Before too long I'm gonna go away.
I'll walk the unswept streets and the humid heats
In the uncleaned city of L.A.
There are things I'm sure I'll break as I make my way;
Laws and promises, hearts and confidences--
That's the sad way we work today.

My heart'll find its home out in the West,
In the form of a man who will enclose my hands,
And he'll spill all his words out and digress.
We'll have four children, then never get our rest,
And we'll apologize when they finally find out that
Mothers do not always know best.

The sun will stain our skin,
And then illness can take us, our treatments will break us,
And we might not ever be whole again.
Then we'll never know
If there will always be borders and pain and disorders
And longing and fences to slip below.

Our children will grow old after we die,
While we sleep in the ground with our roots all around
Or our ashes will wade through the deep sky,
And they will miss our lives, and so will I,
But they'll think of when we walked the unswept streets
And we tucked in their sheets
And they'll smile while they cry.

I feeleth so anxious as the fleshy winds outside,
Invisible as their turquoise screams, I feeleth like everything is just not right;
Ah, but how if even all later suns shan't be fair,
And t'is passivity shan't ever be bound to fade?
For my soul declares-t'at he, it wants not any more to care;
And about thee only, it wants to be quiet, yet witty still-like yon pale lovesick summer glade;
I want to attach myself to our captivated hours right now;
With thee in my lap, and thy gentle whispers-as today shall be replaced by tomorrow.
I want to dream of thee once more tonight, o sweet Nikolaas;
My darling at present and from the future, whilst my only dearest, from the past.
Ah, sweetheart, why are but our subsequent hours-and perhaps paths, to suffer;
If thou art not by my side, and maketh not all t'is terseness better?
Ah, and wouldst it ever make sense any longer;
To live by him-but without thee, wouldst it but make my wild heart easier?
For censure is to which my answer, and is hatred-for I cannot help loving thee more;
I wanteth to love, and age-by thee, and by thee only, within my most passionate core,
And I wanteth not to understand anything-for comprehension shall but renew our last sorrow;
I wanteth instead-to renew t'is despaired wholeness, and its proven compassion-our love has once made nature show.

I still wanteth to remain quiet; to cherish and glitter within my wholesome devotion;
But which duly keepest me sober, and maketh my doubled heart tremble not;
Calmeth me, calmeth me with thy kisses-so enormous and tasty, like a quiet can of little soda;
Maketh me accursed, petty, and corny-maketh me thy lands' most dreaded infanta.
Tease me like I am a quivering little darling, who cannot but tries shyly still-to sing;
With a coarse voice descended from sunlight, where the worst are joy, and lovingly mean everything.
Maketh me honest, and tempteth me deeper and more;
Until I sighest and flittest myself away, with agility like never before.
Consumeth my greed-and with it, drinkest away its all befallen vitality;
For I knoweth thou shalt restore me, and reneweth all my endeavoured weaponry.
Ah, Nikolaas, how sweet doth feel t'ese blessings, by thy very side!
Nikolaas, Nikolaas, my lover-my sweet husband, from whom my hungry soul canst never hide!
Oh, and darling, Amsterdam might be cold, and plastered with one slippery tantrum;
But thou art still too comely to me-with those familiar eyes like a poem;
A poem t'at my very heart owns, and is graciously fat'd to be thine;
And thine only-for as I danceth later-in my princess' frock, I knoweth t'at thou art mine.
Ah, but fear thou not-for shall I protect thee like t'is;
I shall slander thy rival west and east, I shall degrade t'em all to'a yawning beast!
And upon my victory be I at ease-and finely grateful;
On which truth shall spring, and maketh our love venerated-and more fruitful!
Ah, just like I had b'fore-how canst kissing thee be extremely pleasant,
Even whenst he be t'ere, or perhaps-be the one concerned?
I hath to admit, t'at 'tis thee-and not him, I so dearly want;
Thee who hath painted my love, and made everything cross but all fun;
Thee whose disguise is my airs, and who hath ceaselessly promised to be fair,
Thee whom I'th dreamt of t' be my lifelong prince, with whom I wish to be paired,
Thee whose recitations lift my heart upwards, and my delight proud;
Thee whose poems hath I crafted, and oftentimes recited sensibly, out loud.

Ah, t'at devil-who told us t'at our joys cannot be real;
For they are not at all virtuous-nor by any chance, vigorous?
Ah, fear not those human serpents, darling, whose mouths are moth-like-bloodless but who canst ****;
For to God they are mortal still, and to His eyes whose jokes are not fun, nor humorous;
And thus we shall be together, as we indeed already are;
For our delight is not to be altered-no longer, as dwells already, in our heart;
We shall come back to it soon, as tonight's full moon smilingly starts;
And exalt it as wint'r comes-dear winter, as perhaps only be it, one few months' far;
Ah, and be I then, crush all t'is impatient longing, and sorely missed affection;
And vanquish all the way, t'is all omnipotent sin-of having loved only, a severe affliction;
Oh, but under whose guidance, Amsterdam shall embark again, and smile upon us;
And lift our tosses of joys, into the lapses of its sweet thunders, fast!
Ah, Nikolaas, shall we thus be together, under the wings of Amsterdam's rainbow;
To which endings shan't even once appear; as guilt be then dead-and is not to show;
The only left opus of love be ours to sing, as heaven is-so benevolent;
Betray us not, with fruits of indifference-much less once of one malice, and gay impediment;
And our happiness shall be pure-and entangled, like a pair of newborn twins;
To which our fantasies are finally correct, and thus its affixed lust-shall no more be a sin.

Such love and lust-whose fidelities shall be our abode;
But by whose words-delusions shall never arrive, and thus be put aside;
Novelties shall be fine, and their definitions shall be lovely;
They shall twitch not-for a simple moment of starched felicity!
Oh my darling, I needst to come and visit my wealthy Amsterdam;
With authenticity now I entreat: myself, myself, ah, run there-whenst stop doth time!
For as we embarketh, no more worrisome medleys shall they come again, to bring;
And to no more sonata, shall they retort-nor so adversely, and dishonestly, sing.
Ah, Nikolaas, the stars are now obediently looking down at us;
Jealous of our shimmering love, which is the lush garden's yonder, giddy beaut;
Ah, who is shy to its own mirror, and oft' looks away so fast;
But needst not to swerve, factually, for 'tis, on its really own-has but very much truth!
But still, whose hastiness maketh it succumb-and even more bashful then the sky;
Ah, as if those pastimes of its ****** soul are always about-and be termed but as a single lie!
For it shall never happen, to it-who owns our midnight hours-with one promise to be skirted away too fast;
With not even a single pause, nor a second of rest-while it passes?
Ah love, our very love; its circular stains, nevertheless, as left hurriedly-too massive to resist;
For they giveth taste to our plain moonlight-and thick'ning flavours to our kiss;
So at our first night of gaiety thereof-we won't be hunger for earning too much bliss!
Ah, Nikolaas, all shall be perfect-for felicity is no longer on our part-to miss,
And t'is part of our earthly journey shall feel, defiantly like heaven!
I shall be thine-and claim no more my thine self as his;
In thee doth I find my salvation, my fancy dome-and my most studious cavern!
All which, certainly-is his not; all which shall be ripe, and thus fragrant-like a rose perfume;
And by whose spell-we shall be love itself, and even be loved-within the walls of our private haven;
And even then, we shall love each other more-as be cradled in each other's arms; and lost like this, in such a league of harmonious poems.

Amsterdam shan't be rigorous, it shall be all fair,
Its notions are curious, like these but entrancing summer days;
Thinking of which is but a sweat-but a bead of sweat for which I most care,
Which is neither dreadful nor boastful, as I devour it avidly, amongst t'is poem I'm 'bout to say!
And t' mindfulness of which, I shall no more hastily rid of;
I was too dreary back then, crudely foreshadowed by a crippled love!
'Twas my mistake-my supposedly most punished, punished mistake;
For faking a love I ought not t've ever made, and one I ought not t' ever take!
A mere dream I hath now fiercely pushed away;
And from which I hath now returned, to my most precious loyalty,
As thou knoweth-thou hath never wholly, and so freely-left me,
Thou art all too genuine, and pristine, like yon silvery river-as I oft' picture thee.
Ah, so t'at is all true; t'at thou art my most gracious, and unswept loving angel,
A prince of royalty, and my very, very own nighttime spell.
Just like thou hath done hundreds of time, thou maketh me but delight and mischief;
And notions t'at bubble within my most, giving me charms and comfort-for me to continue to live!
Together, our lips shall be warm-and no more joy shall be left naked;
Soon as there are more tears, we shall throttle and fairly feast on it;
Making it all but remotely conscious, and forcibly-but sensibly, deluded;
Making it writhe away impaired, and its all possible soul awesomely flattened!
Ah, Nikolaas, thou shalt be the mere charm t'at leaves my odes too fabulous-by thy wit,
Oh, my darling, for thou art so sweet; o, Nikolaas, I really hath only my words, to play with!

And guess what, my darling, heaven shall but gift us nobly, all too soon;
An heir shall we claim; as descendeth one day beneath the excited full moon.
For he shall be born into our naughtiest perusal;
And demand our affection excitedly, as time is long, as arrives winter-from last fall!
Soft is his hair, clutched in his skin-so bare and naive;
He shall be our triumph, and a farther everyday desire, to continue to live!
And we shall consider him our undefined, yet a priceless fortune;
Light as the night, at times singular but cheery-like the sketch of a fine moon.
And portray in us both the loveliness of a million words;
He shall be handsome, just like our love-which is damp but funny, in whose two brilliant worlds!
Oh, my darling, I now looketh forward to my heavenly Amsterdam;
Whose prettiness shall be thoughtful, as I thinketh of it-from time to time.
Ah, thus-when all finally happeneth, I shall know thou art worth the whole entity of my thousand longings;
Thou art the miracle t'at I hath decently prayed for-and thus fathomably, the very sweet soul-of my everything.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
‘Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
    So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
    You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.

Her fingers were covered in corn.
the corn after chewing, broken
pierced, churned- it could spread as butter
thick on stale toast, if needed
"it's fine, don't you worry, we'll get you all cleaned up"
she stared indifferently

Strings dangled from her mouth, unswept
full of necessary greens ---"mhm there there, this will give
you so much energy" --- drags of breath,
half inhale half choke. nothing to look forward to,
not the next soaking glob, not the cursing woman
in the bathroom, not the spill of light to her eyes

Where are the ladles, Did you check on it? The key? Just moved, most the suitcases aren't there yet. Remember to bring the Did you check on it? pay attention. Have you seen my grand kids?
who are you?

Sunday's are for the active ones
The games down the hall are  too far. Why worry with legs, if she could just adjust to the left
the world could sag into an ongoing dream- No demands, no games, no movement.

The nurses hair net had more presence than the splotch of gray against her peeling itchy scalp. Drool leaked from leather lips, dampening the collar of her two month sticky blouse.  Arms curled and locked,displaying under the wax skin cranberry patches-
she never wiped them off. Always the soft murmer of
a snore, always the smell of unbrushed teeth and hampers.

"Did you touch those where don't touch me scott scott scott leave my things alone thevenin I need a stop lying I want to go scott, scott? scott.     I            can't              remember                       any"

I said my name four times before she heard me, knew me
I fixed her pillow and my sister marked off the day on the calendar.
We told her about school, the marching band, each word
filled with forced enthusiasm. She bobbed  her head in circles, lazily
rolling her eyes, the curtain shading the empty space. We spent 30 minutes precisely.

She was more than I realized.
I never knew she had horseback riding, violin playing days. She traveled and  hiked. We could have been close. Unraveling with the mystery, I felt the lateness of my curiosity.
It was 30 minutes precisely, always.

We acted as strangers, reciting routine and wishing each other a happy day and a quiet love you

I'm not good with words
they always come out wrong
but I'll write you a poem
because you keep me supported like my unswept floorboards
you have that wonderful smell of old ***** books
I want us to get together like cars merging into one lane of traffic
You're prettier than a third grader's sloppy cursive
You have a shine kinda like how people shine after sweating in the heat
you're more attractive than an icecream truck to suburban little kids
Your eyes are greener than lettuce
and your voice is more captivating than ****** pop music on the radio

Here's your poem
I told you I'm no good with words so yeah I'm not sure how to end this

flip/switch.

the dark runs to corners:
unswept cobwebs, unmarked
graves of
lacewings.

mirror, mirror.

tessellate:
you
me
you
kaleidoscopic in the seven years’
worth of bad luck.

you come here with new eyes and
brand-new dockers. i
mend the broken siding in my mind’s eye.
prune the wisteria and uproot
ivy in handfuls.

i unconsciously check for
onion peel
underneath the kitchen sink.

the pantry
where one of the pups died.
the disappointment of eyes
bloodshot
but dry.

I’ve sat on a bare-damp chair.
out on the North deck
where the moss blurs the lines
between itself and algae and lichen
and me.  Me, who wouldn’t know such a line
if it were less blurred...I’m not so sharp as all that.


I set my glasses down on a stone table.
Beside the cold-soon tea.
I watch the wind coming, first through the reeds.
And then shifting the banana leaves.
And soon the birch curtain crowding out my
writing place.  My righting place.

The labyrinth is hosting some flowers.  A dragonfly alights on an altar of crystal
and stone and birch branch.  And offerings.  
The dragonflies seems to (me to) re-write spider lines
or maybe ley lines.  A frog just leaped from a tree past my feet.
I’ve lost my word lines, my throughline.
This frog is now in the leaves by the ivy under the bees.
Looking so green.  Leaf droppings dropping on its head.
It’s green head.  Like an emerald in a mountain’s side.

Now a rustle.  Just beyond.  But not that far.  Like feet away.  But beyond.
Another distance.  Another limit.  Another world.  A bank-robbery escape-mode
Squirrel is making off with what it made off with from the free-to-all and undefended
(and legal, too) pear tree in the far yard.  It leaped upon the birch trunk and then, startled to find me unstartlingly well...just here.  And unstartled.  Paused to set its claws in bark.
It teeth gripping as fifth grip the rind of an unripe pear, its size, if I might compare,
the size of its head without the ears, without the hair.  This unrepentant squirrel leaped                  from
     here
to
     there
all of which was over there but just there so basically here.  (Just not here here, more there.)  It found its place to contemplate me.  To observe.  It made no offer.  But of itself.  Which, really, is all that we can do.  It chuffed a few times but it seemed to me that this was more to do with why-not-give-this-a-try-but-I-don’t-know-why.  It’s belly flush to gray birch bark.  It’s tail extended, and caught by a breeze that the leaves were not informed of.  A deceiving breeze.
Soon - which wasn’t soon, it was minutes - the squirrel scrambled up the birch and branch-to-branched its way to overhead and then out of sight.  I may have smelled of peanuts as I’d just emptied a jar.  I may have been the deceiver.  I may be the lone believer that I might know at all.

The frog hasn’t yet moved.


Something is buzz-whistling.  In the grass?  The trees?  The soil?  The sound rises and the tone
shifts.  The pitch lifts.  I cannot say if it is insect.  I cannot say if it is amphibian.  I cannot say if it is electric and thus man and thus unwelcome.  Cicada?  Frogs?  A hummingbird just fooled me into thinking I knew something about speed.  Something about color.  Something about birds.
Something about Nature.  Something about need.  Something about life.  Something about something about my self.  A partial-second lesson.  The teacher came and went.  The teachings stayed behind in mind.  I have so much work to do.

The far birch, placed in the yard for a long-ago dog
seems to offer up a peach harvest this year.
(At least when my glasses are off.)
The landscaper says that all the birches are yellowing this summer
this year this near to the midsummer and this far from the far flung
and far colder cold slumber of December and November and October.

The blue spruce has a still-for-the-first-time-this-season small flock
of oriole.  Or sunset-breasted, warbler wren throated tipped somethings.
I count seven.  Or six.  No, eight.  Wait.  Nine.  Uh, now eight.
Oh, there’s one!  Oh, no matter.  There’s some.
Too flighty and flittery each blur-glance I’ve had all year.  And I've tried each time
to secure them (sharply) in my lens.

The ducks converse as they arrive at the pond’s far edge.  About to traverse the
turtle-hiding waters, the en-flowered pond’s surface, the distance between heard and seen.
I reach for my glasses.  The birch leaves in yellow have fallen and lied.  Belied to believed.
There are no birds in the tree.  That I can see.  That I care to see.  Autumn come early.

A hawk glides past my edge-of-can’t-quite-see.  It’s loping-like arc its own pleasure...to me.
And, I imagine, it.  The meadow is blushing in purple, ironweed.  The jewelweed, too is a star-field of twinkling orange.  A constellation by day.  A bowl by the winter-blooming something (jasmine?) is concentrically coming awake as drip drip drippings are drop drop dropping.  A yellow-spiked caterpillar treks through the detritus of the unkempt bits of the beside-the-garden which isn’t so much a garden as a place I once planted and once planned.  A spider fast-ropes down to investigate and, as it happens, to pester.  The caterpillar twists and tumbles.  Righting itself, it plods on in its stretch-curl way as the spider ascends to the invisible upper home in its way.  The frog hasn’t moved but I notice and note its **** has two bumps.  Like its bulbous eyes in its front which, as I notice and note is spear-shaped as is its hind.  I wonder at defenses.  It is still.  It still is still.  It’s stillness is still stilling.  Until...I move on.  My fastest is not footed but mindful.  Not mindful but of mind.  I am of a mind to move the mind along.  The caterpillar closes the distance.  What a distance to it it must be.  It’s face is black as an undersea shadow.  It has spikier spikes of black here and there.  Likely in some pattern but my mind has moved and so, here and there it will be.  My story.  My pattern.  My refusal to change.

The mushrooms where the spider met the yellow fellow, though.  Sesame-seeded.  Decorated.  Pimpled.  Bejeweled.  A tawny cup beside a stone behind the frog.  Soft mustard-dotted.  But now!  A new frog where the old new frog had been.  This one a leopard toad.  I think.  (I shouldn’t think.)  Browns upon browns with stripes and blots and dots.  Tans and browns.  At the end of the birch twig is now the first frog.  The green-headed bumpy-butted one.  The leopard in tiger lily patches watches the caterpillar (a different one?) clamber though the unswept unkempt.  

The frog, beside me in ceramic keeps time for the timeless.  The throat bellowing.  As though feeding a fire somewhere where Earth is turned to plow.  We all make our own ends, don’t we?

he had low-grade
tattoos on his neck
and his clothes
wore transparency.
beneath his eyes
held a dying sun.
he spoke in thanks
and respect, the cuts
upon his wrists called
reached a finger out
and called my eyes
to say hello,
he spoke in gratitude
for the smoke i gave him.
he smelled like cigarette
stained couch cushions
he spoke a respectable
ebonic intellect.
his fingernails
were unswept
floor trim
and his teeth
were smashed
dinner plates
at his mother house.
departing he said
thank you
and i offered him
a cigarette for the road
and he refused and said
“for talking to me”

I have always thought of home to be a place
have described myself within a myriad of
different protagonists, herbs and flaccid analogies
i have been birds nesting in rafters, wolves
and nothing more than a willowy spirit without a
body--

and i thought for a moment that people could be homes
too, the way you walk into hugs or are metaphorically
gathered, i watched him in the mirror sliding around
my waist, resting on my hips, smelling my hair, picking
me up to put in a vase, ridiculously pretty, you know that?

and it's not that I longed for more,  
that I have longed for where, for a here that
i am acutely aware of how i vacillate between empty
and overflowing, of my own thoughts, i have heard
you think too much and maybe I do-- maybe too much
of me lingers

In dreams I unzip and turn myself inside out
like a dress, fold my shoulders down and the mountains
reappear, i am all the grass of a former self, before the tides and winds and men, before my choices bent me back
and took a swiss army knife to whittle me away

i think i am longing to be clean
to be over to breathe and not feel the strings
the way my voice splits into a rank of pipes swelling into a hundred  voices and he only hears a few, i am many
longing to be one, he cannot twist the drawknob
because I am already filling the cathedral in the words of
Stravinsky, the
                                m onster never b r e a t h e s


and I feel like i never have
i am earnest to fill my lungs with air instead of water
join the present, but the Welsh knew me too well,
the portuguese, saudade and the Germans, sehnsucht
put a letter to the things that can only be described in paragraphs or tears or indeterminate intervals of time sitting on his bed while he showered, all the doors slammed, empty coffee cups,
clogged sinks, unswept floors, long drives,
shots of whiskey, withering glances held on tension and
te amo mouthed across the room--

we wonder, can we be reached?  wrought? touched.  found.
in our deepest hearts, wounded mysticism, an untapped sense of joy that can be lanced and spilled, I am wistful, anxiously waiting to be siphoned,

Hiraeth.

On sunshiny mornings I'll
Perch myself on the edge of
The sink and look past the
Basil and cyclamen
Past the stained glass birds
And rainbow crystals
And I will look at the trees
As I feel the poetry and taste cold pizza.

When it starts to rain I
Will brew myself a blue mug of expensive
Imported tea and sit upon the
Unswept linoleum as I listen to the
Refrigerator rumble behind my head
And the rain echo in sheets on the skylight.

And once in awhile a
Stray drop comes through the window.

If I ever find myself lonely
I'll take the six minutes back to the
Place that never sleeps and
Drape myself on the humming stairs with my other half
To remind myself that
Solitude is a gift.

People change but
Houses stay the same.

There is much to be found
When you stop sitting in chairs
And realize that the place you call
Home is a place to feel safe.

I. Solitary Men
GOD: "I am."
MOSES: "Me too."
SOCRATES: "So what?"
ALEXANDER: "What's next?"
CAESAR: "Why not?"
JESUS: "Watch this!"
MUHAMMAD: "Watch this, or else."
SHAKESPEARE: "Dream."
NAPOLEON: "Out of my way."
WASHINGTON: "On my signal and forward."
LINCOLN: "On my example."
******: "Love is cowardice."
FDR: "Justice finds a way."
GHANDI: "This is how."
KENNEDY: "Turn the page."
KING: "Wake up and believe …


                                                 II. The Lost
I saw the best minds of my generation caged by the fears of their parents, organized for meaninglessness, and watching too much ****.
I saw you all around me kneeling to the angry God of television, and I knelt down with you.  
I saw the flames of our shared future burning down The Church, we held hands and danced around it, spun the bottle, and finally told the truth.
I saw myself lost and lonely among you, excusing myself for a cigarette.
I saw the aisles of the shopping center as the gateways to our dreams.
I saw twelve airplanes on the horizon, the disciples of a new race.
I saw the boys and girls of my generation staring at screens learning always learning that the world isn’t real.
I saw the sun rise like ribbons to burn The Poet. Sad, she laid her eyes upon the rocks, let the river flow and finally felt the wet climbing up from her knees.
I saw you Little Girl, the night you found me, and took me out into the trees.

I heard you say, “Brave Boy, this is a good day but we'll find better days than these.”
I heard a Man sing about a thousand tongues broken, a newborn baby with wild wolves around it, and a mystery *****. He asked me "how does it feel?"
  
I heard The Nun shouting the slogans we are afraid to write on signs.
I heard Caesar shouting from the other side of the Rubicon.  I was late and he wasn’t pleased.
I heard the sound of Your Daughter ******* to the rumble of the unswept highway, the trucks the men the steel on steel, the knife, the lime, the tequila, and two sweat wet pillows.
I heard The Preacher in a lab coat and a **** star that was preaching the income gap.  Both conversations were boring.
I heard The Radio play Mozart to the smell of burning wood.
I heard The Night fall down.

I met the Devil by The Lake and I laughed my *** off as he pontificated on his role in History. We tied the rope swing on a rotten limb and swung out high above the clear blue water, let go,  and fell in deep.
I met The Martyr that is trying to **** me.  He was such a sweet old man, so wise, so kind, his hand trembled involuntarily as he squeezed off a round.
I met The Politician that represents the deepest recesses of my conscience, and he ****** me just how I like it, but just a little different every time.
I met The Warrior at sunrise, chose a weapon, and died fighting for land that would never be mine.
I met The Lover on her barstool, laughed at her jokes, typed in her number, and strolled home smiling at the strangeness of her mind.
I met The Leader under his podium where he was hiding watching shoes.  He assured me everything i could see from there was part of a larger plan.
I met The Follower on an airplane.  We shared are snacks and watched the window, and discussed the name’s of strangers we wanted to be.
I charmed a Dancing Princess, laid her out like Ophelia in the river, bought her Mom a fancy car.
I scared The Fish out of the pond with a Mardi Gras mask and a six pack of beer.  They walked out of the water and hitch hiked to the nearest theater.
I lied to The Farmer when I told him I smelled rain.
I told the truth to The Doctor.  He just shook his head and made me wait.
I interviewed The Emperor on his way home from the office.  He squinted at me through the smoke and asked what I knew about moral philosophy.
I answered The Judge’s questions.  He asked about the birds above and the blood dripping from my eye, he asked what the final equation was, and whether I wanted to die.  I remained silent.
I forgot that Life is fragile, but wasn’t made to pay the price.
I learned that sooner or later God will **** us all, but I touched **** and *** with soul.

I stole privilege from the Gods of Mercy.
I gave The Girl a flower I picked along the way.
I burned the statue, but I saved the books.
I built a slick Death Temple for the ghosts of hermits and Marines.
I danced knowing I would never remember.

I lay down determined to forget it all, and rise the next day baptized sparkling clean, a child of forgotten violence, a leader of forgotten men.
I bought the last secret, and I bought the last machine too.
I sold the secret to the enemy so I could buy their loyalty.
I saved the Old Man from himself, all his frightening well learned ways, and I carried him up the mountain, and left him warming by the fire.
I killed The Child just because she was barking at the moon.
I was an animal lost on a race track.
I was like a little boy lost, like my world could not be yours.

I saw blood smeared on the mirror of the penthouse bathroom and I heard a child scream, the help won't be here until Tuesday, we need the number for Mr. Clean.
I saw a college girl hitch hiking up I95, she was sad about her boyfriend, but she walked and walked and found another world.
I fell in love with a *****, and she fell in love with me back, and we held hands by the River and laughed about the Sorcerer who snored in his sleep.
I ran from the apartment, found a bar with a backyard, and disappeared into the New York City night, got lost in the subway and emerged street side less whole, more lonely, more aware, less alone.
I bargained with The Queen Of Hearts, but she would not bargain back. She just took my belt and shoelaces and assigned me a number.
I sweat through my dreams so I hung my shirt to dry above the Boardwalk in the morning, as shade for passers by.  I sat down to watch them walk, feel the sadness in their eyes.
I felt the breeze bang up against my brain like ice cream on the sand.  I groaned, vomited, put on my sunglasses, and took a stutter step no one could see.

I saw a wedding dress on the Internet balanced on a beam.  The hemline was appropriate.
I saw your husband on Facebook.  I didn’t like what I saw.
I asked Darwin to guess what exactly is in my pants.  He said he had never studied human beings.
I asked Darcy what was in her glass, she said she didn’t know but I could taste.
I asked Georgie if it was such a great idea to drop acid before he played football, he grinned and shook my hand.
I told Bobby his sneaker was untied, but he said the getaway went well.
I told Jerry I’d like to soothe his soul, but he said he does all the soothing now.
I told Mickey I was on my way, tumbling like a dry cycle that rips the chord, humming like a drunken hummingbird.
I took the shortcut all the way downtown to the black end of the street, strutted shyly to the corner of the bar, ordered expensive whiskey with three cubes of ice, sipped it slyly, pulled my piece, and shot that dumb ******* in the face.
There is no Love in an empty room, just like there is no God in space.
There is only your senses, what you hide beneath, your luck, and the path you make.
Death and Salvation have always been the same, do the math and take a drink. Whoever is coming is angry, and She is coming sooner than we think.
I hid in my car in a parking lot on a rainy afternoon, closed my eyes and thought of her, the way she thought, and moved, and laughed.
I lit a cigarette and laughed to myself, “things can’t really be this bad.”

The Sun, The Moon, The Stars, The Snake seem to be part of the same thing.
But The River answers with a song about the tricks of destiny.
Dear God, I will never bow to thee until you get on your knees for me.
My hands are rough my feet are tired my Soul is full of hatred for The Sun.
When You turn around and see nothing there you will know that I am done.

                                       III. The Saint In The City
Hello America,
I think I'll try to burn the candle down.
I know you know my story
We share our secret shames and glories,
I am the Saint In The City.
I am a river of tears.
I am the questions of a clown.

Save my seat sweet thing,
You know I shall return.
The first cut is the deepest,
The second night is the sweetest,
But the third time you see my face,
I'll try to love again ...

Police told me,
They're looking out for my best interest,
Just what might I remember?
What can I reassemble?
Why can't you fix your broken mind with your broken mind?
Please answer true or false.

I put the gloves on,
Drove up through the North Country hills,
Took a left on I90 west towards The Plains,
Crossed the Mississippi before I could explain,
Why I was running away, or how intend to pay,
I got one last joke left, it better ****.

Hamlet laughed hysterically
At the prisoners working in the fields.
He said, “The weight the sword wields,
Weighs the same before the flesh yields.
Like the stars that burn bright in your coldest nights.
They were dead 'for thine eyes were a babes."

I stepped outside the bar,
And met a lady, made a deal on her Mercedes,
The brakes were ruined, but the tires were new.
If they force you to live like an outlaw,
You better make them pay for it.
You better keep it like a secret,
Now that its you verse the machines.

But I'll tell you what I know young ladies,
I'll walk you past the dark end of the road,
We'll be bouncing like bunnies rejoicing for air,
Working for a living, living on prayers.

I couldn't answer what the old man asked,
I guess that was his point.
He asked for water from the nursing home sink,

I went out for air air after I passed him the joint ...

I saw the best minds of my generation caged by the fears of their parents, organized for meaninglessness, and watching too much ****.

I saw you all around me kneeling to the angry God of television, and I knelt down with you.  

I saw the flames of our shared future burning down The Church, we held hands and danced around it, spun the bottle, and finally told the truth.

I saw myself lost and lonely among you, excusing myself for a cigarette.

I saw the aisles of the shopping center as the gateways to our dreams.

I saw twelve airplanes on the horizon, the disciples of a new race.

I saw little boys and girls staring at screens learning always learning that the world isn’t real.

I saw the sun rise like ribbons to burn The Poet.  She was sad and she laid her eyes upon the rocks and let the river flow until she finally felt the wet climbing up from her knees.

I saw you Little Girl, the night you found me, and took me out into the trees.

I heard you say, “Brave Boy, this is a good day but we'll find better days than these.”

I heard a Man sing about a thousand tongues broken, a newborn baby with wild wolves around it, and a mystery *****. He asked me "how do you feel?”

I heard a lullaby at sunset about rebel soldiers on the move.

I heard The Nun shouting the slogans we are afraid to write on signs.

I heard Caesar speaking from the other side of the Rubicon.  I was late and he wasn’t pleased.

I heard the sound of A Daughter ******* to the rumble of the unswept highway, the trucks the men the steel on steel, the knife, the lime, the tequila, and two sweat wet pillows

I met The Preacher in a lab coat and a **** star that was preaching the income gap.  Both conversations were boring.

I heard The Radio play Mozart to the smell of burning wood.

I heard The Night fall down.
I met the Devil by The Lake and I laughed my *** off as he pontificated on his role in History.  We tied the rope swing on a rotten limb and swung out high above the clear blue water, let go,  and fell in deep.

I met The Martyr that is trying to **** me.  He was such a sweet old man, so wise, so kind, his hand trembled involuntarily as he squeezed off a round.

I met The Politician that represents the deepest recesses of my conscience, and he ****** me just how I like it, but just a little different every time.

I met The Warrior at sunrise, chose a weapon, and died fighting for land that would never be mine.

I met The Lover on her barstool, laughed at her jokes, typed in her number, and strolled home smiling at the strangeness of her mind.

I met The Leader under his podium where he was hiding watching shoes.  He assured me everything i could see from there was part of a larger plan.

I met The Follower on an airplane.  We shared are snacks and watched the window, and discussed the name’s of strangers we wanted to be.

I charmed a Dancing Princess, laid her out like Ophelia in the river, bought her Mom a fancy car.

I scared The Fish out of the pond with a Mardi Gras mask and a six pack of beer.  They walked out of the water and hitch hiked to the nearest theater.

I lied to The Farmer when I told him I smelled rain.

I told the truth to The Doctor.  He just shook his head and made me wait.

I interviewed The Emperor on his way home from the office.  He squinted at me through the smoke and asked what I knew about moral philosophy.

I answered The Judge’s questions.  He asked about the birds above and the blood dripping from my eye, he asked what the final equation was, and whether I wanted to die.  I remained silent.

I forgot that Life is fragile, but wasn’t made to pay the price.

I learned that sooner or later God will **** us all, but I touched **** and *** with soul.

I stole privilege from the Gods of Mercy.

I gave The Girl a flower I picked along the way.

I burned the statue, but I saved the books.

I built a slick Death Temple for the ghosts of hermits and Marines.

I danced knowing I would never remember.

I lay down determined to forget it all, and rise the next day baptized sparkling clean, a child of forgotten violence, a leader of forgotten men.

I bought the last secret, and I bought the last machine too.

I sold the secret to the enemy so I could buy their loyalty.

I saved the Old Man from himself, all his frightening well learned ways, and I carried him up the mountain, and left him warming by the fire.

I killed The Child just because he was barking at the moon.

I was an animal lost on a race track.

I felt like a little boy lost, like my world could not be yours.

I saw blood smeared on the mirror of the penthouse bathroom and I heard a child scream, the help won't be here until Tuesday, we need the number for Mr. Clean.

I saw a college girl hitch hiking up I95, she was sad about her boyfriend, but she walked and walked and found another world.

I fell in love with a *****, and she fell in love with me back, and we held hands by the River and laughed about the Sorcerer who snored in his sleep.

I ran from the apartment, found a bar with a backyard, and disappeared into the New York City night, got lost in the subway and emerged street side less whole, more lonely, more aware, less alone.

I bargained with The Queen Of Hearts, but she would not bargain back. She just took my belt and shoelaces and assigned me a number.

I sweat through my dreams so I hung my shirt to dry above the Boardwalk in the morning, as shade for passers by.  I sat down to watch them walk, feel the sadness in their eyes.

I felt the breeze bang up against my brain like ice cream on the sand.  I groaned, vomited, put on my sunglasses, and took a stutter step no one could see.

I saw a wedding dress on the Internet balanced on a beam.  The hemline was appropriate.

I saw your husband on Facebook.  I didn’t like what I saw.

I asked Darwin to guess what exactly is in my pants.  He said he had never studied human beings.

I asked Darcy what was in her glass, she said she didn’t know but I could taste.

I asked Georgie if it was such a great idea to drop acid before he played football, he grinned and shook my hand.

I told Bobby his sneaker was untied, but he said the getaway went well.

I told Jerry I’d like to soothe his soul, but he said he does all the soothing now.

I told Mickey I was on my way, tumbling like a dry cycle that rips the chord, humming like a drunken hummingbird.

I took the shortcut all the way downtown to the black end of the street, strutted shyly to the corner of the bar, ordered expensive whiskey with three cubes of ice, sipped it slyly, pulled my piece, and shot that dumb ******* in the face.

There is no Love in an empty room, just like there is no God in space.

There is only your senses, what you hide beneath, your luck, and the path you make.

Death and Salvation have always been the same, do the math and take a drink.

Whoever is coming is angry, and She is coming sooner than we think.

I hid in my car in a parking lot on a rainy afternoon, closed my eyes and thought of her, the way she thought, and moved, and laughed.

Lit a cigarette and laughed to myself, “things can’t really be this bad.”

The Sun, The Moon, The Stars, The Snake seem to be part of the same thing.

But The River answers with a song about the tricks of destiny.

Dear God, I will never bow to thee until you get on your knees for me.

My hands are rough my feet are tired my Soul is full of hatred for The Sun.

When You turn around and see nothing there you will know that I am done.

You cast that vermillion border
and glance at me with unswept eyes

Your voice holds pain and the comfort 
of solitude

I have journeyed you a hundred years.
The wind gets caught 
in your waves. You throw us back to sea

I hunger for you,
the clamor of rocks that descend into darkness 
and the clouds that hide your secret skies.

The ecstasy of you in the very 
pit of me waits to come out

and engulf me once more.

It's been ten days since I've written.
Ten days I've been an uninspired mess.
Ten days I've had the little dizzies after standing up too quickly.
Ten days I've felt rug burn in my cheeks and cotton mouth in my eyes.
Ten days I've felt the grease ooze from my hair down my back.
Ten days I've found a home in the unswept floorboards by the door.
Ten days I've bathed in crumpled, ink infected papers.
Ten days I've drawn blood from dry lips no longer able to whistle.
Ten days I've doubted tomorrow.
Ten days I've...just...

january's the year
where mottled greyness
mingles in with a spitting torrent
of teawater
and shyly showing
slowing

a shadowed gold wisp
of cloudy hushedness
settles past broken branches
and scratched identity
mossed-over

past purple stones
upon the leaves of day
and afternoon's
gleaming water shimmer
though fathomed reaches falls
into icy teacup thoughts
through unswept orange light

in shortened shadows
down from a scudded moon
of frog dimples
and imperfect rays
as fire-cold steam
rises to a rapid slip-stream
and crish-crash clouds
hush and sigh:
diminished lightening shock

Shifting bruises in unswept dust
Summer whispers to trees untouched
A wind-swept melody
runs through sun-baked weeds
Amber roots seep steadily
Staining the driftless sky

Reluctant sadness
was hidden in the essence of my skin
I am dressed in black
for the walking mysterious, feaful,
recurring death I have become.
No one can see my tears
or feel my soul;
they just walk on my fractured heart
that has become a broken glass
unswept in my coffin of thoughts.
I can barely breathe
when all I inhale is toxic cosmic
my vision is blurred with lines
of obscurity and anxiety.
I am down to feeling sappy,
happiness is fake smiles in daylight
and wet pillow at night
fiction truths arouse in my dark room
as I depict a dark twisted fantasy.
My soul is darkened
as my spirit reminisced over my dark ages
when I was a soulless temple
with no cups running over me
no spiritual reflection,
no mental redemption
just a broken sculpture
who can barely breathe.

Advent at the Dollar Store

The *****, roachy desperation of
the unswept dollar store’s cellophane dreams
At Prices You’ll Love boxes of oilless
popcorn poppers deep-fat fryers massagers
to sweeten generational desperation
behind the counter cigarettes locked up
We Cash Work And Welfare Checks can’t afford
Lives collapsed so we console ourselves with
electric hair-curlers and boxes of chips
singing NFL coffee machines
shiny new bicycles to be stolen
before the end of January or
left out to rust in the February rain
dusty plastic holly shiny CD
players for the administration of
anaesthesia Jumbo Bargain Gift Wrap
for Your Happy Holiday Shopping Pleasure
No Shirt No Shoes No Service No, No, No
Hyphenated Industries of Chicago,
Tokyo, Seoul, and Taipei wishes us
a Merry Christmas

(Secret lovers) By meself.. secret devotions, titled emotion sweeps the dusted lands.. Secrets turned to openness,false lovers have strong demands. Fashion glasses and technology to hide the child inner face, the inner place is no longer in their hearts, yet their pocket books. Unswept crannies and nooks to unmask young romancers graves, where if you turn the page your conquest would not be seen..Two lovers one dream can they entrust all to eachother, sister and brother how thyselves you soon forgot.. The kettled *** boils to free those worldly slaves, where none behave. For god calls us all to an enlightening where the invitings for you and me not them..Forget your soo called friends for they make you stools of what was, all because fake words turned reality..For they believe as they please, their hearts are lusted, theyve spoiled their seed.. Open your eyes new age 60s generation, where **** and ******* are now your wicked god..You fashionistas you comfortable slobs...How lost you have become in fornications, where the world is your heaven, your divided nations are bound to fall sometime soon....

I am good with life, and life is good with me*

We have battled

shed blood, and puddles of tears
fill the footsteps of our struggle

We have loved deeply

melded spirits lifted above an unswept life
exposing the naked elegance of the universe

We have learned through reflection*

now in evening hours, battered and cut, toothless and bloodied,
looking out and laughing at conquered obstacles

wiser from experience, fear is now friend, not foe
love is embraced as the magic elixor, and learning continues

The next time you go running in circles daydreaming, take me with you.
Round and round and round and round
Until the sky clears, clouds disperse on the ocean,
Dancing.
On unswept autumn leaves.
On a hillside with the heavens open - soaking you to the skin.
A field of long grass in morning mist, of corn at sunset.
Flowers in your hair, linen round your shoulders, round your waist,
Freckles swimming in flushed cheeks, auburn hair
Whipping round your face. Smiling, laughing,
Round and round you race, chasing down your dreams,
Leaving normality behind. Up you soar
To dizzying heights,
Forgetting sleep on summer nights.

he was an unswept floor
she was unsolved rubik's cube

he taught her to write poetry
she taught him to love

she said that love was a butterfly
he'd never even been in a cocoon

he said that words were twelve story buildings
she was afraid of heights

he was a creaky old cabin
she was an unfinished jigsaw puzzle

but he had the missing piece, lost in the dust behind his rickety counters
and she was a fixer upper, looking for a renovation

they were red stripes with orange plaid
they were mismatched socks

both so different
both so lost

Suffice to say
that if you came back,
I would throw open my arms
and dance, love,
     because it's easier
     than falling prostrate
        on an unswept floor.

The door remains unlocked
in case you try
  to come back home
  but have forgotten your key.
     There's one beneath the mat:
     back left corner.
        Although it's possible
       that you've forgotten by now,
           so I sleep easier
           leaving it open.
If someone should enter,
I have nothing to steal.

Some things have changed:
  The cat has run away
       and I've learned
     to find strength
  in solitude.
But I still wear
     that blue dress
  that you always loved,
and I like to pretend
I can still make out your scent
     among the cotton fibers
   as they rub together
when I dance to a familiar song.
And I do still dance.

Once you return
we can re-lock the gate.
The neighborhood's not safe
    like it used to be.

I’ve been letting the weather be my liaison.
I can’t look at you,
That’s my reason.

Windy autumn guard-dogs my fears
Whistles and whips words
Right past your cold ears.

We harvest our regrets before the midnight frost.
They thicken with the air
to freeze the pieces that we lost.

Frozen long enough to forget the trouble.
Choreographed in time
Cut into double.

Her hardest hue remembers the rest.
Ice thaws and so do we.
Subside, and try to do what’s best.

A new spring-clean
forgives the light that we’ve missed.
Even beige walls gleam.

Cicadas and stillness, and summer rain
harmonize with the crackling fires
and night train.

Stronger I’ve called it
to let the tides of change
drown what’s around it

and let “the way things are” surround it
but there’s nothing cookie-cutter
about it.

Like dust left in a corner just to settle there
a dear friend left unswept
flavors stagnant air.

Take my heart
But leave my soul alone
Leave my slate unswept
Leave my mind unbiased
My innocence intact
I wear my heart on my sleeve to let those who wish
To see it
To soothe it
Or **** it as they choose
But my immortal soul
My unknown reputation
My fluxuating mentality
And my receding innocence
Are mine to form
Are mine to shift
Are mine to mold
They
Are
MINE
Leave them be
Take my heart instead

Behold boats ashore
Sailors tucking
Amidst tranquility
Unswept nooks prevail
Behold ant's mount
Throned treasurer
Amidst royal urge
Shattered crevices prevail
Behold crowned emperors
Blessed rancid troops
Amidst hordes of entities
Solidarity still prevails
Seems bleak yet blissful
Let bitter truths be sugary loopholes..

Sometimes the darkness is all I know.
A man sits in a chair in a black room,
television casting shadows and
violent fantasies onto the walls.
He stands
and moves slowly
as if he were submerged in the muddy water
of all the wrongs accrued.
He makes his way into the kitchen,
eventually,
and the pain shoots through his neck
— fool —
he stalls
and leans against the doorway.
The dishes remain undone
while parts of the broken dishwasher
are strewn across the counter.
Dirt from the unswept floor
sticks to his bare feet
as he shuffles to the fridge
again.

TLACAELEL
            My lord, your wives entreat you to carouse,
            And tend a show of juggling acrobats.

MOTECUHZOMA
            When work is done. Recall those sorcerers.               Exit Servant.
            Till concrete facts come in, abstractions must suffice.

                                        Enter a Servant.

SERVANT
            Your majesty, a humble fisherman
            Brings news pertaining to these prodigies.

MOTECUHZOMA
            Admit him. [Exit Servant.] Lord, when peons paint my way!

                      Enter the Fisherman and Servant. He trails his hand            
                  on the ground toward him, and kisses his ***** fingertips.

FISHERMAN
            O master, ruler, lord, great gentleman,
            If witless lips which kiss the unswept earth
            Be fit to thus accost an emperor,
            Regard me, if it please your majesty.

TLACAELEL
            Speak, boy. Sublime Motecuhzoma hears.

FISHERMAN
            I come from Hellwood, at your southern shores,
            Where this week past, upon a beetling bluff,
            I glimpsed a buoyant, surging reef of hills
            With twining towers carousing on the waves,
            That seemed a transport for intruding rarities:
            A fear which whisperings in the wind confirmed.

TLACAELEL
            **, **, **!
            Was this the Spirit speaking, or the spirits?
            Some extra mushrooms in your salad, sir?

FISHERMAN
            Discard me if I lie! Hail, lords! All hail!

TLACAELEL
            All hail and sleet and snow, and all things cold.
            And chill reception from this wintry prince,
            For I suspect you seek remuneration.

dark red hits me as i step inside
the smell, wet floor, and sun shining through the window
makes it appear in my mind
old shows, fluffy ears, full smiles
make it redder and redder
warm and smiley
red, red, red
dark, like blood
but warm
makes me feel as though i am supposed to be here
supposed to belong, even though i don't
as i bid one last goodbye
and step into the darkness
the yellow light, ripped carpet and chip mix
sets orange back
single muffins left in large ziploc bags
empty lunch boxes
and unswept floors, allows orange back into my head
fake wood
orange
old bananas
orange
uncut hair
orange
tv loud
orange
all is orange
and it digs from inside of me
ready to burst from within my soul
orange...

Oh Michael how my heart breaks for you. For I will never have you, and yet my heart is cracking from all the love I'm not living. And you are so oblivious. And you are so unobtainable and untouchable; because I am so broken. I'm not putting you through that. I would crush you with the sheer weight of me. You will never see all of these true pillars of myself, for I find it hurts to beat at brick walls with bare hands and tear skin before secrets. All of the space in my head is so grand, that even you, with all your space of your 5'9"(I'm guestimating here) figure could not begin to fill the empty space in my chest. Your smile can light everything in a room, but the unswept corners of my mind remain unlit. And your hands are the gentlest I've felt (perfect for a gentleman. you've always liked my puns), and yet they have yet to take away all of the hurt I place upon you. So it is for these reasons I will always love you, but cannot.
Yours forevermore,
Kristen Nicole White

Descending

into the storage box was like seeing

a Titanic

on the bottom of the sea

I

drop

layer

by

layer

through yellowed envelopes

overflowing

photos and negatives

which darken with age

and depth


Pressure rises

pipes begin to rattle and spray

threatening

the newspaper clippings

report cards, death announcements

the fragments of genetic strands

now spread about my feet

as though they'd fallen

from a great height


On the bottom sits the old house

amazingly uncrushed, porch still unswept

of maple leaves

and Mary, witness to another world

in button shoes

astride the steps like a masthead

smiling as she

maps    

my

bones

Im terrified of COPD
But still smoke ciggarettes like a well used chimney
Soot building up the ashes unswept
Making it to 60, probably not a safe bet.
Drinking at altitude to catch me a better buzz
Fly fish for escape from grey matter fuzz.
If everything i built came tumbling down id stand on the rubble, three feet taller and proud.
Im better at descruction self disgused as help
A parking garage where a coffee shop stood, this is progress I yell.
This is self induced stolkhome im over exposed. The apture is broken light is burning my bones.
So Paint a picture with my ashes gradients of grey
Reimagine what i am instead seeing the self hate,
And ill thank you. For all the help and the memories
But nothings really changed and ill burn the photographs and ask

Remember these?

One who has anger kept
Has never ever he leapt
Beyond boundary and wept
For his misfortune slept
Because of his wrong concept
As Ashwathama’s concept.
Nobody here is ever unwept;
So don’t always backswept
By certain emotions inept
Like Anger and have percept
Which lead you be a nympholept.
Be the person who has crept
For perfection – void of windswept –
Attained salvation and stepped
Into ever-increasing peace precept.
Those who avoided it adept
To tell that peace in mind unswept;
Anger, A Vice not Virtue except
For those who has clear concept.