Submissiveness:
       give into man. silence yourself. his word is final. rush to his beck and call when he is angered. we are wrong. man is dominant, and woman is soft. if man is the bone, we are the gushy cartilage cushioning his fall. body dominated and composed of bone, but we are the organs that keep the body functioning. forever being transplanted, while our men are broken. submit.

Purity:
       save yourself for man. wait for him with all your white so you are not tainted. innocence upheld. it is all for him, only him. wait for him to take it all, whenever he desires. be pure.

Domesticity:
        the home calls our name. it is our calling. our knees bound to scrubbing, hands tied to kneading because our family needs us. we are to be the slaves of our homes just as we were to the white man. permanency of pressing collars that are not our own. domestic labor.

Piety:
        we come from the rib of adam. without the presence of man we, ourselves would not exist. for this reason, we worship. we worship to reiterate our purity, to maintain our sanity when others challenge our virtues of womanhood. the lord is our shepherd. we uphold our lord. besides our husbands, he is all that we shall want.

womanhood.

“I’m not sure if night is ending or day is beginning.  What time is it?” She asked as she opened the door.

“Its about 2:30” I answered.

She was pacing about slightly bobbing her head as she spoke.

“We're sorry to disturb you beloved.  We're conducting a homeless census. May we ask you some questions?”

“I don’t want to be put away”  she said.  “I have to be outside.”

“We’re not here to hurt you.  We’re here to help.”

"Where do you come from?" Ally asked.

She didn't remember where she was from and was uncertain why it mattered.

She knew she wanted to leave Paterson but was unsure about where she wanted to go.

She kept her eye on the McDonald’s across Market Street.  

"As long as the light is on, I know its still nighttime and I'll have a place to go if the cops kick me out of here."

Here, was this evenings lodging in an ATM vestibule.  

"I can also get something to eat when I'm hungry."

"What time is it?"

"Its about 2:30."    

She earnestly wants to know what time it is.  

"I don't want the people going to work in the morning seeing me sleeping here." she said, "It's embarrassing."

Her papers were scattered on the floor.

She had one shoe on and one shoe off.  A white sock gloved an indeterminate number of other sock layers warming her shoe-less left foot, sufficient protection from the balmy mist of this late January evening.   The orphaned shoe lay on its side in the corner of the Wells Fargo foyer.

White, black and yellow plastic grocery bags filled with the content of her worldly possessions lay atop the shelf housing bank deposit slips neatly stacked in cubbyholes.

A woolen hat circled her head.  Her tiny face shone through the gray skull cap tightly tied under her soft chin.

She looked to be in her 50’s.  She spoke in a pale uneven tempo with a quiet anxious voice.  Her eyes were clear.  Her pursed mouth bracketed by a trinity of long chocolate crescent winkles. The sounds floating from her mouth were gently angelic and the kindness of a tender smile was filled with demure submissiveness.

She swaddled herself in multiple layers of coats and trousers bulking up a waif like frame.  Her outermost cloak, a gray trench coat was secured with a tightly wrapped knotted cloth belt.  The coat was thoroughly soiled by a life of sleeping rough in the urban outback.  The fabric boasted a consistency worthy of an Abercrombie and Fitch oil finished coat.  The bulky layers rounded the frame of her shoulders.  She resembled a small granite headstone.

"Whats your name?" I asked.  She was reluctant to tell us.  “I don’t like my name”.

We gently coaxed her.

“Carmen” she whispered.

“That's a beautiful name.  Its the name of the most beautiful operas ever written.”

“I know.  I’m gonna change my name someday.” she answered.  “I never liked it.”

Ally finished taking the survey, leaving more questions unresolved than answered.  

We gave Carmen a blanket, gloves, a hat.  Some hot cocoa, two sandwiches and a chocolate bar. We implored her to visit our pantry when it opened in the morning for cloths, referrals and food.  She was very grateful; but I don’t think she’ll ever make her way there.

I gave her my phone number; but I don’t think she’ll call.

“You are not forgotten beloved.  You are deeply loved.  Please remember that.” I said cupping her calloused hands within my palms.

“I know” the dainty caged bird cooed with a submissive smile.  

“What time is it?”

As we left Carmen, I wondered how to count a person wishing to remain invisible.

Music Selection: Bizet’s Carmen, Habanera

Maya Angelou: I Know Why a Caged Bird Sings

Paterson
1/30/13
jbm

I woke up thinking about this.

         A Thought About Loyalty

I’ve been thinking about loyalty:
A many-sided world of nuances,
The subtle differences.
We all know it means faithfulness,
A sticking-to devotedly.
Unfurled it shows its nasty sides,
The negatives that worry me:
Allegiance and adherence -
-Ism’s steel prepared to go to war
Against all criticizers,
-Isms’ others
Carving up the brotherhood
Of man.
Not for nothing
That a missile system drawn
To sense and intercept an enemy:
Is named the Patriot:
A system to annihilate.

I worry ‘bout obedience,
Compliance and submissiveness.
I like reliability, dependability,
Dedication if it’s not perverted
Duty, if it leads to thought,
A moral sense,
An ethic that agrees with life;
Loyalty without the strife.
Loyalty to think about.

A Thought About Loyalty 9.10.2017
Nature In & Of Reality; Out Times, Out Culture II;
Arlene Corwin

An occasional gust of wind will lift the translucent white voile curtains and then drop them like a child losing interest. The effect is like flash photography, a burst of sudden sunlight that paints our irises, then quickly fades.

It’s a cool Paris morning. In the low 50s. The windows are open and we forgot to turn on the heat. It’s perfect ‘under the covers’ weather. We’ve succumbed to laziness, refusing to get out of bed. Lazing-in is new enough to us that we’re defining it with a gamut of synonyms.

“Listlessness, torpor,” Peter says, his index finger tracking the slow twirl of the ceiling fan.  
“Stupor, slumberous, supineness, ” I updog.
“Ooh! total submissiveness,” Peter said, drawing the last word out like it’s *****.
“Every man’s dream,” I confirm.
“Inertia,” he says, triumphant in finding an engineering word.
“Good one,” I compliment. “Lifeless, loafing laggard,” I add.

There’s a knock at the door.
We look at each other guiltily, like we’ve been caught.
“We ordered breakfast last night,” Peter remembers.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, “you get it,” I suggested.
“Why me?” he whined.
“Because you can wear less and because what if it’s an ax murderer?”
“These people work for your grandmother, she employs ax murderers?”
“It could be a revolution - this is France - it happens.”

There’s another knock.
“Get it!,” I bleated, like a helpless goat.
“Am I expendable?” he asked, as a man might plead to a lynch mob.
“Women and children first,” I remind him.

There’s a third knock.
“Ok,” he says resignedly, as he rises, draws on shorts and heads for the door.
“You’re my hero,” I assure him, before I pull the sheet up over my head in case it IS an ax murderer.

Leave me out in the dark
I'm not your playground of destruction
that you run to during your recess.

chiseling the grass,
sharp as sickles.
thrashing your leather whip
on the dusty ground
with an unerasable frown.

Strangling it around
the rusty bridles
of my broken swingset,
ripping it out from root down
at the twitch of your wrist.
Straddling my worn out see-saw
imbalanced by the wreckage of time
prance around until it
shatters into a million steel slivers,
While your hair brushes the clouds
while you have the first taste of rain
and feel the chill of snowflakes against your skin.

But this playground,
this zealous monument,
was built for
a higher purpose.
It's a place where
streams overflow,
wildflowers grow,
solace to the fireflies afterglow
& poetry readings during
seasons of snow.

If it does not stand for it's purpose,
my trembling hands will flick
a matchstick on the the wick of the trial
to arsonate it's submissiveness
and eat it's dispossessed soul.
It's flames will touch the
cradle of the crescent moon.
And from the ashes

I will rise,
*the Undying Light,
the Untouchable Night.

Your promises of forever and love
Were not permanent with devotion entwined.
They were empty and fractured.
A freezing reality of my deep seeded submissiveness (a poison).
Believing you was the vicious rumbling of my foundations.
Ferocious rattling amidst the tornado winds tore me to pieces.
A silver lining, though, reveals itself through everything.
Sometimes directly after the fact,
But mine shone through years and months later.

I’m better for it.

Maybe because at the time I wasn’t succeeding at treading flood water.
Maybe my lungs were too full of thick, black water that you polluted and brewed within me.

Either way, the gruelling wait.
The heart breaking, tormenting, torturing wait was so worth it.

I am better for it.

At each second I feel your toxins seep from my veins, my bones, my skin and slowly sink back into the ground.
And the space is replaced with a magnitude of better things.
Freedom… love… myself…

I live in the bottom of a tea-cup,
the basin of an English town
that is no more remarkable than any other English town.
It has little flair,
too much submissiveness,
many characters but no character.
It is a stencilled town convinced that it is something more
than margins.

Front gardens are filled with bits and pieces
of broken things
that are perpetually leaving.
Cardboard boxes,
disconnected fridges,
unfinished patios,
wellingtons that have paused to collect the clouds.
The crocuses have frostbite
and the lawns are fraying at the edges
like muddy carpet.
As you follow the road the houses get bigger
and their front doors get shabbier.
Paint peels like sunburnt skin
and the road stains yellow.

The old and the new mix obscenely;
two girls, tied at the elbow,
crack their feet on the sound
of their sisters’ high heels slapping paving stones.
Most people have got extensions
that have left their house in two pieces,
the bricks never seeming to meet.
Gingham table cloths hang out to dry,
a red double-decker teeters on a corner,
biked teenagers slip through the net of the Friday sky.

It’s a green-ish evening
and the clouds are strung like DNA blots
around the blurring sun.
The light’s not strong enough to dry your bones but,
when you look at it,
it seems to have exceeded any outline.
A slab of sky is golden.

The allotment is rows upon rows upon rows of bamboo canes,
browned like apple cores.
Chicken wire and faded Wendy houses
slouch upon their soil trenches.
It is a patchwork of mediocrity;
the beige and the brown and the grey
overtake the green.
Tin cans stud the place
like piercings on the body of an ex-punk;
only dead things grow
and the colours have been switched to mute.

There’s a market on Saturdays
where strawberries will cost you the moon
and where egg boxes are recycled
until they drip in the rain.
My grandparents remember my town in its embyonic stages,
my parents remember when it still was framed with local business,
I remember it when Shakeaway was a fruit and vegetable store
that sold palenta on Wednesdays.
My town is locked in a cycle of self-improvement
that it never seems to benefit from.
It is infitely greyed
and nothing more or less than ordinary.
Boys with blackheads pretend that they understand parkour
and the haberdashery closes down.
Each month, the window displays alter to no avail
and the dust sinks a little closer
to the pages we’re constantly trying to turn.

I live in the bottom of a tea-cup
and I never stop trying to read insubstantial fortunes
from the dregs I’ve left behind.

oscillating back and forth
head tilting from leeward and windward
an abstract puzzling my imperial gaze
a Van Gogh in waiting

      perchance a reflection illuminated
      in broad mesmerizing strokes
      some tantalizing insightfulness
      else a superficial escapade

do the color menageries
stray my mindfulness or hold attention
each vivid hue enlightenment
to soothe & provide enrichment

    is my inspiration desperation
    to find meaning in the simpleton
    gravitating and debating
    between beauty and gargoyles

does incredulous creativity scare me
or woo me into submissiveness
the artist plying servitude
into mine cavernous cavities

     Alan Scales’ exhibit of
     Turquoise Abstract Landscape II
     provides fodder for my mind
     to exponentially explode

Andreas Simic©

I really don’t want to fall
Towards the asphalt and all
That possibly I may understand
And nevertheless not hold a hand
The meanings regardless
The tone of it alone is senseless
Here we taste our bitterness
In thought of submissiveness
Retracting from this internal argument
I let my hold, lead to recovered moments
To see anew in spirits passing by
Allowing no judgments given by eye
Then it recovers from reason
That the insolence of my attention
Was skewed by heart of this lesson
That once we love, we ponder of that only one
No matter the moral to our background
There are always breaks to get around
To make amends to sincere intentions
For where the day ends we continue on
Walking alongside following the tension
Of our will and moral detention
The irony that we all befall
Is she causes it all
Grief when I hear from you,
Stress when you need me.
So it would be natural to think
You’re the downfall of me.
But yet you tell me and show me always otherwise.
You just don't know that I take you
For who you are, when you’re with me
Because you are yourself

Notice that the male specie is a dictator group.
If it does pleased them.
Or ruled completely by them.
Then its wrong.

Even in faith worshipping.
Notices the roles of the females.
They surrounded by words of submissiveness.
Dictated to follow and not lead.

And if they do,
Then we strong men acts afraid.
That our image of a man will fade.

Our sexuality is dictated by society rules.
And when someone gets abused.
Then we act completely confused.

Women's are the strength of the world.
Remove them and watch the men complain.
While only a few would the other way.

You must be you to feel complete.
And while doing that you will expose the weak.

Those males that feel the need to control.
But comes across struggling to be more than they seem.

Sometimes, you stands up to the bullies in society.
Because they hides in the shadows of fear.
Trying to be stronger than anyone.
Except weak when it comes to love.

God said: There shall be light,
Immediately light shone across His creation.

I was made to enter the world of darkness,
The world hath become the den of sins,
And every man born of God hath fallen into Adam’s pit.

The Saviour took the form of submissiveness:
The Light pierced the darkness and showed the Way.
And darkness trembled at the advent of the Light.

I was at the heels of worldliness and tradition.
But on a day a voice stirred my soul to act,
The Light chased me to the door of Eternity.
I could not escape from the Light,
For HE hath HIS Plan to withdraw me from darkness.
I opened the eyes of my soul and saw the Light close to me.
Darkness began to shed its attires and Light hath clothed me with Its glory.

Darkness ceases not to threaten me with its curses of pleasure;
Yet there shines the Light ever to guard my soul from the eternal darkness.
What can darkness do unto me if Light is beside my soul
Which rests in the Loving arms of the Word of God,
WHO is the LIGHT of salvation into Eternity?

God said: There shall be light,
Immediately light shone across His creation.

I was made to enter the world of darkness,
The world hath become the den of sins,
And every man born of God hath fallen into Adam’s pit.

The Saviour took the form of submissiveness:
The Light pierced the darkness and showed the Way.
And darkness trembled at the advent of the Light.

I was at the heels of worldliness and tradition.
But on a day a voice stirred my soul to act,
The Light chased me to the door of Eternity.
I could not escape from the Light,
For HE hath HIS Plan to withdraw me from darkness.
I opened the eyes of my soul and saw the Light close to me.
Darkness began to shed its attires and Light hath clothed me with Its glory.

Darkness ceases not to threaten me with its curses of pleasure;
Yet there shines the Light ever to guard my soul from the eternal darkness.
What can darkness do unto me if Light is beside my soul
Which rests in the Loving arms of the Word of God,
WHO is the LIGHT of salvation into Eternity?

If Romania was a color, it would be a funeral color.

It would be the color of remembrance, and the color of forgetting.

It would be a color that screams to be avenged, respected and mourned.

It would be a proud color.



A color that remembers a glorious past, mostly imagined and embroidered with more victories than defeats.



It would be a color of joy, yet hidden in silence.

A color that boasts of courage, but asks for submissiveness.

A color that speaks of kindness, but greedily hoards.

A color that's been censored.



The color of Romania would be that lack of color, that void that takes away all other colors,

and shoves them down below, under the writhing belly of the thick-scaled beast.

The color that waits to burst out with deep reds, and magentas, and blues.



It would be that color that would not stay dead,

would not stay mourned,

would not roll over,

but hammer against the void and bring forth the kaleidoscope of hope.

in fears and trust, dreams so ''busy being free'' she thought 
she could be, it would be possible with him but in the end he did
not bring her to his senses; in the end it was just not viable as since 
the moment they mounted together when he showed her no more 
than the blue flowers in their city park but the moment (1) she
asked 'm to play her music, he laughed her away or when (2) she
travelled she asked 'm to not keep distance, which is not necessarily
impossible, he refused and let her go because of that, that stubbornly
proudness aspect of his fathers character, her mothers submissiveness, 
to busy believing they'd make it without realising it takes two to travel.

Epigraph:

We don't respect what we possess
What we don't possess we respect


Salt is very little,
On the shores it toddles,
Braves the sting of the storm,
And happily come to our doors.

Who cares of its size?
Who thinks of its significance
In our lives on a regular basis?

And in winter,
They welcome us, our blankets,
Gracious and humble.

Last night, my mother
Handed over to me of mine.
It was as cool as ice cream
But when the moon came out
It was the hot kettle
That suffers on smouldering embers

The whole night
I slept with much comfort
That it gave me,
With no aggression, no attitude,
No reluctance, only submissiveness.

Shouldn't I love my blanket,
And be all praise for its
Honest service to me
And mankind?

Here we are lacking
In giving thanks to sources
Of our happiness and joys.
We judge the things
as per their bodies
Not as per sacrifice for us.
We value water
But we don't speak of soaps.

My longing to crown blankets
For their faithful friendship with us.

The 1st night: delirium...
just a spaz-o-me I made so many
faux pas impromptus
in the group's WhatsApp
that the owner, curiously only
sent the following reply: ???
the other days he would
just inquire without judging
my lingo quirky (my lingo quirky?
depends how you want
to express the same finite)...
2nd night was just a gearing up
for a plateau, third night
broke me... co wisi, nie utonie:
what hangs will not drown...
fatalistic and I think that's how
you can start to remedy
Nietzsche's angst...
if modernity is to be saved from
a lack of religious coherency
that works for the benefit of society
and society being an organism
and a city being a microcosm
of where the organic meets
the transformed inorganic...
truly... but wait... let me just get
my secular bible put and double check
the meaning of fatalism...
fatalism: hmm... I don't agree with
the premise that fatalism
is a stance of submissiveness -
in the vein of "argument"
it would be self-evident that Islam
is a variation on fatalism:
but submission is not in my focus
when I think about fatalism...
I'm thinking on the covert lines:
with coercive lineage to give...
to imbue the word with a new meaning
dissociated from the perceived-meaning
of submissiveness...
I implore fatalism as an attitude
to nihilism by giving it a meaning
best associated with the quality
of subversiveness... multiple tasks st
hand... the autistic 15 colt
lounging on the perimeter of
the premises I'm watching over:
where Hades becomes Cerberus:
Celt and the team Celtic:
no quits to **** a kaleigh without kilts:
garçon: ah the autocorrect spewed
a diacritical mark like a vowel
in Hebrew... I pity the English for
their love of classical music...
so far Friday is the best night of the week
to listen to Classic.fm
and I won't be a BBC RADIO 3 snob...
Jonathan Woss up to 9pm
then Sue Spencer on her own sort of
idiosyncratic wacky to Anractica
via Slovenia? The nuns did this to her...
I love the inverted voyeurism
the parodying the intact psychologism
of the radio that the t.v. just
cannot replicate...
given that the radio is audible
and not audio and visual...
you cannot forsake two senses...
next thing you know a t.v. will
not only provide a visual distraction
with the audible one
but also a scented ******* culinary trip...
but the radio is not a distraction
but a compliment, an accompiment
to a lo g shift (n)...

tonight I also discovered the potency
of Jamaican tonic wine... Magnum...
one label on the 200ml 16.5% read:
the name "tonic wine" does not imply
health giving or medicinal properties...
another label lists the following:
caffeine 12.0mg
iron 4.80mg
niacinamide 6.30mg
vitamin B2 1.20mg
vitamin B6 0.10mg
vitamin B12 0.48mcg...

hey, it's coming to 12am, I finish
this shift at 7am... then I'll refresh
my self, wash my ******* brush
my teeth, shave to preserve my beard's
shape...
solve the stale stink of armpits
put on a white shirt and a tie
and head to Wembley for another 12h
until 1am for the boxing match
between Joshua and Dubois...
duck's sake... I was initially booked
as a supervisor ringside with about
30 people under me...
instead I was rebooked as an external
quadrant manager...

mineral waters
bottling
Cisiowanka
Muszynianka
how many times of mineral waters
are sold in Poland?
Well in England
you have still and sparkling...
in Poland you have half-sparkling
mineral water...
Muszynianka is rich
and so different
with a magnesium-calcium complex...
water indeed has taste
when certain minerals are
either combined or there
was that trip to Bath with well...
**** water, high in sulphates,
volcanic remnants...
but bottling... the Magnum Tonic
wine is too sickly sweet to be drank
undiluted with sparkling mineral water...
and no it's not a conventional
wine, sour, so creating a kalimotxo
is a bad idea...

so say san pellegrino
is superior to a perrier...
subjective observation
based off of the label: no truth to it...
just a bias...
but... perrier is still sold
in glass bottles... while san pellegrino
is sold in plastic bottles...
milk used to be sold
in glass pint bottles
and I remember staying up at night
to get a whiff of the job
that was... being a milkman
driving an electric car before
this current supposed revolution
*******...
just like 40 years ago people
we're more green, more environmentally
conscious... glass like metal?
♾️ recycling potential: **** me d'uh!

just scrolling through the photographs
of all the classic.fm presenters
while contemplating the genius
of the English people
yet that forlorning of:
my my... no musical genius among them!
Elgar was not a musical genius,
Handel was not English
nor was Holst
and Vaughan Williams... well...
but for a people so appreciative of classical
music, it cries, the situation...
and with that vacuum came
all the pop sensibilities of the 20th century.

Self destructive wickedness arrested, convicted, and gaoled...

with kidnapping little boy
ordered to suffer
life sentence without parole.

The deadly scourge of  
one obsessive/compulsive disorder
nearly left me starving to death.

Anorexia nervosa absent bulimia
nadir of onset
diagnoses schizoid personality disorder
severe social anxiety still legion I aire
behavior which agonizingly
elicited slow suicide
courtesy self starvation
maelstrom within psyche of self
as prepubescent lad
(particularly devastated  
immediate family members)
as emaciation pitted existential
revulsion from unseen

wuthering heights
betook courtesy yours truly
teased, hectored, and called “professor,”
when riding the school bus
nearly wrung death knell
annihilating fragile entity
christened Matthew Scott Harris
with peremptory imprimatur
yielding covalent bond to life
readily obvious to kith and kin
via zorro like signature per
profound perilous depressive
psychological state.

Now - at about
three decades plus six years
from attaining rank of centenarian
perfect 20/20 hindsight
offers supreme advantage from
swift current near drowning
alluded earlier when das scribe
juiced thwarted leapfrogging
from pollywog tad metamorphosed
to witness puberty,
whence devastating emotional
crisis tripped, trilled,

and tricked aborted
natural healthy development
chronological denouement demise
jump/kick started
theorizing  numerous educated guesses
within mind of
middle progeny and sole sol
(of the both late father and mother
Boyce and Harriet Harris) respectively
why he willfully hurtled his flesh
at light speed
down the abyss toward death.

Literal and physical lightness of being
manifested within nooks and crannies
prior to full blown symptoms
to eliminate sustenance
drawing the curtain on brief residence
way before high noon of life.
  
Metamorphosis from boyhood
kindled burning man
found solace in attempting
to keep at bay of pigs hijacked
natural cycle, which seminal
transformation grieved me
to pine for nostalgic childhood’s end
(albeit one fraught with romanticism)
vengefully interpreted attempt
to halt dead in the tracks
intervention of mother,
whose nursing experience helped
fend off passive attempt
to promulgate passive
silent plan to fruition.

She whipped various nutritious
concoctions in the blender
to ensure minimal essentials to this,
I readily admit) famished body
in conjunction with applying
vital supplements into
one or the other skeletal
gluteus maximus
thru fuel injection,
which submissiveness to acquiesce,
and bare bony buttocks

to receive iron injections
did absolutely nothing
to squelch death wish.
I inexorably did buzzfeed
hashtagged eating disorder
to go on a deadly hunger strike,
which essentially constituted
declaration of independent control
despite horrendous craving
for food jabbed innards like a pike
bifurcated psychic division

to live ousted coeval death wish goal
to seize yore reminiscent  
blissful, (albeit fictional) childhood
over flooded self made ****** ****
engaging, engendering, engineering
propensity to catapult yours truly
into abysmal emotional hole
and way before the invention
of Facebook, I mentally clicked like
to surrender mailer daemons all
of me healthy development stole.

Imprimatur indelibly etched decades
after bout with passive exit from life
crimp on ******/social skills plus
stunted physical growth cuts like a knife
affecting mental health with panic attacks
and anxiety although existence
considerably less riddled qua
debilitating symptoms
(such as vertigo, racing heart,
profuse sweating, nausea, irritable bowels)

relying on the following prescription medications:
BUSPIRONE HCL 15 MG TABLET
CLOMIPRAMINE 50 MG CAPSULE
CLONAZEPAM 0.5 MG TABLET
FLUOXETINE HCL 40 MG CAPSULE
GLYCOPYRROLATE 2 MG TABLET
PRAZOSIN 1 MG CAPSULE
PRAZOSIN 5 MG CAPSULE
RISPIRIDONE 1 MG TABLET
ROPINIROLE HCL 1 MG TABLET.

To add insult to injury
yours truly also gifted
courtesy split uvula
but did little to ameliorate
the writer of these words
suffering brickbats as scape goat,
whereby severe adenoidal vocalizations
allowed, enabled, and provided
an easy target viz black barbs
poised to strike, hurled,
and bullied me by peers.

Up until I entered six grade
(at Henry Kline elementary -
a one classroom per grade school)
classmates bullied, derided,
and feigned to hammer -
jabbing leering, nasty pimping ragout as a rule
which boyhood self of mine availed
a perfect bullseye target
with combination of diminutiveness,
being painfully quiet,

essentially remaining mum the entire day
except when called upon
to answer question
thence utterance emanating between lips
produced and emitted
a strong nasal sound to boot
grist for the mill
sans malice meted, mimicked,
and mocked mashup
of mine warped congestion
ah, twas only by a fluke conversation,

whence speech pathologist
informed my parents about
The Lancaster cleft palate clinic,
where oral an examination
revealed minor birth defect
identified as a submucous cleft palate,
which explained the severe pinched twang
somewhat mitigated by wearing
a removable prosthetic
fastened with clasps to upper teeth

whereby a makeshift miniature
plastic protuberance closed the gap
(at the expense of practically gagging me)
so air would be prevented
passing thru my button nose,
and thus gentle and soft as a shutterfly
shunted air out oral opening
though congenital defect disallowed
returning merchandise back to sender
nor could blame be affixed

at either father nor mother
who both harbored the genetic mutation
now such admissions
re: aforementioned impediment allows,
enables and provides boasting rights
if in a mood temper
any curiosity or satisfying a rumor
whispered down the alley
whence I said “ah”
left nagging nincompoops
as if pie hole filled with a gobstopper.

Saran, work through men to keep women submissive.
Or maybe the insecure men work with Satan to do it.

How else?
Would explain many male ministers stating God didn't call women to minister.

Scriptures plainly point out women reached for Christ just like the males.
This is the word.
And if pushed we aware of the *** that crafted the bible as writers.

And to some point, we see submissiveness in various first ladies.
Playing the part of just adjusting to the roles required of them.

Look past the woman of faith leading the sermon behind the pulpit and remember she came with the word to save souls.

We can preach against them and many COGIC leaders do.
But many ladies has always been an intimidating factor.

Except some senior pastors that guided anyone rightly will tell those against women preacher.
She came with the world.

Thru emerging adulthood awareness awoke
within noggin of average baby boomer bloke
catastrophization toward risk taking I evoke
positive growth experiences throughout vast
number of orbitz around sun never kickstarted
nor linkedin with potential livingsocial folk.

Courtesy solitude yours truly
proffers poetic obscurantist blatherskite
discombobulated clishmaclaver will delight
expressing how me courage doth take fright
puncturing since boyhood head to toe height
housing crotchety, fidgety, impiety bent knight
impossible mission to summon bravado might
thus, I figuratively slink within analogous shell
avoiding testing comfortable autozone outright
trumpeting unconvincing lame excuse quite -
begetting, drafting, fielding, heralding, jump-
starting, loosing, notching another
psychological another mischievous sprite.

I submissively succumb opportunistically,
meekly, heroically, and dutifully attest
to surrender once plagued narcissistic self
to beastly merciless beck and call behest
all the while actualizing, envisioning,
and imagining outlook as if afflicted
with dissociative identity disorder,
whereby manifested spirit housed in my chest
spontaneously showing up as unwanted guest.

Twas deadly scourge
of one obsessive/compulsive disorder
anorexia nervosa absent bulimia - nadir
of onset sans quasi schizoid behavior,
which agonizingly slow suicide
by self starvation
mailer daemon maelstrom
within mine psyche
when yours truly prepubescent lad
(particularly devastating

to immediate family members)
as emaciation pitted existential revulsion
from unseen wuthering heights
nearly wrung death knell
annihilating me fragile entity
with peremptory imprimatur
yielding covalent bond to death
readily obvious to kith and kin
via zorro like signature per profound
perilous depressive psychological state.

Now - at about two score plus eighteen years
from attaining rank of centenarian
perfect 20/20 hindsight
offers supreme advantage
from said aforementioned psychological crisis
within mind of yours truly
middle aged progeny and sole sol
(of Boyce and Harriet Harris
mine father and mother respectively)
hypothesizing numerous educated guesses
why he willfully hurtled his flesh at light speed
down the abyss toward his demise.

Literal and physical lightness of being
manifested within nooks and crannies
prior to full blown symptoms
to eliminate sustenance
drawing the curtain on brief residence
way before high noon of life.
metamorphosis from boyhood into man
found solace in attempting to keep at bay

natural cycle which transformation grieved me
to pine for nostalgic childhood’s end,
(albeit one fraught with romanticism)
vengefully interpreted attempt
to halt dead in the tracks intervention of mother
whose nursing experience
helped fend off passive attempt
to promulgate passive silent plan to fruition.

She whipped various
nutritious concoctions in the blender
to ensure minimal essentials to this
(I readily admit) famished body
in conjunction with applying vital supplements into
one or the other bony gluteus maximus
thru fuel injection
which submissiveness to acquiesce
and bare my buttocks
did absolutely nothing to squelch death wish.

I inexorably overcame eating disorder
to cease going on deadly hunger strike,
which essentially constitutes
a declaration of independent control
despite horrendous deprivation
regarding voracious craving for food
stuffing innards like a pike
bifurcated psychic division to live
ousted coeval death wish sans goal
seize yore per reminiscence of blissful
childhood over-flooded self made ****
engendering propensity to catapult
over abysmal emotional hole
and way before the invention of facebook,
I mentally clicked like mental health
to fight the mailer daemons
that part of me healthy development stole.

Livingsocial at 324 Level Road
circa post high school graduation
found yours truly voluntarily holed up
for an inordinate amount of time
within familiar four walls of his bedroom.

He preferred solitude versus
interacting with either his father or mother,
practicing perfect aggressive passive posture
whereby one or the other parent hurled curses.

Non-social trademark characteristic
thwarted him joining in any reindeer games,
being withdrawn and undersized
overlaid with figurative veneer of anxiety
and a submucosal cleft palate to boot
condemned him to lapse into
comfortably numb state of isolation and loneliness.

Escapism courtesy binge reading
attempting to relish every tome
contributed to purposefulness
helping to answer why I did exist
plus acquisition of knowledge
kindled gray matter approximately
size of left and right fist
allowed, enabled, and provided grist

buzzfeeding overactive imagination
engendering fantasies, you get the jist
at expense of never getting son kissed
during pre/post adolescence
essentially a wallflower
major/minor milestones missed
(such as going to the prom)
in retrospect, I feel grievously ******.

Solitary non trivial pursuits,
across checkered past monopolized
inborn instinct never to witness
salubrious socialization to flourish,
(please don't feel sorry)
though cultivating modest knack
with English language
a commendable trait,
whether engrossed solving word games,
reading reputable news source

or turning pages of spellbinding book
galvanized mine attention
ferrying thoughts away being
figuratively hermetically sealed
secluded, sedated, (albeit narcotic
viz printed material), separated,
segregated, sequestered, settled...
away from madding crowd
including kith and kin.

Even as a darling little boy
(naive and oblivious to sax and violins)
ways and means sought
to secure absolute zero
interaction with others, I did employ
getting ably linkedin
with storied sixteenth president,
(vis a vis time traveling thru enterprising
seat of the pants experience
whizzing to and fro, hither and yon
at lightspeed helter skelter
back and forth across
space/time continuum

punctuated qua grammatical equilibrium)
spiritually invisibly convening
with alluring American historical figure
namely he who resided when elected
commander in chief
made popular the state of Illinois
analogous to Star Trek
becoming most favorite television show
in equal parts courtesy
William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy
giving legendary Helen of Troy
a run (with Paris) for her money.

Poetry writing a medium
to create embellishment
concerning mine humdrum existence
healthy development chokingly boxed
maturation of body, mind and spirit stunted
impossible mission to ameliorate indelible legacy
vibrant potential abilities sabotaged
webbed wide wakefulness smothered
psychological travails wracked mein kampf
schizoid personality disorder
stymied inherited physical, mental
and spiritual strengths,
whereby bulk of living years
populated by submissiveness.

If born during an earlier era
antedating first Industrial Revolution
hypothetical fictitious me,
would experience rural modus operandi
as fitting, perhaps apprenticed
(rustic accommodations accepted
such as still found in Lake Wobegon)
with respectable tradesman adept as printer,
a clever literate playfully mischievous lad
stealthily including personal editorials
or opinions about difficult challenges
regarding how very shy young man
feels ill at ease when attempting
to befriend a bonnie lass.