It was a moment so chilling when I realized I had feelings for you again.
Yes, again.
This rotation of endless "agains" has kept me up day and night in anger,
love, lust,  but most of all, confusion.
This relation we have is driven by ****** jabs and hurtful comments
designed to inflict the most pain on each other.
This "again" that I feel will fade into nothing more than another hatred for you.
But just like every other time, soon we will both start gazing at each other from across the room
and quickly looking away as though the other hadn't seen our eyes on their face;
We will begin once again lose the offensive spews
and our small conversations will evolve into tense talks with blushed cheeks and hot ears;
Yet somehow, I cannot get enough of this cycle of "agains".
It is addictive like your personality.
It is an obsession like your ability to make me crazy.
I am crazy for you,
but at the same time I fear that this ***** craze with wear off
and we will be left with nothing but silence.
Could this be true admiration for one another? Is this chemical?
Or is this passionate relationship powered on by our teenage hormones and sexually-frustrated bodies?
Just tell me what you want.
If you are happy, I will be content.
I guess, if you look at our situation from afar,
you could say we're in love. I’d disagree.
This is nothing but an infatuation between two people both sharing one common thing:
somebody who they can imitate passionate love with again and again.
I crave your physical touch and your boyish humor.
I need your attention most of all.
You need it too; you need me more than I need you.
How you wish to brush your lips against mine and feel my body and hold my hand and be mine. Nonetheless I wish for that too. Badly.
Nightly I torture myself over what to think, what to want.
But every time this happens, I push you away.
And the cycle of "agains" return, only to ruin us inside even more.

The piper coming from far away is you
With a whitewash brush for a sporran
Wobbling round you, a kitchen chair
Upside down on your shoulder, your right arm
Pretending to tuck the bag beneath your elbow,
Your pop-eyes and big cheeks nearly bursting
With laughter, but keeping the drone going on
Interminably, between catches of breath.



The whitewash brush. An old blanched skirted thing
On the back of the byre door, biding its time
Until spring airs spelled lime in a work-bucket
And a potstick to mix it in with water.
Those smells brought tears to the eyes, we inhaled
A kind of greeny burning and thought of brimstone.
But the slop of the actual job
Of brushing walls, the watery grey
Being lashed on in broad swatches, then drying out
Whiter and whiter, all that worked like magic.
Where had we come from, what was this kingdom
We knew we'd been restored to? Our shadows
Moved on the wall and a tar border glittered
The full length of the house, a black divide
Like a freshly opened, pungent, reeking trench.



**** at the gable, the dead will congregate.
But separately. The women after dark,
Hunkering there a moment before bedtime,
The only time the soul was let alone,
The only time that face and body calmed
In the eye of heaven.

Buttermilk and *****,
The pantry, the housed beasts, the listening bedroom.
We were all together there in a foretime,
In a knowledge that might not translate beyond
Those wind-heaved midnights we still cannot be sure
Happened or not. It smelled of hill-fort clay
And cattle dung. When the thorn tree was cut down
You broke your arm. I shared the dread
When a strange bird perched for days on the byre roof.



That scene, with Macbeth helpless and desperate
In his nightmare--when he meets the hags agains
And sees the apparitions in the ***--
I felt at home with that one all right. Hearth,
Steam and ululation, the smoky hair
Curtaining a cheek. 'Don't go near bad boys
In that college that you're bound for. Do you hear me?
Do you hear me speaking to you? Don't forget!'
And then the postick quickening the gruel,
The steam crown swirled, everything intimate
And fear-swathed brightening for a moment,
Then going dull and fatal and away.



Grey matter like gruel flecked with blood
In spatters on the whitewash. A clean spot
Where his head had been, other stains subsumed
In the parched wall he leant his back against
That morning like any other morning,
Part-time reservist, toting his lunch-box.
A car came slow down Castle Street, made the halt,
Crossed the Diamond, slowed again and stopped
Level with him, although it was not his lift.
And then he saw an ordinary face
For what it was and a gun in his own face.
His right leg was hooked back, his sole and heel
Against the wall, his right knee propped up steady,
So he never moved, just pushed with all his might
Against himself, then fell past the tarred strip,
Feeding the gutter with his copious blood.

*

My dear brother, you have good stamina.
You stay on where it happens. Your big tractor
Pulls up at the Diamond, you wave at people,
You shout and laugh about the revs, you keep
old roads open by driving on the new ones.
You called the piper's sporrans whitewash brushes
And then dressed up and marched us through the kitchen,
But you cannot make the dead walk or right wrong.
I see you at the end of your tether sometimes,
In the milking parlour, holding yourself up
Between two cows until your turn goes past,
Then coming to in the smell of dung again
And wondering, is this all? As it was
In the beginning, is now and shall be?
Then rubbing your eyes and seeing our old brush
Up on the byre door, and keeping going.

Here’s to us
to the next generation
Here’s to us
to the first generation with shorter life expectancies than our parents
to the next generation to create the most lethal weapon
Here’s to us
to another generation that is perpetuating stigmas around *** and ****** preferences
to the next generation to create cancer causing chemicals
Here’s to us
to another generation keeping racism and sexism alive
And here’s to us
to the next generation to **** up the next generation!

Yeah, here’s to us and all the distress
we cause
Yeah, and here’s to us and all the mess
we cause

No!
Here’s to us
to the next generation
Here’s to us
to the generation craving to live deeply and fully
to the next generation that will fight for our rights as blacks and whites
Here’s to us
to the generation that understands that sexuality is fluid
to the next generation to walk for; work for cures
Here’s to us
to another generation of protests agains lies and fights won with mighty pens
And here’s to us
to the next generation to create the next generation.

My mom is snoring,
thirteen stairs and ten feet away.
My mom is peaceful,
thirteen stairs and ten feet away.

My dad is watching,
seven stairs and fifteen feet away.
My dad is learning,
seven stairs and fifteen feet away.

I am sitting,
on the floor against a trunk.
I am crying,
on the floor agains a trunk.

by
Alexander  K  Opicho
Eldoret,Kenya
([email protected])

Ladbrokes, the online betting firm has once again nominated Ngugi wa Thiong'o as a candidate for Nobel prize in literature 2014.The firm arrives at the probable nominee through a highly polished probabilist mechanism.It also nominated Ngugi as the probable candidate for literature Nobel prize, but the final was Alice Munro the Canadian short story writress.The eventuality of Ngugi winning the literature Nobel prize is a long a waited event in Africa , especially among Kenyans.
However, Ngugi is not the only nominee , he is among others and even to make it worse he is not the top scoring nominee. He has tied with four  others at the score of 50/1 points.These  are; Umberto Eco who wrote the famous book In the Name of the Rose, Nuruddin Farah a Kenya *** Somalian veteran poet and prose writer   and   then Darcia Maraini.
There are eleven writers of global stature who are currently scoring above Ngugi wa Thiong'o.They are operating at the level of 50/1 scores. These include ;Margaret Atwoo d, Salman Rushdie, Cees Nooteboom, Don DeLillo, Amos Oz, Javier Marias, Cormac McCarthy , Bob Dylan, Peter Handke, William Trevor and Les Murray . The missing writer in this category of global writers is Yan Martel the author of Life of Mr. Pi , whose also on the list of the favourite writers of president Barrack Obama.His book Life of Mr. Pi once shared  a prize and equivalent acclaim with Salman Rushdie's The Ground Beneath Her Legs. So, why Martel was not nominated remains the usual intrigues of Nobel nomination process.
Haruki Murakami ,Assia Djebar,Svetlana Aleksijevitj , Peter Nadas, Joyce Carol Oates , Adonis ,Milan Kundera , Philip Roth , Mircea Cartarescu, Ko Un , Jon Fosse  and Thomas Pynchon  are currently scoring below Ngugi.They are operating between 10/1 and 26/1 scores.However among them Haruki Murakami, Joyce Carol Oates and Phillip Roth were very story contenders and hence competeters for the same prize with Ngugi during last year.But Joyce Carol Oates is a weaker contender this year given than he recently wrote an offensive and tortuous poem against the eminent American  poet Robert Frost .  Oates drew from the book Lovely, Dark and  Deep  which   paints the  Frost  as an arrogant, sexist pig who gave up on his mentally ill children. The story has outraged Frost’s fans, biographers, and  his survivors.
Inspite of all these there is no literary value that can make Ngugi wa Thiong'o to deserve a Nobel prize reward for  Literature. Apart from his first  two books weep not child and the river between that had concrete literary position, his later works are pamphlets of communism , that keep of regurgitating communism as initially written by Karl Marx and France Fanon.His second last book Globalectics is written as annual lectures in respect of Rene Wellek, the books is a practical duplication of Paulo Freire , and Spivak Gavatri.His contemporaries at the University of Nairobi accusing him of tribalism when it came to supervising post graduate students. he was soft on his fellow Kiguyu's and discriminative agains Luo and Luhyia students.He lifestyle as communist ideologue is also self defeating as teaches in america at Irvine University , very busy amassing wealths just like any other capitalist.He campaign for vernacular writing is egually not water tight on the bench of praxis, as he himself teaches special English in America but not kiguyu language.
Another stunning revelation from the Swedish academy is nomiantion of Vladimir Putin the Russian president for Nobel peace prize alongside fifty something  organizations as competitors.the nominations is based on his role he played in the Nuclear disarmament of Syria.The Ukraine question has not been yet raised.But logic of these goes like historical imbroglio that puzzled the world in relation to the role of ****** in relation communism against the then gathering storm for the second world war.

NEW AGAIN
AGAIN I AM LONGING.
FOR AGAINS ARE REPETITIVE.
IT SEEMS I NEED TO HURT.
I NEED TO OVERCOMPENSATE.

BUT I AM BROKEN FROM BEFORES.
SHOULD I AGAIN, AGAIN?

QUICKSILVER THOUGHTS,
RUNNING MADLY,
DEADLY IF CONSUMED.
AND I AM CONSUMED AGAIN.
THE INNOCENCE OF EYES,
MY OWN FAILURES REFLECTED BACK.

I AM MOTHER, DAUGHTER.
EX-LOVER, EX-FIANCE… EX HUMAN?

I AM TEARING AT MY SOULSKIN,
A WEREWULF AT FULL MOON.
MY INNER BEING IS SUFFOCATING.
IT’S TOO EASY TO BE HAPPY.
HARD IS GOOD.
I MUST BE GOOD.
A GOOD LITTLE PUPPY.
A BAD LITTLE PUPPY.
WILL I BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS ME?

Mine is a generation of taboo.
We are tribal tattoos and cheap motel room honeymoons.
We are slander,
and slang,
and brittle teeth.
We are born-agains and suicides.
We are podium preachers and cracked-pavement prayers.
We are melted plastic and oxidized metal-
sometimes we gleam with the Liberty Green of corroded copper,
sometimes we crumble with rust and stain calloused hands.
We are the last stand of Art.
We are the manifestations of forbidden bloodlines
and insanity.
We are just as much our mothers
as we are our fathers,
and we are everything that they are not.

We are stigmata.
We are red paint on white canvas.
We are fast food coffee.

We were born to the sweet smell of formaldehyde
in rooms dressed in florescent white
that share plumbing with the morgues
beneath the linoleum floors.
We are the mix of ***** and innocence that lingers
in the kiss of a dimly lit basement.
We show and we tell but always only for the right price,
the wrong reasons,
or the promise of an exchange equaling to the feeling that
this is a mistake.
We are rosary beads counted between gnarled knuckles
and dragged across smooth palms that long
to sweep tear salt from flushed cheeks.

We are Heaven's lonely singles.

We are skin stretched out too thin over skeletons.
We are the complexities that machines can't calculate
much less imitate.
We are the futile cries that once tried to keep towers from falling
when the sky came crashing down.
We are the pardoned and the withered.
We are the hardened faces of those that have
worked too long
and been loved too little.
We have been told that the safest place for your soul
is in the hole of your chest,
but only if it's reinforced by
four inches of concrete and steel,
and strapped tight with a Kevlar vest,
because they said people,
at best,
are manslaughter.

But we have never been great listeners either;
when we were growing up
we pressed our hands to hot stoves
even though our mothers said not to,
because we couldn't just be told what it was to burn
we had to feel it for ourselves.
So every now and then we will crack open
our rib cages in the hopes that someone will come,
light a fire,
and decide to stay.

We hopelessly spray paint things like wings
On deserted brick buildings
So that, at the very lest, we can feed the
Hollow-eyed passerby the belief
That these streets still have guardians,
Even when we, ourselves,
Abandoned such ideologies in
backroad dumpsters
along with our deities’ infidelities.
  
We are the period at the end of the sentence.
(Or maybe we are the ellipses...)
We have redefined the American family
and proven that even Christianity knows how to hate.
We were raised by sixty-percent divorce rates,
yet we still believe that we are soul mates.
We are the jokers of the deck:
either smiling fools or wild cards.
We are cocked heads with smoke billowing from throats
coated with blisters and cough syrup.
We are back alley scavengers crawling on all fours.
We are the era of the Auto-Tuned voice,
proof that with a pretty enough face anyone can sing.
We are foggy mirrors with smiles drawn on them
by print-less fingertips.
We slip up the thighs of our lovers
and swirl down the drains of sinks with chipped paint.

We are the hearts in your hands-
Crush us into powder and brush us across your face like Indian war paint,
Give us up to the sky so that we can be revived by lightning,
Dance to the rhythm that we beat,
Squeeze us and watch as we seep through the cracks of your fist,
Conceal us in your pocket and only ever speak to us in a whisper,
Or,
with all your natural voice,
sing to us
songs about thunderstorms
to wet the dusty desert dirt around our rooted toes
in the hopes that we will blossom in the most vivid colors.

Just do something with us.

Don't sacrifice us to the tops of lost bookshelves
to collect dust
or rust in the rain with everything you once loved
but grew too old for.

The rain came down in sheets that night
Thunder, as lightning split the sky
In that flash of light I saw you at my door
Your tear filled eyes glistened in a dark.
You want it darker?

Whistles of the wind through wires as
Rain knocked agains the windows of my room
Glass of wine in candle’s dancing light
Drama of the one you left behind.
You want it darker?

Your story was so incredibly complexed
In the way of pain inflicted perfect storm
How the one you love - left you broken
Hurting, at my door, looking for revenge.
You want it darker?

With every kiss our friendship’s dying
With every teardrop revenge was growing hotter
No love can heal the pain we’re causing
As we fell lower our fury burnt brighter.
You want it darker?

Like stars on a cloudy night
My true feelings were hiding in a dark
I couldn’t even look you directly in your eyes
Cause through you I was making love to her.
You want it darker?

Agonizing pain of self Inflicted cuts
Hearts drained of passion, dying fast
We both knew that you’re in love with him
I’m still in love with fading light of her.
You want it darker?

Like waves crashing agains a shore
I felt your pain collide with mine
Eyes wide shut as we reached out to touch
In our minds we wanted the ones that we were not.
You want it darker?

Dying candles flicker in a rays of raising sun
Lifeless hearts, falling out of lovers grasp
I used the blood for ink to pen this poem as
Angels wept in sheets the night before.

You want it darker.....

By the end of this poem, those once vibrant
shall slough off in horizons of necrosis.
As I tap out completion,
their summer cedes to countless performances;
actors bow before the closing curtain of Autumn.

The maelstrom of summer-lovers lulls to a murmur
And the great Mevlana’s couplets and Khayyam’s quatrains
Float away on the formations of down-bound geese.
You’ll hear the Doppler shift of devotion’s goodbye
On the whines of the locomotive’s whistle.

By the end of this poem, the thistle fades
from heliotrope to gun metal gray.
The clandestine scent of “once-whens”
Wafts into a future of “now-agains.”
Yet, this new Fall is bittersweet.
Before another ******* of trees,
a red rose blushes in reminiscence.

By this poems end, I’ll be in love
with the chill of an approaching season
wearing the brightest flower in my garden of poetry
One last choke on the rising smoke
as the last painful stanza goes
Into the solemn procession
toward the sacred pyre of leaves.

Do you feel it?
That satisfaction
You get from
Your petty affairs?

Those ugly names
Those nasty taunts
Those stupid jabs
At my mind and heart

Yes? Ha, how did I know it?
Was it the way you smirked?
Or was it the way your friends 
Had laughed, giving you the 
Approval you starved for?

Do you feel guilt for the comments
You made about me and everyone
You thought had a low enough
Self esteem to actually listen
To the petty little comments?

No? I'm right agains? Tell me, how am I so good at it?
At telling that you have no remorse for what you do
And say? It is as if you feel like one day, one boring
Day in the middle of school, your kingdom, your antics
Will pay off. Well, it's your turn to take a guess. Do you 
Really think it makes you seem better? Yes? Well,

How the **** does that make any sense? Are you really 
Low enough that this makes you feel good about yourself 
And that twisted heart thump-thumping in your chest? 
Does making other kids question their bodies and 
Lifestyles make you feel like your own is so much better?
Yes again? Oh, my dear, how ignorant you have to be. 

You are so wrong; it's disappointing. This behavior only pushes us to the top. Yeah, 
Us. I mean myself and those other 'ugly, stupid, ******, slutty, ghetto, freaks'. 
We grew our shells to shield from your words. Those shells will never crack, but you? 
You have nothing but the names that spew from your mouth like from a fountain, 
But every well dries out. What do you do then? Move on? Become a better person? 
Make new friends and settle down? Have kids only for them to turn out just like you? 
Yeah, right. I wish you the best of luck, you fake, overrated *****. I am done with your ****.

See, the difference between you and I, is that when I call you a pretentious *****,
I have a reason. You tear at a person's self esteem until you see your victim bleed 
On the inside and out. You're sadistic and greedy. You want all the pain you can 
Get out of others. Me, though, I call you a ***** because that is what I see. An infected 
Dog looking for something to bite and pass your symptoms on to. You know, that 
Bitterness you cause wherever you go, almost like the Midas Touch. How about the
***** Bite? Come on, bully. What are you going to do next? Hurt my feeling? I dare you.

Because I have strength now. Strength in my heart that I never had. Strength in my mind that I Didn't know was there before. Strength in my confidence that you jump started. I guess I Should thank you, then. For all the teeth grinding moments that I wanted nothing more than To snap back, but my attitude had not yet developed. Now, I am not afraid to do it. To snap at You and tell you back off. I will, and you still may find flaws to push me down with, but I will Always get up from the dirt and fight back. I will never give in to you. No, never. Remember This now, and remember this later when You decide I'm not enough like a 'perfect' Barbie doll, I will always be strong enough to fight back. I found confidence in anger. I found courage in sorrow. I found a reason to fight in your wicked grin. Thanks, I guess.

I don’t really know why I’m writing this, except somewhere, to someone, to no one, I owe an explanation.  I also deserve a small rant.  The past two months have stripped me of everything I believed to be true, and all my perceptions have become a gallery of laughing spectators. This whole big thing we call life is absolutely insane and has severely twisted ways of tripping us up and holding us carefully at the same time.  All I can say is that I got a second chance at it, and the blows keep coming harder and harder but all I can do is roll with them, because giving up is not an option any more, and there is beauty underneath all of the suffering, and an exuberance that emerges in survival.  Every day, we are fighting, fighting, fighting to survive.  I’m not the right person to say if it’s worth it or not, or to give advice how to swallow the pills we’re given, or how to show humility, or give forgiveness, or find a little corner of happiness to hold onto when we slip.  But I know there is a reason why I am here, why you are here, and why time runs in circles, and why things happen the way they do.  We are both slaves to destiny and masters of choice.  We have an innate bilateral symmetry that manages to be both.  Someone told me there are no do-overs, but there are don’t-do-agains.  I may not care for this person, or perhaps I love them wholly.  I think it could be both.  When these scraps of wisdom float by, grab them and put them in your core, no matter who says it. It could be an ex, a professor, your mom, a stranger-it doesn’t matter.  They are giving you a gift. Try it all, and if it doesn’t work, move on.  Hurt people and get hurt.  Go out of your way once, and if it doesn’t prove to be in your best interest, walk away.  Do what you want, but don’t destroy yourself getting there.  Just keep walking in the direction you feel is best.  Everything is difficult, and it will always be difficult.  That is why this life is so ******* magnificent.  Each day we can celebrate that we made it.  There is nothing more pure, or more raw, than moving forward and understanding that no matter how hard things are, and how ****** everything looks, if you just keep moving, and don’t look back in order to bring the past with you, it’s not horrible at all.  Each rough patch is just a foothold to climb on to.  We all have to be up to get down, and down to get up.  No matter what choices you’ve made, or the guilt you carry, know that tomorrow you can wake up and check that baggage at the door, and simply walk away with a list of things you can’t do over and things you won’t do again.

My mind is a sea
of what ifs
and never agains
I want to scream
and scream
and scream
But I am afraid
that if I start...
... let it out...
I will never stop

remember we won first place
from competing agains Burroughs
and on the bus ride home
I sat in the loneliest place
and wanted to burrow

I love how the setting is after rain; I can almost focus on the sound of my steps as if it is the only thing I need to worry about. dry, chapped lips from the cold breeze that has set in only allows a few whispered words to pass at a time.

droplets along the window blocks connect each thought as my fingertips connect each dot, allowing my mind to wander where it usually does not. the drops along the metal roof tell a story like a rambling poet agains the keys of a typewriter, uncertain of which drain will drain the pain away.

(j.a.r.)

One day

I will wake up in the early morning

My fingernails aglow with sun

And I will not want to scratch the pain out of my skin.

One day

I will not be subject to

Pleasantries and masquerades,

Hellos and goodbyes and see-you-agains,

But be greeted with a small smile

And a nod of understanding.

One day

Someone will say they will stay by my side

Even when the sea inside me

Overflows, and drowns him too;

He says the tide will bring us back ashore.

One day

My fingers will not shiver

In summer, because the cold is never gone.

The blood in my veins will not carry the echo

Of hate and self deprecation.

One day

I will wake up without internally screaming,

And hey, who knows, maybe I’ll smile.

I will put on my yellow boots

Not as a reminder of the sadness I hide,

But a proportionate guarantee of the happiness I feel.

But today, you see,

Today I cannot find the strength to leave my bed;

The blinds will be closed the whole day and

The postman will know not to knock on my door.

Today

The sea inside me rages

And ****** the backside of my eyes,

Drenching my pillow with saltwater.

And in a blurry pointillism of blues

I will drown

Before I reach ashore.

The bandiferd spots
Mark the afterglow dots,
The fervor that hangs in the throes.

I've often jang-herdled
The silk left uncurdled,
My comes and agains have their goes.

I've left the lust listless,
And appleseeds restless,
My truths are not something she blows.

The cherry's well-fallen,
And I've all but forgotten,
The chastities I never chose.

Write every chance you get,
there aren't many.

Write when you
have a quiet moment
by yourself.

Write when you
are
in
the
queue;
life is about waiting.

Write when you are in bed;
take your pen
and
close your eyes.

By morning
you will have forgotten
more poems than you have written
but
you will still be a writer.

Write when you are getting a haircut;
all that hair has a story.

Write while you watch a woman.

Write while you watch a woman
lugging a rolling suitcase.

Imagine what is in there,
what is so important to her
that she must roll it around
in the darkness?

If you get the chance,
write in New York.

New York is writers writing about writers.

Write when the
most
beautiful
girl
turns around
and
gives you
heaven.

Write because heaven is costly;
heaven is elusive.

Write because heaven is rich
and know that you will be there
again.

Write because of anyways, well-****-it-thens, and don't-call-me-ever-agains.

Write when there is nothing
to write about,
there is always something
to write about.

If your writing is ****
feel freedom
instead of
disappointment.

We ****
to make space
for
reason.

Today I forgot to practice
My parents noticed
They told me
I should have practiced and
Not have made cards
Thank you cards for
My beloved teachers
Whom I love so much
But I can't tell them
With my voice

I went into my room
Ran and closed the door
Felt the guilt heave in me
I want to throw up on the floor

I want to cut myself
Hurt myself
Avoid the light of day
Never go back to my beloved string camp
Not tomorrow or any day

I feel ashamed for forgetting
I feel horrible and weak
I feel like nothing more
Than an ugly freak

Someone with no talent
Or physical beauty
Or a voice to describe this guilt

I know this guilt is unnecessary
But why do I feel it in me?
I haven't killed anyone
Or done anything agains the law

I just sacrificed some time
To make these lovely cards
Or are they even beautiful?
It was my sacrifice to make
Please don't rub it in
It already hurts
Anyway the day isn't over
Which is why I'm here with
My violin
My best friend
Who never talks but sings

I pick up my violin
And go through several songs
My back hurts
I've already played for 4 hours today
At camp
But when I'm done
The guilt is still there
It won't let go

Why

Why

Why

If I hold my breath,
And count backwards from ten,
Will we live through his moment
Again and again and again,
Until there are so many agains
That it never ends,
I certainly hope so
As I’m at three, two, one,
I grab my next breath,
And it all begins again,
Ten, nine, eight,
Thank you fate.

Isn't it odd how so much can change with just one breath. One blow of the wind; and everything seems to crumble.

Isn't it funny how you don't even realize how many pages are left, yet when you turn the page; the chapter just seems to end. 
Most of the time, it ends mid-sentence. Abrupt and inconclusive; almost as if the last pages were ripped out, or as if the author forgot to etch in the remaining chapters; the final words.

Isn't it odd how one day the sun is shining so bright that you can't even fathom the mere thought of a cloud in the sky, but when you arise the next morning, you wake to rain falling in a steady pattern; 
drumming it's fingers agains your window.

Isn't it funny how you always remember the beginning, yet always seem to forget uttering the unfamiliar goodbye; 
How you can't even seem to remember the words forming against your lips?

What's an ending or a goodbye when you can't even remember to cry?

Days later, looking back, you wander into a perpetual state of wonder. 
The thought always rising to your mind.

Funny how change blows in with the turn of a season. It seems to blow into town, carried with the wind; it seems to push your hair back, and whisper in your ear;
 It wishes you were here... 

I wander to wonder, and I wonder to wander these things, turning them in my mind. 


& as the leaves changed, so did I.

HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF..

Aaw sure she's my own
little Finnegans Wake.

For my little skeowsha
language is lava

the mind is molten
flowing.

She catches tones and hones
in on the last word.

"pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?"

She knows how to
stick question marks on

things like
"...sweets?"

The thunder scares her
on Thursday

& becomes
Thundersday.

The flies bother her on Friday...
becomes Flieday.

Not realising  she is
quoting Mr, Joyce

following in his WAKE.

Or she makes up her own

"ONESDAY...TWOSDAY
WEDDINGDAY...FATTERDAY
SOMEDAY!"

She my little trinketotes
my dear ***** Dumpling.

I read her to sleep.
Not a peep

when Anna Livia Plurabelle...
tells her tale.

Beside the tickling waters of.
Beside the chuckling waters of.
Beside the laughing waters of.

She loves
the music of it all.

"Again!"
she agains it!

" Can't hear with the waters of.
The chittering waters of.

Night now.
Tell me, tell me, tell  me elm.

Night night!
Tellmetale of stem or stone.

Beside the rivering waters of..
Hithering tithering waters of.

Night."