"I just spasmed
As my life force left me.
At a rate of 2.3 pictometers per femtosecond."

"I hide behind the tears
Of a pretentious *****
Who laments himself at
Every
Available
Opportunity"

"Your premise assumes
That writing poetry
Would mitigate my boredom."

"Doing things you do not enjoy
Will serve no purpose
Other than remind you of how bored you are."

"I feel my life force
Being ****** out of me
Minute
By
Minute"

"Each minute that I endure
The mind-boggling ennui
Is another brain cell
That commits suicide
In order
To save
Its self."

"I may have to resort to poetry soon."

I feel like I’m ******* drowning again
All over again
Drowning in myself
Drowning in the lack of him
Drowning in the immense space between us
I took so many hits last night I shook and spasmed for two hours before I could sleep
But at least I wasn’t thinking about him
It’s okay
I’m not drowning
I’m okay
I’m not drowning
I’m not drowning
I’m not drowning
I’m not
Drowning
Drowning
Drowning
Drowning

The sun shone above the clouds,
my mind was razor-sharp like shark's teeth,
my hands were shaking like I was cold
at nearly 81 degrees.
The sun shone above the clouds,
my body spasmed, covered in sweat,
my legs trembled as I checked around
searching for any bottles left.
The sun still shone above the clouds
as I showered, drank coffee and left the house
looking for whatever distraction I could find,
ended up drunk at a parking lot.

he had folded photos of Anita Page above his cot,
and a melancholy little crucifix,
and, of course, a long-winded letter from his mum.
he dipped tobacco and always tried to spit it on the barrack’s ceiling.
he would squander half of his canteen on his hair, if it got too muddy in the trenches.
he whittled a bar of soap into a horse one time,
and then washed himself with it right afterwards.
he always put on his cap at this saucy sort of angle,
even though there never was a lady around to woo.
once i saw him read Jules Verne, and I asked him about it,
and he said “Who?  You know I can’t read for squat.”
he was a funny man, you know, a guy that makes life feel good.

two days ago i saw his lungs throb against the walls of his ribcage,
i saw his adam’s apple swell up rotten, and his neck grow thick and veiny.
his muscles spasmed and his orifices emptied and all i could think was
how worthless it is to carve a horse out of soap and then soak it to nothing right after?
it makes me wonder why someone would bother
whittling in the first place.

It was chilly in the house of stone
where the body of Maud’s  son
had been interred the year before.
(Her first born had died young.)

Her lover was a Frenchman,
Maud Gonne was her name.
She was, of course, a famous muse-
as William Butler’s flame.

She let down her golden hair
and her clothing came undone.
Lucien lay a blanket down
on the gravestone of their son.

She lay her naked beauty down
and took a passive role--
convinced the child conceived that night
would have her dead son’s soul.

Mystic occult spirits danced
as mortal flesh entwined.
Lucien spasmed flush with lust
Maud called on the Divine.

In course of time a girl was born
a child of beauty rare
But that she held her brother’s soul
none can, for sure, declare.

She took me by the hand,
guided my fingers,
& my wanton-mouth
along the smooth contours
of her beautiful landscape.

I touched butterfly wings,
nipped high rosy cheeks,
tasted her full parted lips,
felt the cool rush of
her fragrant breath
& gently-bit
the slenderness
of her delicate neck.

She beckoned me
to move slowly onward,
toward her
twin heaving peaks,
where I learned
of more sensual-things.

She taught me about
the gentle twisting of granite,
slow-swirling-kissing,
& of the nibbling
of puffed sensitive-flesh.
It was exquisite.

Then she begged me
to quickly move southward,
over her rolling meadow,
upward & onto
her delicious-mound,
to use my yearning mouth
in fiery sensuous-ways.

There,
I fervently frolicked,
relished in
the tender petals
her pretty lady-flower,
gently spreading
her cascading beads
over magnificent
swollenness.

And when I caressed
her unfolding petals,
the most sensitive part,
she reached nirvana,
shuddered & spasmed,
released her rawness,
the tastiest of flow.
It was genuine intimacy.

Once,
only the Lord knew
how much I loved
my personal body guide
& know you too,
know the reasons why,
she is so lovely
& divine.

softly carved
statue
shadowed
bas-relief on the
sheets
submerged
staring
sundered
stiff as stone
spasmed
soliloquy of
squeals and sighs
sublimation of
soul to steam
slinking
sinuously down my
sternum
seeking
.
.
.

Frozen and numb,
Unable to comprehend the next move,
Everything moves in slow motion.

Suffocating on air,
Words clogged up, unable to break free.

Her elegant hair sprawled across,
The surface of my thigh.
She had such a gentle smile.
Oh, how at peace she was.

As each breath of hers was precise,
My was ragged and silent,
As I kept my gaze straight but my thigh burned.

As her muscles were relaxed,
My spasmed and tensed, like her violins strings.

I was hyper-aware, senses buzzing,
As she allowed hers to be silent.
She was in a delightful harmony,
While I yearned for the thing that came to her so easily.

Everything hurt and I was drowning,
Her solid form was more of an anchor,
To help me sink in my own sea.

I was caged, and she felt like debris blocking me in.

Her touch was overwhelming, though she never knew this,
So hush hush, don’t tell her,
Despite you wanting to beg with tears streaming down,
You keep yourself restrained even though your disintegrating.

Singed am I from dealing with Dragons
Though my hands feel their fiery sting no more
Soaring through the twilight of my mind
A sight for sore eyes beheld me

Their lair flows thick with golden sludge
The manifestation of drudgery borne
From a life intent on the taking

Scarred am I from feeding Lions
Yet my limbs grow anew from the power of love
As the dove lays nest upon its head
I spread my wings so boldly

The pack moves with flow designed
To magnify their pride through birthing cub
Through the Lioness they come
But from one seed solely
That is a lonely world

Wise am I from running with Panther
Her feline grace abstains from false action
With a keen eye around on what happens around
She whittles and reads the minds that encounter her

Then lying on the branch with the thickest limb
She will tell you what boundless potential lies therein
By pouncing and slitting those shallow words
To release you from this carnal grasp

Bruised am I by the will of Bull
His blood-shot eyes a curdling pull
To challenge what has turned my family
T’wards that mindless short sight reality

Hidden pen is much smaller than his head
Though the master will deny at all cost
For the fear that the bull would join the executives

Tired am I by Horse’s drive
With its impeccable, ceaseless stride
You have outrun me in spirit
Leave me by the pond awhile
To ponder my demise

Your hooves they clamber in my head
My muscles lock and flesh is red
Though I don’t blame you for your optimism

Wallowing am I iScorpion’s venom
Her futile lunges so careless
Drunk with its own preservation
It spasmed at the sound of my name

Let me stroke it and soothe its poor vessel
With a gloveless hand showing trust
As a homage to the power of love

I am all these things one
They are all inside thee
Am I living through you
Or you living through me?

It must have been his eyes...
Maybe his voice,
Maybe it's his beauty that took me by surprise.
And kept me longing for his touch.

From the empty hallway the light to his room felt like security.
His voice from a distance sounded like comfort.
It made me want to draw closer.

Then on unexpected night I felt his touch,
So tender, that feeling, I will forever cherish.
I still feel it everytime I think of it.
I wanted all of him.
I want him still, but now he feels so far away.

I can't hear his voice anymore,
And the at the door has been replaced by another.
Maybe I should have held his body closer when he spasmed in his sleep.
Maybe I should have told him that "it's okay, you are okay, you will be okay"
Maybe, just maybe I could have made him feel better.

I wish I knew how to tell him that even if he doesn't say a word.
I understand,
And that I want to be his comfort.
I know I can't say much to him right now.
But I want him to be better,
To be happy.

If I was given the chance.
Maybe, just maybe I could cuddle of his worries away.

he was vile, laying there all pitiful-like with his arms spread. "what happened to you?" i asked. he never responded, just spasmed and bled from his mouth. after everything i sat beside him.

the dawn was breaking then, and the grass was cold and slick with dew and ****** fluids--this was before northwest indiana set her cattails on fire. he looked up at me, not pleadingly. his gaze was full of understanding. his hair was knotted and covered in silt.

"youre going to die." i said. "youre going to die if you lay here like that." i always had criticisms. he told me so.

he rose with all the power he had left in him and ****** violently, separating the skin on his back from his muscles. for a moment i forgot to be afraid of him. with one last twist and twitch his bones

sliced through his pallid skin like butter and he extended his wings.

and suddenly i understood.

i left him laying there, all pitiful-like with his wings spread, on the pure homegrown indiana land.

he died, just like i said he would, because no matter what i always have to be right, dont i? he told me so.

SPIRIT
It seems my reality is connected to 'Abdu'l-Baha and Baha'u'llah inasmuch as I recite their words.  Also, the Bab.  Perhaps too Muhammad inasmuch as I obey Hadith and read the Qur'an.  Is my lack of reality really God? What does it mean to be God's servant but not His son? That seriousness born of the Seal of the Prophets? Or, that seriousness born of irresponsibility and wickedness? What can come from mere presence? "This cyclic scheme is to Him but a stare." Thoughts of Hindu statues of the gods and goddesses. Yes, the spiritual reality doesn't work for me at command. It doesn't entertain me either. It usually requires some input to show me anything.

MIND
That lack of any changing form going through my mind. Thoughts of a previous text and its sender. Conversations via text. The heart feels betrayed by a friend for not showing up. Memories of my friend's neighborhood. Anything of substance except the interactions I have on my phone and the memories which our words and persons reveal? Do I have any unconscious left? Anything hiding? Fears of reincarnation. Anxiety about work due to not staying in the "now". Unfulfilled plans of society. Is there anyone coming to my Group of Silence devotional? Odds unlikely. Alone on Zoom.

The conviction of medication and meditation, which changed my D's and F's into A's and B's in college. My lack of use of the knowledge I gained. Still hopeful of discovering some new form of mathematics, even if on my deathbed - I'm guessing around 80 if I keep smoking.

"There is no pain you are receding" and "*******" whisper in my mind. "Comfortably numb" - it seems like the highest spiritual state, but a state of incapacity for the investigating mind. "Is there anybody in there?" A German seven that looks like kanji.

BODY
Maybe a serious eye? Those eyes with nothing to do. Can a mirror not truly tell me about myself? For what information can come from a blank stare? A ****** in the nose. A worry-filled stare. One ear a little pulled out due to wearing COVID masks. I haven't trimmed my beard for five days. I haven't gotten a new face. My eyes are the same color. My hair, not darker nor lighter. The bags under my eyes betrays youths. My distinguished, yet still rounded cheeks. My beard hides my ****-chin. My less distinguished jaw, ovalish but with a point. Those searching eyes. A neck with so much stress built up that I unconsciously twist and crack it. Memory of the first time it spasmed. Vitamin care. Laundry drying. It must be this blank stare that is highest of high, that can be low, low.  I rub my scalp to ease muscle tension. I think about aligning my chakras, but a blank stare seems more worthwhile.

I consider smoking a touch of nutmeg, but I'm concerned how anxious it will make me, and how I lack ability in communication afterwards. I make coffee, a caffeine high will do. The cream gives me comfort. The workers getting off work add to my austerity. All those songs stored in neurons of my brain, waiting to be plugged-in. Somehow old rock songs from the 70's give me a place.

Now that beautiful lady appears to me saying "come, come" or rather "***, ***". I was so empty of everything, and she now fills my brain with connections to desire. I give in to the pressure and put a small dob of nutmeg on the end of my cigarette. Not enough for a full high, but just a little joy. Now there is experience and experiencer, not just a blank stare.

I can see my *** stare. I am as a baby in my mother's arms, I am so irresponsible. My body is a temple, with rooms, that I'm somehow detached from as if I'm in a dream witnessing it. Now I swim in this temple but I am not its fullness. I am not its command. I am no longer the tree but the twig. I am this plant called nutmeg. This is my vibration - pharmaceutical.

My buzz cut portrays a Buddhist monk's sitting. My coworker cut off all her hair once. Is she monkish as well? My body, as a sitter, full of reflection, why is this such an archetype? Does it know all, no, it only knows one, me. Is that all I am required of? To know simply me. Is there anything of depth in me?

Repose in my eye. I think of the faithful not under the influence. Have I missed a spark of truth which I would've found? My browline reminds me of a Klingon. So aggressive. I rock back and forth and around and around. I'm mixing this tonic drink in my skull. Is my body too full and big for my neck and head? how much does it matter? When will I do my next ab workout?

Memories of doing nutmeg, the cool let down off the high. The feeling it will never really subside.  Moving around in my seat like a Sufi dancer. Looking like I'm a ghost in the machine. The wetness of the white in my eye portrays tears of passion for Chloe. The residue of oil on my brow and cheek portrays sweating out the nutmeg.

My chrome dome and short beard remind me of a wizard, rather of my high school physics teacher. Science seems like wizardry at times. Contorting my face with my hands shows all sorts of masks: Asian clown and Cabbage Patch doll. Pressing on my forehead makes me look Romulan. Contorting my nose to a pig's or what I see as an English nobleman.

My head swings around like a medieval flail. Like I'm in a roller coaster. Like an Indian in devotion. Like a magician performing an act. Like a wolf ripping apart its prey. Like the monks who hit their heads with boards in "Camelot": "Oh ee eh Oh dominae, Oh ee eh Oh requi eh". Coming to the conclusion that the body doesn't change so quickly that it can by observed. But when I consciously change it, similitudes appear from memory.

CONCLUSION
Is all observation a metaphor or simile? Or, judgment and reason made out of a group of observations? Math is made from first geometry: a basic point, and then a line. Math is a physical reality, or abstractions from basic physical reality. Therefore, speaking merely in basic simile is also an abstraction from physical reality.

All there is is the physical.  Mind is due to my frontal lobe. Spirit is reduced to feeling, even if transcending regular feeling - mere EMF pattern of the body.

I’ve not driven Her streets alone with thoughts of you breaking through
since those jet-lagged days here from Taiwan…
Now, driving this eve I KNOW
with Her rivers and bridges, rainy days and viewing ridges
That this City holds hidden memories long—
See? She remembers still those 2 figures who sat & talked there on the water front…
Nor did She forget the love-entrenched girl scratching out (between clients) poetic lines
composed as her magical hands worked to relax
spasmed muscles…
Ironic that nothing yet worked to soothe
a spasming heart, denied…

This Sunday, more of Her streets I will see—
Like that one I was driving to work
when heart-break broke me until I thought
I’d just drive & drive on forever… though never Arrive…
I’ve arrived…Full circle but now
Unbreakable
As again a knife breaks through the rain
driving pain
Deep
(I don’t think you saw or cared to see
the wish I wrote that we go deep…
“I want you so deep…deep inside” as Vintage Culture sang)
I guess this is all to say,
as I drive through this tired city today,
Like these murky rivers etched on the map
There flows through my mind & my veins
a story—unfinished…
never to be

This one's for the nights that turned into mornings
The ones I never thought would arrive
The sunrises which crept in slowly as I drove towards them
And the ones that crashed through my window as I slept through their brilliance
This one's for the painful nights of no sleep
Ones where the fire burned through my veins
When my muscles twitched and my legs spasmed
And the restless nights when ghosts long passed came for a visit
This one is to acknowledge the nights
And take each one as it comes

prosper in wild times
makke acute the wildflower  to abait antagonism
and arrange your daffodils so they look down upon buttercups  because the architecture has spasmed in direction of the foursome
derailing the large from the sunset
with a new beginning
that larks like the hot moon
and laughs like christmas
telling tales on its goat herd
walking haughtily in the pastures of human growth
mumbling the sometimes which they all the time take advantage of

Amen, poonanny God.