Growing up,
There was no "newest form of technology," no "stylish clothes," no "little puppy". Never a collection of Barbie dolls.

Realizing
She was surrounded,
a plastic society,
choicelss.
          Simple figures.      Thoughtless taste.
Molded forms.
                 Unseasoned cuisine.  
     Unrealistic ideas.
Unsalted frenchfries.
Styled hair, bright eyes, rosy cheeks.
Growing up normal,
No distinct collar bones, permanent bags, big feet.
Brainwashed
convinced of being un-proportional.
No first picks. No invitations. No turn at princess.
Whispers about "that girl"
Not listening, but hearing
every
word.

Lesson learned
Chained to the plastic society.
Barbie dolls as examples, imbalance of body image expressed.
No "styled hair," no "big eyes".
Chained; foolish concepts.
Attempting to escape the prison worse than death:
alienation.

Bring it on.
Darkest places, broken rules,
done being molded, through being fooled.
Always considered "that girl. Breaking free
from this brainwashed, plastic society.

for Karlotti

~
And a flower on the borders of winter.
an unseasoned sign that the singular erupting bud
will lend the lens to see, give the courage to accept
the greatest joy of man will ever be
anticipation

there will be seasons that the singular erupting bud,
be the bitterest truth nail gunned into your temple,
the perversity of a mockery, an uncrossable boundary
a flowering sign of skull & bones meant to teach acceptance
the greatest curse of man will be
the changing seasons

La mayor maldición del hombre,
Las estaciones cambiantes

i am a woman with pain built in.

lighting a candle each night & kneeling before Someone &
waiting &
waiting &
waiting.

removing a bloodied bandage & assessing the damage &
cleaning the wound &
cleaning the wound &
cleaning the wound.

washing down lamictal with stale chai tea &
lacing up my shoes &
lacing up my shoes &
lacing up my shoes.

warming unseasoned lentil soup & crying into the bowl––

i am a woman with pain built in,
ripping myself apart &
stitching the remnants back together
again &
again &
again.

1.
Mother, my Mary Gray,
once resident of Gloucester
and Essex County,
a photostat of your will
arrived in the mail today.
This is the division of money.
I am one third
of your daughters counting my bounty
or I am a queen alone
in the parlor still,
eating the bread and honey.
It is Good Friday.
Black birds pick at my window sill.
Your coat in my closet,
your bright stones on my hand,
the gaudy fur animals
I do not know how to use,
settle on me like a debt.
A week ago, while the hard March gales
beat on your house,
we sorted your things: obstacles
of letters, family silver,
eyeglasses and shoes.
Like some unseasoned Christmas, its scales
rigged and reset,
I bundled out gifts I did not choose.
Now the houts of The Cross
rewind. In Boston, the devout
work their cold knees
toward that sweet martyrdom
that Christ planned. My timely loss
is too customary to note; and yet
I planned to suffer
and I cannot. It does not please
my yankee bones to watch
where the dying is done
in its usly hours. Black birds peck
at my window glass
and Easter will take its ragged son.
The clutter of worship
that you taught me, Mary Gray,
is old. I imitate
a memory of belief
that I do not own. I trip
on your death and jesus, my stranger
floats up over
my Christian home, wearing his straight
thorn tree. I have cast my lot
and am one third thief
of you. Time, that rearranger
of estates, equips
me with your garments, but not with grief.

2.
This winter when
cancer began its ugliness
I grieved with you each day
for three months
and found you in your private nook
of the medicinal palace
for New England Women
and never once
forgot how long it took.
I read to you
from The New Yorker, ate suppers
you wouldn't eat, fussed
with your flowers,
joked with your nurses, as if I
were the balm among lepers,
as if I could undo
a life in hours
if I never said goodbye.
But you turned old,
all your fifty-eight years sliding
like masks from your skull;
and at the end
I packed your nightgowns in suitcases,
paid the nurses, came riding
home as if I'd been told
I could pretend
people live in places.

3.
Since then I have pretended ease,
loved with the trickeries of need, but not enough
to shed my daughterhood
or sweeten him as a man.
I drink the five o' clock martinis
and poke at this dry page like a rough
goat. Fool! I fumble my lost childhood
for a mother and lounge in sad stuff
with love to catch and catch as catch can.
And Christ still waits. I have tried
to exorcise the memory of each event
and remain still, a mixed child,
heavy with cloths of you.
Sweet witch, you are my worried guide.
Such dangerous angels walk through Lent.
Their walls creak Anne! Convert! Convert!
My desk moves. Its cavr murmurs Boo
and I am taken and beguiled.
Or wrong. For all the way I've come
I'll have to go again. Instead, I must convert
to love as reasonable
as Latin, as sold as earthenware:
an equilibrium
I never knew. And Lent will keep its hurt
for someone else. Christ knows enough
staunch guys have hitched him in trouble.
thinking his sticks were badges to wear.

4.
Spring rusts on its skinny branch
and last summer's lawn
is soggy and brown.
Yesterday is just a number.
All of its winters avalanche
out of sight. What was, is gone.
Mother, last night I slept
in your Bonwit Teller nightgown.
Divided, you climbed into my head.
There in my jabbering dream
I heard my own angry cries
and I cursed you, Dame
keep out of my slumber.
My good Dame, you are dead.
And Mother, three stones
slipped from your glittering eyes.
Now it's Friday's noon
and I would still curse
you with my rhyming words
and bring you flapping back, old love,
old circus knitting, god-in-her-moon,
all fairest in my lang syne verse,
the gauzy bride among the children,
the fancy amid the absurd
and awkward, that horn for hounds
that skipper homeward, that museum
keeper of stiff starfish, that blaze
within the pilgrim woman,
a clown mender, a dove's
cheek among the stones,
my Lady of first words,
this is the division of ways.
And now, while Christ stays
fastened to his Crucifix
so that love may praise
his sacrifice
and not the grotesque metaphor,
you come, a brave ghost, to fix
in my mind without praise
or paradise
to make me your inheritor.

A voice inside keeps repeating,
You’ll never have this opportunity again.
Title or first line sets precedent.
Pride is my sin, even with low self-esteem.

I remember severe pain
sitting at table
with head collapsed
on folded arms.

God sat across table from me,
asking, “Who do you think you are?”
I froze, forgot how to talk.
When I looked up, the thought was gone.

I recognize pattern within myself,
where I fall prey
to someone who may or may not
take advantage of me.

I grow anxious, fearful, needing to be released.
In childhood, my younger sister ran to my side,
but years of therapy freed her of that job.
I still return to pattern, frantic, self-destructive,

worthless feeling, with no one to rescue, nurture me.
You may wonder about my allure to my ex
and other damaged women I’ve loved.
Now you know, I’m ******-up.

Unseasoned, I scribbled, “If the peanut butter
isn’t streaked with jelly smears,
than you’re living too ****-retentive and proper a life.”
I realize my younger self wouldn’t like older self.

Enough about me, let’s talk about you.
What’s it like being a Siamese twin?
Are two heads really better than one?
When one of you finds a lover, what does the other do?

Do you look away? Close your eyes? Stare?
Who’s in charge of money?
Ok, I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot.
So you’re not actually a Siamese twin?

Seeing double is my problem, oh god.
Tonight my sister wrote,
“I begin to understand the mystery of life,
the moment unfolding, to harshness

and softness of just one moment,
so dear, to haunt you for desiring more.”
The moon tonight, thin sharp slice set on spine
in western sky. A miracle, that’s what I think.

You’ll never have this opportunity again.

Steams rose from the red ***
Like angelic dancers
Dressed in gray and white,
Twirling,
And he silently stirred the red ***,
Stirring with that silvery spoon,
Stirring slowly.
Finally she realized he, the devil,
Was stirring her pain,
Stirring her anger,
Just stirring her life
Into a bitter ***.
And she became exhausted
In that heated red ***
That was filled with blazing anger,
Bitter herb, and battered emotions.
He silently stirred her like unseasoned meat
In a steaming ***
Until she lost her flavor.
Then she remembered to pray.
And faith rescued her from the heat,
Imprinting healing in her heart.
Now she is forever flavored with the love of God.

Copyright 2012
Destiny Diadem

Buoyant afterglow.
Earshot piano.
Empathetic sympathy.
Unseasoned hearth.
Bygone... Convivial.

The neighborhood murmurs,
In revival of pages turned over,
Watching time tick by,
Singing my despicable song,
With well versed notes,
I type this personal parable,
Here around unseasoned souls,
Swayed by words that remind,
Me of dried kisses and promises,
"Well" she said,
I knew what she said,
Which she never did,
"You're too good for me", she cried;
Like golden chimes in my temple rang,
With deafening echoes; tinkling they sang,
And a lifetime later,
"Well" sighed I, "my problem child" smiled I;
I died inside that night, yes did I
Many came and then left;
Dancing in stance; scouring romance,
Amidst fire burnin through the night,
I hate to admit I too now have joined the dance!!
Well the sun still shines quite bright alright,
Its me within no more, although, in delight;
Hailing showers of sandstones,
In them I'm drenched,
But when I'd bleed all away,
I'll drench no more,
And if I've drenched all away,
I'll love no more!!

~a unconscious commissioned poem~

<>

La Lumière est une Dame d'honneur

advantage Frenchies,
everything sounds
better in their language,
we readily concede

we make do
with those tongues
whose fluidity
clothes & coats,
those,  we are
best at
confessing in

first light this morning
was emasculated, in thickened
first fog, eerie, discomforting,
but yet, mine alone to utilize,
and make discomfiture into
a poem of coffee and cream,
stirring within, colored dreams

Lady Light finally arrives,
descending on a staircase
from heaven, radiating all
with patience, the animals
all, proclaiming in a thousand
tongues, their thanks, their
love, for everything breathing
understand best she is the source
of creation, reanimation, and a
sharing, unsparing, birth mother
to animate and inanimate, and
the death father to all we & us,
guide to our ultimate end

the waiting is most interesting,
for indeed, there is honor within,
as I compose, the sunrises to the
precise angle to bar my vision,
power to blind and enlighten,
how can this be, but it is so,
my bones warmed, suggest I
do not complain, accepting with
no exception for this is the power
source to us all, and humility is
the key to acceptance & understanding

is this poem, is this the missive,
me~my, intended, to write,
know not,
for the words leech from my skin,
in format uncolored, uncontrolled
by mine minuscule impoverished
compost of senses, morals and my
compote of cells that are products
of a thousand prior generations

morphed into a mess of me,
as of yet, purpose hidden,
undisclosed, perhaps my
reasoning is unseasoned,
my presumption of purpose,
is just a fool’s ridiculousness

Lady Light smiles kindly on my
rambunctious ilreasoning,
for I just one of billions come,
gone, and rebirthed in chains
of endless possibilities, two
words permanently paired,
conjoined, and though the
light has now risen to heights
to totally absolve my sight,
can no longer track what
is being written, accepting my
temporally blindness with grace,
even with solace, and-bid you
adieu, adieu, (bye~bye)
so musically,
until relief will
honor me with its presents…

and I can contemplate my
foolishness once more…
and the letting…
of the
Lady’s light
of
honor illuminating
(even me)

<>
commissioned by Pradip

7:35 am
in the sunroom where
the intersection of all light
illuminates all kinds

<>

music:
To Try for the Sun, Song by Donovan
Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In by Fifth Dimesion

***** our fingers, we do. on the porcelain and the rampions.
we are twisted into crapes, the shape of which
are halcyon, though we refrain from them.
We are ' something else '.
the salad is the farce and the painting; yes !
the gruel and the cinders in the mock turtle soup
of our living quince and the meddling
of our every-ness.

clink our eyelids. we do. on the lamp-stand in the Hampton's
we are gifted and innate. the grey twitch
accounts for them bones we contain from sin.
We are " something felt "
the ballad is the Art and the Nothing;
yes ...
the cruel, is the mender, in our lost little group
of unseasoned  heckling and
our Winter's
truth,

and absinthe.

But there's Something Else.
and Nothing

Less....

than Atlas.

"I think we try too hard, he said
we need to laugh much more instead"-
"I think we cry too much, she laughed
we're starved for love until we're fed."

"I think we spend too much he reasoned
need to save for rainy days"-
"I think we leave too much unseasoned
spice it up with mayonnaise!"

"I think we eat too much, he stated
we've got all this fat to shed" 
:and I think walking's overrated
lets just ride our bikes instead."

"I think I'm talking to a wall
you cannot hear a word I say"-
"but I've responded to them all
just maybe not in your own way."

I think he thinks too much she pondered
I can't read his mind at all
and every time his eyes have wandered
spikes are sharp before the stall...

"I think I'm needing something more"
and she knows what he's thinking of
"Be my guest, don't let that door
besmirch your tender side, my love."

"I think I'm made for bigger things
than being saddled here with you"-
"but oh be sure those bigger butts
are gonna buck your system too!

She thinks "he has it way too easy,
thinks I want to hear this stuff!"
tells him that she's feeling queasy
"heard it all, enough's enough!"

She thinks it hurts too much to talk
about the things he puts her through
her tendency to shout and balk
has raised the foam up from the brew

and seeing clearer, painful truth
his disregard grew from that day
mistook the *** for love in youth
and clung to that which came her way

Daddy never knew his daughter
never built her up to know
how she was loved above the water
that he drank or his big toe.

It's sad the man that she admired
never knew how she'd be burned.
because the love from Dad required
words and  lessons never learned.

and to the wounding add some salt
the failure of the best to choose her
now she sees it's not her fault
she cannot tell the best from loser.

Mum was quite the same you see
a distance there but never spoken
always mediocrity
discontent, lines blurred and broken.

"I think I'll wait another year
before I set my course to sail"-
"why wait, just throw me off right here
this roller coaster's off it's rail"

to this He says, " You're here beside me
for the long haul as they say"
" I think it's best we keep on riding
tell me later, in the hay."

Lots of pain in barbed sarcasm
each has blocked the other's heart  
words in action killed the passion
boundaries blurred and torn apart.

Respect, protect your precious boundary
that which makes you who we are
love yourself and then each other
shining love and sparkling star.

When the boundary violator
makes you feel less than dirt
tell each other now, not later
how that word or action hurt.

I think we try too hard, he said
we need to laugh much more instead-
I think we cry too much, she laughed
we're starved for love until we're fed.

XO

Should you know everything from start to end
Would you change a thing?

I would rather not.
Not even Choose to know
That where to reach
So there to go
Whom to meet
Whether say yes or no

I just don't even wish to know
That where to search
And what to find
That what will hurt
And who ll be kind

Isn't that what we do
build that wall Of certainity
Wall of our dreams
Of that promised secured  future
Organising everything random
Offered by the universe
So that
Not even for a moment we go off track
Into the unknown
So that none ventures in and surprise you

Changing things so that
We don't have to change it later

And then what
Lay staring
Nothing but those walls
Your walls
Made of those work-hours
Decisions, regrets , memories
Walls so high and strong
Now you can't see beyond em
Let alone walk past it

I won't mind losing
For my mistakes
The pain, the chill, the burn
Heartbreaks under scorching sun
Let me be swept by cold winds of doubts
Drenched in the rain from clouds of fear
Not under the safe concrete of wealth
Unseasoned and a mortal mere

I would rather choose
To be lost
As I am
As are most
And won't even try to find my way
No quest to solve
Nothing to resolve

Just you and me
Walking all the roads
Stopping where we feel
And staring at the sky
Counting stars as if we can
Everyday afresh and start anew
You with me and I with you
And
You love me and I love you

My ****** heart runs deep
Pulsating rivers in my veins
that once nourished me before you came
and soaked up every drop
with nothing left to reap
while the flak of your memory still remains.

The day we met,
Temperate winds cradled leaves fresh from their vines,
unseasoned by nature’s trials.
Today,
they lie crumbled among debris
broken wilted pieces in scattered piles.

Carefree days that had no price
Oh how you yearned to woe me
Companion nights; they did suffice
Until troubled longing riled the sea

Did you sense the suspense?
Naked under the burrow
Of sullen sheets enveloped in scents,
stale and past

You: my daring knight of chivalry
Whose promise did not last
and so the wind said unto thee,
“set me free.”

Morning tastes dewy tears trickling into memories we hoped to never speak again
Shifting through the seasons
the beginning of the end

I willed my seeds to grow through the disdained soil they’ve rooted in.
Leaving them grimy rot staked in solace
Feelings left dead sprout a calm that quickly frames trust
What purpose serves a creation left abandoned in the dust?
Hear it. Speak it. See it as it comes.
In dreams they lay tiles under trodden feet.
Steps that cannot be taken up again
and so commends your defeat.

One day, in autumn or is it spring?
The anxious blossoms danced away in the wind.
You swept them up with swinging arms
Urging every pedal to descend
From weeping barren trees foiled from your charm
Words back then took form in a man
Working a path inside a woman’s heart
Mapping her wishes into works of art

Now lie down upon this mold
of every simple broken thing you ever tried to fix
It isn’t worth the truth you sold
To quell your nature with docility that shields arrogance with bricks.

When you returned sullied by days of wandering
Through decay and rotten secrets
I laid my head to rest in the crook of your neck
Sheltered by my need, unseen by your gaze
This moment of clarity, I locked inside my ****** heart
where it will rot and die through the passing days.

A green, unseasoned ox
Was put unto the plow
A yoke was placed upon it
To work the master's rows
It balked at the job given
For it did not know how.

The master saw it's plight
He knew it had to learn
So he brought a great and seasoned ox
And a double yoke was worn
They both pulled a wagon
Filled from stem to stern.

The master tapped them with the reins
They both began to pull
The new and yet unknowing ox
Got it in its skull
To go a path that was unsafe
It's wits were yet quite dull.

So it balked again and cried
To go the other way
But the great and seasoned ox
Stood there in the fray
He allowed the younger ox
To buck and buck all day.

So finally the younger ox
Was tired, began to wheeze
It knew it was defeated
It's pride was finally seized
It bowed down in humility
And fell onto its knees.

The ox cried bitterly
In its enormous shame
The other ox was greatly moved
For its weeping out HIS NAME
He nuzzled it & stroked it
For HE was once the same.

The master, too, came off his seat
And succored the poor beast
He gave it food and water
Held it to his breast
The greater ox lay down with it
So that it could rest.

The young ox finally rallied
Was ready for the fight
Of pulling the great burden...
... but found that it was light!
For the greater ox was pulling, too
He stout and he forthright!

The master smiled proudly
The young ox would reach the goal...

And what WAS this great burden?

Billions of HUMAN SOULS...


SoulSurvivor
(C)1/28/2017


*"Come to me, all you who are weary
and burdened, and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you and learn from
me, for I am gentle and humble in heart,
and you will find rest for your souls.
For my yoke is easy,
and my burden is light."
Matthew 11:28-30 NIV

oh expired chicken
you never tasted right
to begin with
shredded and unseasoned
marred by hints of skin
and cartilage
you were too embarrassing to share
and too expensive to discard

oh expired chicken
the aftermath of underestimating how much
is in each pound
and overestimating how much I eat
a shopping mistake made
after being a parasite to school cafeterias
and my mother's cooking
for eight months

oh expired chicken
throwing you away was harder
than cutting off an ex-lover
my heart yearns for what you could have been
(tasty food in my stomach)
even though you were never enough
you would make an indomitable enemy
an atrocious friend
and the worst boyfriend ever
we would have a toxic and trying relationship
but that is for another poem

maybe it's the way i was raised
or maybe it's my cancer rising
but i only ever feed myself well when i am feeding someone else.
i mean,
my love language is soup.
which is why my whole house smells like curry, garlic, and ginger,
why over the course of a couple of days i spent twelve of the hours i had meant to spend sleeping
pressing blocks of tofu,
individually sauteing seven different types of vegetables in fresh herbs and aromatics,
and really testing the capacity of my roommate's food processor.

I don't remember when I first started believing that everything that feels good is either dangerous or morally wrong, or, most likely, both, but I imagine it started with the church.

I don't remember when I first started believing that love looked less like a fairytale and more like my best friend falling asleep in my sweater with her head on my shoulder, so close I could smell my shampoo in her hair, but I imagine it started with her.

I once spent six months eating cold unseasoned green beans out of a can for almost every meal because suffering for suffering's sake feels righteous when you believe that you deserve it. I once spent ten years pretending not to be a **** for essentially the same reason.


And lord, am I ever. A ****, I mean. A big, masculine ****,
Like,
I have always been more king Kong than Fay wray.
Like,
I have always been taught to be afraid of what my hands can do.
I remember big fat ***** depicted as monstrous,
Only able to destroy,
And I wonder if that's why there are so many of us who make things.


i keep a knife in my pocket most of the time because i have been backed into enough corners to be cautious,
but mostly,
i use it for fixing things and cutting fruit.
danger is contagious and i do what i can to stop it from making me dangerous,
I do not want to be a frightened and frightening thing.
but one time a woman i really liked tried to wake me from a nightmare,
and with ghosts still circling my head
Before I was awake or aware,
i punched her in the face.
When I opened my eyes, there was fear in hers and blood pouring from her nose and no amount of apologizing could unbreak what I had broken.
she kissed me and told me she still trusted me and it made me remember all the ****** noses that i had once forgiven with similar ease.
So i told her i was thinking of moving to oregon and that work was getting busy and that i would wash and return her tupperware before she left in case it was a while before i could see her again.
i hugged her at her car
and she held me for too long
like she didn't even notice all the sharp things where my skin was meant to be.
i spent the next six months
bleeding venom and avoiding handshakes.

And I don't mean to say that I am violent,
Because I am not,
I do not yell
Or degrade
Or intimidate,
I never sleep punched anyone else before or since,
I would never hit a friend or a lover while awake. I only wear spikes to make people think before they touch me, I am all flight or freeze. But violence is not the only way to hurt someone you love. Shutting down or running away can break a heart too and blood all looks the same when it's drying on your hands no matter where it comes from. So now I try to protect the people I love from everything dangerous, including getting too close to me.


i keep a knife in my pocket most of the time,
but on days when my body remembers in the present tense,
i take a knife from the kitchen block instead.
i cut up limes and sweet potatoes,
drown out the sirens in my head
with bubbling water and simmering oil.

i'm still learning what love looks like,
and i am so tired of breaking,
and maybe this is why every time i see someone beautiful i fantasize about building them a house,
maybe this is why i make soup.

i am only easy to love
on the days when love is not a life raft.
i have never been afraid of fire
but i am frozen earth
full of ancient seeds,
already there are new green things pushing up through cracks in me
and i worry that if the ground were to thaw,
softer things might take root,
and i am afraid that anything delicate might not survive in me.

It's not that I am wholly unable to love recklessly,
I run whole body into the ocean every time i see her,
emerge breathless and invisible and singing praises to nobody at all but the stars.
The last time I wanted to die, I took an overnight bus to the ocean. I held my breath and dipped my whole body beneath the surface of the sea,
tried to practice drowning but instead,
by mistake,
fell in love all over again with the waves and the moon and the stars,
All the beautiful things too big and too powerful for me to hurt accidentally.
I am a soft foolish thing,
All alive and longing.
I have loved fully
What I always knew I could not hold,
My tiny heart so full of moon and sea
And every mountain
That every place is now both a home
And not.

I am not as afraid as I used to be,
I have done a lot of therapy,
And maybe one day I will sleep next to somebody breakable without feeling guilty.
And I think maybe one day,
I will trust myself enough to love the softest things that love me in the fearless way I love the ocean.
And I don't know when that day will be,
Or whether you will stick around long enough to find out,
but i do know that i want you always to be warm and full of good things,
so in the meantime,
If you want it,
I made you some soup.

The Autumn air always grew stale
Until unseasoned bloom
Pluck the last leaf from the tree
Just as my new plants hue
Were sun shone locks of you

the first time i tried this,
the page was scattered with
poorly doodled stars
for thoughts i could just
barely fathom in my mind.
a new plot for every thought
that crossed my consciousness
until the paper brimmed with
points that i couldn’t connect
one another to. but you of
all people should understand
that constellations are hard
to create.

how long did it take to find
the perfect combination of
twenty six letters that feel
like silk between my teeth
as i read the text out loud?
how many times did you lull
over each word with thesaurus
to your right, making sure
each word was caramelized
to perfection? watching carefully
for the perfect shades
of amber and rust.

the sweetness of the sunshine
yellow you feed us for hope,
and the dark rich mahogany
that turned bitter everything
that was ever sweet.
when we went looking for
the great land we found
nothing but white tulips
like an apology for not
being something greater
because life is filled with
nothing more than love,
death, adventure and a little
something in between.

and i never knew how love
even worked because
from the outside looking in
it is like the impact of
a truck coming at full speed.
it was going to happen
and it happened, there’s no
in between when honestly
nothing compares to it better
than the hardships of falling
asleep ( though the task proves
harder for insomniacs ).
from the inside you only know
only that it has happened because
love is an unseasoned thing
with a sweet aftertaste.

but this is just a side effect.
this is just the ying to the yang.
i grew up knowing too well that
everything had it’s advocate.
because time’s a **** and she
doesn’t wait on anyone, closing
the gates for anyone who
didn’t have enough to pay
the price to live in the numbered
days. But as days drag on
we find infinities within
our numbered days, the antipode
of time we call hope.

I never knew much about
the world until I started reading
almost forgetting that stories
aren't always about heroes
but people who wish no more
than to seek a great perhaps.

Young darling, you've emerged.
Innocence has abandoned you like a old-time lover.

Sweet girl, the remodeling of your soul is finally in progress.
I know you see it. I could hear your heart banging on the doors to be set free.

Little doll, be afraid.
This world is not what you glimpsed on the magic box.  
Development is creeping in like a friendly bandit.

Gentle babe, it's time to add your revolution to history.
For your modification draweth closer.

Youngster, potential is your new spring of encouragement.
Refinement...your vision.

Isolated infant, don't move! Take off your chasity and give it to me now!
Blindly robbed, give me your virtue, open your hands and I'll fill it with the wonder of responsibility.

New time bloomer, welcome.
I honestly feel a great deal of sorrow for you.
You're not alone though. We're all chained to this thing called,  change.
Yes change, our old friend, better known as constant.

I know I'm forcing a remodel, but you have no choice in this...we have no choice in this.

Oh my unseasoned meat, I feel it for you. This, this evolutionary transformation.
Enhanced by growth I'll leave you unrecognizable.

Charming child, this inevitable happen is going to kidnap your once free spirit, and lock it in a cage. Never more to be set free.

My sweet joyous juvenile, your obsession with smiles is going to cease. As I slowly decease you urge to run.

The bus is passing, so go stand in the middle.
You'll survive, but only by my tools.

First, trade, then transition, followed by adaption, up next you'll adjust. Add some innovation in there. To conclude your finishing touches will be your revised version.

Good luck, you'll need it. I know I did.

                      ~Gabbriella with 2 b's~

the Truth

its with kind regards
that you've been asked to avail yourself
excuse yourself
from our crying festivals and internal ridicules of should-have's,
to make an honest revelation of yourself.
i'd understand if you've gotten lost along the way
or forgotten the directions;
its been a while since your presence was requested
its just that right now
i’d really appreciate your attendance to the vulnerability.

i know you’ve noticed
i’ve conversed with tribes opposite to you long enough
i’ve testified against your whispers.
yes, its done nothing
but heighten my complexities and insecurities,
and disrupt my rhythm.
the rhythm I thought I could dance to on my own
without you taking the lead
or setting the record straight.
i’m sorry:
the times I stood you up
the unwanted plus one’s
the cancelled reservations,
but know that this one here
is just you and i
a table for two
and a serving of unseasoned confessions.

let me know when you can make it. . .

EXTRA…EXTRA…REED…ALL…ABOUT…ME!

Well versed in procrastination set me on trajectory -
   for this buck - became an Eros Hubble ace
at letting anxiety stew and fester,
   whereat family and classmates solicited to brace
didst inculcate within me the major component
   Wherefore art thou' Romeo,
   the psychic monkey did survey then chase
the tan man hat coursing around
   neurological mulberry bush, an imprimatur no erase
sing could rid, thus even to this very instant
   repercussions from adolescence i still face
with grim determination to avoid engendering
   a psychological bottleneck a slick grace

note herewith attempts to sound off
   self induced imprecation finds me bing stabbed with ice
sic culls Merck cure chrome-plated metallic
    like ****** sharp daggers on par with razor teeth of mice
which jagged piercing sensations
   invisibly punctuate the psyche, thus equals existential price
paid in countless non GMO grains of Uncle Sam’s
   unconverted nonestablishmentarian Unitarian rice
unseasoned, but naturally adequately salty
   appeasing cleft chin, and sub-mucous cleft palate spice
to perfection since Michelin hired famous chefs
   (nano size implanted integrated circuit) could twice

as fast whip up any concoction immediately
   envisioned by robots yours truly archetypes did design
initially to help me cope viz The Idler Wheel
   Is Wiser than the Driver of the ***** and Whipping fine
Cords Will Serve You More than Ropes
   Will Ever Do - or more succinctly mental illness - cut a line
visibly evident when electro cardiogram
   administered evincing a sight
   for sore eyes - gray matter mine
practically pock marked and cratered with more than...
   oh my dog, the total pits greater than sixty-nine
exacerbated without doubt from atomic structure
   comprising this bloke kin son ova bit chin with sign

of evident bio-chemical deficiency, hence necessity
   for pharmacopeia of meds doc severson did assign
who drummed up this cocktail after numerous trials
   and errors reflected via spastic behavior when dine
ing with family, friends or neighbors,
   one acquaintance ranked
   as the top notch British Nottingham ensign
or so this poet with a schizoid disorder
   firmly believed asper thyself
   anything touched became mine
yea...akin to the patterns associate with toddlerhood,
   which at the age of LVIII did not serve to wax nor shine
as a salient trait, yet reality thru these
   myopic brown eyes sensed paranoia
   with a posse intent to ent twine

me from head to iambic foot, which crowdsource
   programmed by Donald trump who implanted an integrated bit
sans latest state of the art re: lob bot tummy
   without major risk imposed on cerebral cortex - a custom fit
grown from stem cells within said person
   undergoing quick permanent fix -
   so as to curtain quarks quite hit
tee us - and essentially this medical break through
   allowed, enable and provided and immediate end to kit
a tonic state, when of a sudden, an afflicted individual
   would mew, or burst out reciting pages of great lit
er a chore, though only chancing to hear
   horse hay renown masterpiece juiced one time recall ad mitt
ted lee quite amazing (perhaps one positive outcome
   duff furring tasks) with many a severe ache in the pit
of abdomen. whereby physiological symptom
   until a small number of wink'n, blink'n and nod would not quit
thus the reason - without rhyme hive felt inclined
   hurriedly swiftly Taylor and sty lushly hare reed writ.

Studiously learning what’s in the Mazatlán,
They caught each other’s eye as she sat in a corner booth,
The gleam he saw aglow there, he began to dwell upon,
The radiance of her countenance was akin to light and truth

He joked and mugged and walked a wire,
She gestured, and, the flames grew higher,
She told him of her man betrothed,
He shuddered but appeared unmoved.

But growing way down, deep inside him,
There welled a thirst, so powerfully pure,
He tried to bury it, to push it down,
But drawing him, pulling him, her enticing allure,

They stood calf-deep near Ontario’s shore
The moon smiled down and charged their glow
She’d lower her eyes and his heart would soar
That moon knew things that she didn’t know

For he whispered to the moon his heart’s desire
That this fair maiden would one day be his,
And the mother of the fates was summoned by wire
And soon, on the island, it was sealed with a kiss!

And she changed her destiny and his heart leapt for joy!
She could not have known how happy she made him;
There were fireworks and magic for that unseasoned boy
He was glad his thirsty thoughts had betrayed him

Fast forward five years, to a kneeler on the altar
A bond was forged there - which never will falter
And darling new creatures now fill their book
And he is even more smitten than at that first look

Above the salt pans
royal prerogative reigns

But tarnish the jewel

And the meat is eaten
unseasoned

Click-click
we speak
click-click
and feed with lions

Regalia of a
crooked king
becrowned
enthroned by tide

Click-click
we walk
far out of africa

And the relationship
of men to stones
the purity of gold
stained, eaten
by lion-hearted
monarch
At the ley-lined end
of genocidal desserts

Migratory waves
denied
enmeshed

And walls crash
to dancing music
amid final insult
to the mass

Click-clicking
and walking

Singing and dancing
the mountains a
handful of dust

Sea only salt
and river bed dry
and dammed
to hell

Sparkling with ruby
glowing emerald
green as the plain
after monsoon
rains down fresh we
live through drought
sail the flood and
in the end
bloodied in futile battle

Click-click and die

Star-crossed lovers died,
Upon a blade and poisoned,
At each other’s side.

Woeful was the bride,
At peace where two unseasoned
Star-crossed lovers died,

Taken by the tide
Who named two lovers treasoned,
At each other’s side.

Speak their names with pride,
For in that crypt where reasoned
Star-crossed lovers died,

Love does still reside,
In lovers lain imprisoned
At each other’s side.

Love dies not denied;
It dwells ‘twixt where garrisoned
Star-crossed lovers died,
At each other’s side.