why I love certain men


it’s a raining and writing Saturday,
a washout for the beach visitors who chose their
calendar lottery tickets poorly

but hurrah and huzzah for the poet
in the no-sun-today-room with
steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug,
the rest of him cozied neath a
wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket,
from a now naked and shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet

perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent
in the 1319 poems,
in the ‘sorta started to do’ list

****.
new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction
and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless,
serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say

Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!)

I love most men; certain men more than others,
not because they are soft to the touch,
look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe,
lay hands on animals, just as they do upon their grandchildren,
or write better poetry than me,
because
they make me weep from zealous delight at
their capricious unprecedented constancy of their
honorable actions

they are soft to the core, which is itself
wrapped in a leather soldered steel,
which defines them by their self-questing constant,
asking themselves preface and postface,
doing it well, in between,

what is the honorable thing?

this honor idea of which writ previous
doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger,
like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn
crying out to heavens at the concluding end  
on the holiest judgement day,
a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder,
ceasing only when nightfall marks a new day begun,
reminding both sinners and saviour each,
to inquire of their colluding selves on this forgiveness-giving day,

what is the honorable thing?

some are borrowers and some lenders,
of anything, the substance or the whom matters not,
but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done,
is of a uncharted organic chemical matter unrecognized
but millennium ancient


here I stop

the call to breakfast must be obeyed,
for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested,
this is too an honorable thing to do,
and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes,
can be faced with new courage afterwards
on a perfect raining and writing Summer Saturday
for the next one hopefully and woefully

may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah/Jewish New Year) when acorns fall

certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day,  
when Atonement begins, a ten day process to the final conclusion,
by asking of everything living and of every act human performed,
for the forgiveness requested inherent in the absolute bar setting of

what is the honorable thing?

which by the by,

is why I love certain women too...

and all who are honorable
will read this honorific and remain
clueless as to whom it is addressed...

oh god, I do so love that best!

what could signal honor even more...

Priceless unrecognized art in our midst
What this is about will fail from my part but along the way hopefully it will be worth the read I don’t know why unless her lost
Love is trying to channel feeling through me all I know when something grips touches moves you and won’t let go you must
Give it the fullest expression of your ability so it is a great endeavor we reserve Lincoln and Jefferson as great topics of dissimilation
In my case Mulholland Drive it speaks of place and immediate recognition of a greater place as a whole the same here I will be
Speaking of a single person but as in Matisse’s art you will find yourself in the overall theme and parts will speak of you then end
Modernism cubism Jackson *******’s power art fracture they said it’s not getting there that’s important but what you end up with
Jack the dripper was what he was called but they said mathematicians can tell his work by the amount of paint that he places in
Mathematical perfection in each section of the canvas this beautiful young woman can only be summed up that way she starts and
Flows on the canvas I have it easy sort of I’m not making a life I’m only revealing one even so following God pointing out his handy
Work his ability to reach forth and actually handle and hold intangibles this girl this woman God desires light moods he reaches out
Picks out laughter and merriment where and on whatever shelf it rest on he places this in the heart it outwardly produces tender
Moments that reflect and hold desired effects of casual looseness that brims with joy the filling of human kindness it ebbs and flows
Like a musical downbeat that impresses and gives enduring pleasure somber can accentuate deepen as it has done her personality
So God just picks up a frown with a deft hand he puts it in place at the precise right moment into the fabric of her life gold is laced
Among the hidden divined parts this glows mysteriously in her personality so the greatest artisan of all worked this master piece on
Living loving canvas of sweetest soft flesh the smiles and playful way are evident in all of her outward show of giving and being
Emotional stirring anchored in loves unmovable depths her heart was perfected by the man He gave her to love great years followed
She grew from girlhood into womanhood her countenance and face her glorious hair the true nobility of her quiet way is not easy to
To capture in words but it takes you to another place it gives evidence of the finest quality that is set in stillness a true master piece
Of art in her presence richness invades your soul you are set forth to discover masterful wonder gleaming in a living dream it stands all
Scrutiny her being holds mystery undivided attention to detail will enthrall move carry you to a place of appreciation and thankfulness
And some have the greatest blessing of being her friend thank you for this art treasure if you look at it as a portrait its name would be
Iva he calls her my beloved wife for then and forever

Could be I’m on a mission:
Convince the entire world
I am the World's Greatest Living
English Language poet;
Of course, genius such as mine
Goes generally unrecognized until
The posthumous crowd weighs in.
And yet, wouldn’t it be nice?

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Yes, wouldn’t it be nice?
(The Nobel Prize,
Tribute at the Kennedy Center,
A MacArthur Grant,
The Presidential Medal of Honor,
Reverent BJs from hipster groupies . . .
The Poet Laureate in his vicarage,
Enjoying my sweet twilight celebrity.)

(Cue “Guys & Dolls” soundtrack: “What's in the daily news?
I'll tell you what's in the daily news.”)
23: Beheaded at Nigerian Election Rally!
Amanda Knox Gets Away with ****** Again in Italy!
Kung Pow: Silicon Valley Penisocracy Crushes Ellen Pao
German Crash Dummy Co-pilot Flies Jet into the Alps!
Hilary’s Emails Are *****!
Sierra Leone Ebola Lockdown!
Iran: Kooks with Nukes!
Sri Lankan President’s Brother Dies from Ax Wounds!
Saudi Diplomats Evacuate Yemen!
Stampede at Hindu Bathing Ritual, Bangladesh Kills at Least 10!
Simply put:  THE WORLD IS IN A STATE OF ****.

Perhaps it’s time we turn again.
Seek solace in poetry—
“Yeah, chemistry,” insists my Sky Masterson,
My “Guys & Dolls” alter ago.
Surprised? You shouldn’t be.
All poets are gamblers & moonshiners.
We polish our chemical craft,
Sweet-talking the distillation apparatus,
Getting us, getting at linguistic essence.
Cunning linguists are we.
(Colonel Angus, are you back?)
Oyez! Oyez! The gavel raps:
“The Curious Case of Sam Hayakawa.”
We open this hearing to determine
Whether or not S.I. Hayakawa—guilty of
Numerous crimes against humanity & other
Professional Neo-Fascist “entrechats.”--
Whether or not he merits a kinder, gentler
Wikipedia BIO.
(Wikipedia ( i/ˌwɪkɨˈpiːdiə/ or  i/ˌwɪkiˈpiːdiə/ WIK-i-***-dee-ə) Wikipedia)
We open this forum, focusing on his
Courageous stand against the
SDS & Black Panthers, part of
An unlikely coalition: The Worker-Student Alliance
& It’s rival, Joe Hill Caucuses.
Da Name of the Place:
(“I like it like that!” Hot Chelle Rae-“I Like It Like That” lyrics| Metro Lyrics www.metrolyrics.com Lyrics to 'I Like It Like That' by Hot Chelle Rae. “Let's get it on, yeah, y'all can come along/Everybody drinks on me, buy out the bar /Just to feel like I'm.”)
The name of the place: San Francisco State,
1968-69, the longest student strike in U.S. history,
Led successfully to the creation of
Black & Other Ethnic studies programs
On campuses across the country,
And, one could argue,
Gave the green light to
Osama Hussein Obama,
Our first Uncle Tom President.
But I digress.

ACTING SFSU President, Dr. Hayakawa—
Perpetual audition, the pressure on,
Feisty, independent-minded & combative,
Screaming at that skeevy student mob:
(Skeevy as in “He bought the thing from
Some skeevy dude in an alley.")
Declaring “A State of Emergency,”
Calling in the SFPD, whose
Inexplicable slogan says”
“Oro en Paz,
Fierro en Guerra.”
Archaic Spanish for
Gold in peace,
Iron in war, by the by,
For you holdouts,
Those of you who still
Think the “English First Movement”
Breathes life still.
I’ve got more news for you:
That crusade died long ago,
Locked up, dark & shuttered,
Bank Repo thugs, their thick
Neck muscles flexing from side to side,
Sashaying across the parking lot,
Like John Wayne on steroids,
Right up to the front door.)
The SFPD: San Francisco city fuzz,
(As they were known at the time) &
The California National Guard, as well,
Obstreperously, generously catered by
Governor Ronald Wilson Reagan,
(Early stage, Alzheimer’s at the time.
But still very much “The Gypper,”
Still chipper in Sacramento.)
Ronnie--keenly interested in
The Eureka State’s congressional clout,
Lassoes a seat in the U.S. House of Lords:
AKA: The U.S. Senate, SPQR.
It’s still hard . . .

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Still hard to believe that California was once
Rock solid in the clutches of the GOP,
Gripped tightly in the Party’s
Desperate talons. But the grip slipped,
Slipped in the slip-sliding 1970s.
It got harder and harder . . .

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Harder and harder to remind
Leroy & the rest of his ebony posse,
That it was Abraham Lincoln—
“The Great Emancipator” himself—who was,
Our first Republican President.
The Emancipation Proclamation:
That toothless rhetorical flourish,
Based solely on Abe’s
Constitutional authority as
Commander-in-Chief,
Not on a law passed by Congress.
It was just Abe blowing smoke
Up their ***** again,
Just an egalitarian blast from
His Old Kentucky past,
A youth spent splitting rails,
Busting his *** just like
Any plantation ******,
A stark plebeian commonality,
Too deeply etched to be ignored.
Poor Abraham Lincoln:
Probably a **** Creek crypto-Jew,
Neutered by the opposition:
His very own Republican majority Congress,
Another example of the GOP
Shooting off its own foot, right up there
With Mitt Romney’s "47 percent of the people,”
The rhetorical gaffe which cost him his
Second & final shot at the White House.
But I digress.

Senator Sam S.I. Samuel Hayakawa:
That inscrutable Asian fixer, is now U.S. Senator,
Republican, California, 1976-83
Pulpit-bullying his Senate colleagues,
Fiercely opposed to transfer of the
Panama Canal & Panama Canal Zone to
Panama: a diplomatic no-brainer; Duh?
Their freaking name is on both of them.
Senator Sam, obstinate & blustering:
"We should keep the Panama Canal.
After all, we stole it fair and square.”
And Hayakawa, later the driving impetus
Behind the Far Right “English Only” movement.
His co-founding an "Official English"
Advocacy group, U.S. English;
Their party line summarizes their belief:
“The passage of English as the official language will help to expand opportunities for immigrants to learn and speak English, the single greatest empowering tool that immigrants must have to succeed."
That’s how they sold it, anyway.
In sooth: just old-fashioned nativist
Anti-immigration hysteria.

Hayakawa: always the high achiever.
Hayakawa: The Great Assimilator,
Preaching his xenophobic Gospel:
“Immigration Must Be Reduced!”
Aryan rhetoric, of course,
A bi-product of radical authoritarian nationalism,
A movement with deep American roots.
Senator Sam: a Japanese-Canadian-American,
Always tried too hard to fit in.
Sam, comfortable in Chicago during WWII,
Not personally subject to confinement,
Advocated that Japanese-Americans
Submit to FDR’s 1942, Executive Order 9066.
“Time in camp, will eventually work to Japanese advantage."
Later, during the Congressional debate over
The Civil Liberties Act of 1988 . . .
(Passed the House on September 17, 1987 (243–141)
Passed the Senate on April 20, 1988 (69–27, in lieu of S. 1009)
Reported by the joint conference committee on July 26, 1988,
Agreed to by the Senate on July 27, 1988 (voice vote) and
By the House on August 4, 1988 (257–156,
Signed into law by President Ronald Reagan 8/10/88.
He opposed $reparations for WWII internment:
“Japanese-Americans should not
Be paid for fulfilling their obligations."
Some guys, I guess, would say, or
Do anything for Bohemia Club membership.
Plagued by night terrors, nonetheless,
His Manzanar nightmares, his vivid
Imaginary experience at other Japanese
Internment Sites: Tule Lake & Camp Rohwer.
Stalag (German pronunciation: [ˈʃtalak])
Stalags, infamous still,
“Stalags ‘R Us,”
Still palpable memories for
Issei ("first generation")
& Nisei ("second generation").
See: 323 U.S. 214. Korematsu v. United States
(No. 22: Argued: October 11, 12, 1944.
Decided: December 18, 1944.140 F.2d 289.
The opinion, written by Hugo Black,
Chief Justice Harlan Stone, Presiding.)

Hayakawa: a strange duck, of course,
But we mustn’t ignore his strong credentials,
And I’d like to disabuse anyone here
Of the notion that it was anything
Other than his academic record
That got his case to this Forum.
Oyez! Oyez! The gavel raps:
“The Curious Case of Sam Hayakawa.”
So begins this fractured Pardoner’s Tale,
This petition for forgiveness,
The Capo di Tutti Capi,
Presiding: the original Italian mafioso,
His Eminence--the Vicar of Jesus Christ,
The Supreme Pontiff
Pope Paparazzi of Rome!
Roma: the only venue large enough to
Dispense dispensation of this magnitude.

Hayakawa: everyone says his C.V. is “impeccable.”
But did anyone ever freaking Google it?
Just where did Professor Sam go to school?
Undergrad? The University of Manitoba,
Truly, by any Third World Standard
A great bastion of intellectual rigor;
Grad school? McGill and U Wisconsin-Madison.
He was a Canadian by birth,
His academic discipline was Semantics.
(As in “That’s just semantics,”
That all-purpose rejoinder in any argument.)
Professor Hayakawa, The Semanticist,
He taught us: “All thought is sub-vocal speech.”

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Hmmm? We think in words.
The medium of thought is language.
If you grok this for the first time,
Let’s stop to celebrate our enlightenment,
With a cultural nod of respect,
We salute our Islamic brethren.
Radical Islam: the new bogeyman,
Responsible for keeping lights on in Alexandria,
Paying the defense & intelligence bills,
Sustaining that sinister
Military-Industrial complex
Ike warned us about.
Hang in there, Mustafa, old buddy.
Like the Cold War, this insanity
Will eventually blow over.
Orwell’s Oceania will reshuffle
Its deck of global grab-***, and a
New enemy will suddenly appear.
Big Brother, as always,
In the full-control mode,
Simply put: on top of the situation.
So Hurrah!
Allāhu Akbar. “God is Great!
The Takbīr (the term for the
Arabic phrase: usually translated as
"God is [the] greatest.")

“All thought is sub-vocal speech.”
What a simple, yet profound insight!
Just a short hop, skip & jump to the
Realization that, perhaps, the clarity
& Power of our minds can be groomed,
Improved upon by mastery of—
In Sam’s case, anyway--the English Language.
Was this, perhaps, the germ of U.S. English,
The political lobbying organization
He co-founded, dedicated to making
English, the official language of the United States.
Hayakawa: a wooly conservative of his own design;
No wonder Governor Reagan loved him.

Dr. S.I. Hayakawa, a colorful and polarizing
Figure in California politics during the 1960s and 70s.
Can we forgive his daily afternoon naps.
Asleep on the floor of the U.S. Senate,
Leaving California so pathetically,
So ostensibly under-represented.
Senator Sam’s comatose presence at
Washington-on Potomac; the
District of Columbia.
A long time ago,
In a distant galaxy . . .
Far, far away.

TEAR GAS.
Alas, long before he got to Washington,
Long before ever setting foot off campus,
He called for tear gas to
Disperse those pesky college kids.
I repeat myself for emphasis:
He authorized the use of tear gas at SF State.
Tear gas: a lachrymatory agent?
Actually, a potentially lethal
Chemical agent . . .
(Yeah, Chemistry!
To wit: Sgt. Sara Brown,
Referencing “Guys & Dolls” again.)
Outlawed for use during wartime,
Banned in international warfare
Under both the 1925 Geneva Protocol; & the
Chemical Weapons Convention;
“Tear gas:  a weapon of war against
The people. We believe that
Tear gas remains a chemical weapon
Whether used on a battlefield, or city streets.”

Thus, history will be your judge,
You unleashed tear gas on college kids,
So I wouldn’t expect a rep makeover
Any time soon, Ichiye-san, my ichiban friend.

consciousness conceived as complex matrices
patterns contained within patterns.
magnetic anomaly brainwave synchronization
unrecognized vortex activity locations.
correlation amplification phenomena resonance.
measurable parameter brain wave activity
highly sensitive field fluctuations.
transducer low frequency geomagnetic pulsations
electromagnetic patterns: their associated chemical changes.
Weak intensity complex magnetic fields
generated earth hum technology affect
flux-gate sample collapsing fields
amplifier filter stages couples into analog digital converter.
experiments correlating local geophysical anomalies
earth's magnetic field changes consciousness.
single electromagnetic coupling mechanism
including spin-mediated neurons.
upsurge solar activity alters brain rhythms, hormonal levels
healing nature mystic experiences
anomalous cognition ******-physical phenomena.
internal model reality - subjective consciousness
addition computational capacity
existential status may need exotic physics
quantum entanglement and new forms of physical interaction
magnetic sensory cells induced meditative states
direct correlation shifts magnetic flux.
No active effort required.
Magnetic mineral aligned crystal chains
embedded biological membranes.
atomic sublattices of ferrimagnetic material
plausible theoretical mechanisms
mechanosensitive membrane ion gates
specific synergetic properties for transduction.
cuboctahedral morphology properties
jitterbugging vector equilibrium matrix basis tensegrity.
basic geometrical biological building blocks.
mystical red rock temples
Tracing disjunctive dislocations
Mother Earth speaks
Questions remain.

The clock ticks away, little concerned of the absence of attention
The tender morning silence that was unaffected
By the sharp chirps of myriad little birds
Quivers a little as waves recede
In the wake of the first morning train

A soft smile acknowledges a nudge and nods for a kiss
Thoughts crowd the wakened mind like the returning
Waters of a receding tide; long does it take
For us to see: a highest joy is spread common
Before our eyes, yet unrecognized.

In my shyness . . .
At times I retreat to my "shell,"
Clinging to the security of being alone.

In my shyness . . .
I may attempt to merge with my surroundings--
To be ignored, unnoticed, a silent voice rarely heard.

In my shyness . . .
I can feel completely alone,
Although surrounded by people.

In my shyness . . .
I'm perceived as having a padlocked soul--
And few try to gain entry into my realm.

In my shyness . . .
Few will dare venture to really know me--
To hear my quiet voice or to really try to understand.

In my shyness . . .
I can have a myriad of words to say,
Yet, my sealed lips will not release them.

In my shyness . . .
The words I do speak will at times be jumbled,
And I'll feel worse for having spoken them.

In my shyness . . .
I will be viewed as "stuck up" and unfriendly,
Labeled by the presumption of a troubled past.

Yet, despite my shyness . . .
I will at times emerge from my "shell,"
And you may catch a glimpse of who I am.

And despite my shyness . . .
I may put on a good "front,"
Disguising my innermost insecurities.

Despite my shyness . . .
A select few will manage to penetrate these "walls,"
With the sharing of time and the evolving of trust.

My shyness . . .
Frequently unrecognized, seldom understood--
A shackle, a haven, a veil.

Let a man call misunderstanding bad luck.
God of Mercy, is it misunderstanding or bad luck.
Devil say is a bad luck and they trust.
I say is a misunderstanding but they do not trust.
Any training is a bad luck to you
Any tough moment is a bad luck to you
Is it not misunderstanding, this is misunderstanding.
Is it a bad luck or misunderstanding?

Is it fair for an unrecognized entrepreneur to search for a job?
If yes that is misunderstanding, pray for him/her to understand.
Is it fair for one man to get a Job and ten become jobless?
Is it fair for an unrecognized entrepreneur to search for a job?
If yes that is misunderstanding, pray for him/her to understand.
Is it fair for one man to get a Job and ten become jobless?

Written - undefined

Months of stale, cigarette smoke
and spilt **** water pleasantly
offset the stench of cheap cologne
and ratty, abused furniture.
    
Fictitious stories occupy this tiny, dim
apartment, birthed on the lips of
rebellious juveniles whose tongues
pierce the ears of our elders.

In a forsaken corner, Jeremy lounges
awkwardly on a grubby-plaid sofa that
suitably complements his button-down shirt.  
I join him.

Behind his right ear rests a lonely cigarette, while
another sits snug between his lips, set ablaze
by the 1968 Slim Model Zippo he inherited from
his beloved grandfather.

His transparent sense of self-worth emanates
from his grubby, grease-stained hands, scuffed boots,
blotchy-checkered flannels, and faded blue jeans
that are completely obliterated with holes.

I look into his pale blue eyes, the depth of which
often goes unrecognized.  Jeremy is a soft-hearted,
pudgy youngster with the kind of chunky cheeks
that all grandparents love to torture.  

But his marred, acne-ridden face betrays the transition
that has been forced upon him.  Slowly, his trademark
grin appears across his face – subtle, mischievous, and
typically without reason.  But this time it appears justified.

Jeremy takes a moment’s break from his cigarette to drop two
hits of acid.  A new drug for him, he hopes to find relief from
his seething anxiety, evidenced now by the wide expansion of his
chest as he takes another, more lengthy and powerful pull from his cigarette.

The mundane chatter that fills the room continues, a seeming
necessity to offset any potential awkward silence. I feel as if
this noise is closing in around us.  But just as suddenly as I
feel overwhelmed by this sensation, the noise stops.

I look around, noticing everyone’s eyes staring in my
direction.  Jeremy is still next to me, now giggling
like a little school girl.
I begin to feel sick.

Jeremy swiftly leans forward, giving his
cigarette a premature but honorable
death, eliminating its glow as he smashes
the cherry into tiny bits against the ashtray.

As he sits back against the couch, I can see that
his eyes are now indifferent. Foreign.  With a perplexed
and fascinated stare, he watches the pearly-white smoke
slowly slither upwards towards the ceiling.

There’s no question in my mind that his
soul has fled. Jeremy sinks further into the
couch, turning his vacant eyes in my direction.
I want to *****.

His high-pitched giggle has now subsided into a
low whimper.  Gradually extending his left arm into
the air, he tilts it from side-to-side, examining it as if
an infant discovering his genitals for the first time.  

Bike wheels appear in the corners of the room.
Entertained, his eyes rapidly zigzag from the
corners of the walls to his hands. He asks me
if I can see the wheels. I don’t respond.

Intervals of psychotic emotion begin to cycle. Jeremy’s eyes
fill with tears as he tries to understand the hallucinations
engulfing him.  The expression on his face betrays the reality that
he has stepped onto the never-ending theme-park ride from hell.  

Together we leave and walk to the bus station, Jeremy
walking slowly and whimsically. The bus arrives,
and I hand him a few crumpled, single-dollar
bills as I attempt to instruct him where to get off.  

All I can envision is his mother’s first reaction to her son’s arrival.  
Would she collapse at her son’s knees, crying like a mother whose boy
has come home from war?  Would he forever be an awkward guest
at the dinner table? Would she disown him?  Would he become a feral child?






I no longer know what day it is. I am surrounded by lockers
and students, trapped in a tunnel of shadowy walls.  As I stand
alone, I find myself entranced by the blinding, January sunlight
that floods through the double doors a mile away.

My vision is unexpectedly blocked by a figure
standing in front of me. Clothed in little but jeans
and a bright, white t-shirt, Jeremy stares at me, his eyes
mirroring the emptiness I now feel.  

“Do you have a lighter?”  My hands pointlessly search my pockets for
what I already know is not there. “No, man. Sorry.” A look of confusion
spreads over his face, and I suddenly cannot help but notice the sick irony
of the scene in front of me - Jeremy flooded in light as if born again.  

My thoughts linger here too long, and just as swiftly as Jeremy
appeared, he is a mile away sauntering out through those double
doors. Estranged, I continue to stand here, hoping with
futility that this isn’t the last time I have looked upon him.

The Phoenix
(To Love and Lose Part 2)
by Ryan Kinney

It started with a broken heart. Through the crack seeped liquid fire. It engulfed me, burning away all that I was. The flames shall purify me. Boil me down to my base components, and then rebuild me. From the ashes will rise a new entity.

Who am I?

Following my divorce I began an identity quest dubbed The Phoenix. It is my own personal trial by fire. Fire is the essence of life itself. As it destroys it also creates. I will create a new life from the remnants of my former, a persona not defined by another.

Chapter 1-The Quest

Depression and Suicide
“…my life before you was very chaotic and unstable. You were the stability I needed and the foundation on which I built my life.  I never doubted that you would always be there for me. You were my rock. Of all the people that had disappointed me you never let me down. Yet you did, You pulled the rug out from under me without warning and the foundation upon which I built my entire life crumbled…” –email correspondence to Lisa; Nov. 21, 2008

It took four months to undo ten years of my life. A debilitating depression overwhelmed me. I never saw anything in my life, but Lisa. What did I have left without her? What would I do? Darkness clouded my heart.

A rusty blade in my hand. A message in blood written on the broken mirror.
I lay in the tub, leaking crimson life. In my haze I barely make out the words.
What does my final message to the world say? I cannot remember why it hurt so much.
In a few minutes it won’t matter anymore. What the hell did I write?
I can only think of one thing that torments me enough to drive me to this darkness.
Trailing down in letters, clotting on the wall…
“I loved you.”

This revolving drama played on a loop in my mind. I was lost, a walking corpse. All I felt was cold hollowness.
“All that is left is emptiness, an empty house, an empty soul.”-journal excerpt; Oct. 6, 2008
I so badly just wanted the hurt to stop. In my tunnel vision existence I was oblivious to those whose hearts bled for mine. All my substance and passion was gone. Lisa took my heart with her and left nothing inside. Without her my existence seemed meaningless. The cloaked figure smiled, offering me the almost irresistible temptation of sweet release.
“Do I give in to the darkness? Let it consume me”-journal excerpt
Ultimately, though, there came a day when I awoke from the fog. I was living outside myself watching this unknown drone on a worthless trek. One phrase finally broke through the shell.
“What a waste!”
The Phoenix was born in that moment. The match was struck to light the way on the difficult road to recovery.
“The pieces of my soul are on the floor for everyone to trample on.”-journal excerpt; Oct. 6, 2008
I was in over my head. I needed help. A therapist helped at first, but the relationship quickly cheapened because I was essentially paying for a friendship. Antidepressants proved to work too well. I have a manic level of natural intensity. Lexapro ignited fireworks inside my brain. Both, however, gave me the nudge I needed to help myself. Eventually, I grew beyond the need for crutches. A previously unrecognized army of supporters each lent their kindling to the fires. One day at a time I battled my inner demons until I was ready to accept happiness again.
“You will be amazed on how much of the original Ryan is back. Why? Because I'm over my depression about change because something I feared more came to fruition.  I lost you.  I'm doing my best to survive from that, but my past fears now seems trivial and meaningless in comparison.”-email correspondence to Lisa; Sept. 8, 2009

Denial and Desperation
“Run, Run away Ryan. Open another book, turn on the TV, surf the Net. Delve into your fantasies and escape reality. It’s how you survived your childhood…”-journal excerpt; Oct. 2, 2008
The cracks in my facade were beginning to show. I shielded myself in delusions. I lied to myself to soften the full scope of Lisa’s betrayal. I more than lied. I was absolutely sure. I trusted her with my life. I trusted a lie. I was living a lie. I betrayed myself more than she ever did. The realizations came in shards, each piece punching holes in my heart.
I wallowed in self-pity and desolation.
I yearned so badly to feel some warmth, anybody’s warmth.

The New Girls
Upon Lisa’s departure I sought to quench my loneliness in the convenient woman around me. For a moment’s time, they took pity on me.
Rebound-I immediately sought solace in the arms of a good friend. She’s always shown me nothing but love and idolization. I was ashamed for disrespecting her and our friendship. I knew full well that our brief encounters were all that would ever be between us.
Crazy Chick-She was a brute of a woman, yet conversely, very maternal and comforting. She had a unique talent for forcefully ripping out my raw emotions, breaking through the masks. As she said, though, “I’m not Lisa.” Pathetically, that’s exactly what I wanted.
One Night Stand-ups-Several brief encounters fed my addiction for attention. Like a ****** with a needle, my appetite grew. Desperation was becoming my scarlet letter.
“…but it did seem that the thing we are most proud of and the thing we are most ashamed of are but the front and the back of the same coin. They torture and thrill all at once.”-Grotesque; Natsuo Kirino
I felt guilty and *****, yet loved for but an instant. These experiences were very cathartic. I had completely lost the ability to cry, feel pain, rage, or joy. They were the prefect drug, just so that I may feel again. Without these women to reopen the wounds, the numbness would have consumed me.
“Every angel has a little devil inside them.”-Manda; 2009
What attracted me to these women was mock chivalry. Each had their own “hard luck” story. So ingrained in me is the comic book ideal of heroism that I constantly seek to rescue the damsel in distress. Women will always be my kryptonite. However, as Crazy Chick put it, “ When is it time for you to be rescued?” The divine irony is, it was they who saved me.
It too, was not to last. A long period of isolation followed, as the women grew tired of babysitting me. Another lie to myself, a band-aid on a wound desperately needing stitches.

The Crush
Hers was the first light I allowed to pierce the darkness. She did more to heal me than any who said, “Yes.” Her secret, she said, “No.”
It has always been my curse to be eternally misunderstood and underestimated. I could see her scars bled the same as mine, although hers had begun to clot long ago. I am attracted to those who have a depth chiseled by adversity.
I identified with her. Her intelligence far exceeded my own, an Einstein in a circus. My eyes saw straight to her soul, seeing only the gorgeous woman she was on the inside. My friends would point out my eyes would sparkle whenever I spoke of her.
Yes, I loved her, but only in transition. We came from different worlds, but met as wounded soldiers on the battlefield. She was the catalyst to open my eyes. A sweet smile for my shredded soul.
“A worn beaten heart trapped in by bars.” From “Painless” by Tracy Reed
She held the key to my self-imposed imprisonment. My growing frustration with her opened the door for my transformation. For all her grace, all her amazing potential, she was wasting away in the same feeding trough as me.
“You can do better.”
Then it hit me…
“I can do better!”
I began to rebuild my empire. My never-queen rejected me…
I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

The Emotional Spectrum
“Stuck in a prison of abstract ideas and overpowering emotions.”-Zach; mypsace blog
Shock
1) ‘I don’t love you anymore.”
2) Letter…”I can’t wait until my divorce is over!”
3) Ryan-“So I guess this means we’re getting a divorce.”
Lisa-“Well, yeah. You knew that.”
4) “Ryan, they’re together, and have been.”
5) “I’m moving out.”
6) “By the State of Ohio, I hereby grant this dissolution.”-Judge; Dec. 30, 2008

Six bullets to my heart, six separate, devastating phrases that brought about Armageddon. I gave her a decade of my meager existence, nearly half my life. She threw me away like garbage, and couldn’t have been happier.

Fear
As the gun smoke drifted, I clutched my breast. I was frozen in horror that I’d lose myself along with her. Fear, you see, was the beginning of the end for our marriage.
I never dealt well with change. When we bought our house, the combat that ensued left me crippled. I ultimately built myself into a comfort zone again. “I don’t know what I want to do” was always an excuse for me. I lay stagnant and complacent with no true purpose or direction.
It was Lisa that first took action. She sought to elevate us from the ranks of lower middle class into which we were born. I fought her, determined to lay docked in the doldrums. “Leave me alone in my bubble.” I made attempts, but with each failure became depressed. She became frustrated and took matters into her own hands. It is obvious she loved me then. She worked effortlessly to give us a better life.
I was blind to the truth and in time Lisa lost sight of her motives. She plodded on, mechanically, no longer sure of why. She drove herself to extreme exhaustion, afraid, that if she stopped, for even a moment, she’d realize it was all for naught. She lost faith in our combined, bright vision.
So, she did the only thing she knew how. She ran away, straight to another as miserable as her. She kept running, further and further, taking greater risks. All just to not have to feel her own hollowness.
She left and my phobia ended there. What followed was a newfound fear. “I don’t know what I want to do” became “What the hell do I do?” I was afraid I was doomed to be alone the rest of my life.

Sadness
“Are you ok?”
“We’re worried about you.”
“How are you, Ryan?”…

“MISERABLE!”-Ryan

I always speak the truth. I’ve never felt so surrounded and alone in all my life.

Anger
“Like koi in a ***** pond, you can see your rage barely hiding below the surface.”-Erin Kompik
The most intense rage fueled The Phoenix. I lashed out at everything. Everyone was burned. I was ******* and the world would pay. The spectacle burned so bright it threatened to eradicate all that I was.
“I can feel bitterness and anger coming. I am fighting for control over the anger”-journal excerpt; Oct. 1, 2008
“The seams in my heart leak nothing, but hostility.”-journal excerpt; Oct. 6, 2008
“I’ve become a monster. I once loved someone so hard I would die for her. Now all I can feel is scorn and hate. My heart is twisted and black. I fear I will become the bitter man my father is. I hate myself for being so.”-journal excerpt; Sept. 30, 2008
Who was I so angry with? For all the hurt I felt from Lisa, I was most angry at myself. How could I let this happen? How could I have been so blind? My blood boiled as I berated myself. The loss I suffered left my heart festering with hatred, as nothing but fire and volatility overtook it.
“The red light of rage is violent action without consideration of consequence. It is uncontrollable. So I will unleash it.”-Final Crisis, Rage of the Red Lanterns
Then, the root of another anger broke through the fury.
“I know that you may not see it now, but time really will heal these wounds.”-Michelle Kinney
She was right. I had absolved myself of my original rage. I had forgiven her. I could forgive myself. I couldn’t be held responsible for another’s irresponsibility. The anger dissipated into the smoke. It left behind a few flickers, but I’ll not extinguish them yet. I still have a use for that rage.
“Do not be afraid to expose the darkness. Only by bringing it to the light can it ever truly be resolved.”-audio journal excerpt; Aug. 16, 2009

Love and Happiness
During my marriage, hers was the only love I let myself feel. Then, she took it with her when she left. I felt scorned and unwanted, a refuse of human waste.
I was wrong. I am a man that seeks love as an end all for my existence. Lisa unlocked my caged heart. Over the next decade I cultivated relationships with countless individuals. There was more love in my life than I ever realized. They were there when she wasn’t. My parents sacrificed everything to give me a life and family they never had. Lisa’s family had become my permanent family. She divorced me. I did not divorce them. All my friends gave all they could. Even my harsh enemies stepped off the battlefield, for they understood the casualties of this war. All of them, a shining sea of compassion, poured their hearts into mine. Their light overcame the darkness. When I finally crawled out of the pit, they got me to my feet.
“For them, I must continue.”-Naoko Takeuchi
I had to be strong. I owed it to them to survive. They gave me their love to fill in my missing pieces. For all I had been given, I could never give up or give in.
“I am meant for greatness. I am meant for happiness, for joy, for me.”-Zach; myspace blog

Chapter 2-Evolution

Picking up the Pieces
“I need to be out there.
Living.
Looking for my own life…
I need to open my mouth.
I need to be heard.
I need to live.
You’re gone…
I’m not.”
-Goth Girl Rising; Barry Lyga.
It was time to rebuild that which had been broken. My life was fragmented chaos. I needed an order to the chaos, or more to my tastes, organized chaos; anarchy with purpose. I learned to become a master strategist. The civil war I waged on myself demanded a general.
STEP 1-Stabalize finances.
My pact with the devil to keep my beloved home required emptying the coffers completely. How delicious the irony that I wound up working the same long weeks as Lisa.  Hard work and sacrifice were absolute necessities if I was ever to afford to live again. It was Lisa that taught me that. The only difference, I must never lose sight of why. Money is not the reason for existence. I simply needed enough to achieve my goals.
“Money is nothing.  It is an imaginary concept.  Its only value is what we put into it.  While often a necessary evil to survive, it is not important.  The only possession of true value is time.”- The Most Valuable Possession; 2009
STEP 2-Tear down the Mausoleum.
My home had become a testament to a dead marriage. Lisa’s five day moving notice threw a grenade into my living space. It was disheveled and disorganized. It was no longer Ryan and Lisa’s. I had to reclaim it as my own. Out of respect for our past, I kept a few pieces of Lisa as a constant reminder. I will never forget where I’ve been.
“Your spirit helped build this place and it still flows through its walls.”-email correspondence to Lisa; Nov. 21, 2008
Physically putting my environment in order likewise put my mind into an order. As I rebuilt my home, it became the new foundation for my life. The Phoenix had a place to perch.
STEP 3-Know Happiness again.
“I seem to find that my great periods of change, evolution, and growth precede an ultimate betrayal from someone I’ve let close to my heart. Is survival mode the only way I can fuel my passion? Where do I find the love that ignites my will, yet does not drive me to complacency?”-audio journal; Aug 13, 2009
The answer, I needed to love myself again. I could not rely on someone else to complete me. I had to become independent, to be ok with being alone. I deserved to be happy, to be loved, above all, by myself.
This was going to be hard.

Breaking Codependency
Not having another physical body in the house left a void. Without another heartbeat close to mine, I stopped sleeping at night. My appetite was lost and I started shedding pounds. With my depression receding, I awoke to find I was living in a desolate wasteland. What would I do in this solitary confinement?
Utilizing survival skills my mother taught me, I used it. Ever the artist, I took the pieces and created an existence. Then I improved it, again and again. Loneliness is a disease that attacks only if you let it. I had to learn to accept myself, before I could expect anyone else to. I used the loneliness to redefine and rediscover myself. I would not rely on anyone to do for me. My honor and respect for my loved ones demanded I do for myself. The stifling quiet, the sleepless nights taught independence. The silence used to frustrate and anger me. Now, I use it for peaceful reflection and meditation. Th

Love is like a little bird
on a rainy day;
it finds shelter in a tiny nook
carved in the grand design of a
building or formed in a
tree by the arrangement of leaves
and cloistered branches;
it remains well out of our sight
for we care little about
dusty nooks in brick walls
or tiny gaps under eaves
when the sky comes
pouring down
and forces us into our own
big shelters built of
cement and stone,
or the foliage in the garden
that we had carefully pruned and grown.
The birdie shows up,
and sings a sweet love song
at our windowsill
once the rain is gone
and the sun is out...
but it is not the little bird
on a rainy day anymore.

In a little pub in London,
Moriarty drank his beer,
Night came, a ***** black night with rain.
Mid-December, nineteen hundred and thirty nine,
Just a few months before ****** turned London's
sky black with lead.
But for now,
Moriarty drank his beer,
Sat solemnly in the candle-lit corner.
He gazed ruefully into his drink,
Like a haggard old grey ghost.
He was tired and felt strange and lost
in this faraway disgusting place.
The whorey smell of the city.
He felt a million and one miles away
from his home.
He was born in a little white cottage,
straw roof, on a small tragic island
off the West of Ireland;
Just a few stone-trows away from
the sleepy fishing village of the
village of Kinsheenlan.
Moriarty had often written letters to
his lonesome mother dearest,
but instead of tossing the letters
into gloomy London post-boxes,
he would post them into
the pub's fireplace.
Fuel for his shame.
Alas, the curse of drink had taken
over his soul and mind.
The sweet poison was now
his only pleasure,
his only softness.

So there he sat, drinking the Devil's drop,
like a mop soaks up spills on the counter-top.
And blowing out sliver smoke rings
all through those long winter nights.
Give to Moriarty to drink mandragora,
until he becomes muddied and slow.
Those rose colored glasses that he had
on for so long now,
they were not going to shield him forever.
As he transfixed his eyes on his beer,
he heard a voice,
a wondrous voice,
at first he thought it lay alone in his mind,
but it was coming from down the hallway,
the sounds of a young maiden's song,
wild and free.
It made his heart feel the substance of his life.
That fabulous blue center-light delight of song.
Sounding so alike to his sister Betty.
It shook him to his core.

Moriarty, the poor lost soul,
had not seen his sister in twenty odd years.
He recalled their last meeting.

The ship has set sail into an ocean, black and calm.
Just that morning, Moriarty got the letter from his mother,
Handwritten in felt tip, slightly stained with a tear,
Telling him to keep warm and stay safe,
To fill his stomach and fill his pockets.

As his sister stood on Dublin's docks to see him off and wish him well
She shrinks with the distance growing between and
She looks twelve and three quarter years younger than she did that day,
The little girl who Moriarty fought with all the live long day over nothing.
Now, she was the women who put up a fight over his sailing away.
Sometimes, brothers and sisters never change.

She knew that this was for the best, but she would never admit that,
Not with words,
She felt her words, weightless would have just sailed right away with him.
Moriarty wondered what she will look like if he seen her again,
Will she have received wrinkles from worrying about mother?
Will her chestnut hair have turned white as the snow burying her bare feet?
And now
Betty was all Moriarty's mother had, after Moriarty's father,
a fisherman, drowned that awful November night.

Then, just as Moriarty thought of his ghostling past,
there came the question
'Are you going home for Christmas, dear?'
Asked the barmaid,
Her words dripping like honey into Moriarty's half-empty-glass.
'Sure, I have not been to Ireland in an age, but I know for certain
that my mother is waiting for me with arms open' Moriarty answered.
But he was unsure if his own poor mother would recognize him
for it had been so long.
But just then, Moriarty heard the Christmas-bell-like-voice of
the women standing, singing in the hallway.
The past came into consciousness like a flood.
And in the corner of his eye,
there glazed, the starting of a tear.
Moriarty pushed aside his beer glass-half-full and
said to himself
'I shall be home for Christmas day'.

After two weeks, long weeks
Gone drink nor smoke,
Moriarty have sharped up enough pounds and pennies
to bring him to his home of Ireland.
And while on that train through the lands, green and beautiful,
The deeper into the West Moriarty went
the stronger he felt it,
a beat, beat, beat that thumped and rang out in his chest.
Night fell by the time Moriarty set foot in Kinsheelan,
The church bells rang true and strong sixfold.
Moriarty was unrecognized by the sailor Tomas Bawn,
As he climbed into the little white boat
to sail home across the calm, blue, winter-waters,
to that same white cottage.
Tomas Bawn heard Moriarty as he said to himself
in little more then a whisper
'Thank God above, I shall be home for Christmas day'.


In a little pub in London,
Moriarty's abode,
By the hallway door,
A letter, unread,
Laid upon the floor, It read-

'Oh dear Danny,
Our poor mother has passed.
The funeral will take place
In Kinsheelan church
After mass
On Christmas day'.




-Jamie F. Nugent

Oh wasted talent, neglected excellence,
how you enter the light every day, always leaving a black abyss
full of attitude, and rude remarks, offensive words that sting
long after you’ve crept back into your world of tenebrous isolation
we feel the effects, like a wave of negativity

you position yourself south of everyone comfortably north
repelling love, and understanding, but you’re not lonely
No you’ve found the ultimate alternative,
An imitation reality, like McDonald’s food,
Never quite  able to equal greatness, nothing worth praise, almost a waste
A great façade, a fake

Your glossy eyes and lethargic mannerisms tell all
Higher than life, Psh you don’t need us!

But don’t you know? Weren’t you told?
There’s a better way to get high,
why not… … take a drag of the cigarette of friendship,
or a hit of creativity?
These things will far surpass the boundaries of ecstasy

But no,
you sit
and you sleep
senses dulled
eyes glued shut
you reside complacent in a prison to which only you hold the key!

Don’t you know the greatness you could be?
I do because I can see, past the cloudy eyes,
beyond the stinging comments,
I can see the successful well educated man you continually refuse to be.

It hurts and pains me every day getting up from my seat taking the world away,
and on the desk where you used to sit,
is a pile of class work and lessons, that you call *******.

stop now, before the poison penetrates too deep,
save the dying man,
the long list of what you could be
times are tough and temptation is hard to fight,
just remember that salvation is close and it is in sight,
Ask for help and you shall receive,
let in the light and shut out the fog,
not one inky hint should remain,
time is running low, and faith is hard to find….
just once, sincerely try to open your eyes,
take advantage of the time that you have left
because when this years over,
it will be time well spent.

I feel like a child's favorite toy.
The one thrown against a wall pretending it can fly.
The one whose button is pushed over and over to hear it's sound,
Until it can't talk anymore, hardly able to make a sound.
The toy cuddled and smashed under their small body every night.
"Protecting" them from the monsters under the bed.
The favorite toy they hold by the arm,
They drag it behind them wearing it out until the arm may fall off.
The one that is *****, but you can tell it was loved.
The toy that sits alone on a shelf for years on end.
Who collects dust untouched because the child has grown.
The one who has no purpose but to make people smile.
The toy that is so used and abused they say it has "character".
The toy no new child wants because it to worn.
They don't want it for it can't last much longer.
It needs new batteries, and a trip through the wash.
It needs to be stitched up in more places than one.
The toy that no longer has a purpose,
But that only makes it need more love.
Someone to love itself.
But who could love something so worn and mangled.
So it sits alone on that shelf.
Collecting dust, unseen, unrecognized.
I am that toy.
The one with no purpose.
The one on the shelf.
Unseen, unrecognized, unloved.

Throughout the course of this life, I, just like you, have made my fair share of mistakes. To compensate for this & also out of a fear of letting others down or causing pain or suffering to anyone other than myself, over the years I have tried to hone to almost perfection, the habit of seeing down the line when it comes to the decisions I make and the chances I take.
But alas, no one is perfect, especially not I.

Although I was compelled to grow up long ago, I feel as though I am still a young man, a young man with old values. Values like honor, loyalty, dignity and a wonderful sense of shame. A trait which I feel compliments the first three aforementioned values quite well.
Traits far removed from the gooey 'Quick’mix’d Battered' personalities we find ourselves standing shoulder to shoulder with in the oven of today’s irreversible societal meltdown. Everyone seems to have forgotten to teach their off-spring of that which makes life worth living & keeps the world turning. Which is of course, living for others just as much as we live for ourselves. Unfortunately, due to the selfish pace of today, rarely is anyone noticed for their gestures towards humanity. The reason for this phenomenon, being of course; Man Kinds evolution into the Narcissistic Vampire he is today. And as a result of this, not only do our efforts towards one another merely go unnoticed & unappreciated, it's far worse than that, courtesy is no longer even recognized for what it is, is rarely reciprocated, and has thus been phased out completely. And as a result of this; Man Kinds new triumphant mutation, 'The All-consuming Ego', is free to simply **** the meaning out of all that was once so valuable to the fabric of human society, while arrogantly presuming to be deserving of it all anyways, regardless of it's contribution to anyone or any thing.
Now the ego acts as a new type of biological O rgan,
an invisible 'Iron Lung'. Processing the very niceties that once separated us from the beasts, as if they were just like any other natural resource. But there is a difference & that difference is that these are human resources and in my opinion are just as valuable as the air we breathe, and just as nourishing as the sweet waters we drink. Manners are things to be noticed, cherished and savored. They are decency's. Gifts, that when given & returned, should impart on us the feeling of being recognized for our own decency and our own efforts towards our fellow man.
However, since Man has placed his Ego at the forefront, where once stood the Human Heart, 'It' now sits at the receiving window of human courtesies, absorbing and indifferent. So instead, it all goes unnoticed, unrecognized and underappreciated just like a gulp of air and is simply exhaled without a second thought, or a shred of gratitude as to how precious it really was.

If you were able to ask a fish, to name one thing which It considered to be both the most obvious aspect of his environment and also the thing most essential to the survival of its species, the last thing it will mention is the water.
Ask a man today the same question, but replace the words “his environment” with “humanity” and the last thing He will mention is another human being.

But I digress…

You'll have to excuse me. I am after-all a true romantic in every sense of the word and I have always been quite partial to dramatic effect.
I consider myself a realist, a term all too often confused with having a negative outlook. I beg to differ. In a world gone mad, I just prefer to keep my eyes wide open and my head in the game, as opposed to having it shoved all the way up my own a$$ like most. And although the world may not be so pretty out here, at least it’s real, as am I.
Allow me to make something abundantly clear, I never have been, nor will I ever be, anyone special.
And being aware of these facts is still far better than pretending that both of them are anything other than just that, facts.
I find no comfort in self-congratulation, delusions, or deliberate oblivious ignorance.
I am what I am.

What more can I say?
Another year come and gone and just like the rest of the world, it seems things for me too have only grown worse.
I am full of regret, all old, and none new. And for the exceptions of my Daughter and the Almighty Himself, I apologize for nothing and to no one else. After a lifetime of experiences and lessons learned, all that I am truly certain of, is that I am still here. And unfortunately, so are most of you.
And I am also still standing. Upright, with both feet planted firmly in reality and God willing, that is exactly how I intend to remain. There is not one ****** thing in this world which I have any control over and everything I have ever wanted, I have never gotten, and everything I have ever had, has been taken from me.
And yet here I remain, standing till the day I die. And when that day comes, the depth of the grave will have to be dug twice as deep, so as to bury me upright & on my feet.
Immovable-

No we're not learning about inventors.
No we're not learning about scientists.
If we were, that would be great,
But we're not,
Instead we're learning about lying thieves,
And overrated ones at that.
We should be learning about real inventors,
That didn't steal ideas from others,
And were lucky enough not to have ideas stolen from them,
Like George Westinghouse.
We should be learning about real inventors,
And real scientists,
That sadly went unrecognized,
Because their ideas were stolen,
By so called inventors,
That were in reality total jerks,
Like Nikola Tesla,
And Rosalind Franklin.
However, instead of learning about true inventors like them,
We're learning about the likes of Thomas Edison,
Guglielmo Marconi,
James Watson,
And Francis Crick.
Here's a "fun fact" about Thomas Edison,
He promised Nikola Tesla 50 grand,
In exchange for fixing his machines.
However, when Nikola Tesla was finished,
Several months later,
He not only didn't pay Tesla,
He mocked him for asking,
He said that he was joking,
And according to some, he was offered a raise of 10 dollars
According to others, he asked for a raise, and was denied it,
Either way, Tesla quit.
Here's a "fun fact" about Guglielmo Marconi,
He didn't invent the radio,
Nikola Tesla did.
However, Marconi pulled an Edison,
And stole Tesla's invention from him.
Luckily, although sadly too late,
Tesla was rewarded the patent.
Here's a "fun fact" about James Watson and Francis Crick,
They took credit for Franklin's discovery.
Why do we have to sit in social studies,
Listening to Youtube videos,
And reading books,
And doing plays,
That people created for school kids,
About so called inventors.
When instead,
We could be reading books,
Listening to Youtube videos,
And doing plays,
That we created ourselves,
About real inventors.
I want to get a real education.
I want to learn about the truth,
Instead of lies.
So please teachers,
Principals,
Superintendents,
Common Core Professionals,
State Test Professionals,
Please let us learn about the truth,
Please don't make us learn about lies.

She wears:
Skimpy dress.
Tight shirt.
Short skirt.

I say:
Women shouldn't have to.
I give: 
Empowerment. 

You say:
But men do too.
Bare chest.
V lines.

I say:
Yes but--

You say:
No but.

Society holds it's grip on women.
Suffocating us everyday.
Fitting us into boxes each day.
Telling me what to wear,
How to do my hair.
Forcing paint upon my face to give
Me a face unrecognized.

Rewrite my name to something seductive,
Marilyn.
Regina.
Not the name given to me,
Hard to pronounce and 
Not found on a gift shop key chain. 

So I tell society to take their standards
And shove them
Because I will not be like the ******* the bus
With scars and cuts across her arm.
"Fat ***" carved into her porcelain skin.

Dear Society,
I am me. I am not you.

I get this feeling
in my chest.
Almost like a pain; the same pains that lingers after a fresh wound.
It's the same feeling I get when,
I'm in fear.
Like a pressing on my chest and
A tightening rope on my stomach.
But I excuse it distastefully and with haste.
Then I get this feeling in my stomach;
Like a million butterflies inside, like a constant tickling but
It isn't funny this time.
This is the same feeling I get when I'm nervous.
The pressure to act, the time is now.
But uncertainty of, "what action to take" is overwhelming.
But still I brush it off methodically and with grace.
And then I get this thought in my head;
The same thought that comes about when I know that it's
Game time, time to perform, time to act,
The calm before the storm.
But I'm confused.
And I can't channel my feelings and I start to go mad and I can't control myself and I'm blind with rage and thought and emotion and my heart starts to race and I can't hold it in and then,
I'm calm.
I now I know what I must do.

Mellow season rain slipping by the thunderstorm
oh you have come, unknown visitor,
unrecognized. Lone rose that bloomed in rain,
drenched always in tears, this morning
shaded beams of light and the song of birds
welcoming the respite bend past you.
This is the sea leading to Ithaca. Here I stand
on the shores of the land that was my home.
Who left with hundreds, alone I return like a thief.
The gentle hand that passed last from my sight
out of the multitudes that waved us bye,
A hundred whispers of chants and hymns
from shadows that rise from the corners where
I found refuge from pain in these years:
Whom do those fingers choose, honour-bound
whom I left alone those twenty years ago?
Years that rush like a river streaming past gorges.

how does a dreamcatcher know which
    dreams to catch?
what if it
swallows the good ones
and sneaks them off to another
    reality?
what if it
holds the bad hostage
to share at the most dreadful
     time?
           what is time to a dream?
but just look at how it twists
and ties itself in knots so
    beautifully
a community of individuality
cinching simplicity together to form
   brilliance
a spiderweb of spirit trapped between threads
strung tight like the ties of
   fate
showing me reality
far beyond
what we blindly
    see
    inspiration
    appreciation
absorbing the vibes reflecting off
questions of whether a second
                         is time to a dream?
unrecognized reality
mind outside of body
    sensory
    overload
a breath of fresh
light
a taste of foreign
thoughts
the touch of a
music note
and a vision of
    love
trickling quiet
tears down the
face of
                   time...to a dream
truth
can dance on the
    edge of reality
so when i wake up screaming open my eyes and
see
my mind momentarily remains
tangled in a realm of
    reality once removed
feathers floating softly
through worlds yet to be
unfurled
but shadows through breezy windows left ajar
blow my thoughts back to
    now
and the sounds
and sliences
and the colors
and expressions
of my mind
are altered
by a bombardment
of influences
out of control
reality
can be difficult to
embrace
now and
again
we must
    escape
                 to a dream
to contemplate the
    impossibly
intertwined strings of
eternity
    that
  spiral
through
and through
tossing and
turning new leaves
as the seasons cycle
time remains immeasurable
lest by our mere
      thoughts and ideas
so we
create
a geometrically
stunning display
of unspoken hope
to catch
                      a dream
and it hangs by the window
and if  the
truth
teetering on a tightrope
between worlds
could speak it
would tell of
endless
possible
imagination
where
dreams
are
reality
and there is
no such thing as
                               time

His mouth puckers to the side,
his brow furrows when aware
an assumption crawls around
in the wormwood of his mind.
  
Every  misconception,
unrecognized at first
swells within, until
his error bolts forth
like lighting on the prairie
breaks the swelter of
a summer day.

Meditations sooth his disquiet ,
perplexed by her perfection
he searches for scars in blossoms,
and defects in tree leaves.  His mouth
grows dry as he mumbles
"there is no perfection."
If he finds a flaw
upon her cheek,
or a birthmark
on her shoulder
will his love fade?

Eyes staring ahead,
his mind in a trance,
he ruminates phrases
" stay open," "remain tolerant"  
wait for flowers to bloom,
rains to come and
her to remain
incomprehensible.

i sometimes think that my bones might break trying to support you
trying to hold on to something that you and I both know will never work
trying to convince you to not do the things I do
trying to dig my way through the abyss of neglect and unrecognized feelings
i often wish my hands were tied to balloons so they would be too far away to touch you
but that still wouldn't stop me
somehow your sharp words would send me back to you
nothing in this world has made me feel this way
i want to know what you mean when you tell me you love me
and why you want me to say it back
you stop yourself from feeling
so you tell me we're just friends
but
FRIENDS DON'T TOUCH EACH OTHER THE WAY WE DO.
I NEVER KNOW WHAT THE **** WE ARE BECAUSE NO MATTER HOW HARD WE TRY, WE COME BACK TO EACH OTHER.
my hands are shaking and I can't breathe
everyday I feel less like a buddy and more like a ****

Because Instagram is my medium, and because somewhere deep down--in that place that no one talks about--it makes me feel immensely validated: putting out my ******* and receiving little bits of peer approval in return... Because I still smoke too fast when I want that short indulgent rush to last the most, so light another. Because the Itunes visualizer is an assured source of inspiration when I am feeling small about the universe, and about the 5-ish senses that I am confined to, and because there is too much of me to simply be kept quiet; because the things I want are wanted too completely to shut up about. Because I am doing excellent, and I want everybody in the world to applaud me for it--for my relentless and unyielding grasp of sanity, which often slips without my sureness be-ing lost along with it, and because the wreckage is a comfy place to lie when everything comes down to it...
Because admitting to yourself that you are addicted is the first step to recovery--or so I am told,,, and because denial is the first step one must fall from if they're itching to reach bottom... Because I am tired of climbing and have learned--among all else--how to enjoy the weightlessness of this long fall and the uncertainty it brings: uncertainty being my one true love, alongside mistress logic, who I truly LOVE returning to with open arms, seeking her comfort after a long long trip-- where I can walk winter without minding cold, and can enjoy seeing all the sights and all the Mad, Mad characters that wonderland contains. Because there is no 'character limit' nor is there censorship where I am concerned. Because I crave the criticism: that repetition is a cheaters way to write--and I want to cheat life's limitations and all social standards every chance I get. Because above all else, below all else, I want to clarify that--through every lesson I have taken-in since recently deceased December, and through all I have learned painfully, through the confusion and unrecognized irrelevance,
Because the greatest thing that I have learned thus far is: I am learning.

True love is blind, though it waits before your eyes on the outside you only see a disguise from the moment you need the attraction starts but true love is found in your soul and spirit infinitely sent from above trust your soul and feelings to sense true love not seen nor heard and often unrecognized do not insist on seeing it with your eyes. Looking into your eyes to see if I tell that love is  combined  together and not separate.

Alone with this desk,
And a notebook chock-fulled with paper;
Endless.. he chomp everything away.

Things truly aren’t easy,
The silence makes it harder.
Hey music, fill the air;
For not all truths,
But laughs of frauds may break out.

Just like the old days.
Just like the lady boss,
Just..maybe.

There should be dancing all around,
Where crowds should chip in
And take things in stern.
Errands were not decors –
Trespass! Like mini ciphers,
Digits, letters, they knock the drill out.

Only a couple more days left,
But in ignominy,
This generation may fall;
How pitiable..

With such marks and inkblots,
The source remains unrecognized.
They’re used to seize papers like that,
Although such are committing theft already.

Left were words,
Can’t spell it unerringly;
Yet the hearsays divulged its address,
So now, it’s time to slam this tome;
End the toil that has always been the crook!

Go outside,
For the sun’s rays are there!
Goodbye to this aged chair,
And to this notebook full of nicks,
With new freedom,
We shall embrace..
Everything.. “Ciao” to what’s new,
‘Coz this is the real world!
Oh college days!

(7/25/13 @xirlleelang)

I am spending the day engaging my pining paths, the recurrent feelings of deep longing and prolonged unfulfilled desires, excavating these facets to surface consciousness, treating my desires as ~ G ~ E ~ M ~ S ~, not to be shunned or left buried. I am now recognizing these are soul level expressions to be celebrated, with and without abandon of permanence. These are my soul's scripts, and as they intersect interdependently with others in my relationships, they are essential components of the juice and energies that define me.

So I've engaged my angels and guides, and taken to scribe, these processes of my heart's harmonizing and soul's solstice. As a singular sun, my firespark has indeed been, furthest from the celestial equator of my own integration, playing and equating in realms of derivatives and hedged parlays. Becoming whole is feeling not to be really any core change at all, beyond embracing everything I am in each thought, emotion and deed, illuminating all that has been self concealed as the acts in the play of parlays unfold.

Through heart's laden sadness, my pining bursts through in fiery release now, fuel and fire, found festering, without need like Prometheus, to steal it from some god beyond and outside myself. Today is a celebration of acceptance, these energies and motivations based in my pining are my essence and as essential as my feline purrs. So as I embrace these buried abstractions and etch and scribe them into prose, they become more than historic and nostalgic memories, they become living remembrance of who I am and what a wide spectrum of imaginative and creative energy and intention I posses to draw upon. This is me, the soul, coming into a more robust integration and empowerment, as I accept, and then utilize each hue of my rainbow ... blending resonant ratios of each color's wavelength, leaving none excluded, nor seeking to change what is already in suffused perfection.


So when this script's scene
plays out to conclusion
tangential vectors and points
on spiral paths shall intercede

and this unmasked energy
and reclaimed consciousness
sourced in shadow's
facets illuminated
and embraced
leaves me
annealed

and, i'll be less distracted
by unrecognized emotions
and motivations unclaimed

i've never been more honest
or self understood
transparency serves me well,
dissolving the spell

and i'm enraptured,
discovering, treasures,
and my first genuine,
comfort within,
my own skin

i've grown more
in three weeks
than perceived
even possible
or imagined

so now,
beyond these
shed years
'n tears
'n fears
i etch,
these moments
i embrace,
these moments as
soul's scribe
upon foundations
of the bedrock laid
with my heart, scarified
through emotion's oceans of tears
carving new channels, for my love to flow

soulprints tamping, fertilized medium
i'm embracing too, next cycling, season of spring
embracing my passions in desire, with fire
and intentions of more consciousness
and loving from whence
i'll further
blossom,
grow
and
**glow

" Will you please pick up your dog's ****?"
"I would but I need you to think about this from my perspective. Think about dog ****, think about what it equates to: to human life. Human life on this planet. The same way fresh dog **** ruins the soul of a shoe, so the human race ruins this planet. Are you against the human race? Against our existence on this planet? Our cosmic **** storm mess that we will some day succeed in tracking through the metaphorical universal living room? You see, to me, asking to pick up this dog **** is like asking to destroy the entire human race. Asking to destroy an ecosystem; is that what you're for? The death of mankind, the death of the unrecognized beauty that is this dog ****. Are you an anarchist or just a man who can't appreciate beauty in all its forms, a man who hungers to destroy life?"
"Your crazy, **** it."
"Says the man who wants to destroy the entire human race, god help us."

Like a fool, with an unrecognized devotion,
I loved him deeply yet I wasn’t loved in return.
I got fed with all our irrational argumentation,
Often gave up, yet still had doubts if I’d end such relation.
Then I asked myself, shall I give him a chance?
Must I endure this unrequited love?

Hear thy mournful cries of trepidation and doubt,
“Why can’t I find the remnants of thy piteous heart?”
They say, better leave him and make a new start
But intense emotions of ambiguity would thwart.
Thus I tell myself, give him a second chance.
You’ll be happy soon; hold on though it’s an unrequited love.

Tears would then fall to somehow ease the sorrow
And try to veil the truth that thy heart cometh hollow.
But even if all tears’ dried up today ‘til tomorrow,
When all rains would halt, still, no rainbow will follow.
But I tell myself, wait for another chance.
That time maybe, he’ll learn, and it won’t be an unrequited love.

Years after, I still loved him amidst the endless plights.
He drained my soul; brought me to a black hole in life.
Thoughts that ‘I don’t deserve this’ amassed to greater heights
Then a string cut loose, I faced the sightless sight.
Now, I begged myself, none more of these chances.
Please, I plead, quit enduring this unrequited love!

Beneath a thousand twinkling stars in my windowpane,
Lies the most perfect replica of wishful thinking in suffering and pain---
My self with an unrequited love.

~Danessa Jutba~

Social Climbing

How many asks what is the way forward?
The lack of thought impregnates our air.
By thoughts and acts we pursue social achievements,
Exhibiting selfishness, chaos and insecurity.
We promote ourselves through groups and individuals,
Paving the way to social fame and glory.
All while our country rivers crest with blood,
Peaked by the sacrifices of those socially conscious.
Their protests to gain our freedoms unrecognized,
By those of us ******* in the hunt for fame.
Is it this the dream, we strive to gain?
Shamed am I that we have not addressed their demise.

I was in the backseat of a 1988 Prelude
listening to Conor's sonnets and etudes,
moving my tongue in uncomfortable loneliness
because your passenger seat was occupied and
I couldn't decide if you were quiet or shy.
I hadn't met you yet.

Hennepin was good to us at 2AM and
gave us space to sip uncommon grounds
in the typically uncommon Uptown.
I saw bright eyes in your words
and unrecognized yellow birds.

I remember things and I don't know why.
I remember the paper mache lady on Nicollet and
I remember that you sang about how it's neat that we all own guns and
I remember wishing that I was born on Independence Day and
I remember walking past empty bookshelves at the end of the day and
I remember remembering when they were stocked and
I remember loving the way we talked
about Huxley.

and it's a year or so later and I'm your passenger
and the streets are still full of images and hidden messages
and faces with whiskers.
"I saved a cat from a tree once,"
and my cackle secured the shackles on my ankles that
I picked out myself off the mannequin.

and it's always just us because Vic is always
with Lucy, Molly, and Mary Jane and
they're having dreams and hearing secret frequencies
(like the ones you pointed out to me)
and doing drugs and discovering Christianity
and decorating themselves with ashes and ashes with Ashley.

and the people I used to know from St. Paul
are working and growing small and
trippin' and slippin' and sippin' gravy,
but we're still sippin' uncommon grounds
and we're all still living in these twin towns.
But none of them are wearing the matching heavy crowns
that you and I picked out ourselves off the mannequins.
They're the same shade of gold as the birds in your words and
they're the same shade of gold as the shackles on our shins
that mold our golden grins
that we had our faces when you said,
"This is the world where dreams come true, right?"

and we're confirmed by a blinding white light that shows through
the windows of the theater in Bryant-Lake Bowl that compliments us
like you compliment me, like I compliment your skinny tie
(the one that makes me want to die.)
But we can't die because this city doesn't have any double-decker buses
or any other us-es.

and I watch you program lazers into my heart
and I think;
What a beautiful old man
What a beautiful growing boy
What a beautiful perfect cylops
with an eye of my color green to shower me in scenic joy.

and as we dance to the records we bought from Minneapolis antique shops,
I look into the eye of my cyclops from a centimeter above the ground
and realize that this is the dream where the world comes true.

Normally red, flame like. Petals caress, and wither,
And fall. The dizzying peace in the slumber it brings,
The drug that sings an Angel's lullaby, tosses you into the toy box like another rag-doll.
We've fallen for it again. The dusty dolls and
Hollow plastic telephones that hold spider eggs are the only companions now.
But I am here. And I am your friend.
Although I can not make any promises that I am beautiful, I will be as pretty as I can;
I will wear dresses and makeup.
My scars are not covered, they show and glow like luminescent tattoos etched into my skin.
Do you have any ink? Did your feather pen spill over the page, erasing your work?
Did the charcoal reflection ******* over and stain your perfect self?
Of course it did. That is what happens when the desk you write on is slanted, demented,
But it seems to be your twin.

Your mind is not a place of blazing meteors, honey. It's a place of evil things.

You are a twisted little *****, but so am I, you see. We have both taken the wrong path,
The only difference: I know how to survive. How to fool the monsters under the bed into thinking
I am one of them. In a way, I might even be telling the truth. I painted my own mask:
A splash of black here, a drop of blood there, and... Something is missing, but they won't notice.
They will always let me dance with them around their moonlit blue flames; I am their queen,
My mask, to them is beautiful. And they understand the me that I have fabricated to escape
The wretched toy box on the other side of the bedroom, over the mountains of ***** socks and
Dusty snow globes, even if a part of me is not complete.
I am still stuck in that box long after the room rotted away, the box melted in the
Sunlight and every speck of dust swept away by the wind and rain.
But at least more of the black poppies can grow.
Normally red, flame like. Petals caress, and wither,
And fall. The dizzying peace in the slumber it brings, leaving everyone who slips the glass pill
Comatose in a hospital bed, tubes shoved down their throat to keep from asphyxiating.
No matter how many visitors come to read stories and play songs on the ukulele,
They will remain dormant. They are not longer home, so stop ringing the bell.

No, I take that back.
Ring the death bell one more time, invite everyone to the land of green grass and marble sculptures;
Tell them to bring poppies because it was the deceased's favorite flora,
But neglect to say which color. The visitors bring red,
An alien on the color spectrum and unrecognized by the ghost atop the gravestone.

Still, the dull color matches the spatter of blood on the mask I once wore, and I am brought back
A hologram, of sorts. The bowed heads below me are too dense to look up, except for one.
It's you, love. You grew the flowers that put me there.
The dull color that hypnotized me night after night and made me dream of your body
Covered in the withered petals. You, love. My poppy dealer.

1
my spine is a bridge that burns —
bones most breakable, like memories of
driftwoods
collected as a kid,
i now feed to a bonfire
of blistered cyclamens.

2
my spine is a bridge
of no certain grandeur
nor history.
it burns away
and falls,
quietly in the night,
like an unknown laborer.

some of us die this way.

3
the reason for this poem
evades me,
but the heart must write of its sorrows
undisclosed to the soul.
they remain to be
unrecognized parts
of a burning town.

4
now, i speak in tongues
unfamiliar to myself.
i write a poem i'm bound to forget.
i stand in the baptism
of a child i do not know.
i do it anyway.

5
i bring her driftwoods
from the water, mourning under
a burning bridge;
soon the last beam falls apart
and i fall apart
in a forgettably graceless light
this: a sorrow with no name,
i write it anyway.

this: a sorrow undisclosed.
i tell it anyway.

this: a sorrow unrecognized.
i feel it anyway.

Hot tea and black clouds keep creativity
from spilling into space , stormy writes -
with anti-social vibes on the clockwork rat race
I can hear the highway laden with heavy loads
The five o'clock monkey circus for precious home
We're all dying to get there no matter -
where we are
Rushing for something more
Bound for the unknown
We recall the song while ambivalent to the -
individual tones
Like the thunder from a passing July cloudburst
The first note of your favorite tune
The rattle of wind chimes in the misty afternoon
The crescendo of rubber meeting water on the
busy avenue* ....

Do I love you?
Do I,
Love...?

The words have stopped
doubled over on themselves
in pain
unrecognized

In truth
I wouldn't know--
you, Love?
But maybe from a picture
thinking--
"This is from where the poems come?"

Having never searched your eyes
with mine
nor heard your voice
invoke me

Known your thinking
in any given moment
Nor you, mine

Nor watched your hands
for hints
endear
affection
in expressions

Could you forgive my mess of moments?
the lame that years have left
so slow circles
the lonely artless?

socially inept

I fear
you could not forgive the fear
for so long
left behind

How can you say
you love me?

By what assurance do you

Speak into my void

A change of scenery, that's all they said I needed
Different faces and places to pick me up as I lay defeated
Somewhere new to erase the blue
Somewhere where the past is unrecognized and all I could see is truth
There are times when I miss the things I hated
All the things I wept about and the people who degraded
All the things that helped my heart fall apart
The things that watched me crumble right from the start
I want to let go
I want to breathe and let my spirit show
But letting go can only be so easy
Even if I am in a change of scenery

One constant in my unremarkable life
The infinite ringing of tinnitus
Ignored by methods learned so long ago
I could not remember to teach them to you
Certainly not fail safe methods
With age it seems harder not to listen
And lament as it gets louder
Slowly, slowly, barely perceptibly
Louder
As through a screen I listen to things
From the dullest congressional hearing
To the most exquisite music
Of Gustav Mahler and Sigur Rós
I know there will come a day
I will not be able to dissect the intricacies of a randomly chosen Mahler symphony
Or appreciate the perfect bliss
Of Jónsi channeling angels
Breaking barriers, cerebral and ethereal
How will I remember this divine sound
When tinnitus masks the music of the spheres?
Will my memory ability do it justice?
Soon, oh graceful Lord, soon the curse will overshadow the blessing
And I will have to stand condemned of it being my own fault
It makes me want to cry when I say
I'll miss all music
For music has been the most trusted and reliable friend I've ever known
Sacrificed for what? Persistent ringing
But who knows, perhaps the tinnitus
Is to keep me from hearing the voices that accompany schizophrenia
Perhaps that's the sacrifice, the trade-off
Godsent music the price to keep insanity at bay
I must not think that way
Though my years are getting shorter
And tinnitus will surely claim my hearing sooner rather than later
I can't let myself feel guilty
For basking in the sonic waves of comfort
For playing Riceboy Sleeps again
Listening for the million musical noises
Floating around in the atmosphere like fire flies on a dark, humid summer night
There are recordings of ghosts on the record
I'm no para psychologist and I don't even believe in ghosts
But I swear I hear their mournful cries
Pianos in empty rooms
Simple melodies picked out by no hand at all
Sounds that cannot be identified
Pin ***** starlight shines pencil thin bright light beams
That show the moths and dustmites hanging from the air
Riceboy Sleeps you can wear like a cool coat or hide beneath like a sheet waiting for Answer Man to come get you
Stalling, stalling to keep you here until the absolute last minute
Something so strong that even tinnitus can never fail to steal it's otherworldly beauty
And though it's true I would choose Mahler over Sigur Rós and Jónsi/Alex
To be stuck on that desert island with
It's only because I think his symphonies would be better tools against boredom, so complex and intricate they are
I could live 50 more years and still not have heard what waits in his symphonies
Jónsi's voice is carved on my heart
I take it with me everywhere I go
I will never lose it
It is indeed part of me, even as it grows in it's mythology
Jónsi will be with me always
Even through the gates and down streets of gold
Mahler, though, will take a long, long time to work his way into my memory banks
Though he my not totally succeed I know
I'll get more than enough
And the desert island experience
Was only made tolerable by those 9 symphonies either in the Claudio Abaddo versions or the Muchael Tilson-Thomas cycle
So I keep 'em both
And in similar ways my tinnitus is staved off by
Message For Bears
Immanu El
Stafraenn Hakon
Yeasayer
Jean Sibelius
Gregor Samsa
...there are many others
   Stand against tinnitus
   Pray a miracle from God
   To point out
   Unrecognized silence