Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
                          
                            we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.

Mindless,
         In the soup of silicone,
                            
                            all
Myt­h-makers,
         Pouring over electro-spawned
         networks,
                            
                            fall
Workers,
          In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
          megabytes and terabytes,
                            
                            down
Everyone
          Far from the wood, the brine, the
          mud that caked us,
          In tighter and tighter
          digitised  projections,
                            
                            click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’

Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,

                           enter:

Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,

Now a waking voice,
          Hardened, digitised, recorded in
          bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
                        
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
                          mirror.

          A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
          To record the echo in the hollow
          of our Being.

You were a slotted spoon

You appeared to be picking me up

Cradling me to your lips

Enveloping my body into yours

I was too starry-eyed to see the giant holes in your arms

Doing everything I could to nourish you

Wanting your stomach full of warmth

Letting me skip so easily down to the ground

Disgusted, you turned away

I’m still in a puddle on the ground

I

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
  nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

II

Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the ****** in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.

III

At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jaggèd, like an old man’s mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs’s fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind
over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.

Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy

                              but speak the word only.

IV

Who walked between the violet and the violet
Whe walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary’s colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary’s colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke
  no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile

V

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

    O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and
  deny the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season,
  time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose

    O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

    O my people.

VI

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit
  of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

It is 7.30 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together like days of the week, normalcy perspiring in the air behind us.
It is 7.31 and I am still thinking about your cheekbones, collarbones, hipbones. I am still thinking about your bones. You haven't returned my phone calls in a week.
It is 7.32 and I am still thinking about forest fires.
It is 7.33 and I am still thinking about clocks ticking and how it's kind of funny how we are always counting the days we have left, instead of the days we have.
It is 7.34 and I am still thinking about how my apologies never really cut it.
It is 7.35 and I am sorry.
It is 7.36 and I wonder how hard it is to tie a noose.
It is 7.37 and I am still thinking about the normal length of a pause when you're telling someone you love them, too.
It is 7.38 and I love you, too.
It is 7.39 and I am still trying not to think about how loud the doorbell echoes in the entrance hall now.
It is 7.40 and I am still thinking about the absence of stairways.
It is 7.41 and I am still thinking about hunger pains and alleyways and the warmth of your hand on my spine.
It is 7.42 and there are some things you can't say to other people but holy ****, I miss you.
It is 7.43 and I'm sorry again.
It is 7.44 and I am still thinking about short hands on clocks.
It is 7.45 and I am still imagining footfalls landing heavy on the carpet outside my bedroom and trying not to hope they're yours.
It is 7.46 and I hope they're yours.
It is 7.47 and I am still thinking about the glass in my ribcage digging in harder than your fingernails ever could.
It is 7.48 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together.
It is 7.49 and I'm sorry again.

Got the kids and stopped *******
Four times a year you get *******
Forcing yourself for my pleasing
Truth is that you **** at *******
Leaving me always for fapping
So many years still not knowing
At least do a bit of upskilling
Go online and get on reading
Use videos if you prefer watching
My cues are also worth listening:
- Comment as you're tasting
- Time to time pause for starring
- Be generous with licking
- Also do a bit of *******
- Do not finish up spitting
- Kiss me if not swallowing
If you can't handle the praising
Let's instead do some facesitting
Head slotted onto your opening
A lesson on oral I'll be teaching
Devouring until you let go shacking
Anyway, in parallel, *******
Get those pleasure juices flowing
To see you orgamiscaly smiling

My thoughts are the slots
Put a coin in to play
Two pennies for some sense
Since the banks recompense
the poor sitting on a lower shelf
The rich are empty, lost themselves
Attached to puppet strings
Pulled up by faceless masters
faster full of things
Stop. Cut your strings.
Sell the loans and mortgage debts
Escape the ensnaring nets
Look. Now you’re free.

Fear is free just look at me
Im stuck inside with my soul to hide
a sinful slip up ups my chance
My tongue is doing the liars dance
Two toes on point, or into finger guns?
That’s the one that I still fear
the freedom to do, drive the car, yes steer.
Drive away or drive by
to these feeling on the sidelines
second string emotions turn
with stinging motions. Burn
my offing notions with a note
not a hundred grand but a modicum
I lay in my bed try to sleep, feeling none.


The slots spun a short win
when I put my two cents in.
Now the lump sum is sitting dumb
My thoughts are dimmer
I’m the loss when I’m the winner.

His *******’
Purloined my desire
Stole, requested expectations

My boyhood kidnapped and  
Fed secrets for other
Purposes

Blue eyes, pieces of
An unsolved jig-saw
Slotted into my need

Such theft, such theft
Such theft, such theft
So generously given.

All I've Got is Maybe, if I Ain't Got You Babe Poem
9/16/2014

Maybe you spend your Sunday afternoons with a smile.
Maybe you take an extra hour to get out of bed in the morning.
Maybe you brush your teeth and put your toothbrush back down into that 4-slotted holder that just seems to look more full with a 2nd brush.
Maybe you go grocery shop once every few weeks to buy romantic things like checkered tablecloths, fresh flowers, and scented candles.
Maybe you run out of **** and condoms more frequently now that you're with him.

Maybe you've forgotten what my laugh sounds like.
Maybe you don't agonize over what outfit to wear out on a Friday night because I'm not around to care anymore.
Maybe you no longer get poems written about you, not that you ever knew.
Maybe now there aren't consequences for forgetting to text back within 2 days to messages like, "how are you, wanna grab a bite to eat?"
Maybe you don't miss swimming around the pool at 3am talking reminiscing about each other's past we didn't get to be a part of.

Maybe you could have spent a week this winter sick in bed and had me bring you soup after I finished studying.  
I'd tell you I bought it with a coupon and that the old-fashioned restaurant owner asked again if you were my brother or cousin because he didn't want to think you were my lover,
and of course you would laugh and laugh then cough and sneeze.

Maybe by now you would have formed a permanent imprint in the left side of my king-size mattress,
and picked out your favorite 5 pillows of the 15, rarely used - they look so dormant in that vacant lonely left side of my bed,
as if it had a wormhole that made it access:
a cold, limitless blackhole in outerspace.  

Maybe you wouldn't have kept using,
and felt like you needed to move to New York to escape.  
Instead you could have fled into my eyes,
that they say are the portal to the soul,
and let them gaze into yours as you'd make a steady embark to intertwine.

Maybe I wouldn't feel the need to immerse myself in academic studies and drinking at bars to keep as busy as possible,
because the one moment I allow myself to watch a romantic movie on Netflix,
I know I'll need to eat sodium-laden Chinese food to help me retain water so that I don't cry myself to sleep over you.

Maybe I wouldn't have had to bear my **** soul in front of an audience of about 35 people,
sharing the tragic afterthought of you in poetry form.

Maybe by now I would have figured out that...
Maybe you don't think about what maybe you could have had,
if maybe I could have had you babe.

they lived
like the only customers at a funfair;
weeks caroselling
with swollen rise and fall,
like the horses forgot
to gallop in circles.
they had their own world
of haunted houses
and helter-skelters
but the stalls were all out
of candyfloss
and, as they slotted coins
into cork-rifles,
they shot themselves
to pieces
without winning
a single prize.

Hips hunkered, rise to dapple-blue-toned dusty seat
Flush arch cheeky blush, excitement
Droll eye-glazing blue pupil toned in sleepy drug haze
Wind whipping wild air rushing through tempered glass
Wubing whoosh of wheeled blacktop pavement
Colored in eerie sunshade yellow
Lined, darting-flash gold white boundary crossing  
Tight knuckles, two hand hold
Blinking brown doe-eyed drowsy heavy lidded
Lolling head knocked back, head bash rested caressing faux blue
Ploom of dust
Dry-mouth open to catching fly’s
Or what’s left of dank-infused air
Quiet stillness

Blond hair crawling in busy wind,
Equally as gone
Thumping, jolting-momentum  
White line boundary lost, wheels ended grass
Ditching down, dirt slid slide
Floating weightless suspended-nightmare phase

Snapping,
Awake! Awake!
Screaming slotted terrified,
Panic! Painful-heart-wrecking rob breath
Nose dive, mounded metal drive inching closer
Hairs-breath away

Afraid, screaming ****** ****** inside sealed lips
Brown eyes; lid white
Hands upon steering slack, loose light
Asleep, peaceful in calamity
Unnatural shake and tumble
Nail dug bleeding ache
Skidding gravel, tree lined doom
A god not believed in a prayer ensued
Shaking, the calm unglued
“Baby, wake I beg you!”
Brown quick electric wide
Screaming, Screaming
“Oh my God! Why!”
Swerve snake skin peelout
Black lane orange in night
An almost death.

We were a trio.
Gone together,
mentally alone.

90's alternative had been playing for maybe
three-quarters of an hour, and at this point
we were all mostly toasted.
A shot of beer a minute.

Talking ****, shuffling the deck.

Nick laughed, Luke mocked.
I cheered them both on.
In that moment we all lived in the golden light
of youthful ignorance and concrete friendship
that can only be fully grasped by a drunken trio of guys
in their mid-twenties at 2:00 AM on an idle Thursday night.

We all cracked fresh cold ones and lit up fresh cigs,
and I raised the burning tobacco in a toast:
"To friendship!"

Luke matched my pose, left arm outstretched.
We caught each other's eyes, and without missing a beat
his right hand plunged the cherry into his left forearm.
I looked down and saw myself doing the same,
yet felt no pain. We stayed that way until our embers died,
and relit the remaining smoke off of a shared flame.
Nick never matched our level of commitment,
I doubt he even bears a scar these days.
My scar still itches from time to time.
I wonder if Lukes does, too.

Eventually
I started seeing tunnels
and soon, gravity took me.
Horizontality was my fate.
I was the first to fall,
the first to succumb to gratuitous consumption.

...

Birds chirping, deafening in the late morning.
The angry sun cast slotted beams
through the still-lingering twines
of cigarette smoke from the night before.
I watched it slowly twirl and stir through slitted eyelids.
My eyes hurt, and my neck creaked as I looked around.
Nick passed out beside me, I figured Luke got the top bunk.
In the daylight I could always see the apartment for what
it really was.
An escape.
One room, bunk beds, and abject emotional destitution.
I rolled over on to the floor and steadied myself with
closed eyes and a palm planted on the ***** carpets.
My phone was on the desk in the corner, I grabbed it
and headed towards the bathroom.

**** cascaded, and through the open bathroom window
I could hear it echo off of the buildings lining New Street.
My hand floated up to the back of my head
and picked at something. Something hardened.
There was a thick layer of something
on the back of my scalp,
down the back of my neck.
It felt like wax.
We were burning a candle last night.
They must've dumped it on me
since I was the first to fall asleep.
I quit picking when I was struck by a sharp pain in my arm,
my left forearm.
A bit of my hair had probed an open wound,
a round burn mark.
I sat down on the floor and remembered for a bit.

My phone turned on with a melodic series of beeps,
it had been awhile since I turned it on.

One new voicemail.

I dialed the number 1 while picking wax from my hair,
put my passcode in,
and listened.

Mom called me last night, she was crying.
I was used to that sound at this point.
"Otis wont get up, I think he's dying Justin."
A brief pause.
"Please come home."






I'm sorry Otis. I loved you.
More than a dog, you were a canine brother.
Raised alongside me.
Raised by the same parents.

I didn't come home,
at least,
not then.

I have only seen myself as a beautiful artwork once in my life,
It had been the advent lovely Spring of sweet sixteen,
There is a photo of someone else’s mind in which I am the subject, rife
With calculated gorgeousness, the white blouse and powder blue skirt
And I had been wearing black ballet flats; a day upon my feet had left me hurt
But the enchanted, oil forest before me had healed my eyes and entranced me
That pose, holding onto myself with ribbons in my hair, someone could see
A beauty that which I have never known since.

Into the heart of the Prince
Into the hearts of all the folk for she was a fairy tale heroine,
Cinderella, lovely lady of ashes, had glass slippers
And upon such toity-toity footwear, she had slipped
Yet, it had been such fragility that would unite her with her love

Will I be united with such grace, such love for myself, if I hold onto my ballet flats?
After all, I have not once seen this grace, such love for my own self since sweet sixteen
Since the foolhardy winds of chilly, oceanside Spring;
Where upon the Museum modern, I saw myself as timeless artwork
Admired and appreciated by all; much like the lovely lady of ashes whose slippers
Have walked her beloved soul into the hearts of all; into the best of time

Yet, these beloved shoes of mine
Have seen so much better of time
For I can see through the soles wherein holes
Have shown where I have worn my own souls
In bitter wanderings and light-hearted adventure; so many type of walk
For a single lass, I could not talk
Of all the places and thoughts these shoes have led me astray within
Of the beauty that had once sunken in

How am I to part?
How am I to part with such faithful companions through all my wanderings of
Yonder years soon to come asunder as I am no longer sweet sixteen,
As I am no longer before entrenched trees of oil, elevated in buildings upon
A chilly, Springtime by the sea I’ve only known in passing afternoon
In black ballet flats; not unlike the glass gussied slippers of lovely cinders

Am I not unlike Cinderella?
For whom would she be if she had not received the night of her life
As carried upon the fragile spurned glass of her magic slippers
For whom had reunited her with her love, the foot fetishist Prince;
Lovely lady of ashes would be just that: lady of ashes,
Worked to beyond the bone; dressed in rags, head in clouds,
Dreaming of opportunity squandered in her slippers of magic glass

She would be like me.
She would be like me, contemplating her toes in birdsong prose
She would be like me, wondering when she would feel as refined as a classic artwork
A beautiful timeless painting with grace and poise without rival supposed

If I part with these worn soles which have born my souls cross
My journeys long, will I ever be at loss
Over mine own image rendered beautiful: my own body rendered beautiful to my eyes?
How can such skin-deep bliss exist without my black ballet flats?
How will mine own eyes recognise my beauty
If it were not for dainty small feet slotted into impractical, magical glass slippers
In want of my dear and precious black ballet flats.

A famous "Barry Hodges" poem!

I was strolling along the Normandy beaches
In the close vicinity of Caen one day
With a very tasty piece of arm-candy to hand
When I found a bleached human femur on the beach.
Oh dear me, what thoughts this conjured up in my brain
As I imagined whose bone it might have been!
Perhaps some pathetic soldier boy landing in forty-four
Who got slotted by a gallant German gunner,
His eyes feasting on the sacrificial cannon fodder
So foolishly supplied for his target practice.

Then, as I grabbed my lady friend's juicy ****,
Causing her to turn and sink her tongue into my earhole,
We sank onto the sands in order to sate our lusts,
(enflamed by a very delicious meal of *moules marinières
and a bucket or two of well-chilled Muscadet sur Lie)
I thought, what the **** does it all matter?
This is now, and that was then, and this old world
Has become a much nicer place nowadays;
But how mistaken I was in that fond thought;
Oh what an idealist I am in a world of woe.

For, all of a sudden, a contingent of fat dwarfs appeared,
Totally naked apart from their luminous Uncle Sam hats
And the Stars and Stripes hanging from their arseholes;
How I marvelled at their disgusting shapes
(and how surprised was I to find their genitals
were of normal measurements and thus
rather intrusively large by comparison
with the rest of their miniature bodies).
O dear Lord and alleged Father of Mankind
Forgive their horrid ways verily and forsooth.

With a whoop, those demented military retards, [see note below]
The famous 118th battalion ****** Marine veterans,
A contingent of whom emerged from a portable toilet
(which must have been a bit of a tight squeeze),
Chopped my girl-friend up with their bayonets,
Whereupon I crapped myself in terror and pity,
Before retrieving the purse from the eviscerated corpse,
Realizing that her PIN number was still useable
Until 'les flics' discovered her unfortunate remains
After the shore ***** had partaken thereof.

I wrote you a love letter today,

If you listen close enough
You'll hear the gentle drumming of my heart beat
Inside the envelope.

Don't drop it.
Open it gently.

Inside you will find
Chemical solutions, black
Ink on a page, a heavy handed mass
Of words, slotted carefully between each other,
Lines saturated in love.
Hand crafted works of art
An attempt to articulate and communicate
The fires you send swimming through
My veins, the tsunamis you send
Tripping of my tongue.

Scribbled confessions of just how much my body aches for your touch.

Don't drop it.
Open it gently.

It is yours.
It has always been yours.
I have always been yours.

Love's Subscription

Oh garden of love, grant me lifetime membership,
Ignore the other subscribers as I offer my passion.
Scribe who tends to the garden hear my plea,
Add me, for here my heart wants to be.
To sing the songs of love's sweet eternity,
While basking in the flowery garden.
Scars of painful wounds healed and forgotten,
Scented roses and petunias fill my senses,
Caressing my mind and heart in peaceful solace.
I seek to dwell here for an eternity in love,
My subscription has no expiration forever slotted.

by Kim Addonizio

I have been one acquainted with the spatula,
the slotted, scuffed, Teflon-coated spatula

that lifts a solitary hamburger from pan to plate,
acquainted with the ******* known as the Pocket Rocket

and the ***** that goes by Tex,
and I have gone out, a drunken *****,

in order to ruin
what love I was given,

and also I have measured out
my life in little pills—Zoloft,

Restoril, Celexa,
Xanax.

I have. For I am a poet. And it is my job, my duty
to know wherein lies the beauty

of this degraded body,
or maybe

it's the degradation in the beautiful body,
the ugly me

groping back to my desk to ****
on perfection, to lay my kiss

of mortal confusion
upon the mouth of infinite wisdom.

My kiss says razors and pain, my kiss says
America is charged with the madness

of God. Sundays, too,
the soldiers get up early, and put on their fatigues in the blue-

black day. Black milk. Black gold. Texas tea.
Into the valley of Halliburton rides the infantry—

Why does one month have to be the cruelest,
can't they all be equally cruel? I have seen the best

gamers of your generation, joysticking their M1 tanks through
the sewage-filled streets. Whose

world this is I think I know.

Gravity rips raindrops from
the sky to the earth of my face,
as your fingertips violate the soft
skin of each cheek I offer.

You tell me, I make you so happy,
as salt flows viscous in the pitch
of our bedroom and I say nothing
and you say, nothing much, either.

I bring colour to a life you have never led
and I punish you for it with my silence
and my soft steps and my one single smile,
bequeathed so very grudgingly.

You try, it's true, but I am too far gone now,
too lost in her eyes as she looks at this
shadow of you that I have readily created,
this masochistic need to hurt myself.

I love you; it's times like these I know it
best, the times when I am so insubstantial
that I cannot even bring myself to speak
words I am bleeding to scream at you.

What sick love is this?
When the only time I am sure of it,
is when I feel so very very very
unsteady in your palm.

The night slinks away, with the full force
of sunlight unrefined burning
through slotted blinds.

So ends the the first time I have slept with
someone whilst tears leak from my eyes,
and I cannot say I will ever do it again.

I wrote you a love letter today,

If you listen close enough
You'll hear the gentle drumming of my heart beat
Inside the envelope.

Don't drop it.
Open it gently.

Inside you will find
Chemical solutions, black
Ink on a page, a heavy handed mass
Of words, slotted carefully between each other,
Lines saturated in love.
Hand crafted works of art
An attempt to articulate and communicate
The fires you send swimming through
My veins, the tsunamis you send
Tripping of my tongue.

Scribbled confessions of just how much my body aches for your touch.

Don't drop it.
Open it gently.

It is yours.
It has always been yours.
I have always been yours.

if space could translate
thoughts onto blank pages
and into color spotted images,
would you hang mine on your walls?
or would you throw them away?

you were copper.
the kind that's sticky
and melted.

you were a slotted spoon.
dripping and a mess
spilling out
all over the kitchen
floor.

you were a drain
clogged with cotton
candy colored hair.

dreams take place of memory:

I can't
:fold the way:
you do.

A Freshened Palate, Perspective, and Purpose

Ingredients:

1 potato, 1 egg, half an onion, 1 clove of garlic
salt and pepper to taste
Light frying oil, 2 slices of bacon,
A fistful of poor self image
I mean, spinach
Balsamic vinegar, applesauce,
A dash of self-hate, and left over unwanted thoughts
Note: for a healthier alternative, forget the self-hate
Also note: Can’t remove unwanted thoughts

Step-by-step instructions:
1. Trim potato of any bad areas
    No matter how badly you’d want to trim
    Yourself
    Wash and scrub away any dirt or sand
2. Grate potato,
    Not knuckles
    Squeeze gratings with an old
    T-shirt or throwaway towel
    You could use the shirt you’re wearing
    But you’d end up wearing your stains
    Which, honestly,
    You do anyway
3. Grate onion, cry
4. Finely chop garlic
    Don’t think about the bad breath
5. Put potato, onion, garlic, and 1 egg (without shell)
    Into the bowl and
    Mix
    But not like mixing drinks with anxiety med
    And bad coping mechanisms.
6. Heat oil until shimmery
    Fry potato mixture to make 2 or 3
    Golden brown, delicious latkes
7. Fry bacon while latkes are in pan
    Fry two slices so the bacon doesn’t
    Have to be
    Alone or
    Isolated
    Set aside on paper towel to soak up the grease
8. Boil water to poach eggs.
    Once boiling,
    Swirl water into a whirlpool
    Exactly like the thoughts scalding
    The insides of my skull
    For example:
    Do you know what it’s like to
    Hate yourself? To not stop the
    Unbelief that you are any
    Good at all?
    Understanding that you’re
    Unemployed
    Unskilled
    Unwanted
Gently crack two eggs into whirlpool
    Understanding that you can’t simply
    “Get over this”
    Like standing under burdens
    And whiskey bourbon hits
    Expectations - faraway dreams
    Only furthering it
    Like you’ll never be able to accomplish them
    You’ll surmount them but run
    Out of oxygen because
    You’re not
    Supposed to be there
    In the first place
(don’t worry, the whirlpool will prevent eggs from
breaking)
    (Don’t you see what
    Everybody else is doing
    And you act like you
    Know what you yourself
    Is doing
    Don’t you see all your
    Truly selfish doings
    Who do you think you are?
    -laughing- you’re bad
    Where do you think
TURN OFF THE HEAT AND COVER
    Set timer for exactly 5 minutes.
    Do not
    Lift the cover until time is
    Up.
    After 5 minutes, scoop eggs out with slotted spoon and set on paper towel to dry.
    Let eggs
    *Rest.
    Be careful,
    The yolks
    Are very fragile at this point.

Assemble the dish
Spread applesauce on potato latkes. Be careful
Not to spread so thin.
Don’t be stingy,
take what You need.
Put bacon on top, stack poached eggs on top of the bacon.
Garnish plate with spinach, sprinkle with balsamic vinegar.
Each thing has its place, even if it seems too complex or complicated.

Flavor Profile;
Latkes are light and
Fluffy and crispy.
Onions, garlic give a basic, yet
Flavorful foundation.
The egg yolks spill a very rich, deep syrupiness that is brought out by the salty, fatty bacon.
The applesauce is special because the sweetness and **** contrasts with the smooth richness of egg, potato and bacon.

And just like life, balances the heavy with the light
          Work with play
       Teaching with learning
                               Spending money with saving money
       Learning things and saying things
       Being there with being here

And sometimes, amidst all of that
You need something to add
a little fresh,
A little color
A little bit of
Different.
That’s where the Spinach comes in
Some
Justified bitterness to
Freshen your
Palate, perspective, and purpose.

With each bite and each taste
You’re reminded that each blend of flavors
Each collision of textures
Are compositions of each ingredients and
each step:
    The onions, the salt, the applesauce
Slicing, chopping, grating
Frying, failing, hating
Boiling, swirling, burning
Accidents, bad luck
Tripping over, getting up
Panicking, breathing, saying “enough”

And having an end product
Like this
Is
Purpose
It is how it’s supposed to be
You are who you’re supposed to be

When you’re finished, wipe your hands
Wash your plate
Realize you have dishes to do
And more courses
More tastes
To produce

*So that you will never go hungry
With this Circadian Appetite

She was like a force of nature
Manipulative, dangerous and beautiful.
Without even looking at you
she could make you feel insignificant
She made you feel pathetic
But when she looked at you it was worse,
those cold, bitter eyes fixed on yours
and she saw so deeply into your mind
that your security leeched
out of your fingertips
like spilt milk.
Those soft, harsh lips would twitch,
and her eyes would mock you.
She oozed feline contemptuousness.
But you were hooked,
from the word go, you needed her.
She was your ******
And without even knowing it you were hers.
There was something delicious about her
something refreshingly suffocating,
like a rib tightening power-cut shower.  
She lovingly despised you,
couldn’t bear the beautiful sight of you,
and pinched the backs of your arms with violent affection.
When the text came through my world jolted,
something shifted as the realisation
of a different existence slotted into place.
In only a few digitally transported words
of no deliberation,
the person I required most had stopped my heart.

Long hours forgotten in sheets of paper,
A better bottle, more for nothing:
Lost saints and false idols,
Iconoclastic Oddfellows -- strange masters bellow
Shows of blue smoke and mirrors, a dream
At Bradbury's 2 am, shared nightmares
Ending all the same way, with no
Connection to be known except the lack of sleep.

Making the long drive, ending in your arms,
No direction except for tiredness, no
Autumn except for slotted time,
No finished books, only started stories,
Just a taste of dry leaves, dryheaves, and delerious summer eves.

My middle name is sleep, and I will dream
In wakeness as easily as with my eyes closed.
But sometimes the best answers lie
On the backs of your eyelids.
Read carefully.

Like block shaped wheels our lives stumble at the chapters we write
Corners seem dark and teeming with doubt,
alleyways call in echoes of our name,
as if tempting us to crawl when we cannot walk

                “Fear begins the parade at our fragile hearts”

Shades are drawn and slotted with eyes watching,
voices ring the halls of the buildings looming large,
rumors of pointed fingers find our ears in colander fashion,
dripping fear at our feet

                “Waves conduct sound, crashing vividly as we hear”

We cry,
hoping these tears will somehow wash the pain,
fill the gutters and move out to sea,
casting waves upon unsuspecting shores

                “Wishes…more waste than want…at least of these eyes”

When of the shadows a touch,
softly at first, then strong upon our shoulders fall…
comfort leaps to our hearts in sing song praise,
wishes become goals and finish line adventures

                “What is this light, soft yet sure, found within”

We are not alone, darkness hints at light
and butterflies fill our air with prism’d colors and soft breezes
collecting on our damp cheeks and drying the aftermath
of our understanding of reality

                “Dreams of these nightmares fade into happiness”

We find footprints in the dirt…two which are not our own,
closely, yet affectionately following our way and bringing direction
to our dreams, yet the nightmares still flourish
but we do not feel so alone

                “Fences built may keep us in yet… may keep us out”

For this hand, from a distance,
climbing mountains and fording rivers
leads our hearts to the safety of love just beyond the bricked wall,
the ivy covered monolith, the chain link disaster
which once stood locked

                “Finding that a breath may exhale peace…again”

Now stands open of the arbor of hibiscus
blooms and teapot pourings fore our eyes…open and hopeful of the coming truth
once lost beyond our dreams…and we breathe
for it feels right to breathe while standing in the darkness…not alone

Not alone


Like block shaped wheels our lives stumble at the chapters we write
Corners seem dark and teeming with doubt,
alleyways call in echoes of our name,
as if tempting us to crawl when we cannot walk

                “Fear begins the parade at our fragile hearts”

Shades are drawn and slotted with eyes watching,
voices ring the halls of the buildings looming large,
rumors of pointed fingers find our ears in colander fashion,
dripping fear at our feet

                “Waves conduct sound, crashing vividly as we hear”

We cry,
hoping these tears will somehow wash the pain,
fill the gutters and move out to sea,
casting waves upon unsuspecting shores

                “Wishes…more waste than want…at least of these eyes”

When of the shadows a touch,
softly at first, then strong upon our shoulders fall…
comfort leaps to our hearts in sing song praise,
wishes become goals and finish line adventures

                “What is this light, soft yet sure, found within”

We are not alone, darkness hints at light
and butterflies fill our air with prism’d colors and soft breezes
collecting on our damp cheeks and drying the aftermath
of our understanding of reality

                “Dreams of these nightmares fade into happiness”

We find footprints in the dirt…two which are not our own,
closely, yet affectionately following our way and bringing direction
to our dreams, yet the nightmares still flourish
but we do not feel so alone

                “Fences built may keep us in yet… may keep us out”

For this hand, from a distance,
climbing mountains and fording rivers
leads our hearts to the safety of love just beyond the bricked wall,
the ivy covered monolith, the chain link disaster
which once stood locked

                “Finding that a breath may exhale peace…again”

Now stands open of the arbor of hibiscus
blooms and teapot pourings fore our eyes…open and hopeful of the coming truth
once lost beyond our dreams…and we breathe
for it feels right to breathe while standing in the darkness…not alone

I saw him... Ripping the posters of hope to the ground
The bear stuffed. Cardboard box a home he never dreamt of
An abandoned minefield of metal gongs.....still clanging
With life encircled on its rim, clearly in full erosion

One eye had begun to fall, clinging on by a theatrical thread
A small hole had appeared, the left ear on hard times
He looked  sad...his 'Bravo' days departed, kicked like an
Old tin can scattering nailed organs, strewn carelessly

The haphazards hurt the most; those that landed head first
They burrowed into the soft fur, grizzling through
Lack of gripe water to anaesthetise the first cut
Fur ***** were out of stock, cleaned right off the shelves

The posters painted with high definition, torn with sad
Hand shakes. Lined up ******* into fists, like used tissues
Their eye level aim skimmed the parcelled plots and slotted
Into basket cases, breathing in ***** dumpsters before their due date

Shrugging it off didn't work, shouldered earrings...stuck in rutted
Situ for too long. You came between them and the tombs of truth
Caused a nasty virus to accelerate. Baldness stole the soft
Funishings from your limbs in between the stuffing years

If I had a heart in my hands
One not made of flesh

If I carried it all the minutes of every day
And it was made of friable stuff

If I stumbled in a careless way
And it slipped before my eyes

If it fell to the hardened ground
And smashed into a billion atom bits

If the fractured shards were
Myriad made in a smear of salty tears

If I had no one but me blameworthy
Because it was only me around

If this was the case
Then I can’t look behind me
With accusations tumbling from my lips.

If I had the chance to glue, piece by piece
It back into a heart-shaped thing

If each tiny silver sliver was slotted into place
To once more catch the noiseless light

If I took a thousand years
And made my fingers bleed

If I once more held it up
And it had glinting form

If this repair was done in the dry dock of my hands
Would it still be a flawless gem?

If this repair is painfully gained
Does the time and care infuse the fault
With a lustre of perfection?

If all I see is the spinning binary pulse
If all I have is a sparking
Einstein-Rosen Bridge

If all around me is a sea of foaming mediocrity
If nothing else is worth my time

Then surely repairing this shattered glass is
The worthwhile work of every second

Of this remaining life

The only reason I stare back at you
is to keep myself from looking into the lackluster eyes above your ****** metal bed frame belonging to the only person I could possibly hate more than you.

Which *****.

Because I hate you in a
youtoldmeLenniedies, youatemylastoreo, youdidn’tgetmypoetry, youforgotmy19thbirthday, kind of way.

But it’s her.
It’s her
in the weathered frame
that keeps putting coins in the slot
just to get drunkenly slotted for five minutes at 4 a.m.,

It’s her
that sits with an empty vase
and assures, “It’s fine, I don’t mind,”
while in fact salt water pioneers trek across her pillow,

It’s her
that ironed that patchwork of
dimples and freckles into the mocking mirror
for safe keeping.

Poor thing.
She only
holds thistles to her heart
because scorpions surround her.
What’s a girl to do?
Be bought, be bruised, be broken-hearted, be buried?
She couldn’t help but
frame herself.

The sky is bleak tonight, Fitzwalter.
I see the morbid crows have cut the clouds.
It's cold, up here amidst the stonework,
with the slotted windows for the watching.
Be careful with your pipe!
though it gives you cheer it may draw the witch!
Sometimes, on the night watch,
some chattering, smattering rhyme
would dizzy dazzle my tired head.
I know it was her, come to draw me out;
to make me dance beneath her moon.
But I held out, did I. .. I did!
I sung my own songs.
Or maybe she sung mine, God help me!
No, don't light the lamp.
Watch for the moor lights
out in the field.
No! I mean,.. instead, watch for their flicker!
For in their flicker, you know well
some creature passes by.
I bid goodnight, Fitzwalter.
I beg just two short hours
and I will up and take your place.
Until then, do not cease to pray!

He lives in dreams and faraway breaths,
Sighs sing, echoing, from untouched lips.
Memories of dust, bloom into rust
Imprinted on wrinkles, forever-
Permanent. Forever forgotten.
Unbecoming and rotten.
Stir these thoughts, through slotted lids
Eyes turn and twist in wild ways.
Wade and slosh through imagination,
Hushed pigmentation, and
Shushed incantations.
Invoking ceaseless visions of untouched lips,
Dreams that he lives with faraway breaths,
In peace, he rests. In ash, in dust, in flaking rust;
Permanent, in thoughts, born to be forgot.

-SLuR

I miss the way my name slipped through your lips the way water slips through finger tips
and i miss the way our finger tips were laced better than any shoe
i miss the way we'd lay with one another as though we could get lost in each other but i could never be more lost than when i looked into your eyes
i miss the way you calmed the storms in my heart,
the way your loving hands formed works of art, constructed the safest of landings right from the start.
and i miss the way you used to run your fingers through my hair, as you'd sit and stare with whispers in your breath and a tenderness in your movement saying "i care"
I miss the way you didn't look through me like most, you looked deep inside, picked up every flaw and regret and made a toast to the wonders that made me me.
i miss the way i knew in one swift glance, from the look of your stance, what the chance of forever was, and it was almost as promised hitlers suicide, and how you carefully entered the dark valleys of my heart, where others had shyed.
and i miss the way we slotted together better than the little counters in the game of connect four
and i miss the way you'd hold open the door to your soul
i miss the way we reminisced and promised to grow old
i miss the way i felt when you hung a sign on your heart saying sold
and i was elated because though it was belated i knew i was the lucky one to have such an important piece of you
and i miss the way we'd do all those things we did between the sheets, the way our eyes would meet, before we closed them together and embarked further into our romance,
As we'd partake in a dance, that only we knew.
i miss the way you planted butterflies in my stomach and fireflies in my eyes, the element of suprise when you came home with flowers
i miss the hours we spent just laying content
i miss reading and rereading those messages you sent, the beauty of your intent
i miss the taste of your lips
the way my hands felt around your hips
i miss the way those glasses framed the most beautiful masterpieces I've ever seen, the way you'd take something i had no understanding of, and show me what it means
i miss the way you filled the cavities of my heart, with hugs and i love yous which warmed me better than any cup of coffee ever could
The way you made me feel, so, so good
I miss the way you etched my initials into your the insides of your eyelids and i did the same with yours
I miss the way you calmed the shores
And i miss the way you'd sparkle and shine as you'd sit and remind me that its okay not to be okay and its okay that we're gay because we didn't have to fit into social formality, i miss the clarity, the calming of the raging wars in my mind, the directions when i had no idea where to start to find myself
i miss the way you couldn't have cared less about wealth because you said as long as we had happiness and health we were already millionaires.
I miss the way you took the fires in me that could have burnt down entire cities, and slowly but surely extinguished them,
I miss the way we tied ourselves to one another with double knots until we forgot to tell each other just how lucky we were, and until we started to stop showing each other how much we cared but instead the bruises we bared from the only person that had ever cared so much it hurt
until we lost touch, both physically and mentally until the insides of you and me began to unravel from each other internally
until happiness could only be found in setting free the one thing I've never wanted to hold onto most,
until the host that had kept my heart beating and my hopes alive buried them in the tears that fell from your eyes. And i despise the way
the only place id ever felt like i was home was now the only place id ever felt so alone.

when i was younger,
afternoons meant screaming matches;
sorry, i mean screaming
lectures, maybe
or sessions
never matches-
we were never allowed to reply
or she'd scream louder and
louder.

i grew up ashamed.
ashamed of my body
ashamed of my personality
ashamed of my quirks and ticks
ashamed of what made me, me
i hated them.
i wanted to strip them away,
peel off my skin,
bleach my face,
burn my hands,
remove anything
that made me her target.
to this day, i still
hold out hope
that i may one day
stop hating myself.

crying was a weakness
unworthy of comfort
i have no memory
of being comforted
or held
just
alone
my pillow and my stuffed animals
for company
oh, how i longed to be held
just once
just for a moment,
someone to hold me up
when i couldn't breathe.

she used to tell us
the reason she screamed so loudly
was because she had tried, in the past
to speak softly.
apparently, we never listened.

i don't remember her
ever speaking evenly
i don't remember a day
without screams
(oh the screams)
filling the house, my mind
and even if she had tried so hard
to be quiet with us, and failed,
aren't mothers supposed to be patient,
even if the children do not listen?

i hated the way she would scream, yes
but more than that i hated
the way she would tower over me
face inches from mine,
eyes alight with what i could only
describe as
pure hatred
the image still haunts me
i'm still scared of her eyes, sometimes.

she gets so mad, sometimes.
i'm convinced she is not aware,
she does not remember
the things she says
when she is taking out her anger
on me.
a blind rage.
isn't that all i am?
an outlet for her anger?
the antagonist to her lead character?
the useless child she has to drive to school
for two more years?
will i ever be anything but
the result of years of anger?
the target of her mockery?
the recipient of her insults?
will i ever be more than
ugly
*****
disgusting
manipulative
evil
fat
stupid
dumb
unca­ring
unloving
ungrateful
a monster
a brat
a demon
a pig
an animal
boring
antisocial
timid
unlikeable
unwanted?

i have only ever known her to be sharp
harsh
disgusted with anything i do
that's why it hurts
when she gives me brief hugs,
smiles,
tells me she only screams
because she loves me
because i know
her intentions are pure
if her actions
are knives slotted between
my ribs.

Every move calculated. Im trying to know.
My math is wrong, or a miscalculation has made another variable.
Another story, another stitch in the tapestry
I can't find the answer. Though I was wondering if I was on the right lead.

The dead end is deafening.
I can only watch as the math is slotted to run.
The production of an answer
A show, a result, of this long division, this diversion.

Angles are perfectly fitted to one another,
But the math and figures don't add up.
What puzzle have i been working with?
What pieces are missing?
Have i always seen a solution, just never attempted to test...
This hypothesis, to seek truth?
Trying the experiment, the observations are clear.
I am not to be here.

Am I the imaginary? The rational?
Can it be equal? Can it be trivial?
Im trying yet again.
How can one plus one be two when in life its three?
Where and when am i me?
Have i fallen down this power of 2 factor tree?
Or am i fractals free?
This is a set of 3.

How about this matrix?
And this issue of multiplicity, these additional matrices?
On the axis, on this graph can you tell me?

My mind is the scatter plot. The images and notes...
Are points, but no correlation.
This conclusion, this test,
I wish i could rest, and divide by Zero.

Sometimes I feel like the last abstract puzzle piece; set apart and waiting for the edges to be correctly aligned and the centre filled so that I can finally and inevitably be slotted into my right place.

Then I am drawn to the size of the puzzle and the way it seems to shift and shunt and change - and I know that one day I will realise with my whole soul that there are an infinity of pieces and I am not an end.

On another, more distant day I will no longer be afraid of this and will come to see it as beautiful.

But for tonight I will continue to feel incomparably small and foolish and alone. I will neglect my bed for a dusty throat and caffeine because the thought of being there and today passing away without me chokes my every action. I will endlessly run my tongue against the back of my jagged teeth until it cuts and swells. I will lay, paralysed, on the cold linoleum of the kitchen floor and hope something other than time will swallow me. I will continue to think of my friends far away and adventures we never, but could have, had.

For tonight it is okay.

There's pleasure in these small thoughts, like a slow waltz fading out, the last note hanging above my head; a blade that cuts apart the looming silence.

Like myriad others
I was born crazy
A blessing bestowed
By Moon's grace
And a curse slotted
By Sun's paradise
I was born crazy
To take on two things
Shift for myself
Amid worldly plagues
And exhibit my perceptions
With opalescence of my dance
I was born crazy
In light of squares
There are not enough stars
That Darkness can't sway.

I’ve had all my affections poured out over pink skirts as well as pale eyes.
It’s easy to find that pogo sticks and pacifiers
can’t get a childhood
off the ground; where she stood smiling.
Over coats and undercuts are all to cover something.
Replace your teeth with gold
and when they don’t feel
like yours anymore
Then you’ll know.
Your tongue is bronze now.
Plaster’s coming off like a shuffle board land slide
All around this cage they keep us dogs
In, When we bite; its because there isn’t any tongue clicking
Or word bashing left to do.
The sun has found me,
I see it through
slotted bars, and the clouds
are in just as much hell as I am.
I see them with belly full to eyes full of wine.
I’ve been too long in burning this bridge.
It’s the buckets full ,
waiting to quench tinder.
It’s that I’ve drunken everything,
Flammable for miles.
Lock jaw and bite.
Bite down on the trusses.
Bite down and curse god.
He’ll understand all
Your tongues, and spastic fingers.
She says that I puke passion,
that these trees don’t grow in vain,
that fruit is god awful imagery,
And that I have to train every limb
so they can beat the stop signs with their falling pines.