmers in the field work with no plow
She's memorized by pity pain capturing her life
Sharpening the ****** weapon a heart shaped knife
Make your way down and
See the bitter mans salute
See the fitter mans salute
See the winning mans salute

two bodies; once one.
fumbling hands are now still,
clasped on separate knees,
separately shaking
with separate lives.
some words are best left unspoken
and best left to speaking in bodies
and tongues
and without understanding
as non-sensical as the birthmark
shaped like a boat
that she claimed was never on her
back before.

it wasn't there anymore.

everything was removed.

rent asunder.
torn apart.

Rack my brains
Rake through and find the right memory
Tip it out, squeeze and shape it
Mold it to a more sensical form
Then, observe your consumers
Subtle changes
Until it becomes almost an original story
Forgo accuracy for entertainment
More colourful, less accurate

To write a brilliant poem:
Use a concoction of ridiculous words.
Non-sensical message conveyed.  
Show off your manipulation to language.

Stop. And pause. And start again,
your repeated point no longer in tandem.
Then for some unknown reason ignore all logical structure and ask a question?

Darken your mood.
Randomly: use colons.
Where do; you use; semi-colons¿

Only poets admire your work.
The rests are ignorant gits,
who cannot see how your use of a thesaurus can bring upon untold bliss.

Reflect. Unreflect.
One or two words don’t quite make sense.

Finally summarise, your all-knowing point takes flight
Filled with silent anger; you’ve written utter sh**e.

Is it rude to lean my boots, that which touches the ground, without any kind of discretion or watchfulness, up against the toilet seat and tie them up neat, into little bows?
I'll never know, I suppose, whose bottom will sit, and ****, where I thought it appropriate to mend my un-laced foot.

Is it non-sensical and insensible to stare off into space, breath heavily, and pause in mid edit, while a handsome chap, inside and out, walks past with a stranger? "Call out his name," No, heavens no, do not call out his name.

Are our engagements forever fleeting? Am I to arrange the next meeting? "It's the 21st century," he retorts one day, "I gave you the wrong idea," the next.  Wrong idea? Just because we woke up and smoked a **** together and discussed the pros and cons of city life versus country life doesn't mean you gave me any ideas, I just thought you liked me.  

Wrong idea? Idea, the conception, misconception, that your touching my naked body, meant that from there on out, we were going steady, and I was to call.  

The 21st century, is all that it is cracked up to be.
And I am cracking up, outwardly, while I muse.
Inwardly, I am cracking.  
Needless to say, Athens county should most surely stop fracking.

I thought I knew anatomy until I took to mesmerizing
the movements of your finger tips and the curl of your lips
it was a surprise to me that everything I was sure of its meaning
measured up to nothing in my journey of analyzing
because bones are filled with marrow
but talent must support your limbs because theres no other way to explain it
and your finger prints must be hieroglyphs of the most beautiful piece of art thats taken to be written
I exhale carbon dioxide but your cadence is different
alongside common elements, intelligence is escaping from inside
I've sat to questioning the pictures my textbooks taught me
and the only sensical explanation is you're too beautiful to be contained by science alone
because you can't place an equation on a work of art
perspectives wont always let x = x
and maybe that's just it
the awareness of being aware pressed your eyes
so I studied them a bit longer, like a test I didn't want to fail
you have features that ask to be traced so they can be born to more than one place to grace the blank expressions of the earth's faces
an infinite impression of peacefulness
these aren't lines telling of hopeless love and romantic woes
Im looking to tell of one of the most interesting people I ever met
that didn't cause me to be swept from where I commonly stepped
but reminded me to be grateful for being grounded
butterflies never filled my insides
but a craving to learn everything that coincides with your latest stride

You asked me if I felt chills
down my spine when
I listened to jazz music
late at nights.
It was almost two in
the morning
and I was riddled
with paranoia
and sleeplessness,
so I told you that I spend too
many nights thinking
of my own mortality
and not
listening to the
strum of cellos and
violins clashing
together;
a supple sort of melancholy
trickling down my being.
    ..........
You told me that
you were tired
and that you were
picturing me
mumbling in your ear,
the things
I type down in
lazy, barely sensical
texts that lose their
meaning
when I read them
again in the
afternoon, craving
connection
more than love.
     ..........
We both have songs that
we can't listen to;
mine
is about a burning house
and it
reminds me of a
fifteen year old girl who
never
woke from her sleep.
yours
is about
someone
who broke your heart
and refused
to slow down even
when the
carousel stopped spinning.
    ...........
So, we live in each
others ripples,
consuming the
liquidity of time
that
we allow ourselves
to exist in and
I wander away a lot
but
you call me
your favorite reminder.
I keep travelling
through familiar
streets alone, watching
our lives
together collapse; lost
to a tide of memory.

Me and Mary moved in together almost six months ago now. We moved into a little smelly carpeted paradise on the top floor of pre-war building in Dennistoun . It has three rooms, and that's all we needed: The glowing yellow walled bedroom, the freezing grey tiled bathroom ( that could wake a dead man up for work), and the warm red living room that has a sink and a cooker shoved in the corner of it.

In the beginning it was bliss: childish ****** adventure, and many a burnt stew. We would watch ***** catch up t.v on our laptops until well after midnight, falling asleep in each others arms on the couch, with easy dreams and full bellies; I don’t think we ever slept on our bed then, because then it had a better purpose. But that’s where she sleeps now, and I’m on the couch staring at the ceiling night after night, hoping she’ll call me in. But she hasn’t, and it’s been almost a week since she’s said anything to me. You see thirty days ago I lost my job with the leccy grid, and we’ve had to cut back on a few things as a precaution: First it was our Friday night bottle of wine, and then it was our nights out on the Saturday; then good portabella mushrooms, then it was the Netflix subscriptions and last week I had to cancel our B.T account. I’v tried to tell her it’s only temporary, that I’ll be back on my feet in no time, and all she has to do is trust and believe in me and what we have together. But she's tired from working every shift she can get, and the last thing she said to me was with wet eyes that refused to focus on me:  “ How can I love you without wifi?”.

To be fair to her, it was in the middle of a very heated conversation where we had both said some incredibly non-sensical attacks on one another, but it’s stuck with me. Is that all we are? A ****** little connection that you pay for monthly?

Watching people compile the data of their lives.
Projecting and archiving information to stimulate cultures of us
when we give ourselves space to be about what makes us us.
To lose sense of myself is to
castrate
my own vitality
and why I fall in love with the toils of another’s expression.
The catalogues of souls that stand like sentinels in the arteries of the human race.
We were here. We know this moment.
We share it with you and you know the moment in your way,
in the language of your life
and you are heard while being spoken to.
Living to be romanced in this way,
to be understood in the ways we know
with the words constructed on top
of the emotion which was constructed on top
of a moment
now a memory.
A mortal drive of creation in evolving consciousness,
immortally moving another.
Now theres no going back.
I’ve challenged narcissism to grow from nasal gazin bathroom mirrors
into seeing yourself in it all,
to sense the language;
Lust
and fleshy aspects wrestle urgently in the song of your life.
Sorrow
and the audience retreats into the cushions of their throes
or runs from that back alley full of discarded mental furniture.
Love
and their minds explode with connections blossoming into each wonderful and terrible memory that grows into a mesh of a net cast out into the ocean of their heart.
Each memory connecting in a timeline of our moments.
The lines of our lives are filled in with dead words
masking all life to ever show its face.
If only we gave those dead symbols life
in the way life gave them to us.
The language of you while being born with the stubborn disposition
of restless curiosity of our being that begs the questions
of where our lines could go
and with what we could fill ourselves with.
Possibility bursting at our   s e a m s ,
spilling over into our realities.
Aligning our minds towards considering perspectives;
perspective being one thing that our paradigm of truth does not demand more of.
So eager to settle into a home in our head,
we chase the walls and roof of one truth and forsake non-sense of what has yet to make sense
when maybe the bigger picture
and all the multitudes of its non-sensical parts are waiting to hold hands together
in that same portrait,
framed on your nightstand
where you can see how it makes sense,
so the sense can put the weary wights of the unknown to sleep,
so that you may dream with certainty.
So then, what makes more sense than non-sense?

Week old tincture
tinted with lemon-grass
and snod-grass
and grease from black beer-spilled book-bag.

Weak old tincture
couldn't sustain relationships that envelop
circadian rhythms that clash and grate against bunk-bed guards and bone hanging ceilings.

Play bill:
swam in the shallows, metamorphosed, gender bended
unwavering and unending personal development through catharsis.

Pushy beliefs pushed on people who don't believe,
who won't believe in the "serenity of a clear blue mountain lake."
Science, and logic, and classical hodge-podge of ideas,
no,
of theories;
that makes sense.

The non-sensical is the warm.
The un, understood is the energy.
The sun shines in hard, unforgiving through the frosted window, blinding me and I trust my instincts suddenly.

The Simplified Mind holds no thoughts non-sensical
It retains only thoughts with Structure and Reason
It won't contemplate what the mind won't allow
Or contend with thoughts unanswerable
The simplified mind knows everything
And nothing outside the mind

I can't cry anymore.
I've lost every counted hour of sleep.
No words can form any sensical sentences.
I'd go weeks without talking if you'd let me.

I don't know where I've gone but I know its not here.

If I can't make something into logical sense via concepts, then I make it spacially sensical by knowing certain aspects  of a class have repeated.
E.g. in my brain I label a verse with tabs pertaining to a previous line of thought.
E.g. like playing target practice.

How could I possibly describe my favorite things about
her?
How could I possibly enumerate the things I
love?
How could I possibly question what her heart chooses to know, as
I?

For there are an innumerable amount of things she
does, says, is
that I adore more than all of the positive words in the
English language could possibly articulate.
And how could I dismiss it as unworthy of trying?
I couldn't.
Not in all of the Godly or ungodly years of this universe
or the next,
could I.

She is like a mirage, but not.
For the promise of water is sweet, but
people know of the illusion therefore do not
try.
But I have tried my hand and come away
with much more
than sand.

I have come away with the delicate soul
of pure water.

So I try.
To describe the shape,
the strength, the vitality,
the life-bearing qualities
of water:

For when she ties her bag of tea to
the cup,
I see.
That she is tied and ties because she is
free.
Watch her.
Watch how she flutters and stutters
and flies,
and one would do well to surmise
that her nature is also that of a
butterfly.
Why?
For she makes it possible for the Spring to come,
the flowers to bloom,
and the lovers to swoon.

For when she comes across something that causes
her to render an expression across her visage,
(and there are so many expressions! Indescribable,
unpredictable, yet when they come, no other expression
would have been sensical.)
I see.
That she wears her heart in her expressions.
As true (pure) as one (water) could ever
be.
And she knows it (even if she does not),
"*****!"
She'll exclaim, firing her guns,
the baddest ******* this side of the
Mississippi.

For when she is particular and planning
in tastes and in life, such as to take the time
to scrape a biscuit of pepper gravy for
later use, or
to have such disdain for provolone and corn,
(What happens if I melt the cheese over the corn?)
I see.
That no detail is beyond her scrutiny,
about herself and about the world,
she sees all,
is in all,
as is water.
Such a life she has led that
she cannot be afforded
mistakes, oversights.

For when she settles upon crossing a road
in which is meant to be crossed and is crossed by
white, and steps carefully, on-her-toes, quickly
across (only) the white,
I see.
That child-like gleam pass through her eyes
shining as bright a white as the Winter sky
as the sun refracts off the clouds.
Never has she given up (and never will she)
that child inside,
for she can't,
and shouldn't.
To do so would surely mean...
It matters not.
Such child-like wonder to
wander is a must.
Without child,
all of us are naught.

For when she lies about, let's me memorize every
inch, examine every detail, and there are three specific
(right side of chin, below right breast, under left shoulder)
marks of beauty.
I see.
That there is captivating charm within
what could be seen
(and who should see such should be petty and foolish, indeed!)
as imperfection.
That it is the minute marks that define
her as none other could ever be
before, or after, or
ever.

For when she reads and loves the freedom that
poetry (that of which I someday hope to write) often gives
and calls it miraculous and enchanting,
I see.
That her appreciation of others' appreciation,
which is quite a marvelous thing to perceive,
gives her the power to nurture
the nature
within herself and others
with such love to
grow flowers and trees and life into an otherwise
desolate wasteland, and to
turn the most arduous challenge
to that of which is
as effortless
as water.

For when she smiles, and her eyes squint as if the
happiness is too bright, and her nose wrinkles as if the
smell of laughter is too much to bear,
I see.
That despite all the hardship, all the pain,
all the struggle,
that she is stronger than I have yet to
discover.
That the strength to smile in the face of
the terrible truth that is this
world,
is a feat of unparalleled proportions,
and will guide her to many places
far and in between because
she is too strong to quit.

And finally:

For when she opens herself in a way that one pin-*****
would be fatal, and exposes to me the rough, lonely, responsible, insecure
kid that she was (and may still be),
I see.
That she has been reduced to nothing
far more than she has deserved (not that she ever deserved it!),
and she has taken it as well as one could,
not attempting to rebuild herself from
the shards,
but instead arranging them
to form something more glorious
than before.
That free and fair girl,
which has been so trodden upon,
so wronged, so hurt as to hurt as
long as there is existence,
(and when I trespass her too, I become so deeply ashamed
that there is little I can do)
has become the most beautifully broken person
I have ever had the honor to know.

For when she simply is,
I see.
That which has been broken may be made
more beautiful than
that which has not.

Playing life's jazz with fingers on a tabletop  ,
Tilting the balance between the carefree and non-sensical
with whimsical raven feathers of thought ..
The curator of his minds pale luminosity , foregoing
the feast of worldly carrion for a few bits of droll grain ,
god ****** this drudgery labeled mortality ..

If I were more "grateful"..
Would I avoid a long stare?

If I were more "thoughtful"..
Perhaps my words could then repair?

If I were more "understanding"..
Destructive patterns would not trouble me..

If I were more "revealing"..
Maybe then I could help you see?

If I were more "patient"..
Perhaps my needs would not press to be met..

If I were more "forgiving"..
All past harm I could forever forget..

If I were more "sensical"..
I would not stir up suspicion..

If I were more "trusting"..
I'd have no need of woman's intuition..

If I were more "as I should be"..
All problems then I could solve..

If I were only more "proper"..
I could be a woman with no wish to evolve.

Puddles of rain form gelatin-like amoebas on a shiny black rail.
Waiting to be windswept and float off to another landing place.

Unmoved by vociferous bluejays, hypersensitive and affected by mounds of coffee and glucose; their rushing with urgent energy to be heard and to speak truths unfounded and non-sensical.

All still beyond a longing for certainty; quiet in the flow of illusion that roils incessantly yet uncontrolled and preordained.

Tears of joy to soothe a parched sphere; and we begin again…

To have to say goodbye to someone
That has become more than just
     A part
Of who you are,
But someone who has become
     The part
Of who you are,
Is surely one of the most non-sensical
Feelings to be felt.

It feels like,
Debilitating pain.
As the unknown invisible structures of
Your heart rapidly
dis---in--te-grate
Into nothingness,
Leaving you to collapse and scatter
As the overpowering gales of life
Continue to blow
Around you.

Which leaves you to feel,
Nothing.
Nothing at all,
Because there is nothing left
to feel…
Nothing left…
to say

No emotion.
No words.
No sense.

Non-sens.e

That is how I feel about never
Seeing you again.

To have to say goodbye to someone
That has become more than just
     A part
Of who you are,
But someone who has become
     The part
Of who you are,
Is surely one of the most non-sensical
Feelings to be felt.

It feels like,
Debilitating pain.
As the unknown invisible structures of
Your heart rapidly
dis---in--te-grate
Into nothingness,
Leaving you to collapse and scatter
As the overpowering gales of life
Continue to blow
Around you.

Which leaves you to feel,
Nothing.
Nothing at all,
Because there is nothing left
to feel…
Nothing left…
to say

No emotion.
No words.
No sense.

Non-sense

That is how I feel about never
Seeing you again.