^or the equivalent of the bushidō, i.e. way of the citizen: shimin dōro (shimindō).

it's truly electrifying watching the Olympics, the diversity of
bodies, it simply shames the football ballerinas
complaining about their tiaras
and fouls *****-whiskers tingling **** -
oh ooh oh god, the end of the world!
i finally find my body type,
Greco-Roman 130 kg wrestling,
or 105 kg weightlifting, no six pack...
you watch the Olympics long enough to
sterilise what's otherwise turkey-feeding
of image... i think the discus throwers
are hot, the archery from South Korean with
their porcelain pelicans shattering on the one touch...
the Croat beauty is atypical of
Slaven Bilić - itch - that's a diacritical mark
that's itchy - breve or acute... c̆ that alternative,
along with the c̆ech - Český Krumlov - chequers-ski -
Gucci and other associates of Milan did
a runner... we don't accept anorexic in the
Paraolympics... maybe we should enter old twiggy
daddy longshanks in the races... invent
Metaolympics...  so i found out where i'm designated,
130kg Greco-Roman wrestling and 105kg weightlifting...
that's my body... if i were to be tyrannised by
the dictatorial rule of volleyball and football
i'd be nowhere... no spectrum, no difference...
some like Twiggy Ramirez at the ping pong shoo
(**** **** ****... believe me,
non-purpose onomatopoeia usage is a replacement
of sensibility knocking, i use it when i just
want a sound, not necessarily an accessible
direction of finalising a meaning) -
but watching the Olympics is like watching
the Greeks under Roman rule... the marble genius
of the spectrum of sizes... and coerced differences
ploughed into one...
which had me bewildered about the other duality,
i always thought that the Spartan way of life
was about raw physicality... that all Spartans
had to be physically fit, ten potato sacks on their
shoulders running up Etna...
and that the Athenians concerned themselves
with aesthetics of the arts and clues...
it's not about athletics at all...
i'm a Spartan in that respect, sure, i donned
the long hair like any Spartan might,
men with long hair, women with a Niqab, whatever,
Satan's postbox as the crude English myth said it was...
i might go and see a ballet, but let me tell you,
any first act of ballet is tedious... you can't warm up
to liking any ballet in the first act...
it's all downhill during the second and third acts,
but the first act is horrid...
i realised that there was another dimension of
the Spartan life, it's not the physicality at all...
Spartans' physicality is about efficiency,
we have weightlifters in Sparta, but we have
bodybuilders in Athens, the former concerns itself
in pragmatic matters, the latter in aesthetic matters...
same in art... the Spartan way concerning mental
aptitude is to do with the basics, with very little,
a minimalism, a park bench, a few beers,
a conversation... otherwise? the Athenian reign on
ballrooms, cocktails, royal dinners, flamboyance,
degeneracy, and outright excess...
forget the Olympic plus, the variations of bodies...
footballers and anorexic catwalk models...
we're talking blubber fetishes of Rembrandt -
then into the psychic life of Sparta - simplicity,
twinning with the Japanese way of life...
over and over again... simple fulfils perfection
by not competing, so self-absorbed it is,
so solipsistic it will remain... and it is an art-form
the Spartan life, if i get my sleep,
have my tobacco, a bottle of whiskey and a few beers,
a white page... the end.
the Athenian model discounts what that famous
Spartan argued for: carpenters, plumbers,
better than the claims of being a "son of god",
he broke out, on the prescription that ****** him
by the authorities: deus ex machina -
try imitating him, it's harder than you think.
the Athenian model of the arts and impracticality -
the Spartan model of geometry and practicality -
the Olympics taught me that the Spartan way of life
is not solely concerned with physical exercises,
that the physicality of body be the sole concern,
that one is to perfect the body...
the Spartan way of perfecting the mind is just as rigid
as the body demands... the pentagon of an event,
how strained is your hearing, your eyes or your tongue?
it concern the simplicity of all things being perfected,
rather than the Athenian counter of the complication
of all things being unlearned and in pyramidal schematics
expected: courtesy of approaching a king...
the dinner arrangements, the starter fork, the main meal
fork, the dessert fork... a Spartan would just look at it
and say: they can use chop-sticks because the chef
knew how to cut into bite size... i'll forget the knife
and use the one fork throughout the meal...
she better be wearing that crown of hers throughout
the meal... otherwise she's no queen, i'll just watch
her slurp the soup with that Mt. Fuji balancing on her head...
**** the airs, and all of Jane Austen.

Ballerina stance leaner
porcelain poised demeanor
lined up for a chance at that old 500 gram repeater.
Yeah, a little firecracker,
a little fire eater.
Twiggy figure, ****** fire dome where her little wires teeter.
Excellent muse material
my ***** optics viewed ethereal
Beauty, and she knew it.
Arrogance.
Noted, duly.
Pittsburgh's resident fire ant, with a grace to match her face
And a whole crew of troglodytes racing to get a taste
So thanks Angela Chase;
I prefer the fantasy too.
And thanks to you my chickens won't be sleeping easy in their coup.
Loop Jabberwocky with Calligraphy
and dabbled in polygamy. purpose:
****** cyst bubbles to the surface.
Misinterpret the tongue touching and hand clutching,
you were baby girlie thumb-*******
But thought more than twice about it when it came to dumb-*******.
Pretty face: check
Depression: not yet
Appreciating phonemes, but still a nervous wreck
false carrot tops to bed, awkward with the ***** work.
Near waif redhead. Pittsburgh Boys. the city lurks
It's been a minute since the girl scouts got at me, I bought it.
Hop in the DeLorean tell Lauren that I'm off it.

My mother once told me I was adorable.
She said so with a light smile and a soft voice.
I was young and impressionable,
And forever thought -I was adorable.

My friend once told me I was pretty.
She said so with a wide smirk and a sour tongue.
I was young and somewhat twiggy
And never thought -I was pretty.

My love tells me I am very beautiful.
He says so with a caring grin and a loving tone.
I am young and quite suitable
And often think -yes, I am beautiful.

i waited there.  i waited for hours.  i waited for days.  no one ever came.

seasons changed, leaves fell, the ground hardened and snow caked every treetop.  and still no one came.

one day a woman with a child walked by.  they were not who i was waiting for.  they crunched along the leaf-strewn path, nodded a greeting toward me, and continued on.  so i kept waiting.

it rained hard and often that spring.  the path was unclear, and the trees were bent in exhaustion.  flower buds wrapped themselves in blankets of green as they reached toward the soft, muddy ground, trying to find a bed.

one great tree stood tall on the edge of the forest.  it was split down the middle, into two distinct twin trees, each competing to reach the top of the surrounding canopy first.  the bark peeled as the twins stretched and grew.  as the years passed the twins became tired, and so they stopped racing and waited instead for something new to come into their lives.

i decided i would no longer wait.  i walked along the path, kicking dead leaves out of the way, their arms curling around their bodies for warmth.  i whistled, i skipped, i picked flowers and weeds to make you a bouquet.  i wandered for days and found nothing.  and so i waited again for you.

there was a patch of violet hyacinth flowers along the path.  they sprung from the ground and surrounded an old tree stump, as if shielding it from harm.  their leaves were an impenetrable gate that could wait all summer, protecting their beloved, lost tree.  the stump would always be safe.  no matter how long it remained there.

in the fall, a twiggy stickling of a tree dropped most of its sun bleached red leaves.  one fell into my hood.  i took it out and twirled it between my fingers.  the days were getting shorter, and seeing the sun light the remaining leaves was like watching the branches start on fire.

i wandered toward the edge of the forest and sat against the largest tree i could find.  the tree was split down the middle, and each half was just as tall as the other.  i decided this was the king tree of the forest.  i fashioned two crowns out of the hydrangeas and mountain laurel i picked on my journey and hung them on the lowest branch of each twin king.  i laid the red leaf i picked out of my hood in the crevice where the twins split from each other, and bowed to the king of the forest.  as i marched away i hummed a tune i can only describe as majestic.

i am still waiting.  the daisies and dandelions dance in the wind to pass the time.  although there are burrs on my socks and bug bites on my knees, i will continue to wait.  i'll wait for days, for years.  i will wait for you.

America on a map!
Imagine the northeast corner.
I am in Vermont riding the Amtrak southbound. It's raining.
The clattering of wheels tearing through rusty iron tracks.
Forehead against the cold window's glass,
I hear a steam whistle.
I look out the window: grey, drizzling.
We roll,
past the barbed-wire fences that crown the prison fence,
past great, soggy fields littered with old tractors, and misty mountains far behind,
past brown silos that rise up, thick and crowned with silver heads,
past a deer leaping through a rainy field,
past a propane company--five great, white propane tanks,
past a marsh, harpooned by a telephone pole--a sparrow jumps off the wire,
a cemetery on a green hill,
little brick towns,
the Interstate--rainbow colored tipi in a field behind,
past a great, charcoal cliff, hard with sharp creases like a crumpled piece of black construction
        paper buried,
past a Sunoco station--green dumpster in the parking lot,
into a thick wood--past the cold rocks,
past brown leaves poking through the dusting on forest floor,
past all the pines, which have dandruff,
past twiggy sapling branches, only leaves withered and curled like dried jalapenos,
over a bridge--the great, cold river, wide and glassy--islands of ice and snow--the riverbank dirt is
        hard.
The bell dings thrice.
The train begins to slow.
It stops, jerks me back in my seat.
The steam whistle blows.
I look out the window.

Concrete platform, dark red station & roof,
a crowd of boys and girls, standing with perfect posture in sharp blue uniforms, hats adorned with
        golden crests,
they march on the train
and fill up the seats
of The Great Metal Snake: hollow and in it people sit,
The Great Metal Snake: slithering down the state,
It will leave me in a small city soon,
at an overcast station,
and slither down to D.C.,
and slither back, with the oily clatter of spinning iron wheels . . .
We took the snakes,
out of of our nightmares,
slimy green sliding through cupped hands to jump and bite your cheek, hanging like a lanyard,
or sliding through the sweat of jungle-floors waiting to bite ankles,
or coiled in redbarns, on piles of hay with spiders dropping down cold open windows in front of
        full moon,
full moon: silver train wheel.
I hear the steam whistle.

We took the snakes,
out of our nightmares,
dissected them with scalpals,
nodded and walked to the drawing board then built.
Decades later, the unveiling:
The platform crowd leans over the tracks and looks,
the bell dings thrice,
the steam whistle hisses,
the engine is coughing,
wheels are chugging--
around the corner He came,
with great, clear eyes like glasses:
black, iron Anaconda of Industry.
His brothers are barreling
From New York to Sacramento,
Siberia to Stalingrad,
Italy to France,
under the English channel,
down Africa.
From Burlington to Brattleboro--
barreling down the state--
I am riding His brother home.

I look like my dad.

My mom looks like Audrey Hepburn,
with a dash of Twiggy thrown in
for good measure,

but I,
I look like my dad.

(My dad, for the sake of clarity,
looks nothing like Audrey Hepburn
or Twiggy.
He’s more the George Clooney type -
which is a great look for George Clooney
and for my dad -
but not
for a girl who wanted to look like
Princess Di,
or Cindy Crawford,
or  Julia Roberts,
or Gisele…)

A woman now,
wiser now,
older now,
I look in the mirror and know that -
all things progressing as they usually do -
a time will come
when the mirror will be the only place
I will see his face.

And I hope,
when that time comes,
I can still remember

how to look at myself through those eyes
that knew I was beautiful long before I even knew my own name:

How to look
like my dad.

My back hunches
Like a stuffed bookcase in a corner
Too full
My back laden with possibility
I find myself lost in a maze
Of what should be tranquility
Except you lurk there
Your eyes filled with miserable possibility
I've watched your pale fingers
Turn into twiggy claws
And your green eyes
The ones that look like the sea
Turn cracked and dark
Under the light of the grey sun
She clutches your shoulder
Cackling at how I search
For an exit
And exit from this maze
A maze of possibility
Her stature slouched and heavy
Her hands cold and grey
Stroke your thick hair
And I see the disgust in your eyes
And taste it on the air
I struggle through
Getting closer to you
Trapped in a maze of
Possiblity

My faith
is a great weight
hung on a small wire,
as doth the spider
hang her baby on a thin web,
as doth the vine,
twiggy and wooden,
hold up grapes
like eyeballs,
as many angels
dance on the head of a pin.

God does not need
too much wire to keep Him there,
just a thin vein,
with blood pushing back and forth in it,
and some love.
As it has been said:
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love.
So if you have only a thin wire,
God does not mind.
He will enter your hands
as easily as ten cents used to
bring forth a Coke.

He sat strapped into his chair like a shrunken scarecrow.
A motorized miniature from the Wizard of Oz, roaming the yellow brick road in his chrome chariot.
His clothes hung from his stick thin limbs like fresh wash on a clothesline.
As new as the day his Mom brought them home from the store.
Adournments for a body on display, not designed to be used.

Around and round circles ring, whole, symmetric complete.
But the coil of life, puzzle pieces in a whirl, must be free, infinite, unfettered.
The text misprinted, the logic destroyed, the flesh misshapen, the extremties unusable.

Tied to his wheelchair like the scarecrow to his rack, guarding a field of linoleum on the hospital ward.
His eyes blind to color and light, I saw only clouds as I peered into his mind with my inquisitive scope.
The boy's hair had the texture of straw on his nubbin head and he smelled of dry leaves before the winter's chill.
His useless limbs twisted and fine, delicate as dried twigs, they draped his John Deere in the vegetable garden of his imprisoned life, bound with the barbed wire of his treacherous genes.

He could move his head, and played a game of cat and mouse to us tinmen, who lumbered by his throne with our toolboxes full of bright scopes and latex gloves, frozen saucers and wasp sharp stings.
His head would bow, limp upon his neck like an overripe sunflower at the end of its stalk.
As our footsteps grew louder his Jack-in-the-box head would fly up, a clown's grin upon his silly face.
Was this the boy or his disease we would wonder despite the reruns of his show.
What could he know? This crumpled moonbeam parading as a child in rumpled clothes.

But one day upon a whim, I took him for a ride into the big blue sky and over the rainbow.
I grabbed the handles of his chair and slowly, slowly began to spin.
His head shot up like a shooting star, his twiggy limbs stiffened even more.
Faster and faster, I whirled him and twirled him.
A twister on the hospital floor, sending doctors, nurses and patients diving for cover as we spun, building like cotton candy strands.
His mouth opened wide, a huge smile spread across his face like sunshine pouring over a mountain's edge.
Beams of light speared through the clouds that filled his eyes.
A rusty hinged croak jumped from his throat as he hee-hawed a laugh as I flung him to the moon, ruby red slippers upon his feet.

In a few days, modernistas will flock to Palm Springs to ogle its healthy roster of mid-century gems.

There will be home tours, double-decker bus tours, fundraisers, art receptions and cocktail parties. At every turn, is an opportunity to embrace your inner modish self and dress the part.

Don’t worry, you won’t be alone. All the parties are rife with guests in fun retro apparel. Everything from caftans and A-line shift dresses to graphic prints and knee high boots.

“It's nostalgia for a bygone era and we dress up because it feels great when you are surrounded by stunning midcentury modern architecture and vintage cars. It makes me want to put on gloves and a pillbox hat and sip martinis - plus it makes for great photos,” said Lisa Vossler Smith, executive director of Modernism Week, who likes to dress the part as well. Modernism Week runs Feb. 16-26.

The mod-style which originated in London in the 1960s is all about sleek and simple silhouettes.

“Clean-tailored lines and lots of black and white define mod fashion for me,” Vossler Smith said.

Pegged ankle-length pants, colorful tights, Mary Jane heels and sweater twin sets also come to mind.

For inspiration, Vossler Smith turns to the likes of Twiggy, Edie Sedgwick and fashion designer Mary Quant, because of their iconic and forward-thinking mod style.

“But I also look to old movies and TV for inspiration. "James Bond," “Batman,” “Get Smart,” “Gidget,” and my favorite, “Breakfast at Tiffany's,” are great for inspiring new vintage looks from my daily wardrobe. Sometimes I even throwback to a little Rosalind Russell "Auntie Mame" or Grace Kelly influence - on a good hair day,” she said.

Her favorite vintage item is her 1960s leopard print, pointy-toe boots. “I wear them all the time,” she added.

Much like the classic, simple and timeless architecture of the homes and buildings that signify mid-century modern - mod fashion has had a lasting effect on popular culture and current design.

There are new, vintage inspired lines, such as the ones created by New York based Lisa Perry who led a discussion at last year’s Modernism Week on the mod looks that make up her collections.

Palm Springs’ own Trina Turk, who is known for her bold prints and vintage inspired designs , will present a “Trina Turk + Mr. Turk Fashion Show” poolside at the Modernism Week Show House on Feb. 21.

Palm Springs and the rest of the Coachella Valley is full of thrift shops and specialty boutiques teeming with outfits perfect for a mod party. You can go new – Turk’s flagship store is in Palm Springs – but it’s a lot of fun and rewarding to dig through thrift shop racks for that signature outfit.

“We really have great stores throughout the desert,” Vossler Smith said.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses

Start by caaaaarefully removing your outermost layer of flesh - lather generously; rinse passionately; re-evaluate your life with a fine-toothed comb and carefully remove the parasites of your predetermined partiality
- String them up with clothespins to wither and flake in a badly scorched sky

- Acquire an ice pick of high quality, frosted on memories of all your ex-lovers and their numbing tongues. Begin to chisel at your own very delicate bone structure. Cease action only when the jawbone resembles the claws you disregarded in your 3 AM awakening punctured with crrreeeeaks and hazy in a soft red fog

- Dust your eyelid with arsenic until they're heavy enough to crush a small child. Tell a good joke, or two - which part of a vegetable are you not supposed to eat again? Might as well eat all of it, him, her, them - but not the wheelchair. In retrospect, pull all of your eyelashes out as well - no sense in prolonging the sought-after blackness

- Tie your lover's ruptured spleen around your waist to add a few pounds - god forbid you get too twiggy and crackle and fall into an inevitable pit of self-loathing. Stick straws through puke green nostrils and **** maggots out of gaping eye sockets. Line your lips in borrowed blood.

- Embroider your initials onto my skin and never forget where you came from.

there are loose leaves
at the bottom of my teacup
I rarely finish drinking the thing
- instead I stare through the dark transparent liquid
at barely-floating twiggy tea leaves that
escaped from the bag
I am forgetful
and unforgiving of myself
I am too easily entranced by
lights and thin branches that dance above muddy grass
my eyes see things breathe
like marbled floors and brick buildings
I am so enraptured by rabbit fur
and tree bark
rabbits prance along the neighbourhoods
and I love the game of seeing how close I can get to them
before they leap away

when I think of bliss,
I think of not knowing what is coming next
more even, not caring

when I think of bliss,
I think of running after rabbits
or petting a tree
I do these things when no one’s looking
so no one catches the crazy in me

there are loose coffee grounds
at the bottom of my mug
caffeine kills me
and I love the taste
of the cruelty
but my body is hurting
again
like last year
where fainting and falling and confusing my words in conversation
arose every time I felt an anxious feeling
nudge its way in deeper
maybe it’s just way of giving up
my body surrendering in complete so that I feel full effect
of how badly I’ve treated it
it’s hurting again
so much that sometimes I can barely get out of bed
or get off the bus
and walk the trek home in the nippy night

I see rabbits prance along the neighbourhoods
and oh look, I am repeating myself
again
I hardly notice because my head is hurting
like there are a million and one hurricanes
inside of it
less of a crash and more like a rush
there is a difference between headaches
and light headedness
both hurt though
still I’m ashamed I’m lightheaded all the time
there is a weakness in it
that only frail people can relate to,
the scatterbrains, the unconcentrated, the anorexics, the cancer patients
the sick-of-some-sort
what am I?

In ancient woodland
this child roamed,
lost in nature,
briar & loam.
Mapping clearings,
badger setts,
the places where
the deer had slept.
Picking berries
hops & flowers,
lying under
stripling bowers.
Until evening's
amber gloam,
with twiggy hair
racing home.

We are
the creatures
of the night
no tears for us
as we soar
taking on
such glorious
         heights
up through
trees, up
through the
invisible threads
between stars
in silvery wefts
I will bring home
the nourishment
to my little ones
nestled in their
warm nesty twiggy
holes safe curled
in lairs
we are
the protectors
of the light
that starts
in darkness
and arcs
        like a flare
we ride alone
but when we give
we yield
completely in
full thrusts and
curlicues,
glow-in-the
dark patterns
as leaves
cascade and
comets fall
around
the shadows
then, in the
morning's first
sun peeking
I land and find
that peace
a kind of
proximity to
that love
I'm
  seeking



'

to lift a canopy of shrubs
its best to trim
otherwise Twiggy
with her own violatile techniques
will become rampnant
and may need airier handling.

I practiced my sassing in the bathroom mirror
in all seriousness until a grin and a giggle escaped in spurts.
Watching unfiltered laughter chase after
the string of bad words exiting my ****** mouth.
Lethal darts trailed by curls of silk ribbon.

Insulting my reflection wasn't nearly as satisfying as racing around on my bike
letting filthy words fly into wind that tangled my hair.
As far as I was concerned there were too many things to curse at
outside, where I belonged.
Less spankings, more freedom.

It's fair to say I was an active *******,
never waiting around for reactions.

This was my first time trying on the four letter word sweater.
I certainly didn't know how to wear it. Felt funny,
the way your stomach feels when it drops.
I liked this swearing business.
I liked it a lot.

My days were rich with aimless curses
tasting of cotton candy and I fancied myself quite the sass master.
Telling chattering squirrels that they were "stupid *****"
as they spryly leapt limb to limb.  I was filled to the brim with
pleasure found in profanity.
I rode on towards the frosty haired couple driving my way.
I considered ditching the bike to run laps around the snail paced Pinto
while chanting all of my favoritest swears.
But they were "old *****" so I left them to that.

I continued to grace cats, curbs, and cars with cross words,
smiling all the while.
It felt good
Real good.

I told off every ****** thing on my block
several times a day.
My seat melded to heinous purple bike's.
Handle bar tassels whipping my wrists, shaming me.
Beads on my spokes telling me they were sick
with the click and clack of my wheels turning, covering every inch
of that dead end street.

One day I rode swiftly down a retired grassy path behind my little house
towards the majestic tree that had cradled me in its branches many times.
It's massive leaves had raised the hair on my slender arms
as I hung with my crown
upside down, legs halved over steady limbs.

It had met my mother as well.
Her gentle voice coaxing me from its arms for supper,
sitting pretty on our back porch,
petting our fat grey cat and pondering things beyond the tree and I
in the early evening glow.
Upon my approach I can only assume that the tree was pleased to see me
despite my new found nastiness.
Wise enough to know that it wasn't a "dumb *******"
and that it wasn't going to "go to hell"

and neither was I.

So it moved from an ancient position and proceeded
to lace its twiggy paws into my hair,
yanking me and my deep seated smugness
promptly off the old bike.
Contrary to my prior endeavors mastering the casual cuss,
I opened my mouth finding curses replaced with crying
for my mother, who couldn't hear me,
resting 40 miles away through 6 feet of still soft soil.

Rooted in the same dirt, both my mother and the tree.
Silently vowing to love me well. Keeping each other company
in sediment whispers, echoing.

All-Ziggy in--- one
He's the dockers
Let's zoom in clickers- - -
The computer meets
Mr. hackers
Deleted all my cookie's
All we need is love and crackers
Am I bookedslightly jammed jar?
Just like Romeo huh? love-scarred?
So hurried ((Agatha Christie))

Overwhelmed worded
Overboard been thrown
Inside her mystery
drunks of the
Dynasty

Lippy all snappy
G-Q this isn't a
book quiz

I Quit Hippety-Dippetty
Hungry Hippos
Hop(scotch) drinkers
Queen hoarder of junk
ZZZZ Tiara with *****

Zillions got jealous
Charlie of the sea
tuna fish clunky
Where is the Pasta
So Sticky (Seashells),
Bowie bow-ties Z
ZitiMan of La Mancha
Like a muzzle puzzle
Mr. Mancini Ronzoni
Meet musical genius
Bowie**

((Ziggy Stardust Wish)

Ziggy zero 000-000

The zoo-keeper Mr. Bentley
So zealous fast food
jealous and devious
Mistress of the
Agatha got tedious
Jean Jeanie magician

Music notes and
  Stripey stars Bass
Her speakeasy pass

((Breakfast at Tiffany)).....**
The Auditor of the
Audry Zig Zag
Putting on the ritz
Hip Hop Hepburn
Zigziggary
book narrowminded
Zachery? Broad-sworded
Ziggy Star Dust
David Bowie talent to trust
The ground
control___**
to Major Tummy Zonky
And Slinky got stepped on
Over her ring pinky

Zionist Benny and the Jets
Elton John pianist hits

Zoonotic Gin and tonic
zigzag Zebra
style purse
Where are her show
Polish up my poodles
The restaurant was cursed
Zagat rating
leash she went out*
hypnotic ZZzzzz's
Queen buZzzzz Twiggy
Fame whose to
blame
Zoe her macaroni
Twist and snout Grill

Cherry blossom
Shiba Uni
Was her best thrill
his zig-zag tongue
Ziggy playing rugby
She was stretched

((Ziggy Book like Gumby))

Zonked spaced out
the Zonka truck
Phantom
Theatre Dig her Dorothy
red slippers

Ziggy Stardust
Disney Pixar Flippers
Totally Rad Toto
Zoe met Joey GoGo
Felt like Chop Suey
Agatha high drama
African Queen Jungle
Dr. Suess bald eagle boss
No ******* to twinkle
The bad day of
tendinitis
The ringing cheering ear

Martha my dear
Never beat Beatles
Jim Carey hell of a
sleigh rideTinnitus
At the Marilyn
Millionaire bar-hop
bus stop wiggles
Some snags fishnets
  Trump it up
everyone shut up_$$$
The *******_
Zillion Price tags
on the plane
The Easter basket
Just Sunny she's over easy
eggs ramble

Ziggy Scandals
Odd-couple Oscar
Trumpets Tony Randal
Zip of the lip
Miss fuss ***
She needs her
diapers

Beach Boys Truffles
Sherry baby got poison
mushrooms
The bed end__
(All Z) initial bookmarker
The end of her sleepwear
Her backpack bad crow
eye pack
and zigzagged---///---
Ozzy Oz land
Arrowsmith dead-on
nailed it, witch
A to Zzzz's H Harrods
Her London's hair
The rock (Fritz) That's
Showeyyy biz
Cleopatra
He's the Mantra zestier
Zoological Mixed greens
Ziggy zig-zag salad

All wormy Planet
Humming and rhyming
Wiggly but not ugly_>>>
here's to all of
you Ziggy Huggy

I come home to the darkest it’s ever been.

Every light choked off; there’s a cinch somewhere in the hose.
It’s the stillest it’s ever been here, for ten years.

The last time it was this still the trees grew a different way:
        not all twisted, sideways and flat

        not planks and sheets.
They grew straight up and down,

        but with branches going left to right,
        but with leaves swallowing sunlight.
They were spindly, fat, twiggy and thick.
not stapled, smashed, ground or shaped
not nailed, glued, pressed into place.

I come home to the quietest it’s ever been.
Every sound gagged; the fan’s gummed up.
It’s the most silence this place has heard for ten years.
The last time it was this quiet Forest ruled the place.

The ground below will never grow
green or brown extensions of carbon earth
-not since the concrete took up hearth
-not since ten years ago.

Every year,
Like autumn leaves I shed my friends off these twiggy bones
Because they grow too tired

Every year,
This depression it addicts me, a cycle Id rather forget
But it keeps me guessing

One of these years,
I will be found dead, hanging from our garage.
I’ll lay a tarp, I’ve written my will, it’s all put together.

Because every year,
they give up on me just like the years before
I isolate all the same.

Maybe some year,
They can reach out, and see through all my fog
I swear im not boring, just scratch my surface
You’ll see

This year,
I’ll live, to tell the tale, of losing my seasonal friends
But next who knows, I might be alone
I’ll write you when I’m gone.

I remember that maroon shirt
A size too large so it hung like a sack
Over my twiggy, seven year old limbs
It was rough and scratchy against my belly
I absolutely hated the color
I was one for turquoise and scarlet and sparkles
This was a cloth of rusty mud, it was purple gone terribly wrong

Of course I protested
Whining at my mother like a cub at her lioness
Why should I have to wear this ugly thing
That you brought yesterday for no reason at all

And then you said there was a reason
In that quiet, somber way you get when you homilize to me
That tone that makes me scared enough to flatten my unruly hair

It was the first time I heard the words
Mass Shooting
But it was far from the last

I went to school that day
I tried to tell the others
Some had heard a snippet or two from mom and dad
Before being sent out of the room
But most just looked at me like I had a third eyeball in my head
They shrugged it off and went back to foursquare
They never gave a **** about the news if it wasn't Charlie Brown
And they never really talked to me more than they needed to

The grownups hurried us all along
Avoiding all mention
Of Virginia Tech
And they would nod and turn away when I told them
How was I to know that they didn't have any answers either

I sat on the swingset
The cyan dome that seemed so familiar in its vast vacancy
Was now so empty and abandoning
The bark chips were suddenly silent
In juxtaposition to my mind

I mouthed out the words
A feeling in my mouth like a jawbreaker too large to fit it but crammed in anyways
I didn't have the words for it then

How could someone do that?
How could someone just walk up
With a special stick and some bullets
And end twenty six lives
Like they were swatting at flies
And how could everyone
Be so calm and carefree
When so much harm had come
When so much blood ran
Turning to a rust color in my mind
Like that god-awful shirt

The day was done
I threw the shirt in a bottom drawer
I never wore a maroon thing again until I was thirteen
I felt glad to be rid of that jawbreaker
And the strange feelings in my gut and neck

But it was not over
None of us were rid of it

Aurora
Sandy Hook
Breaking News: Mass Shooting
San Bernardino
Pulse
Breaking News: Mass Shooting

Guys, one of our competitor's teamates was killed
It was a ******-suicide by his father on him and his mother
So please be considerate

Good God, how many has it been
When did it begin
What should we do
And how did I get so numb
To my semiannual jawbreaker moments

But all I hear is
Who do we blame?

The foreign ones?
Let's blockade them
Because it's not like we were ever that way

Maybe the ones with ****** up minds?
Yeah, they're the violent ones
It cuts me deeper than any work of my own blades

But god and the NRA forbid
That we have shootings
Because we have the means to
That we have a radicals in the U.S.
And they only came from us
But when has policy ever made sense?

All I know is
That we can't keep going numb
To the jawbreakers in our mouths

The Alert
says I
should take a shower
now
but
the spray comes thin
like Twiggy from
the 70s
like Kate Moss from
magazines that can't turn a
profit like David Lehman's
warm shower trickling down
a cold April back
but
now
it's the tip of March
and the thin rain
comes
like my Blood loving
into mist memories

Spring And All**

By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast -- a cold wind. Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen

patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees

All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines --

Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches --

They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All about them
the cold, familiar wind --

Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf

One by one objects are defined --
It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf

But now the stark dignity of
entrance -- Still, the profound change
has come upon them: rooted they
grip down and begin to awaken

If by the end of this poem it isn’t perfect,
It’s not qualified to be seen by others eyes.
It’s not good enough.
I might find the poem pleasing,
But it doesn’t matter what I think.

Poetry is often an extension of me.
Recollection of an event,
Reflection of a day
Withholding multiple purposes
Even the purpose to have no purpose at all.

If by the end of this poem I don’t have your attention
Why bother writing in the first place?
I write, you listen, we agree
Or at least have you see from my point of view.
My poetry has standards, regulations, and rules
It must consist of significance.
Errors are not allowed, and frowned upon like a disapproving mother.

And then I found Hello Poetry.
A site designed for people to write in spite of what other might think.
I pass through hundreds and hundreds of poems each day,
But never do I question its worthiness to be seen.

Let’s go back to when I mentioned a poem is an extension of me.

If by the end of this poem it isn’t perfect,
Then I’ve done exactly what needed to be done;
Letting it be seen regardless if my mind thinks it's good enough.

It’s time I smash perfection
Snap off it's ***** little head
And twist off it's twiggy little legs
No better than a barbie doll
That really looks like no one at all…

It's time a banish perfection for good
And it's good for nothing existance.

I’ve already started breaking the glass ceiling which is close above me.

Sometimes I feel like Alice in Wonderland,
Trapped in a house too small for her body,
Or locked in a room, feeling so tiny
The key out of reach, but I can see it daunting me.

Either I feel suffocated with the walls closing in,
Or the cliché of, so close but yet so far.
We have all been there.
It feels endless when we’re in it
But once we are out and looking back,
We realize it wasn’t so bad.

When I look back, I catch myself saying,  
“That's it? That's all I was worried about?”

But I understand, when we are in, we are in it.
We are neck high in ****, and the **** is still rising.
Nothing feels worse, because we have nothing to compare it to.

It feels like we will never survive this
But somehow we do.
We always do.

When the world feels so big and I feel so small,
I try to remind myself of Alice.
She got out somehow.
Either on her own, or someone came along.

We are not alone.
We are just like Alice;
Sometimes feeling trapped
But once we look back
It will only feel like a distant dream…

Someone will shake us, and they will say,
"Good Morning, you over slept, it must have been a great dream."
And we will tell them,
"No, I fell in this Hole and it was hell, but I got out like Mad Hatter, and even made some friends along the way."
They will say,
"Now that you're awake, I made breakfast, would you like some Toast on the side?"
Then we would just look at them with the most Curious of eyes...

His charcoal black eyes seemed slightly near,
A twiggy grin spread from ear to ear,
A light frost covered his carrot nose,
With his branchy arms in open pose.

A red coloured hat sat on his head,
While a soft rope was his belt instead,
A yellow wool scarf lay on his chest,
The snowman did look his handsome best.

But with the hot sun he would go down,
And his melting face would wear a frown,
Then one evening he would soon be gone,
Turned to a bundle of snow forlorn.