♠ ♠ ♠

Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs…

Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,

Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly “ours the state”,

Hymns to Gods who choked on *****
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling – but ending comatose,

Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric,  semi-formal,

matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),

coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.

Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,

Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting –
all are blights upon our nation.

Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring  –  formulaic)
confounds –  yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.

Lists like this are perhaps  the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.

When it comes down to it
At the elemental level
Of this reality
There’s me and there’s you
The anti-me
Perfectly symmetrical, but anti-
Me
Linked so closely
Yet
Ill-fated to be
Upon collision
Destined for annihilation
Leaving only traces
Of the energy that bound us
From opposite sides of the charge
Of the mystery

Yet this, here, you and I, we
Matter
Separated by the fundamental differences
In our nature
Still, both, tethered
To the laws of physicality
The laws of motion that are woven
Into the fabric
Of this galaxy
This universe
That sees us
That sees you
Unversed in the ways of being part of someone’s world
A rare but precious sight
And me,
Beyond any particular probability
Afraid of what could be
Of the decimation that would ensue
Upon our union,
Opting out of the us, the me and you,
Instead to be
The anti
You

Mother pulled the beat to hell diluted blood red minivan containing my brother and I into the darkened parking lot. The car couldn't park fast enough as my brother and I tore the creaky side door open and leapt onto the awaiting pavement. We stepped from darkness into light as we hopped onto a curb to be greeted by the brilliance of neon lights erected atop a single story rectangular building squatting at the top of the rectangular lot like a full measure rest. Glass windows as whole walls teased the treasures that lay before my eyes window-shopping like madmen I felt the objects of my covetry leap from their white shelves into my sweaty youthful grasp. Mother breezed forward, stepping across the tier confidant and disengaged; the front door rang announcing our presence. Two bells sounded: ring ring. The Rhines were here. Like a pistol shot signifying the start of a race, my brother and I scampered and scattered and scuttled like wild animals, scouring the shelves that sat dispersed through the gleaming room consuming with our eyes words that told stories with pictures that danced and sang. Clusters of shelves huddled together under several flat signs hung by frail strings dangling from the ceiling displaying themes that told me where to avoid "Romance" and where to find my beloved "Science Fiction." I halted, realizing almost as if there were indentations within the itchy carpet that had alerted me to the place where I had cemented by ruddy feet countless times before. I took my roving eyes from the stalling ground to peer up into the shelves that loomed over me like giants, arching over my head like holy stones erected atop holy celebratory sites of yore. My fingers traced along the shelves trailing over the innumerate plastic spines that encased my bountiful riches; I mouthed the vibrant words imprinted like cattle on each of them and sang to myself stories that spawned off of each one before finding the paragon that most expertly weaved JR the Raconteur into its fabrications. I bore into its dazzling shell hungrily, gobbling up faces and places and names and dates I spun it over to its backside to read plots to read histories to read legacies to read memories I read and read and saw and saw my mind was never more alive with the astounding conception of limitless potentialities my night was just getting started and with my final selection--and mother's blessing--I would march home victoriously wielding my fortune, my medium for which the pictures in my mind would transpose and dance before me like luminous sprites on the brilliant splendor of a luminescent two dimensional stage that is the television screen. It was the weekend getaway I waited for with anticipation every Saturday; I was an unversed monk relishing in the ancient libraries of History.

A skull crushed.
Bone fragment splinters
On a page.
Bleeding ink
And breathing words.
The colossal weight
Of hopes and dreams
Upon reality
Unversed

What I wanted was a hug from her
At a time when I needed it most
Reassurance from some loving arms
Forever keeping me safe and close

What I got was an apparent attagirl
Your strength sure makes us proud
Just cover the bruises and move forward
Speaking of it is never allowed

What I wanted was for him not to judge
Assuming that it had to be my fault
Simply by going against the grain
And not utilizing the skills I was taught

What I got was his scrutiny and doubts of faith
Citing my deficiency had gotten in the way
A reminder that God truly does keep score
Testing those of us who often go astray

You see, family plays a pivotal role in persona
Either developing solid roots of generational ties
Or they are unversed in shaping, nurturing, and growth
Unwittingly becoming the enemy in disguise

What I need from my family is a listening ear
Being supportive through silence is sometimes right
I do realize opinions will want to be shared
However, please refrain from giving me unsolicited advice

What I need is to feel heard and not admonished
For speaking against those who are no longer around
Enough damage is being done all on my own
Because my admiration and love knows no bounds

What I need most importantly is extra patience
The vile devastation caused by "them" was immense
I am working hard to heal the scars left behind
So bear with me, the journey is long and intense

I’ve got this friend,
He’s sharp, terse, let’s-get-to-the-point-and-move-on.
His answers are always brief, but precise and structured.
Sometimes, I look at him and see a list of pros and cons;
Sometimes, I look at him and think that he’s not too far gone;
He’s not far gone enough.

He doesn’t understand,
What are the uses of over-spilling words.
When I dwell, maybe too far gone, on metaphors.
My mind drives me to thoughts of consensual wild turns;
My mind drives me to creations of sensorial patterns;
I’m far gone enough.

He never overextends,
What are the uses of prolonged lines and blurred feelings.
When I stay, maybe too long gone, to revive emotions.
Memories I don’t hold on to, I just appreciate their ways of fleeting;
Memories I don’t hold on to, I memorize their departures, leaving;
They’re long gone enough.

He can’t comprehend,
Why is it that I have so much to say about such little matters.
What I breathe, maybe two lights on, it sends me into paradoxical dreams.
When I dream about someone else with the same longings and flavors;
When I dream about how they could taste the compatibility of characters;
I keep two lights on, and that’s enough.

No, he doesn’t understand,
Because he doesn’t let his mind wander like I do.
He is focused on the things beneath his eyes and feet.
When he speaks, no stutter can be found, he leaves no questionable clues;
When he speaks, no confusion can be found, perfect interview;
He’s not far gone enough.

He doesn’t apprehend,
The nonrepresentational reasons I try to present to him.
But, he still takes a glimpse of his time to read my hands.
Sometimes, the clarity of his coherence inspires my hymns;
Sometimes, the confusion of his clarity advocates the rhymes I trim;
His unversed habits are far too long gone, they weren’t enough.

Now, he might not understand,
But I hope that one day he will.
Not too far gone;
Not too long gone;
Not two lights on;
Not far too long gone…
Just for him to comprehend one teaspoon sip from my overdose of excitement;
Just for him to be on the receiving end of one drop from the seas of my sentiments.
“I don’t want to write my emotions; I want to feel them.”

I grew up fast.
I went to meetings with my father,
begged my mother to stop shouting.

I would lay awake at night,
listening to them argue.
My unversed brain not understanding.

I grew up too fast.
Relentlessly hoping for happiness,
always trying to be better.

I wanted to make everyone happy
And in doing so,
I lost my own happiness.

In spite of our pride, he washed our feet.
Our stomachs pained; He led a feast.
Our mouths grew dry. He quenched all thirst.
Our minds unversed - he confided his trust.

We gave him betrayal when he gave us bread.
We turned our backs. He pursued us instead.
We chose rebellion. He allowed our will.
We schemed at night. His light shone, still.

While we chose darkness - at night, he prayed.
We sold him out. Unmoved, he stayed.
We chose silver coin. He chose the cross.
Judas brimmed with regret; Jesus' life was the cost.
So Judas hung himself.

We knew not then, the price Jesus paid.
Our sins, exposed, succumb to grace.
He would, soon, resurrect after three long days.
While Judas' corpse remained in the grave.

Do we choose for ourselves a noose of regret, sin, and death?
Or do we bind faith and love around our neck?
Do we relate more to this pre-Calvary Judas?
Or do we pursue relations with this Jesus who pursues us?
The night has come.

it doesn’t have a name
but it’s something with my brain
i can hear neon green
i can smell pale pink
or maybe it’s my soul, no science to it at all
logic just says that my senses like to mix
but they’re still unable to tell me why that when i cry, i feel the word ‘crisp’ in the corners of my eyes
and when i hurt, all i can say is i’m wearing the soul of a heavy t-shirt that’s been left in the rain, and doesn’t fit right
that’s how i describe a numb sort of pain
so they send me to doctors
they give me therapists and pills
i was given a mood stabilizer, it made my mind still
but not in the way that gives most peace, sprinkling pink in the shade of how you say ‘daisy’
they were stripping me of pigment
they weren’t stopping my pain, they were shutting off my soul
because when push comes to shove, they’re as dull as burnt up coal
and i say burnt up because just like my cup, i know that their souls had a start
they just chose to dedicate theirs to logic on charts
and for them that’s okay, i just don’t prefer eyes like paper plates grey
i love that i wake and can tell if the day is going to feel like lilac in my legs
and i feel sorry for those that have no way to know that mauve tickles their fingers and toes when their favorite song dances through their lungs in the sound of cumulus clouds
it’s not a disease, a disorder, or an artistic phase
ask logic and it’s website definition will say-
it’s when one sense stimulates another
but today is not the day i let professionals unwrite the only way that life feels bright
i will let my colors swirl and i will let my senses mingle
because till the day i die i will not give a single-
explanation of myself to them without knowing first-
that what i felt in my soul was to logic unversed

Here I sit in beneath gypsum sky
Forgetful in a pitiless tomb
Laying upon an artificial knoll
I made this myself

My splintered hands crawling towards the latch in obdurate gesture
With the dismal resolve of my skeletal percussion
I made this myself

The pulse in my frame an uncertain litany
Tried torn from the brief and the certain
Not shy from a skip or a leap
I pry this myself

Unversed expression interrupted in speech
I crept down the moss extending decrepit tendrils
The treaties of dawn or a query of nebulous ambition
I pry this myself

I asked for your name in pinhole obscura
I called on your intrusive pest of a credit
I trusted your fallible cacophony divination
Maybe you have given it your all

So you're the masked man
so obscured as to not be
'tellable  this neuron
so 10:30 but I don't
know what day

could i choose

sas if, is all, yes
the this or thats
an apostrophe away
from landing on the moon
but I'm ahead of myself aren't I

misshapen life unversed
taking the form of
I sense you know me
as if swollen
enough

gets you in
redness abates
too late