I find comfort in being sarcastic, for it tricks my brain, and my feelings towards you. Like a black tarp, sarcasm covers my heart, and lets nothing sting. But that is not true. For this tarp is torn, my heart is sore, and I cant lie, to feel less blue.

The old man paints seashells
for all of the women he has loved.
He takes his husky for walks
along the beach, returning with
a bag of **** and a collection
of spirals and fans, still pregnant
with the whispers of the ocean.

By the window, he licks his brush
and steadies his nervous hands.
He will share a steak with the dog,
and wonder when the best company
became inanimate or at most; unspeaking.
He had long turned his back on Dylan
and Cohen, in favour of empty sound

and the rain hitting the tarp
in the garden. He recalls Diane
and the green of life in her poetry.
Louise, the blue of her moods and the sea.
Each woman had coloured his life
in hopeful hues, oh, and what a mess
he was in their absence.
(even the dog wouldn't sleep beside him)

The old man drew his last breath
when the silence became deafening.
When he realised he could not reclaim
memories through art, or through
the patient analysis of nature.
There was no shape or colour
that had not been created before.

Soothing, sensational,
elegant as the harp,
Semblance, integument,
covering of the tarp,
Ebullient, vivacious,
precision of the mind,
Vehement, appetent,
keen & one of a kind,
Perfervid, chocolate katydid,
desirable & luscious taste,
Delectable, ambrosial,
palatable & consumed with haste,
Sybaritic, voluptuous,
enticing to the senses,
Libidinous, hedonic,
enriched untightened hinges,
Efficacious, puissant,
robust delight to the eye,
Potent, consequential,
immeasurable symbol of the sky,
Pulchritudinous, gorgeous,
magnificent as the autumn sun,
Resplendent, vivid, lustrous
as a diamond-lithographed gun,
Sympathetic, affectionate,
condoling soul of a angel,
Altruistic, benignant,
warmhearted with no mangle,
Serenity, tranquility,
composure of divine peace,
Harmonious, amicable,
placid as the slow moving creek...

Houses sitting condemned, taking up the view
while the old guys sit sipping forties in forty degree
temperatures facing the wall so the wind doesn't burn
their faces too much in what could be called a modest December.

They turn their back to the guy hiding bags of rock
in his lips to avoid detection from the cameras posted
on both street corners. This place is set to a constant sneaking
violin pluck. We are all capers in a burgle commune.

I hung up a tarp today so the stray cats can hide from the wind.
In one stanza, January has set in and it is bitter to the bone.
We summoned the name of old man winter from repetition and
no one man may hold that burden. The ***** only warms their blood.

So many spiderwebs
each with individual suction cups
******* blood and injecting poison....

a collapse lung....
withered and black....
festering in the hot sun
kissing silver scalpels
and ******* yellow pus
into crunchy white tarp....

capsules that release toxins
into a parched mouth

spiderwebs.... make love to my arm

Traffic jam on the highway
cars stopped
one hundred percent gridlock
heat waves off the asphalt

people rushing to see relatives
holiday weekend; a few hours till they see them
two hundred engines humming
flies buzzing

five hundred people waiting
wondering what they're waiting for
waiting for their wheels to turn
waiting for someone they've never seen before

their lives inconvenienced
by a traffic jam
******* up their holiday plans

when their cars finally move
and they see what made them stop
"oh dear, look at all those cops"
and an overturned tin can of a car

telling their kids to look elsewhere
shielding their eyes from the array
of a wrecked life
of a blue tarp on the highway

Their lives inconvenienced
by a traffic jam
******* up their holiday plans

but who is beneath
the blue tarp on the ground?
nobody even thinks
about what could be found

and what a disgrace
to simply be
an inconvenience
lying in the street

because humans are heartless
whether they are young or old
when their lives are inconvenienced
by a little girl's body gone cold

and for these reasons
i pray to never, ever say,
"i wish we could hurry through this traffic
because it's ******* up my holiday."

My mother raised me under the belief that monotony was a worse state than death and she lived her life accordingly. She taught me to do the same. About five years ago, my mother died. Her death steered my course from any sort of seated, settled life and into a spiral of new experiences.
For months after she left, I skulked about each day feeling slumped and cynical and finding everything and everyone coated in the sickly metallic taste of loss. I noticed that without her I had allowed myself to settle into a routine of mourning. I pitied myself, knowing what she would have thought.  Life was already so different without her there and I couldn’t continue with life as if nothing had happened, so I jumped from my stagnancy in attempts to forget my mother’s name and to destroy the mundane just like she had taught me to. I had to learn how to live again, and I wanted to find something that would always be there if she wouldn’t. I had a purpose. I tried to start anew and drown myself in change by throwing all that I knew to the wind and leaving my life behind.

I was running away from the fact that she had died for a long time. When I first picked up and left, I befriended the ocean and for many months I soaked my sorrows in salt water and *****, hoping to forget. I repressed my thoughts. Mom’s Gone would paint the inside of my mind and I would cover it up with parties and Polynesian women.
I was the sand on the shores of Tahiti, living on the waves of my own freedom. A freedom I had borrowed from nature. A gift that had been given to me by my birth, by my mother. I tried to lose myself in those waves and they treated me with limited respect. More often than not, they kicked me up against their black walls of water. They were made of such immense freedom that many times made me scream and **** my pants in fear, but they shoved loads that fear into my arms and forced me to eventually overcome the burden.
As time slipped by unnoticed, I created routine around the unpredictability of the tides and the cycle of developing alcoholism. One night after a full day of making love to the Tahitian waters, my buddies and I celebrated the big waves by filling our aching bodies with a good bit of Bourbon. By morning time, a good bit of Bourbon had become a fog of drink after drink of not-so-good *****? Gin maybe? I awoke to the sight of the godly sunrise glinting off of the wet beach around me, pitying my trouser-less hungover self. With sand in every orifice, I took a swim to wash me of the night before. I floated on my back in silence while the birds taunted me. I felt the ocean fill every nook and cranny of my body, each pulse of my heartbeat sending ripples through it. My heart was the moon that pressed the waves of my freedom onward and it was sore for different waters. The ache for elsewhere was coming back, and the hole she left in my gut that was once filled with Tahiti was now almost gaping. It had been a beautiful ride in Tahiti but I had not found solace, only distraction. The currents were shifting towards something new.
She had always said that the mountains brought her a solace that she never felt in church. They were her place to pray and they were the gods that fulfilled her. She told me this under the sheets at bedtime as if it were her biggest secret. I had delusional hope that she might be somewhere, she might not be gone. I thought if I would find her anywhere it would be there, up in the clouds on the highest peaks.
The next day, I was on the plane back to the States where I would gather gear. The mountains had called and left a needy voicemail, so I told them I was on my way.

In Bozeman, the home I had run from when I left, every street and friend was a reminder of my childhood and of her. I was only there to trade out my dive mask for my goggles. I had sold most of my stuff and had no house, apartment, or any place of residence to return to except for a small public storage unit where I’d stashed the rest of my goods. Almost everything I owned was kept in a roomy 25 square foot space, the rest was in my duffel. I’d left my pick-up in the hands of my good man, Max, and he returned her to me *****, gleaming, and with the tank full. I took her down to the storage yard and opened my unit to see that everything remained untouched. Beautifully, gracefully, precariously piled just as it was when I left. I transitioned what I carried in my duffel from surf to snow. I made my trades: flip flops for boots, bare chest for base layers, board shorts for snow pants, and of course, board for skis. Ah, my skis… sweet and tender pieces of soulful engineering, how I missed them. They still suffered core-shots and scratches from last season. I embraced them like the old friends they were.
I loaded up the pick-up with all the necessities and hit the road before anyone could give me condolences for a loss I didn’t want to believe. I could not stray from my path to forget her or find her or figure out how to live again. I did not know exactly what I wanted but I could not let myself hear my mother’s name. She was not a constant; that was now true.  

My truck made it half way there and across the Canadian border before I had to set her free. She had been my stallion for some time, but her miles got the best of her. It was only another loss, another betrayal of constancy. I walked with everything on my back until I eventually thumbed my way to the edge of the wild forest beneath the mountains that I had dreamt of. They were looming ahead but I swore I caught a whiff of hope in their cool breeze.
With skis and skins strapped to my feet, I took off into the wilderness. My eyes were peeled looking for something more than myself, and I found some things. There were icy streams and a few fattened birds and hidden rocks and tracks from wolves and barks of their pups off in the distance. But what I found within all of these things was just the constant reminder of my own loneliness.
I spent the days pushing on towards some unknown relief from the pain. On good days there fresh snow to carry me and on most days storms came and pounded me further into my seclusion. The trees bowed heavy to me as I inched forward on my skis, my only loyal companions; I only hoped they would not betray me on this journey. I could not afford to lose any more, I was alone enough. My mother was no where to be found. The snow seemed to miss her too and sometimes I think it sympathized with me.
I spent the nights warmed with a whimpy fire lying on my back in wait hoping that from out of the darkness she would speak to me, give me some guidance or explanation on how I could live happily and wildly without her. Where was this solace she had spoken of? Where was she? She was not with me, yet everything told me about her. The sun sparkled with her laughter, the air was as crisp as her wit, the cold carried her scent. I could feel her embrace around me in her hand-me-downs that I wore. They were family heirlooms that had been passed to her through generations, and then to me. The lives that had been lived in these jackets and sweaters were lived on through me. Though the stories hidden in the seams of these Greats had long been forgotten, died off with their original masters, I could feel the warmth of their memories cradle me whenever I wore them. I cringed to think about what was lost from their lives that did not live on. I was the only one left of my family to tell the world of the things they had done. I was all that was left of my mother. She had left her mark on the world, that was clear. It was a mark that stained my existence.
These forested mountain hills held a tragic beauty that I wish I could have appreciated more, but I felt heavy with heartache. Nature was not always sweet to me. For days storms surged without end and I coughed up crystals, feeling the snowflake’s dendrites tickle at my throat. I had gotten a cold. Snot oozed from my nostrils, my eyes itched, my schnoz glowed pink, my voice was hoarse, and I wanted nothing but to go home to a home that no longer existed. But I chose to go it alone on this quest and I knew the dangers in the freedom of going solo. The winds were strong and the snow was sharp. New ice glazed once powdery fields and the storms of yesterday came again and there was nothing I could do except cower at the magnificence of Nature’s sword: a thing so grand and powerful that it has slayed armies of men with merely a windy slash. I was nature’s *****. I felt no promise in pressing on, but I did so only to keep the snow from burying me alive in my tent.
And I am so glad that I did, because when the great storm finally passed I looked up to see the sky so hopeful and blue bordering the mountains I knew to be the ones I was searching for. I recognized them from the bedtime stories. She had said that when she saw them for the first time that she felt a sudden understanding that all the many hundred miles she’d ever walked were supposed to take her here. She said that the mere sight of them gave her purpose. These were those mountains. I knew because the purpose I had lost sight of came bubbling back out of my aching heart, just as it had for her.

These peaks as barren as plucked pelicans and peacocks, but as beautiful as the feathers taken from them, were beacons in the night for those in search of a world of dreams in which to create a new reality. From them I heard laughter jiggle and echo, hefty and deep in the stomachs of the only people truly living it seemed. When I was scouring the vastness of this wilderness for a sign or a purpose, I followed the scent of their delicious living and I guess my nose led me well.
A glide and a hop further on my skis, there the trees parted and powder deepened and sun shone just a bit brighter. Behind the blinding glare of the snow, faces gleamed from tents and huts and igloos and hammocks. Shrieks of children swinging from branches tickled my ears, which had grown accustomed to the silence of winter. As I approached this camp, I saw they were not kids but grown men and women. It seemed I had stumbled down a rabbit hole while following the tracks of a white jackalope. I had found my world of dreams. I had found them. I had found a home.
I was escaping my lonely, wintery existence into a shared haven perfectly placed beneath the peaks that had plagued my dreams. A place where the only directions that existed were up and down the slopes and forwards to the future. Never Eat Soggy Waffles did not matter anymore. By the end of my time there, I had even forgotten my lefts and rights. The camp had been assembled with the leftovers of the modern world and looked like a puzzle with mismatched pieces from fifty different pictures. At first glance, it could have been a snow covered trash heap, but there was a sentimental glow on each broken appliance that told me otherwise. Everything had a use, though it was not usually what was intended. The homes of these families and friends were made of tarp or blankets or animal hides and had smelly socks or utensils or boots or bones hanging from their openings. There were homemade hot springs made of bathtubs placed above fires with water bubbling. Unplugged ovens buried in snow and ice kept the beer cooled. Trees doubled as diving boards for jumping into the deep pits of powder around them. The masterminds behind this camp were geniuses of invention and creation. Their most impressive creation was their lifestyle; it was one that had been deemed impossible by society. This place promised the solace I had been searching for.
A hefty mass of man and dogs galumphed its way through the snow. Rosy cheeks and big hands came to greet me. This was Angus. His face grew a beard that scratched the skies; it was a doppelganger to the mossy branches above us. But his smile shone through the hairs like the moon. There are people in this world whose presence alone is magic, an anomaly among existence. Angus was one of them. Not an ounce of his being made sense. The gut that hung from his broad-shouldered bodice was its own entity and it swung with rhythms unknown to any man; it was known only to the laughter that shook it. Gently perched atop this, was his shaggy white head that flew backwards and into the clouds each time he laughed, which was often. Angus fathered and fed the folks who’d found their way to this wintery oasis, none of which were of the ordinary. There was a lady with snakes tattooed to her temples, parents who’d birthed their babies here beneath the full moon, couples who went bankrupt and eloped to Canada, men and women who felt the itch just as me and my mother had. The itch for something beyond the mundane that left us unsatisfied with life out in the real world. All of them came out of their lives’ hardships with hilarious belligerence and wit, each with their own story to tell. The common thread sewn between all these dangerous minds was an undeniable lust for life.
The man who represented this lust more than any other was Wiley and wily he was. He’d seen near-death countless times and every time he saw the light at the end of the tunnel, he would run like a fool in the other direction. He lived on borrowed time. You could see that restlessness driving him in each step he took. Each step was a leap from the edges of what you thought possible. Wiley was a man of serious grit, skill, and intelligence and never did he let his mortality shake him from living like the animal he was. He’d surely forgotten where and whence he came from and, until finding his way here, had made homes out of any place that offered him beer and some good eatin’. Within moments of shaking hands, he and I created instant brotherhood.
The next few days turned into months and I eventually lost track of time all together. I could have stayed there forever and no day would have been the same. I played with these people in the mountains and pretended it was childhood again. We lived with the wind and the wildness the way my mother had once shown me how to live. I had forgotten how to live this way without her and I was learning it all over again. We awoke when we pleased and trekked about when weather permitted, and sometimes when it didn’t. Each day the sun rose ripe with opportunities for new lines to ski and new peaks to explore. The backcountry was ours and only ours to explore. We were its residents just like the moose and the wolves. My body grew stinky and hairy with joy and pushed limits. Hair that stank of musk and days of labor was washed only with painful whitewashes courtesy of Wiley. Generally after a nice run, we’d exchange them, shoving each other’s faces deep into the icy layers of snow, which would be followed with some hardy wrestling. By the end of each day, if we didn’t have blood coming out of at least two holes in our faces then it wasn’t a good day.
I never could wait to get my life’s adventures in and here I was having them, recalling the unsatisfied ache I had before I left. Life was lost to me before. I had forgotten how to live it after she had died. Modern monotony had taken control until my life became starved of genuine purity and all that was left then was mimicry. But the hair grown long on these men and smiles grown large on these woman showed no remembrance of such an earth I had come from. They had long ago cast themselves away from such a society to relish in all they knew to be right, all their guts told them to pursue: the truth that nature supplies. Still I worried I would not remember these people and these moments, knowing how they would be ****** into the abyss of loss and time like all the others. But we lived too loud and the sounds of my worries were often drowned in fun.
     We spent the nights beside the fire and listened to Wiley softly plucking strings, that was when I always liked to look at Yona. Her curls endlessly waterfalled down her chest and the fire made her hair shimmer gold in its glow. She was the spark among us, and if we weren’t careful she could light up the whole forest.  She was a drum, beating fast and strong. Never did she lose track of herself in the clashing rhythms of the world. She had ripped herself from the hands of the education system at a young age and had learned from the ways of the changing seasons f

When I met you, I never intended on dancing for so long.  Every year I’d think, “this is the last time I’ll ever see him”.  And I would get all weepy and teary-eyed as we sent the boats out for the last time, partially dismembered and covered in old, ***** tarp.  But sometimes, I swear, I swear, I’d feel some warped sense of

Relief.

Like I could finally send all my lust and desires off with you to another tomorrow, where I would not be.  Every year was your last year.  And every year I’d say, “this is the last time I’m ever gonna see you” and you’d say “don’t be ridiculous, we’re gonna see each other again.” And I, “How can you ever know for sure?” And you, “I just got a feeling”.  Okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly like that, it was much more poetic.  You’re much more poetic.  And I’d melt like play-doh in the sun when you’d look at me lazily with those sky, sky blue eyes. And wither at the thought of you leaving me forever, my sunshine warming my skin to reach and grow.

But then like the tide, you would always return.

And then it was back to those hot, hot summer days, sweating ***** and drug cocktails out of every pore imaginable.  And in this state, being expected to attend to all the ridiculous tourists looking for a boat ride around the Public Garden. Yeah, can’t say pedaling a two-ton boat full of gossipy annoying foreigners is easy.  But the work pays for my play, so it’s back to the old wooden dock once more.  To your irritable character staining the dock Fridays through Sundays, as if your unbearable hangovers were my fault somehow.  Bloodshot eyes behind those ridiculous J-Lo-esque bright green sunglasses you insisted on wearing.  That is, until they broke and fell into the swampy glittering water.  Which started another screaming match between us, ending in me pouring disgusting pond water into your open, snoring mouth.  Yeah, it was mean, but someone had to let you know that you were being an *******.  You threatened to throw me off the dock, you even pretended to try.  But when you wrapped your cinnamon arms around me, the last thing I had on my mind was fear.  

I can’t even count on my fingers and toes the number of fights we’ve had, the times I’ve made you desperately rip at your thick blonde hair to try and quench the fire I started deep in your belly.  The times you’ve called me weak and naïve, stupid, childlike, to which I’d say you looked like an angry leprechaun.  That one always hit you the hardest.  But when we’d be up in each others’ faces bellowing and screaming, the energy passing between us was of such crushing force I could almost feel myself being ripped toward you, like a magnet to metal.  I could feel myself becoming a part of you, or you a part of me, whether I liked it or not.  

Between the fights and the hangovers and the thick ****** tension hanging in the air like smog, there were the “good days”.  The Mondays, the Wednesdays, when the only thing tainting the air was the rich conversation shared between us.  Some days we would talk for hours on end, about anything that crossed our minds.  “What’s your favorite color?”, “You don’t really believe in the end of the world, do you?” and “How do you say ******* in Italian?”.  You’d laugh at my silliness and I would bask in your happiness, drink it in like sweet nectar from a flower covered in thorns.  And then your happiness would transform into my happiness, and I would skip all the way home singing.  And so continues this delicate dance we began so long ago.

Three years.

Three years.   The difference between you and I, and time past.  Time I’ve spent watching you so carefully as you strut down the dock, muscles contracting and relaxing in rhythm with each deliberate step.  I watch devoutly for the white of your teeth to greet the sun shining so brightly in the sky blue sky.  Sky blue eyes.  All mine, sometimes.  This time.  In my mind I am forever living in the moments we spent entwined together on the forest green bench at the end of the dock, soaking in the sunrays in a content exhaustion.  I am living with your arms around me, you teasing my hair with tired fingertips.  At night I can still see you swerving down Commonwealth Ave and nearly knocking me over with your drunken embrace, then simply placing your arm around my waist.  It fit so well on the small of my back.  The days when you would loop your arm through mine as we finally got out of work and we’d practically run out of the place, as if we were chasing the remaining day through downtown Boston.  I always, always go back to the times you’d put your face so close to mine, as if we were living on a single breath between us.  But I’d blush and shy away, embarrassed, ashamed for feeling anything at all.  

These days, I find it hard to decipher what is me and what is you.  It’s as if we have been dancing around each other for so long we have morphed into one body, moving and mesmerizing.  Our time together is coming to an end, and minutes that once ticked by so slowly race through my fingertips, sand falling through the hourglass in an endless stream.  Days fall off the calendar effortlessly in a final solemn countdown to graduation day.  Every morning is one more morning without you, another moment wasted with you so far away.  Every night is one more night swimming in my loneliness, choking on words I wish so badly to throw at you, so you can finally carry the crushing weight drowning me.  Soon I will go looking to dive into the pools of your eyes and you will not be there.  I know the day I walk on the dock alone is coming, too quickly.  And to rip apart from you now might destroy me.

So time continues, and I continue. To watch, to wait, to covet.  Three years and I’m still hanging on to nothing.  When will you leave me and never come back?

On an empty street, I once walked by a playground,
Abandoned in the night by the morning's children,
In silence, I can still hear the echoes of useless banter and spontaneous laughter.
Now dormant, redundant in the memory,
It woed and cried in the winter's chill,
This playground on an empty street could not forget the warmth of the sun under the tarp of moonlight.

I’m small enough to cry for those with frozen teardrops
who can’t get up off the side of the road to die in peace
So I'll abide in this polar freezing cold silent deliverance
where a  hollow warmth  hides the tears that  aren't for
cryin’ alone

There’s a bitter arctic wind blows right through the tree trunks
there’s no shelter leaning on the dream of the leeward other side
This winter isolation grasps on impatient pieces of frayed light
like hope a mustard sized seed of shine may move venerable
mountain peaks

Who ever knows how long salvation lasts ? They said he died
sleeping on a cardboard  comforter and blue  plastic tarp duvet;
a holey old coat stained with all what went wrong in life …
And .., I feel a sickening guilt of a warming fire's thickening
smoke

The chimney’s icicles drip an angel’s frozen teardrops
But .., I can’t find no heaven in this big ol’ world ...


                                           *wild is the wind ... January 4th, 2017

Rainwalking
black umbrella, dark as the sky,
over head clouds moving slowly by,
dropping misty curtains as they go,
unveiling what my four eyes see
ahead, beyond the spots.

sidewalk walking,
glass topped bus stop,
straight ahead and slightly left,
blue sky tarp,
covers two shopping carts,
mirrored squares decorate the front,
hiding more belongings,
bust show your expression
       if you dare look, yourself,
in the eye as you are judging him,
homeless, and using,
a corner of a bus stop as a storage depot,

temporary,

until a complaint, brings the transit police,
and a pickup to steal it all away,
oh and they brought their tazer, "just in case..."

"next stop, 94A and King George Boulevard,
                                           Surrey Memorial Hospital"


©DWE012014

The body was quickly covered by a black sheet, but Tommy had still seen it, and the image seemed to stick to his eyes like a melted Popsicle. He did not feel sad, or angry, or even curious – Tommy felt nothing at all except wonder at the fact that you could exist one moment, and not the next.
“Hey there,” said the tall man in blue. He wore a badge on his shirt that said ‘police’.
“Hi,” said Tommy, nervously looking up at the man. He felt as though he should not have been looking at the body, as though it were forbidden.
“What’s your name, son?”
“My name is Tommy and I live down the street,” he said, the words spilling out of his mouth. He felt that he needed to explain himself. “I was just riding my bike when...”
“Did you see what was under that tarp?” the man asked, pointing at the blanket. The body had since disappeared, but Tommy knew that the body had just been taken away so others wouldn’t see. Tommy didn’t respond, but the officer nodded.
“Do you want to see something cool?” said the policeman, and Tommy nodded once more.
The policeman walked over to his car and dipped inside, ducking his head under the ledge of the door frame. He looked at Tommy and smiled, clicked a few buttons, and then suddenly there were bright colours, not unlike the colours Tommy had seen at carnivals.

(I)
So concretey, these jungles
but not like this
Glass shards shoot up 45 stories
only to have tarp covered markets
populated by shouters

Oh, Powerpuff Girls on backpacks
one green
one purple
one pink
And 10 dollar Gucci bags
these people have it made
Four blocks from the world stock exchange
these people have it made

(II)
You ain't had won ton noodle soup
Or chicken feet
Or shrimp stuffed eggplant
Or food from Chinese franchise Pizza Huts
which happens to be an escargot joint
What does that say about US?
hopefully not much

(III)
Red taxis between every other car
Double decker busses
more common than city pigeons
Still the city finds time for trees
whiskery ents rising out of
ancient volcanic soil

You would think it's a city full of sin
Seven million souls, what-
that's higher than I can count
It's not
Everyone here is cute and wrinkly
Confucian
except for the young
These people have it made

(IV)
In this city, you're expected to stay
home with mom and dad
As they get cute and wrinkly
you're to return the love
Confucian
these people have it made
11 seated dinners
these people have it made

(V)*
Here in this ancient city
the gravestones dot the hills
coat the hills
And then the cremation jars bury the hills
(yes, they're dead)
cough*

Here's how a Chinese name is structured:
[family name] [given name]
Confucianism
and then these names fade too
These people have it made
but it's alright.

I'm stuck.
Inside my head again
Each time on the edge
Of discovering why
I keep getting stuck
I’m lost once again
Once more thinking hard
While sleep eludes me again
I keep getting stuck
Wondering who I am
Wondering where I am
Wondering who the person in the mirror is
I remember being small
But it feels like those memories aren’t mine
I remember everything
About love about drugs about pain
I remember so much
Except who belongs to my name
I keep getting stuck
Jammed
Feet glued to the floor
Overwhelmed with sorrow
Disgust
Rage
And more
I keep forgetting
Who I am inside
Am I the packs of cigarettes
Empty bottles
Empty cans
Am I the twisted shell
Of a car once proud
Am I the cries
Of a girl
Abandoned by mommy
Wondering why forever
Mommy isn’t coming home
Am I the canisters
Lying on the floor
After a good few seconds
Of never wondering when the pain comes back
Am I really this girl
Who binge eats at night
Am I really this boy
That is scared to be mean
Am I really an adult
Out in the world
Never getting tired
Just blacking out
I can’t sleep
I can’t get tired
I can’t get a hold or a grip or a sight
I can’t peek through this tarp on my eyes
I keep getting stuck
In a hole in my head
I keep getting stuck
In a well in my heart
If I ever get out
Will I still wonder
Why I can’t remember who I am
And why I keep getting stuck

Now:
The EMTs respond.
A Jane Doe is found dead.
Beneath the I-90 overpass.
They lift her
Zip her into a bag,
And transport her to the morgue.
They can’t feel sad.

Today:
The few wispy strands of hair that remain
Dangle haphazardly from her scabby head
Jagged misshapen teeth protrude from dry cracked lips
betraying breath that stinks of infection and decomposition
Vermin gnaw on exposed flesh while parasites feast within.
Her eyes dim as her body putrifies.

Last Week:
Mission workers prop her up against the wobbly chain link fence
A thin blanket is wrapped around her bony shoulders and
Her blue-tarp awning is adjusted
She would be less wet and cold.
For a night.
They leave a cheese sandwich and chicken noodle soup.
The rats eat most of it.
She wouldn’t have kept it down anyway.

Last Month:
The shelter is scary and dangerous.
She couldn’t sleep without nightmares and her screaming disrupted other ‘guests’.
The shelter workers apologize and put her out at 2:19 AM.
She finds a spot between two dumpsters.
It reeks of **** but is unoccupied.
Sometime in the dark she is ***** and beaten by two crackheads.
The crime is unreported.

Last Year:
The fluorescent lights sting her eyes.
The antiseptic smell burns her nose.
The noise and chaos that surround her make her dizzy and disoriented.
She fights hard to get away but is restrained by strong hands – then leather straps.
A painful jab in her arm and then nothing.
Days or weeks later she emerges in a haze.
Kindly eyes greet her.
They stay with her.
They accompany her to the shelter.
They tell her to come back for follow-on care.
She never sees them again.

Before:
The divorce rips her heart in two.
She has nothing.
She is nothing.
Her world crumbles beneath her and she crumbles with it.
Where would she go?
What would she do?
Everything has become so wrong.

Once Upon a Time:
She was happy. Joyful.
Filled with life and hope.
He was smart, funny, successful.
Together they were magical.
Perfect.

Oh, my name is Jack Stewart,
I’m a canny gang man
And a rovin’ young fellow I’ve been.

I’m a piper by trade,
I’m a ramblin’ young blade,
And ‘tis many the tune I can play.

Now here’s a simple song
To say what they done.
I told them about all those fears
And away they did run.
they sure must be strong,
And they feel like an ocean
Being warmed by the sun.

Their mouth is open wide,
The lover is inside
And the tumults done.
Collided with the sign,
They're staring at the sun,
They're standing in the sea.

I’ve got acres of land.
I’ve got men at command.
I’ve always a dollar to spare.

Note the trees because the
Dirt is temporary.
More to mine than fact, face,
Name, and monetary.

Put money in my hand and I will do the things you want me to.
Vanity overriding wisdom, usually common sense.
Should I delete it? they said they'd read it.
They promised they would never ruin it with sequels.

So come fill up your glasses of brandy and wine.
Whatever it costs, I will pay.
So be easy and free when you're drinking with me,
I'm a man you don't meet every day.

Now picture this, I'm a bag of *****, put me to your lips
I am sick, I will punch a baby bear in his ****
Give me lip, I'ma send you to the yard, get a stick
Make a switch, I can end the conversation real quick
Okay nobody speak, nobody get choked
You wanna here a good joke?

The comedy of man starts like this:
Our brains are way too big for our mothers' hips,
And so nature, she devised this alternative:
We emerge half-formed and hope
whoever greets us on the other end
Is kind enough to fill us in.
And babies, that's pretty much how it's been ever since.

Now the miracle of birth leaves a few issues to address.
Like, say, that half of us are periodically iron deficient.
So, somebody's gotta go **** something
While she looks after the kids.
She'd do it herself, but what, is he gonna get this thing its milk?
He says as soon as he gets back from the hunt, we can switch.
It's hard not to fall in love with something so helpless.
Ladies, I hope we don't end up regretting this.

That was then,
this is the twenty-first century,
And there’s too much aggravation.
It's the age of insanity,
What has become of the green pleasant fields of Jerusalem?

This is the age of machinery,
A mechanical nightmare,
The wonderful world of technology,
****** hydrogen bombs biological warfare.

There used to be a guy for this type of thing,
An underwater guy who controlled the sea,
Got killed by ten million pounds of sludge from New York
and New Jersey.

Water dissolving and water removing
There is water at the bottom of the ocean
Under the water, carry the water
Remove the water at the bottom of the ocean
Water dissolving and water removing.

Then there’s the creature in the sky
Got ****** in a hole, now there's a hole in the sky
And the ground's not cold.
And if the ground's not cold, everything is gonna burn.
We'll all take turns,
I'll get mine too.

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the cold again after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground.

So I ain't got no ambition, I'm just disillusioned.
I'm a twenty-first century man but I don't wanna be here.
My mama said she can't understand me,
She can't see my motivation.
Just give me some security,
I'm a paranoid schizoid product of the twenty-first century.

When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful
A miracle, oh it was beautiful, magical.
And all the birds in the trees, well they'd be singing so happily
Oh joyfully, playfully watching me.
But then they send me away to teach me how to be sensible
Logical, oh responsible, practical.
And they showed me a world where I could be so dependable
Oh clinical, oh intellectual, cynical.

Then I had visions, I was in them.
I was looking into the mirror
To see a little bit clearer
The rottenness and evil in me.

You know I think my schooling was phoney?
I guess it's hard not to agree.
You say, "It all depends on money
And who is in your family tree."
Right (right), you're ****** well right,
You got a ****** right to say.
Right, you're ****** well right,
You know, you got a right to say.

Been around the world and found
That only stupid people are breeding,
The cretins cloning and feeding,
And I don't even own a TV.

Put me in the hospital for nerves
And then they had to commit me.
You told them all I was crazy.
They cut off my legs, now I'm an amputee,
******* you.

I don't need no education.
We don't need no thought control,
No dark sarcasm in the classroom.
Teacher, leave us kids alone.
Hey! Uncle Sam! Leave us kids alone!

We wanna grow up to be
A debaser.

“Look at me, look at me
Hands in the air like it's good to be
Alive and I'm a famous rapper,
Even when the paths are all crookedy.
I can show you how to do-see-do.
I can show you how to scratch a record.
I can take apart the remote control,
And I can almost put it back together.
I can tie a knot in a cherry stem.
I can tell you about Leif Erikson.
I know all the words to "De Colores",
And "I'm proud to be an American".
Me and my friend saw a platypus.
Me and my friend made a comic book.
And guess how long it took.
I can do anything that I want cuz

Who gives a **** about an Oxford comma?
I've seen those English dramas too; they're cruel.

So, why would you speak to me that way?
Especially when I always said that I
Haven't got the words for you.
All your diction dripping with disdain,
Through the pain, I always tell the truth.”

“Look at me, look at me
Just called to say that it's good to be
Alive in such a small world.
I'm all curled up with a book to read
I can make money open up a thrift store.
I can make a living off a magazine.
I can design an engine
sixty four miles to a gallon of gasoline.
I can make new antibiotics.
I can make computers survive aquatic conditions.
I know how to run a business,
And I can make you wanna buy a product.
Movers shakers and producers,
Me and my friends understand the future.
I see the strings that control the system.
I can do anything with no assistance because

I give a **** about the Oxford Comma!
I climbed to Dharamsala too, I did.
I met the highest Lama.
His accent sounded fine to me.

Now, why would you speak to me that way?
Especially when I always said that I
Haven't got the words for you.
All your diction dripping with disdain,
Through the pain, I always tell the truth”

Comedy, now that's what I call pure comedy.
Just wait until the part where they start to believe
They're at the center of everything
And some all-powerful being
Endowed this horror show with meaning.

Now, Uncle Sammy, did you hear about this one?
Tell me, are you locked in the punch?
Sammy, are you grinding on a pelvis?
Hey baby, are you losing touch?

If you believed they put a man on the moon,
If you believe there's nothing up his sleeve,
Then nothing is cool.

Moses went walking with the staff of wood.
Newton got beaned by the apple good.
Egypt was troubled by the horrible asp.
Mister Charles Darwin had the gall to ask.
Well I took out my dogs and them I did shoot,
All down in the county Kildare.
So be easy and free when you're drinking with me,
I'm a man you don't meet every day

And in the Twenty-First Century
From the height of the highway onramp we saw,
Two dogs, dead in a field,
Glowing on the oakland coliseum green seats wasteland,
Dogs, dogs we thought were dead,
They rose up, rose up when whistled at,
their rib cage inflating like men on the beach being photographed,
A guard dog, guard dog, for what? for what?
Against tofers ellis pennyless athletics fanatics,
Getting into games through a whole in the fence,
For the owner of the blue tarp tent,
Pitched by a creek beneath an onramp,
In the privacy of the last three,
Skin and bony tree, devoid of leaves,
And us undeceased, and our new cds,
Dippin' on goodies, oakland
it's hard to stand the sight of two dogs dead under a sky so blue.

But you think you can tell
Heaven from hell?
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

I’ll say they secretly long to be some part of a car crash,
Long to see their arms stripped of the tendons,
The ****** of swelling exposed veins,
Webbing the back of their hands,
To be a red tendoned dog,
To be red tendoned dogs,
Blood breathing by the side of the highway.

Oh, their religions are the best.
They worship themselves yet they're totally obsessed
With risen zombies, celestial virgins, magic tricks.
These unbelievable outfits.
And they get terribly upset
When you question their sacred texts,
Written by woman-hating epileptics.
Their languages just serve to confuse them.
Their confusion somehow makes them more sure.
They build fortunes poisoning their offspring,
And hand out prizes when someone patents a cure.
Where did they find these goons they elected to rule them?
What makes these clowns they idolize so remarkable?
These mammals are hell-bent on fashioning new gods
So they can go on being thoughtless animals.

See the dwarfs an' see the giants,
Which one would you choose to be?
And if you can't get that together
Here's the answer, here's the key.
You can freeze like a a man of century thirty.

I'll save my breath and take it with me
Till a hundred years and so
Shame you won't be there to see me
Shaking hands with Charles de Gaulle.
Play it cool an' Saran wrap all you can
Be a century thirty man,
You can freeze like a century thirty man

So I live like everyday is my last,
But I plan for tomorrow as if I will never pass.
A Pharoah on the subway
Who never had dreams of jets but fell asleep on run ways.
I just know that one day, that anything I needed I could mold.
Get everything you want it ain't always good for the soul.
A mix of self-worth, some help, a little control,
And I don't know the rest, good as mine is your guess,
The recipe ain't the best, to make it though is our quest,
And if you choose to accept, the meaning of life is yes.

So, we ain't going to the town,
We're going to the city.
Gonna trek this **** around
And make this place a heart to be a part of, again.

That’s the dream but
There are times when all the world's asleep,
The questions run too deep
For such a simple man.
Won't you please, please tell me what we've learned.
I know it sounds absurd,
Please tell me who I am.

Is this my starring role
Or just a cameo?
Who am I living for?
Well, I can't take no more,
'Cuz when it rains, it pours
What am I living for?
I don't got much, but I got heart and soul.
I found myself through all the highs and lows.
Oh Will I drown in the pain,
Or go dance in the rain?
What am I living for?

So, I can lead a nation with a microphone?
And I can split the atom of a molecule?
Look at me, look at me
Drivin' and I won't stop
And it feels so good to be alive and on top
My reach, is global
My tower, secure
My cause, is noble
My power,
is pure.

And it’s the end of the world as we know it.
it starts with an earthquake
Birds and snakes, and aeroplanes
And Lenny Bruce is not afraid
In the eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn
World serves its own needs
Don't mis-serve your own needs
Speed it up a notch, speed, grunt, no, strength
The ladder starts to clatter
With a fear of height, down, height
Wire in a fire, represent the seven games
And a government for hire and a combat site
Left her, wasn't coming in a hurry
With the Furies breathing down my neck.

Paranoia, paranoia,
Everybody's coming to get me.
Just say you never met me,
I'm running underground with the moles, digging holes.
Hear the voices in my head,
I swear to God it sounds like they're snoring.
But if you're bored, then you're boring.
The agony and the irony, they're killing me.

I’m dead but the world keeps spinning.
Take a spin through the world I left,
It's getting dark a little too early.
Am I missing the dearly bereft?

Timmy, Timmy, Timmy Turner
He was wishin' for a burner
To **** everybody walkin'
He knows that his soul in the furnace

Young man walkin', wishin' for a burner
Four, five, six, ten ratchets on 'em
Ten men with 'em, ten clappin' on 'em
Dead men with 'em, dead men, get 'em
Four-five rip 'em, four-five zip 'em
You talk money, young men get 'em
Beluga, beluga, beluga
he fell in love with the Ruger
he fell in love with his jeweler
he fell in love with the mullah
It's all about the rule
It's all about the move
It's all about the rules

That was then,
Now I am a man, man, man,
Up, up in the air
And I run around, round, round, round
this downtown and act like I don't care.
So when you see me flying by the planet's moon,
You don't need to explain if everything's changed
Just know I'm just like you.

So I pull the switch, the switch, the switch inside my head.
And I see black, black, green,
and brown, brown, brown and blue, yellow, violets, red.
And suddenly a light appears inside my brain
And I think of my ways,
I think of my days
and know that I have changed.

So, be easy and free,
when you’re drinkin’ with me
I’m a man you don’t meet every day.

The driveway was strewn with rotted oak leaves, and Oscar wondered if the old man was still alive. He stopped his car just short of the rusted garage door, knowing that from this vantage point no one from the house could see him. Stepping out of his car, he strode toward the front door. The outside looked much the same as before, ivy gnarling up the walls and spiders webbing around the door. He held up his hand to knock.
“It’s open, Oscar.” He was relieved to hear the old man’s voice through the open window.
“Thanks, Harry. I’ll be right in.” Oscar nudged the front door open and walked into the kitchen. The green wallpaper was faded but the little square table in the corner was clean. The old man had his back to Oscar, stooped over the sink drying the last of a small batch of dishes. Oscar stuck his hands in his sweatshirt pocket.
“The wood looks like it’s staying dry,” Oscar said. The old man gave a slight nod, wiping the counter with slow, decided movements. “I heard it’s been a wet winter.”  
“Not too bad.” The man looked at Oscar with tired eyes. “Those gutters need cleaning, though.”
“I’ll do what I can before I go.”
The old man turned his pale neck back toward the sink. “That’s fine.”
“Do you need anything from town? Or anything?”
The old man didn’t respond. Oscar took his cue to leave, walking through the laundry room and out the back door. An enclosure of thick oaks and cedars faced him, not quite a forest, but more than he could count. His feet carried him on the familiar path, up the mountain where the air was thin, and he struggled to breathe deeply. The trees grew thicker and the path narrower, but he trudged on, finally coming to a stop at a small clearing housing the remains of several tree stumps. In the middle of these stumps sat a bright yellow lawnchair currently unoccupied. Oscar took the opportunity to catch his breath, closing his eyes and lowering himself into the squeaky chair, waiting for her to come. He imagined her sneaking up behind him, covering his eyes. She’d giggle and lope back into the trees beckoning him come to follow her.
He heard a slight rustle through the trees and saw her walk toward him, her steps slower than usual. Her once long hair was cut short against her scalp and her belly protruded in an obvious way. She stopped just short of his arm’s reach, resting one hand over her belly. She cocked her head to the side, looking Oscar up and down. Her eyes settled on his face but not his eyes.
“You got old,” she said.
“You didn’t.” Oscar smiled while she stayed serious.
“I got old and died three times,” she said. “This is me,” she said pointing at her belly.
Oscar reached out to touch her arm, but she took his hand, leading him back out of the clearing down the mountain. He didn’t wonder where they were going. He set aside all the world but her. As he followed behind her, he thought that she looked much different than last time. Her eyes seemed less savage and her skin less pale. He thought she looked strange without her long hair tangled with leaves and wind, and he wondered if the same person that put this baby inside her was also trying to fix her, to make her like everyone else. He tightened his grip on her hand and rushed ahead of her. She gave a tiny laugh and started running after him.
Soon she let go of his hand and sat gracelessly on the ground, resting her head against a tree. Oscar turned around and sat across from her, watching her pick the leaves off a fallen branch.
“This is my tree,” she said, holding up the branch.
“I’ll plant it for you, so it can grow bigger.”
“It’s already dead. Won’t get any bigger.” She began pulling the twigs off the branch, smoothing it into a pole shape.  
“Are you done with college?” she asked.
“Another year.”
“I’m going to go, too.” She sounded like she meant it. Oscar wondered if he had been gone for too long this time. “Soon,” she said.  
Oscar nodded. “You don’t have hair anymore.”
She looked up at Oscar, not meeting his eyes. “It was trapping all my thoughts in my head.”
Oscar smiled. “Now all your thoughts are running around like rabbits having little thought babies of their own.” She laughed out of courtesy, and it bothered him. They sat in silence. He continued to watch her.
“Do you think it’s going to rain today?” she asked.
“Since when do we talk about the weather?”
“I want to.” Oscar said nothing. “I think it’s going to rain. I can smell the water in the air. Do you remember Frankie, that gerbil I had as a kid?”
“I’m leaving again tomorrow.”
“I know.” She started to stand up, bracing herself against the bare branch in her hands. “Frankie knew when it would rain. He did this thing with his ear. Twitch.” She brushed off her pants. “Next time you come back, I’ll be a baby. Brand new and wrinkly.” She met his eyes.
“Are you going to name it after the dad?” He asked, hoping that the dad was long gone.
“No, me.”
Oscar thought she looked very young then, and he could imagine her becoming younger and younger as he continued to age. He would grow into an old man like her father, stooped over and feeble, and she would go to college, reborn without him. Without her hair, she would run faster and he wouldn’t be able to keep up.
“Let’s watch the sunset,” she said, taking his hand. “Go get some lawnchairs and I’ll meet you there.”
He watched her trek up the mountain for a moment before making his descent. As he neared the house, he saw the old man gathering wood, one piece at a time. His bones seemed to creak as he lifted the tarp off the remaining dry wood, feeling which pieces were dry enough. The old man seemed to acutely feel each footstep, pausing on every stair and taking a deep breath, before entering the house. Watching the old man repeat this process again and again, Oscar decided that all the youth in the world did not belong to her. He would preserve her forever as she was now, and by standing in her orbit maybe she could give him everlasting life.
He waved to the old man as he hoisted two lawnchairs over his shoulder. After the old man had walked back inside, seemingly for the last time, Oscar grabbed the half-empty canister by the woodpile and began climbing toward the clearing where she was waiting. He hoped the rain would never come. He arrived out of breath and set up the chairs in their usual places between the tree stumps. She stood at the edge of the clearing, her arms wrapped around her protruding belly, watching as the sun crawled below the tree line. She smiled at him and he beckoned her to sit down. She sat and Oscar told her to close her eyes.
“I want to see,” she said.
“It’s a surprise.”
Oscar crossed the clearing, carrying the canister. He looked as the base of each tree, trying to find the right one in the fading light. “It’s the one on the left,” she shouted.
“Keep your eyes closed.” He tried to sound stern, but he couldn’t stop smiling. He saw the tree and began to pour the contents of the canister onto the trunk.
“I knew you remembered Frankie,” she said. There was a large stone underneath the tree as a monument to the gerbil. Oscar remembered that it was the biggest stone that they could carry as children.
“I know.” Oscar took the makeshift walking stick she had made earlier from her hands and wrapped a piece of his shirt around it. He again crossed the clearing pulling out his lighter. He lit the end of the pole before putting the flame to the gasoline soaked tree. He backed away from the tree as the fire struggled up the wet trunk before flaring in the leaves overhead. It crackled and hissed through pinecones, trying to keep its hold on the damp tree.
Oscar’s leg hit the edge of a stump and he sat down. He felt her walk up next to him. Tearing his gaze away from the fire, he looked up at her, and it seemed to him that her skin mimicked the red of the fire, coming alive in its light. Her eyes were once again untamed, feral. Oscar imagined that no time had passed since he left for college and that no time would ever pass again.
She took his hand, just as the fire spread to another treetop, and put it on her belly. “It won’t burn forever,” she said, letting go of his hand and turning to carry the lawnchair back down the mountain.
It rained. Oscar stayed watching the last embers flicker and die before his feet blindly carried him back to the house where he would clean the gutters and leave.

Home is an old red rucksack that my mother took round Chile
filled with my baggiest trackies for months
where home is trains and tubes and my headphones on coaches
Home is the rain when it batters the outside of a humble caravan
Home is a little wood burner, and a long green coat that was gifted unintentionally
and worn by many

Home is waiting for the triangle bus
Home is a cup of coffee in the right shaped mug
Home is a cigarette, shared with my sister in a pub
Home is our brother owning the pool table, modest and silent
Home is now the sea, but not in summer
mid-November waves, rough and lonely

Home is the river, the flow and the feeling
the fish and the constellations of a shared celling
Home is mums’ casserole and fresh bread still warm but under proved
Home is a shed, strangled with ivy
Home is tea and malt milk biscuits
Home is magic stars pasta beans and cheese and Netflix
Home is my duvet
Home is crumbs creeping into a lumpy mattress

Home is the day, lazy and underwhelming
Home is grandmas own tomatoes
Home is a laugh from an inside joke
Home is her long red hair, her stumbles and soup
Home is hazel eyes singing, by light from candles in old gin bottles

Home is a spoons breakfast with zero sleep
Home is a sink full of washing up
Home is cobwebs and a faded hoodie stained with paint and the smell of hash
Home is sharpened knife that can nicely slice when I am cooking to the bass my mini rig creates

Home is in the woods a maze of plot twists
mapped in childhoods haze of coordinates
Home holds smiles from guests and strangers who become family
Home is vats of marmalade, in sticky jars that collect dust they sit for so long
Home is the chorus of a Finley Quay song
Home is the journey I am on

Home is the field
the mud when its ripe beneath my toes
the grass worn with love
Home is a guitar (sandy with stickers)
I am home in her lyrics that swirl through the air
captivate by this Home we created
and our feet know the pattens of the beat
Home is the taste of freshly smashed melon
Home is a cluster of tents around a fire
and a tarp of scribbles

Home is the purr of Roo
Her velvet fur and trills of love
Home is an overgrown garden I used to tend to
Home is holly leaves transformed into wishes
Home is memories of butterfly kisses
Home is a hug when words aren't needed
Home is where I'm not alone

Home is him, the smell of his car and comfort of his arms
Home is his orange overalls
Home is a rhetorical question when I’m looking at his face

the air bites at my nose
like an icy mosquito,
and raindrops plop onto
the roof and the giant
green, car-shaped tarp.
beads adorn the pointed
branches of the conifer
like tiny, fleeting noses;
they leap from their
makeshift perches into
the frosty darkness
of the garden below,
joining their brethren,
already pooling together.

The sands of El Dorado
Lash my tongue under tarp;
Wishes born something golden,
Fried eggs under beds
And homes, abodes in progress,
One peso at a time –
A tale and tear with every grain,
An allowance and granted only
Broken window.

The ragged lump of pillow
Where I now taste time,
Reeks of mescal with my
One white elbow
Tapping one bronze elbow;
Distant, under woven wanderings
And tattered dreams of parents
Wishing well – come subtle guilt,
Whilst the roofs of a prior Tibet
Tap atop my tether.

And while I ponder what strums –
Atriums, tempest and tubular,
I also reckon in what it means to be
Held and held alike
So that I can protect
And protect alike;
She’s waiting for me in “before”
And in Mexico, in the “now,”
So much sooner the past.
So to sooner, broken the future.

And so mothers will cry in kitchens,
Others laugh come the next fool
And yet others, abandon others
So that soon, recklessly soon, my feet
Make a wonderful twist toward away;
But at least I’d had this sunset –
Something to ride off into like the
Liquid dreams off a furrowed brow
And at least we’d had “we” on more time.

Just one more time.

I slid down a hill
on nothing but a tarp and hose water
in the middle hick town new york
with a family i didn’t even know
because my best friend thought we would have fun.
We did.
But the next day we got so high
we thought we could make dub step from our mouths.
When we tried it sober
it sounded nothing like dub step.
Just kind of like a beat up basement home
and not enough people for a party.
Kind of like the soft music you play after a panic attack,
everything sounds so
forced.
This one time,
I kissed a girl so ******* the mouth
that she took a step back and just said
”…thank you.”
I have no idea what she was thanking me for,
but i learned to thank her body
in more ways than just prayer.
She sounded like an orchestra,
Bach or back but god ******
if she didn’t leave scratches on everything instrument.
One time,
I got thrown into a mosh pit
and some big dude carried me out
and punched the person who pushed me in
so hard in the face that i swear
i saw his mothers veins give out.
It was like an amtrak railway collision,
fist and apology, metal and music,
the kind of rock you get stuck in-between
next to that hard place.

One time,
I slid into my best friend
because we thought we would have fun.
We did.
She had to take a step back
and said nothing but Thank You.
A broken body prayer healed
with blankets like tarp, claiming her my new york.
It was like being thrown into a mosh pit
but there wasn’t anyone there to carry me out
because it wasn’t an accident.
Just a mistake.
Now we don’t talk and last night
I got so high that I tried to make music from my mouth,
replay her symphony, echo it
in my beat up basement of a chest.
The hollow wind chime of organs or intestines,
ragged breathing from the smoke
she snake charmed down my throat.
She was so smooth. Soft.
Kind of like the music you play
after a panic attack,
everything feels so
forced.

Hang in there,
My little bacon back baby
sweating from head to toe.
Those little piggies
are squirming in their straps
spilling their veins across the tarp.
Become the smoke
let you being take it in.
Swinging back and forth, intently
in a room lit so dim
willing yourself awake
briefly, paralyzed by the grin.
"We're having steak tonight boys
along with hawks and ribs.
The main course
tonight
is a helping of long pig."

I see my timeline on this site:

2014
From my older brother's diagnosis
to the death of my grandmother

2015
Falling in love with you
My brother disappearing

2017
To the breaking of trust in exchange of fluids
Never receiving what the law calls justice

2018
Realizing you were never my first love
Merely my first attachment

But I never wrote about finding my brother
dead
in the woods near the main road
white bones in a tent
not knowing who it was
only realizing after the police left my mother crying
for him
dying there alone in the woods so close to home

I cry for him
dying there alone.
Hidden by the wilderness
rotting away inside the plastic tarp.

I cried for him
and wrote for you.
This timeline is my reminder
holding my guilty conscience accountable.

His eyes, tightly shut
To stymie the tears building
The fighting, intense and abrupt
Like the feeling to give up
An ocean of emotion
Waves washing over
Lying still, still in motion,
I know but don't mention.
Still alive though
Inside, I feel I'm dying;
Drowning

listening to Nirvana's "Something in the Way"
and i am -now- just realizing how ******* good this song is.

i mean, the mood cuts right to the bone:

underneath the bridge
tarp has sprung a leak
and the animals I've trapped
have all become my pets
and I'm living off of grass
and the drippings from the ceiiiilinggg
it's ok to eat fish 'cause they don't have any feeeeeelingsssssss

something in the way
mmmmmmmm
something in the way (yeah)
mmmmmmmhmmm

it's jus kurt on the geetar alone till the chorus, doing a simple chord,
and, thing is, he isn't so much singing as he is speaking in loose meter;
and it's almost as if between the words he is saying,
".. well how the **** could song survive this thing i am talking about
yuhknow? i am giving you my guts."

you finally get some lilt and rhyme that might be considered song
toward the end of the verse, but this is immediately undercut with,
of all things,
given what preceded it,
a joke ---- it's okay to eat fish 'cause they don't have any feelings

holyfuckingshitdoesthiscapturetheabsurdityofthings

an­d i don't mean a joke as in hahafunny but rather
what. else. can. i. do. but laugh, else i'll cry; and I can't cry anymore 'cause
i'm all outta tears. why??
because this abyss
called "existence" - that history, heh, tells us is imbued
with rational purpose or intent, or whatever -
bats its pretty little eyes at me like a big fuckyou..

i think
kurt is, suggesting, here:
laugh back.

it's like Camus' Sisyphus:

i
dare
you

to roll that same rock called "life" up the same hill everyday all day
and summon (somehow) a smile,

------ or at least a    s m  i      R    k

and watch as beauty bolts through your dead fecund heart
removing that
thing
in your way

when I stop
and
just let the
silence
be. . .

everything
is ok:

the tattered
tarp partially
buried in
the
hillside is
ok

the broken
bough used
as a toy
by the
poor
children is
ok

the
jaggedly
chopped
tree stump
by the
parked
car is
ok

the
unevenly
placed
stairs
that force
you to
change
your gait
are
ok

the
distant
tower
with the
blinking
light
is
ok

the
solitude
among
other
mortals
is
ok

the
whelming
sense of
being
lost is
ok

the
neat
glass of
scotch
from the
isle of
skye is
ok

the
divorced
lesbian
with two
kids at
the end
of her
rope
is
ok

the
minuscule
fly that
landed
on my
forehead
in the
bathroom
this
morning
is
ok

everything
is
ok

even the
things
that
aren't

they're
ok too

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
A phrase followed from some strange, onyx, snake placenta and spittle covered book,
From which phrases are chanted and sewn inwardly, perversely backed into the bladders of demons and spewed from the nostrils,
Solids and seeds of dollars and oil.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase not written as we have been taught, shown in action
By those blocking fruits, pinching fingers at the ends of urethras
To keep children from being born.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase preventing man and woman from marrying,
Withholding, slothfully, idling, waiting,
Placing plugs in all our orifices.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase stopping perception: touch, sight, hearing, smell, taste, And any others if there are others,
Saying it alone will fill your mind.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase keeping us working with the unidentified,
The unfamiliar, the unknown,
Keeping us discriminating, nepotizing, judging.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
The summation of rejection,
Instructing us to reject those things around us except what we already know.
And what do we know?

The Cover-up.

One tarp can be pulled from off this particular hidden item in the garage,
That can be assured,
(though the rest may be inveigled away by filibustering and hidden, but hopefully not):

"Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged Thyself" is The Holy Bible verse to be followed.

I don't know what's good for me,
I don't know where I belong,
But it is undeniable,
That when I woke up in the early morning hours,
And saw your face, I felt a warm feeling I haven't felt in so long.
I can't account for the whereabouts of my better judgement.
But I can say for certain I want you in my life,
And I will meet you where I can, and share what I can,
Because, even though I am selfish, you accept this,
Others hurt me with my own faults,
You embraced them, and came back into my life,
When I wasn't sure what to blame,
For that lead tarp feeling around my heart.
I need comfort and freedom,
But I absolutely need you
In my life...
I'm just coherent enough,
To put the water on in the morning,
I wish I could take the easy bets,
And flip my cards with no regrets,
But I would see you again,
And it would tear me down...
I've been torn down so long,
I want to build something,
That won't crumble
Like a house of cards,
I have such mixed feelings,
I know I can be happy either way,
I win some cash,
And buy some champagne,
Flash a smile, and the night is accounted for,
I just don't want to be the origin of more love tragedies,
I break everything but even.
Just tell me true,
If we can do this, without jealousy
Sharpening the knives, and angry voices condemning.
I want what you want, and what she wants.
But can any of this be worked out,
I know the odds of every hand,
But this kind of math eludes me.
I need a long walk off a short pier,
A cold beer, and some wind in my hair.
I need what I had, that night long ago,
When you popped in
And shared words,
I'm so sorry I disrespected you,
But you know how I am,
I am a steel roller of emotions.
I pave the way towards smooth love,
Or flattened passion.
Just understand
I need you to stay.