Backstory: A Memoir

For Vicki

By AT

5

While I was downstairs, folding laundry in the basement, I heard my sister Vicki stomping upstairs to the room that used to be mine, slamming the door, and locking it shut.

I was a ****** older brother. And Vicki learned that action from me.
Then, I heard more footsteps. Louder stomping. And I knew, with certainty, it was Mom coming after her.

I'm not an omniscient narrator, so I don't know what Vicki does when the door is locked.

But I do imagine she is reading. Vicki’s been using her Kindle that Mom got her for Christmas. She adores Gillian Flynn and Suzanne Collins. She's starting to get into Philip Pullman which is swagger. I remember reading His Dark Materials when I was in elementary school.

The Golden Compass ***** you into that world, like during June when you're hitting a bowl for the first time and you're 17, late at night on Bethany beach with your childhood best friend, and the surf is curling against your toes, and the smoke is trailing away from the cherry, and you begin to realize that life isn't all about living in NOVA forever, because the world is more than NOVA, because life is bigger than this hole, that to some people believe is whole, and that's fine, that's fine because many of our parents came here from other small towns, and they wanted to do what we wanted to do, which is to pack up our stuff into the trunk of our presumably Asian branded car, and drive, drive, until they reach a destination that doesn't remind them of the good memories and the bad memories, until memory is mixed in with nostalgia, and nostalgia is mixed in with the past.

Maybe I'm dwelling on backstory, maybe you don't need to hear the backstory.

But I think you do.

Life isn't an eternity,
what I'm telling you is already known, known since there was a spider crawling up the staircase and your dad took the heel of his black dress shoe and dug his heel into that bug. And maybe I'm buggin’, but that bugged me, and now I'm trying to be healthier eating carrots like Bugs. Kale, red onions, and quinoa, as well. Because I want to be there for my sister, Vicki my sister. All we got is a wrapped up box made from God, Mohammad, and Buddha.

Soon, I heard Vicki’s door handle being cranked down and up, up and down.

Mom raised her voice from a quiet storm to a deafening concerto.  
Then, there was silence, followed by a door slamming shut.

Welcome to our life.
Later on that night, Vicki sped out of our cul-de-sac in her silver Honda Accord—a gift from Mom to keep her rooted in Nova—and even from the front porch of my house, I felt a distance from her that was deep and immovable.

I sank deeper into my lawn chair and lit a jack, but instead of inhaling like I usually did, I held it out in front of me and watched the smoke billow out from the cherry.

I always smoked jacks when she was not there, because I didn’t want her to see me knowingly do this to myself, even as I was making huge changes to my life. It’s the one vice I have left, and it’s terrible for me, but I don’t know if she understands that I know both things. Maybe instead of caring about what jacks do to my body, I should care about what she thinks about what I’m doing to myself. This should be obvious to me, but sometimes things aren’t that obvious.

4

As we grew older Vicki and I forged a dialogue, an understanding. She confided in me and I confided in her, sharing secrets, details about our lives that were personal and private, as if we were two CIA agents working together to defeat a totalitarian government—our tiger mom.

But seriously our mom was and still is swagger as ****—rocks Michael Kors and flannel Pajama pants (If I told you that last article of clothing she'd probably pinch my cheek and call me a chipmunk. Don't worry I'm fine with a moderation of self-deprecation).

The other day Mom talked to me about Vicki and explained that she was upset and irritated with Vicki because of her attitude. I thought that was interesting, because I used to have the same exact attitude when I was my sister’s age and I got away with a lot more ****, being that I'm a guy and the first-born. I understood why she would shut the front door, exit our red brick bungalow, and speed away in her Honda Accord, going towards Clarendon, or Adams Morgan, spending her time with her extensive circle of friends on the weekdays and weekends.

Because being inside our house, life could get suffocating and depressing.
Our Grandparents live with us. Grandpa had a stroke and is trying to recover. Grandma has Alzheimer’s and agitates my mom for rides to a Vietnamese Church. Besides the caretakers, Mom, Dad, Vicki, and I are the only ones taking care of my grandparents.

Mom told me that she believes that Vicki uses the house as a hotel. Mom didn't remind me of a landlord, and I believe that Vicki doesn’t see her as that either.

I didn't believe Vicki was doing anything necessarily wrong.

She had her own life.

I had my own life.

Dad had his own life.

Mom had her own life.

I understood why she wanted to go out and party and hang out with her friends. Maybe she was like me when I was 21 and perceived living at home as a prison, wanting to have autonomy and freedom from Mom because she was attempting to make me conform to her controlled system with restraints. But as Vicki and I both grow older I believe that we see Mom not as an authority figure; but, just as Mom.

Vicky and Mom clash and clash and clash with each other, more than the Archer Queens of The Hero Troops clash with the witches of the Dark Elixir Troops.

They act like they were from different clans, but they're both on the same side in reality.

The apple does not fall far from the tree. And in this case the tree wants to hang onto the apple on the tip of its rough, and yet leafy bough.
Because the tree is rooted in experience and has been around for much longer than the apple.

But the apple is looking for more water than the tree can give it. So the apple dreams about a summer rain-shower that will give it a chance to have its own experience. A similar, but different one, to the darker apple that hangs from a higher bough, an apple that has been spoiled from having too much sun and water.

3

During Winter Break, Vicki scored me tickets to a game between the Wizards and the Bucks. From court side to the nosebleeds, the audience at the Verizon Center was chanting in cacophony and in tempo. Wall was injured. But Gortat crashed the boards, Nene' drained mid-range shots, and Beal drove up the lane like Ginsberg reading Howl.

Vicki and I both tried to talk to each other as much as we could; unfortunately, Voldemort—my ex-gf—sat in between us and was gossiping about the latest scoop with the Kardashians.

Nevertheless, Vicki and I still managed to drink and have an outstanding time. But I should have given her more attention and spent less time on my smartphone. I was spending bread on Papa John's Pizza and chain-smoking jacks during half-time, and even when there were time outs. When I would come back and sink into my plastic chair, I'd feel bloated and dizzy.
And I'd look over at Vicki and either she was talking to Voldemort, or typing away on her smartphone. I didn't mind it at the time, but now I wished I had been less of a concessions barbarian/used-car salesman chain-smoker, and more of an older brother. I should have asked her about her day and her friends and her interests.

But I didn't.

Because I was so concerned about indulging in my vices like eating slices of pepperoni pizza and drinking overpriced beer. There's nothing wrong with pizza or beer. But as we all know the old saying goes, everything is about moderation.

Vicki scrunched her nose and squinted her eyes when I would lean forward and try to maneuver around Voldemort, trying to talk to her about the game and the players in it. I imagine that when she smelled the cigarette smoke leaking away from my lips, that she believed I was inconsiderate and not self-aware.

After the game, we went to a bar across the street from the Verizon Center, and bought mixed drinks. Voldemort was D.D., so Vicki and I drank until our Asian faces got redder than women and men who go up on stage for public speaking for the first time.

I remember this older Asian guy was trying to hit on her.
I took in short breaths. Inhaled. Exhaled. I cracked my shoulder blades to push my chest forward.  

And then, I patted him on the back and grinned. The Asian guy got the message. You don’t **** with the bodyguard.

Vicki had and still has a great boyfriend named Matt.

I guided Vicki back to our table and laughed about the awkward situation with her.

The Asian guy craned his head toward me and did a short wave. And then he bought us coronas. Either, you’re still hitting on my sister, or it’s a kind gesture. She and I better not get... Or am I overthinking it?

But seriously, I wished I had been the one to spend money on her first—she had bought the first round of drinks. Because at the time, my job was challenging and low-paying. Or maybe I just wasn't being frugal enough and partying way too often.

I still remember the picture that a cool rando took of us, drinking the Coronas, and how I was happy to be a part of her life again. Our eyes were so Asian. I had my lanky arm around her small shoulders, like a proud Father. She had her cheek propped up by her fist, her smile, gigantic and beaming, as though she had just won Wimbledon for the first time.
I was wearing a white and blue Oxford shirt that she had gotten me for Christmas with a D.C. Rising hat. She had on a cotton scarf that resembles a tan striped tail of a powerful cat.

My face was chubby from the pizza. Her face was just right like the one house in Goldilocks. The limes in the Coronas were sitting just below the throat of the bottles, like old memories resurfacing the brain, to make the self recall, to make the self remember how to treat his family.
Or maybe this is just a brand new Corona ad geared towards the rising second-generation Asian American demographic? I'm playing around.
But end of commercial break.

Vicki pats me on the back and we clink bottles together. Voldemort is lurking in the background, as if she's about to photobomb the next picture. Sometimes I don't know if there's going to be a next picture.
Either we live in these moments, or make memories of them with our phones. And like sheep following an untrustworthy shepherd, we went back to our phones. She made emails and texts. I went on twitter in search of the latest news story.

2

Before Vicki and I opened each other's presents, I remember I blew up at Mom and Dad, and criticized everyone in the family room including Vicki. It was over something stupid and trivial, but it was also something that made me feel insecure and small. I was the black sheep and she was the sheep-dog.

I screamed. Vicki took in a deep breath and looked away from my glare, looked away to a spot on the hardwood floor that was filled with a fine blanket of dust and lint. I chattered. She rubbed her fingers around the lens of her black camera and shook her head in a manner that suggested annoyance and disappointment. I scoffed. She set the camera down on the coffee table and pressed the flat of her hand against her cheek, and glanced out the window into the backyard that was blanketed with slush and snow.
Drops of snow were plunging from the branches of the evergreen trees and plopping onto the patches of the ground, plunging, as though they were little toddlers cannonballing off of a high-dive.

She turned back and looked at me straight in the eye, so straight I thought she was searching for the answer to my own stupidity.

I cleared my throat and said, “I need a breath of fresh air.”

Vicki bit her bottom lip, sat down, and put her arms on her knees, a deep, contemplative look appearing on her face.

I stormed into the narrow hallway, slammed the front door back against its rusty hinges, and trundled down my front driveway, the cold from the ice and the snow dampening the soles of my tarnished boots. I lit a jack at the far end of the cul-de-sac and counted to ten. I watched the cigarette smoke rise, as the ashes fell on the snow, blemishing its purity and calmness. I inhaled. I exhaled. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach that Vicki knew I was having a jack to reduce my stress, stress that I had cause all by myself. I ground the jack against the snowy concrete, feeling the cold begin to numb my fingers that were shaking from the nicotine, shaking from the winter that had wrapped itself around me and my sister.

When I came back inside of the house, I told Mom and Dad I was being an idiot and that I didn’t mean to be such an *******. I turned to Vicki and put my hand on her shoulder, squeezed it, and smiled weakly, telling her that I didn’t mean to upset her.

She nodded and said, “It’s okay bro.”

But her soft and icy tone made me feel skeptical; she didn’t believe me. I didn’t know if I believed my apology. Minutes later, I gave my present to her.

Her face brightened up with a smile. It was a gradual and cautious smile, a little too gradual and a little too cautious. She hugged me tightly, as though my earlier outburst hadn’t happened.

She opened the bank envelope and inside was a fat stack of cleanly, pressed bills that totaled a hundred. Being an arrogant, noob car salesman at the time, I thought it was going to be a pretty clever present. I could have given her a Benjamin, but I thought this would make her happier, because it showed my creative side in a different form.

I remember seeing her spread the dollar bills out, as if the bills were a Japanese Paper fan. Vicki told me not to post the picture I had taken on insta or Facebook. I smiled faintly and nodded, stuffing my smartphone back into my sweatpants pocket. I understood what she wanted, and I listened to her, respecting her wishes. But I also wasn't sure if she was embarrassed and ashamed of me. And maybe I was overthinking it. But again, maybe I wasn’t overthinking it. Social Media, whether we like it or not, is a part of life. And in that moment, I actually wanted social media to display this a single story in our lives. I wanted to show people that Vicki was the most important person—besides my parents—in my life. Because I was so concerned with how people viewed me and because I lacked confidence, lacked security, and lacked respect for myself

Vicki's present to me was a sleek and blue tie, a box set of mini colognes, and refreezable-ice-cubes. I think she called it the car salesperson kit. But I knew and still know she was trying to turn me into an honest and non-sketchy car salesman. And you know what, I was genuine, but I also couldn't retain any information about the cars features—to reiterate my Grandma has Alzheimer's, my mom writes down constant notes to remember everything, and I forget my journal almost every time I leave the house.

After Christmas I wore the tie to work a few times, but the mini colognes and ice-cubes never got used by me. They stayed in the trunk of my Toyota Avalon. I should have used the colognes and the ice-cubes, but I was too careless, too self-involved, and too ungrateful.

1

Back in the 90’s, when we were around 3 and 6 years old, Vicki and I shared the same room on the far left end of the hallway in our house. She had a small bed, and I had a bigger bed, obviously, because at 6 foot 1, I was a genetic freak for a Vietnamese guy. I read Harry Potter and Redwall like crazy growing up, and I would try to invent my own stories to entertain her. Every night she would listen to me tell my yarn, and it made me feel that my voice was significant and strong, even though many times I felt my voice was weak and soft, lacking in inflection, or intonation.

I had a speech impediment and I had to take classes at Canterbury Woods to fix my perceived problem. I wanted to fit in, blend in, and have friends.
Back then Vicki was not only my sister, but my best friend. She used to have short, black bangs; chubby cheeks, and a dot-sized nose—don't worry she didn't get ****** into the grocery tabloids and get rhinoplasty. She wore her red pajamas with a tank top over it, so she looked like a mini-red ranger, and her slippers

poetic description of England in the 1960s will never
be a solitary figurine prancing dance,
only in the 21st century will it become clear -
as i read the fragments of the Cantos
in the early years of the 21st century i know the few
years numbering it for a populist
personality - the fragments after a
pause are crucial - but for me there's not azure-eyed
Olga - we never dare to forgive
Dante in Paradiso, let alone Inferno...
but we do dare forgive  Ezra in St. Elizabeth's -
a bit like me in England,
ungoverned by Orwell's prophesy
a lunatic asylum for Albanians -
the scientists are doing a runner for the mainland,
the opera is about to begin -
if i were i Cracow circa 1942 i'm be herded
into Auschwitz, unless i played Schubert on
piano, of course, some **** officer might
spot my talent by then... before they test it on the public
they test it on the Fußsoldaten -
they want to know how the sane man will crack
when given rigid army attention's worth of
order in a return to society -
poetry in the 1960s? you really want to believe
populist democracy - fun and games -
democracy has two enemies -
one inside, one without -
democracy is about the people, you can
try to individuate yourself in democracy
but you'll just end up being a despot to the people,
democracy is like Hollywood, it wants actors -
trying to be an individual in democracy
is like calling yourself Adolf ****** -
currently the people are trying to erase
their colonial past with a poly-ethnic society experiment
(it won't work, the vermin have spoken),
democracy loves to depose despots in ruling government
while at the same time creating terrorists -
it does both at the same time -
it's perfected its imperfections to do so.
by the way the poets describe it,
the 1960s weren't all that worth celebration,
the everyday kicked in... the 1960s seem
like rather glum times - nothing to celebrate -
should i be surprised? still, democracy is the
failure we all like to keep failing,
so we can convene on the appropriate bureaucratic
expansion - despotism doesn't favour the latter,
hence its failings concerning professions
with pencil sharpeners.
Adolf asked: marriage works (heirat arbeit)?
the people replied: ja!
Adolf reiterated: das Autobahn.
the people reinvented: die autokäfer!
and then there was tarmac with skid marks from
the revenants / alter curator traffic-jam pensioners
at 5p.m. hungry for their nips & tatties
alongside buff beef syringed with steroids
tested at the 1988 Olympics; fancy the Soviet
women growing beards on the sprint track
before tabloids undermined the democratic argument
for free-press - tabloids are just as bad as
despots mediating press-freedom;
tabloids are collective despotism, or to put it mildly,
throwing cabbage rather rather than using the guillotine...
i'd prefer the guillotine.... meaning i wouldn't
have to watch your ****-like ****** expressions
beyond the cabbage thrown.

They’re foreclosing on our homes left and right
Violent gangs roam the streets to find a fight
On the corner scumbags sell the young *******
That’s the bitter news the tabloids will proclaim

But some people volunteer at nursing homes
Some give to charity their whole life long
Some others give asylum for the homeless in the rain
But that’s not headline news as the media plays the game

I believe in tomorrow thru it all
God makes a lot more sunbeams
Than he makes raindrops fall
At Golgatha Hill He showed a love
No darkness can undo
He's always justified my faith                                                            ­                    
And believing like I do

So don’t give up when tabloids show the worst
Or when cable likes to find some hell on earth
For God’s a God of endless love; His rainbows stop the rain
And He would never make a world in vain

CHORUS

Bridge:
The tide comes in, the tide goes out
But goodness will prevail
Just follow in His footsteps
And you'll be right on the trail

CHORUS

By: Cedric McClester

As we shall see infidelity
While seeming to be
The latest fashion
Where there’s conviction
And passion
So even those
Who walk down the aisle
Are often betrayed by words or a smile

Increasingly
We’re beginning to see
Infidelity
Wouldn’t you agree

Let’s keep it real
There’s Bill -  (And Camille)
Knows how it feels
When tabloids reveal
The infidelity
That she didn’t see
Though it kept happening
Time and again

Increasingly
We’re beginning to see
Infidelity
Wouldn’t you agree

The unions survive
The husbands and wives
Living separate lives
Check out the archives
So what’s the reason
For their treason
Finding someone to squeeze in
Must be in season

It’s hard to respect
Those you wouldn’t suspect
Of bedding the babysitter
So you can’t blame the wives
For being angry or bitter
Cuz it never occurred
It was the babysitter
Who was preferred

Increasingly
We’re beginning to see
Infidelity
Wouldn’t you agree












Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016.  All rights reserved.

It's all going strange, or so I think;
'For whom the bells toll,' ringing all week.
The truth is told, witches do not sink,
Burnt at the stake, for the lies you speak.
Presecuted; superstitous men,
Accuse and choose; God fearing, they ****.
Eradicate if you don't fit in;
Wipe out those with the strongest free will.
Witch hunts aren't exclusive to the past,
Each day we read about people burnt;
In the tabloids, reputations last;
They are not killed, but families are hurt.
Witches; daughters of humility,
Not called a witch but 'celebrity'.

Grandiose curiosum
Tittle-tattle tralala
Association after association
What has been and could have been
And would have been and isn’t
The fourth rack wrecks
With rumours and whispers
And dishonest lies
But sell your soul for some sales
And you’ll end up in an endless devaluation
Of the moral
And the valuable
And decency and fact
Between a cold Sun and a dead Star
There is nothing worthy to Express

Her world,
a storm filled with confusion,
got her chasing an illusion.
She's already a pearl,
but lost touch with reality,
vanity taking all of her sanity.
Trying to fit into a world,
that isn't fit for this girl,
             -- this is insanity.
A beautiful girl,
trapped in a materialistic world,
it isn't realistic --
The truth is mythic,
enhanced by a gimmick,
that real people try to mimmick.
And get depressed,
cause they can't achieve it.
These people faker than make belief ...
and we all believe it.
It makes me so sick
I want to hurl -
then walk off like,
I never even seen it.

Once I met a platypus;
I took her to my heart.
We held hands by the lake at night,
And flew kites in the park.

We drank red wine by moonlight,
And closer, by degrees,
Expressed our deepest feelings;
Explored our fantasies.

And then, as these things happen,
There came a happy day:
We took an ad out in The Times
Announcing progeny.

But outrage at the outcome -
Our beloved platy-pups -
Was front page in the tabloids!
What was the platy-fuss?

We gave the papers interviews,
We gave our truth and trust -
But still my Love was slandered
Just for being oviparous!

We formed an equal rights group.
We founded charities.
To educate, to celebrate
Our ovi-parity!

We swore a solemn, binding oath,
Between the two of us
The Wedding feast and party was
Quite monatrematous!


Uncle Mallangong was tearful;
Aunt Echidna was abeam:
The Boondaburra “Moonwalking”
Was something to be seen!

There were Joeys sloshed on cider,
Wombats smoking ****;
Emus snogging at the bar -
Koalas wild on speed!

For sickness, health; for poorer,
Or for great prosperity;
I will love and hold and cherish,
Through all adversity,

My nondarwinian lover;
My mutant, duck-billed Queen!
My unconventional ******;
My monotreme – my dream!

Penny got married young, she idolised her new man  
Penny turned 16, said, I do I do, priest wed them both  
Penny was happy, never complained to anyone, too shy for that  
She crashed a party once, and met a gal named Sally  
They became friends  
And she confided in her  
 
Shared little secrets, lips sealed, shook their little pinkies, never to tell  
Then hubby walked in with curious smile, said you going to stay awhile  
I'm not coming back until sunlight, best thing Penny had heard all night  
‘Cause her new beau, wasn’t all that he seemed  
But only Penny knows so go go go oh no go  
 
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle-up  
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup  
 
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
 
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up  
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup  
 
Penny started staying inside, never going past the front gate  
Some friends called saying you ok you ok you ok girlfriend  
Penny searched websites, looking for a way out, deleting history, nobody got suspicious  
While trying to play the good wife, reality started to sink in  
Then she thought  
 
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up  
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup  
 
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up  
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup  
 
And I don't want anyone knowing about the abuse, just in case  
I've covered up since day one, swollen face  
A nightmare, ever since our honeymoon  
Childhood dreams were locked in a cell, but kept them alive and still didn’t tell, even while being slammed unconscious  
It's like my security blanket, it's the reason that I'm alive  
Everyone has childhood dreams, but most will never survive  
They don’t always come true, maybe one out of five, be wise  
Believing Hollywood tabloids, that they are still very much together, all lies  
So go about your ways, put up with the one, that doesn’t love you anymore and continually hurts us and says sorry, again  
Always just after they have, again bruised us  
Forgetting about the pain and coverups that were made  
Thinking it was just a sleeping nightmare, oh no  
 
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up  
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup  
Go now, Go now  
 
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go  
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up  
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup  
Go now, Go now

Ego Eccentric, Collective hysteria
A mind of madness,Compassionately cruel
Do or die
Black or white
Comprised carefully of duality
We are presented a human life
The thinker thinks but will never know
Think as much as you can
As much as you'd like
Ahh a thinker,
For he is one far and few between
He cringes at the tabloids
Glamorized ****** flashes
upon the big screens
Fear mothered slave state
Is where he sighs home
A pattern to repeat
An average man's prison
One of which
He's carefully constructed himself
Barring his own windows
Processing his own food
And his own paperwork
Jail keeper sounds
The morning alarm
"Wake your body!"
Mind stays in slumber
"It's time to make money"
Yet no real wealth
Another day on repeat
Constructing his "self"
Identifying carefully
With devised roles.
The play begins
"Curtain call!"
"Places everyone!"
The lights dim
Going back to pretending again
-KaitValentine

Muggy murky dawn clogged with gloom the abbey

Where his grampy sleeps ,

Through

the drizzles fizzle

As native orchids embosoms and blossoms in his lost vault.

like a curfew drawn in the church

The pew lost its crowd

With the paws of time.

Lone man sleep

In deep latin chants they petrify you

Before sheol purifies you

And litany literature lecture limbs you

When in overprotected embankments of battlements

They dry their garbs

Where your lore forayed growth

And sweat smeared smelt breathed wealth

Chagrin dreams washed ashore

lay as upon a cold mornings recollection on a tabloids sold column

which drew your freckles bolder

In a savour of remembrance

For your zealous zealots

Who on an another 'all souls day' reoccur revisiting

the truth of their establishment


in prayers
The good Lord adorn you
Let Lekker dreams cradle you
Your consorts concert never consume you
And earth never haunt you

It seems to me that those who are most passionately opposed
    to the currents of power
    are those who are actually the most optimistic
    about humanity.
    For it is those who believe
    that we deserve better.
    It is those who believe that we are actually
    better than we treat ourselves.
    It is those who believe that we have the power
    to empower ourselves and
    the self-control
    to be in control of our selves.
    When we live in a society where the deeply optimistic
    are targeted as terrorists
    and their souls are devalued
    with bullets and their bodies cut up
    by tabloids pretending to be churches,
    we can not be drugged into nihilism.
    Instead we must drag ourselves out of this trench
    and feel the slugs pierce our skin
    and go through and through us
    and exit into our dreams, leaving a hole for our dreams to bleed
    into this world.
    And when we run out of blood we can rot
    into our own imagination.
    And we will dissolve and our bodies
    will become the Earth.
    And the Earth will become balanced.
    And the Earth will spiral back around
    into a bionetic noosphere.
    Because, honestly, I think the Earth is sick
    of having a split personality
    and we are here to bring you sanity.

We live in the unlighted state of America
Where what happens when we turn the lights off
Is dealt with darkness
And matters of delicate touch
Are treated with sharpness
When our only language
Is to inflict anguish
We cut connections in the bedroom
To clear our cynical head room
For contempt and judgement

People looking for a feeling to fall into
Or a reason to live
Must face frigid climates
When the public invades privacy
And ill fated ****** exploits
Pervade salacious tabloids
Our ****** regrets
Cut the deepest
Society reaps them
Sowing us together with resentment
We provide each other with relief
But not the relief we're looking for
We give each other hours of relief
Until those useless hours become days
And those fruitless days become years
That engender endless tears
As it remains warm in our car
But the winter outside freezes anything that breaks the plane
And our air conditioning only helps so much
When the spinning wheels are in our faces

There is a national coverage in the media
That presents a bleak picture of the ****** health of America
I feel I sit somewhere in between
*** offenders and a disgusted public
When I observe the observers
Who are too scared shitless to ever face their own emotions
Judge those for overindulging in their emotions
They lived their life in fear and safety
So they could be the righteous ones
To admonish the risk takers and mistake makers
Yet they are of the least value to humanity
They're the people who grade all your answers as incorrect
Without providing their perfect alternatives
While trying to erase the context
Because of what the context has to say about society
People feeling that they can never be emotionally vulnerable
Until they experience sheer desperation
And no dollar contract
Can replace human contact
Yet we give men so much money and power
And ask them to feel fine in our cold shower
Until we are soiled by their intention
A nation committed to selling Stella Artois
A nation full of Blanche DuBois

Humanity folds in on itself
When we attack with ***
Humanity does itself a disservice
By not trying to understand these attacks honestly
We forsake forgiveness
And embrace desperation
Until we become unbearably desperate
For attention
For approval
For ****** contact
For money
For validation
And sometimes our desperate desires become tangled
I'd like to think of that as love
And not a meeting between two practical rapists
That conjoin in the middle
Yet somehow come out distorted on the other side

Her name was Nanette -
        A student from France
Who wore red blouses
        And **** red pants

She wanted to check out
        The U.S. of A.
So a couple with twins
        Hired her right away

The twins had their own
        Ideas for fun
They loved Disney World
        Their place in the sun

They frolicked on rides,
        Ate hot dogs galore,
Loved parades, Mickey Mouse,
        Fireworks, and more

But Nanette's heart wasn't in it
        The job was no fun
She had no real interest
        In tending to the young

Nothing could cheer up
        This nanny from Paree
She'd rather read tabloids
        Than watch twins under three

She clearly preferred
        The company of guys
With muscles, tattoos,
        And Jello shots on the side

The guys were bad boys
        Completely entranced
By the Parisian charmer
        And her flair for romance

But the parents were upset
        With her profligate passion
They decided to dismiss her
        In a daring fashion

They took her to the
        Tower of Terror one day
And left her shrieking
        As they ran away

And that was the last time
        They ever caught sight
Of that naughty Nanette
        From the City of Light

HEATHER
Had a nervous breakdown when all the flowers died.
A river started flowing from the pits of her eyes.
Broken hearted, she sits.
While life just drifts, from paranormal to abnormal.
Heather is funny girl, with purple hair and size nine feet,
Sometimes she's a rocking girl,
Not always very sweet.
She picks up seashells on the beach, she's trying to find herself inside.
She watches white horses as they ride onto the beaches.
The white horses lost they're shoes.
All over the tabloids, all over the news
She sits on the beach with the sun in her hair.
Nobody loves her.
She just doesn't care.
She's empty as a dustbin late on a Friday morn,
It is her time for renewed being, the dark before her dawn.
And now she says she's coming back, to front up to the badness, keep hold of what's good,
As everybody knew she could.
May the good times roll Heather.
(c)LIVVI

To my friends whose hearts I'm about to break, know that my left cheek will shatter first before your hearts does.
I hope that's comforting enough to hear.
I've always liked the angle of the right side of my face better, therefore the papers and reporters shall see just that.
I hope that's relieving enough to see.
To my other friends whose eyes I will be leaving swollen ugly for days on end,
España's rain and floods shall hydrate you back to life.
I know because I have blessed the skies with my own tears on the nights prior.
Dapitan's dust and smog shall breathe air into your lungs, but not into mine.
I know because I won't he here tomorrow.
I hope that's alleviating enough to know.

Over the last month, I have never figured out if I liked España or Dapitan better.
But I suppose it's the former, for it shall have my sorry excuse of a body
for the very last time.
It's a bad metaphor for a feigned
and forced liberty,
as with this country that I lived in and loved better than the pretentious
and lifeless cities I've traveled to.
Singapore is but a fleeting fling.
Tickles your fancy but will leave you tired and in resentment.
Hong Kong is just another plaything.
Everybody would tell you she's good and all that, but she lost to your tastes still.
Macau is the lover that never gives but keeps on asking,
she was never the safest bet
nor can you lie and tell her she's the best.
Johor is just as frustrating.
She would be the hardest question in the test, the one you've thought of over and over but still stood miscorrect.
Bangkok, I have kept her dearly in my heart but ended up forgetting still.
My other lover from the farther west, but still wouldn't compare to the best.

But Manila, she lives in me. She is me.
It's a shame, I will never see her prosper and bloom in her waiting heydays,
whenever that may be.
But do I deserve to witness that?
I have never done anything to help pitch in her movement.
But it's a bigger, even better shame to have lived in this age of technology.
Forgive me for leaving too soon, Manila.
Welcome me tomorrow around high noon, España.  
Forget about me like you did with your history, my beloved Philippines.
To the headlines, I am diving in headfirst.
To the tabloids, I beg of you to once more tickle the funny bones of a dead girl.

The yonder above is forever bruised and opaque
Reigning over glum faces
Complexions washed with a bloodless shade of dispassion
Robotic, disengaged.

Material desires are quenched with vast shopping centres
Credit Cards hold on for dear live
As every last drop of sweet money is rinsed from that plastic rectangle.

Living beyond our means
Whilst simultaneously refusing to give up on Sky TV box sets and liquid lunches.

Hooked to our phones, but not for telephone communication
Rather, for self validation
Defined by the click of a heart or pathetic thumb.

The once friendly communities
With blood coursing through their veins
Are husks of their previous life form, gentrified beyond recognition.

Filtered faces with protruding spines and modified features
Infiltrate mass media
Corrupting the definitions of success and beauty.

Plastic personalities reign supreme
Vacuous minded socialites profess women’s empowerment begins with the flaunting of skin
Rather than the possession of a strong mind.

Many bury their heads in the sand
Residing in ignorance
As mass genocides and civil wars manifest every second.

Or worse, they read the TORYgraph and THE ****  
Believing immigrants spawn white genocide
And white conservatives suffer oppression.

Pffft!

I have deep contempt for those behind these ***** tabloids
Murdoch and his monsters
Orchestrating lies and bile
Destroying lives or scaremongering the impressionable
Committing the most savage, sycophantic crimes
In order to extract Monday’s headline.

I do not suffer fools
Especially those who make up the tapestry of dystopia
A failing age of doom.

I grow old when I have to,
young, when I want to.
I go to reality school with Sandman,
Cupid and Tooth Fairy.
I spin spiderwebs when I’m bored
and sell them off to art houses.
I run a theater in my attic
and put the actors away when I’ve guests.
I deliver single mothers’ babies on Sundays
and name them after my lost lovers.
I trap sunlight in a fishing net, powder it,
mix it with rock phosphate, alfalfa
and feed it to plants in the cities.
I read moods through people’s lips
and tune the piece of sky overhead
to shades of blue, and seldom white.
I put salt in tears, sugar in kisses,
and pepper…to make you sneeze.
I run into the atmosphere to dig out
precious little oddities lost in time
- like dainty coins dropt out of butter fingers,
gift-wrapped kisses flown towards heedless lovers,
paper rockets cut out of vintage tabloids,
and words – all made of gold.
I send them by post to girls with broken hearts,
with a charming story attached to each curio,
as **things lost and found
have a way of restoring faith.

you are all of the mind’s dirtiest trick:

a weathered image of Magdalena,
a sleight of hand and a swirl of skin.
                        defying the laws of inebriation like a culprit
      set loose, or the pallor of the moon excreting its habiliments.
the old rancor of the tree from its spurious beating. vestal buds of autumn
    frugal hands of drizzle in April, prostitutes pirouetting, pried open,
   dissected in faces of the tabloids (their almost acrobatic supremacy on centerfolds)

   all mangled like the unclear, yet certain picture of a 1990s havocked
      retrospect.

you are all of the mind’s filth: a putrid modal-jazz entrapment
   and I am that sad fellow at the elbow room of some dislimned establishment
       falling as lithe as poppies in spring

  only when my mind starts to sing freely, a clenched, harmonic framework
  will my bones start to unloose in the ether, death with its ammoniac perfume,
   closes in like an unwanted visitor with a bounty of silence drowning everything.

i imagine you anything but     lustrous this evening.
     there are certain points in the pressures of your gravity
that levitate to mere intersections of the finer points of ecstasy.

i imagine you    all soft   and plump  as a word   of salvage
   without the vigor   of   blandishments  when you start with   your
    own   way of  moving i imagine you  as blunt as   a dull  knife
     plunging   into   me – i imagine your  sidereal   satellites  fail  in their   coverage
   over impossibly the   blackest  of skies   in February,|

i imagine  you  anything  but clean
   and   all white and spruced up   with   the most
  drenched   light,   real   to the touch  and swiftly moving across  the afternoon
like  wishing you   all but   perverse  and   anomalous
    and   strikingly   beautiful.

A millions signatures,
on a million photos,
all by a different stranger.

Because, who really knows the people
in the limelight?
Who really knows
what they dowith their time?

The tabloids try.
The television shows say that they do.
The websites have photos and first hand accounts.

But who really knows,the people
who autographed these photos?

So visual
Men
We sit them in front of TVs
Where barbie doll lookalikes
Singsong stereotypes
In search of the perfect man and family to cater to
The little girls watching think this to be fulfillment

I change to the news
And fake **** read the newest disaster
With a splash of celeb gossip after
Girls look to mirrors with shame
And I pray to love a blind man

Turn to politics
Where we find women
Like four leaf clovers
To pick out and scrutinize
Dehumanize
Objectify
She must've shown too much leg again
Because there's nothing of her words on the tabloids
Now young girls will only know power in their bodies
Wearing stolen ******* and a stolen smile
Stripping off her self respect with her dress

I live in a patriarchal society
That plays down feminism like a government scandal
I am oppressed
I am repressed
But this is not a woman problem
This is not a feminist problem
This is a societal problem

She starred with Bogart, Douglas, and Victor Mature.
The Smokey voiced blonde whose motives weren’t all pure,
Lisabeth Scott was the last of her line;
Femme Fatales of film Noir, you know her kind.
In the forties and fifties she was in her prime.
She was the subject of scandal of a ****** nature
When the tabloids discovered that no man would date her.
Like Garbo and Stanwyck, stars in their own stead
Lisabeth preferred a brunette in her bed.
For her men had their uses, Men had their places
But she found herself drawn to soft feminine faces.

Disgusted now that America is busted
For voting in sewer rats and gone to bat
For making this into an autocracy,
Working to gut democracy and replace it,
Deface and deforest all of the best
Then sell off the rest of the planet
From the water to the granite
Leaving only inedible gold
Shoved into the the wallets
Of the national pickpockets
And liars while they set fires
And burn down the country
With their hatred and bigotry
Unchecked by the lazy populace
Too stupid to know what danger is
While it is marching into their homes
Making every state a danger zone.

The traitors who own the industries
Hold a gun to journalist monopolies
So that artificial realities are sold
As socialized necessities
To people who prefer tabloids
To history books and crave bromides
For this time it is the Christians
That fiddle while Rome turns to ruins
And ashes surrounded by those who fought
While a complacent half of America did not.

I am sickened at the laziness,
The political father of craziness
Has let this horror happen to this,
The country of which I was always proud,
And sick of how loud the rats are
That they have taken destruction so far
That we may never recover again
And start to elect countrymen
Instead of men to own the country
Without a scintilla of modesty
And treat fine people shoddily
Merely because they can.
Who needs that kind of man?

Take me to the moon
I want to listen to the silence
And walk where I can’t fall
Build me a rocket
Want to go where life makes sense
No one to talk to, no one to call

Leave a Planet
A hundred billion bodies full
No sign of stopping the grow
It’s not like rabbits
You can’t control with a cull
Humans reap what they sow and sow

Living in a bubble
A thousand years from now
No trees, concrete will rule
Build me a rocket
I am heading into space for my final bow
Yes, you may laugh, may think I’m a fool

But I’m a spaceman
I am going to fly into space
Going to take my chances in the voids
Find the peace
Leave behind this disillusioned human race
Moon, population one, how will that look in the tabloids.

Everyone is talking small
Whats on T.V. and sales at the mall
Their words pester you like flies
Which girls like which guys
Its an endless flow of *******
An ever deepening pit
Reality shows, tabloids and radio
Make us malleable as play-doh
See through the illusion
And reach the same conclusion

Could it have happened any differently?
Perhaps. But which fork in the road was it?
Where does the path start to unravel?
A change in the way things are
Would have changed everything else as well.

For all the mistakes bemoaned, lessons
Learned – unless vanity stands in the way –
Or the same error repeated
With different actors playing the same role –
Hero and villain alike.

And the split between people of insignificance and
The people that matter – faces splashed on
Tabloids and magazine covers –
The invisible reduced to mere shadows
Floating on the fringes of light.

Shadows have a way of defining the light.
People have a way of shaping our lives,
Setting in motion our trajectories,
The way banks and boulders guide water in a river –
The wind, a fallen tree.

No absence made a hole in the day of someone
Who was never there.
What’s out of our control – people,
Sequences of events. What’s inevitable –
How we choose to react.

It came from small beginnings.
A shaken woman left her car, engine still running
To see whether or not she had killed the rabbit.
Soft and broken it lay, and she wept, when suddenly
The rabbit drew its final breath
And spoke.
"Don't worry," it said.
"You humans, you're too sentimental!
"You should know, we admire you so much
"That it is a great honour to die at your hands
"Or through the speed of your magnificent machines!"

The woman was startled.

The phenomenon spread around the globe.
In the middle of the South China Sea
A fisherman was greeted by a cheer from his catch.
"Well done!  Well done!" they cried.
"Next time use a smaller mesh, you'll catch more!"

In a chicken battery in Idaho, a young labourer
Whose conscience was troubling him
Almost fainted when 60,000 chickens sang
"For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" and thanked him for his kindness.

"We are here for you!" said a turtle, choking on a plastic bag.
"You have dominion - use it with pride!" cried a pack-laden donkey.
"We are nothing without your interest - catch us, keep us, eat us, please!"

Tabloids were quick to react.
"One in the eye for the Animal Liberationists,"
said the Daily Mail.

For 24 hours the animals spoke
and then they stopped.
And because their voices
had been strained and strange,
feather muffled and furred,
wrung from throats with no vocal chords
It was impossible to be sure
Whether or not
they were being sarcastic.

From the courtyard far below
We all heard the woman scream.
Faces at the windows saw
The masked assailant stalk his prey.


“Stop that”, someone shouted down.
but none went to the woman’s aide.
Not even did we call police
while she still might have been saved.


She screamed for help but no help came,
Her hands bled from defensive wounds.
Her killer made a final ******
And she folded in a swoon.

He grabbed her purse which was the prize
And left her in the courtyard, dead
Her name was Kitty Genovese
A pretty girl, the tabloids said.

A moment in a City’s life-
Not a source of civic pride
Glad she was not a child of mine
Did you watch the night that Kitty died?

It’s early hours,
my sleep gets disturbed.
Outside my door I hear the sound of rushing footsteps,
keys jingling and jangling down the wing.
Through the fog of sleepiness, I can hear a distant alarm bell sing.

In the dead of night,
the only truly peaceful time inside.
It is death itself that breaks the silence,
stirring sleeping guards into action.
Oh, the irony;
that death causes such life in those whose default mode is indifference.

So, don’t you tabloids tell me that my life’s easy inside!
When its steals your will and destroys your pride.

It won’t be long before the ‘Window Warriors’ begin their chanting,
regaling the wing of another young man’s end.
Their words, cold and callous;
reflections that a sentence takes away so much more,
than simple liberty behind locked doors.
Where there was once stood a proud man,
now lies prone just the empty shell.

So, don’t you tabloids tell me, that my life’s easy inside!
When its steals your will and destroys your pride.

In a system that devalues human life to a mere number,
290, there’s a number,
the men and women that met their end in prison last year alone.
Each one of them dying before their time,
each one wasted to anonymous dysfunction,
putting rules and protocols before humanity.

Effects that reach far beyond the walls and razor wire,
Into the lives of family, friends and loved ones.
Left behind with sad memories but no answers.

So, don’t you tabloids tell me, that my life’s easy inside!
When its steals your will and destroys your pride.

Life is so easy in prison!
You all read about that in The Sun;
So, it must be TRUE !!!!
Everyone has an Xbox and Sky TV,
and larks about all-day drinking *****.
Who really cares if it is not the truth?

The reality is, life inside is scary, it’s lonely,
it is harsh, and it is stressful.
Living in a concrete box,
viewed through the oblong microscope in the door,
like you are some-sort of germ or bacteria.
Eating your meals 6ft away from your toilet.

Prison is a monster.
It swallows you up whole,
chews you around for a while,
and what is left is spat out back into society.

So, don’t you tabloids tell me, that my life’s easy inside!
When its steals your will and destroys your pride.

You’re so full of ******* !!!

Manila    is  fray

Tough enough to die,
    Brave enough to see ****** against
        the billboards

   ***** on the marketplace
   ***** men haggling for prices
   the corners are squalid -- rats with ambitions   of men take  their places    in
    the esteros

   a car-horn blares, wanes old moon music.
      I sing songs of malversation. Trains all graffiti.

     My heart like a jailbird freed somewhere
         in the big sur; love assuages nothing,
    comes with a cheap price
          a freak December night in Roxas blvd.
     i sit on marble benches and dream
        of artilleries, garlands on *****-nosed
            barrels, nuns   grieving  dust
     in    the ground.    communal bathrooms
         drunk in foolish caricatures,
   the tabloids     displaying  flowerheads --
        the democracy in the streets a ****
    for      kings,  no    love to   lull
        me    to infantile    sleep

         tortured are   the   bulls 
   matadors    hiding  behind    faces red   like
       faces    of    statesmen   flushed with
          the   spirit   of   bourbon
   whereas we are    here   river-facing
       northern tip of its  undying source
  like    wives    on  balustrades   waiting
      to catch   the fragrance   of   inamoratas,
   light  reenters
          interstice   of   chary webs of  dull heads   hemmed in like   canopies   in the throat      of     overthrown ponds,   scraps
     of metal    sold    for a  night's  worth
        of    gin   and   Sinatra,

  Deep within   the   grave, the dead   laughing
       at the dead living. Atop   waters,
   yachts peering   into   drowning  fish,
       in   the middle, a   jam   of buses
         belching    lassitudes that    strangle
    the console,    the man    in all  of us
       the same,   cursing behind   the wheel
   and everybody    else    different
              dancing    at   the   top   of our   heads.

Top down on a rented convertible
The directors, the tabloids,
The husband and kids— leave them
with the city traffic.

The humming of the engine
makes my toes vibrate
as I nudge the accelerator with my
size 11 foot.

I want to see
Azure skies, desert landscape
Lizards basking on rocks.

I’d adopt a coyote
He would teach me how to sing
Because he admires my long nose.

On the road, I feel the
power of abandonment—
Infinite. Priceless. Immortal.

My excitement rises with the speedometer
I would make it to Mexico City by nightfall
The birthplace of my mother.

I write her name in the sky
It waivers with humility
Condenses into streak marks
on my windshield.

Her reflection winks back at me
in the rearview mirror.
Ahead, I see dusk and
the milky colors of city lights.

From the courtyard far below
We all heard the woman scream.
Faces at the windows saw
The masked assailant stake his prey.


“Stop that”, someone shouted down.
but none went to the woman’s aide.
Not even did we call police
while she still might have been saved.


She screamed for help but no help came,
Her hands bled from defensive wounds.
Her killer made a final ******
And she folded in a swoon.

He grabbed her purse which was the prize
And left her in the courtyard, dead
Her name was Kitty Genovese
A pretty girl, the tabloids said.

A moment in a City’s life-
Not a source of civic pride
Glad she was not a child of mine
Did you watch the night that Kitty died?

Just a cool stone falling from the sky. A parachute smoking Parliament Lights coasting the real world that was passing it by. Coaxing a kettle to observe kashrut law but tamely give it time and it'll start handling the swine in the huge sunlight of Williamsburg's Southeast side. It will learn to pedal its parlor tricks in order to survive.

The tabloids had the story neatly bundled up with a news team in their 3-floor flat. Bubble-wrapped and packaged with plastic. Two new reasons to draw a truce to the agonizing and circuitous chasing of the playground muse. Beautiful warmed cerise porcelain skin intertwined by the golden threads worth never ever choosing to blink again. Beautiful like imaginary childhood sword fights among the assurance of our towering grandparents. Beautiful as the vintage polaroid blur of a person whose city slept itself into the sea. She slept herself into the sea.

From the sacred realm of the many desk drawers, lintels, cupboards, and closets where so many objects of misdirection, confusion, and memory appear out of 25¢ rings, faded business cards, nameless sentimental must-haves, four or five photographs that are never looked at, three or four leather cuffs, brass knuckles, a sailor's compass, 12 cigarettes, and two empty cigar boxes of stuff that is home to even lesser known finer sentimentally necessary stuff.

The commoner takes no notice of these fantastical theorems or the promulgating tantrummers in the sweaty cobblestone streets where in the sarcasm of a daydream, he the dreamer sleeps here yet he's awake in July the Fourth, Eighteen Seventy-Three, Independence Day or though it would seem. The narrator who is played by Humbert Humbert constantly fidgets with a steel 6-shot revolver, he drops it multiple times while his eyes are stricken with the brightest shine from the sheen off a knife in the hands of the stranger's while he shuffled and whined.

Inside the shells of flightless birds there are always the tormented ears echoing the screams of the children that they hurt. Who will never gait through wild strawberry fields or understand that everything is only as real as we choose to feel.