My Pen Is Uncapped

Oh, beautiful morning how I love you
I pour my coffee set at my desk
making a big mess
Looking at my notebook
ready to start my day
my pen is uncapped
My eyes is gazing at the blank pages
of true mystery that my brain will
set the ink to write what my heart bleeds
for all to read that comes from me
to a world of a poetic mind,

Poetic Judy Emery © 2004

It's getting hard in the RSA
even those who don't get paid have to pay
the insane tolls
the cops on petrol
just to get on there way
you under stand what I say
the difrance between we and they we have hi-def blue ray they have it hard desray it means destiny I don't have a plan to get a fan or a groupie I know you probably thinking this ****** mind is doodie but its my duty to make things know especially the things that aren't shown on tv like corruption or so called special selection and the detention of those who don't deserve it because you deserve it

I'm on buzz cause of this love I'm getting from my team it feels like a dream I'll rise to the top like cream but with skin like milk chocolate my imagination flows like water out of a facet, tap I've got talent in the rap and my connection to my soul  is uncapped
I'm just warming up like a kettle I'm like a precise metal in fact I'm talent in its purest form I should be on cable or at least the periodic table but registered as unstable because I'm on a hair trigger jack rabbit with my bad habits like talking about things I don't know then asking   About things I don't know you know making the unknown known remember my curiosity  been burning like an ember

I truly fear for our women ashamed of the cards they have been given or delt and the blows that have been felt on their surface and in their core these stories I hear just leave my heart sore I need to flyaway on the broken wings of my generation with the help of some recreation  to stop the exploitation of those who don't know better not because they could have Learnt better but been taught better you can call It third world problems I call it mankind problems because it affects us all and we're all one after all ilitaration is a mews helps send across my point of view so light bulbs flash ding an idea that's was a great example of onomatapia  it's a process of elimination in a  copulative form these thoughts and ties are more messy  then the perfect storm but I plan to help heal our nation not by confrontation but cooperation

I hope these notions stay in your mind like the blank slate sticks with the blind and the peace with the deaf order In the hands of the ref or better yet Organised chaos,
Because that's realistic But we didnt request it, It's like a pay off  see there I changed the rhyme scheme From aabb.Too abba It's redundant to say But it helps me see,
my potential so I know my credentials and knowing you is essential to keep your heart full your flaws on tour don't think it  trifle but gargantuan like Rabelais' book but most wouldn't know his literature or calling any man sir  but they know facebook I hope these notions stay in your mind like the blank slate sticks with the blind and the peace with the deaf by now I'd  think you'd like to be deaf tired of my voice but I have no choice but to make a statement about what my emotional state is I hope these notions stay in your mind like the blank slate sticks with the blind and the peace with the deaf the name of this poem is emotional theft

All of the toothpaste has now been pushed from the tube.

Pushing the substance out was a simple task at first. When the toothpaste would overflow at the slightest compression when the cap was removed.

Day after day there was less and less minty paste within the tube, and this is when the struggle began. I pushed so hard that my fingers became reddened and sore just to get enough to produce a thin layer over the head of the brush.

As time progressed, there was scarcely anything left within the container, and that which remained started to harden and cling for its life on the edges of the tube.

The less that remained, the harder I pushed, and the more the tube resisted.

I put all of my weight on a large brush and compressed the plastic until I gave up with frustration. Then I just sat and stared at the mostly empty container of toothpaste. I contemplated why it would fight so hard to keep that last little bit.

I threw the container to the side and replaced it when the struggle became too much effort.

Then every day, for what seemed to be years, that tube sat in front of the mirror and never shrank in size. Even still, I'm not sure why I kept it there. There were moments when it looked up at me with its spiteful reassurance that this rubbery tube would never be fully devoid of its contents.

Even when other containers were completely emptied and discarded into the waste, this one stayed on the counter where it had always been.

I often wondered why I let it sit there for so long.
Decaying.

And then today something happened...
I saw your picture and realized I don't love you anymore.

All of the toothpaste has now been pushed from the tube.

This is the game, set and matching end-piece to what is known as:

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/385266/poetry-round-find-your-self-within/

by way of an introduction....

T'is season to move forward,
back to old acquaintances renewed,
sand, water and salty sun,
three lifelong friends who,
Auld Lang Syne,
never ever forget me

I get drunk on their eternity,
their celestial beauty,
and they, upon my tarnished earthly being,
muse and are bemused

unreservedly and never judgingly,
share shards of inspiration unstintingly,
we share, never measuring
this captain's humanity, his human efficacy,
by mystical formulae of reads or hearts

grains of sand, water wave droplets and sun rays,
and his beloved words, derived there from,
all only know one measure...
immeasurable
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/699991/adieu-my-crew-my-crew/
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Pilgrimage (Reunion)


at last to begin,
to begin the 'at last,'
this reunion occurs
this first day of June
where on my
body's flesh colored calendar,
X red-marked,
deeper than any real cut of despair


this morn, leave for familiar parts,
embarking 100 steps to that
Adirondack chair,
my name, my self,
(oh god at long last)
so often, long lovingly
revealed unto you


the garden's sundial welcomes me,
Prince, Guardian, of the gate to the green,
the green steppe way to bay and beach,
a brief song of "ring around the irises,"
blooming around him,
he issues,
to celebrate his own glory recalled,
his own purpled prosed long ago one ecrivez'd,
by having the third mate
ring the greened worn,
bronzed ship bell
upon conclusion of
his raising of the gate


shorts and T white hair shirt,
costume de rigueur
of this Peconic pilgrimage,
turban and baseball uncapped,
stepping humbly
toward that worn wood throne
where carved are
the initials of
my poetic friends,
and his vast modest,
Concordia of poetic essays


Those odd disordered
collection of aleph bets
that have been prepared for this hour,
are sun dappled,
breeze caressed,
wave watched,
a fresh redressing after a
dum hiems,
a long dark winter


all rise up welcoming with voices
tremulous yet oratory,
sing with a love so spectacular ,
Handel's Messiah Hallelujah Chorus,
au naturel


the armies of ants declare this a
Truce Day,
parading before me in formation,
the rabbits race
in elegant uniforms,
white tailed bemedaled, dress grays,
announcing their  showoff arrival
with a new across-the-lawn
land speed record


the dear **** deer,
familiar families and generational,
look upon this human and
grumble while chewing our shrubbery,
an act of sherwooded lawn high robbery
but perforce acknowledging our entrance,
by uttering a Balaam blessing/curse,
a neutralized
"****, they're back"


the seagulls on the dock,
sovereign state observers from
Montauk and the far island city,
sent by the mother winds superior,
observers and reporters to nature everywhere,
Summer Season of Man Has Begun


a few white wakes disturb the water's composure,
the early low arc'd sun has not peaked in strength,
at 10:00am, the temp just breaches 60 Fahrenheit,
the beach sand untrod, no unlasting human impressions,
no children's red pails yet to them decorate,
amidst the sea life's detritus and smooth licked pebbles


Enough.


each tree ring and grass blade demands a verse,
an all my own tributary accolade,
this too much to accommodate


a year ago I issued an invitation,
do so again for my word is my bond
my responsibilities, my *******,


there are chairs for all
on my righted round and my motet left,
here, there are
no Americans,
no Canadians,
no Aussies or Brits,
or Indians and Fillipinos,
no African or Asians present,
East nor West,
None Invited here,
Only Poets


even those hardy pioneer
West Coasters, a proud lot,
and my Southern family drawling,
and perhaps lessening the mourning
just a touch, a minute modicum,
all sit quiet in the admixture
of poets come to celebrate
the blessing to have been tasked,
to write from and of places we visit
in the cerebral,
and to imbibe each other's words


Three Hundred and Sixty Four Days ago,
I wrote :

We sit together in spirit, if not in body,
You join me in the Poet's Nook,
A few frayed and weathered Adirondack chairs
Overlooking the Peconic Bay,
Where inspiration glazes over the water,
And we drown happily in a sea of words...

I am exhausted.
So many gems (poets)
to decorate
My body, my soul

I must stop here,
So many of you have reached out,
none of you overlooked.

Overwhelmed, let us sit together now
And celebrate the silence that comes after the
Gasp, the sigh, that the words have taken from
Our selves, from within.

Once again, in your debt

Again,
I await your beckoning wave of hello,
greet you in your mellifluous native tongue,
iced drinks at the ready,
the opening ceremony already started,
when all are seats taken
we commence officially,
with a blessed

*"Now, let us begin"

.
The oceans are dying,
Coral reefs are bleached,
Ghostly acidic in the seas,
Climate is changing, not for Nero,
But for subjects who wait in whirlwinds
Eye, underneath uncapped mountain peaks,
And water is draining underground.  Where is
Reason, where is sense uncommon?  Not with
Elected hands who are wringing to lords of zero,
Whose legions are sent off, engaged in foreign wars,
To scathe, faraway dramas brought back home,
Politicians squabble, as they reel, cashing in,
Seals of unapprovals, witness hollow, low rings,
Infrastructure crumbles, above our dry heads,
And Nero plays his fiddle, in a land of perky dead,
John Lennon said NYC was in reality the new
Rome, soon set to burn, in a decade or so,
Nero knows, Nero plays, could give a ****'
Humanity is Nero playing his fiery fiddle
There is only one issue of news that matters,
Not bread, or circus, Kardashians, or deflated
Footballs, it is our survival, the earth, heating up,
Is angry and we are small, deaf, blind and numb,
A mankind of fools with Nero playing his fiddle.

Strange to be a few barstools down from you at O'Brien's. Yet, a decade away from you in time. Tim is handsome. I doubt that means anything coming from me, but I didn't exactly talk to him. Not much else I can say. You're still out of his league. Always dating down. Thank you.

When Tim went to the bathroom, I wanted to cut through the smoke and tell you I love you. Not in a gesture of romance. Not in an act of heartbreaking bravery. Really just to say it. I haven't said it to anyone in such a long time. I love you.

Before I saw you, I went to visit my sister at the hospital. Jessica switched to the night shift last week. She gets the pleasure of telling cranky old men no more Vicodin, and in act of mercy, God grants her a week of sunrises to be viewed from the wide windows of the 13th floor.

The nurse tending the desk told me Jess was making the rounds. I creeped into four or five dark rooms before I found her. Might've even woken a bald woman in an iron lung. Do they make iron lungs anymore? Looked like an iron lung.

Anyways, I found her in a room grabbing a meal tray and putting on its "kosher" lid to be trashed. "Hey, man. Henri, this is my brother Josh. Josh this is Henri," Jess introduced. I shook his hand.

He looked up at me through black, thick-framed glasses. Henri had one silvery capped tooth that became visible when he smiled. The smile crumpled and wrinkled his face like an old newspaper.

"If you want you can just stay in here," my sister said. "Henri's a cool guy and I need to go grab his sleeping medication."

I told her sure. Sat down next to Henri. He looked to be in his early sixties. Very lean. Sharp jaw. Large knuckles. If he ever stepped in a ring, I bet he made a hell of a fighter.

Henri removed his glasses. Placed them in his lap next to a collection of Chekov stories.  I told him I really liked Russian literature. No matter a person's class they always seem to have servants. A butler to tell them their molding slice of bread was ready, and a maid to serve it.

"I feel just as lucky. Your sister has treated me like I just walked in from Hollywood Boulevard." I asked him what he was in for -- like it was prison.

"Fractured hip. The most cliche of old-timer injuries. Not proud of it," he laughed softly. "I have been biking across the country and a little white sedan didn't take much notice of me -- well, until after they hit me."

****. I asked why he was making the journey. His wife died in the summer. His life stopped. "Life is measured in the stops," he told me. "When your job, your hobbies, sometimes even your friends all become irrelevant and time doesn't matter -- you've stopped. I locked myself in our house for a month. Told the kids I didn't want them to visit. I got the best woman on the planet. I don't feel guilty for taking her. Because believe me, I had to earn her," he looked to the side for a moment. Staring at the black television screen.

Then he told me that life may be measured in stops, but greatness is measured in starts. Journeys. I thought you'd like that, Ms. Anna. Henri then asked me that terrible question, "got a wife?" as if to make sure the conversation didn't center on him.

I told him I had gotten a divorce three years ago. He asked if I had moved on. I confessed, I've hobbled. His heavy brow grew heavier. His hands pulled the bed table to the middle. He asked me to hand him a pen off the dresser. He uncapped it. "What year were you born?" 1986.

"Okay, and you were divorced in 2009?" Yep. "And you haven't started over?" Nope. Henri wrote something on the napkin and pushed the bed table to me. With a shiver, a weight passed through me -- going upwards. The napkin read,

"Josh
1986-2009, 2012-"

"Don't waste three years of your life again."

I only went to the hospital because Jess has a friend she wanted to introduce me to. Her name is Macie, I think. Macie called in sick. I'll call it a fair trade. I've written too much again. I hope you read this late at night, and when you awake, I hope the coffee tastes new. Your newspaper isn't wet with rain. I hope your journey starts or restarts. You deserve the same unknown energy that seems to be coming from under the concrete.

You are the smell of the decaying leaves;
The leaves I long for when life is in bloom.
You are the soft thud of the door
As I slip out, unnoticed.
You are the breath I take, emerging from the frigid ocean,
And the light I illuminate upon my arrival home on the blackest of nights.

You are not, however the electricity,
Or lack thereof when the power surges in the midst of an essay.
You may be pleased to know that you are not that song
Overplayed on the radio that never fails to irk me.
You are also not the piu right before the mezzo forte,
For that is me. I am the piu preceding the mezzo forte.

I am the spare tire on the underside of your car,
And I am also the F sharp to the B natural, a few cents flat.
It may not surprise you that I am the negative sign you forgot to distribute,
And the feeling of snow seeping in through your boots.

You are not the feeling of snow seeping in a pair of boots.
You would like to know that you are the smell of a sharpie,
Uncapped for the first time, and you are the excitement of using it first.
You are even the taste of catching the first snowflake of the winter,
And eating the first s’more of the summer.
You are the chap stick, found in the pocket of the pants in the hamper,
Or perhaps even the twenty dollar bill in the other.

But I am the learner’s permit that went through the wash.
I am also the candle whose wick is drowned in its own wax.
I am not, however the smell of the decaying leaves.
You are the smell of the decaying leaves.
You will now and forever be the smell of the decaying leaves;
The leaves I long for when life is in bloom.

The desk is a refreshing change of pace from the
uneasy comfort of the bed. I
eye the flimsy container of trail mix
lying in wait, my lightly salted prey.
rolling from beneath the body-like warmth of my
blanket cocoon,
I stumble towards nourishment.

I attack my snack,
and settle into the
beeswax halo of drunk hung Christmas lights,
mistakenly onto an uncapped felt pen,
tip bleeding into a beige throw
bought for a newly redecorated room.

Unnoticed, the stain spreads,
advancing on the threads of the throw.
I will, perhaps, see it tomorrow
and curse silently,
and wonder if it can be
hidden by rearrangement and ultimately
decide that a little folding will do the trick.

Outside, the snow freezes a fresh exoskeleton,
primed for crushing the footprints of strangers.

Your bedroom is a carefully preserved time capsule,
a tribute to a fondly remembered time long past.
Though I have visited this small square room less than
feels right since our once tight-knit group dissolved, it is
kept as pristine as a display about a foregone era in a dark
and cluttered museum.  The walls still stand wearily in that
same stubborn shade between periwinkle and robin's egg,
the only difference is one unfamiliar poster-the rest have
hung steadfast in the same positions since you moved into this
bedroom from the one next door many years prior.  In the
corner across from your bed, rests the desk you have
used to hold some of your most valued items for as long as
we have traversed the undulating cycle between friendship
and acquaintanceship, including the now-empty terrarium that
bravely contained a wooly tarantula.  Your closet, still noticeably
bare, informs me, through a smattering of neon yellow t-shirts,
that you are still employed for the same landscaper. As we pass a
meticulously re-rolled cigar between us, two old and distant
friends, my vision drifts towards the dresser under the plain
windows, which overlook your claustrophobic backyard.  It is,
surely, an Ikea affair, for though it has the coloring of mahogany,
the wood has the unmistakable sheen of faux; but what compels me
to gaze at this dresser is not its questionable quality but the years
of graffiti scrawled across its drawers and walls in the sort of thick
black marker that might give one lightheadedness if uncapped for
too long.  I realize, suddenly, that this dresser is our monolith.

I express to you my incredulity that you have kept this dresser,
of all things, for so long, as a wry grin splits my mouth in halves.
Too many memories, you say, a melancholy tone suddenly echoing
through the small bedroom.  My grin fades, and I look closely,
recalling in a bright flash a multitude of intoxicant-fueled evenings-
you were always in that black pleather computer chair, while
always I sat on the bed, squished between or beside the
on-again-off-again couple.  The exact words inscribed upon this
Ikea monolith, I realize, are no longer of importance, for they
are largely insensitive, pejorative, and crude.  These words are
the spirit of a fading adolescence wasted in suburban bedrooms
and backyards, or in city basements and roofs, spawned by
countless cases of the cheapest beers available, by handles of
off-brand *****, by bags of substances in every shape and
size imaginable.  I am staring at a proclamation of a girl's
promiscuity on this very monolith when you exclaim that you
would give anything to have a time machine, to go back to those
days, that they were the happiest days of your life.  Though
outwardly I smile and offer a noncommittal expression of
sentimentality, inwardly I frown, struck by a wave of pity.  

Halfway between twenty and thirty, I am no longer the shy,
hasty, or withdrawn teenager who spent hours cooped up in
a stagnant bedroom, ****** and bored. I can suddenly perceive
exactly how little you, my old friend, have changed, and I am
ashamed of my inability to say so.  But that couple imploded
years ago in a neon display, temporarily destroying all that
surrounded them; all of the satellites that orbited our group
have moved out of our gravitational field, some going off
to college, some getting good jobs, some moving to big
cities, some starting bands.  Graduations or birthdays
might bring us together for a few hours of drunken
reminiscence, we all know, somewhere, that we have
grown apart, while you hide in this bedroom,
a lonely hermit.

This room is not a time capsule;
it is a tomb, and the Ikea monolith might as well be your
headstone.

I'm frustrated
with myself
No, better yet with time
Or rather, my count
the amount of times you have crossed my mind

Whether lyrically or in theory
I've imagined our make-up
A love that would spur from 3 simple words
and like a dream
I'm awakened
wiping my eyes and stretching
not fully realizing that my mind's fabrication
has no relation
to my present situation
which consists of
my determination
to get you to accept our relations

I'm frustrated
with myself
No better yet with time
or rather my count
the amount of times
I've uncapped my pen
to let it dance along my pages
yet my hand even as it tires
working to depict my heart's desires
but when I look back at what I've created
all I see is you
subliminally written across my pages
hidden behind poetic rhymes
I hate it
I know deep down its truth

I'm frustrated
with myself
no better yet with time
or rather with my count
the amount of times
I lay my head down to sleep
and can't help but think
of the nights you spent with me
those of tranquility
where I would lie awake to listen
to you blink
Those nights where you forgot your oath to discretion
and showed if only for a second
your affection
The rub of my cheek
or my hands yours to keep
as I pretended to sleep
daring not move
fearing your retreat

I'm frustrated
with myself
No its not time
for he is a figment of my imagination
personified
that I use to describe
distant memories
which still seem
to occupy my mind

When in fact its my own heart
which beats distantly in my past
as if that
will resurrect
my grasp
on another we cherished
my mind pleads the memories to cease
because my time spent on what was
shreds my peace

But I cannot help but admit
that my frustration
or better yet Time
or rather my count
those times
seems to forever briefly
brighten my day

"Sometimes I think to myself that if I owned a gun I’d blow my brains out the back of my head. But since I don’t own a gun, these bottles of whiskey will have to do," Richmond told the Arab man behind the counter of Bob’s All American Convenience store. The Arab man nodded politely and counted the money Richmond laid down on the counter before putting it in the register.

Richmond leaned against the counter staring past the clerk and past the cartons of cigarettes and boxes of condoms and blunt shell wrappers that fooled no one of their intended use. Richmond stared past the convenience store walls and passed the ****** blowing a John in the back alley by the dumpster and past the man beating his wife in front of their children and past the 13 year old girl that just found out she was going to be a mother and past the block that only worsened every day and past the city that was crumbling beneath corrupt politicians and the debt they incurred and past the country that hid the truth from its citizens.

Richmond stared past it all and felt his eyes begin to water as tears started to fall down his face, tracing his age lines, tracing the scars that scared away children, tracing the laugh lines he no longer used until he could taste his tears, salty and wet, first on his lips and then his tongue. Richmond cried for the first time in a long time and began laughing at the thought of himself crying. He did not know what brought it on and when he tried to pinpoint the thought or feeling or emotion that triggered the tears he was met with a migraine.

The Arab man behind the register looked at Richmond with suspicion and reached beneath the counter top and pulled out a baseball bat that had nails protruding from the top half and told Richmond that he needed to leave, that this was a place for business and not weirdos. Richmond wiped away the tears with the ragged sleeve of a flannel that he had found in the dumpster earlier that morning. He feigned a smile the best he could to show no hard feelings and grabbed the brown bag containing three small bottles of whiskey and left the store.

The air hit Richmond’s tear stained face and instantly cooled him and he felt the bitterness of winter coming even as he heard the air conditioners running and the taxis honking and the birds over in the park a block over chirping. Richmond walked along the sidewalk, ignored intentionally by everyone he passed, and found an alley way unoccupied except for the rats digging thru refuse and slid his aching body down against one of the buildings brick walls and took out a bottle of whiskey and uncapped it and brought it to his lips and felt its amber courage wash over his tongue and down into his belly creating a warmth that he hasn’t felt since the doctors told him that his wife and daughter had died in the car accident that had only left him scarred badly upon his face and chest.

Richmond thought about their deaths and felt the pain as if it had just happened and not seventeen years ago and drank the first bottle of whiskey gone until the numbness overtook the ache and he watched the rats scurrying thru the garbage before a cat crept down the alley and coughs one of the rats off guard and began toying with it as cats do. The other rats took off down various holes and behind whatever coverage they could find so that they could live another day.

“Smart rats" Richmond found himself saying allowed. He opened the second bottle and drank it as he watched the cat tear open the flesh of the rat with its sharp claws on its paw and tear chunks of insides out with its feline teeth. He drank the bottle as he watched the cats white face become red with blood from its **** and he drank as he watched the cat lick and clean itself until it was a white cat again and it left the alley. Richmond stood up slowly using the wall he was leaning against for support and he stumbled his way out of the alley with his one whiskey bottle left hidden beneath the left side of his flannel. He cradled it like an endangered animal and continued his sluggish, stumbling walk towards the park where he found a bench and laid down and closed his eyes.

When he awoke he saw a cop coming towards him. Wanting nothing to do with the law Richmond quickly snapped to and started walking in the opposite direction of the cop. He looked over his shoulder once or twice or three times after a good while of walking and did not see the cop anymore. He sighed. And laughed quietly.

Richmond walked some more with no path or intention in mind until he sobered up and realized he had walked to the graves of his wife and daughter. Richmond dropped to his knees and began sobbing and scratching at the dirt that covered their caskets some six feet below. He howled for god and asked angrily why them and not him. He laid his head down on the ground and cried and the dirt mixed with his tears so that he looked blackface in some spots. He wiped away the mud and tears and took his last bottle out and before putting it to his mouth told his wife and daughter that he would be with them soon and he pulled the trigger by drinking the bottle empty and laying down next to his wife’s grave and holding the ground where she lay dead.

The next morning the care taker was doing his first daily walk thru and came upon Richmond lying with the tombstones, dead, and with a smile on his face.

I've walked through the locked doors of a mental ward to go and visit someone considered a danger to themselves. Half starved girls make short steps past me and I double take to check if I'd seen a ghosts.
But ghosts are the ones looking for their mortality not the ones looking to drop it. So I turn my face away... And despite the nature of where I am I manage to crack a smile because somewhere on this floor was a small room with lost and found and I had some misplaced love to turn in. The young women on this ward have been here anywhere between weeks to years and they considered it a hell away from home. But the Afternoons I got to spend there will continue to be some of my greatest memories.

There's a lot going on up stairs. Between our 10 fingers 2 eyes 5 senses and 1 voice we're going experience this place one way or another, and your experience will be unlike mine and mine will be unlike his but we can go to sleep knowing that what we felt was real.

So I imagine it's scary being told by a medical professional that some area of your viewing experience is not as it seems. There's dead pixels in your screen. You've been meaning to redeem the warranty on that broken dream of a reality you've been living. But the company that sold you your world is out of business. That is to say when you check into insanity, there's no reception to show you to your room. Every spoon you're fed tastes real, but the people sitting across from you sees no meal. You feel scared.

And yet through all the poor unfortunate souls to behold on this ward one of them taught me beauty in the crazy, and seek these lessons in all of the other people. I want OCD to teach me to arrange my audience in such a way that you all look perfect. I want ADHD to teach me speech. Let me cradle impulse in every corner of my mouth and when it finally flows out let it roll about like a newborn who had it's mother craving haribos and red bull for 9 straight months. I wanna start speed dating for the narcoleptics and insomniacs and see if either can sleep on their wedding night. Watch them grow old together and have no concept of time passed because who the hell knows what time is is when your sleep patterns been ****** with. I want tourettes to teach me that this feeling is uncontrollable let our hearts be uncapped, every open armed come back, every face to face sweet embrace you give to those you love feels so natural that words like 'can't ' or 'no' become unfathomable.

But I can't pretend that these are easy gifts to accept, so many tears gave for the labeled and named, asking what's inside my brain, can I be called sane?

So my friend in the lost and found department of the ward taught me, recovery and stability are part of the beauty. Her dress size was the fine line between happier times or a cut short life. But now the time she's kept out of hospital grows like her smile. She's come miles and miles and and all the while is a living monument to the phrase 'things get better'... and that's all this is. Despite reality itself being an uncertainty and and the skies throwing all kinds of weather in the end, we're all birds of a feather that flock together and we need to remember that the sad times aren't forever, so this is a handwritten love letter to the things that get better.

I read a story the other day.
I read the headline.
It said: There is no god and we are his prophets.
We drive slowly on Saturdays.
At night in our home there are noises,
the dull thumps of ghosts.
We used to comment. Now we rollover.
I wake and return the blankets I’ve stolen.

In the mornings there is music.
A kitchen dance of tip-toes and arms at war with air.
The new car with its heated seats.
There’s a pace I like.
It’s microwaved tea;
it’s 11:30 a.m.;
it’s one more chapter before.

I listen to you get ready,
a chorus of tubes uncapped
and capped, of hairdryers
plugged and unplugged.
You sing softly.
I hear this, too.

Beyond this house,
a brook, a mountain, a trout.
Distances mapped.
Plans drawn with
parallel lines, listless and drifting.
Within,
there is no god, and he is love,
and we are his prophets.
You are my practitioner.
And I, yours.

Fast food
of love,
eating, eating, eating,
there's no discussion, no daydream or
bright-eye'd plan,
only blankets, ******* Jack rings,
and plastic floating promises
in a draining bathtub.

The blackbirds circle and sing,
while you download new ringtones,
paint your nails,
and screen.

Once you've got the knowledge,
you can't fake ignorant bliss.
Once you've got the knowledge,
it's no-hit-all-miss.

Soften you up
with promise rings,
Hallmark cards,
and confetti strings,
the ******* frees,
the ******* ease.

Once you've got the knowledge,
you can't fake ignorant bliss.
Once you've got the knowledge,
how can you love yourself?

I'm under your skin,
with my pen uncapped,
I'm the love your mind's got
on tap,
as the cigarette burns,
as the knives unfurl,
I know,
you know,
that ultimately
you're growing sore
from the impending
marital bore.

So blow up the bridge,
walk through the alleys,
let the guilt of your heart
dissolve in coffee,
the time--now,
as it's always been
because

once you've got the knowledge,
you can't fake ignorant bliss.
Once you've got the knowledge,
there's a riotous beat in your chest.

Wordless? Could I write a  poem with silence?
the skid-slide of the road
the burden of a sudden night on me

Sometimes, I fall asleep
with the pen uncapped in my hand
little book open... it may seem so lovely
look at her!
huddled up with her little thoughts
a true writer, that child!
but- but I preferred sleep!
sleep was pleasurable and it did not run
I preferred pleasure to poetry, madam!
please take the label back

But...
sometimes the pen runs out of ink
and the ballpen stutters
and I get teary-eyed in the dark night
I engrave the paper with the ballpen nib
trace the words out in the morning
sometimes I tear the paper with the ballpen nib
and then weep

Sometimes, like this time, the lamp dies
I press the buttons of the AC remote
every four seconds (I counted)
write in the light of its lit-up screen
Sometimes I write on my hand
and when the hand runs out, I go to the arm
I write on pants, on tissue-paper pieces
Sometimes, there is light and pen and ink and...
and you know exactly what.

I could never call myself a poet
the word stuck, a jumble-mess
of all my literary inadequacies
rolled up to hardness, taped to throat
I... I roll up like a cat or a rug
words come by on a conveyer belt
and I stamp each with 'unoriginal'
unoriginal, unoriginal
a moving queue of unoriginal
so many words! the page is empty
I become unoriginal
other times...
so little words (like this time)! the page is full
I become unoriginal
Then I get so upset, I toss poetry away
like crumpled paper, roll over on the bed
an upset lover; I keep an arm back though
for some little touch


Oh my
I think I'm going to sleep
with the pen uncapped in my hand


Or maybe...


No, put it away
we are done for the night

Maroon [suicide note pt one]
Love letters written in dried blood
Memories that were once ancient history
The colors swirling into a galaxy
I woke up today and everything was maroon
She said there wouldn’t be a tomorrow
I hate it when she’s right
I carved her name on my arm
The only memento my body will leave
Besides my heart

Untitled [suicide note pt two]
Bliss is a warm gun
Melting in your mouth
Candle wax dripping into opened wounds
Blistered by the birth of prayers
There was a rainbow over this world
There was a rainbow
Vanished before I could touch the halo
Untitled
I’m leaving this world

A Love Letter [suicide note pt three]**
I looked at your pictures again tonight
And when I was done
I smashed my fists into glass
I need to get these demons out of my head
But now there’s just a trail of blood
I smoothed a wrinkled piece of paper out and uncapped my black pen
The one you bought me for our anniversary
I etched out the details of my soul and slowly filled it in with my memories
I still don’t feel any better
Remember I’ll always love you
I keep my promises
To the end

.
The oceans are dying,
Coral reefs are bleached,
Ghostly acidic in the seas,
Climate is changing, not for Nero,
But for subjects who wait in whirlwinds
Eye, underneath uncapped mountain peaks,
And water is draining underground.  Where is
Reason, where is sense uncommon?  Not with
Elected hands who are wringing to lords of zero,
Whose legions are sent off, engaged in foreign wars,
To scathe, faraway dramas brought back home,
Politicians squabble, as they reel, cashing in,
Seals of unapprovals, witness hollow, low rings,
Infrastructure crumbles, above our dry heads,
And Nero plays his fiddle, in a land of perky dead,
John Lennon said NYC was in reality the new
Rome, soon set to burn, in a decade or so,
Nero knows, Nero plays, could give a ****'
Humanity is Nero playing his fiery fiddle
There is only one issue of news that matters,
Not bread, or circus, Kardashians, or deflated
Footballs, it is our survival, the earth, heating up,
Is angry and we are small, deaf, blind and numb,
A mankind of fools with Nero playing his fiddle.

He stood in the darkness, reaching for the uncapped bottle, pouring himself another. Why has she left? he thought.

Rain thrashed against the window, and for a moment he was lost in a drip that ran down the pane.

"What now," he said to himself, as he took a swig, unaware that he'd made his decision and was already half-a-bottle in.

I propped my heels on a vinyl
trumpet case beside a Rubik's Cube
with mostly white squares. Steel hinges
and a combination latch
kept a midnight groove contained.
Last load's dryer sheets found
their way inside my backpack,
picking up character from uncapped
pens and highlighters.

You were a phone number
on a folded piece of napkin
wedged inside the bottom of my purse
where the matchbooks and chewing gum wrappers fell
with all the change and lint and dried, uncapped pens

And I watched you float down
and almost miss your mark
when I emptied the bag above the trash
to make room for other things that were lately.

I remember you writing
then putting my pen inside your jacket pocket
thinking to myself, "This is it, this is really it"
when it wasn't.

a little girl once wanted and thought she could keep the entire world. every night she cried at the sight of the stars, her heart burst whenever the flowers would bloom, she'd dance in the rain whenever it would so much as drizzle.

one night, when her little heart began to overflow with so much yearning, she walked to a cliff by the sea with a jar in hand. she opened the jar, holding it up to the sky and watched the delicate universe make its way inside it all so gently. immediately, she capped the jar and was amazed that she held the world in her hands. for many days she took it around with her, leaping through rivers on stepping stones and walking through sea shores in the light of day.

one day, suddenly, the bottle fell from her hands and her heart stopped. she could not believed she had dropped it. she picked up the jar, and suddenly it seemed as if the universe was wounded. she could not believe she did such a thing.

on the night of that unfortunate day, she made her way to a mountaintop with a heavy heart and her vision murky from tears. just as she was high enough to touch the clouds, she carefully chose a spot and stood firmly, still sniffling a little bit.

"i did not take care of you when you trusted me. i do not deserve you, universe." she said, her voice shakey as she uncapped the jar. "i am sorry."

in the same manner she caught the universe, she held her open jar towards the heavens and watched the universe pour out the bottle in wisps—the stars and planets and all of space and time dispersed before her eyes and again, she began to cry. she wondered how she was even able to keep such a beautiful thing and how she had failed it.

days passed and the girl was lonely again. as she strolled past plants and vines, they would wilt in sadness. the sun would shine so palely in the morning that even the moon could not console it. she was so sad that even nature joined her in silence.

on one morning, she woke up feeling a different beating in her heart. she stood up from her flower bed to look at her reflection, and to her surprise she found something shining just right under her left shoulder.

there, she found the universe had come back to her—not in the same jar it used to be in, but in her heart.

"do not ever think you do not deserve the world just because of your shortcomings," she heard the universe whisper, her hand in her chest. "i have found my way to your heart and here i will stay."

and that is how the girl began to carry the universe she had so loved in her heart, forever.

Painkillers fallen all around me
In every direction, I lay amongst them
Such a terrible sound was made when they spilled

Painkillers fallen all around me
Woken from my slumber
I put one in my mouth and do not deal with the rest until morning

Painkillers fallen all around me
Such a safety to have so many unswallowed
But how will I feel when they run out?
I count the number as I pick them up
Like a clock ticking louder with each second, cautioning, that my pain better be gone before the time this bottle is finished
Not until now did I realize the luxury of sharing a family bottle

Painkillers fallen all around me
They fall so my tears don’t have to
But I’m not fooled by their innocent appearance
I know they are a bargain
A trade for a temporary mend,
So my heart can quiet its hurt for a little while

Painkillers fallen all around me
But why do they want to **** my pain?
Why can’t they see that my pain is a part of me?
Can’t they understand that without pain there is no living?
Why do they want to **** me?

Painkillers fallen all around me
Making it so easy for me to ignore my sadness
I can live in this world if only I let a part of me die
If I stop trying to sing my story
If I smile when I want to frown
If I let the painkillers do their job

Painkillers fallen all around me
They wouldn’t have fallen if the **** bottle wasn’t so hard to open,
Making me prefer to leave it uncapped
There was a time when I never cared that the bottle was sealed
Oh how I envy that now
Where can I find the strength to close the lid?

Painkillers fallen all around me

Crime Scene
(Flint, Michigan)

Yellow cordon tape hums
low in a stiff breeze off
Saginaw Bay
a norther that scatters
empty evidence markers
up and down Miller Road
eddies on Dupont Street
uncapped and droning.
Tennyson, Bishop and Frost
lost for words
this morning working
my way through a pallet of water
dead poets urgent
as blue sky box kites
specks above a crime scene
easing the truck past
houses of the common
abandoned down Whitman
transcendence, surely
for those forbearing souls
over on Emerson.

She intertwined her thick fingers
behind both shelves of the medicine
cabinet and embraced them clamorously
into the sink.

I.

Maybelline, Rimmel, and Revlon
now spotted with flakes of dried toothpaste
and ****** hair.

Just.

Her hands dove wrist deep into the pool
of glamor and acceptance before her
and emerged with scarlet lipstick.

Want.

She uncapped and carefully ran it across
her stiffened lips, accidentally coloring
her skin and the corners of her open mouth.

To.

She mashed a makeup brush into a jar
of powdered blush and swept it over
her cheekbones like a blood red sunset
overtaking a mountain.

Be.

With black tears running down her face
and staining her white shirt,
she reapplied her mascara.


**Beautiful.

Marooned on a boat filled with neo-nudists
Who claim and believe
They are the next big thing
We are all running towards the end of jagged cliff
Scratching scraping scarring and sacrificing our old selves
For the new and improved
I am so tired of these games America
I am so weak from the sufferings of supposed freedom
Where the weak make sounds from synthesized dice gamblers
And the strong continue to feed on real estate which holds no true foundation
I have been on the ground looking up receiving no helping hand
I have seen the last note of a dying orchestra man
That was granted with no standing ovation
I have heard the cry of a mother who has seen their last child die
I've witnessed the fall of a great man
Who was then replaced
By the body of a broken hallow man
Are we blind?
Do we not have the eyes to see or are the "ignorant masses"
As the one who criticized me in seclusion said
Completely content with milling about with their eyes in their pockets
And their noses on the ground?
Are these the worries of a man misplaced
Absent but allowed to run free for their are only prisons for the one's
To daring to show their true self
The page ponders through its own mechanisms
Much like the madmen, the ******'s, the intelligence of bombers
Neither I nor myself nor the man tomorrow
Will understand these words that are heavy with sorry
Each hour ticks forth to a new beginning for someone
But not me my friend
No, I await the coming tide where the illuminated stars
Flicker with a a shed of light
Which me and me only can feel
To be alone is to be free as well as imprisoned
In a world without love, care and inevitable heartbreak
Cast the key into thine lake, my love, for the heart is an evil thing
Which was granted to us not out of request
But by burden
And Keats was to worrisome of a man involving money and notebooks and trips
The cough got to his soul
But first his soul was allowed to shriek and pine a little bit
And now as the sun breaks through the grey colored clouds
My bedroom awakened through the stenches of a youthful man
Each sheet dirtied, each shirt wrinkled, each pen uncapped
Each letter writ not stamped or sealed
Each picture of Her folded, stapled, crinkled and hidden
So even the moon if He willed it would not able to find it
Each house breathes their own thoughts out onto the wind
And wherever I will it
That's where I'll be