letter to elana

for the poet elana bell

~

in a different cafe,
on a Manhattan streetscape where once, years earlier,
violence was the purview of West Side Story gangs,
ruling their internecine non-intersectionality territorial blood lines supremely

nowadays, violence replaced by the frenetic
noises of Lincoln Center theater goers,
student dancers, actors, musicians and poets joining the throng
of those who sup and run,
all hearing their own frantic
curtain calling, saying, announcing,
music dance voices words require your obeisance,
needy for a mutual worshipping reassurance fiat that:

life can be made transcendent
if even for just 90 minutes or 120 pages,
or a 3 minute poem reading

this city of millions requires billions of poems that spoon stirred  
and yet, almost always fail, to squeeze, all of the human essence that is in its ultimate source, clarifying nyc tap water,
containing the storied remnants of a hackable continuous,
single human stanza cell osmosis - a blockchain like no other

two poets sit side by side each in their own lapsed dreams,
she, a published poet of prize and rank, ^
he, a rank amateur whose only prize is his unpublished anonymity,
poetry, is his just a nightly soul cleansing,
an imported remnant of his Marrano piyyutim ancestry

one turns to the other,
in the inexplicable daily crazy miracle
of city fashionistas

in a city where stealing a parking spot, or the
forced squeezing creation of a subway seat space
where physics proves none exists,
are oft the roots of slashing and stabbings faithfully reported
on the 11 o’clock news,  
and trust and/or other encouraging words
are seldom heard and even less demonstrated,
the make-no-eye-contact of Camus’s L’Etranger anomie is the
normative, paranormal, paralysis cloak of we city separatists

“Can you watch over my electronics and stuff?”

Sure says the grayed and grizzled,
an all life long veteran of nyc,
judged to be trustworthy
based on a few seconds of being upsized and downsized,
a car wash (exterior only) perusal
despite a
“no direction home, like a compete unknown, a rolling stone,”  
this signage, yellow star permanently chest-affixed,
conveniently ignored, as it seems impossible
thieves don’t look like me,
don’t likely in their possess,
a distinguished head of gray hair (yeah, sure)

a thank you reward of (or did I imagine it) a lean-in,
a momentary head on a shoulder,
the chit chat now grows earned and earnest,
she confesses her cardinal poetry profession,
eliciting an ‘Oh Boy’ utterance from the poet
of a thousand names
and a thousand textual emendations

a fastidious nyc boundary is brief crossed for one short meal,
till the end when time sensitized IMRL intrudes and
the showtime calls out,
if not now, when? if not me, then who?

I read her poetry later in the praying supine first position of
three AM, and laugh with delight, at the contrast and no compare,
the styles clash and tho the stories told
are both writ in the aleph bet script,
there ends the Ven diagram overlap and
into the night’s coming of a Elvisian blue suede coverlet,
we both disappear, and if not for this recording,
history says, you old man confused, never happened,
just an imaginary poetry ink blot dream breaching...

~

postface:
another poetry book is no longer homeless,
comes to shelter upon my shelf, close to Angelou, far from Whitman,
now all the book’s nooks eyes collectively
reassessing the new old-owner, parsing his syntax,
undecided if his readership is worthy of them,
concluding that all these books are the
man’s owned roughened stones,
to be placed by human hands on the
serpentine curvature of his literary tombstone,
and until all stones fully read,
they all agree,
will they and he
be fully freed,
smoothing his legacy’s edges

to exonerate the clippings
they took the back road to oswega
the tudor house rabbits
had long lost their heads
(presumably to the *****)
and what remained
of the landscape
was dead
and dry
and orange

that happy home
on the brink
of cattle loop
was now gull grey
the needles
and stragglers
from shady bay
remained (in growing numbers)
on the outskirts
of the driven back park

the once fabled town
of horse drawn tours
and dignitaries
was stone washed ~
on the back of it's
government docks
sat decrepit toppers
set against the high tide
beside the lighthouse
and its measured song

flutes and fiddlers
and acoustic sitars
ride the accompaniment
nose rings
and signage
in the hands of
staged protesters
the sickly spit strewn
with tidal run
and ocean bags

hedgerows trimmed
along the sea side
rolling hills fade
adjacent the chuck
mint juleps
and flop hats
peak on the parade
clydesdales
and royals
blinded in the back

Ok, I didn't want to do this
but there's rules that you must know
Etiquette to be followed
A line that you must toe

Listen very closely now
I think you all should try it
The things that you will now learn
About a protest and a riot

Firstly, have a purpose
Just random shouting, that's persay
If you do not have a topic
Then all the new folks go away

Throwing bricks at coppers
Breaking windows on the street
Is this a sign of protest
Or is it idiots in heat

No signage, and no speakers
Just random yelling for a cause
This isn't a good protest
Just breaking random laws

A protest has a purpose
It presents a point of view
A riot is an ugly thing
Which one is right for you

MLK could run a protest
Make a point and get things done
All without a mob forcing
A cop to use his gun

The rules really are simple
Keep the young ones all at home
For people in glass houses
Should really not throw stones

A peaceful resolution
From a protest is the goal
But a riot is just aimless
It puts the city in a hole

Victims of a riot
Are not the ones who are to blame
They're just owners of the business'
Who get caught up in the game

Next time that you protest
Protest rioting instead
It will turn out for the better
And nobody will end up dead

In my Thirty-Fifth Year I juiced this Remark
The Crisque-Plaque Hotel named after a Tree
Sturdy, of Signage enhance the Grade's Bark
Wishing all else their Best Service was Free
If not the Years to Good Degree advance:
Fruits, Pasta, Meat, Veggies and Japanese
Mix the fricasee to match that of France
And serve it on a Platter, if you please
Only if the Staff were shy; But informed
How noted the needs of their Clients were
One Gesture made, took the Meaning lost cause
Pour some polished Suggestions done on here.
Thirty-Five Candles blown, all without Flame
It was still my Best Day; All just the same.

(man enters a tavern)
I'd like a room and a bath please

(tavern keeper)
a room I can do, but, a bath, totally out of the question

(man)
your sign says "rooms with baths", and I would like a room with a bath, as advertised

(tk)
you aren't from around here are you?

(man)
no, why?



(tk)
I thought not, so, I will say this slow...A room I can do, but a bath is totally out of the question

(man)
there is no need to take that tone with me. I made a perfectly legitimate request, as per your signage, and you take umbrage with me.

(tk)
I did not, and besides, I can't take it, if I don't know what it is. Hold on one minute....(walks outside, grabs a shovel on the way out...knocks sign down).

(tk)
(upon re-entry)....now, about that sign you said you saw. I believe you were mistaken.

(man)
this is the "three rivers tavern" as per the sign, which I assume is no longer hanging out front.

(tk)
It is, and your assumption is correct...it isn't

(man)
so, being the "three rivers tavern" would there not be three rivers in the proximity of this establishment from which you would be able to draw water for me, a bypasser, to get a bath

(tk)
yes...and no

(man)
what kind of an answer is that?

(tk)
Yes, it is the "three rivers tavern" and no, there are not three rivers in close proximity of this establishment from which I, a humble tavern keeper, and former owner of a sign, advertising, falesly, I might add...the presence of a bath in this establishment.

(man)
you are called "three rivers tavern" yet, there are no rivers nearby.? what kind of advertising is that?

(tk)
firstly, the sign was already made up, so, it was cheap. Secondly, who are you to question the name of my establishment, which I might add, is quite famous  in the region for many things, other than it's name, which, we may now be changing due to the sudden loss of our sign.

(man)
I sir, am Robin Hood of Sherwood.

(tk)
your'e not

(man)
I am. I am Robin Hood, Sir Robin of Loxley, if you please.

(tk)
I repeat...you're not. Not in those tights.

(man)
And what is wrong with my tights?

(tk)
Seriously? Do I really have to tell you that?

(man)
Yes, what is wrong with these tights?

(tk)
First off, Robin Hood, The REAL Robin Hood wouldn't be caught dead in those. Baggy, Saggy, there's leaves on them, holes...Robin Hood would have nice tight tights that were in good kip and accentuated his....

(man)
*******!

(tk)
exactly

(man)
No, I mean, how would you know what Robin Hood would wear? I mean, what I would wear? The condition of these tights helps me keep incognito in local archery competitions. If I went around showing ...

(tk)
*******!!! INCOGNITO? You are no more than a wayward traveller trying to get a free room on the reputation of someone else, namely...Robin Hood

(man)
My good sir, these are old, tights, ripped from swinging through the trees over time.

(tk)
If you are Robin Hood, tights or not...prove it to me. I'll give you the room, and go for the water myself.

(man)
How should I prove it, with no arrows, bow, and apparently no weaponry in sight. How do I go about showing I am Robin Hood?

(tk)
Use mine. Yep...use my bow, and I dare you to...to...shoot an apple off of his head over there. Oy....wake up. Catch (tosses an apple to man in the corner)
Put that on your head...he's gonna shoot it off.

(man in corner)
He's gonna what? off my...no he's not.

(man)
No, I will not. You obviously have me confused with William Tell. He's Swiss, they do things differently over there.

(tk)
You will, or you won't get your room

(man)
And if I should miss, what then?

(tk)
Not a problem. I've got lots of arrows and apples. We can just keep trying.

(man)
I mean HIM, what if I hit HIM.?

(tk)
You won't if you are who you say you are, and besides, I said I've got lots.

(man in corner)
But I'm your brother in law

(tk)
I've lots of those too. Now, here (hands arrow and bow to Robin)
Step back 10 paces, I'll open the door, and you....put that apple up.
One shot...hit the apple,....room and a bath....miss, and it's off with you

(man)
I really don't think...

(tk)
shoot or leave. Or...I can call the sherrif. If you are Robin Hood, he'll certainly want to see you.

(man)
Fine, give me those. (walks back 10 paces as the tavern owner opens the door).
(He fires, splitting the arrow in two, as the man in the corner slides to the floor)

(tk)
ROBIN!!!! Why didn't you say so? I knew it was you all the time. What can I do for you?

(Robin)
First, pick him up. Next that room. Then I have some requirements, that I need not be tested on. A bow, arrows, clothing, footwear. I need to look the part at the tournament coming up, when I do the big reveal, and I need the proper equipment. You, will help me with that, and seeing as how I have little to no money, as I said, I will need to put this on account which I will pay after the tournament.

(tk)
credit? You want credit?

(Robin)
Yes, as you can see, I am good for it.

(tk)
I saw you shoot an apple off a mans head from ten paces, not...win an archery competition with archers from all over Europe. CREDIT?

(Robin)
Here, hold this apple.

(tk)
Right, First things first...bow and arrows!!

(Robin)
I shall need to see the fletcher.

(tk)
that would be baker

(Robin)
No, I need a bow and arrows. I need a fletcher

(tk)
Exactly, Baker

(Robin)
I am at a loss. I need to see a fletcher and yet you keep saying Baker

(tk)
Right, The Fletcher is Baker. That's the man's name. You need to see Baker, the fletcher.

(Robin)
I see....I think. So I see the baker.

(tk)
You see the fletcher

(Robin)
Baker

(tk)
exactly

(Robin)
that's what I said.

(tk)
No,you said the baker

(Robin)
That's what you told me.

(tk)
No, I did not. I said The Fletcher was Baker. That's the mans name

(Robin)
Baker

(tk)
Now,you have it

(Robin)
Assuming I get what I need from the fletcher. I need a tailor.

(tk)
pastor

(Robin)
No, I do not need to see a pastor, I need a tailor

(tk)
That's the man's name. Pastor is the tailor

(Robin)
So, the pastor is the tailor

(tk)
No, Cooper is the pastor, pastor is the tailor.

(Robin)
I don't need a cooper, I need the tailor

(tk)
exactly. pastor

(Robin)
So, let me see...I go to see the pastor and the fletcher

(tk)
No, you see the tailor, pastor and then the fletcher

(Robin)
The Baker.

(tk)
Listen closely, or you'll never get your room. You see Baker the Fletcher and Pastor, the tailor. Not, the baker and the pastor. You keep getting mixed up

(Robin)
I'll need to write this down
Ok, for footwear, Cobbler

(tk)
Butcher

(Robin)
The butcher makes shoes too.?

(tk)
No. Butcher is the cobbler

(Robin)
That's what I said

(tk)
Look, it's dead easy, you go to see Baker, Pastor and Butcher and you'll be set

(Robin)
I'll end up with bread , a bible and meat. How does this help me in an archery competition?

(tk)
No...you see baker the fletcher, pastor the tailor and butcher the cobbler. It couldn't get any simpler

(Robin)
Maybe I don't need that room after all.

(tk)
follow...fletcher baker pastor tailor butcher cobbler. then back here.

(Robin)
No...I think maybe....is there another village close by.

(tk)
Yes, on the other side of the three bridges

(Robin)
Which, as we know, do not exist

(tk)
And...they speak Welsh!!! your choice

fade out

I was limping the edge of the pond so as to confirm in the world my clearance given to me as before by frogs. my punched nose was warm and my grief melted from it and I cupped my hands together for the blood and what mixed with it and when the cup was full I halved it and my already thick shoelaces thickened. soon into this drama one frog jumped from the pond and I was startled. startled too that indeed it was no frog but a toad or some form of toad. I followed it woozily from my father’s land onto the land of my enemy. the toad was dull save for its hop from water and save for its courage and save for a sickly orange spot on its back that was a star when the toad paused and a mangled star otherwise. a couple times I lost the toad, the land was new, but I knew to stop and the toad knew to rustle or in my more desperate moments to come wholly back. everything had been planned and my body wanted to be generous to the toad and it was hard not to run or use my hands or ruin this paradise that I knew then as vengeance but now as existential plagiarism which is nonetheless vengeance. I would not rub the toad over me and I had to convince myself repeatedly. the boy was no doubt inside the house as his dog was not to be seen but his sister was sprawled on two towels put short end to short end as she was very tall and her sunglasses were cocked enough so that her right eye could see mine. the toad was in her mouth immediately and then her throat bulged but was back to its original in no time. I lost the toad forever then but its orange star surfaced on the right and then the left of her belly button. I told her I would see her at school and I would but this was the last time I would see her in anything but an overcoat and the boy would try and come close but never again pin me down.

December 25 - 28, 2010


Stuck in Miami, Florida, because of bad weather in NYC.
Composed after reading the poetry of Campbell McGrath, who lives in Miami.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
­
electric pinpricks of
unfamiliar red and green lights,
bedroom traffic guidance
courtesy of a stranger's
tv and cable box,
an emblematic totem tonight,
of my physical dislocation,
reminders that I'm enslaved
by weather machinations.

I lay, resting uneasy,
in a strange bed,
one night too many,
snow storming in my head
snow storming up north aplenty,
a blizzard of ruminations are
my white coverlet,
while stuck in Miami.

faraway drifts have
force fed and freed
an imprisoned restlessness,
a multipurposed, slashing.

Miami midnight incision has
let out the bad humors,
let in an unfamiliar odor -
lechón asado,
which texts my Pharisee nostrils
in Cubano,
words muy ironico,
a single waking thought,
"who ya kidding?"

Everglades rain
imported from California,
recycles on rooftops,
thrumming a heart beating,
syncopated, watery refrain,
a regifted heavenly present.

the sound waves mark
as a barely undulating wave,
inside this super soaked brain,
that transforms wine into water
and scan lines into these letters,
"who ya kidding?"

all this exponential signage
of this NYC boy grousing, are his
defrocked muses annoying,
with a serenading blizzard
of one trick pony repetitions,
coronets trumpet his unmasking,
this essay, a revelation,
a product of their
harmonious discordancy.

a single note crowns his head
as he weeps whole food
organic, non-recyclable tears,
products of his new inquistional,
a self-inflicted interogatorial,
"who ya kidding?"

compiler of an
occasional talented catch phrase,
strung'em together like
cheap pearls,
pretensions of literary acumen
once populated his Id,
articles of spilled word *****,
but Florida rain has cleansed
his Northern haughty pretensions,
with an injection of truth serum,
a pharmaceutical wonder of
a local poison labeled,
"who ya kidding?"

A day laborer, nothing more,
rise up at five, brown bagged,
a client of Mammon's *****,
soul sagged, life hagged,
a sum of cultural cliches,
a cell phoned baby boomer,
a would be millennial,
constructed of paper mache,
who on occasion,
has been known to say,
"Let's play poetry today."

the poseur chokes
on this new poison,
delivered by unhappy stance
by the arrows of his
current misfortune
for he now suffers from
the deadly disease of
"compare and contrast."

a slim book of poems
of Campbell McGrath's
(his phraseology,
a veritable theology)
shoos the blues traveler,
over to a funhouse
where an honest magic mirror
cuts him down to size.

his poetic aspirations,
a residue of self-infatuation,
are summarily dismissed by
the truly gritty, quick justice
of a master poet's
"who ya kidding?"

so watch how a would-be
poet disappears,
in a barrage of bullets marked,
nevermore,
his dignity, more than hobbled,
his cheek, gone, gobbled,
his juice, a currency unaccepted,
his holiday present,
a ceasefire of conjugation,
a cornucopia of declinations

dare I ever write again?
who indeed, am I kidding,
other than myself?
I am an addict, not a poet.

What I love
the most in the world
is packaging
like how the fine companies
who sell us
their product
protect us from evil bacteria
and how the icing
from Toaster Strudels
comes out of the plastic
in neat little lines
and also
what I love
the most in the world
is signage
like how do you know
where you are
without the signage?

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 5, 2015)

An effect in which incompetent people fail to realize they are incompetent because they lack the skill to distinguish between competence and incompetence. Actual competence may weaken self-confidence as competent individuals may falsely assume that others have an equivalent understanding.

Who among us know who among us?
Who worries the cracks in the levy?
The suffering know. They bear the smart
of all judgments: as they know themselves,
as they know others.  While fools
blissfully devastate the latticework
of our perfections.

The Pope advocates peace for Resurrection Day,
and end to the persecution, and by the way
he means  the Kenyan dead not Christmas signage
in America. Too many opinions

will make you blind. A competent madness,
a fear of failure: songless, unable to dance,
unable to praise the dead, restore to life
the mind of the beginner who does not yet know
yet who will be grateful to know
that competence saves lives
but will it save you?

Embrace Mother Infinity
She rides the coming glory train
Smiling at time with the eyes of the earth
Spirit man in the moment feels life, the light wind
Forest thoughts know too
making forever desire a human day in the mind at night
Go on, hand the sun reality, resting in a tree away
Longing self, hearing sea sounds and coming friends
Sings open songs to nature’s material little green dreams warmly fearing death from sleeping people
The good beauty ends with divine words, the wood's triumphant frolic
An old tune burning in acid rain, strong feeling, and wild steps
Telling space to ask big questions
Watching life’s existence in my face grow
Shiny naked breath, holding tongues
Came fate, look at the written story
The Hill-god’s dark power far different from pure laughter
Building river leaves forming paths to the green jungle door
Embracing water, unknown sorrow, and mortal wonder flowing together singing daily heat
Cold filled blades falling unseen from Stranger Kings
Onward, swift summer foot, run quietly, sing me whispers on the ground
as circumstance sees half-shadows
understanding sin, cries launch heavenly,
heed the happening of the chorus’s command
The dying kiss speaks the dance leaving untamed air in lungs
Stand and die
The truth a lie, paradoxes falling from the sky
Start, grow, remember the past changes, creating deep waves resulting in new living future ways
Meet broken fingers touching distant doors
Playing among realities, the heart’s winged ride
Standing far from beautiful, we heard emotion merging imagination in the sand
with the awakened child sharing a birth
waiting on love’s hidden muse
The present looking steady, suffering tommorow’s mission
Inner sounds on the streets rushing deeper
Young brother steps blindly, exploding sad magic
Awakening tides
His imprisoned capacity rattling skyward
Complex perceptions cunningly bestowed
Reverberating urban inspirations, uplifiting
Confirming the invasion of the flame
Erstwhile, rascals descend constraining alleyways promoting complexity
Craven accounting
Hallucinatory messiahs tirade at the signage
The realest zeitgeist universally processed

I have only one layer
I'm about to strip it bare
I'm about to submit to your desires
Of *** , **** , and hair

I'm giving in to inhibitions
As I spread myself before you on the bed
You better save some pocket change
Cause I intend on breaking
your wooden bed head

I'm about to lift my knees
Arch my back and beg please

I'm about to ask you ever so nicely
To make it harder
And hold me tightly

I'm about to try positions
A body is not meant to form
I'm about to make sure
Your ready to preform

I'm about to put signage
"Take care , slippery when wet"
Ready , set
And I'm gonna beg for more
You can bet

Harder and more forceful each time
I'm gonna have you gagging for breath
As hell meets heaven
And life measures ****** death

You say "oh how you look like heaven tonight "
As I guide you through hell
On this wild ride

You say I look somewhat like your wife
Maybe this morning
But I'm nothing like her tonight

Move with my body
And you'll get it just right

I am the officer in charge tonight

So shut your mouth
And let's go round for round
In a different type of fight
Let's keep it going
Until we break through the moon  light
I'm not from heaven
Nor a mother
Tonight
But for these few dark hours

A ***** ***** housewife x

Now Now Little Heart, don’t yearn
the tides of time will sweep you away
And you will go under

The manly spells are many here
What you must realize is this aching may never be filled
Hold that empty space in your hand
See it filled with delighted wonder
People, places, excitements and thrills
Like every other temporary form
We grasp
Clutching into the dark that lives inside of us
The wanting echoes in those labyrinthine halls
The light lives there too
It’s true, we are destined to want
The thrill of touching another, the safety of an embrace, the sweetness of a lover’s smile,
the comfort of companionship, the steady hand of shared fate,
as these things help us grow, serving our soul, as do all others.
But my Little Heart, beauty is here, the invitation remains open for us to see
these laws of attraction
Written by a greater mind,
Played out in the intricate web of human interaction
Where fate, destiny, serendipity are all foreign concepts until one steps back and realizes the magic surrounding our existence in every moment we breathe
The magic has found you, you are here in the now, if you are reading this,
you are alive, what a gift then, to laugh and sing and play!
Smile big, bigger than your sorrow, the delicious ambiguity of our own mystery will make you chuckle with notions of absurdity.
Stop looking, now all you do is find. What a joke! Cosmic humor sublime.
Inner will guides you, dropping breadcrumbs in the forest (Will it ever be a whole loaf?)
Listen for its clues amongst the chaotic chorus of the locust trill,
the beauty of your birdsong shines through, see its manifestations in the open doors,
feel the pull of your heart guiding you through with its initial surge of affirmation amongst the daily swirl of doubt,
read the natural signage, One, two, three.  
Oh my little heart, your family’s love is strong
Know that on the mortal plane you are never abandoned, you have a home here in my own humble host; you must never despair, although you will, for our human circumstance demands this anguish until it is vanquished by our own command
Embrace the whole of your emotional spectrum as you would a beloved brother,
the downs teach as well as the ups,
no longer associate negativity with your emotional make up,
sometimes your body demands rest and some mistake it for sadness,
be with it then and know this life as your time for discovery,
the bricks are laid with every new step forward and backwards upon the path into the unknown that is universally shared by all.
How wonderful that we found each other here, in this moment, does it not fill you with awe?
The predestined chance?
Transform the ennui surrounding the seeming tedium,
washing dishes,
sweeping floors,
these instead are understood as sacred movements,
realize the sheer weight of wonder in being, standing in an elevator with a stranger,
sonder
You will smile again in the sun,
you will feel its warmth on your face and be sure of God’s eternal love,
the clouds come and go, drifting as they please,
shade and snow sometimes invite the cold, but remember, always remember, your warmly worth
Now and always, Breathe deeply,
And if you ever feel like your ship may never come into port, 
sunsets are just as beautiful by land as by sea.

The bedrock underlying much of Manhattan is a mica schist known as Manhattan schist.  Schist is foliated or layered in appearance. Quartz sparkles, micas, and amphiboles are primary minerals in schist. A melted rock, just like the city resting above, it too, a famous melting *** of humanity.

This one poem too, composed from pieces of other poems,
folded in layers of many others that melted together,
in harmonious discordancy

<~>

this glorious grime,
this delicious dirt,
stuff of my blood,
genes of my children's children inheritance,
of thee I sing,
in thee I revel,
of thee, I am composed

the city I love,
where I was born,
schooled and fooled in,
by many a woman

the city where I named
and raised my children

will probably die in
this city, and when
I am long forgot,
my name never uttered,
    who, will think of me?
Perhaps,
whenever someone says,
"he was such a rascal"

these tales I took,
some or all,
from beneath my skin,
where city streets grit,
was injected beneath my skin
and came with the title,
City Boy

so today, on a reborn street,
near tall towers no more,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn,  
but nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the typical NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
unsilently weeping, thinking that:

We lose or throw away so much we should have kept,
We keep so much we should have thrown away

street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the bagger's question,
each post
begging each other,
"from whence will come my inspiration?"

licked the stubbled sidewalks,
fell down into their living caverned cracks,
light needed, needy softly heated,
orange and green pizza neon signs,
saying here,
if you see upon what be,
these are your city's homeland colors of veracity

perhaps
NYC was model precursor
for our internet presumed-to-be-alive-but-who-can-say-for-sure
model for the world today,
where I know not my apartment's neighbors name,
yet carry his second child
in my arms,
when the fire alarm
summons us all to flee
to street safety...
and still only
"know" his child's first name,
and his father,
as Apt. #16D

all this exponential signage
of this NYC boy grousing,
are his defrocked muses him annoying,
with a serenading blizzard
of one trick pony repetitions,
their coronets trumpeting his unmasking,
*making this essay, his revelations,
a product of their harmonious discordancy

The purgation or Katharismós that was unleashed, all the imperfections were gleaned by the elevations that descended due to ignominies and pathogenic lineage that were falsified by the demonicity of one who does not walk soullessly to another who is immune. The dark and cloaked darkness slipped away through the first sense of the fifth son that began to become sensitized, being the hearing that agreed in Vernarth with its great hypersensitivity of the Eclectic Portal, in which they are disconsolate when listening in unison, and who are shielded from the noise of the night when crushing the souls in pain that they purged from their places at midnight and on the way to the third midnight that appeared at 03:00, when the spirits lined up looking with their faces in the first night, at the cessation of all objectivity of Aesthesia. All already emigrated from all the dungeons of the leprosarium with meager living bodies and crowded souls in purgation; The Manes Apsidas with the remote light of the night of the antelucan, preceded the dawn following the darkness of midnight and not the second, to protect souls in expiation, with the lightning of the four Xiphos crusades of Vernarth, Etréstles, Theus and Vikentios, when Wonthelimar and Vlad Strigoi lagged behind them from hours to minutes, until within the same night three septenaries passed by, illustrating the supernatural Hijra of the Apsidas, transporting themselves to the dark souls of Spinalonga. The living went in double rows from blind rationality and without words to mention, only souls in purgation followed the path of Marie des Vallés who was exteriorized with the Apofisi in her palm, as a written object, and of great passive sensitivity, to then activate what that exceeds a body and a soul incapable of self-help, with excessive darkness, only being transported by hearing as the only sense present before others, who were de-empowered when what deprives beautifies the eyes of those who have no light to see, but if to feel. The atonement continued, and from the altar archangels came down, making those who for different reasons exceeded the privation of the dawn, which is shone in the small spaces of the natural light of Crete, rejoice. The omega overcomes the darkness and the crossed swords Xiphos extended beyond what oppresses the emptiness and non-material belonging of his Hyletic or Hilética, but if from a synod of beings that were abducted from the Kidron Valley and the Beit Hamikdash to the unearthly silence that inked dawn with pale and slimy light in the ranks of the lepers on their way to Agios Andreas where they will reside. The light conquers the darkness of the understanding that only looks with light, but without it, it was upset in the figure of the entities, believing that the Apsidas could be beings of category that are born from a countenance that provides feet to leave without looking back. Thus they would be guarded and not be involved with animals with semi-human figurative characters, in the stubbornness that none of them make sense, being able to be oblivious to the obfuscation of confusion and purgatory, changing all the conscious senses before the authoritarian light and darkness, reaching levels from Isaías “Si non-credideritis, non-intelligetis”, this is portrayed like this: “If you don't believe, you won't understand”.

Then, of course, faith is a dark night for the soul, and in this way it gives light; and the darker it darkens, the more light of itself, because by blinding it gives light. This was pronounced by Marie des Vallées when it was admired that the graceful specimens of Spinalonga were already going away, losing themselves in the dark cloud of uncertainty until Agios Andreas, while more darkness was concelebrated in the private blindness of the night that watched him. Thus in this way, the Saint leaves with the Apsidas Manes in a long night that was allied with the perplexity of dawn, going through the clouds of mourning through each lapse, with the lights that were enough to make her his disciple, erected of a David ascended alongside them. An Apollo resurfaces from the mist overcoming the abyss of temperance, which creates sudden chapters of generating and silencing pain with howls of those who compromise in their aching souls, being able to migrate to slow dimensions with a sensitive voice superior to that of hearing. From this topic the exchange of Gehenna as a voice inferior and superior at the same time to the sense of hearing was closed, when the clouds were already serene with their snowy colors, leaving the lights that dimension everything and transformed into a rational colloquy, which predominates over classic stratagems that will err in those who are not led by error, but by the slovenly voices escaping from whoever conducts the hearing of those who are members of an unconduced purgation, but rather from the twisted fact of free will, burning what is understood not to imagine what would happen, rather what is proper to mortality without faith. The young night was transformed into sovereign dawn, each one coming closer and coming to each one who understands himself. Before a small night that was enlarged in the gloom. They all go to their rooms, going to the third instant of sensitivity, before the intuition of seeing and hearing, together with the aftertaste that each one was pairing with who is not his nature, and thought that was once again renamed in Marie des Vallées, the signage of Isaiah and Saint Paul, “what God has prepared for those who love him, no eye ever saw it, nor ear heard it, nor did it fall into the heart or thought of man”, this being the last message of the Saint when all were discovered from the perennial distance, in glory and submission where the just endures the most intrepid pain seizing their senses towards the Mashiach, alleviating the fantasy that disturbs any deconcentration that should not be admitted together with the halo of Marie des Vallées.

Per quanto adoro un matrimonio moderno o rustico .io sono un vero romantico a cuore .Un amante Jane Austen che si innamora perdutamente di morbidi .fiori lussureggianti e giardino ricevimenti partito- esque che vi toglierà il fiato .Questo .amici miei .è uno di quei matrimoni.Una splendida storia drop-dead .che è tutto il romanticismo .e tutto sulla bella .Vedi tutto catturato dalle Fotografia Redfield nella piena galleria .

ColorsSeasonsSummerSettingsMansionStylesRomanticTraditional Elegance

Da Sposa.Peter e io ci siamo incontrati nella scuola media.ma non iniziare risalente fino a dopo ci siamo laureati di scuola superiore .Dopo incontri per oltre otto anni .Peter ha infine deciso di proporre .con l'aiuto del nostro cane .Dexter .Peter fece un segno da appendere al collo Dexter ' che ha dettoè èommy .vuoi sposare papà?ècon un po' di zampa di cane sul segno .363 giorni dopo che Peter ha proposto .ci siamo sposati .Se potessi scegliere alcune parole chiave per descrivere l'ispirazione complessiva



e il tema stavamo andando perché sarebbero: romantico .classico ed elegante .Niente di troppo pesanteèVolevamo una serata piena luce d'amore .risate .la famiglia e gli amici .Volevamo solo che tutto sia classico .
tocchi speciali e progetti fai da te : Abbiamo avuto un artista dal vivo (pittore ).che ogni singolo ospite pensava fosse davvero incredibile !E lei era assolutamente abiti da cerimonia taglie forti incredibile ;una giovane donna di grande talento .Inoltre .il nostro cane ha svolto un ruolo speciale .era sullo sfondo della cerimonia di nozze .e poi dopo ci siamo sposati ufficialmente è venuto avanti in modo che potessimo recesso lungo la navata come una famiglia .La nostra lista di birra è stata inoltre selezionata a mano dal padre dello sposo .

PROGETTI fai da te:zecche

èsalvavita nel cartoncino che sembravano coi libri conè e èsu di loro .o la data del matrimonio .o la nostra monogramma sposato in penna d'oro .

èLa toile e tabella navy numeri in corniciè eacquisti per telai per diversi mesi .raccogliendo una o due qui o là .poi spray dipinto tutti loro oro .Mi piace toile e volevo nel mio matrimonio in qualche modo .ma non è tutto .così ** avuto l'idea di fare la tabella numeri toile .Quindi.con avorio e carta da parati blu toile .** tagliato ogni pezzo in base vestiti da sposa economici alle dimensioni del telaio.rintracciato numeri .e poi dipinto i numeri blu navy con vernice artigianali .

èHo anche fatto ilè èr .e la signoraèfirmare allo stesso modo.ma utilizzata vernice d'oro per un tocco diverso .

Fotografia : Fotografia Redfield | Florist : Radebaugh ' fioraio e Greenhouse | Wedding Cake : Graul ' Mercato | Cerimonia Luogo : La Liriodendron Mansion | Banco Luogo vestiti da sposa economici : La Liriodendron Mansion | Scarpe : Ivanka Trump | Bridesmaids Dresses : Alfed Sung | Catering :Dean And Brown Catering | vestito dello sposo : Tux Da Chaps Ralph Lauren | Grooms Scarpe : Clarks bostoniano | Cerimonia Musicista : Miriam Joy | Day Of Coordinatore: Stephanie Day Of Dream Day Planners | Abiti Groomsmen ' : Tux Da Chaps Ralph Lauren | Hair Stylist :sally Morales Of Blondie ' Hair Studio | Inviti .programmi e Signage: persnickety Invito Studio | Jewlerey : Kate ***** | live Artista / Pittore : Leah Crumbling | Banco Gruppo: The Bachelor Ragazzi band | Videographers : Reflexion Videografia | Designer Abito da sposa: AmsaleAmsale è un membro del nostro Look Book .Per ulteriori informazioni su come vengono scelti i membri .fare clic qui
http://www.belloabito.com/goods.php?id=449
http://188.138.88.219/imagesld/td//t35/productthumb/1/551335353535_394271.jpeg
http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-economici-c-48

The streets were paved with hawkers
Flamboyant sunshades
two dollar sunglasses discounted from
twenty thousand pesos.

I couldn’t walk past the conversation of skytowers
Underwear hanging precariously
Off high ledges where it was hard to read
The designer labels

A man with a small monkey
Was reading fortunes
With an ape like face
He certainly saw the future!

A delicious woman with pushed up
***** beckoned me away from boredom
I walked into a valley of sinister looks
For looking away.

At night the sky shed its diamonds
On the sidewalks of ecstasy
And the digital signage
torched the front of buildings
With blue and red flames bursting
Invitations to your wallet

I carried a six pack Lion
Home to watch the night sky
Dance till dawn with necklaces
Of neon.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 7 days ago

~ the director

one woman in particular became trapped in a man’s body and he married her.  a child they tried not to have soon arrived and brought with it a list of demands from the others.

his peers double crossed each other in small houses.  he himself was able to get away with punching a young girl for the right to drag a sled.  his child began to accept talking toys in exchange for keeping quiet.  

he was in love with his sister, always had been.  after she was mauled by the dogs meant for his father, he made walking his home until it called itself a hotel

of running.  last year, he caught a movie one had made of his life and though he missed the dedication

he did not miss
the death row scene, the saw his brother took from the cake, the plain basket
as it moved
with his mother

from bike
to bike…  

~ transmissible

the stomach remains dumb

the way she finds this out on a school bus

the way her mother
after losing
a child  

~ ephemeron

cornfield visionaries, they sat around the ball as if it were fire.  I myself was tired of magic

so we played four short and the ball was a fact.  a hard period planted in mud

or a long quote
buzzing the ears
together.  

~ alleviant

of all places a park bench will do for the man not yet reading but planning to the children’s book with its cover of mother and child and kitchen and some kind of batter on the child’s face.  presently the man is alone much as his mother is alone in one of his fingers.  two men nearby are drinking from a water fountain and in turn are each palming the low **** for the other.  they are friends but only by length of service and the man can tell one is aggressive and the other allows it.  the book itself is disappointing.  the child is just ***** and the mother is just angry and they learn only to be themselves.  the men at the fountain become two men on a bench and the reader scoots over to hear about the voice of god as ****** children take the park.

~ amends

your house in foreclosure and you leave it and you are holding two bags of cat food.
  
sometimes a tricycle is a particular tricycle
trying to clear
with its back wheel
the low cinema
of your bare
foot.  

I am mugged in your dream and mugged in mine and mugged by a woman in both.

I hope we can meet without talking money.  this story my mother gave me
about the world’s first invisible man
is a keeper.  he was born

that way.

your mother I saw her setting the patio table for two and I looked away but could hear
no one
beating her.

we can talk about your cat.    

~ homology

the empty raccoons by their emptiness have kept the priest awake.  the church dumpsters wheel themselves into the world and he watches.  he tells his mother it is the silence of god.  she shrinks from him more and more and eventually fits through a door he cannot see.  his house fills with garbage and he becomes convinced he is wearing gloves.  we do not argue.  he raises them with his hands to take them off with his teeth.      

~ fiction

my age, father paints an abstract jesus.  mother has the kitchen to herself and sits.  mother watches my brother lift a chair and leave.  my sister lets a train pass and bites at the shoulder strap of her bra.  not my age, I draw a violinist.  draw a dog at the neck of its owner.  at my age of apple and rope, I prefer god’s early work.

~ monodist

online, I pretended to be writing a very long obituary.  in house, I dreamt not of my wife but of a grape being rolled by a palm gently toward a grape the dream could not see.  as it is in heaven, I was not all there.

~ signage

I was limping the edge of the pond so as to confirm in the world my clearance given to me as before by frogs.  my punched nose was warm and my grief melted from it and I cupped my hands together for the blood and what mixed with it and when the cup was full I halved it and my already thick shoelaces thickened.  soon into this drama one frog jumped from the pond and I startled that indeed it was no frog but a toad or some form of toad.  I followed it woozily from my father’s land onto the land of the man who’d fathered the boy whose fist had found so recently fistfight heaven.  the toad was dull save for its hop from water and save for its courage and save for a sickly orange spot on its back that was a star when the toad paused and a mangled star otherwise.  everything had been planned and my body wanted to be generous to the toad and it was hard not to run or use my hands or ruin this paradise that I knew then as vengeance but now see as existential plagiarism which is nonetheless vengeance.  I told myself I would not rub the toad over me and I had to convince myself repeatedly.  the boy was no doubt inside the house as his dog was not to be seen but his sister was sprawled on two towels as she was very tall and her sunglasses were cocked enough so that her right eye could see mine.  the toad was in her mouth immediately and then her throat bulged but went quickly back to its original.  I lost the toad forever then but its orange star surfaced on the right and then the left of her belly button.  I told her I would see her at school and I would but this was the last time I would see her in anything but an overcoat and that boy would try and come close but never again pin me down.      

~ discipline

somehow sweet in his want of no trouble, the unwashed man goes hand in hand with your father to the backyard where they wrestle as if hurt were people keeping them apart.  your father’s jaw comes loose, the man’s ear seems held by too small a magnet.  at window you a sickly child with overbite and a scarecrow’s pipe stroke the puppet-corn hair of a sister’s doll and walk it cloud to defrosted cloud.  amidst this bartering of vanished weight your mother is being made to balance on her bare stomach a glass of lemonade.  in three days the man will come back, your father a bit healed, your mother less angry about straws.

~ the rabbits

the head of a shovel enters the earth of this southern field.  there is no more give here than in the northern.  the burying boy has been long facing the wind and will be longer.  in walking toward the boy, the old man’s knees have locked.  the old man is seen by the boy and the old man waves upright in the wind’s gnaw.  the tops of the boy’s legs reach his stomach.  

~ archaism

a man carrying his dog stops to kneel.  for my distance from him, I am disallowed any inquiry that would flower.  he sets the black dog in front of him in the manner I have imagined god at the simple chore of placing those first shadows.  I am holding my son nostalgically, almost forgetting how my tooth would ache and his tooth would ache and both would be things I knew and he didn’t.

~ sincerely

the males had in them a sloth and a jolly fog of sportsmanship

and in the females a mistake was made.

against frogs, and against the dim leaping
of frogsong

I had this friend

broke his arm
while *******  
at the wheel.  

I put my arm in the grief of my arm.

Sitting in an abandoned lot,
listening to the screeches of
seagulls and freight trains.
I am staring at a condemned building.
Condemned to have more windows broken and
be marked with unoriginal graffiti.
YOLO and RIP TGB.
Bricks crumbling onto broken glass.
I guess you really do only live once.

Construction tape blows in the wind and
it is strangely terrifying.
This forgotten lot where
there is "absolutely no tailgaiting."
An owners car will be towed
A police car drives by and just stares.

I'm just doing my part.
Forgetting about this lot and all the events that took place here.
The asphalt hums with the highway traffic.
Click Clack goes trashcan
rustling around the fenced-in area in the back forty.
Progression marches on and
the picture fades away to ***** signage and power lines.

If there is beauty in this lot.
I have forgotten.

to escape the grip of being the person everyone expects
you have to be ruthless, with yourself
and leave with a heavy but love filled heart
and step out on the journey of the discovery of yourself
by the act of leaving all else behind.

There's a Route 22 near you.
A licorice asphalt road,
Twisting as opposing currents of time,
With anticipation and apprehension,
From home, to unknowns,
From comfort to expectations.
A rural ribbon of signage,
And milestones.

I traveled mine yesterday,
In an overdue Spring,
From Melrose to Bright's Grove.
I writhe and bend with its winding,
Former times arise like heat waves;
Mirage puddles flood my head,
Always just out of reach.

I recalled hitchhiking through Warwick,
As I backtrack,
And almost stop
For one today on the curve
Where they sell the garden gnomes.
I once looked wryly at them
When waiting across the road.

Sprawling upright over the northern landscape,
Towards the Co-ops of Arkona,
And the beer store in Thedford,
Wind farms thrive like techno giants,
In a mutant Utopian world.

****** Mary's red sign no longer hangs
Outside the white house in Lobo,
Where she could bring you in touch
With your dead.
Poplar Hill's trees no longer snow in the summer,
The water wheels are seized, barns are exposed.
The lofts collapsed.

I had to stop near a culvert, to listen to the sound of run-off,
The melt reflecting the transition under the sun,
Converging at Black Creek, Pulse Creek, or Cow Creek,
Carrying forward to the St. Clair River and Lake Huron,
Then onward and back.

Weathered iron fences enclose pioneer graves;
Settlers who cleared the dense Lambton forests,
And made the first ruts along my way,
With wagonfuls of backache.
I know well how you fared on our Route.

Oh the Americana days
are waning babe
Feel like I gotta put on spurs
and give those haters the boot

cause you said our love
would grow bigger than
Texarcana to The Ohio
Oh baby didn't you know
the lines in your mama's
old trip tips continue to grow

The distance ain't just physical
it's in my rattling antique thinker
as well as the snow
on them cold smoky mountains
did you really forget to
hang up the phone?

or was you talking to your sister 'bout
that dude at the ranch
from your sepia childhood picture
I found in the locket
you left by the brass lamp

I blubbered all night
hoping he's a long lost brother
you never cared to open up about
Here I am popping another
Genny red tall
while your answering machine's full

Oh whoa whoa whoa
guess this is what they mean
about changes in the fall
I skip another rock across
the whole **** river
but no one else saw

I'm not in love
with your words

I'm in love with
the way you think

not just
delighted,
entertained,
endlessly curious,
sufficiently bewildered
and longing to climb inside
the gears tick-tocking your mind

but that your brain takes me
into a state of utter awe
blissing me still

it's looking into
this distorted hologram
mirror where I'm seeing
more of me, but from
different perspectives
than the usual 2D
similar to me, yet,
inversely intriguing

it's live and undulate
reflective truth serum
rooting me in now

that's why I slid
right down your throat -
I speak your language
and apparently intuitively
know how to crack you
allkindsa open

(even if it takes a
white-hot light year
and unprecedented doses)

it's like with you
I'm the me-est me
I can be
it's so

magically delicious
I don't try to escape
inside me anywhere

you make me want to
be more here
with you

on the outside

share all the parts
I learned it best to hide
on the in

though I know
it's a wee bit ******,
if these treatises become
merely the sheer prologue
to The Most Unbelievable Tale
of Mystical Love Perhaps Ever Spun

the fact that
seeing you is
seeing me
means

loving you is
loving me too

this could be
- so -
healthy

like shots of
marine phytoplankton
chased with green smoothie

and my ponderings
keep meandering
around this one thing:

what happens when
it gets to the point where
your pictures painted of me
completely override
my false stories

- forevermore -

when I eat
so much of the mirror
I become - fully -
the me I see
through your
Windexed eyes

I daresay
that’s levitating off
the porch of full potential
outside our diamond-cut pyramid
with the gold-engraved signage
hanging in front of our
intergalactic portal

where one
might have
once

looked for a door

that now seems
completely archaic
and unnecessary

I want to paint the colours of the rainbow on everything I see
I want to splash the light frothy foam of my less-than-awesome cappuccino onto this page
I want these black, white, and grey squiggly lines to capture the moments that make my days

All the heavy thoughts and deep emotion poured out and catalogued through the ages
The stories of our greatest, deepest, and weakest selves
The highs, the lows, the darkest, the brightest times
Odes to lost love, songs of beauty,
Essays on the human condition -
All worthy subjects for immortalization

But I'd like to save a little corner of the page for -
My daily fights with that abrasive flaming-red outdated alarm clock
The late afternoon sun filtering through the slats on the early twentieth-century windows in the stairwell of my office building
The discarded spider web hanging forlornly from the hardback Oxford dictionary in the bottommost corner of my bookshelf
The rusted signage on the dilapidated building on the corner, that was once a hub of commerce in this ever changing, ever constant, city by the sea
One of these days what was by the sea may become​ part of it;

I want to remember what once was -
Not because of its aspirations to grandeur, or the many, varied battles fought over it;
It is not always attractive or easy to love, it is often old, tired, confused, even ******, in the evening lights that misunderstand its cracks and crevices
But it has stood here, and drowned here in the deluge of hungry people and high tides and poor drainage and unrepentant rains and it has survived and thrived and been home to so many millions and saviour to so many more
And I am loath to let its inheritance fade and fall into the abyss of forgotten things..

Ok, gimme me your best day, take your best shot at perfection.
Our minds take experiences and press them grape-like,
into the intoxicating liquor of memory.
The vivid ones linger - unaltered - like youthful Internet mistakes forever posted.
Someday to beckon us back, teasingly - like bright, neon signage.
.
Peter’s off again to job interview (second round, in Geneva), he was only here two days but something of him remained behind. Oh, fingerprints for sure - but memories too - like scattered Christmas wrappings - or a poem.

I’m not good with words and worse with expressing. But, I’ll try.
We all are searching for something, someone special. We try to search for dots, squares- shapes that are our similar kinds. We fall innumerable times and sometimes that leaves us questioning our faith, our beliefs, our potential- overall, maybe ourselves. And we stop trying. A hand reaches out to us. That hand stands with you, for you, some times even slaps you while you’re losing yourself again. It hugs you, comforts you in those lonely winter nights and feels the raindrops falling upon its palm through the grills of the window. It guides you, pointing out like a signage and it never fails you. That one person guides you, holds you, loves you for no reason comprehensive whatsoever. They make you look at yourself with hope, with love.
And more than some times, we fail to realise that while we were busy searching for more than something that’s ordinary love, that love had been standing beside us all this while and maybe, more.

Contorted reports of important reviews
The people can't keep with the lead on the news
The lady betrayed us, her graces abused
By signage confided my mind is confused

Sincerest endearments by tears are replaced
The fears I loathed feeding now filling the space
Where fondness of bonding once dawned on my face
What's left is a rift of disgusting disgrace

the permanent shaving cut (why god made humans cut)

~for my father~

in the class of men
who need a scrubbing shave
I am, a twice a day him-hymnal

to keep the face pliant,
the cheeks smoothied,
in case some young children
come visiting, needing kissing,
by a funny-foolish Poppy

hell, I shave before I go to bed
cause I sleep shirtless,
my chin’s scruff cuts my shoulder
that badly, that here I am, awoken,
writing ******* poetry at 5:09am

but the specific cut requesting a poem
all for its lonesome is actually a newlywed pinch,
where the straying, whirring blades grabbed ahold
of the soft tissue flesh beneath the eyes,
where the no-sleep, permanently black stained “circles” live,
those tree rings of the human body

shaving cuts...what’s the big deal!

this one painful, sending out a weather alert to the brain, saying:

“Hello old friend, this red busted blood cell,
that’s me, is now a permanent resident,
a red badge of stupidity (yours),
a forever face fixture that will be
a pallbearer at your funeral,
jump into your grave with you,
for one last final deep dive drive-by screaming”

so now when I shave,
this perfect red light signal of a cautionary tale,
smiling remindingly to stick to the round and fleshy fat parts,,
pale red cheekiness where the only natural indentation are
two **** dimples - the ones no longer visible,
under the stubble of a life now measured in
too many decades

why do we cut ourselves?

(now grow serious)

not for fashion,
a scratcher beards an even greater skin-ny irritant,
this human gesture, this marker of the
daily changing leaves coloring,
this forced to mirror-address
who is that person vision we’ve never before met,
with ridged furrowed forehead,
and every day older markings appliqués,
summarizing a race to some ending,
that pulling weeds from the ground
or the **** grounds of your face,
is endlessly pointless but necessary,
a god given way to say fool!
you’ve been given a mo’ day,
and another night, wake up,
do something useful

kiss those babies too much,
write many short poems,
do a goodun,
remember,
this day,

for when you see that red dot mark of living,
it’s just another signage of closer to dying,
no use in denying, use this memory well
to make yourself attractively useful and

maybe,
some other human apparition might
come along and you’ll be reminded
smooth is better n’ gruff,
and thus shaving
helps perpetuate
the species.

Ogdiddynash

The Year Was 2017... Globalization and Relocation thru Financial Incentives had been occurring at an Increasingly Rapid Rate...for 4 years
Human Sorting thru the Spheres Program had accelerated, and Talent Acquisition and Identification was Rampant in the Building of Ministry States, and Six Nation Civil/ Financial  Armies....
Ownership of Brick and Mortar Businesses in Each Free Country by Aggressive Interests Had become Maximized
Psychological War had been expanded

Martial Law Is Declared:
      in the event Civil War Breaks out...
     1) physical fitness at military Grade necessary
     2) able to read color based code and signage without computer
          - Rank and Order; For the purpose of Martial Law Leadership Positions/ Ruling Standard: Royal Dictatorship
         - Order of Social Value in the event of Planet Drought and Overheating, Mass starvation
         - Human Potential Project Government assisted for rapid acceleration of Skill to combat business collapse, acceleration pop Intuition and Physic listening ability
         - Disaster Training  and Skills organized
          - Passing of Fake Wills and................... for redistribution of Wealth
          - Fake......., wikipedia installs, and Search engine Lies to alter World Voting Perceptions for Tech  endorsed candidates in UN positions
        - Fake NGO's ,  Subject Matter Expertise Areas based in Branding and advertising as Influencers,  
          Conflict of Interest Rampant throughout; Corruption Widespread,
Secret Hostile Foreign Influence mixed with Oneness Agenda of Globalists
         Interference with mail (taken over by Foreign interests
          - arranged ****** partnerships/marriages for maximum efficiency of family structure in loss of familiar Central Government, increase of wellness and rabid growth of NEW potentials

Prepare: physically fit, for operation
                 eat organic foods
                Elliminate all debt, minimize expenses
                ORDER, reduce clutter, attachments
                ID primary relationships
        

              At Risk: Forests, Farmlands, National Parks, Utilities, Water
              At risk: Cultural Artifacts(Psychological War Target)
              At Risk: Kids of Philanthropists, Leadership
              At Risk: Family Businesses
              At Risk: Planet, All Life

Signage won't matter
Nor the road paint that you lay
Love is not one way

Heed tetchy static, roving around McArthur.
I can feel the steady impulse breed flaxen flumine.
   Songs tumble notes as ladies sing blunt-mouthed tune.
You croon with them, mindless of the force that tries
  to break free past the console. Your voice is analogous
     to reticence. I hear nothing, feel everything underneath the lazy glow
of the sign that says Yield plastered to a decrepit signage past the
        posh city buoys of Jupiter. Everything comes to a halt
in the remote red light district. Somewhere behind those thick walls
   that enshroud the fumes of tantric body heat, I can feel the ground
    stop in that disconsolate delineation: morose and encumbered,
    outnumbered by the cognoscenti that filled the streets unwilling
  to give us directions to whereabouts we rarely have knowledge of.
   cigarettes rammed deep within their mouths, masticating the cloud
     of nicotine as though it were tender meat, I hear the radio go
      ballistic past the sign now that reads Exit.

This poem was written on a cold winter morning in the North.

winter sun
written february 5th, 1995

laying stretched in bed
after sleeping all night
all night in my head
with the walls up

i open my eyes
to the winter sun
winter sun burning bright
bright and white and pure

winter sun is such a contrast
sparkling off the cold snow
cutting through the crisp air
brightness the only thing left of its heat

i feel the walls go back down in my head
i shut my eyes to the blinding brightness
and let the sun make its way unaided

into my self
can it make its way around the walls?
find its way through the maze?
discover all the secret places?

winter sun doesn't have vision or reason
it isn't confused by the barriers i put up
by the false walls that i have built
or the inaccurate signage

for a few minutes
on this cold winter morning
in spite of my defenses
the winter sun illuminates all of me

Ever since you left
I’ve been wondering
what it’d be like if we
were just parallel lines
never destined to meet
instead of two rusted cars
with broken brakes at a
crossroad without signage.

Lucky I am, as no one walked before me.
But I had to go, so what I walked became the path!
When I walked for the first time, it was not easy,
The course was coarse and the team was unwilling,
Challenges were many both physical and psychological
Milestones were few, if someone not traveled, would never know!
I pushed ahead, one stretch a time,
Learning the terrain and conquering simultaneously!

We had to walk on it, through it many a times
We created a lot more milestones and stopovers
Others also came, put on signage's,
Thought aloud, how this path could have been better!
Some even asked, 'Where does this path lead to?'
There were many onlookers, travelers, part-time travelers
Many such people were wondering,
'Why are we walking on this path?'

Few team mates wanted to settle down along the path,
One or two launched out on the mission to walk their path!
Travelers poured in and so do the administrators,
Experts came in broadened it, added platforms,
Beautified it, levied tax and even named the path!
Criticisms were plenty from the first step that I took,
But I know people will follow this path!
People after people, ages after ages, will follow this path!

Half moon high
In a deepening sky
The clouds like spider cotton,
Like blue ivory husks betwixt
Umber grey misty fog,
The diablerie of dusk
Dark sky and stars

The streets flooded,
a river of headlights, flashlights,
Sidewalks’ pedestrian traffic,
An Armada of munchkins, crowds
Strolling by Chinatown’s
Crisp neon plazas,
A necropolis bright with
Cartoon sharp signage
Accessorizing restaurants with
Jade And gold, foot spas
And red doors…
Horrors of hangings
Roast ducks and pigs decapitated…

Yet the evening is dressed finely still
All eyes lurking
Shadows floating by
Not to be forgotten tonight
Dias de las Muertos
En espanol…

While down the road
Neighborhood way
Skitters Lilliputian creatures
In shells of Saver’s costumes
As squeals of laughter festoons
Boulevard life with
Tiny tintinnabulations
Like baby rattlers
Against the dark
(Maracas for chupacabras)

Timorous parent folk
Encouragement as company,
They Scurry past
Down dim spatial street
In demand of what is given freely
From each and every door
Treat and sweets
Caries galore
All their tricks cached in grins
Of baby teeth
turn candy corn…

Mischievously the meek milk
All Hallows' Eve For
Hallowed be the glee
Even tho' beneath
The web of grey cloudy sky
Life is precious
To deny
The thirsty as it rains

Misery’s loss deep dismal graves,
We should live in celebration
Childlike everyday
Sing and dance
In the October rain
In this wonder
Like rattlers against the dark

Far from wastes of
Hollow wind and pain,
Chilling cries, bleeding eyes,
Undead the unseen
From this cirque city of sins
Offsprings on the strip
Fearless on the boulevard
Treating & tricking
With ole candied lies…

All done up in bright disguise
Happy Halloween.

and when I thought
perhaps I was
undead in bloom

felt so unsure
what to do
what to do...

dropped to knees, praying
for cosmic signage
like I do

and when I walked in
to my parents' house that evening
the very first thing my dad says to me:
we're watching this tonight

in his hand, a DVD
Pride and Prejudice Zombies

I can't make this **** up...