Chapter Two

“I think of art, at its most significant, as a DEW line, a Distant Early Warning System that can always be relied on to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.”                Marshall McLuhan  
  
I attended Bucknell University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania because my father was incarcerated at the prison located in the same town.  My tuition subsidized to a large extent by G.I. Bill, still a significant means of financing an education for generations of emotionally wasted war veterans. “The United States Penitentiary (USP Lewisburg)” is a high-security federal prison for male inmates. An adjacent satellite prison camp houses minimum-security male offenders. My father was strictly high-security, convicted of various crimes against humanity, unindicted for sundry others. My father liked having me close by, someone on the outside he trusted, who also happened to be on his approved Visitor List. As instructed, I became his conduit for substances both illicit, like drugs, and the purely contraband, a variety of Italian cheeses, salamis, prepared baked casseroles of eggplant parmesan, cannoli, Baci chocolate from Perugia, in Tuscany, south of Florence, and numerous bottles of Italian wine, pungent aperitifs, Grappa, digestive stimulants and sweet liquors. I remained the good son until the day he died, the source of most of the mess I got myself into later on, and specifically the main caper at the heart of this story.

I must confess: my father scared the **** out of me.  Particularly during those years when he was not in jail, those years he spent at home, years coinciding roughly with my early adolescence.  These were my molding clay years, what the amateur psychologists write off with the term: “impressionable years hypothesis.” In his own twisted, grease-ball theory of child rearing, my father may have been applying the “guinea padrone hypothesis,” in his mind, nothing more certain would toughen me up for whatever he and/or Life had planned for me. Actually, his aspirations for me-given my peculiar pedigree--were non-existent as far as the family business went. He knew I’d never be either a Don or a Capo di Tutti Capi, or an Underboss or Sotto Capo.)  A Caporegime—mid-management to be sure, with as many as ten crews of soldiers reporting to him-- was also, for me, out of the question. Dad was a soldier in and of the Lucchese Family, strictly a blue-collar, knock-around kind of guy. But even soldier status—which would have meant no rise in Mafioso caste for him—was completely out of the question, never going to happen for me.

A little background: the Lucchese Family originated in the early 1920s with Gaetano “Tommy” Reina, born in 1889 in Corleone, Sicily. You know the town and its environs well. Fran Coppola did an above average job cinematizing the place in his Godfather films.  Coppola: I am a strict critic when it comes to my goombah, would-be French New Wave auteur Francis Ford Coppola.  Ever since “One From the Heart, 1982”--one of the biggest Hollywood box office flops & financial disasters of all time--he’s been a bit thin-skinned when it comes to criticism.  So, I like to zing him when I can. Actually, “One From the Heart” is worth seeing again, not just for Tom Waits soundtrack--the film’s one Academy Award nomination—but also Natasha Kinski’s ***: always Oscar-worthy in my book. My book? Interesting expression, and factually correct for once, given what you are reading right now.

Tommy Reina was the first Lucchese Capo di Tutti Capi, the first Boss of All the Bosses. By the 1930s the Luccheses pretty much controlled all criminal activity in the Bronx and East Harlem. And Reina begat Pinzolo who begat Gagliano who begat Tommy Three Finger Brown Lucchese (who I once believed, moonlighted as a knuckle ball relief pitcher for Yankees.)
Three Finger Brown gave the Lucchese Family its name. And Tommy begat Carmine Tramunti, who begat Anthony Tony Ducks Corallo. From there the succession gets a bit crazy. Tony Ducks, convicted of Rico charges, goes to prison, sentenced to life.  From behind bars he presides through a pair of candidates most deserving the title of boss: enter Vittorio Little Vic Amuso and Anthony Gaspipe Casso.  Although Little Vic becomes Boss after being nominated by Casso, it is Gaspipe really calling the shots, at least until he joins Little Vic behind bars.
Amuso-Casso begat Louis Louie Bagels Daidone, who begat the current official boss, Stephen Wonderboy Crea.  According to legend, Boss Crea got his nickname from Bernard Malamud’s The Natural, a certain part of his prodigious anatomy resembling the baseball bat hand-carved by Roy Hobbs. To me this sounds a bit too literary, given the family’s SRI Lexile/Reading Performance Scores, but who am I to mock my peoples’ lack of liberal arts education?

Begat begat Begato. (I goof on you, kind reader. Always liked the name Begato in the context of Bible-flavored genealogy. Mille grazie, King James.)

Lewisburg Penitentiary has many distinguished alumni: Whitey Bulger (1963-1965), Jimmy Hoffa (1967-1971) and John Gotti (1969-1972), for example.  And fictionally, you can add Paulie Cicero played by Paul Scorvino in Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas, not to be confused with Paulie Walnuts Gualtieri played by Tony Sirico from the HBO TV series The Sopranos. Nor, do I refer to Paulie Gatto, the punk who ratted out Sonny Corleone in Coppola’s The Godfather, you know: “You won’t see Paulie no more,” according to fat Clemenza, played by the late Richard “Leave the gun, take my career” Castellano, who insisted to the end that he wasn’t bitter about his underwhelming post-Godfather film career. I know this for a fact from one of my cousins in the Gambino Family. I also know that the one thing the actor Castellano would never comment on was a rumor that he had connections to organized crime, specifically that he was a nephew to Paulie Castellano, the Gambino crime family boss who was assassinated in 1985, outside Midtown New York’s Sparks Steak House, an abrupt corporate takeover commissioned by John Teflon Don Gotti. But I’m really starting to digress here, although I am reminded of another interesting historical personage, namely Joseph Crazy Joe Gallo, who was also terminated “with extreme prejudice” while eating dinner at a restaurant.  Confused? And finally--not to be confused with Paul Muldoon, poetry gatekeeper at The New Yorker magazine, that Irish **** scumbag who consistently rejects publication of my work. About two years ago I started including the following comment in my on-line Contact Us, poetry submission:  “Hey Paulie, Eat a Bag of ****!”

This may come as a surprise, Gentle Reader, but I am a poet, not a Wise Guy.  For reasons to be explained, I never had access to the family business. I am also handicapped by the Liberal Arts education I received, infected by a deluge, a veritable Katrina ****** of classic literature.  That stuff in books rubs off after awhile, and I suppose it was inevitable. I couldn’t help evolving for the most part into a warm-blooded creature, unlike the reptiles and frogs I grew up with.

Again, I am a poet not a wise guy. And, first and foremost, I am a human being. Cold-blooded, I am not. I generate my own heat, which is the best definition I know for how a poet operates. But what the hell do I know? Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon doesn’t think much of my work. And he’s the ******* troll guarding the New Yorker’s poetry gate. Nevertheless, I’m a Poet, not a Wise Guy.  I repeat myself, I know, but it is important to establish this point right from the start of this narrative, because, if you don’t get that you’re never going to get my story.

Maybe the best way to explain my predicament—And I mean PREDICAMENT in the sense of George Santayana: "Life is not a spectacle or a feast; it is a predicament." (www.brainyquote.com), not to be confused with George’s son Carlos, the Mexican-American rock star: Oye Como Va, Babaloo!

www.youtube.com/watch?v...YouTube Dec 20, 2011 - Uploaded by a106kirk1, The Best of Santana. This song is owned by Santana and Columbia Records.

Maybe the best way for me to explain my predicament is with a poem, one of my early works, unpublished, of course, by Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon:

“CRAZY JOE REVISITED”  
        
by Benjamin Disraeli Sekaquaptewa-Buonaiuto

We WOPs respect criminality,
Particularly when it’s organized,
Which explains why any of us
Concerned with the purity of our bloodline
Have such a difficult time
Navigating the river of respectability.

To wit: JOEY GALLO.
WEB-BIO: (According to Bob Dylan)
“Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn in the year of who knows when,
Opened up his eyes to the tune of accordion.

“Joey” Lyrics/Send "Joey" Ringtone to your Cell
Joseph Gallo, AKA: "Joey the Blond."
He was a celebrated New York City gangster,
A made member of the Profaci crime family,
Later known as the Colombo crime family,

That’s right, CRAZY JOE!
One time toward the end of a 10-year stretch,
At three different state prisons,
Including Attica Correctional Facility in Attica, New York,
Joey was interviewed in his prison cell
By a famous NY Daily News reporter named Joe McGinnis.
The first thing the reporter sees?
One complete wall of the cell is lined with books, a
Green leather bound wall of Harvard Classics.
After a few hours mainly listening to Joey
Wax eloquently about his life,
A narrative spiced up with elegant summaries,
Of classic Greek theory, Roman history,
Nietzsche and other 19th Century German philosophers,
McGinnis is completely blown away by Inmate Gallo,
Both Joey’s erudition and the power of his intellect,
The reporter asks a question right outta
The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie:
“Mr. Gallo, I must say,
The power of your erudition and intellect
Is simply overwhelming.
You are a brilliant man.
You could have been anything,
Your heart or ambition desired:
A doctor, a lawyer, an architect . . .
Yet you became a criminal. Why?”

Joey Gallo: (turning his head sideways like Peter Falk or Vincent Donofrio, with a look on his face like Go Back to Nebraska, You ******* Momo!)

“Understand something, Sonny:
Those kids who grew up to be,
Doctors and lawyers and architects . . .

They couldn’t make it on the street.”

Gallo later initiated one of the bloodiest mob conflicts,
Since the 1931 Castellammare War,
And was murdered as a result of it,
While quietly enjoying,
A plate of linguini with clam sauce,
At a table--normally a serene table--
At Umberto’s Clam House.

Italian Restaurant Little Italy - Umberto's Clam House (www.umbertosclamhouse.com)
In Little Italy New York City 132 Mulberry Street, New York City | 212-431-7545.

Whose current manager --in response to all restaurant critics--
Has this to say:
“They keep coming back, don’t they?
The joint is a holy shrine, for chrissakes!
I never claimed it was the food or the service.
Gimme a ******* break, you momo!
I should ask my paisan, Joe Pesci
To put your ******* head in a vise.”

(Again, Martin Scorsese getting it exactly right, This time in  . . . Casino (1995) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0112641/Internet Movie Database Rating: 8.2/10 - ‎241,478 votes Directed by Martin Scorsese. With Robert De Niro, Sharon Stone, Joe Pesci, James Woods. Greed, deception, money, power, and ****** occur between two  . . . Full Cast & Crew - ‎Trivia - ‎Awards - ‎(1995) - IMDb)

Given my lifelong, serious exposure to and interest in German philosophy, I subscribe to the same weltanschauung--pronounced: veltˌänˌSHouəNG—that governed Joey Gallo’s behavior.  My point and Mr. Gallo’s are exactly the same:  a man’s ability to make it on the street is the true measure of his worth.  This ethos was a prominent one in the Bronx where and when I grew up, where I came of age during the 1950s and 60s.  Italian organized crime was always an option, actually one of the preferred options--like playing for the Yankees or being a movie star—until, that is, reality set in.  And reality came in many forms. For 100% Italian kids it came in a moment of crystal adolescent clarity and self-evaluation:  Am I tough enough to make it on the street?  Am I ever going to be tough enough to make it on the street? Will I be eaten alive by more cunning, more violent predators on the street?

For me, the setting in of reality took an entirely different form.  I knew I had what it takes, i.e., the requisite ferocity for street life. I had it in spades, as they say. In fact, I’d been blessed with the gift of hyper-volatility—traced back to my great-grandfather, Pietro of the village of Moschiano, in the province of Avellino, in the region of Campania, Italia Sud. Having visited Moschiano in my early 20s and again in my late 50s, I know the place well. The village square sits “down in the holler,” like in West Virginia; the Apennine terrain, like the Appalachians, rugged and thick. Rugged and thick like the people, at least in part my people. And volatile, I am, gifted with a primitive disposition when it comes to what our good friend Abraham Maslow would call lower order needs. And please, don’t ask me to explain myself now; just keep reading, *******.  All your questions will be answered.

Great Grandfather Pietro once, at point blank range, blew a man’s head off with a lumpara, or sawed-off shotgun. It was during an argument over—get this--a penny’s worth of pumpkin seeds--one of many stories I never learned in childhood. He served 10 years in a Neapolitan penitentiary before being paroled and forced to immigrate to America.  The government of the relatively new nation--The Kingdom of Italy (1861)--came up with a unique eugenic solution for the hunger and misery down south, south of Rome, the long shin bone, ankle, foot, toes & kickball that are the remote regions of the Mezzogiorno, Southern Italy: Campania, Basilicata, Calabria, Puglia & Sicilia. Northern politicians asked themselves: how do we flush these skeevy southerners, these crooks and assassins down South, how do we flush the skifosos down the toilet—the flush toilet, a Roman invention, I report proudly and accept the gratitude on behalf of my people. Immigration to America: Fidel Castro did the same thing in the 1980s, hosing out his jails and mental hospitals with that Marielista boatlift/Emma Lazarus Remix: “Give us your tired and poor, your lunatics, thieves and murderers.” But I digress. I’ll give you my entire take on the history of Italy including Berlusconi and the “Bunga Bunga” parties with 14-year old Moroccan pole dancers . . . go ahead, skip ahead.

Yes, genetically speaking, I was sufficiently ferocious to make it on the street, and it took very little spark to light my fuse. Moreover, I’ve always been good at figuring out the angles--call it street smarts--also learned early in life. Likewise, for knowing the territory: The Bronx was my habitat. I was rapacious and predacious by nature, and if there was a loose buck out there, and legs to be broken, I knew where to go.
Yet, alas, despite all my natural talents & acquired skills, I remained persona-non-grata for the Lucchese Family. To my great misfortune, I fell into a category of human being largely shunned by Italian organized crime: Mestizo-Italiano, a diluted form of full strength 100% Italian blood. It’s one of those voodoo blood-brotherhood things practiced by Southern European, Mediterranean tribal people, only in part my people.  Growing up, my predicament was always tricky, always somewhat bizarre. Simply put: I was of a totally different tribe. Blame my exotic mother, a genuine Hopi Corn Maiden from Shungopavi, high up on Second Mesa of the Hopi Reservation, way out in northern Arizona. And if this is not sufficiently, ******* nuts enough for you, add to the child-rearing minestrone that she raised me Jewish in The Bronx.  I **** you not. I took my Bar Mitzvah Hebrew instruction from the infamous Rabbi Meir Kahane, that’s right, Meir “Crazy Rebbe” Kahane himself--pronounced kɑː'hɑːna--if you grok the phonetics.

In light of the previously addressed “impressionable years hypothesis,” I wrote a poem about my early years. It follows in the next chapter. It is an epic tale, a biographical magnum opus, a veritable creation myth, conceived one night several years ago while squatting in a sweat lodge, tripping on peyote. I

Toughen up
Grow up
You are such a drama queen
Life ain’t easy
Nobody said it was
Stop being dramatic
You make a big deal out of everything
You are too soft
You are going to get eaten up
So you need to toughen up

I use technology to take me to a time when it only half-existed. In a blue-shell room of mega-pixel photographs and rolling news feeds, I can put on my headphones and disappear into an instrumental Sunday.

There are stamp collectors making their lazy way over beaten roads and disused railways. 'Surrender' only means to fall asleep and to leave your book as a hut on your bedside table. Where war may still go on and on,

but at least you don't have to hear about it. Show me the place where pine-cones fall and women stare across the river. Where coffee is for taste, and not self-medication. I want to walk bare-foot and feel thorns

toughen my heels, infect my blood with Earth or God or Any Other Name. We will **** in the bushes, singing those fragments of Leonard Cohen lyrics that we can still remember from times spent smoking in my room.

I can almost feel that pointless happiness. That location in a canopy to retreat when the bills are due, when the walls needs re-painting. When the neighbour strangles puppies and all you do is complain about the time.

I use new music set to old sounds: freed slaves living in the cross-hairs of tradition. White lovers breaking their hearts over guitar strings and harmonies, always a semi-tone apart. I find your hair on my pillow.
There is no technology in the world to distract me from that.

Being a woman is tough
We constantly struggle with finding the balance
Between strength and vulnerability
Sometimes it can be too much
Having to exude our feminine power
And dealing with masculinity

What is a woman to do
When she wants to play in a man's world?
Does she toughen up and play with the boys
Or remain a timid, overly emotional girl?
Maybe it's best for a woman
To learn both sides of the species
She can rule the world being vulnerable and feminine  
With a dash of masculinity

As a young girl,I was taught that I shouldn't hate boys,I shouldn't fight back to them regardless of what they did to me because it wasn't ladylike,they probably only did it because they liked me and boys will be boys,right? I tried to remind myself that when in fourth grade,I went home with cuts and bruises because a boy was ****** that I did better than him on our English test and he wanted to get even with me.I didn't fight back because as my teacher had always said,"that's just how it is,honey,boys will be boys".It was one of the two things that she had said to me that never left my mind,along with the reminder of how a real boy and a real girl can be distinguished from the "others".
I was twelve when I was molested repeatedly but I didn't do or say a thing except try to get out of this *****,wretched skin because it was probably my own fault, I shouldn't have such precocious ******* at an early age.
Ha!What was I thinking?Going through puberty like that,looking all sexualized when I know that grown men cannot control their urges.
Stupid little girl, how could she forget that boys will be boys?
I was thirteen, when I was told about the "proper" way to dress and act because I might provoke the boys and they could be ruined for life.
I was fourteen when I was first told what my hips,my thighs,my legs,my bottoms and my chest should be like,in the way that most boys like.
Because the only way I'll ever validate my existence is when a boy takes me as his and to do that I should be what most boys like:
not too tall,not too short,not too skinny but also not fat,witty,funny and smart but I also need to know when to shut the hell up.
And I can't change that because it's the unspoken rule in our world,and no,I can't try to convince the boys either (my ability to know when to shut up is put to use here,because it doesn't matter if you're the oppressed, you need to shut the hell up and grovel before the patriarchy just like everyone else) because that's just the way they are and boys will be boys.
I was fifteen when I witnessed the torture that some of my guy friends experienced because they acted like "girls",as if my gender is an insult, as if being a girl automatically makes you weak and helpless.(Since when did being supposedly invincible and not crying made a boy a real man?I don't think that's what real masculinity is about.Does being a real man or woman come with corresponding terms and conditions?)
It was only a few months ago when a ****** walked free despite destroying the life of a college girl.He did not get convicted because she was reportedly drunk and he was a boy and boys will be boys. (So, who will take the blame?the alcohol or the girl?were they the ones who forced themselves on someone against that someone's will?)
This case took me back to a decade ago when one of my best friends was sexually abused by an older man but nobody helped him, they told him to just toughen up, **** isn't real for him because he was a boy and boys will be boys.
And I wonder,when will these monsters finally be convicted for their crimes?
When will the guilty boys be held accountable for their actions?
When will the pain of other boys finally be considered valid,when will being of the *** that they are stop making them "not really victims"?
When will one's gender stop being an excuse or in some cases—serve as a derogatory name?
When will the screams,cries and pleas of women abused and victimized everywhere be loud enough for you?
Loud enough so that you might actually feel their agony creep in your bones,consume your whole being that all you'd want to do is crawl out of your skin,loud enough so that you might actually begin to understand how it feels like to be us,objectified and dehumanized,loud enough so that you might actually hear the pleas of boys and other men everywhere,asking to be freed from gender roles that limits their ability to exist beyond labels or to feel pain.
I wonder just when will you stop using my gender as an insult,just when will you stop telling the world how a real man or woman should be?
Please do tell because the little faith in humanity that still resides in us is slowly fading.
From where I see it,I feel as if there's no hope.
There will be no hope as long you all remain slaves to bigotry and the patriarchy.
I guess,there's no hope for your mothers,daughters,even other boys and young girls like me as of this time.
And maybe,when another rabid man decides that he wants as his meal for the day,like I am meat,like I am something to be consumed and spent,I would just have to accept my fate.
Maybe,as my lifeless and ravished body lies motionless in an alley somewhere, you would be shaking your head, condemning the girl who was stupid enough to walk alone at night,unaccompanied,the girl who was "asking for it" because she wore "revealing"clothes,the girl who probably got what was coming for her because she didn't know when to shut her mouth,the girl who thought she could exist the way she wanted when she knew full well that there are rules,stigmas and that boys will be boys.
-W.L.A.C

Anthony, Anthony, oh dear Anthony. His face is like a little darling's; with tumults of green and gray cheeks blended into one. I wish there had been no yesterday; for yesterday was when he appeared with his rain-soaked, but gay little cheeks; as he smiled at me by the twin moonbeams. Still he is not him; I care not how he wants to tease me in my dream.

My heart is gay no more; its walls are honed imperfectly, and with no goodwill. Its image and charity hath now gone; I am plain, I am like a shy spider grafting about the chattering winter walls. Oh, Anthony, yet how sweet thou wert under the bald rain; and its unleashed forms of cold clouds! Ah, I wish I could lend to you a wonted breadth of my story; but as I gaze, now, into the very soft metallic eyes of thee; I am afraid my words shall never be impossible. Thou hath that brilliant green gaze of nature, my sweet, but thou art not immortal; thou art vital, but thou art not of the same rainbow as he is. He hath, now, been dried and cornered in the unseen lungs of my heart, but his ghost is there. Ah, he, who hath betrayed me like a sparkle of dead candle! How should I treat this misdemeanour, you think? But to my strange suspicion, I cannot but forget of him, even a sliver of memory; for his memories are too elusive, too adequate for my hungry heart. Oh, Anthony, how bashful I am--for not daring to cope with thy questioning eyes!

Like those unanswered rains; which keep wetting the unyielding soil, damaging toiled crops into the limbs of quavering pits. My love was borne with death by him; within the death of his feelings, in which it was but a fossil of discarded flesh like any other corpse. But where is Immortal, Immortal, Immortal? I keep looking for him, in those scarlet hollows, but still I glimpse a sight of him not. I shall keep lulling him to sleep, at least in my dancing dreams; he is the sober prince and I am the guileless princess. Ah, Anthony, tell me how I cannot be guileless; I am honest and decent and carry no defilement of chastity. I am pure myself; with a garden of virginity and its terrific rivulets flowing beneath me. How can my charms be not charitable? Even when I walk, a thousand boughs of blossoms snigger not; they welcome my entry with another thousand wits; they reply to my living steps with a radiance that even heaven cannot forgive. My verbal words might not be delicate, but I am sure my poem is; regardless how hard t'is downfall might be. Ah, Anthony, thou art a miracle still, but thou art no more than an evening story, sadly! I cannot feel my heart become unleashed, as I looketh into thy eyes; I cannot feel grasped by thy cold hands--ah, thou hath grasped me not; but still thy apparition cometh less merited, and rather falsified, than that of his.

How can that be, how can that be, how can that be! Ah, this earth with its villainous glory might blame me once more. It shall toughen my hardship with a whole land of repulsion; it shall intend never again to make me a faithful alliance. It shall satisfy its own self, and metamorphose into a swamp of ungrateful hatred sweated by an edified mockery. Ah, what doth all t'is charm mean, then? I shall face a green apocalypse soon, thereof, before being burned within another blasphemous night. I feel cross, cross, cross, cross, and cross; I grit my teeth whenever I think of my stupidity. I feel as if I was an old dame so gratuitous to thee; I am a luminous fire, but instead I have no seeds and am just as dead as a soundless pumpkin. Ah, Anthony, can thou but restore that lost fire again? I want no speeds, I want to see no miracles, I feel dutiful; but undutiful at the same time. Your heart is right by the doors of Yorkshire--and sometimes grow into the doors themselves; it is funny to see how they are so tidily integrated by the eminence of each other. I shall craft for you a beautiful song; but perhaps a jest like that shall never be enough; it shall be tedious and not pertinacious enough to entertain thy young heart. Thou art in want of my poems, as far as I can see; but all I might do is withdraw my eye and even draw my steps back further, invariably like a rusted old church bell. I am insane; and far trapped in the insanity as I myself am; I am cold-blooded, my heart can, perhaps, be healed only by ease-like murders. I cannot ponder, I cannot think, I cannot consider; I paint the entrance to myself no more-oh, how I miss his laughs like never before! Ah, Anthony, my wintry sun, my autumn soliloquy, my snowy sob; perhaps I shall better be far from thee, for I want not to make thee sore! My heart is as rough as it is; incarcerated in its own heartless panoramic views, brutal like an unattended soil, for hath it just been left unattended for a time; it often wanders to breathe fresh air, but severed once more by the adored's filthy laugh. It comes home and sleeps weeping beside me.

My heart can no longer count; neither can it flinch. It cannot even see colours, including those which were once fabulous; it is far from enormity, but it claims to have one. Ah, Anthony, it is even a brighter scholar than myself! Look, look how hath it conquered my? I have jaws and it has not, I have a heart--ah, I do have it, but I knoweth not how to make it mine. Half of my heart hath been eaten away by a rotten love, even my blood now--as I hath been hearing it, is no longer flowing. I am hurried by the murmurs of the wind every day, ah, but shall I return again to my poetry? I guess, though, I can make time for this gay seriousness; I am poetry and shall always be, I am alarmed by the cries of my poems, and the joys of my sentences. I am mad, as how poets should just be; I am the pictures my poetry paints; and caress them often at night in my arms.

But as you may have seen it, my heart is now dead, plain, and black; my heart who has loved, and still does love, someone. Ah, Anthony, forgive me; forgive me for this solemn labour of my heart; forgive me for choosing to bear this alone. I might love again, someday; I am aware I should triumph over this self-inflicted martyrdom; I shall relieve myself in one blink of wonder, in a more reliable princedom by the sea. Still, I hope, like a gallery of paintings that is planted with a hall of constant transformations, God shall transform the very haven of his souls one day; and refine his atrocious soutane into one righteous and cordial. I might not be the crucial lady yet for thee; oh, how I wish I were! But vain this attempt may be, should we ever doubtfully try it. Ah, Anthony, but gratitude to thee--for once choosing to lay off the puzzle of my heart; for thy gentleness from the very start!

And hath I now finished my breathless narration; I doth miss thee, oh Immortal; I miss thee as I shall miss a piercing sun in these filths and greases winters may bring! Ah, and the clearer picture in my mind carries to me a voice that though thou art fine; thou art dainty no more; and this leaves to me a flavour of
precarious solitude. I loveth thee, Immortal, Immortal, Immortal; my love is as a sky that remains high; my love shall stay flowery until the day I die.

Rhymes sweetly, but can me a
***** my finger won't I still bleed.
Times toughen, and kick me in my
As trees grow, life will reseed.

Walks manly, and scratches my
Ball's in your court, bounce my way.
Talks fanning flames, I don't give a
Dam for beavers, I shall not stray.

Words come faster, so call me a
******* looking for his father
Figure me out in your secret mind
****, get out, look for another.

I'm more than just a little girl with a daddy complex.
I am someone who has been hurt, abandoned and betrayed,
I'm a little girl who has been brave.
And I still know how to behave.

Not an alcoholic, not a smoker.
Still a ******, never touched dope or
Anything harder.
No fishnets on these legs, crossed at the knees.
Nothing tragic about me, just a hard, young shell.

You can't compete with me and the lessons I've learned,
the girl scout badges I've earned.
Daddy's gone, so toughen up,
things are set to get rough.

”How To Not Be A People Pleaser”
below are listed 10 bullet points
on how to toughen up,
on how to avoid the blow of others
wiping their ***** feet across
your ‘welcome mat’ heart.

Surely I have the look down, right?
Skinny jeans fit for skinny girls (who I am not),
tucked into loosened combat boots that have never seen a good shoe shine. Black eyeshadow smeared in the form of war paint,
"Today is a good day to die"

But the fact that this is all a charade,
that ‘looking tough’ does not mean you automatically
become some brazened ******* who does not let anyone inside
of your crazy head or heart,
loosens the grip you try so desperately to hold on to.

If you look the part, surely you feel it in your bones.
You feel the anger and the need to not be so polite all of the time.
Yet you still hold doors open, say please and thank you, smile at strangers on the street,
your mouth cannot form the simple word ‘no’ in fear of hurting another person.

So how can you not be a people pleaser?
You can’t. No matter how grungy you look,
no matter how loud you listen to rock ‘n roll
no matter how dark and damaged you let your soul appear
maybe you can allow yourself to become something you are not,
but you can not bury something you are.

I had a dream that there was promise in the future
That my days dug in a hole, so deep,
That I never saw the sun rise – were a fading nightmare.
But my nightly sweats and twisted sheets
When the sun arose, planted seeds of fear in my psyche.
That fleet-footed knight mares rode across starscapes
Pulling shades and twisting
Warm fantasy
Into hallucinations of other me’s
Dying a thousand different ways.
I had a dream that the demons in my mind,
Results from God’s imablanced alchemic formula that made my brain,
Declared a war on my central nervous system,
That I fought in with breath, and blood, and tears, and sweat
(Eyes scrunched shut, and hands over my ears)
That was eventually termed O.C.D.
And I sit in offices and wait for elaborate flourished script,
That I exchange for the antidote,
For the depression flowing through my veins.
Eventually sitting awake,
Waiting for a song to soothe my tired eyes,
To touch some part of me that I can’t reach on my skin,
And send me off to sleep.
And I am tired –
Tired of the night wars
Waged in between starscapes
And daydream streams.
I’m tired of feeling weak,
When I’ve stood vigilant against
The death cries of a thousand other me’s.
I’m weary of feeling empty,
And afraid of my inability to close
This sadness wellspring,
Would lead me to see the backs of those I love,
Leave me, on parting words and ashen bridges – falling down.
(And if God has ever blessed me with anything,
It is how many incredible people,
Care about insignificant me.)
I had a dream that I was finally free,
Of shackles and bounds and fetters,
That tethered me to ol’ seductive Melancholy,
Warm tears flowing from my eyes,
As I embraced smiling friends, knowing that I
No longer needed to vent, or share the weight,
Or had the desire to die.
But I hear whispers in my ears,
Cold fingers gnawing at my rib cage,
Telling me my life isn’t worth anything.
And punching my gut to toughen me up,
Is outdated, deep seated Masculinity,
Shouting at me that I’m not a man,
Unless I’m wrapped in sheepskin or wearing fatigues.
And that every little slip of a word to the contrary,
Of the face I put on when I’m at my worst,
Is a weakness I must **** and shoulder my weight,
Alone.
I had a dream
That a miracle man could crack open my head
And sort out all the pieces that didn’t fit
And study all the places where my wires had been
Haphazardly ******* in wrong.
And I begged for the miracle surgery,
To alleviate this darkling stain,
But what’s frightening is – I can barely imagine myself without it.
I once looked at myself in the mirror, and wondered if it was better on the other side
While I practiced my lie of  “I feel fine”, code for standing on the precipice
Of suicidal decline.
When really, it was just for me.
Is a lie a lie if you believe it? Because that’s why I say it on repeat.
I once had a dream that I was loved,
And that’s the one I try to forget.
As I hold a candle close to my eyes,
My last daily reminder of
Still-living hopes light,
Before I risk a night of sleep.

Whinging is contagious around here,
I just never met Mr. Right, my dears,
But I have met some right players,
Like loverat Mr. Liar,
or Mr. *******, too bad,
Then there is Mr. *******,
Yes, whinging is contagious here,
Too bad I never met  Mr. Right, my dears,
Never mind, that's enough,
Being bullied toughens you up!

Toughen up* they say
It's no big deal, it wasn't even that graphic.

But it was you could see the pain in their eyes.
If I did "toughen up" I would be like everybody else.
unfazed because I knew of the cruelty of the world.

Yet, it is because of this fear I have of seeing others hurting others
that I am different.

I won't accept it as a part of life,
as something you can see in the movies and say it's no big deal

It is because of this fear
and me feeling what they do in the movies
those victims, those alone.
That feeling that I am them that keeps me up at night.

That is what makes me someone who will so something about it
and not just see this pain and destruction as something that's
no big deal in a movie theater or in real life.

Just because you know of the cruelty of the world
doesn't mean that you are going to do something about it
It doesn't mean that you feel others' pain, and are empathetic.

We were flying across the valleys,
Searching the way through the alleys.
Suddenly out of no-where,
It came along with a loud bang!
 
Pulling the car in front of the house,
Two of us started getting into the rouse.
Luckily you knew how to fix the situation,
Changing the tire was a fun exploration.
 
You never know when along the way,
You will get a flat tire right away.
Stopping you along your life’s path,
Making you suddenly stumble across.    
 
When a flat tire actually happens,
Nothing it is just a way to toughen.
Having a spare is always handy,
Change it and move ahead in a jiffy.
 
This is not literal but metaphorical,
Life is like the road and we are in a vehicle.
You will never know when the curves will hit you,
A flat tire is the block anytime you can fall into.
 
Instead of crying and throwing a fist,
Give the time and make it all fit.
There will be many flat tires along the way,
Always buckle up and give your best to the day…

Skipping ropes tied to lamp posts
hopscotch was another for girls
I'd try to work out the rules
but dare not ask, nor yet even
be seen to be showing interest
sometimes I'd be invited
to join in girls play
I could hold the rope
while others skipped
but had not the grace
or the agility to skip
at all well myself
there were role play games
of families with dolls
proudly displayed
tenderly nursed
and I would be offered
the role of 'daddy'
though I had no clue
of how to do that
having no father myself
so I would be told
to arrive home from work
to sit in my chair
to put on my slippers
to smoke my pipe
to hear tales of misbehaviour
by the children
and I would be amused
but would be told firmly
that I must be stern with them
then when that was done
to eat my tea and afterwards
to sit watching the telly
distracted from the game
that continued around me
or to go out to the pub
and I thought that
fathers must be
the most boring of people


The rough and tumble
was not for me
why would some boy think
he could throw me down
straddle me, pummeling
overpower and hold me there
trapped, despite my struggles
I learned early that
scratching, biting,
flailing, kicking
were not permitted
nor were tears
yet I shed them still
and screamed and scratched
and bit and flailed
if I could not avail
myself of natural defences
generally expected of girls
then why should my attacker
receive no more than
mild admonishment, if that
while I'd be advised
to "toughen up"
and the goading
carried on relentlessly
"you run like a girl"
"you throw like a girl"
"you kick the ball like a girl"
"you fight like a girl"
as though doing those things
like a girl were demeaning

Cynthia Pauline Jones 30/10/13

TV’s going in living room
Talking about our doom
We’re laying on the front lawn
Yesterday’s long gone
Woman showing skin
Too fat, too thin
She can never win
Throwing up yet again

Listen up man
We’re all ******
Re-repeating reprimands
Demolition on demand

Locate security
Trying to make camp
In independent infidelity
Strutting to the bank
Cashing in corrupted currency
Stock markets sank
Guitar man teary eyed
Rock and roll came and died
Record producer’s big old lies
Broken dreams and wasted time
Colorado Smokey Joe lights a bone
Faded out to the ozone
Smoking on home grown
Got glaucoma? Get an O

Shut up dude
We’re all *******
Forget the olden days
Give marriage to the gays

Let go of the narrow minded silly ways
Let it be as common as classic Frito-Lays
Rolling in the new waves
Is it God who really saves?
Is there even one big deity?
Guess there is if you believe

Be born, live life
Go to college, get a wife
Get job, sacrifice
It’s the norm, is it right?
Have a kid, then have another
Father, mother
Sister, brother
Try to tolerate each other

Watch your back bro
Because I don’t know
Undecided, undeclared
Run in circles, running scared

Take a risk, double dare
Love needs to be redefined
Unanimously agreed and signed
Peace in the heart and the mind
Going down the rabbit hole
Striving for that same goal
Anti- bullying campaign
Kid comes home blood stained
Toughen up
Enough's enough
Individuality
Opposing mainstream reality
Wiseman taken as a fool
Becomes another social causality

Feel it
Taste it
On the back of your tongue
Hanging by the gallows martyrs hung

Climbing up the ladder’s rungs
Foul smelling whiskey bums
Grab a *** and stash it
Looking like your bat ****
Steal a car and crash it
“Always wash your berries before you eat them and fly toward the sun”

My back aches
It breaks from carrying you, Boy
So many years
All your life
All my life
You hold me back
And slow me down
You keep dragging me
Down to the ground
I could have flown but for you
Keeping the past within me
Anchoring me to the long gone

I remember you
Scrambling in the dirt
And fighting in the street
But underneath you were soft
Too fast to believe
And maybe you still make me a fool
I've always told you
Toughen up, kid!
I can't afford your gullibility
I refuse to feel your fears
Or hear the voices that scare you
Do you hear me, kid?
And tell me this, Boy
Do I still see the world
Through your wide open eyes?

                                  By Phil Roberts

Sometimes, to break is nothing but pain
But even when we don’t see it, there is something to claim

“Whatever doesn't **** you makes you stronger”
But pain doesn't always toughen us, and make life last longer

There are the times though, we destroy ourselves with reason
And we know we’ll come through the fire unbeaten

Nothing can be made bigger, made more powerful
Without a little destruction; truth can be sorrowful

The times when we willingly subjectify ourselves though
Feel the best, we know what we’re doing—reaping the glory we sow

We all desire strength, power and might
We all want to be stunning, beautiful of sight

We think the ways we build ourselves up, are what pretty us the most
And give little attention, to life’s trials and complications; they’re nothing to boast

But those are where we find our strength; withstanding the tempest
Screaming our passion, unmoving, fighting, holding fast

It is the pain we endure, that we often try to ignore
The brutality, the violence, the blood sweat and gore

But the cruelty of life, all the things you've battled through
That’s what makes you beautiful…this is why I love you

Stay strong, Life's a fight
But I'll go through it by your side

My father shows definite signs of toxic masculinity.
Always with the "man up" or "toughen up"
I think he was afraid I was too sensitive.

When I was a kid, he told me it was okay to cry.

Then I guess I cried too much.
And it was no longer okay.

I learned to swallow my emotions,
Pills so big I thought I would choke.
My voice caught,
My feelings were strangled.

I learned, too, to listen and observe him more.
Yes, there was the homophobia,
There the unmistakable reek of feared emasculation,
The lines about how certain things were "effeminate,"
Including things like the way I sat,
Or wore my long hair,
In my own home, no less.

I don't think he thinks me very manly.

Never mind my compassion, loyalty, or steadfast, stubborn nature.

I've learned not to care so much what he thinks,
Though the very act of not caring hurts.
I'd like to be able to share who I am with him,
But I think he disapproves who I am,
The way I choose to live.

Never mind I am straight,
Though it would be no excuse if I were not.

Never mind I have a beard,
Though it would be no excuse if I were clean-shaven.

Never mind any of the qualities that I am,
Any of the things I am proud of,
Any of the reasons I call myself man.

To him, I am not masculine.
That knowledge sears like razor burn,
Leaves scarred tracts of pain and resentment.

Doth a man not bleed?
I suppose not.

I have subconsciously taught my hands to shake
When I hear certain noises
I have memorized the sinking heart feeling
And dropping to a million pieces
In a split second
Rush of adrenaline; Straight to my brain.
Thoughts squeezing themselves up
Thoughts that make my head spin

I have tortured myself with "What if's"
Too many times at 3 in the morning
At the drop of a pin, the only thing to settle it
Is the sound of your soft snoring.
Peaceful like I know your head isn't.
Dreaming like I know you try and refrain from doing

And I will blame the world for ruining you
Because I'm desperately searching for an excuse
I will hate although it's unfamiliar to me
I will cry because I've been taught this feeling
You don't deserve these feelings
You don't deserve to know I've gotten used to
My hands shaking at night
How I've memorized the sound of your silent room
So I know when something is out of place

I told myself to toughen up
I have to toughen up
I have to learn to fight
Because you need me to
I have to learn that this won't just go away
My hands ill still shake through tonight
My heart will still drop when I don't hear you breathing
And those torturous "What if's" will keep me up again tonight.

I have recently started to work on individual pieces that will later go into an entire piece (such as this one) about things in my life in which I find. Find what exactly? I'll leave that up to interpretation.

My idea here is to end the sugar coating of the realness of growing up.

To the age of Heartbreak and the Heartless, I write for you

I had a boy tell me "you're a breath of fresh air" everyday for a year. I broke his heart as I did mine. I had a boy tell me pretty things and I stepped all over it. I'm still breathing. I'm still fine. But I feel it from time to time.

Heartbreak will come for you, if it hasn't already, in any kind of form. This day and age, anything breaks your heart. Will it be okay? Probably, probably not. They'll leave you, you'll leave them, your phone will break, someone might die, you'll cry, you'll drop out, you may become an addict, and you may even lose them all together. The world has endless ways of telling you "stop crying about it" but you'll always find more reasons to do it anyways. My advice? Feel it. Feel the heartbreak coursing through your veins and take it in like the very drug it is. You may not see it yet, but you're a heart-breaker and you've got to start enjoying it. It'll hit you, and you'll be consumed (let it consume you.)

We're the heartless walking among the heartbroken. Give it out, your heart can take the beating it will surely get. We live life afraid of being hurt and yet we don't give a **** anyway. Eliminate the fear and just let it hurt you. Give your heart to people. Bottling it up will only suffocate it. There's someone/something for everyone or there might just be more than one for you, that's cool too. We're the society that has let the wrong things consume us; social standards, media, others, careers, get the **** over it. We're not here to be skeletons of the past or the famous. Be the rotting corpse you want to be, be the heartless ones who fear more of life being taken than life being ******.

Life is ******, break a heart or two, and toughen up.

Being Found
There will be a day, where you’ll wake up and realize something that’ll probably change your life. I had an honest moment not too long ago, and have had trouble putting it into words. To be completely honest, a little cliche even, I felt the fall hit me in the gut and I gave in. I gave in to the slight chill in the breeze that flew by my bare face and yes, I wished for more of it. Typically like the entire human race yearns for more and more of things until, well frankly, they just get bored. I had someone recently tell me: “ If you don’t look for it, the finding will be much more spectacular” and there came my honest moment throwing me a slightly irritating wack in the jaw. I did my finding after the found and I couldn’t quite find it. Bare with me, now with the story of how I was found without finding.

I was once a girl that wanted to be wanted, to be held, and to be the one someone held on to. I was the girl who asked instead of holding hands to hold fingers, because it made me feel something different. I was the girl who chose to stay the “findee” because I felt that was where the magic happens. I then became the girl who had no idea who she was, I became the girl who didn’t want to find anymore.

It was then a Monday, when the finding took place. I was found and the finding was not done by me, rather another “findee” in training.

I found that you can smell the seasons change and feel the weather drop. I also found that having the seasons fly away so rapidly is the reason why you’d have to sit the **** down and enjoy it. I had an honest moment when I realized that I love it when my bed is ragged and unmade at all times and when I take a swing of emotions when I’m drunk and alone. I love it because I know people don’t want to admit it’s a ****** time, this thing called “becoming an adult” or “doing you” while it seems as if people are doing them, greatly.

Sit the **** down, and have an honest moment. Take in the changing colors of the leaves and don’t wear a sweater when it’s ******* freezing out. Let go of being the tired findee, and let it find you.

And for the love of God, secure it when you’re found, as it will be spectacular and all, it could fly away.

There I see stardust,
in your bright eyes,
spinning galaxies of grey,
while some might say they're blue,
though it's not for them to say,
& all I know right now,
is my sun has gone away.

As I'm your Mother Earth,
& you're my dearest Sun,
you're shining on my heart,
& my relief when days are done,
a satisfying feeling,
in the victories we've won.

I sometimes call you poppa,
as I rub your happy tummy,
guess momma done it right,
cuz I cooked you somethin' yummy,

You are the only magic,
my heart has ever known,
cuz I'm doomed without your light,
I cannot do it all alone,
I am weary,
I am tired,
I'm a quickly aging bone,

You taught me toughen up
say it ain't as if you're dying,

you seem like you don't care,
only sometimes when I'm crying,

I know that you do love me,
but I feel I love you more,
I'd walk across a fire,
& swim to distant shore
I know that it's the truest love,
in this I can't ignore,

Your heart is where my home is,
& I couldn't say it truer,
& I love you more tonight,
as my days are getting fewer,

I see you try to help,
you wouldn't just keep tryin'
it's not too much your sold on,
or them theories that you're buyin',

You helped me see the beauty
now please I ask see mine,
I'm not asking for your sympathy,
or to set up for me a shrine,

I only want your hand,
to walk with me awhile,
down the old back roads,
and then on the longest mile,
you are the ONLY one,
who can bring,
my happy smile.

Cherie Nolan © 2017

everyone feels sad
angry
pathetic
used
abused
confused
reused
everyone uses
abuses
drinks
delays
betrays
I haven't been through the worst of it yet
I need to toughen up
This is just passing a kidney stone
From taking everything with two grains of salt
and it will get better down the road
sweet heart sweet beloved child hunny bae
cliche
I'll cut and burn you out of my brain anyway

Don't talk about your sadness,
They'll say you're an annoyance.
Don't talk about how terrified you are,
They'll say you're frustrating.
Don't talk about your struggles,
They'll tell you all about their triumphs.
Don't talk about what you're going through,
They won't understand.

Don't tell anyone anything.
Simply cause it's pointless.
Struggles of the dead are valued more than those who are alive.
Nobody wants to sit with you and hear your sad story.
They want you to toughen up and get over it.
And that's not what you want to hear.
So don't say anything to anyone.

Dear Sensitive Souls,
They call us emotional, fragile and weak as though these are the only words to describe us. Did they not see beyond the fact that we feel too much? that we are also empathetic and compassionate? Did they overlook all the beautiful qualities that came along with being sensitive.

So often we took our sensitivity as a curse for making us drown in an ocean of emotions. For being hurt by noticing the intricacies in people's body language, attitude and hesitations. For leaving us sore, drained at the end of the day. For making our problems look so insignificant in the eyes of others that we wouldn't even feel like opening up because if we did, word would just spill and eyes would just flood. For making us feel no one would understand the intensity of our emotions. For just letting us feel we were weak because every word, every vibe, every energy would just penetrate right through our heart leaving us to feel broken.

For making us feel so overwhelmed that it would be a struggle to get through the day. For making us face their statements and questions "Why are you so emotional?" "You're like a volcano ready to just explode" "Just toughen up" "You're such a mess". Sensitivity initially left me feeling so weak and broken for being affected so easily at the littlest of
things.

But over the years I met beautiful and kind souls who admired sensitivity as one of the rare and crucial part of humanity. Spending time with them changed my perspective about sensitivity and started to embrace it as a part of me.

The word "Sensitive" that once sounded like an insult became a compliment. The sensitivity I used to once spend my day hating became something so beautiful to me. It was when I started to embrace my sensitivity did I allow my emotions to be acknowledged, felt and be expressed.