Washington Crossing the Delaware
by Emanuel Leutze, MMA-NYC, 1851

Who we aspire to become, always
we aspire to get out of this deception we made
when we believed Stephen King, that liars prosper.

The drama is we know we are lying.
Original intention is subconscious suggestion.

delicate what opposed to balance merest of whys...

All along, we know, this is it, this is life, we see,
we think, we breathe, okeh, so what, why do it,
why sort people by values nobody knows, we see

we become the entertained, we make believe,
we see so, we know, we can do that, too, act like,
we both know, how and why, we have come so far,

edges are smitht intentionally to cut days apart.

Consume or produce, presume nothing, just adjust
being a flex connector, left behind believer regrets,
sorry don't fix none o'that, contracts, riches in advance,

all at once, won the lot o' that confidence, make believe,
sister, every child oughta be convinced, not persuaded.

Shelly Berman made it clear, said
tell him he's a boy, before he makes an arbitrary decision.

Assisting Intelligence Truthb'toldentimes, we wished for this.

Such a time, sit in church, wonder if, Isaiah was sawn asunder.

Last thing Jah said was prove me now, herewith, tithe and prosper,
the way of selling appetites, desires and earnest wishes, believe,
prove the power of the offered ten percent, get it back in slaves.

Then the drama is we don't know, the mysterious why are we here plot
develops
as we sleep,

but gut response, visceral intuition,
adjusted for recent referred sufferings,
amygdaling Jungianding ding bleibe doch

hiccup a wait
hold it, wait it out, hiccups are old codes,
hope to die from rotgut burpies, prayers.

Escape, eh, scapegoats dream realized.

Yep, where all Jah's promises are premised.
in truths you never suspected, because,

at birth you were offered up, to science,
Dewey decimal educated sorted science,
finders of ways where no ways are science

heros slippery as gnosinsnot knots picked.
Wiped upon my pants, its all caked
in layers, More again, its alright,

there, we prayed were here somewhere,
over the spectrum we populate in order,
to seem as real as wasery once in poems.

Into deeper darker depths I'm drawn
Inch-filled every way in wondrous sight
Of life, unseen, unknown, mysterious
Yet a familiar revelatory strangeness
The prompt blindly followed proved true
Echoed in surprising whispery sighs
As speech goes forth before hearing
So too the way walked then revealed
In mutual affirmation I'm given speech
In human tongues to craft the ineffable
That We hear, know, and acknowledge
Thus not hallucinations of wickedness
In ecstatic drunkenness I will sleep
For tomorrow to greater depths I go

I want to marry you.
Not in the way it's so common these days, I mean marry as in;
I will care about everything,
the good things, the bad things,
the terrible things, the mundane things all of it, every hour, every minute, every second, of every day.
I'm saying your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it.
I'm saying your life will not go unwitnessed because I will be your witness.  
Eden or Armageddon do us part.
Untill our hugs take us to an infinite.
Untill the lining of your throat memorizes every vein,
Unit my tongue knows only the taste of your trembling lips.
I will tear down every wall between us be it gold of silver,
Be it Man , Woman or Beast alike.
The pain of losing is awakened a hunger
I will pry you from the family that's not me and make you mine.
Think I'm delusional?

(with absolute resolve and silent anger)
I  WILL BE YOUR WITNESS.

TRY ME!

The 101 slopes like a spine bent too long.
Camarillo yawns wide in the morning hush,
valley stretching slow, hills bare-shouldered,
fields glistening, half-asleep, half-prayer.

Lemon trees blink slow, bruised gold in the mist.
Figtrees call a name behind a rusted gate.
Sagebrush whispers gossip through chainlink,
its breath full of stories that outlive the tellers.

To the east, the nursery stirs,
plastic sheeting *****,
row tags flutter in the wind.
A thermos, abandoned, rests by a wheelbarrow.
Mud boots, discarded,
stand like sentinels
against the wood plank wall.
No footsteps follow.
I never asked where they went.

Matilija poppies raise their paper-white heads,
and the raspberries, furred with morning dew,
shiver, just slightly,
as if remembering friends
they were no longer allowed to say.

A coffee roaster hummed somewhere distant,
low and steady, warming the wind.
That scent I never could shake,
burnt and sweet.
I could almost belong here again,
but it’s not mine without them.

I worked inside this valley with my back.
With my knees.
With the same hands,
now soft on the wheel,
muscle memory steering roads
as if nothing ever left,
as if the ghosts still ride along.

I pass a strawberry field, stitched in silence,
no voices rising in laughter today,
no corrido escaping from a shirt pocket radio,
no teasing between the furrows,
no calloused hands tossing tools,
only the soft ticking of irrigation
and the hush of work
that now waits for no one.
This silence has been swept, labeled,
nothing out of place but sadness.

I was here with them,
but only as a pair of eyes,
that never opened wide enough.

The strip mall stands like a broken promise,
painted stucco, faded western wear,
alongside roadside markets
missing the opening crew.
Still, the hills lean in to listen,
velvet green with memory,
quiet as folded hands.

Even now, under this sun,
the dust knows who knelt here.
Who sang into the rows,
who fled before sundown,
their names erased from the ledger
but carved into the earth.

And in soil’s hush,
their names still root and rise.

There’s a bin on the way home,
I wonder what’s inside.
A tired ocean? Remains of a dome?
Expired food? A bucket of fries?

I came closer to the smell of fish,
I open it, it was red, black and white.
Whatever I saw inside that day,
Made me scared for my life.

An eye, a liver, a lung, a tooth,
All of it inside this dark, heavy booth.
I closed the bin quickly, I wan away,
I guess I can call it a day…

Two tender eyes
witnessed our love, my love:
a black velvet night
and a red, trembling rose.

The night, alas,
whirled past the galaxy,
then dissolved
in heaven’s warm embrace.
I remember...
why don’t you?

O rose! My red rose,
the envoy of longing,
the whisper of my heart,
gifted into your palms.
Neck so proud, head held high,
you plucked her down,
petal by petal,
with your playful, wicked fingers
as you looked through me.

And now you ask,
Love? What love?
Ah, if only my life
could turn to a pilgrimage,
wandering in search
of that night we lost.

Let me breathe my soul
into the withered bloom,
so night and rose return,
and bear their silent witness:
yes, you loved me too.

When it comes to the world,
I'm a preterm baby—
I know nothing
of tales, adventures,
treachery, or wisdom.

I watch
with hooded, glazed eyes
that only understand
fragments—
splinters
of ideas.

So when I got a glimpse,
it wasn’t something
a cradle-bound soul
could ever decipher.

It's the justification of just—
It’s never just a papercut.
And it wouldn’t be.
It’s never I’m fine.
And it wouldn’t be.

My baby self
is allowed to throw a fit.
I think
every other version
should too.

But I’m only a preterm.
What do I know?