WOMAN BUTCHERED



Ayad Gharbawi


Child that gathered knowledge
Knowledge frightening to human nature
Girl-child was awakened
Herself she awakened
Saw the glow of eyes buttery
Glow of hatred molten
Glow of **** howling
Child, pretended innocence pretty
Child smiled all along the paths unknown
Yet, her body recognized colours unimaginable in their serenity sublime
Figures in her sleep strange, yet beautiful
Songs of sweet sleep, yet alerting in their soothing abilities
Little girl, who are you?
Why won’t you let us
Define you?
Little girl
Honourable lady woman
Did you grow up at all?
Or did you just die in your infancy?
As so many before you have
Did you come
To feel and understand
Your sensitive dimensions?
We would have made sure that you would be mature
If you were submissive enough for us!
Child girl, laughs uneasily and seriously
Child girl, sees lofty, exalted visions possessive
Visions of history’s episodes are expressed pointedly in your compulsive embraces
The foolish martyred are reading holy sermons for their self remembrance
Soldier unknown unmasking his face mangled to the surprised horror and utter disgust
Of his family, friends and other serious clowns
Singing an anthem of Fate’s real truth and nature and essence
Heroine unnumbered, chained to deformity
And becoming a mirror of what they did chain you to
Child girl scarred and petrified by disturbed scenes committed lovingly and lavishly by Man
Child girl curls, yet anticipates
Listen! The foot-steps frighten you once more
The shrieking manic clown has arrived again, red eyed and even more
Laughing dreary, spitting words jumbled and aloud
Figure of shame stands in front of you
Intents pre-arranged by his late father
Little girl!
Are you a woman yet?
Hearing swirls of delirious, sickening
Madness, uncontrollable panic and deathly angst
Hearing painter’s brush strokes that scream their gasps of breathlessness out
Loudly and chaotically
Hears the anguish of colours’ contrasts and contradict each other to the point of
Serious suicide
Little child! Sees the begging deaf pleading for choirs heavenly to sing seriously
Sees the miserable, emaciated crumbles crumbling,
Yet foolishly searching for a non-existent tenderness in darkness painted by drunken Satans
With the foulest, blackest oil colours in their leprous fingers
They try to paint you; define you
Analyze you; dissect you
Categorize you; classify you
Little girl; woman; ******?
Alone and sincerely and deceptively guided by complicated, intertwining hatreds
That severely despised the existence of each other’s truths and falsities
Feeling sovereignty abused by casual, bored
Unconcerned sub-humans in powerful positions on earth
Pierced in pain
My sweet girl, you are now
Pierced in deathly, unforgiving
Pains and hatreds never forgotten
Sweet Humanity
Sweet Man
Sweet human beings
How sweet you all truly are!

Of success
masks of deeds
degrees well earned
ladders ascended
heroism one time..
all of these
each one's own..
masks of success
hiding ourselves
from ourselves..

Of failure
in mirror image
with extra power
hiding ourselves
from ourselves..

Unmasking
throws questions..
venerate success..?
castigate failure..?
Success
masks itself..?
and failure too..?
now breathing:
ego unmasking
as we go...

This is not where this idea began but it ran and I

missed my mark. Mark sin.
-1 deficit reality quotientcy
currency.  Sure.
(Press Sure, to let the bursting pressure equilation expand at will)
Score.

That fine a level of reality
demands more attention than I have to pay.
Patient agent wait and not see or see if/then

you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are some of those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is,
but it is silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments.
Is it?

Apophrenia
or mere
Dejavu, you believe,
what if it is your memory lying by ignoring time
attention ratios determining the observations stored in HD?
What if it's just a glitch?
Blue screen of death.


If you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is, but
is it silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments?

We come and go. To and fro up on the face

messengers bearing news in both directions, watch
the trickster, Jacob, in this story, he sees the messengers from
heaven bearing leaven thither and hither

upon the face of the earth.
the wrinkling mother, smiling now, chuckle head
I ain't no ***** saint.

Jah, I know. Joy is my dance, this is my song.
Is it good Grandmother?

---- on the porch facing my west gate ---

fences don't play exactly, out acted, the role of walls.

The idea that something
there is that does not love a wall,
has frozen my pond

the stillness beyond the sylvan **** crowned head
radiates through the medium of the message to me in time
to you.

Miles to go, you recall the feeling of feeling miles to go
before
I sleep.
That was yesterday, and you know yes ter everything's gone,
roar.

Aslan can pierce the barrier between mere Christians and me,
how would be fun to know, but
knowing why would help us keep the story interesting as life goes on

Who controls my peace?
Am I a mercurial sheen in between chaos and order,
chronus and zeus?
Could be, ya thank so, ye know so, less unlessed as

unlessing means nothing to you,
that means you are visiting here.

Visting whom, vis it ing whom?
Who's in charge, where's the power
short

age, wrinkles in time, rogue waves at the quanta scale,
we were dancing
with the thoughts emanating

from some IDW smart guy proffesing
Critique-technic-magi action, post mode'r'ism
at the point of Dada und Scheizkunst,
the unmass-queque,
the line of lies awaiting unbelief,
idle words lingering,
hoping
to be noticed and added back into the story book of life,

a simple wish.

It could be every child's, should we think that
if we can or may,

sometimes I'm still, and

confusion troubles the water,
it seems,
then another hurt is healed, another lie is gone and life goes on

we won again, this never gets old,
I do love my opposition,
pressure pump
pump pump. De-us-me-can-onbeoffbeyond

five years ago unmasking and rhetoric meant nothing to me
the purpose of learning forever and never
knowing anything beyond all things

our bubble is metastasizing, a mercurial film forms
informing us
in its reflection,

this is the ying yang thang in 3 or 4 d, HD+ chaos one half

order the other,
sharpest imaginable thing
me trick being mag ift just if eye winged show

how beautiful are the feet of them who bring good news,
you see, it flows, sweetwater flows
winged feet
whish through leaving, leavin' leaven…

unleaven that which has been leaved?
Fat chance, all who
eat this bread and don't get gas,
they are our same bread people. Companions.
Vectors of sour dough,
webs of fungal
axions
make a way
bore, pore, poor-with-us, pour

in to it ish, that idea, an opening through,
trickle down good gravity leveling stillness,
gentle rocking earth
roll round and round and round

the pythagorean version
of Euclid's point in his mother's story,

the point of this song? To know the point you must have been

to the point of in-forming the point on which we dance and you recall

we come in threes, and just, we are, just, if it, that idea,
rests in your
back roads, gentle on your mind. We make peace.

Being young is easy from my POV.
I've lived in my future for sometime now

I can't say how, beyond saying aloud, this was never hidden,
in my accounting of idle words I claimed,
upon hearing the stories each contained.

i'da swore i hear that wise *** o'balaam's abrayin'
Braindeem, deemed 'eem. Wham, uptheyhaid. Relig, fool,

or chaos wins and no hero ever lives again!
Drop anchor, wait it out.
let patience blow her nose, gnostic snot caught in the nets,

nonono nothing's wasted in patience work, we make glue
from gnostic snot that patience sneezes
when reality grows cold,

that has happened, you know, temperatures are just now,
oh, wait global warming, bad dam,

Script, bust it,
leveling is essential to eventual temperature
equilibrium.
The heat is on, the bubbles are forming, informing one to another
below the surface
greasy tension, slippery slopes putting pressure on chaos
to conform to the curve

Ying yang, mercury film upon the sea of time and the scene of chaos
in this bubble of all you can imagine real.

Hows' that feel? Why?

You want that? What are you standing under? Does chaos win?
You are, as we say, cognisic magi we-ified,
practical magic at
the moment
the point
is made, then the creation begins fractalling outward

and not before or is this all
unrolling ex nihilo, no magi ever knew…
come, let us reason together,

why am I empowered? To live, first thought wise, that's good but
evil forces me to think again and I see the pattern

life goes on, John Molenkamp, Sam, soldier 4,
(as the credits role by, the name catches my eye)
never in a thousand years,
'cept unbelievable is one of those lies I came to **** by strangling
on bile while
rescuing every idle word ever involved in the infection

from the point in the absolute center of the bubble,
objectively, you see everything
that is
seeable

but would good prevail if evil had no hope?

I know that one, yes. why?
evil has no mind, soul, some think--
same same medium message spoken spelled chanted danced
who care's?
*** 'er done. Life has a chaotic side, the churning creates

number one from none, the cult of one divides itself
go do be
we three we three we three a wavy song ding ****.

Aware? Awaken? Avowed-wowed-wit-wise,
fullcomp, retired
Peacemaker. Me.

All my hero's imagined or real, were Peacemakers.
Just now, peaceful now, mindful now
we remain
the same blessing promised in the package of yeses
stolen from Cain by his older sister, his
bride,
keep that quiet, eh?

Secrets made sacred, always
those are lies, no lie is of the truth,
all lies are about the truth.

What empowers you, poet or poetry? Right, you know,
God, good god knows, resentment lives in lies

the rotting idle words deemed curses at best, secret at worst,
those idle corrupting thoughts sparking as if absolute annihilation were thinkable by rational minds

of ---wait, there's arub, a sore
ex nihilo, the homeless wanderer screams,

"May the whole world perish, may you all go to hell,"

the mad man wept his hell, and imagined his curse,

not mine,
I don't have one. I did, but I went back so often to find pieces of my heart that now I have an Elysian network woven through All-hell, the big idea that broke loose infecting the mind as wisdom's leaven builds her womb
inhabitation
placenta
stem cell informing builders empowered, pressure empowered, what must be, but is not verse, versus
us, the we that be
we must
choose,

let this be, come and see,
life goes on.
Agree, or empower us as we bubble by and
takenallwecan expanding gobbling bubbles,
good
by ye.

Once we flushed the Dada poison and let mito mom
instill the patience gene with
epigenetic peace we can pass on with a touch or a word,

we've never woven lies for no reason,
if a rung breaks
and they can, last straw and all that weight,
you know,
Jacob's ladder is an escalaltor-ladder, wittily invented,
with knots and twisted fibers electricked,
there are automated steps, algoryhmes of reasons to repair the broken rung
with a reason to believe the rung has been repaired,
only believe, take a step,
re
paired again with the idea of meaninglessness masked in create-if-ity

good enough. okeh. don't believe lies.
Don't pass undigested lies to see if farts burn.

Part 1
When profound things leave us because serendipity seizes control and teases our soul,

few actually see it and believe in us....it takes its toll.

Our walls grow high...

Wise to all those sly predators that shared our space but ultimately never bettered us.

Likened to a wild bunch of criminals and nuns you sometimes share fun or lunch with,
then again spin adrift.

So we stay put...only peeling away the day-to-day’s fraying gray.

Though we have heightened steeliness to infernal charms,

We sometimes ignore internal alarms,

Oft' ending up-in-arms instead of in the arms of another.

Battling each curse from crib to hearse,
We continue to play anyway, but hold our cards close..
Somehow coasting on borrowed form and verse.

Still too afraid to lead with enormity.

Still too proud to follow in conformity.

We become shells and ghosts to project “normality”.

Still hoping for more,

Still revealing our core,

Still practicing what we’d say with one more chance to settle the score.

Refusing to sink, either our genius always on the brink of changing the world and more...

Or burning down and gutting out our current hideout and surrounding small town or place of clout.

Still reeling from the lingering devastation of past lackluster unreciprocated non-appreciation knockdowns.

To keep from being corrupt,

We fold our coldest stories up,

And box them up under a "never the right 'write' " pens and pencils cup long filled up.

Smiling a little, we continue through this long season's harsh climate.

Subconsciously buying "Dried" sage because "Rubbed" still seems to intimate.

Tragically tied down by the tiny tech gadgets flooding our data stream with faster updates;

All just to dazzle and daze us into a lazy malaise on our busiest of days.

PART2
More and more we wait.

The "what-if's" we contemplate.

The more we try to create something great, then hesitate, none too late

The more this inundating system of “Likes” rates you,

The less your gated fate or guiding faith makes you "you".

The less your justification or inspiration moves you.

Yet uncompromising and alone, you continue and make it through.

No one could ever guess from your crisp pants' fresh press. I digress.

Oddly, all it likely would take is one ego caress from soft smiling muse in sandals and a summer dress.

If you could only get this distress off your chest, fall hard for a new muse, give your defenses a rest

endure the re-birthing process and all the possible hot mess...then...

Never again would you have to guess or obsess.

The sheer potential magnitude of you at your best.

An open floodgate of uncanny, uncaddy personal success.

You would never again feel idleness or unrest.

But "who" you ask, would be caring, tough & daring enough,

willing to share all that stuff through such an arduous process, off the cuff?

Who has such pure heart intent, without the fluff?

A Muse who speaks out loud for you, never a mumble...

Is strong and humble, but not rough and tumble...

Who heeds the needs of your soul's rumble...

Who pulls the "new you" close while your old limits crumble...

Is fair and daring when you're sharing how bizarrely you sometimes raise the bar...

Joins your rare ****** to close down the bars while thoughtfully considering how fragile your scars are...

Who encourages you to shoot for the stars...

Sees the truth of who you were, hope to be and the screams in-between.

And by her sheer presence, becomes all these things for that new man and him alone.

Cause of she, he will achieve and be more than he could on his own.

Whoever that girl may be and until then,

I mend a tightly woven,

slightly broken,

rarely spoken,

unawoken caged soul for one more shinny token to spend on this world alone.

By R.Craig David-Copyrighted 2012

Waiting…
Waiting…
Waiting…
How could you?

Trust is lost
Faith is lost
I stayed

Ended for us
Not by us

Best decision I couldn’t make

December 25 - 28, 2010


Stuck in Miami, Florida, because of bad weather in NYC.
Composed after reading the poetry of Campbell McGrath, who lives in Miami.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
­
electric pinpricks of
unfamiliar red and green lights,
bedroom traffic guidance
courtesy of a stranger's
tv and cable box,
an emblematic totem tonight,
of my physical dislocation,
reminders that I'm enslaved
by weather machinations.

I lay, resting uneasy,
in a strange bed,
one night too many,
snow storming in my head
snow storming up north aplenty,
a blizzard of ruminations are
my white coverlet,
while stuck in Miami.

faraway drifts have
force fed and freed
an imprisoned restlessness,
a multipurposed, slashing.

Miami midnight incision has
let out the bad humors,
let in an unfamiliar odor -
lechón asado,
which texts my Pharisee nostrils
in Cubano,
words muy ironico,
a single waking thought,
"who ya kidding?"

Everglades rain
imported from California,
recycles on rooftops,
thrumming a heart beating,
syncopated, watery refrain,
a regifted heavenly present.

the sound waves mark
as a barely undulating wave,
inside this super soaked brain,
that transforms wine into water
and scan lines into these letters,
"who ya kidding?"

all this exponential signage
of this NYC boy grousing, are his
defrocked muses annoying,
with a serenading blizzard
of one trick pony repetitions,
coronets trumpet his unmasking,
this essay, a revelation,
a product of their
harmonious discordancy.

a single note crowns his head
as he weeps whole food
organic, non-recyclable tears,
products of his new inquistional,
a self-inflicted interogatorial,
"who ya kidding?"

compiler of an
occasional talented catch phrase,
strung'em together like
cheap pearls,
pretensions of literary acumen
once populated his Id,
articles of spilled word *****,
but Florida rain has cleansed
his Northern haughty pretensions,
with an injection of truth serum,
a pharmaceutical wonder of
a local poison labeled,
"who ya kidding?"

A day laborer, nothing more,
rise up at five, brown bagged,
a client of Mammon's *****,
soul sagged, life hagged,
a sum of cultural cliches,
a cell phoned baby boomer,
a would be millennial,
constructed of paper mache,
who on occasion,
has been known to say,
"Let's play poetry today."

the poseur chokes
on this new poison,
delivered by unhappy stance
by the arrows of his
current misfortune
for he now suffers from
the deadly disease of
"compare and contrast."

a slim book of poems
of Campbell McGrath's
(his phraseology,
a veritable theology)
shoos the blues traveler,
over to a funhouse
where an honest magic mirror
cuts him down to size.

his poetic aspirations,
a residue of self-infatuation,
are summarily dismissed by
the truly gritty, quick justice
of a master poet's
"who ya kidding?"

so watch how a would-be
poet disappears,
in a barrage of bullets marked,
nevermore,
his dignity, more than hobbled,
his cheek, gone, gobbled,
his juice, a currency unaccepted,
his holiday present,
a ceasefire of conjugation,
a cornucopia of declinations

dare I ever write again?
who indeed, am I kidding,
other than myself?
I am an addict, not a poet.

with her
the sun rises
at midnight

sets when she leaves in the morning

clouds curl at the tips
their edges unmasking freckles of stars
but still the sun rises
at midnight

she is the sun on weekends
coaxing children's toes to bounce along
cement streets
and elderly women to pass lemonade stands
and order
"just a cup for the road"

she is my favorite chair to sit in
with a good book
and a blanket
missing a patch of leather
that i run my hands across
while i read

and when i sit outside with her
at midnight
the sun peaks its blonde hair
from behind the mountains.

After feeling like this, to my lowest low and my highest high
You made me realize what it’s like to die, not emotionally but physically
A new thought I never had in my head,
To have my breath shortened, just because I let you into my bed.
This is a new extreme for me, which is hard to beat.
For you filled my life with guilt, shame and deceit.
You pushed me to the ground, deteriorating every little ounce of me
Testing me with trivial questions. I should have recognized the warning sign, bright yellow and shiny black titled “hazard”. Like the reflection of a roadwork sign, saying slow down, danger, caution, this is the borderline.
My instinct was right, No honour go back I said.
You had something over me, like a beautiful grey moth entranced to the light, but deep down inside I knew your world burned too bright. Your personality just stuck to me,as if I was ants attracted to the sweet honey that dripped off the honey comb.
Inside, I knew I should go home.
Words fly, tensions get high.
Why did I not go back to Vendome?
His hands strong hands wrapped round my soft neck, pushing me into the bed, I felt my heart pulsating.
I closed my eyes wishing that he would push harder and longer, to actually feel something other than this pain and misery that he placed upon me.
He looked at me in gratification, that smirk said it all, as he accomplished sometime great like an encore at curtain call.
A look of a great man, big and powerful now its time to take a shower, as what he did was nothing the matter.
My state in shock. What has happened? Is this really unmasking his disguise?
For the mask he wore was unforeseen, like a child at halloween.
The tears in my eyes was not avid, until he clenched his hand to play rock paper scissors,
but little did I know that his rock would cut through my paper.
leaving me with bruises and now a traitor.

perhaps if you have time,
take a moment to read the
predecessor poem in the notes below first,
in order to better understand this one


<>

the love poetry curfew so lately announced
misshapen, growing without respite, by hate extensions distended,
poet's sanity uncomprehending, for yet another! sabbath desecration,
debating internally, how long should this cessation be extended,
for the pockmarking of earth's face with fresh bloodshed,
continues unashamedly, swiftly apace, these unholy days of dread,
all haggard his mind, hazard his eyes, harden his heart
no muse could sway

but shocking himself,
poet's mirror image stares and dares
with a finger-pointing,
his own specter's absurd challenge of

"and yet, now more than ever "

when children are killed like bowling pins,
there can be no satisfaction in revenge
cannot expiate evil deeds with avenge
measure for measure add-on sins,

and yet,

poet thinks quietly, repeatedly, self-surprisingly,

and yet,
love poetry, now more than ever

asking confusedly, almost ashamedly, out loudly, yet secretly,
how can this be, for there will be again, more painful awakenings,
is it the end of days, of greeting sunrise, with a love for love poetry?
with madness come and confusion everywhere rampant,
'tis a doubtful thought, the carnage having wrought
an insoluble dissolution and can love poetry be any solution?

in poet's Adirondack safe place where life tributes were
birthed, bred and trials borne, a right writ place for unmasking,
a private soul in equal parts of joy and shame,
love and pain, loss and gain,
here the weighing scales bore equal measures
of old bereft, and life uplifting visions of,
what will come, what will be, the unforeseen,
the hopeful yet of

"and yet"

a dotted line of whitecaps  beckons the poet to tread upon,
the glassine bay's waters that lay before him, go, walk on water,
a path to point where and whence the quaking waves
have gathered, calmly begging, Oh poet!
provide  assurance, explanation, comprehension,
querying him as if all sanity, has flightly, unsightly, fled
from the home shores of human sailors, gently asking poet,

"your fellow walking earth-beasts have all sensibility killed,
these times so human terrible, we waters, cannot understand"

poet's rebellious soul all so confused, asking and answering the
waters in his head, the waters that address his eyes,
seeking wisdom words from a place where logic
has been whittled and willed away,

and yet,

love poetry, now more than ever

now is the time when a love poem beyond merely necessary,
poet's eyes cast downward in shame, his thinking, hesitant and wary,
time for prayer, not madness distraction of a love poetry commentary

the waters dissatisfied at his confusion,
part as if by Moses's staff, majesticly powerful rise up,
confronting poet with the sweetest tasking
as if they were the downtrodden and the hurting, asking...

"we storm, drown and take, for such is nature's angry periodic way,
something beyond our control no matter what we say,
to another's dictate and momentum, we must bow and obey,
but you human, have choice, and we have none -
choose love poetry and let it comfort like no other"

and the poet sighed and wrote

this poem

this poem of love,
realized and conjectured,
with inserted verses of

"and yet,"

for though the poet possessed no well of well words
more than these few saddened and impoverished,
wearied, hard scrabbled ones

and yet,

gasping and grasping a potent notion, a portent of what if,
of a world with no love poetry,
a planet that could not ever-overcome hate, dooming itself,
for love poetry and all its cousins and associates,
the only method to confiscate
these grill blackened marking silent barbell weights
so let this be ,
this is a love poem,
and now,
this is the time,
to let

"and yet"

vindicate...


<>
6:20am
Saturday July 16, 2016
and yet

There is an equilibrium of rivers
soaring into a distant spectrum
far from earth's existence
unfamiliar territories extending
to the deepest depths
bursting beginnings
exhilarating endings
a true presence unmasking various
dreams deep within the core of the universe
a wave of thoughts and feelings
floating in the crimson sea
in the moonlight of hollow chambers
the shimmering sun shining down
upon its glossy surface
sinking in its shadowing frame
how it's captivating phrasing
is a passageway of escaping mazes
a domain of unbreakable chains swelling into eternity
curling in rising nouns and pronouns
amplifying into massive metaphors
a horizon of limitless languages
shifting towards greater heights
illuminating destiny in the palm of its hand
each magnificent sight a seamless design
of crowned creations
every synchronized sound a desiring anticipation
waiting to be unveiled to the masses

New/Knew/Rebuilding
You

4:18AM

not sure where to start,
so I will begin at the end,
rinsing and repeating,
till it makes a dime's worth of sense,
even if helps for just one minute,
I'll take it happy for
giving you one minute of better,
rinse and repeat,
60times, an hour to which we can only but
try
to build a single day.

You are new to me.

But I knew you a long time.

Don't ask silly whys or how's.

This won't take long.
Less than a minute.

Saw a few Picasso's, Chagall yesterday.
Even a Basquiat.
Estimated to sell for
$15~18 million dollars.

You know he once said,
"I thought I was going to be a *** for the rest of my life."

So here is my art for you, girl,
Whom I will likely never meet,
But is deep inside of me,
Unmasking provoking, couching, courting,
Crouching, springing
me to care.

If one new/knew/rebuilder of you
Is writing words of caring, artful encouragement
At 4:18am,
What is that worth?
I'll tell you cause I won't let
bitter answer for you.
Everything.
So **** art.
But open heart to the art of
Accepting that I just wrote you a poem,
Message on point,
I care.

The bedrock underlying much of Manhattan is a mica schist known as Manhattan schist.  Schist is foliated or layered in appearance. Quartz sparkles, micas, and amphiboles are primary minerals in schist. A melted rock, just like the city resting above, it too, a famous melting *** of humanity.

This one poem too, composed from pieces of other poems,
folded in layers of many others that melted together,
in harmonious discordancy

<~>

this glorious grime,
this delicious dirt,
stuff of my blood,
genes of my children's children inheritance,
of thee I sing,
in thee I revel,
of thee, I am composed

the city I love,
where I was born,
schooled and fooled in,
by many a woman

the city where I named
and raised my children

will probably die in
this city, and when
I am long forgot,
my name never uttered,
    who, will think of me?
Perhaps,
whenever someone says,
"he was such a rascal"

these tales I took,
some or all,
from beneath my skin,
where city streets grit,
was injected beneath my skin
and came with the title,
City Boy

so today, on a reborn street,
near tall towers no more,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn,  
but nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the typical NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
unsilently weeping, thinking that:

We lose or throw away so much we should have kept,
We keep so much we should have thrown away

street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the bagger's question,
each post
begging each other,
"from whence will come my inspiration?"

licked the stubbled sidewalks,
fell down into their living caverned cracks,
light needed, needy softly heated,
orange and green pizza neon signs,
saying here,
if you see upon what be,
these are your city's homeland colors of veracity

perhaps
NYC was model precursor
for our internet presumed-to-be-alive-but-who-can-say-for-sure
model for the world today,
where I know not my apartment's neighbors name,
yet carry his second child
in my arms,
when the fire alarm
summons us all to flee
to street safety...
and still only
"know" his child's first name,
and his father,
as Apt. #16D

all this exponential signage
of this NYC boy grousing,
are his defrocked muses him annoying,
with a serenading blizzard
of one trick pony repetitions,
their coronets trumpeting his unmasking,
*making this essay, his revelations,
a product of their harmonious discordancy

The 3 am twilight blues his sandpaper skin
A beast-like hue
she feels down
So he lifts her spirits
By the neck
Like a Heineken
“DO NOT call the cops”
His words sharp objects
He speaks machete fluently
I freeze
He ice skates on my childhood
Blades figure eights on my frosty irises
His face switches from blue to red
Like 3D glasses
I think of alps in the summertime
Defrosted mountains unveiled
******-Doo villains
The much-awaited unmasking
One time he shoves her
And murders a generation
Her run-ons have become clauses
Short.
Incomplete.
Terminated.
I smell miscarriage on her breath
Now her voice carries
What her stomach cannot

The faces come at me from the wall behind the panelling
I see them all, the bearded, the ******'s, the sinners and saints, faces that ain't and faces that are,
faces by far are the scariest things that I've ever seen.

I'm channelling my energy
wanting some sympathy.
needing to find empathy
I find instead
apathy.

Look at me,
faces that face me
laugh and debase me
try to erase me.

I am the magnet for
faces that set like a stone.

Leave me
alone
but
the face is still there
faces and where
am I?
under the bed
pulling the hair from my head
why don't they leave me alone?

Unmasking to remain
human. Listen, listen to my bane.
I am neither living, nor dead.

I am left with what I am not.
after you walked away with Agni.
My footfalls resound in water.

I am taking care of
lovebirds. They miss you when calls
don't come and food runs short.

I hate keeping everything inside .
All these emotions are eating me  alive .
I'm just looking for a way to release this hurt , I just need some advice .
The worst part of it all you have no idea of the damage your inciting .
The pain I'm feeling is hard describing . Seeing you hurt is hurting me .
Never thought it would have affected me .
I'm learning to trust people but this is quite difficult .
Everything I've been through is  making me cynical .

All this lifeless air created from migrated diverted array
Shot from wasted uneventful deep rooted motionless fatigue
Squeezed beneath a realm of misguided beliefs
Things mixed and shattered, confused mistaken repeats
Dug from a soul that never eats

All this lifeless air was created by total dismay
From thoughts that creep without light often in the calmest state
Shaking the essence of what purgatory seeks to infiltrate
With masks that always intolerably penetrate
The gateway to a subtle overactive mind grenade

It hits like a brick, it comes out of nowhere
Breathtakingly taking you into its mystical embrace
To another space in a place where nothing feels the same
Only discombobulation and facades of an erratic charade
Leaving your thoughts confused and in an melancholic state

Calmness in your spirit is a lantern burned from the light inside you
It seeps from your pours and glows intensely within your core
Unmasking horrific ramifications that you justified in the past
Leaving your mind free to disseminate thoughts that usually trespass

Recognizing feelings can be often obsolete
The lurking and self loathing of being stuck in between
a domain of migrated air and empathetic domains
Dragging your lifeless air into migrated array
Only erratic melancholy conceives and births total dismay

Have you heard the ghosts that whisper after words,
Like buzzing wasps?

What basks in the senses,
Tasked with pretenses,
What gasps through wooden lips,
Perched on limp wrists,
Risks to burst,
Like bustling beasts,
Unmasking the notched face that exists beneath.

I am in denial
of this untouchable pain
I cannot heal
Where does tenderness go
when I am not enough?
as shards of shame
pieces of this shattered soul
collect themselves in my fascia
intertwining misery around bones
and dulling my light
with their dense shadows

A collection of masks
hang neatly behind my closet door
ready to cover up vulnerability
willing to wage war
aloof, pretty, **** and sweet,
being more than enough to all I meet
rebellious, witty, charming and mean
willing to do anything
not to be seen
I’ve worn them all
they’ve all worn me out

I must be ready to heal
surrender to uncertainty
be willing to feel
nourish emotional pain
with compassion to be real
to give vulnerability
centre stage
and free my tenderness
from its desolate cage
it’s only when I unmask the concealed
will this shattered soul finally heal

They buttoned their coats
and strapped on their smiles
but their red runny noses
betrayed them, unmasking the pain
that their balloons had been
                                 l                
                                     a            
                                         s          
                                             h      
                                                 e  
       by the people they trusted the most

i am the sun

that rises from its nightly earthly grave
propelled by hope to find her love in skies
unmasking galaxies for their disguise
his mighty queen, pursued by lowly knave

and finds but empty space littered with stars
its solar flares upon its face but scars

descending then it falls into the sea
and drags the heaven's colors to the floor
its light extinguished through the closing door
in dying for a spell will cease to be

i am the sun

(C)2012, Chistos Rigakos

The fireflies of the summer dimmed into the past
So many things fade like dust and winter’s gusts
I’ve taken the empty words and trembling hourglasses
To sail the world with me in dazzling, chapped horizons

Endeavours upon disguises, silence in our minds
We envy the buzzing timelessness of the lighted fireflies
Chalked and restless grey, a distant opal of deceit
Unmasking, silent, and you, ever discreet

Cooling rain and sauntering songs, words and echoing tunes
Joyous dances and tittering ladies, potter through the dunes
Nostalgia and nausea rush to me, seeming none so different
While we talk and smell the hallways, so dried of yesterday

The chapel rings in amber mist, rays of tomes and light
Choral bells and bowls of memories, shine in blinding sight
Moaning in the shadow of the past, cringing past the ocean
Cloaked and yielding in the needs
Of explicit and deceptive motions.

I see you in the scent of autumn
Waving distant goodbye
As we raise our hands and talk the emptiness
Of vague and hollow skies.

we stayed inside that night
swishing cold drinks around with our tongues
letting it drown out the ringing we heard
and stop the sweat gathering between
our fingers

and you grabbed me playfullly
while i was sitting in the blue chair
i hope you remember
that

i stared at myself in the bathroom afterwards
later that night
standing there reciting bukowski
to my swollen eyes and
broken jaw

my lipstick was blending in with my
flushed cheeks
and i remember

you were going to kiss it entirely
off of me in one sitting
and i swear i was going to let you
until i started thinking about

my nylons ripping and my shyness
unmasking itself as some mental illness
and that stranger walking in and shouting
telling you there is a mountain to be climbing
and a song to be written and
a friend to be helping and you’re
trying with this girl?

she’s terrified of birds
just cause they have the capability
to do what she cannot
flee—
she wants yellow
but it’s dark green
needs pills to be civil
and wine to be social
she wants nights
not days

she just wants the rain
she wants the rain
the rain

and the rain

every single day

and you and i both know
we have no control
over the sun