I rolled in Michigan
strapped to a kayak in the namesake lake
vision obscured by freshwater

I plunged under the blue surface
out of my element
panicking as a fish out of water- in water

I reached for the release and
missed
but grasped swelling panic

Dread thoughts of
the end...
my family…
last words…

Still submerged- somehow a semblance of sensibility surfaced,
unlike myself
frightening fantasies flitted-
shot like skeets in the sky and
peace prevailed.

I stretched through the moist blindness,
found the release- my sweet release.

Gasp air.
Freedom from death's clutches

I see
my unpreparedness for death,
ability to survive

Fifteen seconds to find my inner calm, my inner panicked strength, the depth of my composure
fifteen seconds for reevaluation

Fifteen seconds
submarine style
to find who I really was and am

Arguments are made
that safety and tranquility are the best mindsets for
education

But,
safety lacks motivation,
tranquility lacks demand,
Life's trials breed introspection.

We are dying, the world is ending...
The fact is inevitable, yet we pretend that it will never end, we think that nothing will go wrong in our lives, so we ignore the warning signs. We ignore the amounting number of wild fires that burn our neighbourhoods, the ever steady rise in temperature, the ever increasing number of deaths in natural disasters due to our populations. I'm not a "SAVE THE EARTH, SAVE YOURSELVES" person, I just think that we have to wake up from our perfect little dream societies, and at least accept that accidents are imminent and that we don't just do something after the event has happened, but be prepared before it happens so that more people don't have to die from unpreparedness that was at the fault of our governments ignorance towards something that may only happen once.

After hurricane Katrina struck the U.S. Government spent billions on hurricane prevention in that affected area, while the rest of the coasts of the U.S. Stand vulnerable and naked to even the smallest of hurricanes.

Another example is mount Helena in Yoho National Park, we know that anywhere from tomorrow to fifty years that she will erupt. But as the world does everything but pay attention to it, there are unknown scientists taking measurements of the volcanic activity and becoming more anxious by the minute trying to save the uncaring world that live below the mountain.

There are hundreds of examples that I could rant on about, but no one wants to hear it because it conflicts with their tiny little perfect worlds.

says the neon sign gleamed,
refracted on your face
that sullen evening – I do not have

many nights to remember. If from a high
place I imagine you flailing,

what would call you back? What for?
You, coming toward the light – the subservience
of the next face

chauffeurs us. Unfazed, will me to pretend,
if not, then carry on the next meeting.
I will whisper to myself: this is how I sustain beatings

You have no use for poems.
Neither do I. You, dressed in your best,
I, submission refined by sartorial. Notice how my hand
continues to displace geographies. The thinning
  horizon of a candle, almost a faultline.

Slumped on your back as if comfort were a burden
to say: keep this time together with its fever. These often times
the last moments seal them shut out of histories.
When we came into,

I had a falling out – there is a straight line we could
run into and this instance might enervate

into a single drop of honey into your mouth. I await that
prophecy like it was the final thing before I resign
to incompleteness.   Delicate essence

the    neon sign says, glaring through the
  glib downpour outside. You laughed at our
unpreparedness, but the readiness that was obligation when
  separate had no omen of rain.

I am watching myself again. Everything was slanted
by rain as the living err me. Even when together,

       feels like emancipation. Going disparate places.
Outside it continues to rain. You asked if this rain washed
   this city whole and gave it a new name, would I still remember.

It is June from time since then, the skies still attentive.
I will not come out until it rains.

ha ha! among the english, even if something is written on pixel paper, in the public domain, it's deemed "spoken"... ha ha! how infuriating this notion of "freedom of speech"... how about you respect my freedom to think, and put thought to paper?! mob dictatorial stasi *****! seems to be, that this supposed "freedom" of speech has extended its stalinist hand into the freedom to think, and "abuse" digital, pixel paper! you *******, wanks! paper, free, defeatists' commodity! pamphlets! hello! they are really trying to make writing = speaking, because? it's on the internet, in a public space! you're just as bad as north korea, no, wait: you're worse! you're what defines the minority report prophecy! and, by the way? the minority report vision... that's twice as bad as 1984.

comes a bit late,  given the 20th century
continental output... well, what is it?
     a cat video?! a cat video with a piglet,
a cat video with a piglet with
a cat licking the piglet...
                                             great!
     can i have my pork chops
right now, or do i have to wait
for a vegetarian protest prior
to the bon appétit?
    might as well call it
by its proper name:
q = ?
         while Q = ?!
e.g. you what(q), vs.
you what(Q)
                    can't deal with
laze-round english...
  ******* will not learn
one iota's worth of a smacker...
i don't mind:
it's called being kind:
you have to be...
you have to ignore the laziness
of others to be kind...
leave being cruel to the english
and the middle-eastern
scoffs;
they seem to have handled the idea
pretty well..
and? *włodzimierz lubański:
thanks to the english - they broke
his legs...
     in terms of the english?
i love to hate them,
rather than hate to love them...
hardly a **** in me...
         esp. because of
    włodzimierz lubański,
top goalscorer for the national team...
even though, i must admit,
the country of my birth?
  seems mythical at times,
just as much as england to me:
feels more like a lunatic asylum than
an actual country...
strange, i speak the language,
but i have no tattoos of the natives,
other than those spoken to me
by my father...
       i wish i had less of these psychic
tattoos...
     then again, i can't seem to organise
myself around english,
  in terms of the upper-tier of
worth of utilising this tongue,
pretty much like any, if not all
of the al-britanni jihadis...
      i can't find myself surprised...
don't know why...
   but i just can't find the globalist nomad jew
in me...
    never could... never will...
and never will the al-britanni muslims
either...
           i couldn't join the caliphate
either: i love music too much,
plus, the adhan is sung...
it's not a catholic murmur of the "creed"...
no music? no go.
        but that's what anglophone
existentialism has become:
ridden with comic strips
          rather than sentences...
cat videos rather than paragraphs...
   it's a bit late to panic...
  might as well shove the panic under
       the carpet, and pretend it's aladdin's;
it's too late to write books on existentially
orientated englishness
(they ask too much about "britishness"
en masse too much, and also too frequently),
     and, as all english people know,
      all too well: in times of panic? speak!
this unpreparedness of inhibition of thought,
and exhibition of talk, is the most rife
characteristic of the english "ambition"...
    suffice to say: people care more
for the freedom to speak (in the english domain):
than the freedom to think...
it really does pain the english to think,
thinking to the english is worth as much
as the need to gulp down a paracetamol;
akin to the "debate" between citizens:
and, does that give you, power over me?
don't like social criticism?
   australia is: wide open;
so is spain, but you'll need to get off your
lingua franca ***, and put an effort into it!
chop chop!
           i'm like kierkegaard in mind
of: the pleasures of thought,
and this, nagging realm of the anglophones
attempting to find their speech as
"compelling", if not the least irritating
as the song of sparrows, or that of canaries...
these "defenders of free speech",
sound more irritable than the sunrise choir
of bird song,
for all their championing of existential
darwinism, they sound more, more
irritating than the laughter of hyenas...
did these people ever put this observation
into their "right" of a freedom of "speech"?
to be honest, i sometimes find
the buzzing of refrigerators more interesting,
the white noise of ambience,
coupled to a music genre of some comparable
electric hive;
    i find the "freedom" of speech
as irritating as anything to be made spoken -
at least the birds sing uninhibited,
thoughtless,
       but man was gifted with the decency
to think...
     evidently americana teaches us:
there is no decency of thought!
there's only the decency to speak!
well then... i wish you sounded as beautiful
as birds during a sunrise...
sadly... you're not going to speak at me
a worthy compensation,
for you have transcended the dasein of
a springtime sunrise, and the waking of
the birds' libido...
         your "freedom" to speak:
is like a stalemate at a pensioners' house:
not enough deaths to fit the yawning budget.

One took the stand on the benefit of the doubt. Even that could not put one’s head to rest. To a break desired by every one of us. And how, that even sleep was no less exhausting than catching one’s breath?

Then,
of the silenced, the ignored. They got all but attention. They got all but to be taken seriously. They got all but respect and a pair of ears. There was not a thing anywhere around. Only of those scents of the silenced and the ignored. Haunting. Lurking.

Then,
an emptiness. A sound. An empty sound. Creaking. Only can be heard in a duration as long as a gunfire. It was, perhaps a gunfire in every possible way of meaning. And yet it killed none. No. It inflicted no wound. None from that.

Then,
an evening. A cherished past. A separation. A doubt. A confusion of the unanswered. A colossal anxiety. A chaotic riot. They rose. They slew. No bullets could have done such scale. And yet it killed. Down and down and down, every reason that kept one’s standing. Even the dearest part of one’s reason to walk all the road: The meaning. And down it did – till all but one: The preacher.

Then,
kept breathing – breathing – though breathing was no easier than anything. No less difficult than to do one thing it always did. “It’s over.” Breathing. “It has already been over.” Breathing. “For long, you knew it from head to heart: It was over”. And the rest was just the preacher’s breath to and fro. Filling the silence left by the wind.

Then,
a breeze. A sound. A silence. A recurring wounds. A grasp of emotions. A thought. An unpreparedness. A heavy head and heavy heart. An unclear pursuit.  A clouded mind. A fiery anger. A crippling grief. A haunting ghost. An empty belief. A void longing. A lethal truth. A restless. A failed attempt. A sleep beyond the reach. A tired man. Of a sound, a silence, a memory.

Then,
the morning has come.

Covid-19 hums and ahs
Move quickly through the slings of unpreparedness
Move carefully through the morgues of horror
Five ten fifteen to seventy five days and over one and a half million people can be infected
Every five days the number can double
There is nothing new under the sun
In the end only love survives