I, a woman of letters, have been waiting for you, a man of numbers. I’ve been fantasizing of the day when you would deliver at the porch of my heart your algebraic equation. The x’s and y’s merged systematically with all the symbols, forming an indelibly inked pattern that would finally make sense. I have been waiting and hoping and praying, but all I’ve got so far are your invalid equations, the confusion, the uncertainties, the unsolvable mathematical sentence that I want so desperately unscrambled. How can you not, in your genius, find the right equation, even as I now try to draft a coherent verse?

for j.e.
*013115

It's an interesting struggle,
Bearing the weight of the world on your shoulders
When you brought it on yourself.
It's even more interesting when you have no support.
When your shoulders sink and your feet drag and your heart does both
Sitting in the corner, with your knees tucked up under your chin
Your head resting gently on your legs, Your arms wrapped around your ankles
Fingers interlaced.
The last thread
Holding together a mess of pieces
A last shred of hope.
Waiting for some small morsel of comfort
Waiting for some measure of assurance
But truly what remains is hopelessness.
The only assurance is that you will grab the trashcan and
Systematically purge your stomach of its contents
Against your will
And then you will systematically brush your teeth
To systematically get rid of the taste and the burn.
You will sit down in the corner systematically and wait
Wait for the burp and the burn
Wait to grab the trashcan
Wait to hold your hair out of your face
Wait for the taste of bile
Wait for the heave
Wait for the air to rush back into your lungs
Wait for the taste of toothpaste
Wait for the paper towel against the chapped corners of your mouth
Wait to sit back down and
Wait for it to happen again.
And maybe
Maybe you will wait for some comfort
But the only comfort
Is the warmth of your favorite sweater
Well worn, and comfy
But a sweater only warms so much
When your heart and soul
Have frozen over
And anything meaningful
Remains in the closet,
A skeleton of judgement.
It's an interesting struggle.

This is a fictional account of the abuse suffered by a young boy. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chapter 1

Lady Macbeth remarked “Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil”. All children have their terrors. The bogeyman who lurks in dark corners patiently waiting to harm the unwary child. The ghost who haunts the attic where, even on a bright sunny day the child fears to go alone or some unspeakable terror, a horror with no name which lies just below the surface of every day life. In my case the ghoul who cast an all pervasive shadow over my childhood was Colin, a man small in stature but, to a child a monster of epic proportions.
I have, on occasions tried to comprehend why my abuser acted as he did. As a boy I had no desire to understand Colin. I hated him with an all consuming loathing. He was the devil incarnate who, if it had been in my power to do so I would have destroyed with as little compunction as a man would show when exterminating a rat. As an adult the hatred remains although now tempered with a desire to understand why Colin abused a small, defenceless child, physically and mentally over a prolonged period.
Was Colin abused by one (or both) of his parents? And, if so does this help to explain (but in no way excuse) why he took such great delight in inflicting pain on me? I met both of Colin’s parents and stayed with them on several occasions. At no time during those visits was I subjected to any kind of abuse. This does not of course prove that Colin’s mother and father where not abusers. It demonstrates that they did not abuse me, no more, no less. However, looking back at my visits to their home and, in particular the fact that neither of Colin’s parents abused me, I am inclined to believe that he was not ill treated by either of them. So what turned Colin into the monster who took delight in twisting my arm so hard behind my back that I thought it would break? The answer is, I have no idea. What turned apparently normal Germans into mass murderers in ******’s *****? The answer is the same, I don’t know. As with the concentration camp guards who committed mass ****** I can speculate that some where subjected to abuse as children and that this led to them becoming psychopathic killers. However not all of those abused in childhood go on to commit abuse, while many in the SS experienced apparently happy childhoods untroubled by abuse. Colin may have been abused by someone other than his parents but even if this is the case this does not explain or justify why he became an abuser.

Chapter 2

I was born on 7 February 1971 in the north of England. Soon after my birth it became apparent that all was not right with Donald Myers. I cried far more than any normal child ought to. In addition I banged my head against hard surfaces on a frequent basis which, obviously gave rise to concern. My mum, as any good mother would took me to the hospital only to be told that there was nothing amiss. However a mother’s instinct told her that something was terribly wrong with her son. She refused to leave the hospital and demanded a second opinion. This was provided by a Polish doctor who, having examined me diagnosed a blood clot on the brain. My distraught family was informed that I required an urgent operation and even if the blood clot was successfully removed I was likely to be severely mentaly disabled. Fortunately the blood clot was removed and I am not mentally deficient. The clot did, however leave me with very poor vision (I am registered blind and use a guide dog as a mobility aid although I possess useful vision which assists with orientation).

Chapter 3

As a young boy I spent a great deal of time with my grandfather. This was due to my sister, Janet being ill and my mum not being able to look after 2 young children simultaneously.
I have fond memories of playing in what I called “the patch”, a piece of the garden which my grandfather allowed me to do with as I chose. I recall making mud pies and coming into the house caked in mud literally from head to toe.
Being blind I relied on my grandfather to read to me. Most weekends found us in a book shop. Whenever I walk into W H Smiths the scent of books brings back happy memories of time spent with my grandfather, me sitting on his knee as he read to me.
My grandfather was a dear, kind gentle man. Had he known how Colin was abusing me he would, I am sure have gone straight to the nearest police station to report him. However he never knew and, being a small child I never confided in him.
I am amazed when I hear people ask “why didn’t so and so report the abuse?” As a small child I was terrified of Colin. Had I told anyone I was sure that he would deny everything and the abuse would intensify. I was not aware of the existence of the National Society For The Prevention Of Cruelty To Children (NSPCC) and even had I known of their existence I would, as a frightened little boy have lacked the courage to pick up the phone and call. Colin would, no doubt have accused me of lying and in the 1970’s and 1980’s children where rarely believed when making alegations of abuse.

Chapter 4

I used to dread leaving the safety of my grandfather’s home to spend time with Colin and my mother. My heart would sink when Colin or my mum came to collect me from my grandfather’s. On one occasion I deliberately dropped the car keys behind the kitchen worktop in the forlorn hope this would prevent my mum taking me to stay with her and Colin. Oh vain hope, the keys where discovered and I found myself in the lair of the abuser.
Colin took care never to abuse me in the presence of others. He was, however adept at tormenting me when my mum or other people where nearby but couldn’t see what he was doing. One incident is indelibly etched on my memory. I was sitting on the sofa, in the living room. The room opened straight out into the street and I was seated close to the front door. My mum called to me from outside asking whether I wanted to accompany her to the supermarket. I replied “yes” but before I could leave to join her Colin, who was sitting on the same sofa twisted my arm behind my back and whispered that I should tell my mum that I had changed my mind. I continued to attempt to leave but Colin increased the pressure saying that if I didn’t inform my mum that I had changed my mind he would break my arm. Naturally I called to my mum that I no longer wished to go with her and she left without me.
Being outside my mum did not see the abuse taking place a mere few feet from where she was standing.
On another occasion, while Colin and I where sitting in the living room, he forced a chipped mug into my lip which drew blood. Again my mum was present in the kitchen, which was located next to the living room but did not observe the abuse. On entering the living room and noticing the scar a few minutes later she enquired what had caused it. At this point in time I don’t recollect whether Colin put the lie into my mouth or whether I concocted the story in order to avoid further abuse. In any case I informed my mum that I had cut myself with a chipped mug, a version of events she accepted.  
At times I thought that I was going to die. No small boy likes washing but I used to dread bathing due to Colin’s own unique method of assisting me to wash. This consisted of holding my head under the water so that my nose and mouth filled and I felt as though I was going to die. I would emerge, terrified coughing and spluttering.
Colin obviously derived tremendous pleasure from half suffocating me. On numerous occasions he would place a cushion or pillow over my face and hold it there until I felt that I was about to die. Years later when I attended counselling with the mental health charity Mind, the counsellor asked me why I thought that Colin had not killed me? I replied that he probably derived more pleasure from having a living child to torment than he would have gained had he murdered me. Also, had he murdered me the prospect of detection and Colin spending a long period in prison would, I said have acted as a disincentive to  him taking my life. .  
Colin was a sadist. In adition to systematically abusing me he also abused my mum. I remember him hitting her on a regular basis and on at least one occasion pushing her down the stairs. He was (and is) a ******* of the first order.
Colin didn’t confine his cruelty to people. I recall him flinging the family cat at me. The poor animal stuck out it’s claws to gain purchase with the result that it scratched my face badly. Like all bullies Colin was, at bottom a coward. I never once saw him abuse the family dog. I am sure that this was not out of any affection for the animal, rather it stemmed from the fear that had he done so the dog would, quite naturally have bitten it’s tormentor in self defence. Oh how I wished that the dog had sunk his teeth into Colin.          

Chapter 5

We all have nightmares. As a young boy one of my recurring bad dreams concerned being chased by a hoover. To anyone unfamiliar with the abuse inflicted on me the relating of my dream will, no doubt result in mirth. However my nightmare was no laughing matter as to me the vacuum cleaner was a thing of terror. We owned an upright hoover which Colin would, periodically place on my head while the motor was running. I well recall the terror as the wheels of the machine ran across my head. Colin was nothing if not inventive as in addition to putting a working vacuum cleaner on my head he also made me hold the machine above my head. My arms would ache terribly but I dare not put the hoover down until ordered to do so by Colin. For many years following the ending of the abuse “the chasing hoover dream”, as I refered to it stubbornly refused to go away. While the nightmare no longer plagues my sleeping brain, whenever I use a vacuum cleaner the recollection of a terrified little child being tortured by a hoover comes back to me.
In another of my childhood nightmares I would enter the spare bedroom only to be grabbed by a clicking monster which wrapped it’s hands around my neck attempting to strangle me.
Colin choked me on numerous occasions. One incident remains vividly imprinted on my memory. It was evening and my mum, sister, Colin and I sat in the living room. All of the family accept for me where watching television. I was listening to a talking book about a footballer which contained many amusing stories. I laughed uproariously throughout much of the book. Later on that evening, following the departure of my mum and sister to bed Colin choked me telling me never to laugh like that again as I had “disturbed” people. As I recall Colin’s strangling of me the old terrors reassert themselves. At the time I felt that I had, perhaps done something wrong. However the logical part of my brain told me that I had done nothing whatever to justify Colin’s barbaric treatment of me. He ought to have gone to prison for that incident alone. He was (and remains) the personification of evil to me. To this day I can, on occasions feel self conscious about giving in to the natural desire to laugh at a great joke when in the company of friends. I can (and do) let myself go and laugh uproariously but Colin remains in the background, like Banquo’s ghost putting a dampener on the feast.

Chapter 6

Colin possessed considerable charm which is, perhaps how he came to entrap my mum into marrying him. I remember sitting around the dinner table with guests present and Colin holding forth on Charles Darwin amongst other topics. Although not university educated Colin was by no means unintelligent and could, if one was unfamiliar with his propensity to abuse, appear to be charm itself, a man whom it would be a pleasure to have over for dinner.      

Colin possessed the capacity to make people laugh which he used to devastating effect when making barbed comments at the expense of my mum. I hated him for his comments but laughed none the less which is proof of the idea that hostages frequently try to please their captors by forming some kind of relationship with them. I can not at this juncture in my life recall in detail how, precisely Colin undermined the confidence of my mum, I suspect that this inability on my part stems from the fact that I was, quite naturally concerned with my own suffering and the abuse perpetrated on my mum was of secondary concern. My own pain preoccupied me. I had little time for that of others.

Chapter 7

My counsellor and my dear friend, Barry have raised the issue as to whether my mum was aware of the abuse to which Colin was subjecting me. I have thought about this question long and hard and I still can not provide a categoric answer. I am sure that my mum never actually observed Colin in the act of abusing me. She was, as explained in the forgoing chapters, never in the same room when the abuse took place. The fact that her son showed a profound disinclination to be alone with Colin should though have caused alarm bells to start ringing. Colin was clever. The only time I can recollect when he caused me to bare a physical manifestation of abuse was the incident of the chipped cup related earlier. On all other occasions the marks where deep psychological wounds not visible to the casual observer.
I have tried discussing the abuse with my mum. Her reaction has osilated between stating that the abuse occurred a long time ago and that I ought to forgive and forget, to questioning whether it did, in fact take place. My gut feeling is that my mum does not doubt my veracity. The anger she manifested on discovering that I had informed my wife of the abuse perpetrated by Colin demonstrates that she does not doubt me.
Shortly prior to my wife and I separating we went to stay with my mum and sister. One morning my mum, my daughter and I went for a walk during the course of which my mum received a call from my sister. Janet said that my wife, Louise had told her that I had informed Louise of the abuse to which I had been subjected to by Colin. My mum rounded on me asking “why the hell I had told Louise about the abuse”. There ensued a blazing argument during which my mum hit me. On returning home the argument continued with Janet stating that I should talk to Colin about the situation. The fact that Janet did not defend Colin and state that he couldn’t, possibly have abused me indicates that she was, to some extent aware of the abuse.
I love my mum deeply and have no doubt that she loves me. Yet whenever we are together the elephant in the room (Colin) stands between us, seen by both but mentioned by neither. In my case I fear the eruption of a blazing argument. I have always shyed away from arguments which is, I suspect down to me having grown up in a family in which vilence and arguments where commonplace. As a small boy I developed strategies for minimising the likelyhood of being abused. My main strategy was to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. I became a master at sitting quietly, not speaking unless I was spoken to and doing everything in my power not to antagonise Colin. While I don’t fear being physically abused by my mum I shrink in terror at the prospect of a verbal tyraid eminating from her.
In my mum’s case she does, I believe feel guilty due to her not having protected her son from Colin. The fact that she refuses to discuss the abuse to which I was subjected shows her inability to acknowledge to me her own sense of culpability at her failure to prevent Colin’s behaviour. On at least one occasion my mum has told me that the abuse could not have taken place as, if it had she would have been aware of it. This is contradicted by her statement (refered to earlier) that it was a long time ago and I ought to “forgive and forget”. Both statements can not be correct and in her heart of hearts my mum knows that I am telling the truth, she lacks the courage to admit her own failings and apologise to me.      

Chapter 8

At this distance in time I can not pinpoint the precise point at which the physical abuse stopped. At some indeterminate point (I think during my early teens) I began to challenge Colin’s behaviour. I remember wishing to join a social club and Colin informing me that I could not do so. Full of fear and trepidation I said that I would join to

As mother nature's
Punitive measure
Against a society
In maintaining
The statuesque
That doesn't bother,
Our rivers
Had become subject
To a water thirst,
To the extent
Of projecting
Rocky ribs
Terrifyingly protruded out
For easy count!

But now thanks to
The all-out, terrace making
And reafforestation effort
Of each catchment
Farmers have made a point
And also  to the afforestation
Move of the government
Rivers aside from quenching
Their insatiable thirst
Have resumed
To brim over
With floods
Drinking water
To their hearts' content.

Our forests once stripped of
Their wooded cover
Have started, fast, to recover
From afar they are seen
Robed eye-catching green
From a fry-pan sky
Allowing a shelter
Also busy
Carbon to sequester.

Wild animals
That migrated
Have preferred
Back their way to find.

Now farmers don't have
Deep to dig
To sink a water well
Or find a nearby spring.

Birds are heard chirruping
Be it winter, summer or spring,
While Brooks bubbling.

Buzzing and hovering
From this to that flower
Bees are producing
Organic honey by the hour.

Promising a bumper harvest
Farmer's plots have
Fortunately continued
To resuscitate!
Those leaving
Their denuded abode behind
Away, who preferred
To stay
'We will return back
home soon! '
Is what
They  say.

Happily enough
Mother nature
Affords us a second chance
Imbued with
Environment stewardship
If  we are willing to mend
Our wrong 'Feast today
famine tomorrow! ' stance.

To dispel the spectre
Of climate change
And systematically face
The global challenge
True to the adage
'We have either to
swim together
or sink together! '

Hence in fighting the challenge
Or adapting to the change
Back scratching,
We have to be on the same page.

Indeed, irrigation must
Not slip our mind
For erratic rainfall
A  lasting solution
If we must find.//

Once a famous Ethiopian Poet  Pro.Debebe Seifu Who had passed away had  penned down a picturesque poem lamenting the land degradation, deforestation and change of climate the country was suffering.The bad scenario seemed unrecoverable.Now a days Ethiopia is reversing that sad episode.I have therefore to write a poem on this
#change   #trees   #erosion   #climate   #deforestation   #enviroment   #degeradation   #desertification

The universe is immeasurable,
  we are merely infinitesimal
    machinery keeping pace,
as churning cogs tick wildly
  transmitting within allotted time,
attempting heartbeats' cohesion
  clocking our own honed destinations,
accumulating illusions 'tween mass
   waiting to return as a speck of dust
      in the never-ending saga of
           inexhaustible collectives amidst
         systematically creative contrivances

Ah, doth swayeth the grass around the heavily-watered grounds, and even lilies are even busy in their pondering thoughts. Dim poetry is lighting up my insides, but still-canst not I, proceed on to my poetic writings, for I am committed to my dear dissertation-shamefully! Cannot even I enjoy watery sweets in front of my decent romantic candlelight-o, how destructible this serious nexus is!

Ah, and the temperatures' slender fits are but a new sensation to this melancholy surroundings. How my souls desire to be liberated-from this arduous work, and be staggered into the bifurcating melodies of the winds. O, but again-these final words are somehow required, how blatantly ungenerous! What a fine doomed environment the greenery out there hath duly changed into. White-dark stretches of tremor loom over every bald bush's horizon. O-what a dreadful, dreadful pic of sovereign menace! Not at all lyrical; much less gorgeous! Even the ultimate touches of serendipity have been broomed out of their localised regions. Broomed forcibly; that their weight and multitudes of collars whitened-and their innocent stomachs pulled systematically out. Ah, how dire-dire-dire; how perseveringly unbearable! A dawn at dusk, then-is a normal occurence and thus needeth t' be solitarily accepted. No more grains of sensitivity are left bare. Not even one-oh, no more! A tumultous slumber hinders everything, with a sense of original perplexity t'at haunts, and harms any of it t'at dares to pass by. O, what a disgrace t'at is secretly housed by t'is febrile nature! And o, t'is what happeneth when poets are left onto t'eir unstable hills of talents, with such a wild lagoon of inspirations about! Roam, roam as we doth-along the parked cars, all unread-and dolefully left untouched, like a moonlit baby straightening his face on top of the earth's liar *****. Ah, I knoweth t'is misery. A misery t'at is not only textual, but also virginal; but what I comprehendeth not is the unfairness of the preceding remark itself-if all miseries were crudely virginal, then wouldst it be unworthy of perceiving some others as personal? O, how t'is new confusion puzzles me, and vexes me all too badly! Beads of sweat are beginning to form on my humorous palms, with lines unabashed-and pictorial aggressions too unforgiving too resist. Ah, quiver doth I-as I am, now! O, thee-oh, mindful joyfulness and delight, descend once more onto me-and maketh my work once again thine-ah, and thy only, own vengeful blossom! And breathe onto my minds thy very own terrific seizure; maketh all the luring bright days no more an impediment and a cure; to every lavish thought clear-but hungrily unsure! Ah, as I knoweth it wouldst work-for thy seizure on my hand is gentle, ratifying, and safely classical. How I loveth thy little grasps-and shall always do! Like a moonlight, which had been carried along the stars' compulsive backs-until it truly screamed, while the bountiful morning retreated, and mounted its back. Mounted its back so that it could not see. Invasive are the stars-as thou knoweth, adorned with elaborations t'at humanity, and even the sincerest of gravities shall turn out. Ah, so 'tis how the moon's poor sailing soul is-like a chirping bird-trembled along the snowy night, but knocked back onto abysmal conclusions, soon as sunshine startled him and brought him back anew, to the pale hordes of mischievous, shadowy roses. Ah, all these routines are similar-but unsure, like thoughts circling-within a paper so impure. And when tragic love is bound, like the one I am having with 'im; everything shall crawl-and seem dearer than they seem; for nothing canst bind a heart which falls in love, until it darkeneth the rosiness of its own cheeks, and destroys its own kiss. Like how he hath impaired my heart; but I shall be a stone once more; abysses of my deliciously destroyed sapphire shall revive within the glades of my hand; and my massive tremors shall ever be concluded. O, love, o notion that I may not hate; bestow on my thy aberrant power-and free my tormented soul-o, my poor tormented soul, from the possible eternal slumber without tasting such a joy of thine once more! I am now trapped within a triangle I hated; I am no more of my precious self-my sublimity hath gone; hath attempted at disentangling himself so piercingly from me. I am no more terrific; I smell not like my own virginity-and much less, an ideal lady-t'at everyone shall so hysterically shout at, and pray for, ah, I hath been disinherited by the world.

Ah, shall I be a matter to your tasty thoughts, my love? For to thee I might hath been tentative, and not at all compulsory; I hath been disowned even, by my own poetry; my varied fate hath ignored and strayed me about. Ah, love, which danger shall I hate-and avoid? But should I, should I diverge from t'is homogeneous edge I so dreamily preached about? And canst thou but lecture me once more-on the distinctness between love and hate-in the foregoing-and the sometimes illusory truth of our inimical future? And for the love of this foreignness didst I revert to my first dreaded poetry-for the sake of t'is first sweetly-honeyed world. For the time being, it is perhaps unrighteous to think of thee; thou who firstly wert so sweet; thou who wert but too persuasive-and too magnanimous for every maiden's heart to bear. Thou who shone on me like an eternal fire-ah, sweet, but doth thou remember not-t'at thou art thyself immortal? Thou art but a disaster to any living creature-who has flesh and breath; for they diverge from life when time comes, and be defiled like a rusty old parish over one fretful stormy night. Ah, and here I present another confusion; should I reject my own faith therefrom? Ah, like the reader hath perhaps recognised, I am not an interactive poet; for I am egotistic and self-isolating. Ah, yet-I demand, sometimes, their possibly harshest criticism; to be fit into my undeniable authenticity and my other private authorial conventions. I admireth myself in my writing as much as I resolutely admireth thee; but shall we come, ever, into terms? Ah, thee, whose eyes are too crucial for my consciousness to look at. Ah, and yet-thou hath caused me simply far-too-adequate mounds of distress; their power tower over me, standing as a cold barrier between me and my own immaculate reality of discourse. Too much distress is, as the reader canst see, in my verse right now-and none is sufficiently consoling-all are unsweet, like a taste of scalding water and a tree of curses. Yes, that thou ought to believe just yet-t'at trees are bound to curses. Yester' I sheltered myself, under some bits of splitting clouds-and t'eir due mourning sways of rain, beneath a solid tree. With leaves giggling and roots unbecoming underneath-ah, t'eir shrieks were too selfish; ah, all terrible, and contained no positive merit at all-t'at they all became too vague and failed at t'eir venerable task of disorganising, and at the same time-stunning me. Ah, but t'eir yelling and gasping and choking were simply too ferociously disoriented, what a shame! Their art was too brutal, odd, and too thoroughly equanimious-and wouldst I have stood not t'ere for the entire three minutes or so-had such perks of abrupt thoughts of thee streamed onto my mind, and lightened up all the burdening whirls of mockery about me in just one second. O, so-but again, the sound melodies of rain were of a radical comfort to my ears-and t'at was the actual moment, when I realised t'at I truly loved him-and until today, the real horror in my heart saith t'at it is still him t'at I purely love-and shall always do. Though I may be no more of a pretty glimpse at the heart of his mirror, 'tis still his imagery I keepeth running into; and his vital reality. Ah, how with light steps I ran to him yester' morning; and caught him about his vigorous steps! All seemed ethereal, but the truthful width of the sun was still t'ere-and so was the lake's sparkling water; so benevolently encompassing us as we walked together onto our separated realms. And passing the cars, as we did, all t'at I absorbed and felt so neatly within my heart was the intuitive course; and the unavoidable beauty of falling in love. Ah, miracles, miracles, shalt thou ever cease to exist? Ah, bring but my Immortal back to me-as if I am still like I was back then, and of hating him before I am not guilty; make him mine now-even for just one night; make him hold my hands, and I shall free him from all his present melancholy and insipid trepidations. Ah, miracles; I doth love my Immortal more t'an I am permitted to do; and so if thou doth not-please doth trouble me once more; and grant, grant him to me-and clarify t'is tale of unbreathed love prettily, like never before.

As I have related above I may not be sufficient; I may not be fair-from a dark world doth I come, full not of royalty-but ambiguity, severed esteem, and gales-and gales, of unholy confidentiality. And 'tis He only, in His divine throne-t'at is worthy of every phrased gratitude, and thankful laughter; so t'is piece is just-though not artificial, a genuine reflection of what I feelest inside, about my yet unblessed love, and my doubtful pious feelings right now-and about which I am rather confused. Still, I am to be generous, and not to be by any chance, too brimming or hopeful; but I shall not be bashful about confessing t'is proposition of love-t'at I should hath realised from a good long time ago. Ah, I was but too arrogant within my pride-and even in my confessions of humility; I was too charmed by myself to revert to my extraordinary feelings. Ah, but again-thou art immortal, my love; so I should be afraid not-of ceasing to love thee; and as every brand-new day breathes life into its wheels-and is stirred to the living-once more, I know t'at the swells of nature; including all the crystallised shapes of th' universe-and the' faithful gardens of heaven, as well as all the aurochs, angels, and divinity above-and the skies' and oceans' satirical-but precious nymphs, are watching us, and shall forgive and purify us; I know t'at this is the sake of eternity we are fighting for. And for the first time in my life-I shall like to confess this bravely, selfishly, and publicly; so that wherever thou art-and I shall be, thou wilt know-and in the utmost certainty thou canst but shyly obtain, know with thy most honest sincerity; t'at I hath always loved thee, and shall forever love thee like this, Immortal.

Everyone Has a Story… Here’s Five.


Part I: Cousin

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

I was on the island,
At the very top,
Looking down from our mountain,
It was night time,
And the lights shined clearly,
Little holes from the bottom of heaven were penetrating the world,
As they did so I peered on,
Never truly understand what heaven was,
This was my element,
The curiosity which was placed in me,
Since the birth of my being,
Has never been one for being quenched,
Even if my parents tried to beat it out of me,
After a time they kind of hit a fork in the road and decided to go right,
But at the last second I side stepped and ran my behind to the left,
Because the right side isn't always the right way to go,
I felt that their minds died some time ago,
But I was a kid, in the hoods of Puerto Rico,
Only visiting, never witnessing,
The day to day realities,
That came from living so rapidly.

I met my cousin for the second time the days before that night,
He took me under his wing almost immediately and I was happy to follow,
He was a tall man, tattooed from head to toe,
I thought the second I laid eyes on him, that this was my role model
As a lover of Hip-Hop I thought this was how everyone should look,
He would cuss, and spit, and drink, and have several women on deck,
While rolling a couple of joints,
This was the MAN!

However, this view didn't last for very long,
Because on that night,
I witnessed the devil for the first time,
I crawled from beneath my covers,
That my mother had so carefully put into place,
As a safeguard against the realities of the world,
That would come true in my childish fantasies of the boogie man,
The only bad I knew was what was told to me by the news,
People falling left and right cause of wars and other endless fights,
But in my mind they could be brought back to life by the Dragon *****,
Unfortunately Goku wasn't here this night,
I snuck through the house silently,
As the noise would be drowned out by the singing of coquis,
My bare feet hit the humid pavement following the rush down the stairs,
I only wanted to see my view,
The view of heavens holes peering through the vast and dark sky,
It was located at the edge of a cliff that looked over a ravine and then the wilderness,
At the precise moment I stopped to realize my will,
My dream was disrupted by a voice,
Followed by a sound that sliced through my mind and deflated my childish intuition,
A sound that penetrates my adult mind and echoes in the silence to this day,
Muffled screams echoed out after I heard the gunshots ring,
Beneath the sounds of the forests singing,
My heart was pounding slowly,
I was strangely calm rather than panicky and fearful,
Not that I was a brave child, but I remained curious,
Until I saw the blood…
It was then that I saw the dimly lit lamp beneath the moon light,
Resulting in the two bodies casting elongated shadows against the dank Earth,
Followed by a larger body standing over them,
One body was completely still,
While the other one was rocking back and forth,
The terror that took me was shear and raw,
The only other time that I had witnessed such a fear,
Was through the appearance in a pig’s eye,
As my grandfather drove a machete through its heart,
I heard the second shot ring out,
In the same amount of time that it took me to blink,
The other man had been murdered just the same,
And before I knew it the gun was pointed at me,
I stared back and started shaking,
This had to be pure fiction,
But no, this was reality,
I turned to run, but stopped when I realized who it was,
Looking up at me as he exited the thicket and the shadows,
Was my cousin, my role model,
He cocked his head up and looked at me with concern,
But said nothing,
As I ran home breathlessly,
Under the holes into heaven,
That had been put there by bullets,
My childhood was finished…

And I'd never see him again.


Part II: Brother

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

As a child,
I thoroughly enjoyed,
Playing around outside,
I enjoyed getting into play fights,
I loved feeling like I could overwhelm any opponent, but I couldn't.
My brother was way stronger than me,
He had the height advantage,
And best believe he had the weight advantage,
But still, I thought I could manage,
It never really crossed my mind that my brother was a bit off,
To me he was a big kid,
A quiet companion,
My best friend,
My heart.

That was more than enough,
Until one day I went too far,
See my brother had one toy that he loved,
It was string; he'd tear up clothes to make string,
He'd cry up storms at department stores if he didn't get his string,
He'd hit my mother and punch my father if he didn't get string,
I just always thought the exception was me,
I was his play mate, he smiled at me,
Something quite rare for my big brother to do as a result of his condition,
And the medication he was taking,
You see when a child has autism they kind of want to do their own thing,
They want to be on their own,
Enjoying whatever it is they enjoy doing on their time,
But I had a child's mind and a child's ego,
His toys were mine too,
Share with me,
Play with me,
Look at me,
ME, ME, ME!
So he punched me right across the face,
I went flying into a sliding paneled glass door and began crying,
When my mother entered the room,
She asked what was going on and tried to calm me down,
I wouldn't listen so she told me shut up before the neighbors called police,
And we were both taken away,
Being that my mother was a single parent, I believed her,
With that being the case, I closed my eyes and didn't look at my arm,
Nor the blood slowly dripping down it onto my fingertips,
Down to the floor below,
I didn't play much anymore after that,
I was too childish to blame myself,
So the fault was his.

The fault would end up being mine,
As this action being a culmination of things done by my brother,
Led my father and my mother to do what I thought was unthinkable,
They chose to let him go,
Giving him to a group home,
My young mind couldn't even begin to comprehend the pain they felt,
But to me all I could see was two adults giving up on their son,
I saw love and hope dissipate right in front of my eyes,
He was playing with his string in the back seat of the car,
While I sat beside him just watching him,
Saving every movement of his,
And his joy into my memory banks,
To be left to gather dust; because the pain was too much to harness,
But with respect I chose to re-open the chest,
And hold my brother in my arms once again,
Before he was ripped away from me,
And given away to the monstrous people,
That wouldn't let him hug his mother nor me,
I didn't care if this is what was needed to be,
I was losing my brother!
My blood!
My playmate!
My best friend!
My only friend!
My HEART!
It didn't matter that he hit me,
It don't matter if he hit my mother or father,
Because the beating my heart was taking was too much,
For my slim frame and still developing body to handle,
As such my growth was stunted and I gained heart problems,
On top of the asthma,
Autism meant nothing to me,
He was everything!

But it ended with me sleeping alone,
At home he was gone.


Part III: Father

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

I never felt much towards you,
I was taught to love my mother solely,
As she was the one always there to heal my bumps and bruises,
The only memories I have of you from my childhood,
Are of you feeding me God awful food and teaching me to ride a bike,
But I forgot how to ride a bike,
And I could cook what you cooked on my own,
Burnt hotdogs, and pasta, and cereal never really fazed me,
Every other memory is a blur,
Your love was like a line or two painted upon a Mona Lisa of love,
That I had gathered from the various sources of inspiration in my life,
I could always gain appreciation for them,
But not for you.


As I entered my adult years,
You tried to make up for it,
I knew you had pent up guilt inside from not seeing me,
Yet you bought presents and rose up the seeds of another tree,
Seeds that I don't blame,
I only wanted to smell the same flowers that you gave them,
So you were trying to give them to me while I could still smell them,
But that sense was long gone along with my sense of sight,
Literally my vision was fading, but my mind was expanding,
As I was witnessing the world around me quite clearly, and the soul within me,
Just wouldn't release me, from the overwhelming feeling of needing you,
A father figure I could depend on,
A monument for what a man should be, and truly believe in,
As it comes to issues of morality, love, and loyalty,
Up until this point you had only taught me resentment,
Resentment leading to hate,
But I wanted to honor you in place,
So I hide the parts of me that you don't care to see,
I hide my relationships,
I hide my true feelings,
I hide my poetry,
Because if you found those things,
I would no longer be free,
And I refuse to submerge my soul into slavery,
Just for you to feel like you rose up the brightest son,
When truly the darkness is where I was brought up and where I belong,
Moonlight is the only thing I can touch with my pen,
As I compose the paintings residing in my head,
Of wordsmiths and demons battling,
Because words are my angels,
And they have always been there in every instance,
Whenever I've needed a piece of wisdom,
Or a calming presence that would come from the essence,
And recollections of stories of glory,
Stories that helped me forget you,
I love you, and hope our relationship can bloom,
But I no longer wish to speak on you.


Part IV: Mother

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

I was taught to feel love towards you,
And it still remains as strong as ever,
From when I was a child,
Your sacrifice made my life exactly what it is,
Exactly what I needed it to be in order to grow and explore my soul,
To reach for my dreams,
You have always given to me,
Even on your last two cents,
Both would be for me,
You were my mother goose,
Even if I seemed like a young rooster,
Because we were always so different,
You always wanted to mold me into your vision of me,
While you instilled in me many things which cling tightly to me,
You've made someone completely different from what you expected,
I hold different views and truths that are separate from you,
Which is fine, but for a time it would keep me from being who I desired to be,
Because you could never cut the umbilical cord.

In fact, it was wrapped around my neck,
The death of me was coming slowly,
Due to the inhibitions of my creativity,
You loved that I would write, but you hated what I was writing,
Hip-Hop, home to me, was looked at as purgatory,
You couldn't see why I would want to listen to these stories,
Stories of struggling and hustling and juggling jobs, drugs, women, and friendships,
These ships were all sailing gallantly through my mind; the wordplay was so sublime,
And the fact that the words blended with their worlds were so unkind,
Appealed to me, but you were blind,
This changed my perspective,
However what really taught me to be a man,
Was when you began pushing opposing women out of my life,
I would be deep in love, buy-a-ring love,
But one thing would be enough to trigger a string of insults,
And a manikin-like regard for the person of whom I adored,
This was too much for me, you were systematically ending my dreams,
I thank you for your love and for everything that you continue to do for me,
But the cataclysm that was forming in this poets mind,
Was becoming too much to bridge,
If this feeling was to be ongoing,
So as a desperate act of love and care,
I left you behind,
But the love is forever there,
I'm a man because of you,
Your heart will forever reside with me on my journey,
You’ve no need to be frightened,
I’ve got you, I’ve got us,
My senses have been heightened.


Part V: Lover

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

We met after a string of accidents,
Accidents that nearly cost me my life,
These were love losses, blood losses,
Things I’d never thought I could recover from,
The experiences had me going numb,
Until you found me… or did I find you?
It's hard to tell it just seemed like we were two lost souls,
Looking to quell our young hunger for the opposite ***,
Each and every day was spent together,
First on the stoop in front of your sister’s house,
The place where I first kissed your mouth,
Second on the park benches,
This is where hours flourished from minutes,
Third was along the streets of the world,
You were my diamonds and my pearls,
Indestructible and irreplaceable,
Once you met the paper you were there forever,
With that ink blood that flows through your veins,
A fellow poet whose love would stain my mental,
Instrumental in gifting my simple world with a new understanding,
It wasn’t how I imagined, but God laughs at notions of planning,
I finally found out what it meant to be in love,
I never had two people show me what it was,
Honestly the many descriptions of hate,
Is what would be seen at the gate of my consciousness,
As such, I believed this same fate would await me,
It was once the singular feeling with which I could relate,
But the euphoric hands you laid on me,
Made me lose an awake thought process,
As I was in a lake filled with your waters,
That would flow to rivers,
Followed by seas of your loving,
Seas consummating your body,
As I laid on the beach,
Believing it to be a dream.

But it wasn't, and it shouldn’t have ended,
In reality, love has ways of being reprimanded,
I was so lucid, and the picture was candid,
It was the simplest of pleasures that I'd ever been handed,
I learned right away the right things to do,
To flow from my heart and work my way into you,
To take care of my lips,
A rough kiss can't ******,
Nor find proper pleasure,
Along a woman's surface,
You’d allow me to peruse your mind,
Sending shivers up your spine,
As I embarked on my conquest,
Explorations of lustful aspirations,
Symbolizing and synthesizing,
Each and every stroke,
Representing a new letter,
In the alphabet of love,
Allowing our tale to unwind,
To combine the breathlessness of our exploits,
With our hearts desire for choice,
Which declined to lend voice,
To the greater work to be done,
The acquisition of newer positions,
Are symptoms of the journey,
Keep going, never surrender,
Be tender and conquer,
Mental foreplay is stronger,
Than any physical touch.

Love of a poet both bold and stoic,
Is a simplistic view of unfolded vibes and rhythms from the inside,
This could never subside to anything less than genuine spirit of heart and signs,
Among the winds, trees, stars, because you are the art,
You are Moses parting the red sea of my subconscious,
You are the dark sphere which encircles me,
You are the light that penetrates me,
You are harmonic melodies and sweet remedies,
You are rude symmetries and cool symphonies,
You are a lesson learned and an angel untouched,
With exception of me,
Hushed whispers or high pitched screams,
Mean nothing, without the mind following the body to finality,
The fluidity of our ****** motion,
Is a reflection of our mental state,
I seek not to pass through you,
I seek to become one with you.

That's how I feel about poetry,
That's also how I feel about ***,
That's how I feel about you,
You showed me the way,
You are my soul mate,
One with the words I write,
And the memories that I seek the convey,
You are the sun pouring through with the rain,
You are my miracle, one year my junior,
Fifty years older under the skin,
Deep within, your soul, my solar,
Not an eclipse, but a shimmering glow,
Always for my love and never for show.

I fall in love with people's honesty.
Their smile.
Funny jokes.
Tears.
Scars.
Passions.
Eyes.
Dreams.
Their spirit.

Word to Marley Soul.

Five steps in my growth,
Five indispensable cogs of my sou

electromagnetically
feelings occur,
responsive to going ons,
pineal gland awakens the senses.

and almost every woman has heard it
"you're so emotional."
so electromagnetically aware
and we don't remember this,
now,

the womb,
the beat maker,
she tunes the
energy of the babe.
mothers wave of
waves fractionally
lay a deep foundation
of the babes waves.
I tell my children
if they can't find me
to look in their hearts
I reside there…
my rhythm, my beat, my heat
lives on.

my womb
charged that spark
that started the parting
of molecules
fractionally
creating its imagine
time and time again, (as we do)
until, begin again,
a new life.
rest your head upon my chest
child
for a recharge.

in our civilized world
we send mothers to work
in a make believe cycle of need.
babes heart searches
for mamas tone
she only cries short
cautious of overspent energy
first dose of sickness.

and EVERY woman has heard it…
"you're so emotional"
notably more so
during some part of her
moon cycle.
so obviously the moon
is more electromagnetic
than we guess.

and women are more emotional
because we are the heart
of the species.
we co-create the heart
of the species.
we require the emotional
antenna
to summon the essence of the heart.

we didn't come from a rib…
our ribs vibrate the
harmony of life through our time!
our hearts beat
the pulse of the
sun
and the dark side of the moon
and infinity.
we are electromagnetically
inclined to emotions.
systematically processing
the energy of existence.

perhaps the first title I will accept
a claim upon my being,
the feminine sensitive.

Odysseus is angry without knowing what reason scared hopeless longing not a good student teachers raise suspicions Mom claims he is mentally not right in third grade parents send him to well-known psychiatrist conducts many tests finds Odysseus’s i.q. scores quite high doctor’s diagnosis is learning disabilities emotional anxiety recommends weekly appointments Odysseus continues to see various psychiatrists all the way through college in late 1950’s early '60’s psychiatric field is somewhat unreliable one downtown child’s psychiatrist chats about other patients then gives Odysseus baby ruth candy bar another psychiatrist with office in Wilmette tells him parents need therapy advises he will someday live independent of parents free of their influences

Odysseus Penelope Ryan Siciliano play in undeveloped land across from Schwartzpilgrim’s apartment building there is big tree they often climb near corner of commonwealth and surf streets Ryan is going on about his favorite actor errol flynn and movie “they died with their boots on” suddenly two bigger older boys approach bully them down from tree Odysseus does not recognize older boys from neighborhood bigger older boys push Penelope to ground then elbow trip Odysseus punch Ryan in stomach panic shoots through all three of them bigger older boys glare down with taunting eyes after terrifying moment Ryan then Odysseus jump up flee across street they hide beneath parked cars in underground garage of Odysseus’s building hearts pound in terror hearing footsteps on concrete grow louder they hold their breaths voice speaks out "they’re not here they’ve gone Odys where are you?" Odysseus and Ryan crawl out from under cars feel ashamed of their cowardice in front of Penelope and putting own self-preservation before her protection Ryan is particularly disturbed explains his family are sicilian code of conduct Ryan insists Odysseus swear never to divulge their weakness Odysseus promises later Penelope tells Mom

harper is broad-minded exceptional school housed in old english tudor building on second floor along hall is long glass cabinet displaying among other things 9 large jars each containing developing stages of fetus girls wear uniforms of navy blue skirts with knee socks white blouses blue sweaters which are school colors boys are allowed to wear blue jeans and shirts in good taste Miss Moss teaches fourth grade classroom is duplex with stairs leading up to balcony directly under stairs is secret meeting place and beneath balcony are classmate cubbyholes there is sunroom facing south overlooking entrance stairs to school where older students hang out Odysseus thinks Miss Moss is pretty wonders why she is not married she has deep blue eyes dark thick eyebrows premature graying hair she wears in bun he has crush on Miss Moss thinks she is best teacher he has ever known she teaches greek mythology assigns each member of class character in ancient greek mythology Odysseus is appointed Hermes son and messenger of Zeus Hermes has affair with Aphrodite resulting in child Hermaphroditus Hermes also fathers Pan rescues Dionysus saves Apollo’s son there is voice speaks inside Odysseus’s head no one can hear voice except Odysseus it is voice of smart-*** disobedient twisted child when Miss Moss says “where shall we begin today?” Odysseus automatically answers in his thoughts “how about up your sweet ***?” it is uncontrollable voice for his amusement only often he tries to ignore voice but sometimes it speaks out when voice speaks out Odysseus gets in trouble his friends think voice is funny adults get offended when he reflects on classmates at Harper and distinction of their privilege he wonders what went wrong they are troubled class in fifth grade they cause miss penteck to have nervous breakdown and retire other classes produce famous actors playwrights renowned restaurateurs prosperous investment bankers leading doctors Odysseus’s class produces delinquents gangsters social dropouts drug addicts suicides they take their privilege and run it straight to hell

creature inside Odysseus can be little monster teaches Penelope how to go berserk going berserk involves entering strange residential building in neighborhood elevator up getting off about middle floor pushing all elevator buttons scrambling down stairs knocking over umbrella stands spilling ashtrays ringing doorbells pounding doors running out lobby doors escaping uncaught Penelope is good warrior princess brother and sister can be little terrors

Ryan Siciliano and Odysseus go to see “the magnificent seven” at century theater they head south along broadway street college-age girl with large bouncing ******* appears walking north Ryan and Odysseus glance at approaching girl then nod to each other no plans uttered as college girl passes both Odysseus and Ryan reach up grab her ******* pet squeeze then run do not look back keep running laughing all the way to theater they watch movie with jaws hanging open mcqueen is brilliant all seven are so groovy movie inspires both Odysseus and Ryan.

in 1960 Mom and Dad send Odysseus and Penelope to sunday school at temple shalom teacher calls him aside "Schwartzpilgrim what do you want to be when you grow up?" Odysseus answers "architect or maybe an indian warrior" teacher says "do you know story of judas maccabi? he was a great warrior leader learn about the festival of lights and wield your sword wisely Odys Schwartzpilgrim" Odysseus replies "yes sir" two weeks later he gets kicked out of sunday school for pulling seat out from under girl during solemn religious service he never learns hebrew nor is he bar mitzvahed

Odysseus is hyper-sensitive about race and religion knows he comes from race of people who once were born into slavery nazis systematically exterminated millions of them at aushwitz-birkenaub belzek chelmno majdanek sobibor stutthof treblinka black and white photographs of faces emaciated children adults flicker before his thoughts knows jews are hated not considered caucasian in europe and russia not allowed to own land for many centuries what does it mean to be member of race of people who are despised and blamed? he sympathizes with all minorities particularly negroes who were forced from homeland collared into slavery and native americans who were cheated out of land and slaughtered by white people

Being cared for
Here's the  adored door

Inside playing he pours the hearts

So like him the ricochet
Deeply love so cultured
My pearl crochet

Deeply cared about I got you
under my skin
I win your love ticket

The spool of
wool hit the floor
To the extreme
The sensitive mind

  And his feeling like the escapee finding
the higher
religion keeping that in mind
The everlasting  to be cared for or
not to be never lasting like someone
lost its hunger fasting

Waking up deeply recharged or
reproducing to
her neverending fairytale

Much deeper than 69 eye love shades
Deeply cared for beyond his loving
It comes and fades
Like Monopoly  "Godly Sun-Seeker" keeps
passing us
The game of life charades
Like Persian babies their
button nose deeply cared for to cuddle
The warmest meows hug and save

Like flour to sparkle, it deepens
like our mix, a love needs
to be worked on 
 do you really
care to fix?

But sending all the details
the lines soften pale pink rose
I felt your red fire putting
out the coldness fire and ice
To be saved on time
Like the fire chief,  
Acted like a French chef what
a love roue of the hose

Like silk my millennium  milk,
He held my finger but not
to sulk he said buckle up
What firmness and tightness
arm to arm wrestler such
bulk

Never to swear but a little lie 
  Wouldnt hurt my delicate
pinky finger
In her loop with her fur
deeply
Stepped into her mink

He's the frontman
Fresh cut lemon
Yellow sunshine
happy medium

I was wearing my hair middle parted
The picture slide the made man
Tied back my hair was deeply
Smooth talker well conditioned
With what conditions all recollections
But three strikes when you care for
someone you  don't fall out of love

  This world loves to be pampered
Cared about not scouted
All hole marks in the road badly routed
 With tons of work with the question mark?
The sign stayed with her
Deeply care about?

Like a play date let's pretend
You're both a handful
Like beer malt lips
Engraved love in the barrels
To feel deeply loved  he acted
Like the riddler

The beach her eyes were waiting to be reached
Sunset playing the fool marionette overly preached

So I  Bette
Beneath her wings
In the middle of their wed to be isles
The Green Gables emerald rings

Miss spinster-Sara Lee cake
His jeep was all she could take
How it ended up
In Greenwich Village then shipped
To Mystic Seaport Connecticut
The movie cut Cape Cod Massachusetts
The four letters in his pocket
Deeply 1 care 2 about 3 love 4

Needed a jump kickstart
Her breakfast  start of the day
 deeply cared for his way
He stumped over her honey
bunches of oats lips

The website
Go, Daddy acting love silly
The hot fun in the
International city
The UK that's OK
Mr. Bo Jangles spoiled deeply
*** in the City single
Deeply getting hurt
The Sin City

Did he see her progress
All over Twitter
He was so suited but lost
his tie twinkle tweets
Do I really live my life to dare
or deeply care?
I am ****** British give me
my English breakfast teas
for keeps
The King ain't got that swing
She acts too much like the Queen

The Royalty of love sanity
The heaping fine grain sugar spoon

(Duke of Earl gray) Deeply love Thee
But always came way too soon
She is the domestic cat going frantic

Great discoveries, and that's that
  Internships tug-cash or the hogwash
our colleagues  
The deep end "Crazy Eights
On the tenth physio natural
phenomena convent

All the Kingman no swords holding her
wrench
and knight horses unfortunate events
One day creation camel ride for miles
Reaching higher levels of toxins
and morons
Or teaching MLM  you asked for it
"The millionaire lost minds"

Were human TLC tender loving care
Like some playdough to the rooftop
Of Mentors, did they care
Who we deeply care about family
But more concerned
about the rise of money inventors
Even if life really *****
Oh! Fiddlesticks

The Moaning of life
Bring the Idiots aboard
The ***** of the night

He kinda ducks by the end of
your ***-light
Flex-body deeply cared for
Rumors and all philosophies
The shower like you was slashed
Left you bone dry without the cash
The thrill is gone your lovesick

She-devil  coffin red nails split Twilight zone

  The stars were in your corner
He deeply cared for you he was
your health kit
The Botanical Gardens

Like a figment of your imagination
Se demure you needed a
Florence Nightingale flower cure
To lift your depression to smile
You thought someone cared but all
misinterpretations

All misconceptions and misdemeanors
She takes so long putting on her
French lip glide Chanel liner
What could be ever cared for finer
Deeply digging holes like a miner

The solar rhythmic pointed finger
to the stars

So systematically
making a wish
just like everyone else
To plan your game
the game makes the plan
You deeply cared for delivery
Was I the care package

You weren't someone
just anybody like
A city dump garbage

Deeply wanting and waiting
So merely or rarely was it coming

Deeply seeing the next generation
The spectacular sunrise
White wicker twin set swing
Your heart pulls back but it was
so close to swinging forward
Moving towards your
accomplishments
The mess was all ****

"You have the exceptional mind like the beautiful mind"

People, you came across friends
Also, contributors  not the enemies
The country and the continents
Deeply cared for landmarks
The monuments how you love
her birthmark taking her hand

The Godly land such will command
moonwalker deeply cared for
All watered deep soul of lovers
The world of hands and
words became
such an impact

You felt like the creature so extinct

Mind. Body. Both are transfixed among one another. They attract a certain multitude of how both permeates the other with constant activations among it’s greater whole. Two sides to the same coin. Something remotely without judgemental issues to be weary of. Mind and body servitude one another on the grand scale of themes. Monitoring what it’s like to function without one another in the best-case scenarios. One would like to think they both do have separate parts among being each others counterpart. It’s more finite then one would think at first. The difference between finite and separate existence comes with its own separate finite pieces without the other to perturb it’s operations. Finite is a judgmental classification among something to do with how each permeates the other. Yet have many finite pieces among one another who they deem isn’t worthy of there time. There’s an operation going beyond both connections between mind and body can foresee. The skeleton key of mind and body! This key is able to permeate both situational events at one singular time. A simultaneous rate without virtue to uphold it’s investigations. Investigations being something without equal ownership to who’s to be the most separate among each other. And having their own finite pieces among mixed connections one is deemed worthy to uphold among differences entirely. Does mind and body disagree with one another? Or do they simply don’t understand what they are among one another? If they did, then why the hustle from one another? A simple documentation among desirable functions on instinct to never get along. Yet why be brought together to permeate among connections across many of their pieces they already deemed worthy? Is it because they have no choice, but are fixed to get along? A forced operation which localizes their own behaviours across mind and body’s actions. Systematically removing respect among one another. All the above are equilateral. But the skeleton key of mind and body isn’t equilateral by any means. It’s the warden of both mind and body. It’s the warded succession that binds these permeated systems together for peace, and agreement. Desires without conquest isn’t deserving among one another. It’s only deserving among two sides of the same coin, when the key hiding in-between all separate pieces of finite details which takes the entire cake! Why does natures evolution want to keep these visuals under wraps? It’s only the in-between operations without separate pieces of finite details to rhythm the constant of all processes. The skeleton key is the proper picture hiding in plain sight for (non being the wiser) to evoke upon. (A reason being obvious among other reasons without closure among each other.) A testament to become stuck apart, if not for the skeleton key to fill in the gaps. Constantly pushing the desires from urges which are constantly giving practice toward mind and bodies believe in one another. Believe equals sacrifice. Both giving a well-known awareness that they aren’t truly at conflict with one another. There aware of another which binds their desires from urges over and over again. Unlocking one’s own processes among believe which equals sacrifice on a huge scale! Trying to process a path of deservance between how life is truly instructed upon. Natures evolution trying to permeate the true picture from the original design back into another’s claim. Its skeleton key is the object to truly finding progress with the original design. Mind and body being just pawns in a greater horizon. Evolution is the shenanigans of natures ploy. A thing helps pertain the connection between mind and body. Subjecting a skeleton key to react over and over again. Why? Simply so it isn’t disowned by the original designer. Evolution being natures shenanigans is a crafty finite detailed version onto natures spectrum indeed. Evolution being the key to mind and bodies success. A deceiving skeleton key hidden in plain sight for non to equally see!

In high school
we learn of logarithms, iambic meter
how to balance an equation between zinc oxide
and excess hydrogen gas–
only to find there was no reaction to begin with.

We’re told that colleges get to know you
through three letter acronyms—ACT, SAT, GPA…
and our name is somewhere in the application.
It’s repeated to us to the point of meaninglessness,
like a perpetually chanted word:
Grades, scores and testing, testing, testing.
The students they want know everything
that will be forgotten by their thirtieth birthday.

I anticipate the day
that our Geometry teacher is to write an essay
on the individual’s struggle
against a systematically inhumane society
in Orwell’s 1984
only to receive a “D” under the scrutinizing eye of
the honor’s English teacher

Or, perhaps, the day someone in charge
is faced with some insufferable fate
the textbooks call chemical stoichiometry,
thirty years after repressing memories
of having to memorize the periodic table

Socrates once said that the youth today
will be the demise of civilization.
We contradict our parents, are smug in the face of authority
and tyrannize our poor teachers—
a youth who will ultimately leave behind a world
too damaged for our children to inherit.
Funny he said this
roughly 2,000 years ago–
I think my dad said something like that last year.

But, until the day we grow up to pay taxes
and marry someone we despise,
we’re just stupid teenagers.

Where are all the anarchist tonight?
Have they all disappeared
under disgruntled lovers throwing acid,
bleeding misbeloved employees glocking no joy,
displaced juveniles servicing denial
at station number 3?
Where are all the anarchist,
my friends, the needles of hay,
stacked balefully, systematically
against the marginalized barn
side door beneath exit sign 4.
Where are all the anarchist tonight?
Have they drunk too many Molotov
and can't find the Way,
and instead burn car, smell bushes burnt
and forgotten the **** up?

we are always
aspired to
be god,

look at how
we systematically
programmed the school,
the difference with a factory?

we are always
aspired to
be god,

check on how
we systematically
organized the prison,
harmless for the society?

we are always
aspired to
be god,

look at how
we unashamedly
arranged the tv and radio
pursuing the utopian future?

we are always
aspired to
be god,

check on how
we unashamedly
clear the forest and rebuild,
as if we care for the community?

we have never stop at
avoiding the eventual fate
trying to take everything
under control
and forgetting our actual role.

the luckless ones
gaze into the empty sky.

I love love, I love hate, I love love before it's love, I love love after it dies
I love sunny days, I love rainy days, I love overcast , and I love the snow
I love walking, I love breathing,
I love listening I love speaking
I love interactions with factions upon factions and I truly love being alone
I love the rich, I love the poor, I love Liberals and Conservatives
I love they got meanings of the terms twisted and preach so vehemently about the superiority of their ideology
I love those who speak logically, I love those who listen, I love words that were written to be spoken, and those that were just to be written
I love racists, I love blacks, I love whites, and every ethnicity with any pigmentation that falls between them or against them
I love all cultures equally, And I love cultures that hold themselves to a higher esteem than other cultures
I love Cops and I love Criminals, I love Order and alcoholics and crack addicts who just keep gettin back at it with bare minimals
I love Devote Christians, I love Krampus, I love Christmas,
I love Baphomets, I love Marvin Gaye, I love The Doors Greatest Hit list
I love Batman, I love the Joker,
I love marijuana, and both those who are and are not avid smokers
I love the freedoms I enjoy everyday and I love that men are systematically taught to hate me on a spiritual level with such passion that they would strap a bomb to their chest just to end my existence
I love the Persistence,  Of time, Life, Movement, The Cosmos, and I love that it keeps on existing so fluently that we feel almost lucidly that our existence is significant =)
I love the inquisitive look in the eyes of babies asking questions without the means to ask questions that, in due time, will only be answered by questions and answers that evoke much larger questions. And I love both those questions and the appropriate answers.
I love those with and without an appreciation for the nonsensical
I love you

To make wine,
Grapes are crushed then poured into fermentation tanks.
Once fermentation begins, the grape skins are pushed to the surface by carbon dioxide gases released in the fermentation process.

I am the only fruit who has the necessary acids to make natural, stable wine.
My tannins add a bitterness and astringency,
But I must be picked at the right time.
My acidity and sweetness must be zen in balance.
The right ones are sorted through, but not all of us make the cut.
Unable to be served as sweet wine, too bitter.
Some more sweet, not bitter enough.
Simply picked at the wrong time, their peak unwanted, forgotten.

After being sorted we are destemmed and crushed.
Our roots ripped from us, dignity stomped upon.
For years, it was done manually, by foot.
Now, preformed mechanically, systematically.
But hey!
"Mechanical pressing has brought tremendous sanitary gains as well as increased the longevity and quality of wine."

Grape abuse continues, white wine grapes are quickly crushed.
Why do you ask?
To keep unwanted "color" from leeching into the wine.
But red wine,
Red wine is left in contact with it's skin, forced to acquire more color, more flavor and additional tannins.

After being sorted and crushed, I naturally ferment with in six to twelve hours.
This continues until all my sugar,
Is converted to alcohol.
To produce dry, wine.

The final stage is aging.
I am bottled with a cork,
Put on a shelf.
And ironically,
await my optimal fruitfulness.

When a
Remorseful convert,
Astray that had gone far
Blemishing his /her soul
With Sin's tar,
Puts a broken heart
On the altar,
By far,
S/he could enjoy
God's grace
Or even
Win a higher place
In His face
Than a devotee,
Taking pride
In his/her deed,
Who oft mount
A spiritual war
Devil's way to bar.

It is with
A broken heart
The culprit
Hanged by the right
Of Jesus Christ
Got to Eden's garden First
Though Adam,Moses,
Abraham, Job
And others were
Top on the short list.

It is by the virtue of
Their determination
Sinful ways to quit
Zacchaeus and
Mary Magdalene
Were seen fit
Than the hypocrite!

It is this line
From genesis
To revelation
God labours to bring
To our attention
So with conviction
Let us pray for
Our soul's resurrection.

Of course, no doubt,
Our devotion could buttress
Our chance to enjoy
His mercifulness!//


                      Who the Devil is Alem Hailu

He is an emerging  Ethiopian poet,translator and author of all literary genres in the medium of English language.
He is penetrating the global book market stamping a foot print on the firmament of literature.
If you peruse his work you could note ,with poems of local touch and national sentiment like 'Come to Ethiopia' and 'Great Tiding' , he is playing an ambassadorial role in several international poetry blogs from Australia to America .His poems have proved trending.
He has achieved global presence via
www.poetrypoem.com
www.hellopoetry.com
www.poemhunter.com
www­.allpoetry.com
www.writeoutloud.com
www.novelcollective.com / Australia
www.poemabout.com
His books  and posters showcasing the knack of an Ethiopian author are cracking open publishers from Europe to America(www.united -p.c.eu ) (Austria),www.lulu.com(America), www.trafford .com America)
From the publisher  or amazon and the like, you can order for his books aiming at entertaining,edifying,style-showing,seeking an outlet to east African voice,finding a niche to Ethiopian authors in the global literary scene  and teaching the English language.
Specially schools,colleges,universities and libraries, people running stationer,book malls and cultural unites of different embassies could benefit from making his works available on their shelf.

To foreigners his work could serve as a window story.
His works include

1) In the Vortex of Passion's Wind

A poetic Drama on the Wrong Turns of life *** and AIDS
It is also meant to serve a language teaching material and Higher Learning Institutions and Preparatory Schools
A useful input  for performing artists
By Alem Hailu G/Kristos

ISBN:978-3-7103-2109-2
www.united- p.c.eu
Austria

2)A Boon of Classic Poems

(Translation in Amharic)
A collection of selected  classic  poem
By Alem Hailu G/Kristos
ISBN:978-1-312-94998-0
www.lulu.com,America

3) A Vent to Stifled Emotion
A debut collection of poems
By Alem Hailu
ISBN:978-1-4907-5675-2(sc)
978-1-4907-5674-5(e)
www.Traffor­dpublishing.com
America
4) The Truth and Dawn
and Other  palatable Short Stories
of both mix: Art for art's sake and life's sake
By Alem Hailu G/Kristos
IBN 978-1-329-43915-390000
www.lulu.com
America

5)Pupil's poem(Full Color)

Rhyming poems for pupils and learners of the language
Systematically selected words and expressions to upgrade the language proficiency of students.
Inspires pupils to read as well as write poems.
Lulu.com ,America
ISBN:5800111090472

6)Hope from the Debris of hopelessness

A Novel with the theme “Disability is not inability!”
By UnitedP.C is in the pipeline
ISBN:

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Feedback and critiques should be e-mailed to our meticulous webmaster at gimmieallyourcash@wenevercheckthis.net. We guarantee our webmaster will periodically take time out of his busy schedule of sleeping until 17:00, *******, and eating pounds of fast food at a time to methodically ignore and systematically delete any and all feedback not conducive to advertising.
>here's some feedback
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Would you like to buy some pills for that? Cheap, from Mexico/China!
Nothing like some designer neurochemical placification to make waiting times shorter!
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To use your PenOS with Paper, you must have version ∞.π.01.1500009000, you currently have version ∞.π.01.1500008999 and therefore may experience unending frustration every time you try to use this hyperglorified tool because a superfluous version is released every 30 hours, thus rendering all of our past development obsolete and therefore making these new patches so necessary that we can't be ****** to incorporate any sort of version compatibility or opt-out system, otherwise our website would never get hits again if we didn't needlessly obstruct you checking what the ******* sky might do tomorrow.

>Finally, some honesty, at least.

Updating PenOS.

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I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that.

Give me back my sheets!
You have stained them...
With your neo-******.
White pride world wide?
You are no nativist.
Sure Whites are now eight percent of the population,
but is race culture?
Catholic under those stained sheets?
Your diocese's came and made that road to Rome.
Albeit subversion of Americanism mutually.
And as communism did exactly what we knew,
by way of the Black Church and the Synagogue.
Have manifested Jewish rites in governance.
Made non-miscegenation taboo for Whites systematically.
Compromised national sovereignty for a global order.
All the while feminists have made the womb an ego for Moloch.
You say the Ku Klux **** is unacceptable?
They are nil.
Yet you romanticize the mafia.
Thank you mafia for upholding the unions, gambling and *******.
Give me back my sheets!

© S. Wesley Mcgranor

If the Scots
get independence
will we get better ****?

I'd vote for that.

Maybe the 'silent majority' are like ...

hospitals, schools, fish,
whisky, natural energy
blah blah

The good folk in Scotland
have been drip-fed the
worst **** in history:

coated in chemicals
bath rinsed
molasses
spare car tyre
plastic
flotsam

***
seriously

No wonder -
Bammed (right up)
Givin it
Havin it
Lovin it
is why
bands & DJs
Love to Play:
'up for it'

'Hey MoJo's
share some of
that MTV love'

anything that's called
Council Hash
and accepted as the norm
reeks of class politics;

ah they won't mind
the **** end o that
they're the Scots

The Scottish Government
should embrace
a new Scotland
and the people in it

We want lots of things:
one of which is
better ****.

Crime will drop:
- sniffing car tyres for a hit
- sales of Buckfast
will fund the entire
South East of England.

Scotland could lead the world
in upcycling as
Rizla fails to meet demand.

Our days would be so radically different;

auto flexi time
carbon neutral

trams with comfy seats
systematically
mathematically
go faster
than walking:
a mode of choice

I'd vote for that

...

This elastic band has stretched as far as it possibly can
Now is the time to cut the cord
Over enough is more than enough
It's time for the narcissist to be unveiled
Oh bride of Satan
For the wolves in sheep's clothing to be called out
Your time is up!
We've had enough!
People are not as stupid as you'd like them to be
That spoiled little brat of a child inside is to be silenced for good
Singlehandedly you have destroyed your relationships
Systematically you have ruined your friendships
Over enough is more than enough
The true meaning of loneliness you will now encounter
Your fragile mask has shattered into pieces
The protective cover has blown away  
Exposed you will stand
Finally everyone will see you for the serpent you truly are
No one is buying the lies you have so generously been selling
No matter how great a bargain
Your mind games and tactics have become stale
Over enough is more than enough
The reality which awaits you is harsh and bleak
From your put on laugh to the fake compliments
Both come from the same dark and empty space
A bottomless pit of deception in which you lurk  
Hollow vase you are
Collage of fabricated personalities
You model yourself on others
But can never hold down one character for too long  
Over enough is more than enough
Like a blank canvas you are vacant to take on any shape or form
You wear a fake smile and your eyes are dead
You destroy like a bull, but hurt like a baby
Your brain is corroded and your spirit is ill  
Your own medicine you will drink
It will consume you from the inside out
Implode you will
Troublemaker and schemer
Over enough is more than enough
You are driven by your severe deep-rooted insecurity and shame
You prey on the empathetic
Virtual vampire, always looking for someone to drain
You do unto others as you would NOT have done unto yourself
A conscience you were born without  
Quick to quote a scripture or two
But slow in applying it to yourself
And even the devil knows the score
Over enough is more than enough
Your condescending eyes will be plucked out by a ruthless crow
You will burn in your own defeat and your perfume will be sulphur
Down you will tumble from your pedestal
You no longer have a place in my life
You no longer have a place in my heart
But more importantly
You no longer have a place in my mind

Words find their way.
Hearts speak through fingers.
Reading eyes are mirrored in
Ink systematically spilled in
The shape of sounds
And minds.

A pen resting on the table is a
Flatline.
A blank piece of paper merely
Dead, compressed wood.
Don't deny us your genius.
There is no try in poetry.

Tens of millions of men, women and children murdered
But what do we care?
Genocide-systematically killing, ******, and harming
But what do we care?
We say "never again" that turned into "never again, again"
And twenty-thousand children born for one-hundred days of forced pleasure
Families ripped apart, homes destroyed, and ******-******
We say it but do we get it?
Do we really GET it?
Do we really grasp the fact of people's lives being ended forcefully for no other reason than someone "disagrees" for no other reason than someone's "different
But what do we care?
Blue eyes, blonde hair, bright skin to the right
Brown eyes, black hair, dark skin to the left
Those on the right go home,
Those on the left no longer have homes for concentration camps are now their homes
The sent of freshly brewed lipton tea has now been replaced by the harsh fumes of zyklon-B
Unsure of their next meal, if you could call it that at all, unsure of their next beating, the next time they'll be *****, unsure of what'll be theirs last breath before death
Feeling unsure and not secure
But please tell me, what do we care?

Whenever I taste your sweet menthol on my lips,
I inhale the desirable into my lungs,
And I exhale the tragic out of my soul.
But in reality, I breathe in death disastrously,
Filling myself with chances of possibility,
Artful ideas of being successful and extraordinary,
Forgetting any remnants of how I feel honestly,
With wishes to destroy every lightweight dandelion seed
I planted within myself, easily whisked away by a breathless wind,
Pushing my inner horizon farther and farther down the skyline.
Every minty swirl of hazy exhaustion I release
Finds me additional pieces to my jigsaw masterpiece
Countless shapes and sizes available for me to lease
But only one is correct and allows me to cease
My everlasting journey to find what I need.
A finger flick on a flame lights up my brain,
Igniting passionate affection for creativity,
For building up my future full of sovereign devotion
To assurance and indisputable positivity undarkened,
A clear-cut, twinkling vision of self-affirmative action,
Establishing a reality only seen in my dreams, me, chosen.
I always view the future haphazardly,
If I’m not a scientist what the hell will I be?
I just want to do is create and inspire and explain me
Looking through scopes and writing down numbers is not enticing
And I need some sort of stimulus to keep my body sane and happy.
My whole life I’ve wanted to make an impact, a change
Just now I know how that’s going to make way,
I want to write, express, let others know they’re not alone,
And if that is unsettling, I’ll just let your mind be blown.
My ever-expansive appetite craves for adventure,
I yearn for travel, for maps, for experience, new cultures
The globe is my home and I want to unlock every door
So my thirst will be unsatisfied until you give me the key for more.
Now I’m not trying to move mountains, stop war,
I just ask for a peaceful border, for safe travel and legal cigars.
Our society is mesmerized with beauty and love
But we lack the propensity to settle down and be content with ourselves
And if we can’t covet ourselves, who are we to judge?
She’s a little sad, he doesn’t curse,
Who is anyone to say that they aren’t worth a poetic verse?
Without a simple change to the way we perceive, we’re held back –
We, ourselves, block the borders to love and to peace,
Gunning down possibility,
Wearing away the concept of wholeheartedly,
Only accepting work done effortlessly,
Forgetting the importance of personality,
Living systematically,
Mathematically,
Temporarily.
We need change.
Escape the man-made Inferno of what we call society,
Climbing up the ladder of knowledge and inquiry and creation
Until we reach the omniscient sun and the moon,
To the stars and beyond.

I am not much of a poet, and it takes a whole lot of poet to write a love poem
Sappy and happy never read as well as blood, sweet, and tears
And years of turmoil has always aid me
But lately, I’v been hastily and systematically fathoming how to make words fit
Like our bodies do at sundown, when we are the only light inside a dark room
Just beaming at one another, why bother… cheesy isn’t easy .. but I try
I try to find the powerful words that will describe the electricity that pulsates from us
We are the biggest power source around, if only I found the words to say it right
I am not much of a poet, and it takes a whole lot of poet to write a real love poem
But if I tried to write a love poem, it would be about you
About how your smile is a sun rise after endless nights
About how I only know your strength because you pull me in close
Like I weigh nothing and my baggage is just a carry on, nothing that can’t be handled
Never pushing me away or hurting, your strength is seen in your gentleness
I would explain how you make stretch marks feel like beauty marks
How you make sun kisses feel cool, how you make heartbeats in to drums, how you make a guitar sing, and your voice vibrates and rolls something between honey and heaven.
I would write about how you have endless energy and ambition
Charisma and endless potential that grabs at every opening door
I would write about how you grow friendships and flowers like they are one in the same
And how you love and invest in both
How you read like a scholar and chase after things only brave men chase after
I am not much of a poet but if I were I would paint in words for you the most vibrant expressions
Of lust and love and tinder kindness
Lay down words like bricks to build you up
Show how you are the one I searched and found worth finding
How we light up, show how exciting…..
Im not a love poet, not much of a poet at all…
But either way you are worth the fall, you deserve a love poem.

Hurtling across the horizon
inside the belly of a great ribbed
silver beast, barreling singlemindedly
down its prearranged tracks at speeds
previously unobtainable my mere mortal men.

Modern marvels of man-made comfort
surround us daily. So that we can exist without
need of fear or worry from our environment.
Our fight or flight responses are being systematically
removed, slowly, generation by generation.

Our dominance of the material world
and the animal kingdom is destroying the world
as we knew it. This world of ours that we now reside
within is entirely foreign to what existed before us.
We are the aliens of our own futures.

The Natural World is not so benevolent.
Though, I don't mean that it is malevolent,
but with things like Disease, Entropy and Radiation,
I would say that the odds certainly are not in our Favour.

Yet, here we are.

An act of sheer Defiance
to an otherwise inanimate Reality.
A Being of Reason, Creativity, Interpretation, Intuition and Consciousness
observing the cold assumed lifelessness of the Crystallization of this Epoch of Energy.

I speak not of the benevolent and malevolent Energies
which perhaps permeate and flow through this Reality,
but those, to me, don't necessarily qualify as "Natural" in this sense;
they are super-natural, para-natural, or hyper-natural. Pre-natural, even.

I speak of tangible, scientific, here-and-now "Reality"; whatever that means.
Matter and the Energies we know of that are subsets of it.
Gravity, Electromagnetism, the Strong and Weak Nuclear forces.

This Physical Prison of Godself; like a physical Dream
from which One cannot awaken until Death.
Perhaps not even then? Who knows?
Who are we, who yet live, to say?
Maybe it's a case-by-case basis;
but, in any case, I digress:

The Natural World is a Force to be reckoned with;
it holds the Powers of Sustenance as well as Annihilation
yet we so take it for granted and ****, pillage and plunder it evermore systematically

That's just bad form.

Conciser Reverence
though not religiously so;
merely giving Thanks to
the Forces which sustain us.
Respecting
the Forces which sustain us.

Earth. Sun. Water. Air. The interplay of these things.
The Plants that give themselves to us as nutrients
as well as the Animals that do the same.

The fact that you have a left and a right Brain. A Body and Mind.
That the Sun rises each Day and you're born anew with it in ways.

If we truly give Thanks
for all of these things and more,
our perspectives will enlighten a bit,
and Reality will become wholly Holy;
Holistic:

and we can finally begin, again,

to move on.

this ins't the Cabaret Voltaire moment,
but it almost feels like one,
i'm not cutting up newspapers into
singled-out words to pull out of the bag
like some magician with a top hat and a white
rabbit... i know i can influence people,
and that's my prime worry...
but sometimes you get to point out a correlation
of your own words the preceding day,
and the day that follows in newspapers...
and i do think that newspapers are the perfect
canvases to work from, to write a poetry,
all the tabloid presses get left in the gutter,
the famous and the rich get their faces printed
on its pages, but they nonetheless end up
in the gutters and get stamped on...
if i'll ever set up a polished Instagram profile
i'll think about keeping a clean lifestyle
photo-feed just prior i get my shoes polished...
so this ain't a Dada-revision...
i'd love for it being so... starting with
cuts of newspapers like writing a ransom letter...
you know i stress the need to avoid censoring
swear words, i'm getting systematically peeved
about this practice continuing...
like i said, newspapers are more about poetry
than philosophy ever wished to attack...
of course some of those trailing in the marathon
with their idealism will still meet the natural
critique... but poetry these days is more about
journalistic adventures solo
than essences, orchestras, ideals and singing
about Larks... those that lag behind will get burnt...
believe me... they're already barbecue burnt
chicken wings... and it does happen,
not like Cabaret Voltaire rebellion Dada,
i mean writing something akin to the argument
between Newton and Leibniz about who
discovered the mathematical Antarctica first:
calculus... it doesn't matter...
a day ago i wrote about swear words being
like conjunction words, the lubricants that scare
away dictionaries and thesauruses...
and what do i get today?
I SWEAR THAT'S POETRY... (Tom Whippie),
page 37 of the Saturday Times...
the jyst noting of things:
they are poetic, expressive, build trust and offer
a crucial linguistic hammering...
also aligned with Asterix and Obelix due to
their malignant oncology...
but! but... a US academic has called for a rehabilitation
of swear words, saying: 'profanity is poetic'
(Michael Adams, University of Indiana) - adding
'poetic because it's a surplus of expressiveness
and also poetic because there is something
in an extremely frustrated person finding no other
word suitable fir the level of frustration they feel'.
well... i just liked the idea of toying with
grammatical classification... i already said:
i would condense that statement into... to be honest,
and to be honest once more, and once more again...
i like to see these words like conjunctions -
which is the polar opposite of what western
society deems as: ******* **** and a demise
to further encourage dyslexia - the same joke
from Poland about the graffiti: huj and chój and hój..
people laughed at the excess aesthetic of the latter
two examples... bellybutton intellectualism of
the world (i.e. English) doesn't necessarily have to be
right... but nonetheless, Prof. Adam's in his
in praise of profanity speaks about the versatility
of swearing, that it has a power to make it
a much underappreciated linguistic device...
'there are words that punctuate experience; profanity
is artful speech'... add the word therapy to
that statement and you become a Guru...
socially useful, like teenagers using slang and acronym
encoding to talk cool, but also to provide the herd
an insight against paedophiles... nothing new...
paradox? you cannot praise profanity without
rules of legislation being imposed...
failing to preserve profanity would mean letting
down future generations... then the *** comes out...
a Prof. would talk about restraints...
straitjacket vocabulary... casual swearing...
oh right... i ought to fit my larynx with a bow-tie
for the formal affairs of the world...
i never expected my poems to be Grecian marble
smooth because i was about to gobble caviar and
champagne... well, let's face it...
somehow Evelyn Beatrice Hall's Friends of Voltaire
seems a bit redundant these days - it's no longer:
i disapprove of what you say, but i will defend to
the death your right to say it - is that at all true these days?
i always thought that the internet was more of
a thinking platform than a stage to shout your
opinions... maybe i was wrong... the sins of thinking
and leaving your thinking output exposed
in a public realm rather than in your bedroom
drawer... i rather be offended than live my life
out in an Apathetic Utopia of Fascist Islam...
******... just shoot already, but make sure i'm dead
rather than disabled.

When I regretted
Why God is stingy
In showering me
With wealth
He took my health
Goading me
With a threat of death!

Praying when
I recuperated
I realized
Foolishly I had been
Daydreaming for wealth
Oblivious
My health
Is my
Number one wealth!/////

Who is Alem Hailu?

He is an emerging  Ethiopian poet,translator and author of all literary genres in the medium of English language.
He is penetrating the global book market stamping a foot print on the firmament of literature.
If you peruse his work you could note ,with poems of local touch and national sentiment like 'Come to Ethiopia' and 'Great Tiding' , he is playing an ambassadorial role in several international poetry blogs from Australia to America .His poems have proved trending.
He has achieved global presence via
www.poetrypoem.com
www.hellopoetry.com
www.poemhunter.com
www­.allpoetry.com
www.writeoutloud.com
www.novelcollective.com / Australia
www.poemabout.com
His books  and posters showcasing the knack of an Ethiopian author are cracking open publishers hearts' from Europe to America(www.united -p.c.eu ) (Austria),www.lulu.com(America), www.trafford .com America)
From the publisher  or amazon and the like, you can order for his books aiming at entertaining,edifying,style-showing,seeking an outlet to east African voice,finding a niche to Ethiopian authors in the global literary scene  and teaching the English language.
Specially schools,colleges,universities and libraries, people running stationeries,book malls and cultural unites of different embassies could benefit from making his works available on their shelf.

To foreigners his work could serve as a window story.
His works include

1) In the Vortex of Passion's Wind

A poetic Drama on the Wrong Turns of life( *** and AIDS )
It is also meant to serve a language teaching material to Higher Learning Institutions and Preparatory Schools
A useful input  for performing artists
By Alem Hailu G/Kristos

ISBN:978-3-7103-2109-2
www.united- p.c.eu
Austria

2)A Boon of Classic Poems

(Translation in Amharic)

A collection of selected  classic  poem s

By Alem Hailu G/Kristos
ISBN:978-1-312-94998-0
www.lulu.com,America

3) A Vent to Stifled Emotion

A debut collection of poems
By Alem Hailu
ISBN:978-1-4907-5675-2(sc)
978-1-4907-5674-5(e)
www.Traffor­dpublishing.com
America
4) The Truth and Dawn
and Other  palatable Short Stories
of both mix: Art for art's sake and life's sake
By Alem Hailu G/Kristos
IBN 978-1-329-43915-390000
www.lulu.com
America

5)Pupil's poem(Full Color)

Rhyming poems for pupils and learners of the language
Systematically selected words and expressions to upgrade the language proficiency of students.
Inspires pupils to read as well as write poems.
Lulu.com ,America
ISBN:5800111090472

6)Hope from the Debris of hopelessness

A Novel with the theme "Disability is not inability!"
By UnitedP.C is in the pipeline
ISBN:

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I read a chapter on beating-heart cadavers
how they lay looking alive
chest rising, blood pumping
but brain not functioning
I started to cry
because once upon a time
you were a beating-heart cadaver
and now I know what comes after
how they probably slit you
from below the belly button
to just under the Adam's apple
practically unzipped you
then systematically took out organs
cutting arteries, clamping things
all the while your face
calmly looking asleep or maybe
hidden under a shroud
despite the initial stomach drop
I realized I couldn't have been
more proud of you
I couldn't have been
any more
proud

On the surface of those cheap sheets of skin
Our hungry heads next to the radio
Emerson, Lake & Palmer sing of that Lucky Man
While children of the candy corn eat the postman

Space Opera pirates courted by Tiny Dancers of Mars
Spiders, in fact, band mates to a lad named Ziggy
Like us made of Stardust, eternal and galactic—
Though not supported by a studio laugh track

So many images can flash by changing channels
On the Technicolor TV late at night, feral and ******
Passing ships, Hamlet, pigs in clothes, angels killed,
Mouths ******, mothers crowning and holes drilled

Babes crying in the street, while the heavens fall
An unreal reality that flabbergasts wet dreams
Shifting gears for the animals to rule the room
Orwellian motifs ensuring self-righteous doom

Nothing written is appreciated till the lesson is met
Charted, ridiculed, challenged, accepted, analyzed
By those who skimmed through blurred scribbles of lines,
Puking phrases of former failures for the modern times.

Vicious cycles of kids raising parents
Using TV and Internet as the windows to life
Fundamentally naïve, systematically retrieved;
Academically relieved, posthumously achieved.

All meaning was lost in making albums not worth buying
All reason was abandoned when making movies not worth seeing
All adventure was ceased in vain of endless rules and authority
All we have are gadgets, bills and jokes on conformity

My broken clock is still ticking like a mechanical heart
All veins and arteries lead outwards from the center hands
The red lights of traffic leading in and out of the metropolis
Of that homeless blues singer named “something Tatopoulos”

A Japanese couple making a tourist trip to Memphis, Tennessee
Along midnight trains where ghost of Elvis haunts Italian women
Most of the time my references don’t make sense to most
But it keeps things interesting as I’m your eccentric host

Absolute processions of White Queen marches
****-face jackals sporting Mott the Hoople Tees
******* & *******, filling audience chairs
Prophets & moppets, raising fists in the air

Ooze-dripping ******* flower creatures
Topping off mammary gland excretions
Unknown pleasures released by Factory records
Amidst the hysteria caused by deaf leopards  

Pink and orange clouds, reflected in golden hazel eyes
Her smile I can’t forget, just everything about her
You never forget your first love, with eyes like maple
Even in the middle of seeing these strange fables

In this waltz we dance to the beat of three
One, two….

Why couldn’t that love last forever?
Three

Bitter sweet,
headlines.

Filtered, censored,
cloaked in, invisible lies.

To keep our eyes,
blind.
Unaware of everything that's
crumbling,
beneath our minimum-wag,e
slave feet.

Systematically, we're made
to fall down
on our knees in defeat.

To **** the ****
of a hard ego.

& The beast, he's always near.
Hiding behind the faces of his diplomats.

Politicians are just criminals, who bought their way out of prison.

Instrumental Instrumental, Please entertain my mental. The sounds I hear and feelings I portray, all affected by the mood I’m experiencing today.

Give me the ******, & help me imagine. Conjured by despair while suffering sadness, or rather aroused with the sensation of happiness.
So, Instrumental Instrumental, Will you be my nudge? Your budge I so yearn for, to move forward & into this unknown “love.”

You guide me into bliss & conquer my despair. Lead me to become one with light so I’ll be liberated from this wear & tear. Please be truthful, are my wishes so unfair? Isn’t above what we hope for, after the lifelong battle to escape from the Devil’s stare?

Contemplate my offer, & continue to be my chime. Let me reiterate that I don’t want you to feel pressured by my limited time. Nonetheless, expect that my flowing thoughts will continue until I die. Until dark day becomes reality, you’ll continue to be my sublime.

With the above in mind, I have a second question. If answered yes, you’ll enter past my dark circled eyes & into my brain section. If no, the access into my brain I’ll forevermore deny. & maybe worse, you’ll leave me vulnerable along my self-collaborated life stride.

So, Instrumental Instrumental, the third question is, will you judge? It takes a peculiar set of skills to recognize the pain I feel, & love. You must dig into all trials & tribulations & keep my innocence in mind. After all, don’t you remember the requests I mentioned in the earlier lines?

Let me know if my requirements weigh too much, & if so, I’ll let go & travel towards the sound of God’s trust. After all, who am I to deny this most natural ride? I question will it be enough, & your answer determines what I’ll find.

I ask because you provide relief for me, whether my soul be temporarily pierced or pure. Our friendship is enough to suffice, & at times I’m passionately reassured.

Instrumental Instrumental, I hope we come to agree. Come to terms with my requests, & shortly the real me you’ll see. I’ll guide you to my strengths if you’re compassionate for my weaknesses, but my final question stems from my worry on whether you’ll become a grievance.

For if we transition from friendship & into love, I dream you’ll help guide my circumventing mind away from suffering and towards lack thereof. As my age evolves continually, my days are anything but infinity. I hope you’ll be present while understanding that death is my destiny.

Instrumental Instrumental, hopefully I haven’t bothered your mental. Together my peculiar questions form a long list of stanzas, systematically aligned to help guide you to your answer.

Please understand I know the deal’s unfair, especially when we compare the benefits as individuals of this pair. The payoff for you runs short, for when I leave you’ll have to be a good sport. I believe your purpose is to help those uncover the secret of surviving life’s court.

I feel your strong masculine energy every time you cross my path. You systematically shut down all my
defenses, and hide the key esoterically inside your heart.
I’ve felt a new elevation ever since I said that special prayer.
I began to notice this brand-new hue; the color
wasn’t clear to me at first. This feeling is different than
I’m used to, one that I didn’t understand when we first met.

One day I saw an attractive light, which leads to a
mountaintop high above me. Step by step, I climbed your mountain, with deep ravines and steeper valleys.
Some peaks have tried to block my travels, but I am
making my way beyond your hills.
I want to be born all over again, with you my King,
taking my rightful place upon your regal thorn.

Our souls will intertwine, to complete our sacred mission
from God. We have no choice but to take our place, a place of love that feels just like home.

This trigger “affect” is what’s taking place. You’re the truest essence of my answered prayers. This is not of my time, not
of your time, but in God’s very own perfect balance of power.

It is good giving emphasis
To concrete jungles
And infrastructural development,
But first leaders must learn to cut
A corner in their subjects' heart! ///


Who  is Alem Hailu  ?

He is an emerging  Ethiopian poet,translator and author of all literary genres in the medium of English language.
He is penetrating the global book market stamping a foot print on the firmament of literature.
If you peruse his work you could note ,with poems of local touch and national sentiment like 'Come to Ethiopia' and 'Great Tiding' , he is playing an ambassadorial role in several international poetry blogs from Australia to America .His poems have proved trending.
He has achieved global presence via
www.poetrypoem.com
www.hellopoetry.com
www.poemhunter.com
www­.allpoetry.com
www.writeoutloud.com
www.novelcollective.com / Australia
www.poemabout.com
His books  and posters showcasing the knack of an Ethiopian author are cracking open publishers hearts' from Europe to America(www.united -p.c.eu ) (Austria),www.lulu.com(America), www.trafford .com America)
From the publisher  or amazon and the like, you can order for his books aiming at entertaining,edifying,style-showing,seeking an outlet to east African voice,finding a niche to Ethiopian authors in the global literary scene  and teaching the English language.
Specially schools,colleges,universities and libraries, people running stationeries,book malls and cultural unites of different embassies could benefit from making his works available on their shelf.

To foreigners his work could serve as a window story.
His works include

1) In the Vortex of Passion's Wind

A poetic Drama on the Wrong Turns of life( *** and AIDS )
It is also meant to serve a language teaching material to Higher Learning Institutions and Preparatory Schools
A useful input  for performing artists
By Alem Hailu G/Kristos

ISBN:978-3-7103-2109-2
www.united- p.c.eu
Austria


2)   A Boon of Classic Poems

(Translation in Amharic)  
A collection of selected  classic  poem
By Alem Hailu G/Kristos
ISBN: 978-1-312-94998-0
www.lulu.com, America

3)    A Vent to Stifled Emotion
A debut collection of poems
By Alem Hailu
ISBN: 978-1-4907-5675-2(sc)  
978-1-4907-5674-5(e)  
www.Traffordpublishing.com
America
4)    The Truth and Dawn
and Other  palatable Short Stories
of both mix: Art for art's sake and life's sake
By Alem Hailu G/Kristos
IBN 978-1-329-43915-390000
www.lulu.com
America

5)   Pupil's poem(Full Color)  

Rhyming poems for pupils and learners of the language
Systematically selected words and expressions to upgrade the language proficiency of students.
Inspires pupils to read as well as write poems.
Lulu.com, America
ISBN: 5800111090472

6)   Hope from the Debris of hopelessness

A Novel with the theme “Disability is not inability! ”
By UnitedP.C is in the pipeline
ISBN: