he bade a farewell
to the structure he'd built up
evil wouldst not go

their shadows very dark
infiltrated every nook
they'd undone it all

writers exiting
the foundations collapsed
twas a totaling

I arrived at the church at 5:30.
It took me a bit to find the place

  there were only a couple half-inflated baloons
  to mark the occasion.
  Those, and a small sign with an arrow, which led
  
      down some stairs and into a cafeteria.  An
      older lady greeted me.  She had a calm smile
      on her face.  The kind that comes with age, that
      says that you've been there, done that.

"Are you here to give?"

           Of course.  Why else would I be here?

  "Yeah"

She leads me to a table that has a number of tall dividers
set up on it to prevent people from peeking at someone
else's personal life.  Like I care if you've had syphilis in
the last year...well I might if it weren't all men in here.

I start filling out the form.
No, I don't have an STD
No, I haven't spent a time totaling more than 5 years in the UK before 1996
No, I don't use drugs
No, I haven't had a fever in the last 24 hours
No
  No
    No
  No
No

I do admit that I have been out of the country recently.

I hand my sheet to another lady.  "Where did you travel to?"

    "Japan, mostly Tokyo and a few places just outside"

    "Carol, could you check Japan on the list?"

She turns to me.  "I'm almost certain that's OK, but I have to check".  Another contented smile.

I sit down to be interviewed, we go over the questions once more.

    "Alright, I just need a small sample before we begin"

She takes the sample with a small contraption that
fits over my finger and jabs a small hole.  She runs
a quick test with the blood, letting a droplet fall
in a test tube filled with a blue liquid.  

The droplet sinks to the bottom.  She checks a box.

Apparently we're good to go.

  I'm given an empty blood bag and a number of rubber-banded vials
and pointed towards a circle of beds in the middle of the room.

I walk up and a portly gentleman takes my bag and asks me
which arm I'd like it in.

"Right"

I pause.  

I want to be able to check my phone while I'm doing this.

"Actually, let's do left"

He gives a grin.  "Here, hold both your arms out"

I comply.  I immediately notice that my right arm
has a very accessible vein.  We're doing the right arm.

Oh well.

   "Let's go with the Right"

I smile and sit on the plastic seat

He swabs my arm with that wonderful orange/yellow dye
and gives me a stress-ball to squeeze, to help the process go
quicker.  He comes back with the needle.

I look away as I feel the uncomfortable breach of my skin.
It's a small pinch followed by a dull sensation, my body
telling me "That isn't supposed to be there, get it out".

         I hate needles.

I feel a light sweat break and my breathing quickens
ever so slightly.  It's ok because the hard part is over
I squeeze the stress ball every few seconds and I chat
with the man.

His name is Nick, and he's been doing this for a few years.  
He used to work in a restaurant, and then he worked for a
flooring company.  
He remarks
    on the fake grouting that the floor in this room has.  

You  can tell that he loves his job, that he's satisfied with life.

He comments on the t-shirt that I will receive for doing this

(because who would do it if they didn't get a t-shirt, right?)

He says it looks like a blueberry snowcone and tells me a
rather entertaining story from his youth about blueberry
snowcones.  

I pipe in with my memories of the Tropical Sno  shop we had
when I was a kid.  

The bag is filled, the needle is removed.  A bandaid is placed,
and then my arm is wrapped with a smily-face bandage.

I give him a left-hand shake and go sit at the refreshments table

I drink a Pepsi.  I hate trail mix.

After about 10min or so, I get in my car and drive home.
I put on the blueberry snow-cone colored t-shirt and sit
down to read a book.  I think about the people working
at the blood drive, and I think about how happy they
seemed.

I wonder to myself what the difference is between someone
who gives blood and someone who gives time.  I have friends
that travel the world for the Peace Corps, living in third world
countries with no running water, no niceties.  I think of friends
who could sit in blistering heat, helping to build a house for
someone they don't even know.  I think of myself, who thinks
that donating money to the Leukemia foundation and donating
blood to the Red Cross is somehow equivalent to donating sweat
and an able body.

I should really do more
maybe then I'll earn that smile
that those folks wear so proudly

A rip in the door, a tip in the drawr,
Philosophy or trigonometry,
Epic failure,
Filled with pens & paper clips,
Minds to the matter,
Key opening frogs,
Toads totaling mirrors,  
Mane of Moroccan Curls,
Sashaying  across broad shoulders,
And smooth hips,
Laying on clouds,
Because you can't afford to breath,
On the ground,
Tree topped eye lined,
Eye lids,
Shut.

Things I Can Say About MFA Writing Programs Now That I No Longer Teach in One


"You’re going to need to spend a lot of time alone." - James Yamasaki


I recently left a teaching position in a master of fine arts creative-writing program. I had a handful of students whose work changed my life. The vast majority of my students were hardworking, thoughtful people devoted to improving their craft despite having nothing interesting to express and no interesting way to express it. My hope for them was that they would become better readers. And then there were students whose work was so awful that it literally put me to sleep. Here are some things I learned from these experiences.

Writers are born with talent.

Either you have a propensity for creative expression or you don't. Some people have more talent than others. That's not to say that someone with minimal talent can't work her *** off and maximize it and write something great, or that a writer born with great talent can't squander it. It's simply that writers are not all born equal. The MFA student who is the Real Deal is exceedingly rare, and nothing excites a faculty adviser more than discovering one. I can count my Real Deal students on one hand, with fingers to spare.

If you didn't decide to take writing seriously by the time you were a teenager, you're probably not going to make it.

There are notable exceptions to this rule, Haruki Murakami being one. But for most people, deciding to begin pursuing creative writing in one's 30s or 40s is probably too late. Being a writer means developing a lifelong intimacy with language. You have to be crazy about books as a kid to establish the neural architecture required to write one.

If you complain about not having time to write, please do us both a favor and drop out.

I went to a low-residency MFA program and, years later, taught at a low-residency MFA program. "Low-residency" basically means I met with my students two weeks out of the year and spent the rest of the semester critiquing their work by mail. My experience tells me this: Students who ask a lot of questions about time management, blow deadlines, and whine about how complicated their lives are should just give up and do something else. Their complaints are an insult to the writers who managed to produce great work under far more difficult conditions than the 21st-century MFA student. On a related note: Students who ask if they're "real writers," simply by asking that question, prove that they are not.

If you aren't a serious reader, don't expect anyone to read what you write.

Without exception, my best students were the ones who read the hardest books I could assign and asked for more. One student, having finished his assigned books early, asked me to assign him three big novels for the period between semesters. Infinite Jest, 2666, and Gravity's Rainbow, I told him, almost as a joke. He read all three and submitted an extra-credit essay, too. That guy was the Real Deal.

Conversely, I've had students ask if I could assign shorter books, or—without a trace of embarrassment—say they weren't into "the classics" as if "the classics" was some single, aesthetically consistent genre. Students who claimed to enjoy "all sorts" of books were invariably the ones with the most limited taste. One student, upon reading The Great Gatsby (for the first time! Yes, a graduate student!), told me she preferred to read books "that don't make me work so hard to understand the words." I almost quit my job on the spot.

No one cares about your problems if you're a ****** writer.

I worked with a number of students writing memoirs. One of my Real Deal students wrote a memoir that actually made me cry. He was a rare exception. For the most part, MFA students who choose to write memoirs are narcissists using the genre as therapy. They want someone to feel sorry for them, and they believe that the supposed candor of their reflective essay excuses its technical faults. Just because you were abused as a child does not make your inability to stick with the same verb tense for more than two sentences any more bearable. In fact, having to slog through 500 pages of your error-riddled student memoir makes me wish you had suffered more.

You don't need my help to get published.

When I was working on my MFA between 1997 and 1999, I understood that if I wanted any of the work I was doing to ever be published, I'd better listen to my faculty advisers. MFA programs of that era were useful from a professional development standpoint—I still think about a lecture the poet Jason Shinder gave at Bennington College that was full of tremendously helpful career advice I use to this day. But in today's Kindle/e-book/self-publishing environment, with New York publishing sliding into cultural irrelevance, I find questions about working with agents and editors increasingly old-fashioned. Anyone who claims to have useful information about the publishing industry is lying to you, because nobody knows what the hell is happening. My advice is for writers to reject the old models and take over the production of their own and each other's work as much as possible.

It's not important that people think you're smart.

After eight years of teaching at the graduate level, I grew increasingly intolerant of writing designed to make the writer look smart, clever, or edgy. I know this work when I see it; I've written a fair amount of it myself. But writing that's motivated by the desire to give the reader a pleasurable experience really is best. I told a few students over the years that their only job was to keep me entertained, and the ones who got it started to enjoy themselves, and the work got better. Those who didn't get it were stuck on the notion that their writing was a tool designed to procure my validation. The funny thing is, if you can put your ego on the back burner and focus on giving someone a wonderful reading experience, that's the cleverest writing.

It's important to woodshed.

Occasionally my students asked me about how I got published after I got my MFA, and the answer usually disappointed them. After I received my degree in 1999, I spent seven years writing work that no one has ever read—two novels and a book's worth of stories totaling about 1,500 final draft pages. These unread pages are my most important work because they're where I applied what I'd learned from my workshops and the books I read, one sentence at a time. Those seven years spent in obscurity, with no attempt to share my work with anyone, were my training, and they are what allowed me to eventually write books that got published.

We've been trained to turn to our phones to inform our followers of our somewhat witty observations. I think the instant validation of our apps is an enemy to producing the kind of writing that takes years to complete. That's why I advise anyone serious about writing books to spend at least a few years keeping it secret. If you're able to continue writing while embracing the assumption that no one will ever read your work, it will reward you in ways you never imagined. recommended

Ryan Boudinot is executive director of Seattle City of Literature.

In the caste of what the fir trees denoted what should be or what should not be,
I clasped the fig twigs and watched them split as if to say that all must come to an end.
And in the end, who can the charred leaves blame if there should be tire rods and hubcaps strewn  
                               across the forest's floor?

After totaling the costs of what should not be,
the last mast of yesterday's trade boat could skiff along the shore,
with flag flailing like the playground children's hands.

Irrationality piquing: birds dip and dive like a boxer's fists made of shadow
from one powerline to the next.
Training for the changing, biting winds, watching the unconscious cars staring.

And the skiff oozing through the unmentionables littered in the creek : what will
become of him?

Lodged in stale, fossil bones -- floundered between the swingset and the droning, dusty traffic at 3 a.m.
Metamorphic scarabs stolen from the gusts and pants of too much play.
Basketballs stained with carrion, precarious gusto in the wake of money suckling and ripping alongside                            
        the skiff.

Cross here with two pennies.

Goaded by the solitary abandonment of the 1930's, the used ******'s mouth gaping open like hungry carp, dusty trails of light from the past lamplight hanging in the air

Birds measured up along the powerlines, moving mindlessly along with the flock
Bird drones, feathery spines
Birds perched along the playground.
Bird play so far as to say
        does this not look familiar?

Bobbing, weaving, slathered in cadence and involuntary muscle jerks.

First we were here
Then we were not.

I am a physician.Last fall, I had a very interesting
conversation with a patient who is a trucker. I asked her if she knew
anything about deep underground military bases, and then I played ignorant
to see what she would say.

Without further prompting, she informed me she is an independent contractor
trucker, driving 18-wheeler rigs cross-country. She said the bases are real
and are located all over the country, "especially under the mountains out
West". She said one of her main contracts over the last few years has been
with DHS.

She said there are underground roads running all over the United States,
connecting the underground facilities.

She said she has personally delivered many truckloads of supplies to the
underground facilities. For each DHS shipment/delivery, there was a stack
of non-disclosure forms about (by her description) six inches thick she had
to sign.

DHS would attach a tracking device to her truck for each of these shipments
and monitor her truck's every move. She would be told where to go to accept
delivery for each shipment. In each case, she would be escorted by guards
"with machine guns" away from her truck, so she could not see what was
being loaded into her rig. The truck would then be locked by a large lock
with a ring 'as big around as your finger", which had to be torch-cut off
at the time of delivery.

When she would make deliveries, often within underground facilities, she
would again be escorted away from the truck by armed guards, the lock would
be cut off, and the goods would be unloaded.

She said the only shipped goods she ever saw in these DHS shipments were
stackable black plastic things that looked like coffins.

She told be the gov't is getting ready for a collapse, which she told be
she expected might happen as early as late 2014.

She also told me she thinks the gov't has just about everything is needs
stored underground, because the number of DHS shipments has been
declining.

I asked her if she would be willing to have lunch with me and tell me more.
She replied, "yes", but afterwards when I contacted her, she had changed
her mind and would not talk further about it with me.

Another pt of mine, whom I saw within about a week of this lady, is a local
trucker, but he told me that he has lots of friends who are truckers, and
through them, he said he had learned that there are "thousands of miles of
underground roads" running across the country, connecting underground gov't
facilities.

He had just recently, in fact, heard among his trucker friends of a
shipment of frozen meat being shipped to one such underground facility,
totaling four million pounds of meat.

You created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb.
You saw me as a Child of light when i was wrapped, consumed in darkness.
Evil was I when i left her, wicked and unscrupulous.
Yet you kept me, Yet you kept me.

Evil wouldn't leave me it took advantage of a helpless child.
Abused by the hate that is in this world.
Being told evil was good, and accepting the curses of that lie.
Confused, feeling hopeless, growing in a broken home.
Filled with fear, questioned time after time if You were there, Here…
Yet you kept me, Yet you kept me.

Consumed with greed, all i wanted was to be pleased.
Not loving myself, because i wanted to be someone else.
Refusing to see how wonderfully you made me.
I cursed, mocked.
Yet you kept me, Yet you kept me.

Lost and in despair, You called my name, I heard you, I didn't listen.
Parading to be an angel of light, walking the aisles of your sanctuary.
Having the form of godliness but denying its power to change me.
So eager was  I, to leave your presence craving for what the world had to offer.
Lusting for sin wanting to fill that gap that was deep within.
Yet you Kept me, Yet you Kept me.

I searched for love, for happiness.
The satisfaction was short lived,
became addictive I needed more, need just a little, needed alot.
Spiraling down, down, down Living with no real hope, totaling my emptiness.
Yet you kept me.

You reached out, you called me again, a clear voice repeating my name.
Telling me its time to change. Change from the way that is vain, vague.
Letting me know u called me to a higher purpose. a place of true love,
Where i can experience the fullness of Joy Happiness Peace.
Despite all I have done, your blood will wash me, make me whole.
Born again, dead to sin, Realizing all the wonders  I was truly missing.
Anew, Zealous in Christ, Salvation is so Sweet, Jesus he saved a Wretch like me.
He speaks, He guides, He rebukes All because He Loves me.
Me….Me?...Me.

O Lord yet when i stumble your grace is sufficient for me.
Though I am undeserving.
O lord you have Kept me… You are Keeping me.

O Lord yet when i stumble your grace is sufficient for me.
Though I am undeserving.
O lord you have Kept me… You are Keeping me.
Testimony.

Selah

~~~

is a word used seventy-four times in the bible.  The meaning of the word is not known, though various interpretations are given below.  It is probably an instruction on the reading of the text, something like *"stop and listen."  The Amplified Bible translates selah as "pause, and think of that." Alternatively, selah may mean "forever," as it does in some places in the liturgy.  Another interpretation claims that selah comes from the primary Hebrew root word salah, meaning "to hang," and by implication, as in weighing, "to measure"

for Sethnicity
~~~

what trifle these
modern words,
hurled, expelled from the
no country for an old body,
without passport or
earnestness of purpose

the yeah yeah yeah filler
of day tourists who
leave~refuse,
leave their refuse,
never mark-making,
nor even  a mark of
minor distinctions

what mystery valued then in these
olden words,
of which,
there are the fewer than
precious few,
possessing
ineffable, multifarious meanings,
never wasted or with dispassion disgraced

Selah

as a young boy
parentally captive
was POW forced-marched
to synagogue daily,
then weekly,
and now,
free at last,
Oh Lord
free at last,

to go
never

now wanting immunity
for my sins
but asking only from myself
my own forgiveness,
still and well recall the
puzzlingly feeling of

Selah

"forever"
explained the perpetually tired,
older father-man,
"it means forever,"
he who was wearily forever tired from voyaging
and living in a new, stressful,
inhospitable world

carrying in a single suitcase(1)
centuries of the continental drift of
global dispersal diaspora prior,
that cannot be well remembered,
only honored in the
forever recalling

but I disdain the explanation,
as if
"forever"
would satisfy
a ne're satisfied,
irreverent, teenage curiosity

here I am
decades on,
remembering the mysterious

Selah

embracing its many personalities,
endearing now by its revealing opportunities,
and its suitability
in this,
in the the hour of
now me as the
elder father-grandfather

weary-leery,
of a man's age of aging,
the approaching visible runway,
upon which you only land
and never takeoff,
during the phasing out period

and so I reconsider

Selah

and all its variants,
seventy four times

all those elders know too well,
there was never a

forever

so you
stop and listen,
but not to your own heartbeats,
but to tue

poetic lapsing pauses,

the in betweens,
thinking on that
hope for next one Nat

taking your own measure,
the hanging up,
the weighing up
of the always imbalanced
credits and deficits,
accepting the net net
sum of
the totaling up

yet once more,
despite all,
the poet rises,
stands up,
stops to listen,
to give blessing to
you the reader

all poet's
welcomed progeny and prodigy,
hearing your crying hearts,
youngest wishes
and grinding familia of
familiar fears,
expressed so clear
in all your scripts,
pronouncing
over them,
over you

Amen ~ Selah

once again ,
one last time
telling it to God,
or anyone who'll listen,
with fervor

smiling inward
believing even more now
in the olden
specialized mysterious,
powers
of a word
that means
exactly what you meant it
to mean,
when  your say

Selah*

Oct 2, 2015

I watched the world spin from the windshield of this old car.
I felt the slip of the bald tires,
My hands tighten around the wheel,
And I screamed.
I screamed but somewhere in all of that mess,
That chaos,
I knew I was going to be okay.
I knew I was going to live,
Despite totaling my car.

A screaming pierces the serenity of the river valley.
Overturned wreck of a car and splattered, shattered, scattered glass.
A fresh-cut gouge in the dirt embankment where he clipped it
and in retaliation it flipped him on his roof. 
He staggers from the chaos
moaning not from pain, but from the Jaeger, Keystone, and regret
of totaling his mother's car. 
He flees the scene with his homies, his fellow drunken cronies
and the witnesses are left behind, scratching heads and raising brows. 
I among them contemplate the carnage
and I try remembering a different time, ten years ago or so...

This place used to be so beautiful
before the partiers and potheads and Varrio Locos took it over. 
Shallow waters filled with algae drifts and interspersed with boulder bridges. 
Sandy beaches, nature trails, wild grapes, and fishing holes. 
The last free-flowing, undammed, undamned river in the state...
Now it's bloated with beer and blood and bad decisions. 
Not a bare rock face remains, each one caked up in graffiti makeup. 
And the air, once frequented by the heady scent of sycamore
is far too thick with marijuana anymore.
Santa Margarita, choking on smoke and dope and disrespect,
once my heart and home and refuge, now and forever a cheapened wasteland.

- title -
yeti-jabba
- body -
no jabba-jedi:
no yetti: igloo makers. 502 bad gateway bypass

i knew a band the name of sister machine gun
existed since... the original Mortal Kombat movie
came out in 1995...
i remember buying the WONG album
in the Our-Price: a sublet of ****** Megastores...
you know... a time when men could have
a second outlet... a music store...
now? what's left? football stadiums?!
   it was like going to church back in the day...
you're spend an hour browsing through
the CDs... i really think the vinyl revolution:
the 2nd coming of vinyl happened too late...
if it happened just a bit earlier...
there would still be a HMV / a ****** Megastore
on Oxford Street... instead of what they have
now... some cheap *** shop that probably
sells fake Primark clothing, items under £1...
mobile phone skins... whatever women buy
to hoard... or to simply spend money on:
that isn't food...
                              oh man... the memory of HMV
and ****** on Oxford St... it's another dimension...
but at the time... the music industry wasn't really
focused on reigniting a man's need for vinyl...
liquorice spinning disks...
   if they jumped in early... figured out the market...
coupled the selling of vinyl with... a digital code...
so you could also download the record you just bought...
personally? i'm a man...
there's never too many books in a personal library...
my own library? could shame the public library
of Romford... my record collection?
that too could shame the public library of Romford...
from what i heard...
****** people get paid 40zl for stashing a(n) Ukrainian:
per day... so the fact that there are not currently
over one million Ukrainians in Poland...
that the population of Warsaw has increased by a 5th
in side... follow the money:
people are actually getting paid to hosts these poor souls...
the poor souls are also given an allowance...
i think i once wrote as a joke:
that Orc joke... racial stereotyping Orcs that's running
runs on the internet: they're Africans...
in Middle-Earth... where's Mordor?
east? right... right... the Ural Mountains?
the Mongolian Invasion... are the Orcs "black"?
or... a hybrid of the Mongols and the reinvented people
the Mongols conquered?
who conquered the Mongol onslaught on
Egypt? the Mamluks... what's that famous quote?
the people of the steppe conquered the people
of the steppe... since the Mamluks (Mamelukes....
Mameluks) were slaves of the Caucasian region...
north eastern Europe... blah blah etc.
but we used to have an outlet...
going to a football match these days is a chore...
i sometimes watch it on t.v.: but i can decipher
the chants of the away fans...
on the t.v.: your support! your support!
your support is ******* ****!
  who the **** are you! who the **** are you!
or at Fulham... esp. at Fulham...
  just before the goalkeeper is about to kick the ball:
oooooooh.... you're ****: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa(s)h!
sizzle ensemble...
what a tiresome day... woke up at 7am...
had a coffee and a sunset...
a cigarette too...
       went into town for another coffee and a burger
egg muffin at McDonald's...
ate the wrap on a bench in the sun...
crunch... crunch...
           when i my grandparents had an Alsatian...
we're feed it egg-shells... sprinkled over meat...
right... i'm a dog now?
woof...             woof...
               sure... no problem...
i'll eat this extra fibre...
                     it truly is a ****** gig... leave the house at 8am...
come back at 8pm... well... 9pm...
pay £10 for fuel... earn? ****... maybe £40?
it's extortion... but... i can be fazed when i'm
in a good moon... i get to watch a football match for
free... and i get literary fuel...
     yeah... trouble this time round...
not that grand... 4 Ipswich supporters bought tickets
to enter the Oxford Stand...
a minor punch-up... i was yawning throughout...
not that i'm boasting... but yawning while the crowd
gets all exited... when the away team score...
turn your back on the home supporters
and smile at the tourists...
         that usually calms them... eye  contact...
chimpanzee ****...
                    and when the home team scores...
turn your back on the tourists... pretend to be crucified
for about a second... smile... just smile...
make eye-contact...
              i should have been born to be a *******
bus driver... back where i was born...
i always wanted to become a bus driver...
        i should have been a bus driver...
**** me... a aiming at becoming a chemistry teacher?
slightly boring... if you told me:
become an English teacher...
   then again... whatever...
time eclipses...
            it's good to be tired: you reach a ****** of relaxation
that's otherwise unavailable...
plus... me... tired? i'm *****...
all those selfies my would-be g/f of a *******:
duck lips... spectacles: hot teacher fantasy...
they worked the first time i came home
and ****** off "suffering" from constipation...
on the throne of thrones... eased up into some cleavage
and *** photographs... then looked at the photographs
she sent me of her face...
yeah... nice... second time...
i had to have a quickie... with Teanna Trump
and Harley Dean... because... lately...
i'm all into that interracial ****...
                     blondes put me off... botox blondes...
fakery blondes... bleached **** and *****...
if she isn't... licked by the sun a little...
the whole world is going full Brazilian: mind you...
i'm tired: but i'm *****...
but there's not chance of me having ***...
i need to let off steam... anyway...
but the first mistake the guys at Our-Price made was
selling me the "wrong" record...
the Mortal Kombat soundtrack... with bands like...
Sister Machine Gun... Type O Negative...
when it came to buying the Batman Forever soundtrack...
no... i didn't ask for a sly... a substitute...
to the CD i originally wanted...
i didn't want any U2...
    that was when i was still playing with figurines
of superheroes on my bedroom floor...
giving them ****** narratives...
well... when you're a boy... there are not smartphones...
not internet... you play with toys...
i didn't need a ******* batman forever soundtrack...
with U2 being invoked...
the Mortal Kombat soundtrack?
that... that was... i have to admit...
an overlord moment of someone seeing me and saying
to themselves: this boy... needs to have his knowledge
of music... expanded...
but with the batman forever?
i was actually after Elliot Goldenthal's
     Fledermausmarschmusik.... that's... what... i... was...
after... to play with my ******* toys...
oddly enough... each time i *******...
i get a whiff... of Khedra's scent...
i ******* into her: by her own permission...
now... hmm... sniff sniff...
             i smell her body through my: "junk"... *****...
get paid come the first few days of April...
i'll follow up with her: so... that... dinner...
and... the night spent in a hotel room... that's on?
otherwise? sure... i don't mind the hour...
i'm not a Duracell bunny...
it's not like there' a magic ultra-violet button akin
to the political commanders having a magic red button
for the nukes: when it comes to hard-ons...
lucky for me: the right sort of demure...
it's a great sort of "fake"... just stand there...
tensing your shoulders... itching to punch your shadow...
by way: punching yourself... fold your hands...
i don't even have to get a *******
by giving fans the "direct" treatment of authority...
just cross your hands... stand sort of proud...
sort of tall...
better have retained my status as a roofer...
thank god i'm only doing this to get non-familial
references...
on the way back from Oxford...
we sort of just... grunted... the least amount
of conversation i ever experienced...
then again: there were no women in the car...
there were only four guys...
         some comment on traffic:
any update on your grandpa?
                     yeah... that wasn't too bad...
the shift...
                          the supervisor was relaxed
texting while driving...
     put the heating on... real high...
then put the cooling real low...
thank **** he turned it off...
   some traffic on the M25 after four cars crashed...
Dan: so, Matt... what are your plans for tonight?
Matt: oh you know, Dan... just chill out...
have a drink or two... when you get to be 35...
clubbing with girls that are 18 is not much fun...
no cultural references that stick...
i can't be mindful of keeping minors in check...
blah blah: and more blah blah on silent mode...
why do people always seem to want to talk
to break the tension?
surely... just shutting up and being content
with oneself: with one's own presence on silent-mode
is enough to satisfy others: yeah, i'm here...
and yeah: i don't have to somehow feel uncomfortable
by something having to talk... right?

shut the **** up...
"promoted" to the shotgun position in the car...
i like silence... i like not talking...
plus? his grandfather is faking it not having
cancer... so... any insight? any new details?
my grandfather died only 2 years ago...
relatable language...
but my grandmother was a *****...
come again? a different sort of language:
i have no sympathy for her...
she made my grandfather die feeling like:
no one cared for him...
           her son? m'ah... "unkhle"... will not leave her
feeling much more than she already invested
in...

what the **** would i need the typical high street for?
more... shoes? more clothes?!
more mobile phones?!
                 you ****** off with the music shops...
i don't need Oxford St. to exist...
it's a bit like finding the Church going extinct
a second time...
            hell... whiskey sells in shady parts of society...
i don't date: i never thought about dating...
after finding the right sort of ****
in a *******...
      i stopped thinking about that bogus dream...
it's great... let's create a funnel of experience...
some will get through: some will not...
totaling society: some crash...
     come burn... come Braun.

I want to tear you away from the clouds
From the ballfields way away from here
To scream right at your face in violins
And swelling horns and drums crashing
Choirs crying out a deafening triumph!

You would be blinded by your own tears
And your smile would light up this passage of time
Galaxies would burst open with our hesitation
We come closer and closer, clouds explode
Three suns are yours, eyes and mouth
Enwrapped in snow, we'd clasp and dig holes
In each other's backs.

I want to grab hold of your ribcage
I want to open my door and fly under six feet
At the force of your body totaling mine
Your lips breaking my teeth
Our tongues tied.

Bones bleeding into one another
Color receding...

Your initials in the sky
Title biting
Fall into my chest...
Seraph, succubus,
Everclear angel.

That's what its for Carly Rose,
if you don't use it, you lose it

a bowl of green with eggs and steak on the fourth of July

      Independents day and we're whacked out Americans living breathing and dying by the scores and handfuls, the plague walks among us now, I read in the paper it says more and more get it and case numbers soar, my uncle tells me that it reminds him of Vietnam and the number of enemies KIA at the end totaling three times the entire population of the region, but I digress,


the whistle rings true and the crack and pop of the firecrackers feels good to see it, feels like you're lost caught in something special

I stumble onto an old path, past the mansions of Bexley on the edge of the railroad track overlooking the river and behind us peeking in the bend behind the trees stands the city skyline, the glass and stone towers gleaming in the darkening sunset of orange burnt moonlight encased in a tunnel of evergreen pines and peak summer shrubs alight with the blinking of fireflies, sequencing the secret we are all trying to express, I want you, I want you all, you beautiful creatures of this world, we pulsate and ;lust with every fiber of our beings hoping for a moment of sensual touch we stretch out and burn alive this word is meant for *** and love and god bless us if we can get both, running and gunning, that's what the languid pulse of the fire flies calling out with their golden green lights under the dull moon sang about as the head lights from distant cars would slide across a rail road intersection in some sleepy part of town, the full moon bright as a harvest stone, framed in this, secret forgotten, a lot, broken glass on concrete and gravel graffiti nonsense, neon bike lights dancing, leading a way through another day

Raw

From unprotected exposures
Giving life to my fears
Totaling my success to zero

My worth leaves my shadow
Refusing me attention
Lackluster are my strides

Distancing opportunities and potential love interest
Relate me to the unwanted
Homeless features mock my clothing

Still

Rising for the morning
Sunlight wiping my tears
Kissing my skin for good luck

Grinding with a purpose
Doing flips to turn my frown around
Smiling to use the word facade

My days will get better
Referencing a song
Better days gonna’ come

Papa - purportedly named
after paternal grandmother
Sadie, her mom's Yiddish name
Basia Brana (or Brandla),
she took two B letters and
found American boys' names
that kind of echoed
her mother's names in letters
and sounds too: Boyce Brandon).

Conversation with eldest sibling
apprised me of entitlement
heading this endeavor with poetic ring,
plus she (same sister) emailed
specifics, a financial life raft
I will devotedly and blessedly cling.

Gratuity his (General Electric)
life insurance policy
totaling $37,063.00
divided three ways
bequeathed to yours truly
and my two non-twisted sisters.

Aforementioned dollar figure
divided three ways equals
12,354.3333333,
which tidy sum
could help me
alleviate outstanding
credit card debt.

Upon acquiring allotted dividend
tattered credit history I will mend
eldest daughter would commend
no rhyme nor reason accrual twist
of fate unfortunately happened

impossible mission to comprehend
how yours truly became deadened
abominable hand to mouth existence
turned scofflaw criminally hardened
not really but makes for good legend.

Figurative dark shadow ameliorate
I must, cuz unpaid charges create
unnecessary uneasiness and emasculate
like invisible fetters tellingly generate
principal abuzz with interest initiate
tingling goosebumps think back,
when Iraq invaded Kuwait.

Whatever portion remains after bank
receives their due, inherited windfall
(lemme please me earnest and frank)
metaphorically teetering on pull lank
lesson learned while marriage doth tank

hence joint account activated between
yours truly and wife crocheting machine
eventually a future blanket methinks green
backs could be pocketed, especially
since legal tender equals slim pickings,
which hoop fully Spartan existence lean
years can be supplanted with obscene

wealth (cryptic words) hinting
play philanthropist so the missus
and her consort can live splendid
like king and queen,
else we may consider enlisting
contraband to acquire
laundered moolah crisp and clean.

Death no longer jars, nixes,
and rattles mine sense and sensibilities
without pride nor prejudice
no matter (even with marginal persuasion)
wit and wisdom of Jane Austen ill mixes
with what emotional state my poem fixes.

Father long since journeyed
into afterlife destination alone,
October 7th, 2020 mid afternoon
with Earthlings ministration did attone
where night enveloped
and date stamped
his lovely bones
rendered devoid of any groan
courtesy Roxanol (morphine)
and Ativan finding him prone

to experience painlessness, and no
his dying wish, plus last will and testament
won't include burial and/or headstone
cuz, he wants to integrate and did intone
cremation as ecologically friendly option
scattering ashes to parts known
someday... yours truly will too
succumb to the dead zone,
where misery in the ascendent.

Stark reminder to live fully an urgent yen
to live life fullest between now and when...
ever yours truly exits
stage door left, perhaps ten
twenty, thirty... eighty, ninety, one hundred...
additional orbits around sun

a remarkable human phenomenon
(me) courtesy mine burning ken
bequeaths modest minute man
near accursed immortality
longevity totaling even
score of years counting (crows)
and father time among his brethren.

Distress unavoidable which mortality doth bring
nevertheless, tis impossible mission
to eradicate pain and suffering, which doth sting
consolation assuages grief, viz prayer
and buttressing coping with spiritual wing
profound absence augments biting zing.

Biological reproduction begetting offspring
lodging within uterine abode
subsequent in utero development
regarding accretion embryonic node
biological algorithm doth automatically encode,
nevertheless longevity invariably affected
no doubt courtesy lifestyle mode.

Random crapshoot luck of the draw offspring born
genetic blueprints also decree existence transient
parents emphatically teach progeny
got no choice must inform

daughter(s), and son(s) ineluctably forsworn
demise bound with birth certificate presents horn
of dilemma conscious the next generation
granted only so many Earth orbitz around sun.

Once grim reaper deftly
communicates I must bid adieu
eternal hasta la vista to kith and kin
please don't shed a tear for generic
germane admirable bad company crew
member, albeit healthy as an ox
never got the flu,
an atheist doubting thomas

though genealogy records
incorporate many a cynical Jew
at least one legendary antiestablishmentarian
gleaned within mine purview
non-prodigal son edging closer
to the afterlife while livingsocial
within mortality queue
shunned, ostracized and banished to Xanadu.

courtesy evil ferocious wraithlike grimace

Acrimonious scurrilous words
flew out the mouth
of vicious nasty shortish brute
leaving yours truly
as a key witness dumbfounded.

Outrageous spluttering claims
of stolen parcels
plus ransacked jewelry
totaling to the tune
of countless Benjamins
(hundred dollar bills)
viciously lobbed at dear wife of mine
as iterated in a previously written poem.

Camera phone ****** forward
(analogous to pointing a gun)
the miscreant recorded images
of stunned spouse,
and vehicular license plate,
which automobile property of yours truly.

Though Will-o'-the-wisp
of hashtagged wicked witch
(at the most, she stands five feet tall
and weighs all
of one hundred pounds),
nevertheless said sylphlike
slender as a reed human specimen
exhibited threatening behavior
justifiably prompted me to call 911.

The police person came
and peppered us with questions,
though clear cut validity of false claim
against the missus
could not be substantiated
since no surveillance cameras installed.

Meanwhile we fear thy harridan neighbor,
who possesses sinister motives towards us,
and could surreptitiously vandalize
our (actually mine)
white 2020 Hyundai Elantra.

Such brazen impudent verbal brickbats
cast a spell of distress
and methinks Wiccan sorcery invoked,
I now speculate on the verity
and strong suspicion
utilization of the black arts,
and would not be surprised
if unnamed fellow tenant
exudes diabolical capability
to inflict harm or misfortune.

The webbed wide world
houses inexplicable
supernatural phenomena
perhaps linkedin to invocations
loosed from the lips of a livid virago
possibly disguised
as The Venerable Bede incarnate
or some vestal ******.

I count my blessings
to be in the good graces
(at least thus far)
of heretofore unnamed attractive,
yet malevolently unhinged
menacing mad as a hatter misfit,
(nothing but skin and bones)
whose predilection
towards poisonous
pronounced declarations
belies her aesthetically pleasing person.

If ever opportunity arises
why she wolf exhibits
demoniacal huntress role
evoking guise machination,
where pent up fury poised to strike
against my significant other,
I will bravely ask about baseless
flagrant kindled violation
jeopardizing ordinarily
peaceful easy feeling
toward lovely lady I married.

Death no longer jars, nixes,
and rattles mine sense and sensibilities
without pride or prejudice
no matter (even with marginal persuasion)
wit and wisdom of Jane Austen ill mixes
with what emotional state my poem fixes.

Father long since journeyed
into afterlife destination alone,
October 7th, 2020 mid afternoon
with Earthlings ministration did attone
where night enveloped and stamped
his lovely bones
rendered devoid of any groan
courtesy Roxanol (morphine)
and Ativan finding him prone

to experience painlessness, and no
his dying wish, plus last will and testament
won't include burial and/or headstone
cuz, he wants to integrate and did intone
cremation as ecologically friendly option
scattering ashes to parts known
someday... yours truly will too
succumb to the dead zone.

Stark reminder to live fully an urgent yen
to live life fullest between now and when...
ever yours truly exits
stage door left, perhaps ten
twenty, thirty... eighty, ninety, one hundred...
additional orbits around sun

a remarkable human phenomenon
(me) courtesy mine burning ken
bequeaths modest minute man
near accursed immortality longevity totaling even
score of years counting (crows)
and father time among his brethren.

Distress unavoidable which mortality doth bring
nevertheless, tis impossible mission
to eradicate pain and suffering, which doth sting
consolation assuages grief, viz prayer
and buttressing coping with spiritual wing
profound absence augments biting zing.

Biological reproduction begetting offspring
lodging within uterine abode
subsequent in utero development
regarding accretion embryonic node
biological algorithm doth automatically encode,
nevertheless longevity invariably affected
no doubt courtesy lifestyle mode.

Random crapshoot luck of the draw offspring born
genetic blueprints also decree existence transient
parents emphatically teach progeny
got no choice must inform

daughter(s), and son(s) ineluctably forsworn
demise bound with birth certificate presents horn
of dilemma conscious the next generation
granted only so many Earth orbitz around sun.

Once grim reaper deftly
communicates I must bid adieu
eternal hasta la vista to kith and kin
please don't shed a tear for generic
germane admirable bad company crew
member, albeit healthy as an ox
never got the flu,
an atheist doubting thomas

though genealogy records
incorporate many a cynical Jew
at least one legendary antiestablishmentarian
gleaned within mine purview
non-prodigal son edging closer
to the afterlife while livingsocial
within mortality queue
shunned, ostracized and banished to Xanadu.

I love the structure and composition of a male’s body,
the hypnotic curves and angles, the sheer
symmetry filled with great rhythms and skills,
glowing geometry, their smooth toned shoulders
and beat bulging arms, their statuesque backs flexing
flawlessly, enthralling my heart, every sway
of their hips so amazingly appealing, sugar sweet
lips made for kissing, diamond shining eyes
like the stars hovering in the blackened blue sky.
The feel of their muscular magic hands,
so wonderfully ecstatic, passionate, a gust
of uncontrollable love intensifying, my heartbeat
sparked, sifting in the enchantment of hot
and naughty men.  There is so much paradise
and peace in their astonishingly rich physiques,
so much authenticity, creativity, dexterity,
and flexibility flowing through their veins,
swirling sea of delicious degrees, flavor fragrant
scents of all kinds drawing my rainbow soul
into their luridly lush oceans of sunshine poetry,
melodic muscles, beauteous bridges rising
and brightening like the thriving moonlight
in the nighttime bliss.  My soul lives
in the spectacular kingdom of thrillingly  
magnificent men, in the blossoming trails
of their grand glittering landscape, in the elegant
spaces of their celestial craft, colossal consonants,
masculine metaphors multiplied with stately
similes, totaling breathtaking dreams
and transcendence.  I want to explore
the world of golden glowing men, seep
in their hidden secrets, so deep within the
softest spots of their homeland, feeling
their sensual breath blowing on my sauna
flesh, their fluid fingers tiptoeing
upon my excited and wild chests
and shoulders, a chamber of dazzling
desire, a wealth of pleasurable chemistry
and energy in synchronicity.  I am dangerously
in heat, charmed by their vigorous vessels,
their delectable segments and infinite
derivatives, enhanced integrals, vibrant
velocity and opulence, tremendously fine men
dripping with razzle-dazzle, brick blasting *****,
superbly made, powerfully veined *****,
an endless mountain of possibilities,
a volcanic explosion of ecstasy mesh
with tantalizing vibrations, so hip and ripped,
a steaming engine of amplifying smoke
reaching high depths.  Tonight, I am lost
in the resplendence of men, how they hold
so much supremacy and independence,
inventiveness and munificence, the magic
magnifying in their abs, a creamy craving dream,
a mouthwatering galaxy, full of burning verbs
and poetic lines, dynasty stanzas, planetary
perfection, men of many nationalities, men
of many shapes, sizes, and height, a mind-blowing
museum of worldwide masterworks.

The Doctor Will Say

     I’m a man in my late fifties
My body has been abused
I wish I could have a new one or
At least from life be excused

I still need to work and so
Each day I must carry on
As each day arrives though I can
Feel the weakening of the pion

For I have been beaten by an abusive
Father and by bullies too
I’ve been injured playing sports
And to me pain is nothing new

Car totaling accidents you
Know I’ve been in a few
I’ve also had surgeries and here’s
something I need to share with you

I’m sensitive to the Anesthesia
So I die and they bring me back
I’ve always survived some how but I
Don’t wanna be a surgery crackerjack

Years ago I had a forklift accident and I
Injured my right shoulder but no surgery
I was much younger and tougher
But now that old injury is killing me

The pain is getting unbearable and I don’t
Take anything afraid to be a drug addict
But the pain and my brain are now in
A constant bitter conflict

Mind over matter is not an option
My shoulder is now in a rapid decay
Still though I hesitate to see the Doctor
Because I know what the Doctor will say

Written By: Charles Kean
Copyright © 09/21/2020
All rights reserved

attempt to break thru Hadrian's Wall
while roam'n across cyberspace of urban sprawl
dark shadows spill across
the outer limits of the twilight zone
whereby edge of night
creeps brow of me, a Neanderthal!

Yours truly self proclaimed
er calculating polymath
no win no campy intent to kindle,
or spark hay8 full ire rate wrath
juiced whiling away
the early evening hour hath
horror hived this then February
twenty second two thousand eighteen,
revised this early afternoon of August 24th,
two thousand twenty fourth
nah scared to take a bath.

The Process (is a Process All Its Own)
self accomplishments, I modestly credit
a disembodied humble liberal spirit
eye up ply applies
to brainstorming with zest to whit
barn storming across das plains of google
to pitchfork embers tuff flickr tinder lee
with smart poetic dip pose zit
tool loom hen ate interior darkness
where lurks the monstrous akin to Perdido
otherwise known as perdition,

especially Native American
linkedin as The Buffalo Hunter
pseudonym adopted by Ballard and Sandrine,
The Green Woman, whose Side predicted to win
Pork Pie Hat predicated on Feng Shui yang and yin
force fields property aligned creates A Special Place
predominantly filled with A Dark Matter
only known (bee you wick), i.e.,The Skylark,
and of course Poe's Children, totaling 5 Stories
helpful to down with a chaser
viz - The Little Blue Book Of Rose Stories
Ideally red (red) in The Night Room,
where an unsuspected parvenu
absconded with Lost Boy, Lost Girl
housing Magic Terror, but interestingly
one must ask - Isn't It Romantic?

Via the perspective Looking Back
feigning to be combination of Mr. X, and/or
and Mrs. God innocent looking people
yet, the progenitors of The Hellfire Club
burnt offerings indistinguishable from Blue Rose
fragrance or melancholy Ghosts
resembling trumpeting Floating Dragon
invoking grabbing by The Throat sensation
Where spirits flit to and fro
throughout neighborhood Houses Without Doors

and games without frontiers
this...a millennial Mystery
unlike the generic Ghost Story,
the main anti protagonist and/or
pro antagonist, nonetheless named Koko
who calls The Juniper Tree home,
especially eerie Under Venus
provoking Wild Animals
kickstarting rolling stones
to run berserk at lightspeed

en masse Black Sabbath
bestirs cries and whispers
proto, pseudo psychedelic
quint essence ova thermocouple
holographic images hypnotizing
vista as Shadowland
explicit formula generating
happy interracial Marriages
nah...ha - ah, the joe cuz on ewe
especially, If You Could See Me Now!