Oppression Ownership Poem
1/26/2014

Why do we lead our hearts by the hand
into our lovers' volatile elements
quicksand mixed with fire
Why do we blame it on desire
say the heart wants what it wants,
but mine doesn't want this at all
Stop.

Alleviating your hearts of guilt and shame
because they're doing it perfectly.
to fall in love and be willing to take set backs
Stop.

Let's take a step back.
Give our hearts back their guilt and ownership
over the oppression of a heart beat you can control
but actually choose not to.
Stop.

Hear that?
It is the sound of a heart beating,
barely breathing
but
Stop.

Now we've fixed it
the problem we couldn't solve
but don't absolve
yourself of sin yet
We've got another oppression needing to be handed over
false ownership we play pretend.
rather than play in a playground with each other.
we blame another for our heart's oppression

but right now in this room
I am the only one holding a broom
trying to tell you that you can't sweep it out
out of your mind
or cover it up with doubt.

I'm not saying don't blame society for creating social constructs of love.
I'm not saying that we don't live in a world that is filled with a sickness
a sickness in some to say that like this we can't keep on living,
because
stop.

We can
and we have
and we cannot and have not
given up on each other, just on ourselves
with every breath we use to utter
that famous druther
that our hearts are victims.
needing to be fixed.
that the world wants to see us suffer
that we can't own our emotions they are far too mixed
with envy and rage and the deepest sorrow anyone could never know.
but I do know,
that
stop.

I do know
that stop

that
stop

stop.

I do know
no I don't.
I don't know but that's for you
to figure out
How to feel your heart's oppression
but don't keep it under ownership
instead let it out.
squeeze it out through your soul
before it gets to take its toll

you have too much to do on this planet
or even on mars, somewhere far up when you reach the stars
because you shine brighter than bullets baby.
when they get shot and hit something leaving a lasting impact.
you pierce through the hull of a steel ship
with that wicked bite of your lip
when your silver tongue speaks golden beauties.
to my wicker ears eager to be burned
with the splendid delight of your brilliant vocalizations
shouting, screaming, taming, keeping an eye opening message.

that you do not own your heart's oppression
and thus it does not own you neither.
because you lived it but it is not your life
like your heart
when you felt it
but did not control it
not because it was out of your control,
but because you chose to set it free,
and so too,
you should be,
rise above your society.

Skinny *** Poem
(8/11/2014)

Every kid wants to be something when they grow up.
They picture perfect future families with puppies and kittens,
but for me something was missing.
I just wanted to be happy.
Maybe my vision wasn't so great though,
because 'happy' looked like it had 6 letters to me, and spelled 'skinny.'

People used to throw bricks at my glass house.
Shouting that I’d be skinny enough to slip through cracks.
Cracks of life,
cracks of struggle and strife,
cracks of everything not nice.
They'd tease me and say I looked like I smoked crack,
when I'd lose weight,
I'd gain it all back,
in the form of their extra hate.

But I didn't feel skinny on the inside.
Although I had skinny bones and skinny skin,
brittle enough to break within.
Under the pain of that pang
as their bricks shattered my glass house.

Tell me, have you ever been afraid of words?
Thoughts can be terrifying but once turned to spoken word,
that in turn will turn to shouted word,
that in turn will turn to incoherent nonsense.
Which starts a sensation of ear drums ripping,
being sawed in half immediately,
no time spent ticking,
by shrill shrieks and violent vocalizations.

As if a sound wave could burst your body parts faster,
no, more efficiently than a barrage of fists.
Because it will know exactly where to strike,
in fact, it will sneak through your solid surface,
into every single crevice,
knowing where the best place to hurt is.

All it takes is a whisper strategically said in your ear,
'skinny.' 'skinny.'  'skinny.'
I could feel it float away from me,
carried off by the wind.
As if a sound wave could carry an army of statements,
piled up and armed with bayonets of every decibel level,
ready and willing to siege each individual joint crack and muscle ache,
being pushed under imposed stiffness.
It will ooze out your pores, as if your fat face was an instrument amplifier.

They thrived on the thrill listening to my shrill shriek.
As I stepped on shards from my shattered glass house,
And stared into the million fractures,
each a broken reflection of the million me’s I could be.
But none of them skinny... enough,
skinny for everybody else,
but never for me.

I’d envision each day, blood drops staining my glass carpet.
Each ounce of that luscious red,
each day left my body filled with an ounce less of dread.
An ounce less to fit into a size small shirt,
and 30 inch waist Skinny jean.
My body became my own private ****** machine.

Every kid wants to be something when they grow up.
I just wanted to be happy, I mean skinny.

I tonicize you.
Though you are sol and I am do,
I've modified my tonal path
to add weight to your presence:
I've written you this leading tone
in hope of upward resolution
and to avoid frustration.

Tonicize me,
for you are sol and lead to do.
Let us modulate through mutual friends;
let us flaunt our perfect consonance!
Let us cadence together
when the music finally ends.

It was September when you closed your eyes.

The trees were verdant and fat,
Their boughs abuzz with the fluttering of birds;
The warmth of pre-autumnal breezes, pale and whispering:
“Alive, alive,” as the breath in your lungs.

I rarely contemplated your absence
Not for lack of trying, I assure you
It’s just hard to miss something you never really had
Not altogether impossible, but difficult, nonetheless

I could not miss you as my tongue
Could miss the taste of sugar sweet;
As my hand
Could miss the hand of a lover fair;
As my mind
Could miss the dulcet caress of poetry
Poignant and soft;
But I could miss you still, blood of my blood
As your presence should grace my thoughts faintly
Like some spectral invader---
A sometimes patriarch beguiled.

I dreamed of you the day mother informed me
Your eyes had finally opened.

The trees had worn thin by the time of my visitation
I could see them rapping between your blinds,
Scratching the glass in a hallowed colloquial,
The language of arboreal appendages fading:
“Alive, alive,” but just barely.

It was October.

Your days and dreams and dalliances
Compartmentalized into a series of sterile routines:
The steady drip of morphine
Into your veins;
The turning of your body,
In bed,
At the passing of each half day;
The fluids vacuumed,
From the hole in your throat,
At a quarter till every hour.

Your body became a clock, defected
Feebly measured in the perfunctory gasp
Of your heart’s meticulous monitor

It was just a week shy of November, and you were waning.

Haunted by those seventy-one years,
Long-lived, painfully slow,
Taunting you from the fraying end,
Of an agonizingly short rope---
Seventy-one years, and all it took
For the months to drop, skittering away,
Was the blink of a bloodshot eye.

It was October, but it should have been September.

That ruddy, porous grin,
The bullfrog blues of your grandfather’s smile,
Now made far and few between
By your unabashed lassitude,
By your hesitance to meet the gaze of another,
By your impatience at the sound of voices,
Talking about you like you weren't there.

You were a big guy, I noticed
I never realized how much so until I saw you
Laid up and sprawled unnaturally upon a hospital bed
Little more than an invalid,
Unable to lift a finger, even to catch
The choking, viscous saliva that would dribble,
Infantile and unbidden down your chin;
Unable to speak.

The catatonia fooled you, unbeknownst,
It pried the words from your swollen mouth
With skeletal, sable fingers,
Leaving penitent ghosts in their wake
So that your lips were moving, muttering,
Pressed with the phantom vocalizations
Of what half-formed apologies needled their way into your mind;
Of what no sounds produced
You even tried to tell me you loved me---
Though the affections never quite came to fruition,
I felt your taciturn ruminations, regardless.

I suppose that was a start.
You were near an end.
But it was a start, nevertheless.

Inhabiting the mere space of a windowpane
Inside of yourself as you were,
Your eyes remained outgoing:
At times they contained boredom,
At others longing or contempt,
And within those murky depths, I swear I recognized
The unshakeable, abject face of terror.

So much change for so little provocation:
The leaves outside, they rustled;
Cars continued their coming and going on distant highways;
The soothing azure of the day dampened,
Corroded by the cold, unrelenting hand of a changing season;
Gradually, the sun rose and fell.

It rose and fell:
(Your chest) rose and fell.
(Your face) rose and fell.
(Our hearts) rose and fell.
It always stayed the same.

And in your vacant, unwavering gaze,
Always something different:
The deathly vestige of repentance,
Folded between the window’s shade;
The laughing, lilting silhouette,
Of days forever passing;
And you, unmoving,
In that hospital bed,
A sharp juxtaposition to your caretakers
And their mock celebration:
“Alive, alive!”

But those saintly visitations of shadow and climate
Rapping against the window,
Waltzing across the far wall of your antiseptic prison,
They bespoke celebrations of their own,
Callous facts you knew all too well:

“It’s October, Tom. Autumn is here.
And you shouldn’t be.”

From a room away
I thought Snoopy’s
high-pitched growls

and vocalizations
were the screams
of the Zuni

fetish doll
in Trilogy of Terror.
I was very excited.

But now it’s children
using polysyllabic
words

which just reminds me
of when I lived
in Park *****.

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How do I breathe?
When the heavy weight of responsibility chokes out the option of freedom
When the beat of life holds feet to pavement
Forcing the whimsical mind to rigor, and rhetoric.

How do I see?
When visions are bred to infect an open mind with social, and ethical nonsense
When the constrains of organized religion impose will but not unity
The bitter taste of opposition between brothers.

Why do I listen?
When words are fickle and meaningless
When their emotions are as fake as the smile they hide behind
The subliminal meanings behind the edited thoughts and vocalizations of man.

How do I speak?
When my words are interpreted falsly before understood
When words are many and ideas copy cat,
Distorted meaningless mash up of everyday mundane life

How do I be myself?
When the individual is as overrated as the society it lives in
When judgement comes first, and forgiveness never lasts
Existing to walk a path laid by another man

The road less traveled is the same road that harbors the footprints of millions
The road becoming a generalized idea for happiness
No longer molded to the steps, length, and size of a mans shoe
Where is the individual?

What constitutes personality?
When we are a product of our situations
And the people who direct them

How do I breathe?
When my lungs are owned from inside the womb.

We are more than

      What we etch in
       Collections of breath.


For even though every
     Sentence has a mortality
                                            Rate.


Every word that's repeated
           Gives it a breath of
                              New life.


Always let your vocalizations
      Be voiced to others so that
         They never expire.

But are a fresh breath
on others
            reflections.

The poem requires a mind
that finds meaning, even divination,
in language. Non-fiction,
up to academic standards, demands
evidence. Nothing less will do.
Most of us read fiction and this
needs a taste for action, motivation.

Lately, as have you, I have
thought about our war and its purpose,
motivation. But I have also closely
listened to the wood thrush, analyzed
its song like a tune by T.S. Monk
or J.S. Bach concerto. One belongs
to the loved ones who ostracize us, too.

A robin looks, hops, pecks, is never calm.
It is the flute-like tones, yes, but mostly
the patient, meditative clarity
of the thrush that enchants. One wants
to be that bird. How will we attain
calm clarity for the species **** sapiens?
Through the discipline of asking questions.

Mimics, woodpeckers, sing-songers, hawks,
chippers and trillers, whistlers, name-sayers,
loons, owls and a dove, high pitchers,
wood warblers and a word-warbling wren.
Unusual vocalizations.
What did the wood thrush sing
teaching its young thrush meanings?

Too much commotion is the commonest of mortals’ sins.
Peace has many faces,
the wood thrush in the canopy is one.
A word of praise here, an encouraging word there.
A wraith, a ghost against an impatient man,
verbose, unsure of the path, always longing.
Nothing satisfies like the thrush's song.

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—”
I took one look at the impenetrable obscurities
That the distance concealed,
And another at the unanswering stones,
That consented mutely to mark the way, if not lead;
At the bending flowers whose faces I could not read;
And heard the equivocal vocalizations
Of ambiguously colored birds, and I—
I walked from the path to sit beneath a nearby tree,
And began to wait.

~


fixated on a textured ceiling with dampened cheeks
failed vocalizations left her wanting

noises caught deep in the esophagus
gurgled and sputtered

the words evaded me with ease and grace

when at last I was able to focus on both breath and speech
she no longer wanted to know

the time for compassion and understanding had  
passed much as the darkest night
always presents dawn’s glory  to the waking birds

she knew the answer before I did
which is almost always the case with marriage

I just had to find my way to honest
again   /

shaking phone call over discombobulated voices,
astroprojecting vocalizations through times pace,
my body wants to time travel to you,
through the regret free policy
has generated some regret
when smoked lungs need removal
so the chained spirit
can be unbinded
navigating through carcingentic fogs,
housing warming warning waning ways
downloading the feeling
well a copy of them,
similar to the copy of god
glanced at in the trees,
similar to the copy of god
hanging around my dinar table,
and i can't find the file
in the cobwebs of facts
containing previous knowledge
literalizing textureal distructions
of dreaming an alternative
where we could still be friends

Will you give me some
     puddy Tat?

Make me mark my territory *******
    as I love to hear your meowing, purring
so, I hiss away all competition,

display, both my pleasure and anger
     flicking my tail tip
deposit my pheromones with my cheeks

our yowls together a treasure resolving
     throughout the neighborhood under
a full moon backlight, Your soft neck in my teeth

awaking the witches and innocence gone
     with vocalizations: starting low pitched rising coming
back down. We always land on our feet.

We may be feral, wild prodigiously mate
         I done let go of your neck,
you retract your claws, we go our ways,

high from the catnip(ing) nap then.
       The queen struts away.
I tom the night , a stray, puppy cat.

Misplaced communication is too often picked up and dismissed here
not meant for I or most others
Information decoded and let rot in time
Connections forged and severed
Vocalizations unanswered and ignored become static
and push my pen

a low grumble and a hard thud
as I walk into my abode
old man jimmy rolls on his back
greeting me after my time on the road—

his thick floppy jowls hang free
as he looks up me upside-down
a bit of the tail wagging ensues
and there is no way to maintain my frown –

more guttural vocalizations
followed by pressing all his weight against my legs
looking up into my face
wishing I had something to try and beg—

I give a few sharp pats on his head
and command him to get outta my face
more grumbles as he slowly walks to his station
even an old crotchety lab has the ability to learn his place –

My words are vocalizations of what is
cognitive reverberation upon my thoughts.
They are vapours of what was unintelligible
upon the surface, but sank to deeper reflections.

When they spilt on the white from inexistence
to my voice in simplistic vocalization of verse.
Then what collected in rendition collected forth.

Listen to my voice, now you are reading these
last vocal mentions not in yours but the perceiving
of what my voice resonates between. From thought
to paper welcome to my words in my echo of my voice.

As they headed for the roadstead of Skalá he was eclipsed just as he had been predestined by Wonthelimar. They had contravened with Apollo after coming from his winter appointments in Hyperborea, he came to meet his twin sister Artemis towards an olive tree that would be the directive of the battle of Patmia with the Zefian arrows and the Iberian Rings of Wonthelimar in the direction of the Zenit, with the first arrows of the string of the arch of predestination of the blessed land as Skalá will be, commanding and carrying the insignia of Hyperborea with Zefian and Vóreios violating the stormy East bow after addressing the sibylline oracles, which already had the date Synchronous of the Flegrean Fields, to locate the Codex Raedus n °VI of The Cumana sibyl that was found at elevation 97 of the wind tunnel when listening to these waves, very close to the sinkholes, in avidity of the Delphic Pythia with divinatory proselytes that ran through the folds of her garb, with pleats of a cerebral divinatory legion. His Cumana relativity was distended from his arrival at the Mausoleum, prophesying life for all in the passion of living together with the bodies abandoned by the souls of the Devotee, in the innocence of the soul that slips away daunted by not being desolate, between the Lilith parchment, and in the offerings of the Strigoi, for breaches of the troubling visions of the darkness of the cavern of Chauvet, by sacrificing competitive sensory-emotions of the malefic Votum of Lilith. Only one can exist as an inviolable part of chaste Wonthelimar tradition, groping the Xiphos with human sheepskins, tectonic offerings, and fringing the altitude 103 of the Strigoi wind tunnel. After writing the 9 books of the Synoptic of Rome and of King Tarquin who rejected it until the last three books that the Sybilla had burned were awarded, after having challenged the six that made up the compendium that Apollo had written for the approval of Rome.

After they distanced themselves from the contravention of Apollo and Artemis to the southern east-west magentism. They would carry their belongings with the "The Ibic Rings", which would be the transmigration towards the cardinals and points where the Megaron of Vernarth was going to be exactly after the battle, arguing that the Zefian phalanxes would be ordered in Sintropia and organic chaos in Patmos, where Pythagorean proportions would be made in essences of numbers that idly advanced in the temporal steps of Wonthelimar that mobile was made of religious Saetas and of the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar, to help him with the most insightful points of the Constellation of Capricornus. Zefian's tendency was to blatantly delight afterward to pull the bowstring, to spooky existence; presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate Áullos Kósmos Megarón! for calm courts imposed from a cosmos, who were directed by committing themselves to the will of a doubtful Vestal god advocating the association of the hospitable Canephores, as Roman bilocation Vestal Virgins, and quantum parapsychological of the feared inter-fable alive that rebels in the arrows that still They did not fall, not knowing of their whereabouts, waiting for Apollo to launch them, like plates or serial hosts that were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the hyperboric Duoverse contravened organic, vigorous and anti-curd even in the divine origin celestial as a *****-ovule parameter, rather in aeonical instances in the furnace of Hestia, running eternities into vast volumes of light-years. From the medrones of Wonthelimar's antler, regenerative sobs grow in the Ibic Rings that were native to the Nyons massifs, taking hold in the Seven Ibic Rings. Before reaching the Battle of Patmia.

Ibico 1: "The first one was from the initiation of Wonthelimar and brought purity, for all who needed him and were visiting in the dark, then he would find the light when he left the cave alive if he was accepted."

Ibico 2: ”He was guided by Vlad Strigoi in the priesthood center of his shelves with the Chiroptera, and others of the mercurial ambrosia for the purpose of energizing the Cinnabar of Tsambika. Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of the Antiphon Benedictus ”.

Ibico 3: "From the Eygues, the waters evaporated for healings of the tormented initiation processes of raising the four Zefian Arrows, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron."

Ibico 4: “This ring was from the antlers of Wonthelimar, here they wore the Oikos or threads of Gold from Orfí, for the Himatión and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a complement to Mycenae- Valdaine ”.

Ibico 5: "This piece of metal speaks of the fifth plasmatic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to elevate it to Vernarth's neurological and Duoversal hyper brain twinned with the Mashiach."

Ibico 6: "It is the sixth piece of crowns of Kafersesuh, bringing the pollinations of the Lepidoptera, for the central stage of the investiture under the gloom of Helleniká and Theoskepasti".

Ibico 7: “It is the grave voice of the Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus, together with the Lenten fast of all the hoarse voices, which inquire about the true phoneme and photon of divine mass light, to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will rise in synchrony through the final growth medron, up to the millimeter shoulder of the assembly of the square meters, which will illustrate the Acrotera del Megaron "

Once the Rings were instituted, the Arrows after the Codex VI of the Sybilla Cumea, everything would turn green in the direct plane from Grikos to Skalá, causing splendor in the Emotional Subclavian Kabbalah; bringing on himself his own external atmosphere of Zohar Light attracted by Saint John the Apostle, expressing with this phenomenon the scene of physical mysticism, to induce the archetype of great volume of the Kabbalah pipeline between both points, mobilizing between these two nodes the Vital homeostatic of light and divine blood that would be transported by the dualistic subclavian that could be seen in the floods or roads that led to the place of confrontation, displaying the Greco-Judaic vital of language that poured through these fistulas of light to overcome the red blood cell bloom; That would be portions of the presence of divine blood of the Mashiach, where every arrow has its focus as is the Torah in fulfillment of a sky adorned that was positioned on the figure that was sniffed by the essence of a skeleton exempt from a Subclavian, that only with it and the emotion of Saint John could be exclusively Kabbalistic only transported by the Zohar light that Vernarth and his phalanxes offered in anticipation of their Misná, and not of the nocturnal powers that exiled the luminous circles that left them circumscribed by the full moon that it would unite him around its intensity, and that it would degrade into the Platonic theocentric. The works of projecting indeterminate successism the uncontrolled defragmentation by the higher orders where their unity could be reiterated in the mystical memory, over the divine irresolution of right and inconclusiveness of the deductions of the full moon, therefore the Subclavia of Kabbalah will exonerate these ambiguous emanations, to starting from the ordering of the ibic rings, procreating in them the order that is not replaced or reversed.

Ibic 1: "The first one was from the initiation of Wonthelimar and brought purity, for all who needed him and were visiting in the dark, then he would find the light when he left the cave alive if he was accepted." It indicated the Kabbalah of Saint John of everything known and remained stable given its transcendent radiance with the cosmic energy that was usual, preserving, and at the same time externalizing the absolute presence, purity towards the stage of absolute admiration, while stillness and silence he was fascinated by the creatures of the expectation of an extra personal Vernarth after the eschatological of his soul.

Ibic 2: ”He was guided by Vlad Strigoi in the priesthood center of his shelves with the Chiroptera, and others of the mercurial ambrosia for the purpose of energizing the Cinnabar of Tsambika. Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of the Antiphon Benedictus ”. It was consigned to the superior spheres of the eons and ignorance of the destiny of the lamas of those who would go to collate in this affront of Patmia, relating Gnostic tendencies with the epigraphy and materiality of the Cinnabar as the elemental computer of the Vas Auric of Limassol and the canticles. from the esoteric melisma of Vlad Strigoi.

Ibic 3: "From the Eygues, the water evaporated for the healings of the tormented initiation processes of raising the four Zefian arrows, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron." All rivers flow through the Kabbalistic of the Subclavian, for she upholds the correct uses of the pastoral sermon that would reach the venerated elevation space of the Megaron with her homiletics.

Ibic 4: “This ring was from the antlers of Wonthelimar, here they wore the Oikos or threads of Gold from Orfí, for the Himatión and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a complement to Mycenae- Valdaine ”. The centrifugal speed of the rings yearned for other geographical heights of Valdaine, near Chauvet with the epigraph saying that “all vibrations lead to the Onyon massif, in the mystique of beings that will always lift the trees of the growth variants, such as those that are the medron in the antlers of Wonthelimar.

Ibic 5: "This piece of metal speaks of the fifth plasmatic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to elevate it to Vernarth's neurological and Duoversal hyper brain twinned with the Mashiach." Universes can be divided into numbers or letters all interacting alphanumeric. The multidimensional Duoverse stipulates that Vernarthian submitology flatters the Kabbalah that clings to the stria of St. John the Apostle "Duoverse" The new universe of Vernarth being apologetic, Jewish and also Hellenistic, therefore skews from our creator and all creative thought theological in all its creation. Divine providence and grace are and will be their hierarchies to have a universal kinship with the Zig Zag Universe that migrated to Duoverso Zig Zag, for the providence of divine powers, who are in this range mercifully allowing and forbidding the splendid power of royalty of manifested Christian meditation.

Ibic 6: "It is the sixth piece of crowns of Kafersesuh, bringing the pollinations of the Lepidoptera, for the central stage of the investiture under the gloom of Helleniká and Theoskepasti". The sixth medron or somatotropic nutrient, speaks of a vegetality converted into the tree of life consecutively as the cartilage of the antlers, which was Kabbalah of the random pollinations, but messianic centered in the radius of the islands of Kímolos. The female figure of the twilights was saturated with pollinations of Lepidoptera that looked like their angelic cloudscape.

Ibic 7: “It is the grave voice of the Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus, together with the Lenten fast of all the aphonic lexicologies, which inquire about the true phoneme and photon of divine mass light, to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will rise according to the final medron of somatotrophic growth, up to the millimeter shoulder of the assembly of the square meters that will illustrate the Acrotera del Megaron ”the euphony of the preservation and transformation of Cinnabar will contract the vocalizations or Antiphons in hexameters, as Voices of restructured Sybilas materializing from the six books cremated by Sybilla Cumea, trying to reissue them in the circle of contemplation.

Lose your scientific , orderly mind an learn to fly ..
Rename anything you like , re-tool the world to thy
satisfaction .. Sing colors , draw vocalizations and write
poetry based on your first hand accounts of 1905 ..

My tears never decay into another form of empathy,
instead they fossilize into lacerations sketching
upon my parchment and my regret is unspoken.

Words were meant to sooth upon reflections but mine
are putrefied, lingering in stagnation upon where they
feel on the floor, outlines of deceased vocalizations hushed.

All feelings now feel uninhabited like an empty room
with but a window looking out to nothing. I'm realizing
that I was never really here only in musing that is fading.

“There’s nothing you wish for that won’t be yours
        if you stay alive.”  --Beowulf

Winter has arrived and the wind cuts through
the parking lot under the el in the Bronx,
streets stretch out in their directions, events
in their mere chronology have no relation.
Old friends face certain dissolution
with perplexity, comity and humor,
look with gay eyes on their future
in a forest or a city, someplace.
Snow outside, despair inside. Homelessness.
Raccoon tracks cross the soul. Prostatectomy.
Winter mix. Don’t relax. The difficult
dangerous season when weak creatures die
and the strong barely survive. Leave me alone
with autumn, an autumn like last autumn.
Don’t stand around my bed, I won’t be in it.

Jack’s in jail. His panic attacks are like
an AI on automatic pilot
who wants to live, just like the rest of us
under the eye of eternity or
running in new snow, loving that feeling.
Some people go dancing in fishnet stockings.
Effortless mastery, success without practice.
Fractals without chemistry. Do the small
things first, clean the house and bless the guests.
Sick of Krshna, sick of salad, sick of self.
Sick of meditation. As I lay dying
the full moon’s rising. My existence
is indivisible from the wry Creator’s.
I like the old Rhymer, his smile resplendent.
It’s Death, not the Jewish king, in your rose garden.

I ply my arts all day alone. All I have
is all I do not know. The past isn’t dead
it never even happened. Learn the changes
then forget them. Keep on learning and re-
learning them. Down the steep and icy trail
through hail and storm. Take into eternity
my hail and farewell. We’re living in the
Anthropocene. Indestructible garbage.
Bulldozed landscape. Big Brother, dead father.
***** of the tiger.  Getting thought to twitch
the prosthetic. Mischievous, malevolent,
militant thistles. Or just plain polite
Americans, afraid to get shot.
Bump bump bump down the igneous rocks of life,
take the boulders two at a time down.

Old-timers bagging groceries, low social
security for the security guard.
Situps, pushups, fix yr brakes, fix yr leaks.
I know what’s gonna happen before it happens.
Polar bear mugs wino exhausted by that earlier,
irritating, constant need to survive.
Surrounded by history, neither seen nor heard
from again. And a deaf mute in a pear tree.
If it’s human, nothing’s wasted. Pasted
into a big wet kiss or posted
on the internet. Stolen from the pockets
of the dead, burgled from living memory.
Most art is dispensable, ***** and *****,
vaginal lubrication, prostate enlargement,
the unknown, anonymous man named me.

I’ve been wrong before and I may be wrong now.
Things fall apart. Or maybe not. Maybe
it’ll all hold together 10,000 years more
after all we’ve observed a galaxy born
13 billion years ago, a faint red blur,
and microbe partnerships on the ocean floor.
The good life’s all around us smiling
girls on bicycles, dogs on leashes,
equality is mandatory.
Sweet solitude and privacy, quiet
sitting spot, write a little, read a lot.
Tip generously, gratuitously,
like good luck. Haircut, cabride, dinnerout,
to eat a continent is not so strange.
Does Jack even exist? I doubt it but

the class of transformations that could happen
spontaneously in the absence of knowledge
is negligibly small compared with the class
that could be effected artificially by
intelligent beings, aliens in the bleachers.
Japanese knotweed also known as kudzu.
The Chinese navy also known as t’ai chi.
Water shortages. War and wildfire.
What you’re scared of and what you love. Contracts
and deliverables. Hate speech, fate.
Humor or ardor, I can’t decide.
Dad’s steel-toed boots. Leaves, flowers, fruits.
Things are said, mistakes are made. I’m driving
pontificating on geopolitics
when an archangel flies into the windshield!

Lost my timepiece, lost my metronome.
Well, music is a manufactured crisis.
Caloric restrictions, control your addictions,
desire to be famous, propensity for violence.
The profusion of species contents me.
Wilderness comes back strong as cactuses,
chestnuts, coral. No more missile crises.
Eat less, an empty belly’s holy.
Horselum, bridelum, ridelum,
into the fray! World order—not my problem.
Only meditation can save your soul,
should there be such a thing. There are actual people
half woman half man running past me
and dream people in movies half language
half light. Or they lie under polished stones
embossed with actual photos of themselves.

Learning who you actually are is difficult
as sitting still 10 minutes w/o a thought or want.
To get lucky you gotta be careful first.
Knowledge of death without dying =
early retirement. Counting your blessings,
a healthy activity. No solution
to death’s finality, and such a blessing
awaits me, too. If you’re suicidal
they call the cops. The audience is full of glee.
Watres pypyng hoot. Chinese characters. Quantum guesses.
Most failures, and most successes, are in our future.
I embrace wild roots and run through streets
with arm around my girl. Inmate #427443.
Poetry and surgery—they go together
like a horse and buggy. Cheerful as a flock
of chickadees. Looking for a lost horse,
I hear Appalachian Spring!

Look one way, from another come the heart’s
missed beats. Much better to look slowly,
labor for the success and happiness
of others, even the old and frayed.
Look it up. There is no death, just perfect rest.
Look more closely. It will be gone in a few days!
First entertain, then enlighten if you can.
Is it stress? Yes. Tired of death? It’s what it is.
Let’s play sports, have ***, live a wonderful life,
give generously. If you see a hawk on a bough
at field’s edge beyond the corner you should have
turned, maybe it’s a sign to go on, alone.
No body, no soul. No mirror, no black hole.
No mission, no hero. No applause, no noise.
No experience, no nonsense. If words can
be arranged in any order can they be
of any use in foreign policy?

Disappointed, didn’t get what was wanted.
Forget me not, is that all I want?
A catbird account, a mockingbird account
and an owl account. Then, and only then,
nothing’s missing and nothing’s left over.
Jail or zen mountain monastery
hiphop artist hypnotist bebop trumpeter
unknown soldier black bear bad bladder
ice cold beer poker player wry Creator.
If not one way, then another. Otherwise
give me your 5-10 best hiphop artists. Can
they take the sting out of life like bluegrass, jazz?
Mimics, woodpeckers, sing-songers, hawks,
chippers and trillers, whistlers, name-sayers,
thrushes, owls and a dove, high pitchers,
wood warblers and a word-warbling wren.
Unusual vocalizations.

We have hope that everyone alive is
essential, consequential. The commonplace
and everyday is sanctified. Nothing else
special need be done but stay alive.
Don’t lose passport, don’t be late to airport.
Insects are pollinators, insects are us.
Romance without finance is a nuisance.
November, however, is sweet, sunshine
through bare trees, dry brown leaves companionably
visiting among the dead. When middle school lets out
at the periapsis of Earth’s orbit
that’s the face of joy. Each leaf out and Jack
in his boxers. If you run over a chipmunk,
a groundhog or a skunk, say a short prayer.
One can’t help being here, queynt.

I live in a state so blue there’s nothing I can do
to change man’s trajectory and if I could
what angle of re-entry or ascent
would I choose? Grace is what we get
no matter what. Come the tired end of day
Jack thinks why not waste time watching tv
but the next day he has a hangover
like Ernest Hemingway or **** Jagger.
Your soul is immortal. It exists outside
of time. It has no beginning and no end.
If you cannot accept this, forget it all,
do not even begin. It all goes into
the same church service and comes out babbling
for God to appear. The shorter the service
the better, less passion, more resistance. Joy
may outlast the holocaust. Get it while it lasts.

The material world is reality, my friend.
Reality is not always what we’re after.
I like Jack’s confidence, that working the problem
will result in better outcomes than guessing.
Confidence is the feeling you have
before you understand the situation.
A hawk hunting or just floating waiting
for inspiration, a heron rowing east,
an owl’s quiet hoot even simpler than
the pentatonic bamboo flute.
What’s not to like? Ice cream, yogurt, profit, tofu.
Mosquitoes this summer are relentless,
heat and humidity, merciless.
Ice will ice those little *******.
Killing time before it kills me. Ha ha.

Whatever forever. Poetry is plumbing
your unhappiness habit until you reach joy.
As I think of things to do I do them.
Thing by thing I get things done. I think
that’s how my father and his father did things, too.
“Away up high in the Sierry Petes
where the yeller pines grow tall, Ol’ Sandy Bob
an’ Buster Jig had a rodeer camp last fall.”
It is the older man’s responsibility
to protect, not as a hard-charging archangel,
Jack’s joints couldn’t stand it, or hero
but as a rational participant,
cool, caring and completely zeroed in.
Culture or religion is an answer to
the problem of what to do and why do it
when your cancer makes poetry from
losing the argument with yourself.

To die spiritually in the hot sun
and the body go on climbing, haunted,
hunted, nature’s intelligent partner.
People are the element I live in, or else.
Call for the elevator. Wait for the el.
Snow on the Sonoran, each saguaro
wearing a white yarmulke. Creosote
smell as snow melts, ocotillo buds out.
Man needs help from every creature born.
The blackbird contains death but it’s bigger than death.
It’s more like God but an ironical god.
Smaller and funnier than God, impossible
to regard directly, gotta look sideways,
aim binoculars left, right, up, down—
missing every time. There’s nothing you wish for
that won’t be yours if you stay alive.

Dune not be bashful, grumpy, leery
or any other contemporary dwarf man
regarding countless less well known dwarves
(that never got a chance
to play a bit part) such as wham
bam
thank you ma'am
linkedin with emergence
of Internet and poetry slam
opportunities availed by Nast tee Uncle Sam,

which characters (albeit fiction),
nevertheless, helped spawn a quiet yet free
global, radically riotous,
totally tubular snow white transformation
affecting a societal and human specie
but also augmented, credited,
engineered, et cetera contributing
to paradigm seismic shift that garnered tree
mend us plentifully birthed schema,
impacted and transformed how wii

(more particularly many gifted minds)
bridged geographical distance
(encompassing all four corners
of the Earth) to enhance
what came to be called the world wide web,
courtesy Sir Tim Berners-Lee
hewing digital strong armed lance
information super high, "Cyber Revolution,"
etc allowing one to prance

and essentially transcend reality to brook
cyber sea ghosting, fostering, embezzling crook
commanding, commingling, communicating, hook
line and sinker, et cetera courtesy nerdy kook
with an excellent access and outlook
reaching the most distant cranny and nook.

This (bit a bing chitty chitty bang bang)
democratization of information,
manifestation toward
exponentially faster processing capacities
(latest technological trend heralds
Quantum computing – promising
to transform the world into
twenty first century space race)
more powerful than pen or sword
(based on principles of Moore’s Law), reward
witnessing atheists to thank good lord

electronically solidifying
binary unification swiftly tail lord
engendering greater dependence and reliance  
figuratively shrinking the drinking gourd
allowing far flung aliens, family,
friends, et cetera to ford
great distances via sophisticated electronics
courtesy of super smart motherboard
enabling ever more complex
futuristic electronic contrivances,
the generic **** Sapien gibbon could afford.

Analogous to Medieval Age
this quiet ***** riot creation
(ushering on thee global stage
equally as controversial when
la cage aux folles aired)
vis a vis Internet did un cage
actual overcoming physical barriers
ushered Hallmark gauge
marked by Computer/Digital Age odyssey),

especially sharing pixelated page
at light speed, where the ordinary individual
could keep in contact )
albeit with every now and again
a bit torrent rage
and in some instances tapping
smarts of a preschooler considered a sage,
which kindergarten lad/lass
commandeered a handsome wage

whereat the parental figure
did gently cajole, wheedle or beg
their wealthy progeny promising
son/ daughter of a healthy nest egg
framing almighty dollar
as theatrical masterpiece jpeg
storing money in Swiss
bank accounts or hollow leg
perhaps christened Meg
or if an avid weekly reader
of Moby ****'s Queequeg,

who felt incorporeal storied power
of Herman Melville as zen unseen aid
instructing hypothetical rich kid
to drop out of school
before his/her first grade
cuz of all the money he/she made,
which affected modus operandi rendered obsolete
child worker laws  
and no sweat of brow getting paid
people used bitcoin (protocol
which implements a highly available,
public, and decentralized ledger)
additionally making purchases
with scant keystrokes to complete a trade.

As with any major dramatically novel scheme  
light bulb idea scribbled on napkin
or other scrap of paper
via modeling brainstorm viz cutting up cheese
or spraying whipped cream
originating as a flash in the pan
aha eureka moment, or dream
as rough blueprint subsequently
underwent beta testing,
before declaring pc innovation supreme,
whereby outstanding persons
in the tech industry
clamored to join Kidde team.

Whether seventh day add vent
hissed or other religious creed
powerful binary processing
rooted and impacted particularly
after tooth house sand
years after common era (re: anno domini)
earth shaking incarnation indeed
and ramifications in all walks
and talks of life sought expert need.

Coven chanting children murmured Luddites be ******!

Thus spake Zarathustra
(cue the opening scene
from Planet of the Apes)
upon witnessing as if king or queen
(in reality father or mother)
didst get immediately
dethroned thus, increasing mean
average positive netzero
effects on society, especially lean
microchip i.e. integrated circuitry
miniaturization "green"
technology (and eventual
attendant affordable price),
viz said trappings
upon global market
invited absolute zero dust, a must clean
as a whistle work space,
and manufacturers laboratory be microbe free
hermetically sealed vacuumed "clean.”

Countless portable computers
unbeknownst soon invited
florid colorful expletives
upon heads that did wantonly hack
impromptu malfeasance called cyber crime,
especially as majority proportion of population
didst purchase these dime a dozen,
countless electronically sophisticated contrivances
every Tom, **** and Harry

snapped up these smart machines
excitedly keyed away
ofttimes indifferent to gunk
on unwashed hands
plus bits of food particles
eventually caking hardware with grime
subsequently necessitating technician
charging gobs of moolah
sans to unstitch in time.

Gooey glop getting suctioned out
vaunted vips venting vitriolic vocalizations
emphasized obvious
NO FOOD OR DRINK rule to abide
cuz suctioning tower computer
or laptop presented vulnerability
plus unforeseen downfall against fried
food and greasy hands ended up hide
ding hardest to reach locale
on circuit board no matter
how expert technician pried
“end user” yelling out gratitude
to geek squad member helping
before he/she went side
dulling out front door

eagerly awaiting
remotely controlled self driving vehicle
transporting self taught techie guru home
to an obscure gated destination,
an uninterrupted distant, yet pleasant ride
eventually amateurs encouraged
to tinker like an apprenticed tailor

akin as raw troubleshooting recruit
oft playfully feigned to be soldier spy
pretending to repair bowel of computer
when in truth visiting
supposed outer limits of functionality
legality, and radicality shadowing dark side
which lined illegal benefits
of labor saving devices.

The sound of silence
written on the subway walls
though heretics opposing
latest technology and felt sinister chill
(just ask Punxsutawney Phil),
the Internet ranks as greatest dog sent rill
lee where wiz kids ranked
chatting killer apps with grateful dead
information superhighway as heavenly manna
with artificial intelligence street cred
since introduction of white bread
and powdered milk biscuits
baked by Ahmed.

Perhaps, the salts that seed the seas
can through some scientific discovery
find a way to be released
giving us more bodies of water
to safely drink.

Perhaps the oceans will give up
their dark and deep secrets,
life undiscovered,
resources never plundered
now available to study.
Movements barely encumbered for
non-bipedal bodied intelligences
in a water world of three d multi planar motions.
Sonic vocalizations interpreted,
while untold depths of water and consciousness
are unlocked in this pursuit.

Perhaps space will put us on the way
seeing time try to escape
as we to attempt to run away
from the only true fate.
Will we find dimensions diffusing
like a permeable membrane, or
like cells stacked upon one another
while black hole balances matter
between both realities,
or merely two extreme distances
beyond our perceptions in this universe,
swallowing light and time in one place
and spewing it out in another?

Perhaps, in the learning
we will see
that the fruitless pursuit
of disparate identities
is a dangerous delusion,
that the confusion and schisms
created in competition
is the creator of greater cataclysms.

But when we are able to work together,
when we finally understand
the philosophy of that long dead Star Trek man,
“Infinite diversity in infinite combinations
equal infinite possibilities”
we will realize that we have
the opportunity to fulfill
an unquantifiable potential.

Furious gusts of air
mightily blow bestirring anchored poet
sitting comfortably numb
securely strapped in his hard to maneuver
easy bath chair
while all around him debris
strewn helter skelter everywhere
heavy objects unmoored
pirouetting topsy turvy

defying laws of physics
cue Adam Smith
courtesy his invisible hand
eulogizing, kickstarting, and regulating
unseen cogs and gear
in order to avoid being plucked up
analogous to whirling dervish
ye dear reader best don
top of the line name brand ironware

to fend off soundcloud
analogous to webbed
whirled wide rooky banshee
hounding kingly bishopric
inducing royal knightmare
whereat pawns called play
as damage control representatives
ultimately linkedin to medicare
for ****** harm suffered

and property destruction
doled out courtesy Nationwide Insurance,
nevertheless yours truly
experienced heightened anxiety
cuz I accidentally, casually, easily,
et cetera eavesdropped,
though a polite gentleman (boot no scholar)
loud talking policyholder
anyone could easily overhear

their strident vocalizations
and they owned chutzpah to queer
re: me for listening to conversation
threatening with abominable language to scare
living daylights, which nearly caused
writer of these words
to soil his underwear
such vociferous threats
wrought quick thinking defense posture,

whereby my ordinary shy demeanor
empowered after downing
powder milk biscuits
(cuz heaven's their tasty)
and declaring warfare
against being bullied
versus suffering as token scapegoat
most every year
from boyhood until emerging adulthood.

After crafting above lines
current generated via whoosh;
I sat mine hind quarters
(otherwise referred to the ****),
which signalled to Doctor Quackenbush,
(id est Groucho Marx)
not deficient with quick wit
whose hook, line and sinker
word of the day namaycush
helped one environmental ******
high (fish) tail to Hindu Kush
where removal from madding crowd
spiritually inoculated one
with a profound hush.

Although gainfully unemployed
(fate now finds me receiving
social security disability –
for approximately
the last baker's dozen years -
the yeast divine intercession
rose to the occasion),
I can still vividly visualize
utter despair during
early and emerging adulthood.

The following synopsis
wrought, impressed, crafted...
within mine temple mount
when yours truly
long overstayed his welcome
at 324 Level Road
(formerly Rural Delivery 2 -
before expanse of hundred acre wood
constituting Glen Elm tract
became vinyl city),
and lacked courage -
analogous to cowardly lion
epitomized in The Wizard of Oz
to test mettle and live independently –
abandoned said challenge  
rather remained domiciled
with birth parents.

Indelible, permanent
and unfading abysmal
damaging domestic dynamics
got indelibly etched in deep purple
upon the memory banks
of this erstwhile individual.

The general gist in the form
of quick broad brush strokes
of psychologically
traumatizing recollection now follows.

I can attest to malevolent
mean-spirited objections
by my then father stayin' alive
(Normandy Farms retirement community
in Blue Bell, Pennsylvania)
at date of forthwith
original poetical draft
(still mourning of his wife,
i.e. mine late mother),
whose passing did nothing
to ameliorate severe emotional trauma  
in regard to mine
unkempt appearance
grossly unacceptable attire,
deportment, grossly jaded mien
and erratic work ethic
to figuratively rattle
(and hum) abridged list.

Back in those inglorious bourne days,
I poorly wore the mantle and staff
of supposed maturity.

Lack of compliance
and obeisance with regulations
and rules of the Harris household
brewed, festered and lied dormant
during prepubescence.

The pressure and tension
between maternal and paternal adult
would rank as dysfunctional
way before such ****** babble
(barely audible above the babel
between me mother and father)
became je nais se quois in vogue.

Such venomous barrage
and fusillade spewed forth
from off parental tongues
at an exponential rate
and on a par to feeling
the stinging cudgel of a horsewhip.

Out of fear and timidity,
I consequently and silently
absorbed cruel treatment.

Neither the eldest nor youngest sibling
bore witness against the
tender spirit of their only brother.

A façade as of statue conveniently adopted.

This embodiment ill served
to fend off onslaught of incessant anger.

Such a defense mechanism
offered miniscule protection
as I mentally (dumbly and mutely)
dodged andforded
lobbed and rammed insults
and affected defiance
of endless threats
and hollow ultimatums.

No matter these bitter pills
of blaring character assassination,
denunciation, fulmination, incrimination,
and countless vociferous vocalizations,
I feigned to be stone
(temple pilot) deaf.

Such self-repression
of emotional maelstroms
only caused seething internal ire
to invite intense anxiety
and unpredictable
debilitating panic attacks,

They (mom and dad,
neither parent still alive)
became further angered
and inflamed per my total oblivious stance.

This reaction added insult to injury.

Deliverance per tough love lessons
amplified to the tune
of additional feats
at becoming excoriated, ranted
and raved against personal habits
and what appeared as mine
nonchalant indifference to pursue work.

Those involuntary, unrehearsed
and vicious family chats happened
to be replete with heavily exploding
verbal wrath and uncorked anger.

Dad, the nominal spokesperson
for unpleasant chest donned thumping
trumpeting exclamations emphatically swore
all manner of vulgarity and demanded
from this insolent appearing
male offspring, whose passive demeanor
intimated immediate compliance.

Defiance and fatigue offered him
that predictable and usual blank stare
upon hearing the kind
and lenient sentence
to pack bags and GET OUT!

With the dreaded approach
of dire and sealed fate,
I anxiously experienced
a dramatic increase in apocalyptic suspense.

Deadlines came and went without incident.

What caused especial ire and wrath
to fester pertaining
to apparent ambivalence,
indifference and nonchalance
for me to take any job -
even shoveling horse manure!

My maternal grandfather
supposedly never paid much heed
to regular and steady employment
despite his skill as a tailor.

Hence my mother and three siblings
lived in destitution and poverty.

Behavior of yours truly triggered
her flashbacks scores of years earlier,
when she lived in squalor,
and felt forced to seek either
part or full time income,
where household members
lacked camaraderie and integration
as a healthy family unit.

The wraith of those
ghastly imprecations
still hound with infrequent
unwanted ghostly visitations
from thy dead mother.

Anxiety and once
immobilizing panic attacks
the battle scars afflict
my psyche and interfere
with the ability to enjoy life,
liberty and pursuit  of happiness
to the utmost despite reliance
on following prescription medications:

BUSPIRONE TAB 20 MG
CLOMIPRAMINE CAP 50 MG
CLONAZEPAM TAB 0.5 MG
FLUOXETINE CAP 20 MG
GLYCOPYRROLATE TAB 2 MG
PRAZOSIN HCL CAP 1 MG
PRAZOSIN HCL CAP 5 MG
RISPERIDONE TAB 1 MG
ROPINIROLE HCL 0.5 MG

Lost in the city's sin,
despair pools into a pit,
as you slowly start to sink in,
you cannot stop it.

The vocalizations of pleasure and pain,
sound out into the silence of the night,
their steaming liquids fall like rain,
the pleasure overcoming fright.

As needles bite and inject,
and you sip the demons in a cup,
addictions, bacteria, and virus infect,
and all you hope to do is wake up.

Self destructive wickedness arrested, convicted, and gaoled...

with kidnapping little boy
ordered to suffer
life sentence without parole.

The deadly scourge of  
one obsessive/compulsive disorder
nearly left me starving to death.

Anorexia nervosa absent bulimia
nadir of onset
diagnoses schizoid personality disorder
severe social anxiety still legion I aire
behavior which agonizingly
elicited slow suicide
courtesy self starvation
maelstrom within psyche of self
as prepubescent lad
(particularly devastated  
immediate family members)
as emaciation pitted existential
revulsion from unseen

wuthering heights
betook courtesy yours truly
teased, hectored, and called “professor,”
when riding the school bus
nearly wrung death knell
annihilating fragile entity
christened Matthew Scott Harris
with peremptory imprimatur
yielding covalent bond to life
readily obvious to kith and kin
via zorro like signature per
profound perilous depressive
psychological state.

Now - at about
three decades plus six years
from attaining rank of centenarian
perfect 20/20 hindsight
offers supreme advantage from
swift current near drowning
alluded earlier when das scribe
juiced thwarted leapfrogging
from pollywog tad metamorphosed
to witness puberty,
whence devastating emotional
crisis tripped, trilled,

and tricked aborted
natural healthy development
chronological denouement demise
jump/kick started
theorizing  numerous educated guesses
within mind of
middle progeny and sole sol
(of the both late father and mother
Boyce and Harriet Harris) respectively
why he willfully hurtled his flesh
at light speed
down the abyss toward death.

Literal and physical lightness of being
manifested within nooks and crannies
prior to full blown symptoms
to eliminate sustenance
drawing the curtain on brief residence
way before high noon of life.
  
Metamorphosis from boyhood
kindled burning man
found solace in attempting
to keep at bay of pigs hijacked
natural cycle, which seminal
transformation grieved me
to pine for nostalgic childhood’s end
(albeit one fraught with romanticism)
vengefully interpreted attempt
to halt dead in the tracks
intervention of mother,
whose nursing experience helped
fend off passive attempt
to promulgate passive
silent plan to fruition.

She whipped various nutritious
concoctions in the blender
to ensure minimal essentials to this,
I readily admit) famished body
in conjunction with applying
vital supplements into
one or the other skeletal
gluteus maximus
thru fuel injection,
which submissiveness to acquiesce,
and bare bony buttocks

to receive iron injections
did absolutely nothing
to squelch death wish.
I inexorably did buzzfeed
hashtagged eating disorder
to go on a deadly hunger strike,
which essentially constituted
declaration of independent control
despite horrendous craving
for food jabbed innards like a pike
bifurcated psychic division

to live ousted coeval death wish goal
to seize yore reminiscent  
blissful, (albeit fictional) childhood
over flooded self made ****** ****
engaging, engendering, engineering
propensity to catapult yours truly
into abysmal emotional hole
and way before the invention
of Facebook, I mentally clicked like
to surrender mailer daemons all
of me healthy development stole.

Imprimatur indelibly etched decades
after bout with passive exit from life
crimp on ******/social skills plus
stunted physical growth cuts like a knife
affecting mental health with panic attacks
and anxiety although existence
considerably less riddled qua
debilitating symptoms
(such as vertigo, racing heart,
profuse sweating, nausea, irritable bowels)

relying on the following prescription medications:
BUSPIRONE HCL 15 MG TABLET
CLOMIPRAMINE 50 MG CAPSULE
CLONAZEPAM 0.5 MG TABLET
FLUOXETINE HCL 40 MG CAPSULE
GLYCOPYRROLATE 2 MG TABLET
PRAZOSIN 1 MG CAPSULE
PRAZOSIN 5 MG CAPSULE
RISPIRIDONE 1 MG TABLET
ROPINIROLE HCL 1 MG TABLET.

To add insult to injury
yours truly also gifted
courtesy split uvula
but did little to ameliorate
the writer of these words
suffering brickbats as scape goat,
whereby severe adenoidal vocalizations
allowed, enabled, and provided
an easy target viz black barbs
poised to strike, hurled,
and bullied me by peers.

Up until I entered six grade
(at Henry Kline elementary -
a one classroom per grade school)
classmates bullied, derided,
and feigned to hammer -
jabbing leering, nasty pimping ragout as a rule
which boyhood self of mine availed
a perfect bullseye target
with combination of diminutiveness,
being painfully quiet,

essentially remaining mum the entire day
except when called upon
to answer question
thence utterance emanating between lips
produced and emitted
a strong nasal sound to boot
grist for the mill
sans malice meted, mimicked,
and mocked mashup
of mine warped congestion
ah, twas only by a fluke conversation,

whence speech pathologist
informed my parents about
The Lancaster cleft palate clinic,
where oral an examination
revealed minor birth defect
identified as a submucous cleft palate,
which explained the severe pinched twang
somewhat mitigated by wearing
a removable prosthetic
fastened with clasps to upper teeth

whereby a makeshift miniature
plastic protuberance closed the gap
(at the expense of practically gagging me)
so air would be prevented
passing thru my button nose,
and thus gentle and soft as a shutterfly
shunted air out oral opening
though congenital defect disallowed
returning merchandise back to sender
nor could blame be affixed

at either father nor mother
who both harbored the genetic mutation
now such admissions
re: aforementioned impediment allows,
enables and provides boasting rights
if in a mood temper
any curiosity or satisfying a rumor
whispered down the alley
whence I said “ah”
left nagging nincompoops
as if pie hole filled with a gobstopper.