Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers----
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.

I am **** as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.

Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voces are changing. I am led through a beanfield.

Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.

Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthon, etherizing its children.

Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?

I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a ******,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.

Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,

Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins

Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?

I am exhausted, I am exhausted ----
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.

Knotting my kite
I'd travel across cities
To be with you in twilight
'Cause whenever I'm with you
My worries fade
An echo from far away
Without you

I wake up every night
With the thought of you beside me
But that never is true
I miss you
From daybreak to daybreak
Without you

I love you
Louder than starry skies
And Blurry midnights
I'll always be there
To help you through
The times of endless fights
Without you

Without you
My strings unravel
Untying, untying
Breathing gone tight
Untying, untying
In diming sight
I can't take flight
Without you

I promise I won't be
Without you tonight
Without you tonight

The summer I interned in New York, I fell in love with someone I'd only seen from a balcony window.

I'd fallen in love with strangers before, on buses and in lines, watching their shoulders straighten and their faces grimace in half-sunlight. I fell in love with these people the way you could fall in love with a poem, finding personality in the way that their eyes flicker nervously from left to right, tiny instances where their stanzas throw you into a daze. But this time was different. For once, I wished to know a stranger without the brim of my sunglasses, for once I felt something when I knew I'd never see him again.

His apartment was cluttered, bottles of water and the empty cans of energy drinks piled in a corner where a conscious person would have fit them in a bin. There were clothes on the floor, and although I knew his high rise box was laid out just as mine, he must have used the expected closet space for something else - his clothes were everywhere, crumpled in heaps on the floor that were too erratically placed to not have some sort of lingering system. Posters of people were taped to the wall, covering the matte eggshell white, edges falling occasionally to show signs that he wouldn’t always live there. I hoped that if he ever owned a home, that those staring portraits would be stapled or pasted thick to his walls, just because he would be the sort of person who wouldn’t change his mind about what he liked or what he wanted.

I would watch him from the same eggshell white room of mine, with nothing on the walls and not a scrap of anything on the floor. From my blow up mattress to my suitcase of clothes, kitchen stocked of single servings and a solitary set of dishware. I had no curtains and no carpets, no television or pictures of friends huddled in an unexpected embrace. For all anyone knew, I could have been squatting. I would look out at him from the window spanning the entire north facing wall, aware that if he ever looked out, if his eyes ever darted south, he would see me cross legged on the tiled marble floor, hovering over an overheated laptop and cardboard coffee.

I would get home at seven forty-five, shower in the New York water that tasted like dust and gin, and towel off, walking to the balcony. He, just like I, had a long, narrow balcony spanning about four feet on the right edge of his loft, and I would lean on the edge of the concrete slab, smelling the foul city air, taxi music floating from the lumpy yellow marsh below. That was when he would unlock his door suddenly, sometime between eight and eight-ten. He would step with his entire body and move into his crowded room and stand still for a moment, as if to collect himself; restrain from tearing faces off the walls and pummeling fabric into the floor. Sometimes he'd shut the door closed with a twitch of his foot, untying the half apron around his waist with one hand and pulling the red tie strapped flat onto a black dress shirt loose with the other. Once, he did all that in succession and proceeded to slide against the shut door until he hit the ground, falling into himself like a dropped jack's ladder and rubbing his fingers from his jawline to his eyes, up into his hair and back over.

But most of the time, he would just force off his shoes, never untying the laces, and move to the balcony just as I did. He would go out to the balcony too, but he would always keep going, moving to sit on the edge of the short wall, socked feet dangling over the city. His legs would be splayed wide, hands placed right in front of him, flat on the ledge. He would look down at the golden sea below, and when he was done with it, spit a flickering cigarette into the glittering bank.

He would also smoke when he woke up. He got up at six, like clockwork, and would stumble back out into the smogged pilot's seat in a plaid bathrobe, hazy faced and staring down. I don’t think he was ever late. He would get dressed slowly and fix himself in the mirror for a good half hour at the left of his room, until finally turning around just to watch the door for a moment. Sometimes I could swear that he watched for so long that he must have thought it would up and race away.

He slept with the lights on. He never came home late. He didn’t go out at night, never blundered in at two in the morning with a lithe model girl, long hair framing icicle eyes. On weekends he would sleep all day, rising every few hours to go back on the edge of his balcony and smoke. He would stare at the faces on his walls, the callouses on his palms, the murmur below; but never, ever at the empty loft across the way, dotted with a blue plastic bed and a speck of a person.

I left New York in September, on a red eye flight vastly cheaper than the rest. I put my toothbrush and toothpaste into the front pocket of my luggage, squeezed the air out of my mattress, and left. I hadn't left a trace in that home of mine, and it didn’t leave any on me either. When I left New York, I felt nothing. It was almost like I had never set foot in the city, forgetting to socialize with the locals the way someone could leave their hat at a bar.

I never knew if the man across the canyon hated coming home to a loft like I did. I wondered if it bothered him too, the lack of walls or rooms to compartmentalize the space. I wondered if he didn’t like to eat at home, if he felt sick when he watched the sunrise. I wondered if when he looked at the tidepooled city, if he also saw salvation. If he wondered every day from eight to eight-ten about what a dangly thing of a human would seem like to the loft across if it was spit from the edge of a narrow, four foot balcony.

My back is tight, knotted
I'm not entirely sure why
But I would trap a dozen
Eskimos for a massage, honestly

Enter the sad realization that, despite
Bruno's good intentions, he is unable to
Fulfill this request with paws
Oh, but that's alright

It's one of those half-hearted dreams
That drifts along in wispy bits
Every now and again
To whisper and invoke a peace
Within the cataclysm, but don't dare
Turn around, or it will be
Gone

Like the ghostly fingers untying me
One loop at a time because
They've lost the scissors

<>

“These are really the thoughts of all men, in all ages and lands,
they are not original with me, If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing, If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing, If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing.”

Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN

                                                      ­­      §§§

exactly, for if not to mystify and to demystify,
why do we write, opine large, secretly confessing,
what is know to all soto voice in the chamber of secrets
that lies between the brains four chambered ventricles,
that leads to a Grand Canal through which flow riddles,
all these thoughts, yours, mine, and overlapping crazy

solitary, they merge within the river of combination,
then known to all, colloquially named Ours, then too,
answers arrive in the scrivening, when each plain to see,
once the riddle posed, the answer is freed to exposure,
like veins blue to red, when oxygenated, our mysteries,
all colors, untied, there is but one color, reddened blood

these thoughts, become yours, more than mine, for
in the taking is the additive chemical that enhances,
making the distance closed to only closed, here I pause,
fearful, I hesitate, you do not understand, sunshine can
blind any man, sickness humble any body, we are alike
in commonality, more than different, we are all riddled

and next to nothing is everything, all worth knowing,
you, write my poetry, as I write of you with breathless
ease and comfort, for the thoughts of all men in all
ages and lands, are original to where our eyes espy
each other, where our lips kiss to cross, cross to kiss,
what is the what, this simplicity, the great difference

                                                    ­   §§§§§


Fri. May 15
Manhattan Island,
Isle of Man
10:26am

Is not comfort expressed
in what we look for everyday?
When our fingers move through fire
to untie the bonds from our wings
so we can become the form
of everything.  

When old thoughts are found on pages
containing imaginary stairs
do we find that our eyes lie to us
about worlds we will find there?
Or do we just like those new beginnings
where all is well and fair?

Each day I tell you that I am not the one
who in time will disappear.
Yes, inside I move eagerly towards trust
and forwards I dive full into the sky.
But here with you,
I find to be most dear.

Night and day we climb hills to see the sun
and all its possibilities.
Yet we never blink an eye or stare
at the dreams visible to us all.
Perhaps, we are afraid to open the door
to our own imagination’s call.

Untying
lighter I do feel
in my pocket there's nothing
empty from head to heel-

let others do their shouldering
layer upon layer to peel
ambitionless all I do is dreaming
in contention with none to deal.

Love poems rot,
The sensical knots.
I tie, overflowing, the dread.

The Pickwitkin Heavy,
The Verveberry Wedding.
Such shanks, still stuck in my head.

My memories loosen,
The Stopshift Tallcluesen,
Cut to myself dreaming in red.

Full throttle forward,
I'll sail ever toward,
My untying your knots from my bed.

when I walked in my stomach was screaming nerves,
my heart felt fluttery from my first of many iced black coffees.
I fixed my eyes fixed on the black hightops I stared at everyday during first period,
the peeling rubber toes pointing straight at me.

I looked up, meeting eyes with the spitting image of Kurt Cobain
who smirked at me curiously, then lifted a finger, and turned into the kitchen.
I busied myself untying my boots, even though they had zippers,
promising myself I wouldn’t loose my balance.

The high tops returned, followed by weathered leather moccasins,
who murmured through his teeth “hmmm, designing with materials girl” .
I grinned through my eyes, attempting not to make myself intimate with the floor so soon,
expertly faking breathy laugh to cover up how utterly freaked the unfamiliar title made me.

High tops grabbed my waist and twirled me into the kitchen,
offering a cigarette before disappearing through the screen door and leaving me
in a room filled with music that ran through my head like a brush
combing out the tangles from driving with my sunroof down.

I was surrounded by people with purple hair and overflowing hearts
who floated around the room singing and talking and dancing
while I wondered how I should fill the shoes of my new title
and what kind of shoes I should even be filling.

out of the corner of my eye, I saw high tops march back ;
he didn’t seem to float but parade, his ponytail not quite matching his muscle shirt arms.
He waltzed right up to moccasins and kissed him proper on the mouth
hands holding his jaw, eyes closed, and balanced on his toes.

Satisfied, he stormed back out through the screen
pulling a pack of blacks and a white lighter from his back pocket
(he would soon tell me he didn’t believe in luck,
even though it was in his pocket when he was arrested over a houseplant).

Moccasins just smiled, eyes rolling up into his brown hair
and with his hands out palms ceilingward in a silent offer, he locked his eyes on mine
Before I had a chance to overanalyze,
he decided for me.

Maintaing eye contact, we danced to the 22 year old boys screaming through the boom box
while I tried to integrate myself into the scene,
tried to float so effortlessly too,
like the cigarette smoke oozing in from the patio

he pulled me into a hug that resented gravity
effortlessly lifting all six feet of me off the ground,
pressing my cheek against the cutoff edge of his tie dye tank top,
my blonde hair tugging between his chest and mine

So with fuzzy lemonade on my lips
and bass players hands on my hips
I figured out I didn't need shoes
if i never touched the ground.

This pounding in my chest
It hurts my love
It hurts so much

Because my mind well it's decaying
And what used to help has stopped
Everything has stopped

So I need you
I need you to do me a favor

Take my heart
And unravel the veins
Like you're untying your shoelaces
Then kiss me tenderly
Let me close my eyes
And weave flowers in my hair
(daisies if you can)
And tip the mortician so she does a good job on me

Then when my body turns cold
And my lips are sealed with glue
Just know in my final moments
I was thinking of you

So wipe away your tears and get rid of that frown
Cause baby I'll be happiest when I'm in the ground

Standing in the August sun,
Your skin soaks up the light,
And saves it for November,
When clouds occlude the sky.

The gentle breeze softly coaxes
The folds of your paisley dress,
To gather up their courage
And ask your hair to dance.

Silent finches straining to hear,
Her soaring, piccolo laugh.
The waves cresting to see,
Her pure and radiant smile.

Like stars that come to speckle
The navy nighttime sky,
Each morning a brand new freckle
Appears below your eye.

Adorned with grace and charm,
With patience and joy complete,
Dare not to look away,
None other can compete.

Grumbling fingers,
Untying scarlet ribbons,
White banners to unfurl,
And forfeit to the beauty,
Of my gorgeous summer girl.

THE GOINGS ON OF THE GREAT BARNEY BROMWICH RANCH




  IN THE YEAR OF 1645, A 33 YEAR OLD MAN NAMED BARNEY BROMWICH

DECIDED HE NEEDED TO CREATE A GREAT HOLIDAY RESORT, WHERE THERE IS

A PADDOCK OF HORSES, SO THEY CAN RIDE ALL THROUGH THE COUNTRYSIDE

YOU SEE BARNEY WANTED THIS TO BE PERFECT, AND HE FIGURED THE ONLY WAY

TO MAKE IT PERFECT, BRING IT INTO AN AREA WHICH HAS A LOT OF GREAT WALKING

AND RIDING TRAILS, AND THERE IS A WONDERFUL RIVER, RUNNING, YEAH THIS IS A GREAT ESCAPE

YOU SEE THEY HAD AS LOT OF ROOMS AND RIGHT NEAR THE ENTRANCE, ON ONE SIDE THERE

IS THE LOUNGE AREA, WHERE PEOPLE SAT AND TALKED ABOUT THEIR DAY, AND ALSO

ON THE OTHER SIDE IS THE KITCHEN AND THE DINING ROOM, WHERE PEOPLE SAT TO EAT

AND EACH MEAL TIME, THERE WERE A LOT OF CHINS WAGGING  IN THAT ROOM

MIND YOU IN THE FIRST 10 YEARS, THERE WERE 45 DEATHS, AND BARNEY WAS ASTONISHED,

BECAUSE, PEOPLE RAN OFF ON BARNEY’S HORSES, AND NEVER CAME BACK, SOME WERE

FOUND DEAD WHILST OTHERS WERE JUST MISSING, BECAUSE THEY WERE LOST CAUSE THE

HORSE, TOOK THEM TOO FAR, BARNEY HAD A HARD TIME WITH THE SHERRIFF, SAYING, THAT

THIS MIGHT NOT BE A GREAT IDEA AFTER ALL, BARNEY DISAGREED AND SHOWED THE SHERRIFF

TO THE FRONT DOOR AND WENT TO HIS LOUNGE, WHERE HIS DEN IS IN THE FIRST DOOR AS HE ENTERS

THE LOUNGE, HE KNOWS IT’S BUDDHAS WILL MAKING PEOPLE DIE, TO END SUFFERING, FROM THESE HARD TIMNES

THERE IS NO MAIN REASON WHY PEOPLE DIE ON ADVENTURES THEY WANTED TO GO ON, NOBODY CAN

ANSWER THAT, NOT EVEN BARNEY, 30 OF THOSE 45 DEATHS, WERE LATER FOUND IN THE DREADED RIVER

WASHED UP ON SHORE, NO TECHNOLOGY TO SAVE THEM, BARNEY WANTED TO DRAIN THE RIVER, CAUSE TOO MANY

PEOPLE DIE FROM IT, BUT THE SHERRIFF AND THE MAYOR AND THE KING SAID, NOBODY IS TAKING THE WATER FROM MY LAKE

AND BARNEY WAS THROWN INTO THE LAKE, HE SURVIVED THAT, BUT HE STILL, FOUND IT HARD AS HIS CLOTHES, WERE

STOLEN, AND IN 1669, CONVICTS FROM ENGLAND CAME TO THIS ISLAND, AND WENT TO THE BARNEY BROMWICH RANCH

TO THREATEN TO BLOW UP THE RANCH, IF THEIR DEMANDS AREN’T MET, THESE CONVICTS ARE REALLY NASTY, THEY WILL

DO ANYTHING TO GET THEIR HANDS ON BARNEY’S LOOT.

SO THE CONVICTS, DECIDED TO LEAVE WITH BARNEY AS A HOSTAGE, AND 5 YEARS LATER, THEY BURNT BARNEY, AND HIS ASHES

WERE SCATTERED IN THE SEA, WHICH EXPLAINS MY FASCINATION FOR RUNNING RIVER WATER, THROUGH THE RAPIDS, BARNEY’

WAS REINCARNATED AS EDWARD TEACH, WHO IS BLACKBEARD THE PIRATE, AND WHEN EDWARD TEACH TURNED 14, AFTER HIS

FATHER THROUGH HIM OUT OF THE HOUSE, FOR BEING ABUSIVE, AND EDWARD STOLE A BOAT, IN THE NEARBY OCEAN, SO HE CAN

BE GUIDED BY THE TERRIBLE DEMONS TO DESTROY EARTH, EVEN THE BARNEY BROMWICH RANCH, HIS PREVIOUS LIFE PLACE

AND HE KIDNAPPED 13 CHILDREN, WHERE HE WILL MAKE THEM STAY IN THE RANCH READY TO BE BLOWN UP, THE KIDS GOT IN THE MIDDLE

SECTION OF THE RANCH, WHERE THE BOMB WILL BE, SO EDWARD AND THE KIDS TRAVELLED THROUGH RIVER TO RIVER TILL THEY FOUND

THE RIVER NEAR THE BARNEY BROMWICH RANCH, YOU SEE, EDWARD TEACH SAID HE WAS GOING ON A SPIRITUAL JOURNEY, YEAH HE WAS

HE WAS BLOWING UP THE BUILDING HIS PREVIOUS LIFE STARTED, YA KNOW IT COULD BE BECAUSE IT CAUSED TOO MANY DEATHS

YA KNOW HE IS CRONUS, AFTER ALL,, WHEN HE ARRIVED THERE, HE TIED EACH KID UP IN HIS BED, AND TWO KIDS WERE, HUCKLEBERRY FINN

AND TOM SAWYER, WHO WERE ROUGH AND TOUGH, AND HUCLEBERRY FINN AND TOM SAWYER, ESCAPED TO BE LOST FOREVER, SO THE

NEXT MORNING EDWARD TEACH SAID, TIED EVERYONE UP, AND SAID, I AM GOING TO BLOW THIS BUILDING UP TODAY, AND THEY HAD 5 HOURS,

AND IN THAT FIVE HOURS, PEOPLE WERE PANNICKING AND HUCKLEBERRY FINN AND TOM SAWYER CAME BACK AND BASHED EDWARD TEACH

AND STARTED UNTYING ALL THE PEOPLE, BUT, THE BUILDING WAS BLOWN UP, HUCKLEBERRY FINN AND TOM SWAYER, WERE BLOWN RIGHT OUT OF

THE RANCH AND INTO THE RIVER, ABOUT 23 DEATHS CAME FROM THAT, BUT HUCXLEBERRY FINN AND TOM SAWYER, AND ALSO, EDWARD TEACH, HEARD

BUDDHA’S VOICE SAYING, YOU MUST REINCARNATE, YOU MUST LEARN YOU ARE DESTROYING OUR FUTURE, OF MOTHER EARTH, AND EDWARD TEACH WENT INTO THE

STORE TO BUY A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY TO DROWN OUT BUDDHA’S VOICE, AND EDWARD TEACH SAYS, I WILL NEVER BELIEVE THIS STUPID RANCH IS MINE

AND THAT MADE BUDDHA AND ATHENA VERY MAD, SINCE THEN EDWARD TEACH CARRIED ON TAKING KIDS AND ADULTS FROM ALL CORNERS OF THE GLOBE

AND FOR THE FIRST 6 YEARS, EDWARD TEACH WAS TRYING TO **** HUCKLEBERRY FINN AND TOM SAWYER, BY CHASING THEM, TYING THEM UP

AND THESE 6 YEARS WERE TOUGH, BUT EDWARD MOVED ON, AS HE AT THE AGE OF 22, WAS KIDNAPPED AND BROUGHT ON BOARD A PIRATE SHIP,

WHERE HE GOT THE NAME BLACKBEARD THE PIRATE, AND TERRORISING PEOPLE ON THE CARRIBEAN COASTLINE, AND HUCKLEBERRY FINN AND TOM SAWYER

WERE FIGHTING TO STAY ON THE LAND

THE END

I’ve seen you dance
Your eyes caught my glance.
I’ve watched your mind turn
I still see your eyes burn.

Wildly they steam they shimmer.
I’ve felt your love through their glimmer.

They beam to me untying my woe
As if it was a soft silk bow.

Chapter IV
Gordian knot

Greek legend according to which the inhabitants of Phrygia, Anatolian region, in the current one needed to choose a king, so they consulted the oracle. The latter replied that the new sovereign would be the one who entered through the Eastern Gate, accompanied by a crow perched on his chariot. The one who fulfilled the conditions was Gordias, a farmer who had his cart and oxen for all his wealth. When he was elected monarch, he founded the city of Gordio and, in gratitude, offered the temple of Zeus his chariot, tying the spear and yoke with a knot whose ends were hidden inside, so complicated that no one could untie it. According to what was said then, whoever succeeded would conquer the East.
Alexander the Great, supported by Vernarth and a hand impregnated with globules from Eritrea, was on his way to conquer the Persian Empire, already united with both Bi steeds, Fire Hoof and Ox Head, in 333 BC. C. After crossing the Hellespont he transgressed the Sudpichi Stream like a weightless cloak of a Machi Begging to the Cosmos for Negechen for the rickety Rehue, prophesying to him on his hands dismembered of bravery, great assistance of 300 years of Nge -Nge Mapus souls in his furious nose that propelled him with anger; and which untied the Champollion knot with some sphinx uncovering Pandora's allegories from the Valleys of the Kings. Then he conquered Phrygia, where they faced the challenge of untying the diocesan knot. He solved the problem by cutting it with his sword, cutting his head between the eyes, one for each side ..., the South one was from Vernarth with his beautiful eyes saying "I always see light when I wake up and dawn at night to rub the back of my Alikanto always riding with Him in Lid Universal Patriotics”.  According to Curcio Rufo's narration:   "It is the same to cut it as to untie it." That night there was a storm of unburied lightning that symbolized, according to Alejandro, that Zeus and Joshua´s stone were with him Espanta cuculí, genuflecting his knee towards such a Period in his analogy, that he would go through the shadowy time zone of Time and his eroded geo intelligence Both exhorting the oracles appeared before the stormy voices saying: "We agree on the agreements with the solution and its knot avoiding more knots by the hands of empires without a solution."

It alludes to this knot, made of mane's manes killed in battle and sleeping maiden's hair for the hope of widowhood beyond Eden: "both meditates cutting and loosing." That is, it does not matter how it is done, the important thing is that it is achieved. Millions of arrows actually fall from their badly vibrated bows, before this motto that appeared on the arrows, with a single rope cut around it.

Currently the expression Gordian knot refers to a difficulty that cannot be solved, an obstacle that is difficult to overcome or a difficult solution or outcome, especially when this situation only supports creative or own solutions of lateral thinking. "To cut the Gordian knot" means to solve a problem sharply and unceremoniously; that is to say, that discovering the essence of the problem, we will be able to reveal all its implications.

Top Ten Oases:
Just half a day after arriving in Gaugamela, Etrestles from Kalavrita, who came from Messolonghi, joined them; He came with his Kanti Black Steed "Rain of Perennial Fog". They came from Crete where the ultra cosmic powers were transmuted through their noses. That is why Kanti, as he approached the pair Vernarth and Alexander the Great flew leaping and shooting blue fire down his foamy muzzle. His ears sparkled like a Laziko dance of the Mediterranean Dodecanese of the proto Sirtakis of the north wing of whispered compasses. Holy kisses and hugs are halted and uttered, and the Macedonian Saints bowed to Lord Etretles.

Etrestles says:
I come from Messolonghi; of the eighth cemetery and of the eighth day. I get stuck the Dionysian aroma of his intentions when untying the Gordian knot. I was welcomed by the Charioteer in his armored car, after sleeping a thousand years I was reborn next to my face of the current of the greater solar star. The search for that shouting made me celebrate the search for that shouting of you. The similiar hairy body that fell contracted on my wonderful fingers, delighting my humble tributes to the beetles that accompanied me to direct my sight to the sepulchral vaults near their bodie Incorrupt.
Which of all the columns erected is capable of opening all the columns built in the pavilion of these moles without shapes or caves of colors ..., only the vitalizing Aeolian pulmonary diaphragm of my reverie, is who I think would ... To all of us who are trapped in holy Hellenic soils, I bring you good news: Auriga supports me with her Blacksmiths from the twelve rivers of the Dodecanese, to loosen the barriers of You, Beloved Brother Vernarth, and of you, my Lord Alexander the Great. .  Our father Staktos and our mother Vitabión that her lineage and beautiful face have not been corrupted in a thousand years.   Since our ninth baptism in Ayia Lavra, where she saw me be buried for the ninth time. Whose archpriest with his holy oils made him slide down our partition, pretending to be a dance of blessed water for this task in Gaugamela. To all of you. Blood of my blood, I feel your sacred vertebral need speak from within!

Auriga says: Orion's *****; everlasting fuel, will give strength to their steeds, to rise above the great contest, to brandish my undulating Xiph swords, to unsolder the bars of their oppressed souls before spilling the blessed blood of a Hellenic Soldier as sweet syrup for the dying delirium of those who will see the boom of the fireflies decay, baptisms about past lives, deaths about future lives.

Etrestles says: My ****** Vernarth, by the underground caste conglomerate you will wake up! To you. Like me, one day I lay as I was to my crude death in my last life at the hands of a Spartan Soldier. You blood of my blood released my bars to determine my Hellenic situation!

As this happened, I put in an odalisque and blew a similiar flow of ***** into my ear from the numb Vernarth. The waves and waves of paradise caused amazement at the coming duel. Before the enemy more than 250 thousand infantry and cavalry, faked tanks, archers, Greek hoplites, Peltasts, elephants and sophisticated weapons of war. Beyond mercenaries of death sowing the last words of ardor in their hands of faith of triumph, before the Macedonian militants too inferior  to the hordes of Darius in account only of 47 thousand militiamen of Alexander the Great.

under edition, to be continued

two summers ago,
I found myself under a cabbage leaf
curled beneath the sun.
circled in slumber,
like there was never an end to anything.
then, I grew wings
and left my warmth for speed
sacrificing my calm breeze for cold storms
and windy nights.

on my flight home,
I sit through red lights and
look for tear tracks on the
faces of strangers
kissing their cheeks with my eyes
and pretending I can see the salt.
because there is hope left in
loss, my friends.
sometimes, you just have to let
the best things fall.

(how do you think storks still fly?)

so, I spend rush hour
untying the cloth diapers from my ankles
and when the highway pulls
my hills away from me,
I send them flying out the window
like dead birds
knowing
I will never see the seeds
fertilized through their bones
praying God thinks this
is a gesture of my good will.

let us all pray that God notices
our empty hands when we give up
the deepest now for an uncertain future.

Personally, I am praying for a cardboard-box
collection of home movies documenting
the growth of all the people I left,
of all the places thrown behind me
like stale cigarette smoke,
the homes I have broken with
my ever moving feet, my restless
guilty wings.

I will project the shaky film
all over my internals until my
gut is soaked with light
and the last shocked thought
of my quickly fading mind
will be of the things I could have seen,
the memories I would have made
if I had not gone away so much.

If I had just stayed.

but the wind is a vicious thing,
especially the updrafts
especially the hot breath under wings
which gradually convinced me
that my home was a cold dead thing
that there was no life left in my town
that the only world worth seeing was
far far away.

I have burned the eyes
of bluegrass Beethovens dying
slowly on a stage just to prove
that I never needed a quiet place.
that I was above all the country songs
and overalls and camouflage,
but we all need to hide sometimes.
even from ourselves.

Scientists estimate that you will fall in love seven times before you get married.
That 42% of these marriages will end in divorce.
That lesbians get their sexuality from their fathers inability to
Maintain a platonic relationship with a woman
Pram pushing into bedrooms whilst our mothers clean
With wine stained pinafores and nicotine laced lips.
They remove their motherhood camise
And hang it on the banister one day after school,
Her fatal attraction to the bottle and mine to the silk touch of a woman’s fabric being the perfect childhood cliché for a
chronic homosexual.

My mothers is still there like a scare crow to heterosexuality,
warning off all my seven deadly loves that could have come from man but now come from the caress of a woman’s cheek but still,
I am afraid of wearing my heart on my sleeve
In case I shrink it in the wash so I place it in my rib cage
Captive to the beat of my own heart grieving.

You are my second love and according to science
I am therefore chasing something that cannot be caught,
Something that has an expiry date before I can even co-create this thing called love  

So when I sip seduction from your navel,
When I unwrap you like the present at Christmas I never got,
Untying the ribbon as I undo your jeans,
Just know the only I do I will say is when you ask me if I think you look pretty.
Or if I want a brew when we are lying in bed puffing smoke rings
Around our impending sighs that float over us like rainclouds,
Drips of fate falling from these skies dampening my desire.

So forgive me if the only aisle I will see you up is the biscuit aisle, Pulling the fabric of my non-wedding dress around my slipping tights.
Forgive me if I trade in the sweat on your neck
For the salt side of a tequila
As sometimes I like to use the wool from over my eyes to knit me telescope so I can look at the stars between your thighs,
But what no one ever tells you is that when you wish upon a star,
That star has surely died.
  
Because I want to fall in and out of love 7 times.
Correction: I want to fall in and out of love with you 7 times.
I want to press you, not in a book, but against me.
Imprint the lines of your fingertips on my ******* like maps of Atlantis because I want to go places with you I never knew existed.
I want your nails engraved on my back like constellations of stars
So I can always find my way back to now. To then.
The present. The past. That very moment where Greenwich meantime got it wrong:
Those seconds were longer than any before,
And my life has been full of seconds.
Second child. Second best. Second chances. Second love.
The third the forth, the fifth the sixth but the 7th, the 7th time you tell me is no longer reserved for you.

You tell me the 7th time is for me to fall inexplicably, uncontrollably in love with myself.
So when I walk myself up a different kind of aisle I can do it with you by my side.
And I’ll stand there, lifting the veil from over my eyes and I will tell you, Darling, second love, science is colourblind.
It doesn’t see the colours of the rainbow like I do.

Because yes, I do.

Normally it'd be a promise that I cannot keep or let myself hold to,
but everything I swear just seems to bring me away from you.
How awkward too, getting close then coming unglued.
I feel like I'm running and you're untying my shoe.
I feel like I'm getting so tired I can hardly move.

So I'll wait here for you.

I've spent so many nights locked out of you,
I'd rather live with my lights knocked out by you.
Might as well, rolling my eyes to the back of my head
just looking for the words that I have not yet thought or said.
Oddly, you're not even my type, being the kind made to be chased,
But typical isn't what I want to find, and clearly I don't set the rules in this race.
What a day to forever remember and a night to never forget, but I'm just trying my best.

With untied shoes, fast-paced, reckless.
But I'll wait here for you.

You say,
"I'm sorry for dragging you
into my life"
and I want to laugh the loudest
laugh possible for my lungs to emit, my
chest heaving with the irony, the
actuality that I was not dragged in forcefully
I stepped in willingly
to a door already closing

-

I hope she loves you as well as
I never got the chance to
I hope she speaks about
how full her heart is and how
easy it is to be with you
I hope this half ton of weight that
is finally off my chest makes
its way on to yours
I hope it's not too much to carry but
then again I do

-

You say,
"I'm sorry, don't hate me"
but my dear,
don't you know that it is myself that
is always the target of disappointment?

-

I hope I'm washed out of your mouth by
the time you kiss hers
the sour, the whiskey, the passionate hatred,
the coming back again,
tonight the neighbors are having a party and
all I can think about is
us at 2 in the morning dancing
to the noise of each other

-

You say,
"I'm sorry, I've tried calling"
but we both know the lack of dial tone in your voice and
the absence of ring in mine says enough
I waited for an answer but
you hung up

-

I am certain that
I will spend the rest of my time in this city
searching for you in other people,
I am convinced that
I will need sleeping pills to forget
the music in your voice, your singing in my ears
has become nothing more than a repeated knocking

-

You say,
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry"
I say nothing but
in my head I say thank for
untying this knot we
got ourselves into
-

this is about a future that does not have you in it
one where I will pick at my food while you
pick at her shirt, pulling off clumps of cotton, laughing,
while I try to fill this empty stomach with anything but
sorrow and morosity

this is a poem about a song that isn't for me
she's a poet too,
how fitting

I'm not paying attention until the violent
Hiss jerks me awake t
The same way the
Violent crack of a gunshot of would.
Collision of liquid on hot metal
Pushes away any dreams lingering.
Fully aware now I reach for the door, Once a gleaming, vibrant white
Now covered with  
Dingy use.
I know the cold air is coming
But still it's another
Jolt to my system,
The chill of the air conspiring the
Brightness of the light,
Giggling together at my obvious Displeasure of them.
Light tickles my eyes into a
Squint like a feather tickles your
Nose into a sneeze.
Through the squint I can see the color of bark,  
Dark brown heart of trees
Secretly pumping blood of trees,
Sticky and sweet just like
Ours.
Just like the blood being
Pumped by the
Little heart behind the sound of giggles that has slowly snaked its way
Through the doors and
Around the walls to my ears.
Giggles and shuffling footsteps
Desperately trying to be silent, covert,
Unheard.  
But the desperate desire for silence Causes such excitement  in the mind of the
Boy that the
Distinct sound of
Shuffling slippers is produced.
The boys realization of the noise Makes him
Giggle at his own sneakiness,
Too young to realize the sound means He's failed,
Young enough to have fun
Regardless.
I think of those giggles as i
Scratch at the itchy
Knot in my neck, a sharp
Contrast to the softness of cotton that I Feel everywhere else
The itch reminds me to pay attention,
Not get lost in those giggles
My hand quickly moving from my neck to the white porcelain bed
Balancing early morning sweetness That's about to be
Devoured
Bed warm and heavy now.
I set it on what I noticed for the
First time is also a
Tree.
I've never noticed how vital trees
Are to my morning.
That the last thought I'll have thats just
mine for hours.
From this point on all thoughts will
Revolve around the boy and his father,
My son and my husband
They walk towards me now
Together
Husband helps with the knot at my Neck
Untying it so I can take off the
Itchy apron and get back to
Enjoying the softness of my
PJ'S 's, my  
Son jumps into the chair and reaches For the bed of pancakes on a
Wooden table, starts to pour
Sticky sweet blood of a maple tree,
Far more syrup then he needs.
His father opens the dingy white door,
Experiencing that bright light and
cold air just like I did as
He reaches for the milk
I realize I can see the white porcelain of the plate;
I need to make more pancakes
I pour more batter into the hot skillet
Somehow that hiss catches me off guard again
Just like a bullet would again  
I shake my head and look back at the Table, them.
I walk over and kiss both of them
Both tasting like milk and syrup,
smelling like sleepy sweetness and
Looking like my Saturday morning

~for she who will know~

the Mother of Muses came to me

on bended knee
come for to confess
a lie so grand it boggled
the heart

we bring you nothing more
than what you already possess,
the jewels of rose gold are emplaced
in your dual ventricles,
the veins stained with blue green sapphires to
feed the right and left hemispheres,
where the emerald heat and the yellow gold,
raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting,
the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse

to release the oxidizing words atmospheric
we are not needed, just proceeders,
*** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes.

all contained within,
this then, the art of the human heart,
where the external stains rest awaiting,
completing, complimenting, coming
to fruition in a reforged new birthing

see how the child looks with adoration,
perceiving the art of the mothers heart,
the spilling of time at the precise moment
when the exchange is as long as an eye wink
and as short as an entire lifetime

We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers,
just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words,
polished with hued syllables of tarnish,
experienced watchers discerning the exacting,
the interactive interactions of the cells,
the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners,
priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie
what deserves untying, which is an everlasting
poem that needs, laughing, an original act
of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say
The End

11:14pm
nyc
Sept. 18, 2019

Depression is Skipping meals because it's easier to be hungry than it is to get myself out of bed

Depression is Sitting on the floor and desperately trying to talk myself into putting socks on...
Because putting socks on would require wiggling up the bottom of my skinny jeans, putting the socks on my feet, and then carefully pulling the jeans back over my socks without messing them up (you know the feeling I'm talking about)

Depression is struggling with the socks because I know once that part is over, I'll have to put shoes on- the converse match my outfit.
But I've got a wide foot, and I can take converse off without untying them, but I HAVE to untie them to put them back on.
So I have to untie these shoes,
And the RETIE THEM. It's a lot. It feels like so much.
I know it shouldn't.
It's putting on shoes.

But wait, there's more!

Once the shoes are on, I've got to pack my book bag, Which first requires taking the stuff out.
Once the stuff is out, I have to put that stuff in its place.
then I've got to put more stuff in the bag,
I have to put the bag on
Walk out the door,
Eat.
Class.
Rehearsal.
Drive
Park
Walk to my building
Up the stairs
in the room.

Take the shoes off
Change,
Lay in bed

Know that I could've been in bed all day
Try to celebrate what little I did
Fail.

Toss and turn knowing I should've done more.
Fall asleep feeling alone, wondering why I'm never satisfied.

Wake up.
Meds.
Socks?...-
Realize it barely changes

Because

I'm sitting here typing this at 3:53 pm
When I should be
Putting.
My.
*******.
Socks.
On.

Life is beautiful,
Even in its ******* things.
The small bags of life-
The creases in the paper,
The untying bands of bracelet,
The crinkled edges of the dollar bill,
The thin dark gunk
Collected upon the penny,
The uneven water splashed upon
The bathroom sink,
The droplets upon the toothbrush,
The random foam of the fluoride rinse,
The fraying strands of gray and black
Athletic sock,
The clouded water
Lying below the ivory soap
In its dish-
These are unpleasant, yes,
But they remind us
That we are in this world,
That this is no false world
But a quite real one,
One which we can shape
Or help shape,
One that is worth living in,
Worth loving in,
A good world.

A credit to humanity,
I've lost my insanity.
Like feathers of a bird,
I'm filled with words.
Like ink inside a pen,
I'm flowing once again.
My mind finally free,
I've returned to being me.

This quote "It is better to end something and start another than to imprison yourself in hoping for the impossible"
It resonates with feelings buried deep in my heart
With longing rising upward as emotion plays its part
thoughts diving deeply into my stream of warm desire,
seeking a way to fit within and perhaps to conspire.
To finally put an end to one-sided fading love
to make space in your heart for the one you dream of
Flashes of insight make me think and start to wonder
Who turned your choice in love into this hurtful blunder
Every marriage has suspicions and so often need restarts
because of lack of understanding between untying hearts
Hearing someone say I love you in a deprecating way
only adds to being made to feel as though you have no say
You're more than simple backdrop scenery in their selfish play
blind to your beauty they're undeserving of your love anyway
Saying, breathing, praying, living the words "I love you"
When "love" means "you define me" then you are loved too
It won't help balance a relationship it's so sad but true
If one of you takes all the love, and none's returned to you.
Now I've put my heart into this, it was not done on a lark
Reigniting smoldering love needs a hot romantic spark
It can't be abandoned no matter what anyone may say
Consummated with co-creation it's in each one's DNA
Even if no one ever reads this still it's not a total waste
I deep soul searched composing it and I did not cut and paste.

The song played-- muffled, hesitant,
As if the tabletop jukebox
Seemed unsure of the tune’s suitability,
As out of place and time as ourselves,
It being Wednesday morning three A.M.
At the all-night diner on the Klondike Road
(The mills, going full-bore down the road in Montmorenci Falls
Making such a place viable, indeed necessary),
But we laughed loudly and nonchalantly
Between bites of nearly adequate cheeseburger,
Ostensibly unaware of all those inevitabilities
Which were tangible but unspoken, indeed unspeakable,
This being the last of the last summer not careworn,
Textbooks to be exchanged for neckties,
Plastic sandals swapped for sensible flats,
Other lives to take flight in other places,
A mere handful of evenings remaining
Before the clumsy process of untying
All that which had been loose ends from the beginning.

Would I go back?  In a sense, it does not matter.
There was always a laundry list of reasons
That it could not be, cannot be, will not be:
Irreparably meshed gears of relocations and reconciliations,
Gordian knots of logic and desire.
Still, in my dreams, I often run like a madman,
Chest burning as my sneakers slap the pavement in the darkness,
Back toward the diner, but it has been razed to the ground
(Likely the case, for all I know,
What with the mills silent and padlocked all these years)
And I paw madly, feverishly through the rubble
In search of some remains of those vinyl chanteuses of love songs,
Those epitaphs of our failures,
Those three-minute odes
To our compromised and conditional successes.

Silence is golden,
And I am breaking the barriers,
Silence in golden,
And I am coming with the chariots,
Silence is woven,
And I am untying the labyrinth,
Silence is golden
Call me a maverick,
Silence is broken
And I am bleeding the floor,
Silence is golden,
I am like a fly knocking the door,
Silence is olden
I am rewriting the history,
Silence is golden,
I am unfolding a mystery,
Silence is interwoven
The message is subliminal,
Silence is golden,
But keep your words minimal,
Silence is golden
Every night I turn a criminal,
Silence is golden,
Every verse is pivotal,
Silence is golden,
For those willing to prey,
Silence is golden,
Only for those who don't know what to say

In the midst of the excited chatter,
I almost miss her
quiet, lost,
She fades into the background;
The charged environment engulfs her.
This was home to me,
a world she does not understand.
Glinting brass instruments
shoved back into unassuming hard cases;
Black and white uniforms
untying and loosening;
The cackle of finished water bottles
tossed into waiting bins;
This is my home.
Dimly, I hear her call
my name, almost begging
I turn, and she is there.
And then I see a tear
slowly sliding down her face,
one special moment
of actual understanding.