i.
Jimi was procrastinating in the bedroom with Lizi; his performance anxiety had become unbearable.
He could tell she was trying to “******” him tonight. She didn’t wear a bra under her ratty t-shirt and
snuggled up against him when she climbed into bed, this was his queue to come after her. Hmmm,
does she think he’s so simple? At least Pavlov’s dog had the respect of his owner. So he lay on his stomach,
pretending he was asleep like he had done so many times before. After what seemed like an eternity, Lizi
sighed with disappointment and rolled over.  When Jimi dared open his eyes he glanced at the clock,  
2:17 am. His stomach felt hard as he choked back tears, there has to be more to life than this…
when could he stop pretending?

ii.
“Shhh it’s ok. You don’t need to talk about it.” He said, pressing her head against his chest.
That angered her. She did need to talk about it, and he was treating her like a child. She glanced
at the clock, he had already overstayed his available time.
“You need to go. It’s past 3.”
He sighed, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
“No problem. Can’t keep the wife waiting.”
“Please don’t be mad.”
“Hey, it’s my own ****** fault for getting involved with you.”
Jimi didn’t say anything. He never did when things got uncomfortable. Instead, he reached for
his coat and put on his shoes. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning, ok?”
Mango sat silently, staring out the window. No you won’t, she thought, and you’ll get busy
and forget to even ask me, because you don’t ******* really care.
He walked over and kissed her softly. “Bye honey.”
“Bye” she answered, not returning the kiss, or looking at his face. How could he bring up
this ****, and then leave her alone with all of her emotions?

iii.
There was really only one friend from college that Jimi trusted enough to talk about anything
of substance. But even so, he didn’t dare talk about Mango. He’d been telling her that he was
going to move out, but no one in his life knew there were even problems in the marriage. Lizi
didn’t know there were problems in the marriage. This was much bigger and more complicated
than he had imagined, and how long could Mango hold on?  He didn’t mean to **** her around,
but she cried more than she laughed these days….he really missed her laugh. When he and
Mango were together, his feelings for her were powerful, literally full of power. He had fallen in love with
her, more than he had ever loved anyone, or even knew he was capable of loving anyone. But the
pathway to her was terrifying and treacherous, and once on that path, there was no turning back.

iv.
“At this point music doesn’t comfort, poetry doesn’t comfort, my work does not comfort and you
do not comfort.  I don’t remember the last time I felt so empty and out of control of my life.”
The other end of the phone remained silent, every passing second bunching the muscles in her
back and neck as if her whole self was shriveling into a contorted form of a human being. “Jimi,
just face it—you lost me. You thought I’d be a cure for your boredom and dissatisfaction, but
you didn’t expect to fall in love with me. Okay, you love me. So what? So ******* what? You
aren’t going to leave your wife and I’m tired of being treated like your concubine.”
“Don’t give up, please don’t give up. Don’t you love me anymore?”
“Right now, I hate you. If I leave now, maybe the hate will fade and we can be some sort of friends.”
Nothing was heard but the faint sound of breathing for the next ten minutes.
“You know what Jimi? **** this whole **** game that you think is love and ******* too.”
and she hung up.

v.
“I know who you are.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are the woman who has been having an affair with my husband.”
Mango looked up from her register. Large round hazel eyes bore through her, burning with anger
and refusing to cry. An enormous scarlet letter “A” seemed to be melting into her skin. They stood
there, sizing each other up, Mango could feel her lip begin to quiver.
“I can see why he wanted you, you look nothing like me.”
Side by side it was true. One woman refined, statuesque, well bred. The other thrift store coordinated,
pierced lip and pigtails.
Mango tried to think of what to say “I’m sorry. It’s over, I ended it over a year ago.” was all she
could come up with. How do you say I’m sorry for intruding on the bond between a husband and wife?
How do you say I’m sorry for something that can never be undone and has forever seared pain
onto the heart of another woman?
They stared at each other for a full minute, neither willing to break the gaze. Finally, Lizi sighed and
began to walk away.
“Lizi…” She turned back to look at Mango one last time, “He didn’t make me happy either.”

I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic: I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an eighteen-inch waist because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
having to choose
between eating and breathing with not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a thirty-nine inch bust and three times the forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine squeezed to a three, spending
three to nine avoiding mealtime because my weight loss book says
'Don't eat.'
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic, but...
I'm not plastic.
I've sat here listening while you complain about society but I don't think you realize that
society is made by you.
You complain about masks but you're masked by your poetry and
trust me,
it's trendy:
Psychiatry.
A bottle of capsules captures your soul and your dreams,
fading
reality.
I cannot be defined because a definition leaves no room for change and I
am a flame,
ready to burn the cardboard box of priority you put over me.
All the cool kids are lesbians and thespians on about repressions
and I care,
I do,
I mean... I'm standing here among you.
But words are just air.
You can stand on this stage and tell me I'm beautiful, but
I am more than my face so
disregard my mild distaste for your
inspirational speech.
Now, this...
This isn't a call for help.
This is a call to arms.
This
is a battle cry because
I
am sick of waiting for a future that should've happened yesterday.
So use this air to live the words you say and
rally.
Do not soothe, because we've already been cocooned by soothed reality in
Shawnee,
Johnson County.
I'm a real girl,
in a real world.
Life's fantastic, and I
refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
a neck moulded perfectly for both eating and breathing so I don't have to choose.
I refuse to be plastic,
a bust that you don't need to be sizing
when I've got eyes
a green not of romanticized meadows but of drunken
puke.
I refuse to be plastic,
a size nine foot in a size nine shoe,
spending three to nine
enjoying my meal times,
because my weight loss book is
chucked down the chute.
I'm a living girl
in a beautiful world.
Life's fantastic,
because I'm not plastic.

1, for the slumber that tumbles us round,
2, for the remedy, the musics bold sound.
3, for the tree that became your canoe
& 4 for the rain, it's ambiguous blue.

5, to escape, to a world we contrive,
6 for the tricks that I played to survive.
7, because heaven, is supposedly on earth,
& 8 for my mother, and her unknown worth.
9 for the failures, the faults & mistakes,
10 for the fears that keep us awake.

11, for my father, consoles me each night, whispers advice crystal clear, filled with insight- words on courage & kindness, love & delight.
12- when you wake but it's already night.
13 forever, with strength glory and might,
14 with wisdom, discretion, insight-
both numbers together sizing up every fight.

15, for my little sister, and all her turmoil,
15, for her spirit, the last one to spoil,
she and the world but water and oil,
15 for her soul, and like the mighty cobra it's coil,
deadly & graceful defends its home soil.

16 for the evil- the wicked & cruel, the endless hate they spin into fuel.
17, for reason, justice & art,
and all the other virtues life etched on my heart,
18, to redeem, to admit your mistake, to truly move on then perhaps to retake.
19 for that shame, always the same, so familiar it almost comforts my brain. 19, for the suffering, agony & betrayal.
19 true stories retold as mere tales- how they surpass logic and induce other's fails.

20. For my years. For the moment, for now. For to the past I salute, and to the future I bow; All with the hope that next year I'll know how

to do what everyone else can.

Hello.
A turn of the head,
Lips parting in an easy smile,
And eyes,
Reaching up to meet you
Masterfully sizing my new opponent
While giving nothing away.

Secretly,
I let every sense indulge
In you. Each tiny receptor
Seeking your aura,
While images of
Conscious-losing pleasure
Flash casually
In my mind.

Outwardly,
Nothing has happened.
The energy undulating almost
Visibly between us—it must be
In your head.
You are granted no sign of my attraction,
No idea of the power you
Hold over me.
I give you no mercy.
I’m sorry darling, I know,
Teasing is cruel,
But very necessary, for nothing
Evokes sweet satisfaction like
A juicy bite of forbidden
Fruit, after lifetimes of
Starvation.

Without hesitation, I will deny you
Until you are weak, until
You overdose on desire and
Anticipation, for
I see who you are.
The universe has brought you to me,
To torture me, to
Challenge me. A worthy
Match against forces backed
By the Gods.
Together, we can soar to
The cascading highs
Of transcendent pleasure.

Challenge me.

Finally made it to where I want to be but now I need to change my goal
Build up on what I've started make the quest more challenging
I get bored and need more inspiration to be more I don't settle
I don't friend anyone unless they are resourceful
I need to grow develop into the person I'm meant to be
Hard work pays off so don't give up things have shifted in my direction
All I ever needed was a fighting chance to become who I see myself being
Focused on what matters my health
Achieving goals not settling proving them wrong
Bettering my image moving up at work

With a warm load of folded laundry under my chin
I head toward Daniel’s sock drawer
Pulling on the carefully crafted handle I see
My grandfather cutting and planning the cherry tree
Dropped by Hurricane Carol in 1954
Wood shavings fall about his work boots as he
Shapes each panel, never using a ruler, all by eye
Boxing the frame, sizing the drawers, sanding surfaces
By hand, hence 60 years of grandkids and great grandkids socks
The drawer closes effortlessly with a sound
Of living heirlooms and heritage
Of legacy and family
A sound that everything is safe inside
That memorials are made to last

When I was chief creative officer for Liz Claiborne Inc., I spent a good amount of time on the road hosting fashion shows highlighting our brands. Our team made a point of retaining models of various sizes, shapes and ages, because one of the missions of the shows was to educate audiences about how they could look their best. At a Q&A; after one event in Nashville in 2010, a woman stood up, took off her jacket and said, with touching candour: “Tim, look at me. I’m a box on top, a big, square box. How can I dress this shape and not look like a fullback?” It was a question I’d heard over and over during the tour: Women who were larger than a size 12 always wanted to know, How can I look good, and why do designers ignore me?

At New York Fashion Week, which began Thursday, the majority of American women are unlikely to receive much attention, either. Designers keep their collections tightly under wraps before sending them down the runway, but if past years are any indication of what’s to come, plus-size looks will be in short supply. Sure, at New York Fashion Week in 2015, Marc Jacobs and Sophie Theallet each featured a plus-size model and Ashley Graham debuted her plus-size lingerie line. But these moves were very much the exception, not the rule.

I love the American fashion industry, but it has a lot of problems and one of them is the baffling way it has turned its back on plus-size women. It’s a puzzling conundrum. The average American woman now wears between a size 16 and a size 18, according to new research from Washington State University. There are 100 million plus-size women in America, and, for the past three years, they have increased their spending on clothes faster than their straight-size counterparts. There is money to be made here ($20.4 billion (U.S.), up 17 per cent from 2013). But many designers — dripping with disdain, lacking imagination or simply too cowardly to take a risk — still refuse to make clothes for them.

In addition to the fact that most designers max out at size 12, the selection of plus-size items on offer at many retailers is paltry compared with what’s available for a size 2 woman. According to a Bloomberg analysis, only 8.5 per cent of dresses on Nordstrom.com in May were plus-size. At J.C. Penney’s website, it was 16 per cent; Nike.com had a mere five items — total.

I’ve spoken to many designers and merchandisers about this. The overwhelming response is, “I’m not interested in her.” Why? “I don’t want her wearing my clothes.” Why? “She won’t look the way that I want her to look.” They say the plus-size woman is complicated, different and difficult, that no two size 16s are alike. Some haven’t bothered to hide their contempt. “No one wants to see curvy women” on the runway, Karl Lagerfeld, head designer of Chanel, said in 2009. Plenty of mass retailers are no more enlightened: under the tenure of chief executive Mike Jeffries, Abercrombie & Fitch sold nothing larger than a size 10, with Jeffries explaining that “we go after the attractive, all-American kid.”

This a design failure and not a customer issue. There is no reason larger women can’t look just as fabulous as all other women. The key is the harmonious balance of silhouette, proportion and fit, regardless of size or shape. Designs need to be reconceived, not just sized up; it’s a matter of adjusting proportions. The textile changes, every seam changes. Done right, our clothing can create an optical illusion that helps us look taller and slimmer. Done wrong, and we look worse than if we were naked.

Have you shopped retail for size 14-plus clothing? Based on my experience shopping with plus-size women, it’s a horribly insulting and demoralizing experience. Half the items make the body look larger, with features like ruching, box pleats and shoulder pads. Pastels and large-scale prints and crazy pattern-mixing abound, all guaranteed to make you look infantile or like a float in a parade. Adding to this travesty is a major department-store chain that makes you walk under a marquee that reads “WOMAN.” What does that even imply? That a “woman” is anyone larger than a 12 and everyone else is a girl? It’s mind-boggling.

Project Runway, the design competition show on which I’m a mentor, has not been a leader on this issue. Every season we have the “real women” challenge (a title I hate), in which the designers create looks for non-models. The designers audibly groan, though I’m not sure why; in the real world, they won’t be dressing a seven-foot-tall glamazon.

This season, something different happened: Ashley Nell Tipton won the contest with the show’s first plus-size collection. But even this achievement managed to come off as condescending. I’ve never seen such hideous clothes in my life: bare midriffs; skirts over crinoline, which give the clothes, and the wearer, more volume; see-through skirts that reveal *******; pastels, which tend to make the wearer look juvenile; and large-scale floral embellishments that shout “prom.” Her victory reeked of tokenism. One judge told me that she was “voting for the symbol” and that these were clothes for a “certain population.” I said they should be clothes all women want to wear. I wouldn’t dream of letting any woman, whether she’s a size 6 or a 16, wear them. Simply making a nod toward inclusiveness is not enough.

This problem is difficult to change. The industry, from the runway to magazines to advertising, likes subscribing to the mythology it has created of glamour and thinness. Look at Vogue’s “Shape Issue,” which is ostensibly a celebration of different body types but does no more than nod to anyone above a size 12. For decades, designers have trotted models with bodies completely unattainable for most women down the runway. First it was women so thin that they surely had eating disorders. After an outcry, the industry responded by putting young teens on the runway, girls who had yet to exit puberty. More outrage.

But change is not impossible. There are aesthetically worthy retail successes in this market. When helping women who are size 14 and up, my go-to retailer is Lane Bryant. While the items aren’t fashion with a capital F, they are stylish (but please avoid the cropped pants — always a no-no for any woman). And designer Christian Siriano scored a design and public relations victory after producing a look for Leslie Jones to wear to the “Ghostbusters” red-carpet premiere. Jones, who is not a diminutive woman, had tweeted in despair that she couldn’t find anyone to dress her; Siriano stepped in with a lovely full-length red gown.

Several retailers that have stepped up their plus-size offerings have been rewarded. In one year, ModCloth doubled its plus-size lineup. To mark the anniversary, the company paid for a survey of 1,500 American women ages 18 to 44 and released its findings: Seventy-four per cent of plus-size women described shopping in stores as “frustrating”; 65 per cent said they were “excluded.” (Interestingly, 65 per cent of women of all sizes agreed that plus-size women were ignored by the fashion industry.) But the plus-size women surveyed also indicated that they wanted to shop more. More than 80 per cent said they’d spend more on clothing if they had more choices in their size and nearly 90 per cent said they would buy more if they had trendier options. According to the company, its plus-size shoppers place 20 per cent more orders than its straight-size customers.

Online start-up Eloquii, initially conceived and then killed by The Limited, was reborn in 2014. The trendy plus-size retailer, whose top seller is an over-the-knee boot with four-inch heels and extended calf sizes, grew its sales volume by more than 165 per cent in 2015.

Despite the huge financial potential of this market, many designers don’t want to address it. It’s not in their vocabulary. Today’s designers operate within paradigms that were established decades ago, including anachronistic sizing. (Consider the fashion show: It hasn’t changed in more than a century.) But this is now the shape of women in this nation, and designers need to wrap their minds around it. I profoundly believe that women of every size can look good. But they must be given choices. Separates — tops, bottoms — rather than single items like dresses or jumpsuits always work best for the purpose of fit. Larger women look great in clothes skimming the body, rather than hugging or cascading. There’s an art to doing this. Designers, make it work.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses

i thought it was ****** obvious what i was doing there,
i walked in with my Slayer band t-shirt off
wiping off the sweat from my face...
ah... a cheap bottle of wine... £3.50... a Chilean Merlot...
nothing like cheap wine for some kalimotxo...
and if that wine doesn't do the trick for a nightcap...
the cheapest whiskey available... no more than
35cl: but i promised myself not to drink both completely...
obviously the wine doesn't have an electronic tag
that needs to be taken off at the cashiers'...
but the whiskey does...
come midnight it's this long centipede winding through
the self-checkout aisles...
two... of the finest quality Hijab mystique organising
the flow of people...
oh... the finest...
                     first you scan the items...
then you're asked to wait for the confirmation of your
age... so someone has to some with
a ticket (so little about all of this is about
self-checking-out)... and then... you have to walk
to the end of the aisle to get the electronic tag off...
with your receipt...
so i went to the end... where the bit that takes
the electronic tags off is placed in a drawer...
along with... this night in particular...
a raw white onion... and some baby clothes that
were returned all piled up in a shopping trolley...
apparently i was blocking something important...
that's when i was asked this profound
existential question:
                           what are you doing here?
oh **** me... it hit me like a rock...
i sometimes wish for three things... a slightly bigger
phallus... a much more bushier beard...
and... a talent for wit... for waspish wit...
for playful wit...
   some whiplash wit...
                 something that i might: snap out of something
instead of... what just came out?
a what... sorry... didn't hear that...
'what are you doing here?!'
     exactly those exclamation marks with purpose
of interrogation...
- am i... just growing from the roots up?
- am i... is Goodmayes a no-go zone for white
boys after a 10pm curfew or something?
i grew up around these parts...
i went to school around these parts...
a predominantly Irish neighbourhood...
is this a no-go zone?

i mean... i don't expect pleasantries from
cashiers at... midnight... but it's not like i was
the only person there...
was i holding a cloud of balloons and
wearing a clown suit with full-make up?
did i have an pink elephants on a string
or a golden fly on a chain?

'what are you doing here?!'
what a snap of juicy vindictiveness in that
tiny Hijab specimen of beauty...
i somehow must have invaded her space
or some *******...
but... i was there to get the electronic
tag off the neck of my whiskey bottle...
i don't think i was there to later come
home and write this nonsense:
if she asked me that same question:
on the top of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh
at 5am...
but then again: no one asks those questions
at 5am on the longest day in the year
on Arthur's Seat... a good morning:
chirpy one... isn't it? suffices...

    being asked a profound existential question
in a supermarket: at midnight of
a Monday is...

   aha... now it's sort of obvious...
            if i decided to go elsewhere with my wine...
say... to the brothel...
and i came across Khadaya... Khadija...
            Khada... all aspects of nakedness...
so this is what my face looks like
to women... after i lost... 20kg in mass?
  i'm attractive once more...
              honest anchoring... she's about to receive
£2.00 per minute for an hour...
and she likes my face... and i like her face...
eh... *** like a Lamborghini and a body that looks
but more importantly feels as comfortable
to touch as... one might hope to find oneself
sitting in a well worn leather armchair...

always objectification within the need for metaphor...
allusions to...
but a bit different when it can't be so obvious...
she's this Hijab donning princess Jasmine
working in the supermarket
and i'm just a cyclist wearing a Slayer t-shirt
who dropped in for a nightcap of cheap
wine and cheap whiskey...
or perhaps to her... i'm...
   some myth of a northern barbarian who...
arrived in Jerusalem with Barbarossa pickled
in a barrel... hmm?
         well... i'm not exactly a werewolf...
   not just yet...

again: was i there to solve a Su Doku puzzle or change
a light-bulb via mime?!
flow of people... i was placing myself
in the least obstructive way possible:
now... i'm overthinking the punch line...
it's coming off as if i'm somehow autistic or something...
who wouldn't...

in the most un-spec-ta-cu-lar of circumstance
you get such an open question...
before having my wisdom teeth pulled out
i asked the anaesthetic man:
quo vadis?

               seems more correct to ask:
such a generality... but not in such a defensive...
almost scolding manner...
i did mention she was a Hijab gem...
a petite little thing who forgot to objectify me
as human traffic of buyer...
with a purse's worth of whiskey
that had an electronic tag attached to the neck
that needed to be "dismantled"...

after skim-watching a few episodes
of the Sopranos... Tony Soprano is deemed an
attractive man by his psychiatrist...
so... what am i? a ******* ageing Adonis
or something?
now it feels bothersome to have lost
those 20kg in mass...
100 push ups a day... 100 stomach crunches...
cycling...
i knew this would land me in a spot of
bother... no more prostitutes joking
(kindly) that i have bigger **** than they have...

thank god the omission of a sudden limp
**** because: she shouldn't be in the profession
and i'm in no mood to ****
a tender, shy, deer...
               because it works when it's required
to work and i'll go through 5 before
it becomes resolute: that lilac / blue pill
will not make me prove a point on just 1...

dinner? cinema?
if she offers up the full platter of ******* oysters
and her body becomes the whole
complexity of cinema...
but not being corned by two Hijab beauties
at the self-checkout aisle
coordinating human traffic...

again: forever in the reiteration pause...
'what are you doing here?!'
am i supposed to be somewhere else?
the question asks itself:
why would a girl of your "sort" ask a whitey
that sort of question?
is this a no-go zone area akin to Malmo
in Sweden... am i expected to don
a ******* Pakistani pyjama to walk safe...
don a bushier beard than the one
i adorn trimmed by an Ottoman?

clearly i'm fuckable and clearly i also ****...
if she was allowed a different scenario
where she wasn't a self-checkout coordinator
and i wasn't speedily trying to get out
from the concept of a queue she might:
ask a less abrupt a question...

**** anything that moves...
       one motto worth keeping in mind when
reading Kant's labyrinth...
i promise this to anyone who undertakes
the "mission"... the part of the critique of pure reason
that comes last in the second volume
that's: a consolidation piece...
that's title: the transcendental methodology...
oh god... it's like this (almost) revelation:
but it's most certainly a joy a cascade to read...
that's when Kant relaxes and doesn't bother
to stress his... systematic approach to...
not language: to the idea...
what the idea is? that's my own to digest...
even these years later...

if she was older than me...
if she wasn't sizing me up... seeing how...
my shadow is probably larger than her body
come noon...
how she might just be...
constipated / claustrophobic through all her...
restrictions in attire...
how she was paired up with another girl
and there was no forbidding authority
of same-faith colleagues looking over them...
she asked me the most profound
question no one is expected to hear
in a supermarket...

           hence these words as spiral...
it's not the first time i've seen these two Hijab beauties...
i can't imagine...
having the audacity to write an autobiography
post... in vivo mortem!
i can't imagine writing... succumbing to write...
after... having lived... a most...
exploitative life...
i shudder at the prospect of reading...
Seven Years in Tibet...
i have the original copy...
it's enough that i read:
Harold Norse's: Memoirs of a ******* Angel...
that's enough for me...

             in writing there's only the fiction:
the fantasy... or the absolutely terrible mundane:
grit...
lives loved by the gods so that they might
be shared with as many as possible
do not belong in the realm of words...
however terrible it might sound...
all the ancient Roman poets wrote prosaic:
if not maxims then anecdotal evidence of...
taking leave: taking leisure in scrutiny..
too much of what's supposedly life
and how language is employed in "said" life
is limited to... bureaucratic fudge-packaging...
try escape that cycle of: abuse of informal language...
when you're expected to begin with:
dear sir /  madam...
   and end with: kind regards /
the distinction between yours faithfully vs. yours
sincerely...

she took a fancy after i already took her fancy...
perhaps it's a shame...
of the hierarchies of man...
and the stresses brought on by time...
all this... graveyard of space.

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unpicking the knitpicking
whilst knitting a pecker of a phallus

Leiak, omnipresent vague pneuma-dancing spirit, ductile pious water of epiphany and extraordinary example, lives on the water with his parasitic chin in the Vernarthian epigram; he is seen with his jocular back, breaking the lines of the swamps between muscles and silhouettes. Before the First station..., primitive of the three remaining nights before reaching the volcano of Patmos, its deluge begins. "

It bathes in the Davidian, Alexandrian, and Vernarthian rains. A little touched he is seen and insubordinate in the astragali that he has gained in his allegories, squeezing his chest, exactly for the good of a wonderful Hellenistic city statue of the Dyticá, where he imbibed Vernarth's putti, adhering to the hydric spheres that fell over the ceilings of the heavens that Eros himself and his crush, which struck the heart axis of Medea, totally extracted from Zefian's quiver, constricted in Borker's nanotechnological sub-mythology. From the comedy of Attica and in the superb speeches of endo-adverbial satire, he stigmatized verbal changes of creation, superimposing them on tops of excesses carried by heavy drops inside some amphorae brought from the eastern sunset, tracking happiness that arrived on the western shores, waiting letters of sigh and loneliness stretched out on the thalamus full of stretch marks. So Leiak expanded, where everyone made fun of him being a satyr by essence, but being unaware of it. Perhaps as a unitary gesture of shadows when going to dawn, before having the best light that they put in figures or pirouettes, without disgracing him as a satirical minority in the Epicurean doctrine, he is inquiring a happy life through the intelligent search of innate pleasures, the ataraxia and in apocalyptic friendships with Zefian, Borker, and Kaitelka.

Borker did not intend to heal himself of trifles at all; it will be a habit to venerate the revelations against polytheism, to then cling to an interiority that points to corroded execration from the root to the top of the fallen tree, with force blinded by the blindness of the Automaton, as far as it is concerned. By itself, of identical significance in the background; but with so-called change that he tends to totally eliminate the last trait of personification of the divine. From this dilemma, the values will be spikes in his hands, sheaves in both, and what he envisions of Hellenism will be the property of nano-technology, submitting under the lens of time dividers that have never been pieces of rest under the Duoverse-Universe., the lens will be your Iridium and the microbes that govern us will be the atomic force, to discover them. What atomistic world will there be between Borker and Leiak, if in this nanoworld; The nanometer is one-billionth of a meter ?, What will be enough to start being tiny in this great epic, which is called Vernarth intra-spaces and inter-Verthians of the universal macrocosm, which will now approach the microcosm of human consciousness, and the laboratory of Epicurean affabilities in Ataraxias decreasing the passionate intensity of the Hypothalamus, and the supra desires that can alter the mental-corporal balance, strengthening in misery that they reach said balance, and finally happiness, which is a meta-plane of Epicurean convergence that runs after the lost. Ataraxia is, therefore, tranquility, serenity, and imperturbability analogous to Vernarth's soul, reason and feelings in his dislocated world, and the hemispheres of himself that will be rationalized in their slightest longitudinal measure, in what fits and in the precarious!

Passionate laboratories were magnetized every time Leiak walked on its extension, and his hands went beyond his fingers, touching the Constellation of Aorion, to indicate that the longitudinal metric of man is measured beyond the fingers of the Duoverse, where it appears the Extra-Cosmos in the proximal of a nano-scale is a submultiple of the conferred means of the Saint John the Apostle pattern. The scientific notation will be the safeguard of the magisterial scientist exponentiated brain; 10.1 mm = 10-3., the kilometer or km, is the opposite equivalent in what submultiples of the meter are called a micrometer: 1 μm = 10-6 m. In this scale we find bacteria, which constitute the main group of microbes, hence the name of the submultiple between observation scales of the macro and micro world of this being of Holographic Lux called Leiak, having the composition between this nanoscale, and the opposite of 1 μm = 10-6 m. projected onto a bacterium, which in turn is ten times larger than a viral body. Sizing enough to balance the biosphere that will surround the Automaton Mandragoron.
Leiak's world is an outpatient virtual laboratory, as it is valid in colloquial language, adhering to measures that differ by the conception of transliteration or decimal mathematical positioning. The letters and lines have been interpreted by Leiak, they are Vernarthian Parapsychologies that oscillate gaps of mismatch of billionths of wasted knowledge, in displays of ghostly reigns and in no-man's-land. This nanoscale makes us nano-poetize themes of ultra interference of the Epicurian decree, of tranquility, serenity, and imperturbability, with the meagerness that we know of the enlightened after a thousand moons writing under the stars:
"Woman when you touched my life with the grace of your fingers, I could see how the kind nights closed my eyes, caressing the entire Universe." This is undoubtedly Epicurean Nano Poetry, but the Author is Tagore "

The exponential oscillates in the parameter of the outstanding Astronomer of the divine verb and poetic thinking, in the most intimate and dynamic Hindu techno-language. Quantum mechanics here is the debit of the iconic remnant reached, by parameters not achieved below the average intelligence, providing lost data far from collecting and storing. Tagore's logic is nano-poetry, which balances billionths that are not achieved by occupying the Corporal Dytiká (poetic sunset) and the synchronic soul, rather the material simultaneity of the fifth element of will, emotional and objective desire, condensing into matter already conferred consciousness, in gaps in fit at all times, but linking it to her divinity as intelligence never before out of date; V.G. The Mashiach is always linked to the vertebral and communicational axon of the plasma nano-particles by grasping its infinite numinosity, making this scale it's one billionth, and being within the Eras that will be the largest average of the macrocosm, in the quantum itself of the Christian Era and in other Quantum worlds.

Strictly speaking, the molecules are angels without a will, but the dispensers are the consciousness of Leiak, which transfers hybrid consciousness, for purposes of regulating and shaping the ravings of intelligence and atheistic consciousness, and for purposes of the great remnant always present and active in the emergency. Spirituality of the Mashiach-revolutionized. The by-product will be Zefian's Tetra Sagita with its ergonomic tip, opening up doubts and tracing the future of a rewritten bible in the same character and fidelity, but with the omnipresent Mashiach of a Scientific Eucharist.

Leiak walked through minefields, and in some, he saw universes come out that exploded in livid colors, among them Vernarth, who had been recovering from malaria, and who helped him create a culture composed of a great artifice of immutability, for those who are close to his Greek spirit. Overwhelming those who lack the will, clarifying where the great art galleries of the world will be, not because of their current works but because of those they will have to exhibit? From the rushing philosophical delta, germs of dominance were trickling, distinguishing properties that did not germinate under his feet. Bread and water of the hundredfold fruit of all the lesser forces that resist on the thirty and nine with fever, more than the narrow borders to be discovered, in democracies that will prosper in the hands of kind tyrants, and not in the unitary Ecumene. Vernarth did not denationalize from his grass crops, he was Hetairoi more than all the commanders of Alexander the Great because his native country never sank next to him, he only prospered in centuries where he had to rise again silenced and prostrate oblivion.

The chaos of an absence accuses a majority of sadness that greets the Celtic Gauls for the axon of the anointed cosmos of the divine autarkic world. But not in seditious wars devoid of bread and water that does not support them, nor by papyrus did nets that do not contain them either, in the spiral retransform the land of all, as a plural work done here, by the Mandragoron Áullos Kósmos, intends. The male rectors will trust their works in the widespread Greek language, called koine (common). A language that writes has its own feet to write new divisions, and ordinal paragraphs to fulfill in proskínesis or obeisances in those who have golden knees or not! They will continue to make separate book stores or libraries for Filososfia or science sub-themes that will tackle the top of Profitis Ilias. For all large cities and nations, it will only be Leiak's legacy, of having large spaces for dialogues where no one can resist his man-made preaching, holographic rain forest, and times that not even in billionths will make him melt spaces of ignorance, diverge from the juxtaposed principle of unpopulated urban schools do not deserve.

Says Leiak: “Every time it is more intense to turn the dislocated nature of man, my literary idylls are at the end of everything with his genre works. Life and it's agitated think idyllic of removing the talus, which is not swayed in my chest by the Metelmi..., but by my breath of death! "

A coat of black and a dash of red,
Clinging to the cat tail, peering ahead.
Swaying with the spring breeze,
Temperature cold enough to freeze.
The red winged black bird, scarlet on black,
But a predator watches, ready to attack.

A coat of red and a face of white,
He's the reason not to go out at night.
The beast is lurking through thick spring mud,
Moving ever so carefully trying not to make a thud.
Bending its knees, ready to pounce,
Sizing up the bird, ounce for ounce.

However the bird is much too agile.
The predator will be hungry for a while.

Walking in the morning fog,
icy patches, watch those missteps,
the mist it hovers, street lights
get glowing eyes, squinting, sizing
up their appetite, as you are devoured
going forward.

Then out of the soup that tastes like
every asthmatics worst nighmare,
comes a howl and a growl,
we will call him greybeard, and
it was weird how a grown man,
growled and howled while he
sat on frozen wood, at five fifty-six AM
and growled and howled at the
glowing eye above him as there was
no moon.

He never saw us as we moved past,
picking up the pace we moved fast,
he must have ice in his veins,
ice on the road, and sidewalk,
veins of light and in his body,
must have been the hand sanitizer,
coursing through his veins,
having a howling goodtime,
with the cold empties lined up behind.


DWE012014

I.   Warning

A boundary of warning issued premature
to a lad settled on adventure
will plant definition in a red
corruption code of ketchup on a
post-picnic bib orphaned to the wind
like a fictional friend's home continent's flag

The vision-fielding velocity of neighbours'
arrows augment the sleep-shearing flares
of the father's eyes in the centrifugal
bullseye of his boy's current-green nursery
so close to swelling wide as a planet
now a marble left behind in favour of
a shrunken moon's spheric promise
of an otherworldly adventure

II.   Island

Subservient to boundaries of none but its own
the loner of landmass nurses its nautical mischief
through the employment of sensual labour in darkness
sizing them up to encompass a knowing glow
for the enigmas of bare-faced daylight

The premature thirst for adventure
attended to by the drink of sanctuary
poured from the skew of its welcome-mat shore

III.   Neighbours

Game and Disappearance serve
the Monarchy of Volume under code names
of Hide and Seek undertaking missions in the name
of circumstantial viceroys: decibels
scanning search parties through the x-ray of silent night
for the orchestration of the morn

Tweeting birds equate an army horn
rainbowing the insurgent black sky
with adventures in crusade-recital grooming

An airy beach of reeds is looming
in the coastal fog bracing to embrace
the route taken on the faith of melodic compass

IV.   Discovery

No labourer of mortal being beats the sun
out of bed not even the little one
succumbed to slumber in the bony shadow
of the instrumentally inscrutable contestant
to the claim of composition by his
solar brother's sacred nursery rhyme
insuring the rest and energetic rise of time

This adventure-hearted child heard no battle cry
in what the rivals of his bearded babysitter
dubbed The Sound Of Panic
just the anthem of a little conqueror beneath
a bucky smile of approval on the heels
of a swim befitting of an older lad but not
the aura of exhaustion conquering
the eyes of a goal imagined and achieved
and the smiling gratitude duet in return
from the dutiful and loving neighbours
lulled to their reunion reed field
in anticipation of a father's target met
with a son's accuracy in tow

11 26 11

I see battle in your eyes
You are full of war

When we have tore each other apart
What then?

They clap our backs, nod their heads
Look down and distant smile
When we tug at their t-shirts
And ask to be heard

Their gazes wander, and block their ears
Sneak a look at the television
They sit us down, telling us to talk
And in between, stand up when their phones ring

They tell us that you will do great things some day
That the world rests upon your hands
You will climb to the top and pull each other up
But keep pushing us down instead

They tell us that you are the future
And dive out of our thoughts
They think it is an excuse
For sizing us up, and declaring us not enough

Not yet, they say. Not now, they murmur
Have you ever thought that
We don't want to be the future
Because we need to be the present?

That we don't want to lead the world
But instead, just live in it?

That before we want to do things that are great
We just want to live in a world that is?

I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
“Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.“

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Too many people walk staring down
Watching their feet hit the pavement
Heel toe
Heel toe
Heel toe

It's all the same
Over and over again
Why is it so intimidating to look up?
Are we afraid that glancing forward will cause us to
   trip?

No
We watch our feet
Heel toe
Heel toe
Heel toe
We watch our feet out of fear of what we will see
   when other's see us

Have you ever looked into the eyes of a complete
   stranger intentionally?
Held that stare for mare than a second or two?
What we fear is their judgement
Because
For that extra second we hold their stare
We are
   evaluating them
   sizing them up
   giving them purpose
   or lack of it

That is what we fear
Their judgement
   than verdict

That they, this stranger sharing our path,
   will pound the gavel over our soul
And pronounce us guilty
   unaccepted
   wrong
   strange
   different
   condemned

Their judgement proves all too significant
It will be what defines us
That is why we stare down at our feet
As they go
Heel toe
Heel toe
Heel toe

comparing bodies
a (never) once (never) over
from across the room
sizing you up, i have
such a kink
for everything your body is

such a kink
for comparing you to me

such a kink
if kinks were self esteem

such a kink
for everything i can’t be

but **** do i feel good
when your body covers mine;
being blanketed
in hopeless aspiration,
it feels sublime
this perspiration,
when i can’t feel the weight of what i lack

only the bulk of what you’ve got

Be the barcode on my bra strap so maybe
I can finally be sellable skinny. Be my relationship goal,
the text to check outside my door, the 5k, 140 character post
about a teenage dream ****** through low brightness screens.
Be the slam poet screaming whiny, new written love songs
on the shareable Facebook post. And maybe I’m just as bad,
but at least I recognize when my eyes fall numb from staring
at self-expression turned self-obsession. Maybe it’s Jack talking back
through my shot glass or maybe it’s the blacklight absorbed
into my skin. Or maybe it’s a girl in a “vintage” dress just sizing out
bigger than the edges already cut out for her. Maybe it’s me
bending backwards over chivalry and **** coming back from the 90’s.
Don’t blame me for biting into the media sandwich that is magazines
and the indecision of being too clingy if I just freakin’ called you.
Cause picking up the phone is a lot more risky than the kissy-face emoji
at the end of a message. Don’t blame me for consuming
tissue paper lies designed to target my own vulnerability, or my lack
of understanding the truth because all everyone
has ever told me is just a step in the manipulation blueprint
to get what they want, or just get me to bed. I only trust old photographs,
things I wrote down when I couldn’t sleep, my mom, and the dirt
I used to bury my own reflection. Be the 50% off on my receipt
just so I know I got something off. Be the nicotine in my cigarette,
the Blink 182 voice inside my head, the joints that hold me up
where I stand, and maybe I’ll finally know who I am.

They say
It all will be okay-you're beautiful
As if those words can draw the line
Between bravery and slavery
And clear my back of scars
Left by the lash of sacrifice.
Every choice I have made
Has been a step away
From love, from freedom, from home.
For in this maze of concrete and steel
I must be alone, and always composed -
There is always someone watching
So I keep a steel rod in my spine
And walk towards the end of the city
Pretending I cannot feel passer-bys stare
Sizing me up
Feigning deafness to the murmurs of my pronounced bones and sharp features
All I am is a hanger for clothes
A display, a game, a gamble
They want it to pay off
So they tell me it will all be okay
Because I am beautiful

"So you'll be in tonight? Wonderful, sweetie.
It's been far too long. Are you bringing Mattie?
Oh, I see. Are Todd's parent's good to her?
Alright, well, I love you and I'll see you at six.
Sorry seven...okay, sevenish."

The Prine place smelled of rich
lemon cleaner.
Not a cobweb could be found,
nor ***** dish, nor glass smudge.

Margaret Prine applied her blood red
lipstick--the final touch before school.

Mrs. Prine arrived thirty minutes before
anyone else, started the coffeepot in
the teacher's lounge, and wrapped up some
lesson plans.

The starting bell sounded,
she headed for her room.
Principal Hughes said,
"Good morning! Madam Margaret!"
as he always did.
Mrs. Prine, nodded cooly, grinned
lightly at the corners of her blood
red lips, and said nothing--as she always did.

At forty-five, she could turn more heads
than any head cheerleader,
and she was well aware
that beauty's power reigns
absolute.

Two young lovers draining saliva
stood outside her classroom door
dressed in matching yellow t-shirts.

"Excuse me, canaries.
Showboat your love out in nature.
Not outside my room," Mrs. Prine snipped,
calm like a seasoned surgeon.

"We're sorry--" Harvey's eyes met Mrs. Prine's.
Mrs. Prine felt a strange transfusion take hold.
The blackness started at her spine
and snaked to her skull.
Old jealousy, been awhile.

"Kaitlyn, Harvey, get to class."
Kaitlyn Mullens barely existed.
Pencil thin, thought little, and spoke less.
Kaitlyn just happened to be in Mrs. Prine's
literature class.
Mrs. Prine followed her into the room--
sizing up her shoulders, ***, and cheapshit heels
with a keen eye.

"Alright, everyone as you know, your analysis
on Catcher in the Rye motifs is due today.
No excuses."

During her lecture she couldn't keep her eyes
off Kaitlyn. The way she fidgeted incessantly;
shifted her gaze with each question asked.
Her idiot face somehow held a superior wisdom.
The dark jealousy coupled itself with
a wicked wandering mind.
A mind journeying into
the mad middle stage,
when a prime lioness
becomes declawed by calendars
and withering mirrors.

When the class left,
Mrs. Prine could not recall a single thing
she had lectured over.
She rubbed her head, sighed a low growl,
and began siphoning through the homework.
"Ah, there you are."
She grabbed a bleeding red ink pen,
then proceeded to massacre the essay.
"Plagiarism, plagiarism. Lazy, lazy."

I've learned you're good at poker, but you're no player,
this, the second time I've seen you;  sizing you up, I like you.
Competent, aware, smart, unassuming. You're fit, tanned; obvious you take care of yourself.
Don't spend too long in these smoky sunless rooms fishing for money,
sitting for hours with pale coughing gamblers and their deceptively friendly banter.

There is only one other woman, her arm inked with a script tattoo Bad Jamie
One guy asks just how bad are you?
She replies, I'm so bad I drink milk straight from the carton, and the table chuckles.
But all joking aside, you're the chip leader and I'm only interested in you.
I raised from the Big Blind, I'm serious with pocket Aces, and everyone else folded.  
You on the little blind stayed in; you could have anything, with a practically free ante.  
I don't know why you've stayed even this long;
something tells me you want to see what I have.
  
The flop comes and the table tries to contain a collective gasp, three 8 s roll out.  
All the potential of infinity between us,
and I'm holding Wild Bill Hickock's dead man's hand, black with bad luck.  
Wow, how to manage this.

I've had no success of anyone staying with me before.
If I slow play it, hiding my cards close to my chest and check it down to the river,
he would fold at any hint of what I have,
and I’d be left just wishing with nothing in the ***.
If I come on strong, and he thinks he didn't catch anything or he's not even drawn to the river;
he would fold,
and I’d be left just wishing with nothing in the ***.


I study you, ascertaining me
with a look on your face like you just may have found something good.
So I do something totally unexpected, just say the truth outright
I've got a house full of dealbreakers.
You're looking at me as if no one else is in the room, and with a smile in your eyes you say
Lets not call them Deal Breakers, lets call them Deal Makers.
...... and I'm All In,
You call, but then ask chop the ***, be equals?  revealing
once-in-my-life quad eights, all that infinity in your hands, and the Queen of Hearts.
You say, hey, lets go...  and as we're walking out into unspoiled sunshine,
you reach into your pocket, show me a few sparkling diamonds in your palm and ask,
*you want these?

Miles and miles of....
Space, stretched mouths, lips
Drawn apart, gums claiming their
Contents and the......
Famous uvula left dangling there

Tonsil twins, the septic sisters
Wore white adornments today
Salt stained specs sitting spitefully
Chastising for last night's overdose

Remarking about being off colour
Tombs stones stained on plaque
Patrol alert, tongue wearing a
Its stale white winter coat

Colour palette was off white today
With blue garland furnishings
Strategically placed under the
Black veil of last night's mascara

Nostrils dragged their contents
Into the daylight, sizing up and
Producing a contest for the
Incumbent tissue trail that slowly

Gave the receptacle in the corner
A purpose for the day...to see how
Sturdy it claimed to be before it
Regurgitated....spluttering and coughing

I was born into a world where your inner pocket
decides your destiny,
A world were dreams have no value
A world filled with people with black hearted soul,
Carrying around big cheesy smiles across their face,
Living with malicious thought but still never fail to
mingle,
Mischievous they are, they depend on your success
for motivation,
Yet our motive is to be innovative,
Seating so adamant not observant,
and end up been their servant,
When shall it end we ask, today or tomorrow ?
tomorrow's better if not today we reminisce,
Hoping for a breakthrough,
After we have been stabbed & left with scars,
Looking for the strength to stand up tall ones again,
Realizing our mistakes & adopting a new personality
trait,
I Never had d chance to dream,
So how do I revive myself ,
Noting inspires me ,
so why should I be affectionate we say ,
We become so ****** nd vained,
Anger & sadness mixed with joy , pain & sorrow,
No one to count on anymore,
All these strains my credulity,
sadness gathered from one mistake
Making me miserable every minute,
Suicide we think of,
but the pain subsidies,
Shivering and capturing ourselves cap sizing
Within a blink of an eye,
But the truth of life's,
We need nightmares to appreciate not been in it,
life is a beach we are just playing in the sand ,"

I've always wanted to fall in love with a satis
I'd set her high on a Trojan horse
And maybe the ranger ain't the death toll
He's off whistling a tune that sounds a little like silver bells

It's never my own words that I get caught up in
And like Brackett said it's the little things
But it's never come 'round right
But I'll be laced through your fingers in any time

I'm sizing up a rope and a steady beam
To put myself between the bullets of reality and dreams
Where the archer's pulling broadheads out of a scorpion's side
And the sheperd's purse smells just like a flatline

You used to hold your hands over your ears
So I whispered my devotion into your confusion
When I laid my head down on your *******
That's the first time I've ever heard my heart beat

And every time I look in backward angles
Your face bleeds into the corner of my eyes
And if worlds apart should be the death of Casanova
Then I'll go down with the ship whistling the color of your hair

me? i have no bond shares in terms of lying,
i have no profit...
i walk the streets at night painting a canvas
with only brown hue offshoots:
first it’s three bavarias,
then it’s a stella artois,
then a cobra,
after that a belgian leffe blanc,
i finish off with a saint michael from spain...
after that it’s barcode whiskeyh at 10.30 a bottle...
between khaki and tawny?
well, there’s ochre and there’s sepia...
there’s carbonated synopia and there’s slave hydroxy-loss rufous...
all shades of brown set againt st. andrew’s cross...
shadows in the fog i too tamed japan in spring
rather than in the wilderness of the seas among the waving waves
of the mongol invasion planned...
oh care less for me in my attention for an escapism...
it spans the lodgings of jailor and the strutting bars
as it might in 2d iv slash through to v....
i am wed to my past... i have not clear value for tomorrow...
because, after all, cats and dogs are cheaper to keep than women
obviously enough true and sad thus.
about that litmus testing i entitled this poem?
£110 prostitutes will not lie concerning having an ******,
i wish i had a bigger phallus to have one-night-stands...
bed more women...
but given the size of mine, the prostitutes i try to be familiar with
in an hour for £110 will ask for an extra £10 to give them oral ***...
and among them only one had an ******,
the rest didn’t fake it... they they just numb from not having it...
it humbling i might add... to pay for something numbing
and see what other cares have failed when tried...
it’s sobering to see a ******* worth £110 an hour...
and not see it translated into self-esteem of an orgsam
due to the fact that one’s phallus was not big enough
to provide an intimate relationship
of the objectification of an hour...
that’s what’s so ardently lost in me...
in wish for relationships that only last a night...
i have sacrificed the only relationship i could have had...
spanning beyond the blue of the moon once noted and thus lost:
******* envy? not so much, casual-envy of what can easily reclaim
a morbid frequency of the repeat and dis-satisfaction...
any shred of egoism can thus be discarded,
when it comes to ******* sizing...
i also have this defense mechanism like a turtle shell or
a hedgehog at a barbers... the freudian madonna-***** complex
splintering... an impotence mechanism...
when given the chance for a one-night-stand...
ironic you might say... not that macho said anything concerning bicep or tricep
to be worried about on the same magnitude... macho didn’t,
so i acknowledge when to speak and not feel un-concerned for the right reasons.

Spring breezes in
And curtains billow,
Like warm mammalian lungs
Like waves of ocean curling.

An unseen pulse,
Being makes it so.
We yearn to understand it,
but, .... no.

Why do we choose ugly?
Eve, and the snake beautiful too
We, blind kittens and rodents,
Deny our vulnerable view.

Super-sizing, driveling exotic equations,
Greed-anger-jealousy-and-lies,
Botox, false eye-lashes, grotesque purple lips cracking,
And Earth, momma-Goddess sighs. She sighs.

Eons of tragic theater played on life's stage: "Self-clinging is killing me!"

Wars whisper: “Clinging to wrong views is killing us all....”

Spring breezes in...
Earth inhaling is enough,
Is pure
Is today.

Exhale my love,
Surrender fear to our compost.
Earth has a finger on your pulse.
Being makes it so.

I must state right at the outset
that I’ve never actually been
on a female poet
or even underneath or inside one.
But I thought about this
seriously
at a poetry reading once
when a particularly sensitive
and gentle girl read her poetry
and I wondered how well
the delicacy of her ideas
and subtlety of her poem
would translate into
the carnal and profane.

It was sensuous to think about this
and savor some wine
with her afterwards.
I felt distinctly like
a priapic, dangerous Dionysius,
or a satyr sizing up a nymph.

But I licked my lips and
said I liked her poem,  
then I knocked off the wine instead.

This is for those
Who wear a sleeve on their heart
Because its cold, needs warmth
and it likes the dark
And this is for the ones
with hands on their time
who need a little break
just to clear out their mind

It's funny how a women
can make your head spin
Just like the *****
we've been chasin'
A pretty smile
and a bashful look away
can make you feel
like everything's okay
Forget about pain
and every lost fist fight
her soft eyes
make this the perfect night
I can see her
drinking her ***
I can see me
falling in love
I can see her
sizing me up
I can see me
falling...

In love
in the bathroom hallway
You've got her up
between a rock wall and a hard place
You can see the pleasure
written on her face
and have to imagine
how her lips taste
Too drunk,
every sense has gone numb
Your fingers fumble
on the trigger of her loaded gun
when she asks,
"Do you wanna get outta here?"
You catch your breath
while she grabs one last beer

I fell in love
with the way things used to be
I always come close
but it never comes easy
You have to make love
before you fall into it
Or maybe it's a lie
thats been made up for the kids

All alone,
my mind's over analyzing
I reconnect
with the romantic inside me
I wonder if
this will ever mean anything
Is that my guilt
or my heartbeat racing?
It's probably best
to slow down our pace
Calm myself,
splash water over my face
I finally think
I'm starting to cool down
when someone starts
shooting all the lights out

I'm blacking out
in a barroom bathroom
Waking up
in a ballroom bedroom
The ceiling fan
is spinning softly
but maybe it's the bed,
or maybe it's just me

Well I guess
this is already going down
It's far too late
to try and turn back now
She can feel something's off
by the way I'm breathing
So she whispers
that she really needs me
Tomorrow this will mean
nothing to her
even as she guides
my hand up her skirt
I decide
to get this over with when
the darkness steals
the night away again...