Inukit ko ang pangalan nating dalawa sa isang puno
Simbolo Ito kung gaano kita ka mahal, mahal ko
Naka ukit sa punong iyon lahat ng ating mga pangako
Mag mamahalan tayo pang habang buhay kahit labag man sa atin pati ang mundo

Sabay tayong nangarap noon
At alam kung balang araw matutupad iyon
Pero tila labag talaga sa atin ang mundo
Mga pangako'y bigla nalang nag laho at na pako

Tinangay ng malakas na hangin ang munting pangarap natin
Tila kahit saan ito tangayin ay kay hirap na itong hanapin
Bakas ang pangungulila at lungkot sa aking mga mata
Dahil kahit katiting na pag-asa'y di ko na makita

Umalis ka at ako'y iyong iniwan
Lungkot at pananabik na sanay babalik ka at hinding hindi na kita bibitawan
Para akung pulubing palaboy laboy kahit saan
Tulad ng pag mamahal natin di ko alam kung saan ang patutongohan

Iyong ngite na parang araw na nagbibigay liwanag sa buhay ko
Pero ang ngiting iyon di ko na nasisilayan kaya biglang nag dilim ang mundo
Mga yakap mo gusto kung madama muli
Mahal ko bumalik kana at alam kung hindi pa ito ang huli

Madalas akung pumupunta doon sa may puno kung saan naka ukit ang ating mga pangalan
Dahil alam ko na doon mo ako iniwan at doon mo rin ako babalikan
Tila buhay ay parang sentonadong guitara
Wala nang direksyon ang mga nota dahil nawala na pati yong kopya

Lumipas ang ilang araw hindi ka parin bumabalik
Mas gustohin ko nalang sumoko dahil dito sa sakit
May bagong pangarap kana ata diyan mahal dahil di muna ako binalikan
Masakit pero sige sisimulan narin kitang kalimutan

Tumanda na ang munting kahoy na ating pinag ukitan
Kay tanda narin ng pag-ibig natin na iyong tinalikuran
Ilang taon na ang lumipas at kay rami na ang nag bago
Pero pag mamahal ko sayo pang habang buhay naka ukit sa punong ito

Ngayon may kanya kanya na tayong sariling buhay
Buhay na pinangarap natin Pero ito'y namatay
Masaya na ako mahal sa buhay kung ito
Sana ganon karin katulad ng nararamdaman ko sayo

Mahal ang punong ito, ay mananatiling simbolo at Manana tiling naka ukit ang ating na udlot na pangako

It was well trained cats in the cattery calling, pats on the back, back door, kicked in, mooring boats on the mooring in the morning and the phone call, cost cut, cold calling, and we're falling, falling, we're falling in love.

My best friends are criminals, and the jail cell crying is trying at times but trying sometimes feels tiring. The tire track tiling is abysmal, freewheeling in reverie, revving engines readily, sitting, settling and stirring imaginary cups of tea until eternity gives up delinquently.

I fail to recognise the narcissist in me until the inadequate rantings fall of the page at me. I want to be free, I want to be me, I want solidarity and I want that cup of tea, I want patriarchy, I want matrimony, I want monogamy and none of this is hyperbole. I have no apologies, especially not for the words I string together so irrationally. What else could you ask of me?
What else indeed, if I can't be naked I can't be free, if I alter the way I write I relinquish personality.
It doesn't seem right to me.
Dada is too crass for me, I need a cult of spontaneity. The English language is too brash to be...

Philosophical ideology and the books I read, all tell lies to me, are all absurd you see, I embrace the monotony, let the waves of the sea wash over me. I let the dictionary pages fall off the quay, like that moth on me, like the sloth i've been and cloth on screens. A dead dog can't scratch it's fleas, but to appease the beast we must first release, all creativity and return to being.

Drinking summer skin,
I hear the voices in the night sky
I'm a slave to the darkness around the stars,
and I can't remember why

One, two, twenty-three percocet in my soul.
Ambulance lights breathing throughout the mist.
Pump my stomach like the sawed-off shotgun
that I was too afraid to use,
because what if I 'miss'?
What spectrum of desolation to be traced with lips;
to kiss away the desire to exist.

Mirrored reflection injection causes the resurrection of my imperfection.
I see me for who I am, who I was, and who I won't be.
It's the collection of
my eyes dilating and my knees speculating their arrival
to the blue and white tiling disguised as neo-survival.
My mind is evaporating. My body begins to convulse.
I am a ghost in a machine. I am without a pulse

that’s the thing with those trophy wife types,
never really mandible in *** like a jaw ought to be,
too stiff, too anorexic model type:
pooch pooch a handbag full of duck quack pouts of the lips.
i like mandible women, scary scarred women,
the types that will grow into fond babushkas
and cook you a broth.
ah all this crap with daddy longlegs walking into a paparazzi
web of flashes is ruining the red carpet,
i was about to frizz it up into cushion afro softness
that would be quicksand for high heels.
i need blotches i need survival skills that hold the skin together,
every wrinkle, every passing jest of “irrelevance,”
every amulet glow of feeling through the kaleidoscope of depression,
jet-lag i call it, although i rather call it trombone,
with the numbers it was bound to happen, leaving the mammalian
kingdom and entering the insect kingdom, it was bound to happen,
the lost identity tiling the earth, ploughing the eardrum for symphonies,
it was just waiting... just waiting... like a spider waiting
with the flies of the urbanisation of green & green...
can’t change my mind... blotches on skin and bulges of missing protein
on the hips... perfect girth for child rearing...
i don’t like perfect... it’s supposed to have an aesthetic aura of an art
gallery... instead it has an aesthetic aura of hygiene of a hospital;
i arrested all the beauticians while talking to the paediatricians
painting my nails with u.v. liquorice in this hospital of hygienic looks
but unhygienic romping pompoms that swayed man to chlamydia.

The plumber came to call or The self-draining P’trap

To all the plumbers I have met, and yes I've met a few,
Domestic pipes, commercial pipes and civil pipe-work too,
Blow torch and solder, flux and joints,
Tricky bends and straight bits, in perfect counterpoint.

Then of course the big stuff, pipes bigger than your shoulders,
Not supplied by DIY, only bought from stockholders,
No solder for this job, a welding torch’s the thing,
Careful tack, align no crack, weld a perfect ring.

All the pipes are connected, whether large or domestic small,
Fill with water and pressurize, hoorah, no leak at all,
Flush the pipes, flow is fine, a job with a happy ending,
Pack the tools grab the kit, thank god I’ve finished bending.

The domestic user is dabbling, with a little pipe-work flair,
Can’t be that difficult, just one joint here, or the odd joint there,
All seems fine, fresh water in, waste water out,
I’m not going to spend money, on a plumber’s callout,
The waste seems not to drain well, gracious, how can that be,
I connected what I thought was right, no it can’t be me

It appears the waste pipe is blocked, gone are the comforting swirls,
This must be where the gooey stuff goes, and all those hairy curls,
I can clear the blockage, how difficult can it be,
Now, the water goes down the plug hole, around a wiggly bit, I see,
I think they call that a P-Trap, that’s all technical news to me
An old wire hanger, with force of water, will definitely do the trick
Plunge hanger down the hole, wiggle it round a bit, give it a flick,
The water hasn’t moved an inch, and the wire is firmly stuck,
Time to remove the P-trap, and deal with the unpleasant muck,
How difficult can this be, what could possibly go wrong,
Get the tools, lay on my back, this shouldn’t take too long,
Gripping trap tightly, with little effort it should unscrew,
Nothing moves, try again, it’s ****** tight, I think the thread’s askew,
A tap with my hammer, will loosen this stubborn joint,
No movement is detected, both sides are still conjoint,  
A mighty whack should do the trick, just to make my point,

A thin stream of water, is dribbling down my arm,
Success, I grab the trap, twist like merry hell, and to my alarm,
The stored bath water gushes out, the mood is far from calm.

Pushing the trap together again, trying to stem the flow,
A loud voice calls, from the dining room below,
What the hell are you doing, water’s all over my Chapeau.

Sorry my love, move your hat, it’ll be fixed in a trice,
Me thinks, If I don’t fix this very soon, I’ll need a flotation device,
Just a five minute job, am I kidding myself, my mouth is all agape,
I hunt around with my free hand, and grab the gaffer tape.

I unwind the life saver, and wrap it around the leak,
Let’s consider the situation, to avoid my wife’s serious fit of pique,  
Keep my mind focused, what could possibly go wrong,
A solution is required this very minute, that won’t take overlong.

I’ll wedge my hammer, beneath the troublesome trap,
This will give extra support, whilst my plan, I have time to map,
As I swung the hammer into place, there came a mighty crack,
A hole appeared in the bath end, I suffered a symbolic heart attack.

Time to call the plumber, and hang my head in shame,
My wife’s assessment of DIY, will never be the same,
Emergency call out was swift, a smiling youth at my door,
Lead me to the problem site, and I will probe and explore.

An estimate was made, whilst ******* air through his teeth,
What Pratt, he said, has been working on the trap beneath,
Is it bad, my wife has strength of a gorilla, it’s beyond belief,
I’m afraid it’s a bath, a trap and associated pipe work, good grief.

It’s going to be expensive, there’s the bath and tiling too,
I can’t do it straight away, but I’ll put you in the queue,
Said he was interested in the engineering feat,
Designing a self draining P-trap, was a little hard to beat.


A temporary repair was fashioned, with fiberglass and tape,
I cleared the mess around me, and quickly made an escape,
It was some days later, I thought I’d clear the gutters,
I could tell the family were not keen, by their groans and their mutters,
Not to be diverted, I disregarded all their ridicules,
I told the wife I’d start right now, but she’d locked away my tools.

When Alison left the bath to run
It ruined the parquet floor,
It spilled on out like a waterspout
And ran right under the door,
She’d gone back into the bedroom, so
The spill continued to run,
Across the landing and down the stair,
‘Now look what our daughter’s done!’

We couldn’t dry out the parquetry
It swelled, and loosened the glue,
Then bits would lift and would come adrift,
I didn’t know what to do.
Then Barbara said, ‘It’s coming up,
We shouldn’t have laid it down,
I’ll go and choose some ceramic tiles
At that tiling place in town.’

I said that I’d lay the tiles myself
But Barbara would insist,
‘We really need a professional
For a job as big as this.’
I shrugged, and let her get on with it
I never could win a trick,
So the tiler that she employed was one
Ahab Nathaniel Frick.

I’d seen this tiler about the town
All hunched, and wizened and old,
His wrinkled skin was like parchment in
Some leathery paperfold.
He wore a hat with a drooping brim
So the sun never touched his face,
A puff of wind would have blown him in
To leave not a hint, or trace.

‘Are you sure that he’s up to this,’ I said,
‘He isn’t the best of men,
He’ll probably get on his knees all right
But never get up again.’
But Barbara shushed me out of there
Was keeping me well at bay,
She wanted to prove what she could do
In laying the tiles her way.

I didn’t get in to see them then
‘Til the tiles were laid, with grout,
Nor see Nathaniel Frick again,
I supposed that he’d gone out.
I stood and stared at the new laid tiles,
Their pattern was in the floor,
And Barbara, waiting proudly said,
‘What are you staring for?’

‘There’s something a-swirl in those tiles,’ I said,
‘Some pattern you didn’t mean,
The way that he’s put them together, well
There’s a sense of something unclean!’
I said the tiles made an evil face
And showed her the curving jaw,
The squinting eyes that could hypnotise
And the cheeks, so sallow and raw.

She said that she couldn’t see it then,
That I must have twisted eyes,
I wasn’t wanting to hurt her so
I tried to sympathise,
But the monster’s face was set in space
And it wouldn’t go away,
I dreamt about that face by night
And I saw it, every day.

At night, the face seemed to snarl at me
When I passed it in the gloom,
And I worried that it was set right there
Outside our daughter’s room,
Then Barbara thought she heard a noise,
An intruder in the house,
And tipped me out of the bed to chase
The night intruder out.

The moans began in the early hours
And the groans came just at dawn,
Then Alison came into our room,
‘There’s a shadow on my wall!
A man with a broad-brimmed, floppy hat
And with squinting eyes that gleamed,’
I said, ‘That’s it,’ when she had a fit
And our darling daughter screamed!

I went on out to the lumber shed
And I brought a mattock in,
While Alison jumped in the double bed
As the tiles set up a din,
A wailing, groaning, squealing sound
That would raise the peaceful dead,
I raised the mattock and smashed the tiles
Just above the monster’s head.

The tiles rose up with a mighty roar
And shattered, scattered around,
As a shadow from underneath the floor
Rose up with a dreadful sound,
It hissed, and made for the stairway, leapt
And it almost made me sick,
For fleeing out of the open door
Was Ahab Nathaniel Frick!

David Lewis Paget

Milk-stone tiling, with some
figure-hugging brown
and Castleton's ceiling pervading;
cement works, cement works,
on my mind.

The shroud of Christ's teachings
is left in damp upon the soap-fused wall.

Fan beating in aggressive pleasure,
it staves off stagnancy,
instead cleaning all humidity
with purity of essence.

Cleansed, cleansed,
the soaps are tinted in poisonous colours,
lethal toad and paradise mountain,
you scale all levels of disappointment,
to leave in want of better investment.

As in all politics, each day I intend
to settle my doubts in your cleansing augment,
of all that is pure, and all without grime,
from the stubborn North wind,
that freezes bells before chime.

Trams



Knitted smoke
And rosary of towns  
Unspotted in the rear of the lazy sky
Dreams getting grasps lackeyed
And ***** moon branded with loneliness
Smile tiling what left pariah .
Those survives the end as a woundless dagger
Did anyone ever stands ?
In front of the smoke
When He enters the mind carousel
Speck in the line of windloot
A walk to vanishes ....
All dare to trip ,
After the sundown curfew
When we lost an another episode of terrors ....

tetris patterned-shirt
weird, life-is-a-creamy-dream feeling every ever
I spend here
in
Downtown Vancouver.

is it the thought of the chilli-pepper eyed parrot
grazing on the street soul from the corner of Davie
and Granville?

is it a birth trauma coma slam
considering the fact that my
passport
says I awoke here
for the very first time?

is it the caffeine pulsing through my sweat like blood
the triple-sweater sandwich I call my chest
the passing of my dear old Auntie Debbie
the alien faces of a city-gone city goer
the warm freeze of 15 dollars in my pocket
wallet
crunch

perhaps it's the red pants
the folded skinny's
the overalls
the great validation of Shakespeare's scream:
"All the worlds a stage/ and all the men and women merely players."

Did he mean John Players?

Each and every all of us to be smoked
in the soaking rain
pretending that we
each
have brains?

- - -

I know
I'm not as intriguing
as most of these Greek-God's and Goddesses

But I still wonder
if man and women gaze to me
like I'm bless-ed.

- - -

could that explain the dream feel?
the creamy steamy dream feel?

my lack of validation
in this crowd-work calling card?

- - -

it's just about time
that I mention the women
whom gazed
from the train
that traverses the
clouds.

East Indian I assume
I the troubadour
I gazed right back into her eyes.

We played this game
until 'screech' went the train

and I moved on in space and in time.

She exited there
at the same place I glared
to the tiling below my unfit and soaked
sigh's.

As to why that I raced
so that she couldn't chase
and speak words that would open the
light

I'm unsure

but I wanted to
even as I
slipped from sight
into Vancouver's day bright of a night.

Disgusting is a nice way
of describing this room.

Walking down the narrow pathway
I was surprised to see
but one toilet. No stall,
simply a single toilet huddled
into a corner, scared
to be there too.

Putrid yellow tiling
crept up the walls
like unified mold. A gloss
covered it, slime perhaps?

I washed my hands
quickly in the rusted
little sink that seemed
to grow out of the
wall and headed out
of there, happy to never
go back again.

Saturday night was left right there
in a ribbon ******* at the very top stair
and Sunday, it's gone!
what's going on?

perhaps the 'Borrowers'
have tomorrow as
a special kind of day,
but
it's only a Sunday,
that's what I have to say.

Tessellation & Interstices


”A tessellation or tiling is the covering of a surface,
often a plane, using one or more geometric shapes,
called tiles, with no overlaps and no gaps…In mathematics, tessellation can be generalized to higher dimensions and a variety of geometries.”

the insistent need to be distinguished
means many are not,  
indeed,
this hunger
to be an influencer
and never just an influencé.

creeply creates a linear surface,
a flooring to be trod upon,
a tessellated plane,
were we each fit in
right-tight juxtaposition
and we are noticeable for our
uniformity and

the scuff marks of having been trod upon,
well used.

it is in the chips of irregularities,
the overlaps and the gaps
where we touch and connect
with our individual Ah Ha’s,
where our Venn Diagram Lives
intersect, infect, interfere, inject,
in the tiny
interstices
tween us,
the jagged, irritatingly edgy
rubbings
that the friction of creativity
is comedically inseminated.

I love a good tense sweat,
that invasive, deep boring burring,
that demands
instant creative solutions lest the angst of
an unwritten-in-the-moment-poem
is even more annoying,
before it is annoyingly,
befogged, lost forever.

that is why with old age,
fearsome fast
short term memory loss,
some turn to the speedy freedom of
free verse,
unconstrained by socks
and well fitting shoes,
and the slip on sneakers
of rhyming,
so insistent on perfection,
that the
burr is absorbed,
the irritant rubbing is creamed away,
and that loss of
a pouring of the soul’s ******* of
Done!
is
our exclamatory mutual curse

My head is in the toilet again,
as I cling to the tiling
to satisfy my place. All the time
growing smaller,
growing tired of this face.

It reflects in the ****-water like moonlight,
like a stranger huffing solvents
in the street. All the while I think
of your location;
in both life and the placing of your feet.

I have tumbled through darkness for years now,
so far that I have entered
forever-night. Oh, I miss your
voice on the telephone,
and more so in the absence of light.

I'm having trouble with my head again,
as I wilt like the orchids
on your table. I fear that soon
I will slip away,
that soon,
I will be but a passing fable.

my body is a crime scene with your fingerprints on everything

bruised knuckles
from punching the wall too many times
that your gentle lips kissed and then said the ugly tiling deserved it

****** nails
from scratching carefully hidden places
that you bandaged with cartoon characters and a lollipop because i was brave for surviving so much pain

blistered feet
from years of running away from self-hatred
that finally healed when you gathered me in your arms and swore to carry me

torn vocal chords
from swallowing words no one was ever interested in
that you trained to whisper and sing and yell, laughing when i lost all sense of volume control

a cracked heart
fragilely held together with caution tape
that you unraveled and stitched up

the violence i have survived is a messy house to clean
but the truth is i was both victim and culprit
while you were just the rescue team

today was an alright day.


i just don't really feel like writing about it.


work is fine

but it's only a story you can tell once,
and it's just
i don't even remember any of it.


i go in for my hours and come out
and can't recall a single thing said.

just mumbling and a few faint faces and the next week schedule and other

tedious adjustments
and the fact the mop
is broken

and the dust pan
tilts to the side

and there's never any fresh meat-

but plenty of onion,

and all girls quit in 4 days after they discover that it's indeed ***** and
their acrylic nails aren't suited to scrubbing
tiling and grime.


and my sweat drips
and it still sticks to me.
and i walk home
and flip off ******* driving too close to me - challenging me for the fact that i even
wake up to this
and go at it
day after day after day

after day

after day.,,


everyone's a sadist   --

and everyone is afraid

myself included

but i still dream of flowers in the rain

i was in the bathroom today tiling
so we can fit a shower
it is then you come across other work
and this just makes you curse
how did that plaster get that so wrong
and i have  not seen it in all of the years
that makes it seem worse
and just ******* wrong

The very mention of Portugal's Lisbon evokes an anticipation of enticement,
Replete with rich history and heritage, any visit is bound to be one of excitement,
Linked to the legendary Ulysses, it is the westernmost capital city in continental Europe,
It's historical prominence is due to it's beautiful natural harbor, that needs no lookup

Even for those who love city walking, the steep inclines of the streets could be a stretch,
A plethora of pleasing tiled architectural facades however, makes up for the arduous dretch,
The city is built in a succession of terraces up the slopes of a range of low rolling hills,
Elevation variations offer spectacular views of the river & cliffs, adding considerable frills

As a city built on seven hills, Lisbon's topography is a mix of enchanting contrasts,
Monumental buildings, elegant squares and broad avenues encompass large vasts,
Quick digression to hilly, narrow, winding, cramped streets is a common occurrence,
The ambience while strolling is pleasing & the transition in terrain is a nice experience

Lisbon's uniqueness is in it's hybridity of historical and modern cultures and lifestyles ,
Smart rooftop bars of hotels contrast to excellent inconspicuous restaurants in style,
The city boasts of an internationally acclaimed one-of-a-kind  architectural singularity,
That can be seen in scores of buildings where spectacular tiled facades are a specialty

Building facade tiles are characteristically ornamented with figures in blue-toned colors,
As seen in homes, public buildings, cafes, train stations, shops, churches and many others,
Called "Azulejos" in Portuguese, these unique tiles also serve to remove building dampness,
Innovative iterations have made tiles more vibrant, rendering greater degree of brightness

One of Lisbon's trademarks is the famed, oldest Portuguese paving on most streets,
Made of limestone cubes, shaped and placed by skilled craftsmen, never missing a beat,
The designs are geometric, figurative or specific depending on the final location,
Special atmosphere is created as it reflects all light falling on it, that begs causation

Lisbon's distinctive colored tram cars are iconic and, for visitors a must-have ride experience,
Hop on board to the sound of squeaky brakes and shrill bells, that have little consequence,
Navigating the steep hills, narrow streets and sharp turns, the journey is fun-filled & exciting,
The ability to lean out and touch perilously close building walls in narrow streets, is most defining

Baixa is Lisbon's central business and shopping district that is always bustling with activity,
It houses the most emblematic squares and streets with neoclassical buildings in the vicinity,
This touristy part of town is flanked by fascinating historical sights that are iconic, quite frankly ,
Fusion of it's history, traditional Portuguese culture and modern tourism, is depicted very aptly

Overlooking River Tejo is Praca do Comercio, a magnificent plaza and Lisbon's grandest square,
The surrounding arcaded buildings, equestrian statue and  Rua Augusta Arch all add to the flair,
Bustling Rossio Square with cafes is Baxia's principal square with it's wave-patterned pavement,
Adjacent Restauradores Square with much history has a standout obelisk - a landmark monument

Navigating around the hilly city is commonly by cab or metro as both are relatively inexpensive,
Other options include trams, funiculars, buses and ferries, that can be fun and equally effective,
When it comes to a tossup, Lisbon metro with four lines, is usually the fastest way to commute,
Providing a seamless experience for visitors, thanks to  a system that is designed to be astute

A visit to Lisbon is never complete without a day trip to  Sintra, perched atop a mountainous site,
Sintra's jewel in the crown is undoubtedly the famous Pena Palace - an UNESCO World Heritage Site,
The iconic twin conical chimneys and the lavish, whimsical interiors have an unique construction style,
The castle rooms with colorful, artistically painted emblematic ceilings are surely worthy of a besmile

Lisbon's charming tourist attractions and lifestyle are the prime reasons for it being a go-to location,
It has a welcoming and liberal allure with extensive history, that makes it a popular holiday destination,
One continues reminiscing the sloping streets, effusive warmth of locals and colorful architectural tiling,
At the end of it all, a visit to Lisbon always remains wistful, whilst at the same time, leaving one smiling!

Candlelight, in a garden of sinners where she arose
Tending to the roots in bloom whose sins she knows
Blistered truths in faulty holes planted so firm
And yet she comes each day, brandishing scissors

One by one, the sinners fall, lives cut far too short
Into the waters that that have known no peace
Since the first breath that she breathed in her plight
Falling into sleep as soon as the last one swept undertow

Lost in the undergrowth beyond her time
Seeking the gardener’s unholy wings
She has found the cradle of what she needs
To survive and stray from a torture birthed endlessly

Without pleasure or fear of silence, she awaits
A special soul that grows from nothingness
Budding from the hollowness in her own
Immaculate growth from a tainted source

And in blossoming, her hopes are dashed away
As the void is filled with nothing but falling petals
The hope of a miracle in such a world of hate
Lacks the fruition of life to achieve full bloom.

Thus, she sleeps again to awake to a new day
Never realizing that the hope is her torture
To change her fate from the endless tiling
Means to change herself from the endless hoping.

© 2014

sally in the fall
was hooked by the sky
lured, engaged, magnetized
because the sky was purely white
or light grey
and tangled in the branches of severe trees
painted orange
then stripped naked
exposed and vulnerable they were
but mostly in the fall
the cozy, coated animals
were squirrels and deer
they scurried
yet knowing in their safety
this is their domain, the forrest
and its floor was a bathroom floor
leaves acting as lavish tiling
everything was dewey and fresh
scrubbed clean by the soap of mother
bathed in her faucet
sally respirated deeply in these times
new, new

You have to forgive yourself for past wrongs
Or they will hold you back forever
They become the specter you must face
The space behind your face
That voice saying no
That barrier to flow
Your greatest foe
That just can’t be so

If the present is all then why not just fall?
Why look to the past, to all that you lack
You could just stand tall, straighten your back
With focus and attention there’s room for ascension
Transmission to a higher plane
Where there is no pain
Nestled in the lion’s mane

Same same but different
When you say religion
I see what’s missin’
No believing in fiction
Just feel this friction
Nuclear fission
The energy between you and me
The heartbeat of the universe
The electric thrum
The tribal drum
Or two spoons on a tub
The beat moves right through me
I can’t hold it back
It taps into something I no longer lack
This rhythm flows freely
I’m no longer just me
I am that i am that I am
Endlessly spiraling
No longer dialing
But tiling this world with the love at its core
Painting the shore with light from the ocean floor
The love that I found when I stopped looking for more
The love that finally opened the door

can't help but see a somali smile
whenever thinking about god,
          an ethopian heart,
            and the feet of an englishman...
the left arm of the french,
       and the right of the russian...
tongue of an american,
   and the feet of an argentinian...
others get the nibbles
         on this crude pseudo-fantasy...
a reserve of any notable
examples of life with the chinese,
          and culinary antics
                       of the blue indians...
and then i think back to
an "identity"
                   of my own, pauper-kin...
translated into american
  as the gran torino:
                              ****-wit ******
in the form of clint eastwood...
sikh generosity,
  turkish speciality in giving
man the finest barbers...
         and the arabs for their prayer...
mind you:
         two days spent without
speaking a sentence in my immediate
vicinity,
      and you circuit
a numbing sensation...
                             to encompass more
trojan horse than
                a sponges' worth of a brain
comparative...
                only yesterday
the day was half awake, and half asleep...
   and i minded both
the insomniac, and the shadow,
trying to listen in on sparrows
          during the shortest night
                     encompassed by a june
on the english isles...
            typically within the confines
of: just shy of 4a.m.,
               but i still can't fathom
the blank slate, blank canvas *******
around with a set of rules
in the domain of grammar...
              not exactly sure why this bothers
me, but, then again:
   maybe it doesn't...
               there's always a chance
that i'm writing spew,
        out-dated
                                      concerns...
up to: and more importantly:
               true... till the day of my parting
is made official...
         between a caribbean concept of
lazy, and the mediterranean equivalent?
        hardly a choice...
                      it's not exactly true
that i fell asleep out in the open
     in a kenyan resort translating
night back into day,
      but that someone managed to drink
the brandy left just above my head
on a table...
                   i'm guessing
                  a macaque stole it from me...
    hard to exactly translate certains
animals in the: wild, wide open...
                                         baboon thieves?
lined up with
                             shiny red butts
                             like celebratory ulcers?!
can't exactly write about
     a macaques: fear-face either...
         you have to see it to "believe" it...
ooh! as a word is hardly
                        a snapshot of the reality...
which is enough to confine
you, happily, to a balcony,
               finding shade,
               as the hobbit monkeys
                tire you with their presence:
            in a much ado fashion
               munching on little bags
of saccharine... can't remember:
                          could have been sugar...
a comparison with people became
the last thing in my mind...
          clearly kenya gave me
         anything but an exchange
of cultures...
                        what sort of european
whitey would not act out
      preserving the little time consisting
of 2 weeks among other tourists,
   and not attempt to spend the time with
actual, authentic, monkeys without
the european caging of them?
    ever shared a balcony with a macaque?
not exactly petting a bonsai feline...
        but i'll admit:
            an animal as a concise tool...
    a labrador
              to walk the shadow of the teasing blind...
the alsatian
         and how sensible the provoked
bark...
              a rottweiler: which is,
actually my fetish in terms of ownership...
     addict sniffer dogs at
airports:
           sniff a line: can't keep 'em
on a leash for much longer...
                  ever shared a balcony with
a macaque...
    the bonsai representation of
some far removed cousin of a past
                  consisting with the current you?
black priv.,
             there's nothing else quiet
like it...
                it's like the complete pointlessness
of needing a mirror,
or a narcissus mythology...
     furry golf ball of
           moment...
                 man and the death of time,
and monkey: with time's birth...
and yet the two behind a glue factory
of not being completely detached...
maybe i'm reading too much into
this...
               as any memory:
    cinema cameo...
                     like the one in edinburgh...
   i have had too many
cognitive faculties erode before my eyes,
to "suddenly"
      allow memory to be
crippled,                 untouched,
                            "unfathomable"...
                               "off-limits*...

which springs to mind
  the first time i've learned of schizophrenia;
that pale-shade of a woman
who phoned me up and started
screaming about auditory-hallucinations...

i was on a roof of the scottish widows'
HQ tiling the concrete with
water-proof insulation...
             what was i supposed to answer?!
then it crept up on me...
         can mental illness take the form
of a virus?
              evidently...
           like any good idea can spread,
uninhibited...
                  an illness of such "abstract"
nature
                      can become contagious...

here?
     us, lepers, poets:
    with solid handshakes of a waggling
tongue,
               nothing more.

perhaps out of curiosity,
                          perhaps out of spite...        
              
i'm still to fathom the dichotomy-exit-point
from a cartesian merger (dualism)...
                     hence no adjective...
but it's there...
               but i'm hardly going
to not consider a physical reality of
         a cognitive dissonance
                       congregation-synonym...

  there's hardly a parallel...
              perhaps a misappropriation
of timing:
        but certainly a revealing crux,
later a pivot,
        subsequently a sine / cosine libra
dynamic.            

that humming sensation,
    of a breath pushed through
pursed lips
        allowing a vibration...
                  a vibration that's also akin
to being tickled...
      
   had i but two eyes in my mouth
to see with,
   and know, what i have two tongues
to peer with, lodged in
my eye-sockets.

Borne aloft into the netherland
the body bearing thee soul  
of Boyce Brandon Harris
birth name given to my late father
buoyed aloft united with spirit
of mine late mother Harriet,
whose passing well nigh eighteen
orbitz of the earth around the sun.

Elysian fields embraced dada's soul
which rocketed into aerospace
(courtesy General Electric satellite)
just a tadpole more than three
guppies and a half years ago
froggy (disguised as grim reaper)
went a courtin for fresh corpse,
nevertheless melancholy
still plucks mine heart strings.

Mine psyche still situated awry
placid countenance of yours truly doth belie
residual sadness easily prompted
can easily trigger me to cry
linkedin when grim reaper gloated
October 7th, 2020
ye did somewhat peacefully die
though methinks immortality
I did briefly espy,

when miracles of modern medicine
tried, but could not
stave off mortality nor fortify
depredations of aging concerning
one wunderkind whose accomplishments
laudatory when a young handsome guy,
whose intelligence scored high
native talent aptitude tests did imply.

The late Boyce Brandon Harris
exhibited prolific talents at young age
aside being scholastically gifted,
acquiring graduate degree
courtesy Columbia University,
freshly minted mechanical engineer
(he admirably ranked within
uppermost percentile academically),
I hashtag thy mine deceased father
(a polymath - jack-of-all-trades),
who possessed (née excelled)
at diverse creative abilities.

Aside from being schooled
as mechanical engineer,
(which courses in mathematics and science
he passed with flying colors)
his mind genetically bequeathed
to craft almost anything under the sun
evidenced first by yours truly,
the second offspring and sole son
who ofttimes felt intimidated
at being in presence
of said Renaissance man.

Handicrafts included
expending blood, sweat, and tears
to craft multitude of projects;
i. building me Flintstone (foot powered)
car with wooden license plate.
ii. making playhouse for all three
of us - his progeny.
iii. amassing wood pile(s),
to stoke wood burning stoves
iv. designing Zayda trail for Teddy and Ruff
(two doggone mixed breed Border Collies
rescued courtesy youngest sister
at her Jacobsburg, Penna work site)
v. constructing sauna in cellar,

vi. etching, detailing (al fresco),
vii. plus trimming living room ceiling,
viii. shingling (while fiddling) on the roof,
ix. tiling the kitchen floor,
x. building a cistern for brethren,
xi. wood paneling many rooms,
xii. building custom made toy chest,
xiii. stringing up lights to increase visibility
driveway lit like Christmas tree after dark,
xiv. partly assembled a kayak,
xv. retooling - enhancing porch
(formerly slate covered),
where Morris dancers performed
at wedding for eldest sister.

Unlike him who did beget me
I experienced cognitive challenges
that beset one painfully shy
and severely introverted male
more to the point
as a lad and mediocre student to boot
promotion to next highest grade
occurred just by the skin of my teeth,
which may help to explain
why I wear dentures,
oh... these choppers worn for about
one eighth of mein kampf livingsocial.

A sense of inadequacy prevailed,
when absolute zero self esteem
strikingly and suddenly manifested
in tandem when parents moved
their young tender family within
Lower Providence School District,
but into a larger house
(initial summer estate constituted
about one hundred acres of woodland -
named Glen Elm
think Winnie the Pooh -
house at Pooh corner -).

Not quite two score plus ten years
spent livingsocial at 324 Level Road
(above mentioned abode alluded),
and twas there majority
mine existential highs and lows,
where nadir of mein kampf transpired,
I emotionally hit rock bottom
upon onset of prepubescence
yet major event triggering
mine major depression
set in motion,
when parents chose February 28th, 1968
to move out of shoddily constructed domicile
located on Lantern Lane.

As shared with Renee Cardone,
(the therapist whose virtual sessions
linkedin courtesy Doxy.me portal -
similar to Zoom),
that aforementioned date
marked a turning point
after which time, I floundered
experiencing irrevocable mental health issues
punctuating my psychological equilibrium
with chronic distress,
though I forgive father and mother,
who unwittingly made decision
how uprooting their offspring
to move without consulting
either yours truly, or older
and younger sibling.

Elysian fields embraced dada's soul
which rocketed into aerospace
(courtesy General Electric satellite)
just a tad more'n six months ago,
nevertheless melancholy
still plucks mine heart strings.

Mine psyche still situated awry
placid countenance of yours truly doth belie
residual sadness easily prompted
can easily trigger me to cry
linkedin when grim reaper gloated
October 7th, 2020
ye did somewhat peacefully die
though methinks immortality
I did briefly espy,

when miracles of modern medicine
tried, but could not
stave off mortality nor fortify
depredations of aging concerning
one wunderkind whose accomplishments
laudatory when a young handsome guy,
whose intelligence scored high
native talent aptitude tests did imply.

The late Boyce Brandon Harris
exhibited prolific talents at young age
aside being scholastically gifted,
acquiring graduate degree
courtesy Columbia University,
freshly minted mechanical engineer
(he admirably ranked within
uppermost percentile academically),
I hashtag thy mine deceased father
(a polymath - jack-of-all-trades),
who possessed (née excelled)
at diverse creative abilities.

Aside from being schooled
as mechanical engineer,
(which courses in mathematics and science
he passed with flying colors)
his mind genetically bequeathed
to craft almost anything under the sun
evidenced first by yours truly,
the second offspring and sole son
who ofttimes felt intimidated
at being in presence
of said Renaissance man.

Handicrafts included
expending blood, sweat, and tears
to craft multitude of projects;
i. building me Flintstone (foot powered)
car with wooden license plate.
ii. making playhouse for all three
of us - his progeny.
iii. amassing wood pile(s),
to stoke wood burning stoves
iv. designing Zayda trail for Teddy and Ruff
(two doggone mixed breed Border Collies
rescued courtesy youngest sister
at her Jacobsburg, Penna work site)
v. constructing sauna in cellar,

vi. etching, detailing (ala fresco),
vii. plus trimming living room ceiling,
viii. shingling (while fiddling) on the roof,
ix. tiling the kitchen floor,
x. building a cistern for brethren,
xi. wood paneling many rooms,
xii. building custom made toy chest,
xiii. stringing up lights to increase visibility
driveway lit like Christmas tree after dark,
xiv. partly assembled a kayak,
xv. retooling - enhancing porch
(formerly slate covered),
where Morris dancers performed
at wedding for eldest sister.

Unlike him who did beget me
I experienced cognitive challenges
that beset one painfully shy
and severely introverted male
more to the point
as a lad and mediocre student to boot
promotion to next highest grade
occurred just by the skin of my teeth,
which may help to explain
why I wear dentures,
oh... these choppers worn for about
one sixth of mein kampf livingsocial.

A sense of inadequacy prevailed,
when absolute zero self esteem
strikingly and suddenly manifested
in tandem when parents moved
their young tender family within
Lower Providence School District,
but into a larger house
(initial summer estate constituted
about one hundred acres of woodland -
named Glen Elm
think Winnie the Pooh -
house at Pooh corner -).

Not quite two score plus ten years
spent livingsocial at 324 Level Road
(above mentioned abode alluded),
and twas there majority
mine existential highs and lows,
where nadir of mein kampf transpired,
I emotionally hit rock bottom
upon onset of prepubescence
yet major event triggering
mine major depression
set in motion,
when parents chose February 28th, 1968
to move out of shoddily constructed domicile
located on Lantern Lane.

As shared with Renee Cardone
(the therapist whose virtual sessions
linkedin courtesy Doxy.me portal -
similar to Zoom),
that aforementioned date
marked a turning point
after which time, I floundered
experiencing irrevocable mental health issues
punctuating my psychological equilibrium
with chronic distress,
though I forgive father and mother
who unwittingly made decision to move.

Elysian fields long since embraced dada's soul
which rocketed into aerospace
(courtesy General Electric satellite)
just a tad more'n eighteen plus months ago,
nevertheless melancholy
still plucks mine heart strings.

Mine psyche still situated awry
placid countenance of yours truly doth belie
residual sadness easily prompted
can easily trigger me to cry
linkedin when grim reaper gloated
October 7th, 2020
ye did somewhat peacefully die
though methinks immortality
I did briefly espy,

when miracles of modern medicine
tried, but could not
stave off mortality nor fortify
depredations of aging concerning
one wunderkind whose accomplishments
laudatory when a young handsome guy,
whose intelligence scored high
native talent aptitude tests did imply.

The late Boyce Brandon Harris
exhibited prolific talents at young age
aside being scholastically gifted,
acquiring graduate degree
courtesy Columbia University,
freshly minted mechanical engineer
(he admirably ranked within
uppermost percentile academically),
I hashtag thy mine deceased father
(a polymath - jack-of-all-trades),
who possessed (née excelled)
at diverse creative abilities.

Aside from being schooled
as mechanical engineer,
(which courses in mathematics and science
he passed with flying colors)
his mind genetically bequeathed
to craft almost anything under the sun
evidenced first by yours truly,
the second offspring and sole son
who ofttimes felt intimidated
at being in presence
of said Renaissance man.

Handicrafts included
expending blood, sweat, and tears
to craft multitude of projects;
i. building me Flintstone (foot powered)
car with wooden license plate.
ii. making playhouse for all three
of us - his progeny.
iii. amassing wood pile(s),
to stoke wood burning stoves
iv. designing Zayda trail for Teddy and Ruff
(two doggone mixed breed Border Collies
rescued courtesy youngest sister
at her Jacobsburg, Penna work site)
v. constructing sauna in cellar,

vi. etching, detailing (ala fresco),
vii. plus trimming living room ceiling,
viii. shingling (while fiddling) on the roof,
ix. tiling the kitchen floor,
x. building a cistern for brethren,
xi. wood paneling many rooms,
xii. building custom made toy chest,
xiii. stringing up lights to increase visibility
driveway lit like Christmas tree after dark,
xiv. partly assembled a kayak,
xv. retooling - enhancing porch
(formerly slate covered),
where Morris dancers performed
at wedding for eldest sister.
xvi. Helping, née completing
homework/school assignments.

Unlike him who did beget me
I experienced cognitive challenges
that beset one painfully shy
and severely introverted male
more to the point
as a lad and mediocre student to boot
promotion to next highest grade
occurred just by the skin of my teeth,
which may help to explain
why I wear dentures,
oh... these choppers worn for about
one sixth of mein kampf livingsocial.

A sense of inadequacy prevailed,
when absolute zero self esteem
strikingly and suddenly manifested
in tandem when parents moved
their young tender family within
Lower Providence School District,
but into a larger house
(initial summer estate constituted
about one hundred acres of woodland -
named Glen Elm
think Winnie the Pooh -
house at Pooh corner -).

Not quite two score plus ten years
spent livingsocial at 324 Level Road
(above mentioned abode alluded),
and twas there majority
mine existential highs and lows,
where nadir of mein kampf transpired,
I emotionally hit rock bottom
upon onset of prepubescence
yet major event triggering
mine major depression
set in motion,
when parents chose February 28th, 1968
to move out of shoddily constructed domicile
located on Lantern Lane.

As shared with Renee Cardone
(the therapist whose virtual sessions
linkedin courtesy Doxy.me portal -
similar to Zoom),
that aforementioned date
marked a turning point
after which time, I floundered
experiencing irrevocable mental health issues
punctuating my psychological equilibrium
with chronic distress,
though I forgive father and mother
who unwittingly made decision to move.

There is a divinity, traveling light

following the dedicated thread
higher and higher

hovering above, the psychoactive scaffolding

parting the clouds like heavy drapes of plaster

suspended in disorientation

witnessing the tedious restoration

re-tiling mosaics of stolen memories

embedded in the ceiling of the soul

All in the matters of the mind

the unfolding of meninges, over time

while colliding,

with a doves wings, pure and precious

asks permission to borrow them

return the props when the
session has ended

recover from a trip
that brought you to your knees

to discover the sacred, healing power of sweet harmin e