Victor D. López (October 11, 2018)

You were born five years before the beginning of the Spanish civil war and
Lived in a modest two-story home in the lower street of Fontan, facing the ocean that
Gifted you its wealth and beauty but also robbed you of your beloved and noblest eldest
Brother, Juan, who was killed while working as a fisherman out to sea at the tender age of 19.

You were a little girl much prone to crying. The neighbors would make you cry just by saying,
"Chora, neniña, chora" [Cry little girl, cry] which instantly produced inconsolable wailing.
At the age of seven or eight you were blinded by an eye Infection. The village doctor
Saved your eyesight, but not before you missed a full year of school.

You never recovered from that lost time. Your impatience and the shame of feeling left behind prevented
You from making up for lost time. Your wounded pride, the shame of not knowing what your friends knew,
Your restlessness and your inability to hold your tongue when you were corrected by your teacher created
A perfect storm that inevitably tossed your diminutive boat towards the rocks.

When still a girl, you saw Franco with his escort leave his yacht in Fontan. With the innocence of a girl
Who would never learn to hold her tongue, you asked a neighbor who was also present, "Who is that Man?"
"The Generalissimo Francisco Franco," she answered and whispered “Say ‘Viva Franco’ when he Passes by.”
With the innocence of a little girl and the arrogance of an incorrigible old soul you screamed, pointing:

"That's the Generalissimo?" followed up loud laughter, "He looks like Tom Thumb!"
A member of his protective detail approached you, raising his machine gun with the apparent intention of
Hitting you with the stock. "Leave her alone!" Franco ordered. "She is just a child — the fault is not hers."
You told that story many times in my presence, always with a smile or laughing out loud.

I don't believe you ever appreciated the possible import of that "feat" of contempt for
Authority. Could that act of derision have played some small part in their later
Coming for your father and taking him prisoner, torturing him for months and eventually
Condemning him to be executed by firing squad in the Plaza de Maria Pita?

He escaped his fate with the help of a fascist officer who freed him as I’ve noted earlier.
Such was his reputation, the power of his ideas and the esteem even of friends who did not share his views.
Such was your innocence or your psychic blind spot that you never realized your possible contribution to
His destruction. Thank God you never connected the possible impact of your words on his downfall.

You adored your dad throughout your life with a passion of which he was most deserving.
He died shortly after the end of the Spanish Civil War. A mother with ten mouths to feed
Needed help. You stepped up in response to her silent, urgent need. At the age of
Eleven you left school for the last time and began working full time.

Children could not legally work in Franco’s Spain. Nevertheless, a cousin who owned a cannery
Took pity on your situation and allowed you to work full-time in his fish cannery factory in Sada.
You earned the same salary as the adult, predominantly women workers and worked better
Than most of them with a dexterity and rapidity that served you well your entire life.

In your free time before work you carried water from the communal fountain to neighbors for a few cents.
You also made trips carrying water on your head for home and with a pail in each hand. This continued after
You began work in Cheche’s cannery. You rose long before sunrise to get the water for
Home and for the local fishermen before they left on their daily fishing trips for their personal water pails.

All of the money you earned went to your mom with great pride that a girl could provide more than the salary of a
Grown woman--at the mere cost of her childhood and education. You also washed clothes for some
Neighbors for a few cents more, with diapers for newborns always free just for the pleasure of being
Allowed to see, hold spend some time with the babies you so dearly loved you whole life through.
When you were old enough to go to the Sunday cinema and dances, you continued the
Same routine and added washing and ironed the Sunday clothes for the young fishermen
Who wanted to look their best for the weekly dances. The money from that third job was your own
To pay for weekly hairdos, the cinema and dance hall entry fee. The rest still went to your mom.

At 16 you wanted to go to emigrate to Buenos Aires to live with an aunt.
Your mom agreed to let you--provided you took your younger sister, Remedios, with you.
You reluctantly agreed. You found you also could not legally work in Buenos Aires as a minor.
So you convincingly lied about your age and got a job as a nurse’s aide at a clinic soon after your arrival.

You washed bedpans, made beds, scrubbed floors and did other similar assigned tasks
To earn enough money to pay the passage for your mom and two youngest brothers,
Sito (José) and Paco (Francisco). Later you got a job as a maid at a hotel in the resort town of
Mar del Plata whose owners loved your passion for taking care of their infant children.

You served as a maid and unpaid babysitter. Between your modest salary and
Tips as a maid you soon earned the rest of the funds needed for your mom’s and brothers’
Passage from Spain. You returned to Buenos Aires and found two rooms you could afford in an
Excellent neighborhood at an old boarding house near the Spanish Consulate in the center of the city.

Afterwards you got a job at a Ponds laboratory as a machine operator of packaging
Machines for Ponds’ beauty products. You made good money and helped to support your
Mom and brothers  while she continued working as hard as she always had in Spain,
No longer selling fish but cleaning a funeral home and washing clothing by hand.

When your brothers were old enough to work, they joined you in supporting your
Mom and getting her to retire from working outside the home.
You lived with your mom in the same home until you married dad years later,
And never lost the bad habit of stubbornly speaking your mind no matter the cost.

Your union tried to force you to register as a Peronista. Once burned twice cautious,
You refused, telling the syndicate you had not escaped one dictator to ally yourself with
Another. They threatened to fire you. When you would not yield, they threatened to
Repatriate you, your mom and brothers back to Spain.

I can’t print your reply here. They finally brought you to the general manager’s office
Demanding he fire you. You demanded a valid reason for their request.
The manager—doubtless at his own peril—refused, saying he had no better worker
Than you and that the union had no cause to demand your dismissal.

After several years of courtship, you and dad married. You had the world well in hand with
Well-paying jobs and strong savings that would allow you to live a very comfortable life.
You seemed incapable of having the children you so longed for. Three years of painful
Treatments allowed you to give me life and we lived three more years in a beautiful apartment.

I have memories from a very tender age and remember that apartment very well. But things changed
When you decided to go into businesses that soon became unsustainable in the runaway inflation and
Economic chaos of the Argentina of the early 1960’s. I remember only too well your extreme sacrifice
And dad’s during that time—A theme for another day, but not for today.

You were the hardest working person I’ve ever known. You were not afraid of any honest
Job no matter how challenging and your restlessness and competitive spirit always made you a
Stellar employee everywhere you worked no matter how hard or challenging the job.
Even at home you could not stand still unless there was someone with whom to chat awhile.

You were a truly great cook thanks in part to learning from the chef of the hotel where you had
Worked in Mar del Plata awhile—a fellow Spaniard of Basque descent who taught you many of his favorite
Dishes—Spanish and Italian specialties. You were always a terribly picky eater. But you
Loved to cook for family and friends—the more the merrier—and for special holidays.

Dad was also a terrific cook, but with a more limited repertoire. I learned to cook
With great joy from both of you at a young age. And, though neither my culinary skills nor
Any aspect of my life can match you or dad, I too am a decent cook and
Love to cook, especially for meals shared with loved ones.

You took great pleasure in introducing my friends to some of your favorite dishes such as
Cazuela de mariscos, paella marinera, caldo Gallego, stews, roasts, and your incomparable
Canelones, ñoquis, orejas, crepes, muñuelos, flan, and the rest of your long culinary repertoire.
In primary and middle school dad picked me up every day for lunch before going to work.

You and he worked the second shift and did not leave for work until around 2:00 p.m.
Many days, dad would bring a carload of classmates with me for lunch.
I remember as if it were yesterday the faces of my Jewish, Chinese, Japanese, German, Irish
And Italian friends when first introduced to octopus, Spanish tortilla, caldo Gallego, and flan.

The same was true during college and law school.  At times our home resembled an
U.N. General Assembly meeting—but always featuring food. You always treated my
Closest friends as if they were your children and a number of them to this day love
You as a second mother though they have not seen you for many years.

You had tremendous passion and affinity for being a mother (a great pity to have just one child).
It made you over-protective. You bought my clothes at an exclusive boutique. I became a
Living doll for someone denied such toys as a young girl. You would not let me out of your sight and
Kept me in a germ-free environment that eventually produced some negative health issues.

My pediatrician told you often “I want to see him with ***** finger nails and scraped knees.”
You dismissed the statement as a joke. You’d take me often to the park and to my
Favorite merry-go-round. But I had not one friend until I was seven or eight and then just one.
I did not have a real circle of friends until I was about 13 years old. Sad.

I was walking and talking up a storm in complete sentences when I was one year old.
You were concerned and took me to my pediatrician who laughed. He showed me a
Keychain and asked, “What is this Danny.” “Those are your car keys” I replied. After a longer
Evaluation he told my mom it was important to encourage and feed my curiosity.

According to you, I was unbearable (some things never change). I asked dad endless questions such as,
“Why is the sun hot? How far are the stars and what are they made of? Why
Can’t I see the reflection of a flashlight pointed at the sky at night? Why don’t airplanes
Have pontoons on top of the wheels so they can land on both water and land? Etc., etc., etc.

He would answer me patiently to the best of his ability and wait for the inevitable follow-ups.
I remember train and bus rides when very young sitting on his lap asking him a thousand Questions.
Unfortunately, when I asked you a question you could not answer, you more often than not made up an answer Rather than simply saying “I don’t know,” or “go ask dad” or even “go to hell you little monster!”

I drove you crazy. Whatever you were doing I wanted to learn to do, whether it was working on the
Sewing machine, knitting, cooking, ironing, or anything else that looked remotely interesting.
I can’t imagine your frustration. Yet you always found only joy in your little boy at all ages.
Such was your enormous love which surrounded me every day of my life and still does.

When you told me a story and I did not like the ending, such as with “Little Red Riding Hood,”
I demanded a better one and would cry interminably if I did not get it. Poor mom. What patience!
Reading or making up a story that little Danny did not approve of could be dangerous.
I remember one day in a movie theater watching the cartoons I loved (and still love).

Donald Duck came out from stage right eating a sandwich. Sitting between you and dad I asked you
For a sandwich. Rather than explaining that the sandwich was not real, that we’d go to dinner after the show
To eat my favorite steak sandwich (as usual), you simply told me that Donald Duck would soon bring me the sandwich. But when the scene changed, Donald Duck came back smacking his lips without the sandwich.

Then all hell broke loose. I wailed at the top of my lungs that Donald Duck had eaten my sandwich.
He had lied to me and not given me the promised sandwich. That was unbearable. There was
No way to console me or make me understand—too late—that Donald Duck was also hungry,
That it was his sandwich, not mine, or that what was on the screen was just a cartoon and not real.

He, Donald Duck, mi favorite Disney character (then and now) hade eaten this little boy’s Sandwich. Such a Betrayal by a loved one was inconceivable and unbearable. You and dad had to drag me out of the theater ranting And crying at the injustice at top volume. The tantrum (extremely rare for me then, less so now) went on for awhile, but all was well again when my beloved Aunt Nieves gave me a ******* with jam and told me Donald had sent it.

So much water under the bridge. Your own memories, like smoke in a soft breeze, have dissipated
Into insubstantial molecules like so many stars in the night sky that paint no coherent picture.
An entire life of vital conversations turned to the whispers of children in a violent tropical storm,
Insubstantial, imperceptible fragments—just a dream that interrupts an eternal nightmare.

That is your life today. Your memory was always prodigious. You knew the name of every person
You ever met, and those of their family members. You could recall entire conversations word for word.
Three years of schooling proved more than sufficient for you to go out into the world, carving your own
Path from the Inhospitable wilderness and learning to read and write at the age of 16.

You would have been a far better lawyer than I and a fiery litigator who would have fought injustice
Wherever you found it and always defended the rights of those who cannot defend themselves,
Especially children who were always your most fervent passion. You sacrificed everything for others,
Always put yourself dead-last, and never asked for anything in return.

You were an excellent dancer and could sing like an angel. Song was your release in times of joy and
In times of pain. You did not drink or smoke or over-indulge in anything. For much of your life your only minor Indulgence was a weekly trip to the beauty parlor—even in Spain where your washing and ironing income
Paid for that. You were never vain in any way, but your self-respect required you to try to look your best.

You loved people and unlike dad who was for the most part shy, you were quite happy in the all-to-infrequent
Role as the life of the party—singing, dressing up as Charlie Chaplin or a newborn for New Year’s Eve parties with Family and close friends. A natural story-teller until dementia robbed you of the ability to articulate your thoughts,
You’d entertain anyone who would listen with anecdotes, stories, jokes and lively conversation.

In short: you were an exceptional person with a large spirit, a mischievous streak, and an enormous heart.
I know I am not objective about you, but any of your surviving friends and family members who knew you
Well will attest to this and more in a nanosecond. You had an incredibly positive, indomitable attitude
That led you to rush in where angels fear to treat not out of foolishness but out of supreme confidence.

Life handed you cartloads of lemons—enough to pickle the most ardent optimist. And you made not just
Lemonade but lemon merengue pie, lemon sorbet, lemon drops, then ground up the rind for sweetest
Rice pudding, flan, fried dough and a dozen other delicacies. And when all the lemons were gone, you sowed the Seeds from which extraordinarily beautiful lemon trees grew with fruit sweeter than grapes, plums, or cherries.

I’ve always said with great pride that you were a far better writer than I. How many excellent novels,
Plays, and poems could you have written with half of my education and three times my workload?
There is no justice in this world. Why does God give bread to those without teeth? Your
Prodigious memory no longer allows you to recognize me. I was the last person you forgot.

But even now when you cannot have a conversation in any language, Sometimes your eyes sparkle, and
You call me “neniño” (my little boy in Galician) and I know that for an instant you are no longer alone.
But too son the light fades and the darkness returns. I can only see you a few hours one day a week.
My life circumstances do not leave me another option. The visits are bitter sweet but I’m grateful for them.

Someday I won’t even have that opportunity to spend a few hours with you. You’ll have no
Monument to mark your passing save in my memory so long as reason remains. An entire
Life of incalculable sacrifice will leave behind only the poorest living legacy of love
In your son who lacks appropriate words to adequately honor your memory, and always will.


*          *          *

The day has come, too son. October 11, 2018. The call came at 3:30 am.
An hour or two after I had fallen asleep. They tried CPR in vain. There will be no more
Opportunities to say, “I Love you,” to caress your hands and face, to softly sing in your ear,
To put cream on your hands, or to hope that this week you might remember me.

No more time to tell you the accomplishments of loved ones, who I saw, what they told me,
Who asked about you this week, or to pray with you, or to ask if you would give me a kiss by putting my
Cheek close to your lips, to feel joy when you graced me with many little kisses in response,
Or tell you “Maybe next time” when as more often than not the case for months you did not respond.

In saying good bye I’d give you the kiss and hug Alice always sent you,
Followed by three more kisses on the forehead from dad (he always gave you three) and one from me.
I’d leave the TV on to a channel with people and no sound and when possible
Wait for you to close your eyes before leaving.

Time has run out. No further extensions are possible. My prayers change from asking God to protect
You and by His Grace allow you to heal a little bit each day to praying that God protect your
Soul and dad’s and that He allow you to rest in peace in His kingdom. I miss you and Dad very much
And will do so as long as God grants me the gift of reason. I never knew what it is to be alone. I do now.

Four years seeing your blinding light reduced to a weak flickering candle in total darkness.
Four years fearing that you might be aware of your situation.
Four years praying that you would not feel pain, sadness or loneliness.
Four years learning to say goodbye. The rest of my life now waiting in the hope of seeing you again.

I love you mom, with all my heart, always and forever.

You know how I work
You know the amount of work I put in
Every hour, every day
Every week, every month
It would be the easiest thing in the world
To slack off, for a change
Or work at a snail's pace
After all, I've worked with you
For a long, long time
Therefore, it would be easy for me to think
That I am indispensable
Or that I can take you for granted
But if I do that
Then I wouldn't be Ashwin
So, coming back to the point
You know I am overworked
In fact, we all are
You have even acknowledged it
At some point or the other
And are trying to set things right
By adding more people to the team
However, for some reason
Things have always ended up going south
At the eleventh hour
While I do appreciate your endeavours
What I would really like
Is for you to appreciate our efforts
On a regular basis
And try as far as possible
To ensure some balance in the workload
So that we don't end up biting more than we can chew
After all, a few people have recently left
You don't want to add to that number, do you?
So, please think twice
Before assigning any new mandates
Especially to someone who hasn't fully recovered from COVID yet

HE GIVES THE BEST HUGS
"you like long hugs don't you"
he knows i do
so he envelopes me in his warmth
and squeezes me till i feel giddy like a little girl
and sometimes
he even rests his chin on my head
and i wonder if he is memorizing what my shampoo smells like
and it's for this exact moment that i push through my workload each day and
it's for this exact moment that i walk through the rain each night
his evening smile is tattoed in my mind so i can dream peacefully
and he never fails to follow up with a simple love you snap
HE GIVES THE BEST GOODNIGHTS

How many times can I check facebook, check facebook check facebook?
Glance, browse stalk, stalk harder.
How many times can I watch a show on my computer?
Watched, finished, next episode next episode next episode-caught up
How many times can I get distracted, get distracted check emails—no new messages
Entertain me, distract me, disconnect
I want to be turned on standby, autopilot, you can think for me
Keep the walls of paper from burying me, suffocating me
Intellectually flat-line, a mental goodbye
Lose consciousness, fake my awake
Get lost, then found then actually find my way back to my workload
Attempt the task that terrifies
Look it in the eye,
Unafraid eager and tackle it down to the ground
One subject two three,
But the pile it looms over me, consumes me
I bit off more than I can chew
Teeth that don’t release, don’t retract
All I think of is how I should act
Attack, straight on? That’s the best bet
Nothing was ever accomplished by sitting down in fret
The stakes are just too high to try
A failed attempt changes impressions
Self-Conceptions

How many times can I check facebook, check facebook check facebook?
Glance, browse stalk, stalk harder.
How many times can I watch a show on my computer?
Watched, finished, next episode next episode next episode-caught up
How many times can I get distracted, get distracted check emails—no new messages
Entertain me, distract me, disconnect
I want to be turned on standby, autopilot, you can think for me
Keeps the walls of paper from burying me, suffocating me
Intellectually flat-line, a mental goodbye
Lose consciousness, fake my awake
Get lost, then found then actually find my way back to my workload
Attempt the task that terrifies
Look it in the eye,
Unafraid eager and tackle it down to the ground
One subject two three,
But the pile it looms over me, consumes me
I bit off more than I can chew
Teeth that don’t release, don’t retract
All I think of is how I should act
Attack, straight on? That’s the best bet
Nothing was ever accomplished by sitting down in fret
The stakes are just too high to try
A failed attempt changes impressions
Self-Conceptions

thankfully Hamlet is taken to a couch,
that's hardly a sick-bed,
for we all know: psychiatry is half
of medicine, it breeds more ill men than it claim
to have cured.
and there be that thing, that shadow,
that resemblance of a man,
stalking the highlands, and drinking
at the Lochs...
until there are three,
under a street lamp with due walk,
and a brick wall near,
                         a man and two shadows,
one more full than the latter more fog,
    and the sudden thrill, as if being followed
by one's own unsuspecting guise...
           usurper strong, a Judas in a Judea...
asp tongue, wasp thought,
doubly piercing the status quo of today...
as said, by only a single word,
macbeth, macbeth, macbeth,
into the night, shrill of violins, shark-infested
airs of a witch's shrill cry at the black sabbath
around the fireplace...
    macbeth, macbeth: said: deep frozen
into the night...
   to a neared upon usher of equivalent tear...
avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!
(and hades resurrect thee!)...
   against all that encompasses the noun zeus:
and fathering wisdom for care to lose repeated
cohorts of the titans sun, moon, gaia...
  aye, and a bold one, that dare
          look on that which might appeal to the devil;
have you no care to not flog to these
past expressions, reading them,
as reading our modern undermining into
things of origami consort?
             folded, folded once more,
a piece of paper is a metaphor,
that blooms into the end result of it being
treated as metaphor... a piece of paper
given the status of metaphor, later becomes
   a paper-folded swan, and origami swan...
  that icon of monogamy...
           or how swans like to see it:
in sickness and in health, beyond death do us part...
ever look at a widow swan and not feel
a pang of hope to be given the altar of death
upon the crucifix mound?
        just a little bit?
who may i rather challenge for unkindness,
than pity for mischance! -
        can one man's love affair be as short
as another man's play,
given the chemistry suggest that the man spent
the four seasons in the stated place of concern?
had i been invited to Erasmus Denmark,
my sparrow would have sung differently...
to a less Celtish drum of heart...
             and the man in question would
remain as curriculum material for a midsummer's
night, and romeo and juliet and shylock...
         here, we keep promises...
  just here... every time i read a philosophy book
of deep under-sea thinkers,
   i am the quasi-acuatic animal, a sly
mammal of the seas, a whale, a dolphin...
  every time i read a philosophy book,
and subsequently re-enter shakespeare...
i am that same old mammal keeping his breath,
to surge back toward the heavens of a sea-level
atmosphere...
                   i say: contend with reading philosophy
books to then reread your choice of shakespeare:
for me, nothing beyond macbeth...
    thus said: learn, to live again...
          as i have done on countless opportunities...
   i can not prescribe a most perfected dichotomy...
  oh sonnet so pale, oh other works so well preserved
that they encourage memory dementia
with a workload of pristine recitations...
     just a chance encounter, when psychiatrists
faded with Hamlet, that Macbeth arose from
the ashes and said: i stand as a sword firm in hand,
and i will not reach the safety of
   lounging in gleba...
                  to merely be a dead entertainer of
some obscure theory...
                     and with every instance
upon seeing the **** thing,
   my eye be blunt, and my tongue be sharpened....
likewise in reverse, concerning the same thing:
my eye be sharpened, but my tongue be blunt...
of these two essences, man first thought...
    and had only thought provided man with
a simple yes, or a simple no, wouldn't
the point of thought be more than if not less
bewildering than arguing from its own existence,
an existence of a god?
        not man, devoid of god crafted this deformity
to later impregnate an icon with...
       but man too bewildered by thinking,
that spawned this horror...
       of thought, thus said, no moral grounding,
but merely the numbing, the selective numbing
of the senses, as ailing man suggests,
the ailing via hearing,
   the hedonism feats suggesting exploration
of seeing...
   of feeling numbed, and apathy creeds to experience
as many people as possible...
   thought mediates the sensual-numbing we
all see... and none of thought, is concerned
with being injected into a moral theory,
since thinking is too simple, and a lie a too great
opportunity to be mislead into mis-use...
  for a simple yes and no - the theta-ought...
would not have spurned the phi-nought
    and if the senses are not duped,
then what story are we to be told?
            that might provide a throng, and an opulence
of a campfire for it to be tought?
to the last syllable of recorded time, said Macbeth.

The best poems are all about
loss and pain and suffering.
It feels more natural to write a poem
about a long lost memory,
Or a love that never worked.

Poets aren't allowed to be happy.
They’d run out of material to write about.

The words
content and happy
in the same sentence as the word
I'm,
feels like your tongue
never sitting right in your mouth,
like teeth getting in the way
when making out
like an itchy throat,
not going away even after coughing a fit.

The phrases
You are and my boyfriend
can't be a real sentence
like how
unicorns and fairytales
don't exist.
They just feel like
two jigsaw pieces
from different parts of the puzzle
forced to sit beside each other.

The word love
just doesn’t resonate
with the beat of my heart.
Maybe because
my heart stopped beating
a long time ago
and my brain had to carry the workload
so I think twice as much as I should
synonyms?
I overthink.

I may be the only poet
who doesn’t want to be happy;
a ******* clinging to heartbreak,
and loss and pain and suffering.
because it’s easier to let heartbreak
wrap myself in its familiar arms
than to experience an adventure
with happiness wrapped in mine.

.on a lighter note, from what you'll find included below... the Rolling Stones or the Beatles? well... as well when asking the question John Coltrane or Miles Davies, or, or... Bach, Mozart, or Beethoven... in the last case? the latter. **** me... he loved music so much that he became deaf... just like Homer became blind; god, i love these famous instances of benevolent reasoning; with its cruel culminating outcome / closure... fate, it would seem... but then the sly nudge by something akin to... well i'm unsure which i prefer: Michelangelo's creation of Adam... or Rembrandt's Belshazzar's Feast... i think (but not doubt) that i'm more fond of the latter depiction.

i seriously only have a couple
of words to make a counter-argument...
this won't take long,
this is not going to become
one of those video tirades
  (Beethoven's ode to joy
is still playing in the background,
and yes, i am moderately sober,
i had to cook up a butter chicken
curry with a coriander
    and mind chutney for the chapaties...
chap chap... bud bud...
you want a stereotypical
Apu from the Simpsons?
just watch Australia's master-chef
from this year,
and look up a guy called
Sashi Cheliah...
    buddy bud bud... you get
the picture; it's his recipe...
   curry all day, curry in the morning,
curry in the afternoon,
curry in the evening,
dreaming of curry)...
internet de-platforming...
isn't it... technically illegal?
       just curious...
because...
             my internet provider cannot
exactly switch off my access
to the internet...
like a bailiff...
   i'm not paying the electricity bills,
so they come, and switch off
my electricity supply...
   what "we're" talking about is
a case of illegality...
   to de-platform you'd require
a service provider to implement sound
justifications...
but then...
   paradox avenue:
    they're not getting the money
needed to be a service provider...
so... i'm only supposed to have
the infrastructure of buying ****
online, and banking online...
   STOP ******* UP WITH THE *******
PLAYGROUND! PUT THE SAND
BACK INTO THE SANDBOX...
PUT THE WATER BACK INTO
THE TRAFALGAR SQ. FOUNTAIN!
it's illegal...
              why aren't the hardware
companies, beating the living **** out
of these software providers?
websites are software,
they're not the computers,
the cables, the workload of Atlases...
****... this is becoming a tirade
worthy of a video...
but Beethoven's ode to joy is playing
in the background,
and i never feel like talking...
itchy fingers you see...
the devil has work for idle hands...
it's illegal...
   because it bypasses the terms
of agreement you already made with
the internet providers...
so what... you can only do so much
on the internet?
these people have paid
for their internet connection!
                 what, a, load, of, *******;
so? ensure they pay less
for their internet access...
  given that a limited internet access
is being implemented...
i'm already past being ******
off at the jukebox...
       now i'm fuming... kettle mad
just around the time when
the water starts to boil.

When I was eighteen I worked for a company called GLENCOM. You probably haven't heard of them, you're not supposed to.
They're the invisible middleman.
What happens is, when a company wants to set up a call centre but doesn't have the space or the manpower to do it themselves, they call Glencom.
Glencom then puts together a team of people in Swindon,
teaches them the bare minimum about the product they need to sell and sticks them around a table with headphones on,
completely cut off from the people around them being force-fed phone numbers for eight straight hours a day.

They do this for dozens of companies. And there are dozens of companies just like it.
Producing nothing, just doing other peoples ***** work.
The jobs they don't want to do themselves.
Like Telemarketing. Cold-Calling.
You know when you've just got into the bath,
or you're sitting down to dinner and the phone rings and you think
'I don't want to answer that but it might be important'
and when you answer it it's someone you've never met desperately trying to sell you something you don't want?
And no matter what you say they don't seem to listen, or care,
they just keep reading standard procedure from a script until you can't take it any more and you just hang up?
Chances are, that person is a Glencom specialist telephone agent.

I loved that job, I really did.
You probably think I'm crazy for it, it's the kind of job that middle class kids do for a little extra cash while they're at university,
until they get sick of the soul-crushing routine of getting yelled at and hung up on, yelled at and hung up on and they stop showing up after six weeks.
Year after year, cold-calling is rated in the top ten things people hate about the modern world.
I was part of the problem.
And I loved it.

You see, when you get one of these phone calls, you don't realise that it's a real person on the other end of the phone.
Of course, you do know that it must be a person, that's common sense.
It's just not in your nature to think of that disembodied voice as having a face and a mind
and a favourite food .
and a family
and a history
and a home that they go to every night at seven thirty.
They're a spirit.
One-dimensional.
So you don't treat them like a real person,
and that's OK, really it is, we're used to it.
As far as you're concerned, whoever you're talking to is just a faceless corporation,
so you yell, and you swear,
way more than you would if you were face to face with someone, say, at your bank or in a shop.
Every little thing that has ****** you off that day gets unloaded onto that person because,
for those five minutes,
with your bath getting cold,
or your dinner getting overcooked and blackened,
they are everything that's wrong with society.

So by the time you finally slam the receiver down, and return to whatever it was you were doing,
you're face red, out of breath, can't remember the last time you were that angry
they've ruined your evening.
You swear you're going to complain,
but you know that if you do that you'll just get caught up in their red tape and rhetoric all over again.
There's nothing to do but let it go.
So you do, and with it, something strange happens.
All that anger and tension that you've been carrying around all day just leaves your body slowly.

The traffic that morning;
your workload at the office;
that cold you just cant shake;
the barista who got your coffee order wrong, but your were running late so didn't have time to complain and get a new one;

All those little things that you can't control,
it doesn't seem worth worrying about them now.
You think of how angry you were at that little voice coming out of the telephone speaker and you feel sort of proud,
like it makes up for bending over and taking **** from your Boss all those years.
from your bank all those years
from the gas and electric companies
and your phone company and internet service provider all those years
from your politicians all those years
all that doesn't sting so much any more.

Because you just stuck it to the man.
You stood up to the big corporations and you got the upper hand.
You start to see the funny side,
you'll tell everyone at work about this.

That's the thing about telemarketers: They're one of those little annoyances that people love so much,
like the weather or queue-jumpers.
Something we all hate, but can all relate to,
a lynch-pin of small-talk,
that inoffensive comedian you like so much was talking about it on tv the other night.

But this time you get a chance to stri ke back.
It's not like getting a parking ticket,
or stubbing your toe,
you get to yell at this inconvenience, tell it exactly how you feel without any fear of repercussions.

Without you realising it, that telemarketer has just done you a valuable service.
You've just saved yourself an hour in front of a punch-bag,
or a session with your therapist or *****.
Without knowing it you are in a better mood than you've been all week,
so you don't smack your kids when they spill paint on the carpet.
And you don't yell at your wife when she forgot to pay the electric bill.
You float on a cloud of air until bed time, and probably make love to your partner for the first time in weeks.
You sleep a healthy eight hours and wake up to breakfast  and coffee and drive to work feeling like you did when you first started there,
when you could still see a bright future ahead of you.
All thanks to that soulless,
faceless,
nameless
disembodied voice on the other end of the phone.
All thanks to me.

I worked out that in any given day,
I got yelled at or told to ******* or otherwise unnecessarily lashed out at maybe thirty out of every hundred calls.
That was thirty families who were going to have a nice dinner,
without the usual arguments for once.
Maybe a few times a week I could prevent an abusive husband from having that one whiskey too many and bashing his wife from room to room.
If you believe in a butterfly flapping it's wings in Tokyo, and all that,
then maybe I, without ever leaving my desk, could stop a ****** from happening, perhaps once a year.
I was making a difference and all I had to do was let my computer dial a random phone number and to introduce myself as
'whoever calling from wherever to let you know about a valuable promotion...'

When I realised all this I decided I would work harder to up my productivity.
A hundred and fifty calls a day,
two hundred.

And I had to provoke more anger.
Subtly of course, I would try to be more obnoxious and inept.
I got peoples names wrong;
I talked over people.
Soon I was getting fifty hang-ups a day.
So I, like a good employee, constantly tried to better myself.
I sniggered at peoples names;
I requested needlessly extensive and intrusive personal information;
asked to speak to 'the man of the house'.
I was getting balled out with every other call.
Seventy, eighty, ninety times a day.
Every time I was called a nuisance I gave myself a pat on the back.
Every time someone said they wanted to speak with my supervisor, I just said they weren't in and then rewarded myself with a cookie at break time.
I got more competitive with myself.
I considered it a personal gift when I got someone with an Indian name,
or a speech impediment.
Gay couples were a Godsend.
I corrected peoples grammar;
I cursed;
I slurred;
I made thinly veiled ****** references.

I was thorn in the side of everyone just trying to enjoy a quiet Sunday afternoon.
I was the itch that no-one could reach.
I invited venom, longed for hatred.
Because if it was aimed at me, it may as well have been aimed at the moon.
I was a necessary evil.
I was the common enemy of the whole country.  
I can't say how many relationships I must have saved,
how many lives I touched.
Suicides prevented? You never know.
I was making the world a better place, one botched customer service attempt at a time.
I was saving people without them even knowing my name.
The anonymous benefactor,
the masked hero.
I was Zorro, I was Batman.
And I loved it.
I thrived on it.
I had found something I was good at.
I could have stayed there, soaking up insults, absorbing peoples troubles, lightening their burdens, forever.

Until three months ago when my manager saw my sales reports.
He, of course, didn't understand why we were really there.
He thought it was about money, about generating figures for whatever company we were hired by that month.
He threw buzz-words and management speak at me.
Improving Revenue.
Optimising Productivity.
Promoting Synergy.
Utilising Opportunity.
Sentence fragments that wouldn't make sense if he meant them.
Nonsensical ramblings littered with capital letters.
By Glencom's standards, rather than my own, I was the worst specialist telephone agent that he had ever seen.
I didn't bother trying to explain.
He wouldn't have understood,
I wanted something real.
Glencom could have been the first call centre to truly,
what's the phrase he would have used? Attain it's Potential.
We could have been pioneers in the business world, providing a service that the public really needs.
But there was no point, he had listened to recordings of my calls and had no choice but to fire me on the spot.

That job was the only thing I had loved for a long, long time. T
he only thing that gave me purpose,
my reason for getting out of bed,
for putting on trousers and shoes.
It was all I had and I lost it,
blacklisted by the employment agency that placed me there.
For a while I tried calling people at random from the phone book but it didn't work out.
You have no idea how much it costs to make a hundred phone calls a day on a pay as you go mobile.
Ten pence a minute
times by sixty minutes an hour
times by eight hours a day  
minus a half hour for lunch equals more than jobseeker's allowance is willing to provide.
I switched to contract but these days everyone has phone number recognition,
so everyone can see that you're calling from a personal phone rather than a business one.

Eventually I started getting phone calls from the phone company explaining that I'd be cut off
and fined if I was using a personal phone for random telemarketing without a license.

The operator was clear, polite and ultimately very helpful.

******' Amateur.

When I discovered I had cancer,
I was told that I would learn a lot
About Life and Death and Time,
But I never thought that I would
Discover what it means
To be intimate
With strangers,
Or anyone, for that matter.

When my insides were cut open like a game of operation,
I told myself:
Be detached.
When visitors came,
We talked about the weather.

When I arrived home, I spent my time
Trying to forget
The experience
Of impermanence
And shared emotions
That I couldn't even grapple with
Myself.

When the person I loved
Left me
I flinched
And then sunk back into an abyss of
Emotionless functioning,
Cutting myself further and further
Off from my narrative
Of pain.

When it was time to go back to school,
I flinched
And signed up for a workload
Heavy enough
To push out the fading reality
Of my condition.

It wasn't until I was sitting on the steps
Outside of a bar that was slowly beginning
To empty out,
As intoxicated shadows gained substance and lit cigarettes against the brick wall.
I sunk down next to friend I had recently met-
My big t shirt inched up above my abdomen
And the lower jagged mark of my scar
Peeked out-

I didn't choose to tell him my story
Until he asked me about the obvious
Stale incison mark that had a presence
Of its own.
Piece by piece, it peeled itself from off my stomach
And liquified into a sequence of events
And feelings
That poured from me
Like a stream of bubbling bath water
Overflowing from the rim
Of a porcelain tub.

That's when I realized that there is something shared and intimate about scars:
Marred reminders of the flesh
That speak to our upmost human
Encounters with our own mortality.
An indecipherable label of sorts:
An unsigned invitation into the taboo.

In a moment of unintentional word *****
At 2am to a stranger,
I regained my intimacy with myself
And my journey.
I learned that while Life and Death and Time
Will always plague our existence,
They distance us from the human experience that is
To feel:

To feel everything in this God forsaken world.
To feel angry at people for leaving when they should have stayed.
To feel compassion at the same time.
To feel intimacy with others.
To feel intimacy with yourself.
To feel love.
To feel pain.
To feel the cold creases in the wooden floor as you make your way to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
To feel alone.
To feel surrounded.
To feel the trembling echoes of the past and be able to grab its elusive coattails and shake away the dusty remnants of time and shout that you are present.

To feel nothing.

you know that feelings,
it's neither in your head
or your heart...

you know that feeling,
custard in the head,
and a wooden floor with
a blanket in your heart...

and there's
free's, alright now
ringing in your head
attempting to think...

how did that song
never make it to o. 1,
turned down by
mango jerry's
song, in the summertime..

what?!
the song by free
has only two chord...
no riff...
    no iron man by
black sabbath...

   you're ******* me,
right?
    two chords....
****... what's the tab...
ah...
right...
from the days when
i actually gave a ****
about playing guitar...

and owned a classic acoustic,
an electric cheap Fender
and an amp...

how does this one go?

e
   at the bottom,
E at the top...

D's the first string...

e
blank
blank
D
blank
E

FGH!

   that'my first rattlesnake
draw a guess...

now let's scout the internet...

****...

obviously i was wrong...
i wrote the best essay about
Caribbean music
in music class,
beat the black boys at it...
but sure as ****
i didn't learn how to
play the piano...

E
A
D
G
B
e

but the most fun was always
the slick solo...

the rest?
well...
           beginners' club

E     1
A                         2
D             3
G
B
e

that's black sabbath,
by black sabbath...

      no, you're looking down...
e is the little string at the bottom,
E is the thick string at the top...

timing... left to right...

single pluck of the string...

but now the two chords
         for free's song
alright now...

E     5
A    7         5              
D    7         7          
G               7
B
e

you'll figure out the count...
but that's the basic schematic...
i'm too busy drinking,
i'm not into portraying the:
up and down, up once, down once,
up once again, three times down
on the EAD / ADG workload...

oh god...
then the songs...
Mr. Big,
  and Fire & Water...

mind you...
Cream's intro...
hovering around
  how does it go... ?
i forgot the syllables on in...
tud tud tud tu tu too too
tut tut too...
            
sunshine of your love!
that's high up on the neck,
smacked in bewtween
E 12
   and D 15...
    subsequently A 12
       and G 15...
and then a variant of...
where does 17 go for the lick
Beelzebub?
         me neither...
i forgot...
last time i played guitar
was
around my grandparent's
house,
in late April over Easter...

    rusty fingers and all...
that blues standard...
hell, i can remember that verse...

i can see it in my eyes,
i can hear it in my head...
but i can't remember it in writing...

i wasn't ever great...
but i liked to fiddle...

ha ha, mind you...
i managed to conjure up
Grieg's
    in the hall of the mountain king...
and...
   and an almost
     ancient Ukrainian folk
song...
       on the theme by
Krzesimir Dębski -
               hey falcons!

seeing the land,
the birch trees,
the caattail riddled open plain swamps...
the pines...
    the wailing willows...
the mistletoe...
   the rowan tree...
  the chirping sparrows of
Warsaw's western bus station...
        
a bouquet of roses
or Dutch tulips
might look more appealing...
but the perfumes
of the already stated alternative!

oh how i miss home,
a home,
   i never actually lived in...
    and can never will ever
live in...
oh home, home,
such a bogus superstition
of my fatigued imaginings.

p.s.
****...
     guitar, hence the / trailing off...
you know that feeling
when you've eaten
BBQ all the way through the summer,
meat, meat, meat meat meat...
and you've forgotten
the taste of eastern European
dunplings?
   pierogi:
   i.e. etymologically speaking:
cockerel horns?
and you make a case for
a gluttony around 8?

and...
     the feeling is more concentrated
around your stomach
and your ***, rather than your
head and heart?

when you need to take a walk
for about 30 minutes,
brisk,
and drink 3 bottles of cider
at 8.2% alcohol content...
to ease the digestion?
while you're at it...
that feeling...

    like you're a pregnant woman...
expecting a baby...
but instead:
a meister-schtick
aversion to a hamburger?

no?
        never left bloated so much?
good on you...
i hope you never have to feel like
that,
on a cool autumnal night.

Tile floor on my face and knees to my chest, I call for my mother, who happens to be in the same position on a bed. This dependent relationship started out being as easy as asking the man for a piece of his roast because you wield a fork and knife. Since the era that brought Y2K we were doomed. At thirteen you may carry some wits about you, but without a mentor there is a tendency for anger. A rant and a rave, or some wit coupled with rage.

Two planes crashed into two buildings.
New York City was in disarray. I'm buying a video game the day before I start high school. Thankfully I caught the news before the game was powered on. People jumping from buildings. A mayor covered in dust, turning sharply at the corner of each city block, being inquired by reporters and journalists. But a man that is as surprised as his city can only keep walking. Four years later people still grieved. Some never boarded a flight again. By that time I left school.

Seventeen was drugs. That led until twenty-one. Those are lost years, or ones I wish to not account for. The years that came back felt like before Y2K, a recession that was only going to become worse, and depending on which side won the battle would there be more bodies falling from buildings. Ignorant to an economy that was already set to topple over, I went to school with partial loans. Not as bad as iron shackles, but with interest rates that ensure the need for a second industrial revolution.
People can speculate.
Oh, what you know is ignorance!

There aren't many outcomes to this predicament...
Old bankers can be sealed in their vaults. An older generation can retire without worry. And the "Millennials" will inherit the workload of two previous generations.
No.
That is the last thread holding embellished dreams. Before the ignorant generation is attacked, let's say that what credit was in the nineties to our parents and scheming developers is what a full glass of champagne was before the Great Depression. But this intelligent, idealistic, young generation that is crippled from the start will not succumb to rationed goods and bread lines.

Department of Defense says you're going to die. That Government is too big to fail. And they're wrong. On more than one front. Their military is for us, but the corporations are exclaiming, "Charge!" How easily you can become a mannequin to a department store. How quickly a baton can break your forearm.

They say that the Statue of Liberty was once copper. They say over time copper turns green, from weather, and I suppose time. Yes, it's scientifically explained, but imagine a statue with only tarnish by the eyes. That might be the symbolism we need, but no, a woman made of copper does not cry.

So, thirty is approaching. Not within the next few Sun rotations, but soon enough. Many people my age want change. More than pocket change. We were raised on accountability and morals. Now being adults this isn't a "Do what I say, not what I do" argument. These are lives. This about saying, "Sliced bread isn't the best thing!" It's standing up for your dignity and integrity. Something that isn't found at a computer screen.
Maybe at one time it was.
Now the truths you speak are chastised. Capitalist societies adopted Martin Luther's Catholic Church. Now a notice on a door is sent to a screen.

Laying on this tile floor is tiresome. And working two jobs gets in the way. The hardest part is ignoring the demon involving work. Knees to your chest may be safe behind a closed door. But the outside world is monitored. You can only get up, kiss your mother on her forehead, hoping hers knees descend, and hope that finishing your work happens in time for you to create your art.
Hopefully that is something that can never be taken away.

A loving father and husband
To provide for your family
Heading to office
When birds greet
Dawn with chorus
Hark, hark and hark
Back home, sitting
Over a computer till
It gets pitch dark
Bearing a workload
That could cause
ED if not a heart attack,
You make sure luxuries
Your wife and
Off springs never lack,
To indirectly ram home
Your love for
Your better half
As a broad day light
Is stark.

But when your marriage
Lost its ****** spark
Her resolution shattered
She sought love
Behind your back.

You failed to sensitize
Her about her beauty
Your number one duty,
Also sometimes making
A paradigm shift
You were not
A bit naughty.
Out of line from a
Henpecked husband,
You failed to defamiliarize
That do not you realize?

You should have made her
Feel an object of desire
That was what could have
Rekindled the flame
And the fire.

When you make
Love to her
Think not what
Makes you buckle
Under depression
Such as lack of promotion,
Ego-rocking feelings
Must not distract
Your attention.

You should ever try
To scale ****** new height
Every night.

Workaholic, unless
You jog, jog and jog
When you go to bed
For her you will be
No better than a log.

To the dump yard
She could throw you
A broken toy
Unless you afford her
A joy
Cuckolded by a man
On the wrong side of a boy.

With someone else
When a woman gets into bed
She deletes you
Out of her soul, heart and head
That is why,
As her husband, she denied
You a go ahead!

Mindful of this fact
It is not too late
To fix a date
Stop your
Fate to lament!

I had a seventh grader tell me, when I was in 5th grade, that things go downhill after 5th grade - that life doesn’t get better, it just gets more complicated. I’ve had years to mull that over and I have to say that in some ways his testimony was on beat.

As we start the second half of sophomore fall semester, I think I’ve reached stability and I’m accustomed to this year’s schedule and workload. I haven’t surveyed whether I’m faster or slower in this (see below), but now I know all the tricks - where to eat, which paths to take and what to carry. I have a firm rhythm that’s consistent and insistent.
“I’m finally on my schedule.” I commented to Sunny yesterday morning as we collided in our dash to get our shoes on.
She looked at me in confusion “You know we’re on week 8 out of 15, Ya?”
I was shocked, “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I admitted as we stepped out.

It’s midnight and we’re going (Peter, Lisa, Sophie and I) to “My ****” tonight (the dorm basement snack-bar). I took two seconds to splash my face with water and twist-back my hair. “How do I look?” I asked Peter.
“You’re attractive.. enough,” he said, “..I mean you fall within a bell curve.”
“You're almost 40,” I say, in the face of his non-complement.
“I’m 26,” Peter said, “You know it, and I have proof. You DO have some good points though,” he granted, while trying to drape his great, hairy, gorilla-like arm on me, “there’s your sparkling conversation and nice underwear.”
“I donated those to goodwill,” I lied, while giving him a half-gentle stiff-arm.
“You remind me of my parents,” Sophie says.

The tea (the best tea is scandalous). Lisa’s friend Baker dashed back to her room between classes yesterday. She’d forgotten the big paper she had to turn-in. It was a mad dash and passing a roommate’s open door, she realized that the girl was lowkey *******. Lisa, delighted to be an interlocutor in the matter, due to Baker’s overplus embarrassment, Lisa's trying to suggest next steps in a post-shock protocol.

Didn’t I hear you say the lawn I would mow?
Sundays come and Sundays go.

Grasses are taller so are the ****
Season is going where’s the flower seed?

Words aren’t taxed you use them free
Said this Sunday you would clean the chimney.

Wash the toilet scrub clean the commode
Sundays come piles up workload.

Lot of things to mend lots to replace
Why Sundays trudge in leisurely pace?

Why the bed conspires the morn breathes chill
Why must I lie back to get the Sunday feel?

Why Sunday is one day and not a whole week
Comes up the Monday devilish and bleak!

Sundays will come and Sundays will go
*As for my work only a poem or two to show!

First, don’t go to any of your lectures.
Drink
yourself half-to-death,
hope
to fall into a coma. Have fun
while you do this.

Make it so bad that the friend
who was once
your drug dealer
expresses concern
for your health. Step two:

Don’t study either,
procrastinate, find sick notes,
push back the date
for the inevitable
until there’s one day left
and the workload might **** you.

Finally, step three;
stand on the steps
outside the exam hall, smoking,
have your dad call you
explaining
the death of a good friend’s father.

Use your last ten minutes
to ring old friends who need to know.
Pass on the message,
blank,
leave the exam after twenty minutes,
cry in the bathroom
and go.

dedicated to the one that got away

hey there butterfly, five months ago you were still in college. you were nervous because it was your final semester and you were stressed out because of the workload. you met someone, butterfly. god, he was so pretty and magnificent.. saccharine as honey he was, extremely understanding and just so easy to converse with. so you indulged in him more and spent time with him. spent nights together after long evenings of work, embracing one another’s company in various ways. there was a spark that neither of you could deny and so the genesis of your relationship began. you belonged; with him, the comfort of him, and just in the space of happiness provided to you. you belonged there. you deserved it.

hey there butterfly, he introduced you to his friends and called you his. could you feel it? your heart beating when the word mine came out of his lips.. the smile not once leaving your face for the rest of the night as you all hung out. you competed in several tournaments, and each tournament he was rooting for you every time. he was extremely proud of you in anything you worked hard for and never once forgot to let you know. you deserved this, a man by your side that could appreciate you in many aspects.

hey there butterfly, you did it! you graduated. you graduated and he was able to see you walk across the stage. could you feel it? the warm feeling in your chest knowing that he watched you accomplish something so life changing? that support was something you’ll never forget, isn’t that right? having someone so amazing by your side willing to be here for you through anything has made you glow, butterfly. you’re beautiful and you deserved this.

hey there butterfly, are your wings broken? that was quite a fall you took there. could you feel it? the rope not budging as you pulled and pulled to give him the support you knew he deserved? you comforted him during his hard times and you gave it your all.. but in the end it wasn’t enough and you can’t make someone stay if they have no desire to do so. i know he’s gone now and something in you hopes he comes home but you know it’ll be okay eventually though, right? no matter the obstacle whether big or small, you must never falter. if it’s meant to be then it will be. you are beautiful and you are so strong.. you deserve the universe. you’ve been taking care of everyone but now it’s time to take care of yourself. you’ve gotten yourself hurt again, butterfly. you will be okay one day. it hurts now but know that there is nothing you can’t handle. you are so special, butterfly.. you don’t deserve any of this pain but it will get better. i love you, butterfly..

Landing at Belfast International Airport always made Byron feel better, but nowhere near the way he used to feel when Megan was alive. He was glad for the busy workload ahead of him, a very welcome distraction.
The latest nightmare revealed more to him than usual, which, according to his phsychiatrist, was a good thing. Climbing into a  cab, Byron opened his laptop and immediately noticed the little envelope at the top of the screen. Messages from the site. Beautiful Words was a luxury, especially since adding his new friend, pen name Maiden, real name, Holly.
Byron could be a normal person on the site, no disfigurements, no judgement, and nobody would ever know about the fire, his failure to save his Megan.Of course, people could read between the lines but that was unlikely.
The message from Holly read "Dearest Phantom, i was so moved by your latest poem..." It went on to state her amazement at Byrons last name, Lorde. " is it really true? so, your name is lord Byron in reverse?" Byron felt a little flutter of excitement at the thought of someone noticing his name, for the first time,.
Byrons mother was a lover of poetry, especially romantic poets, hence his name.The opportunity was irresistable , her name being Lorde.Megans grandfather would poke fun at Byron, saying he was lucky his mother didn't like Edgar Allen Poe.
He almost replied immediately but noticed he'd reached his destination, shutting the laptop, promising himself to pay more attention to beautiful Words, Holly, Jester,  and the rest of the crowd.
Byrons shrink was moonlighting at the local hospital, community work made him feel more human, less robot-like."Well well well," Byron and jake were friends from way back, even before Megan.After the fire,Byron would surely have given up, had it not been for Jake.He poured them both a mineral water while Byron made himself comfy, he knew the drill. The age old cliche, lay down on the couch, close your eyes, "Count backwards from 10, slowly drifting off the closer you get to 1,".
Byron could smell the smoke, taste the charcoal at the back of his throat. He could see her, more clearly than before....

The game played no longer how it once was
No votes on new posts
don't check the trends
or check your own for views and comments
The substantive roaming data of broken WiFi connections
Mangle your jangling words, hide your swollen faces behind forced smiles, Rembrandt bastardisations or smeared oil paintings of the black soul(less) beasts that lurk in satiate tree shadows fawned over the lawnmower blue cycle rinse washed acid soaked daydream ***** slap nation
So you revere the works once read on poetical facsimile sites
only to smear words of younger wordsmith wrangled teen angst
and now in your age and ardor it seems advantageous to judge
But then that will leave you hollow inside
or in fact, you could jump from a tall building only to bounce off the concrete into a children's pool and drown there in three inches of **** coloured rain water
But so instead the workload decreases as your dementia bedpost nightmares
all come aflutter
The laced lily white throng of petal pinched patterns masks
the marked men on their dusty knees
There, watch how heads explode
or listen to foley artists rendering the lacquered finish of the watermelon headjuice
Make up words
or make up lies
Wear make-up daily, earn some prize
or don't
I don't care
idc
idk
Resemble rhyme or reason
Disassemble the times and season
Return to pejorative pretensions, rants in verse verse verse verse prose format and **** the rest
Or simply return to the old ways of playing the game
Upvote this, and maybe they'll take interest
Comment here
return one there
Use tags, hashtags, wash rags, fat slags, arm chair fat cats
But always separated by spaces, prettyblankspaces
No, I don't do slam poetry, I'm too white and not nearly rich enough to not care
Reassemble the times and season, maybe make sense of it
Maybe not
Just don't let them become a passing trend, please

Professional Poem
1/14/2013

The shelves are full of papers.
My e-mail folder full.
Workload maxed capacity.
But still got more to do.

Each day the office seems to shrink.
Buried under business.

But each day my experience grows.
And with it comes persistence.

My confidence has gone out the roof.
As I dress up in tie and suit.

I wear my watch.
Look my best.
Never sloppy.
Slim-fit vest.

So here is my confessional.
The life of a new professional.

I kind of like the grueling hours.
and even the underpaid wages.

Because the more I learn,
The less I yearn.
For this happiness to become contagious.
Professional will save us,
from our lackluster lives.

I currently don't have the drive to be poetic.
All this workload makes me feel like
I'm Atlas carrying the burden they call Earth.
In other words, I am so stressed.

ah, welcome today!
tasty breakfast, morning news
hair put up to stay!
ah, welcome today!
bright sunlight, whispy clouds
traffic flowing my way!
ah, welcome today!
a hug hello, a coffee cup
workload kept at bay!
ah, welcome today!

Tuesdays are my
good days
safe days
happy days

they are the most routine,
the most reliable,
the steadiest

when I wake up and know that
I will go to school
and will have my lightest workload
of the week
and therefore the least stress

and then after school
I will go to piano lessons
run some errands
then go to the library
to pick up a few books to read that week
and later, go to youth group

but both this week and last,
as I stepped into my favorite part of routine,
I was met by your cold black eyes
looking at me from between the bookshelves
and the awful sensation that lingers afterward for so many hours

I'm beginning to think Tuesdays aren't so safe anymore.

Another workload, strong enough to break
Troubling the edges of days with its shadow
Ready for another crinkly failure thrown against the wall?

I blink the room to a distant light source,
the power shifts, a balance or blue and black,
Black and blue goes my heart,
as my mind argues if I did everything,
right,
My eyes know this haze, heavy workload has weighed down these lids,
Unable to scavenge, left to rely on a system that tends to repeat,
that tends to repeat,
I blink the room becomes a distant light source,
No matter how far I can feel it's indifference,
1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi, 4 Mississippi,
Is the distance between me and the next crash,
Sipping on the adrenaline kicker,
find,
That between the moment of here and now is a very long time,
1 Apple, 2 Apple, 3 Apple, 4 Apple,
Seconds don't always repeat,
What should I do today?
I blink the lights to a blue a lot of us know.

While working my routine at Amazon
picking the same items I always have before
I was trans shipped to trans ship
filling me with anxiety
understanding unfamiliarity
nerve racked novice
sweat trickles down my face
soaking into my PPE.

Two man crew I'm meant to join
black guys wearing reflective vests
"I'm here to help, can you help me?"
blank stare foreground
empty workload background
perplexed aesthetic
French accented walls muffle communication
I form a reluctant alliance with repetition
yet my counterpart understands everything I say.

Their patience eases my troubled mind
when my capability falls short of my enthusiasm
hand gestures guide me free of frustration
I stay silent, only saying
"I'd talk more but I figure it'd be a hassle"
my learning ambassador understands
but his extra steps start a conversation
creating comforting small-talk acclimating aliens.

Sydna and Josue from Ivory Coast and Congo respectively
and respectful was all I wanted to be
yet I got the impression Josue was uncomfortable
after I had brought up gold, diamonds, and oil
but Sydna had taken control of the conversation
telling me all about the lottery he won to be here
I wondered what lottery's prize was living in Cincinnati
to work a factory job in Hebron.

We work bundling totes together
printing confusing and mysterious tags
reading ACY, CMH, SDF, JFK, or CSG
these bundles will be leaving CVG eventually
carried away on skids
to their indifferent destination
of the same capitalist company
just at another fulfillment center.

I guess I should be more grateful
to be in the poor nation of transportation
but I'm not—I'd rather be picking
where I can communicate with compatriots freely
but I'm far away from the south mod now
near the north side red tag area talking to strangers
it's just a shame
because there's plenty of material where I came from
but transitory shipment is where the work is.