Peeing: to ***; to urinate; to release the body of its liquid toxins; to pass or discharge *****; characteristically yellow- the strength of the color depending on the body’s hydration.
People have strange habits when peeing; urinating; releasing the body of their liquid toxins. Some people procrastinate it to the last minute and rush to the bathroom, barely yanking their pants down in time and shuddering in relief. They are those who habitually whip in and out, even when they don’t really need to. There’s the common usage of an escape from boredom in classes or meetings. Perhaps it even causes a slight blushing in the cheeks of painfully shy woman at hearing rushed tinkling so close by. And of course, they are also the people who love to leave surprises for the next person who uses the bathroom.
All in all, peeing seems to mean not much to people – a small part of life; but a very, very necessary part.  

                                 *                 *                    * .

The rain poured furiously outside the window as Emily sat, straining her brown eyes against the whiteboard flashing images of trigonometry from Mr. Well’s laptop, trying hard to concentrate. She was sitting in her usual seat in class, and also her favorite. It was a solitary table with a chair, away from the clusters of tables and the chattering children, and the only chair by the window. She liked to look out the window, even if it distracted her from Mr. Well’s loud explanations. The booming of “SOHCAHTOA” in her ears became distant as the wind’s movement caught her eye. She gazed out on sheets of rain flapping across the sky like giant teary spirits and pressed her fingertips on the glass. Cold.
Absent-mindedly, she pressed her cheek against the coolness and felt it absorb her body warmth. Her imagination kicked in and the glass became a panel of energy, ******* a little life from all those who touched it, vibrating with a strange purple light until it was so filled with energy the particles of the glass would explode and she would be the first to die from the sharp shatters that would spray across the room, causing droplets of blood to-
Ahem.
Mr. Well coughed meaningfully at her dreamy face. The class exploded into laughter and the bell rang. A skinny girl smiled at her but she was so lost in her own world, she forgot to smile back as she slung her bag on her shoulder and ran out. Maybe that’s why she didn’t have too many friends.
The dark skies were pouring furiously as only Bangkok in Monsoon weather can.
A walk home or a motorbike ride? A motorbike ride would be a little dangerous in this flooding… and with that reasoning she waved up a motorbike. The seat was soaked and so was the driver, whose brown leathered feet struggled to keep red flip-flops on as they sloshed through the flooded Sois.
Fat water bullets pelted her skin and the wind blew them ferociously into her face till her eyes stung. The motorbike swerved in and out of the cars stuck in traffic (slightly floating), the bottoms of their wheels immersed in ***** water.
The pockets of her school shorts were hastily rummaged through and she pulled out a soggy green twenty-baht note bank before running into the shelter of the lobby, dripping over the marble floor and completely drenched. The building-maid widened her eyes, and watched her horrified; knowing it meant extra work mopping and drying up the lobby floor as soon as Emily vanished into the elevator.
The plastic button with the circular metal piece glowed orange. It was strange how she was shivering with cold but her touch was still warm enough to light up the elevator buttons.
The usual itchy, impulsive, restlessness was building up inside her from the wet motorbike ride. Thunder roared and crackled through the lobby’s swinging glass doors and they vibrated slightly. Another flashing image of splintering glass splashed across her mind and in the split-second, she saw the diamond shards pierce the eye of the lobby’s guard and splinter across the floor-
She shook her head. This was what happened when she had too much pent-up energy. She had to do something- something reckless and fast and dangerous… now! A bolt of lightning went through her as a familiar wide open space came into her mind… the rooftop of her thirty-five floored building.
The elevator ride up was slow, much too slow for the fast pacing of her heart and she hit the metal doors with wet fists. Tearing out of the doors when it finally jolted to a stop, she climbed up to the top, running up the stairs two steps at a time and caught her breath. It was flooded up to her ankles and violent gusts of wind made her steady herself.
Emily’s Dad often told her stories of when he was child. “The winds in my home during Monsoon season were so strong we could lean into it with our fully body weight and we wouldn’t fall. It was almost as good as flying.”
Her lids squinted shut and the sensitive skin was immediately exposed to the pebbles of the rain and whipping wind; and in almost dream-like state, she leaned into the howling wind.
There was a comically slow fall and her bony knees hit the concrete flooring with a dull thud. She burst into tears of laughter in her own stupidity at thinking the wind could hold up against her gigantic frame and rubbed her ***** knees sorely. Reaching up to wipe her tears with muddy fingers, she laughed to herself again. There was no point in wiping away tears. They were so trivial in comparison to the current weeping of the skies.
Against the thick opaqueness of the wind, she could see how the view towered over a jungle of buildings as far as the eyes could see, with snaking concrete roads and skinny black canals. Slums scattered around nearby swanky hotels of the rich. The buildings faded into small dark shapes in the distance. Bangkok.
No matter how tall and industrial it tried to become, everyone ran for cover under this blinding rain.
Up here, completely a victim to nature’s power, she felt exposed; naked; real. The animalistic instincts inside her swelled up. Humans weren’t meant to wear these annoying pieces of material or shoved inside skinny architectural designs. With aggressive tearing motions, a pile of soggy clothes half lay, half floated on the flooded floor beside her and she stood there bare… and completely naked. Laughter spilled out from the depths of her naked chest with the two tiny hints of possible womanhood; it was louder than thunder. Screaming, laughing and gasping she stumbled around – climbing over objects and feeling the beautiful dizziness: a sweet, sweet dizzy. She stood up on a random block a meter high; spread her arms wide as her wet body shone with raindrops. The rain threatened to push her over, her soaked hair twitching heavily on her neck.
She ****** in her breath, ready to yell so that the heavens could hear but instead, the voice that came out was controlled with a shaky undertone of joy,
“I need to ***.”
And then she did.

                                                *         *            *.

His eyes are brown. Dark chocolate brown – a simple, solid color. Simple and solid like him.
Because he was so simple, people enjoyed his companionship. Though he was simple, he was not boring. Rather he was sharp-mouthed, quick on his feet, witty and observant speaking bald truths about people that either provoked them to scandalized laughter or humiliated fury.
What some people forgot to recognize was that he didn’t really love anyone. Plenty called him a close friend, but so absorbed were they in their own world; they seldom realized the fact that most of his thoughts were concealed. Kept in a little box of surprises in the back of his mind, and hidden so well nobody knew they existed.
He could spend months with a friend traveling in a different country, and return back home with no feelings of attachment. He could care for a friend while they were here and not really miss them while they were gone.
Most of the time his eyes were neutral and observing and they would sparkle amusedly when he had provoked someone with his words. This was how remained to almost everyone; everyone but one person. The one person that could turn his normally calm face even more still, the dark brows would rise slightly and a quick flash of fire would shoot through his eyes- and for a long while, they would burn slowly like two twin coals; the one person who could cloud his eyes dreamily; the one person who could make them glint wetly.  
He reached over and grabbed her hand. Emily turned smiling eyes at him.
A group of teenagers were strolling down the closed roads, armed with water guns, pasted in thick white powder, thoroughly drenched in the hot, dry weather and skipping over puddles (except for Emily who splashed into them).
Songkran in Bangkok: celebrated in the middle of April where temperatures reach forty-degrees Celsius, Thailand’s New Year and a time to pay respect to the elders in the family, but as most traditions, they became really just an excuse to enjoy oneself and in this case, one-year-olds to eighty-year-olds roamed the ***** streets splashing ice-cold water from hoses and water guns and smeared each other with chalk in buckets.
The street they were being shoved along was crowded with slick, drunk bodies. The heat of the afternoon sun shone down on their backs. The sign that introduced excited people in was sprayed by a passing pick-up truck filled with screaming locals. “WELCOME TO SOI COWBOY” printed the red letters.
Red-faced fat foreigners held in each arm a tiny ******* with their bright lace bras showing through the wet see-through shirt and their black eye shadow playing havoc with their cheeks.  Country-side Thai music blared in its jumpy, quirky manner with the over done sound effects. Those nasal voices of dark skinned women with their skins covered with make-up to an ashy white whined out of the stereos. A man with the head of a buffalo mask sauntered past. It was a mark of how wild things got at Songkran that eyes merely flickered over the shirtless buffalo briefly with a quick laugh. Transsexuals clad in diamond-studded flip-flops, wet white tank tops and mini jeans shorts the size of underwear danced to the blasting music from the open pubs down either side of the road. Their surgically-made ******* were all-too visible in the white shirts, their dark ******* poking out as they grabbed the crotches of good-looking men and boys that passed by, squealing and rubbing their bodies against white men especially. Most of these white foreigners had a look of bewildered pleased ness... for only a few realized that underneath that squeaky voice was a very deep rumble, and underneath those lacy thongs lay a very big surprise indeed.
One of the better-looking boys in the group, his green eyes and pointed chin drawing the fancy of many hookers, was pulled off by four pairs of wet skinny arms touching him and yelling in broken English, “Oh so handsome! You so handsome! I love you! What your name! You tell me your name, handsome boy!”
The handsome boy proceeded to manage some sort of scream for help while laughing until his stomach ached. It was Songkran; it was a merry time, and he knew he was good-looking. Kat, who held a secret crush on him laughed amusedly at his yelping.
Emily stumbled after him with Kat and parted through the crowd of ladies in time to see a tiny little ****** trip on her squeaking flip-flops and fall beside a sprawled figure, face down in the ***** road with a massive bag of ice on top of him.
“Hey! Are you alright?” Emily cried, half-amused and half-concerned, lifting the heavy ice bag off his shoulders.
Kat rushed forward, laughing but compromising her concern with furrowed brows and helped him up. “You okay Tom?”
He whimpered in pain and put a hand on his neck, rubbing it sorely. “That ice bag was ******* heavy.” The girls decided to make no note of his skinny arms.
They walked back to their group of friends who turned around and saw a limping green-eyed boy and roared with laughter. The noise caught the attention of predators searching for a good target and they were hosed down with water pipes.
Suddenly Emily felt a huge body lift her up and swing her around while hands plastered her with wet chalk.
“Emily!”
She felt safe hands grab her and looked up into the pair of dark chocolate eyes. They were a little annoyed as they flickered over the fat drunk man who released her heavily but it was Songkran, and he managed to laugh at her bewildered expression.
Just then they passed a horde of prostitutes and she felt him being ripped from her. “I like this one!” screeched a passing market lady who rushed in to jump on him. “I like this one! Let’s keep this one!” They dunk his head in a bucket of white goo.
She screeched with laughter and even at something that silly, felt protective of him. “Brad!”
He was too busy being attacked. “Brad!” she tried to reach in and he opened his mouth to call out to her. That was a big mistake, he realized, as he received a handful of powder in his mouth. Spitting, coughing, and trying to breathe through nostrils blocked with powder he managed to wipe his stinging eyes clean. The prostitutes released him but not before a huge ******* screamed with glee at his straight nose and thin red lips, and reached forward giving his crotch a good grab. He screeched in genuine disgust and fear, had a moments feeling of guilt in case he had offended the ******* which was immediately wept away as he, no she, no it, yelped joyfully and massaged his **** before trotting off to his, no her, no its next victim.
Where was Emily? With his height, he managed to see a brown head that stuck above the other dark-haired and light-haired heads being jostled out of the street by the moving crowd. He ran to catch up and grabbed Emily’s hand as the group of teenagers tripped out of “Soi Cowboy”.  
They stood for a moment catching their breath. Zoey, a tiny little girl with a chest that threatened to put her out of balance, pushed her brown curls out of her face. A red glow was starting to spread over her cheeks.
Kat laughed scornfully, her wide smile spreading generously over her face. “Sunburn?! You white girl!”  
They had all been out around the streets since early morning and it was late in the afternoon now. Rose’s cheeks were flushed and the tip of Kat’s nose was a little pink herself. The rest of them, with their darker skin, had tanned slightly but unnoticeably. They laughed at Zoey for a short while. It was an interesting group of friends: all of them of mixed heritages from around the world with different backgrounds that became common in the world of International schools. It was alright to tease Emily’s honey skin; it was funny to crack jokes about Stefan’s hairiness; it was hilarious when Zoey tried to tan.
Emily shot a picture of everyone laughing: their clothes wet, their faces scrunched up, eyeliner smudged (Kat and Rose had lined their eyes with water proof kohl that of course wasn’t really waterproof), their cheeks and chin caked a crumbly white.
Kat and Zoey clambered over her shoulders, peering at the little digital screen of the water proof camera. “Ew! Gross!” yelled Kat who was only used to pictures of her lips rosy from lipstick, camera at a flattering angle with a bright flash from her professional equipment that made her black-lined green eyes sparkle like emeralds.
“Delete! I look sick!”
Even Zoey, who admired Kat’s photogenic ness to a great extent, could find no words of solace except to say, “Me too! I look gross! Delete! Now!”
Emily just laughed and said, “No you don’t.” Of course it wasn’t a type of picture they’d profile on Facebook, but all the same it was beautiful with their wild-looking and uninhibited faces and un-posing body shapes, curled up in laughter.
Zoey snatched the camera from her and they fiddled with the buttons till the picture was deleted. It was regretful, annoying, but not unexpected.
Emily rubbed her sore knees and noticed how Tom was still rubbing his neck sorrowfully with Stefan laughing at him, shaking his head wearily. Brad was holding onto her arm a little tiredly, Kat and Zoey had their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulder for leaning support and Rose and Emily’s younger brother, Jason, were standing together, staring absen

Part I


the plateau. the truest of them all. coast line. night spells and even controlled by the dream of meeting again. the ribbon of darker than light in your crown. No region overlooked. Third picnic table to the drive at Half Moon Bay, meet me there, decant my speech there. the table by the restroom block. While the tide is in show me your oyster garden, 3:00p.m. at half-light here in the evilest torments that have been shed.---------------door locked.  The moors. Cow herds and lymph nodes, rancorous afternoon West light and bending roads, the cliffs, a sister, the need to jump. There is nothing as serious as this. There is nothing nor no one that could ever, or would ever on this side come between. Who needs sleep or jokes or snow or rivers or bombs or to turn or be a rat or a fly or ceiling fan or a gurney or a cadaver or piece of cloth or a bed spread or a couch or a game or the flint of a lighter or the bell of a dress; the bell of your dress, yes, perhaps. Having been crushed like orange cigarette light in a pool of Spanish tongues. I feel the heave, the pull; not a yawn but a wired, thread-like twist about my core. Up around the neck it makes the first cut, through the eyes out and into the nostrils down over the left arm, on the inside of the bicep, contorting my length, feigning sleep, and then cutting over my stomach, around and around multiples of times- pulled at the hips and under the groin, across each leg and in-between each nerve, capillary, artery, hair, dot, dimple, muscle, to the toes and in-between them. Wiry dream-like and nervous nightmarish, hellacious plateaus of leapers. Penguin heads and more penguin heads. Startling torment. The evilest of the vile mind. The dance of despair: if feet contorted and bound could move. The beach off Belmont. The hills and the reasons I stared. Caveat after caveat at the heads of letters, on the heads of crowns, and the wrists, and on the palms. Being pulled and signed, and moved away so greatly and so heavily at once in a moment, that even if it were a year or a set of many months it would always be a moment too taking away to be considered an expanse, and it would be too hellacious to be presumptuous. It could only be a shadow over my right shoulder as I write the letters over and again. One after another. Internally I ask if I would even grant a convo with Keats or Yeats or Plath or Hughes? Does mine come close? Does it matter the bellies reddish and cerise giving of pain? Does it have to have many names?


"This is the only Earth," I would say with the bouquet of lilies spread out on the table. Are lilies only for funerals, I would never make or risk or wish this metaphor, even play it like the drawn out notes of a melody unwritten and un-played: my black box and latched, corner of the room saxophone. Top-floor, end of the hall two-room never-ending story, I'm the left side of the bed Chicago and I see pink walls, bathrooms, the two masonite paintings, the Chanel books, the bookshelves, the white desk, the white dresser, you on the left side of the bed in such sentimental woe, **** carpet and tilted blinds, and still the moors and the whispering in the driver's seat in afternoon pasture. Sunset, sunrise, nighttime and bike room writing in other places, apartments, rooms where I inked out fingertips, blights, and moods; nothing ever being so bleak, so eerily woe-like or stoic. Nothing has ever made me so serious.

Put it on the rib, in a t-shirt. Make it a hand and guide it up a set of two skinny legs under a short-sheeted bed in small room and literary Belmont, address included. Trash cans set out morning and night, deck-readied cigarette smoking. Sliding glass door and kitchen fright. Low-lit living room white couch, kaleidoscope, and zoetrope. Spin me right round baby right round. I am my own revenge of toxic night. Attack the skin, the soul, the eyes, the mind, and the lids. The finger lids and their tips. Rot it out. Blearing wild and deafening blow after blow: left side of the bed the both of us, whilst stirs the intrepid hate and ousts each ******* tongue I can bellow and blow.

Last resort lake note in snow bank and my river speak and forest walk. Wrapped in blocks and boxes, Christmas packaging and giant over-sized red ribbons and bows. Shall I mention the bassinet, the stroller, the yard, several rings of gold and silver, several necklaces of black and thread? I draw dagger from box, jagged ended and paper-wrapped in white and amber: lit in candle light and black room shadow-kept and sleeping partisan unforgettable forever. Do I mention Hawaii, my mother dying, invisible ligatures and the unveiling of the sweat and horror? Villainous and frightening, the breath as a bleat or heart-beat and matchstick stirring slightly every friends' woe and tantrum of their spirit.

Lobster-legged, waiting, sifting through the sea shore at the sea line, the bright tyrannosaurs in mahogany, in maple, and in twine over throw rose meadow over-looks, honey-brimming and warehouse built terrariums in the underbelly of the ravine, twist and turn: road bending, hollowing, in and out and in and out, forever, the everlasting and too fastidious driving towards; and it's but what .2 miles? I sign my name but I'll never get out. I am mocked and musing at tortoise speed. Headless while improvising. Purring at any example of continue or extremity or coolness of mind, meddling, or temptation. I rock, bellowing. Talk, sending shivers up my spine. I'm cramped, and one thousand fore-words and after words that split like a million large chunks of spit, grime, and *****; **** and more ****. I might even be standing now. I could be a candle, in England, a kingdom, in Palo Alto, a rook in St. Petersburg. Mottled by giants or sleepless nights, I could be the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty, a heated marble flower or the figure dying to be carved out. I'm veering off highways, I'm belittling myself: this heathen of the unforgettable, the bog man and bow-tied vagrant of dross falsification and dross despair. I am at the sea shore, tide-righted and tongue-tide, bilingual, and multi-inhibited by sweat, spit, quaffs of sea salt, lake water, and the like. Rotten wergild ridden- stitched of a poor man's ringworm and his tattered top hat and knee-holed trousers. I'm at the sea shore, with the cucumbers dying, the rain coming in sideways, the drifts and the sandbars twisting and turning. I'm at the sea shore with the light house bruise-bending the sweet ships of victory out backwards into the backwaters of a mislead moonlight; guitars playing, beeps disappearing, pianos swept like black coffees on green walled night clubs, arenose and eroding, grainy and distraught, bleeding and well, just bleeding.






I'm at the sea shore, the coastline calling. I've got rocks in my pockets, ******* and two lines left in the letter. I’m at the sea shore, my mouth is a ghost. I've seen nothing but darkness. I'm at the seashore, second picnic table, bench facing the squat and gobble, the tin roof and riled weir near the roadside. .2 and I'm still here with my bouquet wading and waiting. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. My inches are growing shorter by the second, cold, whet by the sunset, its moon men, their heavy claws and bi-laws overthrowing and throwing me out. The thorns stick. The tyrannosaurs scream. I'm at the sea shore, plateau, left bedside to write three more letters. Sign my name and there's nobody here.

I'm at the sea shore: here are my lips, my palms (both of them facing up), here are my legs (twine and all), my torso, and my head shooting sideways. I'm at the seashore and this is my grave, this is my purposeful calotype, my hide and go seek, my show and tell, my forever. .2 and forever and never ending. I was just one dream away come and keep me. I'm at the sea shore come and see me and seam me. I'm without nothing, the sky has drifted, the sea is leaving, my seat is a matchbox and I'm all wound up. The snow settling, the ice box and its glory taken for granted. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. The room with its white sets of furniture, the lilies, the Chanel, the masonite paintings, the bed, your ribbon of darker on light, the throw rug **** carpet, pink walled sister's room, and the couch at the top of the stairs. I'm at the sea shore, my windows opened wide, my skin thrown with threat, rhinoceri, reddish bruises bent of cerise staled sunsets. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. I'm at the plateau and there isn't a single ship. There are the rocks below and I'm counting. My caveats all implored and my goodbyes written. I'm in my bed and the sleep never set in. I'm name dropping God and there's nobody there. I'm in a chair with my hands on a keyboard, listening to Danish throb-rock, horse-riding into candle light on a wicked wedding of wild words and teary-eyed gazes and gazers. Bent by the rocking and the torment, the wild and the weird, the horror and everything horrifying. There is this shadow looking over my shoulder. I'm all alone but I feel like you're here.



Part II




I wake up in Panama. The axe there. Sleeping on the floors in the guest bedroom, the floor of the garden shed, the choir closet, the rut of dirt at the end of the flower bed; just a towel, grayish-blue, alone, lawnmower at my side, and sky blue setting all around. I was a family man. No I just taste bits of dirt watching a quiet and contrary feeling of cool limestone wrap over and about my arms and my legs. Lungs battered by snapping tongues, and ancient conversations; I think it was the Malaysian Express. Mom quieted. Sister quieted. Father wept. And is still weeping. Never have I heard such horrifying and un-kindly words.-----------------------It's going to take giant steel cavernous explorations of the nose, brain cell after brain cell quartered, giant ******* quaffs of alcohol, harboring false lanterns and even worse chemicals. Inhalations and more inhalations. I'm going to need to leap, flight, drop into bodies of waters from air planes and swallow capsules of psychotropics, sedatives beyond recalcitrance. I'm requiring shock treatments and shock values. Periodic elements and galvanized steel drums. Malevolence and more malevolence. Forest walks, and why am I still in Panama. I don't want to talk, to sleep, to dream, to play stale-mating games of chess, checkers, Monopoly, or anything Risk involving. I can't sleep, eat, treaty or retreat. I'm wickeded by temptations of grandeur and threats of anomaly, widening only in proverb and swept only by opposing endeavors. Horrified, enveloped, pictured and persuaded by the evilest of haunts, spirits, and match head weeping women. I can't even open my mouth without hearing voices anymore. The colors are beginning to be enormous and I still can't swim. I couldn't drown with my ears open if I kept my nose dry and my mouth full of a plane ticket and first class beanstalk to elysian fields. It's pervasive and I'm purveyed. It's unquantifiable. It's the epitomizing and the epitome. I have my epaulets set for turbulent battles though I still can't fend off night. Speak and I might remember. Hear and it's second rite. Sea attacks, oceans roaring, lakes swallowing me whole. Grand bodies of waters and faces and arms appendages, crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and I'm still shaking, and I'm still just a button. And I still can't sleep. And I'm still waiting.

It is night. The moon ripening, peeling back his face. Writhing. Seamed by the beauty of the nocturne, his ways made by sun, sky, and stars. Rolled and rampant. Moved across the plateau of the air, and its even and coolly majestic wanton shades of twilight. It heads off mountains, is swept as the plains of beauty, their faces in wild and feral growths. Bent and bolded, indelible and facing off Roman Empires too gladly well in inked and whet tips of bolder hands to soothe them forth.-----------Here in their grand and grandiose furnaces of the heart, whipped tails and tall fables fettered and tarnished in gold’s and lime. Here with their mothers' doting. Here with their Jimi Hendrix and poor poetry and stand-up downtrodden wergild and retardation. I don't give a ****. I could weep for the ***** if they even had hair half as fine as my own. I am real now. Limited by nothing. Served by no worship or warship. My flotilla serves tostadas at full-price. So now we have a game going.-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------  My cowlick is not Sinatra's and it certainly doesn't beat women. As a matter of factotum and of writ and bylaw. I'm running down words more quickly than the stanza's of Longfellow. I'm moving subtexts like Eliot. I'm rampant and gaining speed. Methamphetamine and five star meats. Alfalfa and pea tendrils. Loves and the lovers I fall over and apart on. Heroes and my fortune over told and ever telling. Moving in arc light and keeping a warm glow.

the fish line caves. the shimmy and the shake. Bluegrass music and big wafting bell tones. snakes and the river, hands on the heads, through the hair; I look straight at the Pacific. I hate plastic flowers, those inanimate stems and machine-processed flesh tones. Waltzing the state divide. I am hooked on the intrepid doom of startling ego. I let it rake into my spine. It's hooves are heavy and singe and bind like manacles all over me. My first, my last, my favorite lover. I'm stalemating in the bathtub. Harnessing Crystal Lite and making rose gardens out of CD inserts and leaf covers. I'm fascinated by magic and gods. Guns and hunters. Thieving and mold, and laundry, and stereotypes, and great stereos, and boom-boxes, and the hi-fi nightlife of Chicago, roasting on a pith and meaty flame, built like a horror story five feet tall and laced with ruggedness and small needles. My skin is a chromium orchid and the grizzly subtext of a Nick Cave tune. I've allowed myself to be over-amplified, to mistake in falsetto and vice versa. To writhe on the heavy metallic reverberations of an altercated palpitation. The heart is the lonely hunted. First the waterproof matchsticks, then the water, the bowie knife, crass grasses and hard-necked pitch-hitters and phony friends; for doing lunch in the park on a frozen pond, I play like I invented blonde and really none of my **** even smells like gold.--------------------- There are the tales of false worship. I heard a street vendor sell a story about Ovid that was worse than local politics. As far as intermittent and esoteric histories go I'm the king of the present, second stage act in the shadow of the sideshow. Tonight I'm greeting the characters with Vaseline. For their love of music and their love of philosophy. For their twilight choirs and their skinny women who wear black antler masks and PVC and polyurethane body suits standing in inner-city gardens chanting. For their chanting. The pacific. For the fish line caves. For the buzzing and the kazoos. For the alfalfa and the three fathers of blue, red, and yellow. For the state of the nation. But still mostly working for the state of equality, more than a room for one’s own.-------------------------------------------------------------­------"Rice milk for all of you." " Kensington and whittled spirits."
(Doppelganger enters stage left)MAN: Prism state, flash of the golden arc. Beastly flowers and teeming woodlands. Heir to the throes and heir to the throng.----------------------------------------------------------­--------------- The sheep meadow press in the house of affection. The terns on my hem or the hide in my beak; all across the steel girder and whipping ******* the windows facing out. The mystery gaze that seers the diplopic eye. Still its opening shunned. I put a cage over it and carry it like a child through Haight-Ashbury. At times I hint that I'm bored, but there is no letting of blood or rattle of hope. When you live with a risk you begin at times to identify with the routes. Above the regional converse, the two on two or the two on four. At times for reasons of sadness but usually its just exhaustion. At times before the come and go gets to you, but usually that is wrong and they get to you first. Lathering up in a small cerulean piece of sky at the end turnabout of a dirt road

has anyone ever heard of a historical place
it is in Alton Illinois
and been known as a scary place

it was built in the 18 hundreds
back in the Civil War days
back when there was slavery
which is now a disgrace to the human race

there's been some odd things happen
that I cannot explain
lights flashing on and off
And stereos that does the same

back where that I am sleeping
there is a slave that enters
but he is very harmless
oh what a weird adventure

I've tried and tried to communicate
but nothing has been said
but I feel a presence very close
next to my sleeping bed

Mitchell mansion I've been told
that there are many spirits
ready to unfold

many people believe in spirits
and so many that denies
but I am a firm believer
because I seen it with my very eyes

Mitchell Mansion has its secrets
that many will never know
but tell me friend would you come here
to spend a night alone

You leave the dingy room 333 and walk
Out onto ***** honeycomb patterned carpet stretching
Down the infinite hall towards an open door
Where the housekeeper’s cart is parked
She emerges from behind the stacks of folded towels and ***** blankets
Body younger than it looks somehow she’s smiling in wrinkles of a sunken, toothless mouth
yet underneath the image is an original warmth untouched by a thousand years of junk
You say hello in passing and then onward down the steps covered with plastic
The ***** yellow carpet stains so worn they’ve become part of the design
A window overlooks a courtyard where junkies lay nodding in the sun
The girl at the front desk eyes you half suspicious as you slip out the door and into streets
of Denver where mountains loom in distant vistas obscured by skyscrapers
appearing as solemn watchers uncorrupted, beckoning some strange recognition
You remember your friend saying that the mountains play tricks, cast illusions
Stories of weary travelers confounded by the mountains, lost for days
Weather changing rapidly as buildings rising new construction in the city
You walk past the capital, past the U.S. mint, past the park where bums sleep or stare blankly
Openly with eyes dark as Moroccan hashish looking for a point of entry
A word you missed, a fumbled thought, a dropped coin
This will happen:
You will lock eyes with a man sitting on the cement, his hand gently resting
On an old rusted toolbox
He calls you over, more incantation than command
Says he’s got what you need
He opens up the box and calls you closer
Look
A box of uncut crystals shining in the high altitude
He smiles with a jagged and decayed knowing
You decline yet something insists you need these crystals
These stolen gypsy gems somehow imbued with meaning
Glittering in the sunlight in the park in the old worn out face like chewed leather
Glistening like the clear air rising up above the smell of **** and water seared meat and *****
You walk among the blind alleys where junkies shift and shuffle like shadows rearranging
They themselves part of the scenery, part of the alley backdrop and rattling train track sounds
You’re passing by and one calls out: “Don’t let ‘em tell ya I didn’t say live your life, son”
You look back and see a huddled shadow tying off beside a chain link fence
He’s looking right at you with perfect insect calm, features out of focus, dull and grey
You pass the scene in silence and feel the eyes of hunger casting subliminal fuzz down the alley
At midnight you will drink tequila in your room and hear the endless car noise of the city
While you sit smoking out the window staring at the brick wall and down into the alley below
Where windows of the hostel open up and your friend said once there was a woman
In the opposite room ******* and he took off all his clothes and they stood naked
Looking at one another from opposite windows but he never went across the hall to meet her
You will laugh and be amazed and get drunk
As the driving beat of car stereos, bass and hip-hop incantations rise up through the splintered window frame yellow like decay
You’ll sit out on the street corner smoking
A gigantic hash joint
Passing it back and forth
Denver’s finest
As you listen to the shrill harmony
Of the corner night club filled with glitter and women and alcohol all spilling out into the streets
& you will watch them all go running, howling, yelling, screaming, laughing, *******, and
spreading out like fireworks across a vast empty space
The cars that never end
Choked out exhaust and marijuana smoke twisting in the midnight air rising up untouchable where the mountain breezes cap the city
& penetrates the human circus all around you
You will disappear up the hostel steps returning
Higher than you’ve ever been before
Each step, each movement you are disappearing
Melting into the smoke-tinged plaster
Your pulse is in your footfalls there
Among the honeybees and hexagons
Your breath beat in rhythms of your skull
After an impossible moment
You arrive back at your room, 333
The demon door more unfamiliar
This will happen
You’ll go inside and lock the door
Knowing you have the fear
Raw and powerful
Pure animal chemical reaction
Every tissue and fiber now opposed
To the very situation, the very fact of existence, of
Immediate dislocation in space/time
Alien moments here in Colorado hostel room
Where junkies sit in vegetable stasis
Feeling nothing whatsoever
& there’s a needle hidden in the room somewhere
Your friend says not to worry man
& what did you expect anyway?
“Yeah it’s kind of a flophouse”
“Just throw it out the window”
You take a long deep breath and look
Into a mirror you see your form reflected
As your friend pulls out his friend, the trusty map
And there, emblazoned in ****** letters
Denver
The very words looks sinister
Denver
Written in ****** words of ******
You try to realize what you came here for
Not this
& breathing deeply you lay upon the bed
The too-thin mattress covered in plastic
& think of home
A lifetime & world of roads away
You seek to abandon all you know
And become attuned to the rhythmic engine of sound
You will become filled with desire and yet completely empty
Cockroach needle empty park wind howling distant peaks sculpted valleys
Self-reliant water smell pity bums like silent watchers in the night
Nature spreads her view of time in silent moments
Stillness in the room
In the spaces between sounds
In the fear of comfort separation
In the freeness of creation
In the wild faith of travel
In the foreign teachings
***** steps and office buildings
In the bars and libraries
In the hostel *******
In the wholly new experience
In the squalor of the uncontrollable
In the corridor passing like a phantom
In the stones and cactus flowers
In the romance of the body
Eager to pass through
Into this new dream
Tomorrow we are heading for the mountains

THE ALLAN FAMILY STORY




YOU SEE MY FAMILY WERE A GOOD CAMPING FAMILY

AND WE HAD THIS BIG ORANJE TENT, WHERE THE

FAMILY BROUGHT TO CAMPING GROUNDS, TO

ENJOY WEEKEND CAMPING, I REMEMBER CAMPING

EVERY WHERE AROUND NSW AND THE ACT

AND AS A WAY OF EXCAPING THE NORMAL LIVES

ME AND MY BROTHER PUT THE TENT UP IN THE BACKYARD

AND HAD OUR OWN CAMPING GROUND, AND I HAVE

SO MANY GREAT MOMENTS, LIKE NEW YEARS EVE PARTIES WITH LYLE

AND YEAH, I WAS LIKE A NORMAL TEENAGER, WITH SLEEPOVERS IN THE TENT

AND HAVING AN ESKY OF DRINK AND SAUSAGES AND OTHER THINGS LIKE

CHIPS AND I GOT SOME GREAT PHOTOS ME AND LYLE ARE HAVING A GREAT

PARTY FOR NEW YEARS EVE, WE CELEBRATED WITH POISON AND DEF LEOPARD

AND LYLE BOUGHT AIR SUPPLY, OH MY GODFATHER, I HATE THAT BAND

I REMEMBER WHEN ME AND MY BROTHER WENT IN THE TENT, WE WATCHED TV

AND WE TALKED FOR HOURS LIKE ME AND LYLE, WE HAD A HEAP OF ****** FUN

YA SEE I REMEMBER LYLE SAID HE WASN’T SCARED OF THE OLD BOOGIE WOMAN

AND I AM NOT SCARED OF THE OLD BOOGIE WOMAN EITHER

AND MY BROTHER LOVED TO JOKE AROUND WITH US

YA SEE, LYLE WAS ENJOYING PUTTING THE TENT UP

AND WE BOTH HAD OUR STEREOS, AND WE PLAYED GREAT TOP 49 HITS OF THAT ERA

YOU SEE, MY DAD WAS A GREAT CAMPER AND BUSHWALKER, AND BUDDHA’S SPIRIT

MADE ME INHERIT DAD’S ADVENTURE BLOOD, BECAUSE, OF MY LAST 2 HUMAN LIVES

BEING GREAME THORNE, AND PATRICK DUNBAR, BOTH KILLED AT 8

AND BUDDHA MADE ME AN ALLAN, TO KEEP ME SAFE

BUT I WAS A KEEN BACKYARD CAMPER, COOKING ON GAS BBQS

AND EATING CHIPS, AND HEAPS OF CHOCOLATES, AND ME AND LYLE BOTH WATCHED THE CRICKET

ON THE TELEVISION IN THE TENT AND NEW YEARS EVE, WE WATCHED THE GREAT

BICENTENNIAL NEW YEARS EVE CONCERT IN 1987, ME AND LYLE HAD FUN DOING THIS AS

WELL AS WATCH GREAT MOVIES ON THE VHS RECORDER,

BUT THAT ALL ENDED, WE RAGED A BIG PARTY IN THE TENT, WITH MUSIC AND GREAT FOOD

I CAN’T REALLY HAVE ***, I AM NOT THE *** TYPE, I TALK ABOUT ***** DONORS

BUT ONE THING I WAS GOOD AT, WAS TALKING, WITH LYLE, PATRICK MY BROTHER, SCOTT,

AND MANY MORE, AND THE BIG ORANGE TENT WAS FINALLY BOUGHT BY A FAMILY

I THOUGHT I SAW IT AT THE ABORIGINAL TENT EMBASSY, IT COULD’VE BEEN

IT LOOKED LIKE IT, AND IT’S GOOD THAT, IF IT IS, THAT POOR PEOPLE WITHOUT A HOME

ARE ENJOYING THIS TENT AS A HOME

GREAT ALLAN FAMILY CAMPING OVER

We had dreams
about the crystal sun
the juniper wind, apple
blossoms and glowing evenings
comfort and quietude
We had dreams
lollipops and no one crying
no pain-and love if not
everlasting
solid and smiling every day
We had dreams
about great ships sailing
wind filling all speed ahead
never becalmed, no one dead,
no rotting bodies on the deck
no witness to inexplicable agony
We had dreams
garlands from gardens
nobody had to tend
ice cream cones piling
sidewalks high
shade for the asking
from every uncomfortable
ray of sun
water enough for everything
lawns and trees
flowers and livestock
children running in sprinklers
water for the taking
every day
We had dreams
soft conversations in
the lamplight, hands to hold
slim and strong whenever
we needed, voices filled
with understanding and strength
for every fear
and every tear dried
by gentle caring touch
We had dreams
that did not include random bullets
sudden death and no clouds
exploding to rain death
on helpless heads
We dreamed we would never be helpless
we had dreams
we bought on time
amortization forever
and no one would ever
have to pay the bills
We had dreams
someone would always save us
mother always did
even when she didn’t want to
even when we made her mad
even when we broke her china
and her heart
We had dreams
laughing and crying
talking into loud speakers
shouting our claims
and never thought how
to make them come true
We had dreams
of glory and taking
down every flag from every
highest hill
and no one would ever be found
face down in two inches of water
drowned on ***** and disaster
We had dreams
that did not include spit
on the sidewalk, in the gutters,
but only clean skies
and apple pie, organically sweet
every day
and endlessly billowing
wheat, and sailing ships
and all the pure water
we could drink for free
and play in
We had dreams
that we could demand pain away consequences
and guilt and the necessary play
of our dreams that mothers would
if we dreamed hard enough
and played hard enough
and the nasty old piper
never called for his fee
We had dreams
and when they didn’t come true
we had curses
We cursed the lollipops
we cursed the ice cream
we cursed the wheat
the cornucopia
the great sailing ships
and the sea
the mother
the sidewalks
the highest hills
and the trickling ditch
we cursed the livestock
and the stereos
the loudspeakers and the glory
and we cursed crying and apple pie
we cursed suffering and anguish
the pipers who demanded to be paid
the ones who paid and complained
about the mess we made
we cursed fine china plates
filled with hard-earned harvests
we cursed love and freedom
we cursed crystal sun
and shade.

"The population is expected to level off at around nine billion," says my father
A nearly full plate of Thanksgiving feast food in front of him
but he has been asked to pontificate which is what he does best
and I hear a tremor in his voice like I have when I teach
I know he is in the throws of excitement about what he's saying
planning for his keynote in Brazil, and what plant scientists can do
to help save us from global warming and the lack of water since there isn't
even two liters of fresh water for every person on the planet for use every day at seven billion
I gesture as to what two liters looks like  and my mother snaps "I know what two liters is!"

It's cold in here, in this large Oakland short sale house that fits my cousin's family
and my Aunt downstairs, where I like it better because the children aren't there
Like two houses put together and there are no carpets just hard wood floors and
open windows that make it cold and it is anything but warm and fuzzy
My Aunt is angry with me that I shop at Walmart but that's what I can afford
Tomorrow she's holding a strike at a Walmart with her daughter which makes them superior to me
She's also mad because I don't like my "Union" which does nothing for me since I'm not tenured
"You have to organize" she condescends, like that is a reasonable thing with my one and two year stints at schools but she is the big Union Head for CSU so she should know
She was on TV with Jerry Brown after all, so what do I know
The kids are noisy since they all have their own phone and can play anything they
want at any time in addition to turning on the myriad of TVs and radios and stereos in the house
and the noise ricochets off he hard cold floors and walls that have pictures on them
of people from the family, but they don't look quite like they belong
and they hang there uncomfortably and self consciously
There is every skin tone except deep black at the table
My family--all that is left

Childhood: I loved going to my mother's family in Idaho
It was hot in summer or cozy warm inside in winter and
a wonder land outside for snow shoeing and skiing
It was quiet and they always had wall to wall carpet
I rolled from one end of the room to another in it the first time I felt it
It was warm and fuzzy.  
People listened and there were breaks from noise and chaos

Here, every conversation is disjointed like we are going
in and out of different time periods and different petty rivalries and
fierce competitions under it all and families are blending and being
torn apart and the latest one has formed from "OK Cupid" online
and my Aunt has to be right, the smart one, the good one, the one of the people
and it is so cold, so very cold, and the windows are opened to let in more
cold Oakland air as if there isn't enough of it and all the sounds of
kids and electronics are driving me slowly insane

What can plant scientists do to help nine billion people
without water?  Not a whole lot, except invent crops that
survive like camels, or can live underwater like fish
since everything will be either dry or deluged with water
and I wish there was carpeting, warm carpeting and less
noise and more harmony
and this is the family I have now
the old one is gone, like the glaciers that will melt all at last
and the rivers that will run dry forever.
And I think: what we need to do is invent a way to make water
Make enough water for everyone, maybe from recycled bags or used Nike shoes
and if we can do that, maybe the air in this house will warm
and it will become quieter and the hard wood floors will become soft and warm and fuzzy
and I will feel at home here, with my family

In winter this **** storm of a town falls to nothing but a low hum

                 and it is a steady as it is wide spread
And in only a matter of weeks, we forget what it is to breathe fresh air
So we go through the motions of living in this assembly line kinda life
The motions of laughing and breathing and crying and falling and loving
And the influenza of seasonal depression is infectious so we wrap ourselves in coats and hats and scarves in hope of escaping the pathogen of loneliness that radiates through our stereos

                                                        ­                            In winter, this town falls into hibernation

the snow falls mercilessly, without anguish.

tell me
Were you awake when you first caught me, because I was still half-asleep when I found myself in your arms
Were you awake when you first kissed me, because I was in a dream when my lips first met yours
    But there was something in your electric touch that woke me
                            
                                                                ­                             And I remembered that snow *melts

The opportunity to feel will come back in time
Turn my head away from all that are unobtainable and sublime
Don't speak to me my energy will turn you away
Loneliness drives me insane but I'll be okay
Wasted time spent by smoke and stereos
Watch time fly while I'm restless with my woes

My friends see me as someone with potential
The way my worth drops are exponential
My insecurities hold me back
Being comfortable with my shortcomings is something I'll always lack
I'll wait an eternity before I let anyone in
Until I can offer everything I guess I'll have to wait then

wifi is literally the radio wave r.a.d.a.r. like sonar or ultrasound but super computer crunching the data to visual rendered interpretations of digital information like laser 3d imaging real time full spectrum 3d environment video rendered in some cases, and others tiny tiny pin head mic and cams, but wifi via modems, devices tablets and cell with land line and cell tower , then you see the full saturation of the principalities of the air. and yes. it is that all seeing. and then infuse the social media, digital records of criminal, medical, military, scholastic, employment, financial, political emails, all forms of communications even snail mail, news agencies, all world wide data transfers, all audio systems even car stereos, home entertainment and appliances have secretly been incorporating the circuits that can be used via wire less signal to act as data points even microphones like a speaker is a mic just huge, and a temp sensor and many sensor actually function in many other useful ways, this is not uncommon, sort of like how an butter knife becomes a Flathead ***** driver when in need. your tv, refrigerator, sound system, even light bulbs of the cfl pigtail sort have been claimed to act as data gathering point, but the scary stuff in not just that you can be seen in full move around with the target 360 and 3d is that many devices transit data or harmonic frequencies into your home even when you have zero internet or c able even electricity, just take note of your wifi lists of neighbors, then realize many do not transmit their identity to be seen, and all these sensors and outright cameras and mics do not alert or announce that they can be accessed by internet of many, many common devices and these frequencies can do a hell of a lot of scary things to living conscious biological tissue, like make you sick, or even change emotions and states of comfort or discomfort, like cause you to feel pain in the back and gut, ( most common side effect and a sign of its use) simply search elf wifi cell towers and mind control, sound manipulation, sound that you can not hear you still interpret and even sound can cause you to see different colors and never hear it. so go figure and let the mind wonder and you have still not hit the horrors of this techs use, try the assault and made to forget, or the hypnotic induced trance via wave length in wifi and not recall events of bad things and even loose time some small like 5 10 minutes others loose days or hours. we have, a lot and well, this might help folks realize the power that these things have and just think if bad people in groups decide to use it.