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

My autism's a part of me,

But it is apart, you see.

...

Who are you?

With your ‘normal’ view.

Are you just one thing, or are you a person

With thoughts & feelings, that are your own unique version.

Preferences, ideas, talents, and dreams?

That are bound by senses that meet at their seams.

Are you fat, short sighted or visually impaired?

Are you ever wondering why I just stood and stared.

Those may be the things that I saw the first time I meet you,

But you’re more than just your ‘normal’ diagnosis…. True?

As an adult, you have control over how you’re defined.

Your normality means your perceptions are refined.

So why would you single out one characteristic of mine that you can make known.

As a child, I am still unfolding, I’m not fully grown.

Neither you nor I yet know of what I am capable.

If you think of me as just one thing, then one thing’s inescapable.

You run the danger of assuming I have no chance of achieving.

And my heightened senses know this, it’s only you you’re deceiving

For I am not endowed with any ordinary sense.

You need to know this before I commence.

You take for granted sight, sound, taste, touch and smell.

Never once realising that these things can be as painful as hell

For me.

You see.

My world often feels hostile, and makes me so fearful.

I may appear withdrawn or belligerent, whilst others are cheerful.

Or mean to you, or antagonistic,

Defending myself, then going ballistic.

You tell me we’re going on a trip to the shops

And out of the world my safety net instantly drops.

My hearing, you see, is hyper acute.

But I’m put in the car, though I loudly refute.

At the shops, walls of people jabber and whoop.

The loudspeaker booms and adds to the soup.

Music blares and lashes and whooshes.

Tills beep and cough, a coffee grinder swooshes.

The meat cutter screeches, a baby starts wailing,

I’m starting to malfunction and am rapidly flailing

As trolleys pass creaking, and fluorescent lights hum.

I’m starting to panic, but also turn numb.

My brain can’t filter the input, the voltage is massive

I’m in overload with no chance of staying passive.

My sense of smell is stratospheric.

That fish on the counter is NOT atmospheric.

The man in front hasn’t showered today,

That Stilton cheese – someone take it away!

A baby goes past, it’s ***** needs changing.

Things are going faster and turning deranging

They’re mopping up pickles on aisle two with some bleach and a rag.

My stomach is churning, and I’m starting to gag..

And there’s so much hitting my eyes!

This trip has turned into the world's worst surprise.

The fluorescent light

Is not only too bright,

it’s that flicker.

The space seems to be moving, getting quicker and quicker.

The pulsating light bounces off everything and distorts what I am seeing.

I don’t know what I’m doing, or saying, or being.

There are too many items for me to be able to focus.

The world starts to drain me of my internal locus.

My eyes try to compensate by tunnelling my vision

Fans on the ceiling, twist my senses into nuclear fission.

All this affects how I feel just standing there,

and I can’t even tell where my body is in space, do I care?

You’re yelling at me now, and shaking my shoulder

But the fiery fog is down and is starting to smoulder

It isn’t that I don’t want to hear your instruction.

I just can’t understand, due to mass self-destruction.

You're shouting now, but what does "£$%^&&% NOW! !£$%^&*" mean?

My senses will **** me in a collusion so obscene.

Once we’re back at the kids home, it all feels less absurd.

And now when you speak, I can hear every word.

Simple instructions, that I know off by heart.

And I cling onto these so I won’t fall apart.

You tell me what you want me to do next and I’m able to reply.

Now I’m happy and it’s easy for me to comply.

Now I’m OK and I’m running about

And performing my ritualised songs, which I shout.

Then a visitor grabs me saying, “Hold your horses, cowboy!” – This means danger!

I can’t stop the horses, I’m me, not the Lone Ranger!

And I’m thrown into panic when what you mean is, “Stop running.”

But I don’t know that! Those stampeding horses are coming!!

That’s my life, you see, it’s not “a piece of cake”

When there’s no dessert in sight and you’ve made a mistake.

When you say, “its pouring cats and dogs,” I see pets flooding from the sky.

Tell me, “It’s raining hard,” so I won’t fear the animals will die.

Puns, sarcasm and allusion

Simply generate confusion.

Tell me facts and keep things clear

So I can live, yet not in fear.

It’s hard for me to tell you what I need when my senses are reeling

When I don’t have a way to describe what I’m feeling.

I may be hungry, frustrated, frightened, or perplexed.

But I can’t find the words, and lash out, angry and vexed.

Be alert for my body language, or my gestures and obsessions

Then you’ll handle my feelings like your own treasured possessions.

Watch out for me compensating for not knowing the right word

By mimicking my favourite film star, or something just as absurd.

Rattling off words or whole scripts, which will leave you confounded

That I’ve memorised from Disney, because they make me feel grounded.

They may come from the TV, or speeches, or a book

And though they make people give a funny look

I just know that saying them gets me off the hook.

Show me, show me! I’m visual, you see.

And I’ll understand rather than you just telling me.

And be prepared to show countless times.

I’m listening, despite my ritualised rhymes.

Visual supports help me move through my day.

They relieve me of the stress and I feel OK.

I don’t have to remember what’s happening next

For I operate on a visual text.

This makes for smooth transitions in my life

And we’ll finally progress without anger or strife.

I need to see something to learn it, because spoken words are like steam to me;

They evaporate before my mind's eye, and are gone instantly,

Before I even have a chance to make sense of them,

They've died in the ether, leaving me in mayhem.

I don’t have instant-processing skills.

Instructions and information are my life giving pills

Images can stay in front of me for as long as I need,

and will be just the same in years, for they'll never recede.

Without visual help, I live the constant frustration

of knowing that I’m missing big blocks of information,

Not to mention falling short, by being a misfit

And I'm helpless to do anything about it.

Unlike other people, I'm unable to learn

If it's normal interaction for which you do yearn.

I’m constantly made to feel that I’m not good enough

And people are stern and people are tough.

They think I need taking in hand and need fixing.

Never knowing the world and my brain are tranfixing

I avoid trying any new things, for I'm sure I'll get 'dissed'

And another grown up will be angry and get 'real ******'.

But no matter how “constructive” you think you’re being.

Look for my strengths, though they're hard for the seeing.

There is more than one right way to do most things.

It may look like I don’t want to play with the other kids on the swings

But it may be that I simply do not know how to start

They just think I'm weird, and set me apart.

Teach me how to play with others.

Remove my autistic shrouded covers.

Encourage other children to invite me along.

They might learn something of value from my life's different song.

And rather than spend my day as separate, secluded.

I might show an ethereal delight at being included.

I do best in games that have a clear beginning and end.

Random play is something my fears won't transcend.

And just one other thing, a sort of confession

I cannot interpret a ****** expression

Or body language, or other peoples' emotion

So in group situations I'm resigned to demotion.

I want to learn, I want you to teach me.

Reach into my mind and help me to see.

If I laugh when Tommy falls off the climbing frame,

It’s that I don’t know what to say, nastiness isn't to blame

Talk to me about Tommy’s feelings and teach me to say,

“Are you hurt, Tommy, I'll get teacher, then you'll be okay?”

If you don't I'll meltdown or blow-up, and get in a stew

And this is a thousand times worse for me than for you.

For my mind will go into overload

My sense of equilibrium will start to off-road.

For I'm well past the limit of my social ability.

As those off road lights glare at my own disability.

If you can figure out why my meltdowns occur, they can be prevented

And my behaviours will abate, less frequently lamented.

Keep notes about me and a pattern may emerge.

As your understanding of me will gradually converge.

Remember that everything I do is a form of communication.

It tells you, when my words cannot, how I’m reacting to each situation.

My behavior may have a physical cause.

Think for a moment, just have a pause.

Food allergies and sleep problems can affect my behaviour.

Just look for signs, for you might be my Saviour.

Because I may not be able to tell you about these things.

That blunt my affect and cause my mood swings.

Throw away thoughts like, “If you would just—” and “Why can’t you—?”

You didn’t fulfill every expectation your parents had either, that's true.

And would you like to witness a constant rewind.

Of the traumatic deficits by which you're defined?

I didn’t choose to have autism.

Or to live with this division

Remember that it’s happening to me, not to you.

But without understanding, my chances remain few.

With love and support, my horizons are broader

But I can't live my life by other peoples order.

Patience. Patience. Patience, are the three words we need to live by

For my dreams to be reached, and my confidence fly.

View my autism as a different ability

Rather than as a freak show disability.

Look past what you may see as limitations and feel for my strength

I may not be good at eye contact or conversations of length

But have you noticed that I don’t lie, or cheat at a game

Or pass judgment on people, and make them to blame?

I rely on you, if you can make me your personal vocation

All that I might become won’t happen without you as my foundation.

Be my advocate, be my guide

Be my strength, stand at my side.

Love me for who I am, and not what you know

And we’ll see just how far I can go.

Matt Revans 2014
©Copyright

The city sounds of ordered chaos, the constant wave of people crossing back and forth like a human tide. Strangers cut in and out of their tiny groups and barely miss colliding. Honks and bleats hasten the crowds pace as they race to cross the road. Some people stare at their phones, others watch the road but no one looks directly at another human being. Somewhere, near here and in-between there just off to the side a stranger sits mumbling, barely coherent.

“Watch me.”

The age lines run so deep into his skin that they might as well be built in. White stubble paints a drawn slightly sunburnt face. Deep dark blue eyes scan the city life for some unknown relief.
A red line catches his eyes, followed by a childlike voice singing playfully. “Watch me mommy.”

Tiny matchbox cars race around a shallow hole. The little cars cross dips and dirt ramps increasing the young boy’s excitement, as he mimics his favorite show. They crash into a partially exposed root. “Brrckkkeeech bccccch.”A fake explosion sounds. Dusk begins to fall as the cars settle into their makeshift cereal box garage. Smiling and dusty the boy crosses the small road, then the tiny parking lot, and comes home.

Long ***** white hair falls messily across the man’s worn face. All but a few awkwardly placed teeth are gone. Some are yellow while others are darker and rotting. His breath reeks. The emaciated figure feels the cramps of hunger pains. A brown speckled haze clouds his vision, followed by a slight coldness and dizziness creeping over his body.

“Watch me.”

Cardboard swords clash in a titanic battle of good versus evil.  Until the young victor jumps upon his sawhorse stead. A yowl of pain sounds as his tiny sac is smashed. The pain jolts upwards and inwards causing temporary paralysis. Thin legs scrape the wooden brace dragging chips of paint down with him as he falls off his fake saddle. The victor is defeated by pain. A few seconds later the internal pain passes and he is up and at it again, running straight for a large tree. At the last second he swerves barely avoiding a painful collision. In his mind a red cape swooshes behind him as he flies off to save metropolis.

The summer heat draws pit stains on the old man ***** orange tee. The neckline is stretched and has an almost circular pattern of moisture. Barely able to move, his sick stench draws the attention of flies. Bugs buzz by almost as frequently as strangers walking by.

“Watch me.”

Tears fall from the tiny child eyes, as he stumbles in pain. A deep **** runs red with lines of falling blood. His mother picks him up and carries him to the neighbor’s car. She whispers soft word of reassurance. The tears eventually stop.

The man clenches his chest. Pain permeates his being. His breath is lost. He stumbles falling harshly against the cold grey cement sidewalk. Tears fall. He reaches for strangers pleading weakly for their assistance. A foot smashes against his left side, causing more pain to flame up; while forcing him to edge of the sidewalk. The crowd keeps moving.
A stranger snarls “get out of the way you ***.”

“Watch me.” The old man whispers as he recalls his mother’s warmth. Soft kisses planted on his forehead. Sitting in the dark living room safely snuggled next to his mother as a scary storm rages violently against a small house.

“Watch me.” He cries. His voice, obscured by the city, fades and is forgotten.

red car, yellow car, blue car, white car

no lucky black car, no orange to wish on

they just sat there for awhile on the edge of the rooftop, feet dangling looking at the rush of cars passing by playing the game they invented and derived from the tongue twister red lorry yellow lorry
if a black car passes by, luck will come through
spot the first green car and you pick the way you die
look for an orange car and make a wish

it was a game they played to **** time or whenever they went up the rooftop of the ballet studio they've been performing at since they were children and they were currently taking a break from swan lake rehearsals. they played the game for a little more though heather could tell that megan-meg for short- had her mind somewhere else.

"penny for your thoughts?"

meg just shook her head, tilting it across the pink skies that matched the tutus they still had on. a dreamy smile was strewn across her face

heather just watched her friend and the world surrounding them, a light gentle bubble in her stomach. she loved the building's rooftop so much; she was actually the one who first went up here and ever since then, it had been their place her place. she went here on weekends sometimes, when they didn't have rehearsals. everytime she was up here, she felt more than she was, like she was a goddess and everything below her was under a microscope like she could change anything with the click of her fingers. but most of all, in here she could freely be. it was her safe haven.

"okay spill tell me this isn't about hendrix again?"

meg smirked, looking at heather's ice blue eyes "okay you caught me" she says, traces of the english accent she had come with still evident in her voice

"i knew it. boy he's got you in such a haze. you've got a school girl crush on him" she teased, making her friend giggle nervously. meg was dating hendrix peters, a senior in the high school they were attending. theyve been seeing each other for six months now and heather knew how much of a ride it was almost as much as meg (being the first person meg ranted to everytime things occurred) the two were a match made in heaven and it was testified by the amount of gossip about them that was circulated, mostly by the senior girls who were head over heels for him and would hiss whenever their paths crossed with meg's and try to flirt with him every chance they got though he politely shook them off. he supported meg in all the possible ways, from attending to her performances on stage to supporting and showing off her stunning makeup looks and she did the same with him, coming to all his football games and enthusiastically cheering for him. they were madly in love, you could say

"it's not like that" meg scoffed, clasping both of her hands together. "ive just been thinking about the both of us and our togetherness and how we haven't done it yet and yea it's been in my mind alot" she bit her lip, a habit of nervousness she had "it's not a big deal i know, i mean, people do it all the time, people who aren't even together and it's not this eureka moment or anything of the sorts but i want it to be special at least"

"has he been asking you to do it?"

"no he doesn't really no, forcing there" meg shakes her head "but we did talk about it some time, once, thrice yea"

"someday then or tomorrow just be safe my dear friend" heather replies in a playful tone, trying to bring back the lightness of the conversation

"ugh help me practice my skills give it all to me darling, let me do you" her friend wickedly retorts, launching atop her and pinning her to the concrete, playfully mock *******

"ew dude *******'re so gross get off me" she says trying to act annoyed but she was laughing too all the while trying not to get crushed by meg's weight who was strangely heavy despite her small wiry frame

"ow babe im coming ugh" meg continues, laughing fooling around-this was how their friendship worked

"*******. now your germs are all over me" heather grunts, finally pushing meg off her and both of them just lay there for minutes, laughing too much and choking in their breaths, as the sky was bathed in watercolor above them, the sounds of the city being their soundtrack


"what's it like?" heather blurts once theyve both calmed down

"hmmm?"

"what's it like, being with him?"



meg raises her hands like she was touching the clouds, taking the question in deeply "it's....wonderful....i mean...we aren't always happy and we have loads of fights but....we manage to make it work and the whole thing drives me crazy but it's a good kind of crazy"

her answer dissolves in heather's thoughts are completely lost in it


"you know that when we first got together i told him how much i hated clichés? flowers, chocolates stuffed animals, fancy dinner dates you name it and he nodded and the first gift he gave me was a boquet out of makeup products and i laughed because it was thoughtful and he's just full of surprises but you know he did give me flowers and letters on an occasion but i didn't mind it.
i guess that's how love is, made out of all the things you love thrown in with things you don't like but you don't mind at all"

heather nodded, still deep in thought "how did you know?"


the question seemed to have an incomplete thought but meg got the gist "i just did. well i didn't know itd last but i did know that he was for me but he's not my soulmate see, you don't find soulmates, you make them. anyone could be your soulmate, soulmates are just a ****** up idea at finding love. someday you'd know kid"

heather rolled her eyes. she hated being called kid because she was reminded of how much younger she was from meg when it came to these sorts of things "don't call me that"

"you'd know" meg pats her friend in the head, lovingly still teasing her

she sits up, tying the ribbons of her satin slippers. they climb down the fire exit and join the rest of the ballet dancers, rehearsing for the rest of the day



and heather went back to the rooftop the day after, a saturday in solitude sorting out the contents of her brain, replaying the conversation she and her bestfriend had in this very place the previous day, all the while feeling a sort of feeling in her heart very familiar to nostalgia. she realized it was the feeling of longing. longing for love like meg's description of it. longing for love like the glow of stardust. longing for love
sure she had a boyfriend before but not once did she feel like how meg described love out to be with him not once did she feel like their kisses and hugs mean something and their fights never felt worth fighting for. sure she had this guy in her grade whom she passed notes and looks with and texted for days but it was never serious and he didn't see her in that certain light that makes people glow that you fall for and even if they dated it would have been too complicated.

it was a winding day for her mind to wander and she played their game as the cars went on their journey on the highway down below.

an orange car swooshes out of nowhere and she closes her eyes and makes a wish when my person comes please i hope i'll know, holding on for a beat more. after that a black car passes and her luck was aligned with the stars

We are here to remember a woman. For indeed. She was one of those. A woman so vile. So repulsive. We remember her today because we are glad she is dead; for certainly, she may have become the next Idi Amin; for she wore a similar countenance, a hideous sneer permanently grimacing upon her wicked face. Also her love of torture. I recall the other day, when her black steps still cursed our earth, her slapping a cup of change from a homeless man’s hands while a nerve grating cackle escaped from her lips. She screamed into his face, him very frightened, her quite drunk, “Get a job you worthless Jew!”

On top of being a wicked ice queen who was a fan of Aaron Carter, this rotten corpse;  who will more than likely sour the soil here and create a pet cemetery effect on the other corpses, was an insatiable ****. She was the female Wilt Chamberlain. She will add one more to her long list after this service, when the gravedigger defiles her body for the last time, but really, he is the one who will be defiled and I feel sorry for the poor corpse ****** autistic mute who shall soon insert his semi-flaccid member into our not-so dearly departed. His **** will probably fall off.

How unlovable this creature. Quickly now. Help me grab her legs and heave-** her into the woods to be torn apart by the beasts she resembled, body and soul. If indeed she possessed a soul. Who can say? If she did, console yourselves in the fact she is gargling on gallons demon ***** at this very moment.  Her suffering will be legendary, as was assured to me by the Hell raiser himself in a dream I had.

Her death was a brutal one. And ******. Good riddance. Thank you to mortuary affairs for providing a closed casket. The smell was overwhelming. Especially when she was alive.

She leaves behind not just a cheering crowd of happy people, but a child, who now an orphan, will be put to the workshops immediately. Sewing Nike swooshes onto LeBron James limited edition pumps in the triangle shirtwaist factory. Which our society has deemed appropriate for soot covered orphans and their small hands.

Of course. None of these terrible things are true. The deep love I feel for this woman is only matched by the loss I feel at her passing. She was beautiful in life, generous and giving, she expected nothing in return for her many kindnesses. She loved to experience life, and I loved experiencing it with her. I enjoyed every minute I was lucky enough to spend with her.
Certainly, she was a magical girl. Colors will dim, Sounds will be muted, and the world itself is lessened. Goodbye my love for the last time. Rest easy draped in your silken clothing, forever underneath the shades of mountain wildflowers.

Robert E. Howard — 'All fled—all done, so lift me on the pyre—The Feast is over, and the lamps expire.'

William Butler Yeats’ epitaph:
Cast a cold eye
On life, On death
Horseman, pass by!

Through her eyes I see her soul,
And the sadness when they roll,
Her nose as black as coal,
Though sweet as a baby foal,

She has teeth like broken china,
And a tongue like a pink recliner,
Her face like a piece of art,
That was crafted from the heart,

She has ears like paper origami,
That could hear a foreign tsunami,
Her neck forms an arch,
Like a piece of twisted larch,

Her brisket is as deep as the sea,
And holds the lock to my key,
Her legs like a vintage chair,
That walks with grace and care,

She has a body built for speed,
When running she takes the lead,
Her heart races like a lambaguini,
Although It might seem quite teeny,

Her muscles tense like a fierce stallion,
Like an athlete ready to win a medallion,
Her body is so aerodynamic,
When she runs she makes the wind panic,

Her tail swooshes from side to side,
As she holds her head in great pride,
Her coat as black as leather,
And as soft as a ducks feather,

It shimmers like a stream,
When the sun makes it gleam,
Her little dashes of white,
Are oh so pure and bright,

Never will I feel of despair,
Cause I know my best friend is there!!!

He swooshes down the mountain
Carving a series of humongous S letters,
Gracefully, brilliantly,
Gliding down the pure white *****.
Admittedly, the snow is hallucinogenic, an
Alphabet soup & smorgasbord;
A diabolic concoction I find irresistible.
He snaps to a dead halt before me, with
Flair & flourish like an Argentine tango dancer.
He is wearing a bright red Mad Bomber Hat . . .
(Mad Bomber Hat...$39.95  ‎Adwww.llbeanbusiness.com/‎1-855-371- 2754. Outerwear & Fleece-Top Gifts & Incentives - 20% Off Volume Discounts)
Forgive the poet, a simple refusnik, refusing to die in the gutter. Forgive me for making poetry pay, for once. $Ka-ching! $Ka-ching!
One had to have a shitload of
Self-confidence to wear a hat like that, my
Va-jay-jay getting creamy,
His smile fluttering my clitoral funny bone.
Confidence & humor: for me always a
Lethal combination.
Back in Providence they call me a
Rhode Island Pizza Queen; a
Certified cat litter-box for cads & scoundrels.
The Mad Bomber squats:
He is 50% Rhett Butler, 30% Joey Gallo,
& the other 40%, Cosmo Kramer, (duh?)
Adding up to a deadly duo that gets me every time:
Confidence & Humor snags my guinea ***.
First it’s coffee & Sambuca at the Lodge.
Two hours later I blow him in the shower
At The Green Mountain Inn.
The next morning, we say goodbye in the parking lot.
He promises to call me from Boston, but
Of course, I never hear from him again.
That sums up my MO with men,
Explains how I **** up when picking men.
Every time, again & again, like a
Third generation imbecile, deranged & demented,
Doing the same thing over & over, yet
Expecting a different outcome.
Woe is ******* me!
Another neurotic, myopic, ganglia misfire;
A behaviorist might point out there must be some kind of
Reinforcement going on, seeing I keep
Coming back, going back for more,
Like a lab rat still pushing the lever
Long after the food pellets are gone.
Oh yes! Call me Angie the
Out of control downhill racer.
It’s bipolar moguls & roller coasters,
Another Six Flags ski weekend,
A Stowe, Vermont Coney Island of the Mind for
Angelina Delvecchio, shimmy,
Shimmy Cocoa Pops.

I anticipate that on some distant roof
there must be a man waving two distinct flags,

so as to direct the flock of birds flying above me.  Crossing
his arms, the fabric folding and slipping against itself

in the wind, making a noise of snaps
and swooshes and billowing.

This thought suddenly makes my jacket
seem oversized; the sleeves feel lengthened,

drooping over my hands, as though
I were still a child at play,

putting on father's army jacket on Sunday morning
before church; him in a dress shirt

and black suspenders, shaving in front of the steamy
bathroom mirror.

And I notice that I can see my breath
as it escapes the sauna of my insides.

It disperses into the February air—
no man waving flags on a distant roof somewhere

to keep its molecules from scattering
in every direction.

millions of distant colorful exploding spider-legs dancing in the sky,
each appearing with an infestive  sound,
infesting the whole city;
"snap"
"crssshh--hhh"
"bosh--hhh"

whiskey lingers as they fade into sparks and swooshes.
you're beside me,
people gather.
whistles, applause, brass instruments booming..

The tip of the brush tickles the canvas
As it traces the outline of the illustrious
Wings. Followed by spindly antennae that almost
protrude from the white plane.
Bulbous eyes appear, starting with
one spherical ommatidia after another.
Then, an appendage in the like of  
a purple passion vine twine stems from the head
of the envisioned creature.

The brush swooshes in the water
preparing for the most important
part of the masterpiece. Hues of blue begin
to form on a palette, one like the bright morning  
sky—that will breathe life into the painting—  
and another—the color of dusk—to add
the edge of reality.

Geometric shapes take form
in the wings for depth and texture,
like the odd shapes of rain drops on  
a window after it rains. And then the
final touches, speckles of white on the outer  
edges of the flying devices, faint
yet as noticeable as the petals of a dandelion
floating through the air.

i just left work and i'm still in my uniform
all my best friends are here snappin' fingers like,
hey waitress get me a beer
but i'm not movin' for anyone
finally safe for the night
finally looking into familiar eyes
finally happy
it's ninety degrees and our thighs are stuck to blue leather
it's ninety degrees and our knees are melting into each other
he laughs a little & with a voice half buried in a smile he says,
"first come, first serve *******"
prime real estate
he always gets it
the tan couch resting in a sea of dark blue
soft
worn in
with cloth for skin
later in the night this tiny room is at its max capacity
and here i am, passin the bottle on down to the friends
who are now sitting at my feet,
reading new lyrics off their cellphone's tiny screen
he's got a coffee mug balancing between his knees
half full and definitely cold
rustic black with red flowers growing up the side to meet the handle
the dark liquid swooshes around violently as he bangs the strings
on the guitar he's got propped up slightly in his lap
he's staring at me and then he starts to laugh,
all i have to say is
"you can walk home"
but we both know i can't sleep if i don't see him
stumble safely through his front door
i'll probably be slurring my words behind the steering wheel,
"i am so in love with all of my ******* friends,
the thought of leaving you all in the fall
makes my stomach hurt"
and he'll kiss me on the forehead & tell me to
... get some sleep
but he knows i won't
and he'll worry
until tomorrow
when we'll do it all again

the dog, strains against
the leash, tied to the
no parking sign.

all, quivering white
and caramel fur
docked tail, ears up,
eyes bright and
searching, searching,
for his alpha love.

water bowl, full,
next to him,
ignored.
eyes firmly set,
to the grocery store
door,
quivering, wriggling,
animated, anticipation.

every time, the door
swooshes open,
a double yap.
"i am here.""i am here."

doggy devotion,
denied by food health regulations, master inside,
but i am  here waiting,
still.

I’m huddled up in the side of a bathroom stall
My friends are outside, breathing, leaving,
And I’m rocking like a lunatic.
I’m rocking like I belong in a psych ward, like my mind is definitely not okay
It is not okay.
In my pocket there is a pack of Advils
They rattle as a rock, they shake, their sound breaking the silence around
And the rattle
It feels like my head is filled with sand
It’s weight is too heavy on my shoulders
My stomach is clenching too intensely
My breath is pulsating
My wrists are itching for a scratch with a razor
And the pack of Advil rattles
And the pack of Advil rattles and cry grows up my throat
It chokes me, blocks away the air
And I shake
And the pack of Advil rattles
I hold the pack, the sound is deafening
I throw the pack down the bathroom window
It swooshes down
And then it’s silent
Then it’s the dead silence
Then the chocking gets intense
The beating gets extreme
The blood in my ears blocks everything else
My lips twitch
My body shivers
My blood pumps
And my neck itches for a blade
And suddenly,
The rattling of the Advil
Did not seem that bad

Oh rounded feet, which way shall thy lead the heart tonight. Shall it be the coldest of colds that brings forth a river of red. Shall it be the warmth of swaddling arms that nurture the soul. In thine ears the raven brings forth the darkest answers and final peace.  Freeing the soul from the broken glass that pierces the bottom of the feet. The darkness brings forth a gentle breeze from flying soil, ending thy pain with a long nights sleep.  Yet the arms reach out, pulling back the *****. A tiny glimmer of light teases the heart and cracks the eye. Thy strong beast doest deliver a mighty blow. From heavens window, and upon a strong shoulder the wounded heart swooshes away. Even for a moment the love prevails and postpones the suns final farewell. The end of the day ticks closer, yet its further away. Oh my friend shall i stay?

There's a pressure in the side of my head,
The water that swooshes and drills the walls,
The pumping of erosion,
The lining that swells,
An ocean of hurting,
a river of death,
It is pulsing, combusting inside my big little head.

The white collar - his pinstripe suit tailored to his broad
figure, his shirt starched, his brogues gleaming - returned from his nine-to-five job.
He stepped in to find that his home had been robbed.
Silk wallpaper torn, the glass of pictures cracked, a sight
that almost made him drop.
Settled in a corner was a mob, he held onto it like it was
a staff, and thought of his God.
Could He really sanction such absurdity? Was a thought
beyond his ability to focus on for too long.
He stood there, rooted to the floor, remembering the
times when he still had more, before he’d walked in
through the door.
He was well-off, he was confident, clever, and never let
a droplet of alcohol touch his lips, or his nose catch the
wisps of smoke.
He was always handsomely attired, groomed, admired,
desired and scarcely ever tired before his head touched
the pillow.
A widow yet again allowed herself to feel the throbbing
stream of love and adolescent liveliness at his sight.
He was a man reputed to have found the true light, yet
now it seemed not so bright.
The white collar - trying not to faint - stood in the dim
hallway.
There was nothing to say to the remains of his wealth.
A neglected watch was left askew on the shoe rack - perhaps out of compassion - and he took it in his hand.
It ticked and breathed like a dying bird, and he pressed
his thumb against the thick glass, as if to feel some of its
waning life.
It cost him a fortune, it really has, yet even that futile
thing could not save a man returning home at dawn to
find he was left to die.
Thinking hurt,
Seeing the mess, the tumult and the damage hurt even
more.
It didn’t cross him that the burglar - though he doubted
this was the work of one person - could still be inside. In
the shadows.
The clock in his hand not abandoned, only as of yet unheeded.
But he didn’t flick the switch, didn’t take off his blazer,
nor did he open his eyes. He embraced his death.
His house was ransacked, his prosperity killed, and his
debts would arrive, unpaid, himself soon deemed bankrupt by the court. His image torn my the claws of the
tiger of fate.
No one in the firm he was part of would accept him, he
would be fired at once. Mister Jeffrey would be tact, gentle, but his phone-call would not save the white collar.
The clock in his hand wouldn’t save him too.
His starched shirt - now damp at the armpits -wouldn’t
save him, his suit would be - no matter what - stuck to
him like the drenched skin of a creature from hell, or an
angel from above. It would embrace him, he could cry,
scream or deteriorate, yet it would neither hate nor love.
He couldn’t believe it,
He begun laughing.
He had nothing, was nothing. He was free.
Feeling more alive than ever, he walked along the dark
hallway. He was happier than the whole organisation,
more free than the burglar or the burglars whom had
stripped him of meaning, more free than the preachers,
the scholars, the commoners. The aristocrats. They had
meaning, were fooled by meaning - he had nothing, was
fooled by nothing.
The idea of pressing the barrel of his souvenir rifle
against his temple and pulling the trigger didn’t seem so
bad - death wasn’t any less freeing than life, if not more
freeing - but he didn’t need suicide.
He found something by finding nothing.
Suppose that’s what the dead feel, he thought, and
walked, passed a few thresholds, darkness enveloping
him, until he reached the door to the backyard.
The double-glazed window was shattered - all the way
through - at the bottom left corner, near to where the
handle was so as to make access possible.
He didn’t doubt that each and every room was as bad
as the last - even the kitchen was weeping in its ruin,
silverware strewn on the granite floor, the appliances
scratched or battered or both. This was an act of hatred
and possibly envy, too.
This house had been treated with proprietorial ugliness
and recklessness. But he didn’t care anymore, it wasn’t
his house. It belonged to the mad.
He opened the door, left it to swing lazily in the dawn’s
breeze, and descended the flight of stairs.
He walked along the wet grass for awhile, admiring the
hidden crickets, the swarm of fireflies dancing in the
thickets, the howls of a distant dog, and the encouraging
whistles of its owner still believing that their home was
their own.
He smiled, he walked, and he watched.
He couldn’t help but to feel the disappointment sinking
in. The inevitable disappointment he sensed towards the
whole of humanity.
He too was disappointed in himself for being part of
it, but the disappointment wasn’t personal, aching or
intense. It was peaceful, quiet.
They had messed up good, there was so much proof
one didn’t need to find it. It was there already: In the
swooshes of a car, the rattles and whines of a sophisticated machine, the dead and ghastly faces of passers-by,
the bulky textbooks, the cunning commercials. . .
But that didn’t matter too, not as he walked and talked
to the creatures of the night.
He was ready to live for the first time in his life, to sleep
in the meadows, on the broad and long branches of giant
trees, or alongside a sunny brook. Nature his friend,
humanity too his friend, though avoided when it could
be helped.
* * *
On one stuffy and still evening, he has awakened to
the rustles of undergrowth, the subsequent flutters of
alarmed birds, and the quiet murmurs of voices.
A loincloth wrapped and knotted to his groin, he restrained from making any noise as he sat up, brushing
some dirt off of the side of his face.
‘You ain’t gonna shoot none if ya don’t hold your breath,
focus and stay patient.’ A grating, old voice said.
‘Okay, okay.’ Said another. This an indication of youth
and growing frustration. ‘God, can’t you let me learn.’
‘You ain’t gonna learn by making the same mistake over
and over again.’ Said the older voice. ‘And don’t talk to
me in that tone, son. Guys charge for such a service, I
don’t.’
‘You’re my dad.’
‘**** right.’
The rustles intensified. And through his bleary eyes -
crusted with sleep - he could see flickers of blues and
reds moving behind the greenery.
Perhaps he could’ve moved earlier, and hidden in a
place less exposed than this, though from the concise
conversation that had caught his ear, it was obvious that
whomever was approaching him was armed, and the tinniest of noises on his part could have deluded them into
thinking that an animal was nearby. In addition to this,
his tanned skin might - to them - appear to be the fur of
a deer when glimpsed through the undergrowth, and the
guy in the deep voice - the dad - might then be persuaded into wielding his rifle and demonstrating to his son
how a professional shoots down his prey.
Hence he just sat there, awaiting to be acknowledged
and hopefully unheeded.
There would be some odd looks, no doubt, but he wasn’t
the mad. He wasn’t the one holding a rifle in his hand,
teaching his son how to steal life, and - worse still - how
to get good at it.
Six months of living in the wilderness had taught him
more about life than his Marketing course had in Harvard. He begun seeing, hearing and feeling more. He
could detect a potential predator - though not always -
without even laying an eye on one. Likewise, if he’d been
awake a few moments before, he would’ve been aware
of the hunters’ impending arrival before they were even
within earshot.
He could’ve constructed himself a makeshift weapon,
but he didn’t need to. In fact, the hunters and their rifles
didn’t frighten him, if he was to be shot down mercilessly like a deer, so be it. Half a year ago he’d found liberty,
death didn’t scare him.
The older huntsman begun hushing and ticking his
tongue, making the rustles and footfalls cease.
‘Look son, see that thing moving over there?’ He whispered.
The boy cried in ecstasy: ‘Oh my-’
‘Hey. . .Shut up.’ The father reprimanded. ‘Ya wanna get a **** or not?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Go on, it’s hard to see it, but it’s there. Aim, hold your
breath, and shoot that thing down.’
‘Okay dad. . .’
He was - by the looks of it - to be shot after all.
He clasped his hands to his elbows, feeling the life underneath his skin, and straightened up his back, drawing
in a lungful of air, and blowing it out through his dishevelled growth of beard.
He meditated to the silence. To a bystander, such a silence might seem tense and wringing with suspense, but
for him it was still, spacious and pleasant, for tension
only existed when an occurrence was being anticipated,
he didn’t visualise the sharp bullet emerging out of the
rifle’s gaping mouth, black fumes encompassing it as
it darted through the air, nor did he try to imagine the
impact of the bullet as it ripped through his flesh and
muscle, the agony suffocating him like a thousand of
oceans. All he seen were the verdant bushes, the trees,
the drooping twigs or the moving colours coming to a
stop in front of him.
‘Shoot, son.’ The deep voice said urgently. ‘You’ll make
your father proud.’
‘What about mom?’
‘Shoot.’
The white collar didn’t hear anything, there was nothing
to hear. Nor did he feel, see or smell. He had almost felt
like he’d ever since the burglary, nonetheless now there
was nothing. He remained in that Nothing for eternity, a
void of absolute liberty everyone he’d ever beheld would
soon be part of. In fact, if Time was for a moment to be
overlooked, it is safe to say that everyone is part of this
void, everything that had - or will - ever live. Even the
kid and his irascible father whom had, on that stunning
evening, stumbled upon the white collar would soon  
return to this void. Up until now he was half-naked
and exposed, now he was what had been many times
throughout the history referred to as a ghost, a soul or
something akin, but its essence would only be marred
by such deceitful words, for it was ineffable, beyond
anything one could ever utter, read or hear of. Everyone
knew it, deep down, under the filth and grime of delusion and confusion. It was there, resting in its temporary
slumber, awaiting its awakening.
On that sunny and splendour evening, the white collar
had indeed been killed, and more injustice ensued from
this act of haste and carelessness as the father - his voice
higher than ever - knelt down before his son, grasped his
bonny shoulders and blurted into his face a plan conceived on spot. ‘No one can possibly be concerned about
this man’s death!’ Cried he to his son. ‘He is barely a
human being, the beggars we seen at the bazaar last
year were more human than this thing! Don’t ya dare
shed a tear!’ He slapped the boy in the face, bringing
some colour to the icy whiteness of it. ‘Don’t cry! You go
back along the path we’d walked. Here. . .’ He produced
a set of car keys and prodded the boy’s chest with them.
‘You get back into the car and wait. And never mention what’d happened here. Ever!’ He shook him. ‘It’s
too small to even be thought of! We’ll watch that movie
with the talking dog tonight, we’ll eat toffee popcorn,
we’ll drink what there’s to drink, we’ll tell your mother
that there was nothing to hunt, and will never ever go
hunting again. . .Go now, son.’.
The plan - as many do - had proved successful.
The white collar was shot down, his corpse thrown
down into some forgotten pit which was then topped
with twigs and foliage the father had cut off from the
many trees using his dagger. That was the plan, and he
was potentially correct when he said that no one would
shed a tear for him, the white collar had always been
glimpsed and admired for his charm and effort, but that
was back when he was just a living appliance, hence he
was by now most likely forgotten like a rusty tool lost in
a corner, and his disappearance probably linked to the
burglary, encouraging the police to believe that he was
murdered by someone out of spite or envy. But even if
whomever was responsible for the burglary had been
detected and lawfully jailed, they would only be charged
for that one crime, and so much puzzlement would then
arise as a dozen - or more - of minds would attempt to
discover the truth. What the hell happened after the
breaking-in? Where did the white collar go? Is he dead?
Was it due to accident, suicide or homicide?
Little did they know, he was where they too would once
rest.

We are getting good at being responsible yet playful,

Not taking ourselves too seriously,

Enjoying jokes and being teased.



At a deeper level, we are getting good at experiencing our Total Self,

Self of All Beings,

Not just the individual self that chats and plays, works and prays, with a single name.



And this Self is definitely Playful: Smiling, Twinkling, Humming.

Expressing Itself–Our Self–in Dancing Streams of Golden Joy,

High-Pitched Whistles of Cavorting Delight,

Roaring Swooshes of Oceanic Tides.



Definitely supporting our everyday self,

Definitely giving us Experience so we know What’s What

And take our daily life responsibly but lightly: seriously but lightly.

a backdrop of blue
with tiny dots for stars

and it swooshes away

from a saucer shaped
like a paper plate

this rocket ship
or clear

plastic pen
a pin-up girl inside

it's confusion

it's wonder

it's pulpy desire

Whit Howland © 2020