IMMEDIATELY PLEASE REMOVE ALL OF MY INFORMATION FROM YOUR DATA BASE FORTHWITH.  ALSO,
ADVISE ANY AND ALL CONTRACTORS, SUB-CONTRACTORS, AGENTS, SUB-AGENTS, AFFILIATES, PARTNERS, COLLEAGUES, ASSOCIATES, CLIENTS, WEBMASTERS, WEB BASED LINKS, WINKS, TWINKS, COLONEL CLINCKS, BOSSES, CO-WORKERS, EMPLOYEES, VENDORS, SUPPLIERS, SALESMEN, ASCCOUNT REPS/EXCS, ACCOUNTANTS, BROKERS, CO-BROKERS, HACKERS, SLACKERS, WHACKERS, JERKS, PIMPS, HOES, HOBOS, BUMS, DERELICTS, DEGENERATES, DOPERS, DEALERS, TWEEKERS, GAMBLERS, RAMBLERS, SOLICITORS, SIDEKICKS, COHORTS, WINGMEN, WHEELMEN, LOOKOUTS, OUTLAWS, IN-LAWS, RELATIVES, FIANCES, GIRLFRIENDS, BOYFRIENDS, FAMILY, FRIENDS, ENEMIES, EVIL NEMISIS', CANVASSERS, INQUIRERS, QUEERS, QUEENS, COWBOYS, KINGS, ****, DRAGS, HAGS, HETEROS, HOMOS, TONY ROMOS, FEMALE IMPERSONATORS, (PRE OR POST) MALE IMPERSONATORS, *****, *****, VAN *****, **** VAN ****, LESBIANS, LIARS, BUYERS, CRYERS, CIGAR SMOKERS, CARPET MUNCHERS, RUG RATS, TODDLERS, TEENAGERS, YOUNGSTERS, SENIORS, SUCKERS, TRUCKERS, MOTHER shut yer mouth, LAW MAKERS, LAWYERS, ATTORNEYS, JUDGES, POLITICIANS, PECKERWOODS, LEADERS, FOLLOWERS, DISCIPLES, PROPHETS, EVANGELISTS, SAVIORS, SINNERS, SAINTS, SOOTHSAYERS, MEDICINE MEN, GYPSYS, TRAMPS, AND THIEVES, WITCHES, WARLOCKS, VAMPIRES, LYCANS, ZOMBIES, WAR MONGERS, PROTESTERS, SOLIDERS, GENERALS, GOVERNORS, PRESIDENTS, PATRIOTS, PACKERS, LIONS, BEARS, BROWNS, BLACKHAWKS, REDWINGS, RIGHT WING, LIBERALS, OR LAW BIDING CITIZENS, THEY ARE NOT TO CONTACT ME AND LOOSE MY NUMBER.
BUT IF YOU SEE MY MOM, TELL HER TO CALL ME.

............................................................­............BA-ZING..............................................­......................

Depression and Anxiety are Death's wingmen
together, they appeal to my heart
with promises of how good he is
how he could make everything better
how i would be much better off with him
he could hold me forever
and i would be safe in his arms
i must admit
i've tried to run away to him before
the promises were so beautiful
and it seemed that everything would be fixed
once i met him
but i didnt realize that
Death was a player
and Depression and Anxiety were his
******* comrades
wanting to see how many
he could get through
seducing them with empty promises
and not let them think of anyone else
forget the easy ones
force the way through the tough ones
conquering people has become a game
how many will meet with Death?
although i know the truth now
sometimes i still long for him
and i stare at the knives in the kitchen
but i've rejected Death once
i can do it again

To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.

We were both in dance class,
all I did was stare at your ***,
while I plunked on the piano.

I was such a dweeb back then,
actually I still kind of am,
but I felt like I had no
chance with you.

But here I am today
with no women in my way
my roommates were still my wingmen.

Apparently you thought I was cute,
in your spandex you felt like a ******
and were to afraid to give me your number then.

Today is my final chance
to see if we can make this last
and let me take you out.

You look great in your summer dress
I'm in my Sunday best just so I
can find what you're all about.

Time travel and soul eyes swirling in a maelstrom of confusion. What is me and what is you and what is the merging between us. Drop your wingmen and speak into nothingness, letting the stardust settle into spirals. There we’ll find the truth.

It's the little things
it's the way we met through a cadet
wingmen ship at its best
both awkward and just a little tipsy
talking to you was so easy
but I wasn't and you knew
you asked me to keep a bottle cap
keep it under wraps till i gave it back
i did, and that goofy smile on your face
it didn't look the slightest bit out of place
You gave me another token, a tab
But then you got tired and called a cab
I haven't had a chance to give it back
so I'm left with a bottle tab and snap chat
guess we have to hangout to give it back

Oh, to be a butterfly
flitting freely upon the sky
a flower bud or strawberry pie
to land on bones soaked in nectar, I
think of watching monarchs with a tired sigh
to be as simple as a butterfly…

No tail guns, no tracers
no fire or engines roaring by
no, just myself, my wings and I
no wingmen or aces, if I were a butterfly
no dogfights or air raid sirens, no warm scotch chasers
with flat beer, only the pollen trade that I would ply
no stale cigarettes, no cold coffee, no need to keep my humor wry
I would frolic in the sun, happy and dry
over so many flower fields with my own kind,
if I were a butterfly

No spirals of smoke and flames
no chains, broken glass or blood or names
no more would my fingers bleed for hours as I pry
desperate, hanging on every whisper for everything I try
no stench or thirst or hunger would bother me, if I were a butterfly
no fear or obligation would bind me, no desperation would make me vie
for a signal or a weapon to call for help or escape, I would kiss my life goodbye
and I would kiss the blood and sweat off of my cheek one last time, if I were but a butterfly.