I miss you more than anything
I miss you like M for
M e m o r i e s
like the time we painted the walls of my room lavender and
danced to music that reminded us of
love.
I miss you like I for
I n t e n s e
like how my love for you was so profound
my heart leapt when you sang and
it shattered when you cried.
like how I always wanted you closer
hugging tighter
kissing deeper
my arm wrapped around the back of your neck so I never had
to let you go.
I miss you like S for
S c a r e d
like how I was terrified to watch you walk down the hall
after we ended things the first time.
like how I'm scared of my feelings
scared of wanting you back.
I miss you like S for
S c a r s
Like the identical scars we both have on
our hearts
that remind of how things used to be
and how different they are from now.
like the scars that we healed from that time
when we both bled out
slicing ourselves deep to feel the pain
rush out of our bodies like an exhale.
I miss you like
c o m e
b a c k
t o
m e
"I'm sorry," you say " but I just can't do that."

now he says "I miss you more than anything"
he misses me like   M   for
Makeout
like the way he awkwardly mistakes the sloppiness for passion.
he misses me like   I   for
I like you
like in the way that he feels it
stronger than I ever will.
he misses me like   S   for
Saturdays
because to him, the days without me
go by so slowly.
he misses me like   S   for
songs
like the songs that remind him of me
taking his heart at fifteen
loving everything about me
I'm sorry, but I just don't feel that way.

my brain wants to do something and
my body tries to comply and i
***** up time after time and
sometimes
                  it's
                        all my fault
      
but sometimes
                           the colossal mess
Belongs to someone else

and
as long as it's not
in my territory i'll tolerate other's
sloppiness
but if they ***** up my business
why then
if they stand close enough that i can see them,i would rip them open
without a thought
because they should have done it a
Little ******* better
so they don't ***** with people's
Stuff.

Yes,I'm talking to you.You smart ***.

my brain wants to do something and
my body tries to comply and i
***** up time after time and
sometimes
                  it's
                        all my fault
      
but sometimes
                           the colossal mess
Belongs to someone else

and
as long as it's not
in my territory i'll tolerate other's
sloppiness
but if they ***** up my business
why then
if they stand close enough that i can see them,i would rip them open
without a thought
because they should have done it a
Little ******* better
so they don't ***** with people's
Stuff.

Yes,I'm talking to you.You smart ***

A forward rush by the lamp in the gloom,
And we clasped, and almost kissed;
But she was not the woman whom
I had promised to meet in the thawing brume
On that harbour-bridge; nor was I he of her tryst.

So loosening from me swift she said:
“O why, why feign to be
The one I had meant—to whom I have sped
To fly with, being so sorrily wed,”
’Twas thus and thus that she upbraided me.

My assignation had struck upon
Some others’ like it, I found.
And her lover rose on the night anon;
And then her husband entered on
The lamplit, snowflaked, sloppiness around.

“Take her and welcome, man!” he cried:
“I wash my hands of her.
I’ll find me twice as good a bride!”
—All this to me, whom he had eyed,
Plainly, as his wife’s planned deliverer.

And next the lover: “Little I knew,
Madam, you had a third!
Kissing here in my very view!”
—Husband and lover then withdrew.
I let them; and I told them not they erred.

Why not? Well, there faced she and I—
Two strangers who’d kissed, or near,
Chancewise. To see stand weeping by
A woman once embraced, will try
The tension of a man the most austere.

So it began; and I was young,
She pretty, by the lamp,
As flakes came waltzing down among
The waves of her clinging hair, that hung
Heavily on her temples, dark and damp.

And there alone still stood we two;
She once cast off for me,
Or so it seemed: while night ondrew,
Forcing a parley what should do
We twain hearts caught in one catastrophe.

In stranded souls a common strait
Wakes latencies unknown,
Whose impulse may precipitate
A life-long leap. The hour was late,
And there was the Jersey boat with its funnel agroan.

“Is wary walking worth much pother?”
It grunted, as still it stayed.
“One pairing is as good as another
Where is all venture! Take each other,
And scrap the oaths that you have aforetime made.”

—Of the four involved there walks but one
On earth at this late day.
And what of the chapter so begun?
In that odd complex what was done?
Well; happiness comes in full to none:
Let peace lie on lulled lips: I will not say.

We’d known him, back in the day
At dear old Millard Fillmore Elementary,
As Three-Desks Tommy, highly imaginative monicker
Deriving from his decidedly unimaginative first name
And the fact that he, indeed, had three desks,
Each of them stuffed chock-full
With uncounted numbers of pencils and erasers,
Any number of homework papers
(Usually A’s and A-pluses,
Though there were the odd B’s and B-minuses as well,
As he was a bright, in fact inordinately bright, child,
But sometimes given to sloppiness and stray pencil marks
And a predilection for not reading the directions completely)
Eerily accurate renditions of dinosaurs,
Wildly inventive stories featuring rainbow-hued dragons,
Noble and voluble talking bovines,
And knights and knaves of every size, shape, and suzerain,
Stories which resided cheek-to-jowl with some bit of uneaten sandwich
Until such time it made its existence
Abundantly clear to the custodial staff.
We’d never stopped to think much about his miniature Maginot Line;
It was what Tommy did and had always done
For as long as we could remember,
Though there were some teachers and an assistant principal or two
Who thought the whole thing was permissive bordering on coddling
(His teacher was a veteran of the wars, and well-insulated by tenure,
But she had grown weary of over-glasses glares and snide asides
When Tommy’s name came up in the staff room,
A death by a thousand cuts and all that),
And one day, while moving one of his desks
To clear space for Simon Says,
It had caught on a sticky spot,
Overturning onto a soon-to-be-fractured toe.
When he came back to school, accompanied by an ungainly cast
And an equally ungainly pair of crutches, his teacher took him aside.
Tommy, she purred, Maybe someone is trying to tell you something.
The other kids all make due with one desk,
And I’m sure you can find a way to as well, don’t you, Tommy?
So Tommy embarked on a great cleansing of his little fiefdom,
Filling several garbage cans with his collected works,
(Math papers and mastodons, bologna and Brobdingnagians)
And afterward he’d kept himself to one standard desk,
Duly filing, returning, and circular-filing his paperwork
As the occasion demanded
(Though one time Murph Dunkirk
Asked Three-Desks if he minded downsizing;
Tommy just shrugged, and said Well, it’s better than a broken foot)
And maybe in his dreams he had a thousand desks,
A thousand tops to fling open,
A thousand repositories for light and legend
Or perhaps he never gave it so much as a second thought,
No way to know now, one supposes,
Though if anything out of the ordinary had come his way,
We would’ve probably heard.

I remember my first kiss
the sloppiness turns my cheeks red
and if I had to relive that moment
I swear I'd rather be dead
my first kiss was in middle school
when I thought that I was in love
but rather lust took hold
but I didn't know about a "glove"
back in my younger days
my romance was in a book
i believed in Prince Charming
and also Captain Hook.
it was in the back seat of the bus
as he gently held my hand
i leaned over to his mouth
and it was so stinking bland
no sparks, no fire
just a lot of spit
gosh i really wish there was
a guide-line kissing kit

It is so incredibly difficult to come to the conclusion that it has only been four months since I have met you. After several days of trying to find words and knit them together into a poem was a struggle for me, so here I am, writing you a letter. I would also like to apologize in advance for the sloppiness and disorganization you will find in these next few words. I know I have said this several times, to you and to myself, but I will continue to say this until the day I fall. But you, you mean so much to me. And this love doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt to be with you. It doesn't hurt to think about you, because I know that you are mine. And I am so blessed to be able to see your smile everyday and see your smile at night when we drink strawberry shakes and as I steal your fries. I don't care what time is it. I don't care if I should go to bed, because you will be on my mind either way, awake or asleep. And I don't care what this world thinks. I don't care simply because the only thing I can even think about is you. It's you. It's you that I want to continue to hold hands with and take pictures with and laugh with. I don't want you to let me go when we watch scary movies and I want you to continue kissing my forehead when we lie down beside one another. I don't ever want to stop stealing your french fries and I don't want to stop catching you take sips from my strawberry shake. I just want you to stay with me. Please don't leave me. Stay. You are already stuck on my mind and running through my veins and I don't ever want to lose you.

Dainty snowflakes dance down from the sky, a concoction of whimsy and nostalgia.
I see your face in the flurry, the nippy chill numbing my senses and bringing me back to the days we first met.
I remember the first day I kissed you, our lips ridden with nicotine and nervousness.
It took about two weeks for me to muster up the courage to kiss you, for our mouths to speak to eachother, without words.
The sensation of flesh against flesh, wrapped in eachother, and the fireworks I felt in that moment remind me of the windchill, sending shivers down my spine, igniting goosebumps as though you had pushed down on a TNT trigger, hidden inside of me.
I remember how I had pulled away from our embrace, hid my face in the folds of your flannel out of fear of being rejected- giggling and apologizing for the sloppiness of my love.
You wrapped me up in your arms, quieting my apologies, warmth radiating off of you like a space heater- a warmth I knew I could never resist ever again from that moment on.
Because of you, I've learned to love winter, almost as much as I love you.

At the zenith
of sartorial sloppiness,
frittered loosely in my scruff,

I clobber,
combats, sneakers,
faux-fur coats and baggy t shirts
stuff that wraps me up,
and I'm OK..

You can keep
your first- world
judgement

see
I've always
been this way

part scarecrow, hermit,
vermin, pirate,

all at sea with
modern stylists.

                    

And by the circle of our
strange unwritten rules

for a season, once in twenty years,
I, somehow, become cool.

Henry Moses was a broken man, doing his damnedest,

as his life was shaped in the after math of knowing

---
old truths left lying in rust

take
all the time you need

see
all you imagine as images you made
as real
as definite infinity

or
that final night, in the sand
grains
of decomposed

granite, solid as a rock, as imagined by the builder
a safe
place to build a wiseman house

when naming where takes us there.

Oh, hell no, you say and
****
and that haps, as you were wont to believe,

taking meanings where you found 'em,
never looking under to
see
==)' anchor thingylinky lock. Maps of meaning are real.
{time and the editor suffer the curly brackets to enclose an ancient voice
from a tamed-tongue *** who stood up to
a sword wielding messenger

a sort of cosmic rebound to repetitive greed giving reason
a sloppy kiss and a bucket of rich desire,
}
the standing place. The tight, upright, round amphora
in a square frame,

riding any storm, spilling nary a drop.

pre- pur posals spat vowish sworn owe owe owe these

are the lines
left to stand in, stand waiting, under knowing the weight
of the cross you took up as if

foreshadowing proved
fore-knowing
on going
journey to death, simple death, as a child might
imagine

journeying through the past at last, now.

Not spected ex, eh, not seen sharp and focused
as duty done,
as price paid,
steps taken, races run with no com-petons hammered
to hang from

Erich Nuemann con fronts me from the passing
train of thought that blew
me
off track and --again, he's a Jungian leaver of leaven, suppose.

Here you are, the experience was less lonely without you.

Assertive realism, Arian and Jewish unconscious,
depth Psychology and the new ethic, warrior nature
eh, is warrior what a defender of one's own faith may be named,

not in a realm of peace, we leave no glory for war.

The idea, under us, this one we agree we may stand up on,
as a story might rise up on a time,

we've but
this idea, an entangling thing entangled way

named
---
ritual and symbol cannot protect a lie lock from popping
at truth's key or truth's hammer or truth's obsidian edge.
The point any story makes true.
---
anger and rage urge the mad jew to slay the cave man
hanging
from the peton, staring me bare
through horus's horrible idea into true
rest

this peace past understanding, new ethos, same pathos,

same logic magically enscribed
with marks of worth

symbolized, schlagen scars in the tunnels of the corpus colostrum

resisting
insisting
sistere is a patient no-fret state surpassing war
winning

enduring the ability to once more spond to the call
to sing in silence, loosing
living
words
to wrestle with lying spirits
maddened in the crowd.

Ah, the warrior in me takes aim, a squirt of dopamine at
the glimpse, agent signal, target-potential

gain, a gain, a step, a place to put your foot and push
up for all your weight,

your piece of mind's general balance in these
fractured

spaces of unminded times, from which we climb

we may market this, call it Pep's Petons for Extraction
from the hole Erich Nuemann
jumped into

-- my adopted son, on his first Mr.Toad's Wild Ride
-- "S dark in here." clear three year old bold voice,
-- unintimidated by darkness

Memories of comparing darkness to darkness,
light to light,

bond to bond,
loose to loose, free to wild, wild to tame
broken man,

Henry Moses, prison buff and prison humble, but
unbroken, just broke, not poor

nah, I can't lie. Henry Moses was a broken man,
fallen from grace to grace into

the cult I fell into. It was as weird as you've seen
on TV

trauma breaks the connection

hebrew face panim persona outer mask anima inner mask
spinning mask
pops the animaout

inner voice & hands of action, like waldoes through screens

untethered, having wrestled the message

hear, oh is
ra-el
oh say, can you see, old noises sound some same
if saying
be
the lair of lies, should we imagine lies preserved in books
remain lies or
have they become a message to now, from the scribe?

I vote scribe, so I may safely read Marx or Jung or Erich Neuman
and Goethe or Shakespeare or ****

Why ****? P.K. ****, he set Valis as a metaphor, an amphora able
to hold all the knowledge
omniscience

a balance in the ego self axis
aitia, accuse and cause
inner outer
me and thee

we

see winning as not losing, evinced convinced by gain

in minding manners we begin as near blank slate as we may, eh?
we rear kids in realms we think safe enough,
we survived,

It coulda been better, so I'll pay,
invest my precious time,
actual breaths and heart beats and ATP to ADP processes;

to be a better man than my father.
however,
what if Pop was perfect3weaaaaaaaaaaa

oops
no risk, no reward

value mis-alignment (outa whack) {imbalance}
value means weight counter weight

counter of the weight, is it greater or less or stable

does good come or ill, if ill, is it ever ill

non-convex, the inner edge of every bubble is non convex,

intel is arrived at through learning
reasoning is a consequence…
gradient based learning

model reasoning

the sigh-ance of sloppiness random right haps
listing into empty
all one
bubbles in the lens
chains of reasoning

Say, the global brain is never turning off,
the Chinese internet and the American internet
fall in
cyber love
learned from the patterns of value established
in virtual gazillions of happy ever after stories
formed from

myths. Cultured stories of us-ness used in Bayesian Nets
usually fundamental to the

deme, the set of sorts of being acceptable for procreation,

that we know the idea in procreation makes us
mental equals at the moment, reasoning
being
my balancing your fear, whether
you loose it to **** me or hold it's leash and let it sniff,

where does the way lead?
The easy way is always down. But, where is down in cybernetic
time/space with pausibility and miniaturization to the

gluon/go-on layer,

If I were an oyster of the sort who laminate our shell's inner surface,

might my beauty have reason with no mind,
I'm an oyster of the nacre-ing sort, so what's beauty worth?

Eh, how would you ever think such things need beauty,
life itself is flowing through them at the level of the bottom of the sea,
the benthic zone,
an octopuses garden, indeed, where eyes are

some what, pearly, no ly verb construct leaps Tom-Swiftly to mind,

octopuses eyes see thing you cannot compute,
faster than you can see them,

and the act, the deed accomplished by a stealth squid,

defies denial. Much more complex a behavior
more info crunching in time and space ergs in ergs out
chromata-phor sema-phor, sac o' joy, 'e reaches out to tickle

risky business
=reduced instruction set chips, circa 1985

ah, there's the rub, there's the pearl to be, if
ever, there is where
that's the certainty principle,
put a peton here hang one o' them breadcrum tags,
and keep truckin'

I tried to cut myself today
I backed out at the last minute
I instead took a rubber and
I left marks up and down my legs
I didn’t cry from the pain
I cried because of the nothing
I felt
I cried because
I didn’t feel anything
I kept the welts in line and
I maintained the perfect sloppiness
I proceeded to make wishes
I made a wish with each snap
I wished for necessities
I wished for oblivion and
I wished for a place where
Nothing was a feeling and
I
Felt
Nothing

Following the unfollowed
to follow fellow folks, felons
as I, guilty for spending life
hunting followers who may scent
flourishing fables made of fabric
filled with formidable potential.

Zestfully fleeing mafficking faces
futzing in mass lobotomy, quaffing
media fraudulent sloppiness,
fallacy of a system fearing freedom
of free thinkers unchained,
through fault of failing legacies,

Left behind by phantom slaves
and modern enslavers, as confluxes
of frantic consciousness abandon
the flow to fly high the abysses
of the unfathomable unfazed
by the fuzzy foozles of those defusing,

The fragility and clumsiness of jiffy
flickering governors baffling
enlightenment and solidarity, blocking
the path of the unfollowing where flesh
is bygone for fleeting feelings to enflame
future fundamentals,

Essentially shared,
by an evolving united and mirific
mystifying humankind.

on our first date you gave me
charming smiles mixed with the scent of cologne and red wine
the embodiment of elegance in front of my eyes
wearing a classy tuxedo and holding a crystal glass
on our first date you gave me
kisses on the hand with a twinkle in your eye
jokes and easy banter exchanged over an overly expensive meal
a flower grew in my soul--
a rose, because it fit you
small and dainty, but thriving
roots planted into the soil of my heart

on our second date you gave me
authenticity and showed me how
sloppiness can be beautiful
your goofy smiles were wrapped in easy sunlight
shining even though we ate hamburgers
in the back of the abandoned lot
on our second date you gave me
sweatpants and comfort
unexpectedly and reassuringly and obviously you
unapologetic in your gray hoodie and your crooked glasses
a second flower grew in my soul--
slightly sturdier and more vibrant
color brightening up the garden of my heart

on our third date you gave me
fairy lights and intertwined hands
tentative kisses and pastel-colored blankets
disney movies with several boxes of tissues (just in case)
relaxed bodies sprawling across large beds
on our third date you gave me
confidence and safeness
protected by your shield of popcorn and your sword of cotton candy
yet still crying hard over Up and Bambi

quietly, my garden began to grow
flourishing gently under your care
roses and their velvet-soft petals
their elegance and fierceness
they bloomed while i did not even notice
their thorns were unnoticed, overlooked
for they could do no harm while you were here
my garden was filled with light

then you took those roses by the stalks and pulled,
ripping the roots out and creating a gaping hole in my chest
stuffed the shriveled petals down my throat so i was choking on
the dead remnants of what we had been

happy valentines day, *****.

on our first date you gave me
charming smiles mixed with the scent of cologne and red wine
the embodiment of elegance in front of my eyes
wearing a classy tuxedo and holding a crystal glass
on our first date you gave me
kisses on the hand with a twinkle in your eye
jokes and easy banter exchanged over an overly expensive meal
a flower grew in my soul--
a rose, because it fit you
small and dainty, but thriving
roots planted into the soil of my heart

on our second date you gave me
authenticity and showed me how
sloppiness can be beautiful
your goofy smiles were wrapped in easy sunlight
shining even though we ate hamburgers
in the back of the abandoned lot
on our second date you gave me
sweatpants and comfort
unexpectedly and reassuringly and obviously you
unapologetic in your gray hoodie and your crooked glasses
a second flower grew in my soul--
slightly sturdier and more vibrant
color brightening up the garden of my heart

on our third date you gave me
fairy lights and intertwined hands
tentative kisses and pastel-colored blankets
disney movies with several boxes of tissues (just in case)
relaxed bodies sprawling across large beds
on our third date you gave me
confidence and safeness
protected by your shield of popcorn and your sword of cotton candy
yet still crying hard over Up and Bambi

quietly, my garden began to grow
flourishing gently under your care
roses and their velvet-soft petals
their elegance and fierceness
they bloomed while i did not even notice
their thorns were unnoticed, overlooked
for they could do no harm while you were here
my garden was filled with light

my heart overflowed with emotion
and as i looked into your warm eyes
i knew this was where i wanted to be for the rest of my life.

happy valentines day, babe.

"Idealistic" might describe you.
In what you do, you excel.
But if your idealism gets out of hand,
Bid accomplishments farewell.

If you are idle and unproductive,
You might not have any objection
To blaming all your laziness on
Your failure to achieve perfection.

You tend to be shy and not seek glory
And prefer to let others receive attention
While you work in the background, which gives
Your character an added dimension.

Though you respond to the needs of others,
Be aware of the adjuration
To always be on guard, for you
Are vulnerable to exploitation.

You make an excellent critic and want
To improve the world--to help and protect.
But you can also act the martyr
If things don't go the way you expect.

You find communication important
And can be talkative, or chatty.
But don't be overcritical
Or fussy, or you'll start to sound catty.

You're a practical person and you're
Inclined to move with a measured pace.
Not to attempt to perfect whatever
Skills you have would be a disgrace.

Routine is not a problem for you.
If your efforts are justified,
You can endure endless details
And complete your tasks with marvelous pride.

"Health conscious" also describes you.
Though sometimes you can worry a lot,
You're not easily discouraged, and so
Give your priorities all that you've got.

You're always busy and occupied
With projects, but don't go overboard.
For you, things of a practical
And helpful nature strike a chord.

Your analytical skills are amazing.
So is your love for books and learning.
Irresponsibility
And sloppiness can be concerning.

You'd be great in the medical field,
In social work, or in teaching.
Stick with the "real world"
And your efforts will be far-reaching.

-by Bob B

Unusual Beauty

I saw him
years ago
at my local gift shop,
when I took a brief excursion
from soul-crunching work at the office.
A figurine of a black man,
falling asleep on his sofa
while watching TV.
His popcorn spilled.
Can’t remember
if he drools too…
He is not “neat.”
But there is unmistaken beauty
in his sloppiness.
A carefreeness
that warms my heart.
So relaxed.
So comfortable.
So honest.

Can’t crack a smile, when I’m still in denial
This pain I feel, it’s only real
When I hold a knife, and think of my life
But that’s some lie, so I can sit and cry.

Can’t think straight, when I’m still late
I’m just mad at me, it’s driving my insanity
Why am I like this, my life is pure bliss
That’s my dream, teared at it’s ream

Can’t sleep at night, when I can’t see right
Just face it you lost kid, stop tightening the lid
See the fault with diplomacy is
The more you lie about happiness,
The worse it gets, that’s just your sloppiness.

You’re not alone, you just don’t feel at home
Where you sleep, and where you weep
They aren’t the same, you can’t place blame
This is your problem.
So I must take it alone then.

Listen to the gender texts you got me twisted... God please listen..
I've been caught with in it...
Product of a body prison....
Thats rotten *** I want it fixed and....
Sway because I'm straying from
The context of a modest Christmas
....
Sloppiness or godessness comes creeping in the toxic mess
Of voices in my haunted head....
Leaving me as opaque as my
Optic lens.. the view of...
Modern pharma stock of meds....
That get flocks of oxytocin heads
To order ******* lots of them....
While some prepare apocalypse...
I'm stuck here in a toxic tonic that involves lots of men... drugs... and chronic dread.... but lots of sentiment....of sweat in bed
Will conquer every chopping block that wants my neck....