I am not used to taking risks. Many barriers tend to block my train of thought and my decision-making. Now that I was lying at the bottom of the trash, I could talk; I could think straight. I had no distractions or punishments, even though there was no need for deciding anything. I felt free because I knew he had given up on me. I felt like a meaningless particle of the planet when I was under Master’s control. At least plastic was used to create something else. But not me! No! I could not be used for anything else; I just got thrown away. I couldn’t say I was completely oblivious towards my lifespan. I had an idea of what was going to happen. There I was at the bottom of the trash; knowing that my master’s next victim had already been chosen to take my former position in his soaking, swampy hand. Master acted like he worked so hard; he should have been ashamed of himself. Because lying crippled within those dark suffocating walls of that garbage basket was HIS doing. I do not take risks. Those crumpled up papers began to fall upon me like rain and it felt like I was being buried alive.
I don’t remember my birth or the first few years of my life. My psychology teacher told me about how you cannot remember the first 2-3 years because of the brain’s progression in growth. The first thing I remembered was waking up in a box, locked in place by my neck and feet. My family was nowhere to be found. I did not even remember being apart of one. There were four others enslaved with me at the time. They were not my family, but they dressed like me, which scared me a little. The loud noise of slicing scissors pierced my ears and a small stream of light entered the cardboard box when the top was cracked open. The first sight of the Master’s obese fleshy hand brought motion to my bowels as a feeling of failed screams collapsed around my throat. I had no voice, I had no mouth. Was it welded shut or was I created incorrectly? Watching the way Master’s large hand devoured the poor ******* next to me and yanked him out of the box brought an immediate knowledge of trouble upon me. I was frightened because my opinions were insignificant and I didn’t know what to do to gain control.
We were transferred from our holding shackles to a less-captivated holding system. I don’t know what it was, but we were with many others; lost and stupid. The light blinded me at first, it was more open and I could see clearer. I would have gotten myself into trouble… or maybe not. The sight was horrifying because it enabled me to witness it all. Master was unfair and he had no patience, like me. When a victim needed a break or was tired, he banged its head on the desk (or the paper) or threw it across the room. When the victim was not meeting the Master’s needs, he squeezed it harder and harder while banging its tip more. If a victim was useless to Master, he threw it away without a care. That same poor ******* that was next to me ended up in the trash after a day and a half because it couldn’t finish transcribing Master’s C’s or A’s. I would’ve transcribed his C’s and A’s; and his M, O, T, R, F, K, R’S too! I hope master sweats himself to death. I knew my time would come. I knew I would end up just like the rest of the poor and helpless. When my juice ran out, the five of us from the box would be back together- empty and cold.
I sometimes wished I was not smarter than Master. I didn’t have a mouth, but my narrow cap surely consisted of a larger brain, I’ll tell you that. I sure wished I could have taught him; him and those sweaty palms, a thing or two about our existence! He should have been grateful I was there and he should have given the respect he did not deserve to get. He probably didn’t know that he would’ve been using a chisel and a rock if it wasn’t for me! I sure as hell was saving Master a lot of time. If my uniqueness was not available, Master would have been wasting hours of his time to create one word. I wonder if the chisel used to say the same things I said during those horrible events of slavery and cruelty. Chisel probably never received punishment. It was probably buffed and puffed and sharpened and cared for. So why couldn’t I just get a re-fill?! But still, Master didn’t care. He wouldn’t have sharpened my tip if I were a chisel. He’d let me rot and throw me away because it was all in the same to him. Master wouldn’t have cared if I informed him about the chisel. I probably would’ve received more of a punishment if I was able to speak.
After my ink ran out, there I was within the bottom of the garbage basket. This was exactly what I expected. I couldn’t lie, I was kind of glad it was all over. I was so sick of Master’s crap by then. Those sweaty palms got the best of me and that impatient anger caused my juices to run fast. I was developing a realization about Master’s endeavor. He threw me away too early. Usually, our species would be thrown away when death occurred. I was lying in that trash very much alive when I began to glance at my previous struggle. Those papers devoured my appearance while they exposed every waking memory that my hard work had created. When the papers stopped falling, there was nothing else to think about. The memories began to fade away after every word I read. I couldn’t help but recognize the mistakes that Master forced me to make. At that instant, I only wanted to go back and edit the foolishness that was transcribed onto those papers. I wanted an opinion. I simply desired to have my voice heard; I wish I had one. As free as I was, I still couldn’t make that happen; even after I was hurled into the trash- as if I was some useless implement. This was like being under some Calvinistic rule. My fate had been an adversarial predetermination, no matter how much I followed the rules.
It was a sensible act to throw me out. Master appropriately responded when I was of no use for him. He should have thrown me out when he snatched me out of the box like a piece of paper towel entangled within the roll. I was useless from the beginning. I couldn’t stand up to myself and I couldn’t make a difference whatsoever. I collapsed within myself when the words on the paper began to fade as I scanned each line. The scriptures came to a halt; I realized I was as dead as any other useless implement that previously suffered within these very same haunting walls. There was nothing else I could do. I was banished to freedom. I achieved the freedom to originate nothing. So that’s what I did… nothing. I wished I could speak; at least I would’ve gotten something in before I became the excrement that master walked upon. I closed my eyes and patiently waited for death to overwhelm me as I listened to Master’s distant grunting in silence.

Five months long, you held it
in your fist, squeezed tight 'til
the edges etched fissures
in fingerprints
Now, I'm asking you to dare to be empty
let fingers curl
back like
tempted wings
desert safety-blanket 'what if' and 'one day'
open your hand
become weightless

without hope in him
there's nothing to grip
but your own palm
both ancient and new
you thought your hand was empty now
but you,
you you

I found a letter in an old coat pocket
I thought of you before my brain could stop it
It’s been a long time healing
But I felt the same old feeling
Living in an old forgotten pocket

I found a letter yellowed by the ages
Your fragrance there came wafting from the pages
That memory stirs a dream
Much too bitter to redeem
All we had belongs now to the ages

I found a letter in an old coat pocket
A thought of you was there--I couldn’t block it
In  my old winter coat
The chill was in your note
I squeezed it into trash but couldn’t drop it………..

you let them pound
on your walls of emotion
blocked them out
never letting them see
how much pain your eyes held
I wish I was as strong
as that barred up girl
dealing with everything
yet showing nothing
how can one person hold it all in?
I'd have died
crushed by my own toppling walls
as they squeezed my last breath of sorrow
out of my crumpled body
lying in a heap
waiting for warm arms
but recieving
nothing

The tape, as I unstick it from its place, rips off plates of paint from our crummy, moldy walls.

My heart wrinkles a little.

I fold the tape over the corners of my collage. Lay it down over my everest-sized pile of clothes-to-trade-for-souvenirs.

I sigh.

It is quiet.

A cockroach scurries out of a shirt sleeve. I flick him lovingly off the bed. The only one to keep my house company these days.

I start pulling out notebooks, so much. So many. Too many things I collect and funnel value into.

I must decide which to take and what to leave behind in the ******* bin.

Back at school, I chuck half the pile, almost violently, into the trash and stride away. Stay there then. Have it your way.

Only a few minutes before all of this, I bragged about being ready to go home, washing my hands of this ridiculous place.

But it only just occurred to me then that by leaving Africa, I will be facing a whole new life. Like a neo-Alice, falling further down the rabbit hole. I am being sieved, strained, pressed until the juices of energetic volunteerism is squeezed dry.

I have only heard rumors, of course, but I believe that what I will be facing will be maybe even more terrifying than it is here.

There’s no sense in trying to describe the present
it always runs like dye;
diffused and confused by constant currents
in the river of my mind.

Memory is the ferryman
who laughs beneath his breath
each time I seek him, begging
to take me there and back again.

He smiles like an old adviser
subject to a child king
and picks up his oars, still dripping
from the last time I came knocking.

He never ties his boat
I know why, but he won’t say.
he hopes one day I’ll turn the world
and let the dingy fall away

Like a tired tutor ready
to let his pupil fail
he swings a gaze that navy father
would save for son before setting sail

Do you find the silence clearer?
He pulls us from the pier.
Because I won’t bring back
every cricket to your ear?

Or does the laughter seem prevailing
when I don’t give you the chance
to collect in such detail
each abundant downward glance?

My finger starts to tap and
I anchor eyes on opposite shore
and clench a fist into the dye
that hurricanes about the oars

The bank beyond this river
is salt white washed and dry
and shows off only footprints
I dragged out from tides

Its only touched by water
where I choose to tread
and only on these paths
does the river dye it red

I slip into a grin
and Memory sees me smiling
he lets words fall again
with the clatter of iron filings

And how about the nights?
The inky drinks of smoke?
Don’t you see they make my job
No more than ******* joke?

The less that I can give you
the more you fabricate.
You sedate your days awaking
to make that other shore ornate.

Every day you come to find me
and we cross this boiling stream
to bring you back the torso
of some amputated dreams.

I can’t fill in their limbs
so you take them to your cell
and flesh out puppet wings
to play heaven with your hell.

You coward of a tyrant
I wish you would realize
the bliss that you remember
is just your best told lie.

Now he leans in close and stops his row
to watch my face unwrap
we drift a muted madman’s pace
till he curls his words into a trap

Before he even spoke
I feared the question mark
Why do you find the weight
So much lighter in the dark?


Sometime before we fell
from the river’s mouth to sea
I chewed a knot within my jaw
And squeezed between my teeth

a defeated growl of malice
*Just keep rowing

You told me once about your mother.
Not a lot, but she was a lover.
She would squeeze your hand three times
to spell out the words
and look down for your eyes to know
to squeeze back
as hard as you could.

Then, you took mine.
squeezed it real tight.
and we laughed.

Another night,
I watched the moonlit dance of my
apartment room reds
where another woman lie flat,
knees up and head.

She took my hand, too
to hold on, tight
and I thought of you
right before
She squeezed you to death.

When grandma laid me down to sleep
she prayed the Lord my soul to keep
and if I died before I woke
she prayed my soul the Lord would yoke

Post-psychedelic black door dreams
monsters climbing in the breeze
Running, falling, flying, stare
yet with the morning not a care
the wafting flow through morning light
Madame’s kitchen fueled the air

The children sang of fresh insight
With voices pure and futures bright:

We smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
We smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages


Slipping, sliding, sowing sin
Sipping cider in the sun
Seeking soaring savoir faire
Serenade non-sequitor

Life’s a joke at seventeen
Painful angst, gray misery
With one look the light pours in
Eyes to see, now born again

Fresh squeezed juice is just divine
Grapes and berries off the vine
over easy, over hard
Weeds have overgrown the yard

And all the brothers in their haze
with lifted voices sang their praise:

We smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages


Mother’s teeth and Mother’s paw
Mother’s cradle, Mother’s bough
Mark the day’s devotions done
in the back track He looks on

The Sun is setting in the East,
and though the Magi know the truth
The Book of Lies, lies in disguise
of jagged tooth with mangy hide

The night recedes, the morning calls
Memories of far gone days
Memories of yawning halls
Memories of random joy

Though the hand that feeds we bite
now sing we all, with all our might:

We smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages

Jane had climbed
the Downs with you

and had hardly spoken
on the tiring climb

along the dried up tracks
on the way up

and then at the top
standing beside you

she stared out across
the countryside

and said
you can see

where I live from here
and she pointed out

to the church down beneath
and you said

yes
and took in the church

and the house
where she lived

with the parson
and his wife

and tried to pick out
which bedroom was hers

and she said
I like it up here

away from the crowds
and nearer to God

and you studied her profile
and her hair

and the way she stood there
in that summer dress

and sandals
and with that youthfulness

and you wanted suddenly
to kiss her

and embrace her
but you didn’t

you just stood
and studied her profile

and moving closer
you reached out

your hand
and touched hers

and her hand was warm
and as you squeezed it gently

you sensed the pulse of life
run through

and the moment
seemed to explode

in your head
in a myriad

of colours and sounds
and you rubbed your thumb

along her wrist
checking the pulse

the life
wanting her

to be the one
and pointing upward

she said breaking through
your dream

look at the colour
of that sky

and feel the warmth
of sun.

I read a line of scribbled spit nickels
Down the front of your shirt
You pressed a sheet of purple glue
Upon your eyelids
So when you wake up
The sky glows merry
And the trees blow cherry blossom
Daggers in your mouth

The bees **** in your ears
The silence swims in centuries
Your pores are hidden caves
Through which the red sea tide escapes from
Down the river
It flows like spilling
A bucket of butter soaked
Fingers frying on telephone cables

Let’s be so close that we are hideous
I don’t blink enough
to miss the way your eyes looked like half squeezed limes
blond knuckled
teenagers loving their thighs
under the rusty playground slides

I tripped on broken windowpanes
To laugh until my lungs broke through
My temple of loose ***** xylophones
Crickets co-wrote my backyard requiem
My ears were sauce packets
Filled with broken glass microphones
Fast food pottery

Yogurt stains swing dance when I close my eyes
The chalk tastes like baby blankets
Horseradish carpenters bleed bitter pellet gun lubricants
I hung fifteen different shades of mustard yellow
So that I couldn’t hear your sandpaper cackle

Only your cousin’s frigid toaster
Can understand me

See this one here, look at the teeth on that
Would rip your mind to shreds if you ever let that inside your head
Yea! If you ever bought his *******
This one over here, this one's good, this one breathes fire
Look! Spits it out like a flamethrower
Would burn your whole world to a cinder just like that
(If you ever read his book)
One moment the sun is shining and you're smiling
The next... your whole world is in shadow and you're dying
All snuffed out... just like that
Depressed!!! Ha! Ha! You wouldn't be depressed
You'd be ******' suicidal, waking up every morning to face that... his words
Man! Your Life is over
Better get some bottles of whiskey and some drugs quick
You ain't going any further -
See this one here, ain't she cute but look again, look closer, ha! ha!  fooled ya
Just look at those gnashers, those gnashing teeth
And those claws, the nails on that
Once she gets a hold of you there ain't no getting back.

Yea! Just taking a stroll, a walk among my monsters
The monsters this world threw my way
This Zoo of horrors
(Some of the many rotten ideas that roam this earth).

                             II

O! They did terrible things to him
(But they would never do them again)
They had been harsh severe, mercilessly so
They had terrified and petrified him
Squeezed all the joy out of his life
He bore it all and the terrible weight of it so nearly crushed him,
And no one came to offer him any help.

But he didn't die...he nearly died... probably should have died... many times...
But somehow he found a way...a way to survive
And to come back... and now it was for him to dictate terms,
They were in trouble now and what's more they knew it
And one by one they began to sneak, to run away
All those who had ever offended him, caused him even the slightest degree of anxiety
The slightest hint of uneasiness or worry were now going to pay for it,
They'd had their fun, their time in the sun
And now they would answer for it
One by one he sought them out, one by one he tracked them down
They didn't scare him anymore, he caught them and put them all into little cages just for his amusement
So he could look at them sometimes... look at them and remember
Remember what they'd put him through.

                             III

O! Listen! Listen!!! Hear them howl, hear them roar... what lovely outrage
"The Children of the Night
O what sweet music they make...eh! Ha! Ha!"
See them grind their teeth against the bars
See them snarl and spit
With their beautiful red eyes of hate
You don't laugh anymore do you Big Fella
And you ain't so Big anymore
It's only me who does all the laughing now
Ain't that right !!!

(And the days and years they go by
But still, it's a beautiful looking sky
You'd hardly think anything bad went on underneath it).

And I look at you and am baffled
Was your experience...was it not the same as mine,
You say you'd like to know me, connect with me
You reach out and want to take my hand,
But how...how could you ever know me
The things I've seen, the places I've been
Live through this like I had to do...
(But isn't it the same for you also maybe).

Hey!!! Ha! Ha! You wanna meet some of my friends!

I. Solitary Men
GOD: "I am."
MOSES: "Me too."
SOCRATES: "So what?"
ALEXANDER: "What's next?"
CAESAR: "Why not?"
JESUS: "Watch this!"
MUHAMMAD: "Watch this, or else."
SHAKESPEARE: "Dream."
NAPOLEON: "Out of my way."
WASHINGTON: "On my signal and forward."
LINCOLN: "On my example."
******: "Love is cowardice."
FDR: "Justice finds a way."
GHANDI: "This is how."
KENNEDY: "Turn the page."
KING: "Wake up and believe …


                                                 II. The Lost
I saw the best minds of my generation caged by the fears of their parents, organized for meaninglessness, and watching too much ****.
I saw you all around me kneeling to the angry God of television, and I knelt down with you.  
I saw the flames of our shared future burning down The Church, we held hands and danced around it, spun the bottle, and finally told the truth.
I saw myself lost and lonely among you, excusing myself for a cigarette.
I saw the aisles of the shopping center as the gateways to our dreams.
I saw twelve airplanes on the horizon, the disciples of a new race.
I saw the boys and girls of my generation staring at screens learning always learning that the world isn’t real.
I saw the sun rise like ribbons to burn The Poet. Sad, she laid her eyes upon the rocks, let the river flow and finally felt the wet climbing up from her knees.
I saw you Little Girl, the night you found me, and took me out into the trees.

I heard you say, “Brave Boy, this is a good day but we'll find better days than these.”
I heard a Man sing about a thousand tongues broken, a newborn baby with wild wolves around it, and a mystery *****. He asked me "how does it feel?"
  
I heard The Nun shouting the slogans we are afraid to write on signs.
I heard Caesar shouting from the other side of the Rubicon.  I was late and he wasn’t pleased.
I heard the sound of Your Daughter ******* to the rumble of the unswept highway, the trucks the men the steel on steel, the knife, the lime, the tequila, and two sweat wet pillows.
I heard The Preacher in a lab coat and a **** star that was preaching the income gap.  Both conversations were boring.
I heard The Radio play Mozart to the smell of burning wood.
I heard The Night fall down.

I met the Devil by The Lake and I laughed my *** off as he pontificated on his role in History. We tied the rope swing on a rotten limb and swung out high above the clear blue water, let go,  and fell in deep.
I met The Martyr that is trying to **** me.  He was such a sweet old man, so wise, so kind, his hand trembled involuntarily as he squeezed off a round.
I met The Politician that represents the deepest recesses of my conscience, and he ****** me just how I like it, but just a little different every time.
I met The Warrior at sunrise, chose a weapon, and died fighting for land that would never be mine.
I met The Lover on her barstool, laughed at her jokes, typed in her number, and strolled home smiling at the strangeness of her mind.
I met The Leader under his podium where he was hiding watching shoes.  He assured me everything i could see from there was part of a larger plan.
I met The Follower on an airplane.  We shared are snacks and watched the window, and discussed the name’s of strangers we wanted to be.
I charmed a Dancing Princess, laid her out like Ophelia in the river, bought her Mom a fancy car.
I scared The Fish out of the pond with a Mardi Gras mask and a six pack of beer.  They walked out of the water and hitch hiked to the nearest theater.
I lied to The Farmer when I told him I smelled rain.
I told the truth to The Doctor.  He just shook his head and made me wait.
I interviewed The Emperor on his way home from the office.  He squinted at me through the smoke and asked what I knew about moral philosophy.
I answered The Judge’s questions.  He asked about the birds above and the blood dripping from my eye, he asked what the final equation was, and whether I wanted to die.  I remained silent.
I forgot that Life is fragile, but wasn’t made to pay the price.
I learned that sooner or later God will **** us all, but I touched **** and *** with soul.

I stole privilege from the Gods of Mercy.
I gave The Girl a flower I picked along the way.
I burned the statue, but I saved the books.
I built a slick Death Temple for the ghosts of hermits and Marines.
I danced knowing I would never remember.

I lay down determined to forget it all, and rise the next day baptized sparkling clean, a child of forgotten violence, a leader of forgotten men.
I bought the last secret, and I bought the last machine too.
I sold the secret to the enemy so I could buy their loyalty.
I saved the Old Man from himself, all his frightening well learned ways, and I carried him up the mountain, and left him warming by the fire.
I killed The Child just because she was barking at the moon.
I was an animal lost on a race track.
I was like a little boy lost, like my world could not be yours.

I saw blood smeared on the mirror of the penthouse bathroom and I heard a child scream, the help won't be here until Tuesday, we need the number for Mr. Clean.
I saw a college girl hitch hiking up I95, she was sad about her boyfriend, but she walked and walked and found another world.
I fell in love with a *****, and she fell in love with me back, and we held hands by the River and laughed about the Sorcerer who snored in his sleep.
I ran from the apartment, found a bar with a backyard, and disappeared into the New York City night, got lost in the subway and emerged street side less whole, more lonely, more aware, less alone.
I bargained with The Queen Of Hearts, but she would not bargain back. She just took my belt and shoelaces and assigned me a number.
I sweat through my dreams so I hung my shirt to dry above the Boardwalk in the morning, as shade for passers by.  I sat down to watch them walk, feel the sadness in their eyes.
I felt the breeze bang up against my brain like ice cream on the sand.  I groaned, vomited, put on my sunglasses, and took a stutter step no one could see.

I saw a wedding dress on the Internet balanced on a beam.  The hemline was appropriate.
I saw your husband on Facebook.  I didn’t like what I saw.
I asked Darwin to guess what exactly is in my pants.  He said he had never studied human beings.
I asked Darcy what was in her glass, she said she didn’t know but I could taste.
I asked Georgie if it was such a great idea to drop acid before he played football, he grinned and shook my hand.
I told Bobby his sneaker was untied, but he said the getaway went well.
I told Jerry I’d like to soothe his soul, but he said he does all the soothing now.
I told Mickey I was on my way, tumbling like a dry cycle that rips the chord, humming like a drunken hummingbird.
I took the shortcut all the way downtown to the black end of the street, strutted shyly to the corner of the bar, ordered expensive whiskey with three cubes of ice, sipped it slyly, pulled my piece, and shot that dumb ******* in the face.
There is no Love in an empty room, just like there is no God in space.
There is only your senses, what you hide beneath, your luck, and the path you make.
Death and Salvation have always been the same, do the math and take a drink. Whoever is coming is angry, and She is coming sooner than we think.
I hid in my car in a parking lot on a rainy afternoon, closed my eyes and thought of her, the way she thought, and moved, and laughed.
I lit a cigarette and laughed to myself, “things can’t really be this bad.”

The Sun, The Moon, The Stars, The Snake seem to be part of the same thing.
But The River answers with a song about the tricks of destiny.
Dear God, I will never bow to thee until you get on your knees for me.
My hands are rough my feet are tired my Soul is full of hatred for The Sun.
When You turn around and see nothing there you will know that I am done.

                                       III. The Saint In The City
Hello America,
I think I'll try to burn the candle down.
I know you know my story
We share our secret shames and glories,
I am the Saint In The City.
I am a river of tears.
I am the questions of a clown.

Save my seat sweet thing,
You know I shall return.
The first cut is the deepest,
The second night is the sweetest,
But the third time you see my face,
I'll try to love again ...

Police told me,
They're looking out for my best interest,
Just what might I remember?
What can I reassemble?
Why can't you fix your broken mind with your broken mind?
Please answer true or false.

I put the gloves on,
Drove up through the North Country hills,
Took a left on I90 west towards The Plains,
Crossed the Mississippi before I could explain,
Why I was running away, or how intend to pay,
I got one last joke left, it better ****.

Hamlet laughed hysterically
At the prisoners working in the fields.
He said, “The weight the sword wields,
Weighs the same before the flesh yields.
Like the stars that burn bright in your coldest nights.
They were dead 'for thine eyes were a babes."

I stepped outside the bar,
And met a lady, made a deal on her Mercedes,
The brakes were ruined, but the tires were new.
If they force you to live like an outlaw,
You better make them pay for it.
You better keep it like a secret,
Now that its you verse the machines.

But I'll tell you what I know young ladies,
I'll walk you past the dark end of the road,
We'll be bouncing like bunnies rejoicing for air,
Working for a living, living on prayers.

I couldn't answer what the old man asked,
I guess that was his point.
He asked for water from the nursing home sink,

I went out for air air after I passed him the joint ...

Which is better

To feel nothing
But a halcyon calm
Like a fine summer morning,
Or to be ****** to and fro
By the ice, spray, and lightning
Of the tempest?

To stroll the meadow,
Or to climb the mountain?

I've gone through both
Yet the answer still eludes me
I remain as ignorant as I was
In the days of my youth

But what I do know
Is how my chest tightened
How my breath caught
When you sent me a message
(Your very first)
And how my lips impulsively purse
As I peek at yours
And at the speck of a mole
Resting right below

What I do know
Is how I couldn't keep my eyes
From straying towards your corner
(Still can't)
And how my hand trembled
Just as I squeezed your shoulder
Bidding you farewell

Or how I've worn out my iPod
Replaying Jay Chou's ballads
As I sang my heart out to my steering wheel
Numbly crawling through
The maddening, seething traffic

And how the breeze eats my cigarette
Down to its filter
As I stare up
Dumbfounded
Mapping out
Tracing your face among the stars

How my neurotransmitters **** me
Closer and closer to a heart attack
And how my soul weeps and bemoans
The yawning chasm betwixt us
While you sit there infuriatingly oblivious
Chattering away about Warcraft and barley tea

All these things are
The few of what I do know
The last of which
Is how I'll never have you.

Worry about the unknown,
  I do, I do.
Sick with thought,
  I am, I am.

My heart races and I can't escape.
My worried thoughts have taken hold.
My heart is squeezed, suffocated.

A gentle hand
  touches my mind.
My heart unravels,
  until next time.

Prime Architect,  the absurdity of your art
fills me up like a riddle, bends the bars of
reason I'm forged within. A Byzantine
world - every fold and layer gyro'd in
astronomical administration, the scheming
of cogs clicking perfectly into place:
vast machinations leaving me windless,
birdsong squeezed entirely from bellows. Up
a lonesome trail; steep and narrow,
knowing faith is a sword too heavy to hold.

HAVE FAITH, they told me; prodded me
to constancy as a mother in S. Carolina backed
her station wagon into a lake with locked
doors and two sons inside. Evil has no horns
after all - it's a lozenge the flavor of a kiss,
there but not there, some puff of violet smoke
unraveling from a dancing brass censer.
The lance of Longinus pierces fleece;
the snake encircling the world swallows
its tail once more.

Jesus, be gentle. Come into me,
pop my doubt like an oozing fruit,
harness me to the light so I might saddle
and swing to the sound of your breath as it
sighs amongst the reeds. Test the
limits of my body as I have chewed and
swallowed yours. Communion makes
a cathedral of me, etches shadow
amongst the stars of the vaulted clerestory
as the nave shimmers with the swords
of flaming prayer.

HAVE FAITH, they told me, massage the
qualms from your dark marbles. Drop coins
down the wishing hole, let the godhead flow
through, like ink, to the parchment of you.
Alexandria burns again in the distance,
books yet unwritten exploding within us all
like the floral horror of a supernova.
Arcana lost, arcana found. Meanwhile, reason
and faith explode through the doors of the
friary, grappling like shadows draped upon
the thirsty Earth.

Iscariot, lay me in your bed of thorns and
mandrake, foxglove and myrrh; call me love,
drink blood from me as the moon sets over
Gethsemane. Let the light darken for a bag of
silver, let the bush burn down like a candle
smoldering cold. I've traced upon my bedsheets
maps of the world in its unmaking, lined shelves
with complete skeletons of extinct animals,
their hopelessness; the guts of this 7-day
world, veined with ribbons of gold, starred
by rubies and amethysts of the
deep-down. All of this, man's
betrayal of man.

HAVE FAITH, I tell myself; within the *****
of this bouncy ball clockworked amongst
the spheres, there's a place: vault
of the Animus, where God melts
away in your mouth, where Lady Macbeth
is still wringing her hands beneath
the font and the horses feast upon the
Eucharist of each other's bodies
like they were Easter hams, like their
blood were sweet wine. Where Abraham's
blade still shadows Isaac's binding;
where death has no power over us.

With that they Smile, knowing your House received
For Delight their Squeezed Empowerments sate
Of her, Lovely Creator, stark achieved
Your Best Full Notice check her long-time fate
That, bending those Hands, took such to Review
How those Bees start to Circle and Excite
Sting the Busy Board; And the Glass-Eye eschew
At least for brief Appreciation's bite
That alone, I wear my own Matured Grin
Knowing you can hang such Gift on your Wall
Pickle the Sight; And avoid further Sin
Which add their Hearts to your Values install.
Of course, that's up to you. Your own Mind demand
Behind your Doors the Good you understand.

I woke up too early, when outside the sky a pearl hue and the curtains ghostly white, a dreamy mist hung over my covers, I did not want to be enslaved by the unforgiving hour of first light, but my eyes had peeked anyways, and I felt this deep burning desire to run before it consumed me.

2. It consumed me. My meager thoughts begged to perform, we couldn’t stop seeing beasts in the hunt, the moon curled up in the corner of the page, this tight feeling in my neck, my *** squeezed tight, and my stomach gurgles. I’m hungry and there’s no food and there’s no money. There’s leftover wood and paint.

3. Too ignore my hunger, I knelt down by my bed, at night where I imagine a pornstar playing with herself, so I could not fear the animal, or the ravenous beast. And I started to finish painting on the wood.

4. It’s been so long, I’m so afraid, please God, let me realize how beautiful I am and not destroy myself.

5.  I can’t imagine eating anything, there’s nothing I’d like except maybe chocolate ice cream and strawberry wafers. Only desserts could ease my protestation, while I’m still young, 23 spoonfuls of sugar for the seducing rush, and how could any one fathom submitting to its unbridled passion and understand why roses sob in pairs at the sight of plucking a rose petal by petal for vain love.

6. I paint this picture without knowing what it means, if it does mean something, could it be something, I paint this picture from my skinny life form to avoid slumber and exile hunger. I am nothing but a waitress in a swamp city.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

         S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats         5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….         10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,         15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,         20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;         25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to ****** and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;         30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go         35
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—         40
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare         45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—         55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the ****-ends of my days and ways?         60
  And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress         65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?
.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets         70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!         75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?         80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,         85
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,         90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—         95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
  That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,         100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:         105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  “That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all.”
.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
        110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,         115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …         120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.         125

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown         130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

at eight
i stood at open closed caskets and planted plastic flowers
upon silent graves;
in the backseat on the way to my grandfather's wake
mom and dad played a song about angels over the stereo. they
had to turn it off when i burst into tears.
i did not understand the twenty one gun salute
but i left a piece of myself in the folding of the flag,
left it with forty nine stars in the wrinkled hands of the widow.
vulnerable, kissing the loss of the dewy cemetery, the fresh dirt and

at thirteen
she was stolen at the hands of another,
just after her forty-second trip around the sun;
i cradled my always strong father as he cursed god on the kitchen floor.
the night my sister cried into my shoulder i read ten different articles,
each one with a headline reading "manslaughter", while
the soles of my feet knew it meant "******".
the pool of blood flashed to my vision and
i've spent seven years trying to bleach the stain out
from behind my eyelids -
lighting a memorial candle at my future wedding, graduation, childbirth
my mother did not deserve generic music at her remembrance.

at sixteen
i squeezed into a pew as
the church sanctuary was too small for her service.
widely loved and widely known, she
had been sick for fourteen years with no rest; fought
collapsed lungs and bared organs and
her eyes were as soft as the words she would leave you with.
her breath marooned the thirteenth of february and
on valentine's day, my best friend received a rose at her doorstep
with a note that read, "i love you more than chocolate.
love, mom".

at nineteen
we did not have class for one week. his daughter was five years old
and he was two semesters away from
getting his bachelor's degree in a helping profession;
he sat two rows ahead of me, one seat over
next to a boy named aaron and an empty chair.
the pastor spoke of a freedom from pain,
joy joy, hallelujah, a man who loved god;
they did not disclose the cause of death the morning the dean
entered our classroom,
spoke three words and
the silence fell -
sometimes, sometimes, we will never know why.

I’m definitely Matrixed in,
feel like every girlfriend is a program,
feel like every experience is a dream,
feel like I don’t feel anything at all now,

maybe I’m a machine,
maybe I’m not a human being,
maybe I’m more cyborg than Sapien,
maybe I’m more electron than neuron,

and maybe none of this matters,

maybe we’re cogs in the vehicle,
maybe we’re abnormal cyborgs,
more flamboyant than incog,
more insignificant and important,

and maybe I’m special,
and maybe I do stand out more than most,
but at the end of the day I don’t think it matters,
because when it’s all said and done everything is just dust,

no justice,
it’s justice,
feeling a bit awkward and bazaar,
suspecting that they spiked the fruit punch,

and I don’t know for sure that none of this is real,
but I do have a pretty strong hunch,

want fresh squeezed not pre-made,
want a spontaneous feeling not an automated response,
want to stay here with you for as long as I can,
but I think that might be impossible because I’m probably already gone,

so please say something real or say nothing at all,
constantly trying to find ways to reaffirm our existence,
that’s why I still go out socialize and initiate relationships,
even though every time I do it all feels sterile cliche and pre-rehearsed,  

but maybe that’s because we’re living in a Matrix,

I’m definitely Matrixed in,
feel like every girlfriend is a program,
feel like every experience is a dream,
feel like I don’t feel anything at all now…

∆ LaLux ∆

I just ache
to be touched by you
still swimming in heat
moist and quivering silently
beneath soft black cotton
but in those
fear-mongering moments

I can't move.

Like a statue made of marble
I ache to touch you but I end up
sitting there cold and lifeless
next to you on the bed
thinking of a million ways
in which to stroke you gently
but all we can muster together
is a few brushes of the hand
a head resting on a shoulder
a full-bodied tight squeezed hug
an awkward cheek kiss and

it's excruciatingly painful.

So much tension that builds
and builds and builds and builds
never getting anywhere.

I can feel it penting up in you too
through engorged pupils
shaking knocking knees
fidgeting hands
looks that aren't deadpan
but open and raw and swelling.

There are rises and dips
moments of eclipse
where you and I find comfort
in each other's arms
whether they be wrapped or resting
whether they be hovering just hovering

almost touching

we were almost touching.

Seeing your smile in the doorway
as I left

lanky frame in depth

an ache I cannot
escape

warming the cockles of this here mongrel heart

vast into infinity.

What a funny little cuddle jamboree!

The way I memorialize
a woman's heart
against my own,
is by pointing
to the scars she has left
on my heart
in my moments of solitude.

Like the wounds
on sharks during
mating,
I hold close
those moments
when I sank my teeth in
and when she sank
into me.

So
when
they
ask
me:

"Would you have done
anything differently,
now that you see how it
turned out?"

And I say:
"No."

I cherished those moments
when your placed your mouth
on my heart
and squeezed with
perfect teeth.

Down by the fenced cottage
where the hens roam
Red eyed foxes chanced
But Mother is dead
Alzheimer's to the last day
The life squeezed from her,
her yellowing eyes
a parchment for the deciphering.

my fingers, the same fingers
that played the guitar  
I mean look at your fingers,
the same fingers you licked
after getting the sticky pale red juice
from a cherry popsicle on them  
my fingers were dug into the tall grass
my mouth, the same mouth I kissed Amelia with,
the same mouth I ate hamburgers with,  
was pressed against the ground so tight
mud was getting stuck in my teeth
and my ears, the same ears
that heard my first sounds
were filled with colored noise, with black noise
with screaming from people I thought I knew
and those mortar and AK 47 rounds that came as fast as hail stones
and then those same ears started ringing,
but ringing is not the right ******* word
because it doesn’t sound like school bells
or phones you are eager to answer
and I can’t describe what is sounds like
and anybody who does wasn’t really there
but it is easy to say 45 years later it was
like something you knew, but you didn’t know
whatever it is you knew, and contradictions
are imperatives and declaratives, not interrogatives  
like the people of “the world” think they are  
and people of the world are filled with interrogatives
and you are filled with answers
that won’t come to your tongue
because you are still spitting out the ****
from the rice paddies and the lies you needed  
to keep you from sticking the barrel
in your own mouth, but they, those who weren’t there  
wanted to believe even more than you  
so they could still look at you without thinking
the blood on your hands, the blood coming from your lost limbs
the blood oozing into the mire in some script
the dead donor did not know--all that blood
could not be spilled in vain, though you knew it meant little
when you rinsed it from you boots,
or even when splattered in your face  
the same face that smiled for the little gray square
in the year book eighteen months before      
or maybe a million years ago
in the land of affluent aphorisms
and fingers on bra straps
rather than the rock and roll auto switch of your M-16
the fingers, the same fingers
that squeezed the trigger  
and killed something inside you
while the rounds sliced the exploding stinking air  
you were happy to silently breathe

it's a worthwhile youth, really
wired together by realism and surreal
inquiries preceding the longest jumps
and happiest falls

delirium comes naturally, set into the
whispering trees soon to be enhanced with
visual technologies from your sunken
hungry couch, laden with hopes and aspirations
killed as often as lifted boulders

free the tiger, free the only place
for monstrosity, electric lights, emotion
squeezed like toothpaste from heavy
lips


is there no answer
                                         for

tonight as a night of submerged intellect
tonight as a night of dimly persistent dreams
as a night of dry baths, of words gone stale in the
face of the listener

you who are vibrant, come
shine a little closer