Hi dudes and welcome to the Jupiter moon and today I wwill perform some ripper crazy person songs for you and the first song is teddy bear here it goes

Teena totter teena totter teddy bear
They are quite cute the teddy bear
They are nice to cuddle from the head to their feet
Teena totter teena totter teddy bear
I would cuddle him and I will kiss him and make him feel warm
Teena totter teena totter teddy bear
I want to be near my teddy bear
You see we go teena totter twice for him to make him feel warm the little teddy bear
Oh I really love my teddy bear
Teena totter teena totter teddy bear are so cute

Hi dudes and that was a really great song and now I sing a song about me and my friend Patrick going to a actors course
Both of us are doing well

Here goes

You see me and my mate Patrick went to the acting studio to audition for a movie
Which sounds really cool
You see it was about a man who ate a huge city's worth of food and we will make that entire city
Starve to death
I wanted to be the mayor of that city and Patrick wanted to be himself but in a short little way
He doesn't know how much it is worth
You see the director said I smell like a buffalo doing a ****
And the director gave Patrick one almighty whip
You see we were good but in hindsight we were bad
And Patrick said he wanted to be a Waller snatcher who snatched people's money so they end up all broke
You see i became a man who wanted everything for myself
I was a selfish man who doesn't
Care for anyone but myself
Then the great director put me and Patrick in sumo wrestler suits and said how about you play two sumo wrestlers struggling to make it in this world
I said no and Patrick said no
But that all changed when the whole thing was cool
We jumped up and down in our sumo suits saying we are tougher than the rest
Then mr yoni hebsworth said Brian and Patrick I will give you both a fight but the director told us before the fight that me and Patrick got in and that made us feel cool man

Now dudes here is our next song called I got tinnea in my feet

You see i feel an itch in my feet
Making me feel uncomfortable oh yeah
You see the itch was telling me
I need to put a cream on it oh yeah
You see I felt like I was on drugs
Which made my feet itchy dude
And at one stage I had fungus which had to checked out oh yeah
I don't know what to do because it itches really bad
You see I got tinnea on my feet and it is really itchy
You see it could be my medication forcing an itch in my feet. It could be the simple problem I have with white meat
It could be me sitting at home
Watching episodes of workaholics back to back
Because they talk about having *** which is something I have never tried oh yeah
Yeah I am a ****** and watching this show brings this sensation to my toes
You see I have tinnea on my feet and it is really itchy
It could be my desire to have *** when I was young
It could be the hooligan inside
My body today
I have tinnea in my feet and it is really itchy
No matter what it is it is itchy dudes

Hi dudes and now here is our next song called *** is wonderful but not old ******* young

You see Robert Hughes is a **** and so is Rolf Harris
You see they will have *** with young people which is totally repulsive oh yeah
I know once you hear a child scream you should stop straight away
Keep the *** with someone your own age that sounds so cool oh yeah I know old fashioned tv shows used to show people enjoying *** oh yeah
But *** between the old and the young is repulsive don't you think
Thank you dudes see you next time

the fun times as a kid for brian allan from canberra




you see it was fun it was great, every single day

i went to the mall to muck around, and i heard

men calling me a great big ugly snout, oh yeah yeah, yeah mate yeah

and then i wore my screaming jets t shirt and i played my air guitar so much

and then i went home and did my washing, and i stunk of laundry powder oh yeah

and i came down to the mall and the young dudes said

welcome brian to the mall, welcome welcome welcome

and then i spoke to the music shop owner about all the latest music that he played

ya see young ronnie was asked by me to tie me up on my bed

i wanted that because of my previous life, yeah mate yeah it was soooo cool

and then i played with my mates, and chased brendan up the tree

and he said, brian, be a kid, don’t be an adult, oh no way

i said, fine as my brother was looking at me showing me what a starer looked like

i wanted to party, so i went into the pub and watched some kids playing pool

and they all sang the U2 song, mysterious ways, while i was watching

i didn’t really wanna stare so i went to the dance floor and put my body up to the gorgeous chicks

and we danced to songs like what’s love got to do gotta do with it

you see i went to this pub after spending some time playing computer games at the bowling alley

and then headed off saying men don’t do that, that’s what kids do, i might head to the pub

and i met some really cool kids, but i was a tad troubled because as soon as people

said go home, i said neh, i am still not ******* off mate

they used the words, ******* turk, so we can get on with our lives

and i said, i am still not ******* off mate, dad said, ******* coward

which forced me to tease my father heavily, but i didn’t wanna do that, it was the chemical in my f..n brain

like the chemical in my brain which forced me to listen to the kids say, what’s that, your like us

well, i might heard one kid say this, but, really i shouldn’t expect this

i like when people sing in groups, but dads not around anymore, the old hags dead, but i remember dad

said what’s that brian what’s that brian what’s that brian, i liked that, why did dad change

i liked the voices from mum, your like our fucken kids, but that was a voice from my brain chemical

i was having visions of my brother saying, you are like us, when i was on rampage on grabbing kids

but i didn’t want to do that, it was my crazy chemical in my brain

i want to find a cure for death, so i used my cronus belief to give brian allan the power to know dads next life

dad is betty campbell, i remember stealing some rope and tying myself up in a toilet and pretending to be kidnapped

i remember patrick, was my best mate, and as i entered the mall he clapped his hands saying

welcome brian welcome to the mall, i was the one that stopped kids tying themselves up on youtube, it was just me

i didn’t wanna be encouraged to tie the kids up, so i told websites to untie our youth, because it attracts phedaphiles, don’t ya think

you see in the wrong hands youtube is dangerous, and kids are only little, mind you, some kids can look after themselves

but i had to do that because kids were playing tie up games, which i used to play, but i don’t want kids copying me, but

it forces kids to get themselves into traps, and I SAVED THEM, WITH MY BARE HANDS

youtube is way cooler and i think FOXTEL really doesn’t have anything like youtube, and i remember in 2004 i said i go on the computer

and google a fertiliser press on it a number of times and instant cash from the internet money tree and i started hearing voices taking my helper away

ya see i had this poem i wrote, saying ….  teena totter teena totter 33 and there was this man from toastmasters trying to take my man as i was

sitting at the mall drinking a coca cola, i was being a reformed man, instead of beer, i drank coke, because when i was drinking i was a real terror

but it wasn’t all my fucken fault, ya see in the town centre tavern, a man bought me and him a jug of beer but he fucken tore strips off me forcing me

to look up in the sky saying god or buddha please save me now, and he fucken yelled at me, saying your not like the kids, and i saw peter sargent, an old

neighbourhood friend, but he died and one man was teasing me at the bar because the barman only let me do a tab just for a cricket match, i liked that

cricket match so much, but clubs don’t do that much anymore, i was having fun, actually i was having voices in my head about the canberra people

making me be an adult to a ****, sit there brian and drink your beer watch the families mucking around and then die, it might be because i stole people’s money

and ran off leaving him lying in the ditch, i feel bad about that now, steve told me, i shouldn’t have done that, and in 2004, pats voice said teena totter teena totter

35, i was kidnapped by a demon, and i made it through alive and i was crazy back in the 90s, the chemical in my brain was forcing patrick’s voice in my head

and i cheered on some dude’s kid and he said, ya leave my kid alone ya little mongrel and i started teasing him calling him a worry wought, and as he left, he said

next time i see ya, i will punch you, your not a shy person, buddy, but he never did, but still i have to watch my f..n back, but as long as i don’t **** him off again

it should be alright and one time at the charnwood inn, i was watching the choirboys, i lost my wallet and smokes and some **** grabbed me outside and i thought he was abducting me,

so i tried to push my legs up, and he said, ok we’ll leave ya alone buddy and i got a free taxi ride home, and i was at the ANU bar watching a band and this man started tapping his foot

and i thought he was cool, but the chemical in my brain made a little tease, coming  out of him, but i really thought that band was cool, despite me looking like i was jittering

and also when i was bowling as we had a club meal, i was dancing on the floor with kathryn and the patrons thought i was the coolest dude around, and i partied all the way through

bowling, especially when i won trophies, yeah this was rad, and i remember i was bowling back in 1990 and i grabbed two boys of bill, who was our player and i wanted to ****** them

as well as i went to the basketball and grabbed a boy near the dunny, and grabbed frank’s friend robert, it lead to tie up games, but i don’t want anyone like me, ya see

but i remember singing, hey hows it going, sorry i can’t get through, just leave ya name and ya number and i’ll get back to you, and i sang the whole song at the mall as well

as teasing the men, saying i am a kid and your a man, i am a kid and your a man, you see i remember having visions of being treated like a hooligan ya know playing cool for yeah mate

yeah kids, as i sat there, the forces of the paranormal world will take away my family person, saying, your not a family person anymore, you are now a hooligan, and i hear pat’s voice

saying, come on brainy party, and i said, hi pat over the phone and he always told me to look after myself as he hi-5ed me, but there was this girl named louise, well i got memories

of life with pat at the poetry slam through louise, but she got ******* when people yelled at her, my motto is, i have the right to go out and have fun, like a real cool kid, that i was

but there is a worry that i will lose what i have at the poetry slam as far as losing people cheering me on, but i have to stick at my guns at the poetry slam and read with pride

for the poems i wrote myself, and i like dad, but i hate the voice saying, dads not around anymore brian, i know that, i say to the voice, but i don’t think he understands me

and mcdonalds was my favourite food, until it made me *****

Babels of blocks to the high heavens towering
Flames of futility swirling below;
Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flowering,
Lanterns that shudder and death-lights that glow.

Black monstrous bridges across oily rivers,
Cobwebs of cable to nameless things spun;
Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos delivers
Streams of live foetor that rots in the sun.

Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,
Shrieking and ringing and crawling insane,
Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods praying,
Jumbles of odour that stifle the brain.

Legions of cats from the alleys nocturnal.
Howling and lean in the glare of the moon,
Screaming the future with mouthings infernal,
Yelling the Garden of Pluto's red rune.

Tall towers and pyramids ivy'd and crumbling,
Bats that swoop low in the ****-cumber'd streets;
Bleak Arkham bridges o'er rivers whose rumbling
Joins with no voice as the thick horde retreats.

Belfries that buckle against the moon totter,
Caverns whose mouths are by mosses effac'd,
And living to answer the wind and the water,
Only the lean cats that howl in the wastes.

Let's celebrate indecision!
The weighing of pros and cons
The doubts and what ifs.
Rejoice in the feeling of uncertainty
When all the options seem equally weighted.
When doing what you please doesn't seem pleasing at all.
Suppose there was only one choice,
Now add five more.
Conjure up that feeling of confusion
Cherish that back and forth
Like tossing and turning at night
The uneasiness with which you approach
A fork in the road, which
Sounds more like a headache.
The longer you teeter the more you totter
Until at last! The decision seems made
...Or does it?

If only they made one brand of toothpaste.

The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags, and caves
are silent.

“LISTEN to me,” said the Demon, as he placed his hand
upon my head. “The region of which I speak is a dreary
region in Libya, by the borders of the river Zaeire. And
there is no quiet there, nor silence.

“The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and
they flow not onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and
forever beneath the red eye of the sun with a tumultuous and
convulsive motion. For many miles on either side of the
river’s oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic water-lilies.
They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch
towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to
and fro their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct
murmur which cometh out from among them like the rushing of
subterrene water. And they sigh one unto the other.

“But there is a boundary to their realm—the boundary
of the dark, horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves
about the Hebrides, the low underwood is agitated
continually. But there is no wind throughout the heaven. And
the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and thither
with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high
summits, one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the
roots, strange poisonous flowers lie writhing in perturbed
slumber. And overhead, with a rustling and loud noise, the
gray clouds rush westwardly forever until they roll, a
cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is
no wind throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the
river Zaeire there is neither quiet nor silence.

“It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain,
but, having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass
among the tall lilies, and the rain fell upon my head—
and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of
their desolation.

“And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly
mist, and was crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a
huge gray rock which stood by the shore of the river and was
lighted by the light of the moon. And the rock was gray and
ghastly, and tall,—and the rock was gray. Upon its
front were characters engraven in the stones; and I walked
through the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto
the shore, that I might read the characters upon the stone.
But I could not decipher them. And I was going back into the
morass when the moon shone with a fuller red, and I turned
and looked again upon the rock and upon the
characters;—and the characters were DESOLATION.

“And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit
of the rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I
might discover the action of the man. And the man was tall
and stately in form, and wrapped up from his shoulders to
his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the outlines of his
figure were indistinct—but his features were the
features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the
mist, and of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered
the features of his face. And his brow was lofty with
thought, and his eye wild with care; and in the few furrows
upon his cheek, I read the fables of sorrow, and weariness,
and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.

“And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his
hand, and looked out upon the desolation. He looked down
into the low unquiet shrubbery, and up into the tall
primeval trees, and up higher at the rustling heaven, and
into the crimson moon. And I lay close within shelter of the
lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man
trembled in the solitude;—but the night waned, and he
sat upon the rock.

“And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and
looked out upon the dreary river Zaeire, and upon the yellow
ghastly waters, and upon the pale legions of the water-lilies.
And the man listened to the sighs of the water-lilies,
and to the murmur that came up from among them. And
I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the
man. And the man trembled in the solitude;—but the
night waned, and he sat upon the rock.

“Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded
afar in among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto
the hippopotami which dwelt among the fens in the recesses
of the morass. And the hippopotami heard my call, and came,
with the behemoth, unto the foot of the rock, and roared
loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay close
within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And
the man trembled in the solitude;—but the night waned,
and he sat upon the rock.

“Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a
frightful tempest gathered in the heaven, where before there
had been no wind. And the heaven became livid with the
violence of the tempest—and the rain beat upon the
head of the man—and the floods of the river came
down—and the river was tormented into foam—and
the water-lilies shrieked within their beds—and the
forest crumbled before the wind—and the thunder
rolled—and the lightning fell—and the rock
rocked to its foundation. And I lay close within my covert
and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in
the solitude;—but the night waned, and he sat upon the
rock.

“Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence,
the river, and the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and
the heaven, and the thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies.
And they became accursed, and were still. And
the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to heaven—and
the thunder died away—and the lightning did not
flash—and the clouds hung motionless—and the
waters sunk to their level and remained—and the trees
ceased to rock—and the water-lilies sighed no
more—and the murmur was heard no longer from among
them, nor any shadow of sound throughout the vast
illimitable desert. And I looked upon the characters of the
rock, and they were changed;—and the characters were
SILENCE.

“And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his
countenance was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised
his head from his hand, and stood forth upon the rock and
listened. But there was no voice throughout the vast
illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock were
SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away,
and fled afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more.”

…

Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi—in
the iron-bound, melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I
say, are glorious histories of the Heaven, and of the Earth,
and of the mighty Sea—and of the Genii that overruled
the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was much
lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the sybils; and
holy, holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that
trembled around Dodona—but, as Allah liveth, that
fable which the demon told me as he sat by my side in the
shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most wonderful of all!
And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell back
within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not
laugh with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not
laugh. And the lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came
out therefrom, and lay down at the feet of the Demon, and
looked at him steadily in the face.

teeter-totter
  
up around side right down
a water pump or pendulum thrill
like Jack felt with Jill
  tottering down
was up

on the hill on a see-saw.

Here the waves rise high and fall on the icy
seas and white caps chew the driftwood logs of
hemlock and toss them wildly upon sandy beaches.
The steep mountains rise straight from the sea
floor as the December sun shines through the dark
clouds that hang heavy with snow near the top peaks.
Blue icebergs drift slowly down the narrow channel.
This volcanic island is one of many that are scattered
along the coast of Southeastern Alaska.
On the South end of the island is another
tiny island and on it stands an old lighthouse,
a shambles. It has a curving staircase and an
old broken lamp that used to beckon to ships at
sea. Wild grasses and goosetongue cover the ground
and close by Sitka blacktail feed and gray gulls
circle. There is a mountain stream nearby and
in the fall the salmon spawn at its mouth. The
black bear and grizzly scoop them up with great
sweeps of their paws, their sharp claws gaffing
the silver bodies.
Walking North along the deer trail from the
South end of the island are remnants of the Treadwell
Mine. It was the largest gold mine in the world.
In the early 1900's the tunnel they were digging
underneath Gastineau Channel caved in and the sea
claimed her gold. The foundry still stands a rusty
red.
The dining halls are vacant, broken white
dishes are strewn inside. The tennis court that
was built for the employees is overgrown with hops
that have climbed over the high fence and grown
up between cracks in the cement floor. The flume
still carries water rushing in it half-hidden in
the rain-forest which is slowly reclaiming the
land. The beach here by the ocean is fine white
sand, full of mica, gold and pieces of white dishes.
Potsherds for future archeologists, washed clean,
smooth and round by the circular waves of this
deep, dark green water.
Down past the old gold mine is Cahill's house,
yellow and once magnificent. They managed the mine. The long staircase is boarded up and so
are the large windows. The gardens are wild, irises
bud in the spring at the end of the lawn, and in
the summer a huge rose path, full of dark crimson
blooms frames the edge of the sea; strawberries
grow nearby dark pink and succulent. Red raspberries
grow further down the path in a tangle of profusion;
close by is a pale pink rose path, full of those
small wild roses that smell fragrant. An iron-
barred swing stands tall on the edge of the beach.
I swing there and at high tide I can jump in the
ocean from high up in the air. There is an old
tetter-totter too. And, it is like finding the
emperor's palace abandoned.
There is a knoll behind the old house called
Grassy Hill. It is covered with a blanket of hard
crisp snow. In the spring it is covered with sweet
white clover and soft grasses. It is easy to find
four leaf clovers there, walking below the hill
toward the beach is a dell. It is a small clearing
in between the raspberry patch and tall cottonwood
trees. It is a good place for a picnic. It is
a short walk again to the beach and off to the
right is a small pond, Grassy Pond. It is frozen
solid and I skate on it. In the summer I swim
here because it is warmer than the ocean. In the
spring I wade out, stand very still and catch baby
flounders and bullheads with my hands; I am fast
and quick and have good eyes. Flounders are bottom
fish that look like sand.
Walking North again over a rise I come to
a field filled with snow; in the spring it is a
blaze of magenta fireweed. Often I will sit in
it surrounded by bright petals and sketch the mountains
beyond. Nearby are salmonberry bushes which have
cerise blossoms in early spring; by the end of
summer, golden-orange berries hang on their green
branches. The bears love to eat them and so do
I. But the wild strawberries are my first love,
then the tangy raspberries. I don't like the high-
bush cranberries, huckleberries, currants or the
sour gooseberries that grow in my mother's garden
and the blueberries are only good for pies, jams
and jellies. I like the little ligonberries that
grow close to the earth in the meadow, but they
are hard to find.
Looking across this island I see Mt. Jumbo,
the mountain that towers above the thick Tongass forest of pine, hemlock and spruce. It was a volcano
and is rugged and snow-covered. I hike up the
trail leading to the base of the mountain. The
trail starts out behind a patch of blueberry bushes
and winds lazily upwards crossing a stream where
I can stop and fish for trout and eat lunch; on
top is a meadow. Spring is my favorite season
here. The yellow water lilies bud on top of large
muskeg holes. The dark pink blueberry bushes form
a ring around the meadow with their delicate pink
blossoms. The purple and yellow violets are in
bloom and bright yellow skunk cabbage abounds, the
devil's club are turning green again and fields
of beige Alaskan cotton fan the air, slender stalks
that grow in the wet marshy places. Here and there
a wild columbine blooms. It is here in these meadows
that I find the lime-green bull pine, whose limbs
grow up instead of down. Walking along the trail
beside the meadow I soon come to an old wooden
cabin. It is owned by the mine and consists of
two rooms, a medium-sized kitchen with an eating
area and wood table and a large bedroom with four
World War II army cots and a cream colored dresser.
Nobody lives here anymore, but hikers, deer hunters,
and an occasional bear use the place. Next door
to the cabin is the well house which feeds the
flume. The flume flows from here down the mountain
side to the old mine and power plant. An old man
still takes care of the power plant. He lives
in a big dark green house with his family and the
power plant is all blue-gray metal. I can stand
outside and listen to the whirl of the generators.
I like to walk in the forest on top of the old
flume and listen to the sound of the water rushing
past under my bare feet.
In the winter the meadow is different: all
silent, still and snow-covered. The trees are
heavy with weighty branches and icicles dangle
off their limbs, long, elegant, shining. All the
birds are gone but the little brown snowbirds and
the white ptarmigan. The meadow is a field of
white and I can ski softly down towards the sea.
The trout stream is frozen and the waterfall quiet,
an ice palace behind crystal caves. The hard smooth-
ness of the ice feels good to my touch, this frozen
water, this winter.
Down below at the edge of the sea is yet another
type of ice. Salt water is treacherous; it doesn'tfreeze solid, it is unreliable and will break under
my weight. Here are the beached icebergs that
the high tide has left. Blue white treasures,
gigantic crystals tossed adrift by glaciers. Glisten-
ing, wet, gleaming in the winter sun, some still
half-buried in the sea, drifting slowly out again.
And it is noisy here, the gray gulls call to each
other, circling overhead. The ravens and crows
are walking, squawking along the beach. The Taku
wind is blowing down the channel, swirling, chill,
singing in my ear. Far out across the channel
humpback whales slap their tails against the water.
On the beach kelp whips are caught in wet clumps
of seaweed as the winter tide rises higher and
higher. The smell of salty spray permeates everything
and the dark clouds roll in from behind the steep
mountains.
Suddenly it snows. Soft, furry, thick flakes,
in front of me, behind, to the sides, holding me
in a blizzard of whiteness, light: snow.

I

I see the boys of summer in their ruin
Lay the gold tithings barren,
Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils;
There in their heat the winter floods
Of frozen loves they fetch their girls,
And drown the cargoed apples in their tides.

These boys of light are curdlers in their folly,
Sour the boiling honey;
The jacks of frost they finger in the hives;
There in the sun the frigid threads
Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves;
The signal moon is zero in their voids.

I see the summer children in their mothers
Split up the brawned womb's weathers,
Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs;
There in the deep with quartered shades
Of sun and moon they paint their dams
As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads.

I see that from these boys shall men of nothing
Stature by seedy shifting,
Or lame the air with leaping from its hearts;
There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse
Of love and light bursts in their throats.
O see the pulse of summer in the ice.

II

But seasons must be challenged or they totter
Into a chiming quarter
Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars;
There, in his night, the black-tongued bells
The sleepy man of winter pulls,
Nor blows back moon-and-midnight as she blows.

We are the dark derniers let us summon
Death from a summer woman,
A muscling life from lovers in their cramp
From the fair dead who flush the sea
The bright-eyed worm on Davy's lamp
And from the planted womb the man of straw.

We summer boys in this four-winded spinning,
Green of the seaweeds' iron
Hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds,
Pick the world's ball of wave and froth
To choke the deserts with her tides,
And comb the county gardens for a wreath.

In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly,
Heigh ** the blood and berry,
And nail the merry squires to the trees;
Here love's damp muscle dries and dies
Here break a kiss in no love's quarry,
O see the poles of promise in the boys.

III

I see you boys of summer in your ruin.
Man in his maggots barren.
And boys are full and foreign to the pouch.
I am the man your father was.
We are the sons of flint and pitch.
O see the poles are kissing as they cross.

Happiness piques interest.
When happiness peaks it is
always nervous,
treading blindly,
violently
joyfully spinning and shaking my hair.
Liquids pouring in and out,
steadily.

Ripping, interdependent happiness
worse and better than solo sadness,
calling out or whispering,
strategically,
Admit that I exist. Admit that I existed!

Heaven is anticipation.
The edge of coming--always.
Heaven is walking out and into the clearing,
about to dance, the most primal dance.
About to eat, the most satisfying meal.

Culmination, the foreplay before death, is life.
Mortality arouses me,
viciously.
It blinds me, then allows me to see.
Pulls the covers on top of me.
Alive and gyrating on air
with isolation or autonomy,
happiness is coming all over me.

1 The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home,
2 'Tis summer, the darkies are gay,
3 The corn top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom
4 While the birds make music all the day.
5 The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,
6 All merry, all happy and bright:
7 By'n by Hard Times comes a knocking at the door,
8 Then my old Kentucky Home, good night!

9 [Chorus] Weep no more, my lady, oh! weep no more to-day!
10 We will sing one song
11 For the old Kentucky Home,
12 For the old Kentucky Home, far away.

13 [Solo] They hunt no more for the possum and the ****
14 On the meadow, the hill and the shore,
15 They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,
16 On the bench by the old cabin door.
17 The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart,
18 With sorrow where all was delight:
19 The time has come when the darkies have to part,
20 Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!

21 [Chorus] Weep no more, my lady, oh! weep no more to-day!
22 We will sing one song
23 For the old Kentucky Home,
24 For the old Kentucky Home, far away.

25 [Solo] The head must bow and the back will have to bend,
26 Wherever the darkey may go:
27 A few more days, and the trouble all will end
28 In the field where the sugar-canes grow.
29 A few more days for to tote the weary load,
30 No matter 'twill never be light,
31 A few more days till we totter on the road,
32 Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!

33 [Chorus] Weep no more, my lady, oh! weep no more to-day!
34 We will sing one song
35 For the old Kentucky Home,
36 For the old Kentucky Home, far away.

I.

Everything meets
in the middle,

all that is
and was
and done
or said

eventually.

So they say while
the fulcrum creaks
and the lever sags.

     That’s where
     they’ve
     lost there way.

Take two magnets and
try to push them together
to meet at center, instead
they slide from side to side
and go around, no force
can bring them together.

     I say everything
     that goes around
     comes back this way,

the wrong way,
to haunt or remind us
but never to the middle,
never offering peace.

Maybe that's why
some say suicide
is a valid option,
as if to trick
the sacred balance,
sneak up on
magnetic rejection
and force your way
to center.

     Sometimes I dwell
     on the mystery of
     Golden Gate.

Such a sacred place,
the breeze, the sun,
her hypnotic beauty
and the fact that
no one jumps at
night.


II.

Nero:    "Jax, do you believe in Karma?"
Jax:       "Not today"
  
     But I believe.
     I believe because
     I have lived it.

     My Karma is Grace
     and I can’t tell you
     how many times she
     has found me,

always where I didn’t go willingly,
dragged by a massive darkness
and held up high while the weight
of death sat across the divide
on the other end of the teeter-totter.

O! nothing earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty’s eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy—
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill—
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy’s voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell—
O! nothing of the dross of ours—
Yet all the beauty—all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowers—
Adorn yon world afar, afar—
The wandering star.

’Twas a sweet time for Nesace—for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns—a temporary rest—
An oasis in desert of the blest.
Away away—’mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o’er th’ unchained soul—
The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destin’d eminence—
To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
And late to ours, the favour’d one of God—
But, now, the ruler of an anchor’d realm,
She throws aside the sceptre—leaves the helm,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.

Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
Whence sprang the “Idea of Beauty” into birth,
(Falling in wreaths thro’ many a startled star,
Like woman’s hair ’mid pearls, until, afar,
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt),
She look’d into Infinity—and knelt.
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled—
Fit emblems of the model of her world—
Seen but in beauty—not impeding sight—
Of other beauty glittering thro’ the light—
A wreath that twined each starry form around,
And all the opal’d air in color bound.

All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers: of lilies such as rear’d the head
On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
So eagerly around about to hang
Upon the flying footsteps of—deep pride—
Of her who lov’d a mortal—and so died.
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Uprear’d its purple stem around her knees:
And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam’d—
Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham’d
All other loveliness: its honied dew
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
Deliriously sweet, was dropp’d from Heaven,
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
In Trebizond—and on a sunny flower
So like its own above that, to this hour,
It still remaineth, torturing the bee
With madness, and unwonted reverie:
In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
Disconsolate linger—grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have fled,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten’d, and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
And Clytia pondering between many a sun,
While pettish tears adown her petals run:
And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth—
And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
And Valisnerian lotus thither flown
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
Isola d’oro!—Fior di Levante!
And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
With Indian Cupid down the holy river—
Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
To bear the Goddess’ song, in odors, up to Heaven:

  “Spirit! that dwellest where,
    In the deep sky,
  The terrible and fair,
    In beauty vie!
  Beyond the line of blue—
    The boundary of the star
  Which turneth at the view
    Of thy barrier and thy bar—
  Of the barrier overgone
    By the comets who were cast
  From their pride, and from their throne
    To be drudges till the last—
  To be carriers of fire
    (The red fire of their heart)
  With speed that may not tire
    And with pain that shall not part—
  Who livest—that we know—
    In Eternity—we feel—
  But the shadow of whose brow
    What spirit shall reveal?
  Tho’ the beings whom thy Nesace,
    Thy messenger hath known
  Have dream’d for thy Infinity
    A model of their own—
  Thy will is done, O God!
    The star hath ridden high
  Thro’ many a tempest, but she rode
    Beneath thy burning eye;
  And here, in thought, to thee—
    In thought that can alone
  Ascend thy empire and so be
    A partner of thy throne—
  By winged Fantasy,
     My embassy is given,
  Till secrecy shall knowledge be
    In the environs of Heaven.”

She ceas’d—and buried then her burning cheek
Abash’d, amid the lilies there, to seek
A shelter from the fervor of His eye;
For the stars trembled at the Deity.
She stirr’d not—breath’d not—for a voice was there
How solemnly pervading the calm air!
A sound of silence on the startled ear
Which dreamy poets name “the music of the sphere.”
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
“Silence”—which is the merest word of all.

All Nature speaks, and ev’n ideal things
Flap shadowy sounds from the visionary wings—
But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
The eternal voice of God is passing by,
And the red winds are withering in the sky!
“What tho’ in worlds which sightless cycles run,
Link’d to a little system, and one sun—
Where all my love is folly, and the crowd
Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath
(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
What tho’ in worlds which own a single sun
The sands of time grow dimmer as they run,
Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
To bear my secrets thro’ the upper Heaven.
Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
With all thy train, athwart the moony sky—
Apart—like fire-flies in Sicilian night,
And wing to other worlds another light!
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
To the proud orbs that twinkle—and so be
To ev’ry heart a barrier and a ban
Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!”

Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
The single-mooned eve!-on earth we plight
Our faith to one love—and one moon adore—
The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours,
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
And bent o’er sheeny mountain and dim plain
Her way—but left not yet her Therasaean reign.

You are the ghost that encompasses love; you possess my every thought.*

     Dust layers almost every object throughout each room of this small apartment. Beneath a white sheet, the dark brown, ragged couch is a perfect image of the haunting fear I hold inside.
     In the miserable corner lay your favourite red guitar. It is covered in a blanket of neglect; never again will it feel your calloused fingertips slide across the cracked fret board. Crop circles design the hardwood of where the other furniture once stood.
     I have yet to set foot in this room; it’s been months since the front room has ever felt sunlight. It’s been months since I’ve been able to cross the threshold where our relationship was at its peak, and wipe clean everything that we’ve left behind.
     I don’t want this to disappear, forever. Besides the memories that haunt me, this is all I have left of you. It hurts to look at this room, where we’d snuggle on the once healthy-looking and clean couch, watching our favourite black and white movies. I cannot part myself from this place where the memories still live.
     Our bedroom… the bedroom still holds the faint scent of your cologne that wafts through the house when a small breeze slithers through the window, opened slightly to rid the musty stench. A chamomile candle is lit there too, though it does nothing to sooth my nerves.
     I once took up drinking, but it always ended in passing out. I’d recover consciousness to the overwhelming stench of *****; my hair would be sprawled and stuck in a pool of it. It was a messy ordeal—I couldn’t understand why so many people turned to it to fix their problems. I dropped that immediately.
     Smoking created stress relief for a maximum of ten minutes, which would last me a trip to the grocery store. The smell stained my clothes, my hair, my apartment for what felt like months of cleaning could fix. That was only three weeks after everything collapsed.
     I’m clean, which is probably the least I can say for myself. I couldn’t touch your *****, beer, whiskey, cigarettes, lighters. I had to buy my own; all of your possessions were poison to the touch. I don’t know how you could so easily leave all of your belongings behind for me to look at every single day.
     I lay in bed every night, curled into a tight ball of discomfort in complete darkness. My mind finds it suitable to replay our relationship as a movie as I whimper softly. I am never able to sleep. Dark circles are prominent under my eyes.
     The happiest memories come first. When we moved into our apartment, it was small and *****, much as it looks right now. Happily, we cleaned it together, dancing and singing and giggling about. That was the happiest we’ve ever been. That was right after high school ended, when we were dating for two years. We were harmoniously in love, with no greater differences.
     Then the night we were engaged… You took me out to the garden overlooking Niagara Falls. That was my favourite place to go. The car ride was only twenty minutes from our apartment, but you were so eager to get there faster. The falls glowed a lovely spectrum of colors, while the mist rose above and blended with the explosion of fireworks.
     “Elise, you and I have been together since graduation. All through college, we were the happiest couple anyone knew. We’ve had our ups and downs—that’s a given—but lately, baby, we’ve only been going up. You’re my sweet, gorgeous, lovely girlfriend. I love you so much; I’d like to change that term to fiancée. Will you marry me?”
     A firework exploded as I smiled and jumped into your arms. Ever since you’d hinted this a few months earlier, and I told you that as long as you didn’t follow the cliché and go down on one knee, and you agreed, I knew one day to expect it.
     “You mean you had nothing to do with this firework display?” I grinned, “Of course, Jeremy. Yes, I will marry you!” We shared a long, hard kiss before we went on the rest of our night. I glowed ecstatically as I walked around, very well aware of the small series of diamonds on my ring finger.
     I never expected that night to go as well as it did. I never expected you to become the nightmare you did, either.
     It was a wonderful romance until the occasional fight turned into an every day activity that we participated in. The night you came home late was the first of it, when you came home almost an hour later than you finished work.
     I stood in the kitchen, looking out the front window facing the driveway when you pulled in. Your response was a mumble as you walked right by me, paying me not attention. “Long night, babe?” I had ask. It was a completely innocent question, but you turned down the hallway around the corner by the fridge, and simply replied with a sharp tone, “Yepp. Goin’ to bed.” “I love you.” I called after you. “Mhmm,” you replied.
     Some nights you redeemed yourself. As I sat in the passenger seat of the car, you’d speed through the roadway and talk about yourself. At the restaurant, I’d pick the food off my plate and ate it slowly, but you’d notice and make me laugh softly. It was just an act—I didn’t want to let my mind think that it was bad as it was, and I didn’t want to let you know that the past few nights weren’t as bad as you thought. Then you paid for both of our meals, escorted me to the car, and we took off to the mall.
    Into the most expensive dress store we went, and you bought me a red satin dress that you thought looked great on me. You then found a three-hundred dollar necklace that matched perfectly, and I agreed that it was gorgeous. Of course I loved them—they were beautiful. You still cared enough to buy me these things.
     “There’s that gorgeous smile I fell in love with. I haven’t seen that in a while, babe. It suits you.” You smiled, gazing lovingly into my eyes and gently cupping my face in your hands. I had flinched at your touch at first, but I adjusted to the former comfort of your warmth.
     Our relationship balanced itself on a teeter totter through the last few months. As time went on, it got worse. Every innocent question I’d ask about you would set you off. My words were like a switch that I couldn’t control; you’d either respond blankly, or angry and impatiently. It was hard to tell every time you’d return home from work which man I’d be speaking to.
     I was interrogated, and it usually ended in horror. When I went out for dinner with my friend (who, evidently, was gay) you were so angry—I’ll never forget your reddened face—you shoved me into the bookshelf.    
     Yet still, I loved you all the time, even when you cared nothing for my feelings or listened to what I had to say. You turned selfish. Desperately, I grasped the memories of the good times to replace with the bad. There was always enough of it to cover, but the black cloud still remained.
     I gave you all I had, and all I was.
    
     My best friend Jocelyn from high school had to come over on the first night you left. You got upset because I didn’t have the money to make a good meal, so instead we had to have sandwiches for dinner. It wasn’t my fault—we both knew I couldn’t find a job; you were supporting us both, yet you were okay with that when you asked me to move in with you. “I’m starting to not be able to handle living here, Elise,” you yelled as I watched the door shut after you. I cried so hard that night, because I felt guilty.
     I had dropped nearly thirty pounds the last month before you left. I couldn’t eat, or I’d throw up. My body completely rejected everything I put into it. The nights I had locked myself in the bathrooms were a clear heads up that you could leave without saying a word.
     My best friend, once again came to my rescue. That night I’d developed an eating disorder, Jocelyn, who weighed as much as I did before, carried me effortlessly to my room and laid me in bed.  
     She tried to coax me out of the house, but I couldn’t leave looking the way I did. I knew I looked ghastly, but she said nothing. Where would I go, anyways? She had her own boyfriend and a two year old by that time. I was thankful enough, though, that she was there for me when I needed her the most.
     “I’m going to get you out of here. He’s so bad to you,” She told me once. We were sitting at the dining table while you were at work. “You don’t understand, I love him. I keep thinking that this is just a nightmare—a phase; it’ll go away in time.” I defended both myself and yourself with a sigh. “Look at you, Elise,” she whispered, as if it hurt to say it. “I’m sorry.” She quickly apologized. “I can’t help it, I’m just so tired…”
     She’d never spend the night, though she wished to, and I never left with her. She was so fearful of you and what you’d do to her. That was another reason she never called the police; if you knew I didn’t do it, you’d find her. A heavily-built man like yourself was intimidating to anyone you ever knew. That was another advantage in your direction.

     On the second last day, Jocelyn had to come over, with our other good friend Jayme, to help me out of bed. By the time we’d reached the kitchen that morning, you busted through the door, drunken and enraged.
     Your eyes of cold, steel grey focused on mine and I jumped, startled. Angrily, you broke the bridge of support the girls held me in, knocking me to the floor. “You two better get the hell out of here before I call the cops!” You slurred.
     It made no sense if you did because they’d take you away for the abuse that was evident on my thin skin. It didn’t matter anyways.
     Jocelyn screamed, “You’re demonic and you are a failure of a human being.” You nearly knocked her on the side of the head and stormed out again before yelling, “I’m done with you, I hate what you’ve become. You don’t even look like a person anymore.” My girls insisted on staying over, but I wanted nothing more than to be alone.
     The next morning, I walked out into the living room. My eyes were barely open, because I was extremely tired as always. It startled me when I noticed you sitting on the couch, watching me as I walked out of our bedroom. “Sorry.” You mumbled with softness in your eyes that I almost didn’t recognize anymore. You then enveloped me in your arms, which didn’t smell like alcohol, but rather the new-clothes smell. It actually brought some relief—some comfort. “It’s okay,” I couldn’t fight it anymore.
     But you never did learn that you can’t say sorry and expect to be forgiven as easily as you could say one word. We spent that night together but I didn’t smile once. You never once asked about me, apologized specifically for hurting me, yelling at me, anything. All you talked about was yourself.
     “You have to leave, Jeremy. I can’t handle this anymore.” I looked down at the sheet we wrapped ourselves in. Through my hair I saw your wrinkled, scruffy face fall. “You can’t apologize enough. But if you wish to one day come back and treat me the way you did in the beginning, I’ll be waiting with open arms.” Then you got up, and walked out of my life.

     I didn’t think that was the last time I’d see you. Knocks went unanswered at the door for months, but I’d know if it was you. I sense these things.
    
     For now I wait, pace back and forth through this hallway, waiting for you to become a better man. The photograph of us hanging on the wall has yellowed, and as I trail along beside it, I pass over the crumpled collection of clothing with a *** of paper underneath it. My love for you will never die, the way another part of myself has.

Dark clouds roll in over the calm waters
Winds howl and signs tilt and totter
As I sit and watch the big storm roll in

Waves crash hard onto the sandy beaches
Bright lights strike fast on the water it reaches
As I sit and watch the big storm begin

From the black sky, mounds of rain start to pour
And boom crashes fill the open shore
As I sit and watch the big storm hit peak

Lights begin to dim, thunder grows quiet
As nature starts to storms the storms riot
As I sit and watch the big storm grow weak

The seas calm and the black clouds disappear
A sight of beauty to all who are near
As I sit and view the storms creation

America’s Soul
Through the means of a company trying to appeal to your emotions to make a sale as I watched this
Pass before me I wasn’t taking in the foreground but what it depicted in the background a realness a
Testimony of truth was flowing at flood stage images bathed in purist knowing about place and the stalwart
Ideals that make up a fabric so rich and full family’s not just empty see through nothing really there pay
No mind but you and I our successes our failures caught in the back drop of mountains and deserts and
In a song an anthem a coursing river but one of a unique part of the world’s humanity identified by red
White and blue builder’s fighter’s lovers of freedom that didn’t come by dreamers alone yes they
Dreamed but then they infused blood and sinew muscle onto this lifeless skeleton their efforts are
Attested to by the sacred graves the head stones don’t tell the story of hardship sacrifice on battlefields
Domestic and hostile bone weary against all odds at times feeling all alone and there were those times
This was true but it was always known you were part of a great brotherhood and sisterhood though far
Apart in the physical sense never the less a great spiritual dynamism bonded you together at the
Farthest and narrowest stretching point steel was without equal in its intent and its effort the lowliest to
The mightiest carried the same strain of a heroic undertaking and inwardly looked the same and truly
Were the same there wasn’t class or rank just Americans pushing this grand experiment to its most
Glory filled conclusion and then at lands end the heart would be engaged to its fullest with hands that
Reached around the globe to any that were threatened or abused fear not our brothers we will lend
To you are strength and all of our resources fulfilling a moral duty to those who are less fortunate we
Have fought and achieved and the natural result will be a mobilized caring that endures through all of
Our history making a stronger unified self governing people the envy of the world not through cheap
Pride but the foundational excellence will give the challenge don’t settle for less don’t be reduced to
Settling for anything but the best monuments are built by many tyrants but let the people build them
From the costliest material and they will endure all generations it will push back ignorance send
Down lighting striking fear in those with ill will and promote the human spirit they will peer down from
Lofty heights undisturbed by petty squabbles those that contend for illustrious beacons forged and
Sprayed out from hammer an anvil in the dark nightly skies of heaven performing and making a sculptured treasure
That speaks truth and creates the sensation of a glory that rests on a people like no other that have
Touched the fringes of utopia with just enough realism to keep you grounded and not allow you to
Totter and fall back under false hood that causes the cycle to start all over again of being a slave instead
Of being free

all night
I am awake

it is raining hard

trying to get through
my windows

I hear her voice

a scream from
the distant

calling calling
to me

her soul is aching
chasing salvation

but it is a rabbit
in an open field

more quick than fast
it teases her
into believing

she is eternal

I was the one
always on
the verge

of something

sitting on a
teeter totter

never scared
enough to run

never brave
enough to jump

never one to believe
never one to be trusted

In elementary school my favorite part of recess was balancing on a teeter totter talking with a friend.
I don't remember our conversations anymore but I often picture us crossed legged or legs dangling balancing opposite of each other.
Over two decades have passed since those days and I find that I still aim to sit or stand relatively balanced.
On this teeter totter I now play on in the recesses of my memory a loud and obnoxious boy comes to upheave me from my post.
As the years go by the person attempting to knock me off my station changes.
I long for a companion to sit with me and just balance. To be engaged with me in a silent communication.
I long for a counter balance to lighten me when I become too heavy and to strengthen me when I become too weak.
And I yearn for a partner that can dance with me along the thin board of this teeter totter, completely in tune with the patterns and motions of each other in a splendid harmony.
Falling off the teeter totter one too many times. I no longer trust others to maintain the balance I am seeking. Maybe this is why engagement has become so frightening.

Newton, Shakespeare and Lady Day
on the shoulders of giants I totter
science technology and poetry
politics media and philosophy
layer on layer of ideology
collide like matter and antimatter.
Rules from school and infancy
loyalty influence and love.
You ask me what makes me tick.
The clock ticks. My watch ticks.
I quietly wonder - tick, tick, tick.

What of exactly is a friendship lost?
Over minute trifles so easily tossed?
Or one that disbands in the cataract of Time?
Something worth pain and blood? Which is absolute and wonderful?
And so, too, can it be asked,
To which man is authority given,
Of such astute austerity endowed,
The man to pass such judgment in good faith and conscience,
Is none other than the crowd.
But, irrelevancies, I totter!
The worst is to be discussed,
For far beyond the scope of reason,
Have these travesties been concussed.
For here, I give to you the corpse of this bond,
This once turgid child of innocence
So, perhaps, its unadulterated substance may quickly manifest
Yet, I pray, I hope, I wonder, its marred and tattered mien profess
The noxious tonic it did consume,
Of ancient spleen and venomous ardor,
To rend its former pulchritude, to hands of untouched fury placed,
It suffered the most insufferable fate to befall upon any beast:
To reanimate, to thrive, to live once more,
In the hands of a tyrant and aimlessly exist
Necrotic at its very core.
This beast, this creature of hated stock,
Was my burden, my cross, to bear,
One, I weep to recollect, of part and parcel of my own flock.
But, I did this, I bore this, along with many others,
In spite of righted timbers,
In spite of rationale,
In spite of my fiber and moral code, that kept us forcibly constrained
For the sake of you, authority
For the sake of tranquil minds
I stood obstinate at the lineaments, between those contrasting foes,
In the self-imposed, childish Purgatory,
Completely indisposed.
Between the shining, gleaming face of holiness, and precipice of spite
For manner of serenity and cowardice perpetual,
Confronted this creature, I did not,
For the sake of you, dear authority, for the sake of stable place.
Children we were, yes, but no less severe the gravity,
For the winnowing of unity, at the yoke of caprice, is to blame.
A real friendship will endure, endure through the boreal,
Endure through the malice, the vitriol,
Will breathe new and longing appetite for breadth, for universality,
Of which all parts must maintain accountability.
It must stand resolute no matter how formidable the ballast,
It must be calm, objective, and outlast the harrowing feelings change may accompany,
Will sacrifice and encourage wellbeing,
It must imbue recollection, a past so beautiful,
Be a comfort in the presence of shame and humility,
Its essence, a friend itself.
But I can no longer pay, at the cost of sanity,
I can no longer give what little remnant humanity to forge another bond,
One made of dead and long-forgotten parts,
I can not, I will not,
I am sick, I am weary for all of the injustices I have done
To watch as the seed of hatred continues to bloom,
The veil of falsehood walk without shame,
To see her stride of perverting intent, tainting the world with touch,
Is a miserable folly to me,
A crime which I let permit,
A coward I was to not stop this, to not lay this matter to rest,
No,
My beleaguered hands put this evil in the ground, and left it to the tides of fate,
It grew, beyond my capture, beyond my strength to control,
Into this horrid ****, this miserable plant,
Which, still!, it grows sans disannul
To take responsibility to this, on me, I cannot err
But, naturally, none to the plant, it seems,
And this is only fair.

John Anderson, my jo John,
When we were first acquent
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo!

John Anderson, my jo John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

Ten years old again,
In a tree ten feet high again,
In scuffed shorts with tangled hair,
And with the boys I longed to be.

Sanctimonious girls in dresses and frills,
Boredom and constraint personified,
Stare up in incredulity
As I heave myself over mossy branches.

“Girls don’t climb trees.”
I do. I roll in mud, play racing games,
Never brush my hair.
“You’d be pretty if only you tried.”

You’d feel alive if only you tried.
The wind on my bare arms,
Dirt beneath fingernails,
Scrapes on my shins
Red and out of place
Like smudged lipstick
On children’s faces.

I’m not you. I’m me.
Boxes serve to keep us in,
Deliver us neatly packaged
To a society which cannot cope
With fluidity,
Individuality,
Uncertainty.
Boo!

She says those two misguided words:
“Make over”.
Impossible. One cannot start afresh.
This is the result of every waking moment,
Of every word heard and spoken,
Each memory joyous and painful,
A piece of art nineteen years in the making.
Not to be destroyed in one act of disguise.

Yet curiosity is my mistress.
She leads me to boundaries
I never knew existed.
Up goliath trees,
Into foreign beds,
To the brink of reality
In mind-bending worlds
Of parallels.

Like a mannequin, devoid of identity
I give my image to you
And you place yours jarringly
Onto my reticent body.

The obliging cheers
At my transformation
Into an eloquent femininity
Feel hollow and worthless.
I have done nothing of merit.

I totter like a toddler
Uncomfortable in my own skin.
I’m on stage, an act,
A project. Not a person.

How bizarre it feels
To wear a stranger’s façade
Of dresses and frills,
When you know you belong
To a different world
Of dirt, and treetops,
And freedom.

On having thought of the deeds I do
Day in, day out, and all through

Some I wish I hadn’t done
Though doing which was no fun

Slapping my own baby,
Hurting a daughter
For instance
I am no man, maybe
I reel, and I totter.

Often I repent, life’s force spent
Yet on living on, hell bent

Sometimes it’s just a thought I bore
Heart from heart, gut wrenching
Usually only a word that tore
Mouth’s bile, soul drenching

Doubt engulfs me unknowing
Words my own, self rending

Even I know when I am no match
For a conciliatory patch,
Plod on I must, myself to prove
I may yet find my gentle groove.

We used to sit in your parent's basement
with your two dogs on their little beds
in the corner by the old desktop computer,
wooden hand-me-down grandmother cabinetry,
lace doilies underneath all the candles
on the coffee table. I made you turn out the lights.
We would sit there and pretend
that we could find something better to do
than kiss between commercials
or talk about all the things we used
to dream about in high school, how I
got mine and how yours were like
the back bumper of a car that got left
out in the rain too long-- a little rusty.

Your kissing was a little rusty,
but I let it go because you didn't make fun
of me ordering a double grilled cheese
on our first date. You also didn't judge
when I got drips on my dress
from my ice cream cone. I can still
remember the way you'd yell at me
for stopping too far out at intersections,
laughing how I was gonna get us killed
one day, but I think
you just really loved to hear me sing
over you. I think you really loved

me, and here I was playing teeter
totter on curbs in little jean shorts
with a guy who gave me a slice
of leftover pizza. Here I was, burning
down your own ambitions because
they didn't seem as glittery as my own,
because you didn't quite match all the sketches,
all the plans I had on my map. Because
if we were to draw straws I always thought
you would come up a little short.
I think you really loved me and I left you
like a penny in between that couch
we used to sit on.

She is obscene, ******* inbetween
I shouldn't haven't to explain what that means  
Only a handleful don't find her scary and overwelming
Ok so I'm letting the angry apple flavoring do all the writing
Who is really listening, honestly  
This psychotic chick will always be the one and only
Sorry if you were expecting me to sing
I suppose this was not enough
Oh well I'll keep sipping while you're guesstimating the measures you should be taking
Here's a secret, I mentally teeter totter unstably
So does the rest of poetfreak
Let's start a toast and forward the drinking

Do not give to those who only seem to take.
One day you will want something in exchange.
(They will be unable to provide.)
You'll be left stripped bare, to the bone
while they hoard what you want most,
whether it's the muscle in your chest
or your secrets that they kept.

1433

How brittle are the Piers
On which our Faith doth tread—
No Bridge below doth totter so—
Yet none hath such a Crowd.

It is as old as God—
Indeed—’twas built by him—
He sent his Son to test the Plank,
And he pronounced it firm.

1476

His voice decrepit was with Joy—
Her words did totter so
How old the News of Love must be
To make Lips elderly
That purled a moment since with Glee—
Is it Delight or Woe—
Or Terror—that do decorate
This livid interview—

Teeter totter,
Canon fodder.
That's all that's left of thee.

These games of war,
Sings a silent cord.
Awaken on to me.

Brethren coded DNA,
False eyes where they lay.
For destined breaks the bonds.

The cannon fire,
Which you desire.
Left you crushed under your own arms.

So teeter totter
Cannon fodder.
While I watch you bleed.

Remember vengeance,
And your negligence.
Was fuel enough for me.

Constantly I am fumbling
Trying to keep time with the beat
I catch up with one thing
While the other one topples
Struggle as I go
Struggle as I go
Like a teering totter
One side high the other side low
Can I get some consistency
Please?
No
Again and again
Always
Struggle as I go

Teetering between
I love you
And I will wait
And I will fight.

Tottering with
I need to leave
I have to stop this love
You'll never love me
You will never fight for us.

I will fall one way or the other
But the in between
Is just as scary
As imagining a life without you.

I am searching for my lost shaker of salt…I love salt. It’s true, I add salt to anything. I’m wondering what that says about me.

Sometimes when you’re alone in the middle of the night,it’s okay to distract yourself by singing Jimmy Buffet and blending up some frozen margs….(TIP: if you close the pantry door and put a towel over the blender, you can barely hear it so it won’t wake anyone up when you decide to make margaritas @ 2am– you’re welcome).

I’m distracting myself from the razor calling my name. I’m doing everything I can tonight to not regress into a bawling 5 year old or a psychotically angry teenager. So if that means making frozen margaritas on the floor of the pantry and singing Jimmy Buffet…well then “That’s the best I can do right now…”

I don’t know…sometimes I think I’ll just stop all of it. Therapy, talking, writing, reaching out at all, breathing…I mean, is there really a point in verbalizing your feelings of hopelessness and defeat when you’re just going to be dismissed or trivialized? Is it better to just shut up & pretend, to half-smile till you die, rather than reach out? As I’ve always said, why express needs that will never be met. Childish needs and fears that have no right to exist in my adult head.

Why…why…why…why in the world should I embarrass myself by speaking aloud all of this fear inside my head only to be told that it’s okay to have this need, or that need, but there’s no way for it to be met. I don’t get that. And it only makes me hate myself more for “needing” anything in the first place. Ah, the sordid talk of self-hatred. But is that what this is about now? Maybe…but maybe not. Maybe it’s more like shamefully wallowing in self-pity on the pantry floor.

Jimmy Buffet is singing, “Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame, but I know, it’s my own **** fault.” "It’s YOUR fault, Nita. No one else’s. How long are you going to hold this grudge against the host body, Nita? When will you realize that you can’t change the past…you can’t change how he feels about you now, Nita. Too bad. Get over it. It is time to move on.”

I have completely misplaced my gratitude and love for life and I am searching for it….I am desperately searching for it here in the middle of the night…I am looking all around. I am reaching far down into the bottom of my gut, the base of my soul, the deepest place in my heart… God! This weakness! This weak depressed worthless woman! I can’t stand her! Give it up girl! Stop with the wretched self-pity, the craving for normalcy…just stop with the whining, “Why the hell don’t I get to be like everyone else?” Just stop! I have been brought to my knees, shaken to the core. I have forgotten who I really am.

My whole life, I have been straddling this teeter totter, pressing my feet back and forth, seeking the balance I have never been able to find… God!! ******! I feel flushed and panicked and my head is spinning. I am screaming inside, “Please help me. Please come to me now and stay. Please stay with me in this place of darkness, this place of no hope or light.” (as if)

Nita takes a break to wipe away the never-ending flow of tears, blow her nose, and blend another round of margaritas for one! More salt… Cheers!

Feelings…feelings…feelings. They assault me like ****** fire, the bullets ricochet off of their unsuspecting target and slice open my thighs, my hip, my side…red, angry slashes. I have been hit again. I am walking around wounded, scarred, stunned. I’ve been told not to judge these feelings, or attach to them. They are neither good nor bad, Nita. Open the door to the pantry, Nita, and invite them in for coffee and cookies…get to know them, no matter how hostile they seem. All of them? There’s not enough room here. The guilt, as pure and raw as sugar cane, comes to show me the terrible things I’ve done, the shameful places I’ve been, the faces of those I have harmed. The rage! It cannot be quelled or quieted. The overwhelming smothering rage hits me square in the chest after I have removed my bullet-proof vest. I feel the sharp shrapnel piercing my skin, reaching the very core of me. You self-righteousness woman…you selfish, bitter woman…

I can’t control it. I can’t think or reason my way out. I can’t figure out how to fix it, or breathe through it. I feel the blood draining out of me, warm and cold at the same time; the bitterness, the anger, the badness, it drains out of me and soaks into the soft cotton of my clothing. The patterns speak to me: You are weak, Nita. You are a lesser person, negative, selfish, dramatic, needy. How I loathe you, girl…

A knock on the door bringing yet another guest? Shame…welcome one of my oldest and best friends. Shame…she is always there for me…there is always room for her. She sits next to me and slides her warm calloused hand over my shoulder and down my chest… just as he used to do. Her hot breath hisses in my ear, “You are nothing without me. You cannot speak without me. You cannot breathe without me, write without me, feel without me. Without me you are neither interesting nor desirable. Without me by your side you cannot cope or deal with anything. You are mine and I am yours. You are nothing without me. I am your secret. This is our secret. I will keep you safe. I will keep your secrets.” My dearest friend. I offer her a drink and she begins to bandage my wounds…our secret, our secret. I lean into her, my oldest friend, and I let her hold me, even as she cruelly speaks my biggest failures aloud to me. She knows what I deserve. She is mine and I am hers.

Here we sit together and alone, my friend and I… Wasted away again in Margaritaville….she is searching for a sign of worth…strength…purpose…will…of anything that resembles life…but she didn’t find it.