Sitting at my workstation I kept swirling my chair around,
Battling the strenuous drowse that tried to yoke me to the ground,
“How could this happen? This is the first hour of my job,” I wondered,
I chuckled. “How fool of me! It’s Monday today,” I remembered.

I peeked to my left to see an empty chair,
“No-one to talk around; hey, that’s so unfair!”


I cringed viscerally at the thought of spending the day without uttering a word,
I tried to re-task my focus on my computer screen when a soft voice I heard,
Made me turn, and as I did, I veered myself to the source of the euphonic voice,
I felt the dumbfoundedness of a person bewitched by a magical spell, twice.

For some moments I couldn’t decrypt the words that her lips uttered,
As I just kept staring into her graceful eyes, helpless and all cluttered.


She asked with a soft smile, “Is this person absent today?” and  motioned to the workstation on my left,
I felt my dopamine surge at the possibility of what might happen next,
I nodded as soon as I realised my tongue has gone numb,
She ensconced herself and smiled, her cheeks as rotund as a plum.

I swallowed a lump in my throat that I didn’t realise had formed,
I wasn’t hoping for anything like this but I liked what my day had unboxed.


“What is she? Are humans allowed to be this beautiful?” I questioned my mind,
Was she a manifestation of my dreams or an angel in disguise!
It seemed like her eyes possessed a power in them like Midas in his hands,
A sight of innocence that could even force the flying time to land.

I leaned forward a little to catch a glimpse of her pretty brown eyes,
She turned to me with a gaze of a doe and my tongue again got tied.


“Any problem?” She questioned me with a raise of her brow,
“Yes, your eyes. They’re too beautiful,” the response I couldn’t let out,
Instead I shook my head and turned my eyes away from her,
My peripheral could see her blushing; it seemed the bubble has finally burst.

I tried to venture a conversation but failed to remember the morphemes,
The anonymity between us allowed the nervousness to sweep in.


I sighed deeply and turned about to do what I’m paid for,
But her presence beside me made it harder for me to stay calm,
An unexpected “Hello” came from my left and an introduction followed the greet,
Although stunned by the suddenness I tried to smile at her, from cheek to cheek.

We exchanged our names and conversed a little for a while,
Before she got engaged in her work and I in mine.


After hours of punching the keyboard buttons I stretched my arms and yawned,
She giggled at me and I took it as a cue to move my first pawn,
I embarked, “I’m going to the cafeteria to have some tea”,
I hesitated for a moment and resumed, “would you like to come with me?”

She rolled her eyes and I understood she has refused my kind and genuine offer,
I began to walk away. “Wait a minute, let me lock my PC,” and then I saw her got up.


We walked our way to the cafeteria, slower than two people normally would,
My chivalry erupted as I held the door open for her as she entered the room,
We occupied a table for two and  it appeared like a date-night is about to happen,
With she in front of me and  the stories that we shared, it seemed like all the troubles in the world didn’t matter.

I mulled over the thought that I might have a crush on her smile,
But there was an absolute certainty that I had fallen in love with her eyes.


She shared some cheerful stories about her childhood and also the moments in her life she remorse,
She had a way of crinkling her nose adorably that made her appear cuter than she was before,
“You may have a body of a woman but you have a sweetness of a child,” I abruptly blurted out,
She smiled deep into my eyes and I could feel the brightest smile I ever had form on my mouth.

“That’s the sweetest thing someone has ever said about me,” she flushed a little while she said this,
It took us a moment to realise that we’re holding hands; the touch of hers was something I couldn’t resist.


We got up as we finished our beverages and sauntered our way back to our daily routine,
I tried to rein my thoughts that our day was  about to end, but my efforts were all just futile,
I just wished this night shall never pass as I wanted to spend more of my time with her,
We logged out of our PC’s as our shift ended but I craved for one last conversation with this girl.

While ambling towards the exit in silence I turned on my heels to look into her beautiful brown eyes,
I sighed as I looked at her and tried to settle down the feeling to hug her that was about to rise,
“I spent this beautiful day with a beautiful girl I wish I could see more of,” I said with truthfulness in my voice,
She smiled at the ground and then looked up, “You will. Tomorrow at 8. Here’s my number. The place is your choice.

========================================================­===

he was walking very fast pace
as if he was scared to lose in a race
but this wasn't a race, what was missing?
maybe someone he desires to be kissing?

i took steps forward, my eyes met a kind face
but how come when he turned around i saw a black rag in his mouths place?
liquid hues poured out of my head in deep confusion
is this the man in front of me only a delusion?

i tugged at it, and discovered his lips were sown together by purple thread
worried for his soul, his eyes and lips bled
he clench my wrists, chained them and injected my hips
i didn't know where i was going but i entered a lunar eclipse

i woke up as a light flickered and then focused on me
they stripped me of comfort, and placed lingerie on my intoxicated body
"four thousand?" " five thousand?" that's what i heard from a deep voice
"Sold for 5,000!" i was enslaved by a man, I didn't have a choice

blind folded, i counted the seconds it took to reach this location
i heard screams, moans, and violence. it was a workstation
he threw me in a tiny room and locked me out, no where to run and hide
i lie on a ****** bed, exhausted, and being tied

i saw a blur? a man, he stormed in and locked the door behind him
i tried my best to get him off me but i was too weak and the light was dim
tied down, no escape only submission to a man who doesn't have a name
numb and barely living, he slid harshly in between my legs, i couldn't scream, i couldn't cry, then he came

~a.h.

Japanese temple trees no longer line the way home.
I left them behind.
But my mind still strolls that avenue,
and I still see
the light catching on the bare branches
and the sparse leaves of Autumn in The Grove.

The Woodhoopoes are still nesting
in the temple trees next to the gate
I don't enter anymore.
Their iridescent plumes
still shimmer green and blue
as their vermilion scimitar bills chatter
in the to-and-fro, to-and-fro
sway of their familial ritual.
What cacophony when one has won
itself a fat gecko—the chicks won't go hungry.

I left the haphazardly arranged feathers
in the wooden frame of the French doors
I no longer unlock and enter.

The two cereal bowls
left on the table
where we did everything
have been reduced
to one.
And the table simply is.  

Now I work among veteran soldiers—
Old Pigeons with crooked feet
caused by all the lines
they've crossed, all the twines
they've tangled with, but Pigeons,
they survive without their feet.

And instead of temple trees,
buildings line the way home—
concrete and steel constructions
among long ribbons of asphalt and . . .

From a distance,
up on the third storey,
it looks like a jungle out there,
but no, on the ground,
up close, it is just human.

I still keep the Owl's feather away from the day-birds',
but I no longer collect more feathers.

No, instead, I tuck symbolic quills behind my ear.

Sagittarius serpentarius

The image of the Secretarybird towers
over the rest of the symbols
on the Official Documents I peruse.
Contracts.
I walk away, tucking the quill.

In the land of the blind, there is a one-eyed rule:
close the other eye.  

I feel the rhythm of keys beneath icy fingers,
eyes tearing from the glare of the monitor,
retracted quills rising—  
unseen antennae erected on the back of my neck—
a human lie detector.

Type, type, type:
repudiation,
subrogation,
violation . . .

Hit the letters with the power of the word.

Noisy little twitter-bird to my left,
on top of her office chair,
she’s raucous like a hysterical Mynah:

"****-****-****-****...**** everything!!!"

Absconding the scene,
I stamp, stamp, stamp
AR numbers, CAS numbers, verified.

The African masks behind my workstation:
ugly metaphors for who I really am.

Sagittarius serpentarius

A Marching Eagle,
the Devil's Horse,
the Secretarybird;
sitting in a concrete cage,
my youngest would've died of starvation,
so I let her fly a long way from home,
but nonetheless home
with her Lily-Pad-Walker father.

Jesus-bird,

With legs like a crane but scalier,
a Marching Eagle doesn't walk on water.
It stands close to the grassland fire,
waiting for its prey.
Then stomping.
Then crushing bones.
Then swallowing whole.

Balance is unnecessary.
Just bend and kick,

backwards.

Saqr-et-tair: hawk-bird, hunter-bird.

He said his heart was a dreaming Red Hawk
whose eyes he wouldn't let me see,
and Bukowski's heart was a Blue Bird of pain.
I said I didn't know
what sort of bird lived in mine,
but it dreamt the same dream:
giant wings
breaking out of its ribbed cage . . .
long runway . . .
long runway. . .
then slow, deep *****
of----------of-----------of------------of----------------of
bad weather and . . .

I fear the day it tires of dreaming.

Offices. Soldiers. Pigeons.

I slip gunpowder pillulets under my tongue:
Homeopathic medicine for this virus.

There is a Barn Owl in my mirror,
steamed up. I dream
a ****** of Crows
alights on my brow,
but I am too feverish to catch them.
Too weak.
I dream a ****** of Crows
rising from the loquat tree
where my eldest was born,

across the road . . .

I watch them
from the third storey of a collection of cages,
and I know
this building
is a cold-hearted-thirty-three-eyed-soldier
with a dog tag for a tongue,
and a contract
bound to the crooked feet of the Pigeons I didn't feed.

It didn't start off with a white cake
carrying forty-something candles
Rather, it was the chimes of the phone alarm
later, a cold run through the foggy streets
then back home to nurse the joint pains

The phone buzzed with messages
first from the wife, then my best friend,
then my brother, to whom I got to respond
"and the same to you too"
then my ghost friend, who only sends a message
on this day, each year
before vanishing out of my life

I'm home today, having a party of sorts
with the twin monitors
and the tailless mouse
At least they look dressed up for the occasion
sitting on the workstation
in their black soft-plastic jackets
They don't dance or sing or even mumble anything
They only look down at my fingers
going back and forth
around the letters of the alphabet
as I go to work while sitting at home

At this age, I muse to myself
some people don't want to remember
how they have moved closer
in the journey towards
forgetting one's name, family
and eventually how to eat

And almost imperceptibly
we have become the dad, or mum
or auntie that we looked up to
or held under the magnifying glass
and judged for their decisions on our lives

But now I'm only trying
to live in the moment
as I pour a bit of whiskey
swirl it around gently in the glass,
watching if it shows
within its brown circular current
the regrets of the past
or the shrouded future
and hopefully, the number of my age

Just in 5 days of being in Zanzibar
I have concluded that a pair of jeans in this heat is not working
By midday my jeans are moist and heavy from my sweat
Seated on my workstation I can feel the sweat forming in between my thighs
And running down my legs
All the time my jeans have saved me
But not on this trip
I still have 56 more days on this island
I need to buy me some kanga or chitenge

I ponder, about the stars in the sky
and the endless expanse of space.
It's complete silence and variation in states
I ponder, what are we doing in this place?

We seek light and desire sound,
But it's all dark and silent all around.
What is it that distinguishes day from night?
How is it that wrong is never right?

I ponder what our true nature is.
Is it chaos? Or is it peace?
Are humans really natural and rational?
The body is superficial and it's peripherals;
Programmable.

We contradict everything in the universe.
Our intellect only makes it worse.
We ought to be silent and at peace,
While we're noisy and fight for piece.

Why is it like this? I think I know,
We've ignored a tiny detail called the soul
The body which you constantly love;
Is actually the peripheral of this soul.

The soul is a universe in itself,
Maybe a reflection or a workstation of it.
It's in perfect harmony with the universe,
It's silent, it's peaceful. The only wait: is for us.

-The Silent poet

The dark cloud found me that morning. Consumed by anxiety, I threw myself onto the sofa, pulled the blanket over my head, and closed my eyes to the world.

Oddly feeling weightless and fatigued, I meandered to the bathhouse for a shower, hoping that would help. I breathed, I argued, bargained, and prayed. At least I felt clean.

It was nearly ten O’clock when I departed my home. I strung on another late work day into my week, but I wore that string of black pearls with little guilt. I set up my workstation and completed a task before being summoned to the airport. Ben was finally coming home.

With low energy, I greeted my husband and drove back to work. We hugged and kissed and he drove off. I slugged my way back to the office feeling tired, empty, and numb.

My attempt at productivity that afternoon proved futile. I had to reset, and I knew what to do.

I grabbed my binoculars, my shades, and my tunes (but I didn’t listen to them). I let the flow of traffic set the mood.

Strolling up Main Street, I felt weightless even more, like outside of myself. I arrived at the riverside. As I stood at the water’s edge, the birds flew by and I studied them. I began my checklist as I usually do, then united myself with a familiar dirt path. Immersed in the forest, I tried to breathe my demons away, but they wouldn’t move. I continued.

On my route, I heard bird calls in the brush. I saw a large, brown fledgling begging for lunch. Its parents arrived, but to my surprise their offspring doubled them in size.

It was a baby cowbird that had been laid in its foster parents’ nest. It’s not the vireos’ fault, they only did what they knew best.

At that moment it clicked. I saw my feelings manifested in an avian play. I couldn’t let the invader win the day.

Depression is like a cowbird, I told my friend. When you feed it, it thrives and grows, killing the chicks of joy nested in your head.

Lesson learned, don’t feed the cowbird.

Miriam completed her work promptly that day, cleaned up her workstation and stretched out her sore arms. She wanted to leave in time to take her photos from a studio close by her residence. She glanced out the window at the purple sky. She stared at the small photograph at her desk for a few seconds in silence.
Then she took her gold brown purse and crimson scarf and took off. When she stepped out of the building, her black boots sank into the ground. She cupped her red and cold small button nose with her small hands and looked up at the sky. It was snowing deep that day too, she pondered.

She passed by the studio and took her photos after a long chatter with the vendor, as the dark blue of the sky lurked above. When she reached her house with envelope in hand, at last, she did with her lips open.

“What’s the matter?” she said in bewilderment and little aggravation.
“Come and sit. I have something to tell you, dear.” her mother, Mona, said decisively.
Miriam went inside the house. She walked up the stairs to her room and closed the door. She put the brown envelope of her photos, carefully on her desk and sat on her chair and took a deep breath.

She opened her eyes at the sound of Mona knocking.
” Miriam, I need to talk to you. It is very important.” Mona said.
Miriam got up and opened the door, she followed after her mother downstairs into the living room and sat on a comfortable sofa by the inviting fireplace and looked at her mother.
They sat in silence for a minute.
“We got a call from…” Mona said in hesitation, with her lips wavering.
Now, Miriam’s eyes were focused on her mother’s face. On her brows. On the slight frown in her forehead. On the wrinkles that emerged and faded as she uttered every letter between her trembling lips.

“Joseph is dead. He’s dead, Miriam.” Mona said.

Miriam was not facing her mother anymore. She was gazing at the window, at the little white snowflakes swirling slowly with the wind.
“I see.” Miriam said.
“They said…he was killed in action. He was…” Mona said.
“There is no need to tell me anything more.” Mona said disrupting her.
All she did was stand up and walk to her room wordlessly. Tears streamed hot ardently down Mona’s cheeks, dripping from her bony jaw line.

Miriam locked the door. She threw herself in her bed staring at the brown envelope and reaching one arm to open it. She took out the photographs and took her time with each one.
She stared at each one with an indolent expression.
She frowned when she saw one photo of Joseph, striking a pose at an airport.
What a terrible sense of fashion. What was he thinking? She thought.
He was wearing an olive green knitted sweater with a red-nosed deer pattern, ill-fitting baggy jeans and a dark brown knitted scarf.
Then she beamed at the one dimple that appeared when he grinned.
She traced his features and expression; a long nose, a pointed chin and brown almond eyes. She traced them with her fingers. With her memory.

A tear dropped on Joseph. On his dark brown hair.

She shredded the photographs to pieces, slowly one by one and threw them very gently on the floor.

She clenched to her blanket tightly. She pressed her arms against her chest as hard as she could trying to hold something scorched in. She felt her ribs melting.
She kept gaping with her eyes wide-open, focused on the ceiling on the buzzing neon lights. After a while, her swollen eyes surrendered and her thick-lashed lids closed. Her breaths became deeper and her grip on the blanket loosened up a little.

It was long past midnight when she woke up. She got up and took off her clothes. She stared at the photographs on the floor with her mouth open. She opened the window and stood at the balcony at the break of dawn, unwary of her nakedness or the frosting cold. The heavens snowed generously as the sun rays glittered on the icy glass, on the white streets. She took the torn pieces of the photographs. She took a brief final glance at them, at a piece with almond eyes, then threw them off the balcony scattering them with the wind.

Take to the air away with the snow, just like it took Joseph away from me, Miriam thought.
She made a wish upon every snowflake to bear her grief and make her heart colder.

Romance is a sweaty assembly line
With shop talk and flying metal shards
Cracked safety glasses and warning signs
Hot oil, bolts and screws, and heat guards

Romance is 12-hour long night shifts
After 8 hours of class and study
Stuck in a warehouse with men on forklifts
And a redhead too shy to talk to me

Romance is a bold negotiation
Bargaining for his job next to her
A week of cleaning his workstation
A week to get her interest to spur

Romance is a stupid expression
A flower, chocolates and teddy bear
In front of the guys, a bad decision
Her running away, face as red as her hair

Romance is a terrible movie
She insisted I watch at her place
A film - to this day - I’ve yet to see
And, yet, its mention still makes my heart race

Romance is losing yourself as you touch
Fingers running softly through her long hair
And feeling lucky she wants you so much
Even after an ill-timed teddy bear

Dear mother.
Though my love for you is unconditional,
As the love of family should be
I have learned to accept that it is not returned.

When I say it should be,
I mean that I hold the same value as the picture frames that linger on your workstation.

When I say it is not returned,
I mean that when I’m finally introduced to new people, they are not shocked that you have another daughter.

Unconditional does not mean I linger in the shadows of your embarrassment, right next to the divorce you almost had.
I have learned to accept the darkness, as your only source of love.

Dear mother, why has it not occurred to you that a heartbreak doesn’t have to be a lover.
Your tongue of blades has cut my soul for the last time.

You are often the topic of my therapy session, always ending in “why do you give her so much control?”.
My only answer is that it must be my unwillingness to accept that maybe God doesn’t think I need a family.

What is a life where not once, but twice you have been cast out of the cult that is supposed to be life long.
Maybe the cult is life long, but your love for me never will be.

Dear mother how can you not see that you are my biggest threat.
My guts spill out of my stomach onto my feet every time you message me.
My chest conclaves into itself for protection.

How does my ability to love the same *** equate the audacity of ******.
Since when does love become a bigger threat than the *** trafficking that takes place right on our doorsteps.

Dear mother, how can you not understand that heartbreak doesn’t have to be a lover, but sometimes reveals Itself to be a mother.

Above title attests
how mine mundane mein kampf
insync as a veritable clogged drain oh:
flush with adventure overflowing excrement
er... rather excitement.

Apt aforementioned accurate personal description
believe me not, but urination
and defecation née emergency evacuation,
where majority of human league
smell bound with fascination
triggered (reasonably rhyming) inspiration
culmination of requisite time
sitting atop porcelain goddess
devoid of hesitation and trepidation
herewith follows mine poetic ululation
hoop fully invites veneration.

Poetic embellishment doth belie
ever since garden variety generic guy
long since experienced being little boy
mean kids constantly teased and bullied me
on account yours truly being small fry
barely invisible to naked eye
bullied (most my entire boyhood)
as scapegoat, I did decry
pleading lame feeble alibi,

especially when tawny punk
named Phil (actually a groundhog)
threw suckerpunch witnessing,
yours truly feigned falling
upon wounded knobby knee
to avoid me countenance being pummeled
courtesy knuckle sandwich
they threatened to apply.

One puny socially verily withdrawn lad
no surprise experienced suicidal ideation
throughout public school even as undergrad
never wagon figurative tail when fired
from one after another workstation.

Hence metaphorically hermetically sealed self
against incessant beastie boys squirreled away
amidst imaginative escapes courtesy bookshelf
isolates myself, viz remaining figuratively at bay
interestingly enough petrified livingsocial whereby
flesh and bone closely resembled hardened clay

hashtagged Matthew Scott Harris as pipsqueak
deadset to halt physical maturation without delay
anorexia nervosa (modus operandi) did buzzfeed
starved and emaciated lovely bones as main entree
unbeknownst then, but clear as a bell now
emotional state of parents unspooled and didst fray
father and mother aghast their pallor went ashen gray

grim reaper wielding large scythe intimating hooray
approximately half dozen years later
both parents relentlessly vilified verbally hammered
and especially didst inveigh
against their sole singular son
born thirteenth of January
hooded think those folks
who begot me more cruel fate
then being lynched courtesy triple "K."

Gambone builders bought property razed demesne
to escape vitriolic wrath atop roof at Glen Elm, I lay
nevertheless indelible memories emotional reprieve
spiritual succor delivered upon many a bygone May
when heat radiating off shingles served newgateway
passing time and wishing myself far as Norway
adopting role of bachelor farmer,
or even time traveling
back Catskills circa Borscht Belt,
also known as Jewish Alps oy vey.

Yours truly risk averse
which characteristic,
I declare constitutes curse
thus isolation found me sprawled out
upon wuthering heights
against regular diet of diatribes
delivered carte blanche
with expletive filled verse
toward solitary son ill fate
receiving nasty brutal abuse
considered dying far less worse.

Precious minutes and hours atop
seven gabled hideaway blithely did elapse
me gingerly scuttling out attic window
though agoraphobic and loathe to drop
distance and no longer courting death
no matter concluding life (during
early/mid twenties) total flop
merely wishing raging machinations
against male offspring would stop.

Hurtful words yelled after papa
guzzled bottles of vermouth
(not really, I admittedly prevaricate)
courtesy late father and mother
resoundingly, severely, terrifyingly,
wickedly, violently uncouth
subjected imbalanced earthling
(yours truly - me)
think venomous metaphorical
****** blackened barbs,
viz inconveniently grossly, egregiously

one after another hurtful
figurative daggers antithesis of truth,
albeit synopsis regarding
second born (middle child - sole son)
begat courtesy Harriet and Boyce
upon their psychologically harried
flesh out the womb of young mother
(both parents now long since deceased)
now said heir long in the tooth
wordsmith here wonders why forsooth
he tolerated torturous abuse.

Above title attests how mine mundane mein kampf
insync as a veritable clogged drain oh:
flush with adventure overflowing excrement
er... rather excitement.

Apt aforementioned accurate personal description
believe me not, but urination
and defecation née emergency evacuation
triggered (reasonably rhyming) inspiration
culmination of requisite time
sitting atop porcelain goddess
devoid of hesitation and trepidation
herewith follows mine poetic ululation
hoop fully invites veneration .

Ever since garden variety generic guy
long since experienced being little boy
mean kids constantly teased and bullied me
on account yours truly being small fry
barely invisible to naked eye
bullied (most my entire boyhood)
as scapegoat, I did decry
pleading lame feeble alibi,

especially when punks
threw suckerpunch witnessing,
yours truly feigned falling
upon wounded knobby knee
to avoid me countenance being pummeled
courtesy knuckle sandwich
they threatened to apply.

One puny socially verily withdrawn lad
no surprise experienced suicidal ideation
throughout public school even as undergrad
never wagon figurative tail when fired
from one after another workstation.

Hence metaphorically hermetically sealed self
against incessant beastie boys squirreled away
amidst imaginative escapes courtesy bookshelf
isolates myself, viz remaining figuratively at bay
interestingly enough petrified livingsocial whereby
flesh and bone closely resembled hardened clay

hashtagged Matthew Scott Harris as pipsqueak
deadset to halt physical maturation without delay
anorexia nervosa (modus operandi) did buzzfeed
starved and emaciated lovely bones as main entree
unbeknownst then, but clear as a bell now
emotional state of parents unspooled and didst fray
father and mother aghast their pallor went ashen gray

grim reaper wielding large scythe intimating hooray
approximately half dozen years later
both parents relentlessly vilified verbally hammered
and especially didst inveigh
against their sole singular son
born thirteenth of January
hooded think those folks
who begot me more cruel fate
then being lynched courtesy triple "K."

Gambone builders bought property razed demesne
to escape vitriolic wrath atop roof at Glen Elm, I lay
nevertheless indelible memories emotional reprieve
spiritual succor delivered upon many a bygone May
when heat radiating off shingles served newgateway
passing time and wishing myself far as Norway
or even time traveling
back Catskills circa Borscht Belt,
also known as Jewish Alps oy vey.

Yours truly risk averse
which characteristic,
I declare constitutes curse
thus isolation found me sprawled out
upon wuthering heights
against regular diet of diatribes
delivered carte blanche
with expletive filled verse
toward solitary son ill fate
receiving nasty brutal abuse
considered dying far less worse.

Precious minutes and hours atop
seven gabled hideaway blithely did elapse
me gingerly scuttling out attic window
though agoraphobic and loathe to drop
distance and no longer courting death
no matter concluding life (during
early/mid twenties) total flop
merely wishing rage against
male offspring would stop.

Hurtful words yelled after papa
guzzled bottles of vermouth
(not really, I admittedly prevaricate)
courtesy late father and mother
resoundingly, severely, terrifyingly,
wickedly, violently uncouth
subjected imbalanced earthling
(yours truly - me)
think venomous metaphorical
****** blackened barbs,
viz inconveniently grossly, egregiously

one after another hurtful
figurative daggers antithesis of truth,
albeit synopsis regarding
second born (middle child - sole son)
begat courtesy Harriet and Boyce
upon their psychologically harried
flesh out the womb of young mother
(both parents now long since deceased)
now said heir long in the tooth
wordsmith here wonders why forsooth
he tolerated torturous abuse.

Above title attests how mine
mundane mein kampf
flush with adventure overflowing excitement.

Apt aforementioned accurate personal description
culmination of decades worth
hesitation and trepidation.

Ever since garden variety generic guy
long since experienced being little boy
mean kids constantly teased and bullied me
on account yours truly being small fry.

One puny socially verily withdrawn lad
no surprise experienced suicidal ideation
throughout public school even as undergrad
never wagon figurative tail when fired
from one after another workstation.

Hence metaphorically hermetically sealed self
against incessant beastie boys squirreled away
amidst imaginative escapes courtesy bookshelf
isolates myself, viz remaining figuratively at bay
interestingly enough petrified livingsocial whereby
flesh and bone closely resembled hardened clay

hashtagged Matthew Scott Harris as pipsqueak
deadset to halt physical maturation without delay
anorexia nervosa (modus operandi) did buzzfeed
starved and emaciated lovely bones
as main entree
unbeknownst then, but clear as a bell now
emotional state of parents
unspooled and didst fray
father and mother aghast
their pallor went ashen gray

grim reaper wielding
large scythe intimating hooray
approximately half dozen years later
both parents relentlessly vilified
verbally hammered
and especially didst inveigh
against their sole singular son
born thirteenth of January
hooded think those folks
who begot me cruel as kkk

to escape vitriolic wrath atop roof at Glen Elm, I lay
Gambone builders bought property
razed demesne
nevertheless indelible memories
emotional reprieve
spiritual succor delivered upon
many a bygone May
when heat radiating off shingles
served newgateway
passing time and wishing myself far as Norway.

Yours truly risk averse
which characteristic,
I declare constitutes curse
thus isolation found me sprawled out
upon wuthering heights
against regular diet of diatribes
delivered carte blanche
with expletive filled verse
toward solitary son ill fate
receiving nasty brutal abuse
considered dying far less worse.

Precious minutes and hours atop
gabled hideaway blithely did elapse
me gingerly scuttling out attic window
though agoraphobic and loathe to drop
distance and no longer courting death
no matter concluding life (during
early/mid twenties) total flop
merely wishing rage against
male offspring would stop.

Inconvenient stated truth,
albeit synopsis regarding
second born (middle child)
begat courtesy Harriet and Boyce
upon their psychologically harried
flesh of young blood

yelling hurtful words severely uncouth
(both parents deceased),
now said heir long in the tooth
who wonders why forsooth
he tolerated torturous abuse.

Short lived amnesia found
his highness (ha... ha... ha... hm)
drawing a (figurative) blank
today January 54th, 2021,

when the misses asked yours truly
to access Verizon voicemail,
me noggin made a clank,
no doubt forgetfulness potion I drank
helps explain the circumstance
spilled (er spelled) ernest and frank.

After uttering expletive
stronger than tarnation
sought after digital information
re: 1-888-234-6786, I handily
pressed telephone keys right away
courtesy five fingertips,
and thumb expecting standing ovation

course I practiced self abnegation
and adamantly refrained
exclaiming these
bone a fied digits of flesh
the best most intelligent in creation,
my memory recalling telephone numerals
more difficult then acquiring k-ration.

Maybe you - anonymous
dear reader unwittingly applauded
(courtesy butterfly effect -
vibrations felt in Schwenksville)
impacted one garden variety human
comfortably nestled within dwelling
functioning as his remote workstation.

Nevertheless, your friendly martian, i.e. me
(from the outer limits
of the twilight zone
ofttimes analogously scurrying
like dark shadow creeping
along the edge of night)
somehow either discerned

(felt, heard or saw)
aforementioned reverberation
unbeknownst to yours truly,
thought he detected, and
felt atmospheric perturbations,
which I automatically fantasized
indicative of a strange being
housed within alien nation.

Pray tell - soundcloud I sensed
twas thee, a faux Earthling,
who telepathically communicated
to mine overactive imagination
please be courteous and befriend
plus promise to whisk me away

to never never land,
regardless whether cultural heritage
of population constitutes
a cross between
Alsatian, cetacean,
Croatian, claymation, Dalmatian,
Haitian, Thracian, et cetera.

If you hear me speak of home,
It is of a place small and tidy:
A desk of half-a-dozen half-read books,
Of neutral colored sheets and cottons,
Of a barely drunk can of water,
Just beside empty cans of cider
Of a mostly empty bed,
My PlayStation and my workstation
A place where my comfort
Is not up for negotiation

One day the Queen of Ireland was sitting on her throne
She had her very stylish professional business suit on
She had her hair neatly coiffured
On her lap she had a Chromebook computer
which she was avidly looking at
And strangely, she was crying, yea! she was sobbing to herself
Her Top Aide seen her and immediately rushed over  
"Your Majesty, what's the matter ?" he inquired
But she couldn't answer him such was her distress
"Is it the state of the world" he asked, "is it...is it the climate crisis or the... the Brexit (the UK leaving the EU European Union), what!!!"
The Queen looked at him almost pleadingly and then finally she blubbed
"No! It's.... it's Bardo, he's written another poem"
"Bardo! " replied the Aide a little exasperated, "Not him again. You can't be getting upset your Majesty every time he writes a poem"
The Queen went on dreamily "What a beautiful heart but what a tortured soul"
She then looked at her Aide in a strict kind of way and said "It's no good, I've got to meet him, I've got to know him"
Her Aide cautioned against it, he said "Your Majesty shouldn't lower herself to seeking out some obscure poet guy, sure poets are two a penny in this country"
This angered the Queen, she stamped her foot and then said forcefully
"I'm the Queen of this country and he is one of my subjects in My Kingdom
I have a right, I have the authority"
So, so she issued a proclamation/ decree
In every parish in Ireland posters were put up seeking the identity and whereabouts of the poet Bardo.

Suddenly a lot of Bardos started popping up all over the place
Yea, lots of people were coming forward claiming to be Bardo
It was said in one County a strange man wearing a mask and riding a horse, with a sword dangling by his side came forward
He said "Are you looking for Zardo ?"
'No!' he was told "we're looking for Bardo"
"Oh!" he said and went off disappointedly.

The Queen knew these people they couldn't all be Bardo
So she used set them a test
"If you're Bardo", she'd say, "then recite to me a new Bardo poem, yes! A brand new poem"
This invariably would throw them all off
Suddenly they'd start getting nervous and unsure of themselves
"So you... you want a new Bardo poem"
Yes! would reply the Queen, you must have some newer poems or bits of poems
So one of the Bardos would begin rather shakily "Mmmm... Aaah... then they'd start to recite
"The Sweetness that was, it is no more
It's... it's flown out the feckin' door "
The Queen could tell straightaway "You're not Bardo "
Another of the Bardos began "The sadness it never ceases, it's a ceaseless sadness/ It's not a gladness, it's.. it's more of a badness.... your Highness "
Again the Queen passed a speedy judgement "Neither are you Bardo",
The Queen began to despair a bit about the dishonesty of people
She began to feel very gloomy and disheartened
That was until... until one day out of the blue she received a strange letter which was unlike all the other letters
It was from a lady who was a former nurse
She said her and a friend of hers had been Carers for an elderly couple for many years
And they had a son who they still kept in touch with, they'd go out for the occasional meal
Often he'd drink too much and then he'd start talking and would tell them that as a hobby to take him away from the stress of his job
He used write things mostly poems and he'd post them online somewhere
He said he wrote under a pseudonym but he wouldn't tell them what it was
She said that when the Queen issued her decree she went and read some of Bardo's poems
And she thought she could recognise some of the stories her friend told in Bardo's poems.  She suspected he might be... yes! Bardo.

The Queen was intrigued by this letter
It gave her new heart...new hope
But how... how could she proceed
Finally she hatched a plan, she thought she'd just visit Bardo's house on the pretext
That they'd received a report that Bardo lived around that area somewhere
She'd just ask him straight out if he knew of him
And see what his reaction was.

So the next day she set off in her big chauffeur driven BMW car
They pulled up to the driveway of a house
The house locked a bit ramshackley, in poor condition
It could have done with a new coat of paint
The tarmac too was very worn
And there were weeds growing in the flowerbeds
Inside the porch sun room it looked a bit rough as well
There were tools strewn around it like someone was working there
She rang the front doorbell
After a few moments a figure in a beanie hat answered the door
The Queen introduced herself and then asked if he knew of a poet named Bardo living in the area, that they'd received a report
The figure looked a bit stunned at first, then he smiled and bowed a short bow as if acknowledging who she was
Then he said "Bardo.... it's not a very original name for a poet, is it, is he any good ? "
"He's a wonderful writer I think", the Queen replied, "his poems they really speak to me, I'm a big fan, I'd love to meet him"
The figure pondered a moment then shook his head in a kind of amateurish theatrical way and said "Mmmm No, I'm sorry I don't... I don't know this... this Bardo"
Then he smiled and said "If I was a poet, an Irish poet writing under a pseudonym
I'd call myself something like... like Spudy Potato"
"Do you write?" asked the Queen
Here the figure stumbled a bit in his answer
He said"No!" and then stammered "Not...not really"
The Queen got a funny feeling about him, his replies and demeanor didn't seem to ring true somehow
So she changed tack, she said they'd been driving all day long and wondered might she possibly have a cup of tea as she was parched, she even said she'd pay for it,
The figure declined her offer to pay, saying instead he'd be greatly honoured to have her as a guest
Although he said he'd have to apologise for the state of his house
"It's a real Man Cave" he said inviting her in, "not much feminine influence here unfortunately".
"You live here all on your own", the Queen asked
He nodded and said a bit wearily, "All on my lonesome" and then smiling added "I have no one to talk to now not since my cat passed away"
(The Queen remembered Bardo's cat poems Tommy Tigers and The Defector)
"You're a cat person", she said
He smiled nodding his head "Cats are funny".
"You don't get lonely living alone ?"
"Oh! " he shrugged, "sure we're all alone in the end anyway" he said enigimatically
(The Queen was reminded of a Bardo poem The Great Alone)
He added again smiling "Didn't Oscar Wilde once say 'Living with yourself is the beginning of a lifelong romance'
When he went off to make the tea the Queen watched after him, she could see an inner room where there was a computer set up like a workstation...
As she waited she took a look around the porch sunroom, she could see some dust upon a table and on the window sills
And she noticed there were holes in the carpet which seemed very old
And also there were some spindly spiders up on the ceiling
She was reminded of the Bardo poem "I'll do anything for you Baby but I won't clean my house".
When he came back with two big mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits
The figure apologized again for the state of the room
He explained he liked to keep it looking a bit rough
As he thought no thief or burglar would be interested in robbing such a poor looking house.
She asked did he work from home
He replied "Ever since the Covid yes! we've had to work from home"
The Queen was reminded of the poem "Working from home".
Suddenly the figure went to say something but seemed to have some difficulty getting the words out
He stammered "Wh..wh...wh" then he stopped and apologised, he said he had a bit of a stammer sometimes
The Queen remembered in the poem 'Working from Home' Bardo had a stammer
He went on "What I wanted to say was why do you like this poet so much ?"
She thought for a moment and then said almost dreamily "It's the things he writes about Loneliness, longing, being empty inside, about his youth and the hope he had when starting out... it's like he's trying to make sense of his life...and he's funny... quirky things like that"
"But why would you be interested in those things, sure you're a Queen, you must have everything, your life must be so full"
"Sometimes it gets so lonely", she replied sadly, "it's like you're living in a bubble, I often wonder what's it all about, I feel so lost and alone sometimes... and so empty inside"
Suddenly the Queen sat up in her chair as if regaining herself  
She said, she admitted "You know"I haven't been completely honest with you, calling on you today
It was no accident
We received a report that you wrote poetry and that you post it online in secret
We thought that you might be him... that you might be Bardo
The Queen noticed a marked reticence or reluctance in the Poet
"Oh!", he said
So to assuage the situation she asked "Would you recite to me one of your poems... I'd love to hear one... please"
"Oh!", the Poet replied shyly, "you don't want to hear any of my ramblings"
"Oh yes I would ", she replied enthusiastically, "would you not recite one... one for your Queen"
She fluttered her eyelids, "Please! Pretty please "
The Poet smiled at this and at her enthusiasm
"Well I have one that I never showed to anyone, it's a bitter type of poem, a bitter Blues type of poem, it has some coarse language now
It's about a poet who writes but never seems to get anywhere, he feels he's been left behind... forgotten
It's called... I know you're not supposed to use clichés but this saying sparked/ inspired the poem, it's called "I couldn't even get arrested "
"Read it to me please ", said the Queen expectantly, "I'd love to hear it"
So the Poet rose to his feet and cleared his throat and began...

"I couldn't even get arrested

My soul it sings like a sad violin
Busking on a street where few ever come
From another street I hear loud applause and cheers
They want the young not some old gun like me
I couldn't even get arrested.

They pass me by and they don't bat an eye
Like I'm someone not worth knowing, my story not worth telling
"You think you're something special", they seem to say
"Man you're just wasting your time, you ain't got that Do Re Mi" -
I tried, Lord I tried, ain't no one tried harder than me
But I couldn't even get arrested.

I feel like Vincent Van Gogh must have felt
Pouring my heart out for all to see
Naked I stood there
But no one wanted me
All that time I gave to rhyme and nothing to show for it
Was I just ******* my life away
I couldn't even get arrested.

Browsing down the bookstore
Seems these days everyone's got a book but me
Young girls and boys writing books like their toys
Just for fun so it seems
But me, I couldn't even get arrested.

Is it a Jinx or what
Has someone put a spell on me
Or is it you're just no feckin' good...
I couldn't even get arrested.

So I guess I'll just keep plugging away
Putting it out there and hoping some day
Knowing nothing will ever come of it
I'm battered and broken and too old to care
I couldn't even get arrested".

The Poet stopped and looked over at the Queen a little uncertainly as if seeking her approval
She looked speechless, spellbound even
She rose to her feet and then exclaimed excitedly "Bardo!! It is you!"
She went on "I think... I think I'm in love with you"
"Yea", the Poet said a little dismissively, and gesturing to his room "come and live in relative poverty and obscurity with me"
As she stood there looking at him she was reminded strangely of a story from out of the Bible
The story of the sick lady who was trying to get to Jesus
But was hampered by the crowd
And she thinks "If only I could touch the hem of his garment I know I'd be healed"
She thought as she looked at him "If only I could kiss him I know I'd be made whole"
She edged closer to Bardo
"You've got lovely dark blue eyes"
He replied  looking down at her "Y'know you've got the loveliest, the cutest little nose there Queenie"
The Queen was reminded of Bardo's poem 'Little Perky Nose'
Her face moved closer to his, then suddenly she made a sudden lunge forward
She placed her lips on his and kissed him
(She even slipped in a bit of tongue there)
Suddenly there was this blinding flash
Outside, the Queen's big car had turned into this big bank of leaves
Which then collapsed on the ground and blew away in the breeze
Her chauffeur too, he'd turned into this big... this big Badger, he went scurrying off into the undergrowth
The Queen herself too, why she'd been transformed
Now instead of a Business suit, now she wore this lovely dress with lovely flower designs and  bright colours on it
And her hair, now it fell naturally in lovely thick long tresses down her back
Her face too, had been transformed, was radiant, she had these lovely rosy cheeks and brilliant shining eyes
The Poet looking at her, strangely he could only speak to her in the Irish (as Gaelige... pronounced '*** gale-le-ga')
"Ta tu go h-alainn", he said (translated 'You are beautiful '... pronounced 'Thaw too gut hauling ')
"Ta tu cailin deas" (translated "You're a Lovely Girl"... pronounced 'Thaw too Colleen jass"....)

He took her hand in his, needless to say from that day forth they both lived  happily ever after.