Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.

Peeing: to ***; to urinate; to release the body of its liquid toxins; to pass or discharge *****; characteristically yellow- the strength of the color depending on the body’s hydration.
People have strange habits when peeing; urinating; releasing the body of their liquid toxins. Some people procrastinate it to the last minute and rush to the bathroom, barely yanking their pants down in time and shuddering in relief. They are those who habitually whip in and out, even when they don’t really need to. There’s the common usage of an escape from boredom in classes or meetings. Perhaps it even causes a slight blushing in the cheeks of painfully shy woman at hearing rushed tinkling so close by. And of course, they are also the people who love to leave surprises for the next person who uses the bathroom.
All in all, peeing seems to mean not much to people – a small part of life; but a very, very necessary part.  

                                 *                 *                    * .

The rain poured furiously outside the window as Emily sat, straining her brown eyes against the whiteboard flashing images of trigonometry from Mr. Well’s laptop, trying hard to concentrate. She was sitting in her usual seat in class, and also her favorite. It was a solitary table with a chair, away from the clusters of tables and the chattering children, and the only chair by the window. She liked to look out the window, even if it distracted her from Mr. Well’s loud explanations. The booming of “SOHCAHTOA” in her ears became distant as the wind’s movement caught her eye. She gazed out on sheets of rain flapping across the sky like giant teary spirits and pressed her fingertips on the glass. Cold.
Absent-mindedly, she pressed her cheek against the coolness and felt it absorb her body warmth. Her imagination kicked in and the glass became a panel of energy, ******* a little life from all those who touched it, vibrating with a strange purple light until it was so filled with energy the particles of the glass would explode and she would be the first to die from the sharp shatters that would spray across the room, causing droplets of blood to-
Ahem.
Mr. Well coughed meaningfully at her dreamy face. The class exploded into laughter and the bell rang. A skinny girl smiled at her but she was so lost in her own world, she forgot to smile back as she slung her bag on her shoulder and ran out. Maybe that’s why she didn’t have too many friends.
The dark skies were pouring furiously as only Bangkok in Monsoon weather can.
A walk home or a motorbike ride? A motorbike ride would be a little dangerous in this flooding… and with that reasoning she waved up a motorbike. The seat was soaked and so was the driver, whose brown leathered feet struggled to keep red flip-flops on as they sloshed through the flooded Sois.
Fat water bullets pelted her skin and the wind blew them ferociously into her face till her eyes stung. The motorbike swerved in and out of the cars stuck in traffic (slightly floating), the bottoms of their wheels immersed in ***** water.
The pockets of her school shorts were hastily rummaged through and she pulled out a soggy green twenty-baht note bank before running into the shelter of the lobby, dripping over the marble floor and completely drenched. The building-maid widened her eyes, and watched her horrified; knowing it meant extra work mopping and drying up the lobby floor as soon as Emily vanished into the elevator.
The plastic button with the circular metal piece glowed orange. It was strange how she was shivering with cold but her touch was still warm enough to light up the elevator buttons.
The usual itchy, impulsive, restlessness was building up inside her from the wet motorbike ride. Thunder roared and crackled through the lobby’s swinging glass doors and they vibrated slightly. Another flashing image of splintering glass splashed across her mind and in the split-second, she saw the diamond shards pierce the eye of the lobby’s guard and splinter across the floor-
She shook her head. This was what happened when she had too much pent-up energy. She had to do something- something reckless and fast and dangerous… now! A bolt of lightning went through her as a familiar wide open space came into her mind… the rooftop of her thirty-five floored building.
The elevator ride up was slow, much too slow for the fast pacing of her heart and she hit the metal doors with wet fists. Tearing out of the doors when it finally jolted to a stop, she climbed up to the top, running up the stairs two steps at a time and caught her breath. It was flooded up to her ankles and violent gusts of wind made her steady herself.
Emily’s Dad often told her stories of when he was child. “The winds in my home during Monsoon season were so strong we could lean into it with our fully body weight and we wouldn’t fall. It was almost as good as flying.”
Her lids squinted shut and the sensitive skin was immediately exposed to the pebbles of the rain and whipping wind; and in almost dream-like state, she leaned into the howling wind.
There was a comically slow fall and her bony knees hit the concrete flooring with a dull thud. She burst into tears of laughter in her own stupidity at thinking the wind could hold up against her gigantic frame and rubbed her ***** knees sorely. Reaching up to wipe her tears with muddy fingers, she laughed to herself again. There was no point in wiping away tears. They were so trivial in comparison to the current weeping of the skies.
Against the thick opaqueness of the wind, she could see how the view towered over a jungle of buildings as far as the eyes could see, with snaking concrete roads and skinny black canals. Slums scattered around nearby swanky hotels of the rich. The buildings faded into small dark shapes in the distance. Bangkok.
No matter how tall and industrial it tried to become, everyone ran for cover under this blinding rain.
Up here, completely a victim to nature’s power, she felt exposed; naked; real. The animalistic instincts inside her swelled up. Humans weren’t meant to wear these annoying pieces of material or shoved inside skinny architectural designs. With aggressive tearing motions, a pile of soggy clothes half lay, half floated on the flooded floor beside her and she stood there bare… and completely naked. Laughter spilled out from the depths of her naked chest with the two tiny hints of possible womanhood; it was louder than thunder. Screaming, laughing and gasping she stumbled around – climbing over objects and feeling the beautiful dizziness: a sweet, sweet dizzy. She stood up on a random block a meter high; spread her arms wide as her wet body shone with raindrops. The rain threatened to push her over, her soaked hair twitching heavily on her neck.
She ****** in her breath, ready to yell so that the heavens could hear but instead, the voice that came out was controlled with a shaky undertone of joy,
“I need to ***.”
And then she did.

                                                *         *            *.

His eyes are brown. Dark chocolate brown – a simple, solid color. Simple and solid like him.
Because he was so simple, people enjoyed his companionship. Though he was simple, he was not boring. Rather he was sharp-mouthed, quick on his feet, witty and observant speaking bald truths about people that either provoked them to scandalized laughter or humiliated fury.
What some people forgot to recognize was that he didn’t really love anyone. Plenty called him a close friend, but so absorbed were they in their own world; they seldom realized the fact that most of his thoughts were concealed. Kept in a little box of surprises in the back of his mind, and hidden so well nobody knew they existed.
He could spend months with a friend traveling in a different country, and return back home with no feelings of attachment. He could care for a friend while they were here and not really miss them while they were gone.
Most of the time his eyes were neutral and observing and they would sparkle amusedly when he had provoked someone with his words. This was how remained to almost everyone; everyone but one person. The one person that could turn his normally calm face even more still, the dark brows would rise slightly and a quick flash of fire would shoot through his eyes- and for a long while, they would burn slowly like two twin coals; the one person who could cloud his eyes dreamily; the one person who could make them glint wetly.  
He reached over and grabbed her hand. Emily turned smiling eyes at him.
A group of teenagers were strolling down the closed roads, armed with water guns, pasted in thick white powder, thoroughly drenched in the hot, dry weather and skipping over puddles (except for Emily who splashed into them).
Songkran in Bangkok: celebrated in the middle of April where temperatures reach forty-degrees Celsius, Thailand’s New Year and a time to pay respect to the elders in the family, but as most traditions, they became really just an excuse to enjoy oneself and in this case, one-year-olds to eighty-year-olds roamed the ***** streets splashing ice-cold water from hoses and water guns and smeared each other with chalk in buckets.
The street they were being shoved along was crowded with slick, drunk bodies. The heat of the afternoon sun shone down on their backs. The sign that introduced excited people in was sprayed by a passing pick-up truck filled with screaming locals. “WELCOME TO SOI COWBOY” printed the red letters.
Red-faced fat foreigners held in each arm a tiny ******* with their bright lace bras showing through the wet see-through shirt and their black eye shadow playing havoc with their cheeks.  Country-side Thai music blared in its jumpy, quirky manner with the over done sound effects. Those nasal voices of dark skinned women with their skins covered with make-up to an ashy white whined out of the stereos. A man with the head of a buffalo mask sauntered past. It was a mark of how wild things got at Songkran that eyes merely flickered over the shirtless buffalo briefly with a quick laugh. Transsexuals clad in diamond-studded flip-flops, wet white tank tops and mini jeans shorts the size of underwear danced to the blasting music from the open pubs down either side of the road. Their surgically-made ******* were all-too visible in the white shirts, their dark ******* poking out as they grabbed the crotches of good-looking men and boys that passed by, squealing and rubbing their bodies against white men especially. Most of these white foreigners had a look of bewildered pleased ness... for only a few realized that underneath that squeaky voice was a very deep rumble, and underneath those lacy thongs lay a very big surprise indeed.
One of the better-looking boys in the group, his green eyes and pointed chin drawing the fancy of many hookers, was pulled off by four pairs of wet skinny arms touching him and yelling in broken English, “Oh so handsome! You so handsome! I love you! What your name! You tell me your name, handsome boy!”
The handsome boy proceeded to manage some sort of scream for help while laughing until his stomach ached. It was Songkran; it was a merry time, and he knew he was good-looking. Kat, who held a secret crush on him laughed amusedly at his yelping.
Emily stumbled after him with Kat and parted through the crowd of ladies in time to see a tiny little ****** trip on her squeaking flip-flops and fall beside a sprawled figure, face down in the ***** road with a massive bag of ice on top of him.
“Hey! Are you alright?” Emily cried, half-amused and half-concerned, lifting the heavy ice bag off his shoulders.
Kat rushed forward, laughing but compromising her concern with furrowed brows and helped him up. “You okay Tom?”
He whimpered in pain and put a hand on his neck, rubbing it sorely. “That ice bag was ******* heavy.” The girls decided to make no note of his skinny arms.
They walked back to their group of friends who turned around and saw a limping green-eyed boy and roared with laughter. The noise caught the attention of predators searching for a good target and they were hosed down with water pipes.
Suddenly Emily felt a huge body lift her up and swing her around while hands plastered her with wet chalk.
“Emily!”
She felt safe hands grab her and looked up into the pair of dark chocolate eyes. They were a little annoyed as they flickered over the fat drunk man who released her heavily but it was Songkran, and he managed to laugh at her bewildered expression.
Just then they passed a horde of prostitutes and she felt him being ripped from her. “I like this one!” screeched a passing market lady who rushed in to jump on him. “I like this one! Let’s keep this one!” They dunk his head in a bucket of white goo.
She screeched with laughter and even at something that silly, felt protective of him. “Brad!”
He was too busy being attacked. “Brad!” she tried to reach in and he opened his mouth to call out to her. That was a big mistake, he realized, as he received a handful of powder in his mouth. Spitting, coughing, and trying to breathe through nostrils blocked with powder he managed to wipe his stinging eyes clean. The prostitutes released him but not before a huge ******* screamed with glee at his straight nose and thin red lips, and reached forward giving his crotch a good grab. He screeched in genuine disgust and fear, had a moments feeling of guilt in case he had offended the ******* which was immediately wept away as he, no she, no it, yelped joyfully and massaged his **** before trotting off to his, no her, no its next victim.
Where was Emily? With his height, he managed to see a brown head that stuck above the other dark-haired and light-haired heads being jostled out of the street by the moving crowd. He ran to catch up and grabbed Emily’s hand as the group of teenagers tripped out of “Soi Cowboy”.  
They stood for a moment catching their breath. Zoey, a tiny little girl with a chest that threatened to put her out of balance, pushed her brown curls out of her face. A red glow was starting to spread over her cheeks.
Kat laughed scornfully, her wide smile spreading generously over her face. “Sunburn?! You white girl!”  
They had all been out around the streets since early morning and it was late in the afternoon now. Rose’s cheeks were flushed and the tip of Kat’s nose was a little pink herself. The rest of them, with their darker skin, had tanned slightly but unnoticeably. They laughed at Zoey for a short while. It was an interesting group of friends: all of them of mixed heritages from around the world with different backgrounds that became common in the world of International schools. It was alright to tease Emily’s honey skin; it was funny to crack jokes about Stefan’s hairiness; it was hilarious when Zoey tried to tan.
Emily shot a picture of everyone laughing: their clothes wet, their faces scrunched up, eyeliner smudged (Kat and Rose had lined their eyes with water proof kohl that of course wasn’t really waterproof), their cheeks and chin caked a crumbly white.
Kat and Zoey clambered over her shoulders, peering at the little digital screen of the water proof camera. “Ew! Gross!” yelled Kat who was only used to pictures of her lips rosy from lipstick, camera at a flattering angle with a bright flash from her professional equipment that made her black-lined green eyes sparkle like emeralds.
“Delete! I look sick!”
Even Zoey, who admired Kat’s photogenic ness to a great extent, could find no words of solace except to say, “Me too! I look gross! Delete! Now!”
Emily just laughed and said, “No you don’t.” Of course it wasn’t a type of picture they’d profile on Facebook, but all the same it was beautiful with their wild-looking and uninhibited faces and un-posing body shapes, curled up in laughter.
Zoey snatched the camera from her and they fiddled with the buttons till the picture was deleted. It was regretful, annoying, but not unexpected.
Emily rubbed her sore knees and noticed how Tom was still rubbing his neck sorrowfully with Stefan laughing at him, shaking his head wearily. Brad was holding onto her arm a little tiredly, Kat and Zoey had their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulder for leaning support and Rose and Emily’s younger brother, Jason, were standing together, staring absen

Yo Terry, you gone loco?
talking to yourself all the time now
oh, yeah?
is that a blue tooth or a blue ear?
is it surgically attached?
do you wear it to bed?
take it with you into the shower?
Man, you would never be so crazy
it can’t be you
it’s got to be your cell phone clone

hey lady, can you see that green arrow
it won’t last forever
what’s up…honk, honk
you’re on the phone?
we’re gonna to miss the left …turn
honey, you must be blind
how’d you get your license?
is that Lynne?
**** girl
it can’t be you
got to be your cell phone clone

A. K., another call?
and we’re supposed to be having a conversation
kickin’ it
now you’re text messaging under the table
and you think I don’t notice?
Dude, I’m not that stupid
and you, my brother, would never be that rude to me
it can’t be you
got to be your cell phone clone

yo Brenda, who you talking to out there?
oh…(whispered) cell phone clone

Leon, dude!
How many cell phones you need?
You’re talking on the one you got pressed onto your ear
There’s another on the table in front of you
Do you have one more?
You could be a juggler
Join the circus

Girlfriend, don’t you realize the light has changed
and you’re standing in the crosswalk in the middle of the street?
hang up the phone and step—yeah, you

Jeez...I…I see cell phone clones
They’re everywhere

For you sweetheart I would....

...writhe in the ecstasy of the tragic
or behave violently,
enmeshed in ******,
heroic havoc

I would stalk the thing that hurt you and stab-it.
or quickly tie it up and drag it,
as I whisper as a crazed maverick ; click, click, son!
and swallow back the drip, drip, umm....
of the vial of acid...….as I sip, sip, yum-
Facing the truth of the mirror I find myself presently hung

For you sweetheart....!
I would sacrifice the self
relegate my identity to the bottom shelf

I would Focus on  opposites...
and pervert the lost truth of buddhists; preaching and installing the sinful cysts...

of consumerism & material wealth, I hope you get the gist.
I would Climb to the monastery & maliciously yell
“Come on you drunk monk Its for your helllth!”

Doing what you always wanted
by changing the state of truth
from overwhelming presence
...to an unseen, veiled stealth

for you I would jump out of the highest helicopter sans parachute
!ha! writing and dying, but for you,  its such a hoot

For you Sweet love,
I would divide by zero,
March up to physics and blackholes say “hey F-yourself” unceremoniously killing the hero
remembering so vividly
how we intoxicatedly emptied oil on the baby-seals relaxing on the soil of the now empty sea shelf

but for you oh dear, I would empty myself of fear
and empathize with a jellyfish
GAH!  
I hate Jellyfish.

Please Imagine sweet- love,
how we would get married,
and go through all the steps to have a sweet- baby
and in the birthing room while you’re extra weary,
I would ask the simple question to hold and carry
this special
special
little baby

I would look you in the eyes, smile widely and drop it
While you pleaded, choked eyes pleading for some God to stop it

But thats a little extreme so lets take time and rewind the scene
So that you wouldn’t think of little ol’ loving ego me as being so especially mean

Then, amidst candles start smoothly & sweeten the deal with cannibalistic clipart
Preparing to Dine on the sweet meal of a sweetheart’s sweet heart.

For you I would
I would **** a man and smoke salvia at his funeral
Then desperately plead my case,  
so surreal while I Appeal deliriously and unable
to the divine
or the courtroom of an esoteric, alien race

Oh love.
I would bury myself in venomous spiders
submit myself to mysterious haitian-zombie rituals
To keep you pure and far from pitiful
I would Self-immolate to distance you from pain and the sinful

Then
I would put the world to sleep
so that they won’t stir, wake,
or open their eyes to peep
the pain of the sun,
burning the Sea-t
of their corneas
with its brilliant and all-encompassing,
luminous heat



Oh for you bella, I would put down three 1/5ths of law and turn the key
Oh beautiful, now the mothers against drunk driving are sooo MADD at me
Because for YOU
I Crashed into their headquarters traveling erratically and so haphazardly

For you I would do everything
not just anything
but
everything.

I would chill with monks that do all the ****** up things
Go to a girls house, burn the family, burn the home
have ******* with the survivor hopefully alone
and afterwards take a long time to gnaw viciously through my bones.

for you I would discuss that maybe this voice Isn’t fit for the world
So i just wink out of existence
to protect everything from my impact, characterized as it is, so spun and twirled

For you sweetheart, I would even let this poem go unwritten.
Just so the world would not be smitten
With the space between the righteous and the wrong
the difference, is what we feel,
For you truth I write this song.

Ostensibly and indefinitely, I would infinitely
remember thee
and it all planning to never do it again.
...because my Circuitry is charged with the pain to amend me.

For your own amusement
I would help possibility incarnate
fulfill itself A-moral and without hate
the good the bad and the ugly because …..remember
When it comes to poetic possibility  
The U-and-I-verse doesn’t discriminate

I would free the slaves from freedom
I would emulate pagans and heathens
I’ll be all you don’t need when you seek to amend the world of men

For you sweetheart I would publish this as a children’s night time book

i dreamed a rattlesnake was loose in the closet i heard it rattling i was afraid to open the door



a man suffering a toothache goes to see his dentist the dentist administers laughing gas when the man comes to his numb tongue swooshes around his mouth he asks how long was i under the dentist answers hours i needed to pull them all out



he imagines when he grows old there will be a pencil grown into one hand and a paintbrush grown into the other they will look like extra fingers grown out from the palms extensions of his personal evolution little children will be horrified when they see mommy mommy look at that man’s hands!



what if we are each presented with a complete picture of a puzzle from the very start then as our lives proceed the pieces begin showing up out of context sometimes recognizable other times a mystery some people are smarter more intuitive than others and are able to piece together the bigger picture some people never figure it out



i wasn’t thinking i didn’t know to think nobody taught me to think maybe my teachers tried but i didn’t get it i wasn’t thinking i was running reacting doing whatever i needed to survive when you’re trying to survive you move fast by instinct you don’t think you just act



many children are relieved when their parents die then they no longer need to explain prove themselves live up to their parent’s expectations yet all children need parents to approve foster mentor teach love



she was missing especially when her children needed her most she was busy lunching with girlfriends dinner dates beauty shop manicure masseuse appointments shopping seamstress fittings constant telephone gossiping criticizing she was too busy to notice she was missing more than anything she wanted to party show off her beauty to be the adored one the hostess with the mostest



i dreamed i was condemned to die by guillotine the executioner wore black and wielded an axe just in case the device failed in the dream the guillotine sliced shallow then the executioner went to work but he kept chopping unsuccessfully severing my head this went on for a long time



1954 Max Schwartzpilgrim sits at table in coffee shop on 5th floor of Maller’s Building elevated train loudly passes as he glances out window it is typical gloomy gray Chicago day he worries how he will find the money to pay off all his mounting debts he is over his head in debit thinks about taking out a hefty life insurance policy then cleverly killing himself but he cherishes his lovely wife Jenny his young children and social life sitting across table Ernie Cohen cracks crass joke Max laughs politely yet is in no mood to encourage his fingers work nervously mutely drumming on Formica table then stubbing out cigarette in glass ashtray lighting another with gold Dunhill lighter bitter tastes of coffee and cigarettes turns his stomach sour he raises his hand calling over Millie the waitress he flirtatiously smiles orders bowl of matzo ball soup with extra matzo ball Ernie says you can’t have enough big ***** for this world Max thinks about his son Odysseus



when Odysseus is very young Dad occasionally brings him to Schwartzpilgrim’s Jewelers Store on Saturday mornings Dad shows off his firstborn son like a prize possession lifting Odysseus in the air Dad takes him to golf range golf is not an interest for Odysseus Dad pushes him to learn proper swing Odysseus fumbles golf club and ***** he loves going anyway because he appreciates spending time with Dad once Dad and Odysseus take shower together Dad is so life-size muscular hairy Odysseus is so little Dad reaches touches Odysseus’s ******* feeling lone ******* Dad says we’ll correct that make it right Odysseus does not understand what Dad is talking about at finish Dad turns up cold water and shields Odysseus with his body he watches Dad dressing in mornings Dad is persnickety to last details of French cuff links silk handkerchief in breast pocket even Dad’s fingernails toenails are manicured buffed shiny clear



Odysseus’s left ******* does not descend into his ******* the adults in extended family routinely want to inspect the abnormality Mom shows them sometimes Dad grows agitated and leaves room it is embarrassing for Odysseus Daddy Lou’s brother Uncle Maury wants to check it out too often like he thinks he is a doctor Uncle Maury is an optometrist the pediatrician theorizes the tangled ******* is possibly the result of a hormone fertility drug Mom took to get pregnant the doctor injects Odysseus with a hormone shot then prescribes several medications to induce the ****** to drop nothing works eventually an inguinal hernia is diagnosed around the age of 9 Odysseus is operated on for a hernia and the ******* surgically moved down into his ******* the doctor says ******* is dead warning of propensity to cancer later in life his left ball is smaller than his right but it is more sensitive and needy he does not understand what the doctor means by “dead” Odysseus fears he will be made fun of he is self-conscious in locker room he does not comprehend for the rest of his life he will carry a diminutive *****



spokin alloud by readar in caulkknee axescent ello we’re Biggie an Smally tha 2 testicles whoooh liv in tha ******* of this felloh Odys Biggie is the soyze of a elthy chicken aegg and Smally is the size of a modest Bing cheery



one breast ****** points northeast the other smaller breast ****** points southwest she is frightened to reveal them to any man frightened to be exposed in woman’s locker room she is the most beautiful girl/woman he will ever know



Bayli Moutray is French/Irish 5’8” lean elongated with bowed legs knobby knees runner’s calves slim hips boy’s shoulders sleepy blue eyes light brown hair a barely discernable freckled birthmark on back of neck and small unequal ******* with puffy ******* pointing in different directions Laura an ex-girlfriend of Odysseus’s describes Bayli’s appearance as “a gangly bird screeching to be fed” Laura can be mean Odysseus thinks Bayli is the coolest girl in the world he is genuinely in love with her they have been sleeping together for nearly a year it is March 11 1974 Bayli’s birthday she turns 22 today Bayli is away with her family in Southeast Asia Odysseus understands what a great opportunity this is for her to learn about another culture he knows Bayli plans to meet up again with him in late summer or autumn in Chicago Dad wants Odysseus to follow in his footsteps and become a successful jewelry salesman he offers Odysseus a well-paying job driving leased Camaro across the Midwest servicing Dad’s established costume jewelry accounts Odysseus reasons it is a chance to squirrel away some cash until Bayli returns it is lonely on the road and awkward adjustment to be back in Chicago Odysseus made other plans after graduating from Hartford Art School he is going to be an important painter after numerous months and many Midwestern cities he begins to feel depressed he questions how Bayli can stay away for so long when he needs her so bad the Moutray’s send Mom and Dad a gift of elegant pewter candleholders made in Indonesia Mom accustomed to silver and gold excludes pewter to be put on display she instructs Teresa to place the candleholders away in a cabinet Mom also neglects to write a thank you note which is quite out of character for Mom Bayli’s father is a Navy Captain in the Pacific he is summoned to Norfolk Naval Station in Virginia the Moutray’s flight has a stopover in Chicago Bayli writes her parents want to meet Odysseus and his family Odysseus asks Dad to arrange his traveling itinerary around the Moutray’s visit Dad schedules Odysseus to service the Detroit and Michigan territory against Odysseus’s pleas Odysseus is living with his sister Penelope on Briar Street it is the only address Bayli’s parents know Odysseus has no way to reach them when the Moutray’s arrive at the door Penelope does not know what to tell them Mom and Dad are not interested in meeting Bayli’s parents it is not the first sign of dissatisfaction or disinterest Mom and Dad convey regarding Bayli Odysseus does not understand why his parents do not like her is it because Bayli is not Jewish is that the sole reason Mom and Dad do not approve of her Odysseus believes he needs his parent’s support he knows he is not like them and will likely never adopt their standards yet he values their consent they are his parents and he honors Mom and Dad let’s take a step back for a moment to get a different perspective a more serious matter is Odysseus’s financial dependency on his parents does a commitment to Bayli threaten the sheltered world his parent’s provide him is it merely money binding him to them why else is he so powerless to his parent’s control outwardly he appears a wild child yet inwardly he is somewhat timid is he cowardly is he unsure of Bayli’s strength and sustainability is that why he let’s Bayli go whatever the reason Dad’s and Mom’s pressure and influence are strong enough to sway his judgment he goes along with their authority losing Bayli is the greatest mistake of Odysseus’s life



he dreams Bayli and he are at a Bob Dylan concert they are hidden in the back of the theater in a dark hall they can hear the band playing Dylan’s voice singing and the echoes of the mesmerized audience Odysseus is ******* Bayli’s body against a wall she is quietly moaning his hand is inside her jeans feeling her wetness rubbing fingers between her legs after the show they hang around an empty lot filled with broken bottles loose bricks they run into Dylan all 3 are laughing and dancing down the sidewalk Dylan is incredibly playful and engaging he says he needs to run an errand not wanting to leave his company Odysseus and Bayli follow along they arrive at an old hospital building it is dark and dingy inside there is a large room filled with medical beds and water tanks housing unspeakably disfigured people swarming intravenous tubes attach the patients to oxygen equipment feed bags and monitoring machines Dylan moves between each victim like a compassionate ambassador Odysseus is freaking out the infirmary is too horrible to imagine he shields his eyes wanders away losing Bayli searching running frantically for a way out he wakes shivering and sweating the pillow is wet sheets twisted he gets up from the bed stares out window into the dark night he wonders where he lost Bayli



these winds of change let them come sailor home from sea hunter home from hill he who can create the worst terror is the greatest warrior

Moles is essentially an epidermis disorder prevalent to be able to kids, yet Many individuals will occur to prospects at everyone. Most about moles will be innocuous, but also in hard to find conditions, many individuals could become dangerous. A lot of us can be smooth or perhaps elevated. They sometimes are on spherical or possibly oblong and also smaller than your pencil eraser fit and healthy . Most people have among 0 as well as 40 of them flesh-colored, light red, tanners, and / or brownish zones on the epidermis. Brand new most individuals can be into mid-adulthood, also, since moles carry on approximately Five decades, some most individuals might fade away once you years. Keeping track of most individuals along with other colored pads is really a help the diagnosis of cancer of the skin mbt shoes clearance outlet, in particular dangerous melanoma. But not almost all melanomas acquire coming from pre-existing many individuals, quite a few come from or simply next to a fabulous skin mole or other dark appropriate your skin mbt shoes outlet. A lot of us are overgrowths within the skins coloring tissue (melanocytes). Many of us have them. A lot of us will not be usually provide located at beginning although can be purchased in younger years not to mention first teen years. With the time of 20 years Melbourne young people provide an average of greater than 55 moles. An important epidermis (as well as melanocytic naevus) is usually an unusual collecting color muscle present in the pores and skin. These kind of solar cells are melanocytes. Skin moles are really normal. So many people are given birth to with a bit of most individuals and also acquire some others during their life. Causes of Moles Melanin can be a natural and organic coloring which offers your body it has the colors. It is really manufactured in tissue called melanocytes, in some of the best core on the epidermis (skin area) or maybe the outer layers with the skin's secondly stratum (dermis). Melanin may be transported into the outside solar cells of the epidermis. Routinely, melanin is distributed evenly. A lot of us usually are complexion pigmentations and be dark-colored if come across the sun.

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Bones for Breakfast
July 2014

Bones are like peanut brittle.
Gnawed on til toothless,
by us old mangy mutts.
Tastes sweet tender as a drop 'o dew,
Feels soft in a bride's whisper, "I do."
But speaks crunchy crackles of Tic-Tac language,
instead of ******* out bad breath breathe shards in.

Although bones may break,
become buried under archaeologists' noses,
slip through crevices cracked and crumbled.
They were once anything but brittle,
covered only by skin yet to be bruised,
backs yet to be battered,
blood yet to be spilled,
faces yet to witness the history yet to be written.

I do not believe we are supposed to eat bones,
but we break them down into shreds of paper-back tidbits,
consumable by children during the snack time called 'history class.'
Our teachers are creating cannibals,
consuming culture on textbook platters,
but pay no mind while wearing bone bibs,
they leave out the thickest cuts of meat and just eat the ribs.

History is a living thing, dressed to deceive those who blindly believe.
I remember reading George Washington's claim to fame,
"I did not chop down that cherry tree."
But Mr. President, what about your enemies?
Because every revolution needs people to die for the revolutionaries.
Ain't that a sweet piece of cherry lie pie?

I learned Genghis Khan sure got it on with many women,
but didn't read about Alexander the Great's great ***,
much of it involving a same-gendered mate.
Wait, was that a mixture of patriarchy and hetero-normativity?
Words that weren't worth the pennies to print?
Who hired these fact checkers for the publishing industries?
I'll give you a hint,
Learn who has the most to gain from condemning intellectual content and corrupting it with a corrosive lack of social conscience.
As textbook reps tell professors, "Buy our books with cute new features."  But since when was that what made good teachers?
And so, these chapters get served to us on poo poo platters,
passed off to be refreshing as fresh mint pours in for corporations like Pearson Education.

I surveyed the lay of the land in Egypt,
purveying the literature of pharaohs.
Pyramids meant to portray a portrait of powerful people,
not a foolish riddle.
"Who built them," we ask.
But not of curiosity for whose backs broke building.
Its whose bones mummified beneath are made into mythological creatures along with Sphinx features.

I was taught the Holocaust was a unique horror story,
along with the catch phrase "never again."
Yet those 600 pages neglected to educate about the "re-education campaign" against the Cambodians.
Where was I to learn of the Rwanda civilization's tensions and exterminations?
Perhaps those pages were buried in the mass graves and dirt ditches, deserted and desecrated like the indigenous individuals we now call Native Americans.

Tell me more about art again.
It conveys a message about the historical humans experience,
but I think that message got lost sometime in the Renaissance Period.
When men had beards and wore colorful clothing,
but now that is either unprofessional or deemed gay as a bad thing.
When women were depicted full-bodied as that meant social status,
but now they are painted in photo shop with air brushes and slimmed slick.
We've created a glorious new empire of gastrointestinal bypass Groupons, and have either **** out or surgically removed all the bones we swallowed to get here... So, who's ready for lunch?

THE STORY OF SARA


AYAD GHARBAWI


CHAPTER 3: BEING AN ACTIVIST

  
Gradually, we become ever more radical in our burning quest to uproot every conceivable element of the corrupting culture of the oppressors.
  We soon started to call these oppressors 'Pigs', because that is exactly what they were: overweight, bloated, filthy animals who live simply eat and consume all day, and who love to live in their own excrement.
  The Pigs had to be removed, because you cannot negotiate with a pig.
  It was so obvious to me!
  Some people did, indeed, argue that diplomacy and negotiations were the way to achieve our blessed equality-based society, but that was pure idiocy to me; because, for Heaven's sake, a pig will remain a pig and cannot become an 'enlightened' pig! These criminals, who are creating poverty, and who are killing people, because they do not allow them decent health services, must be completely eradicated, or else, ordinary people will continue to suffer.
  One day I heard Tony give a speech in front of a huge audience: "There's no point in cutting the tail of the snake. No, you must go straight for the head, and that's how you **** it!" And there ensued roars and cheers, from the mainly young crowd. "And, if someone is trying to **** you, what do you do? Negotiate? Talk to them? No, you **** them first, that's what you do! That's who the Pigs are, my friends. They are out there killing you, and so many of you tonight are simply not even remotely aware that you are dying slowly – so, you must, first of all wake up, and realize that someone, somewhere, is draining out the blood of your life, and next you must identify the cancer that is killing you. So, who's the cancer?" Tony screamed, and the by now delirious crowds immediately responded with a thunderous and hate-filled, "Pigs! Pigs! Pigs!"
  "The Pigs talk and teach us about 'morality' and 'respect' and 'decency', and other subjects like that. That's laughable now, isn't it?! I mean, the blood stained mass murderer is teaching us etiquette here?!"
  "No! No!" roared back the audience. "**** the pigs! **** the pigs!" they suddenly and somehow instantaneously started to chant. So, I must correct what many people think about Tony, and that is, he 'invented' and popularized that phrase, '**** the pigs". No, he didn't; it was the audience that night who spontaneously came up with that really exciting and vibrant phrase!
  From then on, violence became more common along with the never ending chants – if not screams – of '**** the pigs!' Every day, and all over the country, the movement had flourished, and there were the most refreshing and gloriously destructive riots in almost every major city.

  It was at this time that I first heard a speech from Omar.
We waited for the man to appear, but he seemed nowhere to be found.
  My God, I heard from so many people that he was the most radical in the deepest sense of the word!
  Apparently, he made Tony sound like a child!
  He also had a well disciplined party – unlike Tony.
  Here was a place that I can find the ‘cause of my life’!
  I could work for Omar and that would be the point of my life!
  The thought thrilled me – because I was already a convert to their ideas, but with Omar, there was a real party that was actively fighting the government, whereas Tony and other leaders like him were independent activists, but with no party behind them.
    Then, Omar suddenly appeared.
  He was of medium height, average looks - but it wasn’t long before you noticed his inexpressibly burning, fanatical eyes!
  I was about a few metres from him, and I could feel the sheer intensity of passion and rage within those eyeballs!
  This man must have absolutely the words of truth, for no Man could look like that and be a liar!
And then he gently spoke:
  "**** the pigs, I hear you say. Well, that's not good enough for me. People like that make me yawn. And, I'm bored of yawning every day. We need more. We need to move on faster. I need speed. It's not just '**** the pigs', it's '**** the cops!', because the cops defend the Pigs and attack us every day; '**** the teachers!' because every teacher does nothing except to teach us with pointless information'. And, '**** every human being' who sides or serves the establishment!”.
  Omar’s eyes were literally able to stab right through your heart and soul simply by staring at you!
  I can well imagine that my reader will not believe me and will say it was because I was a convert to Omar’s ideas that I found his eyes to be so abnormally powerful – but, what do you say to all those people who did not like him, and who met him, and yet, they, too, all said that his eyes were profoundly piercing?!
  So, you see, reader, do believe me – it’s not because I was emotionally enthralled by Omar, that I am describing him to you the way I do!
  He had beautifully framed fingers – I don’t know why I noticed that!
  He had a rather longish nose – maybe, that was one defect in his face, but you hardly noticed that, given the other attractions in this man.
  And then he possessed the deepest, most guttural, and yet so sweetly melodic voice, that I had ever heard, and when he spoke, he simply entranced me – not to mention the thousands of others.
  Omar continued, beginning to raise his ragged voice:
“And, so I order you, tonight, and tomorrow, and every day, to fanatically and ruthlessly exterminate every visible sign, agent, artist, writer, philosopher, painter, sculptor, journalist, teacher, professor, lawyer, doctor, surgeon, banker, engineer, everyone who works in the mass media like the television, every film maker, every scientist, and every single employer and employee of the Pigs."
  The audience now simply shrieked the verb, '****! ****! ****!’ while Omar went silent, amidst this wild orchestra of hate being played out.


  I noticed, that unlike Tony, Omar wouldn't gesticulate or move his hands at all.
  Actually, he just stood there, rock solid, like a statue while only eyes and mouth spoke!
  The man, I swear, looked like a 'human rock'!
  He was the absolute epitome of boundless hatred; of unrestrained defiance against the rulers ruling us!
  Yes, I do admit, and I hesitate to say so, but, yes, he almost did like completely maniacal – were it not for his self control and the beauty of his words!
  The audience relaxed.
  Omar waited until there was silence, and he continued:
  "Do you see the difference between what I am saying and what brothers like Tony say? People like Tony demand from us to uproot the pigs. But what Pigs does he, in fact, mean? Who does he mean, when he says 'Pigs'? He means the rich. That's it.”


  Now, Omar abruptly went silent.
  Tension.
  He was staring at us.
  I could feel that the audience felt nervous precisely because Omar was staring at them.
  Finally, he continued:
  “Can you imagine the limits of his intellect?! To Tony and his misguided followers, the solution facing the problem before us is simple enough: you simply wipe out the rich, and suddenly we have the beautiful society!"
  Omar was sneering, being utterly sarcastic in his voice and tone.
  "So is that it, Brother Tony? Is that all we need to do?”
  There, he stopped again, with a sarcastic, wicked smile on his face.
  The man’s body simply had no motion in it!
  I was waiting to see, if Omar would, at some point, move his body or his arms, but so far nothing!
  He continued:
“My goodness, I never knew that the gigantic problem facing us was to be solved in such a simple manner! But, no, you're being fools. Or, maybe you're fooling your selves. Either way, I don't know, and more importantly, I don't care, because, as I told you all out there listening to me,” suddenly, he began to scream with his rasping voice:
  “I'm a serious man, with a serious mission, and above all, I'm a man in a hurry!"
  Again, Omar went suddenly silent.
  I could sense, that he was deliberately teasing the audience, because they were obviously desperate for him to continue speaking, while he, would every so often stop speaking, thus adding to the tension in the atmosphere!
  The audience laughed, loving the biting sarcasm; obviously there were lots of rivalry and jealousies between the two camps, and so Omar's followers just loved to hear the buckets of insults being poured upon the followers of Tony.
  The mocking tone continued:
  "These fools are retarding our own path to victory! These followers of Brother Tony, are doing the dumbest acts that I have ever seen. I mean, what do you mean and what are you trying to achieve, when you have his followers going to restaurants and disrupting the place? I mean, is this what the definition of 'stupidity' is, or what?!"
  The crowd cheered: "Yes! Yes! Idiots!"
  "Listen here Brother Tony; I would like to say, 'it's all right, you're still young and you'll soon grow up'. But I can't say that. You know why?"
  The audience waited as Omar paused.
  He was staring at his audience.
  Suddenly, he erupted with his deafening scream:
  "I can't wait. Didn't I already tell you that? Didn't I tell you I'm a man IN A HURRY AND I'VE GOT TO DO MY WORK! DON'T YOU PEOPLE OUT THERE GET IT?"
  He roared, and the masses applauded furiously.
  "I don't have time, for children like Tony, and for his own little children, to stand in my way, and wait for them to grow up! I don't have the time, because I have an enemy out there, that needs to be completely, ruthless and fanatically exterminated, root and branch, do you now follow me?"
  "Yes! Yes! We follow!" screamed the masses.
  Silence.
  And then, Omar continued:
  "So, we know who Tony defines as the Pigs. What about myself? We must talk the talk of the brave. If you're scared, then get out of here. Why do I say this? Because this struggle requires the most ruthless behaviour on our part, and to be ruthless, you need to be brave, and to be rave means you have no fear."
  It sounded almost as if he were singing.
  Or maybe it was my imagination.


"So, who are the Pigs, you ask me? Simple. The Pig is a man, woman and child who has any Pig Attributes. What do I mean by 'Pig Attributes'? Very simple. Any human, who has in his brain, any idea, concept, believe and acceptance of any value from the rulers who rule us all. And, what are these 'values' that come from our dear rulers? They are ideas and values such as: there are the simple ones, like the belief in the right to profit, belief in the right of property, inheritance and so on. Then, there are the other beliefs, such as, belief in compassion for the rich, or cooperating with the rich or socialising with the rich. You follow?"
  The audience was silent.
  "That means, any human in our sick society, poor or not, who in any way, not only physically interacts with the rulers is a Pig himself, but also any human, poor or not, who has in his heart and mind, any empathy for the rich is a Pig himself, and so therefore, it follows – and I hope you people out there are listening to me – it means, therefore, that a poor human being who has any Pig Attributes, is a Pig himself, just like the rulers themselves. Do you understand?"
  Silence.
  And then he walked out.


  It was so sudden, because I expect a really screaming end from Omar, but to the surprise of everyone, he ended and simply walked out!
  But, I, understood what he meant.
  Basically, he was enlarging the definition of what it meant to be the 'enemy'.
  This struggle was now going to be infinitely more difficult. With Tony, the war was simple enough.
  We were 'right' while anyone belonging to the ruling class was 'evil' and that was it.
  Obviously, no member in the ruling class can deny that he's in the ruling class! They can even change their accents and their clothes, pretending to be poor, but there are computers and archives, such as birth certificates, school records, and it doesn't take long, to find out a person's origins.
  But now what Omar was proposing, that a Pig is any human being who interacts with the ruling class is evil.
  Also, anyone who has any thoughts that have any Pig Attributes (for example, being pro-ruling class), are also evil, and therefore, had to be eliminated.
  In other words, the poor can be Pigs as well.
  I loved that, because, I was never comfortable with most other left leaders, including Tony, who only focused their ire against the rich.
  To them all the poor were ‘blessed’ and ‘sinless’, and I knew, from my own background, that they simply romanticised the poor, probably because they themselves were all rich people who had never lived one day of their lives in poverty.
  With Omar, being impure, or sinful could be anyone in society – and, your background or class didn’t matter.
  That was far more logical to me!

But with joining Omar’s party, came other problems for me.
How were we supposed to ‘find’ a Pig, or an impure person?
  How can we be sure if a person has the Pig Attributes in his mind?
  It seemed ludicrous to me!
  I had doubts because as attractive an orator that Omar was, once you went home and thought about what he actually said, a lot did not make sense.
  I had so many ideas that contradicted what Omar had to say.
  For example, can’t we achieve our goals by peaceful means – rather than choosing the path of violence?
  And if we must use violence, then why don’t we attack military targets and not civilians?
  Wasn’t it wrong to target civilians and civilian places – like factories, farms, and shops?

  
  There he stood; eyes blazing as ever.
  What makes eyes 'blaze' I wondered.
  They don't actually emit any light, do they?
  So how can one man have such penetrating, piercing eyes that go right to your innermost heart?
  Omar seemed to be made of steel.
  Or, maybe it was all in my imagination, as Sanji would always be telling me.
  It was his personality and also his body language: that stern, stiff way of standing, that seemed to be the epitome of defiance against the evil in the world!
  His whole body seemed to be chiselled from the purest marble; there he stood, this heroic rock, against the tyranny of the storms and the oceans that were crashing on him; and still, there he stood, not only in supreme piety, but also, there he stood, waging a struggle against these very dark forces of evil.
  He will rid our society and our nation from evil, and one day, we shall live in a truly happy country.
  This nation and its sad people, this nation that has so many miserable, poor and unhappy people, will soon be able to live free, happy lives, without the burdens and the shackles imposed on them by the ruling elites.
  He spoke:
"They need to be utterly, and without a shred of human mercy, be exterminated, or else, it is us, who will be exterminated! It is either them or us! We need to cleanse our entire body from these cancerous cockroaches. Don't you people understand? Call it '******', call it 'exterminate', call it 'butchering them' – I do not care; what I do care and what I need in order to breathe uncontaminated, fresh air,  is to surgically and methodically and blindly eliminate the very existence of every Pigs on our land! That is why we have no choice but to fight. The criminals leave us with no choice. If they surrender their corrupting ways agai

This writing might be a little twisted it’s just where I am I’m in a Nott in my soul and in my physical body
Knees that feel like the little bones are breaking then the other night I did the big no no I worked until
Four in the morning I got up before it was just my toes that had that numb feeling like stone
Well now the whole feet are in this shape so Neoprathy goes wild but the piece was important and so is
This one I was doing a job in California the rescission threw me out to do work of any kind it was like we
Followed the people that did bad jobs basically ripping people off but as I went up to the house this
Elderly lady came around the side of the house she had this tape and gauze around her neck what she
Said next had me riveted she was quiet but trembled when she said they surgically cut my throat and
Tomorrow they have to cut the other side she was so frail and truly had fear with torment I just
Blundered up on this horror that was controlling her life friend we all are going to face this one day I’m
Disturbed by the report of Sharon Osborne having to have a double mastectomy that she had done as a
Safe guard from getting breast cancer because she has the gene that causes breast cancer fear I know
She has a great family a support system that is stellar but in private moments the fear strikes deep I
wrote a piece on breast cancer I’m going to add it on to this piece I guess I’m rattled and I’m trying in my
Flaying way to set up a safe guard against this kind of terror I ran this gambit with my cousin and brother
In -law my cousin I would consider a pretty tough customer twenty two years he was the sheriff of a
Small town but you have to run back in his life as a teenager he said this after being raised in a Christian
Home as soon as I get eighteen I’m out of here he kept his word for some thirty years he never came
Around the church he lived it up smoked like a fiend had to have open heart surgery the black picture
Of his life he took the brush out of the saviors hand now he lived the good life decent upright but he did
Those things that brought trouble on top of trouble the next thing wasn’t his fault but a guy trying to run
From one town to this town without brakes and get them fixed there he ran into my cousin’s police
Cruiser rear ended him ultimately from injuries sustained he had to give up his job he had multiple
Operations that done nothing to relieve the pain he faced what the lady did in California they had to cut
His neck open in the back clear across to do a procedure in the midst of all of this he was struck with
Leukemia he stood in church and said he was scared they did the cell implant from his brother but he
Came to a prayer meeting not a church night and he made his way to an old fashioned altar broke
Through to God he found the fountain that ever sustains and gives life the following church night he
Stood up and said I am not afraid anymore and I have had severe pain for seven years and had to take
Powerful pain killers tonight I am pain free at the altar all of those years of mistakes were cleaned and
His feet were now centered on the paths that lead to glory all seemed to being going well he was just
In the hospital for routine help then they entered the room and said were sorry you are filled with
infection there is nothing we can do God called him home he died three days later but he found the
only answer for fear and torment someone needs this

Kylie
A song bird with a broken wing the cancer like the archer’s arrow pierced the breast the spirit widens
Under storm laden skies from inward hush and silence an opening umbrella of prayer provides a shield
The buffeted retreats to sheltering rocks and finds the hidden stream within depths blessed bindings
In warmest recesses your steps guided by the unseen over and through this dark passing new findings
With down cast eyes you continue the dark streets the home of the sick and the broken pain unspoken
You came upon these deep downward steeps from the flood lights and euphoric accolades of fame
Before your lyrical melodies were joyful expressive now will carry weighty and knowing sterling acclaim
Mined from troubles hard unrelenting walls finally the richest golden ore through your feelings pour
A little ease by the mystical dreams when sleep restores still withdrawn faces in the moonlight so pale
For a time at heaven you rail to costly you barter all that is thine to own backed by a great pink brigade
You fight with unstoppable courage you lead the march you find ground unvisited you go on without fail
Beaconing to legions behind encouraging you carry the burning torch showing the way through the dark
This my only desire I stand in this human body frail knowing my limitations but from the fight I call you
Don’t be afraid and never say give up to many are depending your touch glorious women you defend
Say in song the mystery you found in a city all alone you met sisters not age defined all filled with youth
In your face I see the unexplainable the untraceable a strength born from conflict a secret knowing
This is dedicated to Kylie Minouge Melissa Eatheridge and all breast cancer survivors

A bridge from colloquial to courtly fare
A span where idealism and fantasy pair
A railway to the existential realm; celestial lair
A conduit through which rational discourse can flare

Deep medium to: forage, inculcate, and inform
Broad brush to paint rare beauty; sculpt surrealistic form
Incisive scalpel to surgically alter the societal norm
Delicate utensil to educate on civility and decorum

A literary *****; a prosaic construct
A mechanism our syntax to deconstruct
An analytical tool; an observational viaduct
Introspective milieu to reduct; extrovertive sphere to reconstruct

A semantical edifice that aspiring wit, lofty orations implore
An experimental structure gramatical anomalies to explore
A thematic repository in which concrete ideas, abstract notions to
pour
A vernacular cathedral butressed by an idiomatic core

A love is special.
A love is unique.
But love is not.
I hope.

Forever tormented by the thought.
You took my love.
Uniqueness that can't be bought.
This feeling I had with you gone.
Forever lost and never retrieved.
My hearts passion truely deceived.

Despair swelling at my ankles.
Searching for love like before.
You punish me with shackles.
They've left me feeling cheap.

An artist without creativity.
Coloring with no feeling.
Incapable of sensitivity.
This image of replaying moments.
Plagiarism of my emotion.
A different person and yet.
My heart of thoughts - only confliction.

I want them to be special and unique.
This wall turned insurmountable.
My problem has come full circle with no solution.
Uniqueness ripped clean surgically.
You took it all perfectly.
Even these words you've taken from me.
I'm left with no choice.
You'll not have my voice!

I was once a boy who believed in words dipped in magic
Carefully coated with sugar
From a distance, they shimmered
whispered fog in its wake
surgically dipped into your heart at hummingbird speed
these sweet tender words were easy to swallow
however leaves a burning hole in your chest once it finds shelter in your body.
Even though your lips produced sweet words
I could never get the sour taste out of my mouth
The most you could have done was give me something to wash it down with:
the leftover tears in Samantha Thompson’s eyes
above Wedgefield’s polluted night sky
somewhere in the middle of an empty field inside his pickup truck
between the words I’m and Sorry
the cleanest and most deceitful of them all
I doubted every word.
I never cared much for the empty spaces between the lines of college-ruled paper
They are only meant to be filled with even emptier phrases
If I could, I wouldn’t fill in any spaces in the time we were together
It would only make our story much more incredulous
Adding more would make us less real.
Two hearts in love need no words
but in reality, you did most of the talking
The ***** blanket of faith
is a cocoon of words shared only between you and him.
We, however, were alien to this Earth
We dissolved amongst the shadows of light
produced from lampposts, only to be thrown back into the light
whether or not you wanted to show me who you really were
You always fancied yourself in artificial lighting compared to natural lighting
Fearing the natural light would show the colors you only kept to yourself.
Lovebug ran to each light as quickly as he could
for these lampposts can only cover so much of the unknown
We’ll be together forever
He ran to each one until he was alone
Until he couldn’t find himself
Each shadow that was passed before can be seen, traced
however his new reflection is indiscernible
You can try your hardest to look into dry puddles
only to find something that is not so concrete.
The only words worth believing in are the ones that are burnt slowly afterward
Entre deux coeurs qui s’aiment, nul besoin de paroles.
But no matter how much the lampposts grow taller,
or how the spaces between ruled-paper continue to dance, the word
love will always be the easiest word to swallow
but the hardest to digest once it rots in the thick of your stomach.

I get her, she writes me,
so eloquently,
”the nub of me; gist, manifested poetic”

one of the many poets I have never met,
one of the many poets, by whom,
I have been suchly, justly, richly and correctly
accused

this mesmerizing judgement,
her-over-easy, mini-essay so succinctly
assaying an accidental ability mine

explodes
a happy passageway to my brain,
a new aperture, the neurons firing at will,
the tormented inquisitor’s unasked question,
how did this happen to me?

rocking the Sunday morn cradle’s calm,
ok, ok, write me, write me,
demands my no longer free will,
utilize the free wi-fi of we fidelty

the bay, surgically barely treading water,
its surface of multitude of small waves
but now an entire ****** expression bidding welcome

the breezeways genteel,
smilingly
invites and push us into its
directionless & tideless soothful embrace,
to the shoreline we goeth,
to watch the occasional crossing vessel intruder,
woking the waters gentle

its white path residual wake foam-formed,
then almost instantaneously absorbed, bubbly bursting,
a history of a million moments awakened,
then, instantly returned to restful sleep,
akin to a newborn’s gurgling happy dreaming,
wiped clean away off to
Peter Pan’s it-never-happened-land

this carnival trick sideline of deep tissue knowingness,
sensing the essence of the who and the whom within,
with no data to go on other than their poetic collection,
the hidden meanings of the spaces and places between
the gene sequencing of their wondrous word-fullness
DNA poetic children, freely given,
and well taken
by me

I cannot explain it well enough, but then
a strayer thought breakaway,
a prehensile comprehension insertion
proffers itself as an explanation
intruded,
and here,
extruded

the perfect world exterior before me observable
thrusts itself through picture windows onto my demeanor,
a ****** addiction of mine, my soul enslaved,
cannot bear to be taken away from

this vista,

which begs me,
bring all those you know!
here, to share, this precious precise nook
where eye insightful incisions elicit poems-by-command

but I cannot, bring you here,

so I see~imagine it better through
your eyes, then
your
gist
is in my stubbed pencil nub, it is
your
poem’s destiny manifesting,
penciled through my scruff edged fingertips,
which-when-then transcribed to paper, to history,
‘tis all you
who writes,
not I

for now
you
are the solitary vessel waterborne,
you,
you
are the captain and I

but a
Samson-nite, burdened, baggaged and blinded stowaway,
hopeless, yet still see-worthy,
with your guiding eyes,  
keeping me to keep
your copyright righted,
onto its course true


7-14-19 9:43am
in shelter, on the isle

Hello, allow me to introduce myself.
My name is Jocund, The Gardener.
Living lucid, a fellow mind traveler.

That’s kind of like a chill Childe wanderer
Of the flowing forest floor,
Feathered cotton or greening words
On the wind unravel-er;
Gone’a’wandering in untraveled soils,
A seed settler.

Tragedy left my face sneer metered,
Mouth stretched sideways,
Toothy as a dumb grinning jester.

Yearning to make one stupid gesture,
So you’ll see I’m not too interested in being above or lesser.
Just on a mission,
Learning how to be both student and teacher:

Drawing abyssal blueprints,
Joining the disillusioned,
Describing a dynamic curriculum
And coding oaths like Odin’s to bind Cosmic-Woden’s
--Mr. Omnipotent to us rodents—undying reticulum.


Re-programmed to generate runic music
Nomenclature shaped in the underlying resonating
That is every particle operating in unison.

So I'm riding the chronicled-Euclidean space-time continuum
Of balance known to us as equilibrium,
And can you feel me breathing?

It’s the giving and taking and pushing and pulling of gravity propagating,
Bending light under and rending sight of what will be and what has been.

Oh well,
[Where], (when), {how} I am is what matters most to me.

“Jinkies!”
“What is it Velma?!”
“I think that’s Relativity.”

So, speaking relatively
I’d rather deduce from what’s relevant to me,
Lather rinse and reduce the divine to dust in the winds of time,
And maybe see the truth behind {who}, [what], (why) I’m-

[{assburgian]}: high functioning and genius,
Mumbling, s-st-stutterin', tic tic-ing and tremblin’.
it's ****-chilling and tedious.

But wait! There’s more.

{(Bipolar}): slightly manic, and comically dramatic.
Severely depressed and in a silent panic.
Practically sleepless, it’s fairly fantastic.
My memory I mean,
If all my senses witness a scene
The info is sealed within me perfectly,
Perceptually and verbally,
Non-mutational, stability.

In the short term, unfortunately,
My focus is overloaded with scenery
Of bullies, abusers, and over-users.
It’s misery listening to scratched records on repeat,
Immune to wrecking.
For that I thank my ([ADHD)]: predominately inattentive
Wtih dsylixea, definitive alcoholism, drug addiction, and the list goes on.
So yeah, I’m on the spectrum, I’m a functional positron.

“That guy’s *******, He can’t even act right.
He’s emotionless, a mindless robot.
There’s no empathy in that golem.
That ugly alien’ll never be like you or me,
He’s clueless, aloof and downright foolish.
So let’s just forget that freak, he kinda scares us.”

Oh yeah?
Well keep that **** in your ******,
Order the facts and double check’em.

“We're not so different you, me, and them.
We just built a bent border 'round the word disorder.
Sure, that’s the preference, to make no inference.
Ignorance is bliss, right?”

For my defense?
Well golly-gee thanks, that’s all lovely and great.
But now the neurologically typical person
Thinks they can fix me, without knowing my burdens
Like, “you’s gots a d’zeez cuz’a factseens”

This "cray" **** gets me irate.
Diagnoseez wrapped in fear-mongering, seen with hate,
And convinced to wait for a miracle.
Well too bad so sad,
The difference is anatomical.
So treating me means training me
To be “normal, deviations nominal.”

(Am I ******’a dog, what the ****?!
Wait, back it up and mix that bit up.)
“What the ****, am I a ******’ dog?!
Oh, if they knew the truth they’d think I’m a ******* demigod.”
(Ha right, more like a log full buried eternally in'a boggle.)

My parents tried and tried for my birth,
They almost considered me impossible.
I was nearly inconceivable.
Then the multi-verse cursed,
And that message was receivable,
I heard it was a freakin’ miracle.
Not that mom cared, she was irresponsible.
Wanted to be a free mirth queen.

Aww, she just needed security.
Even after my birth on Friday 3/13/92 into a noose,
Loosely scorned and hardly lyrical.
They had to remove me surgically from the womb and
Now I've grown oddly into a super human body.

I’m physically atypical with an extra lumbar vertebra.
Some think me mythical, my hearts cage is even, part of a
Hard skeleton wearin’ *** appeal and a
Strong fresh sheath of flesh that’s quick to heal.
Ask me to speak, out comes a voice so deep you’d think the sky fell.

I’m mentally inexplicable,
Thinking in infinite Voices simultaneously painting imagery indefinitely.  
It has me lagging in a neuronal-conundrum.
I’m containing a brain wound up and
So over-wired it's redundant.

Making my head so heavy the ground is over-tired,
Barely overcoming addiction to dilating mundane details.
And a bit slow to obtain'em,
Those growing verbal-perceptual rains of information.
It's why I'm highly aware of the visual-spatial patterned puzzle pieces of existence.

So my mind is orbiting off in the distance,
Oblivious to non-verbal relation,
Just spaced-out communication.
I'm nearly incompatible
With most people in this global nation.
Everyone's got recipes for lemonade,
And I've got durian, that's **** ironical.
I told you, the difference is anatomical.
Can't be changed, so forget being normal tragically!

“That’s great and all,
But you still can’t communicate,
Associate,
Or surmount your human viewpoint
And recreate.
So what’s the point, you’ll never amount
And you shouldn't be allowed to procreate,
Just **** yourself.”

Shut the **** up, mate!
No one is beyond help,
And I'm in good health.
So who says I need your help.

I’m a catch-it-all trainer,
Long distance sprinter,
Heavy weight lifter,
Martial arts practitioner,
And Muay Thai fighter
Of the metaphysical plane or
Flyin’ my x-wing, taking out tie fighters.
Muckin’ up misinformed storm troopers,
Shovin’ **** back down their word poopers.

Yeah, I’ve tried playin’ The Game
That society designed.
But that sick joke
Was painfully lame.
And the punchline,
All but broke me.


I died philosophically.
Spent three days regenerating.
Re-writing my subconscious poetry
Like The Doct-uh,
The Boo-duh,
Or Mist-uh
Believe-in-me.

Pulverizing words into compost,
Composing metaphor to re-code seeds
Set to regrow self-trees from the ground up.
Splitting myself up into three categories,
(Mind), [body], and {me} all clowned up.

It is a truly significant allegory,
Greening my being with jocundity.
Creating profundity for gardening,
Generalizing and broadening the concept
And applying it metaphorically.

In the attempt
To join fantasy
With reality
And become truly
One with “we”;
Livin' and loven'in
Disparity and hilarity
Of you,
Me,
And every fellow
There is to see.

So, “hello
i am the gardener and
i am jocund and
…|[{(i am)}]|…
quite pleased
to meet
we.”

It's like everyone and everything around you is moving,
blossoming,
becoming something,
And you're here,
watching it all happen,
the only thing telling you you're alive is the rising and sinking of your chest, and you're alive but not living,
and you feel nothing,
numb to the touch,
Numb to the sadness that makes the tears stream down your cheeks,
Numb to the pain that makes you pinch the fat on your body and scream looking in the mirror,
Numb to the anger that makes you rip out your own hair,
It's someone who meant so much to you leaving you to notice all the bare walls and empty spaces and expressions,
Just like the one that's left in your eyes,
It's like laughing at a joke but not really understanding what was funny about it and it just seemed like the thing to do at the time,
It's like every emotion at once yet you're still left with no explanations for anything you've said and done the past month or so,
It's a sinking pain that starts in your chest and sinks so low you think it'll reach your feet,
It's like that part of you that makes you feel anything at all,
Has been surgically removed and you're left with nothing,
Absolutely nothing

It's a natural phenomenon
That all or most of us girls, whether
you have big ones or you're from the iddy biddy ***** committee -
Have confidence issues
About the size of them bras

We grow up looking at all the beauty and perfection in the magazines
Those shiny,  glossy pages of materialistic vanity

Thinking ...
I wish that was me !

Beauty, is in the eyes of the beholder
Yet, we shrivel up with fear when
It's time to be with another

Thinking they're wishing the size
of them bras was BIG
As a ripe yellow Cantaloupe! :)
You lose your confidence even if
It's not true

Our men can't help themselves
Cheating roaming eyes, as they scan those surgically implanted
Plastic fantasies
Rise and heave !

Forgetting what a real woman looks like
They fall for the ones with a huge
Chest on the outer crest

They're glorious! !
But underneath -
They have confidence issues too
That's why the knife was their
Best bet

Jrap/2016

I want to perform
self surgery
Open this heart up
See
what's really bothering it
Brain surgery
Remove these thoughts
stuck in my head
Get to the bottom of this
Eliminate the pain
The memories
The anxiety
Surgically

Relationships are not easy-peasy,,
Some take work, some, self-sacrifice.

Some must overcome defects congenital,
Obstacles so great that the Roman Gods
Are asked to intervene,
Send down those hotties, the fiery Furies,
who punished crimes at the instigation
of the soon to be frozen victims

So to the chase,
let's cut,
My woman's has true blood,
H2O
In solid state.

Her body is icy, permanent frosty,
And requires regular de-icing
Before Take Off.
This condition being true of her
Every part except, her prima facie.

Even the bed complains,
Whining creeks and groans,
Sometimes it even screams,
When she get in sans pajamas.

I,
A bastion of extra human warmth,
As my poems bear witness,
Normal temp is 102,
I am the joy of her life,
For love, I make the
Ultimate sacrifice.

Her feet, medieval torture instruments,
Her bare hands, have
Killed lesser men and folkloric-ly,
Reputedly, she has flash froze and keeps
Some vampires in the basement fridge,
Suitable for reheating in the microwave.

You may think this charming,
This poem, an amuse-bouche,
But it ain't funny when I go to the
Emergency room for first degree burns.

Remember when Ralph's friend
Got his tongue stuck to the metal pole,
In "A Christmas Story"?
That was me, that was her!

But our together,
Approaching near five years,
Is a Survivor.
Two hurricanes, ******* named
Irene and Sandy,
A divorce from a mean spirited wbitch
That took so long
The Matrimonial Lawyers ***-ociation
Had my portrait painted over their fireplace.

Even the icicles otherwise know correctly as
Her Extremities,
Have not come between us

When my lips kiss her neck,
Surgically remove heart with poetic scalpels,
Hold it, fluttering and with both hands, warm.

Her eyes close, and neuronic messages
Commence firing, telegraphed, messengered,
To the far corners of every Purim Persian province,
Let the wicked witch melting begin,
Commence the holiday of
Her Festivities.

If you think any man,
Could perform said feat of endurance,
You better checkout again the name of the
Man who authored this story,
For his name, with special powers, endowed.

Justice is unjust,
When it merely imposes,
The will of the state.

_______

Justice
Time: The all too near future
Place: A courtroom
Setting: Final sentencing of a prisoner convicted of the last remaining capital offense on the books of a kinder, gentler, fairer world in which equality is no longer a mere aspiration.
________

The prisoner stared impassively into the camera. The bright lights causing beads of sweat to form above his eyes and forcing him to squint, his perspiration-soaked thinning hair flattened unflatteringly against his forehead. No sound could be heard other than the faint hum of the air conditioning whose airflow was directed from the high ceiling above the high seats of the three judge panel, towards the three judges, keeping their immediate area comfortably cool. The camera trained on them remained a respectful distance away, and no harsh lights illuminated their somber countenances.

All three judges stared at the camera showing no emotion, their hands folded in front of them on the surface of their capacious bench on top of three equal stacks of paper placed before them. Everywhere on earth citizens watched the unfolding drama over the neural net that provided a fully immersive experience indistinguishable from reality, effectively placing every citizen on the planet in the courtroom as the Chief Judge began to speak in a deep, resonant, clear voice.

“The evidence against you has been examined. This tribunal finds you guilty of the charges against you by a unanimous vote. Have you anything to say before we pass sentence?”

The camera cuts back to the prisoner. The lights brighten around him and the heat rises perceptibly, adding fresh fuel to the trickle of sweat flowing down his flushed face, causing a bead of sweat to form at the end of his nose that he is unable to swat away because his wrists are restrained by metal bands at the armrests of his metal chair, outside the viewing range of the camera’s tight zoom on his face.

“I am guilty of no crime,” the prisoner protests in a low voice full of palpable weariness and resignation.

“You are guilty of the most heinous of crimes,” the Chief Judge contradicts, raising his voice and causing the prisoner to cringe.
“That is not open to debate. This is your final chance to make what amends you may to those whom you have harmed through your selfish, deviant act. It will have no effect on this Court’s sentence.”

“But I have done nothing wrong,” the man emphatically protests again, as ribbons of perspiration roll down his neck and deepen the growing ring of dark sweat absorbed by his bright orange jumpsuit, leaving a collar of dark moisture around his neck.

“Silence!” the Chief Judge hisses through tight lips. “The record will show that the prisoner is unrepentant. This Court finds that he willfully, maliciously and without justification removed his neural connector with the purpose and effect of severing his connection to the neural nets. We further find that the motivating factor for this most egregious, malevolent and repugnant crime was the attempt to abandon the Common Consciousness and establish his individuality separate and apart from the Communal Mind. We further find that the subject is in full possession of his legal faculties and capable of understanding the criminal nature of his acts, and, perhaps most tragically, that he fails to see the enormity of his crime.” The Chief Justice faltered slightly, delivering the final words of the Court’s sentence with a slight tremor in his voice. After stopping a moment to compose himself as his learned colleagues looked on impassively, he continued. “It is, therefore, the judgment of this Court that you will forever remain disconnected from the nets from this day forward.”

Upon hearing the Judge’s words the prisoner’s eyes opened wider, attempting to digest their import. Could it be? Might he finally be allowed the what he believed to be his unalienable right to be an individual for the first time in his life? The opportunity to live in a world in which he could have original thoughts, genuine emotions, privacy and the opportunity to be different from everyone else? The joy he felt nearly made him faint with relief and unbridled joy, allowing him for the first time in his life the possibility of hope as tears welled in his eyes.

He found he could not speak, could not express even the simple words “thank you” to the Court. It was as though he were emerging from a life-long nightmare, as if. . .

“The prisoner’s IP address, 999.999.999.999, shall be erased from the Nets,” the Judge continued as the prisoner’s tears now flowed freely. “His existence shall be forever stricken from the Collective Consciousness lest it germinate there and once again grow sedition in our midst.” The prisoner wept openly now while smiling broadly.
“The death sentence for this most heinous of crimes is hereby commuted so that the prisoner may be allowed the individuality he craves for the rest of his natural life, devoid of the comfort of our collective humanity or the distracting influences of life.”

The Chief Judge then paused and took a deep breath, as the prisoner shuddered with relief. He then continued in a slow, resonant voice. “It is further ordered by this Court that the prisoner shall have his eyes, eardrums, tongue and olfactory organs surgically removed that he may not taste, smell, see, hear, or speak with any other human being for the rest of his natural life. Thereafter, he is remanded to a hospital where he shall be restrained to a bed and tended to by robotic life support aids that he may be denied the comfort of feeling another human beings warm touch upon his skin. The sentence of this Court shall be carried out immediately and shall be witnessed by all the citizens of Earth as partial reparation for this most heinous of crimes against humanity.”

The prisoner’s screams lasted only a few moments as an anesthetic was administered and the cameras were re-arranged in preparation for justice to be carried out.

(C) 2011, 2019 Victor D. Lopez - All rights reserved.

What happened to our artists?
When did our beauty become surgically enhanced?
Goodbye Mr Hedberg, Hello Mr Macintyre.
Goodbye Ms Whinehouse, Hello Miss Perry.
Goodbye Mr Byron, Hello Ms Kardashian.
Goodbye Mr Mercury, Hello Mr Braun.
Goodbye Mr Wilde, Hello Mr Sheen.
Those smiling faces that tell us "everythings Okay!"
A farewell to the beauty of self destruction

Goodbye Art. Hello Art.

The Gift of the Sleeping Magi


"But in a last word to the wise of these days
let it be said that of all who give gifts,
these two were the wisest.  
Of all who give and receive gifts,
such as they, are wisest.  
Everywhere, they are wisest.  
They are the Magi."
O. Henry

The woman, traveling alone, thru dangerous
West Side badlands, dancing lands,
where resident fairies, ex-ballerinas all,
magical mystify a passerby's thoughts,
mesmerizing them with their mercurial maneuvers,
tango dancing upon shimmering glass pieces,
enslaving all who gaze upon them forever,
turning their captives into sleeping beauties.

Restlessly awaiting her return,
the hombre-lover early retires
to the bed chamber,
weary from another day's
woeful world worries,
long past midnight, he awakens,
disoriented, discombobulated,
and alone.

Fearing the worst,
he summons her return with text spells
and magical ringing cell's bells,
all to no avail.

He dresses,
readying for the search,
to bring her home.

Ready to depart,
he opens the door,
only to find the woman
asleep before their door.

Unwilling to awake
her sleeping hombre,
she gifts him a
rest undisturbed.

Shoulder grasped, elbow guided,
her eye glasses surgically removed,
he returns her to their bed,
to complete her own rest.
instantly, she is re-gifted,
colliding with a gravity pulling her,
into a pleasurable deep sleep.

Now wide-eyed awake,
the hombre muses and
poetry pens this tale
of his restless confusion.

O. Henry's words refurbished,
rise up, infiltrate his consciousness.

Of all who give and receive gifts,
even the simplest,
rest undisturbed, rest completed,
they are the wisest,
everywhere they are wisest.

They are Magi.


2::03 AM, a few years ago.

Maybe it started going down Peasley Canyon Road. I can't recall.
****.
Maybe it started with not giving, or not wanting to.
No matter really, that act was over, the lines were out and the curtain drawn.
It's funny what the mind drags up
on it's own.
Mine drags up things like lost telescopes, looked thru
and cracked plastic leather , that hadn't
yet.
I knew how that man on TV felt who had only months to live, as I had only weeks.
Only two.
So...I gave you my blue apres-ski sweater, too big, a ring I still wear, too big to0 and my love, that I suppose wasn't.
On the plane away it was like a mixer gone crazy inside me...part staying, part going.
Of the part that went along I lost or had it removed with drill parades and dope lectures, fighting fires you can't loose and paper targets.
Very surgically.
Letters to you had phrases like 'smashed psyche' (which I still can't spell) and 'never let go'.
Bunk beds can be fun until they're made of steel and draped with woolen blankets and someone's legs from Alabama.
One of my friends at camp turned me on and I became the barracks Dylan, I'm not sure whether Thomas or Bob.
After a hundred years and eleven weeks it ended
and started.
A nice lady at the airport gave us all the only ****** shot we'd e had in eighteen hundred hours.
I'd called, prior to leaving and you were there at the end of that in-and-out mouth that blows the people out and ***** them back in after the fuel
I'd grown tired of walking up that ramp in my dreams but that time, I left no tracks at all.
A blue dress with ruffles round the neck and those patterned nylons then the rage. I read a few days ago that holding hands feels good even in this day and age.
Send that lady a rose.
Two weeks can last 20 minutes, I know.
Then started the back and forth of school a thousand miles away and painful phone call and Conni ,signed with a circle above the i.We split and mended a couple of times and I read the Harrad Experiment and I got a purple note from Conni and I called to say... I'm not sure what.
Hello...goodbye.
Time went by and so did school.
I remember walking across this field in San Francisco and being depressed by how long it took for fifteen minutes to pass when one considered four years.
I flew home to you that weekend and was duly dropped from school the next.
I asked for some dreamed of tug boat in Puget Sound but got instead a minesweeper in Japan. We'de done the front seat and hurried basement tango and I called Conni to say
well, I'm not sure what.
Hello
Goodbye
Stairs and glass and a clutching you and a sick me.

October 10th, Nineteen Sixty Eight
A hand, a car, a reading, a letter, a truck, a plane, a train and another reading.
I think there were only five or six lines to it but it was enough.
No yo-yos, no pick me up and put me down again...ok?
OK, I love you.
A friend named Green, a hundred talks sometimes with wine, sometimes not. Letters and business calls to you, cycles with no keys and McGaha, Clarence BM1, unit of issue one each, houses and no overnights, Lt. Cris Curtis and no-trouble dissension, the Maharishi and July and you and me and you and me
The Astronauts made it and we did too,  by the gate to the new lake
"A small step for man, a giant leap for mankind."
He was almost right.

June 21st Nineteen Seventy
The shrink never seen and you in Southern California at four in the morning and the Kona Hotel.
Burning ears and imagined heavies sent to intercept us at the infamous glass door.Not the first time but the best time.
Flying home together you gave me the window seat and your hand, all I needed.

November 15th  Nineteen Seventy
Sea-tac Motor Inn, coffee and toast and love.
I'm glad you didn't come down cause Ed was there and he was bad enough at saying goodbye.
Calls to you from Hawaii and Kwajaline and Guam and islands no one ever heard of but fish and me.

T minus 180-179-179-177
ad infinitum
Goodbye Subic Bay, goodbye
Tricks to keep away reality like tapes from home and **** in the old man's coffee cup. Jokes told and re-told till we all re-laughed.
Who ever heard of Sea Detail at 3:30 in the morning?
Me, thank God.
Friend Green was gone from Hawaii too, so I left on the first plane. SoCal again as the news media calls it, two days of debriefing then
out
I can't remember if I took a bus or a cab to the airport nor can I really recall which gate or even if you were there.
I guess I start at the tunnel yelling "OUT, I"M OUT!
I don't know if it started going up Peasley Canyon road or down.

when i was little, i dreamt of being a princess
because taking charge is what i do best
and why not do it in a long pink dress?

i may not be royalty but i am royally *******
by being an overemotional teenager who ...
listens a bit too much to what society says
and not enough to what she has to say
about herself

i feel like that needle in a haystack
when it comes to the future.
i’m still asking if i can use the bathroom
when i’m expected to have my whole life planned out
by the time the leaves start to change
and i have to surgically remove my arm to sell on the streets so four years from now i’m not living on one ... with nothing but a fancy degree held above my head when it rains the cold realization that i am $100,000 in debt
and have no idea what i’m doing


so what am i supposed to do
when i still find myself comparing who i am now,
to who i could have become
without the challenges of 2012
still hanging on my shoulders


when i lay in bed at night,
thinking about how different i would be
if life hadn’t thrown me a curveball
that knocked me off home plate and out of my comfort zone,
out of the dreams of an ivy league school or graduating with high honors -
when i’m just lucky to be graduating on time.

while my peers are getting acceptance letters,
i’m getting the reminder that the battle has just begun,
the war of me against myself in accepting the past as it is,
regretting my mental disorder will not make it go away no matter how hard i fight.

i know that forgiveness equals growth,
a never-ending road of
constantly changing
twisting and winding
paths that never seem to have any clues
as to which one is the right one.

i’ve blindly picked a path, a quest if you will.
i am on a quest to be the best
no no, let me rephrase, MY best
because my best is all i can give and someday,
those that told me otherwise
will be eating those sugar coated words
when i have finally accepted MY best is true success.

so when i was little, i did dream of becoming a princess
but today, i’m dreaming of being a better me than yesterday

His hand was outstretched, nabbing a pesky windswept hamburger wrapper
near a garbage can alongside the exit to the cafeteria
Bent over, exposed, frozen, pretending the hamburger wrapper
required more effort than normal to dislodge it from the open air just above the ground
Perhaps it was a turnip or a beet, that he had to carefully, surgically remove
and it was only that he saw me coming
if I could have slowed down time, to slow motion
Seeing my boss, the principal of the school, up ended like this
for the sole purpose of not having to look me in the face, I would have
more kids would have had a chance to stare at this strange posture,
and wonder how a hamburger wrapper could have such a difficult
time being removed from the ground and I want to remember this pose
it only gets worse, and as my exit comes nearer, I feel lighter
but he still can't look me in the eye
if he felt secure in his decision, in all his decisions about me
he could, but he doesn't
So he will focus more time than needed to grasp that delicate
wrapper, which contained a stale bun and the remains of a dairy cow
spent and gone before her time on a factory farm in the central valley
and if insecurity can impose such ludicrous postures on a person
I will take this lesson, and remember always to be brave

So, next week, I lose a limb.
I have it marked on my calendar in neat, purple letters.
Humans, unlike starfish, spiders, or Dr. Curt Connors, cannot regrow limbs.
They can be amputated or removed surgically to prevent disease,
But this is different.

You see, this Friday, when I lose my limb, I won't get a replacement limb.
And the disease, if you can call it a disease, well,
As far as I can see, it'll spread faster than ever.

Have you ever loved someone so much that they become a part of you?

First of all, it's very unhealthy.

Second of all, it's the most wonderful feeling in the world.

Well, if you've ever felt this way toward someone else, it's safe to say that someday, you will start to think of them as an actual part of you- like your other half.

The more time you spend with them, the more you'll read their expressions, pick up on the nuances of their speech and expression, the more you'll open up to them and sync up to their moods and habits-

It's frightfully parasitic.

And when they leave, it's like losing a part of yourself-
After all, you've put so much into each other,
So much that you'll never get back.

I'm in love, and it's beautiful and terrifying.

My love is a part of me that's getting ripped off this Friday.

You see, he's moving three hours away.

He's a year older, and he's going to college.
I'm more scared than he is about it.

Luckily, we're only separated by physical distance.
But honestly- you know that gag in movies where the villains tie the protagonist limb by limb to four horses and send the horses galloping off in four different directions?

That.
It feels like that.

This Friday, I'm losing a limb- for now,
I'm losing him.

So, soon, I'll have to learn to live as just one part of a whole.

That is, until Thanksgiving break...

Me in my mirror, mirror 
A ghoulish sight.

Awkward skulk 
'A clay face'
As my nose says 
'A dog snout'
As my eyes would say

Skin like a shelter
For bacterial catacombs
Rising up from under like undead

Screaming inside
I press my face into the right morph
Re-bend the crooked nose
Self-correct the bloated chin
I layer on more clay, then
Mold it again.
Re-mold some more.
Slice some off; 
what am I now?

"Pretty." an ideal voice says 

*******,
My eyes are tired from staring
"They aren't lasers"
I tell myself
"They can't surgically correct you"

And So 
goes another night.

I have dug
a hole
near the house
where you live

and lifted
the veins; daffodils
surgically
from the soil

they watch
from my window
so tall
and so yellow

I am a shadow shifting upon the broken wall
Vast visage dwindling in an urban sprawl
I am chaos, darkness left unchecked
A vicious tyrant, call me regret
I hunt happiness by the light of day
Spawning tragedy in night's great purvey
A manic schizophrenic enthralled with misanthropia
The tapering end of a surgically severed ganglia
An anarchisticly pessimistic vision of utopia
Regret the king, paradise turned dystopia

I captained logs lovingly across
a musky pond
to hang stars on this date
when so much happened.
Let’s wake in the missed-me morrow
and I’ll try to recapture it.

6am

My aroused heart pounds with the eager
pecks of new world sparrows
feasting on a found pile of saltine *******
crumbs.

With these easier pickings, they can gloss
over hypothetical seeds lost
and the unfortunate insects
still trapped in their tightly wrapped buds
while emitting
a silky trickle of pollen sweetened tears
I might have once confused as joy.

8am

My mouth is a cast iron bell
robbed of its moistness
and the service of a tongue that would rather be
surgically cut without
the requisite anesthesia
than extol with slithering anticipation
the downfall of cold-blooded prey.

A grubby grimace can’t
switch off the cockle-less warmth
gazed by an elegantly impolite swan,
but amazingly cottony soft escapes can
be ginned with the bait of a choirboy’s tender
“Have mercy!”

10am

My nutmeg brown irises are diced
fresh and tossed into a ***
where spiced hot they’re shown
the urgency this yet-to-be plucked rose feels
when the mid-morning light
accumulates with enough heat
to bake the earth chocolate.

The tattered edges of her puckered lips
glow an ardent shade of pink and make
a beacon, signaling kingly butterflies to abdicate
their aimless flutters and jet
directly toward her alluring realm.

Noon

My usually cool tips can’t maintain
their aloof trance and they trip
red with sudden blushes over the damaged
clasp on a school girl’s lunch box
crayoned with lemonade kittens,
their wordless greetings.

It’s unlatched to reveal no magic
pressed in the chunks of pickle loaf,
but the foetid and desperate
fruits of a wish for can’t-stay-at-home mothers
to be released from the wages of others’
drudgery.

A squirrel drags her white bread
and dappled meat onto the play lot
where the child’s storm-cloud stare
breaks with the flash
and low rumble of laughter.

2pm

My soles crave the touch of loose-dirt
roads, but it’s my ankles that meet
brambles and are torn by their tiny kisses
from which a rubbery
beauty of sappy drips trails back
to grow pastel primavera blooms.

Their long, tapered necks
and delicate, glassy horns blow
the modulated notes of an icy hymn.

Its diamante flecks freckle
the hovering blue before falling
to press these young,
painted plants into a frieze
and free them from wilting.

4pm

My nape aches for the subtle
weight on not supple joints
between thick fig branches
powdered with a maquillage of snowy dust.

No one care can snap them
or keep them from sheltering
the grazes of constantly bleating sheep.

Candy floss wool is tinted
jonquil then apricot then cherry
as the distant and fiery ball of a sun
slowly descends to the quenching
splash in its night-deposit bucket.

6pm

My unencumbered back gently rolls with a raft
adrift on ripples raised
when unknown aquatic creatures
stir in a shallowly cupped liquid.

Their pleasant plunks and gleeful gurgles
are carried on the crisply creeping evening
air to wash away
the unsavory wafts of salty rumors.

Here I can’t scent the far-removed
oceans racked by hunger’s
chilling frissons and the pundit’s
raging rants to at all-costs maintain
the elevation of market-priced pap.

And I drifted off...

donald-trumpaphobia
college **** culture
women's rights
global warming
social inactivity

ISIS and extremists
melting ice caps
who crash into deep water, gone, undone
lack of civility in millennials

technology enhanced cyborgs
whose eyes have been surgically sewn to a screen
family issues and self-created isolation
coining yourself the black sheep
to compensate for the need of attention

even if its the wrong kind
one upping to feel important
even if it means leaving your sister in your shadow
the need for narcissism and self-obsession
self-praise and prickly conversations

held at arm's length because we can only stand to be around you
for a few minutes at most and
I yell at you but you do not take in my words
you listen not to understand but to reply

talking to you is more work than talking to a brick wall
which you've build around yourself because if no one can get in
no one can hurt you

and we get it, you're serious about global issues
and we respect it. we encourage it. we praise it.
but haven't you heard
that too much of a good thing... is bad?
and too much of a bad thing.. is, well... good.

not.

you can only build walls so high
before they tumble down and destroy that around them
spewing debris in all directions like a flamethrower with no limit
a tongue of fire burning everyone around
that not even water can heal, leaving scars

reminders
that although you have been quenched, rebuilt, moved on
your words, your actions
they live on, physical reminders to the pain you put me through
although we sit and laugh, I remember

sooner or later you have to know
that living is not dependent upon pointing out
every social issue and making future plans
complaining about all the world's problems
and rambling until your mom makes you stop

a big part of living is enjoying it
the carefree sunsets with toes covered in sand that sticks
and midnight premiers at harry potter movies
enjoying life is dancing in the kitchen with your lover
while rainbow colored pancakes cook

and running to make the winning goal as the clock ticks to zero
blood pumping through your veins
even when faced with death in a close call car cash
life speeding by in a heartbeat
only then can you appreciate that you are alive

live and love
don't waste it all criticizing and changing all that's wrong in the world
because you are only you
you cannot fix everything

Razor-tipped pencils that surgically
               slice patterned pages
Soft brushes from fingertips like afterthoughts
                    puddling atop pillows

In Orange County


In Orange County, Californiyay,
When you arrive at John Wayne Airport,
No need to show driver license or passport,
But be prepared for inspection to gain entry.

Are your teeth white enough to light the roads?
Is your navel hairless and clean enough to be licked?
Do you have two tats, if not, get going back
to whatever!
If your not blonde, produce pictures of your parents,
In any event, law demands, go directly to the colorist!

At the John Wayne Airport,
Religion is everywhere,
Who says God is illegal
In the great state of California-yay?

A flimsy dress, no room to guess,
Sashays slowly before the lines of the waiting,
If you are a believer, all is revealed,
A thong is the path to the Promised Land,
All you do is silent pray, Good God,
Mine eyes have seen the coming of The Lord!

A middle aged woman with many large bags
Dances a pas de deux with the luggage carousel,
Wrestling those black devils to the ground,
Her less than flat physique is displayed,
All you do is silent pray, Good God,
Please tell me she is pregnant!

Everybody smiles and says hello, so friendly,
But having mastered the technique of doing so
While looking over and past you, rest assured,
Your New York sensibilities of ignoring the movie star
Sitting next to you on the subway feels like the ultimate,
True cool.

In this place the sun never sets, which is why the citizens
Have sunglasses surgically attached to their heads.
Have not seen a big nose 'cept mine
Being looked down on from people who by law
Must be a minimum of six feet tall.

Need my gritty, need my cabbies giving me the finger,
Need the senior citizens fighting tooth and elbow for anything on sale,
Need my rivers, need to bleed orange and blue,
Need my ballet, my museums, my rude compatriots,
Who rush to your side when you sidewalk stumble,
Who never judge a book by its cover,
Cause the **** next to you is likely the author.
Who open their pockets and hearts to every needy person,
Hand extended, give 'em a buck, genuinely wish 'em God Bless,
They who let us share the fabric, woof and weave of our
City streets, their homes...

I got beach, I got mountains,
So maybe they're not visible from my living room,
But I got more living in the hearts of my fellow Yorkers,
Than there are grains of sands on the beaches of
Orange County.

(This post is dedicated to all my followers who still stuck with me after my long hiatus. I'm running low on inspiration these days. I am not a good writer but I'm working towards being one. I hope this post more or less compensates for my long absence.)

A LETTER TO MY LOVER'S FUTURE WIFE

     First things first, he is not my lover. He never has been and probably never will be. But he is very dear to me, and I do not think that I will be forgetting him anytime soon, and thus I considered him my lover. I hope you are okay with that. After all, my thoughts will in no way affect your life. I am writing this letter to congratulate you. You are able to trace the veins on his hands; his pair of hands which I was not privileged enough to touch. Run your fingers over his and remember how soft it is. Only then would it be fair to him because his hands are amazingly sculptured. Remember how they look like, remember how they feel like, even long after he's gone. I would also like to congratulate you for having the chance to see him every day. You see, he has the kind of face you don't get tired of staring at. I hope you notice that. I didn't know faces work that way when you're in love.

     That being said, I would like to pass on several guidelines to you. Guidelines on how to look after this boy. At the time of this letter, we are both eighteen. Young, raw, and still halfway through college. Okay, how do I put this in a nice way. He is light-hearted. Free-spirited. He does what he wants, as long as he is happy. He skips classes often here, I'm not going to deny that. Make sure he doesn't do the same for his work. Force him out of bed and make him go to his ****** job unless he's too sick to sit up. He has a family to feed and children to raise now. Help me shape him into a responsible man. I trust you enough to do this. Also, let him buy his cereals. He will still probably eat it in the morning when he's in a rush, in the evening while he's waiting for you to prepare dinner, and at night when he's too lazy to make supper but too hungry to go to bed after two movies. He makes the most disgusting-tasting oats. I tried it once and it tasted like *****. Trust me, there is nothing you can do about it because he's convinced that it tastes good. Perhaps his tongue has been surgically engineered when he was a fetus. I don't know. Either way, love him for that. But don't let him be the one who makes cereals for the children. Poor, poor children. One more thing, be ready to let his lips touch the mouth of your drinking bottle if he asks for water. He doesn't know how to pour liquid from a bottle without wetting himself. He's an idiot like that.

     Oh, and the air purifier in your room? Clean it once in a while. Make sure the machine works well. He's allergic to dust and I don't know the effects it has on him. And his body can't tolerate coldness that much, so compromise with him and agree on an intermediate temperature, please? Personally, I don't like it too cold either but I do not matter in this context.

     Anyway, I have to go to bed now. It's 1:27AM and I have a class in the morning. I might write another letter to you in the future, I might not. After all, both of us share an extraordinary bond. You are currently in love with someone I used to love. You must have seen the same things I saw in him, probably even more. Maybe I could actually get along with you well, if I could make myself stop wondering what I am lacking every time I look at you.

She deserves recognition
For her work as a technician
Who's expertise is ball bustin
Who majors in *******

Excelling in the field of advance
Hot air production
A profession heckler who
Composes an orchestra conductin

A firework show eruptin
With colorful rants red, and purples
She's acclaimed for rhetorical
Questions that repeats in circles

An elite linguistics scholar
Who's sarcasm is an accomplishment
Very talented...no gifted at making
An insult sound like a compliment

And Her stamina to do so
Is like an Olympian who's pleased
Only when her track and field
Meet of slander makes ur ears bleed

A masters degree in belittling
A graduated philosopher for the bitter
Must be a psychologist the way
She attacks my sanity to litter

Insecurities, and doubts and I
Heard she has a phd in hypnosis
Until u start to believe her *******
And this psychosomatic is ur psychosis

A world class magician who's
Tricks leave u perplexed in thought
A novelist who narrates to taunt
Controlling all characters and plot

She wrote the book on torturing
A man and emasculating him so
He may never move forward and
She was in the military I'm told

Historically known for her
intellectual Warfare
Manipulating soilders and utilizing
The grounds to ambush u there

A social tyrant who's brilliant
Political ties help her achieve
Her plan like constituents are
Biased so they're all after me

A paralegal who's unfair and lethal
And to her it's titalation
Unfair is her terms but like a
Perm ull get burned in litagation

A degree in early childhood
Education so she acts like a rebel
Perfecting being childish and
Unaffected by ur feelings on levels

Only a schoolyard bully could
Match, she's my jailhouse warden
Who's power is focused on me
Relentlessly constructing like a foreman

With Her future blueprints to
See what the hell she builds for me
Will look like, and she's also a director
In the ******* industry

So she tells in great detail
Just how I'll be ******
She must have been taught by
Peter pan how to never grow up

Trained as medic who specializes
In one area over them all
Nudering human males
So surgically she removes my *****

After she breaks them and
So I am the constant fool
This exceptional jack of trades
Makes me wish that I stayed in school